I am Karma

        At around six o'clock in the morning Detective Daye received a phone call from the chief of police.  Apparently, a young woman by the name of Katherine Mooney had been reported missing.  The woman's neighbor, an elderly woman, called the police when Katherine had not brought her newspaper and mail to her like she had always done.  The elderly woman reported that Kat, as she called her, stopped by every night around eleven o'clock for the last two years.  It alarmed her when Kat never showed up.  Two nights had passed since then.  No one has seen or heard from her.  Chief Jones said that he had a bad feeling about it, like butterflies deep within his gut.  More like moths, Daye had thought.

        "Why don't you head on over to the Crescent Court apartments and talk to the old lady." The Chief said to Daye.  "Then, go talk to a few of the employees at Spark's Diner where she was last seen.  I don't like the sound of this one.  It might be the Mask Maker.  Keep your head up and stay sharp."

      The Mask Maker.  He's a serial killer with the wit of a child on Halloween morning.    A woman disappears and shows up several days later, dead, gowned, and wearing a homemade mask.  On the mask would be painted a face that resembles the victim's.  Well, at least the colors of the hair and eyes would share a resemblance.  For a man capable of such brutal murders he has the artistic capacity of a cross-eyed toddler.  The masks were very childish, as if they were a kindergartner's assignment to take home for mommy and daddy. The not so childish part is what is found underneath the mask.  The victim's faces would be totally mangled.  Some had nothing left but skull, eyeballs and bits of flesh.  His true artistic ability was concealed underneath the mask.

          The bodies would be found at random places in the city; hanging from a statue in the park, lying in front of the gates to a graveyard, even propped up on the steps of an elementary school.  It was obvious the artist enjoyed displaying his work. It is astonishing that no evidence has been found and the killer has not yet been seen.  He is either a genius, or a figment of the city's imagination. The psychopath has been at it for seven years and the smallest ounce of evidence has yet to be found.  The media has fabricated the idea that the lack of evidence is due to dirty cops and negligent investigation.

        Detective Daye had just pulled into the parking lot of the Crescent Court apartments when his phone rang.  "Detective Allen Daye here." He answered.

         "Daye.  It's Marcus.  We need your help with something here."

         "What is it?" Daye replied.

         "Does the name Dr. John Stevens ring any bells?"

         Daye thought for a moment in silence.  "No, not at all, why?"  He replied.

         "He was murdered last night.  It's a real strange scene here.  I think you should come by and take a look.  There are a few things you should see."

         "I can't.  I'm looking into the missing girl case right now, chief's orders." Daye argued.

         "Chief Jones is here.  He sent Mullins to take over for you.  He wants you here ASAP.  I suggest you be on your way."

         Daye snapped shut his cell phone and cursed under his breath.  He closed his eyes and breathed a deep breath.  These murder cases get to him sometimes.  He should have taken the week off.  Murder and missing women; it has gone on too long.  "Here we go." He sighed.  He started his car, revved the engine, and left rubber on the pavement.


*          *          *

         He arrived at Dr. Stevens' offices just before noon.  Marcus and Chief Jones greeted him at the door and led him through crowds of reporters.           

        "Detective Daye," Chief Jones said. "Glad you could get here so fast.  Please, follow me."  The three of them walked past a series of receptionist's desks, one for each of the many different offices in the building.  The men came to an elevator and waited.  When they heard a chime, they stepped inside.  The doors shut behind them with a ding.

         "What's going on here?  There are an awful lot of reporters out there.  What is so special about this one?"  Daye inquired.

         Chief Jones shared a small glance with Marcus before he spoke.  "Are you sure you didn't know this Dr. Stevens fellow, Daye."

         "I told you I didn't know him. Why?"

         Marcus shot Daye an accusing glare. "That's odd, Daye.  Because we have reason to believe that he knew you.  Or, perhaps the person who murdered him may have known you."

"That's the craziest nonsense I have ever heard.  What the hell would give you that idea?"  Daye snapped.

