The Surgeon

by David Beers

  "And he told you to kill the man?" She didn't believe any of it. This guy was sitting in this basement because he killed an unarmed person and wasn't able to handle the aftermath. John Presley had cracked, and this was the result—an old man unable to come to terms with what he'd done, so he made up an excuse.

  "Yes, he did. He screamed, shoot him, he's got a gun. And then I saw the gun, and then I shot him."

  "Why, Mr. Presley?" she said, automatically putting separation between her and the man by using his last name. "Why would he do something like that?"

  "I never figured that out. Maybe you can with your book."

  Chapter 13

  Luke looked at the application on his phone. It really was a genius little tool, something brought about by government's overreach, no doubt. Complete encryption, so that no one—not governments nor the CEO of the app—could read what was said.

  Government's overreach always created more talented criminals.

  The message came in early this morning, at five. Luke had been awake. The television was on in his living room, the morning program discussing some movie that was about to be released. Luke hadn't been paying attention to it; his mind was elsewhere. Sometimes he found himself lost in his thoughts—he'd always been like that.

  The past crept up on Luke often, even though he rarely regretted anything. He wondered often whether or not his past drove him as it did so many others? For all the things in this world that he could answer, he didn't have one for that question. Perhaps it did, or perhaps he was the master of his fate. Either way, he saw no reason to change course now. Too much past behind him, he supposed.

  The app's notification pulled him from his thoughts, which was good. He would need to head to work in the next thirty minutes but had been hoping that his new friend would contact him first.

  Who are you? the message read.

  Luke looked at the number that sent it, memorizing it instantly. He would run analytics on it later, privately, and see if anything came up. Most likely it wouldn't, not if his new friend was intelligent.

  I'm someone that wants to help, Luke sent.

  Do you know who I am?

  I know what you're doing, though not who you are.

  A minute passed without a response, and then, How can you help me? Why do you think I need your help?

  Luke smiled. How long would it take Christian to understand the insecurities plaguing their killer? Had he already figured it out?

  Maybe you don't, but then again, I found you online. If you didn't need help, you can disappear and act like this never happened.

  Another minute passed, but Luke didn't place his phone down. His friend was hooked, only deciding how to respond.

  How can you help me? the message finally came through.

  I can help you see around corners. Luke hit send and then placed the phone down. He went to his bathroom, disrobed, and stepped in the shower.

  "I'm going out, Mother," Bradley said through the door.

  "Is there anything to eat?"

  Thank goodness, the old bag was finally hungry. Bradley was actually beginning to worry that she might try starving herself to death, and having a dead woman in his house wouldn't be good for him right now—especially his mother.

  "Yes. Do you want me to bring it in or leave it out here?" He needed to treat her better. He needed to be nicer, because regardless what she acted like (or what she had done in the past), she was still his mom. She gave him life and he had no other family outside of her. He was going to try being better.

  "You can bring it in," she said.

  And it sounded like she wanted to try harder, too.

  Good, he thought as he headed to the kitchen. The meat from the girl was gone, but he still had peanut butter and jelly. He thought about how he'd eaten the girl as he fixed Mother's sandwich. He'd been repulsed by it at first—the mere thought of it making him gag. What forced him on was the 'no body, no crime' mantra he knew he had to live by. All that was left now was a small plastic container of broken down bone. Bradley wasn't lying to Charlie when he said he'd boiled the bones, though he did lie about eating them as broth. That would have been far too barbaric, even for Bradley's purposes. No, he boiled the bones in bleach, and the end result caused the structural components to fall apart. All he needed then was to take a small hammer to them, and they shattered as if they were glass.

  He would dump the plastic container while he was out today.

  No body, no crime.

  Except for the eyes, Bradley. Don't forget about those.

  No one was coming here. He was too smart for that, even with the headaches returning.

  Bradley pressed the top of the sandwich down, then sliced it through the middle.

  The headaches could be a problem if he didn't get them under control. He wondered if this fucker that was texting him had brought them on—the added stress causing it. They used to come when his father was around, doing his awful deeds.

  Bradley carried the sandwich back to his mother's room and opened the door slowly. The darkness nearly swarmed out, such a stark contrast from the rest of the well lit house. He walked over to her bed and placed it on her lap.

  "Here you go."

  "Thank you," she said. She stared out the window, not reaching for the sandwich, but not pushing it away either.

  "Do you think you might want to come out of your room tomorrow? Maybe we could rent a movie or something? I'll turn it up so you can hear everything."

  "Yeah, maybe we can do that," Mother said.

  He looked at her for a few more seconds, unable to see much of her face with the way her head was turned.

  "Okay," he said finally. "I'll be back in a few hours."

  Bradley left the room and then the house, careful to lock up everything. He didn't lock Mother's door, of course, because she wasn't going anywhere without his help. She knew that, too. One thing about Mother, and Bradley figured he could thank his dad for it, was that what happened inside their house, stayed inside their house. She wouldn't bring in anyone from the outside.

