Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note: The L.A. BB Murder Cases. Nor do I own Dexter.
July 31, 2002.
Sun. I don't like sun. Shining so gloriously, untouchable by human hands, fat, burning ball of plasma confined within magnetic fields. Nothing holds The Sun together but magnetism. Same with humans. Magnets. Funny, how easily the magnetic pull binding the atoms of the human body together can be severed. And yet, no one has destroyed The Sun yet.
I'd like to destroy The Sun. In very much the manner I will destroy Him.
He is my magnetic field, binding me together, preventing me from falling apart, when all I really want is to fall. Crumble. Disassemble myself. Rip. Tear. Break.
B is for Breaking.
Heh, ain't that cliché?
But I'm not allowed to break right now, not when I'm so close. The Sun has been calling, calling to the Need. The Need is beautiful, loud, a symphonic harmony belting out its desires with the tone of a thousand voices. The Need cries from within, it laughs, an entity unto itself, it is its own. And it is mine. The me that was not me, yet purified my very soul, my existence. I could go so far as to say it was the reason for my existence. The Need. It called, echoed from the brightened recess of my mind, the portions of grey matter The Sun exposed. It was hungry, demanding to be fed, carefully slithering out of its neat little cage, ready, strong, delighted. The Need was cold, poised, and with it I waited in the basking glow of the Los Angeles Sun.
You can't hide from daylight.
I'd been watching the writer for two weeks now. The Need had tingled the moment I saw the man, highlighting him as the first, the one to which I would start. It displayed his life for me, or the two weeks that remained of it at least. Like a beacon, encouragement, not that I needed any. The Need singled the writer out to me. And for two weeks I fought against it, the augmenting Need, rising from within me like a tsunami, a wall of water overtaking the shore, raping, washing, and raping some more. Never receding, just moving further inland.
But I had to be careful. Murder was an investment, it took time. Time spent making sure all would go according to plan, work out the way I wanted it to. I needed to be sure that when I pushed that shiny red button the fireworks would explode exactly as I designed them to. I could not be caught. Not now. Now was too soon. Getting caught now would ruin the plan. And after all I'd done to orchestrate this, in the brilliant light of The Sun. Time needed to be spent not getting caught.
Plus, I was having too much fun to stop now. I hadn't even killed anyone yet.
So I was careful. Tidy. Forethought took practice, and it was something many hedonistic little buggers lacked, but I perfected it so that everything would be right. Ducks in a row. Puzzle pieces nestled all snug against each other in a complete image. Nothing wasted. Take the time and then take extra so that you knew it would be right. And when I left my hotel this morning, when I saw the writer on the street, I knew it was time.
This day was different. Today it would happen.
Today it would happen to Believe Bridesmaid.
The man was a freelance writer, not that I really cared about his profession. It was his name that enticed the Need. I simply answered the call. And really, it was a good call. No one wanted a man as anal as BB walking about town, especially a town like L.A. The man suffered from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and as a writer that simply wouldn't do. He lacked creativity. Ambitious? Yes. Creative, not so much. He was one of those people who stepped out into the air, salty and humid, inhaled the pollution, and thought nothing of his surroundings, how he paled in compassion to the universe. Stephen Crane would have pitied him. I was impartial.
I watched him, as I had done for so many days, from inside his own car. Scary how that worked. I watched as he laughed cordially, speaking with his agent and an editor from some stuffy publishing house. They stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, a trinity of self absorption blocking the way for all other pedestrians. Not that they were any more courteous. Don't listen to your mothers kiddies, manners matter not.
They stood talking for several minutes, as they did every day. Their lips moved, and yet no sound came out. At least no worthy sound was emitted from the three men's holes. But they were smiling, easygoing, calm and good natured. I was smiling to, but in a very different manner and for a very different reason.
