by Amy Cross
"So why do it at all?" Dawson asks.
"To prove a point," I reply, unable to stop staring at the corpse. "To send a message, maybe. They sure as hell weren't doing it just for fun. This is the work of someone who didn't want to kill, even someone who hated killing, but who felt that they had to do it anyway." I pause for a moment, and suddenly a stray thought enters my mind. "The diary," I whisper.
"What diary?" Dawson replies. "You don't mean..."
"Why not?" I ask. "It'd explain how this person is able to copy Gazade's murders so precisely."
"The diary doesn't exist," he points out.
"Maybe it does," I reply. "Maybe, after all this time, someone's finally found it." I pause for a moment, as the implications of that possibility sink in. "Gazade's diary was said to have details of all the murders he was planning to commit, as well as the ones he'd already completed," I point out. "If that's true, this new killer might go way beyond the four victims that Gazade killed. This copycat might even surpass the original."
Epilogue
I keep my eyes closed for the longest time. It feels like a million years, but it's probably just a few seconds. All I can think about is the mess that must be waiting for me when I finally dare to look. The guy stopped struggling pretty quickly, but I'm certain there's going to be blood, and I hate blood; the thought of seeing even the slightest drop is enough to make me want to vomit.
Slowly, I open my eyes.
The cold light of morning is streaming through the window. I must have been here must longer than I'd realized. Staring at the guy's body, I realize with a huge wave of relief that there's not nearly as much blood as I'd expected. Sure, there's a small amount that has run from the wound in his chest, but I guess the knife is plugging things up nicely. Blinking a couple of times, I look over at the clock by the bed and I realize that I must have been sitting here for almost six hours. It's amazing how quickly time can pass when you're focused on other things.
Still, time to get on with things.
Climbing off the body, I try to remember the plan. I worked out exactly what I was going to do once I reached this moment, but my mind is strangely blank right now and I can't remember the steps I was supposed to take. Realizing that I'm in danger of hyperventilating, I take a series of deep, controlled breaths, and gradually I begin to feel more like myself. As long as I remain calm and stick to the original plan, nothing can go wrong here. Besides, it's not like this was a random, pointless killing. I have a design, and a goal, and I'm not going to let anything get in my way.
The first part is easy. I roll the body off the bed and then I drag him through to the bathroom. Reaching into the cabinet by the sink, I retrieve the knives I prepared for this moment, and the print-outs that show how various muscles are connected. I wash my hands a couple of times, but eventually I realize that I'm just trying to delay the inevitable moment when I make the first incision. Taking the larger steak knife, I kneel next to the body and use the print-out to work out exactly where I'm supposed to start cutting. Finally, I press the blade against his skin and get started.
After a few minutes, I realize that this is taking far too long. The steak knife doesn't cut very well, and far too much blood is starting to pour from the incisions. Starting to panic, I realize that I need to take more drastic action, so I stand up and head through to the kitchen, where I grab a pair of large cutting shears from under the sink. This might be the blunt approach, but I figure it'll work better. Once I'm back in the bathroom, I kneel next to the body again and slide one of the blades into the small incision I've already made. I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the inevitable flow of blood but focusing, as much as possible, on the overall task. If Sam Gazade was able to do this, there's no reason why I can't. Closing my eyes, I start to cut.
Once the guy's pectoralis muscles have been removed and placed in the ice box I prepared earlier, I decide that it's time to get started on the next part of the job. I reposition myself at the other end of the body, and for a moment I'm transfixed by the guy's penis. This is the one element of this whole grizzly process that I was slightly looking forward to, but now that I'm ready to make the cut, I feel myself starting to waver. I open the shears, but I can't bring myself to cut the damn thing off. Finally, placing the shears on the floor, I lean over the toilet and start to vomit. Damn it, I bet Sam Gazade didn't have this kind of problem. Then again, I guess he actually enjoyed cutting up the bodies, whereas for me this is just a necessary evil. I never, ever wanted to have blood on my hands, but there's no other way I can complete this work. I have to get over myself and focus on the endgame.
Eventually, as my stomach starts to settle, I decide that it's now or never. If I don't act soon, I'm going to end up sitting here on the bathroom floor all day, waiting for the moment of inspiration to strike. The truth is, that moment is never going to arrive. At least when I've made the cut, I'll be able to move on to the next stage, which involves cutting the eight-point star into the stump. For some reason, that part of the whole thing doesn't fill me with any dread at all. I just need to get part the moment when I have to remove his penis. Taking a deep breath, I grab the shears and place the blades on either side of the offending organ. I figure I'll make the cut after a short countdown, starting from ten. This is definitely the most difficult part of the entire process.
Silk part II
Prologue
"Is there any chance that Sam Gazade might be granted a last-minute reprieve?" the news anchor asks.
"None at all," replies his guest, some smug lawyer who's been drafted in to fill a few minutes' airtime with his pointless, ill-informed opinion. "Technically, there's a possibility, but it's almost impossible to imagine a context in which any serious movement could be made in the time we have left, especially since Gazade himself apparently has no desire to push forward on this."
