Of Truth and Lies: Hollingsworth Copycat Killer (Virgil McLendon Thrillers Book 5)

by catt dahman

  Truth and Lies

  Hollingsworth Copycat Killings

  Virgil McLendon Thriller

  catt dahman

  Copyright

  © 2014 catt dahhman

  © 2013 J Ellington Ashton

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book, including the cover, and photos, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher. All rights reserved.

  Chapter One: View to a Kill

  Tonight I took four lives, maybe five, but only three were vital to my needs. Only four served my purposes, and isn’t that what we all focus on? We have needs and goals, and we make a plan to achieve those objectives, no matter what it takes. If we set our sights far away and must climb over bodies to get there, then we do; we may only set goals, but not the means to achieve them.

  I didn’t choose my methods; they chose me. I didn’t choose to be who I am: I am a product of life.

  It matters not who I am, and it’s best to consider me nameless, faceless, and unconnected because up until the time to kill, I was me, and afterwards, I was myself, but during the moments I killed, I was no one at all. Too often, I am no one. I was no one with a knife.

  I’m not one of those weird perverts who gets a thrill from killing. I’ve never been a violent person. It was just that I had to do something, a task. A job. It’s just that was I was no one when I had to tend business, and that’s the way I live with what happened.

  If you want details, they are in the newspapers; at least the mundane facts are, but I want to share much more. When this began and I was no one at all, there were four of us in the family room, me, and four children; they were asleep, snuggled in sleeping bags, comfortable on their pillows, and dreaming peacefully.

  The television, turned down low, was the only light in the room, but it was plenty. The show on the television set was something about dinosaurs on a nature channel, and I paused a second to see the Tyrannosaurus Rex, made in CGI, roaring at a herd of plant-eating dinosaurs. He was a creature who acted according to his nature; he did what was needed for his goals; the T-Rex was a no one as well. He was faceless in a pack of meat-eaters.

  The twelve-year-old girl was on the sofa with a pillow and white blanket stark against the light blue fabric. Her name was Beth. She was the one I killed first. She had lovely honey-colored hair that fell straight and neatly to her shoulders and the Stoker-family bright blue eyes, and she was a joy in every way. . She was late to blossom and had long, coltish legs, a slender build, and big hands and feet, hardly a shadow of the pretty, young girl that she could have become.

  Responsible, compassionate, and cheerful, she always volunteered to baby-sit for her siblings. She was the best of the bunch, and had she lived, she would have become a famous doctor or a civil rights lawyer; she would have changed the world.

  Had she awakened, she would have been like a mother bear protecting her young and would have sounded the alarm. She wasn’t one to run but to fight back, and I didn’t need that. Her death had to be very quick, so I covered her mouth with one hand and ran the knife across her throat with my other, pressing deeply so I cut the carotid artery and let her bleed out. She awoke, and fear kept her from reacting for a few seconds as she stared at me with shock, hurt, and confusion. I think she was shocked at who was taking her life.

  She twisted and turned on the sofa, but I had her pinned well since she had weakened. Her adrenaline couldn’t match the blood loss. Her hands fluttered, and I jabbed at them, cutting several fingers to the bone and stabbing and slashing her forearms deeply. Blood went everywhere: it ran across her chest and down the sides of her neck; but she didn’t seem to understand her neck was cut when she stared up at me, albeit upside down, now.

  I set the knife on the back of the sofa and pulled the blanket up so it could soak up the blood and form flower blossom-patterns. The blood was black in the near-dark. Her pretty blue eyes began to blink sleepily and then grow dim as her life drained away. I shifted as she grew tired. Only then did her hands flutter to her neck, but I pushed them under the covers again, and they didn’t reappear. Her eyes stared at me, so I covered them. I didn’t want to be watched while I worked.

  The rest would be more difficult. But my adrenaline was sky-high even if I felt almost no emotion. None of the rest of the children moved, so I approached the child in the center to get that part over. Again, I took no pleasure from this; in fact, I disliked what I was doing. Beth’s quick death wasn’t my mercy, but it was a necessity. I didn’t care one way or the other how fast a death went, other than I needed to hurry.

  This one was more of a merciful death. Laura was just three years old, a baby, whose siblings allowed her to join them to watch television like the older children; she had fallen asleep much earlier and had to be changed once, but she was sleeping soundly in a nest of blankets, a pacifier in her mouth while she clutched a teddy bear. She smelled like baby powder.

  She was a good toddler, always happy, and a delight to the family, a little dark-haired child in the sea of golden hair; she resembled her father. Laura was a good eater and a good sleeper, and once she had her second diaper changed after midnight as she did this night, she would sleep until maybe eight o’clock the next morning. She was potty trained, wasn’t ready to give up her night time pacifier, but could chatter nonsense, and could pull herself up to walk when she had an audience. Many times, she sang and bounced in a kind of dance for her family. Everyone thought she was precious.

  With Laura’s arms and legs spread out innocently, trustingly, it was hard to do it, but it had to be done. I steeled myself, set a hand over the tiny rosebud lips, and whipped the knife down across her throat. She jerked as if electrocuted, shocked and then going stiff. I refused to look into her eyes as the life drained.

