SKA: Serial Killers Anonymous

by William Schlichter

  She screamed.

  Our seclusion was confirmed when birds escaped in the trees from the pitching yawl.

  She had a pitched tone, high enough to crack glass.

  After I disposed of the identifying mark I opened my notebook and made some notes about the cuts. “Tell me how it felt.”

  Through her blubbering, “Please don’t hurt me. I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “Tell me how the knife felt, cold against your skin. If you don’t remember…I’ll cut you again.”

  I was going to cut her anyway, but many people under torture believe if they give in the pain will stop.

  She gave a decent description of the cut, the way the chiseling knife tip stung like bees. How she clamped her anus because soiling herself would be embarrassing. How the warm blood rolled down her groin where her thigh connected and pooled under her cheek.

  Zana was a want-to-be-writer-fangirl-writer.

  “Now, what to do with you. I’ve reached my limits with a knife.”

  “I don’t hurt so bad. I could make love to you. I could—” Zana blubbers.

  “Dear, I get no perverted sexual thrill from this. I do this to seek understanding of what a human body goes through.” I stroke her hair like a caring lover. “You, darling Zana, are my casaba melon.”

  IV

  “LOCKED HEART,” KENNETH says.

  “What?” Murmurs from most of the group.

  “A few years ago it was popular among the freshman girls. It was a love story centered around the tattoo the female protagonist gets. BAM. They find her body. The perfect boyfriend spends the rest of the book attempting to prove whether or not he is innocent,” Kenneth explains.

  “Was he successful?” Al asks.

  “Don’t give away the ending or no one here will buy the book.”

  “Are you claiming to be world renowned Mystery/slasher writer P.A. Edgars?” Kenneth asks.

  “I have had three best sellers, one reaching the top ten on the New York Times list.”

  “No wonder your descriptions are accurate,” Kenneth says.

  “I’m glad I have a fan among my new friends.”

  “Not a fan, I just like to know what my students follow in pop culture. They make side references or use insults from a movie people my age would never purchase. I stay on top of their attempts to insult me. Or they ask me if I’ve ever ‘Netflix and Chilled’ before. You lose control of a class quickly when you don’t know what they mean and they all laugh.”

  “Still you’ve read my work,” Edgars says.

  “It’s the most brilliant cover.” Jesse’s flabbergasted. He won’t admit he has to rethink his suspect list. “How have the police never pieced together your presence in a town and the murders similar to the methods of death?”

  “I don’t kill in every town I visit. I’m well known for my in-depth research into murders, but I avoid putting a detail in my book the newspapers leave out of the event. I will mix and match my killings. My books come out years after a murder so most assume I stole the idea from the murder’s reporting. And people never connect killing an old black woman in the ghetto to the same death of a white girl living with rednecks. Not in seventeen books has anyone connected they were actually true crimes. It would give me an entire new shelf at the bookstore.”

  “You know the rules. No killing while you attend our meetings,” Jane says.

  “Do you mean to stop writing?” Kenneth asks.

  “Never. No author has that ability. I’ve enough notes to continue for several more books. I might even try my hand at another genre. Despite the career ending status changes brings. I’m not allowed to profit off the deaths of my victims if incarcerated. I assume, like the rest of you, I just find myself needing to stop. Cutting on different woman yields the same answers about pain. I don’t need further research, I need to stop. My final murder book follows a man in his quest to prevent a killing. I don’t think it will sell. People love the gore.”

  Jesse wishes he remembered what books his sister read. Did she meet this guy at a book signing and he gutted her? Having eliminated Robert and Jack, he now wonders if the professor was correct and her killer is outside this group.

  How can there be so many!?

  His brain screams at him to check his evidence, yet no evidence points to his sister’s killer being in this room.

  “You killed those twins,” Kenneth blurts out.

  “The twin murders, ah, yes. During the Nazi death camp experiments—a real event. No one caught on those book deaths were all taken from killings I did,” Edgars says. “But Dr. Mengele makes us all appear amateurs.”

  “You killed a set of twins,” Jesse asks as confirmation.

  “They don’t share each other’s pain, but the anxiety and fear most certainly existed between the pair. It took some finagling to get them both together and carry out my test. It was one of the few killings I planned out completely,” Edgars admits.

  “You only share once at a meeting. If not, then it becomes about helping you and not the rest of us,” Jane says.

  “I’m sorry. You’ve all done as much as I have, except maybe the boy. I applaud you for murdering your professor. I never thought to do such a thing to improve my grade. Did you get an A?”

  “Some universities have a policy to award automatic A’s in the event of a teacher’s death. If the college burns down all attending students earn their degree where I attended,” Kenneth says.

  Jesse blurts, “We all did.” He hadn’t counted on follow up questions. “The department head thought it best to help with the grieving process.”

  Robert laughs. “So you got a fancy degree you didn’t earn.”

  “He earned it. If he was studying the minds of killers what better way to know one than to become one?”

  “He wants to stop before he turns into us,” Al says.

  “There are worst choices,” Ed says.

