They were neither dogs nor sailors. His house smelled like a
butcher shop, though normally it did not. Dennis didn't say anything
about it out of respect for the old man.
“Third time it’s happened this month.”
“No kidding.”
“I don’t kid about something like this, Dennis.”
The television started getting fuzzy, so Walter, the older of the two by two and a half decades, got up out of his rocker and tangoed with the antennae, seeing if he could work his magic. His arthritic hands shook as he maneuvered the metal rods and that’s when he realized he had lost his charm over the years. After giving it his all,he gave up and turned off the television all together.
“Any-who, been reading the papers lately, Dennis?”
“You want to talk about the murders, don’t you Walt?”
“The killings must be related. That’s a fact, not a damned probability, if you ask me. The first murder took place on August eighth, the second on the fourteenth, and the third – so far as we know it – on the seventeenth. This guy’s shopping for bodies, adding them all to the tab. And he’s doing it right here in Cape Caleb; right under our goddamn noses.”
“Yep, Walt, and there are no leads.”
“Yes sir. No leads at all. Like I always say, if you’re not mad, you’re pure genius. But this guy –” he slapped his knee, then snapped his fingers, “—well gosh darn it, I do believe he is both!”
The summer so far had been hot and hazy,save for the rattlesnake bites of the murders. The humidity thickened the air by collecting dust and dirt.
“What do you think of the murders,Dennis? Is the devil himself toying with us slow-pokes on this earth? How do you make of all this?”
“You know, honestly Walt, I don’t think we’re ever going to catch the guy.”
Walter got up and walked into the kitchen. He grabbed two mugs from the cabinet and poured coffee in them.
“Milk and sugar, Dennis?”
“Just milk, no sugar.
“Me too. No sugar – not good for my diabetes.” Without Dennis watching, he put three teaspoons of sugar into his own cup. “So Dennis, what make you think we’re not going to catch the guy?” Walter walked back to the couch, and gave Dennis the coffee. Then he sat down,comfortably, expecting to get a good answer.
“Well, for one thing, Walt, we've never seen the guy in action –”
“—yes, that much is obvious –”
“—and secondly, he leaves absolutely no traces: no fingerprints, no footprints, nails, hair, articles of clothing.” He had rolled these off on his fingers.
“Yes Dennis, his deadly deeds are impeccable. A genius madman, like I said. And yes, he leaves no traces, at least none that the police can find. See Dennis, serial killers are simply magicians at heart. Or wanna-be magicians, with a taste for the morbid.”
The both of them speculated and confabulated for a solid hour and a half, going over the details of the multi-murder case, wondering what weapons were used, what the hidden motives were, and who was the mastermind laughing behind all this while avoiding the spotlight. He had left nothing but the decapitated heads of those he had murdered.
One head was that of Mrs. Jakenson who was in her mid-forties and was known to be a big-boned, robust woman in bed . . . in various beds throughout the neighborhood,really. She also owned a Laundromat. The dumpster behind that was where her head was found.
Another head belonged to the coach of the popular Little League Baseball team – the Caleb Drill Bits. Everyone in the community flocked to the diamond field each week or so to see the little nuggets playing their heart out. It was a sobbing wreck to see Coach Stanley’s head in the stands one afternoon as the boys searched for him for practice.
And most recently, on August seventeenth, at the crack of dawn, Old Man Philbert drove his dirt-ridden truck in from his small farm not too far from the ‘burbs to go to the Catholic Church on Main Street for his usual praying session – the first one of the day. As Old Man Philbert pulled on the door knob,he found that it was locked. He then found, soon enough, the head of Father Jim on the floor, only a few feet from the door.
That one was a riot.
Dennis and Walter talked about the current streaming speculations in the Caleb. The first was the idea that the murderer must have thought Mrs. Jakenson an easy target as he could easily have said he murdered her because of her ‘loose’ reputation, which many covertly scoffed at. The second was the idea that the murderer hated how Coach Stanley was playing his team, even though the team had a pretty good record – a winning streak to say the least. Perhaps the murderer was betting against them? And lastly, the third, of course was the idea that the murderer hated Catholicism, and quite possibly religion itself. Perhaps he was an atheist.
