The Suicide King

This was my first serial killer/dramatic thriller type story. Originally, I wrote it in high school, and smoothed it out a few years later in college. Now, I'm posting it here because it still remains one of my favorite stories and characters. The Suicide King and his way of killing is mine. The hat belongs to my former creative writing teacher. :)

On a warm night in a suburb outside of Port Huron, Michigan a lone figure strolls leisurely down a deserted sidewalk. As the person skirts along the edge of a street light it becomes apparent that the individual is, in fact, a man dressed in a black cat suit fitted like a second skin hidden underneath pants just loose enough to allow free movement and a light weight coat. Thick leather gloves fit snugly to his hands providing a slick-free grip. A nylon mask covers his entire head ending at the base of his neck. It is thin enough to allow sight and breathing but dark enough to obscure his features. On top of the mask is an odd sort of hat that comes down past his nose and doesn’t appear to have eyeholes. It consists of festive wrapping paper and bright holiday bows, creating a sharp contrast to the rest of the man’s attire.

Melting into the shadows cast by the silent houses lining the road, he disappears save the barest hint of light reflecting off the bows. Sliding along the side of a modern two story home he travels to the back door. Casting a surreptitious look for any sign of movement he slips a set of metal tools from his coat pocket and proceeds to pick the lock. A sneer twists his lips as the deadbolt clicks and he slithers into the house. Noiselessly he stalks through a darkened kitchen, pausing for a moment to gaze at a child’s drawings stuck to the fridge, before ascending the stairs leading him to the sleeping occupants of the house.

A partially open door catches his attention. Surely an invitation he reasons, gently gripping the knob and slipping inside. Curled upon the bed with one leg sticking out from under the covers is a little girl, fast asleep, clutching a stuffed blue duck. The dim glow from the night-light next to the bed gives her skin a golden blush. Reaching into his pocket he removes a playing card rimmed with steel. It is sharp, deadly, and gleams in the dim light. He walks to the child and with a flick of his wrist slices her throat. She wakes, attempts to rise, and releases a strangled gurgle before lying back, eyes blankly staring at the ceiling. With a grim smile he takes the card, the jack of spades, and places it on the child’s chest.

Entering the hall he pads along the floor to the master bedroom. There is a whisper of sound as the door brushes against the rug but the sleeping occupants do not rouse. He steps inside, stopping at the foot of a bed to glare upon the dead child’s parents. Removing two cards from the deck he releases one, the queen of spades, with a flip of his wrist. It slices through the air before sliding into the man’s throat, stopping before it reaches his spine. The woman wakes from the death spasms of her husband’s body. She looks at him with blurry eyes, focusing on the bloody wound as a shriek rips from her chest. A hand clasps onto her mouth muffling the scream. She looks up at the killer with terrified eyes, whimpering when his grin twists into a snarl.

“Did I say you could look at me? No one may look upon me until my transformation is complete. But, since you’re so curious, fine! You won’t look at anything anymore,” he hisses as he takes the king of spades and cuts through her eyes.

Another wailing shriek is muffled by his glove as she brings flailing arms to her now sightless face. Features contorted into a visage of murderous delight he savagely slashes the card across her throat, places it next to her, and leaves the house.

The next afternoon the family’s housekeeper lets herself into the home using the spare key under the doormat. Figuring her employers are out she follows a standard routine and proceeds to clean the first floor of the house. It is only once the kitchen is scrubbed and shining that she bothers to go upstairs. After placing freshly washed towels in the linen closet, she goes to the bedroom of the child intending to straighten up. Entering the room she stops and stares in confusion at the girl lying motionless on the bed. Stepping closer the housekeeper notices the child’s slit throat and glassy eyes. Placing a trembling hand to her mouth, she chokes back the sudden upsurge of breakfast and runs downstairs to call the police. When the authorities arrive they find the housekeeper sitting on the front porch, the phone clutched in her white knuckled left hand, obsessively making the sign of the cross with her right hand, and unwilling to say anything but the Lord’s Prayer.

“And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil,” she continues to mumble twenty minutes later when Special Agent Raven Wyndam of the FBI arrives.

Walking over to Special Agent Sable from the local field office he asks for a status report.

“Entire family murdered last night. Preliminary exams say they were dead at least ten hours before being found. Point of entry was the kitchen door; there are signs of tampering on the deadbolt. Our victims are the Lefop family: Raoul, Christine, and their daughter, Laura. Found on the bodies were—”

“Playing cards rimmed with steel which appear to be the cause of death. The jack, queen, and king of spades, right?” Raven interrupts, filling in the answers.

“You got it. This is definitely the work of your killer.”

“Sick bastard strikes again,” he says with a sigh. Noticing the trembling housekeeper sitting in the open door of a police cruiser he asks, “Frig, what’s her issue?”

