Wednesday: Story of a Serial Killer

by Success Akpojotor

  A patient exited while I entered.

  “Good evening Reverend.” I said knowing there was nothing good about the evening.

  He didn’t reply. He sat on his leather chair trying to distract himself with the ballpoint in his right hand.

  I pressed on. “Do you think Femi Atkins is dangerous? Is he capable of murder?”

  He dropped the ballpoint pen and concentrated his saddened eyes at me. “Need I remind you that your marriage is on a razor edge?"

  I fired back “And I must find your nephew’s killer."

  “Let the dead bury their dead. Let Karma take its course.” He grabbed his keys. He’d had enough. He indirectly passed the message of “I don’t want to talk to you” to me.

  We went out together

  Our cars hit the road together

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I turned into my drive.

  I alighted.

  I entered my apartment and an aromatic feminine scent greeted my sense of smell. Instantly, I knew somebody had been here. I spent the next twenty minutes checking if anything was removed or planted. Nothing.

  I undressed and tossed my semen–stained pant in the laundry basket and hung my long–sleeved red shirt in my fitted wardrobe. Then it came to my notice that I didn’t fix back my nipple clamp and personal lubricant where they belong when not in use.

  I fixed them back.

  I proceeded to the refrigerator and lay hold of the thickshake my mother’s call had precluded me from having.

  I had the thickshake and two doughnuts for dinner.

  I sat before the television which was showing BBC One. I wasn’t concentrating. The power of the night had become heavy on my eyes. I had reached the ragged edge of this worn out day and I didn’t have the appetite to wank.

  The right side of my back had begun to hurt. This afternoon was the fifth time this week I had jerked myself off and for the remaining hours of today I filed it under 'Not going to happen'.

  I was playing with the remote zapper and switching through channels when it was announced that one 'Cardinal Jorge Mario Bergoglio' from Argentina had succeeded Pope Benedict the Sixteenth with the name 'Pope Francis'.

  I powered off the TV and journeyed into my bedroom. I mounted my bed adorned with red sheets unlike our matrimonial bed back in Cambridge Street which Katherine always dressed with green bed spread. I told her many a time I preferred red all to no avail. She said red symbolized 'danger and 'aggressiveness'. And I always told her that it was my symbol for health, virility and strength.

  Minutes seemed to take hours to go by as the events of the thirteenth day of March replayed in my head and found their way into my sleep.

  “… She only cares and feels pity for you. I saw it in her eyes the day you tied the nuptial knot. I’m a woman. I know when a woman loves a man."

  “… It’d do the whole of London well if you make yourself present in Broadway now."

  “… Please do all you can to catch my siblings’ killer. And I’d do all within my power to support the ‘Met!’"

  “… Benefit of the doubt. I so much believe in it."

  “… Because the murderer will strike again if he isn’t stopped. Psychopaths are anything but stupid."

  “ … your exploits in the ‘priests–slayer’ investigation has endorsed your capabilities."

  “… Because the perpetrator is giving a warning signal. He’s going to continue. He’s walking and working his way into the serial murderers' hall of fame."

  “… we conclude it’s a man or woman trying to get vengeance for what the ‘white–skinned’ people and society has dealt him."

  “… They died from histotoxic hypoxia.”

  “… The tattoos on them seem to be like a blank map of Africa. Inspector Baker and I, after critical examination, came to believe Doctor Bradford's conclusion."

  “… let’s agree that the villain is…"

  “… I’ll help you find ways to prevent small problems form escalating into big afflictions."

  “… Sometimes he fakes an orgasm just to get away from me and slip into the bathroom to jerk off."

  “I asked for your forgiveness and God’s."

  “…. Not all God-fearing women are godly."

  “… ma pa e . . . ma pa e danu."

  “. . . Apples. I like them so much. They’re of huge importance. One a day keeps your doctor away."

  “Keep being a good boy and divorce Katherine…”

  “… I won’t be stealing from myself…"

  “… I’m going to do it."

