Fifteen Times a Killer

by Alan McDermott

  I guess you know which way I went.

  I watched Kerry for days, for weeks, getting to know her habits, learning her routines until I knew the perfect time to strike.

  That day was May 7th, 2011.

  I saw her walking from the library where she’d been studying. I don’t know what subject she took because I never got close enough to see the books she carried. I was always watching from afar. That is, until the night I took her.

  She was walking toward me as I sat in my van, which was parked next to her BMW. It was a nice car, probably bought with daddy’s money. Kerry didn’t do nothing other than study and party from what I’d seen.

  Eight-oh-five, right on time. I watched her through the slit I’d made in the side of the van and covered with a one-way mirror. I could see her, but she couldn’t see me. I waited until she was putting the key in her car door, then I pounced. I threw my sliding door aside and jumped on her, clasping my hand over her mouth to stop her screaming for help while I stabbed her in the leg with the needle containing ketamine. She struggled, but as you’ll soon discover, Kerry wasn’t the biggest girl, maybe five-three, and skinny with it. I dragged her into my van, but I had to keep a tight hold of her for the longest time. It seemed like forever, but the clock on the dash told me it was just four minutes. I knew that next time I’d have to be better prepared.

  I tied Kerry’s wrists and ankles while she was unconscious, then put a gag over her mouth. I got behind the wheel and drove to my secret place. No-one knows about it, not even the people who consider me their close friend. If only they knew.

  It took me…no, no clues. It took me a while to get there, driving at the speed limit so that LA’s finest didn’t pull me over for a ticket. When I got there, I parked around the back so that no-one could see what I was doing

  Kerry was still out, sleeping like an innocent. I dragged her to the storm doors and threw her down the ramp and into the basement, then closed and locked the doors behind me. I’m proud of the rack I built. It’s like a bed, but with no mattress, and at each end there’s stocks like they used all them years ago. Some at the top for her hands, more at the bottom for her feet, plus straps for her body. I made it adjustable, so no matter if they’re big or small, fat or skinny, everyone gets a turn. Once I’d removed all her clothes and secured her, I removed her gag and went upstairs and sat in my chair, staring at a blank wall.

  I knew I’d done wrong, but what was to come would be far worse. Up to now I’d just kidnapped her. I might get a few years in prison for that, but not murder. For murder, they’d send me to the chair. The question I had to ask myself was, do I fear it? Do I fear dying? Each time I asked myself that, the answer came back the same.

  NO!

  So I poured myself a stiff drink, swallowed it, then headed to the basement.

  Kerry was already awake. I could hear her from the kitchen, muffled screams coming from behind the door. I didn’t have to worry about neighbors hearing her. I soundproofed the basement the year before, just to be sure.

  When I got down the stairs, Kerry stopped screaming. She was a mess. Her make-up was smeared with tears and a booger hung from her nose like a slug. She asked me why I was doing this, and I told her. I’m not telling you, though. You have to work it out for yourself.

  When I finished telling her why she was going to die, she started crying again, pleading with me not to do it. You should have seen her, the terror on her face. She said it wasn’t fair, and I agreed, it wasn’t. But it was what it was.

  I have to tell you, I got no pleasure from what I did next. I could have killed her straight, stuck a knife in her heart or give her a huge dose of ketamine, but I didn’t. I made it last for hours, and she screamed for every damn minute. It had to be done. They had to feel it, too.

  I took off her toes first. One at a time, singing “this little piggy” til there was no more piggies left. Kerry didn’t like that game one little bit, specially as I used a rusty old saw blade to do it, not nice and quick like tin snips. She wasn’t happy when I used an iron to stop the bleeding, neither. After she calmed down a little—that took a while, I can tell you—I went to work on her legs. You ever see that film about that Hannibal guy who took a man’s skin off? That ain’t easy, let me tell you, specially when they’s struggling and hollering. Took me a mighty long time to peel them thighs.

