Strangers in Common

Strangers in Common          

Some things you do not see coming. It is always the “thing” that you never think could happen to you and then it does. Life smacks the words right out of your mouth. I’m at my sister’s wedding sitting on a toilet in some fancy catering hall. That “thing” just happened to me, and quite frankly, I’m not doing too well. I’m afraid to move, but more on that a little later if I have the time. To explain the predicament I find myself in, will be one part confession and one part explaining today’s events.

              You could call me the black sheep of my family, but that would be an understatement. Fortunately, my family does not know the depravity lurking on a cellular level within me that dictates most of my life. To them I’m just an odd duck who moved to the other side of the country. I call on birthdays and holidays and only come home for special occasions like today. They don’t know that I am the most prolific serial killer currently active in the pacific northwest. Fourteen victims in the last three years. Eight of the bodies have been found, and seven of them have been linked to the same perpetrator. Me. I have been dubbed PCK by law enforcement, short for Pacific Crest Killer. My victims have all been found along this trail from northern California to the middle of Oregon. I don’t mind the nickname, but it certainly lacks the pizazz of The Night Stalker or The Son of Sam.

              My penchant for killing is not a result of my upbringing, quite the contrary. I had loving parents, and their harshest punishment was a timeout on the couch. I did not enjoy burning ants or torturing small animals. I never set a fire and don’t remember being a bed-wetter. They say an alcoholic does not know they are an alcoholic until they have their first drink. You could say I did not know I was a killer until I committed my first murder, and that happened by accident. Accident may be the wrong word, but it certainly was not planned.

              I was in my senior year at the University of Oregon. I was dating a girl from nearby Lane Community College. She had a roommate, Ruby, that was very attractive, and she knew it. She flirted with me all the time, and there was the one time I took her up on her advances. I was in their apartment waiting for my girlfriend to get back from class. I sat next to her and put my hand on her knee. That’s when she slapped me in the face. I immediately stood up and apologized. That’s when she stood up and slapped me again. I told her two slaps were all I would allow and apologized again and said I would leave.

              That’s when she said, “Slap? That’s the least of your worries. I’m going to march on down to campus security and tell them you tried to rape me. That will get you out of this bullshit relationship with Margaret (my girlfriend) and in a shitload of trouble with the law.”

              I said, “Rape? I put my hand on your leg after you have repeatedly flirted with me. I have not forgotten the three times you walked by me and your hand brushed my genitals. One time is an accident, three times is a message. Wait a second, you have been goading me all along. You wanted me to make a move so you can say I tried to rape you.”

              “My word against yours. Besides, Margaret is going to know you tried something just by looking in your eyes.”

              “You like Margaret. That’s what this is about. She’s not a lesbian.”

              She laughed at me. “We’ve been fooling around the entire time you guys have been dating. Trust me, she is confused. You are an experiment that I thought would be over by now.”

She brushed by me and grabbed a jacket by the door. She started to pull the door open, and I pushed it closed before she could step through it. That’s when she slapped me again and told me to get out of the way. I slapped her back this time and knew I had made a big mistake. It was what she wanted the whole time. She grabbed at her face and smiled when she saw blood coming from her lip. She tried to open the door again and I slipped my arm around her neck and had her in what MMA fighters call a rear-naked choke. With my forearm pressed against one carotid artery and my bicep pressed against the other she stopped struggling in a few seconds. I did not release the choke for some time. I had to make sure she was dead and had not just passed out. That’s when it happened. I ejaculated in my pants as I felt the life drain from her body. The closeness of the act. My body pressed against hers. The sound of her gasping and the sensation of her struggling, helpless to change the course of her life. It was the most intense orgasm I ever had. Every junkie seeks the high from their first main-line, and I too have been searching for that exact moment of ecstasy.

I never panicked. I put her body in her bedroom closet and cleaned up my underwear the best that I could. I found the key to their apartment so I could come back later to get rid of the body when Margaret was not around. Lucky for me the apartment was on the ground level and Margaret had a window that I could get the body through into the back parking lot. I convinced Margaret to stay at my place that night and made sure she had plenty of margaritas. The tequila I did not put in mine went in hers. At three in the morning, I sneaked out and made my way to the apartment and was able to get Ruby’s body out and into the trunk of my car without being seen. They still have not found her body yet. I have visited her burial mound on numerous occasions. Margaret was my alibi for that night when I was interviewed by the police. She just assumed I was in bed with her all night. I was never really a suspect, but I did have numerous conversations with the lead detective on the case.

