I Am Not a Serial Killer

  “Hello April,” said Mrs. Watson. “It’s so terrible, isn’t it? It’s just so . . . Brooke, honey, can you take the flowers over? Thanks.”

  “John can show you where they are,” my Mom said quickly, turning to face me.

  I shrugged. “Come on,” I said, and Brooke and I walked through the crowd. “It’s a good thing I’m here,” I said, half joking and half bothered. “It’s pretty hard to find the big pile of flowers in the middle of the street.”

  “Did you know him?” Brooke asked.

  “Max?”

  “His dad,” she said, wiping her eyes with a gloved finger.

  “Not very well,” I said. I did know him pretty well, actually—he was loud, arrogant, and shot his mouth off about anything he had even half an opinion on. I hated him. Max idolized him. He was better off without him.

  We reached the pile and Brooke set down the flowers.

  “Why are there two piles?” she asked.

  “That one’s for the missing guy, Greg Olson.”

  She knelt down and pulled a flower out of her bouquet, and took a step toward the smaller pile.

  “Brooke,” I said, then stopped.

  “What?” Her face darkened. “You don’t think he’s the killer, do you?”

  “No, I just . . . Do you think this helps? We throw some flowers in a street, and tomorrow he kills another one. We’re not helping anything.”

  “I think maybe we are,” said Brooke. She sniffled, and wiped her nose. Her eyes were red from crying. “I don’t know what happens when we die, or where we go, but there’s gotta be something, right? A heaven, or another world. Maybe they’re watching us, I don’t know—maybe they can see us.” She placed her flower on Greg Olson’s pile. “If they can, maybe it will cheer them up to know we didn’t forget them.” She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering in the cold, and looked off into the darkness.

  “Max remembers his Dad pretty dang well,” I said, “but that doesn’t bring him back. And what about all the others? He’s killed people we don’t even know about—he must have. If he hid Greg Olson’s body, he’s probably hidden somebody else’s. If remembering’s important, then what happens to them? Nobody even misses them.”

  Brooke’s eyes teared up again. “That’s terrible.” Her face was bright red from cold, as if someone had slapped her hard on both cheeks. It made me mad to look at her, and I felt my breathing speed up.

  “I didn’t mean to make you sad,” I said. I stared at my candle, deep into the heart of the flame. Remember me. . . .

  Brooke took another flower from her bouquet and set it off to the side, starting a third pile on the street.

  “What’s that for?” I asked.

  “For the others,” she said.

  I thought of the drifter at the bottom of Freak Lake. Did he care that some stupid girl put a flower in the street? He was still at the bottom of the lake, and the man who put him there was still killing, and that flower wasn’t going to help either situation.

  I turned to walk away, but someone walked past and placed another flower on Brooke’s new pile. I stopped short, staring down at the two flowers crossed on the asphalt. A moment later a third one joined them.

  Everyone seemed to know what was going on. It was like watching a flock of birds wheeling in the sky, turning and dropping and soaring without any command—they just knew what to do, like a shared mind. What happened to the other birds—the ones who couldn’t read the signals, and kept going straight when the flock took a wide, communal turn?

  I heard a familiar voice and looked up—Mr. Crowley had arrived, with Kay alongside, and they were talking to someone just ten feet away. He was crying, just like Brooke—just like everybody but me. Heroes in stories got to fight hideous demons with eyes red as burning coals; my demon’s eyes were only red from tears. I cursed him then, not because his tears were fake, but because they were real. I cursed him for showing me, with every tear and every smile and every sincere emotion he had, that I was the real freak. He was a demon who killed on a whim, who left my only friend’s dad lying in pieces on a frozen road, and he still fit in better than I did. He was unnatural and horrible, but he belonged here, and I did not. I was so far away from the rest of the world that there was a demon between us when I tried to look back.

  “Are you okay?”

  “What?” I asked.

  It was Brooke, looking at me strangely. “I said are you okay? You were grinding your teeth—you look like you’re ready to kill someone.”

