Alchemy of a Psychopath: Journal One: Never One, Without the Other

By Blake Harper

For the reader who thrives on suspense and uncertainty, this story will test your own ability to analyze what is fact and what isn't. As this tale unfolds through the eyes of Jake Anderson, you will understand the sort of struggle he's going through when he agrees to take part in a very interesting relationship. It's a partnership built on lies, manipulation, wit, and psychopathy. Just as the unlikely pair in this story proceed to work with each other towards mutual gain, they are just the same working against one another. Through it all, Jake must rely on his own abilities as he understands quite clearly that no one can be trusted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543973297

Book preview

cover.jpg

Alchemy of a Psychopath

Copyright © 2019 by Blake Harper

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN (Hardcover): 978-1-54397-328-0

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-54397-329-7

Contents

Robert Peel, Jr.

An Interesting Relationship

Moving Forward

Artful Deception

The Reason Behind Decisions, Understanding Inspiration

The Beauty of Chance

Everyone Has Secrets

The Worst Kind of Enemy

Simple Solutions to Complex Problems

Atonement for Sin

Empathy

One Step Closer

Reunited in Memory

Not in the Way, But in the Middle

Ambition May Have No Limit

An Uncomfortable Situation to Come

The Patriarch

Against a Giant, But Not Alone

History Speaks Painful Truths, Influencing the Future

The True Nature of Being Human

The Way of the World

Means to an End

According to Script and Almost to Plan

How Did it Come to This?

Completion of a Long Journey

Severing Family Ties

The Thrill of the Game

The End?

Entry I

Robert Peel, Jr.

I am going to be honest and genuine with you. I feel it’s the only way to tell you this story. With bloodstained hands I begin to write down the multitude of thoughts swirling in my mind, as if afraid they would escape me if I were to rest tonight. My mind has been lingering on the most recent turn of events which led to the passing of someone whom I thought loyal. It was at the conclusion of this affair that sparked a sudden passion to make the intangible, tangible. A story, which left alone, is real only in thought and memory for those that experience it. For those who hear it second hand it remains just a superficial tale. By putting these words on paper and transforming it to something physical, only then can a story better connect to a reader and feel like a reality.

This tale isn’t about me per se but more of two very like-minded individuals with a shared understanding. I will divulge parts of myself and of my past in order for you to get a clear picture and understanding of what I’m about to tell you. This story is mainly about Robert Peel, Jr. a most extraordinary and frightening individual, and most will never know him for what he truly was.

It will begin during the fall season of 1849 in the middle of the Victorian Era in Great Britain.

My name is Jake Anderson and I was the unexpected child of my mother and father, a product of a night of drinking and high felt emotions. Being a child void of siblings, I grew up in a good enough home as can be expected within the lower-part of London. Though my coming into this world came as a surprise I wasn’t unwelcomed. To my two dedicated loving parents, I was the focus and joy of their lives.

I was a normal child in the sense that I had friends, helped my father with the business, and did the sort of things any typical child would. I was fortunate enough in my station to attain some bit of informal education for what could be afforded living in poverty-stricken Whitechapel, London. Whitechapel was my home and where I would wish to remain for the rest of my days. I was normal, except for this one part of me. There was this one thing I kept secret and sacred from everyone else. It was a gradual sensation that only intensified as I developed in to adulthood, and by then it became an addiction. Eventually I reached the point where whatever I did barely sated my thirst and then I knew I was anything but normal. I knew I was an abomination to the world and if my psychosis was known, I would be dealt with in the swiftest of manners.

My memory fails me and I can’t recall when this occurred but at some point in my turmoil I asked myself this dangerous question, ‘What if going over the edge gave me even more satisfaction?’ And like any normal human living on this Earth, the curiosity took over. It was worth the risk I took to indulge further into my habit. As protective as any parent should be, there was simply no protection against the kinds of influences that are loose in the world. Certainly, no protection against the demons that lie within everyone. Believe me, everyone has something lurking deep within, begging to be let loose.

Since I could remember, I was fascinated and mesmerized seeing my father slice through the flesh, meat, and tendon of the products brought in, it was an art. I was overjoyed when he asked if I wanted to give it a go. Soon I was practicing with different techniques, testing my abilities on speed and accuracy. I remember my father being so proud that I had taken to such a liking at his profession, but he strongly mistook my intent. In an uncommon way I was aroused in the act, it gave me an erotic sense of control, dominance, accomplishment, and awe.

