6

Murder. Homicide. Annihilation. Massacre. Extermination. How many words exist to refer to causing the end. Our language is enchanted by the act of killing. Obsessed, I would say. History from its beginnings is marked with the shadow of death. Let's pull back the thick veil and take a look at the first murder of mankind: Cain, seething with jealousy, lifts a stone and strikes his brother Abel, taking his life. I imagine God's chosen one in a growing pool of blood. It adds color, brightness to the already picturesque scene of fratricide.

Spell it with me: A-S-S-A-S-S-I-N-A-T-I-O-N. The story goes that the word comes from a community or military order of Muslim fanatics, called The Assassins (Haššāšīn). Giving death was their job and they did it so well that their name began to be used to refer to the concept. An exercise as old as the world deserves more than to be stigmatized as evil. The art of giving death is an honorable job. To do it properly takes effort, planning, nerves of steel, skill to get away with it, and a dash of luck.

I encourage all of you to try it, or at least imagine doing it. Who would be your victim? An acquaintance or a stranger? What weapon would you use? The hammer or the dagger? Would you attack in broad daylight or protected by the cloak of night? Do you have clear escape routes? Close your eyes, clasp your hands together and squeeze. Fingertips sink into the neck muscles. The victim try to breathe, but your palms block the breath. Glassy eyes face you. Your victim kicks beneath you. The soul slips between your fingernails. Keep pressing. Until faces turn purple. Until the eyes burst.

The composition of a good murder demands more than assholes fighting over a woman with broken bottles. Or a dark alley, a knife and a drunk looking for trouble. Let's spit on the forgotten murderers in prisons, or the crimes of a weekend. Praise Charles Manson, who with his mind and voice rampaged the barbarism of his lovers. Let us sing in honor of Jack the Ripper, who never was and never will be discovered. Dorangel Vargas is my pastor, and with Jeffrey Dahmer the meat will never fail me. Let's applaud the latest fashions from designer Ed Gein. Let's laugh with Pogo the clown. Let's stroll with the monster of the Andes over mountain ranges of infantile ribs. And at the end of the day, exhausted, tired and splattered with mud, let's take a revitalizing rest in Countess Báthory' s bathtub , accompanying the bath with audio-books softly narrated by Ed Kemper.

Design. Scenario. Light and shadow. Fury or coldness. Domination and creativity. The poetry of death. Everything is important in an act of this ilk, or at least one worth remembering. Down with those who hire mercenaries or take the cowardly route of noxious potions. Poisoners and anesthesiologists, wrongly called Angels of Death, are dung compared to the classic cutthroat.

Let us continue descending this spiral staircase. Let us plunge into the vast improvised courts, temples of sacrifice built by those who saw themselves as judges, jurors, and executioners of their victims. Be it wife or husband. Lover or enemy. Neighbor or stranger. We can all be killed. That includes you and me. Fascinating, isn't it? Equally fascinating is the alternative of being the one who attacks.

You, future prey or hunter, don't put your head down if it's your turn to be the former. It is better to fall being the work sculpted by the blinding hand of the one who attacks your life, than to die bedridden victim of old age or disease. The edge of a knife or the sturdy hammer are temporary evils and bearers of such mercy that the seeds of cancer or the flaying of time cannot compare.

Every murder has its shades. Proper reds, primary and secondary reds. Infinite forms to capture the corpse lying and frozen. Just as there are sculptures, paintings, films, engravings, songs, video games, etcetera.

The majority public is satisfied with anything as long as it contains exaggerated liters of wasted blood. The man of culture demands more than guts hanging from the curtains and gray matter scattered on the floor. As with all art, it is indispensable that homicide be studied and assimilated.

Wisconsin has its own personal catalog of monsters. A while ago I mentioned two: Ed Gain (1906 to 1984) and Jeffrey Dahmer (1960 to 1994). The former was a corpse plunderer and later murderer, who enjoyed turning his victims into dresses, belts, mugs and fur vests. His kill count was low (barely 2 women), but he made up for it with an exquisite eye for designing clothes and accessories. The second, nicknamed The Milwaukee Butcher, improved the number (17 kills). He was a male meat fanatic whose love of submission crossed the barriers of death and the culinary standard of the region. Daniel regrets not having known him, resigns himself to fantasizing about lying down and then being devoured by him.

