Bronco

The Ford Bronco cut across two lanes of traffic, barely avoiding a collision with a white minivan, before stopping directly in front of Dave’s service truck. He slammed his breaks, sending his tools and laptop crashing onto the passenger floor with a sickening crunch. His coffee mug followed, leaking lukewarm coffee over his equipment, and filling the cab with the nutty aroma of hazelnut.

“Asshole!” Dave exclaimed.

The minivan laid on its horn. The minivan’s driver, a little old man with thinning hair and round rimmed glasses, yelled and flipped a bird at the Bronco. Dave couldn’t hear the little guy but watched as he cursed and shook his hands. Let him have it, old timer, Dave thought, and chuckled. He looked back at the Bronco and couldn’t decide if he was more offended or disturbed by its appearance.

The Bronco was a filthy beast made of metal, glass, and rubber. Patches of dark coppery rust crept out from under the chassis and across the tailgate like an angry rash. Faded red paint covered most of the body. Huge dents in the metal revealed more rusted frame than steel. What was left of the bumper started out as gun metal gray but faded into jagged rusted spikes that hung down like a row of bloodied teeth. Even the bronco logo, once a proud stallion bucking on the spare tire cover, was faded and dull, a horse forever trapped in a dirt storm.

The windows were filthier than the body. Dave could barely see through the old yellow stained glass. Darker red and brown stains smeared across everything, as if a muddy, or bloody, hand had slid across the beast. The side windows were boarded up with wooden planks. Dirty

black chains hung from the planks ending in huge metal meat hooks. The camper, also constructed of old wooden planks, hung over the cab, a custom job for sure.

“Hunting season, maybe,” Dave mumbled out loud. “Maybe the darker stains are from a deer he killed, the hooks for the meat.”

It was September and many of the local hunters had custom rigs like the Bronco. The cool weather settled into town. The trees shifted colors and shook their foliage free. Yellow, orange, and red leaves blanketed lawns and clogged gutters. The wind always blew, a moaning melancholy. Gray skies dominated the days, threatening downpours of rain, but only creating a cold miserable mist.

Dave tore his attention from the Bronco and reached for his coffee mug. He bent too fast and the seatbelt locked. He muttered a curse and reached again. Again, the belt locked, holding him back. Heat rose in his cheeks and forehead. He sighed, letting out an exasperated breath. He reached down slower and stretched his fingers out. His fingertips brushed the handle, turning the cup. The nutty scented coffee poured out faster.

“Son of a bitch.” Dave muttered, then removed the belt and scooped up the cup.

It was becoming another one of those days. Dave had a lot of those days lately. It was like the universe worked against him. It all started at the union meeting and that damn contract. The company’s new proposal would cost Dave over ten thousand annually. The new medical was more expensive and covered less. Worst of all, the company wanted to defund his pension. He and Rachel lived on financial scraps already, and the company wanted to bleed him for more.

Dispatch loaded him up with ten hours of work and his boss expected him to finish it in eight. He’d been working overtime for months. His first job that day was in the Sunny Days trailer park. The dogs in the park used Dave’s access cabinet as their pooping grounds and the

owners didn’t have the decency to pick up after their mutts. The cool September morning reeked of wet dog crap. Dave had to weave a path through the feces.

His customer moved a new trailer onto the lot. New, by Sunny Days standards, meant a decade old tin can. New to Dave meant all existing equipment and wiring was ripped out with the old trailer. He would have to install all new equipment, turning a thirty-minute job into a two hour one. The lady who lived there was nice enough but smoked like a wildfire in northern California. She kept the windows closed and the air-conditioning on high, effectively turning her home into a smoke-filled icebox. Dave understood what dry ice went through. When he finished, his lungs hurt, he smelt like an ashtray, and he needed to jam up the heater to get warm.

Rachel called him as he left the trailer. That morning, she’d been particularly warm, and to his pleasure, wet when he woke. She placed his fingers between her legs and began to move them back and forth. They made love, her on top, pressing her naked body to his. He smiled at the memory and answered the phone.

