SKA: Serial Killers Anonymous

by William Schlichter

  “If you destroy them it was all meaningless.”

  Al grips the paper with both hands, faking a tear. “No one will know.”

  “I confess. Please don’t destroy any more of my work. I drew them. I convinced those girls to allow me to draw them. And for them to expose themselves to God, to show them how they were meant to be seen in radiant glory. Please don’t destroy them. I did it. When they were tied up I entered them, but I never killed them.”

  Al marches from the room, crumbling the pages.

  Sheriff Mallard, thumbs hooked into his gun belt, fumes. “You got a full confession, but you destroyed evidence to do so. No wonder your boss is quick to loan you out.”

  “I hope you recorded his confession.” Al wads the sketch into a ball. “The drawings were too valuable to take into the room. I made several photocopies. It was a pain to get your cheap copier to take the heavy sketch paper.”

  “He claims he didn’t kill Shelby.”

  “He didn’t. After visiting the other crime scenes, I have a better idea where to hunt our suspect, but Samuel did not kill. He raped. And you have a confession. Maybe with it those poor girls won’t have to sit through a lengthy trial.”

  II

  AL TACKS A picture of Shelby next to the image of two other victims on the cork board acting as a murder board. “The department would like to wrap this case up and hang Shelby’s death on Pastor Samuel, but he was a no part of the death of these two girls.” He faces the meeting room packed with every employed officer in the city plus a few reservists.

  “Logically, he killed Shelby when she threatened to expose his sickness,” an officer says.

  Al doesn’t recognize the young man in uniform. Such levels of thinking and quick human desire to assign blame incarcerates the innocent. “I am not unempathetic for the plight of this community, what you face in long term recovery. You could put Shelby’s death on Samuel.” Al forgoes the pastors title as he finds the man has lost his right to be respected. “I won’t allow justice to be glossed over for those other women.” He taps the board. “Jenny and Kathy.” Names make them people. He warns, “And worse, if you do and they prove he didn’t murder Shelby, a good lawyer will raise reasonable doubt on the other charges.”

  Al tacks up three more pictures, all teenage black women. He doesn’t turn around. He knows the group exchanges quizzical and confused glances. He pins three more glossies, this time of three Asian women.

  A murmur washes across the room, but not as loud as the rumble caused by the next news. “It’s time to turn Shelby over to the FBI. You fine officers have done all you can for her.”

  “We didn’t bring you in on this case to take it.”

  “I’m not assuming the case, but I will continue to consult and the perpetrator is out of your jurisdiction.”

  “Wait! You know who this perp is?” An officer asks.

  Al shakes his head. “No. These nine women, and there could be more, all have the same MO. He targets them in threes.”

  “They are black and Asian. Serial killers tend to stick within their own ethnic line.”

  “True, normally, but this male has jumped the race line. He has an affinity for three and girls in high school, all with strong tendencies to attend college.”

  Sheriff Mallard breaks from his lean against the wall, uncrossing his arms. “Al, my office!”

  The sheriff slams the door behind him. “I extend you every courtesy and you fuck us over without lube.”

  “No, sir. I did my job. I’m going to find Shelby’s killer and make sure he spends the rest of his life in a cell.”

  “So, you do know who it is?”

  “No. But all the victims, all nine I’ve discovered so far, attended a college visit day. The same event. It is their only connection.”

  “There could be hundreds of suspects,” Sheriff Mallard protests.

  “It wasn’t a fellow student. I won’t rule out a faculty member, but I believe it’s one of the college recruiters. They travel across the states. They meet dozens of students. High school kids encounter so many they don’t remember them. And it wouldn’t raise suspicion to come across a student whom they could nab with a slight bit of coaxing. It’s a perfect cover.”

  Sheriff Mallard rubs his bewhiskered chin. “You have to get this fucker.”

