by Hadena James
“Yes, I had to tell Xavier something,” I said.
“This would be one of those days when I feel like a kindergarten teacher,” Gabriel shook his head. “Bring me the note.”
“It’s about prairie dogs,” Xavier said.
“Is it pertinent to the case?” Gabriel asked.
“Not really,” Xavier said.
Gabriel snatched the note from across the table and held it before him. He read it and shook his head again.
“One day, you are going to run into a prairie dog and that note will be pertinent,” I told him.
“Aislinn, I will never run into a prairie dog. I lived in Arizona for almost ten years and never ran into a prairie dog,” Gabriel informed me. “Can we please move onto the case.”
“Sure,” I shrugged. “So we want to get someone undercover and hope that our day laborer killer is the same one killing the homeless.”
“I don’t think it is,” Lucas said.
“Why?” Gabriel asked.
“Because the homeless are not the same class of person as the day laborers. Most day laborers are immigrants or strong men who have trouble holding down a job. Those are the everyday day laborers. There are always a few that have lost their job unexpectedly and do this to make ends meet while they search for new jobs, but those will be few and far between. In contrast, the homeless tend to be people who can no longer participate in society. Most of them are mentally ill or addicts that have lost everything. There is a disproportionate number of homeless vets, men who can no longer serve in the military for whatever reason, but can’t adjust to civilian life either. Since most of these men were discharged instead of retiring, they don’t get the pensions and things that retired military service men get. They are given treatment at veteran’s hospitals, but that isn’t enough. Also with the rise of the serial killer in the seventies and eighties, we are starting to see a large number of police officers ending up as homeless men, too broken to hold down a job and unable to live on the meager pensions they are getting from the government. Studies are starting to show that serial killers are the number one reason for police officers to need on the job counseling and they are getting worse not better,” Lucas said.
“We’ve always had serial killers,” I said.
“Yes, but we’ve never had them like we do now,” Lucas corrected. “In the 1950’s, there were approximately fifty serial killers that we knew of, most operating in large cities. There was the occasional one in a small town, but that was definitely the exception. Now we have over 10,000 serial killers working in the US alone and the numbers are on the rise. For whatever reason, society is breeding more sociopaths and psychopaths. In the 1970’s, only about four percent of the population fell into either category. Forty years later, that number is just over ten percent. Ten percent of five hundred million people is fifty million people who are psychopaths or sociopaths. If ten percent of those are the type to start killing, that’s five million serial killers and mass murderers. Luckily, that is an extraordinarily high estimate of how many become killers, but you get the point,” Lucas finished.
“Wait, are you saying that there could be fifty million serial killers?” Officer Gomez had taken a seat.
“Not at all, that would require a complete breakdown of society. Most sociopaths and psychopaths do not kill. They take jobs full of risk, like company CEOs, firemen, police officers, and other jobs that require you to be either fearless or able to conquer any fear you may feel. They do well in these jobs. What I am saying is that with the personality disorder still rising, it is creating more serial killers and mass murderers, it is an unwanted side effect. However, as we fill more positions in law enforcement and other branches of the justice system, we will eventually gain ground on the ones that are destructive members of society. It also means that ‘well-adjusted’ individuals will slowly move away from law enforcement because they can’t handle the trauma associated with serial killers,” Lucas said.
“All cops see dead bodies,” Officer Gomez said.
“Yes, but most of them do not go charging head first into the lairs of serial killers. While the majority of serial killers are keeping only small trophies, we still find houses with severed limbs or jars full of ears or buckets full of eyes. We recently had to offer counseling to an entire town of people because a serial killer was using human skin to create vests, belts, wallets and selling them at local craft fairs. And no matter how seasoned a detective is, some of this is going to get to them,” Lucas countered.
“Cannibals are the worst,” I said absently. “When a cannibal has been at work, most detectives toss their cookies. There is just something fundamentally gut-wrenching about cannibals. It seems to be a decidedly German thing though. We have some here and there, but the Germans seem to have a ton of cannibals.”
