Authors: Christopher C. Payne
I awoke the next morning disappointed that I had nothing to play with. I now wished that I had allowed my new found toy a one-day reprieve so I could appease my appetite again. As usual, I woke up ready to start my day off with a bang. Unfortunately, this was not to be, so I started the process much in the same way that I had cleaned up Jill’s remains. With my blonde toy, there was at least a semblance of her former self although it was marked with a hollow vacant stare. She was as cold as the frigid air outside, completely drained of her life fluid.
Cleaning up took me the better part of the day; and once completed, I piled the remaining bones in a corner of my special playroom and marveled at what a diminutive pile the two women had now become. There was not much left of my ladies-in-waiting; and hopefully during my next trip, I could whittle them down to nothing.
I arrived home on Sunday afternoon, unpacked, and decided to do some grocery shopping. My three girls were going to arrive again on Monday evening, and I did not have any of the basic staples in the house. I shopped, did a few additional mundane chores, then sat down to catch up on some work and watch a little TV.
It was odd making the transition back to “normal life.” I felt the familiar twinge of guilt at times when I dropped off my girls, and relief swelled in my bones at having peace for a few minutes. I can only describe the emotion as a few seconds of calm and serenity shortly replaced by a longing emptiness when I immediately wished they were back. They have a way of keeping me grounded with their wholesome, unconditional love. The eyes of a 6 year old, telling you she loves you is a moment that should be preserved.
The girls arrived in their normal chaotic manner. As usual, my 14 year old was in her same teenage moody way. She was so hormonal and had taken to attitude swings. It was difficult to try and decipher what was going on in her head. We went through the routine of dinner, homework, showers, and brushing hair, which is never a great activity. For a 6-year-old girl especially, it is constantly filled with screaming and crying with every knot that is detangled. My attempt at sensitivity makes the exercise last for 30 minutes or more. How could I be so caring at times and yet so callous in my other life I thought as I put the two little ones to bed and settled down for the evening.
My oldest wanted to talk so we discussed the current living arrangements. She had continued to ask over the last two months if she could live with me exclusively. I had always tried to discourage this, as I feel it is important for a child to have a positive influence from both her mother and her father. I, personally, feel her mother is incapable of positive influence—but, nonetheless, felt she should have both. She began crying and explaining how I didn’t understand how bad it was there, and how her mother was constantly screaming at her and making it unbearable to live.
Eventually I caved and said, okay. I would give it my best shot and see what I could do, but it would be a difficult battle. This was the umpteenth time we had this conversation, and it seemed that she felt strongly and genuinely was having trouble living there. I would later learn I should have stuck to my original thinking, as teenagers change their minds like the wind shifting around a bonfire. No matter where you stand, you tend to get smoke blown directly in your face. There is no winning.
I had a court date set up that week anyway and was expecting to receive my wife’s filing very soon. Sadly, this came the next morning. My attorney had warned me that in the process of getting a divorce I should expect my wife to blatantly lie about one major thing in my life--not embellish or extrapolate, but completely and totally lie. Since I was the petitioner and asking for the divorce, he stated it was a very common occurrence coming from the respondent. As I read the filing that he faxed over, I was astounded at the contents.
It was a 10-page document focused completely and totally on what an ass I was and how I had spent the last 15 years making her life miserable. I had apparently stolen all her money from her (but I had no idea where I must have put it). Every decision ever made was my fault, the kid’s problems and issues were all derived from my immaturity, and I had an inability to see or do anything correctly. It was hard for me to contain the explosion in the pit of my stomach. It was like a volcano in a cartoon where the top is plugged by an artificial cap. You see the mountain trying to explode, but the cap holds it secure as the mountain gyrates up and down, attempting to let the pressure escape. My attorney had warned me how odd a filing it was. Once he completed reading it, he was still unsure what she was asking for. Normally there is some kind of request—her entire goal seemed to be only to disparage me in public.
I immediately called my attorney to say how disappointed I was. He stated that she would lie; but other than her name, I was not sure if anything else was factual. She continued to surprise me in terms of how low she could sink. Just when I thought she might have hit bottom, she found the ability to dig her hole deeper and move further down into the sewer where she seemed to enjoy working. The only time she refused to bend over in our entire marriage was when I had requested oral sex. For that she stood up straight and firm, resolved never cave to something so disgusting.
