by Hadena James
“There were over a hundred witness statements from the bar alone that night,” Fiona interrupted Hunter. “Total, we have nearly two hundred statements from different people that may have seen Anita Merritt on the day and night she disappeared. Of that number, seventeen have died of different things.”
“Wait, nearly two hundred, or exactly two hundred?” I asked Fiona.
“There were exactly two hundred and seven statements taken from people that had seen Anita Merritt in the twenty-four hours prior to her having disappeared,” Fiona answered.
“Xavier, join me in a rabbit hole for a moment,” I said to our resident doctor. “If you were cataloguing stab wounds and you got to two hundred, would you stop? Would you round down? How would you record that?”
“I’d state it as extreme overkill by a person in the grip of a psychotic break,” Xavier answered. “I have this terrible premonition that you are about to ask me to count stab wounds from old photographs.”
“Wow, I did not realize you were psychic,” I winked at him. He sighed.
Nineteen
Night is a mind-altering circumstance. All those strange noises that cause the hair to stand up on the back of the neck have rational explanations during the day. Our consciousness interrupts people’s faces differently, making us less certain about all those micro expressions we rely upon to give us an understanding of how someone is feeling. Even the most macho of men can be reduced to tears at night by situations that would normally not phase them.
Fear is omnipresent at night. Surrounded by darkness and shadows, one’s mind tends to conjure up the worst images instead of the best. Our hearts naturally beat a little a faster when we are outside after dark. Our breathing automatically becomes slightly more labored. The imagination center in our brain becomes more active. These are not things we notice, unless we are connected to research machines that tell us. Nonetheless, humans still fear that predators lurk in the dark. It is part of our fight or flight instincts and those instincts remind us that we are more vulnerable at night.
Sadness is also more common at night. A person could get terrible news during the day and maintain their stoic visage, but once the night comes, their stoicism breaks down. The tears flood from us. Sadness creeps into our very souls and colors our opinion of how bad the situation really is.
These nocturnal changes enhance our worries. We are more likely to become hysterical at night. Our worst fears make their way from the darkest corners of our imagination and overwhelm us, making us worry more. Our desire not to face the night alone is also increased. There is safety in numbers, which is why sex is more common in the evening hours than any other part of the day. That intimate acts reminds us that we are not facing the lurking darkness alone.
Our departing vision, does in fact, lead to an enhancement of our other faculties. Our ears hear more sounds, hence the familiar becomes strange at night. The enhanced sound makes sure we can hear more in the noise than we did during the day and so it becomes foreign to our brains. Our nose picks up more smells, which is why we are more aware of how our surroundings smell and might find the phantom scent of sugar cookies or cigarette smoke, even hours and sometimes days after it has actually been in our presence.
Even people who love the night have these changes. The difference is that the increased fear and sadness increases the endorphins. They get hit with a dose of euphoria after the sun goes down, their bodies fighting the effects of the darkness. For these people, mornings are rough, because they are coming off a high.
Night is the only mind altering circumstance that is permanent. All others wax and wane, such as times of war. It would be logical for humans to become conditioned to the night and to some degree we have, which is why we no longer notice the physiological and psychological changes which happen at night. However, we have not become so conditioned that the mere setting of the sun no longer affects us.
As I stood in the alley, cigarette lit, watching the night come alive around me, I was acutely aware of this. In the past, I have noticed that groups of people walk closer together at night, even if the weather is warm. Doing this in cold weather could be explained away as huddling for warmth, but in warm weather, the only thing that makes sense is the desire to be closer to other, friendly, living human beings. People, even sober people, talk louder on the streets, some sort of warning that they are not alone and therefore, they would not make good victims. They laugh more, even when something isn’t actually funny, a result of the nervous energy inside them that they don’t even realize exists. They also smile less, even in large groups, where they are talking loudly and laughing more, in between those two things, there are no random grins. Their mouths take a decided down turn, not frowning exactly, but as if set in determination to weather the darkness, consequences be damned.
