by Lee Perry
The Torso Murders
by Lee Perry
INTRODUCTION
“I am the son of peasants and I know what is happening in the villages.
That is why I wanted to take revenge, and I regret nothing.”
- Gavrilo Princip (1894-1918)
Howell Township, NJ
Slow down… Jesus! Just slow the fuck down now! He gripped the steering wheel in both hands and eased his foot from the accelerator, his eyes darting from the dark road to the speedometer. Don’t get pulled over, he chanted silently, don’t get pulled over, don’t get pulled over!
The shame and anger had been building all week, and when he left the house he had no plan, no itinerary, no destination, he just got in the car and started driving. When he found himself at Artie’s Bar he was surprised but he still pulled into the parking lot across the street. It sat between two empty buildings, a mattress store and real estate office that had shut down in the depressed economy. He sat in the car, staring at the wall of the real estate office for a long time and it was late when he finally got out and locked the door. He had driven all that way; he might as well go in for a drink before he went home. But why there? He asked, still feeling bewildered, You don’t care about them and they all hate you now… Why did I go there?
He wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings when he walked around the back of his car, “Well,” he heard the familiar snide voice, “if it isn’t Joanie.” It was Mitch, of all the pricks he could have to run into, why him? In all his years working on the second floor above the bar, of all the dozens of employees who had no idea who he was or what he did there, Why him? His head shook slowly from side to side and he pounded the steering wheel in frustrated self-loathing as he drove, Why didn’t I just stay home?
Mitch always called him Joanie, and he always snickered when he said it. “Working hard, Joanie?” He’d croon tauntingly as he passed his cubicle, and he would always freeze, staring determinedly at his screen until he was gone. But tonight he stopped, the arrogant little prick… He hadn’t been watching for drunken patrons leaving the bar and Mitch stood before him, blocking his way. “What possible reason could you have to come… come back here?” He had taunted, weaving slightly, “Forget your pocket protector? Or did you come back to apologize for fucking us out of our profits on Monday, you pathetic faggot?”
At six-foot two, he was taller than Mitch by at least six inches and when he stood close, so close he had to tilt his head to look up at him, he could smell the alcohol on his breath and he took an involuntary step back. Mitch snickered and said something else, but he didn’t hear it, he had already started his silent mantra, I am a Peaceful Being, I am Accomplished. A Gift from God, a Wise Old Friend.
Then Mitch reached out and gave him a small shove, a two-fingered jab in the chest. It was just instinct… He assured himself, that was all, I just… How the fuck does it matter now? He argued silently, You gave him a right cross to the jaw… and Mitch’s head made a dull thud when it bounced off the trunk of his car and he collapsed in a crumpled, unconscious heap at his feet.
If only he had never discovered how much his algorithms made the company that paid him so little for so long… If only I had never clicked on the article that day.
He drove in silence for another twenty minutes before he slowed the car, suddenly afraid to turn on the turn signal and yet too afraid not to. He checked the deserted road ahead and in the rearview mirror before making the left turn onto 32 Olde Noah Hunt Road in Howell Township.
There’s no one… he silently assured himself, No one to see. No one is following… He drove down the graveled driveway, carved in a straight line through the woods until it made a sharp right turn around a dense grove of mature White Ash and Eastern White Pines. The property’s soil tested poorly for farming so the realtor had marketed the twenty-acre lot as being the perfect, private hideaway for the business professional seeking peace and solitude. The price was right; the farmhouse needed either serious restoration or to be knocked down and replaced and he had opted to renovate, finding as time passed that he liked the look of the old stone house.
When he cleared the trees, the driveway led him the rest of the way straight through a sloping green pasture to his home and he parked a hundred feet from the garage, unsure how to proceed. He left the headlights on, exited the car and walked to the two-car garage; unlocking the side door with his key, he entered, flicking on the three bare bulbs overhead. He stood in front of the workbench, looking over his collection of basic home tools and the more extensive collection of fishing gear. I need something sharp for the plastic… he picked up his nine-inch filleting knife and turning on his heel, returned to the driveway.
