Terrible Cherubs: Tales of Sinners, Mistakes, and Regrets

by Steve Wetherell

  “He doesn’t work like that,” Robert said. “Stop looking at me like that. Could be a coincidence.”

  “You baited him last time with your statement.”

  “So?”

  “So, you called him an unimaginative coward and now Joe’s dead.”

  Francine cleared her throat as she emerged from the kitchen. Robert nodded toward the blonde and then stood. Turning to Francine, he smiled, but just barely. “I have to go.”

  “So we’re done here?” Francine remembered the press release after the last Stripper killing. She chuckled as she’d written his words, thinking the same as the blonde; bad idea. “When will you be issuing a statement to the press?”

  “We can’t until we’ve investigated.” He pulled out a small black notepad and a pen. “If you’d give me your contact details, I’ll try to make sure you get the release a few hours before the rest.”

  Francine took the notepad and wrote her email and cell number on the first page. She handed it back to him. Their fingers brushed as he took the notepad, and she smiled. “Thanks. I appreciate it. You’re going to another crime scene?”

  He nodded. “Sorry, I really have to go.”

  Francine’s frustration bloomed. He wasn’t going to share. So be it. She’d be direct. “I couldn’t help but hear part of your conversation. Sorry. Thin walls, as you said.”

  He rubbed his chin. “And?”

  “Has the Stripper murdered someone else?”

  “Think so. I can’t confirm it yet, so don’t quote me.”

  Francine nodded. “He’s not really news anyway.” Robert scowled. “I mean, there’s no link between victims and his murders are so sporadic, it’s hard to connect any of them. A lot of people think these are copycat crimes.”

  “You’ve done your homework.”

  “I report crime. Kind of my job. My research shows the public doesn’t get worked up about the Stripper.”

  “Well, this time he killed a cop. I really have to go. I’ll call you.”

  Francine chewed her lip as Robert and his blonde cohort left her apartment. Fucking bastard. She’d followed the Stripper for a couple of years. Now and then, she considered copying him, but he was an arrogant prick, and skinning someone wasn’t easy. She wasn’t confident she could set the scene convincingly.

  The fire ignited. Damn it. Cop killers caused media frenzies. How dare he upstage her show? How dare they treat him like he was more important than the Bloodletter, copycat or not? She paced the short length of floor in front of her sofa. She could send in the article she’d already written about the Bloodletter, but had to wait for the damn press release to make sure she didn’t have more details than the rest. By then, they’d share the Stripper’s story as well, and the Bloodletter would be outshined.

  #

  Robert had left the door of the storage unit open. He’d wanted Joe found immediately so he wouldn’t have to be the worried friend for too long, a role he didn’t play very well. He didn’t like recognizing his shortcomings, but being aware of weaknesses made him stronger. Forced him to work harder. His reward was the exhilaration that accompanied fooling everyone, and the confirmation of his superiority.

  He sat in his car, watching the white suited men walk in and out of the unit. To those outside, it looked like he was bracing himself; trying to work up the nerve to see what the Stripper had done to his partner. God, he hated the name the press had given him. Stripper… fucking imbeciles. The Skinner or the Filleter—even Flayer would’ve been better. Skinning was entirely different from stripping.

  A tap on his window. Robert closed his eyes and then opened the door. His boss, whose name was Eugene, but everyone referred to him as “Cap,” stepped back.

  “We can do this one, Robbie,” Cap said. Robert hated people shortening his name. “You don’t have to go inside.”

  “I’ve been doing this a long time, Cap.” Robert got out of the car and took a deep breath. “He’s not going to scare me off now.”

  Cap nodded. “You need to leave at any time, it’s all right. I almost tossed my breakfast. It’s not pretty.”

  “Never is.” Robert walked to the unit, pausing for effect before going inside.

