A Little Bit of Me

Jottings and Writing, miscellanous misgivings

Archive for serial killer

The She

Mia dialled. The idea had not fully formed in her head yet, and, she wasn’t sure this was the right thing to do. A stiffened reply from the other end of the telephone.

‘Wicham Police Station. How may I help?’

Mia felt a temor pass up through her legs, through that region of her body she could not bear to contemplate and then shudder up her spine. She slammed the receiver down. There had to be a better way to do this. To finish this right. To…. Her thoughts trailed off as she thought of the weeks and possibly months that lay ahead.

Meanwhile Fredericke dreamed. He was lying in a narrow bed. His thoughts were drifting off to form dreams. He heard a rustling of wings. Large wings. Was he still awake or now dreaming? He sensed rather than felt, a large presence descend onto the bed. An unpleasant smell accompanied the feather like structure. He sensed the wings enveloping his body. He felt suffocated as the beast crushed his small body.

The little boy climbed the play frame blissfully unaware that not fifty metres away lay two of the most sadistic killers in the history of crime. They, in turn, watched him, one in the certain knowledge that this would be a watershed in their personal and criminal relationship. They watched as his little Mickey Mouse hat, with little white ears, disappeared over the rim of the frame and he somersaulted over the other side. Fredericke moved in what Mia thought to be haste. He quickly halved the distance between himself and the playground equipment. Mia hesitated, then followed, uncertain as to what her part was to be in this unfolding mystery. Suddenly, from the surrounding bushes, a phalanx of bodies emerged, heavily armed and screaming different instructions. ‘Freeze motherfucker’, ‘Police – stop’, ‘Get down on the ground – Now,’ ‘ Police-you’re under arrest.’ Fredericke turned to look at Mia and, for an instant, a look passed over his face of betrayal, of love, of trust, of hate. Mia dropped. Rough hands pulled her arms behind her back and handcuffs were painfully applied. She could feel the cold metal burning into her wrists. She heard the sounds of feet on bodies, she moved her head, and looking under her arm, she could see heavy boots thumping into the side of Frederickes’s body. She grimaced as she was jerked to her feet and she could see Fredericke lying in a pool of blood as they moved their attention to his head. She thought of yelling for them to stop but realised that she may focus their administrations on to herself. She was led away.

The she-hawk circled the barren countryside from hundreds of feet. Her yellow eyes blinked as he pinpointed a rustle in the paddock at the base of the hillock. Her attention became totally focussed on that one spot. Her wings went back, her neck extended; she went into a steep dive. Her speed increase as she rushed headlong to the ground. At the last moment before impact, she thrust forward her legs, talons extended. They struck as the young fledgling tried desperately to regain the shallow hollow, that moments before had been his home. That he had gained the comforting warmth of his brothers and sisters while their mother went in search of food. The she-hawk felt the extra weight as she lifted skywards again, her wings now bearing the extra weight of bird and prey. She felt the life slowly draining from the bleeding body beneath her. She looked for a suitable spot to begin the dismemberment.

Final session 23/9/95. Fredericke continues to be withdrawn. His moments of lucidity, observed during session five and eight, have now receded. It would appear that he has entered a fugue-like state. Occasional snatches of conversation and some scribblings suggest that he has avian fantasies. The relationship of these to past or recent events remains obscure and will probably continue to remain that way unless there is a gross change in Fredericke’s mental state. The subject Mia continues to present a complex clinical puzzle. While my personal opinion is that she is of sound mind and should stand trial as an equal of Frederickes for these ghastly crimes, I am aware that defense counsel has credible psychiatric sources who are willing to testify that she is mentally incompetent. My overbearing impression of Mia is a statement she made to me as I left our last session. After being belligerent and uncooperative for the duration of the session she turned to me as she was being escorted form the room and simply said ‘I did it because I could.’ Out of context, this statement could have meant either her betrayal of Fredericke or her part in the killings.

Mia could see him through the one way mirror. He had aged since the last occasion she had been allowed this privilege. His once proud shoulders now stooped. His skin, once beautiful, seemed sallow and grey. His eyes were dull. She heard the words from the man she assumed to be the lawyer telling Fredericke what he had written on the pad before him. Mia assumed that it was taken verbatim from the statement she had made earlier in the day. She watched as Fredericke’s eyes darted to the mirror of the room, as if he senses that someone, perhaps Mia, was watching. She saw his shoulders slump further as the weight of her accusations sank in. She saw a small, almost imperceptible movement of his head, and then saw his nod of approval. She saw his life leave him as his hands moved forward to grasp the pen proffered by the lawyer. She didn’t know what she felt.


