Losing a loved one is never easy. People often delude themselves into thinking that it’s all about the death, but it’s so much more.
To start, something feels off. That leads to a series of appointments and tests. Next comes the diagnosis. Family and friends offer up condolences and support, all while feeling powerless inside.
Sometimes there’s a gradual decline, other times it’s over quick. There are those who “don’t want to lose” their loved ones, and those who “don’t want them to suffer”. Some of them say what they mean, but the others are just trying to mask their true feelings.
There’s always a decline in faculties, then somewhere between inevitable and unexpected, the loved one dies. But that’s not the last of it. If the tragedy of loss weren’t enough, agony is multiplied by logistics.
When will the service be held, and where? Will it be religious or secular? Who’s going to give the eulogy or do the reading? What are we going to feed people? After all those questions are answered, the bill comes.
Once the memorial is finished the estate has to be handled with some people walk away satisfied, while others are disappointed. Sometimes there’s nothing left after the medical expenses and funeral costs.
Last but not least, something needs to be done with the deceased’s belongings. Memories and treasures become things to be fought over or thrown in a dumpster. If there’s a house, it probably needs to be sold. Grief isn’t allowed to truly set in until the dust settles.
--
My girlfriend Whitney was devasted by the loss of her grandfather Jim. Her parents died when their house burned to the ground. Jim saved her from the fire himself, but he couldn’t get her parents out in time.
Jim officially took her in after the memorial. It wasn’t hard for him to get custody. He was a decorated detective who was known for volunteering around the community. Her aunt breathed a sigh of relief.
“What was I supposed to do with a twelve-year-old girl,” she asked.
“Love her. Cherish her. Take care of her,” he said.
Jim loved carpentry. To help his granddaughter acclimate to her new home, he hand-crafted her new furniture. They painted her new room purple and filled it with toys and the furniture Jim made. Even though Whitney was still mourning her parents, she had found home again.
She accompanied him on all his errands and social visits. They would go around town, helping the elderly, mentoring school children, and giving hand-crafted gifts to expecting parents.
Jim did his best to give Whitney a normal home life. Being a detective made it difficult sometimes. Long hours out investigating meant a lot of nights spent alone; but Jim always made sure the fridge was stocked, her homework was done, and the house was locked up tight.
Sometimes Jim brought his work home with him. One time she went into the room he used as an office. She told me about a wall covered in newspaper clippings and police reports. When she asked him what the things on the wall were, Jim simply said it was his life’s work.
She pressed him about the stories on the wall, but he told her she shouldn’t know about such things. He ushered her out and asked her to stay out of the office.
“The world out there can get pretty hairy. You’re too young to know about such things, let alone worry about them. Leave it to us detectives, okay”?
She never pressed him about his work again.
--
Whitney introduced me to Jim at a picnic two months after we started dating. I was expecting an over-protective, gruff cop sort. Instead, we hit it off right away. We spent that afternoon talking about his carpentry and what I did for a living.
When the picnic started to wind down, Jim took me aside.
“Now listen,” Jim said. “You seem like a really nice guy and I’m glad Whitney finally brought you around. But if you ever hurt her”.
“I would never hurt her. Not to mention, she’s pretty tough. I don’t think I could even if I wanted to”.
Jim smiled and clapped me on the back.
“Good man”.
A weekly dinner visit became part of our norm. Jim knew his way around the grill. His barbecue chicken was to die for, but his chili recipe was in a league of its own. I asked him for the recipe once. After it was evident that I wasn’t going anywhere, he decided I was worthy. No matter how many times I made it though, it never tasted the same as his.
As time went on, Whitney and I needed to take over culinary duties for our weekly dinners. Jim started to complain about his old joints. He was constantly going on about headaches and a stiff neck. As his joints got worse, his sense of balance started to go too.
Jim took a turn for the worst one night when we were having ribs. He grabbed his lemonade but spilled it all over himself. The glass fell to the hardwood floor and shattered to pieces. He struggled to pick the pieces from the floor. Whitney and I told him we would clean it up.
