---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v108) (the July-August 2012 Issue) You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Purpose (a Down in the Dirt collection book)		get the 230 page May - July/Aug. 2012 Down in the Dirt magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Not a Love Connection

Kathleen Hennessey

    The grandfather clock in my living room chimed, the resonating sound letting me know that I was running late. I had a date at seven, in one hour. I sighed and put down the long, curved silver knife I was holding.
    “I’ll be back to finish up in a bit,” I patted the girl tied to the table on the shoulder, my hand leaving behind a smear of blood that stood out against her pale skin. I didn’t know if she would be alive when I got back later. Judging by the amount of blood on the white linoleum floor, I was pretty sure that she wouldn’t be.
    The girl looked blankly up at me as I ascended the stairs, her face streaked with tears and her bloodied, pale lips expertly sewn shut. None of this would have happened if she had just gotten my Goddamn hair cut right. I asked for a three in the front, not a two.
    As I got up to my bedroom, I realized that just washing up wouldn’t do. I needed to shower and scrub my hands and face. Blood was difficult to wash off.

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

    Donned in my black suit and tie, with my dark, too-short hair combed neatly, I left for my date in my deep blue Mustang GT. I drove too fast, risking a speeding ticket on my otherwise flawless record, and arrived at the restaurant ten minutes early.
    “Reservation for James Brookman,” I told the bored-looking girl at the front of Bella Italiano.
    She tapped at the computer with her fluorescent fake nails. “Mr. Brookman. Welcome to Bella Italiano. If you’ll follow me, your table is right this way,” She was all smiles when she knew I had an actual reservation. I was seated at a corner table and ordered a Sonnenschein Whiskey, imported from Germany, on the rocks as I waited for my date, Lyla, to arrive.
    Thanks to eHarmony.com, I was able to keep up these regular dates. Some of them blossomed into something that lasted a few weeks, and some of them ended....badly, bloodily. Just because I was a killer and Washington’s most wanted didn’t mean that I too couldn’t find and be capable of love.
    James Brookman was the name on the profile where I had met Lyla, but I went by several other names; Adam Hess, Liam Cummings, and Brevin Smith, among others. Several profiles allowed me to go on dates and, if I wanted or needed to, kill the women without being suspected by the police. Boyfriends and online dating profiles were one of the first places a detective would check for a possible murderer.
    Besides, I was too smart for the FBI. I wasn’t like the idiots who kill people and leave behind hair, fingerprints, semen and whatnot. I was clean; spotless actually. The closest I’ve ever been to being caught was when FBI Detective Smith saw my shadowed figure kidnapping one of my victims. Suddenly, as if these thoughts sent some kind of signal, my shoulder began to ache. The old bullet wound from that night had never really healed properly. I rolled my shoulders to relieve the pain.
    Luckily though, I was able to escape with the girl I was going to cut up, and was never suspected. No one would guess that their friendly town architect was a serial killer. I was almost comparable to Batman/Bruce Wayne, that whole situation.
    If people knew, though, I could have some pretty killer, well, killer names, like The Murder Architect. Ah, well, cest’ la vie. People just knew that there was someone out there taking young women. In my defense, I only took the ones that deserved to be killed, like the little blond thing in my basement, for example. They were all incompetent, useless wastes of oxygen and finite resources.
    “James?” A soft feminine voice spoke from behind me. I had been so lost in my own thoughts that I hadn’t even noticed someone approaching. I turned, smiling, and saw my date. She was average height, with black hair and tanned skin. She was wearing a long-sleeved red dress that emphasized her slim waist. I spotted a series of rings through the cartilage of her left ear.
    “Lyla,” I said, kissing her hand, “You look stunning.” I pulled her chair out and seated her before once again taking my place across the burgundy-clothed table.
    “Thank you,” she smiled just as the waiter came with the bottle of wine.
    Just as he was about to pour the expensive merlot into our glasses, Lyla said, “Oh no, take that shit back. I’ll have a Kansas Slammer.” I raised my eyebrows, impressed. Lyla gave me what looked like an apologetic smile, “Sorry. I’m a hard liquor kind of girl.”
    I laughed, “I was just trying to seem sophisticated to impress you. I hate wine,” I waved the waiter off and ordered two Kansas Slammers, vodka, white grape juice, tequila, a splash of lemon juice over ice with a lime wedge. This woman had a fantastic taste.
    When the beverages arrived, we ordered dinner and toasted to non-disastrous first dates. “So James,” Lyla began, “What do you do?”
    Without skipping a beat, I replied smoothly, “I’m an architect.” I was a pro at keeping my little hobby a secret. When she inevitably asked what I did for fun I would reply with the typical answers: reading, running, playing the guitar, etcetera, etcetera.
    I buttered a piece of bread as I asked, “And what do you do, Lyla?”
    She bit into the bread (I appreciated that she wasn’t one of those I’ll just have a salad kind of women), chewed and said, “I’m a detective for the FBI. I’m actually working on a case, trying to catch the man taking all those women. Have you heard of that on the news? I was this close,” she held her thumb and pointer finger about an inch apart, “to catching him a few months ago.”
    I froze as soon as the words, ‘detective for the FBI’ passed her sparkling maroon-colored lips. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t made the connection before. Smith was a common last name, however, and she hadn’t listed her occupation in her online profile. So how could I have possibly known?
    Had she recognized me from that night? Was this some sort of setup? Perhaps they had cross-referenced who some of the missing women had gone on dates with, the common thread being me.
    She continued, “Sometimes I go on these dates as part of my investigation.” So that was a yes on the question of her suspecting me. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit fucking goddamned shit, was all I could think for several seconds. I could feel my heart beating in time with the seconds passing by. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Ba Boom. Ba Boom.
    “James? Are you alright?” Lyla asked me, subtly raising one eyebrow and intently studying my face.
    I blinked and quickly composed myself. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. I was just....thinking about those awful murders.” Phew, I thought, nice recovery there, dumb ass.
    Lyla nodded. “That’s actually why I was a little late tonight. I worked late doing some research, trying to make a criminal and geographic profile.”
    “Find anything interesting? Or is that ‘classified’ information?” I smiled, letting her know that I was ‘only teasing’, but inside I really just wanted to know if she was getting close to finding me. I will be the first to admit that I was careless; killing the majority of girls I had met on eHarmony, foolishly ignoring the connection that was obvious between the girls that had gone missing: Me. They had all been on dates with me. I was becoming more and more certain that this ‘date’ was a set up by the FBI to investigate me. I realized then and there that I needed to cut back on the killing for awhile. If girls started going missing, after this date I would be suspect numero uno. I’d have to pick up some other kind of hobby, like knitting or basket-weaving or reading from Oprah’s book list....none of this would ever happen, by the way. I’m not gay, obviously, as I’d be taking men if I were.
    “Some interesting facts, but nothing concrete,” she refused to look at me as she said this, making me even more suspicious that she was not on this date to find love so much as to find a killer.
    I dropped the subject so as not to raise suspicion and cleared my throat, “Will you please excuse me? I need to use the restroom.”
    “Sure, sure.” She nodded and perused the dessert menu.
    I all but ran to the restaurant’s bathroom. I had some decisions to make about Lyla Smith, and whether or not she would live to see another day.