Excitement. Animalistic. Predatory. The grin on my face revealed my teeth, and the incisors glinted maliciously, or at least I like to think they did. My mouth watered for the blood about to be spilt, and it was lovely, comforting to see the man about to die smile. So many people, trying to act humane, fit in, assemble to the vague notion of human decency. BB was one of them, and that meant slaying him would be a struggle. Because he, like every other disturbed individual on the planet, enjoyed life.
I licked my lips.
He started towards his car, waving casually back at his colleagues who set off in the opposite direction. The hemp scratched comfortably against my fingers and I felt that it too was feeling the anticipation of the moment. I crouched down, peering at my prey through the thin gap of space between the back of the driver's seat and its headrest. He was so blithely unaware of the fact that I was there. The notion never even entered his mind that someone would break into his car, hide in the back seat, and just wait. Patience was a virtue I was blessed with, I'd been sitting there for three hours. He never suspected that.
But really, who could blame him? Not everyone has the talent to play hide and go seek as well as I do.
I took a breath as he punched a button on his car keys and the locks popped open. Lucky me no one had to physically fit a key into their car door anymore, if he had he would've seen me and then the planning would've been for naught. But things like inserting keys into locks, as traditional as they may be, took too much time, the seconds it took to do so couldn't be wasted. BB's rush, his efficiency, it would be his downfall.
The car door opened and I released my breath as the stale air of the car, having been sitting in the sunlight for hours, vacated the automobile and something chiller swept in. That chilly thing and I, we said hi, introduced ourselves. BB sat down, shut the door, locked himself inside with the beast, turned the engine of his shiny BMW over, and I struck.
It was a Kodak moment.
I moved forward roughly, pressing my body against the back of the driver's seat, noiselessly slipping the rope around his neck. My wrists snapped back flawlessly, the motion not even straining, and the chord tightened against Believe Bridesmaid's neck. Panic, focused through the mind with the wondrous aid of adrenaline, and he was still. No one saw it happen. And even if they had it wouldn't have mattered. City people were more in tune with their inner Need, their own animalistic nature, than those who spent hours caring for pigs on a farm. Survival of the fittest. No one would have saved him, such wasn't a part of a human's genetic composition. So I coiled that noose around his pretty little neck, and he submitted.
Good boy. My grin widened.
"Believe Bridesmaid," I whispered into the man's ear, and if it was possible, he got stiller. The Need laughed, but I withheld my own glee. Wouldn't do to come off looking psychotic now would it?
"You have become victim number one," I said clearly, letting the words sink into his mind. Not that he had any hope of truly comprehending them. The realization that he was about to die wouldn't set in until three seconds before I rendered him unconscious. Fear had a habit of putting people in rather deep graves of denial, keeping them from recognizing that the dead body in that hole with them was actually their own.
"Now, BB, do exactly as I say," I purred gently into his ear.
He gasped for air, not that I'd left much room for him to consume any, just enough to survive. Wide eyes, drunk with terror, fluttered to the review mirror and met mine for the first time. Only mine were obscured behind dark silk, a handmade ski mask. Polyester tended to chafe against my neck. He couldn't see me, and that was a shame because I had such beautiful eyelashes. Always felt they were my best feature.
A single nod reflected towards me in the mirror and I smiled gently. All according to plan. But for good measure I pulled on the noose. BB tensed and his head faced the windshield. Hands leapt to the three and nine o'clock positions on the steering wheel. Wonderful man was reading my mind!
I pecked him on the cheek, good behavior yielded rewards. "Now drive."
Hacking coughs filled the cramped space as he attempted to bring more air into his lungs. I loosened the grip of the rope on his throat and he put the car in gear, foot on the gas, car driving down the wrong side of the street, road trip.
The streets of Hollywood were paved with trash, and one would think, for such an area with a reputation of plastic perfection, the city could afford a better sanitation system. I'd seen cleaner cities. London, for example. But then again, it rained a lot in London, trash got washed away. Southern California, not so much.
I told BB to drive home, fastest route possible. And surprisingly, he did. Self preservation kept the man from taking a detour into the ocean and drowning us both, which is what I would have done in his position. But he was a well behaved victim.
