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Mommy, I Don't Want To

Mommy, I Don't Want To

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Mommy, I Don't Want To

Length:
313 pages
5 hours
Released:
Apr 8, 2019
ISBN:
9780463923641
Format:
Book

Description

It started as a game...

...stalking innocent people in Florida.

Then he took it up a notch.

When he was young, Jay committed his first crime. Nobody caught him. And the die was cast. In Jay’s mind, he was at war, but he must be clever. The detectives who are on the case can never know it was him.

And then came the names.

From the headlines they told his tales. The Marcavillian Hunter, Sunshine State Killer, Eastside Rapist, put fear in the hearts of the victims and nobody knew it was him.

But that was just the folly of youth.

Jay is older now and in the Marines. Still, his mind doesn’t stop racing. He knows he’s equal parts clever and disturbed, but it doesn’t stop the torment. The game continues and he plays from the shadows.

What will he do next?

Will he ever lose a taste for the killing and rape?

Can they catch him?

You’ll love this look inside the mind of a killer, because it’s inspired by a true story of one of the greatest criminal minds of the 20th century.

Get it now.

Released:
Apr 8, 2019
ISBN:
9780463923641
Format:
Book

About the author


Book Preview

Mommy, I Don't Want To - Chris Friedman

Foundations Publishing Company

Brandon, MS 39047

www.FoundationsBooks.net

Mommy, I Don’t Want To

(Inspired by a true story)

By: Chris Friedman

Cover by: Dawne Dominique

https://www.dusktildawndesigns.com/

Edited by Laura Ranger

Copyright 2019© Chris Friedman

Published in the United States of America

Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights

Worldwide English Language Print Rights

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Although, this is inspired by a true person and events, it is purely a work of fiction.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

Acknowledgements

Special thanks to Jesse Frankel for the editing of my first draft. Special thanks to Aaron Parker for helping me out with the military references.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my lovely wife, Weiwei, who has supported me one hundred percent during the entire process of making this book.

Table of contents

Chapter One - Practice

Chapter Two - Childhood

Chapter Three – Sleep Away Camp

Chapter Four - Prowler

Chapter Five – High School

Chapter Six - Work

Chapter Seven - Pornography

Chapter Eight – The Investigation

Chapter Nine – Ties to the Occult

Chapter Ten – Close Call

Chapter Eleven – Magic Mist

Chapter Twelve – Women Fight Back

Chapter Thirteen – The Drop In

Chapter Fourteen – Psychological Profile

Chapter Fifteen – The Trip

Chapter Sixteen – Basic Training

Chapter Seventeen – Ten Day Leave

Chapter Eighteen – The Lead

Chapter Nineteen – Catch Me If You Can

Chapter Twenty – The Big Apple

Chapter Twenty-One – A Night to Remember

Chapter Twenty-Two – The Family Man

Chapter Twenty-Three - Therapy

Chapter Twenty-Four – A Trip Down Memory Lane

Chapter Twenty-Five - Retirement

About the Author

More from Foundations Books Publishing

Chapter One

Practice

The Sunshine State, Marcavillian County. 1977. A peaceful setting.

It was six-thirty-five on a Sunday evening. The weather was warm, and there was a comfortable breeze in the air. The bike trail next to the canal had its share of families and couples strolling along at a leisurely pace.

Next to the canal were some small trees, bushes and other shrubbery. They’d all been designed neatly to give this upscale neighborhood a feel of nature and tranquility. Everyone was enjoying this comfortable Sunday evening, but one person had something else in mind.

A young man dressed in a dark-green nylon tracksuit and a pair of brown Adidas running shoes, slowly jogged along the path, watching everyone he passed out of the corner of his eye. The young man looked to be in his late teens; possibly early twenties. He had a clean-shaven thin face and dark, sandy blond hair that fell just short of collar length in the back. The front of his hair was parted to the left.

He slowed his pace as he approached a nearby, small bench facing the canal, and then began to jog in place for a minute or two before coming to a complete stop. He paused to do a few runners’ stretches, then sat. Instead of facing the canal, he sat at one end of the wooden bench, resting one arm over the top and casually watched the people go by.

