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Killer’s Diary
The more she reads, the less she wants to know.
Killer’s Diary
© 2010 Brian Pinkerton
A murderer is stalking the Windy City, carving out the eyes of his victims as grisly souvenirs. When shy Ellen Gordon finds a diary left behind in a coffee shop, she can’t keep from reading it. And when she meets the author in person, he’s just as charming as his writing. Only when she reads further does she find clues to the identity of Chicago’s terrifying serial killer. Could it be the author himself? Ellen will have to uncover the truth about her new boyfriend quickly if she doesn’t want to become the killer’s next victim.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Killer’s Diary:
The first time he acted on the urge it was spectacular.
He wasn’t sure what to expect, because most of the time his fantasies triumphed over reality. He owned a razor-sharp imagination, surround sound in high-definition 3-D, constructed by armies of laborers during his darkest years of solitude and suppression. It was a window, his getaway from a virtual cell. He scrambled eagerly into the arms of a fantasy world because he had nowhere else to go.
Like his earliest childhood aspirations of becoming a famous movie star, best-selling author, or jet fighter pilot, the acts of slaughter had begun as mind plays. In the beginning, there was no storyline, just a fast cut to the climax. He layered a dramatic symphonic score onto the sequence. The victims varied, but the adrenaline rush always pumped new life into his withered soul. Blame biology, genes, God or the devil, it felt good.
Those on the receiving end could be anonymous, blurred faces. Or they might be a particularly irritating individual who had crossed his path that day. Or perhaps someone repugnant from the TV screen. Usually they were women. There was something about their softness that invited the hard assault.
He did not value his own life, so he certainly felt no grief about ending another’s. As a child, when he had killed a stray cat with an aluminum baseball bat, neighborhood girls cried. He merely found their reaction curious.
Part of the problem was that no one could identify with his pain. They lived in glistening shrink-wrap. They had not been beaten down into the dirt by those close to them. They did not wake up every morning with ugly scratching on the inside. A tireless heckler didn’t occupy their brains, a cruel implant at birth.
He felt an obligation to share the hurt that ached in his bones. Once he wrote a poem called “Sponge,” about a man who dutifully absorbed life’s punishments, soaking them up until one day he was filled and could accept no more. Then he began squeezing out the vile residue, allowing it to dribble onto the ignorant people around him like acid rain. Their flesh melted away as they screamed, but the sponge kept squeezing until one day it was pure again.
Like squeezing a sponge, activating the mind plays helped expel some of the filth, but never enough. Then one day his inner voice picked at a sore spot and upped the antagonism. The Heckler grew more vocal with each passing day. He exposed the obvious in three short words.
It’s…not…real.
The truth continued to taunt him, rendering his fantasies impotent. Neutered, the mind plays wobbled and crashed. A lighting rig fell to the stage. Scenery backdrops toppled. The audience exploded with laughter and scorn. The curtain tumbled down with a fast whoomph. Performers bailed. The dramatic tension had deteriorated into a limp burlesque comedy.
The auditorium emptied, the play closed, and his urges required a new outlet. Beckoning, the years of fantasy offered themselves as rehearsals for an electrifying performance on the world stage. Was he prepared?
Most of the time, he recognized the insanity of taking this show on the road, packing it up for a journey out of his head and into the light.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about it. The notion swelled inside his cranium until the pressure was unbearable.
He shot into the neighborhood. He spent thirteen consecutive nights in various bars and clubs on Chicago’s North Side looking for individuals who could fulfill his needs. He drank. He stared. He ran rigorous auditions in his mind, debating possibilities with the Heckler. He indulged in evil thoughts amid swarms of cheerful activity and enjoyed the incongruity like a private joke.
He aroused no suspicion. He was youthful and good looking. He fit in with the singles scene, even as he kept to himself and avoided conversations. When necessary, he smiled with warmth. He nodded. He listened.
He was a good listener because he wasn’t much of a talker. He could go days without speaking, and then when he did speak—obligated perhaps by a store clerk or phone call he couldn’t avoid—his voice croaked as if awakened from the dead. The sound of his own words jarred him back to reality.
At those moments he might lose his grounding. He might stumble. But he never fell.
On the thirteenth night of barhopping, he felt fully prepared, like a student who had studied exhaustively for a final exam. Any subsequent delay might dull his edge, weaken the momentum.
He identified his target.
Not beautiful, somewhat plain. Short, curly brown hair. Medium, nondescript build. Good teeth. Occasionally flirting with males, but mostly sticking to her small circle of girl companions. Drinking. One, two, three…seven drinks, divided between beers and cheap Jell-O shots. She took care of his checklist: unattached, losing some balance, speech sloppy, judgment impaired.
He knew the time was near when a bartender announced last call. She reached for her coat. Put it back down. Picked it up again. Teasing him? Finally she began snaking toward the exit for real, joined by her friends.
The Heckler ordered him to follow in a crackling radio voice, like a helicopter pilot viewing the scene from above. Tense violin strings lifted out of the bar noise.
His big scene had arrived.
Outside, in the sharp winter air, he pursued the group of girls, keeping a measured distance. One by one, individuals peeled from the group. He waited for her turn to break from the pack.
When she stopped to exchange hugs and wave goodbye, a prickling sensation traveled his body. One block later, when she cut through a dark parking lot, concealed from view by SUVs, he felt awed by the gift-wrapped location. He pulled on his wool ski mask, the anonymous face of death. He sped up, silent in white sneakers. Before his head could contemplate any new thoughts, the scene reached its glorious climax.
The four minutes matched his expectations closely, including the fierceness of the struggle and the wetness of the blood. It wasn’t until the very end that something happened that his imagination had not prepared him for. It struck him like a slap.
Her eyes didn’t shut. Crumpled to the pavement, still clutching at the stab wounds with tense fingers, she died staring back at him.
He had just removed the ski mask from his face. For a moment, he swooned and nearly lost his balance. The lights around him grew brighter and he heard distant noise.
In his mind plays, the victims had always closed their eyes, a final sign-off and departure. But her gaze locked on him. It took his breath away.
When he got home, he burned his clothes in the apartment building’s incinerator. He showered and retired to bed.
He slept deeply.
When he awoke, close to noon, he waited for the crash of strong emotions. He didn’t know when they would hit or what they would be. He just knew he had entered a new space.
His first sensation was hunger. He ate a bowl of cereal and drank some juice. He turned on the television and channel-surfed until he found his performance highlighted on a newscast. According to a solemn news anchor, the murder had taken place in the back parking lot of the victim’s apartment building. A hefty Hispanic woman who worked for the Chicago Park District found the body kicked under her Jeep around seven that morning. With stuttering revulsion, she described finding the corpse and realizin
g that the woman’s eyes were gone.
That’s when the wall of feelings hit. He moved away from the television set. He paced a semicircle in his living room. He worked to identify the sensation. Not fear. Not grief. Not shame. Not relief. What was it? What was different compared to twenty-four hours ago? What drove the blood racing through his veins? What was he feeling at this very minute?
Alive.
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B
Cincinnati OH 45249
Anatomy of Evil
Copyright © 2015 by Brian Pinkerton
ISBN: 978-1-61922-747-7
Edited by Don D’Auria
Cover by Scott Carpenter
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: April 2015
www.samhainpublishing.com
Anatomy of Evil Page 23