The Everman Journal

by Clark E Tanner

  I moved to Alexandria from another state in 2006 and I was there just short of two and a half years before I found my true niche. As I have said, in the journal entries I have left for you I have omitted much. But I will say, and as you read I think you will agree with me, that over the years my talents were honed and my focus changed somewhat.

  While in the past my interests found their object in a particular person who needed help, or one who needed to be hindered, in more recent years my priorities have widened. Therefore it may seem to you upon initial inspection that I have gone out of control and committed more random, haphazard acts. The true picture, which you may recognize as you look closer, is that I have simply broadened the scope of my influence – cast a wider net, so to speak.

  My work in Alexandria began in a skewed sort of way.

  Since I have always been by myself, when I have had time off of work those days have been spent in pursuits of my own, not having to answer to anyone and not having to include anyone. Therefore I have always derived some pleasure from finding quiet spots that I can just stroll and see the sights, or seek a place to sit and soak in nice scenery – perhaps read a book – explore eateries new to me, pubs that are out of the way and not too noisy, and so on.

  Parts of Alexandria are virtually deserted on Sundays because many of the businesses stay closed purely out of custom. So whereas on other days I might seek a place to walk by the Potomac or in one of the parks, on Sundays I would often traverse these quiet streets that were so busy on other days, but on Sundays almost felt like they were mine. I could stop and gaze into the front windows of clothing stores or antique shops without the trouble of focusing farther in and seeing some hungry clerk staring back at me and waving me in. Quietness. Aloneness. The things I have always derived so much pleasure from.

  One Sunday mid-morning I was on King Street and happened by a book store that was open. I believe it was the only establishment on that block with an open door. So I decided to wander in and examine the contents of their shelves. There were a few other people in the shop. The clerk behind the register leaned over the counter, balanced on his elbows and looking bored, but my trained eye discerned that he was carefully watching everything that went on in the tiny establishment. He was in his early thirties, just a little too thin, wearing a dingy t-shirt bearing a picture of Hugh Jackman as Wolverine, and the bottom portion of a tattoo on his left upper arm was sticking out from under the sleeve.

  Besides the clerk and me there were three to five other souls in the place, all men, but there didn’t seem to be very much traffic in and out the door. No two seemed to be together either; each one engrossed in a magazine or some book off the shelf. There was no conversation going on at all.

  One entire wall of the establishment consisted of floor to almost-ceiling shelves covered with adult magazines. Not actually desiring to look between the covers of any of them, I was standing and scanning the various titles and reading some of the subtitles meant to entice the browser to reach out and touch…when I was suddenly aware that someone was touching me.

  A twenty-something guy had stopped to study the same wall of periodicals and I had paid him no attention, assuming he was browsing as was I. Then I felt just the slightest brush of the knuckles of his right hand against the side of my left thigh. It was something that might happen anytime, when people are standing in a restricted space and having to move around one another as in a shop setting.

  Well, I had been standing with my weight on my left leg, relaxing my right, so I casually shifted my weight to my right leg causing my body to move several inches to the right without actually shifting my feet. It served to move my leg away from him enough so that he could not accidentally brush up against me. I continued to browse titles on one of the higher shelves, when I felt the brushing once more. The man had shifted his weight to match my movements and with the second occurrence of contact I was certain that it was not accidental.

  I paused for about ten seconds more then I slowly turned away and browsed briefly at some books on a shelf behind where I had been standing. I counted slowly to ten and nonchalantly made my way to the front door and out onto the sidewalk, where I turned right and walked to the corner, then turned right again, walked past two store fronts and then stepped up into the receded entrance of a closed shoe store. Vehicle traffic on the street was almost non-existent and I hadn’t seen another person since leaving the book store.

  I only had to dally there for about thirty seconds, looking in the store window as though very interested in a pair of running shoes on display, when I saw the reflection of the young man behind me. He had followed me out of the store to this quiet place and now stood attentively, waiting for the older man to make the next move to confirm that they had read one another’s signals correctly. I turned to face the kid and stepped backward and turned slightly so my back was against the window. He took my movement as an invitation to come up farther into the space by the locked front door to be better shielded from the street. Once he was in place there, with his back to the front door and my back to the street, I placed my left hand on his right shoulder. A shy smile began to widen as he raised his head to look directly into my eyes. As I suddenly pinched the trapezius muscle at the base of his neck, I shoved the four and a half inch blade in my right hand into the upper inside of his left thigh. I quickly twisted the blade and ripped up toward his groin as I pushed him into a sitting position with my left hand. Following him down so that I was squatting in front of him, I moved my left hand to his mouth to stifle the scream that was building there, at the same time withdrawing the blade. Shifting all of my weight to my right knee I knelt on his extended left leg to keep him from moving while he bled out into his jeans. He struggled frantically for about thirty seconds and it took both of my hands to keep him pinned against the store front and down in a sitting position. I glanced twice back over my shoulder to be certain there was no foot traffic on the street. One car went by slowly but if the driver saw us at all he might have thought we were a gay couple getting amorous on a quiet Sunday morning and wouldn’t have wanted to stare. The kid weakened, much to my relief as I was growing physically weary from struggling to restrict his movements, and he finally lay still, white as a sheet. The volume of blood had become too much for the fabric of his clothing and the overflow was now beginning to run down the entranceway toward the open sidewalk. So I stood, pocketed my knife which I would clean later, and walked away to where I had parked my car on North Royal. It was almost noon by then and I was ready for lunch, so I headed home to fix myself a bowl of soup and a sandwich of sliced turkey with mayonnaise.

