by Hadena James
“That doesn’t make sense,” John told me.
“That’s because you didn’t grow up around these nutjobs,” I told him. “In our world, it makes perfect sense.”
Twenty-Four
The five men were loaded into three different cars. Gabriel, Xavier, and John each rode in a car with them. Nina was loaded into the front seat of the SUV with me as the driver. I wasn’t sure I wanted alone time with my great-aunt, but at least Nina wasn’t Gertrude.
“How have you been?” The ancient Clachan matron asked me. Nina had never married. She had never had children. She’d been “too smart” for any of that nonsense. Being “too smart” was a crime amongst Clachan women. Only a handful had ever been given this stigma, but those that did were doomed to live a lonely existence, at least in the minds of other Clachans. It was a lot like living in the Dark Ages, when women were only good for breeding and household chores. My grandmother had been “too smart,” it had “directly contributed to her murder.” I knew because I’d been told exactly that on several occasions by my family. Of course, she’d married into the Clachan family and hadn’t realized it had been tantamount to treason to be smart.
“I’m fine, Nina. I have a job, friends, hobbies, and money, everything a Clachan girl shouldn’t have. I do not have a boyfriend, husband, or children,” I told her.
“Good for you,” Nina said. “Children are oppressive and dull, especially in this family.”
“Still harboring some resentments, I see.”
“Why shouldn’t I harbor resentments?” Nina asked. “You do.”
“I do,” I agreed. “That’s why I don’t come to family gatherings.”
“You escaped. I didn’t.” Nina shrugged and I caught the movement in the corner of my eye.
“You could have. Nyleena tried to get you to move when she took the job in Kansas City.”
“I’m an eighty-three year old tax lawyer without a retirement fund. What would I do in Kansas City?”
“Anything,” I told her. “My mom is still working, part-time.”
“Your mom is a good egg.” She smiled finally. “That was quite a show you put on there.”
“It wasn’t a show. I really would have started shooting. If my boss hadn’t been there, I might have Tasered Gertrude just for fun.” I grimaced. “Mean old bitch.”
“Age hasn’t made her any more pleasant.” Nina agreed. “So, back to how I would live if I moved.”
“Nyleena and I would help.” I told her. As far as nutjobs went in my family, Nina was definitely one of them, but not in the sense that most of them were. My family had a fund that the elderly could draw from. Nina had never worked a day in her life. Her father had pretty much kept her hidden, like a troll, until he died when she was in her forties. At that time, she’d gone to college, gotten her degree in law, and started her own business. Her sister, Gertrude, had made sure it failed. Now, Nina lived off the family fund.
“You have enough to handle with your mom, Ella, all the children and yourself. I’d just be another dependent.”
“Nyleena and I both think you have Stockholm’s Syndrome.”
“Could be.” Nina agreed.
“So, why are coming along?” I asked her.
“I’m guessing you want to talk about August.”
“Guess or know?” I asked.
“Know,” Nina admitted. “We knew the moment you guys hit town that eventually you’d want to talk to us about August. It really wasn’t a surprise when we got the call today saying you guys were paying us a visit.”
“Anyone still involved in the illegal animal trade?” I asked my aged aunt.
“Not that I know of,” Nina answered. “That doesn’t mean they aren’t, it just means I don’t know about it. But I can probably help answer questions about August, as long as the others don’t know about it. I helped your dad the first time.”
“Helped my dad?” I asked.
“You think he was visiting Greg by chance that day and just happened to cross the street to find an animal fight in progress? He was a good cop, but he wasn’t psychic.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“You were young,” Nina shrugged again. “However, Gertrude suspects that I tipped your dad off to August’s activities, so I don’t get told much anymore.”
“I’d like to torture her until she gave up the information,” I sighed.
“Be real, you’d just like to torture her,” Nina laughed.
