SKA: Serial Killers Anonymous

by William Schlichter

  Jesse raises the cup to his lips. “What do you mean?”

  Before he clears the door frame, Agent Smith tosses three arrows in a plastic bag marked ‘evidence’ on the table.

  Jesse immediately notices the brownish stains along the tips. He sets his cup on the table before he drops it. Had he drunk any he might have spit it up. “Are these? Is that…the Gabby woman’s…blood?” Jesse stammers.

  Everything spoken about in the group materializes into reality for him. All those people spoken about are gone, murdered in horrific manners, the same as his sister.

  “These came from a woman who was kidnapped, drug into the woods and released by a man who shot arrows at her and her male companion. She did get away. Due to nerve damage in her leg she has trouble walking,” Agent Smith says.

  Agent Sutherland finishes Smith’s statement, “And she seems to have no memory of her kidnapper. Not about any determining features.”

  “I told you he kept her driver’s license,” Jesse says. “In his retelling of the event he showed her he had it. He claimed he burnt them between the first and second meetings.”

  Agent Sutherland spreads out a map. “You claimed Robert had no pattern. He may have said so to your group. Maybe he believes he doesn’t.”

  “It’s part of the arrogance of the killers. They believe they are above all laws. Some even believe they are above God’s laws,” Agent Smith says.

  “No. Through their killing they think they are God,” Jesse says.

  “When we mark the Bowhunter’s attacks on a map,” Agent Sutherland finds herself interrupted by Smith, thumping his index finger on Xs scratched on the paper. “They form a large circle over several states.”

  She continues, “We might be able to narrow it down. I think he originates from inside the circle. Maybe not the center.”

  “We want you to tell us again everything this Robert said in the meetings,” Agent Smith demands.

  “Reexamine these first.” She slides a paper with eight black-n-white mug shots on it.

  Jesse scoops up the images. “The meetings were held in low light, near blackness. Several kept their faces almost completely masked in it.”

  “Just do your best.”

  “How did you enter and exit?” Agent Smith asks.

  “I told you all the locations were in abandoned factories and the buildings had multiple entry points. Jane always changed it up for our protection and peace of mind. It was about our anonymity, but later I felt like part of the healing would be to reveal our physical selves. She had a plan. How many times do I have to keep repeating the same information?”

  “Until we are satisfied and have eight killers in a cell,” Agent Smith says.

  Jesse studies each pic in turn. “These three all have the same chin and jawline. Think of viewing them in the dark with the chin exposed like Batman. That is what I saw of him. He had dark hair so this blond dude is out. But the chin, he has this chin.”

  III

  “YOU DON’T GET out of this car,” Agent Sutherland commands, no longer speaking with her nice cop demeanor from the front seat of the cruiser. Even she doesn’t like the idea of Jesse accompanying them. She wonders what Al would make of this kid. Still on administrative leave for the shooting, she’ll run this case without him. “Once you ID him, we’ll take him down. But if he spots you, it blows this sting and future ones against the others. If he gets away you’ll be in danger.”

  “If I was raided and escaped, my first phone call would be to the group to warn them. You said Jane gave everyone a burner phone. Stay in the car, kid,” Agent Smith warns. “Professor, you are here under the same conditions.”

  The agents leave them in the back seat. The door locks click.

  Jesse holds the computer pad on his lap so Professor Arnett views the screen. It displays the video feed of a cabin.

  “You marched into the lion’s den and didn’t even know how your sister died. Without knowing, you collected evidence, but not what you needed to narrow down your search,” Professor Arnett says. “You should have completed the course work and learned how to be a cop. This John Wayne shit is only for the movies.”

  “I felt like I was doing something.”

  “All I taught you and my attempts to help. You should have read the file.” Arnett shakes his head.

  “I’ve put pieces together over the years, things people shut off as I came into the room. I knew for a long time it wasn’t just a murder. Her death was a part of something else. The pictures fell out of the envelope and I just couldn’t see her—dead.”

