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The Disease
I am the blood. I am disease. Seven words, seven sins any connections? Who in the hell knows, Jack Ghlason had no idea. At this point of the investegation nobody knew a thing about these so called sacrafic killings. Sacraficings to Satan? For all they knew they could be for Charles Manson. In this day and age in Hollywood, California they could be for fun or for money. The problem with solving muders today was who in the hell knew the motives.
The crime scene was a lonely hotel room just off the boulevard, a little hotel called Sun Dream Inn, room thirteen another connection? The room itself was like countless others in Orange County one small bed , peeling flower patterened paint and the classic cliche, the vibrating bed. The bathroom was a small closet space which hardly held a toilet and a shower. One of the forensics men was dusting for prints right now though we all knew he wouldn't find a thing, not a damn hair. This murder was like all the others, the victim a struggling mother turned prostitute turning tricks to feed three kids. The only clue for her identity will be her teeth for her face was cut off and placed in a pentagram that was painted in red paint (not blood) above the door, her finger tips like all the others were nowhere to be found. The victim was fully dressed no sign of a struggle, no sign of sex. No sign of a fight that one confused Jack the most, there was also no sign of drugs the toxication test was clean. That meant the killer had to know each victim and so far background checks showed no connections between the girls.
"Jack, want me to put this one in the file with the rest of the girls the MO looks the same?"
" Yeah Sam you go do that"
Sam Redalson was a good detective but we all knew he couldn't stand the crime scenes, he blamed a weak heart. Truth was Sam hadn't heard from his daughter for a few months then she was the sacrafices's first victim. Finding out your daughter was a poor hooker and see her become the handywork of a serial killer was a hell of a shock, but Sam stayed.
Jack knew there was nothing else he could do here so he took the files of the case and headed south toward home.
The lights blurred past Jack as he raced down the highway, he had an idea to talk to a friend of his, possibly someone who could help break this case wide open. An inmate named Dee Sixx, Dee was also the leader of a cult here in southern California. Dee went down a few years back for organizing a mass suicide, which he believed would cleanse the souls. The only problem was everyone died so no one knew if the souls were cleansed. Dee's followers started to doubt his so called powers and one eventually turned on him. The result was twenty-five years in the Chino state prison.
Dee Sixx was a tall solidly built caucasion. He stood six-foot-five with sun bleached blond hair that went down past his shoulder blades. The thing that made most of Dee's followers belive in his powers was his jet black eyes, which he swears are natural, contacts if you ask me.
"Nice to see you Dee" I said trying to be civil.
"What the hell you want Captain Ghlason".
"It's detective now".
"My congrats, now why are you here?"
"To ask you a few queations.."
"About the sacrafic killings, I don't know nuthin'".
"Come on Dee don't let me down. I heard you have a parole hearing coming up, and it would be shame if some of your old secrets were to come out".
"You suck".
" So what do you know, come on."
"The word is these hookers are considered the worst, worst then murders, rapist etc. They say the hookers are being sacraficied."
"By whom?"
"Fuck You!"
"I remeber Cliff Davis is on the hearing board, you remember his daughter right?"
"They're being scraficied by demons to their god whom you know as Satan."
"Demons that slang for whom, a cult, gang?"
"No you blind fool, demons,hellions. Demons from hell, spawns of Satan himself."
Dee was full of it any sane man could see that. Demons from hell, yeah and Bill Clinton had no sexual relations with that woman. The rain which had started sometime during his visit with psycho Dee was kind of soothing. The only problem was that it did a very poor job of masking who ever was following Jack. He didn't know who would want to waste there time with him but who ever it was (a brief thought about demons quickly dismissed) was in for a rude awakening. Jack pulled his car into his driveway shut of the engine got out and rushed to his front door.He hoped it look like he was trying to get out of the rain.
As soon as Jack was in his house he pulled his gun out of its holster made sure it was loaded and threw the hammer back and put himself between the door and the foyer. He was ready for anything, anything except what happen next.
The door swung gently open allowing a slant of rain to drip upon his rug. Puzzled because he couldn't see anyone beyond the door, he moved closer to the door ignoring his insticts. Blackness was intant, there was blackness before he even knew he was hit. When the darkness receded he was aware of something above him something that smelled of fire and brimestone. Something that was at least twelve feet tall, something that had sharp horns, wings and a pointed tail, something that was hungry.Demon, demon his mind cried for him to understand, even in the stages of death he refused to except it. The thing ripped his face from his skull with one hand and pulled his soul from his body with the other. No, struggle no fight. Jack had one last thought before death, maybe Bill Clinton didn't have sexual relations with that woman.
Dee Sixx sat in his small cell with a big smile. The hookers and that silly detective all whom which were the disease, the disease of the good, were the only humans who could stop him. Now no one could. Dee prayed to his god, he which should not be named he which put Satan to shame. He ended the prayer with a good hearty laugh.
That night at Chino prison there was fifty-five suicides, all leaving a note claiming they all had heard Satan laugh that night, and felt his precense.