Текст книги "An Evil Mind"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

Kennedy stepped closer.

‘Any news from La Honda?’ Hunter asked at last, his arms still hugging the punch bag.

Kennedy nodded with very little enthusiasm.

Hunter used his teeth to pull free the Velcro straps on both of his gloves and turned to face the director.

‘I had four agents check the site.’

Hunter used the inside of his left arm and the left side of his torso to grab his right glove and pulled his hand free, before undoing his left glove.

‘They found the house Lucien mentioned.’ Kennedy threw Hunter a towel. ‘The agents followed Lucien’s instructions to the specific location and began digging. They dug for an hour.’ He handed Hunter an A4-size envelope. ‘And this is what they found.’

Hunter quickly dried his face and hands before reaching inside the envelope and retrieving a couple of printed-out photographs. As his eyes devoured the images, his heartbeat picked up speed once again.

The first photograph showed a full human skeleton, its bones old and time-discolored, lying inside what looked to be a five-foot-deep grave.

The second one was a close-up snapshot of the skull.

In silence, Hunter stared at both pictures for a long time, dwelling on the second one for a lot longer than the first, as if he were mentally reconstructing Susan’s face over her skull.

Kennedy took a step back, giving Hunter a moment before he spoke again. ‘Since we already know that Lucien is a serial offender, protocol dictates that we now dig up the entire site,’ Kennedy said, ‘looking for possible remains of other bodies. It’s a huge operation, and there’s no way of doing that without getting the local authorities involved and bringing a Hollywood-size spotlight to this case.’

‘I’d wait a while, Adrian,’ Hunter said. He’d never been a big fan of protocol. ‘At least until we’re finished interviewing him. So far Lucien has been straight with us. If there are other bodies buried around that same area, I have a feeling he will tell us. Bringing a spotlight to this investigation right now won’t benefit anyone.’

Kennedy usually played by the book, but right then he was inclined to agree with Hunter.

‘It will take at least a couple of days and a few tests to confirm if what we’ve got really is Susan Richards’ skeleton,’ Kennedy said.

‘It will be,’ Hunter replied, returning the printouts to the envelope.

Kennedy looked a question at Hunter.

‘Lucien had no reason to lie,’ Hunter said.

The question remained in Kennedy’s eyes.

‘We already know he killed Susan,’ Hunter clarified. ‘He told us that, and the framed tattooed piece of skin in his basement confirmed it. If he had disposed of Susan’s body in a way where no remains could be found, he would’ve just told us so.’ He jabbed a finger at the envelope. ‘If those were the remains of someone else’s body, who he’d also have killed, because he knew the exact location where it was buried, there was no point in telling us it was Susan’s, because he knows we will be testing it anyway.’

Kennedy’s head bobbed down once. ‘I understand, but just to be on the safe side, I think you’d better wait for official confirmation before contacting her parents.’

Hunter nodded slowly before using the towel on his face and arms again. Bringing the news to Susan’s parents was one job he wasn’t looking forward to. ‘I’ve got to take a shower.’

‘Come up to my office when you’re done,’ Kennedy said. ‘There’s something else I need to show you.’

Fifty-Five

Twenty minutes later, Hunter, his hair still wet from his shower, was back inside Director Kennedy’s office. Special Agent Taylor was also there. She had lost the ponytail. Her blonde hair was loose and wavy, falling naturally over her shoulders. She was wearing a dark pencil skirt with a tucked-in blue blouse, black nylon stockings, and black strappy court shoes. She was sitting in one of the armchairs in front of Kennedy’s desk. In her hands, the same photographs Hunter had looked at down in the gym, the ones of Susan Richards’ remains.

Kennedy got up from behind his desk.

‘You still drink Scotch?’ he asked Hunter.

Single-malt Scotch whisky was Hunter’s biggest passion. Unlike so many, he knew how to appreciate its palate instead of just getting drunk on it. Though sometimes getting drunk worked just fine.