      "Let's not get defensive, now.  Like I said, it is a very strange situation in here, Daye.  Maybe things will make more sense when we get in there.  I would advise, though, that you prepare your mind for something very unusual." 

        The elevator climbed to its zenith and the doors slid open.  Chief Jones stepped out.  Marcus followed, and reluctantly, so did Daye.  They traveled down a long hallway of light blue carpet.  Inspirational pictures lined the walls.  Each consisted of a mood-warming picture of a nature scene with captions that read something like, only through hard work can you find what it is that you are seeking. And, Taking responsibility for your actions is one step closer to a comfortably healthy lifestyle.  Daye didn't buy any of it, but he knew right away what kind of doctor this Stevens fellow was. 

        The three detectives reached a door at the end of the hall with words printed on the door's glass window. 

        Dr. John Stevens PhD.
        Psychiatrist

        Chief Jones opened the door and stepped through the yellow police tape.  Marcus did the same.  Daye peeked his head in, surveyed the office and almost gasped at the sight.  The room consisted of two very comfortable looking chairs placed strategically across from each other in a planned arrangement for the one-on-ones.  The walls on either side were covered with bookshelves filled with old books.  At the back of the room was a window with burgundy curtains tied back.  In through the window shined bright, midday light that illuminated the doctor's desk.  Daye thought the room seemed very elegant if not for the blood and gore the rays of light so warmly accented.  Sitting in his chair with his head face down on his desk was the now dead Dr. Stevens.  It appeared that a bullet entered the back of his head and left the skull directly above his right eye.  A gaping hole had formed when the bullet exploded outward.  The desk was now completely covered in blood, dripping from the corners to form several pools on the floor.  But none of this was the truly disturbing part. 

        There were toy dolls everywhere.  They all had blond hair and were gowned in various styles of dresses.  Several sat on the edge of the doctor's desk.  Some sat on the comfortable chairs.  A few rested here and there on the bookshelves.  A single one sat in the center of the room, sitting alone on the carpet.  Each was positioned in such a way that they all faced the door.  It was as if they all stared at Detective Daye, waiting for him to speak.  Their tiny gazes pierced straight through him, cutting him deep.  He felt a lump form in his throat. 

        Nametags displayed names written in red ink.  Every doll in the room had a name. 

        "Well what do you think, Daye?"  Asked Marcus. "Weird enough for you?"

        Daye fully stepped into the room.  "I'm not sure weird is the right word, insane, maybe."

        "Take note of how many dolls there are, Daye." Said the Chief.

      "Yeah, I counted twenty-three."

        "That's right.  Twenty-three dolls, twenty-three names.  Are you catching on?"

        "Twenty-three Mask Maker victims."  Daye understood. "I'm assuming all these names check out."

        "Not quite." Said the Chief. "There are only Twenty-Two reported Mask Maker victims.  The doll sitting by itself has written on it the name, Sarah Martin.  She went missing seven years ago and has never been found."

        "We are assuming that this dead man is the Mask Maker, correct?  But if that is so, and these are the names of all his victims, why is there one completely unrelated to him."

        "We have reason to believe that Sarah Martin's disappearance was more than related.  She disappeared seven years ago.  She was the first.  Probably the experimental one, before he decided to turn his victims into faceless cadavers and publicly display them as a form of modern art."          

        "How did you discover that?" Daye asked.

        The Chief walked over a table in the corner of the room.  He picked up a plastic bag and carried it over.  With latex gloves he reached in and pulled out a small black book.  It was still wet with blood.

        "The doctor's head was resting on this." He said, "It was open to a page near the middle that is now mostly unreadable.  It must have been soaking up blood for hours before we got to it.  It's his journal.  There is plenty of good information in this, a lot of it quite bizarre.  It proves he is the Mask Maker.  It has every name and location of every victim.  It even mentions his first, Sarah Martin.  But here, where his writing stops, is interesting."  The chief opened it to the middle and pointed to the perfectly legible writing.  "Right here, Daye.  This is why we called you in."