  “Was any of them diagnosed with gonorrhea?”

  “… I think I’d need to take a lie detector test…”

  “Cyanide is almost impossible to get."

  “I’m not in the mood to talk about that. Go to her workplace and interrogate her…”

  “Am I a suspect in a murder investigation?”

  “That dude ain’t no Reverend. He’s a hypocrite. Never will I receive communion from him again."

  “Let the dead bury their dead. Let Karma take its course."

  I saw myself shooting Reverend Bean and drawing a tattoo on his chest.

  The cop rounded me up.

  I faced trial and was convicted of serial murder.

  I was put on a scaffold and the British Army poured their bullets into me.

  I died.

  I woke

  It was a dream

  It was March 14. World Kidney Day.

  ****

  I had bananas for breakfast.

  If my mother happened to live in same apartment with me, she’d have locked the door and demanded that I had 'breakfast'. She made me dread dependence and consider misogamy. She had made my father go 'crazy'. He couldn’t stand my mother’s 'perfectionism'. Infact, she had driven him into the hands of a French model with whom he made off with to Las Vegas.

  Yet, my mother doesn’t seem to have learnt her lesson. She wants to always be in control. She’d rather be dead than not be in control. She’s a 'control freak'. If she was Queen Elizabeth, she’d pass into law the particular meal every Briton should have at various times; decide the colour of every Brit’s underpants on particular days and still wouldn’t be satisfied.

  Sometimes I began to wonder if she was taking vengeance on behalf of her ancestor women whom her ancestor men turned into sex slaves and baby making machines.

  Waking up and knowing that I’d be deciding the course of my life is a blessing I’m always thankful for.

  I removed the key from the keyhole after locking my door when I heard a car slow to a crawl. I turned and found the Nissan Note.

  Abigail alighted, “Good morning detective!"

  I stood still, slightly amazed. “Good morning!"

  She rattled on with her uncanny British accent. She was an almost carbon copy of Katherine except Katherine wasn’t ‘bosomy’. “I saw how my nephew died. It’s disgusting."

  “Yes." I nodded in agreement.

  “And I know you must be thinking my prospective husband committed the murder. He told me you came. He’s a tattooist and not a murderer. He doesn’t have the stomach for such. Though he thinks the MPS is institutionally racist, he wouldn’t condescend to such cowardly level. Please I beg you," She paused and continued, “He doesn’t like the blue men around him. His brother had kicked the bucket by a stray bullet from them." She swallowed spittle. "And his father had died in their custody by suspicious means… and his mother had died of grief."

  A helluva plot for Euripides! I thought.

  She still rattled on, “He’s traumatized even though his appearance masks it. The only thing I want from you is for you to stay away. I have an eight o’clock lecture. Good morning." she turned and walked back to her car like she was on a runway.

  She drove off.

  I walked to my 2001 Toyota Echo and entered.

  Just before I had the chance to ignite the car engine, the Grande Valse from my Nokia began to sing. It was my mother.

  �
�Good morning mother." I said.

  Her voice filtered into my phone’s earpiece, “For the love of God come home now. See me before you do anything today.” She hung up.

  My mother never called unless she was reading about me on the papers or there was a pressing issue. This time I knew she wasn’t reading about me.

  I hadn’t blazed any trail yet.

  CHAPTER NINE

  My car and I arrived 60G Bayswater Road. I parked behind my mother’s blue BMW which was living on her small driveway- and alighted.

  Her BMW hadn’t been cleaned. Dust particles had formed thin layers on it. My mother did every chore herself. She didn’t employ any hands. She had said she’d "rather walk the streets naked than have helpers". She said it made her feel “healthy and strong”.

  Today was a promising one. There were proofs that we were in spring unlike yesterday which was chilly that my testicles had to retreat into my body for warmth.

  I entered the apartment where I had been reared and from where my father had eloped. My mother was leaning on the counter as she ate apricots.

  “Good morning mother!” I said.

  Her 'good morning' was a slap in my face.