“She’s the housekeeper who found the bodies this afternoon. The thing is before discovering the family upstairs she was downstairs…“ Sable trails off with a grimace.

“Don’t say it,” Raven pleads, running a hand through his spiky blond hair.

“Everything is scrubbed to a shine. Any possible DNA evidence or fingerprints will have to come from upstairs.”

“Damn! Is it really too much to ask that people not screw with the crime scene?”

“I understand you’re frustrated, but she didn’t know. Put that aside for now, come inside, and do your job. Throw as many hissy fits as you want later, but right now you have work to do.”

Grumbling under his breath Raven follows Sable into the house. Stepping from the stairs a mingling of lemon cleaner and blood invade his senses causing his stomach to clench as he enters the girl’s room. Her body still rests on the bed as photos are taken of the crime scene, and the entire room is scoured by a team of local police and FBI forensic agents looking for any sample of DNA or fingerprints that could lead to the identity of the killer.

“He killed her first?” Raven asks looking down at the sleeping child.

“Yes. From what we can tell from the state of the bodies he entered the room, killed the girl, then went into the parents’ room,” the head medical examiner, D, informs him as they walk down the hall to the master bedroom.

“He entered, killed the man, and it looks like the woman woke up. See these marks on her face that had just started to bruise? He must have grabbed her to stop her from screaming,” D explains, pointing to faint purple imprints on the dead woman’s face.

“Sable said you found things on their bodies,” Raven says drawing his eyes away from the grisly sight.

“We found the playing cards he uses to kill with, as usual. But he left something else behind this time,” D answered pulling out several items placed in individual bags.

“What is it?” Raven asks reaching for the items.

“As far as we can tell it’s text from a book. Each passage describes a person being killed with a playing card. I’ll have to run some tests and then I can give you better results.”

“Text describing people being killed with playing cards…he’s taunting us,” Raven says looking at the slightly bloodied paper in his hand.

Two days later Raven is back in the Behavioral Science section of the building for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He sits at the desk in his office once again going over the information they have on this horrific serial killer. He calls himself the Suicide King. When the first victim was found there was a message scrawled in the dead man’s blood. I am the Suicide King. This is but the first step on my path of becoming. That was almost a year ago, and he has killed periodically since then. Sometimes months will pass between murders, at other times he’ll cut a blood swath across the country. There is not pattern to his killings; men, women, children, and not necessarily families are all his prey. He doesn’t follow any of the normal patterns serial killers have. Generally a person kills within their ethnicity, but the Suicide King murders people of every race and background.

Even the way his victims are killed doesn’t  reveal much about him. If he kills quickly and attempts to give the victim some form of dignity after death it could show a feeling of remorse. Were he to kill in a slow manner it would show that he enjoys the suffering caused before death. However, the Suicide King does neither. In every case he has killed in an efficient manner that brings a grisly demise that, for most victims, is relatively fast. Thirty-six people, thirty-nine now that the Lefop family has been found, have already been killed. He seems to follow the suits; starting with clubs and the ace, he moved on to diamonds, and now that he has finished spades he will be moving on to the final suit, hearts.  

Picking up a copy of the text left next to the body of Laura Lefop, Raven copies the text into a search engine, hoping something will come up. In a matter of seconds he has a large listing of websites with one connecting factor; they are all dedicated to the novelist Juliet Strat and her book The King of Hearts. A feeling of triumph washes over Raven at the unexpected lead. Reading a summary of the book, his feeling of excitement grows. It is a novel about a serial killer known as the Suicide King, who kills people using standard playing cards with a steel rim. He follows the suits, starting with the ace of clubs, and kills without distinction. Crowing in victory, Raven grabs his phone and makes arrangements to meet Juliet Strat.

Six hours after Raven’s discovery a very disgruntled author named Julie Stratford waits in a conference room in Behavioral Science. She had been in her house working on her latest novel about an assassin when her doorbell rang. Upon answering it she was manhandled by the local police to the Houghton airport, given to several FBI agents, put on a plane, shuffled into a car, manhandled again, and brought to the room she now sits in stewing with anger. When demanding to know why she was being kidnapped from her home by the government, Julie was informed she would find out in due time. With an irritated hiss she swipes a lock of black hair out of her furious blue eyes.

“You are a very difficult person to find, do you know that Miss Stratford?” Raven asks as he steps into the room, barely able to contain his pleasure at having found her.

“Fantastic. Instead of worrying about that, why don’t you tell me why I’ve been taken captive by the freakin’ FBI,” she snarls, slamming her hand onto the table before her with a bang.

“Juliet Strat is a penname you use for writing novels, right?” Raven asks sitting across from her.

“Why don’t you read the file in your hand and tell me,” Julie replies with false sweetness.