        The last few words on the page, were written clear as crystal.
...the home of Allen Daye...

        Detective Daye's heart fell to the floor.  And to make a terrible thing worse, below his name was written an address.  7709 W. Sunder St.  This man knew where he lived.

      "It is part of his last entry, dated last night at 10:58pm." said Chief Jones.  "He must have been writing in this when he died.  What we want to know, Detective Daye, is why, in his last few moments, was he writing about you?" 

        "I couldn't possibly imagine." Daye said, doing his best to look bewildered.

        "The fact that he mentions you is my main concern." The Chief said, "But you'll find that there is a great deal of crazy shit in there, Daye.  Have a look."

        Detective Daye flipped the back a few pages, and began to read.  His mind was racing a million miles a minute.

*          *          *

September 14th, 10:58pm

        No more than an hour ago I was sitting here, doing as I always do.  I was smoking in my smoking-prohibited office, drinking straight from a tall bottle of Jack Daniels and wishing I was dead. Well, if not dead, at least somewhere else, doing unspeakable things to a terrified girl named Kat.  Poor Kat, she's all alone and probably wishing for someone to come save her.  None of the others were saved.  Nothing is different now.
That is all beside the point.  What matters is what happened tonight. 

        The event that has occurred over the past hour or so baffles me far more than anything I have ever had the honor or dishonor of experiencing.  Which is saying a lot, because after all, I am a Psychiatrist; I have seen my share of freaks.  I am sure the young man who visited me tonight tried to convince me that he was somehow special.  I assume his intention was to appear paranormal in some way.  But I know, given my knowledge and experience, that what he could do was merely a form of manipulative hypnotism.  How he learned to do it and how he manipulated me is what puzzles me. 

        My final client for the day had just left.  I had just finished telling an insecure woman to not waste any more time and to get out of her abusive relationship.  It may or may not have been what she needed.  I just wanted to get her out of my office.  She finally got the hell out of here at about 4:19 if I remember correctly.
 
        I began gathering my things immediately after the whiny woman left.  I put all my papers in my briefcase, sharpened all twenty-one of my number two pencils, and pushed my chair halfway in and turned it slightly to the left.  That way I would know if someone had snooped around my desk while I was not here.  You can't trust anyone anymore.

        Finally, I made my way to the door.  About half way there a loud obnoxious banging at my office door stopped me in my tracks.  I won't lie, it startled me, but I am not one to linger on fear.  "I will not be taking anymore clients tonight.  Please schedule an appointment for tomorrow.  Mary will take care of you at the desk in the lobby downstairs."  I said.  I did not receive an answer so I waited a moment or two, expecting to hear footsteps heading in the opposite direction.  I heard nothing, but figured I had waited long enough and decided to leave.

        I opened the door, and to my surprise a young man stood right in my office doorway.  He was quite an unkempt looking fellow.  "Excuse me," I said, "but I will not be seeing you tonight.  Like I said, make an appointment downstairs."  He said nothing.  He wore dark blue jeans with several holes in the knees and pockets.  He seemed to be staring at the floor at the moment; his head and face were hidden beneath the hood of a jet black sweatshirt.

        It was very eerie how he did not move, flinch or even seem to breathe at the time.  "Excuse me young man, but please allow me to get by you."  I tried to be polite, but really I was not far from tearing this rude individual's head clean off of his shoulders.  He did not move.  I put my mouth right next to his ear, "Listen punk!" I said through clenched teeth, "I have far more important things to do than to beat around the bush with garbage like you.  Get the hell out of my way or I will make your life a living hell!"

        It was then that he finally spoke.  "Hell?"  He said in a soft voice, almost a whisper.  He did not move.  The soft voice came from deep within the shadows of his hood.  "Yes.  Let us talk about hell for a while, doc.  What I want to know is who gave you the authority to deal out the cruelty of hell.  Was it the devil himself?
         
