In the center of the shop, surrounded by burnt out candles, lay the body of another victim. But I don’t like the word “victim.”
I should say, “In the center of the shop, surrounded by burnt out candles, lay the remains of a piece of shit who did the world a favor by leaving it.”
There is a story to tell, but I must start at the beginning. I need to explain that I’m not like other girls. I don’t know if it is good or bad. It just is.
I knew I was different from a young age. It was just Mom and myself. Dad had a freak accident when I was a baby. He fell off our apartment balcony and landed in a broken heap. The impact knocked his shoes and wedding ring off. The ring was never recovered.
One summer, when I was five, the youth pastor from the Baptist church disappeared. His body was found later in the White River. His trademark RayBans missing from his handsome face. Word had it he was messing around with young girls in the church group and one of the dads took care of him. The killer was never caught.
I used to walk through the woods behind Mr. Hammerstein’s house on the weekends. His house looked like the one from the Amityville Horror. Most kids wouldn’t go near it. They got bad vibes. I loved the vibes. I went there a lot.
The summer between third and fourth grade, something happened. I was walking through the woods looking for four leaf clovers when I heard laughter and a kitten meowing. I zeroed in on the sound. It was near the creek. There I saw Jimmy Booker dunking a cottony white kitten repeatedly in the water, a cruel repetitive baptism, far from funny. But he kept laughing.
Jimmy was a grade ahead of me. He liked to extort smaller kids, stealing their lunches or anything else he decided was his. He used to smash small animals with rocks to see what was inside them. He was scary.
Jimmy invented the “Booker Smackdown.” — One single fist to the top of the head. The victim would be in a daze for several minutes. Jimmy laughed so hard at the sight of kids staggering around that one time he pissed his pants and had to run home. The next day Sally Jenkins asked him if he was ok. “After all,” she said, “You peed yourself in front of the whole class.” He kicked her hard in the shin and she fell to the ground, howling. She had to be sent home to go to the ER. She was in a cast for six weeks. No one else ever mentioned it again.
The kitten’s cries were becoming faint. Time was scarce.
I crept up behind him, armed with a fat limb from a Freeman Maple and swung. No more guffaws. No more baptismal kitten. Just quiet, then a tiny meow. I took his school id from his pocket as a souvenir. Then I took the kitten into my arms. I named her Sugar and introduced her to Mom. She fell in love and said I could keep her.
The next day, Jimmy was found by a hiker facedown in the river. The whole town was in a panic as there was a crazy murderer on the loose. Mom read me the article in the Springdale Trubune the next morning at breakfast. The paper reported that Jimmy had received a new white kitten for his birthday. It was missing. Was he killed for his kitten? “The world is a sick place,” stated the editorial.
Mom’s face froze and she looked at me. Was that fear in her eyes, anxiety — wait, pride? Maybe it was my imagination or maybe she saw something familiar, awakened. Maybe that was a big moment, unspoken, powerful. Maybe I’m just crazy.
There were other disappearances, unexplained deaths through the years. Neither of us ever asked the other about it. Maybe we had some kind of psychopathic telepathy. I just know that once in awhile some asshole would do something that said, “Hey, look at me. I need someone to set things right and give me what I deserve.” So I answered those calls.
I finished high school and went to college. Mom was so proud. But she died of breast cancer my sophomore year. When I went through her things I found a shoebox full of random items. There were two things that caught my eye and left me with a feeling of curiosity and a sadness about conversations never had. Those two things — a man’s wedding ring and a pair of vintage RayBans. I realized then what I already knew. That we were alike, and that I needed to carry on the family business.
I graduated with honors and became a private detective. I was good at watching, waiting, catching people doing what they shouldn’t. It was the best way for me to screen for riffraff and the ultimate cleaning up of society. I was good at it.
Then something terrible happened.
On August 6 of last year, Ethan Hilldebrande, Greg Howe, and Rob Miller gang raped and murdered Cynthia Jordan behind the Dollar General on Route 71. They then surrounded her with candles in some weird, twisted ritual. They burned her until she passed out from the pain, then finished the job by dousing her in gasoline and throwing a lit match on her. Cynthia was a single mom working overtime at Dollar General, and trying to raise two kids. Her family had to have her cremated. There was no viewing. There was nothing to view.
