Butcher Baker Maniac Maker

Sitting in the front seat of a rental car, Birdie Baker carefully applied her candy-red lipstick. She needed to look her best for the photographers gathered outside the prison. That had been easier when she was younger, of course. Though, Lord knows Birdie had never had much in the looks department. A fact, her mother never failed to mention. Checking her reflection in the sun visor mirror, Birdie nodded to herself, then grabbed her purse from the passenger seat and stepped out. Her heels clicked on the pavement, as she made her way from the visitor's lot over to the security checkpoint at the prison's main entrance, aware that she was being watched through the chain link fence over at the media zone, where reporters mingled with the many protesters who were gathering. Think you'll get the bastard to confess Miss Baker? It would be three for three! Someone called to her. When's the new book coming out? Asked someone else. Think it'll win you another Pulitzer? Birdie didn't answer, which she smiled politely in their direction. Glancing up at the signs held by chanting hippies and stern-faced nuns, who had come to protest. The slogans on their signs were the typical nonsense. Capital punishment equals murder. Vengeance belongs to the Lord! The system is the real butcher! Birdie rolled her eyes, then allowed a CEO to hold the door open for her, as she walked inside the prison, feeling equal measures of nerves and excitement about the task at hand. This would be the third time she had spoken with a condemned serial killer on the day of their execution. And if the results of the previous two interviews were any indication, the reporters outside would be in for a doozy of a headline. Before Birdie Baker walked back to the car that evening, she would do it. She had to do it. She had to get a confession out of that maniac, Sean Mingus, aka the Longhall butcher. And then she would finally have what she needed to write the last chapter in her latest true crime masterpiece. In the bleak white bells of death row, the other prisoners watched on from behind bars in respectful silence, as the guards brought the convicted mass killer out of his cell, and marched him, shackles jingling around the corner to the visitation room for the last time. They brought the man inside, switched on the lights, and grunted for him to take one of the two plastic chairs, set on either side of the table, sighing, he sat. The guards checked the restraints on his ankles and wrists, clipped the chains to the restraint anchors in both the floor and the table, then retreated to the hall. In his chair, the prisoner hung his head, folded his hands in his lap, and tried to focus on his breathing, to stay calm, to stay in the moment. That was important, after all, he didn't have many moments left. He could practically feel the time slipping away, like water in his cupped hands, dripping through his calloused fingers, and evaporating in the harsh fluorescent lights of the prison, going, going so fast. But he wasn't all that thirsty. He just needed a teeny tiny sip of that time, just enough to get answers, and to finally understand why he was in chains, why his life had fallen apart, and why today would be his last day on Earth. The unmistakable clap-clap-clap of high heels sounded from the hall, then the petite figure of Bertie Baker entered the visitation room. Good afternoon, Sean, she said, standing just inside the door. The prisoner did not look over, but kept his head bowed as he answered. Now he missed Baker, what we gonna talk about today, I wonder. Murder? My childhood? Maybe the weather? Notting for the guards to leave, Bertie walked around the table to the second chair in the room, and sat, just as the door swung shut, and locked with a click. Then it was just the pair of them, in the center of those four blank walls, under the glare of the fluorescent two-blights above. And what a pair they made. Little Bertie Baker with her salt and pepper perm, her bookish glasses, and her canary yellow cardigan, like some school librarian, and halking Sean Mingus, in his gray prison jumpsuit, with his shaved head and his big hairy hands, like a lumberjack in chains. Sean's face had that unique half and half look, common to truckers. The left side was creased and slightly sagged, weathered by years of sun damage, while the right side had been spared the accelerated aging. Setting her purse on the table, Bertie cleared her throat. I've come to visit you 13 times now, Sean. 13 is my lucky number, you know. Yet you still call me Miss Baker. I keep telling you, it's Bertie. Sean looked up and met her eyes. My mom raised me right. I am respectful of my elders, ma'am. Behind her glasses, Bertie's eyelids flinched, even as she smiled sweetly. Indeed she did. Reaching inside her purse, she drew out a battery-powered relic of the early 2000s, a digital voice recorder. Do you mind if I record our session today, Sean? He glanced over at the little device and shrugged. Right now, you can just use an iPhone for that now. I reckon