  I wanted to retaliate. I wanted to punch her in the face and watch her bleed in her nostrils.

  “So you went back to secretly drawing tattoos?” she slapped the remnant apricot on my black suit.

  “Tattoos? Secretly?” I said confusedly.

  “You’ve been drawing them?” Her eyes were red.

  “No. I swear.” My eyes were inflamed.

  She was sorry. Her being was inundated with remorse. She walked towards me and pressed me tightly against the bristols that fed me in the first two years of my born days. She had teased me many a time that I still clung to her bosom after many babies my age, at the time, had given up sucking nipples.

  Her left hand rubbed my head while her right hand rubbed my back like she was petting a cute little dog as she still held me tightly, “I’m sorry for acting like that. I just hate tattoos. I hate tattooists and I hate those giving tattoos space on their bodies. Our living Father condemns the art. It's satanic, devilish, diabolic, unhealthy, irresponsible, indecent….”

  I didn’t want to be entangled in a web of argument. I just allowed her run her mouth until she ran out of adjectives.

  “A detective from Scotland Yard came here this morning."

  I retrieved myself from her bosom. “A detective?”

  “Yes”. She looked worried as she reached for another apricot and took a crisp bite. “He said his name wasn’t important.” She chewed and swallowed.

  “What did he want?”

  “He said you’re a prime suspect in the tattoo serial murder. And they have evidence that you’re a tattooist.” She took another bite as she paced up and down the living room.

  “I stopped the art of tattooing long ago. You know that mother? Don’t you?” I said.

  “Exactly what I told him. You gave up the passion before you were recruited,” she sternly said “I know you aren’t capable of murder. I know my fruit."

  My Central Nervous System, or CNS, numbed and reactivated. A migraine surged through my brain. Fear surged through my marrows. "Who could the detective be?” I can’t be a murderer” I subconsciously declared.

  “Yes. But that devilish art of tattoo arting is implicating you. You see how evil it is?”

  There was no diction for me. I just looked at her.

  “Lest I forget,” she swallowed and continued “the detective drove a black Nissan and he seriously warned me to not tell you he came to probe."

  My heart pounded. “Black Nissan?”

  “Yes. I gave him my word. I told him I hadn’t seen you for months because we had an axe to grind."

  As I stood before her, only a face flashed in my mind. Detective Baker. Only he, in the MPS, knew I drew tattoos. I had even tattooed the logo of the MPS on his left arm, years ago while still at Hendon; and he erased it when the commissioner of the MPS declared that “no one with a tattoo would be recruited and those already in the service who had tattoos should bring it to the knowing of the MPS”. I didn’t tell my mother I drew a tattoo on a fellow detective while I was a Detective Constable, or DC.

  “I’d soon be late for work.” I told her.

  She kissed my forehead. “Be careful son. Be discreet. All I owe you is love and prayer."

  I’d been waiting for this moment. I walked to the door and quickly recalled an incident. I turned, “Mother what’s the meaning of 'ma pa e'?”

  Fear gripped her. She rushed to me and hugged me. “Did anyone threaten you?”

  “No!” I said

  “Sure?” she reiterated.

  “Yes." I said again.

  She belabored, “Then how did you come by the phrase?”

  “Someone threatened someone before my very eyes."

  “'Ma pa e' is Yoruba, “she lectured.

  “I know”, I paused “that’s why I’m asking you."

  “'Ma pa e’ means ‘I will kill you.” She said.

  “And ma pa e danu’?" I inquired.

  She frowned. “You're anglicizing it . ‘Ma pa e danu’ translates as ‘I'll kill you and throw you away' in English.’”

  “Hope you weren’t threatened?” She said with a petrified look.

  "I’m a Scotland Yard detective mother."I retrieved myself from her embrace and walked out the door.

  She followed, “How’s the divorce going? You made up your mind yet?”