  III

  AL WONDERS JUST how ancient he appears in his Guns and Roses tee-shirt. He blends in better on the college campus than he would a high school. Tons of hot young co-eds pepper the campus, and many of the most attractive ones are far from nineteen. A ripe hunting ground, Al suppresses his own tendencies. I’m working. I’m no longer a person who stalks. Now would be the time to contact my buddy if I wasn’t on the job.

  A woman’s voice restores his attention. “Not many Hispanic students.” In the radio earbud hidden in his left ear pops a woman’s voice that continues, “Not many make it to college. Those here legally are lucky to be first generation high school graduates.”

  “True.” Al nods.

  “He’s not touching those already on campus, he’s targeted juniors and seniors in high school,” Agent Smith’s voice overlays Agent Shawna Sutherland.

  “He may not hunt where he works, I just needed to follow him,” Al says.

  “Don’t take too long. He visited all the high schools where the missing girls attended and there have been two missing Hispanic girls from Martin Luther King High reported,” Agent Sutherland says.

  “Girls who the cops believe are runaways,” Agent Smith adds.

  “Both girls are on the honor roll. Despite the bigotry of the local cops, not every Hispanic girl’s a hoochie,” Al says.

  “Even ‘A’ students fall prey to a handsome boy,” Agent Sutherland says.

  “Too many girls fall prey to a boy, especially the bad ones.” Al spots the white male. “He’s exiting the building.” A blond, handsome man in his mid-twenties marches along the sidewalk. Through his university monogrammed polo his well-defined, muscular frame reveals the kind of abs found on men in gladiator movies.

  “Damn,” Agent Sutherland says.

  “Movie handsome,” Al agrees. “Those teen girls melt for him.”

  “I’d melt for him,” Agent Smith muses, And I like girls. “Now you’ve gazed upon Adonis, do we bring him in?”

  “Not here,” Al says. “If we are wrong we destroy his career. More important we have two missing girls and an alerted perp. The ME said they weren’t killed immediately.”

  “Listen here, Sixth Sense, we need to collar this fucker,” Agent Smith rants. The beep of a phone echoes over the speaker.

  Al follows the college recruiter. He’s easy to spot dragging his wheeled portfolio case behind him.

  “We know he doesn’t kill these girls where he leaves them. So he must stash them.”

  “We have his itinerary. He’s got a high school appointment to meet with prospective students this afternoon at Northwest Academy,” Agent Sutherland says.

  “No reason for him to leave this early.” No one must notice how he leaves early or takes time to get back to the office since he constantly travels. Gives the illusion of an alibi—brilliant. “I’m heading to the van. We need to follow him,” Al says.

  “Smith’s on the phone with the judge,” Agent Sutherland says.

  Al hops into the passenger seat of the blue van.

  Smith, a much older man with broad shoulders and a mustard stain on his tie, flips his phone closed before twisting the key. “We have the warrant for his house and property.”

  “Follow him. He has left too early,” Al orders.

  Agent Sutherland works a station of electronic monitoring equipment in the back. “Unless he added an appointment.”

  “We follow,” Al instructs.

  “You’re the boss,” says Smith.

  “If we’re wrong how we screwed the pooch will be all over the six o’clock news,” Al says.

  “You don’t guess wrong,” Smith keeps three cars between
the van and the red smart car.

  “Rumor at the office is you have the same mind as these men we track down,” Agent Sutherland says.

  Al and Smith connected with Sutherland after their first case together two weeks ago. “I do, I think like them. It’s my curse and the day I’m wrong will be the worst. No one will remember the dozen I brought down, just the one who got away, or was innocent.”

  “I just figured you had some autistic tic which allowed you to notice a crime scene in a manner normal people don’t,” Sutherland says.

  “Never been tested. Sometimes people are just one way in certain situations or given the opportunity,” Al says.

  “Is this your lecture on how people cheat only because they don’t believe they will get caught?” Agent Smith breaks, forced to lag back as the traffic thins.

  “People are never sorry they cheat, they are sorry they get caught. If they knew they would get caught they would not cheat. The basic idea behind sin in religion is to control the congregation. These killers murder because they believe they are above the law and won’t be caught. They live in a delusional world where the rules of society don’t apply to them.”

