Truth By Mark Slade


By Mark Slade

As Detective Gladwell navigates through the unsettling confession of Ramsey Cain, who claims to be the notorious Arrowhead Killer, a sinister truth emerges that challenges everything she thought he knew about the case.

“I killed her,” Cain said before I could even sit down.

This greasy haired fucker walked into our police station screaming he was the Arrowhead Killer and dared us to shoot him dead. Those were his exact words:

“Shoot me dead, you fucking pigs!”

Believe me, all of us pulled out our guns and aimed it at that son of a bitch, except that fat retard, Hoskins, who manned  the sergeant’s desk. Hoskins dropped to his knees, begging anyone, and everyone not to shoot. 

This goofy, fat, bug-eyed, coke-bottle glasses wearing, pigeon-toed, son of a bitch has the nerve to dance into our domain and demand that we shoot him–dead–no doubt. I swear to God, those were his fucking words.

He said his name was Ramsey Cain.

He claimed he was the murderer of six people out in Arrowhead Blue, a nice suburb here in Powhatan. Almost no crime in Arrowhead. The last case reported was a murder-suicide in 1987.

Captain Hourze  glared at his four detectives and barked, “Gladwell! Take this creep to the interview room!”

The other three cheered, did the chicken dance as they high-fived each other. Lazy fuckers. They only work burglary cases.

I always get the rapes and murders.

“Fuck,” I complained. “Why do I always get the nutcases?”

“Because,” Stevens said. “The captain wants to have your baby and you won’t give him your cum.” He laughed at his own joke, the other two joined in.

So I eased myself into the vinyl chair, sat the foam cup of coffee down. Cain was grinning at me like a rabid dog, and he kept adjusting his thick rimmed glasses.

“Okay smart guy,” I said. “How’d you kill her—uh…” I flipped a sheet up on the clipboard in my hands. “Naomi Stern? Is that who you’re referring to?”

“I don’t know her name,” Cain shrugged. “I think that was the housewife…. anyways this housewife let me in cause I told her I was there to fix a clogged sink. I tied her up, fucked her, then made her drink Draino. Best three hours of my life.”

Cain laughed uproariously, slapped the table with his hands.

“I had another good time The next day. The black girl,” his pug nose flared. “She was one in the bathtub.”

I snarled at my clipboard. Fuck I hate spreadsheets.

I scanned the tear sheet, ran my index finger across the blue box next to the name Addie May. The next box to the left informed me the woman had been a 29 year old black female. She died from a single gunshot to the forehead. M.E. dug out a .25 slug. 

“Yeah, black girl, Addie May. How’d you kill her?”

“With a hammer,” Cain said smugly, crossing his arms. “Hit her in the head and face twenty-five times.” For some reason this amused him. He gurgled out a high pitched guffaw, followed by several snorts. “When I was done her face looked a bloody mess. Damn, I’m good!”

I glared at him.

I wanted to cram my fist down his fat throat.

Why the hell couldn’t Stevens take this prick’s statement.

“You get off on killing people?”

“I get off on the control,” he said. “Like I can control you.” He grinned.

If nobody was around, we weren’t in the incident room of the police station, I would’ve put all six rounds of my .32 into the scumbags face.

“Control how, dick lick?”

He shrugged.

“Like that. I made you say that.”

I sighed heavily. “Yeah. Sure. Okay. Lionel Richmond, his wife Sharon. How’d you kill them?”

“Beat them to death with a crowbar. Then I nailed their heads to the wall with a nail gun.”

Nope. The killer used a hunting knife. Sliced Sharon’s breasts off. Post-death rape of both victims.

I marked an X by their names indicating his description of the murders doesn’t jive with the evidence.

“What about Esther Mulligan, Pete Kaufman?” I asked.

He threw his hands up.

“I don’t know names.”

“Miss Mulligan was killed in her dorm room—”

“Oh yeah,” he giggled. “I strangled her with her panties.”