  Please help me, I begged her silently. “I’m fine.” I’m not fine, and I am going to kill someone, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop. “I’m fine, let’s go back.”

  I walked back to Mom. Brooke followed, her hands shoved tightly into her pockets, her eyes darting up to my face every few steps.

  “Can we go?” I asked Mom. She turned to me in surprise.

  “I’d like to stay a while longer,” she said, “I haven’t talked to Mrs. Bowen yet, and you haven’t seen Max, and—”

  “Can we please go?” I kept my eyes on the ground, but I could tell everyone was staring at me.

  “We started a new flower pile,” said Brooke, breaking into the awkward tension. “There’s one for Mr. Bowen, and one for Mr. Olson, but we started a new one for the victims we don’t know about. Just in case.”

  I glanced at her, and she smiled back, weak and . . . something. How was I supposed to know? I hated her then, and myself, and everyone else.

  People were still staring at me, and I couldn’t tell if they were staring at a human or a monster. I wasn’t even sure which I was anymore.

  “It’s okay,” said Mom, “we can go. It was nice to see you, Peg. Margaret, please give our regards to the Bowens.” We walked to the car and I got in quietly, rubbing my legs in the cold seat. Mom started the car and blasted the heater, but it still took a few minutes before anything warmed up.

  “That was very sweet of you to start a new pile,” said Mom, halfway home.

  “I don’t want to talk,” I said.

  I could feel myself getting worse—dark thoughts crawled over and through me like maggots in a carcass, and it was all I could do to quell them. I wanted to kill Mr. Crowley, but not anybody else. The monster was confused, and rattled my mind like the bars of a cage. It whispered and roared, begging me constantly to hunt, to kill, to feed it. It wanted more fear. It wanted to possess. It wanted Mom’s head on a pole, and Margaret’s, and Kay’s. It wanted Brooke tied to a wall, screaming for no one but us. Over the past few weeks, I’d found myself yelling at it to stop, or hurting myself to hurt it, but it was stronger than I was. I could feel my control slipping.

  We rode in silence the rest of the way, and when we got home I poured a bowl of cereal and turned on the TV. Mom turned it off.

  “I think we need to talk.”

  “I said I don’t want to—”

  “I know what you said, but this is important.”

  I stood up and walked back into the kitchen. “We don’t have anything to talk about.”

  “That’s exactly what we have to talk about,” she said, watching me from the couch. “Your best friend’s dad was murdered—seven people have been murdered in four months—and you’re obviously not dealing with it very well. You’ve barely said a word to me since Christmas.”

  “I’ve barely said a word to you since fourth grade.”

  “Then isn’t it about time?” she asked, standing up. “Don’t you have anything to say, about Max, or your Dad, or anything? There’s a serial killer in town, for goodness sake, that’s your favorite thing in the world. We couldn’t get you to stop talking about them a few months ago, and now you’re practically mute.”

  I moved out of sight behind the kitchen wall and ate another bite of cereal.

  “Don’t run away from me,” she said, following me into the room. “Dr. Neblin told me about your last visit—”

  “Dr. Neblin needs to shut up,” I said.

  “H
e’s trying to help you,” said Mom. “I’m trying to help you. But you won’t let us in. I know you don’t feel anything, but at least tell me what you’re thinking—”

  I hurled the cereal bowl at the wall as hard as I could, shattering it. Milk and cereal sprayed across the room.

  “What the hell do you think I’m thinking?” I shouted. “How’d you like to live with a Mom who thinks you’re a robot? Or a gargoyle? You think you can just say anything you want and it will bounce right off? ‘John’s a psycho! Stab him in the face—he can’t feel anything!’ You think I can’t feel? I feel everything, Mom, every stab, every shout, every whisper behind my back, and I am ready to stab you all right back, if that’s what it takes to get through to you!” I slammed my hand down on the counter, found another bowl, and hurled it at the wall. I picked up a spoon and threw it at the fridge, then picked up a kitchen knife and prepared to throw it as well, but suddenly I noticed that Mom was rigid, her face pale and her eyes wide.

