NUMBERS

• “It is human nature to sink to the darkest depths of    
•  inhuman behavior.”
• LEGION OF THE OBSCURE.

• Interrogation Room “B”
• Riker’s Island Correctional Facility
• New York City
• Good Friday
• 9:16 PM

Marissa Spinetti was on verge of not giving a eunuch's dry hump about how much her impending interview with Isaiah, the Mass Murderer of the Month, would help boost her career as a journalist. She just wanted to be anywhere but in that musty, claustrophobic room that smelled of stale cigarettes and fresh desperation. The mere thought of sharing the same space with that twisted freak just didn't make her skin crawl, it made it gallop on icy hooves. Serial Killers, Mass Murders, Spree Killers, et al never failed to give her stiff case of the creepy crawlies. These genetic anomalies were scary jigsaw puzzles with vital pieces missing. And anything Spinetti couldn't figure out, frustrated the hell out of her, and anything she couldn't understand and rationally explain anyway, scared the living shit out of her. And she couldn’t rationally explain anyway Isaiah. All Spinetti wanted to do was gather up her recorder and stack of mini-cassettes and get the hell off that insane patch of floating filth that was jam-crammed with so many twisted punch-lines to the same sick joke called Humanity. She desperately needed to return to the sane serenity of her apartment in Brooklyn. She needed take the longest and hottest shower she could possibly stand, then curl up under the covers in the warm, womb-like security of her bed and let John Steinbeck and Jack Daniels carry her off to places where twisted freaks and human monsters didn't exist. But she knew she couldn't do that. No more than the revered Monster Hunter, Special Agent Cynthia Markham of the FBI could. 

Markham was seated to Spinetti’s left. Spinetti wished she had a fraction of the woman's focus, confidence and resolve. From what Spinetti had read of the agent's exploits, via newspaper and magazine articles, Markham never experienced a moment of doubt in her entire eleven-year career as the FBI's the top profiler. Oh sure, Markham must have the usual regrets. Who doesn't, right? But Spinetti was willing to bet ten years pay that the woman never had a single doubt regarding her chosen profession. 

    "Why are you here?" Markham suddenly asked in that deep, soothing tone she usually reserved for the interrogations of psychopaths.

    "What?" Spinetti curtly asked while twisting uncomfortably in her chair. She then gazed at the agent through a dissipating fog of rumination.

    "Why are you here?" Markham repeated.

"Because I haven’t won any fucking Pulitzers lately, lady!" Spinetti spat as she fixed the older woman with a venomous glare. “And by the way, this is not about me! You're here to pick apart that sick fuck and see what makes him tick. So, if you don't mind, I'd like to slide my ass from under your microscope, okay?!" 

    "Why do you think he chose you?" Markham persisted.

    "Jesus Christ! Do you have a fucking hearing problem?!" Spinetti snapped.

    "Not usually,” Markham calmly replied. “Why do you think he chose you?" 

    Spinetti threw her hands up in mock surrender. "Okay! Okay! I'll play! I guess because he read that article I wrote for Sappho magazine and then decided it was a good idea to go out and kill himself some lesbians!"

    Markham shook her and frowned. "No. Aside from that, why do you think he chose you to interview him?”

    "If it's not because of the article, then I haven't a clue," Spinetti confessed with a quick shake of her dark head of spiked black hair while shrugging her pudgy shoulders. 

    "The article is merely a vehicle in which he saw your desperate hunger for life and your blatant fear of indigestion clinging to every word you wrote. And so did I. So don't let him hear your stomach growl, okay?"

    "Sure," Spinetti acquiesced, without actually knowing what in the hell Markham was talking about. 

"Listen. I have a favor to ask of you." Spinetti was hopeful.

     "What is it?" 

    "I want you to just sit back and observe and let me run with this guy, all right?"

    "Fortunately for you, that's exactly what I had in mind. And I have a favor,” Markham said.

What is it?"

“I suspect he had an inside contact. I need to know who that is?

“What makes you think that?” Spinetti asked.

“He knew exactly who was going to be working late at the magazine. Somebody had to be feeding him information.”

    "I’ll find out what I can, okay?"

