by Jaden Wilkes
The silence in the room emphasized the seriousness of her words.
It was time to show these men exactly what kind of monster we were hunting.
“Without any further questions or interruptions, I would like to now introduce you to our perpetrator, known only as the Cascades Killer.”
Chapter Two
Jude
“Have you had a chance to look over the quarterly earnings report?”
Thomas interrupted my morning coffee with his ridiculously upbeat voice. I looked him up and down, noting his Simpsons tie and his scuff marked shoes. He would need to be written up for both during the next employee evaluations.
“I have not,” I replied crisply and snapped my newspaper. I dared him to look at the front page, the feature spread about the ‘Cascades Killer’. A little claim to fame perhaps. He didn’t fucking notice, useless skin sack. I said, “Is there anything urgent I need to attend to?”
“Uh,” he stuttered and pissed me off even more. I hated being pissed off. I hated the weakness it showed. I hated how sniveling it made the other person and I hated the images it brought forth in my mind most of all. Images of spraying arterial blood soaking my clothing…teeth gnashing and flesh tearing under my powerful form…terrified eyes flashing as they realize their life was over.
So I composed myself, smiled and said, “Ok, I’ll get to it after coffee. Dude, you know you should never interrupt me before my first gallon in the morning.”
He laughed and backed out of my office, “No problem boss, I’ll remember that next time.” He turned to leave and I imagined an axe sticking out of his back. Fucking quarterly earnings reports, who had time for that shit? That’s what I hired the likes of him for.
“Hey Tom,” I called after him. He turned back with a question on his face. “Shut the door, will ya? I’m a few cups away from being sane.” I laughed, he laughed and the door was shut.
I took a sip of my drink and turned back the newspaper. The idea of sanity is one that I have puzzled over for years. I’ve never felt quite all there, but not in a bad way. It’s not like I hear voices or get messages through radio transmissions. I’ve always felt smugly superior somehow. That’s all. As though I have an edge or know something the rest of the world doesn’t. Bringing death seems to do that to a person, focuses the differences and makes your superiority much more apparent.
My first kill had been almost accidental. I had told myself it was accidental for weeks afterwards, terrified of how intense the moment had been.
I had picked up a girl at a club, some German tourist type. I was freshly nineteen and out celebrating with some guys, which generally ended in some kind of drunken pussy following me home. Even from a young age, I seemed to have this effect on women.
We’d snuck into a downtown warehouse party using fake ID. I’d been with some assholes I knew from high school. We’d reconnected that summer during my visit home from Harvard. I had always been popular, having had my own place and unlimited cash to throw into cab fares and drinks.
She had been cute, small and dark with a huge smile and perfect white teeth. She had been a few years older than me, but hadn’t known how to tell me her age in English. I had guessed around twenty-five, give or take a year or two.
We’d ended up back at my place, drinking some more, and talking some more, although I will admit, I could barely understand half of what she said with her thick accent and drunken slur.
Naturally, we’d ended up naked in my bed, just squirming all over each other’s bodies, desperately looking for a foothold to gain some form of pleasure.
I had finally pushed her down and started fucking her. The harder I’d fucked, the louder she’d gotten, screaming in German and god knows what other languages as I’d railed her.
She had been magnificent, beautiful and violently orgasmic…but too fucking loud. I had cringed to think of this getting back to my parents. They were the ones who’d signed for my apartment; their reputation had been on the line.
I’d wrapped my hand around her throat as I’d fucked her, took her breast in my mouth and lost sense of time and space and who I was. All that had been important was that she’d been quiet, making small, dry rasping sounds instead of full-bodied throaty screams.
I’d lost all of me. I’d become all about sensation, and power, and feeling her body struggle underneath me.
When I’d come, I’d tightened my grip on her throat and bitten down as hard as I could on her nipple. I’d felt skin give way under my teeth and her neck strain against my force. She’d tried to cry out, from the pain and fear I’m sure, she was beyond orgasm at this point, but she hadn’t been able. All she’d managed was a warm gasp as I’d filled her cunt with my seed. She’d been dead before I’d spurted my last.
I’d fallen on top of her, her body had gone lax and her head had lolled to the side. She had been so beautiful in that moment, so utterly composed and serene I’d almost come again. I’d felt tears spring to my eyes at the poignancy of it all.
I’d stroked her cheek and spit her nipple out of my mouth. I’d snatched it off the sheet and stroked it, a perfect little nub the size of my little finger, still attached to some bloody, jagged areola.
Part of me had been sickened by my actions, but most of me had been fascinated and completely in control. Almost detached but already addicted to the sensation of taking a life.
I’d lain next to her and run my hands over her cooling body until I’d known I had to get rid of her. If only I could have preserved her, taken her to a taxidermist so I could’ve pulled out her gorgeous form whenever I wanted to touch her.
