by Jeff Vrolyks
* * *
There was no need to honk: Michael was sitting on the patio step waiting. He hustled to the car and got in; they pulled away. Eddie stuck his hand out, Michael glanced down at it before agreeing to shake it.
“How old are you, anyway?” Eddie asked him, turned the radio off.
“I’ll be sixteen in August.”
“Probably the youngest serial killer in history, huh?” Eddie grinned wryly at him.
“Do me a favor and don’t call me that, please.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“I don’t like it. When I think serial killer I think lunatic, insane. I’m not either of those.”
“No you aren’t,” Eddie agreed. “You seem down to earth, a good head on your shoulders. Why do you do it?”
He shrugged noncommittally. “It’s complicated.”
“I’m sure it is.”
Michael looked over at Eddie. “It feels kind of good, that someone knows the truth.”
Eddie raised his brow contemplatively, nodded in agreement. “I’m sure it does. If you ever need a set of ears to listen, give me a call.”
“Really? Do you mean that?”
Eddie nodded.
“Are you saying that you want to be friends?”
“I’m not saying anything. Just that you can call me. Who needs a label slapped on it. Friends, acquaintances, pals, two guys who know each other, whatever.”
“Cool, man. Very cool. So where do you live?”
“Just a couple miles from here. A farm. Just moved there, got a job as a farm hand. I needed a place to stay, a car, and a job; this gig satisfies all three needs. Pretty cool set up. I got the barn to myself, free rent. Nice people living there. The grandson, I met him just after I moved into town, his name’s Timothy Stoddard. Stutters like a motherfucker, but he’s a cool cat.”
It was 9:40 A.M. when they parked in the Stoddard garage beside the Corolla. Eddie wondered if Timothy was still at Millie’s, and if so had he gotten up the courage to eat with Mae. They walked side by side out of the garage into the morning sunlight. It was sunny and promised to be a warm one. Philip was coming out of the house. Eddie waved at him. Phillip gestured him to wait a moment, and hurried his aged bones in his direction.
“Son,” he said when he was near, “could you do me a favor sometime today?”
“Sure, Mr. Stoddard. What is it?”
“Phyllis thought it would be a good idea for me to go out and buy new locks for the doors. The existing ones are very old. With my arthritic hands it would take all day, and cause me a lot of pain. Would you mind helping me out?”
“I’d love to. I’ll do more than help you, I’ll take care of the whole thing.”
“Outstanding.” Phillip put his palsied hand on Eddie’s shoulder, grinning broadly. “You’re a good boy. I’m headed to the Home Depot for locks. They’ll be on the kitchen counter, whenever you get around to it.”
“Sounds good. Does Mrs. Stoddard want new locks because of the SacTown Slayer?” Eddie leered at Michael with a concealed grin.
“Yes, that would be the reason. Did you hear there was an eleventh and twelfth victim? Two nights ago, it was.”
“Yeah, I heard that,” Eddie said. “Mr. Stoddard this is my friend Michael. Michael, Mr. Stoddard.”
They shook hands. Mr. Stoddard said, “Please, call me Phillip. Both of you.”
Phillip hobbled along to the Corolla. Eddie chuckled as he and Michael made their way to the barn.
“It’s bullshit, you know?” Michael said staring at the ground before him.
“What is?”
“Eleventh and twelfth victims. There are ten, not twelve. The seventh and eighth, those weren’t me. Copycat killer.”
“You don’t say,” Eddie mumbled. He already knew that. Trent was responsible for seven and eight.
“I don’t care if you believe me or not. I’m telling you, I didn’t kill them.”
“Let’s talk about this up in my loft.”
Eddie had some Coors Lights in the mini fridge (Ray’s Liquor sold to minors upon asking the man at the register if he caught the Devil Ray’s game the other night; code, learned information from his ageless friend), as well as Pepsi and a few bottles of St. Pauli N.A. left. He offered Michael refreshment. He’d take a Pepsi. Eddie grabbed a Silver Bullet and Pepsi and closed the fridge, took one of two chairs, faced Michael.
“Not a bad set up at all,” Michael said, eying the place.
“Nope.” He cracked open his beer and took a sip. “Hey, Michael? Thanks for coming over, buddy. Means a lot to me.”
Michael grinned appreciatively. He didn’t recall anyone thanking him so sincerely before. Made him feel wanted, needed, though that probably wasn’t the case. But maybe it was.
“I’m sorry about being a little rough around the edges the other night,” Eddie said. “I needed you to get in the car, so I said whatever I thought needed to be said for you to get in.”
