CHAPTER ONE
2730 Words
CHAPTER ONE
East Jersey State Prison, Woodbridge Township, New Jersey
That same day
Deputy Marshal Alexa Chase had visited here before. It had been a bad idea then and it was probably a worse idea now, but she couldn’t keep away.
She had to get some answers. She had to speak to the man she had put in here, the second-worst serial killer she had ever come across.
Bruce Thornton, otherwise known as the Jersey Devil.
She’d dealt with a few serial killers in her time. Some were dead. Others would never speak with her. Thornton was only too happy to. He was the only one who could tell her about the kind of animal she hunted.
As a hefty prison guard with a tattoo of a worm-eaten skull on his neck let her through the last door to Thornton’s cellblock, Alexa tried to keep her cool. Last time she had lost it.
She had put many evil people away and forgotten about them as soon as the cell door slammed shut, but Thornton had gotten under her skin. The Jersey Devil, as the press had dubbed him, falling for his murderous marketing campaign. She couldn’t help think of him by the same name. And while she had arrested him in the end, the things she had seen and the mental depths she had to delve had made her quit the FBI and not work for a whole year.
Because to catch him she had to think like him, bring out the aggressive side of herself in order to see the pattern of his thinking and figure out where he’d strike next.
In the end she had caught him and saved his last victim in the process, but the cost had been high. Once she had Thornton down and helpless, she had almost killed him. Almost. Only the presence of that little boy Thornton had intended on butchering had stopped her.
And she had regretted it ever since. An unworthy sentiment in an officer.
He was the devil, all right. But not of New Jersey. He was her own personal devil.
Alexa had worn her full uniform in order to assert some authority on the prisoners. That included blue slacks, blue shirt with “Deputy US Marshal” emblazoned in white across the back, and the famous six-pointed star. The cowboy boots and hat weren’t regulation, but common enough in the Arizona branch she worked for. The only thing missing was the Glock automatic pistol that should have been in the holster at her belt. She had had to check that at the gate. Only prison guards got to carry arms in here, and every one of them did.
She walked slowly down the echoing concrete hallway, trying to control her ragged breathing, cursing the sweat that ran down her face, ignoring the curious stares and open leers of the men in the cells she passed.
Her pace slowed further as she approached the last cell on the left, the one where the devil dwelled.
But she did not want to embarrass herself in front of the guard, so she quickened her step again and sat down on a red plastic chair the guard had placed in front of his cell.
Thornton lounged on his bunk in his prison orange, grinning at her.
Every time she saw him, she was reminded of the old saying, “Never judge a book by its cover.” He did not look like one of the worst serial killers of the last few decades. A pudgy five-eight, he had a receding hairline of thinning blond hair and a poorly trimmed moustache that looked like something from an ’80s cop show.
Only the eyes showed the truth, beady little blue eyes that looked like a reptile’s. No emotion, only hunger and calculation.
For a moment neither spoke.
Bruce Thornton set aside the book he was reading and smiled.
“So. Back for more?”
Alexa squirmed in her seat.
“What are you reading?” she asked, dodging the question.
Thornton patted the book. “Bullfinch’s Mythology. Classic text. Of course I’ve read it before but it’s worth rereading.”
Alexa nodded. He had been obsessed with mythology and folklore from an early age, using it as an escape from an abusive household. As an adult he had become fascinated by the old folktales of the Jersey Devil, a beast said to lurk in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey. He had dug deep into the traditional accounts, and transferred old stories of monsters attacking children into real-life action.
“So …” Thornton drew out the word, his smile widening.
“I got some questions.”
“You had questions last time. I don’t think you liked the answers.”
“I have something different I want to know now.”
“And you expect me to help you.”
If I can goad your ego into doing so. Easier said than done.
The public thought that serial killers were mad geniuses. Most weren’t. Many were of below average intelligence and got caught quickly. Others remained free to keep on killing because of police incompetence. Only a few combined the sharp intellect and low cunning the public generally assumed all serial killers to have.
Thornton was one of those few.
