[glow=red,2,300]PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE STARTING THIS STORY[/glow]
Hello everyone. As you may or may not be aware, I wrote a story not long ago that dealt with the murder of kidnapped kids that were raised by a pair of crazy’s to adulthood and in that time were mentally regressed and brainwashed into believing that their captors were loving and doting parents. Now, I felt this story was good and I was very pleased with how it came out but felt that it was too timid given the actual subject matter contained within.
This story is the polar opposite in regards to the way the subject matter is presented. At no point within this story will you find sweetness or light, nor will you find punches pulled when it comes to describing the events that occur. I will tell you that I have made it my personal mission to make the contents of this chapter and future chapters unsettling and in some cases downright disturbing. This story will have strong language, adult content, and graphic descriptions of violence.
With that in mind, I will not take any offense nor will I provide any argument if this story is deemed unfit for this board. If that happens you can still find this chapter and subsequent ones on my deviantArt page which I have provided a link to in my signature.
My hope is that this story will be something that makes people think and perhaps even open up and share how reading it made them feel as that will give me some idea as to whether I’m on the right track with the tone of the story. I welcome any and all comments whether they be positive or negative, and as always I welcome feedback on how the story can be improved.
So, if you still want to dive into this tale, I will simply say that I’m very thankful for you reading my work and I look forward to reading your comments. If you choose not to read this story, then I thank you for taking the time to read this forward and wish you a good day. Thank you for your time.
Baby Killer
By: Dementia’s Knight
I
Have you ever tasted the barrel of a gun? It’s pretty disgusting actually. It’s one of those tastes that if you weren’t so determined to end your life you’d back out simply because of that unpleasant taste. I imagine that the closest you could come without actually putting a gun between your lips would be to put a nickel you found on the floor of a garage or body shop in your mouth, something metallic with a hint of grease and any other number of otherwise awful ingredients mixed in. It’s very funny to me that in this, of all moments, I’m wondering just what kind of illnesses I’m exposing myself to by having this gun in my mouth; I mean it’s not as if it would matter if I was to get sick, the hole in the back of my skull would be much worse in comparison. I guess maybe it’s one of those things that your brain processes naturally but in this moment it comes across a sort of veiled attempt to stop me from going through with my plan and this time, much like the other seven times I’ve tried this, I uncock the hammer and pull my salvation from my mouth and replace it in the small drawer by my couch.
I used to wonder what would make someone want to take their own life, and I guess part of me wonders why I want to take mine now, but the truth is that there really isn’t a reason I can give to it that doesn’t make me sound weak or cowardly. I could tell you that it’s because I’m nearing forty and have never been able to find love, or that I’m miserable at my job, Hell, I could even tell you that it’s because the world is such a goddamn cesspool that the mere thought of being in it for another day makes me want to vomit my guts out. All of those things, I rationalize, could be the reason why I’d rather eat a bullet than get up in the morning, but none of those things should amount to wanting to die.
The couch springs pop when I rise, as do my knees. I walk over to the small window across the room and look out at the street just a few floors below. I used to see people bustling to get to their jobs or other activities; some with their children, others alone and at one time I’d smile and be proud of my city. Today, all I see is a street nearly devoid of life save for the sporadic drunk or junkie looking for their next score. My neighborhood now reminds me of when I was growing up in Hell’s Kitchen, except slightly less violent. As a kid I’d resented my mother for nagging me about being home well before dusk, but now, even though I’m older and tougher and carry a badge and gun, I still for the most part still follow that rule.
I’ve been a cop for fourteen years now, New York’s finest they call us. I’m not sure that moniker will ever be taken seriously by me. Sure, after 9/11 everyone clung to the belief that us and the FDNY were real life super heroes, but the reality was that because of the bravery of a few good men that put their lives on the line for the sake of innocent civilians, which in my humble opinion was not above and beyond the call of duty, dirty cops got to shine just as brightly as the good ones. Don’t get me wrong, I believe that the men and women that did their jobs that day deserve recognition but I don’t think its right for every womanizing alcoholic with a badge to be raised up on that same pedestal. I’ve known a lot of good cops throughout my years on the force, but for every one of them there’s ten others waiting to take a little extra cream with their coffee, if you know what I mean.
