Murder. Homicide. Annihilation. Massacre. Extermination. So many words exist to refer to bringing about the end. Our tongue is enchanted by the act of killing. Obsessed, I'd say. History from its dawn is marked with the shadow of death. Let's pull back the thick veil and take a look at humanity's first murder: Cain, boiling with jealousy, lifts a stone and strikes his brother Abel, ripping his life away. I imagine God's chosen one in a growing pool of blood. It brings color, a gloss to the already picturesque scene of fratricide.
Spell it with me: A-S-S-A-S-S-I-N-A-T-I-O-N. It's said the word comes from a community or military order of Muslim fanatics, called The Assassins (Haššāšīn). Dealing death was their trade and they did it so well that their name became the concept. A practice as old as the world deserves more than being stigmatized as evil. The art of dealing death is an honorable labor. To do it right requires effort, planning, nerves of steel, the dexterity to get away clean, and a dash of luck.
I encourage all of you to try it, or at least imagine doing it. Who would your victim be? An acquaintance or a stranger? What weapon would you use? The hammer or the dagger? Would you strike in broad daylight or shielded by the nocturnal cloak? Do you have your escape routes clear? Close your eyes, clasp your hands together and squeeze. Your fingertips sinking into the muscles of the neck. They try to breathe, but your palms deny them breath. Glassy eyes stare back at you. Your victim kicks beneath you. The soul slips out from under your fingernails. Keep pressing. Until their faces turn purple. Until their eyes pop.
The composition of a good murder demands more than imbeciles fighting over a woman with broken bottles. Or a dark alley, a switchblade, and a drunk looking for trouble. Let us spit on the homicides forgotten in prisons, or weekend crimes. Praise be to Charles Manson, who with his mind and voice stirred the barbarity of his lovers. Let us sing in honor of Jack the Ripper, who was never caught and never will be. Dorángel Vargas is my shepherd, and with Jeffrey Dahmer flesh shall never lack. Let us applaud the latest fashion from designer Ed Gein. Let us laugh with Pogo the Clown. Let us stroll alongside the Monster of the Andes over mountain ranges of children's ribs. And at the end of the day, exhausted, weary and splattered with mud, let us take a revitalizing soak in Countess Báthory's tub, accompanied by audiobooks softly narrated by Ed Kemper.
Design. Stage. Light and shadow. Fury or coldness. Domination and creativity. The poetry of death. Everything matters in an act of this caliber, or at least one worth remembering. Down with those who hire mercenaries or take the coward's route of noxious potions. Poisoners and anesthesiologists wrongly dubbed Angels of Death are pure shit compared to the classic throat-slitter.
Let's keep descending this spiral staircase. Let's plunge into the sprawling makeshift tribunals, sacrificial temples built by those who saw themselves as judges, juries, and executioners of their victims. Be it wife or husband. Lover or enemy. Neighbor or stranger. We can all be murdered. That includes you and me. Fascinating, isn't it?
Equally fascinating is the alternative of being the one who strikes.
You, future prey or hunter, don't bow your head if you're dealt the former. Face reality. It's better to fall as the sculpted masterpiece by the blinding hand of the one who assaults your life, than to perish bedridden, a victim of old age or sickness. The edge of a blade or the sturdy hammer are temporary evils and bearers of a mercy so great that the seeds of cancer or the flaying of time cannot compare.
Every murder has its nuances. Its own reds, primary and secondary reds. An infinity of ways to render the corpse, sprawled and freezing. Just like there are sculptures, paintings, movies, engravings, songs, video games, et cetera.
The mainstream audience settles for anything as long as it packs exaggerated gallons of wasted blood. The man of culture demands more than guts hanging from the curtains and gray matter splattered on the floors. As with all art, it is essential that homicide is studied and assimilated.
Wisconsin keeps its personal catalog of monsters. A moment ago I mentioned two: Ed Gein (1906 to 1984) and Jeffrey Dahmer (1960 to 1994). The first was a grave robber and later a killer, who enjoyed turning his victims into dresses, belts, bowls, and skin vests. His kill count was low (barely 2 women), but he made up for it with an exquisite eye for clothing and accessory design. The second, dubbed the Milwaukee Cannibal, bumped up the numbers (17 murders). He was a fanatic of male flesh, whose love for submission crossed the barriers of death and the region's culinary standard. Daniel regrets never meeting him; he resigns himself to fantasizing about sleeping with him and then being devoured by him.
