by Hadena James
“Mr. Okafor was a bartender that was frequented by the bomber that the SCTU was hunting this summer. He was good friends with a guy on the same construction crew as your bomber. He and his buddy are both from the Congo.”
“Genocide?” My attention snapped to the walls again. “That’s the trigger.”
“Why would genocide be a trigger for this?” Rollins asked.
“Patterson served as a foot soldier in World War II. He was part of a group that liberated a concentration camp in Germany. He gets here, figures out that Okafor is part of the death squads in the Congo and loses it.” Malachi looked around. “Only this doesn’t feel like he lost it.”
“He didn’t,” I looked at Malachi. “I think I understand.”
Patterson couldn’t eat meat because of his childhood, but even the horror of eating people, couldn’t quell his urge to kill. He’d tried to control his urges all his life, but various members of our family had manipulated him into being the killer that he was. When left to his own devices, he tried to fight the urges, when he couldn’t any longer, it became a blood bath. However, all that rage was targeted at people that raised his hackles. He hadn’t been slaughtering citizens, he’d been slaughtering Nazis. He’d killed farmhands because his father had demanded it. That’s why he had been so adamant about catching August. August was everything he abhorred, a pointless killer who preyed on the weak; no better than his father, or a Nazi, or Gertrude, or James the Sniper and possibly, death squad henchman. I’d bet a donut that the buddy was next.
“The wheels are turning,” Malachi said.
“Patterson kills because he has to, but that does not mean he cannot direct that rage and make it useful,” I told Malachi. “The buddy is next. If they were both in the Congo, then in Patterson’s mind, they are both guilty of the ultimate crime.”
“Genocide is the ultimate crime?” Rollins asked.
“It is to Patterson,” I said. “He kills for a purpose, like a bomber with a cause. But he’s a serial killer; this means that while he kills, it is not wholesale. It’s just murder, a life to be snuffed out because the world is better without them. Or a psychotic break, like he had when he butchered my grandmother and earned his nickname. His childhood scarred him enough to make him a vegetarian. That means the horrors of World War II would have left an impression as well. Genocide is a pretty damn good reason to kill someone.”
Patterson was born a functional psychopath, like Malachi. The urge to kill was there, but Nina and Lila had kept it in check. Now both of them were gone. These three killings were just the start. He was free to sate his blood lust without control and yet, just like I heard Nyleena in my head, he heard Nina’s and Lila’s. Those voices would keep his kills righteous.
Unfortunately, righteous was a vague word. What I thought was righteous was different than what Malachi thought was righteous. I was sure that Patterson’s sense of righteousness was just as different.
My mind brought my gaze back to the blood. That’s why there was so much blood. He’d been careful not to hit an artery or a vein. He’d intentionally beaten him slowly, methodically, torturing him as he imagined James had tortured others. An eye for an eye and all that. I understood, but I didn’t agree. At least, I hadn’t agreed six months ago. At this exact moment, my agreement was wavering. Perhaps James had deserved every injury. Perhaps he had tortured, raped, maimed and killed without feeling. Perhaps he had committed atrocities for which he had never been punished until now.
This was a slippery-slope for me. When I started agreeing with the monsters I hunted, I risked my own humanity. If I had been a soldier in World War II, I probably would have been a serial killer too. Just hunting serial killers was slowly bringing me closer to that edge. Malachi was right, I needed to sit and have a talk with the resident shrink and I needed my Jiminy Cricket to wake up from her coma and tell me to knock it off.
“There’s clothing in the bathroom and they are covered in blood,” someone yelled. Any doubts that this kill belonged to Patterson Clachan was instantly gone. I hung my head. I needed to walk away. I needed to pack my shit and go back to Kansas City and sit in Nyleena’s hospital room to read to her while she worked up the power to wake up.
Instead, I walked towards the bathroom.
Friends
“They say confession is good for the soul,” Patterson spoke quietly. “Do you believe that?”