I rest my forehead against the window and savor the coolness that the early November air brings to the surface. I wish I could stay right here in my apartment with my head on this window and not go out and face whatever insane machinations society has cooked up for the Homicide department today, but I know that sooner or later someone would start to wonder where I was and eventually come and disturb my peace. With a labored sigh I remove myself from the window and head back to the bedroom to get dressed for the day. I barely bother with showers anymore, mostly because once I’m in there I start feeling like I never want to leave and then once I finally do I realize I’ve been standing under the water for at least an hour and thus have put myself behind in my day’s schedule.
My floorboards creak beneath me as I make my way to the bedroom and each subsequent groan and creak reminds me of similar noises my body makes when it wants to let me know that it isn’t pleased with my performance in the maintenance department. I strip down as I enter the room and glance disdainfully at my sad excuse for a cock; I wonder if maybe I’d have been more likely to find love had my penis not seemed like the fat you’d trim from a steak and instead had seemed like something that might show you a good time. I push these thoughts aside and set to getting dressed, starting with some clean underwear to cover my shame. I pull off my dingy white T-shirt and marvel at the lack of tone my torso has. If I didn’t know better I’d think I was in my sixties with the amount of sagging flesh I’m saddled with. I fish the least wrinkled looking shirt from the small pile beside my bed and pull it on and start buttoning it as I search for my pants and a tie.
The mirror tells me that I look like a fucking train wreck when I look into it, and for the briefest of moments I contemplate trying suicide again but end up pushing that back into the dark depths of my brain for later perusal. I try to do something with my greasy and thinning brown hair, but end up abandoning the attempt when I realize that nothing short of a shower will fix the situation and with me lacking time or drive to handle that I resign myself to looking like reheated shit and gather my wallet and holster before filling the latter with my service weapon and heading out the door.
My trip into the station consists of a train ride and three buses which is ample time to get intimately acquainted with the sea of assholes that need to get across town. Today I find myself standing next to a woman on the train that fails to understand the concept of covering her fucking face when she sneezes. Every sharp inhalation that precedes the inevitable explosion of mucus and spit that invariably ends up on my jacket or neck makes my trigger finger itch in a way that I hadn’t felt since my days as a beat cop. For a moment I wonder what would happen if I drew my gun and jammed it in her face before issuing her a stern warning about proper sneeze etiquette and pulling the trigger. I find myself laughing uncontrollably shortly after that thought when I imagine the people that were covered with her blood and brain matter feeling just as put out and angry as I’d been by her sneezing now that they knew what it felt like to have something from inside someone’s head on them. I don’t fare much better on the bus. I find myself seated next to a man who I can only describe as literally too old to be alive, who wants nothing more than to complain to anyone with a pair of working ears that his kids no longer love him. I can’t help but wonder if his kids stopped loving him because he smells like piss and shit and has teeth that look like he brushed them with ear wax. If I hadn’t been so sure that he was ready to die within the next three and a half minutes I would have imagined gunning him down too.
When I do finally manage to walk into the station I’m greeted by a man that I can only describe as my arch nemesis. Detective Walker is quite literally the antichrist, not only in personality but also in practice. He makes quips every time he sees me that I’m sure he thinks are hilarious, but are actually just irritating and rude. Walker is the kind of fuckhead that if he were working in an office he’d have a coffee cup that said ‘Working hard, or hardly working?’ and would try and sneak as many smoke and coffee breaks that he could, to minimize the amount of work he’d have to do in a given week until it was as close to zero as possible and then blame other people for him not getting promoted. How this sonofabitch made it beyond guarding the parking lot during a Yankees game is beyond me, I’m just thankful that he’s on Vice and I only see him for a few moments a day before I can slink past him to my beloved Homicide desk.
“What happened to you, Rollins?” Walker asks.
My brain struggles to brace itself for the torrent of ignorance that it’s about to be assaulted by, but without coffee it just sits patiently and waits for the bounty it’s going to receive.
Walker chuckles to himself and looks around for approval from the few officers that are unlucky enough to be caught in his vicinity. “You’re supposed to get inside the bus, not lie in the road and wait for it to run you over.” He says before laughing heartily at his own brilliance.
I grit my teeth and force a smile. “Good one, Walker.” I say unconvincingly. I scuttle away as quickly as I can to the stairs so I can get to my desk. As I’m leaving I hear Walker regaling everyone with his triumphant tale of how he’d burned me. Goddamn I hate him.
The climb up the two flights of stairs to my desk never used to seem as hard and long as it does nowadays. Each progressive step causes new pops and creaks to begin, which culminates to a full blown symphony of clattering bones and my own huffing and puffing by the time I reach the last step. With my workout complete, I prepare myself for the relief I get from slumping into my chair, when I turn the corner and bump into my partner.
