Sociopath Read online

  I collapsed into the soft mud and lay on my back and took in deep breaths. I sat back up and looked to the blood. I felt euphoric, at peace somehow. But it would fade. Slowly, it would fade, and I would need to be out here again.

  JON STANTON

  Melissa wanted to have dinner that night and I said that would be fine. She came and picked me up at the motel and took me to a restaurant in a little town called Midway. It was founded by Swiss immigrants and had Swiss flags up on every block.

  The restaurant, called Tarahumara, was near a hot springs and she suggested we go swimming there after and I said that I would watch.

  It was a home-cooked-meal type place with wooden chairs and tables with red and white tablecloths. The waitress was dressed in jeans and a sequin shirt. Melissa ordered enchiladas and I had a pork burrito.

  “So what made you want to quit being a cop?” she said. This was a loaded question as I had no doubt she had already looked me up online and had seen some of the cases I’d handled.

  One in particular haunted me: Michael R. Harlow. The former chief of police of the San Diego P.D. I had to testify against him and it had brought down his entire administration. He was serving what would effectively be a life sentence in a federal penitentiary in Lompoc, California.

  “You already know.”

  She grinned. “Yeah, I do. I wanted to hear it from you.”

  “It’s not something I talk about.”

  “Having to testify against other cops couldn’t have been easy.”

  “They were killing people that got in their way. They were worse than the people we chased because they were sanctioned by government to use force.”

  “Still couldn’t have been an easy decision.”

  “No, it wasn’t. On top of everything else, Mike was my friend.”

  The food came out quickly and we ate for a while and didn’t speak.

  “Do you ever regret becoming a cop?” she finally said.

  “I wouldn’t have met my fiancé if I hadn’t. So no, I don’t regret it for that. But if I had to do it over again, I might just have gone to medical school like my father was pushing me to. He was a psychiatrist and thought that that’s what I’d be devoting my life to.”

  “You kind of did. You have a doctorate in psych.”

  “He thought psychologists were charlatans. He said that there’s such an intense desire to stand out from the crowd that they’ll publish any theory, no matter how ridiculous or harmful to the mentally ill. He also thought the people that went into psychology typically had deep emotional scars they were trying to deal with.”

  “Is that what it was for you?”

  “Maybe.” I smiled. “Or maybe I knew it was the one degree that would drive him the most crazy if I obtained it.”

  She laughed. “Sounds like me. My dad, when he was young, belonged to like an anti-government militia. He grew out of it but he was always a conspiracy theorist. He thought that 9-11 was perpetrated by the Bush administration, things like that. I think he almost had a heart attack when I told him I was going to be an FBI agent.”

  “What did your mother think?”

  “She wasn’t around. She left us when I was six.”

  “Do you ever think of finding her?”

  “No. She’s a stranger to me. I don’t see what purpose it would serve.”

  “In my limited experience, I’ve seen it is as a release of anger in the child. They can’t heal when they hold on to so much anger that they repress their natural curiosity for their birth parents.”

  She shrugged. “I think she’s some junkie in Portland or somewhere. I don’t know how much anger it would release to see her like that.” She glanced up at me, holding my gaze a moment before going back to her food.

  “You know, David told me something about you once.”

  “What was that?”

  “We were talking about you after that big arsonist case you cracked open. About how the blogosphere was blowing up with rumors that you’re psychic.”

  “David didn’t believe in anything supernatural so I’m guessing he put a stop to that right away.”

  “He did. And I asked him how it was that you had cleared so many cases. Ones that no one else thought could be cleared.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said, ‘Takes one to know one.’”

  I was silent a moment and took a sip of water. “You think I’m a sociopath, Agent Harding?”

  “I didn’t say I said it, I said David said it. He said that he thought you were a high functioning, extremely socialized sociopath that had put your disorder to good use. It sounds bad but I think it gave him hope that we have a choice in the things we do and we don’t have to choose to be evil SOB’s.”

  “Sometimes psychiatry creates disorders that aren’t there. The DSM commission, the commission that determines what are actually classified as mental disorders and what are not, votes and argues. It’s at the whim of personal prejudices. That’s not science. Look at childhood bipolar disorder. Every reputable study done outside the United States has found that it does not, cannot, exist in young children. We’re the only country that recognizes it and prescribes medication to three year olds for it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the pharmaceutical companies pushed for it. They don’t even need to push that hard. A few grants here and there, some stipends, a few executive positions, and they have whatever they want from the psychiatric community. They tell us something’s wrong with us and then offer the cure. That’s exactly what snake-oil salesmen did a hundred years ago, though they didn’t couch their deception as pure science.”

  “You and my dad should hang out.”

  I grinned. “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you.”

  The waitress came over and we ordered dessert and I asked for a refill of Diet Coke. My head was throbbing and sending waves of pain down my neck and shoulders. I took out a small bottle of Advil from my pocket and popped two of them and then drank down half the drink.