that'd be easier. Oh, you know I don't have a cell phone. And yes, yes I know. It's very old-fashioned of me. But technology and I are like teeth and tin foil. Put them together and eek. Note thank you. Clicking record on the device, she leaned back in her seat and took a deep breath. Look then. How are we today, Sean? He was silent for a few long seconds, watching the little red light on the recorder. How are we? He finally said his voice flat. In a couple hours, they're going to strap me onto a gurney. A doc will put needles in my arms and give me a drug that makes my whole dang body numb. That way, when they fill me up with their boys and the people watching on the other side of that there, two way mirror, won't see all the pain I'm in. As I die. He blinked. Then whipped his gaze from the red light, back to the woman's eyes. So how do you think I feel? Hmm, yes. Well, I get your point. And I didn't exactly expect to find you all merry and bright. But negativity comes in all sorts of flavors. Sean's mouth curled at the corners, and he sniffed a little laugh. Laugh while you want, Sean. But I'll remind you that this isn't the first time I've sat across the table from an inmate, facing their end. Nor is it the second. And the two men in those previous meetings, they had different reactions to their dire circumstances. Okay, then. So how did they feel? Your first two. On narrowed his eyes. Thomas. And Raj. Birdie's forehead creased, ever so slightly. Her carefully plucked eyebrows pulling down at the corners as she tilted her head. But she composed herself quickly. Well, well, I'm surprised to hear you bring them up. You've never shown any interest in my earlier work before, or the subjects of my first two bucks. Actually, ma'am. They have always interested me. That's why I requested your books from the prison library. But they took a long time to finally come. You nodded. You're a darn fine writer, miss Baker. I can see why you have so many fans, including the Wharton here. Birdie leaned forward over the table. Do you mean to say that? You've actually read them? My dozen pretty heads. And hands red with ladyblood and trekking. Sean smiled again. I can read. You know, ma'am. Not too fast, sure. And some of them big words are a bit tricky. But who, yes, I read them. In fact, I finished ladyblood just this morning. Stayed up all night. And if the new book you're writing now, the one about me and about the long haul murder Well, if it's half as good as the first two, I reckon you've got another best seller on the way. Too bad doesn't have a title yet. She swallowed. Then played off his comment with the shrug. I assume you are referring to the pattern of my book titles and the fact that the first two… Those books were named after the last words of the subjects involved, yes, ma'am. I think I'm finally starting to get a grasp on your patterns, miss Baker. Speaking of, Sean brought his hands up from his lap. The chains rattled against the edge of the table as he crossed his arms. You still haven't answered my question. On the day of his execution, how did poor Thomas feel? And how did poor Raj feel? On the day of his death? Surely you remember that? Those were big days for your career. Just like today will be. There was something in his expression that unnerved her. Some quality in the eyes. A sort of hunger. Yes, Bertie made a mental note to jot that down when she left today. It could be an impactful visual for the book. The last thing his victims must have seen before his blade fell. The hungry eyes of Sean Mingus. Very well then, he want to know how they felt. She straightened her glasses. Thomas Gibbons. Well, Thomas was angry on his last day. Absolutely livid, bright red in the face like a sunburn. And he wouldn't stop screaming poor soul. Screaming at the guards, at the other prisoners, at me, at God, until he confessed that is. Being mad, admitting to his sins, it calmed him down Sean. I think it was a relief for him. After all those years denying his crimes, to finally put the record straight before it was too late. Sean's eyebrows rose. Most have been a big moment for you. Two. After all that effort you put into interviewing him, to be the one to get that grisly confession of he is. And what about Raj? Shuh. Sharevna. I can't pronounce his name. What was he feeling? Raj, Sharvan Mukherjee. Birdie had spoken the name many, many times on tour for her second book. It came easily to her tongue. Raj was scared. He cried and he cried and he cried like an infant. You could hear it all over the prison, haunting, eroding. When you got Raj to confess, did he stop crying then? Did he make him feel less afraid, Miss Baker, to finally put the record straight as it were? Birdie didn't answer. She stared at the prisoner across the table, searching for the reason behind the conversation's unexpected direction. Is that going to be your scene pitched to me today? He went on. Are you going to tell me that if I confess to the 12 brutal murders for which I have been sentenced to die, I will finally be free of my anger