Chapters 1,2,3,4. Copyright

KEVIN ADAMS - CONVERSATIONS WITH A SERIAL KILLER

Chapter 1

My name is Kevin Adams. I was 27 years old when I met her.
Her name was Karma-Jane.

Chapter 2

I said her name again, slowly. So that I could taste it on my lips.
Karma-Jane.
I didn’t like the taste. I didn’t even like the name, so I carried on squeezing her neck until she stopped wriggling. She looked at me with puppy eyes. Then her eyes glazed over and she was dead.

I leant forward to check that she had actually stopped breathing. She had. I noticed that she had faded acne scars. I was disappointed. I like them with clear complexions. I paused for minutes, thinking.

“Carry on ...” he monotoned, then just stared at me, unblinking. Dr Cooper had a monotonous boring face, with a voice to match. His spectacle lenses were so thick, from where I sat his eyes were the size of eggs. Slightly out of focus, I thought.  His pasty face was hugely contrasted by the bluebeard effect. I sized him up. He was sizing me up. Jesus, did this guy never blink ever? He smelled faintly of mothballs. In my mind’s eye I could see the contents of his wardrobe. All beige and brown shit. Cardigans. Lots of cardigans. He had a short, fading scar on his chin. Probably tripped over his personality in one of his less boring moments. I wondered if he had a wife. I felt like asking him.
“Are you married, Dr Cooper?”
“We’re here to talk about your life, Kevin. Carry on ...”

I went back into my head ... well, at that point you only have a few minutes to continue, before they get cold and stiff, so I hurriedly took off her sweater. I pulled her bra off. A padded bra. Jesus Christ. I kind of lost my temper then and swore at her. If I had suspected that she wasn’t full-chested I wouldn’t have bothered.

“Carry on ...”

Well I pulled her jeans down a bit and then I saw the scar. That long sideways scars that results from a C-section. I was deeply disappointed. This apparently sweet young thing had misrepresented herself to me. I wished she was still alive so that I could teach her a bloody good lesson.

“Yes ... carry on ...”

I was trying to pull her jeans off completely. I was in a hurry. I was hard and I needed her body urgently. I was busy unbuttoning my flies. One button got stuck. I panicked. Time was running out.
I was still fumbling when I ejaculated. In my underwear. Jesus, I was furious. This girl had lied to me and now caused me to mess myself. I slapped her several times then rolled over, still trying to unbutton myself. I ripped the button off. That’s the one they found at the scene.
I was furious and felt a bit helpless. No tissues. Nowhere to wash myself. I ripped Karma-Jane’s shirt off and used it to wipe myself clean.
It was nearly time to go.

I debated what to do with her shirt. It had my DNA. I lit a smoke and set fire to the shirt, holding it up. Twisting and turning it until every thread was unquestionably burnt, leaving no trace of my DNA.
I finished my smoke. Nipped the butt and put the nip in my back pocket.  No time to get careless.
I said goodbye to Karma-Jane, set her clothing alight and walked back up the hill.


Chapter 3

“Take a break Kevin. I’ll need to talk to you later, but for the time being, let’s call a time-out, okay?”

“Sure, no problem,” I assured him.
Dr Cooper spoke briefly into the desk phone, and almost immediately a sallow looking asshole came into the interview room. He kind of reminded me of a GI Joe marine type. Short salt and pepper brushcut. Sideburns shaved off at least an inch above the ear. Not a big man, but one of those steel wire dudes that exude tough. His eyes were close set, giving him a sort of manic look. Close set, piercing eyes. He gave me the creeps. He needed a tan. I wondered if it was a job spec for these people to keep out of the sunlight. Maybe they were vampires. My mind was escaping again. Focus.
Focus Kevin, focus.

Sallow man’s voice sounded tinny, not quite falsetto. I guess he was one of those people who live their lives in a state of apprehension. Whatever, in that voice was a tone that I recognised as potentially threatening. I went into panic alert mode. He put his iron claw on the back of my neck.
My sphincter tightened.

“Stand up slowly, Mr Adams. Keep your hands at your sides, and your feet together. If you disobey any of my instructions, I have authority to use whatever force is required to immobilise you. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Yes. I understand.” I realised that this wiry, yellow fellow was probably as quick as a cobra and as tough as a pitbull. It was probably unwise to goad him. He was praying for a reason to fuck me up.

Handcuffs behind your back and the clank-clank of ankle chains are a reality check when everything else has failed to warn you that you’ve stuffed up.
A piston-like finger prodded me every few steps. This bastard wanted me to fall. Shit. I was trying to shuffle along as fast as possible and still he prodded me. God dammit.
“Sorry sir,” I said in my most polite tone,” but I’m going as fast as possible, please bear with me.”
A vicious slap to the back of my head was his response. I tried to hop, skip, run. I fell in a heap, smacking my face on the floor.
“I warned you to obey all my instructions, Mr Adams. You have to cooperate, Mr Adams.”

Oh my God, they’ve told this guy to kill me, I thought and a wave of fear crept over me. I wasn’t used to experiencing fear. I was the creator of fear. He kicked me in the small of my back and I felt a strange warmth between my thighs. I had pissed myself. And not in a nice way.

He pulled me up to my feet with apparent ease, using one hand, the other poised to draw his firearm. I was terrified.
I begged him, “Please sir. Please don’t hit me again. I’ll do whatever sir says, sir.”
He uppercut me in my soaking groin. I fell again. I felt my bowels let go and smelled the shit spreading around my lower body.

“You’re a stinking pile of camel shit, Adams. We’ll have to hose you down. Get you cleaned up for your next interview session. What do you think, Adams?” It wasn’t a question. I didn’t think he wanted to hear anything from me, so I said nothing. I just nodded.

Chapter  4

Later, I learned that this vicious little bastard’s name was Lt, Douglas Moore. He was the 2IC of Westlake Murder and Robbery: Tracking Unit, a police division established to track down serious and violent offenders. Jesus, I didn’t like the inference. I found it most upsetting.

Moore dragged me to my holding cell. It must have been planned. Another cop was already waiting, high pressure hose in hand. Waterproof overalls, gumboots, protective eyewear.
Moore unchained and uncuffed me. He stood with a baton in hand, waiting for me to give him another reason to smack me.
“Take off all your clothes and put them in the bucket. You’ll get a dry outfit, but you’re washing your own shit off. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”

The high pressure jets of water required no addition of soap. I thought my skin might detach, it was so powerful. Hosepipe man knew his hosing game. He alternated between my face and my groin. When I protected my face, he’d go for the groin and vice versa. He played a teasing game, the bastard. My body stung as if I had been attacked by a colony of wasps. The jets left slight bruising all over my body. My balls ached. They were swollen and tender. My eyelids were puffy. My eyes felt as if they had been bathed in acid.


Hosepipe cop never said a word. I think this part of his job was a bonus. He wore a stupid sneer. I could out-think this guy ten times a second. If only they would leave me alone with him. I’d sort this shit out.

After several minutes of drip-drying, Moore returned and threw a pile of clothing at me. An overall and slip-on shoes. No underwear. No laces. For Christ sake, they’re like children, I thought. What the hell do they think one could accomplish with a pair of bloody laces? Tossers.

Moore barked at me, “Get your sack on and make it snappy, shit head.” I looked up at him. He was like a snarling, hungry white shark, just waiting for its prey to make a wrong move. I tried to avoid direct eye contact. No use in provoking this man in any way whatsoever. He wants to and is going to hurt me as much as he can without getting himself into shit. All I can do is try to minimise his anger and avoid beatings. I hated beatings. I feared beatings. It was always better to give someone a beating when in doubt.