  Bradley wasn't stupid, but he thought the person texting him might think he was. Bradley received an address, and the text had said, you'll love what you see. Bradley had gotten a slight erection at the text, though he would never tell anyone that. Especially not the prick offering help.

  Bradley didn't even drive by the address. He had looked it up online and then spotted four different places where he could watch it from a distance. Now, he drove around all four of the spots, his car moving at a normal pace as to not gather too many wandering eyes.

  Ha! That was a good one.

  He didn't see anything out of the ordinary, but that didn't mean someone wasn't watching him. He finally parked his car at a mall ten miles away and started thinking. It would be a clever way for the cops to catch him, or the FBI. But, if this person did want to help, it could make things a lot easier on Bradley.

  The message hadn't said when to go to the address or what to look for, but that didn't mean the FBI wouldn't have twenty-four hour surveillance on the place.

  Bradley got out of his car and went inside the mall. He walked to the food court, but didn't buy anything. He sat and watched people walk by, doing his best to not stare too closely at any of their eyes. He didn't want to be distracted. He needed to focus on whether or not to actually go to the house.

  Six hours later, he finally emerged from the mall.

  He couldn't help it, he decided. A headache was coming on, and if Bradley didn't do something to stop it, he wouldn't even be able to drive home. Just like with his father, he knew how to kill the pain, though. Whatever was at the address might help.

  "Fuck 'em," he said as he started the car. He'd go right up to the goddamn doorstep. Even if they were watching, they couldn't prove anything. The number he used was from a burner phone, not attached to him at all. You could buy anything from the niggers in the ghetto downtown. Bradley didn't even have a cellphone. Everything was in his mother's name,
and they only had the landline.

  He parked the car in the driveway. The house was old, single story, and not well kept up. If Johnny Consultant had bullshitted him, and made him waste an entire day, Bradley would take out his eyes. They wouldn't make it to the freezer, though. No, Bradley would eat the damned things.

  He walked up to the front door, lifted his hand to knock, but saw that the door was already open.

  "What the ...."

  He tapped on the door and it swung open easily.

  "Hello?" Bradley called into the house.

  No response.

  He couldn't help himself, now, though. He was already here and the door was open, so he went inside. He moved through the house slowly, looking over everything. Someone old lived here. The furniture, the television, the appliances—all of them were purchased a long time ago, and their owner was definitely on a budget.

  He found her in the back bedroom.

  The old black woman was tied to her bed, her arms and legs attached to ropes that were wrapped tightly around the bedposts. Another rope went over her torso and then underneath the bed, trapping her completely.

  Bradley looked out the bedroom door, checking the hallway. No one was here.

  He looked back to the woman, a gag of some sort placed in her mouth, though she was struggling to make noise.

  Bradley heard none of it, though. All he could see was the most beautiful blue eyes sitting inside that old, black face.

  Chapter 14

  "This is our guy," Tommy said as he stood next to the bed. "No doubt about it."

  Ten years ago he would have vomited at the scene before him. Even now, he felt his stomach turn over.

  "Looks to be the case," Luke said from the other side of the bed. "Christian, would you mind telling the police to ensure the perimeter is completely secured? Tell them to let us know if the media arrives, as well."

  "Me?" Christian said.

  Tommy looked over at him, standing in the bedroom doorway.

  "Sorry, kid. You're going to have to learn to talk to people in this job. It won't be hard," Tommy said.

  "It'll be harder than the hardest erection you ever had," Christian said.

  Tommy had turned back to the bed, but flashed back to Windsor at the comment. The kid was smiling, which brought one to Tommy's face as well.

  "A joke," Christian said.

  "Go on, get out of here."

  He listened to Christian move down the hallway and focused at what lay on the bed. The woman's name was Ida Clarey, and the house records showed she had lived here forty years. She was seventy-three, or had been. Now she was dead.

  "He's getting sicker," Tommy said.

  The eyes were gone, of course. Two dark holes stared out of a wrinkled face. That was the only part of her that hadn't been harmed—if the removal of someone's eyeballs could be considered unharmed. The rest of her body was ...

  "He's mutilating them now. It's different than the first victim. There he just cut the head off. This is ...," Luke trailed off.

  "Far worse."

  The woman's breasts had been sliced off and then shoved over the bedposts, one on each. The bottom left bedpost had been broken off and now protruded from between the woman's legs. Tommy didn't want to look down at it, but he had to. She was naked, and her groin bulged out, her body not made to fit what was now inside her.

  "What's this mean?" Tommy said. He didn't expect an answer from Luke, or from anyone. It meant nothing, and to give this meaning was to give credit to the monster. It was meaningless, as was the monster's existence—regardless of what he may think.

  "It could be anger," Luke said. "Or, it could be he's just messing with us."

  Tommy looked over the bed to his partner. "Let's hope he left something."

  Luke didn't look up from the ravaged body. "Let's."

