Diary of a Dead Man: The final thoughts of Ed Boothe

by Matt Shaw

  She asked me if there was anything in particular that I wanted to do with her. I thought it best not to mention the fact that I wanted to bash her brains in. Didn't want to upset her, not yet anyway. I told her that I was happy to go with the flow. I was happy just to see what would happen. Despite me booking her for an hour she did not seem in a hurry to get cracking. Instead she leaned back against the wall with a cup of tea in hand. I'm pretty sure she made a joke about English people loving cups of tea but I could be making that up so don't hold me to it. Like I said, I don't remember the rest of the conversation. It was just idle chit chat to pass the time. I do remember how we got onto the subject of whether she had anyone waiting for her though. I asked her if she needed me to book her a taxi for when the appointment was due to finish. I figured she would turn around and tell me she had someone waiting for her if indeed that was the case. She told me not to worry about it, her car was outside. She said her car and not her driver. That was good enough for me. Had someone driven her to my place, surely she’d have stated her driver was waiting. It was this lady who brought a possible oversight from the last ‘appointment’ to my attention. Something I hadn't previously considered yet - somehow - still managed to get away with. I wouldn’t share the information with you had I not been caught. In fairness, I wouldn’t be sharing any of this information with you but…Circumstances mean it’s safe for me to do so. This girl of the night, she had driven to me. Her car was somewhere out there, on the street. When I realised there was possibly another car out there - belonging to someone I’d murdered - I initially panicked. A little more thought in the time taken to walk from kitchen to bedroom and I managed to talk myself down from my panicked state. You see, the previous girl was not buried with her clothes. I kept those. Ended up disposing of them at a clothes bank in one of the many oversized parking lots in the area and - before dropping them off - I had gone through every pocket. I was looking to remove any identification (there was none) and I was looking to remove any money (for me). Other than the cash I’d earlier given her - the first girl carried nothing. No extra money, no identification and no car keys. Just a single key which, I presumed, was for her front door as it was both the wrong size and shape to be for a vehicle.

  I couldn’t ignore this girl’s mention of a car though. I could not dispose of her yet leave that out there for someone to stumble across. I would need to get rid of both her and her transport. My bedroom overlooked the front street, giving me the perfect opportunity to look out of the window and talk about her car once more. I called upon some of my best acting skills, skills I was unaware of possessing. With an alerted voice I asked her what car she drove as it looks like someone was breaking into one whilst she was busy taking her top off. I remember the look on her face, she believed every word I said, as she crossed the bedroom floor to check out of the window. Instant relief on her face, she pointed across the road to a blue car and pointed out that no one was next to it. A quick strain of my eyesight and I could see there was no one in it either. She asked where the car thief was but I made up a lie; must have scared him away by standing in the window. I made a mental note of her car and closed the curtains. I didn’t need any nosey neighbours peering in from one of the apartments across the road and catching sight of what we were going to do; whether it be sex or murder.

  I think she told me to get on the bed. Didn’t even ask me to undress. Just said “lie down” - at least that’s how I recall it. Might not have been as simple as that. Again - funny how you forget the little things. In this instance, her name was a ‘little thing’ for I do not remember that and her ‘orders’ were considered a little thing too; those too lost over time. The first punch which connected to the side of her head - I remember that perfectly; the sting on my knuckles, the sound of the hit connecting, the funny ‘glerk’ type noise from her throat, the whimper she made soon after, the dull thud of her body hitting the floor where she landed with a bump, the look in her eyes (pure shock and fear) and the begging when she came to her senses.

  I stood over her body and looked down at her, my mind playing through the various possibilities of how I could hit her next. Excitement bubbling through me - not for what I was to do but more so for the peace I knew I’d feel when the deed was done. Unlike the first prostitute, I gave this one a chance to catch her breath before I lay upon her with a fury she’d never encountered before. I was not being gentlemanly. I was just savouring the moment; something I failed to do the first time around. In this short gap she tried everything she could to talk her way out of the impending hurt headed her way. Her pleas being another of the ‘little things’ that I soon forgot.

  Her nose cracked across the top of the ridge; a thin, bloody line. Both nostrils bled profusely. Her bottom lip split. Not sure if that was down to me or whether she did it herself, perhaps by biting down on her lip when my fist connected to her head. Her eye blackened more or less immediately - at least, around her eye. The eye itself turned bloodshot in the blink of an eye (no pun intended). I never forget the wounds.