  She’d gone quiet by now. Still awake, but only whimpering, like a dog that got hit by a truck and knows it’s only a matter of time before its lights go out for good. Only, for Kerry, that was a long wait. She was a fighter, I’ll give her that. For nearly six hours, she begged, pleaded, screamed, cursed and just plain refused to give in. Six hours. It wasn’t long enough. It should have been days, weeks, her entire body racked with unbearable pain that no drugs could banish.

  I don’t know what killed Kerry in the end. Maybe she bled out, or her heart just stopped ticking. There was a lot of blood, that’s for sure. It was around the time I carved her belly open and sliced through her intestines. Maybe that’s what did it.

  Did I feel good about killing Kerry? Not really. It was just something that had to be done. It was payback is all.

  I hacked her body up there and then, putting all the pieces in trash bags. I figured if I was going to bury these folks, best to not draw attention to myself. Carry a six-foot body wrapped in plastic, someone’s gonna notice. Carry a head and a leg in a backpack and no-one blinks. So I portioned her up and filled eight sacks. I stored them in the freezer, and every week I’d go for my regular hike, just me and a backpack full of body parts. I found several places over the years that would make ideal graves, not too hard to get to, but not well traveled.

  It took me two months to bury Kerry. Every time I visited her grave I had to dig deep to add the next piece. Eight times I dug and undug that grave, but finally she was in the ground.

  Rest in pieces, Kerry Swanson.

  This is one sick fuck, Corrina thought as she picked up her notepad. They had a name for the victim, a date when she disappeared, and the fact that his van has a sliding door. Or at least, it did ten years ago. If he was sticking to the same MO, he would probably still have the same or similar make and model. He said it was payback, and he kept mentioning them. Payback for what? And who exactly was he referring to?

  She phoned McCrae.

  “Did you manage to read the rest of it?” she asked him.

  “Yeah, and Alistair just finished digging. Looks like this creep was telling the truth. We’ve got eight separate bags, neatly arranged in the shape of a body. I’ve got my people working on Kerry Swanson, see what we can find.”

  “Okay. I’ll meet with Travis early tomorrow and call you when I’m done.”

  As soon as Corrina hung up, she missed the sound of his voice. Not in an intimate way. She just seemed to brighten when she was around him. McCrae had never been lover material, but there was definitely a bond between them. Soulmates probably summed it up best.

  Not that soulmates can’t be lovers, too.

  Corrina chased the idea from her mind. She had too much respect for Jean Loney to cheat with her husband.

  It did make her wonder why she’d asked McCrae to go with her, though. Of all the homicide detectives in LA, she’d chosen him. She convinced herself that only McCrae would have dropped everything to go on a wild goose chase with her. Most other cops would have sent a rookie patrolman instead.

  She finished her wine and looked at the glass. A refill was tempting, but she figured tomorrow was going to be a busy day. Best to approach it with a clear head. There wasn’t much more she could do tonight, anyway. McCrae had set the ball in motion, and his team would lead the investigation from this point on. If it turned out that the killer had also carried out his deeds beyond California’s state lines, Corrina would be the liaison with the various police departments across the nation.

  The fact that the tipoff was addressed to her personally told her she was going to have a big part to play.

  C
hapter 4

  The next morning, Corrina was glad she’d stopped at one glass of wine. Waking up at five was hard enough without a hangover to contend with, and a second glass inevitably led to a third and fourth.

  She set about her morning workout, pumping out fifty sit-ups and fifty push-ups, followed by thirty minutes on the treadmill. She missed pounding the pavement in the early mornings, but with Mike gone, she wasn’t about to leave Connor alone in the house.

  At seven, she woke her son. He stretched and tried to pull the covers back over himself, but Corrina dragged them off.

  “Come on, sleepy head. School’s waiting.”

  Connor yawned. “I hate school.”

  “No, you don’t, you hate not being able to sit in front of the television playing video games all day.”