He felt calm as he walked to the back of his car, mentally reciting the product description he had inadvertently memorized when he ordered the knife online; Elk horn burr antler handle, our steel is an air-hardened, high carbon and high chromium steel, and our blades retain their factory edge for extended periods of heavy use…. He felt for the remote in his pocket and activated the trunk release.
When Mitch lay unmoving, he panicked and tried to help the unconscious man to his feet. Feeling scared and shaky, he had quickly looked around the parking lot and fishing the keys from his pocket, opened his trunk. He frantically searched the contents in the dim glow of the lighted interior, looking for a bottle of water to revive him with when he saw the plastic ties, They have a million and one uses… and they’re handy. He had quickly looped one then looped a second through the first; making a pair of zip-tie handcuffs. He quickly lifted Mitch into his trunk and yanking his limp hands behind him, looped the plastic ties over his wrists and tightened them smartly before slamming the lid closed. He looked around again as he fumbled for the door handle and climbed back into the driver’s seat, shaking as he carefully pulled out of the parking space and left.
Mitch had two large bruises forming; one over his right eye, and another just under his left and he glared up at him, “What’s your fuckin’ deal you stupid mutha-fuckin’ dumb fuck?” He muttered, struggling to climb out.
He took Mitch by the arm and helped him from the trunk, but as he stepped onto the gravel he gave him a hard shove with his hand and Mitch fell on his back, “How does it feel being the one getting shoved, instead of the one doing the shoving?”
“Oh, you are a fucking psycho, Joanie!” Mitch yelled, “Assault, kidnapping… on top of your colossal fuck up on Monday!” He shouted, “DUDE! You are going away for life! FOR LIFE! You’ll be some guy’s bitch and get fucked up the ass every single fucking d…”
He stepped over him and kneeling on his chest, pointed the tip of the blade menacingly at Mitch’s face.
“Oh…” Mitch’s voice shook for a moment but he collected himself and leered, “So… what, you want me to suck your dick?” He suddenly screamed, “WELL FUCK YOU, YOU PATHETIC LITTLE FAGGOT!”
His eyes fluttered closed, I am a Peaceful Being, he chanted, I am Accomplished. A Gift from God, a Wise Old Friend… a Peaceful… Peaceful Being… A burning heat swept determinedly across his features and shook his angular frame. Accomplished. A Gift from… from God, a Wise… Wise Old… The heat quickly transformed, revealing itself as the long ignored and denied rage he had for years convinced himself wasn’t there. He’s right… he thought, and quietly surrendered. This all started long ago, and I’m in it too far now to ever turn back. He opened his eyes, “How about if you sucked your own?” he said, his voice sounding flat and emotionless. He swung his knee off to the side and yanked open the snap and zipper on Mitch’s pants.
He struggled, writhing and cursing beneath him, “STOP! Stop, you fuck… fucker! STOP!”
“Yell all you want,” He planted a knee back on his chest to kee
p him still. “I bought this place cuz’ it didn’t have any neighbors.” He yanked down the slacks and underpants and when he grabbed Mitch’s privates in his hand he froze, he had never touched another man’s genitals before and he gasped at the feel of the soft flesh.
“D-dude!” Mitch sounded scared, “L-look, d-dude… DUDE!”
“You…” He murmured in a quiet voice, full of menace, “You treated me like shit.”
“WAIT!” Mitch shouted in a high, shrill voice, “Dude, wait! WAIT!”
He sliced off the penis and testicles. Like crap through a goose. He heard his father’s voice echo in a dark recess of memory and his mind’s eye suddenly filled with an image of his father sharpening his fish knife; He spent hours sharpening that knife, honing it to a fine edge so it would slice through fish like a hot knife through butter. Like crap through a goose.
