Duncan's Diary

Duncan’s Diary

Birth of a Serial Killer

Christopher C. Payne

JournalStone

San Francisco

Copyright © 2009 by Christopher C. Payne

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-0-9828119-3-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-0-9828119-4-8 (dj)

ISBN: 978-0-9828119-5-5 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

JournalStone rev. date 8/06/10

Edited by Whitney Howell

Dedication

I would like to dedicate this book to my three daughters and my once-good friends Sudhir, Janine, and their three children. I also dedicate this to all of the people whose lives I have affected in a negative way and to the lives that are no longer with us because of my direct or indirect actions. Kids have the unique ability to see the world from eyes of innocence with a love that cannot be matched. While I do enjoy the notoriety and status that my newfound infamy has afforded me, I also have a small twinge of guilt that I have forever changed and altered the lives of so many.

I truly love my children; and if I could be a normal citizen capable of going to work and leading the life that most people survive, I would do so. Unfortunately, once I started down my path, I was forever unable to stray from who and what I had become.

This accounting of my activities is dedicated to my children. I can only wish that after they have read this they will at least understand the pain and confusion that I went through. I had no intent of malice when I started this journey. Some things in life are chance, and some things in life are preordained. I think my transformation was a mixture of both. My struggles are no different than others who struggle with who they are and what they become. As long as we are alive, we are all in the process of growing, adjusting, and adapting.

I don’t think I had a choice but to become who I am today. Like the butterfly that takes flight, it was only a matter of time before I started my transition. My path has drastically changed the lives of others, and for that I truly feel sorry. I hope they will be able to forgive me at some point. “I am what I am,” as Popeye used to say; and while I might feel bad for my actions, I will never be able to alter the direction of my past life.

My story is from my own experiences, but I have taken the liberty of injecting my assumptions on what took place when I was not there. It was easy for me to gather and document activities from the parties with whom I was closely associated.

So my story is dedicated to those whose lives are intertwined with mine by no choice of their own and are now a part of this telling, as well. My life is their life. I might play a more active role while others are more passive, but we are all a piece of the same puzzle. I hope that somebody can find something positive from this, but I am afraid you will have to look deep.

I wish you luck.

Additionally, to Jennifer Love-Hewitt – if you would like to go out sometime, please call me.

Once an animal takes its first bite and its tongue has been saturated with that initial drop of blood, is it possible to ever go back and forget the appetizing spice of life as God originally intended? Hunt or be hunted, is that not a saying from a book?

The newness of my separation from my wife hung over me like the plastic vault of a new toy recently pried open with those damn metal ties that cling to its contents. You try painstakingly to unravel each one only to find there are still more hidden in the back. I was looking for a release for my newfound freedom. Sitting in a bar with my close Irish friend Martin, I was contemplating on what new adventure I should embark. He casually suggested the Dominican Republic, which I, myself, would have never thought. From the picture he painted, it sounded like a good idea.

The Dominican Republic is an island filled with sandy beaches, a warm tropical climate, and a calm serenity. It is an undiscovered oasis of tranquility. The clouds seem to float in the air like cotton balls randomly strewn about the sky. The beaches are not crowded, and the ocean is a bluish-green tint, as warm as in Los Angeles. Sharing its small locality with its close neighbor Haiti, the island is approximately split in half between the two although they are governed with widely different standards. It is also well known that the locals (both men and women) freely open up to travelers and show them the warmest welcome imaginable. They have an island sensuality of exotic abandon frequently prevalent in Third World countries. Everything comes with a price though—STDs are rampant in Third- World countries—so buyers beware.

I was on my third Stella. I listened to my pal’s tales of basking in the warm, intensely soothing heat while bathing in the nude with supple, 20-year-old women. I must admit that I was intrigued. Martin had purchased a couple of lots down in the Caberete area and had the intention of building homes down there for retirement. I realized that I might not ever have his financial standing, but the thought of spending a few days with beer and women on the sandy beaches had me convinced that this could be the perfect spot.

Martin was a big, burly guy you might imagine as being typically Irish. He had oversized arms and protruding belly. He was a general contractor and had been in the construction business all his life. He spoke with an Irish accent, and at times it was difficult to understand him. I found the closer we became that most people mistook his accent as a lower-level of intelligence. They discounted him rather quickly upon first meeting him, but in reality he was smarter than anyone I knew. Well-read, politically active—there were few current or historical events that he did not understand in-depth.

I will always remember a trip he and I took to Las Vegas. In a cab, he told the driver he could guess the general locality of his origins. The driver accepted the thrown gauntlet, and Martin commenced to tell our foreign-born guide his native country and region. Upon the agreed acknowledgment, he then discussed the recent elections in said country, and what he felt about the winner’s political views. I wondered how I had never heard of this country and had no idea who or what elections were exuberantly being discussed. Luckily for me, most cab drivers are Indian, so predicting nationality in those situations rarely is a challenge.