  She was afraid. Not just afraid—she was afraid of me. She was terrified of me.

  I felt a thrill shoot through me—a bolt of lightning, a rush of wind. I was on fire. I was floored by the power of it, of pure, unfiltered emotion.

  This was it. This was what I had never felt before—an emotional connection to another human being. I’d tried kindness, I’d tried love, I’d tried friendship. I’d tried talking and sharing and watching, and nothing had ever worked until now. Until fear. I felt her fear in every inch of my body like an electric hum, and I was alive for the first time. I needed more right then or the craving would eat me alive.

  I raised the knife. She flinched and stepped back. I felt her fear again, stronger now, in perfect sync with my body. It was a jolt of pure life—not just fear, but control. I waved the knife, and the color drained from her face. I stepped forward and she shrank back. We were connected. I was guiding her movements like a dance. I knew in that instant that this is what love must be like—two minds in tandem, two bodies in harmony, two souls in absolute unity. I yearned to step again, to dictate her reaction. I wanted to find Brooke and ignite this same blazing fear in her. I wanted to feel this shining, glorious unity.

  I didn’t move.

  This wasn’t me.

  The monster was entwined around me so fully that I couldn’t tell where it ended and I began, but I was still there, somewhere.

  More! it screamed.

  My wall was gone, the monster’s cage destroyed, but the rubble was still there, and somehow in that instant I found that wall again. I was standing in the rubble of a life I had built meticulously for years—a life I never enjoyed, for I had cut myself off from joy, but a life that I valued, joyful or not. I valued the ideas behind it. The principles.

  You are evil, said myself. You are Mr. Monster. You are nothing. You are me.

  I closed my eyes. The monster had named itself now—stolen its name from the Son of Sam, who’d called himself Mr. Monster in a letter to the paper. He’d begged the police to shoot him on sight, so he wouldn’t kill again. He couldn’t stop himself.

  But I could. I am not a serial killer.

  I put down the knife.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I’m sorry I scared you.”

  Her fear flooded out of me, the exquisite joy of connection drained away, and the link severed. I was alone again. But I was still me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said again, and walked around the corner, down the hall, and into my room. I locked the door.

  I clutched desperately to a thin veneer of self-control, but the monster was still in there, still strong, and madder than ever. I’d beaten it, but I knew it would come out again, and I didn’t know if I could beat it a second time.

  That was how the Son of Sam had ended his letter: “Let me haunt you with these words: I’ll be back! I’ll be back!”

  16

  New Year’s Eve passed without incident—some fireworks on TV, some fake champagne from the supermarket, and nothing. We went to bed. The sun came up. It was the same world it had always been, only older. One step closer to the end of time. Hardly worth celebrating at all.

  Almost all I did these days was watch Mr. Crowley, peeking out of my window during the day, and peeking into his at night. One day, helping out with chores, I stole a key to his basement, and slipped it in a tiny hole in the lining of my coat. I knew their schedule to the minute, and the layout of their house to the tiniest detail. Soon they left together on a combined shopping trip—she needed groceries, he needed a new faucet for the kitchen sink—and while they were gone, I slipped in through the cellar door. There was the maze of storage in the basement, leading to the upstairs rooms. There was the chair where he watched TV, there was the bed they slept in. I left a note under his pillow:

  GUESS WHO?

  On Friday morning, January fifth, Max’s dad arrived at the mortuary—cleaned, examined, and carried out of the police van in three white bags. Crowley had slashed him up and torn him in half, and I knew the FBI must have cut him up further, looking for evidence. Mom would need a photo just to put him back together again. I stood on the edge of the bathtub and watched out the bathroom window as Ron, the coroner, and someone in an FBI cap carried the bags into the embalming room. Mom and Margaret came out, and the four of them chatted while they made the transfer and signed the papers. Soon the men got back into their truck and pulled away. The embalming ventilator clanked into life below me, and I shut the window.