    “Okay.” And then Markham did something that took Spinetti by surprise: She smiled. It was an eerie smile. Spinetti often wondered why she never saw a photo of Markham smiling……….until now.

    "Has anybody dug up the crazy bastard’s true identity?" Spinetti asked, wanting to shift Markham's unsettling focus from herself.

    Markham shook her head. "Fingerprint check, dental records, DNA, and photo search have come up empty. We’ve even telecasted his face on nationwide television, but nothing. Either America doesn't know whom he is, or she's ashamed to admit she gave birth to him. All we have to go on is what he's told us, which isn’t much."

    Spinetti suddenly frowned. "Why's the bureau so concern about this one sick bastard, anyway?"        

"We suspect he’s connected to something much bigger," Markham replied. 

"A cult?!” Spinetti exclaimed in disgust. 

“Possibly.”

“I hope he's not one of these Bible-quoting nuts that run around whacking people in the name of God."

    Markham smiled again. "One could only hope."

    Spinetti frowned her confusion and was starting to get a little creeped-out by Markham’s eerie smiles. "Why?"

    "They tend to reveal more when quoting scripture than they would through a standard interrogation."

    Spinetti nodded while considering Markham’s explanation. “Yeah. I guess that true, but you’d really have to know your Bible to figure what the hell they’re saying, right?”

    Markham was just about to reply, when suddenly, the door in front them swung inward. In the doorway stood two massive Corrections Officers, one blond and the other bald and black. They towered over a short, chubby man who disturbingly resembled the Pillsbury Dough Boy sans the delightful twinkle in his cold, lifeless black eyes. He appeared no more than 30 years old, but who could tell on a face that neither possessed the normal lines character nor any signs of emotion. He was dressed an ill-fitting orange DOC jump suit that draped his pudgy body like a wet, wrinkled towel over a beach ball. He was bound wrist and ankle by handcuffs and shackles that were linked by chains to a thick leather belt strapped about his round waist. The excess of chains made a scrapping sound on the tiled floor as the two giants ushered him to the chair positioned under the long, narrow table across from Spinetti and Markham. The blond guard forcefully sat Isaiah down, then stood back a yard or so with his Tazer gun at the ready while his partner strapped the mass murderer to the chair, then secured the chair to eye-bolts imbedded in the floor with more chains and a few padlocks. The Demonic Doughboy (the handle Spinetti mentally attached) sat silently throughout the process and studied the two women. Spinetti was of particular interest to him. He could taste her fear of life, and smelled her ironic hunger for it. He licked his pale, thin lips and began to salivate in anticipation of the sumptuous meal that awaited him.    

"Agent Markham?" the blond C. O. said while his partner was tugging on the chains to make certain they were secured.

    She looked up from her bag. "Yes?"

    "Are you sure you don't want us to stay?" the blonde C.O. asked. 

    "Positive," Markham lied. She wanted the guards to remain, but she felt that Isaiah would be far more forthcoming in their absence. "He doesn't look like he's going to give us any trouble. We'll be fine."

    He sighed. "Okay. But if you need us, well be right outside this door," he told her as he stabbed a thick thumb over his right shoulder.

    "Thank you, Officer," Markham said, then returned her attention to the contents of her shoulder bag.

    The guards offered the women apprehension-laden glances and sighs before taking up their posts out side the door.

Spinetti turned to Markham and stabbed a thumb in Isaiah's direction. "Is this the guy that I've been havin' a stiff case of the heebie-jeebies over!? Shit! He looks like the Pillsbury-fucking-Dough Boy!"

    Markham abruptly rose from her chair and gestured at Spinetti to follow her to the far end of the room and out of earshot of Isaiah. Spinetti reluctantly obeyed and when she was in close proximity of Markham, FBI agent leaned in close and whispered in the journalist's ear: "Don't allow his seemingly innocuous appearance fool you, Ms. Spinetti," the agent warned as she intensely stared directly into Isaiah's cold, lifeless eyes over Spinetti's left shoulder.   "Do not under estimate him. You're forgetting that this ‘Pillsbury-fucking-Dough Boy’ calmly walked into The Sisters of Sappho Headquarters, opened up on four women with a Mac-10, and then leisurely eviscerating each of them. And according to the M-E, one of those women were still alive while he was pulling her guts out. He then calmly poured himself a cup of coffee, grabbed a Danish, and then sat in the center of all that carnage, sipping and nibbling while patiently waiting for the police to arrive." 

