The Ripper Gene (19 page)

“No thank you, John. You all have a good night, and I’ll see you Sunday.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled as I reached the top step. “How are you, son?”

“Good, good. Just dropping by for a visit, if you have a second.”

He touched my shoulder. “Of course. Is everything okay? How’s your back doing?”

I realized I didn’t have any idea how to talk to my father on my own. The only times I’d interacted with him for the last fifteen years had been in the presence of Katie, who was always trying to bring us together and constantly played the mediator. “It’s okay, Dad. Just working on this case and wanted to stop by. Was up by Charlie Bliss’s a little while ago.”

My father’s face relaxed into a smile. “Good old Charlie,” he said, and laughed. “God-fearing Charlie, I call him. He hates it when I call him that, atheist that he is!”

He opened the door to the church. “Come inside with me. I need to turn down the church.”

I caught the glass door behind him and was instantly transported back to my childhood. Time to turn out the lights, shut down the air-conditioning, and lock the doors to the church, just like we’d done so many times before.

I followed him through the vestibule and into the sanctuary but my eyes couldn’t adjust to the change in light. I blinked and kept them closed for a second, but when I looked up I couldn’t see my father anywhere in the grayness.

“What brings you here, son?”

Vision slowly returned, revealing the pews on either side, the long carpeted walkway to the front of the church, and my father in his white robe, behind the formidable pulpit of magnificently carved wood. “I stopped to talk to Charlie about the Snow White Killer investigation.”

My father’s voice echoed from behind the pulpit as he bent down to flick a variety of switches. “I read about it in the papers, and Katie’s filled me in since the hospital.” He dusted off his hands as he rose to his full height again behind the pulpit. “This killer of yours leaves apples in these young women’s hands? Blasphemy on top of everything else he’s doing?”

“Blasphemy? Why do you say that?”

“Seems to me he’s recreating the Garden of Eden, you know, Eve holding the apple, don’t you think?”

“Oh,” I said, finally understanding his logic, “who knows? We’re not sure about the meaning yet.” I changed the subject back to Charlie. “We had to question Charlie because two of the four victims have wound up on property he owns, so far.”

My father stopped what he was doing. “Why did you have to go talk to Charlie?”

“We found out about the old rape charges. We had to follow up on them.”

My father descended the steps and walked rapidly back toward me. “Did Charlie tell you all about that so-called rape charge? Did he set you straight?” There was an unsettling anger in his voice that I’d seldom heard.

“Well, actually, yes he did,” I said. “He told us all about it. Sounds like he was royally screwed. Sounds like he might still be in jail if you hadn’t helped him.”

“It was a shame I had to help him at all. Terrible, what happened to him. Still makes me angry.”

“I can see that.”

My comment seemed to snap him back to the present. “And it concerns me when my own flesh and blood goes over and questions him as to whether he was involved with something as sick and twisted as this Snow White Killer case of yours.”

“It wasn’t like that,” I said. “We just had to talk to him, that’s all. We couldn’t ignore it, not after two of the victims showed up on his property.”

“What, did you ask if he had an alibi or something?” My father asked the question as though it were the most outlandish suggestion in the world.

“Yes, in fact, we did. And he said he was with you initially, then played poker at some fellow’s place. I’m assuming that’s correct?”

“Of course it’s correct. Is that why you’re here? To check his alibi? Hasn’t the poor man been through enough?”

“Hold on,” I said. “For one thing, until a few hours ago, I had no idea he’d ever ‘been through’ anything at all. Second, you do your job and I’ll do mine. Of course I had to follow up on it. It’s what I do.”

An uncomfortable silence ensued, until my father spoke again, with a softer tone. “I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s what you do. I should know that by now. But this whole Snow White Killer case. It worries me.”

“Why? If your Garden of Eden theory is correct, maybe the guy has issues with religion.”

“Who doesn’t anymore, Lucas?” My father held up his hands and gestured as though to a crowd of spectators. “These halls? They used to be filled with people. Now, half full. On a good day.”

