No Human Involved: Nhi

By Sheron Linn

When Shanna Edwards weird new neighbor moves in next door, things begin to go haywire, including her discovering her friends grisly, bloody head decorating a fireplace mantel. Meeting Dr. Stevens, San Diegos acting medical examiner and chief forensic pathologist at the crime scene, the two begin piecing together the puzzle of fifty-three murders marked NHI (no human involved) on crime reports.

The serial killer stalks prostitutes and runaways, believing hes purifying the human race of an infestation, a sickly disease of street trash. Before hes through, at least fifty-three women will be dead. Unlike previous serial killers, he finds creative new ways to murder, mutilate, and dump the bodies, aided and abetted by the indifference of the chauvinistic SDPD.

Shanna, an ex-cop, and the ME open a Pandoras box of intrigue as their investigations lead them to believe that San Diegos killer is in reality Washingtons Green River Killer or his protg.

So many twists and turns in the investigation will keep a reader holding her breath for the next surprise revelation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514450130

Sheron Linn

My apologies for taking twenty years to publish this, my first novel. In the interim, my youngest daughter flew the nest. I quit my job as a legal assistant after working on the defense of a 125-million-dollar lawsuit to dedicate myself to writing and moved to Rosarito, Mexico, to work on this book and met, fell deeply in love, and married my soul mate, only to watch him die in my arms nine months later. I tried to write through my agonizing grief, sobbing sometimes, laughing at private jokes, and remembering intimacies at others—sometimes succeeding, sometimes not. (It’s hard to type while sobbing, so I walked the beach alone with my dogs a lot.) Then, as I was really getting into the swing of writing/editing/rewriting again, I was backsided by a handsome, charming Mexican singer (he appears briefly in my novel). Poco-a-poco, he captured my heart. I was advised once that to be a successful writer, it was better to remain single and that a relationship or marriage is a distraction. Well, it certainly is that. So twenty years later after building two homes and moving from Rosarito to Baja California Sur on the Sea of Cortez, here it is. (Maybe the above would make a good novel?) This is the reality. Prolific, successful authors will say this apology is a pathetic excuse—that a real writer carries on no matter what. Only you as a reader can decide if it was worth the wait. And I’m working on my second novel, Angels in Flight, a historical novel about the WASPs (Women Airforce Service Pilots) of World War II, with my third one baking in the oven of my mind. A fourth, on the life of Jacqueline Cochran, Aviatrix extraordinaire (overshadowed by Amelia Earhart), is betting to be written.

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Copyright © 2016 by Sheron Linn.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2016900681

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5144-5015-4

                Softcover        978-1-5144-5014-7

                eBook             978-1-5144-5013-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 01/30/2016

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CONTENTS

Welcome To The Neighborhood

Reflections

Misplaced Love

Gone Fishing

Come Ride Along With Me

Reflections

Nancy

Another Try

Smorgasbord And Cop Bars

Toni And Striptease

Happy Birthday

Childhood Memories

Butting In

A New Friend And New Clues

Aztec Sacrifice

Oh, Donna

Task Force Or Keystone Kops?

The Snowball Effect

Seattle

Portland

Opening Pandora's Box

Setup

Hitchhiker

Runaway

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The Green River Killer and his spate of serial murders in the early 1980's really occurred and a chapter is based on her fictional character's use of The Search for the Green River Killer to strengthen her supposition that he was that killer or the killer's accomplice or copycat. The Seattle Green River Task Force eventually apprehended; charged; jailed and found Gary Ridgeway guilty of seven of those homicides, although he admitted to killing most but not all of the 53 victims attributed to him. In exchange for leading authorities to dump sites where still missing victims were buried to give their families and friends closure and to answer many of the puzzles that surrounded the most prolific serial killer the United States has ever known, he is currently serving consecutive life sentences.

But fiction starts where fact ends: there was, and still is, a suspicion that two monsters worked in tandem or there was a copycat killer and that the other was never identified or caught. It is upon this possibility that the author's fictional killer was that man and that he moved on to San Diego after fleeing Seattle is loosely based. There never was a Eugene Le Grande, but there definitely was a serial killer running loose in San Diego. I also wish readers to know that my protagonist, Shanna Edwards, is a figment of my imagination, and any similarity to this author is purely coincidental.

Excerpts from Search for the Green River Killer (Carlton Smith & Tomas Guillen, Penguin-Onyx Books USA, New York, NY [1991]); San Diego Tribune; The San Diego Union; The Oregonian; Seattle Daily News Dispatch.

This book is

dedicated to the wondrous memory

of

Charlie, a very special part of me

Without his encouragement, infusion and faith

In my abilities, this book would

Never have been completed

And to the other two

most important men in my life:

Juanito and John

IT IS ALSO DEDICATED to the memory of those women who, by choice or through unfortunate circumstances, chose a life of prostitution or were innocent victims caught up in the real-life horror on which this fictional novel is loosely based. They were walking the streets of San Diego, supposedly safe and protected by law enforcement in America's Finest City. But by being part of the underclass, according to the SDPD each of them was expendable; they were classified NHI, No Human Involved. Because of that attitude at least 53, probably 55, human beings, with families and friends, futures in front of them and lives to live, were victimized and annihilated by a serial killer who was allowed to freely prowl the streets of San Diego for almost six years.