  “This Robert wasn’t her killer. She was not struck with an arrow. You don’t even know how she was killed to match her wounds with your perps. You’re lucky we aren’t zipping you into a body bag,” Arnett says.

  “I messed up. I’ve given them all I learned. We capture these people and it will make up for it.”

  “You better pick a new major. I doubt law enforcement hires you. No John McClains work long as an officer.

  “As long as I learn who killed her.” Jesse never removes his eyes from the monitor. The image bounces from the officer’s chest cam. “Robert not returning to the group will disrupt their next meeting. Do you think they will know why he doesn’t show up?”

  “The FBI will try and keet his moniker under wraps. News feeds will report his arrest, no stopping it. If they use his real name and they don’t release his method of killing it might not reach them. They do travel great distances to meet. Taking them all down at once would be optimum, but they are mass murderers and they all know at any time they are suspect to capture. Bringing them down one by one will tip off the others.”

  “But if I don’t attend, two will be missing from the next meeting.”

  “I don’t see Agent Smith allowing you to return,” Professor Arnett says.

  “Robert will be difficult to take alive. I doubt he shares anything to corroborate my version of the meetings.” The image of the cabin door remains on the monitor.

  “I wish you had read the file on your sister before you attended these meetings.”

  A military precise tactical team takes up position on the cabin porch.

  The door smashes open.

  Flash bangs brighten the interior. Jesse spots a collection of stuffed game heads.

  Gunfire.

  “I know they won’t take him alive. This will be the ultimate thrill hunt for Robert,” Jesse says.

  Police and men wearing jackets saying FBI race toward the cabin.

  Jesse and Professor Arnett spot white smoke from the car window.

  “I believe your profile of this Robert was correct. They won’t take him alive.”

  “It’s not a comfort, Professor. You have no idea what is was like to be in the meetings with these people.”

  “You’re not a trained undercover agent, which is why you may have slipped under their radar. You said they find police to be stupid. Even if the statement bothered you, you lacked the arrogance law enforcement agents get. Cops have a smell, for lack of a better explanation. You never asked or spoke out of turn and you didn’t dig too deeply. You built trust with them. Undercover agents visit therapists to help them deal because to truly be undercover, you have to become like those you infiltrate.”

  “Anyone normal after those meetings needs a psychiatrist. I threw up after the first one. They speak about carving on a person the same as if it’s like cutting the crust off bread,” Jesse says.

  “I don’t know what was said around your house while you grew up to lead you to believe your sister was murdered by a serial killer. It may have been your family’s way of coping with what happened.”

  More gunfire erupts.

  “Robert won’t be taken alive. This will be his grand hunt. He wanted out of the group, but wanted a final test of his skills. I didn’t see it before now,” Jesse admits.

  “You didn’t have a full profile picture. You didn’t have all the evidence at your disposal,” Arnett says.

&n
bsp; A large caliber handgun reports, followed by a dozen short bursts of automatic weapons fire.

  “If he escapes into the woods they won’t find him.” Professor Arnett keeps his focus on Jesse.

  “He’s going out in a blaze of glory,” Jesse points at the monitor. Three agents in full tactical gear race from the cabin door. A fourth engulfed in flames flings himself onto the muddy earth attempting to stop, drop and roll. An agent in a FBI windbreaker and vest flips a blanket over the unmoving, burning man. As other agents drop to their knees to pat out the flames more fire erupts inside the cabin.

  “He booby-trapped it.”

  “I’m going to have to retake your course. I missed so much,” Jesses says.

  “I doubt these individuals had enough trust in the group to reveal the critical information you needed to make a proper profile. Three group sessions were not enough to make a true breakthrough. Even Ed, the seemingly redneck trucker, was intelligent. You said all of them were smart and not like the average serial killers you’ve read about. You did the best with what you had,” Professor Arnett assures him.

