SKA: Serial Killers Anonymous

by William Schlichter

  He wasn’t violent. He did those things she would consider part of the making love process, the way a first time should be. He lit a candle and kissed her body. She hated herself. When he propped her leg up she held it there for him, never removing her eyes off the flickering flame.

  Sporting yellow rubber cleaning gloves, he pinches her nose, forcing her to breathe through her mouth. He jabs a hard rubber ball against her teeth, buckling the strap in her messy hair. She knows it’s part of an S&M game. She saw it on one of the videos.

  He shoves her in the bathroom where bleach fumes bring tears. He covers every inch of exposed skin in bleach. Rubbing her down twice he places her into the tub. Taylor moves as he directs. She lost control of her body hours ago. Her brain told her to allow him to do what he demands, and all will be fine.

  The water’s freezing cold. Needles sting at the burning between her thighs where he rubbed bleach. He pushes her head, so she lays down. It’s only as her lungs lack air that she realizes he has her head under the surface. Her desire to struggle loses to his strength as he holds her down until stillness.

  After the last air bubble burps from her nostrils he caresses her cheek with the back of his hand. She could have been a love, but instead she will fill pages. Shaking the water from his hand, he leaves her in the tub.

  Flipping open his laptop, Edgars connects to the free WIFI from the hotel next door. He dips into a hidden folder and logs into the deep web to send a simple three-word message—I NEED HELP.

  I

  WELCOME TO SERIAL Killers Anonymous, a fellowship of people determined to prevent our urges to take another human’s life.

  II

  JESSE RECONSTRUCTS THE tale of murdering his professor—exchanging his need for help in tracking his sister’s murderer for his grades being too low, the danger of academic probation and losing his scholarships.

  “Way to go kid,” Robert cheers. “You’re a killer after all.”

  “Not a serial murderer yet,” Ed muses. “But I’ve more trust since you succeeded in taking a human life. I’m not sure the cops would do much to you since they caught the girl’s father beating and raping her. You might be hailed as a hero in his case.”

  “We are not here to praise past action,” Jane says. “It’s counterproductive to reward negative behavior.”

  “Nor are we here to condemn them,” Al says.

  “I earned an A. I wanted my A,” Jesse whines.

  “Studying all those killers has been the brunt of quality education.”

  “Did it impress Amylyn?”

  “I haven’t thought about her. She attended some girl’s college on the east coast. Even failing to kill, I protected the girl, but not permanently. The dad could get out of prison, based on his behavior, in a few years and go after her. I had to know what to do, how the cops thought. Some of you do the same. I wanted to be educated.”

  “Admirable, kid,” the new voice completes.

  “We have two new members joining us,” Jane explains. “When we have new members, I believe they should start by sharing one of their early incidents, so we keep building trust within our group. At the end of this meeting we must decide how we will proceed in bettering our health.”

  “Then why did I go first?” Jesse asks, having shared he killed Professor Arnett to commence the meeting.

  “You spoke of near murder, Kid. Some of us found you wanting of our little group,” Kenneth says.

  “I’m sorry I’m not on you guy’s level. I never desired to kill. I never hurt puppies or wet the bed. Mine was a moment of passion, I didn’t get my grade I earned. He was a stuffy old man who didn’t understand. He said my analysis of the killer wasn’t accurate. How would he know? He never killed anyone.”

  “Neither had you,” Jane says.

  “I’d been closer than he had been. My insight was accurate,” Jesse says.

  “Kid, I’m not sure you’d pass the psycho test to be a cop,” Ed says.

  “Many people would love to put us on their couch. Your efforts to prevent your urges are commendable,” the new voice says.

  “As they should be. What we do is wrong,” Al says. “Even when some justification for killing a person is present we have to accept what we do is wrong. We’re not elected as judge and jury. First step has to be accepting what we do is inhuman.”

  “In the self-help steps of Alcoholics Anonymous recover people must admit they are powerless over their urge to drink,” Jane says. “Are we powerless in our urge to slaughter?”

  “We form our own rules here, you said,” Robert adds. “We keep anonymity.”

  “Maybe the final part of our healing is to reveal who we are,” Jesse suggests.

  “First are introductions,” says the new voice, “in an AA meeting.”

  “True,” says Jane, “but we have elected to assume pseudonym just like in the chatrooms.”

  “I live my life under a nom-de plume,” says the voice.

  “We thought as part of our advancement toward acceptable societal behavior we would create our rules to help us. Not everything in AA works for what we have done,” Jane explains.

  “We do seem to be powerless over our need to kill.”

  “Even I agree,” says Jack. “I came here because I enjoyed what I was doing, after a fashion. When it stopped being satisfying revenge I knew it was murder.”

  “My need to kill has made my life unmanageable. Normally you get away from being sloppy, but my desires are causing more and more frequent killings. Cops would suspect I desire to get caught. I do. I don’t want to be punished, but I want to stop. If your group doesn’t provide relief I will have to surrender to authorities. I get up from bed and spend my day searching for the next victim. I must be stopped,” the new voice confesses.

  “We’re all here for such a revelation,” Jane says.

