• The Killer – Part Two

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    THE KILLER – PART TWO

     

    The two cops got out of their car with guns drawn.  One said:  “Hey what precinct are you from?”  Roger then put into play a plan he had practiced many times.  He pointed toward the limo, bit down on an alka selzer and started foaming at the mouth, pretending to bite his tongue.   Then he fell to the ground imitating an epileptic fit – jerking and shaking.  As the policemen ran to him, he tazered both, then gassed them with Floutine, a hospital anesthesia. It would take about thirty minutes for them to come to.  He quickly jerked the video recording device from the police car with his gloved hands.  Then he jumped in the rental car and left – with stolen license plates just in case.

     

    As soon as the autopsies showed the neurotoxin, the police knew that once again it was the Killer.  And unfortunately for the Rapper Community, some of the Paparazzi listening to the police scanner were there before the cops. Numerous photos were on the Internet within hours – the sown lips prominent.  There was outrage, and calls for the military to intervene to stop this madman.  The FBI said they were looking for anyone who had knowledge of chemicals and engineering.  They were going back thirty years and looking at all college records and employment histories, seeking for someone who could have done these horrendous crimes.  It was just as Roger had figured.  There was a call for people to stay away from large gatherings at night, but that was completely infeasible.  On the other side, there were thousands of comments on the Internet that perhaps this demon had decided to eliminate many of the bad apples in society.  Many wondered how long it would take for the Feds to set a trap and finally catch him.  There was a new story about the Killer every day. More and more crimes were attributed to him that he had nothing to do with.

     

    The Rap Star Community planned to hold a tribute for Killa Cop and the two others, defying police advice.  They had it set for the Hollywood Bowl. The tickets at $250 a piece were sold out within an hour.  Roger had to pay $850 in cash to a scalper to make sure he was one of the 18,000 who would attend – his seat was second row, right on the aisle.  The mayor asked the Rap Leaders not to hold the event, but as soon as he said so, he was accused of being a raciest, violating civil rights, and disregarding the constitutional right to freely assemble.  The security was good but not as good as it should have been since the Rappers’ following generally disdained the police.

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    Roger got in line six hours before the show.  He thought there might be some sort of ruckus, as people got riled up waiting to enter.  He was right.  The mob finally got sick of being held out and rushed the turnstiles.  As such he was able to bring in chemicals that got by the scanners – he was dressed as a huge black woman, very obese, with a full mumu shift. He had compartments underneath filled with equipment and more strapped around his upper body and waist.

     

    The show was pure mayhem and over the top testosterone – it started with the first Rapper – Hypo Lobo – yelling that he “Aint afraid of no Honky Killer Man.” Of course all of the rappers had their ball caps on backwards or sideways down close to diamond (most were cubic zerconium) studded ears – front gold teeth shining  – Dark Raybands, some with hoodies almost covering their faces, literally pounds of gold hanging from their necks.

    The crowd swayed back and forth – yelling with such force that the music tributes could hardly be heard.  Roger shoved and got closer and closer to the stage, using a needle filled with Propofal (another good anesthesia) when he had to – the injected people collapsing immediately. Finally he made his way to the front of the stage on the aisle. The next session led by Master Z included almost all of the rapper stars, and had some on-stage pyrotechnics.  A fog machine put down about two feet of mist.

     

    Roger threw a light carbon fiber canister thirty feet onto the stage as MZ had the crowd jiving with their arms up in the air – smoke and shooting rockets everywhere. It was nice cover. The colorless gas destroyer moved across the stage, slightly lighter than air, and the twenty-one Rappers Stars began to drop one by one. He tossed another canister, holding his breath just in case.  At first it looked like part of the show but then assistants came out and they too were felled by the gas.  Roger then tossed eight tear gas canisters into the crowd and yelled as loud as he could that it was the Killer, and to run for your life.  Then he put on his hand held gas mask and hunkered down.  The mob started climbing over one another, and as they did Roger tossed a few more tear gas canisters back up over his head.  He waited until the charge for the exits had slowed and then walked away, knowing that a camera had probably picked him up – but so what, he was disguised as a very large woman, which would add to the confusion as to who he really was.

