Wells, Dan - John Cleaver 01

by I Am Not A Serial Killer (v1. 1)

  We rode in silence the rest of the way, and when we got home I poured a bowl of cereal and turned on the TV Mom turned it off.

  "I think we need to talk."

  "I said I don't want to—"

  "I know what you said, but this is important."

  I stood up and walked back into the kitchen. "We don't have anything to talk about."

  "That's exactly what we have to talk about," she said, watching me from the couch. "Your best friend's dad was murdered—seven people have been murdered in four months—and you're obviously not dealing with it very well.

  You've barely said a word to me since Christmas."

  "I've barely said a word to you since fourth grade."

  "Then isn't it about time?" she asked, standing up. "Don't you have anything to say, about Max, or your Dad, or anything?

  There's a serial killer in town, for goodness sake, that's your favorite thing in the world. We couldn't get you to stop talking about them a few months ago, and now you're practically mute."

  I moved out of sight behind the kitchen wall and ate another bite of cereal.

  "Don't run away from me," she said, following me into the room. "Dr. Neblin told me about your last visit—"

  "Dr. Neblin needs to shut up," I said.

  "He's trying to help you," said Mom. "I'm trying to help you. But you won't let us in. I know you don't feel anything, but at least tell me what you're thinking—"

  I hurled the cereal bowl at the wall as hard as I could, shattering it. Milk and cereal sprayed across the room.

  "What the hell do you think I'm thinking?" I shouted.

  "How'd you like to live with a Mom who thinks you're a robot?

  Or a gargoyle? You think you can just say anything you want and it will bounce right off? 'John's a psycho! Stab him in the face—he can't feel anything!' You think I can't feel? I feel everything, Mom, every stab, every shout, every whisper behind my back, and I am ready to stab you all right back, if that's what it takes to get through to you!" I slammed my hand down on the counter, found another bowl, and hurled it at the wall. I picked up a spoon and threw it at the fridge, then picked up a kitchen knife and prepared to throw it as well, but suddenly I noticed that Mom was rigid, her face pale and her eyes wide.

  She was afraid. Not just afraid—she was afraid of me. She was terrified of me.

  I felt a thrill shoot through me—a bolt of lightning, a rush of wind. I was on fire. I was floored by the power of it, of pure, unfiltered emotion.

  This was it. This was what I had never felt before—an emotional connection to another human being. I'd tried kindness, I'd tried love, I'd tried friendship. I'd tried talking and sharing and watching, and nothing had ever worked until now. Until fear. I felt her fear in every inch of my body like an electric hum, and I was alive for the first time. I needed more right then or the craving would eat me alive.

  I raised the knife. She flinched and stepped back. I felt her fear again, stronger now, in perfect sync with my body. It was a jolt of pure life—not just fear, but control. I waved the knife, and the color drained from her face. I stepped forward and she shrank back. We were connected. I was guiding her movements like a dance. I knew in that instant that this is what love must be like—two minds in tandem, two bodies in harmony, two souls in absolute unity. I yearned to step again, to dictate her reaction. I wanted to find Brooke and ignite this same blazing fear in her. I wanted to feel this shining, glorious unity.

  I didn't move.

  This wasn't me.

  The monster was entwined around me so fully that I couldn't tell where it ended and I began, but I was still there, somewhere.

  More! it screamed.

  My wall was gone, the monster's cage destroyed, but the rubble was still there, and somehow in that instant I found that wall again. I was standing in the rubble of a life I had built meticulously for years—a life I never enjoyed, for I had cut myself off from joy, but a life that I valued, joyful or not. I valued the ideas behind it. The principles.

  You are evil, said myself. You are Mr. Monster. You are nothing. You are me.

  I closed my eyes. The monster had named itself now— stolen its name from the Son of Sam, who'd called himself Mr. Monster in a letter to the paper. He'd begged the police to shoot him on sight, so he wouldn't kill again. He couldn't stop himself.

  But I could. I am not a serial killer.

  I put down the knife.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm sorry I yelled at you. I'm sorry I scared you."

  Her fear flooded out of me, the exquisite joy of connection drained away, and the link severed. I was alone again. But I was still me.

  "I'm sorry," I said again, and walked around the corner, down the hall, and into my room. I locked the door.

  I clutched desperately to a thin veneer of self-control, but the monster was still in there, still strong, and madder than ever. I'd beaten it, but I knew it would come out again, and I didn't know if I could beat it a second time. '

  That was how the Son of Sam had ended his letter: "Let me haunt you with these words: I'll be back! I'll be back!"

  16

  New Year's Eve passed without incident—some fireworks on TV, some fake champagne from the supermarket, and nothing. We went to bed. The sun came up. It was the same world it had always been, only older. One step closer to the end of time. Hardly worth celebrating at all.

  Almost all I did these days was watch Mr. Crowley, peeking out of my window during the day, and peeking into his at night. One day, helping out with chores,

  I stole a key to his basement, and slipped it in a tiny hole in the lining of my coat. I knew their schedule to the minute, and the layout of their house to the tiniest detail. Soon they left together on a combined shopping trip—she needed groceries, he needed a new faucet for the kitchen sink—and while they were gone, I slipped in through the cellar door. There was the maze of storage in the basement, leading to the upstairs rooms. There was the chair where he watched TV, there was the bed they slept in. I left a note under his pillow:

  GUESS WHO?

