Following the Yellow Brick Road

Chapter 1

I opened my eyes half expecting some frightening figure to be hidden somewhere in the shadows. I looked in the darkened corners of the room first, but there was no threat there. I sought out the closet doors with dreadful anticipation; my heart still racing from my recent dash through terror, but nothing seemed wrong or out of place. I thought I got a glimpse of a figure in the shadows of my curtains, but upon closer inspection, there was nothing there.  As I continued my fruitless search of my bedroom, I realized the phone was ringing. I reached over to answer the phone on the night stand with my mind still half lost in the nightmarish vision. Nearly knocking a half-full glass of wine off the bed side table, I pulled the phone to my ear. When I heard the familiar voice on the other end of the phone, I knew that I had just woken up from one nightmare into another.

“Hey Charlie, you sound kind of out of it. You awake?” asked the voice on the phone.

“Yeah I’m awake.” I replied while trying to wipe the sand and goop from my eyes so they would focus on the clock.

“Well, looks like our boy has struck again. He dumped the body over on the east side this time. Want me to come by and get you or you want to just meet me there?” James asked.

“I can meet ya there. Where we going?” I asked still peering through half closed eyes to see that the clock said 2:34.

“Horseshoe Lake State Park.” he replied.

With that he was off the phone. I grappled on the nightstand for the lamp and after turning it on, grabbed my cigarettes and crawled from the safety and warmth of my covers.

            As I hurriedly threw on some jeans, a turtle neck, and a tweed jacket, I had to laugh to myself about being called Charlie. James started calling me Charlie about two years ago, much to the disapproval of my mother. She gave me the name of Charlene, and did not like to be second guessed. She had purposely tried to give me a name that couldn’t be shortened into a “childish” nickname. Her name is Patricia and she was called everything but Patricia while growing up. Her aunt Sue called her Patsy, her friends called her Patty, and later my father called her Pat. She liked Pat least of all since she didn’t resemble a man and did not wish to be called by a man’s name.  Therefore, when I got partnered up with James two years ago and he started calling me Charlie it drove her nuts. Not only have I been given a nickname, but a man’s name none the less.

Mom has some very old fashioned ideas about how a woman is suppose to be and I don’t usually fit her mold. She wanted her only daughter to be a little princess who would like frilly dresses and play with Barbie dolls. As a child, I liked to play ball with my brothers and collected baseball cards.  I was expected to be lady like and sit with my legs crossed at the knee. I loved to wear blue jeans and usually had a hole in the knee. Plus sports jerseys and ball caps were the best. Mom wanted me to take typing and shorthand, I loved science and math. When I went off to college I was suppose to meet a nice husband and become a nurse or school teacher. I however, ended out with a doctorate degree in forensic psychology, which Mom never understood at all. She had actually lectured me once because I was making too good of grades and getting too smart in her opinion.

“Charlene, I am proud of you, but I think you are doing too well at school. Men tend to shy away from women that are smarter than they are or more successful.  Wouldn’t you like to get married and have some kids someday? Just where do you think all this education is taking you? You have grown into a very beautiful woman and if you marry well, you won’t have any need for all this education.” mom said with a tone of total concern in her voice which only a mother can muster up.

Mom reads newspapers, watches the Today show, and is a big Oprah fan. Yet she adheres to a picture of life that comes right out of 50’s television. I chose not to reply at that time, and was glad that I was only home from grad school for the Thanksgiving break. Even though I usually feel a sense of disapproval for my life choices, I have always known that my mother loves me. She just wishes I was someone else.  We have been in a 32 year tug-of-war, I don’t expect it to end soon.

As I pulled myself out of the past and back to the present, my mind once again flashed on the nightmare I was having just 10 minutes ago. I have had dreams before where I was trying to scream and nothing would come out. I sometimes wonder if I was in a terrifying situation in real life if my voice would abandon me. I shook off the eerie feeling, grabbed my lap top and headed out of the bedroom. I often find myself reminiscent of the normal aspects of my life when I am headed to a crime scene. I guess it is one of the things that keep me psychologically healthy. As I headed down the stairs, I noticed the kitchen light was already on and my roommate Kathy was making a fresh pot of coffee.  The aroma of the coffee was already helping to clear the cob webs from my less than rested brain.

“Phone rings this time of night, I figure you’re headed out the door.” Kathy said looking not the least bit tired.

“What are you still doing up? Can’t sleep or working?” I asked somewhat incoherently through a yawn.

“Doing some research for an article.” She replied while reaching for a thermos and travel mug in the cabinet above the coffee pot.

“Anything interesting?” I asked.

