Syrah and Swingers

by Sandra Woffington

  The crowd mumbled.

  “The funny thing is that I shouted for him to stop. I realized later that even with my parents’ bloody bodies lying there, I wanted Francis to live. I called my sister before calling the police. She’s nine years older than me and was a policewoman. The police arrived, and my life changed forever. I wondered what had made Francis do it. I wondered if…” Blackmoor balled his hand into fists. “I wondered if I could have stopped him. If only I had recognized the signs and helped him before he took a life. Five years later, I founded the Dr. Draven Blackmoor Institute, a non-profit organization that served as an outreach program for at-risk youth. I helped identify the key risk factors associated with serial killers.”

  Draven Blackmoor turned. The screen behind him, which hung down from the ceiling, flashed a list of key factors. Draven Blackmore read them aloud.

  Alcohol and substance abuse—few serial killers abuse, but they often witnessed abuse, which left them feeling inadequate, depressed, and detached

  Abuse—emotional as much as physical, like humiliation, neglect, abandonment

  Sex stressors—abuse, witnessing abuse or violence; this leads to auto-erotic behavior

  Bed-wetting

  Loners—anti-social tendencies; frequently moved; inability to socialize or form relationships

  Fantasies about violence and control of others; may begin with self-mutilation

  Voyeurism—studying others; small acts like stealing

  Harming animals

  Head injuries that damaged the control centers of the brain

  The gal next to Joy leaned over. “I’ve got half of those in my family, and I’m not a serial killer.”

  “Me too,” added Joy.

  Blackmoor continued, “Once these traits were incorporated into law enforcement computers—by people far smarter than me—we could identify youth with these tendencies. Youths who had yet to kill their first victim. In lieu of incarceration, they stayed at my institute’s half-way house, where they received specialized treatment and counseling.”

  Draven Blackmoor stepped forward until he was practically at the knees of those in the front row. “Alas, of the many we’ve saved and turned around, the ones you’ve heard about are my failures.” He shook his head as if in despair so deep, it rendered him unable to speak.

  “What a crock,” Joy whispered under her breath.

  The face of a young freckle-faced boy popped up on the screen. He had thin lips that turned downward in a perpetual frown, cold gray eyes, and light brown hair that fell in uneven bangs across his forehead. He had to be no more than twelve.

  “Evan Owens,” Joy whispered. She had studied his casefile: his overbearing father had taught him to hunt and gut animals at five, but Evan didn’t like it, for which his father smacked him around and called him a “wimp.” His father drank and abused his wife too. By the time Evan was a dozen years old, he liked killing and gutting animals—rats, cats, whatever he could find. On a hunting trip, Evan’s father stepped into the bushes shortly after dinner. He left his gun behind and took only a roll of toilet paper with him. By the time he returned, he found a bear lumbering through camp, knocking over the empty pans that sat near the dwindling campfire. Evan popped out of his tent wearing pajamas and carrying his rifle. He aimed. The bear rose up on two feet. Evan’s father shouted, “Shoot him, ya wimp!” Evan fired. His father fell backwards and the bear raced off into the woods. While it was deemed an accident, there was enough concern that the judge remanded Evan Owens to Blackmoor’s institute for treatment and counseling. Evan Owens was one of Blackmoor’s first residents.

  The face on the screen was the boy who had pulled the trigger. But Joy remembered him much older. The year she’d started her PhD program at Yale, Blackmoor lectured. He had Evan Owens on stage, and he touted the eighteen-year-old as his greatest achievement of the program.

  Blackmoor returned to the podium. “Evan Owens came to me the first year of our program. He was twelve. I had him onstage with me a few times the year he graduated. Then I sent my progeny out into the world, and I never heard from him again.”

  “But tragedy struck my life again. Two years later, days before Christmas, my sister and her family—her husband and my two nephews—were brutally murdered in their home. The assailant was never caught. You would think by now that I would find another profession.”

  The audience mumbled in horrified whispers.

  Joy had become his assistant the following year in August.