     

    This time the US Attorney General got on the TV and pleaded for Roger to turn himself in.  That there were treatments that could help him.  That he was injuring lots of innocent people and was causing terror in the country, something that the AG was sure he did not want to do.  Roger thought,  “Well, I don’t intentionally hurt innocent people, but there will always be some collateral damage.  As for turning himself in, what a joke, he’d be dead before he ever faced a judge.  He had long decided to pick his own place and time of death.

     

    It had now been a year and a half since Roger started.  He did not detect any interest in him by any agency of the Cities, States or the FBI.  In fact regardless of what they put out in their press releases, it appeared they still did not have a clue.  After the Rapper hit, he decided to do one where the Feds would probably be waiting.  It was the Adult Entertainment Awards (sort of like the Oscars with lots of skin) in Las Vegas at the Sands Expo Center in the Venetian Resort and Casino.  There was some anxiety because of what had happened to the porn business in the past, but with five times the security forces, and help from the city, this awards ceremony was supposed to revitalize the industry – number of people expected would be 500 plus.  Roger knew the building would be swept and so anything he planted would be found, and there would be police on the roof.  He looked at all his resources, and toured the Center.  At first it appeared to be bullet proof.  There was no way to hide anything, or even bring anything in the night of the gala.  He looked around and around from floor to ceiling. Then it hit him.

     

    There were skylights, lots of skylights.  He saw that they were covered by a waterproof canvas, which could be opened electrically.  The glass was 1/4 inch thick and the skylight coverings an eight of an inch.  As soon as he verified these measurements he went back to his shop in Wilmington and began work. He got the exact coordinates off of Zillow and some pinpoint military software.  What he came up with was a six-foot drone plane that could hit speeds of up to 85 MPH.  It would also carry a 50-pound payload.  By the time he finished he had what looked like a remote controlled airplane with a strange design.  He took several models out into the desert and made adjustments.  He especially needed to know if the entire apparatus could crash though the skylight window and then release cyanide, arsenic and his own neurotoxin immediately.  He had to use a gas mask and full body suit during trials – After eleven tries he believed he had it.  The plane only needed about thirty feet to launch and then he had programmed it to go straight for the largest skylight, right in the middle.  The drone carried about three minutes of fuel.

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    He let the festivities go on for about an hour, then took the plane to the south of the city by a park with some unlighted tennis courts.  Fired up the engine, checked the coordinates one more time and then launched it to the North.  He immediately got in his rental car and started driving south on I-15.  It took fifteen minutes for the news stations to begin details.  The newscaster said that a bomb had exploded in the Center and that the loss of life was great.  During the next few hours, there were all kinds of theories – terrorists, enemies of the industry, but then as it appeared that nerve gas was the main killer; everyone’s conclusion was that it was the same maniac that had attacked the industry eighteen months ago.  “How can we feel we are going to be protected while this fiend runs free?”  Roger thought, “You aren’t going to be protected as long as I’m around.”  After a week the loss of life was 376 with another 127 that were trying to recover from arsenic and cyanide poisoning.  And now because the risk seemed to be death if you were in the wrong place at the right time, the number of women applying for roles went down.  In a month there were only two major studios in California, the rest had moved off shore or out of state.

     

    Roger knew that his measures were only temporary.  It would take one of the giant firms like Adobe, Microsoft or Oracle to come up with software that would block all of the adult material on the internet.  But he was satisfied to have made his mark.  The adult entertainment companies were scared, waiting for his next hit.

     

    Roger took a vacation to Moorea in the Tahitian Islands after this, reading and thinking about what group might be next.  While he was a fan of legalizing all drugs to eliminate the criminal incentive, he felt that perhaps a very dramatic strike would get the industry’s attention.  The problem was that the drug trade was fragmented and there weren’t visible gatherings of drug lords, plus most of the higher up’s in the trade were out of the US, and Roger had vowed he would never do anything outside the border.

