by Mandy White
Toward the end, Dirk had felt all of their pain. I had made damn sure of that. He deserved what he’d gotten and I felt no remorse for what I’d done. I had enjoyed every second of it.
So now, I was apparently the serial killer known to the Los Angeles media as “The Feeder”. Nobody had the faintest idea that I was a mere copycat of the real killer.
An eerie nickname it was; bringing up mental pictures of one who feeds upon his or her victims’ remains. I was reminded of the ritual performed by ancient Native American hunters following a successful kill. They gutted the animal, typically a bison, and passed the fresh liver around. Each hunter took a bite in celebration of the kill. I’d tried it once before, after killing a moose. I found it a little weird but not the worst thing I’d ever tasted. I could see it being palatable once a person acquired a taste for it.
I admit I had been curious, but resisted the urge to taste my human victims. We were such a repulsive species – riddled with drugs, toxins and social diseases. Thinking about it made me feel ashamed to be human but then, I was no stranger to shame.
I had sliced a couple of small pieces off of Dirk and kept them, not as souvenirs or late-night snacks or anything – that would be sick. I kept them as insurance, for when I located Camille’s killer. The real Feeder would be made accountable for the things both he and I had done.
Another player in my sister’s miserable life was dead. I should have been satisfied but there was still one more out there. A ruthless murderer (besides me) was still walking around free, thinking he’d gotten away with killing my sister, some guy at the White Surf motel and lord only knew how many others.
I stared into the bathroom mirror, analyzing the solemn face that gazed back at me. Camille looked tired and sad… so sad. I had failed her. I was exhausted, mentally as well as physically. I had nothing left inside. Part of me just wanted to turn and walk away from this pointless vendetta and go home. I could be on a plane within hours, back to Canada where I could resume my normal life and put the killing behind me.
No, I couldn’t.
I couldn’t bring myself to leave while Camille’s killer still lived, unpunished and free to kill again. As long as he was free, I never would be. I had to find that nipple-slicing psycho and finish him before I could allow myself to return home. If I didn’t stop him, more would die – of that I was certain. More women who were beloved sisters and daughters… more innocent bystanders who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I felt a responsibility not only to the ones who were dead by his hand due to my interference but also to the ones whose lives might be saved if I intervened just once more.
The problem was, I had run out of clues. The rest of the names in Cammie’s journal all seemed to be dead ends.
The only thing left to do was draw on my own personal experience and utilize what skills I had.
I was an excellent hunter. Regardless of whether I was after ducks, deer, moose or bear, I seldom returned home from a hunt empty-handed.
I knew that when a trail went cold the hunter needed to go to where the prey was most likely to be found and possibly lure it with bait. The most logical hunting ground in Los Angeles would be the area where Cammie was staying before she was killed.
I would go trolling for the fucker, using the best bait ever: Camille.
As I pulled on my fishnet stockings and clipped the garter belt around my slender hips, I daydreamed back to a time not so long ago when I wasn’t a killer; back to a time when I still had a twin sister. The stubborn ache in my chest refused to fade, following me every day as I pined for Camille and seethed with outrage at her murder.
~ Chapter 15 ~
Trolling for Trolls
My quest to find the killer cop/pimp took me into a world I’d only seen in movies. I blended with the hundreds of other prostitutes almost too well. Some of them even said hello to me as if they recognized me.
When I started attracting attention to myself by turning down dates, I thought I might have to relocate to a different area to avoid being pegged as an undercover cop. I raised less suspicion than I’d expected, which led me to believe Camille was a familiar face in that area. It would be only a matter of time before he saw me, I thought.
One night, a plain brown sedan pulled up beside me and the driver waved me over.
“Get in!” he ordered.
I sauntered over to the car, preparing to dismiss another prospective John. I leaned toward the open passenger window, careful not to place my hands on the car.
“Hey honey, what’s up?”
“Don’t you fucking, ‘hey honey’ me! Get in the fucking car!” the driver shouted.
“Not if you’re going to yell,” I said in a petulant voice and turned to walk away.
A pair of hands grabbed me from behind, forcing my arms behind my back. A massive bear of a man shoved me into the back seat of the car, climbing in behind me. His weight was on top of me, keeping me pinned face down on the back seat. I couldn’t fight him; he was three times my size and probably a steroid junkie too. I began to panic. Having my movements restricted was not something I tolerated easily.
The car door slammed shut.
“Drive!” he barked at the man behind the wheel.
As the car sped away, I struggled to turn my body so that my back was against the seat back instead of against the man’s body. He allowed me that much movement but still kept me restrained.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, bitch?” he asked me.
“What does it look like?” I spat, doing my best to stay in character, “I’m tryna fuckin’ work!”
“First of all, you already know you can’t work there without giving someone a cut. Word has it, you’re not his anymore, which means you belong to us.”
“What makes you think I was his to begin with?” I snarled. I had a feeling ‘he’ was none other than Cammie’s angry cop murderer. Maybe I could learn something from these goons if I got out of this alive.
