Wednesday: Story of a Serial Killer

by Success Akpojotor

  Anger was digging a reservoir in me, “The perpetrator is human. Whether male or female; Black or White; African or non- African; Christian or any other religion… the perpetrator is human”

  “And also knows how to use the tattoo pen." DCI Hugh chipped in.

  “Wolly” Doctor Daniel’s version of ‘Wole’ echoed. “I can rest assured that this investigation is in fine hands.” An attractive feminine smile followed.

  I still wasn’t myself. I began to think of means with which to improvise a distraction. I grabbed the photographs and built a brown study in it.

  As I buried all my attention in the photographs, seconds took hours to go by. I prayed for this meeting to come to a halt.

  The Lord answered my supplication.

  The mobile phone of the coroner, Doctor Daniel, vibrated loudly that its sound cut through my marrows. The conversation suffered nearly two minutes. She then stood, after she had hung up, gave a ‘you-can-continue-without-me’ nod and walked out of the room. The Home secretary wanted her in her office.

  I continued to distract myself with the photographs as my mouth continued to experience a scarcity of fluids. My tongue began to feel like it needed a crane to raise it. I began whispering silent prayers in my heart for a deus ex machina to bring this meeting to an abrupt end.

  The Lord granted my supplication again.

  The DCI brought it to an end. He wanted to go have brunch.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The interior of Reverend Henry Bean’s office at 5D Southampton Street was immaculate and spacious. It almost smelled like heaven itself. Perhaps it could be the aura Reverend Bean carried with him. No wonder every faithful of All Souls at Langham Place liked him presiding at the ceremonial meal. He was a Self Supporting Minister, or SSM, and this was his job – being paid for psychotherapy. He is a member of the British Association for Counselling and Psychotherapy, or BACP. His certificate of membership hung on the wall of his office. Uncount number of voluminous books were exhibiting on the shelf.

  Katherine had chosen him to be our ‘shrink’ because she said "we could trust him." She didn't like my idea of us going to Doctor Trevor Bradford. Yes, therapy requires a great deal of trust and I couldn't place my fingers on why she wouldn't trust Doctor Bradford.

  In addition to Katherine's excuses, Reverend Bean had a college degree and masters in Psychology. We hoped on him to heal our marriage with his professional knowledge and theological calling. He has a commanding eloquence of English. He is handsome; a fine blond and young for his age; and typically dressed in a white suit which he had told the congregation white was his favourite colour because it denoted peace and purity. The fine lines at the corners of his eyes were the only proof that he was much older than my mother – age wise.

  He had married late and had just a daughter by his late wife – this I got to know by my wife’s mouth as we drove home after church service, Sundays ago, from Regeant Street.

  Today was our first session in what would be a series of counselling. I felt like I and Katherine were before a judge in a Judicial Case Conference, or JCC. We sat on a long white couch and farther from each other as we stayed on both extremes. Our ‘shrink’ was before us on his white chair.

  The scene in that closed room at NSY kept nagging my mind. That moment became the first day of the rest of my life. It numbed me that I didn’t hear the first words of Reverend Bean.

  Leather creaked as his face broke into a smile and reiterated, “How's Scotland Yard?"

  “In good hands.” I remarkably replied.

  “And how’s the university?” He looked at Katherine.

  “The Lord is our strength”. She said with a gallant chuckle.

  Katherine was a lovable woman. Her sentences were incomplete, if they didn’t reference God or religion, in a way. I guess this was one of the traits that attracted me to her. Every man loves a God-fearing woman. Even men who had never heard of Jesus, Mohammed or Buddha all their lives want God-fearing women as wives. Even though I knew she was just ten years younger than my mother, according to my mother, I still went ahead marrying her despite all suasion from my mother to call off the wedding. Reverend Bean presided at our wedding for free. He said it was his duty since we attend the parish and pay our offerings.

  Our marriage seemed rosy until I discovered Katherine didn’t like my job and what I do when it seemed I’d reached the ragged edge of a worn–out day. She said my job was making me slip off of her fingers.

