Serial (2 page)

Nodding my head, I considered Agent Moss’ concern, but discounted it quickly based on the facts he did not yet know.

“The media was only given a small bit of what we know, Agent. Since that time, the majority of information was pulled from the local police agencies. Luckily for us, our killer has crossed state lines, thus allowing us the ability to remove the case from local authorities. They’ve been left with limited information and my contact information should another body turn up.”

“What is the body count?”

Frustration shot through me as a result of the incessant questions. “If you’ll allow me to complete my presentation, that question, as well as whatever new ones you can formulate, will be answered.” Turning towards him, I allowed the corner of my lip to curl in warning. “I am the person in charge, Agent Moss and I will not have any member of this group attempt to drive this investigation from the back seat. I’d bite your tongue if you’d like to remain on this case.”

He’d been sufficiently cautioned and I was prepared to continue forward without further interruption.

Starting the PowerPoint, I flipped to the first slide. On it were three crime scene photos taken of what we believed was the suspect’s first kill, however there could be earlier kills of which we are unaware. This victim hadn’t been discovered in time and the combination of animals and decomposition had eliminated all but trace amounts of her flesh. What was left was an odd and seemingly intended positioning of the skeleton. The police had been fortunate that her bones were not scattered by the animal activity in the area.”

Pacing again, I revealed details not known to the media or any other person besides those that had previously worked the investigation. “This is our only Jane Doe in this case. Every other victim of CK has been identified, which leaves us to believe that this particular victim was one of opportunity rather than specific intent. What I’d like to point out with these photos is the position of the skeleton.”

“She looks like she’s sleeping.”

Glancing back at the group, I nodded. “That’s an astute observation. In fact, every victim we have attributed to CK has been positioned in this manner. Face up, with arms folded over the abdomen as if she’d been placed in a coffin. The legs are always stretched out and crossed at the ankle. The hair of the victims found in time has always been brushed and secured beneath the head and body. From a distant observer, and before decomp sets in, these women would appear to be sleeping. Great care appears to have been exercised in their disposal, whether as a result of remorse or remembrance, we’re not yet sure.”

Flipping to the second slide, I glanced over the photographs showing the breasts of two separate victims. “We’re unsure as to the order in which these two victims were killed, however they are the most recent and best examples we have of this similarity. Each victim associated with CK has not only been positioned in a certain way, but has had one nipple removed from her body. We can only confirm this with the victims found quickly and that is why BOTH similarities are being used to link the victims to this particular perpetrator.”

Flipping to the next slide, I was happy to have bullet points in my view rather than the gruesome and gory photographs shown previously.

“Prior to your arrival, I took the time to put together a preliminary profile for CK. Given his methodology and the care taken in the disposal of his victims, I believe we are not dealing with a psychotic as much as we are a psychopath…”

“What’s the difference? In the end, they’re all fucking nuts.”

Several men laughed at Agent Moss’ comment and I turned to him with the most charming smile I could muster.

“And you, Agent, will now be stepping out of this room, getting into your car and returning to your unit in the mid-west.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but I held my hand up to silence him. “I suggest you leave without further interruption.”

His pudgy expression soured, but I had to credit the man for finally learning when to shut the fuck up. Without another word, he gathered his briefcase and left the room. If you looked close enough, I’m sure you could make out the impression of a tail stuck between his legs as he retreated.

When the door had closed and the room was returned to shadows, I spoke again.

“Agent Chase. Would you please explain to the remaining men in this room the difference between a psychotic and a psychopath?”

Without hesitation Emily responded, “A psychotic can actually be considered ‘crazy’ in that they may or may not experience a break with reality. There is usually always a trigger or some sort: family life, work, or society. It differs between these types, but during their kills they might not understand the difference between right or wrong or they might not realize the weight of their actions. These are the types that ‘snap’, the ones who, had they not endured some type of physical or emotional trauma, would have possibly avoided committing their resultant crimes.”

She paused a beat before finishing her comparison.

“A psychopath, on the other hand, has no known mental dysfunction. These are your natural born killers, gentlemen; the ones who know what they are doing is wrong, but they do it anyway. They are charming and charismatic. They blend into society and usually climb the ladder of success in both their personal and professional lives. They are, for lack of a better term, evil incarnate. What makes them so difficult to track is their ability to think clearly during their crimes. They are masters of leaving a clean scene, so to say. Nothing there but the remains of whatever atrocity they committed and NOTHING that would link them to the act. It is only when they become manic, or kill out of a driving need rather than a cold fascination, that they make mistakes.”

The silence in the room emphasized the seriousness of her words.

It was time to show these men exactly what kind of monster we were hunting.

“Without any further questions or interruptions, I would like to now introduce you to our perpetrator, known only as the Cascades Killer.”

Chapter Two

Jude

“Have you had a chance to look over the quarterly earnings report?”

Thomas interrupted my morning coffee with his ridiculously upbeat voice. I looked him up and down, noting his Simpsons tie and his scuff marked shoes. He would need to be written up for both during the next employee evaluations.

“I have not,” I replied crisply and snapped my newspaper. I dared him to look at the front page, the feature spread about the ‘Cascades Killer’. A little claim to fame perhaps. He didn’t fucking notice, useless skin sack. I said, “Is there anything urgent I need to attend to?”

“Uh,” he stuttered and pissed me off even more. I hated being pissed off. I hated the weakness it showed. I hated how sniveling it made the other person and I hated the images it brought forth in my mind most of all. Images of spraying arterial blood soaking my clothing…teeth gnashing and flesh tearing under my powerful form…terrified eyes flashing as they realize their life was over.

So I composed myself, smiled and said, “Ok, I’ll get to it after coffee. Dude, you know you should never interrupt me before my first gallon in the morning.”