Beside me was a building full of people, Marshals, going about their jobs and their lives, feeling safe due to the illumination that hung overhead. Xavier was counting stab wounds. Lucas was working with Hunter on his probability program. Fiona was still looking for connections between the dots. Gabriel had sent me to smoke to keep me from chasing more rabbits.
The metaphor was a good one. The only way to catch a rabbit was to trap it. So instead, you ended up chasing them around in circles until you crashed from exhaustion or worse. If I chased too many rabbits, I would be so caught up in following their tracks, that I would miss the tracks of the predators.
Three guys side-stepped away from the alley, avoiding the plume of smoke I had just exhaled. One of them looked at me, opening his mouth, and then he closed it and hurried along. There was no doubt he had been ready to spew facts about how bad smoking was, but his analysis of the situation had decidedly kicked his flight instinct on.
The restaurants, bars, and nightclubs were all doing a brisk business and it seemed everyone had to walk past the Marshals building to get to their destinations. Tightly knit groups of partygoers scurried past, moving from one bright arc of light to another. The streetlights provided a false sense of comfort to those venturing out on the streets. My plumes of smoke were proof of that.
It would be easy for me to snatch some young thing off the sidewalk as she lagged behind her group. Like Jack the Ripper, I could have her throat slit and disappear back into the shadows before anyone noticed. If I was skilled enough, I could have her throat slit before she could fight or scream. Then I could prop her body up, down in the darkness of the alley, where her friends would be reluctant to go, rationalizing that she wouldn’t have come down that way. They would peer into the dark for a moment or two, before continuing their search of other, better lit areas. That was the nature of humanity.
My lurking was the nature of what happened when humanity became skewed. There were other predators stalking these streets tonight. They probably weren’t thinking about how to slit open the throats of victims, but monsters came in all shapes, sizes, and preferences. In some ways, serial rapists and stalkers were worse than serial killers were. The majority of serial killers wanted blood or pain, like Malachi and me. Rapists and stalkers wanted power. They wanted to feel like a god. They wanted to be able to take the things we held most dear and turn them against us. It was one thing to take a life, release a soul, but entirely different to destroy someone from the inside.
In my hierarchy of bad people, rapists were worse than most serial killers were. Pedophiles, sexual sadist killers, and bombers were the worst of the worst. Rapists were one step above them. Mass poisoners might join the lowest ranks before long. They incited a form of terror that went well beyond most serial killers. Then again, I understood killing one-on-one. I did not see the sport in mass killings. I did not understand sex or sexual urges. I did understand that to force someone to do something against their will would make someone feel powerful, but I considered those people weak. They were the ones that desperately needed to be culled from the herd. I frowned at this last thought, realizing that it was very much in agreement with Patterson and Eric. However, I
was not all that opposed to a serial killer that preyed on people that victimized other people. It was the reason I had issues with Patterson and Eric. I understood it much more than I wanted to. They were bad people, but on the scale of bad people, they really weren’t that bad.
I snuffed out my cigarette. I had already chased that rabbit into its hole about a dozen times. The same conclusion was always drawn. I had to step away from it before the idea became enticing and I ended up in the Fortress. It was my second greatest fear.
“About 180,” Xavier said from behind me. I had heard his footfalls as I snubbed out my cigarette.
“Well, that ruins that theory.”
“Not entirely.” Xavier walked up next to me. Partially hidden by the buildings on either side of us, his eyes followed the moving crowds. “Pictures aren’t detailed enough for me to catalogue every stab wound. When someone is stabbed that many times, then some of them are going to be on top of each other. From the photos, I can’t tell whether some of them are double or triple wounds, or where the killer had problems removing the knife. There very well could be two-hundred and seven stab wounds. I can’t say for sure one way or the other. What I can say is that it was a man. There are defensive wounds on the victim’s hands and arms, meaning that his weight, straddling her across the hips, was enough to keep her pinned down. Also, the majority of the wounds appear to have an angle, indicating longer arms than the victim’s torso allowed. If I were going to recreate it, I’d use Lucas as the attacker. I’d also wager that the killer worked over the face, shoulders, and upper torso, then repositioned himself to get the wounds into her middle and lower torso.”