One of the lowest points in our divorce was when I found out she was reading her boyfriends’ profiles from her dating service to our 11- and 6-year-old daughters. She actually sat down with them, reviewed her dates, and showed them pictures. This was long before our divorce was even final. Her inability to think logically and beyond her own selfish interests astounded me.
To make matters even worse, the document she filed was public. This meant that everything she had written could be viewed by anyone with a computer and a desire to look it up. She had written personal stuff about our kids, their activities, and issues that could now be viewed by anyone. If I had not hated her with every fiber of my body already, I certainly did now. I am not sure what level of emotion runs beyond hate, but that was now what I felt for her. Hate, although a strong word, was nothing compared to my feelings at that point in time.
This, of course, goes against all the counselors’ advice on getting a divorce. You should try and have as positive a relationship as possible with your ex-spouse for the sake of the children. This seems to be the key to keeping the children as whole as possible. What the counselors failed to realize was this was the same woman who, on the day we had set aside to tell the kids we were getting a divorce, lay in her bed watching TV. Upon my arrival she stated “This is your show; you can do whatever you like,” leaving it up to me to explain to the kids what was happening and why their mother and I thought it best that we no longer remain together. This conversation happened with
Friends
blaring in the background, as she lay on her ass and watched TV.
I only wish that her so-called friends and family could see the real woman they thought they knew and respected. If only I had a camera and could videotape a few of her select episodes, everyone’s opinion of this insane two-faced lady would change drastically and immediately. Her own family would be appalled at what kind of person she truly was and had become. She could rival the late Heath Ledger and be cast as the next villain in the Batman sequel. She was that far gone and apparently that good at acting.
I decided to allow my older daughter the luxury of staying with me full-time, but this would now change my continuing plans. My pent-up anger was building, and there was no release seemingly possible with my daughter as a constant companion. I really needed to change my mode of operation and try to discover a new outlet. I was intelligent enough to realize that if I did not find a new avenue, I would one day explode, and my sadistic ex-wife would be the recipient of years of pent-up anger.
This was and would always be unacceptable. My children needed a mother, no matter what. Even if she were twisted and her favorite mode of communication were warped facts and deformed truths, they still adored her. I could not allow myself to use her as the outlet for my anger. I would have to find another release.
Unfortunately, my preoccupation with my long-term married lover was also starting to take its toll. She was continually demanding more and more of my time as things with her husband deteriorated. She was becoming increasingly paranoid that I was going to leave her behind and move on now that I had my newfound single status. She was correct in the last assumption, but I knew the only true way to rid myself of her completely would be expiring her, as well. She would need to go at some point. I just had not figured out a logical solution yet.
My first two participants in my newfound hobby had been unique and allowed me to explore, on a very personal level, my hidden desires and fantasies. Unfortunately, I knew that my living arrangements would now drastically minimize my free time. I needed to find an outlet for my bottled-up anxiety, but I needed to do it in a way that would be over quickly and concisely.
Hobbies were something that I was becoming more and more familiar with. Upon the decision to get divorced, I had decided to explore things that my controlling, perverted ex-wife would never allow--one was looking for a new job that I could truly say I enjoyed, two was spending more time snowboarding, which I had taken up only last year, three was kite surfing, four was scuba diving, five was writing a book (which I am now doing in my memoirs), six was taking control of my life. I no longer was willing to accept the verbal abuse that I had for the last 17 years, and this meant finding an outlet for my frustration, as well. I also enjoyed the fact that my children were able to participate in snowboarding, and I hoped that they would one day take to kite surfing or scuba diving. My youngest was already a very accomplished skier.
I often think of how Atlas must have felt in the tales of Greek folklore – how he was responsible for holding up the world. His sole job was ensuring it remained propped up on his shoulders. What a huge responsibility it was to provide an environment for everyone to feel content. They could move about their lives and do as they pleased. This had been my marriage. To prop my ex-wife up and hold her hand through every decision that was ever made, only to have her point a finger at me and blame me when anything went wrong. She manipulated me into making decisions so she did not have to, but I was only allowed to make the choices that she stipulated. This allowed her the luxury of blaming me for anything and everything that ever went wrong in our household.
No. 6 on my list was the most important to my sanity; and since I now had to find a new avenue to move into, I decided I would try something unique for me. The two things I kept from my military days were my pocketknife and my 9MM Beretta pistol with a suppressor (silencer). My wife never knew about the latter, and I was never able to keep ammunition in the house for my fear that I would load the gun one evening and shoot her point-blank in the head. I would have to aim for the mouth, though, as I am not sure that she used any other body part from her shoulders up. Her ears were simple receptacles for her earrings—she had never listened to anything I muttered in our entire marriage.
