Sinthia, not her real name, runs a sex chat line in the late afternoon hours. Her customers range from teenage boys with their mother's credit card to old widowers who can't get it up and show her, to husbands, bored with their wives, to lesbians, hot for her bod, to guys who never had a woman and probably never will because they were too shy, too stupid, or too ugly. And crazies, the occasional crazy. She takes them all on–for their money.
For several days now, she's been getting this same customer. He must have a lot of money, because he hogs her private sex line and doesn't ask for sex. He only seems to want to confess…
Begin session: 3:05pm PST
Sinthia: Hello. How are you?
Death Angel: I am fine. I feel cleansed. I have glorified the name of my Lord, Jesus, last night.
Sinthia: What do you mean? Glorified?
Death Angel: I have sent another sinner to Hell.
Sinthia: How do you do that?
Death Angel: I have to kill them. It isn't hard. After all, they are sinners and deserve to be sent to Hell.
Sinthia: What do you mean, it isn't hard? I would find killing someone impossible. I'm a lover, not a killer.
Death Angel: Because I started early. When I was a little kid, I enjoyed swatting flies and mosquitoes, crushing angleworms, caterpillars and ants. Whipping snake's heads off and smashing frogs flat with big rocks. When I was about six, I used to catch flies and pull their wings off, just to see them struggle. I got good at kicking dogs in the ribs and watching them yelp. I got spanked for it, so I learned not to do it when others were around. I found cats rather nasty, sneaking around and spying on me. So I would take them out back of the barn where no one could see me, hold them up by the tail, and hit them with a baseball bat. Sometimes their heads would come off the body and blood would fly everywhere. Mom would ask me where I got the blood on my shirt and pants, and I'd tell her that I cleaned a squirrel or rabbit for Dad. She was so stupid; she would believe almost anything I 'd tell her. I buried them out back behind the barn or in the trees where no one ever found them. I'm very good at burying.
Sinthia: Why are you telling me this? Why don't you just want to have sex with me? That's what I'm here for. That's what guys want. Let me see your stuff…
Death Angel: Because you look just like my childhood sweetheart, Cynthia. I never told Cynthia that she was an angel, because I was too shy. Besides, Cynthia never even looked my way. She was the most popular girl in the sixth grade and I don't think she even knew I existed. But you are pure and beautiful. One of God's white angels. Right down to that mole on your left breast. It matches the beauty mark on your left cheek. Just like Cynthia. You are Cynthia, all grown-up. (Death Angel turned on his cam. He always appeared naked with a black hood over his face like an Al Qaeda hostage. Sometimes, he had blood on his hands and arms).
Sinthia: My name isn't Sinthia. And I never was that angelic girl you've described to me. Don't you like me the way I am? We could have sex for what you are paying.
Death Angel: You are too pure for sex. Besides, I'm already satisfied from last night. What I do with my money is my business. You talk like my mother. I'm glad she's dead. I saw Dad shoot her and then run off. It was the happiest day of my life. Back to you. I chose you because you are so pale white and so pure–not like the others. You are all pale and pink like a girl down there, like Cynthia.
Sinthia: I shave. You should. You have hair all the way to your navel and all across your chest and on your back. I'll bet your eyebrows grow together. (A snicker escaped her usual angelic smile)
Death Angel: You are still the purest here because you talk to me and don't block me like the others. My eyebrows do not grow together. You'll have to take my word for that because I can never show you my face. I'm too shy. Only the dead see it–or have sex with me.
Sinthia: You have sex with the dead? You've got to be kidding.
Death Angel: Yes, most of the time. They are still warm and soft. They don't fight back and they don't know that I'm shy, really afraid to have sex, except with them–my little kittens. Like Cynthia. I have a shrine to her. She is like Madonna, mother of Christ. I love her so much. I killed her, you know.
Sinthia: You killed her? You killed the girl of your dreams?
Death Angel: I didn't mean to. I just wanted to get her attention. I was down by the river that Saturday, throwing rocks. I saw her coming a long way off and hid back in the woods by the bank. The river was low, so she was walking in the space between the bank where I hid and the water, just sand and rocks. She was walking barefoot with her head down like she was thinking or something, maybe about one of her many boyfriends. She looked so sad. Didn't even see my tracks. I wanted to get her attention as she walked by, so I threw a big rock. You know, like the ones we'd throw at cows and they would just shudder and the rocks would bounce off their backs–wouldn't hurt them. It hit her on the side of the head and she fell. She was choking and spitting up blood, and kicking her feet terribly, so I choked her until she stopped moving. I pulled up her skirt and pulled down her panties and that's why I love her so much because she had just a faint little blonde hair that I think about all the time when I talk to you. I pushed her in the water and she floated downstream.
