SKA: Serial Killers Anonymous

by William Schlichter

  “What happened, Smith?”

  “We had a tip on a suspect and another task force to bring him down. It was a cluster.”

  “Sutherland?” Al questions, cold as ice. Unlike other serial killers he masks his lack of empathy. “How did it happen?”

  “The suspect booby-trapped his lair. She was caught in an expulsion. I don’t think she’s going to make it. She’s burnt on seventy-three percent of her body. What kind of fucking number is seventy-three?”

  “Breathe…my friend…explain. You said she was dead.”

  “They revived her twice. She’s in ICU. It’s bad. While you were on administrative leave…”

  Al detects the accusatory finger—Had you been there this wouldn’t have happened.

  “We received information on a man who had been in contact with a professed serial murderer. We followed the information to his cabin. Hell broke free.”

  In front of the ME, Al forgoes explaining that the second he was cleared of the shooting Director Slincard sent him on a shit assignment, his way of exacting punishment. “They’ve got me assigned to an active case. This guy shows no signs of going dormant. I’ll…”

  “Fuck the job. Sutherland may be new to our team, but you need to attend out of respect.”

  Tears must be streaming for Smith now. Al detects the pain in his partner. His presence in the hospital isn’t for her, it’s for Smith. He needs comfort. He has no idea how to ask and not appear weak. Nothing anyone does will change Sutherland’s outcome.

  Al’s thoughts race to what Jane explained about the rule of nines. Body coverage plus the patient’s age equals the chance of recovery. The formula eludes him, but Sutherland exceeds the percent needed to recuperate. Both he and Smith know it.

  “I’m on my way.” Al shifts into anger, “Did you get the fucker?”

  “He’s dead. The fire brought down a second officer. He’ll need major skin grafts and some reconstructive surgery. Sutherland has little chance of using her legs again.”

  “I’m on my way, Smith.” Al presses end, knowing he has two stops first.

  I

  “We cannot change our past…

  we cannot change the fact

  that people will act in a certain way.

  We cannot change the inevitable.

  The only thing we can do

  is play on the one string we have”

  ~ Charles R. Swindoll ~

  II

  “HOW LONG DO we wait for Robert?” Edgars asks.

  “I’ll tell a story, and if he hasn’t checked in we’ll decide what to do then,” Kenneth says. “It was too long of a drive to this meeting location to not keep sharing.”

  “Just itching to relive your thrills.” Jack doesn’t ask a question, his statement was meant as a barb. Even in the dark the group tastes his disdain.

  “I don’t care for you, Jack, you still think you’re above us, because of who you killed. Don’t matter if it’s helpless prostitutes or drug dealers, we both murder,” Ed says.

  “My choices were of a moral standing, Ed. But I know I’m the same as you. This group revealed to me what I was. I hate myself as much as you. My concern, at first, like many of you was being found out by the cops. If we stay active we run the chance of getting caught. Robert gets caught, he will sell us out. He wouldn’t answer his burner phone. He desires to keep killing. I believe he’s returned to seeking out victims,” Jack reports.

  “I believe he’ll be reckless. Not his normal calculated performance because he’s desperate to fulfil the urges he’s been suppressing. He won’t think straight,” The Plagiarist says.

  “Choosing to be dormant and forcing it are not the same,” Al says.

  “We don’t know why Robert isn’t here and we shouldn’t judge him,” Jane says.

  “He could have a flat tire,” Kenneth says, almost a joke.

  “You think so?”

  “No. Over my years of teaching it amazed me that the child who never did any work or cooperated was also the one whose computer never worked, or they sent the assignment electronically and it never showed up. Robert strikes me as one of those,” Kenneth says.

  “What if he did kill? Do we accept him back?” Ed asks.

  “You return to an AA group and start over, with a chip representing hours.”

  “You’re voting to allow him to return?” Jane asks.

  Jesse jumps up. “He’s not even here, and we don’t know why. We aren’t supposed to judge. So let’s just see why he’s not here before we all flip out.”

  “Why don’t I tell a tale. If he hasn’t joined we decide. Some of us do want this group’s help,” Edgars offers.

  Jane grins. Two of the group are willing to continue forward. They do wish to quit.

  “You think he’s just running late?” Ed sneers.

  “There are bound to be times we’re conflicted. Some of us have a long rest period between our killings. When those times approach we will face our hardest struggles not to kill.” Jane continues, “Even you, Jack. What happens when a new drug house opens? Someone will grow bold and open one. When it’s not firebombed a second will return as long as there is demand.”

  “I haven’t considered, anyone would want to return after I cleared the apartment.”

  “So you did finish him?” Jesse asks.

  “I did more than finish him,” Jack says. “It was why I’m here. I wanted to end it. I marched right to the door, and shoved my gun into the doorman’s face. Those crackhead dealers were high on their own product, and had no response time. Even the ones whose guns cleared holsters had no speed. I drew on them as if I was Wyatt Earp. I desired them to end me, end my pain, and they were so high they couldn’t fight back.”

  “I understand how the direct killing caused you to seek us out,” Jane says.

  “I took a rag and, using their blood, I wrote a message on the wall—”

  No one in the group moves.