“In my opinion, Dennis, the motives may not be a philosophical thing. It may not be a kind of hate crime against anything.”
“How do you mean, Walter?”
“Maybe he simply likes to kill. People have different fetishes, believe it or not, and maybe killing is simply his fetish. The more popular the people are that he kills, the more of a thrill he gets from it. Or it may not be a fetish at all, but an obsession. Do you know what an obsession is?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know . . . an obsession. An obsession is when you have a thought in your head and it’s controlling you. See Dennis, it has been from my experience that some people – most people – don’t like to think outside the box. It’s all about perspectives, and when you’re stuck thinking in one perspective, it takes a big shocker to see things from another perspective. People get obsessed with perspectives.”
“Interesting . . . very interesting.”
“It’s criminal really. I mean . . . to not think outside the box,” said Walter.
*****
Dennis and Walter sat in silence for a minute, sipping their coffees. The couch they were sitting on was maroon in color, and smooth leather to the touch. The television was encased in a glossy wooden fixture that matched the color of the couches. Walter’s wooden desk was at the corner, complete with all his papers.
Before retirement, he used to be an accountant for various small businesses, one of which was Dennis’s bookshop. On occasions such as these,he’d invite acquaintances or friends over for coffee and some chit-chat; Walter loved conversing with others. As well,on the side, Walter enjoyed himself some bird watching. The papers on his desk were maps of exotic bird sightings.
The grandfather’s clock by the front door next to the coat stand announced that it was ten o’clock at night already. Suddenly Walter and Dennis could hear the crickets chirping, though they were probably chirping for awhile now – since supper even.
Dennis started to chuckle at a thought that had tickled him.
“What’s so funny?”
“No, nothing. It’s nothing. It’s just . . .”
“What Dennis? Say it. Spit it out before you choke on it.”
“Well, Walt, have you ever noticed that you act like you can teach a psychological course or something about what goes on in the minds of serial killers? You seem to know them so well . . . magicians at heart . . . a genius madman. Your talk about perspectives and obsessions.” Dennis continued chuckling, unable to sip his coffee. “The way you speak of them with respect and whatnot.”
Walter stared at Dennis, dead serious at the face. Dennis gradually stopped chuckling as his amusement at Walter’s sixth sense turned into fear and suspicion.
Suddenly Walter exploded in laughter. “Scared ya good, didn't I, eh Dennis? The look on your face. Ha! Priceless!”
“Yeah, that was a good one,” said Dennis, a little uneasily. “For a second I thought you were the serial killer.”
Walter burst out with another wave of laughter, so much that he started tearing up. “Ha! What a crazy thought! Dennis, you are too much!
Dennis eased up with a sip of coffee. “No Walt, you’re too much!”
They laughed loudly together, like merry men, as they drank their coffees. The yellow light from the Tiffany lamp at Walter’s desk bathed them,warmly, as they grew more comfortable with each other after their moment of awkwardness.
*****
“Have you seen any exotic birds lately, Walt?”
“Can you keep a secret,Dennis?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Come, I want to show you something.”
Walter led Dennis to his basement. The smell of a butcher shop strengthened tenfold, morphing into a deadly, squeezing grip. A headlock equipped with a metallic stench that was making Dennis choke a little.
“Sorry for the smell.”
“No problem, Walt. Just tell me what’s going on.”
Once they reached the last step, Walter turned on the light.
From wall to wall to wall there were cages and cages of birds all unknown to Dennis – all unknown to the average folk. “I like to keep them, Dennis. Like collecting post stamps.”
“What in the hell,Walt? Who else knows about this?”
“No one, no one at all. Just you and me. Here, let me show you my most recent capture.”
Walter led Dennis to a secret door on the floor. He opened the latch and led Dennis down another flight of stairs made of wood that creaked when stepped on. It was there that the iron smell intensified to its highest degree. When they both stepped foot in this underground chamber, Dennis’s eyebrows rose high.
“They’re various kinds of vultures; I don’t expect you to know. Aren't they something? They soar high in the sky and look down at the earth, spotting dead animals for food. See their long necks? They’re featherless for two reasons: to ensure their heads don’t over-heat, and to make it easier for clean-up after feeding. They don’t want blood all over their feathers. ”
“Is it going to attack?”
