Category Archives: Serial Killer

Killer #3: Janie ’99

A Portrait of the Killer as a Young Man, fondly remembering “his first”:

tipsy, tripsy

shadow slipsy

janie spilled her wine

tried to fight it

<something not right here>

The Stranger seemed so kind

drowsy, ow-sy

feeling lousy

<dull ache in her head>

gripping, ripping

blade now dripping

soon she will be dead.

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In the Interim: *facepalm*

I know I have not been around for awhile.

Chalk it up to being overworked, underpaid, moody and all that shit. I just haven’t felt much like writing lately and I’m getting really pissed off at myself.

I’ve been lurking around here and there on Twitter, not really chatting much except to some good tweeps I’ve connected with. I’m shy. I’d love to talk to people, but sometimes I don’t know how. I’m very approachable and not at all as scary as the characters I write. I haven’t killed anyone all week. ­čśë

I am writing. In fits and spurts. Better than nothing, I suppose.

I have been doing lots of research on Emet’s story (A Man Called Truth). It has turned into a whole lot more in my head than I originally planned it to be and I don’t want to let people down. I want it to be good. Therefore, I wanted to know about kabbalahs, the history of golems and shit when I picked it up again. I’ve been working on it, and hope to have a new episode posted soon…and finish with the series soon afterward. There just may be a few surprises along the way. ­čśÇ

In the interim, I’m working on a new story I hope to post soon to Friday Flash. It’s called *facepalm* and it’s fucking twisted. One man’s day goes from bad to a fight for survival.

I hope to post more writing soon and do more blogging, though time has been hard to find lately.

Is there an app for Increasing Time and Motivation?

Bleeding Out, Part 2

To read Part 1 of the story, click here: Bleeding Out, Part 1.

Mangrin was not a happy copper.

It turned out that his idiot partner was on to something when he suggested the blood that the killer was somehow draining from his victim’s bodies was the same blood type. Buckley did a little happy dance in the crime lab, shaking his skinny ass practically in Mangrin’s face. Mangrin wanted to punch him.

“Told you so,” Buckley said, poking out his tongue like a two-year old.

“Shut up, Bux!” Harry, the lab scientist said.

Mangrin took a cigarette out of his pocket and played with it, rolling it between his fingers absentmindedly as he pointedly ignored Buckley and studied the lab results that Harry had handed him.

“So whaddaya think it means, Sal?” Harry asked.

“Dunno,” Mangrin replied.

“Maybe he ‘aint a vampire, but now we know it’s really the blood he’s after,” Buckley said. His eyes were lit up like a virgin on prom night. “But maybe the Sarge is right, Sal. Maybe he is some twisted fucker that likes to drink it. Seen one too many movies, read one two many Anne Rice novels.” Buckley’s smile grew wider as Sgt. Delaney entered the lab. So did Mangrin’s.

“What’s the news, Sal? Are they all a match?” She came over to stand beside him and his nostrils flared, taking in her perfume.

God, what I wouldn’t give to…

“They match,” Buckley said smugly.

Mangrin shot him an evil look and handed the report to Delaney. She gave it the once-over, then placed it on the counter in front of them.

“I have something else,”she said, nudging Mangrin. “A lead for you. Something else the victims had in common.”

***

They hadn’t spent much time at the clinic. They didn’t need to. The manager had told them what he could. Yes, he confirmed, all of the victims had had labwork done recently.

Mangrin and Buckley got out of their unmarked car and walked inside the El Dorado Apartments. They made their way through down a hallway across carpeting that had seen better days, and Buckley rapped on apartment 112.

A gaunt, balding man in glasses opened the door a crack and peered out. “Yes?”

Mangrin flashed his badge. “Detectives Salvador Mangrin and Ed Buckley. Are you James Wells?”

“Yes, sir. What do you want?”

“We’d like to ask you some questions about where you work. If you don’t mind. Could we come in? You do work at Amerilab’s, correct?”