“Dad, don’t take it personally. People are just, they’re just—”

“What, Lucas? They’re just uninterested? Or busy? Well, you’re right about that. I don’t understand it. God showed us the way and now nobody’s listening. It’s the end days, Lucas. Surely you can see that. The devil’s stronger than ever.”

“The devil?” I tried, but failed, to filter out the disbelief in my tone.

“Yes, the devil. I know, you’re smart, Lucas. Much smarter than me or anyone else. There’s no devil. The devil doesn’t exist, does he?”

“Well—”

“Let me ask you something, Lucas. Indulge me. What brought you here again?”

“I’m not following—”

“Didn’t you say you came here to investigate your case?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“So what does that killer do to these poor young women he kills?” My father peered at me in the dark.

“We’re not making that public, Dad.”

“I’m only asking in general terms. I bet you have a term for it.”

“What?”

“Overkill? Isn’t that the name you give it?”

“I guess.”

My father continued. “Then who is that, who pushes the knife into those poor girls even as they beg for mercy, and there’s none to be given? Who is using that knife, Lucas?”

“A sick and disturbed killer dubbed—”

“No. That’s just the human who lifts the knife. I could kill somebody. I have an arm, I own knives. Big long ones. But I don’t. I don’t go around killing people. No, it’s something inside that person that drives the person to do it himself. And you know who it is as well as I do. You can’t deny it. It’s the devil, Lucas. Satan. The dragon. Whatever you want to call him. Leviathan. Prince of Darkness. Oh, I see it in your rolling eyes. You still pretend like you’re too smart to believe in a spiritual world. Go on then, Lucas, look at those bodies, measure the knife marks, look for fingerprints. Check the DNA, get a match. Go ahead. And when you’re done, what do you have?”

“Hopefully, the killer.”

“Maybe. You’ll have the who. But you won’t have the why.”

“The why being the devil?”

“Exactly.”

“Dad, I hate to break it to you. There is no devil. And these killers I chase? They aren’t the devil’s handiwork. You know what the real problem is?”

“Enlighten me.”

“It’s their brains. They can’t think right. They carry a mutated gene in a tiny part of their brain called—”

“The amygdala. Yes, Lucas. I’ve heard it before. Show them a picture of a bunny, then a picture of a dead person, and oh no! Their blood flow doesn’t increase. They have
ripper
mutations.”

Genuine surprise gripped me as I realized that my father must have kept up with my research. I tried not to show it. “Exactly.”

“But some people carry ripper mutations and never hurt a soul, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“But what?”

“I never said that ripper was the
only
determinant of serial killer behavior. Just that it predisposes people to serial killer tendencies. If you must pursue this, it’s likely a multigenic trait, in which multiple genes are probably mutated and culminate in such a personality disorder.”

My father shook his head and walked back up the steps, past the pulpit. He stopped on the far side of the podium by the choir loft and turned around. “And you think I’m stupid for having faith in an all-powerful, omnipotent creator? At least I put my faith in an infinite concept. You put your faith in something as finite as the human genome.” He paused. “Good luck when you get to the end of it, Lucas, and find that no matter how many experiments you run, no matter how many hypotheses you generate, no matter how many genes you think are the answer … you’ll never get to the end, either.”

“Dad.”

“You know, Lucas, there’s not much difference between you and me. We both have faith. I know that I’ll never know for sure until I die. And I’m happy with the faith that I have. But you don’t even understand that you’ll never know. You keep expecting the answer to be right around the next corner, or the next. And you aren’t happy with what you believe, either, Lucas. I can tell it. Do you really, truly believe a couple of scrambled genes in the brain are the entire reason they’re killers? Because if it is, then these serial killers, they’re just biological aberrations. And what they do shouldn’t offend a society, because it’s just…” at this point he made imaginary quotation marks, “it’s just Darwin’s random chance, probability, that’s all, and they simply sit on the tails of the normal distribution.” He leaned forward. “And yet, son, I can see that it bothers you. It repulses you on some other level. If you were a true biologist, you’d find their behavior no different than that of any other animal on the planet. But it bothers you, because you have a conscience. And you need to think about where that comes from.”

