by Dan Ames
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THE KILLING LEAGUE
(A Wallace Mack Thriller)
by
Dan Ames
“The mass murderer wants to outcompete previous killers and become the greatest murderer in history.”
-Paul Hannig, Ph.D., Profile of a Mass Murderer
“Men are by nature highly territorial,
mutually competitive killers.”
-Dr. William Wilkie, consultant psychiatrist and author
PROLOGUE
The forest glowed in the dark, faint streams of moonlight ignited patches of steamy fog. The land seemed angry, seething in the cool of the night.
Nicole Candela's breath came much faster than the pulsating night breeze. Her eyes, big and blue, were wide with terror. Her hair was wet and wild, matted down in great jagged strips. Blood streaked her cheeks, forcing her beauty to teasingly appear through distinct slashes.
"One way or another-" a voice sang from behind her.
Nicole's breath caught in her throat. But her feet carried on. Running. Escaping. Desperately trying to put distance between life ahead and the nightmare behind.
"I’m gonna find ya-" the voice continued.
Nicole turned and ran deeper into the forest. A steel cuff on her left ankle bit into the flesh of her leg, its edges already bloody.
"...I’m gonna get ya get ya get ya get ya-" the voice taunted her from behind.
Nicole's feet flew as fast as her remaining energy could propel them.
From deep within her chest came a great, wracking moan.
Nicole ran, but her breath went faster than her legs. They felt like nothing, like they were a part of someone else's body. She saw the forest floor rise and fall before her. It was like being a captive passenger on a ship, unable to change her view of the horizon as it surged up and down in the distance.
Her feet tangled and she fell. The ground banged into her chest, hard and unmoving. With a low, unnatural moan emerging from her throat, she managed to get back on her feet.
Nicole started off toward the clearing ahead, her run looking more like a stagger. Hope flickered across her face. Maybe on the other side of the clearing there would be a road or a neighboring cabin. Someone. Anyone. She knew it was that blind hope, the refusal to give up, that allowed her to still be alive.
She lowered her head, building her courage for one more charge.
Five yards from the clearing, she tripped over a wire strung across the dim path. She heard a quick high whistle and then a crude punji stick lashed out and buried itself into her thigh with a soft thud.
"...ooh, that had to hurt!" the voice from behind her said, carried with a triumphant tone that reverberated around the clearing.
Nicole screamed and fell to the ground. She tried to crawl, pulling the ground apart, her nails digging trenches in the soft earth.
She got as far as the edge of the clearing.
A man appeared at the other end of the forest opening.He had dark, curly hair. Jeans. Chuck Taylor sneakers and a dark blue hooded sweatshirt. Nicole thought for a moment that he looked like a high school kid on his way home from track practice. But the large, gleaming knife in his hand shattered that image. She stared at his plain face, into the eyes of insanity and violence.
"You did so well, Nicole," he said, his voice soft and gentle.
Nicole sobbed in response.
"The way you broke out of my improvised holding cell was really quite ingenious,” he said. His voice was high-pitched, almost girlish, but calm and controlled, as if he had been out on a leisurely stroll. “I’ll have to do a little remodeling now before my next guest arrives, but that shouldn’t be a problem. I'm pretty handy."
Nicole thought about her escape. It had been a miracle really. After hours pulling and twisting in her leather restraints, she had dislocated her shoulder and been able to perform an agonizing escape from her bonds.
"Why?" Nicole said. She knew she was going to die. She realized it with a sickness that invaded every pore of her body. But even if she couldn’t stop it, maybe she could understand it.
The man walked closer to her, squatted down in front of her, but far enough away to avoid any sudden attack.
"Why you?" he said. Nicole was close enough to see the slight sheen of sweat on his pale, pasty skin. So maybe he had exerted himself a little bit. She felt a small surge of pride. Yeah, he might kill her, but at least she’d fought.
