Thriller Thursday: The Vampire of Sacramento

Every rational person knows vampires aren't real. There are no undead cursed to walk the earth for eternity searching for their next victim. And delicious-smelling, sparkly vampires who don't feast on humans are certainly the stuff of an overactive imagination.

But individuals with blood cravings do live among us. We just have a scientific term for them: cannibals. Of course there have been cultures that have accepted cannibalism, but we're not talking about those. Eating people is pretty taboo here in the States, but that didn't stop Richard Trenton Chase.

Nicknamed "The Vampire of Sacramento," Richard Chase went on a month-long killing spree in December, 1977 that resulted in six deaths. Chase earned the creepy nicknamed because he drank his victim's blood and cannibalized their remains.

Richard Trenton Chase mugshot, 1978

Like many of history's horrific murderers, Chase claimed he was abused by his mother. His parents fought a lot and were divorced by the time he was twelve. By then, Chase exhibited the core ingredients of the MacDonald Triad (the behavioral characteristics associated with sociopaths) and was an alcoholic and drug abuser by the time he was in his teens.

Chase was a hypochondriac, worrying about his heart ceasing to beat or that someone had "stolen an artery." He held oranges to his head so the Vitamin C would be absorbed via the brain, and he also believed his cranial bones had separated and moved around. He shaved his head in order to watch.

Throughout his life, Chase was terrified he would simply disappear. He believed the Nazi's, FBI, and space aliens were after him. The soap dish was his tormenters weapon of choice. Chase believed it held a secret poison that slowly turned his blood to powder. He knew only fresh blood could save him.

Chase's roommates complained about his drug use and his love of walking around the apartment nude. He refused to move out, so they left and Chase was on his own.

Like many sociopathic serial killers, Chase tortured animals, but he took it a step farther. He disemboweled the animals and ate them raw, often mixing the organs with Coke and making a gruesome milkshake. He believed eating the animals kept his heart from shrinking.

Blenders used by Chase.

In 1975, Chase injected rabbit blood and wound up in the hospital. The mental institution soon followed. He was discovered drinking blood of birds - their corpses were throw out of the window. Witty hospital staff dubbed him Dracula.

Chase had a strong addiction to blood. At the insituation, he stole blood from the therapy dog after stealing syringes from boxes left in the doctor's offices. He was also known to defecate himself and then paint with the feces.

Totally disgusted yet?

For some amazing reason, doctors decided Chase's was no longer a danger to society after a round of psychotropic drugs, and he was released in 1976 under the care of his mother. Evidently his mother thought she knew more than the doctors—she took him off the antipsychotic meds because the drugs made him "a zombie." She also got Chase his own apartment. Smart. In the months that followed, Chase refused to allow his mother to enter his apartment. She did nothing but continue to pay his rent.

Neighborhood pets, including his mother's cat, fell victim to Chase's bloodlust. Still, his animal blood-and-guts cocktails weren't enough to sustain him.

Chase's first human sacrifice was discovered on Jan. 23, 1978. David Wallin returned to his North Sacramento home to discover his pregnant wife, Terry, murdered. Her torso was slit open; parts of her body had been eaten. Chase had used a yogurt container to drink Terry's blood. The only picture of Terry I could find was extremely graphic.

The FBI behavioral science unit was in its infancy, and police worked closely with the group to come up with a profile to catch the unknown killer. Robert Ressler and Russ Vorpagel sketched an eerily close likeness of Chase, dubbing the suspect a scrawny, young loner, unkempt, dirty, and unorganized, subsisting on someone else's money.

Police sketch of Chase (I couldn't verify if this was the one Ressler created).

Chase 1971 Mug shot.

Accurate as the profile was, it didn't prevent further murders by Chase. Four days later, Evelyn Miroth, her friend Daniel Meredith, and Evelyn's son, Jason, were found shot with a .22 and slashed open. David was only six. Miroth's twenty-two-month old nephew David Ferreira had disappeared after being left in Evelyn's care that day. His crib contained a telltale bloodstain, and the baby's decapitated corpse was discovered four months later.