  “Fate for all dope peddlers in my town.”

  “After the fires and your cryptic message it will be awhile before too many sell drugs in your neighborhood,” Kenneth says.

  “Or they will remain on guard. The next house won’t go down quickly, not unless you wait a long time. Maybe a year,” Al suggests. He wouldn’t miss the meeting, but he should be at Shawna’s bedside. From the vague news reports and his job he knows Robert died. All the remainder of the group is present. Smith shared that someone met with Robert. Were they in the room?

  “I’m done, dipping my hands in the blood. You’re not wrong, I’ve thought about what I will do when the next dealer opens shop. I want to stop killing. I am here,” Jack says.

  “And we’ll help you, Jack. We’re all here because we’re going to stop,” Jane says.

  “What if Robert killed?”

  “Then we bring him back. We don’t give up. It’s a terrible relapse, but I don’t think we’d all just say ‘I’m not killing anymore’ and go cold turkey. If we could do that we wouldn’t need a group,” Jane says.

  “Then we continue with our telling of tales. Let me just inform you, biting hurts.” Edgars rolls up his left sleeve, shoving his arm into the dim center light of the room. Two fading round scars dot his forearm. “Puncture wounds, when they hit a vein, bleed.”

  “Are those made by fangs?” Jesse asks.

  “Yes. I actually became a Vampire to write, Wafts of Blood. The Story of Victor Boudreaux: Vampire or Serial Killer? Long titles are dangerous. People like them short so they remember them.”

  “You mean like IT.”

  “Long novel, short title and people know of the text. Unlike The Hundred-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window and Disappeared.”

  “Never heard of it,” Kenneth says.

  “You may have, but people forget long titles Hamlet, Fried Green Tomatoes and Wicked all have much longer titles. They shorten them so you remember.

  “This’s not a book club,” Ed snaps.

  “Not a reader, are you Ed?
I figured you liked something with lots of pictures.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “So you became a vampire to write this novel?” Jane refocuses the group.

  “Yes. Yes, I did.”

  III

  I DISCOVERED THIS underground group who felt they were real vampires. Not gothic people, but those who assume the lifestyle, down to the drinking of their partner’s blood to enhance the sexual experience. It was like a twisted bondage club and many members had themselves surgically altered to become Dracula.

  For those devoted, but not devoted enough, or still had to report to a day job where they had to appear as a normal human, there were removable prosthetics. I explored this world a bit, but was quickly unwelcome without partaking in the pleasures being offered. They didn’t care for voyeurs. It was mandatory participation. I was shocked at how many demanded to be bitten and have their blood drank. One of the vampires was a dentist by trade and he gave me his card.

  I visited him by light of day and discovered, for a nominal fee, I could obtain a set of off the books dentures turning my teeth into fangs. I paid cash.

  Without them I could not continue to explore such a dark world where people were aroused by being bitten and having their blood sucked while fucking. Many times this was a private affair, but a few times some people performed at these group gatherings. It was all fascinating, and difficult to take mental notes as the events were sensory overload.

  I kept my notes at home and prepared for my only leap into the supernatural as a writer. A vampire novel would lean toward an answerable mystery questioning if the blood suckers were real or not. I tended toward them being a man in a rubber mask or filled teeth to commit his crimes. It didn’t detract from my experimenting. I could wound victims and not have to worry about dealing with the ramifications of body disposal.

  The targets of women and men who wanted to be bitten lined up around the block. I knew I shouldn’t do my deed at the party, but I could have without having killed. So many wanted to be dominated and bitten.

  This may have been the moment I knew I had an issue. I basked in knowing about the biting and blood. People were lining up to be bitten. I had none of it. Somehow a willing victim was the last thing I wanted. Maybe it was my research methods, getting to understand the way pain was forced upon someone. It was honest. Those in the fang club craved orgasmic pain.

  After the first willing bite I was finished. I would find a subject outside the club.

  As I pushed through the overwhelming masses of dancing flesh covered in fetish wear to reach the door I spotted her. Librarian popped into my head at my first vision of the wrongly dressed woman in the corner. Down to modern horn-rimmed glasses, she was out of place, even more than me.

  “You didn’t look like you belonged, or was this your idea of a victim costume?”

  “My college roommate swore by this place. I just wanted to understand what she raved so much about.”

  I slipped the teeth from my mouth to have a normal conversation because the dentures caused a slur. As loud as the music blared she would have had trouble understanding me.

  “I understand.” I didn’t want to upset her already uncomfortable stance. “I’m researching a book. I couldn’t get anyone to speak to me without the teeth. And even then, they don’t speak…just bite.”

  She smiled. “What do you write?”

  “Mystery/thrillers mostly.”

  “Anything I might have read?” She asked.

  “The Third Body in the Attic,” I smiled. It was a twisted romance, and if she was a reader she read romance. After attending so many book shows romance readers had a look.

  “You’re not P.A. Edgars.”

  She knew me by name. Good.

  “Got Internet on your phone?” It was new at the time, but worth asking.

  “It costs.”

  I slipped a twenty out of my pocket. “I’ll bet you if you look up my books you’ll see my picture. If I’m not who I say I am you keep the twenty minus what it cost to use your Internet.”

