“Depending on where I killed, I would try to conceal the bodies. Monde told me the longer I could hide them and allow them to rot, the less chance there was of the police linking me to any of the murders. I took to dumping the body parts in rivers in weighted bags, and in the woodland so the wildlife could finish the job I started.
“In the winter of ’02, I reached my century. One hundred kills. By then of course, despite my best efforts to hide them, many of my previous victims had been found. It didn’t take long for the police to notice the similarities between the mutilations, and as soon as word reached the press, I was finally in the spotlight. They dubbed me the Decap Killer, which I hated. I had worked too hard to let them label me with such a flimsy name. Monde suggested I contact them to let them know the error of their ways, so I sent a severed head to the editor of the New York Times with a letter suggesting they call me the Demon Dismemberer. The public went into frenzy, and if anything, I think that one instance of self-indulgence was what led to my downfall and capture.”
Elgin glanced at his watch. It was no more than a flicker of the eyes, but it got the message across.
“How long left?”
“Ten minutes. We better wrap this up quickly.”
“Yeah, time flies when ya’ havin’ fun, doesn’t it Elgin?”
No response. Roberts lifted his feet and crossed his legs on the bed, his long, tattooed arms dangling down past his knees.
“It was some smartass called Petrov who caught me. Petrov. Can you believe that? A damn Russian, at least in name. Turns out he was technically an American—had become a full citizen back in the eighties. He was famous for thinking outside the box, thinking like a killer. I don’t think he was too different from me at heart, apart from the fact that he never had the balls to take that first step… Anyway, Petrov was brought in to work the case because he’d already caught the Green Bay rapist, and was fresh off the back of catching that female serial killer in Rio De Janeiro. I had read about him in the papers, and when I saw his picture for the first time, I was concerned. He had these eyes Mr. Elgin, and—not unlike yours—they were hungry, knowing eyes. Eyes that said he knew secret things. Monde told me not to worry about him, but I had a feeling the game had changed. I was feeling the pressure of my notoriety then, and I had developed insomnia. There is nothing worse than nights spent lying awake, waiting for daylight to come. By that time, they had found fifty bodies that were attributed to me, and as they widened their search, more and more of my handiwork was digging itself out of shallow graves. The headlines proclaimed me as the world’s most prolific serial killer—said that I was the most feared man in history. Monde was thrilled, but I was starting to feel scared. For the next few months, I didn’t kill as often. It wasn’t that the opportunity wasn’t there. I just assumed that my nationwide notoriety had put people on guard, but the truth is: people never believe such things can happen to them. No, Mr. Elgin, killing was as easy as ever. By May of ’04, my tally was at one hundred and two, and unbeknownst to me, there it would remain. The police had discovered eighty-seven bodies, and the general public was demanding action. I was worried, but Monde’s confidence assured me that it was ok. I imagined him flashing his big Italian grin, telling me he would take care of everything. But Monde was wrong.”
Roberts smiled reflectively as he continued.
“I wonder if the circumstances of my capture were as random and incidental as they appeared, or if there was some higher power at work. Had the dart landed in Boston or Nebraska, you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation. But instead, it wedged itself into good old San Antonio. Nestled right between the A and the N of Antonio. I never liked going to Texas. I had killed here once before in 91’ and it was hard work. It was too hot, too dry for me. Too much dust and not enough wind. Monde and I had driven around for what felt like hours in my trusty white transit with SPEEDY TRANS written on the side in a garish orange font. The mercury was touching a hundred and four degrees, and even with the windows open and the air conditioning on full, it was almost unbearable. I glanced over to Monde in the passenger seat and felt a stab of jealousy. He didn’t look hot or uncomfortable. He was playing it cool, with his foot up on the dashboard and his elbow hanging out of the window. He had huge reflective aviator glasses on that kept catching the sunlight and hurting my eyes. It was then I saw a brunette with a slim waist and large hips in tattered jeans shorts, walking unhurriedly down the edge of the road. I glanced over to Monde for his approval, but he just kept looking ahead. I knew he wouldn’t speak until he had spotted the golden opportunity. What happened next you couldn’t even make up, Mr. Elgin. I don’t believe in fate, but if there is such a thing, that boiling hot Friday in July was it.
“The first thing that happened was the blown tire. It happened quickly, and it took all my effort to steer the lurching, bucking van off the road without rolling it into the ditch. I glanced over to Monde with a what the fuck expression on my face, but he had gone. Retreated to whatever part of my mind he lives in. He had left me to deal with it alone, so with no other option, I climbed out of the van and into the baking July heat to assess the situation. It was the left rear that had gone. It lay against the dirt shoulder like a melted slug. I was in the process of taking the spare tire out of the recessed panel in back, when a voice called out to me to ask if everything was all right. I turned around expecting to see some country-bumpkin-old-timer and almost screamed outright.
It was Petrov.
Imagine winning the lottery every week for a year. Or throwing twelve sixes in a row at the craps table. Those are the kind of odds we’re talking about here. I pleaded with Monde to appear and tell me what to do, but he didn’t, and I stood there in the back of the van open-mouthed and sweating.
