V
“WORST PART OF the job.” Chambers turns down the street, driving with one hand and failing to signal. “I hate to have to tell anyone a loved one is gone.”
“It wasn’t him, or it would not have been new information for him. Before he knew she was dead, he thought we were there about him having sex with her.”
“You put the fear of God into him.”
“Good. He needs it, or you might be arresting him for something statutory,” Al says.
“You just know that’s all he did?”
“Typical adult male behavior and she was young. I’d be scared, too, if I were him. But he had no tells about her being missing. He was a typical jock asshole, not a sociopath,” Al says.
“You rode the kid pretty hard, suspecting only fornication.”
“He has a small dick and chases the young, inexperienced girls because of his insecurities. He’d have knocked Shelby up and she would have been stuck here as a waitress, never getting a chance to live her dream, Now some other bastard used her to live out his fantasy. We need to find him before he goes dormant.”
“At the seminar, you never said why you got into profiling,” Chambers says.
“I just always thought like a killer. Leaves you with two choices in a career—I prefer to be on the catching end.” Al shifts his focus onto Craig. “And I don’t think Craig ever had sex with the girl.”
“You a mind reader?”
“No, but he was mad he hadn’t. This pastor was a cock block.”
Chambers pulls into the church parking lot. “Pastor Paul has been an outstanding member of the community for…three years now.”
“Craig said Shelby would blow off their dates to go pray.”
“It’s a small town. Church is important to many of these kids. Sometimes it’s the only acceptable social activity some of them get.” Chambers closes his car door.
“And she would be punished ‘by the pastor, for her sins. An interesting word choice. Not him as in Him—God, but the pastor.” Al pulls his pants up after stepping from the car. “It is not the place of a man of the cloth to punish—only God.”
From behind the building puffs a thin stack of smoke. The black smoke signals something manmade likely burns. Al gestures to Chambers and they split, racing around each side of the building.
Al’s Glock clears its holster as he spots the pastor dropping photo paper in a pile of cut brush. “Back away from the fire, Father. Put those papers down and raise your hands.”
Pastor Samuel recognizes Detective Chambers. “Officer, I have a burn permit.”
Each of Al’s steps are taken with care so his pants don’t drop to his ankles. He swings around the fire to get a clear view of the papers.
Chambers draws his weapon. “Al, I’ve got your back, but he is a respected member of the community.” Translation: You better not fuck this up!
“Special Agent Al. Drop the pages and step away. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
By the book, Chambers notes. “Father, do as he asks.”
Pastor Samuel steps back.
Al kicks at the pages, scattering them away from the growing fire. One stack of photographs already turns black and crinkles in the bluish flickers. He glances down at the images consumed in flames. He raises his gun to center mass his target. “Your upstanding citizen enjoys personally consoling his parishioners.”
Chambers scoops up an unburnt page. Grinding his teeth, he swings his right arm. The butt of his Glock breaks open Pastor Samuel forehead as the impact flings the man to the ground. “You have the right to remain silent.” His boot impacts the Father’s abdomen before Al slides between them.
“Not this way, he’s not worth it.”
Chambers waves the picture of Shelby clad in lacy underwear, sprawled across the church pew.
“This is brutality,” Pastor Samuel protests, touching the dripping blood on his forehead.
“You resisted arrest when we informed you we were bringing you in for the murder of Shelby.” Al slips his handcuffs from his belt pouch.
“I didn’t harm Shelby, we just had sex.”
Al deduces he will recant the admission after his Maranda Rights are read and before trial. Pleading to a statutory conviction means he will not spend the rest of his life behind bars or face the needle. Al considers, not sure if this state even has the death penalty anymore. He holsters his Glock. As he cuffs Samuel he says, “You are under arrest for possession of child porn and the murder of Shelby Mathews.”
VI
AL PUMPS THE hand of the female officer. She has a grip firmer than most men he’s encountered.
“Alisson Weber.” She peers through the two-way mirror at Pastor Samuel. Even with his hands cuffed to the hook in the center of the metal table, he folds his hands in prayer.
“You’re going to have more girls come forward. I don’t know how many he molested, but a few will step up once they know why he’s been arrested. And since the gossip wagon moves faster than the Internet in this town it may be soon.”
“I trusted him with my own kids,” Alisson says.
“Chambers has someone identifying the pictures we rescued from the fire,” Al says. “They were all teens. I know it is no comfort.”
She glares through the mirror at Samuel’s bandaged forehead. “Should have shot him for resisting arrest. Those poor girls are going to have to relive what he did with them for months, and face years of follow-up therapy.”
“We think one of his other victims heard we arrested Pastor Samuel and rushed down here. I thought it was better a local female officer spoke with this teenage witness. Once the identification of Shelby’s body was released in the media and word we arrested the Pastor leaked, this girl feared she would be killed next.”
Alisson nods, unable to remove her eyes from Pastor Samuel.
Al continues, “Fucker convinced them the normal teenage girl’s confused feelings were sinful, and the only way they would be clean in God’s eyes was if they did things for him.”
