A New M.O.

Written in October 2006. A school assignment that actually turned out to be something decent. (For some reason writerscafe was giving me some problems eith the format, I hope that it isn't a problem).

      “How long have you had him in custody?” I asked Detective Crane, a young man just promoted to the rank of Detective. Crane was ambitious, hardworking, and an honest man. That’s probably the only reason he was able to make detective by twenty-seven.

      “Over two days now. He fits the profile you gave us perfectly, a middle-aged man, unmarried, working a nine-to-five job, and an abusive history.” Crane turned to stare at the prisoner sitting in the interrogation room, “He doesn’t have an alibi, and he had an explosive relationship with two of the victims. We can’t connect him with the other five, but not everyone displays their private relationships to the world. The D.A. is ready to go to court with the case. We don’t really need you to do an evaluation, she thinks she’s got it in the bag, but she doesn’t want to take any chances with him. She doesn’t want him out on the street because of a technicality.”

     “Sure, I’ll talk with him.” Turning I said goodbye to the detective as he left to go and do the paperwork for the prisoner. The prisoner was skinny and pale, and his skin had a yellow tint to it as if he was sick. His hair was thin and greasy, his clothes ripped and stained. He looked everything he truly was, disgusting.

This man raped and tortured seven girls. Hunted them, looking for blond girls with brown eyes who were seventeen years old. If Chicago weren’t such a big city he never would have been able to find so many girls that fit his requirements. Blond-haired, brown-eyed beauties are rare. He would take them and chain them to something, either using handcuffs or shackle. He would cut out their tongues, and sew their mouths shut so that no one could hear them scream. And then he started to work his “art”. He would cut them, some just random cuts meant to be painful, but most of the cuts were carvings. He would carve biblical scenes into their skin: Jezebel’s wrath, the corrupted Eve, Tamar’s incest and other scenes of “evil” women. Once the pictures were cut, he would then burn them, branding the pictures into their soft skin. Finally, while the wounds were still open he would pour ink into the wounds so that they couldn’t heal properly. He did all this while they were still alive.

   When he actually got around to killing them he did it quickly. A slit throat, strangulation, decapitation. Horrible ways to die, but compared to what else he did to them, a mercy for sure. He was a monster. A true monster, and unlike most psychopaths he looked the part. Unclean. Wrong. Mad.

     Picking up his file, I walked into the interrogation room, never breaking eye contact. He may have been cuffed to his chair, and the chair bolted to the floor, but it felt like one of the moments on the dojo mat. If you break eye contact with the opponent then you lose the fight. I wouldn’t let him win again.

     I sat down, crossed my legs, folded my arms across my chest, leaned back into the chair, and just stared at him. I let everything I felt for him show in my eyes. Disgust. Hate. Scorn. Rage. Disappointment.

       He was the one to break eye contact.

      “Hello, Richard.” He didn’t respond. Wouldn’t even look at me. “Before we begin, I just want to make sure the information the police gave me is correct. Please tell me if anything is wrong.” He shifted in his chair, turning as far away from me as he could with the cuffs constricting his movements. “You’re forty-five. Never been married. Haven’t dated in over five years, or at least haven’t dated anyone who you didn’t kill.” He instantly stiffened and clenched his jaw. But he still wouldn’t look at me. “By the way, how did the police know when your last date was? Oh, wait, never mind. It says here in the report that they found it in your diary,” he started to shake, “wait I’m sorry. A journal, after all men don’t keep diaries. But then again you’re not truly a man are you? No man would be able to do to those women what you did. Only a mon-“

     “Shut up! Shut the f**k up!” He yelled as he tried to break free from his confinement. “All you people do, is tell me about those murders,” he seethed. “About those f*****g women that some jackass killed! Well I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I didn’t do it.” At this point he was screaming loud enough to cause an echo.

    An intercom on the wall buzzed to life as detective Crane’s voice came floating into the room, “Jocelyn, is there a problem in there or are you okay?”

    Calmly I pressed the red button hidden underneath the lip of the table. “Yes, thank you detective. I’m fine, and the prisoner is still restrained.”