"You were blessed with an unfortunate DNA sequence, honey,” he said. “It gave you long blonde hair, big blue eyes, and the kind of body that, well, makes my privates all tingly."
Nicole looked into his eyes. There was nothing there. No feeling. No soul. Nothing.
And for the first time, she wasn't afraid.
He sensed it, too, because with no warning and incredible speed, he leapt on top of her and pinned her to the ground. He put the knife at her throat.
"I have a little tradition, like who gets to carve the turkey at Thanksgiving,” he said. “I let my girls pick where they want the starting point to be. Where do you want me to begin...opening you?"
Nicole stopped struggling. She accepted her fate. She held out her right hand, the palm open.
"Interesting!” the man said. “The hand! Most pick the forearm, for some reason. The hand, yes! You continue to surprise me, my dear Nicole.”
The man placed the edge of the knife along Nicole’s hand. She closed her eyes and slowly curled her fingers over the top of the blade, and squeezed. The blade sunk deeper and deeper into her hand. Blood gushed from her palm and her fingers, red-hot pain shot up the nerves of her arm. She squeezed harder and harder until the blade scraped bone.
The man’s breath came hard and fast and Nicole knew he was getting turned on by the sight of the knife cutting her skin.
When she heard the faint beginning of a small moan escape his lips, Nicole suddenly lunged up, her left hand yanked the punji stick out of her thigh. With her right, she pulled the knife, and the man, toward her. He wouldn’t let go of the knife, didn’t think to, even as Nicole rammed the punji stick into his neck.
For a moment, they had a tug-of-war. The man pulled on the knife, while Nicole twisted the punji stick deeper and deeper into his throat.
Finally, the man’s grip on the knife slackened, and it came free in Nicole’s hand. He toppled off her onto the ground, blood seeping from his mouth and throat.
Nicole ripped the punji stick from his throat and pushed him onto his back. His eyes were open. She lifted the punji stick over her head and drove it directly into his heart. His body bucked, and then didn’t move.
Nicole stood and looked down, saw the man’s big knife still embedded in her hand. She dropped to her knees. Pulled the knife out of her hand. She held it by the handle then plunged it into what was left of the man’s throat just as someone burst into the clearing.
But Nicole was already unconscious.
THREE YEARS LATER
SCOUTING REPORTS
CHAPTER ONE
Florence Nightmare
AGAINST A BACKDROP of gray skies and light mist, the Charleston Municipal Hospital appeared even bleaker than its surroundings.
Inside Room 211, seven-year-old Patricia Sirrine slept in her bed. She had light yellow hair that was fanned out around her head, creating a glow that surrounded a deathly pale face.
An IV ran to her arm. A plastic hospital bracelet encircled her delicate wrist. Light purple veins pulsed faintly beneath the skin.
The door opened and a woman entered. Ruth Dykstra looked like a country doctor with a friendly, kind face. She wore a cobalt blue sweater over her white, heavily starched nurse's uniform. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back in a tight bun.
She walked to the little girl’s bedside.
"How are we doing, Patricia?" she said, in a deep but gentle voice.
Patricia’s eyes fluttered open.
"Mmm. Hi," the girl said.
"
Hello, little beauty."
"Who...?”
"I’m your doctor, honey," Ruth said.
Patricia struggled to stay awake.
"You’ve had a long fight, my little Pattycake. You’ve been very brave. Some are saying it’s a miracle you beat that nasty old sickness."
Patricia attempted a smile, but it ended up being more of a grimace.
Ruth went back to the door and closed it, then returned to the little girl’s bedside.
"That’s okay, you don’t have to say anything. I’m going to make everything all right," she said.
Ruth pulled out a four-inch hypodermic needle.
"Now you’re going to feel a little bit of a poke."
Ruth put a hand on Patricia’s forehead and pushed her head deeper into the pillow. She used a thumb to pull back Patricia’s eyelid. With a quick, fluid motion, Ruth inserted the needle into the corner of the girl’s eye.