Sinthia: That's horrible. You're making me cry (Sinthia was openly crying–tears running down her cheeks and she was wiping them away). Did they find her?
Death Angel: Right after that, a big storm came up. I yelled at the wind and lightning and got very excited and soaked. I felt I had the power of the storm in me. I felt like God was talking to me for what I had done and the rain was cleansing me from sin. There was so much rain that the river flooded. On Monday, in school, everyone was talking about Cynthia being missing. At noon, they shut the school down and told everyone who wanted to look for her could join the search. I went home and played video games. I knew where she was and didn't want the others to know. I spent some time after that learning how to dispose of bodies without leaving any evidence. Oh, they did find her… At least her remains about six months later, some 30 miles downstream. The police went after her boyfriends; some were quite a bit older, her brother, an uncle, a neighbor, and her father. I don't remember if anyone was ever convicted for killing her. After that, I made sure that if I left any evidence at all, it would be misleading to throw anyone off my track. Husbands and boyfriends are always suspect. I was not.
That's when I started my websites, you know, just when the Internet was beginning. I found all kinds of guys like me–You know, who couldn't get a woman–who wanted to link up and share ideas about sex and death and stuff like that–you know, a newsgroup. We soon found that there were people who didn't like us and kept trying to report us to authorities on the “free” Internet. Some of the guys were real geeks, hackers, you know, and started websites that were almost invisible but accessible for those of us in the know. I told the guys how much I enjoyed killing and how I got off on it. We passed around some “snuff” movies and started getting off on killing the refuse of this Earth. The last time I counted, there were over a hundred of us. God's Death Angels.
Sinthia: Oh my God! You mean there over a hundred guys like you out there killing people? Whatever possessed you to do such a thing?
Death Angel: it's a right thing to do. I never left it, although I joined the Army for a while and learned how to be a good mechanic. Met my wife there, in the service, we married and had three kids. I tried to settle down like everybody else, but kept getting back with my buddies late at night after my wife had fallen asleep and we would swap stories about how we would off people and get rid of the evidence. I wanted to get in the action but couldn't until the ideal opportunity came up. I was working in an auto shop down by the sleazy side of town. My boss had taken on a lot of jobs from other shops and had to run twenty-four hours a day. He asked me if I wanted to work the graveyard shift, alone. I jumped at the chance because it allowed me to stay home during the day while my wife worked and get with my Internet buddies. Also, since I have the shop to myself from 11pm to 7am, I work fast to get my daily work done so I can go cruise the neighborhood for prospects. I use cars and trucks that we are working on so that the stupid cops can never pin a single vehicle on me.
Sinthia: Are you The Green River killer?
Death Angel: You could call me that. But then, you could call me a lot of things. The Railroad Yard killer. The Freeway killer. The Strip killer. Son of Sam. Hell, you could even call me the Zodiac killer (he laughed out loud).
Sinthia: How many have you killed?
Death Angel: Too many to count. I only remember the memorable ones–you know, the young ones. The beautiful ones, like you. The ones that tried to fight me. The ones with a story–what's yours?
Sinthia: My bio is posted below. That's all you need to know. I'm not the Cynthia you're looking for. How could you kill so many and get away with it?
Death Angel: It was easy, I have a toolkit in the shop that I just grab, hop in a car with it, and go trolling. The toolkit looks like any mechanic's toolkit if anyone ever looked, but it has some special tools that guarantees success every time. You know, a garrote, a syringe filled with a knockout drug, some date rape pills, some cinch ties, plastic gloves, and condoms to throw them off. For them, I called it my “love kit.” It's worked every time.
Sinthia: Worked? Trolling? What do you mean?
Death Angel: You know, I'd go surfing. Draw in the net. I'd finish up early, about 1am, when the bars let out. I'd commandeer one of our customer's nondescript cars or trucks. I like old and beat up rather than new and shiny. And drive on down to the Strip. There you have a mixture of cops, pimps, charities and johns, all there to exploit the runaways, whores, and just plain down and out girls that come there for drugs and money. The salt of the earth and its dregs. I'm just there to cull the weak and strengthen the stock. It's easy to spot the weak ones. They are the runaways, emaciated by bad or lack of food. The drug addicts. So easy to get them to come along for money or another hit. The over the hill prostitutes. I would just open the passenger window to my mark carefully, and she would come over to the car and we would negotiate like ten other cars were doing at the same time. She would hop in the car and we would drive off to the destination I selected that night. Depending upon the weather–I like cold, rainy nights rather than calm hot moonlit nights–I'd either go to my favorite place by the river or I would go to that patch of woods with all of its lovers' lanes. Or sometimes, I would bring her back to the shop or an old warehouse that I had found abandoned.