      Richard Morgan, the prisoner, was breathing heavily, his eyes shining with madness. Perfect.

“Alright Doctor Bordeaux, but we’ll have some officers right outside the door just in case.”

     “Thank you detective.” Taking my hand off the button I re-crossed my arms, disapprovingly. After all body language expresses more than words can any day of the week. “Now Richard, I don’t have much time. I still have to get home tonight so that I can eat dinner and get some work done. Can we please hurry this up?”

      “Hurry what up? You haven’t even asked me any questions yet.”

      “Did you cut out the tongues and sew their mouths shut just so other’s wouldn’t hear you? Or did their continuous screaming tear away at you, making you fell like the mon-” Screaming the prisoner tore at his arms trying to break free of his restraints, there was a loud pop and suddenly his right arm went limp. Screaming again, but this time in pain and not rage he kicked out, knocking the table into me. The table hit me hard in the stomach and suddenly I was flying through air. I connected with something hard and the world went black.

 

      My knife cut back and forth through the lamb pork chop slowly. Everything I did was slow for my eye-hand coordination wasn’t quite right after I hit the wall of the interrogation room. According to the paramedics I received a minor concussion. Luckily it was minor enough for them to allow me to come home. After all I had work to do after dinner. I placed the bite of meat into my mouth and the flavors of mushrooms, onions, red wine, and butter assaulted my mouth and I hummed in pleasure. There is nothing like well-cooked meat.

      I quickly finished my dinner, finishing off my lamb. After I had washed and put away all my dishes, I walked out the backdoor and headed down the little path behind my house into the woods. About a mile down the path there was a little cottage. It was a cottage left over from colonial times that had since updated. It was where I did my best work. The peace and quiet of the cottage allowed me to concentrate. Out here I never had to worry about whether or not people could hear me.

     I walked into the cottage, not stopping to look at or play with all the nick-knacks, heading straight for the Mexican rug that cover most of the floor. Folding back the far right corner revealed a trap door that was locked. Taking a key from my pants pocket I unlocked the trap door, and descended into the old cellar.

     I reached my hand out to my right, feeling along the wall for the light switch. Once my hand fell over something protruding from the wall I flicked it and the cellar was bathed in a blinding white light.

      As I waited for my eyes to adjust, I heard a quiet muffled sound.

     My eyes wandered the room once I could see again. The walls were stark white, basic linoleum tiling. Tiles are easier to clean then plaster. Along the walls there were row after row of shelving full of my tools, a desk completely cleaned off, and one industrial sized sink. The sink was very handy. In the far corner there was the antique wood burning stove that used to belong upstairs in the cottage’s kitchen, and with it there was a fire poker sticking out of the open grate.

     Turning to my left I turned on the small boom box that I had sitting on a table next to the door. The soft sounds Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong filled the air. Finally. I was ready to begin my work.

     Turning to the center of the room I finally allowed myself to look upon my newest masterpiece. Lying there on the table, was a girl in her late teens. Huge brown eyes stared out at me from a curtain of blond hair that hung in her face. Her mouth was sewn shut, and she was struggling as much as she could against the shackles that bound her wrists and ankles.

     Standing next to her I gazed down at my lovely work. The muffled screams became louder. Apparently you didn’t need a tongue to scream. Reaching down I began to run my finger through her hair, marveling at its softness, “I guess I’ll have to find a new M.O. now that they’ve caught the murderer.” My eyes moved over her soft and luscious body, “What a shame. Blond-haired brown eyed beauties truly are rare.”

Reviews

[Adela Muresan]

Yeah!

***** story.

You seem to have very good and twisted ideas.

Try writing a mystery book :D !

And if you'll have it done, let me know .

A.M.

[Chloe..Across the Unive..]

Very entertaining.. it caught me by surprise. you did a nice job writing this .. maybe you could even add
to it ,,

Chloe
xoxo

[lb]

Very good!
I didnt expect the girl to the murderer either
You captured me from the very beginning `n until it was finished, you have a talent in writing for sure.

[Nicole Renee]

Oh my gosh, that was really a twist with the ending. I didn't expect the girl to be the murderer. O.o" But otherwise, this was really good. :]

-Nicole