    Spinetti suddenly felt uncomfortable by Markham's proximity, and stepped back a foot or so as stared directly into agent's eyes. "Is his appearance the reason why Detective Wong gave me his file without a photograph of him in it?"

    "That was my idea. I thought you just might let your guard down due his deceptively innocuous appearance. But make no mistake: If you allow him to get into your head, he'll scrabble up your brains and have them for breakfast!"

    "Bullshit!" Spinetti spat then spun on her heels and stormed back her chair. But before resuming her seat, she removed her overcoat and tossed it on the table in a heap, then plopped back down in a huff. She hit the recorder’s eject button to make certain there was a tape inside, once satisfied, she thumbed the lid closed and with the same thumb depressed the red record button and placed the device back down on the table in front of Isaiah. She looked over to the still standing Markham and was about to say something to the agent, but changed her mind and returned her attention to the roly-poly mass murderer seated not four feet in front of her. 

    "Let's start with your name. Your real name," Spinetti began with more authority in her tone than she felt or had.

    "Isaiah. My real name is Isaiah," he replied in a surprisingly soft, soothing, voice that was almost hypnotic.

    "Humph," she snorted with more fear than impatience. "O. K. What is your last name?" 

    Isaiah's nose crinkled as he sniffed the air, then smiled. "Hmmm. White Shoulders." 

    "What?"

    "The perfume you're wearing. It's called White Shoulders. I wasn't aware it was still being manufactured."

    "What the hell are you talking about!? I'm not wearing any perfume!"

    "Then it must be emanating from the turtle neck you borrowed from your roommate," he said from behind a wicked, ugly grin that revealed tobacco and coffee stained teeth.

    "How the fu-----!?"

    Markham quickly reached over and shut off Spinetti's cassette recorder, then placed a hand on her forearm and gave it a gently squeeze. She then leaned over and whispered in the journalist's ear. "I need to know whether or not he was working alone, so do not lose control and fuck this up. He's taking shots in the dark. Don't allow him to dominate the interview no matter how adept a marksman he may be." Markham then leaned back in her seat and returned her incisive gaze to Isaiah's facial expressions and body language. 

    Spinetti didn't appreciate the interference. After all, they had a deal. But she did concede to the agent's experience and wisdom, which prompted her to take a few deep breaths and a few moments to assemble her thoughts before she began formulating another approach. A calmer approach. She also had to shore up her equilibrium to thwart any and all attempts he would undoubtedly make to throw her off balance. She cursed herself again for allowing the little shit to trip her up. She offered the ever-vigilant Markham a thank you nod before engaging the on switch of her recorder and continuing on what she believed to be a playing field slanted in her favor. 

"What was the significance of choosing lesbians as your victims?" Spinetti asked with the fervent hope she'd get a straight answer out this homicidal waste of genetic material.

    "Do you believe in Angels, Ms. Spinetti?" he asked in an even, yet unnerving tone. 

    "I knew it," she mumbled to herself. "Does this have anything to do with answering my question?"

    "Do you believe in Angels, Ms. Spinetti?" he repeated in that same even, unnerving tone.

    "If I say Yes, Isaiah, will you answer my question?"

    He slowly nodded.

    "Yes, Isaiah. I believe in angels."

    "Excellent. Now I would like you to draw on your Catholic upbringing and suspend your all the disbelief the secular world expects of you. If you do not, you will not be able to appreciate the gravity of what I'm about to tell you. Can you do that?"

    "I can do that.”

    "And please, do not allow your anger and impatience to cloud your perception. It will cause you to miss salient points of vital interest and apocalyptic import." 

     Spinetti suddenly hated that smug fat fuck with an intensity she had never before experienced and hoped she'd never experience again. "Got it. Go on." 

    "Oh! By the way, I have two conditions: One: Please do not interrupt me. And two: What I have to say is for your ears only."

