This is actually a really long short story, or a really short novella, whichever you prefer. This here are the first three 'chapters' of the story. If people like it I'll post the rest, but most of the times people don't like long texts and stuff so this'll do for now.
The movie Seven was a big inspiration for this, as well as American Psycho. There's multiple narrators, and stuff. I really hope you like it. I honestly believe it's one of the best things I've written in English (I'm Peruvian, I speak Spanish) or in any language. So, please... Tell me what you think. And let's see if this "Pre" function works.
And the 'R' is a hard 'R'. For language, and violence that comes later on. Also: I posted this with the 'pre' thingajamig because the way I write dialogues, with the - and it just reads better with the formatting in Word. Easier to read. So, if anybody want me to, I can e-mail them the story. Please let me e-mail you my story.
[pre]He fixed his tie, finished his drink, and then proceeded to the disposal of the body. He left it in an alley, not too different from the place he had found her at. He wondered just how fucked up he really was when he decided to go for a second round. He cut her face (she was pretty), her breasts (she was a mother), and her stomach (she was so thin). As he called for the taxi, he felt satisfied. Not happy. He was content with his work, but he was not happy. Being happy would’ve meant that he enjoyed it, and although deep down he knew he had, he couldn’t bring himself to admit that. So, he told himself he just felt immeasurable fulfillment.
When he got back to his apartment, he got naked, burned his six-hundred dollar suit, and had another drink.
THE EDGE OF A STRAIGHT RAZOR
Fuck it, he thinks. Detective John Mills pressed the barrel of his gun against his cheek, and hoped for a quick death. He had been sitting on his chair -that old leathered one- for over an hour, before deciding to put an end to all his sorrows. He was fifty-eight. He didn’t have anybody. He had charm, that hadn’t changed, but his face was falling, and his belly was getting larger. He would soon be one of those disgusting old men you see walking down the park, trying to kick that evil cholesterol out of their veins. He didn’t want that for himself. He wanted to be remembered as… He wanted to be somebody. Be on the newspapers a few more times. Well. This should do the trick. Hero cop shoots his fucking brains out. Bam. Front page. Book deals for whoever knew him. Who exactly was this John Mills? How did he sink so low? In front of him, two empty bottles of what seemed to be really cheap vodka looked back at him, taunting him to do it. Slowly, he cocked the gun, shutting his eyes as hard as he could. He felt tears running down his cheeks, wetting the cold steel of the gun, and he felt his throat shrink, as he tried to swallow what little spit he had left. He thinks, for a while, about the feel of the old ring in his finger.
He presses the trigger. And hears nothing but a click.
Then he cries himself to sleep.
ONE: It’s only ten o’clock in the morning, and the city already feels like hell. I’m walking good old Detective John Mills through the motions. –A couple of kids found her, I begin. The alley is a godforsaken shit-hole in the middle of the ugliest part of the city. It’s the kind of place where the roads are always wet, and clouds are either already pouring, or are about to— which is actually worse. More depressing. It’s the kind of place, a friend of mine once pointed out, that doesn’t believe in summertime. –They were skipping class, a couple of them were, and came over here to grab a smoke, or suck each other’s cocks or something, and found… this. They called 911, and here we are. Watch the vomit, it’s theirs.
John bites his lip. I’ve never seen him do that before. See? And that’s how I know we’re in trouble with this thing. It usually happens that we walk into a crime scene, and John looks at everything as if he’s used to it. Stares at every fucking detail, at every blood stain, so blankly, so mechanically. He’s an old fuck, and just isn’t surprised anymore. Me? I’m still fascinated by these shit-heads. The senseless violence of it all still amazes me. John, though… He’s just worn out, and done for. –Jesus Christ, he mutters, putting his hand over his mouth. I nod. Jesus fucking Christ is correct. As we walk towards the corpse in front of us, I feel a cold shiver climb up my spine.
The girl looks like she’s about twenty-something, the poor thing. She’s naked, and her skin looks almost translucent. So pale. Her face is the worst part. It’s all swelled up, because of the hitting, and there’s a wound that goes deep into her eye, and then downwards, cutting everything up to her chin. She’s a blonde. Well, she was a blonde. And her hair looks so clean, and shiny. John walks in circles around her, passing his hand across the walls, and kneeling down occasionally, to get a better look at something. The disgust in his eyes is gone. He’s already calmed himself. I’ll tell you this though; you can’t just put that kind of anger away. It’ll come back to him, later on. –You’ve already found the murder weapon, right?
