Birdeater

Florence Hill is an academic.

That is why he carries a water-stained copy of Rebecca everywhere he goes.

Florence Hill does not like to stand out.

He drives the same car as everyone else; a boring silver Ford Taurus.

Florence Hill is a natural blond. The week he first moved in he had been a natural ginger. Or so Blair had assumed. That was his mistake.

Florence Hill is the most beautiful man that Blair Grant has ever seen.

Blair did not write that part down. He set his bent 3-subject notebook down in his lap and reached over to grab his coffee. It was only nine in the morning and finally over 60 degrees. He still wore a bit of a jacket. It smelled like smoke and laundry detergent.

His front patio wasn’t much. He had a small table and two outdoor chairs that were almost too broken down to carry out their purpose.

He kept his notebook on his lap because he did not want it to get wet. There was a fresh coffee ring on the table. It made all the old coffee stains look pale.

He drank a lot of coffee. He spent a lot of mornings out here. Florence always went running at 6 AM. Blair made sure to be outside on his patio by 5:45 AM.

Blair turned a crinkling page, heavy with ink, and glanced at his notes from the day before. A lot of them read the same way. He tried to notice something new every day. He tried to find every interlocking piece of the puzzle that would come together and create a complete profile.

It was starting to get more difficult. He had been studying Florence for the better part of two years; ever since he moved in. And it was helping. It truly was. One subject over in his notebook was his latest draft of his profile for the “Birdeater”. He could already see significant improvements in his method. It was so vastly superior to the one he had first sent the sheriff almost three years prior. They never responded to Blair’s letters and always brushed him off if he went straight to the office.

But then, they never caught the guy, either. They never delivered Blair’s profile to the media, or his sketch.

So it was hardly a surprise that Virginia’s most prolific serial killer was still walking the streets.

Hopefully they had learned their lesson. And once Blair gave them the updated profile, they would let him on the team for sure.

He would be a goddamn hero.

Blair’s watch beeped.

7 AM.

Florence slowed to a jog once he reached the end of his driveway and then trotted up to his door. He unlocked it with a passcode from his smartwatch.

He was barely even breathing hard.

Blair thought about greeting him. He always thought about saying something. Florence never looked his way. They had only spoken once. Blair had written down the exact date.

It was the day Blair accidentally received a piece of Florence’s mail. Junk mail. A cable advertisement. But the envelope had an important shape and he knew he could get away with ‘Sorry, I wasn’t sure’.

He went to take it over, gracelessly stepping through the line of hedges that divided their driveways.

Florence was getting out of his car. Their eyes met and he dropped what he was holding.

It was a well-loved copy of Rebecca. Blair almost fell to his knees to pick it up.

When he held it out, his hand was trembling.

Florence rewarded him with a smile. One of those bright million-dollar grins.

Blair saw smiles like that in magazines. Never had one been special just for him.

“Thanks,” Florence said. His accent was very Trans-Atlantic with just enough Virginia brushed over it to sound authentic.

Like an old Hollywood actor in a Civil War film.

Blair forgot how to breathe. He did not say a word back. He practically bolted back over the hedge line. He ran like a scared rabbit.

He never even gave his neighbor the junk mail.

He kept it. It was in a drawer with rubber bands, pencils, and a brand-new copy of Rebecca. He bought one for himself but never read it.

His opportunity for a real introduction passed yet again when Florence walked into the house and shut the door behind him. Blair could have gone over anyway; knocked on the door, told the man his name. But it would have been awkward. He had nothing to say.

Florence would be eating breakfast by now. Sometimes Blair could catch a glimpse of him through the window; right where their kitchens almost aligned.

Today he wouldn’t. He had to distract himself.

Maybe he would finally send his new profile of the Birdeater to the sheriff.

Annoyed, Blair wondered what it was going to take to get himself noticed.

:::

The cave’s mouth was wet. It was always that way. It was damp and discolored, but the sunlight made it look worse. A brook ran down the side, gurgling and covering every other sound.

If only it could have masked the grisly scene just as well.