Seated sideways on the bench, he could see from all possible directions by simply turning his head and waist slightly. He made sure his gaze was casual and not probing, so as not to attract any unwanted attention to himself. His face maintained a small smile, and he fit in as an unassuming native to this quiet suburb.

Several couples went by within a twenty-minute period. The young man paid special attention to the females. He looked for their choice of outfits, body types, and the length and color of their hair.

It was getting darker now. Several light posts that spanned across the leisure trail, flicked on. Fewer and fewer people passed by.

Several minutes later, a man in his early forties jogged along with a small poodle trotting beside him. The jogger barely turned his head when passing. The young man alternated between sitting and stretching. Twenty minutes went by before the next person used the path. It was a man in his mid-twenties with his head down, smoking a cigarette.

With no one in sight and beginning to feel restless, the athletically built young man got up. At a casual pace, he proceeded down the path in the direction of the nearby thoroughfare. Upon reaching a small dark road just outside the suburb community, he made a right and continued down the dark, isolated path.

After walking for several minutes, he came upon the underpass of a bridge. It was an area often used by local teenagers to drink beer and smoke weed, while listening to portable radios playing popular rock and roll music. The bridge and location made for a private getaway. The area was unoccupied tonight. His outfit definitely helped him blend in with this shadow-covered sanctuary.

As he made his way through the dark underpass, he could vaguely make out the scrawled insignias, as well as the crude stick figures posed in lewd positions, etched on the walls in spray paint and dark markers. A smirk and head nod showed a sign of amusement at the childish vandalism.

The other side of the underpass led to a large, open, dirt field covered only with an occasional patch of dry grass. In the ground several feet away, a wooden sign sticking out read ‘Private Property of Northwood Real Estate.’ There were many lots and open fields like this in the surrounding neighborhoods, most in the process of being built up with new single and two-story homes. Prime real estate, such as this, had become a hot commodity in recent years in the Sunshine State.

At the other end of the open clearing, around twenty yards away, was a six-foot tall chain linked fence. It was woven with green-weave designed to enhance the privacy of the homes behind it. Tall, bushy trees stood behind the fence. Behind them, nice upscale two-story, middle class homes poked out of the skyline. While making his way through the field, the young trespasser pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. The lighter had the word ‘Vietnam’ printed on it, with a picture of a tank in the middle.

He seemed to be in no hurry, nor did he appear to have any fear of being spotted, as he flicked open the lighter, pulled out a cigarette and lit it up. As he casually pulled in the smoke and slowly let it out, he began to envision in his head a fantasy, one he’d had numerous times.

The still, night air was now replaced with distant sounds of explosions. A soldier of war, on the battlefield crawling on all fours with his trusty rifle between his hands. He and his platoon were secretly approaching a small Vietnamese village. No longer dressed in the nylon jump suit, he was instead draped from head to toe in camo gear, with a green and brown army helmet strapped to his head, accompanied by several sticks with small leaves poked out of the sides. From where he and his unit were, they could see the straw and bamboo huts perched on stilts. A method used by the farmers to protect their homes from flooding.

It was dusk, and the sun was setting. The villagers were heading to their homes to eat and rest after a long day of manual labor. As they approached, the soldiers rose up from their crawling positions. Standing fully erect, guns in hand, fire in their eyes, they stormed the village, yelling and firing at any and all. Old women and men, children, no one was free from the onslaught of wrath they unleased upon these simple peasants. Their bodies fell with soft thuds to the muddy ground.

One soldier ran over a downed old man, stepping squarely on his back and then straight to a young and attractive, brown-skinned woman. He butted her in the face with his rifle’s end, knocking several of her teeth out of her mouth and bloodying her face. He caught her around the waist with his right arm before she hit the ground. The soldier lifted her up, feet dangling off the ground, and led her to a semi-secluded area for a little bit of fun.