“Stop reading books on cannibals,” Gabriel said to me.
“It was research,” I defended myself.
“It was light reading,” Michael snickered quietly.
“It was light reading,” I agreed.
“Good grief,” Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Can we discuss tomorrow?”
“Sure, you’re the boss,” Xavier said.
“I don’t feel like it, I feel like a keeper at a mental institution,” Gabriel said. “So tomorrow, we are going to put Xavier into the mix of day laborers and hope he attracts a serial killer. Do we know anything about the killer?”
“He drives a truck with a dent in it,” I answered.
“That’s it?” Gabriel asked.
“That’s it,” I answered.
“That isn’t much to work with,” Gabriel sighed heavily.
“He prefers loners,” I added.
“I would hope so,” Lucas smirked at me. “Much harder to kill an entire group of day laborers. However, if any survived an attack by this killer, they probably wouldn’t have reported it.”
“Why?” I asked.
“They are day laborers,” Lucas gave me a look.
“And that means what?” I gave him a look back.
“Most of them are probably illegals or they speak so little English, they can’t find jobs other than day labor,” Lucas said.
“If you were in the country illegally, would you want to report anything to the police?” Xavier asked me.
“Probably not,” I blinked and thought. “Ah, gotcha.”
“For someone that is supposed to be brilliant, you are occasionally very dumb,” Michael snickered again.
“We all have moments,” I shrugged. “If I worked at 100% brain capacity all the time, it would probably short circuit and cause massive hemorrhaging.”
“That’s probably not true,” Xavier said. “I’ve never heard of a genius having a brain hemorrhage just because they were thinking all the time.”
“Well, shit happens. I’d be the first,” I said.
“That I believe,” Xavier smiled at me. I gave him the finger.
“Children, children,” Gabriel was shaking his head again. “Should we formulate a plan or do you want to wing it?”
“Plans are good,” Lucas said.
“Ok, so we insert Xavier as a day laborer and stake out the place. If a dented truck pulls up, we pull them over once they get to wherever they are going and search the place,” Gabriel suggested.
“On what grounds?” Officer Gomez asked.
“We don’t need grounds,” I said. “We work on a whole different set of laws because we don’t deal with average people. We can technically search anyone we suspect is a serial killer without much more than a rumor.”
“That seems unfair,” Gomez answered.
“It is, but it also keeps body counts down. Do you know how many serial killers were suspected and still put bodies on their tab just because the police didn’t have probable cause to search a residence or car? I can think of seven just off the top of my head. So, they side-stepped that for us. We don’t need probable cause or a warrant. We have information that a serial killer is driving a dent
ed pick-up truck and preying on day laborers, we can search every dented pickup truck hiring day laborers. We can also search their job sites and homes,” Gabriel said.
“We work as if we were patrolling a police state,” Lucas clarified. “While most law enforcement agencies still need probably cause and they have to Mirandize suspects, we do not because we are considered to be acting under martial law.”
“Have we declared war on serial killers?” Officer Gomez asked.
“Technically, yes, that is what the Serial Killer and Mass Murderer Law is, it is a declaration of war. If you read the language, it even reads like a declaration of war and it has been signed off by both houses of Congress. However, because it is a war within the borders of the United States, upon its own citizens, it must be enforced only by special divisions of the Justice System. This has fallen to the US Marshals and the Serial Crimes Tracking Unit. Technically, if we enter a house and find drugs, but no evidence of a serial killer or mass murderer, we can do nothing except confiscate the contraband and turn it over to the local police. We cannot arrest or even detain them. The only loop-hole is if they begin firing on us. At that point, we are authorized to use any force necessary and they are then charged under the Serial Killer and Mass Murderer Law. However, the scope of what we can and cannot investigate is very narrow. With great power came even greater restrictions. If Congress was going to allow us to walk all over civil rights, they were going to do it in a very narrow scope,” Lucas said.
