Danny Rollin

Danny Rollin

If ever there were someone who deserved to “die for his sins,” Danny Rollins would be it. A confessed killer, thief, and bank robber who terrorized Gainesville, Florida during the last few days of summer vacation in August of 1990 with the grisly murders of five young college students, Rollins never hid from his guilt.
In fact, he wholly admitted to the crimes he was prosecuted for as well as a few other (equally heinous) ones committed previously. These crimes—in which women were hunted like animals, their stabbed and bludgeoned bodies left in grotesque sexually explicit positions or decapitated heads strategically placed eye-level on shelves to greet investigators—represent the very worst of the human psyche. The sheer barbarism left nothing to the imagination. This person, though highly intelligent and self-conscious, gave into his most base desires, destroying families and stealing lives.
Yet here I sit—puzzled. What did we gain? What did we lose? Can we ever really understand why this happened? Or what Karma was played out?
Is it too easy for me to sit in repose, wondering, waxing, arguing over the philosophical ponderings imbedded in government execution? Perhaps I would feel much different would I ever be faced with the pain of losing a loved one to such bitter, horrible violence.
I wonder if those people, any of them, feel the least bit better, freer, happier, more satisfied now that they got their pound of flesh. I pray they do.

I’m reminded of story:
Albert Gaines killed Marty Henderson. It wasn’t an accident perse, but he certainly did not purposefully intend for it to happen. Still the court ruled in favor of murder charges because Gaines, a noted disrepute and troublemaker, had been a ticking time bomb with a rap sheet over 17 pages (single spaced) long even though he was barely 18. That Henderson was in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught in the crossfire during a liquor store robbery meant little to the prosecutorial staff. They threw the book at him and deservedly so.

At his sentencing, Henderson’s mother was allowed to address Gaines, who showed no remorse or emotion whatsoever, even though the judge insisted it could affect his sentence. Mrs. Henderson pointed out that if given the opportunity, she would kill Gaines herself—in fact, she promised that one day she would get her revenge; she swore it; she would kill Gaines. For he clearly did not know what it meant to be a human being, to be loved, to love. So, she said, he may as well die. And she would be the one to kill him.

Over the years, Mrs. Henderson began writing letters to Gaines in prison. They were filled with her pain, but also with questions for Gaines and stories about Marty. Eventually she told Gaines just about everything about her son: about his first pet—a cat named Richard whom Marty found on a bike ride, his high school sweetheart Julianna who made him oatmeal raisin cookies and broke his heart, his seventh-grade baseball coach, Mr. Stewart, who taught him how to work hard for something he really wanted, his postcards home from summer camp which he signed “Love Marty” and always in parenthesis wrote (your son) as if she might forget. She told him about Marty failing his driver’s test because he didn’t yield to an emergency vehicle and then her feeling so bad that she bought him and his friend a bottle of tequila and some 7up, about his unending curiosity for life, about his heart.

For years, Gaines never wrote back. Mrs. Henderson wasn’t even sure if her letters were even being read. But she sent them every week anyway, because it helped her feel close to Marty, her only son—the one person on this planet who could read her mind and emotions. Sometimes she talked to him but mostly she thought about all of her memories and tried to wrap her mind around the enormity of her pain.

One day, a letter arrived in the mail. It was from Gaines. It sounded tentative and defensive, rambling and wayward. But Mrs. Henderson wrote back anyway, responding to his questions and starting a weekly correspondence with Gaines that continued for the next nine years.

When Gaines went before the parole board for what would be the final time, Mrs. Henderson was invited to attend and was asked to address the inmate who had killed her son over twelve years ago. She stood and addressed both Gaines and the court, telling them the following:

“Twelve years ago when I stood at your hearing, you were a brash, arrogant, unrepentant thug who had taken my only son,” she said, her voice calm though tears trickled down her face and onto her blouse. “I told you, I swore, that I would kill you, Albert Gaines…And I succeeded. I killed you. I killed that young, cold, heartless child who took my son; he’s dead. That child, Albert, would have been kept alive by my hatred, so I killed him with my love and forgiveness. In his place is you, Al, a grown man with a second chance to live your life. I forgive you for killing my son and hope you find the strength to forgive.”