All this chaos went through the young man’s mind, as he slowly made his way across the empty lot. He saw himself quietly creeping up a small bamboo ladder, which led into a little hut he had seen an attractive, young female farmer flee into. As he reached the entrance, he paused to carefully peer inside while still partially concealing his silhouette. The young woman was not alone. Her elderly mother and a young infant were clutching each other in the corner of the dirty thatched hut.

He entered slowly. The young woman screamed at him in a foreign language, but her fear only excited him. Showing he had at least some form of a conscience, he decided not to kill the elderly woman and the infant. Instead, he pulled a six-inch blade from a sheath on his waistline and from a woven basket nearby, he cut the rope-like material that held the container together. He then went on to hog-tie the elderly woman with the infant attached to her body.

With the other two securely bound, he focused his attention on his intended victim, the attractive, young, female Vietnamese farmer. She wore simple thin pants and a shirt, a wide-brimmed straw hat, and was shoeless. He grabbed the petite woman by the shoulders. She moaned and grunted in fear but was too scared to fight back.

With both hands and in one swift motion, he ripped open her top. She wore no bra and her small, brown breasts were now exposed for him to lustfully gaze at. Wide-eyed, a rush of excitement came over him. He knew he had to hurry, as at any moment a fellow soldier might enter, and then he would have to share.

He threw her onto the ground of the hut, knelt in front of her and easily dragged her pants down to her ankles. Next were her panties, greyish in color, and he swiftly yanked them down to meet her pants. Not bothering to take her clothes off completely, he grabbed at her knees and began to force them apart. She offered some resistance. Bad move for her, as he grabbed his knife and pressed it against her throat. She soon understood the meaning and her muscles relaxed.

Good girl, he thought. Within a few seconds, his pants were down, and he was on top of her. It didn’t take long—just a few pumps, and he released his load. He was up on his feet.

The shrieking laughter of children playing, startled him out of his daydream. He had reached the chain linked fence, almost without knowing. On the other side, some children innocently played, unaware of the young man’s presence.

The trespasser’s facial expressions changed from intrigued and excited, to a hard and angry look of scorn. He hated the ear-piercing sound of children’s laughter. To get away from the head-splitting shrills, he walked in the direction of the urban outgrowth that lay off in the distance. Eventually, the noise faded. His light steps, aided by the springy rubber soles of his Adidas running shoes, made little to no sound as they came in contact with the hard dirt beneath them.

Walking at a distance several feet away from the fence, he extended his right arm out to his side, allowing his fingers to just come in contact with the metal links and its dark green plastic weave. Fanning his fingers as he moved them along the fence, a faint rattling sound briefly cut through the darkness. Removing his hand from the gate seconds later, an eerie silence followed.

Up ahead, a large patch of trees, brush and tropical shrubbery spread out around the area, concealing the path he followed. He entered, gently brushing aside any twigs and small branches that blocked the way. The young man pulled a long and thick charcoal colored pen from his pocket. Twisting it with both hands, a thin beam of light emanated from its end. This helped to partially illuminate his way through the darkness and dense overgrowth.

He’d taken the flashlight pocket pen earlier in the day from the nearby gas station where he worked. Using the small pool of light to guide him, as he waded through the dark shadows and obstacles that lined the path, he occasionally allowed the light to scan over the fences that led to the homes behind them.

Mental notes were taken.

After reaching the clearing on the other end, he made a right onto a dimly lit, quiet suburban street. He was finished with his mission for the night. It was almost eight now and from this location, it would take him twenty minutes or so to reach home. It was enough time to get his story straight, where had he been, and what he’d been doing since three P.M. that afternoon.

His mother, a strict but reasonable woman, would not appreciate his staying out late on a weekday. With an air of resignation, he began to slowly jog further down the dark, quiet street.

He planned to sign up for the Marines in the fall of next year. His father, as a colonel, was always busy and rarely home. The young man liked the idea of one day becoming a high-ranking officer in the military, like his father. He would have power and control over others he thought, as he reached a corner.