  Joe hung where he left him, sans most of his flesh. They’d find only trace amounts of skin left on the corpse. Bits and pieces he couldn’t be bothered to remove. Already the unit smelled of death, which enhanced the magnificence of the picture he’d painted. He’d allowed himself to be a little dramatic this time, intentionally spattering blood everywhere to imply the Stripper had lost another screw in his already shaky psyche.

  “You okay?” Cap touched his shoulder.

  He was fantastic. “Fuck,” Robert said as he looked at the walls, the floor, making sure he avoided looking at Joe. Cap would see it as being unable to look at his friend’s suffering. Robert wanted to minimize the risk he might look at his work with pride, a dead giveaway of his guilt. “He had a bone to pick this time.”

  Cap snorted. “Sorry. Sounded funny. This is fucked up.”

  “What are the odds the only two active serial killers in the city commit a crime on the same night?”

  Robert couldn’t shake the redhead from his mind. She was small, but muscular, and paid careful attention to details most people wouldn’t notice. Her apartment was meticulously clean, almost sterile. Her appearance was almost perfect, and her demeanor reminded him of others before her. She was careful, precise. He noticed the control in her expressions and her movements, the way she tried to appear unassuming and approachable. But her blue eyes reflected the barely leashed animal he’d encountered often in his work.

  Cap sighed. “We were just talking about that. Odds are pretty out there, and the Bloodletter hasn’t killed in months. Thought he’d moved on, to be honest.”

  “And?”

  “And what? We were obviously wrong.”

  “The scene isn’t right.” Robert walked to the far side of the unit, where he pretended to inspect the spatter pattern on a stack of boxes. “The killer was straddling the victim. I’m thinking she was fucking him when she killed him. Stabbed him in the chest and then dragged him to the bathroom to drain him.”

  “She?”

  “The other victims were gay. This one wasn’t, unless he’s hiding it.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “True. But that’s not all. The Bloodletter avoids killing them before draining their blood if he can help it. Only he would know that, though, since we didn’t release it to the press. This one was cuffed to the bed, and there’s no sign he struggled or forced the killer to change his pattern.”

  “Weird.”

  “And Bloodletter victims show evidence of ejaculation before death, like this one. But with the other murders, it was anyone’s guess whether it was vaginal, anal or oral sex. He’s been careful to avoid giving any indication of his gender. The scene I saw this morning screams a female killer.”

  “Copycat?”

  Robert nodded. “Think so.”

  “Could be a revenge thing. Jilted lover or whatever. Used the Bloodletter’s MO to make it look like nothing personal.”

  “It was a copycat, but I’m not convinced it was revenge.”

  “Think this is a copycat too? Odds are even wider we’d have two of those on the same night.”

  “This is the Stripper. Definitely.” He turned to the wall where he’d written his message.THERE WILL BE MORE was written with patches of skin he’d carefully stuck to the cement. He always left the same message. It led others to believe he was insane, but meant nothing. Just a prop.

  “Fuck.” Cap straightened his jacket. “Poor Joe.”

  “He said he had a lead,” Robert sighed. He finally allowed himself to admire his handiwork. “We agreed to check it out together.”

  “Don’t blame yourself, Robbie. Joe’s a big boy.”

  “I should’ve known he’d check it out alone. Said he had information, that we might catch the Stripper red handed. I said to wait
. We should confirm it was legit first.”

  “He definitely confirmed it.”

  Robert nodded. “Should’ve known he wouldn’t listen to me.”

  “Nah, you weren’t Joe’s babysitter, Robbie. He knew better than to go on his own. Lone wolves always get fucked.”

  Cap was nuts, but never doubted Robert’s word. Never questioned his hunches. It was almost too easy, which sucked all the fun out of it sometimes.

  “Let’s let the creeps do their job.” Cap didn’t like the forensic team, particularly the ones that loved their jobs. Thought it was unhealthy to enjoy being around death. Robert admitted he might be right. “We’ll sift through the evidence later.”

  “Yeah,” Robert walked toward the door, shoulders slumped.

  “Let’s get a drink.”