Evelyn Miroth

Jason Miroth

Evelyn lie naked on the bed, her legs open. Her abdomen had been slashed and her intestines pulled out. Two red-stained carving knives were nearby. Evelyne had been sodomized with the knife at least six times. Her neck had been severely slashed, and bloody ringlets on the carpet indicated the killer had again used something to collect blood. Several internal organs had been stabbed as well. The coroner later said this would help blood pool in the abdomen.

Ressler and Vorpagel believed the killer would be disorganized, with clues pointing to psychosis. The crimes weren't planned, and the killer likely did very little to hide the evidence. He left footprints and fingerprints at the scenes and had probably been seen walking in daylight with bloody clothes. Because he'd walked to at least one crime scene, the FBI believed he lived in the vicinity of the crimes. They were also sure he would keep killing until caught.

Crime scene photo.

A chance encounter turned out to be Chase's downfall. A young woman named Nancy Holen was shopping when a strange man approached her. He appeared confused, and Nancy tried to avoid him.

"Were you on the motorcycle when Kurt was killed?" the man asked.

Nancy was shocked. Ten years earlier, her boyfriend Kurt had been been killed on a motorcycle. Suddenly she noticed something familiar about the strange man. When he told her he was Rick Chase, she was shocked. She remembered Rick as a clean-cut, studious high school kid. The man before her was dirty, his clothes were stained, and he was agitated. She managed to get out of the store while Chase was distracted, but he followed her into the parking lot and asked for a ride. Nancy jumped into her car, rolled up the windows, locked the doors, and booked it out of the parking lot before he could stop her. When she saw the police sketch, she was positive Chase was the man police sought.

When Chase showed up on the police's radar, everything added up: the history of mental illness, the physical decline, his reliance on his mother. When Chase was apprehended, he wore an orange parka with blood stains on it. A .22 semiautomatic with bloodstains was taken from him, as well as Dan Meredith's wallet. Chase had been carrying a box when police grabbed him, and it contained bloodstained paper and rags. At the station, Chase admitted to killing dogs but refused to discuss the murders.

The search of Chase's apartment was horrifying. Nearly all of his possessions were stained with blood—including food and glasses. Small pieces of bone were found in the kitchen; the refrigerator held dishes with body parts. One container had human brain tissue. A blender was stained and reeked. Three pet collars were found but there were no animals to match. Pictures of human organs lay on a table along with newspaper ads selling dogs. The ads were circled.

A calendar had the inscription "today" on the dates of the Wallin and Miroth murders, and the same word was written on forty-four future dates.

Chase on his way to court.

Chase was eventually linked to another murder, the Dec. 29, 1977 drive-by of Ambrose Griffin. Chase confessed Griffin's was his first human victim. He said he chose his victims simply because their doors had been unlocked.

Prosecutors wanted the death penalty, and the defense argued not guilty by reason of insanity. This is one time that defense might have an ounce of merit. I don't know how much Chase plotted in advance, but there's no doubt he neither understood or cared about the consequences of his actions. The jury agreed with the prosecution and found Chase guilty of six counts of murder. He was given the death sentence.

Chase hid the anti-depressants offered to calm him, and on December 26, 1980, he committed suicide like a true coward.

In all my research of serial killers, Richard Trenton Chase is one of the very worst. I do believe he was in a different frame of mind than someone like Dahmer, who was much calculating and controlling. Had Chase been on meds and under careful care, his victims might have stood a chance.

What do you think? Was Chase destined to be a killer? Would meds have helped? Is there really such a thing as not guilty by reason of insanity?

Thriller Thursday Murder In The Midwest: Two Adults And Six Children Found Dead

On June 10, 1912, the sleepy little town of Villisca, Iowa was changed forever. Josiah Moore, his wife Sarah, their four children (Herman, Katherine, Boyd, and Paul), and two friends were found murdered in their beds, their skulls crushed. Lena and Ina Stillinger had gone to church with the Moore’s and had been invited by Katherine to spend the night.