Hunter nodded. ‘Do you?’

‘When at all possible.’ Kennedy walked over to the cabinet to his left, opened it and retrieved three tumblers and a bottle of Tomatin 25-year-old.

‘Not for me, sir, thank you,’ Taylor said, placing the photographs back inside the envelope.

‘Relax, Agent Taylor,’ Kennedy said in a reassuring tone. ‘This is an informal meeting, and after what we’ve all been through today, I’d say a drink is more than appropriate.’ A hesitant pause. ‘Unless you don’t drink Scotch. In that case I can get you something else.’

‘Scotch is fine, sir,’ Taylor replied confidently.

‘Ice?’

Hunter shook his head. ‘Just a drop of water, please.’

‘Same here,’ Taylor said.

Kennedy smiled. ‘Looks like I’ve got a couple of true Scotch drinkers in my office.’

He poured the three of them a healthy dose, added a splash of water, and handed a glass to Hunter and one to Taylor.

‘I need to ask you something, Robert,’ Kennedy said in a more serious tone.

Hunter sipped his Scotch. It was pleasantly rich without being overpowering, with notes of citrus and fruit. A complex but very smooth palate. He enjoyed the taste for a moment.

Taylor did the same.

‘Do you think Lucien was lying about the cannibalism?’ Kennedy asked. ‘That’s something that we have no way of proving.’

‘I can’t see what he would achieve by lying about that,’ Hunter replied.

‘Maybe he was going for the “shock” effect, Robert,’ Kennedy said. ‘People with a “God” complex thrive on the attention. You both know that.’

Hunter shook his head. ‘Not Lucien. He doesn’t want notoriety. At least not yet. As sickening as it sounds, I don’t think he’s lying about what he’s done . . . about eating some of Susan’s flesh or organs . . . or about feeding it to her parents.’

Kennedy paused, doubt bubbling in his eyes. ‘You know I don’t come from a psychology background, Robert, so let me ask you the same question Lucien asked Agent Taylor.’ His head jerked in her direction. ‘Why would he do that? Lucien drove across state lines with parts of her cooked into a dish just to offer it to her parents, for chrissakes. That’s beyond deranged, beyond evil, beyond immoral, beyond anything I’ve ever seen or heard. And I’ve seen and heard a lot in my life. What kind of evil mind drives anyone to do such a thing?’ He had another mouthful of Scotch.

Taylor looked at Hunter curiously.

He shrugged and looked away.

‘I’ve read studies, books, papers, theses . . . you name it, about cannibal killers, serial or not,’ Kennedy added. ‘God knows, we’ve had many of them down in those same cells over the years. And I understand that a good number of them believe that they do it because to them their victims are special, and the act of eating them solidifies their bond with their victims. They feel that if they eat even a small part of them, the victims will stay with them forever and all that crap.’ He gave Hunter and Taylor a subtle headshake. ‘I guess everyone deludes in their own way. But feeding it to others . . .? That’s just pure sadism and psychosis. What else can explain it?’

Hunter said nothing.

Kennedy pushed it.

‘So if you have anything that could throw any sort of light on the “whys” of this madness, Robert, please humor me, because I can’t figure it out. Why did he feed her to her parents? Was it pure sadism?’

Hunter sipped his drink again and leaned against the bookcase. ‘No, I don’t think it was sadism. I think he did it because he felt guilty.’

Fifty-Six

Kennedy’s doubtful look bounced between Hunter and Taylor. The FBI Agent didn’t look at all surprised.

‘Could you please elaborate, Robert,’ he said in his whispering voice. ‘Because to me, feeding someone to her own parents doesn’t quite sound like the actions of a person stricken by guilt.’

Hunter looked around him, as if searching for an answer that might’ve been floating around in the air.

‘We could theorize as much as we like here, Adrian, but the only one who really knows what was going on inside his head is Lucien himself.’

