by Hadena James
Precise, methodical, and claiming victims fast, he was definitely a psychopath of the charming variety. He also had access to an insect farm as either a hobbyist or a farmer. If we excluded the first handful of victims or so, we might have a better understanding of victimology. Gabriel was brilliant and didn’t even know it. Or we could group them; men on one side and women on the other. A charming man would need to target each sex different.
My experience with Malachi told me that to win over a guy, he toned down some of the self-confidence and hyped the laid back, easy going, nice guy persona. For the record, Malachi was many things, but none of them were on the mentioned list. Mostly he was an arrogant, narcissistic, asshole convinced he was godlike who just seemed like a good guy with lots of confidence and charisma. While I’d been in college, he had attacked and nearly raped my roommate because he didn’t believe she wasn’t into him. Even after she told him she preferred girls. I had to shoot him with his own gun to get him to lay off. He learned that no really meant no after that and never pushed it that far again, but toning down his sexual aggression didn’t stop him from being an asshole. The fact that I remained friends with him after that, said all sorts of bad things about me, but in many ways, we needed each other. However, that didn’t mean I couldn’t stun gun or Taser him every so often just to remind him that he couldn’t go too far into his own fantasy world where he was God.
Keeping that in mind, I separated the files on the victims into genders. I wasn’t sure he cared about what they looked like, if he did, he’d be gender specific, however, I could be wrong and putting them into groups based on their sex, might help establish a pattern. As the first rays of sun lit my living room, I realized the pattern was one of opportunity. The victims had very little in common as far as looks. I’d have Fiona double check it with facial scanning software, but I hadn’t seen much overlap.
As I stared at a photo of the most recently found victim, I noticed my hand. It was scarred from burns, stabbings, shootings, and one incredibly effective boot stomping. The woman that smiled out at me didn’t have a single visible scar though. Not on her face, not on her arms, nowhere that I could see. Not even a tiny one. I would have to have someone check with her family to be sure, but the person in the picture looked unblemished. I didn’t even see a scar from a pimple popping that had gone horribly wrong. I grabbed the other photos. More perfect bodies caught my attention. How did someone make it through their teens without a single scar from a bike accident or clumsy teenaged stunt?
Fifteen
“Stop me if you’ve heard this one, but what if our killer is trying to find the scars of his victims?” I asked as everyone gathered around the table, munching on bagels that the neighborhood security had delivered a few minutes earlier. It was way too early for most of them to be up. I hadn’t gone to bed. We might have a lead, a victim profile, that we could move forward with.
“What do you mean?” Xavier asked.
“Well, look at someone like me,” I held up both arms. Everyone but Rachael was used to my scars. She didn’t gasp, but she did breathe in rather hard. “My skin looks like someone tried to melt it. The scars underneath my skin are even worse.”
“Someone did try to melt it, with an explosion,” Xavier commented.
“And there was that guy last year who hit her with the blow torch,” Fiona added.
“And the guy with the flame thrower a few months before the blow torch,” Caleb offered.
“Done?” I asked. Everyone kind of shrugged at me. “Because yes, my skin bears some scars, but the bones under my skin are worse.”
“I can’t even begin to think of all the times you’re hands have been broken and put back together again. Humpty Dumpty needed your doctor.” Xavier snarked.
“That is the point. My hands look awful, but the real scars are underneath the flesh that covers my hands.” I looked at them and they stared back blankly. “Ok, not me. So, Rachael, could you come here?” She looked mostly unscathed by serial killers at the moment. If she was unlucky, that would change. She reluctantly agreed. I pushed her sleeves up and grabbed her arms are the elbow, displaying them for the group. “So, Rachael here hasn’t been set on fire. There are a few marks, but nothing major. However, if you read her file, she broke her hand four years ago, pretty severely on an assignment. The scarring you see is what’s left of the surgery to put it back together. Based on the scarring, it wasn’t that bad. Most of them look like they could have happened in the kitchen while she was making dinner for her 2.3 children and 1.4 dogs and her second husband. Underneath the flesh, a very different scenario comes into play. What if he removes the flesh to see the scars on the bones? Scars that he otherwise wouldn’t be able to see?”
