Killer Chronicles

by Somer Canon

  “The guy was skinned. It says here that his skin was displayed in a profane manner. What the hell does that even mean? I wonder if it was a meth head or something. Down in Florida, people on crazy drugs do insane stuff,” Anais said, still scrutinizing her screen, reading the article again.

  “Do we not want to cover it if it’s a meth-head?” I asked.

  “You know, I’m not sure. I mean, the psychology of a drug-addled mind might be interesting to cover for once, but I also hesitate when it comes to someone who just flipped out while high. I mean, I’m getting crap from some newsie about our site because we’re insensitive towards victims, right? I sort of feel like we’d be victimizing the drug-head. I mean, what if they came out of it and had absolutely no memory of it and they’re just completely scarred that they skinned some dude? Then we come in and take their picture and shove a voice recorder under their nose and make them talk to us. I don’t know,” Anais said.

  “Okaaay,” I said. “But what if the person is insane and they think that the dude they skinned was a demon or something?”

  Anais was clicking around on her computer, but she spared a moment to glare at me. Nobody likes having their logic challenged and Anais is no different. I was annoyed with that so-called journalist for causing Anais to doubt herself and our methods. If she kept it up, the process for choosing cases was going to take forever.

  “Okay, the guy that was skinned?” Anais announced. “He was a child molester. He was out on bail awaiting his trial. His name was Matthew Hart. He tried to coerce one of his eight- year-old daughter’s friends into touching his dick and she told her mom about it. They arrested him and got a search warrant and found out that he’d been filming kids in his bathroom. He was a fucking creep.”

  “So maybe this was retaliation? Or maybe some Bible-beater cleansing the earth of that scum?” I asked, rolling my chair to be next to Anais and look at her computer screen. The victim’s driver’s license picture was displayed. He was in his mid-30s, ruddy, but neat looking. I sneered at the picture and looked at Anais.

  “It’s definitely worth tagging for further investigation,” Anais said. “Just keep an eye on this one. So far they don’t have any real leads.” Anais said.

  “Right, boss lady,” I said, zooming back to my desk.

  I spent the rest of my working hours either on the phone or exchanging emails with interviewees in the Charles Parmer case. My policeman was starting to get squirrely and looked to be backing out and Parmer’s attorney still wasn’t getting back to me. All in all, it wasn’t a very fruitful day. I was, however, glad that I didn’t have to moderate the website like Anais. We outsourced a coder who posted ads and did the updates and such, but Anais took care of the user experience side of the site. She blocked IP addresses of spammers and bots as well as trolls and people who tried to post explicit or inappropriate content. Anais was very subjective in what constituted “inappropriate.” Anything from expressing too much admiration for any particular murderer to making threats to Anais or me got people blocked from the site. Considering our growing popularity on a global scale at the time, this was enough to keep Anais strung out and stressed most days.

  “I’m calling it a day and getting showered,” Anais said, standing up from her chair and stretching.

  “What are your plans for the evening?” I asked, stretching my legs out from a seated position.

  “I got a date!” Anais said, smiling.

  “Oh yeah? Where’d you find this one?” Anais has a talent for finding dates in the strangest places. The office supply store, the drive-thru window of Burger King, her optometrist’s office, they are all fertile ground.

  “Online, actually,” Anais said, grinning shyly.

  “Whoa, you had to resort to that? I thought only huge losers like me had to do online dating.” I said, my eyes wide in good-natured mockery.

  Anais shrugged and left the office. I put my computer into sleep mode and went to my bedroom. I plopped onto my bed and pulled out my cell phone. There were no messages from anybody I might have found interesting after work hours, so I put it on my nightstand and grabbed a book to read. I had become addicted to Urban Fantasy series books and I felt happy knowing that my night was made.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Looks like the child-molester-skinner struck again,” I said to Anais a few days later.

  Anais spun in her seat and rolled her chair to be next to me. She read the article on my screen, her lips mouthing the words as she read them.