“No, Dennis. Vultures don’t eat living animals – simply the carcasses of them.”
“Where’d you get them?”
“Remember that one year I left for Africa for bird-watching? Well, I transported a few of them home and started breeding them, and caring for them, right here in this basement."
“Walter, you’re . . .you’re out of your mind. You stole birds from another country -- I have no idea how, and I don't think I want to know. And what have they've been eating, Walt? I thought I smelled fresh meat from the butcher’s.”
“Well . . . .” Walter looked at Dennis and sighed.
“Walt?”
With one good swing,Walter punched Dennis square in the face and knocked him out.
*****
“Look at you, Dennis. Panting like a dog, swearing like a sailor. A little fear goes a long way. That's what we need, right Dennis? We need to break the monotony.”
"Oh hell, Walt! What are you talking about?" Dennis was tied by the wrists and ankles and splayed out on a huge table, not far from the vultures. He was screaming and yelling all the curse words the world had to offer. Then after that, he was begging for mercy, but Walter did not care.
“How exhilarating this is, Dennis. Do you see it in my face? Do you see my perspective?” As Dennis wriggled and twisted this way and that, Walter tied a piece of cloth around Dennis’s head, covering his mouth so that his shouts would be muffled.
“See those bins over there, Dennis? One of them is for arms, the other is for legs, and the other is for torsos, and the one all the way to the right is for the bones. Vultures have a strategic way of feeding, see, different vultures eat different parts of the body. That vulture over there –” Walter pointed at the vulture in the corner, “— he likes bones. And the smaller ones eat the left-overs that the big one right over there, leaves behind. They have order,just like we humans do. Isn't that fascinating? The little kiddies go to school and they have their fun and games, adults work and provide money for the kids. Religion – well, religion is everywhere making people feel safe, just like the government does, but in an artsy, spiritual way. Everything in our society falls in place. Order, Dennis,order. How fascinating, how extremely boring. And I’m here to show people how boring their obsession with order is.”
Walter grabbed an ax from the cabinet and walked over to Dennis, putting one hand over Dennis’s forehead. “It’s not going to hurt, trust me. I've done this once or twice before, this summer.”
“Third time it’s happened this month.”
“No kidding.”
“I don’t kid about something like this, Dennis.”
The television started getting fuzzy, so Walter, the older of the two by two and a half decades, got up out of his rocker and tangoed with the antennae, seeing if he could work his magic. His arthritic hands shook as he maneuvered the metal rods and that’s when he realized he had lost his charm over the years. After giving it his all,he gave up and turned off the television all together.
“Any-who, been reading the papers lately, Dennis?”
“You want to talk about the murders, don’t you Walt?”
“The killings must be related. That’s a fact, not a damned probability, if you ask me. The first murder took place on August eighth, the second on the fourteenth, and the third – so far as we know it – on the seventeenth. This guy’s shopping for bodies, adding them all to the tab. And he’s doing it right here in Cape Caleb; right under our goddamn noses.”
“Yep, Walt, and there are no leads.”
“Yes sir. No leads at all. Like I always say, if you’re not mad, you’re pure genius. But this guy –” he slapped his knee, then snapped his fingers, “—well gosh darn it, I do believe he is both!”
The summer so far had been hot and hazy,save for the rattlesnake bites of the murders. The humidity thickened the air by collecting dust and dirt.
“What do you think of the murders,Dennis? Is the devil himself toying with us slow-pokes on this earth? How do you make of all this?”
“You know, honestly Walt, I don’t think we’re ever going to catch the guy.”
Walter got up and walked into the kitchen. He grabbed two mugs from the cabinet and poured coffee in them.
“Milk and sugar, Dennis?”
“Just milk, no sugar.
“Me too. No sugar – not good for my diabetes.” Without Dennis watching, he put three teaspoons of sugar into his own cup. “So Dennis, what make you think we’re not going to catch the guy?” Walter walked back to the couch, and gave Dennis the coffee. Then he sat down,comfortably, expecting to get a good answer.
“Well, for one thing, Walt, we've never seen the guy in action –”
“—yes, that much is obvious –”
“—and secondly, he leaves absolutely no traces: no fingerprints, no footprints, nails, hair, articles of clothing.” He had rolled these off on his fingers.