“That’s true.” I hated Gertrude with a passion. How her and Nina were sisters always amazed me. The two were as different as night and day. I wouldn’t admit it, at least not to many people, but I liked Nina. As she put it, she was a good egg, even if she did have Stockholm’s Syndrome. “If you’re being kept out of the loop, what is Gertrude going to think about you coming along to sit in on interviews? Especially, if she thinks you’ve betrayed the family before?”
“She can think whatever she wants. It’s not like she can do anything to me. All the killers in the family are dead, except two.”
“Eric and myself or Eric and Joe?” I asked.
“I had forgotten about Eric,” Nina sighed. “And you didn’t cross my mind either. I take it the feet being found are somehow related to the jaguars August used to procure?”
“I was unaware that August used to procure jaguars.” I answered. “Who were the two if it wasn’t Eric or myself?” I returned to the cryptic comment.
“Every couple of years he’d get one. He’d house it for a day or two and then it would be gone. You’re dad thought he was selling them to a serial killer, but we could never pinpoint when the jaguars where coming in or going out. Then your dad died and the killings had stopped, so it just sort of went into limbo. However, even after the killings stopped, August continued to get in a jaguar every couple of years.” Nina completely dodged the real question.
“I don’t think they ever stopped.” I told her. “Between you, me and whatever bugs might be planted in this car, I think the killings continued. I think the killer switches his victim preference every so often and when he does, the ritual changes. With kids, he disposes of the feet, leaving them to be found by the public, but there are a lot of vagrants and oddly, young men with blonde hair that go missing in the area. These stop when the child killings start and then restart when the child killings stop.”
“That’s not the way a serial killer operates,” Nina said.
“Not normally, no.” I agreed. “What do you know of the case, I mean really know?”
“Besides what you just told me?” Nina asked.
“Yes.”
“Ok kiddo, all my cards on the table, I already knew that. Your father suspected it. Your father suspected that August was getting jaguars for the killer and that if the killer wasn’t a Clachan, he was a family friend. That’s why he handed in his detective’s shield. He didn’t want to compromise the investigation by being involved if he turned out to be right. His goal was to shutdown August’s business and therefore, make the killer start looking for another source. It didn’t work. Every time August got caught, he got a slap on the wrist because he was Gertrude’s son. Then came the reformation and the bad tip.”
“Want to elaborate?” I asked.
“I heard that August was getting in a polar bear. I passed the information along to your father. The police raided the barn and found nothing. August claimed he’d reformed, he even gave a bunch of money to animal charities to prove it. A few weeks later, Chub walked in to find August with a polar bear. He couldn’t really do anything about it. He told your dad. They raided the house that night and found more nothing. August filed a harassment suit against the department and particularly, your father. It cost the city an arm and a leg, not to mention your dad’s part in the lawsuit, which he ended up paying out of pocket. A few weeks later, Chub died. I know it was from surgery complications, but I just feel like somehow August was responsible. Of course, there’s no proof of that.”
“That s
eems to be a thing with the family.”
“Oh honey, you have no idea. Clachans are responsible for about half of all Clachan deaths. If you weren’t who you were, you wouldn’t have lived this long.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“Gertrude’s had it out for you since your father banned her from arranging your marriage. Do you know why your dad stopped making you go to family gatherings?”
“Yeah, I’m a sociopath and a killer.”
“No, it was so that you could escape the family. He realized after you killed Callow that the family would be all over your talents and exploit them if they could. So, he stopped letting you have contact with most of them. Chub, Nyleena, and I were the exceptions, because he trusted us not to manipulate you. He believes Gertrude tried to have you killed twice after the Callow incident.”
“That’s insane.”
“You’ve met the woman,” Nina said.
“And now, you’re riding in a car with me, telling me all the family dirt. Don’t you think Gertrude will have a problem with that?”
“Yes, but if she kills me, it isn’t a great loss,” Nina reached up and pulled off her hair. I hit the brakes on the SUV, causing much honking behind me. “I have cancer and it’s terminal. There’s a lot for me to tell you. I think when I leave the police station today, I might go visit Nyleena.”
