by Rodd Clark
It had been over a month since he committed a murder. And that last time had even failed to arouse his cock, as it had in those earlier days. He had run aground with the idea of murder—the tensions were no longer as crisp, and the sensation of every stimulus wasn’t as powerful. He remembered those first few adventures; how the air had become electrified around him, how the scents that reached his nostrils were intense and familiar. He remembered pulling his blade or holstering his gun and smelling the pine from a nearby preserve, or the stench of a landfill rising from many miles away. Even the air itself carried recognizable aromas from vast distances. He remembered the tingle and itch of his flesh, remembered how every gust of wind brought every arm hair to stand at attention. It was a drug he allowed himself to drown in, and it was the greatest ecstasy he knew.
But lately, Gabe had been drawn back to his childhood, wanting to chronicle it as some explanation for his crimes. But he wasn’t a writer, he knew that. That’s when the idea was first formed to bring in his autobiographer. He had spent countless hours pulling back painful memories to have that corporeal gift of story in which to offer Christian. Because his occupied thoughts waylaid his mind, other thoughts of murder were back-burnered . . . and whether he would ever know it or not, Christian had done his own part in the prevention of murder. Without any concise understanding of his own influence, Christian had saved a life.
Chapter Three
THE FBI HAD clear definitions for the types of serial killers: Medical Killers, Organized Killers, and Disorganized Killers. It was easy to break them down into sub-categories such as Thrill Killers, Spree Killers, Mass Murderers, and Lust Killers. For Gabriel Church the pigeonhole slots didn’t fit his particular mold. He killed with organization, but it was marginal effort that he spent on planning. He killed for lust, but never sexually assaulted or tortured any victim, and actually, sex played only the smallest role in his impulses. He killed across the board; different sexes, different races, and all ages. There was never a favored distinction of victim, nor did he ever seem tied to a Modus Operandi, as detectives or profilers might say. He was opportunistic. He used whatever was handy; a rope, a gun, a knife, or whatever tool or implement happened to be close at hand. His victims were only chosen by a single intangibility, by a white iridescent light that seemed to draw his interest.
It came without warning, without the twitchy need of a meth-head in need of a fix. He didn’t fight the urge to kill, as did so many other plagued killers. He didn’t hear voices, he didn’t have a deep-seated hatred, and he wasn’t out to make any political stand. He killed because he could. And his enjoyment was linked to the ease in which he killed and the good-fortune of not getting caught.
There had been one man, a single person with the bad luck to come across Gabe in a convenience store of all places. As Gabe had walked toward the double doors of that 7-Eleven, the white light emanating from the man at the counter nearly dropped him to his knees. The figure was obscured in the radiance of white heat, and Gabe had to catch himself before he stumbled and gave the appearance of being struck by an inspired vision. He gulped in air and forced a congenial smile on his face as he looked straight ahead and passed the man, should he have spotted his blatant surprise.
He had just paid the clerk for gas and sprinted to his car at the pumps so that he could refuel quickly, hoping he could get enough gas in the tank before the man exited the store and became lost to him. He got close, but as the man walked out of the store, Gabe was forced to stop pumping and leave the fuel paid for, but untapped. Cramming the nozzle back into its slot, he jumped in his car and followed the man and his vehicle, as if it were just the smallest of coincidence that they were heading in the same direction.
Gabe trailed the man for a time, ending up at what he surmised was the white lighter’s home, a modest box of nondescript banality. He had to follow the man, to see if that radiant light ever dissipated. When it didn’t, he knew this was the one he needed to kill. But nothing Gabriel Church did was easy. He had to survey the man’s movements and activities just to ascertain who lived there in that crappy paint-peeling shithole with him. When he was confident that he knew his target would be alone and had chosen his entry point into the house, he left to get supplies, then waited for the dead of night.