My love and support goes out to the families and friends of the real victims' families and friends. I hope that in writing this novel I have given a voice to your frustrations and have lain to rest the horrendous label that was placed on your loved ones as the summation of their lives and value.

WELCOME TO THE NEIGHBORHOOD

CHAPTER 1

O H, HOW I WANT TO GO BACK TO A TIME WHEN AIR WAS CLEAN AND SEX WAS DIRTY!

My early morning ritual was shattered by the very emphatic, whiney complaint drifting through the thick hedge fence that divides my front yard from my new neighbor's.

As a writer and the mother of three teenagers, I like to get up at dawn, when the heavens are in their first blush and the wet grass smells of sweet promises. I take a cup of steaming cinnamon-spiked coffee with me, sipping it slowly as I inspect my roses and turn on the sprinklers. It is my quiet time, when I mentally start preparing myself for the full day ahead: kids' schedules; household chores; sitting at my computer the rest of the day revising the next chapter in my current novel.

But my queenly next-door neighbor was obviously in one of his snippy moods, presumably because the poor newspaper boy had thrown the early morning issue of The Tribune into the bushes --again. So this day, my peace was obliterated by the harsh, caustic declaration and the man making it. Instead of my usual early-morning smiles, I found myself frowning.

Eugene Le Grande flounced into Mrs. Whittaker's rental house next door six months ago, sporting gold chains and a tight black leather ensemble: silver studded flight jacket and pants so tight they looked like he'd been poured into them. They surely would turn my Ridgecrest friends pink with envy. Oh-so-polished Victorian furniture, colorful Tiffany lamps, ornate Chinese silk pillows and dozens of oil paintings preceded him out of the Washington State U-Haul moving van. He then disappeared into the house as though he were merely an apparition or figment of my fertile imagination.

Our initial meeting unhappily occurred the next day when he humped and hawed his way up to my front porch like a grizzly bear in heat. He pounded with the knocker until the door shook. I cautiously peeked out the window expecting to see a hurricane approaching, but the five foot two man standing there looked benign enough. Boy was I wrong . . .

When I opened the door, he brazenly growled. "Your damned Sheltie has crossed property lines and 'violated' my petunia bed! I saw him lift his leg and let go! You'd better keep the frigging creature chained up in the future -- or else I'll be planting something organic in my garden!" With that ultimatum, he tossed his head, turned around and stomped his way back home. So much for friendly introductions . . .

It is difficult for me to describe Mr. Le Grande because I've never been able to look at him directly without some discomfort. He's a short, compact man with the strangest coloring I've ever seen; mottled freckles resembling scum floating on top of café au lait after it's been sitting in a paper cup for two or three days blanket his coffee-colored face. Although his tightly cropped black hair, bristly Hitler-like mustache and flattened pug nose hint of a mixed background, his anti-Christian jokes and occasional Yiddish witticisms speak of Jewish antecedents. I could be wrong, but he appears very light on his feet.

But what first struck me was that my skin crawled and my stomach did a roller coaster loop-de-loop when I did look into his eyes. They were black as the darkest night, devoid of emotion or curiosity -- the lifeless eyes of a dead man.

On rereading the paragraphs above, I know I sound prejudiced. The funny thing is that I'm really not. I claim many gays as friends and esteemed colleagues and find them fair-minded, highly professional, exceptionally intelligent and unusually kind. However, Mr. Le Grande epitomized the antipathetic stereotype that makes the gay community cringe: caustic, obnoxious and mean-spirited. He didn't appear to have a significant other and never had guests -- male or female.

I have a weakness in that as a writer, I'm always categorizing people I meet and trying to guess what makes them tick. I theorized from what little I'd seen that his proclivities might have been forced on him; that he was extremely bitter, isolated and friendless because his personality and persona were so repugnant -- so much so that no woman would voluntarily approach him nor any self-respecting gay come within ten feet of him either.

* * *

The words snoop and kook have taken on whole new meanings since his arrival in our neighborhood. Although rarely sighted, his mysterious presence hovered over his house like early morning fog; kids crossed the street to avoid walking in front of the gloomy house, obviously afraid that something -- or someone -- might jump out at them. Official San Diego Police Department warnings started appearing on the windshields of cars parked curbside in violation of the three-day limit or failing to have current license plate tags.

The SDPD began receiving almost daily anonymous complaints of too loud music; garbage cans not being picked up quickly enough from curbside; or some other nuisance misdemeanor. And in response, uniformed police began appearing sheepishly on doorsteps to check things out; scaring children and embarrassing the heck out of my neighbors when they opened their doors and came face-to-face with a cop.