and my fear? You don't seem angry today, Sean, or frightened. You seem, I don't know, at peace? Well, I'm mostly resolved to my fate by this point. But there are still certain questions. I'm hoping to find answers too. Then I'll be at peace. Yeah. It's always been a man of peace deep down. Some people might disagree with that, Sean. Because of them 12 murders, she nodded. I can't even imagine what the families of those men must think about me. Twelve bodies, chopped in pieces, spread out all up and down the highways of America. He peered across the table as he went on. Van her eyes, the makeup coated surface of her cheeks, the bright red lipstick around her mouth, watching for any reaction. A thoughtfully built wardrobe really comes down to pieces that mix well, last, and don't make you feel like you overpaid. And that's exactly why I've been loving quince lately. They make up everyday essentials using premium fabrics and thoughtful design, without the luxury markup. I picked up one of their linen shirts and immediately noticed the quality. Comfortable and not flimsy like cheaper linen. The shoes were the same deal. Clean look, super comfortable, and they feel like something that should cost a lot more. They work directly with top factories, cut out the middlemen, and focus on premium materials that actually last. No flashy branding, just well made apparel that gets the job done. Right now, go to quince.com slash DNS for free shipping and 365 day returns. That's a full year to build your wardrobe and love it. What you will now available in Canada too. Don't keep settling for clothes that don't last. Go to quince.com slash DNS for free shipping and 365 day returns. That's quince.com slash DNS. A leg in a ditch in Virginia. A severed penis in a field outside Omaha. A frozen heart. Left in the snow of the Rockies. All those bloody parts scattered like garbage. Scattered by the notorious Long Hall butcher. Birdie stared back. Her expression set. Her mouth a thin straight line. Yes, Sean. That is what I was referring to. But we don't have to discuss it today if it's too upsetting for you. We can talk about something else. Something nice. Would that be better? Perhaps. She wrinkled her nose playfully. Your last meal. No one's told me what you've ordered. Readers always find that very interesting. Is that right? Well, the warden told me that I don't matter much what I order. Because most inmates are too nervous to eat any of their last meal. Waste of a good meal, he said. Birdie sighed. Hmm. Yes. I do know that happens sometimes. He did with Thomas Gibbons. Thomas only took one bite of his eggplant lasagna. Then he had to spit it out. And Raj too. He ordered butter chicken. But he couldn't even look at it. Just the smell. It made a meal. Too bad. So. What meal did you choose? Pizza. She grand. Classic. I wonder if it's already in the oven. It could be. Are you getting hungry, Sean? Think you'll be able to stomach it? He shrugged. A slice or two? Hmm. I guess we'll see. Sean adjusted himself on the chair, rotating his wrists to relieve the pressure of the restraints. Birdie glanced down at the recorder on the table, then over at the door. You look antsy, Miss Baker. Not getting what you wanted for me today. You worried about the time. This is I'm the one short on that. Birdie closed her eyes. And putting her hands on her lap rubbed her palms across the fabric of her wool slacks. Then she smiled and looked up at him. As you say, Sean, this is your big day. I'm just a guest here to listen and to take down whatever final thoughts you may wish to share with the world. Whatever thoughts? He shook his head with the slow deliberate rhythm. No, ma'am. You're trying to stay patient, trying to steer the conversation. But we both know you came here today for one thing and one thing only. And what's that? My confession. You got one out of Thomas. And you got one out of Raj. Now it's my turn. Birdie stayed silent. She didn't bother denying it. What I want to know is why. Why is getting my confession so gosh darn important to you? You've talked about closure for the families. But I know that ain't it. Could be to show up the cops or to keep up your little winning streak as a journalist or even just get your title quote for the next book. But something tells me it runs deeper. Meaning? He leaned in. You need to hear the words come out of my mouth. Without that, all the work you've put into this feels like a failure, don't it? Birdie crossed her arms. What are you getting at here, Sean? With all this talk about me and my books and are you upset with me? Do you want me to leave? Because I can. She reached over to pick up her recorder. Sean chuckled. He ain't leaving, Miss Baker. You're trapped in here same as me. I won't get out until I'm cold in a box. And you won't leave until you've gotten what you came for. Birdie paused, looking between the device and the large man in chains across the table. Can we talk more about your books, Sean asked. They're fresh on my mind and I got some comments and questions. And I want to