I took out my cigarettes. "Smoke?"
"Thanks." She took one.
I did the same and lit both.
"So what's on Seven Mile, other than a lot of businesses and former businesses now vacant or occupied by rats or druggies?"
She seemed to think about it. "My job."
I wondered what type of job she had. Prostitute crossed my mind. Perhaps a stripper.
She must have read my thoughts. "I work at a vegetable and fruit market and I'm running late."
It's much later than you could possibly imagine.
I sucked on the cigarette and looked at her. "You like getting high?"
"Yeah, sometimes."
"How about now?" I asked. "I've got a few joints in the glove compartment. Help yourself."
Her bold, black eyes widened at me. "Can't. Have to go to work."
"Too bad."
By now she realized that I was heading away from Seven Mile.
Those eyes stared again. "What're you doing?"
Don't ask what you really don't want the answer to.
"I have to make a quick stop. I promise I won't be long," I told her.
She seemed to want to argue the point, but perhaps realizing there were no real alternatives to her current dilemma, thought otherwise and instead simply stared out the passenger window.
I lived in a corner house on Cedar and Margarita. I'd gotten a good deal on it five years earlier. Back then I was married. That ended when the wife left me for her old boyfriend.
I kept the house as a good investment. And a place where I could hole up when I needed to be alone.
Or, in this case, with an invited guest.
I pulled into the driveway, far enough up so the mulberry bushes that separated me from my nosey neighbors kept them from getting into my business.
"Why don't you come in for a minute," I said nicely to Francine.
She sneered. "I already told you, I'm late for work."
"Yeah, you did say that, didn't you?"
Fear suddenly flooded her eyes. "Look, maybe this was a mistake—"
"We all make mistakes and just have to deal with them, for better or worse."
In this case, it would definitely be worse for her.
"I'm getting out of this car," she said in a higher octave.
She tried to open the door, but I controlled the master lock, meaning I controlled her.
"You're not going anywhere!" I yelled.
Francine faced me and tried to claw my eyes out. Having dealt with an unruly woman on more than one occasion, I managed to dodge her sharp nails, save for one that caught my cheek and took some skin. She wasn't as skilled. I slammed my fist into the side of her face and Francine went out like a light.
I got out and unlocked the side door of my house. I returned to the car, hoisted the prisoner over my shoulder, and carried her into the house.
I took her to the basement and laid her on a leather sofa. Turning on a single light that hung in the corner, I gazed at the woman named Francine and wondered if it was too late to stop this.
The part of me that looked at her as an object of my built up rage rather than a human being overcame any degree of rationality.
There was no turning back.
As Francine began to stir, I quickly pounced on her like a leopard, removing her jeans and underwear.
"Please...don't," she begged.
"Don't talk," I ordered, unzipping my pants and getting between her legs.
She made a weak effort to resist, but seemingly resigned herself to being raped, while hoping to still somehow make it out of this alive.
I forced my way inside her, feeling a surge of adrenalin, reveling in the power I suddenly had over her.
When it was over, I did the only thing I could to keep her from being able to identify me.
Using my bare hands and brute strength, I strangled Francine, staying just beyond her grasp as she tried valiantly to attack my face.
I watched her die, her eyes wide open, but void of expression. I felt nothing in that moment, other than relief and misguided blame.
Now what was I going to do with the body.
I thought about driving to Belle Isle and dumping her in the Detroit River. Or maybe going a little further to Kensington Metropark and tossing her body in Kent Lake.
In the end, I ditched Francine's corpse in a nearby wooded area; then hightailed my ass out of there before someone spotted me.
* * *
I stood at the gravesite of Francine Saunders. Someone had left flowers, which had started to wilt. I lit a cigarette and stuck it in my mouth, my lower lip trembling slightly. It always gave me the creeps when I visited the cemetery, where shadows crept over shadows and the macabre reality of tortured souls in dead bodies turning to rotted flesh and maggots made me want to puke.
Yet I continued to come back every year, as though enslaved by the spirit of the young woman whose life I had taken prematurely that summer so long ago.
"I'm sorry," I said in barely more than a whisper, not knowing if she could hear me or not. It did little to make me feel better, but the words needed to be said.
I inhaled deeply on the cigarette and tossed it to the ground.
I had already made my way to a second gravesite as a courtesy call before lighting up again. Even as darkness began to settle in like a shroud, I could make out the words on the granite headstone.
Jocelyn Parker: She Died Before Her Time.
I agreed.
After enjoying the high of killing Francine, like an addict, I wanted to experience it again. Though it went against the grain in terms of risk versus reward, the desire was too strong to overcome.
A year had passed since Francine's death before I set my sights on the next target.
It was a similar bleak day in the Motor City and no one seemed in the mood to do anything other than bitch, booze, snooze, or pretend to be anywhere but there.
After picking up some smokes from a liquor store, I drove down Schaefer. I saw a young blonde woman with her thumb out. She was standing beside a Volkswagen that had steam shooting from the rear as if in an angry mood.
