All yesterdays papers, p.1
All Yesterday's Papers, page 1
All Tomorrow’s Photos Book Two
S.S. GENESEE
Copyright © 2023 S. S. Genesee
ssgenesee.carrd.co
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by U.S. copyright law.
ASIN: B0C8LNP2NM
ISBN: 9798223372691 (D2D ebook)
Cover Art and Interior Artwork by S. S. Genesee
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Dedicated to everyone who believed in me.
Maurice Rogers
Kenneth Wilson
Content Warnings
Explicit language, graphic depictions of violence and death (blood and gore), body horror, consensual explicit sexual content, medical play, needles (blood drawing), blood play, biting and scratching, alcohol use, psychedelic drug use (LSD), period-typical homophobia, mentions of sexual assault, attempted sexual assault, suicide ideation, self harm
One
Tuesday, July 9, 1974
It’s been two months since Maurice killed Wendy. Two whole months, and the police still haven’t discovered her body. It feels like such a long time. How long did he wait to go hunting in-between Wendy and Brenda? Didn’t he wait longer than that—?
Oh, no. That was also only two months apart.
Maurice trudges downstairs to his basement with a bottle of Jack Daniels in hand. He’s going to need it if he wants something, anything, to calm down his twitching nerves. His gut knots as his footsteps jostle the earlier shots in his stomach. It’s nothing, he’ll be fine. He prepared his stomach with the carbs of a couple sandwiches. He’ll be fine.
With his free hand, he opens the darkroom door and pushes away the hanging curtain. It should still just be exactly the way he left it before, so he reaches to the wall and flicks the lights on. Photographs of his boyfriend, Kenneth, hang on a clothesline above his main work table. More photos of Kenneth are pinned up on the tackboard to the side. Even more are neatly sorted inside folders in the filing cabinets lining the wall.
But not just photos of Kenneth. Inside those cabinets are his darkest, personal secrets.
The musty basement air fills his throat like cotton, begging him to quench his thirst. And he does so by unscrewing the cap, and taking a swig of the whiskey in his hand. It’s gotten easier to swallow the nasty taste the more times he does it, and he takes Kenneth’s advice about not leaving it on his tongue for too long. It sure has taken him some practice to get used to it, but the numbing effects are worth getting past the disgusting flavor.
To calm himself. To free his mind. To render himself useless, and not be able to drive anywhere his impulsive urges take him.
What was the last tape he had in? He pops the eject button on his 8-track player on top of the stereo receiver, nestled on a wooden stand against the wall opposite his work table. He grabs the tape and flips it around in his hand, squinting his eyes as he scrutinizes the title in the dim overhead lighting. Sticky Fingers by the Rolling Stones. A great album, but not exactly fitting the strange mood he’s in.
Kneeling down and setting the bottle on the linoleum floor, Maurice situates the tape back into a spot on the lower shelving under the stereo receiver and shuffles around for one more suiting.
“Ah, here—” He grabs a white tape from the far right side. As he stands up, a drunken rush smacks him in the head, making him sway back and forth as he attempts to straighten his back. “Fuck, ah, alright,” he grunts.
White Light, White Heat reads the title of the cartridge in his hand. The second album by his favorite band, the Velvet Underground, and exactly what he needs. He’s quite lucky to come across this in 8-track format, as even the vinyl LP has become somewhat of a rarity. But even if he didn’t stumble upon it so easily at his local record store, he would’ve searched far and wide to acquire it anyway.
The cartridge leaves his hand as he presses it into the machine, and he pushes the button for the track on his mind. ‘Sister Ray’ erupts from the wood-paneled speakers on the sides, but it’s still not enough.
So Maurice cranks the volume knob, blasting the music throughout the room.
He sings along with the lyrics, the loud guitars overpower his own voice, and he bobs his head at the rhythm. He walks over to two filing cabinets on the perpendicular wall, but—something on top of them catches his eye—
A bouquet of white lilies. Fuck—should he have even bothered to buy them? Well, maybe, just in case he found the right opportunity to go hunting for a model again—
“No, I should probably just let them wilt,” he mutters to himself. “I still don’t think I should go out, no. Not after that detective interviewed me last month, and—fuck, I really can’t have Kenneth seeing these. That’d be a dead giveaway that I’m the killer.”
Whatever, it’s not like the flowers cost me that much anyways.
He kneels down in front of the filing cabinet, pulling out a small keyring from his jeans’ pocket and unlatching the lock. The bottom drawer slides open, revealing a series of binders, each one labeled with a sticker on the spine with Maurice’s handwriting. He walks his fingers over them—‘Brenda 1’, ‘Brenda 2’—ah, here we go.
‘Wendy 1’.
Two months since killing Wendy. It feels longer than that. Maybe it’s because Wendy left a sour taste in his mouth, and the experience with her was so different from the rest. But either way, something was knocking at his brain today, telling him to open the door to this side of himself and take a look at these again.