He broke into the home via a window in the rear of the house. It wasn’t difficult; the single-paned window and rotting sash and frame construction proved no deterrent for thieves or killers. The man had a dog, as most people do. He had picked up two items for that obstacle, a raw T-bone steak and prescription-strength Seconal he had purchased online. God this is a fucked up country, he’d thought as he ordered the drugs with a credit card in his own name. Tossing the steak out onto the fenced lawn just an hour before, he then made his controlled, leisurely stroll into the man’s backyard. He jimmied the window open with nothing more than a screwdriver. It took all of five minutes. When he entered the window, he had become his own shadow, moving through unfamiliar surroundings with confident poise. He did enjoy this part of the undertaking.
To his advantage the floors were covered in carpeting—he needn’t worry about the boards creaking as he slipped down the hall. He passed one wall covered in cheaply framed photographs: a family’s life captured in black and white, and some in color. Captured images of faces smiling from under frothy waves of some bygone beach vacation, and huddled bodies singing around a campfire. Nothing reminiscent from his own childhood, just another stranger’s cherished bygone memories. He passed empty tiny bedrooms and a room used for either an office space or storage, because it was stacked with cardboard boxes and debris of many years in the same ratty dwelling.
When he found the man’s bedroom, he could hear the sounds of heavy, restful breathing emanating from inside the stranger’s room. Gabe wasn’t armed, save for the screwdriver he’d pocketed in his jeans. He rarely carried weapons. The sport came in the chance of misadventure and the risk of getting caught. He stood in the door of the man’s bedroom, hidden by shadows, but not so that a waking man wouldn’t see him standing there if he just focused his gaze.
Gabe stood calmly, leaning against the doorframe, watching the man sleep. His target was a man in his early fifties, he guessed. His breathing, congested and raspy, was that of a man not in the best of health. But he didn’t question the veracity of the radiant light’s choice of victims then and he never had afterwards. It was what it was.
Each murder was different. Some were exciting, while others were ordinary. Some, as this one it appeared, would be quiet, low-key, and almost routine. This man’s death would be like his white paint-chipped home, old and outdated, dull and unoriginal. Moving swiftly but surely, Gabe walked over without disturbing the white lighter, then picked up a pillow from the opposite side of the mattress. He shoved the downy pillow hard onto his face. The man awoke with a startle. Naturally he struggled, they all did, but he was no match for Gabe’s strength or having caught him by complete surprise. He had fought to escape the pillow and pull in the burst of oxygen necessary to continue his fight. He couldn’t have known how ill-fated that struggle would be. He was never meant to win. Gabe held the pillow tightly to cover the muffled screams, and in just three minutes the scuffle was over completely. It was then it dawned on Gabe that throughout it all he had been smiling.
When, and if, he recalled the incident for Maxwell, he knew there would be the question of “Why?” The man had died because Gabe wanted it, and the only explanation was the white light that surrounded the victim. Even to Gabe it sounded ludicrous, and he wasn’t the writer Maxwell must be. There wouldn’t be adequate words that could justify his actions, or get the writer to understand why he murdered someone who appeared so innocent. Gabriel enjoyed killing. It was something he was good at. But he didn’t have a substantial reason to offer as the real motivation, or why. It was just there. The same cold intensity that made it obvious in the mind of a killer was hopefully satisfactory explanation to others. In reality, no others needed to u
nderstand, but somehow he wanted Christian Maxwell to. He needed him to. He just couldn’t pull that reason into anything tangible to hold.
CHRISTIAN LAY awake in his bed, arms crossed behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. He couldn’t get the cool, composed serial killer out of his mind. There was a huge contrast in personalities here. While he was an educated man, and understood servile obedience in a civil society, he knew Church was not, but he did have the confidence and self-assuredness of a man in control. Qualities a killer shouldn’t have by his observation. Being an individual who always appeared anxious, even when he wasn’t, Christian possessed character traits of a socially awkward, bookish soul. But Church appeared like a man who couldn’t be ruffled so easily, maybe a necessity for someone planning a homicide, but a quality that was very alien to the biographer.
