Read I Don't Want To Kill You Online
Authors: Dan Wells
I Don't Want To Kill You (12 page)
‘The victim was dead when she started,’ I said. ‘He was shot in the back of the head.’
‘So she’s really, really angry,’ said Marci. ‘Angry enough to stab a dead body. I’ve been that angry a couple of times.’
‘Really?’
She opened her eyes and glowered at me. ‘No, not really, but sometimes you just wanna . . . vent your frustration, you know? You just want to pound something.’
‘I’ll be sure not to make you angry, then.’
‘We have a punching bag in the basement,’ she said. ‘Many a bad date has been erased from my memory thanks to that thing, I assure you.’
‘So we have a killer who’s venting his anger,’ I said. ‘But that would suggest an angry attack – something violent and impulsive. This woman attacks very calmly, with everything carefully planned in advance. She gets in, she shoots, she lays down plastic, and only then does she start stabbing. Plus, the hands and tongue are removed very precisely. That doesn’t suggest anger at all.’
Marci looked back up at the ceiling, sitting silently. She didn’t look like she was getting into it – she hadn’t come here for this, and she probably had plenty of subjects she’d rather talk about. I was trying to think of something I could say to bring back the same excitement she’d shown the day before, when suddenly she spoke again. ‘Do you think her victims see her before she attacks?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I guess it’s possible.’
It’s also possible that she can turn invisible, or change her shape, or some other crazy supernatural thing that would help her hide from her prey
, I thought. Trying to profile a demon was getting harder and harder.
It’s also possible that she can turn invisible, or change her shape, or some other crazy supernatural thing that would help her hide from her prey
, I thought. Trying to profile a demon was getting harder and harder.
‘I was just thinking,’ said Marci. ‘This guy showed up at my house one time just incensed about something – another bad dating story, sorry. But this guy was so mad, I didn’t even go out with him. He terrified me. I called off the date right there on the porch.’
‘Which probably only made him madder,’ I said.
‘Obviously,’ said Marci, ‘but he couldn’t freak out on me with my dad’s squad car parked twenty feet away, so he just left. But the point is, if someone came up to these victims looking mad enough to stab them thirty-seven times, they would have run away screaming. But none of them did.’
‘You’re right,’ I said, going back over the news stories in my head. ‘Nobody heard screaming, nobody found any sign of a fight, and there were no defensive wounds on either of the bodies. So whatever the killer looks like, she doesn’t look scary.‘
‘Or angry,’ said Marci.
‘Or,’ I said, ‘she might not even be angry at all. We might be misinterpreting the stab wounds completely.’
‘Can you think of anything else it could be?’
‘Well, what if it’s a message?’ I asked. ‘She leaves these bodies outside where everyone can see them, so she’s obviously trying to say something. Maybe the stab wounds are part of it.’
‘But they were covered up,’ said Marci; she was getting excited again. ‘You said the stab wounds were hidden by the shirt. As a proud graduate of Home Ec I can assure you that thirty-seven cuts in the back of a shirt would completely destroy it – you wouldn’t be hiding anything under there. This woman had to take their shirts off, stab the living crap out of them, and then put their shirts back on.’
‘So if anything,’ I said, ‘she’s trying to hide the stabs, not display them.’
‘All right,’ said Marci. ‘We have a killer who starts out calm and then gets angry. All we have to do is figure out what the victims did to make her angry – probably something pretty simple, since both of them did it.’
With that comment, another piece of the puzzle snapped into place for me, as clear as a bell. I looked up at Marci. ‘The only common factor between the two situations is her. The killer is making herself angry.’
Forman said that demons are defined by what they lack
, I thought.
She kills because she’s trying to fill a hole, in her mind or her heart, and somehow that hole is filling her with rage
.
Forman said that demons are defined by what they lack
, I thought.
She kills because she’s trying to fill a hole, in her mind or her heart, and somehow that hole is filling her with rage
.
‘Why would she make herself angry?’
‘It’s not on purpose,’ I said. ‘It’s just the side-effect of something else. She’s calm, and then she kills, and then she flips out.’
‘And then she tries to cover it up with a shirt,’ said Marci, nodding slowly. ‘It fits. But what does it mean?’
‘It means she doesn’t want to kill,’ I said. ‘She probably hates it, but she can’t stop it, and she promises herself she’ll never do it again and then she does it again anyway. And she goes nuts.’
‘This is . . .’ Marci grimaced again. ‘This is really vile.’
‘But really cool,’ I said. ‘This is a piece I’m sure the police don’t have yet.’
‘I’ll tell my dad as soon as the funeral’s out.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘not yet. This is a good piece, but it doesn’t lead to anyone.’ She looked troubled, and I held out my hands to soothe her. ‘Let’s wait until we have more to give him; there’s no sense jumping the gun when we’re this close.’
Marci looked uneasy. ‘How close do you think we are?’
‘Very close,’ I said. ‘Maybe close enough to predict the next victim.’
‘And if we can predict him,’ said Marci, smiling for the first time that night, ‘we can warn him.’
Chapter 9
I went to Marci’s house every day that week, trading theories and combing through every piece of evidence we could remember. At first we sat in the kitchen, but Marci got nervous with the little kids so close by, and we took our talk of serial killers and dismembered corpses outside.
‘What about the poles?’ Marci asked. ‘That’s got to mean something, right?’ It was Saturday, and we were still no closer to an answer.
‘It’s a message,’ I said, ‘but that doesn’t tell us much. Most of the time when a serial killer leaves a message like that, it’s just the standard “here I am, you can’t catch me”.’
‘Even if it’s just to get attention,’ said Marci, ‘the fact that the killer needs attention is still a pretty good clue, right?’
