Total Immersion, page 4
Kathy flopped down in her chair and covered her face with her hands, rubbing her temples. She took a deep breath and exhaled, shaking off a wave of lonely depression. Her eyes came to rest on a blown-up, color photo of a suicide victim: a young woman lying in a pool of blood at the base of a king-sized bed. Her blue eyes slammed open. The black gun lying just feet from her head.
Kathy turned away from the image and began to cry.
six
Kevin Fields could barely contain his excitement as he sat in his cell, waiting for the doors to open for the last time. He was going to be a free man after only five years. Nancy Farber had identified him in a lineup and was prepared to take the stand as the star witness for the prosecution, but days before the start of the trial, she relapsed into a heavy state of depression. Her husband, Brad, didn’t think she could handle reliving the horror of that terrible night, and advised prosecutors she would not take the stand. The aggravated sexual assault charges, a class-one felony, were lowered to sexual abuse, a class-four felony, and a plea bargain arrangement was reached that would put Kevin behind bars for a decade. Ten years overwhelmed him, but it could have been much worse if convicted of the original charges.
He did his time, and some aspects weren’t as bad as one would imagine.
The food was quite tasty. Good food keeps angry men at bay.
There was a gym, complete with the best equipment available. Daily exercise keeps angry men at bay.
He even learned how to play the guitar during private weekly lessons.
He shared a cell with three other inmates who were decent enough guys. Decent as two murderers and a child molester go. They had a forty-inch flatscreen that provided over two hundred channels of programming, twenty-four hours a day. Entertainment keeps angry men at bay.
Once a month, he was allowed private conjugal visits that lasted one hour, sometimes more if he had something to bribe the guard with. His brother arranged a different hooker each time. He had beautiful Black women, Mexican women, Japanese women, Koreans, and even a full-blooded American Indian. The Indian let him smack her around and twist her nipples for a little extra cash.
He wisely established a friendship with the deputy warden, a bondage freak himself. Kevin, of course, was the master, and the deputy got off on the depraved stories, helpful hints, and titillating suggestions to achieving his goal of the great, painful, triple orgasm. “Your asshole rumples like a fuckin’ volcano,” Kevin would say as the deputy lit up in a happy grin.
The prison population grew at an unsustainable rate and the governor of Illinois had no choice but to slash the sentences of thousands of men.
The deputy made sure the warden looked closely at Kevin’s file and arranged that Kevin’s name found its way to the top of the list.
He shook hands with his cellmates and made a round of good-byes. Like the last day of summer camp, he thought. He gave the deputy a big hug and a sly wink. “Like a fuckin’ volcano,” he whispered, and strolled out of prison a free man.
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The living room of Kevin’s one-bedroom apartment was decorated simply and cheaply. A black sofa, two green beanbags, a chrome-and-glass coffee table, and an assortment of beer bottles made up the interior design.
Kevin entered the kitchen with an old-school cell phone pressed against his ear. “That’s right, baby girl, old Kevy’s back in town!”
The kitchen proved to be as sparse as the living room. An old G.E. refrigerator with a loud motor sat next to a balsa wood breakfast table with a single chair. Crusty plates and cups piled high in the sink.
Kevin walked over to a microwave perched on top of the fridge and pulled out a Stouffer’s spaghetti with meatballs frozen dinner.
“Just tell me you’re layin’ there bare-ass naked, dreamin’ bout what old Kevin’s gonna do to you tomorrow night,” he leered, grabbing his piping-hot dinner, and walked back into the living room. “Tell me that and old one-eye here is gonna shoot straight for the moon,” he added with a laugh, plopping down on the stained, brown sofa. He jammed a fork full of spaghetti into his mouth and turned on the television. “Now why in God’s name would you be shocked by that?” he continued, chewing away. “Hey, come on now, don’t play all innocent with me. I know you love it, you nasty, freaky little bitch.”
Christian Broadcasting Network’s The 700 Club lit up the room. A preacher with a bad toupee paraded back and forth, the Bible moving from hand to hand, his voice emphasizing every other word. “You must take Je-sus into your heart, brothers and sisters, for the Day of Judgment is upon us,” he sermonized to his elated congregation.
Kevin lowered the volume and let out an incredulous burst of laughter. “No. No. No . . . I told you, that woman was all mixed up . . . No. Never. I swear to God. I was wrongly convicted, Janice. That chick was fucking mental.”
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It smelled funky inside the closet. A series of wooden slats gave the killer a partial view of the living room where Kevin sat on that stained, brown sofa. He listened in disgust as Kevin spewed his perverted bullshit to some woman who was probably hours away from the same fate Nancy Farber had endured.
Everything had worked out perfectly. Kevin’s bedroom window proved to be an easy access point to the apartment. It was right off a quiet side street, just as she had said. She instructed him to break in around eight o’clock. Kevin would be meeting with his parole officer and would not be home until nine at the earliest. He avoided all the security cameras leading to the apartment building. She told him exactly where they were, and how best to keep in the dark and out of their view. Patience was the key once he was inside. No mistakes tonight.
This one would go smooth and quiet.
Be patient. Be calm. Be cool.