tell you about my favorite character. Birdie retracted her hand and smirked. You do know the way to a writer's heart, don't you, Sean. Just start talking about their work. Settling herself back in the chair again. She adjusted her card again. But the subjects of my books are not characters. As for your favorite, let me guess. Is it Thomas? A lot of readers love him and a dozen pretty heads. Well, they love to hate him, that is. It ain't Thomas, no. But his story was certainly what you call it. The Page Turner. That chapter about his childhood almost made me cry. That poor little white trash boy with his dead mama and his druggy dad got no love, no hugs, no presence at Christmas. And then when it got to the part about his teenage years, yikes. All that darkness rising up in his young soul, all this dark cravings. And the violence on my smush and goldfish and his fangers. And well, I bet a lot of readers couldn't get through that part about him disembowling the neighbor's cat while it was still alive. My readers tend to have a lot of what we call morbid curiosity. They left the part with the cat. She cocked her head curiously. Did you like it, Sean? Did it remind you of your own dark cravings? Of the things you've done? Sean didn't answer. And clearing his throat, he went on. And of course, Raj's early years sounded even rougher. That poor little boy slow and sickly. And talk about poor. I mean, he was dirt poor, real poor, I mean. Living in that junkyard slum over in India. And when his family finally made it to America, and you sort of teased the reader into thinking things are looking up, boom! That same blood thirsty nightmare darkness starts to rise. And up in teenage, Raj's heart. Sean closed his eyes. That part in chapter five, when Raj is bending his baby brother's leg further and further. To see how long it takes the bone to snap. Sean released a shaky breath and looked at her. You sure can paint a dark, dark picture, ma'am? I'll take that as a compliment. And yes, both Thomas and Raj displayed an escalating pattern of violence long before they began their infamous killing sprees. It was all there, waiting to be uncovered. It always is. Not always. He said his elbows on the table. And intertwining his fingers, leaned forward to rest his chin on his hands. How in the heck are you going to write the chapters about my childhood? That's what I want to know. Because I was there, Miss Baker. And sure, I was poor. And my daddy was a real piece of work to me and my sister. But there was never any great darkness in my heart. No pet killing, no bone breaking, no pattern leading to the whole, long haul butcher thing, of which I am accused. Nothing worthy of a birdie-baker crime story. Not if he did the truth. Birdie shook her head inside. Oh, Sean. Of course I'll tell the truth. I'm not a novelist. I'm a journalist. I report stories. I don't create them. Pardon my Frenchman, but you and I both know that's bull crap. Oh, really? Her mouth pulled back at the corners, stretching her lips into a blood red smile. Your mama must have raised you right. But your father? Daddy was more than a piece of work. He was cruel, Sean. He was wicked. And what was that phrase you used with your sister? To tell each other it was time to run and hide from daddy? Want to go camping? Was that it? Her smile widened. I can use that. I can draw a straight line from those early moments right across the pages to a monster sleeping in the cab of his truck, murdering his way across America, swinging and axed down again and again into his victims. All the victims of the long haul butcher were men, remember? They were all white and bald and bearded, just like your daddy. That's a pattern. It means it's motive. Everything the narrative needs. It's right there. Sean's eyes blazed and his face twitched. The wrinkles on its left side deepening. I never killed nobody. The change in his voice, the sudden depth of conviction, made the hairs on Birdie's arms stand on end. What's more? He went on. Thomas Gibbons and Raj, what's his name? Never did neither. Did they? Miss Baker. For a moment more, Birdie Baker's face retained its look of calm friendliness. Then her eyes went hard. Her upper lip twitched and pulled up into a sneer, revealing a smear of bright red lipstick on two front teeth. Reaching over to her digital recorder, she jabbed a finger at the record button and the red light went out. Here's what I know, Mr. Mingus. As we sit here, wasting precious time, someone is heating up that pizza pie of yours, and someone else is getting a lethal injection, potassium chloride, nice, and cold. Birdie sure that drug is kept room temp actually. Oh, you're suddenly so smart, aren't you, Sean? But I think you've said quite enough. It's my turn to speak. And you really should hear me out while you can. There are things I can offer you, Sean. Should you choose to confess on the record to me, today, to those crimes for which you have been found guilty. Thanks, you can offer me. Like what? A cozy or coffin? Like financial stability for your loved