‘Absolutely,’ I agreed. I don’t know if Marci was a natural psychologist, or if it was just the fact that she wasn’t sociopathic like me, but she was really getting good at this. Sociopathy is defined as the lack of empathy: sociopaths like me can’t identify with other people, which means we can’t really understand them either. Marci didn’t have that handicap, so she was finding connections I’d never thought of.
‘The poles are like flags,’ she said, thinking out loud, ‘to make sure people see the body. One of the poles in the Mayor was an actual flagpole.’
‘But with the flag ripped off,’ I said. ‘If they were supposed to be flags, why would she strip it down?’
‘It was an American flag, so maybe she hates America. Or maybe she loves America and didn’t want the flag associated with the murder.’
‘Serial killing isn’t murder,’ I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. It was a pet peeve of mine, but from the shocked look on Marci’s face I knew she’d misinterpreted it. ‘I mean, it is murder, but it’s not
just
murder. It’s like saying computer hacking is theft. It is, but it’s got its own set of reasons and methods that make it so different from any other theft that you have to look at it differently.’
just
murder. It’s like saying computer hacking is theft. It is, but it’s got its own set of reasons and methods that make it so different from any other theft that you have to look at it differently.’
‘That seems like a weird distinction,’ said Marci. ‘Killing someone is murder. That’s that.’
‘It is,’ I said again, ‘but it’s a very specific kind of murder that needs to be looked at very differently.’ She was still staring at me strangely, so I tried to change the subject. ‘Look, it doesn’t matter – let’s get back to the flag. You think the killer loves America and doesn’t want it associated with killing.’
Marci watched me silently for a moment longer before speaking. ‘Could be a war protest.’
‘Clayton County is a weird place for a war protest.’
‘I know, I’m just thinking. The poles really do act like flags, though, and I’m trying to think of why she rips the actual flags off. Maybe it’s just the pole. She doesn’t want something up there to distract from the poles themselves.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said, remembering back to the shot I’d seen on the news. ‘When the Mayor died, she hung plastic sheeting on the poles. It was like she was making her own flags.’
‘Did they look like anything?’
‘Kind of like wings, actually. But it was a flagpole, and she hung her own flag on it.’
‘So she’s replacing America.’
‘Or removing it,’ I said.
‘Removing it?’
‘Maybe not completely,’ I said, ‘but from the crime scene, at least. How about this: the Handyman always puts poles in the victims’ backs, because that’s how she sends her message. This time, because she was in City Hall, the only pole she could find was a flagpole, but she didn’t want the flag to interfere with her message: it’s not about America, it’s about something else, so she had to take the flag off so people wouldn’t get the wrong idea.’
‘That works,’ said Marci, ‘but it means there’s probably more to her message than just “here I am”.’
‘There you are,’ said Marci’s mom, opening the screen door. Marci and I were sitting on the porch, our feet on the steps, and her mom set down a plate of buttered bread on the floor between us. ‘This isn’t fresh out of the oven or anything, but I thought you might like a snack.’
Marci’s mom was large – not fat, just big – and her hands were weathered and callused from constant work in the yard and garden. She was nice enough, but it was obvious Marci had gotten her good looks from somewhere else.
‘Thanks,’ said Marci, smiling widely. She seemed grateful for the interruption, though I wasn’t sure. She picked up a piece of bread. ‘Mom’s bread is great, John, you’ll love it. This is, what, like five wholegrains?’
‘Six,’ said her mom. ‘I added another one.’
I took a piece and held it up to inspect it. It looked like a slab of birdseed.
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know you could get that many wholegrains into one piece of bread.’
‘I don’t want to interrupt,’ said her mom, opening the door and stepping back in. ‘Just bringing a snack. Have fun!’
‘ “Have fun”,’ said Marci, laughing. ‘She thinks we’re out here talking about our favourite bands or something.’
I held out my bread. ‘Do you seriously eat this?’
She laughed some more. ‘Of course we eat it. What else would you do with it?’
‘You could hang it from a tree and feed every bird in the neighbourhood.’
‘It’s
good for you
,’ she said, in a voice that meant she knew exactly how stupid that sounded, but then she took another big bite. She obviously enjoyed it.
good for you
,’ she said, in a voice that meant she knew exactly how stupid that sounded, but then she took another big bite. She obviously enjoyed it.
I took a bite; it was rough and chewy. I tried to say something, but it took so long to chew I couldn’t form any words.
‘Mom’s been perfecting this recipe for years,’ said Marci. ‘You should have tried it when she first started – it was pretty heavy-duty.’
I finally managed to swallow, and shook my head in disbelief. ‘Holy crap, that’s like a buttered granola bar.’
‘We eat it all the time,’ said Marci. ‘It’s totally normal to us now. Anything else feels too flimsy. Wonder Bread’s practically tissue-paper compared to this.’
‘Wonder Bread’s like tissue paper compared to anything,’ I said, ‘but if I can reverse the metaphor, this is like titanium compared to Wonder Bread.’
‘That’s actually a simile, not a metaphor. You can tell because it has “like” in it.’
‘And this is actually a construction material, not a food,’ I said. ‘You can tell because it has wood pulp in it.’
‘Poor baby,’ said Marci, making an exaggerated frown. ‘Wood pulp is good for you – it’ll put hair on your chest.’
‘And you’ve been eating this for how long?’ I asked. ‘That’s horrifying.’
Marci laughed again. ‘Shut up!’
I heard a car engine rumbling closer, and looked out to the street just in time to see Marci’s dad pull up to the kerb in his squad car. I set the bread back down on the plate and tried to look innocent. I wasn’t afraid of cops, I actually quite liked them, but I’d never met one at his own house before. The last thing I needed was for Officer Jensen to freak out and tell me to stop corrupting his daughter.
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