-Yeah, I croak. The word vanishes up in the air, swallowed by the alley. I clear my throat, and then repeat myself: –Yeah. We found it right next to the body, and bagged it. It’s a kitchen knife. A very fancy one, too. Looked like it was pretty expensive silverwork. Mills gives me the look, and I shut up right away. He doesn’t care about the details; he’s always told me that. He can look those up later. What he needs is the cold facts. Something that he can remember easily, and that he can carry around with him, so when the hour of le hour hits, and he has to put the pieces together, he won’t waste more time than he already has. –So… I’m thinking we need to first identify the victim, ‘cause right now we got jack-shit on her. And then we can… You know, work our way up from there. We’ve already asked around the neighborhood, and nobody knows, or saw anything.
Old John wets his lips, as he reaches towards the girl’s face, moving her hair away, and touching her cheek, ever-so-fucking-tenderly. –Kid… You do know what this is, don’t you?
I play dumb, and shake my head. Mills stands up, and walks towards me. He’s taller than me, the old cat is. And bigger, too. He’s got broad shoulders. That, and the way he moves makes you feel as if he is rampaging his way through the world, and you’re on his way. His eyes blow his cover, however. Grey, and old. Very old. They look exhausted.
-It’s a murder, yeah. But I don’t wanna see anything other than that. At least not before I start hearing about other corpses. It’s… I see a lover struggle, or something. Some motherless fuck that wanted more than a blowjob out of a whore, and didn’t have enough money to pay for it.
-Jacob, the old man mumbles, putting his hand behind my back, and escorting me out of the scene. –Crimes as ugly as these always come in groups, kid. The killer… Our man took his time. Those three cuts, the bigger ones, they were done after the girl was killed. You know that. They’re tidy. They… Any one of those could’ve killed her. No. That’s his signature, boy. And you know what kind of… motherless fucks have signatures. And then, I can’t help but nod, and sigh.
So: It’s a mystery.
Old John Mills wasn’t always Old John Mills. He used to be a local legend. A young man, and not without prospects. It used to be that, people were always talking about how he’d make commissioner some day, if he’d just put his mind to it. But the thing was that he fell in love with the job. He became a junky, and that’s what did most of the harm. That’s what made her leave. Every time he went into a crime scene, he wouldn’t stop until he had caught the bastards who did it. In Hell, he keeps reminding himself, there must be at least a dozen of those sons of bitches cursing his name, their brains fried by the dreaded two-thousand volts of Gruesome Gertie. Waiting for him to come down, so they can fuck him in the ass two-thousand times each. And he knows this. Maybe that’s the second reason why he became Old John Mills. Because he knows that every minute that goes by, is just another minute in his journey towards the bottomless pit, the inextinguishable fire. Because he is certain that when he dies, God will look at him in the eyes –his grey, dead eyes- and tell him there’s a special place for him in Hell. A place reserved for the delirious sinner. The one that believes he is doing the right thing. Because Old John Mills remembers.
He remembers that feeling he had, every time they called him in. Every time they showed him those dead bodies, he remembers that particular tingle in his chest. The littlest euphoria. A certain kind of disguised excitement. At first, he tried to shrug it off, just ignore it. He convinced himself that it wasn’t there, only to find out that it kept coming back. And it was bigger, every time. And then it dawned on him: he didn’t care these people had been killed; he only cared about feeling the glory again. About punishing the perpetrators, and getting commended for it. That’s why he doesn’t feel scared when he thinks of killing himself, and doesn’t wonder about how he’s gonna explain why he shot his brains out to the man upstairs. He already knows where he’s going. John Mills knows he’s a terrible person.
God probably started to catch on that, too. Maybe that’s why he made Mills realize that he couldn’t solve every crime that made its way onto his desk. And that’s probably what killed Detective John Mills. And as the crime files piled up in front of him, and as he heard more, and more people demand answers –tears in their eyes, cursing, frenetic- that they would never get, he just shut down. And so, one day, it wasn’t John Mills, legend, hero cop, that walked into the precinct. It was Old John Mills. The shell of a man that was once great, and that now was… Completely forgettable.
“How do you feel about samurai swords?” he asks her, smoothly.
The girl smirks, not really understanding the question. She is naked, now. Lying in the bed, with a cigarette in her hand. As the man walks out of the room, she grabs the money and counts it. Two-hundred and fifty dollars. That’s a hundred more than she made last night. And three times what she made the night before. The killer comes back minutes later, with a Japanese blade in his hand and a smile in his face. He is completely naked, too, you know, except for his new socks, those he hadn’t had a chance to wear until tonight. He finds comfort in the fact that, this time around, he won’t have to burn anything when he’s done.
