Ionic Relapse: Book One of The Doll Man Duology (Volume 1) Page 4

“Since the late 1800’s, America has harbored some of the most notorious serial and mass murders in the world. Home to over seventy percent of the world's known serial killer population, the U.S. is special for its sheer volume of civilian bloodshed within its borders, whereas countries like Sweden and Greenland go years without even one isolated murder taking place. Statistically, there is someone being tortured or brutally sodomized every six seconds in the U.S.A. alone.”

  This got laughter from the back row: the jock section of Sociology class. Not fully absorbing the terrifying facts being presented, the closed huddle of giggles and light ribbing soon caught the attention of Ms. Craig. Her once smooth features suddenly clenched up. Her cheeks and mouth turned to a round slab of tension-cracked granite. Her delicate gloss-coated fingers curled into tiny tanned hammers. Propping herself up on stacks of inevitably bad essays on the cultural significance of advertising and media, her slender arms stiffened: a praying mantis in hoop earrings ready to heave itself over the desk at any moment.

  “The next person to interrupt Mr. Halpern’s presentation will be receiving an automatic fail. I will have no more of this behavior.” Her flat, robotic tone was more than enough to bring order back to the room. This comically awkward mechanical shift in her speech was rumored to be the eerie calm before the brooding shit storm. The bug-eyed students recognized the weight of her limited authority, and silence soon prevailed. Ms. Craig’s ruby lips curled slightly at the ends to form a suppressed smile of superiority. Relishing the moment, she slowly lowered herself back into her chair as a king would on his throne in royal court, and again fixed her askew frames. She picked up her pen and resumed quietly facing the front of the room.

  Once again, Kieffer had the floor.

  His throat gave a few hard clicks as he swallowed back his fear and continued.

  “For decades, scientists and criminal investigators have been trying to find a way to determine how and why a person chooses to kill for sheer enjoyment. As Homo sapiens—”

  More choked laughter, but this time far too quiet to be identified. Caged behind barbed teeth and gnashed lips, it died as soon as it was born.

  “—we evolved past the primal hunter-gatherer mindset and adopted new psychological traits over several millennia. Once man evolved past the point of needing to hunt every day just to keep from starving, the primal bloodlust for killing slowly started to diminish out of the modern man's gene pool. What once was a biological need becomes a leisurely sport. As society became more civilized, so did its social rhetoric and moral guidelines. While senseless violence and hunting for sport still thrive in the future that we now live in, most people don’t feel even slightly compelled to dig down to our ancestral roots and really get their hands dirty.

  “The connection between the modern-day serial killer and the Cro-Magnon man of yesterday is slim, but undeniable. They both possess the mental makeup to deny millions of years of social conditioning. As one died out long before these rules were set in place, the other uses said rules to manipulate one of the oldest taboos known to man. No one can pinpoint exactly why a seemingly normal person would decide to maim or mutilate others when the very actions are unwarranted and will only jeopardize his or her own freedom. It’s a normal human reaction to either fight or run in instances of danger, but what compels a person to formulate a grand scheme involving the lives of so many non-threatening people? What drives someone to unwittingly rewrite the unspoken moral code that is silently ingrained in us all?

  “The why’s and how’s are anyone's guess.”

  How many of them are getting all this? he thought wearily between shallow breaths. How many of them even comprehend how preconditioned they are?

  He paused reflectively before continuing.

  “A lot of researchers claim that the several major stepping stones to this life of unempathetic brutality all take place in early childhood. Severe head trauma, inherited mental health issues, the repeated torturing of small animals, and parents who are physically or mentally abusive are the most common traits among known killers and psychopaths. Other more arguable traits include unusually crooked teeth, bulbous fingertips, and unmanageable curly hair.

  “While there are no definite constants in an individual’s physical appearance to point out as proof of a potential serial killer, most researchers can agree that the most informative years of a person's life will inevitably shape the adult they turn out to be. And still, there are known cases of killers with perfectly normal childhoods. With no history of molestation, animal torture, parental abuse, or abandonment, how do we account for these moral defectors?