“How long do you have?” I asked.
“Six months, maybe.” Nina answered. “Liver cancer. Go figure. I never drank until I got it, now I enjoy Bailey’s in my coffee and a good single malt scotch before bed. No sense living clean and sober when your liver has already committed suicide.” She seemed to fall into thought. I started the car moving again. “You know, maybe for the next six months or however long I live, I’ll take you up on your offer. I could use a change of scenery and there’s a lot for you to learn about the Clachans. No one else is ever going to tell you, so I should.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like how your grandfather murdered your grandmother. He’s still alive and he sends you letters.”
“He sends me letters?” I frowned at her. “I’ve never received a letter from my grandfather.”
“Yes you have, Aislinn. You just didn’t know it.” Nina turned as much as the seat belt would allow. “He uses the name The Butcher.”
“My grandfather is my creepy ass, not-quite-sure he’s a serial killer stalker?” I asked.
“That was complicated.” Nina’s face changed to match my own. “Your grandfather is The Butcher and he is a serial killer. Your grandmother wasn’t his last victim either. I don’t know how many or how often, but I know he still kills now and again,” she thought for a moment. “He hasn’t really aged much, either. He has wrinkles, but his hair hasn’t faded or disappeared, and no one believes he’s in his eighties. They all think he’s in his sixties. He’s spry and walks with a cane, a habit he picked up after the war. A fancy cane, custom made, he doesn’t need it, just thinks it improves his image.”
“Was he in the war?” I asked.
“Yes. The reason you and Malachi keep coming up blank in your search for his victims is because you’re checking the wrong databases. If there was a way to check for crimes against Nazis and civilians in Europe during WWII, you’d probably find his victims. When he came back from the war, he kept the urges in check, right up until he killed your grandmother.”
“You’ve known all along?” I asked, anger bubbling up.
“Sort of, I suspected he was alive and I suspected he was your stalker. I didn’t know for sure until a few weeks ago, when I heard Gertrude having a phone conversation with someone. I couldn’t identify the caller because I couldn’t hear the other line, but when Lee asked who she was talking to, she said it was a ‘friend.’ Lee accepted that with a slight nod. I called the number back and was shocked to hear a voicemail that claimed to belong to Oliver Patterson, but in my brother’s voice. I confronted Lee who broke down and told me everything. I called Malachi and tipped him off.”
“Wow, so Malachi really did have a lead on The Butcher.” I let that sink in for a minute.
“It’s a lot to take in. But there’s a lot more than just Patterson being alive.” Patterson Oliver Clachan had been my grandfather’s name.
“How much more?” I asked.
“Much, much, much more.” Nina looked out the window. “We’ll deal with it a little at a time though.”
Urges
Nina was in custody, helping Aislinn. This made Patterson feel a little better. She was a big girl, capable of taking care of herself, both of them were. But knowledge was power with Aislinn, most of the time. He didn’t dwell on the times that it was a distraction.
He had something else to do today besides chase after Gertrude and August. He had a certain young man to deal with. Years ago, the young man had just been a punk kid who had shot up a parking lot. Now, he’d grown into a nuisance. Like Patterson, he followed Aislinn’s cases. Unlike Patterson, he was killing in the cities that Aislinn visited. He was trying to frame her for murder because of a stupid high school grudge.
It seemed that one night, while at a movie, the punk’s girlfriend had assaulted Aislinn. Aislinn and Nyleena had defended themselves and the band of girls, including the girlfriend, had been arrested. The girlfriend had gone to juvenile detention for her actions. When she got out, the punk and the girlfriend had married. A year ago, the wife had died in a car accident that the punk thought was Aislinn’s fault. It didn’t seem to enter into his logic that Aislinn hadn’t been anywhere near the accident or that the wife had been drinking when she slammed into a guard rail.