  “Wait, wait, how long was this guy missing?” Anais asked.

  I elbowed Anais out of the way and did a bit of searching before finding the answer.

  “Less than twenty-four hours,” I said, my mouth hanging open.

  “This guy was found in a local motel dismembered and turned into soap?” Anais asked, her nose scrunching up as she read the article again. “This reporter has a mole in the police force. It’s someone speaking under wraps I bet.”

  “I bet you’re right,” I said. “And in a small town like this? Geez, this is crazy!”

  “Alright, you’ve got to go over there,” Anais said. “If this kind of information is getting into the paper of a little town like that, think what they’re withholding. Can you imagine? Maybe we could make this one an open file and fill it in as more stuff becomes clear.”

  “I’m not a cop or even a legitimate member of the press, Ana,” I said.

  “No, but you’re good with getting people to talk,” Anais said, looking me in the face. “This one is too bizarre to not cover, Chris. Can you imagine the page hits we would get from people coming to the page waiting for updates? Hell, we could even name this guy! How about the Micksburg Monster?”

  “The Hillbilly Hacker?” I offered.

  “We’ll work on it,” Anais said gruffly. “It needs to sing because this might be something that could get us real attention with the legitimate press.”

  “Always about money with you,” I teased.

  “This one is too interesting not to cover,” Anais said.

  “I think I agree with you,” I said.

  “Then go. Your hometown is close to this place, isn’t it?” Anais asked.

  “Mmm, about an hour or so away,” I answered.

  “Do you need plane tickets, or can you drive it?” Anais asked.

  “It will be about a six-hour drive. I can do that,” I answered. “I’ll look for a hotel right now.”

  Two hours later, I was carrying my big duffle bag and a smaller bag filled with toiletries to the door of our apartment, Anais trailing behind me carrying my laptop case and backpack.

  “Call me when you get there, mami, and be careful okay?” Anais said, walking me out to my car.

  “Yes, mother,” I said.

  “And make sure to use the business credit card for all of your expenses, I’ll pay it off when it comes due,” Anais said.

  “I’ve done this before, you know!” I said.

  “I know, I know but I always get nervous sending you out like this, alone and around dangerous people.” Anais said. I noticed she was frowning. I frowned back in an inquisitive way.

  “This one hasn’t been caught yet, Chris. You’re not interviewing someone chained to a chair or behind a Plexiglas barrier. This will be great for the site, but I really need you to stay frosty and alert. Don’t trust anybody because I can’t have anything happen to my best girl, okay?” Anais said.

  “Okay, sure,” I said.

  “I mean it,” Anais said.

  “I hear you! God, calm down. I’m good at this, remember?” I said. Anais just nodded and helped me load my gear into the trunk of my modest Toyota. We hugged, as we always do when I go off on a business trip.

  “I’ll call you,” I said, breaking the embrace and getting in the car.

  “You better, mami,” Anais answered.

  * * *

  The first three hours of the drive were on the turnpike. Driving on the turnpike is always surprisingly relaxing. I
put on my favorite high-energy playlist and bumped around to the music, wondering why there were so many charming looking farms right off of the busy road. When I got to Maryland, I drove through the tiny town of Bedford, all two-lane roads that weaved up and around the soft, rolling mountains that I still know as home. It was on that small country road that the red Maryland road turned into pulverized West Virginia road. I got back onto the interstate and began the up and down four-lane navigation of the Appalachians. Summer was in full bloom and everything was lush and green. The GPS on my phone helped me to my destination.

  My hotel was a half hour away from the crime scenes because the small town didn’t have a hotel and I did not want to stay in some skeevy pay-by-the-hour motel. I like the clean consistency of a good old Holiday Inn. Well, “clean” as far as my naked, but scrutinizing, eye can see.