        Then he looked up.  He appeared to be young but very weathered and tired.  He had a black beard of stubble that must have been a day or two in the making.  His eyes were dark and shadowed.  His sinister glare met mine with enough hate to make even a man like me sweat a drop.  It was obvious, just by the looks of him that this man was emotionally tortured.  His glare said it was because of me, and it spoke loudly. 

        What did he mean?  I suppose he could only be referring to one thing.  But, how could he know?

        I didn't know how to react.

        "I don't know who you are," I growled, "but I don't like you and I definitely don't need to hear your uncontrolled rants about whatever crap you think is wrong with you.  Get the hell out of here! Now! And do not come back!" I was quite stern. This had an effect on him that I did not expect.

        A split second later I had a nine millimeter pistol aimed directly between my eyes.  It must have been concealed within in his sweater pocket.  Considering the now heightened stakes of the situation the man stayed very calm and did not so much as break eye contact with me.  And I must say, due to my extensive experience with his type, I kept my cool quite well, also. 
"Go sit down at your desk, doctor.  We are going to have ourselves a bit of a session.  Walk over there.  Sit down.  Don't say a word.  I will be asking the questions, not you."  He didn't so much as flinch, stammer, or squeak his demand.  He had planned this.

        What could I do?  I had a gun to my face and no weapons readily available.  I did what he said.  I turned and started to walk toward my desk.  It was then, if I am assuming correctly that he hit me in the head with his pistol.  I heard a loud crack, felt a terrible pain shoot down my neck, and I fell hard to the floor.  My vision wavered for a moment, and then the dimming light of evening went completely black. 

        It seemed I had only blinked.  I opened my eyes and found myself sitting at my desk.  The room was dark except for my desk lamp which put off a small amount of light.  I had a headache worthy of two pain pills and a shot of whisky.  Oddly enough, right in front of me was those exact items, two pills, a bottle of jack, and even a pack of my favorite brand of cigarettes.  My digital clock glowed 9:59pm.  I had been out for more than five hours. 

        At the time I remembered nothing from earlier that day.  I figured I may have fallen asleep drinking my Jack.  That would have explained the headache.  What's the best way to get rid of a headache?  Do the same thing that gave you the headache, drink more Jack.  So I did.  I lit up a cigarette, also.  The headache was gone already.  Then, a terrible knocking at my office door shot the pain back into my head.  The pain was an opening flood gate that burst memories from earlier back into my mind.  This must be him.  He is back.  What now? 

         I didn't say anything this time.  He just walked right in.

         In fact, he walked in with so much confidence that his firm, fast strides were somehow frightening.  He sat down, pulled the hood back off his head, and out of his pocket he pulled his gun and set it hard on the table, the barrel aimed at me.  I wondered how he had gotten past the night guards at this hour.  But as quick as the thought had come, it had gone.

         I opened my mouth to speak, but he spoke first.  With a snap he said, "There will be no need for you to speak.  I will do most of the talking."

         The one-sided conversation went exactly as follows.

         "Dr. Stevens, I am going to get right to the point. I don't like to beat around the bush.  I am here for a purpose." His words were clear and sharp.  He definitely was not joking. "And that purpose is to expose you.  And then kill you."

         I knew by looking at him that this was his true intent.  His eyes were hard. He was in no way nervous or afraid.  This man was going to kill me.

         "Actually, to be more precise, I'm going to kill you, and then I'm going to expose you.  And it will be in that order."

         I tried to speak, "What is the..."

         "Stop." He cut me off. "I said that I will do the talking.  One more time, and you will not have a voice at all."

         I wish I had known what he was capable of before I spoke again, but I admit, I was foolish in my action. I said, "Sir, if you are here to kill me then do so now.  Get on with it."  I must say I meant it.  I do not care much for life, not even my own. Death does not frighten me.  I have had great experience dealing it out, and if I do say so I think I am ready to go.

         "Apparently, Dr. Stevens, you can't listen. Well, now doc, you can't speak either."