Rage just needed a focus and an outlet. Unfortunately for this guy, his rage had focused on Aislinn. Patterson parked in the driveway of the small, green and brick ranch house. It had taken him several months to track down George Killian. Patterson was prepared for the younger man to be strong, after all, death had turned him into a serial killer.
Patterson though had the edge. It wasn’t just that he looked harmless, it was that he was born to be a killer and he knew it. George had been born to be something else. Bad lifestyle choices had turned him into a killer. He wasn’t capable of the physical feats that Patterson was and he’d feel every wound inflicted.
His knuckles rapped firmly and quickly on the wooden door. George Killian was Aislinn’s age with a face that looked younger than her’s and a body that held fewer scars. His hair hadn’t even begun to turn grey. Patterson had already checked to make sure that they didn’t have children.
“What do you want?” George slurred. He’d been drinking in the morning hours of a Saturday or doing drugs. It was never a good sign.
“George Killian?” Patterson asked, despite already knowing the answer.
“Yeah, what do you want?”
“I want to talk to you about an incident. May I come in?”
“You’re too old to be a cop. Go fuck yourself.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Patterson lashed out with his cane, hitting George in the head. George roared in pain and sprung at the old man. Patterson stepped aside, letting George’s momentum carry him off the edge of the porch. Something snapped as George hit the ground and he began yelping. Patterson sighed and rolled his eyes. He hated amateurs. If you were going to be a serial killer, you should put in the time and effort to be good at it. Patterson grabbed George by the shirt.
“Now, do you want to talk or do you want me to continue to inflict pain?” Patterson asked.
“We can talk,” George said. “Help me stand, I think my ankle’s broke.”
“That is the least of your problems,” Patterson rapped him on the head again with his cane. “I will not help you up. You might have broken your ankle, but you’ve had enough to drink today to stumble back into the house of your own accord.”
George began to grumble. Patterson hit him harder this time, knocking him unconscious. He couldn’t kill him in the yard, someone might drive by. He
also wasn’t sure he could get the larger man into the house. However, necessity was the mother of invention and Patterson’s mind was already developing a system to get George in the house.
Sixteen minutes later, Patterson had George secured to a chair in the living room. Not a kitchen chair, but a large recliner. Kitchen chairs didn’t make for good places to restrain victims, they were unreliable. They broke too easily. Computer chairs were better, but they moved. So, Patterson had developed a system of restraint in any size recliner.
He tossed a bucket of scalding hot water on George’s face. George awoke, his mouth gagged, but he attempted to scream all the same. His skin was already red and small blisters were starting to form from the hot water.
Patterson had opted for the computer chair. He now rolled it over to him and took a seat in front of George. He waited for the man’s muffled cries to die before continuing. This took a while. George’s eyes kept rolling wildly and he struggled against the bonds. Finally, he stopped and stared at Patterson.
“I was hoping we could do this in a gentlemanly manner. It’s a very simple matter that needs to be cleared up. For several months now, you have been following around my granddaughter and killing people trying to frame her. I came here today to ask you to stop and turn yourself in. Sadly, that ship has sailed because you decided to be uncivilized. Perhaps it was the booze in your system or just the attitude of your generation, I don’t know. I’m not even sure I care. Since we couldn’t talk about it like gentlemen, I’m going to kill you. It’s going to be painful. I’m going to enjoy it. You are not, unless you are among one of those few people who are truly so masochistic that they can enjoy the suffering of their own torture. Judging by your screams from earlier, I believe that is not the case.” Patterson thought for a moment. “However, I did have the opportunity to kill a man once that was. He was a Nazi, for all the right reasons or wrong, depending on your view point. He was truly sadistic, torturing and raping women was his only form of pleasure, until I found him. As I sliced open his stomach and began pulling out his intestines, he orgasmed because he was so excited by the site of the blood and the feelings of pain. As a matter of fact, he enjoyed it so much, that I didn’t enjoy it and instead of butchering him like he deserved, after a few injuries, I slit his throat out of disgust. I’m hoping that doesn’t happen here.”