We know these details because Rob Miller, one of the three, confessed to the police. He made a deal for immunity. There was a trial, but the jury didn’t feel like there was enough evidence to convict. They were set free. Justice was not served, until it was.
Ethan Hilldebrande got his justice first. He liked to get high on meth in the Johnson Forest Preserve. He got money for meth by robbing local stores and gas stations. Sometimes he would grab an older lady’s purse and run. Most people didn’t know this about him. But I did because I surveiled him for weeks before taking action. I invited him to go for a hike so we could get high. We smoked a little weed then went into the Johnson Forest Preserve. When we got about half a mile in, I shot him in the back with a tranquilizer dart. He woke up missing three fingers and struggling to breathe through his nose. It was broken and his mouth was filled with his right sock. I pulled the sock from his mouth and he cried. He was sorry. The other two made him do it. The usual. When he saw the candles around him, his eyes became saucers and he screamed. I had to put the sock back in his mouth for my own protection. I didn’t need looky-loos or do-gooders coming around. I kept his meth pipe as a keepsake.
His remains were not found for months. Animals, bugs, and bacteria had feasted on him but he had clearly been burned. His death was ruled a homicide but the police didn’t work too hard on the case. No one was interested in finding out who killed a two bit murderer who shoplifts for drugs.
I next turned my attention to Rob Miller. He lived 21 miles down Huntsville Road, far from civilization. It was Valentines Day and he was going to meet his new 16 year old online girlfriend, Candy, for the first time. How did I know? Because Candy was me.
He opened the door, saw I was not a kid, then fell to the floor — I had tased him upon entering. I killed him the way he killed Cindy, and the way I killed Ethan. Then I rummaged through his room for his child sexual assault material. I knew he had it because he told me he did. He said he had had romantic relationships with other young girls and boys and had saved pictures of each one. When I was Candy, I told him it was sweet and I wanted to see the pics when I came over. They were next to his computer, waiting for him to share with his new love. I scattered them around his body. On the way out, I grabbed his Cubs hat. A little memento.
Last but certainly not least — Greg Howe. was a CNA who worked in the homes of the elderly and disabled. He liked to steal from them and pawn their property. He would also spike their drinks with a drug that incapacitated them and made them forget what happened when they were under the influence. He then sexually assaulted them. I know this because I put hidden cameras in the homes of his patients for months.
Gregg’s dad owned a local bait store and Gregg worked there sometimes on the weekends. This is where I was able to get him alone.
The Springdale Tribune reported “In the center of the shop, surrounded by burnt out candles, lay the body of another victim.”
But I know he was no victim.
I killed him in the bait shop the way he killed Cynthia. I left his body there to be found by whomever. I didn’t care. Before I left, I took his pocketknife. A little relic. I also dropped a package in a mailbox on the way home, addressed to the Springdale Police. It was the footage I got from my hidden cameras. Not admissible in court, but the perpetrator was dead anyway. It was good information to have. The families of the victims needed to know.
There was video in the store. Gregg’s Dad turned it over but the police said it wasn’t clear enough to see who the perpetrator was. The case went cold.
It has been 5 months since Greg was killed and no one cares anymore. I sit in front of the tv binge-watching Friends. It’s my favorite. Courtney Cox is such a great actor.
My front doorbell rings. Curiously, I open the door. Mr. Howe is standing there, gun in hand, weeping and clawing at his hair with his free hand.
“I recognized you. In the video. I know it was you.” He’s waving the gun.
I put my hands up in a calming gesture. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I knew what my son was. But he was my son. I loved him.” He began to sob.
If I was capable of empathy, I would have felt it then.
Instead, I made a swift move and then heard the thump of Mr. Howe’s body, hitting the floor.
I always keep my taser nearby for times such as this. Grieving families sometimes figure things out.
I called 911 and had was arrested. I didn’t kill him. I didn’t need to. He isn’t a bad guy. Just sad. He pled guilty and got 3 years. When he gets out, I guess I will have to worry about him again. But not today. Today Monica and Chandler are getting married. This is my favorite episode. I miss my mom.