“History lesson complete,” I chirped.
“This isn’t much of a plan,” Xavier said.
“I feel that way a lot, it never stops you from offering me up as bait,” I said.
“We’ll be with you through the entire thing,” Gabriel said.
“And if it isn’t the right serial killer, we’ll manage to grab two in this trip,” I added.
“Your enthusiasm is disturbing,” Officer Gomez said.
Seventeen
By noon the following day, I was cranky, tired, hot and really sick of being in Las Vegas. The SUV windows were tinted so dark, it was illegal. One of those sun reflector thingies had been put in the windshield to keep out the sun and some of the heat. The air conditioner was working at full throttle in an attempt to keep it less than ninety degrees. Gabriel hadn’t said anything all morning, except to point out how badly he had slept because of dreams about cannibals and prairie dogs. Lucas and Michael were in a different area, watching for the dented truck. Officer Gomez was with them and probably having much more interesting conversations.
However, I was watching Xavier sweat in the heat instead of me and there was some small comfort in that. I liked it when we used others as bait.
So far, not a single dented pick-up truck of any make, model or color had shown up where the day laborers hung out for work. There were very few left; a handful of men, including Xavier, who stood around, drinking water and talking and seemed uninterested in actually taking work.
“You’d think there would be at least a few dented trucks picking up workers even if they weren’t serial killers,” Gabriel finally said.
“One would think,” I agreed, wracking my brain to see how much I actually knew about construction workers and contractors. I came up with zip. For all I knew, they all drove BMWs with toolboxes mounted on the roof.
“You would also think there would be a taco truck or something somewhere nearby,” Gabriel added.
“Are there a lot of taco trucks in Las Vegas?”
“You’ve never been here before, have you?”
“Why would I come to Vegas? I have no intention of getting married, I don’t gamble, I don’t like crowds, I hate flashing flights and noise makes me cranky. And they suspect there are six serial killers working in the city and I attract serial killers like slot machines attract old ladies.”
“Aislinn Cain, you live in a very bizarre, self-imposed bubble and as much as I try, I cannot figure you out,” Gabriel turned to look at me.
“What’s there to figure out? I’m a sociopath with a fake anxiety disorder, very limited emotions and a penchant for attracting violence.”
“And you read too much, play too many video games and watch too much British television. I can’t decide if you have a personality or not.”
“I don’t,” I shrugged.
“Everyone has a personality, even the disturbed Malachi has one.”
“My personality is as fractured as my psyche, Gabriel.”
“It’s been a year, maybe you should open up a little. You have proven yourself comfortable around me. So, tell me something that I don’t know.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. You keep your secrets closer to your chest than I do. Like why are you here? I know Xavier and Lucas are both damaged goods. I know Michael is not just a geek, he killed a serial killer to get here. So what about you?”
Gabriel looked out the side window, checking on Xavier or pretending to, and let out a long sigh. He was silent after that for several minutes and I had given up on the possibility of small talk.
“I was assigned to your unit instead of being shipped to somewhere to be forgotten,” Gabriel finally said. “I irritated some supervisors, got under the skin of a few more and then went out on my own to find someone that was targeting my fellow FBI agents. They told me there wasn’t a serial killer at work there, the deaths were all random and most of them work related. I wasn’t convinced.” Gabriel stopped talking.
“Well?” I asked after several minutes of silence.
