Serial Killer ... By The Book

Chapter 1

The moon was just a silver sliver in the dark sky as the car slowly pulled off the two-track, turning towards a clearing by the river. The driver got out of the car and quickly closed the door to extinguish the dome light. He looked around and listened for any sign of other people although he didn’t expect to find anyone this far off the highway at 4:36 in the morning.

Content that he was alone, the man walked to the rear of the car and opened the trunk. The trunk lamp illuminated the frightened girl who was scrunched in the small compartment, her naked body folded in a fetal position. The woman squinted from the light after being kept in the darkness for almost two hours; she looked up at the man. Duct tape pressed over her mouth prevented her from screaming, plastic wire ties bound her hands behind her back and eyes reddened with tears pleaded with the man not to harm her.His hand reached in the trunk, grabbed the naked girl by the hair and pulled her up his other hand grabbed a leg and he lifted her out and lowered her to the ground. The man calmly reached down and wrapped his fingers around her throat. The girl looked up into his eyes and made pleading sounds as he tightened his grip and watched her face turn red, her eyes open wide, and the veins at the side of her forehead swell. The girl’s body went limp as the man squeezed her neck so tightly his arms trembled.

He let go of the girl and her lifeless body fell to the ground. The man reached into the trunk, grabbed a pair of pliers to cut the plastic ties from her wrists and ankles and peeled a corner of the tape covering her mouth, pinched it between his thumb and finger and ripped it off. He tossed the pliers, cut wire ties and piece of tape into the trunk. He smiled at the girl laying at his feet, the girl he met at the bar and had let him know she was available after she got off work, available for a price.

He knelt down on one knee, and pulled the girls’ panties from his back pocket and stuffed them in her mouth, using his fingers to shove them down her throat. He stood up and looked at the girl lying at his feet and smiled, proud of his work.

The man took a condom from his pocket, ripped it open tossing the wrapper in the trunk. He kicked her feet apart, unzipped his pants and kneeled between her legs.

When he had fulfilled his perverse desires, the killer reached down, lifted the dead girl over his shoulder and walked to the edge of the river. He gently laid her into the water with a slight splash and gave her a little shove with his foot. The body slowly drifted away from shore.

Bon voyage, the man said giving the girl a wave as he watched her slip into the darkness.

Chapter 2

Mark lay in bed wondering, Why do I wake up at 5:17 every morning? I didn’t always wake up at 5:17. When I was in college I was lucky if I didn’t sleep through my 10:00 classes, but for the last couple of years or so its 5:17 am. Why 5:17? Does it have some significance in my life? Sometimes I can fall back to sleep but I always wake up at 5:17 exactly. Well, at least I didn’t have the nightmare last night.

He slowly pulled the covers off, trying not to disturb his wife, although even if he did she would just roll over and fall back to sleep for another couple of hours. The dog, curled at the foot of the bed, didn’t even lift its head as he slid out of bed and pulled on his old dark green terry cloth robe. Descending the stairs from the loft, he flicked the wall switch turning on the gas fireplace. By the light of the fire he walked to the kitchen to push the coffee maker on button, and then walked to the bathroom.

It’s the same ritual he’s followed just about every morning for the last couple years; bathrobe, fireplace, coffee pot, pee, get a cup of coffee, walk to the couch, open the laptop. While the computer warms up he looks out the wall of windows overlooking the lake; in the twilight he can see a duck leaving a small wake as it paddles on water as flat as a mirror, there’s just a hint of daylight on the horizon.

Watching the reflection of the fire in the fireplace dancing on the varnished pine boards on the walls and ceiling he thinks, I wonder how many mornings I have had in my life. How many days have I had in my 66 plus years? It’s a simple thing to figure out… but I’ll need a calculator.

After his finger pushed a few buttons on his cell phone calculator app he says, 24,191. I have had 24,191 mornings in my life, Mark thought. More than I expected.

Anyway, back to the morning ritual. First he opens USA Today to see what’s happening in the world. Nothing that holds his attention; a suicide bomber blows himself up in Syria while he was assembling a detonator. Oops, Mark says. An article that says we’re still losing the battle of global warming and California is in a drought.

