EDGE OF SUSPENSE: Thrilling Tales of Mystery & Murder (7 page)

"Thanks, I really appreciate this," she
said, buckling her seatbelt.

I began driving. "So where to?"

"Marygrove College. It's on West McNichols
Road—"

"I know where it is," I told her. "I, uh,
used to work in the area."

She smiled. "That's cool."

I smiled back. "What's your name?"

"Oh, sorry. It's Jocelyn."

"I'm Kenneth."

"Hi." She giggled.

"Glad to meet you." I took out my
cigarettes, offering her one.

"Thanks, but I don't smoke."

"Good choice," I said, resisting the desire
to light up. "Been trying to kick the habit, but you know how it
is."

"Yeah." She gave a little chuckle. "My dad's
the same way. He quits, starts again, quits."

I turned onto Pickford. "Do you mind if I
drop by my place on the way? I left my damned wallet on the
counter. Won't take but a minute to grab it."

She seemed to hesitate for a moment, but
dismissed it. "Sure, that's fine."

I shook a cigarette from the pack and lit up
thoughtfully.

Half an hour later, I was on top of and
inside Jocelyn, who had come in the house voluntarily, before
realizing the error of her ways.

I clamped my hand down hard on her mouth to
muffle her cries while I had my way with her.

When I was finished, she begged me to let
her go. "I swear I won't say anything," she told me.

I almost believed her. But self-preservation
and the desire to see this through made me reject her pleas.

"Can't let you leave. Sorry."

I put my hands around her neck and squeezed,
feeling euphoric and powerful. She made choking noises and her eyes
were wide with terror as I strangled the life out of her.

Soon the limp body beneath me was
motionless, her legs still splayed and her arms up over her
head.

I came back down to earth in a hurry and the
thrill of the kill subsided in favor of getting rid of the
body.

I gathered Jocelyn's clothes and tossed them
in a bag. Then I wrapped her naked body in an old blanket and put
it and the bag in my trunk.

I drove around looking for a good place to
dump her. I found it in an alley on Myers near Wyoming behind an
abandoned house. Judging by the drug paraphernalia on the ground, I
suspected that the house was being used by crack heads for
temporary shelter.

But that wasn't my problem.

And neither was Jocelyn anymore.

* * *

I left the graveyard and two of the women
who had died by my hands. Four more followed over the next three
years before forces within made me turn away from being a killing
machine.

But the damage had been done. No putting the
demonic genie back in the bottle. I'd literally gotten away with
murder, yet felt like it had affected every fiber in me.

First there were the terrible dreams that
seemed to come in waves with every victim.

Then there was the guilt factor weighing me
down like an anvil.

Even if I wanted to, I could no more walk
away from what I'd done than anyone who decided to play judge and
jury in marking someone for humiliation and death. Didn't mean I
hadn't tried to, while maintaining my sanity.

I drove around aimlessly. Cutting on the
radio, I went from station to station before settling on one. It
was the news. The topic was one I was all too familiar with.

"One of Detroit's most baffling murder
mysteries is also a cold case for the police department," said the
newscaster. "Twenty years ago, a serial killer took the life of
twenty-one-year-old Francine Saunders. The victim was raped,
strangled, and dumped in the woods like yesterday's garbage. Over
the next four years five more women were believed to have been
murdered by the killer, dubbed the Bagley Killer because of the
community where the murders took place. To this day, the killer has
never been identified, though the killings inexplicably stopped
after that.

"In a chilling irony, the younger brother of
Bagley Killer victim, Jocelyn Parker, is a detective with the
Detroit Police Department's cold case squad. According to Detective
Joseph Parker, his sister's death has never been forgotten."

"Jocelyn meant the world to me," the
detective said somberly. "Losing her when I was just a kid was the
worst thing that could have ever happened to me. I look forward to
bringing her killer and the killer of those other women to justice
someday."

"This sentiment was echoed by Detective
Parker's partner, Detective Conrad Tate," said the reporter.