The crime has never been solved.

The bodies were discovered when a neighbor realized the Moore’s hadn’t started their outside chores. Josiah’s brother was called, and he found the broken bodies of Lena and Ina Stillinger in the Moore’s parlor.

The Villisca Axe Murders may be one of the most mismanaged crimes in history. Word of the bodies spread like wildfire, and police soon lost control of the scene. Historical accounts claim more than a hundred people walked through the house to gape at the bodies before the National Guard arrived.

All hell broke loose in the town. Residents took up arms, suspecting one another. Reporters and private detectives flocked to the town while law enforcement agencies from neighboring counties and states assisted in the investigation.

Here are the facts, as stated by the official site of the Villisca Murders:

• Eight people had been bludgeoned to death, presumably with an axe left at the crime scene. It appeared all had been asleep at the time of the murders.
• Doctors estimated time of death as somewhere shortly after midnight.
• Curtains were drawn on all of the windows in the house except two, which did not have curtains. Those windows were covered with clothing belonging to the Moore's.
• All of the victims faces were covered with the bedclothes after they were killed.
• A kerosene lamp was found at the foot of the bed of Josiah and Sarah. The chimney was off and the wick had been turned back. The chimney was found under the dresser.
• A similar lamp was found at the foot of the bed of the Stillinger girls, the chimney was also off.
• The axe was found in the room occupied by the Stillinger girls. It was bloody but an attempt had been made to wipe it off. The axe belonged to Josiah Moore.
• The ceilings in the parent's bedroom and the children's room showed gouge marks apparently made by the upswing of the axe.
• A piece of a keychain was found on the floor in the downstairs bedroom.
• A pan of bloody water was discovered on the kitchen table as well as a plate of uneaten food.
• The doors were all locked.
• The bodies of Lena and Ina Stillinger were found in the downstairs bedroom off the parlor. Ina was sleeping closest to the wall with Lena on her right side. A gray coat covered her face. Lena, according to the inquest testimony of Dr. F.S. Williams, "lay as though she had kicked one foot out of her bed sideways, with one hand up under the pillow on her right side, half sideways, not clear over but just a little. Apparently she had been struck in the head and squirmed down in the bed, perhaps one-third of the way." Lena's nightgown was slid up and she was wearing no undergarments. There was a bloodstain on the inside of her right knee and what the doctors assumed was a defensive wound on her arm.

The murderer—or murderers—left behind a load of forensic evidence. Had the crime happened today, perhaps it would have been solved. Fingerprinting was in its infancy, and DNA testing unheard of. Even if the scene had been properly processed, authorities probably wouldn’t have been able to use the evidence.

Still, there are suspects. Many point to Frank F. Jones, an Iowa State Senator, as the murderer. Victim Josiah Moore had worked for Frank Jones for years. When he left and started his own implement company in 1908, Jones was furious. Moore had stolen the John Deere franchise from him. Rumors also floated around that Moore had an affair with Jones daughter-in-law, and his son was accused of being a co-conspirator. They were never arrested.

Sounds like great motive to me. Big financial loss and dilly-dallying with another man's woman? Never gets a good reaction.

William Mansfield from Illinois was suspected of being hired by Frank Jones to commit the murders. One investigator put together a case to bring to the grand jury, pinning not only the Villisca murders but several other axe murders on Mansfield. Insufficient evidence was found. He was released.

Rev. George Jacklin Kelly was also a suspect. He was a traveling preacher and had settled in Macedonia, Iowa. In 1917, he was arrested for the murder of ONE of the victims (but experts argue they were committed by the same person). Kelly attended the church and children’s program the day before. He left town early on the 10th.

Kelly confessed, but it was withdrawn before trial. The Villisca site calls his confession a “mockery of law enforcement practices at the time.” Kelly’s first trial was a hung jury; he was aquitted in the second.

