Chris Carter - I Am Death

Hunter and Doctor Snyder squatted down next to Garcia, and he indicated a specific blood splatter among the hundreds on that side. Not the smallest, but not the largest one of them either.

Hunter and the doctor looked at it, frowned, then bent down further, bringing their faces just inches from the carpet.

‘Wait a second,’ Doctor Snyder said, getting up, walking over to his forensics bag in the corner and retrieving a large magnifying lens. ‘This might help.’ He handed it to Hunter.

With the help of the lens, Hunter considered the bloodstain for a long moment. From a few feet up, looking down, it looked just like all the other splatters, but once he and Doctor Snyder got closer, they noticed its odd shape.

A splatter is a drop of liquid that travels through the air and splashes against a surface or object, creating an irregular shape as it does. And that was the problem. The shape of this specific splatter wasn’t irregular. It looked almost like a perfect half moon.

Hunter’s gaze alternated between the splatter and the victim a couple of times, and he was obviously weighing up something in his mind. Then, just as Garcia had done a couple of minutes earlier, he placed his pinky finger at the center of the splatter and pressed down on the carpet. A few seconds later, his attention moved to the hundreds of other splatters that surrounded the half-moon one.

‘What are you looking for?’ the doctor asked.

‘A second splatter, similar in shape to that one.’

Garcia had already been looking for the same thing. He found it first.

‘Right here,’ he said, now calling their attention to a spot in the carpet that was about a foot and a half from where the first splatter was. It wasn’t quite the same. This one was a lot rounder than the first one. Nearly a full circle, in fact, but it was hollow. There was no center to it. All that could be seen was its round edge. The second splatter also seemed to fall in an almost direct line with the first one.

Hunter checked it, once again pressing his finger against the carpet at the center of it. Across from it, also in a direct line, there were no splatters but a puddle of blood. Hunter calculated something in his head, then used his finger again, this time as though he was searching for something somewhere inside that puddle.

‘So what do you think those are?’ Doctor Snyder asked.

Hunter and Garcia had both seen similar splatters and carpet depressions before.

‘Foot marks,’ Hunter replied, standing up again and indicating one of the forensic lights. ‘From a tripod. Similar to that one, but a little smaller. It was set right here. Its weight left slight indentations on the carpet where each foot would’ve been. The third leg sat on that puddle of blood, that’s what I was prodding for.’

The doctor’s eyes narrowed.

‘The killer filmed it.’

Squirm woke up in fright as the heavy door to his dark cell was hastily thrown open by his captor. It slammed against the inside concrete wall with purpose, shaking the entire room and sending a thunderous blast reverberating through the air.

Like a startled rat, the boy’s skinny legs kicked out wildly as he desperately scrambled his way to the corner where his dirty mattress met the damp wall. When he got there, he immediately curled himself into a ball, bringing his thin arms up to protect his already scarred head.

He hadn’t done anything wrong. Or at least he thought he hadn’t. He had cleaned the kitchen, the living room and his captor’s bedroom, just like he had to every day. He had scrubbed the floor, the shower tray, the plughole and the toilet bowl in the bathroom to as clean as it would get, and to prove it, he had licked around the toilet rim and drunk from its water. He never made any noise. He spoke only when spoken to, stayed as far away from the basement as he could, and he only ate the scraps of what was left from his captor’s breakfast and dinner — never lunch.

Every day, after breakfast and cleaning duties, Squirm was locked back into his cell and left there until the evening, when his captor would come in and either beat him up, sodomize him, or both. After that, Squirm was usually allowed to feed on leftovers. Usually, not always.

But it wasn’t nighttime yet. It couldn’t be. Squirm was sure of it. He had no watch, and no way of telling the time, but something told him that, at a stretch, it was early afternoon. Then again, his captor needed no excuse to storm into Squirm’s cell whenever he felt like it and allow his anger and sexual deviance to rain over the small boy like a meteor shower.

With a mixture of anger and limb-trembling fear, Squirm’s whole body tensed as he ground his teeth and waited for the first blow. Hand, belt, or whip. He never knew. But this time that first blow never came.

‘C’mon, get on your feet, Squirm,’ ‘The Monster’ said from the door.

In his head, Squirm called him ‘The Monster’ because, whoever he was, that man was no human being.

Squirm thought he’d heard wrong. Not the man’s words, but his tone of voice. It seemed to carry no rage whatsoever. Thinking back, it reminded him of the first time they’d met, just near his school. A day Squirm knew he would curse for the rest of his life.

‘C’mon, Squirm, get up on your feet and come with me. I wanna show you something.’

Yes, Squirm had heard right. The man’s tone was calm and inviting, almost playful.

Squirm slowly moved his arms out of the way and looked back at his captor. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the light that seeped through from the corridor outside. ‘The Monster’ was standing just inside the cell, staring straight at him. No anger in his expression either.

‘C’mon, c’mon,’ he said again, clapping his hands twice. ‘We don’t have all day. Let’s go.’ He tagged his last words with a subtle head-jerk. He then turned, stepped back out through the door and waited.

Squirm couldn’t quite grasp what was going on, but he sure as hell didn’t want to make ‘The Monster’ wait. In a flash, the boy jumped to his feet, took in a deep breath of damp, mold-smelling air, and followed his captor outside.

The man took Squirm up the squeaky wooden stairs to the second floor and into a padlocked room that he’d never been allowed in before. The room was relatively small, about sixty square feet, with a dark-gray linoleum floor and a single window at the center of the west wall, which had been boarded up with steel plates. No one could see out or in. The walls and the ceiling were all painted black and completely bare. A corner lamp cast the room in a glow of cold orange light. The space was also bare of furniture, save for a two-seater black leather sofa that sat to the right of the entry door, and faced a projection screen mounted on to the opposite wall. The sickly sweet and musky aroma that came from the room was like nothing Squirm had ever smelled before. It made his stomach crumple inside of him, and without even registering, the boy held his breath and squeezed his lips together as tightly as he could.

As he glanced inside the sinister-looking room, Squirm noticed that the sofa had been covered by some sort of thick, impermeable plastic sheet.

‘I like to call this my cinema room,’ ‘The Monster’ said, stepping inside and proudly widening his arms, as if about to hug an invisible friend.

Squirm paused at the door, his frightened gaze darting about the room.

‘It’s perfect, isn’t it?’ ‘The Monster’ smiled. ‘So, would you like to watch a film with me, Squirm?’ He sounded animated, like a caring father talking to his son.

Squirm finally breathed in again, and immediately he felt like throwing up. His gaze traveled to ‘The Monster’ but he didn’t know how to reply. The man saw the boy’s doubt and helped him out.