From Creative Writing
‘94
When I went to high school, you had to be a senior to get
into the creative writing class. I was a lowly sophomore at the time, but I
really wanted to get into this class. My enthusiasm must have struck the
administration as admirable because they let me take the course. We were all
supposed to write one story for the whole semester, and they would all be
compiled in a literary journal. To the best of my recollection, there were only
20 of these that were printed. I have two of them. I doubt many more of them
are extant. Once again, keep in mind that I was just a kid when I wrote this. I
think it’s better than the Melvin Yoga stuff from last time, but not much
better.
Funny story: Two years later I rewrote this so it was novel
length. At the age of 17, I had brass balls and all the confidence in the
world. I sent that fucker to Random House. Lo! and behold! It somehow rose to
the top of the slush pile. An editor there was impressed with what he saw, and
he wanted to read the entire manuscript. Nothing makes a cocky kid cockier than
confirmation that he had a right to be a bit arrogant about his ability.
Nothing like getting rejected for years on end to weed that shit out of your
ego. I boxed that manuscript up and sent it off . . . only to be rejected. I am
glad that it was rejected, but at the time I was bummed out. Also, you will
never see that novel. It’s a hunk of shit. Brace yourselves: this story is a
hunk of shit, too.
1
The man climbed over the fence. So far, so good. He slipped
up to the back door quietly. He stole a glance into the closest window. He
could see no light or movement. She must be asleep.
The man tried the door knob. It was locked. He cursed under
his breath as he searched his mind for ideas on how to get into the house. He
laughed quietly as he looked under the welcome mat laid out before him, looking
for a key. To his utter surprise, he found a key shining dimly in the
moonlight. He picked up the key and used it in the door. The key turned as he
heard the latch give away. He pushed the door open and slipped in. He took off
his shoes so he could move as silently as possible.
He walked across the cold tiled kitchen floor. He walked
into the living room where the tiles became planks of wood. There she was! The
harlot who tried to do business with him earlier that night was sitting on a
couch, watching the television in the darkness. He took a step toward her when
the floor creaked under his feet. She looked up and saw him! She screamed
shrilly.
“Shut up!” the man hissed. He put his shoes down as he drew
a switchblade knife. He flicked the knife open, revealing seven inches of
silver. He had to silence her.
“Stay away!” she shrieked as she threw the remote control at
him. The man caught it and hurled it to the ground. It shattered into shards of
plastic. He took a step towards her. Pain flared in his foot as he stepped on a
shard of plastic. He stepped away, leaving a bloody footprint.
The man growled at her. He ran around the shards, the knife
over his head. She screamed as the knife came down in an arc of silver. It went
through her collarbone. She screamed in pain as blood oozed up from the wound.
There was a scraping sound as he pulled the knife out. She fell onto her couch.
The man thrust the knife into the woman’s throat. She gasped, clawing vainly at
the man. She gave in and died. He was about to mutilate the body when he heard
sirens. Someone must have heard the screams and called the police.
He wiped his bloody footprints up with his sleeve, careful
not to leave a trace. He stripped off his shirt and tied it around his foot to
prevent making any more bloody footprints. He knew the police were about to
make their entrance, so he ran to the nearest closet, opened the door, stepped
in, and closed the door behind him.
“This is the police!” a voice at the door yelled. “Let us
in!” The man heard the door getting kicked open.
Must’ve been a rhetorical statement, he thought.
Cautious footsteps padded about outside of the closet.
“Not another one,” someone called. “I’ll stay with the body.
The rest of you, search the house for clues.”
The man heard footsteps leave the officer. He knew this
would be his only chance of escape. The man held the knife in his hands. He
quietly peeked out of the closet door. The officer’s back was to him. The man
slipped out of the closet. He slipped up behind the officer as the officer
found the man’s shoes.
“What are these?” the officer asked himself.
“Those are mine,” the man said. The man brought the knife
down as the officer turned. The officer received the business end of the knife
in his forehead. As the officer fell to the floor (dead, of course), the man
grabbed the shoes the officer held. He ran out the front door as if the devil
himself was after him. He was running down the street when a voice called:
“Hey you! Freeze!”