In a quick, economical move, he turned right and continued to jog slowly on the sidewalk in another upscale suburban community. He made it a point to make his tread light. Though he wouldn’t seem out of place in this community, it was after dark and he would rather not be seen, if possible. While jogging in the direction of home and fantasizing about his future plans, he made sure not to waste time. He observed the houses he passed. One-floor ranch style homes that were nicely laid out, where lawns and fenced-in back yards predominated.

How easy it would be to blend into the shadows on the sides of their homes. Infiltration tactics such as these began to occupy his thoughts. At home, he had several books and magazines that taught such techniques for clandestine missions. He’d also learned several guerrilla warfare techniques from his uncle, a veteran of the Korean War. He did not take these skills lightly. For him, they were an art form…an art form he was gifted with and practiced in earnest.

He now approached the front door of his residence. Like the others, it was a one-floor home in a nice suburban neighborhood. As he took the key out of his pocket and began to unlock the door, it opened on the other side, startling him. Mom, what are…I was just coming in.

His mother, a small woman in her early forties with brown and grey hair tied behind her head in a ponytail, stood with one hand on her hip to greet him. Jay, where have you been all this time? It’s nearly eight-thirty, and didn’t you get off work at three? she barked.

I went to the Y to work out, went by the comic shop, then took a jog in the park. Got to keep fit for my future career in the military, Mom. I’m headed to bed, got to get up early.

The lie came quickly to his lips. He flew past her to avoid any further conversation. Once in his room, he locked the door. His mother did not follow him.

Jay left the lights turned off and opened the window and shade all the way. From this view, he could see the neighbor’s fence, a tree and the side of the yard. He went over to his bed and sat on it cross-legged, hands resting on his knees in an Oriental meditation position.

One of his favorite shows was Kung Fu, a show that revolved around a young half-Asian monk who was adopted into a Shaolin Temple at a young age. Through many trials and tribulations, the young monk was often tested and relied on his mental and physical skills, to prevail.

In the same manner, Jay tried to clear his mind of all thoughts and remember the methods he’d learned from a book he had read from the Far East. It focused on many of those skills. By clearing the mind, one could become sensitive to one’s surroundings, adjusting one’s eyes to darkness and sharpening his listening skills. He felt all those abilities would help him later in his job as a soldier.

Like an ancient monk in a monastery or Samurai warrior on the battlefield, Jay got in touch with his third eye, his inner self. He was ready for bed, for tomorrow was a new day. A new beginning towards his path to success.

Chapter Two

Childhood

The Marcavillian Hunter, as he would eventually be named, led a somewhat normal childhood. He was often left home alone from an early age, as the single child of working parents. His father, was rarely at home, spending weeks at a time away for work.

When his father was around, he taught the boy discipline as well as the necessity of having respect for his elders. Other valuable lessons learned from his father were the importance of going to bed and rising early. He would often tell his son: Keep your back straight and head up. You’re learning a routine now. It will stick with you, helping you out in all areas of life.

The colonel would check with the boy’s mother to make sure he had followed all the rules of the house when he was absent. If said rules weren’t kept, he would be punished severely, usually involving beatings with a belt on his backside until he was too sore to sit.

Mom, I’m sorry, he’d cry.

Big boys don’t cry, she’d respond. They take it.

Incapable of understanding the whys of it all, he let his anger and resentment cook inside him, never letting it out in a burst of heat. He did, however, learn to channel his feelings of frustration and rage by teaching himself how to do basic housekeeping. By the age of nine, he was already capable of washing his own clothes and cooking for himself.

Despite the harsh treatment, the times Jay did get to spend with his father were memorable ones. The colonel taught him how to box and learned judo. Camping and fishing were two activities the boy thought interesting and neat. He both respected and looked up to his father, and those lessons he held dear.

Growing up in the Sunshine State, he had several hobbies. Despite his dysfunctional home life, he took his frustration out on the playing field. Talented in track and field at school, he was also a good swimmer and overall athlete. In his free time, he loved to run, ride his bike and climb trees, spending hours on end outside. He read comic books and had a vivid imagination.