  I called Anais from the hotel parking lot as soon as I parked. Anais was relieved and told me to keep in touch via text because she had another date that night. I shook my head, smiling. I checked in and took my big bags to my small room, smiling at the cold hominess of it. I used the bathroom and got on my phone to find a good sit-down place to have a steak. I ate better than usual on these business trips thanks to the business line of credit. Anais never said anything, and besides I thought that I deserved a steak or two if I had to do all of the traveling and leg work. I lucked out with a place that was in a strip mall within walking distance from my hotel.

  I went to the restaurant, a chain place with naked concrete floors and tacky neon lights everywhere and sat at the bar. I ordered a beer and asked to see the menu, frowning that there were no ribeyes. Why call yourself a steak house if you’re only serving the crappy meat that they scrape off of the floor of the slaughterhouse? Ribeyes, not sirloins, should be mandatory menu staples in all places that want to call themselves “steak houses.”

  I ordered a porterhouse and eyed one of the cuter waiters.

  “You here on business?” the bartender asked me. She was a pretty young girl with a bad dye job and overly tweezed eyebrows.

  “Yup. I’m from West-by-God, but not these parts,” I answered.

  “Oh yeah, where are ya from?” the bartender asked.

  “Parkersburg,” I answered.

  “Oh, that’s not far! My grandma lives in West Union, that’s kind of in between here and Parkersburg,” the bartender said.

  I smiled at her gabbiness. This is something I know, that friendly small talk that always comes almost too close to nibbiness for foreigners. Foreigners being anybody not from “these parts.” “These parts” being the not-quite urban, not-quite rural, and not at all suburban atmosphere that is the majority of the northern parts of the state just below the northern panhandle. If you didn’t grow up there, you’ll never get it. Don’t feel bad though, you’re not missing out on much. Elderly neighbor ladies who run out into their yard to stare down any car that dares drive past their house, heavy and cruel gossip at church gatherings, and having people feel comfortable asking questions of you that most polite society views as rude is not exactly a community trait that I’d call admirable. But that’s just me talking. Lots of people love that kind of quaint life and choose to call it home for the entirety of their lives.

  “Doddridge County, right?” I asked, taking a swig of my cold beer.

  “Yup.” The bartender bobbed her head, smiling.

  “Maybe you can help me, then,” I said, leaning my elbows on the bar and taking a more serious pose. “Where is Micksburg? I’m here researching some funny stuff that’s been happening out there.”

  “The murders, you mean?” the bartender asked.

  “That would be them, yeah,” I answered.

  “That’s some messed up stuff goin’ on out there,” the girl said. I nodded seriously.

  “I hear it’s devil worshippers,” the bartender whispered conspiratorially. I raised my eyebrows and smiled at the girl. I’d seen the devil or worship of the devil blamed on one of my other files. People are quick to blame something other than human wrath and madness on some of the horrors they themselves created.

  “Well, we had us a devil worshipper thing about a year ago. A guy killed his girlfriend then himself in some sort of Satanic ritual,” the bartender continued. I vaguely remembered my mother telling me about that.

  “Well, I guess you never know,” I said politely. The bartender nodded at me seriously.

  “You just get on 51 and it’s a little past West Union, right past the Doddridge/Ritchie county line,” the bartender said.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Of course, I would use the GPS to get where I wanted to go, but I liked chewing the fat with the cute girl and wanted to see if the murders had made big local news.

  Of course they had. You don’t get two guys totally torn apart and put back together in fucked up ways even in big cities. Not all that often, at least.

  The bartender ceased the pleasantries and let me eat my porterhouse and baked potato in peace (it would have been better if they hadn’t overcooked it all). I had already had time to plan my to-do list for the trip. I had a lot to get done, and the most important things had to come first.

