Written by the Hand of a Murderer

By Eric R. Reynolds

Paul Taylor had been physically and mentally abused as a child. After many years of growing up without his mother’s affection, Paul found out his mother and father had been blackmailed and murdered by the crooked senator and chief of police of Bay Boro County. Paul found himself succumbing to his rage, which turns into his own demise as he evolves into a sadistic killer. Therapy failed to heal him. Love may have came too late to save him.

Paul’s written journal had been lost and found. This is his untold story, entitled Written by the Hand of a Murderer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546260707

Eric R. Reynolds

Eric R. Reynolds is an inspiring writer perfecting his craft with his now sophomore novel. Reynolds, has one son and is currently working on a book of sensual poetry.

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© 2018 Eric R. Reynolds. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/14/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-6071-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-6070-7 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Acknowledgments

I first give thanks to God, I give honor to my mother Ms. Jackie Johnson and to my son Anthony C. Scurlock, Daddy loves you.

To Nadia Unique Cole, love is what love does, need I say more. To Mr. James Price and Briscoe thank you for helping me with my craft.

To family members, Angel, Jerry, Patrice, Danny, Brian, Carol, Cynthia, Deborah, Rose, Stacy, Monique, Jasmine, Larry Parker, Leon Little & Leon Jr., Shynetta, Mark, Gail and Karen. Love you all 

To Stephanie Thomas, TC and Alesha, my dearest of friends. To Latesha Taylor I’ll never forget my around the way girl. 

I give a shout our to, Maurice Mckay, Robert Nash Jr., Michael Feaster Counts, Charles Stanfield, Marlo Bates Stanfield, Kyle Ripken Williams, J.J., Nasir Hands, Gerald Cook, Corey Nassor Mercer, Nevelle Scoop Thornton, Lionel Gunz English, Sean Mike Means and Jacqueline Carrington. 

To Omar Cali Tech McLennan and Dian Mamma love Milligan, my other family. 

To the McClain family, Troy, Juanita, Shayna and Taylor, you guys are my rock.

To my grandmother Irene Reynolds and my aunt Gerri Carson who passed away not long ago. Your faith have you in heaven now, may you both rest in peace. I thank everyone for there love and support. Truly God is good all the time.

Eric R. Reynolds

A PRIL 26, 2014,

CONNIE FARMER, TOOK a vacation to Germany, while touring the German Alp’s, he found a weathered leather burgundy book with black faded lettering across it, it’s gold metal latch no longer able to keep the contents of it’s pages sealed. In side it’s binder held an empty felt point pen. Placing the book insides his hiking bag, Connie didn’t realize what the book was until later. Once back in his hotel room, after his shower and meal, Connie takes the book out of his bag to check it out. Maybe it had been a book someone lost, he thought to himself. Taking a closer look at the lettering on front, it read, Journal, Immediately his first thoughts were to find it’s owner, suddenly became overwhelmed, by his curiosity to know what was written inside of it. Like the old saying goes, Curiosity killed the cat. The first page in this journal say’s:

"This journal belongs to; Paul Bradner, if lost and found it might be best if you kept it’s contents to yourself, after all, YOUR LIFE MAY DEPEND ON IT"!