    Spinetti threw her hands up. "Forget it fat boy! If you think I'm going to sit in here alone with you, then you're seriously copulating with Hazels!"

    Markham tapped Spinetti on the arm as she rose up from her seat, then gestured that the journalist follow her to their conference corner.

    "What? Again?" Spinetti protested, then reluctantly stood and followed.

    Just as Spinetti sidled up to Markham, the agent fixed the journalist with an admonishing, penetrating stare. "Just play the fucking game," Markham whispered.

    "But I don't wanna play his game. The guy's seriously fucking nuts, not to mentioned he gives me the creeps."

    "How can a Pillsbury-fucking-Dough Boy give anyone the creeps?" Markham asked, and then smiled. It was obvious the agent didn't make use those facial muscles very often.    

    Spinetti wasn't certain what rattled her more: The Demonic Doughboy or Markham's creepy smile.

    "Okay," Spinetti reluctantly capitulated. "But under one condition, okay?"

    "What?"

    "Come in only if I'm in trouble, not for one of your annoying little side bars, okay?"

    "The show's all yours," Markham assured her then turned and headed for the door the two guards exited earlier. She reached down and grabbed the knob, twisted it and pulled the door open, but before stepping out, she turned and said: "I'll be right outside this door." It was more of a warning to Isaiah than assurance to Spinetti.

    Spinetti nodded an acknowledgment then returned to her seat and clicked on her recorder. That was Markham's cue to leave and she did so.

    "Please. Turn off you recorder, Miss Spinetti," Isaiah requested. 

    Spinetti stared into those bottomless black pits that passed for his eyes for a second or two before obeying. She figured if this was the only way he was going to open up, she may as well.

“Now," he began. "Are you familiar with the account of the battle for dominion over Heaven, Miss Spinetti?"

    Spinetti nodded.

    "Good," he said, then lean forward and said: "But what you don't know is that we are Angels."

    Oh boy popped into Spinetti's head. "And how do you figure that?"

    "As you know, Lucifer mustered one-third of the Angels in Heaven and staged this coup against God, but what you don't know is that another one-third sat on the fence of indecision waiting for the outcome of the battle. And it is that third who are we."

    "Ah-huh. And this came about, how?"

    "They or we, pleaded with God for mercy. Even though they or we didn't actively wage war against God, He was still angry for their lack of action in His behalf, so He decided that for every person born on Earth, an Angel's essence would occupy that body and they would have to prove themselves worthy to return to Heaven by leading exemplary lives. Now Angels being Angels, they thought it would be a walk in the park. After all, their divine spirits, right?"

    Spinetti was silent.

    "Right?" he repeated, expecting a response.

    "Oh! Yeah. Right."

    "But what God didn't tell them was he planned to erase all memory of their divinity and the arrangement from their minds."

    "How come none of this is mentioned in the Bible?" Spinetti asked, hoping to shoot some holes in his story.

    "What would be the point of erasing our memories if God planned on giving an account of the agreement?"

    "Yeah. That makes sense," Spinetti acknowledged, then caught herself. She was almost buying into this lunatic's fantasy. "But what does have that to do with the death of those four women?"

    Isaiah leaned back in seat causing his chains to rattle. As his chubby face grew dark with thought, he stared into the journalist's eyes. It appeared as if he was attempting to decide whether or not to answer her question. He suddenly leaned forward and proclaimed: "They were doomed!" 

    "I don't understand."

    "Due to their sexual perversity, they were already doomed to Hell. I just hastened the process so they couldn't corrupt anyone else," he explained, and then leaned back in his chair with that smug, self-righteous expression plastered all over his fat, pasty face.

    "Are you working alone?" Spinetti asked, but not expecting a straight answer.

    "My no. God is with me," he cheerfully replied. His chubby face practically glowed with divine inspiration.

    Spinetti sighed a silent I knew it. "No. I was thinking more along the line of earthbound, corporeal types like...... ah……..people?"

    "Oh yes. We are many," he replied with obvious pride. 

    "Who and where?" she was getting anxious.

    "Now. Now, Miss Spinetti. If I revealed that bit of vital information, the local and federal constabulary would be obligated to interfere in our work, wouldn't they?"