  Unlike the time I throttled Honey with my bare hands, I finished this girl with my foot. She had long since passed out from the many blows suffered; the pain becoming unbearable for her senses and her body just shut down. I didn’t mean to do what followed - at least not yet, not until I’d had some fun, but I couldn’t help myself. I was in ‘the zone’ and no longer thinking through the actions. The actions, in this instance, being to stamp down repeatedly with my right foot - straight down onto her mouth. Once I started, I figured I may as well continue. After all I’d only have to knock the teeth out with a hammer later on so this method saved time. Simple. What I didn’t think about though, when stamping down upon her, was that this was the face I’d have to look at whilst making love to her - something I’d decided to do long before she’d even got to the apartment. It was one thing to stare at a girl with a bloodied face, and a few bruises, it was quite another to maintain an erection whilst being face to face with someone who had their teeth either rammed down their throat or piercing bits of their cheek here and there.

  You’ll be pleased to know - I still managed it. Not as much of an intense fuck as the first whore I’d booked (and murdered) but still pleasurable. No doubt helped by the fact she was still warm and because I’d gone in via the back entrance; staring at the back of her head as opposed to her mushed up facial features.

  Remember when I mentioned the keepsakes that I wanted to keep? Well - from this woman - I knew immediately what I wanted to keep. It was so tight looking, so pretty, so perfect. I wanted to remember it for the rest of my life. Not just that - I wanted to look at it, I wanted to stroke it. Not just then but for years to come. Her sweet pussy.

  The tools I used to cut the first woman up were kept under my bed. I’m sure there was a reason for this, at the time, but - as of today - it escapes me. I guess I figured that was the safest place for some reason. Silly really given the fact it’s one of the biggest clichés when you think about hiding holes within the home. Money is always kept in the mattress, intruders always lie in wait under the bed and the car keys are always where you least expect to find them (I once found mine in the microwave, do not ask me how). Keeping the tools under the bed did mean they were close to hand though. Something I was grateful for, when I needed them. Didn’t want to break the flow of the evening up. Wanted to keep things moving along at a tasty, bloodthirsty pace. They (the tools) were kept in a black leather bag - an expensive sports bag that I had from the move. I reached under the bed and pulled it out before opening it. Once opened, I selected the large bowie knife I’d purchased from the store (along with the saws, etc.).

  In England, growing up, I always wanted a decent knife for no other reason than I happened to like them. The government put a stop to that idea though with a ban on blades being carried. I can’t recall the specific law (the little things again) but I’m sure it was - more or less - an immediate prison sentence for being found with one. At least one of a certain size, I th
ink. Always seemed a bit harsh to me. Some people just like collecting nice looking blades. What did the government think these people were going to do? Go on a mass killing spree? Fair enough I’m probably not the best person to defend the possession of knives in the UK but…

  Not everyone is a psychopath.

  Anyway, I digress again.

  It was at this stage I cut her juicy cunt directly from her body. A good job - in hindsight - that I’d chosen her arse for my ejaculation. Had I finished in her vagina - it would have needed a thorough wash under a hot tap. Not just that but it was hard enough cutting it off in full slithers, without having to navigate my way through trickling semen at the same time. I laid the pieces out on the floor making sure I put them in the same order I had cut them from the body. A perfect replication of how it looked when it was still attached to her body. All I needed was a little frame to contain it and, hey, presto…A fancy wall decoration. Something surely to get the neighbours talking (if they ever came around).

  I didn’t just rob her corpse of her vagina. I also sliced one of her breasts from her body and took a lock of her dark hair. A little sniff and you could still catch a whiff of her hair conditioner. Coconut. I remember wondering how long the smell would remain on the few strands. I hoped forever but doubted it. The breast…I took that for no other reason than I fancied using it as a stress-reliever.

  Seemed to work.

  It was not just sexual organs I took from the bodies, as time went on, I also took bits of skull. I am not the only person to do such a thing; there was another murderer who used to take skin and bones from his victims. Funnily enough his name was also Ed.

  He did not have as many victims as I.

  I cut the top of one skull off from just above the eye sockets and gave it a nice clean up. Once turned upside down - hey presto - it resembled a fancy ashtray. The problem was I did not smoke. I believe it is a dirty habit which leads to an early death although to be fair, my hobby of murdering people has also led me to an early death so perhaps smoking wasn't that much an issue. Regardless I did not want to smoke yet I did not want to waste the skull fragments, so I simply turned it into a nice ornamental piece for my coffee table in the lounge. Turned upside down it still resembled a bowl, so I used it to put mints in.

