by David Scott
Serial Killer Android
By
David Scott
Copyright © 2019 David Scott
All rights reserved.
ISBN:
9781791826697
To Ben
“Mortality is merely a distant threat.
You live in lethargy.
Emotion dulled by everyday life.
Only dust left in your echoing heart.
You are numb to suffering yet obsess on minor botheration.
Lingering inaction. Meaningless interaction.
Awaken and live each day as if it were your last.
It might be.
I am coming for you.”
Pulcinella
ONE
Dominic’s parents were boardroom rulers and champagne socialites. They had no time for him, and only offered sugar-paper affections to appease his cravings for attention. His father held false dominion over an underpaid workforce before exhausting any remaining energy on a network of younger women. Dominic’s mother was no better, fiercely exercising her toxic tongue to exert control, preferring the teat of a vodka bottle to suckling her son’s needs.
During the long summer holidays, while his older sister entrenched herself deep within an elite boarding school, Dominic was forced to stay in Italy with his grandparents.
It was not a happy arrangement. They had already bore the burden of bringing up their own children. Their gnarled and calloused hands had little time to bestow loving care. They had no desire or inclination to look after a sullen child. However, they held family duty in the highest esteem and could not refuse their daughter’s carefully crafted cry for help.
They lived on a vast farm with wild olive groves, field-after-field of sprawling grapevines, and a forest of abandoned orange trees. Dogs barked incessantly, as the sickly-sweet scent of overripe fruit permeated the hot summer winds.
Dominic suffered from allergies and was fair-skinned, so he avoided spending time outdoors, where he might be exposed to predatorial pollen or the burning sun. His roots preferred the cooler climate and pervasive shade of the old farmhouse.
The red bricked dwelling was modest in size, compared to the acres of land around it, but it seemed expansive and labyrinthine to Dominic. He loved to roam its passage ways, and explore the fading rooms within.
His favourite room was an old parlour at the end of a long corridor, in a section of the house rarely visited by the living. It was cold and smelled of damp; fusty fungus ruled this domain and Dominic felt quite comfortable living beside it, growing musty himself as his teenage hormones brought about unwelcome changes.
The room had been used for discarded objects. Random boxes of once-loved memorabilia. Outdated paintings and worthless certificates. Forgotten fashion and broken clocks. Cracked ornaments and lost toys. Old wooden store signs, offering fresh juice for several hundred Lira. Flaking costume jewellery and ugly trinkets.
To Dominic, they were all treasures and he spent a great deal of time carefully examining everything. In particular, he was enamoured with a toy theatre set. A troupe of porcelain figures frozen in dramatic poses; destined to play the same part evermore. Lifeless actors on a miniature stage, with no control over their destinies.
The box exclaimed the fun to be had with the ‘Commedia dell’Arte’ characters, each with its own personality and role. Yet, unlike modern toys, they did nothing except stare listlessly into the space in front of them. Dominic was wedded to these ornamental opiates, genuinely caring for each and every one, and spent countless hours dreaming up adventures with them.
Dominic dreamed about joining them, and an old Venetian costume mask provided the device he needed to escape reality and become part of their perfect world.
It was similar to the mask worn by one of the figures, which had ‘Pulcinella’ carved onto its base. A tan, leather mask, tattered and faded in several places, but well-made and stitched together with thick, brown thread. Dominic enjoyed running his hands over its elongated, hooked nose, and tracing his fingers around the large nostril and eye holes.
Dominic would wear the mask often. He found the musty leather smell intoxicating. The pressure of the mask gripping to his rounded face comforted him. It allowed him to be someone he was not; a commanding and confident leader.
Dominic’s grandparents rarely worried about where Dominic was spending his time or sought out his company, so he was left to his own devices. This unhealthy preoccupation went unnoticed.
Dominic would see his grandparents at mealtimes, but they spoke quickly in Italian to one another, and this prevented him from having any meaningful engagement with them. On the rare occasion that Dominic did try to join in the conversation, his grandparents ignored him, treating him like he was invisible. Eventually, he gave up trying.
Instead, Dominic would choose one of his delicate figures to dine with him. He spoke in hushed tones to his brother, Pulcinella. It smiled back at him knowingly. Dominic circled the figurine around-and-around his soup bowl. He had devised a devilish dance for Pulcinella; a conjuring of some great evil from the bubbling tomato concoction.
For once Dominic had caught the attention of his grandfather. These repetitive motions were driving him mad and, without any warning, his grandfather jumped up out of his chair and started shouting in Italian, waving his hands in the air and pointing furiously at Dominic.
Dominic was startled by this wild admonishment, and failed to react when his grandfather snatched Pulcinella from his hand. The fragile figure was thrown to the ground, cracking in two on the stone floor.
Dominic’s eyes flashed with rage, his mind bedevilled. He jumped out of his seat and grabbed the offending hand. He bit it with all of his might. Blood streamed down from his mouth, staining his lips. His grandfather cried out, ripping his hand away from Dominic’s mouth before slapping him hard across the face with the other.
