If not for the chest compression bruises she could have fallen in after and drowned—making the death an accident. She was under the water, someone pulled her out and revived her, only to submerge her again. The official report stated a vagrant attacked her. They even arrested this hitchhiking bum who hit town three days after the body was found.
He was railroaded as the perpetrator.
Somewhere after the hobo’s conviction I stopped being nervous. I was in no danger of being caught. The police would never admit they made a mistake.
Getting away with murder was gratifying. But once interest in the murder faded, because a suspect was incarcerated, I lost my high.
I needed my high back.
Thus, I hunted. It couldn’t be some run of the mill slut. Police didn’t care. And I didn’t wish my home town to fill with bodies. I wouldn’t have a high if I actually got caught. Life before the Internet involved countless hours in the library. Nobody noticed me.
The library received the newspapers for most of the towns in the four-county area.
The adjacent county had two women murdered about three weeks apart. Both young women, in their twenties, found naked, but not sexually assaulted. Carved on their upper left thighs was a symbol. Now, this is where the Internet would have been nice. I spent a week going through texts for the symbol. A sideways backward L with the end pointing at the bend of a second tipsy L. Finally, in a book about Vikings, I found pictures of carved stones. One of the stones had this symbol. It took another book to learn what it meant, but I found it.
Harvest.
XVIII
“HARVEST?”
“It made no sense to me either. I got my driver’s license and I traveled to the next town. This was when I learned cops leave stuff out of unsolved cases so they can weed out the crazies who take credit for every murder. Dozens of people call to report they performed the crime. What a sick cry for attention.”
Jesse bites his bottom lip. The convolution what these murderer’s actions and their justifications stir his stomach. At least his made-up story was similar to The Plagiarist’s. It should add to his credibility. In his research he lacks recollection of a mass killer who drowns people. He forces his brain from the sidebar, returning his attention to Harvest.
“I ate at a local café and listen to the indigenous patrons. I picked up tales from a few who knew—nothing stays secret in a small town. Hometown diners were better than any Instant flash messenger on the Interweb. Both girls were not sexually assaulted, but someone cut out their uteri.”
“Jack the Ripper did that,” Jesse says.
“The symbol? You meant to do what with it?” Jane asks.
“Throw the cops off. Both girls had been dating the same man in secret, or so the rumors flew around town. The lover had been only questioned and not openly accused, because during one the murders he had an airtight alibi. More rumors suggested both women were pregnant, and they had just found out about each other.” The Plagiarist continues, “Some felt he killed them both and cut out the babies to prevent a blood test. They could do a blood type checking if he was the baby daddy. DNA was not in the police toolbox yet.”
“The symbol was a ruse to make the cops think it was a cult or serial killer,” says Jesse.
“I was going to steal it. It wasn’t for my speculation as to what purpose it served other than a ruse for my actions. I hid my car well out of sight and waited for the diner to close. The waitress was older than the victims, but not by much, and was an acquaintance of the possible baby daddy, if the rumors of pregnancy were true.”
No one in the group halts the second tale of The Plagiarist.
“No one told people in small towns to lock their car doors or check the back seat—yet. She nearly drove off the road when I put the cold steel to her neck. I made her pull onto a country lane about a mile across a field diagonally from where I left my car. I wasn’t in tune yet with plastic gloves and disposable clothing. I also didn’t know how he killed these women. If he killed them first and then cut out the uterus? I was totally blind here. The cops focused on the mark, so did I. I was going to botch this up.
“I had her undress. I whispered sweet nothings in her ear until she burst into tears. I told her if she just did what I asked I would finish quick and allow her to leave. Such power. Control. They all believe compliance will lead to release—unscathed. She did whatever I commanded. She touched herself when I said. She stopped when I said.
“I told her I’d go quicker if she lie back over the hood. She needed it over. I stood before her. She never brought her eyes up to gaze into mine. Jana’s breasts were nicer.
“My knife drank deep into her lower abdomen. Blood splashed everywhere as she doubled over. I thrust it in again, this time sawing across the yellowish underlying fatty tissue of her stomach. Helping her to her knees, I cut away her flesh.
“Her eyes explained she sought to hit me, but shock consumed her. As she lost more blood, I lay her down and pulled out as much of her internal sex organs as possible. They were reminiscent of the pig I dissected in science class. The blood covered my fingers, making my touch more slippery than a greased hog at the county fair. I dropped the parts of my version of a hysterectomy in a plastic trash bag, not sure how to dispose of it. She was bleeding out. I carved harvest on her left thigh in the exact spot as the other two. The newspaper pictures assisted in getting it correct.
“I knew I was covered in her blood, as she lost enough to end her life. I marched across the field to my car. Sirens. Fuck! I was going to get caught. I jerked around slapping the bag against the car door. Fuck me if it had busted. My chest pumped with quick breaths as my heart pounded. It was the rapid blood floor thumping my eardrums. The evening air was nothing but cicadas. I had to get cleaned up and home without being discovered.
“The key was the correct gravel backroads and avoiding any underage drinking parties. I drove slow until I reached the Old Mill Bridge. I disposed of the knife in the water. The area had a drop off and flooded frequently. It would never be found. Jasper’s hog farm worked for the actual woman’s parts.
