Read Online A Self Made Monster by Steven Vivian - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steven Vivian
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paperbacks about true-life murders; matchbooks from out of town hotels; clipped newspaper stories of unsolved murders; travel brochures for the Caribbean; maps with circled towns; scribbled phone numbers of overseas hotels.
Alex enjoyed the red herrings, but he knew that the motive of his acts ruined even preliminary investigation. Police ask, “Who wanted this person dead, and why?” Alex was usually not connected to the victim, and the purpose of Alex’s kills was never grasped. Edward Head would be an unusual case because the monster knew the victim. But Alex did not worry. His plan would be up to the challenge.
For tonight’s kill, Alex chose another fun trick: a disguise. Alex had survived childhood with his disguises. When his schizophrenic episodes reached their peak, he was loath to come out of his closet, much less to face parents or friends. Sometimes he feared that strangers with cameras or knives lurked outside his door, so he came out of his room in a disguise. A pirate with hat, peg leg and sword. A baseball player. Frankenstein’s monster. He once went a month dressed as Nero, a sheet wrapped around his waist as he scraped away at a toy fiddle.
Tonight, he used a full-length black rug from a “Hair Replacement” company and wiry fake black mustache. With his frumpy gray sports jacket, he fancied himself a struggling car salesman on the town.
“My name is John Lowe,” he said to his reflection. “Come see me if you’re ever looking for a Chevy.” He put on tinted glasses and double-checked the jacket’s inner pockets for rubber gloves.
Alex told the cabby to stop at Grand and Ontario. He planned to take a relaxing walk and enter any bar that looked promising. The unseasonably warm temperature, a humid 60 degrees, encouraged strollers. Couples walked hand in hand. Outside a bar, a woman in a dropwaist dress and boater held open the door for her drunken friend. The man was wiping at his leather pants and bitching about the rude bartender who would serve him no more alcohol.
After walking east on Grand, Alex found a jazz bar. The music was good. A piano/bass/drums trio improvised on “Nardis.” Alex cased the room. Subdued swag lamps. Long oval bar. Tables along the right wall and in the back. Glossies of visiting acts decorated the entire room.
Alex took a table against the right wall. He sipped gin and tonics.
He waited.
In his room, Edward reviewed the day’s taping. Holly was especially attractive on the mammoth steps of the Field Museum. From a distance, beside one of the fluted columns, she was just one many visitors. But the filming began, and her arm rose in a winning gesture that encompassed the sheer scale of the museum’s steps and entrance.
The next shot was the lobby. Holly filled the viewfinder from the waist up. “Welcome to the Field Museum, named after one of Chicago’s most prominent families,” Holly said pleasantly. “The museum is world-famous. It captures the world’s history from prehistoric times to the present.”
Edward was impressed. Holly needed little dialogue coaching. He simply wrote out her introductions, she went through them two or three times, and she was ready. The camera was her friend. Never a false start, never a pause, never a fumble. Inside the museum, she introduced the stuffed lions and beavers, eagles and bears. Then Taoist holy texts. Then a recreation of an ancient African village with huts and children.
His favorite shot was filmed in the gem room. Holly stood before the impossibly well-polished display case, reverently describing a diamond discovered in Nigeria by a Peace Corps volunteer. “The Nigerian Triumph, as it’s called, features over two hundred individual cuts and an unequaled brilliance. Note how the spectrum radiates from the stone’s center when…”
Holly ended her discussion, and the camera pulled away. In the distance, a short person stuck out his tongue.
“You jackass!” Edward exclaimed.
Jimmy Stubbs was
Alex enjoyed the red herrings, but he knew that the motive of his acts ruined even preliminary investigation. Police ask, “Who wanted this person dead, and why?” Alex was usually not connected to the victim, and the purpose of Alex’s kills was never grasped. Edward Head would be an unusual case because the monster knew the victim. But Alex did not worry. His plan would be up to the challenge.
For tonight’s kill, Alex chose another fun trick: a disguise. Alex had survived childhood with his disguises. When his schizophrenic episodes reached their peak, he was loath to come out of his closet, much less to face parents or friends. Sometimes he feared that strangers with cameras or knives lurked outside his door, so he came out of his room in a disguise. A pirate with hat, peg leg and sword. A baseball player. Frankenstein’s monster. He once went a month dressed as Nero, a sheet wrapped around his waist as he scraped away at a toy fiddle.
Tonight, he used a full-length black rug from a “Hair Replacement” company and wiry fake black mustache. With his frumpy gray sports jacket, he fancied himself a struggling car salesman on the town.
“My name is John Lowe,” he said to his reflection. “Come see me if you’re ever looking for a Chevy.” He put on tinted glasses and double-checked the jacket’s inner pockets for rubber gloves.
Alex told the cabby to stop at Grand and Ontario. He planned to take a relaxing walk and enter any bar that looked promising. The unseasonably warm temperature, a humid 60 degrees, encouraged strollers. Couples walked hand in hand. Outside a bar, a woman in a dropwaist dress and boater held open the door for her drunken friend. The man was wiping at his leather pants and bitching about the rude bartender who would serve him no more alcohol.
After walking east on Grand, Alex found a jazz bar. The music was good. A piano/bass/drums trio improvised on “Nardis.” Alex cased the room. Subdued swag lamps. Long oval bar. Tables along the right wall and in the back. Glossies of visiting acts decorated the entire room.
Alex took a table against the right wall. He sipped gin and tonics.
He waited.
In his room, Edward reviewed the day’s taping. Holly was especially attractive on the mammoth steps of the Field Museum. From a distance, beside one of the fluted columns, she was just one many visitors. But the filming began, and her arm rose in a winning gesture that encompassed the sheer scale of the museum’s steps and entrance.
The next shot was the lobby. Holly filled the viewfinder from the waist up. “Welcome to the Field Museum, named after one of Chicago’s most prominent families,” Holly said pleasantly. “The museum is world-famous. It captures the world’s history from prehistoric times to the present.”
Edward was impressed. Holly needed little dialogue coaching. He simply wrote out her introductions, she went through them two or three times, and she was ready. The camera was her friend. Never a false start, never a pause, never a fumble. Inside the museum, she introduced the stuffed lions and beavers, eagles and bears. Then Taoist holy texts. Then a recreation of an ancient African village with huts and children.
His favorite shot was filmed in the gem room. Holly stood before the impossibly well-polished display case, reverently describing a diamond discovered in Nigeria by a Peace Corps volunteer. “The Nigerian Triumph, as it’s called, features over two hundred individual cuts and an unequaled brilliance. Note how the spectrum radiates from the stone’s center when…”
Holly ended her discussion, and the camera pulled away. In the distance, a short person stuck out his tongue.
“You jackass!” Edward exclaimed.
Jimmy Stubbs was
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