Cheney headlines

White House Cheney hails water boarding:
“Lynn and the girls never minded it”
http://www.demockeracy.com/week8/nib1.html

In a tense, candid interview that ranged from concealed Halliburton stock to weapons-grade plutonium, a wild-eyed, defensive Vice President Dick Cheney praised the usage of water boarding, calling it “a no-brainer communication technique” when dealing with haughty terrorism suspects.

“Interrogating known terrorists, like child rearing, can be very demanding and stressful,” he said. “This is simply the most efficient means of extracting important information from unwilling enemy combatants not protected by the Geneva Convention AND children.”

Mr. Cheney admitted having firsthand knowledge on the effectiveness of this technique—which simulates drowning and produces a severe gag reflex, making the subject believe his or her death is imminent while ideally not causing permanent physical damage—because he employed it liberally in his own home.

Referring to his family as a “close-knit cadre with no secrets,” he wondered aloud if we shouldn’t be encouraging more parents to experiment with alternative child-rearing strategies in response to the “deprave and morally corrupt dystopia of reality television and internet porn” ruining American values.

“Should any self-respecting parent sit by idly watching their children walk down the wrong path? I guarantee this—Liz and Mary never threw a party when Lynn and I were traveling.”

Ron-bo

Ron-bo
by savage fredd

I rode the bus with Ronnie Wilkans across town to Loma Verde Elementary School every day for three years. The little bus. The one taking me to G.A.T.E. class and him to Special Ed. We had classrooms right next together and used to do joint activities—playing games, doing art projects. Nothing competitive. Perhaps more of a mentoring thing, but as 4-6th graders, it should be assumed safely, we lacked the empathy to partner well with Special Ed. Besides, we were both set away from the rest of the school, marked as different from the norm, targeted on the playground in very subtle ways by kids in the regular classes. Hardened by the jabs and snubbings, we turned predatory every chance we got. Special Ed was veal to us.

“Ronnie. Say it.”
“C’mon, Ronbo. Say it, man. You know we love it.”
“And you love it, too.”
mmmmm. Coooonnnannnn,” he’d growl and raise his fist in the air, purely for our benefit, as we’d laugh so hard. Somehow, this passed for humor in the minds of preteens—getting the monkey to dance.

Ronnie had grown up in Richmond, born to a drug-addled mom and deceased dad, before being adopted into a foster home during the summer before fourth grade.
He had mopish red hair that framed his freckly face and dressed like a gangsta, which in 1984 was years away from the suburban adolecent male uniform de rigour it would become. He had dwarvish features—protruding brow, short, bulky arms and shoulders, hunkering gait, almost simian-like—except that he was fully grown, and by sixth grade stood head high with Mr. Collins. A man-child. Boo Radley—overgrown and awkward to the point of being a scary, boogie man.

In high school, it somehow became okay to love Ronnie, but only in a mocking way. People would yell from across the courtyard at school, “Ron-bo” in a tone reminiscent of Daryl Strawberry in his prime— Roooooooon-boooow; Roooooooon-boooow. He’d just smile and nod, raising and waving his hand to an imaginary DJ. Ronbo was different. He was odd, dressed in a puffy down jacket and flat-billed A’s hat with the tag still on, blasting hip-hop loudly through his walkman ear phones when G & R or Metalica was in everyone else’s tape deck. He was deficient, slow. Disturbed even: At times, during football practice, he’d start crying. In the middle of some drill, he’d just break down weeping and have to go stand on the sidelines until he could gather himself. The coaches tolerated him because they knew his past and because they had space on the team for a mascot, a punching bag.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Every year, at the first pep rally of the season, the entire varsity football team would be introduced to the school. Coach Zechelin announced each player who would then walk across the gymnasium floor toward center court to polite applause and cheers from the rest of the student body, lining the bleachers dressed in various levels of school colors, according to their spirit. As Zechlin read through the list, the crowd grew increasingly quiet. Polite applause gave way to stone silence as he named off the roster of the defending league champion San Marin Mustangs, past stars like Corley or McCoy or Jacobson. Not a peep. Until he reached the end of the list.

“Number 77. Ronnie Wilkins.”

For four whole minutes the entire auditorium, which had somehow coordinated itself to remain silent until just the right moment, leapt to its feet, exploding in applause, screaming, clapping, thundering and then dropping into chant:

“Ron-bo…Ron-bo…Ron-bo.”

Ronnie smiled walked across the gym and joined the team at center court, finding his way to us right as the chants began to pour down.

