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#Post#: 599--------------------------------------------------
Conversation with a Killer
By: insert name Date: February 9, 2018, 8:55 am
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Conversation with a Killer
By Gary Hicks
The phone woke me up at 2:00am. I grabbed it immediately,
wondering vaguely what news story was breaking that the boss
needed to call me this early. The pause at the other end, the
silence of it, made my sweat run cold.
“Hello, Hicks,” whispered a voice at the other end. I
recognized it at once. You don't forget a voice like that. Tyler
T. Ford is a rapist, murderer, and fugitive from the law. He's
on the FBI's most wanted list ever since a shootout with the
cops in 1968. So far he's wanted for six deaths, including his
own grandmother and a police officer, and suspected of at least
a dozen more. The list goes on from there. You can read more
about him in some of my old articles. Apparently Ford liked my
style, because he started sending me letters and calling me from
payphones, insisting I publish more about him. It makes me sick
to feed his ego, but whatever gets more information to the
police.
“Hello, Ford,” I replied quietly. My wife sat up beside me when
I said the name. She left the room as fast as she could. She
knows what these conversations are like.
“It's nice to be remembered,” Ford said. I could hear that smug
smile in his voice. “Which is why I have to wonder, Hicks, why I
haven't been in the papers lately.”
“Because there's been no news,” I said, “There's no new bodies.
The FBI haven't shared any new leads. I thought you were dead.”
“No,” he corrected smugly, “You hoped I was dead. So many
people hope that, Hicks. You're right, though, there haven't
been bodies. Just messes,” He giggled; I shivered. “It's
incredible what a metahuman can do.”
I felt like a block of ice.
He breathed in deep from his nose, as if smelling a flower.
“Ah, that's it. I can smell it from here, Hicks, your despair.
Your fear. How's that faith holding up?”
“I can't just publish a claim like that,” I said, “Not without
some evidence. Maybe it's finally time for that interview, in
person. You can show me what-”
“Oh, believe me, Hicks, there's nothing I can show you that
wouldn't snap you like a twig. And, as amusing as it would be to
watch whatever authorities you intend to call on me fail to stop
me, I don't need a writer who can't write. You've got papers to
sell, Hicks, and it's time I saw my name in them again.”
I stood up, trying to gather my gumption. “You've got no story,
Ford. We've got real metahuman criminals now, monsters like
Jarvis West and titans like Zipperneck, you're old news.”
The silence at the other end felt like a knife at my throat.
Finally, he broke it. “Yes,” he said slowly, “It seems my
thunder has been stolen. Even this new so called 'rapist' out
West is getting more mention than me. As though it's any
surprise that the whores out there spread their legs for any man
with a stiff dick. Nothing but liars trying to grab headlines.”
“And you're not?”
A calculated pause followed. “No. I'm not. Marcy Collins was
sixteen when she died. This was out in Ephraim, Wisconsin. Such
a nice little town. Right on the lake, with these gorgeous pines
all over. You'd think it was in New England.” I could hear the
nostalgia in his voice. “The kind of place where a sweet girl
can grow up utterly without worry. If you check the coroner's
report it'll tell you how she died. How she was blown apart like
a grenade had just appeared inside her,” he giggled again, “Only
there was no shrapnel, no explosive. Or did he just write down
'animal attack' like the clueless **** in Watertown. Oh, I'm
sorry, you can't put **** in your paper can you?”
I waited on my end. No leading questions, no goading, just
letting him speak.
“You know what the problem with murder is, Hicks?” he waited
for a response.
“Everything.”
He giggled again. “Just about. It's such a messy business,” he
sighed wistfully. “But, right now, I'm talking about time. It's
such a pain to do slowly. Do you know how hard it is to keep
someone alive for days and weeks while you work on them? But, if
you do it the easy way, if you slit a throat while they sleep,
then what's the point? You don't know that person. You don't
know what you've taken. Worse, they don't know you. What's the
point of going to all that trouble if they never realize what's
happening to them?” He lets the question hang, but I don't bite.
He grunts with annoyance, but continues. “It's why God made us,
you know. That feeling you get when you snuff out a life, a life
they know you could have spared at any point, a life they knew
you would take, it's the best feeling in the world. Better than
sex, or fried chicken, or even a whore tied down and unable to
fight back.
