For My Big Brother

March 3rd

I always kind of hated my brother. Well, hate is a strong word. I just always hated how easy everything was for him. He’s two years older than me, but everything just comes so easily for him. In highschool, he was in ROTC, taking courses in criminal justice so he could get a leg up on his law enforcement career, and had a string of friends and girlfriends to make his highschool years amazing. He never seemed to study, always retained what he needed for tests, and finished his highschool years half a year early with a nearly perfect GPA. He didn't need to, he could have gone straight to the police academy, but he chose to join the Army for four years; saying it was his “duty to his country. He served as an MP and later as a base investigator for base related crimes. When he got out, he was practically ready to start police work already.

Now he’s a hot shot detective, while the only thing I got out of five years of highschool was negative comparisons to my perfect brother and too many bullies to count.

But, it looks like his streak may be coming to an end now that this new string of murders keeps piling up.

They’re calling him the West End Canibal and his crimes are truly horrific. He meets woman online, pretty common in this day and age, and then murders them in their own homes. He cuts them open, sometimes stealing their organs, and they’ve found bites and burns on them as well. The missing organs lead them to believe that he’s eating them, but they don't really seem to have any proof. My brother talks ceaselessly about this guy during our weekly meetups to have a beer and talk about life. This is something he insists on since it gives him a lot of opportunities to talk about himself. My work is so boring that no one in their right mind would want to hear about it. Very little happens to me that would make anyone want to hear about my life, probably why I’m still single.

“The crux of it is,” my brother told me last week as he sat on his stool at O'Malley's pub, “is that I don't think the bites belong to him. We’ve found dental records from three different sets of teeth and one of them came back with dental records on a recently deceased person.”

“So what? He’s a grave robber too?” I asked, not really interested, but still wanting to hear him flounder.

“The guys still buried though. We exhumed his body, his wife was right pissed, and found his teeth intact. We’re chasing our tails here. This guy isn’t giving us a lot to work with, and his body count is nearly in the double digits.”

I pretended to be speculative, but really I was laughing into my beer at him. My perfect brother, so confident and sure of himself, was being thwarted by some nobody. I had sat on this stool for years just waiting for a story like this. I know it sounds petty, but I liked to see him unsure of himself. It makes me realize that he’s just as human as I am.

March 12

There were another two murders this week.

He called me this time, not having time for a beer as the department scrambles to figure this out.

“I just don't get it,” he said and his voice sounded tired, “this guy is a genuine ghost. We have him picking up his first victim on Tinder, but his second victim was some random woman from a bar. Jesus, but he really did a number on her. He slashed one of her breasts off completely, we found it in a corner, and all of her organs were just strewn about the bathroom. We had kind of thought that maybe he was selling them or something, but now he’s not even taking them with him. He’s just dismembering them and leaving them sitting around.”

I pretended to listen, cleaning up so I could get home as I prepared to leave my job, but my face likely looked like a kids on Christmas morning. He was really worried about this, he was really worried that he couldn't solve this case. I remembered a year ago as I watched something similar happening, feeling that this would be the moment of his failure, and wanting to see it. When he caught the guy though, a middle aged cubical jockey who was murdering prostitutes instead of buy a Jaguar like everyone else midlife crisis, I had watched him crow about it at a press conference and tried not to puke. If pride came before a fall, then his fall was a long time coming.

“I...I don't know what I’m going to do, bro. I’ve been sleeping like shit and I think Carol is starting to suspect that I’m cheating on her.”

“Are you?” I asked, ready to put some more arrows in my quiver.

“No, of course not.” I made a note of his quick dismissal, doubting it and saving it for later, “but she sees these long hours and jumps to conclusions. I’m out all night, pounding the pavement and going over evidence, so I must be out with some whore or someone from the office. I cant understand it. I’ve always taken care of her and the kids. I don't know where all of this is coming from.”

“Are you on the job now?”

“Yeah, we’re driving to a scene now. I’m hoping like hell it's just a copycat, someone who's a little sloppier than this guy. We tried to keep this out of the news, but when ten girls get cut up like this, it's almost impossible to keep it quiet. I need to catch this guy, my reputations on the line here. My boss,” I could hear him reach up to rub the bridge of his nose as he paused, “is really coming down on me about this. Uhp, we’re here, I gotta go. Be safe out there, little brother. Theres a lot of crazies out there.”

I smirked as he hung up, glad to hear he was worried.

Maybe this would end his career, let him see how us normal people lived in the muck of disappointment for a while. Hasn't I lived in it for most of my life? Did my parents throw me a party and buy me a car when I finished college? Had they helped me take my state boards and paid for all kinds test prep that he didn't need and I desperately had? Did they constantly talk about my perfect job and perfect family everytime they called to “see how I was doing”? No, they didn't give a shit about me any more than he did.