This was an unregistered weapon. At the time of my purchase several years ago, it was still relatively easy in the southern states to purchase a gun of this nature. You did not have to tell 20-plus government agencies and ask permission. I got the gun out a few weeks ago and commenced shooting it, now and then, at a local range. I kept it in my SUV in the floorboard, underneath the mat, in the back by the spare tire.
I decided to drive to San Francisco, guilelessly pull out my gun, take a walk in a couple of dark alleys, and shoot the first homeless person that I saw. I would, then, casually walk back to my car, get in, and drive away. I was concerned with this plan for two reasons.
One, I, of course, could be seen and identified by somebody. This didn’t seem to be a major issue, but was a consideration all the same. I couldn’t imagine anyone caring if one less homeless person were on the streets of San Francisco. There seemed to be an abundance of them every time you walked down any sidewalk. It was difficult going to dinner and seeing a play downtown anymore without partaking in the pleasant aroma of street urine and pot smoking that could be seen openly on any block anywhere.
The other issue was release. This would be different than my first two encounters, as I would not be able to sit and relish in the death or get to know the person before I became their gateway to another world. It would be impersonal, and I was concerned I would not gain the same level of elation that I had from my first two activities. I was willing to try this new idea, but I did not hold out a lot of hope that this would appease my growing hunger.
I continually remembered the movie
American Beauty
and the random scenes of death the boy character helped institutionalize. He had taped a brown paper bag as it randomly flittered up and down, seemingly going nowhere. It just floated along, entranced in its own world. How he stopped and peered into the dad’s eyes, as he lay there having just recently been shot. The preoccupation with suburban society had been overshadowed by the look at death from a new angle.
I decided to give it a shot, so to say. Since I had a dinner plans later that week, I would try it out on short notice. Unlike my first two events, this was really doing a service to the city. Everyone was continuing to find an answer to the homeless problem, and maybe I had stumbled upon the perfect resolution.
Sudhir decided he would give himself one week. He would go through every name on the Volvo list and see if he could narrow down the possibilities. He felt strongly that the person he was looking for was right before his eyes; he just couldn’t figure out how to find him. A needle in a haystack, as the old saying goes. You see the haystack, and you know the needle is in there, but how do you go about finding the damn thing.
While he was going through the list, he would continue to monitor the current cases that came up across the scanner for anything that had any reference to a Volvo. He was sure his killer would continue to use the same vehicle.
Four thousand, one hundred and eighty-seven names. He would start alphabetically and research each person, methodically weeding through each and every name. The more in tune Sudhir became with the process of being a true detective, the better he understood how tedious the systematic approach could be – the painstaking attention to detail, the lifting and sifting of every angle, reviewing the same facts and details over and over again. Looking for the one small crack that would lead to the hole this sick individual was hiding in was what it would take. He now fully realized the need to return to the scene of the crime, as that was the one true connection he had with the killer – the actual place where the killing began.
He had strongly urged his captain to allow him to contact the FBI. Sudhir knew a local agent and felt that their profiling capabilities would come in handy—the murders were starting to spread. His captain refrained from allowing it, as there was no concrete evidence linking the two murders to each other. Besides, the random memory of a SUV might or might not actually be the abductor’s vehicle.
Sudhir started with the first page of his list of named Volvo owners. He sifted through and accumulated three piles. One group was a no chance, another group was a possibility, and the last group was a likely suspect. He sorted through names, calling some, asking about a dent in the back-end of their vehicle. He simply stated that he was with the police department and was worried that there might have been an accident. People who answered negatively went straight into the no chance pile.
He filtered race and age. The abductor had been described as definitely male and Caucasian. He also eliminated anyone that was below 25 and above 50, giving himself a wide margin of error. He felt great after day one. He had managed to get through 650 names and had successfully eliminated 500 of them relatively quickly. It continued to feel as if he were reaching into the ocean, his bare hands hoping to come up with the one pebble that he needed so desperately to find. He decided to call it a day and ensure that he arrived home on time to deflect any unwarranted hostility from his better half.
By day three he was half-way through the list and his initial first day ratio was holding true. He had eliminated 1,700 names from his list. He had 296 possibilities, and he was left with four names of the first 2,000 that had some issues. Unfortunately, for Sudhir he got distracted. He was unknowingly close to a breakthrough, but across his screen came an alert about a shooting in San Francisco the night before.