Dana Malone makes a damn fine police. We’ve been partners for the better part of eight years now, and our relationship is what I imagine a marriage would be like, that is to say that we argue at least five times a day, she’s smarter than me and isn’t afraid to let me know it, and we never have sex. She give me a cursory once over with her eyes and shakes her head gently causing her tight blonde ponytail to sway ever so gently from one shoulder to the other. She clicks her tongue at me and straightens my tie a bit. “You need a woman in your life.” She says.
I smile at her. “I thought that’s what I had you for.” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes at me. “I’m way out of your league.” She tells me. “Besides, you aren’t exactly my type.” She adds.
“Well, if I ever decide to become a woman I’ll call you.” I tell her.
She shakes her head again. “You’re barely passable looking as a man, I shudder to think what you’d look like with tits.” She teases.
I take my turn to roll my eyes and start to head for the coffee machine when she stops me.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she asks.
“I was gonna get some coffee, is that alright with you?” I reply.
She holds up a piece of paper. “As a matter of fact, it isn’t.” she says. “We got a case.” She adds.
“I’m sure they’ll still be dead after I have some coffee.” I tell her.
“Don’t be such a bitch, I’ll buy you some coffee after we finish at the scene.” She says before she starts heading down the stairs.
I watch her descend the stairs and wonder where she gets her abundance of energy and then sigh to myself as I reluctantly follow her down.
She drives us to the scene, which gives me time to get in the mindset I need to be in to see whatever we’re heading into. It really doesn’t take as much effort as it sounds like it would and maybe I have my suicidal tendencies to thank for that. Once you imagine your own brain matter sprayed across the wall behind you it’s sort of hard to be shaken by a murder scene.
Malone shouts obscenities at another driver and I’m reminded just how tough and crass she is. She makes me feel old a lot of the time that we’re together, if for nothing more than the speed and ease that she gets around. She’s only ten years younger than me, but sometimes it feels like I’m a few decades older. The cynic in me believes that she pities me for being as old as I am and still middling around as a detective rather than making Captain or something but then I remember that even if she does pity me, at least she gives enough of a shit about me to have those feelings. If I had to choose a reason not to kill myself that wasn’t fear based, I think it’d be her.
“We’re here.” She says, bringing me out of my thoughts and back to the task at hand.
I step out of the car and into the darkness of the parking garage we’ve apparently arrived at. I follow closely behind her as she crosses the distance to the building’s elevators and presses the call button.
“Coroner says it’s a pretty bad one.” She tell me as we wait for the elevator to arrive.
I nod. “Kid?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “He said it was an adult female, but that it was pretty bad.”
I breathe a small sigh of relief at her answer. I never get used to seeing dead kids, and I’m not sure that given my current frame of mind I wouldn’t leap out a window if I had to see one.
The elevator dings and the doors slide open and I gesture Malone to enter first and then follow her in. She presses the button for the thirtieth floor and I’m again reminded of how grateful I am that we’re not heading up to the murder of a kid. We say nothing to each other as the elevator climbs its way to the thirtieth floor and soon find the door opening.
We leave the elevator and are stopped by an officer who lets us pass once we flash him our badges. The officer points us down to the end of the hall where we see the open door of the victim’s apartment swarmed with uniformed officers, medical examiners, and crime scene photographers. We push our way past the lot of them and make our way into the entryway of the spacious apartment.
Mahogany floors greet us as we step into the apartment and I follow them with my eyes to the royal purple carpeting of the living room and the sliding doors leading to the balcony beyond. The walls in the entry corridor are adorned with various paintings none of which I recognized as famous which more than likely meant they were pretty expensive. A small end table sat near the door and I noted the bowl of keys and assorted trinkets next to the very expensive looking women’s gold watch and cell phone, leading my powers of deduction to conclude that this was not a robbery. I took the opportunity to stuff my hands into my pockets while I had a free moment, I find that it helps curb the urge to touch anything and saves me from having to find someone with a pair of latex gloves for me to wear.
“I think we’re up back there.” Malone says as she nudges my arm and heads toward the living room.
I follow behind her and continue my visual assessment of the increasingly impressive apartment. The couch in the living room looks just uncomfortable enough to be expensive, and the glass table in front of it made the ensemble look like something you’d see in a high end furniture catalogue but not actually in someone’s house. A large fireplace filled the far wall to my left, and above that hung an insanely large flat screen television. My problem with this place started to become clear once that ebony behemoth came into view, this place didn’t look lived in. For all the money that whoever lived here had spent on furnishings, they had neglected to get anything that gave the apartment a soul. I found myself wondering if anyone actually lived here or if this was just a showcase apartment to give potential renters an idea of what they’d be living in.
