The M1 Theory - Brian Hesse (best thriller novels to read .txt) 📗

of the receiver was exact in relation to the control of aggression. He considered how suicidal and homicidal impulses were closely related, like first cousins of the same maternal bloodline. The M1 pathway, as he contemplated, would no doubt control both impulses. He decided to continue with the experiments in the same prefrontal region. His theory began to take a slight turn. Thomas considered that if he would not have passed out after hitting the transmitter’s green button, he could have watched his Father, against his will, point the gun to his temple. He could have simply cut off the signal and possibly, shut down the suicidal impulse. As a secondary effect, he theorized, the chemical constituents flooding the region would have subsided, causing the violence to subside. This round-about method was not how he expected to prove his theory, but it was a start.

Thomas turned on his hp laptop and entered the SamsList personals section. He carefully scrolled through the listings, unsure of exactly what he was seeking. The incident with his Father’s suicide taught him a valuable lesson. With the risk of death so high in the early stages of the experiments, he could not afford to call undo attention to himself. He did not consider himself a serial killer. The thought of causing the death of another did not arouse any sexual or, mental stirrings deep within his soul. Thomas considered himself a humanitarian, a genius on a mission to better society through behavioral modification. If some people died on his operation table or, as he thought with a deepening feeling of weighted sadness, by blowing their heads off against their will, these were acceptable losses.

 “I will be sure to list them in my memoirs as heroes who died for a great cause,” he stated to himself, as he scrolled down the list of potential candidates.

 He was searching for a guinea pig with no personal attachments. Someone with little, or zero, ties to other’s. Someone like yourself, was the thought that came to his mind, making his depression even deeper.

 “Ah, here we go!” he exclaimed, clicking on the thirty fifth add on the page. The ad read:

 SWF (single white female), looking for a NSA (no strings attached) encounter with a clean and disease-free guy. I am blonde, five feet six inches, forty years old, green eyes, and love new experiences. I can host, or you can. It doesn’t matter either way. Just be DD free (drug and disease free), sane, and not looking for anything serious. More of a FWB (friend with benefits situation). Oh, and no pic, no reply.

Thomas considered the ad carefully. He guessed that if she was willing to host a strange man at her own place, she was lonely, and lived alone. Other ads involved women who could not host (married or boyfriend), and women asking for the guy’s phone number (spammer). Without overthinking the situation, and anxious to get started, he typed a message back:

Hi,

I am a single male, twenty-three years old, University student. I have very little experience dating, particularly from a dating site. I am very clean and disease free. Very busy, so I am not looking for anything serious. A FWB situation would be perfect. Well here is a pic. I hope to hear from you soon.

Thomas attached a pic of him taken the day before he began his studies. He was pleased that the photograph was one of the few featuring him with a large smile, showcasing perfectly straight and white teeth. He did not expect an immediate response. In fact, he did not expect a response at all. He did not consider himself to be very attractive, but he did not suspect that the woman on the other end was either. SamsList was not your typical dating site. He knew that most people posting on SamsList lied about their body stats (how they look), and generally were desperate for that human need, he rarely thought about, sex. Thomas lived in a world of theory and ambition. Sex to him, as he would readily admit, is an unnecessary act that never made him feel closer to others. He remembered his first of two sexual experiences just before starting college. He could not understand Betty Lango’s reaction for weeks after the act in the very basement he now called his laboratory. She called him incessantly looking for another encounter. For him, the orgasm was just slightly more intense than during the climax of masturbation-something he knew more about. Making time for something barely more pleasurable than pleasuring himself did not seem logical. To test his theory, he went ahead and tried it again. Trying different positions, and the like, but sex was still a flatlined experience. Since then, he had barely a noticeable interest in sexual contact and he certainly, as he will admit without shame, did not have the capacity for a deeper romantic love.

I Got You

   “Tell me you have something good,” Sandra stated excitedly into the phone.

   “Well I don’t know if its useful information or not but here it is.” I have a list of seventy-two individual males taking care of teenage daughters in the areas that you outlined. I sent them to your email, pictures and all, if I could find any.” I also sent as much miscellaneous information I could find on all the Lumber Jack victims. Information not contained in our limited files.”

   “I owe you one, and I promise, I will never talk shit behind your back again.” Sandra hung up the phone without waiting for a reply.

   She turned on her hp laptop and pulled up the files sent to her by her sleepy partner.

   “I love you, you little sloth,” she stated out loud.

   “What are you doing babe?” asked Eric, sitting next to Sarah on her only other piece of furniture, a second-hand pea green couch with a torn middle cushion.

   “Hello in there, do you want me to make breakfast?”

