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HELENA
I open the front door to a red-faced Jen. Her hair is tied into a bun atop he head, and she's wearing an oversized white hoodie.
“Come in,” I urge, glancing over her shoulder at Derek, who is in the driver's seat of the car. He’s rubbing one of his temples, seeming upset.
“What’s wrong, Jen?”
“I…wanted to tell you in person. God…”
I put my arm on her shoulder as tears pour down her face.
“Jesus. What's happened?”
She loses it, sobbing into my arms uncontrollably. My stomach drops, and possibilities race through my mind. She and Derek are splitting up. The wedding is off. No, this seems worse.
“It’s okay," I console, rubbing her back. "Shh. It’s…”
She lifts her head and takes a deep breath, wiping her eyes.
“Derek…was…called to the morgue.”
Oh, no. Somebody died. My shoulders stiffen as I brace myself.
“Who?”
She presses her lips tightly together before inhaling.
“Scott, it was Scott,” she exhales, slurring the words.
“What?” No. No, it can’t be. My body freezes, stunned.
The murder victim flashes into mind. Red shoes. His eyes. His chin. Familiar. Scott’s voice echoed eerily in my mind as I snapped the pic. I shook it off. No, not him. Somebody else.
“A car accident?”
She shakes her head. “Killed, Hells. All his organs, just…gone like the others,” she cries.
It can’t be.
The blood in my face drops, and my head wooshes dizzily.
“I have to sit,” I mutter, glancing over my shoulder as I step back.
Jen joins me on the sofa, and I listen to her cry as I process the shock slamming into me. The realization that I took photos of Scott dead and gutted and bound to a tree…red shoes dangling. Pinocchio. Fucking Pinocchio. Oh…God. Not Scott.
The killer is close. Too damn close.
“I had a…bad feeling,” I admit, and Jen’s tears halt with a gasp. Her posture straightens, and her eyes and mouth are wide with fright.
“What do you know, Helena?”
I faintly shake my head. “I don’t know anything. I just had a feeling.”
“Like, what? What do you mean?” she insists, frustrated.
I shake my head. “He tipped me off about the crime scene. But it couldn’t have been Scott. The text came from his phone, but it must have been--"
"The killer?” Her hands fly to her mouth.
"I called. I couldn’t get a hold of him.”
“You have to tell the police!”
“I know, Jen.”
“This monster knows your number.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not safe.”
“Maybe none of us are.”
She presses her lips so tightly, they thin, whitening as tears reappear in her hazel eyes. “What the hell do we do?”
“What can we do?” I shrug dismissively, saying the wrong thing as my thoughts drift to Dante.
He drunk-dialed me last night. He was angry. Told me I was playing with fire. That I’m too trusting. That I should look into people better before dating them. I told him I wasn’t dating Scott. He said, “Does he know that?”
Under normal circumstances, I would have to consider Dante as a suspect. A jealous, on-and-off-again boyfriend with a motive. But this is far beyond a crime of passion. This is the handiwork of the Fairy Tale Killer.
Jen swipes a tissue from the box on the table.
“Derek has a shotgun from his Granddad,” she says between blows.
“I have a gun, too, Jen. Never use it.”
“I’m afraid of shotguns. I forget how to load it. Shit, I need a…lesson.” She blows her nose again.
I put my hand on her arm. “We’ll go to target practice together.”
She nods furiously, as if this is the ultimate solution.
“Okay. We’ll do that,” she sighs. Her relief makes me feel better for her, but only for her and her peace of mind.
My mind is spinning, desperate to connect the dots.
This case is personal now. There are only two degrees of separation between the killer and me. He knows my number.
He knows I’m a journalist. Why else would he have called me, tipping me off? He wanted me to see his work before anybody else. Why? He’s toying with me? Am I his next target?