He took a sip of coffee and moved the cursor to the Detroit Free Press app and clicked. Maybe something is happening in Detroit that’s interesting. Let’s see; Detroit’s mayor is pledging to tear down more vacant houses, the Illich family announces they’ll be opening a new restaurant as part of their sprawling downtown sports complex, Dan Gilbert bought another building in downtown, and there was a drug related shooting on Detroit’s east side.

A click on the Michigan tab brings a series of articles from all around the state; gas prices expected to rise, a company wants to reopen an iron ore mine in the Upper Peninsula. That’s a good thing, Mark mumbles.

Three and half hours after he walked down from the loft bedroom of their cottage, Mark heard the dog jump off the bed, signaling his wife was waking up and would soon make an appearance. He stood by the front door waiting for the old Yorkie dog to come downstairs and go out for her morning pee and poop. He had to keep an eye on the little eight-pound dog because of the eagle with the nest across the lake and the fox that lived in the area or the small dog could be breakfast.

As Sherry walked down the stairs, Mark looked at his bride of nearly 45 years thinking, She is still a sexy woman. Well maybe not right now, wearing her old pink robe, and with her hair uncombed and sleep wrinkles on her face giving away the fact that she slept on her left side, but most of the time she is sexy.

Morning, Sherry said, her slippers making a shuffling sound as she passed, heading towards the bathroom.

Good morning Sunshine, Mark said cheerfully, his way of rubbing it in that he gets up early and gets his day started and his wife has always been hesitant to welcome a new day.

He let the dog in and it sat outside the bathroom door waiting for Sherry to emerge. It is her dog and she is its human. Mark pours another cup of coffee in his cup and mixes a coffee for his wife; one part black coffee to three parts French Vanilla coffee creamer, and places it next to her chair by the fireplace. He smiles at her as she shuffles into the living room, the dog at her heels.

Sherry sits down, kicks out the footrest and the dog jumps into her lap. Did you sleep alright? You were restless, Sherry asks. Did you have the nightmare?

Nope, slept soundly until 5:17.

Sherry sips her French Vanilla coffee, absent-mindedly scratches the dog and asked, Anything in the news? Sherry knows Mark’s morning ritual.

Nope, same old crap.

Chapter 3

Mark Daniels opened his eyes, and before he checked the alarm clock he knew it would read 5:17 AM. He pulled the blanket up over his head to try to get some more sleep, but it didn’t work; he was wide awake and decided he should just get up. He climbed out of bed thinking; day 24,192.

Mark was never rested after the nightmare came calling.

With coffee made, bladder drained, fireplace warming the morning chill, Mark sat down at the laptop to, as he called it, to peruse the news.

A retired reporter who earned the nickname the Correspondent of Corpses because when Mark first started with the newspaper he began writing obituaries but when the veteran crime reporter dropped dead of a heart attack while covering a murder, Mark was promoted to the crime beat and ended up specializing in murders.

Covering the dregs of society for decades didn’t seem to outwardly bother Mark as some psychologists might predict, but when he slept, the Demon of Death crept out of his subconscious to haunt his dreams. When he had the nightmare he would awake in a shaking sweat. Mark tried not to awaken Sherry as he got out of bed, grabbed the flashlight he kept in his bedside stand and searched the house. He knew there wasn’t anyone or anything in there but he had to do it to convince his subconscious.

Content the house was clear of assassins, butchers, murderers, and pigs, Mark laid down on the couch hoping to fall back to sleep.

Despite the nightmare, Mark was awake at his normal time. He made the coffee, peed and began to peruse the news; Donald Trump insulted another minority group, California is still in a drought, and there was another suicide bomber in the Middle East. As he moved the cursor down the page a headline caught his attention, Foot Washes up on Canadian Shore.

Now that sounds interesting, Mark said as he sipped his coffee, opened the article and leaned back to read. The article piqued his interest and he did a Google search for feet washing up on the Canadian Shore. Several pages of entries pop up. Mark selects the oldest entry to get the background information then will work his way to the most current posting. Hell, why haven’t I heard of this before, feet have been washing up in the Vancouver area since 2007.

The idea that 13 human feet have surfaced on beaches all within 125 miles or so of each other caught Mark’s attention. His mind with its murderous tendencies after years of documenting death was excitedly taking in all the evidence he could find and writing notes in his notebook.

