Chapter 45th

It felt like a lot of time had elapsed, but there was really no way of knowing. Not when we nodded, napped, dreamt and awoke to some imaginary fright – probably one no worse than to find ourselves still in that basement, truly trapped and mostly hopeless the more time ebbed. Had it been a whole day? Or just a couple of hours? No natural light reached us there, not any smell nor the sound of rain.

My last awakening was brought on by the pain in my shoulders that grew almost intolerable. I did my best to support my weight on my feet and spare my arms, but sometimes my legs just gave out. I also didn't know if I felt hunger, or if the sensation burning away at my stomach was fear-induced. Strange as it was to be relieved when my torturer left, it was stranger to find myself tired of waiting.

The cop… 'Joseph'. I believe he had never introduced himself to me. He had found a sitting position, supporting himself against the cupboard, his legs folded before him, and thus he stared down at the floor as if he watched a movie. Though he hadn't conveyed it to me himself, I felt it would be proper to use his name:

"Joseph…" I moaned shily, his eyes sought me lazily. "…Can I call you that?"

We were both exhausted – he could tell from my voice, I could tell by the unhinged laugh he let out, by how his breathing heaved, and how long it took him to answer.

"You can call me Joe".

"Joe…" I found it in me to smile. "That's nice and short".

It was as much conversation as my limited social skills could muster in so dire a situation, and soon we were plunged into bleak silence again, pretending like we could count our hours.

"Joe? Do you think he died up there?"

"Huh? No…" Joe sniffled as if he had a cold "No, he's not dead…"

His voice grew dismayed at the end.

"No." I bitterly repeated. "I can't possibly be so lucky."

Silence thickened between us again.

"Maybe…" I continued with my game of finding things to say "…maybe he got captured?"

The cop shook his head stubbornly, his eyes still looking away, unmoved.

"Maybe he was recognized somewhere, by some other cops?" I grew excited at my own hypothesis.

"No…" again unmoved, Joe denied me. "We don't know what he looks like. I mean…" a hysterical smile "…I do now. But they don't. There's nothing to recognize…" he sighed, as if preparing himself for another short, terrorized nap "…and he's not dead!"

"You can't be sure. Maybe someone saw him acting weird and decided to investigate, and he gave all the wrong answers. Why else would he be taking this long?"

Again, Joe's eyes lost in some unfathomable distance, he shook his head. He spoke calmly:

"No, this is nothing, it's…" he took a long pause "…it's just his m.o."

"His what?!"

"His M.O, his modus operandi, his…" finally, his eyes found mine, and upon noticing his explanation did nothing for me, rephrased, once again reminded I was not the woman I posed myself to be and once again startled by the memory "It's the way he acts, per se… Er… the things he does, before and during… you know." His eyes grew skittish and uncomfortable under a subtle frown.

"Like his gameplay?"

He glared at me, perhaps disturbed by my choice of word. Having reflected:

"Yes. Something like that…" and he gladly looked away again.

"What is it – his gameplay?"

The cop frowned, twisted his mouth, tossed his head, all as if he was about to scold me and ask me to leave him alone… but still he spoke:

"He… He gets off on it, I think. And… sorry, that's crude. I mean he derives sexual pleasure from prolonging our fear – your fear. The anticipation can sometimes be better than the act itself for these people, and that's where he's at. Imagining us down here, picturing our fear, stoking it every now and again is a thrill, and one he'll enjoy until he can't hold it anymore."

My body was so exhausted, it barely had any adrenaline left to respond with a fresh gush of fear. Joe, on the other hand… his eyes grew deeper into their orbits, his throat muscles denser, and he swallowed a hard lump.

"How do you know all that, Joe?"

He shifted his weight limitedly – I could tell he was uncomfortable.

"The bodies we have – five so far. We didn't stablish a pattern until recently, and when we did… older ones started fitting into his m.o. It was easy to draw a profile then."

"We?"

A modest, nostalgic smile.

"Them, actually – I'm not a detective, I don't work cases. In fact, I haven't been a cop for more than a year! No… they do the real work, you know: the detectives, the shrinks. That's why I joined the force, of course: to be like them one day. My cousin… he worked one of those cases – one of those girls. He was the lead detective. We'd discuss it off duty every day – he'd pretend he needed my help, but I knew he was just trying to put me on my path to an early promotion. That's how I know it - the profile."

I could see the tender moment – when a nostalgic, kind smile turned somber as the memory soured. We were doomed.