We don’t know where he began his career. We only know when he started displaying his victims as public spectacles in the Black Valley. The victims seemed random. But now, he seems to have shifted his focus to those hunting him, unless killing Scott is a coincidence—just another unlucky person who crossed the killer’s path at a moment of opportunity.
Where did Scott go after leaving me? Did he go to a bar or stop by a restroom at a park? How did the killer nab a medium-built, average-height grown male? Was it by the gunpoint of a .22?
I need to speak with Randy, my main contact with the police. They need to know that Scott was at my place the night before he was found, and they’ll have questions. And if I’m lucky, I might learn a bit about where he went after leaving me.
When the knock comes at the door, and Derek appears, I’m already on my phone, texting Randy: Need to talk about Scott Hampton.
Derek’s complexion is pallid, with dark circles around his eyes.
“You’re welcome to stay at our place until this blows over,” says Jen, and Derek nods.
“I’ll be okay,” I say, hugging them both.
“Be on high alert,” warns Derek solemnly.
“Yeah. I will. I’ll…schedule that target practice.”
“Good idea,” agrees Derek.
“Lock the doors. Lock everything,” says Jen before giving me another lingering hug.
“I will.”
I read Randy’s reply after seeing them out.
Can you come in? At the office.
Be there in fifteen.
I feed and water the cat, petting him briefly before checking that the locks on the back door and all the windows are secure in my ranch-style bungalow. I’m not normally one to live in fear, but I’m sure feeling on edge, right now. Alerted to the possibility that danger is lurking on my doorstep. I've got to clear my head.
I focus on calming my mind as I hop in and out of the shower. I tie my hair back into a ponytail before pulling on a soft pair of jeggings, a grey, v-neck tee, socks, and black tennies. I want to be comfortable and functional while coping with today's hard realty. Scott, my new friend and connection, was brutally dissolved into a shell of a former man. I barely got to know him. In and out of my life within days of meeting.
I almost end the call when Dante rings on my way to Randy’s office.
I’m in no mood for flirtation or for a lecture. Our exchanges usually pertain to one or the other. But then I decide I want to pick his brain about last night. Where did he get drunk? This is a small city. Did he happen to see Scott? I know he knows what he looks like. He was watching me that night at Flannens.
Watching me the same night Scott died. Or was Scott murdered the next day? Early in the morning? I got the call at 6 a.m. Surely it would have taken hours for the killer to render poor Scott into a lifeless stage prop. Means he was killed between 9 p.m., when he left me, and a couple of hours before 6 a.m., when I got the text. So, let’s say, between 9 and 4.
“Good morning, Helena,” comes his deep voice.
“You didn’t answer my question, Dante.”
He sighs. “Where was I last night?”
“Yeah.”
“Mm, making myself sick. I do that sometimes.”
“You sounded pretty wasted.”
“I needed…a release. You weren’t available.”
“To relieve you?”
“Yeah.”
“Is that my purpose, Dante?”
“Is that mine?”
“Anyway,” I sigh. “How long were you stalking me?”
“I was merely in the neighborhood.”
“Did you follow me home from Flannens?”
“I was headed in the same direction.”
“Where’d you go after that?”
“Drinking.”
“Where?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because…” I clear my throat. “I want to know.”
“Why? Because Scott Hampton’s dead?”
I let out a tiny gasp. Word spreads fast. I exit the old highway, turning left on Lewis.
“Jim Peters filled me in,” he explains. “I drank at home, Helena. I’m not a social drinker. I’m not a fucking social anything.”
“You went home after following me?”
“Am I suspect, now?”
I don’t answer at first, and he snickers.
“I see where your line of thinking is going.”
He sounds darkly amused.
“I don’t think you’re a serial killer, Dante.”
“But it might be fun.”
“Is that so? This isn’t a joke. People are dying.”
“That’s the first time I’ve heard you speak about this with a non-clinical tone, Helena. Where’s the morbid fascination? Don’t tell me you had feelings for the guy?”
“No,” I answer sharply. “But he’s a friend of a friend, a nice guy, a would-be connection.”
