by Willow Rose
"What happened to her? Do you know?"
But Josef couldn't talk anymore. I could tell he was losing it and glanced at Weasel, who gave me the go-ahead.
"I need you to step away from the door," I said. "Can you do that for me, Josef?"
I only got a sniffle for an answer, but through the keyhole, I could tell he had moved away. Then I kicked the door as hard as I could. The door came down with a crash, and I managed to get inside just in time. Josef's small body was shaking badly, and then it was like the air simply went out of him, and he fell forward. I jumped ahead and grabbed him in my arms, pulling him up and into my embrace. It was like holding a dead body. There was no life in him, no fight, not even crying. He had gone completely numb.
I sent Weasel a look, and she came inside as well, then spotted Mark who was sitting on top of the toilet, his knees under his chin, rocking back and forth, not even blinking.
Weasel reached down and grabbed him in her arms and, once again, I was amazed at her almost supernatural strength.
"The ambulance is ready for them outside," Mike said coming up to me. "I'll show you to it."
Chapter 37
Cocoa Beach 2011
They were fighting. It was an everyday event now. The boy usually sat in his room with his ear placed to the door, listening in on them yelling at one another.
It was because Father had changed. Exactly when it had happened, the boy wasn't certain. But, one day, it was like his dad had simply decided that keeping Momma happy wasn't all it was cracked up to be. It wasn't the most important thing in the world anymore.
The boy just wished that Daddy would have told him when things changed. All his life, he had believed this to be the truth, to be his mission. Keeping Momma happy. And his sister, of course, because if she was happy, Momma was happy. But now things were different, apparently. Now it was more like his dad tried to irritate Momma as much as possible. Like every time she asked him to do something, he would end up yelling at her instead of getting the thing done. It confused the boy since there was nothing worse in the world to him than people yelling. It didn't matter if it was the teacher at school, his sister, some silly neighbor, or even worse, his momma. It felt awful when the boy did things wrong, and he could never get things right, could he? Not according to his mother. She always told him he was in the way. She always shushed him and told him to go to his room or to a friends' house.
"Don't just hang around here and do nothing, you lazy boy," she would say. She especially didn't like it if he left anything around the house, like if he put down his backpack in the hallway and forgot to take it to his room when he walked up the stairs. She would yell at him from down the stairs and tell him that if he didn't come and pick it up now, she'd throw it in the trash.
Now, the boy's backpack wasn't exactly valuable, so it wasn't that he cared so much about it. It was old and worn out, and he had had it since Kindergarten because his mother wouldn't buy him a new one, even though there was a big hole on the bottom of it. Because little sister needed new shoes. She was growing so fast that Momma could hardly keep up with her, she would say and tickle the girl's tummy, while the boy would look at them together and want to scream. His momma had once tickled him like that. Before little sister came to his world. But since then, she hadn't touched him, except to give him a spanking that time when he broke her favorite old clock that she had inherited from her grandmother.
"I’m telling ya', I’m done listening to this," he heard his father yell from the living room downstairs. "You're crazy, woman. Insane. Do you know that?"
"You’re the one who's crazy," sounded her reply. "Coming here and thinking you can just…"
"Just what?" his dad said.
"God, I hate you," she snorted.
"Well, the feeling is mutual."
The boy listened while tears rolled across his cheeks and his stomach turned to knots. There truly was nothing worse than people fighting. If he ever became president, he would make fighting illegal.
The boy listened intently and realized the yelling had finally stopped. He opened his eyes wondering if it was finally over when he heard the door downstairs slam shut. He knew it had to be his father who had stormed out. His mother would never leave the house like that.
Last time they had a fight, his dad had stayed away for two days, and once he came back home, he talked funny, and his eyes looked weird. The boy hadn't liked that.
Now, as he stared at the wall in front of him, the boy wondered how many days it was going to take this time before his dad returned.
The boy stood to his feet and cautiously ran down the stairs, hoping and praying his momma wouldn't see him and take the last bit of her rage out on him, then he stormed into the yard and into the enclosure where he spent the rest of the day with Victoria and Hector, in the only place on earth where he felt truly at home.
Chapter 38
August 2018
"The kids are okay," I said and threw the file on the table in front of me and sat down. Weasel handed me a cup of coffee. I sent her a friendly smile. It had been a long day so far, and I was exhausted. My mom had promised to pick up Tyler from daycare and pick the rest of them up by the bus stop and take them to the motel since I had no idea when this day would be over.
"Or should I say, unharmed. The kids are unharmed, but far from okay," I said and sipped my cup.
Weasel sighed and leaned forward in her chair. Mike and Joe were both very quiet. I couldn't blame them. I didn't feel much like talking either, but we had to gather everything we had. Looking into the eyes of those poor kids almost made me lose my composure. Josef had clung onto me and refused to let go of me while the doctor examined him. I had held his poor little hand through it all and felt him trembling at the smallest sound. His brother Mark had finally opened up to me and had told me the most terrifying story.