This one makes me wonder. Sometimes it's often the least likely people who turn out to be the bad guys. Confessions are still coerced, and I can only imagine how easy it was to do back then with no video equipment and a town out for blood. But why did Kelly leave so early in the morning the day of the murders? Combined with his seeing the family the day before, that's suspect.

Murders like this are usually rage killings. Was Kelly angry at the Moores? We'll never know.

The third school of thought is that someone unknown to the area killed the Moore’s and Stillinger girls - a serial killer. The case against Mansfield actually supports this theory. 22 other murders had been committed in the Midwest around the same time. A federal officer assigned to the Villiscia murders believed Henry Moore (not related) was the killer.

He’d been convicted of the murders of his mother and maternal grandmother in Columbia, Missouri just months after the Villisca murders. His family was killed in the same manner. Other axe murders were also being investigated: family in Colorado Spring, Colorado was bludgeoned to death. A family in Monmouth, Illinois was killed, and then a family in Ellsworth, Kansas. A week before the Villisca killings, a man and his wife were murdered in Paola, Kansas. The similarities in the cases were undeniable. The case against him was never proved, however. Perhaps modern day science could have solved it.

Others were investigated, but again, no charges.

Another strong possibility. But are the similarities really the same? Were the nuances of the crime committed? Did the investigators look past the bludgeoning and look at the details of the rooms? Were the windows covered? Were the victims faces covered?

By the way, that's usually done by someone who knows the family, a sign of remorse. Even if Frank Jones hired Mansfield, the guys didn't know the family. Reverend Kelly did. He knew all the victims.

Of course, covering the bodies could have also been part of some weird M.O. Or perhaps the murderer couldn't stand to see what he'd done. The time taken in the house suggests callousness, something I'm not sure the Reverend had. And was this the murderer's first killing? His only? Behavioral analysts of today might be able to tell, but the details are lost to history.

The Villisca House is a now a tourist attraction on the National Registrar of Historic Places. Stories about it being haunted abound. The official site of the murders says paranormal investigators have gathered visual and auditory evidence of a haunting. Objects move, psychics claim to have seen spirits.

If ever a place was likely to be haunted, the Villisca House would be it. The only surviving witness to a terribly tragedy, it alone knows the murder’s true identity.

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The Villisca Axe Murder House

Was Jack The Ripper A Woman?

Last night I was surfing The Huffington Post and came across a story about an Australian scientist who performed DNA testing on one of the Ripper letters. For those who don’t know, several letters were sent to police during the time of the murders. Most are believed to be fakes, but a few are considered to be authentic. Scientists using technology that’s way above my head took swabs from the back of the stamps and the seal of the envelope to process for DNA. There’s a lot more to the science, but you get the point. Reports were inconclusive, but enough of a profile was constructed for the scientist to claim the Ripper could have been a woman.

Seriously?! Don’t get me wrong – there have been more female serial killers than people realize. Countess Elizabeth Batheroy murdered hundreds of peasant women in the Middle Ages in order to drink their blood and remain young. Some go so far as to suggest she may have been the real inspiration for Dracula instead of Vlad the Impaler. There’s also Amelia Dyer, a.k.a The Baby Butcher, who murdered several infants while “baby farming,” a practice in turn-of-the-century England for illegitimate and poor mothers. Aileen Wuornos is another notorious female serial killer, and many more paved the way before her.

Still, it’s just hard to imagine a woman could be responsible for something as heinous as the Ripper murders. At least five proven victims in Whitechapel (and likely more) were mutilated by the Ripper, their throats and genitalia slashed open. Could a woman really have done such a thing?

I have to admit, it’s possible. There’s all types of crazy in this world, and for all our modern advances, people weren’t that different during Jack’s time. I could see a religious woman with a crazy gene seeking to rid the streets of London from the filthy prostitutes.

Makes for a good story, doesn’t it?