But nothing was going to spare Amos Candy the sight of that woman’s twisted corpse. The position her killer had managed get her in was unnatural. He had to dislocate several joints to do it. There were ligature marks on her wrists and a familiar gash across her throat.

She had been garroted, strangled with wire, and it had sliced so deep into her neck that it had almost severed her windpipe.

He was used to seeing women like this. Girls, really. Nineteen or twenty and usually the victim of some obsessive stalker’s wasted load. Women had it hard. Especially when they were pretty. Amos had tried everything: but no matter how many warnings the Sheriff Department issued about going out after dark, posting on social media, and living alone, girls kept turning up dead.

He couldn’t understand it. Amos was running out of ideas.

Now these women were older. The last three had been in their forties. Long dark hair. Hazel eyes. Middle weight. Real specific, some would say.

Not Amos. But it made his skin crawl that the latest one looked so much like his wife. Flat breasts bloated and wrinkled. Eyes wide, wet, and cloudy like a damn trout.

Hopefully he could get that image out of his brain before getting into bed with her.

A series of bright bulbs flashed. Damn forensics.

“I guess this is the only way he can get a woman wet.” He said half-heartedly. The younger guys didn’t like his jokes; but he needed to do something to ease his own nervous stomach.

The kid in an FBI vest gave him a sideways look. “You said this is the third victim?”

“In as many months, yeah.” Amon sniffed and tugged on his belt.

“You did not think they were linked at first, but then…”

“But then it was just too goddamn similar. So we had to call in you guys.”

“You should have called us sooner.”

Amos grunted.

The FBI kid withheld a sigh and turned a page in his notebook. “You said something like this happened about five years ago?”

“Yeah. A rash of killings. Different victimology though. Still female. But all younger. Prostitutes, most of ’em.”

“So he is getting bolder and choosing lower-risk victims. And now there’s a bigger pattern. Why?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

The FBI agent made a sound and flipped his notebook shut. Times changing as they were, he should be using an electronic to collect all of this information.

“That’s all for now, sheriff.” He said, extending his hand. “We will keep in touch.”

Amos accepted the handshake. Kid’s hand was as limp as a dick during church.

:::

A small cup of coffee landed on Hugh’s desk. He pulled his head out of his hands long enough to look up and acknowledge his savior.

“You look like you’re having a great day.” Jackson, his favorite coworker, sipped from his own cup. Jackson always drank ice coffee through a straw. What a priss.

Hugh liked the warmth a thin piece of cardboard wrapped around a liquid third-degree burn offered.

“Yeah. I’ll definitely be checking back in to Shithole County, Virginia for my vacation again next year.” Hugh snorted. He picked up his own coffee and lifted it in thanks. Jackson nodded.

“What do you have so far?”

“Nothing. Sheriff was like running into a wall and stubbing your toe.”

“Ouch.” Jackson grimaced. “You wrote something down, though. Let’s see it.”

Hugh pushed the paper his way. “Murders are possibly related to four prostitutes who were killed in a similar way about five years ago. Those murders were never solved and then the killing stopped. Their cases went cold.”

“Huh.” Jackson pinched the paper up and held it close to his face. “Why did the murders stop? College break?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Four victims and then a five year hiatus? Maybe our unsub went off to school and came back home for more?”

Hugh snatched the paper back. “I don’t think he’s that young.”

“Anything is possible at this point.”

“His method of killing suggests that the real satisfaction comes from the act of torture and brutalization, not sexual sadism. There’s no evidence of sexual assault on any of the victims.” Hugh made a face. “Up until now there has been no pattern. Why women of this age? What do they represent?”

“Could be a mother figure.” Jackson sipped more of his coffee. “If you ask me, the school thing checks out.”

Hugh rolled his eyes. “Mother figure, maybe. That part sounds promising.”

“Well, we can’t complete the profile until we get back the results from the labs.”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t seem optimistic.”

“The crime scene was totally clean.” Hugh rubbed his face. “He was good enough not to get caught before, but now he’s good.”

“You’re worried.”

“A little. The media is already calling him the ‘Cave Diving Killer’.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.”