“Hey, Babe.”

“You busy?”

“Just finished my first job.” Dave said, climbing into the cab of his truck.

“Don’t forget to grab the parts for fixing the sink. You’re on your own for dinner. I’m working late, decorating for the Haunted house at the clinic. Then drinks with the girls. You’ll be good on your own, right?”

“Yeah I’ll be fine.” He said. “Repair kit for the sink, check. Dinner for self, check. Keep the bed warm for my sexy wife, check.”

“Oh, your bad.”

“I’ll fix the sink and you could fix my leaky pipe.”

“Mm hmm,” Rachel said, clearly amused. “We’ll see how well you fix the sink first. Do a good job and maybe I’ll let you play repair man.”

“No worries,” Dave said, “I got this. Have fun.” Dave turned onto the road. “Got to go, Hon, if I want to get done before the end of the world. Love you.”

Now, thanks to the jackass in the Bronco, Dave’s laptop case was soaked with coffee and his tools were scattered. The Bronco was in such a big hurry only to get stuck at the same light as everyone else. Probably wanted to cut Dave off because he was in his service truck. People hated being behind service trucks, always speeding up and cutting them off. They never thought about the weight and consequences of a loaded vehicle slamming to a stop. Normally it didn’t bother Dave but today it infuriated him.

“Fuck,” he yelled and punched the roof. He wished he’d laid on his horn, like the old timer in the minivan.

Dave sighed, expelling his anger with his exhale, leaving him feeling tired and numb. He felt a chill and he checked the heater. Warm air blew into the cab. He shivered again, looking around for the source of the cold air. Dave looked up and understood there wasn’t a draft. Instead, Dave experienced a physical manifestation of a psychological awareness. He’d dismissed it at first, but his subconscious registered the unsettling atmosphere around the Bronco. More and more, those dark brown and red smudges resembled bloodied handprints.

Dave’s heartbeat increased. He caught a glimpse of the driver’s bald head in the side mirror and a terrible fear gripped him. Dave could only see the back corner of the driver’s head, just behind the left ear. Maggoty pale skin was contrasted by a black scorpion tattoo just below the ear. A sudden and unavoidable realization struck Dave; the Bronco’s driver must be evil. Dave didn’t understand how he knew this; he just did. Could your body, through your senses,

recognize the presence of evil? Dave thought it could, like a primal instinct about danger from our prehistoric ancestors. An echo of the days when we were prey. A subtle beware, danger ahead signal.

All at once, Dave saw it in his imagination. A young woman, resembling Rachel, athletic, short brown hair, and a round face. She’s dazed. She struggles violently, as the pale bald man with a scorpion tattoo sneers. He drags her to the back of the Bronco by her hair. She pleads for her life through spittle and tears. She promises to do what he wants, that she won’t tell a soul, if he’d just let her live. He laughs, grabs her by the hair, and punches her in the face. She whimpers as he tosses her limp body into the back of the Bronco. With unnerving speed, he shackles her with rusted chains. She begins screaming at the top of her lungs, having spied the meat hooks glistening with rusty points. An impossible terror seizes her mind, breaking it.

He laughs again, dark and primal, a growl more than a laugh. He takes one hook and drives it into the flesh of her upper right arm. Blood pours from the wound, thick and slow. She whimpers, driven mad with pain, no longer able to scream. He takes another hook and drives it into her left arm. Holding her head up by her hair, he looks into her eyes, glazed over with the madness. He puts his mouth over hers, then licks the tears and blood off her cheek. She’s held in that dingy truck, crucified, like a piece of meat. Does he eat them, is that why only the bones are found?

Looking at the dark smears on the back window, Dave imagined those bloodied fingers dragging across the glass, broken and bent. A desperate woman clawing at a hope for escape but knowing only suffering and pain lay ahead. A vague shadowed form moved across the dingy window, struggling in that rusting hell. He leaned over his steering wheel and squinted, trying to get a better idea of what was back there.