When Jim got up to show us where the broom was, he wabbled a little bit. After a few steps he collapsed on to the floor. Whitney and I rushed over to help him. We called the paramedics and a half hour later we were getting him checked in at the ER.
The doctors thought that Jim was suffering from a neurological condition; but nothing was conclusive until they ran more tests. They kept him overnight for observation, then released him to us the next morning. It was evident that arrangements had be made for his care.
Whitney was insistent that she take care of Jim herself. We were already strapped for cash and Whitney’s aunt was of no relation to Jim, so we really had no alternative.
We would take shifts depending on who was working. Even though we have an apartment, we spent most of our time living at Jim’s house. Whitney decided if Jim was going to die, he would die at home.
“He would hate being stuck in the hospital,” she said. “At least this is where we shared a life together”.
She was dead set on caring for Jim despite the fact neither of us were qualified to give him the care he needed. Even as Jim was losing his ability to walk, he liked to putter around when went to get his food or medicine.
One day I came back from getting Jim’s lunch when I noticed an open door adjacent to the living room. I put the plate down and went in. There was a wall covered in newspaper clippings, photographs, police reports, and other documents. There were red threads pinned into the wall, connecting some of the papers.
“Whatcha doing,” Jim asked from behind me.
I turned and saw the old man propping himself up on the door frame.
“The door was open. I was curious, I’m sorry. What is all this, if you don’t mind me asking”.
“My life’s work,” Jim said.
Jim collapsed under his own weight. I rushed over to help him. After a minute or two, I got Jim back on his feet and walked him over to his easy chair. I retrieved his lunch tray and placed it on a small table next to him.
“Whitney told me you had a case that you were working on for years, “ I said. “She also said you didn’t want her to know too much about it”.
“No,” he said with a rasp. “I didn’t. I didn’t. A little girl shouldn’t know about such things. The Peeler killings….they were one of a kind”.
“How do you mean,” I asked.
“The Peeler, that’s what the papers called him, would flay his targets. Sometimes it was a potato peeler, sometimes it was a knife. Sometimes he skinned them completely, sometimes he only did an arm or leg or the face. He always took something with him”.
My stomach was churning and my mind was reeling.
“What do you mean, take something”?
“Ooooohhh, teeth, bones, organs”.
He stopped and looked around. I assumed he was looking for Whitney. Once he was satisfied she wasn’t there he leaned forward and spoke in a hushed tone.
“Sometimes he took their genitalia. Sometimes he’d take their brains”.
He sat back, and spoke at his usual volume.
“Department never caught The Peeler. For years I’ve been pouring over that stuff. Trying to see why the department never caught up to him. It’s my life’s work. I don’t want Whitney to know anything about it though. It’s too much for her and if she knew about things like that, it just might break her heart”.
I nodded in agreement, wishing that I had never wandered into that office or asked questions in the first place.
“Well anyway,” Jim said, “The Peeler is still free. Who knows if they’ll ever catch him. Maybe someday someone will look over my notes. Thanks for helping me off the ground. I used to be so strong. Now I’m just a weak old man”.
“Oh don’t say tha”.
Before I could finish my sentence, Jim erupted with laughter. Not just a chuckle, but the type that shakes your shoulders and need to catch your breath afterwards. His hands were shaking as he howled with laughter. I tried to calm him down. After a minute or two he stopped laughing, but his hands were still shaking.
“Jim I think I should call an ambulance”.
“Nonsense,” he said, putting a gentle hand on my wrist. “I’m fine. I’m just going to eat now”.
I watched him eat from the other room. Aside from his jittery hands, he seemed fine. Later that night, I told Whitney what had happened. She told me that she had seen him laugh like that the other day.
“It’s not just laughing,” she said. “He started crying the other day. Really bawling, out of nowhere”.
I nodded and put a hand on her shoulder.
“Have you been noticing his mood swings too? I’m getting really worried about him. We’ve scheduled appointments, but they’re like a month off. Until you, he was the only person I had. I just don’t want to lose him”.