He needed to outline his thoughts on how the book could be shaped, what areas he wanted to delve into, and any particulars the audience might find distasteful. But it was too difficult to look at the work from those terms yet . . . not while the images of the killer invaded his head and seemed unable to be pushed aside. He was excited at the prospect of his next interview with Gabriel. The anticipation was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. It was unfamiliar and clumsy in his mind. He was a writer yet didn’t possess the words to describe his insights.
BY THE next morning Christian was perched high above the city skyline, staring out at the sea of cars and waiting rather impatiently for Church to arrive. The Mayflower Park was as an expensive hotel suite that he could afford, and it would be worth it. He wanted to see the killer inside this luxury, to see just how he managed within these walls. His air of confidence could be shattered by the exclusive life of the privileged that would surround him. It was more of a social experiment than anything. There was smug stillness in the air until he heard a slight rapping at the door, and he knew his investigation was underway. By the frail tap at the door, he suspected the killer was already out of his comfort zone. He smiled as he slid across the plush, carpeted floor, satisfied by being correct about his subject.
But as the door was opened, Christian was taken aback as Gabriel Church strolled in with a smirk of gratification on his lips, apparently still breathing in the oxygen of the righteous and commanding his own masculine influence.
“Good choice of digs” he said as he brushed past Christian and left him standing by the door with a faded, tentative smile.
“Thanks. I thought it would be better than that coffee house on Fifth Street.”
The writer closed the door and headed to the salon table where he’d arranged his notepad and next to it, a small recorder. There was an aroma that had followed Church into the room, but Christian couldn’t define it. A musky, perfumed scent, not unpleasant to the nostrils. It held a smoky tincture of the great outdoors, something that placed the image in Christian’s head of campfires and wet pine. Gabriel had already assumed his spot at the leather-wrapped dry bar in the corner of the suite. The Mayflower provided cut crystal glasses and an ice bucket, as well as a coffee pot and a first envelope of ground beans. Christian had filled the pot after he first entered his room. He wanted to be prepared for anything the killer may need. Church was seated at the bar and filling his cup with the steaming black brew, his infectious smile still leading Christian to wonder about many things.
“Where would you like to begin today?” Church asked.
He was dressed in a clean white T-shirt and tight blue jeans. He wore combat boots, the same variety as the ones he had spoken of in their earlier conversation. The type of lace-up boots that had aided in ending the life of that unfortunate poker player in East Texas, somewhere just outside of Dallas. He dressed in a specific style. He sported a confidence that reeked of him walking away from a burning building, still carrying the zippo in his pocket. He didn’t seem to care if there were sirens in the distance; he just enjoyed the blaze and rising smoke.
“I thought I‘d leave that to you,” Christian said.
Following Church’s lead, the writer grabbed a coffee mug from the bar and leaned close to the killer to fill his cup. He inhaled deeply and stepped back to the table to retake his chair.
“I hope you get some good stuff today . . . if not this is going to be an expensive coffee.” The killer offered with a smile as he blew seductively over his mug to cool it down.
Christian nodded then pulled the legal pad closer and grabbed a pen out of his breast pocket.
“I was gonna ask you the other day, how come you don’t use a laptop for your notes—you afraid of technology?”
“Some things are not made better with new developments. I prefer timeworn ways. They’re simpler . . . more basic and straightforward.”
“Does that pertain to everything?” the killer asked. But Christian only glared back and flipped to a clean sheet of yellow paper.
“Let’s begin, shall we?”
“I’m capable of killing in a fair fight and always ready on the draw if someone risks starting something unfair, but even I can’t seem to gauge what it is you’re looking for in my story, writer man?”
“I’m interested in what makes a killer I suppose . . . And to clarify . . . mostly you kill when it isn’t a fair fight?”
Church smiled again at that and fingered at the rim of his cooling coffee mug. “Just a turn of a phrase . . . I imagine you’re right, though. I do kill seemingly indiscriminately.”
“Then let’s explore that.” Christian watched the killer crisscross the floor like a seasoned public speaker, pacing back and forth while still holding warm coffee in both hands and that dreamy expression of fond memories revisiting his face.