  Christian stood in the midst of three forensic scientists. They worked in silence, which was good, because he didn't want a lot of people talking to him. Not ever, but especially not right now. He wanted to look at the body, and though he couldn't do it alone, he could do it in silence, at least.

  This was savage, more so than even the first murder. The killer here ... he had acted differently. No eyeballs lodged in orifices—this time he left something much more painful.

  Why? Christian wondered. He walked over to the bed and sat down next to the body, not noticing the look a forensic gave him.

  "If I touch the body, that's okay, right?" he said without looking around.

  "We'll need to print you for exclusion, but yes, as long as you're not touching it excessively or changing its position."

  Christian nodded and slowly placed his hand on the woman's arm. Her skin was wrinkled, had been through a lot, and she had met her end in one of the worst ways imaginable. "Was she alive when everything happened?"

  "She was alive for the bedpost, and her breast removal, but dead before the eyes."

  Christian didn't need to ask how they knew, the cuts were far too neat for someone to have been alive while their eyes were removed.

  "What are you?" he said.

  "What?" a tech asked him, but Christian didn't hear.

  He stared at the woman's black skin, but saw none of it. He was inside his mansion again. He stood in front of the door marked Surgeon.

  This man should be called The Demon, not The Surgeon, he thought, and opened the door.

  A chair was pulled out for him with nothing else around it. A large, leather thing, meant to be comfortable, because what Christian was about to witness wouldn't be. He sat down, knowing what came next—or at least the process. He had tried explaining this to his mother once, but she said she didn't need to know how his mind worked. Only that it did.

  Christian sat down in the chair, slumping low, because he didn't want to see the movie that would show The Surgeon.

  He brought one hand to his brow, half hiding his eyes.

  "I can't run from this," he said, though his voice traveled only inside his mansion. "Not if I want to help. That's why I joined. To help."

  He didn't remove his hand and the movie began playing.

  Inside Christian's head, the connections to the killer were being formed.

  Christian sees a young boy. His face is blurred but that's because Christian hasn't yet formed the connections to see what the boy looks like—or the man who is now a killer, for that matter.

  The boy is naked; he must be about ten years old. He's out in the open, on a field of some kind, with no one else around. Christian can't see any clothes, so the boy must have walked here this way.

  He's standing over a trap. A primitive thing, a wooden box with a piece of food placed in the middle of it. The box's front door was attached to a stick that had been placed next to the food. When the field rat moved the food, the door slammed shut.

  Christian sees the boy looking over the rat. It is pressed in a corner, looking up at the large creature, clearly terrified. There is no sign of the food that had once been there.

  A name is screamed out across the field, but Christian can't make out the actual name—another problem with the still forming connections. The boy turns and looks in the direction of a house. It's maybe a mile off. The boy had walked a long way out here to see this rat.

  "LUUUUNNNCCCHHH!"

  Christian hears the word, knowing that the boy's mother calls him now.

  The boy turns and looks at the rat for another second. Finally, he squats down, the sun shining on his bare back, and opens the box. He looks inside at the animal, the two as close as they will ever come. He then stands up and takes off across the field.

  Christian closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The movie paused as he did, allowing him to take in the information. His unconscious mind had already categorized and analyzed all of it, but his consciousness needed to understand it—to help him make the needed leaps.

  "Okay," he said. "You weren't born evil."

  Is anyone? he wondered.

  Christian didn't wan
t to go on, even more so now than when he first entered. The boy let the animal go, hadn't tortured or killed it. But he knew that what came next wouldn't be as nice. Because something happened that turned a boy who would free an animal into a person who would shove a bedpost into a woman's womb.

  "Catch anything?" the faceless mother asks. Christian can see nothing more of her face than he can the boy’s, besides her eyes. He sees those perfectly clear, but he didn't need to ... he already knows the color: blue.

  Christian stands at the kitchen doorway. The boy is inside the kitchen, and the mother's arms are elbow deep in soapy water at the sink.

  "No," the boy lies.

  "That's two days in a row," the mother says.

  "I don't know why."

  The boy is still naked, and as the mother turns around, Christian sees for the first time that she is too. Both boy and mother stand without clothes, looking at one another.

  "Your father isn't going to believe you," she says.

  A bright red streaks up the boy's neck and into his face. Christian knows what the boy had done—he had opened the box's door, but the wooden stick had been tripped and the food eaten. All his father needed to do was walk out to the box to know the boy was lying.

  The mother watches the rising red across her son's face and knows what it means—the boy is lying.

  "You tell me right now. Was there an animal out there?"

  The boy nods.

  The mother rushes across the kitchen, her naked breasts swinging as she does. She grabs the back of the boy's neck and Christian sees sinewy muscle popping up across her forearms. The woman is strong, and the boy tries to cry out, but her other hand clamps over his mouth.

  "Your father is out working all goddamn day to put food on this table and you're going to free some rat? That's how you repay his hard work? It's time for you to start carrying your weight around here." She speaks with a calmness that contrasts harshly with the underlying hatred in her voice. "Give me your hand.”