I mentioned the family business. You can safely deduce my father was a butcher by trade who owned and ran a rather small but functioning shop. Often when not engaged with educations I would spend the time to understand the trade. My sweet father was always grateful for the distribution of labor when I arrived. But to my avail I would find myself steering away from my studies and friends to make my way to the shop. It wasn’t to aid my father specifically, but to fascinate myself with cutting up the carcasses for distribution. To add to the fire, we would visit the nearby slaughterhouse where I could witness the dissections of the poor beasts brought in. Seeing them die and hearing their last breaths fade away astonished me. To this, sparked my dark obsession and the catalyst for how I would come to meet someone far more intelligent, brilliant, and frightening than I in the future.

Sometime after my adolescence, unexpectedly my obsession exploded to a new realm of excitement, wonder, and anxiety. It started with a fellow classmate, a young attractive girl who I fancied very much so. I quickly came to the understanding that fairy tales turned out to be quite untrue as she rejected my advances. They always conclude with the prince winning over the princess and the two of them living happily ever after. While I thought of myself as the prince in this scenario, the shattering feeling of betrayal left me only to dream about her. However, in my case, I dreamt a dark fantasy. One side of me kept thinking, I’d like to get to know her better. The other side wonders how her head would look on a silver platter.

Needless to say and avoiding the finer details of the matter, I approached her in a secluded area after having such a sweet dream of her the night before. It was an ecstatic dream of murder and fulfillment and I simply had to make it a reality. I remember a trembling sensation come over me and then, I couldn’t contain myself. I remember everything in vivid memory about that day, what I did, how I did it, and when the screams were silent, that I wanted to do it again. I had to make my dream real and the more she screamed and fought the more I was urged on and sure of what I was doing.

She was so light when I carried her to the shop that night. Typically, the butcher shop would receive product from the slaughterhouse and repackage it for sale. Fortunately for me during this particular time, my father decided to diversify his business practice to include slaughtering animals but on a smaller scale. This only added to the already present stench of the shop. A stench accompanied by an increasing population of flies gorging themselves on the hanging flesh, meat, and around the abundance of blood on the walls and floor. With the new tools readily available and required to conduct a slaughter, I was able to proceed. In the basement where we worked, I drained the body of blood as I was taught and hurried as to not let the meat spoil. This would be my first human experiment.

There’s something of importance that I must note here. When this type of sensation courses through me, I know what’s about to happen but there is no way of stopping. There is a terrible need to quench these raw feelings and emotions, and it takes utter control of my senses. Until the episode is over, I am along for the experience. The only thing I will say with regard to this type of experience, murdering an innocent, is the amount of adrenaline and ecstasy that’s flowing through you. The tension that had built up within me was so great over the years that when I finally did it, a wave of relief came crashing down. But I warn, the after effects will drive the heart to complete sorrow and despair. How was I capable of doing such a horrid thing? At that moment when my work was done I couldn’t believe it, yet I knew I would do it again.

I finally found out if the risk was worth the reward, if going over the edge gave me more satisfaction. The results frightened me, but I knew I could never go back. I had to own who I was.

I was well established as the owner of my shop, the Anderson Family Butcher as it is known, when Robert Peel, Jr. and myself were acquainted. Bless my father, who passed from unexplainable circumstances, left the business in my care naturally. It wasn’t particularly because of my trade how Robert and I came to know one another. He was after something else.

Robert was interested in my vast network of information sources and traffic I had established within the metropolis of London. This will be one of the focal points throughout this story as it helps drive events to come. As we move further in later entries I will explain in more detail about this side of me, so you understand where and how it comes in to play. Kept from general public awareness I, for lack of a better term, gathered, sold, and dealt in information. Whatever was going on in this gargantuan of a city I knew about it, sometimes even before it happened. I kept a conscious effort to stay away from the spotlight and avoid attention. His due diligence pointed him in my direction while the specificity of his methods remain a mystery to me.

This information business wasn’t a mere hobby, far from it. In the beginning it was an effort to ensure the authorities never suspected me of doing heinous crimes. To procrastinate any possible appointment with the gallows I had to stay several steps ahead of all relevant factors. I quickly saw its potential for the future and how I could virtually maintain control of not only my life but of others as well. Power over people through such a subtle control mechanism as information would make me someone of relevance.

On one chance morning as I was just opening the butcher shop for the day, I heard the bell above the entrance door ring rather earlier than usual. Usually I’m there to open before any of my employees arrive but I figured it was either my book keeper or assistant clerk arriving sooner than expected. When I heard the footsteps stop short at the front counter it could only be an early customer.

