KILLER ADDICTION: When Murder Becomes A Habit

Chapter 19

Chapter 19

‘BYE, GEORGE. SEE YOU tomorrow,’ I called as I left the diner. George was the cook and the owner of the diner and seemed to be an okay guy, judging from my first couple of days. I was working as a busboy, clearing tables, washing dishes, mopping floors and occasionally flipping burgers on the grill. I was working for minimum wage plus tips but doing an honest day’s work for a fair day’s pay. I wasn’t stealing from anyone or hurting anyone. It will be an endless road, but I’m on the path to bringing my Chi back into balance, slowly making my way back up the Karma ladder. This was the first job opportunity that came up, plus it had the bonus of eating the leftover food off the plates.

Back on my bike, I ride, and I remember. I relive the murder scene repeatedly in my mind. Etched in my memory is every detail, seared into my brain with the intensity of my feeling for Sally and the shame of what I did to her, how my actions led to her hideous death.

The fog is slowly lifting from my mind; I’m regaining some of my previous mental function. Thankfully, it seems I haven’t totally obliterated all my brain power by my severe d**g a***e.

The cravings are brutal. The urge to give in to the rampaging horse is a monumental struggle that constantly drives me—pushing every part of me to give in and once again find the bliss of the needle. But I know down that path lies my death, and I now have a purpose driving me, so I can’t give up. I need to find the sick bastard that did that to my Sally—I must avenge her death.

I rode across town and returned to Sally’s crime scene. There was no sign of activity at the abandoned warehouse; nobody cared. Nobody had fixed the smashed window and there was still glass everywhere. Blood stained the floor where Sally had laid. I looked around, examining the scene again, looking carefully everywhere. I even found a stray syringe the careless cops had left behind under a workbench. The police didn’t care about Sally—to them she was just another junkie, and the state of this murder scene showed it.

I looked around on the workbench and found an old rag, folded it over and jabbed the needle into it, then stuffed the syringe into my pocket.

I continued my examination of the crime scene and everything came flooding back to me in sharp relief, like a movie playing in front of my eyes. My recall was perfect, but unfortunately the original film was flawed. My mental and emotional state at the time was d**g-addled and desperate, so what I saw was haphazard and intermittent; a collection of images lacking continuity and consistency. I was forced to work with what I had.

The rust-coloured stains on the floor showed where Sally’s body had been, and the shiny marks around equipment and bars nearby showed the tying points of her binding ropes. I could picture the scene, with her profoundly damaged body laid out in front of me. I studied the current scene, took myself back and connected to that time that seemed like a lifetime ago, to another version of me. I shook my head in disgust at what I had been and knew I had now changed fundamentally—I had been born again (save the Halleluiah Brother, because I don’t think the church is ready for me just yet). It was time for this alternative version of me to find out what had happened.

In my trancelike state between then and now, I thought back to the note. Sally hadn’t written it. I realised now that the handwriting was nothing like hers. So, that was an important clue—we had the handwriting of the killer which we could use when we eventually found him. I also had the syringe which might turn up something. Then, standing there in the eerie silence of the abandoned building, I thought of the quiet night that I found Sally and remembered the sudden blast of sound. I remembered the harsh intrusion of the distinctive, loud motorcycle exhaust as the engine suddenly burst into life just outside the building and took off into the distance. Convinced the killer had been outside, watching as I discovered Sally’s body and seeing my reaction, I thought the discovery and the grief are part of his thrill! He got off on seeing the impact of his kills, the feeling of power it gave him over not just his victims but those close to them, witnessing the emotional trauma delivered by his hand.

I was assembling some physical evidence and some insight into the killer’s psyche.

I was on the hunt.