TWO: Melissa walks across the room, towards the bed. I was planning on having her leave when we were done, but… I couldn’t get my mind off the girl, and how her stomach was spread all over that damn alley. So, I let her stay over. I just hope she doesn’t get any ideas. Melissa’s a friend. Sure, we’re close, but she isn’t the kind of girl that I would want to be with. You know, that I would want to really be with. It’s just that… We fool around sometimes. It’s an understanding we have. A pretty good fucking understanding, yeah. Melissa is a reporter. That’s how we met.
She touches her stomach, and pouts. –Do I look fat? I think I’m getting fat. Last night, it was like, I was out with Tamara? And we wanted to get something to eat. So, we end up going to this Chinese place— And it’s pretty good, right? Especially this… they have this kind of crab cake, or something? I don’t know what the heck it is, but it tastes like its heaven. She crawls into the bed, groaning. -So, we end up eating like eight-hundred thousand of those little fuckers. Ugh. I want an eating disorder. Why can’t I get an eating disorder?
I raise my eyebrows, genuinely concerned. –Melissa, I mumble. –What the fuck are you talking about?
-I’m serious, I can’t throw up. I’ve tried to do it, and all I do is gag. It’s disgusting. I’m disgusting.
And I go: -It’s supposed to be disgusting. You’re trying to throw up. It’s not supposed to feel good.
-But it’s, like… Even when I’m drunk, I can stick a fist up my throat, and nothing happens. I mean, my body sucks.
-Well, maybe that’s why your blow-jobs are so good. She hits me in the shoulder, softly, and tells me where I can go.
–Seriously, she concludes. -I’m feeling pretty obese.
-You’re enormous. I eye her, chuckling. –Gargantuan. She gives me a laugh, but not a very enthusiastic one. It’s dry, and generous. I’ve gotta get up early tomorrow; get a head-start into the murder. I’m hoping we don’t stumble upon any more bodies. It’s pretty naive to think we won’t, but faith is all we have in this city. That blind optimism, which tells us, even if everything points the other way, that not all people are bad people. And that a murder, not matter how ugly it is, maybe, was just a mistake made by some chemically unbalanced, hard-working American guy. I scratch her head, tenderly. -You know, we started investigating a pretty gruesome murder today, I tell her. Just so I can get it out of my chest. Melissa snuggles next to me, but she doesn’t seem surprised at all.
-What, the prostitute thing? Up in Old Town?
-You know about this?
-Yeah, we got a call earlier today. We’re doing a piece about it tomorrow, she informs me. I chuckle, disheartened. I was hoping we could keep away from the vultures for at least a couple of days. Now we’re gonna be timed for this. I could already hear the press conference in my head: we’ve got our best guys behind it. We’ll get him in no time. Empty promises.
-Well… Mills, you know… My partner, he thinks it’s one of those crimes that have “To Be Continued” written all over it.
That seems to get her interested. She sits up, and shows me a grin. -Really? A serial killer?
-I fucking hope not, but it’s really hard to deny the old man has a point. And it was, like… ‘Cause it wasn’t just a crime, Mel. It was a… The real Texas Chainsaw kind of deal, you know? I pause, for a second. And then add: -Messy. Ed Gein type of shit. She slides back into the bed again, with a thoughtful look on her face.
-What do you think they’ll call him?
-What? What do I think they’ll call who?
-The murderer, she says. –How do you think they’ll call him?
-How the fuck should I know? You know, like, what? In the press? We don’t choose the names.
-Yeah, but how do you think they’ll call him, you know: The Old Town Murderer. Eddy Gein Junior, or whatever. What?
I don’t answer the question.
A couple of minutes later, I clap two times, and the lights go out. Before sinking into dream county, I call out to her: -You’re a sick, sick woman, Melissa. We both laugh, softly.
HAVE A NICE DAY, is written across the floor, in big bold letters, painted in what John Mills hopes isn’t blood. He doesn’t hope too hard, though, because he knows that he will probably end up being disappointed. He woke up to the sound of his phone ringing today. It was the chief, telling him to get his ass back to Old Town. They’ve found another body. He doesn’t actually say that, the chief. He just says they’ve found a body, and that Mills has a murder in his hands. He doesn’t talk about another body, another murder. Nobody wants to jinx it. But, it doesn’t take the old man too long to recognize the wounds he’s looking for. He doesn’t find them in the same places as the others, however. There is one –the largest- that cuts through her back, and another that cuts through most of her breasts. It was a different weapon, too. A bigger blade. Nevertheless, there they are. Three separate, clean, tidy wounds, made when the victim was already dead. The old man puts his hands inside his pockets, and groans out loud. If their man kept this up, it was going to be a long week. Davey, one of the science-guys, actually smiles when he sees the message, and Mills feels the urge to kick the living shit out of him.