“Yes Dennis, his deadly deeds are impeccable. A genius madman, like I said. And yes, he leaves no traces, at least none that the police can find. See Dennis, serial killers are simply magicians at heart. Or wanna-be magicians, with a taste for the morbid.”
The both of them speculated and confabulated for a solid hour and a half, going over the details of the multi-murder case, wondering what weapons were used, what the hidden motives were, and who was the mastermind laughing behind all this while avoiding the spotlight. He had left nothing but the decapitated heads of those he had murdered.
One head was that of Mrs. Jakenson who was in her mid-forties and was known to be a big-boned, robust woman in bed . . . in various beds throughout the neighborhood,really. She also owned a Laundromat. The dumpster behind that was where her head was found.
Another head belonged to the coach of the popular Little League Baseball team – the Caleb Drill Bits. Everyone in the community flocked to the diamond field each week or so to see the little nuggets playing their heart out. It was a sobbing wreck to see Coach Stanley’s head in the stands one afternoon as the boys searched for him for practice.
And most recently, on August seventeenth, at the crack of dawn, Old Man Philbert drove his dirt-ridden truck in from his small farm not too far from the ‘burbs to go to the Catholic Church on Main Street for his usual praying session – the first one of the day. As Old Man Philbert pulled on the door knob,he found that it was locked. He then found, soon enough, the head of Father Jim on the floor, only a few feet from the door.
That one was a riot.
Dennis and Walter talked about the current streaming speculations in the Caleb. The first was the idea that the murderer must have thought Mrs. Jakenson an easy target as he could easily have said he murdered her because of her ‘loose’ reputation, which many covertly scoffed at. The second was the idea that the murderer hated how Coach Stanley was playing his team, even though the team had a pretty good record – a winning streak to say the least. Perhaps the murderer was betting against them? And lastly, the third, of course was the idea that the murderer hated Catholicism, and quite possibly religion itself. Perhaps he was an atheist.
“In my opinion, Dennis, the motives may not be a philosophical thing. It may not be a kind of hate crime against anything.”
“How do you mean, Walter?”
“Maybe he simply likes to kill. People have different fetishes, believe it or not, and maybe killing is simply his fetish. The more popular the people are that he kills, the more of a thrill he gets from it. Or it may not be a fetish at all, but an obsession. Do you know what an obsession is?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know . . . an obsession. An obsession is when you have a thought in your head and it’s controlling you. See Dennis, it has been from my experience that some people – most people – don’t like to think outside the box. It’s all about perspectives, and when you’re stuck thinking in one perspective, it takes a big shocker to see things from another perspective. People get obsessed with perspectives.”
“Interesting . . . very interesting.”
“It’s criminal really. I mean . . . to not think outside the box,” said Walter.
*****
Dennis and Walter sat in silence for a minute, sipping their coffees. The couch they were sitting on was maroon in color, and smooth leather to the touch. The television was encased in a glossy wooden fixture that matched the color of the couches. Walter’s wooden desk was at the corner, complete with all his papers.
Before retirement, he used to be an accountant for various small businesses, one of which was Dennis’s bookshop. On occasions such as these,he’d invite acquaintances or friends over for coffee and some chit-chat; Walter loved conversing with others. As well,on the side, Walter enjoyed himself some bird watching. The papers on his desk were maps of exotic bird sightings.
The grandfather’s clock by the front door next to the coat stand announced that it was ten o’clock at night already. Suddenly Walter and Dennis could hear the crickets chirping, though they were probably chirping for awhile now – since supper even.
Dennis started to chuckle at a thought that had tickled him.
“What’s so funny?”
“No, nothing. It’s nothing. It’s just . . .”
“What Dennis? Say it. Spit it out before you choke on it.”
“Well, Walt, have you ever noticed that you act like you can teach a psychological course or something about what goes on in the minds of serial killers? You seem to know them so well . . . magicians at heart . . . a genius madman. Your talk about perspectives and obsessions.” Dennis continued chuckling, unable to sip his coffee. “The way you speak of them with respect and whatnot.”
Walter stared at Dennis, dead serious at the face. Dennis gradually stopped chuckling as his amusement at Walter’s sixth sense turned into fear and suspicion.