The stinging sensation from the blow merged with his fury. He felt humiliated and powerless, handicapped by his youth. Dominic burst into angry tears, stooped to pick up the halves of Pulcinella, and ran away to his secret room.
Dominic lay on his side on the dirty, moth-eaten, carpet. He focused on the porcelain parade and swore revenge for their fallen family member.
Adult sensibilities eventually caught up with his grandfather, who crept in unnoticed while Dominic was sleeping and left some superglue on a nearby table, hoping to repair the rift between them.
Dominic carefully pieced Pulcinella back together as best he could but the model was now imperfect; the visible crack-line a constant reminder of the offence, and a permanent irritation to his compulsive sensibilities.
His grandfather could not be forgiven for this affront. A reckoning was required to satisfy the theatrical troupe’s call for vengeance. Every day from then on, Dominic and his players would plot their revenge. Dominic placed the cold, leather mask over his small face, breathing heavily and letting his dark thoughts reign.
Late one evening, when everyone had gone to bed, Dominic crept down the creaking stairs, cat-like, to avoid awakening his sleeping grandparents. He donned his mask, took a knife from a kitchen drawer, and tip-toed back upstairs.
His grandparents’ bedroom door was wide open, their need for privacy was long gone; the only relief they sought now was a kind draft to temper the stifling summer heat.
Dominic walked in, and stood over his grandfather, looking down at him through the mask with his warm, hazel eyes. He breathed deeply as he prepared for the kill. The air reverberated excitedly all around him in anticipation. There was no doubt. No loving thoughts or empathy to dissuade him from acting. The rehearsals were over. It was time for the main show.
Dominic’s blood surged through his veins, howling
for revenge, urging him on. He held the knife as high as he could with both hands, pausing briefly to take in the moment. As he looked down at his target, Dominic saw an old man’s eyes staring back at him in horror.
His grandfather locked on to the sharp steel blade with his naked hands and prevented the deadly descent. Dominic was not strong enough to overcome him. The knife cut deep into his grandfather’s flesh, slicing the palms of his hands.
Dominic’s grandmother awoke due to the commotion. She quickly realised that something was terribly wrong, and that they were under attack from Dominic. Her disbelief lasted only momentarily before her defence mechanisms instinctively took control; wildly screeching and flailing her arms at Dominic.
Dominic knew he was outmatched and ran to his room, not looking back. He slammed the door shut, and sat down with his back against it, so no one could get in. He stared blindly into the darkness and waited. He heard footsteps, whispers, and then the sound of a key turning in the door, followed by the click of the lock. He really was imprisoned now.
Dominic was sent home the next day. No words were exchanged, just cold stares as he was taken from his room by some unknown man, and huddled into a car. He was never to return.
Dominic was kept in luxurious isolation from then on. Rooms were locked. Doors bolted shut. His physical world became much smaller, but the landscapes of his imagination expanded rapidly.
Dominic soaked in all of the knowledge the dark web had to offer. What he saw both horrified and excited him in equal measure. He found himself drawn to suffering, without understanding why, and what he saw happening in the world was worse than any horror by design.
Children starving in a third-world hell, while the wealthy struggle to breathe from obesity. The elderly forgotten, and left alone to slouch towards death. Medical care left neglected as rich surgeons plump buttocks to sate dreams of beauty. Billionaires flouting vulgar luxuries, as pavements become mattresses for the poor. Death and destruction. Wars and terrorism. Religious and political division. Greed and avarice. A selfish, unfeeling swarm plaguing the Earth. Dominic obsessed about all of these issues, which he thought no one cared about or wanted to change.
Dominic’s parents died when he was in his late-teens. The funeral was pre-arranged and efficiently stage-managed. Dominic stood by patiently, waiting for it to be over. As the large, joint coffin was lowered silently into the ground, Dominic smiled at the irony; he knew his parents could no longer stand the sight of each other, and this was likely the first time in years that their bodies had touched.
His sister made a brief appearance but left as soon as the first shovel of mud hit the white casket. She had not spoken to, or even looked at, Dominic. He felt sure that she had been told about his devilish ways by their parents, and no sense of duty would compel her to engage with him now.
Afterwards, like an animal freed from its cage, Dominic returned to the familiar confines of his parents’ mansion. Slowly and methodically, he began to explore previously forbidden rooms.
In the cold, damp basement, Dominic happened upon row after row of old cardboard boxes, covered with Italian shipment stamps and mould. Inside one of them, he found his beloved childhood companions. They awakened forgotten feelings and, as Dominic felt the cold leather mask press against his flesh once more, it made him feel calm, in control, empowered. His purpose became clear. Dominic would change the world. He would punish humanity for what they had done, and for what they had become. Dominic would help them to change. To force them to remember the importance of life, and to cherish it above everything else.
From then on, Dominic spent every moment working on his mission. Robotics came naturally to him, and he readily experimented with cutting-edge technologies; vast wealth, natural genius and compulsive focus married together to ensure Dominic’s success.
Dominic spoke some words, and a human-like figure walked out from behind the nearest door. He placed the old Venetian mask over its face, and straightened it, so the hooked nose was perfectly perpendicular. He then knelt down, and etched a name in the metal frame - ‘Pulcinella’.