“Ron-bo…Ron-bo…Ron-bo.”

Zechlin tried to quiet everyone down and get their attention, but the chanting persisted, drowning out his calls for silence.

“Ron-bo…Ron-bo…Ron-bo.”

I remember two things vividly about that day: Having my name announced and walking in front of the entire school to complete silence—broken only by the squeak of my sneakers on the parkay court floor.
And Ronnie—oblivious, unselfconscious, waving his hand to a rhythm only he heard.

The Amazing Syrus

Disclaimer: Not sure how this piece is going to come across. Tons of it are in italics (which don't show up on a blog. So I put FOUR **** on either side of chunks of text (i.e. Syrus's visions) that should be italicized.

THE AMAZING SYRUS
by Savage Fredd

The Amazing Syrus

Syrus waited anxiously stage left and watched the crowd through the red velvet curtain as the opening comedian finished warming them up. The place was almost full and the audience—mostly drunken college kids, a few newlywed couples, and some suits in town for a convention— seemed live, if a little unruly. The usual Friday night show.
By now his act attracted a steady crowd of the adventurous and curious. No one came to Vegas to see him exactly, but he was on every taxi driver’s radar—because he knew how to tip for referrals but also because he was good and people had fun at his shows and news travels fast in a town like this.

As the curtains fell on the opener, Syrus took his place at the star in the middle of the stage and waited to be introduced. The audience lights dimmed and the crowd hushed as the announcer boomed over the loudspeakers:
“Ladies and Gentlemen, you are in for a real treat. Tonight what you are going to witness is not pretend. It is not a staged act of made-up tricks. In fact, it is not an ACT at all. When Syrus Fortune was a teenager, scientists researching paranormal psychometrics discovered and documented Mr. Fortune’s remarkable gift of clairvoyance—by laying his hands on you or an object of your possession, the Amazing Syrus can see things about you beyond the range of normal human vision, reading your mind, your heart, your energy, even your future…For over 12 years, Mr. Fortune has been catering to the Hollywood elite when not entertaining sold-out crowds across the globe with his intuitive insights. Vegas Weekly calls The Amazing Syrus ‘the most provocative one-man show in town.’ Insider Magazine gives the show 4 ½ stars and says ‘it is not to be missed.’ Recently the Milpitas FBI credited Mr. Fortune with helping to solve the Ramsy-Hampton kidnapping and murder case that baffled investigators for months. Ladies and gentlemen, help me welcome to the stage the Amazing Syrus.”

The curtain opened as the spotlight found its mark. Syrus waited for his eyes to adjust and the applause to wane. He smiled, his beard glistening with sweat, and mopped the moisture from his brow with the handkerchief from his breast pocket.

“Thank you all for coming. Tonight I’m gonna do this show a little different. Gonna improvise. Rather than open with the usual parlor tricks or bring people on stage, I want to liven things up a bit and bring the show to you. Make my way around the audience and see what we can learn about y’all.

“To help me make it more interesting," Syrus turned toward stage right and extended his hand. "Ladies and gentlemen, my lovely assistant, Lana.”

Lana was dressed in a black sequin jumpsuit that caught the light, clinging to her full, plump breasts and ass. She had long blonde hair that she wore pulled back from her face in a ponytail, and violet eyes the color of mountain sunlight at dusk. As she took the stage, she waved a black velvet eye mask at the audience and then took her place behind Syrus.

“Because I will be totally unable to see,” Syrus said, as Lana tied the blindfold around him, blocking out the crowds and the lights, “Lana will be helping me around the audience, making sure I don’t fall.”

She placed his hand under her arm and led him down the stairs into the crowd. She knew to pick interesting groups or people to interact with, especially groups of young women, who always seemed to love his act and, more important, accept invitations backstage after the show.

