13 Murders

A Murder But Not a Crime

CHAPTER THREE

A MURDER BUT NOT A CRIME

My back aches from sleeping on the hard foam mat that carpets one corner of my cell. All I can hear is my heart beating in the back of my head and my lungs slowly deflating. The disinfectant is choking me.  I’m not sure if it’s the middle of the night or if no one’s in the mood for being awake. My cell is unlocked, Electra said to keep it that way.

From the cell next to me I can hear snoring and I wonder if the snoring is loud, or if the room is too quiet. Someone else hums a grim tune. It’s been one week and I am already wishing the death penalty were still in action. My bones crack as I get up from the floor and reach out to push the door open with my dry fingertips. At night I run them along the grainy cement wall, and so they have become raw and scarred. I hiss in pain and let out a relieved moan as the gate opens enough for me to squeeze through. I have already felt myself shrink dramatically, my bones protruding out more than they should, though I am nowhere as frail as the other girls, excluding Electra, whose hip-twisting dance moves seem to keep her in a reasonable spectrum of boniness.

I creep out of my cell. The room is dark, darker than usual, and I can only see the faint outline of a silhouette. As I get closer, my bare feet prickling at the sensation of walking across the spikey concrete, I realize it’s the girl from earlier, the one with the big green eyes. She sits round-shouldered, her long blonde hair hanging in her face. She looks overwhelmed, a deer in the headlights, but once she smiles at me she seems a little less naïve. I swallow hard, trying to make myself feel relaxed, but it’s hard to. I pull out the chair beside hers and lean on the sodden wood table.  She blink a few times, getting used to my presence, and smiles.

It’s the first friendly smile I’ve seen in a while.

I smile back and instantaneous become comfortable in her presence. She has a calming affect on me, and it makes me forget my aching bones and raw fingertips.

“Did I wake you?” She asks in a soft voice. I shake my head. Her smooth tone is barely audible, and I feel as though I’m back home, whispering to Jeremy in the dark so that his parents don’t hear.

You killed Jeremy, Liz, he’s dead.

She nods slowly and pushes her hair back. It falls back immediately, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” I ask. She blinks slowly and smiles to herself. She purses her lips and leans forward, bracing herself on the table as if she’s about to tell me a secret.

“I’m an insomniac… sleeping’s not my thing.” She says and smiles mischievously. I can’t help but giggle to myself at the playful look in her eyes.

“I bet you’re wondering what they did hey?, to get into this place. Wondering what I did?” She says, her voice suddenly becoming understanding. Now that she mentions it, I do, I have a sudden hunger for answers and she’s willing to give me them. I smile and nod.

“Yeah, I am.” She nods and pushing her hair back again, begins to tell me. Pointing to the first cell she clears her throat.

“Koslov Kaminski was a Russian assassin from the age of twelve. He was finally snatched by the American police on a holiday in New Mexico, killed five people and chopped them up into bits, hiding each of the pieces in a different city. He was eighteen at the time.” She explains. My jaw is on the floor. I think of the small, brawly Russian that had offered me a piece of his bread only a day ago, killed five people and chopped them to bits. It doesn’t sit well. I feel sick, but she carries on.

“Then there is none other than Damian Greene, the famous bomb constructor. His bombs have been used by about every illegal union in the world. But he personally killed an entire room of political representatives just a year ago.” She points to a cell next to Kaminski’s. I picture him in my head, and think that it makes sense, considering his shoulder-length hair is always greasy and tinted a slight green. A shiver runs down my spine. 

“Sinclair Jail also inhabits one of the only cannibalistic murderers in the state,” She whispers. My eyes grow wide and my stomach threatens to retch, but I keep it in. Instead I follow her eyes, which are flickering to a cell occupied by a blond-haired man with a round face filled with freckles.

“Theo Arsenal. He only killed one, but he tore him limb from limb and ate him raw. Don’t worry about him though, he wouldn’t do anything to us, he wouldn’t hurt a fly these days. Us murderers look after our own kind.” She reassures me, clearly noticing my pale face.

“But if you want something a little more smoke and mirrors, a little more classic, there’s Ricardo. No surname, just Ricardo. He was born and raised in a Mexican voodoo shop. He likes a show, and he sure put one on two years ago. He killed ten, in a game of Russian roulette… all of the guns were loaded.” In my head, I hear ten gunshots consecutively and my eyes widen with each one. Even she looks slightly anxious.

“Maya Romero killed the president of Argentina with one poison dart. Perfect aim, right in the jugular, with poison grown in her own home.” I remember the girl with pale skin and ebony hair. She looked so reserved and composed, but I’m beginning to realize that no one is what they seem. I swallow once more and wait for her to continue.

“That guy, the one in the cell beside mine, is Elliot North. He had a torture dungeon in Mississippi where he’d flick acid at them until it ate away at their skin. Then he’d burn them alive or dip them in a barrel of boiling oil.” I hiss at the idea and feel myself shrink back into my skin. Someone’s going to kill me. But then I remember what she said.

Us murderers look after our own kind.

“Number seven, Jaxon Little, people called his stuff the ‘Cat’s Tail Massacre’ he targeted leaders in the animal testing companies, particularly cosmetics tested on cats. He’d shoot them and sew a fake cat’s tail onto their rears, and ears.” She said. The caramel haired man in the cell she just pointed to rolls over and lets out a soft groan.

Almost purr-like.

“Charlie Danes is in the cell next to yours, he’s the snorer by the way, and he’s known for murder in the second degree. Impulsive. He’s a compulsive murderer really, addicted to the high, and he can do it with anything. Charlie the Makeshift Murderer.” She says dramatically. Despite the grim subject, I make an effort to laugh, taking advantage of the non-gruesome murder. I think I’ll feel better if there’s no more cannibalism or boiling oil.

“He’s the curly-haired brunette right?”

“Right.”

“And of course there’s little Amelia Newton. Ha- I say that, but she has the nickname ‘Five-Wound Newton’ in forty-three states. That’s her signature, five knives in a parallel line down the victim’s body. And the reason she’s known in forty-three states, is because she’s killed forty-three people.” My breath catches in my throat. Amelia? Little, pale, boney Amelia with the pale skin and the freckled face, killed forty-three people?

Jesus Christ I’m bad at judging character.

“Xavier Brooklyn is a murderer of brutal force. He killed his boss in his own office… with a sledgehammer. Hit him so hard that there were brains on the window five meters from where he was sitting.” My stomach tightens. The mellow, pipe-smoking guy that I had grown fond of had literally smashed someone’s brains out.

“That leaves Electra.” I point out; eager to distract myself from the gut wrenching reality that Amelia killed forty-three people and Xavier smashed his boss’s brains out of his head. Her eyes glint and she chuckles a little to herself.

“Electra liked to benefit from her missions. She targeted men that disrespected prostitutes and theatre girls. She was their hero, if a man went to far or tried to take advantage of them, she’d get in the way, get them distracted, get inches from sex and then slit their throats, a clean cut. And then she’s exploit them, take all their clothes off- although many already did- and leave a ten-dollar bill between their lips with a red lipstick mark on it.” She explains. I can imagine Electra doing that, so I am not shocked. I feel relieved to know everything.

Everything except…

“And what about you?” I ask. She looks down at the table.

“Me? I am the youngest person to every be put in a murder unit. I was fourteen. I killed my father. Cyanide.” I nod.

“I strangled my boyfriend.”

“You don’t have to be ashamed of it. Some things are murders, but not crimes.”