No Family For Cannibals - Episode One Page 2

  Heather asked, "How do you know her death was any worse than his?"

  "Worse, bizarre, or both," Roach said. He turned his focus from Jack to Heather and the two of them shared a moment while he spoke. "Like you said, the daughter reacted cogently to the grisly site of her flayed father—she called 9-1-1. Yet, she has not spoken since she saw her mother's body. That is a significant clue."

  "Maybe it was the compound effect of seeing both her parents dead," Heather said. "Did you think of that?"

  "Yes. I thought of that. And you might be right. But chances are the daughter's catalepsy is because her mom's death affected her on a female level."

  "On a female level?" asked Heather. "She couldn't handle it because she's a girl?"

  Roach said, "Correct. She identified with the scene in a way males cannot."

  Heather jotted down the information in her notebook, or pretended to write down the information.

  Jack asked, "Do you live down there in Hillside, James?"

  Roach turned from Heather and looked at Jack again.

  "Call me Roach. No, I’m not from the area, but I would like to cover this story for The Metro."

  "This is my story," Heather said. "I have Metro crime beat."

  "She's right, Roach," said Jack. "This is her story. Why should I put you on it? Do you have journalism experience?"

  "No offense, but Heather cannot solve this crime. She is a reporter, not an investigative journalist."

  Heather's face reflected the offense. She slammed her pen down on the table and gave her full attention to the conversation.

  Roach continued, "The police are slow. This unsub will get away with murder until he strikes so often the cops find him by accident. No doubt, Heather will be there to report it if they make an arrest. But that isn't good enough for the victims, now is it? My team and I can solve this homicide and the other murd—"

  "Other murders?" the man to Jack's left interrupted. "What other murders?"

  Jack pointed a thumb in the man’s direction and said, "Roach, let me introduce you to Martin Chambers. He is our managing editor. My second in command. I rely on him a lot around here."

  Martin was a black man with perfect posture and smooth skin. Martin neither smoked nor drank. His clothes were pressed, the opposite of Jack Parsons, who looked more like a used car salesman in a cartoon than a successful publisher.

  "Nice to meet you." Roach nodded toward Martin and Martin nodded back. "A few weeks ago, about an hour from here. Steve and Amy Talbot. Four dead bodies in eighteen days. There will be more."

  Heather said, "Sorry. No. I interviewed the Manor cop working that case. It was a B-and-E gone wrong. The burglar thought the homeowners were away, but they surprised the perp when he broke in through the backdoor of the garage. He killed them in a struggle and attempted to rape Amy. Apparently, he couldn't get it up. There was only minor penetration. Totally different circumstances from the Kellermans."

  Roach shook his head in the negative.

  "The Talbots had a twelve-year-old daughter," he said. "That should not be overlooked. The kids in both cases were gone at the time of the murders. The unsub knew that. He thought he would sneak into the house undetected and surprise his prey. Instead, he found himself face-to-face with Steve Talbot. The unsub had to react quickly. He sliced Steve's throat with a single swipe of his knife."

  Roach mimed the action for the reporters.

  "Amy heard the commotion," Roach said, "and she came to investigate the noise. She saw her husband convulsing. Blood bubbled from his neck as his body tried to breath through the cut. She responded to the scene with a deafening scream. The unsub quieted her to some degree with a blow to the temple, knocking her to the hard garage floor. She continued to scream, so he pressed against her face with one hand, and tore away her sweat pants and nervously poked around her vagina with his other hand. She suffocated in the meantime. Unsure if his plan would work or not with a lifeless victim—perhaps unsure if she was lifeless—he carefully placed a piece of skin in the folds of Amy's labia."

  "A piece of skin?" asked Martin.

  "I mentioned that in my article," Heather said.

  "You were smart to include it," said Roach. "The Manor P. D. thought nothing of it. Your mention of the flesh brought me down here. The piece of skin, not robbery, was his reason for attacking the Talbots. My team thinks he did the same to Debbie Kellerman. But bigger this time."

