I’ve tracked down many monsters in my time, from back alley thugs to the serial killers history tries to erase, though one in particular has followed me my whole career.
This serial surgeon, killer, and all around shitty guy has many names, names which we do our best to sweep under the rug. I’ve been in this business for sixty years, which I suppose that damned doctor has, too.
My story, or I suppose our story, begins eighty years ago. Well, that’s when we were born.
Growing up, our childhoods were remarkably similar and dissimilar. Our births cost both of our mothers’ lives, our fathers both lost theirs in the war in 1943. We ended up in foster care, at the age of three. Orphans had no real place in the world, so we were quiet.
It’s been far too long to remember when or why, but at some point between the age of four and five, we found our spark. In my case, the tales of Sherlock Holmes were gospel. The infallible detective, that’s what I set out to be.
As for the doctor, he took to mythology, medicine, and science. No one, perhaps not even the doctor himself, knows just what inspired his terrible, twisted desires. Whatever it was, the doctor set out to become a scientist like no other.
Loners throughout school, we both stuck to ourselves. We never saw a grade below a 97, and even then the 97 was when I had broken my knee and sat through gym for a week, in fourth grade.
Fourth grade was a very notable year for the demented doctor, too. For his school science fair, the kid doctor simulated an entire organ system. A human organ system. No one thought to ask where, how, or why he’d gotten the inspiration or knowhow to do it. Nor did anyone stop to consider where he had gotten all that blood.
Looking back, the signs were always there. The songbirds disappeared around his orphanage, leaving not a single trace. Strays were never caught nor seen for nearly a ten mile radius around that kid. Everywhere he went, nature seemed to vanish.
Rumors spread across the community, claims of terrible screeching and blood curdling wails in the dead of night, or the occasional rodent with too many limbs, and many other chilling gossip lay in the police department’s records. Records I have personally appropriated into my file on this bastard.
I’ve seen the cleanup efforts firsthand, and they… they’re taxing. I’ve never believed in souls, and witnessing what that wicked witch concocted over the years, it’s furthered that disbelief. Joint task forces across the EPA, FBI, and a cocktail of other agencies came together when the doctor and I turned 25.
I had graduated top of my class from Yale, a crisp degree in Criminal Justice. I still idolized Holmes, though I’d matured enough to realize detectivework isn’t all fun and games. I wish I could say I had some noble cause, or that I was in it to protect people, but I don’t want to lie. Sure, it would be nice if I saved people here and there, but my eyes were always focused on one, single objective. Solve crime, catch criminals. My tunnel vision may very well have cause much harm, but that’s my burden to bare. I’m not the maniac who though surgically attaching ransom limbs was a good idea, though, so my conscience is clear for the most part.
I managed to skip most of the training and prerequisites thanks to my renown, and some very kindly worded recommendations from a few dozen professors I’d studied under. I joined the Florida Department of Law Enforcement as a detective. Florida had one of the highest serial killer related killings, so I knew I’d be busy.
I spent my first two years, from the age of twenty to twenty two, proving myself. I solved cases nearly every week, though it was more of a means to an end. Selfish as it is, I was busting my ass for when the real deal rolled around. I earned promotions, commendations, and the sort. I made headlines, news stories, never left a case unsolved.
My impeccable record and straight edge earned me a seat around the table, that fateful day. It was a day before my birthday, call it an early gift. The chief stood, while four detectives and myself sat in the war room. Suits sat in the remaining thirty five seats, with a few more standing.
“Men” one of the standing men said. The weight behind the gravel in his voice made me cringe to think how painful it must be to speak. I’d met smoke inhalation victims with clearer sounding voices. “What we discuss here today does not leave this room. Is that under-stood?” He spat the last syllable like a drill instructor, ordering rather than asking.
All this question earned was silence. I couldn’t speak for the others, but I knew to keep silent. A mixture of excitement and fear washed over me, my dream had finally come. Even today, I don’t feel guilty, judge me as you will.
After a few minutes, the man snapped. The room fell dark, a feature I hadn’t known about previously. A projector kicked to life, displaying various warnings and classification notifications. “I will warn you, men. Should you remain in your seats, you will not be allowed to leave this assignment until it is complete. Walk out now, this is your one and only chance,” the man said in what I’d imagine to be an uncharacteristically somber tone.
I heard shuffling in the seats around the table, though I sat deathly still. I wouldn’t give up this golden opportunity even if it cost me my life. Ultimately, we all stayed seated.
For the sake of keeping it palatable, I’ll minimize the graphic details. For the record, my age has done nothing to my recollection of these atrocities. I truly wish I could have forgotten. I suppose I’m making up for the good luck I’ve used throughout my life.
Back to the war room. “Very well,” the man sighed, clicking a remote. The remote produced a piercing clack and the projection shifted to the next slide. Each click brought another slide. Each slide brought repulsed and horrified gasps from the crowd.
Ronald Hunter Stevenson, age twenty five, date of birth June seventh, 1940. Parents, deceased. Education, unknown. Location, unknown.
“What you see are examples of this man’s so-called experiments. He calls himself a doctor, despite no record of any such degree,” the man stated, ignoring the retching and gagging around the room. “Ron, the doctor, a serial surgeon. Without formal education, we have records of his work that transcend anything a top doctor could. Not only did he manage to reattach limbs in several cases, but he has somehow added additional limbs. See here,” the man clicked again.