  “Just because you find killing homos a benefit to society, you’d be wrong,” says Jack.

  “You killed those scums who caused your family’s death,” Ed snaps.

  “Yes, but I didn’t discriminate on birth. I desired the source of the problem.”

  “We’re off focus here, gentlemen,” Jane interrupts.

  “Are you sure? We need to work through all this aggression.”

  “What, you want us to speak how we hate our fathers?” Ed asks.

  “Not everyone hates their parents,” Al says.

  “No, but many killers have parental unit issues,” Edgars says.

  “At some point during therapy a person has to move away from casting blame on shitty childhoods and abuse,” Jane says. “We have to own what we did.”

  “I own it,” Edgars says, “Maybe we should move into why we want to stop.”

  “We have one more new member to speak as well as sharing from the rest of the group,” Jane says. “I know I felt some release after expressing about what I did. Being unable to speak about it to anyone...makes recovery so difficult—now I find myself lighter.”

  “I may be a redneck, but I, too, needed to share. I was raised not to discuss my emotions, but I did, and something left me,” says Ed.

  “Agreed,” adds Kenneth. “I say I’ve had no urges since the last meeting, which I didn’t. I don’t just get the need to kill. It never pops up.”

  “You don’t have a set cycle,” says Edgars. “Cops track repeat killers’ cycles, every so many months, weeks or even years. Randomness helps. Travel even better.”

  “I find all of you fascinating. I’m not sure I’m able to follow your rules, even if you have yet to set them in stone.” The mystery guest offers. “I will leave before I have compromised any more of you.”

  “You already know about this group.”

  “If you don’t want me to reveal you, I won’t,” the new man adds.

  “We need insurance.”

  “My word should be good enough, but I understand how important your autonomy is. I won’t reve
al what I’ve heard. I will even share. I’m just not sure I possess the ability to stop. I do desire to quit, but I don’t know if I’m capable. With full disclosure, I’m known by the FBI as The Plagiarist. I emulate other serial killers. By listening to your stories, I don’t think of how I must stop, but instead how to copycat your killings.”

  “Why is the first thought I have is you would keep the cops from ever tying some of us to the crimes?” Ed asks.

  “Identical killings allow for alibies.”

  “Mine are location specific. I’d end up being blamed for mine,” says Kenneth.

  “You killed in the same location?”

  “I perpetuated the haunted house myth. Didn’t you pay attention?” Kenneth says.

  “Tell us about it,” the new voice requests

  “He did.” Jesse knows his dead sister didn’t end up in the basement of the plantation house. He wants to know more about this Plagiarist. “We should hear from the new guy first.”

  “We did hear about Kenneth’s first killing, but he has taken more and it’s relevant now, if he wants to share,” says Jane.

  V

  “MR. KENNETH, WHAT do you know about the plantation house?” The pimple cratered teen asked.

  “Local history’s not on today’s class lecture,” I said.

  “But it’s way more interesting than the Reconstruction Era. The South should pay for the war, it was their fault.”

  “How do you justify your statement?” I asked.

  “If they didn’t own slaves there would have been no reason to fight a war.”

  “Clearly, we must review the events leading to the war. You missed several important elements,” I scolded.

  “I want to discuss the plantation house,” the kid pleaded.

  On any normal day students attempted to get off subject. The plantation house was a common topic and one I dissuaded, which actually caused more secret discussion. Plenty of kids trespassed on the property based on the stories I refused to collaborate. I overheard plenty of plans to go and made my choice. I selected just enough targets every few years to propagate the mythos.

  “I’ll allow one question—if it is within reason—I will answer.”

  “Great. I want to know—”

  “You didn’t allow me to finish. You first must tell me why it’s referred to as the plantation house.”

  “Because it was a southern cotton farm.”

  The kid in the seat next to him actually high-fived him for giving the correct answer.

  “Incorrect.”

  “How do you figure, Mr. Kenneth?”

  “Cotton has never grown here. You check with the science teacher, but the climate is not right. Therefore, we return to my plans of understanding Reconstruction.”

  Even I cared little for the Reconstruction Era lecture, but it was on the state test. While I proceeded with my lecture, my peripheral vision witnessed the passing of notes. I knew the discussion was to set a time to visit the plantation house. It had been three years since the last death.

  Every three or four years students needed a reminder, as if every new freshman class had to be brought up to speed on what happened. Many snuck there without incident, but when I learned of their shenanigans I considered cementing the myth with a body.

  I did have to pick and choose. If I killed too many, too soon, it might get me caught. I liked the terror the town lived under because, no matter what, no one had the ability to keep the kids away from the haunted house.

  Most people had a morbid side. They wanted to stand in the spot where multiple kids had hung themselves.

  I prepared a black powder pistol. I learned I needed to be armed, and I enjoyed adding to the myth. To me it was about the myth. The chatter about how so many kids would go there to hang themselves thrilled me. Because no ghosts existed, the deaths were classified as suicide. Part of me wanted to give the town something more to speak about.

  I waited in the hidden room for hiding runaway slaves.