“It’s cool. Can I ask you a question? Two, actually. How did you know I’m the killer? And when you picked me up you said something about me having no idea who to thank for me not being caught, or something. What were you talking about?”
“The answer to both questions is the same. See that?” He pointed to the jade idol on the dresser beside the TV.
“The figurine?”
“Yeah. That’s how I knew, and that’s what’s kept your ass on the streets instead of death row.”
Michael gave him a silly face. “Come on,” he said thickly.
Eddie humored. “Not kidding. Everyone’s entitled to keep secrets. You, me, everybody. I don’t expect you to tell me everything I want to know, just as you shouldn’t expect that from me. What that idol there represents is pretty damned special to me. It’s mystical. It’s a portal, in a way. Because of it I’ve met someone. That someone tells me things, such as who the SacTown Slayer is.” As an afterthought he lightheartedly added, “And who sells beer to minors.”
“Bullshit, man.” Michael was smiling. “You’re fucking with me.”
“No, Michael. I am not,” Eddie said sternly. “You know how many cops are in southwest Sacramento these days? You think you could kill and get away with it without help? Maybe, but I doubt it.”
“That’s bullshit. If someone was helping me, how did they do it?”
“Let’s say you are at Point-A committing a murder. What if five minutes before you arrive there, the police get an anonymous phone call by a concerned home-owner, saying they spotted a man carrying a large knife at Point-B? Where might all the cops be during your festivities: Point-A or Point-B? That’s just one example. And FYI, I made a couple of those calls.”
Michael stared in awe at the idol, wanting to believe what he was hearing, but needed some kind of proof.
“Prove it.”
Eddie considered it, then stood up, went to the figurine. “Okay. I’ll tell you what. I’m not guaranteeing this will work, but let’s see. Go to the Buick and come back. Be sure to get a good look to your left (north) between the garage and the barn. Take this.” He handed Michael the idol.
“What am I looking for?”
“You’ll know when you see it.”
Michael took one step and stopped, frowned down at the statuette, then at Eddie.
Eddie humored because he knew what Michael was thinking, and feeling. “Feel something… different?”
“Yeah. I feel weird.”
“Yep. Not very pleasant is it?”
“Not at all.”
“And it’s not so much a physical feeling as much as it is mental. A sensation of darkness on the horizon. That’s why I don’t carry it around unless I need it. I don’t hate the way it feels, but it’s not something I like to endure twenty-four-seven, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do. I don’t blame you. That’s so damned odd.”
Michael descended the fixed-ladder, stopped when he saw Eddie retake his seat. “Aren’t you coming?”
&nb
sp; “Nah. I’ll wait for you.”
He nodded and continued down. He crossed the shady hay-smelling barn, tossing the jade carving up in his right hand, catching it in his left, palming it. The barn door was open, he crossed through it. The dewy morning light made you want to shade your eyes. A few fair-weather clouds were high up in the sky. The property gate was closing automatically from when Phillip drove through just recently. Forty yards ahead was the garage, both stalls open. To his left (north) was where several acres of olive trees began. So many trees that he couldn’t see but a dozen or so yards into the thickness of them.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be looking for—” he began saying to himself before freezing in place with a gasp. He clenched tighter the figurine in hand. Twenty yards north was not an olive tree but an avocado tree with what looked like a man picking avocados. But it wasn’t his arm reaching up above him to pick avocados, but a thick rope. And the rope was fitted around his neck.
Tentatively Michael walked toward him. He opened his palm and scrutinized the jade carving. Some demonic-looking thing. Creepy as hell. Was this thing responsible for what he was seeing? Could that be possible? He picked up his pace to a brisk walk and stopped ten feet before the hanged man. He was black. His trousers were dirty and of an older era, as was his dirty white linen shirt. He was barefoot, toes just inches from touching the ground. He swayed slightly with a distant breeze; years distant.
“I’ll be damned,” he mumbled.
He glanced to his left (west) just briefly and consequently his breath caught. Another one. A much smaller one, thirty yards or greater away. It was a black boy, shirtless, tan trousers.
Michael turned and strode toward the barn, having had enough of this black magic. He crossed the barn-door threshold and hurried to the ladder.
“Well…?” Eddie said from above.
“My God,” Michael said and mounted the ladder.
“Ah! So you saw him!”
At the landing Michael tossed the jade idol to Eddie, who caught it and placed it back on the dresser.
“Saw them, yes.”
“Them? There was more than one?”
