All The Dead Girls

by Tim Kizer

  The girl walked past his Nissan, quickly looked back, and Frank saw her face: she appeared to be Hispanic and had long dark hair. He had pulled over his car ten minutes earlier because Kelly's car had stopped by the curb after circling around the area for a little while, and then this girl showed up. At that moment he wondered what she was doing in this sketchy neighborhood at ten in the evening.

  It took the girl two minutes to stroll the four hundred feet that divided Frank’s and Kelly's cars. As she approached the Tahoe, Graham got out of the car. Frank had no clue what they spoke about; Graham might have asked if she felt like partying that night. They exchanged a few words, and then Graham swiftly grabbed the girl by the shoulders and pulled her into the car. As soon as Graham shut the door, the Tahoe took off, its tires screeching.

  He didn't follow them any longer; he thought that would have been pointless. He had seen enough and was sure they would eventually end up at Josephine's place. Honestly, he was scared. There was a very good reason for him to be scared: they had kidnapped four people that night—ensnared them--and sure as hell they were going to hurt them. Perhaps kill them in the end, if they hadn’t already. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that those poor strangers had been murdered on the spot and Kelly had left Rochester with four dead bodies neatly stacked in the back of the Tahoe.

  If all of this is true, you are in an unenviable position, Frank Fowler. You fucked with the wrong people, buddy.

  Two hours later, back in Buffalo, he called Josephine’s landline from a payphone. Ron answered the phone, and Frank immediately hung up.

  But it's still possible that you are hallucinating, partner. Perhaps you find it more convenient to consider them quiet perverts.

  So, let's recap. In early March, Kelly, Ron, and Graham traveled to Rochester. It definitely happened after February because the weather had begun getting warmer. One Friday evening in March, they went to Rochester to kidnap people. And he was so naïve as to believe that Kelly was going to meet a lover.

  They had snatched two men and two women and most likely murdered them days—or hours—later. How hard would it have been for Graham to strangle them, one neck at a time? He would have enjoyed it, too. They certainly killed those people, what else could they have done with them? Their victims were so diverse; the police would never suspect they had been kidnapped by the same people. Some might even say that the teen girl had eloped with an unknown Romeo and that the prostitute had gotten tired of Rochester and scrammed to California. Given the fact that Josephine and the gang had never been caught, it seemed that they had done an excellent job of covering their tracks.

  Are you sure they killed them? There could be other—less gruesome—explanations. How about this: they organized orgies with those people. Sounds plausible, doesn’t it? As for your mass murder theory—why would they risk going to prison for the rest of their lives? They may be weird, but they are not reckless.

  Kelly must have approached the first suitable man she came across, asked if he wanted to have a good time—what straight man would refuse to spend the night with such a hot chick?—and then taken the unlucky fellow to the car, where Graham had either knocked him out with his fist or injected him with some sort of sedative.

  You have a creative imagination, bro.

  They murdered those four people and tossed the bodies in Lake Eerie. Or dissolved the remains in sulphuric acid: it wasn’t that outlandish to suggest that Josephine had huge vats with sulphuric acid in her basement. They were insane, they had killed dozens of men and women. Those poor souls in Rochester were just another four notches on their vast list of victims.

  You really believe in this? It’s ridiculous.

  When he returned home from Rochester, he realized that Josephine and the gang had killed those men that Kelly had met during her train trips to Schenectady and Utica, which meant that he would be unable to use those guys to track down his wife.

  And in April you killed your wife, right?

  The landline phone began to ring. After hesitating for a few seconds, Frank picked up the receiver. Even though he had little doubt it was Bluth, he wanted to verify his guess.

  “Hey, Frank. Why the hell did you...” Frank hung up before Bluth had time to finish.

  They must have murdered all those people. Even if they only killed the four poor souls from Rochester, that would be more than enough.

  Yes, the murder of the Rochester four is more than enough. Now confess that you killed Kelly. It won't hurt. Confess and relax.

