by Dan Wells
before rebounding slowly, It was like poking a marshmallow. “Stop playing,” said Mom. We washed the body, and then look the sheet back off of the main cavity. His insides were marbled with fat. There was still enough of his circulatory sysrem in place to use the pump, but a lot of open wounds and leaks would make the pump lose fluid and pressure. We had to close those up. “Get me string,” said Mom. “About seven inches long.” I took off my plastic gloves and threw them in the trash, then began to cut lengths of string. She reached into the cavity and probed for severed major arteries, and each time she found one I handed her a piece of string to tie it off. While we worked, Margaret turned on the vacuum and started sucking all the gunk out of the organs, one by one; she used a tool called a trocar, which was basically just a vacuum nozzle with a blade on the end. She punched it into an organ, sucked out the gunk, then moved on to another. Mom left one vein and one artery open in the chest cavity and began connecting them to the pump and the drain- tube; there was no need to open the shoulder when the killer had already opened the chest for us. The first chemical in the pump this time was a coagulant, which seeped slowly through the body and helped close the holes too -small to seal by hand. Some of it began to leak out into the empty torso, but this flow soon stopped as the coagulant contacted the air, hardened, and; sealed up the body. I used to worry that it would seal the exit tube as well, but the opening was large enough that it never got the chance. While we waited, I studied the slashes in the body's abdomen. They were certainly animalistic, and one area on its left; side had what looked like a claw mark—four ragged slits, about an inch apart, that extended nearly a foot toward the belly. This ' was the work of the demon, of course, though we still didn't know that at the time. How could we? Back then, none of us even suspected that demons were real. I placed my own hand over the marks and guessed that whoever made them had a hand much bigger than mine. Mom frowned at me, and was about to say something when Margaret grumbled angrily. “Dangit, Ron!” she shouted. She didn't have much respect for the coroner. I ignored her and looked back at the claw mark. “What's wrong?” Mom asked, walking over to her. “We're missing a kidney,” said Margaret, pulling my attention immediately. Serial killers often kept souvenirs of their kills, and body parts were a pretty typical choice. “I've gone through the bag twice,” said Margaret, “you'd think Ron would manage to send us all the organs, for crying out loud.” “Maybe there wasn't one to send,” I said. They looked at me, and I tried to look nonchalant. “Maybe whoever killed him took it.” Mom frowned. “That's ...” “Entirely possible,” I said, interrupting her. How could I explain this without mentioning serial killers? "You saw the size of that claw mark, Mom—if this was an animal going through
his innards, it's no stretch to think that it ate something while it was in there.“ It made sense, but I knew this was no animal. Some of the slashes were too precise, and of course there was the orderly pile of innards. Maybe a serial killer who hunted with a dog? ”I'll check the papers,“ said Mom, peeling off her gloves and tossing them in the trash as she went up front. Margaret searched through the bag one more time, but shook her head; the kidney wasn't there. I could barely contain my excitement. Mom returned with a copy of the papers Lauren had handed the coroner. ”It's mentioned right here in the comments section: 'Left kidney missing.' It doesn't say they're holding it for evidence and testing, it's just missing. Maybe he had it removed or something.“ Margaret held up the remaining kidney, pointing to the severed tube that led to the missing one. ”This is a recent cut,“ she said. ”There's no scarring or anything.“ ”You'd think Lauren would have mentioned something,“ said Mom irately, setting the papers down and pulling another pair of plastic gloves from the box. ”I'm going to have to talk to her." Mom and Margaret went back to work, but I stood still, a buzz of energy filling me up and emptying me out at the same time. This was not an ordinary murder, and it was not a wild animal. Jeb Jolley had been the victim of a serial killer. Maybe he'd come from another town, or maybe this was his first victim, but he was a serial killer just the same. The signs were obvious to me now. The victim had been defenseless, with no known enemies or close friends or relatives. His friends from the bar said he'd been peaceful and happy all night before he left, with no fights or arguments, so it wasn't a crime of passion or liquor. Someone with a need to kill had been waiting in the lot behind the Wash-n-Dry, and Jeb had been a target of opportunity, in the wrong place at the wrong time. The newspaper and the crime scene itself had told a confusing story of fury blended with simplicity—of mindless animal violence giving way to calm, rational behavior, The killer stacked the organs in a pile and, apparently, took the time after tearing the body apart to slow down, and remove a single organ. Jeb Jolley's death was practically a textbook example of a disorganized killer, lashing out ferociously and then remaining at the scene, devoid of emotion or empathy, to ritualize the body—to arrange it, take a souvenir, and leave the rest for everyone to see. It was no wonder the police hadn't mentioned the stolen kidney. If word got out that a serial killer was stealing body parts, it would cause a huge panic. People barely felt safe as it was, and this was only the first death. But it would not be the last. That was, after all, the defining trait of serial killers: they kept on killing.