  Number one on the list: I needed to go and stock up on Nummy Nellie snack cakes. It’s something that I giddily blame on my mom, my impotence on the job unless I have a Nummy Nellie to eat. When I was young, my ongoing anxiety problems started to surface after the death of my father, so doing homework and learning new things was a big challenge for me. My mom would give me Nummy Nellie snacks “to make the experience a little sweeter, tweeter,” as she said. It stuck. All through college, my mom would send me care packages containing laundry detergent, new pants, and Nummy Nellies. I love them all and would go through phases where I would favor one over the other (Stripey Cakes being the one I return to the most). In Reading, TastyKakes are the big pastry of choice, but I can’t seem to fall in love with them the same way that I love my Nummy Nellie cakes. Dolly Madison also doesn’t measure up. Neither does Hostess. Sure, some things are okay, but when I need that relaxation in order to get the full scale of my mind working, it HAS to be Nummy Nellie.

  There was a Sheetz right next to my hotel, so instead of trying to find a grocery store I opted for the obvious convenience, ignoring the crooked glance of the cashier as I carried a giant armload of Nummy Nellies to the counter. I went back to my room and signed in to the hotel’s Wi-Fi and did a few minutes of research, getting the name of the reporter that had covered the two murders and her email address. I then emailed the reporter, introducing myself and asking if we could meet the next day for lunch (I find people are more likely to agree to a meeting if I offer to pay for food). Then I texted Anais, just a quick check-in to make sure she was safe too, and when Anais told me all was well, I shut everything down and went to sleep.

  The next morning, I forced myself to avoid the internet until I ventured out for coffee and a bagel. Again, the Sheetz next door proved to be very helpful since my particular hotel didn’t have much to offer for breakfast and I loathe the complimentary coffee that comes in hotel rooms. The Sheetz was one of the big, shiny, new ones that had the huge selection of flavored coffees and fraps as well as hot breakfast sandwiches. I left with an enormous coffee drink topped with a nearly illegal amount of whipped cream and a breakfast wrap with eggs, gooey cheese, and sausage. I practically pranced back to my hotel room.

  I opened my laptop when I was settled at the hotel desk with my treats and checked my email. The reporter had gotten back to me and explained that she was familiar with Killer Chronicles and would be happy to meet for lunch at the local Applebee’s. I rolled my eyes at the suggestion but was happy that I secured a meeting. Number two on my to-do list was checked.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The lady seated in the waiting section of the Applebee’s looked to be about my age. She was strikingly beautiful. She was tall and round, her hair was curly and very wide, her complexion was clear and olive-colored, and her eyes were brow
n and large. I put on my professional smile and strode up to the woman.

  “Excuse me, are you Stephanie D’Agostino?” I asked the woman.

  “Yes, I am,” the woman said, standing and shaking my hand. “You’re Christina Cunningham?”

  “I am,” I said. “Very nice to meet you and thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

  “Oh, it’s not a problem,” Stephanie said. “I like eating lunch and you offered to buy.” I laughed politely and then followed the hostess to our booth.

  “I am assuming that this is about what’s been going on in Micksburg,” Stephanie said, browsing her menu.

  “Good guess,” I said.

  “Well, you’ve made a name for yourself,” Stephanie said, putting her menu aside and looking me in the face. I mirrored the action, knowing that it would keep Stephanie engaged.

  “And I knew that those two weird-assed murders would have less…eh…mainstream people sniffing around,” Stephanie said.

  I smiled. I’d been called a weirdo before.

  “My interest was piqued on the first incident, but my partner and I decided to wait and see what happened. Then, when I read about the second incident, I got in my car that day and drove down. This is certainly something beyond bizarre.” I said. She sniffed and looked off to the side as if to hide an offended look on her face.

  I was starting to lose my composure when the unbearably perky waiter took our drink and food orders (my thinned patience took offence with him for taking for-freaking-ever getting to our table and we were pretty much the only people there). I had to watch myself and my mannerisms. That’s a fun thing about anxiety; you get really good at clenching and unclenching every single muscle in your face.

  “You’re driving distance away then? Where do you hail from, Ms. Cunningham?” Stephanie said in a cool professional way. I bristled. Although a bit of online digging would easily reveal that I live in Reading, I’m still uncomfortable revealing where I live. I make a living off of the predators of this great country of ours. Certain questions scare me.