The past few weeks had been exhausting; living on a time limit – even when you didn’t know how long it would be – was tiring. Betty Hubbard hadn’t worked as hard in so many years. Nonetheless, she was determined to do what she had to do – what she needed to do.
Deeds Speak had struck again, the latest message in his work being, “Kindness is contagious – spread it around!” A bit corny, but it was a work of graffiti and more than effective for what it was.
Margot Simmons had been running with the ‘Lakeview Coed Killer’ story, but of late that had seemed to run dry. The police, based on her sources, were no closer to catching the killer than before, and the killings had seemed to stop. At one point it appeared like a death was going to occur every two to three weeks, but after the third, the killer seemed to have stopped. It was distressing to think the killer might get away with murdering those three girls, but to catch him, he needed to screw up, and that meant he had to keep killing; Betty realized his not being captured and punished was far better than any more young ladies losing their lives.
Margot seemed upset by this turn of events; she was sure this was going to be the story that would launch her career to new heights, but if the killer went away, it was just going to fade from the headlines and the public’s consciousness. Betty hated to believe the worst in people, but based on Margot’s ambition, she wasn’t sure if her young reporter friend wasn’t secretly hoping the killer would strike again, and get things back on track for her.
Had she ever thought like that?
She didn’t want to think too hard about it; for fear that the answer would be, “Yes.”
It had been a long time since she had made her way over to The Whistle Blower, but tonight seemed like a good night for it. She was tired of working, writing her memoirs. In the back of her mind, she missed her time with James Calley.
She missed her time with him, and evidently, she’d missed him. A quick scan around the bar quickly verified he wasn’t there drinking tonight. It was disappointing, but as long as she was here, she figured she might as well sit down at the bar and have a drink. Who knows, maybe he was just running late tonight.
“I’ve never come in here without seeing James all ready nursing a drink,” she said to the Bartender as he approached her. “I guess it was foolish of me to assume he’d always be here, huh?”
The smile on the Bartender’s face had disappeared. Something was wrong.
“You okay?” she asked.
The Bartender leaned on the other side of the bar. If he hadn’t spoken as quickly as he did, she would have caught on.
“James, well, he’s passed on,” said the Bartender.
“Passed on,” said Betty quietly. “He’s dead?”
“What can I get you?” the Bartender asked.
“Jesus, a bourbon, I guess.”
Betty hadn’t expected this. The Bartender poured her bourbon, straight up.
“I thought he told you,” he said as he put the drink down in front of her. “All that time you two spent talking, spent together, I thought he told you. He had terminal cancer. Had been told he didn’t have too much longer to live.”
“No, he didn’t,” said Betty quietly.
“Sorry,” said the Bartender standing up. “Wait a minute.”
The Bartender quickly made his way to the cash register and opened it. She watched as he lifted up the change tray and pulled a white envelope out from under it. He brought the envelope back to her and placed it on the bar. Written on it was her name.
“I almost forgot about that,” said the Bartender. “The last time he was in, he asked me to give this to you, you know...when he was gone.”
Betty stared at the envelope.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” said the Bartender, walking away, leaving her alone with her message from beyond the grave.
Betty took a sip of her bourbon. Based on the news she’d just received, it could have been a little bit stronger. Steeling herself, she picked up the envelope and opened it. Inside it was a one page letter and a small photo.
“Dear Betty,” the letter started, “So much for life! Don’t worry, I made peace with my circumstances a long time ago. I too had to re-evaluate my life, and I came to one conclusion, you can’t define a life. How do you?...”
Betty took another sip of her bourbon.
“...Is success for those who leave behind the most loved ones? Or is it for those who acquired the most material possessions? Is a life important if you’ve had an impact on society, or if you’ve simply lead a quiet life and only affected the lives of those around you? No one knows, do they...”
Betty took a moment to wipe the tears from her eyes.
“...Despite the fuck up I’ve been, and despite my own quiet, uneventful life, don’t make my mistake and believe it all didn’t matter, that it didn’t mean something to someone. Hopefully, unlike me, you will be given a second chance, and in doing so will come to realize what it truly important in life, and what still remains to be accomplished. It could be as simple as showing a moment of kindness to a beat-up, used up, old coot, sitting in a bar waiting for his days to end. That was an accomplishment, and I thank you for your kindness...”