“Ah. It’s that last part that gets you.”
Irritated, I puff out air. “Just shut the hell up, Dante.”
“I want to see you tonight.”
“I don’t know. I’ve gotta go.”
“Where?”
“What, you aren't coming along? No binoculars aimed at my ass?”
“You forget that I work for a living, Helena. I can’t watch your lovely ass every second of the day.”
“I don’t need a sitter.”
“But you do need a good fuck. Your pussy is getting tighter by the day. It’s going to hurt when I force my cock inside you. God, I need to feel your skin and taste you while I--”
I hang up.
Fuming, I take a deep breath and swig from my water bottle after parking my car. Dante isn’t right in the head, but I already knew that. It’s what makes the damn bastard so interesting.
After reaching the station, I stand in the doorway, glancing back briefly at a strange black car with tinted glass pulling in next to mine. That car that seemed to be following me the other night was dark, but it was late, and hard to tell the exact color.
“Howdy, Helena Richardson.”
My head snaps toward that familiar deep voice with a slight drawl. Green eyes glance up at me from inside the office. Randal is reclined in a chair, a pencil in his mouth, with his hands clasped behind a head of wavy, dark-blonde hair.
“Howdy.”
I glance back at the black car again. Who is that?
“Girl, you’re lettin’ the a.c. out and the mosquitoes in.”
“Sorry ‘bout that,” I wince, letting the glass door fall shut behind me.
He removes the pencil, tossing it onto the desk as he sits up. Like other local cops, he wears a collared dark grey athletic shirt that wicks moisture in the humid weather. Randy’s uniform includes blue tribal tattoo sleeves winding his muscular arms.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“It’s goin,” he shrugs, running his hand through his hair. His eyebrows narrow, studying me. “You?”
“I’m okay.”
He brings his fingers to his chin, and something in his eyes makes me feel awkward. I’m relieved when he stands and turns toward the coffee bar.
He picks up a silver scoop. “You’re in luck. We’ve got ice today.”
“Mm, are you offering me a latte?”
“Yep.”
“Sounds good,” I say, sitting across from his desk.
That he remembered what I like is sweet, but it reminds me of why I tend to avoid him. He scarily checks most of the boxes. He’s thoughtful, hardworking, good-looking, single, and interested in me—was until I messed things up.
I sigh, realizing how embarrassing it would be to admit to friends and family how deep-seated my dysfunction runs with the opposite sex. I know I have commitment issues; I just haven’t taken the time to analyze why. Besides, I’m young. I can be married to my work if I so choose. I'm tired of people assuming I must marry.
At least Dante can handle my hot and cold ways, and he doesn’t have a sensitive ego like Randy. I’ve known Randy since the eighth grade. His family was part of a notorious motorcycle club. Rumor has it that he turned snitch before becoming a cop. But the general sentiment was that there was no way he would snitch because he's loyal to a fault. I don’t know him or his family well enough to say either way. But I did have a secret crush on him when he was still a bad boy. I think he knew it. I’ll admit, I flirted with him a few times at the bowling alley. He’s not the kind of guy you see at the golf course.
When we finally dated as adults, he wanted more of my time than I had to give. He works 9 to 5, with nights and weekends free, while I’m a night owl, work odd hours, and weekends are hit-and-miss depending on the news. Then, the murders started happening, and that took over my life. Dante came into the equation. When I stood Randy up again, that was the last straw.
But no matter how many times I tell Dante to go the hell away, he doesn’t quit on me.
Randy turns with a tall glass, handing me a perfectly beige-colored latte loaded with ice and a straw sticking out. Perfection.
On the other hand, this is not the kind of everyday nicety I could expect from Dante. But that’s not what I keep him around for.
“Thank you, Randy.”
Damn. I didn’t mean for my tone to sound apologetic. I should stop feeling guilty and focus on the reason I came here.