Use Unknown

I killed someone on Saturday, 9th.

He looked a little simple. His wavy black hair was cropped and neat but looked askew, as if he was wearing a wig. His top teeth protruded slightly giving him the look of being slightly simple. Prison issue orange overalls, white t-shirt bleached within an inch of its life. Slip-ons, immaculate white and incongruously blue socks. He mumbled as I struggled to initiate a conversation about why he came to be here. I must say, his language skills added to the initial impression of slight retardation.

“So! Why did you kill two people? People you apparently didn’t even know?”

“Well, ah, argh. I was picked on like”

“Picked on. How did that happen? What do you mean when you say picked on?”

“Well, spat. They spat at me. And they slapped me around, and said bad things to me. Every day, every week. Yeah, the spitting, the hitting. And they said bad words to me. Over and over again. It was like . Like it was like….. It was so that I couldn’t show my face without being spat on, …. And slapped. ”

“So how did that make you feel?”

“Well! How would it make you feel? I wanted to teach them a lesson. Make them stop hitting and spitting and picking on me. I wanted it to stop”

“So you thought that shooting and killing them would make it stop.”

“Yeah! I thought it would teach them a lesson. Make them leave me alone. Make them think that I wasn’t an easy target.”

He sat straight-up, back as rigid as a drill sergeant; eyes focused somewhere3 over my head.

“And did you have a plan? Like did you target special people?”

“I jus got the guns and the bullets and walked to the school with them all stashed in my backpack. There were ones I wanted to hurt but once I started I just picked whoever was handy.”

“So thinking of the killing. Did you see them dead?”

“You know it’s kind of funny but I was only a kid then and I know that’s not a reason why I should have done it or got off or anything but I didn’t think that just shooting them once would kill them. I thought that they would just get back up again. I thought that I would have to shoot them like six or seven times. I was only a kid and that’s what happens in Doom, you know.”


“Yaeah! It’s a game. Doom. You know.”


“It’s a game where you shoot the monsters and like you have to shoot them a few times before they stay down. Once is not enough. You’ve got to do it over and over again. But I thought that once I had shot them they wouldn’t bully me any more. That would stop, and I would be able to hold my head high.”

“And once you say the blood and they didn’t get back up. Did that change anything?”

“No! I thought that they would just rest for a while then they would get up, but they wouldn’t spit and say things any more.”

I watched as he walked back to his cell. He leaned slightly to one side. He stumbled, as though his legs were manacled. Other prisoners jeered him as he shuffled back to his little 4 X 5 cell where he would spend the next 300 years of his life.

I only have vague memories of before the killing. A warm autumn morning – it must have been term break school holidays – motoring down the harbour side, my window open, my head hanging out the window sucking in the crisp air. Sliding down a hillside, squishy with mud, feeling out of control, but in control. I loved to sit at the bus station and watch the buses leave. It was an inside station, the huge, high roofs echoing the mechanics activities as they fixed skeletons of buses raised on jacks. You could sit inside the station waiting room in the high backed leather seats and watch passengers buying tickets for exotic destinations, or you could sit outside and watch as people slowly inserted themselves on a bus. I particularly liked watching as the buses came from their normal resting places to take their place in the queue. What fascinated me was how they rode the tapered curve that separated the road from the waiting platform. They routinely violated that artificial separation between road and walkway.

They lay in the dark bedroom together, bodies stretched out on the narrow bed, staring at the cracked ceiling. There was a torch somewhere in the bed but they had no use for it tonight as they lay, plotting. Tomorrow, as they made their way to school they would turn on the track about half way to the front gates. They would time it so they were behind him. They now conspired together so that they would get the words right. The words that would burn themselves into his brain. The words that would haunt him all day and into the night. The words that they would repeat on the way home form school. They giggled and twined their fingers together as they conspired to kill a soul.

“Round shouldered. You never stood tall.” The Mother said. You would not think she was talking about her son. “What do you mean? You are trying to tell me that that nice Jones boy – the son of my best friend – is yelling abuse at you. That those girls are too? I just don’t believe it. And don’t tell your father. He already thinks there’s something wrong with you.”