That terrible fear grappled with Dave’s mind again, trying to take root in his thoughts. He felt something ancient and hungry watching him. He felt a chill again, this time deep in his bones, despite the sweat beading on his forehead. The Bronco’s driver watched Dave through the rearview mirror. Pale blue eyes, like a frozen lake in the dead of winter, sparkled with amusement.

A horn blasted.

The stoplight turned green and the cars moved. Dave’s mind snapped back to reality. Unconsciously, Dave smiled, trying to push the uneasy feelings away. His autopilot kicked in and his thoughts turned back to work. The cars around him jockeyed for better positions. A plumber’s van, the logo A Clean Flush, After a Deep, moved to the far right. That allowed the white minivan to move forward a space. Traffic only progressed to the next intersection, stopped by another red light. Again, Dave stopped behind the Bronco.

Not wanting to meet the driver’s eyes again, Dave focused his attention on the minivan, now a spot ahead. He couldn’t see the old timer driving anymore, only the back and side cargo. The back windows were tinted dark, too dark to see inside. The logo, Rime’s Time Fancy Pet Food, was printed in the center of the rear window. In the lower left corner, four stickers were meticulously placed. A stick-figure man with a bowtie and big round-rimmed glasses stood at the far left, obviously the old timer. Next to him was a cute stick figure puppy with a bowtie, then two stick figure cats, one with a bowtie, the other with a bow on its head.

“Boy dog, boy cat and girl cat.” Dave muttered aloud. “Lonely old guy.”

Something stirred in Dave’s left peripheral, something in the back of the Bronco. Like a spectator passing a horrible disaster unable to avoid slowing and looking at the grizzly carnage, Dave turned back to the Bronco. For the first time he noticed the Bronco’s right rear light and

panel were different than the left. The paint was a black ash color, faded and dull. The light was shaped differently, too. The whole truck was a patchwork of spare parts. He thought of Frankenstein. The Bronco was a modern day monster bolted together with metal and plastic, brought to life by gasoline and oil. Dave chuckled to himself, partly for his analogy, and partly to relieve some of the tension he felt.

Something shifted in the back of the Bronco. A large dark indistinguishable shape rose into view. Dave immediately thought about the victim in his imagination, the one that resembled Rachel. Had he seen dark hair? Was she trying to escape? Maybe trying to signal for help? Dave saw more movement and leaned forward, attempting to get a better view. He was sure he’d seen curly hair.

The Bronco’s door swung open. The driver stepped out and stared directly at Dave. The right side of the man’s face was badly scarred, his lip permanently drawn up into a snarl. He wore a green tank top, what Dave called a wife-beater, and green camo pants tucked into desert style army boots. More tattoos covered his right arm, a sleeve of Japanese demon faces and skulls. A half-finished pin-up girl exposed her breasts to a drooling monster mouth, its slimy tongue reaching out for her nipples.

His cold blue eyes, dead and amused, locked on Dave as he strode to the back. He pounded on the window, rattling the wood panels and chains in the back. A twisted smile crossed the driver’s red lips. Too red, Dave thought, as the snarl became a sneer.

“Stop moving around you fucking bitch!” The driver yelled, “Or I’ll fucking kill you!” He finished by giving Dave one last amused look, before hopping back into the Bronco.

Dave sat back and sighed. What a fucking nut-job. Did he have a girl back there, or was he just fucking with Dave’s head? Shouldn’t he do something? But what? Hadn’t someone been telling him about a serial killer recently? What had he heard? Then he remembered.

“No leads,” Rachel said.

“No leads?” Dave repeated, turning the words into a question. He looked up from his coffee, realizing he hadn’t really been listening.

“No leads on the serial killer.” Rachel said, fixing him with the I know you weren’t listening look. “The guy kidnaps couples, then carves them up. Mostly all they find are the bones.”

Dave sighed, and took a sip of his coffee. Rachel loved to inform him about the horrible news of the day.