A body… it was a body… but it didn’t look human. My hair stands on end just thinking about it. A man… or rather, what was a man, had too many arms. Far too many.
Nearly a dozen people lost their stomachs at the sight. I sat, unflinching. No, I had never seen anything so vile or cruel. No, I hadn’t expected anything like it. I was just too focused on my assignment. It was a dream come true.
The man began pacing in a circle around the room, stooping behind each seat and speaking. “Tess Simmons, field nurse, spy, and W.A.S.P service woman. Carried out numerous key operations during the war.” The man moved on, stopping to share notable pieces of our pasts.
“As for myself, call me Ted. I will be the head of operations, and leader of this group. Next in authority stand the leaders of your respective organizations. For now, we are the clean up team. Until we can catch him, our primary concern is limiting any and all public knowledge of his existence,” Ted briefed us.
My hand shot up before I could process the assignment.
“Yes, Mr. Cyr?” Ted called across the room, turning all eyes over to me.
“Sir, Ted, um-“ I stuttered, took a deep breath, and continued. “What is our cover, since it sounds like this will take a lot of time. We do have a cover, correct?” I choked out a somewhat respectable question.
After a few seconds of Ted tapping his temple, he snapped again. The lights sparked to life around the room, as Ted said “you folks can figure that out.” At that, he slipped out of the room.
Our leader was indeed an idiot.
My apologies, but it’s time for me to nap. Typing takes these arthritis stricken bones of mine a lot of effort, and reliving this isn’t exactly pleasant, either.
My arthritis isn’t terrible today, so I thought I’d use this opportunity to post again. Now, where was I?
Right, our leader is an idiot.
As we congregated into our different groups, and left through the door, going our different directions, I caught a glimpse of someone familiar.
“Eyyy Cyr, what’s with the party?” Bill slapped a hand onto my shoulder, chuckling.
Unlike Ted, I can cover my ass. “Cross department exercise,” I casually said. Bill was a rookie detective. He graduated alongside me, though he’s three years my senior. His thick mustache wriggled as though it were alive whenever he spoke. It was always challenging to look him in the eyes when that fuzzy strip danced atop his lip.
“Fuuun” Bill oozed sarcasm, earning a real sigh from me. “Dispatch called in some sort of swamp monster. Washed up alongside a few dozen crocs, and a couple bodies. You and I were chosen to investigate the scene, c’mon.”
Bill and I drove our separate cars. While Bill seemed lighthearted about this, a pit was forming in my stomach. I knew what might be waiting for me. The doctor had been quite prolific with his experiments over his five years of recorded activity. My gut was screaming out in glee and terror over what would likely be my first face to face with one of the doctor’s defects.
I finagled my way through the knobs and dials of the radio in my new cruiser, until the doo doo doo, doo dit doo played in morse code, confirming my message had been received. For those unfamiliar, that translates to ‘o k’ in morse code. The chief was now aware that Ted was going to be busy sooner than anticipated, and we already had witnesses.
Within five minutes, unmarked Austins were “cutting me off at every corner” according to Bill. That meant Ted was both an idiot, but quick when the going got tough. I sped my way there, slightly relieved at first, as I saw a mostly empty, dilapidated bridge, half submerged in the swampy murk.
That relief quickly turned to dread as I got out of my vehicle. Immediately, I could make out dozens of shapes, scattered haphazardly across the muck. The mud itself had a deep reddish hue to it, as if a blender had been fed a bog, crocodiles included.
The sight itself did not bother me. What nawwed at my nerves was what I didn’t see, rather. I drew my Colt M1911, and scoped out the area. I swerved my head left and right, but I didn’t see it. All I could see was my cruiser, door still open, the crocodile and other assorted chunks that littered the ground, and the swarms of buzzing insects scavenging the scraps.
Then I heard it. Or I suppose what I can only assume to have been it. A chittering clack of teeth nashing together. Grinding. The sensation of filing a finger nail spread across my body, filling me with an intense, warm discomfort. A drop of sweat dribbled down my temple, along my cheek, then fell from the base of chin.
The chit chit hurghh chit chit grind and chitter grew in intensity and frequency, a telltale sign a predator was gearing to strike. My lungs tightened as anxiety strangled my breath away. I swiveled again and again, finding no sign the monster.
Primal instinct blared alarms in my skull, screaming, protesting, begging to run from the encroaching danger. Unfortunately, my body and instinct were not on the same page. I stood, frozen, aware of the danger closing in, yet unable to do anything to avoid it.
I never did see that creature. Even when I came to, I was barred from accessing it.
The last thing I remember that day was hearing a revolting schlumk as the creature erupted from beneath me. The creature’s wood chipper of a maw tore straight into my calf, all the way to the bone. If I screamed, I don’t remember.
My M1911 appeared before I knew it, and unloaded six of its seven rounds. According to the chief, three shots rang true. One through what once served as an eye, and two in its snout. The other three were found in the sludgelike mud around our bodies.
My leg was not able to be saved. I still take pride knowing I was the one who killed that thing. Sometimes though, I still hear that chittering grinding from the corner of my room. Sometimes, I feel the lower half of my left leg in the moments just before it was taken from me. Whenever I think back to that day, it’s almost as though I can still feel the leg. I suppose that’s the phantom limb I was warned about.