    He finally decided to start small and see what happened.  Chicago was a good place with lots of crime revolving around drugs.  He got in a car with one of his many disguises and started to troll around the South Side.  He stopped at one corner and a young heavily tattooed man stepped to the window and asked what he wanted.  “Ice,” said Roger, the main word for crack cocaine.  The guy wanted $200 for a 5 oz bag.  “Too much,” said Roger and pulled away but not before the man was shot with a dart tipped with Curare.  Death was pretty much instant. He drove around different areas of the South Side looking for dealers.  By the time he was done, thirteen had been killed. He wasn’t at all pleased.  It seemed a very inefficient way to impact the drug trade and it was dangerous – physically and with the chance of getting caught.  He didn’t do anything for three months, and then started to investigate ways to find methamphetamine laboratories.

    He found large labs across the border, but nothing could make him cross into Mexico.  He knew exactly what to look for in meth dealers – skinny, white faced, emaciated users in there 20’s, dressed in a dark sweatshirt and hoodie, even on the hottest days.  He bounced around for about two months with some success tracking the dealers back to their labs and then blowing them up – seven in all. He already knew how to mix gasoline, styrofoam, and a little benzene to make a napalm gel that was virtually impossible to put out – it burned at 1300 degrees.  No problem with the police since meth houses blew on a regular basis – cooking up methamphetamine was extremely hazardous and the cops were happy with one less was around.  But Roger was frustrated, hitting one at a time since there was no way to destroy large numbers.  He decided to give up on the drug dealers for now.

     

    Roger had a large quantity of Anthrax Powder on hand.  He designed a specialty envelope and sent letters to 91 people whom he despised – TV personalities, radio broadcasters, politicians, known criminals, ruthless corporate executives, and judges.  There was a quarter-sized device that spun and forced the powder up in an arc when the envelopes were opened.  They were laser printed, with PERSONAL imprinted on the bottom left. The return address showed Chase Manhattan Bank, Class Action Suit Settlement, Chase Manhattan Plaza, New York, New York, 09321.  Once finished Roger took the bus to Dallas. The envelopes were all mailed in Texas, staggered so they would arrive the same day.

    Once inhaled, the anthrax spores caused flu and cold like symptoms over the next three or four days.  Then the patient went down hill, huge inflamed sores appearing. Of the Ninety-one, 37 died rapidly, 31 were in the hospital and 23 had heard the news or for some other reason did not open their envelopes.  The fear and terror that spread across the county was unparalleled.  No one felt safe from the Killer.  Every magazine, every newspaper – all were filled with questions as to why the fiend couldn’t be caught. Plus there were a number of copycat killers, usually with sloppy devices, but they were also causing havoc.  There were now two or three incidents a week, that looked like they could be the work of the Killer.

     

    Many of the killings were clumsy and the perpetrators left a note or communicated with the authorities about some grievance they had.  Most were caught, but some remained at large.  Interviews around the country varied from calling Roger a fiend to “Some of these people needed killin.”  The authorities were very worried because crime was spiking against well-known criminal groups, including an entire mafia family in New Jersey and a violent criminal motorcycle gang in Denver. Most of the assassins were caught or killed immediately.  The question remained.  “Who was this madman? Where does he live?  Why were there no records?  Why hadn’t a relative, friend, or some acquaintance turned him in like the Uni-Bomber?”  Surely someone must know something about the Killer.

     

    Now Roger did nothing for a year but travel, looking at new weaponry, researching new gases and other kill methods, especially those that could be administered systemically with pills. His stomach had been bothering him lately and he wondered if all the exposure to chemicals was starting to have an effect, but he shook it off.