“But do you know what the really weird part is? They never find the women’s skulls.” She said, her tone over-dramatic. She sipped her coffee. “It’s fucking horrible. I think we should move.” Every time something horrible was reported in the media, Rachel thought they should move. Dave told her they lived in a good neighborhood, in a good town, and bad things could happen anywhere.

“No heads, huh?” Dave asked, not really wanting to know more about a serial killer but wanting Rachel to know he was listening.

“No heads, or skulls, but only the women.” She turned from the marble island and poured a fresh spot of coffee into her mug. “They think he might be a hunter. The marks on the bones suggests he’s skilled at skinning. Disgusting.”

“I told you, subscribing to that news channel would upset you. Why do you watch that crap?”

“Dave, this is in our town. It’s happening here. What if he came for me? What would you do?”

“I’d move in with my mistress,” Dave smiled. Rachel’s look showed she was unimpressed with his humor, but she smiled anyway.

“You’re such an ass.” She kissed his cheek, “Love you, I’ve got to go.” Before she stepped out the door, Dave stopped her.

“I’d kill the son of a bitch.” He said and hugged her for a long time. He didn’t want to let her go.

“Stop, you’ll make me late,” She laughed then pushed away from him.

Could this be the guy, the killer? Why not? It would make sense. He seemed like a hunter. The old Bronco was perfect camouflage. Everyone would be looking for a white van, not a white-trash red-neck truck, something a poor person would drive. Poor people made others uncomfortable, made them feel guilty. Most people looked away, embarrassed, avoiding discomfort. Out of sight, out of mind. Who’d expect a Frankenstein truck decked out for hunting season?

The dark mass in the back shifted again. Dave’s pulse raced faster. He should call the cops. He could be a hero, save a girl’s life, maybe collect a reward. They could use some extra cash. But then the psycho would know it was Dave. He could report it anonymously but what proof did he have? None.

Before he had a chance to do anything, the light changed. Traffic moved again. The road became a series of “S” curves linked together. The speed limit increased to forty-five miles an hour. Dave’s mind adjusted to driving and away from the Bronco. He briefly noticed the Bronco switching lanes, then lost track of it as he maneuvered through a curve. A sporty blue BMW

whipped in front of Dave’s truck. Once the traffic came out of the last curve, a short straight away brought them to another stoplight. Dave eased his truck to a stop behind the BMW, its license plate spelled Cl0S3R.

“C, one, zero, s, three, r,” Dave sounded out the plate. “Closer,” he snickered. “Snob.”

The minivan was gone, replaced on his right by a small SUV crossover. The driver was a blonde woman who looked exhausted. She could be pretty, if given extra time to take care of herself. Three boys were strapped into car seats in the back. The oldest was closest to Dave. He dug boogers from his nose, then wiped them on the baby in the middle. The baby’s mouth opened a scream Dave couldn’t hear. Tears streamed down his flush cheeks. The middle child, sitting in the far seat, stared at his older brother with a look of quiet, smoldering hatred. That look said, “Just wait, brother. You’re bigger today, but one day, you won’t be.”

Dave checked his mirror and a bolt of pure fear shot through him. The Bronco rumbled behind him. The motor growled like a giant prehistoric predator. Through the windshield, the bald, tattooed driver sneered, a mouth full of too many teeth. That unnatural amusement filled his cold eyes. They no longer looked dead, instead they sparkled with excitement.

The Bronco’s grill was more disturbing than the bumper. Again, Frankenstein’s monster came to mind. A sun visor ran across the top of the windshield like the heavy furrowed brow of an angry skull. The hood, with dual vent hood-scoops, resembled the snarling nose of a beast. Like the rest of the Bronco, it was spotted with rusted patches resembling dried blood. The grill was a square flat jaw filled with dull rusted teeth, some bent and broken, giving the Bronco an obscene grin. None of that, however, compared to the grill guard.