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“Touch your pussy,” Kevin demanded, and rubbed himself through his jeans. “Hey, no talkin’ back. Now do it. Tell me how it feels . . . Oh, yeah . . . Oh, yeah, baby girl. I fuckin’ love it.”
On the television, the preacher continued his sermon, “Last night, God spoke with me, and He told me that He is ashamed of what we have become. That He is angry with the fornicators and the sinners and the adulterers. God Almighty is angry with all of us.”
Kevin’s breathing accelerated. “Pinch your nipples. Hard . . . Yeah, harder . . . Make it hurt. Make it fuckin’ hurt real good,” he whispered into the cell phone over the voice of the TV evangelist.
“I asked God what would make Him happy again. What could the children of God do to right all the wrongs they had committed upon one another?”
Kevin put his hands down his pants and arched his head back. “Now tell me how you’d suck it . . . How you’d suck my cock . . . Jesus Christ, I missed you, Janice. God help me, I missed you,” he said, and unbuckled his belt.
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Pick the moment, the killer thought, watching Kevin masturbate on the couch, his perversions growing more disturbing by the second.
Timing is everything. No mistakes.
Be patient. Be calm. Be cool.
This sadistic monster deserves everything he’s got coming to him.
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After another twenty minutes of self-pleasuring phone sex, Kevin said his goodbyes and threw the phone down on the couch. He cleaned himself off with a napkin, pulled his pants back up, and tightened his belt. Taking a deep, satisfied breath, he opened an ivory cigarette box off the table, flipped a cigarette into his mouth, and lit up. He took a deep drag, exhaled, and turned his attention to the television screen.
“Reach out, good people,” the preacher pleaded. “Reach out to the poor and the homeless and the sick and the suffering. Simple gestures of kindness. That is what will make God happy. I also need you to reach deep within your hearts and call the number on your screen.”
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The killer had done it all wrong last time. Moved too soon. Like a cat stalking a mouse, she had said. Don’t even blink your eyes. Move slow, silent, and at the exact right moment, when the scumbag is completely unaware . . . you strike, and make it hurt.
The killer didn’t like hearing the names of God and Jesus Christ pouring into the room, even though they were most certainly on his side. He pulled back the cuff of his sweater and glanced at his digital watch: 9:30 p.m.
Imagining himself as a lone tiger on the hunt, he carefully pushed open the closet door. His black, brand-new tennis shoe stepped onto the hardwood floor. A creak echoed throughout the room. He swallowed hard. The whole damn room was made up of old, wooden floors. Wooden floors that could destroy that crucial element of surprise.
He didn’t want a repeat of what took place inside Bernard Meyers’ apartment.
He cautiously lifted his right foot and took another step. Silence this time as it landed on the floor like a ball of soft cotton. He imagined his shoes were made of thick cotton and he attempted one more baby step. This one let out a creak, but not nearly as bad as the first time.
“As a shepherd defends his herd . . .” the preacher sermonized to his TV congregation, “and though a whole pack of wolves are called together against him, he is not frightened or disturbed by their clamor.”
Just a few more steps, the killer thought, and his prey would be within striking distance. He was dressed completely in black, from his shoes to his gloves, his face hidden behind a welder’s mask, the dark steel wrapping around the circumference of his head. A three-inch-wide section of custom-tinted glass allowed him to see.
What if the sadistic fuck turned around? There’d be nowhere to run. He’d have to do it like last time. Bernard Meyers put up a good fight, but in the end, it cost him considerable suffering, and the loss of more than just his head.
But this scenario was shaping up nicely.
This was exactly how he pictured taking them out.
All of them.
He didn’t want to see their faces. The way he eliminated his victims saved him the horror of having to look into their desperate, frightened eyes.
He took three more steps toward that stained, ugly brown sofa, inching up right behind that evil piece of human waste. So far, so good.
He held something—something deadly. He gripped it with both hands at waist height. Thirty pounds of dark metal hovered just off the floor, drifting from side to side in restrained anticipation. His right hand clutched the base of the machine, his fingers curled around a triggering device. His left hand squeezed a black rubber grip, which shot out fourteen inches from the base. Two titanium jaws snaked out from the main compartment of the machine. At his command, the jaws would lunge forward to form a perfect seal around anything within striking distance.
The killer slowly positioned the jaws just feet from the back of Kevin’s exposed neck.
“For He is God’s servant for your good,” the preacher said. “But if you do wrong, be afraid, for He does not bear the sword in vain. For He is the servant of God, an avenger who carries out God’s wrath on the wrongdoer.”
STRIKE NOW, he thought. Strike now and make it hurt.
Without hesitation, the killer leaned in for the coup de grâce.
“Enough of this shit,” Kevin said, and lurched forward toward the coffee table.
The jaws just missed their intended target as Kevin reached out and grabbed the remote control.
Be patient. Be calm. Be cool.
The killer pulled the machine back into position and held his ground.
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“Catch you later, preacher man,” Kevin said and turned off the television. The room was now lit in a soft white glow; a combination of the moon and streetlight creeping in through the thin, drab drapes of the living room window.