“But, I've got the fix now. I've got the power to get inside
them, Hicks. They can feel me when I'm in there, rooting through
their mind. In that instance, they know me better than they know
themselves, and I know them perfectly,” he drew out the word
'perfectly' like he was feeling every corner of it with his
tongue; I suppressed a gag. “And, the next moment,” there was an
incredibly loud popping sound at the other end. I jumped and my
heart went crazy. Did he fire a gun? Pop a paper bag? Something
else?
“Words, Ford,” I said as sternly as I could manage. My heart
wouldn't stop jumping. “You've got a sick new mind game, but how
do I know you have this power?”
“When Marcy's sister Anne turned five,” he sounded far away
again, like he was remembering the events himself, “Marcy got
upset that no one paid any attention to her. She sat pouting by
her grandmother. Oh, Marcy's grandmother was the sweetest old
lady in the world. She was so lucky to have her,” there was an
edge when Ford talked about the grandmother. Whatever issues he
had with his grandmother, killing her didn't solve them. “Marcy
was only seven. She didn't really understand why she couldn't be
the center of everything, no matter how many times people told
her. All a bunch of mean old grownups. She pouted and
complained, and her grandmother, her sweet loving grandmother
listened to it all. Then the sweet old woman leaned in and
whispered in Marcy's ear, 'don't worry, Marcy. I still like you
more than Anne.' Marcy felt so proud at that moment.” The
pleasure with which he spoke made me feel physically ill. “Her
grandmother's still alive, Hicks. Ask her about that day, maybe
she'll remember it as clear as Marcy did.”
“You know one old anecdote, Ford,” I shouted, “That doesn't
mean anything.”
The chuckle at the other end told me I shouldn't have shouted.
He was getting off on this. “I know a lot more than one,” he
said, “And Marcy never told anyone about that moment. We've got
time, Hicks. I've got quarters to spare. What do you want to
hear about next? The first time she swore at her mother, and was
slapped so hard it knocked out a loose tooth? Or maybe how she
lost her virginity to a sweaty boy named Claud, who she thought
stunk. She didn't feel a damn thing from it, except shame.”
“It doesn't mean anything. You can invent as many of these
stories as you want, but it doesn't mean a thing.” I hope it
sounded like I hadn't started to believe him.
He sighed exasperatedly, “Have I ever lied to you, Hicks? Some
affects from Marcy are on their way to your office, along with
some other souvenirs from other nights. Other victims.”
The package arrived three days later. The police opened it, and
within a week I'd determined that the articles were genuine.
They all matched names he gave me over the phone. There's not
enough room in a paper for the full transcript, but he confirmed
what he'd done to several young women. I can't find evidence for
some of the memories he claims to have stolen, but most of them
check out with the sources. All the victims died in strange
circumstances, leaving gory messes without much of a body.
He talked at length about each of them, telling me all about
them. He shared memories of emotional moments in their lives,
and waxed philosophical about what it all meant to him. Unlike
previous murders, he didn't share stories of raping them. He
seemed to think his power was more intimate than that. More
violating. Then, having decided he'd talked long enough, he left
me with this:
“The short of it is, Hicks, that I don't want everyone sleeping
easy just because Jarvis West is dead. There's still a lot of
people in the world who are more than happy to hurt you. To more
than hurt you. I may not be slaughtering whole cities like that
buffoon, or tearing down buildings like the Italian fool, but I
am out there. I'm taking lives, one by one. Lives of people who
have loved one's who will be left to wonder why. Lives of people
who didn't deserve it. I don't just mean I'm killing them,
Hicks. I take their life. All of it. The best and worst moments
they ever lived, everything they treasure and hate, it's all
mine now. I want the families to know that their dear departed
will always be remembered, by me. Everything you and your
readers do, Hicks, is mine with just one decision. You'll never
know if I'm going to take it from you till the last moment; the
moment when you realize I'm going to take everything and there
is nothing you can do about it. In the moment you see how
powerless you really are.
“I'm not going to burn out like West. My little candle is going
to burn for years to come. No big scenes you can run away from.
No police blotters warning you he's in the area. No government
agents tracking me down. Just one day, out of the blue, I'll be
inside you, or someone you love, and then...” I winced for the
noise again, “...pop.” He concluded quietly. I shivered.
The line went dead.
I went downstairs and sat on the couch with my wife. I hugged
her and told her she didn't have to worry about it. All the
while I wondered if Ford would someday remember this.
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