“The tall man again,” I sighed. “I am beginning to believe that a boogeyman might really be stalking South Dakota.”
“Oh, it gets better,” Xavier said. “We found another person who was murdered by a tall man. He put a knife in his skull. The victim was a witness who said that Laurie Flader, one of the original victims, appeared to be using drugs and drinking when she disappeared. However, he described the person she disappeared with as being a tall man with long hair. Then there’s the issue of Violet Braun. She might have stuck a needle in her arm, but she certainly didn’t stick one in her own spine. The coroner noted a bug bite on the back of her neck, just above her hairline and in line with her spine. I took a closer look at the photo and I’d bet it’s a needle mark. So, unless Violet was on the ground or lying down, someone tall stuck a needle in her skull. Combine the spot of the needle mark and the force needed to give someone an injection there, I’d bet the same person that stabbed Bonnie Lakes is the same man that killed Violet Braun.”
“Who is Bonnie Lakes?” I asked.
“The woman who was stabbed two hundred times.”
“Oh, I do not think I ever noticed her name.” I thought about it for a moment. “So, Bonnie, Violet, Anita, and another girl go out together. Anita goes missing, ends up dead. Laurie whatever her name was leaves a bar, where she appears to be drugged and drunk, with a tall man and she ends up dead. Then a tall man kills this guy, Violet, and Bonnie. Now, a tall man might be dosing people with belladonna.”
“That’s kind of the theory at the moment.”
“We have our very own Rawhead.”
“Do I want to ask?”
“He is a giant boogeyman, often depicted with a gaping mouth dripping blood because he devours children in one swallow. Sometimes, he also punishes adults for indiscretions and sins.”
“Our boogeyman isn’t eating them.”
“No, he is killing them though, for their indiscretions and sins.” If I had to face a boogeyman, it wouldn’t be Raw Head and Bloody Bones, because the fictional version is always tamer than the real one, and frankly, the fictional Raw Head was disturbing.
Maya Hudson
Maya’s most recent date with Alejandro had been weird. He had asked a lot of questions about her adopted son, Tyler. It was almost as if he knew more than he should. She wondered if this man was one of the ones that Anita had been worried about.
It had been a long time since Anita’s murder. She thought about it almost every day though; the young girl that had come to her, searching for a new life, a life away from the violence. Her belly distended and scarred as she searched for a safe haven for herself and her unborn child.
The father had been an addict. Anita had watched, helplessly, as he had forced another girl to swallow several pills of LSD. He had laughed when the girl began clawing at herself, ripping at her skin, trying to remove whatever she imagined to be there. Anita said the girl had died and after she had died, the father of her baby had raped the corpse. Then he had raped Anita before wandering off. Anita had left too. She’d looked up the only relative she had and came to South Dakota looking for shelter.
Maya had been more than willing to take in the girl. Anita had been terrified the baby’s father would find her. Maya had assured her that he wouldn’t. She had been wrong and Anita had died because of it. Maya admitted her part in it. She had assumed it was an outsider, one that wouldn’t have been very welcome on the Lakota land in South Dakota.
After Anita’s disappearance, there had been whispers around the place about a Lakota and Ute selling drugs in Sioux Falls. Maya had gone to the bar, because she had wanted to see him, but with the crowd, she hadn’t. Instead, she’d gone to the police in Sioux Falls and reported the problems Anita had with her ex. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a name or description to give them.
A few weeks later, the news had reported a Lakota named Gavin had died of a stab wound. There were no leads, but Maya had a feeling that this Gavin was the father of Tyler. She also had a feeling that it was a drug deal gone badly or he’d been trying to dose a victim and the victim had fought back.