I had stood up that night, stared at her body splayed on my bed, and jerked off over her. I had needed to come again. I’d rolled her nipple in between my thumb and forefinger as I finished my frantic act.
Overcome by a sense of urgency, I’d placed the nipple in a Ziploc bag and shoved it in the back of my freezer. I decided to research some method of preserving at least that little shred of skin after I’d disposed of her corpse. I’d needed to keep it, had to keep it.
Thank god she had been small and I was a healthy man, I still am. I’d towered over her in life, a good foot taller and about a hundred pounds of muscle more.
In death, she had been as light as a feather, no more than one ten, maybe one fifteen. Minus the weight of the nipple of course, I had thought as I’d smiled to myself.
I’d rolled her in a tarp I had. I’d never understood why I had purchased the damn thing months earlier on my last trip home, perhaps some part of my brain had already understood where I was headed and decided to do some planning for me.
I’d shoved the body and tarp into a large, thick black garbage bag.
When I’d been done with her, it looked like I’d been taking out a bag of trash, nothing more. I’d considered tossing her in the dumpster outside my building, but had hesitated, not wanting to risk her being found so close to home.
I had rued my hasty ejaculations and had almost panicked at the thought of being pinned for this murder. I had been so stupid, leaving so much evidence on her body. I had hated the thought of being locked up before I had a chance to do it again.
She had essentially asked for it, after all. The blame wasn’t all mine. She had sought me out, understood my nature and followed me home. Some women, especially the most beautiful ones, seek out tragedy. They want to end their lives before they age and fade into nothing.
They find me so they can remain immortalized, dead while still beautiful and meaningful. Before marital problems, children, bills…all the drudgery of life wears them down and grinds them into nothing.
I’d driven for hours and ended up in Washington, somewhere northeast of Mount Rainier on some logging road. It’d bothered me that I didn’t know the area, but I’d known I had to get rid of the girl.
I’d crept my Range Rover up nothing more than a goat path. By then it had been daylight but I’d lucked out and not seen anyone else for some time.
; I’d stopped, opened the door and closed it carefully. I knew the sound of a car door slamming shut could carry miles in the woods. I’d stood still and listened until the birds started their obnoxious chatter and the blood in my ears was the only thing I’d heard.
I’d pulled the bag out, carefully dragged her several feet into the thick underbrush and had yanked the plastic off. She’d flopped out, the tarp loosened and I’d unrolled it, letting her body land with a thud down a short embankment.
I’d cursed my DNA inside of her, once again cringed at the thought of being caught, but delighted at the thought of leaving her there. She’d been naked and I had kept her ID back at my place. I’d known that the elements and animals would make quick work of her provided some nosy hiker didn’t come across her remains.
I had been across state lines though, so the word might not make it back to Oregon if she was found.
Besides, there had been no way to link me to her that night. The after hours party we’d left had been full of people higher than myself, and not a damn one of them would be able to say with certainty that I’d left with somebody that night.
I had been just nuts enough, even back then, to assume I’d never get caught. Arrogance perhaps, insanity maybe, but definitely a little bit insane.
I shook the newspaper and spread it out, pouring over the day’s business numbers and let the memory of my first kill drift away.
I couldn’t think about it too much in a place such as this, it excited me to the point of being incapable of anything useful.
I flipped my laptop open and logged into my investment account. If anyone came in, they would have found me in deep concentration on some important task. It was a strategy; I had to fake interest long enough for my throbbing cock to calm down, long enough for me to attend my first board meeting of the day.
***
“Would you like me to take you straight home, Sir?” my driver asked as I settled into the back of the company car. It was long, sleek, black and classic. Unfortunately it would also stand out too much in the neighborhood I wanted to cruise tonight.
I was just looking. Window-shopping if you will. I hadn’t killed a woman for almost three months and I could feel the urge building up in the back of my brain. Work had been a bust, it was a good thing I was the boss or I would have been fired every damn time I started to cycle. I get so distracted I barely remember my own name.
I can’t help it, I truly can’t. I’ve researched addiction, Googled the fuck out of everything from, “How do I stop killing” to “Frontal lobotomy results sociopathy” when the going gets tough.
It wasn’t a morals thing. Don’t get me wrong. I believed I was on a mission and the women who chose me were already dying by the time they’d accepted their fate.
It was more of an inconvenience and timing thing. I’d been doing it for over a decade. I’d killed many, many women. I couldn’t tell you how many off the top of my head, I’d have to count my trophies to be sure, but ballpark around twenty-five.
Chances were I was going to get caught eventually. And I didn’t want to get caught. Getting caught will be such a bore. Such a drag. Such a stock fiasco. Our company shares would plummet once it was realized that the head was a serial murderer.
I was usually very good at business though, the thing that allowed me to slit the throat of a woman and take my knife to her breast was the very same thing that allowed me to make logical business decisions without flinching.
Every CEO was a sociopath. They had to be. Business was not very pleasant, and only the worst men with the darkest hearts survived up the tangled rivers of boardrooms and back room deals.
