A writer becomes a killer or is it the other way around? First in Psychological Story
|Feller gave me my name, Churihi. I’ve never heard him speak my name, nor do I ever speak his. Sometimes he thinks I’m him and he’s me, and we’re always together.
Pressuring the sun, dusk climbed a large hill. A bamboo orchard covering the hill swayed, clattered, and screeched.
The line of police trudged up the hill. The line was three hundred meters long. Five meters separated each man. Their boots squished as they trod upon the blades of dead leaves sodden from the heavy morning rain. Faces were grim and eyes intent as they hunted for clues. Each of them was armed with a holstered gun and they probed the ground with stakes. Microphones were clipped to lapels, and speakers were built into the inner lining of their helmets.
One of them near the center spoke into the mic, “Use your flashlights.”
We sat on the hill opposite the steep valley. Our hands lowered the binoculars and we whispered, “They haven’t given up. They’ll keep at it till they find her.”
Churihi sneered. “You mean it, the body.”
I hissed back, “Yes, the little body that was a cute fourteen year old girl. I should have turned you in.”
“If we had, what would we do for a living? I know this irritates you, and I enjoy reminding you, but it’s because of me you’re rich and famous.”
Feller rose and raised our fist.
I spoke through our laughter, “You won’t hurt me, so don’t even bother to pretend.”
Feller gritted our teeth and focused his attention back on the hill.
The line of fuzzy dots advanced up the hill. For a moment it stopped, then they converged. In front of them was an horrific sight. A sight that made their eyes turn away, a half naked girl. Soaked and without a doubt dead. Her feet had been nailed into the ground. A pole made from one of the nearby bamboo was behind her back under her blouse. It had been hammered into the ground to keep her from falling over. She had been positioned under a growing bamboo shoot so as it grew it had entered her. Her mouth was open. In her throat was the tip of the still growing bamboo.
“Her right hand is gone. Looks like it’s been chopped off.”
“Jesus! It’s the Chopper.”
“Vannes. Mark this position digitally.”
“Connor. Take command of the search. If the Chopper killed this poor girl, the hand won’t be found on this hill, but we gotta say we looked. Go to the top, then search again on the way down. If you find anything not natural, mark it.”
“Tanaka, call whoever is at the cars to bring a long knife, saw, or anything to cut through the bamboo shoot.”
Churihi became impatient. “Come on. Let’s go. The show is over. Fun wasn’t it?”
Feller stood up and started downhill.
I knew how he felt. He was full of regret and frustration, but I would never understand. I satisfy my desires, otherwise what’s the point of existence?
We shrugged and followed him down.
Feller went slowly. The way was dark and he dared not use a light. Thoughts were heavy on his mind.
I wish we had never met or I had the guts to leave him. I need to see a shrink, but what am I going to say... I know a vicious murderer, but I need him to support my lifestyle. Can you help me get rid of my guilt feelings?
We got into our Mercedes and drove at the speed limit. When we entered the freeway, I let out a sigh of relief. “We didn’t encounter any roadblocks.”
I could feel the wide grin on Churihi’s face. “That’s because we didn’t give them time. We told them where to look. Made it easy for them dumb pigs, so we could watch and leave quickly. You saw them look away when they found it, didn’t you? How sad it is few people can appreciate truly unique art.”
He couldn’t stop worrying, for he asked, “Did you cover your tracks after you checked on the body?”
I didn’t give him a straight answer. “Please, refer to it as my masterpiece. Yeah, in a way.”
We adjusted the rearview mirror and saw a crazy evil in our eyes. I asked, “What do you mean?”
Smirking with superiority, he whispered out of the corner of our mouth, “I wore an old pair of boots and threw them into the river.”
We were silent the rest of the way. I guess we were tired of each other.
Churihi laid the hand down. The pencil slid out from between the fingers and rolled toward the desk edge. He ignored it. On the hard wooden floor it clattered.
I took the hand and whistled. “The story is finished. Get rid of the hand.” I tossed it high to Feller.
In reflex I caught the hand. It was small, soft, and stiff. I cried out, “When will you stop?”
Smiling, we said, “When I run out of ideas. But,” I raised our finger, “I’ve come up with another story. So let’s get another hand to write it.”
The 182 page manuscript arrived at Wilcox Publishing House by special courier. Editor, Bill Wilcox, tore open the package in his eagerness to read the new story and get it into print as soon as he could. The first two books were international best sellers.
It was handwritten in a jerky script which gave his mouth a creepy taste, but he knew writers were often strange in unique ways.