PORTRAIT OF AN ORDINARY KILLER

A lumber truck rolled along a deserted two-lane road in northern Michigan. Robert Griffith stowed away.

He watched the darkening February landscape flash by in endless shades of gray and brown, and pondered his life's achievements. He numbered them. He literally counted them off on the fingers of his left hand. His right hand gripped a .38 calibe r revolver.

"That makes five, Big Bob." But not if you count the first two.

Bob spoke out loud to no one but himself. His words were drowned out as the truck roared along. Bob's thoughts had taken on a weird twist just lately, but considering the circumstances, he was holding up pretty well. He was determined to show the worl d what a tough son-of-a-pistol they were up against. You see, only twenty minutes ago, Bob was behind bars and now he was a free man--at least in his own perverted mind.

"To hell with the first two." That was an accident, anyway, It doesn't count. I was just a stupid kid.

So let's see... not counting the first two... there was that asshole Ricky Peterson. "That's one," he said. That bitch in Detroit. "That's two." Spike Marino. "Three." And the two guards. "That makes five, Big Bob."

But not if you count the first two.

Big Bob didn't like to think about the first two. When stories were told about people who had blocked out unsettling memories of their childhood, he listened with envy. The memories Bob had of growing up just south of Detroit were haunted by ho rrifying images that he could not block out however hard he tried. At times like this--when the pressure was on--those images would come rushing back at him, as if they had happened yesterday instead of eighteen long years ago.

It was June of 1978, Nadine Griffith stood in front of a sink full of dirty dishes and grumbled while her [lazy-no-good-son-of-a-bitch] husband sat on the couch in the other room, swilling cheap beer and watching The Streets of San Francisco . She was seldom able to watch what she wanted on television, even during the day. Since Buck got laid off from his job at Chrysler, it seemed like he always wanted to do his thing during General Hospital. What a thrill that was. But, little Bobby was usually out playing with his friends at that time of the day, so she supposed it was okay.

Right now, eight year old Bobby was sitting at the kitchen table behind her, fiddling with any old thing that caught his eye. That boy was always fiddling with something.

"Don't touch those matches, Bobby," Nadine scowled. "Matches aren't to be played with."

Bobby dropped the box of Diamond stick matches and made a contemptuous face. She was always telling him don't do this and don't touch that. He pounded the table several times with his fists.

"Stop it, Bobby!" She was getting mad as usual.

"Nadine?" buck's voice called from the front room. "Just slap that little pain-in-the-ass and get me another beer."

Nadine sighed and grabbed a beer from the fridge for her husband. As she walked out of the room, Bobby's eyes flashed anxiously back and forth between his mother and the box of Diamond stick matches. Even at eight years old, Bobby Griffith had guts. A s soon as his mother was out of sight, he slid the box open and snatched a handful of matches. Before Nadine came back, the box was closed and Bobby was a picture of innocence.

"It's almost your bedtime, Bobby," Nadine said. "Go and get your pajamas on." Bobby would make a fuss, she know. He always made a fuss.

A more attentive mother would have felt suspicion when Bobby quietly went to his bedroom to do as he was told. Nadine Griffith only felt relief. Before closing his door, little Bobby said goodnight to his mother--for the last time.

Bob's thoughts snapped back to the present when the lumber truck passed an intersection. It was dark and starting to snow, but Bob could make out a white sedan parked on the shoulder, not far up Corpus Road. He gathered his courage and leaped from the truck, tumbling head over heels into the dried grass which lined the side of the road. He picked himself up and scrambled back toward the intersection. The car turned out to be an early 80's Chevy sedan; a cinch to hot-wire.

"Jackpot!" he said.

Bob scooped up a large chunk of asphalt and smashed the rear window to gain entry. Laying on the floor with his head under the dashboard and his legs hanging into the street, he located the wires he needed and cut through them with his teeth, expectin g a shock that never came. He pulled off some of the rubber insulation on each, again using his teeth. when the two wires came together, a struggled moan could be heard but the car didn't start. The battery was dead.

"Mutha fuckin' piece a shit!" He stood up and gave the car a solid kick.

By then, snow and hail had begun to pour down and Bob realized how cold he was. His body was shaking and he was loosing coordination in his hands. It wouldn't take long to freeze to death wearing only a thin cotton inmates uniform. He sat in the car a nd tried to think of what to do, but his thoughts wandered back to the people he had killed.

The first--not counting the first two of course--was a fifteen-year-old kid named Ricky Peterson who lived down the block from Bobby's foster parents. Growing up in a variety of orphanages and foster homes, Bobby had learned to fight like hellf ire and to utilize any and all means to win. Ricky Peterson ended up in a quarry at the bottom a sixty foot drop with his neck broken. Nobody saw the fight. When it was over, Bobby casually hung around to practice spitting into the quarry. His former chum , Ricky, made a handy target.