  “You want rules for our meetings? New members speak first is a solid rule. Unless…what if you initiate with anyone who has killed since our last meeting?” Al suggests.

  “What do we do with someone who has? We don’t have chits to recant,” Kenneth says.

  “Ed, Robert, you have no option?” Jane inquires.

  “I find this a waste of my time, but I don’t have any other options. I’ve avoided killing for two weeks. I burnt my trophies. I slept with no lot lizards. I changed my overland route to attend this meeting. I don’t know what else could I do?” Ed asks.

  “Has anyone killed?” Jane asks.

  Silence.

  “No one.” She nods. “Even for those of us with years between killings. We’re making a start.”

  “If no one’s killed, and we find ourselves comfortable with Jesse’s confession, it’s the new people’s turn to share,” Al says.

  “I still don’t like the kid,” Ed says. “But let’s get to know our new guests before I share anymore.”

  “We’ve explored early kills so we understand our motivations. We thought it might help to discover why we do what we do,” Jane explains.

  “A character’s backstory is highly important to the teller even if he doesn’t give up the imperative information to the listener.”

  “You speak like a writer,” notes Kenneth.

  “Because I am one. And before you ask, I write murder mysteries.”

  III

  “IMAGINE WHAT IT’S like to stab a person.”

  When speaking to the public I prefer the cordless ear mike to easily pace around the front of the lecture hall. It creates the illusion my practiced speech was actually an improvised conversation. “Do you have the picture of the knife entering the soft tissue—splitting open the flesh?”

  I make the Psycho downward knife slash motion, leaving out the Rer, Rer, Rer, sound effect. “Get a whole chicken from the butcher shop and be like Alfred Hitchcock. Who, for Psycho sat with his back to a table of fruit and listened for the sound he wanted of the knife going into the body. He chose a casaba—a Turkish melon—in case you didn’t know.”

  S
ome of the audience scribble the melon’s name down.

  “My rabbit chasing has a point. Take your knife, as close to the one your character uses in the story and butcher the uncut raw chicken. Listen to the sounds. The serrated edge of the blade as it cuts gashes into the flesh. Rips tendons. Saws bone. Now write it down. Don’t lose what you see, hear and your emotions as you murder. You won’t get the blood blooms. Living blood never behaves as it does in the movies,” I sipped from the water bottle left for him on a wooden bar stool.

  “Now you have your notes about stabbing flesh you finish butchering your chicken and cook the meat. Don’t ever let food go to waste. Makes you wonder if Mr. Hitchcock had casaba juice for dinner.”

  The following group laughs—relieves the tension.

  “I know there are plenty of you who wonder of the sanity of an author who constructs such gruesome murders. Let me just tell you I was never abused as a child. Nor, do I engage in illicit substance abuse, beyond the time I attended a Sammy Hagar concert.”

  Laughs scatter among the crowd—the ones who know the Red Rocker’s reputation.

  “Beyond normal childhood, fresh from diapers and bedwetting, I have not peed myself in my sleep. I don’t think masturbation is ever excessive.” Self-effacement enamors one to the crowd.

  More laughs. The crowd loosens up.

  “And no animal has died at my hand, but I have consumed many. What does my list mean?”

  A cute wavy-haired blonde jerks up her hand.

  I call on her.

  Her white puffy cheeks redden. Anyone who might have glanced at her would recognize she was infatuated with my work.

  “Your list, all common traits of known serial killers,” she ejaculates.

  She needed to breathe. Her excitement gushed as she was actually recognized by me. Fan girls—better than hair band groupies.

  “Correct.”

  People around her thought she was the next contestant on the Price is Right. She might have wet herself.

  “I listed the common factors nearly all captured or known serial, or even suspected serial killers have in common. Which brings me to the point of my writing seminar for all you wanting to know how I capture such believable, if not frightening, killers on the page. I do research. Gobs and hours of research.” I raise my voice, “And not on the Internet—in the stacks. More reading than any English teacher ever assigned you.”

  The preverbal groans roll over the group.

  “Sorry to tell you, writing a novel takes lots of homework. I spend my time reading newspapers. Reading ‘What makes me a Murderer’ books. I might even have a copy of ‘Serial Killer for Dummies’. They have one for everything else.”

  More chuckles.

  “My point, fellow aspiring writers, is you must write, but you must know your topic. And if you wish to follow my path, make friends with the homicide detectives. Once in a grand while you might get a peek at the murder book, or at least when you buy them drinks you hear how cops sound and speak, so your characters sound accurate and speak correctly.” Most cops I know don’t talk like they do on Law and Order.

  They clap.

  The next forty-five minutes of Q&A the drone of my own voice, precedes the flash of my pen on title pages.

  I signed books until no one was left but the little, cute wavy-haired blonde. She purposely waited until last. Clutched in her arms, as if it were a newborn, was my first book. It was awful. I wondered what the publisher who approved its printing was self-medicating with to have said yes.

  “Would you like it personalized?” I smile.

  “Yes, please.” She freezes, mouth agape.

  “Do you have a name?”