A homeless person had been shot at point blank range in the head three times. Another homeless person was also shot, but in the midsection twice. Once right through the heart and once in the right lung. Both were dead upon arrival. There had been a third homeless person that had been hidden in the same alley, and he remained in his dirt-filled trash receptacle sanctuary until after the killer had left. He did not see the wielder of death himself; but as he scampered out of hiding and peeked around the corner, he saw a man getting into a green Volvo and leaving the scene.
While the two might again not be related, it was odd that a Volvo had crept into all of these random crime scenes. Sudhir decided it was worth looking into and made the drive down to San Francisco that afternoon to see what he could find out. He talked to the local authorities, who gave him the flimsy file and said he could do with it as he pleased. The two murdered individuals were crack-heads, in and out of trouble on a consistent basis. Nobody would miss them. Sudhir thought to himself that at some point the two had families; and as misguided as their lives might have been, somebody somewhere was going to feel some pain at their no longer having a chance at recovery.
The one lone person to escape that night in the dark alley was a local bum who had been on the streets for more than the past 20 years. He lived in that alley for most of the past 10 and was well known in the neighborhood. He was an alcoholic, but a decent soul who never really bothered anyone. Even in his most inebriated state, he was a pleasant enough person. The local hoods left him alone as he had become somewhat of an icon, and he seemed to be beyond reproach from the police or any of the low-lifes that frequented the area.
He was the Switzerland of Market Street, and even the local establishments tended to give him scraps and keep him in good health. He apparently was well known to the area’s law enforcement, and most everyone liked the old guy.
Sudhir drove down to find the homeless guy, Samuel A. Adams, as he was known, and see if there were any further details that might have eluded San Francisco’s finest. Nothing against the San Francisco police force, mind you. They have a great reputation, and Sudhir did think highly of them (although that is an extremely generic thing to say about such a large group of individuals). But a case like this would be given little to no priority. If Sudhir was not concerned, nobody else would follow up.
Sudhir found Samuel A. Adams on a park bench, sitting two blocks from the infamous Orpheum Theatre right on Market Street. Sudhir found a parking spot, paid his exorbitant fee to stay there for a short period, and went wandering up the street so he could converse with his eccentric witness. He had been given a description, but it wasn’t hard to recognize Samuel—he held court for anyone who would listen that he had witnessed the next great San Franciscan killer. He and he alone was the sole survivor of what would be called the greatest killing spree of all time.
The crowd quickly dispersed upon hearing that Sudhir was a police officer, which allowed the two men to sit and talk quietly without interruption. Sudhir soon found out that Samuel was quite a talker. He had grown up on the South side of Chicago ,had been reared in the projects, and would have died there if it were not for boxing. He, at one time, was ranked as high as No. 7 in the light heavyweight division and would have gotten a title fight within a year if it weren’t for the one bad hit to the head that dislodged something or other; and after that, he was banned from boxing.
He had flailed around Chicago for a while; but quickly found out that if you were nobody, then you were truly nobody. People stopped caring about Samuel very quickly when he could no longer fight, and he also found out how cold Chicago could be in the winter. He left in November, hitched his way out to San Francisco, and had been here ever since. He loved this city like it was his own; and although he had never given anything back, he was careful to recognize how nice the people of this area had been to him. He didn’t cause any trouble, and he never once had urinated anywhere outside of his alley. He has a spot specifically for that activity, and he goes there and only there.
Sudhir couldn’t help but smile at the code of ethics that had found its way into Samuel’s thinking. Right or wrong, the man seemed genuinely good and had a decent heart. He was somebody that Sudhir felt he could grow to like; and if given a chance in another lifetime, would actually be a great person. It was easy to see how a community could have adopted him.
They finally got around to the night of the murders, and Samuel had the story well rehearsed. By this time it was Sudhir’s guess he had told the story north of 100 times, and he immediately jumped into a dramatic showing that was not just a story but a reenactment of the events of said evening.
“The night was dreary and cold,” Samuel started. “I sat in the confines of the local trash bin doing my normal search and seizure mission for my nightly nourishment. Two of the local hoodlums were trying to move in on my territory and were attempting to take what was rightfully mine. I told them there would be hell to pay. This was my alley, and everyone knew that. It was my territory, and by them invading my space they were sure to face the wrath of the Devil himself. He would swoop down upon them and strike them with his hammer and ensure that they did not see the light of the next day.