Two large metal spikes curved up on each side, forming black tusks. Every two inches, notches were carved into the tusks, creating serrated edges. Just inside the two tusks, two more metal spikes curved down into sharp points, like the hooked beaks on birds of prey. A winch hung from the center; its rusted chain coiled loosely. It rattled with the rumble of the engine. A meaty red hook dangled from the chain like the lulling tongue of a thirsty Rottweiler.

The worst part sat just above the winch. Barbed wire held the yellow stained skull of a dead buck. Its long bone nose pointed down; the end splintered into jagged points. The deep hollow sockets peered from beneath the boney brow. Two massive antlers twisted up, then out into multiple points. Part of the left antler was broken off long ago during an epic battle.

Dave shuddered. He thought of his imaginary victim, slender athletic build, short brown hair, tears streaking down her bruised face. Blood stained nightgown flowing around her, a perverted wardrobe for the monster’s horrible fantasy. The pavement shreds and bloodies her feet, but she runs on with all her strength. The lights flash on behind her. She screams a terrible shriek filled with mortal terror. Hopelessness overwhelms her like a heavy chain dragging her to the ground. She stumbles and sobs, tempted to drop to her knees and surrender.

The rumbling motor creeps behind her, vibrating in her bones and driving the strength from her muscles. The tusked monstrosity creeps slowly forward, playing with her. The hollow eyes of the skull, cold and black, condemn her. The Bronco gains speed as it approaches. She tries to evade, dive off the road, but isn’t fast enough. The Bronco’s tusk slams into her back and out her chest, impaling her. Blood bursts around the metal spike and out her cracked lips. The light in her eyes fades with her final gurgling breath.

Screeching to a stop, the driver gets out. His wormy white scalp glows in the headlights. He rips her lifeless body from the bloodied tusk. He cups her body in his arms, like a father comforting a small child. He kneels before the Bronco’s hideous skull face, offering her up as a sacrifice. He wraps the heavy rusty chains around her limp body, cocooning her against the grill.

He pulls the chains tight, using the heavy hook to hold her in place. Without a word, he drives her home.

Dave couldn’t stop the horrible fantasy. He believed the Bronco’s driver was the serial killer, but he needed proof. He could follow the Bronco to the murder house. He would wait and get pictures of the driver unloading the victim. But that was no good either. The driver saw Dave’s work truck. He would be suspicious if it were parked outside his lair. Dave needed a better look into the back, see the victim trapped inside, and bingo evidence.

Dave looked around for a cop, but they were never around when you needed one. He imagined the Bronco coming up on his right, the driver grinning his horrible sneer, the desperate victim pleading, her bloodied hands on the glass. Dave pulls the steering wheel hard to the right, driving his truck into the front fender of the Bronco. The force smashing the wheels on both vehicles. Dave’s white service truck and the Bronco’s rusted metal frame grinding together in a screeching catastrophic wreck, exploding with glass and oil, metal and rubber. That could stop the Bronco long enough for the police to arrive.

The light changed. The BMW shot forward. The tired mom spun around, slapping at her oldest son before he could wipe another booger on his brother. She swerved, nearly hitting Dave’s truck. Dave swerved, knocking his coffee cup back to the floor. He cursed, then swung back into his lane. He reached the next light just as the BMW flew through it. By the time he righted his coffee cup, the Bronco was nowhere to be found.

Dave worked late, not in any hurry to get home. Rachel cooked his favorite dish, dirty rice and red beans mixed with chunks of jalapeno sausage. He and Rachel concocted it in the early days together when money had really been scarce. He played on his computer for a few hours before settling on the couch with a cold beer. He dozed off shortly after sitting down.

He woke to an eerily silent house. The television’s unnatural glow cast a strange shimmer across the room. It was just past midnight. He made his way to the bedroom. Rachel still wasn’t home. That didn’t surprise Dave, she was out with the girls and they usually closed the bar down. He climbed into bed and went back to sleep.