‘I understand that,’ Kennedy agreed. ‘But I still would like to know your thoughts on why you think guilt had anything to do with it.’

‘If Lucien is being truthful about Susan being his first ever victim,’ Hunter said, ‘and right now we have no reason to doubt that, then, as you know, guilt and remorse are the first two common psychological emotions that usually torment a first-time killer.’

Kennedy and Taylor both did know that. According to the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit, ‘serial murder’ is defined as: a series of three or more killings, committed on three or more separate occasions, with a ‘cooling-off’ period between murders. These murders must also have common characteristics such as to suggest the reasonable possibility that the crimes had been committed by the same person or persons.

That cooling-off period, Kennedy knew, especially between the initial killings of a series, was almost always due to the perpetrator or perpetrators experiencing intense feelings of guilt and/or remorse directly after committing the crime.

That was easily understandable. Most aggressors who eventually become serial murderers struggle with fantasies, urges, destructive impulses and even rage attacks for a long time, sometimes years, finding them harder and harder to resist until the urges finally win the battle. The simple fact that they struggle with these impulses for such a long time clearly indicates that they know that killing another human being is wrong. It then becomes a simple psychological human response.

Most people usually experience some level of guilt if they do something they know to be wrong – cheat in an exam, steal the paper from the neighbor’s door, cheat on a partner, tell a lie, or whatever. That sense of guilt is directly proportional to how wrong they believe their actions were – the worse the actions, the bigger the guilt trip. And bad actions don’t come much worse than murder. For that reason, many first-time murderers will be thrown into the depths of dark depression and experience a tremendous feeling of guilt directly after killing someone. With that in mind, it stood to reason that Lucien had also experienced enormous lows, and was overwhelmed by incredible feelings of guilt after his first ever murder.

‘OK, I agree that Lucien must’ve struggled with different stages of guilt in the aftermath of murdering Susan,’ Kennedy admitted. ‘But I still can see no reason why, overwhelmed by guilt or not, he would’ve fed parts of her body to her own parents, Robert.’

‘I can see two possible reasons,’ Hunter said, with a hand gesture. ‘The first one you mentioned just a moment ago.’

Kennedy’s eyes squinted a fraction. ‘And what was that?’

‘The belief that by consuming the flesh of their victims, the victims will then stay with them forever. They will become part of them,’ Taylor said in a half whisper. ‘Or whoever eats them.’ She allowed Kennedy a few seconds to reanalyze that statement.

Kennedy caught on quickly. ‘Jesus! Third-party transference.’ He looked at Hunter for confirmation but proceeded anyway. ‘So Lucien believed that if her parents consumed some of her flesh, then Susan would stay with them forever?’

‘As Lucien said,’ Taylor commented, ‘she was never meant to be a victim, and he also thought that her parents were nice people. So Robert could be right. He might’ve done it because he felt guilty at taking their daughter away from them.’

Kennedy considered that for a long, silent moment.

‘And the second possible reason?’ he finally asked.

‘The second reason links to the first,’ Hunter said. ‘Lucien told us that he used to hunt with his father, right?’

‘Yes, I remember that.’ Kennedy said.

‘He also said that his father was a great hunter.’

‘Yes, I remember that too.’

‘OK, many hunters inherit a belief that’s been passed down through generations and generations of Native Americans,’ Hunter explained.

Kennedy’s eyebrows arched curiously.

‘Native Americans never hunted for fun or sport. They hunted exclusively for food, and they believed that they must eat whatever they killed, always, because to eat their prey was to honor them. They believed that it kept their spirit alive in this world. It showed respect. To let their flesh go to waste, that would be a dishonor.’

Kennedy didn’t know that, but his memory and his eyes instantly flashed back to Susan Richards’ file sitting on his desk. Her mother was second-generation Shoshone, a Native American tribe, mostly from the area that became the state of Nevada. Her family name was Tuari, which meant ‘young eagle’. Kennedy was well aware that Lucien knew that too.