I pulled to the curb and waited. Through the rearview mirror I studied her. She was slender, pretty, and wore jean shorts and a halter top.
The window was already down when she leaned her pretty face in.
"Looks like you've got car problems?" I said.
She frowned. "Yeah. Damned radiator must have sprung a leak or something."
I gave her a concerned look. "You need a lift to a service station?"
"There's no time for that now," she said. "What I really could use is a lift to school, if that wouldn't be too much trouble. I can pay you."
Oh, you will.
"No problem at all," I said sweetly. "And save your money for car repairs. Get in."
She didn't hesitate to do just that.
"Thanks, I really appreciate this," she said, buckling her seatbelt.
I began driving. "So where to?"
"Marygrove College. It's on West McNichols Road—"
"I know where it is," I told her. "I, uh, used to work in the area."
She smiled. "That's cool."
I smiled back. "What's your name?"
"Oh, sorry. It's Jocelyn."
"I'm Kenneth."
"Hi." She giggled.
"Glad to meet you." I took out my cigarettes, offering her one.
"Thanks, but I don't smoke."
"Good choice," I said, resisting the desire to light up. "Been trying to kick the habit, but you know how it is."
"Yeah." She gave a little chuckle. "My dad's the same way. He quits, starts again, quits."
I turned onto Pickford. "Do you mind if I drop by my place on the way? I left my damned wallet on the counter. Won't take but a minute to grab it."
She seemed to hesitate for a moment, but dismissed it. "Sure, that's fine."
I shook a cigarette from the pack and lit up thoughtfully.
Half an
hour later, I was on top of and inside Jocelyn, who had come in the house voluntarily, before realizing the error of her ways.
I clamped my hand down hard on her mouth to muffle her cries while I had my way with her.
When I was finished, she begged me to let her go. "I swear I won't say anything," she told me.
I almost believed her. But self-preservation and the desire to see this through made me reject her pleas.
"Can't let you leave. Sorry."
I put my hands around her neck and squeezed, feeling euphoric and powerful. She made choking noises and her eyes were wide with terror as I strangled the life out of her.
Soon the limp body beneath me was motionless, her legs still splayed and her arms up over her head.
I came back down to earth in a hurry and the thrill of the kill subsided in favor of getting rid of the body.
I gathered Jocelyn's clothes and tossed them in a bag. Then I wrapped her naked body in an old blanket and put it and the bag in my trunk.
I drove around looking for a good place to dump her. I found it in an alley on Myers near Wyoming behind an abandoned house. Judging by the drug paraphernalia on the ground, I suspected that the house was being used by crack heads for temporary shelter.
But that wasn't my problem.
And neither was Jocelyn anymore.
* * *
I left the graveyard and two of the women who had died by my hands. Four more followed over the next three years before forces within made me turn away from being a killing machine.
But the damage had been done. No putting the demonic genie back in the bottle. I'd literally gotten away with murder, yet felt like it had affected every fiber in me.
First there were the terrible dreams that seemed to come in waves with every victim.
Then there was the guilt factor weighing me down like an anvil.
Even if I wanted to, I could no more walk away from what I'd done than anyone who decided to play judge and jury in marking someone for humiliation and death. Didn't mean I hadn't tried to, while maintaining my sanity.
I drove around aimlessly. Cutting on the radio, I went from station to station before settling on one. It was the news. The topic was one I was all too familiar with.
"One of Detroit's most baffling murder mysteries is also a cold case for the police department," said the newscaster. "Twenty years ago, a serial killer took the life of twenty-one-year-old Francine Saunders. The victim was raped, strangled, and dumped in the woods like yesterday's garbage. Over the next four years five more women were believed to have been murdered by the killer, dubbed the Bagley Killer because of the community where the murders took place. To this day, the killer has never been identified, though the killings inexplicably stopped after that.
"In a chilling irony, the younger brother of Bagley Killer victim, Jocelyn Parker, is a detective with the Detroit Police Department's cold case squad. According to Detective Joseph Parker, his sister's death has never been forgotten."
"Jocelyn meant the world to me," the detective said somberly. "Losing her when I was just a kid was the worst thing that could have ever happened to me. I look forward to bringing her killer and the killer of those other women to justice someday."
"This sentiment was echoed by Detective Parker's partner, Detective Conrad Tate," said the reporter.
"There are lots of crimes that go unsolved," Detective Tate said. "Our job is to try and dust the cobwebs off any local homicide crimes and breathe new life into them. Catching the Bagley Killer would certainly be a feather in our cap and good for the community. As always, we'll do our best."
"Which is about all we could ask for," the reporter said. "Especially when we're talking about a cold case that shows no sign of thawing out anytime soon."
I cut the radio off and lit up a cigarette musingly. Without even realizing it, tears began to stream down my face. I wiped them away, but they kept coming as if to wash away my sins.
It was time for me to fess up to what I'd done, and probably should have a long time ago. Carrying around something of this magnitude for so long was something I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.
Who, at the moment, happened to be me.
