The First Time I Hunted

by Jo Macgregor

  This game sucked. I couldn’t even cheat successfully. I marched over to the chalkboard and gave myself a score of sixty-six.

  Ryan laughed. “You’re either awful at math or a serious cheat.”

  “I just want this humiliation to end sooner rather than later, okay?”

  On the TV, the news was running an “On This Day” piece, showing footage of John Hinckley’s assassination attempt on Ronald Reagan in 1981 and displaying one of the former president’s better quotes: “There are no easy answers, but there are simple answers. We must have the courage to do what we know is morally right.”

  Ryan joined me at the scoreboard, but instead of correcting my score, he picked up the eraser and rubbed out all the scores.

  “How about we start with a clean slate and play just for fun?” he suggested.

  “You keep saying that F-word, friend. See if it makes it happen.”

  Now the news showed visuals of an excited-looking reporter who, judging by the yellow police tape and number of law enforcement officers in the background, was at the site of a crime scene. From the sparse information on the scrolling news ticker, I gleaned that the breaking story was the discovery of a mass burial site where the remains of at least six bodies had been found buried in the Nash Stream Forest area in western New Hampshire, not far from the Vermont border.

  “Look at that,” I said. “Reckon it’s from a spree killing or maybe a family murder?”

  “I doubt it. If so many people disappeared in the woods at one time, we’d have heard about it,” my favorite cop said. “It’s probably a serial killer’s dumpsite.”

  I sipped my beer, frowning up at the TV. “It sometimes feels like the world is full of them.”

  “Serial killers? Not really. I know Hollywood makes it seem like the country’s swarming with them, but they’re actually quite rare.”

  I shot him a skeptical glance.

  “It’s true. Murders by serial killers make up less than one percent of the US homicide rate. And the overall number is in decline.” Ryan tossed his darts, making it look easy.

  “Why are the numbers going down?”

  “For one thing, they’re getting caught sooner due to improvements in forensic science, especially in DNA evidence, and better inter-agency cooperation. Plus, we’ve got access to national databases, now. That’s been a game-changer.”

  “Like the fingerprint one?”

  “Yeah, IAFIS. But also the FBI’s national crime database, the NCIC, and ViCAP, which is for violent crimes. And, of course, these days convicted serial killers are getting longer prison sentences.”

  I threw my darts; one of them actually clattered sideways against the board. “I’m getting worse. How is that even possible?”

  “Your problem is you’re too tense. C’mon. Let me see if I can help.” He coaxed me back to the line and, standing close behind me, showed me how to stand with my right foot forward. “Now plant your left foot behind, like so, for balance.” When I leaned forward to throw, he placed a hand on either side of my hips, holding me steady. “Keep your body still and relaxed. Just let your arm do all the work.”

  The warmth of his chest against my back and his hands on my hips made me feel the opposite of relaxed. No surprise, then, that my dart missed the board entirely.

  “Breathe,” he said, massaging my shoulders. “You need to loosen up.”

  I sagged into his kneading hands. If I were to spin around in his arms and kiss him, would that distract him from the wretched game? Probably not — he was a persistent man. But maybe I should do it anyway, just because I wanted to.

  He held my hand and guided my next throw. That time, I hit the board.

  “Stop overthinking it,” he whispered into my ear, sending goosebumps up my arms. “The more you think, the worse you perform.”

  A lot like my life then.

  “Just trust your instincts.”

  Trust my instincts? Was he mad?

  I threw my last dart and scored a double nineteen.

  Ryan hugged me from behind. “There you go. That’s better! A legit thirty-eight.”

  I snuggled back into his chest but gasped in disbelief as the dart sagged, wiggled loose, and dropped to the floor.

  “What the …? Did you see that?” I demanded, pointing at the board.

  Ryan, who’d been nuzzling my neck, glanced up. “See what? Oh, that.”

  “Yes, that. It was my best throw so far!”