“That’s would explain the bugs,” Xavier said. “Detergents and chemicals to remove the flesh would remove or create staining and possibly, damage the bone. Letting them naturally rot takes a long time and is smelly. Insects would solve most of that problem. They cause minimal staining and damage to the bones. But why does he want to see the bones?”
“Why did you put your shoes on this morning?” I asked him.
“Because you woke us all up at the crack of dawn to tell me you might have a lead,” Xavier answered.
“It was a need.” Caleb looked at him. “For some reason, he needs to see the bones because their skin is unblemished.”
“That means the chances of you being a victim are nil and zero,” Fiona smirked.
“I would not be his ideal victim type, no,” I answered. “That might actually be the best news I have heard all week. A victimology that I do not fit into is kind of a great moment in my life.”
“How is he getting his victims though?” Rachael asked and I dropped her arms, suddenly aware that I was still holding them. “There hasn’t been any reports of kidnappings.”
“He doesn’t need to kidnap them, they come willing,” Caleb said. “He’s a psychopath; that means he isn’t without his charms. He’s also very good at hiding who he really is, on the inside. He probably convinces them to come to his house. The fact that almost half the cars have been found in bar parking lots, seems to fit that theory. A few were found in grocery store lots and parking garages. All without security cameras, so he’s smart about where he dumps cars when he needs to do it.”
“I admit I was hoping for an average psychopath, with average motives, and average skills at covering his tracks,” Fiona said. “The smart ones are annoying.”
“You realize how offensive that comment is, right?” Caleb looked at her. Caleb rarely made eye contact. He was a psychopath with synesthesia. When people spoke, he could see the words they said. He also had the highest IQ in the room.
“Not you, you don’t run around killing people. I’m talking about the psychopaths like this guy,” Fiona brushed him off.
“And Malachi,” I added. “I would put him as an annoying psychopath. And myself, even though I’m a hybrid sociopath. Caleb really is the exception to the rule. Now, back on topic, I think we might be able to find something, if we can find a recent victim that has not turned up as a pile of bones yet. I think we start by checking missing persons’ reports where their cars were found in bar parking lots. The more recent, the better. Specifically find the pictures because we want people with very minimal to no visible scarring.”
“Oh, yeah, sure, I’ll just get on it, shall I?” Fiona smirked.
“Do you want me using your computer?” I raised an eyebrow at her. I knew the answer was no. Some years ago, I had been tech savvy. I’d been able to keep abreast of the new technology that was constantly bombarding us, but not anymore. It wasn’t the technology that was the problem, it was me. There were too many hits to the head, too many fist fights, too many bullet holes, too many everything. It was taking its toll. I’d suffered some brain damage as a child, not enough to be noticeable to others, but I had known it. Mr. Callow had not been gentle when he abducted me and I had not gone into the trunk of his car with a struggle.
I don’t know how long I was held, long enough for most of the bruising to heal. Since then, I had never been good at keeping track of time. Days of the week, days of the month, months, years, important dates, none of it stuck in my head, most of the time, I wasn’t even sure how old I was. I felt old, but I was pretty sure I had yet to reach thirty.
What I did know for sure was that I had a twenty year history of violence, give or take a few years. Since joining the SCTU, it had gotten worse. I didn’t have any impairments in my motor functions yet and no one really noticed, but I couldn’t keep up with the world the way I once had. One day, Xavier would look at my brain scans as I sat trying not to drool on myself. This was my fate. I had always figured I would die at the hands of a psychopath, I just hadn’t realized it would be slow and multiple psychopaths.
Fiona hadn’t answered me. Instead, her fingers worked on the keyboard, filling the room with a loud, repetitive, clicking sound that wasn’t quite soothing, but wasn’t exactly annoying either. For me, it was familiar and I liked familiar. It made me comfortable. Maybe for the first time in a few days, I had moments of nothingness.