  "What team?" Martin asked. "For whom do you work?"

  "My team is composed of experts in their field. A linguistics professor, a sociologist, a psychologist, technology specialist, a forensic engineer who is a pattern expert, three analysts, and myself."

  "What’s your specialty?" asked Jack.

  "I observe. I collect data. I act as the eyes and ears for the group. And yes, to answer your question, I have journalism experience."

  Martin asked, "Do you have clippings or references?"

  Roach dropped his backpack onto the conference table, unzipped it and removed a stack of tattered notebooks. He tossed a notebook each to Martin, Jack, and Heather. The reporters closest to Heather and Martin leaned over to see the books. The only other person at the table was preoccupied with his iPhone.

  Inside the notebooks were strips of newspaper glued to the pages, handwritten articles, notes, illustrations, and in rare instances, actual photographs.

  "If you want me on this story, I only charge a hundred dollars per article. A bargain. I will give you at least one article each week until the crime is solved and this guy is stopped. Do we have a deal or do I go to another paper?"

  Martin skimmed through a story from the notebook on the table in front of him. The headline was penciled in bold letters as if it had been printed on a press. He ran his hefty finger down the page as he consumed the article. Notes scribbled in the margins were unreadable, but the article itself was written in perfect, legible penmanship.

  Heather thumbed through the pages of the book she was given. It contained postmortem illustrations. When she landed on a particularly gruesome drawing—a naked woman tied breasts-outward to the font of a semi truck, the head missing—tangy fragments from breakfast appeared in her throat.

  She quietly swallowed the vomit and turned away from the image to the opposite page, only to face a detailed depiction of a lifeless infant strapped to a wooden rocking horse. A belt was fastened tight around the baby's neck and a smile was cut into its cheeks.

  She closed the notebook and tossed it on the table.

  "These are pretty good," Jack said. He itched his chin and shrugged his shoulders. "The drawings are a little old school, but I think we can print them." Jack turned to Martin. "What do you think? I can mention in my column that we are bringing on a special consulting team to help investigate the murders. Introduce Roach. He seems to know more about what is going on than anyone. Including the police."

  Martin said, "It might give folks around here and in Hillside some peace of mind knowing we have professional assistance. It will make the other papers jealous too. Plus, with his research, we can reexamine Heather's story on the Talbots. Get the police to look at the evidence through Roach's eyes."

  "You guys can’t be serious!" Heather said. "This is my story. This is my beat."

  Jack leaned back in his chair and tossed the notebook on the table. It slid to the other side coming to a stop in front of Roach.

  "Heather, you are a good reporter," said Jack, putting his hands behind his head. "Your mom was a good reporter. You worked hard to make it to this room—to the editorial board—but you are still new to crime beat. All you covered so far is DUI’s and bar fights. The Talbots was a stretch. I saw you were nervous. Your first Kellerman story was pretty much the police summary. I mean that's okay. It is all you had to go on. But if what Roach says is true, we might be looking at national coverage. That’s too much responsibility for a green reporter."

  "We don’t even know who this Roach guy is." She rolled her eyes at Roach and returned
his remark, "No offense."

  "Jack, I agree with you," Martin said, "but I am sensitive to Heather's concerns too." He turned to Roach. "Let's make a tentative deal. It’s a go. You look like a good guy. I trust you. However, we are only accepting your offer pending a summary background check just to make sure you are not some psycho. This paper has a reputation."

  Heather crossed her arms and huffed.

  Jack nodded his head in agreement and asked, "Now that we are all working together, Roach, does your team have any idea what the police left out of their public summary? How did Debbie Kellerman die?"

  "The unsub already knew how to kill," Roach explained, "but he learned a few things from the Talbot murders. He didn't make the same mistakes twice. He took his time and snuck up on Michael Kellerman, bleeding him slowly and quietly. He went to the kitchen to get a fork. He wanted to consume a piece of Michael, no matter how small, before he went to work on the core of his mission. Debbie ended her shower a little sooner than the intruder thought she would, so he went straight upstairs to do his business. He tied her to the bed by her hands with Michael's belt."