  “Simply put, anyone technically fits the mold. The modern serial killer occupies every race, gender, and stereotype known to man.”

  The nullified stares from the rows and rows of flashy electric ants made Kieffer shake uncontrollably. A sporadic burst of twitches that felt like someone was behind him with a weak taser kept him from continuing. Each tiny stutter and quake of his muscles vibrated all the way out from his stomach to his extremities. He was trying his hardest to control it, but had no idea if it was working, or if anyone even noticed. All those vacant faces gave back was the same old semi-catatonic look of blissful ignorance.

  Just a poor grouping of sloppy holes that all have their own trick, Kieffer thought, his inner narrator becoming audibly dimmer by the second. The regressing sound made his head feel fuzzy. His legs too long. His skull started to lose its natural sense of shape; his brain just a sponge bobbing around in a hairy fishbowl on a high table. He felt like he was swaying, but couldn’t really tell. Kieffer struggled to redirect his gaze back to the floor to keep from floating away.

  A fake cluster of dry coughs bought him enough time to regroup.

  “Usually males ranging from their mid-twenties to late forties, the serial killer is a phenomenon that has existed since the dawn of civilization. The first recorded case dates all the way back to 331 B.C. when Roman authorities tried and convicted 170 women of poisoning thousands of male victims. The women blamed the men’s sudden deaths on the plague. Another recorded incident of serial murder around this time was the case of Calpurnius Bestia, who poisoned multiple wives by tricking them into intercourse and then vaginally inserted aconite: a deadly flower that commonly grows in heavily shaded mountain meadows along the Northern Hemisphere.”

  The lack of snickering at the mention of vaginal insertions drew a thin wire across the room. Kieffer could feel the unseen tension collecting mass in the dusty, water stained corners and walls, thickening every surface while silently occupying more space with each passing second.

  “This timeless act, even though an ancient practice, still affects everything we do as a society today. Everything from where a person of a certain nationality and ethnicity vacations, to answering an unexpected knock at the front door. Our ideas of whom and what we can trust have been forced to change with each new case.

  “These monsters walk freely amongst us because they are almost always outwardly indecipherable from the rest of normal society.”

  Kieffer was suddenly hyper-aware of his mouth. His tar-paper tongue tingled as his thinning pink lips grew increasingly cracked and dry. Pressurized eyeballs slid roughly with grit in their dark ringed sockets as he mentally prodded himself to go on. He briefly looked up from the checkered tiling only for a second before quickly returning his gaze back down to the chessboard squares of glossy brown and red. He almost couldn’t bear the naked, augmented stares violently eating away at him; dozens of hollow eyes funneling what little self-confidence he had left to give. The urge to sprint for the door and run straight out of school was so great at one point that he almost caved. Suddenly, remembering the poster board, Kieffer turned around and pointed to the first series of carefully cropped photos.

  “There are different categories and psychological traits that most serial killers fit into.” He continued with a little more hold on his nerves now that he didn’t have to face them. He breathed deeply. “One common c
haracter is the fake good Samaritan. He is often a person of decent social and financial standing who is commonly known throughout his community as an outstanding citizen. This social mask is usually perpetuated for the purposes of hiding the gruesome atrocities that they carry out behind closed doors. Usually middle-aged white males with positions of minor authority, often happily married with children, these killers can go decades undetected due to their seemingly placid demeanor and appearance. I call this character a Type One Killer.”

  The class followed Kieffer's outstretched finger to the first picture of a balding, goateed white man in a grey pinstriped suit. The older man’s wide-rimmed gold glasses framed the displaced look of dark calculation written deeply across his age-riddled face. His unbreakable scowl seemed to stare back in eternal judgment at the rest of the room.

  “This is Dennis Rader, A.K.A. The BTK Strangler. From 1974 to 1978, residents of Wichita, Kansas lived in constant fear after gruesome murders started occurring in residential areas around the city. The first incident in the string of random killings was the execution of the Otero family. The victims' ages ranged from nine to thirty years old. One surviving son later found the remains of his family bound and strangled to death in their home. Police couldn’t determine the motivation for the murders and had ruled out a potentially botched robbery attempt due to the cold preciseness and preparations taken in the slayings. No signs of sexual assault were present, but crime scene detectives did find a tiny deposit of unknown semen by one of the bodies.”