   Sandra did not hear Eric as she scanned the files sent to her email. She heard a distant voice, that was like a voice coming from deep at the bottom of a forgotten canyon. She did not even notice as Eric put on his clothes and silently walked out of her apartment.

   A full smile grew across her face as connections came easily between the line of each individual case. Through coroners’ reports, dental, and medical records, she could see that most of the victims had tattoos, body piercings, or both. She moved on to the long list of single Father’s taking care of teenage daughters. Out of the Seventy-Two, just ten experienced some type of tragedy involving their daughters. Seven of the ten included the young girls running away from home. Probably to make it big in Hollywood, but only finding a smooth-talking pimp waiting at the bust stop, she considered, with sadness. She was no stranger to investigating the disappearance of young girls and, sometimes boys, only to find out that some met a horrible fate on the sunny side of the country.

 Her heart thumped wildly in her chest, as she read the case files of the remaining three men on the list. All three had teenage daughters that met a terrible end.

 “Now which one of you is the best serial psycho candidate,” she said out loud. She was already on the burner for tramping on people’s civil rights. This thought brought Thomas Lorey back into her mind. But there was nothing more she could do with that case. The official report was an attempt on his life, and the subsequent suicide of his Father. Still, there was a lingering doubt in her mind. Her instincts screamed out to her, like Thomas Lorey’s Father’s restless spirit tugging at her ear, that something was just not quite right with the situation. “Something she said, not quite right with the son.”

 She returned to the files, and read each case carefully. Two of the cases were homicide. Both girls died at the hands of jealous boyfriends, with ego’s too masculine to accept the ending of the relationship. The other case was a vehicular death. According to the police report, Eric Drew, hit Becky Marlow with his car. The young man stopped, so this was no hit and run. He stopped and explained to the police that she just came out of nowhere. Police report that her phone was found approximately twenty feet from the site, and the last call was made to her Father Jack Marlow.

 Sandra closed her eyes and tried to imagine the scene. She visualized Becky talking on the phone and not realizing she was too close to the edge of the road. She could see Eric in his car and slamming into the petite frame of the young girl. A girl with such a bright future ahead of her. She was accepted into a prestigious music school, and according to people around town, was the apple of her Father’s eye.

 Sara clicked on a file labeled coroner’s report. She viewed the autopsy photos with as much cold professionalism as she could muster. Her eyes widened as she noticed a black and grey rose tattoo, on the outside thigh of her left leg.

 She clicked on a second file, labeled Eric Drew Criminal File. According to the police report, Eric was just released from prison, on a breaking and entering charge. She clicked on a third file marked, Eric Drew Autopsy Report.

 His remains were obviously different than the other victims. To Sandra, the differences were as obvious as a hooker attending Sunday school. The other victims were dismembered with a clean precision, indicative of someone skilled with cutting instruments, possible an ax or hatchet. Eric was the only victim who had his face smashed in beyond recognition. In addition, he had over a dozen artificial cuts on his back. According to the coroner, they were not life-threatening cuts, but certainly enough to cause discomfort. This little detail was dismissed, because the body parts were found on a pile of sticker bushes and thought to have been the culprits of the lacerations.

 “I got you Mr. Marlow. You hated that your little girl was going to the big city. I bet she got that tattoo when she was well underage. You probably wanted to kill her for being such a little slut. but you couldn’t. She was your pride and joy, and only reason for living. Wasn’t she? So, you killed other slutty little bitches. You killed your daughter repeatedly, trying to wipe that guilt away, that guilt because you hated your little girl.”

 Sandra stood up from the couch and paced around the small living room. “Eric Drew wasn’t a victim. He was unlucky number ten. He was a revenge killing. The bastard ex con who killed your little flower, but then you couldn’t stop so, you killed your eleventh victim, poor little Tonya Miller.

 Sandra looked through the files but could not see an occupation listed for Mr. Marlow. “I bet you are an actual tree cutter. I bet you are an actual Lumber Jack.” The thought struck as a bit comical. She never considered that, in her concrete world, some people actually work for a living.

Catfish

  Thomas groggily walked to his front door. He could not imagine who would be knocking at seven thirty in the morning. The first clear thought that broke through the fog of interrupted sleep was that Detective Becks was back with a warrant. One month passed since the suicide of his Father. He tried to push back the memory of that night, but with little success. Nature is not always so kind as to allow some memories to fade. Some memories grow with the passage of time, and Thomas was left with trying to stuff this memory deep into the safety of his unconscious mind, like stuffing his entire wardrobe into a pathetically small overnight bag.

 He cautiously opened the door, clumsily grabbing the handle of his Father’s nine-millimeter pistol, tucked into his waistband, and