Be right with you, I spoke aloud to the would-be customer. At the time I was occupying myself with organizing the shelves from a storage room in the back. No reply, as can be expected. But what followed will be forever with me until I lay in the Earth. I heard a rather chill tune which forced me to cease what I was doing:

"All asleep amidst the night,

Darkest eyes in silent breeze,

Lie still, Lie silent,

Shut thine eyes."

A strange tune for sure and I waited a moment longer as he repeated the lyrics. When I came around the back of my shop to the counter, the man, being of common dress but not of common groom greeted me. A rather handsome individual with piercing blue eyes and wavy brown hair, he met me with a smile, a smile that had purpose behind it, as if proud of himself for just achieving something. I’ve seen it before many times. It was the type of smile one gives when the whole world is your playground and no matter what you do, none will ever know your horror. I’ve seen this smile staring back at me in a mirror countless times and that feeling is simply priceless. This gentleman was not common to this area, easy enough to deduce, but his motive for being in this part of London intrigued me.

I paid it not much mind however, and before I could offer my services or speak anything he began speaking, Mademoiselle Bordeleau is no longer in your service. Apologies, she’ll be dead soon.

He then proceeded to take off his glove, extend his hand, and introduce himself, Robert Peel, Jr.

I admit I was taken back. I wasn’t sure if I was more surprised by his charm or by what I just heard and such coming from a complete stranger. One of my top informants, Mademoiselle Bordelau, no longer employed by me? He had me on my heels, at the moment, but I had no choice except to try and understand what was transpiring.

Jake Anderson, I said grasping his hand, studying him.

I think you and I, he started, have a few things to discuss.

A discussion, and a rather early one, is indeed needed.

Before we begin, I must say, you should rather do something about that poor sod peddling out front your door, he does make the entrance smell.

It’s a change in scent over the smell in here from time to time, though neither pleasant, I replied.

I locked the front door to the shop and put up the Closed sign as this morning would turn out to be very interesting for me. I dismissed the possibility of upsetting some early customers as this quickly took precedence. Especially when it involves one of my more closely guarded employees.

I began speaking first, trying to gain some ground as I sensed a sudden battle of wits:

"You obviously know that Mademoiselle Bordeleau and myself are aquatinted and have been for some time now, no denying this to you. But where and how you obtained this knowledge is beyond reach of me, and the forwardness of your claim at the sudden expiration of her employment is rather difficult to believe, as I did not release her. You seem an ordinary fellow of London yet your speech and manners are that not of the common folk, someone educated. But you knew that divulging your name to me, especially one as well-known as Peel, would give away who you truly are. Quite frankly, it appears you know quite a bit about myself to know of those under my employment. It matters not to you if I know who you are, Sir Robert Peel.

Robert shot me a grin and acknowledging nod. I motioned for Robert to follow me to the back office where we would discuss more in private.

Sir, I began once we entered the room, but he raised his hand stopping me short.

Robert will do Jake, thank you. I don’t want this potential relationship to start off as us being, unequal. On the contrary, we are more alike than you might think.

How so? I asked sitting myself down and wondering what he was reaching for.

He sat himself down across from me at the table and explained:

Forgive me but allow me to start with a bit of recent history. Last year, Spring I recall, there was a disappearance of a woman by the name of Abigail Connolly. She was reported to be last seen at Victoria Park. You’ve read the papers I presume? Authorities found the girl in a barn just outside of London hung on a meat hook, her pretty little butchered parts were scattered around the scene, in an eerie organized fashion. Scotland Yard and all its finest never apprehended the murderer, or even had a suspect for that matter.

I remember the sad story, though no one ever reported anything about ‘butchered’ parts lying about, I said, Shame Scotland Yard didn’t find out who had done it.

Shame indeed, Robert trailed off smirking, I had the privilege of reviewing the autopsy report and body. It was an intimate examination, I do believe I have the works of an inspector in me. I found it interesting the precision of the severed body parts, going straight through the muscle, no bones nicked by the blade.

Must have had quite the skill, as it seems I replied, Someone so awful should be caught. But I fail to understand how this story links you and I together. Please enlighten me more, but before you do, allow me to illustrate further towards this fact you’ve found interesting. You separate the joints altogether, the arms and legs, after stripping them naked of course. The clothing tends to get in the way. That would explain why the blade didn’t connect to bone.

His suspicions towards the murderer of Abigail Connolly were accurate and I remember her, as I do them all, very vividly. Robert was toying with me and in some way either proving the credibility of his character or seeking to bestow dominance over me with this information. I had to reply, and I couldn’t help but have my own bit of fun.