  “Sometimes they don’t stick. It’s called a bounce-out,” he said.

  But I was certain the dart hadn’t fallen out of its own accord, a conviction which grew when a sudden coldness surrounded me like my own icy cloud.

  Jealous, Colby? I thought.

  My high school sweetheart, Colby Beaumont, had died in our senior year, plunging me into a deep pool of grief. But since my near-death experience, I sometimes heard his voice in my head or felt his presence, as I did now. Not being into threesomes, I pulled away from Ryan, grabbed my beer, and perched on a stool.

  “Quitting?” Ryan challenged.

  “It’s your turn. They can all be your turns from now on. And I hope you can multitask because I want you to tell me about serial killers.”

  He retrieved my darts from the board. “I don’t know that much, to be honest; I’ve never investigated a murder by a serial killer.”

  “Never?”

  “I see I’ve gone down in your estimation.”

  “Utterly,” I teased.

  He threw my darts at the board, piercing the narrow green circle that surrounded the bullseye and congratulating me for getting my highest score of the evening.

  “I reckon you know more about serial killers than I do,” I said.

  “Didn’t you learn about them in your studies?”

  “I studied psychology not criminology. I could tell you about psychopaths but killers?” I shrugged. “So dish. Like, what drives serial killers?”

  Ryan flung the last darts into the board and came to sit with me. “Generally speaking, people kill for the sake of love, lust, loathing, and loot. Or any combination of those.”

  “And is that true for serial killers too?”

  “Pretty much. I think they especially like the thrill of the power. I mean, some of them are plain insane, like they think God told them to kill red-haired women, who are demons in disguise. But a lot just use other people as a way to get their kicks, especially sexually. Then you have the sadists who like to torture, and the men who are filled with violent rage and when that spills over from time to time, they kill. Some killers believe they’re special, that they have a mission to rid the world of some kind of ‘bad’ person, like sex workers or interracial couples, or—”

  “Or gay men?” All the Button Man’s victims had been gay or were thought to be so. “Is that why he targets them, do you think?”

  “Maybe. But they’re generally a vulnerable target. They’re presumed to be easier to take down and less likely to put up a fight.”

  I thought about a guy I’d been at school with, Andy something. He’d had a slim build and an effete manner, and the guys were always picking on him, calling him names, tripping him up, and trashing his locker. I’d been too immersed in my love for Colby, and then too lost in my grief, to be much aware of his pain, but now I felt a pang of shame. I should’ve done something. I should’ve stood up for him.

  “Fun fact,” Ryan said, recalling me from my thoughts, “a surprising number of serial murders are committed for profit or gain.”

  “Like for money?”

  “Yup. Especially by female killers.” Ryan finished his beer. “It’s probably fair to say that for the most part, serial killers are opportunists who strike when the chance presents itself.”

  I picked at the damp label on my beer bottle, digging scallops into its edges with my thumb nail. “And their victims?”

  “Statistically speaking, they’re more likely to be female, from the killer’s own race group, and taken from the edges of so
ciety.” At my confused look, he explained, “Runaways, sex workers, addicts, migrant workers, transients, the homeless, people like that.”

  “Because police don’t investigate those crimes as thoroughly?”

  He winced. “Historically, for sure, especially with racial minorities. I like to think we’re getting better. But often marginalized people become victims because killers know they won’t be missed immediately … or ever. Their families might have cut off all contact because they don’t approve of their lifestyle and don’t know, or perhaps even care, when they disappear.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty damn sad,” he said. “And also, these individuals are more likely to take greater chances and engage in more risky behaviors, like hitchhiking or sex work, because they don’t have money or support systems. And they often abuse drugs or alcohol, so they don’t always make wise decisions.” He held up his hands as if defending himself against an accusation. “I’m not blaming the victims. I’m just saying it’s easier for a killer to snatch a victim from these marginal groups than from middle-class suburbia. There’s even a term for them.” He met my gaze and sighed. “The ‘less dead.’”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “No argument from me.”