Mitch screamed, “NO!” But all he could feel was a searing heat. He had a few drinks in the bar and the alcohol in his bloodstream slowed connections between the neurons that carried the electrical signals for pain through his body by way of his spinal cord. In what normally would have taken less than the blink of an eye for his brain to register the pain, Mitch actually blinked before his back arched on the gravel drive and he shrieked in agony.
He held his hand away and dropped the severed organs on the gravel behind him. Switching knees so he could face him, his other knee pressed down hard on Mitch’s chest and gripping the elk horn handle in both hands, he rammed the tip of the blade into his throat as hard and as fast as he could, silencing him forever. His eyes again fluttered closed and he felt the body jerk beneath him, trembling violently for long seconds before finally becoming still. When his eyes opened, he found he was staring down at his hands, still gripping the handle and it took another long moment to loosen and pull his long, cramped fingers free.
His knees quaked when he stood and stepped away from Mitch’s still form. Standing in the middle of his dark driveway, he drew a deep, shaky breath and tilted his head back to stare up at the clear night sky, “Canis Major…” He identified the constellations and spoke their names aloud, “Hydra, Canis Minor… Orion… and Cancer.” He abruptly stopped, swaying slightly on his feet and lowered his head, holding it level to steady himself. He stared at the dark woods beyond, suddenly acutely aware he was panting and he swallowed audibly, “Slow down,” he said, “just slow down now.” He waited until his breathing slowed and cleared his throat, “I am a Peaceful Being, I am Accomplished. A Gift from God, a Wise Old Friend…”
When he was a boy, his mother taught him the meanings of his first and last names and as he grew, the meanings became a personal mantra he chanted whenever he felt the need to slow down his brain, to calm himself when he was nervous or scared.
“I am a Peaceful Being, I am Accomplished. A Gift from God, a Wise Old Friend…” He finally turned and regarded his open and beckoning garage door, “I am a Gift from God, a Wise Old Friend. I know who I am… and I know what I have to do.”
Part 1
“Revenge is an act of passion; vengeance of justice.
Injuries are revenged; crimes are avenged.”
- Samuel Johnson
New York City, NY
She checked the time on her screen, “Oh, I really don’t want to go to these briefings anymore…”
Jordan clicked open an email and peered at her around their monitors, “How many more does Bea need to have?”
“I wish I knew.” Catherine leaned back in the chair and stretched her arms overhead, “We’re supposed to figure out what’s illegal about how Wall Street operates but everything we’ve looked at; the dark pools, high frequency trading…” She shrugged expansively before dropping her hands back on the chair’s armrests, “They write their own rules so all of it’s legal, all their strategies that screw over investors and retirement funds.”
Jordan frowned, “So why is Bea pursuing it?”
“It’s not just Bea; she has reps from the SEC, the CFTC and the New York Attorney General’s office attending these meetings.” Jordan arched an eyebrow and she clarified, “The Commodity Futures Trading Commission… and from what we’ve studied so far it’s obvious the stock market is completely rigged and has been…” She snorted in disgust and shut her workstation down, “well, forever, really.”
“Same question…”
“I know,” sighed and stood, grabbing her phone and tablet, “And Bea doesn’t dare point out the stupefying conflict of interest that the heads of those so-called financial watchdog agencies are all former CEO’s from the companies who created all the loopholes that allow them to get away with highway robbery in the first place.” She walked around the desk to place a quick kiss on her lips and straightened, adding, “And that theft adds up to between nine and eleven billion dollars a year.’
“And all that profit is going where?”
“Not to the investors, that’s for sure.”
Jordan cringed, looking sympathetic, “Yikes. Okay, well, I won’t say have fun, it sounds mind-numbing, why does she want you there?”
Catherine walked to their office door, “She wants us to understand how the stock market works before we start looking at all that stuff.”
“For you that means examining their code… the stock exchanges will let you do that?”
She dropped her hand on the door handle and turned back to her, “I think we’re gonna find out.” She threw her a brilliant smile as she left.