  We had tried to heal our marriage ourselves but it wasn’t working out. And the straw that sent the camel’s back to pieces was when I came down with ‘the clap’.

  She denied it when I confronted her, “You mean I’m cheating on you? The Lord won’t forgive me for that.”

  I was worried. I’m not a philanderer. I hadn’t been screwing around with anything or anybody in skirts or pants. I was worried.

  She continued in her denial until I found cefuroxime in her drawer. I didn’t need an Ouija board to tell me my wife had been cheating on me and contracted the clap which she transmitted to me.

  I moved out of our Cambridge Street apartment and decided to resuscitate my bachelorhood at Park lane.

  I thought she was God-fearing.

  Everyday I say a prayer for me to catch that adulterer. Pouring bullets in his brain won’t suffice.

  What if she had got the HIV?

  “The success or failure of your marriage will depend on how you deal with the issues in your lives." The euphony of Reverend Bean’s articulation was captivating. “I’ll help you find ways to prevent small problems from escalating into big afflictions."

  I and Katherine nodded in agreement

  “Does any of you feel misunderstood by the other?”

  Katherine began talking like she was giving a lecture to her ‘class of students’. It’s always been easy for her to deal words appropriately. Perhaps it’s because she teaches English at the University of Westminster. "Wole doesn’t share his true feelings with me. He conceals them. I think he feels I’m too old for him. I think he regrets ever marrying me and wishes he had married a girl his age or younger. Plus that he’s so dedicated to his job to my detriment. Lest I forget, I think he doesn’t enjoy sex with me. Sometimes he fakes an orgasm just to get away from me and slip into the bathroom to jerk off. He’s selfish. He denies me my rights.” She paused. Flow of tears gushing down her eyes became visible.

  I kept mute and maintained decorum. The photographs of the slain twins and the tattoos glued themselves to my mind.

  “How do you know he fakes an orgasm?” Reverend Bean asked dispassionately as he passed her a white handkerchief.

  She wiped her tears, “Thank you Reverend.” She chuckled. “I know. I just know. It’s like asking me to produce an answer as to how I know your suit is white. It’s white.”

  I found myself firing at Katherine. “But I told you I didn’t like the missionary position. I told you I preferred and enjoyed you on top. I told you I like it on the table. I told you I like it standing. I told you I like it on my knees.”

  “That’s perversion!” she poignantly remarked

  “And adultery is respectable?” I said it purposely to hurt her in the marrows.

  I was beginning to enjoy the 'washing dirty linens in public' game.

  “I asked for your forgiveness and God’s” She said pitiably.

  “Forgiveness isn’t amnesia. And not all God-fearing women are godly." This one cut her to the bone.

  Reverend Bean patronized us. He suffered us pouring out our emotions. When silence embraced the office again, he continued. “Wh-”

  The wooden door received a hard bang from the outside. The air in the immaculate and spacious office became pregnant with the wind of suspense. Reverend Bean apologized and went to see if the incident required stabbing out the ‘999’ digits from a phone.

  “Leave us alone. Stay away from us. She is over eighteen and has decided for herself what she wants. Stop coming to my lair to
create a scene. If it lingers, ma pa e. . . ma pa e danu." The angry Black man in a dirty–designer jean and black T-shirt said to Reverend Bean and walked away. His eyes were bloodshot. They radiated anger caused by love.

  “Should I dial 999?” Katherine volunteered.

  She said that to spite me. She expected me to Mirandize the Black man and arrest him (but things aren't done that way).

  “No.” Reverend Bean’s face broke into a smile. “Might we continue?”

  “Yes” Katherine and I gave a vigorous nod.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Therapy, counselling ended almost in a deadlock. I and Katherine aren’t making any headway.

  I thought of stopping over at 'Bayo Robert Fresh' – my mother's greengrocery outlet – at Oxford Street to shop for 'greengroceries'.

  I pulled into a parking lot and walked the remaining distance. The entrance and exit door was pulled back and I saw the Doctor Howard exiting with two bushel cartons of what I believed to be apples. I didn't need a seer to tell he was one of my mother’s ‘big shot’ customers.

