The Braille Killer (An Alice Bergman Novel Book 1)

by Daniel Kuhnley

  I pop the last bite of crust in my mouth, throw the garbage in one of the Home Depot bags, and start rummaging through boxes again until I find the envelope marked July 17, 2013. I unbind it and open it up. It contains just a single piece of yellowed, card stock paper; it’s the letter and the clue.

  Unlike the other nine letters I’ve received, this one’s printed on letterhead from Blackwell’s Asylum and Home for Children, an orphanage abandoned in 2012. I broke into the orphanage right after I received the letter and found a vault of records hidden in the subbasement of the building. Some of them dated back all the way to the late eighteenth century. Among them I found a record for Denise Chavez from 1990. Her mother was a drug addict and prostitute who died in childbirth. Her father was unknown.

  The braille on this paper is a bit harder to read visually because many of the words are typed through the letterhead. I glide my finger across the small bumps:

  Death for a birth?

  Such a tragedy

  But death for sight?

  Yet you still can’t see

  While one girl lives

  The other lies dead

  A killer she’s made

  Her hands stained red

  Admit your guilt

  For the things I’ve seen

  No more waiting

  It’s time you come clean

  I pin the letter to the corkboard and then retrieve the envelope marked July 17, 2014 from one of the boxes. Inside the envelope is another letter and a plastic baggie with a crushed fortune cookie inside it. I unfold the letter and scan it with my finger:

  If you crack it open

  To see what’s inside

  You might just find

  It has nothing to hide

  If I crack you open

  What would I find?

  A liar, a traitor

  A girl who is blind

  I stick the letter up on the corkboard and then unzip the baggie. I fish out the rectangular piece of paper from the bottom of the bag and look at the fortune. It says: “Murder is a passion of the heart. I know how passionate you are.” I turn it over and read the back: “Lucky Numbers: 1 37 45 62 89”

  Every time I look at these items and letters my frustration skyrockets. Ten years and I’ve yet to crack his twisted codes. I often wonder if there’s anything to be found in them. I shove the piece of paper back in the baggie, seal it, and pin it to the corkboard.

  I sit down for a few minutes and rub my eyes. With every passing hour I find my vision blurrier, and thoughts of going blind paralyze my mind. The last thing I want is to live in darkness again. If I do, I don’t think I’ll ever find him.

  But he’ll find me.

  I want to give up and go home, but that would serve his purpose and not Sarah’s. Not mine. I must see this through. I must get organized.

  I retrieve the envelope marked July 17, 2015. Inside is a swatch of red fabric with tiny yellow roses. The swatch is scented with a perfume I’ve come to identify solely with Denise. Its fragrance has faded over the last few years, but the smell will never fade from my memory. It will forever haunt me.

  I unfold the accompanying letter and read it with my finger:

  A swatch and a scent

  Both beyond compare

  She wore it and rubbed it

  All through her hair

  She spent hours getting ready

  Yet you never knew

  A beautiful young woman

  She did it for you

  But you’re an evil little brat

  So twisted and trite

  You threw her over the banister

  Just out of spite

  You deserve to be punished

  But I have a heart

  Just tell me you’re sorry

  And make a new start

  I don’t think it’s possible to understand the mind of a psycho. How does one equate love with lust and torture? And how does an accident become more than just that? I cannot add reason to the unreasonable. I’m not sure why I ever try to.

  I put the letter and swatch up on the corkboard and retrieve the next envelope. July 17, 2016—package number eight. I don’t need to open the envelope to know what’s inside. Just thinking of it leaves me cold and nauseous. It’s part of the puzzle and I know it must go up on the board, but I’m not sure I can stomach seeing it every time I walk into this storage unit. I’d rather see a thousand grisly images than it.

  Reluctantly, I pull up the two metal fasteners and open the envelope. I carefully pull out the folded piece of paper, making sure that the photograph stays inside for now. I unfold it and stare at the words. I don’t need my finger to read the braille, but I can’t help doing it anyway.