  “I’ve got a lead on the Bloodletter thing I want to check out,” Robert said.

  “Not by yourself.”

  “Just talking to a possible witness.” Robert stopped at his car. He turned to find Cap a few feet away.

  “You shouldn’t go alone,” Cap said. “Copycats are still animals like the rest.”

  “Nothing dangerous about this redhead,” Robert winked.

  Cap smiled. “Ah, I see. Check in later?”

  “Promise.”

  Robert got in his car, but didn’t start it right away. He tapped the steering wheel, his mind on the redhead. Copycats had no imagination. No guts. They used the genius of others instead of finding their own way. Yet, something about her kindled a small respect in Robert. Women were so rare in this business. Was this her first kill? Revenge as Cap suggested? Or was the redhead more talented than that?

  THREE

  Francine read her previous articles on both killers. The Bloodletter had been the perfect choice, and was much more popular with the media than the Stripper. Christ, he even had a fan site. The Stripper hadn’t generated much buzz after his first few victims five years before. He obviously wanted the spotlight, so he upped the ante with this cop bullshit. She wanted to hate him, but admired his balls. Killing a cop was a sure fire way to be noticed.

  Robert the detective emailed her two press releases. The first was a brief summary of the Bloodletter scene, with a few disappointing words near the end. “Inconsistencies… crime of passion… suspected impersonator…” She printed the release, but fumed at her failure. True, they couldn’t prove it was her, but she wanted them to point the finger at the Bloodletter. The last thing she wanted was to diminish her brilliance by implying it was someone less impressive. A pathetic woman trying to cover an act of revenge. Assholes.

  The second release detailed the Stripper’s scene. Francine read the few lines, her chest burning. The victim, a homicide cop like Robert, had been contacted anonymously according to his partner (name not released), and was investigating a possible lead. He was found in a storage unit (undisclosed location) stripped of his skin. The preliminary investigation suggests he was partially skinned while still alive. The remainder of flesh was removed post-mortem.

  Robert sent a few pictures of both crime scenes. Francine felt a tickle of arousal at the image of the Stripper’s message. The photographs of her scene paled in comparison. The tips of her fingers tingled, and a steady ache mounted in her belly. The fire was unhappy. It demanded more. Always more. Usually it left her alone for a few months after being sated, but today it was angry. Disappointed.

  Her cell phone buzzed, forcing her thoughts from the fire. Francine touched the screen and put the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Walker?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Detective Hanes. We spoke this morning?”

  “I just received your emails. Thank you for letting me have these first.”

  “No big deal. The official release is going out in an hour, so you didn’t get that big a jump on it.”

  Dick. Francine took a breath. “What can I do for you?”

  “I was hoping we could meet somewhere. I need to discuss a few things that don’t add up.”

  Her heart pounded. Did he know? She felt the fire rekindle. “Of course. Do I come down to the police station?”

  “We don’t have to be so formal. I saw a bar near your building. The one with the green sign?”

  “O’Donnell’s?”

  “Sure. I have a few loose ends to tie up, but we could meet around seven?”

  Francine didn’t want to make it too easy for him. She was silent for a moment and then sighed. “Seven’s not good for me. Is five all right?”

  “Sure.” He didn’t even pause to think about it. Loose ends my ass. “See you then.”

  He hung up before she could reply. Francine stared at the photo on her computer screen. THERE WILL BE MORE. The Stripper won this time. Killing a cop was a bold move. She had to admire his audacity. In a way, they were very alike. Francine was careful to choose her victims based on the original killer’s MO. Male, female; she didn’t have a preference. She chose whatever suited the killer she emulated. The Stripper seemed to choose randomly as well. He’d killed almost equal numbers of men and women. The gender of his victims appeared to be unrelated to his motivation.

  Francine made sure she left no evidence, as did the Stripper, but the Stripper had a flaw in his methods. Francine selected both good and bad types; a nun once, and a pedophile another time. All of the Stripper’s victims were largely disliked by those that knew them. Whether or not he chose assholes intentionally, the existence of a possible motivation was a fatal mistake and often led to errors that got a killer caught.