It was two years before I killed again, and I can tell you it was all I thought about. There were times I thought I would go mad. Like a kettle on a flame there must be a release before the steam builds up and explodes. The drug analogy is a good one when it comes to people like me. A drug addict may go to work, be in a relationship, visit family, enjoy other things in life, but they are always thinking about their next score. You can drop a drug addict anywhere in the United States and within a half hour they will have dope in their veins. Drug addicts know who other drug addicts are just by looking at them. It’s a cult where members are bonded by experience.

You can say that I know another serial killer when I see one. There is a certain disconnect in their eyes. When you speak to them, they are never fully invested in the conversation. Part of their thoughts are elsewhere, mildly distracted by dark images. We may be thinking about strangling the girl next to you at the bar. We may be thinking about our last conquest. The only time we are one-hundred-percent focused is when we kill. We are always thinking about taking a life no matter the situation, and those thoughts can only be recognized by someone who has seen that look in the mirror.

I met my sister’s husband for the first time today even though they have been dating for three years. I have seen a few pictures of him and did not see it, but when I shook hands with him a few hours ago I knew my sister was marrying one of my kind. Wives and girlfriends of serial killers are usually safe. We kill strangers because police always suspect someone close to the murder victim. In most cases murder is personal. That’s what this was for me right now. A killer married to my sister was personal, and I immediately started thinking about his demise.

I spoke to him briefly after his dance with my sister and the toasts were made. As I spoke to him, I had no doubts, and I had to make a trip to the bathroom. I splashed water on my face and looked at my reflection in the mirror. I did not like what I saw. I could not kill him here at the reception, although the thought had crossed my mind. I would kill him soon, however, because my sister did not need that kind of shame if he was found out. She would be heartbroken, but that’s better than the alternative. His death would take his evil secrets into the ground with him and my sister would be none the wiser.

That’s when I felt something cold slip into my side and a sudden burst of pain that paralyzed me. I managed to turn and there were those disconnected eyes looking at me. Even though he was in the act of killing his eyes were not totally here. This kill was a necessity, not pleasure, and I had the sense that he was imagining I was someone else. His expression was lifeless, like a pale mannequin possessed by an evil spirit. He said, “Sorry. I just stabbed you in the liver.” He guided me into a bathroom stall, and he assisted me as I sat down gently on the toilet. “You know. I saw it in your eyes.”

Realizing what was happening I went to lunge at him, but the slightest movement brought excruciating pain. I fell back on the toilet and winced. He said, “The liver is a delicate organ that is wired into the rest of the body. It’s why a liver punch in boxing totally incapacitates the receiver. I’m sorry to get the brother-in-law relationship off on the wrong foot, but I know you would be coming for me, and I hate looking over my shoulder. That’s kind of why I’m marrying your sister. Married men are seldom looked at as viable suspects for our second profession. BTK and the Green River Killer are perfect examples of married men who killed over decades before they were caught. Don’t worry, you know your sister is safe as long as she never finds out.”

With all the strength I could muster I managed to speak. “I’m in a bathroom at a wedding hall. Someone will eventually come in here to take a piss. Not very well thought out on your part.”

“One thing at a time. I did put an out-of-order sign on the bathroom door. I broke the last toilet and water is already starting to creep its way down here. The plumber is on the way and the maître d’ is directing the men to use the alternate bathroom downstairs. You’ll bleed out in the meantime.”

He reached into my pocket and removed my wallet. Then he took my watch and cell phone and said, “I know a robbery during a wedding is unlikely, but it will give the police something to think about. I think the groom will be one of the last people on their suspect list anyway. I’m going to put these in someone’s vehicle outside.”

He stabbed me in the femoral artery and exited the stall, but not before I surreptitiously reached out with my bloody index finger and discreetly touch his black pants. I can only hope he did not notice. When he exited the bathroom, I attempted to stand again. I could feel warm blood squirt from my inner thigh, so I sat back down and here I am with the life draining out of me. I can scream. I can hope the plumber comes in soon. I can try to stand and make my way out of the bathroom. What I am is speechless, and I think I will just stay here and take my secrets to the grave with me and hope my sister never finds out that she married a killer.