The little girl reacted instantly. She kicked and tried to sit up but Ruth held her down. She let go of the needle and clamped her hand over the little girl’s mouth.
The enormous syringe hung from Patricia’s eye.
Ruth spoke to the girl with a calm, loving tone.
"Fight all you want, honey, you’ll go faster that way."
Patricia’s kicks subsided and the little girl went rigid.
"That’s a girl. That’s a good girl."
Ruth let go of Patricia and took the syringe from the girl’s eye. She pulled out a small cotton swab and dabbed a tiny drop of blood from the girl’s cheek.
Ruth then brushed a wisp of hair that had fallen across Patricia’s face.
Ruth was slightly flushed, and a wave of ecstasy briefly flashed across her face. She picked up the syringe, straightened the girl’s bedcovers, and pushed the wisp of hair back into place. She stood for a moment, staring at the dead girl, planting the memory deep in her mind.
"Good-bye Patricia,” she said, and left the room.
CHAPTER TWO
Mack
ALTHOUGH THE CROWD was relatively large inside Hoover Auditorium, students and other faculty from the FBI Academy in attendance recognized the seniority of those present. The front rows of the auditorium were speckled with middle-aged men in suits or sportcoats, with the occasional unwitting student mixed in. The farther one went from the stage, the more the ratio reversed itself.
Wallace Mack stood off to the side of the stage, softly cursing himself for agreeing to this. He hated public speaking, noting with an objective eye his sweaty hands, rapid breathing, and dry mouth.
Mack watched as the current Director of the FBI Academy walked onto the stage. Mack had just met the man for the first time five minutes ago.
The man adjusted the microphone as the subdued conversations in the lecture hall ended and all heads turned toward him.
“Welcome everyone,” he said. “Tonight, we have the pleasure of welcoming Former Special Agent and legendary profiler Wallace Mack into our midst.”
Mack took a deep breath. Legendary? Christ, the guy was a bullshitter, all right. Maybe that’s how he’d become Director of the Academy.
“Most of you are familiar with Mr. Mack already, in fact, you’ve probably studied a great deal of his work,” the Director said. “But for the sake of formality, let me review a few things. Mack joined the FBI after graduating Summa Cum Laude from the University of Virginia. He double majored in criminology and psychology. He quickly worked his way up the ranks, eventually to the Homicide team where his insights landed him in the Profiling unit.”
The Academy Director turned the sheet of paper over in front of him.
“Once there, he took part in some of the Bureau’s most well-known cases, most notably the Jeffrey Kostner killings.”
Mack felt himself wince inwardly at Kostner’s name. He really didn’t deserve any credit for that one. Nicole did, plain and simple. He’d been slow figuring out Kostner’s identity and Nicole had nearly died. Luckily, his failure hadn’t cost Nicole her life.
“Mack officially retired from the FBI last year in order to care for a family member, but he continues to work with us as a consultant,” the Director said. “Tonight, he’s going to talk about what he’s working on, and answer any questions you may have about some of the cases I’ve mentioned. Ladies and gentlemen, it is our honor and privilege to welcome Wallace Mack.”
Mack walked onto the stage and shook hands with the Director. He stepped up to the microphone. He approached speeches the same way he used to run his meetings, which followed the DNFA rule: Do Not Fuck Around.
He spoke into the microphone. “At any given time, there are anywhere from thirty to fifty active serial killers murdering their way through the United States,” he said.
“Numbers and estimates vary. I believe it depends on how you define an active serial killer. After all, some stop on their own accord. Others stop because they die, are injured, or incarcerated. Technically, their cases are still active, even if the killer isn’t.”
He glanced up at the packed auditorium, then back down to his notes.
“It’s also my belief that if you truly focus on active serial killer cases, where new victims are appearing with some regularity, the number is somewhat lower. I put it more in the range of twenty-five to thirty-five cases. Which is still too many.”
