Confessions of a Vigilante
Sins of The Past
The Imprisoned Don
By Manuel Fernandez
Copyright 2017 Manuel Fernandez
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means-whether auditory, graphic, or mechanic or electronic – without permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any parts of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.
ISBN:-13:978-1542822411
ISBN:-10: 15428822416
Table of Contents
Confessions of a Vigilante
My Uncle the Killer
The Imprisoned Don
Sins of the Past
About The Author
All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.
Blaise Pascal
Confessions of a Vigilante
The Journals
Mark Jacobs sat across from Amy Cabot. His arms and legs, shackled, body decked out in prison issued orange. “Here,” he said, handing her a neat stack of papers.
“Is this?” asked Amy.
“My journal, yes. In here you have a lot of time to think, so I wrote down my thoughts from memory on significant days in my life, what led me to my imprisonment.”
Amy’s eyes flicked a courtesy glance at the ink on the paper. Fear took over her body. Mark’s eyes locked on the young blonde. “Please, don’t be scared of me, he said, I’m not who you think I am.”
The call came last week. Amy spilled her coffee on her laptop when she picked up her cell phone and to her surprise, Mark Jacobs, the infamous serial killer, sat on the line from Death Row. Mark shunned all interview requests. He never opened up about the multiple murders he committed. When he was arrested, he said nothing; asking only for a lawyer. In court, he remained mute. No motive given for his actions. Until now, ten plus years after his arrest.
“Why me?” said Amy, “every major network’s been tripping over themselves to interview you. I’m a starving college student with no connection to you or any of the victims, I don’t…”
“Understand… yes, I know,” said Jacobs, “If time permitted I would explain everything but I'm up against the clock, got four hours left on this earth. My vocabulary right now ain't up to par.”
“So, I’m supposed to read the journals in front of you?” said Amy.
“My lawyer arranged a secluded place down the hall. After you’re done, a guard will escort you back… that is if you choose to come back, it’s up to you.”
Amy nodded in agreement. Her mind racing a hundred miles an hour. “Tell me one thing.”
“Sure,” said Jacobs.
“Why? Why did you kill those people?”
Mark leaned back in his chair. His eyes turned up as if the ceiling knew the answer. His middle finger tapped on the gum stained table.
Once you stop caring about dying or going to jail, you can do anything you want.
My name is Mark Jacobs. Born May 15, 1965. I won’t bore you with the shitty backstory. Like, what my father did for a living, or how many cats I had as a kid. The shits irrelevant. What you want to know is why? When? The gory details of the acts. The way I dismembered the bodies. All the stuff that gets you a spot on one of those murder documentaries.
Before I let you into my mind I want to make something clear. A murder comes in various shapes. As you read the entries, I hope you will understand what I’m talking about. I asked my words not be edited or altered in any way. I’m no English junkie so all you scholars with your big fancy lettering and pristine vocabulary structure can red flag me, then go fuck yourself. I am a 52-year-old ex-truck driver with no college degree. I read on occasion, mostly philosophy.
If my confessions aren’t wet enough for your appetite I don’t know what to tell you. I’m no Poe or Hemingway. If you expect smooth writing and no grammar errors, don’t bother reading. Guys in prison write poems, books and then ship them to some stuffy publisher in a fancy office who converts their work into a watered-down version of the truth. One thing I learned being locked up is there is no substitute for authenticity.
December 9, 1994
The day started out well. I went through my morning routine without a hitch. Up by 6:00am, followed by a two-mile jog around the neighborhood, took a shower and cooked myself turkey, bacon, egg whites and a piece of wheat toast. The wife leaves for work at 5:30am to catch the first Bart train. My mind sprang full of clarity on this day, strong. My energy level shot through the roof. And then I received the call which changed my life forever. I didn’t recognize the voice. Serious, to the point, “Mr. Jacobs, I’m Deputy Mathews, sorry to inform you, your wife’s dead, stabbed multiple times.”
I told him there must be some mistake but when he described my wife’s features, I dropped the phone, curled into a ball like a baby, and cried until I couldn’t cry no more. Questions lingered in my head. How could this happen? Why? I didn’t get the specifics until later that night. Two junkies approached her on the Bart train, wacked out of their minds, on drugs. One of them demanded her purse. My wife, may she rest in peace, is feisty, rough. She had an east coast attitude and a west coast heart of gold. She wasn’t giving up shit without a fight, so one of the junkies pulls out a knife and stabs her, the other one grabs her purse. They got off on the next stop. I wanted to climb into a hole. That’s the best way to describe it, after hearing what happened. My rock, my best friend, my lover, taken from me. What the fuck did I have to live for now?
Friends told me to pick up the pieces and start over. ‘And do what?’ I asked. ‘You ever lose a wife or husband? No! So shut the fuck up. You got no idea the pain flowing through me.’ It’s like being gutted with an ice pick over and over. I remember hearing stories about old couples, who’ve been married 50, 60 years, how when one of them dies the other passes within a few months. I never understood why until now. That other person is not only a significant other but also apart of you, as much as a kidney or heart. One needs those things to function, to live. Kat… I can’t say her name, hurts too much. She was my heart, my kidney. I should have told her I loved her every second of the day. I should have cherished her more. It’s been one year since her death. Not a second goes by. If she could see the man I’ve become, she would be ashamed. The drinking. No will to live.