“We’re likely looking at another victim pretty soon, then. Small town, sensationalized killer – celebrity status usually means an uptick in murders.”

“Yeah. And I tried to tell the sheriff that, but.” Hugh let out a puff of breath.

“The whole stubbing your toe against the wall thing?” Jackson supplied.

“He doesn’t seem like he’s used to respecting men who don’t have beards.”

“Hmm,” Jackson stroked the blonde stubble covering his cheeks and chin. He shaved every morning, but it always came back in by dinner. “Maybe I should talk to him.”

“Do that. See how far it gets you.” Hugh leaned back in his chair. “I’m going to take a day or three.”

“Yeah.” They were buckling in for fourteen workdays in a row or more and they both knew it. “I’ll go with you next time.”

:::

Cave Diving Killer. Blair made a face.

What a stupid name. It even made his cereal taste bad.

It was his third bowl of Cheerios for the day. Nothing else sounded appealing. It didn’t really stop his hands from shaking, but it did make him feel less nauseous.

Of course, that ridiculous moniker staggering across his screen, white letters in a red box, were going to bring the nausea back.

He didn’t even remember where he had come across the name ‘Birdeater’. It had probably been on some forum somewhere. Something he stumbled across at 3am.

No one gave a shit about what happened in Virginia if it wasn’t somewhere like Roanoke or Richmond. Even the Southside Strangler did not get the same rep as Bundy or Gacy. And was never mentioned in the same breath as someone like Dahmer.

The only people who gave a single fuck were the ones who lived in the immediate area. ‘Birdeater’ had been suggested but not explained. Blair had to look it up on his own. Birdeaters were spiders, but they were not an arboreal type. They burrowed. Sometimes they made their own tunnels, sometimes they hid in tunnels left by something else.

The killer left his victims in caves, in tunnels. That was the only parallel Blair could draw. Still, he liked it a whole lot better than Cave Diving Killer. That sounded like something a fourteen-year-old would have come up with. Or something out of a bad TV show.

His alarm clock screamed. Blair almost dropped his bowl to slam his hand down on that grating, constant beep. Once the clock was silenced he checked the time. Red letters said 7:00pm.

The news had signed off and Wheel of Fortune was rolling its title card.

He had completely lost track of his entire day.

Blair set his half-eaten bowl down on the counter and wiped his hands off on his dark jeans. They were not dirty, but his palms were sweating. He went to grab his notebook off the back of his couch and checked to make sure his favored pen was still wedged down into the spiral spine.

It was Wednesday night. Florence was going to be out. Blair should have been on his patio fifteen minutes ago. Now he was going to have to wait for his neighbor to return.

Moodily, Blair grabbed his patio chair and dragged it towards him. He sat down, thumping his notebook down against the table and watching it rock unsteadily.

What was wrong with him, today?

He should never have deviated from his schedule.

Florence’s driveway was pristine. There was not a single oil spot or grass stain dragging along the edge. Everything was scrubbed clean. White. He kept hydrangeas: big, gorgeous blooms that wreathed his front door.

The smell was intoxicating, even from his seat. Blair licked his lips and dragged his fingertips down a crinkled notebook page. The oil from his skin only slightly smudged the ink.

He wondered what it was like.

Before he could stop himself, Blair was standing. His head pounded with anticipation and a caffeine headache as he stepped off his patio and made his way across the hedge that divided their residences. It was night and day. His cold, slouching brick-and-stone house. Florence’s clean white vinyl siding and stark black shutters.

It made his heart beat a little faster just to hit the steps leading up to Florence’s front door. They were squat and easy to climb. The door was painted black to match the shutters.

Blair glanced over his shoulder, expecting Florence’s car to come rolling up the driveway any minute. He wondered what he would do if he was caught. He would probably be overcome. Blair wouldn’t put it past himself to burst into tears.

Blair wondered what it would be like to be beside Florence and climb up those steps.

He set his hand against the door frame. The white paint bubbled in some places and created prickly little knots. He slid his finger over one, wondering if he could slice open his skin that way. He moved his hand too close and his wrist bumped against the door.