4 It was early October—leaf-burning season. Fall was my favorite time of year, not because of school or harvest vegetables or anything mundane, but because the citizens of Clayton County would rake up their leaves and burn them, flames soaring high into the crisp autumn air. Our yard was small and treeless, but the old couple across the street had a large yard full of oaks and maples, and they had no children or grandchildren to take care of it for them. In the summer I mowed .their lawn for five dollars a week; in the winter I shoveled their walks for cups of hot chocolate; and in the fall I raked their leaves for the pure thrill of watching them burn. Fire is a brief, temporary thing—the very definition of impermanence. It comes suddenly, roaring into life when heat and fuel come together and ignite, and dances hungrily while everything around it blackens and curls. When there is nothing left to consume, it disappears, leaving nothing behind but the ash of its unused fuel — those bits of wood and leaf and paper that were too impure to burn, too unworthy to join the fire in its dance. It seems to me that fire leaves nothing behind at all — the ash really isn't part of the flame, it's part of the fuel. Fire changes it from one thing to another, drawing off its energy and turning it into . . . well, into more fire. Fire doesn't create anything new, it simply is. If other things must be destroyed in order for fire to exist, that's all right with fire. As far as fire is concerned, that's what those things are there for in the first place. When they're gone, the fire goes, too, and though you may find evidence of its passing you'll find nothing of the fire itself — no light, no heat, no tiny red fragments of cast-off flame. It disappears back to wherever it came from, and if it feels or remembers, we have no way of knowing if it feels or remembers us. Sometimes, peering into the bright blue heart of a dancing flame, I ask if it remembers me. “We've seen each other before. We know each other. Remember me when I'm gone.” , Mr. Crowley, the old man whose leaves I burned, liked to sit on the porch and “watch the world go by,” as he called it. If I happened to be raking his yard while he was out, he would sit and tell me about his life. He had been a water-system engineer for the county for most of his life, until last year, when his health got too bad and he retired. He was old anyway. Today he
ambled out slowly and painfully propped his leg up on a stool after sitting down. “Afternoon to you, John,” he said. “Afternoon to you.” He was an old man but a large one, big-framed and powerful. His health was going, but he was far from feeble. “Hi Mr. Crowley.” “You can leave these be, you know,” he said, gesturing at the leaf-covered lawn. “There's plenty more to fall before we're done, and you'll just have to do it again.” “It lasts longer this way,” I said, and he nodded contentedly. “That it does, John, that it does.” I raked for a while longer, pul
ling the leaves together with smooth, even strokes. The other reason I wanted to do his yard that afternoon was that it had been almost a month and the serial killer hadn't struck again. The tension was making me nervous, and I needed to burn something. I hadn't told anyone my suspicion that it was a serial killer, because who would believe me? I was obsessed with serial killers as it was, they'd say. Of course I'd think this would be one. I didn't mind. It doesn't matter what other people think when you're right. “Hey John, come here for a second,” said Mr. Crowley. He gestured me over to his chair. I grimaced at the interruption, but calmed myself and went over anyway. Talking was normal—it's what normal people do together. I needed the practice. “What do you know about cell phones?” he asked, showing me his. “I know a little,” I said. “I want to send my wife a kiss.” “You want to send a kiss?” “Kay and I got these yesterday,” he said, fiddling awkwardly with the phone, “and we're supposed to be able to take photos and send them to each other. So I want to send Kay a kiss.” “You want to take a picture of yourself puckering up for a kiss and then send it to her?” Sometimes I didn't understand people at all. Watching Mr. Crowley talk about love was like hearing him speak another language—I had no idea what was going on. “Sounds, like you've done this before,” he said, handing me the phone with a shaking hand. “Show me how it's done.” The camera button was pretty clearly labeled, so I