SKA: Serial Killers Anonymous

by William Schlichter

  “After a shooting, it’s SOP to be on leave until cleared. Better play this by the book. Just take me back to my vehicle,” Al says.

  “Why do you and Agent Smith keep quoting procedures to me like I didn’t pass the test? Is it because I’m a woman?”

  “I didn’t realize you were a woman, Shawna. You’re new on the job. Face it, newbies don’t know dick.”

  “Fuck off.”

  Al climbs into the front passenger seat.

  Agent Smith clamps his flip phone closed before handing over Al’s Glock, breech open and in an evidence bag, to Director Engström.

  • • • • •

  “Important?” Director Engström asks.

  “You remember a Professor Arnett?” Agent Smith pockets his phone.

  “He speaks at some of those educational workshops I’m required to make you guys attend in order to remain up to date on being officers of the law.”

  “We appreciate how you value our education,” Agent Smith says. “He has a student who has encountered a possible serial killer.”

  “He called you over the police?” Puzzled, Engström secures the Glock in his coat pocket. He won’t lose an agent his first month on the job.

  “I told him to do so, but he says the kid will retract his story.”

  “We are not here to work some criminal justice major’s wet dream.”

  “Professor Arnett believes we should take a gander,” Agent Smith says.

  “Our task force is a shining example of investigation. With a gold star of a win we can’t afford to deny any leads. File your report on the shooting and go check it out,” Engström says.

  Smith hands over a second evidence bag with the gun clip. “I could use Al.”

  “No. A definitive no. Don’t even mention it to him. You go alone. I want this clean shoot to stay above board. It was clean?”

  Smith sucks in a deep breath, “I was right behind him on the stairwell. I heard Al give the order to drop the weapon. A full second passed and then the two shots. It was dark. He couldn’t tell if she was dead on the table.” Smith adds, “From my vantage point he was going to stab her.”

  “We’ll get Al reinstated in a few days, keep it all official. And if it turns out this Professor Arnett has a lead on a murder, Al will be cleared and ready to return to duty.”

  IV

  “PLEASE. I’M YOUR favorite. I like when you choke me. Please.” She reaches for the dog collar.

  Her begging won’t help. Part of the process to maintain control is to constantly remind them their place. Al slides a gentle hand over her naked shoulder. “I know you do.” I’ve never had a girl who was as willing and enjoyed being my lover. “The way your body twitches.” Al’s eyes roll up as he fantasizes about his love making with her.

  “It’s not a trick. A woman can’t fake that,” she pleads.

  “I know.” It’s why I want to keep you. He clamps his fingers until the pressure digs into her collar bone.

  Her only struggle against him prevents his snapping of the clavicle as she maneuvers off the bed. Despite knowing what’s coming, the fear of broken bones means death. No matter how much he enjoys her, Al won’t keep a girl with medical needs.

  He marches her from the bedroom to the living room. She pushes her urge of protest down inside.

  Reminiscent of standing sweat boxes, without the sun to warm them, are three wooden doors built into the wall of the outer room. Each no wider than a person, all with bolts and reinforced in places with metal plates.

  He halts her in front of the standing coffin and Al kneels before her. He taps her ankle and she lifts one foot then the other. He slides the adult diaper up her legs until it is snug against her crotch. She remains frozen as he opens the door. He spins her around fitting her in the custom-built space. Her neck locks into felt covered grooves, leaving her unable to move her head.

  He places a plastic hose next to her mouth. Al pinches the big bite valve. Water drips. “Can’t have you going without water. Hydration keeps your skin soft.”

  After she aligns her arms in the grooves cut for her frame he secures nylon straps to prevent her from clawing at the wood and damaging her fingernails. He checks her legs, ensuring her feet are all the way back to avoid harm when he secures the door. The stance leaves her knees slightly bent, uncomfortable, but necessary. He closes the door, securing the locks.

  Al peeks in the eye level window allowing her a view of the living room. He slides the view port closed, entombing her in darkness.

  She may be his favorite, the woman he enjoys best, but Al won’t allow her to become comfortable. It would lead to a mistake.

  Mistakes land him in prison.

  Al unlocks the door of the second standing coffin.

  After he hoses this woman off she will need fluids. I had shared I still had one girl alive. It was detrimental to my healing, but my dirty secret goes further.

  Al places two fingers on her neck to check her pulse.

  “I fucking hate you!” The redhead snaps, still not broken.

  I

  Rule Three:

  The only requirement

  for membership

  is a desire to stop killing.

  (Borrowed and modified

  from AA twelve traditions)

  II

  AFTER THREE LOCATIONS, I thought discovering the location of the next crack dealer’s house would be easy, but it wasn’t. Rumor was a few of the just sell it on the side dealers had ceased temporarily. I needed another major strike to make sure they knew drugs weren’t acceptable in my town.

  I was still too pure of an old man and lacked the swagger of a drug addict to be trusted. I was at a loss on how to find a supplier.

  Days passed by and my granddaughter never got any better—she existed. I was dipping into depression. I bought a gun. My mistake was I legally bought one from a gun store. Loading it, I left it in the glove box of my Rogue. I thought about it. It was legal and never fired. I explained to the nurses I had probate matters to attend, due to the family, and would be gone two days.