The following year, Bobby ran away from his foster home for the final time and for two years, managed to eke out a meager living on the streets of Detroit by snatching purses and breaking into homes. He made a careless and sloppy thief who avoided arr est only by sheer luck--the luck of the Devil, some would say. by the time he was nineteen, Bob considered himself invincible, but his luck was about to run out.

In August of 1989, Bob walked into a downtown Detroit dance bar. Seated near the back by the dance floor, was a group of giggling, half-intoxicated girls who were out that night, drinking illegally, for no reason other than to celebrate their last sum mer together before starting college. One of them caught Bob's eye.

Later, Bob could not even remember her name; in his mind she was always that bitch. But in fact, she was Julie Cooke, an excellent student from a well-off family in Gross Point Woods with a promising future at the University of Michigan. Her fr iends and family would attest that Julie was always practical, always conscientious, the perfect student, the perfect friend, the perfect daughter. Getting a bit too friendly with Robert Griffith just may have been the first serious mistake she ever made- -it was certainly the last. Julie eventually figured out what variety of scum Bob Griffith was made of and when she informed him of the fact, he proceeded to brutally rape and bludgeon her to death, leaving her mangled body in a dumpster to rot.

Bob ended up spending the next five years of his worthless life in a maximum security prison, with men just like himself. One of those men, a drug dealer named Spike Marino, led a gang of four in assaulting and raping Big Bob Griffith. Bob fought fero ciously but in the end, he took it pleading and whimpering--a humiliation her would never forgive.

It wasn't until nearly two months later that Spike Marino was found disemboweled in the shower room. His abdomen was split wide open, from the anus to the breast bone. His penis was cut off and shoved down his own throat. That was number three--Bob's favorite, by far.

Bob sat shivering in the car and silently reflected on the big Monopoly game of life. He knew quite well what his Chance card would say. Go to Hell, he thought. Go directly to Hell. Do not pass Go. Do not collect a red fucking cent. < /i>

If murdering five people wasn't grounds for going to Hell, what was? But the thought didn't trouble Bob's mind very often; it was the first two that soured his stomach and made his flesh crawl. Sometimes his old man would come to him as he slep t. Buck Griffith's face would be shriveled and burned, still smoldering. In the dream, Bob could almost smell the singed flesh. Where Buck's nose and ears should have been, there were only crusty rimmed holes in his head. Thin wisps of smoke drifted out o f them. The skin on his cheeks had cracked and peeled off, revealing the juicy, medium-rare flesh underneath.

"Look what you did to me, you little shit," he would say. "You're gonna burn in Hell for this. You're gonna fry! You hear me? Read what's left of my lips. Your… gonna… FRY!!!"

Bob would awake, bolt upright in his cell, the cot soaked in sweat.

Bob was jerked back to reality again. This time by the approaching headlights in the distance. Scrambling out of the car, he dashed for the nearby trees and was out of sight when the red jeep pulled up. He tried, with difficulty, to grip the revolver tightly in his numb hand. Two men jumped from the jeep and moved swiftly toward the white sedan. One of them, an elderly white-haired man in a rain coat, noticed the smashed window.

"What the hell!" he said.

Bob ran out from the trees holding the gun out before him. He pointed it at the driver of the jeep, a younger man. "Gimme your keys!" he yelled.

The driver held out his keys and Bob snatched them from his hand, almost loosing grip and dropping them. "Gimme your money!"

This time the man started to say something. "I don't—"

"Shut up!" Bob cut him short. He swung the butt of the pistol around and slammed it into the side of the man's head, knocking him to the ground. The man in the raincoat yelled something and started to step forward.

"Screw you, old man." Bob fired the gun into the man's chest throwing him back against the car. There was no time to look for money; the other guards would surely have noticed their dead friends by now. News bulletins and road blocks would soon be eve rywhere. He started up the jeep, slammed it into first, and twelve-point-nine seconds later, was doing sixty headed south on M-553. The weather, which had turned into a storm, was making the road progressively more dangerous, but there wasn't time to slow down. The jeep was warm and comfortable and Bob thought things were finally going his was.

That's number six, Bob thought. The old man's a goner. "Dead meat," he said with a twisted grin and a half-crazed laugh. In less than an hour, Bob had doubled his lifetime accomplishments. Two guards lay dead at Marquette State Prison, s hot by one of their own guns, and now the life drained out of a kindhearted old man, sprawled in the middle of the road as the hail beat down and his son struggled in vain to help him.

Bob flipped on the radio, hoping to find news of his own escape. He wasn't disappointed. Several stations issued bulletins and one even mentioned that all roads leading out of Marquette County were being blocked by police. Helpful information.

When the time comes, Bob thought, I'll make my own road. "This badass is got four-wheel drive! Ha! Way to go Big Bob!" he yelled out joyously and pounded on the steering wheel.