ones, you fucking idiot. That wiped the grin of Sean's face. You didn't expect that, did you? Yes, Sean. I can see to it that the proceeds from your story are directed to your sister. She still lives in your family trailer, right? With her seven children, lot of mouths to feed, and all you have to do is give me my quote, and you can go to your grave knowing you at least are leaving something behind for them. That's a hell of a deal if you ask me. Sean regained a composure, considered her words and exhailed. You gotta be kidding me. A simple bride? I figured birdie bakers means of persuasion would be far more complicated than that. The birdie baker in the books is a genius, a mastermind of manipulation. What are you talking about? I'm talking about my favorite character. I'm talking about you. And the 36 murders you've committed. Birdie's whole face flinched, as if struck. Why would you start to sound like quite the conspiracy theorist? I don't know what it is you think is going on here, but I assure you, whatever little story your sick mind is cooking up, whatever you've told your lawyers or the warden or. Sean's chains jingled as he raised his hands, placed one finger across his lips, and shushed her. Shhh. Quiet down now, ma'am. You're getting riled up. You make the CO's cut our visit short. I ain't done talking. Well, I'm doing listening. She stood up so fast that her chair legs squeaked against the floor. Snatching up her recorder, she shoved it into her purse and turned toward the door. I ain't told anybody my theory. Said Sean, and she paused in her tracks. I'm still figuring it all out myself to tell you the truth. As I got said, I only finished the books this morning. Heck, I'm figuring a lot of this out as we speak. And your reaction right now ain't exactly doing you any favors. Birdie scoffed and slid her purse on her left wrist. Goodbye, Sean, and happy execution. She started walking. I'll give you your darn quote. She stopped. Halfway to the door. The click of heels on the concrete floor going silent. You have my word, ma'am. It'll be the last thing out of my mouth before I leave this earth. But only if we can finish our conversation here and now. Birdie's cheeks flushed. I... very well. Now, blushing through her makeup, she returned to the table, sat, and after a moment's hesitation drew out the recorder once more. OK, then, Mr. Mingus, you have the floor. What do you want to talk about? He glanced over at the door, which remained shut. The shadows of the guards shifting through the door windows. Then he looked back at her. I want to talk about Birdie Baker. Birdie blinked. The me in this chair or the me in my books. Didn't you say they're one and the same? She shrugged. The books are about the killings and the killers. Yes, I do include certain autobiographical details. But that's only because, to do otherwise, would be to ignore the impact a journalist has in their investigation. Don't sell yourself short, ma'am. Your role in the story is much more than that. But it's a bit of a fuzzle to see clearly. You drop in all these little hints, see, like breadcrumbs. Bits about your own childhood. About your career struggles. About your own morbid curiosity. It's good stuff. Access a nice, what's the word, parallel between yourself and those convicted of the killings? Is that right? You also had it tough in your early days, didn't you miss Baker? Absentee father. A mama who was, shall we say, harsh in her judgments. Looks like she blamed you for just about everything that went wrong in her life. Her husband, leaving, money troubles, all of it. That must have been hard. But you rose above all that, didn't you? You got away from your mean old mama. You even put yourself through journalism school. Good for you. Is this your attempt to psychoanalyze me? No, ma'am. I'm just telling a story. And like all good stories, it has, it's ups and it's downs. Your career didn't exactly take off after college did it. Things got hard again. Failed relationships, money problems, rock bottom for Bertie Baker. Then there was that first decapitation and everything changed. Bertie nodded. A slow, calculated movement of the head. As on the table, her fingers gripped into fists. The nails digging into the flesh of her palms. Sean straightened up in his seat, raising his head so that the fluorescent lights above glared off the dome of his head and to clinked it in his eyes. At age 30, Bertie Baker found herself back in a small midwestern town, working at a failing newspaper. Just when the internet was closing all of them down, she was going nowhere and fast. That isn't till the hit hunter arrived. Bertie relaxed her facial muscles with an effort. Then did the same with her hands. Tom is skipping. Sean Narrow desired. It must have been an exciting day for your little paper. When a woman severed head was found on the lawn outside City Hall, you actually knew it didn't you. Fictim number one. Jackie Skoles. She lived in an apartment above your office. You were even brought in by the local PD for questioning. Everyone at