  “And if you are Edgars?”

  “We go have a cup of coffee, and I’ll sign the copy of my book you have.”

  “I have three.”

  I smile. “I’ll sign all three.”

  She activates her phone. After about five minutes she glances up from the glowing screen. “I get no signal in here.”

  “Go outside,” I suggested.

  She turned to leave. “Aren’t you coming with?”

  “If you’re asking. I wasn’t sure you’d want a slightly older man wearing vampire teeth to escort you into a dark alley.”

  “Of all the men in this place, I trust you the most.”

  “Don’t say because I remind you of your father.”

  “God, no. You aren’t that old. Because of all the people here you haven’t asked to bite me on my ass.”

  It was difficult to tell how nice her ass was even with the way she was dressed. But she was cute in her glasses.

  The butt would not yield a large amount of blood, or would it?

  Outside she pocketed her phone. “How about you just buy me a coffee. I’m not ready to take you back to my dorm.”

  “Smart girl. You may not get a chance to get my autograph. I don’t normally make it to this part of the country.”

  “But I get to have P.A. Edgars buy me a coffee.” She giggled covering her mouth with innocence.

  It didn’t take long. We were on a deserted country road in the back seat. She was quite forward. We kissed. I fondled her breasts through her clothes. I didn’t move too fast in undressing her. I’m sure she enjoyed the slowness of the embrace but for me, as our tongues rubbed, I was considering if she was to be my next test subject. I rarely mixed my sexual encounters with my assaults.

  I had to use the teeth. I figured I would be the last suspect and some regular attendee at the vamp raves would ping the radar. This girl was nice and quite the kisser. I wondered if she was as good with the rest of her body.

  I considered my options, slipping off her shirt. No matter which way I chose she would be vulnerable naked. As I caressed her back, her arm reached to the rental car floor. Her body was off balance, which shifted our lips. Someone engrossed in the moment of passion might have missed it, but I, being more involved in my experiments, realized she had grabbed something in her purse.

  I felt a sting as I exposed her nipple, but my first thought was she demanded to use a condom and was tapping me with a fingernail. Luckily, I wasn’t distracted by the guaranteed prospect of fucking her or I would have missed catching it before she broke my skin. What she brought out of the purse, in a burst of a downward angry thrust, was a hunting knife. I caught her wrist, twisting it behind her back, before she even knew I was aware of the blade’s attack.

  She struggled, but I pinioned her other hand behind her as well. The next bit was difficult because I should have snapped her left wrist, rendering the knife useless, but a broken wrist meant my handcuffs would be escapable. I flexed and bent her hand until it hurt her.

  “Let go, my kitten.”

  Her legs were pinned under her as she was sitting on her knees in the seat. I’m sure she thought about her position. As she raised up to stab down her legs were in a prime location, but only if I hadn’t prevented her from stabbing me.

  The knife clinked onto the floor.

  She might have done better had she used her right hand since it was dominat. I used my weight to control her. It kept her locked in the position I wanted while I released her right hand and fished out my cuffs. She struggled, but with no way to surprise me, I had her shackled before she could scratch me.

  “You some kind of cop?”

  “No.”

  “Let me go and I won’t claim you tried to rape me.”

  I was not expecting this from my little librarian. “You were going to stab me.” I drug her out of the backseat.

  “You were getting too forceful. I was just defending myself. Who do you think they
will believe?” She jerked against her cuffs.

  “You, ruining my reputation and book sales. And even if later you stab another man, and everyone finds out about the minx you are, my career will be over. And no one will care because I will have been judged in the court of public opinion and there are no retractions.” I slammed her hard against the hood, kicking her legs apart to keep her off balance.

  “You stab many people?” I wondered.

  “Fuck you,” she spits.

  I flicked the first hook of her bra strap.

  “Just put it in and do what you want. I won’t even feel your limp dick.”

  I flicked the second hook, freeing her breasts. “I have no need to rape. Your taunting won’t inflame me. Anger costs focus. What are you angry about?”

  “Just fucking get it over with.”

  “Most women I’ve placed in this position do nothing but beg.” I slipped the knife—her knife—between her ring and pinky finger. “Even when I cut off a finger they beg me not to rape them.”

  “What makes you different?”

  “Cut me. Go ahead.”

  “You don’t seem like a cutter. As you draw the edge of blade it over tan skin it leaves a trail of white. Then you press down and the skin layers separate until you open the capillaries. Normal instinct would be to jerk the blade away as pain strikes. But instead you apply pressure, cutting deeper, causing more pain, releasing a rush of endorphins to the brain, giving a pleasurable high.”

  “You’re a sick fuck.”

  I cut a hole in her dress large enough to allow me to tear it off. The ripping cloth terrified most women, as they know it means they will be penetrated. This kitten seemed to want the process of forced intercourse.

  I snapped the string on her black thong.

  I’m sure the anticipation of me behind her terrified her, as she was just waiting for the hard thrust to separate her lips and violate her. The shock of the two fangs puncturing her left butt cheek sent her into a screaming fit.

  “You bit me! You motherfucker! You fucking bit me!”