So I tried to fight my urges, for my family, my business and for the simple fucking fact that I didn’t want to end up behind bars. And of course with my money, behind bars simply meant some country club existence in some executive prison some place back east. But still…
Oh the urges, those motherfucking urges. I was sitting in on a hiring interview today and had almost lost my shit. The most exquisite creature had daintily stepped through the doors on ridiculously high heels and in a finely tailored suit. She had balanced like a newborn fawn, her hair slicked back and severe but her eyes wide and blinking her innocent stare.
It had taken everything I had to not leap across the table and tear her throat out with my bare teeth. I could almost feel her hot blood spurting out into my hand, her nipple torn and rolling between my perfect white teeth.
The entire interview I had attempted to focus on her answers, but couldn’t stop staring at a spot on her neck. She’d had the most delicious little mole right above the point I would drive my knife in to slash her jugular, it had been like a little focal point, a signal for darker times.
I’d creeped her out. I could generally smooth over my sharp edges and have women ready to throw their panties at me like an old school Tom Jones concert. But when the urge builds, I laughed a little too loud and stared a little too long. I couldn’t fucking help it.
So back to the driver, I told him, “Just take me home tonight, John,” and stared out the window at the crowded streets.
He nodded in the rear view mirror and put it in drive. We slid out and joined the hundreds of other cars trying to find their way somewhere that night.
We made small talk, the weather, the stock market. I gave him investment tips to keep him happy.
He’s seen some weird shit over the years and always kept his mouth shut, so I took care of him. But it couldn’t be too obvious, just little tips here and there. I couldn’t outright pay the man for his silence. That would be gauche.
He dropped me off in front of my building, a luxury condo in Arlington Heights. You’ve probably never heard of it.
I tossed him a hundred for the weekend, a little something extra for his services, and headed up to get changed.
That night, I was a redneck. I slipped into the Levis jeans, work boots, tight white t-shirt of a construction worker or tradesman and I got ready to leave.
Before going, I chose an ID from the bureau near the bedroom door. The night’s selection? I was James Ronald Wright, age thirty-one, residing somewhere in California. I was officially in Portland on vacation and I was looking for a good time.
The bonus of working in an industry such as mine was that fake IDs were easily accessible. We thought of them as escape hatches, places to keep money and build up a life in case we needed to flee from investments gone bad.
Lucky for me, I was wearing the name of another. I couldn’t imagine pulling this kind of shit off without the money I had backing it. Maybe I should’ve started a charity assisting broke ass killers, helped a few brothers out. I chuckled to myself at the thought.
Money did make it easier for me, I thought as I drove my newly registered Ford F150 pickup across the bridge to Vancouver, Washington, and pretended to be somebody else. I was looking for easy prey tonight, I had an early breakfast meeting with my parents and I wanted to sneak in a couple hours at the Waffle House. I needed to see her, to drink in the sight of her before I went home to sleep.
I cruised the streets in the beat up truck, slowing near corners where seasoned prostitutes peddled their asses.
I was after something a little more tender though, not the beef jerky twisted bodies of those old whores.
I wanted sweet meat, juicy and freshly culled from the herd.
I turned the corner, drove down a darker side street, a rougher place where you never knew what you were going to get.
I spotted one. Perfect. She looked terrified but was doing her best to hold it together. There was nobody else on the street down there. The older whores had pushed this new little Bambi out of their territory, to the fringes.
Pay dirt for me.
She looked about nineteen. Not even legal to drink and she was there selling her cunt or her mouth to the highest bidder.
But she was beautiful, and that’s all that mattered to me.
“Hey,” I called out and pulled up beside her
.
“Hey,” she replied, nodded and stepped closer to the truck.
“What you up to tonight?” I asked and looked in the rear view mirror. Nobody was coming, nobody would notice.
“Whatever you want,” she said and forced a smile on her angelic face.
“I haven’t seen you around here before,” I said and took one last look around, “why don’t you hop in for a ride?”
She took a step towards the truck, extended her hand to open the door and I heard the tell tale sound of a cop car warning signal chirping down the street behind us. I turned in my seat and saw that they had pulled somebody over about half a block away on the main street. She froze with her hand on the door handle and watched them tackle one of the old whores to the ground.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” I told her, “it’s got nothing to do with you.”
“You know what?” she replied and stepped back, “I just remembered…I’m really busy tonight.”
With that she turned on her heel and rushed down the street in the direction I’d just come from, straight towards the cop car.
“Good instincts,” I whispered under my breath, “smart girl.” I kicked it into drive and sped the fuck out of there. I didn’t know if she had gone straight to the cops to tell them about the man in the Ford who’d made her small hairs stand on end, or if she was just running home to her comfortable suburban family. I wasn’t willing to stick around and find out.
Frustrated I decided to cross back into Portland. I needed to see her, to watch her for a while before home.