  She pulled the file containing her notes on the Stripper up on her computer. The cops believed he used the same knife to skin his victims. She too had favorite tools. The blade she’d used last night, for example, had belonged to her stepfather. The first blood it tasted had been his. Francine had never taken credit for his death, though. He remained behind the old farmhouse, under the vegetable patch the new owners seeded over with grass. Her copying of other killers made it difficult to use the knife as much as she’d like. Stranglers rarely used knives. The Firebug didn’t need anything but a flame. She’d liked that one. Almost enough to do it again…

  But she never emulated the same killer twice.

  The fire pushed into her mind, whispering encouragement. Maybe it was right. She’d recorded every detail reported about the Stripper, and the only challenge was in removing the skin. Surely, with the right knife, it wouldn’t be that difficult. The cops had identified the knife as something called a skinning knife, with a gut hook that was used by hunters to skin animals. She could find a similar knife at a sporting goods store. Close enough to make it look like the Stripper might have lost the original, or had to improvise as the impulse overtook his usual diligence.

  She turned her attention to the list of victims. What hadn’t he targeted yet? Francine tapped the keyboard, her eyes moving over the screen as the fire built in her gut. She needed an easy target. The fire whispered. Vagrants were rarely missed and it wasn’t difficult to lure them somewhere private. Would the cops believe the Stripper committed a crime impulsively? His escalation with the cop might be a good thing. He was taunting them, so a murder so soon after the vicious one last night wouldn’t be completely implausible.

  Francine glanced at the clock in the corner of the screen and closed the laptop. Drinks with Detective Hanes first, followed by a minor distraction to throw him of her scent. Then a trip to her least favorite part of town later. She could stalk her prey, scout a kill location, and have it all set up for tomorrow night.

  The fire agreed, waning a little as she stood from the desk. It whispered again. This time it suggested something more dangerous than skinning a hobo. Robert Hanes was an attractive man. The coldness in his eyes intrigued Francine. It challenged her to find out what stoked the fire she suspected he hid deep inside.

  #

  Robert Googled Francine before their meeting, and a few red flags had popped up in his brain. He sat across from her,
a scarred and slightly sticky tabletop between them. He tried to imagine her doing what he suspected. As a journalist, her area of expertise was serial killers. She’d written dozens of feature articles and one book, detailing the dark minds of killers from all over the country. Her articles were informative, but distant… most of them lacked any sort of emotion. However, a small few were written with an excitement he couldn’t ignore. Each included police reports, witness accounts, and quotes from various law enforcement sources. His name popped up in some, but only in passing, as he was often the lead investigator in the Stripper and Bloodletter killings. She was dismissive of the Stripper, almost mocking him. However the Bloodletter had earned a detailed feature delving into his possible motivations. Robert sensed admiration in the words she chose. The same with the Firebug, though she never wrote another article about him after her second piece the year before. Funny. The Firebug was at the top of the FBI’s most wanted list. He’d killed in almost every state, with two more victims in the past six months. The only area he’d popped up more than once in was New York… the same state Francine called home.

  “You look tired,” Francine said.

  Robert blinked. “I guess I am. Long day.”

  “Was he your friend?”

  “Who?”

  “The cop. The one that died.”

  Robert nodded. She had answered his questions about the night before. Her answers were believable, but something in her eyes woke Robert’s lizard brain. Stupid term, but apt. She knew something, but he couldn’t figure out whether she was the killer, or was stalking him… or her.

  “You two were close?” she prompted.

  “Yeah,” Robert said. “He was my partner.”

  “Wow. That’s… think the killer is warning you? Do you have a suspect?”

  Direct. A little aggressive. She was good at prodding information from people. He’d give her that. “I can’t share any more than I did in the release. Sorry.”

  Curling a lock of hair around her finger, Francine smiled. “I figured as much. Had to try.”