M-553 came to a sudden end at the intersection of M-35. Bob was at a momentary loss for which way to turn, but then it occurred to him to search the glove box for a map. "Bingo!" he said. There was a finely detailed map of Michigan's Upper Peninsula t hat charted all state and county roads and even a few unnamed back roads. Perfect. Bob found the spot were M-553 ran into M-35. M-35 would head east for about five miles before jagging southeast. Ten miles of undeviating straight-away would follow, leadin g into neighboring Delta county. Bob thought the straight road might give him advance warning of a road block. What he didn't know was that the map in his hand simplified the course of M-35, leaving out a winding S-curve smack dab in the middle of that te n-mile stretch. The curve was lined with thick woodland on both sides, limiting the view of the road that followed. At that very moment, state police were taking advantage of the situation by setting up a road block just 100 yards past the sharpest part o f that curve. Bob rolled along at a constant 50 MPH, oblivious to the hand of fate which plotted his ungracious demise. The white lines flashed by steadily and his thoughts began to wander once again.

The dark and silent room was suddenly splashed with a golden luminosity that, to eight-year-old Bobby, seemed almost magical. As the sulfurous tip sputtered and hissed to life, Bobby appeared to fall into a trance. His eyes followed the yellow flame d own… down… down… till his fingers felt the stabbing heat. The match dripped to the hardwood floor and the flame was smothered, leaving Bobby in darkness one more.

His parents had gone to bed. Bobby laid awake in solitude for nearly two hours… waiting… unable to think of anything but the matches that were hidden away in his drawer.

He struck the second match. Again the room was filled with an almost mystical effervescence. Again the flame crept down… down… down. This time Bobby waited too long, singeing the tips of his thumb and forefinger. He jerked his hand and the match flew through the air and up onto the bed. In the darkness, Bobby searched the bed for any spark of light but saw nothing. The match must have gone out.

He struck the third match. The tip broke off but didn't light.

He struck another and this time the room came glowing to life. He watched the flame wobble and breath with warm and beautiful light… down… down… down. How glorious God's universe was! This flame symbolized, in Bobby's mind, all the mysteries of nature … down… down… down. Bobby dripped the match and the flame was snuffed out.

This time, the room didn't seem as dark. And the sulfurous smoke of the matches seemed different—thicker somehow. Noxious.

Bob jumped to his feet and looked at the bed. Just as he noticed the softball sized patch of smoldering bedspread, it burst into flames. He panicked. He tried to beat it out with his hands but only burned himself. He stifled a cry. The room was fillin g with smoke and the fire was quickly spreading across the blanket. Bobby couldn't breath. He fled the room, shutting the door tightly behind him in a stupid effort to conceal his awful deed. The thought of this young, still innocent child, were filled wi th guilt and fear. He could think of nothing to do but run! Run from the house! He escaped through the back door into the yard.

The next five minutes were like an eternity to Bobby as he stood, frozen in the yard, watching. The flow from his bedroom window became brighter. Smoke first trickled, then billowed forth from the eaves of the house. Bobby's heart sank deeper and deep er into despair as the flames grew higher and higher.

When the entire house was nearly engulfed in the fire, a blazing figure suddenly emerged from the back door. Bobby's ears were filled with a blood-curdling scream—a scream that could only come from a tortured man, a man in excruciating pain. The ghast ly flaming figure circled the yard in a panic, waving its arms erratically, unable to save itself from the hell that engulfed it. Screaming! Screaming its bloody torment! Again and again! How the hideous monster screamed!

At last it collapsed at Bobby's feet and the young boy stared, dumbstruck, down into the eyes of this abhorrent thing—into the eyes of his father.

"Help me," his father gasped. "Help."

But Bobby could do nothing. And as the first faint sirens could be heard in the distance, Buck Griffith's life faded away.

Bobby's mother didn't even escape the house.

Tears fell from Bob's eyes and a struggled moan came from his throat, but he didn't hear it. He endeavored to keep his eyes clear and his mind on the road ahead, which was taking a long, slow, turn to the left. The memory of his father's horribly burn ed face corrupted his vision. The road straightened out and began to bend to the right, this time more sharply. Bob barely managed to keep his vehicle on the road but not within the lines. All the misery of his wretched life fought to repress his thoughts and cloud his vision. The road began to straighten out again.

Bang! Reality came back to Bob like a brick in the face. The image that he now face swept all his thoughts away like so many feathers in a storm. He slammed on the brakes. The night was suddenly awash with red light, the light of at least five state p olice cars. Suddenly, Bob realized that the curve he had just passed should not have been there! In his anguish, he had utterly forgotten the difficulties ahead of him. Now he was caught. There was no hope of escape. All was lost.

Bob put the barrel of the gun in his mouth and made it lucky number seven.