Sick of the Whole Thing

© 1999 Monica J. O'Rourke
All rights reserved.

Ted told the police where he had dumped the body. He described, in vivid detail, how he had raped the girl and had choked her before tossing her carelessly away like soiled toilet paper beside the mound of dirt and wood and strewn trash at the construction site.

He even brought the police there (a cluster of 12 or so officers, anxious to arrest a possible murderer), to show them. He pointed out the scuff marks from where he had dragged her, barefoot; showed them the handprints in the soil where he had pushed off for leverage. He indicated the large moist spots on the ground that had almost completely seeped into the earth.

"Her blood," he told them, pointing. "That was her blood."

But there was no body.

Ted scratched his head and picked at his ass and tried to remember what he really did with her body. He was sure he'd left it here. Had been positive.

The police shook their collective heads and muttered under their collective breath and disappeared into their strobed cars, driving away, leaving Ted behind in the deserted construction site.

The next night, after Ted murdered the next young woman (was this number four? five? he had lost count. Actually, he had just stopped counting, deciding to move to this small city and start over again), he dragged her body to the foot of a hoary old weather-withered, sap-stained pine.... Perfect. He stared at the site, a few feet from where he had actually murdered her. He positioned her body, spread-eagled and topless, beneath the tree in a very inviting manner.

Ted backed away slowly, facing her, watching. Yes, yes, he would remember this. Yes, he knew where she was, where he was leaving her. He would not be mistaken. Maybe last time he had been wrong, somehow. Maybe he had moved the body and had forgotten. Was that possible? He doubted it, but it didn't matter. It wouldn't happen again. He took a mental picture and nodded, as if answering a question she had posed to him through lips slightly bloated, slightly agape. He slowly, slowly backed away from the young woman, walking backwards, facing her, moving farther and farther away until she was barely visible.

Then, and only then, did he turn around and continue walking.

Once again he went back to the precinct to confess. He had had enough, he told them, again, almost word-for-word his speech from the night before. Again he spilled his guts, as they say on the copper shows like "Dragnet" or "NYPD Blue. " Maybe they didn't say it that way on "NYPD Blue. " On that show, they say it naked.

Ted told them a sad tale of abuse, of a young boy who had been beaten, who had been abandoned, a child who didn't know the love of a parent. One who had suffered terrible abuse at the hands of molesting priests and sadistic orphanage room mates.

He didn't know whose story he was telling, but it certainly wasn't his. Ted had grown up in a two-parent family with six other brothers and sisters. But there was no sympathy in that. He found he could get a lot farther when he thought people were feeling sorry for him, so he concocted a wonderful sob story.

So the police once again took his statement but again refused to arrest him due to lack of evidence. Ted had protested, offering his homelessness as some indication of dementia, but that didn't work; never did. Homeless no longer equaled crazy. He pointed to his wild, disheveled hair and mangy, scraggly beard, and again felt sympathetic eyes watching him, but that wasn't enough. He described the location of the body, but the cops only looked further confused. The body is by a pine tree? ... Can you be more specific, Teddy-boy?

So Ted offered proof: he offered to show them the body.

Seven officers escorted Ted; a bit warily, this time. They remembered Ted from the previous night, but this situation was just too weird to discount; still too early to peg Ted as The Boy Who Cried Wolf just yet. They still felt compelled and obligated to investigate.

There was no body by the hoary old pine. There was no body by any pine, for that matter. There was, illuminated dully by the flashlight, a slight impression in the brown grass.

One of the cops slapped Ted on his back. Ted thought the slap was a little harder than it should have been.

"Tough break," the cop said, obviously pissed, holding back what he really wanted to say, moving away from the scene.

Ted scratched his head and picked at his ass, a habit that for some reason enabled him to think more clearly.

"But, but, but...." he stuttered, sounding like the sputtering engine on a puddle-jumpin' plane.

"Ah, go scratch your 'but'," he was told.

"She was here!" he cried. "She was! I know this is the spot. I'll prove it! I—I"

"Then prove it," someone shouted from the distance. That same someone was told to shut his damned mouth by one of his fellow officers.

Ted circled the area. Circled again. Spun around like a stupid hound chasing his tail. "... Can't prove it..." he muttered, close to tears. Nothing! There was nothing there! Not even—

Not even her blouse. Or her bra. He had tossed those thoughtlessly by another tree, but now when he looked, they were gone.