     

    He finally decided it was time to send a political fear message – he picked out the most corrupt politicians – Senator James J. Cullen and Representative Artimus Phelon and poisoned both of them on the same day with slow release potassium chloride, which mimicked a heart attack, delivered in a pill.  It was easy since both were in their respective dining rooms. Once the autopsies were done, the authorities announced that the two were murdered.  Again a bunch of groups claimed responsibility for the deaths.  Right after he had struck, someone else eliminated four other corrupt senators and congressmen, plus a cabinet member – all had received huge bribes, and cheated on their wives, but were still in office – looked again like a copy cat, but the cat was careful and wasn’t identified.  All were poisoned with polonium 210 pellets – which brought a terrible death by radiation.

     

    It had now been three years since Roger started and his efforts had deteriorated into small numbers, like eliminating local drug dealers.  Nothing like when he began and took out large numbers at a time.  During this entire period, no one had come even close to identifying who had perpetuated the crimes.  He felt safe and secure and decided that it was worth taking some additional risks.  He still bounced around doing pet projects – meth houses, abortion clinics, porn shops, profane tattoo shops, but no deaths in the hundreds.  He was making a dent in society and the perpetrators of crimes or behavior that helped lower the standards of society were nervous or down right afraid.

     

    Roger started sending notes to the New York Times letting them know why he was doing what he was doing – to improve society in the US.  The first note he sent was ignored, so he decided that he would get their attention.  The Oscars were coming up and one of the actors nominated for a best supporting role was a piece of work named Buddy Bostich. He was the ultimate Bad Boy, having assaulted both of his ex-wives.  The last of which needed plastic surgery, but the beating only got him two years in prison.  Every word out of his mouth was laced with profanity and he only took roles that were despicable characters.  When he arrived at the Oscars that night, he was wearing a sleeveless wife beater undershirt and black Levi’s.

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    Had his head shaved with tattoos on the sides and top, and a beard that ended in a goatee, trying to look as much like the devil as possible.  As he got out of the limo, he shouted profanities at the crowd and photographers at the entrance and raised a middle finger salute as he turned 360 degrees on the red carpet.

     

    At that point Roger shot him with a hypodart in his shiny skull, from a distance of 700 yards.  He also had a small mortar setup and lobbed in 10 altered tear gas canisters, and then small explosive devices that sounded like a 45 caliber pistol being fired. There was mass panic as everyone rushed away and the police emptied the theater – even the Paparazzi ran for their lives.  The tear gas and Roger’s extra ingredients made the people ill with one breath  – to the point that they fell to their knees vomiting until they had dry heaves – believing they were dying.  It made for great press and photos.  He quickly ran down from the roof to the ground floor and left his homemade mortar behind – he knew it was just a manner of a half hour before they tracked the canisters.  Everything was built by him so there was no way to trace where they were manufactured.  He had on a pin striped suit with a blue shirt and suspenders and, as usual, the full facial disguise.

     

    The media went crazy and wondered if there was any place safe from this madman. The number of Hollywood parties were cut way down, and actors in profane films were afraid to take roles for fear of their lives. Roger send a note to the Los Angeles Times stating that he was coming after anyone who was involved in trying to destroy the values of the Founding Fathers – “Proceed at your own risk.”

     

    As Roger was planning his next effort – against a child molester – he returned one evening to his condo and there was a plain envelope stuck in his door.  “What was this?” thought Roger, quickly looking right and left.  He got the occasional flyer from the neighbors but nothing in an envelope. He pulled the sheet out – “I know what you are doing.”  Roger jumped, he was caught – but the other reason he jumped was because of the small dart in his neck.  A burly man came out from behind a wall, grabbed Roger and tossed him in a white van.  He tied Roger securely and then drove off.  Roger came to in about a half hour.  He didn’t scream, just ask quietly,  “what do you want?”  “Well strangely enough I’d like to help you,” the man said.  “I have the same philosophy – to reign fire and hell on these creatures that denigrate our country’s values.”  “How did you find me?” Roger asked. “It was very difficult, Richard answered, but I watched you hit one of the meth houses that I was going to do myself. You were lax in covering your tracks that night and I followed you here.”