The crowd grew quiet. Lana lead him to a rowdy, drunk group of sorority girls in town for a national Greek week convention. They squealed with delight as soon as the Amazing Syrus stopped in from of their table. He smiled to himself, smelling light, musky perfume and peach tree moisturizing cream. Atta girl, Lana, he thought, slowly reaching his hand toward the group and landing on the taut, lean shoulder of the one at the end of the booth. Instantly, his mind emptied—a flash of blueish-white just under his eyelids that used to make him terribly nauseous and dizzy but now just felt like a nicotine buzz from an unfiltered Pall Mall—and then it flickered with images as if watching a stranger’s old 16mm home movies, except with a knowing sense of what each person thought and felt:

****A blonde, drunk woman with cutoff jean shorts and white tank-top stumbling home at dawn, her face streaked and eyes blackened with mascara. She’s crying. Her boyfriend of ten months just dumped her horribly—she performed oral sex, he climaxed in her mouth and then told her he was having an affair with her roommate and promptly kicked her out of his apartment. She’s feeling sorry for herself. Vulnerable. She came to Las Vegas for a national convention of Chi Omega looking for some healing fun. So she hopped into bed with the first cute blue-eyed guy who smiled at her. He does everything right. Makes her feel good. The afterglow and the buzz gone by the morning walk home, replaced by feelings of emptiness and despair. Over the next six months she will blackout from drinking and wake up with a stranger no less than seven times.****

“Ahh, in town for a sorority convention, I see,” Syrus said. “Ladies and gentlemen, the ladies of Chi Omega, University of Southern California chapter.”
“Wow. Amazing. How’d you guess that?” someone from the crowd yelled, sending a snicker through the crowd. Syrus was too focused to notice; he had no control over the images, just what to divulge. The key to his act was knowing what to say and how to package it.
“Hmmmmm.—enjoying yourself on the town. Fellas, this one's single.”
Cat calls and whistles rained down. The girl looked toward the floor.
“But watch out, dear. You’re vulnerable right now. Stay clear of blue-eyed men. In fact, men are the last thing you need.”
“See, I told you, Diana,” someone from her table said. Everyone laughed.
“Speak for yourself, Jamie,” Diana said.
“Oh, by the way, your ex is miserable,” Syrus said, throwing Diana a bone.
“Oh my god,” the sorority girl squealed. “How’d you—“

But Syrus was already being led away. Lana brought him to the table of a high roller in town for the weekend, keeping company with two beautiful, much younger ladies—the kind of guy with more money than time and not trying to hide it. The man held up his closed, hairy fist for Syrus to grab hold:

****A chubby, balding man in a sage green Tommy Bahamas shirt and caramel colored slacks. He’s at the craps table. Stacks of chips line the tray in front of him. A glass of booze in one hand, the dice in another. Two young girls, one black, one Asian, are on either side of him, sipping cosmopolitans and cheering each roll. He’s up almost seven grand. Out of Ohio for the first time in over a year, he’s actually enjoying himself. He feels big. Sexy. Free. His wife is home with their three children—three girls aged 3, 5, and 7. She’s having an affair with the neighbor down the street, a police officer who will die of a heart attack in less than three months. After the weekend, he will return to Ohio and use images of this trip to fantasize to while he masturbates in the bathroom at work. ****

“Wow, someone’s happy to be away from the grind?” Syrus said.
“You have no idea—”
The crowd chuckled.
“In fact I do have an idea, sir. You do get the concept of this show, don’t you?” Syrus said. The crowd laughed.
“I see you’re making the most of your time here. The dice have been good to you. And you’ve made some nice, new friends. Met at church, I see?”
The crowd laughed with approval.
“Sunday school,” the man said.
“Sunday school,” Syrus laughed. “Sisters of the Holy Pole Dance, servicing the poor and downtrodden, I see. Just make sure to tip your new friends well, sir.”
“Just make sure not to call my wife,” the man said.
“This is Las Vegas, sir. You do get the concept of this town, don’t you? Perhaps seen the ads?”
The crowd howled with laughter. Syrus grinned as Lana led him to a table at the end of the club. The crowd settled down, listening intently as Syrus put his hands on the soft, fleshy back of a middle-aged woman.

****A thinning, raven-haired woman, 48, in town to get married for the second time—to her girlfriend. After denying her homosexuality for all her life, she finally came out to her family and herself eight months ago. The wedding party, including her 19-year-old daughter who is a freshman at UC Santa Cruz and experimenting with her own sexuality, is in town for the weekend to celebrate the nuptials and support their union. Deep inside, she wishes her parents were still alive—so they could know her and because they would love to see how happy she was.****

“And congratulations to this table. Ladies and gents, this family is celebrating the marriage of these two lovebirds.”
The spotlight techie flashed away from Syrus and on the two women. They embraced and kissed as the crowd applauded.
“The family is so happy for you…...especially your folks. They couldn’t be any more thrilled to see you finally living for yourself, dear.”
The lady buried her face in her lover’s shoulder and burst into tears.
“Ahhhh,” the crowd glowed.