I sigh after taking a sip. “So, this is…all hitting closer to home now.” God. Poor Scott.
Randy pours himself a mug from the coffee pot.
“It’s been hittin’ close to home for some time now, Helena.”
“True. But…”
“Now, it’s happened to somebody you knew,” he finishes, sitting in his chair.
I nod solemnly. “Yeah.”
He shakes his head with an audible sigh. “Yep, it’s a damn shame. Scott Hampton was a cool guy. A useful asset. Our go-between with the Feds. Some dude is coming down from Denver this week, taking Scott’s place over at forensics.”
“Is that so?” That’s good news, at least.
“But that’s not why you came here. So, why don’t you go ahead and tell me what you know.”
“Quid pro quo,” I joke wishfully. Before our friendship soured, we had a nice information exchange going on. He wasn’t shy about letting a few details slip. I, in turn, shared what I gathered from interviews, field research, and the tenacious armchair sleuths populating my blog.
He smirks at me. “You journos are all alike.”
“Alright, Mr. Cop.”
He chuckles. There’s an awkward silence as he sips his coffee, green eyes on me.
I take a deep breath in and out. “Okay. It’s about the night before Scott was found. After dinner, I was…with him.”
His brows slowly rise. “With him?”
My cheeks blush, eyes rolling. “Not like that.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“Sounded like it.”
“Not that it’s—”
“Any of your business.”
He concedes with a nod, his face flushing.
“Please, continue, Helena,” he says politely, regaining composure.
“Well, we all went out to Flannens.”
“Yeah, I know about dinner. Derek and Jennifer came to the station after identifying the body.”
“Yeah.”
I pause, remembering the look on Jen’s face when she came to break the bad news. Her devastation was nearly as bad as the news itself. Jen was good at keeping a mental distance from the kind of stuff I spend most of my time thinking about. In a way, I envied her clear conscious.
But now, she’s had to face a brutal reality and will be forever changed. The death of a friend is hard enough, but when they are predated upon by a serial killer and put on display for the world to see, the knife twists deeper.
I take another sip, gathering my thoughts.
“After dinner, Scott stopped by my place to meet my cat.”
This time, only one of his eyebrows raises. It remains cocked into an arch while I explain that Scott loves cats, and I was hoping to pick his brain a bit more regarding the case. In other words, this wasn’t a romantic visit.
“He left my house around ten p.m.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“No.”
“Did you follow him outside?”
“Yes. He turned right and then left on Holly toward the main road. Harrison Boulevard.”
“Did he contact you again that night? Or vice versa?”
“He texted me. Said he had a nice night. We should do it again sometime. But then…he called me early the next morning at 6 a.m. That’s the thing, Randy. It couldn’t have been him. I got a text from his phone alerting me to the crime scene. I got there before anyone else.”
“Scott Hampton’s crime scene?”
“Yeah. I…didn’t even know it was him I was taking pictures of.”
He puffs his lips, blowing out air. “Well, fuck.”
“It’s hard to believe it was a coincidence the killer picked the town forensics guy as his next target.”
He leans forward on his elbows on his desk, clasping his hands together. “The killer could have picked the first number he saw. The last person Scott contacted. Or…”
“Or he knows me from the local news.”
He looks away briefly with a sigh. “No good, Helena. No fucking good. You…have a gun, right?”
I nod. “I promised Jen I’d go shooting with her.”
He purses his lips like that’s not good enough.
“Can you stay with someone? I’m genuinely worried about your safety.”
“I’m being careful, Randy. Technically, everyone in this town is in danger, not just me. I might as well stay in the comfort of my home.”
He briefly knocks his head back in his chair.
“Look, Hells. I’ve got a finished basement with no renter at the moment. Full kitchen. Queen-sized bed. I’ll let you stay rent-free.”
“That’s very thoughtful.”
“Think about it, please.”
I hate how his genuine tone melts me a little.
“Okay. I’ll think about it.”
He pins me with an intense expression.
“Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
His deep voice is so serious, goosebumps creep down the back of my neck, stretching over my shoulders. Dante comes to mind. The way he followed me that night. It sounds more suspicious than it is. It’s just a game we play. My face flushes red hot as I ponder confessing this embarrassing information to Randy.
I stand, excusing myself to the restroom, heading straight to the sink, and splashing my face with cold water. What am I doing?
If this weren’t personal, I’d give Randy all pertinent information. Am I letting my need for privacy get in the way of justice? Do I think Dante is the killer? No. But what if… What if he followed Scott and saw something he’s not telling me? Maybe Dante doesn’t want me to know he followed him.
This would explain why he didn’t finish the game he had started with me that night. Even though I told him not to come to my house anymore uninvited—add public parks to that list—normally, he would have at least called. These games are foreplay, leading to a climax. But not on this night. It was I who called him. He didn't answer. When he finally did call, it was 3 a.m. He was drunk, saying I should look into people better before dating them. That Scott wasn’t to be trusted. I told him I wasn’t dating Scott. I hung up and went back to sleep.
My stomach knots with the nagging urge to tell Randy about this. It’s going to suck, but it’s the right thing to do.
When I return to the office, Randy is standing at the door, yelling something.
I follow him out onto the sidewalk, where he has his phone to his ear. “BOLO for a black Honda. Didn’t get the plates. Yeah, common fucking car. But it’s headed north on the sixty-two right now.”
He hangs up and squats down, looking under my car. I mirror him.
“What are we looking at, Randy?’
“Your break line isn’t cut. That’s good.”
“What?”
“Some guy in a hoodie was interested in your car.”
We both stand, puzzling at each other.
I never took Dante seriously when he insisted that I had a stalker. Coming from him, it was bordering on comical. It seemed like a mind game he was playing, his way of trying to control me. He likes getting inside my head.
“I still think we should have a mechanic take a look at it,” he frowns.
My brows furrow. “So long as my brakes work, it should be fine.”
“What if he put a tracking device on it? Under normal circumstances, that might seem far-fetched. But considering recent events, can’t be too careful.”
My head falls to the side, and I sigh, weighing the inconvenience of being stuck here. “How soon can you get someone out?”
“Soon. I can give you a ride if you don’t want to wait. Or we can head over to the café and have a bite. We can even talk about non-work. Imagine that.” He winks at me and then calls his mechanic.
I agree to wait at the café with him. But I’m dreading it.
For once, talking about work is the last thing I want to do.
DANTE
I don’t need to see the crime scene photos to do the job I was hired for. But I wanted some to look at, so I requested one photograph of each scene. Jim Peters made it happen.
I’ve printed these out on my professional printer and hung them on the wall like new additions to my gallery. Bloody depictions would have better matched my red-hued Suguru Tanaka pieces, but the Black Valley Fairy Tale Killer doesn’t deal in blood. At least, he takes care of that part behind closed doors. When his work goes public, there are no visual signs of death. The bodies serve as statues representing characters. The innards are gone. The eyes are replaced. Costumes donned.
I have an odd-numbered collection of five 8 x 10 portraits hung like the four quadrants of a clock, starting with his first kill and rotating in clockwise order on the 12, 3, 6, and 9, circling the fifth kill situated in the middle where the clock hands would come together. It’s a rather dizzying display highlighting the photos’ surreal nature.
The last two happened right here in Blacksville. This is the first time the killer has made a scene in the same town.
Blacksville is special.
I knew that when I chose to relocate here. Like others, I admire the beauty of this area, with lakes and rivers nestled in the pristine Ozark Mountains. Natural beauty is an escape from the daily grind of being plugged into technology. When I need a break from my cave of blackout curtains, smart devices, and fine art, I only have to step outside. The contrast of greenery pulls me outward and helps me switch out of work mode for a bit.
The other thing about this town that helps me unwind is Helena.