  I close my eyes and let the words sink into my mind as my finger glides across the paper:

  I’ve tasted of your fruit

  And you’re rotten to the core

  You’ll spread your legs for anyone

  You’re a dirty little whore

  She gave you her love

  And you cast it aside

  If I opened you up

  I’d find nothing inside

  You were a bad apple

  Right from the start

  A hollowed-out cavity

  You’re missing your heart

  For once in your life

  Stop telling the lie

  And if you refuse

  Another will die

  Don’t make me beg

  Don’t spoil your chance

  Confess to me now

  Before the end of our dance

  My throat tightens and tears well in my eyes. Angry tears. “You did this to me, you son of a bitch. I didn’t ask for any of it.”

  I shove my hand into the envelope and pull out the photograph before I change my mind. However, I’m not ready to look at it, so I turn it upside down. I stare at the date embedded in its lower right corner: 2008/04/18 9:34pm.

  My breathing turns ragged and I tremble. No amount of therapy will ever rid me of the hate, anger, and shame that this photograph conjures in me. I was so young, innocent, and vulnerable. How did they single me out when I was supposed to be invisible? What the hell did I ever do to them?

  I set the envelope and paper down on the desk and sit down in my chair. I turn the photograph over in my hand and stare at it. Not really at it but through it. If I were Superman, I’d use my heat vision to burn it up. Or at least I’d have his strength to endure its content.

  I focus on the photograph as best I can with my diminishing vision. I was only sixteen when it was taken. An innocent young girl. I’d never kissed another person other than my mother before. That day they stole things from me that I’ll never recover.

  My hands shake with rage and several tears splatter across the photograph. It takes every ounce of my willpower to keep from ripping the damned thing to shreds. I take a deep breath, wipe my eyes, and focus on the details.

  In the photograph I’m lying on my back on an unfamiliar bed, completely naked. Denise lies next to me on her side, also nude. She’s pressed up against me, straddling my right leg and spooning my side. Her right hand is planted firmly on my crotch. My right breast is covered by her arm, but my left breast is cupped in her left hand, my erect nipple pinched between her thumb and forefinger.

  Denise is smiling at the camera, her tongue resting on the corner of my open mouth. My eyes are rolled back in my head, and my face glistens with tears.

  Did she somehow think I enjoyed this?

  It isn’t visible in the photograph, but they’d tied my hands behind my back and forced my legs apart. I fought them hard, but there are only so many punches one can take to the gut and groin before giving in. My threshold was twenty-seven. I’m not sure how I held out that long. Perhaps adrenaline from the sheer terror that consumed me.

  The photograph blurs further as rivulets flow from my eyes again. I need a break from my past. I need some fresh
air. I need a cigarette and I don’t even smoke. I’ve only tried smoking a cigarette once in my life. Maybe I should try again.

  I get up, pin the letter and the photograph to the corkboard, and remove my jacket. I switch off the lantern, roll the storage unit door up just enough to slip underneath it, and then shut and lock it. I take the elevator down two floors and exit to the right.

  At the end of the corridor I step through double-doors and into the night. The warm air hits me like a gale. The smell of sagebrush tickles my nose, and there’s nothing refreshing about it. I hate summers in the desert. There’s often no reprieve from the heat.

  Within a few minutes my armpits are sopping wet. Sweat drips down my nape and runs between my breasts as well. I fan myself with my top, hoping to generate some kind of breeze, but the attempt fails magnificently.

  I walk beyond the concrete-and-steel awning that stretches across the front of the building and take my cell phone out of my pocket. 03:28. I’ve got full bars, but still no messages.

  I can’t help but wonder what happened with the interviews. Seth usually keeps me in the loop and I feel a bit agitated that he hasn’t. Then again, I’ve cut him completely out of what I’m doing. How hypocritical am I?