"So, what we know now," I said, remembering what he had told me earlier, "is that a person forced himself inside the home of Josef and Mark Carpenter, where they lived with their mother, Betty Carpenter. There was no dad in the picture. He died about a year ago. This person—who was wearing a mask of a woman’s face with red lipstick and fair skin—entered through the front door when the youngest, Josef, was about to leave for the school bus. He pushed the boy inside and forced himself in with him, where he told the mother to put the boys in the bathroom. From in there, the two children heard the person give their mother a glass of water before he…" I looked down at the papers in front of me while searching for the words. "Before he killed her by placing a plastic bag over her head and tightening it with her own belt. Now, we don't have the autopsy yet, but it's fair to say the cause of death is strangulation. The killer then approached the bathroom door and told one of the children that he wanted him to remember that he was the one who had let him into the house. Mark furthermore told us that his mother's phone rang right before the killer left the house and when we checked the phone, she had several missed calls between six-fifty and seven-thirty. It was her sister who called to see if Betty had time for coffee this afternoon. She was going to tell her that she was pregnant, her sister told me when I spoke to her at the hospital. She has also told us that she is willing to take the boys once they are discharged from the hospital. We do, however, believe that the killer was distracted by the phone ringing and that was why he left the kids unharmed."
"Guess it was their luck," Mike said.
Luck was probably a strong word to use, I thought to myself, but I didn't say anything.
"So, is it fair to say that we have a serial killer in our town then?" Joe Hall said. "I mean, it has to be the same guy that attacked the Reynolds family, right?"
I nodded. "That's what I’m afraid of, yes. There are a lot of similarities in his MO. The use of plastic bags, the fact that he struck a family in the morning hours, and so on. I’m even thinking that maybe he meant to leave the kids, or at least one of them like he did in the first case. Maybe he wanted one left behind to tell the tale. Lik
e Parker was left unharmed."
"So, who is he targeting?" Weasel asked.
"So far, single mothers with their children," I said. "It might indicate he has an issue with women, or maybe they're just easier. You know, when there's no man around. I do think the first is more likely. According to Mark, he was a big guy, tall."
"It kind of reminds me of the case from back in seventy-four," Mike said and leaned forward in his chair.
"Seventy-four?" I said and realized I had forgotten that Mike had been around for a very long time.
"The case I told you about the other day. Did you ever check that out?" he continued. "We called him the Monday Morning Killer."
"I've heard about him," Weasel said. "I lived up north back then, but we even heard about the Monday Morning Killer up there. Geez, I must have been a teenager. Everyone talked about that guy."
"It all started in that house your little girlfriend moved into," Mike said.
"Diane?"
He nodded. "The family who lived there were his first victims. You never heard of him?"
I shook my head, and so did Joe Hall. "I…really haven't…"
Mike rolled his eyes. "Geez, you guys are young. Well, we called him the Monday Morning Killer because he always struck on Monday mornings. You know, when people were getting ready to go to work or school when their guard was down because they never thought anything like that would happen at that time of day. At night after dark, yes, or when walking home alone, but never at a time as innocent as a Monday morning. He struck fear into the entire community. The guy was never caught. He just stopped killing or maybe moved on."
I leaned back in my chair and drummed my pencil on the table. "But that was back in the seventies?" I said. "More than forty years ago? Could it be the same guy?"
Mike shrugged. "Serial Killers have been known to have dormant periods. You're the expert. You know more about that than I do. You have a degree in this stuff, right?"
I nodded. "I do. But I don't think I ever heard of anyone taking a forty-year cool down."
"Maybe he didn't cool down; maybe he continued killing somewhere else, maybe using other methods," Weasel suggested.
"There would still be similarities," I said, "in his MO."
"Maybe he was in prison," Weasel said. "For something else. Violence against a girlfriend, something like that."
I nodded. It was plausible. "That's one explanation. It could also be a copycat, someone imitating his MO. He was, after all, quite famous around here, I am assuming?"
Mike nodded. "He was on everybody's lips."
I exhaled and looked at my colleagues.
"What can be a monster to most, can end up being a hero to some," I said. "The few that dream of repeating his atrocities, of becoming famous themselves." I looked at Weasel. "You might need to buckle up. It won't take the press long to add the numbers and get the same result we have here. You're in for a storm."
Chapter 39
August 2018
Diane was still in awe. She could hardly believe what Jack had done for her. At first, when he had arrived with all the furniture, she felt inclined to tell him she didn't want it. She was afraid of what he might think, that if she accepted this gift, he would think she wanted more. She knew he was married, but according to his mother, it wasn't happily. Shannon was away too much and left him all alone with the responsibilities. How much of it was his mother's interpretations, Diane didn't know, but she really didn't want to come in the middle of anything. She had no time for any more drama in her life, as she'd had her share of it the past several years.
But then Jack had shown her all the nice furniture, and she couldn't say no. Of course, she couldn't. She desperately needed it, and if God answers your prayer, you better accept it, right? Diane had been praying for new furniture and so what if God chose Jack to be His messenger?