  “Our paths cross again." He smiled.

  “London is a small big place." I returned the smile. “Came to shop for greengroceries?” I said like I didn’t know he came to shop for fruits.

  “Yes.” He grinned. “Apples. I like them. They’re of huge importance. One a day keeps your doctor away.”

  I smiled and looked at him not knowing what to say as he walked to the parking lot. I knew fruits were of huge importance. I knew an apple a day keeps your doctor away just as an orgasm a day renders your doctor jobless.

  “Good day mother." I said the moment I entered her shop. The LCD exhibited BBC One as millions of Catholics clustered at the Vatican to receive their new Pope. They must have been devastated by the resignation of Pope Benedict the sixteenth, or Joseph Ratzinger.

  When he announced his resignation, I began to imagine Jesus Christ coming down the cross and saying “I resign my lamb office. I can’t be the world’s scapegoat anymore. I can’t die for them anymore. Let our father send a new ‘scape savior’". It would be a perfect storyline for Ron Howard and Dan Brown.

  “You’ve not been getting enough sleep." Her black and almost wrinkled hand patted my head.

  I felt emasculated. “I’ m not the boy you used to know." I confessedly admitted.

  "There's a Nigerian adage that says 'no matter how long an okra plant grows it can never be taller than its owner'.”

  I sighed. She saw me as an okra plant that had grown too tall and soon she won’t mind pruning me to size.

  “A fruit a day reduces the risk of many lethal diseases.” She said as she scooped various fruits into a bushel carton. “You don’t need to be the Doctor Howard to know that.”

  My eyes forced themselves out of their sockets, “You know Doctor Howard?”

  “He is one of those who keep me in business. He’s a doctor of Nutrition. And cursed be the demon who murdered his siblings.” She informed me.

  “No wonder!” I sneezed. “Sorry for his loss. He must have flooded your being with journals of Nutrition.”

  When the bushel carton was full, she gave it to me.

  I collected them. “My bill?”

  “Keep being a good boy and divorce Katherine. We should be grateful to King Henry the Eighth for that privilege.” She said with a cynical look. “If you divorce that green snake I’d give you a bushel carton of apples every week. It would be on the house.” She rubbed my head.

  I felt like a child. “You’re old mother. You need sales persons,” I purposely commented to distract her.

  She smiled subtly, “I won’t be stealing from myself. And the taxes are already getting below our melanin. Divorce Katherine!” She left me and went to attend to a customer who was finding it difficult to locate strawberries.

  Grande Valse from my phone began to sing in my pocket….

  ****

  I drove to Eighty Fourth Avenue. She had told me to meet her in 'Toia’s Comfort Café'. I scanned the area for a safe place to pull over.

  I alighted and re-scanned the café. This was the worst place, or coffee shop, I had ever seen. Black beetles were gallivanting.

  I made a resolve. After this meeting with Regina Cypher here, I would never return to this place.

  I entered the café and found Regina waiting on a table. A beautiful blond with the hour glass shape. Her eyes enchanting. Her lips sex-appealing even without lipstick paints. She was young and natural; and ‘poor’.

  I sat. “On the phone you said it was urgent." I said almost a question.

  Melancholy described her mood. “I am going to do it." She said, after I learnt why she had called me to meet her here.

  My Central Nervous System, or CNS, numbed and reactivated. “No you won’t. You can’t. Please don’t."

  I talked for lengthy minutes. She became my psychopath. I played her psychiatrist. My mouth ran out of fluids. We didn’t order a second round of coffee.

  ****

  After talking, Regina out of it, I headed home. If NSY wanted me, the DCI was best at that office of ordering my presence.

  Many images danced in my head. But the more pressing were the photographs of the murdered twins.

  I sighed. Something in the rearview mirror caught my attention as I was about to make a U-turn. The black Nissan Note had been following me since I departed Reverend Bean’s office in Southampton, I noticed it. I’m a Scotland Yard Cop. I didn’t think it would be plausible to stab out 999 from my phone.