         I expected him to reach over the desk and gag my mouth or tape it shut or even cut out my throat. What I did not expect is for him to sit there and not even so much as flinch.  He sat comfortable and collected, with a face of determined stone.  "Well, by what means are you going to make me a mute?" I said.  At least I tried to say it.  I am certain my lips moved and I felt my throat vibrate the sound.  But to my dismay, the words came out silent, or maybe not at all.  It was a peculiar sensation.  I spoke, but I didn't.  I tested my voice by yelling off the top of my lungs. Silence. The man smiled a cocky but sad smile.  I was very curious about how he did it.  I found soon enough that he was a man capable of many such tricks.

         "I bet you're wondering how I did that." He said. His voice cut through silence, sharp and pointed like a knife thrown with precision.

         I tried to say, "As a matter of fact I am." But of course, silence.

         "Doc, because of your lack of developed listening skills (which is odd, because you are a damn psychiatrist) I am forced to explain a few things. First of all this is all happening in your head."

         This guy is out of his mind, I thought.

         "Actually, doc, you are very close." He said, replying to my thought, which I must say was very strange, almost dizzying to contemplate. I wondered if I had said it out loud.  But of course, in this circumstance, that would have been impossible.  He continued, "Actually, I am inside your mind. Impossible, I know." He said, again, in reply to my thought. "But not quite.  Let me tell you a little about myself.  It might clear a few things up"

         "I am a child of rape.  No, doc, I was not raped as a child, you ignorant fool. How did you get a degree in psychiatry. I mean, my mother was raped, and I am simply a byproduct of the terrible act.  Whether or not that has anything to do with my condition I don't know, but I like to assume that it does.  I call it a condition, but more likely it is a gift.  I consider it a gift that allows me to facilitate a way to execute necessary revenge." 

         I am sure at that moment that my eyes widened with confusion.

         "Did I lose you? I will break it down.  At a very young age I found that not only did I have thoughts and ideas of my own, but also those of anyone nearby.  At first it was only echoes of their inner voice.  As I grew older and stronger, however, so did my so-called gift. I found I was able to peer deep into the minds of absolutely anyone.  Not only their minds though, but also their hearts.  I could see true intent in people.  I could feel their emotion as if it were my own.

         The deeper I was able to peer into ones being, the more and more I learned.  Instantly, someone's knowledge and experience would be copied and transferred into my own mind. This is, I suppose, why I was able to survive on my own at such a young age.

         As a boy I often peered into my mother's being.  In her mind I saw her troubled life.  I saw how it gave her strength.  As strong as she was though, she teetered on the brink of strength and a breakdown.  I admired her for that, on the edge but hanging on so fervently.  To have been raped and have the heart to raise me as she did is a testimony of how mighty she was.  I grew older though, and my face began to resemble the man that raped her.  After a while she stopped looking at me altogether. She loved me, I know, but it was too hard for her.

         When she put me up for adoption I was not mad, or even very sad.  Sure I'd miss her, but I had seen her mind, her heart, and felt her pain.  She truly could not take it. 

So I grew older in foster care.  Believe me, there are no worse people than those who work at foster homes.  Sure they have an honorable job taking care of unwanted children, but they deceive.  Within them are shadows that twist and taint the heart into something sinister. But that's not the point.

         "Years later I learned that my mother, after having put me up for adoption, committed suicide.  She finally tumbled over the edge.  I was sad, but I understood.  The good news was that in her mind and memories I happened to see the face of the bastard who raped her.          

         Let me repeat an earlier statement, doc.  I consider it a gift to facilitate a way to execute necessary revenge. I think I was given this gift to ensure that the rapist got what he deserved.  The man who raped my mother deserved to pay for her death.  I knew his face.  I knew where it happened. I knew I would have revenge, and it would be hers, more than it would be mine.  My mother, wherever she is, would be thankful. 

        I ran away from the orphanage.

         Do not forget that I had the knowledge and experience of countless adults.  I was very young, but I could function alone more than efficiently.  The city streets felt like home.