"There are lots of crimes that go unsolved,"
Detective Tate said. "Our job is to try and dust the cobwebs off
any local homicide crimes and breathe new life into them. Catching
the Bagley Killer would certainly be a feather in our cap and good
for the community. As always, we'll do our best."

"Which is about all we could ask for," the
reporter said. "Especially when we're talking about a cold case
that shows no sign of thawing out anytime soon."

I cut the radio off and lit up a cigarette
musingly. Without even realizing it, tears began to stream down my
face. I wiped them away, but they kept coming as if to wash away my
sins.

It was time for me to fess up to what I'd
done, and probably should have a long time ago. Carrying around
something of this magnitude for so long was something I wouldn't
wish on my worst enemy.

Who, at the moment, happened to be me.

* * *

I wasn't a particularly religious man—far
from it. But here I was at a church, ready to open myself up and be
rid of the burden I'd carried for two decades.

I was sitting in the confessional uneasily
as the priest took his place.

"How can I be of service to you?" he asked
in a gentle voice.

I hesitated, wondering if I really wanted to
confess. The fact I had showed up at all, knowing the consequences,
gave me my answer.

"I've sinned, Father."

"How, my child?"

"In ways you can't begin to imagine."

"I can imagine many things," he said. "Tell
me about these sins."

I sighed, wanting badly to smoke a
cigarette. But now was not the time or place.

"I have killed," I told him.

"Who did you kill?"

"Women."

The priest paused. "Go on..."

I swallowed. "Six in all. I'm sure you've
heard of the so-called Bagley Killer—"

"You are this killer?"

"Yeah, Father, you're looking at him—"

The priest sucked in a deep breath. "Tell me
why you killed these women."

"That shouldn't be too hard. The first was
an anger-retaliation type thing."

"And the others?"

"Because I liked the way it made me
feel."

"How did it make you feel?" he prompted.

"Like I was in control and couldn't be
touched."

"Do you still believe that?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you've found that you can't control
the consequences of your actions, including for yourself, and that
everyone can be touched—either by God or Satan."

"So am I doomed, no matter what,
Father?"

"That depends on where you go from here," he
said.

"It may be straight to hell," I said
brusquely. "Or back to the world I know."

"Let me help you," the priest offered.

"Do you think I should turn myself in?"

He waited a beat. "I think you should do
what you feel is right. It may be the only way to come to terms
with what you've done."

I stood. "Thanks, Father."

"Will you come back to talk?"

"I doubt it. I think I probably already said
enough. Goodbye, Father."

* * *

I drove around in circles trying to build up
the courage for what I was about to do, till it became crystal
clear.

I ended up back at the cemetery. The rain
had begun to fall and was not ready to show me any mercy.

The dark of night was offset minimally by a
lamppost. I saw no evidence of any living beings other than myself,
which was just what I wanted.

I bypassed the gravesite of Jocelyn Parker,
though something told me her spirit was as aware of my presence as
I was of hers.

Reaching the grave of Francine Saunders, I
took out a cigarette for a smoke.

"Guess you've been waiting a long time for
this moment, huh? Maybe we both have. Wish I could take back what I
did to you and the others, but it's too late for that now. But I'll
make it right so you can rest in peace, wherever that might
be."

I took a long drag on the cigarette for the
last time and flung it as far as it would go.

Without giving myself time to think about
it, I pulled out my gun. It was a department-issued Glock 9mm
handgun used by most detectives. I took out my badge and I.D.,
which read Detective Conrad Tate. Only family and friends knew me
by my middle name: Kenneth.

Probably better that way.

I set the badge and I.D. on Francine
Saunders' grave, put the barrel of the gun in my mouth at an upward
angle, and pulled the trigger.

# # #

THE
RIPPER'S
RAGE

New York City, 1868

Jack watched from a crack in the closet
door. In the dingy room, his mother was lying on a cot
spread-eagled with a man wedged between her legs as if stuck there.
They were breathing hard, grunting, and making other strange
noises. A pile of crumpled dollar bills sat on a table.

