Yes, like a phoenix from the flames, my transformation out of gayrom is nearing completion. “Crunch” episode one films next weekend, and I’ve started work on a serial killer thriller called “Stabitha.” Ten thousand words have already just fallen out of me without even trying, and knock wood/no whammies, this should be out in February. More info to come!
Of course, I’ll need a new pen name, website etc., but in the Vance Family Tradition, I’m splitting myself into yet another horcrux. I was going to use “Derek Vance” for a mainstream thriller I never got to (consumed by magical thinking aka pure unhinged desperation at the time), so now’s his chance!
I do believe this book could be the start of a beautiful relationship, between me and serial killer/homicide detective Brian O’Connor. But without further ado, let me introduce you…
STABITHA – Chapter One
It doesn’t bother me, the sight of this young woman’s corpse. Not just because there was no gore; just a run of the mill strangulation, thank you very much, no work for ServPro here. The dead bodies of strangers don’t bother me at all.
It got to the patrol cops, of course. It angered them, the permanently inert form of this twentysomething kindergarten teacher, a “citizen,” one of the good guys. Someone they’d have asked out on a date, if only they could have screwed up the courage before someone else had, and killed her.
“The door was unlocked,” my partner Carrie said. “No sign of a struggle. Well, not that kind anyway. No broken vases or overturned tables.”
I examined the abrasions on her wrists.
“Bondage wrist cuffs, from the look of it. The fat leather ones.”
“Or neoprene,” Carrie suggested. “It’s more practical, and cheaper.”
“Aren’t you the expert. Go on.”
She shrugged. “If you’re seriously into this shit, you invest. Now, Mr. S Leather or Fort Troff, the better gay bondage equipment websites, you can get neoprene cuffs fairly cheap, and they’re easier to clean. The leather restraints, you’re going over a hundred bucks, so if we find leather on her skin, we’re looking for someone who takes his perversions seriously.”
“This is why I keep you around. And I don’t want to know how you know this.”
The body’s fingernails were clean, unbroken, no sign of skin or blood beneath them. She hadn’t fought when he’d tied her up (sexist of me, I realize, assuming it was a he). I spoke in a low tone, so only Carrie could hear me.
“What do you think? A pretty young thing, bored with all the ‘nice guys’ who asked her out, who nodded approvingly at her career choice. Nice guys who worked nice jobs and wanted a nice house in the suburbs some day.”
“She was looking for something darker.”
“Yeah. Something to think about when the day got to be too much for her, the cacophony of dirty awful children who can, alas, no longer be corporally punished into silence. All day the good people of Manhattan would smile at her as she shepherded her charges on field trips, ruining the Natural History Museum for the rest of us. But behind that smile, she’d go to the ‘special place’ in her head where she could think about The Bad Man, who’d tie her up and slap her around and call her a dirty slut. A dream of a night of pain and humiliation, so far from her ordinary sunny day full of laughing children that it was all that kept her from pushing the screeching little monsters into the traffic on Central Park West.”
“Remind me not to let you go on one of those Meet a Policeman days in the schools. Someone might not emerge alive.”
I got up and sighed. “Disorganized killing, possibly accidental, someone got carried away with the choking game. Not even Mr. Goodbar shit. Boring. Open and shut.”
“You fucking monster,” one of the patrolman whispered behind me, before his fellow officers pulled him away.
I was used to it. I didn’t care about that, any more than I cared about this dead body. I am a fucking monster. I’ve got a 32 out of 40 possible points on the Hare psychopath checklist. But really, the test is flawed.
I missed four points because I’m not “promiscuous” and because I haven’t had “multiple short-term relationships.” The test assumes you’d want either of those, and, well, D.O.D. made sure that would never happen. But more about him later.
I missed another two because they’re related to recidivism and I’ve never been arrested, which I think is a flaw in the test, because getting re-arrested doesn’t mean you’re a psychopath, it just means you’re dumb enough to get busted again.
And I missed two more because I’m not “criminally versatile.” There’s only one kind of crime I commit. You’ve got to follow your passion, you know?
It takes a score of 30 out of 40 points to qualify, and it bothers me sometimes that I just barely pass the test.
But you see, being a psychopath is why I’m so very good at this job.
Nothing upsets me. No murder case ever “gets to me,” so I can work one indefinitely. Other cops, when they catch the dark shit, the senseless murder of an honor student or an old pensioner (or a pretty schoolteacher), it makes them crazy when they can’t solve it. They feel all burdened and shit. They can’t sleep, they’re consumed with guilt because they can’t close it, they drink, they fight with their wives, they eat their guns.
Not me! Cold cases, lost causes, dead kids, pretty girls, I take ‘em all. For me, a good murder is a puzzle. And I love puzzles. Other than a major robbery, it’s the one crime people will really think out. You rob a liquor store, what do you do, maybe concoct an alibi. You get busted with drugs, “That dope isn’t mine.” Lame, right? But most people at least try to cover their tracks when they kill someone.
And I have a very high clearance rate. Why, I might have even put more murderers behind bars than I’ve… well, we’ll talk about that later.
I really shouldn’t be telling you all this yet. I want you to like me. It’s what we do, you know, charm you, make you laugh, convince you to keep listening, keep believing what we tell you. I’m a cop who solves murders. So I’m one of the good guys, right?
And even if I kill people, they must have had it coming, right? Some righteous Dexter shit, only killing the bad guys, a Robin Hood stabbing the rich to save the poor?
Of course I only kill bad people. Because every murderer believes that those he killed deserved it, that they had it coming.
You might not agree, when I start to tell you more. Once I’ve made you like me. Once it’s too late for you to turn back, to change your mind.
Just kidding! It’s never too late to turn back, to change your mind. But people don’t. I bet you won’t either.