  “No one was ever caught,” continued Blackmore, “but that didn’t stop Dr. Friedrich Hoffman, a second-rate researcher, from suggesting in a paper published posthumously that my program had failed. He cited that eight of the youth I had worked with over the past decade had been arrested—they became serial killers. Like Francis, they committed suicide before being caught, except for Seth who was killed in prison, because these killers want to stop. Yet, even without evidence, Hoffman came after me and my program, and, from the grave, he succeeded in destroying it—and my reputation. So now, I write books and speak to fine people like you who reach beyond rumor.”

  Someone shouted from the crowd, “Friedrich Hoffman was murdered!”

  Blackmoor paced the carpet. “Yes, Dr. Friedrich Hoffman and his family were murdered too. Some speculate that one of my boys or girls had perpetrated the crime. But I pose to you that if that is true, then the killer probably committed the crime to save me and to stop Dr. Hoffman’s damaging paper from surfacing. And that would mean that despite the killer’s brutal crime—he or she intended to do good. He or she intended to save my program, and that would mean the killer saw my work as beneficial—even if others did not.”

  A new heckler shouted, “Murder is murder!”

  Blackmore picked up on the wave and rode it home. He seemed to have the audience where he wanted them—riled—but why?

  “Right you are—and perhaps, had I not been threatened, the killer would have never committed any murders. I have solid evidence of what I tell you. Evidence I decided to reveal to you today, in public. This evidence will exonerate me and my work.”

  The crowd mumbled.

  Draven put out a hand and implored someone in the front row to stand up. The tall, skinny figure wore blue jeans and a hooded jacked..

  “It’s okay. Come on up,” encouraged Blackmoor.

  The skinny man stepped over to Blackmoor, who embraced him and whispered in his ear.

  Blackmoor offered the young man a hand-held microphone that sat on the podium. He flipped the sound switch to “on.”

  The guest pushed his hoodie off of his head.

  Joy’s chin dropped. “Evan Owens.”

  12

  Evan Owens spoke into the microphone. He had the same freckled cheeks and thin lips that he had in youth, but he was older now. His shoulders slumped. His voice was full of stutters and paused. “You don’t know Dr. Blackmoor like I do. He’s been my father. All of these years. People told lies about him! Hoffman said he hurt us. That he didn’t help us. That’s not true!”

  Evan grabbed his hair and pulled at it. “That Hoffman person. He lied! He lied to me and he lied to Dr. Blackmoor’s sister. So I killed her. I had to stop her. Him too. I had to save Dr. Blackmoor so he could help others like me.”

  The audience erupted in turmoil. Officers in uniform glided forward along the walls of the room.

  “And I killed a cop! In San Diego. He had my friend pinned down. Garret killed himself, so I killed Sam Burton!”

  Joy gripped the chair in front of her for support and rose to her feet. All blood drained from her face. Blackmoor spotted her. Had Blackmoor put Evan up to the confession? It seemed like the boy would say anything Blackmoor suggested.

  “I want to stop now,” said Evan. “Dr. Blackmoor is helping me to stop. Thank you, Dr. Blackmoor. I’m sorry I hurt your sister!” Evan dropped the microphone to the floor and fell into Blackmoor’s arms. Blackmoor caressed him as Evan cried on his shoulder.

 
Blackmoor’s mic was still open. “It’s all right, Evan. Everything will be all right. I’m sorry you’re hurting. I only want you to be well. That’s all.”

  Policeman moved in and took Evan into custody. They pinned his hands behind his back and cuffed him. Blackmoor added, “I’ll always be here for you, Evan. I’ll see you shortly. I promise.”

  Blackmoor turned to address the audience, but it seemed to Joy that he directed his speech at her. “I know the face of a serial killer when I see one. Evan Owens was so grateful for my help that he killed to protect me. That’s loyalty! Blind loyalty and deadly loyalty, I admit. But have compassion for him and others like him! I say this knowing that Evan Owens killed those he perceived were my enemies—those disloyal to me—even my own sister. Is he to blame? Or can we also cast aspersions where they truly lay—on my attackers. That boy deserved a better life—and I failed him! I failed to stop him and he killed.”

