Broken Little Dolls, page 1
Broken
Little
Dolls
by Elena Winters
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter One
“I’m a little doll, who has just been broken, falling off my mommy’s knees.
I’m a little doll who has just been mended, now won’t you tell me please.”
Chris Bell groaned, his consciousness trying to claw its way to the surface like a monster in a deep swamp.
I must have fallen asleep with the damn Tv on.
“Are my ears on straight, is my nose in place, have I got a good expression on my face?
Are my blue eyes bright, do I look alright to be taken home on Christmas day?”
Chris mumbled out a curse then tried to turn over, intending to locate the remote control from the bedside table.
I can’t move.
Alarm forced Chris’ eyes to snap open and he moaned in pain. His swollen eyes flickered as he squinted into the gloom before him.
Where the hell am I?
All Chris could see before him were dark trees and foliage. The smell of damp grass clogged his nostrils and he shuddered as a cold wind nibbled at his skin. He took a deep breath, trying to recall the events that had led him to this unknown destination. Before he could dwell on the blank spot in his memory, he realised with a jolt of alarm that his hands were tied above his head.
“What the hell?” he muttered.
He took a deep shaky breath and looked down at his legs splayed before him. He was in a seated position, the damp ground cold against his backside. His back was pressed against something hard, something that pricked his skin. Turning his head left to right, the motion causing a surge of nausea that he choked back down, Chris realised he was tied to a tree.
A curse burst from his lips and he began to struggle against his bonds. A thick rope circled his wrists and the tree, locking his arms in place. Another thick rope circled around his chest, securing him to the tree.
“What the hell is going on?” Chris screamed into the darkness before him.
“When I first came here, just a month ago, brought in by a little girl who loved me so.
She began to cry when they told her I could be taken home on Christmas day.”
A surge of dread stirred in Chris’ stomach, his scalp prickled, and goose bumps swarmed his skin. Whoever had tied him to this tree now stood somewhere behind him, singing. A rustle of dead leaves and snapping of twigs indicated movement, and Chris’ breath caught in his throat.
“What is this about? What do you want?” He cringed at the shake in his voice. “If you want money, you can have it. I don’t have much, but you’re welcome to whatever I have.”
No response.
“Listen, just let me go. Okay? I won’t tell anyone, I won’t tell the police. We can just forget this ever happened.”
The wind howled around Chris’ ears. He gritted his teeth and shuddered with cold and shock.
“I mean it, okay? Just let me go and you won’t be in any trouble.”
A few seconds of silence passed. Chris began to wonder if his tormentor had left. He began to relax a little.
“What do you think of the song?”
Chris startled at the sudden deep voice, so close behind him. He turned his head, desperate for even a glimpse of the man who’d tied him to this tree. He had to know what he was up against.
“I said, what do you think of the song?”
Chris tried to pull his arms down, hoping he could somehow slip them through the rope. If he could at least free his arms, he wouldn’t feel so helpless.
“I adore the song” the voice said, its tone implying the words were spoken through smiling lips. “The broken little doll, so loved by a little girl. Does the little girl give up on the doll because she’s broken, simply throw her out and buy a new one? No. She takes her in for repairs.”
“You’re a special kind of nutcase,” Chris mumbled through gritted teeth. The instant the last word left his lips, he cringed.
That’s right, anger the crazy man who has you tied up and helpless.
“I believe there are many people like that little doll; broken and useless. I also believe those people can be fixed, depending on what they’ve done wrong, of course. Some crimes are unforgiveable.”
Chris felt like the bottom of his stomach had fallen out. His heart rate sped up and his breath came out in shaky gasps.
“What do you think, Chris? Are you a broken little doll that can be fixed, or are you beyond repair?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Chris whispered. The dread he’d felt became terror.
He watched the news, and he was starting to understand what was happening. Tears stung his eyes and he struggled violently against his bonds, hissing in pain as the rope burnt his wrists. He felt the trickles of blood running down his arms, but he didn’t stop, he couldn’t give up.
Another rustle of leaves and snapping twigs made Chris cry out. He turned his head to the left and began to swallow profusely. The tall dark figure walked around the tree, hesitating briefly to look down at Chris before walking ahead. He stopped about ten feet away from Chris, then turned to face him.
“I know who you are,” Chris blurted. “You’re The Dollman.”
The Dollman threw his head back and laughed.
“I do like the name, so fitting. Have you ever noticed that the press can sometimes completely suck the terror out of a serial killer’s spree with the stupid names they come up with?”
The Dollman stared at Chris, and Chris stared back, his eyes wide with terror. The Dollman cocked his head. “Well? What do you think?”
Chris was frozen in fear, unable to say a word. His chest felt like it was being crushed in a vice. His legs and arms had gone numb. The feeling of being completely helpless had rendered him mute. He stared into the dark smudge that was the face of The Dollman, trying to make out any features.