With the noise from the television in the background, I continue with my work. It's getting late, and I've spent the best part of an entire day working on this asshole's body. I'm sure Gazade worked much more quickly and more efficiently, but my tardiness isn't a real problem. When I was planning this whole thing, I factored my squeamishness into account and made sure I had plenty of time for little delays. In the end, I'm actually slightly ahead of schedule, which I suppose means that I'm a better murderer than I expected.
Murderer.
I'm a murderer.
The word sends a shiver down my spine, but I quickly remind myself that the label isn't strictly accurate. Sure, I killed a guy, and I'm planning to kill more. To be precise, I'm aiming for four victims. However, I'm not motivated by any of the things that usually prompt someone to do something like this. I didn't commit a crime of passion, and I didn't do this in order to gain any kind of financial benefit... In other words, none of the usual reasons that people use to justify their actions. No, I did this for one reason, and one reason only: I wanted to know how it would feel. An intellectual approach would never have worked. You can't imagine what it would be like to kill someone. You have to get your hands dirty and dive right in, even if the entire process disgusts and appalls you, and even if your hands shake all the way through. There's no other way.
Holding my hands up to the light, I inspect the cut on my thumb. Typical. I was cutting away at the corpse's flesh and I managed to snag the skin on my left thumb. It'll heal, but it's still annoying.
"So after all this time, do you think Gazade has accepted what he did to those women?"
"I don't know if a man like Gazade can ever truly accept the depths of his own evil," the guest tells the news anchor. "He's probably living in a fantasy world in which he's some kind of hero. For a person to truly acknowledge that he's capable of such unspeakable crimes would be... Well, I just don't think that it's possible."
"Do you think we'll ever know the truth about why Gazade committed these heinous acts?"
"You mean, what was going on in his head?" The guest pauses. "We can try to guess, but at the end of the day, onl
y Sam Gazade knows what was happening in Sam Gazade's mind."
"Maybe his final words, before he's executed, will help?" the anchor suggests.
"I'd say it's unlikely," the guest replies. "Serial killers tend not to make great revelatory speeches as they're put to death. That's just in the movies. In real life, they're far more likely to restate their belief in their own supremacy. I'm sure Gazade will have some interesting last words, but I wouldn't go expecting them to tie up any loose ends that might have been left behind by the investigation."
Strangely, I feel proud of myself. I never expected to be pleased that I'd killed a man, but I can't escape this faint feeling of superiority. I guess I'm not immune to the murder bug after all. It's like a drug, and I can see how killers might get addicted to the process. After all, killing another human being is the ultimate way to prove your own worth. Perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself, but I can't help thinking that everyone should kill at least one person, even if they don't particularly want to do such a thing. There are people like Sam Gazade, who kill because of some dark inner motivation, and then there are people like me, who kill because of intellectual curiosity. We're complete opposites, but in a way we're experiencing the same sensations. As a result, I feel a little closer to Gazade. Perhaps these are dangerous thoughts.
"Did Sam Gazade hate women?" the news anchor asks.
I turn to look at the screen.
"I don't think you can argue otherwise," the guest says with a frown. "His four victims were all female, and his attempted fifth victim was also a woman. The nature of what he did to them, such as the mutilation of the genitals, was very specific, and there's no way you can ignore the removal of certain body parts. So the answer to your question is, yes, Sam Gazade most certainly hated women. That was the entire motivation for what he did."
"Huh," I whisper, momentarily transfixed by the screen.
"And does that speak of a deeper problem in our society?" the anchor asks.
I look back down at the corpse. Am I really proud of myself? Yes. Of course I am. I've achieved something that's so far outside my area of expertise, it's a goddamn miracle. I've replicated one of Sam Gazade's murders, but I've done it for reasons that are almost diametrically opposed to whatever garbage went through Gazade's mind. Despite the countless hours of discussion in the media, and despite all the books that have been written about the case, Gazade was nothing more than a low-grade brute who killed women because of some kind of pathetically simple-minded mental problem; the guy was no great genius, as evidenced by the fact that he was caught fairly quickly. It's the nature of the media beast to elevate Gazade to the pantheon of great murderers, because they want to make his upcoming execution seem more important. At the end of the day, however, Gazade's just a brute. I'm far more interesting.
Dr. Alice Huston
Maybe I'm being a little morbid, but when I set off for work the following morning, I decide to take a little detour past Saddleworth prison. I guess I just want to see the scene on the morning of the famous execution; I just want to be a part of history, and to be a little closer to the man himself.
As expected, there are lots of people outside the prison gates already. In fact, it's almost as if the whole town has come to maintain a grim vigil, and there are several large coaches parked nearby, evidence that people are coming from far afield to witness the scene. Some people are holding placards, of course, either supporting the decision to execute Sam Gazade or, in a few cases, decrying the death penalty as barbaric and inhumane. It seems as if everyone has an opinion on Gazade's fate. Everyone except me, anyway; the truth is, I have no idea what I'd do if I was in charge of the decision, and although I can see both sides of the moral debate, I find it impossible to come down firmly in favor of one option or the other.