We moved further into the apartment and came to a hallway to my right just off the living room that was dotted on either side with doors that were closed. Moving past the doors we made our way into the master bedroom and I was immediately struck by the smells of a murder scene. I surveyed the bedroom for signs that we had in fact arrived in the right room, but found nothing out of the ordinary.
The bedroom looked like it had been recently used for a night of passion of some kind, sheets twisted and dangling off the edge of the bed, and a few candles melted down to almost nothing on the bedside table. I looked for further proof that someone had been intimate in the room, a condom wrapper and noticeable stains on the mattress would have been nice, but I saw none of those things. My gut told me that our victim, whoever she was, had been with someone in this bed prior to her murder and I was willing to bet my laughable salary that that same person had killed her not too long after the consummation.
“Sorry to disturb you, but would you like to come back to Earth so we can take a look at our vic?” Malone chimed in, annoyance coating her tone.
I snapped my head around to face her. “Sorry, I was just getting the lay of the land.” I said.
She nodded. “We’ll do that after we take a look at the body.” She told me before she turned away and headed toward the nearby bathroom.
The smells intensified as I followed her to the bathroom, the coppery smell of blood, the stench of a body beginning to decompose, and the fainter yet still obvious smell of feces that the body had evacuated postmortem. All of these smells smacked me in the face as we crossed the threshold into the bathroom where we found the medical examiner knelt down next to the bathtub examining the body within.
You never get used to murder scenes, and rightfully so, since they’re all different. To get comfortable seeing them is probably a sign that you’ve slipped off your rocker a little bit. When you enter one, the first thing you notice is the smells and how awful and overpowering they are. The second thing is usually the body of the victim which, depending on the severity and depravity of the way they bought it can be enough to make even the hardest person want to run screaming from the room in search of a nice corner to curl up into a fetal position in. After those two things comes the area surrounding the body; signs of struggle, blood spatter or brain matter would all be common things, to try and prepare yourself for.
The woman in the tub was positioned so that her back was propped up against the end of the tub away from the spigot. Had she not clearly been dead you might have assumed you’d just walked in on a young woman bathing. The tub was empty save for her, and the walls surrounding the tub were clean and void of blood or any other mess. Her brown hair had been done into pigtails jutting from the sides of her head secured with peach colored hair bands. Her eyes were opened wide in a look of frozen terror, possible tinged with a plea for mercy to spare her from the fate that had ultimately befallen her. Protruding from her opened and very bloodied mouth was a yellow plastic stick of some sort about three or four inches that came to a ring at the end. Several of her teeth from both the top and bottom rows were knocked out leaving only bloody holes in some cases and chipped remnants or dangling roots in others. Her throat bulged out from whatever was at the other end of the yellow plastic making her look like a bullfrog in mid-croak. Her neck and chest were covered in blood, mostly from her mouth, but also from the word cut into her chest just above her bare breasts, ‘Degenerate’. Another word was crudely carved into her just above her naval, and given the way she was sitting it was harder to read, but it appeared to say ‘Pedophile’. Below that was the only article of clothing she was wearing, a disposable adult diaper.
“Jesus H. Fuck.” Malone muttered. A fitting statement that accurately encompassed what I was thinking.
The medical examiner nodded. “My thoughts exactly, Detective.” He said.
I cleared my throat, and was surprised that I actually startled myself in doing so. “Cause of death?” I asked.
“Well, I’ll have a better idea once I perform an autopsy but if I had to venture a guess right now I’d have to say that she probably suffocated due to whatever this is.” He said gesturing with his thumb to the plastic stick protruding from her mouth. “The cuts on her torso appear to have been made postmortem, and aren’t deep enough or in number enough to suggest that she bled to death.” He added.
“Any idea when she was killed?” Malone asked.
“Based on rigor and body temperature, I’d have to say she’s probably been dead a little over a day or so.” He said.
I nodded and looked to Malone to see if she had anything else to ask, seeing none I thanked the medical examiner and turned and left the bathroom as fast as my feet could carry me without making it look like I was rushing out. I was thankful to hear Malone’s footfalls behind me as I stopped walking once I’d reached the bedroom door leading to the hall. A uniformed officer approached us almost immediately, his eyes nervous looking and his smile a signal that he was young and eager to please.
