All The Dead Girls

by Tim Kizer

  It was past ten in the evening. His dad came to his room, sat down on the chair, and beckoned him with a finger. The only piece of clothing his father had on was a pair of boxers; his father loved walking around the house in his underpants. Then his dad slowly pulled his boxers down to his knees, exposing his erect penis.

  "Touch it," his father said in a low voice, nodding at his dick. He stretched his right hand forward, looked into his dad's eyes, making sure that he still wanted him to touch his organ, and then laid his index finger on the head of his dad’s penis. He was amazed by the size of his dick (admittedly, it was the first time he had seen an adult man's erect penis, and he had nothing to compare it with). The head of the cock was hard, dark red, awfully big.

  "Take hold of it." His father’s breath became rapid.

  He wrapped his hand around his dad’s penis and looked into his eyes again. His father covered his hand with his and moved it a few times up and down the shaft, showing him what to do next. He stroked his dad’s dick for a minute, listening to his quiet groans. He had no idea why his father had made him stroke his penis. And he was too young to realize that what they were doing was not a common father-son activity. He thought he was simply being a good boy.

  “Don’t tell anyone about this, okay?” His father opened the tube of personal lubricant he brought with him and put some of it on his penis. “Turn around and take off your shorts and undies.”

  When his shorts and briefs dropped to the floor, his dad spread his buttocks and put some lube into his anus.

  “Good boy.” His father grabbed him under the armpits and eased him onto his lap. “It might hurt a little. I want you to be very quiet, son.” Then his dad worked his penis into his butthole.

  The pain was not unbearable, thanks to the lube. He grunted, but he did not cry. He remembered having a strong urge to defecate. It took his father about two minutes to come.

  "Good boy," his father whispered, his penis pulsing, his breath fast. He removed him from his lap, pushed him lightly away, pulled up his underwear and pants, and said, "Get dressed."

  That was how it had happened. Interestingly, his dad, who had left them three years later, had never raped him again; perhaps he had decided that the pussy was better than a boy’s butt. No, he did not condemn his father for fucking him. The rape didn't affect him in any way, and his relationship with his old man didn’t change at all after that night. He continued to love and respect his dad—and why wouldn’t he? His father gave him life and therefore had certain rights and privileges with regard to him and his body. He didn’t mind jerking his papa off. It was an easy thing to do. As for getting fucked in the ass by Daddy, the main thing here was to get the right lube. He supported his father in the belief that if you wanted something badly, you had to take it so as not to betray yourself. You are your desires. You should never abandon your desires.

  On second thought, maybe this incident had had an impact on him. It had made him stronger. Tougher.

  He was going to fuck Richard Brower up. This asshole was a dead man walking.

  2.

  At a quarter past six in the afternoon, while Richard was watching a rerun of Seinfeld, the doorbell rang. When he opened the front door, he saw a fair-haired man in a blue shirt and a gray suit, who appeared to be in his early forties.

  “I’m Detective Frederick Pryor.” The man produced his badge, which Richard carefully scrutinized.

  Half a minute later, Detective Pryor eased into a chair in the living room. Richard sat down on the sofa, about four feet from the cop.

  "This is a very important case, Mister Brower,” Pryor said with a solemn air. “I was shocked by what happened to Kathy Brown because I personally know her.” He withdrew a small notebook and a pen from his jacket pocket. “It was you who found Ms. Brown after she was attacked, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it was me.”

  “Please tell me how it happened. Be as detailed as possible.”

  “I was walking to John Welles’s house when I heard Kathy cry for help. I jumped into the bushes and saw her lying on the ground. Then I called 911.”

  Pryor waited a few seconds for Richard to continue speaking, and said, “Where were you when you heard her cry for help?”

  “I was about forty feet from the driveway.”

  “As I understand, you were one of Steven Norris’s guests.”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “What time did you hear Kathy’s cries?”

  “Around half past eight.”

  It looked like Pryor hadn’t read his statement yet.