Dominic contemplated his creation, as he gave the final command. Its programming and purpose simple, to kill as many people as possible on the last night of every month.
Dominic tenderly held Pulcinella’s head in his hands, unemotional eyes mirroring his own, and then sent it away. The strings had been cut.
TWO
Dan walked into his office and slumped into the worn, chestnut-leather chair. He looked around the room which he had spent years of his life in. Sitting day after day, staring at a computer screen, alone in an office with nothing but a desk and a water cooler for company most of the day. Or going to Déjà vu meetings attended by people who like the sound of their own voices but have little to say. He wondered to himself how he had let himself end up in this desk job.
At one time, Dan had been the brightest star in the FBI but now he was resigned to a life of form filling; authorising others to act or spend some of their ever-decreasing budget.
Indeed, Dan had once become something of an overnight sensation when he captured the infamous Tennessee Torturer.
The papers had given the murderer this moniker because the bodies of the victims all displayed signs of extreme physical manipulation which, cumulatively, slowly caused death over a prolonged period. Some of the bodies had all of their teeth extracted, others had limbs amputated, one had a thousand cuts, another 20 broken limbs. All 12 victims, that had been found, had suffered slow, agonising deaths.
Dan suspected that none would have kept their faith after such suffering, and would probably have pleaded to die. You couldn’t imagine the horrors of such experiences and it was made even worse by seeing the pain on their family’s faces. To know that their loved-one had died in such a horrific and meaningless way had devastated them. While they would never get over their loss, Dan hoped they could still carry on and somehow find peace. Dan ached all-over, just thinking about it.
Dan was determined to stop this real-life villain. When he was asked to get involved, he dropped everything, packed a bag, and had moved his life out to Tennessee for five months. As quickly and simply as that.
Dan studied meticulously all of the evidence, focusing in on the patterns of the attacks and profile of the targets. He quickly realised that the victims were tourists and super-fans of Jilly Hope, a famous country and western singer; openly promiscuous on social media, the victims had all littered their accounts with details of their every movement, and over-excitedly reported their anticipation at attending her forthcoming concerts.
The only survivor, a female in her forties who had fought back and escaped, gave a description of a tall, slim, Caucasian male, with long mousey hair and an unkempt beard. This, coupled with a careful examination by Dan and his team of hours of surveillance, ticketing information, and travel documentation, helped them to identify a handful of potential suspects.
The FBI team attended every Jilly Hope concert from then on and, eventually, Dan located one of the suspects in the crowd. Dan’s instincts told him that this was the Torturer; whether it was his out of place appearance, nervous movements, or cold eyes, Dan could not say but he aroused sufficient suspicion for Dan to track him throughout the evening.
Dan was proved right. At the end of the concert, the suspect had followed a middle-aged man to his car. He pretended to be parked in the adjacent vehicle but then quickly lurched across at him, smothering his mouth and nose with a white cloth. The man dropped immediately onto the tarmac.
Dan ran over and jumped on him. The Torturer had fought back and knifed Dan in the side. However, he was no match for Dan, who was charged with adrenalin and in his prime. Even seriously wounded, Dan had rallied and overcome the Torturer, forcing him back on to the ground and hand-cuffing him before any reinforcements arrived.
Once the killer had been identified and captured, the rest was relatively straightforward. Not only was there the attack itself but the survivor ident
ified the Torturer, and they had found a property registered in his name which turned out to be the Torturer’s killing chamber. Repulsive remnants remained onsite, with knotted strands of hair forcibly removed, dental tools still covered in blood, and various nails and decaying flesh casually lying around. Dan would never forget the scene. It was the stuff of nightmares.
Despite many attempts at an interview, the Torturer would not speak of his actions to Dan, or anyone else; he remained silent throughout.
Dan never did find out why the Tennessee Torturer killed. The Torturer had spent his life in the small, back room of a post office, robotically sorting out mail under the smothering dictatorship of the owner. So, maybe it was simply a need for power over others, or a sadistic release. Perhaps it was jealousy or obsession; an inability to accept others becoming overly-close to his beloved singer? Dan would never know but at least the Torturer was behind bars, and his days were numbered. Dan had ended up with a scar for life, whereas the Torturer sat awaiting Old Sparky or a toxic syringe.
Throughout the days and weeks that followed, Dan’s picture adorned the front pages and his name appeared in the headlines. But time passes, and people move on. Dan was quickly replaced by the next, big story, and his five minutes of fame were over.
Not that Dan minded, he did not like all of the attention. He didn’t do this job for the glory; Dan just held an old-fashioned belief in making the streets safer, upholding the law, and seeing justice be done. Not like the career politicians you often found in control today, who Dan would regularly have to kowtow to, notwithstanding their utter lack of any authentic belief in the agency’s role.
Dan was good at dealing with such people, drip feeding them sycophantic snippets in order to achieve his own righteous goals, whether that be an increased budget or new piece of legislation that would serve to better protect the populous.