the paper was. I found the experience rather stimulating. The others were more upset, no doubt. None of them saw what you did in that killing. In the killings that followed. You saw an opportunity. I suppose I did. She straightened up in her chair. Her gaze flicking back to the red light on the recorder. Our little town was suddenly all over the news because of the murders and the articles I was writing were being reposted by the Associated Press. They talked to me on the news you know. And when they arrested and when new evidence suddenly popped up. Said Sean, cutting her off. Leading them to arrest Mr. Thomas Gibbons, you kept up the stories. You got yourself in to interview him. You even spoke to him on his last day. And you got him to confess. Very impressive, ma'am. Well, I suppose it's less impressive now. Knowing you had to. She moved fast. Her right arm darting now. Matching the recorder and jamming the button with her thumb. Idol money lies in your current account picking crumbs out of its belly button wondering. Should I eat them? But when you start investing with Monzo, your money is always busy. It turns on regular investments. Invests your spare change and tops up your stocks and shares, I say. It even helps you make sense of risk and return. Monzo, the bank that gets your money moving. You could get back less than you invest. Monzo current account required UK residence 18 plus decent C's apply. Sean rolled his eyes. Some of the pride in her expression faded. The bride was necessary. And it was clever. Thomas was stubborn, you see. But his wife was ill then. And the medical bills were piling up. But it's like I said, it did calm him down. Bring him comfort in his final moments. To read his little script. He closed her eyes and smiled. I confess, it was me. I tracked them down and took their lives. I took their heads. A dozen pretty heads. The dozen pretty heads. Sean repeated by Birdie Baker. Quite the debut. You were a big star then. Got on Oprah's book club and everything. Were you proud of yourself Miss Baker? Birdie opened her eyes. Of course, I earned that success. Hmm. He sat back, sliding his hands into his lap. We both know what happened next, of course. The book tour. Your big move to New York. And then silence. Seems like a whole decade passed without any more big wins for Birdie Baker. Must have been difficult. Knowing that without the gory details of the headhunter's bloody handy work, you didn't have anything to say that anyone wanted to read. She opened her mouth to retort. But just then, voices raised in the hall outside. The shadows of the guards moved and for a moment, both Sean and Birdie were worried the CEOs would open the door and end the interview. But then the voice is faded. Birdie released a pent-up sigh. We're short on time here, Sean. Do you really want to spend the last few hours of your existence recapping the details of my career? He swallowed. Guess I'll jump ahead when you've got. Let's call it. Lucky again. You found yourself another new serial killer to write about. The Brooklyn Ripper. Raj Sharvon Makerji. Sure. And when they caught him, after 12 sex workers had lost their lives once again, Birdie Baker was there in his cell to hear him tell his tale. And to record his last fateful words. Let's see if I can get him right. Sean cleared his throat. Oh God, forgive me. I stabby stabby. I kill her in the night. My hands red with lady blood. How much did you promise to pay his family for saying that? Birdie chuckled. Not a damn cent. I'll have you know. Raj was so broken by the end that he would say anything I told him. Just a parrot, like a ventriloquist, dummy. Huh? Is that right? Inoditored the recorder. You're going to turn that thing back on. I'd hate to be misquoted. No. I don't think I will. This little conspiracy theory you're attempting to build here isn't worth recording. Fair enough. So where are we? Ah yes. Raj confessed and was executed. Your hands red with lady blood by Birdie Baker came out and sold even more copies and heads did. It says so in the third edition. That's the one I read. Heck of an accomplishment, ma'am. But that was over a decade ago. Where you've been since then. What you've been up to. I don't have a way of looking that up in here. If you're so smart, Sean, why don't you guess what I've been up to? He took a deep breath. Despite his best efforts, the impending hour of his own death was starting to take its toll on him to make him nervous, to make his palms sweat. It was almost over for him. A few more minutes with Birdie than a slice of pizza, then the gurney and the grave. He exhaled. I think you've been traveling Miss Baker. Coast to coast. Maybe you got yourself a little RV or a camper van. There's something old school. Since you don't like fancy new tech, like phones or anything, that can be tracked. His lips twitched. How's my guess so far? Go on. July 7th, 2018, I'm guessing, ma'am. I'm not even. You were at a rest stop just outside in Eric, Oklahoma. That's the night you were arrested and the location. Yes, it is. And