Lately, she had been having some strange feelings as well. Tyler had gone off to college, leaving her alone for the first time in ages. He and his girlfriend, Rachel, had split up on good terms. She had hoped that when Tyler returned in a few years, the two would get back together. Now, Rachel was dead. She had told Tyler over the phone, the day he arrived in Florida. Thankfully, Maya had family in Florida and Tyler wasn’t alone. People who loved him surrounded him.
It hadn’t stopped the paranoia. She was convinced someone was watching her. Someone was out to get her. Part of her wondered if it had to do with Tyler. Another part wondered if it had something to do with Anita. She had made her family in Florida aware of her feelings and Tyler’s situation, just in case. She’d also given them a contact name, Malachi Blake. The FBI agent had come around some years earlier, looking into the deaths of the young women in Sioux Falls. He hadn’t shared his findings with her, but he had given her his card.
The news a few days ago had informed her that a bombing had occurred in the neighborhood where the VCU agent lived. She had tried calling his number, but hadn’t gotten anything but his voicemail. This only fueled the feeling of doom that was engulfing her.
She tried again, and this time, she left a voicemail, begging to be called back. She thought it might all be connected to Anita’s murder. The killer might be coming after Tyler next. Or her.
Maybe she was wrong in assuming the Lakota was Anita’s boyfriend and Tyler’s father. Maybe it had been someone else and they were now cleaning house, so to speak. Or maybe she was just paranoid because the circumstances between Rachel’s murder and Anita’s murder were so close.
This had happened before. About ten years ago, she had become very paranoid that someone was watching her and Tyler. She’d gotten sick from the stress of it. Eventually, she had taken Tyler to Florida to visit her family. Once away from South Dakota, she had begun feeling much better. She almost hadn’t returned. Sometimes, she wished she hadn’t.
Tonight was one of those nights. She wanted to pack a few belongings and hop the next flight to Florida. She would spend a few days with Tyler, helping him grieve over Rachel. She would enjoy the sun and warm weather. She could do it, but not tonight. Someone had to run the clinic, s
ince it wasn’t going to run itself. She would have to give them at least a day or two of notice before she went on vacation.
She dug out her laptop. To hell with work, her son needed her. She logged onto Expedia and made arrangements to travel to Florida. Her cell phone was dead, again. She was having issues remembering to charge it. She was having issues with lots of things lately. It was as if her mind was a little behind. Her eyes were killing her. She almost constantly had a headache. The idea of turning on a lamp made her want to scream. She would see an ophthalmologist while she was in Florida. Maybe they could tell her what was wrong with her eyes.
There was a knock on her front door. She got up to answer it, putting her phone on the charger as she did. Alejandro was on the other side. She opened the door to the wheelchair bound man, letting him in.
“Hi, Maya,” he said, rolling into her living room.
“Hi,” she smiled at him. She liked him, but there was just something off about him. “Do you want some coffee?”
“Sure,” he said. She turned to go in the kitchen to get two cups. As she walked into the kitchen, she saw a shadow appear on the wall. It was monstrously tall and inhumanly wide. She turned to ask Alejandro if he could see it, but he was standing right behind her. Her mouth opened to let out a scream, but his giant hand clamped over her mouth. “I want to know where my nephew ran away to. I took care of Rachel for him. He doesn’t have to worry about her tearing out his heart again. If you tell me, I’ll let you go.”
Maya didn’t believe him. At least, she didn’t believe he was going to let her go. Judging by his height and size, there was a very good chance that he was related to Tyler. Tyler was very tall and heavily built. Not as large as Alejandro, but still well above average. Anita said something about giants one night to Maya. She now understood it. She was face to face with Tyler’s uncle and he was going to kill her regardless of whether she gave him information or not. He removed his hand from her mouth.