It creaked. Blair jumped and went back so far he nearly fell down the steps. His mind was racing. His heart was threatening to jump out from between his ribs. Florence was gone, wasn’t he? His car wasn’t in the driveway. If he wasn’t here, then why was his door open?

Inside it was cool and he could feel the cold air eking through the dark crack. Blair’s hands were trembling, and he could not tell whether it was from nerves or because he had not eaten anything more than cereal all day.

It took every ounce of courage he had to set his hand against the door and give it another deliberate nudge. It swung open easily with another loud, protesting squeal. A rush of brisk air met his face and he was hit with the smell of Lysol.

Blair wanted to venture deeper, but the house intimidated him.

His tongue flickered over his dry bottom lip as he put one cautious foot forward and stepped inside. He lifted a hand to shade his eyes while they adjusted to the shift in light. None of the lights were on, but he knew for a fact that they were on a timer. It would light up around 8pm whether or not Florence was home. Florence just was not the type of man who enjoyed fumbling for his doorknob in the darkness.

Another careful step. The floors were wood and stained cherry red. Blair immediately realized that he was not wearing shoes. He had no reason to when he was on his own patio, and he crossed the yard barefoot so many times to check his mail that he did not think anything of the grass tickling his calloused soles. Now his pale, bony feet were touching Florence’s floor and the thought was a spike of panic through his heart.

He was going to leave smudges. He couldn’t bear it if he dirtied such a beautiful, polished floor.

In his delirium, Blair crossed the floor as quickly and lightly as he could. He made his way to the rug in the center and nearly tripped over the low glass-top coffee table. The rug was plush underneath his feet. He felt a little better, but he still did not like the idea that he might leave prints in the rug’s material. Fortunately, the fibers felt sturdy and knotted enough that they would not take an impression easily.

Blair let out a long, slow breath and turned his attention back to the details of the room. The couch was a sectional, leather, and dark chocolate brown. There was a modern tv – flat – but nothing expensive or special. It was a sprawling bachelor pad, luxurious and well-kept. But there was nothing special about it. He had put a modest amount of money into the upkeep. He clearly never had guests.

Blair wanted to walk around some more. He knew he would have to fight against himself about touching the floor.

He liked the way the air smelled. It was clean. He took another deep breath, and the Lysol was strong enough to burn in his lungs and his nostrils. That encouraged him to take a step off the rug. He curled his toes against the wood, realizing the dull seal would be enough to keep footprints off the surface. He felt a little better.

He ventured a little deeper. Tucked into a far corner was a baby grand piano that was almost the same cherry red as the hardwood floors. A dividing wall with an open pair of double French doors led into a kitchen area. A bay window looked out into the backyard where more hydrangeas were starting to bloom. The kitchen was also very clean, no dishes in the sink and nothing left out on the counter. Blair thought back to his own home with bowls and cups left in precarious piles to fester. His face flushed with embarrassment. He would never let a man like this see how he lived.

From the kitchen, Blair turned down a narrow hallway that led into a set of rooms. What he assumed to be a guest room and a half-bath were closed off. He did not try the doorknobs to see if they were locked, as well. At the end of the hall was an open door with no light spilling from the entrance. The opening was dark and chasmal, yet he felt drawn.

Blair crept down the hall and approached the doorway. He could feel his heart pounding in his own ears as he dared to past the threshold. It went from hardwood to carpet. The few fibers that curled over the brassy sill looked beige.

Barely breathing, Blair stepped into the bedroom. He did not have to touch the door, this time, it was already as open as it could be. The room was pitch black – dark curtains of an indistinguishable color were drawn over a wide window. No light was allowed to penetrate even the gentle slit that ran down the middle, separating the two panels. For the lack of light, he could not make out much: but as his eyes adjusted, he was able to capture more. He glimpsed a dresser and of course, a bed. It might have been a Queen size or bigger. He was not able to guess. Blair rested one thin hand against the comforter and his fingertips sank into a downy square. It was unbelievably plush and dense – he had no doubt it was heavy. Florence did not sleep with a partner, so he used a weighted comforter. That was interesting. Maybe he would jot that down in the profile.