The man nodded and reluctantly pulled open the door just enough for Mangrin and Buckley to squeeze through. The apartment was sparsely furnished, only one beat-up stuffed chair in a corner, and (Mangrin noticed) no T.V. or stereo.

Wells shut the door behind them. “I’d asked you to take a seat but…” he said, looking down at the floor.

“Don’t worry about it, man. Times are tough for us all,” Mangrin replied.

Jimmy?” A soft voice called from behind a closed door off to the side of hallway.

“Excuse me. My wife needs something.” James Wells disappeared in the direction of the voice. Buckley wandered off through a door to what looked like the kitchen. Mangrin stood there on Wells’s threadbare carpet, feeling anxious.

After several minutes, Buckley appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Hey, Sal. Come take a look at this.”

He entered the kitchen to find Buckley standing at the refrigerator door, holding an extremely large plastic packet of what looked like mustard. They both knew it wasn’t. Mangrin ventured to the other side to gaze into the open refrigerator door. There were dozens of them, stacked neatly.

Suddenly Wells sprang into the kitchen and grabbed Buckley from behind, sliding a very sharp knife up against his throat. Buckley’s eyes widened in fear.

“I’m sorry….really, really, sorry. But I have to…”

Wells sentenced died on his lips as ┬áthe bullet from the silenced pistol entered his chest below the shoulder. He gasped in pain and fell to the floor. ┬áMangrin holstered his gun and walking over, kicked the knife out of Wells’s hands, looking at him with contempt.

“Why?” he asked.

Wells sputtered, coughing up blood. Mangrin’s bullet struck a lung, apparently. “My…wife….she…” Wells stopped, wheezing.

Buckley opened a door beside the refrigerator that looked like it might’ve led to a pantry.┬á“It’s all here,”he said. “Lab equipment for processing blood into plasma. There’s a Sangofer unit. She’s a hemophiliac, isn’t she? Your wife?” Buckley asked, stepping back into the room with such a cool assessment that Mangrin couldn’t help but be impressed. He vowed to go easier on his partner in the future.

“Yes,” Wells choked out.

“Why for Christ’s sake did you have to cut all those people so many times? Just for their blood?” Mangrin asked.

“Had to make you think it was a psycho doing it. Didn’t want to get caught.”

“Why couldn’t you just take her to a goddamn doctor?”

“She….got worse…She lost her job. I couldn’t afford the insurance. I sold all….all our stuff. Finally…there was nothin’ left worth selling. So, I…”

“Started killing people for their blood…their plasma.” Buckley finished.

Buckley and Mangrin stared in horror at the little man lying on the floor, bleeding out as so many of his victims had done. Their horror was not so much in what the man had done. But it crept into in the silent black rooms of their own minds and they wondered what they would have done in Wells’s shoes to save someone they loved.

Bleeding Out, Part 1

Detective Mangrin kneeled beside the body, eyebrows stitched tightly together in puzzled dismay.

“Another one?” he asked Hawkins.┬áThe rookie, standing to the side with a handkerchief held over his nose and mouth, merely nodded. Mangrin glanced at him with a look of purest disgust. “Why the hell don’t you go throw up somewhere? You keep holdin’ it in and you’re gonna chuck up all over my goddamn crime scene.”

Hawkins nodded and walked away in the direction of the bathroom.

“And don’t touch anything! Better yet, why don’t ya go puke in the bushes outside?” Mangrin yelled. Hawkins nodded again in midstride, turned and made for the front door. He passed Buckley on his way out.

Buckley came and stood looking over Mangrin’s shoulder as he examined the body. Mangrin looked up and shivered. Something about Buckley always gave him the creeps. Maybe it was his enthusiasm over seeing DB’s. Buckley was looking at the mess before them, grinning from ear-to-ear.

“Damm. I wonder how he does it?”

“Siphons, I don’t know.” Mangrin answered. The body was spread out before them, gaping wounds galore, but just like the previous four murders, very little blood.