“Well yea, seems the St. Louis Major Case Squad is working on two murders that have occurred in the greater metropolitan area in the last two months, and that none of my normal sources will comment on at all. I can’t even get someone to return my phone calls. I would even venture to guess, that after that phone call, there are three murders that no one will talk about!” she replied while pouring the coffee first into the travel mug and then the thermos.

“No comment.” I answered as I took the mug of coffee that was offered.

 “Yeah! Yeah! I know. When you finally decide to start talking to the press, I will be the first person you call. I just want you to know that people are beginning to talk about something going on.” Kathy said with a look that was at first frustrated, then understanding.

“Thanks for the coffee. I really needed some. I was having quite a nasty dream when the phone woke me up and I haven’t been able to shake it altogether yet.” Well, I guess I better get my ass on the road.” I said with more than a casual sarcasm as I turn and head for the door.

I hate that I can’t talk to Kathy about what is going on, but she is the press in St. Louis. Kathleen McPherson is now a six year veteran reporter for the St. Louis Post Dispatch the only major newspaper left in the metro area.  The press couldn’t be given any information yet. I’m not even sure what I am actually looking at yet, but the two cases she was referring to, do have a few non-coincidental similarities. Unfortunately, these similarities would not be told to the press even if we were talking yet. Which we aren’t!  I am fully convinced that these two killings are the work of the same guy and from what James said on the phone, I also believe we now have three victims. I am, however, generally hesitant about saying the words “serial killer.”

Too often the papers want to run the big headline that says “serial killer,” before they consider the possible ramifications for doing so. That’s just never a good thing, not only because of the sense of panic it instills in the population, but because of the celebrity status it gives our boy.  He wants to become famous. It is all part of the thrill of what he is doing.  He likes the idea of people fearing him and getting to realize just how powerful he is. He wants a knick name like those that have gone before him: BTK, Green River, Zodiac, or Night Stalker. 

That is why so many serial killers correspond with reporters; they feed off the celebrity status and get a feeling of becoming larger than life.  Take the BTK killer for instance, at one point it was thought that they had a suspect in one of his killings. The real  B.T.K. killer wrote a note to let the authorities know that he was the killer and gave them specific details, because he didn’t  want someone else getting credit for his work. They also enjoy letting us know, they are right in front of us and we are too stupid to catch them. In the John Wayne Gacy case, Gacy invited the police that were on his surveillance team into his house for a drink, with the decaying bodies of his victims smelling up his house. He had buried most of his victims in the crawl space under his house. Even though the police knew that he was a killer they couldn’t find substantial evidence, at that time, to arrest him. Gacy’s cockiness did him in though, because the police did recognize the smell of death in his house.  Most serial killers are narcissistic and have an elevated sense of self already. Communicating with the press or law enforcement, and still getting away with their killing agenda, helps support their feelings of omnipotence. Yet at some level, they also play with the press and police because they want to be stopped. They want the police to step in and stop the monster or beast that has taken them over.

Therefore, as much as I would like to discuss these cases with Kathy, I can’t, but I always rely on her input whenever possible. Whereas, I tend to look at things from an inside view based on my empathy and feelings, she is able to step outside of any emotional feelings and see things from a more neutral and analytical vantage point. Many times the result being, that she comes up with thoughts and ideas that I wouldn’t contemplate on my own. Luckily, although I am tight lipped about my cases, she will generally give me her input anyway.

I met Kathleen Elizabeth McPherson on the first day of college. We were assigned to the same dorm room and we have been somewhat inseparable every since. I arrived at the room first, but was still surveying my surrounds when she came through the door. She was tall with brownish blond hair that hung just below her shoulders and one of those figures that just makes clothes look good. Kathy was wearing a mid-drift tank top, short cutoff jeans, and sandals. She also had on a great pair of sun glasses and a Sony Walkman hooked to her waist. She had a great tan and the blond in her hair was probably due to exposure to the sun. Her luggage consisted of two army duffle bags from a military surplus store and some taped boxes.

“Hi, my name is Charlene Branson. Isn’t this room horrible? I thought I was going to college not prison.  I think we need to fix it.” I stated a little nervous but trying to emit a sense of false confidence.

            “Yeah. I think the room looks horrid too. By the way, my name is Kathy. White walls. Yuck! It needs some color. She replied looking a little nervous herself and making me more comfortable knowing I was not alone in my trepidation.

            “What’s your major?” I asked trying to sound like a college student.

            “Literature and journalism. What’s yours?” she replied.

            “Psychology and Pre-med for now.” I answered.