Running the gamut tonight, Syrus thought, I’m hot. Not waiting for Lana, he reached out to the next table. A thick, nylon trench coat over a muscled shoulder. It felt ice cold. Freezing. Hollow.

****A man, following the dancer into the alleyway with his eyes, slips out of the darkness, stealthily tracing her steps while reaching into his pocket for the length of rope. He’s angry—filled with rage. She looks exactly like the others: blonde, leggy, a haughty look on her stupid fucking face. The voices prod him— Do it. Do it. That fucking bitch doesn’t give a shit about you. She’s the fucking reason you feel this way. Get her, you fucking pussy. Make her feel it. Teach her.
He pulls the rope tautly and silently slips it over her throat, yanking so hard that he lifts her off the ground, tearing and burning her until she stops writhing. Breathless and spent, he dumps the body on top of one of the heaping piles of trash that fill the alley. The voices are silent for now.****

Syrus recoiled, stumbling backwards away from the man, tripping over himself and falling against a table of businessmen from Topeka killing time before the strip clubs brought out their A teams. Syrus ripped off his blindfold. His face and beard were dripping with sweat. His make-up burned his eyes. His breathing was heavy, panicked. Fearful.

The table was empty.

-- -- -- -- -- --

Syrus retreated to his dressing room. He opened the closet and flipped back the curtain—just to make sure—and then dead-bolted the door and closed the lights. He ripped open his bottle of Wild Turkey and took a slug then collapsed into his chair.
“Syrus,” Lana called through the door, “what happened? Let me in.”
She knocked again. “Syrus, what’s going on?”
Syrus cracked the door.
“Listen. Go down to the pay phone and call the police immediately. That man. You must have seen him.”
“Wait. Wha—
“Did you see that man at the table? What did he look like?”
“I, uh, I’m not sure. It was—“
“You must have seen something. Try to remember, the man at the table—”
“No, I was watching you. Are you okay? That was a nast—”
He grabbed her wrists and spoke firmly.
“Lana, go call the police. Tell them that a man just killed someone, strangled them in the alley between here and Starky’s. He isn’t going to stop.”
Lana looked at him.
“Now!”
“Wha—“
“You don’t see? He knows that I know. I need the police.”

-- -- -- -- -- --

There was a knock on the door.
“Mr. Fortune. This is Detective Charles. We received a phone call from your assistant, sir,” the man said.
Syrus walked to the door and looked through his peephole. A man with rimless glasses and a broad forehead stared at the floor. He looked up and wiped his neatly trimmed mustache impatiently. He knocked again.
Fucking cops, Syrus thought.
“Could I see your badge,” he said through the door.
The detective reached into the inside pocket of his brown wool suit coat and flipped out a wallet badge. Syrus turned on the lights and opened the door.
The detective was rangy, an ex-track star perhaps, with a tapered waist and broad chest—he looked good in a suit, even a cheap one. His thin, tight lips and sharp nose and chin accented his icy cop disposition, though his pale blue eyes softened his otherwise angular features.
They sat on either end of the couch. Detective Charles pulled out a small note pad and pencil.
“So, tell me what happened.”
Syrus told him about the vision he saw.
“Can you describe the man at all? Anything?”
“No. I told you I didn’t see him. By the time I got my blindfold off, he was gone.”
“Did your assistant see him?”
“No, she was distracted by me.”
“Did anyone?” he asked, impatiently.
“Not that I know of.”
“Well, then,” he said, standing and reaching into his coat pocket for a business card. “I’m not sure what we can do then if—“
“Wait a second, damn it.”
“Listen, Mr. Fortune,” he said tersely. “We’re in the middle of investigat—”
“You don’t believe me.”
“No, I believe you. I just can’t help you. If you can think of anything that might help us. Anything. please give me—”
“Hold on. He doesn’t have any idea how little I know about him; he just knows that I know something, which means he’s going to come for me next. Please, man, don’t go.”
“Mr. Fortune. I realize it’s been a stressful night for you but I’ve—”
“I need your help, goddamn it. This man is not going to stop.”
“If you’d like to come down to the station and—“
“No, wait. I know. Come with me downstairs. If I can find his table, touch something that he used—a glass, his chair—I might be able to tell you more.

