Knifes and Swords

There had been a rash of knifing in my area the last year. They thought it was a serial killer but could not find the individual who was slashing the victims across their faces. There had been nine  woman and five men in the last year. The women had been disfigured beyond recognition. The men always mutilated in the lower part of their bodies.

When the slasher had started, I enrolled in a class for self-defense learning everything I could about fighting with knives. I was proficient in guns and kickboxing, never professing that I knew how to handle sword or knives. I always was eager to learn any way towards becoming self sufficient in looking after my self. Guns, were my first love, knives had always interested me, when seeing any that took my interest I would buy it and add it to my collection.

I had taken many courses in psychology in school and university and at one time in my life, was going into that field. Other interests took over but I retained all my books on the subject. I had talked on the subject at many seminars over the years. I did some work with the police. One officer had taken an interest in me, from our first meeting, my views on the human brain interested him. We had remained friends after he retired.

My take on the slasher was from being abused by both parents and was reliving his child hood by killing both male and females. Killing them repeatedly. My guess, he or she was in their late thirties early forties.

Most women had black hair the men either a touch of grey interspersed with dark strand of dark throughout their head.

So the police should be looking for a dark haired killer, they had said in the newspaper that strands of dark hair had been found at the scene of two of the woman. That told me that they had tried to fight for their life. No clues on the men, which made me, think that either the perpetrator knew the person or it was a woman killer that the men had felt comfortable in their company. The police had never told the newspapers of the sex of who they thought did the crimes. They themselves really were at a loss of who was the killer.

Everyone that I talked to seemed to think it was a male saying no women could be that savage. I just laughed, as I knew women could be as brutal as a man.

Writing an article in the local paper I said as much and had gotten many replies to the article, one stood out for me in particular. It was signed repeat offender. I took it to my friend Jim Grey we had worked occasionally on some weird cases after he retired. He agreed we should look into who the writer was, unofficially of course.

Meeting for a coffee, we hatched a plan for me to write another letter enticing the person into trap. Jim still had connections from his days with the department, he would talk to the editor of the paper. Composing it with Jims help, he would take it with him to the paper and let the editor know what we had in mind.

Three weeks went by without any killings and no answer to our advertisement. Then a body of a man found in his car half-undressed his pants pulled down to his ankles His genitals severed with blood soaking the car seat where he lay. Forensics did find hair fibers on the passenger’s seat. Jim found out that they were black. Police did not release that information to the public.

Repeat offender, sent a reply to my home address, how they got this Jim and I had no idea. My phone and address were not in the phone book. Jim got one as well to his home. This killer was playing with us telling us they knew where we lived and that we had been exposed. Either someone at the newspaper or the police had let our whereabouts be known.

Jim suggested we back off and let the police handle this crazy person. I understood as Jim was getting on in age suffering from a weak heart. I agreed with him, leaving him to finish his drink at the local bar. I had no intention; of giving up, I would precede on my own.

Letting myself into my house I noticed a chair off kilter as I turned down the hall a light reflected the television was on with no sound.

Someone had been here. Passing through to the kitchen right away, I noticed one of my knives was missing. Grabbing for the butcher knife I scanned the other rooms. Every thing else was in its proper place. Dialing Jim his answering machine picked up, he should have been home by now, maybe he had had a second drink.

Pouring a glass of wine, I looked over my notes along with Jim’s friend who had downloaded the file from the police computer. Trying Jim again still no answer it was odd, as Jim had said he was heading home. Putting on my jacket, I started the car heading over to his place. His house was in darkness as I went up the stairs of his porch when I noticed his front door was ajar.

My first thought was why I had not brought my gun, or even the butcher knife. Slowly I went inside grabbing the bat where he always left it inside his door. Jim lay covered in blood with his genitals laying beside his body. A note saying he just got to close and needed to be, taught a lesson. I ran outside throwing up on the plants beside the porch and dialed 911.

Sitting on his porch, crying, finally hearing the sirens in the distance

Questions came the same ones more than once until I was exhausted. They would finish here and I should go home for some sleep. They would come to my house tomorrow if they needed any more answers.

I was at  fault that Jim was dead, I should never have gotten him mixed up in these grizzly murders. Driving home, I realized I had not told the police about someone in my house earlier. I would mention it in the morning.

Parking my car, I entered the house from the back door, had I left it unlocked.  

Silently I crept into the kitchen, standing there was a woman with long black hair about forty drinking my wine. She smiled saying it was time we met. She complimented me on my knowledge of her background, she had obviously read my notes. Admitting her parents abused her, she killed them both, and their bodies had never been discovered.

 

I went at her with a kick knocking the glass from her hand, and then she came at me with a long bone handle knife.  

Swinging it, she circled like a caged animal thrusting back and forth. I kept her moving and off balance trying to kick the knife from her hand. Circling to get closer to my knives, I faked a turn grabbing a knife as I passed. The surprise look on her face showed contempt and hatred.

She tried to get near the back door, her body showed she was tiring and wanted to flee and finish me off another time. Turning she went for the door handle throwing my knife I hit her in the back, but it fell to the floor without even penetrating her jacket.

She came back at me slashing for my throat just missing my jugular artery, Kicking I hit her mid section sending her backwards. Pulling open my drawer finding the gun I had cleaned a few days ago. I unloaded two bullets in succession. One hit her in her arm, the second in her left shoulder, she slumped to the floor as I stood over her.

  

I told her this last one was for my friend aiming for her face.

Knives are for cooking.

Guns always win out.