  Regrets

  Knowing time is against me it might be prudent of me to discuss regrets. Over the years of my incarceration, people often asked me whether I felt regret for the things that I have done. The answer is no. I regret nothing from my later years. My only regrets, if I have any real ones that is, are the ones from my childhood. To be more specific, my school days. I have already told you about the times I was sitting in the coffee shop making up back stories for people. The times whereby I’d see someone and instantly slip into a depression because something in their eyes reminded me of myself. I have already hinted that it reminded me of a time from my youth, a time just after my dad left my mother and I. She blamed me for his walk-out saying it was because I was a problem child (I don’t believe I was), and I found very little comfort from the school I attended. The pupils there were just as harsh to me with their words as mum had been.

  “If you hadn’t been born, your father would still be here!” she’d shout and scream at me from the bottom of the stairs as I sat at the top, huddled against the bannister, weeping for both the loss of my father and the sense of loneliness I felt.

  “It’s no wonder your dad left you!” one teacher shouted at me when they found me doodling images into my maths book which they deemed inappropriate.

  “Freak!”

  “Weirdo!”

  I cannot recall all of the names I was called in my childhood. It is not because they were the little things, but more so because I believe my brain has simply blocked them out. I wish it would block out all of them. I wish it would take away all of the pain. Being incarcerated in here, unable to carry out my hobby, every day is a challenge as I struggle not to slip into a deep depression. But then I guess you want to hear that. You want to hear the fact that I'm in pain. You want to know that I am unhappy. You want to know that justice is being served. Just as I want you to know how much your family and friends suffered at my hands.

  Thinking back to how I was when I was younger, I cannot help but wonder whether this is the reason I turned out the way I did. The name calling from so-called school friends, the difficult times I had with my mother, the fact father did not love me enough to stick by me - maybe these are the reasons I became the monster we know of today? If those are indeed the reasons then I guess it is a good argument for the case of ‘nurture’ being to blame for the way I am. The cold words of others caused the death of your family members and children. If that is the case does that mean I am not entirely to blame? Somewhere there is someone more at fault than me? As I patiently wait out my date of execution I cannot help but wonder whether that is enough for a re-trial?

  Perhaps something to ask the guard when he next comes around.

  After each murder I took a little time out in my apartment. I hid away with the curtain shut, away from prying eyes of nosy neighbours. The same routine as the previous times whereby I would spend my waking hours keeping watch on the News channels. Only venturing out of my apartment when I was sure I had once again gotten away with it. I knew I would get found out eventually. It was only ever a matter of time before someone found my stash of limbs in the woods. I suppose you could call this regret: I regret not burying the bags. Had I buried them at least 6 feet underground, then who knows? Maybe they would never have been found. Maybe I could still be out there killing?

  I can hear you panicking at the prospect of me being out there again but you have nothing to worry about, it is just the wishful thinking of a condemned man.

  I have thought of another regret. Sort of. I regret the fact I stopped counting. I can try and guess my final numbers but I will never be sure. Regardless it is a minor irritation, I am sure I will be remembered despite the lack of exact number of kills.

  Isn't it funny that I am in here with minimal regrets and yet I bet you are out there, living your life, with at least double the amount of regrets that I have. Who knows, maybe I would've had more had I been out there in society for longer? I guess we'll never know.

  Unless of course you want to petition for me to have a day release.

  No?

  Worth a try.

  I can tell you now that - as I write this - I am two days away from my execution. It’s a pity. I have so much to talk to you about. So much more to confess. Like what I did with that girl’s tongue that one time or how it is physically possible to literally make eyeballs pop with enough of a squeeze. Conversations I’d hoped would be for another time but… Well… Tick, tock, tick, tock… The question is - do I continue writing in the hope of finishing another story before they come to collect me? Not sure how much I’ll get done. From what I am to understand, I am due a few visits up until the point I die - one being from a man of The Church of all places; as if I have anything to say to either him or the man he preaches for. And of course I need time for the infamous last meal.

  I’m not much of a big eater but knowing it is your tax dollar paying for it, I shall order the biggest steak I can and - of course - all the trimmings to go with it. I kill your family, you buy me dinner.

  How sweet.

  A note from the publisher:

  Ed Boothe was arrested on January 17th, 2001 after a routine search of his car revealed garbage sacks filled with human body parts.

  He was originally pulled over for a broken tailgate light.

  Ed Boothe was sentenced to Death on January 30th, 2001. He was convicted for the murder of half a dozen women but authorities believe the number is significantly higher going by the gruesome displays in his apartment - mostly made from body parts.

  Refusing to appeal the sentence, he served six years on Death Row before being executed by electric chair. When asked if he had any final words, he stated how he wished he’d started writing
his book sooner.

  His last meal was steak and potato chips with a glass of lemonade.

  The proceeds of this book go to the families of his known victims.