Oh, but next time! Next time, he would keep something. He would have his proof.

This one fought, the following night. She scratched his cheek, and she punched him in his eye. Still, he beat the crap out of her, and he raped her and strangled her.

This was getting annoying. It was like having a goddamned job, for cripesakes. He didn't want this. He had never bargained for this. It had all started, so long ago, as just an urge, a compulsion, and it had felt wonderful, fulfilling that urge! Like finally scratching an unreachable itch; pure relief, pure joy. But now, now ... it was work! It was tiresome, bothersome work. Before, it had been enjoyable. Now he simply had a point to make. Even the sex, the rape, had lost its flavor. Even that had become routine.

He stole a car and drove deep into the woods this time. He dragged her body from the trunk, covering his tracks and his trail as they went. He tried to carry her but found it almost impossible. Dead weight somehow seems to take on extra mass. This 120-pound woman felt like she was strapped to an anvil.

Ted had had a sneaking suspicion someone was watching. Where else could the bodies have disappeared to? He concluded he must have been followed before, and that this psychonecrophiliac was doing things even he wouldn't consider. Now he was worried. Those bodies were bound to show up eventually, and he might get blamed for some really sick shit.

This woman he buried under a pile of leaves and pine needles after taking her shirt, bra and shoes. Now he had his proof. He covered her body completely and marked the surrounding area with rocks, cleverly placed so that only he would know what the pattern meant, and only he would know where he had put the body. Every few minutes he stopped dead still, listening closely for footsteps or breathing, looking for signs of another human, for a pin of light from a match or a flashlight.

Nothing. An occasional groan from a bullfrog, the incessant chirping of crickets. A strong breeze rustled the leaves, sounding like crushed plastic wrap.

No human sounds whatsoever, except for Ted, of course. Ted's breathing was labored from rushing around with rocks and a dead body.

He had a fleeting thought of reincarnation and reanimation and for the first time felt a queasy feeling about being in the middle of nowhere with a dead body a few feet away. But then he remembered— he was responsible for her death. He was the monster so many people feared. What the hell was he afraid of? Himself?

Ted laughed at his stupidity and dropped onto the ground beside the body. He pushed his hand under the blanket of pine needles and groped, feeling for her leg. Good, still there. He wasn't crazy. Dead bodies don't just get up and walk away. He'd sit there for a while, making sure no one else showed up to try and steal the body.

Sick necrophiliacs. What was this world coming to?

He gazed at his Indiglo Nightlight watch: 9:30. He sat, cross-legged, slumped forward. This was tedious, ridiculous. A waste of time. He could just bring her body to the police; he could save himself time and aggravation.

But where was the glamour in that? Where was the drama? The presentation? No, that wasn't the way it was done, not in his book, anyway. He was sick of the whole thing, but now he had a point to make. He was indignant, and wasn't about to give up.

He thought about his family. Thought about old pets. Old girlfriends. Anything to pass the time.

It was almost 10:30. Good enough. He would go straight to the cops; they would see this time.

It was difficult convincing them. He was much closer to Boy Who Cried Wolf status than he would ever know.

"Teddy," Officer Gianni said kindly, "what the fuck're you doin'?"

Ted smiled, and he led the four-man entourage, leaving his stolen car behind, to the corpse.

Which, of course, wasn't there.

There was a lot of cursing, some spitting. Name-calling. That sort of thing.

Ted couldn't understand it. What the hell was happening here? Who was doing this to him? Him! Was this some kind of sick joke? What did he ever do to deserve—

Oh, right.

Well, it didn't matter. The cops would never believe him again. His heart sunk, and he hung his head dejectedly.

"Wait!" He had almost forgotten! He pulled out the assortment of clothes from his backpack. The officers stared at the shirt, shoes and bra.

"What's this?" Gianni asked, wide-eyed. "Oh my God! Ted! Ted, what is this?"

Ted beamed proudly, which unfortunately for him was obscured by the dim moonlight.

"Why, Teddy," Gianni said, "you fucking moron! You went clothes shopping?"

All the cops burst out laughing.

"There's not even a drop of blood. What kind of killer are you?"

They moved away, laughing, toward their cars. Ted rushed after them.

"No! No, you have to believe me! Look what she did to my face. These were her clothes, I swear it."

Gianni held out one powerful arm, stopping Ted in his tracks. "Stop following."

"How—how'll I get home?"

