The Reason Why Baine Murders

Baine Marques is believed to be the perpetrator of the recent mass killings and bloody crime scenes. He’s twenty-three years old. His parents have been dead for a few years, and his brother when missing a year ago. We believe he began by killing individual people. Someone wandering the streets late at night, too drunk to run or sense the danger. He’s upped his game these past two months, going to bars and massacring everyone inside. There are never any survivors. I stare at him, taking in his features. Deep brown eyes and long black hair. He stares right back at me. Even when he’s in chains, I feel like I’m his prey.

It’s his eyes that are the most concerning. Most people brought here either look at you with malice or fear. I’ve even seen some killers who watch you with the excitement of a cat who’s just found a new mouse to play with. Marques is not like that. His eyes are empty. His whole face lacks emotion. He was just arrested, yet he seems to think nothing has happened.

“Baine Marques,” I say to him. He doesn’t even blink. “I assume you know why you’re here.”

He remains silent.

I gaze down at my file that lists the details of his arrest. “You were caught in the perimeter of the Baron Roadhouse. One of the victims was able to call the police before you killed them. When the police arrived, they described walls streaked with blood and there were pools of scarlet lining the floors. The police searched the area, and you were caught a few blocks away, walking in the opposite direction. You still had traces of blood on your hands. Would you say this is accurate?”

Nothing.

“One of the bartenders was Phoebe Williams.” I take out her photo and show it to him. “Do you recognize her? She was the one who made the phone call.”

His face is perfectly still. No twitch, flinch, nor smile. He keeps watching me, devoid of any sign of life. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was a zombie. A mindless creature that is mostly dead.

I put the file down. “Tell me, Mr. Marques, did you kill these people?”

“Yes,” he admits.

I raise an eyebrow. “Why did you chose to go to that bar and murder them?”

He looks away from me. “I was just walking around, and I happened to go into that building. I sat down. I got some drinks. An hour later, I walked out with a bloody knife in my hand. I found a public restroom and wiped off the knife, my face, and my hands. Well, I tried to get all the blood off. I had to leave there quickly. I deposited the knife and my gun―”

I stop him there. “As much as I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Marques, I’m here to know why you did this. I’m not trying to figure out what happened.”

His hollow eyes simply stare at me.

“You said you went in and had some drinks. Were you intoxicated when you killed those people?”

“The drinks had little effect on me,” he says quietly, turning away from me. “I didn’t have that many. I was fully aware of what I was doing.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Sometimes I get restless. It’s like my hands are just itching to do something.”

“Explain.”

“You won’t understand. No one does.”

“Try me.”

I watch his every move as he speaks. He shifts in his seat a little. He opens his mouth, then shuts it, trying to find the right words. “When it gets dark, I can’t sit still. My hands tingle and start to shake. I’ve tried being with my brother. It helped for a while, but then the feeling would come back. I tried talking to other people. I wanted to gain a connection in the hopes that it’d make that feeling go away. It didn’t work either. I’ve been going out to get drinks, but the nerves remain.”

“Did this feeling get worse when your brother disappeared?” I ask.

“The feeling was there before he was gone.”

“That’s not what I asked,” I state firmly. He remains expressionless. “Did they get worse when he disappeared?”

“Yes,” he confesses.

“The first person you killed was a drunk who you caught and took off to the side in an alleyway. Do you remember them?”

“They were talking about how miserable their life was. I spoke with them for a while. I shared what I was going through. He yelled at me and said I was insane. I…” he ponders for a moment. “I don’t remember what happened after that, only that I left and had to clean myself off. The nerves went away for a few days, but then they came back.”

“You were itching for violence?”

“I suppose so.”

“The first building that you hit was a small cafe. You came in the middle of the night and murdered the six people that were there. Do you remember that?”

He stares up at the ceiling light, silently begging it to restore his memories. “I thought I recognized someone there, but I was wrong.”

“Who?”

“I thought I saw my brother.”

I nod. The puzzle pieces start coming together. “You thought you saw your lost brother and something snapped?”

“Yes.”

“So you are saying that your brother made the nerves lessen but not die away completely, so when he vanished, the feeling got worse. You tried talking to strangers, but then you’d lash out. You’d kill them. You then tried to numb the feeling with alcohol, but you’d lose it then too. Maybe you’d think you saw your lost brother, and the memory of him hurts so in your daze you murder the people there. Am I right?”

“Yes.

“Have you ever tried looking for your brother?” I ask him.

“No.”

“Why not?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Because I was the one who killed him.”