In the reflection of the black screen of the television, Kevin spotted something behind him that should not be there. Before he could spin around to see firsthand the terror that was about to strike, the jaws of the powerful machine snapped shut around his neck. They instantly tightened, choking off his screams. Kevin made a furious attempt to turn around, but the heavy machine kept him firmly in place.
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This one is strong. Solid upper-body strength, the killer thought.
Kevin squirmed helplessly on the couch. “Please. No. Jesus, stop. Stop,” he whispered as his hands reached up and tried to remove the titanium from around his neck.
Kevin’s arms flailed about. An animal caught in the hunter’s trap. Intense pain shot through every square inch of his body. Each nerve ending sent an SOS message to his brain.
“Now, no doubt, my friend and I, will proceed to lie and lie . . .” the killer said calmly. His voice was partially muted behind the welder’s mask and had a faint echo. “. . . till we begin to act the truth and call it sin.”
The jaws began to heat up, and Kevin could barely breathe as white puffs of smoke rose from the machine.
“Oh, God. Jesus Christ, help me,” Kevin cried out in a pitiful whisper as the skin around his neck bubbled.
Make it hurt, she had ordered. Make that motherfucker pay for his sins. Make him pay for what he did to Nancy Farber.
The killer glanced down to the base of the machine and watched as a series of red LEDs blinked on and off.
“When hands are tightly clasped, ’mid struggling sighs . . .” the killer continued in that same monotone voice.
Kevin’s earlobes singed and the hair on his neck stunk up the room.
“. . . and streaming tears, those whispered accents rise . . .”
Kevin felt the intense heat right down to the tip of his big toe.
Suddenly, a whirling sound emanated from the machine.
“Leaving to God the objects of our care . . .”
Kevin’s body convulsed. The lack of oxygen turned his face a dark shade of blue, his lips purple.
The red LEDs continued their climb, and then a small green LED lit up.
“In that short, simple prayer . . . Adieu.”
The killer’s recitation complete, he calmly pulled the trigger.
The whirling sound suddenly sputtered.
Don’t panic! Do not panic, the killer thought. Be patient. Be calm. Be cool.
The killer flipped open a red safety cover located next to the triggering device. Inside was a small, white button. He quickly depressed it.
Kevin’s hands and arms trembled at his sides. The jaws of the machine suddenly cracked open, releasing its prey, but before Kevin could escape, the jaws once again wrapped around his neck, and the sequence of events started from scratch.
The killer breathed a sigh of relief as the red LEDs began their little dance.
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Kevin Fields wasn’t going to wake up from this nightmare. He was going to die, and as death drew closer, God and salvation became of paramount importance.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Kevin cried out in a choked, barely audible mumble.
The whirling sound started its death song once again.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Please, help me!”
The killer wanted it to end. He watched with anticipation as the red LEDs blinked their way toward the green “go” light.
The whirling sound reached its peak, and as the green LED lit up, the killer once again pulled the trigger.
Kevin Fields’ pain and miserable existence came to an end as a round, spinning, titanium blade burst out from the machine, and, like a knife cutting through soft butter, Nancy Farber’s rapist and torturer was all too neatly decapitated.
At that moment, a strange sound screamed from the machine. It resembled the sound of a torque wrench tightening the lug nuts on a car tire.
Kevin’s head plopped into his lap, face up, while the rest of his body remained sitting on the sofa.
Their job now complete, the jaws closed back into their original position.
The expression on Kevin’s face resembled a still photograph as though he had just taken the first big drop on the world’s largest roller coaster.
An eerie silence took over the room. The killer walked around Kevin’s headless body, grabbed the remote control, and turned on the television.
“Jesus Christ, our Savior, our Lord, sacrificed His life for each and every one of you,” the preacher preached. “If you take the name of Jesus Christ, and everything He stood for, deep into your heart, deep into your soul, then you, too, shall be saved. God awaits all of His children in heaven.”
As the killer exited back out the bedroom window and disappeared into the cold Chicago night, Kevin’s headless body continued to spasm, and relax. A final violent shudder shook the sofa as Kevin’s feet shot forward, and then settled against the now shit-stained cushion.
seven
JENNIFER NATALIE KNIGHT (1985 – 2022)
A smaller inscription in gold lettering read: An angel sent from heaven whose short life blessed all around her. A digital screen set into the headstone endlessly played a silent montage of photos and videos from Jenny’s life.
Beside it, a second headstone, half the size of the first, sat stoically in the tall grass.
AUTUMN KNIGHT - Daughter of Samuel and Jennifer Knight. September 2022.
There was no screen, no photos or videos. Even though Sam had never seen his daughter, he knew exactly what she looked like: her mother’s eyes and lips and beautiful black hair, and a smile almost exactly like Jenny’s.
Sam kneeled, placed a bouquet at the base of each headstone, and took a seat on a concrete bench.
At first, he came every day, sometimes twice a day. Sometimes three. But after eight long years, he only visited once a week.
Thousands of headstones, and mausoleums equipped with digital displays and occasional holographic recreations of the dead, were spread over a two-mile radius. It was an old cemetery, and the final resting place for generations of Jenny’s family. Sam and Jenny had come together only once for her grandfather’s funeral.