Taylor looked at Hunter intriguingly.

‘I read a lot,’ Hunter offered before she was able to ask the question.

‘So you think that, in his mind at least, Lucien was redeeming himself, even if only a little bit,’ Kennedy stated rather than asked. ‘He was being compassionate, by feeding her flesh to her own parents, he was trying to keep Susan’s spirit alive for them, even without their knowledge.

‘Everyone deludes in their own way.’ Hunter repeated Kennedy’s words from a little earlier. ‘But like I said, we can theorize as much as we like here, but the only one who really knows what was going on inside his head is Lucien himself.’

‘So in that case, let me ask you this,’ Kennedy said. ‘Why do you think he took part? Lucien said that he did sit down to have dinner with them that night.’

‘Because Lucien was experimenting.’

Kennedy pinched the bridge of his nose as if he could feel an oncoming headache.

‘In college, Lucien didn’t exactly doubt any of the theories behind these sadistic acts,’ he said. ‘He knew they were based on true accounts from apprehended offenders, but he was on the verge of almost obsessing with the feelings and emotions described by such offenders.’

Kennedy remembered something Lucien had said during one of the interviews. ‘He wanted to experience them for himself.’

‘Back then, he never said so in so many words,’ Hunter agreed. ‘But now we know that that was exactly what he wanted, to experiment. And that’s what makes Lucien so different from most psychopaths I’ve ever come up against.’

Kennedy’s eyebrows moved up inquisitively.

‘We know that he killed Susan, his first victim, by strangulation,’ Hunter elaborated. ‘But if we compare her murder to his latest one, the two victims in his trunk . . . the MO, the level of violence, everything has skyrocketed. I’m willing to bet that the violence in every murder he’d committed in between moved up a step at a time. But Lucien escalates not because he’s being guided by uncontrollable urges inside of him.’

‘He does it consciously,’ Taylor said, picking up Hunter’s thread of thought. ‘He does it because he wants to know how he would feel as he becomes more and more violent.’

‘That’s a frightening thought,’ Kennedy said. ‘The level of determination and self-discipline one needs to carry on escalating murder after murder for twenty-five years is mindboggling. And you think he did it just so he could experience the feeling?’

Hunter had paused, his memory digging out something long forgotten. ‘I’ll be damned!’ He finally exclaimed.

‘What?’ Kennedy asked.

‘I can’t believe he’s really doing it,’ Hunter murmured.

‘Doing what?’

‘I think Lucien might’ve been writing an encyclopedia.’

Fifty-Seven

Kennedy’s shoulder’s stiffened as he felt an awkward shiver grab hold of his whole body, something that didn’t happen very often when it came to BSU investigations. He waited for Hunter to continue.

‘I remember this discussion we had once.’ Hunter’s memory searched the past. ‘I think it was during our second year in college. We were discussing emotional triggers and drives in extreme violent murders – what psychological factors could drive an individual to sadistically and brutally offend and reoffend.’

‘OK,’ Kennedy said, still intrigued.

‘Back then, all we had were a bunch of theories put together by several psychologists and psychiatrists, and a handful of accounts by apprehended killers. Now bear in mind that notorious cannibal killers like Jeffrey Dahmer, Armin Meiwes, or Andrej Chikatilo hadn’t been caught yet. Their interviews, accounts and thoughts weren’t on file.’

Kennedy and Taylor both nodded together.

‘As I’ve said,’ Hunter moved on, ‘Lucien didn’t doubt the veracity of the accounts we had then, but he wasn’t quite convinced by many of the psychological theories. What I remember he used to say a lot was: “How can they know for sure?”’

‘They couldn’t,’ Taylor said. ‘That’s why it was a theory, not a fact.’

‘Precisely,’ Hunter agreed. ‘And Lucien understood that.’

‘But he wasn’t satisfied,’ Kennedy concluded.

‘No, he wasn’t. And that day he suggested something so far-fetched, I had completely forgotten about it.’