  They thought it a good to get me out of the hospital to regain some perspective on the world. They had seen more of me since two AM overdoses had dropped. I don’t know by what percent, but from being at the hospital and with three less crack dealers in town, I noticed the ER traffic slowed down.

  I wasn’t as big on avoiding gas station cameras or anything to hide my trip as I should have been, but I did use cash. Especially at the Survivalist Gun and Event Show. I bought a few guns without having to register them. I did get smarter.

  The one dealer I knew about was in an apartment complex. I wouldn’t burn it down. It would leave a dozen single mothers homeless.

  The depression worsened. I couldn’t end my own life. It wasn’t suicide if I shot it out with a crackhead and he popped me.

  As I drove back to town, I realized there were still more drugs and I didn’t know if I had gotten the dealer who sold to the man who stole my family from me. The apartment dealer could wait. In my time hunting the location I learned the town had its share of hookers.

  I never knew.

  Not once did I think there were prostitutes in my town. We weren’t a community large enough to hide prostitution. I did know of one gentleman’s club. It was known among those of us good Christians as a biker-type hangout. A few stabbings had even occurred.

  Out near the county line there was this bunker of a building. And due to some fudged up laws and grandfather clauses the only titty—pasties required—bar possible in this part of the state.

  Some twenty years before one county passed an ordinance about no booze licenses and the other county no bare titties, preventing a nudie bar from opening. Only this guy built his saloon smack dab on the center of the county line where he opened a bar on one side and girls on the other. Now there was no law stating you couldn’t have a beer in the dry county or being inside strutting around with your titties hanging out. By the time the two counties figu
red out what the owner had gotten away with, he was open and licensed. Even by changing the laws he has protection by existing before the new ordinances.

  I mention it, not as a grandfather telling long stories you don’t care about, but I thought it was a safe place to pick up a prostitute and her not be an undercover cop.

  Or at least a start.

  The girls were so young.

  I nursed a single beer all night, not knowing what to say to any of the girls who weren’t much older than my comatose granddaughter. Finally, one woman who wasn’t a stripper, but wasn’t here with a date, sat down next to me.

  “I’ve never seen you in here before.” She flashed long inhuman eyelashes.

  “I’ve never been.”

  “You lonely?” Her wink was full of twinkle and subtext.

  “I’ve been alone for a while now.”

  “You looking for a friend?” She touched my forearm.

  I guess she knew I was no cop at my age. I did wonder if she was. It would be my luck.

  “My wife passed. She was the sweetest of church ladies. I want to do things now I was never allowed to do.”

  “It’s never too late.” She put her hand on my knee. “As long as you get up out of bed.”

  We left in the Rogue I asked her what she had in mind.

  All the twinkle was gone, replaced by business. “I’ll do anything, provided you have a fat wallet.”

  As we drove around and I was sure no cop car was following before I said anything she jumped in with, “We can drive around all night, but I’m still going to have to charge you. I don’t come home with some bills and I’m in trouble.”

  “I’ve got a few.”

  “What is it you want to do?”

  “You know, I mean. I want to get…I want to try something I never did.”

  She reached over and rubbed my thigh. “Why don’t you tell me what you hunger for. I do everything for enough Grants.”

  “Drugs,” it finally spit out.

  “Take a left on this next street,” she commanded.

  No question. No hesitation. Just the way to go to my next drug house.

  “Now, I’m sure you read the papers. With those fires, some of these guys are a bit jumpy around new people. You stay in the car. Trust me. Park, give me some cash and. I’ll get what you need. They know me, here.”

  “Get whatever you like.” I handed her three Jacksons.

  She smiled. “Sure thing, baby.”

  The motel was cheap and accepted cash only. I’m sure my Rouge stood out in front of these A frame single unit buildings. nice and shiny as it was. I sure hoped it would still be in the morning.

  She stripped off her shirt and was unclasping her bra.

  “Leave on your undies. I like some mystery,” I said.

  “Whatever you like, baby.” She used the nightstand to mix up the drugs. I still had no idea what she was doing.

  “You go ahead.” I sat in the wobbly chair across from the bed. “I want to stare at you.”

  She did her thing and was loopy within minutes. She danced around a bit and pressured me for sex, and to try the drugs since I ordered them. I resigned myself to spooning against her on the bed, explaining my recent loss. I felt I was still married and cheating on my life long love.

  In the morning she washed herself in the bathroom. “I hate to do this, but I need a hundred and twenty dollars or I’m in for it when I get home.”

  I give her two Bens. “You keep it.”

  She reached her hand in my front pocket, fishing for my cell. She keyed in her number. “You call me anytime…Tori. Anytime you want to party or you need someone to hold.” She touched my face. “I like you.”

  I knew she liked the two hundred I gave her, and the leftover drugs she pocketed.

  I got what I needed from her and now I needed a shower—at home.

  I drove past the crack house. I would have never guessed it was one. This was a better side of town and in a place where a prominent lawyer lived two doors down. I would guess, and I didn’t know how it worked, but the quality of drugs was better here, therefore more expensive. Traffic was less frequent, and it catered to the college kid crowd.