  We sat in silence for a while, Ryan glancing at the TV while I thought about how, in death as in life, we weren’t all treated as equal.

  I tore off a strip of label from my beer bottle and rolled it into a little paper pellet. “I just wish I knew what all the FBI found.” That was putting it mildly. I hadn’t been able to get the thought of a new body out of my mind. “Singh’s meeting me at my parents’ house on Monday morning, and I’m going to ask him if I can read the file on this new case.”

  “Good luck with that. He doesn’t strike me as the cooperative type.” Ryan pulled my hand away from its frantic fiddling and held it between his two warm ones. “Garnet, are you sure you want to get involved in this? You know it’s likely to be frustrating and upsetting. Possibly even dangerous.”

  Did I want to get involved? I wasn’t sure. I wanted the Button Man caught, but did I really want to be sucked into an investigation which might bring me closer to him, to his deeds? There had been moments when I’d wished I’d never been “gifted” with this ability, when I wondered whether, if I ignored it, it would just go away. But then I’d remember the words of my psychology professor, Kenneth Perry: “Whatever you bank collects interest.”

  Of course, he’d been talking about the defense mechanism of repression, not troublesome clairvoyant talents, but still, I didn’t think much good would come from squashing down this powerful new part of myself.

  “I’m already involved,” I told Ryan. “I want to find out more. I want to know where this goes, where it ends. And I’d really like to help nail this guy. Besides, to tell the truth, I’ve got nothing better to do.”

  “Is your thesis finished? Submitted?” Ryan asked.

  “Yup. All that’s left to do is to graduate.”

  “What does a master’s in psychology qualify you to do?”

  I shrugged. “Probably nothing useful or well paid.”

  A part of me wondered if I could turn my new gifts to good use. My mother thought I should hang out a shingle advertising myself as a “psychic private eye,” but my mother thought a lot of things that were absurd and impossible.

  “What will you do?” he asked.

  “Go back to Boston, I guess.”

  Ryan played with my fingers. “You could stay here.”

  I could tell he wanted me to, and knowing that melted a chip of the icy shell around my heart. I compensated with sarcastic bluster. “And do what?”

  “What will you do in Boston?” he countered.

  Fair point.

  He tucked a stray curl of hair behind my ear. “I think we’re going to have to find you a job here.”

  Return to Pitchford permanently? If anyone had suggested it six months ago, I would’ve rejected the idea outright. But now it was more appealing, especially with the way things were progressing in my relationship with Ryan. I’d led an isolated life in Boston while I studied and battled my way through grief and depression. I hadn’t made good friends, and although I’d had sexual partners, I’d never had lovers.

  Nothing was stopping me from moving my meagre belongings back to Pitchford. But my heart sank at the thought of returning to my old bedroom at my parents’ house. Apart from the fact that it would feel like a total admission of my failure to launch my adult life, my mother and I tended to rub each other up the wrong way. Even my father, now that he’d retired, had a tendency to get too much into my business.

  I glanced at Ryan. “I can almost hear the wheels of your brain turning.”

  He gave me a smile that was almost smug.

  “What?” I demanded.

  He leaned close and pressed a warm kiss to my lips.

  “I may,” he said, “just have had a brilliant idea.”

  – 3 –

  Monday, April 2

  “Still no sign of him,” my mother said, peeping out the living room window for the umpteenth time. “I suppose I should stop checking because you know what they say?”

  “I’m sure you’ll tell us,” I said.

  “Watching a kettle won’t make it boil any faster.” With a last peep at the path and road outside, she sat down and scrutinized my appearance critically. “Goodness, Garnet, it doesn’t look like you’ve even brushed your hair this morning, let alone put on any makeup.”

  “I’m not going on a date, Mom. I’m just going to try to help him with his investigation.”

  “But he’s an agent. A special agent. I swear, I haven’t been this proud of you since you started first grade. I feel dizzy with excitement!”