“They did not listen; but instead started to harass me and tell me that if I did not shut up, they would make sure that I had no means to instigate another conversation after this night was over. I sat in my trash bin, contemplating what to do, looking out of the crack in the side, devising my next move when he came.
“He walked into the alleyway. It must have been a little past 10:30 p.m. The night took on a quiet calmness, and the noise from the street seemed to fade away into the darkness beyond. I sat and watched him, seeing the gun protruding like an additional appendage from his hand. It was as if it were part of his body, another limb that extended out unnaturally as he wielded it.
“The two morons did not see him until it was too late. They paid me no attention when I tried to warn them, and I sat stoically by as he raised his weapon of choice and pulled the trigger. Three times in the first one and, then, twice in the second. The one gentleman did not even hear the first guy go down. He had no idea what was coming. The weapon was longer than normal for a gun of the hand-held kind. It had a long stick on the end of the barrel, and there was no noise except a slight swoosh as each round fired in sequence.
“He simply observed the two for a few minutes after they fell into place--watching them as you would a play or an enactment of historical proportion. It was as if he were committing the scene to memory so he could afford the luxury of replaying it over and over again in his mind in the safety of his home at a later date. After he had taken the surroundings in, he turned and walked back the same way that he had come--retracing his steps and slowly deliberately moving toward his escape.
“I stepped out of my bin after a few minutes and peeked around the corner to see him drive away in a Volvo SUV. I know it was a Volvo SUV as it is the same make and body type as the SUV on that billboard right overhead that has now been hanging there for the last several months. I know it was him that got into that car because I watched him for several minutes.
“He dismantled his weapon and placed it in the back underneath a mat, then removed his coat, and placed it in the back, as well. He, then, went to the driver’s seat, looked around, and got in. He started the car and slowly drove away as if nothing happened without a care in the world. The police asked me for a license plate number; but it was dark, and I could not see anything that clearly.
“I think it started with a KY, then something, then ended in a six, but that was the most that I got. I remember KY as it reminded me of Kentucky at the time. Isn’t KY the symbol for Kentucky? I think it is, anyway. The six is the age of my granddaughter that I will never see and miss more than I can ever tell you. You can’t miss a granddaughter more than one you have never seen. Every time I think of her, it is as if somebody is standing in front of me, ripping my heart into tiny little pieces.”
When Samuel finished his story, Sudhir contemplated what Samuel had said. It seemed like a professional killing, yet that did not make any sense. The two individuals that were murdered were nobodies who floated around and paused for a drink now and then. It is as if Sudhir’s killer had suddenly decided he no longer wanted to kill innocent women, but had now chosen a completely different path.
Was he randomly killing anyone or anything just for the thrill? Weren’t serial killers supposed to follow some sort of consistent pattern, maybe a mommy syndrome or hating their ex-wife or having been abused by their father? Didn’t they look for individuals that fit a specific pattern, or at least kill them in a similar fashion?
His gut was again telling him this was the same guy, but he had no idea how to sell this to his captain. He again felt he needed the help of the FBI and, at this point, in time would try his captain again. If he refused, Sudhir would take matters into his own hands and ask for help—even if it were on the side, as they say.
He thanked Samuel profusely for the magnificent recounting of the event and gave him $20 for his trouble. He would have to come back and visit him sometime as he had thoroughly enjoyed his afternoon story session and had taken an instant liking to the old guy. He made the trip back to his office and pored through his list of names and registrations. As was expected in this baffling case, not one of his listed names had a license plate starting with KY.
It was as if this guy and his car did not exist. He found himself dreaming up images of the old cartoon character “Ghost Rider” and the recent movie with Nicolas Cage, “Next.” How had “Ghost Rider” gone exactly? You suddenly turned into a blazing inferno skeletal demon and started killing off people the Devil had told you to in some half-dream state of mind. You did all this with a whip of chain links that burned, as well, and laughed at everyone with your skull head.
Could it be possible that the motorcycle had been replaced by a Volvo and the chain whip with a revolver? Nothing made sense right now. Sudhir decided to call it a day and head home. He would call the FBI agent in the next few days, but he needed to get his story together for his captain and see if he could possible link the now four killings together somehow.
It seemed odd, even to him, and he knew it would be a tough sell. He would reserve the rest of his energy for the inevitable fight he was sure would be coming once he made it home. One thing in life on which he could always count: Janine being in a bad mood when he opened the front door.