  Monica set the uneaten portion of her pastrami sandwich down on the paper plate next to her. She said, “You might have warned me!”

  Sam had turned on the room television to watch the news as he ate. At her words he stopped mid-chew and turned toward her in surprise. Swallowing hard, he took on a sincerely concerned expression and said, “Oh, Mon… I’m so sorry. I should have said something about what was coming. It just slipped my mind by the time I had the sandwiches and…”

  With a half-smile, Monica held up a palm. “It’s ok, Sam” she said. “I’m giving you a hard time. I’m not that squeamish. But this guy just gets creepier by the page.” She picked up her sandwich and continued to eat as Sam hit the mute button on the TV remote.

  “What are you thinking so far?” He asked, turning his body more to face her and away from the television.

  “Well, it’s like he said right here in his memoir,” she pointed at the paper on her lap “there must have been some dramatic changes in him over the years, but it’s looking like he did a slow and steady change from champion, if that’s the word…”

  “Legend in his own mind” stuck in Sam

  “…to cold blooded thrill seeker. Not that I’m finished reading; I just started. But you read this earlier Sam, is that where this is going?”

  He nodded. “Pretty much. I remember you commenting that it seemed like he
was growing to like the killing just for the killing’s sake. Well, keep reading and we’ll talk about it.” He stood from his chair. “Y’know what? I have spent so much time sitting in cars and planes and hotel rooms lately I feel like my entire body is atrophying and all my blood is in my butt. I’m going to spend some time in the hotel workout room. I have my cell. Buzz me when you’re finished and ready to chat. Ok?”

  Around her last bite of sandwich Mon mumbled something that sounded like “Ok” and went back to her reading as Sam left the room.

  Later that afternoon as I went back over the events of the morning in my mind, I realized what a damned fool I had been. It would have been so easy for someone to have walked by, seen what was going on and raised an alarm. I would have been caught right then or later. It only would have been a matter of time.

  As I contemplated the possibilities and the folly of my actions I actually began to shake at the thought of the disaster I might have brought down on myself. I vowed never to act that impulsively again.

  On the other hand, it was that morning in that store front that reawakened in me what Jack London called the ‘ferine strain’; that wild exhilaration that comes with being free and fulfilling my destiny on my own terms. Experiencing the thrill of the hunt rewarded with a kill.

  I was back in the game. But it had to be different. I had to seek out more deserving targets for one thing. And I must exercise patience. No more kills of opportunity. I must be in control.

  I spent my next day off closed in my apartment with frozen pizzas, root beer and microwave popcorn packets, and brainstormed.

  Over the course of the day I read, watched some TV, paced, watched cars and people go by on the street out my kitchen window and even spent some time working a jigsaw puzzle. Throughout, however, I kept a sheet of paper and pen nearby and made myself a list as remembered various lessons I had learned over the years through trial and error. Many times I had narrowly avoided detection; I was now in a time in my life when I was recognizing the need to be wiser and even more patient.

  POLICIES:

  Avoid being seen in the company of or making public contact with a target. First contact should be sudden, private, and final.

  Observe a target long enough to be certain of their habits, how many people they live with (if any) and how many friends or family visit them (days of the week and times). Know when they are alone and least likely to be aware of their surroundings. (Sleeping is always good, except that too many folks have alarm systems or pets) Oh, yes!

  Always know all about the target’s pets

  Alternate methods of dispatching targets, but do not try to get clever or inventive. Guns are loud and knives are messy, but both are effective when used at the proper time and in the proper setting. Strangulation is quiet but a desperate target can make your work difficult when the adrenaline is flowing. There is usually some blunt instrument at hand but don’t take that for granted. The best policy is to carry several methods and use the appropriate one for the moment. Do not leave messages or attempt to make statements (political, religious, morality, etc). This is the business of justice-dealing, nothing more.

  Change mission locations frequently and avoid setting patterns.

  PATTERNS:

  Alternate routes of travel. Don’t go straight to a mission site or straight home from one. Stop for a movie or a drink at a bar. If there is a mall open, browse for a while. Don’t be a creature of habit.

  Hunt in various communities, not geographically in line with each other. (I thought about the burglaries on Main Street, Trinidad, California when I was a kid. Even though I was only 14, I picked up on the gang’s pattern and I knew when the Rexall Drug store was going to be hit. No one listened to me, and it got burglarized, but I knew because there was a pattern)

  Alternate target ‘types’. Race, hair color, lifestyle, occupation, hobbies, entertainment interests, etc.