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

    The freezing water I splashed on my face cleared my mind somewhat, and allowed me to focus and come to a reasonable conclusion.
    I had a few different options here. I could keep dating her, finding out information she’d learned about the case, and, at the same time, lead her in the completely wrong direction.
    I could kill her. The thought of doing so sent shivers up my spine and I smiled at all the things I could do to her. I could almost see the look on her face as I tied her down to the table in my basement, afraid and shocked. Shocked that I was the killer she’d been after, even though it seemed as though she may have already suspected me. Shocked that she, by some twist of fate, had ended up on a date with me. I’d take my time with Lyla, making the pain last as long as possible. I pictured sewing her full, red lips shut to stifle her screams, slowly cutting her wrists, the blood pulsing out and dripping onto the floor like red rain. Once she was dead, I’d cut the fingers from her hands, and, after ripping out the stitches holding her lips shut, pull out all her teeth, as was my typical method. No finger prints, no dental records with which to identify the dismembered body parts.
    And then, finally, she would die. I would cut her into many little pieces, much like carving a Christmas ham, by far the messiest part of the whole process. I’d spread her body parts across several counties, burn the fingers, and grind the teeth into dust, letting the wind carry the evidence away. That was my modus operandi, part of the reason I was never caught because of how carefully I disposed of the bodies. This method was taught to me by my mother, who would bring home prostitutes, fuck and then kill them. I learned how to dispose of a body when I was eight years old, and by the time I was fourteen, I was killing people on my own; from cheating slut girlfriends to cheating bastard classmates.
    Or, I could leave after this date and never contact her again, letting her chase me. Let’s be honest, killing people is much more exciting when someone out there knows my dirty little secret and is trying to track me down. The rush of cutting open a woman as she moans and screams behind the stitches in her lips sent shivers down my spine with excitement, but it was even more rewarding imagining the parts of her body being found by the FBI, forcing them to piece together the puzzle, as well as the found body parts.
    As much fun as killing Lyla would be, I chose to go with the latter option. I’d pretend we just hadn’t made a love connection, and let her live to try and find me. I enjoyed this game of cat and mouse too much to take her life.
    I washed my hands, thinking that after Lyla left, maybe I’d take the hostess home to torture and kill. I was sure the girl in my basement was already dead, and I wanted someone to play with.
    But first thing first, I had to finish my date with Lyla and escape before she suspected me even more.
    As she came into view, I saw her on her sleek black cell phone, talking in hushed tones and a serious look on her face. Once she saw me, her eyes briefly widened in panic. She immediately shut the phone and smiled.
    “You’re blushing. Is something the matter?” I asked without looking directly at her and placed the cloth napkin back onto my lap in a flourish.
    Lyla cleared her through, took a long chug of her drink and said, “I was just thinking maybe you had run off on me.” She was obviously flustered, because not even a mentally impaired person would have believed her lie. I’m disappointed to say, Lyla was not turning out to be the great foe I had thought and wanted her to be. It was a shame really, a travesty.
    I laughed cordially and replied, smiling brilliantly, “On you? Never.” I was ramping up the charm to send manipulate her mind into thinking whatever I persuaded her to.
    Lyla quickly and conspicuously changed the subject. “Shall we order? I’m starving.”