  Or maybe the detective was trying to catch him in an inconsistency.

  "Eight thirty. Okay." Pryor began writing in his notebook. “Where did you park your car?”

  “I parked it on the street.”

  “There was no room to park in front of the Welles residence?”

  “I don’t know. I just decided to park on the street.”

  “So you found Ms. Brown in the bushes, forty feet from the driveway, correct?"

  "Yes. That's where I found her. She was bleeding."

  "She calls for help, you dash into the bushes and see her on the ground bleeding."

  "Yes. She was groaning. At first I didn't even recognize her voice."

  "When did you realize that Kathy was wounded?"

  "As soon as I saw blood."

  Pryor nodded. “Speaking of blood. You had blood on your clothes, didn’t you?”

  “I helped Kathy sit up. That’s how the blood got on my clothes.”

  "I see. She’s lying on the ground, you grab her and lift her into a sitting position. And in the process, blood gets on your clothing."

  "Yes, that’s how it happened.”

  "What about the knife? Did you see the knife she was stabbed with?"

  “No, I didn’t see it."

  "Are you sure?" Pryor narrowed his eyes.

  "Yes, I’m sure."

  "All right." Pryor smiled. "Did you see the perpetrator’s face?”

  “No.”

  “How tall was he?”

  And why had he assumed that the attacker was a man? Women could be killers, too.

  Perhaps Kathy had told the police it was a man.

  “I didn’t see him at all. It should be in the statement I gave to your guys that night.”

  “I know that. I’m just checking if you want to change your statement. When people are agitated, they often misremember or forget facts.” Pryor glanced at his notes. “So the assailant saw you coming toward the driveway and fled the scene. Is that what you believe happened?"

  "Yes.”

  “If you hadn’t showed up, he would have killed Kathy, wouldn’t he?"

  “I suppose so.”

  Pryor nodded silently and turned a page in his notebook. "So you’re absolutely sure you didn’t see the knife?"

  "Yes, I’m absolutely sure. If I’d found the knife, I’d have given it to the police."

  The detective’s penchant for asking the same question over and over was amusing.

  "Of course you would. Did you look for the knife?”

  "No, I didn't. I was busy helping Kathy at the time."

  “Oh, right. I have a question: how do you know Kathy Brown?" Pryor closed his notebook. "Are you a friend of hers?"

  "Yes, we’re friends."

  "How long have you known her?"

  "One and a half months."

  "Have you visited Kathy at the hospital yet?"

  "Yes, I have."

  "I see that you care about her." Pryor nodded approvingly. "You’re an intelligent person, Richard. Can you explain why the attacker failed to kill Kathy? He stabbed her three times. Why did Kathy survive?"

  "As far as I know, the knife missed her vital organs."

  “I wonder why it happened. Maybe this guy doesn't know how to use a knife? Maybe he has no experience?"

  “I have no idea.”

  His eyes fixed on Richard, Pryor stroked his chin, and said, “Have you heard about th
is serial killer who cuts off his victims’ ears? He’s already murdered at least five women.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “We suspect that it was this man who attacked Kathy.”

  There was a short silence before Richard replied, “I don’t know what to say. That’s shocking.”

  “I saw the victims’ bodies. I still can't get those images out of my head. I could show you the pictures. Would you like to see them?"

  “No.” Richard shook his head.

  Pryor scratched his chin with his thumb. “I’m really curious about why this attempt failed. Maybe this guy didn’t want to kill Kathy. Subconsciously.”

  “Subconsciously?”

  It crossed Richard’s mind that the longer Detective Pryor spoke, the more evident it became that he was obtuse and incompetent. If he kept on like this, he would never catch this ear-chopping psycho.

  “It’s possible.”

  “Why is it important?”

  “I just find it a little odd that the knife missed the vital organs. He’s not an amateur. He’s already killed several women.” Pryor looked at Richard inquiringly. “What about you? Do you know where the vital organs are located?"

  “No, I don’t.”