  When finished with a mission destroy all clothing (mine, not target’s) whether blood-stained or not. Never wear clothing for a mission that matches normal daily color and styles that mark me, and never wear the same items for two missions. I’ve always gotten a good laugh from the idiots who wear the same thing every day, then they rob a convenience store right in front of a security camera, and all the news programs show the footage the next day, but when the dorks are caught, they’re still wearing the same hoodie and jeans, or hat and t-shirt. Lose the clothing, wear new clothing for the next mission, changing styles often. (same with shoes…use cheap shoes from a discount store and toss them when done) Note: This could be expensive. Purchase clothing from Goodwill or Salvation Army.

  Always be prepared to abort the mission at any sign of trouble or of being too closely scrutinized by some passerby. Waiting is better than losing everything. If conditions are less than perfect, go home and start developing a new target. Don’t be perceived as stalking. It’s rude.

  The following weekend I went out on a Saturday night to a middle class piano bar in South Alexandria. It was a scouting mission. I had no set plan for the night. I was testing the waters as it were; mapping the territory.

  I sat at the bar and nursed a drink for a couple of hours. Early in the evening the place was pretty quiet and I just pretended to be interested in some sports activity on the small television mounted high on the wall over the bartender’s shoulder. Once in a while I would exchange a few words with him or with other people that came and went, just being sociable, but assessing the situation.

  As the night drew on, the TV went off and some guy close to my age began playing the piano. He didn’t sing. He just played his own versions of some of the songs that had been at the top of the charts in the seventies and eighties and I guess the nineties. I could only name a few, such as, “The Air That I Breathe” and “Wildfire”. It was sometime between 9 and 10 that the women started to come and go from the bar where I was sitting, like moths flitting up and backing off, landing lightly, fluttering and taking wing. I was amazed. Most of them were in their late thirties to mid-forties. The few that were older than that were attempting to look younger. Some were brazenly wearing wedding rings. I wondered as I contemplated that later, if they were just that bold about cheating on their husbands, or if they were not married at all but wearing the rings as a way out of a conversation that began taking a turn which made them uncomfortable.

  Sometimes they sat a couple of stools away and pretended to ignore me until I spoke to them. Others would sit right down next to me and say hello. One particularly skanky fifty-something sat down and asked me if I was going to buy her a drink. I invited her to go suck on the Potomac and she went away.

  Well, it was an enlightening evening but there were too many problems involved with that kind of a hunt. First of all, if you sit at a bar long enough to get warmed up to a lady and entice her to leave with you, there’s inevitably going to be someone, probably the bartender, who remembers your face and clothing. So when some woman turns up dead and someone she knows also knows where she spent her last evening, things add up way too quickly for a diligent investigator. Secondly, despite the way they portray things on television, it is very difficult to dispose completely of a body. The primary obstacle is simply the bulk of matter. There are very few avenues available to the average person, to burn, dissolve, dismember, bury or permanently hide a corpse. In addition, a person can too easily get caught in the act of doing it, or some evidence of it can accidentally get left in the wrong place, or if not disposed of properly some stupid animal can find it and drag it around until someone checks to see what that thing is they have in their mouth, the possibilities and problems are endless. There is stink, there is unexpected weather, unexpected witnesses, and there is always that persistent loved-one who just won’t give up digging and digging until they stumble upon something that points back to you.

  So, I had learned on my scouting mission that there was definitely no shortage of game out there; I just had to keep myself better camouflaged for the hunt and take care
not to leave anything behind with the carrion that might identify me. And the best way to deal with a corpse, I concluded, is to not deal with it. Complete the mission in a place where the body can be left and either not discovered for a long time or at least until I am well away from the area.

  For my ground-breaking mission I returned to the same

  piano bar at which I had done my initial scouting. I hadn’t done anything there to blow my cover or to draw attention to myself, so it was as good a place to begin as any. Besides, I had already established the fact that there were loose women frequenting that establishment and they deserved what they would get.

  Having dressed conservatively, in dark blue trousers, grey sport jacket and white shirt, open at the collar and no tie, I entered the bar at the time the piano player began entertaining on the previous night. It was when they turned the lights down and that would assist me in retaining anonymity. It would also help to conceal the fact that my pants and jacket, picked up earlier that day from Goodwill, were threadbare in places and stained in others.

  I avoided the bar, choosing a small table for two near the corner of the room. A pretty young waitress took my order and after she delivered my mug of beer I sat in such a way as to send body language that I preferred to sit alone and nurse it.

  I pretended to be interested only in listening to the piano, while surreptitiously studying the various women that went to and from the bar. I recognized a few of them from the other night, including the skanky one I invited to go suck on the Potomac. I was hoping she wouldn’t see me because having been insulted in that way she may very well remember my face – not in a good way. She landed a sucker early on however, and they left the bar together within ten minutes after she struck up a conversation with the guy. I decided I might just have to find a way to work her into a future mission.