  Heather asked, "How do you know it was a belt?"

  "The belt was on the inventory list in the summary. My guess is he did not need to bind her feet. Maybe she went into shock and just lay there. Perhaps he dislocated her hip joints—a common hobbling practice of butchers. Either way, she was spread eagle on the bed and she wasn't going anywhere.

  "Upon inspecting her naked body, the unsub realized that he didn't get the tissue far enough inside his last victim. He saw the fork that he happened to carry upstairs and inserted it inside her vagina. Unlike with Amy Talbot, he had more time to explore. He pushed forward and felt some resistance, so he pushed harder, prodding about inside, cutting her with every poke.

  "He perforated her vaginal wall, her intestines, and her bladder. He broke through her cervix and felt her body suck the fork inward a bit when he hit the vacuum of her uterus. He removed the utensil, placed foreign tissue—a body part of some sort—on the end and jammed the setup even further than before. Remember too, he did not perform this act with bare hands. He wore course leather work gloves with long cuffs. Imagine the friction as he pushed his hand in past the knuckles, ripping open Debbie's episiotomy from the birth of her two children. He tore her flesh like wet tissue paper, inside and out. He stabbed hard. She hemorrhaged. She shook. She passed out. He removed the fork, leaving the piece inside. He felt her breath on his cheek to make sure she was still alive, and she was, for several more agonizing hours."

  Heather choked back another course of the vomit she tasted earlier.

  "He stayed in the house until the next morning," Roach said as he gathered up his notebooks. "He listened to Debbie's labored moans as she drifted in and out of consciousness. Her shallow wales had no affect on the man. Perhaps he thought they were the happy moans of a woman soon with child. Maternal music. He sat on the couch, next to Michael, and explored the corpse with the same fork he used on Debbie. He picked off parts of Michael and ate them."

  Heather's face was pale. It appeared as if she would faint if Roach continued. Another reporter loosened the top button of his shirt to let in air to cool his tingling skin.

  "This man did not rape Debbie for pleasure. He did it for purpose. She expired from the wounds while the killer dined on her husband."

  Martin said, "I can see why they left that information out of the report. The last thing we need is to explain in graphic detail how a woman bled to death from a rape by instrumentation. I mean, imagine how much worse this is going to get if Debbie didn't satisfy him."

  "She didn't, Marty," said Jack. "This nut job is already looking for another family to ruin. Heather, call your cousin in Hillside County to verify. See if this info sticks."

  "No," said Roach. "Tell him in person. He will lie to you over the phone because he knows you can't read his face. He may lie to you in person too, but you will see it in his eyes. The suspect recklessly deposited something inside Debbie Kellerman, ramming it deep inside her with brute force. She bled out from the trauma hours later still tied to her bed. Ask your cousin. He’ll tell you, outright or through his behavior."

  "This is BS," Heather said. "The cops are looking at doctors, nurses, caregivers, people in the medical field. Michael Kellerman’s body was skillfully prepared. Would someone like that be so careless to the other victim?"

  Roach said, "The police got their profile wrong. The man we are looking for is uneducated. Perhaps even slightly mentally challenged. But very strong physically. It doesn't take a surgeon to properly carve a turkey, just someone who has done it before."

  Martin said, "I get it. The cuts were not precise extractions. He is just a regular Joe eating a human steak with a fork and knife. Well, not regular. Sick as hell. You get what I mean."

  "That's right. The police confused practice with finesse. The unsub was on a mission and he stopped to eat like a rat does, by nibbling at the soft tissue. The pieces cut from Michael are not delicacies. They are fast food. He took from Michael what was easily chewed without being cooked. He is not an upperclass sophisticate like Hannibal Lecter, he is an animal doing the necessary to sustain life."

  Heather collected her papers and folders from the meeting and jammed them into a leather flip-over briefcase.

  "Roach, where are you staying?" asked Jack.