“I still didn’t know how to explain away the bloody clothes or the bloody trash bag if I got pulled over so close to home. I burnt the clothes and the bag in the trash barrel and scrubbed the car with bleach. Next time I would get a disposable outfit in case my mother noticed that some of my shirts disappeared. My success came two days later when the boyfriend of the first two women was arrested. According to the paper he had no alibi for the waitress’s murder and one of the girl’s. They would just have to convince a jury of those two. I might have to work a frame into my next killing.” The Plagiarist smiles.
Jesse’s first thought is a desire to know all this man’s stories. He could have killed his sister and made it appear to be someone else.
“The thrill didn’t last long?” Al asks.
“It lasted for a while. The third girl’s murder and his alibi kept throwing a monkey wrench in the prosecution’s case. The newspapers even claimed the cops were checking out other suspects. I lived on the thrill of this case for months. They finally prosecuted him on the one girlfriend and waitress since he had no alibi. Better to nab him on what they thought they could prove,” The Plagiarist says.
“How many people sit in prison because of your interference?” Al asks.
“I said it before, cops get hard for a suspect and never let them go. At least with the waitress I know her death did not completely match the other two. I didn’t know what I was doing then. Some forensic surgeon would explain how the cuts were different. How the angle of penetration was from a man of a different height. I bet I didn’t even cut out the uterus the same. They didn’t care—they had their murderer. And more important the closer rate. Departments are pressured to put a suspect in the hangman’s gallows and the closest significant other is the most likely candidate. The number of closed cases and favorable crime statistics for tourist draw is more important to the government than locking
away the correct person. Don’t get me wrong, usually those people deserved to be locked away, but not always for the crime they are incarcerated for.”
“They couldn’t prove Al Capone was the killer he was, so they put him in jail on tax evasion,” Jesse says.
“The greatest sin in the eyes of the government,” Al says.
“Stealing’s wrong. Unless you are the IRS,” Ed says.
“Now we are getting off track,” Jane redirects.
“Did the second girlfriend have an alibi for the first girl’s death?” asks Edgars.
“What?” Confused by the question, The Plagiarist ponders a moment. “She was never a suspect, only a victim.”
“If I was working it into a book plot I would make her so devoted to this boyfriend he would be able to convince her to kill the sister while he made sure he was alibied by a dozen witnesses. Later, I would end her in the same manner, believing I could never be a suspect in murder number two if I had not performed the first one.” Edgar’s creative juices flow. He wishes for a pen and paper.
“I wonder how many kittens he shit when that waitress wound up dead in the same manner.” Ed laughs.
“He would know it was a copycat and he had nothing or no ties to her. Wow! He thought he was home free,” says Al.
“Now you understand my motivation and my thrill. It has been why I have killed.” The Plagiarist asks, “Now how do I stop?”
I
EDGARS DRIVES THE cherry tip of his nubby cigarette into the brick wall, grinding out the flame. “You know, kid…”
Jesse jerks out of his skin. He gasps, not expecting anyone to be around the corner from the abandoned factory. Jane’s choice of location was secluded, allowing the privacy they needed to be comfortable enough to speak about their issues.
“Never ended anyone with a jump scare before. Sorry, kid.” He slips the cigarette butt into his front right suit coat pocket.
Jesse detects the crinkle of plastic. He naturally forgoes leaving behind possible DNA, another clue he’s been active for a long time—twenty plus years. He draws in a breath to calm his heart. The man did frighten him, startled him enough that pressure builds on the inner wall of his bladder.
“I needed to ask you something. I didn’t want to do it in front of the group.”
Did you once have a sister…?
Jesse fantasizes the question he desires to be asked.
“When you choked out your professor, you got it over with pretty quick,”
“Not a question, Mr. Edgars, but allow me to deduce what you want to know. I had my body pinning the older man. He still had a lot of strength. I thought he’d be frail, but he had fight. I had him down and one of his arms pinned under my knee. He clawed at my hands with his free one. I had my fingers pressing down and he gurgled and spat. He choked for air forever. I had no idea a human neck was so taut. My fingers cramped. It was a long process. As strong as I am in the gym, no one works the fingers, which is where all the pressure emanates. I glanced at the clock on the wall. My fingers twisted in arthritic flares of spasm cramps. I needed to release, but he was still sucking in air. I thought I had every ounce of my weight on his esophagus. I squeezed tighter and the spongy windpipe caved. I glanced at the clock—three minutes. I had my fingers around a man to end his life for three minutes. I was terrified then. I was committed to the act and God help me if anyone had returned to the class because they forgot a book.”
Jesse contorts his fingers as if he had them around someone’s neck. “Three minutes to squeeze the life out of the old man. My fingers were frozen in a choking configuration. I had no idea how I would gather my belongings without disrupting the crime scene.”
“I found choking to a be a slow process and you have to exercise those muscles.”
It was a test. He doesn’t trust me. None of them trust me. Jane screened the attendees. The professor was right. This is dangerous. Had I answered him wrong would I become a chapter in his next novel?