“I saw two. Maybe if I stuck around I’d have seen the whole family. A black man and a black boy no older than ten.”
“No shit? A kid, too?”
“What kind of witchcraft have you gotten yourself into?” Michael took his seat and opened his Pepsi, sucked it down.
“I’m curious to the story there,” Eddie said. “I’m sure there’s a great one. White folk hanging black folk. I wonder when it happened? Judging by his clothes, maybe it was the 1800’s, or early twentieth century. Maybe Phyllis is a distant relative of them. Anyway, this idol is the answer to your question of how I know who and what you are. You just scratched the surface. There’s plenty underneath. The question is how far down the rabbit-hole do you want to go? A better question would be how far down will I let you go. But for now, let’s keep things simple. So now that I’ve satisfied your curiosity, why don’t you do the same for me? Why do you do it? Or why did you do it at first? Tell me how it went down.”
“Okay. First off, don’t take offense to this, but are you gay?”
“Fuck no I’m not gay. Why, are you propositioning me?” Eddie made kissy lips at Michael, then laughed.
Michael laughed. “Good. I can’t stand gays. Maybe I’d be indifferent toward them or even sympathetic toward them if things had happened differently…”
“Ooo, this sounds like it has the makings of a good story. Pray tell, pray tell!”
“The first guy I killed was named Ryan. I was in Yosemite, on vacation. Thirteen years old, and jacking off was new to me. I found a skin mag in the woods and was masturbating when a guy caught me. Ryan. He was with his girlfriend, Emily. He told me he wouldn’t tell my parents if I did something for him. He said I had to go down on his girlfriend.”
“Damn. Was she ugly?” Eddie asked.
“Not at all. She was gorgeous.”
“Wow. Doesn’t sound like much of a punishment to me!”
“I know, that’s what I was thinking. They had me get down on my knees and close my eyes, open my mouth. She was supposed to step into me, you know. But what was put in my mouth wasn’t her, but him. Ryan put his cock in my mouth. So I bit it, flipped out.”
Eddie was pie-eyed and open-mouthed, corners of his mouth smiling. “No… way!”
Michael looked down at the wooden floorboard and nodded grimly. “Long story short, I killed him. But he was trying to drown me first, so I guess it was self-defense. But I killed Emily, too. That was less self-defense and more covering-my-ass-so-I-don’t-go-to-jail. That’s how it began.”
“Damn. And you never got caught, huh?”
“Would you believe that nobody has discovered their missing bodies? It turned into a kind of obsession of mine following the incident. I was online checking news in that county. No bodies turned up. That was over two years ago, so they’re probably just skeletons now. No DNA to incriminate me.”
“How about the others?”
“Believe it or not, all the others I had a reason for what I did. The first couple were Lonnie and Bruce Davidson. They have a kid I go to school with, James. Well, I go to school with him but he’s not in any of my classes. He has autism, goes to Special Ed classes. James would sometimes have bruises on his arms, neck, even his face sometimes. There were rumors that his folks beat him. One day I approached him in the hall, asked if the rumors were true, that his folks hit him. He looked away from me and said some shit about how he falls down sometimes, that’s how he gets the bruises. Eddie, I didn’t have a doubt in my mind that he was lying to cover their asses. He wouldn’t look me in the eyes after that. It really pissed me off, man. He was a good kid, likeable. What kind of shitheads would beat their son just because he’s a little slow upstairs?
“So anyway, one day I got in trouble at home. I really fucked up; I don’t remember what it was, but it was serious. I thought I was going to get spanked, and I would have deserved it. Oh yeah, now I remember: I stole twenty bucks out of my mom’s purse. My dad had a sit-down with me and grounded me, said that he and my mom discussed it and decided they wouldn’t lay a hand on me, or something like that. It made me remember poor James, who wasn’t doing something worthy of getting beaten but got beaten just the same.
“The next day at school I waited outside Special Ed class and told James that I was moving next door to him. He was excited, for no real reason, he just was. I guess when you’re autistic it doesn’t take much to excite you. He was all, ‘Really? You’re moving next door? We can be friends!’ I asked what his address was and he told me. I said, ‘My bad, it’s a different street. Never mind. Take care, bud.’ I knew his address now.