GABE BEGAN speaking as Maxwell scribbled and assumed his role of a killer’s biographer. The words he spoke were chaotic in his head, like a dyslexic’s manner of reforming the jumbled words before speaking. He knew if he ranted on about the white light designation of each victim it would sound ridiculous. But if he was looking for a sign of understanding from the writer, he didn’t receive any.
Gabe found himself engrossed in his own story; the memories flooding back of each sweet incident of murder. He couldn’t fashion the explanation of the radiant white explosion that surrounded each man and woman he had been tasked to kill, so he resigned himself to just recall the details, and allow his writer to form his own opinions.
“I’ve already told you about my first homicide, so I’ll tell you about the second.” Gabe had to refill his coffee mug again and noted sadly how small the coffee pots were in these fancier hotels.
“Maybe we can have a larger pot of coffee brought up later. Room service sounds nice . . . a chrome carafe sitting on a tray of lacy white doilies, bowls of sugar and fresh cream. But to begin, my second murder happened just a few weeks after my initial foray into the world of death.”
As Gabe began his tale, he saw the writer look up from his notes. Maxwell seemed trapped in an instant of disbelief. He told the story of him being in California. He’d arrived in Fresno after all. But he didn’t stick with the job, the one he’d been so hell-bent on reaching. For all that it cost him by the journey, he just didn’t enjoy it, so he quit without any notice or by your leave. He didn’t like the fucked-up job and after a week or so decided it was time to move on. He had nearly forgotten about Texas by then—the murder was quickly becoming just a bitter taste on his tongue.
He’d been in a town he couldn’t remember well enough to know its name, but it was in Southern California that much he was sure. It seemed the murders had more pull to his memory than the settings where each had occurred. Gabe told Maxwell about the white light again, nodding his head to show he understood how that poor shit in Texas hadn’t fit his usual mold, being more an act of vengeance, and not the calling future killings would be. That was why he’d never been awash in that incredible glow like the other victims that would follow. It had happened that first time along the sunny coasts of California. And he’d never be the same again. But since it had never
happened before, he needed to better articulate how strange the sensation had been during that particular killing. He had to explain that blast of immediate awareness, and even if the writer didn’t understand the white-light concept, Gabe needed to express its importance, and how it had been a life-altering moment in his life.
AS GABRIEL evoked some faraway spirit to offer up his account, Christian felt damage come inside the room’s stillness. That familiar shudder once again crawled up his back like a quick-footed insect racing up his spine. He had gathered the killer’s reckoning that he wouldn’t understand the “white-lighter bullshit.” That part of his story seemed unfathomable. But even without understanding of the motives for murder, he understood how evil the story sounded. Whatever drove Gabriel Church to kill, it had become deliberate and flagrant. He spoke of it as if it were just another pile of papers in an overflowing in-basket on his desk.
“SO THE first time this . . . err, white light was obvious to you was in your second killing in California. Can you tell me about that, if you remember the details anyway?”
Gabe pulled the story out with a patience that surprised even him.
“I remember everything about it, namely because it was a woman. She was pretty and petite, and like all the others, she didn’t see it coming until it was too late.”
Gabe assumed his spot back at the bar and sat for a moment trying to dredge up bitter memories. He began first by describing the beautiful coasts of the golden state. It had been the first time he’d ever seen the ocean up-close. He had been bumming around southern California, making his way up north. He was pulling petty robberies to survive, mostly picking up purses and wallets off the beaches or out of open vehicles of unsuspecting tourists, off counters at fast food joints, anything to grab a few dollars here or there—they were just tiny scams with even smaller payouts. But it had been enough to get him moving along with little effort. Gabe never needed the same creature comforts as most. His childhood had given him an edge over most transients. As a young boy he would run off and spend the day alone as opposed to being in his father’s company. He was independent and self-preserving because of necessity. It had taught him how to survive without needing much. It was a lasting gift from his fucked-up father figure.