Journal Entry Date: August 2005

Therapy Session One

My psychiatrist Mrs. Lisa Thompson, made me feel at ease within the comfort of our surroundings, her room fitted my mood, as she try to dissect my mind for emotional instability. Deep inside I’d became infatuated with her elegance, her smooth olive color skin, long silky black hair braided into two individual braids, one on each side, her grey eye’s sparkle like diamonds from the beam of sun light seeping through her huge office window. Mrs. Thompson’s, five feet, six inches tall, her height made her body to weight ratio look like a live Barbie doll. By eye sight I would bet my last dollar, her measurements were, thirty eight B, twenty two, thirty eight. She couldn’t have weighed over one hundred and twenty seven pounds. Every time my eye’s gaze upon her, I just want to see her even more, her beauty is so exquisite, I caught myself drooling over her like a hound dog as I thought of her when I wasn’t near her, especially when she wore open toe shoes showing off her well pedicure feet, her diamond pinky toe ring matched her ankle bracelet, which made her toe nail polish sparkle. Mrs. Thompson, is different from my usual female attractions, her intelligence alone gives me a stiff erection. There’s no way in the world she would be attracted to someone like me, I have so many scar’s outside and in, from my growing pains in life. Hell she already labeled me with a serious mental disorder (SMD) of having bipolar, now she’s trying to figure out if I’m suffering from post traumatic stress or some shit from fighting in the war, she even hinted about schizophrenia. Mrs. Thompson, is one of the best psychiatrist in the United States, I even saved newspaper articles written about her contribution in helping the F.B.I., close an unsolved murder case of a missing woman, she had a gift of seeing thing’s, most detectives would miss at a crime scene and every time she visited a crime scene, she would have a vision which help the F.B.I., get a profile of what type of killer it would fit and even what they look like but her best asset is she paid attention to the smallest detail and she’s a keen listener, she knew what questions to ask her patients to keep them babbling on about there sorrows, it gave her an advantage to figure out any sophisticated persons problems. Since I was aware of this, it helped me stay one step a head of her, so I made sure I remember everything I said to her, down to the smallest detail. As time went past my sessions became much longer and more personal with her and as much as I tried not to divulge about the stories of my dramatic life which begin to unfold in her notes, Mrs. Thompson never showed me any signs of being attracted to me, I could only wonder if she sensed my physical attraction to her but whether if she knew it or not, I was going to have her one way or another, my fantasy will become my reality, so I continue sitting in her recliner, hypnotized by her beauty, going along with her therapy sessions every two weeks and after a while I found myself letting my mind take me back into a time in my life, I often try to forget. Mrs. Thompson, looks at me keenly, her hand scribbles without even looking at her pad…

Journal Entry Date: December 1990

I find myself under the covers, hoping they will protect me from the big bad monster, the monster I wish died a thousand times, every time this monster argued with my mother, there would soon follow sounds of glass being broken, her screaming for the monster to stop his abuse, which alway’s went on deaf ear’s. I figured it was the reason she stop coming home, so she wouldn’t have to deal with the monster’s physical and verbal abuse any more. I did my best to stay out of the monster’s way, a lot of times I hid in my closet holding my Winnie the Pooh teddy bear, peeking through the closet key hole, watching the monster bring different women inside, some women were skinny, some were pleasingly thick, some women were Spanish, some were Asian, while others were white or Afro-American. I started to sense the monster had a specific type of women he like, they were all good looking eye candy. On a scale of one to ten, none of them were less then a nine. My eye’s seen this monster do all kinds of things to these pretty women he brought inside, from handcuffing them to bed post, whipping them with paddles, spanking them with whip’s as if they had been bad or done something wrong. I didn’t understand why some women urged the monster to spank them harder, as if they enjoyed being punished, then I would see other women cry, begging for the monster to stop his torture, like my mother did but the more the monster drank, the rougher his physical punishment became for those women who fought back or pleaded for mercy, it seem there pleads made the monster more possessed, holding the liquor bottle tighter to his lip’s, never waisting one drop while pulling his pants down forcing himself inside of them, this monster turned into the greatest demon of them all.

I watched many women give into this monsters sexual bondage and physical power, letting him sexually gratify his desires on them in anyway he pleased and that caught my attention. Something inside of me wanted that same power this monster possessed over them women, the monsters strength fueled with liquor courage was amazing, as I watch him carry them into the basement, the basement I dared to enter, the thick metal basement door has multiple pad locks, it’s bolted metal sign on the front reads; Casanova’s Palace, ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK! I took it as a strong warning for me not to enter, often I thought to myself, was Casanova’s palace, where the monster finished his sexual conquest on the woman I seen never leave when they entered. Maybe it was in Casanova’s palace where he nursed the badly beaten women back to health, I thought to myself, my curiosity feared the monster to much to disregard his warning sign!

Journal Entry Date: August 2005

Therapy Session

Mrs. Thompson, grey eye’s pierced my soul, as she softly ask me tell me more about the monster? It was like her eye’s knew something more beneath my vague stories and me being gullible to her beauty, accommodates her question. James, James Adams, he’s the devil reincarnated, I tell her, he stands about six feet three inches tall, weighed two hundred and fifteen pounds, solid muscle, hardly any body fat, looked like someone in a fitness, GQ magazine, a handsome man most women would think, with his mixed heritage’s from having a Spanish father and Afro-American mother, James kept himself in competition shape as if he were still a youth competing for the golden gloves, in James’s middle aged year’s he wore his wavy hair slicked back, his hazel eye’s got lighter when touched by the sun, he kept himself immaculate, dressed to impress, slacks, with button up polo shirts, college prep boy like, James kept a strict routine, he got his hair cut once a week on the same day by the same barber, James didn’t like things being out of place or dirty and on his off time, he made exotic dishes he seen when he watched cooking shows, if you let the ladies tell it, James voice was to die for, most said he had one of those Billy Dee Williams smooth type of voices, which complemented his best trait, his gift of gab, add that with his smooth voice and looks, it made it easy for most women to fall victim in becoming his sexual conquest. Mrs. Thompson, ask, how did I feel about James cheating on my mother? To be truthful, I never gave it any deep thought, my concern had been not about his sexual conquest but rather his physical abuse in how he treated my mother. Then when she left me, I started to resent her and look at his behavior as normal. Seemingly during my next few sessions, Mrs. Thompson, wouldn’t let her inquiry about James go, as if she knew, there laid a deeper secret.