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

    “Well that was exquisite,” I said as I placed my fork delicately on my empty plate. Lyla just nodded, checking her phone again. I would have been very displeased at her behavior, had I not known she was corresponding with her superior, taking orders. Her face paled as she checked her phone one last time after the bill was paid and we were preparing to say our goodbyes.
    I was going to stick with my decision to let her live, because, quite honestly, she needed some practice in the ways of being an FBI detective. I hoped that one day she would become someone who posed as a true challenge and threat to me.
    I offered her my arm as we walked out and she took it, hands obviously slick with sweat. I was making her nervous, which I must admit more than excited me. I had to angle my body away from her and make sure that my jacket covered the slight problem I was having in my lower frontal area. The problem had disappeared by the time I had walked Lyla to her car, a tasteful beige Volvo. She unlocked the car and then turned to face me. I knew where this was headed.
    “Do you want to....go....somewhere?” She had composed herself and gave me a coy, suggestive smile. I grinned back, playing my part as she was playing hers.
    “Yes, I’d like that. How about my place? You can follow me there,” I suggested and cocked my head to the side, looking as though I didn’t know for a fact that she would say yes. Lyla nodded, smiled, and then got in her car, ready to follow me home. I knew we would end up at my house eventually, anyway. I didn’t want to outright refuse as to avoid more suspicion. I knew Lyla wanted to investigate me, and I wanted to assure her that I had nothing to hide.
    As I drove, slowly because she was a cop and I didn’t want a ticket, I weighed the possible risks of bringing Lyla home with me. My murder room was well hidden beneath the storm cellar, the door blending in with the concrete walls perfectly. I knew Lyla wanted to snoop around and find some sort of damning evidence, but she wouldn’t find any. I could guarantee that.
    Once at my house, I parked in the garage, Lyla parked in the driveway, and then I led her through the front door. She looked around, taking in the elegant chandelier and rich mahogany furnishings.
    “Nice place.” She said, awe-struck. I glanced around. I didn’t really see what was so special about it. I really wanted to show her downstairs, the part of the house of which I was most proud, but couldn’t. I had a cover to keep, unfortunately.
    “Thank you. Would you like a drink?”
    She nodded and continued to peruse the decorations around my home, pretending to be interested, but really for looking for any sort of clue.
    I walked to the kitchen and froze when I saw a puddle of blood forming underneath the door down to the cellar. The girl I had thought would be dead by the time I got back obviously tried to make an escape attempt.
    I knew my freedom was at risk, so I did something I had never done before: panic. I could hear Lyla’s heels clacking their way up the wood-floored hall toward the kitchen. She was saying something, God only knows what, but stopped abruptly as her eyes narrowed in on the blood.
    The jig was up. And now Lyla had to die and I had to leave Washington and lay low for an indefinite period of time.
    In the second it took Lyla to pull a pistol out from under her dress (it was very well hidden in the curve-hugging fabric, might I add), I had lunged behind the counter just before the shots began firing. I knew this would wake the neighbors, and someone would call 911. I needed to get the Hell out of dodge, so I quickly grabbed a knife from the top of the kitchen counter (a dull blade, not my preferred weapon of choice) and rolled out of the room, bullets whizzing past my ears and just barely missing me.
    The shots stopped firing from the barrel of the pistol, and I crouched and snuck around to get an upper-hand on Lyla.
    “I knew it was you,” I heard her voice call; “You messed up. You’re a common link between all those missing girls. We crosschecked your eHarmony profiles and the dead girls. It had to be you.” She was trying to get me to reply so she could judge my location, “Hey James, remember when I shot you in the shoulder? How’d that heal up by the way?”
    I spotted her creeping around, back pressed to the wall, trying to find me. Quieter than even the slightest of breezes, I crept toward her. With all the power of my good shoulder, I slammed the knife into the back of her knee so hard that the tip was visible through the front of her knee. Blood gushed out and she screamed, dropping her gun in surprise agony. I twisted the blade inside the wound, which would make it hurt so much more and heal much less quickly, fascinated by the amount of blood that could come out of her knee as I twisted the handle this way and that. The blood gushing down her leg and onto the hardwood floor matched the color of her velvet red dress, as if it were simply a train, an accent to the ensemble.
    Lyla finally fell back, crippled in pain, allowing me to crawl on top of her and slowly, so slowly cut open her cheek and down her jaw as she cried and struggled against me. I practically doubled her in height in weight, so her attempts to get away were all futile—
    She kneed me, hard, in the groin, and I fell to the side. She dragged herself down the hall toward where she had dropped her gun. The surge of adrenaline forced me to get over the pain and rush toward her, once again putting my weight on her. I held my knife against her throat and she stopped thrashing.
    “Good girl, Lyla,” I whispered in her ear, “Unfortunately, I do have to kill you. You know too much about me and, quite frankly, I’d say that makes us friends. I’ve never been the kind of person to have friends.”
    She shook her head and the blade bit into her skin slightly and I felt her entire body wince from the pain. It was fantastic.
    “The blood in the kitchen. What is it? Whose is it?” She said it too fast, and I knew she was stalling for time. I wanted to play with her for as long as possible, so I answered.
    “The bitch that got my haircut wrong. I could have sworn that she’d be dead by the time I got back, but obviously that one was a fighter. She almost made it out too,” I sighed sarcastically, “Sadly; you won’t get the same opportunity to escape. We’re going to have fun Lyla. Do you like pain?” I asked as I plunged the knife shallowly into her side. She had the good sense to arch up and that moment and was able to avoid most of the damage, as well as loosen my hold on her. Managing to stand, she limped toward the gun and grabbed it, whipping around to take aim at me.
    “FREEZE!” She screamed.
    “No need to yell, Lyla. I’m about four feet from you. Let’s use our inside voices so as not to disturb the neighbors.” I winked at her and she took another step away from me. I could tell she was scared and I flashed a grin.
    “Shut up, James. You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law—,”
    “You’re going to arrest me?” I asked incredulously. “On a bad leg and bleeding half to death. This ought to be a show. I’m sure this will be funnier than that idiotic series Twilight,” I smirked and held out my hand, giving her the typical ‘bring it on’ gesture.
    “JAMES BROOKMAN. COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS RAISED IN THE AIR....,” I whipped my head toward the front window, only now noticing the search light lighting up my front yard.
    “I’m not stupid enough to go in without back up. If I didn’t answer my boss’s texts every five minutes, he knew something was wrong.” Lyla said quietly. I looked back to her and saw her gun lowered to her side. She knew she didn’t need it anymore. I was surrounded. It was over.