Though, just like last time he was down here for her photos, he felt the need for an extra ‘pick-me-up’. Something about being sober just didn’t seem satisfying enough, like he wouldn’t have any fun, or even be able to enjoy them as much otherwise.
What’s going on with me?
He tries not to think too hard on the sentiment and shakes his head. Any more nagging thoughts like this will give him a premature headache before he’s even had enough drinks to make him hungover.
So he remedies that, sitting down and leaning over to grab the bottle on the floor for another drink.
He vocalizes an exhale as the bitter taste burns his throat. It’s fine. I can get used to this, I’ll be alright without a chaser. He sets it back down and replaces it with his binder on his lap, opening it up as he sits cross-legged on the floor.
The first picture appears blurry for a moment, and Maurice winces, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. He swoops his blonde highlighted bangs out of the way, then combs his fingers through his long brunette locks. After a few blinks, the photo becomes clear, revealing Wendy in all her bloody glory. Just as he remembers her.
He lets out a sigh, rubbing his palm along the hair on his chest, exposed by his open, long-sleeved blouse. Wendy is beautiful, just like this. She’s better off this way, too, right?
In black-and-white, waterfalls of blood seep out from the large wound in her neck. Her intestines spill from the horizontal gash in her abdomen. Her arms lie on her lap, dismembered from her shoulders. It really is a sight so gorgeous, his heart flutters with the notion that, yes, he captured the moment perfectly. He’ll always have these photos to look back on. He accomplished what he wanted to do—these sorts of pictures are ones only he can take. And now that he has them, he can revel in them, feel proud, savor his precious artwork for his eyes only.
But what if someone else’s eyes saw them, too?
His shoulders shiver at the thought, instinctively making him reach for the bottle for another swig. The photo binder closes, the whiskey soaks his tongue, and he furrows his brows at the unsavory taste again. “Fuck,” he curls his nose as he sets the glass object back down, “I’ll look at the rest in a minute.”
The song flowing from the speakers continues to drown his ears, vibrating each drunken rush that swirls around in his head. While the lyrics are outlandish, telling a ridiculous story of a group of misfits, some of the words seem strangely relatable. They sing about—
The police knocking at his door. They’ve come to take him for a ride. Oh, but he hasn’t got the time, no. He’s too busy sucking on his boyfriend’s ding-dong.
Maurice chuckles, harder, louder, evolving into laughs as he runs his hand through his bangs again. Oh, Kenneth. His stomach flutters with butterflies just imagining the sexual act—fuck, in this state of mind, he’d rather be doing that instead of looking at these photos. But he’ll have to wait until the weekend to see Kenneth again, just like every week...
Why did he want to come downstairs, again? Why did he want to look at these—?
Befo re yet another questioning thought, he opens the binder on his lap again. The amazing image of Wendy stares back with her soulless, dead eyes.
“The police will never see these. Kenneth will never see these—ah—oh man.” He rubs one of his eyes with his palm. “What I really wanna do is see Kenneth himself.”
Maurice closes the binder one last time, sliding it back into the cabinet drawer where it belongs, and locking it back up with the key. He tugs on the handle, ensuring it really is locked. Even in his drunken state, he knows he can’t slip up with this. He clenches the keyring in his hand, confirming and double-checking with himself exactly where it is, and shoves it back into his pants pocket.
“Kenneth... Kenneth...” he mumbles, getting up and finding another seat in front of the other cabinet further to the right. Unlocked, the bottom drawer slides open easily, revealing more binders filled with photographs. But these ones are of a different, much more light-hearted subject matter.
After another shake of his head, he reaches in and pulls out something other than a binder, first. Snugly nestled in-between the first binder and the front inner edge of the drawer is a small glass vial—but not just any vial.
It’s filled with Kenneth’s blood.
Maurice promises to forever keep this safe. Kenneth drew his own blood from himself with the needle willingly, as a keepsake for Maurice to have, for him to have an important part of Kenneth always nearby. He brings it up to his face, giving a gentle kiss to its smooth surface.
“I can’t wait to see him again...” he whispers as he rubs the vial on his cheek. Oh, does the weekend seem ever so far away. He tucks his prized possession back into the drawer, replacing it in his hands with a binder labeled: ‘Kenneth - nurse 1’.
He sets it on his lap, swaying backwards slightly as the cover slaps open on his leg. And his stomach flutters with a wonderful feeling as the black-and-white image graces his eyes.
His favorite one is also the first one: Kenneth in his white nurse dress, leaning back on Maurice’s bed, spreading his legs open and showing his underwear. Maurice’s cheeks burn as he smiles, drunken pleasure tying more knots in his gut.
“I don’t need to hunt for a model,” he reasons with himself. “Not just yet. I can’t just yet. I gotta give myself time. Besides...” He tilts his head, still staring down at the binder. “I have everything, everyone I need right here.”
Oh, the weekend can’t come any sooner.