  Kieffer’s sub-self murmured endlessly behind the rolling lecture of dryly rehearsed script. Flash bulb images of tiny children hanging from rusty basement piping faded in and out of his mind's eye. Their slender arms and necks bound so tight that he could see the blood vessels bursting behind their cheesecloth skin. White nylon roping held them in upright positions like resting marionettes. The pain on their waxy faces beamed down from the rafters in a masked expression of wonder at the congealed stain glistening on the dusty cement floor below. A single sixty-watt bulb swung back and forth, moving long shadows across their pendulous bodies.

  This image simmered wildly on the back burner of his mind. A dark silhouette started to form under the scowling man in the first picture. He vindictively loomed over Kieffer’s shoulder; hard eyes caged behind gold rimmed glasses. That villainous stare, bluntly punctuating every chilling detail to follow.

  “Throughout these four years of random killings, Rader anonymously sent mocking letters to the local press and authorities boasting about the murders and giving clues to his involvement. He would send personal pictures and objects of the victims as proof of his claims. Eventually coining himself The BTK Strangler — BTK stands for Bind, Torture, Kill — Rader made it obvious through his many letters that he would keep killing regardless of moral standings, often blaming a demon named Factor X who he claimed coaxed him into killing for twisted sexual atonement.”

  We all have a Factor X, one of the voices chimed in from a dark corner. We are ALL capable.

  The thought sounded foreign in his head. Like two radio broadcasts battling on the same frequency. Two separate channels subtly overlapping with conflicting feelings and brainwaves.

  The sensation of being psychically penetrated passed. He stalled by pretending to reference his notes.

  “BTK enjoyed the publicity and notoriety that his killings got him. His letters often encouraged authorities and news media to talk about his handy work. When the body count got to ten, police buckled down and intensified the manhunt, but to no avail.

  “Then, in mid-1978, the killings and the letters stopped.

  “For twenty-six years, it seemed that the BTK Strangler had either stopped killing, relocated, or died. The killer seemed to have disappeared. Then, in May of 2004, a Wichita news station got a letter from a Bill Thomas Killman. The letter contained gruesome details and a floppy disc with candid snapshots of a previously unsolved murder that only the killer would have been able to obtain. Soon, everyone in Kansas knew about the BTK Strangler’s return.

  “The new letters and floppy disk were turned over to the FBI forensics lab. Through coding found on the disk, detectives were able to trace the data back to a privately used computer at Rader's local church. Authorities swiftly arrested Rader. He confessed to six murders, but was eventually charged on ten counts. On August 19th, 2005 Dennis Rader was sentenced to ten life terms with no eligibility of parole, assuring his death in prison.”

  Kieffer stopped and looked up at the unchanging faces that filled his vision. He could literally see his disembodied words floating across the room to them. Each fact drifting listlessly in the slight draft before being sucked into an open port. Every person's ears and eyes were crammed with coded bits of useless information. Long strips of dates and names would disappear for a moment before reappearing out the other side.

  In one ear, out the other.

  “He never showed any remorse for his crimes, even while recalling each killing in grueling detail to a packed courtroom of grieving family members and press. The BTK Strangler is a perfect example of a Type One Killer.”

  Still elongated, Kieffer's finger slid over to the next image. His arm felt rubbery and gained too much distance as his muscles creaked into action. Sinking under the weight, he distantly watched his arm bow and wobble under the self-contained fog mounting in the room. It had covered the bulk of ceiling now and was creeping downward. An amniotic bubble slowly shrinking the already cramped space, acquiring more ionic energy with every inch.

  Kieffer closed eyes heavily. He cautiously reopened them to find his outstretched arm was at its usual length and shape. Somehow, he had bought himself a little more time.

  One down, two to go.

