The killer awoke during the heat of the night. It was too quiet, too calm. Jordan, the chemist, was fading fast. The killer had only another twenty-four hours to kill again before Jordan would disappear completely.
"This is your last wish," the killer said to Jordan. "Who will I become next?"
He could feel Jordan thinking, a dull throb at the base of his spine - the final weak beatings of the mind of a man who ceased to exist weeks ago. These would be Jordan's last thoughts before the remaining mental structures diffused into the stronger will.
"How about a doctor?" Jordan's mother had wept when he switched from pre-med to biochemistry. In his final moments of consciousness, he would fulfill her wish. The killer understood and was sympathetic, but there would be complications.
"If he has a family, they'll notice he's missing too quickly."
"Then an intern or a clinic doctor," Jordan suggested.
As far back as he could recall, he had never been a doctor. But Jordan knew this already - he was rapidly fusing with those other victims.
The killer pulled a wallet from his back pocket and flipped through the plastic cards until he found a PermaCare of St. Louis card with Jordan's name stamped in red letters. After drinking the next victim, they would have to move again to reduce the risk of running into someone who recognized the dead man's name. "Where to, Mr. Jordan?"
The throbbing was already noticeably weaker and slower, the response more drawn out like a tape player with dying batteries. "Los... Angeles." He wanted to fade into the ocean while immersed in the sea of humanity. The killer consented.
It was time to clean up the chemist's mess. The killer packed the test tubes, beakers, distillation towers, electronics, computer equipment, and overflowing ashtrays which littered the living room of the small Chicago apartment. He hadn't smoked a cigarette in days. The addiction had faded with the chemist's will, along with the understanding of the equipment he was destroying. All he remembered was that the work had seemed critically important.
After carting the bags of glassware and equipment to the dumpster, he drove Jordan's late model Buick Regal to the PermaCare Clinic in Skokie. "I need to see a doctor," he told the woman at the reception desk as he handed her the identification card.
The woman didn't look up. "What is the nature of the problem?"
"Check-up," he replied.
She flipped through an appointment book. "Dr. Thompson, room 243. Very fine doctor."
No good. He'd been a woman once. It wasn't much fun. He'd been glad when she finally faded, taking her crazy emotional cycles with her. He looked around, then leaned over and whispered to the woman, "Is it possible to see a male doctor? This is, um, a male problem if you know what I mean."
She frowned at him. "Dr. Stevens. Room 312."
He sat in the third floor reception area with the other patients. He picked up a copy of the Chicago Sun Times left sitting on a chair. The front page was filled by a two inch headline, "Cop Slain by Crazed Psycho" and a police sketch of a wild-eyed, bearded black suspect with a long scar from just below his eye down almost to his lip. The killer turned the page.
"Cheap Fuel Discovered," read a headline on the right column of page seven. "A process that may allow combustible hydrogen to be generated from water at a fraction of the cost of conventional fuels was announced today in the Journal of American Chemistry. The process, developed by Kenneth Jordan, a professor of chemistry at Washington University, promises to revolutionize automobile and power plant (please turn to page A24)." So that's what I've been doing the past months, the killer thought. Apparently, nobody had realized that the professor no longer existed. The killer folded the paper and followed the beckoning nurse into Dr. Stevens' office.
The room was filled by a large mahogany desk. The dark paneled walls were covered with black and white photographs and a diploma from the University of Iowa. No family photographs, the killer noted when the doctor walked in. No wedding ring either. The doctor was young, under thirty, tall and thin, wearing large wire frame glasses. Despite the glasses, Stevens looked similar enough to the killer to avoid the need to alter identification. Perfect. He submitted to the check-up and left quickly.
Only fifteen thousand dollars of Jordan's savings remained after purchasing the equipment and paying living expenses. He dropped the packets of wrapped bills into the chemist's leather briefcase. He wiped all remaining traces of himself from the apartment, then locked up. He wouldn't be back.
Fifteen minutes later he drove into the three-story parking structure behind the doctor's red brick apartment building. Walk like you know what you're doing and nobody will remember you. Just another asshole on the streets. He climbed the cement staircase slowly, soundlessly, up three flights. No one in the halls. Ear to door - quiet. Slide card behind lock carefully, silently - don't want to disturb the doctor.
Open door just a crack. Dark inside - good - doctor's not home. Surprise him when he arrives. The killer crept inside and closed the door behind him, relocking it.