  “This guy we’re after,” she said, “you think he’s going to kill again, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “This was his first time. He got a taste for it. After the first kill, when they see how easy it was and that the earth doesn’t open up and swallow them whole, they don’t think about anything else. It’s like they’ve discovered a new toy. He’s thinking about all the things he did wrong, everything he could’ve done better. He’ll improve next time.”

  “When’s next time?”

  “At the beginning of their cycles they can wait long periods without having to kill. Later on, he won’t be able to go more than a few weeks without it.”

  “What do you mean cycles?”

  “Most serial murderers kill in cycles. I think they have a pattern they repeat, certain spacings in time between victims that ends after a certain number and there’s a long dormant period before they take it up again.”

  “How long do you think before he does it again?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Right now, it’s probably all he can think about.”

  3

  On Friday morning I woke as the sunlight hit my face. I’d gotten maybe three hours of sleep. At around one in the morning I woke and couldn’t go back down so I’d gone for a walk.

  The streets had been wet from a light rain that I hadn’t noticed. They shimmered and appeared like the lip of some black hole that I could just fall into at any moment and be lost forever.

  Small towns at one in the morning always looked the same to me. An eeriness that couldn’t be explained or described the next day always descended over them. Like a funeral on a stormy day. It gave you a dark, thick feeling in your gut.

  I walked out of town and was on the road alone in the forest. The animals were quiet, sheltering themselves from the drizzle that was still falling out of a dark sky. No cars were on the road this late and the farther I went fr
om town, the more alone I felt. Like I’d been dropped off in the wilderness.

  I kept going until I hit a patch of road that was a steep incline. I was sweating and my legs began to burn from the acid build-up and I turned and headed back. In the darkness, with the ground reflecting any small glimmer of light, it didn’t even appear like the same place I had just walked through.

  Now, at nine A.M., I wished I had taken something to help me sleep. My muscles felt weak and my mind was a blurry smear of thoughts. I took a cold shower in a futile attempt to wake up. I dressed and got into the rental car and headed for Café Molisse.

  Parking near the front, I went inside and found a table near the window in the back. I ordered a muffin and Diet Coke and sat quietly, watching customers come and go, ordering large coffees with thick cream and lattes and steamers and copious amounts of pastries.

  One of the waitresses was attractive, more so than you would expect to find someplace like this. I noticed that everyone who worked there was attractive, including the men. A cheap tactic by management to create a better experience, but one that, at least on men, typically worked.

  The waitress was serving a table of men in biking gear and she bent over to retrieve a menu and all of them looked down her shirt.

  I saw Tiffany here in my mind. Saw her bent over the same table and him staring at her. He lusted after her but the thought of having her permission disgusted him. There was no fun in that.

  He sat here and watched as she helped other customers and gave them her beautiful smile. A smile he pretended was just his. She would do something when she thought nobody else was watching, maybe just biting her nails, and he thought to himself that that would be their secret. No one else needed to know about it.

  He would sit here for long periods, sometimes her entire shift, but never say a word to her. He wanted to remain unnoticed. He would watch as her boyfriend would come pick her up and they would kiss outside and it would revolt him. Those were his lips. That was his kiss.

  When he had her in the woods on her back, her organs cascading out of her slowly like melting ice, he tried to kiss her like that. But it wasn’t the same. Her lips were pursed and crinkled and there was no affection though he told himself there was—she loved him and he loved her and he would make her a part of him forever.

  He took up her hand and bit off one of her fingers. He tried to eat it there but couldn’t so he cut it off to not leave bite-marks. He placed it in his pocket instead and would take it with him. He took his knife and cut off a few more but the thumb wouldn’t come off. So he … he went to the car. Her filthy little boyfriend was a landscaper. He had tools.

  He took gardening shears out and went back to Tiffany who he’d tied to a tree. She screamed even more when she saw the shears. No one was out here and she was screaming to trees. He leaned his head back and screamed too, to show her it was pointless. Terror gripped her then and she quietly sobbed as he bent down and put her thumb into the shears and began to cut … but stopped. But stopped. What stopped him? What would stop him?

  This was his moment. His and hers. He wanted this for themselves. The only thing that would break the magic was … if someone else was there.

  I glanced up at a man in a black pin-stripe suit who was standing in line. He turned away. I jumped up and headed out the door, my cell phone to my ear.

  “This is Melissa,” she answered.

  “Have someone pull the financial records for Dale Christensen. You’re going to see a large cash deposit in his checking or savings account the day after Tiffany was killed. Text me and tell me how much it was for.”

  “How do you—”

  “Heading to the jail now to see him. Can you text it to me?”

  “Sure. Gimme an hour.”

  THOMAS FISCHER

  Heading into work, I felt like throwing up. I was agitated and thought I would smash in the face of anyone who looked at me funny. I masturbated in the car on the freeway but it didn’t help. The emotions felt like a combination of someone really pissing me off and receiving terrible news at the same time. I was being pulled apart, and at one point I thought about running my car off the road and into a reservoir of dark blue water.

  I stormed into work. Karen was at the front desk and smiled at me.