  Draven Blackmoor ripped off the microphone and power pack and threw them to the ground. He stormed down the aisle. He didn’t look at Joy as he swept past her and out of the room.

  Joy chased after him.

  Draven stopped at the table in the hallway, poured himself a cup of water, tossed it back, and moved on. “Follow me, Joy. I know somewhere private.”

  Joy followed him to a small meeting room. It was empty. He stepped inside and turned to hug her, but Joy put up a hand to stop him. “Our hugging days are over. You pilfered your last one at my graduation.”

  Draven’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “That you’re stalking me? Yeah, I get it.”

  “That you’re no different from Evan—or me.”

  “You’re saying you’re a serial killer?”

  “I can honestly say I’ve never killed anyone in my life. What I am saying is that you have the same gift I do—it’s in our blood. But we have something beyond carnal instincts; we have superior intelligence. So we can control the urges.”

  Joy closed her eyes. This was how Draven had burrowed under her skin in the first place. He knew her dark side, and he made her think it was her only worthy side.

  “But you haven’t tapped into all you could be. I can help you tap into that.”

  “I don’t even know what that means, Draven!” Joy took a step or two away from him. “I’m nothing like you!”

  Draven grabbed her arm and spun her to face him “You liked the swinger’s parties. I may have introduced you to the scene, but you loved the freedom of coloring outside of the lines.”

  Joy whispered, “No, Draven. That was not me loving the scene. It was me hating myself. I stopped feeling. I stopped caring. And you dragged me deeper into your abyss.”

  “I love you, Joy.”

  Joy wrenched her arm away. “You love control. I learned that the moment you snuffed a girl in front of me. I watched you choke her until she passed out.”

  “She wanted me to—you heard her. Of course, you were in no position to stop me, since her hunky black boyfriend had you pinned to the bed and was driving you to ecstasy. He knew what she liked. We’d arranged the swap beforehand.”

  “She was sick to want that, Draven! And you exploited her sickness. So did he!”

  Draven sat on the edge of a table. He shook his head. “I was sure that once Sam was gone, you’d tap into your rage. That’s why I came to visit you. Sam held you back, Joy, back from becoming who you really are.”

  Joy spun to face him. “I did rage, Draven. I’ve raged most of my life! I raged at myself! I was a mess when I left for college. You made me believe, like Evan Owens, that you knew me better than I knew myself. You let me believe that my dark thoughts were my strength, my kryptonite. You put me into those sadistic worlds where the lines blurred. You made me believe that someone like you could see and know that dark side of me and love me anyway.”

  “Joy, I do love you. You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved. Come back to me. Together, we can—”

  “No!” Joy leaned in so close that her face was a breath away from his. “I do have brains. And they helped me to see you as nothing more than a manipulative monster. I’m nothing like you. We had lots of sex—you, me, and strangers. It was never love. Just scratching an itch. It’s not like…”

  “You’ve met someone.” Draven didn’t wait for an answer. He laughed, deep and hearty. “It won’t last, Joy. He’s not like us! Gifted in ways no one can understand.”

  Joy remembered dancing with Steele. She remembered making love to him with Monty slithering over their shoulders. She remembered sitting by Goldrush Creek with Max and spitting into test tubes to see if their DNA showed a family match—and it did—half siblings. “Draven, if you used your brains—you’d see I never loved you—I didn’t know how to love when we were together. I’m sorry.”

  “You can’t change who you are, Joy. I know what I see in you is there and it’s real.”

  “You see what you want to see in me—you see evil, because that’s all you’re capable of seeing, but I’m not evil, Draven. Sam taught me that—but I didn’t believe him until I met real evil—you.”

  Draven grabbed her in his arms and forced a kiss upon her lips.

  Joy’s knee shot upward and into his groin.

  Draven grunted in paid. He let go of her, doubled over, and grimaced.

  Joy walked away, but she stopped and turned. “You want to see evil, Draven? If you don’t get out of my life for good, you’ll see plenty of it.” She stormed to the door, shoved it open so hard it banged against the wall, and disappeared in the crowd in the hallway.