Somehow, he felt safer in this dark room than he did in any other part of the house. It did not smell like Lysol; it smelled like clean-scented bodywash and spurts of musky cologne. In his head, Florence smelled like French lavender and tobacco. In reality it was something more like nutmeg and orange.

Blair inhaled deeply, again and again until he started to feel dizzy. He put his back against the edge of the bed and slid down to the floor, landing with a thud. He felt his teeth rattle in his head with the impact.

Blair tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He wanted to live within that smell. He wanted to crawl into Florence’s bed and be enveloped by it. He wanted the weighted blanket and the warmth of Florence’s body next to his to be in direct competition with the cool air and the darkness surrounding him.

He ached between his legs. Blair stretched out his legs in front of him and rubbed his hand against the outside of his jeans. He didn’t even know why he wore jeans, today. Usually he wore pants that were much more comfortable.

Laundry day, that was it. He remembered. He only had jeans left, and his nose was too sensitive to wear dirty clothes after a certain point.

Rubbing his hand against his hard-on was doing nothing but making it worse. It was going from an ache to a throb, and his need was growing more desperate the longer he sat there.

He absolutely did not want to unbutton his pants and push them down to expose his cock in Florence’s bedroom. That act seemed absolutely barbarian. He would never.

But he had to do something.

Blair felt behind him to see how much space there was underneath the bed. He could never, never crawl on top – but maybe there was some space for him underneath. It felt like there was, and Blair laid down on his side. He dug his bare toes against the carpet and used the leverage to push himself underneath the bed. There was just enough room for him to lay on his side. He could either turn over on his stomach or lay flat on his back. He opted for the former.

His loose cardigan was pulled up and the carpet rubbed against his bare skin. Blair tried not to let it distract him. He wiggled himself up until he could no longer feel his feet sticking out from underneath the foot of the bed. He wished dearly for a pillow, or something he could use that was better than his hand. He was going to get a vicious rug burn if he was not careful.

Blair wiggled his hands into position underneath himself and cupped them around his throbbing erection. Between his rough jeans and the carpet, it was not altogether a pleasant method. But it would be effective. At least, he hoped so. He started pushing into his own hands, rocking his hips back and forth, trying to conjure up a go-to fantasy that would get him off quickly and easily.

He thought of Florence walking in, flicking on the light, looking under the bed and discovering him.

Florence grabbing him by the ankles, dragging him out by his feet and then ripping his jeans down his hips to finish the work.

That was enough to do it. Blair’s thighs tensed and he pushed into his hands one final time. A weak orgasm gave him enough relief to sigh and roll out from underneath the bed.

Florence’s cologne hit him again with a new wave right as he sat up. Shame flooded his face as he realized the atrocity he had committed on what any sane person would consider hallowed ground.

Blair scrambled to his feet. His legs felt like Jell-O. He shouldn’t have jerked off. He stumbled towards the door, not even glancing around the room for a final look. He had to get out as quickly as possible. He was an idiot, and Florence would absolutely be home at any second.

He could only imagine his alarm clock was going crazy. He wasn’t home to shut it up. His notebook was still sitting out on the patio table.

Blair broke out into a run once he hit the hallway. His bare feet thudded against the floor as he found his way out the way he came. He only broke his stride to make his exit, gently pulling the door closed behind him.

He left it exactly the way it was before.

Blair glanced at the driveway to reassure himself that he had not been caught. There was no car already in the driveway and nothing pulling up. He had let himself get worked up over nothing at all.

That did not stop him from bolting over the hedge line that separated their residences. He charged towards his patio, scooping his notebook up and grabbing his own front door. He slammed it shut behind him and slid the bolt immediately into place.

Only then did he lean against it, trying to catch his breath.

His alarm was not going off. He had barely been away for fifteen full minutes.

A violent tremble was making waves up his spine. Still, despite everything, one thought kept reverberating off the walls of his scrambled skull.

Florence Hill is perfect.