‘And that was?’

Hunter took a deep breath while trying to remember the details.

‘The surreal possibility of someone becoming a killer solely to experiment,’ he finally said. ‘Lucien argued how ground-breaking it would be for criminal behavior psychology if a fully mentally capable individual went on a killing rampage, escalating his or her way through different levels of violence, and experimenting with different methods and fantasies, while at the same time taking comprehensive notes of everything, including feelings and psychological state of mind at the time, and in the aftermath of each murder. Some sort of in-depth psychological study of the mind of a killer, written by the killer himself.’

Kennedy’s body tensed just a little, fighting the same awkward shiver that had run deep inside him just moments ago.

‘He believed that a notebook, or even a series of notebooks, filled with such true accounts would become an encyclopedia of knowledge, a bible of sorts to criminal behavioral scientists.’

Kennedy scratched his left cheek. He couldn’t help thinking that, as absurd as it sounded, Lucien was right. If such a book, or books, existed, they’d prove invaluable and probably become one of the most referred-to works by criminologists, psychologists and law enforcement officials and agents all around the world. Such a book, especially if written by someone with a criminal psychology degree, someone who understood the importance of such information and knew exactly what to add, would no doubt become some sort of holy book in the never-ending fight against violent predators.

‘I think that might be what he was doing,’ Hunter said, his thoughts beginning to turn his stomach. ‘Jumping from murder to murder, escalating the violence with each one, trying different things, different methods . . . and keeping a diary of how he felt, especially emotionally.’ In his mind, that would give him the excuse he wanted.’

Kennedy’s forehead creased as he looked at Hunter. ‘Excuse?’

‘Lucien is a sociopath, no doubt about that, we know it and he knows it. The difference is: he’s known it for a long time. He told us that, remember?’

Taylor nodded. ‘He started fantasizing while still in school.’

‘That’s right, and I think that that knowledge hurt him. A regular kid shouldn’t be fantasizing about killing people. Maybe it all made him feel like something inside his brain was broken, that he didn’t belong. He even told us that the reason why he decided to study criminal behavior psychology was to understand himself.’

‘But that backfired,’ Kennedy said.

‘No, it didn’t,’ Hunter replied. ‘If anything, it pushed his imagination further. It made him come up with what to him sounded like a plausible motive.’

‘What better excuse to commit atrocious acts of violence than to fool yourself into believing that you’re doing it for a noble cause,’ Taylor said, following Hunter’s line of thought. ‘All in the name of research.’

‘That false belief would’ve eased his internal pain,’ Hunter added. ‘Lucien could then start feeding his hunger because in his mind, he wasn’t a sociopath anymore . . . he was a scientist, a researcher. Everyone deludes in their own way, remember?’

Kennedy broke eye contact.

‘Is there something else?’ Hunter asked. ‘Something you’re not telling us?’

Kennedy shrugged and pursed his lips in reply. He walked over to his desk, opened the top right-hand drawer and pulled out a notebook. It was the same notebook Special Agent Chris Welch had handed him in the holding cells’ observation room earlier.

Hunter immediately recognized the notebook as one of those he and Special Agent Taylor had seen in Lucien’s basement.

‘Unfortunately, you might be right, Robert,’ Kennedy said. ‘Because we found this.’

Fifty-Eight

As if it were something he’d been dreading for years, Hunter took the notebook from Kennedy’s hands and flipped open its cover.

Taylor moved to Hunter’s side.

On the first page all they saw was a crude, black-and-white pencil sketch of a female face, screaming, contorted in agony.

Hunter’s eyes left the page and moved to Kennedy.

The BSU Director gestured for Hunter to carry on.

Hunter turned to the second page. No more drawings, just plain handwritten text. Hunter immediately recognized Lucien’s handwriting.