Not the calm or darkness I experienced when I let go of my facade of emotions, but the ability not to think. Fiona was doing her thing. Caleb and Xavier were comparing things. Rachael sat quietly, watching Caleb and Xavier write on the whiteboard while they tried to put the pieces together. I took the time to watch Rachael.
She was attractive, but she wore a wedding band. That would be useful since I had very little doubt that she was Malachi’s type. She sat straight in her chair, a sign of physical strength, something she would need in this job. Her dark brown eyes darted across the whiteboard, keeping up with the ramblings of Caleb and Xavier. She’d been an analyst for the NSA. Her desk job was the result of her fractured hand. Like everyone else in this room, this was her last chance at field work, her last chance to feel like she was making a real difference. That much I had worked out from her redacted files and her presence her. I could respect those motivations. She was either Latina or mixed, I couldn’t tell and I didn’t care. Her skin was darker than mine, but that only meant that her skin was darker than mine. Ethnicity was a box that got checked on government forms and was unnecessary in my opinion. As long as she could do the job, I didn’t care if she was from Mars.
She had yet to prove herself, but some part of felt that she would. She was capable or she wouldn’t be here. The SCTU might be the last stop for all of us, but we were each here because we were an asset. Rachael’s contributions would make themselves known soon enough. Or she would die trying.
Hell
There was a beauty in death and decay. Most people never saw it, but Keirnan did. It was about more than an ecological circle of life coming to completion. It was about the spiritual end. He had seen plenty of people die and from their eyes, he had always seen the last flicker of hope. Their last thoughts of their loved ones flashing through their brains or their understanding that their souls would live on, even if their bodies didn’t.
He was about to see it again. He was excited by it, enthralled by the possibility that this one might be different. He was waiting for one that was, but so far, none had ever come up.
“Do you want another beer?” Keirnan asked Thomas, his newest friend. He’d met Thomas earlier in the week at a sport’s bar. They’d had some laughs, had some beers, watched a baseball game. It had been a great time and when the bar had closed up the kitchen, Thomas had offered up his phone number. Keirnan had done the same. They had exchanged a few text messages and finally decided to watch the baseball game at Keirnan’s. After all, Keirnan had a huge flat screen TV, lived alone, and could cook up a decent meal for his new buddy.
“Yeah,” Thomas answered from his spot on the couch. “This TV is amazing. I need to get one.”
“It’ll set you back quite a bit, but it is worth it. High definition, liquid crystal display, all the bells and whistles because it’s a smart TV, I don’t think there’s anything it can’t do,” Keirnan came out of the kitchen and handed Thomas the beer. He flopped into the recliner that sat catty-cornered to the couch.
Talk was mostly about baseball. Eventually, Keirnan was able to work out that Thomas hadn’t told anyone where he was coming today. This was perfect. It was much easier to kill someone if no one knew where they were to begin with.
During a pitching change Thomas stood up to use the restroom. Keirnan busied himself in the kitchen, waiting for his moment. When Thomas began walking down the hall, Keirnan stepped out, blocking his path. Thomas didn’t seem to question this. His smile didn’t falter, his eyes never shifted around.
Keirnan plunged the knife into Thomas’s belly with force, driving it upwards as much as possible. He wanted to do no damage to the bone. For a moment, the smile remained on Thomas’s face. It slowly changed, the smile making way for a confused frown. His eyebrows drew together.
Keirnan then did something he’d never done before, he jerked the knife out. Not through the wound as he had always done in the past, but at the angle he was holding it. Thomas’s intestines slithered from the wound and coiled at Keirnan’s feet. Warm blood washed over Keirnan’s hand and arm. It made his skin feel hot and sticky.
The spark lit in Thomas’s eyes. One last thought as his life passed away in a pool of blood and guts. Keirnan caught the man’s body as it fell.