  “Morning,” she said.

  “Why are you wearing pants?”

  “What?”

  “You look like a dyke. Wear a fucking skirt like a woman sometimes.”

  I walked past her and didn’t say hello to anyone as I went to my office and shut the door. I closed the blinds on the windows and lay down on the couch, staring at the ceiling. Outside I could hear the hum of car engines and the occasional ding of the stupid trolley they had going up and down the street. From the office all I heard were phones ringing and people talking. It was annoying me enough that I thought about opening the door and shouting at them to shut the fuck up.

  Taking several deep breaths, I decided it was better if I just left for the day. Getting up and opening the door, I walked into the first office I saw. It was owned by a pudgy man with glasses I knew as Hank or Henry. An analyst. A position that every Ivy League graduate would sell their own mothers for.

  “Hank, how are ya?” I said, sitting down.

  “It’s actually Harold, Mr. Fischer.”

  “I prefer Hank,” I said with a smile. “Listen, there’s no easy way to say this so I’m just going to come right out with it. We don’t feel you’re contributing to our team in the manner we expect at this point in your career. We’re letting you go.”

  All color left his face and I had to suppress a grin.

  “You’re firing me?” he gasped.

  “Yes.”

  Tears came to his eyes. This was too funny. He leaned back in his chair and his belly thrust out of his shirt and I could see that one of the buttons was undone.

  “I just got promoted like two months ago.”

  “An oversight that I’m fixing now. You’re just not good at your job, Hank. And, between me and you, some of the girls have complained about your … well, your hygiene habits.”

  “Like what?”

  “They said you smell and you’re typically not pleasant to look at.”

  “What? Who said that? I don’t smell.”

  I rose. “Get your things and get out, I don’t want to have to call security. And Hank, if it makes you feel any better, you’ve put a smile on my face.”

  Walking out of the office I saw Karen sobbing in the break room. I thought about stopping and saying something but I felt good. I wanted to be out with her.

  I only knew her first name was Amanda and she was waitressing while she worked her way through school at Brigham Young University. Her major was education and she wanted to be a teacher for disabled children, or some other idiotic crusade.

  I went across the street to Café Molisse and stepped inside and saw her across the restaurant. She was helping four fags in biking clothes, one of them still wearing his helmet like a retard. I felt like taking a hammer and bashing through it and showing him his brains. Picturing it made me laugh out loud. The elderly woman standing next to me was glaring and she turned away and put some distance between us.

  The four fags looked down her shirt when she bent over the table. As she left they began talking about it. I stormed over there.

  “Hi,” I said. They didn’t respond.

  “Do we know you?” one of them said.

  “No, but if you look at her tits that way again I’m going to rip out your eyeballs and skull-fuck you.”

  “What? Fuck you, buddy.”

  I walked away. No use arguing in here. I glanced out the window and saw their bikes on the rack outside. I would just grab some coffee and go wait in my car. When they took off down the street, I’d follow them until we got to a secluded area and just take them out with my car. I was driving the Maserati today; it would get damaged but it would be worth it.

  “Hi Tom,” she said.

  “Hey.
You look nice for this early in the morning.”

  “Oh, thanks. You’re so sweet.”

  “So any big plans for the weekend?”

  “Just hanging out with my boyfriend and watching movies.”

  Boyfriend. I hadn’t seen him. I didn’t let my face show anything other than a smile. “Sounds like fun. You guys hanging out at his house?”

  “No, I’m housesitting for my friend Michelle this weekend. They got that big cabin up there by Wolf Mountain.”

  “The one with the tennis courts?”

  “Yeah, isn’t it awesome?”

  I smiled wider. “It is.”

  “So what can I get you?”

  “Huh?”

  “To drink. The usual? Non-fat latte with sugar substitute and an apple?”

  “You know me well.”

  She grinned as she rang it up. “I usually have a chocolate chip muffin and coffee. You have such good self-control.”

  I glanced out the window. “If you knew me better you wouldn’t say that.”

  As she made my latte I scanned the restaurant and was about to turn back when I saw something that made my heart drop into my stomach. My knees felt weak and I thought how odd it was that that was an actual thing and not something made up in the movies.

  Jon Stanton was sitting far back by the windows. He was staring off into space. Looking right at me but not seeing me. I’d seen that stare. It’s called the predator stare. I saw it in my father when he got back from Vietnam. I saw it when I looked in the mirror.

  He found me.

  The media likes to make heroes and villains where there are none and I thought that’s what he was, some cop who got lucky a few times and would come out here, strut around, and then leave and never return. But he’d been here three days and he found me. He wasn’t a normal human being.

  I turned back around quickly and stared at the counter. I wanted to run out of the restaurant and get into my car and drive to the airport. To never come back here. I couldn’t imagine a worse punishment than rotting in a cell, or worse, having poison injected into my veins as the so-called victims’ families watched my life sputter away. I was beyond them, beyond their understanding of what human beings could be. And I would be brought lower than a dog.