About Clifton Coetzee
Clifton Coetzee is a forensic psycho-physiologist and certified fraud investigator; Instructor and Examiner in the disciplines of polygraph, voice-stress analysis, statement analysis, micro-facial expressions and physiognomy (cranial-facial analysis).
Clifton has studied in various institutions and with various specialists worldwide. He has investigated major frauds for a wide range of industries such as banking, insurance, security, transport and arms manufacture.
Clifton wrote his first non-fiction book ‘Truth Extraction (Reading Between The Lies)’ in 2000.
Eyes, Lies, Analyse (Truth Extraction Contd) followed in May 2013. Both books provide case studies, workshop examples and step by step instructions on how to become a better than average ‘lie detector.’
https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=kevin+adams+serial+killer
KEVIN ADAMS – SERIAL KILLER
Chapter 13
I opened all the apartment windows, and stepped out onto the verandah to get fresh air. The fumes inside had given me a head rush. I tried to plan my next few moves, and looked across the black void to help me focus. Concentrate. I looked up into the night sky and wondered if any astronauts were looking down, trying to make contact from their broken down space capsules. Could they throw a paper jet into space with SOS scrawled on it? It would take too long. You would just have to sit in there, cramped, with fuck all options. I was terrified of having no options.
I wished I could phone my mother for advice. She was always advising my sisters what to do in times of trouble. I had been on unsteady terms with my sisters for many years. I’m not really sure why. I guess we were a fractured and broken family, and nothing could ever change that fact.
My youngest sister, Gennifer, was bipolar. She was Daddy’s little girl. Spoiled. I guess it was not her fault that she became highly unstable and married fuckheads.
Her only son, Jules, was a psychopath who would grow up to be a gangster hit man. A nasty piece of work. Two metres tall and heavyset. He had a short-fuse temper like his ex-mafia father. He mixed with gangland bouncers, some of whom were implicated in the assisted suicide of a controversial mining boss.
Gennifer was cut down in the prime of her life by a drug crazed husband with a 44 Magnum. Her skull was spattered into hundreds of fragments. She had visited her local police station the day before, to tell them of her fears; that her husband was trigger happy; that he was a cocaine addict and that he had threatened to shoot her if she ever left him. She wanted to leave him. The police told her not to worry, that she was over-thinking things, to go home, pack her bags and leave. Bad fucking advice as it turned out.
Mommy was in the next room, chain smoking. She seemed to get over the tragedy quite quickly. I could imagine Mommy, sitting on her bed, chain smoking and eating the end of her cigarette ash.
She would wet-lick the tip of her finger and tip the ash ball, then eat the ash that stuck to her finger.
I wonder if she even flinched.
My older sister was the victim of an unloving and bullying father. Sherry was a kind girl. Soft hearted and without a bad bone in her body. Father was mean and cruel to her. Basically, he was a bastard.
An emotionless, uncaring, hurtful, womanising, wife and child-beating piece of shit. But I loved him, even though he hurt me emotionally. He couldn’t hurt me physically. I had learned to absorb pain and think of the bigger picture before I turned thirteen.
He wounded my soul many times over. In the end I forgave him for my part, but never from Sherry’s part.
A picture of my mother floated into my head. Mommy was reading a magazine. I was a little boy then. Only six years old. I had been temporarily suspended from the Holy Rosary Convent. The nuns said I had a black heart. I can’t remember why. It still hurts me today when I think of it. How cruel, to tell a six year old that he has a black heart. Hairy legged old bitches.
But back to Mommy. She was reading a magazine. I had a mind-numbing toothache. Mommy was ignoring my pain. She didn’t even look up from her magazine. I was simply a nuisance factor. I threw myself backwards and somersaulted. I was never able to do that again for some reason.
Mommy said, “Knock yourself out, kid.” I ran to my room and dived onto my bed in pain and rage. Then I cried. I cried till the pain dulled. My blankets smelled mouldy. I didn’t like my bed. It sagged. It had urine stains when it came from the second-hand shop.
I felt like an unwanted pet. Like a cat that pissed on the furniture.
I slithered under my bed and found my plastic horse. It was blue.
Why the fuck would anyone make a blue plastic horse?
Focus, Kevin, focus. I repeated the phrase until my mind cleared.
I had to get away. But I had a car and a motorcycle. The car was too obvious. The bike meant travelling light. Oh, Jesus. No good choices left. I decided to drive the laden Alfa to the outskirts of a small town approximately a hundred miles away, burn it in a field, jog unseen into town, and catch a train back home. Then hit the road on my Honda motorcycle.
Okay. That seemed like a good plan.