BB lived alone, otherwise this would have been much harder to accomplish. And for that reason, that he was a bachelor, I found his house to be a little too large. But in L.A. gluttony wasn't a sin, merely a sign of financial standing. The man lived in carefully ordered extravagance, paid for by his toneless job clacking away on computer keys. Writers didn't physically write anymore, from now on I'd call BB's profession typing. He was a typist, and it fronted the paycheck for one very large, two car garage. I couldn't wait to see the man's entertainment system.
BB's eyes were on me in the review mirror again, the panic bubbling to the surface. I respected his ability to have bottled it down so long, but now it seemed he was ready to release it like a mento in diet coke.
"Turn off the car, BB," I instructed placidly. He did so.
I removed the line of hemp from around his neck, revealing a cheerful mark of red with little buds of purple framing it around his neck.
"Shall we go in?" I asked. It was an order, not a question. BB sensed that, understood, and he complied easily.
Two weeks of watching the exterior of the house and now I was being let inside. We exited the car at the same time. I believe he figured I'd chase him down if he ran away, but the truth was I wouldn't. We were in broad daylight and I was wearing a ski mask. At the most I could only hope the neighbors who were spying on us would think BB a sexual deviant. At the least… they'd only call the police if there were screams. We walked, hand in hand because I wanted to hold on to him, assure him I wasn't just a nightmare but a very real human being with very real Needs. His hands trembled as he inserted the key into the deadbolt lock of his front door. At the sound of the click, lock releasing and granting entrance, ideas formed in my head, creative juices flowing wildly through my mind as the murder started to fall into place.
Like any good piece of art, it required a plan of action. One could not just fling pain at a white canvas and claim abstraction, no matter how much he fancied himself a misunderstood Picasso. My paint was blood, my canvas the human body, my art was murder. Murder for a reason, a purpose. Murder to win. It mattered. All it took was a carefully executed plan. And one of those I had.
"Show me your bedroom."
Tears were leaking from BB's tear ducts now, signs of panic and fear unraveling and giving way to something much more potent. The Realization. The Need enjoyed it immensely, me playing the part to a T, conforming to the role of sadistic villain when really I was nothing more than a vindictive asshole. The excitement was mounting and the moment we entered BB's bedroom it was paramount. The chorus had swelled, the applause was at the tips of the audience's fingers, the Need was banging against the walls. And I knew BB could feel it too.
I removed the ski cap from my head, allowing BB to see me, to see what was about to happen, and it only made him cry harder. The whispered panting, irreconcilable sobbing, I smirked down at him as he fell to his knees and proceeded to beg for his life. Battered. Broken. Torn. Wasted. He was everything I longed to become, what the Need needed me to become. But not just yet.
Wait. I needed to wait.
"…" It went on, a mantra of desolation because I would not answer. The cold dark part of me, the one that shied from The Sun, that may have said something had it been nighttime. But in the daylight hours I was nothing if not agreeable.
I took a step towards him. The action made him scream.
"NO! NONONONONONONO!" At least he was trying to shout, straining himself to do so. But his vocal chords were damaged, slightly collapsed, it prevented the proper amount of sound to be made inside his throat and instead he gurgled. Panted. Gasped. Writhed. Pleaded. And gasped some more.
It lavished my insides, the way his tears saturated the carpeting. His blood would do so too, probably, but I would be cleaning that up later. Instead I just stared, halo of red ticking down above him, waiting for The Zero Moment. The moment when I could, and would be able to use him, tip over the first of many dominos and watch them fall without end. We were so close now, he and I, staring unabashedly at each other. Almost like becoming one person, him understanding my Need, and me just understanding that he understood. His whimpers faded away as I stared at him happily. That was all it took to silence the dying.
Even if it was fake.
The countdown neared the last digit, the Need wiggling in my mind, my fingers fumbling with the syringe in my pocket.