* * *
I wasn't a particularly religious man—far from it. But here I was at a church, ready to open myself up and be rid of the burden I'd carried for two decades.
I was sitting in the confessional uneasily as the priest took his place.
"How can I be of service to you?" he asked in a gentle voice.
I hesitated, wondering if I really wanted to confess. The fact I had showed up at all, knowing the consequences, gave me my answer.
"I've sinned, Father."
"How, my child?"
"In ways you can't begin to imagine."
"I can imagine many things," he said. "Tell me about these sins."
I sighed, wanting badly to smoke a cigarette. But now was not the time or place.
"I have killed," I told him.
"Who did you kill?"
"Women."
The priest paused. "Go on..."
I swallowed. "Six in all. I'm sure you've heard of the so-called Bagley Killer—"
"You are this killer?"
"Yeah, Father, you're looking at him—"
The priest sucked in a deep breath. "Tell me why you killed these women."
"That shouldn't be too hard. The first was an anger-retaliation type thing."
"And the others?"
"Because I liked the way it made me feel."
"How did it make you feel?" he prompted.
"Like I was in control and couldn't be touched."
"Do you still believe that?"
"What do you think?"
"I think you've found that you can't control the consequences of your actions, including for yourself, and that everyone can be touched—either by God or Satan."
"So am I doomed, no matter what, Father?"
"That depends on where you go from here," he said.
"It may be straight to hell," I said brusquely. "Or back to the world I know."
"Let me help you," the priest offered.
"Do you think I should turn myself in?"
He waited a beat. "I think you should do what you feel is right. It may be the only way to come to terms with what you've done."
I stood. "Thanks, Father."
"Will you come back to talk?"
"I doubt it. I think I probably already said enough. Goodbye, Father."
* * *
I drove around in circles trying to build up the courage for what I was about to do, till it became crystal clear.
I ended up back at the cemetery. The rain had begun to fall and was not ready to show me any mercy.
The dark of night was offset minimally by a lamppost. I saw no evidence of any living beings other than myself, which was just what I wanted.
I bypassed the gravesite of Jocelyn Parker, though something told me her spirit was as aware of my presence as I was of hers.
Reaching the grave of Francine Saunders, I took out a cigarette for a smoke.
"Guess you've been waiting a long time for this moment, huh? Maybe we both have. Wish I could take back what I did to you and the others, but it's too late for that now. But I'll make it right so you can rest in peace, wherever that might be."
I took a long drag on the cigarette for the last time and flung it as far as it would go.
Without giving myself time to think about it, I pulled out my gun. It was a department-issued Glock 9mm handgun used by most detectives. I took out my badge and I.D., which read Detective Conrad Tate. Only family and friends knew me by my middle name: Kenneth.
Probably better that way.
I set the badge and I.D. on Francine Saunders' grave, put the barrel of the gun in my mouth at an upward angle, and pulled the trigger.
# # #
THE RIPPER'S RAGE
New York City, 1868
Jack watched from a crack in the closet door. In the dingy r
oom, his mother was lying on a cot spread-eagled with a man wedged between her legs as if stuck there. They were breathing hard, grunting, and making other strange noises. A pile of crumpled dollar bills sat on a table.
Jack winced as the man squeezed his mother's breasts so hard she cried out in pain. Just as quickly, she began to laugh almost hysterically, her legs wrapped around the man's buttocks while he pounded into her violently.
"Come outta there, Jack!" His mother looked toward the closet. Jack kept very still, hoping she would think he was elsewhere. "I know you're in there. You heard me!"
Jack swallowed and slowly opened the door, stepping into the room.
"That's Jack," his mother said to the man.
The man chuckled. "Hope we're puttin' on a good show for you, boy."
Jack remained mute.
His mother eyed him and extended her arm. "Take Momma's hand, Jack. I need you..."
Obeying, Jack took her clammy hand. The man was still on top of her, but she didn't seem to notice or care.
They both reeked of whiskey.
She gripped his hand tighter and tighter as the man drove himself into her harder and deeper.
Finally, the man let out a thunderous wail and Jack felt his mother's hand go limp. The man rolled off her.
"Don't let what you just seen scare you none, Jack," he snorted. "Whores are used to it and a whole lot more. Ain't that right, Lucy?"
"Yeah, whatever you say," she mumbled.
Jack turned away, not wanting his mother to see the hatred that consumed him like a fever.
* * *
New York City, June 1888
The smell of sulfur hung in the air like fog and gas lamps barely put a dent in the night's darkness.
Jack watched from the shadows as the whore staggered out of the dance hall. He'd watched her tease and flirt with men before taking them one by one to a room upstairs.
He followed her as she crossed the street and headed down another. It was darker and empty of other pedestrians. Nevertheless he eyed her with caution, relying on his senses more than sight to guide him.
She was his for the taking.
As if sensing him, she stopped and looked around. He ducked into the shadows. She saw no one and continued to move more briskly than before.
EDGE OF SUSPENSE: Thrilling Tales of Mystery & Murder Page 5
