SKA: Serial Killers Anonymous

by William Schlichter

  It left me sick. My stomach burned. My bowls tightened. I thought I might soil myself.

  Never aroused by what I saw, I was angered. It was necessary to protect this new girl like I was compelled to protect Amylyn. Why did these men have to be so cruel? This girl did nothing to earn permanent scars.

  I knew what I had to do.

  I would protect Amylyn.

  To prove myself, I would defend this unknown girl.

  The mother was rarely home. Sunday, however, they all attended religious services. I had my window. The younger brother wouldn’t report the missing twenty-two. I wondered if he got it to protect his mom and sister. His room was always dark during the assaults.

  I cut the screen on a downstairs window, just a slit to allow me to slip the lock with a metal wire hanger. Once inside, I raced up the stairs. I entered the boy’s closet. It took a bit to find it. He hid it behind a ceiling slat. Then I discovered why he had yet to use it to save his sister. He had no ammo.

  I would have to find some, and fast. A good beating was overdue. The dad seemed to like to let the women heal just enough then go at them again. Always after church, he had to cleanse them of their sins.

  Then the night came and I knew what I must do.

  I changed trees for a better angle. Only these branches creaked as if ready to crack under my weight.

  I aimed the rifle.

  I had shot pellet guns before but nothing like this. It cramped my arms to hold it so long pointed at the house.

  The ritual always began with the striking of the mother.

  Tonight, his anger supercharged, he flung her onto the couch. The mom didn’t move as he trudged upstairs. Normally, mom undressed. He hit her so hard she never moved.

  The daughter’s beating ended and with no mother in the hall, she kept reading from the Bible.

  The dad marched into the hall, screaming downstairs. He spun back toward his daughter. Before he takes a step into the room I jerked the trigger.

  I missed.

  Other than the cracking glass, I doubt he realized what had just happened.

  My heart was beating in my throat, sweat beading along my hairline. My palms also marred the rifle with moisture.

  I fired again, but the center of his chest didn’t explode. I thought it would be like the movies. I fired again. This time red blossomed near his navel. Not much blood. I thought it would waterfall like in a Tarantino movie.

  I’m not sure he felt it.

  I needed to breathe slower.

  Still naked, the abused daughter actually jumped, concerned about her father. She was worried about him. He had been ass raping her. I saved her from another evening of sodomy and she was concerned about him. I’m not sure if he hit her or threw her to the ground to protect her, but once she was behind the bed, I emptied the gun. Bullets tore apart the window remains. I don’t know how many hit him.

  As I climbed down, the branch snapped. I landed on the rifle. The smoking barrel burned my side. I had the wind knocked from me. I had to get up. The shots would surely cause some neighbor to call the cops this time.

  My heart raced. So did I. I would have to dispose of the rifle.

  VIII

  “NOT MUCH OF a story, kid,” Robert says.

  “What he did doesn’t make him a serial killer. Hell, some police departments might hang a medal on him,” Al says.

  “I wanted to know if he shot Chaz,” Kenneth says.

  The delicate tone of the woman interjects, “One story per meeting. Unless we reach a breakthrough, and we don’t have the trust for such a display yet. It’s not the number of kills. It’s the desire. The need. Killing fills a hole inside us. We’re here to plug that hole. Al, you should be asking if the father survived.”

  “I doubt this kid’s taken a life.” The older, unnamed man demands, “Did this bastard father die?”

  “No, I barely got the gun tossed in the lake. I forgot to wipe off my prints,” the kid admits.

  “Dumb ass kid. I bet your fingerprints were all over the brass. Did you police up the casings?” Robert scolds.

  “I’m not perfect. I didn’t have some elaborate hunting plan. I wanted to stop the fucker from raping and beating his daughter.” The kid rises from his chair, his testosterone in overdrive.

  “Sit down, kid. I doubt you’d take him,” Al says.

  “How would this impress Amylyn? She couldn’t know you shot this father to protect a stranger.”

  “If he killed once, he could get better with Chaz.”

  “Building trust is not easy for us, not with what we’ve done, but we don’t need to criticize our techniques,” the woman says. “This is about healing, not making him a better killer.”

  “I don’t want his mistakes leading the cops to us. He’s fresh out of high school as is. If he’s captured he’d spill to avoid prison.”

  “I would not,” the kid protests. “Any of you would.”

  “No. They wouldn’t take me alive. I won’t end up beaten to death in prison like Jeffrey Dahmer,” Robert says.

  “Don’t eat your victims and you’ll be fine,” Al says.

  “Cages are for animals. They won’t get me,” Robert says. “But I don’t want it to come down to a gunfight. I want help.”

  “We are here to help. We might be the only people who are able to help each other,” she says.

  “I was in college,” the kid pops up, “a criminal justice major. I was studying how cops think so I don’t get caught. But I don’t want to kill—not after the last time.”

  “Remorse is a good thing. It means you are reformable,” Al says.

  “We’ve all screwed up a killing—only we didn’t have remorse about it enough to want to stop,” She asks, “What is your nom de plume?”

  “Hello, I’m…I’m Dexter.”