“I guess he has a sense of humor,” the idiot laughs.
“Yeah...” John Mills pushes him away. “Shut the fuck up, Davey.” He makes himself sound dead serious, like it’s an order. Davey bites his tongue, and watches as John Mills walks out of the alley. He turns the other way when he notices him reaching into his coat and taking out a bottle. A little drink, Detective Mills thinks, to help him get through the day.
-Well, it was the hitting that killed her.
-Really? Not the…?
-The lacerations were deep, but most of them could’ve been treated if she had been given a chance. It would’ve taken hours for her to die from those. She was hit with a blunt object, a club of some sort. He bit the shit out of her. Burst her eye in. Shattered her skull. She had been tied for a few days, too. She has these wounds, rope burns, in her wrists, and ankles.
-To a chair, or something?
-I don’t know. Probably, because something was holding her when he was beating her face in. He doesn’t even touch any other part of the body with the weapon, you see? Everything else that isn’t lacerations, are small bruises. Punches, to keep her in check, I guess. Hey, where’s the old bitch?
-Mills? He’s checking the thing up in Old Town. Another girl.
-Booyah, motherfucker.
-What? Just— What? Just yap it. Will you, Cochrane? It’s just another— It’s a body. Doesn’t mean we got something else in our hands, alright? Don’t jinx it.
-Hey, Jacob, I’m just saying, man.
-Whatever, yeah. What else?
-Hmm. Oh, well he starved her. She was starved, you know, at least a couple of days. And… Right, most of the cuts were made just before he finished her off. He basically kept his hands off her… until he killed her. Some of the bruises are older than the cuts, presumably from struggle. And… we found there had been sexual intercourse some days ago. Rough. He had basically fucked the shit out of her, before tying her up. There’s no semen inside of her, no, but the… It’s kind of swelled.
-He raped her, then?
-No. There’s no evidence of rape. No skin under her nails, no bruises in her arms. I mean, I wouldn’t rule it out, but it would seem it was consensual.
-Prostitute?
-Would be my first guess, too. Plus, as you’ve already pointed out, we got the three distinctive cuts made after death. These are clean, no sign of struggle. Yup.
-We got a name, or something?
-Caucasian, female. Um, a prostitute. Around twenty-five years old. Other than that, we got shit.
THREE: I wanna see my daughter, that’s what I tell them as soon as I get there. They don’t know what I’m talking about. I had heard about her (Jesus Christ, my poor baby) in the morning, watched the news, and all. Just like everybody else. That’s when you realize you’re a terrible mother— when you hear about your daughter being killed in the telly. I keep telling myself it’s not my fault, but I know its bullshit. I wasn’t there for her when she needed me, and I could’ve been. I just didn’t want to. I thought I hated her, I thought I hated my little baby for what she had become, but now I see I was being selfish. I drove her to those ways. I thought I didn’t, but it was me. Always working, never being there for her. Bringing her to life in this hell. One of the cops tries to calm me down; she keeps telling me to breathe, to be cool. I can tell I’m not crying (not even now, not for her), but my face feels red, hotter than ever, and I can’t seem to gather enough air to say anything. They make me sit down, and ask me again. What do I want? (I want to hold my baby again) And so I tell them about the murder that was on TV this morning, and I tell them that I know who the victim is, and I tell them she was my daughter, and I tell them it was me who killed her. I waited for over an hour, and that’s when they finally came, those two coppers, the old man and the one that seemed to be the youngest guy in there. And so I ask them: are you going to find the man that murdered my little girl?
I can tell from the look on their faces that I won’t get what I’m looking for.
“What you gotta understand is that my girl… She was a good girl, she was just hanging out with the wrong people,” the woman sobs, as John Mills walks her towards the bodies. He arrives from the murder scene, and this is what he comes back to. Crying relatives. “Jesus, she didn’t deserve this. Not her, not my little girl… she had been bad, but she didn’t deserve it, not this.” That’s the part he hated the most. Not comforting the mothers, he didn’t mind that, but it was the fact that he had to try to get some answers at the same time. It felt insensitive. Next to him, though, the kid is wasting no time. He’s already got his booklet out.
