SKA: Serial Killers Anonymous

by William Schlichter

  “You can’t be on the grounds when she’s on shift, but I’ve got two more nurses I want you to approach. I won’t lose this hospital’s five-star status and its place on US News and World Report’s best hospitals.”

  Jane knows the combover man’s motivation is financial.

  “Sick people die.”

  “We just need to make sure our staff are on the up and up,” Combover says.

  “I’ll check them out when this Nurse Jane isn’t on shift. I’ll get my coat out of your office and I’m gone.”

  The hospital administration wastes more funds to monitor her with this secret investigator.

  Copper splashes on her tongue as she realizes she bit her lip in her anger. Fine. She understands the game being played, now to change to her rule book.

  Swinging by the nurse’s station, she checks on Tina. “Had to go to the kitchen to get filters. I ever figure out who doesn’t replace them in the workroom…”

  “You’ll kill them,” Tina completes the statement.

  “I was thinking of placing them on permanent bedpan duty.” Jane smiles.

  “I’d prefer death. Some of the meds issued makes these poor people explode,” Tina says. “You notice it’s been slow since the incident?”

  “Do you mean Charles’ suicide?”

  “I was told not to speak about it,” Tina says.

  “Next week when every bed is full you’ll be praying for the night you only had three patients.”

  “And next week is a full moon.”

  Fuck it is. Tonight’s my shot. I just need to figure out how to get back. Jane scoops coffee grounds into the maker. Work remains an alibi. It needs to be tonight, before he goes.

  Jane kneels, opening the doors to the under-sink cabinet. She reaches behind the sink and removes an oil stained cloth. Unwrapping the rag, she finds a shiny thirty-eight. She knows even if the weapon was discovered it will be attributed to Charles. His prints are all over it. He bought it.

  Slipping the gun in her waistband at the small of her back, she calls to Tina, “We’re low on coffee too. I’m going back to the kitchen.”

  “It might be closed,” she offers.

  “Then I’ll raid another workroom.”

  “Okay. I won’t make it through the night without coffee,” Tina says.

  • • • • •

  Jane wedges cardboard into the circular hole so the dead latch plunger won’t catch, allowing her to slip back inside the hospital undetected through the fire door. She jogs across the parking lot, pulling on latex gloves. The dark dusk to dawn lamps have not been replaced. The only car must belong to the investigator. She reaches behind her back to keep the revolver secure in her waistband.

  Arriving at the Buick as the rear lights blink on, the brakes squeak as he spots her. Before he opens the door, she brandishes the thirty-eight.

  Opening the back door, she warns, “Stay in the car.”

  “You’re a crazy bitch.”

  She slides inside. “Put both hands on the wheel.”

  He complies.

  “Remove them and I’ll shoot you. I bet you’re packing.”

  “Look lady…”

  She presses the barrel into the back of his head. “Understand, I won’t warn you. I don’t have need of macho bravado to exert my control of the situation. I am in control. And if you fail to cooperate the blood will spray over the windshield and I’ll return to the ward still in a pristine, white dress. Now drive. Take a left onto the street.”

  He drops the gear shift into drive. “I wasn’t stalking you, I work for the hospital. Private security.”

  “You’re a spy and a waste of resources,” she mumbles.

  “You helped Charles kill patients?”

  She presses the barrel harder against his skull. He might have the recorder on. “Take a left, next street.”

  She remains quiet as they travel down the two-lane blacktop. Two miles the constant row of houses turns to crop fields.

  “Slow,” she orders.

  He does.

  “Turn.”

  “There is no road.”

  “Gravel. On the left.” She glances at her watch.

  “There’s nothing out here,” he protests.

  “Stop and put it in park. Keep your hands on the wheel.”

  He does.

  Jane reaches for the doorknob. “You reach with your left hand—open the door. Move in any other manner and I end you.”

  His hand grips the door handle and he bolts, leaving the keys in the ignition. Jane flings open her door, keeping it between herself and him as a shield.