  I contemplate calling Seth, but I’m not sure what I’d say to him right now. I just want to hear his voice. Instead, I shove my phone back into my pocket and pull my hands up into my armpits like I always do when I need comfort.

  Unfortunately, the wetness of them leaves me wanting to gag. I pull my hands away and wipe them on my pants. Winter can’t come soon enough.

  I walk back to the building’s entrance and the automatic doors slide apart. A rush of arctic air blows my hair back and I lean into it, but it only lasts a moment before the outside air suffocates me again.

  I walk back inside the building and toward the set of elevators at the far end of the corridor. I hear the doors close behind me with a whoosh and it sends chills up my spine. I stop and look back, but there’s no one behind me.

  I find my reaction to the doors a bit odd, but it’s been a terrible and strange day. Then, just as I’m about to move on, I glimpse a man standing in the corridor to my right. He stands about three yards away from me, next to an open storage unit on the left, and is side-lit by a set of dysfunctional, overhead lights.

  I glance his way, and he smiles at me, but it’s not the kind of smile a female wants to receive, especially when she’s alone. It’s more of a snarl, the left side of his lip drawn up a bit. He undresses me with his dirty eyes.

  His orangish-brown overalls look as though they’ve missed laundry day for an entire decade, and the left side is undone and hangs down his front. He isn’t wearing a shirt, and tufts of brown hair poke out the sides and top of the overalls. He’s a tad on the chubby side, but his arms are well defined.

  His puts his finger in his mouth and digs around between crooked teeth. The thought of where his finger’s been does nothing for my full stomach, but I can’t make myself turn and walk away. He’s frozen me with fear—fear of turning my back to him.

  He pulls something long and stringy out of his mouth with his finger and thumb, tilts his head as he examines it, and then puts it back into his mouth. He chews on it a bit and then swallows with a loud gulp.

  This is why I shouldn’t be here at four in the morning.

  My feet dance with the urge to run, but I just stand there, a captive to this man and his disgustingness. He doesn’t speak or move toward me, but his gaze moves to my chest. He smiles again.

  I think there’s something wrong with his face, but I can’t quite tell. Perhaps it’s the shadows playing tricks on my eyes, but I can’t be certain, especially with my blurred vision.

  He reaches into his overalls pocket, pulls out a pack of cigarettes, and pounds the bottom of it until a cigarette slides partway out of the torn top. He lifts the box to his mouth, wraps his lips around the end of the cigarette, and pulls the box away.

  He tosses the empty box into the open storage unit and then takes a lighter from another of his pockets. He lifts the lighter up to the end of the cigarette and, with a couple flicks of his thumb, it bursts to life with a two-inch, blue-and-yellow flame.

  The flame lights up his entire face, revealing the true horror of what he is. I fight to conceal a gasp as my heart thrums in my ears. Scars cover his face like moon craters, and the only thing that comes to mind is Freddy Krueger from A Nightmare on Elm Street. Had he been wearing a green and red striped sweater I would’ve seriously freaked. Even so, I’ve been reminded of those movies twice in one day and I can’t help but wonder if it’s not a coincidence.

  I swallow my fear and head toward the elevators before I find myself frozen there for eternity. I look back twice, but he’s not pursuing me. I reach the elevator and press the button repeatedly, annoyed that it didn’t open on the first press.

  Gooseflesh crawls on my nape and I tremble. I can feel him approaching, even though he moves like a ninja. I twist around, gun drawn, but I’m all alone. The elevator dings behind me and I cry out, nearly squeezing off a round into the ceiling.

  I turn back toward the elevator. It stands open and empty in front of me, but I can’t move forward. For the third time today, I am compelled to act without reason—a feeling deep within that forces me forward down a path I might not have chosen. Alas, I cannot deny that there’s something more to the man. Something disturbing. I must confront him.

  I lower my gun, but keep it drawn as I make my way back over to the side corridor where he stood. I come around the corner, both hands on my gun, but the corridor is empty. Dim lights flicker overhead, and all the units are locked down tight, including the unit he had open—109.

