O'Neill

CHAPTER ONE

She cursed God, there at the end. He found that his mind kept going back to that thought, and found it rather odd that he should be surprised. It was the first time that had ever happened, after all. Most people – your average, everyday, sheep, as he liked to think of them – most people, when in that very same situation, are so choked up in tears begging for that very same deity to reach his omnipotent finger down and save their worthless, pathetic asses. In reality, he found this last one a…refreshing break from the norm.

Charles Walter O’Neill stopped dwelling and took a step back to survey the room, to appreciate his handiwork. This one had taken quite a bit of work. He just hoped it didn’t take them too long to find his latest masterpiece. The villa had been unoccupied for weeks, its owner gone for a trip across all of Europe and Russia, and would not be back for two months. The only one who would even set foot in the house during all that time was a house-sitter, a cousin who dropped by every so often, which had turned out to be once since the owner’s leaving. He had no idea when they would return. He hoped it was soon. He had made a beautiful scene, after all. This place looked so much like the Tate house, it was eerie.
He hadn’t killed her here. God, no – to do it here would’ve meant leaving evidence, and that is something he couldn’t have. No, he tortured her elsewhere, making all those little cuts and bruises in another location, and made sure there was a bucket underneath her when he took the scalpel and opened her carotid artery. It had taken effort to transport both the body and the gallon and a half of blood without leaving any proof behind, or being seen by anyone. But now, here he was. Challenging as it had been, he was now nearly ecstatic in the throes of his success. He couldn’t quite celebrate yet, though.

As he prepared to leave this house, the scene of his painstaking recreation, he took a mental picture. There she was, in the floor, right in front of the sofa. He had stripped her naked and smeared her with blood, making sure that he was giving her a thick enough coat so that a small pool would collect in the carpet beneath her. The forensics investigators would no doubt find that the bruises and small cuts were done prior to her death, and the stab wounds post-mortem. 16 times. Just like Tex did. He’d also tied a rope around her neck and then tied it to a man he’d picked up the other day. It had been a little careless of him, the way he’d done that, but necessity had dictated it. Two shots, and he had the other half of his scene.

He reached into the bag he’d brought with him, pulled out the American flag blanket he’d brought, and draped it over the couch behind the woman. Upside-down, just like the one at the Tate killings. Then, he dipped his latex-covered fingers into the bucket containing the remaining few ounces of her blood and...changed...the scene a little, writing “Mother...mother…” on the north wall. He pulled hoods over both of their heads, and finally, took a pair of needle-nosed pliers from the same bag. Without moving the body from its position, he carefully took her right hand, specifically her right pinky finger, clamped down with the pliers, and removed the fingernail, placing it in a small plastic bag that would go into the ‘trophy case’ back at home.

He changed the scene a little more as he left, leaving the door untouched. As he left the villa, he found he was whistling to himself. He never got over that. That sense of giddiness, that rush of endorphins that he felt. The wave of peace washed over him the very second that he’d done someone, and it always resulted in a good feeling for hours after. He ruled his world, his kingdom, his victims, and that was always a comforting thought. And as he walked away, the thought came to him, the same thought that always had when he walked away from his newest masterpiece: Man, it’s good to be king.