“Maybe he’s a goddamn vampire!” Buckley exclaimed.

Maybe you’re a goddamn idiot, Mangrin thought. But what the fuck does the perp want with blood? He has to drain it off somehow and take it with him. But why?

Mangrin examined the largest of the wounds, the belly wound, the one that must have caused the vic to do most of the “bleeding out” that eventually killed him. But where the hell was the blood?

Hawkins had come back in and was joined by Sgt. Delaney, looking fine as usual in her tight jeans. Delaney knelt beside Magrin, sipping a cup of coffee.

“Impressions?” she asked.

“He cuts their throats first,” Mangrin said, pointing at the jagged wound. “But he’s a specialist, see. He doesn’t cut to kill…only to incapacitate the vocal chords. No good having a vic scream while you’re trying to have some fun.”

Delaney grimaced. “So what’s his fun, then? Making the other cuts?”

Mangrin nodded. “Especially this one.” He pointed to the slashed stomach.

“He watches them bleed out,” Buckley said. Mangrin nodded and turned to look at him. Buckley was staring wide-eyed at the open stomach flesh of the victim, a look of utter fascination on his face.

Creepy bastard loves this.

“Sal? Any ideas how he takes the blood, and why?” Delaney asked. God, he loved it when she called him Sal.

Mangrin shook his head.

“Do we know of any connections to the other vics yet?” Buckley asked.

“No. It’s all very random. Different sexes, different ages, different races. This guy doesn’t seem to have any preferences.” Mangrin sighed and ran his fingers through his short black hair. It was a nervous habit, still, he saw the Sarge smile out of the corner of his eye and he was pleased.

“Makes him hard as hell to profile,” Delaney said.

“What about blood type? Anybody check that?” Buckley asked.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Buckley. For the last time the perp is not a fucking vampire!” Mangrin was immediately sorry he’d lost his temper with his partner, but the guy was an idiot. Delaney didn’t look happy about his outburst, though.

“Sorry,” he said. “But I don’t think he takes the blood to drink it.”

“Why not?” Delaney asked. “Weirder shit than that happens in this town.”

Mangrin shrugged. “So, we’ll get someone over at CIU to check out the blood types of all the vics.”

They all looked up when the coroner’s gurney was pulled in the front door.

“Tag ‘im and bag ‘im, folks,” Buckley said to the men from the coroner’s office, and even Delaney gave him a dirty look.

End of Part 1.

Mad Skills

Jock was cleaning the cutlery, carefully washing the butcher knives. It was not his fault. It never was.

“Cut the meat across the grain,” he’d told her. The bitch didn’t listen. He hated having to train new kitchen help. Sure, they’d all been to cooking school. Some of them had been to the best schools in the country: Johnson & Wales, or the Culinary Fucking Institute for Christ-sake!

They still didn’t know a goddamn thing about food preparation, he reflected sadly as he finished rinsing and wiping down ┬áthe bone-saw.

And did they ever listen to the top chef? Hell, no! Yet their incompetence served a purpose they would never fully appreciate.

His restaurant had a five-fucking-star rating with the local paper’s food critic for three years running.┬áHis meat slicing skills were top notch. ┬áAnd his highly talented methods of preparing steak were well known far and wide, making his restaurant the most popular steak joint in the city.

He’d lost count of the number of times people complimented him on his meat dishes, which they said were so different than anything they’d ever tasted before.

Jock walked over and closed the meat locker door, smiling to himself.

As he left the restaurant, he placed the cardboard “Help Wanted” sign back in the window.

He hoped tomorrow would bring yet another prime applicant for the job.

Killer #2

Photo by Gabriel Millos

“Get your kicks” the song said,

On Route Six-Six. Instead:

She lost her pretty head…

And now she’s very dead.

Killer #1

screams pierce the silence

his hands…trembling, unsteady

blood drips from the knife