  “It wasn’t enough.” The camera hangs on the unmoving, smoldering man.

  More large caliber reports echo through the woods.

  Heavy bursts of machine gun fire.

  Silence—profound quiet, the only noise emerging the crackling fire inside the cabin.

  It spreads.

  The growing flames crawl around inside the cabin door. Pops, then bursts of growing, angry flames consume more of the cabin. Whatever fire trap Robert set was not meant to consume the cabin all at once. It grabs it in pieces, forcing further disruption and damage to the attacking officers.

  More than one trap. A dozen small traps hidden throughout the home. If one failed or was discovered he’d grab an agent with the next one. A hunter until the end. Jesse shakes off his admiration.

  Agents file from the tree line weapons holstered or slung at their sides.

  Jesse doesn’t need any further explanation. He knows Robert’s dead. Inside he had no love or friendship for this man, but his death conflicts him. He didn’t murder his sister and should be in prison for all he’s done to those people. He’s glad he dead. The Bowhunter needed to go. All the others do as well, except maybe Jack. He seeks retribution for his loss.

  None of those people were her killer. Smith and the professor must be right. All this and he’s back at square one. He doesn’t know if his sister’s killer is finished or if he is still at large. He may never know because if Robert did take her, and kept a trophy, it’s burning now—no question.

  Ambulances and fire trucks arrive.

  “The water will most likely destroy any evidence the fire missed,” notes Arnett.

  “He booby-trapped all the evidence. When the cops found a clue they would burn it for him. I guess he was a bit of a fire bug after all. Serial Killers are known to have a propension for fires,” Jesse says.

  “You had access to eight killers all sharing stories of their crimes, some of them horrible enough the normal human brain would shut them out. You had no way of taking physical notes without being suspect. You brought to the table a lot more than these agents had before. Even if this operation turns sideways you did everything you could. And even if the FBA tells you otherwise remember you and I know you did your best.”

  But I didn’t. I held back because I knew if I gave up certain bits I would lose the chance to get my sister’s killer. Speaking about Edgars or Jack. Edgars is a celebrity. How many towns would have a half dozen crack houses burn in a few weeks? No, they could both be found instantly.

  Fire fighters hose the flaming cabin. Behind the fire trucks and swarms of agents Jesse spots two sets of men, each helping to carry a lifeless person, on a stretcher, covered by a bloody sheet.

  AL LOWERS TO eye level with the autopsy table. Using an ink pen he flutters the end of snipped brunette hair. “Did you take a hair sample?”

  The salt and pepper headed medical examiner places a human liver on a scale. “I wouldn’t cut chunks out for any testing. As much I have to carve on the dead I attempt to leave some dignity on the parts viewed at the funeral. I would not ruin her hair. I need the root,” the medical examiner says. “In her case the family will be able to have an open casket. People need proper closure.”

  Al glances at the golden name badge tarnished with decades of wear: Gordon. Small town MEs are never women, they all seem to be the same old man. He ponders if that is why cop shows always use the same guy to play the part. “Putting her attacker in prison will satisfy closure. It’s what I will do for them. They were lucky to have a body to bury. Those without knowing the fate of a loved one have the most pain.” He pockets his pen. “Any way to tell what he used to make the cuts?”

  “Knife or scissors, but I’m doubtful about the kind.” Gordon slips his left glove over the right, tossing the latex ball into the trash. He pulls on a clean pair before palpating her scalp. “He jerked her around by her hair.” He rolls the cut tips between his thumb and first two fingers. “Before he whacked her with a knife.”

  Gordon points to her left side. If you recover a knife I’ll match it to the hole in her left side. He punched through a rib to puncture a lung. He used a combat blade with sawback serration on one side and a razor-sharp edge on the other.”

  “Military?”

  “No. He must have tried some move he watched in an action movie. He broke a rib, not stabbing between it. The result was the same, she could not scream. She suffered intense pain. It was not the fatal wound.”