  Protesting grunts emanate from the dark. “You can’t call yourself Dexter, he’s a made up serial killer.”

  “Sounds about right for this kid,” Robert says. “We know he didn’t successfully kill the father.”

  “Dexter is rather amateurish. Some of us may have taken inspiration from other killers, but they were real, not some phony Hollywood imagination. The man would be caught after one kill attempting to dispose of all the plastic or raise suspicion buying so much so often.”

  “Fine. I’ll chose a more appropriate moniker,” with a long, drawn out breath he snaps, “Jesse.”

  “You’re no gunman.”

  “Not James. Jesse Pomeroy. In the 1870s, in South Boston, Jesse mutilated several young boys and girls,” he explains.

  “It’s better than Dexter.”

  “I did save the girl,” Jesse says. “My actions revealed all the father was doing to all three of them.”

  Convinced, Robert says, “You failed to kill the father.”

  “I put five bullets in him.”

  “And he lived?” Al asked.

  It takes Jesse a painful second before he answers, “Yeah, the neighbors did report the shots. EMS arrived and got him to the hospital in time, but the girl was found naked putting pressure on his stomach wound. The arriving officers saw her fresh whip marks, found the unconscious mother and her bruises.”

  “They removed the girl?” The woman asks.

  “I’m not sure what happened, but the dad was arrested. For a time, they thought the daughter defended herself against him, but the broken window and bullet trajectory proved they came from outside. The little brother was cleared as well. He only had the rifle I stole and no evidence of ever having a weapon. I didn’t police the brass, but I never held the rounds bare-handed. I had no way of learning what they did with the daughter. They didn’t attend my school and they were part of one of those cult churches. I saved a newspaper clipping where they sentenced the father to twenty years. His wife pleaded with the judge at the hearing not to take him away.”

  “Burn it,” the woman snaps. “Burn anything you saved from the crime.”

  “Not entirely his fault the ba
stard breathes,” the older man says.

  “He had intent. It might lead back to him,” she adds.

  “You going to allow him to call himself Jesse?”

  “What is it that bothers you about his name choice?”

  Robert throws his hands up, “Fine. Let him keep it. He’s not much of a killer. Sounds like he fits with made up killers anyway. What’s your story, lady?”

  “I’ll take my turn now. People should never be afraid to do what they ask of those they lead,” she says.

  IX

  “IF I COULD just stay away from him, Miss Jane, I know I could make my life better,” Lindsey pleaded.

  I inspect the girl’s arm—fresh track marks. Twenty-three and forever committed to the dragon.

  “I have to report this violation, Lindsey.”

  “Please, no, Miss Jane. If you do, they’ll put me back inside.” Before the drugs her face would hold an innocent expression impossible to refuse. Now plagued with age lines, her begging incites no sympathy. “You don’t know what’s it like in there, what they make weak girls like me do.”

  “If I don’t report you I’ll be the one in trouble,” I said.

  “Please, no. I’ll do anything you want.”

  It wasn’t her pleading that convinced me to pardon her. She wasn’t a bad kid. I had read her file and the boyfriend most likely used her to transport his drugs. He rewarded her with needle trips. She might have been able to turn it around if he would’ve stopped interfering in her life. To this day I don’t understand why these women keep going back to the men that abuse them.

  “This halfway house is all about second chances, but if they suspect you used or even spoke to this man again, I’ll put the cuffs on you myself. You’ll do the full stint of your time and no more chances for parole.”

  “Yes, Miss Jane.”

  I turned a notepad around on the desk around and put a pen in her trembling fingers.

  “His address.”

  “No, Miss Jane. He’ll kill me.”

  I picked up the landline phone punching in three numbers.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “His address before I finish dialing or you’re back inside before I hang up on the officer.”

  Lindsey scrawled numbers and a street name down.

  “Are you going to report him?”

  “No.” I hung up the phone. “But if I don’t know where you are, I send the police there. Now you take a shower, go to bed and tomorrow you find a job. You don’t find a job and it’s out of my control. You go back in.”

  “I’ll get a job. I promise.”

  “And?” I demanded.

  “I won’t see him no more.”

  Every few weeks I received a poor girl like Lindsey. Their stories were all the same. They were usually pretty girls with no self-esteem who got mixed up with a man who used them to transport drugs or punching bags. Some would sell them for sex. Most were all three. People think these girls are of low IQ, but many were smart. Some had earned scholarships to college, but not full rides so they didn’t go.

  Dumb as a post, little Jimmy got to attend university because daddy donated enough money to build a practice stadium. He won’t contribute to society beyond a reality televised show about his drinking on a beach, while girls like Lindsey who have—had a brain—are tossed by the wayside because she came from a trailer park. Given the chance—should—would have changed the world for the better, even if it was just obtaining a degree and never having to rely on the system to support her. Now the system owns her.

  Yes, I have a soap box—angry feminist kills!

  I followed a detour to my apartment. There was a room for me to sleep at the halfway house in case I had to stay late or deal with an issue, but it had a night watch woman. I made sure the night staff was a woman. Some of these girls would convince a weak man with their bodies to do whatever they wanted. It was not a man’s fault, he is designed to do whatever to get a pair of tits. It’s why women have them.

