Robert Waggoner - John - The Senior Killer

Back in Seattle, Nancy was pacing the floor of her office. Her agents had nothing new to go on and the two agents in Arden were bored to tears. The two agents had been camped out in an old used RV parked behind the convenience store run by the two Koreans set up by Brad. It was early in the morning and it was sure to be another hot one as summer refused to move way for fall. The two agents lay one on a bed and the other one sitting at the small table listening to the sound of the a/c run. An electric cord ran from the store to their RV and if the dude showed up again, a button would alert the agents with a door bell ring.

Not far away at the post office a white car with a US Mail placard stuck in the window showing a mail car owned by an employee of the postal service with a yellow flashing light attached to the roof with the cord running to the cigar lighter, sat waiting for an old person to exit the post office. Behind the wheel sat the Senior Killer dressed in blue pants with a postal service light blue shirt on. It was easy enough to acquire from a uniform store in Spokane. Next to his leg sat a clipboard with a fresh new envelope marked certified waiting for an address to make it look official. His plan was to follow a senior to his residence, show him the envelope and sign his clipboard acknowledging receipt of said documents. Unfortunately for the resident, his pen doesn’t work and asks to borrow a pen. While the person goes looking for a pen, he follows him in and close the door.

John continued to wait listening to the occasional logging truck going by and the birds chirping in the morning shade of the trees. His thoughts turned ugly as he flashed back to his youth where among the squealing pigs and the familiar smell of the pig pen, his father whipping the hell out of him and his brothers. His father was drunk as usual and the all too familiar smell of his rank beer breath returned to him like a slam dunk of an NBA player. God how he hated the smell of pigs and beer; and he had lots of time to think about it in the pitch black room of their cell under the kitchen.

Then a smile crossed his plain face when he remembered taking a shovel to his father when his back was turned feeding the pigs. He felt now the vibration of the wooden handle and the sound when the metal met his skull reminded him of a hollow watermelon when it was tested for ripeness. After that they cut him up and fed him to the pigs all but the head and that they buried in the middle of the pig pen.

A car drove in and parked; a lanky guy in farmers bib overall stepped out slowly and ambled to the door struggling to open it from lack of strength. He had his mark. Time to rock and roll, he thought. Five minutes later he comes out looking at a bunch of junk mail. It took him another five minutes to start up his car and back out slowly due to his neck not being able to turn around enough to let him see what was behind him. John thought the guy must be pushing eighty five at least. It was time for him to say bye – bye to this world and take a trip to the next one.

Blue smoke from his exhaust nearly choked John as he followed the guy out of town. The car was obviously on its last legs as was the driver. Three miles north of town he pulled off the highway onto a short gravel road. An old mail box gave John his name and address. He quickly wrote the name and address on the envelope and pulled into the driveway a few minutes after the old man did sitting in the middle of the car like a mailman would look like delivering the mail on country roads.

He put on his hat and climbed the old creaky steps to a shallow covered porch. He noticed two old rocking chairs the color of bleached blonde. Like a skeleton, he mused. A knock on the door produced the old man after a two minute wait. The door opened to a face that had more lines on it than a city map. Sorrowful eyes, a milky gray stared at the envelope in John’s hand. John said, “Are you Pete Chandler?”

“Yes, and do you have something for me,” he asked with a voice to match his wrinkles. Sunlight was filtering down through the giant old tree guarding the house from the sun during the hot days of summer casting shadows across the yard.

“Please sign here,” as John gave his pen that wouldn’t work. The man tried to write his name and John said, “Oh that darn old pen. I don’t have another so could you maybe use one of your pens to sign my sheet?”

“Yes, just a minute while I find one,” he said turning around and walking back into the small house leaving the door open. John the Senior Killer quickly walked in and closed the door. From the kitchen he could hear the old man ask where a pen was with another person. Must be his wife, he thought. Well, a two for one sale this month I guess, as he moved to the opening to a small kitchen. The woman looked up from her sink of breakfast dishes and was a bit startled by seeing the postman in her doorway. The old man was still rummaging around in a junk drawer for a pen when the old lady dropped a dish she was drying onto the floor when she saw what John had in his hand: a shiny new Marlin spike.

The old man said, when the dish hit the floor breaking into many pieces, “What the hell,” and turned to look at John standing there with a sadistic look on his face holding a long steel spike in his hand. A shot of cold fear ran up and down his body knowing this was the serial killer in his house. The old man moved next to his wife and put his arm around her shoulder, all the while never taking his eyes off the deadly weapon.

“Mr. and Mrs. Chandler it is time to meet your maker. Neither of you are worth much and probably regret that you beat the hell out of your kids when they were young. Well, now is time to pay the piper. Come here the both of you and show me your bedroom.” Slowly they walked past him down a short hall to a small neat bedroom with a hand quilt nicely laid over the top of a stark white bedspread. “Now lay face down on the bed,” he ordered. The old lady and Pete were both shaking with fear and their already white faces were even paler than usual. The old lady started to cry sobbing while she lay down on the bed facing her husband.

Time was running and John wanted to hurry up this job and get out of town. He moved to the old lady first knowing if he did the old man she might panic. In seconds the sound of steel against bone then tissue stilled the life of the old lady. Quickly he moved around the bed and duplicated the procedure so well perfected by now. As usual he wiped the spike off and returned it to its rightful place on his leg holster. He walked out the door leaving the envelope for the feds to mull over and slipped the flashing yellow light off the roof and took down his US MAIL placard. He tossed his hat in the back seat and changed his shirt. Backing out of the driveway he left the Chandler place whistling a nameless tune. On the way out of town, he stopped at the post office and mailed a letter to the Seattle Times. After that he drove safely back to Spokane where he abandoned his car, again leaving the keys in it. He took a bus to the airport and retrieved his SUV from the parking lot. Then he drove to I-90 and headed west bound completely satisfied with his days’ work.

Brad and Mike were sitting in a Buddhist Temple with a North Korean wanting to defect to the Western World. He said he preferred the USA as many agents from the North were in Seoul. His story was anything but usual. He’d been locked underground for years while working on the nuclear bomb. The story he told couldn’t be anything but the truth as it was so startling to the ears of Brad and Mike they both were convinced he told mostly the truth. Rocky gave Brad the look of this is a good guy and that sealed the deal. Now they had to get this guy out of China and down to Seoul for debriefing or onto a US submarine for transport to Guam.