According to history, the detective who ran the investigation thought it was possible the Ripper could be a woman because Mary Kelly was seen hours after her death, with the Ripper wearing her clothes. The only female suspect had a similar M.O. to the Ripper, so it’s impossible to rule out the option, especially with the new DNA evidence.

If this is true, no wonder the case has never been solved. The police were looking in the wrong place! Investigators leaned heavily toward the male suspects, and many believed the Ripper had some sort of surgical training or was a skilled butcher. Those theories have never been proven and are still argued to this day.

Jack the Ripper wasn’t the world’s first serial killer by any means, but he was the first to garner worldwide media attention. Reporters went crazy with their theories, and the investigation was tainted by their interference. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?

Now imagine if the Ripper had been a woman and the media frenzy that would have created.

‘Sweet, Victorian housewife slaughters prostitutes while her babies sleep.’

The press would have loved her!

We’ll probably never know the truth. Then again, genetic profiling and the science of DNA advances at the rate rabbits reproduce, so who knows what we’ll learn about the Ripper in a few years. Maybe the geniuses will come up with some trick to get a full profile from what little biological stuff is left.

I doubt it. Jack the Ripper will continue to live in infamy, the stuff of legend and folklore. Tourists will flock to Whitechapel to follow the trail of the murders, butterflies in their stomachs as they walk the streets. They’ll listen to the tour guides tell the story, all the while thinking what a hideous man the Ripper was.

But who knows? Perhaps Jack was a Jane, after all.

Flash Fiction/Web Fic: The Prophet

Post Three - Denial

Genre: Mystery/Thriller/Suspense
WARNING: Graphic Content

Jaymee Nichols had some attitude, Nick Samuels thought as he watched the petite woman stand defiantly against his Impala, arms crossed and lower lip jutting out.

His mother had always warned him a pouty lower lip made a great place for a bird’s toilet. Somehow he didn’t think Jaymee would appreciate that nugget of wisdom.

“The prophet?” She said. “That’s biblical.” A sour expression twisted her pretty face and darkness clouded her eyes. “What’s the good book got to do with this fucking mess?”

“You’ve got quite a mouth on you,” Nick said.

She flushed. “Only when I’m nervous.”

“Nothing to be nervous about. I know you’ve had a terrible experience and just want to get away from the scene.”

“Can’t go too far.” She pointed to the east. “My trailer’s just over there.”

Jaymee’s trailer looked more like the old too shed his father had torn down when the roof caved in. Dingy white on top and ugly, disco-gold on the bottom, the trailer looked like it had been sitting in the lot since the seventies. Two cracked concrete steps led to the front door, and wilted petunias clung to life in their dilapidated wooden box beneath a small window. Although the grass sported patched of brown, her lot appeared tidy. Jaymee’s place was four-star quality compared to most of her neighbors.

Nick wanted to ask her what a girl like her was doing in a place like this. He’d been an agent for ten years. Experience and instinct told him Jaymee was no working girl, no druggie or petty criminal. She was a decent person stuck in a bad situation—one that had gotten much worse today.

“Who’s the prophet?” She pushed her dark blonde hair out of her face. Jaymee couldn’t be more than twenty-five. Her skin still had the fresh glow of youth. The fine lines and wrinkles hadn’t yet surfaced.

“A serial killer we’ve been tracking the last few months,” Nick answered. “He started in downtown Minneapolis. Killed a prostitute and left her in a dumpster. Same M.O as the scumbag who killed your friend. Same signature.”

“What’s the difference?”

“M.O. is how they do it. A perp will change it if necessary. A signature is part of their ritual. The killer is driven by an inner need to complete the task. He can’t enjoy the experience if he doesn’t.”

“So what’s this douchebag’s signature?”

“He’s got two. One’s the reason for the nickname. You can think the Star-Tribune for that. He leaves a proverb with every body.”

“I suppose he’s doing God’s work,” Jaymee snapped. “Typical upstanding churchgoer.”

Nick wondered what made her detest the church, but kept his thoughts to himself.