  I didn’t make the U-turn. I slowed the car to a crawl and before I could mutter Jack Robinson, the black Nissan note knew I had nabbed the driver. He retreated and gave up following me.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I pulled into my residential driveway and alighted. The zephyr was enchanting. It cushioned my worries, partially. With my almost fat brown envelope on top my bushel carton of fruits held against my left rib cage under my armpit, my right hand reached for my key and opened the door.

  I entered.

  The loneliness of my apartment was the only companion I always left behind and came back to since I and Katherine separated. I dropped the bushel carton on the glass table of my living room, removed the envelope from on top it and carefully arranged the fruits in the refrigerator the moment I relocated the bushel carton to the kitchen.

  When I was done tucking the fruits in the refrigerator, I sat on my study table to which I had relocated after tucking the fruits in. I grabbed the envelope, broke the ‘seal’ and brought out two photographs of the slain twins. My heart began to pound again.

  I looked deeply at the photographs and for over a minute I felt like I was in a trance. We worshipped at 'All Souls' together. I had even seen them two Sundays ago. They even partook of the ceremonial meal.

  I’m not sure they had any friends. I think they didn’t like ‘Blacks’. They had told me to my face to help in the depopulation of the UK so that there’d be enough resources for 'true whites' by immigrating to my 'ancestral country'. Little did I know that they were going to fall into a long last sleep. Some kind of poetic justice. I looked at the photograph of the first twin, I guess he’s the first because of his huge appearance (though sometimes it doesn't follow). A blue-eyed blond. Then I focused all attention on his chest which had an enlarged shot on the left corner of the photograph. On his bare chest was a tattoo – a blank African map and in the enclave of the map was an anagram which had been written "uh boa job jug":

  This case was getting almost similar to the Bloody Bashings. My heart was beating fast. My head was a battle ground. I took the photograph of the second twin. He was also a blue-eyed blond. I’ve seen their eyes at Langham Place while their hearts still beat. He had same map but a different anagram, with the texts "a nun moo la".

  I tried to steady my breath pace. What could these anagrams mean? Without further ado I turned the envelope upside down to empty it. A tape fell out of it and landed on my feet. I bent to pick it up and hit my head a
gainst the table, an accident. I caressed the back of my head that had hit the table so as to dissolve the pain. I opened the drawer and brought out my micro cassette recorder which I placed on the table.

  I sneezed.

  I inserted the tape inside the micro cassette recorder and pressed the play button. The tape began with Detective Park Baker’s voice.

  I concentrated on the recorded voices.

  “Where were you when they slept off?...Sorry I mean passed on.”

  I recognized the voice that followed. It was the doctor’s. I had seen him earlier on today at NSY, in DCI Hugh’s office to be precise; and at Oxford Street, at 'Bayo Robert Fresh', to be specific.

  Howard: “I was on smoke TV. I was a guest speaker."

  A pause. Now I know where I had seen Doctor Howard’s face before. He seemed to be a regular guest on Smoke TV which is the University of Westminster’s TV run by the student union.

  Baker: “When you left for Smoke TV, were they home?”

  Howard: “I left for school this morning and from my office, Smoke TV Studio. They were home this morning. They didn’t have any appointments. None that I know of.” He sounded calm.

  Baker: “So when did you find their corpses?”

  Howard: “When I returned.”

  Baker: “The door was locked?”

  Howard: “Westminster is peaceful. Sometimes we forget to lock our doors and nothing happens."

  Baker: “So how did you find them?”

  Howard: “Like this." He sobbed. “On the floor. Their shirts off of them … as well as their pants. The bastard must have told them to take off their clothes leaving only their under-pants at gun point. They are always in clothing."

  Baker: “So what did you do when you found them?”

  Howard: “I was stunned. I went to them and tried to wake them thinking they were insane and asleep. They were cold and stiff. I shook them. I told them to stop playing pranks.” He sobbed hysterically. "I quickly dialed 999.”