She’s the beauty in the wild that activates my natural instincts and makes me want to give chase. She’s feisty, and even when I catch her, it’s not for long.
Not yet, anyway.
She doesn’t want to be kept, and I’m not ready to keep her. Why ruin the fun of the chase?
Thoughts of her and the brutal things I want to do to her delicious body fall to the back of my mind as I step closer, studying the crime scene images.
Kill #1
March 2024
The scene is along the Missouri Riverbank, where the victim is propped upright, hands tied to the wheel as if captaining the old, broken-down boat. His name was Micky. I guess the killer decided to play on that because his subject wears white gloves and a black body suit with red shorts. He has a shiny, round, black nose, and, topping it off, he wears a pair of shiny black mouse ears atop his head. Micky was a known drug dealer and pedophile. Two people attended his funeral.
Kill #2
June 2024
In a public park, fifty miles south of the Micky Mouse Killing, another body of a man was found in a thick tangle of bittersweet vine wrapping a large oak like an anaconda squeezing big prey. Police speculated how the killer was able to work the body between tightly held vines. Dressed in nothing but a brown loincloth, the victim’s arms extended upward, clutching the overhead vine as if he had died while climbing. A wig of tangled, blonde hair was worn on his head. This one got the nickname Tarzan. His real name was Juan. He worked in banking. During a talk show interview regarding his infamous death, his parents were interviewed regarding the embezzlement charges he faced before his death and whether they thought his murder was somehow tied to suspected white-collar crimes. His parents did not believe the allegations against him, and they suspected his death was part of a sacrificial pagan ritual.
Kill #3
August 2024
This male was found over two hundred miles south of the last kill, near the Missouri-Arkansas border. He was found in the storybook-themed garden of an outdoor shopping mall. Dressed in long, baggy beige shorts held up by suspenders, a brown shirt, and a leather hat with a feather sticking out, the victim was perched on the branch of a faux beanstalk. He earned the name Jack. His real name was Ross. He worked as a car salesman at a high-end dealership. He had a restraining order against him for battery of an ex-girlfriend. His death was her claim to fame. She did several interviews before moving to Hollywood, where she is currently working on a memoir while being cast on a new reality TV show starring friends and relatives of notorious murders.
Kill #4
October 2024
A man and a woman were found in a public park near a popular hiking trail on the edge of Blacksville, Arkansas, abutting the Army Corps of Engineers federal land. Both were dressed in standard Hansel and Gretel party costumes: white stockings, white tops, tan shorts and suspenders for him, and a short green skirt for her, held at the center by a brown corset laced with red ribbons. Steven and Diane were a wealthy real estate couple rumored to visit Glad’s Truck Stop at odd hours to get drugs from their dealer. On the night of their murders, they had attended a costume party and had a nasty fight in a back room, resulting in blood and bruises. They left the party in their convertible Porsche and were later found amidst a sex act with no scratches to be found on their lifeless bodies.
Kill #5
October 2024
Scott Hampton, a recent implant from Chicago who worked as a forensics consultant, was found dead and posed as Pinocchio in a Blacksville city park after leaving a dinner with friends. This isn’t public knowledge, but Scott followed local town reporter Helena Richardson home after dinner. Something else that isn’t public knowledge, but probably soon will be, is knowledge of the wife and newborn baby Scott abandoned in Chicago. Scott’s wife, Rebecca, reached out to the local police department when the news broke about her husband’s death. She said she had been served with divorce papers after he suddenly “vanished into thin air,” leaving a note that he “needed a break.” Several months before he vanished, she had hired a private investigator when she suspected he had been cheating on her with his office secretary.
Kill #6
? TBA
When / if this kill occurs, I'd like to rearrange my collection into neat rows of three in order of occurrence. Time will tell. Halloween is just around the corner. Will our artist give us a spectacle on All Hallows Eve? What fairy tale characters will he choose this time? Seems this town is dying to find out.
*leave a comment 😉
- KJ