“I waited a few days, just so when questioned James wouldn’t mention that he had a strange discussion with me about his address. At night I made a little journey. I had my dad’s Beretta, some duct tape, a knife, and two pairs of handcuffs that I had bought at a military surplus store that afternoon. I snuck inside their home—the back door was unlocked; it’s as though fate wanted me to kill his lousy parents—and went to James’ bedroom. He was asleep with a loud fan blowing on his face just two feet from his head. It was plenty loud. I turned the fan up to high anyway. It was probably loud enough to cover any screams. I went inside Lonnie and Bruce’s bedroom. They were sleeping, as well. They also had a fan blowing. I had two pieces of duct tape at the ready. I slapped the first one over the lady’s mouth, then the guy’s, real fast. They sat bolt upright with wide-eyed terror. By then I had backed away and aimed my dad’s Beretta at them, said if either of them made a sound I’d shoot them. I tossed a pair of handcuffs at the guy, told him to cuff his wife. Then did the same to the lady.
“I had them sit at the kitchen table, duct taped their ankles to the feet of their chair. I reminded them that if they cried for help they’d die, then peeled off the guy’s mouth-tape. First thing out of his mouth?—guess.�
��
“Why are you doing this?” Eddie guessed.
“Bingo,” Michael said and humored.
“If I had said ‘Because I can’t stand people who abuse retarded kids,’ what do you think he would have said?”
“Probably that he would never raise a hand against one ever, that he loves them dearly being that his own son has autism.”
Michael humored. “I know, right? I bet he’d have said exactly that. So I played it differently. I said, ‘Because I can’t stand retards. People who care for them instead of letting them die-off should be ashamed of themselves.’ Care to guess what his response was?”
“Sure. Uh… ‘We don’t care for them! We beat that little autistic shit son of ours every chance we get!’”
Michael laughed. “You’re pretty good at guessing stuff. He didn’t say that, but you definitely captured the essence of it. He just wanted to come out of it alive, and said what he thought I wanted to hear. But that’s not what I wanted to hear. And he was being honest in his disdain toward retards, I could sense that. I peeled the tape off the woman’s mouth and let her have a say. She said pretty much the same thing. I asked them if they beat James. They confessed to it. I put the tape back over their mouths so James wouldn’t wake up when they screamed. I cut her throat, then his. Lonnie was #1, Bruce #2.”
“Technically, Ryan was #1, Emily was #2,” Eddie corrected.
“That’s right. But that was different, if you know what I mean.”
“I do. As far as your serial killing legacy will read, Lonnie and Bruce were your first and second. So what about the others? Also parents who beat their kids?”
“No,” he said thoughtfully. “Well maybe two others, yes. It’s not like I was this righteous vigilante offing people who deserved it. I’m no Dexter Morgan. The next murder was a man named Hugh MacIntyre. I suppose it was about a month after the previous two. He was a single father, an alcoholic loser. What a piece of shit he was. The world is a better place without him. The reason I chose him was similar to James. His son is Alex MacIntyre, a bully. Alex kicked my ass once, just for fun. He was a menace to all kinds of kids. Not the biggest bully in school, but one of them. God I hate that kid. At first I thought about killing him, but reconsidered it. Detectives would learn that he was a bully and start questioning those with a motive for killing him, and my name would pop up. I figured if I killed his parents (I didn’t know at the time that his mother had divorced Hugh and moved away) that it wouldn’t come back to me. And it didn’t. I killed him the same exact way. I knew the murders would be linked, and that was okay. Even though there was a slight connection between Alex and me, they’d be looking for a link between the Macintyre’s and Davidson’s. And they never think a serial killer is going to be my age, so I had a lot going for me. Have a lot going for me. So I killed the dude’s dad just to spite Alex. He ended up going to a foster home because of me. I’m proud of that. And I think Hugh deserved to die, but didn’t know that when I planned out his murder. You learn a lot about someone in the moments before you execute them. The truths come out, as there’s no reason to lie. Once they know they’re destined to die, a whole new person emerges, a specimen of perfect honesty, and believe it or not, sometimes tranquility. I never would have thought. They talk a lot about regrets they have, things they would have done differently in life. Sometimes they treat me like I’m a priest and they give confession. I could write a book about the shit people tell me before I kill them. Maybe if I’m ever in jail for my crimes, I’ll write such a book. Hugh was a bad man. Not that I’m good, I deserve to die just like the people I killed. But the difference is they got caught, I haven’t. Not yet, at least.”
“Damn, bro. That’s nuts. I thought you were a dumbass this whole time but turns out you’re actually kind of bright. And not a bad guy, as far as serial killers go.”
