CHAPTER 4

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c h a p t e r  4 :

"... the act of stabbing, and slicing flesh for arousal."

Gaspard had been escorted further into town, stumbling in mid sentence on a debriefing. A young woman, possibly the same age he had been when he joined, stood beside a giant screen—a giant screen that showed Kate's face. Of course they were talking about her.

He adjusted the strap of his bag that slumped over his shoulder shaking head numbly, muttering, "That's not accurate." He had no intention of actually being heard until the small feminine voice broke off.

"I'm sorry. Would you like to say something, sir?"

His breath caught. Risking a glance toward the young Agent, who's hair was slicked back into a small bun, rose her eyebrows at him expectantly. Other members who stood around were staring at him now. He gave a dismissal shrug.

"By all means, if I've got it wrong, please correct me." She lifted the remote and clicked it to the next slide. His picture was provided. "Gaspard Booth."

"Alright." He breathed out, stepping away from small crowd joining the Agent. "Ah, Katherine Cross, was ...." Everyone stared. He was the 'crazy' ex. Agent and he felt like he owned the part right now. Educate them, that was his job. I have a job to do–

Tossing aside his bag Gaspard stood straighter, his voice a little more confident. "Katherine Cross, was obsessed with the romantic period. Her lectures consisted of Emerson, and others, but in particular her ... interest, always settled on Poe. Edgar Allen Poe. Like Poe she believed in the insanity of art, that it had to be—felt."

The woman who stood beside him clicked to the next slide. He could only turn his back away squarely, those were crime scene photos. The poor victims she had taken—one must be of him. Photos of his injuries, he was certain.

"She didn't just ... butcher eight victims. She was making 'art,'" he paused. "The eyes are cut out as a nod to her favorite works of Poe, 'The Tell-Tale Heart,' and 'The Black Cat.' Poe believed the eyes are our identity," he cleared his throat. "Windows to our soul. Calling her fiendish would be too simplistic."

Gaspard looked to the woman who seemed to stare at him in a way of, awe. He wet his lips with as flick of his tongue and dropped his head down rubbing a hand through his hair.

She took it from there : "Ok, guys. Thanks."

The small group started to disperse, sharing small murmurs and whispers. Undoubtedly most were about him. A thin hand lunged toward his stomach.

"Jamie Harris. It's a real honor, sir."

He noticed her noses edge wrinkled when she smiled and freckles could be seen under a faint layer of what he assumed was makeup. His hand took hers, she gave a firm hold.

"Did my thesis on Katherine Cross at the academy. Your book was — it was invaluable. It's a real thrill for me, sir." Jamie said through a full tooth smile that grew as he nodded.

Uncomfortable and caught off guard he only babbled out one word, "Great."

She released his hand, her smile still consumed the southern half of her face as she turned to gather her material. He had hoped to manage a smile but he couldn't feel his face, was he smiling? Was he even showing any emotion ....

However, those thoughts went off in a cloud of smoke as a group of, mostly men, of all ages, sat in metal chairs near the double doors. Agent Jennifer was the closest for Gaspard to ask, "Who are the men?"

"Cross's groupies. People like you. We're interviewing anyone who visited Cross in prison," she replied.



The prison procedure was always the same. Metal detector. Uncomfortable pat down. ID. Then, buzzed into a room lined with little booths. He met her at the end one. The one farthest from camera few. He never understood why, maybe it was a sense of guilt.

Gaspard had only been released from the hospital days before his first visit. Kate had been escorted in, shackles and all. They didn't suit her. Nor did the orange. A thick sheet of glass separated them. Only form of communication was through the old fashion cord-phone. She was first to pick it up, guiding it to her delicate face. Gaspard did the same.

He felt physically ill. It wasn't just from the all the pain, all the thread that stitched up her markings–no. Just seeing her made him feel sick, but he wanted to stay either way.

"I'm glad you came, love." She said, her eyes looking his seated figure over.

His throat still hurt from the abuse it had received from the tunnels multiple forced entrances. He could barely speak. "I c-came, to say, th-thank you."

Each word had to be sounded out in a slow hoarse manner. He barely could hear himself, he had no idea how she had managed.

"Baby, shh, don't talk." Kate's lips drew aside, smiling. She knew he was lying. They both knew. Her hand lifted, pressing against the glass, smothering her palm.

Gaspard looked to her palm and felt compelled. Hand heavy, he slid it across the small top surface, toward the glass. It took such effort to lift it toward hers. His could have engulfed hers, due to its size, but they stayed like this until—


"Weapon, he's got a weapon!" A male voice broke Gaspard's thoughts, throwing him back into reality. Screams rang out as another armed officer shouted, "Stand back!"

Agent Wyatt had his hand rested on the gun secured in his belt-clip, approaching a man clad only in his boxers. His clothes piled at feet. "Take it easy, sir, easy, easy, easy, easy."

Words were handwritten and smeared across his pale skin, and his hands held some sort of thin bladed knife. It was a suicide in the making.

"Drop the weapon," said an officer, gun drawn.

Agent Wyatt chimed in, "Drop the weapon. Do it."

Gaspard pushed his way through more armed officers coming feet away from crazed-eye male. Knife clasped between both palms the blade was head level, in line with an eye. "Sir, Sir, look at me. Look at me." The man's eyes darted around. "Look at me. You don't want to do this, ok?" He held out his hand, implying for the knife to be handed over. "Just ... Just hand that thing to me, and everything's gonna be ok."

"Lord, help my poor soul." Uttered the man.

"No." Gaspard dared to step closer, heart palpitating, he remembered those words.

He repeated, "Lord ... help my poor soul."

"No—No–"

People screamed. There was no hesitation. The knife plunged into the man's eye. It drove itself straight into the heart of the brain. Blood squirted and the man collapsed, body convulsing on the tile floor, until it stilled. Gaspard stared in horror.







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