-- -- -- -- -- --

The two men made their way through the empty audience. Syrus went to the area of tables where the killer was sitting.

****An older, gray man with his wife. He’s worked in packaging his whole life, first hustling in sales to support his family, and then later moving into management. At 61 he’s about to get edged out for the second time in three years. Too tired to hustle but too young and they’ve saved too little to retire yet. He keeps looking over at a smiling, young, slender Asian woman sitting across the room at the end of the bar, mistaking her returned attention for attraction. His wife pretends not to notice. Stupid, she thinks to herself, fucking pathetic old man.****
“Oops. They’re in for a long night,” he said, moving to the next table.

****Waves of remorse crash over him. He’s drowning, unable to breathe. Trapped in the undertow. Maybe he doesn’t deserve love. Maybe he gives too much. The harder she clawed for independence, the tighter he grabbed for her, clung to her, needed her. But, she doesn’t want him anymore, tells him to stop loving her. If he only could.****
“Wow, heartbreak central. Poor bastard didn’t see it coming.”

Syrus reached for the chair at the table nearest the exit and closed his eyes. Freezing. Empty.
****He yanks back hard, digging the rope into her neck, but she fights, pulling at the rope and thrashing her arms behind her and kicking. She wants to live. She screams but barely manages a garbled, choked huff. He can smell the flesh of her neck beginning to burn from the friction. She knows she’s going to die. She weakens and stops writhing. Breathless and spent, he dumps the body on top of one of the heaping piles of trash that fill the alley. He brushes the hair from her twisted, engorged face—her death mask. He hardly feels anything any more. Just the chill.****

Syrus tried to let go, wanted to flee. He felt dizzy and nauseous. Fear radiated throughout his body. He rubbed his throat and took short, shallow breaths, still feeling the stabbing in his chest and smelling the sickly sweet scent of burning flesh.
“I found the table.”
“Good. What did you see?”
“Him strangling her in the alley.”
“What else?”
“Not much. Her dying and being dumped in the trash.”
“Any details that might help us?”
Syrus shook his head.
“Try again,” the detective said.

****Sunset. Watering the potted dahlias on his back deck. He’s not going to give into them this time. He promised. But the voices, the whisperings, they keep at him, by dusk enveloping him in a musky, perfumed cloud of rage. He’s freezing. Only one thing warms him. He puts on his gloves, locks his door, and walks down the steps from his apartment complex into the night.****

“I got an address,” Syrus said. “20800 Red Valley Blvd, number 3.”
“That’s less than ten miles from here. An apartment complex across from some grocery store,” Detective Charles said. He looked at his watch. “Do you think he’s there right now?”
“I can’t tell. But if he’s not, I might be able to figure out where he is.”
“You’re sure this is the guy?”
“Fucking positive.” Syrus looked at the detective.
“Alright. Get your stuff. I’ll call for backup.”

-- -- -- -- -- --

The two men rode to the address and parked between the grocery store and 24-hour laundry/internet cafe kitty-corner to the tan and blue fourplex. A trio of teenagers sat on their skateboards on the far side of the parking lot, smoking cigarettes and drinking from cans and bottles hidden in brown bags.
“Which one is it?” the detective asked.
“I think the one in the upper left corner.”
The lights were out.
“Let’s go,” the detective said, opening his door.
“Go? We just gonna walk right up there and knock?”
The detective stared at the apartment complex.
“That’d be stupid. No one’s home—”
“What? You gonna kick the door in?”
“Well, I could. But I had dispatch contact the manager about the key when I called for backup.”
“And so—”
“And so—what? Every second we sit here is lost time. I shouldn’t be saying anthing to you, so keep this between us," he turned toward Syrus. "This is the fourth one in as many weeks. Same M.O.: Dancers mainly. Blonde, leggy. Strangled with a length of rope used for climbing. We got a killer on the loose, Syrus. You said yourself this guy wasn’t gonna stop. Let’s say you really did see—”
“You think—”
“I don’t think anything yet, Syrus. I’m trained to watch, to listen. This is the best lead we’ve got. If you can help us track down this whack job, then I’m all for your voodoo bullshit.”
Syrus got out and slammed the door. He poked his head back through the window.
“Let’s go. Detective.”