He began reading:

I guess my head is starting to change. At first, after every kill, I was overwhelmed by intense feelings of guilt, as I expected I would be. Sometimes for months. I came close to turning myself in many times. Many times I promised myself I’d never do it again. But as time went by and the guilty feeling began to lessen, slowly and very steadily, the desire to do it all again would come back. I wanted it to come back. With every victim, my guilt phase grew shorter and shorter, to the point that they are now almost non-existent – a couple of days long, if that.

There’s no doubt that my mind has adapted. Murder has become something that feels natural to me now. When I’m out, I often look around, and as my eyes settle on someone in a bar, on a train, on the streets . . . wherever I am, I find myself thinking of how easily I could kill anyone. How much I could make them scream. How much pain I could inflict before I actually kill them. And those thoughts excite me more than ever.

Getting rid of these thoughts has become harder and harder, but the truth is, I don’t want to get rid of them. I now understand that killing can indeed become a very powerful drug. More powerful than any drug I’ve ever tried. And I am completely hooked. But despite my addiction, one thing I’ve learnt is that I need some sort of trigger to finally push me over the edge.

That trigger can be anything – a certain physical type that matches a specific look, the way someone talks or looks at me, the way someone dresses, the scent they’re wearing, an action they take, a mannerism they have . . . anything. I don’t know it until I see it.

I saw it again last night.

Hunter flipped the page but stopped reading to look at Kennedy again. He had his hands tucked deep inside his trouser pockets. His saggy cheeks seemed to have gained more weight in the past few days, and the dark circles under his eyes had taken an even more morbid appearance. His gaze was locked on the notebook in Hunter’s hands.

Hunter went back to the words on the pages:

It was late. I had just ordered my third double Scotch. I wasn’t looking for anything or anyone. I just felt like getting drunk, that’s all. Actually, I felt like getting obliterated. It was by chance that I found myself in Forest City, Mississippi. I hadn’t booked into a motel or anything. I figured I’d just get hammered, pass out in my car outside in the parking lot, wake up sometime the next day and be on my way.

But things didn’t happen that way.

I was sitting at the far end of the bar, keeping to myself. It was a slow night with not many customers. The barman tried to be friendly and start a conversation, but I was curt enough that he quickly got the hint.

As the bartender poured me my next drink, a new face walked into the bar. He was big, a lot bigger than me – a mixture of muscle and greasy fat. He was taller too, by at least three to four inches. The bartender called him Jed.

Jed’s hair was cut so short I wondered why he didn’t just shave it all off. He had a jagged half-moon scar on the underside of his chin, clearly the result of someone taking the rear end of a broken bottle to his face. His nose had also been broken more than once, and his right ear looked a little out of shape, as if it’d been smashed against his skull. It didn’t take someone with a lot of brainpower to know that Jed liked to get himself into fights.

He took a seat at the bar, four stools to my left, and as he did, two other customers who were at the tables behind us got up and left.

It didn’t look like Jed was a very popular guy either.

He stank of cheap booze and stale sweat.

‘Gi’me a fucking beer, Tom,’ he called, his voice dragging a little. His pupils were the size of dinner plates, so he was definitely loaded on something heavier than just alcohol.

‘C’mon, Jed.’ The barman hesitated, keeping his voice even. ‘It’s late, and you’ve certainly had enough for one night.’

Jed’s Bulldog brow creased even further.

‘Don’t fucking tell me I’ve had enough, Tom.’

His voice grew louder by a few decibels, and another customer sneaked out the door.

‘I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough. Now gi’me a fucking beer before I shove one up your pussy little ass.’

Tom grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge, unscrewed its top and placed it on the bar in front of Jed.

Jed took it and swallowed half of it down in three large gulps.

I didn’t realize I was staring until Jed turned to me.

‘What the fuck are you looking at?’ he said, pushing his beer bottle to one side.

‘Are you some kind of fag?’

I didn’t answer him, and still didn’t look away.

‘I asked you a question, fag.’

Jed took another swig of his beer.