Alisson raises her fist, holding back the urge to pound the glass and scream.
“Hard to believe in the age of the Internet those kids are still so Victorian in their knowledge,” Al adds.
“The only sex education in schools is ‘don’t do it.’ And parents don’t say anything. Some even encourage early dating, so girls get pregnant and another welfare check comes into the home.”
“It happens everywhere.”
“You should have shot him while resisting arrest.”
“I have to draw the line somewhere,” Al says. He places a photo of a young girl in lace into a folder containing other pictures of the same girl. “You know you’re going to have to show her these and make her confirm they are images of her in the photos. I don’t envy you.”
Sheriff Mallard enters the observation room. “He’s my Pastor.” He stares through the two-way mirror. This admission was one of shame.
Al recognizes the guilt from faces he’s encountered before.
Mallard listened to the man preach for years and never knew what he was doing in the basement. In just a few years Mallard’s own daughter would be in the age bracket of the girls in the photos with all his police training, he never noticed.
“And a man of God is less likely to be a killer? He’s human and they do some bad shit. His collar doesn’t prevent dark perversions; in fact, it opens the door. No teenage girl would go off with a forty-year-old man alone in any other circumstance, not without cash or force,” Al says.
“So, we become a country where everyone is suspect?” Sheriff Mallard asks. “No one is left with good intention.”
“There comes a point where people should ask more questions, or maybe the Midwest should come out of the stone age. Speak about sex with their children with proper age appropriate education and not an abstinence only policy. When some person attempts to harm them, children will know it’s not healthy and be more likely to report it.”
“Maybe I s
hould speak with my daughter tonight,” Sheriff Mallard says.
“If I may suggest, I would keep this man on suicide watch. He knows he’s going away for a long time and what he has done won’t place him in high esteem in prison.”
“Let them have him,” Alisson says. “He deserves every dick they stuff into his ass.”
Al ignores the…irony…double standard. People abhor rape when it is a woman or small child, but deem it an acceptable punishment for convicted criminals. “Sheriff, I’m going to be gone a few days. I want to check some information where a body in similar circumstance as Shelby was found.”
Mallard snaps from his depression. “We have the case files and those you dug up could be two more bodies.”
“I know I’ve pissed some of your deputies off by my methods. I know Pastor Samuel was a hometown hero. It has hit Chambers equally hard.”
“At least he didn’t kill him,” Sheriff Mallard says. “You’re not wrong about small towns, but you’re not correct about everyone. These are good people.”
“I agree. I’m going to find Shelby’s killer.” Al chews his bottom lip.
“We have him,” Allison says.
“I don’t think Pastor Samuel is a killer. Sick, and a child molester, but not a killer. There is no evidence at his church where he keeps his trophies. And I suggest you get a warrant for any place he might have hoarded more—people like him never give up their trophies. In the age of computers and quarter-sized SD cards, he’s stashed those photos electronically someplace. He was burning his collection too quickly not to have a backup.”
“Who warned him?” Allison inquires. “How did he know Shelby was dead?”
“One of the family members, when informed of her body’s discovery, called—hell, others may have called him asking for prayers,” Sheriff Mallard says. “It’s not relevant.”
“Sheriff Mallard, I must examine the other crime scenes. If they are similar to Shelby’s then we have a killer still out there.”
“Chambers said you spot things others don’t.”
“Sometimes, but I think it is more I focus in on small details many people miss. But I must stand in the room. A picture doesn’t cut it. It doesn’t fully capture. Smells. The room’s energy. I need to…feel…the place. I rarely admit it. Sometimes to catch these guys you have to assume their thought process.”
“If you didn’t have a high closure rate I’d question your sanity.” Sheriff Mallard shakes his head. “Some people are just meant to do this. I’m already taxed on the cost of this case, the cost of the lab work for all of the DNA tests on Shelby. Nailing her killer will bankrupt the department.”
“I want the correct guy in prison for her death. You have enough evidence to put Samuel away on kiddy porn. Trust me, Sheriff, I won’t turn in a mileage report. No one need know I was gone.”
“You want Chambers to accompany you—off the books?”
“No. He needs to run down Shelby’s last few hours to tie together what I learned at the other crime scenes,” Al says. “You pretend like I’m locked away in the back office sorting through those photos. I won’t promise, but when I get back I’ll have a direction—pointed toward Shelby’s killer.”
VII
“HOW WAS YOUR meeting?” she asks in the half-awake tone of a caring lover. She doesn’t bother to cover her naked body.
Al crawls in next to her, already void of his clothes. Quickly he snaps the end of the handcuff over her right wrist, making sure it’s just tight enough and the black fuzzy cloth keeps the metal from marking her cream-colored skin. She never protests or struggles against his control.
His hands slide down the curve of her back, over her teardrop rounded bottom to her legs.
Near the bed rests a stationary bike. Cables run from a turbine where a front wheel should be if it were a road bike. The wires run to a television. His fingers trace along the tight musculature of her legs. She must have watched many hours of television while he was gone for there to be no loose thigh skin.
