Page 39 of So Bleak

“It’s been suggested that my obsession with Special Agent Faith Bold of the FBI is sexual in nature. I expected this comparison because for all of our insistence to the contrary, humans are, at their core, primates, and sexual expression is perhaps the foundational component of primate society. Still, the statement could not be further from the truth.

"I wished to break the façade of sanity that surrounds Faith, a façade that has been artificially strengthened by the renown she has received both within law enforcement and now to the wider public. I wished to show that even the greatest among us is as cruel and evil and, based at her core, the most violent of killers. I have failed. I underestimated her intelligence, and more so, I underestimated the lengths to which she would go to hide from the truth within her.

"But my point still stands. Faith Bold is no better than me. Her fascination with death and violence expresses itself in a manner more acceptable to society, but make no mistake. That sanity stands on a knife's edge. Don't be surprised if one day it is her who stands before you with the blood of innocents on her hands."

“What a fucking lunatic,” Michael said.

There was no anger in his voice, only contempt. West was beaten now and unworthy of his anger. If only Faith could feel the same way.

The channel cut back to the anchor. “While the majority of online respondents have decried West’s statement as ‘ludicrous’ and ‘the product of a deranged mind,’ some are quick to point out incidents in Special Agent Bold’s past that raise some serious concerns. In one particularly disturbing episode, she broke into an apartment and assaulted an innocent man who she erroneously believed to be the Copycat Killer, leaving him with thousands of dollars of damage that eventually led to his eviction from his home.”

Faith stiffened, and Michael lifted his hands in outrage. "What the hell?"

“In another, she commanded her K9 unit to viciously attack a South African tourist she falsely suspected of a series of poisoning deaths in the Twin Cities Terminal, an assault that left the man hospitalized with serious injuries and that nearly led to a diplomatic incident between the United States and South Africa.”

“Those fucking assholes!” Michael shouted. “Are they serious right now?”

“The FBI has not responded to requests for comment on—”

Michael stood and switched the TV off. The hand not holding the remote clenched and unclenched in time with his breathing. Turk jumped to his feet and looked around, sensing a threat but unsure where it was coming from.

Faith didn’t say anything for a long moment. She was too tired to try to wrap her head around what she had just seen. The only thing she was sure of was that even now, West still reached for her, clawing at the back of her mind, refusing to let go, refusing to stop until there was nothing left.

I will break you.

“We’re going to sue the hell out of those assholes,” Michael growled. “We’re going to sue them until they’re begging us to stop. We’re—”

“Just drop it, Michael,” Faith said. “Just…” She stood abruptly. “I’m going to bed.”

“Hey, don’t worry about what they’re saying. They’re just vampires. That’s all the news media is.”

“Yeah. I know. Good night, Michael.”

She headed to her bedroom before Michael could say anything else. Turk trotted after her, and when she collapsed onto her bed, he jumped on top of it with her and rested his head on her chest. She didn’t try to push him off. He wouldn’t have let her anyway.

She stroked his fur and stared at the ceiling. West’s taunting laughter echoed through the recesses of her mind. As though he were there in the room with her, she could almost hear his taunting voice crowing, “I told you I’d win, Faith.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

None of this was personal.

Well, that wasn’t true. It was all personal, but none of the victims were chosen because of a personal connection. The real problem wasn’t due to any one person after all. It was the entire culture. The entire industry. In some ways, the killer’s victims were victims of the industry before they ever fell prey to the killer’s poison.

That didn’t mean they weren’t guilty. The toxic culture in which they swam was toxic due to their actions and the actions of others like them. So while none of the specific people the killer chose were chosen because of a personal vendetta against them, their deaths were all the killer’s personal revenge against the system they represented.

This victim was the closest to being personal because of who he was and not simply because of the industry he represented.

Samuel Klein, restaurateur and retired executive chef of the premier steakhouse on the Eastern Seaboard, now renowned for his Perfect Bites podcast, lifted his wineglass and swirled the dark liquid in the glass before sipping.

The killer had to laugh. Swirling wine in a wineglass was a foolish thing that those who didn’t understand wine did to make themselves appear smarter than they were. As with many things, it only exemplified their foolishness.

The idea was to aerate the wine and enhance the flavor before drinking. It was pointless. Wine took time to develop. A few seconds of swirling would accomplish nothing. In a fine restaurant, those wines which required aeration would be decanted hours before dinner to allow the flavors to develop before they reached the table. The killer doubted very seriously such a step had been taken here.

Klein sipped the wine and didn’t do the one thing that actually could have impacted the flavor, namely slurping. That would aerate the wine properly. While it wouldn’t actually change the wine itself, it would mist the liquid and carry it to every part of Klein’s palate, allowing him to experience the full spectrum of flavor the wine offered.

Klein didn’t do that because Klein was a fraud. He acted as though he was a great chef, but he was nothing more than a charlatan. Others had developed his menu and brought him success. He had capitalized off of their ingenuity. Meanwhile those who were truly ingenious, truly unique, truly special, suffered ridicule and derision. It wasn’t fair.

So, looking at Klein sipping wine improperly moments before the killer's poison would finally take his life felt more satisfying than it did with the others. It wasn't personal. Not quite.

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