Get moving, Kevin.
Clifton Coetzee is a forensic psycho-physiologist and certified fraud investigator; Instructor and Examiner in the disciplines of polygraph, voice-stress analysis, statement analysis, micro-facial expressions and physiognomy (cranial-facial analysis).
Clifton has studied in various institutions and with various specialists worldwide. He has investigated major frauds for a wide range of industries such as banking, insurance, security, transport and arms manufacture.
Clifton wrote his first non-fiction book ‘Truth Extraction (Reading Between The Lies)’ in 2000.
Eyes, Lies, Analyse (Truth Extraction Contd) followed in May 2013. Both books provide case studies, workshop examples and step by step instructions on how to become a better than average ‘lie detector.’
https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=kevin+adams+serial+killer
KEVIN ADAMS – SERIAL KILLER
Chapter 13
I opened all the apartment windows, and stepped out onto the verandah to get fresh air. The fumes inside had given me a head rush. I tried to plan my next few moves, and looked across the black void to help me focus. Concentrate. I looked up into the night sky and wondered if any astronauts were looking down, trying to make contact from their broken down space capsules. Could they throw a paper jet into space with SOS scrawled on it? It would take too long. You would just have to sit in there, cramped, with fuck all options. I was terrified of having no options.
I wished I could phone my mother for advice. She was always advising my sisters what to do in times of trouble. I had been on unsteady terms with my sisters for many years. I’m not really sure why. I guess we were a fractured and broken family, and nothing could ever change that fact.
My youngest sister, Gennifer, was bipolar. She was Daddy’s little girl. Spoiled. I guess it was not her fault that she became highly unstable and married fuckheads.
Her only son, Jules, was a psychopath who would grow up to be a gangster hit man. A nasty piece of work. Two metres tall and heavyset. He had a short-fuse temper like his ex-mafia father. He mixed with gangland bouncers, some of whom were implicated in the assisted suicide of a controversial mining boss.
Gennifer was cut down in the prime of her life by a drug crazed husband with a 44 Magnum. Her skull was spattered into hundreds of fragments. She had visited her local police station the day before, to tell them of her fears; that her husband was trigger happy; that he was a cocaine addict and that he had threatened to shoot her if she ever left him. She wanted to leave him. The police told her not to worry, that she was over-thinking things, to go home, pack her bags and leave. Bad fucking advice as it turned out.
Mommy was in the next room, chain smoking. She seemed to get over the tragedy quite quickly. I could imagine Mommy, sitting on her bed, chain smoking and eating the end of her cigarette ash.
She would wet-lick the tip of her finger and tip the ash ball, then eat the ash that stuck to her finger.
I wonder if she even flinched.
My older sister was the victim of an unloving and bullying father. Sherry was a kind girl. Soft hearted and without a bad bone in her body. Father was mean and cruel to her. Basically, he was a bastard.
An emotionless, uncaring, hurtful, womanising, wife and child-beating piece of shit. But I loved him, even though he hurt me emotionally. He couldn’t hurt me physically. I had learned to absorb pain and think of the bigger picture before I turned thirteen.
He wounded my soul many times over. In the end I forgave him for my part, but never from Sherry’s part.
A picture of my mother floated into my head. Mommy was reading a magazine. I was a little boy then. Only six years old. I had been temporarily suspended from the Holy Rosary Convent. The nuns said I had a black heart. I can’t remember why. It still hurts me today when I think of it. How cruel, to tell a six year old that he has a black heart. Hairy legged old bitches.
But back to Mommy. She was reading a magazine. I had a mind-numbing toothache. Mommy was ignoring my pain. She didn’t even look up from her magazine. I was simply a nuisance factor. I threw myself backwards and somersaulted. I was never able to do that again for some reason.
Mommy said, “Knock yourself out, kid.” I ran to my room and dived onto my bed in pain and rage. Then I cried. I cried till the pain dulled. My blankets smelled mouldy. I didn’t like my bed. It sagged. It had urine stains when it came from the second-hand shop.
I felt like an unwanted pet. Like a cat that pissed on the furniture.
I slithered under my bed and found my plastic horse. It was blue.
Why the fuck would anyone make a blue plastic horse?
Focus, Kevin, focus. I repeated the phrase until my mind cleared.
I had to get away. But I had a car and a motorcycle. The car was too obvious. The bike meant travelling light. Oh, Jesus. No good choices left. I decided to drive the laden Alfa to the outskirts of a small town approximately a hundred miles away, burn it in a field, jog unseen into town, and catch a train back home. Then hit the road on my Honda motorcycle.
Okay. That seemed like a good plan.
Get moving, Kevin.
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