He just wanted a sounding board for his ideas and someone to nod and tell him, “Sure big bro, you're so right.”

Maybe it was his turn to be wrong for a change.

March 21

He must be getting desperate.

He actually asked me to come and take a look at a crime scene with him.

I was just heading to the bar, ready to be regaled on how he could have possibly let this guy kill thirteen women and still have no idea who the killer was, when he called me. He sounded even more frantic this time, the lack of sleep was starting to catch up with him, I could tell, and he sounded like a cornered animal. I didn't let the glee leek into my voice as I listened to him, but I don't see how he couldn't hear it.

“Hey, uh, would you mind giving me a second set of eyes?”

“Eyes? For what?”

“We found number fourteen today. This guy, I swear, he doesn't seem to sleep. He just finds these woman and kills them without hesitation. I don't know what to do! I’m coming up with nothing! We found more weird bites on this one, and I feel like maybe you should come take a look and maybe...I dunno give me your insight.”

“Well, I’m no detective. I don't see how I could be of any help.”

“No, but you work at the mortuary. Maybe you can notice something on the body or notice something on the bites? All my guys are coming up blank here, bro. Anything you can tell me would be amazing.”

I contemplated telling him that I was busy, but thought better of it.

Maybe I could help him out, give him some insight.

Wouldn't that just burn him righteously.

He picked me up near my apartment and we rode to the crime scene in silence. My brother kept his eyes forward, but he looked like a crack addict as he snuck glances at me. His hair was unkempt, his normally smooth face covered in course stubble, and he shook a little as he drove. I assumed he was past coffee and had moved up to caffeine pills as he neared his third week of dealing with these murders. What must Carol think of her husband now that he had completely fallen apart?

When we pulled up to the motel, a dingy little place near the interstate, he put a hand on my arm before I got out and I looked at him darkly.

“I wanna thank you for agreeing to this. Its pretty brutal in there, nothing I’m sure you’re not used to though. I...I’m up against it, bro. I don't know what to do.” and when he said it, he started to cry, “I’ve never had it this hard. This guy...its like hes playing with me. He’s always one step ahead of me and my investigators. I don't know what I’m going to do if I cant solve this case. The chief is really coming down on me, and if I cant give him answers, I’m going to lose my place as squad leader. I...I need some help. Do you think you could help me?”

I almost couldn't hold my smile. He wanted my help? This was like Christmas and New Years and losing my virginity rolled into one. My perfect brother wanted my help. I could just freeze it and eat it. It was so sweet. I agreed, patting his hand and telling him that I would do what I could.

We moved into the room and I could see that the body was still there. The room was a mess, blood everywhere, little cards with numbers on them marking organs and little cast off items. The womans clothes were laying beside the bed, a long hypodermic needle nestled in the bed clothes beside her cold body, and her splayed out on the bed itself with her dead eyes looking at the ceiling. He let me come in, said he’d explain my footprints if it came up, and gave me gloves just in case. We stood over the bed on opposite sides, my brother looking ready to pop as I assessed the crime scene with my untrained eye.

“We got a tip off about an hour ago. Guy called ahead and had the room key waiting at the desk. He sent the girl into get the keys and used a prepaid card so we couldn't track the activity. The card had this transaction on it and the activation notice two weeks ago. He activated it with a burner cell that is pinging from a landfill, so we assume he got rid of it. He brought the girl in, shot her full of muscle relaxer, and murdered her. No cameras around to see him, no clerk to ID him, no nothing. Left on foot about two hours ago and left the girl and her car here.”

“You’re sure it was the same guy?” I asked.

“No, but the MO is the same. Organs removed with surgical skill, medical grade muscle relaxer used to subdue her, no prints found anywhere, and he left her to be found like this.”

“Didn't you say he usually killed them at their homes though?”

“Yeah, but she was different. Mrs. Melinda Kaugh had a husband who was at home at the time of her murder. She brought her lover here so they wouldn't get caught. Boy did she bet on the wrong guy.”

I took a look around, under the bed and beside the mattress, and moved into the bathroom and around the motel sink. He’d deposited most of her organs into the sink, writing CHEATER on the glass in her blood, before throwing her heart into the toilet. It was all still as he’d left it, the cops had moved nothing, but it certainly let people know what they were dealing with. After about half an hour of looking, I turned back and shrugged.

“Sorry, I don't see anything different. Did you, by chance, find out what kind of muscle relaxer the killer was using?”

“No,” he said with a sigh, “he must have took it with him.”

“Well, whoever opened her up knows his way around a set of instruments. The cuts aren't sloppy and the organs were removed with care. But I’m guessing you had figured that out after fourteen bodies.”