"And… what is it? His profile…"

The look he gave me let me know it would be painful to hear. Still, he didn't spare me:

"Like I said, five bodies so far – probably others, as all were scattered about the country, making it harder to find the correlation between them. We figured he'd be a man that moves a lot, maybe every six months or so, which led us to believe he's a contract worker, someone that deals in projects – successful enough to be charismatic, self-assured and financially-competent…" He paused and frowned, like a kid trying to recite from memory what he studied for a test "Not too specialized – he has far too many skills to be a specialized worker, and he's someone who blends in, who knows his way around many different tools, tools he works with on a daily basis, we believe: wires, cutters…"

"Electrical designer!" I gasped.

"Hm… yes." Joe looked ahead for a second, musing. "Is that what he told you he did? That adds up…" I could tell he would have been excited if the situation allowed. Instead, all he did was stare ahead, eyebrows stiff, as he fitted that piece of information into his repertoire "He moves around a lot, works his projects, selects a victim, and when he's finished working and is ready to leave, he strikes. As an independent contractor, he has plenty of time to torture them before moving on to his next job."

"And these girls? You said that…"

I was too coward to repeat it. Not that I had to: Joe's eyes grew heavier, cowering away from mine.

"Young girls – 17 to 20 years of age. We estimate that… he stays with them for up to a week, maybe four days. The attacks are repetitive: he likes to torture them, both mentally and physically. He uses a weapon, but only to ensure they cooperate before moving them to a safe location, then… once they're alone… he likes the physicality of it: of conquering and controlling them, of abusing and punishing. He uses force to gain compliance, and the attack might start gentle enough – as gentle as rape goes, that is! – victims are meeker then, easier: they think they can exchange their obedience for survival. As time progresses, they probably assume the worse, and things change: They start fighting back, screaming for help, trying to escape… Probably, he doesn't know what to do with them, and violence escalates. Bruises, ligature marks, strangulation… these girls go through hell as his viciousness grows, until finally he kills them by excessive use of force – some from blood force trauma, others from strangulation. Different causes for different victims… which is unusual. It makes us think he doesn't plan it… he kills them on a whim. Maybe he just loses control."

"It's not about killing…" I caught myself mumbling, quoting him. "…he just can't keep them. That's what he said."

"Make no mistake: he does it with a clear intention of killing them…" Joe furrowed, unnerved by my information "…it's just… not the highlight of it, we think."

We both looked ahead of ourselves, somberly reflecting, until Joe resumed:

"Then he… he dumps their bodies into trash containers near their homes. The shrink believed he gets off on the idea that they're now disposable to him: precious daughters, graduating high school or starting college, lots of plans for their futures… and he takes them to himself, kills them when they're no longer compliant, destroying families over his twisted needs."

My heart was beating loosely inside my chest – it ached as if it bounced off the walls from time to time.

"I don't… I don't really fit his profile… do I?"

Joe stared at me for a while – feeling sorry for me, or angry, I didn't know.

"As a 14-year-old living alone… no, you don't." He sighed. "As a girl who lied, I suppose you did end up placing yourself in his path."

Merciless comment! I experienced the lash of shame on my already raw hide, but told myself it didn't matter – how would shame matter once I was dead? Joe could think as little of me as he wanted, he was still on the same boat as I!

"Well… I'm not gonna give him what he wants, I can guarantee you that much!" I clenched my jaw, the resolve shaking my fatigued muscles.

"No…you don't get it." Joe sighed. "Do not provoke him… you must not anger him… If you do, you will only rouse the worst in him…"

"If he's gonna kill me, why should I make it easy? No, I'm gonna fight back with all I have, even if all I have is my mouth to curse him! So when I die, at least I'll die with d-"

"Dignity?!" Joe cried, interrupting me, then scoffed a cross between a laugh and a snivel "Dignity makes no difference in the end! The more you fight him, the earlier he'll escalate, the sooner you'll be dead! The earth won't praise your dignity!"

"Yes, it won't matter… and that's precisely why I'll fight him tooth and nail until I die! I won't lose myself to him… compliance won't help me!"

"It can help you – if you don't resist, he might not escalate… it might buy you time! More time than they had…"

"Time for what?!"

"Surviving!!!"

I scoffed.

"It must be easy for you to say. I guess the idea isn't as horrifying to you: that I'll outlive you by a few weeks if I play nice! I'll entertain him longer… while I get tortured and bruised! No, I'd rather die sooner! I'll beat them all to it! Beat you to it, too, if I can: I'll fight him so infernally he just might give up altogether! I'll give him no choice but to kill me – and the sooner, the better!!!"

Joe stared, disturbed, as I fumed and panted, my courage ignited by the rare power rage provided as it replaced fear.