  BAM.

  She fires into the dark.

  He grunts, falling out of the headlamp’s light.

  Jane fires where she believes he should be. The bullet skips through the grass. She slips around the back door to the front. Switching hands, she reaches into the car to flip the lights off.

  “You missed, bitch.”

  Jane fires in the direction of the voice.

  Miss.

  He runs. She detects his shoes in the grass.

  Jane fires into the air.

  “You are one dumb bitch. I will be glad to attend when you get the chair.”

  Jane lines up her sight with the direction of the voice. The only disbelief she has is he is unarmed. He might be waiting for her to run out or reload. Everyone knows a revolver only has six. “Keep speaking. The light glare was throwing off my aim.”

  With only the ambient illumination of the dome light she detects his location. Run forward a few more feet. “I have two rounds left. You run away and I might miss.” Runaway you fool.

  She flips the lights on, catching him approaching the car. Her left hand releases the wild shot, but it causes him to race away from the car.

  Screams fill the dark until squelched by a splash. Jane jumps into the car and backs down the gravel road to the blacktop. She has been off her ward for twenty minutes. Tina shouldn’t miss her yet.

  She mashes the gas pedal until she crosses the city boundary line, slowing to the speed limit. She made up two minutes. Parking in the same spot at the hospital as when they left, she hurries inside.

  She pockets the cardboard and allows the door to lock behind her.

  • • • • •

  “Where did you go to get coffee, Brazil?” Tina never leaves the desk.

  “You wanted it fresh.” Jane returns the pistol to its hiding spot under the sink. It still has Charles’ fingerprints. Tossing the gloves, she scoops coffee grounds into the maker. She was here. Tina will vouch for her if the fall killed the man. She put a bullet in him and he fell five hundred feet into the shallow quarry.

  She had thought about using the water to dump the meds she used Charles’ ID to steal. But in the summer kids swim there and in drought years it does dry up. She would still have to dispose of the containers.

  The hospital can’t commit to knowing this man since Jane filed a police report on him. She’s trapped herself here and won’t be able to free anymore people of their pain. Jane considers it’s time to vacate St. Mary’s.

  IV

  JANE SNAGS THE crumpled rag from the adjustable table. Mr. Miller had finally fallen asleep after his morning perusal of the tabloid. His arthritic fingers were mangled, and no one wanted the furrowed mess after him. Three days and finally an article in the newspaper. In the bottom corner, front page, below the half page on the local Fall Harvest Queen winner announcement and a tiny blurb on how the high school football team lost again, was the mashed face of the male recovered from the quarry.

  He was unknown and found by fishermen. Suicide was ruled out because of a gunshot wound across the top of his shoulder. CLEARLY FIRED FROM BEHIND, was the only comment of the Police Chief. No mention of his identity or his employment by the hospital. As the article drones on the reporter unprofessionally shifts into editorial mode and remarks on the growing hippies and their pot, and how more and more unknown people are moving into town.


  Jane smirks.

  A few Maryjane joints were never the town’s problem. No one sees how the hospital and healthcare system gores people. ‘Your blood pressure is a bit high—here is a pill.’ The BP meds cause weight gain—here is a pill.’ ‘That pill prevents a boner—here is a blue pill.’ All at the expense of the patient.

  She scribbles on Mr. Miller’s chart. What the poor man has never been told is there is a safe procedure to repair his fingers, only his insurance won’t cover it and he hasn’t the income to cover the out of pocket expense.

  It’s the people on the fourth floor who need a Death with Dignity consultation. The time come when life is over, and people need to be released from their earthly shell. She reaches into her pocket and slips out a syringe, dropping it in the sharp’s box in Mr. Miller’s room. The vial of medicine she’ll use again—twice more. Glancing at her watch, the code should occur in about thirty-seven minutes.

  She flips through the newspaper to the classifieds. Several hospitals—all short of nurses—advertise signing bonuses for those willing to work all hours.