  I ignited my car engine, backed out the driveway and headed for Wimpole Street.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Detective Baker’s residence stayed at 62B Wimpole Street. We had been more than frenemies since our Hendon days and even worked on the 'Bloody Bashings' case together until he was diagnosed with blood cancer, or DCI Hugh cooked up the cancer story.

  I had wanted to see him and wish him a successful 'chemo' and speedy recovery. I had planned it for the weekend but now "A stone would kill many birds,” I thought as I drove.

  Only he, in the MPS, knew I was a tattooist and only he could have been the detective who came to interrogate my mother.

  Another thought danced in my mind. “If Baker is undergoing Chemo, how did he go to my mother’s?" The whole scenario began to build to ‘logic’ in my head. No wonder the coroner and the other two doctors – the pathologist and psychologist – looked at me in the manner they did yesterday.

  I’m their suspect. Detective Baker must have broken his promise. He swore to me he was never going to tell.

  I parked on the pavement. Baker was outside playing with his cute little blond boy. He rubbed his head and asked him to go in. That moment I wished I had a little black boy of my own.

  “Good morning Robert." Addressing me by my surname was easier for him. "You should be at work."

  “And you should look pale." I replied

  Mary his wife came out and was on her way to rehearsal, l assumed. “Good morning Robert” she said with an unhappy mood which was palpable.

  Mary was a British American whom Baker had met while interrogating a suspect in a murder investigation. It turned out to be suicide. Mary couldn’t have murdered her mother; and Park Baker couldn’t have found any other beautiful woman elsewhere. And he had always wanted to marry a famous face. He had Phobia for obscurity. He confided in me at Hendon that his forebears had always been insignificant people that even an amateur historian would not want to interview for the purpose of collation of data.

  “Morning Mary." I smiled. “When’s Park‘s next chemo? l ‘d love to be by him.”

  She turned and looked straight into my eyeballs. "lf cancer was an STD I'd have been very grateful.”

  “I beg your pardon." My eyes blinked uncontrollably.

  “The son of a bitch doesn’t have cancer. And I'll never play their game until I'm convinced that he has stopped seeing the bitch. I know he's screwing around with a bitch. lf I find her I'll kill her.” She paused.
>
  This line of hers got me cogitating if she really didn’t kill her mother and if she wasn’t rehearsing a line. Actors could be funny at times. I never take them seriously because one didn’t know when they were for real.

  “You’re not in St James Theatre Mary,” l joked.

  "Yes I'm not in the theatre,” she breathed and continued “And please tell your chief to return my Nissan note. I'm tired of driving around the city in taxis when l have a ‘baby’ of my own.”

  “Why on earth would our chief borrow your Nissan?” l said.

  “Don’t know. He and my husband are weird. I got a rehearsal to catch." She walked out on us and boarded a taxi.

  It was like a plan. DCI Hugh had been trailing me. He had borrowed this Nissan so that I won't know he's the one because he drives a Camry.

  “Don’t believe anything she tells you. Her name is Mary. Mary is bitterness” Baker said.

  “You told them l drew tattoos. You broke your promise.” I struggled to contain my temperament.

  “No I swear, I swear l didn’t." He pacified.

  “I'd have no option than to tell her about Regina Cypher, I'd arrange a meeting for both o' them to meet I'd –"

  "Who the hell is Regina Cypher?” He put up an act.

  “She’s South African and was pregnant for a detective who threatened her to–"

  He interrupted, “How the hell did you know her?”

  I smiled, “London is a small big place."

  “You'd do no such thing." He said.

  “Try me", l turned and made strides to my car.

  He restrained me, “Please I love my wife, I love my little boy, I love my family. Please don’t. The only reason we aren’t divorced is because she doesn’t have tangible evidence.”

  “Then sing,” I blackmailed.

  “After the deaths of those twins, l was worried. The tattoos I saw on them were much of a muchness of the very prototype l saw on your catalogue. I couldn’t bring myself to interrogating you so I confided in Hugh. So Hugh put you in charge of the investigation so as to watch you closely. Everyone believes you murdered those twins and are responsible for the recent one. "