He nodded, “Yeah, we’ve been canvasing databases for doctors, surgeons, even veterinarian. So far nothing.”

I shrugged again, “I don't know, you’re the cop, not me. All I can tell you is what I see.”

He sighed, “It’s fine. I’ll call you a cab. I really want to stay and have a look at the scene again. Thanks for your help though, I really appreciate it.”

He was talking on the phone as I left, calling that cab, and as he finished, I heard his phone chirp again and he answered it. I showed myself out, lingering by the door as a gentle sprinkling of rain began. I could hear him talking to someone through the open door, and it didn't sound work related. He was telling someone about his hard day, about how this case was killing him, and they must have said something that made him laugh because his next words seemed more upbeat. He told them where he was if they wanted to come visit him at work.

“I could use a shower like you wouldn't believe. Maybe I’ll get a room as far from this one as possible and tell my wife I’m working late again.”

I smirked as the cab rolled up.

Seemed my hunch about his extramarital affairs was right.

Seems my brother wasn't as perfect as everyone thought.

April 4

My brother just called me, but I doubt he’ll be on time.

They found another victim, number twenty actually, and my brother was more than a little upset about it.

He called me from the scene, and I could hear other cops in the background as he stepped out of the apartment.

“Where are you?” he asked, his voice husky.

“My apartment. Is something wrong?”

He just breathed heavily for a moment as I heard the elevator open and close in the background.

“Dede is dead?” he said with a little sob as he put his back against the wall in that way he does when news hits him hard.

“I’m sorry to hear that, but I don't think I know who that is.”

“She’s...was...look I was having a hard time, okay? Carol was icing me out at home, this case was really getting to me, and Dede was just...there for me, okay?”

I nodded, setting the box I was carrying onto my coffee table as I went back for another box, “So you were having an affair.”

It wasn't a question.

“Yes,” he said, sounding like I had rung the omission out of him.

“And now this killer you can't catch has caught her, am I mistaken?”

“Yeah, you have no idea how much effort it took to pretend like I didn't know her. I had to stand in that apartment, smelling her perfume and the smell of her hot blood, and just…” he sobbed again,” but...but I think I might have finally caught a lead.”

“Oh?” I set down the next box, feining surprise.

“I need you to stay where you are, okay? I want...I want to talk to you about what I may or may not know. I need you...I need to talk to you before anyone else talk to you. Can you do that?”

I smiled at the phone, “I’ll be right here when you get here. Don't worry, I’m always here for you, big brother.”

He hung up then and I tossed the phone in a corner somewhere as I arranged my boxes.

I wouldn't need it anymore.

The noose hung over the table like a surprised voyeur. Beneath it, sat boxes of evidence, trinkets I’d taken from my victims, the scalpels I’d used to dissect them, and, of course, the vial of muscle relaxer I’d taken from the scene of the very crime you had asked me to come have a look at. I know you’ll read this, big brother, so I have to thank you for the tag along on that one. I had been absolutely certain that you were calling me to let me know you wanted me to come to the station that day. I had just noticed that the vial was missing, a vial with my name on it and everything! I couldn't believe I had been so sloppy. Your forensics team was sure to find it and my little plan would be up in smoke.

When you asked me to come along, I thought it was a set up.

When you asked me to have a look at the scene and tell you what I thought, I was sure it was a set up.

When the vial was still there beside the mattress, hidden in a little notch beside the frame, I could have thanked God, if I believed in anything so archaic. It was easy to put it in my pocket and continue looking around, your addled brain too fixated on your crime scene to see me as more than a mouthpiece for what you already knew.

You see, the answer should have been clear from the start. You checked the surgeons, the doctors, the veterinarians, that was a slap in the face I can tell you, but you never thought to check the people WHO TAKE FUCKING ORGANS OUT OF DEAD BODIES EVERY DAY, YOU MORON!

It was easy to stay one step ahead of you. I’ve been sitting on that barstool and listening to you detail how you catch criminals for YEARS. I had all my ducks in a row from the first murder, I was one step ahead of you before you even knew I existed, and now I will be your greatest failure. You will never catch me, big brother, because when you find this journal, I will already be dead.

This will leave you with a tricky little dilemma.

You could inform your colleagues that I was the murderer this whole time. You could admit that you sat right across from me and fed me case specific information while being unable to identify a murderer in your own family. You could tell them this, but you know that your reputation will suffer for it and that it will be very difficult for them to trust you after such a revelation.

Or you could cover it up, dispose of all the evidence that I have gathered, and pretend that the murderer just stopped killing. You would technically get the win, no more murders means no more shame of being unable to solve them, but you would know, wouldn't you? You would know that I had beaten you, that I had won, and you would have to live with that understanding for the rest of your life.

Choice is yours, Big Brother.

I’m about to make mine right now