“Okay.” Jordan returned to the open email on her screen, it was from her boss, Assistant Director Stewart MacLaine; “Got a new one for ya’. This guy has been ID’d as a stock trader in NJ, and it’s all yours.” She clicked open the attached document, her nose wrinkling in bemusement as she read the autopsy report.
What was left of Paul McConnell’s body had been discovered lying in tall grass one hundred feet from Millstone Rd., near Grovers Mill Rd. in Plainsboro Township. Initial discovery was of a nude male torso with the head, legs, left arm and genitalia, all missing. Identification was difficult, the FBI’s medical examiner, Dr. Samantha Lucas, determined the man had been killed weeks before, “And since he was left in the open,” Jordan read, “decomposition was advanced. Most of the soft tissue had been eaten away by scavenging birds, rodents and insects.” She read on, Dr. Lucas had searched the national missing person’s database and after finding several potential matches, positively identified Mr. McConnell’s body via a DNA match to a now grieving family member.
She clicked open the picture file and enlarged the photos fullscreen. Huh… she turned her head to one side as she looked at the desiccated remains, If it wasn’t for the outstretched arm and hand… it’s a wonder anyone would have thought this had been a person once. She quickly flipped back to Dr. Lucas’s narrative; a construction crew was resurfacing the road when a worker walked into the tall grass in search of some privacy so he could relieve himself. When he stumbled over the body, the mummified arm flew stiffly into the air and the mostly skeletal hand and fingers landed on his leg. She snickered, He started screaming and while he ran for blocks, his supervisor calmly walked back to the look briefly at the remains and called 911. She flipped back to the pictures again and clicked through them; the torso had holes in the chest, revealing large empty spaces inside created by burrowing bugs and animals accessing the internal organs. She shook her head and returned to Dr. Lucas’s report.
The head had been severed first from the front; “A long, smooth blade was pressed against the throat.” She read, “Pressure was applied from both ends of a blade longer than the width of the victim’s neck. The blade was forced, in likely a right to left motion, working the blade between the C-5 and C-6 vertebrae then the body was turned over and the blade was pressed into the back of the neck, severing the head. High resolution magnification indicates no hesitation marks.” Lucas had gone into detail describing the missing genitals, sliced off cleanly, And again, Jordan mused, no hesitation marks; he’s used to killing… but the l
imbs took considerably more work, the arm and both legs were jaggedly disarticulated at the hip and shoulder joints. And none of the missing parts were found at the scene, so god knows where they are.
She clicked open the victim’s missing person’s report. Sex, power, control… violence, how many components are involved here? She rocked the chair back and stretched, craning her neck and back until the vertebrae popped.
McConnell’s co-worker, Lester Morris, admitted he hacked into his friend’s email account in order to access his contacts list when he failed to show up for work or return emails and phone calls for over a week. He contacted McConnell’s parents in Omaha, Nebraska and they in turn contacted the police department in Fairhaven, New Jersey, where McConnell lived. She clicked back to the victim’s information sheet; He was a trader at GEX, The Getchell Exchange, for four years. Married once, divorced. She shrugged inwardly; Maybe his friend will have some more personal info on him. She sat up and clicked the icon on her desktop that linked her directly to the warrant office so she could subpoena Mr. McConnell’s financial records. Emasculation would make an ex-wife or girlfriend a primary suspect, but chopping off a guy’s head and limbs… An eyebrow arched as she filled in the required fields, and then dumping the torso, that’s a lot of anger to sustain for the time it would take to get all that done. That much mutilation sounds like organized crime.
The theater-style seats had pull-up desktops mounted on the sides and Catherine had taken care to pull up the desk in front of her so she could work on cracking some code for Bea’s Cyber Division while she listened to the briefing. She made audio recordings of the briefings on her phone she left on the desktop and held her tablet on her lap so no one could see she wasn’t taking notes.