Cody McFadyen - Abandoned

It had been Alan who was called in to interview Mary. We hadn’t been the ones to catch Bill, but Alan was the best at interviewing either victims or criminals, and her testimony was too important.

“Mary,” he’d said, his voice gentle. “I’m going to take you through slowly. There’s no rush here, okay? Anytime you need a break, you tell me, and that’s it. We stop, and we stop for as long as you need us to.”

Some people would assume Alan’s size would work against him in interviewing a rape victim. He had a way of turning it around, though. Instead of being threatening, he became their protector. The hugeness of him became the most comforting thing there was.

“Okay,” she’d agreed, her voice faint but strong. Mary Booth turned out to be a tough cookie, all in all. She’d been rocked hard by what Bill did to her, but she hadn’t been broken.

“It’s important that we’re thorough, Mary,” Alan had said. “The more specific you can be, the better. It’ll be easier for him to attack generalities, you understand?”

“Yes.”

“So if there are any tics to the guy, like, phrases he used a lot, if he ever hummed a song, or if he has any distinguishing physical characteristics, such as moles or tattoos, anything at all, it’ll help. I realize remembering those kinds of things won’t be easy for you, but I also know you want to put him away, so I’m going to push you on the details.”

“I don’t want to put him away,” she’d said.

Alan paused. “You don’t?”

“No,” she’d replied. Her voice wasn’t faint anymore. It was clear and level. “I want him to die.”

To his credit, Alan had taken this in stride. I could almost see him, no expression of surprise or widening of the eyes. Just a nod to show he understood. Which he would have. “Fair enough. So then—you ready?”

“How’s this for a distinguishing physical characteristic?” she’d asked, continuing as though Alan hadn’t spoken. “He has a giant cock.”

This time, I’d heard the surprise in the length of Alan’s pause. “Sorry?” he finally managed.

“Bill,” she’d said, her voice still strong but with a faraway sound to it that made me certain she was looking off, remembering. “He has the biggest cock I’ve ever seen. It has to be ten inches long and God knows how thick. I remember clearly how it would stick out past that fat white stomach.”

“I see,” Alan said, finding his stride again. “He has a large penis. Anything else?”

“He has a scar on the inside of his right thigh.”

“Okay. This is good, Mary. What else?”

It had been her turn to pause. Something in the nature of that pause, the feel of it, made me certain what she was going to say next was something horrible.

“He has a tattoo on the bottom of his stomach. He’d lift up the fold of fat when he was making me … pleasure him with my mouth. ‘Look!’ he’d say, and I did. There were two letters.”

“What were the letters?”

“An S and an O.”

“Did he tell you what they stood for?”

“Yes. He said they stood for Slave Owner.”

There was more, too much more. Hours of it. Alan took her through every brutal moment, demanding every sordid detail with that same gentle insistence. There were times she wept, but most of the time her voice was strong.

The prosecutors made the jurors listen to every minute, and her testimony did its job, along with the damning physical examination and other evidence.

So number three, when I saw that photo, was the belly that poked at the chambray shirt. I couldn’t stop seeing it hovering above her, pendulous and sweaty, with the code tattoo that only his victims would ever understand. That and the smile, the endless false smile.

His hands had been folded and perched on the belly when I came into the interview room. The smile had been there too. Only his eyes betrayed him. They’d roved over the scars on my face like a starving man looking at a thick and juicy steak. He wasn’t cuffed, and we were alone. I wasn’t afraid of him here. Bill would love to record my screams, but setting was everything to him, as was privacy, and this wasn’t the place.

I sat the digital recorder on the table.

“Mr. Keats, as agreed, I’ll be recording this.”

“Of course,” he said.

We went through the usual set of questions, and he was pretty cooperative. His mother had been the abuser. She abused his sister physically and him sexually. She forced him to abuse his sister sexually. He grew to like it, or so he thought. His mother had dark hair and large breasts, of course, just like his victims. It was both predictable and pathetic, and I remember that it made me feel a little tired, though I was careful not to show it.

We arrived at the area that interested us both the most, though for different reasons: the screams.

“Has that always been a source of sexual excitement for you?” I asked.

Everything in these interviews is very formal, including the phrasing. It’s always a source of sexual excitement , never a turn-on. This is deliberate. Keeping things clinical and professional makes you a mirror, neither a judge nor a participant. They love to look at themselves in the mirror.

“Not really,” he said, in an even, pleasant voice.

“I see. Was there a point where that became a necessity of fixation?”

He rolled the question around, watching me as he did. I saw the change in his eyes, the calculation. He was looking for feedback. Locked away from the world, from his drug of choice—rape and murder—he was searching for a way to feed his hunger.

He leaned forward, letting those hungry eyes stare at my scars without restraint.

“Did you scream when he cut you, Smoky?” he asked me.

I stifled the sigh. I’d expected this. I wasn’t offended or disgusted or angry. I felt nothing. This was a game, and he was playing his part, thinking he was original when in fact he was as expected as they come.

“Yes,” I said. “Of course I did.”

His eyes widened, almost fluttered. “And did he like it when you screamed?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know? That he liked it?”

I wanted to deny him this, but I knew that shame would only be a bigger turn-on for him. I also knew this was the price for his explanation. I could refuse it, of course, but I wanted to know why he loved their screams so much. I met his gaze without flinching.

“His penis grew inside me when I screamed. It got harder. I could feel it.”

I said this with the same clinical detachment that a physician might use. Tumescence , I heard in my mind.

It didn’t matter to Bill Keats. He couldn’t hide his reaction. He sucked in a breath and crossed his legs involuntarily. One eye twitched.

“It’s your turn, Mr. Keats.”

He blinked a few times, reining himself back in from whatever great dark ocean he’d been drifting on. I could almost see him filing away the image of me in his mind for later use. He nodded. He leaned back in his chair again and perched his hands atop his belly. The smile returned.

“The first woman I ever raped,” he said. “I went to penetrate her.”

I remember thinking his use of penetrate was prissy and that this was telling.

“And?” I coaxed.

“I hadn’t even entered her yet. But she knew what I was about to do and she screamed. It was the most amazing thing I’d ever heard. She knew what was about to happen and knew she couldn’t change it. The misery I heard in that scream was … well. It was perfect. I ejaculated then and there, before I even got inside her.” His look grew pensive. “She never screamed again like that. Not even when I was strangling her. That was the sound of her breaking.” His eyes found mine again, and the smile returned. It seemed more thoughtful to me, somehow. “I’ve been searching for that same sound ever since. I didn’t get that scream on record. I wasn’t prepared. It’s my greatest regret.”