Alexa looked over her shoulder and saw the cell opposite Thornton’s was empty.
“Where’s your pal?”
Damn it, get to the point!
“My pal?”
“That r****t in the cell across from you. The one who kept interrupting our conversation with comments about me?”
“Oh, Rick. Yeah, that’s a real tragedy. Got shivved in the rec room. Nobody saw who did it.”
“Did he die?”
The Jersey Devil smiled. “Sure did.”
“Why did someone kill him?”
Thornton keep looking in her eyes as he gave an exaggerated shrug. “Who knows? Probably disrespected someone important.”
Alexa stared into those reptilian eyes for a long moment and knew the truth. She also knew she could never prove it.
It didn’t really matter. He would never get out of here.
Time to get what she wanted before he got under her skin even more.
“I’d like to ask you about the people who write to you.”
Alexa noted a tiny amount of tension break through the Jersey Devil’s façade. “Look at the files. The guards read every one of those letters.”
“I’ve read a bunch of them too. I’m not talking about their content. I’m talking about the people behind them.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, although Alexa suspected he already knew.
Alexa let out a sigh and immediately regretted it. It was better to keep up a stony false front with his kind. So damn hard, though. And he seemed to see through everything anyway.
“The fans,” she said. “Why do serial killers attract so many fans?”
“You worried about how Drake Logan is rising to superstardom?”
Alexa gave him a smug smile. “You worried he’s outshining you?”
“Not at all. He’s one of my heroes. I could only hope to be half as good as he is. He’s become a legend. His breakout made him even more of a legend. When the state executes him, he’ll be in the history books.”
“So you’re a fan. Tell me why.”
“It’s not the same thing when one of us is a fan.”
Alexa’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t like the implication of the word “us.” On her last visit, Thornton hinted that she was like him, someone who liked hurting those who were helpless, someone who liked beating down people who were weaker than she was.
She wasn’t. Yes, she had wanted to g*n down Thornton and Logan. Yes, she had regretted not doing so. But she wasn’t one of them. The idea was obscene.
She tried to control her rage as Thornton went on.
“It’s hard for people like us to understand. I have to admit it took me a while myself. For a long time when I was a kid, I thought I was one of them. The fans, I mean. Just a lonely kid with s**t parents who got targeted by bullies and fantasized about lashing out at the world. It’s funny, but I thought everyone tortured animals. I figured it was something everybody did but nobody talked about, like masturbation.”
“Are you going to try and sexually harass me like your dead friend?”
The Jersey Devil made a dismissive wave. “He wasn’t my friend, and I’m not trying to make any moves. I’m just being honest. That’s what you wanted, right?”
“I wanted insights into why people become fans of animals like you.”
“Short answer? Because people are animals. But let me give you a longer answer. You deserve it. It’s nice having the company of equals.”
“We are not equals. I’m out here and you’re in there. And I’m the one who caught you.”
“Could you have killed and gotten away with it for as long as I had?” Thornton shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Hell, maybe you have and you’re just not telling. Hiding in plain sight like so many of us do. Wouldn’t that be great? A serial killer cop! Never heard of a cop becoming one. Well, not exactly.”
“You were going to give me your long answer,” Alexa growled.
“Touchy, touchy. Well, as I was saying, people get attracted to us because they’re angry. They’re misfits. Losers, usually. People who would never punch someone for picking on them, let alone go on a five-state killing spree. They live out their angry fantasies through us.”
“Come on. This is Psychology 101 stuff. I thought you’d have some insights.”
Thornton smiled. “You always were a sharp one. A real adversary. If I knew someone like you was on my case I’d have switched up my technique. Yeah, that is too basic of an explanation, although it covers some of the simpler drones who follow us. You can tell what they are from their letters. Boring as hell. I never answer them. It’s the more refined fans that get a response from me.”
Alexa had looked through some of his correspondence. The Jersey Devil got letters from all across the United States and as far away as Japan and Europe. He only responded to a very few. She hadn’t had time to really delve into those letters. She was afraid if she spent too much time on them, the warden would alert her boss. She also worried it might corrode her soul.