I held her, her tears making my shoulder warm and wet. We were powerless to stop whatever was happening to Jim. From what little we knew he was suffering some sort of neurological disorder, maybe some form of dementia.
By the following week he was confined to a wheelchair. The week after that he couldn’t grasp anything. His laughing and crying fits were more frequent and his speech had become slurred. We had to spoon feed him because he lost the capacity to hold anything. The next month he stopped eating because he had so much trouble swallowing.
He was admitted into the hospital after that. His muscles spasmed and his vision started to go. The doctors felt Jim had this neurological disease for at least a few months, if not a year. It shocked them that he hadn’t slipped into a coma yet.
Jim never did slip into a coma. A few weeks after his admission, he succumbed to pneumonia. Whitney was devastated. The doctors and nurses gave us their condolences, then Whitney and I started managing the logistics of his death.
The memorial service was held at the local funeral parlor. The owners remembered Jim as being larger than life. People from all over town were happy to help make the service a special one. Everyone except Whitney’s aunt that is.
“It’s better off this way Whitney. You wouldn’t want him to suffer would you,” her aunt asked.
Compassion was a foreign concept to her aunt, but bullshit was her native language.
Everyone at the service gave us their condolences and offered up “anything you need”. I think some of them even meant it.
We went back to Jim’s after the service. His ashes were placed in his office per his last wishes. I held Whitney and she started crying.
“We have to clean this place out,” she said. “We can’t afford to keep this place. It’s like I’m losing him all over again”.
She cried for a while, then went upstairs to sleep in her childhood room. When I checked on her, she was lying on the bed wrapped in Jim’s favorite blanket.
I went downstairs to sleep on the couch in the living room. Then I stared at the ceiling until I finally started to doze. After all, tomorrow we would start dismantling Jim’s life piece by piece. I needed my rest.
--
There was a large dumpster sitting in Jim’s driveway. Mountains of boxes were strewn around the house. Some of them were to be donated while others were headed for our apartment. We didn’t have any money for a storage space.
Well-wishers would stop by to pick up donation boxes and make idle chit chat. They would usually leave before they were asked to lend a hand. Nobody wants to clear a dead man’s house.
Day by day, we whittled away the possessions in the house. The dumpster was almost overflowing, so I had to get on top of everything and stomp it down. The truck wouldn’t pick up a dumpster that was overflowing after all.
Everything that was meant to be donated was already picked up by the respective church or community groups that Jim wanted to help. All that remained was Whitney’s room and Jim’s office. We decided that she would clean out her childhood room and I would take care of Jim’s office.
“Please be careful,” she said. “That’s his life’s work in there”.
We decided to eat before we got started.
“Check the freezer out in the garage,” Whitney said.
There was a large stainless freezer standing in the corner at the back of the garage. I opened the door and saw two sides of meat. I couldn’t tell if it was beef or pork, the meat was wrapped in cellophane but looked pretty freezer burned.
“I think that we’re out of luck. There’s only two sides of meat that are so freezer burned I can’t tell what they are. Even if we wanted them, it would take them until October to defrost”.
Her face was wet with tears. I went over and hugged her.
“Hey the take-out in this town isn’t that bad,” I said.
She gave me a courtesy chuckle and sniffled.
“It’s not that,” she said.
“I know”.
We stood there for a minute or two, holding each other.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “How about I throw that old meat in the dumpster. I’ll call the team and have them pick this behemoth up. Meanwhile you take a walk or something, you need a break. Afterwards, pick up some Chinese food. Sound good”?
She looked up at me and said “thank you”.
I waved to her as she drove away, then headed back to the garage.
The meat was heavier than a bag of rocks. I had to drag the first one on the ground. It took all of my might to get it into the dumpster. The other meat was just as heavy, so I decided to use the wheel barrel to get it there. After getting the second side of meat into the dumpster I needed to catch my breath.
I called the dumpster company and told them we were ready for pick up. An hour went by before they showed. They thanked me for our business and went on their way. Pretty quick all and all.