The man continued running until he heard a warning shot
being fired. The man stopped running. He turned to see who had called to him.
It was a young officer.
“Who are you?” the officer asked.
“Death,” the man said.
“Gimme the knife,” the officer said. “Slowly.”
The man gave the officer no time to think. He stabbed the
officer through the left eye. The officer gasped as he fell, dead.
“What a day,” the man said. He picked up the officer’s gun
and put it in the waistband of his pants.
The man disappeared into the night.
2
“We couldn’t find anythi—” Officer Trent Wentington started. He looked down at
the body of his superior officer, Lt. Fred Quinten. He choked back a scream. He
called out to his fellow officers weakly, “You guys better get down here!”
The other two officers walked into the living room. They saw
the body of Lt. Quinten.
“This means the killer was still here when we arrived,”
Officer Tony Antonio said. “I doubt he woulda stuck around after doing this, so
I think he left, most likely out the front door, since that’s still open.
Bang!
“Let’s check on Tommy,” Antonio said. “Maybe he got the
killer.”
The three officers ran out the front door. They rushed to a
lump in the street. It was the body of Officer Tom Brigardo. He looked pretty
much dead.
His gun was gone.
“Call the coroner,” Antonio said. “And get a detective out
here!”
3
Eventually, the coroner, Rudy Yeatman, and Detective Sam
Upton showed up on the scene. Unfortunately, the media was there as well.
“Detective Upton!”
a reporter called. “Is this another Illinois City Slasher killing?”
“It probably is,” Upton
sighed.
“Is it another prostitute?”
“Yes. She was identified as Sheila Trenton. I will give no
further comment.”
“Wait!”
Upton
pushed the camera aside. He stepped into the house to see the bodies.
“How’s it going, Rudy?” Upton asked as he stepped up to the coroner.
“It’s the Slasher’s work, all right,” Yeatman said. “This
one tried to fight back by throwing a remote control at the Slasher. It must’ve
fallen short.”
Upton
examined the shards of plastic on the floor. He saw something interesting. He
said to Yeatman, “Do you have a plastic bag and tweezers?”
“Here,” Yeatman said, handing Upton a plastic bag and a pair of tweezers. Upton took the tweezers
and picked up a shard of plastic. He placed it in the bag. He closed the bag
and put it in his pocket. He handed the tweezers back to Yeatman.
“Find something?” Yeatman asked.
“Yeah. I found some blood on one of the pieces of plastic.
I’m going to have it examined.”
After drawing the chalked line around the body, Yeatman had
the body in a body bag and shipped to the morgue.
“Let me know if you find anything,” Upton said.
“Will do.”
4
The Illinois City Slasher bandaged the cut across his foot.
He threw his shirt in the washing machine. It was covered with blood, so he had
to wash it quickly.
The Slasher decided to hide the gun he stole from the
officer in the heating vent. It was summer, so the heat wouldn’t be on. When he
ran out of ammunition for the gun, he would get rid of it.
Now, he had to wash the knife clean of blood. He went to his
kitchen sink. He looked at the knife, horrified. The tip of the knife had
broken away. The tip of the knife was in one of the bodies he left behind. The
Slasher had no time to waste. He put the knife in his pocket. He threw on a new
shirt, and he hurried out the front door. He was on his way to the forensics
lab and the Illinois
City Hospital.
5
The Slasher knew he would need a pass into the forensics
lab. He decided to get in with a press pass. In order to do that, he needed a
reporter. He knew that there were a few reporters waiting to do an interview
with Rudy Yeatman as soon as the autopsies were done. They wanted news on the
Illinois City Slasher. There was a chance of getting into the lab if he poses
as a reporter doing a story on autopsies in general. He grabbed the attention of
reporter Dan Geenan.
“What do you want?” Dan asked.
“Come with me a second,” the Slasher said. “I have a great
story for you only. It’s about the Illinois City Slasher.”
“Do you know who he is?” Dan asked, anxiousness lighting up
his face.