Gianni punched Ted in his face, blackening his formerly unhurt eye, knocking Ted to the ground in a crumpled heap. "Call an ambulance." Gianni stared down at Ted. "Go back to the bar where you picked up your other shiner. Finish tying one on." He tossed a quarter into the air, and it landed in the dirt beside Ted. "Have one on me, asshole."

"No! I'm not drunk!"

But no one was listening. They were piling into their cars.

Ted struggled back to his feet, leaning against the grille of the cruiser for support. "The girls! Aren't there girls missing?"

Gianni stopped for a moment. "Nope. None."

Ted's weakness was easy prey ... and here, that had meant prostitutes. They probably wouldn't be reported missing for weeks.

The two cruisers disappeared, leaving Ted with a 10-mile hike back to the city.

Ted's Indiglo watch read 4:14. Great. It was the middle of the night. He'd never be able to hitch a ride, even if a car did happen to show up at this hour.

He began his trek back, dejectedly walking along the solid line separating the road from the shoulder.

Boy, it sure was quiet.... He glanced over his shoulder. Ok, so he had the willies.... What he wouldn't do for a ride! He wouldn't even kill the passengers, that's how grateful he would be.

He glanced over his shoulder again, which was futile, actually, since in this Cimmerian darkness he could barely see past the length of his arm. He glanced up, hoping to see the moon hidden behind clouds, but it was barely a quarter moon, and there were only a handful of stars to keep it company. He would get no help from the night sky, that was for sure. He wondered when sunrise was supposed to be. That didn't really matter, he gathered; why would that matter? Would the daylight chase away the boogeyman?

No, but still....

Cracking in the bushes. That was normal, wasn't it? That meant squirrel, or rabbit. Ok, maybe bear. But really, what were the odds that it might be some crazed serial killer?

Ted laughed, sort of. He tried to laugh, but it came out as some sort of cough, or a groan; a combination of the two sounds. He wasn't really in the mood to laugh.

"Fuckin' cops...." he muttered.

For the first time in his life, Ted understood the phrase 'his heart skipped a beat.' He also understood what it felt like for your skin to turn clammy. It wasn't a pleasant feeling. It was akin to having the flu.

Someone laughed, and it wasn't him.

He froze, trying to hold his breath to hear better, which is damned near impossible when you're hyperventilating.

He tried to convince himself it was voices from the distance, maybe a nearby camp site. That had to be it.

Soft, gentle laughter, like wind chimes in the trees.

His head whipped left, whipped right, and he spun around.

Nothing.

Ok, it must have been caused by the wind; that had to be it.

Gentle laughter again, coming from ...

Coming from over Ted's head.

He looked up, involuntarily, before he could stop himself.

There were four bodies circling him, flying in a perfect circle in the air above his head. They were laughing, and when he had finally looked up, their laughter had grown: fun, playful laughter like children getting caught in a game of Tag.

Ted's jaw hinged open, but he didn't say anything. He really wouldn't have known what to say anyway. Not a single word came to mind.

They circled him for a moment, and they landed on the ground, surrounding him. He spun in a ridiculous circle, recognizing all but one. It was the man he didn't recognize.

The three women, however.... He knew them all too well. They were the women he had murdered over the past three nights.

They touched him and rubbed him, and he threw his hands over his ears, then over his eyes, back over his ears again.

"This can't be happening!" he screamed. "You're dead! You're dead! You're all dead!" He screamed until his voice reached a feverish pitch, until his throat was raw.

"Undead," the man said. He grasped Ted's shoulder. "I've been watching you. You're careless and sloppy."

"Sasha saved us from your shitty work!" cried Murder Victim Three. "He saved us, you stupid pig!" She spat in Ted's face.

"It's your turn now," crooned Victim One. "Feel the burn, baby!" She slashed Ted's cheek with a slash of her razor-sharp fingernail.

He screeched, grabbing his face, watching peripherally as the blood pooled under his palm.

The three women tore at Ted's body, ripping chunks of flesh from his scalp, shredding the skin on his arms and face and chest.

He cried out in hysterical pain. He was still very much alive, feeling every bit of their anger and hatred.

But, as he would find out the hard way, they weren't finished with him. They were thirsty as hell.

"Please!" Ted cried. "Please stop! I'll change!"

"Oh, you bet you will," Sasha said, laughing, as the four descended on a screaming, struggling Ted.

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