‘You like what you see, fag?’ He lifted his right arm and flexed his bicep like a bodybuilder before blowing me a kiss.

I was hypnotized by that sack of shit that called himself Jed.

‘C’mon, Jed,’ the bartender tried to intervene, clearly foreseeing what was to come. ‘Let it go, man. The guy is just trying to have a quiet drink.’

He looked at me with a face that said – ‘Dude, please just go. You don’t want this trouble, trust me.’

I didn’t move. I probably wasn’t even blinking.

‘Shut the fuck up, Tom,’ Jed said, pointing a finger at him, but looking at me. ‘I want to know why this fag likes looking at me so much. Do you want to fuck a real man tonight? Is that it, fag? Would you like a piece of this?’ Jed used both hands to point to his massive gut.

My eyes slowly ran the length of his body, and that seemed to piss him off way past his limit. His jaw locked in anger. His face became even redder, and he stood up from his stool threateningly.

And that was it.

That was the trigger.

It wasn’t his obnoxious way, or his smell, or the name calling, or the fact that he was so damn ugly he probably had to sneak up on his mirror. It wasn’t even that he didn’t allow me to get drunk in peace. It was the fact that he thought he could assert his superiority over me that did it. That pushed me over the edge.

Right there and then, I knew Jed would die that night.

Fifty-Nine

Hunter stopped reading and looked at Kennedy.

Even though he was looking at the words upside down, Kennedy had been following Hunter’s eyes and he knew exactly where he’d paused.

‘Read on,’ he said. ‘There’s a twist.’

I didn’t face up to Jed. Not there. I wasn’t about to get into a fistfight with him in a public place. That would’ve been way too reckless.

I placed thirty dollars on the bar to cover my drinks, got up and took a couple of steps back.

‘What’s the problem, fag?’ Jed said, sounding and moving his hands like a ghetto rapper. ‘Too scared?’

Tom, who had moved from behind the bar, quickly jumped in, putting himself between Jed and myself.

‘C’mon, Jed, there’s no problem here. The guy didn’t say anything, and he was just leaving, right?’

Tom twisted his neck to look at me, his eyes begging me not to engage, and leave.

I finally snapped out of my staring trance, looked down at the floor, and began walking away.

‘That’s right, fag, get your pussy ass out of here before I fuck you up.’

I opened the door and stepped outside into the warm and damp night.

I didn’t go anywhere. I just got into my car, drove it over to the other side of the road, and parked it in a dark spot, next to a rusty dumpster. From there, I had a clear view of the bar’s entrance.

I waited.

Jed walked out the door forty-six minutes later and staggered over to a battered Ford pick-up truck. It took him almost a minute to manage to slot his keys into the keyhole and open the door. He didn’t drive off straight away either, and for a moment I thought that he would fall asleep in the truck, but he didn’t. He lit up a spliff and smoked the whole damn thing before he turned on his engine.

I followed him as he pulled onto the road. I kept my distance, but I didn’t really have to. Jed’s senses were mushed. He wouldn’t have noticed a pink elephant in a golden tutu following him.

Jed’s driving was all over the place, and what scared me the most was the possibility of him being stopped by a cop. If that had happened, Jed would’ve spent the night in a cell for driving under the influence, and I would’ve probably walked away from the whole situation. Unfortunately for Jed, Forest City in Scott County, Mississippi, seemed deserted of cops that night.

Jed lived just outside town, in a single-story, dirty, old and faded-blue wooden house by the side of the road. There was no garage, and the driveway was nothing but dirt and gravel, flanked by shrubs and overgrown grass. He parked his truck by the rusty metal fence that circled the property, and smoked another spliff before finally wobbling his way into the house.

I found a hidden place to park, waited twenty minutes, and very quietly crossed over to the house. The front door was locked, but it didn’t take me long to find an open window. I knew there’d be one. With no air conditioning, the night was too hot and stuffy for Jed to have kept all the windows and doors shut.