“Yeah. Follow me if you want the story.”
Dan Geenan, a man who would do anything for a story,
followed the Slasher out of the hospital and into a nearby alley.
“Why are we here?” Dan asked.
“The Slasher would only give an interview in this alley,”
the Slasher said.
When the Slasher decided they were deep enough into the
alley, he took the switchblade out of his pocket and flicked it open.
“What’s that?” Dan asked, fright sending a chill down his
spine.
“The murder weapon,” the Slasher said as he brought the
blade down on Dan’s head. Dan, having good reflexes, jumped backwards, but not
far enough. The blade missed Dan’s head, but it buried itself into Dan’s chest.
Dan fell to the ground, dead.
“Boy, are you stupid,” the Slasher said gleefully. He began
to search Dan’s body for the press pass. He found the pass clipped to Dan’s
breast pocket. He removed it and clipped it to his own shirt. He walked back to
the hospital, hoping to God this would work.
“I need to be admitted to the forensics lab,” the Slasher
said, giving the attendant the press pass. The attendant’s eyes quickly looked
over the pass, indifferent to it.
“If you’re here about the Slasher, wait in line.”
“No,” the Slasher said. “I’m here to do a story about
autopsies in general. My boss said that Rudy Yeatman was the best man I could
speak to.”
“I don’t know . . .” The attendant gave the press pass back
to the Slasher. “Yeatman doesn’t like being bothered while working.”
“I’ll be in and out as quickly as possible. Swear to God.”
“Well . . . okay. Just don’t take up too much of his time,
okay?”
“You got it,” the Slasher said as he went into the forensics
lab.
He saw Yeatman in a white lab coat over the body of Officer
Tom Brigardo. His back was to the Slasher. The Slasher looked for cameras. He
saw one in the corner. He kept his back to it. He made sure to stay that way.
When the Slasher was three feet behind Yeatman, Yeatman
exclaimed, “Amazing!” He held something to the light hanging over the
dissecting table. It shone brightly, reflecting on the wall Yeatman was facing.
It was the tip of the Slasher’s knife.
As Yeatman turned around, the Slasher brought the knife
down. It sank into Yeatman’s throat, spilling blood down the front of his white
lab coat. The hilt slipped out of the Slasher’s grip. Yeatman stumbled
backwards, clutching at the knife sticking out of his throat. He knocked over a
dissecting table as he died.
The Slasher wanted the tip of the knife. He quickly pulled
the knife out of Yeatman’s throat, wiped it off on the lab coat, folded the
knife up, and put it in his pocket. He tried to pry Yeatman’s right hand, the
hand that held the tip of the knife, open, but he couldn’t loosen the stiffened
hand. The Slasher stomped down on Yeatman’s hand, breaking every bone in the
dead hand, severing two fingers. The Slasher brushed the two fingers away,
sending them rolling across the floor, leaving red streaks behind them. The
Slasher opened Yeatman’s hand and took the tip of the knife. He put the tip in
his pocket with the knife. He gave himself a quick check to make sure he had no
blood on him. After checking himself, he left the forensics lab, happy that he
completed the job.
“Get what you want?” the attendant asked.
“Yep,” the Slasher said as he left the hospital.
6
“We got a positive ID on the blood sample,” Wentington said
as he walked into the homicide department of the Illinois City Police
Department.
“Good work,” Upton
said as he patted Wentington on the back. “Who is the guy?”
“His name is Jack Preston.”
“Do we have a criminal record on him?”
“No.”
“What kind of info do we have?”
“He’s single. He’s unemployed at the moment. His mother was
a prostitute. He was abused as a child. He ended up killing his mother when he
became a teenager, but the case was dismissed as self-defense.”
“What about the father?”
“Ran out on the mother after finding out that she was
pregnant.”
“Where does Jack Preston live? I’m giving him a visit.”
“Fraid not,” Antonio interrupted. “We just got a call from
the forensics lab.”
“What is it?” Upton
asked.
“Yeatman’s dead.”
7
On the way to the hospital, Upton and Wentington briefed
Antonio on what was going on.