“Maybe,” Nick conceded. “He’s organized, methodic. Leaves very little trace evidence.”

“What’s the second signature?”

The mark of sick individual, Nick thought. “That’s confidential. It’s one detail we’re keeping out of the press, but I’m told it’s visible at this crime scene.”

Jaymee winced at the words and sagged back against the Impala. Her small shoulders slumped, her mask of bravado slipped. “I always knew Crystal was headed for disaster.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Nick said. “What can you tell me about her?”

“She was wild. Drank too much, smoked too much. And I’m not talking about cigarettes. She was also a good friend and a shoulder to cry on.” She pursed her lips as she clung to her emotions.

“You said she wasn’t a hooker. Where did she get her clients from? The strip club?”

“Yeah.”

“Did she ever go down to the Cities to earn some extra cash?”

“I have no idea,” Jaymee said. “There were times she’d be gone a few days, and I’d look after Mutt, her dog. She never said where she was going, and I never asked. Guess I didn’t want to know.”

“Interesting,” Nick said.

Jaymee’s blue eyes flashed to his. “Why?”

“I’m trying to figure out why our serial killer traveled four hours north of his hunting grounds. I’ve got four other victims in Hennepin County. Every one met the same fate as Crystal. Every one was a known prostitute.”

“Crystal wasn’t hooking.” Jaymee’s voice jumped half an octave. “She had a specific clientele of guys she trusted. That’s it.”

Nick knew he had to tread carefully. He needed Jaymee to trust him. “I’m just trying to figure out what brought him here. You said yourself she left for days at a time and you had no idea what she was doing.”

He waited a few seconds to let the words sink in. “Is it impossible she went down to the city for work?”

“If by work you mean walking the streets, then yes, it’s Goddamned impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because she wasn’t stupid,” Jaymee gritted out. “She knew how to work smart.”

“She also had a drug habit,” Nick said softly. “Coke or meth?”

Jaymee flinched. “Meth. Coke was too expensive.”

“Meth’s not cheap either. It also messes with your head, makes you lose control and make bad decisions.”

Jaymee looked down at the ground, digging the toe of her canvas sneakers into the dirt. His words made sense, Nick thought. She just didn’t want to accept them.

“No,” she finally said. “Not Crystal.”

Her jaw was set, her gaze defiant. She’d made up her mind.

“All right,” Nick said. “Can you think of any time she was afraid? Worried she might have a stalker? A guy at the club who got too handsy?”

Jaymee shook her head. “No. She never complained. Life was all good and all about the next high.”

Nick couldn’t understand why Jaymee didn’t believe Crystal would hook in the Cities. The girl had a serious drug habit and little fear. The combination didn’t make a cautious person.

Adams waddled toward them, sweating through his polyester shirt. His round belly suffered from serious dunlap disease, hanging so low over his belt Nick wondered how he could see to fasten it.

“Samuels,” Adams huffed. “Something you need to see.”

“I need to go home,” Jaymee said. “Please.”

“Go,” Nick said. “But expect to hear from me soon.”

She waved him off, moving across the lots with her arms clenched tightly around her waist and her shoulders hunched.

With a sigh, Nick headed for Crystal’s trailer. What fresh hell awaited him today?

The Prophet Post 1

The Prophet Post 2

Dexter: New American Hero?

I’m late to the Dexter phenomenon. We don’t have Showtime, and I just recently started watching this amazing show. Now halfway through season 4, I’m convinced he's one of the best characters I've ever come across—on television or in literature.

At first glance, Dexter seems pretty cut and dried. A psychopath (or is it sociopath? The two often go together) who gets his kicks murdering people, but with a caveat: only the bad guys, so he’s at least contributing to society. This ‘code’ was established by his adoptive father to keep Dexter alive and to help the old man from accepting the fact that his son was a coldblooded killer.