“Who the fuck are you?” The man spat at him.
“Consider me a debt collector and you have a very large list of debts.” Patterson answered. “You didn’t answer the question. Do you believe confession is good for the soul?”
“No,” the man’s voice was curt, but waivered slightly.
“You’re probably right, men like you and I, I don’t think we have souls, I think that’s why we’re who we are.” Patterson leaned back in his chair. “However, I like a good philosophical conversation and I haven’t had one for a long time. Given your background, I’d say you are also a man who likes to discuss philosophy. Am I wrong?”
“What do you want?” The man said.
“That’s a long list. I want my granddaughter to come out of her coma. I want my other granddaughter to be safe. They both work in law enforcement, chasing serial killers. The irony of that isn’t lost on me, just so you know. Eventually, I’ll get caught and they will have to deal with it. The entire world will know that their grandfather is a prolific serial killer. A brutal, insatiable killer, hell-bent on making this world a little bit better by eliminating the scum that infects the gene-pool. Men like you for example, who use your position of power to molest little girls.”
“I have never,” the man protested.
“You can protest all you like, but we both know different.” Patterson answered. “I only stand in judgment of you because I’m not a pedophile. As such, it seems like I should have a little more platform from which to defend my position than you. My victims are never weak and helpless, all yours are.”
“Who are you?” The man asked again.
“Patterson Clachan, better known as The Butcher,” Patterson answered. “And you are Davis LeVerture, pedophile and school teacher. There, now we’ve been introduced. Oh, I’m sure you’ve never actually heard of me. That would be weird, since the press has been staunchly kept away from my cases over the last forty or fifty years. And it’s hard to link all my kills together because the victims are so varied, as is the manner of death. Yours will be fitting for your skills. Do you remember a little girl, about six years ago, named Rosa Flores? She was in your class. You raped her after school one day. She was so humiliated that she never told anyone until last year, when she finally admitted it to her grandmother. Unfortunately for you, I know her grandmother. We play bingo together on Friday nights and I’m a good listener, so poor Selena broke down and told me of her granddaughter’s confession, seeking comfort. I can’t give her comfort, just an ear to listen to the lurid details and justice that her granddaughter will never have because the statute of limitations has run out.”
Patterson pulled a hunting knife out from under his jacket. It wasn’t fancy or ornate, like his cane. It was just a plain hunting knife, used to skin deer or rabbits. However, it worked well and Patterson kept it sharp enough to split a hair.
“What do you intend to do to me?” The man asked.
“Eventually, I’m going to kill you. That’s what people do with mongrels. However, you’ll be my fifth kill in thirty-six hours. It’s starting to lose its appeal, like a deranged form of aversion therapy. And as a result, while I’m not feeling terribly merciful, I am feeling tired. So all the things I would normally do to a pedophile like you is going to be abbreviated. It will be a fast and painful death, but that beats the long, drawn out version that I had intended.” Patterson nodded, as if reassuring himself he was making the right decision. He’d killed four in St. Charles, slept for about an hour and then driven to Sikeston. He didn’t intend to stay for long, just enough time to kill the teacher and ge
t back on the road. He’d leave town by dawn, find a motel in the afternoon and sleep until dark. He had a schedule to keep. He didn’t believe Aislinn or Malachi would catch up with him until he wanted them to, but better safe than sorry.
A newspaper caught his attention. The headline really, it made him smile. It was amazing what passed as news in a small town. Malachi was going to have a field day with it. It’d be like someone gave him his Christmas and birthday present all wrapped up together.
Patterson stood. His victim was restrained well enough. He preferred them alive, but it would be hard to do everything while he lived. Instead, he started with the important bit. He slipped the knife into the fly of the teacher’s pants while shoving a rag into his mouth. This was going to hurt. The teacher was going to scream.
The knife sliced through the cloth with almost no resistance. Patterson did keep it sharp and clean. When the teacher wet himself, the warm liquid washed over the blade. Patterson made a face, disgusted by the teacher’s fear.