I slammed the needle into his neck, the drug, lightly yellow, disappearing, veins slurping up the chemical and distributing it throughout his body. He thrashed, tried to fight, to hit, run, but there was nothing. The drug owned him now. I owned him now. BB fell limply over. Crying done, eyes shut tight.
The rope slid once more around his neck and my wrist made the same, practiced flick, jerking the string back to tighten around his neck. The noose cut into his flesh, imprinting itself into his skin. It didn't take life vary long to vacate the body.
I released my hold and the Need buckled down, satisfied at the state of its newly formed corpse. But the fun was only just beginning.
I stripped BB down to his birthday suit. His nakedness didn't disturb me; after all, you couldn't have sex with a corpse so there was no need to feel shy. Nothing was going to happen. Other people, however, I suspected would make some nasty comments about the state I would be leaving BB in. But that's just the way people are. Folding his clothes neatly I set them off to the side and hoisted BB onto the bed. For a forty year old man he was in rather good shape, thus it wasn't that difficult of a chore.
I left him there, on the bed, on his back, eternal slumber. Venturing into the kitchen, a man in good health was bound to have a set of nice knives. Would be embarrassing if he were a vegetarian. My assessment proved correct as I pulled open a drawer and extracted a rather stunning blade. Designed to cut through bone. Sadly, that purpose would not be served today, all that was necessary now was a sharp, precise tip, which all knives boasted. It would serve my purposes nicely. The handle was shaped to perfectly accommodate the human grip, the blade roughly half the length of my forearm. Short enough to handle with ease, long enough to move with grace and precision.
Nodding to myself I walked back down the hallway towards BB, who was still lying on the bed, facing the ceiling. Not that I had expected him to move any. That would have been creepy.
I stood at the foot of the bed for a moment, assessing BB's body, mapping the contours of the man's lithe, smooth chest. It was hairless, which I found a little odd, but not by much. The Need burst suddenly, igniting within my mind, urging me to hurry up. We were on a tight schedule and the Need wanted release. I did too.
I wanted to play.
Carefully I climbed atop the massive bed placed at the center of the room. It was one of the few pieces of furniture in the room, sitting aside bookshelves filled with meaningless drivel. No worry there though, the drivel would soon be given meaning. Crawling over BB, I straddled his waist and laid out over the surface of his body. It was still warm. I could feel the remaining heat of his cells, the last ones that had yet to cease dividing, giving off energy through my skin tight shirt. Loose clothing wasn't exactly practical for killing sprees.
Settling down I brought myself eye level to the flesh of his chest. It smelled expensive. Well off man, needed to get laid. I brought the tip of the blade down upon the flesh, rotting slowly before my eyes but not yet stinking, I would be gone before putrefaction really got rolling. The police wouldn't be so lucky. Pressure, I eased into the cut, cleanly separating the flesh down the middle, carving with unshaken hands. Steady. Poised. Direct. Perfect. The cut ran across BB's chest, the beginnings of a message with a single meaning.
Deep enough to be noticed, scab over, itch. But there wasn't going to be a lot of blood. BB was already dead. There was no need for blood. Mutilation was sufficient enough. The blood from that would be insignificant, sparkling. Not messy. And I slashed.
The movement grew in pace as I grew in confidence, my unadulterated joy at moving my arm against BB's body in a carefully noted pattern growing with it. This was my happy place. The blood didn't spatter, even when freshly dead the blood seemed to sense it no longer needed to work, to pump as hard, transport oxygen. Tension I was unaware of loosened, melting down my muscles like hot honey. It sent shivers of pure orgasm through my body. I couldn't help it, the compulsion, a need separate from the Need. This desire came from the dark place, the place I tried not to let the Sunlight touch. I drew my left index finger along the blossoming blood, moving through the veins and deadened tissue and licking at the air. It stained my finger pad lightly pink and I could not help but to take a taste. Like sneaking a dab of frosting off a prohibited cake, it was divine. It was dead life. And my slashing continued, a series of lines crisscrossing over the flesh, under my gaze, by my hand, red, bold, clean, perfect.