The next morning, Dave woke from restless sleep to find Rachel still hadn’t returned home. He checked his phone for messages and found none. He called her cell, got her voicemail. He texted her a quick “Everything ok” message. He got ready for work, checked for a reply, there was none. A feeling of dread hit his stomach like a golf ball smashing a window. Worry and fear danced in his mind. Where could Rachel be? Why hadn’t she come home? Reluctantly he went to work.

Anxiety, along with disturbing thoughts, swirled around in Dave’s mind. Rachel, the Bronco, the conversation about the serial killer. Where was she?

“He takes couples,” Rachel said. The Bronco and its unnerving driver crashed into his thoughts.

“They think he’s a hunter.” The chains, the hooks, the feeling of being in the presence of evil.

“They only find the bones.” The scenarios he imagined before, played over and over in his mind. Rachel took the role of victim. Her body broken and bloodied in the back of the Bronco. Her face slick with blood and tears, her eyes pleading for Dave to help her. He checked his phone, still nothing from Rachel.

By the time Dave returned home, he was on the verge of panic. He tried to drink a beer to steady his nerves. His heart was racing, the golf ball in his gut ricocheted around, twisting his insides. Dave searched the house, desperate for a sign of Rachel returning home. He found

nothing. This wasn’t like her, she always called, always came home. The hours passed with excruciating slowness.

He called Jeanie, Rachel’s friend she was supposed to meet the night before. Her phone went to voicemail.

“Hey, Jean, it’s Dave. Just checking in with you. How’d it go last night? Is Rachel still with you? Must have been quite the party. Hope everyone is good. If you hear from Rachel, can you have her call me? Thanks, bye.” Dave clicked the call off. He couldn’t wait for her call back, so he texted her. She responded a moment later.

Rachel never showed. Everything ok?

The panic exploded in Dave’s chest. He hyperventilated, unable to get air into his lungs. His head spun and he felt like vomiting. He was about to call the police, then paused. Was it too soon? Was it twenty-four hours or forty-eight? Dave didn’t know. They’d probably just think she left him. They’d assume Dave was one of those controlling stalker types. Strange music broke Dave’s train of thought. It was the chime of a special report. Dave moved like a man in a trance, mesmerized by the sound of the television.

“What we are about to show is gruesome. Viewers are advised that these images are disturbing. We’re going live now to Brie Whitman.” The news anchor said with a somber tone.

The scene changed to a typical suburban street, cookie-cutter style houses all lined with green lawns and white garage doors. Red and blue police lights splashed across everything, like a disco without music. As the camera panned through the scene, a police line came into view. It was dark outside, but bright spotlights illuminated the house. Dave recognized the vehicle parked in the drive. It was the Bronco, the tailgate open revealing the filthy inside. The hooks and chains were gone, but the entire back portion of the Bronco was wet and slick with blood. Panic squeezed his heart in a painful grip.

“Drake Wilson was found by a neighbor about an hour ago.” A thin blonde girl that looked far too young to be a journalist said. A picture of Drake Wilson appeared in the corner of the screen. The scarred face sneered at Dave. Drake Wilson was the Bronco’s driver. Only this Drake Wilson wasn’t the disturbing man Dave had imagined. This Drake Wilson wore an army ranger’s dress uniform.

“Mr. Wilson was a local Iraqi Veteran, who nearly died when an I.U.D. exploded near him. He survived and was awarded the purple heart. Neighbors said he was receiving help through an outreach program that provided home counseling for veterans with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The circumstances have the police concerned. Mr. Wilson was found brutally murdered in the back of his SUV. Initial reports are saying he was,” someone off camera handed her papers. She paused to read them. “the dog? Really?” She whispered. When she looked at the camera again, she’d visibly paled.

“No this can’t be right.” Horror twisted her face, “My God, I can’t say this on the air.” She took a deep breath and composed herself. “It would appear this is connected to another series of murders.”

“Brie, did I hear you correctly, this isn’t the first death like this?” The first news anchor appeared on a split screen.

