by Rodd Clark
Church’s question on God flashed into his mind. So random, so out of sorts that someone like him would ask such a question. How could a murdering sociopath have an interest in religious conviction? Christian had realigned his earlier principals of an all-knowing father some years before. It was another reason he never crossed the threshold of any church. The question of his morality coming from a sadistic killer simply irritated him. In Christian’s view, we were a species that could not help but destroy our own gods. We were a race of pagans once and believed in many deities. But we were heathen and eventually learned to discard those beliefs for the one true son of God. But even that faith was falling to the wayside. Every religion became a cast-off eventually; we found our spiritual side uncivilized, unholy, and savage. So we just shook it off like a dog drying his fur from the rain. Then we moved on; we calibrated our convictions then changed our idols. We were nothing if not predictable.
But hearing the killer’s input that a belief in God was intrinsic to their time together was surprising. From the beginning he wasn’t sure what he could expect from his time with a murderer, but his question on God wasn’t something that he could’ve guessed. As if to awaken him from a dream, someone rocked his shoulder as they passed, bumping him, and startled, he caught the wafting aroma of marijuana smoke from the walker who’d passed him. It was Seattle, and not uncommon to see the health-conscious urbanites who always appeared more part-time hippies or 70’s rebels just beyond the edges.
Christian was only a couple of blocks from his condominium and just in time. It was starting to mist heavier, and his hair was beginning to become plastered to his head, even from beneath the awnings of each chic store or bar he passed. He didn’t seem to mind it though; it simply made him appear like any long-term native of this glorious wet city.
He’d always had a fascination with human psychology. It had nearly become his profession, but the thought of sitting behind a desk, listening to others spew out and whine about their lives, had been less of a draw. Creative writing had been his true calling, so after graduation he’d started working for a high-end publishing house. His double majors in Arts and Humanities and Psychology had given him an edge over much of his competition, although his vice president status was more honorary than from years of service.
It was his affinity to the dark and mysterious reasoning of the brain that drew him to Church and, of course, by sheer twisted chance of life. He couldn’t think of anyone more qualified than him to write the story of a killer, and do so in the murderer’s own words. It had been done before, old hat in the field of psychology. However it hadn’t been done with a killer who had yet to be captured or convicted. He had the fortune of speaking to a serial killer about his crimes before the police even located him. It put him in a precarious position with the legal system, but it was a risk he was willing to accept.
His attraction to the actual crimes, and maybe even his fascination with the killer, had overcome his rational mind. He’d wanted to be the first to talk to someone so unique . . . and his interest seemed more than academic. As he turned a key in his lock and entered his modest loft, an explosion of overhead light illuminated his living room. He hadn’t entertained in a long while, and the area was used more as an office these days. At the far end of the living room was a whiteboard sitting on a precarious metal tripod. Black notes scribbled with a marker lined the length of the board and sat in tidy columns covering the majority of open space. Next to the whiteboard were newspaper clippings pinned to the wall. Some were pinned haphazardly across older, crinkled clippings, nearly covering a space of eight feet square. Hundreds of articles were pinned, taped, and tacked along the space. It spoke to his obsessive nature that Christian had located so many newspaper clippings from so many newsprints about homicides throughout the US.
College had taught him the value of research, and Christian loved research. He had used every medium at his disposal. There were online articles that he had printed out and hung next to print clippings. There were photocopied excerpts from books he’d gotten on loan from the library, and they too were scattered along the wall. He dropped his notepad on a table by the whiteboard and slung his coat over the back of a nearby chair. That familiar table was where he ate his suppers and paid his bills, but mostly it was where he read, researched, and clipped articles out with scissors about any news accounts that interested him and seemed somehow connected from the same original root.
He had done the impossible—he had located a serial killer before the authorities. His responsibility was clear. He should notify the police and wait for the story to break in the numerous news mediums he loved. But that wasn’t going to happen. He was going to get the story at the source before attorneys and prosecutors rebuffed him and doors slammed shut in his face. He had found Gabriel Church himself. He was not going to stand shoulder to shoulder in a throng of reporters and biographers and beg for his exclusive story. He was going to get it first, and to hell with the others. This was his accomplishment, and no one would take it away from him.
Christian reasoned that if he had contacted the FBI with his research they would have considered him a loony. They, no doubt, had their share of psychics and crackpots along the way of their investigations. Plus, he didn’t know how many murders they had linked to a single killer. He had made that connection because he was clever and could see the single strokes in the broad canvas . . . probably better than most. He could see how the crimes held a union, a tiny correlation to other murders, but mostly because of the type of victim and the seemingly random nature of the killings themselves.
It hadn’t been an easy task assembling the facts. He had scoured multiple newspapers across the continent, and all in his free time. He’d collected a database of horrors. And it was only possible with the advent of the Internet and the ability to track any minute detail of whatever you decided to hone your gaze upon. For him it had been murder, a string of bodies regularly occurring across the nation, but deaths that had to be closely inspected to determine their possible connection to a single killer. He had become so skilled in the gruesome hobby that he could train his focus to a spot on a map of where he suspected the next body would surface. Based upon the last homicide, he might be able to put a thumbtack into the Rand McNally that he also had pinned close to the whiteboard. On that map, and in that vicinity of that thumbtack, would be the next death; a murdered victim would be unearthed. He was more right than he was wrong.