Journal Entry Date: August 2005

Therapy Session

I knew it was going to be a matter of time, when she ask me about what happen to my mother? I was prepared for when she did. Taking my mind to the very night my life would forever seemingly be without her. New years eve 1990, my mother came home from work earlier than usual, she caught another woman leaving the house fixing her clothes, hurt by James’s adulterous betrayal, my mother charged inside the house attacking him, James threw my mother to the floor, she tried her best to fight him but his strength was no match for his, the more she fought with him, the more she fueled his rage and the more she fueled his rage, the angrier he became the stronger he got, almost as if he turns into the incredible Hulk. Go ahead, hit me, Hit me harder, James would yell! Somehow this aggression always turned James on sexually, when women fought him back, why I don’t know. For every ten punched my mother hit James with, he would hit her with one crushing blow, taking the fight out of her, until she no longer had strength to fight him back.

My hands tremble, I felt so powerless growing up watching my mother go through such abuse. Mrs. Thompson, tries to offer me some kleenex tissue to wipe my tears. There was nothing I could do, I holler out in her office, I was to small, to young, to stop the monster, I say to her, while sobbing, my eye’s flushed with tears and rage. What is your mother’s name she ask me? I knew if I answered it, it was going to be followed by many more questions, I to, knew this moment would come, when she’d want to know more about my mother, I just wasn’t prepared to speak about my mother on her terms. Pausing for a moment, I gather my emotions, finally I answer. Stacy, Stacy Bradner, is my mother’s name, from what I remember of her, she stood maybe five feet, five inches tall, she was a bit thick boned, her skin complexion was that of a almond, my mother was very smart, she excelled in education, in fact I remember how happy she was the day she found out she got an intern job working for NASA.

Continuing to gather myself, I smoothen out the cracks in my voice by taking breath’s, as I calm myself down, I tell Mrs. Thompson, I remember my mother telling me to never interfere when her and James fought. She tried to tell me, it looks worse then what it is, I knew she only told me this to keep me from worrying, she told me to look there fights as if they were love taps, like young boys do when they like young girls but don’t know how to show it. Regardless of what my mother said to me, I knew the punches the monster hit her with were hardly love taps. Her bruises lasted for weeks, I knew her telling me there fights weren’t bad, was her way of trying to protect me. Thinking for a moment, I tell, Mrs. Thompson, I always wondered why she took so much abuse from him, I just don’t know why she just didn’t take me and leave and go some where far away, where the monster couldn’t find us but what confuse me even more, was the fact my mother defended the monster’s violent actions, as if he had a valid reason to abuse her and at times when I felt like she was going to explain to me what she mean, she never did. Instead she’d just give me a hug, kiss me on my fore head, then tell me I wasn’t old enough to understand adult problems, as she promise me one day when I get older, she’ll explain it all to me.

Journal Entry Date: August 2005

Therapy Session

Mrs. Thompson, wanting to pick up where we left off, last session, she puts me back deep in my mind of wanting to know about my mother. This time I was prepared to unfold my mother’s disappearance. It was one cold February night, as unusual, I hid in the closet, peeping through it’s key hole. I could see my mother being beaten by the monster and her words to look at his punches like love taps went on deaf ears, because this time I built up enough courage to help her, so I ran from the closet, I went to go find a weapon and the first thing I seen was a broom handle, tippy toeing behind the monster, I got into a baseball stance and I swung the broom handle as hard as I could at the monsters head, missing my mark, my wildly swing cracks over his back, I stood there looking in shock, it was as if he didn’t even feel the broom hit him, instead the monster let’s out a loud roar, like a lion, the monster reaches out with one hand, grabbing me by my throat and throwing me against the wall all in one motion like a rag doll, all while still having my mother pinned down underneath him. Now I knew my mother’s truth’s were lies, his punches just didn’t hurt, they were bone crushing, the monster had the strength of superman. I temporarily lost sense of where I was, I tried hard to pick myself up, I was to daze to gather myself quickly, so I decided to sit back against the wall unit until my heart got back into the fight. I watch my mother grab the monster by his leg’s, in a fetal position begging him, Please not to hurt me. It was at that moment, I felt what shame was, hearing my mother beg for my safety. It was my wrong doing, which caused not only me pain but now realizing the crisp torment my mother will have to endure, as she concedes to do whatever demands he wanted her to do as long as he didn’t hurt me. My mother told me to never get involved when they fought and because I was hard headed, she’d have to pay the price. After going silent for a while, Mrs. Thompson, ends my session, she knew from my abrupt silence she struck a cord, a cord she’ll try to use to get deeper inside my mind.