“Don’t play fuckin’ stupid. We all know about you, Princess. But if he’s gonna be stupid enough to dump a prime piece of pussy like you, then we’re grabbing that action before anyone else does.”
“Well, you know what they say about him,” I said. “Girls don’t get away from him and live. Since I’m still breathing, I must still be with him.” I glared at my captor with defiance. “Which means you just fucked up in a big way. I wouldn’t want to be you when he finds out about this.”
The big guy released his grip and allowed me to sit up.
“I think you’re full of shit, bitch. Word on the street is, you’re dead. Since you’re sitting here talking to me, I’m guessing you’re not dead, but you’re gonna be just as soon as he gets his hands on you. If you’re smart, you’ll stick with us, work our track and give us our cut. Face it, we’re the best protection you’re gonna get at this point.”
“What makes you think I need protection from him? You ever think maybe he’s the one who needs protection from me?”
The big guy laughed.
“Oh, that’s a fucking beauty! You hear that, Ron? This ho thinks she can take out Caleb!”
The driver joined him in laughter and I pondered the new little gem of information the big guy had unknowingly given me.
Caleb.
It had to be him.
The tall angry cop’s name was Caleb.
“Tell you what,” I said, “why don’t we go and see Caleb right now and we can ask him for ourselves just who I belong to. I’m dying to hear what his answer is.” I folded my arms across my chest and smiled.
Checkmate, motherfucker.
The big guy looked scared. He looked at the driver for help but the driver didn’t offer any suggestions other than to shake his head.
“Ron says no. And I’m with him. Fuck, no!”
The car slowed and pulled up to the curb. The big guy opened the door and got out of the way so I could slide out of the car.
“Good luck,” he told me, “
and I really mean that. But remember our offer. You wanna leave him, come work our track. That is, if you get out alive.”
“Thanks, I think,” I said, smoothing my hair. “I think I can handle Caleb just fine, but if you happen to run into him, tell him I said, ‘fuck you’, okay?”
The big guy chuckled, shaking his head. “Bitch has balls…” he muttered as the car sped away.
I rushed back to my motel room to figure out my new strategy.
He was a cop. Named Caleb. How did I find out his last name? What was it about that name? It seemed familiar but where had I heard it before?
I made myself a sandwich and stretched out on the bed to relax for a while as I replayed the day’s events in my mind. I turned the television on for some background noise. The local news was just starting.
Top story: another body had been discovered. It was a man this time and the corpse had been found in the ocean. Apparently he had been in the water for a while, providing a handy snack for sea creatures. Dental records had confirmed the victim’s identity: Louis Barton.
I sat up when I heard the name.
Louis? As in Louie? Could it be the same Louie I killed? How in the fuck did he wind up in the ocean?
I leafed through the phone book, just out of curiosity. Not surprisingly, there were dozens of Bartons listed in Los Angeles and some of them were named Louis or had the initial L.
It was the address that caught my eye: 9530 Egasuas Ave. I recognized it. I flipped to another section of the phone book. Blue Moon Casting. Same address, same phone number. It was the very same penthouse where I had slaughtered Louie a few weeks earlier.
But the occupant’s name was not Louis Barton.
It was Caleb Barton.
Caleb.
Louie was not tall, lean or angry like the man who had stormed out of the Dufferin. He was a medium height, soft-around-the-middle Hollywood wimp.
He was definitely no cop.
Caleb, on the other hand, was a cop and apparently a pimp as well – a pimp capable of striking fear into the hearts of even other pimps.
Caleb had the same address as Louie.
Caleb was Louie’s… roommate? Husband? They shared the same last name. Were they related?
I went to Camille’s suitcase and fished an item out of the side pocket – the silver Zippo lighter I’d scooped from Louie’s apartment. It was engraved with the initials, CLB. I’d been calling him Creepy Little Bastard in my head, after something I’d once heard on a wrestling show. I’d gotten so used to the made-up acronym that his real name sounded foreign by comparison.
Caleb Something Barton.
Camille’s murderer was named Caleb Barton, and he lived with Louie.
And he was on the TV screen.
The man on television, expressing his grief over the death of his brother Louis was one Caleb Barton, according to the caption at bottom of the screen. He vowed to find the individual responsible and bring him to justice.
Detective Caleb Barton was head of the Feeder task force and LAPD spokesman for the investigation. I’d seen him on the news before, following the White Surf murder and every other time a Feeder-style killing made the news. Until now, I’d had no idea I was looking at my sister’s killer. Now, I memorized every detail, every chiseled line of his Hollywood-handsome face. This was the man who would be my final victim. I knew his name and address.
I also knew why Louie’s murder hadn’t made the news. Caleb shared the penthouse with his brother. He had discovered Louie’s mutilated body and disposed of it by dumping it in the ocean.
He had not wanted the murder to be investigated at the penthouse. Why? It didn’t take me long to come up with a viable theory. The place was probably full of forensic evidence linking the apartment’s occupants to the other victims. Camille, for one.
It would have been too risky to allow any investigation to take place in the penthouse. Caleb had removed his brother’s body, disposed of it elsewhere and cleaned up the bloody mess behind the bar.
