Crime: Beyond the Truth

Courtesy Pixabay

"Oh, Hi again. You followed me?" he said.
"Yes," she said.
"What's that? I mean—"


It's not like Jake meant to walk there, on that day, but you know how it goes... you get up, you get out and you unfold like a slab of plump dough onto a never before discovered path. It's slow by increments, see, so no one notices. Not even you. And never Jake.

He hadn't even brought his kill bag with him that day, and he never goes anywhere, well there, in his head, without it. It was an old bowling ball bag he nabbed for a buck at the Goodwill store down on Vine & Sycamore, and boy, had it come in handy all these years. Be prepared. Boy Scout motto is never wrong. Jake grinned every time he hauled it out of the closet. If Bedrock’s Fred Flintstone could see him now.

Yesterday’s trek was a breather, that's all. Get out, get some fresh air—the mix of heating oil, basement dust and rotting innards can get stifling after a while.

So Jake found this trail, right? It was a thin ribbon of packed dirt. Bluebells and jack-in-the-pulpit wild flowers lined it on both sides. He smiled at the thought of Little Red Riding Hood on this trail ahead of him when...


A bit startled, she tipped over her water jug at Jake's sudden appearance, the clear liquid falling in large dollops that landed like blood splatter on the path, a dark line culminated and took the road of least resistance, right to Jake's work boots. Jake wasn't worried. The boots were waterproof and the blood stains had already ruined the soft leather nap.

"Uh, Hi. Sorry. You startled me. Didn't hear you come up," she said, as she levelled her drink and adjusted her red Nike running shorts. She had wondered at their ultra-shortcut hem in the store, and now with this man, she wished she had bought biker shorts instead. At least my red top isn't clingy. She continued to do leg stretches.

Jake smiled. Women made him virtually mute. He wished he had his bowling ball bag. He could talk to women when he had his bag.

"Uh, listen, just go ahead of me. I'm taking a break."

The woman is puffing. But he hadn’t seen her run. He smiled and sidled around her, careful not to stomp on the bluebells with his boots. The nearness to her glistening body... inhale without her noticing... he could almost taste it.

She jerked out of the way, mashing the verdant pulpit.
No care for living things, Jake mused. No, not today, stupid. You don't have your bag.
Jake ignored the growing arousal. He looked down at his pants and silently swore at it to disappear.

Not every woman, right? Not every time. I still haven't finished the other one yet. I don't have room. You know it. I don't have room. Stop it!

The member must have heard. It flattened and slinked back into its foreskin.

Jake put the running girl out of his mind. Sunshine winked through the foliage canopy and small creatures rustled in the undergrowth as the lush green hues mixed and mingled. The musky woodland scent… that sweat on her back. He caught a faint hint of female B.O. Jack slammed his boot into the path. Nobody like him lasts long without self-control!

Jake killed that kind of thinking and headed for the sound of rushing water. The trailhead sign noted falls, dead ahead. Dunk my damn head in that cold water, calm the hell down, and sober up, man!

He reached the rock wall, a three-tiered design Mother Nature crafted as her own overflow sink. The water pooled in each tier, then by some unseen force cascaded over each cliff, foaming turquoise-white. The roar was freight engine level. Jake could feel the noise as well as hear it. The rumble vibrated into his core. The desire died. He exhaled relief.

Taking a seat on the jagged quartz, the cold slab refreshing to his overheated legs, Jake dangled them over the edge, closed his eyes and let his other senses wander. Recurring fantasy, acted out over and over again. He knew it wasn’t right.

Thoughts should be pure like this place is void of evil.

Problem was, nobody understood. No court in the land would empathize. Maybe if he had stopped at the first one. He should have, you know, because his release—seeing the fright in their eyes, feeling, squishing the blood between his fingers, doing those things to their heads—he never again achieved the same intensity, that zenith level of euphoric high. No, not with the others. And there had been so many. He was running out of room on the hatchet’s wooden handle to carve out anymore notches.

No. There was no stopping, no permanent reprieve. Still, I have today, don’t I? This moment.
Jake inhaled the humid air and opened his hands, palms up, to feel the fine mist kiss his skin.

It was the droplets he noticed first before he felt the blow, not clear like water, a purple-red. Funny.

His thumb and index finger rubbed at the gooey mess five times before his autonomic nervous system died. Muscles must retain movement memory for a time even after the brain stem is severed.

Jake never got to witness his head fall those 90 feet to the bottom falls. If he had, he probably would have been impressed, who knows, maybe even aroused.

He never saw her knapsack sitting against the elm. It wouldn't have mattered if he had. Women didn’t act like him. Or do they? Jake should have paid more attention. Her kill bag held similar toys; machete, body bag, a small folding shovel, rope, duct tape, and an ice pick.

Unlike Jake, Doris brought her kill bag with her on that run.
Unlike Jake, Doris didn't have a fresh kill; her basement workbench didn't hold any leftover pieces marinating in their own bodily fluids.

She needed a fix.
She needed it bad.

Doris didn’t hide from the truth. She had that blood thirst. She knew no other way for release. She wasn't about hiding the fact.

Embrace it.
Go beyond the truth.
Luxuriate, celebrate… bathe.

Even in the wild kingdom, not all are lambs; some are crocodiles.

The only discipline she encouraged: Doris always wore Wash & Wear red. It laundered easy, and it hid the stains. A female predator, unlike her male counterpart, is smart enough to always be prepared. Girl Scouts live by that motto, too.