Suddenly Walter exploded in laughter. “Scared ya good, didn't I, eh Dennis? The look on your face. Ha! Priceless!”
“Yeah, that was a good one,” said Dennis, a little uneasily. “For a second I thought you were the serial killer.”
Walter burst out with another wave of laughter, so much that he started tearing up. “Ha! What a crazy thought! Dennis, you are too much!
Dennis eased up with a sip of coffee. “No Walt, you’re too much!”
They laughed loudly together, like merry men, as they drank their coffees. The yellow light from the Tiffany lamp at Walter’s desk bathed them,warmly, as they grew more comfortable with each other after their moment of awkwardness.
*****
“Have you seen any exotic birds lately, Walt?”
“Can you keep a secret,Dennis?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Come, I want to show you something.”
Walter led Dennis to his basement. The smell of a butcher shop strengthened tenfold, morphing into a deadly, squeezing grip. A headlock equipped with a metallic stench that was making Dennis choke a little.
“Sorry for the smell.”
“No problem, Walt. Just tell me what’s going on.”
Once they reached the last step, Walter turned on the light.
From wall to wall to wall there were cages and cages of birds all unknown to Dennis – all unknown to the average folk. “I like to keep them, Dennis. Like collecting post stamps.”
“What in the hell,Walt? Who else knows about this?”
“No one, no one at all. Just you and me. Here, let me show you my most recent capture.”
Walter led Dennis to a secret door on the floor. He opened the latch and led Dennis down another flight of stairs made of wood that creaked when stepped on. It was there that the iron smell intensified to its highest degree. When they both stepped foot in this underground chamber, Dennis’s eyebrows rose high.
“They’re various kinds of vultures; I don’t expect you to know. Aren't they something? They soar high in the sky and look down at the earth, spotting dead animals for food. See their long necks? They’re featherless for two reasons: to ensure their heads don’t over-heat, and to make it easier for clean-up after feeding. They don’t want blood all over their feathers. ”
“Is it going to attack?”
“No, Dennis. Vultures don’t eat living animals – simply the carcasses of them.”
“Where’d you get them?”
“Remember that one year I left for Africa for bird-watching? Well, I transported a few of them home and started breeding them, and caring for them, right here in this basement."
“Walter, you’re . . .you’re out of your mind. You stole birds from another country -- I have no idea how, and I don't think I want to know. And what have they've been eating, Walt? I thought I smelled fresh meat from the butcher’s.”
“Well . . . .” Walter looked at Dennis and sighed.
“Walt?”
With one good swing,Walter punched Dennis square in the face and knocked him out.
*****
“Look at you, Dennis. Panting like a dog, swearing like a sailor. A little fear goes a long way. That's what we need, right Dennis? We need to break the monotony.”
"Oh hell, Walt! What are you talking about?" Dennis was tied by the wrists and ankles and splayed out on a huge table, not far from the vultures. He was screaming and yelling all the curse words the world had to offer. Then after that, he was begging for mercy, but Walter did not care.
“How exhilarating this is, Dennis. Do you see it in my face? Do you see my perspective?” As Dennis wriggled and twisted this way and that, Walter tied a piece of cloth around Dennis’s head, covering his mouth so that his shouts would be muffled.
“See those bins over there, Dennis? One of them is for arms, the other is for legs, and the other is for torsos, and the one all the way to the right is for the bones. Vultures have a strategic way of feeding, see, different vultures eat different parts of the body. That vulture over there –” Walter pointed at the vulture in the corner, “— he likes bones. And the smaller ones eat the left-overs that the big one right over there, leaves behind. They have order,just like we humans do. Isn't that fascinating? The little kiddies go to school and they have their fun and games, adults work and provide money for the kids. Religion – well, religion is everywhere making people feel safe, just like the government does, but in an artsy, spiritual way. Everything in our society falls in place. Order, Dennis,order. How fascinating, how extremely boring. And I’m here to show people how boring their obsession with order is.”
Walter grabbed an ax from the cabinet and walked over to Dennis, putting one hand over Dennis’s forehead. “It’s not going to hurt, trust me. I've done this once or twice before, this summer.”
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