you think I was there? He met her eyes and squinted. Well, somebody would have bloody axed in my truck. I think about that ax. There was DNA of eight of the butcher's victims on the blade. But the handle had been wiped of any prints. Funny. Funny. She put her elbows on the table. This story of yours, Sean, where little old me is some ghastly villain. It is intriguing, I grant you. You might even gain some traction online with the conspiratorial-minded folks. But there's no evidence. Who have you told it too so far? Your lawyer. Is she making a final last ditch bid to the governor to stay your execution? Sean shook his head. No, ma'am. I'm sorry to say she is not. If I was a faster reader or a faster thinker, maybe I'd have time to use it, but no. The public wants me dead. And in an election year like this, the governor can't be seen as going soft on crime with any last minute shamanigans. I know how this day ends. It ends with me in a box. So then, all this rambling, what's the point? Do you want me to feel ashamed? Hmm. A sadness came into Sean's eyes, and he frowned. I don't think you know what shame is, Miss Baker. I think you are a heartless, merciless killer to the core. That's why you did those terrible things. No. The last thing I'm simply trying to piece together is, why is the confession so important? You already got away with the murders. All 36. 12 for the hunter. 12 for the ripper. 12 for the butcher. All those roles you've played so well and framed so perfectly. But it ain't enough. You need to hear us take the blame. Why? She stared at him, unblinking, stoic. Why, ma'am? What is the twisted game you're playing with me? A twinkle game into her eyes. It doesn't matter why. I want you to confess. And you will, Sean. Soon, I guarantee it. Because I promised I would. Because if you don't, your sister will. She don't need you dirty money. He interrupted, but she grinned and shot back. Because if you don't, your sister will die. That's what I was going to say. And her children will die. And they will die in agony, Sean. I'll make sure of it. Perhaps a fire. Yes. That old trailer. It was an accident waiting to happen. And I will make it happen. That is my promise. The visitation room went very quiet. It's the table. Both Sean and Birdie could hear the beating of their own hearts and their chests. And the breaths issuing from their lungs in and out, measured in even, like a tick-tock of a clock counting down. The confession. It's the whole point, isn't it? He said, no anger in his voice, no fear. He was at peace again. He had his answer. You enjoy the murder, sure. The success of your little books, but all those bodies cut apart, all that blood spilled, those family shattered, all of that is just set up. The real target is us, Thomas and Raj and me, the 13th victims. He leaned forward, seeming to glow in the lights, even as she shrank back into the shadows. Ain't that right, Birdie? She shuddered the sound of her own name, her mind rewinding decades back to her youth, to when she was small and panicked and so full of resentment, resentment at all of it, at the whole world with its confusing rules and inherent unfairness. Fuck you, Sean! You just can't stand the idea of facing the truth, can you, Birdie? About your brokenness, about all the darkness in your heart. You gotta find somewhere to put it all. So you take a man and turn him into a maniac in the eyes of the world. You make him claim the guilt and so be buried with it. Across the room, the locks clicked and the doors hung open. Time's up, Miss Baker. Inmate Mingus here as a medical check before his last meal. Birdie blinked, a bear of hot and salty tears falling from her furious eyes. She whipped around to the CEO standing in the doorway. I'm not finished with him. Sean shook his head, a satisfied look on his face. Oh, yes, she is. He clasped his hands and held up his wrists, dragging the chain through its loop on the table. And I'm getting hungry. As the guards entered and detached, Sean's restraints from their hooks. Birdie wiped viciously at her eyes and cheeks, knocking her glasses of skew and messing up her makeup. It's not too late, Sean. She said, as they got the prisoner to his feet and let him toward the door. You still have your last words to make things right. Your last chance to confess. Chains jingling. Sean shuffled into the hall and out of sight. Remember what I said, Sean? Remember what I promised? Birdie didn't usually watch the executions, but when the warden offered her a seat and the witness chamber, she had no choice but to accept. He had to see it, to hear it, to be sure Sean went through with a confession. But of course he would. He had figured it out after all, when no one else could. He knew what she had done, what she was capable of doing. He knew she wasn't bluffing about the sister and kids. It might have been thrilling, having someone finally see and appreciate that side of her accomplishment. But the tension of the minutes slipping by was too much for Birdie to feel anything but agitation. As the stiff