"We serial killers are your sons, we are your husbands, we are everywhere." - Ted Bundy
October 31
The 440 engine of the Dodge Dart roared to maximum pitch as Joe floored it down the interstate. A line of state troopers followed behind in a wake of sirens and horn blaring. What should have been an quick and easy bank robbery turned into a major gaff that resulted in the deaths of a zealous employee and one officer who was trying to cash a check during his lunch break.
The cigarette, clenched in his teeth, red tip flaring every few seconds as he threaded the traffic in an effort to escape his would be captors. Joseph Anthony Capella was in the zone. He easily navigated the American muscle through the rolling maze of SUV's, minivans, and eighteen-wheelers, laughing as the gap between him and law enforcement widened.
When he got a little breathing room, he checked the GPS mounted in the dash. It was another five miles till the next exit off the I-85. He passed the giant peach of the shopping outlet in Gaffney. The King Mountain National Park in North Carolina wasn't too far off. Pretty soon, he would have two states chasing him down. While he was a great driver, this wasn't Smokey and the Bandit. Cops nowadays had spike strips, reinforced grills, and training in PIT maneuvers.
The scanner he had tucked away for such emergencies crackled, he soon learned of a road block waiting for him over the next few rises. He had to disappear and quickly. Another look at the GPS showed him nothing, causing him to curse, biting through filter on his
Camel
.
He eased his foot off the accelerator, the traffic ahead bunching up, the early signs of his welcoming party. He frantically looked at the wall of trees, to the right and the left, anything for a option. Across the median, he saw a thin opening in the stand of forest. Without a second thought, he tore through the wildflowers and into oncoming traffic.
Tires burned into the asphalt and horns screamed bloody murder as the rocketing speedster shot across traffic. The Dart flew through the air as it left the highway, tires spitting loose dirt and clumps of grass before landing in the meadow. Joe fought the wheel, steering the car at the dirt path. He yelled in triumph as the car straightened out, right between two large pine trees.
He drove deeper into the woods, the afternoon sun slowly blocked out by the thick foliage, until he could no longer see the highway in his rear view. He let the car coast to a crawl, rolled down the window and took a listen. There was only the sound of the wind through the trees. He got out of the car, and looked back down the path.
Nobody was following him. He crouched low, peeking down the road. He casually put a fresh smoke between his lips, lighting it with glee when the Dodge began to cough, sputter, and suddenly died. He turned around, jumped back in and tried to get it started to no avail. When the cranking produced nothing but grinding, he quit, beating on the wheel in frustration.
"People don't know me. They think they do, but they don't" - Andrew Cunanan
This was the only good thing in his miserable life. Left to him by a abusive step-father; he reclaimed it from him, bludgeoning him to death with the business end of a pick-ax. It belonged to his biological father originally, a gear head GI from Brooklyn that fell in love with a barefoot mountain gal from the Adirondacks while on leave. When he died of suspicious causes one night in the local quarry, a bear of a man took over the duties of breadwinner, disciplinarian, and target of Joe's scorn.
That was his first kill. He found it invigorating to take the life of a man that provided nothing but aggravating pounding on his bedroom wall late at night, a usual after work routine of fucking a drunken woman who was once his mother.
She was next, a pillow over the face. It was during the struggle that she flailed, constantly grabbing at his groin. He also had his first erection. Living in the Appalachia mountains, there were few neighbors to deal with so hiding the crime scene was too easy. From there, he packed little into the car and took off.
For the next few years, he traveled up and down the interstate, never straying too far from I-85, never staying in one place too long. He honed the art of killing, never repeating the same routine twice. All his victims were random: male, female, gun, knife, hands, day and night. He was a profiler's enigma, if they knew who he was. His crimes weren't lined because he had no M.O.
He killed because people pissed him off, no more, no less. As the years went by, his temper grew shorter and his actions sloppier. He never used his personal car before today and now he was paying the ultimate price.
He had no care for humanity, just for that car, which he just unwittingly killed in the darkening woods.
Pulling smoke from the
Camel
into his lungs, he walked around the metal beast, kicking away the clusters of mud and broken twigs from the under panels. He looked down the road he was traveling, seeing nothing but forest on either side. It was narrowing, only one car could pass at a time, if there was another car. At least a half-hour had passed since Joe had landed on the mired road and he hadn't seen or heard a soul.
The chill of the early evening made him shiver, zip up his jacket. As much as he wanted to roll up his sleeves and pop the hood, standing around any longer was eating into his good fortune. He snatched the burlap sack full of cash and his duffel bag out of the backseat and headed further up the road.
Within a mile, he realized that the car wouldn't have done him any good even in showroom condition. The narrow road squeezed into a muddy path, brambles tearing at his jacket and hair. He thought about turning back, but the events of the past few hours hung in the balance with his next move. For all he knew, a squadron of law enforcement with canines were just out of earshot.
The path all about closed in on him when suddenly, the brush gave way and he found himself on a road again. Well traveled soil, packed firm led the way to a town in the distance. He took a look around in the last of the sunlight at the tiny town standing before him. A battered wooden sign on the right announced his destination,
Summersend
.
No town he ever heard of. He hitched the bag higher on his shoulder, brushed the leaves out of his hair and walked onward. The paved road soon became a street, modest homes, proof that people still built with their hands dotted the landscape.
He noticed the pumpkins first. Lining the road on both sides, Intricate jack-o-lanterns, one in front of each house. Halloween was in full swing. He never had the opportunity, or the care, to dress up, panhandle candy from neighbors, grab apples from a tub of water, or any of that kiddie bullshit.
He heard music as he got closer to the middle of town. He stuck closer to the shadows, keeping on the lookout for Johnny Law. He ducked into an alley, hiding from a group of children that ran by in costume, giggling as they pulled a lit pumpkin behind them in a red wagon. He stayed hidden for a period, watching the activities from the dark.
"Even psychopaths have emotions, then again, maybe not." - Richard Ramirez