     

    “Well it’s too late, said Roger, I’ve got stomach cancer and just a couple of months to live.”  “The pain is so severe that death has become much more appealing than Life.”  “Hmm, lets talk about this.” Said Richard.   “Are you sure about the two months?”  “Yes, I’m sure, it’s a different end than I had planned. I always thought I would be apprehended some day and so I prepared for my death.  I had some dental work done in Bolivia when I stopped working, and I have a cyanide capsule in my left rear wisdom tooth. I have to shove my jaw to one side and then bite down as hard as I can, and then thrust up with my palms to release the poison. It was to help end things if I were ever caught, but now cancer is going to do the job.”

     

    They sat and talked for an hour. Richard Farnsworth was the man’s full name.  His background was not as extensive as Roger’s, and he had not gone to the extent of covering his tracks, but he was very intelligent and determined.  They came up with a plan that involved Roger transferring all of his property, money, equipment and the lab in Wilmington.

    They spent hours going over everything and a list of who Richard should go after.

     

    They decided that they should hit a group of Eastern European thugs that were bringing girls into the US and then turning them into addicted prostitutes.  They had good lawyers and so far the police had been unsuccessful.  They even bragged about their success.

     

    East St. Louis is a very tough crime area – even the police were loath to go there at night.  Roger and Richard blew the headquarters of the gang sky high with homemade napalm and C-4 type explosives, delivered with a small rocket. When the few survivors came out they shot them with darts.  In the building where they were shooting from, they left a phony fingerprint on a note that said: “I’m just getting started, The Killer.”  Then they hit another similar building two miles away.

     

    Roger wanted to do one last hit – on a group that had long irritated him.  The Paparazzi.  He was especially bothered that they camped around people’s homes to get shots of their children, or when they crowded around – shoving their cameras right into people’s faces.  Many times the cameras were clicking when the person was most vulnerable – in mourning, sick, or looking their worst.  The two of them researched and found that a bunch of the group hung out in a bar called Photo Joe’s in Santa Monica.

     

    They waited until it was a slow evening and came into the bar, disguised and sitting quietly in the back.  Then slowly they both began moving up and down the bar, stumbling a bit so they could put their hands on their victims. They were able to drop colorless, orderless tablets of potassium cyanide in everyone’s drink but two.  The tablets were time release and took about two hours to be fatal. Thirteen had died by midnight.  Roger and Richard were silent during the drive home because they knew Roger’s string of terror was coming to an end.

     

    As Roger’s pain escalated, there came a point where the only way to give him relief was to inject morphine, so much that he passed out.  As soon as he awoke he was screaming again in pain.  “I’m ready, he said to Richard. Lets go ahead as I had planned.”  It was just a week after the Paparazzi hit.  Richard made him comfortable with his favorite music and then gave him a massive dose of morphine.  Just before he slipped away, Roger looked at Richard and said, “Its all yours now, just keep the stone rolling.”  Richard nodded.  In three minutes Roger stopped breathing.

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    As agreed, Roger put the body in the back of his truck the next morning. He headed for I-15 North, then turned on to a series of roads which led to Dyer, Nevada.  He went ten miles north of the little town and then five miles off the highway east behind a large hill. Roger had drawn him a map.  He dug a two-foot wide fire pit and put pitch and dried pines boughs into the six foot trench, then the body.  The last thing he did was to soak everything with homemade napalm – at 7:30 AM he lit the fire – flames were small with little smoke.  In two hours there wasn’t much left – just bone fragments.   He scooped these up and burned them again until there was only about a quart of ash.  He then filled in the burn site so that it looked exactly like the surrounding area.  He got in the truck and took Roger’s ashes back to Wilmington.  Immediately he started working on a deadly anthrax canister that would also carry the ashes.  He thought it was a nice touch – one that Roger would enjoy.  And then he remembered Roger’s final words.  And he said to himself, “I promise you Roger, the stone is about to get bigger and roll much faster.”

     

    November 2013

     

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