  Al clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

  “He collects the hair as his trophy?” Gordon asks.

  “Or it’s part of his ritual. I haven’t determined. This guy steals a car, uses it to stalk women and runs them off the road. He has an affinity for brunettes, but will take what he knocks off the road. He approaches them and might even demand to exchange insurance information. He drags her to the stolen car jabbing her in the side with a knife. He was not in the military, but had desires to be or believes by buying the equipment he is a soldier.”

  “He might have been discharged during basic,” Gordon offers.

  “Psychological discharge. Doesn’t narrow down any list. Let’s work the facts. I don’t make leaps,” Al says.

  “He’s strong. Once he stabbed her, she was dead weight. From the angle of the cut he has to be five-eleven or six-foot.”

  “Facts. We paint a picture of this man with what we know,” Al says. “Did you examine the other victims?”

  “This guy’s operated in a limited area. It has the city on edge because no one is witnessing anything. All the women have passed through here.”

  “Share what you learned?” Al asks.

  “The first victim identified was an Asian woman. The second was a young co-ed from suburbia.”

  “Your way of stating she was Caucasian?” Al asks.

  “More his actions are random. The Asian woman was employed at a massage parlor and the second vic was a college student. The third was a brunette, but she was a mother of three, age thirty-four.”

  “And this poor woman. She seems young.”

  “Waiting on her identification to be confirmed, but from her teeth she’s barely seventeen.”

  “No curfew in the city?” Al asks.

  “We have an employment exemption. She worked fast food and was on her way home,” Gordon says.

  “This guy’s all over the place in the city with his attacks, which means he is an opportunist. He doesn’t stalk them long. He spots one he likes and follows until he’s able to have a secluded fender bender. He won’t tap her car hard enough to render his own vehicle useless, as he needs it to transport her to where he finishes his assaults on her. Then he dumps the stolen car elsewhere.”

  “Where he is close to his car?” Gordon offers, scribbling down notes about her organ weight.

  “Or whatever his escape route,” Al considers.

  “He m
ust be covered in the victim’s blood. He slices them and they bleed all over him while he assaults them.”

  “Unless he’s smart enough to cover his own car interior in plastic.” Al’s phone vibrates. He slips off his right glove. “Agent Al,” he answers.

  After a few breaths he answers, “No assessment yet. I’m here with the ME now.”

  Al nods as if the person on the other end of the line can see him. “As soon as I have a profile.” He clicks the phone off. “I don’t perform magic and without a proper assessment we won’t have a proper profile to catch a suspect.”

  “Don’t you have a perfect closing rate?” Gordon asks.

  “Through careful examination of all information, not miracles or bloodletting. At this point if they want me to profile a suspect then I might as well use a bloodhound and a Ouija board. Guess is how a suspect escapes, or worse, the wrong person is incarcerated.”

  The phone chips again.

  Al clicks accept on his cell phone. Before he even says hello,

  “It’s bad, Al.”

  He’s never heard panic grip his partner. “Smith? What’s wrong?” Never the buddy cop movie partners type they were paired for assignments together for four years. Director Slincard liked to pawn him off on other departments. His innate ability to solve cases freaked the man out. Director Engström hasn’t worked with him enough to draw a conclusion.

  Agent Smith was a hard nose. He fought everything. Growing up black he was never handed anything and worse, he’s still pulled over by white officers. Al wishes it was just the backroads country troopers, but it’s a lot of city denizens. What hurts Al is in many cases the local constables won’t acknowledge Smith’s rank. The first time Sutherland joined their team, Smith was driving through the Southern town. If Al hadn’t been there Smith would have beaten that gold ole’ boy to death. He didn’t think it was proper a black man be in a car with a white woman in the front seat.

  “She’s dead, Al.”

  The phrase doesn’t catch Al off guard, the crack in Smith’s armor shocks him, the tears Smith holds back from him even over the phone.