“My theory,” Upton
said, “is that Jack Preston hated his mother. Now that she is dead, he wants to
do the world a favor by getting rid of people like his mother: the harlots. He
killed all the harlots he came across. He didn’t want to be caught in the
middle of doing the world a favor, so he hid the bodies. I think he killed
Yeatman because he thought that Yeatman might have found something that would
lead us to Preston.”
“I agree with this theory,” Antonio said as they pulled into
the hospital parking spot. They walked into the hospital and to the forensics
lab. A coroner was examining the body on the floor next to the toppled
dissection table.
“Is there a camera in here?” Upton asked Wentington.
“Yep,” Wentington said, pointing to the camera in the
corner.
Upton
examined the camera a moment. He said to the coroner, “What did the camera pick
up?”
“The murderer’s back,” the coroner replied as he looked up
at Upton. “He
must’ve known there was a camera there.”
“How long has Yeatman been dead?”
“About a half an hour.”
“Why weren’t we notified earlier?” Upton screamed with rage. “We could’ve snagged
the Slasher! He should’ve been caught!”
“The security guard in the camera room fell asleep,” the
coroner said.
“What?” Upton
screamed, incredulously.
“Settle down,” Antonio said.
“I want that security guard fired!”
“You can’t demand that,” Wentington said. “The hospital’s
got to do it on its own.”
“I don’t care,” Upton
said, simmering down a little.
“Don’t forget the lead we have,” Antonio said.
Upton’s
face lit up a little. “Let’s got to this Jack Preston’s house. It is a house,
isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Wentington said. “Gimme the keys. I don’t trust you
well enough to allow you to drive.” Wentington steeled himself for a punch from
Upton, but it
didn’t come.
“I guess you’re right,” Upton said, handing over the keys.
8
Jack Preston, the Illinois City Slasher, washed the knife
once more. The tip was now floating somewhere in a sewer. The knife was now
ready to join the tip.
Ding dong!
The doorbell. Jack walked to the front door and looked out
the peephole. He saw a police officer!
Jack slipped the knife into his pocket. He ran to the vent
where he hid the gun. He knocked the cover off and grabbed the gun. He put the
gun in the waistband of his pants. He covered up the butt of the gun with his
shirt. He covered the vent up. The bell rang again. Jack ran to the door and
opened it.
“What can I do for you?” Jack asked the officer.
“Officer Trent Wentington,” the officer said. “May I come
in?”
“Sure,” Jack said. He glanced at the cruiser behind
Wentington. An overweight man sat in the passenger seat. “What about him?”
“He’s staying there,” Wentington said as he walked into the
house. “He’s a little hotheaded at the time being.” Jack closed the door behind
Wentington. “You are a suspect in the Illinois City Slasher case,” Wentington
said. “Where were you today about a half an hour ago?”
“I was here,” Jack said.
“Do you have any proof?”
“Not really. All I know is that I was here.”
“Do you mind if I search this place?”
“Not at all,” Jack said. “Just don’t make a mess you can’t
clean up. I can’t abide in a mess.”
“Know what you mean,” Wentington said with a grin. He began
to search the living room.
I gotta get rid of this pig, Jack thought. He grabbed the
knife in his pocket. He couldn’t use the gun. The other guy would hear it. Jack
coughed to cover up the click! sound as the switchblade was flicked open. Jack
quickly stabbed Wentington in the back of the neck. Wentington clawed at his
neck as he gasped for breath. The blade had come out the other side, so
Wentington couldn’t scream. Finally, Wentington died.
Jack slipped on his shoes. He would sneak out the back door.
He forgot that he was still holding the bloody knife. He rushed out the back
door. He ran to the fence that would lead to the sidewalk.
“Freeze!”
Jack stopped and turned around. He was looking at an Italian
cop with a gun. The name plate said ANTONIO on it. He yelled, “On the ground!
Now!”
Jack dropped the bloody knife and said, “I’m unarmed. I’m
just getting my identification.”
“Slowly,” Antonio said.