Two
Monday, July 15, 1974
It’s another incredibly hot summer day. Various papers flicker and flap as an oscillating fan shuffles them from their place on the desk, and Norman snatches one before it attempts to fly away, securing it back down to the wooden surface. He groans as sweat drips down his forehead, forcing him to wince his eyes shut briefly and wipe his hand on his brow.
The phone rings—Norman picks it up before it finishes ringing even once.
“Kent County Sheriff’s Department, Detective Norman Brooks speaking.”
“Good afternoon Detective Brooks,” a woman speaks on the other line, “I’m Detective Ruth Campbell of the Lake County Sheriff’s Office here in Baldwin. How are you today?”
“I’m doing fine, thank you.” As fine as he can be on another scorcher like today. “Yourself?”
“Personally, alright. Though that all may change. I’m calling on behalf of something that I believe is important to a certain case that you’re working on.”
A case? Another drip of sweat slides down his cheek, cold against the skin.
“What do you mean? What is it?”
“Last night, a lost item was turned into our station. It was a large hiking backpack, and we looked through its contents to try and find clues as to whom it may belong to. There we found plenty of items, including a wallet containing her cash, various cards, and identification. The ID card is issued to Wendy Holland, and we assume the entirety of the bag belongs to her.”
Norman taps a finger excessively on his desk. He gnaws at his bottom lip.
“Wendy Holland?” he mutters.
“Yes, she’s registered as a missing person from your county, correct? We have her poster here at our station too, and I called to relay this important information. Maybe this can help lead to her whereabouts.”
“Absolutely, let me get some paperwork out.”
Norman balances the phone by hunching his shoulder to his ear, as he shuffles through a lower cabinet in his desk. There he pulls out a folder, aptly labeled ‘Wendy Holland’, and flips through the few sheets of pages inside. All the rush makes the sweat drip from his forehead, his head itches from the heat of his scalp—damn, maybe this year they should finally install air conditioning in the office.
“Detective Campbell, do you happen to know exactly where they found this backpack?”
“Yes,” she clears her throat, “it was located in the brush on the side of highway M-37 northbound-side past South Johns Road. The good Samaritan found it because he took a pit stop to relieve himself, and in my opinion, I don’t think this bag may have been found at all if he didn’t otherwise.”
Norman grabs the phone’s earpiece again as he holds a photo of Wendy in his other hand. “I’m... a bit unfamiliar with that part of the highway. What’s the area like?”
“It’s very rural, with few scattered houses outside town and most of the land there is covered with forest. Wendy is a hitchhiker, isn’t she?”
“Yes, she is.” He lets out a deep exhale. “I’m assuming her backpack, and especially her ID, she’d need with her wherever she was going. Why would it be on the side of the road?”
“In the brush, mind you, not really close to the road. I don’t think it fell out of a car accidentally, it possibly could have been placed there to stay hidden.”
A chill runs down Norman’s spine and the familiar, deep worry sinks in his chest. His hand starts shaking involuntarily, clutching tightly onto the photograph of Wendy.
“Was the backpack found on public property? If so, can your department conduct a search of the surrounding area? As soon as possible, I... have a suspicion that there’s been foul play involved here.”
“Yes, it was. And sure, I should be able to round some people up, at least for a preliminary search of the woods nearby. I agree, it’s all too strange. Wendy has been missing for a few months now, hasn’t she? If her bag was there the entire time, or even if it was put there recently...” Ruth groans on the other line. “I’ll see to it right away. Is there any way you can assist? It is your case.”
Norman sets the photo back onto his desk. “Absolutely, I want to get to the bottom of this. Give me a couple hours to prepare myself and drive.”
It’s hard to miss the spot on the highway, as police cars and caution tape line up along the thick trees. Norman pulls his own car up behind another one on the shoulder gravel and gets out, walking over to a group talking amongst themselves. He’s greeted by the other officers and he shows his badge, and they direct him to the woman he spoke with on the phone.
The intense summer sun radiates overhead, as a blinding light reflects off the windshields of the vehicles that even Norman’s sunglasses can’t give protection from. Past one more car, and he sees Ruth—that must be her—standing by the shrubs on the outside of the caution tape, wearing a short-sleeve tan polo shirt. She’s chit chatting with another person wearing a white jumpsuit, mask, and gloves... Wait, they already have forensic pathologists on the scene?
“Detective Ruth Campbell?” Norman calls out as he walks closer.
Her dark brown hair tied in a low bun jostles as she turns her head toward him. “Detective Brooks, I assume?”
He nods his head. “Correct.”
“I’m afraid I have bad news. It didn’t take long to find her once we started walking into the woods.”
His shoulders shiver at the utterance of those words. “Can you lead me to her?”
“Absolutely, right this way.”
Ruth holds up the caution tape and lets Norman and the forensic pathologist duck underneath, directing them further into the foliage. The thick leaves of the trees brush against Norman’s arms as they make their way through a foraged path. Short sleeves help with the heat, but offer no protection from scratchy branches. As the canopy shades the forest floor, Norman pulls off his sunglasses, tucking the arm into the front of his shirt by the top buttons.