“For instance,” The Dollman said, “Jack the Ripper. Good name. The Yorkshire Ripper. Another good name. You hear that on the news and you think, ‘Oh no, a scary killer is on the loose. A killer who likes to rip people’”
Chris flinched as The Dollman took one step closer to him.
“Then, you hear such names as ‘The Bathtub Killer’. The Dollman raised his arms out, his palms facing the sky. “What the hell is that, some nutcase who runs around smashing up bathtubs?”
“Please,” Chris whimpered. “I won’t do it again.”
The Dollman cocked his head once more, observing Chris like a curious dog. “You know who I am, and why you’re here. You know what you’ve done is wrong.”
“I won’t do it again, I swear. It’s not my fault, it’s like something comes over me, like—”
“No,” The Dollman interrupted. “Don’t bother.” He took another step closer to Chris. “I don’t normally operate this way; like I said earlier, I believe what’s broken can be fixed. But you leave me no choice, Chris. I don’t believe you can be fixed.”
“Please. I have anger issues, and I’m working on it.”
“Is that what you were doing tonight, Chris? Working on your anger issues?”
With a jolt of dread, Chris remembered the night’s events that’d occurred before waking tied to a tree.
He’d been outside her house, waiting for her to come home.
“You aren’t the first woman-beater I’ve encountered, and you won’t be the last.” The Dollman’s voice deepened slightly. “I’m always amazed at how cowardly your type is. Beating a woman is second nature, but when faced with another man, you’re about as tough as a new-born kitten.”
The Dollman reached into his dark long overcoat and pulled out a large butcher knife.
Chris whimpered.
“I discovered you about a week ago, just after you were arrested for beating your ex-girlfriend, Linda. I did my research, as I always do when I find a new broken little doll to fix. I didn’t like what I found, Chris. Linda is the last in a long line of women you’ve had relationships with, women you’ve beaten and abused, women you’ve then stalked and tormented when they’ve finally found the courage to leave you. A mistake is something you make once; you learn from it and use it as a reference for future decisions. Your mistakes are now a life choice.”
The Dollman squatted six feet in front of Chris, the blade of the butcher knife pointed at Chris’ face.
“How does it
“I’m sorry,” Chris blurted. “I will never put my hands on another woman ever again.”
The Dollman nodded. “Yes, you will. You’ve been doing it for years now. You have so many restraining orders, yet it doesn’t stop you abusing the next woman. I had planned to work with you, try to help you fix your mistakes, but when I followed you tonight right to Linda’s house, I knew what you had in mind for her. I simply cannot let you harm another woman.”
The Dollman stood suddenly, and Chris whimpered.
“I’m sorry, my little doll. You will remain broken.”
With a flash of moonlight on steel, Chris felt the butcher knife plunge deep into his neck. He squirmed against the ropes, horrified when he saw the blood squirting before him.
The artery’s been hit, he thought numbly. Chris stared ahead in shock as The Dollman watched Chris’ life slip away. Chris’ last thought was, ‘should have beat the bitch harder. This is her fault.’
When Chris was dead, The Dollman stood and lowered his head.
“You win some, you lose some,” he told Chris’ corpse. He rushed to his car and retrieved the doll from the front passenger seat. It was missing an arm, a leg, an eye, and one side of its face was broken inward. He placed the doll beside Chris’ dead body, wiped his bloody knife on Chris’ T-shirt, then left. Once inside his car, he removed the Nike trainers that were two sizes too big for him and placed them in the backseat. Seated in the driver’s seat, he pushed his feet into his own boots, removed his surgical gloves, fiddled with the radio until he found a song he liked, then drove away from the scene.
Chapter Two
Detective Mike Jackson arrived on scene around twenty minutes after receiving the call.
“He’s done it again,” his partner, Ray Dobson said as soon as he’d answered.
Mike didn’t need to ask who ‘he’ was. “I’ll be right there,” he’d replied.
Three police cars stood motionless, their lights flashing red and blue over the dark trees. Seated sideways in the back of one police car, his legs on the outside, was an elderly gentleman. He had a blanket around his shoulders. In one hand, he held a cup of steaming liquid. His other hand constantly petted the head of a stunning golden retriever. Mike watched the gentleman as he approached, but the man didn’t look at him. The golden retriever stood and wagged its tail, and Mike gently patted its head as he passed.
Crime scene investigators were already on scene, their white overalls almost glowing in the pre-dawn gloom. Mike spotted Ray Dobson, standing off to one side, observing the scene before him. His broad shoulders were slumped, his hands tucked firmly into his pockets. White plumes of breath burst from his lips in rapid motion, like a bull about to charge. Mike took a deep breath and approached him.