  Okay, he will confess to it. He actually killed Kelly. He killed her because she had killed Kathy.

  Kelly killed Kathy? You're out of your mind, Frank. Why would she kill her own daughter?

  She slaughtered her because the girl had been annoying her; she just couldn’t handle being a mother of a very young child. After Kathy's disappearance, Kelly got rid of all her toys and clothes. She donated them all to the Salvation Army, bit by bit, methodically, without hurry, so that he would easier acclimatize to the environment devoid of anything reminding of Kathy.

  There is a simple explanation for this. She just understood that Kathy would never come back—nothing sinister, you know.

  No, she murdered Kathy; she hated their little girl and killed her. It might have been some sick ritual sacrifice—how do you like this theory?

  You think Kelly belonged to a human sacrificing sect? You’ve got to be kidding, pal. It’s ridiculous; it’s nothing but ramblings of a deranged mind.

  Outlandish as it sounded, Kelly did murder Kathy. If this woman was capable of slaying four people in one day, she must have been able to kill Kathy, too. Therefore, he punished her; it was his duty to avenge his daughter.

  You murdered Kelly with a kitchen knife, extracted her teeth, cut off her fingers, and buried her in a forest far away from Buffalo.

  Yes, that's how it went down. He would be surprised if they find her body in this decade. Or ever.

  Kelly even threw away Kathy's drawings; she wanted to eliminate everything that reminded her of her dead daughter. She started giving away Kathy’s toys and clothes in January, two months after murdering the girl. He didn't pay a lot of attention to it as he didn’t realize what it really meant.

  She had lost hope, Frank. She was a weak woman, that’s all.

  At that point in time he was sure Kelly had killed their daughter. And if his latest recollections were accurate, this idea shouldn’t seem crazy at all. As a matter of fact, it appeared quite plausible.

  To hell with Kelly and her relatives, bro. Kelly got what she deserved, and it doesn't really matter whether she killed Kathy or not. She took part in those horrible murders and would have ended up in jail sooner or later; you only speeded up the process.

  By the way, Josephine and the gang were not Kelly’s relatives.

  Yeah, it was another bombshell memory.

  When Albert’s wife had told him that Josephine had found Kelly a couple of years ago, he hadn’t completely understood the meaning of that tidbit of information, but now it was clear to him what she had been talking about.

  How did Kelly introduce Josephine to him? It was right after George’s funeral that Frank first met Josephine. Kelly told him that Missis Buckhaus was one of the many relatives that had come out of the woodwork to express their condolences. Frank wasn’t particularly interested in learning all the details of their relationship and only bothered to remember that Josephine was George’s estranged daughter, an error of youth if you will.

  It had finally dawned upon Frank that Josephine and Kelly were neither sisters, nor half-sisters, nor stepsisters; they were not related at all. This detail had to be important; he remembered discussing that with Alex when they had first met.

  The landline phone rang again. Frank walked up to the cabinet bar and poured himself half a glass of gin. The phone stopped ringing when he screwed the cap back on the bottle.

  Kelly killed Kathy. This woman was insane, she murdered her own daughter, Fran
k had no doubt about it. And he slaughtered this bitch to punish her for taking their child’s life. He had every right to do it.

  You might have a point there if she really killed Kathy, pal.

  She did murder their daughter. Kathy had been a burden to Kelly, a nuisance that prevented her from enjoying life in full, so this bitch had decided to get rid of the little girl once and for all.

  Frank had been lucky to have remembered to bring night vision binoculars with him the night Kelly went to Rochester. He had intended to take a glance at Kelly’s lover's face, but what he saw was something he couldn’t have imagined in his worst dreams. On the way from Buffalo to Rochester he had been cracking up at the idea that he was going to spy on them with the binoculars. He had regretted leaving the camera at home, but then he thought it would have been useless in the dark. Those two photos he had taken in Utica were of subpar quality; he deleted them after coming back from Rochester because he didn't need them anymore. He was frightened. He realized what would happen to him if Kelly’s relatives discovered he had spied on them.