Now, as she was heading home after working at the motel all day, she felt a sense of relief go through her body. The sun felt nice on her face as she got out of the car, even though she was sweating heavily in the heat. In her purse, she had her paycheck that she would cash tomorrow. Her very first paycheck, and even though it wasn't much, it was definitely a start. She was making a little money now and felt like her life was finally beginning. Things were finally shaping up.
I knew you'd come through for me, God. I knew you would. It doesn’t happen the way I want it to, or the way I expect it to, but you always come through for me.
Diane smiled at Mr. Fogerty as she walked up to her house. He was standing on his porch, as usual. He sent her a glare that gave her the chills, and she hurried up onto her own porch.
What was he doing out there all the time anyway? He just stood there, all the time. It felt like he was watching her. Even at nighttime when she came out to have her one-a-day cigarette on the porch, he would be there, looking at her in that odd fashion. It always gave her the chills. She didn't know why. Maybe it was just because he never spoke to her; maybe it was because he was just always there.
Diane approached her door and found the keys in her purse while listening to Tim and Tiffany going at it as always. The yelling was becoming a nuisance, especially when it happened at nighttime and they would keep her up, but somehow it was also a little comforting. On some days when she felt lonely, it felt good to know that they were there, right next door, even if they were fighting. As she found the keys, the yelling turned to kissing, and she could see them through the window going at it, him lifting her up against the wall. She moved her eyes as the loud moaning took over. They did that a lot too. After the yelling that was.
Diane didn't envy them one bit. She was happy just to have herself to deal with these days. And Misty of course.
"Misty?" she yelled as she opened the door. "I’m home."
Diane walked inside and put her purse down, then walked through the living room looking for the cat. It was usually happy to greet her when she came home.
"Misty? Where are you?"
That's odd.
Diane walked to the kitchen where the cat's water bowl and food were left untouched. Her heart sank as she looked around her.
All the cabinet doors were open. Every freakin’ cabinet in the entire kitchen.
Diane backed up, holding a hand to her pounding chest. And that was when she saw that she had been wrong. Not all the cabinet doors were open. There was one that was still closed and, from behind it, she could hear a meowing. Diane rushed to it and opened the door, and the cat sprang out into her arms, making an awful noise.
Diane stood for a long time and stared at the kitchen, her hands holding the cat, shaking heavily. All the gaping cabinets stared back at her like they were laughing.
Diane regained her calmness, then rushed to them and closed them all one by one.
Chapter 40
I like to toy with them. Is it wrong? Yes, but hey, that's me. Everything I do is sick.
As I got more and more comfortable with my killings, I started to play with them before I struck, during my stalking phase. I even made the phase last longer and longer and toyed with the idea of letting them know that someone was stalking them. Why? Because I wanted them to fear me; I wanted to see that fear in their face when they received the flowers, when they came home, and I had been lying in their bed even though they knew they had made it that same morning. I loved seeing their faces as they realized I had access to their house at any time I wished. And I liked the thought that I could strike at any time I desired. Sometimes, I would hide in my future victims’ houses for hours and just watch them from inside a closet or standing behind a door, and they wouldn't even know I was there. Then as they went to bed, I would stare at them in the darkness, watching them sleep. I liked knowing that I had their lives in my full mercy. I was the one who'd decide if they lived or died. And I wanted them to know that. I had complete power over them.
The police, on the other hand, had no idea. I mean, they would come close sometimes. At one point, they raided a house across the st
reet from me and arrested the guy who lived there. Of course, I thought they came for me when I saw them drive onto the street. I was certain of it, but to my surprise, they stopped across the street instead, and I watched them storm the house and grab the guy. As you can imagine, that was tremendously amusing to me. I even went so far as to walk out there and talk to one of the officers who was guarding, asking him what was happening. He said he couldn't tell me anything, but then I kept asking, was it the Monday Morning Killer? Then he nodded; can you imagine? He said they believed so. I felt such a thrill in the pit of my stomach that I almost laughed out loud, but of course, I kept my calm and told him that I appreciated his service and that it was good to know this killer was finally caught, so the rest of us law-abiding citizens could sleep well at night again.
And he bought into it. Every part of my little act. He even ended our conversation by telling me he was happy to help.
The scene was so obscure and yet so thrilling I had to do it again. I found out where the detectives working the case usually hung out after work and then one day I walked in there and bought them a beer, telling them I wanted to thank them for all they did to catch this bastard.
And they talked to me. I asked them about the investigation, and they told me where they were at, how much they had and everything. It was such an amazing thrill, almost bigger than the killing itself, that I kept returning there at least once a week, while keeping track of the investigation, getting a picture of how much they knew and where they were at. And to my surprise, they were nowhere near finding me. At one point, one of the detectives even told me they appreciated observant and caring citizens like me. It made it all worth it to know that they had the backup from people, that people cared what they did. I bought him another beer just for that remark alone, and we drank it, and they had no idea. I know they considered me a nuisance, but nuisances aren't killers. I got in their way, yes. But friendly nuisances are dismissed. I was proud of myself for not losing it at that point, for keeping my composure. It is hard when you live a double life, when there are two realities. It's enough to drive most men mad.