For him it was easy to see the locations and patterns, but his aim was even straighter; he could actually distinguish the profile of the next victim. Something no agent of any FBI task force had done in this case. Christian remembered the exact moment that realization exploded in his mind. He remembered uttering “fuck” as he stood back with a recent newspaper clipping of an unsolved homicide from the city of Sedona, just outside of Flagstaff. The article recorded the death of a beloved high school principal whose body was discovered in the weeds of a remote industrial park. Christian read the story, which bordered too closely to an obituary due to the small city newspaper and even smaller-minded reporter. He’d been about to tack the clipping to the wall alongside its brothers and sisters, and he recalled how just days before he had envisioned the next victim, and this James Peterson, now deceased, fit that image in his mind.
He’d pulled up a chair and sat before his knees gave way under their failing support. He’d remained silent, staring abstractly at his “murder wall” just to absorb it. The repercussions had not been lost on him. He had picked the victim type because of what he suspected he knew about the killer, and this meant the two were thinking similarly. It seemed it had been a random guess but one that had inevitably become a reality. He had successfully crawled into the mind of a killer and could tell you, with some certainty, who would be murdered next. That insight was chilling.
On that particular evening several weeks before, his obsessions became something very real and tangible. He was a man sitting in a chair in Seattle, Washingto
n while in another barren red state hundreds of miles away, an unknown serial killer was hunting humans. It was as if a secret had been revealed, and an immediate trail of light spanned half the country and shot from man to killer and linked them by a tether. Unbeknownst to him, at that exact moment, a killer’s head turned as if a draft of wind had blown in from some unknown source to distract him, and sent a tiny shiver down his back.
Even from behind the safety of his locked condo doors, he’d felt those tiny spiders crawling up and down his spine. He wasn’t a fool, and he’d purposely taken a wayward path home, stopping several times to make sure he hadn’t been followed. He understood that he didn’t need a serial killer being that acquainted with his zip code. But Church’s eerie presence seemed to invade his privacy and unnerved him in the quiet of his room. He felt like he’d been fighting the perception he was sitting on the edge of a knife, but he pushed back his fears and decided to open his laptop and pull up information on nearby hotels in the downtown area. There were quite a few since Seattle had a popular tourist trade for good reason. Choosing the Mayflower Park Hotel because of its old world charm, he retrieved his cell and opened his wallet for a credit card. He wanted a room on one of the higher floors. The picture of Church and him sitting beside a high-rise window and watching the beautiful skyline of the city appealed to him, but he didn’t know why.
After reserving a room, he grabbed his notepad and began jotting down some questions for his subject. He became mired in his thoughts, fixated on his future date with Gabriel Church, but was brought back home when he felt a rumble in his stomach and realized he hadn’t eaten in many hours. A typical occurrence, he thought, since he knew just how obsessive he could become with his projects. It wasn’t uncommon for him to miss meals over deadlines, or forget social engagements when a topic or a theme pulled his concentration. The entire course of his last few months were testament to that with the wall of newspaper clippings and a growing favorites’ list in his computer’s files.
Obsession wasn’t Christian’s only flaw, he was fastidious as well. His residence remained immaculate with every coffee table book stacked and fanned at his exact preference. Dust was never allowed to rest for long on his tables or knick-knacks and every pillow was fluffed, just so. He kept a clean home however cluttered his mind was at times. If dinner was necessary, then a shower was as well. Regardless that he’d just arrived home, he decided on a quick rinse, and then he would grab a plate at one of his favored spots. Chinese sounded good to him and then maybe a quick drink at a pub on his way back home.
One of the things that he’d noticed during their conversation was how well rested Church appeared, while he carried a beleaguered, somewhat harried look about him. Christian wondered if murder could be considered a form of relaxation. There was a serenity oozing off the killer, a peaceful confidence that made sense. It gave the impression that all was right in Church’s world. As Christian skimmed the menu at the Kuai Crimson Palace, he found his usual fare uninteresting, while reminiscent images of Church fingering the lip of his wineglass seemed unable to be pushed from his brain. Eventually he decided on a Masala chicken bowl for his dinner and a side of pork dumplings and a glass of iced green tea. It might seem odd to have iced tea from a Chinese restaurant, but the whitewashed American cultural palate of oriental cuisine was too predictable.
He had spent time in the south, where tea only came sweet and filled with ice cubes. He didn’t consider himself adventurous with food necessarily, but he’d enjoyed many meals from every corner of the globe via the sprawl of diverse cultures spanning the streets of downtown Seattle. He lived alone and didn’t enjoy cooking, so spending time in every café and restaurant along the boulevard near his loft had occupied many of his evenings.