  You killed Kelly to avenge your daughter, plain and simple. You did the right thing, bro. Child murderers deserve death.

  Was he going to report Josephine and her gang to the police? Was he going to punish Ron, Josephine, and Graham?

  He didn't remember. He only remembered that he had executed Kelly. He had avenged his little daughter on that perverted bitch. He had done the right thing.

  It was righteous vengeance, and God must have forgiven you, buddy. You only did your duty as a father.

  Was Albert involved in this human hunt? Most likely, yes, even though he didn’t look like your typical serial killer. He appeared to be what he was, a smug forty-one-year old man enduring a boring job at a hospital blood bank. On the other hand, none of Kelly’s relatives looked like a killer.

  And do you even know what a typical psycho killer looks like, buddy? By the way, you’ve got to admit that Albert has aged really well; honestly, no one would give him a day over thirty two.

  Speaking of Albert: do you remember the odd ending of your conversation with his wife four days ago?

  Yes, the conclusion of his chat with Laura had seemed a bit odd to him back then. Well, he was uncertain if he was able to make more sense of it now.

  “Can I be honest with you, Frank?” Laura said, intently looking into his eyes.

  “I guess so.”

  “I want to tell you something about my husband. And I’d like it to be a secret between you and me.”

  “Sure. I can keep secrets.”

  After a short pause, Laura said, “I don’t think I can trust my husband anymore. I suspect that he’s been doing something illegal for the last few years.”

  Frank asked her to share the details.

  “He’s been stealing blood from work, and I am not sure what he does with it.”

  “Did you say he steals blood?” At that moment, it crossed Frank’s mind how grotesque the concept of blood theft sounded to him.

  “Albert works at the hospital blood bank,” Laura explained. “He’s been stealing for at least two years. Nobody knows about it, but me because he has managed to keep under the radar this whole time. Where do you think he could be selling that blood? He must be selling it, right?”

  Frank shrugged his shoulders. “How much blood has he stolen?”

  “At least a gallon a month. But I think he’s taken more than that. I’m afraid he’ll end up in jail. He probably should go to jail for this. What do you think, Frank?”

  He had had nothing smart to say, so he had just advised Laura not to rush to conclusions and do whatever her heart told her to do.

  Was Albert selling the blood to the ghouls?

  No. Once again, buddy: ghouls don’t drink human blood.

  With the glass in his hand, Frank headed for the bathroom, having decided to take a hot refreshing bath. He had a feeling he was on the brink of a major discovery. And he had finally accepted the fact that he had killed his wife.

  And Tony—you also murdered Tony, buddy. Of course, you had to use Alex’s help because cousin Tony was one tough son of a bitch.

  Oh, one more thing: Marilyn was not what she claimed to be. In fact, little of what she had told him was true.

  Marilyn had never been his mistress. And she was lying when she said that Alex had given her a ride to Frank’s place, because she had never been in his house before the car crash. It was also a lie that Alex had no siblings: he had at least one sister, and her name was Marilyn. Yes, Frank had finally remembered how he had gotten to know Marilyn—she was Alex’s big sis.

  So what was the point of this whole charade? She sure wasn’t after his money.

  His best guess would be, Marilyn was looking for her dear brother. She probably thought that Frank Fowler knew something that could lead her to Alex, which was the right assumption, he must say. In other words, Marilyn employed the same approach as Josephine, only in a more subtle way. You see, that night at Holiday Inn was not the first time Frank had come across a picture of Alex in his post-crash life. Frank was sure now that he had seen a framed photo of Alex in the living room of Marilyn’s house. As a matter of fact, he might have even asked her about that photograph while making small talk. Marilyn was smart, you know. She believed that she could scare him away if she had asked him about her brother directly. Instead, she had been dropping hints in front of him, waiting for one of them to trigger his memories of Alex.

  Looks like you’ll have to have a serious talk with this big fat liar, partner.

  3.

  You want to know whose blood the ghouls drink?