  He ruffled his blond hair. “That would be so cool.”

  Corrina leaned in and kissed his forehead. “You can do that when you’re fifty-five and retired. Until then, do as mommy says. Come on. I’ll make waffles.”

  Connor perked up. He jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom, leaving Corrina trailing in his wake. She put his dirty clothes in the hamper, then went downstairs to prepare breakfast.

  Connor was down ten minutes later, his hair a mess and his T-shirt half in and half out of his pants. Corrina put the waffles on the table and sipped from her coffee as she checked her emails and messages on her phone.

  “Daddy says he’s gonna take me to see the Dodgers next week,” Connor said between mouthfuls.

  “Is he, now?”

  She hated when Mike made plans for Connor without asking her. He often sprang them on her at the last minute, but in most cases, she found out from her son. It wasn’t that she objected to Connor going to the ball game, but she would at least like some notice so that she could cancel the babysitter.

  Connor’s interest in baseball had developed at an early age. His father was a Little League coach, so it was inevitable that Connor would be drawn to the sport. Corrina was fine with that, though she made sure it didn’t impact his academic studies. She made it clear that if his schoolwork wasn’t up to scratch, he’d lose his baseball glove for a week. Thankfully, she hadn’t had to follow through on that threat. Connor was a straight-A student, top of his class, and Corrina was as proud as a mother could be.

  Corrina showered while Connor finished eating, and when she was dressed, she prepared his school lunch and put him in the car.

  She was just about to get into the driver’s seat when she felt a presence behind her. Corrina spun and found herself face to face with her ex-husband.

  “Jesus, Mike. You scared the crap out of me!”

  Mike Stone looked pleased at her reaction, though his smirk was fleeting. “I just came to give you this.” He held out an envelope. Corrina took it and ripped it open, studying the two sheets of legal paper inside.

  “I want custody,” Mike said. He peered through the rear window of the car and waved at his son, then checked his own reflection. It was immaculate, as always. He could have been the poster boy for the All-American Athlete, and it was his good looks and physique that had drawn Corrina to him. It was a pity the contents of the package didn’t match the wrapping.

  “We’ve been through this,” Corrina said, stuffing the document in her purse.

  “Yeah, well, things change. Connor needs someone who’ll be there for him when he gets home from school.”

  “I’m there for him.”

  “Really?” Mike asked, folding his arms across his chest. “Were you there for him last night?”

  Corrina’s mouth fell open. “Have you been spying on me?”

  “No need. I guessed, and I was right. Look, Connor needs his parent to be there for him, not a babysitter. Your job means you can’t offer him that.”

  “Horseshit! Plenty of single mothers work irregular hours. That doesn’t mean they should have their kids taken from them. You’re just doing this to be vindictive, but it’s not gonna work. You wanna go to court? Fine by me.”

  Corrina got behind the wheel and started the engine, her hands trembling with anger. She took several deep breaths, not wanting to drive while she was pissed. She waited, watching Mike in her mirror until he turned and walked back to his truck. Corrina turned the engine off once he’d driven away.

  “Mom, we’re gonna be late.”

  “It’s okay,” Corrina told Connor. “Just gimme a minute.”

  She hated that Mike could still press her buttons so easily, even after all these years. She had put up with it for two years, until his accusations that she was having an affair got to be too much and she kicked him out.

  Corrina had realized too late that most of the conversations she had with her husband were about her and McCrae. Every night, she’d update Mike on what she and McCrae had done that day. She hadn’t noticed the resentment in Mike’s body language until it was too late. By the time he was convinced Corrina was having an affair, too much damage had been done, and they were unable to salvage their marriage.

  “Mom!”

  “Sorry, honey. We’re going now.”

  Corrina backed out of the drive and took a right on 19th Street. Ten minutes later, she pulled up outside Connor’s school.

  “Don’t forget your lunch.”

  Her son held up a paper bag as he jumped from the car.