I wasn’t really listening and was instead stunned that my father had actually kept up with my research. And I was trying, with all my might, to block out his words. He’d always been able to leave me confused and doubtful, even when he tried to explain what he believed as truth.

At that moment the entire sanctuary plunged into total darkness as my father flipped the last panel of light switches. “A long time ago, Lucas, back when you were a little boy,” my father’s disembodied voice suddenly emerged from the dark silence, “I came into the church to pray one night. Times were tough then. Your mother was having a difficult pregnancy with Katie, you and Tyler were both sick, deathly sick with flu, and we had no money. The church wasn’t able to pay us, so I’d started working at a gas station for your lunch money and our rent. And I asked God, I asked him to please help us through this.”

I tried to speak but couldn’t find my voice. I strained to see some shape in the darkness as the voice grew nearer, but couldn’t.

My father’s voice continued. “And he did. But that night, while I prayed in the dark, I heard the door creak open in that little country church. I lay on the altar, praying with all my heart, ‘God please help me do your will.’ And in the middle of that prayer I heard boards creaking and swore I heard the devil whisper behind me
Madden, you don’t believe.
But I kept praying. Told myself it was a test, and that if I turned around, I wouldn’t have the right kind of faith. So I kept praying, ignoring the voice that kept whispering in my mind, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I kept praying and then—all of the sudden—it stopped.

“I finished praying, walked back through the dark church, walked back across the gravel road and back into our house. When I got there you and Tyler were sleeping. Your little bodies were soaking wet with sweat because both your fevers had finally broken. And your mother? She was comfortable for the first time in months, smiling away while she waited on me in the living room. And the next day Broadman published my devotional book, and we had enough money to get through.”

A hand touched my arm in the dark and I jumped. “Who’s there?”

“It’s just me, son.”

There was a brief pause, a beat of silence. I could smell my father’s scent, a mixture of aftershave and soap, one that I hadn’t smelled in years. My father leaned in close. I couldn’t recall the name of the cologne.

“Just think on it, Lucas. Why would serial killers repulse you so? Come on and follow me out of here.” He took my arm and led me through the dark sanctuary toward the exits in the rear of the church. “I didn’t mean to start another argument with you. You’re a grown man, you’re entitled to your own beliefs.”

I took a deep breath and tried to discern his shape in the darkness as we walked. I could almost make out his face within the shadows. “Dad, I didn’t come here to fight, either. I honestly just wanted to stop by, check on Charlie’s alibi.”

He pushed open the door to the vestibule in front of us and the moonlight streamed through the glass entrance doors. I was able to once again see my father, who turned to face me with a smile. “I know, Lucas. It’s what you do. And I’m proud of you. Just be careful as you search out these wicked devils. Just be careful.” He paused but then spoke again. “Why don’t you come by again tomorrow? I’m heading over to the cemetery to visit your mother. Why don’t you come with me? She’d like it.”

He always had to bring her up. Our long-dead mother. A bag of bones. And talk about her like she still walked the earth. “Dad, I’m not going over there.”

He stopped just short of the vestibule and tilted his head in the moonlight, a quizzical look on his face. “Why not?”

I sighed. “Because she’s dead. She died a long time ago, in a shitty little stretch of woods in a shitty little town because some piece of shit killed her.”

“Lucas.”

“And you act like nothing ever happened. Like she’s still waltzing around cooking dinner or drawing a bath. She’s dead.” The anger suddenly overwhelmed me, and I didn’t even know why. “Your bountiful God let her die. Don’t you remember?”

My father’s eyes tightened as though a tangible pain shot through his body.

“Good old God,” I said. “Really looking out for the Madden clan, right?” I stared up into the rafters and then raised my hands. “Hey, God! Thanks, but no thanks!” I yelled the mocking appreciation out loud, and my voice traveled through the vestibule to echo in the sanctuary. “Please. Focus your tender mercies elsewhere for a while. Please! Give us Maddens a break down here!”

When I looked down again I saw that my father had taken several steps backwards, distancing himself from my tirade. He leaned upon a wall. “Lucas,” he began, but I cut him off.

“Just forget it,” I said. “It doesn’t matter anymore anyway.”