showed him how to do it and he took a shaky picture of his lips. I ' showed him how to send the photo, and went back to my raking. The idea that I might be sociopathic was nothing new to me—I'd known for a long time that I didn't connect with other people. I didn't understand them, and they didn't understand me, and whatever emotional language they spoke seemed beyond my capacity to learn. Antisocial personality disorder could not be officially diagnosed until you were eighteen years old—prior to that it was just “conduct disorder.” But let's be honest: conduct disorder is just a nice way of telling parents their kids have antisocial personality disorder. I saw no reason to dance around the issue. I was a sociopath, and it was better to deal with it now. I raked the leaf pile into a large fire pit around the side of
the house. The Crowleys used the pit for bonfires and hot dog roasts in the summer, and invited the whole neighborhood. I came every time, ignoring the people and tending solely to the fire—if fire was a drug, Mr. Crowley was my best enabler. “Johnny!” Mr. Crowley shouted from the porch, “she sent a kiss back! Come look!” I smiled at him, forcing myself to feign the absent emotional connection. I wanted to be a real boy. The lack of emotional connection with other people has the odd effect of making you feel separate and alien—as if you were observing the human race from somewhere else, unlUtached and unwelcome. I've felt like that for years, long before I met Dr. Neblin and long before Mr. Crowley sent ridiculous love notes on his cell phone. People scurry around, doing their little jobs and raising their little families and shouting their meaningless emotions to the world, and all the while you just watch from the sidelines, bewildered. This drives some sociopaths to feel superior, as if the whole of humanity were simply animals to be hunted or put down; others feel a hot, jealous rage, desperate to have what they ca'nnot. I simply felt alone, one leaf sitting miles away from a giant, communal pile. I stacked some kindling carefully at the base of the leaf pile and lit a match in its heart. Flames caught and grew, sucking in air, and a moment later the pile was roaring with heat, the bright fire dancing wickedly above it. When the fire burned out, what would be left? That night the killer struck again. I saw it on TV during breakfast; the first death had attracted a little out-of-town attention purely for its gory nature, but the second—just as gory as the first, and far more public—had caught the eye of a city reporter and his camera crew. They were there, much to the consternation of the Clayton County sheriff, broadcasting distant, blurred images of a disemboweled body all across the state. Someone must have managed to take the picture before the cops covered it up and pushed the bystanders back. There was no question now. It was a serial killer. My mom came in from the other room, her makeup half done; I looked at her, and she looked back. Neither of us said a word. ; “This is Ted Rask coming to you live from Clayton, a normally peaceful town that is today the scene of a truly gruesome murder—the second of this nature in less than a month. This is a Five Live News exclusive report. I'm here with Sheriff Meier. Tell me, Sheriff, what do we know about the victim?” Sheriff Meier was frowning under his wide, gray mustache, and glanced up testily as the reporter stepped toward him. Rask was famous for sensationalist melodrama, and from the sheriff's scowl, even I could tell he wasn't pleased about the reporter's presence. “At this time we do not wish to cause undue distress to the victim's family,” said the sheriff, "or needless fear in the people
of this county. We appreciate the cooperation of everybody in remaining calm and not spreading rumors or misinformation about this incident.“ He had completely dodged the reporter's question. At least he wasn't rolling over for Rask without a fight. ”Do you know yet who the victim is?“ asked the reporter. ”He was carrying ID, but we do not wish to release that information at this time, pending notification of the family.“ ”And the killer,“ said the reporter, ”do you have any leads about who that might be?“ ”We have no comment at this time.“ ”With this incident coming so soon on the heels of the last one, and being so similar in nature, do you think the two might be connected?