  Draven grabbed a metal chair and threw it across the room. It smashed into the door where Joy had been moments before.

  When Joy reached the Wine Valley exit, she saw it in a new light. She was home.

  She couldn’t wait to see Steele. Somehow admitting to her own degradation made her believe that she could tell Steele all of it, and they would start out with a clean slate.

  In no time, she drove past her electric gate, up the road, parked the car in front of the house, and hopped out. She couldn’t wait to turn the key in the lock and step inside. For the first time ever, she walked past sunny yellow walls and under white ceilings and felt at home with yellow. She practically danced to her bedroom.

  She slid out of her clothes, slipped on her silky red and black silk robe, and lifted Monty from her enclosure. She coiled Monty around her shoulders, settled on the sofa in the living room, and felt comforted by Monty’s weighty presence.

  Monty slid down Joy’s chest to coil in her lap, and Joy stroked her mahogany-brown scales with light brown splotches rimmed in cream. Monty’s shiny onyx eyes had looked into hers for two decades. Her tongue flicked the air, and Joy knew Monty could smell her, and hopefully be as comforted, by her presence. Joy stroked her triangular head.

  Joy punched the remote and turned on the television.

  A reporter with a shocked expression spoke into his microphone. His voice carried a sense of incredulity. “Evan Owens confessed to multiple murders in front of a crowd at the law enforcement convention here in San Diego. Dr. Draven Blackmoor is here with me now. Dr. Blackmoor how did this happen?”

  Blackmoor maintained a stoic expression. “Evan contacted me recently, and when we met, he broke down crying in my arms. He suffered extreme guilt and remorse. He’d never killed before these murders, which he only committed in some misplaced need to protect me. I convinced him to surrender himself and to confess his crimes.”

  The reporter asked, “He confessed to killing your sister’s family, is that right?”

  Blackmoor closed his eyes as if stricken by grief. “Yes, regrettably, that is true. But I have nothing but compassion for him. He was not born a killer. He was made into one.”

  Joy flipped off the television. She stroked Monty’s head as she tried to make sense of Blackmoor’s words. In very few cases did serial killers express regret or remorse. Maybe Evan was the exception.

  Joy’s phone rang.
“Steele!”

  “Get all of your errands done?”

  “I think so. How’s your mom?”

  “Hopeful. She still wants to see you in the flesh. I showed her your picture and she said you were too pretty to be my girlfriend.”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “Not in those words. Her exact words were ‘Nice try, wise guy. She looks like a model.’”

  Joy laughed. “Hey, just a wild thought, but do you want to stop by and hang out for a bit? Monty misses you.”

  “Anyone beside Monty?”

  “Oh, yeah, there’s definitely someone other than Monty.”

  “See you in a few. I’ll grab some dinner on the way.”

  Steele arrived with bags of Chinese food in hand. He gave Joy a quick peck on the cheek. “Did you hear the news? I just heard it on the way back. About Evan Owens?”

  Joy took one of the bags from his hands. She sheepishly answered, “I didn’t need to, Steele. I was there—at the convention. I wanted to say something last night.”

  “But you had to process.”

  Joy nodded.

  “And you had to run ‘errands.’”

  Joy stepped inside. He followed.

  She set the bags on the kitchen counter. Steele set the other bag down too. Joy sighed, “One errand. To see Draven Blackmoor and kick his ass.”

  “He’s the professor you dated at Yale?”

  “When you called, I asked you over, because I’m ready to open up about it.” She threw her arms around his shoulders. “Please don’t be mad at me. I do not want to keep secrets—not from you. I realize that I’d rather risk telling you my deep dark history, even if you run for the hills, than keeping you in my arms with a million silent lies between us.”

  Steele pulled her into his chest. “Man, sweet talk like that and I might give it up later.”

  Joy laughed. “I certainly hope so. I was a mess last night.”

  “I’m going to pour us a whiskey; we’ll eat Chinese, and you’re going to talk my ear off? I’d like that.”