  “Love you,” Corrina shouted, but Connor was already gone, running to join a group of friends who were standing underneath a massive oak tree. She watched him for a few seconds, before a horn interrupted her thoughts. She pulled away, her mind switching to the activities that faced her today.

  When she pulled up in the parking lot on Wilshire Boulevard, Corrina was both surprised and pleased to see McCrae waiting for her at the entrance to her building. She was even happier to see that he was holding two cups of coffee.

  “What are you doing here?” Corrina smiled as she took one of the drinks.

  McCrae plucked a manila folder from his armpit. “Thought I’d bring you everything we’ve got on the victim. She’s originally from Scranton, Pennsylvania, but was studying at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. As it’s out of state, it looks like you’re going to be coordinating this.”

  LAPD had jurisdiction because the body had been found in Los Angeles. They would investigate the case, with the FBI acting as a liaison. Corrina would be the one to communicate with other law enforcement agencies across the country, as well as utilizing the Bureau’s nationwide presence.

  Corrina took the envelope. “I’ll take a look at these and speak to the boss,” she said.

  “I’ve already spoken to Captain McErlane, told him you were on the case. He’s expecting a call from Travis.”

  “No problem. Catch you later.”

  “Count on it,” McCrae said, and headed for his car, his aftershave lingering in the air.

  Corrina took a deep breath, then turned and walked into the building. Her first stop was her own office, where she read the documents McCrae had given her. It didn’t take long. All they had so far was confirmation that Kerry Swanson had been reported missing on May 7th, 2011, and an address for her next of kin, her father, Anthony Swanson. As it was in Scranton, she would have that office look into the original police investigation into Kerry’s disappearance. She would also get the Vegas office to see what the local cops had.

  After finishing her coffee, Corrina went to see Dean Travis. He was assistant director in charge of the LA field office, a thirty-year veteran of the Bureau. Travis had held the top positions in both the Baltimore and Chicago offices before transferring to Los Angeles a few months earlier. His no-nonsense approach was considered abrasive by some, but Corrina suspected he was just a stickler for procedure. The people who earned his ire were usually those who cut corners or ignored protocol.

  Corrina never had any problems with him. She knocked on his door and waited to be called in.

  “Hey, Corrina. Take a seat.”

  Travis was a pug-faced man,
with a scar on his right ear, the result of getting too close to a bullet when he was working homicide. Like Corrina, he’d switched to the Bureau from the police early in his career.

  Corrina sat and placed the papers McCrae had given her on Travis’s desk, along with the original tip-off, sealed in an evidence bag, and printouts of the first two chapters of the killer’s manuscript. He nodded a couple of times as he read. When he’d finished, he took off his reading glasses. “Is this the document you found at the scene?”

  “It is,” Corrina said. “It looks like he was writing a book about his…exploits. Chapter one details how he killed Kerry, and I suspect there’ll be more to come. The original is on its way to BAU.”

  Travis nodded, deep in thought, then handed Corrina everything apart from the printout of the killer’s book. “This Loney guy. You work with him before?”

  “McCrae? Yeah, we were partners over on West 1st Street. He’s good people.”

  “Glad to hear it. Okay, I want you to head up the task force. Use Willard and the new guy, Lane. I’ll call and let John McErlane know we’re in the game.”

  Corrina was surprised to be given the lead role. “Are you sure you don’t want Hank to run this?” she asked.

  Travis shook his head. “I need someone who can get out and about, and Hank’s a desk jockey now.” He gestured to the papers Corrina was holding. “Besides, this has your name written all over it.”

  Corrina understood what he meant. She nodded and left, eager to get the ball rolling. First on her list was to get her colleagues in Scranton and Las Vegas to speak to the local police and get everything they had on Kerry Swanson’s disappearance. She called the Pennsylvania office, asking them to send everything they could get their hands on. She did the same for Vegas, then went to find Willard and Lane to introduce them to their new assignment.