One of my friends forced me to see a doctor.
The doctor tried to prescribe me antidepressant drugs for the panic attacks I experienced.
I dumped that voodoo medicine after a week. It made me feel worse.
A detective called a few days ago, informing me they caught the person who killed my wife but... I shot back, “but what? Don’t tell me you let him go.” He got quiet, trying to find the right words, “Sorry sir, we had to.” Fuck do you mean you had to? The arresting officer didn’t follow the proper protocol. I hung up before the detective finished his words. I didn’t want to hear excuses.
For the past year, I sat and waited for my wife’s killer to be brought to justice. During that time, I let people walk over me and take advantage of me. Why? I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I didn’t give a shit anymore. I felt dead to this world but something unexpected clicked in my head. I knew I had to rise up from the ashes. If the cops couldn’t do anything, I would.
December 20, 1994
Their names were Ray Collins. And Lee Carter. Both were felons
from Oakland. According to the private investigator I hired, those bastards’ rape and pimp out teenage girls. They hung out on 98th Ave, a sinner’s paradise. Everything a sinner dreams of, rough pussy, chopped up blow and a thirst for blood. They hung out in front of a liquor store, joking around with the neighborhood scum. They resembled bums. Raggedy clothes, sucked in face. I hung back, observing their movements from across the street. The pieces of shit killed my wife and they have the nerve to laugh. Didn’t they feel any remorse? Didn’t they care their actions destroyed two lives? The short answer is no. How could they? Predators have no soul. That’s when it came to me.
I waited until the sun went to bed. I followed the two to a bar in San Leandro, California. The place was a real downer. The kind of establishment a person visits when life takes a shit on them. Power drinkers reliving whatever pathetic glory days they once obtained. The popular girl in high school who didn’t realize one day her curves would turn into donuts. A depressing sanctuary for the uninformed. Collins and Carter hung in a poorly lit corner, talking to some old blonde with leathery skin. Some kind of 80’s music blasted in the background. I took a seat at the counter and ordered a beer. I inhaled baby sips, peeking towards Collins periodically. I caught him passing a zip lock bag of white powder to the woman before they exited out the back door.
I plopped a Hamilton on the counter, thanked the bartender then followed the cowards out. The parking lot was quiet. The aroma of evil clouded the area. A terrible funk of violence I wasn’t used to surrounded me. Collins strutted to his car like he owned the world. A cocky sense of entitlement. Carter was behind a dumpster taking a piss. I kept a safe 10 ft. behind Collins; my steps, silent, one foot marching in front of the other, heart racing a million beats. I had no fucking plan so I winged it. Collins stuck his keys into his car. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a steak knife I took from my kitchen. I yelled to him, “Hey Ray, what’s up?”
He turned around, unimpressed. “Whose you?” His demon eyes spooked me, knocking me back a few pegs, but I stood my ground. “I’m Kathy Jacobs’s husband,” I said. He glanced at me up and down and said, “Who?”
I was nervous, but once he failed to recognize the name, anger took over. Only one problem. I misjudged him. He grabbed me by the collar of my shirt, pulling me in close. I smelled the weed and alcohol on his breath. My anxiety and fear disappeared. The moment rang surreal. It was like I was injected me with a dose of courage. Before I could say help, the knife slipped in my hand. The first cut tore his cheap plain white shirt. He stepped back, shocked, letting me go. “What the fuck,” he said. For a split-second I froze but when he came towards me I stabbed him in the side of the neck. Not just once but over and over. Carter came running over. “Fuck is going on?” he said. I didn’t hesitate. I lunged at him, stabbed the fucker in the stomach, over and over. “Sick fucks, you remember my wife now?” I screamed.
I gazed around. Not a soul in sight. I ran to my car and jumped in. I was shaking, staring at the blood on my jacket and hands. I guess most people would be scared but for some reason I wasn’t. I was relieved. Like a superhero who dethroned the bad guy in pursuit of justice. A strange sensation came over me. For the first time in a long time I felt alive.
January 28, 1995
I figured, since Ray Collins and Lee Carter were taking a dirt nap, sanity might find its way back to the conscious. I was wrong. The anger is visible, thrashing at the soul. Unnatural feelings, growing inside. A thirst I am unable to quench. Killing a product of the human race should have snapped me back to reality but the opposite happened. I find myself questioning the fact that I feel no remorse. I heard a quote one time, “One needs to cut off the sinner to protect the community.” I’ll go a step further. Parasites not only deserve extermination but humiliation. You fuck with innocent people you suffer the consequences.
I find myself assuming the role of general. Doesn’t matter if no troops stand behind me. This is a battle between good and evil.
I sit here in my living room, staring at the collage of pictures on the wall of my wife and I, enjoying happier times.