  “The next type of killer is the disorganized killer.” The second picture on Kieffer’s shiny red poster board showed a maniacal looking young man, possibly in his mid to late twenties, with high chiseled cheekbones sitting atop an unusually dark and twisted smile. His disheveled crop of black greasy hair hung messily against his pimple marked forehead. His navy-blue prison jumpsuit clung loosely to his thin and nimble torso. The man with the disturbed sneer and hollow stare had one hand slightly raised as if he were waving a friendly hello to everyone in the room. Printed on the inside of his outstretched palm, like an illustration from a tarot card, was a black pentagram.

  “The disorganized killer, a.k.a. Type Two, is the total opposite of a Type One killer. While their motivations may be the same, their codes of conduct are polar opposites. Type Two killers rarely plan anything, usually acting on impulse or an opportunistic change in events. They care little about being caught, clumsily leaving biological clues and other damning evidence that ends up finding them later in the courtroom. The Type Two killer rarely gets away with his crimes for very long since he takes few precautions.

  “Usually on society’s lower rung, these types tend to be drug addicted drifters or common career criminals with one too many screws loose. Prone to fits of violence and rage, these individuals are easier to point out of a crowd than a Type One. A steady diet of mind-altering drugs mixed with pre-existing mental health issues are usually the catalyst for much of their ill-prepared slayings. But in most of these cases, the killers often lack the mental coordination necessary to escape capture.”

  Kieffer's eyes were suddenly pulled up to the venomous smile pasted to the poster board in front of him. In a transcendental state, he lowered his wayward hand and spoke automatically from memory.

  “This is Richard Ramirez, A.K.A. The Night Stalker. He was a Type Two killer during the mid-1980’s in Los Angeles, California. By this time, serial killers were not uncommon in L.A. In fact, the bustling seaside city is statistically acknowledged as the serial killer capital of the world. The wide area with such a dense population enabled many murderers — even allowing multiple killers to successfully function simultaneously within the confines of one major area. Still, from autumn of 1983 to September 1985, the suburbanites of L.
A. slept uneasily as the constant fear of an unknown menace cast a terrifying shadow over the bright lights and sparkling tinsel of the faceless city.

  “Starting with the unexplained murder of a seventy-nine-year-old woman as she slept, the police had no idea what horrors lay ahead of them in the upcoming months. Soon after, two girls were abducted, brutally assaulted, and then murdered. The police were no closer to establishing a pattern or motive for the attacks. Then in March, thirty-four-year-old Dayle Okazaki and her roommate were shot while walking in from their attached garage. The roommate survived the shooting with minor injuries and later described her attacker as a long-faced man with curly hair, bulging eyes, and wide-set, rotting teeth. On the same night, another woman, Tsa Lian Yu, was dragged from her parked car near her home and shot repeatedly. She died the next day because of her injuries. The police now knew they were looking at the aftermath of one individual, but were sadly no closer to catching him.

  “From here the killings only got more sporadic and outrageous.”

  Suddenly, a low rumble broke through the heavy silence. Wordlessly, heads turned to the fat, rosy-cheeked face of Henry Robbins sweating quietly in an ill-fitting desk in the third row. A self-proclaimed lactose intolerant, Henry could often be seen at lunchtime in the cafeteria surrounded by several empty cartons of chocolate milk. He would use his unfortunate allergy as comedy fuel during boring classes and tests. His friends and classmates graciously nicknamed him “The Fart Hammer.” But, judging by the sheepish apologetic smile blinking across his puffy face, it seemed that the hammer had been dropped accidentally. Chairs and desks noisily cracked and popped in unison as everyone's weight shifted back to face the front of the room.

  “Please, go on.” Ms. Craig said after jotting something down on a scrap of paper. Her voice still held the stiff, robotic tone from earlier. Her pursed lips frowned disapprovingly at whatever she scribbled down. Kieffer wondered if she documented anything that might be considered inappropriate inside of her class. He imagined a multi-tiered filing cabinet full of hundreds of manila folders. Handwritten tags bearing the names of all the accused boys and girls who dared lose control of their bodily functions during her strict eighty-minute monocracy.