Growing up none of my grandfather’s grandchildren knew what kind of work he did. As kids we’d theorize what kind of job he had, and considering we were a bunch of seven-year old’s we came up with the conclusion that he was a superhero. It wasn’t until after my grandfather died in my mid-twenties that my mom finally told me what he used to do for work. Turns out my grandfather was a criminal analyst and psychiatrist. For over 40 years he talked to and studied all ranges of killers from serial to emotional. An exercise he found to often get results was to have a killer write down their murders as if they were a fly on the wall. Below you’ll find a letter written by a killer my grandfather held onto for years.
“The sound of the three O’clock bell made him grit his teeth as the old, rusted parts of the mechanism scraped and tapped violently against each other. He yelled out at the crowd of exiting high schoolers, a reminder of their lab report due the next day. He knew without a doubt that none of them had heard him. He walked over to the desk of the student who had fallen asleep in his class and removed the textbooks off his desk that he had slammed down to wake the student up. He put them back in his drawer before turning to erase the whiteboard behind him.
As he finished erasing the notes from the board, the last two students of his were leaving, a young blonde girl and her star quarter back boyfriend. She was the daughter of a former Miss U.S.A. and he, the son of an NFL Hall of Famer. A couple made for the camera. The girl turned to him as they walked out and glanced at him with eyes of the clearest pacific blue. “Have a good day.” She said to him, right before those beautiful blue eyes, turned their gaze away from him. He gathered the rest of his things, fixed his grey coat unto himself and begin to make his way out of the classroom. As he walked towards the building, he observed the usual bustle of a Friday afternoon. Students running to get home to start their weekend. Some had bright green pieces of paper in their hands. Perhaps it was a notice from the school about some upcoming event. His eyes then landed on the girl from his class the one with the blue eyes. Her body pressed up against the withered school lockers, and she and her boyfriend kissed as passionately as young love would allow. He walked onward and pulled out his, timely black phone, surely outdated but, useful to him, nonetheless. He clicked until a message was formed to send to his wife. He sent the message before sliding the scratched and faded rectangle back into his coat pocket.
He made his way to the old grey Chevrolet that sat in the crowded high school parking lot and was soon on his way.
He pulled into the lot of a hardware store. He needed a few things before he made his way home. He grabbed a faded blue shopping cart from the front of the store. One of the front wheels veered back and forth and it took effort from him to keep the cart from veering to the left. He made his way along the aisles and grabbed the things he needed. Bolt Cutters, his last ones had lost their edge, A blow Torch, the old one had grown empty and cold. And a box cutter, too many of the packages in his house had been left un-opened and the box cutters made opening them much easier. Lastly, he grabbed a chocolate bar close to the register to satisfy his wife’s sweet tooth, along with a single rose. In February, you could buy them fresh cut. He payed for the items and made his way back to his car. He put the key into the door to unlocked it before venturing home.
He pulled into his driveway, grabbed the bags from the back seat and made his way into the house. He opened the door, to see his two beautiful young children sitting at the table working on their homework. His wife pulled pots from underneath the cabinet to work on dinner for that night. He supposed she was using some of the ingredients from the package he had opened last week for the supper. He kissed both of his children on the forehead as he walked by, before heading into the kitchen to give his wife a sweet kiss on the lips. “I picked your package up, and it is downstairs for you.” she said smiling at him. He kissed her again before making his way towards the basement he used as a workshop. Before he forgot he walked back to his wife and slid the chocolate bar he had brought into the back pocket of her jeans. A wide grin spread across her face as she realized what it was.
He descended into the basement and flicked the light switch on, the small area was illuminated by a faint glow from an almost dead bulb. He walked to the far wall and flicked a second light switch and watched as a secret stairwell opened, just barely visible from the faint light of the dying bulb. He descended down the stairs, as he did, he recognized a metallic scent to the air, and breathed it in warmly, the faint red on the walls was growing dark, and a new coat would have to be put up. He found a counter to put down his bags and briefcase before removing his coat and placing it on a rack in the corner. He picked up a deep red apron hanging from the same rack, and tied it firmly to himself, he grabbed the thick plastic gloves from the table and squeezed them onto his hands. His heart began to race, as it always does while he works. An old mask hung from the wall in the corner, he had fashioned it himself from an old doll head his sister use to have, along with some leftover scraps from a few packages. He tied the mask firmly to his face before turning his attention to the young lady tied securely to the table before him.
She wore nothing but her undergarments as anything else would simply make his job more difficult. He looked down at her, as her chest heaved up and down in fear. He looked along her limbs at the barbed-wire weaved so elegantly into her arms and legs. His wife had done an excellent job, he thought as he traced his fingers along the web works of wire, sewn into the girl occasionally tugging on a strand. He turned to the bags in the corner and begin taking out the things from the hardware store. The bolt cutter, he would have to save her toes and fingers, his children loved them boiled and thrown into his wife’s beef stew. The blowtorch, was needed for the next part. Then the box cutter. Freshly peeled skin made nice for a fine jerky. He reached under the counter and pulled a large jar from beneath it, he pulled a sheet from around the jar to reveal four large rats, he removed the lid and placed the opening on the girl’s warm skin. He lit his newly purchased blowtorch and pressed the sky-blue flame onto the bottom of the jar. After a while he heard her scream underneath the cloth that bound her mouth shut, but politely hushed the girl as he hated too much noise. He watched as the rats begin to disappear inside of the girl’s stomach, enjoying every sound as they tunneled. He looked at her the tears flowing down her face, from those eyes of the clearest pacific blue. He watched as those wonderful blue eyes rolled back into the girl’s head and thought to himself “This is truly the best package yet.” As he smiled beneath his mask, he watched as a cloth over the girl’s mouth was torn away and one of the rats poked its scarlet head from the young teenager’s mouth. “Yes.” He thought, “The best package indeed.” “