But she needed to know. The U.S. Marshals Service was tackling an increasing number of serial killer cases and she and her partner stood at the forefront of that.
“Tell me more,” she said.
Thornton got a distant look in his eyes and his voice fell as he answered.
“The interesting ones have this … lack. The world’s too dull. People are boring. There’s no excitement, no challenge. Life is flat. It’s a hell of a feeling, and once it gets into you, you can’t shake it. Booze doesn’t help, drugs don’t help. Ever notice how few serial killers are addicts? Most of us try the stuff and end up feeling just as flat as when we’re sober. No, it’s only when we start to hunt that we find out the real thrill to life, find out what we’re meant to be.” Thornton shook himself, smiled a tight smile, and finished in a louder voice. “Anyway, Drake Logan said it all better.”
“How many of these fans turn into killers?”
“All of them, I hope!” Thornton belted out a laugh, acting the brash criminal once again. Alexa glared as he tried to control himself. Finally the laughter faded away into a few chuckles. “But seriously, to answer your question I don’t know. Very few. Even those who are awake usually don’t want to risk it. Most of us get caught in the end, after all. No matter how careful you are, you’re bound to slip up or get unlucky sooner or later. Or get a worthy opponent. And the smartest serial killers, or those who are fighting the urge, would never write to someone like me. Any i***t knows my mail is being opened and kept in a file. And even those who aren’t so smart will stop corresponding before they work themselves up to killing. They distance themselves. All of us worry about getting caught. That makes us a tricky bunch to find, even if we’re leaving a trail of bodies.”
“But what about before that? How do we detect a serial killer in the making?”
“Ah, now that’s the real question! I wondered when you’d get to it. I don’t think you’ll find it in my mail. I’ve had people who have written to me for years and years bragging about how they’ve planned the perfect murder, know just how to dispose of the body, write pages upon pages of description of just how they’d t*****e them, but they never do it. When a letter like that comes to me the writer’s local precinct gets a call from the warden and they investigate. None of those people ever ended up getting charged. The ones who brag the most do the least. They’re just seeking approval.”
“So we have to look for the silent ones.”
“That’s right. Good luck finding them, though.”
“But they’re fans.”
“Oh sure. I don’t think there’s ever been a serial killer who hasn’t looked up to the men and women who came before them. Some even imitate the methods of some serial killer they get especially attached to. They’ll know everything there is to know about their idol and try to reproduce their crimes exactly. Copycats are pretty rare, though. At least copycats who get it right. They really have to know the serial killer they’re imitating as good as the serial killer himself. And kill more. Copycats may love their idols, but they want to be better than them too.”
“So how to find them? You haven’t really answered that.”
Thornton c****d his head. “Why would I help you find them?”
Alexa leaned forward in her chair and looked him deep in the eyes. “Because you’re a hunter, and stuck in here you can’t hunt. You might get a cheap thrill by shivving someone and getting away with it, but it’s not what you really want. You want the chase, the outwitting of your prey. You want to prove to a smart killer that you’re smarter. And you want to shove that in their face when you get them.”
The Jersey Devil nodded, a spark of admiration in his eyes.
“My, my, my, you really do know us. All right, Deputy Marshal Chase, I’ll give it a think. It’s a tricky problem, but there’s not much to occupy my time in here so I’ll try to have an answer in time for your next visit. By the way, when you come next I’d like some fried chicken and a large Coke, and we eat it in the prison yard. I wouldn’t mind some extra time outside.”
“I think I can swing that.”
“Looking forward to the day.”
Alexa rose. She had gotten a bit of what she wanted, and she knew that with patience she’d get more, even though it disgusted her to ask for help from someone like him. She should have left it at that, but she couldn’t help turning Thornton’s words back at him.
“Yeah, I do know you people. That’s how I captured you, and captured Drake Logan twice.”
She walked away, the clack of her cowboy boots echoing down the corridor. Tomorrow she’d be back in Arizona hunting animals and putting them in cages.
“Takes one to know one!” the Jersey Devil called after her.
- Writer