  Timid as a field mouse she answers, “Zana.”

  I thought she might cry when I scrawled ‘To Zana, my best fan’ and my name across the yellowing title page.

  “You have no idea what this means to me.” She teared up.

  I glanced around. No one was in the room with us. I had become a big name in the writing world, but not so big I have an assistant to travel with me and pack my gear. Normally I had few books left after a signing so most of the labor was bringing it in.

  “Zana, would you like to assist me in taking my empty totes to my car?’

  “Yes.” She came close to bouncing up and down. She wasn’t a fat girl, but more mid-western thick, which was attractive as long as she stayed this weight. Her curves were proportional and feminine.

  I sent her ahead and waited enough time, exiting through a door with a security camera—alone.

  She was so excited. I don’t think she even asked me what took me so long.

  I always choose my parking spot to be as private as possible, even if the distance is a bit of a hike. I never plan on enticing a victim, but one never knows.

  “Would you like to take a drive with me? Discuss my writing more?”

  “Really?” Zana melts.

  “Sure, I don’t get a chance too often to discuss my work one on one with just a real fan. It’s always groups or editors, who never understand my process.”

  “I would love too.”

  “Do you write?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “Get in.” I unlock the door with the fob, but I open it for her like a gentleman.

  When in an unknown location discover the best secluded spot quickly. The difficulty lies in not knowing the region, but also not exploring it. With a plane to catch in a few hours I would be above the flyover states by the time anyone found her. Doubtful I will be cast as a suspect. My mild fame, and not from being a screen actor, granted me an amenity. The keystone bundlers, called detectives, in Podunk Nowhere’s Ville always assume it’s someone in my audience—always.

  Two men sit in prison for girls I killed. I state a fact—Cops get a hard-on for a suspect and make the evidence fit—watch Dateline.

  Zana would be easier than many. Her eyes saw only the moon when she gazed at me. Of all my victims, I felt this girl loved me. She had an unhealthy attachment which gave her trust she should not have. It allowed me to find a secluded picnic area on the backside of a park and hiking trail no one had visited in weeks. Park services had failed to clear the weeds from the entrance sign.

  I leaned against the side of the car, pulling her toward me. I twirled her in this romantic twist. We stood spooning, her butt against my crotch. She giggles as my left hand stretches around her waist, tucking her in tight against me. Zana was melting into whatever fantasy she designed in her head about meeting me.

  The needle was in her neck before she ever felt the stick. The plunger injects the Neuromuscular-blocking drug. Within seconds she drops, having paralysis of her skeletal muscles.

  Holding onto a struggling, meaty girl usually causes me a mild back spasm, but she wasn’t as heavy as I thought she would be. She was nice and soft. I drag her to the picnic table, leaving twin leg trails in the grass, roughing up the sod. Not because I lack the strength to carry her, but I liked the idea the cops would think I was smaller if it was a struggle for me to get her to the table.

  She does the standard pleading promising to do whatever I want.

  I explained she was doing what I desired as I pull on latex gloves.

  I cut off her shirt. She had on a black, lacy bra much too small for her mounds. Once the black thong was free, I noticed Zana had freshly shaved this morning. She must have had fantasies about meeting me. On the left side of her pubis a tiny tattoo rest where only a person allowed to know her personally will ever visit. A red heart secured by a closed padlock lacking a keyhole.

  I palpate the tat. “What is the meaning of your ink?”

  “Why are you doing this?” she whines.

  “Remember what I told you about the chicken?”

  “All those people in your books. You killed them.”

  Smart girl. “My research involves more field experience than book research.” I tap her ink, “What does it mean?”

  “When I got married I was going to have his na
me tattooed as the keyhole to my heart.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  Liar.

  Her answer was too quick, “And when I don’t text, he will wonder where I’m at.” She adds as an afterthought, “And I have tracking on my phone.”

  “This phone?” I pop the battery from the electronic device. “No one will find you unless I want them to.”

  “But I love you. I love your work. I would so be yours.”

  “You’re going to be mine. I’m forever going to make you mine. Each of my books gets the love I’d give a child. You will be immortally eviscerated in print, my lovely.”

  “Please. Please don’t kill me.”

  “You’ll be happy to know you weren’t planned. I won’t get to try a means of death I have yet to attempt. You will, however, add to the quality of my work.”

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  “Ask your questions.” I smiled.

  Even not being able to move her body she responds to stimuli. The chilling air hardens her nipples to little pink bullets.

  I keep a notebook so I don’t forget a detail in my writing. Her tattoo choice fascinates me. “Explain to me why you choose your ink.”

  “I wanted to be naughty. Just a little. I thought a tattoo with my husband’s name would be our private thing. You’re the second man who knows it’s there.”

  “If I didn’t have to catch a plane I’d take it with me.” I never collected physical trophies, but this one was deeply personal. I wanted to fillet it off and frame it.

  The knife I bought at the convenience store after I disembarked the plane was not sharp.

  Pain from the sawing of the dull edge exacerbated the sensitive groin area skin chalked full of nerves to enhance sexual pleasure, insuring massive amounts of propagation.