  My father, reading yet another book about Ted Bundy, gave a long-suffering sigh. “Have you forgotten to take your medicine again, Crystal?”

  Her brows drew together. “Oh dear, I think I might have.”

  “Mom! That’s serious. You have to take them the same time every day. Without fail,” I said.

  Far too often, my mother forgot that she was on a regime of blood thinners and blood pressure meds for a very good reason. She’d suffered a mini-stroke the previous year.

  “Yes, yes, I know. I’m just so distracted. It’ll be a whole new body for you to investigate, Garnet.”

  “It’s more likely to be an old body,” my father said. He, too, seemed keyed up about the impending arrival of Agent Singh.

  “Why old?” I asked.

  “If the murder happened recently, they’d have a body and lots of forensic evidence to analyze. They wouldn’t need to go out on a limb with unorthodox methods like these.”

  “I guess.”

  I scraped the nail of my forefinger across my lower teeth, searching for an uneven edge. Unevenness — on nails, on skin — bothered me. It niggled like a task undone, an itch unscratched, a sneeze suppressed. For me, it was impossible to resist. Knowing that I bit my nails, and peeled and picked at my skin — that I had onychophagia and excoriation disorders, to be psychologically precise — did nothing to help me stop the horrible habits, especially when I was very upset or nervous, like now.

  “You said they weren’t even sure it was one of his — this serial killer’s, which makes me think it could be his first kill,” my father continued. “And you can learn a lot from that. The first kill, the body itself and where it was disposed of, is always hugely valuable to the investigation.”

  My father had always been fascinated by murder and especially by serial killers. He had a wall of books on everyone from the Blood Countess Elizabeth Báthory to the West Mesa Bone Collector and could tell you each of their usual modus operandi or victim of preference. It was a surprisingly macabre pastime for such a mild-mannered man, but as I lived in my own glass house of weirdness, I wasn’t in any position to throw stones at his peculiar hobby.

  “Why’s it more useful than any other kill?” I wan
ted to know.

  “Because the first murder is more likely to be spontaneous. The killer wasn’t planning on killing that person at that time, in that place, or in that way, you see? He might slip up on the first kill and leave behind DNA, fingerprints, or other evidence, especially if it happened before the whole world and his wife started watching CSI. With subsequent murders, serial killers tend to get more careful.”

  The doorbell chimed, and we all stood up. My mother smoothed her dress, but my father, who wore a serious expression, said, “It’s not too late to call this off, kiddo.”

  “Da-ad, we’ve already discussed this.” I sidestepped him and headed for the front door. “Why wouldn’t I want to help?”

  “There are just so many ways this could turn out badly,” he said, following me.

  He wasn’t wrong. There were a bunch of ways this could flop. Maybe I wouldn’t get anything from touching the item Singh was bringing me. Or worse, maybe I would get a reading, but it would turn out to be unhelpful or even something that would send the investigators on a wild goose chase, wasting time and resources and allowing the killer to remain undetected.

  It wasn’t like I knew what I was doing with my psychic ability yet. The visions occurred erratically and unpredictably, and although I trusted my skill more now than I had in the beginning, I still couldn’t control it. On the one hand, I wanted to help with the investigation, but on the other, I was terrified of failing miserably. I should probably follow my father’s advice and call the whole thing off.

  Instead, I opened the front door and greeted Special Agent Ronil Singh of the FBI resident agency in Rutland. He looked as spiffy as the last time I’d seen him, and clearly, he had brushed his hair that morning. Dark suit and tie, white-button down shirt, polished black shoes, black briefcase. I half-expected him to slip on a pair of sunglasses, whip out a silver tube, and erase my memory.

  “Ms. McGee,” was the sum total of his greeting.

  “Nice to see you again …” What was I supposed to call him — Ronil, Ron, Agent Singh, sir? None of those felt right. “Come in,” I said and stepped back to introduce him to my parents, who were hovering behind me.