Dimly, Through Glass

by Knight, Dirk

  Also by Dirk Knight:

  Jayden’s Revenge

  The Girls (coming in 2014) – Read a chapter of The Girls following the novel.

  The Thirteen Lives of a Television Repair Man (coming in 2014)

  Subscribe to the newsletter for updates, purchase and pre-order books and get free access to flash fiction publications at:

  www.DirkKnight.com

  Dimly, Through Glass

  A Novel

  By

  Dirk Knight

  First Edition, Paperback – published 2013

  CreateSpace Press

  Dimly, Through Glass

  Copyright © 2013 by Dirk Knight

  www.DirkKnight.com

  No portion of this book may be copied, retransmitted, reposted, duplicated, or otherwise used without the express written approval of the author, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialog in this novel are either the products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover Design by:

  Michael Thalmann

  Original Cover Photo by:

  David Kelly Photography

  Editing:

  Emily Skaftun

  Special Thanks

  Phoenix Police Department/ Homicide – for providing resources.

  Detective Sargent Bill Long of Phoenix Homicide for answering phone calls and texts and sitting with me until I figured this thing out.

  Beth Lefebvre FBI at Langley, VA – for research and information.

  Jay Jordan and Michelle Lynn Minnick – for modeling the cover photo

  Vayden (Vaydenmusic.com) – for granting permission to use their name. Holmberg’s Morning Sickness (98kupd.com/holmbergs-morning-sickness) – for their permission to mention them in this story.

  Acknowledgements

  Lyrics from “I Fall To Pieces,” by Patsy Cline ©1961 Decca Records Nashville

  ISBN-13: 978-1482679199

  ISBN-10: 1482679191

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  All Rights Reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Forward

  When I came up with the idea for Dimly, Through Glass, I had no idea it was going to be about sexual abuse, or racism, or that it was going to be written so closely from the perspective of a deeply disturbed person. All I knew was that I wanted to write another murder mystery, this time about a serial killer. Writing Jayden’s Revenge, especially how rushed and short it was, made me feel like I had left a lot on the table and I wanted to take my time and put out a book I could sell proudly as an intense thriller novel. I was driving to work one day with my audio recorder running, spitting ideas into the microphone when a man in a Nissan Pathfinder cut me off and slammed on his brakes. He chased me up and down the freeway until I was finally able to cut across four lanes and hit the exit without him. I was trembling and furious and thought that it was lucky no one had died. I went back to work and within a few hours I had returned to normal, but I had my idea: What if I hadn’t returned to normal? I also had the entire skirmish on audio, and my notes had quickly turned from a description about the setting of Phoenix and the overworked police as a great place to have a serial killer work, to having a solid idea about who a serial killer is; where he comes from.

  Dennis Foster was born. And I had to raise him. I had to create and nurture this psychopath in order for him to tell me his story. I do not like Dennis, but I see bits of myself peppered into him throughout the novel, much like I see myself in Derrick Weller, Carron Staley, and even troubled teen Jayden.

  I interviewed with FBI profilers, homicide detectives and read every word of transcript I could get my hands on from Ted Bundy before he was executed. I put myself into the mind of this type of person (the best I could), and it disturbed me. I hope it disturbs you, too, or this book might be about you.

  I have no intention on this book being moralistic or having a significant message about our society. Though the title comes from Corinthians, it is not intended to be a religious book (and it definitely isn’t), but after studying and seeing who Ted Bundy was, and reading what he said cultivated his diseased way of thinking—pornography and women who presented themselves salaciously, or lasciviously (items to be lusted over)—I had to investigate more. I wanted the Corinthians quote to be at the front of the book, and then I saw a few quotes from Bundy that seemed to say the same thing. I read as much as I could, in the Bible, looking for quotes and references to the effects of jealousy, lust, pornography—no there is not pornography in the Bible, but the root idea is there—and sexual deviancy. I found a lot of overlap in Bundy’s view of women and the verses I was reading; no surprise that Bundy was raised with these values, though he had clearly perverted them from their intended message.

  Especially since I am a drug addict (sober now) and I know the way that years of pornography and popular culture and wildly sexual, uninhibited women has de-sensitized me and that my addictive personality is always upping the ante, I can understand this. I do not sympathize with men like Bundy or Foster, but human frailty is understandable. I was honestly surprised to find how often the Bible harps on seductive women and men who give in to temptation, and the implied effects of a society that is always upping the ante sexually and lowering the standards morally. Please do not get the wrong impression from this statement; this is not a subject I wished to lecture or preach upon, I am probably one of the worst offenders, but, overall, it seems to fit what I am doing here. It seemed to fit with the things Ted Bundy said about how it was the woman’s fault.

  Just as it must have been the spoon that made me fat.

  I have been reading hardcore horror and murder books my whole life, and I love wallowing in this type of filth from time to time, exploring the darkest sides of depravity, but this book took me farther into that world than I have, yet, ever ventured. I was even ashamed at more than one point of the world I had created. I didn’t want my wife to read this book, I thought it was too dirty. I thought that I was so far beyond the pale that people would pass me in the streets, and immediately turn their heads and say things under their breath like, “That’s the fucking pervert who likes to write about rape,” and, “His parents must be so ashamed.”