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

    I was placed in handcuffs by a fat police officer and leaned against the car, just staring at the stars. I figured it would be awhile until I got to see them again. My sights switched from the heavens to Lyla, who was sitting in an ambulance getting her wounds taken care of. I stared at her, wanting to memorize every line and curve of her.
    Once she was finished talking to the paramedic, she and the cop who had cuffed me came over to take me to jail.
    “Oh, Lyla?” I called before the burly police officer shoved me into the back of his cruiser.
    She turned slowly back to me and nodded at Officer Pushy to let me speak. “What is it, James.” Her body was tense and a trail of blood dripped in a perfect line down her flushed, bright cheeks. She was leaning heavily on her left leg, since I had twisted my knife deep into the back of her right knee. “Is this funnier than Twilight?”
    I smiled at her little jibe before brushing it off, “I’ve always wanted to escape from prison,” I winked at her and shifted myself into the back of the car, lights flashing and making the wet pavement look like a river of blood. I smiled. Before the door closed in my face, I confidently said, “See you soon.”
    The torturing and killing would have to come to an end. I had re-prioritized my life in the last hour, and my happy play time could no longer come before my freedom. In all honesty, I’m a damn handsome guy; I would be butt-raped left and right if I went to prison.
    I’d escape in record time, before I even made it to jail. The cuffs were already halfway off by the time Officer Idiot found the car’s keys in his folds of fat. I estimated that I would taste sweet freedom in about twenty minutes.
    I planned to sneak back to my house, grab some supplies, including a myriad of fake IDs, and get the hell out of dodge. I’d stop killing women, and pick up a new hobby.
    Probably hunting.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...