The air conditioning was blasting inside. I sat down to cool off and get a drink of water. Jim’s office was right across from me. There was something about that room, filled with its dark history that made me uneasy. It didn’t matter though, I needed to empty it out for Whitney.
When I turned on the lights, I was greeted by decades of horror. Grisly crime scene photos and sensational news clippings decorated the office wall. There were red threads, leading to missing person posters and coroner reports.
I wondered if Jim was even allowed to have all of this information. Companies don’t look kindly on employees who take home sensitive information. That probably goes double for Police Departments.
It was easy to see why Jim considered this his life’s work. This array of documents went beyond a passion for justice, it was more a sign of a dedicated obsession.
I glossed over the papers as I removed them from the wall. Red thread would fall to the ground like leaves falling from a tree. Pins went straight in the garbage, while each document went into a specific box.
According to the reports the killings started off slow, maybe one or two per year. As the years went on The Peeler became more active. He started to strike every season, killing two to five people. There was no common thread I could see that linked the victims.
After a few years, the killings started to taper off. The police weren’t sure if it was because The Peeler had moved, died, or simply tried to move on. Jim had made a note about cheetahs not changing their spots. Nevertheless, almost a decade passed before The Peeler killed again.
Some of Jim’s colleagues theorized that The Peeler hid his victims during this time. Jim however, noted that something else must have been going on in The Peeler’s life that curtailed his murders.
After this lull, The Peeler was back in full swing. He terrorized the county, killing up to seven people a year. The increase in frequency was accompanied by an increase in brutality. “Trophies” would be taken from his victims. Small amounts of human flesh had been cooked at the scene of the crime. Just like Jim said, The Peeler was taking teeth, bones, and other things unsavory souveneirs.
I filled up my first box of photographs but didn’t have any spare boxes in the office. There were some up in Whitney’s old room.
All of her toys were already packed away. As I shifted some boxes to get to the spares, something fell to the ground and landed with a crack. I looked around the box and saw it was a wooden baby rattle. Jim probably made it for Whitney when she was born. I picked up the rattle and it looked like there was a small crack in it.
I brought the rattle down with the spare boxes and took it to the kitchen. If I was lucky, Jim would have kept some wood glue around. I needed to finish clearing out the office, so I rested the rattle on the kitchen counter. Before I went in, I turned up the temperature up so the AC didn’t freeze me out.
Back in the office I gleamed more from the documents. The Peeler had been busy, up until about a year and a half ago. His last suspected victims were a family of four. Pieces of the family had been left behind, but it was suspected The Peeler had absconded with the bodies.
When the wall was cleared, I started on the desk. The documents there suggested that The Peeler was male, of large stature, and most likely of considerable strength. Coroner reports and psychological profiles filled the drawers of the desk.
Profiles hypothesized a killer who most likely engaged in cannibalism in addition to taking trophies. Some of them suggested a full-on psychopath, while others suggested a methodical predator was hiding in plain sight.
Additional reports offered further theories pertaining to The Peeler’s apparent cannibalism. Based on the killer’s cannibalistic habits, some profilers suggested searching for people who exhibit symptoms of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. While extremely rare, the disease is noticeable to the trained observer.
The only thing left to empty out was the bookshelf to the left of the desk. Most of the books were about police procedure and abnormal psychology. The rest of the books were about ritual killings, cannibalism, and other troubling topics. As I removed the last of the books, I noticed a slight draft coming from behind the bookshelf. I dragged the shelf over to the side and away from the wall.
I expected to see a vent after I moved the shelf. Instead, I found a large hole in the wall. The hole was large enough for someone to crouch down and walk through it. Every bone in my body told me to drag the shelf back into place, but curiosity got the better of me. I took out my phone and turned on the flashlight.
The hole had a passageway that led to a door. I opened the door to cold air and a stairwell that led into a basement. There was an acrid odor in the air. At the bottom of the stairs there was a table covered in random objects. Some of the objects were valuable, such as watches and necklaces. The other stuff was random junk, like sticks of gum and pens.