  On Friday morning, January fifth, Max's dad arrived at the mortuary—cleaned, examined, and carried out of the police van in three white bags. Crowley had slashed him up and torn him in half, and I knew the FBI must have cut him up further, looking for evidence. Mom would need a photo just to put him back together again. I stood on the edge of the bathtub and watched out the bathroom window as Ron, the coroner, and someone in an FBI cap carried the bags into the embalming room. Mom and Margaret came out, and the four

  of them chatted while they made the transfer and signed the papers. Soon the men got back into their truck and pulled away. The embalming ventilator clanked into life below me, and I shut the window.

  Mom was coming up the stairs, probably looking for a snack before they got started. I retreated quickly to my room, locking the door behind me; I'd been avoiding her almost pathologically since threatening her the other night. To my surprise, her footsteps bypassed the kitchen, the bathroom, the laundry room, and even her own bedroom. She reached the end of the hall and knocked on my door.

  "John, can I come in?"

  I said nothing, and stared out the window at Crowley's house. He was in his living room—I could see the light on, and the blue flickers on the curtain reflecting from the TV set.

  "John, I have something I need to talk to you about," said Mom again. "A peace offering."

  I didn't move. I heard her sigh and sit down in the hallway.

  "Listen, John," she said. "I know we've had some hard times—we've had plenty—but we're still together, right? I mean, we're the only two people in the family who've managed to stick it out. Even Margaret lives alone. I know we're not perfect, but. . . we're still a family, and we're all we've got."

  I shifted on the bed, glancing away from the window to her shadow below the door. My bed creaked as I moved, almost imperceptibly, but I knew she'd heard it. She spoke again.

  "I've been talking with Dr. Ne
blin a lot, about what you're feeling and what you need. I'd like to talk to you instead, but.. . well, we're going to try something. I know this is crazy, but. . ." Pause. "John, I know you love helping us embalm, and I know that you haven't been the same since we banned you from it. Dr. Neblin thinks that you need it more than I thought. He says it might do you some good. You were a lot more . . . in control back then, anyway, so maybe he's right, and it does help. I don't know. It's the only real time we ever spend together, too, so I thought. . . Well, Mr. Bowen's body is here, and we're going to get started, and . . . you're welcome to come help us if you want."

  I opened the door. She stood up quickly, and I noticed as she rose that her hair was streaked with a little more gray than I remembered.

  "You sure?" I asked.

  "No," she said, "but I'm willing to give it a shot."

  I nodded my head. "Thanks."

  "There are a few rules you need to know first," Mom said, as we walked downstairs. "Number one, you don't tell anyone about this, except maybe Dr. Neblin. Especially not Max. Number two, you do exactly what we say, when we say it. Number three—" We reached the embalming room and stopped just outside. "This is a very gruesome body, John. Mr. Bowen was torn in half at the trunk, and most of his abdomen isn't even there. If you feel like you have to leave, for goodness sake leave—I'm trying to help you here, not scar you for life. Show me that I can trust you, John. Please."

  I nodded, and she stared at my face for a moment. Her eyes were a mixture of sadness and determination. I wondered if she could see through my eyes like windows, into the darkness inside, and the monster that lurked there. She opened the door, and we went in.

  Roger Bowen's body was laid out on the embalming table in two pieces, with a gap of five or six inches where his top and bottom didn't quite meet. His chest was marked with a huge "Y" incision—shoulder to breastbone, shoulder to breastbone, and down the center from the breastbone to what was left of his waist. The incision was loosely laced shut, like a threadbare quilt. Margaret was at the side counter, sorting the internal organs from the autopsy bag and preparing to clean them with the trocar.

  I was home again. The tools on the walls were in their right places, the embalming pump sat obediently on the counter, the formaldehyde and other colorful chemicals looked festive in rows along the wall. I felt myself slipping into familiar patterns—cleaning, disinfecting, stitching, sealing. His face was bruised, and his jaw was broken, but we rebuilt it with putty and recolored him with makeup.

  While we worked, I thought about Crowley, and how he'd collapsed in the street after killing Max's dad. He'd pushed himself too far, waiting until the last possible moment before killing. But it made sense—letting time pass between kills made him harder to track, and it gave the public uproar time to die down. People grew less careful again. This time, though, it had nearly been too long—he'd only barely managed to replace his failing organs and regenerate. Worse than that, he'd had a witness—me—practically in his grasp, and then he'd been forced to let me get away. That seemed like a weakness I could use, but how?

  There was always the fear angle—he didn't want to be discovered and now he had been, irrefutably, and in demon form. He knew now that whoever sent him those notes wasn't bluffing.

  But watching him that night revealed more than his fear—it had revealed something about how the demon worked, biologically. I'd already guessed that his body was falling apart, but I hadn't realized how fragile he was. If he could get that close to death just by waiting too long, then I didn't need to kill him, just prevent him from regenerating, and let him die on his own.