  “What about those who taunt the cops?” Sutherland asks.

  “You’re still new. That is Hollywood,” says Smith. “Most criminals do all possible to avoid interaction with the cops.” He changes lanes to follow the smart car onto a two-lane, lettered blacktop.

  “BTK would send typed letters with lots of spelling mistakes as a test, learning what investigators knew about him. But he was one of the few who contacted the authorities directly,” Al says.

  “When they reach the point they’re making contact with the police they have reached a state of arrogance, as if they were God and untouchable. Others have reached bottom and desire to stop murdering and seek out the cops. Both kinds do it to up their game,” Al says.

  “If they have chosen to halt killing, then why not just report to the police station?” Agent Sutherland asks.

  “It could be like trying to quit smoking. It’s an addiction. They need help, but part of the body doesn’t want to quit. It needs the fix,” Al says.

  “Killing is not like jonesing for a cig,” says Smith.

  “From what we learn at Quantico the performance killings are much like a drug fix. Those that kill their abusive mothers over and over, or the girl who rejected them. The Angels of Death who cause a patient to code and revive then to play God or be recognized as a hero,” Sutherland says.

  “Al won’t believe it’s acceptable to kill because mommy didn’t pay enough attention to some kid growing up.” Smith slows the van just in sight of the driveway the recruiter turns onto.

  The smart car parks before a small, saltbox farmhouse. The college recruiter glances around and then skips two steps to bound onto the porch. He disappears inside as Smith pulls the van into view.

  Agent Sutherland peeks over the front seat. “Has all the hallmarks of an evil lair.”

  Her sarcasm annoys Al. “It’s a house. It’s difficult to kill in an apartment. Dahmer’s neighbors smelt his cooking. This place has a basement, and in the dark no neighbor would see him move a body.”

  “You want me to call it in?” Smith asks.

  “Put them on standby. Have them hang back. We should speak with him first. Smith, you cover the back. I’m going to knock on the front door.” Al drops his legs out the door before Agent Smith has the van in park.

  “What about me?” Sutherland asks.

  “You have your firearm?”

  “Yes.”

  “Chamber a round and keep it holstered until I say.” Al marches to the porch.

  His partners match his pace.

  Smith zips into his stern, military precision mode. Gun drawn, he nods at Al as he slips around the house. Agent Sutherland slides to the right side of the porch door, her hand on her Glock, ready to draw.

  Al pulls the screen door open and knocks on the solid wood frame.

  With the second knock he announces, “Agent Al, FBI. Mr. Turner, we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Follow all procedures. A stray thought breaks into Al like the Kool-Aid man through a sunroom. What if he is in the group? It’s dark. People remain in shadow, but what if he is a part of the group? Al cups the handle of his Glock. Follow all procedures. The kill will have to be clean. Maybe Sutherland or Smith will tag him. In the inquest ‘did he do all he was trained to do?’ Smith can answer unequivocally, yes.

  Al nods at her. He knocks again.

  Agent Sutherland snags the screen door keeping it clear for Al to enter. “We have a search warrant. Open the door, Mr. Turner.” He should just burst in, but Al allows the vital seconds of warning. It’s a risk, but he’s in his armored vest and now the man has a chance to recover a weapon. Al reaches for the door handle. The guy didn’t lock it behind him. Drawing his gun, Al sweeps in.

  With the living room clear he states, “FBI, Mr. Turner, we have a search warrant.” He waves the end of the Glock to signaled Agent Sutherland to follow.

  She slides through the front door. Both swing guns towards Smith’s entrance through the kitchen. He pauses and tilts his head toward a staircase to the second floor, next to it a reinforced steel fire door more expensive to install than the entire cost of the dilapidated house.

  Al would bet it’s not locked since the open hasps latch is on this side of the door, keeping the basement secure and whatever he keeps down there under key.

  Smith pulls the fire door open.