“Thanks. The others were a drug dealer who peddled to kids, one pedophile, one guy just annoyed the shit out of me and I wanted to kill him—it’s as simple as that. So I’m no saint. But I’m also no psycho. Well, I suppose being psycho is relative. A lot of people will refuse to believe I’m anything but psycho, because a rational person would never kill someone. To each their own.”
“Gotcha. So are you going to kill Trent Blackwood for me?”
“I don’t know, man. I have a methodology, and you said he lives in Roseville… I don’t know. And I have no animosity toward him, don’t even know who he is. I don’t want random people to die just for murder’s sake, just to perpetuate what I am. I happen to like most people. I’m not heartless. When I watch the news and learn some hapless little girl was abducted and murdered, it breaks my heart. And I cry. Not often, but I do weep. I’m afraid I’m going to have to turn you down, Eddie. I feel bad about it, you seem really cool; you’re someone I could see myself being friends with. But it is what it is. If your friendship costs the life of someone I don’t feel should be murdered, it’s too steep a price. You said you’d make me an offer I can’t refuse. That is a little intriguing. What is it?”
“You’re very sharp and articulate for someone your age,” Eddie said sincerely.
“Thanks, I appreciate that.”
“The offer you can’t refuse… it can be more than one thing. Firstly, how are you on money?”
“Poor. Broke. I get fifteen bucks a week allowance. No job.”
“I could fix that, for starters. I know how to come up on cash. It’s in the damnedest places. You know those metal detectors people use at the beach to find change? I got that beat all to hell.”
“How do you find it?”
“I know where to look,” Eddie said and pointed to the jade idol on the dresser. “It’s not like I’m coming up on thousands of dollars, but it’s something. I once dug up an old coffee tin with a hundred and seventy bucks in it. Once when I was hard up for money I found a diamond, sold it at a pawn shop for five hundred bucks.”
“That’s crazy,” Michael said, eyes bright with wonder. “Yeah, money would be nice, but I wouldn’t kill someone for money. I’m no hired assassin.”
“I thought that might be the case. You kill people who you feel should die, right?”
“That’s right. People who the world could and should do without. Could I get another Pepsi?”
Eddie opened the fridge, snatched a can of pop and tossed it at his friend, who opened it and chugged.
“Okay, Michael. The offer you can’t refuse… you ready for it?”
Michael nodded, burped savagely.
“It comes on one condition,” Eddie said. “You can’t ask details. Well, you can safely assume that I know what I know from the idol,” he pointed to the jade statuette on the dresser. “But what I say is the damned truth. Do you believe me when I tell you that? Look in my eyes, do you think I’m lying to you?”
“No. I don’t.”
Eddie nodded satisfied. “Good. Tell me about #7 and #8. The Clarks.”
Michael took a deep breath, lips thin and tight, hands curled into fists. “That’s a sore subject, Eddie.”
“I know it is. The SacTown Slayer killed David and Rebecca Clark on May fifteenth. Tax day.”
“The hell I did. Like I said, it was a copycat killer. I’d never kill those two wonderful people. I knew them, they were my neighbors. Sweet as can be, as well as their daughter Mae. Thank God whoever killed David and Rebecca didn’t kill Mae, or I don’t know what I’d do. Go insane trying to track him down and send him to hell. Mae is the only girl I ever loved, though she never loved me back.”
“Even though he didn’t kill Mae, wouldn’t you still like to track down and kill their murderer?” Eddie said hopefully.
Michael’s eyes widened with understanding. “Don’t tell me… no way. You know who killed them?”
Eddie smiled. “Trent Blackwood.”
Michael stood from his chair, took a step to Eddie and smiled down at him, thrust his hand out: Eddie shook it.
“We have ourselves a deal,” Michael said. “
I’ll kill Trent and you don’t even need to dig a hole to find a coffee tin with money for me. Give me his home address, and I don’t care if the guy lives three states over.”
“Now we’re talking.” Eddie stood and embraced Michael. “Friends for life?”
“Friends for life.”
He released Michael and groped the wallet from his back pocket. “It’s not cool that my friend is broke while I have such means.” He opened his wallet and pulled out several twenty-dollar-bills, handed them over. “Don’t say no, I won’t allow it. Consider it money for whatever expenses you might incur.”
He took the money, folded it over and shoved it down his pants with a smile.
“One more thing,” Eddie said soberly.
“Yeah?”
“If you get down on your knees right now I’ll let you see what pussy tastes like.”
Michael punched Eddie on the shoulder with a big laugh. “You dick.”
“Oh you’d rather learn what that tastes like? I thought you already knew!”