“—Pete Kaufman—-”

“I  smashed his face in with a center block out in his backyard.”

Close, but no cigar Psycho-boy! Pete Kaufman was killed with a baseball bat. 

“I thought you didn’t know names,” I said.

“I know him because the news reported it before you morons informed his family of his death. Big controversy,” he said.

“Why kill an eighty year old man?”

“Why not?” He retorted. “I’m an equal rights kinda killer. I think everybody should die. In spite of age, race, gender, or creed.”

I chewed my lower lip, trying hard not to reach across the table and poke out both eyeballs with my ink pen. The sonofabitch!

“The fuck are you here for?” I snarled. 

“To bring you some truth,” Cain drilled those two beady, black eyes right into me.

After a long minute of cd glares, I said:

“You didn’t kill anybody.”

“Oh,” his evil grin grew wider, showing me all his rotten teeth except for one brilliant white one. “But I did, dear boy “

“This paper says differently.”

Cain laughed.

“You’ll see. Some truth will cut you down.”

The door swung open, jolting me out of a daydream where I was beating the shit out of this creep with a chair while another officer was tazing his genitals.

Stevens stood in the doorway, beckoning me with a knobby finger.  I stood, kicked the chair backwards, ambled over Stevens, all the while keeping my eyes locked on the perp. 

“Yeah, what?”

“Captain says kick him,” Stevens said.

“What? C’mon. I wanna charge him for filing a false police report, at least.”

“Mhmm,” Stevens shook his head. “Cap says let him go. Call Central State psych ward to grab him when he walks outta here “

“Sonofabitch!” I stamped my foot. I sucked in air, released it as I counted down from five. Calmer, calmer, calmer calmer, calm—

“Wanna hear something weird about that guy?” Stevens interjected.

“Oh, please, Stevens. There is nothing weird about this fine, upstanding citizen whose hobby is confessing to murder.”

“You already heard this?”

“Heard what?”

“Oh, it’s stray,” Stevens leaned in to tell me the world’s greatest secret. “ Apparently, that jackass has been going into different police stations all over the state, confessing to murders.”

“Yeah, yeah, I gather,” I said impatiently.

“The thing is, when they send him off, no one sees him leave.”

“So. He just blends in during a shift change. Big deal “

“Uh-huh,” Steve s shook his head slowly. “Look, it’s your prerogative if you don’t wanna believe it. Just relaying what I know.”

“Well, thanks, Stevens,” I scoffed.

Then I heard electricity crackling, and everything went black. Captain Hourze voice boomed, telling everyone to remain calm and make sure all prisoners and perps were secure. 

And just as quick as they went off, the lights flickered, and stayed on. We turned to the table where Cain sat. Only….he wasn’t sitting…..I mean, he wasn’t there. He was gone. Disappeared. 

I dropped my clipboard.

Shocked, Stevens exclaimed: “Hol-leee shit! What a weird plot twist!”

Stevens was right. It was weird as fuck. But it wasn’t as weird as this:

When I scooped up the clipboard, I glanced at the spreadsheet containing how each of the victims Cain claimed to have murdered.

May, Addaline: African American-Female- 23 yrs old
Bludgeoned with a Hammer.

Kaufman, Pete: White-Male-80 yrs old
Bludgeoned with a center block.

Mulligan, Esther: White-Female-32 yrs old
Strangled/Garment (women’s panties)

Richmond,  Sharon: Hispanic-Female-41 yrs old
Bludgeoned with crowbar (victim sodomized post-mortem, nailed to plaster wall)

Richmond, Lionel: Black -Male- 39 yrs old
Bludgeoned with crowbar (victim sodomized post-mortem, nailed to plaster wall)

Stern, Naomi:  White- Female-33 yrs old
Forced Chemical ingestion (Drano).

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If you did and would like to read more, Truth By Mark Slade was featured in our anthology, Born Under A Bad Sign: Stories of Bad Luck