Almost daily, our local dog catcher began giving out citations for dogs barking too loudly; not wearing dog tags; or running free. After responding to at least 50 such calls personally, he finally gave up and began to note Crank Caller in his daily reports.

My friend Mary, who lived in a house up the street, even received an unexpected visit from a City Building Inspector; she'd been anonymously reported as perhaps building without a permit since there were dump trucks, electricians and plumbers showing up in her driveway. The garage had been there for years, properly wired and plumbed for a sink and washing machine, but she'd decided to turn it into a guest apartment for her son when he visited from Utah. Her contractor had assured her that she was legally within her rights to do so. What he'd neglected to say was that he'd skipped building permits. She was eventually forced to tear down the interior walls and new bathroom; rewire; replace the garage door; and when everything was torn down, rebuild according to City specifications. Along the way, she ended up paying an architect for new plans and hiring another contractor to rebuild. She never knew when another inspector would appear and demand yet another detail be revised. And as a single mother of a 30-year-old daughter with Downs, this harassment and stress went on for the next nine months until the City finally signed off. Cost to Mary? More than $14,000.

Our suspicions were confirmed of who was behind the sudden unwanted attention our neighborhood was receiving when several of my neighbors swore they'd seen Le Grande peeking out from his living room curtains with binoculars in hand -- scoping out the street from one end to the other -- morning, noon and night.

The chaos continued until we heard that Mr. Le Grande had started a new administration job with the Veterans' Hospital downtown; then not a complaint was heard.

* * *

Because I was so obviously present in my yard with the hose going at full blast and the errant newspaper was in a mutual hedge, I tried to put my bias aside; ignore his blatant view of the world; and return to the neighborly person that I normally am. After all, we were living side-by-side.

Good morning, Mr. Le Grande. Have you gotten all settled into your new house?

Although busily retrieving the paper, he glanced up from his search and almost met my gaze. His opaque obsidian eyes swung to the right of my face; to a tree beyond; to the paper he now tightly grasped in his hand like he was going to strangle it.

Jeez-us, Gawd and Mother Mary, you frightened me, Miss . . ., he snorted like a hog in heat.

Oh, sorry, I guess we've never formally been introduced, have we? I'm Shanna Edwards and obviously I'm your next-door neighbor.

His penetrating eyes passed over my head, rotating above it, focusing at last on my house to his left as though if he looked at me directly, he'd turn to stone. Now isn't that sooo spec-i-all? Glad to meet ya. Got to go now. Bye-byeee. And he galloped up his porch steps as if being chased by a threatening pack of rabid wolves.

I wondered whether I had sprouted purple warts since leaving the house. The aversion and disgust I felt emanating from the retreating figure made me feel like a leper who had inadvertently walked into a nudist colony. So much for neighborliness.

CHAPTER 2

I T LOOKED LIKE A SCENE FROM THE MOVIE , Throw Momma from the Train. An incredibly short, squat woman weighing at least 300 pounds in her late sixties was steaming up the walkway next door, emitting whale-like grunts and harrumphs that eerily reminded me of the occupant of the house. Except for a baggy flowered skirt, boxer-like dewlaps drooping above the collar of her blouse and the lack of a mustache, cloning had undoubtedly transpired under the covers about 45 years earlier.

The strange apparition clutched two bulging suitcases and yanked another one on a leash up the groaning wooden front steps to the old Victorian house. How such a big woman could carry/pull that much weight was a mystery to me. Dropping them with a loud THUNK, she proceeded to beat the brass door knocker so loudly that it brought me to my window -- and I had been vacuuming my bedroom, one story above and a full house away.

After ten minutes of pounding, Le Grande the younger warily cracked the door open. He peered myopically like a wise owl just waking from a nap, his eyes widening and then blinking shut. He groaned; took a deep breath; and finally acknowledged the apparition glaring back at him. Then he reluctantly opened the door further to give the fury entrance.

Hello, Mamma. Welcome to San Diego! Le Grande croaked belatedly, as the harridan imperiously dropped her heavy baggage at his feet, just missing his bare toes. And then she stormed past her befuddled son into the dark hallway beyond without a word of greeting, slamming the door behind her.

CHAPTER 3

T EACHERS HAVE OFTEN COMMENTED on my children's unusually vivid imaginations. Since I have shared my most bizarre fantasies and stories with them from the time they cracked from their shells, it would be odd if it were otherwise. So I couldn't resist sharing my latest venture into the neighborhood Twilight Zone with my seventeen-year-old daughter, Kim. By the time I finished, she was doubled up, giggling, on the living room floor.

You should have shot a video of it, mom. Then we could send it in to a studio as Throw Momma From the Train II"! Kim hooted at her own joke.