I killed somebody today. No more will he experience the cool breeze of an autumn morning. No more will he feel a glow at a new experience and look upon the world as a young unspoiled place ready to be explored. No more will he awake each morning and think of the glorious opportunities awaiting him throughout the day and reflect on the beauty of the previous day, week, and year. Instead he will trudge through the world looking at half empty glasses, seeing the bad in people, feeling everything is an effort. He will be subject to repeated bouts of depression throughout his life and always he will have this rage inside himself that he will never be able to assail. I killed some body today. I killed somebody today and in doing so I killed a bit of myself. ‘


He reached into his shorts and pulled another bird out and placed it in the line of seven dead songbirds on the bedside dresser. This formed a parallel line against his wallet, the gold coins arranged in value and year, and the Laguiole pocketknife. A cigarette spread a lazy haze over the back part of the bedroom and added to the yellow staining on the curtains that kept the watery sunlight from the small room. He reached over, and, holding the cigarette European style, he took a deep drag, then placed the tube back in the ashtray. A small piece of ash dropped off the end and settled on his white singlet. He didn’t seem to notice as his entire attention was focused on the line of dead birds. Frederick Lewis, murderer, was content.

He felt, or did he hallucinate, a light touch on his shoulder and Mia joined him on the bed, sensuously stroking his thigh as she slid closer. He smelt the musky stink on her and buried his face into her hair and then side to immerse himself deeper in her odour. He touched her breast and felt his erection straining at his underpants. She handed him a package and urged him to open it. He struggled with the green ribbon that bound the parcel and tugged at the brown wrapping. A stench arose from the bundle as he pulled it open and a severed hand dropped to the floor. “You left this behind darling.” Dreamlike Mia rose from the bed and floated to the door then exited to the tiny bathroom that led through to the kitchen of the upstairs apartment Frederick and Mia had lived in for the last ten days.

Frederick looked up at the wall and smiled at the Polaroid photos that showed the grizzly details of their latest ‘hunting’. His attention was momentarily drawn to the sound of a siren as Mia came (back?) into the room. She was a tall woman and Frederick’s heart still quickened when she entered a room. Her hair, now dyed almost white (she said it was platinum blonde after her two favourite women) was cut short and curled around her head in such a way that it was like a halo. She had left her eyebrows her natural black (and the hair on that secret part of her body) and made them up to look even darker, kohl-like, she said. Her body was long and slender and she now slung her leg over Frederick as she snuggled closer. She whispered in his ear and Frederick felt himself hardening. She drove him crazy when she was in this mood.

The accused have formed a relationship based on a powerful sexual attraction, fuelled by blood lust. Frederick fantasises that he is a member of the master race and has either duped Mia into believing his fantasy or she has a rich fantasy life of her own. Of the two Mia is the more enigmatic. She has no history of abuse, neither sexual, physical or psychological, unlike Frederick who has such a history starting from a very early age. She is not an intelligent person, her IQ is barely 100, but has a street intelligence that enables her to cope more than adequately. She believes she is a reincarnation of Eva Braun and Marilyn Monroe. She is trapped in the same body and like those two women she is physically unable to have children. This partially explains her crimes in that she both wants to possess her victims and also to give birth to them. Her powerful belief in the fragility and temporary nature of life on Earth allows her to inwardly justify death. The children do not die but are reborn through her. I have been unable to fully penetrate her defence mechanisms and my conclusions are of a tentative nature. Frederick is a more straightforward case. I would describe him as a borderline personality disorder with psychotic features. He suffers from vivid and well-defined visual and auditory hallucinations. The visual hallucinations are often bounded by his present reality but the auditory hallucinations are voices he claims that order him to carry out actions. He has a manipulative and fully convincing personality which would make it viable that he is the dominant partner in this twosome, but I reserve my final comment on that until I have developed a better picture of Mia. They both have long histories of multiple drug abuse. (or did they?)

The day was black and white. Frederick felt the soft mist on his face. He turned his head to the sky and saw a flock of sparrows wheeling from a field and then banking sharply as they dipped over the surrounding hedge. Beside him Mia cocked her head and giggled.

“I hear the sounds of little laughs,” she bubbled as she linked her arm through Fredericks and urged him forward. To their right a small stream separated them from a playing filed and over on the extreme edge a group of small boys were playing a game of pickup soccer. They screamed in delight as one of their number kicked the ball between the upturned cycle helmets they were using as goal markers. Mia tightened her grip on Frederick’s arm. “The little one in the red jacket.” Frederick only saw black and white today but he did see the little one. Mia was playing her Big Girl Grown Up role today and Frederick felt like a dog on a leash. “We need to get back to the car.”

The red (black) Ford was parked under a group of evergreen (gray) trees. Mia was driving. Frederick methodically checked his mental list. Tape (check), hammer (check), sack/blindfold (check), and camera (check). His turn to grab. Mia to drive and take the pictures.