‘Sir, is everything alright?’ Petrov asked again.
He didn’t sound Russian. That was the first thing that hit me. And why should he? Even though I was born in Italy, I have no trace of an accent either. I knew I had to answer, but had lost the ability to speak. Instead, I managed a weak nod and went back to work freeing the tire from the well. It’s funny, because although I’d seen his picture in the papers, I never imagined him to be real. But there he stood, in his sunglasses and plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a cup of Starbucks coffee in his hand.
The words finally found their way out of my mouth—
‘I’m fine, officer. Just a tire blowout. I’ll change this up and be on my way.’
Petrov had nodded, and even though I couldn’t see them behind his sunglasses, I could feel his eyes crawling over me, and over the inside of the van. I tried to stay as calm as I could, and look as casual as possible as I lifted the tire free from the well, but my hands were shaking and I dropped it.
‘Here, let me give you a hand,’ Petrov said, and without another word he set his cup on the ground and hopped into the van. I could feel him staring at me, and was sure I could hear his thoughts processing like some damn computer. We got the tire free and were wheeling it towards the open back doors, when Monde finally made his appearance.
You are going to have to kill him.
I wanted to laugh and scream at the same time, but did neither. Instead, I helped Petrov to get the tire out the back. Sweat was dripping off me, but I felt better being out in the open. I could see his car parked across the street, its bodywork glittering in the fierce heat of the sun. I didn’t know the make and noticed the steering wheel was on the opposite side. Petrov saw me looking and flashed a crocodile grin.
‘It’s European. A gift from my father. Had it shipped over from Russia.’
I nodded and somehow managed to hold on to my breakfast, which churned and swilled around my gut.
‘My name is Petrov.’ He took off his glasses and held out his hand. I didn’t want to, but forced myself to shake it. It felt solid. Workers hands, as my father would have called them.
‘Monde,’ I replied, then immediately regretted it. He watched me carefully for a second, then turned his
attention back to the tire.
‘Ok, Mr. Monde. Let’s change this and get you on your way. Where are you headed?’
I couldn’t think of an answer. I knew he was somehow reading my thoughts, that he could tell what I was thinking. Luckily, Monde took over.
‘Just passing through. Got a delivery to make in Houston.’
Petrov nodded and I was calm. My hands had stopped shaking, and I set to work loosening the nuts on the flat whilst Petrov worked the jack to lift the van up. We worked in silence for a while with the heat of the day on our backs, and I had just pulled the spent tire loose, when he spoke again.
‘You delivered here before?’
‘No.’
Petrov nodded and I tried to stay calm, despite a belly full of ice. We moved the spare tire into place and he looked up at me with one probing eye closed against the glare of the sun.
‘You sure about that?’
‘Positive. I rarely get out this far.’
He nodded in silence, and I was sure I could hear his brain ticking over.
‘It’s funny,’ he said, setting down the cross-wrench and standing. ‘When I first approached, you called me officer.’
I stood to meet his gaze, and we faced off in the blazing sun on a backwards little San Antonio street. I tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t incriminate me, but my silence only gave him time to put more pieces of the puzzle together. His next words made me feel sick.
‘What do you know about the Demon Dismemberer case?’
I tried to look neutral, but was certain he could see the guilt written all over my face.
‘Only what I’ve seen on the news,’ I heard myself say as I crouched back down to the tire. I was no longer interested in changing the wheel you understand, my eyes fixed greedily on the abandoned wrench which lay in the dust.
‘Yeah, it’s funny,’ he said as he took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one, the smoke quickly dragged away by the light breeze.
‘I was out here following up a lead on that particular case. There was a girl killed here a couple of years ago. She worked over there.’
He stuck his thumb over his shoulder to the glass-fronted café on the other side of the street. I gave it a cursory glance as I tightened the wheel nuts by hand. I had to make it look natural when I reached for the wrench.
‘Nobody remembers much about the last time she was seen alive of course. People tend not to remember details, even though we try our best to encourage them.’
I nodded, trying to look busy. I was looking for that word. The one that begins with o and ends in y, but I couldn’t see it. Petrov had a smile on his face now. A smug and satisfied smile as he took a cursory step back.
‘I hope you get a lead soon. Terrible business if you ask me,’ I said, both surprised and impressed by how calm I sounded. Monde would have been impressed too—if he hadn’t left me to my own devices. Petrov nodded, took a long pull on his cigarette, then dropped it to the road and stubbed it out with his boot.
‘Witnesses are funny creatures, Mr. Monde. They don’t appreciate how useful even the smallest bits of information can be.’
He crouched again now, and I could feel his eyes glaring through me. I kept my own gaze fixed firmly on the tire, even though I was no longer working on it.
‘I’ve interviewed more than three hundred people about this particular case all over the country—and when you lay all the information out, certain patterns present themselves.’
I looked up at him then, and he was no longer smiling. I chose to remain silent.
‘They seem like such trivial things, but sometimes… Sometimes they start to jive.’