I usually had something for her to drink. Water, Coke or Pepsi, sometimes even booze–spiked with the date rape drug or other sedative to make her feel at ease–or a little maryjane for her to smoke. Get her wrapped around my finger. I'd show her the money and off we would go into the woods, the abandoned house, the warehouse, or the cot we kept at the shop. I'd tell her I wanted doggie style, and she would get down on her hands and knees just like I knew she would and pull down her panties and show me her stuff. I would tell her that I was putting on a condom while I was getting my garrote out and she would obediently wait until I slipped it around her neck and quickly dispatched her. Depending upon my mood, by that time I would be as excited as I am looking at you right now (he was clearly showing it) and would probably have sex with her warm body if it wasn't too appalling. I especially liked the ones that looked like Cynthia—like you. To throw off the cops, I usually severed the head from the body and placed them in different locations. I really loved having sex with dead heads. Especially if they were beautiful and their eyes were wide open looking up at me in such an obedient way while I came in their mouths, their moist tongues stroking me gently and their throats wide open.
Sinthia: (Choke… crying) That's terrible! How could you do such a thing? Weren't you afraid of being caught? What kind of man does a thing like that? You disgust me!
Death Angel: I did them all a favor. Their lives were nothing… nothing. They were the dregs of the earth. I saved them. I purified them for the love of our Savior Jesus Christ. They are in a much better place in his hands than in the Hell on earth they were living. Who are you to judge? I am an Angel. I am ordained by God. My comrades and I are ridding the earth of all the scum, the downtrodden, and the blessed ones.
Sinthia: (Regaining her composure, but crossing her naked legs as a defense) You're going to get caught!
Death Angel: The cops are so stupid. I've been doing this over 20 years and they haven't a clue. Sometimes, I purposely leave heads out where they can find them, and they still mess it up. I bury most of the bodies in shallow graves or dump them in the river. And still, they don't find them until years later when there is no evidence. I burn most of their clothes in the potbellied stove at the shop. And trade any artifacts or trinkets they may have at the local flea market on Saturdays. The cars are clean for the most part, but if they are not, I vacuum them and wash them so that the customer is very happy when they see their fixed, shiny clean car. My boss is very happy with the output of cars that I fix every night. Don't get me wrong. I only troll a couple of nights a week because most of the time the cars are hard to fix and I can't leave the shop. The girls always wait. They're always eager for another fix or some cash. I have to laugh at all the newspaper and TV reports chasing down suspects and cars. Sometimes, they go after a car of a customer… hee hee (a child-like but serious, giggle). Sorry, couldn't help laughing at the stupidity of the cops and the press.
There was a loud crash as the door to the room exploded inward behind him, hitting him in the back and knocking him down. There was a brief struggle with shouts of “FBI!” And kids screaming in another room in the house. The cam caught most of the action as the black hood was ripped off the man's head and he was handcuffed and dragged out of the room.
A head popped into the cam view. It was Sam Rather, Chief Investigator, FBI Sex Crimes Division. He didn't type any chat. He spoke into the mike. “Jackie. Did you get everything? Did you get the evidence we needed on a disk and backed up on a hard drive?”
“I sure did. I got it all. Got enough to put that slime away forever. Scared the hell out of me. After I hit the button, I was afraid you'd never get there and stop him from spouting that crap!”
“Looks like he scared the pants off you. Don't believe I've ever seen you looking so lovely.” There was a big smile on his face.
“All in days work. Got to do what I've got to do to get the bad guys. This has been one of the worst assignments I've ever had to do, but I'm sure glad it's over–he's over!” Jackie Columbo was grabbing for something to put on to cover her nakedness.
“That's all right. You'll get a promotion for this. No more decoying for you.”
“Thanks. That's why I volunteered for this. Somebody had to do it. Promotion or not, he had to be put away. Well, I'm getting off here. I've had enough for one afternoon. I'm going to pull this mole makeup off and to take a long hot shower to get the slime of the session off me and I'll see you later over at Scott's. Okay?”
“Scott's it is. I'm buying.”
Sinthia's site closed with a enticing picture of her bare rear and the caption that she was “off-line” but would be back according to the schedule posted. The eager followers that came back the next day found that her site and information were missing. Fortunately, there were plenty of housewives, divorcees, college students, and unemployed administrative assistants, engineers, lawyers, and strippers willing to flirt with, chat with, and have virtual sex with almost anyone and anything out there in cyberspace–for a price, that is.
Copyright 2012 © Ronald W. Hull
7/13/12–Friday the 13th