“I was assigned a partner, about a month before you guys rolled into Chicago. We were staking out some house as part of a DEA joint task force mission. My partner decides no one is home, he wants to go in and check it out. I protested for a couple of minutes, but he was determined. I followed him in, he put six bullets in my back. As I lie on the floor, convinced I was going to die, he rolled me over with his foot. I managed to pull my gun and hit him. Shot him right between the eyes. The DEA agents stormed the place and found me. I lived. The FBI had been proven wrong, turned out the guy had over seventeen kills. Malachi recommended me for a position with his unit, but I was an embarrassment to my superiors because I had shown them up. I was on my way to being reassigned when the Serial Crimes Unit rolled into town and needed a liaison. I was volunteered for the job and when Alejandro was poisoned, the FBI decided to shuffle me off to the US Marshals. Malachi had a hand in it. He said if I couldn’t be given to him, I should take the vacancy at the Marshals. When Malachi talks, people listen. It was his way of making amends to me. I had gone to him with the serial killer theory and he had ignored me.”
“Hence your dislike of Malachi and the FBI?” I asked.
“I have no ill feelings towards Malachi. If I had been in his shoes, trying to run around the country with a bunch of head cases trying to solve serial crimes within the limits of the bureau, I would have ignored me too. Malachi doesn’t work under the Serial Killer and Mass Murderer Law. He works under the guidelines set out by the bureau and Justice department long before the rise of the serial killer.”
“Is that where you got those scars?” I decided to keep him talking.
“No, that was my ex-wife. Luckily for me, she didn’t know much about guns or anatomy. She emptied a .22 into me, but the bullets had gotten wet and none of them lodge very deep. Most hit my sternum and stopped.”
“But you can fire a gun underwater,” I pointed out.
“Only as long as the bullets stay dry,” Gabriel rolled his window down a crack and lit a cigarette for both of us.
“Did she have just cause to shoot you six times?”
“Not really, said she thought I was an intruder. However, I called out her name before she fired at me. I came home early from an assignment. We‘d had a pipe burst in our basement. I kept all my guns and ammo in a lockbox down there. She went and grabbed the gun from the lockbox, filled it with wet ammo and then came upstairs and shot me because, as she said, she thought I was an intruder. We div
orced after that. Then she told the court I was a dangerous, unfit father who kept wet ammo lying around in the house.”
“She sounds like a piece of work.”
“She is,” Gabriel said. “Now, it’s your turn.”
“When I was seventeen, I shot Malachi in the leg. He reported it as self-inflicted and everyone bought it. It was easier than the truth, even for him to admit.”
“Why did you shoot Malachi?” Gabriel asked.
“He attacked someone. Normally, I wouldn’t care, but I was pretty sure he was out of control. He does that from time to time, just loses control. I had a college roommate and he came up to visit. I wasn’t living on campus. Freshmen were supposed to, but I was given permission under extenuating circumstances to get an apartment. I was living with a senior who didn’t seem to mind my eccentricities. We also never saw each other, that helped. Malachi came up for a visit, he had just joined the bureau and was working a case. Whatever the reason, when my roommate walked in that night, Malachi attacked her. Ironically, he said he thought she was an intruder. Before he killed her or something worse, I shot him in the leg.”
“Does he lose control often?”
“When he was younger, he had more problems maintaining the demeanor of a normal person. I wouldn’t want to run across him in a dark alley or dark apartment, but he’s mellowed with age. When we were younger, I would have bet money that he was going to end up in The Fortress. After the thing with Gerard Hawkins happened, it was less of an issue.”
“Why did that change him?”
“That was the case he was working when I shot him.”
“But you were nineteen when you shot Hawkins.”
“I know, but Malachi was like me, a child prodigy. He graduated with his bachelor’s degree at the tender age of sixteen. Went on to get his master’s in psychology and was recruited by the FBI at the age of twenty. I left for college that year. My first year on campus, we figured out there was a serial killer at work. I called Malachi and about six months later, they sent out a team to investigate. They worked it for a year in Michigan before disappearing back to their main headquarters. At the time, I didn’t know where that was. And a year later, Hawkins made the very bad decision to follow me home. But Malachi had also learned that if I would shoot him, he needed to change. I really like him when he isn’t being all weird. He’s a fun guy that would do just about anything for me. But I’m not going to let him hurt innocents just because I like him. That changed him.”