Jack slowly reached for the gun in the waistband of his
pants. He prepared himself to jump to the ground. He pulled out the gun as he
fell to the ground. Antonio fired. The bullet whizzed over Jack’s head. Jack
fired with the aim of a true marksman. The bullet caught Antonio in the face.
Antonio fell, dead.
Jack had to hurry. He knew the officer would have heard the
shots. The other officer was probably running after him. Jack vaulted over the
fence in time to see the officer emerging from the back door.
Jack knew there was a forest preserve in the area. He headed
for the forest preserve. It would be harder to trail him in the forest.
Jack ran up to the fence and climbed over, minding the
barbed wire at the top of the fence. He jumped to the ground below. He turned
to see if the officer was still behind him. The officer was puffing
frantically. Jack ran again, looking over his shoulder to see if the officer
was over the fence. The officer was on the fence, but he fell back off the
fence. Jack stopped a moment. The officer didn’t get up. His right hand grasped
his left arm.
Jack walked back to the fence. He looked down at the officer
who had a name plate that read UPTON.
“My heart,” Upton
said. “Help me!”
Jack climbed up the fence and jumped down from the top,
landing next to Upton.
“Sorry,” Jack said. “I’m still wanted for murder. I think
I’ll watch you die, fiend. Er, I mean, friend.”
Upton
realized something horrifying. What if Upton
was the last one alive who knew who the Slasher was?
Adrenaline coursed through Upton’s body, overtaking his heart attack. Upton leaped up and
decked Jack in the face. Jack felt his nose break like a dry twig. Jack was now
unconscious.
Upton
jumped with happiness as the adrenaline wore off. He searched Jack for weapons.
He found the gun and put it in his waistband. He slapped the handcuffs on
Jack’s wrists as he dragged Jack back to the cruiser.
9
Jack found himself in the back of a cruiser when he came to.
Detective Upton
sat in the driver’s seat. The cruiser wasn’t in motion. Jack’s hands were
handcuffed behind him. As he thought of a way out of the cruiser, the
adrenaline began to flow within Jack stronger than it was in Upton’s body. Faster than a car on the
Autobahn. Jack pulled his hands apart, snapping the handcuff chain.
“What are you doing?!” Upton
cried, his surprise causing him to push down on the accelerator.
Jack kicked the back door of the cruiser off its hinges.
Jack jumped from the moving car, landing on grass, rolling over a sidewalk, and
coming to a halt on someone’s lawn. Since the adrenaline was flowing strongly,
he didn’t feel anything. Jack picked himself up and began to run. He heard Upton’s cruiser
screeching to a halt. Jack turned a corner as the cruiser began to go in
reverse.
To get away from Upton,
Jack would need to go into one of the houses. Jack ran up to the closest house.
He didn’t see Upton’s
cruiser yet. He ran into the front door with his shoulder. The lock broke as
the door swung open. Jack ran inside and closed the door behind him as Upton’s cruiser turned
the corner.
“Who are you?” a man inside the house asked as he backed up
against the wall.
“Death,” Jack said. He punched the man in the face (the
adrenaline still strong), pushing the man’s head against the wall, crushing the
face into a bloody pulp.
“What’s going on, dear?” a woman said as she walked in the
room. She saw Jack and attempted to scream, but Jack pushed her against the
wall and punched her face in. She met a fate similar to that of her husband, if
that was what the man was to her. Jack ran to the closest window to see if the
cruiser was parked in front of the house.
The cruiser was nowhere in sight.
10
Upton
drove the cruiser down the road in search of Jack Preston. He was reluctant to
call for backup because he felt responsible for his loss. He wanted to find
Jack on his own without anyone knowing Jack had been missing. His search was
fruitless.
11
After an hour of waiting to see if Upton
was going to appear, Jack decided that Upton
missed the house.
Jack had to leave Illinois
City or he would be
eventually found. No doubt that the cops were already blocking roads. Jack
needed a miracle to get out of town. A miracle or a gun. Jack decided that he
needed a gun.
The adrenaline had worn off, and Jack’s body began to ache
from his jump from the moving cruiser.
