Jimmy Duke
The body rose to the surface slowly, having lost most of its
buoyancy over the months it had been tied to the bottom of the lake. Two
minutes later, the diver also floated to the surface, just as dead as the young
mutated woman. The crime scene went crazy; ignoring the woman’s floating
corpus the State Police Officers grabbed the diver out of the water, trying to
bring him back to life. The diving mask full of vomit confirmed the
horror of the find.
Number 7 was a young white woman, somewhere between twenty
and twenty-five years old. Blond hair, about five feet six inches.
Anything further just wasn’t possible; her head had been removed crudely,
leaving just enough scalp to id hair color; hacked off hands and feet removed
with an axe-type weapon. Stomach torn open, internal organs ripped from
her body; connecting tissue showing rips and tears, not knife marks. Sex
organs mutated by heavy axe blows and pulled from the body, showing no knife
marks, just torn flesh. The body was a ruined shell of what used to be a human
being.
Jimmy laughed until he couldn’t breathe watching the TV news
story showing three big State Police men in a little boat dragging the dead
diver over the side of the boat, nearly tipping it over. It was hilarious; with
tears streaming down his face, he was just howling; the next-door neighbor
banging on the thin wall brought him back to his senses. Pulling hard on
his fifth beer of the morning and throwing it against the wall along with a “GO
FUCK YOURSELF” at the top of his lungs, he knew who would be next. Jimmy
toned it down a little, not wanting the old bitch to call the police on him.
With a chuckle, he sat back on the threadbare couch,
turning on his mental movie of Jenna, his latest and twelfth victim; smiling
and snickering, he played the movie over and over.
Jimmy was an easy-going petty thief who had discovered by
accident that he was also an up-and-coming serial killer after killing one of
the neighborhood kids he caught in his apartment going through his shit.
Stealing people's stuff and money was one thing, but taking their lives as a
whole new game; a game he couldn’t get enough of. He had found a vast
reservoir of rage and hatred that had been untouched until now.
Tuesday morning, shortly after 8 am found Jimmy at his
neighbor’s door. He’d waited listening closely at his own door for all
the floors' little worker bees to leave the building, making his floor nearly
empty; empty except for him and old Mrs. Stock, his next-door neighbor.
Tap, tap on the door, and he could hear her coming to him. Jimmy had a newspaper
he’d picked up out of the recycle bin in one hand, covering an eight-inch
kitchen knife in his other gloved hand. He’d found the kitchen knife
going through a garbage can two blocks from his flat. Sharpening it
against a concrete wall as he watched people looking for a target, it was now
razor sharp. Mrs. Stock, with a “humph” of displeasure at being
bothered, opened the door to the hallway. Jimmy, with a big grin on his
face, stepped into her and plunged the knife into her left eye with enough
force that it jammed and stuck solidly into the back of her skull.
Standing at the open door, not breaking the threshold, Jimmy watched as Mrs.
Stock stumbled backwards, hands waving and trashing the air; a small squeak
coming from her wide open mouth; a fine line of vitreous humor, the fluid
of the eye, and a small line of blood ran down her left cheek; three cats
dashed for safety. The old bitch stumbled across the room, hitting the
far wall, sliding down to a sitting position, dead just as he wished her to
be. Jimmy reached inside, pulling the door to him; locked and closed it
with his gloved hand; leaving the building, giggling, Jimmy walked twelve
blocks before dropping the glove down a storm drain, then tossing the newspaper
into an empty recycle bin. He couldn’t wait for the evening news.
Two months later, and Mrs. Stock, the old, dead bitch still
hadn’t been found. Jimmy’s apartment was beginning to pick up the scent
from his dirty work. He’d have to do something soon if someone didn’t
wake up to the stench and call the police. The smell was getting that
bad. How can it be that no one checked on his neighbor's bitch in two
full months? No wonder she was such a bitch? Jimmy decided to go out just
to be away from the smell. Coming out of the elevator, Jimmy nearly ran
into the super of the building coming into the elevator. Jimmy recognized
the super Ed Kock from when he moved into the building a year ago. “Say,
don’t you live up on the seventh?” Jimmy, cool as ice, said, “Yeah, just
heading out, problems?” “Yeah, 7E says the floor smells bad,” Ed
said, rolling his eyes into his head. Jimmy, “I noticed that too, must be
a dead rat in the vents, who knows?” “Well, I’d better find something; I’m
tired of the constant complaints from those people!” The elevator door closed,
and Jimmy hurried out the double doors into the not-so-clean smell of auto
fumes and old garbage.
Ten minutes later, the sounds of sirens filled the air in
the direction of the Hampton apartment building. Jimmy was six blocks
away, sitting on a bench, watching down 2nd street to where the
sirens were stopping. Yep, Ed had found Mrs. Stock’s body.