    "Then you're admitting what your doing is wrong?"

    "Not in the least. It's their ignorance of God's plan that causes them to interfere as they do."

    Spinetti was about to ask another question, when Agent Markham stepping into the room followed by the two giant CO’s interrupted her.

    "Your reneging on our deal," Spinetti accused Markham.

    "It can't be helped," Markham stated as she came around the table and began gathering up her belongings, while the guards attended to Isaiah. 

    "What's up?" Spinetti asked, and then diverted her attention to the guards who rapidly whispering to one another, then back to Markham.

    "They've been four more killings reported in a bar in Chicago and a social club in North Miami Beach."

    "The victims weren't........?" Spinetti trailed off as she made a quick slicing gesture along her torso.

    Markham shook her head. "No. Just shot, maybe with an Uzi or a Mac-10. The first killings occurred in a straight sex bar on the Loop and the others in a club known for heavy drug traffic. I'm heading out to Chicago right now. You can tag along if you wish."

    "Try and stop me," the journalist challenged as she popped out of her chair and began gathering up her belongings as well. "What about Isaiah?"

    "He'll only reveal exactly what he wants us to know and no more. He's a dead end."

    "Ah.....Agent Markham?" the blond guard uttered.

    "Yes?" Markham acknowledged as she slipped on her overcoat.

"He's a lot deader than you think," the blond CO said while frowning his bewilderment. "This guy's bought the farm." “Where’s your partner?!” Markham bellowed.

Mathews quickly looked around the small room and then ran to the door, yanked it open and peered down the hall. “You see Tinsford?!” he yelled to a passing guard. He received a negative headshake as a reply. Mathews closed the door and then turned to Markham and shrugged his massive shoulders.

•  
• The Limp Wicked Tavern
• Greenwich Village
• New York City
• 12:47 AM

    Markham and Spinetti were seated at the bar of the surprisingly deserted tavern. 

    The young, tattooed bartender brought over their drinks and placed then down on cardboard coasters in front of Markham and Spinetti. They were both drinking Jack Daniel on the rocks.

Markham appeared tired and drawn. Spinetti was anxious and apprehensive.

    “What did the M-E say?” Spinetti asked after taking a sip from her drink.

    Markham reached over to her cigarettes and lighter, shook one loose, slipped it between her lips and fired it up before answering: “Ice pick insertion to the base of the brain. Death was immediate.” 

    “Tinsford?”

    “Who else?” Markham replied, then took a deep drag from here cigarette, inhaled and then exhaled a plume of powder gray smoke towards the ceiling. The bartender rushed over: “There’s no smoking.”

    Markham pulled her FBI ID and badge from the inside pocket of her jacket and slapped it on the bar’s marred surface: “Call a cop!” she snapped.

The bartender looked down at her badge, then up at Markham, raised his hands in mock surrender and then walked away.

    “You mind?” Spinetti asked as gestured towards Markham’s cigarettes.

    “Not at all. Help yourself.”

Spinetti reached over, grabbed the pack and mirrored Markham’s procedure. She inhaled deeply and exhaled towards the passing bartender.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Markham commented.

“I don’t,” Spinetti confirmed, and then took another hit from the cigarette. “What now?”

“I retire,” Markham, replied as she reached for her glass and drained its contents in a single gulp.

“What?”

Markham sighed deeply, took a hit from her cigarette before slowly turning towards Spinetti. “I’m tired. I’m bone fucking tired. I’ve been with the Bureau for twenty-two years and I’ve been chasing monsters for eleven of those twenty-two years. And I’m tired. I just wish you would’ve found out who Isaiah’s inside contact is.”

“But I know who that is,” Spinetti said and the grinned.

Markham frowned. “Who?”

“Me,” Spinetti said and then quickly raised a .38 Smith & Wesson snub-nosed revolver, aimed it at Markham’s head and squeezed the trigger. The point blank blast knocked Markham clear off her barstool perch. She was dead before she hit the floor. Spinetti calmly slid the weapon into the pocket of her overcoat, stubbed out her cigarette in a nearby ashtray, finished her drink, slid off the barstool, and nonchalantly strolled out of the door.

THE END

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