Martin was my one friend that remained after the parting of ways with my wife. He was a castoff, along with me, from the group of alcoholic, coastal socialites that teamed up with my wife. Their little group felt they were the upper echelon of society in our coastal San Francisco community. It is odd that the one intelligent person in our mix was too intimidating to be included in the drowning, self-important cliquish circle their cellophane world had created.

So when Martin said the Dominican Republic was a great place to sew my renewed wild oats and forget about the hulkish grip my wife imposed on me, I swallowed the bait and hook in one gasping gulp of renewed vigor. No matter what my marital status, our kids would always keep me connected to that bitter woman. With my destination in place, I immediately kicked into high gear. I made my arrangements and found myself on a plane preparing to land at my desired destination a short few weeks later.

Martin had hooked me up with a friend of his who had helped him acquire the property he had purchased. He had informed him that I could be a potential investor. With this introduction I was soon to find I had a five-day, personal tour guide that would be my butler—for a few drinks and some inflated exchange rate purchases. It made the navigation of this little Third World island country much easier.

I arrived at the airport in Puerto Plata, and a blanket of heat smothered me when I stepped out of the confined air-conditioned airport enclosure. It was like walking from civilization into a generic concrete construction site. There was a row of rental car attendants and various random vendors that sold beer at every available corner, including the ice cream stand where Jean stood.

Jean was Canadian and had lived on the island for the last 20 years. I never completely understood how he had ended up down here. Once he had stepped foot in paradise, he had designed any scheme possible not to leave. Neither one of us knew what the other looked like; so I was surprised to hear him call my name as I walked down the pathway in my sandals, khaki shorts, and out-of-place faded polo shirt. I turned, assumed this was my greeting, and held out my hand for an introduction.

Jean graciously said hello and pointed to the ice-cream stand. He asked me if I would enjoy an over-sized Presidente to drink while we became acquainted. We guzzled down three large beers as he gave me the lay of the land. We decided upon finishing to move over to the Hertz car rental desk to start the next stage in my journey. I paid for the drinks (expected and a common theme of the trip), and we then started the process of acquiring my car.

Jean was extremely gaunt with the sunken eyes of somebody who has enjoyed alcohol to an extreme for several years. Upon initially seeing him, I thought how easily he would fit in with my wife’s circle of friends. They only cared about clouding their pointless existence from one day to the next. Alcohol was always an easy choice for aging America. Jean’s genuine ability to open up and be himself made him different from them. His casual accepting demeanor would not fit in well with the plastic society of the hierarchal standing in my wife’s pretentious gathering of acquaintances.

Jean had married a local woman, had a few kids (this part was a little foggy to me), and his oldest son lived with him in Caberete. For some reason he and his wife did not live together. From the sounds of their agreement, she was not completely faithful as some of her children were not the direct product of Jean. Apparently, this was easy to see, at the birth of their third child when he came out black as coal. Jean laughingly recanted the story, revealing his surprise when he held his wife’s and some man’s child for the first time in the hospital.

We rented a little SUV. It appeared not to have been washed since it rolled off the assembly line in some foreign country. The floorboard was strewn with the remnants of the dietary nourishment from several past patrons. We still went through the 15-point inspection required by corporate central. It is very odd how guidelines are established and pushed down to every known location regardless of local customs or even common-sense standards. Have neckties cut off the oxygen to corporate executive’s minds?

I decided to let Jean drive. He was familiar with the area and had lived here for several years. I saw him drink three beers and felt pretty confident that these were not his first for the day. It made me a little uncomfortable. He grabbed a couple more from the ice-cream stand; I promptly paid, and we popped a couple open for the drive. Not only can you drive after drinking—apparently you can drive while drinking in this little island sanctuary.

We made a quick stop in Sosua at a local restaurant where Jean had an acquaintance. Guzzled down a couple of more beers and talked for about 30 minutes. We then headed out to the house that he had set up for me to rent. Again, just to hone in on the theme of the trip, we stopped at the local grocery store for a 12-pack of beer before heading to the house. I quickly settled in to my second-story two-bedroom townhouse and was amazed at the view and proximity to the ocean. I had two balconies overlooking the constant ebb and flow of the scenic watery view and was, at most, 10 feet from the sandy edge. The vastness connecting all continents swirled and churned in chaotic abandon.