  I almost mothballed this book and my wife, when I told her I was nervous about my parents and her reading it (and definitely not wanting my kids to pick up a copy), asked me if I was sure I wanted to write a book like this. That stuck me. In many ways I didn’t want to wallow in this world, but, nevertheless, I felt I had to. And since the days of my first draft, I was convinced Dimly, Through Glass was too much for the average reader to swallow. Then I took a look at the world around me. Jodi Arias was convicted of 1st degree murder yesterday. The public has swallowed every gory and perverted detail of her trial and crime. This week a man named Castro was arrested for raping and kidnapping three women. He had stowed them in his basement for ten fucking years. One of the victims has a six-year-old daughter with the rapist. The opening stories about the bath-salts and meth addicts invading homes and brutally murdering elderly couples for no reason whatever is also true, and taken from Arizona newspapers.

  I guess my point is this:

  I spent six months or so getting to know the darkest parts of myself, and running with all my evil thoughts on paper. I researched the most heinous crimes I could find and friends in the FBI and Phoenix Homicide helped me learn what I could not get in a library. After being immersed in the world of these sociopaths for less than a year, I was ashamed and concerned for my mental health… and then I realized that what I am writing about is not only not beyon
d the pale, it’s not even that rare. It happens every day in America, and more often than that in other countries.

  The world we live in is broken, and I am shining a light on a small section for the purpose of draining the pus off my mind and, hopefully, entertaining a few of you as well. As you read this, you might try to think if the perversions of this novel are really that difficult to imagine or understand. I was able to understand the killer inside, and the path the killer must walk. It’s terrifying, but then I am not a sociopath.

  As you read and you see the quotes I have aligned, one from the light and one from the dark, please know that I am not pushing an agenda or a belief, only that I am showing contrast the best way I know how. God knows I am a sinner, and though I do not rape and murder, I can certainly attest to the effects of lust and hunger.

  I owe a debt of gratitude to all of the people who have helped me understand this story, to try to keep the plausible details intact. I honestly had no idea that police work was so much different than it’s often portrayed until I asked a detective with Phoenix Homicide what pissed him off most about the way police are scripted. He didn’t say that he disliked the alcoholic stereotypes, or even the allusions that detectives are horrible husbands and fathers, what he said got his goat was the “easy button effect.” The idea that phone records are just sitting there waiting to be pulled, that DNA results get back in hours, or days, when it is really weeks, even months: 48 hours minimum. He taught me that when police take DNA it doesn’t go into a magic global network to solve cold cases, but sits in the individual’s file until it is needed, and if you don’t already have a suspect to look at, chances are you will never match his DNA. Those guys have a tough job and far less resources than you and I would probably assume.

  Anyway, that is for him to tell, and if you are interested in forensics, this probably isn’t going to be your book either, I tried to keep it accurate where there were police procedural elements , but this book is about a man who struggles with his self-image. His father abandoned him, his mother abused him, his girlfriends all used him, and he feels like a victim subject to the cruelties of larger, stronger, and more dominating men and women. He lives his life in fear and uncertainty until the day he gets a taste of being the dominating, powerful force. He cannot relinquish the taste it leaves in his mouth: He has crossed the line and there is no coming back.

  This book, like everything else in my life, is

  dedicated to my beautiful and very

  understanding wife, Vanessa.

  I love you.

  Thank you for believing in me and having the courage and patience to let me run with this.

  You know the day destroys the night,

  Night divides the day;

  Tried to run. Tried to hide

  Break on thru to the other side

  - Jim Morrison (Doors)

  Part I:

  “It’s like trying to examine what’s in the medicine cabinet by, in great detail, examining what’s in the mirror. Uh, he wasn’t seeing through, perhaps, the morass of justifications and obfuscations that he’d created and indulged in—and what he was closely examining was the reflection in the mirror, not what was behind it. Not what was really going on.”

  - Ted Bundy

  “For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.”

  - 1st Corinthians 13:12

  The Cabin (Prologue)

  He cleans blood and bits of hair and fiber from between his boot tread and the bottoms of his pants and gloves while Libby sleeps on the couch, listening to the wheezing of her breath as she draws air through her swelling nose and mouth.

  He steps out into the cold winter night and carefully stops the whining screen door before it can slam home into the jamb and wake her. He lights a cigarette and takes a long pull off his beer, which is now warmer than the air outside. Leaves dance in the wind and skitter from the porch. He exhales into the draft and watches the smoke thin into the night.

  He is full from the kill. The bar slut and her wall of a boyfriend are twirling in his mind as he relives bashing them with a tire iron just an hour or so ago.

  The bone, the blood, the muffled screams. Ecstasy.