Once again, she had to pause, the tears were flowing now. She took another sip of her bourbon.
“...Well, if you’re reading this, all I can say is, hang in there you old broad. Love, James.”
Betty put down the letter. It was taking everything she had not to just break down and wail. She looked down at the bar, and the photo that had fallen out of the letter. She picked it up. It was an old black and white photograph of what she assumed was a very young James Calley, possibly five or six, grinning ear-to-ear with his arms wrapped around his Mother’s waist, and hers wrapped around him. Standing behind them, also with a big grin, and his hand on James shoulder had to be his Father. It was a happy moment in all of their lives. Betty turned the picture over; written on the back of it, in James Calley’s chicken scratch was written: “LOOKING FORWARD TO THE REUNION!”
Amongst the sorrow and the tears that had threatened to overtake her, Betty couldn’t help smiling.
Once again, outside her office door, Betty could hear the roar of the newsroom – something was up. Betty didn’t care. Instead she looked at the black and white photo of James Calley and his parents. She had similar photos at home; pictures of her as a young girl, smiling, happy, surrounded by a loving family – simpler times.
She hoped beyond hope that James had his reunion – that once again he was able to embrace his parents; she hoped beyond hope that at this moment, somewhere in time and space, he was smiling, happy, and content.
She longed for the same. Life was one long, hard treadmill. At some point, the innocence of youth disappears completely, and you step on that treadmill, and from that point on it is never the same. The loss of innocence, Betty realized was one’s first death, and throughout their lives, there were many others, until one day you found yourself a shell of your former being, beaten up and worn down. That’s how she felt.
“Holy crap! Did you hear?!” Margot said as she burst through Betty’s office door, nearly scaring her to death.
“Jesus, Margot,” said Betty, before regaining her composure.
“Sorry, Betty,” said Margot.
“The President had better be shot and killed, you bursting in like that,” said Betty. Her days of getting excited by news events was coming to an end; hell, even a Presidential assassination wasn’t about to get her fires burning.
“But did you hear, the police caught Deeds Speak last night,” said Margot, “The story is just breaking.”
Without hesitation, Betty picked up the TV’s remote on the corner of her desk and turned on the TV. It was all ready on their 24-hour news station. Burt Hale, one of their pretty news heads, was on the screen talking, a picture of one of Deeds Speak’s murals pictured in the top corner of the screen.
“He’s captured the attention of the nation, and last night Lakeview’s police force captured the ever elusive Deeds Speak,” said Burt.
As he said that, the TV screen cut to Charlie Sheldon, a twenty-something male, being led from the police station in handcuffs.
“...the graffiti artist, whose artwork and messages of hope have captured the hearts and minds of the nation has been identified as Charles Sheldon, a self-proclaimed failed artist who is currently working for a moving company...”
“Who wrote the copy,” asked Betty, “They’ve used the ‘nation’ thing twice.”
“...is being held for questioning. It is still unclear what motivated Charles Sheldon, a.k.a. Deeds Speak to embark on his humanitarian mission.
Betty picked up the TV remote and turned off the TV.
“When did all of this happen?” asked Betty.
“Late, late last night,” said Margot.
“Why wasn’t I notified?” asked Betty, clearly annoyed; after all, it was her story.
“We tried, but we couldn’t get a hold of you,” said Margot. She figured Betty would be pissed. She also knew it was rare – no, not rare, but the first time ever – that the news room couldn’t get in touch with Betty; she was usually available 24 hours a day.
“Who else is covering this?” asked Betty.
“Everyone is just starting to pick it up,” said Margot. “We got a call late last night from one of your contacts in the police department, regarding this. When we couldn’t get a hold of you, we convinced him to share his information with us; figured if he can’t get you, at least we’d get the exclusive. We’ve never not been able to reach you Betty, where were you?”