  Tony’s. They drank Tony’s blood. That blood was very special; too bad they can’t have it anymore because Tony is dead.

  4.

  Since he was in no mood to read hundreds of handwritten pages at the present moment, Frank put examining Alex’s notepads on the back burner and focused on the contents of the laptop. He elected to start with pictures as looking at them didn’t require a lot of mental effort. There were over four thousand image files on Alex’s laptop, and Frank planned to check out each and every one of them. He had allotted three seconds to process one picture, which theoretically meant he could be done with all of them in under four hours.

  Frank must have gone through about a quarter of Alex’s image files when he finally stumbled upon the big clue he had been hoping for. It was a color photo of Josephine sitting on a sofa next to another woman that Frank had never seen before. The women stared straight at the camera, smiling. Frank could not help noting that it must have been the first time he had observed a sincere smile on Josephine’s face. Judging by its quality, the image was a scan of an old photograph shot on film. According to the file details, the scan had been created seven months ago. The picture, which unfortunately had not been dated, had to be at least thirty years old: even though Frank was no expert in female fashion, it was obvious to him that the women’s hairstyles and outfits were from neither the current nor the previous decade. In fact, both women were dressed as if they were at some 1960s themed party. His mind also registered the fact that Josephine appeared to have been in her forties at the time the picture had been taken, which was pretty bizarre, assuming it had actually happened several decades ago.

  It took Frank four more minutes to realize why his brain had picked the sixties as the theme of Josephine’s attire. The camera had captured the left lower corner of the calendar hanging on the wall behind the women, and, if you were attentive enough, you could notice the month and the year printed on the page—April 1962.

  So how the hell had Josephine managed to end up on a photo taken a couple of years before her birth? And why did she look virtually the same now as she had in the early sixties?

  From a rational standpoint, there was no explanation for this curiosity.

  Was it possible that the picture had been manipulated? Could it be just a stupid hoax?

  Well, if the image was a fake, this had to be qu
ite an elaborate scheme because Alex had shown him the original photograph, which looked and felt absolutely authentic. Why would anyone waste their time forging a fake vintage photo of a middle-aged woman who was not a celebrity or a politician?

  Frank settled back in the chair and put his hands behind the back of his head. He had remembered telling Alex that he doubted the authenticity of the picture.

  Why had Alex shown him this photo?

  He was trying to prove to you that there was something terribly wrong about Josephine, buddy. And he wasn’t talking about sexual kinks.

  So what did this picture prove? That Josephine was a time traveler? Or that she had aged much much better than any other person in the history of mankind?

  Yeah, Josephine was indeed the luckiest woman in the world: she hadn’t aged a bit in the past fifty years.

  4.

  “I’d like to see my safe deposit box please.” Frank opened his wallet and pulled out his driver’s license. “I’ve lost my key. I hope that’s not a problem.”

  He already knew a lost key wouldn’t be a problem: the bank’s customer support center rep had informed him that he could buy a new key for a hundred and fifty dollars, which was the cost of replacing the lock.

  “Sure, no problem, Sir.” The banker took Frank’s license and started punching the keys on the keyboard.

  The deposit box—along with the location of the bank branch—had risen to the surface of his memory two hours ago. Frank remembered there was something important in it, something the size of a credit card. Could it be an actual credit card? It sure could.

  He had taken a taxi to get to the bank (a paranoid move, yes, but he didn’t care). While in the cab, Frank recalled the town name on the last sign he had seen before reaching the forest where he had buried Kelly. Fowlerville. He turned into the forest a mile or so after passing that sign. He drove half a mile deep into the woods, gotten out of the car, opened the trunk, shouldered Kelly's body, and grabbed the bag with the shovel. Kelly seemed to be light as a pillow to him at that moment; he was boiling with energy and felt as if he could move mountains. He thought of that woman who had lifted a car to save her child trapped under it and whose story had often been used to illustrate the power of adrenaline. Frank was sure he could dig a mine with his all-steel Fiskars shovel purchased with cash at Home Depot a few days earlier.