  "I have an apartment in Hillside."

  Heather froze.

  "Thought you weren’t from around there," she said.

  "That’s true. I rented the apartment last week. My team and I are staying in Courthouse Apartments. 412c."

  Jack asked, "For one to see?"

  "Yes. 412 South Main, apartment C."

  Jack peered over the table at Roach’s worn boots.

  "Do you have a car, or are those your primary form of transportation?"

  "I don’t have a car."

  "Heather, go to Hillside and meet with your cousin. Check out the story a little more. Take Roach with you. Give him a ride to his apartment and help him settle in there. Bring him up to speed on your investigation. You know, compare notes."

  "Are you kidding me?" Heather asked. "You want me to drive twenty miles outside of town with a complete stranger?"

  Martin said, "We need your contact info, Roach. Address, phone number, Social Security number, that sort of thing, so we can cut you a check for these articles and get you a press pass. Heather, while you are in Hillside meet with Roach's team. See if they need anything from us."

  "I only accept cash and my team doesn’t meet with clients. I am the observer. You meet with me. If you decide not to print my drawings, you can have a photographer visit the locations in my stories—on their own. I don’t want them following me."

  "Hello!" said Heather. "He’s not getting in my car."

  "You are safe with me. I am only here to observe the evidence and help solve these crimes. I want to find justice for the Talbots and Kellermans. I want to stop this guy before there is more death. The clock is ticking."

  Jack put a hand on Heather’s shoulder, "I believe him, Heather. I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I didn’t. He could be good for our paper, especially if this story breaks big." Jack lowered his voice and whispered. "He could be good for you too. Your last boyfriend was a real jerk. I promised your mom I would look out for you. James here is a bit older than you, but he looks like he is from a gym ad. Spend some free time with him, you know, after work."

  * * *

  Heather may not have trusted me a hundred percent, but she had enough faith in Jack's intuition for one ride. Her car traveled swiftly across the smooth blacktop. The tires hummed against the asphalt.

  Her young hands gripped the steering wheel in proper position, a textbook illustration from the owner’s manual. Her thighs were pushed against the seat in tight denim jeans. Her shirt was an unbuttoned flannel with a white tank top underneath. Enough cleavage for a peek not a show. Her brunette hair whipped about her shoul
ders, powered by the open windows of the old gray sedan.

  I also observed her smell—faint and difficult to discern over the air pouring into the vehicle. Her fragrance was not perfumed. Her scent was without synthetic interference. Even the soap, Ivory, with which she bathed had slipped from her skin and went down the drain. Left behind was her fingerprint—a unique bouquet that aroused me intensely.

  Her distrust of me is a countermeasure. She hopes I am innocuous, not only for her own safety, but because she sees us together. She is lonely. I catch her observing me from time to time too.

  I felt a bump as the smooth highway gave way to broken country pavement.

  The abrupt switch from urban roadway to rural byway came with a clunk as the car’s worn struts sunk deep within themselves. Roach’s head bounced and he shifted in his seat. Heather was accustomed to the ride—cars in general—and muscle memory kept her still.

  Much of Arkansas is mountainous. The Ozarks, a northern mountain range and plateau, is known for its picturesque terrain. Little Rock, however, is situated in the central part of the state—the best of both worlds. The land is flatter overall with the occasional burst of rolling hills covered with an extensive variety of tightly packed trees that reveal their colors this time of year.

  And the Little Rock area has another advantage. Perhaps its greatest resource: the perfect combination of access and privacy.

  Here, there are stores of staple groceries and the most exotic delicacies, recreational shopping facilities, restaurants from fast food to five star, vacation attractions, cultural centers—the world at your fingertips—all frequented by people who wave in public, but will not bother their neighbor unless it is an emergency.

  Arkansawyers—the official demonym for residents of Arkansas—who live in the countryside, even just a few miles out of town, may never see another human being except on television if they so desire. And some of them gave up their television when an antenna was no longer able to catch a signal after digital conversion.