That's really not nice, Kim, I said, stifling a giggle of my own. "We ought to be fair and at least meet Mrs. Le Grande before we typecast her for a movie or make such unkind judgments. Maybe she's really a nice little old lady who just happens to talk too loud because she's deaf or hard of hearing and it isn't her fault that she looks like a double for the 'Mama.'"

But mom, can I at least go over and ask her for her autograph? By now we were convoluted on the floor from laughing so hard.

Don't you dare! I gasped between twitters.

Actually, I do plan to go over and introduce myself to her -- just as soon as Mr. Le Grande leaves for work, that is. That's the least a good neighbor can do to welcome someone to the neighborhood, isn't it?

* * *

I wasn't being snoopy or sneaky, not really. Suddenly inspired, I whipped up a batch of brownies, baking an extra dozen, which just happened to come out of the oven as Le Grande the younger drove out his driveway.

I even dressed for the occasion in a light blue Mexican skirt and white peasant blouse -- quite a sacrifice for a lady who usually works at her PC in jeans, T-shirt and bare feet.

Our neighborhood isn't pretentious. It's a middle-class conglomeration of San Diego schmaltz: early California adobes, low-slung modern ranch houses and a few colorful Victorian gingerbreads spread into the mix. My two-story hacienda snuggled up to the 1880's deteriorating prima donna next door, although since Mr. Le Grande's arrival, I've become increasingly uncomfortable with such an intimate proximity.

Weeds were sprouting in the wilting flowerbeds lining the front walkway. The shaggy tall grass and dandelions that I will euphemistically call a lawn were beginning to resemble the rough on a golf course. An old-fashioned covered gateway, sided by broken wooden benches, was bearded with cobwebs. It was guarded by large, hairy brown spiders, who skittered sideways as I ducked to enter their spooky domain. And the further up the brick walkway I went, the apprehensive I became. Was this visit really such a good idea?

What the heck, I'd spent all morning baking brownies -- an atypical endeavor in a writer's household. I'd even gotten spruced up. So I was damned if a little primeval overgrowth and some hairy arachnids would intimidate me! I zigzagged around molding newspapers that were scattered like an obstacle course throughout the yard, climbed the rickety wooden steps and crossed the creaking porch. I then grasped the handle of the brass lion-head knocker, feeling rather like Dorothy timidly standing before the imposing gate of Oz as a tiny peephole opened and an inquiring pink-veined eye peered out at me.

I must have passed inspection, because the door slowly opened until it was stopped by the latched door chain.

Yessss?

Hi, I'm Shanna Edwards, your son's next-door neighbor. I thought you might enjoy some of these brownies I've just baked -- you know, as a welcome to the neighborhood?

Mrs. Le Grande looked at me dubiously, but the chocolate smell wafting from the plate I held under her nose did the trick. She released the chain and let me in, albeit reluctantly. I followed her gelatinous figure as she led the way down the long entry hall, which was much as I remembered it from prior visits with the old owners: fading rose-budded wallpaper and polished parquet floors from a gentler age.

"A bull in a China shop?" I thought. No, more like the gentle giant in Disney's Jack in the Beanstalk when he slid down to earth ponderously rolling from side to side, so entirely out of proportion with his surroundings.

I put my hand over my mouth to stifle the giggle that thought provoked. I excused myself, knowing how such similes and metaphors bubble up in my mind unsolicited at the most inappropriate of times. It's a writer's bane.

I thought I was prepared for the sitting room, since I had seen the antique furniture arrive, but the reality was shocking to the senses. There were the exquisite Victorian couches, dainty wicker settees, lion claw tables. But splashed on the walls were large, stark, surreal modern landscapes that made Salvador Dali's work seem tame in comparison. Peeking out from splotches of lunar panoramas were dismembered, eerie almond eyes; ovoid heads ending in points; what looked like operating tables or dissecting benches; strange instruments of torture that would have made a Spanish inquisitor proud. Sneering slash-mouths fought for space with zombie-like, twisted figures. Dead insect eyes stared out of long, ghastly, pale chalky faces. Strange pyramids floated in the sky. It was as though the artist had encapsulated all of a lunatic's worst hallucinations, thrown all the grotesque images into a blender and poured them out on canvas.

Wow! I gasped, feeling a bit dizzy from all the frenzy and agony assaulting me from every wall. Who's the artist? These are the most startling paintings I've ever seen!

My hostess twittered from behind a Japanese paper fan she held coquettishly in her beefy hand. Then she gave me what in that Shar-Pei-like face might have been a shy smile.

Do you really like them? Really? She gazed at me longingly, like a dog waiting to be thrown a treat.

How could I tell her that looking at the paintings made my stomach queasy as though I were crawling through a floor of undulating worms?

I can honestly say that they are the most astonishing paintings I've ever seen, I answered diplomatically, gulping down bile to get the words out.

Why, thank you very much. Actually, the paintings are mine -- each and every one of them.

Do you mind my asking where you got the idea for them?

Well-l-l, actually, they've come to me in bits and pieces in bad nightmares that I keep having and I just thought that if I painted what I remembered, the dreams might go away.