“And you wrote a novel called The King of Hearts about a serial killer named the Suicide King?” he inquires further.

“You know I did,” she grits out, clenching a fist.

“Excellent. The reason you were taken so suddenly from your home is because I need your help,” Raven tells her with a sympathetic smile.

“You have got to be kidding me,” she says in disbelief.

“Wish I were, really I do. Sadly, I’m not. The FBI has managed to keep it out of the media, for the most part, but there is a serial killer on the loose who alls himself the Suicide King. In fact, he seems to be an imitation of your Suicide King,” he says, all traces of earlier amusement gone.

“What?” she exclaims in shock.

“It seems ridiculous, I know, none the less it’s the God-honest-truth. He kills people with cards rimmed with steel. He doesn’t follow any pattern as to who he’ll kill next. He even has a stupid hat made of wrapping paper and bows, for Christ sake!” Raven exclaims, becoming more and more riled.

“He made the hat? Are you kidding? Wait, how do you know about the hat if you haven’t caught him? Julie asks looking at Raven in suspicion.

“About two months ago the Suicide King slaughtered everyone in all night clinic. Doctors, nurses, patients, everyone. The security camera managed to pick up thirty second of him on tape in the reception room before he disabled it. It’s just enough time to see his victims become hysterical before he butchers them. That’s how we know,” he snarls in disgust, seeing the thirty seconds of tape in his mind.

“I…I see. But, surely you have to have some lead. I mean, why…why do you need me?” Julie asks, shaken to her very core.

“This guy is careful. The cards he uses could be bought anywhere. From what we can tell he adds the steel rim later and files it down to a razor edge. The supplies used to make that ugly hat could be bought at any stationary store, or Wal-Mart, or a million other places. And he’s always very neat about making sure he never leaves any evidence behind that could tell us who he is. I’m hoping that just maybe, since you created him, you can help stop him,” Raven tells Julie, placing pictures of the newest crime scene on the table before her.

“I didn’t create him. I made a character in a novel. This is some guy off his nut,” she corrects, eyes drawn to the gruesome images before her.

“Whatever. The only reason we know he’s imitating your freaky book is the fact that he left these with his latest victims,” he says placing copies of the text on top of the pictures.

With trembling fingers Julie picks up the passages from her book and looks over the familiar words. Blanching, she puts them down and looks upon the images of the Lefop family. Blinking, she picks up the text again and begins to look between the two.

“Do you have…uh, do you have reports on how the other victims were killed?” Julie asks, distracted by the fact that her book could inspire such horror.

Silently Raven hands her the folder containing the coroner’s reports of all thirty-nine victims. Julie begins to skim the pages, flipping through them with growing haste. Watching her intently, Raven notices her tan skin begin to grow paler with the turn of each page.

“What is it? What have you found?” he demands rounding the table to hover over her shoulder.

“He’s been following my book the entire time. The order of the cards, the time between the murders, the location they take place, the number of people for each one. It’s exactly like my book,” she says, her voice a wobbling thread of sound.

 “I don’t understand. The passage he left with Laura Lefop described the murder of a little boy. How could he be following your book exactly?” Raven demands pointing at the passage of text and the image of Laura.

“I wrote that the jack, queen, and king of spades would kill a family of three in Port Huron. Two parents and a small child. He chooses the victims, but they correlate to my book,” Julie answers leaning back in her chair.

“How can you be so sure?”

“I know what I wrote and these deaths match. Like the clinic, I wrote that a clinic of people was killed.”

“So the pattern should continue with hearts. We’ll be able to know when and where he’ll strike next,” Raven announces with growing excitement.

“Well, not exactly. Some of the locations I gave were vague,” Julie reasons.

“Even knowing the city or state he’ll strike in next, and when he’ll strike next is a lot more than we knew a few hours ago,” he says giving her a slap on the back. “You did it.”

“Shouldn’t you wait to celebrate until after you catch him?” Julie says mildly disgruntled.

“Probably, but you have to understand this is a big break in the case,” he tells her, mind racing. “Your book, how did it end?” What did he do with the final card?”

“He didn’t. In my book the killer was caught before he could use the kind of hearts,” she tells him with a shrug.

“Do you think he’ll come after you? He is obsessed with your character,” Raven says loosing his exuberance.

“I think it would be difficult. My personal information isn’t given out with the pen name Juliet Strat. My image has never been shown with the book, and all of my press conferences and appearances have been done over the phone. I’ve been very careful to make sure people don’t know who I am,” she tells him.

“Why go to such lengths?” Raven asks perplexed.

“I write novels about serial killers, and didn’t want some crazed fan coming after me,” Julie says in all seriousness.