He’d had lots of practice using the blade. It turned, as if by its own will, and cut a square in the trousers. The city of Sikeston would be missing a teacher tomorrow, but some little girl would be safe.
With the genitals exposed, Patterson laid the blade against the inside thigh, forcing it to break the skin. Blood welled up around the shiny metal and began to ooze down the leg. The first muffled scream welled up from behind the rag. It wouldn’t have been heard outside the room. Patterson laughed and set to work.
In a few moments, he’d cut through both legs of the trousers. Patterson pushed the recliner backwards a little more, giving him a flat surface to work from. He laid the blade flat against the upper pelvic bone and began moving it down. The knife was sharp enough to draw blood as it skinned the pelvic area. When it reached the teacher’s penis, there was resistance. Patterson had planned for this. The teacher was now screaming as loudly as possible. Patterson guessed there was a fifty/fifty chance that he would vomit and choke on it. Unfortunately for the teacher, he didn’t care.
Patterson pulled a length of twine from his pocket. The end was shaped into a miniature noose. He slipped it over the head of the penis and pulled tight. Now, the knife sliced through the skin easily. Blood, urine, and semen spurted out as the organ detached. He didn’t touch it. He set it down on the table for later.
The teacher’s eyes were wild, more whites could be seen than the darker irises. Tears streamed from them, running down his face, along his jaw line and into the chair. Tears wouldn’t be the only thing the recliner would soak up.
Now, there was a decision to be made. He could pluck out the offending eyes now or wait a while longer. The more he stared at them, the more he hated them. The things they had seen as their master had tormented dozens of little girls filled him with rage. Without thinking, the knife was brought to the left eyelid. It cut through the thin membrane, bringing another muffled scream.
Patterson removed the knife, preferring to do it by hand. He placed one finger under the eye, the other over it and began to press and separate the skin. The eye bulged out, with a final push, it popped from the socket. Patterson took the knife and cut the optic nerve, catching the eye as it rolled down the teacher’s face. He put it on the coffee table, near the severed penis, then repeated the process on the right eye. Patterson checked for a pulse. It was still there, weak and thready, beating too fast and not hard enough. It wouldn’t be long now, Patterson leaned back in his chair, waiting.
He’d quit smoking years ago, but he patted his pocket, looking for the pack anyway. It was an old habit and while he’d been able to quit smoking, he hadn’t been able to stop himself from looking for them. A final gurgle alerted Patterson to the man’s death. It had taken about five minutes, not the slowest death he’d ever caused, but also not the fastest.
Now, Patterson had a decision to make. It wasn’t an easy decision either. He’d never done anything like it, but the news article had brought the idea to the front of his mind. He pulled out a pair of nitrile gloves, not because he cared about leaving fingerprints, but because he didn’t really like to touch his victims, especially right now.
Making up his mind, he pulled on the dead teacher’s lower lip. The metal sheared it off, revealing the bottom row of teeth. Patterson grimaced, refusing to give into his own revulsion. He steeled himself. It was only going to get worse from here. He pulled on the upper lip, bring it out and away from the mouth and repeated the process. Now both sets of teeth were visible.
Patterson had seen a horror movie once about some weird demons, the leader’s head was filled with long pins. However, it was a different demon that came to mind now. One that had some kind of device in its mouth that pulled the lips back, baring the teeth. The teeth had chattered like the demon or whatever the thing was supposed to be, was cold.
He occupied his mind with these memories as he unstrapped the dead teacher. He needed something to keep his thoughts off of what he was about to do. He tried to console himself. The shock factor for the other FBI agent would be enormous, but Malachi would be fascinated. It was rare that something fascinated Malachi. He wasn’t sure how Aislinn would react. Disgusted, annoyed, angry, indifferent, any of those were possibilities.