He chuckled and continued:

Around Christmas, again last year, there was a carnival at the docks, wonderful thing it was. One sailor attending reported to the police that he had found the body of a young girl, Elizabeth Williams I think it was, in one of the boat storage sheds. Can you guess the way in which they found her? Hung on a make shift hook, head laying on the floor at her feet. It was a clean sever the autopsy report said.

Such a tragedy, I said sarcastically, I wonder if this was the same person who saw to Abigail Connolly?

One can only speculate, Robert replied looking straight at me.

Makes you wonder why people do it, I said, but again, I don’t see how any of this pertains to me specifically.

Only the most extraordinary souls act upon the demons that lie within, and ironically, they’re very particular in their execution, Robert said as a matter of fact.

Humans are creatures of habits, I said coldly.

He continued, chuckling again:

Ah yes and there was a Miss Jane Bakely, a fine woman visiting from America. She frequented a popular bakery on 10th Street delighting over the honey glazed rolls. From there a quick stroll through town with her aunt. After visiting the gardens, they broke for lunch where she savored a peculiar grape brandy at the restaurant, one I would try myself. She shared drinks with a certain gentleman in the Ten Bells Pub and was raped and murdered that night after the gentleman walked her safely to her hotel room. Her aunt filed a missing person’s report some days later when things with her niece went quiet, but she was never found. When the police checked room 307 it was clean and empty.

Funny, I said shifting in my seat slightly at his obvious confession, I never recalled much commotion about this one.

Scotland Yard won’t report to the public what they never find or ever truthfully knew about, Robert replied bluntly, Something as small as a missing person’s report regarding a foreigner wouldn’t be brought to extreme public attention. If an autopsy report were ever to be conducted on the body, it would state the cause of death as: neck sliced clean open.

I smiled. He was confessing to me and it took me a bit by surprise, but I knew what he was ultimately getting at. Every relationship requires some common foundation as a basis to start. He knew who murdered the first two women mentioned and he was looking right at him. But Robert wasn’t a simple murderer. There was something more intrinsic, something much more going on underneath. You could tell by looking at him that his mind was constantly at work. I could sense he valued himself well above a simple criminal. I saw myself in his eyes. I saw his psychopathy.

The games of the mind are brilliant indeed and worthwhile, especially against a worthy opponent. We were sizing each other up, gaining some unsaid knowledge as to the current state of mind given the information being presented. Much is understood by not being said at all. It’s what men like us do, finding any sort of leverage against the one across from us to use when the opportune moment presents itself, now or later.

They were after all, very, very pretty, I said after a bit of silence, But I had my reasons.

Robert leaned closer in and for some reason, his whole demeanor shifted, very, very darkly.

They usually are, he said maintaining eye contact, makes for more beautiful poetry, beautiful tragedy, and most cherished memory. It’s not about violence or lust. It’s about possession, passion, and being God.

The more important question remains, I said leaning in as well, what truly brings you here this morning? A straight answer, to the point will suffice.

Robert replied, A straight answer, now where’s the fun in that Jake?

Quickly and suddenly this wasn’t the same man who introduced himself just a few moments ago. No, I know this shift, I’ve experienced this shift.

He stood up from his seat and withdrew a piece of parchment from his pocket. On the paper was a map of the entire lower city of London that stretch to and along the Thames River. At various locations, numbers were drawn over them. Robert, seeing my confusion, explained:

In order for me to properly explain why I came to you this morning, I’ll need to show you as well. On this map are key locations, please have these noted in memory for I will be the only one who possesses this map. Meetings at these locations indicate that upmost secrecy is needed. When I require such a meeting with you, a letter will find you in some form or fashion and it will have a number etched on it. The number on the letter will correspond with the locations on this map. You will never see me deliver this to you. If I request a meeting it will be at the denoted location at precisely midnight. If you do not show five past midnight, I will depart. I am choosing this method of communication for discretionary purposes.

After giving me a brief moment to memorize the locations on the map, Robert folded it and tucked it away. He proceeded to leave the shop but before departing he turned back to me and said, I’ll contact you in good time, but I do understand if you do not show. You have something established within London that would be most useful to me. I’m sure you’re wondering how this partnership could be useful to you, and this I’ll explain at a later time. I do hope your intellect is as good as I think it is because you will not see this map again. Let’s just say it’s another test for assurance.

There’s still the matter of choice, I replied smiling.

I pray you make the intelligent one, Robert said turning away.