Therapeutic. Fire your shrink and go out and kill a man, that's the best therapy, cheaper too. It was a sweet release and the Need loved it oh so much. Satisfying. Necessary. I enjoyed my work, my art. And soon life would imitate art.
I was so envious of BB.
But my time would come. Soon.
Things had to be executed properly, in the right order, at the right time. Perhaps complicated, yes, but quite necessary. Required for the voices, the chorus of my Need, to decrescendo into a gentle hum, my happy, daily tune.
And I needed to make it clean. Don't think I can stress that enough, even to my own head.
Neatness takes time, more so than planning. It keeps the Need sated long enough for the next kill to be found, devised. Kept the thousand ringing voices of the Need down low, buried deep where only I could hear them if I strained my ears to listen. Worthwhile endeavor, cleaning, neatness, it was worth it to do things the right way. The wrong way was too simple. Too straightforward. Too easy for The Sun to see. Neatness inspired confusion.
I thrived on that.
There were five hours before I needed to leave, go back to my hotel and begin plotting the next round. It gave me just enough time to put everything in order.
I went back outside, the clump of bushes I'd been hiding in for the past two weeks, watching BB through the cute, little club shaped leaves. If one does not wish to be stalked without their knowledge one should keep a barren lawn. It's amazing, what was hiding in the bushes right outside your front door. Like my toolkit. Toy box. And it was about to be emptied. I'd make a new one for every murder.
The duffle bag slung over my shoulder I went back to the room and removed a silk pouch, oriental, but made by me. I liked sewing. That was also therapeutic. Inside were four little dolls, roughly the size of my hand. And strapped around the neck of each doll, secured with a rubber band, was a thin nail. Tidy packaged. Ensured I forgot nothing. But it was not yet time for that.
From the bag I also produced a towel and spray bottle of homemade cleaning solution. Police thought blood was impossible to permanently remove from a surface, any surface. My genius mind knew otherwise. So I got down and dirty in order to make the room clean, lemon fresh. Except my solution smelled more like lime.
I cleaned everything in the house. Every surface, under every surface. Mouse hole, crevice of wood, shard of glass, hair on the toothbrush. I cleaned everything. Wiped it all down. Fastidious. Meticulous. Scrupulous. I needed to be careful. I even unscrewed the light bulbs and whipped the sockets. Nothing would be left behind to point back to me aside from what I left for the Sun to shine on. And shine it did, through the triple paned windows designed to insulate and conserve energy, UV rays pierced through the windows and onto the newly sanitized furniture pieces, expanses of floor. The house glowed unnaturally, like a hospital. Too clean, which meant it was just right, save for the bedroom, which I had left for last.
My shoes were already covered in booties, and I'd clean my path once more before I left. I made my way back to the bedroom and towards the bookshelf. BB had a rather interesting selection of Manga, one series I was actually familiar with, though not by choice. Akazukin Chacha.
Love. Courage. Hope. Holy Up! It was slightly ridiculous.
But I took volumes four and nine and placed them in my duffle back before smiling down at my four lovelies which were set out beside it. Had I been feeling whimsical I might have named them, and they'd all be female. Dolls weren't male. Action figures were. But naming the Wara Ningyo might have made nailing them to the walls and leaving them behind difficult. Like everything else they served a purpose, and that was to lie against each wall of the bedroom, directly at the height of the door handle. Or more specifically the lock in the door.
That was important.
Confusion. Intrigue. The Sun sparkled in those conditions.
Gently, I hammered the Wara Ningyo into the center of each wall, patting each one on the head fondly. Finished, I wiped the room, twice for good measure, and then strung a string around two of my Wara Ningyo. That was all it took, that was where my genius lay. After that the string looped through the thumb turn lock, another necessity. No, I wasn't arrogant, just proud. This would work. And with that I left the room, string threading through the inch of space beneath the bedroom door and into my hand.
I pulled the string, the lock turned.
One down, two to go…
…And then there was B.
A/N: So what do you think of my newest plot bunny?
Ain't he cute?