Journal Entry Date: August 2005

Therapy Session

I bet Mrs. Thompson, couldn’t wait for this session, I could feel her eye’s trying to read my body language, while I sat in her recliner, my eye’s roaming her office I’ve seen many times over, then there it goes, her relentless questions, her questions were starting to make me agitated, hell she didn’t know enough about my life by now, she needs to know more? So, now she wants to know what happen after I help my mother fight the monster. I was starting to dislike this bitch, no matter how pretty she was to look at. Taking my time, I think back to the moment in my life, I’ll never forget. The following morning when I awoken, the house was silent, looking around, I notice some of my mother things were gone and she was no were in sight. Walking towards the open front door, I take a look outside, only to see the monster sitting on the top front step sobbing and mumbling to himself. I could hear him say, how much he regretted his betrayals and abusive ways. I didn’t think much of it, the monster often talk to himself, just like I did, so I looked at it as if it were normal. After a while, I could clearly see the monster had two or three different personalities. The monster often walked around the house holding conversations with himself as if he were talking to five or six people sitting in front of him. Neither me or the monster had any real friends, the friends he did have, he lost because he either beat them up or because he got caught having sexual relations with there wives and girlfriends. The monster knew I didn’t like him, besides he was just some man who sweet talked my mother into accepting his torture. As far as I knew, he probably force my mother to stay as long as she did. I just didn’t understand why she would leave without me? I started to think of reason of why she would do such a thing, maybe the monster use me as a barging chip to make sure she would come back but day’s past, then months, then years, she never returned to get me, she left me there with the monster. Some mother she was, but Mrs. Thompson, I have to tell you, at times I miss my mother so much, I use to think I seen visions of her standing outside next to the tree near the play ground of my school. Maybe I just wanted to believe in my heart she would come back for me, so we could always be together, so when school let out, I ran as fast as I could across the play ground to the tree, to see if my mother would still be there but she never was. She left me waiting and wishing for that day. I often sat on the side of the curb crying, asking myself, could one mistake, of me wanting to help my mother fight the monster be that unforgiving?

Even when I told the monster I seen my mother, he didn’t believe me, so I continue to sit on side of the curb after school, when one day I remember my mother walking up to me, she gave me the biggest hug ever. I didn’t know whether to feel happy or angry and before I could write anything down in my pad for her to read, she stop me, grabbed me by my hands and told me to listen very carefully. She said, Son, soon as I finish taking care of some business, and tie up some lose end’s, I should be able to save enough money, I will come back to get you.

I didn’t understand what she meant by tying up lose ends but it felt good to have hope and to now know that after all that time, I wasn’t seeing thing’s after all. I cried out to her, I hugged her so tight, I remember saying to her, Mommy, please can I come with you? She didn’t answer, she hugged me back, bent down to one knee, looking me directly in my eye’s, then she say’s to me, Son, don’t make this harder for me then it already is. I gave in, promising her I’ll do good in school, I’ll be strong and most important, I will stay out of the monster’s way, which I became accustom to doing. For a long time, I thought about what it will finally be like when my mother came back to get me. Every heart beat in my body wanted to believe in her words, so I waited for her every day after school but she never came back, weeks went past, months, years. I then thought maybe she didn’t love me at all, my mother’s words became a broken promise to me. I bet Mrs. Thompson, loved how her notes scribbled with my torture and before she could finish her questions, asking me, How did I cope with it as the years past? I got up and left her office, until next time Mrs. Thompson, I say to her.

Journal entry Date: October 1991

My after school routine became normal, I’d make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, watch an hour of cartoons on TV and put the channel back, so the monster couldn’t tell I watch TV before finishing my homework, sometimes I starred at the thick metal door leading to the basement, wondering