“No, John, not the first death like this. Mr. Wilson may be another victim in a long list of victims.”

“They only find the bones,” Dave heard Rachel saying in his memory, “but do you know what the really weird part is? They never find the women’s skulls.” Dave hadn’t really been

listening. Now he wished he’d paid closer attention to his wife. There was nothing, however, that could prepare Dave for what happened next.

“Good question, John,” Brie said. The camera panned to her left revealing a blue Toyota Corolla parked against the curb. Rachel’s Corolla. Dave’s knees betrayed him, and he collapsed to the floor. His heart tightened his chest, thumping with pain. His gut twisted. A sound escaped his lips, a whimper full of misery and helplessness.

“Rachel Campbell was Mr. Wilson’s case worker and local VA support. She routinely did welfare checks at Mr. Wilson’s home. The police believe she was mistaken for Mr. Wilson’s girlfriend. The police are currently searching for her. If anyone has any information about her whereabouts, please contact our crime stopper line.”

Dave sat frozen; his gaze fixated on the screen. His lips trembled. His hands trembled. Pain filled his chest and stomach. Shudders ran the length of his body. Someone knocked at the door. He couldn’t move. His body was no longer his to command. Numbness took over his mind. All he could do was watch. Watch the camera pan around the block. It found neighbors on the street, fear on their faces as they huddled and whispered together. It found cars parked along the lane. Trucks, SUVs, cars, and minivans, all belonging to people who weren’t Rachel. The knocking grew louder. A Minivan, he thought, with a stick figure man wearing round rimmed glasses, a dog with a bowtie, and two cats, one bowtie and the other with a bow on its head. Boy dog, boy cat, girl cat.

“A minivan.” Dave muttered. “A white minivan.”

Epilogue

Peter Augustus Rime, a thin, balding man with round-rimmed glasses, was arrested for eleven counts of first-degree homicide and four counts of rape. Dubbed the Rime Time killer, Peter’s discovery and arrest were made possible by an anonymous tip. Someone recognized Rime’s minivan at the scene of Drake Wilson’s gruesome murder. The extent of his sickness became clear when police searched his suburban home. The total body count to date is still unclear. Rime’s Time Fancy Pet Food had been doing business for at least fifteen years.

Peter Rime didn’t attempt to fight. When the police arrived, he invited them in and even offered them coffee and cookies. He sat patiently while the police went through the house, never raising his voice and politely answered all their questions.

Peter Rime owned two minivans, a house in a typical suburban neighborhood, and at least fourteen separate parcels of land, most in the rural northwest and Canada. Photos of Peter’s clients and their pets shared wall space with photos of Peter and his wife. A taxidermy room was discovered in Peter’s basement, along with a trophy room, and massive industrial food processor. Rime lived alone save his two cats. No dog was found. Mrs. Rime’s perfectly preserved head was discovered in the trophy room next to ten other preserved heads belonging to Rime’s victims. A twin mattress lay on the floor beneath Mrs. Rime’s dead glassy stare. Rachel Campbell’s head was not among them.

“We fought about something, the wife and I,” Rime admitted, “Couldn’t say what about, now. I was angry. I picked up an iron pot and bashed her in the head.” Rime chuckled as he remembered the events. “Well we’d just gotten that new meat processor, and here I was with a body needing to be disposed. So, I cut her up, put her through the processor, and fed her to the pets. Worked like a charm.”

When asked, Peter’s neighbors all said the same thing. Peter was a polite, quiet man, ready to help anyone who needed it. He paid his bills on time and was a treat to have around. He loved to cook at the neighborhood bar-b-que and always had samples of his fancy pet food.

The Rime Time killer died of stage four lung cancer before his trial finished. Police blamed the cancer for Rime’s sloppy behavior leading to his capture.

Rime denied raping the women, even on his death bed.

Forensics proved his last four victims had been raped.

Rime’s second minivan was never found.

Rachel Campbell was never found.

End

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