  Because I had to do so, I stabbed through the little baby blanket, and she reacted a little, flailing, but she was dying. I managed to get five fairly shallow stab wounds into her chest so that she would stay alive and so that her heart could pump out her blood all over the blankets. It was grisly, but necessary.

  I took one small, bloodied blanket with me as I crawled to my next victim, leaving the teddy bear to soak up blood.

  This next one was about to be tricky, but it mattered a great deal that it was done just right. I set the blanket on top of the sleeping bag and spread it open. As I stabbed eight-year-old Ricky in his throat, I shoved the blade in deeply but wasted no time in plunging it back into him, into his chest over and over until I counted six times. Some wounds were not serious because he raised his hands, and I caught his palm once. Another time, I got his belly, which bled a lot but was not fatal if he received help. A third was only to his shoulder.

  He couldn’t do anything but gurgle. He flipped and tried to crawl away from me. I was impressed at his tenacity and bravery. He was a fighter, but because I did the job right, he couldn’t do anything but wheeze and murmur for help. In between his looks of horror at me , I saw anger and confusion. I couldn’t help that. He knew he was severely injured and was furious that I was taking his life and causing such pain. He was betrayed.

  Ricky was a good child, athletic, super protective of his little sister, Laura, funny, and a little bit of a clown. He never got into t
rouble at school, knowing when to be silly and when to act right, and he took it seriously that he was second oldest. He worshiped his big sister, Beth.

  His heart pumped hard, and blood almost jetted from his shoulder, stomach, and chest as he crawled across the pale blue carpet. Each time he stopped, a gout poured onto the floor, so he made a thick, solid trail. He was trying to reach Beth and wake her for help. One had to admire his fortitude. It was heartbreaking or would have been if I had allowed emotions to surface.

  My final victim was on the side of the make-shift camp and would be the first child seen from the doorway. Carl was very important to use as a shock to those who came upon the crime scene. I didn’t relish this fact, but it was the means to my goals.

  Before I could think too much, I did the job, stabbing Carl once in the throat and once in the chest to prevent screaming. As his hands came up, I caught him several times on the palms and forearms, feeling the blade scrape bones once. With regret at having to cause more pain to him, I stabbed him in his eye and then finished with five stabs to the chest.

  He was the cutest, all big, pale blue eyes and sunshine-colored hair, freckles, and a seriousness to his personality that made one think of still waters running deep. With his one eye, he watched me. He blinked.

  I had a few, last things to do. After I finished, it would be over, and I raced towards the finish line of this horrible event. Well, it would not be over exactly, not for many, but this part would be over, and anything would be easier than this was.

  I looked at my garments. They were blood-covered. I tossed the knife at the counter. Whoosh. It landed with a ping, loud in the night.

  Did I hear a noise?

  Was that squeaking coming from the family room? I grabbed another knife and hurried back to listen and look. Beth was dead. The blanket was beautifully soaked with her blood, and her eyes stared into space. Perfect. Ricky was alive, but was bleeding into one spot now, with a bloody trail behind him. His hand left perfect prints on the bottom of the sofa and on the carpet and was still oozing.

  Laura was dead or almost dead. She was so little that she bled out fast, soaking her remaining blankets bright red. Carl was still alive on his back and weakly moving his hands. Blood poured everywhere; he had a good few minutes to go. It was all perfect.

  I stood next to the staircase out of sight of the room except for when bright images flashed on the television. I might have to make one more kill. To finish it all. To end this. One more would be the finish I needed.

  There she was: Starla Stoker: dark, curvaceous, pretty, long hair, enormous blue eyes, and dressed in a lace and cotton nighty, one that was both sexy and innocent at the same time. It covered her, but left enough cleavage and legs showing to excite the imagination. She was beautiful.

  She couldn’t live now, either. She would see the children in a second and scream, but first, she would have to roll the dice to see if she lived or died. All of it would be in the movement of my hand, whether I pressed hard or took it across her throat softly. Decisions. Choices.

  The knife slide across her soft neck so handsomely, parting the flesh with such a sharp cut that at first the wound didn’t bleed; I dreaded having to do it again. She raised her hand. Slice. Slice. Her palms were injured, her fingers were sliced a little. I stabbed her right arm clumsily because I was out of time. Die, Starla.

  The neck wound opened delightfully, gaping all along the cut, and blood gushed out and down her chest. Her cut arm flung blood all over; the blood flew: scarlett red There it went.

  A wine glass flew, but landed, unbroken. A book went next. It was done. I am so relieved that I have to show it, so I bellowed at the top of my lungs.

  Starla Stokes gathered a deep breath and added harmony. She screamed as loudly as she possibly could. Show time. I am gone. Starla kept screaming, running, and shouting ear-piercing noises. She just screamed.

  Chapter Two: Preparation for a Storm

  “Do we have to flash both badges? I mean, seriously, we can show our badges from home and then say ‘Hey, hold on, I have more’ and then take out our other badges and show them. We can collect them.”