  "Killing a human being with a knife takes a certain skill. I read about a guy who survived after being stabbed forty times. Forty times, can you believe it?” He paused. “Do you think this man will stop?"

  "I don’t know. If he’s a psycho, he probably won’t.”

  "Well, I agree with you. Why would he stop? He’s crazy. He’s sick. It's so disgusting. Killing innocent women, who have children, husbands, parents. Cutting off ears. This man doesn’t deserve to be called a human. He’s a monster."

  “You’re absolutely right, he’s a monster.”

  “Are you following this story?”

  “No, I’m not. I don’t watch the local news. The only thing that matters to me is that you don’t suspect me.”

  "Do you think we could suspect you?"

  "Suspect me of what? Killing those women?"

  “Yes.”

  "I don’t think anything.”

  Richard suddenly had a queasy feeling that he might have inadvertently opened a can of worms.

  "You don’t? You know, I made an interesting observation: when people come under suspicion, they begin to act in a suspicious way. Well, you know what I mean. It happens at the subconscious level. It’s as though some button is pushed inside their brains. They start to worry, they try to explain themselves, and they get frustrated when the police don’t believe them. It makes you feel terrible to be a suspect. Especially when you’re innocent."

  "I’m sure it does."

  "It feels like you’re sinking in a bog." Pryor paused to think for a moment. “Does your wife watch the local news? Has she talked to you about this psycho?"

  "My wife’s dead."

  "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know that. I'm very sorry about your wife."

  3.

  The next day Richard told Kathy about Pryor and his doubts about the detective's competence.

  "Now I understand why they haven’t caught this bastard yet," he said. Then he asked if Kathy she had seen the attacker's face.

  "No, I didn’t,” Kathy replied. “He had a black mask on."

  "How tall was he?"

  "I’d say he was average height. Maybe an inch shorter than you."

  "What was he wearing?"

  "Black pants and a dark blue long-sleeved shirt.” She touched Richard’s forearm. “It was similar to this shirt.”

  “You mean my shirt?”

  Kathy nodded.

  "Did he say anything to you?"

  "No. He just started stabbing me with a knife. It all happened so fast. I didn’t even have time to get scared.” After a pause, she added, “It hurt a lot."

  Richard gently rubbed Kathy’s hand. "Did Pryor talk to you?"

  "Yes. Twice."

  "What did you tell him?"

  "I told him how I’d been attacked."

  "How did it happen?"

  "I was walking on the side of the road, and all of a sudden this man jumped out of the bushes and stabbed me with a knife. Then he pulled me into the bushes and stabbed me two more times."

  Looking empathetically at Kathy, Richard breathed a heavy sigh. “Thank God you’re alive.”

  "I thank God every minute. I was stabbed three times, and I survived. And I’m getting better by the day." Kathy sighed. "I owe you my life, Richard. If not for you... You saved me."

  "Anyone would have done the same thing."

  "Just think about it: if you’d come half a minute later, I would have probably been dead."

  Richard squeezed Kathy's hand gently, encouraging her. Kathy sat up in bed. Richard brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. A smile lit up Kathy’s face.

  "Can you get up from the bed?" Richard asked.

  "Yes. I can even walk."

  "Excellent. Would you like to take a walk in the hall?" Richard stood up.

  “Sure.”

  They left the room. The cop outside the door got up and followed them a few steps behind.

  "Does he follow you everywhere?" Richard asked. "Does he sit here at night?"

  "There are three guards. They work in shifts. I think they have to follow me everywhere; otherwise, there’s no point in having them here."

  "Are you going to have protection when you leave the hospital?"

  "I suppose so."

  "How long are they going to let you have it?"

  "Until they catch the killer, I guess."

  "What if they never catch him? Will they protect you for the rest of your life?"

  Kathy laughed. "Of course not. I'm not President. A couple of months, tops."

  4.

  His mother was the first person he had sacrificed. But he hadn’t realized at the time that it had been a sacrifice. He began thinking about the true meaning of what he had done two months later, when he won one million two hundred thousand dollars in a lottery. Fortune smiled on him for sacrificing his mother!