Her fleshy, blue-veined claw-hands were gripping the arms of the delicate Louie XIV chair she was squeezed into, like so much meat packed tightly into a sausage skin as she continued. Sometimes I feel like I'm being poked or probed. Other times, like someone is staring down at me like I'm some kind of bug in a glass jar!

Mrs. Le Grande's deeply wrinkled face contorted into a gray grimace, as though a great and terrible storm was gathering behind the bloodshot eyes that squinted up at me.

And when I try to wake up, I'm frozen to a table. You know, like when you lick an ice tray and your tongue gets stuck and you can't pull away no matter what? The distraught woman was twisting the hem of her faded housedress with both hands, as if to wring out the torment that seemed to emanate from every pore of her immense body.

And then sometimes whole months go by and I won't have one bad dream, not a one. And during that time I'll paint and paint and I can't seem to get the canvasses big enough and there just isn't room to cram everything into the pictures and I have to keep buying more and more paints and canvases and then I remember something I left out and so I have to start another one.

The words were hurtling out of her soul, as though a crack in a dam had opened, bursting into a torrent due to the tremendous pressure building up behind it. It was impossible to interrupt the anguished woman. I felt as if the ghastly pain and tension pouring out of her was being hurled at me so that she could escape their torment.

I was visibly shaken, but right now Mrs. Le Grande was merely a tortured old woman in need of some release and reassurance before she went completely mad.

I'm so sorry, Mrs. Le Grande, I cooed in the voice I usually reserved for soothing my children during the night when they had bad dreams.

I think every one of us has some old nightmares that come back to haunt us at times. You're certainly doing a wise thing in trying to exorcise the dreams by painting them. I'm sure you'll eventually get it all out on the canvasses and then they will go away and you'll be able to sleep in peace.

My words might have been a soothing benediction, an answer to her tortured prayers. Her contorted features melted into their normal scowl.

Oh, do you really think that can be true? I just don't know anymore and my dear son, Eugene, is so sick of hearing me whine he won't even discuss the subject with me anymore.

Sure. I know that when I'm upset, it helps me to sit down and write for a while. It's like a safety valve, giving me a healthy release from my worries. I'm sure your painting is like that for you . . .

Mrs. Le Grande's habitual sneer relaxed into the nearest thing to a smile I had seen on her face and the stormy atmosphere that had so tangibly permeated the room evaporated. She was now sitting across the room from me, hands and ankles crossed, smiling demurely like a plump cherub.

But since I'm so sensitive to others' feelings, I felt as though I'd been physically punched and pummeled. I had soaked up too much of her angst. I needed fresh air -- and soon. An upchuck was only moments away.

Well, Mrs. Le Grande, I croaked, I spend most of my days writing, but if you ever need a friendly face, just come on over.

I grinned my very best glad-to-meet-you-but-let's-keep-it-at-a-distance smile and pushed up from the chair like a pilot being jettisoned from an F-111 ejection seat, leaving my Welcome Wagon gift behind.

REFLECTIONS

CHAPTER 4

A FTER MOVING TO SAN DIEGO from Seattle in 1986, Eugene had thought They would have been well satisfied with the craftsmanship and increasingly professional work he had done for Them up there in Washington State. But then again, maybe word hadn't filtered that far afield yet. He needed a well-deserved and extended, leisurely vacation after his successful and competent carrying out of Their detailed and often pedantic instructions . . .

His skill and cunning were now legendary around this great, polluted blue-green marble globe. So renowned had he become, in fact, that he had inspired a true crime best seller, The Search for the Green River Killer¹. It had remained on the best seller lists for weeks and weeks! Didn't that prove how fascinated the peoples of this world were with his outwitting all those doltish law enforcement agencies and experts? The book's publisher was positively starved for more knowledge, offering a $50,000 reward for information leading to his arrest and conviction. Wasn't that further confirmation of his growing value to Them?

Just behold how curious -- and oh-so direly desperate people, press and po-lice are to unearth some clue as to my cleverly hidden identity! Eugene purred, lovingly fingering the substantiation of his prowess, this silver and red covered paperback, in his powerful albeit baby-lotioned hands.

Now don't I just sound like Lex Luthar in those Superman" flicks? Granted, Luthar was a buffoon, an anomaly of evil. But he did have a way with words just like me . . . And I, I am as pure and guileless as the driven snow!"

The Protector of the Purity of the Species pored over the 479-page, detailed book vaunting his exploits with alternate amusement, pride and disgust. But religiously, daily, he lovingly, reverently stroked and kissed the sixteen pages of tiny photos of those he had so industriously and imaginatively dispatched to reach Their goal: cleansing the Planet Earth.

Eugene longed to introduce himself to the two journalists who had so faithfully recounted his stupendously efficient, brilliant carrying out of the task They had set before him from early youth. After all, those two authors were his best friends and admirers, albeit vicariously, here on earth. They had faithfully ferreted out many of his inspired exploits and strokes of genius -- and then chronicled them for countless generations to come. He was well on his way to immortality thanks to them.