News of James Calley’s passing had been just too much for her to bear. She had purposely cut herself off from the world, not wanting to deal with anything; she had no idea the one story she cared about was going to break wide open.
“I need to talk to this Charles Sheldon,” said Betty; it was time to forget her latest bout of self-pity and get back to work.
They’d heard the news shortly after they woke up and turned on the news. Holland was always interested to see if anything was being said about Deeds Speak, and what it might be. Angie was proud of him; he had started something innocently, and it had blown up into something significant. While that was terrific, what really matter was how it had started to change Holland. For the first time since she knew him, he had purpose in life; he had always passed himself off as confident, but now he truly was confident. He saw that something he could do could make a difference in the world. For the first time in his life, she realized, he knew he could do something with his life, something important.
Deeds Speak had not only enriched his life and confidence, but also hers. She had been amazed by how much attention these murals were getting, and how people across the country were responding to them. In some cities, people were forming Deeds Speak groups, perpetuating the concept that it was better to be nice to one another, then how we normally were. Who is Deeds Speak was the question everyone was asking, and she agreed with Holland, despite the obvious temptation of the notoriety it would bring them, that Deeds Speak was best left unknown.
But now this!
“That is not Deeds Speak!” said Holland pointing at the TV screen and the shot of Charles Sheldon being led handcuffed by the police – it was a story on a news loop and kept coming around. “HE’S A GODDAMNED IMPOSTER!”
He was stating the obvious, she knew, but he couldn’t help himself, he was incensed. Actually, at first he was beyond incensed; presently he was extremely pissed off, which was a couple of steps down from where he had been – a state of mind where she suddenly worried he’d blow an artery, his blood pressure probably through the roof.
“I know, honey, I know,” she said in a soothing voice. She really didn’t know what to say to calm him down. In actual fact, she was as upset as he was, someone was taking credit for what he had done, but she also realized it wouldn’t be good for both of them to get carried away.
“Doesn’t this bother you in the least?” he asked, still very agitated.
“Of course it does.”
“They think this idiot is Deeds Speak that he’s...well...me,” said Holland. “This can’t be happening.”
Angie watched as Holland started pacing; he did that a lot when he was upset; the carpet in front of the TV should have been worn out by now.
“You could always come forward,” she said.
Holland continued pacing. She just watched him; she could see he was thinking.
“I can’t,” he said, as he finally stopped pacing. “Deeds Speak must remain anonymous. This is going to end it all.”
“Possibly,” said Angie, “but maybe not; maybe they just think they’ve caught Deeds Speak. They’re going to find out he’s not who they think he is.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Holland. He had never felt as down and defeated as he did now.
Ethan studied the face of Charles Sheldon, a.k.a. Deeds Speak on his TV screen. He seemed quite dull; there was nothing exceptional about him. How in the world had this guy, and his art, made such an impact? It was ludicrous!
Ethan was angry.
Weeks had passed since his beating. He was told he had been lucky. Despite his attacker’s enthusiasm, he hadn’t suffered any major injuries, like broken bones. He had been severely bruised, over a large part of his body, and suffered from cuts, many of which needed stitching, but no broken bones. Considering his attackers enthusiasm, his luck – or his ability to take one hell of a beating – his fate was described by the policemen who interviewed him at the hospital as a ‘miracle.’ They pointed out several times that he should have been hurt worst than he was. Nonetheless, his beating had laid him up for quite some time; the simplest of movements came with a great deal of pain and discomfort.
To make matters worst, he was told he was saved by a Melissa Pegg; when he got out of the hospital and looked her up on Facebook, he recognized her as the girl in the bright red dress. This infuriated him.
How had this happened?!
Was the world, the universe, still fucking with him?
That had to be it.
He had discovered why the universe had been keeping him down and he had adapted. He had accepted his fate, and set out to make amends. And he had been. He was being true to the dark nature the world had given him, a dark nature that in a previous life defined him as Adolf Hitler, and he had been dealing with it. No matter what he did in this life, he would never be able to create the death and destruction he had as Hitler. No matter how you stacked it up, in this life, even as a serial killer, he was doing better. How could the universe expect him to just forget the dark desires that drove him in his previous life? Weren’t they far too extreme to expect the residue from them wouldn’t have an effect on this life? Fuck the universe, he was doing better, and despite that the world was still trying to beat him down.
