Chapters of Chastication

Exercise in Supidity
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Ezoic
2005-03-02 00:55:55 (UTC)

Third Chapter: The Creep's Shrink is Found

“Well, Bobbie, tell me what you found.” John Fielding’s
booming voice preceded him out of the victim’s bathroom
where he had noticed several strips of bloodied fabric
clogging the toilet, a discarded vibrator, and several
blown batteries in the sink. On the police force for just
over thirty years, Fielding surveyed the main room briefly
and then focused in on the young woman kneeling over the
body of the dead man.

“A dead shrink. Suicide, by the look of things and dead
maybe,” she shrugged and stood slowly, “a week? No family.
No friends. Found what looks to be a box of suicide
letters dating back about twenty years in his desk drawer.
Scene has the look of desperation if you ask me. And, uh--
” she paused gestured to the direction where there was a
pile of wadded, bloodied tissue, and cleared her throat.

“There looks to have been some sexual activity on the
shrink’s couch and I’m not touching that lamp pole. Cord’s
been cut, wrapped around the vic’s neck. I think it
happened after the vic killed himself.”

“What else?” Fielding sidestepped some pictures that
appeared to have been torn from a glossy magazine. “Ah
hell, I didn’t need to see that,” he muttered, indicating
several images men being bent over beneath women with
overly large sexual aids strapped on. “How the hell am I
supposed to eat a donut after seeing that? I’m going to my
granddaughter’s frickin’ Christening in an hour. This shit
is f--”

“Well, I think he was turned faced down,” the woman
interrupted. “Blood spatter indicates he shot himself and
then fell back, not forward. There’s a hole in the seat
of his pants clear through his underwear and beyond, if you
get my meaning.”

“Christ Jesus. Anything else?”

“Just a few words scratched into the vic’s chest,” Bobbie
brushed her auburn hair aside and used her pencil to push
aside the torn shirt fabric. “At first I thought the shirt
had been cut to ribbons but if you look beneath it you can
see some words.”

“Anything that makes sense? Screw that, nothing in here
makes sense. Crime of passion after the guy blows his head
off? What does it say?”

“Can’t make it out. Something about wind licking trees. I
don’t think he’s able to express himself very well. He’s
probably slow, stupid slow.”

“Huh?”

She wrote the words down on a pad of paper and held it up
to him. “See what I mean?”

“Right,” Fielding turned his face away and strode to the
window of the basement office. He lifted a hand to rub
some of the grime off the window, stepped onto his toes,
and peered outside. Several hookers were taking position
beneath some streetlights by the corner and a drunk had
hunkered down in a doorway with a paper bag.

“Christ Jesus,” Fielding spat, “we’ve got a Creep out there
killing hookers. We’re close. I know we’re close. I don’t
have time to deal with drunken shitbags killing themselves
after a bad jerk off.”

“Uh, boss-“

“He could be out there right now, the stupid sick fu-“
Bobbie thrust a wad of papers forward, interrupting his
rant. “We’ve got him.”

“Him who?”

“Him,” she jabbed a manicured nail at the sketch of a man
on the top suicide letter. Satisfied that she had gained
Fielding’s attention, she shifted the papers and revealed
the other, similar sketches. “Our vic knows him. No, knew
him. He was here.”

“Well son of a bitch,” Fielding growled and stalked back to
the window where he held up one of the letters. The sketch
was unmistakably similar to the one plastered on the pole
outside the window. The same sketch that warned pedestrians
to beware of a white male of a certain height, build, and
so forth.

“Son of a bitch.”

“We need to secure the scene, boss.” Bobbie reached for
her radio and chirped off a few commands and several
minutes later a pair of crime scene investigators entered
and set to their task of preserving the evidence. A camera
crew could be heard setting up outside the building while
the sound of the property manager’s voice could be heard
whining about the mess he would have to clean up after the
cops were gone. “We’ve got our man, Fielding. ”

“Son of a bitch.”

The hours passed by quickly with samples taken,
measurements recorded, and the tenants of the run-down
building interviewed as potential suspects and witnesses.
The property manager had indicated he collected rent from
the dead man and that was about it, never had any problems
to fix, no reason to think he was into having poles shoved
up his ass. No one seemed to know much about the dead
man, nor did they particularly care. There were plenty of
dead people being found in the alleys and dumpsters in the
neighborhood, at least this one got to go in the comfort of
his own hovel.

Two weeks later and numerous news reports after, several
people crammed into an office at the station when Officer
Roberta Mackenzie, Bobbie to the team, arrived teetering on
too-high stiletto heels and wearing a skirt that would
probably barely pass for a headband. She snatched up
several tissues and began removing her makeup.

“Well, Bobbie, tell me what you found.”

Fielding sat at his desk at the station and watched the
female officer as she sunk into the chair across from him
and removed her wig. He could still see the faint bruises
around her neck and shuddered at how close he had come to
losing another cop. She looked tired and on edge and he
could sense her frustration. It had been her idea to pose
as hooker in the neighborhood where so many had been going
missing, or worse. Two weeks on the street and all she had
to show for it was a set of some sick bastard’s paw prints.

“Nothing since the bast-err," she flushed slightly in
apology to those around her, cleared her throat, and
continued. "Nothing since the Creep had me by the throat.
Didn’t see his face. Smelled like piss is all I remember.
Piss and cigarette smoke. I think I’d have better luck if
I stood there with a frickin’ lamp pole.” The others in
the room snickered. “When’s the shrink coming?”

“The shrink’s here.”

Bobbie turned to look at the smartly dressed brown haired
and eyed woman with the gold rim glasses. She was easily
in her early twenties. Conservative, with a scar above one
eye that seemed to have been they’re for some
time.

"Nice to meet you. Dr. Power, right? I heard you
have a profile?”

“Right. Call me Danni. At any rate,” she continued by
opening up her briefcase and pulling out several large
folders and handing them out, “we believe we know what he
looks like. It is a he, by the way. Samples from the
Doctor’s office match up with several victims. Pathology
reports, and all that. What we didn’t know completely, up
until reading those documents—“

“You mean the suicide letters?” Fielding had leaned
forward.

“Yes, and more. Suicide letters. There were also reports in
one of the filing cabinets that I believe are our perp’s.
What we didn’t know, as I was saying, was how well—“ Powers
drew her glasses from her noses and let the gold rims
dangle from the tips the fingers of one hand while she
massaged her temples with the other. “If you excuse me for
being lack of a better word, a clinical word, is how
absolutely fucked up he is.”

“The shrink?”

“No, the perp. The perp. How he’s coped with himself all
this time I don’t know. I’m just surprised he hasn’t killed
himself yet. A more miserable, sorry waste of humanity I
have yet to have profiled and believe me- I’ve worked some
serial killers who I’d consider sweethearts compared to
this creep.”

The ding of the elevator was followed by a roar of voices
as several undercover officers spilled into the main office
area. “Fielding! We have a situation. Fielding. Three
more dead. The bastard’s killed three more.”

Fielding stood up and spat at the trash bin. “Son of a
bitch.”


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