There's an artist I must introduce, who besides being novel is the most recent in the police chronicles: Jeffrey Allen Woods, better known as Jeff the Killer. We stumbled upon his story in the local library, among old articles saved on the public computers. Reading that moniker is like a bell tolling in my head.
I heard Tiara's voice warning: Be careful when you come back from class, and If someone follows you, run to the police. The bodies Woods left behind haven't even merged with the earth yet.
"Yeah, I remember it more or less well," Daniel said, leaning in to read the headlines on the monitor. "He was active from 2001 to 2004. Word got around of people being murdered while they slept. More than a few got used to keeping a revolver under the pillow. Any pictures?"
I shook my head.
"How many people did he kill?"
"It doesn't specify," I said. "Look, I found an article talking about a survivor. It says it was the killer's first appearance."
I read it out loud:
June 3, 2001. Katie Robinson, 18, claims she survived an attack by a chilling figure. She bravely recounts the events.
"I had a bad dream and woke up in the middle of the night. It was very cold. I noticed that for some reason the window was open, even though I remember closing it before going to bed. I got up and locked it once more. Then I got under the covers and tried to go back to sleep. That's when I had a strange feeling, like I was being watched. I looked up and almost jumped. I could see them thanks to the light coming from the streetlamps. There was a pair of eyes. They weren't normal eyes, but dark, sinister. And his mouth... A smile so wide, so horrendous I almost fainted. He just stood there staring at me for a while. He never blinked and never stopped smiling. Finally, he spoke. He said something, a simple phrase, but said in a way that only a madman could."
Go to sleep…
"I screamed. Something gleamed and I realized he pulled out a knife. He lunged at my bed, but I fought back. I brought up my pillow and that's what shielded my heart. A lot of feathers flew out and I thought I was dreaming. But the fear was real and it forced me to my feet. In the chaos I ran to the door, but he immediately tackled me and got on top of me. His hands were... Freezing, so white. His breath reeked of alcohol, not liquor, but the kind doctors use. That's when my dad burst in. The man threw his knife and pierced my dad's arm. He probably would have killed us if a neighbor hadn't alerted the cops. Later I found out Mr. Florek said he saw someone suspicious crossing the roof of our house, which is why he called. We heard the sirens and the windows reflected the lights. The stranger yanked the knife out of my dad and bolted down the hall. I heard a noise, like glass shattering. I peeked out and saw that the window facing the back of my house had been broken. It was the last time I saw him. But I can promise you one thing: I will never forget that face, nor those eyes, nor that psychotic smile. I'm terrified to open my eyes and find him again in the middle of the night."
The search for the culprit is ongoing. If you see anyone fitting the description of the subject in this account, please contact your local police department.
I finished reading the article. There's a pencil sketch of the alleged killer, making him look more like a Halloween mask than a human being. Next to it is the photo of the "heroic" Katie Robinson.
"What a massive failure of a killer he must have been not to harpoon that whale," Daniel pointed at Katie's chubby face on the screen. "A pretty huge target, chasing her must have been like hunting two people tied together by one leg."
I searched for more news. We found three more victims, these guys actually ended up with their throats slit. We also read about the killer's conclusion at the hands of the current Police Captain: Edmund Hopkins. The story left us wanting more. Was this the culprit who terrorized the county for four years? Too much style and too little substance?
"He definitely killed more people," I stated, feeling it in my gut. "Information is missing. These are just the homicides credited to him. Maybe there were others, but they didn't have enough evidence to link him. It happens with some serial killers... I'd like to investigate more."
"We're talking about library archives and the local PD. Don't expect miracles."
We left the library and swung by the liquor store; I waited outside while Daniel handled the purchase. Then we ducked into the first dark alley we found.
"Any particular reason you're so interested in Jeff the fuckin' killer?" Daniel asked, handing me the vodka.
I tipped the bottle to my lips and then handed it back. I rested my head against the brick wall. I closed my eyes. The black-and-white sketch floated in front of me. I gave it depth, colored in the features, darkened the messy hair, brought red to his smile, and lined the eyes...
Unlike many humans with monster guts, Jeff is a monster inside and out. His expression is full of nuances, none of them good. I sighed.
"I think I'm in love..."
Daniel bursts out laughing. Shortly after, he shows me the knife he bought yesterday. Curved edge, silver, born for flesh.
Let's take a step forward and build our temple.