Page 88 of Brainwashed
He picks them up, wasting no time ripping the packet open and stuffing them into his mouth. A small smile tugs at his lips while he munches away, joyfully, practically bouncing in place as he does. You’d have no idea he stabbed the life out of someone not ninety minutes ago.
“So you were saying?” I ask as he pops another little cracker sandwich into his mouth.
He finishes chewing and swallows before answering me, which I have to appreciate. “Right. So Tom Kline was the first victim I actively hated. The first one I wanted to kill to get rid of, rather than make him stay. He was the first one I posed.”
I glance at his open file on my desk. “Why the elementary school?”
“Because Cam and Cassie were only six when he started…” His voice trails off and I witness his jaw clench.
I’m justin aweof this man. He is the most captivating killer ever, hands down.
No remorse. No qualms about killing the innocent, whatsoever. Yet he has this side of himself seeking to avenge the pain caused to children by these perverts.
It’s obvious that he enjoys killing the child predators so much because of his eternal love for this Cam person. And his other victims, the ones he thinks heloved, are like his way of chasing the boy he could never have. The first boy who left him.
I find myself wondering while he tells me aboutCameron Kline,what’s so special about the kid? Why did Felix become so swept up in him in the first place? Sure, he sounds like an alright friend to an adolescent Felix. But to me, it sounds more like Felix was hooked by the first boy who ever showed him attention, the kind he’s craved his entire life. And he’s been wriggling on the line ever since.
Personally, I think—based on what he’s told me so far about Cameron—that Felix needs someone more grounded. More stable. If we’re talking about a man whose influence would be good for him, relationship wise, I believe he needs someone to balance out his infinitely uneven personality. To give him the affection he so craves, but also put him in his place when he’s acting like a brat. He might be continuously searching for carbon copies of Cam, but then he’s also subconsciously choosing the wrong men on purpose.
But hey… it’s none of my business. I’m just here to learn.
“Did you only pose the victims you hated? The Tom Klines of the world?” I ask him, leaning against my desk while I watch him, cuddled up on my office couch in his clean clothes, hair still damp from the shower.
I know there’s likely a storm brewing outside this room as we speak. But I’m still too invested in my work to care.
Felix’s lips quirk. “Toward the end, I’d become a bit… theatrical with my kills.”
I give him a knowing look. “I would say so… Rockefeller Center and all.”
“Yea.” He huffs a laugh. “That’s one example. I guess I was getting a little show boat-y. There were a few times I posed victims I cared for, but it was more for their benefit than to make a spectacle, like with the others. For example, number twenty-six, Gee Pourier, was a dancer on Broadway. He worked on the final run ofCabaret.” He pauses to stare at me like I’m supposed to care about that. I shrug and he rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I slit his wrists and let him bleed out in my bathtub. Then I posed him on the fire escape outside of the Broadway Theatre, which was where he’d worked. I thought he would have enjoyed that.”
Turning back to the files for a moment, I leaf through some photos. “What was his carving?”
“I took out his cheek implants,” he says, and I peer at him. “He didn’t need them. He looked fine the way he was.”
A small puff of air gusts from between my lips. It resembles a chuckle, or at least a version of one, and I’m as stunned by it as Felix apparently is. His gray eyes widen behind his glasses, a slow grin forming on his lips.
Moving on before he can comment, I grumble, “Tell me how it felt to leave Kieran’s body behind.” His brows zip together. “You’re not used to killing and just walking away. From what I understand, you’ve never really done that.” He blinks, then shakes his head slowly. “But with Ivan and Kieran you did, not only because you physically couldn’t move their bodies anywhere or dispose of them, but also because you didn’t have to. Talk to me about that.”
He eats one last cracker, then crumbles the packet in his fist. “Well, I felt some relief. Disposing of bodies is hard work. Plus, I didn’t love either of them, so it’s not like I wanted to spend more time with them.”
“So you’re saying that with victims like Ivan and Kieran—theToms—you savored the process, whereas with your Emmanuels, you cared more about the product.” I can’t help the way my stomach tightens just saying these words.
It’s sort of groundbreaking in the world of serial killers. In most cases—not all, but definitely the majority—your killer is eitherproductorprocess. Meaning they kill strictly for the body, not putting too much thought or attention on the kill itself.Orthe body is just an inconsequential effect, and the act of killing is what they really want.
It’s extremely rare to find someone who’s both. And for that person to be a product killer with some victims and a process killer with others? Well, that’s just downright unheard of.
“Look at you, throwing around the true crime lingo.” Felix grins. “If I didn’t know any better, Doc, I’d say you only like me for the book material. What am I… your Ed Kemper?”
I purse my lips to keep the wayward movements in check, standing up straight and walking over to him. As I approach, the amusement from his own wittiness slips away, and he gazes up at me.
“First of all, stop calling meDoc.” My tone is firm. “It’s something Bugs Bunny says. Second of all,likeis a strong word for someone who is very much book material, as you are.” I witness some hurt in his eyes as his Adam’s apple dips in his throat. But then I lean in. “And third of all, you areinfinitelymore fascinating than The Co-ed Killer.”
I hold out my hand, and it takes him a solid ten seconds of gawking at me with those entranced doe eyes before he snaps out of it and hands over the empty wrapper from his snack.
I’m across the room tossing it into the trash bin, when the door to my office flies open and a human hurricane in the form of Officer Chevelle storms inside.
Time feels like it’s in slow motion as I watch him noticing Felix. Then the pile of Felix’s bloody clothes on the floor by my desk. And in those ticking seconds, I witness him putting two and two together, an equation he probably already knew the solution to.