  Our Lady of Innocence Hospital two towns over would be a drive, but the increase in salary would be an easy explanation for her desire to move on. Some might know of Charles and be aware there were issues, but they would never inquire in an interview. But after such a tragedy many people shift jobs.

  The code blue calls for a doctor to report to the fourth floor—STAT.

  V

  OUR LADY OF Innocence Hospital could not have checked Jane’s references as fast as they hired her and placed her on shift. She functioned on both jobs for two weeks. Debora returned for her next to last shift and this time Jane lacked a desire to spike her coffee. What she had spiked were random bags of intravenous saline solution destined for the burn ward.

  Doctoring of the bags would cause an unknown reason for an insulin spike in the patients. Since she chose the bags at random she doubts anyone will realize why these patients, some well on the road to recovery, code. If they do discover the tainted bags it will be weeks after she is gone and no way to tie her to the deaths. No fingerprints and the burn unit was not her department.

  Those poor burnt souls need a quick end. The burn unit care wasn’t nursing, it was dealing with the slowly dying. Few recover from massive burns and the cosmetic surgery to follow only lines the pockets of doctors. Burns leave a body without lingering physical pain. No one should have to die slow just to rack up hospital fees.

  Jane cups the half-used vial in her uniform pocket. She could free two more. Three would be pushing it. They might live and be worse—worse, the hospital staff might save them. Life prolonging procedures are expensive.

  No.

  She must let it go. A cloud of suspicion might be over her, but it is not dark. She’ll find people who need release at Our Lady of Innocence Hospital.

  I

  AL’S BROWN EYES study every line of the painting. He notes details down a skin lesion on the chin. A deep shaving cut, which never healed, left a light pink mark. He admires the work. It may be of an Archbishop, but the masterful effort of the artisan always leaves him astonished. Why such a talented person would do unspeakable acts against society. If his own hobbies are ever discovered some might speculate on his own motivations and how he can track down people who have performed similar acts. It would become a television movie of the week on the wife-beater channel. They would not focus on him, but on the heroic efforts of the women and their many attempts to throw off his attacks and escape his basement harem. Only what those hard-core women-are-equal people refuse to acknowledge is, despite being forced upon them, some enjoy the domination. Not all, but some. Willful subjugation destroys their movement of women-are-equal in all places.

  “He painted this?” Al asks.

  “It was to be presented to the Father when he is promoted to Archbishop next month. It was commissioned by some diocese or something. I don’t know, I don’t care much for those idol worshipers,” Chambers says.

  “Good cops should consider the beliefs of those they serve and protect. It’s not always a gang color issue. People of faith are just as prone to violence as any minority. In the last election many of the protestors had religious ideologies.” Al asks, never removing his eyes from the painting, “What did your search yield?”

  “You were correct. He was quick to burn his photo prints because they were not his trophies. We searched for a backup hard drive or disks with the jpegs and found several document-protecting fire proof boxes.”

  “The originals?”

  “Not photos, drawings. He would sketch the girls. The first pages were innocent. You know, like on a church pew fully clothed. Then they got more revealing. Unbuttoned blouses showing some cleavage or in a bra. Same girl in each book. Each page showed more skin, but a trusted amount.” Chambers hands him a spiral bound sketch book.

  Al flips through it. “She was comfortable with what he had her do. This time it was an open shirt and nothing else happened. This time no shirt. He didn’t touch her. Not until she was drawn naked, then her positions shifted to a sexual stance. He struck me as the type to use the sin as a motivating factor. I’ll draw the devil out of you,” Al’s conjecture yields fruit.

  “Not far off on some of the girls. Three have come forward and said as much. We know there are more, we have the pics. A couple have scars or birthmarks he would have had to have seen to draw with this detail. And I do care about my Bible thumpers. I care so much I don’t want to put those girls through trial after trial. I want a clean confession from him so we end it. Allow those he hurt to heal.”