"Freeze!" screamed a voice behind him.
What the hell? The lights snapped on. The doctor was standing three feet away, waving a butcher's knife.
"Hands up. NOW! Get `em up!"
The killer slowly raised his arms, then slammed them down on the hand that held the knife, knocking it to the floor, then jabbed the doctor in the groin with his knee. As the doctor fell forward, the killer wrapped both hands about his neck and began to squeeze.
The doctor struggled, shaking his head violently from side to side, denying the killer access to his eyes. The killer needed to see his victim's eyes. The life-force escaped through the eyes and the killer needed to see it, needed to drink it back in through his own eyes as it escaped or all would be wasted. The killer snapped the doctor's head back and as the eyes dilated, the multicolored phantom leaped out from the doctor and the killer channeled it, focused it, and sucked it in with the grip of his own eyes. The doctor's spirit struggled, tried to squirm away, but the killer was stronger. The body slumped to the ground.
The killer relaxed on the blood splattered carpet next to the corpse enjoying the high of the doctor's spirit flowing into the emptiness of his own. It was a unique high, higher than the first rush of nicotine in the morning, higher than the warm buzz of cocaine, higher even the intense rush of a hypo full of heroin. The doctor was strong, but the killer felt the swirl of impurities with him.
Slowly, the killer's mind cleared. The panicked doctor's first new words were, "Where am I?" just as they had been Jordan's first words, the first words of the photographer, the cop, the coked out corporate vice-president, the priest, and all the others.
With the doctor's personality came his oratory skills. "You are trapped inside me," the killer explained, "doomed to spend eternity within a psychopath, forced to submit to my will. Use my eyes, doctor, use my eyes and look at your pitiful body, lying dead on the ground."
As the killer spoke, his eyes became unfocussed, the world a smear of colors. The glasses. The doctor fumbled about until his foot kicked the body, then he reached down and retrieved his glasses. The doctor looked down and saw the corpse, his corpse and screamed.
After calming the doctor, the killer dragged the corpse into the hallway closet. He needed a drink - death was a painful experience. He grabbed the bottle of scotch from the cabinet above the refrigerator.
When he awoke the next morning, he crawled into the bathroom to vomit. He had an urge to grab a shot of scotch to kill the pain.
Jesus Christ, the doctor's an alcoholic, the killer realized. He had to keep the doctor under control. The next few hours could be dangerous, but once he was in Los Angeles, set up in a clinic, he could let the doctor take over until he faded.
The killer collected the doctor's bank books from the wall safe. Sixty-two thousand dollars stashed away in certificates of deposit. More in real estate and stocks, but there was no need to get greedy. He left the safe hanging open. He reserved a first class seat on the afternoon flight to Los Angeles, then informed the clinic that his mother was diagnosed with cancer of the colon and he would be in Des Moines indefinitely.
The killer carefully ransacked the apartment, spilling drawers onto the floor, shredding the artwork and laying furniture on its side. In the bathroom, he took all of the bottles of prescription medicine, flushed the pills down the toilet and left the empty vials strewn across the floor and the bathtub. Just another robbery by a psychotic junkie, the goons would think.
The killer tried on the doctor's gray pinstripe suit, the one he was wearing in his driver's license photograph. It fit perfectly. But the doctor couldn't go on. His brain was fuzzing out. The pain was growing sharper. The killer grabbed a whiskey bottle out of the cupboard and took a quick swig. That's all we can afford for now. Just hold on, at least until we get past the bank. He grabbed the doctor's medical bag, locked the apartment, and retrieved Jordan's briefcase from the Buick.
He drove the doctor's Porsche, careful not to be stopped for drunk driving, over to Wilmette and walked into the First Federal. Removing sixty-two thousand dollars wouldn't be easy, but he had done it before; had even been a bank teller once. The boy had been weak and faded quickly and his outrageous hormone levels caused him to make headstrong decisions, nearly exposing the killer in his haste to score. But he had taught the killer a valuable skill - how to withdraw the victim's cash with a minimum of questions.