Once past the initial exchange of pleasantries, I felt as though I had known her all my life. Within the hour we were turning our sterile looking dorm room into our own little sanctuary and had ordered out for pizza. Since that day we have shared all things, including a few boyfriends, and confided all our darkest secrets to one another. Not talking to Kathy about these cases is one of the most difficult things I have to do.

I could tell the coffee was already clearing up the fog in my head, as I climbed in my Land Rover and headed across the river. My brownstone was located in the historic Soulard neighborhood of St. Louis, MO.  In my opinion St. Louis is one of the greatest towns in the United States, but it has managed to get a bad reputation nationally. People seem to think of the city as only an impoverished inner city area, where gangs run rampant in the streets.  That is not how I see St. Louis at all. I think it is culturally stimulating and has a diverse population. Plus, and this is important, Soulard has a huge Mardi Gras celebration every year, and I do love to party.

I grew up in this area and was thrilled when I actually got assigned here directly after my training at Quantico. The Soullard area has been in a state of renovation for many years now and apartments in the area have waiting lists 1-2 yrs long. Houses in the neighborhood don’t stay on the market long. In fact the house I bought had only gone on the market the day before I found it. Other than my love for the quaint neighborhood, I felt as though buying my overly-priced brownstone was a financially sound investment.

After about a month of wandering around in three stories of empty, and mostly unfurnished, space all alone, I talked Kathy into giving up her apartment in North County and moving in. I also went out and bought an Old English sheepdog puppy that I found in a newspaper ad. I named him Shakespeare. Kathy on the other hand had two Macaw Parrots named Dickens and Hemingway. After the four of them moved in, the brownstone never felt empty again. My house became the social gathering place to be among our friends. We have parties for every occasion or holiday; Mardi Gras is just one of many.

Prelude

I’m jogging down a path.  The trees start to thicken and form a tangled web of brush overhead, which forms a darkening tunnel.  The gnarled and twisted branches cast ominous shadows on the path in front me.  A sense of dread starts to settle over my entire body and the hairs stand up on the back of my neck…I realize I am being followed.  This place is familiar and yet strange.  I start running faster and faster, and yet it seems as though I am making less progress. My limbs become heavy, daunting my progress and working against me. The light has changed.  It seems as if I am jogging in the middle of the night, under the darkness of the new moon. The shadows begin to dance and close in on me. I don’t look back but I can hear the heavy breathing of my pursuer getting closer.  The terror is coming after me. 

I try to figure a course of action, searching my surroundings for an exit, but there is no way out…I must continue trying to reach the end of this tunnel of darkness.  I notice that the path is changing under foot. What was once paved and smooth is now rugged and uneven with roots and crags of rock jutting up from the ground.  The pathway underfoot seems to have taken on a life of its’ own, making my progress even slower and more labored. I must pay attention in order to keep from tripping on the path, thereby, losing the race against my certain end.  I smell the musty sweat of the dark creature that is chasing me and I am certain that he is getting within reach, even though I am pushing my body to a sprint.  However, I am not sprinting.  My legs are fighting against every step as though I am fighting to break through a barrier formed within the very air around me.  I am moving in slow motion.

 It begins to rain and within moments becomes a torrential force of wind and rain slowing my forward progress even further.  The rain beats against my skin; I feel the impact of every drop. I am running on a path that has now become a mud the consistency of quicksand grabbing at my feet as they impact the ground.  I pass a curve in the path, and realize that I am beginning to see a brightening in the near distance. If I can just get my legs to go faster, I can escape.

I recognize the terror I feel. I have felt this fear before. It comes at the moment that one realizes that death is a possibility. This is how a woman feels when she comes to believe that her abusive husband is not going to let go of her throat this time and death is eminent.  It is the feeling that a drowning person experiences as they lose the last breath of air from their lungs. It is the same terror a rape victim has when the knife that was used to restrain her, starts cutting into the skin of her throat. It is the deepest fear known to man. That is the terror I am feeling. I can see my path clearing, but I know I will not reach the safety of that daylight.

I have done nothing to this dark figure that is chasing me.  And yet, I know he means to harm me.  He wants to take power from me and use it against me.  He has no regard for me, doesn’t look at me as a person, but only wants to use me to satisfy some bizarre need that he has. At some point, his mind and soul have been corrupted and he can only attain pleasure through the suffering of others. It is the way he nourishes his insatiable hunger.

I am sweating profusely now.  I feel the salty dampness drip down my forehead to sting my eyes and make it even more difficult to see the deteriorating path in front of me.  I wipe the sweat away from my eyes and see that I am indeed getting closer to the opening at the end of the tunnel…but my demon is also gaining ground.

