Wednesday, December 13, 2006

essay

The most dangerous stations are the emptiest.

The low G echoed through the white washed room. The followed notes jumping off the empty bookshelves, the bedside table, the window seat, the vanity press and finally the queen size bed. Beyond the echoes of the grand piano suavely playing the Moonlight Sonata, was the accompaniment of a low soft humming of a man. The tall figure stood beside the bed, his back and broad shoulders straight with discipline, his eyes closed and a look of relaxation imprinted on his face as he followed the continuous notes and directed his invisible orchestra with the scalpel in his left hand. He was preparing himself by clearing his mind and blocking out all of the worldly sounds of bird singing, cars passing by, the clock ticking and the muffled screams of anguish until all he could hear was the pulsing beat of his own heart in his ears and Beethoven’s music.
And, as he bent down and hovered above the naked outstretched body on the white sheet-less mattress, he smiled quietly at the thought that Beethoven had written the song as a proclamation of his love for his fiancée. For now, as he stood there, ready for the kill, he could understand exactly the fullness of spirit that the great composer must have felt the day he wrote the sonata. As he sunk the scalpel into the rosy flesh right beneath the sternum and began the incision down to the navel and onto the pelvis, he too felt complete. He felt the world engulf him with love and attention as he took care only to cut the abdominal muscles and not penetrate the organs hiding below, waiting for him to find them. With every inch he cut and every fresh gush of blood, his heart would pound faster. It seemed to fill up with the flowing blood and become fuller and fuller until it could no more and would burst right through his ribs and lie spastically on the floor.
Two hours later and twenty replays of the moonlight sonata, the figure stood by the window. His gaze was fixed on the sun, the sharp rays not affecting his cat-like green eyes. The sun was hovering above the horizon, ready to descend below and abandon the world into the arms of darkness. Its golden glow passed off pinks and bright yellows to the clouds hovering nearby in the azure sky. The last birds were now flying to get their final meal and retire to their nests to sleep through the bitter cold winter night. The figure turned his back to the window and quickly adverted his eyes around the room. He hated this time of year. Every day was cold and bitter, and so, every day would remind him of the day when his parents dropped him off at the orphanage when he was only four. All he could remember now was the terrible feeling of loneliness and emptiness he felt, along with an engraved image of his father’s emerald green eyes and his mother wavy auburn hair. He hated them just as he hated winter. They had left him in that orphanage to die all because they didn’t love him anymore. In the orphanage, the first thing the nuns did was convert him immediately to Catholicism, whether he wanted to or not, and every Sunday mass was attended. It was there that he had heard the words “Love never fails” from 1 Corinthians 13:8 and it was there it all truly started.
Now, looking around the room, he smiled with pleasure, like a child with a new toy. The mattress was soaked through with blood, the deep red contrasting beautifully with the white walls. Around the corpse lay the organs, encircling it. The only organ that was not touch were the emerald green eyes that lay open, staring up at the ceiling and the brain which was still neatly hidden beneath the scalp of beautiful wavy auburn hair. The heart was separate from the circle of organs. It lay on the vanity dresser opposite the window. Careful not to drip any blood, he had washed it free of the blood in the ensuite yellow bathroom, and placed it on the white surface. Now, as the sun was setting and spreading its delicate rays upon the world, as if trying to say a compassionate goodbye before abandonment, the droplets of water on the heart gleamed like diamonds, and reflected off the scalpel that stood erect in the centre of the cardiac muscle.
He sighed, wishing that his heart could one-day gleam like that, if not physically, then at least spiritually. Yet it couldn’t, he knew, and it never would. Even now, he could feel the joy and love he had been filled with earlier begin to drain out of him, as the water does out of a bath. Bit by bit, he could feel the smile fade and the buzz of his mind subside. His heart rate slowed and beat once more with a solemn emptiness as he closed the front door.
* * * * * * * * * * *
“What have we got?” Agent Todd asked with a tone of command.
“The usual,” came a quick reply from the man who was quickly walking towards her to help raise the yellow tape across the doorframe. Todd cringed. It was the dreaded reply as it meant that this was the thirteenth killing in the span of six months. When the first homicide had occurred in early July, it was quickly tied to three murders during the 1980s. All crime scenes had been exactly the same-white washed walls and a dismembered corpse encircled by its own organs. Now, however, it was late January and the killer was still at large. There were never any clues, no matter how thorough the forensic investigation team had been. It was as though a ghost had committed the crimes; yet, even a ghost would not have been able to stomach the killing. Todd looked at the room and sighed. She was tired, physically and mentally. She had hardly slept since the murders had begun and she was hoping that somewhere she would find some kind of evidence that could give her a lead even if it were just for the sake of sleeping again, yet it never seemed to appear. All she got was a big nothing with a side of coffee and insomnia.
“The victim is Irma Sands. She was thirty-four, a mother of two, happily married and works in the orphanage in the city. She’s been dead for approximately 24 hours…” he trailed off as he realised that Todd was no longer listening to him but instead had her gaze fixed on the heart with the scalpel still erect in the centre. It was a common sight. A trademark, which the killer seemed to leave them every time just to make sure they know it’s never a copy-cat, just to make sure that they know it is real. By now only one link had been found between this victim and all the rest-the green eyes and the auburn hair. Other than that, there was nothing. Their races were random, their ages, their life-styles, jobs, fame…everything possible was random except for the hair and eyes. Agent Todd let her eyes dwell around the room and spotted something. She never could decide how it was that she looked out the window, yet she never regretted it because there on the windowsill was a smudge. The entire room was clean except for the smudge.
“Frank, give me some sellotape, would you…I think our killer just made his first mistake.”

Sitting at her desk later that night, Todd was going through the case with her mug of black bitter coffee in one hand and the sixteen files scattered into the shape of a fan across her lamp-lit table with every name visible. She had been through every file so often that she knew them like the back of her hand. She knew every detail, every picture, and every doughnut smudge…but still, there was nothing. She looked over the desk, considering all the names and the innocent people who had to die for someone’s craving of blood. It was disgusting all the sick bastards there were in the world. She sighed and took another gulp full of the cold coffee. Irene Kensey, Isabel Lambert, Lisa Elms, Danielle Thorn, Helen Everies, Michelle Adams, Nicole Damn, Brenda Right, Emily Nox, Dejonay Alwers, Natalie Feder, Orla Xaver, and now Irma Sands. The list had to end, that was for sure.
The idea struck. Quickly grabbing a pen and paper, Todd scribbled down all the first letters to the names, hopping that this was something and not just a nothing like all the rest. I-K-I-L-L-E-D-T-H-E-M-A-N-D-B-R-E-N-D-A-N-F-O-X-I-S-N-E. She saw it immediately- I killed them and Brendan Fox is next.
“Frank?” Todd called over the phone. “Todd here. Look, I have solved it. Brendan Fox is the next victim!”
“What? How do you…” The front door opened.
“Honey, I’m home!” came the salutation.
“The names of the victims spell out a message…look, no time to explain. I am going over to Fox’s hotel, get men out there as soon as possible, ok?”
She didn’t wait for a reply. She slammed down the phone. She rushed passed her husband, giving him a kiss on the cheek, grabbed her coat, gun and keys and shut the door behind her leaving a confused husband in the hall.
* * * * * * * * * * *

1 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

Yes, you know i like bids... Forgive my saying but you would put a non-toned down SA on the internet!

Wed Mar 21, 10:47:00 p.m.  

Post a Comment

<< Home