“You have to work at choking. While your hands are busy, theirs are free, allowing punches and scratches for those with the mind to fight back. If they claw you, they have your DNA under the fingernails,” Edgars says. “I duct taped a few girls’ fingers together when they had extra-long nails.”
“They have to have you on file for DNA to work.” And they preserved DNA evidence even before they used DNA. BTK learned of DNA, changed his MO and, thank God, he wrote about how long it took to actually choke a person or I’d be dead. Is it Edgars who doesn’t trust me or everyone?” He spoke about it in his book, the long, tedious process in choking a victim. Glad I read non-fiction.
“They always bag potential clues and now some are preserved enough they are able to test for DNA. I don’t worry about it. Many of my victims have other suspects lined up first. Hell. Cops like ex’s and drifters. No one sees a well renowned bestselling author as a vagrant.” Edgars smiles.
Fuck me. Moonlight coated the pair in enough light to pick out facial features. He’s the only one who could view my face. We all know his appearance. His face covers the back of dozens of book jackets. They don’t trust me. Recover the fumble, dumbass. “Seventy-nine percent of all murders are committed by someone the victims know and half of those were spouses. I guess we threw a wrench into that statistic.”
“Not you, you murdered your teacher,” Edgars bemuses.
“This should be a group conversation, Mr. Edgars. We’re supposed to meet in a part of town no one goes into, not even the drug dealers, and certainly not one in Armani.”
“I don’t sell that many books,” he chuckles.
“I’m going to have to pick one up.”
“Bring it with you and I’ll sign it,” he offers with the bright tone of someone still excited a person wants to read what they have written.
“I won’t be able to have you dedicate it. No real names for the rest of us,” Jesse says.
“True, kid. How about I dedicate it to a trusted traveler?” He pats Jesse’s shoulder. “You’re doing right by stopping now. The first murder is the hardest. And if you do two and find it easy, it’s nearly impossible to come back from. And there is no help. It’s not that I want to get away with murder, it’s I don’t know how to stop. Locking people away never fixes the issue.” He taps the side of his forehead. “It’s faulty wiring up here. It needs to be fixed before anyone kills.”
“Many serial killers are conceived in childhood abuses. Identifying and restoring mental health before a rampage needs to be addressed. But people would rather have the stigma of being a mass murderer than a mental patient,” Jesse says.
“It’s a fucked up world, kid.”
“At least we are trying to fix ourselves.”
II
JESSE FLIPS ON the desk lamp. He slips an archaic letter opener into the end of the sealed manila folder mailed to Arnett. It was in the Professor’s school mail basket. No one even questioned Jesse when he slipped into the faculty lounge and swiped it.
He dumps the contents onto the desk. Papers flood out, along with 8x10 glossies of a dead girl.
Jesse drops the envelope, shoving back from the desk as he tips the chair over. He crashes backwards, just remaining on the floor staring up at the ceiling.
I knew they would be in there. I studied murder cases. They all had pictures. I knew. How does anyone prepare for viewing their own dead sister?
He contemplates why his mother hid much of her death from him. He was four. She was seventeen. She always had good grades and was never in trouble at school.
Jesse ponders if it is true she was an angel or if he placed her on a unicorn carved pedestal.
Was there a boy?
Mom never spoke of a boyfriend. No signs of drug use at home.
Not until after. Mom drank. Maybe not enough to go to meetings, but more than she should.
He picks himself up along with the chair. Sissy is well into cold case status now after fifteen…sixteen years. It meant Jack didn’t kill her.
> Or did it? None of them have stated how long they have been operating. Ed’s story has slang and remarks about this new DNA. DNA evidence has been a staple of crime shows as long as he remembers. Ed killed the girl as far back as the nineties, maybe late eighties. The story he told wasn’t about his sister and they didn’t ever live in Dallas, Texas.
Cops aren’t as stupid as the group believes, but one thing for sure, they don’t dig too deeply into dead hookers or runaways.
Sissy wasn’t a runaway.
Sissy was accepted into medical school. Mom framed the letter. Jesse discovered it in the shrine that was once her bedroom.
Did Sissy prostitute herself to come up with the money to go? Dad had a college fund, but he said he didn’t save enough to send her there, he would figure it out.
Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. Okay Sherlock you have to start eliminating.
Jesse places a three-foot by three-foot cork board on an easel. It will be his murder board. He pins index cards with each group member’s name along the top in black Sharpie. Next to Jack he draws a big red question mark.
Of any of them Jack is my ally. Even if he doesn’t know it. I wish I had drawn him as my contact buddy over Jane.
I don’t know how fast AA members get a sponsor, but Jane seems deadline quick to cure us.
Jack and Al were paired. Jane thought those two would counter each other better.
Jesse’s murder of the professor wasn’t up to par with the killings of the others. Professor Arnett was correct about this group seeing through him. He suspects they suspect him. He’s not trained in undercover work. He thought being inexperienced would work as a cover and add to the character he played in front of them.
On an index card in green Sharpie he puts Dallas, TX by Ed’s name.
Hospital deaths/Social worker in halfway house. Possible psych degree under Jane’s name.
SKA: Serial Killers Anonymous Page 20