  Mom was coming up the stairs, probably looking for a snack before they got started. I retreated quickly to my room, locking the door behind me; I’d been avoiding her almost pathologically since threatening her the other night. To my surprise, her footsteps bypassed the kitchen, the bathroom, the laundry room, and even her own bedroom. She reached the end of the hall and knocked on my door.

  “John, can I come in?”

  I said nothing, and stared out the window at Crowley’s house. He was in his living room—I could see the light on, and the blue flickers on the curtain reflecting from the TV set.

  “John, I have something I need to talk to you about,” said Mom again. “A peace offering.”

  I didn’t move. I heard her sigh and sit down in the hallway.

  “Listen, John,” she said. “I know we’ve had some hard times—we’ve had plenty—but we’re still together, right? I mean, we’re the only two people in the family who’ve managed to stick it out. Even Margaret lives alone. I know we’re not perfect, but . . . we’re still a family, and we’re all we’ve got.”

  I shifted on the bed, glancing away from the window to her shadow below the door. My bed creaked as I moved, almost imperceptibly, but I knew she’d heard it. She spoke again.

  “I’ve been talking with Dr. Neblin a lot, about what you’re feeling and what you need. I’d like to talk to you instead, but . . . well, we’re going to try something. I know this is crazy, but . . .” Pause. “John, I know you love helping us embalm, and I know that you haven’t been the same since we banned you from it. Dr. Neblin thinks that you need it more than I thought. He says it might do you some good. You were a lot more . . . in control back then, anyway, so maybe he’s right, and it does help. I don’t know. It’s the only real time we ever spend together, too, so I thought . . . Well, Mr. Bowen’s body is here, and we’re going to get started, and . . . you’re welcome to come help us if you want.”

  I opened the door. She stood up quickly, and I noticed as she rose that her hair was streaked with a little more gray than I remembered.

  “You sure?” I asked.

  “No,” she said, “but I’m willing to give it a shot.”

  I nodded my head. “Thanks.”

  “There are a few rules you need to know first,” Mom said, as we walked downstairs. “Number one, you don’t tell anyone about this, except maybe Dr. Neblin. Especially not Max. Number two, you do exactly what we say, when we say it. Number three—” We reached the embalming room and stopped just outside. “
This is a very gruesome body, John. Mr. Bowen was torn in half at the trunk, and most of his abdomen isn’t even there. If you feel like you have to leave, for goodness sake leave—I’m trying to help you here, not scar you for life. Show me that I can trust you, John. Please.”

  I nodded, and she stared at my face for a moment. Her eyes were a mixture of sadness and determination. I wondered if she could see through my eyes like windows, into the darkness inside, and the monster that lurked there. She opened the door, and we went in.

  Roger Bowen’s body was laid out on the embalming table in two pieces, with a gap of five or six inches where his top and bottom didn’t quite meet. His chest was marked with a huge “Y” incision—shoulder to breastbone, shoulder to breastbone, and down the center from the breastbone to what was left of his waist. The incision was loosely laced shut, like a threadbare quilt. Margaret was at the side counter, sorting the internal organs from the autopsy bag and preparing to clean them with the trocar.

  I was home again. The tools on the walls were in their right places, the embalming pump sat obediently on the counter, the formaldehyde and other colorful chemicals looked festive in rows along the wall. I felt myself slipping into familiar patterns—cleaning, disinfecting, stitching, sealing. His face was bruised, and his jaw was broken, but we rebuilt it with putty and recolored him with makeup.

  While we worked, I thought about Crowley, and how he’d collapsed in the street after killing Max’s dad. He’d pushed himself too far, waiting until the last possible moment before killing. But it made sense—letting time pass between kills made him harder to track, and it gave the public uproar time to die down. People grew less careful again. This time, though, it had nearly been too long—he’d only barely managed to replace his failing organs and regenerate. Worse than that, he’d had a witness—me—practically in his grasp, and then he’d been forced to let me get away. That seemed like a weakness I could use, but how?