Chapter 3 Modus Operandi #2
"That's a good strategy," he concedes. "Don't give them the rope to hang you with. If they don't have the evidence, don't give them any."
"I don't— it's not a fucking strategy, Clyde. I don't have any clear memories more recent than 2019!” My temper rises with the fear of what I might not be remembering. The person I've become in the years I can't recall.
Both his brows raise in disbelief, "Mr. Fomori, anything you tell me in confidence is just between us. This charade, while believable, is unnecessary. Save it for them."
I swear to fucking god I can feel my blood boiling. My cheeks heat with fury at the insinuation that I'd fucking fake this shit.
I bite through my teeth at him, "I'm tied to a fucking hospital bed with nothing but a sheet covering me. I woke up with a glorified straw inside of my body and I haven't worn any fucking underwear in weeks. Tell me in what fucking world you think I'd be doing all of that by choice."
He looks at me sideways, "In a world where the alternative is the state calling for your death by lethal injection."
All the heat building in my face leaves as quickly as it came, leaving me cold all over, with my heart pounding in an unsteady rhythm, echoing in my ears.
"Death penalty?" I mutter. "What could I have possibly done to warrant that?"
"Between you and I, I don't think it's a matter of what you've done but to whom," he assures me. "You don't know anything about the Morrison robbery? What about Chance Michelson?”
"Never heard of either of them."
“Back in September, there was an attempted robbery at a weapons warehouse.
Authorities managed to stop it, but they believe you to be involved.
And Chance is— was a very influential talking head in the community.
A pillar of philanthropy, a beloved son," he drones on about this person's contribution to society until my ears nearly bleed.
"I get it, he was a fucking angel," I struggle against the straps, pins and needles breaking out across my forearm from the tight fit. "What does he have to do with me?"
"Someone fitting your M.O. killed him about a month before you were found beaten nearly to death at your house,” he explains, holding up a picture of my own bruised and bloodied face, swollen and disfigured.
Not that I needed the reminder, the scar along the back of my head still throbs.
Blunt force trauma. Likely a baseball bat, the doctor said.
But what really sticks out to me, more than my horrendous photograph, is the wording he used. "My MO?"
"Your modus operandi. Excuse me, your alleged MO.
The method of murder they believe you to be responsible for," he grabs another photograph, holding it far closer to me than I ever hoped to see this kind of graphic horror.
"See there? On the under side of both arms, cut deep enough to hit the brachial artery, but at such an angle that the flesh of the arm falls, creating the illusion of-"
"Wings," I finish for him, staring at the crime I supposedly committed.
There's no denying that a monster did this to this man.
A methodical, calculated monster. The slices are nothing short of pristine, cutting away a slab of underarm until it lies flat against the concrete beneath him, leaving bone and sinew exposed, turning both arms into bloodied wings.
There's no other sign of struggle on the body where it's been laid on the ground. Not even a bruise on the face to signify a fight. There's no way to have done this without some form of sedation.
"Were there drugs in his system?" I ask.
"So you do remember?" my lawyer raises a brow, tucking the evidence away.
With a shake of my head, I grimace, thankful to no longer be looking at the vile image. "There's no way anyone could make cuts that clean on a conscious person."
I shouldn't know this.
I know plenty about weaponry, both knives and firearms, and those far more lethal.
But that was always in theory. In practice, the only thing I ever harmed was made of plastic and foam.
Clyde's hum of thought barely reaches my ears before he pulls out another photo.
Similar, but messy. Jacked lines through the flesh, blood splattered in wild patterns across the ground. This man's face is covered in bruises.
"This is allegedly one of your first kills," he explains. "No narcotics found in his system."
"Who is he?" I look away, terrified that I'm not having more of a reaction to these grisly murders.
With a squint, he mutters another name I don't recognize. "No one really investigated his death until more bodies started popping up with the same signature. Then it came out that he was peddling drugs to kids and peddling those kids to... not kids."
"Good fucking riddance, then."
"Some people think you're a hero," he chuckles. "Had you gone to prison instead of here, you'd be set for life in there."
"And that's why they want me dead."
Someone the people see as a hero can only be one of two things. A martyr or a scapegoat.
Clyde laughs again but has no answer.
"Who's that other one? Chase."
"Chance," he corrects me. "He's the philanthropist."
"Nah," I shake my head. "Who was he really?"
"One of the other guys’ customers." His answer doesn't surprise me in the slightest. If people cheered for their deaths, I can only imagine what kind of monsters they were while alive. "No one knew of his proclivities until his death left him unable to hide them any longer."
"How many?" I ask the question I've been dreading. "How many bodies have been found like this?"
He hesitates, clearing his throat, "They've spent the last few months gathering reports from throughout the state.”
"How many, Clyde?" My head is already swimming with the possibility that I killed two people. Even worse, that I feel no guilt if I did.
"The current number is seventeen."
"Seventeen," I repeat.
He nods, "Seventeen, all the same way."
"What about," I clear my throat, feeling suddenly parched. "What about survivors? Witnesses?”
"Whoever was committing these crimes, they planned for everything.
The victims weren't the only ones testing positive for anesthetics.
Anyone who was around them when they were taken reported hallucinations and dissociation before everything went pitch black, leaving it impossible to find a trustworthy witness. "
"And how did they tie it back to me?" I'm almost afraid to ask.
Pointing the pen at my neck, he answers nervously, "The bat spanning your neck and the MO share symbolism. Bás Dorcha. Dark death. The killer turned these angels of the community into winged monsters, showing the world how evil they truly were. Paired with your reclusive nature…” he trails off, waving his arm around.
"They claim they were in the process of obtaining a warrant, but someone else got to you first.”
"So they think I killed seventeen people because of my tattoo and being a hermit,” I nod. "At best, that has to be circumstantial, right?"
Clyde barks out an uneasy laugh. "We haven't even started the trial yet, Mr. Fomori. There's no way of knowing what they found in your place of business or home. If they can tie your DNA to even one crime scene, they'll try to find you guilty for all of them."
"Fuck."
"On the bright side, you're not currently equipped to go to prison."
"How is that the bright side?" I scoff in disbelief.
He shrugs, "We don't even have to prove you didn't do it. Just that you're mentally unable to stand trial." He glances at his watch, "I've just about run out of time before they return. We'll be in touch."
Without another word, he slides his card onto my bedside table and ushers himself out the door, the brush of his too-long pants sliding across the floor with every step.