I followed the horrible smell. If there was a leak in the basement, Whitney and I would have to figure out how to repair it before we could even think about showing the house. When I turned the corner, I saw a large mass covered by a tarp.
The closer I got, the more unbearable the stink was. By the time I was in arms reach, I thought I was going to vomit. I stopped to gain my composure, then pulled the tarp away. Right as I was about to see what lied beneath my phone powered down. In the rush to get moved out, I’d forgotten to charge it.
The basement was pitch black. I backed into something that felt like a large shelf. There was a bunch of clinking and rattling, then something glass crashed to the ground and broke open. The smell of formaldehyde filled the darkness. I found a wall and backed out all the way to the stairs. Once I was back in the office, I ran to the kitchen to find a flashlight.
I opened every drawer and cabinet. Finally, I found a flashlight in the cabinet above the sink. As I reached to the back of the cupboard to get it I bumped into something and knocked it on the floor. It was the baby rattle I had left on the kitchen counter. Only this time it didn’t just crack, it broke.
I knelt down to pick up the pieces. The crack from before had split open completely and the handle had broken off. My heart stopped when I saw the contents that had spilled out of the rattle. Ten teeth had fallen out when the wood cracked open. I picked one of them up and examined it. It was a human molar.
For a moment I sat on the kitchen floor, my back against the lower cabinets. Why the Hell was there human teeth in Whitney’s baby rattle? My mind flooded with a million unbearable thoughts. I slowly got to my feet and made my way back to the whole in the wall.
The stairs creaked underfoot, and the odors made me nauseous. I could make my way back by smell alone, but I was glad for the path the flashlight cut through the darkness. A broken jar laid in in the middle of the floor. Some spongy material sat in a puddle of liquid in the middle of the shards. I shined the light up to the shelf.
Jars lined four rows of shelves. They were all filled with liquid, which I assume was all formaldehyde. Each jar had some sort of human ofal floating within. Some of the jars had brain tissue, others digestive organs. There was one or two hearts and at least five bits that appeared to be genitalia.
I stepped back and the flashlight revealed two tables at either side of the shelf. Each was decorated with an assortment of bones. Skulls, ribcages, femurs, and more were arranged in an almost ceremonial manner. I bumped into something when I took another step back.
I was standing on the edge of the tarp I pulled before. My hand shook as I reached out to grasp it. When I pulled it down, I revealed four carpets that had been rolled up. The unbearable odor was even worse now.
The top carpet in the stack was slightly unfurled. Against my better judgement, I started to unroll it. As it opened, I could see what remained of a human hand. I decided to stop unrolling it and took a blind step back. There was a squishing sound under my feet, followed by the crunch of broken glass.
I looked down to see I had stepped in the spongy stuff. While I was looking down the carpet rolled downward, unfurling towards the floor. The full remains of a human being were now resting at my feet. Half of the torso appeared to have been cut off. My stomach rolled as I thought of the sides of mystery meat I had found in the freezer.
I ran up the stairs making my way to the back porch. After I got outside, I threw up in a flower bed. Sweat lined my brow and my head swam.
All I could think about is how Jim told me that the wall in his office was his life’s work. He said the department never caught The Peeler, but never said he didn’t catch him. This sweet old man, this inhuman monster, had been manipulating the investigation for years. He played on the heart and soul his community. How many rattles around town had human teeth inside? Did his other wood working projects have secret prizes inside?
--
A few hours have gone by. I’m still sitting here on the porch. I can smell the summer heat cooking my vomit. My forehead is still covered in sweat, my head is still swimming.
I’ve solved a mystery, decades in the making. I discovered a real-life monster, but I don’t know what to do.
Part of me wants to call the police, to blow this thing wide open. Deep down there’s another part of me, wondering what good would that do?
Will exposing all of this bring anyone closure or peace? Will the victims magically come back to life? Or am I just going to tear a community apart? Am I going to destroy the memory Whitney’s guardian?
She’ll be home soon and I’m torn. Do I expose a terrible truth to get justice, or should I preserve a beautiful lie?
Losing a loved one is never easy.