  I found it so strange how my mind wandered away from my intended actions while I postponed. I had learned so little about my hunting grounds. And because no one in the town spoke of this place, I did not wish to tip my hand by actively researching the property. But even the elders at the local diner, when asked—only when asked, and pressured—spoke as if they knew no history of this place.

  It sparked my interest, even more as I waited for the teenagers. The deaths should spark more interest not less. In this town they never spoke of it. I didn’t share what I learned when students inquired because I didn’t want to slip in some piece of evidence only the killer would know. But the lack of conversation about the plantation house might be why so many students kept venturing out here.

  Prohibition did not work.

  The stair steps were not strong enough for the bounding pairs of feet. I knew it was two sets of shoes on the rotting wood.

  Damn.

  If the stairs cracked people would stop coming down here.

  I thought about it. I might have been able to find some lumber on the property to match and make a repair. If I used a crosscut hand saw and pulled nails from one of the beams no one would notice in the darkness. The cops brought portable lamps to focus on the body. I was never close enough to find out where they pointed them.

  The voices were muffled. I needed a peep hole, but it might allow a breeze to flow and lead to the hidden room’s discovery. I would lose my vantage point and destroy the myth.

  I believed if the shelf disguising the door was jerked it would not reveal the hidden runaway slave room. In reality, the original owners did want to help, but their deep moral protection was about making sure they—white people—were not found out. Punishments were harsh for abolitionists—free state or not.

  I strained my hearing. The clear echo of feet on the stairs, but the voices were more muffled as if in a coffee can.

  Two voices.

  I was prepared with the pistol. Every time I witnessed kids entering the house... I did so from the tree line, even when I had desires to kill. All shuffled inside alone—on a dare. Now there were two. I would need the gun to make them obey.

  After my second kill was a struggle to get him into the rope I carried the pistol. I thought black powder would keep the Civil War allegory alive. I made the balls myself from a period lead bowl to keep ballistics from being able to track it—cash at a flea market. I kept my fingerprints off them as possible evidence.

  It was a first and only time I caught teenagers in the house who weren’t so pissing their pants scared, they were lip-locked. Maybe they forgot how terrifying it was to be in a room where three people had hung themselves, not counting the legend.

  With closed eyes and sealed mouths, they never saw the hidden door open.

  I cleared my throat.

  They jumped.

  She let out a little burble scream, clamping her hand over her mouth.

  Even in the limited moonlight enhanced by two flashlights the kids recognized me.

  “Mr. Kenneth!” It was more surprise than loud, as if he had just pulled the hood off the Scooby-Doo villain at the amusement park.

  One problem about lying in wait was I didn’t know how many more kids were outside.

  “Shush your hole, Benjamin.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  I cocked the hammer. “I said shut it.”

  I needed to be quick.

  “On the barrel, Cindy.” She was a cute young girl, not bright, but not dumb. She would make a productive citizen if she grew up. Benjamin was going to leave a string of baby mamas.

  She complied without words. Many people did.

  “I hate being called Benjamin.” He had grown a pair.

  I shot him in the stomach.

  The lead ball tore open his flesh. I knew bullets entered differently than what I saw in the movies, but I never expected such butchery of his abs. No wonder so many soldiers during the Civil War just had to have limbs amputated. His stomach was
now shredded brisket.

  He cried.

  I might have, too. It appeared bad enough I had no doubt he would bleed out. I think the ball broke apart and bounced around inside.

  Cindy screamed.

  I didn’t know how many more students might arrive or how much time I had left, but I was committed now.

  I pointed the gun at her. This is where people’s logic leaves them. She did not want to get shot. Witnessing all the blood flowing from the sucking wound in Benjamin’s center, I didn’t blame her, but I was about to kill her, and she was compliant. She should have charged me, died in the process of saving herself instead of being a sheep.

  “Get on the barrel,” I ordered the now trembling girl.

  “Please, Mr. Kenneth, we won’t say a thing. He needs a doctor.”

  Maybe she thought cooperation would lead to her life being spared.

  I ignored her wishes and whines. “Reach up and slip the rope around your neck.”

  Reality sunk in for both.

  Her fingers found a rope tied to the beam. She slipped the noose around her neck.

  “Now reach up and pull it tight.”

  She complies.

  “If you don’t struggle it will be over quick,” I advised.

  Her eyes teared until her vision became a kaleidoscope of the darkened cellar. “Why, Mr. Kenneth?” Her question turned to blubbers. “Why are you killing people?”

  I kicked the barrel.

  She hadn’t the body weight to snap her neck. She kicked and struggled, chortled burbles gasping for air. Her blue eyes exploded from their sockets as her lizard brain fought for air. Too heavy to get her fingers between her neck and the rope to relieve pressure over the airway she dies.

  “Cindy!” Benjamin should have saved his breath by not moving. Struggle brought more blood. His screamed showers blood droplets from his mouth, ending in a coughing fit.

  She ceased her struggle. Twitching legs the last of her life leaving her body.

  I would have to burn my clothes. I considered doing it after the last kill, but now for sure. These would have black powder and possibly blood specks on them.