  A gash through his stomach, a bullet in his shoulder—these were wounds he could heal, perhaps in seconds. But his internal organs were different for some reason. When they stopped working, he stopped working. All I needed was a way to make sure that they stopped working permanently.

  Using a photo, Mom and I finished rebuilding Mr. Bowen's face, and then started on the actual embalming. The body was too damaged to embalm normally, which made our job harder and easier at the same time. On the plus side, we only had to prepare half of the body for the viewing—the upper half would be dressed and displayed, while the bottom half and the organs were tucked neatly into a pair of large plastic bags, to be shoved down into the lower half of the coffin, out of sight. No matter how someone dies, it's never a good idea to look into the lower half of the coffin. Even though morticians prepare the whole body for burial, they only need to make part of it presentable. If there's any of it you can't see already, the odds are you don't want to see it at all.

  The hard part, of course, was that we had to inject the embalming chemicals in three different places: one injection in his right shoulder, and one in each of his legs. We did our best to seal the major blood vessels before pumping in a coagulant to close up the smaller ones, and then Mom began mixing the careful cocktail of dyes and fragrances that would accompany the formaldehyde. I hooked up a drain tube, and we watched as the old blood and bile drained safely away.

  Margaret looked up at the ventilator fan spinning doggedly above us. "I hope the motor doesn't give out."

  "Let's step outside just in case," said Mom. "We deserve a break anyway." It was late afternoon, and already below freezing, so we retreated to the mortuary chapel instead of the parking lot, and relaxed on thinly upholstered benches while the body slowly pickled in the other room.

  "Nice job, John," said Mom. "You're doing great."

  "You are," said Margaret, closing her eyes and massaging her temples. "We all are. Cases like these make me want to break down and buy a Jacuzzi."

  Mom and Margaret stretched and sighed; they were tired and relieved to be finished, but I was eager to do another one.

  This kind of work still fascinated me—the meticulous attention to detail, the finely honed skills, the precision required for each step. It was Dad who first taught me what to do, first pulled me in when I was just seven years old, and showed me the tools, recited their names, taught me to be reverent in the presence of the dead. It was that reverence that brought my parents together in the first place, so the story went—two morticians, desperate for living company and impressed by their mutual respect for the deceased. They treated their job like a calling. If either of them had been half as good with live people as they were with dead ones, they'd probably still be together.

  I took off my apron and went out to the front office. Lauren was there, obviously bored—there was barely anything to do, and she was playing Minesweeper on the computer while she waited for five o'clock. It was 4:54.

  "They let you help," said Lauren, not looking up from the monitor. The screen turned her face pale and ghostly. "I never could get into that stuff. It's much better out here."

  "It's a lot less lively out here, ironically," I said.

  "That's right, rub it in," said Lauren. "You think I want to spend my whole day in here doing nothing?"

  "You're twenty-three years old," I told her. "You can do anything you want. You don't have to hang around here."

  She clicked on the squares in her little minefield, marking spots with flags, and testing the area around them carefully.

  She clicked wrong, and the screen exploded.

  "You don't realize what you have here," she said at last. "Mom can be a hag sometimes, but. . . she loves us, you know? She loves you. Don't forget that."

  I stared out the window. The street outside was growing dark already, and Mr. Crowley's house squatted menacingly in the snow.

  "Love's not the point," I said at last. "We just do what we always do, and we get by."

  Lauren turned to face me. "Love is the only point," she said. "I can barely stand to be around her, but that's just because she's just trying too hard to love us, and keep us together, and pick up the slack. It took me a long time to figure that out."

  A gust of wind blew past the window, pressing on the glass and howling heavily through the gaps in the front door.

  "What about Dad?"
I asked.

  She paused a moment. "Mom loves you enough to cover for him, I think." She paused. "So do I." It was five o'clock, and she stood up. I wondered what time it was wherever Dad was. "Listen, John—why don't you come over sometime? We can play cards or watch a movie or something, huh? Sound like fun?"

  "Yeah, sure," I said. "Sometime."

  "I'll see you, John." She turned off the computer, pulled on her parka, and walked out into the wind. Icy air blasted through the door, and she had to fight to close it behind her.

  I went upstairs thinking about what she had said—love might be a strength, but it was also a weakness. It was the demon's weakness.

  And I knew how to use it.

  I grabbed my iPod from my room, still unused since I'd tossed it aside at Christmas, and got on my bike and started riding to Radio Shack. Dad's stupid present was going to come in handy after all.

  When I first started stalking Mr. Crowley, I'd been looking for a weakness. Now I had three, and together they formed an opportunity. I thought about it carefully while I rode, pedaling cautiously through the afternoon's thin dusting of snow.

  The first weakness was his fear of discovery, and with it his determination to wait so long between killings. He would wait and wait, putting it off until the last possible moment—

  I'd seen it happen, and I'd watched "the last possible moment" grow more and more precarious. I think this went beyond fear—he avoided killing as if he hated it, as if he couldn't bear to do it until biological necessity forced his hand. The next time he killed, I was confident, he would be on the edge of death, ready to fall right in. I didn't even have to push him over the edge, just stop him from crawling back out.