I realize the people in the photographs are dead. I have changed. I used to be the life of the party, not a care in the world. My wife played grown up, keeping my immature behavior in check. I recall a New Year’s party we attended a few years ago, a snooty friend of hers hosted. Everybody dressed in white. Talk about a stuffy atmosphere. Corporate ass lickers who wouldn’t spend more than two minutes with you if classical music and the opera didn’t tickle your fancy. It’s cool. I got my revenge. Everybody huddled around the television set before the clock struck midnight, sharing New Year’s Resolutions: less eating, joining the gym, travel more. I laughed on the inside. Are you kidding me? Only thing these people would change is their medication and therapist. As everybody counted down from ten, I snuck behind the TV and waited until the count reached 1 before I yanked the cord out of the wall socket. My wife almost killed me. I slept on the couch for a month. Damn! Can’t help but smile, reliving the memory. Those free-for-all days are gone. I went out on a few dates with my buddy’s wife’s friend but no one could ever replace Kathy. I made peace with being alone for the remaining days God allows me.
The fire for love burnt-out the day Ray Collins and Lee Carter murdered my wife in cold blood. I often think about Ray and Lee. I picture both on fire, crying, pleading because the pain is unbearable. The image puts a smile on my face.
I’m about to do something which frightens me but it’s too late to turn back. God gave me the tools. Now it’s up to me to go to work.
February 14, 1995
Dennis Hays became victim #3. I never viewed this piece of shit as anything more than a burden to society. He was accused of raping and assaulting multiple women. The story of his arrest hit the airwaves like a speeding bullet-SOCIALITE ARRESTED FOR SEXUAL ASSAULT. His pretty boy face splashed all over the newspapers. This wasn’t your typical loner living in his mother’s basement, getting off on some sick fetish. He came from old money. His family owned majority of the stock in two of California’s most lucrative companies. Big players in the state, thus explaining the reason every time the name Dennis Hays skipped across the District Attorney’s desk the case would somehow disappear to the bottom of the pile. I made up my mind as soon as I watched the scumbag stand in front of a group of reporters flanked by his high-priced attorney. Even Hays words stank- ‘I have been falsely accused of these horrible crimes, the women are targeting me because of my family’s influence in the community.’
I followed him from his palatial palace in Nob Hill to a sports bar in Union Square, where two friends greeted him. They both wore suits that cost more than I made in a year. I stole a seat parallel to them, observing every move. The drinking, the bullshitting, groping the waitress, treating her like a servant. Some kind of weird dance music played on the speaker. The pricks started dancing, waving their hands in the air, showing off their juvenile ways. The douche bags were three sheets to the wind, stuffing their pathetic silver spoon stomachs with Buffalo wings and hamburgers.
An hour passed and everyone decided to call it a night. Hays slapped hands, giving out bro hugs to his friends before separating. When he got to the door he yelled to the waitress, “Hey hun, left you something real nice.”
She scrambled to the table, figuring these assholes had some compassion for the way they treated her and dropped a sizeable tip. Hell, the poor girls take home couldn’t be more than a few hundred dollars on a good week. She searched under the dirty plates and glasses but found nothing.
Hays burst out laughing. “I left you a mess, you stupid bitch.” The waitress put her head down and ran into the bathroom crying. I wanted to kill him right there but I held my cool. I shadowed him through the thick San Francisco crowd, to a parking garage, two blocks from the Sir Francis Drake Hotel. I waited until he got to his car before I approached. “Excuse me,” I said. Hays turned around, an evil grin bouncing off his face. “Yo, what do you
want?” He said it like he was annoyed, a commoner such as myself dare speak to him. The anger kicked into overdrive. “Making women cry make you feel like a big man?” I said. His chest puffed out, “Excuse me.” I said, “You heard me, motherfucker.” His grin turned into a combat ready scowl. His fist tightened but before he had a chance to knock me around, the knife in my pocket slipped into my hand and I slashed his face. He grabbed his broken skin, screaming, “What the fuck did you do that for?” I plunged the knife deep into his chest. He reached for my shoulder hoping to push me off but the adrenaline jumping in my body became too much for him to overcome. His eyes rolled in the back of his head. I pulled the knife out and pushed him to the ground. I glanced around. Not a soul in site. I enjoyed watching Hays extend his hand, begging for help, choking on his own blood. As the bastard took his last breath I squatted and stared in his face.
I found myself saying these words out loud:
Once you stop caring about dying or going to jail, you can do anything you want.
February 21, 1995
If you kill someone is it considered murder or homicide? That’s the question I am met with each morning. Throughout history man has taken another’s life in the name of war. And what precious ornaments does war provide, you ask? Blood and lots of it. So, who decides the justification? You, me, old rich guys in suits? And when does moral jump into the mix? I’m of the philosophy if someone or something integrates society, wreaking havoc, one has no choice but to extract elimination. I’m tired of debating the above questions in my head. Yes, I’m rambling, jumping off topic but that’s the benefit of a journal. I can do or say whatever the hell I want without repercussions, pertaining to my grammar or writing style. Sorry, back to the subject at hand. Murder constitutes mayhem. Manslaughter, however is viewed as taking a life accidently, homicide, malice. I fall into the former.
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