Jimmy sat out as long as he could; finally, he headed to the
Hampton. Still three cop cars outside; he knew they’d want to talk to him
just like when the kid disappeared a few months ago. Jimmy was
exceptional at evading trick questions, and his short interview went
well. He asked the Detectives to come into his apartment and look around
if they wanted; they did, but he was way too clever to have anything out that
they could see. He had a little something from each of his kills, but
nothing big that would stand out. They were all hidden away nice and tight,
where even a hard search would likely not find anything. He was turning
into a pro.
With the heat off, Jimmy went out on the hunt. Having
to go to the grocery store for a few things, he’d also found it to be a great
hunting ground. He wasn’t disappointed; standing there on aisle four was
just what he was looking for. She was about five foot three, brown hair,
decent build, and Jimmy saw his opening and, as any predator would see, there
on the left forearm were tiny marks that would open the door to his next
kill. Stepping just around the end of the aisle so he wouldn’t be seen,
he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a syringe filled with dark
liquid. Strolling up to the young woman, “Hey baby, looking for some time,”
he rolled his wrist so she could see the ready syringe. “Oh, I think I
just found a party,” with a giggle and rolling her eyes. “Well, let me
buy your stuff, and we’ll go,” with a wink, they were off to the register.
Walking just two blocks to the girl’s apartment gave little
time for conversation, but the girl had already told Jimmy her name, that she
was new to the area, knew no one, and needed a fix real bad. Shutting the
door behind her and throwing the three deadbolts, Jimmy was floating in
anticipation of getting down to work. Dumping the small bag of groceries
on the counter, Sara turned and stuck out her hand; she was very much in need
of a fix. Jimmy tossed the syringe to her, and she only then realized
she been taken. The right hook came out of nowhere; she didn’t see it
coming, and her eyes nearly popped out of her head when the fist drove into her
head hard, snapping her neck and sending her sprawling on the floor.
“Bitch” was all that was said; on top, straddling her, Jimmy drove his knuckles
into the soft tissue under her neck, perfectly cutting any chance of getting
another breath. Eyes bulging, Sara pushed off the floor with her hips and
threw Jimmy's weight forward over her head. Sara had been raised with
three brothers, and fighting back was ingrained in her head. Tipping
forward, Jimmy had no choice but to release his grasp and tumble forward.
Now lying flat across on top of Sara, his chest across her upper chest
and head, Sara bit hard and deep into Jimmy's right shoulder like a
cougar. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth and her body with adrenaline.
All knees and elbows she pushed Jimmy to the left and connected with a wild
elbow to Jimmy's nose. Jimmy, with a second scream of pain, rolled to his
right and kicked as hard as he could in the direction of the wild cat he’d run
into. His booted foot landed directly on the bridge of Sara’s nose,
breaking it. The fight was over; Jimmy sprang like a cat, picking up a
heavy wrought iron door stop that had been rolling under his back, leaving a
huge bruise. He pounded it into Sara’s face until it was bloody mush.
Lying panting on the floor with blood gushing out of his
damaged nose, Jimmy listened carefully to the sounds of the building above his
labored breathing. All quiet; no running feet, no sirens. Rage
exploding, Jimmy blacked out; without any conscious thought, Jimmy got to work.
Jimmy's mind still in a complete insane rage stood over a
pile of ripped and torn meat that once was Sara Benson; one time daughter; part
time junky as blood dripped from his hands and clothing. Jimmy blew a
large blood clot from his right nostril, hitting and sticking to the bottom of
an overturned chair. Very slowly Jimmies mind was slowly coming down from
the rage and centering on self-preservation and escape. Jimmy stepped
over the remains and, for some unknown reason, picked up the bag of groceries
off the counter with blood-covered hands and calmly walked out the front door
of the apartment without closing it and down to the street. Mouth
breathing from his blood-plugged nose, Jimmy used alleyways and side streets to
make it to his apartment, and then, waiting until no one was in sight, ran for
the stairway. Placing the groceries on the table, he reeled into the
shower, leaving dripping blood in his wake.
It took just twenty minutes; the first person to open their
front door immediately smelled the stench of blow opens bowels and viscous
fluids. Walking down the hallway to the open door, Jan Miller fainted
straight away at the sight of the explosion of rage and hate. Her husband,
hearing the thud, was fast behind her; not wanting to leave his wife, but
succumbing to the most primitive part of the brain to flee; flight took over,
and he ran banging into the door frame so hard he fell and crawled to the
phone; screaming hysterically into the phone the 911 Operator had no idea what
the problem was. She pulled up the address to the incoming call and
dispatched the police without knowing the problem, just that it must be bad.
“Don, this is a bad one; I’ve never seen anything like it.