  “He didn’t murder Shelby. It was someone else,” Al says.

  “Then we nab that fucker, too, but I need to close the book on this guy,” Chambers says.

  Al flips open a second sketch book. She was fully nude, legs apart to detect a bit of the pubis. It was a tasteful nude. No shame. A beautiful woman’s body. A little less detail in the face and it could be any woman and the work worthy of a New York gallery showing.

  Chambers hold up another pad, “The next one…gets a bit sick.”

  Al glances at the first image. “It’s a simple square knot in a rope. The basic knot for beginning bondage. He undressed her and drew her tied up in a chest harness. Gave him an opportunity to fondle her—gain trust.”

  Al flips to the next drawing. The eyes of the girl have changed. She was anxious, frightened in the first picture, but in this one the eyes have changed. “He captured her fear. In this she is nervous, but the taboo act excited her. She enjoys the attention and for him to capture it with his pencil. The man’s a Picasso.” He flips up the third drawing. “He’d done something to her in this one. The eyes are afraid. He captures her soul. Some bondage enthusiasts believe by being secured by another they, are giving an understanding of their soul.”

  “According to the girls who came forward, he tied them up in sexual positions and drew them. It was after the third time. He questioned them about how they felt while bound and if it excited them. He used this advantage over them to molest them.”

  In the fourth picture the eyes are swollen, watery, and have blood vessel lines. “He has assaulted her and then drawn her in her pain. He captured it. A photograph couldn’t do this moment justice.”

  “You sound as if you admire him,” Chambers says.

  “The work, not his methods or the use of his models. Have you interrogated him?”

  “He won’t speak. Sheriff wonders why he hasn’t lawyered up. He knows there is no way he’s going home.”

  Al fingers the sketch paper. “Is there an art supply store in this town?”

  “Glenn’s Hardware operates like a 5&Dime. They carry supplies for the high school kids’ projects.”

  “Get me a tablet. This eggshell white color. I need it before I go in there.”

  • • • • •

  Al places one of the drawings cut from the spiral bound sketch book on the steel table as he sits down. “You draw thes
e? Maybe being a starving artist wasn’t for you, but you spent hours tying the ropes. Does it take a long time to tie those girls up when they don’t squirm against you?”

  Pastor Samuel says nothing, just stares into his own reflection in the two-way mirror.

  Al spreads out the prints of the girls—progressing from being dressed to bound and nude. The fear in their eyes beg to go home. Prayer filled eyes for hope of rescue—then pain.

  Pastor Samuel refuses to examine the paper.

  “You captured the moment. Perfection in the eyes. I’m no art critic. Sadly, despite how good you are no one will ever see these sketches. No one will ever know you did this for your art. They’ll see the photos of each cut you left on Shelby, but they will never understand why. They will just remember you, a sick fuck, who cut up little teen girls and shot his cum all over their bleeding bodies.”

  “I never.”

  “You never what? Jerked off to these girls? We’ve got teams cleaning your church again. Every drop of your cum will be shown to the jury, every photo and drawing of these helpless girls you tied up.” Al stands. He takes the hand-drawn sketch of the girl, arms tied to hide her crotch and her feet touching her ears. “Such detail. Such love in your pencil.” He tears the paper.

  “NO!!!” Pastor Samuel leaps to protect his work, but the handcuffs shackled to the desk keep him from reaching Al.

  “They might understand why you did this, but I won’t let them see the drawings. No, I won’t let your work be glorified.”

  “Don’t.” Tears form and drip from Pastor Samuel’s left eye. “Please. I didn’t kill Shelby.”

  Al tears another one-inch strip from the drawing. “They begged. They begged as you tied them up. Left them for hours, body cramping in unnatural positions, all so you could get each speckle of the nylon rope correct.”

  Samuel gives a ‘fuck you’ stare.

  Al rips away another strip. “Too bad they don’t allow smoking in here, I’d burn the scraps. Let you watch.” He selects another drawing.