Sociopaths and psychopaths are intermixed and sometimes hard to define. They don’t care about anyone but themselves, have no conscious, no morals. They feel nothing, although many can mimic feelings in order to blend in. Psychopaths are often defined as the monsters in society, and this is how Dexter sees himself. A monster fulfilling his need the best way he can.

Throughout the series, Dexter repeatedly says he can’t feel. He has a girlfriend to appear normal, and she’s perfect because she’s got dark issues of her own. She’s also got two kids he’s very good with. The closest person in his life is his sister, Deb. Still, he doesn’t believe he truly cares for these people. In his mind, he’s going through the necessary motions. And yet he consistently goes the extra mile for all of them.

As the show progresses, Dexter goes from seeing himself as a monster happily blending in to questioning everything he’s been taught by his father. He grows more attached to his girlfriend and her children, going so far as to call them ‘my kids’ when one of them is threatened. He saves his sister’s life at great personal sacrifice and has no regret because he’s ‘fond of her.’

The interesting thing is these aren’t contrived actions. None are done simply to look like he’s the good guy. They’re visceral reactions he can’t explain. After all, he’s the monster who can’t feel.

Yet nearly the entire show revolves around what he’s feeling: about himself, his place in life, the people closest to him. He tries to fit in not because he has to but because he wants to. Even when his darkness calls, he sticks to his code because of his trust in his father’s advice. Dexter claims to have no conscience, and yet every major decision is weighed carefully, with visions of his now deceased father chiming in with guidance.

So what is Dexter? A killer with a conscience, certainly. But is he a true psychopath? There are worse monsters out there. Dexter only kills murders, and only after he has concrete proof.

Eventually Dexter discovers why he kills, and the knowledge sends him on a path of self-discovery. Considering what he experienced, it’s a miracle he functions in society at all. Experts debate whether psychopaths (and sociopaths) are made or if their problems are genetic. One thing they all seem to have is a stressor, a trigger that sends them down the wrong path. This certainly happened to Dexter, and I have to wonder if he would have ever had the urge to kill had he not experienced such trauma.

I don’t believe he’s a true psychopath. His experience likely made him a killer, but Dexter cares too much about those around them to be considered a psychopath. I think he’s convinced himself he’s a monster because he’s afraid to admit he cares. Keeping people at arm’s length not only protects his dark secret but his emotions as well.

One of the most moving scenes (and an awesome performance by Michael C. Hall) is early in season four. Dexter is getting ready to kill a woman who murdered her family. She pleads with him, telling him he's no different from her, that he hides himself from his family. As Dexter thinks of Rita and the kids, a stunning realization hits him: he doesn't want to lose them. He's blown away by the thought and tears come to his eyes. It's an incredible moment of growth for the character, and it's this type of humanization that sets him apart.

However you define him, Dexter is a character of complexities and contrasts. He’s committed horrible crimes and is utterly callous with his victims. He’s out for self-preservation. And yet, he’s a good man. He takes care of his family and friends, his girlfriend and her kids. He lives by a moral code no other criminal would follow. He is in constant flux, trying to understand himself and his place in this world. Viewers root for Dexter. We want him to get away with murder and sometimes we can’t wait until he kills his victim, because they deserve to pay the ultimate price.

What other character has garnered such a range of emotions? None that I can think of. Dexter is a true original.

Flash Fiction/Web Fic: The Prophet

Continuation of last week's post, now titled The Prophet. Hope you all enjoy, and thanks for the feedback:)

Genre: Mystery/Thriller/Suspense
WARNING: Graphic Content

Flies swarmed in her face. Attracted to the rotting horror in the trailer, the annoying insects had come in droves. Cops and stone-faced forensics people surfed through the trash, picking apart the garbage like prospectors digging for gold. Jaymee watched as a steady stream of techs wearing contraptions resembling full body condoms carried evidence out of the trailer into an official looking white van.

“When was the last time you saw the victim?”

Jaymee’s eyes flickered to the detective called Adams. Short and pudgy, he appeared to be on the other side of forty and sliding full speed down the hill. Wrinkles lined his eyes, and sweat shined on his forehead. He dabbed his face with a dingy hanky and waited for her response.