  Owls and frogs and coyotes and crickets all sing and howl and holler and chirp and it echoes through the canyon into his ears, a symphony of predators and prey, but he is the quietest—and most dangerous—of them all. He thinks of the pretty little redhead in his basement, and what he plans to do to her. He wonders if Libby knows the other woman is there.

  A sudden crunch silences each of the animals who were just performing a sonata, each now reverting to their basest forms, that of the hunter. Everything is quiet and the world ceases turning and light no longer travels and sound becomes thicker, and for a slim moment no one moves, but the coyotes and frogs and owls and snakes all decide they heard no prey and they move along in the way they do. He keeps on holding his breath, and he waits. Half of him hopes the crunch wasn’t Libby, and the other half relishes the idea of a chase.

  Then comes the next pop of frost and sticks and leaves being crushed and he is certain that they have broken under the weight of a foot. The foot of a small and erotic black-haired woman he thought he might be able to trust.

  He springs from his station, quickly rounds the patio railing, and digs his toes into the snow and mud and muck. Libby hears him and no longer tries to camouflage her footfalls. The animals no longer make their noises; instead they listen again while he tracks his prey.

  Libby looks back over her shoulder and screams when she sees his silhouette round the corner. He doesn’t speak a word, his breathing only slightly labored as he closes the gap. She turns again to look at him, pleading in her eyes and voice as she screams again, one word: “Please!”

  Just before he lunges to tackle her, Libby dips out of the way; a football juke move to her left. A tree splits him down the middle, knocking his breath away and bloodying his nose. Blinding pain sears his eyes shut in a bath of tears and his teeth throb from within. He struggles against his flattened lungs and the wretched emptiness as he fights for air. He claws at the earth and sticks and mud and muck in which he is now sprawled; he uses the very tree that leveled him to straighten back up. The coyotes in the distance howl.

  They’re fucking laughing at me, he thinks. They can’t do that, can they?

  But no, they can’t … and no they aren’t laughing. They are aroused by the struggle and the smell of blood in the air—coyotes can smell blood from over 300 yards away, and he wonders how far inside the 300-yard radius this pack has gotten—and by the sounds of a young woman caught in barbed wire, and now he hears her too. She is no longer screaming, no longer sounds defiant, but she is still saying please. She is softly crying and bleating like a goat.

  He takes his time getting to her. He set the wire himself, triple rows and a roll on the bottom, better to keep out those damned coyotes, and much, much better to keep in runaway sluts. She kicks and screams a few more times when he reaches her, but adrenaline has left her hollow and shaky. Funny thing about fight or flight syndrome is that it can zap you before the fight is over. He learned that lesson the first time he took a life. Now he tries to level his emotions during the hunt.

  His hands crush into her larynx and trachea like a hydraulic vice. He ducks his head down into his jacket the best he can, to prevent her manicured nails from taking a bite of his face, but her left hand finds a loose spot and she tears a few tracks just under his left eye. The sensation is so powerful, the intense cutting of his flesh, her rabid hand pulsing and spasming as he bears down. Her fingers flail and dig for more of his face, or throat, or eyes, or whatever, until he finally subdues her and her grip on his face loosens and her bucking hips and legs go limp as she passes out.

  He struggles with himself not to keep squeezing, not to suffocate her to death like a python, but he loosens his grip and leans back.

  He wipes the
blood from his face with the back of his hand. “That’s definitely going to raise some questions,” he says to no one in particular, and starts to unravel the barbed wire from her clothes and hair.

  She is going to be a bitch to untangle.

  Dennis

  Music is playing from the small clock radio sitting on one of the chintzy matte black Ikea nightstands he’d bought to fill out the room. Dennis is reluctant to silence the music by hitting the snooze button; instead, he opens one eye to check the time. It’s early. It’s a Saturday. How did I forget to turn that off? he thinks. Hoisting his weight up on one arm to slap the alarm, he thinks, I love this song, but he loves sleep on a Saturday more.

  Usually he does.

  Today, he is astonished he was able to sleep at all. His mind has been racing uncontrollably since Thursday night when the hospital released him into police custody. His lawyer insisted that before enduring an interrogation he be given a day to recover, both medically and psychologically, so he spent that night and a good portion of Friday at the station, reviewing his statement.

  Dennis didn’t think he needed medical attention—he felt fine. The bullet had only grazed him, after all.

  And psychologically—well psychologically, he wasn’t the crazy one, after all.

  Last night, finally in his own bed again, he slept as though anesthetized. All of the fear and tension of the previous night melted away.

  Dennis awakens at perfect peace and harmony with his tiny universe. “I’ve slept enough,” he mumbles as he reaches over to cancel the snooze.

  “Good for you. I haven’t, so keep it down, will ya?” comes a gravelly but feminine voice from behind him.

  “I’m making coffee. You want some?”

  A muffled but aggravated “No,” comes from under the sheets. He knows she doesn’t want coffee. It’s 6:30 on a weekend and she is undoubtedly hungover. God, she’s annoying when she’s drunk . . . but such a little freak, he thinks and smiles to see her tattooed foot jutting out from underneath the comforter.