He clicked on another website, read and made notes. All of the feet were found wearing running shoes of some sort. Most of what remained was just the foot, but at least one had part of the leg attached, some were the right foot and others the left. None of the feet showed signs of violence.

I wonder if this is some deranged serial killer whose deviance involves removing the feet from the body and throwing them in the ocean, Mark said aloud. Someone has to be killing these people, but why is it only the feet and not the head, torso or other appendages surfacing? Are they cutting the bodies into pieces and dumping the body parts in the ocean? Are the feet cut off before or after death? Maybe it’s some foot worshiping cult that use the feet in a bizarre ritual then disposes of them by throwing them in the ocean. Why are the feet always in gym shoes? Gym shoes, now I’m showing my age. When I grew up we wore P.F. Fliers, Converse and Keds and called them gym shoes or tennis shoes. Mark laughed at himself.

Getting back to the mystery of the feet washing up on the beaches of Vancouver Mark wondered why only the shoes and feet were washing up? If the body was tossed into the ocean to dispose of it you would think the whole body would end up on the beach, unless the sharks are eating the bodies but don’t like the taste of running shoes and spit them out.

Mark, with the same enthusiastic interest he had when he was covering a challenging murder as a reporter, read all he could in chronological order, from an article when the first foot appeared, moving towards the most recent discovery. His mind was racing with theories, with thoughts of murder and dismemberment. His enthusiasm came to a crashing halt when he read an article that explained the reason feet were appearing on the beaches of Vancouver.

A scientist explained that after performing DNA tests on the feet and interviewing the relatives of the people whose feet were found, it was determined the feet belonged to mentally ill and distraught and depressed individuals who had committed suicide by jumping off the bridges in the city. Their bodies were carried downstream to the ocean and naturally decomposed, but the feet being encased in the tightly tied shoes slowed decomposition and also sea creatures could not easily feed on them. During decomposition the feet naturally separated from the leg and the shoes being made of buoyant material caused them to float to the surface, ultimately ending up on the beaches.

Son of a bitch! Mark exclaimed as Sherry walked down the stairs making her first appearance of the day,

Well, and a good morning to you too, Sherry said as she and the dog descended the stairs.

Mark turned towards his wife. He was so engrossed in the case of the floating feet he was unaware she and the pooch were awake. Sorry, not you. It’s a murder I was doing some research on. Some feet washed up on … Mark said but was cut off by Sherry.

Save it, I have to pee and the princess probably does too, Sherry said as she shuffled off to the bathroom.

Mark let the dog out, and made a cup of French Vanilla coffee before Sherry reappeared. Now, what were you saying?

Oh, nothing, I thought it was some bizarre serial killer murdering people, cutting them up and throwing their feet in the ocean, but it turned out to be nothing. Well, not exactly nothing, but not as interesting as I thought it might be.

Sounds disgusting, Sherry said as she scratched the dog, sipped her coffee and checked out the newest posts on Facebook. Mark watched her get settled and thought, We all have our morning rituals.

Mark was so excited about the possibility of a mystery unfolding in Vancouver that it was a disappointment to learn the truth. He ripped the pages titled Feet from his notebook and settled back down at the laptop.

I guess my overactive imagination got the best of me again, he thought.

He checked The Detroit Free Press main page, not finding anything interesting going on in the Metro Detroit area. He clicked on the Michigan tab and saw an article about a body found in a river in the northern part of Lower Michigan. Well, maybe this will be of interest, Mark hoped.

Outside the cottage, dark had slowly given way to morning’s light as Mark took another sip of coffee and began to read the article; the Charlevoix County News was credited with providing the article about a nude female body found by two area fishermen. The body was floating near the bank in a remote section of a river located between Benway and Henley Lakes in Antrim County.

He re-read the article and his old journalistic instincts resurfaced and he asked himself; I wonder if she was killed there or somewhere else and left there? Was she a local girl or tourist or neither? Heck, maybe she just fell out of a kayak or canoe and drowned with nothing sinister going at all. No, if she fell out of a boat why would she be found nude, unless she was having some well-balanced kayak sex and her partner has yet to surface. I wish the article provided more information.

This intrigues me, he mumbled as he lifted the coffee cup to his lips. He re-read