  Women have them to attract men. All other creatures only have breasts when it comes time to nurse. Not human women. We’ve got to deal with them being in the way twenty-four/seven. And they do so get in the way. Hell, when I was younger they would arrive five minutes before me. Now, give me some tassels and I’ll sweep the floor with them.

  No, I’m not angry about my sagging boobs. Sexual urges were a part of the human condition—one I lacked.

  My side trip was to the address Lindsey wrote down. I didn’t trust her. I half expected it to be a corner market. If it was I still had her pee in an unlabeled cup. Write her name on it and she twelve-twelves. Only I wanted to give her a shot no one else had ever given her before. I wanted to change the world. Or change her.

  I was a bold bitch. I had heard it more than once. Why not? Middle-aged white woman decently dressed in a crime infested neighborhood. I exploded on everyone’s radar and yet even the lowest street urchin never bothered to beg me for spare change. None of them even bothered to notice my latex gloves.

  I marched right up to the boyfriend’s door and pushed my way past the doorman—stupid lookout who answered it.

  Amid their protests, I spotted only three men. I drew a pistol. I put the lookout down first. The other two drew guns. I had the drop on them. I shot the one from the kitchen next, betting he wasn’t the boyfriend.

  The third. Now he appeared the type I’d bet got Lindsey hot—total cartwheeling douse-goblin swinging a massive dick.

  I didn’t allow him time to consider why a middle-aged white woman was in his crib. I put two in his chest before words of protest fall from his mouth.

  He chokes on his own blood. I slipped the Berretta from his waistband. The door punk had a gun too. I dropped both in my purse, nice clean guns for my next performance. And there would be one. Girls like Lindsey are a revolving door through the halfway house. I put one more round in the third man before tossing the gun on the floor.

  I strolled down the street as normal as possible. No rush. Gun shots were rarely reported in this neighborhood and equally slow to be responded to when they did. White people all appear the same anyway.

  I did avoid the cameras at the intersection—just in case. But I was in no fear of being discovered.

  I lost any fear I had a long time ago especially when I graduated to guns. I always slept better after a cleansing.

  • • • • •

  Lindsey burst into my office the next morning. Now, how she learned of this so fast I’m not sure. I made a mental note to toss her room for a burner phone. Bet her boyfriend gave her one.

  “Miss Jane. Someone shot up Tree-dog’s house.”

  “Is he alright?” Someone shooting up your boyfriend’s home should be reason to find a new boyfriend, but these girls never seem to think so.

  “He wasn’t home.”

  Damn.

  “I’m glad he is alright. Was anyone else hurt?”

  Damn. Damn. Damn.

  “Three of his buddies were shot dead.”

  “Over drugs?” I was finished placating her. She was about to be last on a short list of people I helped.

  Lindsey dropped her head in submission. She knew if she lied what I would do, or what she thought I would do, but she didn’t want to rat out her man.

  After she thought about her answer, “I’m sure they will say it was. That whole neighborhood has a gang problem.”

  “You have to stay away from there.” This would be her test.

  “I’m going to find a job today.”

  “Good. It will keep your mind busy and your body out of trouble.”

  I don’t like not killing my target. I doubt I get another shot at this Tree-dog, not for a long time. Unfortunately for Lindsey, it means if she screws up I will have no forgiveness for her.

  None.

  “The diner down the street called to check Lindsey’s reference. He gets a lot of business from the halfway house when the girls have jobs. Some nights I order as a reward after curfe
w. He needed a night waitress. I said I would file the motion to allow Lindsey a night job if he wanted her.

  He thought she would work out and overnight the till had less money for an employee to steal. He liked that she was upfront about her living arrangements, and her reason for being incarcerated.

  I would allow it.

  Two weeks. Lindsey was a model parolee and then the honeymoon was over. She left work halfway through her shift, claiming her cramps were too bad to work. Men always fell for my cramps are terrible today.

  She wouldn’t be at Tree-dog’s place, it might still have police tape on the door. Cops were looking at a gang hit since there were so many thousands in drugs left in the house.

  I thought about it. Why wouldn’t they go there? It would be private. Perfect. Cheap, unlike the no-tell motels. I would swing by. If no one was there I would deal with Lindsey when she came back. I hated to do it at the halfway house. Lots of paroled women failed there, but too many in the house caused investigations and oversight. I understood how too many in one location raised red flags. It was what brought an end to my first career. I’d rather do it outside my required duty station.

  Damn.

  There was a light on upstairs.

  I found Lindsey only in her panties. She was alone. High. Tree-dog left her here after he gave her dope and his seed.

  She was loopy, just lying in the bed floppily waving her right hand toward me.

  I prepared another dose.

  “Miss Jane,” she had the giggles, “You know how to do drugs?”

  She was in her own humor-filled world, but I felt compelled to explain myself to her. “Before I was your den mother I was an RN.”

  “You should still be a nurse. You’re so nice.” She slurred most of her words now.

  “I would be, but the administrators felt too many terminally ill people were dying too soon on my shifts. If a dying person clung to life for weeks or months, the hospital made money. If they died it was over. No more medical bills.” I prepared a dose of the medication.