“Detectives?” He asked as he came near. “We have the friend of the deceased out in the hall, she found the body.” He reported dutifully.
“Has anyone gotten her statement yet?” I asked.
The young officer nodded. “Yes sir, I took down her statement.” He said with a hint of pride in his voice.
“Good, give us just a minute and we’ll go talk to her.” I commanded, getting a small sense of satisfaction when the lad hopped to and hurriedly departed from my sight. If I didn’t know better I’d think he was angling for a cookie and a pat on the head for doing his job. “What’s her name?” I called out to him before he’d managed to round the corner out of the living room.
The young officer quickly flipped through his notepad. “Sarah Bledsoe.” He read.
I took a moment to memorize her name before speaking again. “And the victim’s name?” I asked.
More page flipping. “Annabelle Stevens.” He reported before he scurried away.
“Rock, Paper, Scissors for who goes to talk to the friend?” I offered to Malone.
She nodded and we each did our count of three and revealed our pick. My flattened hand was quickly beaten by Malone’s spread out index and middle fingers and I cursed under my breath before heading out to the hallway to deal with the undoubtedly grief stricken Ms. Bledsoe.
The woman in the hall was scrunched into a ball with her back against the wall, her hands engulfed inside a wool jacket of some sort. She had been crying, but she’d seemed to mostly have gotten that under control and was now periodically sniffling and wiping remaining tears from her eyes as necessary. She looked up at me hopefully as I approached, perhaps expecting me to tell her that her friend wasn’t dead and was just sleeping, and that any horrible things that had been done to her were all just special effects or some such nonsense.
“Ms. Bledsoe?” I asked as I stopped in front of her.
She nodded and rose from the floor. “Yes, that’s right.” She said.
“I’m Detective Rollins.” I told her. “I understand that you’ve given your statement to one of the officers already.” I said.
She nodded again. “Yes.” She said. “Please, tell me you’ll find whoever did this to Annie.” She pleaded as fresh tears began to bubble up and out of her red and puffy eyes.
“We’ll do our absolute best ma’am.” I told her. “For now though, I’m going to have one of these officers take you home or to a family member’s house and my partner and I will be in touch with you as soon as we conclude our investigation here.” I explained.
The look on her face was one of disappointment, but she nodded her agreement and left with the officer she’d been with before I’d gotten to her. I felt bad that I couldn’t offer her any more than what I had, but I don’t like to give people false hope when it comes to bringing killers to justice. The truth is that I could have easily told her that her friend had been brutally murdered and we may or may not find the scumbag that had done it and I would have been able to go home with a clear conscience.
“Rollins get in here and look at this.” Malone called out from inside the apartment.
I hurried back into the apartment and headed back toward the bedroom when I stopped at the open door in the hallway, a door to a spare bedroom. Malone was inside the room and looked to me as I entered.
“Ever see anything like this?” she asked.
I shook my head dumbly as I took in the room. The walls were the same soft peach color as the hair bands the victim had been wearing and the border on the top was pastel colored baby blocks with letters and numbers adorning the faces of each. In the left corner farthest from the door was a mahogany crib that was mind bogglingly large, easily big enough to fit three people the size of our victim without any discomfort. Beside that in the opposite corner was a changing table of the same oversized nature and also mahogany. Under the top of the table were several drawers most likely filled with items usually found on a changing table, explaining where the diaper the victim was wearing probably came from. In the corner nearest the door and to my left was a video camera set up on a tripod and to my right was a closet filled with brightly colored garments of all different types of material and frilliness.
“Thoughts?” Malone asked.
I inhaled deeply, my nose tickled by a sweet scent that was masking the smell of stale piss and shit coming from the large diaper pail near the changing table and exhaled sharply. “You couldn’t have gotten us a simple home invasion gone wrong or abusive husband getting what he deserved? No, you have to get us this psycho bullshit.” I said, my annoyance at the thought of poking around this bizarre rabbit hole any longer than we already had coming out in my tone.
“Fuck you, I just go where I’m told to.” She said. “Besides, at least now we have a case worthy of talking about.” She added.
I nodded. “I’d love to see the look on that fat fuck Walker’s face if he saw this room.” I said. “Of course that’d mean I’d have to be near him, and I don’t think I can handle that more than once a day.” I confessed.
Malone sighed. “Well, let’s start bagging this stuff up and then we can catch a movie.” She said as she pointed to the video camera.
“I knew I should have killed myself today.” I thought before I left the room to find a pair of gloves.