  This attack required careful consideration with Neighborhood Watch and lots of family homes with kids, I wouldn’t want an explosion to hurt any of them.

  I had no inkling how I was going to bring this place down. The families were upper middle class. I bet they had no idea what was going on in the house. I wouldn’t have, either. These dealers were clever and kept evening hours, no cars stopping by during all hours of the night like in the poor neighborhoods.

  It was harder to survey the house. Being upscale these people would call the cops because of a stranger. One night the man, I assumed the dealer, left the house at three in the morning. Was this dealer making a house call?

  I followed him. At some point, I didn’t follow badly enough, or I followed too good, but he was on to me. A car of men forced me to turn into the commuter parking. Blocked in, I had to pinch my ass cheeks tighter, for I was sure I was busted and was going to shit myself.

  I was about to die. Three men, big burly lumberjack men, or should have been, and one short, thin motherfucker who made ninety-eight-pound weaklings appear tough.

  I held the gun show revolver tightly. I would shoot the little guy first. Besides, the .357 bullets would splatter him over the others and the chances were good one bullet would wound two guys. He had to be the leader.

  “Can we help you officer?” Joked the little man.

  “Fuck, it’s an old man.” The biggest dude snapped my windshield wiper. He was also out of the line of fire due to the door frame.

  “You used to be a cop?”

  “What the fuck you want old man?”

  “I just got lost.”

  “Oh, you’re lost alright.”

  I was going to die. I would take as many as I could with me. I figured it would appear like a robbery gone wrong. Not having any family left to embarrass, I pulled the trigger until the chamber clicked empty.

  They didn’t expect it.

  All four were on the ground.

  The car from the dealer’s house was gone. I was sure he was back safely in his bed.

  I don’t know how I thought so fast, but I did. I removed their guns. The little fucker was dead and I placed him into the car first. The big guys were heavy and breathing. I promised to get them to a hospital. They moved their legs, which assisted me in getting them into their car. I did all I could not to get blood in my Rogue and locked it up tight.

  You know, a car window doesn’t shatter easily. A few good whacks before I shattered the driver’s side glass.

  I couldn’t trust these guys. I emptied one of their guns into them. I shot off a third Glock from inside the car, through the window, randomly at a field. The shell casings rained inside. My ears rang. It was painful. My head throbbed. I wiped the gun down and dropped it in the back. doing the same for a second gun.

  My plan would shake up the neighborhood, but there was no chance of fire blowing up little kids. I drove their car back to the crack house. I parked it in the driveway at an angle so the car was unable to be rolled easily into the street, and put on the emergency brake. I got out. I had the .357 in my waistband, along with two unfired Glocks.

  The thunder-booms were sure to make those little kids piss the bed.

  I wrapped my handkerchief around the gun while standing at the car door. I fired into the high-class drug house. I dropped the empty gun into the car. Next, I bolted forward to the porch and fired the second Glock into the windshield, aerating the four men again. I wiped down this pistol and the .357, tossing them through the house’s front room window.

  I ran into the back yard, through another yard, to the next block. I stayed in the shadows. It was near dawn when I reached my house.

  I burnt the clothes, showered, and slept until the alarm beeped. I got up, showered again, drank a coffee and stepped outside, to called 91
1 to report my stolen Rogue. The dispatcher explained no officers were free now. There had been an incident last night and unless there were drugs involved, or I needed an ambulance, I would have to wait.

  III

  “YOU SOUND MORE and more like those over exaggerated stories my own grandfather used to tell from when he was in the war,” Jane says.

  “It was all true. Thought I was going to have a heart attack moving those big dudes back into the car. I don’t think the police cared enough to do one of those angle-of-the-bullet-tests, or they would have realized no one from the car shot at the house, and no one from the house shot up the car. Not after they found all the drugs and cash inside,” Jack says.

  “Maybe they did and were just satisfied they had one less crack house to deal with,” Kenneth says.

  “Were those kids in the neighborhood hurt?” Al asks.

  “Not a one. It shook up the neighborhood, mostly because the next morning they couldn’t leave the street to get to work. Hell, everyone they interviewed spoke of what a nice guy the dealer had been. He even mowed the widow lady’s lawn across the street for free. He had a golden ticket on that block.”

  “And you punched it,” Ed chimes.

  “Did you get your car back?” asks Jesse. A reported stolen Rogue should yield search results in the police database. Didn’t he say it was blue?

  “It was late afternoon when a patrolman came by to take a statement. I explained how I woke up, had my coffee and when I stepped outside my car was gone. He wrote something up for my insurance. They, of course, found it. Damn window cost less to replace than my deductible.”

  “Wasn’t there blood at the commuter parking?” Robert asks.

  “Tons, but deer get splattered on the interstate all the time. No one connected the drug house shooting with the blood there. People assumed it was an animal. If they thought differently I never heard.”

  “You’re one lucky old man,” Ed says.

  “No one sees him coming. It’s like a movie: Old Man’s Revenge,” Jesse laughs.