Death's Nightmare---Phthano Ephialtes---Chapter Three part One

        Detective Jacobson leaned over, braced his hands against his desk, and sighed.
        A clever bastard.  The Midwest Maniac demonstrated that on a regular basis.  Arrogant, maybe.  Twisted, certainly.  But undeniably clever.
        The test results had come back on what the Maniac had injected into him.  The first injection hadn’t been ketamine, as the Maniac had claimed, but a rare toxin suspended in a saline solution.  The lab technician had informed him that, in order for the tetrodotoxin to cause motor impairment without inducing respiratory arrest, it would have had to be administered in a minute dose finely calculated for a man of Jacobson’s size and weight.
        “How minute?”  Jacobson had wondered.
        “Less than a milligram.”  The technician replied.  “Given the symptoms you reported, I’d say less than half a milligram.”
        The only reason they knew that Jacobson had been poisoned with tetrodotoxin was because they had done a detailed analysis of his blood when tests had revealed no trace of ketamine in his system.  Tetrodotoxin was notoriously difficult to detect.
        The “sleeping potion” the Midwest Maniac had given him turned out to be a potent combination of herbal extracts including skullcap, valerian, chamomile, passionflower, lavender, and kava.
        When asked where the Maniac might get such a mixture, the technician had theorized that he probably made it himself—possibly even growing his own plants to make the extracts.  After all, the consensus was that the Maniac was resourceful and intelligent enough to come up with something like that.
        Jacobson investigated tetrodotoxin and discovered that it was found in either the venom or the flesh of about a dozen creatures—many of them fairly easy to come by.  He made a mental note to check on purchases of those creatures within the greater Chicago area and continued perusing his reports.
        DNA evidence had confirmed his hunch, and the remains of one of the Midwest Maniac’s victims had been positively identified as Owen Sinclair—the only body to be identified thusfar.  The lab had had to come up with a new technique for DNA extraction, but it had given them enough for a DNA profile.  They were working on profiles for the other Maniac victims.
        There were too many missing persons for it to be feasible to compare them all to the Maniac victims.  Jacobson was hoping to narrow down the search.  In all likelihood, he’d be able to convince the Maniac to give him more clues.
        All that remained was the unpleasant task of informing the Sinclairs that their son was dead.

        Jonathan sat and relaxed with his dogs after a long day.  After cutting Richard’s toes off, carefully cauterizing each wound, he rewarded the man for his genuine remorse by administering a shot of morphine.  He even left the light on.  After all, Eric needed light too.
        He took the severed toes with him and gave them to the dogs as snacks.  The little bones would cause no trouble to such strong jaws.  He let all the dogs out so they could get some exercise and took a long, hot shower.
        He roasted the turkey for dinner, completing the meal with mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, and green bean casserole.  Vigorous exercise helped him work up an appetite.  That evening, along with their meal of human flesh, the dogs got to lick the gravy pan.
        Missy dined on portions of Owen Sinclair, her onetime tormentor.  The other dogs got meat from previous victims—everything that came from Owen was reserved for Missy, restitution for the harm done to her.  The meat he’d fed Richard earlier wasn’t actually from Owen Sinclair; Jonathan had just tossed out the name because Owen’s disappearance had been big on the news and he wanted Richard to understand exactly what he had eaten.
        After the dogs ate, Jonathan took Missy aside so he could inspect her injuries.  This was stressful for both of them—Missy because she had so many dark memories of the atrocities human hands could inflict, Jonathan because he didn’t like to hurt her, even if it was necessary to clean out the infection.  Besides which, even the most docile dog could bite if it felt threatened, and a rottweiler’s jaws were no joke.  He hadn’t cared for Missy long enough to completely trust her—or to be certain that she trusted him.
        She submitted to the treatment, which warmed his heart.  When her wounds had been cleaned, he gave her extra love and attention to make up for the pain.  When he settled on the couch to watch the news, she lay beside him with her head in his lap.
        “Our top story tonight: the search for fifteen-year-old Owen Sinclair ended tragically this afternoon when DNA testing positively identified the latest Midwest Maniac victim as the missing boy.  Police say a tip from an undisclosed source—”
        Jonathan smirked.
        “—led to a feverish series of lab tests that resulted in an intact DNA profile from one of the bones of the most recent victim.  That tip also prompted police to compare DNA from the unidentified victim with that of Owen Sinclair’s parents, and a positive match was made.”
        “I made it right, sweetheart.”  He whispered, stroking Missy’s head.  “He’ll never hurt anyone ever again.”
        She licked his hand and sighed in contentment.
        Jonathan tuned out the brief interview with the psycho kid’s tearful parents.  It annoyed him that they were so willfully ignorant of what their son had been.  How they could have looked into his eyes day after day and still proclaim him a “good kid” was a mystery to Jonathan.
        One look into Owen’s eyes had sent a jolt of gut-deep recognition through Jonathan.  They were the eyes of a hunter, the eyes of a monster.  Eyes that reflected the demon within.
        Those eyes—the entire encounter—chilled Jonathan.  It still sent a sliver of ice through his soul whenever he thought about it.  Owen’s inhuman eyes were so like his own—which was why he’d carved them out shortly after kidnapping the boy.
        Owen didn’t think pain was so amusing when it was his own.
        The other thing about him that had really upset Jonathan was how much pleasure he took in killing the little freak.  He had drawn out the pain with a viciousness unusual even for him.  No screaming—there was never any screaming.  Jonathan couldn’t stand screaming, so he always administered tetrodotoxin to render his victims mute and immobile—but still lucid.
        Owen hadn’t screamed, but his tears and sour sweat had advertised his pain for him.  Jonathan didn’t want to listen to a thing that the twisted kid had to say, so he’d kept him either paralyzed or unconscious until he finally killed him.
        Jonathan dismembered his other victims at the more major joints—ankles, knees, hips, wrists, elbows, shoulders, and neck—over a period of four to twelve days depending on what he felt was the appropriate punishment for whatever they had done.  Owen he’d kept alive for three weeks and taken apart bone by bone.  Sometimes, when he looked at Missy, the rage boiled up again and he wished Owen had taken longer to die.
        Sometimes, when he looked in a mirror, into his own eyes, he remembered Owen’s eyes and wanted to scream.
        He wasn’t like Owen…was he?  He didn’t torment the innocent…did he?  He wasn’t a monster…was he?
        He was human…wasn’t he?
        Jonathan remembered Owen’s muted whimpering, remembered how Missy whined when he had to clean her wounds…
        He barely made it to the bathroom before he was violently ill.