Jack began to search the house for any weapons the man and
woman might have. He eventually made it to the bedroom. He opened a closet in
the room, knowing that if someone is to own a gun, he would hide it in the
bedroom closet. What he saw in the closet disgusted him. He saw whips, chains,
handcuffs, leather straps, and other things. Jack didn’t want anything in the
closet. God knew where those things had been!
Jack was about to close the door when he saw a rifle
strapped to the back of the closet. It had three boxes of ammunition with it.
Jack took the rifle and the boxes.
He was almost ready to leave the house. He searched through
the closet by the front door. He needed a disguise. He found a big trench coat
and a wide-brimmed hat. He put both on, sliding the boxes of ammunition in his
pockets and hiding the rifle beneath the coat.
Jack was now ready to make his run for the next county. Upton couldn’t follow him
there; that was out of his jurisdiction. He left the house behind and started
to walk east to the nearest border.
12
Upton
gave up. He had to report his failure now. He sighed. He was about to call in
when he saw a mysterious looking man walking down the sidewalk. He wore a huge
trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat. He limped slightly as if he were in pain.
Upton
saw the face beneath the hat. Jack Preston! Upton saw the figure freeze as he saw the
cruiser. Suddenly, Jack was pointing the rifle at Upton. Upton
stopped the car and ducked beneath the window as a shot shattered the window,
sending shards of glass flying all over Upton’s
back. Upton,
miraculously uncut, looked out the window in time to see Jack run into a
building. The Illinois
City Apartments!
“NO!” Upton
screamed. There, Jack could take many hostages! Upton called for backup.
13
Jack locked the door into the building.
“Did I get him?” he wondered aloud. He decided he didn’t. He
decided to take hostages, but he didn’t know where to take them. Should he take
hostages on the first floor, somewhere in the middle, or at the top floor? He
decided on the top floor. He rushed up the stairs to the top floor, the fifth
floor. He knocked down the closest door at the top floor. Inside this
apartment, he saw a man, a woman, a five-year-old boy, and a teenage girl.
“Don’t move,” Jack cautioned. “I don’t intend to shoot you,
but I will if I have to.”
None of them moved.
Suddenly, sirens filled the air. Jack looked out a window.
He saw cruisers below. There had to be ten parked in front of the apartments.
Suddenly, more cruisers appeared. The State Police!
“Come out with your hands up!” a cop with a megaphone said.
“Make this easier on yourself!”
“Go to hell!” Jack yelled out the window.
Suddenly, pain flared up in Jack’s left shoulder. A bullet
had gone through his shoulder, sending him flying backwards. He saw, just
before the cruisers below fell from his sight, three cops trying to pry a gun
from Upton’s
hands. Upton
had shot him!
Jack tried to breathe, but pain surged through his throat
every time he tried. Jack looked at the bullet wound in his shoulder. It had
left a pretty big hole. His collarbone had been broken. He decided that the
collarbone had poked a hole into his left lung.
Jack felt like he was dying.
“I won’t die,” Jack gasped as the adrenaline began to flow
again. “Not without killing everyone first!”
Jack cocked the rifle and began to kill the tenants of the
apartment room. When he was done, he collapsed to the floor. Breathing was
becoming hard for him, even with the adrenaline flowing.
It would now be very hard to stand up against a district
attorney and say that he didn’t do any of this killing. He would get a lethal
injection no matter what. Worse: they would make him wait before giving him
death.
Jack decided to do the most suicidal thing he could do short
of blowing his own brains out. He reloaded the rifle and climbed up to the roof
where he would make his last stand.
When he made it to the roof, he looked over the edge. Below,
he saw the cops talking with each other. They were probably devising some kind
of plan. They didn’t seem to see him.
Jack pointed the rifle below. He fired.
14
Jack Preston was taken out with the help of the SWAT team
two hours later. Jack had taken out fifteen cops before being shot in the back
of the head.
When Upton was asked about
what had happened, Upton
said, “A serial killer became a mass murderer.”
No one appeared at Jack Preston’s burial.