With her hands secured behind her he undoes the ankle chain. It allows her to reach the bathroom and the small mini refrigerator, but not out of the bed chamber. No further than the bike connected to a mini-television.
Al tucks in tight against her, making them one person. Her smooth body excites him. Nothing like the touch of a naked woman to stimulate his blood. He yawns, too tired to extract enjoyment from her. Driving all night to be here has exhausted him more than he realized.
“Did you do any reading?” Silly question. He knows the television has limited channels and she must peddle the stationary bike at top speed to give it power.
“I didn’t care much for the female protagonist. She was given everything and remained a whiny brat.”
“I agree.” He draws the alphabet on her tummy with his finger. She has a slight paunch even if her legs are hard as rocks. Al finds it attractive, as it makes her real. Not some airbrushed model—a real woman. He pinches the paunch of skin at the top of her navel where she had a piercing.
“Do I not please you?” She uses her nose to point at the leather dog collar on the nightstand.
“Yes. The drive took it out of me. I want to sleep a bit.” He kisses her neck behind her ear. “After a nap I’ll do you.” Al yawns again.
“Good. I was afraid you no longer required me.” She grinds her hip to stimulate him.
In a dream state Al thinks, This is not love and no matter how much you pretend you’re afraid I lost interest in you, I would end you. It’s what I do. I have done. I’m trying to quit. I care for you. I know if I release you it won’t be reciprocated, but if I kill you then nothing remains. I’ll keep attending those meetings to stop being a killer. In the end what do I do with you?
Al hugs her tight as she grinds. So even if I succeed in overcoming my urge I will never be able to release you. You’ll never be able to freely love me for fear at any day I would end you. Nor am I naive enough to believe you would ever be my lover willingly.
She pretends so well. At times, when she begs I believe her.
Maybe she does mean it. She desires it, not for love, but for me to keep wanting her so I don’t murder her.
She closes her eyes and keeps her hips grinding at a steady pace as if the bulge now poking the soft curve of her rump brings her comfort. Al fights off the sleep as his eyes roll back into his skull.
“NO!” He pushes her away.
Her twisting hips work his stimulation.
“I need sleep first.” I must think. How do I release her? Releasing her would be the only way to prove I was cured. The meetings mean something. Alcoholics get chips for sobriety. How do I earn a chip with this woman chained to my bed?
“I did nothing but think about you while I was gone.” Not a lie. I have. I want…normal.
“You know I only think of you,” she mews. Her finger tickles him.
“I believe you. But your thoughts are not of loving me, but emblazoned in fear.” He slides his finger he used to draw on her tummy up to her lips. “Don’t lie. If I didn’t know you feared me, I’d be a fool.”
“I don’t want to die,” she pleads.
“You may not believe, but those meetings are about sparing you the fate I bestowed on—” She doesn’t need to know my number. I don’t even know if the group will know my number unless I attend enough meetings. My story with many are the same once I finished this chamber in the basement. I explored a few I liked, but I had to develop the skill to perform and not accidently kill them. In the excitement of the moment, if I don’t release the collar then I choke them out.
Jordon enjoys it.
No predator bullshit. She enjoys being choked. She hates the confinement and I’m sure despises me.
Maybe if I figure out how to release her I’ll find an Internet chat group for women who enjoy rough sex. The next meeting Jane will ask if we gave up our trophies. I will destroy all but Jordon.
“I do like it.” Jordan returns the gentle touch of a teasing
lover who knows the sweet spot to rub.
He slips the collar around her neck. Before cinching the buckle, he wonders if he will be able to release her.
I
SHE TUGS ON the white stocking to remove any wrinkles around her exposed lower calf. Jane detests the hospital’s traditional nurse dress code. Constantly buying bobby pins to keep the little cap secure is a wasted expense.
Where do the things disappear to? In some twisted Stephen King universe, the hair must be absorbing them. No, the hat—the hat eats them because the dreaded thing must be a gateway to another dimension like a Buick or the little boy who could flip from one reality to another to save his mother from her cancer. Only in this story when she flips to the other side she will find fields of bobby pins stuck in the ground in rows like corn stalks. Whole forests of the bent metal.
No snags tonight.
Another needless expense—white pantyhose. At least they are control top, as she wasn’t born in the age of garter belts as a practical means to hold them around her upper thighs, though she doubts it was ever a preferred method. Nurses make so much money—only to buy clothes—useless bits of uniform for work. She lacks the education to understand how white hose and a hat that doesn’t fit improves the health of any patient. Nowhere in any nursing text does it explain how her white stockings will save lives.
She could use them as an improvised coffee filter, instead of points of speculation from visiting husbands, whose main concern was if the white nylons went all the way up to her thighs over the welfare of their wife as she gives birth to their child. The worst were the jerks who, as their wives were giving birth, pressed her for a phone number.
Bastards.
No. They were normal behaving men. The bastards were the ones who, as the woman’s water broke, had a lawyer deliver divorce papers. In this state a divorce is forbidden while a woman is pregnant.
SKA: Serial Killers Anonymous Page 10