plastic chairs filled up around her, Birdie tightened her grip on her person in her lap and clenched her jaw so tightly that her teeth squeaked together. Another journalist took the seat next to her and tried to ask how the days interview went. But Birdie didn't even bother responding. She kept her gaze straight ahead through the two-way mirror on the wall to the stark, white execution room on the other side. Were a nurse and a CEO were preparing things. And then he was let in, walking boldly on his own two feet, with a guard on one side and the warden on the other. There was a calm expression on his face and a drop of tomato sauce on his chin. The sight of the convicted serial killer caused a great deal of drama in the witness room, mostly from the families of the Longhall Butchers victims. One young man burst into tears and ran from the room. Two women clung to each other, prayed in hushed voices, and another woman hissed an anger like a cat. Birdie swallowed, watching his shan's chains were removed, and he took a seat on the gurney. It was all very anticlimactic. Shan was cooperative, nodding along to instructions and when asked, he stretched out on the gurney and lay quietly as they strapped down his wrists and ankles. And the nurse took his vitals. Stepping up beside the gurney, the warden cleared his throat. Mr. Mengus, do you have any final words, son? Birdie sat forward in her seat, her eyes wide holding her breath. On the other side of the glass, Shan Mengus lifted his head a few inches, looking from the warden to the two-way mirror, and though there was of course no way for him to see through to the other side, somehow, his gaze landed right on Birdie's face. Suppose I got a few, yeah. Firstly, there's a little matter of a certain book, which I guess I'm supposed to name. At these words, the journalist next to Birdie chuckled in surprise, and several others turned to look at Birdie in her seat, watching for a reaction. Birdie continued to stare straight ahead. I'm not much of a rider, but out this look on the cover of a New York Times best-seller list. Birdie swallowed, waiting, and waiting. The baker's does it. He declared, a glint in his eyes. How I almost got away with 38 murders. By Birdie friggin' baker, aka the maniac baker. The other journalist, gasp. All around the witness chamber, hushed voices whispered to each other in shock and confusion. As every muscle in Birdie's body went rigid and fury, her fingers turned white as they squeezed upon her purse. So tightly that she heard the plastic casing of the digital recorder with the crack. That air against son of a bitch! She growled under her breath, as Sean settled back against the gurney. Let's see what the internet does with that one. Running over him. The warden looked as confused as everyone else. His mouth hanging open. Ah, okay, man. He grumbled, looking over at the nurse. Birdie was hardly paying attention. She was shaking in her seat, sweat beaded on her forehead and cheeks. Already, she was mentally planning her road trip to that bastard's hometown. She had said she'd make the murder of Sean's sister, Nese's and nephew's look like an accident. But now, a fire wouldn't do. It would be too quick. No. She would take her time with the family, make the mother watch while she carved up the children one by one. She would make them do things to each other, make them eat little pieces of each other, make them hurt each other. Maybe she'd make the children kill their mother. Yes, that was it. It was perfect. It would be the magnum opus to her bloody career, a masterpiece. After the mirror on the wall, the nurse moved to the gurney and inserted the IV needles into Sean's arms. Oh! Sean said suddenly, making Birdie jump in her seat. He looked up at the warden standing beside him. One other thing, Warden, somebody get on the horn to my sister. Ask her if she want to go camping and have her bring all the kiddos. She'll know what that means. Yep. Notting. He turned to cast a sweep and supportive smile at the nurse. And he closed his eyes, resting back against the headrest of the gurney, he said, All right, then. Let's get her done. Birdie did not wait to see the moment of his death. As the poison flowed in Sean Mingus's veins, she was hurrying down the prison hallway. Her heels clicking, her breath panting, her makeup running from the sweater on her face as she jogged toward the exit. The evening air was crisp and breezy as she moved outside. She fumbled in her purse to get out of her car keys and cut one fingertip on a piece of the broken recorder. Winsing. She pulled out her finger and sucked on a tiny wound. It was all too much. The weight of this disaster. Too much. She had to flee. She had to get back on the road and far away from this prison and the son of a bitch lying limp and peaceful on the gurney inside. The man who in his death had beaten Birdie Baker, had her own twisted game. Thanks for tuning in. If you enjoyed the story, be sure to follow or subscribe and share this show with a fellow horror fan. I'll see you in the next one.