  I dash toward the end of the corridor and pull up just before moving into the intersecting corridor. I swing wide as I sweep my gun left and then right, but the corridor is empty. Further down and to the right I hear the familiar whoosh of the front doors.

  I bolt down the corridor, round the corner, and nearly kill myself when I collide with a long-bed hand-truck. Its metal edge catches the tops of my shins and I fly forward face-first like Superman onto its wooden-planked surface. The impact knocks the air from my lungs and my gun from my hands. My gun skids down the corridor and comes to a stop underneath a tan, rubber-soled boot. To make matters worse, an orangish-brown cuff hangs down over that rubber-soled boot.

  Dammit!

  Bursting shards of pain in my shins fight me like a pack of half-skinned cats, and I cannot fathom moving a single inch at the moment. I squeeze my eyes tight to try and manage the pain, but it makes no difference.

  When I open my eyes again my gun is gone and so is the rubber-soled boot. I roll over on my back and he’s standing over me, that twisted grin from before plastered on his face. My gun is in his hand and he has it pointed at my chest. Of all the ways I’ve imagined dying this isn’t one of them.

  I give him my best scowl. “What the hell are you waiting for?”

  He cocks his head, ejects the cartridge, clears the chamber, flips the gun around, and offers it back to me. “Too many accidents. Wouldn’t want to be the next one.” His deep southern drawl spins my head.

  I reach up and take my gun back. I don’t understand what the hell’s going on, and my mind has gone blank.

  “Something’s got you all riled up now, hasn’t it? You look more spooked than a fraidy cat on Halloween. Something’s done stole your voice.” He looks down at my legs. “How about them shins of yours? Pants are done soaked through with blood.”

  I wave him off with my hand. “Give me some room.”

  He takes a few steps back, his arms raised. “Hey, I’m only here to help, little miss. If you don’t need it, I’ll be on my way.”

  I sit up and look at my pants. He wasn’t lying, they’re wet with blood. My shins throb with every beat of my heart. I try to raise my right pantleg to assess the damage, but it’s already stuck to my leg. I wince.

>   He bends down and looks me straight in the eye. “Need help getting somewhere? I’m quite a bit stronger than I look.”

  His gray eyes fluctuate in and out of focus, and I sense another blackout coming on. God, not right now. The entire room starts to spin, and the lights become so bright that they feel like they’re stabbing the backs of my eyes.

  I’m more stubborn than Mother’s ranting of God, so I pull myself to my feet. I stagger forward, lose my balance, and he grabs me by the arm. I go to pull away, but the floor’s no longer under my feet. Darkness swirls at the corners of my vision and there’s nothing I can do but close my eyes.

  I feel his arms holding me, one under my back and one under my knees. The smell of cigarettes on his clothing is enough to get a nicotine fix, and it makes my head spin even harder. I don’t trust him, but I’m in too much pain and far too dizzy to even contemplate where I might wake up or if I ever will.

  “Three. Four. Seven,” I say.

  “That I can do.” His breath smells of garlic and pickles, and alarm bells ring in my head, but I can’t remember why.

  My body sways back and forth in his arms as he lumbers through the corridor. A few moments later, I hear the ding of the elevator and then the doors sliding open. He steps inside, I hear the doors shut, and then we rock a bit as the elevator begins its ascent to what I surmise will be the third floor.

  Again, we rock as the elevator grinds to a halt. It dings once more, and the doors slide open. He lumbers forward, and I direct him to the left. Thirty seconds later we come to a stop.

  “Three forty-seven,” he says.

  The world is still dark around me and my head spins like a top. I’m not sure how much more I can take before my head explodes.

  “Put me down.” He obliges, and I steady myself against the wall. “I think I can manage from here.”

  “You sure? I can get that door open for you no problem.”

  “No.” I say it with so much force it nearly knocks me back a step. “Sorry, I’m just not myself today. Like I said though, I can manage.”