“ The sheriff closed his eyes briefly, a visual sigh, and paused a moment before speaking. ”We do not wish to discuss the nature of this case at this time, to help preserve the integrity of our investigation. As I said before, we appreciate everybody's discretion and calm attitude in not spreading rumors about this incident.“ ”Thank you, Sheriff,“ said the reporter, and the camera swung back to the reporter's face. ”Again, if you're just joining us, we're in Clayton County, where a killer has just struck, possibly for the second time, leaving a dead body and a terrified town in his wake.“ ”Stupid Ted Rask,“ said Mom, stalking to the fridge. ”The last thing this town needs is a panic about a mass murderer.“ Mass murder and serial killing are completely different things, but I didn't especially want to start an argument about the distinction right then. ”I think the last thing we want are the killings,“ I said carefully. ”Panic about the killings would be next to last.“ ”In a small town like this, a panic could be just as bad, or worse,“ she said, pouring a glass of milk. ”People get scared and leave, or they stay at home nights with their doors locked, and suddenly businesses start to fail and tensions go even higher.“ She took a swig of milk. ”All it takes then is one small-minded person to start looking for a scapegoat, and panic turns into chaos-pretty quick.“ ”We can't show you the body in detail,“ said Rask on TV, ”because it truly is a gruesome, terrible sight, and the police won't let us get close enough, but we do have some details. Nobody seems to have witnessed the actual murder, but those who have seen the body up close report that the scene of death is much more bloody than the previous killing. If it is the same killer, it may be that he is becoming more violent, which could be an ominous sign of things to come.“ ”I can't believe he's saying this,“ said Mom, folding her arms angrily. ”I'm writing a letter to the station today.“ ”There is a patch of oil or something similar on the ground near the body,“ Rask continued, ”possibly from a leaky engine in a getaway car. We'll bring you more details as they come in. This is Ted Rask with a Five Live News exclusive report:
Death Stalks America's Heartland.“ , I thought back to the stain I had seen behind the Wash- n-Dry—black and oily, like rancid mud. Was the patch of oil next to the new victim's body the same thing? There were deep '' currents in this story, and I was determined to figure them all out. ”The central question of psychological profiling,“ I said, staring intently at Max as he ate his lunch, ”is not 'what is the killer doing,' but 'what is the killer doing that he doesn't have to do?'“ ”Dude,“ said Max, ”I think it's a werewolf.“ ”It's not a werewolf,“ I said. ”You saw the news today, the killer has 'the inte
lligence of a man and the ferocity of a beast.' What else is it going to be?“ ”Werewolves aren't even real.“ ”Tell that to Jeb Jolley and the dead guy on Route 12,“ said Max, taking another bite and then continuing on with a mouth full of food. ”Something tore them up pretty good, and it wasn't some pansy serial killer.“ ”The legends of werewolves were probably started because of serial killers,“ I said. ”Vampires, too—they're men who hunt and kill other men, and that sounds like a serial killer to me. They didn't have psychology back then, so they just made up some crazy monster to explain it away.“ ”Where do you get this stuff?“ ”Crimelibrary.com,“ I said, ”but I'm trying to make a point here. If you want to get into the mind of a serial killer, you have to ask 'What is he doing that he doesn't have to do?'“ ”Why do I want to get into the mind of a serial killer?“ ”What?“ I asked. ”Why would you not—okay, listen, we need to figure out why he does what he does.“ ”No we don't,“ said Max, ”that's what police are for. We're in high school, and what we need to figure out is what color Marci's bra is.“ Why do I spend time with this kid? ”Think of it this way,“ I said. ”Let's say that you are a big fan of ... what are you a fan of?“ ”Marci Jensen,“ he said, ”and Halo, and Green Lantern, and—“ ”Green Lantern,“ I said. ”Comic books. You're a big fan of comic books, so let's say that a new comic-book author moves into town.“ ”Cool,“ said Max. ”Yeah,“ I said, ”and he's working on a brand new comic book, and you want to find out what it is. Would that be cool?“ ”I just said it was cool,“ said Max. ”You'd think about it all the time, and try to guess what he's doing, and compare your theories with other people's theories, and you'd love it." “Sure.”