The sound alone was amazing — listening to the constant breeze blowing and berating the beaten sides of the brick barricade that tentatively held the soil in place. Living here would be an easy transition as the peacefulness seeped into every pore of my being within minutes of my arrival. I had already lost track of what time it was and cared little of what was going to happen next.

We hung out in the living area that connected to the main balcony and drank several more beers. After some time had passed, we decided to move to the local bar where Elvis ruled the roost. I wondered if Elvis were a popular name in the area; or if by some odd way, the name had made its way from the states several years ago at the timing of his birth. The bar was really an overhang that had four to six plastic tables strewn about with some seats. Beer was poured from behind a bamboo bar-like structure. I continued to think how odd it was that I felt so at home in this world so different than my confined environment. The iron shackles I was used to enduring in my marriage from hell would never fully evaporate.

At the bar Elvis introduced a couple of local girls, both young and beautiful in a tropical flowered-dress sort of way. Both were simple, but held flawless beauty afforded only the truly youthful. They had flowing, smooth skin without blemish that blesses those of darker tones. I had been seamlessly flowing Jean money, and he was brokering the purchase of beer (for most of the bar, I think). Later, I would discover for my extracurricular activity, as well. He had been made aware of my desires and purpose of the trip—drinking was high on the priority list, but not No. 1.

I was asked to simply make my choice. Once I decided, we were driven back to my perfectly placed home on the ocean, and I enjoyed the local culture in a passionate hour of sexual release. I had purchased a local phone with a prepaid card and called Jean afterward. He came over to pick me up and arranged for her to be taken away. We once again moved back into the second-tiered priority: drinking more frigidly cold beer. In retrospect I am unsure how cold the beer actually was, but in the 24-hour blazing heat of the tropics anything slightly cold was pleasantly accepted. Satisfied in all ways possible on day one, I was content to let the rest of the evening flow in whatever direction it happened to sway.

Jean decided that he would take me over to his place and introduce me to his son and another gentleman who was staying with him for a couple of days. I spent most of the trip never sure if what was being told to me was factual, slightly fabricated or completely false from my new-found friend. I constantly tried to figure out how to decipher what was real, but the company was so pleasant and the environment so satisfying, who really cared?

Jean continued drinking while I partook of the sultry palate-pleasing taste of youthful succulence. He now seemed well into his final stage of daily inebriation. He drove me the short distance to his small two-bedroom hovel that was just one step above sleeping outdoors. It was sparsely furnished. There were a couple of beds, a couch, and one simple bamboo/wicker chair with a faded-out green cushion. I met his son Jean Junior (or Junior for short) who knew only a few select words in English. Jean’s friend was easily forgettable.

We sat around for about an hour, drank some more Presidente, and mixed in a shot or two of the local paper bag-covered whiskey. Jean’s friend was close to being passed out on the couch. I finally decided I needed to call it a night and head back to the world of the living to get some sleep. It had been a very long 48 hours, and it was now starting to catch up with me.

Jean offered to drive me home. He stated that he would come by around 10 a.m. to pick me up and start the next day’s events. I would soon find out this would mirror my first day, and it would be a recurring agenda for all the days of my stay. We stumbled into the SUV. As Jean was pulling out, he thrust the car into reverse, hit the gas, and with a sudden jolt that rocked the car, I realized he had rammed a tree stump. This had placed a nice sized dent in the passenger door. This was a rental car, wasn’t it? I was beginning to understand the no drinking and driving rules of the United States.

As sudden events often prompt, I sobered up instantaneously and promptly told Jean he had lost his driving privileges. I removed him from the driver’s seat and said goodnight. I then drove myself back to my rental house only a short 10 minutes away. Because only one main road travels through the coastline, it was virtually impossible for me to get lost. The rest of the evening was uneventful, allowing me to get much-needed rest and recoup my energy for the rest of my stay. Jean arrived the next morning around 10 a.m. with beer in hand left over from the night before. We then started the pattern anew.

The only deviation in the drunken, sexual-oriented routine was Jessica. She was a lovely 19-year-old, dark-skinned native Dominican who exuded a self-assurance unnatural for anyone her age. She was vibrant, stubborn and lively, and carried herself with such an air of self-importance that one could only ponder its origin. Her smooth skin and perfect porcelain smile held only a hint of the tortured background that had been thrust upon her out of family obligations.

I would later discover that she had only recently been severed from her obligation to marry the owner of the house where I stayed. Her freedom was due to the couple’s inability to come to an agreeable finality of the structure of their mutual obligations. He was a 60-plus-year-old man that wanted the daily satisfaction of a 20-year-old’s attention. She was from the Dominican Republic and wanted the monetary rewards that only came from foreign connections. They had not been able to reach a desired resolution, so she had been forcibly released from her commitment. The two were now moving on to other conquests.