Caleb was the real Feeder. He had been controlling the investigation from the beginning, destroying evidence and withholding information to steer his peers away from the truth. He was aware by now that a copycat killer was imitating his style. If I had to guess, I’d say he intended to find this copycat to frame for all of the murders.
Not if I frame you first, you creepy bastard.
~ Chapter 16 ~
CLB
I’d spent the past few weeks preparing and I was as ready as I’d ever be for the final showdown with my adversary. My life no longer held any meaning other than this. Now that I’d found Caleb Barton, my solitary goal was to kill him or die trying. If I didn’t survive I intended to take him out with me.
After spending night after sleepless night following him, I knew his routine well. He worked four nights in a row and took four off. On his nights off he made his rounds on the street, collecting money from prostitutes and roughing up anyone who needed roughing up. Some nights he brought a woman home with him in his car, the same silver BMW I’d seen squealing out of the parking lot the day of Camille’s death. Other nights he came home alone and a woman would arrive about an hour later. Further investigation revealed that the women were escorts, ordered from one of several agencies he patronized.
All of the escorts who entered the apartment building came out alive a few hours later and some of them returned on more than one occasion. Apparently he used prostitutes on a regular basis and was not killing anyone at his home. He did his murdering elsewhere. Maybe he was using escort agencies to choose future victims – I didn’t know. Things had been quiet murder-wise, since the discovery of Louie’s body. I suspected Caleb was keeping a low profile in hopes that the copycat would strike again. He would swoop in like Supercop and save the day, arresting the elusive Feeder and solving the case.
I decided the best place to take him would be at his home, when he had things other than murder on his mind. The element of surprise could be easy to obtain if he was already expecting someone.
* * *
I confronted her as she was approaching the building and asked if she was the one the agency had sent. The girl couldn’t have been more than eighteen and I cringed at the thought of what he might do to her if he decided to ‘own’ her the way he had my sister. I explained that he had made other plans for the night but she would still be paid for answering the call. I asked her how much was owed and paid her triple, suggesting she take the rest of the night off.
I took a deep breath before stepping in front of the security camera and ringing the buzzer.
I wore a brunette wig for this mission. He was too familiar with Camille not to recognize me. I had gone shopping to choose the perfect outfit because Camille didn’t have anything suitable. I also didn’t want him to recognize any of her clothing. I wanted femininity to create the illusion of vulnerability along with function that would allow me to conceal what I needed to. The bulky, ruffled dress trimmed with pink ribbons, paired with white stockings made me look the exact opposite of a ruthless killer. The loose-fitting jacket fell seductively off my shoulders, allowing me to conceal my hands, among other things, inside the sleeves.
The knife was strapped to my back. I would have liked to have the gun as well but it was too risky. Caleb was a cop, trained to find concealed weapons on people. If he frisked me, he would disarm me of the obvious weapon – the knife – an accessory not uncommon to find on a prostitute. Hopefully he would not find the surprise I had sewn inside the ruffles of my sleeves.
He answered my ring and buzzed the door immediately without asking any questions.
The door to the penthouse was ajar when I stepped out of the elevator. I entered the dimly lit apartment.
Caleb sat on the sofa with a drink in his hand, dressed in nothing but a black satin robe. His feet rested on the glass coffee table – the same table from which I had picked up the silver Zippo lighter engraved with the initials CLB so many weeks ago.
“Come in
and close the door,” he said. His voice was deep and gentle; sexy, even. He didn’t sound anything like a killer. He had fine features and dark eyes, very much like the ones I had carved out of his brother Louie’s skull.
I could see why my sister had found him attractive.
I strutted slowly across the floor and stopped several feet out of his reach, trying to stay in the shadow cast by the lamp’s soft glow.
“Hi,” I whispered.
His eyes traveled up and down my body, seeming to approve but he said nothing.
I might as well break the ice.
“What would you like me to do first, baby?” I asked softly.
He leaned back and let the robe fall away from his body, revealing a sculpted six-pack abdomen and a well-toned, masculine pair of thighs. He was gorgeous. I couldn’t help feeling a bit aroused in spite of the fact that I was there to kill him.
He was also aroused, as was evident by the large erection that lay against his taut belly. An open package of Viagra on the table suggested that he’d had a little assistance in rising to the occasion.
I ran my tongue seductively over my pink-polished lips.
“Damn, you’re hot. Why don’t I suck that big thing for you?” I offered.
Ew. Ew. Ew. I can’t believe I’m going to do this.
“Yeah… that would be nice.” His voice slurred and his eyelids drooped slightly. He’d already had a few drinks, from the look of him. “Get your ass over here.” He downed his drink and set the glass of ice cubes on the table.
I knelt before him, well aware of the vulnerable position I was putting myself in but there was no other way. It was imperative that I take control of the situation as soon as possible, before he got a good look at my face. It might be the only chance I had to use what was hidden in my clothing.
Even if it meant sucking his cock.
Time to take one for the team.
I inhaled to keep from gagging as I took him in my mouth. It was the first time I had ever touched a penis, without cutting it off, that is.