  Some would say that what he had done to his mother was murder. These people would be wrong. He hadn’t murdered his mother. He had just helped her stop suffering.

  He suddenly saw Wendy's face on the windshield. A second later, the image vanished.

  He didn't remember his mother’s face very well. Did he have any photos of her left?

  He sighed. Anyway, Wendy would be a proud mother if she were alive now. Why? Because her son had become an important man. He had managed to attract thousands of followers in ten American cities. He had infected them with his ideas, made them fanatics of these ideas. And it was just the beginning.

  He massaged his temples with his fingertips. He'd been relaxing for ten minutes now. He had been halfway home when a splitting headache had come on and he had decided to stop and get some rest.

  He switched on the radio. Rod Stewart’s ‘The Rhythm of My Heart’ was playing. He started tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the song. Good music (and he was a big fan of Rod Stewart) calmed his nerves.

  "Sir, do you have a minute?” a hoarse male voice said from outside the driver’s window. As soon as he heard this question, Steven smelled a disgusting odor, which was a mixture of the scents of urine, sweat, and alcohol. Steven knew who he was dealing with before he looked at the guy.

  He turned his head to his left and saw an elderly bearded man with tousled gray hair and a deeply wrinkled face standing two feet from the car. The man’s clothing consisted of cargo pants, a fleece shirt, and a fleece jacket, all of which were dirty and worn-out. His purple bloated nose was fascinatingly ugly. Their glances crossed, and the bum bent toward the driver’s window.

  "Sir?" he mumbled, staring at Norris with his eyes, which were nothing but narrow slits because of his swollen eyelids. The bum’s face was a jumble of shapeless reddish and brownish lumps. The guy was one ugly son of a bitch, and he stank like hell.

  "What do yo
u want?" Steven asked. “You want something from me, don’t you?”

  If he coughs on me, I’ll crush his skull, he thought.

  The bum held his right hand out, palm up. He looked sixty years old, but Steven was willing to bet that the man was in his forties. These people aged incredibly fast. His head must be crawling with lice. He probably had crabs, too. Chances were he had forgotten when he had last bathed.

  Steven wondered if the man used drugs.

  "Sir, do you have some change?" the bum said in a gruff voice. "Sir, can you give me a dollar?"

  "What do you need it for? Are you saving up for a bottle of booze?" Norris grinned. His hands suddenly began to itch. He was overcome by the desire to use them and thus release all the negative energy that had accumulated in him within the last few days.

  "Sir, can you spare some change please?" the bum said monotonously. "Fifty cents?"

  "Get lost." Steven opened the door and climbed out of the car. A great idea had just come to his mind. "Go get a fucking job."

  "Fifty cents? Do you have fifty cents?"

  This hobo was a worthless piece of shit. Nobody cared about him, nobody was going to miss him if he vanished. And there was no one around at the moment. There was no one to shout: "A homeless guy’s been killed! There's the killer! There he is, in the black Buick. Catch him!" But even if there were witnesses, Steven wouldn't have cared. People didn’t give a fuck about bums; it was a sad fact of life. He must kill this wretched loser right here, right now. He needed to do this to purge his negative energy.

  He must perform a sacrifice.

  Nobody around. It was a sign from the Universe.

  "Okay, bro, I'll give you a dollar." Grimacing with disgust, Steven grabbed the bum’s head with both his hands and twisted it sharply around one hundred and eighty degrees. The vertebrae cracked, which was music to Steven’s ears. A gurgling sound escaped from the hobo’s mouth. The man twitched twice and then collapsed to the ground like a sack of potatoes. When it became clear that Steven had succeeded in breaking the bum’s neck, the weight on his chest that had been preventing him from breathing freely disappeared.

  He got back in his car, telling himself that he should wash his hands as soon as possible: God knows what germs the bum carried. Good thing the guy hadn't fallen on him or the car.