Raven sits in his office, eyes blurry with purple rings from lack of sleep, pouring over the information pertaining to the Suicide King’s latest victims. Over six months have passed since the Suicide King’s pattern was cracked. Instead of following the killings described in the book the newest murders have been even more random and unpredictable. While the Suicide King is still following the suits, the lapse in time, and the city where the person should be killed, he has stopped killing people that have any connection to the fictional victims of Julie’s story. Why deviate now from an otherwise steady pattern? It just doesn’t make sense. There must be a reason behind the change. Some key element to the killer’s ultimate goal, but what?

Sighing, Raven leans back in his chair and stretches muscles stiff from sitting hunched for hours. Out of clues and out of time he allows a wave of despair to wash him. The queen of hearts was found three days ago in Baltimore. The body was discovered in a garden upon a bed of white roses splattered red by blood. Her wrists were slit and the card was pressed gently against her heart. It is finally down to the king of hearts, and the book can’t supply anymore help. Rubbing tired eyes Raven once again begins looking over the victims of the last suit. Opening the file containing the coroner’s reports on the latest fatalities he discovers photos of the dead before they were killed. Picking up the first photo he sadly looks upon the frozen image before blinking in slight confusion.

“What the hell, this woman looks kind of like Julie,” Raven mumbles looking at a picture of the woman killed by the queen of hearts taken before her death.

He stares at the image for a moment longer before his entire body stiffens. The woman looks like Julie. Throat suddenly dry, Raven begins looking over the physical descriptions of the victims before death. The ace had black hair, brown eyes…wait, black hair. Julie has black hair. The two of hearts had blue eyes, the three was female, the four was five foot four, the five had tan skin, the sixth had black hair and blue eyes, and so on down the line of victims. With each new card came a closer resemblance to—

“Julie,” Raven whispers with horrifying comprehension.

Grabbing his cell phone he runs off down the hall dialing her number as fast as his trembling fingers can move. He only hopes he can reach her before it’s too late.

In a rural Michigan town a woman sits in her living room typing furiously away at her laptop. She is so absorbed she fails to hear the slight click of her lock, or her front door opening. A man dressed in black with an odd hat closes the door and stalks silently into the living room. Standing behind the couch he reads the screen over the woman’s head. She stops and leans back, satisfied with her work.

“God, first I write about serial killers, now assassins. People must think I’m a stones throw away from a homicidal episode,” Julie speaks aloud to herself, oblivious of the figure behind her.

“Homicidal episodes really aren’t so bad. I’ve found them to be rather therapeutic myself,” he says casually, mouth beside her ear.

“Holy freakin’ GOD!” Julie shrieks bolting from the couch only to be roughly pulled back.

“No, no, no precious thing, you don’t get to leave just yet,” The Suicide King hums, sliding a gloved hand to her cheek.

“How did…please no. I, and you’re…you’re him. Why?” she stutters trembling.

“Why what, you ingenious girl?” he inquires rubbing his face against her hair.

“Stop! Why are you touching me? Why the Suicide King? Why me? Oh please, God, stop touching me!” Julie bursts out, hysteria bubbling within her as she feels one of his hands slip around her ribs in a mocking hug.

Slightly lifting her from the couch the Suicide King slides behind Julie. Her body gives a convulsing shudder as he pulls her tightly against him. Nuzzling silky black hair he inhales the scent of lilac and roses. With a delighted sigh he tightens the embrace and stretches his legs to rest on either side of hers. A wrenching sob rips her from her throat as her stomach begins to revolt.

“Hush, hush. Don’t you see I’m not going to hurt you? Your death will be beautiful, painless, and oh so sweet,” he sooths stroking her face.

“Why?” Julie rasps as tears slowly trickle from terrified indigo eyes.

“Because you are the creator,” he breaths reverently.

“I don’t understand,” she whimpers.

“You created  the Suicide King, the perfect killer. He deals death without bias or malice. Without any feeling at all. A perfect being who decides who lives or dies with an act of whimsy. He is free, exalted, fearsome, and just. I knew when I read your book that I was destined to be the living embodiment of the Suicide King. However, I couldn’t just suddenly be him. It was necessary for me to match him kill for kill in order to become, to change, into him. For my transformation to be complete it is necessary that the thing which created him be killed. That would be you, Julie Stratford,” the Suicide King explains with growing fervor.

“No. Please,” Julie chokes out.

“My darling giver of life, just as your hand gave him birth on the page your death will give him birth in reality. I am his vessel and you are his source. Fear not precious thing, your name will be held sacred the world over for all time. You’ve left your tale unfinished, please; allow me to provide an ending. The killer saved the last card for his ingenious creator,” he purrs with utter delight.

The hand slips from her face and Julie hears the rustling of paper. Carefully he places the wrapping paper hat on the table next to her laptop. She turns fearful, and wide-eyed to find the true face of the Suicide King. Dawning horror of realization lights Julie’s face as he holds up the last card, his grin the last thing she sees.