Academically, Jay held his own in class. He was quiet and polite to teachers. Outside class, he was a bit of a loner, but was liked and respected by his peers.

One of his favorite pastimes when home alone, was to dress up in a homemade secret agent outfit and go on imaginary missions. He created an outfit out of an old judo uniform he’d acquired while training at a local YMCA. He’d studied judo for several months before the teacher moved away to another city, thus ending the program. The brief experience left a lasting impression on the youngster.

He had taken the uniform and dyed it black with some dye he found lying around the house. The dye turned the uniform into a blackish-gray charcoal color, which blended well with the shadows of the night.

His mother had once seen him in his outfit as she passed by his room. He’d been staring at himself in the mirror. What on earth are you doing? she’d asked.

Reconnaissance.

She’d shaken her head and continued, and he vowed that no one would ever see him like this in the daytime. It wasn’t shameful, he thought, but some secrets should never see the light and he hoped his mother wouldn’t tell his father.

Jay wore his uniform along with an old pair of black Keds sneakers and a homemade mask, which he fastened by taking a black knit winter hat and cut out the eyeholes. When pulling it over his face, it created a mask with only the eyes exposed. He would fasten black shoelaces around his ankles to make his pants legs more suitable for stealth operations. When wearing this outfit, he became The Panther, an alter ego he had created for himself.

By the time Jay was eleven, he’d begun to sneak out his bedroom window late in the evening. Being a good climber, he would make his way up to the neighbor’s roofs and gaze at the stars for hours on end.

This would go on to become his habit. He had no fear of the darkness. Indeed, he became fascinated with the concept of going unnoticed in the dark. He gained a feeling of accomplishment every time he completed a task without being discovered. He learned from this young age that people seldom spent time in the dark and that once accustomed to moving in the shadows, one could easily fool those who weren’t.

By the time Jay was twelve, he had already spent time on every neighbor’s roof on the block. Getting bored easily, the boy set more and more challenging goals for himself.

He began to try sleeping in the neighbor’s trees. At first, he wasn’t able to fall asleep for fear of falling. After gaining some proficiency and confidence through practice, he managed to remain in the tree for up to two hours at a time, sometimes dozing off in the process. If his balance was compromised while draping his limbs over a thick branch, his subconscious mind would alert him, and he would awaken before it was too late.

These secret missions of his were further motivated by his trips to the woods with his uncle. The two would camp and fish and he would listen attentively to his uncle’s war stories.

Around this time, during his nighttime adventures, he began practicing other stealth skills he’d learned through watching war movies, such as crawling on his belly, rolling from one shadow to another, and tiptoeing with bent knees to reduce the sound of his footsteps.

These nighttime escapades didn’t involve violence. However, he would perform other types of mischievous acts which baffled his neighbors. He would take small yard ornaments or decorations at times and place them in another nearby neighbor’s yard. Those small acts caused much speculation by the homeowners, which amused him to no end.

Bizarre might be the best word to describe his behavior, but it went unnoticed by his family and peers. However, several incidents gave hints to his oddity. On one occasion at the tender age of eight, his mother caught him behind the tool shed pinning a neighbor’s cat down by the neck with a shovel. The cat was not seriously harmed, but the boy seemed to enjoy watching the animal suffer.

What is wrong with you? she scolded.

He stared sullenly at his shoelaces and didn’t answer. Even the slap across his face, while it made his eyes water, did not persuade him to give a reason why he’d tortured the cat.

Finally, in disgust, his mother confined him to his room and imposed a curfew. This will teach you a lesson, she’d said. In truth, she feared that if her husband found out, her son would be sent to military school for the purpose of reforming him, and she didn’t want to lose his companionship around the house.

There was another incident where one of his teachers discovered some unusual drawings in the boy’s desk, which were then promptly handed over to the guidance counselor. He was called into the counselor’s office to discuss the meaning behind such disturbing images.

What is this? the counselor had asked. A small man, meek and mild, he eyed the boy with curiosity and pointed to the pictures. They were

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