The Man With A Thousand Names

A short cat and mouse tale of a cop and misunderstood killer.

Another clean crime scene, another day on the job. I’ve been trying to track down our John Doe for 9 months now, he’s the most elusive killer I’ve ever known. 16 dead bodies and not a slick of evidence, just eye witness accounts at every scene of a man in a black suit wearing a fedora, with tattoos all over his skin. Every account the same, he parks a block away from the victim's location, reaches into the boot and pulls out a gym bag. He then proceeds to his location to kill the victim. In this case Frankie Desooza, a 31 year old car salesman living by the old courthouse square here in Santa Rosa. This guy has no serious offences in his name, got quite a few points on his license but nothing worthy of a bullet to the head. What is this murderers MO?

I arrive back at the motel where I’m staying for now, I always stay in motels when I’m on the job, makes it harder for the cops to track me down. I take my bag out of the boot and head into my room. I place the bag gently onto the centre of the coffee table in the living area. I remove my hat, hang it on the hook on the back of the door. I stroke my smooth head, my hand slowly runs past the names forever punctured into my skin. I mutter a prayer for them. I take a seat in front of the coffee table, I slowly unzip my bag and take out my gun wrapped in a Shammy leather, a silver Glock 17 with an adjusted Glock 34 barrel, I gently lay my untraceable rounds next to it. I take my kit out from my bag, put the bag under the table and begin to set up my station. I ready a new needle to avoid infection, and pour some black ink into a small pot.

Maybe I’m going about tracking this murderer all the wrong way, he’s meticulous, never leaves evidence so why do I travel miles around the country to visit each crime scene. I need to focus on what we know about the unknown subject. A man covered in tattoos can’t be too hard to track down, especially if he’s always in the same get-up each time he’s spotted. Each crime scene is rarely in the same town or city, and if they are, it’s never consecutively, he either tows a caravan or stays in public accommodation in or near each victims locale. If it’s the latter, someone must have the killer's credit information so he can pay to stay at these places. Unless he uses cash? How can I track this man when there is no track to follow? No fingerprints, different license plates every time, and untraceable bullets left at the crime scene as if to mock me, there must be something.

That buzzing is the sound of guilt, the sound of shame, but I must do it, I can’t allow myself to forget all those who’s lives I have ended. This one is tricky, I’m right handed but the name is going into the space on the side of my right hand middle finger, so I must write with my left hand. The tattoo needle penetrates my skin making 190 hits a second. I always write the tattoos free hand, no stencil process. A sharp pain flows up my right arm as I scribe over the knuckle. ‘Frankie Desooza’, gone but never forgotten. I clean my instruments when I’m done and pack them back into my bag. I change into my casual clothes, time to head home and await the next job.

I need to get away, I’m thinking too hard, I can’t catch this guy when my head is racing. I go to a diner just outside of town, it’s busy, being around people helps me think, even if they’re just coming and going like they do. I sit myself down in an empty booth, a waitress comes over and offers me coffee. I decline and ask for fresh orange juice, I don’t need caffiene right now, I’m wide awake. I need to think. The waitress brings over my juice and places it on the table, I take a sip, hits the spot. The TV in the diner catches my attention, a local news channel, the media have caught wind of my John Doe’s latest killing. ‘The man with a thousand names’ they call him, you see, no one has ever seen him real close, but they believe that the tattoos that cover the entirety of his body are names, names of his victims. A sadistic way to remind him of all those he has killed, probably stimulates him when he looks at himself in the mirror the sick s.o.b.

On my way home I always stop off to grab a coffee before I hit the road. This place has got the news playing, talking about me, ‘The man with a thousand names’ they call me, not quite, 331 to be precise. The media reports me as a sadistic murderer, covered in the names of his victims as a means to empower me. They couldn’t be more wrong. I have a set of skills, and people like to use my skills for whatever reason. They pay nicely for it but that doesn’t justify the fact that I kill people. I’m ashamed of what I do, that’s why I cover myself in their names, a reminder of my sins, I say a prayer for them everyday. Why do it though? I never could hold down a normal job, this is all I’m good for, it’s just a shame that people need my services, it’s a cruel world. Sitting at the bar in the diner I spot a cop in the reflection of a mirror in front of me, he’s focused on the news report of Frankie Desooza’s ‘murder’. I bet he’s working the case, he’d probably kill himself if he knew I was sitting all but 2 feet away from him.

I finish my glass of orange juice, time to head back to the office. I need to collect the details for all hotels, motels and B&B’s in and around the area and ask if they’ve spotted my John Doe. As I ready my things to leave, the waitress brings over a fresh glass of orange juice. I tell her no thanks but she says it’s compliments of the gentlemen at the bar. She turns to point him out but no one’s there, no one, just a fedora.

END.