  “Sounds right to me.” Virgil McLendon laughed as he got out of his car, making sure his shirt was tucked in neatly and that his belt was hitched up to the right spot. In his town, he was the sheriff, and Tina Rant, who emerged from the passenger side of the car, was his deputy and acting sheriff if Virgil were away. She was rubbing dust off a boot.

  This time Virgil’s wife, Vivian, had her father as acting sheriff since her parents had moved from their town to be closer to their daughter and sons, all deputies. It was truly a family-run department.

  “I guess we should maybe only show our badges for Special Liaison to the FBI, since Special Agent Lord got them for us,” Virgil said. “They’re pretty cool looking, aren’t they? I might like showing mine.”

  “You said ‘no’ to the FBI, anyway, so you can’t keep it,” Tina said, Then she remarked, “He really sends you on some strange cases.”

  “I think he’s trying to sweeten me to the FBI,” Virgil sighed. “It isn’t me though. I like these special cases, but the overall work doesn’t interest me. I promise I’m not leaning that way at all. I just like the badge.”

  “That’s where it begins,” Tina warned.

  Virgil laughed again.

  “Why does this case grab you?”

  “Well, I only take the ones Agent Lord asks me to because he knows what I prefer,” Virgil McLendon said. He was very particular about the cases he consulted on. He liked the ones that were truly perplexing to other officers and were somewhat sad in nature and ones he felt he could use his unusual approaches for.

  Tina coughed dramatically, “And this one is interesting? It’s disgusting what he wants us to do. Interesting, but yuck. I can’t imagine sitting and talking to that…that monster, and yet we will.”

  Virgil shrugged, “It was the deal to solving two cases. The monster asked for me.”

  “Why?” she had asked this a dozen times, and each time Virgil shrugged and suggested a new reason. “Why did you bring me, Virg? Vivian is fantastic with logic, Nick is brilliant and tough, and Joey is tenacious.”

  “Tina, I have depended on you above all to have my back and do things without my asking since I became sheriff. You could have been envious when I took over, but instead you became my right hand. You’ve done what had to be done, but it’s time you step up and become a force of your own.”

  She smiled. All she wanted was to be the best deputy she could be. She lived for her cat, her family, and for working cases. A chance to make a big difference and figure out who to arrest and convict was more than exciting, and she was thrilled to be working alone with Virgil and learning more.

  This time, Virgil let his words just flow without filtering them, “Why? Because he’s read about me. He followed my cases. He either thinks I am brilliant and that he can learn something more from me, or he thinks I am a fluke and that he can beat me. I would bet on the second choice. I think he wants to play games with me.”

  “They say he is the greatest criminologist ever,” Tina reminded her partner. “He was a great police detective, too.”

  “He may be. But he made a mistake, so someone bested him. The best can be toppled…feet of clay.” Virgil grinned. He opened the door and let Tina go in ahead of him. “I hope he thinks he can beat me. I hope he can’t.”

  “He can’t,” Tina said hopefully.

  “Sheriff McLendon and Deputy Rant, welcome. I’m Reb Kirby, and it’s nice to meet, you folks. Thanks for coming to help us. My goodness but we have a real mess here and could use some insight.” He shook their hands and introduced them around. He was a giant of a man: at six feet four and three hundred twenty pounds, he loomed over everyone but smiled a lot, giving the impression of a big old bear that could do a world of harm when angry.

  The three went into Sheriff Kirby’s office, and one of the deputies brought in a big pitcher of iced tea
and some glasses, “Drink up. It’s a hot day.”

  Tina and Virgil sipped gratefully. It was impossible not to like Reb Kirby at once. He had an open face, was funny, and seemed dependable.

  “Special Agent Lord set this up, and it was quick like a bunny. We didn’t have time to even think or plan because it’s best to hit when fresh, right? He said specifically that he gave you only bare facts in a few sentences, which is awful funny because this is so big and perplexing that it would take days to get you caught up.”

  “It’s the way I prefer…to get a case without any previous ideas so I can be neutral going in and non-emotional. Can you give me the very bare facts, keeping all details and theories out? I know that’s not easy….”

  Sheriff Kirby waved Virgil’s concerns away. He said, “What we have are three cases, and two need solving. A few years ago, Dr. Walter Hollingsworth, popular criminologist, was convicted of murdering a family although he was suspected in more cases. He went to prison. Lord, but I am biting my tongue to keep from saying why he did it and how.” Kirby said as he chuckled. “He’ll share though. He’s right proud of his actions. Son of a bitch don’t have remorse. Pardon my language, ma’am.”

  “It’s fine, Sheriff,” Tina said.

  “You’re doing fine,” Virgil said. “I know some about him. I read his texts long ago.”

  “Fast forward to now. I feel like the whole bloomin’ town went nuts all at once. Oh, sorry, that was opinion.

  Okay, ten days ago, we found a family slaughtered. It wasn’t exactly the same as Hollingsworth’s crimes but similar enough to be noticeable in many ways.

  Seven days ago, we have another crime scene. Similar.

  Three days ago, another family was killed, and damned if it don’t look a lot like Hollingsworth’s style. Not exact, but close. It’s exact if you consider some information was not given to the public and only heard in the trial.”