  Al moves in first. Follow all procedures. Make it a clean shot. Someone in the group? Some of them travel several states to attend the meetings. None of these killings match the stories—yet.

  Al eases into the stairwell. Each step down exposes his legs to attack. He listens a moment for ambush.

  So much to consume in half a second. The orgy of evidence in the torture chamber where he tied up, assaulted and killed the women before this one.

  Shit!

  The room reeks of feces and rot. Hanging from the ceiling are a hundred car freshening pine trees. Nothing in the room smells of pine. Al, sure he saw such a display in a movie, knew it wouldn’t mask any smell. Plastic sheets, crusted in body fluid, cover the floor and stretch under a wooden kitchen table used as an operating table. It’s too late for the girl on the table. Turner uses pinking shears to snip zip ties around her ankles. He left her for dead and allowed nature to evacuate her body fluids before he delivered her to the location of her discovery.

  Al has the Glock leveled at Turner’s heart.

  Agent Smith’s boots strike the top step, the stairwell too narrow for his wide frame to move swiftly.

  Turner drops the scissors.

  Al yells, “FBI! Drop the weapon! And step away from the woman!”

  Before Turner admits compliance Al pumps two rounds into his chest. He was not part of the group, but it didn’t matter. He prepared to kill and…the man needed to be ended.

  Agent Smith reaches the step, allowing him to survey the basement. He gags on the shit smell. “Sutherland. Get an ambulance!”

  Al lowers his smoking gun. “She needs a coroner.”

  Banging causes them both whiplash as they spin to a door in the corner. Inside a small closet is the second Hispanic girl. She scampers into the light and screams at the sight of the first girl. Al considers slapping her to break her hysteria, but she faints in his arms first.

  Agent Smith kicks the scissors away from Turner’s dead hand, “Clean shot, brother. He had a weapon and you had no idea from over there at the base of the steps the girl was dead. Not in this shitty light.”

  Sirens permeate the sealed basement.

  Al places a foot on the bottom step. He dangles his Glock with his thumb and forefinger, handing it to Smith. “Clean shot or not, I still killed a man.” He clumps up the stairs.

  • • • • •

  Outside, Agent Sutherland hands Al a Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee. He plops on the
step of the open side door of the van.

  “You okay?” Sutherland asks.

  Al nods. “I will be.”

  “You saved the girl.” Sutherland points to the stretcher being loaded into the ambulance.

  “One.”

  She hasn’t been an agent long enough to know the correct response. She hopes she never knows how to respond.

  A black Lincoln joins the growing police parking lot in the field next to the house.

  “Director Engström,” Sutherland warns, as she awaits the man driving to approach.

  “I wondered when the boss would get here,” Al says.

  Dew collects on Engström’s expensive leather shoes, “Why don’t these guys ever operate in nice neighborhoods?”

  “They need seclusion.” Sutherland doesn’t care for the half-joke. She’s heard recently promoted Engström hates to leave his desk or be too far from the ass he must kiss for his next promotion.

  “I’m going to need your gun, Al.”

  “Agent Smith has it.”

  “Did he witness the shooting?”

  “He was directly behind me.” Al speaks the truth. No one will question…facts.

  Engström flicks the tip of his nose with this thumb as if he clears any missed cocaine residue. Al knows he self-medicates, but he has no proof.

  “It was clean?”

  “He had a weapon and was over the girl’s body. I didn’t have time to check. She had been dead for a while.”

  “And you saved one. Sounds clean to me. Agent Sutherland, take Al home. You know you’re on leave until the hearing, Al. Take three days compose yourself and come in for your deposition.”

  Al nods. Three days with his girl.

  Director Engström offers his hand. Al grips it firm and pumps.

  “Good job, Agent.” Engström slogs toward Agent Smith.

  Sutherland waits until her boss vacates earshot. “He gives me the creeps.”

  “Doubt he’s around long. Bosses never want to work with me an extended period.” Al rises, “Thanks for the coffee. You better drive. I’m not a Special Agent right now.”

  “You are to me.” She smiles.