“Mrs. Rosebud, I cannot even try to imagine what you’re going through right now, but— just please, remember that anything you can tell us at this stage would be helpful.” Mills glares the kid, Jacob, but he doesn’t take the hint. The woman is still shrieking, pressing her face against the old man’s shoulder. John puts his arm around the woman, trying to smooth her out of it. In front of them, the pathway leading to the door is white, immaculate. It’s still early in the morning, and there aren’t too many people walking around these parts. If there are, they’re all wearing identical white coats, almost invisible as they rush past the three of them: the woman, yesterday’s victim’s mother, Mrs. Rosebud, and the two cops. “Like, where was she living, who was she friends with? That sort of thing.”
Mills intervenes. They’re right in front of the door, and they’ve stopped moving. “You just take your time, ma’am, alright? Can you do that for me?” The woman nods, putting her hand over her mouth, trying to calm herself. John Mills rubs her shoulders, warmly, and smiles at her, showing his uneven teeth. “Now— we don’t have to do this now, if you don’t want to. We can go out, have a cup of coffee, and eat some buns. Have ourselves a breakfast, or whatever. What do you say? Can you do this now?”
Jacob clicks his tongue, impatient. The woman breaths heavily, shaking her head. “No… No, let’s just— Let me see her. Just let me see her,” she manages to whisper. John nods, and pushes the door open, leading the woman inside.
The kid’s stomach cringes as they enter the stale, grey environment, and see the bodies laid out, in metal platforms. Most of them have already been messed around with. Those sport a big ‘Y’-like scar on their chests. One of them, however, is being messed around with as they come in, by a small, black man. Tobey Cochrane. Jacob thinks that being here once this early in the morning is already enough. Cochrane’s small, bald head has a couple of huge headphones wrapped around it, which boom to the sound of music that sounds all around the room.
“Cochrane!” Jacob calls out. The woman jumps a bit, alarmed, as Cochrane turns around, scalpel still in his hand. He smiles at the three of them, visibly surprised by their intrusion.
“What are you doing down here again, dear?” he asks, wryly.
Jacob eyes the lady as he walks towards him. “We’ve gotta take a look at that body of ours, again.”
He’s tied her down, and has her next to him as he watches television. He’s recorded, on DVD, every police drama on the schedule. The naked woman moans, complaining, as she tries to move her head, trying to get the rope out of her mouth. Her hands are bound to her feet, and she’s been lying on the expensive, three-thousand dollar carpet on his living room for over five hours. As the show starts, and the credits begin to roll, he kicks her in the head— just to keep her cool. Thirty-five minutes later, he thinks about masturbating as they reveal who the killer is, but then decides against it. He stands up, and drags the woman back to his room.
-That’s not her, that’s what she says. When we show her the body, the one that’s supposed to belong to her daughter, she just shakes her shake, and laughs. She’s crying now. –That’s not my Fiona, that’s not my girl. At first I think what’s coming next is just the usual hyperventilation, but then I see something in her eyes that I normally don’t see in the regular hurting: happiness.
So, I just look at Cochrane, and tell him: -Yeah, cover her up. The Old Man takes the mother to the side, still comforting her, as the woman talks at a thousand miles per hour. She’s so glad, and it fills my heart with warmth just seeing her speak. It’s a rare pleasure to see someone being this glad after seeing a dead body, something we don’t usually get. Most of the times, in our line of work, we can’t really give people hope. We’re Homicide. They call us in when all hope is lost, when the murder has already been committed. All we can do is catch the guy responsible. So, yeah. We were glad. And I could tell the Old Man was too. He grinned at her, hugged her. Took her hand, and walked her outside. Although part of me wished she had recognized the victim that was, as of right now, still unnamed, I couldn’t give my back to the fact that this was the highlight of my day so far. And then, as usual, that useless son of a bitch Cochrane ruins it for me.
-Hey, I was meaning to talk to you, he says, like it’s no big deal. –I’ve got something to show you. I was… I was looking over the wounds, of our girl here, and I was comparing them to some of the other cases, for which we didn’t have a murder weapon yet, just for the sake of it. We walk past half a dozen bodies before we stop next to a smaller one, another woman, covered in a blank sheet. Cochrane reveals her, and there it is. The girl is so pale. Her blonde hair already washed, almost ready for her to be taken away and buried. A horrible scar defaces her, just like it did the other. –And that’s when I realize that this girl we had gotten in from Old Town a week ago had been killed cut up with the same knife yours had been. And… So, I start comparing the files, and… Well. Rope burns on the ankles, and wrists. Three large, clean cuts made after she was already dead. Starved. Blunt object. Same age range. Same complexion. I stay quiet for a moment, trying to forget about what Cochrane is talking about, and focusing on the smile on the woman’s face as Old John Mills walked her out. He follows my eyes. –You don’t think…?
-Go bring her back in here.[/pre]
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