It’s like a pack of wolves tore her apart.” Detective Bob Williams
cautioned Detective Don Hilderman before he entered Apartment 3B. Even
from outside, you could smell the vile stench of death. The sight that
met the two detectives was far worse than the smell. It sucked the breath
from their lungs; floor, ceiling, and walls turned from off-white to pink to
dark red, burgundy with dried blood and pieces of stringy entrails sticking to
the walls. Viscus chunks sat on bookshelves where they had landed; some
leaving red trails as they sank slowly to the floor. Clearly, a large
section of lung hung from the cheap overhead chandelier, caught on one 30-watt
bulb; a stalactite of dried blood reaching eagerly towards the floor.
Pooled red, almost black blood escaping the horror and flowing off toward the
living room in a now dried river. Intestines, partly attached to the
stomach torn and split; undigested food and feces from exploded bowels covered
what once was a small tan sofa. Detective Hilderman, holding his
handkerchief over his mouth and nose, slowly rotated his eyes from left to
right, taking in the ghastly scene; far right, next to a blood-stained lamp,
like it was part of the collection of blown glass orbs, was one of Sara’s eyes
sitting in its pool of mixed blood and intraocular fluid.
Detective Don Hilderman, twenty-seven years with the force,
threw up his dinner on his and Bob Williams' shoes, splashing up on both
Detectives pant legs. Eyes rolling, he turned on his heels and ran for
the door. Detective Bob Williams held his vomit all the way to the entryway, spewing
his stomach contents down the door frame and into the hallway. Cops from
three boroughs jumped and ran out of the way of the two escaping puking
Detectives.
The very next morning, a task force was assembled, and
Detectives from eight boroughs were out in force talking to everyone in the
area. In short order, they realize that the newest crime scene was smack
in the middle of numerous unsolved murders and disappearances. After a
full day's investigation, it was found that they had two different people’s
blood. DNA analysis was ordered ASAP.
Jimmy Duke’s apartment sat directly in the center of the pin-up
board with a large map of the general area covering and hanging limp off its
sides. Around it were fifteen colored pins depicting either missing or
dead people; one was just next door to his apartment. Jimmy was the main
suspect.
Jimmy had cleaned up the apartment, getting rid of bloody
clothing, shoes, and even the bloody grocery bag. Its contents still sat
on the kitchen table where Jimmy now sat, wondering what prison life would be
like, provided he didn’t get the death penalty. He’d even cleaned out all his
souvenirs from his other kills and bleached everything in the apartment.
He was as ready as he would ever be for them to come for him
.
The task force had decided that Jimmy was their man; they
obtained search and arrest warrants. The knock came at 11 am on the
dot. Jimmy looked up at his cheap wall clock and was kind of surprised
that it took them so long. The long arm of the law was in slow
motion. Jimmy was arrested and asked for an attorney even before they
read him his Miranda rights or asked him even one question. He was ready
for them.
Ten hours of searching, down to even peeling the wallpaper
off the walls, found nothing. Not one piece of evidence could be
found. Every inch of the apartment had been carefully photographed, and
every item logged into evidence bags. There was not one thing left in the
apartment, not even dust.
Two days later, Jimmy was dancing down the street outside the
County lockup. Yelling at the top of his lungs towards the courthouse,
“YOU GOT NOTHING MOTHER FUCKERS” Jimmy was the happiest man in the world.
The DNA came back tainted from the Detective’s barf. The surveillance
wasn’t lost on Jimmy; it was a great game seeing and walking up saying hi to
the Detectives that were watching his every move. He’d give them the
finger, dancing and laughing in their faces. They were left with nothing
to do but drive away or call to get picked up by the team.
Detective Don Hilderman was furious; he’d been embarrassed
by his puking in the crime scene. Arresting Jimmy just to see him
released; a stack of bodies five feet deep at his feet. Even the media
had picked up on the story and was hounding him. He pored over every
photo; he’d held in his hand every single item from Jimmy's apartment. He
just couldn’t find a single clue to put Jimmy to the crimes
.
Sitting down to dinner with his wife at 10:15 pm that night,
his mind on the case, nothing else. His wife, talking from the kitchen,
was speaking to deaf ears about her day, going to the grocery store, all the
little things that kept her busy all day long. Don felt a pin prick in
his mind; what did she just say? “Honey, I missed something you just said
about what you did today…..say it again.” Donna, without missing a beat,
started over again on her day; she was talking to no one. Detective Don
Hilderman was out the door heading to the Office; he had his case, and Jimmy
was going to jail or the gas chamber
.
With the whole team assembled in the conference room with
all the hundreds of pictures and items bagged and logged from Jimmy's apartment,
sitting around them on tables and pinned to boards. Detective Hilderman
told the team what he was looking for; members who had taken pictures and
logged items jumped into action. Ten minutes later, they were all
standing as Hilderman read the list of groceries from the blood-stained grocery
receipt and marked off each item from the picture on Jimmy's table.
A perfect match.
Eleven months later, Jimmy Duke sat on death row, still
wondering why he'd picked up the bag of groceries and taken them home.
From the Ramblings
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