And couldn't I just ever fill in all those itty bitty cracks and crevices, crumbs and morsels that these intrepid seekers of truth and enlightenment have missed? Won't they be ever so ecstatic when they piece together my newest saga? And by the time I'm through with this new crusade, there'll be an even thicker and more impressive book in it for them. Perhaps I can send them a scrapbook of my San Diego exploits when I'm through with Their task . . .

Eugene lay sensuously stretched out on the red velvet Victorian lounge in his hot-pink, embroidered silk dressing gown, feet toasty in the Goofy slippers he had purchased during his trip to Disneyland after moving from up north. He cradled the fat paper-back book in his effeminate, long hands as tenderly as any mother would hold her firstborn. As he relived some particularly delicious, titillating moment at those times when his day-to-day existence became too mundane and insufferable, he almost sexually caressed and stroked his tattered copy. But then he brought himself under control. After all, as Protector of the Purity of the Species, he must be circumspect and discreet, scrupulous in his demeanor and an unblemished example to all mankind, which could be oh-so-very colorless, unstimulating and boring. And just a little sneaky-peeky at those sad-eyed, pathetic sluts staring out at him from those photos in the centerfold of the book could be oh-so stimulating -- perking him and his under-sized member right up!

Eugene had fastidiously underlined in red portions of the book, giving credit where credit was due -- detailing the surprisingly many clues and tidbits that the authors or authorities had gotten right or inadvertently stumbled upon. He had been quite meticulous in leaving at least two hints with each deposit he'd made -- at least one of which was so obvious that he would have been astounded if they hadn't discovered it.

With each deposit, he also left them calling card triangles -- tiny bits of bones, rocks or sometimes homemade pyramids. He ever so relished shoving one up some still moist vagina or tucking it snugly behind some plump, rosy red labia that would soon turn putrid and rot like the abhorrent aberrations of the species they purported to represent. It gave him a hard-on each and every time!

Eugene had added that inspired triangle touch after the second sacrifice as acknowledgement to Their involvement and inspiration, feeling that as Their emissary he must never forget these glorious achievements that embodied all Their earthly reflections of such high, stellar, infinite goals. Their universal symbol, the triangle, had become his unique calling card.

Eugene had painstakingly marked each and every place where the two who-dunnit authors had gone oh-so wrong in their suppositions, highlighting those errors of the paperback in a heavenly heliotrope. He'd been so fiendishly clever and adroit in misleading his hunters up winding paths to Nowheresville and back, literally and figuratively. Hadn't he even returned to his drop sites to glean the dried and whitened skulls of those two bitchy whores to be planted four hundred miles and a state away, leaving the rest of their remains in situ? That move had stumped his hunters for months, but had certainly made the Feds sit up, pause and then applaud his audacity and panache when they finally figured out what he'd done!

Didn't he return as quietly as an alligator under water, leaving not the tiniest of ripples, coming back again and again to the secret places on the river to check up on whether the police had inadvertently stumbled upon one of the bodies still not mentioned in the papers or TV? Wasn't it a favorite trick of the hunters to keep certain killings to themselves so they could entrap him? And when he tippy-toed back to a burial ground, they still weren't resourceful enough or just too damned lazy to keep up surveillance for more than a week or two at most. Hadn't he carefully picked up some of the bones of one of the bitches and taken them to another site, scattering them in with the remains of another harlot just to keep the men in blue on their toes?

So very, very many men nowadays take such pleasure in directing their violence toward women . . . Eugene mused. "Do the police really expect to have just one or two suspects hold up their hands and confess, 'It's me, oh, I confess it's me!' like they did on Perry Mason?"

Eugene sneered at the witless, inept genre of men law enforcement insisted on recruiting. After all, he had unselfishly offered himself up once and again upon his return from Viet Nam, filling out the tedious recruitment forms the Seattle Police Department required. He had expected to join them in their battle against evil and corruption, although they had rejected him. Yet as sure as Wheaties is the Breakfast of Champions he'd been man enough in 'Nam, risking his neck all those months on the front lines as a medic. He had dared the 'Cong to shoot his head off while courageously and fearlessly saving his fallen buddies.

And yet the Poo-lice recruiting officer had barely glanced at his carefully typewritten application. After peering at him fixedly from above wire-rimmed colored glasses, appraising him from polished toe to carefully parted, slicked back hair, the misbegotten mongrel had called another officer in to have a look at him. They'd gone into another small office to check his application out. He could see them hunched together, thumbing through the pages he'd so painstakingly typed, then tossing them into a FILE basket. And he'd clearly heard their scornful snickers through the cubicle's glass window.

When the recruiter had finally ambled back in with a residual smirk playing around his lips, he'd given Eugene some lame excuse about not being able to consider him because the department's height and weight requirements automatically eliminated him from eligibility.