He laughed and backed out of my office, “No problem boss, I’ll remember that next time.” He turned to leave and I imagined an axe sticking out of his back. Fucking quarterly earnings reports, who had time for that shit? That’s what I hired the likes of him for.

“Hey Tom,” I called after him. He turned back with a question on his face. “Shut the door, will ya? I’m a few cups away from being sane.” I laughed, he laughed and the door was shut.

I took a sip of my drink and turned back the newspaper. The idea of sanity is one that I have puzzled over for years. I’ve never felt quite all there, but not in a bad way. It’s not like I hear voices or get messages through radio transmissions. I’ve always felt smugly superior somehow. That’s all. As though I have an edge or know something the rest of the world doesn’t. Bringing death seems to do that to a person, focuses the differences and makes your superiority much more apparent.

My first kill had been almost accidental. I had told myself it was accidental for weeks afterwards, terrified of how intense the moment had been.

I had picked up a girl at a club, some German tourist type. I was freshly nineteen and out celebrating with some guys, which generally ended in some kind of drunken pussy following me home. Even from a young age, I seemed to have this effect on women.

We’d snuck into a downtown warehouse party using fake ID. I’d been with some assholes I knew from high school. We’d reconnected that summer during my visit home from Harvard. I had always been popular, having had my own place and unlimited cash to throw into cab fares and drinks.

She had been cute, small and dark with a huge smile and perfect white teeth. She had been a few years older than me, but hadn’t known how to tell me her age in English. I had guessed around twenty-five, give or take a year or two.

We’d ended up back at my place, drinking some more, and talking some more, although I will admit, I could barely understand half of what she said with her thick accent and drunken slur.

Naturally, we’d ended up naked in my bed, just squirming all over each other’s bodies, desperately looking for a foothold to gain some form of pleasure.

I had finally pushed her down and started fucking her. The harder I’d fucked, the louder she’d gotten, screaming in German and god knows what other languages as I’d railed her.

She had been magnificent, beautiful and violently orgasmic…but too fucking loud. I had cringed to think of this getting back to my parents. They were the ones who’d signed for my apartment; their reputation had been on the line.

I’d wrapped my hand around her throat as I’d fucked her, took her breast in my mouth and lost sense of time and space and who I was. All that had been important was that she’d been quiet, making small, dry rasping sounds instead of full-bodied throaty screams.

I’d lost all of me. I’d become all about sensation, and power, and feeling her body struggle underneath me.

When I’d come, I’d tightened my grip on her throat and bitten down as hard as I could on her nipple. I’d felt skin give way under my teeth and her neck strain against my force. She’d tried to cry out, from the pain and fear I’m sure, she was beyond orgasm at this point, but she hadn’t been able. All she’d managed was a warm gasp as I’d filled her cunt with my seed. She’d been dead before I’d spurted my last.

I’d fallen on top of her, her body had gone lax and her head had lolled to the side. She had been so beautiful in that moment, so utterly composed and serene I’d almost come again. I’d felt tears spring to my eyes at the poignancy of it all.

I’d stroked her cheek and spit her nipple out of my mouth. I’d snatched it off the sheet and stroked it, a perfect little nub the size of my little finger, still attached to some bloody, jagged areola.

Part of me had been sickened by my actions, but most of me had been fascinated and completely in control. Almost detached but already addicted to the sensation of taking a life.

I’d lain next to her and run my hands over her cooling body until I’d known I had to get rid of her. If only I could have preserved her, taken her to a taxidermist so I could’ve pulled out her gorgeous form whenever I wanted to touch her.

I had stood up that night, stared at her body splayed on my bed, and jerked off over her. I had needed to come again. I’d rolled her nipple in between my thumb and forefinger as I finished my frantic act.

Overcome by a sense of urgency, I’d placed the nipple in a Ziploc bag and shoved it in the back of my freezer. I decided to research some method of preserving at least that little shred of skin after I’d disposed of her corpse. I’d needed to keep it,
had
to keep it.

Thank god she had been small and I was a healthy man, I still am. I’d towered over her in life, a good foot taller and about a hundred pounds of muscle more.

In death, she had been as light as a feather, no more than one ten, maybe one fifteen. Minus the weight of the nipple of course, I had thought as I’d smiled to myself.

I’d rolled her in a tarp I had. I’d never understood why I had purchased the damn thing months earlier on my last trip home, perhaps some part of my brain had already understood where I was headed and decided to do some planning for me.

I’d shoved the body and tarp into a large, thick black garbage bag.

When I’d been done with her, it looked like I’d been taking out a bag of trash, nothing more. I’d considered tossing her in the dumpster outside my building, but had hesitated, not wanting to risk her being found so close to home.

I had rued my hasty ejaculations and had almost panicked at the thought of being pinned for this murder. I had been so stupid, leaving so much evidence on her body. I had hated the thought of being locked up before I had a chance to do it again.

She had essentially asked for it, after all. The blame wasn’t all mine. She had sought me out, understood my nature and followed me home. Some women, especially the most beautiful ones, seek out tragedy. They want to end their lives before they age and fade into nothing.

They find me so they can remain immortalized, dead while still beautiful and meaningful. Before marital problems, children, bills...all the drudgery of life wears them down and grinds them into nothing.

I’d driven for hours and ended up in Washington, somewhere northeast of Mount Rainier on some logging road. It’d bothered me that I didn’t know the area, but I’d known I had to get rid of the girl.

I’d crept my Range Rover up nothing more than a goat path. By then it had been daylight but I’d lucked out and not seen anyone else for some time.

I’d stopped, opened the door and closed it carefully. I knew the sound of a car door slamming shut could carry miles in the woods. I’d stood still and listened until the birds started their obnoxious chatter and the blood in my ears was the only thing I’d heard.