         Anyway, after a time I found him.  And to make a long story short, I killed him.  I stabbed him while he was in a heroin induced coma.  He died face down in the filth of the street.  He got what he deserved.  My mother had her revenge and I had a new found purpose.

         This brings me here to you, Dr. Stevens.  My gift got better and better with age and experience.  I discovered that I can manipulate a mind well enough to put my self there, in a way.  Right now, you lie unconscious on the ground, just over there, where you fell.  I am somewhere else, creating this delusion.  It is built on your own mind and memory, doc. I hope you like it."

         I looked around the room.  It looked real.  The chair felt real.  But there was the issue of my voice. It was the type of thing to happen in a dream.  I noticed, then, that all the books on the shelves seemed to be a bit blurry.  I could not focus my eyes to make out any titles.  It was very peculiar.

         "Revenge," he went on, "is why I am here.  There are a lot of people out there who can not wait to hear that you are dead.  I am one of them.  They will all get there revenge, Dr. Stevens."

         It appeared that a tear might be forming in his eye.  At first I thought it was an illusion, a trick of the eye.  But surely a tear then streaked down his cheek.

        He spoke through clenched teeth.  "And so will I."

         He stood up without another word and walked sharply toward the door.  "There are a few people I'd like you to meet, Dr."

         At the door, he turned to face me with his hand gripping the doorknob.  He paused a moment, waiting for something.  At this moment the face of that scared little girl, Kat, flashed before my eyes.  It occurred to me that if I am killed by this peculiar man the beautiful Kat will get away without a newly sculpted profile.  I am not happy about that, but there is still hope.  Just prior to writing this entry I made a phone call.  My trusted accomplice usually just likes to watch me do my work, but in this special case he may do the job.  I did not mention tonight.  I felt there was no need to worry him.

         Kat came and went from my mind.  My attention was directed toward the disheveled man when there was a knock at the door.

         "Ah," he said, hand still on the knob, "our guests have arrived."

         He turned the doorknob and pulled open the door.  In through the threshold walked a beautiful young woman.  I recognized her at once.  The last time I saw her she was wearing a finely crafted mask prepared by yours truly.  This, of course, was impossible.  I killed her six months ago; changed her face and sat her in the park propped up against a statue of George Washington.  I was very proud of my work on her.  She screamed until just before my final cut.  Strong girl, determined to live. 

         I wondered if this man may have hired a look alike, but she wore the dress she wore that night.  How could he have known what she wore?  He couldn't have, of course.  Maybe he was telling the truth about this dream nonsense.  Impossible. 

         A second girl walked in after the first.  I recognized her too.  I did her about a year ago.  Then, a third girl entered, followed my three more.  And then another, and another.  Soon enough, my large comfortable office felt quite small.  Twenty-two beautiful young women all with familiar faces were standing in front of me.  Their expressions almost brought a tear to my eye believe it or not.  They looked very sad, which I am sure they all were, considering what I did to them all.  What do I care?  I enjoyed it. 

        At this point I started to believe the young man.  I killed every last one of these women, yet here they were, staring at me with a hatefully sad countenance.  It depressed me.  It was as if all my work was for nothing.

        From behind the crowd of women, the young man spoke. "Here they are, doc.  Every girl you brutally murdered.  I just wanted you to look them in the eyes in your last few moments.  See what they saw."

        An image of me holding a bloody knife flashed before my eyes.  It was a vision from someone else's eyes.

        "Hear what they heard."

        Screams filled my office.  The echo of my own laughter joined in.  A shiver ran up my spine, and for a moment I felt afraid.

        "And especially, feel what they felt."

        Suddenly, my face exploded with immense pain.  Blades sliced my flesh. Chunks of skin were cut away.  I tried to slap the knife away but it was not there.  I saw myself with the blade.  I screamed in pain. I cried.  Then, it stopped.

        I sat in my chair, unable to move.  Tears dripped from my chin. I expected to see blood everywhere.  There was none.  My face was intact. It didn't really happen.