There is one artist I must introduce who, in addition to being a novelty, is the latest in police chronicles: Jeffrey Allen Woods, better known as Jeff the Killer. We came across his story in the local library, among old items stored in the public computers. Reading that nickname is like a bell ringing in my head. I hear Tiara's voice warning: Be careful on your way home from class, and if anyone follows you, run to the police. The bodies of Woods left behind have yet to melt into the earth.

"Yes, I remember it more or less well" said Daniel, leaning over to read the headlines on the monitor. "It lasted from 2001 to 2004. News spread of people being killed in their sleep. More than one got used to having a revolver under their pillow. Are there pictures?"

I shook my head.

"How many people did he kill?"

"It doesn't specify" I said. "Look, I found an article that talks about a survivor. It says she was the killer's first appearance"

I read it out loud:

June 3, 2001. Katie Robinson, 18, claims she survived an attack by a creepy character. She bravely recounts the events.

«I had a bad dream and woke up in the middle of the night. It was very cold. I noticed that for some reason the window was open, although I remember that I closed it before going to bed. I got up and locked it once more. Then I got under the covers and tried to go back to sleep. That's when I had a strange feeling, like I was being watched. I looked up and almost jumped. I could see them thanks to the light coming from the street lamps. There was a pair of eyes. They were not normal eyes, but dark, sinister. And his mouth... A wide smile, so hideous that I almost fainted. He stared at me for a while. He never blinked and never stopped smiling. Finally he spoke. He said something, a simple sentence, but said in a way that only a madman could say it.»

Go on...

Go to sleep...

«I shouted. Something flashed and I realized he pulled out a knife. He jumped onto my bed, but I fought back. I lifted the pillow and that's what protected my heart. A lot of feathers came out and I thought I was dreaming. But the fear was real and made me stand up. In the chaos I ran to the door, but he immediately knocked me down and stood over me. His hands were... Icy, so white. His breath reeked of alcohol, not liquor, but the kind doctors use. That's when my father came in. The man threw his knife and pierced my father's arm. He probably would have killed us had not one of the neighbors alerted the police. I later learned that Mr. Florek said he saw someone suspicious crossing the roof of our house and that's why he called. We heard the sirens and the windows reflected the lights. The stranger snatched my father's knife and fled down the hallway. I heard a noise, like glass breaking. I looked out and saw that the window that was pointing towards the back of my house had been broken. That was the last time I saw it. But I can assure you of one thing: I will never forget that face, nor those eyes, nor that psychotic smile. It scares me to open my eyes and find him again in the middle of the night.»

The search for the culprit is still in progress. If you see anyone who fits the description of the subject of this anecdote, please contact your local police department.

I finished reading the article. There is a pencil portrait of the alleged killer, resembling him more like a Halloween mask than a human being. Next to it is a photograph of the "heroic" Katie Robinson.

"What a homicidal failure it must have been not to harpoon that whale" Daniel points to Katie's chubby face on the screen. A pretty big target, chasing her must have been like hunting two people tied together by the leg.

I looked for more news. We found three more victims, these did end up with their throats slit. We also read the conclusion of the murderer at the hands of the current police captain, Edmund Hopkins. This was the culprit who terrorized the county for four years? A lot of style and little substance?

"I'm sure he killed more people" I said, feeling it in my gut. "There's missing information. These are just the murders credited to him. Maybe there were others, but they didn't have enough evidence to link him. It tends to happen with some serial killers... I'd like to investigate further"

"We're talking about the library files and the local police. Don't expect miracles"

We left the library and passed the liquor store, I waited outside while Daniel took care of the shopping. Then we entered the first dark alley we encountered.

"Any particular reason why you're interested in Jeff the fuckin killer?" Daniel asks and hands me the vodka.

I clenched the bottle between my lips and then handed it back to him. I leaned my head against the brick wall. I closed my eyes. The black and white portrait floated in front of me. I gave it depth, colored the features, darkened the disheveled hair, endowed its smile with red, and outlined the eyes.... Unlike many humans with monster innards, Jeff is a monster inside and out. His expression is full of nuances, none of them good. I sighed.

"I think I'm in love..."

Daniel bursts out laughing. Soon after, he shows me the knife he bought yesterday. Curved-edged, silver, born for meat. Let's step forward and build our temple.