Even though I know I should keep going, I find myself compelled to park up for a while and observe the mayhem. Getting out of my car, I wander along the grass, mingling with the protesters. Lined up near the main gate itself, representatives from all the major news networks are frantically talking to their viewers at home, broadcasting the latest news - or non-news, since there have been no developments for hours - direct to front rooms around the world. It's crazy to hear the incessant gabble of all these so-called journalists, although I have to admit I'm a little impressed by their ability to keep talking even when there's really nothing to say.
"Millions of people across the globe are counting down the hours until legendary serial killer Sam Gazade is put to death at midnight tonight," one of the female reporters is saying as she stares at the camera. "Some protesters, however, are calling for the execution to be put on hold, pending last-minute court challenges and an attempt to have Gazade reassessed by a team of psychiatrists. We'll have the latest on those challenges, plus an exclusive interview with some of the key figures in the original investigation that caught Sam Gazade all those years ago."
"Civil liberties groups are calling for Sam Gazade's death penalty to be commuted to life imprisonment," says another reporter, just a few feet away. "So far, however, sources within the governor's mansion indicate that there's little to no chance of Gazade being granted a reprieve. Meanwhile, sources close to Gazade's former legal team say that contrary to online rumors, their client has not given any indication that he plans to launch a last-minute appeal. The matter might be out of his hands, however, as three of the nation's largest civil liberties groups are believed to be working together to put together an eleventh-hour legal challenge. Stay tuned for more news."
Wandering through the crowd, I find myself getting lost in the melee. There must be three or four hundred people here, so I can only imagine how many will have gathered by the time midnight comes around. It's almost as if the place has become the site for some kind of murder-themed festival. There are vans parked nearby, selling burgers and other food, and a couple of enterprising souls have come down to sell a variety of t-shirts and other items linked to the case. For some reason, I find myself making my way over and paying five dollars for a mug with Gazade's original mugshot plastered on the side; it's not until I've paid and turned to walk away that I realize I was almost on autopilot. Looking down at the mug, I honestly can't imagine what possessed me to buy such a hideous thing.
"Can I get a quote for my podcast?" asks a voice nearby.
Turning, I find that a teenager wearing a Judas Priest t-shirt is holding a small microphone toward me.
"I just want to get people's opinions on what's happening," he explains earnestly. "You know, cut through the bullshit and get to the truth."
"You want the truth?" I ask.
He moves the microphone closer, and I can't help but note the look of earnest expectation in his eyes. The kid means well, even if he doesn't have a damn clue.
"The truth is, there is no truth. There's just opinion, and facts, but in a situation like this, there's no such thing as truth. Not a universal truth, anyway. Instead of trying to cut through the bullshit, as you put it, you should focus on navigating that same bullshit in a more intelligent way. See it for what it is. Analyze it. Unpick it. Look at it from every angle. Just don't make the mistake of thinking there's any kind of truth, because there isn't. There's nothing here but chaos."
"Sure," he replies, "but, I mean, there's got to be, like... some kind of truth, hasn't there? I mean, do you think it's right for the state, for the American people, to execute a man?"
"I don't think it's right or wrong," I tell him. "I think it's what they want to do, so let them get on with it. The governor's not going to do anything to damage his re-election chances. Sam Gazade has long been established as a kind of bogeyman in this part of the state. People will sleep better once he's dead, even though he's posed no danger whatsoever to anyone for more than a decade."
He stares at me for a moment. "Okay, but -"
"Interview's over," I reply, turning and walking away.
"Can I get your name for the podcast?" he calls after me. "Do you want me to give you the lin
k?"
Ignoring him, I make my way through the sea of people, which becomes denser as I get closer to the section of parkland that runs directly opposite the prison gates. It's strange to think that somewhere in that distant, gray building, Sam Gazade is preparing for his final hours of life. I can't even begin to imagine what it must be like in his position. Since the prison made a well-publicized bid to cut costs, condemned prisoners don't even receive a free choice when it comes to their last meal. All Sam Gazade has to look forward to is a visit from a priest, a reasonably priced tray of food, and then the long walk to the execution chamber. He's had the best part of twelve years to get used to the idea, but I doubt he's prepared. I doubt anyone could ever be prepared for such a fate.
Checking my watch, I see that it's almost 10am. Fourteen hours to go...
"This is nothing but state-sponsored murder," says a woman nearby. I turn to see that she's being interviewed for that kid's podcast, and whereas I was probably a little too calm for his liking, he's now getting both barrels of this woman's anger. "If we stoop to this level, we're barbarians!"
"He deserves it!" another woman calls out. "He tortured those poor girls! Why shouldn't he get what's coming to him?"
Realizing that I have nothing to add to this debate, I turn and start walking back toward my car. Before I get more than a few paces, however, I come face to face with none other than Paula Clarke, the pupil who caused me so much consternation yesterday. She stares blankly at me, as if she never expected to bump into anyone who might recognize her.
"We meet again," I say, taken aback by the sudden encounter. Hearing some shouting nearby, I see that two women have begun to fight, while the podcast guy is trying to pull his microphone clear. "Talk about a high pressure situation," I continue, turning back to Paula. "I think some of the pro-death penalty people might end up killing some of the anti-death penalty people, or the other way around. The irony, huh?"