Nina was in custody, helping Aislinn. This made Patterson feel a little better. She was a big girl, capable of taking care of herself, both of them were. But knowledge was power with Aislinn, most of the time. He didn’t dwell on the times that it was a distraction.
He had something else to do today besides chase after Gertrude and August. He had a certain young man to deal with. Years ago, the young man had just been a punk kid who had shot up a parking lot. Now, he’d grown into a nuisance. Like Patterson, he followed Aislinn’s cases. Unlike Patterson, he was killing in the cities that Aislinn visited. He was trying to frame her for murder because of a stupid high school grudge.
It seemed that one night, while at a movie, the punk’s girlfriend had assaulted Aislinn. Aislinn and Nyleena had defended themselves and the band of girls, including the girlfriend, had been arrested. The girlfriend had gone to juvenile detention for her actions. When she got out, the punk and the girlfriend had married. A year ago, the wife had died in a car accident that the punk thought was Aislinn’s fault. It didn’t seem to enter into his logic that Aislinn hadn’t been anywhere near the accident or that the wife had been drinking when she slammed into a guard rail.
Rage just needed a focus and an outlet. Unfortunately for this guy, his rage had focused on Aislinn. Patterson parked in the driveway of the small, green and brick ranch house. It had taken him several months to track down George Killian. Patterson was prepared for the younger man to be strong, after all, death had turned him into a serial killer.
Patterson though had the edge. It wasn’t just that he looked harmless, it was that he was born to be a killer and he knew it. George had been born to be something else. Bad lifestyle choices had turned him into a killer. He wasn’t capable of the physical feats that Patterson was and he’d feel every wound inflicted.
His knuckles rapped firmly and quickly on the wooden door. George Killian was Aislinn’s age with a face that looked younger than her’s and a body that held fewer scars. His hair hadn’t even begun to turn grey. Patterson had already checked to make sure that they didn’t have children.
“What do you want?” George slurred. He’d been drinking in the morning hours of a Saturday or doing drugs. It was never a good sign.
“George Killian?” Patterson asked, despite already knowing the answer.
“Yeah, what do you want?”
“I want to talk to you about an incident. May I come in?”
“You’re too old to be a cop. Go fuck yourself.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Patterson lashed out with his cane, hitting George in the head. George roared in pain and sprung at the old man. Patterson stepped aside, letting George’s momentum carry him off the edge of the porch. Something snapped as George hit the ground and he began yelping. Patterson sighed and rolled his eyes. He hated amateurs. If you were going to be a serial killer, you should put in the time and effort to be good at it. Patterson grabbed George by the shirt.
“Now, do you want to talk or do you want me to continue to inflict pain?” Patterson asked.
“We can talk,” George said. “Help me stand, I think my ankle’s broke.”
“That is the least of your problems,” Patterson rapped him on the head again with his cane. “I will not help you up. You might have broken your ankle, but you’ve had enough to drink today to stumble back into the house of your own accord.”
George began to grumble. Patterson hit him harder this time, knocking him unconscious. He couldn’t kill him in the yard, someone might drive by. He also wasn’t sure he could get the larger man into the house. However, necessity was the mother of invention and Patterson’s mind was already developing a system to get George in the house.
Sixteen minutes later, Patterson had George secured to a chair in the living room. Not a kitchen chair, but a large recliner. Kitchen chairs didn’t make for good places to restrain victims, they were unreliable. They broke too easily. Computer chairs were better, but they moved. So, Patterson had developed a system of restraint in any size recliner.
He tossed a bucket of scalding hot water on George’s face. George awoke, his mouth gagged, but he attempted to scream all the same. His skin was already red and small blisters were starting to form from the hot water.
Patterson had opted for the computer chair. He now rolled it over to him and took a seat in front of George. He waited for the man’s muffled cries to die before continuing. This took a while. George’s eyes kept rolling wildly and he struggled against the bonds. Finally, he stopped and stared at Patterson.
“I was hoping we could do this in a gentlemanly manner. It’s a very simple matter that needs to be cleared up. For several months now, you have been following around my granddaughter and killing people trying to frame her. I came here today to ask you to stop and turn yourself in. Sadly, that ship has sailed because you decided to be uncivilized. Perhaps it was the booze in your system or just the attitude of your generation, I don’t know. I’m not even sure I care. Since we couldn’t talk about it like gentlemen, I’m going to kill you. It’s going to be painful. I’m going to enjoy it. You are not, unless you are among one of those few people who are truly so masochistic that they can enjoy the suffering of their own torture. Judging by your screams from earlier, I believe that is not the case.” Patterson thought for a moment. “However, I did have the opportunity to kill a man once that was. He was a Nazi, for all the right reasons or wrong, depending on your view point. He was truly sadistic, torturing and raping women was his only form of pleasure, until I found him. As I sliced open his stomach and began pulling out his intestines, he orgasmed because he was so excited by the site of the blood and the feelings of pain. As a matter of fact, he enjoyed it so much, that I didn’t enjoy it and instead of butchering him like he deserved, after a few injuries, I slit his throat out of disgust. I’m hoping that doesn’t happen here.”
George made weak suckling noises through the gag. His eyes once again rolled uncontrollably for a moment. The chair suddenly became damp under him. Patterson smiled. He’d scared the piss out of him, literally. This was going to be fun.
Patterson pulled out a long, serrated knife used for hunting. He started at the navel, inserting the blade slowly, then pulling it out.
“Oh, I forgot something,” Patterson said in a sing-song voice. He hit the handle on the recliner and the footrest flopped out. “That’s much better.” Patterson cut open George’s shirt, watching the blood already pooling on the younger man’s stomach.
He slipped the knife back into the same wound. George tried to scream again. Patterson giggled. He applied pressure, moving the blade upwards. George’s screaming was becoming frantic. The intestines, free of the captive flesh, spilled out willingly. Patterson had expected it, seen it happen often. However, he also knew a person could live for a long time with their intestines lying exposed as long as they weren’t damaged.
It was a slow process. He removed the organs carefully, ensuring he didn’t cause damage when he took them out. He scattered them about the house, turning it into a ghoulish scene. Unfortunately, his victims died quickly once the initial cut was made. Between bleeding from the wound and having their organs harvested, it was a quick, but painful death.
Patterson showered, dressed in a different outfit, leaving his suit on the bathroom floor and left. They’d find the body, eventually.