‘How?’ I heard someone say, who may or may not have been me.
‘Well, let’s say a third of the people interviewed remember a white van near some of the murder scenes.’ Petrov put his hand on my van for emphasis.
‘And of those people, say a quarter remember that the van had New York plates.’
I crouched there, sweating and watching him as he seemed to grow more and more confident. I had given up on grabbing the wrench. I knew he had me.
‘Now, say another hundred of those people, unrelated to the first ones who saw the van, say they remember a tall man in the area on the night of any given murder—you see where I’m going with this? Pretty soon you have a good idea of who you are looking for.’
I prayed for Monde to tell me what to do. Monde always knew what to do.
‘Imagine my surprise when I looked out the window of the café there to see a white van with New York plates broken down by the side of the road. That alone would be reason enough to take a closer look, but then I saw you climb out of the cab. What are you, six-five?’
‘Six-seven,’ I replied distantly. My calves were burning from crouching there on my haunches, but I was frozen and unable to move. Petrov didn’t notice my discomfort. He was on a roll.
‘And that got me thinking: if I were a nationwide serial killer, how would I go about it? How would I make sure I could reach all of those places? And I thought to myself: well, I’d work for a delivery firm. One where the leash was long and there was no way to track my movements—a company like Speedy Trans for example.’
I heard the approaching wail of police sirens. They were still distant, but I knew they were coming for me. He must have called them in straightaway—he was just keeping me busy until they arrived. I looked up at him then, and offered a smile of my own.
‘Congratulations. You’ve caught the Demon Dismemberer.’ ”
Elgin blinked and nodded. Roberts remained silent. There was no more to say.
“You just…confessed?” Elgin asked, with a note of surprise.
“I would like to say I went out in a blaze of glory, but that would be a lie. Hell, we both knew it was over. If you ran a blue light over the inside of that van, it would have lit up like a damn Christmas tree.”
Elgin nodded, then reached into his briefcase and brought out a single sheet of paper and a pen.
“I think I have heard enough, Mr. Roberts.”
“Yeah? How did I do?”
“I think you will be perfect for the job.”
The sound of the outer gate being unlocked echoed down the corridor.
“Looks like visiting hours are over, Elgin. Tell me what the job is.”
“How would you like the chance to have everything you ever wanted? The opportunity to be as cruel and sadistic as you like, for all eternity.”
More keys rattling now, as the second door was unlocked.
“Stop screwing around with me, Elgin. You promised to get me out of here, so do it!”
Roberts was suddenly desperate to be free. All the talk of killing made him realize he wasn’t ready to stop. Not yet.
“You must understand the terms, Mr. Roberts. Once you agree, there will be no turning back.”
“Elgin, just tell me!”
“How would you like to be a demon, Mr. Roberts?” Elgin said from behind his reptilian smile. Roberts exploded forwards and reached through the bars.
“You motherfucker! I knew you were playing me! You sorry son of a bitch!”
Elgin didn’t move. He’d positioned himself to be just barely out of Roberts’ reach. Instead, he smiled and spoke calmly.
“I assure you, it’s no joke. I’ve been sent from hell to recruit you, Mr. Roberts. You have all the qualities we are looking for.”
“You fuck, I’ll tear you apart!” Elgin reached up and grabbed Roberts by the forearm. His grip was like a vice. Roberts stopped struggling and stared on, wide-eyed.
“You can finally be all that you set out to be. You can become Monde. Not just a figment of your fractured imagination, but really him.. You can continue the work you started in life… in death.”
Roberts looked on as Elgin grinned, and he was sure he could see a narrow, forked tongue flicking around behind his teeth. The main door was now opening, the sound of its tired, creaking hinges followed by t
he steady clip clop of footsteps on the polished floor.
Elgin’s eyes were now black bottomless pools that reminded Roberts of Alessio’s well.
“I need an answer, Mr. Roberts,” Elgin hissed. His breath was hot and smelled of sulfur.
“You freak. You fucking freak!” Roberts spat.
He heard Remy’s lumbering footsteps and was relieved—at least until he saw him. Like Elgin, his eyes were black. His teeth were thin daggers of bone, and his forked tongue probed in and out of his mouth. He stood beside Elgin and folded his arms. Roberts backed away, knowing the true meaning of terror for the first time since that day with Petrov. The two men—two demons—stood and approached the bars. Roberts looked on in horror as the white paint on the cell bars began to peel and melt away under the heat that emanated from them. Smoke billowed out of the collar of Elgin’s shirt, and Remy’s gold police badge had begun to sag and warp.
“Join us, Mr. Roberts,” said Elgin, his own dagger teeth making his voice sound different. Deeper somehow. Roberts backed away as far as he could, pressing himself against the cinderblock wall of the cell. He could see a shimmering haze of heat around them now as Remy took out his keys with hands that were more like claws, unlocking the cell.
“Come with usssshh, Mishter Roberthhhh,” Remy hissed as he swung the door open. Elgin entered, sliding towards Roberts with his wiry, crooked form.
“Join usth. Let usth take you away from all thsth…”
Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror Page 5