In his mind, he had screamed, "My dick and balls alone weigh more than your two lame brains combined!" But with utmost dignity and the soldier-straight bearing learned in boot camp, Eugene had done an about-face and marched out of the dingy recruiting office with chin held high.

The experience had been so degrading, demeaning, and demoralizing -- such a below-the-belt blow for the Protector of the Purity of the Species. Didn't they know his only purpose was to help them purge, cleanse and eliminate the scum bags and baguettes that cluttered the Seattle streets like cockroaches skittering around a housing project's scummy halls?

So Eugene had picked up his dignity and gone it alone. And behold the sterling successes he'd accomplished with his own persistence and dedication without their damned aid and approval. By the time the task he had assigned himself was fully executed, he had one-handedly scoured and cleansed the Seattle Strip's tawdry streets of those disgusting, tasteless topless dancing establishments and sleazy by-the-hour motels that had been such havens for perfidious, painted prostitutes and their low-down, preening, greasy pimps.

He giggled, imagining himself in the guise of a gigantic bottle of medicinal hydrogen peroxide, pouring himself out on those degraded city streets, bubbling away scummy drug dealers, pimply perverted crack heads, wasted winos and the depraved, diseased ladies of the night, purging them away down the sewers with his awesome power.

Eugene literally had redeemed Seattle by himself, halting its downward spiral into degradation and moral decay. (Drum rolls and whistles, if you please!) And since his quiet departure, decent families were once more able to walk the Strip, stopping at penny arcades or taking in a Disney movie downtown, innocent and laughing. Nice, hardworking folks and upright tourists could browse storefront windows and shop the town's inner-city stores without being solicited and harassed by pimps and hookers. Sweet, wholesome young ladies passing through were now safe from harm or molestation -- and those bumbling bozos in blue hadn't wanted or believed they needed his help?

Seattle's city fathers were even planning suburban housing developments on the sites of some of his former depositories. Now wasn't that just ironic and so very special? Bet they had a few additional surprises in store when they began digging out those basements!

* * *

Eugene had eventually bought several more copies of the Who Dunnit true crime paperback so he could critique the two author's research into his crimes; relive every thrilling moment he'd spent with each of his victims; and laugh at those hunters who'd set out on their fruitless and witless quest to find him. He delighted when the writers documented yet another police officer/deputy sheriff/detective/task force member being taken off the case and thrown back to some obscure desk job or been forced into early retirement and obscurity. A few transferred of their own volition when they saw the inevitable writing on their miserable walls of failure. Others had been so utterly frustrated by his incredible cleverness that they'd resigned altogether. Others had been voted out of office by disgusted constituents who were continually reminded of their ineptness and bumbling by the press. Others had been cast off the force altogether, poor minions suffering some psychological disability after encountering and trying to solve his intricate puzzles.

And Eugene had drawn fireworks and shooting stars in varied-colored inks around the entire page narrating the sad but true tale of that big black dude who the Police Chief had the temerity to make commander back in November of 1986. Who could even remember his name anymore? He'd been found with a single bullet hole in his forehead, slumped over a desk riddled with negative newspaper articles. He was just as dead now as though executed along with the 52 -- or was it 60 -- women losers Eugene had expedited. Had he died of a heart embolism instead of the bullet - or perhaps blockage of the upper mobility career path? Hah hah!

Le Grande kept another copy of the book as a chronology of the victims who'd been discovered, along with notations in the margins of how close the detectives had been to the actual dates and times of his executionees' demises. Sometimes they hit the mark; other times they were ludicrously far off. So of course, he pinned in the correct dates, names and places of dispatch that the researchers had missed altogether in the margins. This was perhaps the most well-worn copy of The Search for the Green River Killer since They would require a far more accurate, detailed accounting of his deeds when They came back.

The two true crime researchers naturally had no real first-hand knowledge, except for reading over crime reports, talking to members of law enforcement and visiting many of his kill sites and dumping grounds. Much of their book was based on suppositions and second-hand accounts. So Eugene was painstakingly keeping his own memoirs, remembrances and detailed notes of his exploits. These were necessary for further refinement of his burgeoning career and the completion of his life-long task. Eugene stored these journals in a large safe tucked away at the back of the kitchen pantry, behind the canned peas and corn. It needed to be roomy, since it was also the hiding place for the treasured memorabilia he'd garnered from each trashy bit of fluff he had exterminated.

"But with my burgeoning clientele, maybe it's time to buy another safe?" He mused.

* * *

All this reminiscing was making Eugene ravenously hungry. The Protector of the Purity of the Species rose from his gold brocaded throne, tripping out to the kitchen in his sinuous silk finery and long, black-eared Goofy slippers. He opened the fridge door with a flourish. He slopped slabs of chunky peanut butter and dollops of strawberry jam onto the thick slices of whole wheat bread Mama had baked just that morning. He licked residual jam from the tips of his sticky fingers, then fished out a can of chocolate syrup and mixed the brown goo into a glass of milk. And why did that remind him of pale, bruised skin and coagulating blood?