Closer still!

My heart starts beating rapidly when I think I see people outside the opening.  I think if I can just make it a little farther, the people will see me, and he will give up his pursuit.  I try to force myself to run even harder.  I just need to get a little closer. I chance a glance backwards to see a figure all in black. He has no distinguishing features, but pure evil emanates from his very being. He is a man and yet he has taken on the personification of shadow.

He is getting closer!

            I realize that he is catching up with me and that my chance of escape is getting slim.  However, there are people just up ahead.  I am almost there.  If I scream out now, they are sure to hear me.  I open my mouth to scream, and nothing comes out.  I am paralyzed by the fear. 

He is getting closer! The gap of space that offers any chance of escape is closing.

            This is my last chance to save myself.  I can almost feel him from behind.   I hear his breath drowning out all other sounds. His footfalls on the pavement have begun to reverberate throughout my being. I try again to scream. No sound comes out. I feel as though I have strained my throat to the point of bleeding, and yet no sound comes forth. I am in a total panic. I feel the blood filling my throat and try to swallow, but nothing works. I am drowning.

            He grabs me!

            I wake up.

Allen Stevens

I am somewhat anal. This could be contributed to many factors and I don't see this as a huge flaw. I was raised in a rather strict household. Not the type of household where you get a "whoopin" all the time, just a household where there were rules and they were expected to be followed and there was a place for everything and everything in it's place. Nothing I would call severe there. I further solidified the anal persona by joining the United States Air Force. Same premise in operation there that I was use to, there were rules and they were expected to be followed and there was a place for everything and everything in it's place. If anything this contributed to me acquiring a slight case of OCD and a great work ethic.

For as long as I can remember, my book, movie, and music collections have been categorized and alphabetized. My socks have been paired and rolled and my underwear have been folded into three inch squares. My blue jeans and towels get tri-folded, my wash cloths and hand towels get folded in fours. My shirts get hung unwrinkled in the closet with the short sleeved shirts together and and the long sleeved shirts together. All important paperwork is filed away in appropriate categories in a file cabinet. Everything else ... well there is a place for everything and everything in it's place.

My organized life continued for years and I had a sense of inner peace with the knowledge that things were as they should be.

Then it happened! I fell in love!

I had been in other relationships that had strained the boundaries of my organized sanity, but I had never been in love.  The attack on my peace of mind was just part of the bigger problem and somewhat expected in those other relationships.  However, it was with the finding of my "soul mate" and the attached six year old child, that the walls of my inner sanctuary were finally under assault. With love came chaos!

For the last six years I have been waging a full out war against the assault on my sanity. My daily routine now is fully engulfed in keeping everything in it's place: I spend my time putting things others have taken out of cabinets, back in cabinets, shutting cabinet doors, pushing in chairs. I collect mail, magazines, newspapers, and crayon and pencil sketched artistic achievements from all corners of the kingdom. I gather up used dishes and glasses from the living room, bedrooms, cars, and BATHROOM!  I have to search through laundry baskets to find a matching pair of socks, underwear, jeans, and a wrinkled shirt. I find toys on the floor, in drawers, cabinets, couch cushions, in the cars, and in an assortment of other, before unnoticed, nooks and crannies. There are naked Barbies everywhere!
I have asked our child why none of her Barbies have clothes on, because I know they came fully dressed. But the only response I get is, "I dunno."

So, for six years I have managed to reinforce the walls built around my sanity and hold off the onslaught waged against me, but recently I have felt the stones beginning to crumble. You may be asking what weapon of mass destruction my dear loved ones have brought against me?  Well the only answer I can give you is the silverware. It has become my obsession.
 
One day while doing dishes I noticed that we were getting low on silverware. I combed the entire house looking for the missing forks and spoons: under furniture, in couch cushions, in the BATHROOM, and in the, before unnoticed, nooks and crannies.  I managed to find all but one salad fork. I spent all day looking for that salad fork to no avail. That night, at dinner, I made mention of the missing silverware and that I had managed to find all but the one salad fork. Nobody else seemed to be concerned.

A few days later I noticed that the silverware population of the drawer had been depleted again and I went on another scavenger hunt. After time, I started counting the silverware on a daily basis and will interject into the dinner conversation, "well, today I am missing a fork and two spoons!"

These comments are met with either whimsical laughter, eye rolling, or outright annoyance now, but nobody ever offers to reveal the whereabouts of the missing utensils.

So out of all of this I have come to understand that it is the big things in life that drive you to the brink of madness, but it only takes that one small thing to push you over the edge.....in my case it may just be a missing piece of silverware.