Your real name isn’t Robert, I began before he exited the front door, but I will continue to address you as so. Sir Robert Peel, your father and Prime Minister of Great Britain for two terms, did name a son after himself but that son is currently serving abroad as a diplomat. He also had several other children of which I’m sure you’re familiar. I have no doubt you are Sir Robert Peel’s son but I’ve no recollection of your existence. I know you will not divulge your true name to me because at the heart of it all we do not fully trust each other. You introduced yourself with a false name and I neither confirmed nor denied your deductions regarding past events pertaining to two distinct women. Yet, you knew approaching me this morning I would not or ever trust you completely, Robert, and you would never expect such recklessness. Men such as you and I never trust anyone. I feel you would be disappointed if I had even the slightest inclination. Shall we try at this adventure?

Very good Jake, he responded, It wasn’t difficult to gather this information I’m sure. With the reformation of our most pristine justice system, thanks to my father, our family name went quite public. But I did enjoy listening to how well you involved yourself with the more not so public aspects of my family. Wait for my call, and you should really do something about this man out here. I guess it may be hard sometimes, choosing the right watch dog.

With that, he took his leave.

Entry II

An Interesting Relationship

After taking a moment to ensure Robert was well on his way, immediately I sent some men to find Mademoiselle Bordeleau. They searched her home, business, and known spots she frequented, but the report I received was she, and her children, were nowhere to be found. Her own employees said she didn’t come to work at all today nor did they receive any messages from her. She simply vanished.

I wouldn’t exhaust any more resources to finding her but instead chose to side with patience. Robert, without a doubt, is the one steering this boat. My decision to let this situation unfold in his hands isn’t normal to my character. However little I trusted him, the entirety of what he presented to me this morning was too sudden. I found myself in a position rather unfamiliar to me, I had little information that afforded me to make a proper decision on how I should best react. To my logic it was best to currently do nothing.

I reopened the shop soon after Robert’s visit. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t slightly distracted throughout the day, replaying the meeting over and over again in my mind. I must commend Robert for his brilliant performance, I couldn’t help but feel intrigued. There are very few times where I would get hung up on a memory, but nevertheless I’m reminded that I have two businesses to keep going, customers to keep happy, and seen and unseen employees to keep fed.

That misty night, as I was locking up the shop, I noticed a man with his eyes on me. Leaning casually against a lamppost he puffed away at a cigar, not caring in the slightest. The street was practically vacant of anyone else save a few bystanders heading home themselves. I acknowledged his presence with a slight nod, to which he replied with a tip of his hat. I walked home and the man brazenly followed, as if the day wasn’t eventful enough. Folk in these parts know me by reputation and rumor and typically steer clear. It’s unusual when some nosy individual starts prying in to my business.

I took my traditional route home, with my mystery man trailing close. I passed the peddler who located himself near the front of my establishment. I tossed him a few coins, with a contemptuous now piss off to go with it. He gave a low irritating grunt and scampered to the nearby alley. I arrived home shortly after. To no surprise the fellow kept pace and remained undeterred. However, I wasn’t in the slightest hurry to lose him. His boldness intrigued me.

Do come in inspector, I said into the darkness, leaving the door open for my guest.

The man stepped in to the living room. I was already sitting in my chair in front of the unlit fireplace when he came in, the only light came from a few lit candles. Inspector Oliver Robinson, how may I be of service? I called out, citing him by name hoping to catch him off guard with my knowledge.

You knew it was me all along? he asked with a hint of shock in his voice.

Of course. The signature hat and the smell of that awful cigar you smoke gives you away quite clearly. Easy to deduce. Do close the door on your way in inspector, manners maketh man.

Inspector Robinson sat in the arm chair across from me and removed his hat saying, I’ll get to the point Mr. Anderson. I’m here to inquire about Mademoiselle Bordeleau’s disappearance.

What a day this was. Never has anyone under my employment been so popular, with either nobles or with the law, and here both in the same day. But the question I was asking myself was, ‘how does a Scotland Yard inspector have such audacity?’ Why do I gather this was personal for the inspector? Mademoiselle Bordeleau has been under me for ten years and I know I’ve gained her loyalty with the opportunities I’ve given her from the day she started. Or have I? She knows I could ruin her life if loyalty is broken. But why the risk?

As troubling as this is, the truth will surface soon enough. First, I must deal with this half-wit inspector and dig further in to this mystery. The meeting with Robert replays in my mind, but how eerie this situation feels. What are the chances of meeting two different people from opposite spectrums, approaching me with topics regarding Mademoiselle Bordeleau?