Paul Cleave - Collecting Cooper

He really did want to help the girl who saved him, but the missing camera may be in the hands of the police, they may have seen photos of him with Emma Green, they may have searched his office and found pictures of him with Jane Tyrone. He needs to find that out before going to the police, and if he walked out of here with the girl, what could he say to her to keep her quiet until he knew for sure the police didn’t know he was a killer? The moment they escaped she would be calling for help. It was unfortunate, but he couldn’t take her with him. It was too risky.

The blade is deep inside the girl’s stomach. Her eyes are wide and he can see all sorts of thoughts running behind them, the foremost one her regret at unbolting the door. She’s no longer struggling. Blood rolls along the edges of the blade and warms his hand, and in the thrust he gave the knife to enter her he has managed to cut himself, his hand jarring forward and dragging the web of this thumb along the sharp edge. He lets go and repositions his grip on the handle. It’s getting slippery.

Seven minutes left.

He presses his body weight against her, holding her against the wall. There are tears in her eyes and her face is red. She is losing a battle she no longer even has the strength to fight. With his free hand he pinches shut her nose, and at the same time crumples the end of the straw into his palm. Her eyes grow wider, her face redder, veins stand out in her neck and her forehead. Her eyeballs, he really believes, are in jeopardy of popping right on out. It’s something he’d be curious to see happen, but at the same time he thinks it would gross him out. Something inside her nose clicks loudly. Then her mouth opens, the lips tearing, glued skin hanging from them like tiny leaves, the straw dangling from her bottom lip like a cigarette as blood splatters across her chin. She inhales loudly but her lungs don’t even fill before he twists the knife, any air sucked in immediately rushing out.

He doesn’t want this to take much longer, and it doesn’t. Her eyes are asking the question she cannot.

“Because it’s who I am,” he tells her, then, when that isn’t enough, he carries on. He feels as though he needs to. “I’m sorry,” he adds, and he thinks he means it.

Her eyes roll up and then she sinks to the floor. This is different from the other girl who died. This way is more enjoyable, and it’s the way he always wanted to do it. There is nothing sexual here, and he misses that, but that hasn’t made the experience any less rewarding. The last girl died while he was gone. She just gave up. He can’t help but wish he knew what his peers would say, not only other killers, but those who study them too. What would they say about a man whose need is so strong he kills the very woman who set him free and could possibly help? That makes him a step above any other killer. It makes him brilliant. If he could tell them, he’d say it wasn’t just a need, it was also about semantics. He couldn’t take her with him. He has to kill Adrian. Camera aside, his personal life has to stay personal-any talk of him being a serial killer could end up having the police dig deeper than need be, and then it’s all over for him, then he may as well have stayed down here because at least it would have been safer than real jail.

He looks down at the woman. There are tattoos on the insides of her arms and needle marks on the insides of her elbows. There’s something about her that makes him think she’s a prostitute, that her body has been polluted with the needs and anger of hundreds of men. Her blood has flecked onto his face. He wipes at it with the back of his arm. His shirt is covered in dark red patches. Annoyed, he plucks the wet material away from his body, and when he lets it go it clings back to his stomach. The blood is already cooling down. He looks at the cut on his hand. Jesus, all that blood mixing with his wound-fuck, he’s going to need to take a shower. The way things are going, he’s going to get out of here, get his life back, only to find out he’s just become HIV positive or has hepatitis, or maybe he’s struck the jackpot and has AIDS.

He makes his way to the top of the stairs. He puts the webbing between his thumb and finger into his mouth and pinches down softly with his teeth, tasting the blood. He sucks it into his mouth then spits it onto the floor. He holds his ear against the door. He can make out classical music. There is some natural light showing around the edges of the door but not much. He puts his hand on the handle. It’s unlocked. He has four minutes left. Maybe longer. He slowly opens the door and the music gets louder.

The corridor looks the same as the last time he was here three years ago, back when he had ideas of writing a book that people were going to care about. Movement. Out from the shadow of one of the other doors. He knows what’s about to happen, just as he knows he has been played, that he has been fooled by a man who is nothing but a fool, and before he can move the pain hits him, a blinding pain that makes his entire body shut down and he drops like a rock, his mind trying to move his arms and legs but all the wiring in between has been switched off. He watches Adrian come over and can do nothing as he crouches down and holds the rag over his face. The sweet chemical smell, the taste, and then there is nothing.

Friday morning and the rain is still hanging about. There’s some fresh bacon and eggs in the fridge, courtesy of my mother, I manage to burn the bacon but not the eggs. I’m feeling tired, last night after the sketch artist left I spent three hours online looking into the pasts of Pamela Deans and Cooper Riley and eventually finding a connection thin enough to tear, a connection involving an abandoned mental institution. I turn my cell phone on and check my messages. There are three, two from Donovan Green, and one from Schroder. Schroder tells me there were no bodies found in the fire and that the fire department is of the belief both fires were set in the same manner. Schroder goes on to say he has been unable to get a warrant for Cooper Riley’s medical records from three years ago on account of medical records being one of the hardest things to be given.

From the clouds outside you’d never know we’d just come through a heat wave. Rain is pouring from the gutters of my house into the garden, and the roads are overflowing, water rushing toward drains mostly blocked with leaves. I want to start my day by driving out to see my wife, I want to hold her hand and escape the world for an hour, but it’s not going to happen and, strangely, I’m okay with it. I don’t feel guilty at not seeing my wife, but I feel guilty at not feeling bad about it.

I switch on the TV and eat my breakfast in the living room, watching the morning news. Emma Green’s disappearance has finally become newsworthy. The story about her lasts ten minutes, and then it mentions Jane Tyrone, the girl on the memory card who disappeared five months ago, around the same time the Christ-church Carver was being arrested. I looked her up online last night and read the articles about her when she disappeared. She made the news for two weeks and hasn’t been mentioned since until now.

The description I gave the sketch artist is shown. The problem is it’s very generic, not all of the details have come from me, but from other witnesses; the dope smoker and a woman at a nearby service station where Adrian filled up two cans of petrol. The shading and the frown of the arsonist makes him look like a killer, but the killer looks like my next-door neighbor and everybody else’s next-door neighbor. After they show the sketch, they show some footage from the service station of a man stepping out of Emma Green’s car and paying for petrol. The problem with service station footage is that it’s the same quality of film used to shoot Bigfoot, but what it does do is give a more accurate description of height and weight of the man who took Cooper Riley.