-- -- -- -- -- --

The two men walked to the front door. The detective reached above the door into the light fixture and felt around until he found the key. He opened the door cautiously and flicked on the lights.
The place was immaculate. No crumbs. No dust. Vacuum lines on the white carpet all going in the same direction. Nothing on the coffee table in front of the cream leather couches except a couple of climbing magazines strategically fanned out. The walls were bare. Except for a black and white picture and some candles on the mantel, Syrus for a moment couldn’t believe anyone lived here.
Then he walked in further and saw, through the sliding glass door, the kitchen light illuminating the dahlias on the back porch.
Syrus began to feel his way around the living room. Everything he touched felt cold. Dead. He walked over to the lone photo in the apartment—a blonde, smiling, young with long legs and perfect, white teeth. Light, a free spirit, untamable—and took it off the mantel.

****She comes home smelling of another man. This isn’t the first time, but it will be the last, he promises himself. He confronts her; she denies it at first and then admits it casually as if it shouldn’t matter and he’s overreacting. He feels powerless. Lowly. A worm. Impotent. Not a real man.****

“This is definitely his place,” Syrus said, handing the photo to the detective. “Perhaps she can help.”
Syrus continued around the room and down the hallway into the back bedroom. He puts his hands on the Afghan at the foot of the bed.

****A large, dominant older woman. She screams constantly. Never listens, never just talks. Yells. He hates her. Can’t stand her raspy smoker’s laugh. Her blonde highlights. Her fat fucking face. He feels so small and helpless around her. Insignificant. He wishes he could just disappear.****

Syrus turned and opened the door to the bedroom closet.
“Detective, I think you need to see this.”
The space was filled with climbing gear—cams, carabiners, harnesses, clothes, rope. Hanging on the back of the door were dozens of lengths of rope evenly cut to optimal length for killing—just over two feet. Syrus picked up a handful of rope.

****He leaves the rope around her neck and drops her in a pile of trash. Poetry, he thinks, a calling card. He looks around and flees the alley through an unlocked stage door and slips into the audience at the theater. His beast isn’t quite sated. He can’t get warm. One killing used to quiet the voices for weeks, months even. Now he can’t get warm even 10 minutes later.****

“He’s raging. These girls represent something to him. Their deaths make him feel powerful. Manly. Capable. He’s targeting them for a reason and has no plans to stop.”

****Sorry folks, show’s over, the emcee announces. He hides in the rear of the theater as the people file toward the door, grumbling and confused. He slips upstairs and stays in the shadows down the hall from Syrus’ dressing room, waiting, watching Lana knock at the door.****

“Holy shit. The son-of-a-bitch was right outside my door. Thank god you showed.”
“Yeah”

****He watches Lana go downstairs into the lobby. He walks over and sits on the tan leather couch next to the phone booth, checking his watch and pretending to be waiting for someone in the bathroom. She has no change for the phone and, panicking, asks to borrow his cell phone. She thanks him and begins to dial.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
She closes her eyes and shakes her head.
“What happened out there tonight?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Hello, police. This is—“
He takes the phone from her ear and clicks it shut. She turns to protest, confused. He slaps his left palm over her mouth and digs his right hand into her throat, lifting her off the ground and back into the phone booth.****

“Oh my god, no,” Syrus began to sob, feeling Lana’s fear radiate through his body. She knows she’s going to die.

****He feels himself harden as she stops fighting and falls lifeless at his feet. He wants to savor it but the whisperings remind him that he’s not warm yet; he’ll have to relive it later. He closes the door to the phone booth to hide her body.****

“Oh Lana,” Syrus said, momentarily overwhelmed with grief. “So…if she didn’t even—”

****The killer walks into the empty men’s room. He removes his gloves and washes his face in the sink. He looks in the mirror and smirks at himself, his thin lips and pale blue eyes crinkling around the edges. He wipes the excess water from his neatly trimmed mustache and pulls his wireless glasses from the inside pocket of his brown wool suit coat.****

“Detect—” Syrus exclaimed, the word cut in half and trapped in his throat by the length of rope tightening around his neck, digging into his flesh, tearing and burning his skin, crushing his windpipe. He fights, flails, digs his fingers into his own flesh, trying to get the rope, to breathe as his mind begins to blacken; he knows. Now he sees.