The name plate on the corner office read "Jim Wallaby - Branch Manager." The killer walk in. He tugged on his suit jacket and focused sharply on the manager's eyes. "Mr. Wallaby," he started. "It has recently come to my attention that this bank is a major investor in a number of Chinese government sponsored projects. This is regrettable. I fear I have no choice but to remove all of my money from this bank until it severs all ties to the Chinese government. I will not have my hard-earned money supporting blatant violations of basic human rights. Therefore, I would very much appreciate it if you would close out my accounts for me." He laid the bank books on the desk in front of the manager along with the doctor's driver's license.
The manager examined the i.d., then looked at the killer. He sighed.
"If you insist. I'll have the floor manager draw up the papers and prepare a cashier's cheque for you."
"I'd like it in cash, if you don't mind."
"Please, Dr. Stevens. It would be easier for both of us if we simply prepared a check for you. Besides, it's not safe to carry such large sums of cash."
Stevens removed his glasses and glared at the manager. The manager walked out with the doctor's documents and returned with a handful of bricks of wrapped hundred dollar bills. The killer placed the money inside Jordan's briefcase with the remainder of the chemist's money, then snapped it shut and spun the combination lock. "Good day," said the doctor coldly as he walked out.
The task completed, the killer slipped into a nearby bar and chugged two double martinis.
Before he could leave Chicago, he would drive the Porsche into the ghetto, framing the poor SOB caught with the stolen car. Once the car was discovered, it would be an open and shut case. No one would bother to investigate far enough to discover the missing money, not until relatives came searching later, and by then it would be too late.
He staggered out of the bar and concentrated on keeping the car within the white lines on the expressway. He drove past downtown skyscrapers and turned off in an area where all the windows had iron bars and the cars had blocks in place of tires. He followed the El tracks which he would take to the airport, and parked the Porsche three blocks from the station, in between a green Galaxy with pink quarterpanels and the skeleton of what was once a Nova. He pulled the briefcase and doctor's bag from the car.
He stepped along the cracked sidewalk, suddenly realizing he was conspicuous in both color and dress. He felt the prickling of eyes following him as he walked past the street of project housing. Just two more blocks.
As he passed an alley between two buildings, he felt a sharp jab in the center of his back. "Anything weird and you're gonna have a bunch of holes in you. Walk real slow in front of me into that alley."
Christ, not now. Not with the money in the briefcase. As he walked, he looked around for an escape. If he could only see the gunman's face, his eyes, maybe he could reason with him.
The gunman marched the doctor to the back of the alleyway where it dead-ended in a brick wall. He ordered the doctor to turn around.
The gunman was a huge bearded black man, over six feet tall, with a long, deep scar across his face. There was nothing in his eyes to reason with. Speed addict, the doctor diagnosed.
"Gimme your wallet!" the gunman demanded.
The killer frowned. He'd gladly give up the doctor's wallet but it was important not to look too eager.
"Now the case." He waved the gun at the doctor, motioning him to drop both bags.
"Please," the killer pleaded, "I'm here to save a little boy's life. I need the equipment to..."
The gunman cocked the trigger. The killer had no doubt that he would use it. The killer dropped the satchel and the briefcase between himself and the gunman. It was now or never. As the gunman leaned over to pick up the case, the killer kicked the gun out of the gunman's hand, knocking it up the alley.
The gunman jumped at him, bashing the killer's head against the wall. Falling. Two hands grabbed his neck, pulled him up, slammed him against the wall again.
His circle of vision was becoming smaller. Numbness spread across his body as he began to lose consciousness. Control! I need control! He cleared the fuzz from his brain then kicked the gunman in the sensitive section just under the kneecap, causing the gunman to lose balance, and loosen his grip on the killer's neck. The killer jabbed an elbow into the gunman's solar plexus. As the gunman lurched forward, the killer grabbed his neck and squeezed hard, snapping the cartilage. The gunman fell to the ground, his head smashing against the asphalt. The killer held on, and as the gunman passed out, the killer glimpsed the horror in his eyes.
"WHERE AM I?" screamed the voice from within, and from the strength of the headrush the killer knew his new personality would not fade quickly. He was overwhelmed by the gunman's strength, his obsessive need for the drug. As the rush slowly faded to a strong tingling throughout his body, he stood up, dazed but functional, his eyes glazed-over, and collected the satchel and briefcase from the ground. He staggered from the alley. The first stop would be the pharmacy. He still had the doctor's prescription pad. Then they would leave for Los Angeles. He wondered what the news media there would nickname him - "The Crenshaw Killer?" or maybe "The Santa Monica Psycho?"
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