Mack thumbed the electronic control in his left hand and a large map appeared on the wall behind him.
“What we know for certain is that they are plying their trade across the country in small towns, big cities, rich neighborhoods and crime-riddled slums,” he said. “Today, I want to talk about a few of what I consider to be cases where the killer is clearly active, and if anything, increasing the frequency of his or her attacks. I’ll share with you my thoughts on the evidence, and what I know about them.”
He clicked the control again, and the map zoomed into the central United States, where a series of red dots appeared in a rough line down one of the north/south freeways.
“The I-75 corridor,” he said. “Seven victims, all reported to be male prostitutes, have been found in various locations along the freeway, mostly in Georgia and Florida.”
He thumbed the control again.
“Chicago. So far, eleven females, all in the age range of seventeen to twenty-three, all blonde, missing.”
Another map.
“Fort Walton Beach, Florida. Seven men dead, all middle-aged, all known to frequent prostitutes. All drugged first, then shot, stabbed or beaten. In each case, the sedative was the same, unique cocktail of chemicals.”
Mack took a sip of water from a water bottle he’d placed on the podium.
“Now, let’s talk specifics.”
•
SEATED NEAR THE BACK ROW, a man could barely contain his laughter.
The man watched and listened as Mack went over his detailed notes on the crimes he had listed. The man couldn’t help but be amused. He’d hacked into Mack’s computer over two years ago, installed a shadow desktop program that sent him any new notes or changes to the computer’s files. The security software the FBI had put on Mack’s laptop was obsolete within three months, and he had easily broken through.
As he listened to Mack’s lecture, the man noted the items Mack left out. They always did that to prevent anything getting to the media or nutjobs who loved to phone in and claim to be the killer.
As he listened the man had to admit that Mack was actually pretty close to solving three of the crimes. The murders along the I-75 corridor, for instance. Mack had sent in a request to the national trucking bureau for information about any truck drivers with criminal histories, especially of a sexual nature who frequently drove that stretch of freeway.
The man had hacked into that organization’s computer system, and replied to Mack’s message that they would look into their files and send him a response. Then he deleted Mack’s message and searched through their records himself.
He came up with three drivers. The man compared known times
of death for the victims, and compared the locations of the three drivers. Only one driver was in the same general vicinities as the victims at the time of their murders. A little more digging, all of it the illegal kind, and he had his man.
The man nearly let out a laugh when Mack moved on to another set of mysterious killings.
He was really enjoying this.
CHAPTER THREE
Truck Drivin’ Man
THE CUSTOM PETERBILT semi-truck sat in its space, among the other giant long haulers, at a packed truck stop off I-75 in Florida.
Inside the cab with its extra large sleeping compartment, Roger Dawson sat behind the wheel, a joint between his thick, stubby fingers. He had the window down.
A boy in his late teens, wearing a short leather mini skirt and a tight black T-shirt, approached Dawson.
"You lookin’ for a date?" the boy said. His voice was high and girlish. Dawson looked down at him from his perch. The boy’s face was oily and dotted with pimples.
"You think I need one?" Dawson said. He had a pug nose, and his dark eyes revealed nothing.
"Doesn't everyone?" the boy said.
Dawson handed the joint out the window to the boy. The boy had to step on the truck’s running board to reach it. He took a deep hit and handed it back to Dawson.
"You new here?" Dawson said. "Never seen you around before."
The boy shrugged his thin shoulders. "Just got in from L.A.,” he said. “Where you headed?"
Dawson examined him.
"Turn around."
The boy was momentarily caught off guard by Dawson’s sudden change in conversation. He did a pirouette, working to put his goods in the best light.
Dawson took another deep drag of the joint. The two remained silent for several moments.
"Well?" the boy said.
"Kinda skinny,” Dawson said.
"Not where it counts," the boy said.
A small smile crept across Dawson’s face. He nodded toward the passenger side of the rig.
"Door’s unlocked," he said.