Eugene regally glided into the dining room with his repast balanced precariously under his chin, seating himself at the head of the table, his rightly earned place of honor.

Where am I now? Oh, yes, those local yokel officers-of-the-LAW. What s.s.s.'s (stupidly sloppy studs). They turned out to be ten times more incompetent than I initially suspected they'd be . . .

His biographers had credited Eugene with more than 41 confirmed exterminations, with another 8 listed as possibilities. In the task force's bumbling, inept searches of the dumping grounds (they'd even resorted to using Explorer Scouts, psychics and bloodhounds for pity's sake!), they had missed at least eight or maybe nine corpses.

And Seattle's finest had utterly relied on the FBI's tedious, unimaginative serial-killer profile for their search. It was pitiful, pathetic and laughable. They had given in to the temptation of using that simplistic profile to narrow down the field of suspects -- and it had caused them to eliminate the real, the marvelous, the dazzling Protector of the Purity of the Species. After the thousand and one books written about serial killers and all the rehashes on TV exposes, any rookie exterminator with the IQ of a boiled egg could figure out how to outsmart the experts. All one had to do was throw in an equal number of dissimilarities to the other jobs to keep law enforcement intellegencia off balance and away from the real scent. And if a suspect didn't precisely fit their mold were they tossing them out like moldy bread?

And the questioning of witnesses, what a crock! Wouldn't you think they could at least ask the right questions? Or keep track of the answers they had accumulated? he thought.

Ah, well, he was digressing.

He really adored the last chapter of his book, Outcomes, June 1990, and had it memorized:

"But the lessons of the worst serial murder case in American history remained bound up in the nearly five hundred volumes of reports, locked away in what had been the old jail on the top floor of the King County Courthouse. Page after page of reports, interviews, evidence, photographs, maps, charts, drawings, analyses all waiting for a day that may never come.

"It was impossible to think of all those reports, all those pages of transcribed interviews, the tip sheets, the detailed inventories of evidence, the storage room with all the thousands of pieces of possible evidence, without thinking of the man and the questions."

The underlining was his. And he had added gold stars around the concluding paragraph:

"In the end, it was possible to visualize only the dimmest of outlines of the nation's worst serial killer. There were tantalizing clues, but no one could say how accurate they were."²

Eugene finished his sandwich and milk with gusto, a charming, contented, cherubic smile on his freckled face that would make the Campbell Kid jealous. Only a few years and they were already speaking of him as though he had passed away into the Serial Killers Hall of Heinous Horrors.

His own exhaustive research had found that most serial killers are ultimately caught when they become too attached to a single area or state and aren't willing to relocate when the investigators start closing the net. But if and when their headache stops killing and moves on, most local authorities are exhilarated, relieved and very thankful.

That was the ticket -- move on. The public and authorities are grateful that the nightmare has stopped -- and you immediately become a local legend. No matter that you're still marvelously alive and well-equipped to kill again in another social sewer somewhere else down the line. The papers and news media had immortalized the Zodiac Killer in San Francisco; the Son of Sam and the Night Stalker in Los Angeles and his home-town buddy, Bundy Boy. Now Seattle was doing the same for him; he was the Green River Killer.

Yes, Eugene was certain when all was said and done and they finally returned, he would be able to lay the Opus Magnus and his own memoirs proudly at Their feet and receive Their homage. Certainly the books would have a fitting place of honor and acclaim in Their Library of the Annals of Earth.

And yes, he bowed to himself with veneration, standing ramrod straight, chin high in a Napleonesque pose before the beveled mirror in the hall, Eugene was confident They would applaud his moving on to a toilet bowl like San Diego, California. There was still much mopping up work to be done on this planet. And although he humbly acknowledged that he was, after all, only one small cog in Their cosmic wheel, he was determined to carry out his paltry part to further purify and cleanse his planet, Earth.

MISPLACED LOVE

CHAPTER 5

M ARY SHERMAN HAD NOT BEEN ON EUGENE'S AGENDA . He had been lulled by his move to San Diego; by his long, indolent vacation; and by the hot California sun as it browned his Seattle-pale skin to a coppery bronze. It was also now the color of freshly dried blood.

The inhabitants of San Diego seemed to move to a slower beat than their northern cousins, taking time out to laugh with one another, to joke, to chat. There were as many outdoor tables and umbrellas crowding patios, cafes and restaurants here as he remembered there being in Cannes or the Costa del Sol in Spain.

One of the local TV stations even had a 22-year-old, golden-skinned, sun-bleached blonde surfer as their weatherman, who often predicted the weather while riding the waves at some local beach or standing bare footed on the sand in his wetsuit. Tides, wave heights and diving visibility were an integral segment of San Diego's weather statistics.

Le Grande was lured into