A Murder of Crows: my life inside the serial killer conspiracy

RUSTY

Possible tws in this chapter:

tw animal cruelty (Rusty dies) tw murder (heavy) tw animal death (Rusty) tw gore (medium) tw swearing (light) tw killer (Billy Dent) tw blood (medium)

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Wakey wakey, Jasper my boy.

These words have haunted me for years, played back in my mind time and time again in my father’s honeyed Southern cadence. Said by another other parent, these words would seem innocuous, perhaps even witty – but coming from the mouth of Billy Dent, they were ugly smears, vicious and predatory.

I’m doing Rusty tonight. You don’t gotta help, but you gotta watch.

Rusty was my dog. My first friend.

Billy murdered him right before my eyes.

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Rust was my closest companion for the first eight years of my life, a mixture of cocker spaniel and retriever with fur the perfect color of soft caramel. We’d romp and play around the backyard together. We’d zone out on the sofa watching cartoons on Saturday mornings. He’d curl up at the foot of my bed at the end of a long day. Rusty was my first, best friend, and I loved him more than words can express. We grew up together. My mother gave him to me when I was only a toddler and Rusty was only a puppy, and foolishly I had imagined him growing old and grey in our house, living a life that was warm and content, filled with affection and a ceaseless supply of dog treats.

I had no idea that my parents were plotting to tear him away, no idea that they were willing to do the unthinkable, the cruel and obscene, supposedly just to teach me that cruelty is an inescapable part of life. As I write these words, I am twenty-two years old, and I still cannot understand why my mother and father chose to do what they did. From what I can remember – and, to be fair, I cannot remember everything – my parents never laid a hand on Rusty prior to his death. My mother seemed to tolerate him, but couldn’t abide the messes he left from time to time around the house. My father seemed to adore Rusty, taking great care to ensure that he was clean and healthy, well cared for and well loved.

It was a Thursday. I remember that because I was supposed to miss school on the Friday and take a long weekend away with my father. We were going to head over the state line to Lindenberg, and he was going to teach me the finer points of criminal trespassing. He told me to go to bed early. “We’ll be up real late tomorrow night, cause that’s the best time to be doing all the stuff we’re gonna be doing.” He smiled his big wide smile, the smile of Billy-of-old, and then he added, “Last thing I want is you missin’ something.” He winked and barked a laugh and sent me on my way. It was barely seven, and I fell asleep with relative ease. I had no idea that, in not even six hours, everything I thought I knew was going to change dramatically.

My father shook me awake with a gentle hand on my shoulder. I was used to it by now – he’d done it so many times, waking me in the middle of the night in order to show me something he’d done, or something he’d planned to do, or even just to test my preparedness for extraordinary circumstances. I groaned inwardly, but said nothing – I knew better – and instead focused on rubbing the sleep from my eyes with my fist.

And then he said it.

I’m doing Rusty tonight. You ain’t gotta help, but you gotta watch.

A tidal wave of fear swept me under, and I let out a cry that sounded coarse coming from my suddenly-dry throat. Billy laughed at me. I jumped out of bed, not even bothering with my slippers, and headed downstairs. “Rusty, Rusty!” I called, “Come here boy!” No response. My stomach twisted itself into knots. He always came running when I called. I crossed through the living room and, as I entered the dining room, I heard a mewl and a whimper. Rusty was in pain. The realization came suddenly. I rounded the corner into the kitchen and found Rusty pinned to the floor, a surgical scalpel sticking out of his left leg.