        The myriad of women in front of me parted down the middle.  At the end of the corridor they formed stood the young man.  Beside him stood a younger woman, maybe sixteen years old, holding his hand.  I remembered her as well.  Despite the lingering pain in my face, I smiled.  I almost forgot about her.  It must have been about seven years ago.

        "Here she is, doc." He said.  "She was the first wasn't she?"

        "She was." I said, still smiling.  "I had a sudden urge that day.  I had to kill.  I can't explain the temptation, but I am thankful for it."

        "I'm sure she isn't." He said.  The twenty-two other women turned and walked out of my office.  They each shot a glare towards me that could shatter souls.  Their faces were now bloody and mangled, just as I left them.  It was nice to see my work again. 
My office returned to its proper commodiousness.  With the horde of women gone it didn't feel quite so claustrophobic.  Now, only the young man and the younger girl were present.  He brought her to my desk and sat her down in one of the chairs.  He sat beside her. 

        "She is the main reason I am here, doc." He grabbed the gun that was on the table and stuffed it into his sweater pocket.  "I spent seven years in this city searching the minds of countless men.  There isn't a person in this city I do not know by heart, doc.  I must say you were difficult to find.  Usually, I will enter the mind of one person and come across a memory of someone I am looking for.  Not too many people know you, though, doc.  You must not be too sociable."

      He looked at the young woman sitting beside him.  She returned with her own stare.  With her hand still in his she smiled.  He began to cry.

        "I've see the hearts of many different kinds of people." His voice quivered, as tears ran down his face.  "There are very bad people out there.  For every two bad people, though, there is one good person, doc.  There are those who follow the rules.  There are those who try to make a positive difference."  Through his tears emerged a hint of a smile.  "This is Sarah Martin, Dr. Stevens.  She was your first victim.  She was my only friend.  Never before have I seen a heart as pure as hers.  She was the epitome of the genuine heart, doc, and you stole her.  You stole her from me, and you stole her from the world."

        He closed his eyes to cut away the streaming tears.  I glanced over to the girl.  She sat, staring back.  She looked different now.  Her eyes were glazed over with a milky film.  Mud matted her hair.  The dress she wore dripped with water and blood.  Her neck was open from one ear to the other where I had cut it, seven years ago.  Blood poured out as it had when I cut her.  If I touched it, I am sure it would have been warm.  She blinked.  My stomach turned sour, and for a moment I thought I might vomit.  I closed my eyes and tried to get the image out of my mind.  When I opened them she was gone.  The young man watched me now.  His tears were gone and the look of hateful sadness shaped his countenance once again. 

        "Tonight, you will die for everyone you murdered.  But I will be killing you for her.  Sarah Martin was a pure soul, Dr. Stevens.  You will pay for what you have done."  He shifted in his seat, leaning closer to me.  "In a moment you will wake up on the floor.  When you do, you will walk over to your desk and you will write in your journal about all of this.  You will confess to all your murders, especially Sarah's. You will reveal the whereabouts of Katherine Mooney.  Do you understand?"

        "All I could do was nod my head.  I had every intention of doing as he says. "Good." He said.  And without another word he stood up, turned around and walked out the door. 

      The door slammed behind him and I awoke.  There I was on the floor of my office just as he had said.  My neck hurt something fierce.  I Struggled to my feet and touched behind my ear.  My fingers came back covered in blood.  He must have hit me hard.
I stumbled to my desk and sat down.  The walk was only about five steps, but it took the wind right out of me.  My journal was already on my desk, open to my last entry.  So I began to write about what happened tonight.  This, of course, brings me up to date.

        It will feel good to write these words.

        I brutally murdered twenty-three women.  I destroyed their beautiful faces while they were still alive.  I have made a list of their names; they are tucked within the pages of this journal.
I deserve a horrible and most painful death.  I have a feeling it will be only moments from now.           

        My trusted accomplice has only last night captured me another beautiful woman.  Sadly enough, she will make it out alive.  She can be found in the home of Allen Daye.  7709 W. Sunder St. 

