Ready. Set. Psycho.

Chapter Sixteen: Justin

           

Justin's first few killings years earlier were not easy. Around a dozen or so hours into the testing phase, the sleeper shuffled and rolled. The paper he was sleeping on crumpled noisily; the sound added to the constant beeping of the heartbeat monitor. He threw his hand up to his bearded face as if to scratch but stopped, his thumb and finger now resting on his mouth. Justin was standing on a stepladder nearby and stopped moving, turning his head at the noise. He watched the sleeper for another minute before continuing his search along the walls of the room.

The only source of light was a floodlight hooked up to a generator. Justin was running his hand along the plastic sheets covering the wall. At every divot or crack he would stop and cover it with tape. He stepped down off the ladder, moved it precisely one foot to his right, and then repeated the process of checking the wall for leaks. The sleeper shuffled again, and Justin came down off the ladder, perturbed. He kneeled on the ground next to the sleeper, careful not to rip the plastic sheeting. He picked up a clear bottle marked Propofol 10mg/ml and drew four milliliters into a syringe, which he then injected into the peripheral catheter.

Justin counted to twenty and watched the heartbeat monitor. The sleeper relaxed. The heartbeat slowed, and then crashed.

Justin stood, frustrated. He kicked the dead man twice. "Lucky fucker," he said. "You have no idea what I had in store for you."

He rolled the body in the paper and taped it shut. He lifted it onto a dolly nearby. He opened the door, and sunlight filled the room. Justin took a moment for his eyes to adjust and then rolled the body out of the shed and into the woods, where an empty grave was waiting. He dumped the body onto six others in the open pit and covered it with a tarpaulin and then returned the dolly to the shed, shutting the dull gray door and locking it behind him. He walked toward the log cabin and climbed the back stairs thirty feet to the back door. Inside were ten people drinking.

One of them, a young man wearing a plaid flannel shirt and jeans, was cooking in the open concept kitchen. "Justin!" he called out. "How are the chores coming? Still painting?"

"Sealing," Justin said. "I need to get that shed waterproofed before winter, or my dad will kill me."

"Not likely," said a pretty girl sitting on the couch.

"No, not likely," Justin replied. "But he will absolutely stop letting me have friends over to the cottage if I don't do the small things he asks me to do."

"Don't you have people for this?" said the guy in the plaid shirt. "My dad has people for this kind of shit."

"We've got people for everything but the cottage," Justin said. "It's the one place my dad goes to get away from people. I've gotta head into town. I'll be back in a few hours."

Justin left his guests to their drinking and got into his Mercedes SL500 and drove back to New York. He parked his car in the garage underneath his apartment building. He left and got into the subway, coming up at the 118th station. A block east he went into another garage and found a van painted with the NYCCAH logo. He took a single key out of his pocket, slipped it into the keyhole, and opened the door, using the same key to start the engine.

He drove out of the parking garage and went six blocks north, finding a homeless man. The man was sleeping under a streetlight shining a dim yellow. The man stood as the van pulled up and then approached the van. Justin got out and went around the back, opening the two swinging doors. Justin handed the man a package that contained a sandwich, a bag of potato chips, and some water. "Got a place to stay tonight?" Justin asked as he handed over the package.

"No," the man said.

"Want one?" Justin asked. "There's a new church up on Potter that has openings. I can call ahead and hold one for you."