Jack winced as the man squeezed his mother's
breasts so hard she cried out in pain. Just as quickly, she began
to laugh almost hysterically, her legs wrapped around the man's
buttocks while he pounded into her violently.

"Come outta there, Jack!" His mother looked
toward the closet. Jack kept very still, hoping she would think he
was elsewhere. "I know you're in there. You heard me!"

Jack swallowed and slowly opened the door,
stepping into the room.

"That's Jack," his mother said to the
man.

The man chuckled. "Hope we're puttin' on a
good show for you, boy."

Jack remained mute.

His mother eyed him and extended her arm.
"Take Momma's hand, Jack. I need you..."

Obeying, Jack took her clammy hand. The man
was still on top of her, but she didn't seem to notice or care.

They both reeked of whiskey.

She gripped his hand tighter and tighter as
the man drove himself into her harder and deeper.

Finally, the man let out a thunderous wail
and Jack felt his mother's hand go limp. The man rolled off
her.

"Don't let what you just seen scare you
none, Jack," he snorted. "Whores are used to it and a whole lot
more. Ain't that right, Lucy?"

"Yeah, whatever you say," she mumbled.

Jack turned away, not wanting his mother to
see the hatred that consumed him like a fever.

* * *

New York City, June 1888

The smell of sulfur hung in the air like fog
and gas lamps barely put a dent in the night's darkness.

Jack watched from the shadows as the whore
staggered out of the dance hall. He'd watched her tease and flirt
with men before taking them one by one to a room upstairs.

He followed her as she crossed the street
and headed down another. It was darker and empty of other
pedestrians. Nevertheless he eyed her with caution, relying on his
senses more than sight to guide him.

She was his for the taking.

As if sensing him, she stopped and looked
around. He ducked into the shadows. She saw no one and continued to
move more briskly than before.

Jack picked up his pace behind her, closing
the gap with a sense of desperation. Blood pumped through his veins
like morphine in an addict.

The whore stopped and turned abruptly,
facing him. He could sense her apprehension. "Are you following me,
mister?"

The pungency of her strong perfume
infiltrated Jack's nostrils.

Her fear seemed to be replaced with anger as
the whore planted her hands on ample hips. "Cat got your tongue?
Come on then, we ain't got all night you know—"

She regarded him curiously, surmising the
man was in his mid twenties. Tall and sturdy, he had a full head of
jet-black hair and thick black sideburns. He wore a dark frock coat
and a gold watch hung from a chain at the waist of his dark
trousers. He was holding what appeared to be a black medical
bag.

She recognized him from the dance hall. He
had been observing her there, but was careful to keep his
distance.

"How much?" he asked.

She painted a smile on her face. "Well now,
why didn't you just say what was on your mind?"

"I'm saying it now," he said.

"So you are, love." She didn't question why
he preferred not to get his jollies at the dance hall. It was
better for her this way in not having to split what she brought in
with the management, especially since this one looked like he had
more money than her typical customers did. "Twenty," she said.

"Twenty it is."

She showed her teeth. "Follow me. I've got a
place just around the corner."

Jack had a better idea. "No, in there—" He
pointed to a narrow, dark alley.

"Are you sure? It'd be more comfy at my
place."

"I'm sure," he told her.

"Whatever suits your fancy." She walked down
the alley slowly, sensing him right behind her. "So you're a doctor
then?"

"Yes."

"What kind?"

"A surgeon."

"What's your name, love?"

"Most people call me Jack."

She turned around. "Then so will I,
Jack."

He noticed a trash bin at the far end of the
alley, between a warehouse and a clothing factory. "This is far
enough."

"You always carry your bag when you want to
be with a lady?" she asked.

"Yes."

A flirtatious grin played on her lips. "I
can only imagine what you've got in there."