*          *          *

      Detective Daye had finished reading, but he still stared at his name and address as he tried to figure out what it was that he was going to do.  Chief Jones already read this.  He knows.

        It crossed his mind to try and flee, but he knew that it would be impossible.  He surveyed his surroundings.  The photographers were gone.  In the room were four men.  Chief Jones and Detective Marcus stood close beside him.  Marcus was on one side, the chief on the other.  They each had a hand ready to draw their firearm.  Two uniformed cops guarded the entry door.  They too had a hand on their weapon. 

        "The killer must have been in the room," Daye said, knowing there was no way out of this. "waiting for Dr. Stevens to finish this confession."  His voice was quiet, mellow and docile.  He had already accepted that he had no chance.  In only moments he would be cuffed, read his rights, and hauled off to prison.  "Considering the ballistics, my guess is that he hid behind the curtains there, just behind the desk.  When the Dr. put his pen down he stepped forward and took the shot."

        Daye's heart pumped like a thousand pistons.  Sweat beaded up on his brow.  His hand twitched with the urge to draw his weapon and open fire on the men in the room.  He slowly reached for it, but before his fingers felt the cold metal of his pistol, Chief Jones spoke.

        "Mullins found Katherine Mooney bound and gagged in your basement, Daye."  Detective Daye didn't so much as twitch.  He stood still and unmoving with the boldness of a statue.  "She told him you arrested her in the middle of the night last night for suspicion of prostitution.  You brought her to your house, tied her up and went to sleep as if none of it had happened.  When was Dr. Stevens coming to do his thing?  Would it have been tonight?"

        It was dead silent for a moment that seemed like forever.  Finally, Daye said, "Yes."  Chief Jones and Marcus had their pistols out in a fraction of a second. 

        "He would have come over and done his work.  I would have watched.  Afterward, he would have made a little mask up and put it on her contorted face.  Then, I would load her up in the middle of the night and display her somewhere to my liking.  I was thinking the fountain in front of the art museum this time."  He smiled, and finally his hand reached for his gun.

        He took aim at the chief.  But before he could pull the trigger, Marcus shot off two rounds.  One missed.  The other pierced through the back of his right shoulder, disabling his trigger arm.  Chief Jones took a shot also.  His landed in Daye's left knee, dropping him instantly.  For a moment he writhed in pain, groaning and cursing.  A moment later his vision wavered.  The room went black.

*          *          *

        He woke up to the sound of a siren.  He was in the back of an ambulance still in pain and handcuffed to his gurney.  A man wearing latex gloves and holding a syringe was tending to his wounds.

        "You're dressed kind of funny for a paramedic, don't you think?"  Daye managed to say despite the pain he was in.
The man wore a black hooded sweatshirt and tattered jeans.  His hair was dark and in disarray.  A beard of stubble covered his face. 

        "I'm not a paramedic." The man said.

        "You're not?  Then why the hell are you in here?"

        "I am here to kill you Allen Daye."  Daye said nothing, only stared.  "The world will know that you are dead and they will be thankful.  The families of the twenty-two victims of the Mask Maker will have their revenge.  So will those of the genuine hearted Sarah Martin.  So will I."

        Daye suddenly realized who he was.  "You killed Dr. Stevens."

        "I did.  This is your last moment Allen.  Is there anything you would like to say?"

        The ambulance cried out, its siren wailing.  "Who the hell are you?"  Daye asked with both wonder and bitterness.

        "I am Karma, Detective Daye.  Today, you will get what you deserve, just as Dr. Stevens did.  The world will be thankful."

        The disheveled man stuck the syringe deep into the artery in Detective Daye's arm.  Without hesitation he pumped him with a vein full of air.  The bubble found the heart.  His body tensed, his teeth clenched, and then he went limp.  "The world will be thankful." The man called Karma said. 

        When the ambulance stopped at the hospital he slipped away quickly and unnoticed.  He disappeared into the city streets where he feels at home.  In his mind he saw Sarah Martin.  She was smiling.

        The world will be thankful.