He ate with friends on occasion, but his social life had become stagnant and ordinary. He had never found that innate desire to be coupled, or even be a part of any social clique. It was a curse he bore but one he had acclimated to years earlier. Christian’s life circled around work and his personal interests and studies. Even after graduation his nose was frequently buried in one too many books or he was strolling independent bookstores and literary cafes for that next great addition to his library. He was well suited to his profession and was able to speak with a modicum of knowledge on Seattle’s literary world from every angle. He knew up and coming authors, he knew the best bookshops, he knew the trends of publication, and deftly maneuvered the waters like a skilled merchant seaman.
But the positive aspects of his life were painted with dark oils. The same studious traits that should have made him popular, crafted a socially awkward loner, more than they should have. His ability to converse with comprehension was also the trait that made him laborious to others in his field. Although physically attractive, well-educated, and trained with fine skills, he was too frequently left off the guests lists for cocktail parties or five course dinners. Christian Maxwell had a lot to be thankful for, and held a clear understanding of most things that surrounded him, but he couldn’t see his loneliness . . . that old adage of the forest for the trees.
Clever people can often be extremely ignorant of their own weakness, and although Christian was cognizant of his love of books, and his sometimes-antisocial behaviors, he couldn’t join enough pieces of the puzzle together to show the picture—the image of a sad and lonely man. It was impossible to make that connection because he had never understood how others truly saw him. His biggest flaw might’ve been his oblivious nature, or his inability to see just how insulated his life had become.
We all weave the patterns of our lives by our actions, and possibly by the desires we maintain to be with others similar to ourselves. Christian had made himself inaccessible to others; he’d forged the walls he intended as protection, which sadly only held him captive and distant from those who could’ve loved him. The real tragedy wasn’t the compilation of brick by brick construction, but the fact that Christian never even saw the wall.
Sitting in a Chinese restaurant drinking tea and eating dumplings alone, he couldn’t imagine any another existence. He had found some comfort in reading the backs of menus while he shoveled in forks of shredded pork, content in strumming a newspaper while he filled his belly . . . It was woefully normal for him to be so alone.
BY CONTRAST, Gabriel Church didn’t like to be alone. It would seem more logical that a nomadic killer with deep scars of psychosis would be accustomed to his own isolation. Who else could relate when your mind was blatantly fragmented and scattered to the floor . . . when you were surrounded by those who suffered the same humanities as the rest of us . . . while you were bereft of those same compassions. Emptiness locked in an endless cavity that nothing could seem to fill.
However he was a social creature. He liked the looks he received from others and being a benefactor of someone’s salacious desires. Gabe was a confident killer; he understood the sexuality he exuded. He would break a tiny grin as he walked down the streets and observed pretty secretaries or dental hygienists turn their heads to watch him walk away. Graced with a full head of dark-brown hair flecked with an occasional sexy strand of gray, even he knew he had won his good fortune in the looks department. He had a physique earned from years of hard toil and maintained by his infrequent visits to the gym at any local YMCA. His chest was broad and defined, and he enjoyed thrilling the female staffers and patrons of any establishment he visited. He liked the image of pulling his shirt off and wiping the sweat from his glistening chest with the bundled garment. He was more metrosexual than he cared to admit.
But bodies were bodies to him; his real strength came in his personality. It was a honed craft of knowing when to smile and look away with a mischievous look dancing in his eyes. It was a look he’d mastered, one he found great success with. He knew when wetting his lips looked sensual and inviting, and when it looked ridiculous. His ability to acquire bedmates would have been legendary had he stayed in one place long enough. Instead, he had chosen a life on the road and
the repeated sexual conquests of a man with nothing to lose and much to offer.
He’d even noticed men staring at him at the workout facilities and gyms; ones whose eyes lingered for too long on him as he ran through his routines. It seemed the males had lost their ability to smile or speak as they gazed longingly in his direction. He had seen that look many times, and although he was heterosexual, he didn’t mind another appreciating his form, or the adoration plastered to hungry, lust-filled faces. When you were as strong and confident as he was, those limp-wristed faggots who trailed him across the gym floors and dawdled at the shower doors were merely a distraction and proof his efforts were valued.
He currently questioned whether his biographer was queer. The look of this “Christian” was suspect. But he didn’t care. It was nice to have someone positively dripping with excitement at your every word, someone whose expression seemed to indicate the sun rose and fell at your feet alone. If he’d been uncomfortable with his writer, he’d never have agreed to the interviews. But his stories would get told, his vision clearly revealed, and his words and ideas tossed out into the universe. Maybe his life had been pre-ordained to this one single act of defiance? Maybe by confessing his sins before God and the universe, and doing so before he was forced to, he was celebrating his final Fuck You, World! moment.
He had watched others of his ilk, those who’d been unlucky or stupid and found themselves spilling their guts for detectives on the opposite side of an interrogation room table, eulogizing about their crimes and blaming an unjust society or a vengeful god. Gabe wasn’t that laughable or foolish. His sins would be openly decorated by his lack of remorse, and his misdeeds would find their own very personal voice, long before some nameless reporter could upend his plans and become some fucked-up ventriloquist for his personal ideology. It was a wise decision to allow Christian Maxwell to write his story. Besides, it was becoming rather mundane in his day to day. Even killing was beginning to lose some excitement.