“Few days ago. After work.”

“And what did the victim do for a living?”

“Her name was Crystal,” Jaymee snapped. “She stripped at local shit-hole in Grand Rapids.”

The detective raised a grayed eyebrow. “Her income limited to stripping? No side jobs?”

“She did what she had to do.”

“Don’t we all.”

Jaymee clamped her lips shut. Typical old school cop. Didn’t give a fuck about the people living below the poverty line unless he could do something to bust their chops. “Can I go now?”

“You’re a witness.”

“I didn’t see a damned thing! She was dead when I got here!”

Dead for a while, by the looks of it. If Jaymee lived to be a withered old lady, she would never forget the sight of Crystal’s body. Wrists and ankles tied down, dried blood pooled around her lower region, her private area slashed open, dark bruises everywhere. Slashes on her breasts and arms. The white sheets had been stained red—Crystal had bled out from the gaping wound in her neck.

Jaymee had heard a cop say her injuries were sustained pre-mortem. Which meant Crystal had suffered unimaginable pain. Her eyes were wide open in death—had she been conscious until the knife slit her throat?

“You discovered the body,” Adams said.

“I’ve told you everything.”

He ignored her. “Crystal have any enemies? She do her extracurricular work on her own or did she have an employer?”

“She didn’t have a fucking pimp.” Jaymee’d had enough of Adam’s prejudice. “Crystal wasn’t a streetwalker. Sometimes she did the guys favors for extra cash—that’s it.”

“Nothing unusual in the past week or so?”

“No.”

“Adams!” A deep voice called from the left. Yet another car had arrived on scene, this one a shiny, black Impala. A man stepped out, stylish black sunglasses protecting his eyes from the sun. His jeans hung loosely around his hips, and the dark, green shirt he wore complimented his tanned skin.

Jaymee watched his approach. He didn’t look like a cop. Reporter? No press badge, just a Blackberry and a bag slung over his shoulder. He had an air of cool confidence that set her on edge.

“Samuels,” the detective sounded less than pleased at the other man’s arrival. “Not sure why you’re here.”

“Your boss just called me,” the newcomer said. He towered over Adams by several inches.

Adams scowled. “What for?”

Jaymee rolled her eyes at the pissing contest. Why didn’t men just greet one another by whipping out their dicks and measuring? Get the ego bullshit over with.

“Same M.O.”

“Not exactly. Couple of new things.”

“Same signature.”

Adam's face turned puce. “Says who? I haven’t heard a damned thing about it.”

“Check with your boss. He’s inside while you’re conducting interviews.”

Jaymee raised her hand. “Can I go now? I have nothing else to say.”

Tall, dark, and annoying turned to smile down at her. “Agent Nick Samuels, Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.”

The big boys. No wonder Adams was ticked. Cops hated having their turf invaded.

“Jaymee Morris. Waitress at The Wall-eyed Bar, greasiest food in Grand Rapids.”

“And the person who discovered the body,” Samuels pointed out.

“That, too.” She cut Samuels off before he could speak again. “I’ve already told your buddy everything.”

“Of course, but I’d like to ask you some different questions. We have reason to believe your friend’s murder is related to a string of others near the Twin Cities.”

“You know how far we are from the Cities?” Jayme scoffed. “Don’t murders tend to stick to a favorite place?”

Samuels pushed his sunglasses onto his head. Green eyes stared intently down at her. “Serial killers can be unpredictable. There are stressors that can make them alter their procedures.”

Jaymee felt dizzy. “You think this is a serial killer?”

“There’s no evidence of that yet,” Adams sputtered. “None that I’ve seen, anyway.”

Samuel’s eyes didn’t leave Jaymee’s. “You haven’t seen the proverb yet.”

“Proverb?” Jaymee asked.

“Ms. Morris,” Samuels said, “Have you heard of The Prophet?”