He instantly regretted his decision. Blood coated his shirt and pants. The hallway was slippery and his own feet felt like they would slide out from under him with the added man’s weight. The small holes he’d left in his previous victims had allowed for blood to flow out of the body and sometimes, minor organ leakage of the intestines.
This was going to be hard to clean up. Keirnan struggled to move. By sheer will, he managed to untangle himself from the rope-like coils at his feet and scoot across the wet floor with the body of Thomas. However, he noticed he was leaving bloody shoe prints on his nice polished hardwood floors. Also, something much worse was happening. The intestines of Thomas Wering were being dragged along with the man’s body. They left bloody trails dotted by fecal matter near the shoe prints. Keirnan had to stop. For a moment, he was fine and then suddenly, he gagged. He was going to throw up for the first time ever.
Keirnan dropped the body and attempted to run to the bathroom. He slipped on the blood in the hallway and fell down, coating his buttocks and back of his legs in the now drying goo. He forced himself to his hands and knees, cutting himself on the knife that he had dropped earlier. The one he’d used to end Thomas’s life. The one he didn’t remember dropping.
He didn’t make it to the bathroom. His stomach heaved right there. Everything he had eaten and drank that day mixed with the drying blood, making him feel even sicker. Long after his stomach was empty, he continued to heave on the spot. His body became sore with it. His mouth dried up while he drooled.
Keirnan Janson was in Hell and it was a hell of his own making. He had done something stupid and he was now paying for it. At some point, his stomach stopped heaving, but his mind blanked out on him.
When he woke, the blood had dried. His living room was dark from the sun setting. The TV was still on, but the baseball game was over. The channel was now broadcasting infomercials. His face hurt. His body hurt. His gut felt like he had been repeatedly punched by a boxer. He stopped himself from wiping a hand down his face. It was coated in drying blood and smelled of shit and iron. For a moment, his stomach churned and he worried if he was about to throw up some more. It settled down and he clenched his fist. The blood flaked off in places, fluttering to the floor.
It took a few moments and tries, but Keirnan eventually got his legs under him and stood up. The body of Thomas was half way across the living room. The dead man’s eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling. Keirnan began to make a list in his head of everything he needed. He desperately wanted a shower, but that would have to come last. First, he needed to move Thomas to the barn, before his help arrived for the day. Then h
e needed to clean up the blood, the shoe prints, the trails, the vomit, and all the evidence he could find in the hallway and living room. Next, he’d need to dispose of his clothing.
In the past, with the smaller stomach wounds, there had been blood, but his victim had died from internal bleeding. He had been ill-prepared for what would happen if he ripped that wound open. The consequences were more than he wanted to deal with. He would never do that again. He wasn’t sure why he had done it this time. Maybe some part of him had thought Thomas would die faster or feel more pain or not have that flash as the life left his body. It didn’t really matter, he had made a mistake and Keirnan learned for his mistakes. He would clean up his mess and he would learn.
It would be horrible, but he would do it. He grabbed the knife from the floor and headed towards Thomas’s body. He would need to remove the offending organ to keep from making a bigger mess. He cut into it. It was no longer warm or squishy as it had been. It was tough, dry, and felt like rubber or springy plastic. He fought back the urge to heave again as he did it. Once it was detached, he heaved the dead man over his shoulder and picked up the intestine he had cut off. He carried both out to his barn.
Normally, he was very careful placing bodies in their designated containers. He didn’t have the luxury this time. He knew dawn was approaching and he still had to clean up the house and himself. He went to the first container that he knew was empty and opened the hidden bottom drawer. He laid Thomas and the piece he had cut off on it and closed it with his foot. The dermestid beetles would start working on him shortly.
Now, he had to return to the house. He was dreading it. He’d cleaned up blood before, but always small amounts, never anything like this. Also, it had never smelled of human excrement, which was a problem for Keirnan. He had a weak stomach when it came to those things.