“What have we got,” he asked.
“And good morning to you too,” Ray said. He glanced down at his black handbook. “Chris Bell, thirty-two-years-old. They reckon he was killed around seven hours ago.”
Mike checked his watch. “So, time of death was around 10.30 last night?”
“Give or take.”
“And we’re sure it’s him?”
Ray let out a sharp breath. “Broken doll on scene.”
Mike let out a breath of his own. “Who found the body?”
Ray gestured behind him. “Elderly gentleman, walking his dog. Dog found the body.”
“So, what do we know about Chris Bell? Why’d The Dollman target him?”
“Officer Grey,” Ray called.
A young officer hurried over to them. “Yes, sir?”
“Would you please tell Detective Jackson what you told me?”
Officer Grey looked at Mike. “Chris Bell was a woman beater. A week ago, he put his young girlfriend in the hospital. Beat her within an inch of her life. I convinced her to press charges and arranged a restraining order. He made bail, though he didn’t try to contact her. She was still petrified. Last night, around 11.20pm, she called 999 and reported her ex’s car parked close to her house. I was working last night and was familiar with the case; I was the first officer on scene when she called 999 after he beat her last week. When I arrived, we found Bell’s car parked where she said it was, but no Bell. The driver’s side door was wide open, his wallet was on the front passenger seat and the keys were still in the ignition. We thought he might be hiding somewhere near her house. We searched everywhere, but there was no trace of him. It’s like he just disappeared.”
“So, it looks like The Dollman kidnapped Bell from there.”
Officer Grey and Ray both nodded.
“You find The Dollman, you should give him a medal,” said officer Grey.
“He’s a murderer,” Ray said sternly.
Officer Grey looked at him. “Pardon me for saying sir, but he’s done what we can’t; stopped a woman beater from hurting anyone else. I personally can’t wait to tell his ex-girlfriend that she never has to fear him again. She won’t have to take a butcher knife and a baseball bat to bed with her every night.”
“You just mind who you share your opinions with,” Mike told him.
Officer Grey nodded. “Of course, sir.”
“Thank you, officer,” Ray said.
Officer Grey nodded once, then hurried away.
“I’d hate to say it, but he’s right,” Mike said softly.
“I know,” Ray replied, “and I don’t like it. Look at the Ben Stevens case.”
A hard knot formed in Mike’s stomach.
“We knew he was guilty, we knew it, but we couldn’t prove it. Five rape victims, five young women whose lives had been ruined, five women who couldn’t even begin to heal because we’d failed to catch their rapist. How many times did he slip through the net?”
Mike nodded.
“Then, The Dollman takes care of it for us, slits the bastard’s throat and leaves his body less than half a mile from the police station. We couldn’t even accuse him of taunting us; he wanted that body found because he knew we couldn’t pin anything on Stevens. It’s like he knew he was doing us a favour.”
Before Mike could respond, one of the crime scene investigators walked over. “Okay, detectives.”
Mike took a deep breath and followed Ray. Thanks to the artificial lights, the crime scene was lit-up like a stage. Mike sucked in a sharp breath when he saw the body.
Chris Bell had certainly paid for anything he’d ever done wrong.
The Dollman had sat Chris on the ground, his back against a tree. His wrists were bound and secured to the tree over his head and another rope crossed his chest. The large jagged wound on the side of Bell’s neck made cause of death obvious. Mike’s stomach squirmed when he spotted the doll laying by Bell’s side. One of its glassy eyes seemed to fix right on him, the other eye was missing, leaving a large empty socket. He cleared his throat and looked away.
“Slit the bastard’s throat,” Mike muttered.
Ray glanced at him, then approached one of the forensic investigators.
“What have we got?” Ray asked.
The man didn’t look at Ray and continued to write notes on his clipboard “Size 12 footprints, Nike trainers. No fingerprints, no tire tracks, no hair. Scene is as clean as all the other Dollman scenes.”
Ray and Mike walked away. “We’re never gonna catch him, you know,” Mike said quietly. “He’s too damn good.”
“I know,” Ray replied, “but we have to try.”
Chapter Three
The Dollman pulled into his parking space and took a deep breath.
Nothing like an honest night’s work.
He reached over to the passenger seat and picked up his shopping bag. Whistling softly, he tugged the keys from the ignition and exited his vehicle. It was just after 10am, so his apartment building would be quiet now, most of the residents having gone to work. He used his fob key to open the building’s main doors and stepped inside. As he rode the lift to his floor, he pondered the night’s events.
No matter what the circumstances, no matter who he targeted, his hits always went according to plan. The police were nowhere near to catching him; that’s if they were even trying to, he knew more than a few officers appreciated his work. Of course, that wouldn’t stop them throwing the book at him should they catch him.