That’s what this was all about – the beating. He had finally found his purpose in life; something he was good at and the universe was still trying to punish him. And to have his intended victim be the one to help him! The universe was really fucking with him and he wasn’t going to take it anymore.
For the first time in his life, his eyes were really open; he thought he had figured it all out when he discovered the nature of his past life, but that had only been the awakening. The beating had brought better clarity.
The universe wanted to destroy him.
It was as simple as that.
So fucking simple.
No matter what he did, no matter how he tried to make amends, the universe wasn’t going to let him. He enjoyed killing, and the universe had tried to stop him from doing that. It had turned him into a predator and then made him the prey. The universe had made him a great artist, and then conspired to keep him from ever making it in life. Even the day of his beating, the world mocked him; he realized that everything Lucas Delaney had said to him at Pulp Illusions was meant to mock him. Even his getting Cheryl’s number had been mockery, the universe seeming to treat him right for the first time in his life. He had thought he was experiencing the best day of his life, not realizing the universe was going to take it all way, and stomp him under its boot heel like it had always done.
Now this, Deeds Speak.
He had to sit here and see yet another loser, with absolutely no talent whatsoever, gain glory for his mediocrity. He was tired of the world pissing on him.
He was tired of it all.
Most importantly, he knew he needed to kill again. His wounds had sidelined him, but he was getting better and better.
He needed to kill.
But not like before.
Ethan had a lot of time to think as he convalesced. The world wanted him to be nobody, but he wasn’t going to settle for that. Fuck that, he was destined for greatness, and nobody or nothing was going to keep him from his true destiny.
He was through prowling the streets looking for victims. He was through with random acts of violence. He was through being as careful as he’d been. He could try and stay hidden from the authorities, but was now sure the universe wasn’t going to allow him to get away with his crimes for long; now that he was enjoying himself, the universe was going to fuck him over. So, he was fucked, one way or another. All that was left now was making as big a name for himself as he could. Simply stabbing young girls on the streets of the city wouldn’t be enough anymore – and he was growing tired of it as well. Even though he had planned to stab Melissa Pegg to death, just to keep his string of murders alive and in the Press, the simple quick stabbing to death of his victims had started feeling quite unsatisfying.
Ethan had done a lot of research on serial killers based on his newfound calling – although he still refrained from looking up ‘Coed Killer’ on the Internet, not wanting to find out what loser his moniker was linked with – and, of course, had read about the legendary Jack the Ripper, a killer who had never been caught, and to date, despite many investigator’s best efforts, nobody has been able to identify. There were many who had opinions as to who it was, but nothing concrete.
Did the Ripper get away with his crimes? Ethan figured he did, buy why? His crimes, his work was brilliant, but he, the true killer of these Whitechapel women wasn’t known for his work – his legend was remembered, but not him. And in the process of remaining anonymous, many others were being given credit for his work, for his legend.
His crimes would only matter if eventually he was credited for them. If people didn’t eventually know he was the ‘Lakeview Coed Killer’ the universe would just allow him to fade into obscurity. He couldn’t allow that.
Why had Jack the Ripper taken his time with his last victim, Mary Jane Kelly, tearing her apart in a room at 13 Miller’s Court in Whitechapel. Ethan figured he knew why, because the simple act of killing these women was less than satisfying, and to find that satisfaction again, he had needed to take his time killing Mary Jane Kelly – he needed to savor the kill and truly make his victim suffer for it to mean anything more to him.
That’s what he needed. He needed an opportunity to take his time during the kill. He needed to kill again, and he needed to kill differently. He needed to enhance his legend, so that on that day he was eventually caught – and the universe would make sure he was caught – news coverage regarding him would far eclipse any coverage guys like Lucas Delaney or this idiot Charles Sheldon received for their less than impressive accomplishments.
Ethan need to kill again, and he had his answer – he had Cheryl Lucas’s phone number.