Removing the kill would be a new element too. Somehow he needed them to know it was his. He needed to sign it. He flipped the body over, the legs flapping like curtains in a light breeze. He finished removing the pants with the hunting knife. Then he stopped. Could he do this? He wasn’t sure. He was determined to try though.
First, though, he needed to make sure it went to the living FBI agent, Malachi and Aislinn. Even he knew he was stalling, but stalling was acceptable if it meant building up determination. The chair was soaked with blood. He pressed his hand against it, coating his glove in blood. On the wall his finger wrote the words: For Malachi Blake & Aislinn Cain. This required him to press his hand several times into the blood, but it was worth it. When he finished requesting Malachi and Aislinn, he grimaced again and looked at the body. It was now or never.
Nine
“Subtle, like a freight train,” Malachi leaned against the wall.
“I think you mean fright train,” I corrected him.
“What’s a fright train?” He asked.
“I do not know, it just sounded appropriate,” I told him. “Maybe it’s the train that carries you to Hell.”
“You think there’s a train to Hell?”
“There should be an express line. It seems silly to pave the road with good intentions. A train, barreling out of control, wheels burning, rails smoking, and a replay of all the deeds that got you there seems like a more appropriate means of transportation.”
“You’ve given it some thought.”
“Not really,” I told him. “I just think that the road to Hell should be paved with something other than good intentions, especially since everyone says ‘it’s the thought that counts.’ You cannot have it both ways, either good intentions are bad or they’re not. Perhaps it should be paved with the dead wings of the fallen angels; that would also be appropriate.”
“Do you two want to help?” Rollins said to us.
“Help with what?” I asked. “We are not allowed to investigate. You do not like us touching things, so leaning against walls, enjoying a philosophical discussion about the road to hell seems like the best way to spend our time.”
“You’re supposed to be experts on this guy. Give me something useful,” Rollins snapped.
“He killed him,” Malachi offered. “Not as brutally as James Okafor, but it wasn’t an easy death either. I’d say Patterson enjoyed it.”
George “Corky” Makanga lay on the floor. His entrails were sitting next to his head. His eyes were in the fridge. His head had been bashed in. And because this didn’t seem bad enough, Patterson had carved the word “punished” on his chest.
“Do you have anything useful to add?” Rollins looked at me.
“Yeah, why are two guys from the Cong
o named George and James?” I asked.
“Sometimes, people change their first names during immigration to something more American,” Malachi told me.
“Oh, then I got nothing. I’m guessing that George here died because Patterson believed he was a soldier responsible for raping, pillaging and killing in the Congo. Obviously, he would not have made a very good Viking.”
“I’ve had it with you two,” Rollins was turning red and shouting. “You’re supposed to be helping me catch this bastard and so far you’ve discovered drugged puppies and Cain here broke into a house.”
“I did not break into a house. I had reason to believe there was a victim inside and the door was unlocked. I did not even enter the house first. If I had opened the door and been greeted by the smell of cookies, I would have closed it and we could have waited for your possible warrant. Unfortunately, I was greeted by the smell of death, so I told you to go inside, which you did. If he’d been alive, you could have arrested him for animal cruelty for drugging two small German Shepherds and leaving them to freeze to death in the cold weather.”
“I’m calling the director,” Rollins shouted as he walked outside.
“Okay,” Malachi shrugged. “Do you magically know where Patterson Clachan is going to turn up next?”
“Nope,” I answered. “I would not mind a nap though. His killing streak is making me tired.”
Malachi and I exited the house together. We’d seen enough blood and gore for one day. Night had descended upon us, but light pollution kept the stars from being seen. I stared at the sky anyway, hoping for at least a glimpse of a star.
Malachi lit a cigarette and handed it to me. I peeled off my patch without looking down before I accepted it. Rollins wasn’t shouting anymore. He looked like someone had fed him crow stew and the beak was stuck in his throat. Malachi lit a cigarette for himself.
“Should we see if we can make his head explode?” Malachi asked as he took his first drag.