The diener pulled the small corpse from the aluminium cooler and rolled it onto the waist-high aluminium mortuary table being careful to avoid snagging anything on the various taps that protruded. He placed the body block under the patient’s back and checked the toe tag, carefully noting these details into a tape recorder affixed to the clipboard. He checked that the scalpel, the bread knife, scissors, and pick-ups were where they were supposed to be. He handed the clipboard to the prosector who noted the gross disfigurement of the face, and the massive bruising on the neck and chest region. He made notes on the bleeding from the rectal area and the destruction of the genitals. He examined the anus and made measurements of the distension and tears. He noted the hands, severed from the body at the wrists. The deiner made the first Y incision in the sternum of the 12-year-old boy. He peeled away skin, muscle, and soft tissue off the chest wall and pulled the chest flap upward over the boy’s face. He mumbled into the tape recorder again. The smell was like that of a freshly killed chicken. The prosector cut open the pericardial sac, then the pulmonary artery, and pulls the young heart from the bloody mass. A heart that was beating only hours before. Although he has been hardened by many autopsies he feels emptiness and anger for this vulnerable corpse. The picture faded and a dove ascended from the autopsy table in a clatter of wings and spilt feathers. It flew to the open skylight at the tip of the autopsy room and spread its wings as it flew into the sunlight sky, now in full colour.

The act itself was almost anti-climatic. The flash of the hammer. The knife, the hacking, the clicking and whirring of the camera. The droplets of blood across their faces and clothing. The sucking sounds from the boy’s head. The fountains of blood when the hands came off. The frenzied thrashing slowly then rapidly subsiding. Then the immersion in each other.

The little thrush, the baby thrush, pushed itself across the cracked pavement using its broken wing. Its little thrush, its baby thrush eyes already glazed with the certainty of death. The cruel cat, the ginger and black and white cat, the white a cruel parody of religion, a white slash at its throat, spread its ugly paw and swatted the baby thrush. The baby thrush spun out of the cruel cats reach once again and its feet scrambled on the hard surface desperately trying to push itself away. If only it could get that extra inch it may be able to fly to freedom, its broken wing magically healing itself. It spun again as the cruel claw struck it another blow.

Another day. Timeless and now in colour. The lovers had sated themselves on each other and their crime. The hands had always been part of their pact. Frederick had a thing about hands. He had told Mia one particularly black and white night

“I have to have the hands. That’s one thing that must always be a constant. And the pictures.”

Now they had hunted and fed they were free until the dreams and the voices urged them on again.

Mia liked to look. That made her appear to be uninvolved and somehow more likeable than the ominous Frederick. But Mia was far more complex than that. In many ways she was the stronger in the partnership. She had no horror filled childhood that she remembered to excuse her behaviour. For Mia life had been good. She couldn’t claim boredom. Mia was content with who and what she was. In Mia’s mind there were no birds, no severed hands, no corpses on autopsy boards. She slept peacefully, her dreams no different to yours or mine.

The cage hung at the southern end of the sunporch. Here, it attracted the most sunlight throughout the year. The two canaries had a magnificent view of the surrounding bush and the lake. All who came into this house would hear their joyous chanting. They would become excited when the native birds feed on the fruit trees outside the sunroom. Their lovesongs would continue for hours. Both canaries were males and would be destined never to mate. Their beautifully constructed songs, handed down from past generations, embellished with the music of the house, and songs of the local feathered population, would never carry out their original function. They would be songbirds. Entertainers for life, pointless in function, forgotten quickly in death.

The news was not good. Mia hardly heard the last part of Doctor D’Arth’s dictate. Words spun in her head. Uterus, if only in time, chemotherapy, cut, cancer, poison. She saw her own mother lying in that little bed, in that terribly public and humiliating room. Coughing, then choking. The sip of water that turned to drool. The last desperate days when the life dribbled, then poured, from her. Mia looked down to her lap and her fingers had torn the skin in her palms. Her, the murderess. She had a heart. She was like others. Oh Frederick – what will you think? What will you do without me?

Frederick lay back as the heroin flowed into his body. He dreamed, or seemed to dream. He was drifting from room to room (in a dream?) and he was being guided by someone who bore a remarkable resemblance to Humprhey Bogart. A Bogart who had never aged as he had in his real life films. Then they were in the bathroom and Bogie was pointing at the mirror and mumbling something. And then he was gone. Frederick looked into the mirror and he seemed to be able to look beyond the mirror to a new reality. His own ravaged face had a third dimension. And then that very same face changed into a slideshow of all the boys that first he, then he and Mia, had destroyed (liberated?). Click, click, click. He jerked awake and spun around. He saw his own self walking backwards, out of the room.