Larva Malum by Mike Burns (good summer reads .TXT) 📕

any profiling expert will tell you that NOBODY wakes up one day and decides to start a new career as a serial killer. It’s impossible.”

Officer number 2 grimaced thoughtfully at this, and said, “Yes, I guess you’re right.”

As he brought out a pair of handcuffs for me, I added, “Of course, we have no way of knowing if that rule applies to the ones they never caught--like the Zodiac killer.

“And he’s my favorite,” I concluded.


Chapter 1

“Polish that one a bit more, MRS. Tijeras,” I said with just the proper amount of emphasis. She had moved on from Winona’s charm bracelet and begun applying her rag and silver polish to Elizabeth’s anklet chain, and stopped now, staring at me for a moment with mouth slightly agape.

She had advertised herself (in both the first and second interviews) as a single mother. I hadn’t asked about this, but neither had I stopped her when she volunteered the information. She obviously didn’t know it was against the employment laws of this state to ask about this.

But more significantly, without a further word, I had just let her know that I had checked up on her, in ways she hadn’t been aware of--perhaps even before the second round of interviews.

I DID take it seriously, this business of interviewing for the position of housekeeper. And illegal aliens made the best kind--once you let ‘em know that you had ‘em by the short hairs, they weren’t gonna say squat to ANYBODY, about ANYTHING.

“Mr. Cinccone, please don’t tell nobody about my husband. Ector is trying to get work. We want to both here…both BE here when Martin is born. If Ector gets found out, they deport him right away, because once…when he young and stupid…he try to…to…”

“To smuggle six lots of home-made methamphetamine pills across the border from Tijuana, yes, I know,” I finished for her. “There’s damn little goes on in this world I don’t know, young lady. “ I tarried in front of the wet bar and looked at myself in the mirror. A handsome reflection looked back--a fine, strong nose, slightly-high forehead, strong chin, well-cultivated goatee and moustache, piercing dark eyes, fine, slightly-dark complexion…atop a tall, slender physique, clad in an elegant Armani suit, gold cufflinks and Rolex watch…behind me, I saw Mrs. Tijeras returning to the polishing of Winona’s bracelet with a vengeance, trying to put all the worry out of her mind that now shone so clearly on her furrowed brow…

“For you see”--I continued to soliloquize to this lady of limited expertise in English--“I am a man of God. My flock needs care as it wends its otherwise aimless way through this life. I am the man to give that care. I certainly don’t mind. But it takes vigilance, planning ahead, a proactive curiosity about all kinds of matters. That is why I have the largest non-denominational congregation in this part of the state. That is why my congregants come from all backgrounds, all classes, all ETHNICITIES…”

She knew THAT word. It showed through, along with great nervousness, on her face. She was envisioning my eyes watching her EVERYWHERE. That was good.

She stopped now, and looked around for something. “I see you’ve started on Gloria’s soapdish, “ I said as I went back to my desk now. “Your can of Brasso is here, where it SHOULDN’T be.” I was pointing at it. She was retrieving it, guiltily.

I retrieved my cell-phone and pocketed it in its belt-holster. I got my appointment book, glanced at it, and tucked it into my inner suit-coat pocket. On my way out, I said, “Remember all the rules I’ve gone over with you, Mrs. Tijeras. I wouldn’t like to have to go over them again. Wasted time, don’t y’ know?” I said this with a smile, and saw she had missed the humor. “Lighten up just a little, Mrs. Tijeras. You don’t seem happy in your work. Happy servants make good servants, don’t y’ know?”

She moved heaven and earth, and squeezed out a smile, a very brittle one. The pathos of it all made ME smile--for real. Ah, the travails of little people! A thousand little epics played out on the world’s stage every day, and most of them closed opening night, in the grand scheme of things!


Chapter 2

At the office, I plied my OTHER trade--Cinccone Transformational Techniques. The clients were members of an accounting firm who were having overall morale and productivity problems, and were all assembled in the seminar room, a former secretary-pool space.

“Good morning, Baxter&Baxter Accounting!” General laughter greeted this. “I’m Burt Cinccone. What we will do today is try to get everybody into better focus and a better productive mode through increasing body-mind awareness. There’s various ways to do this--through conscious articulation of the problem, presentation of the problem in a safe, non-judgmental environment, through relaxation techniques based on reiki, through creative visualizations. We’ll spend some time doing all these things…but first, let’s all get acquainted. You all got your nameplate-badges, I see. Let’s start at the left end there, and each person stand up, introduce yourself, and say a bit about yourself. This is all about YOU, don’t y’ know!”

The introductions went off with humor and wit, or what passed for it among people of that…type. Sixteen men, eight women. My mind catalogued the female names automatically. Misty Shuffield, Dana MacFarlane, Cheri Dawkins, Linda Williams, Diane Gunther, Griselda Vodel, Tarisha Manley, Regina Chloey.

Afterwards, I had everybody take some old copies of my ministry’s monthly magazine and used a technique for problem articulation that both guaranteed anonymity AND used up a significant chunk of time.

They were all to state the problem in a sentence or two, in their own minds, then cut letters from the pages of the magazines and paste them onto an eight-and-one-half by eleven piece of poster-board. After completion of these “statements,” I would take them all up, shuffle them together, and split the class into five or six groups. Each group would get a “statement,” and round-table it, with a written summation of their thoughts put on paper by the “secretary” person each group would appoint for itself. The summations would be presented by each group to the class as a whole, and overall discussion ensued, with some added commentary by me, of course.

By the time we finished this, it was nearly lunch-time. Thank…somebody!

The afternoon part of these things were always much more rewarding…for me, at least. First up on the afternoon’s agenda was the reiki session.

You see, the reiki-massage thing was done with the help of some assistants I hired from the junior college (through their intern program). I have female assistants to perform this on female students, of course, and male assistants for the rest.

And the rooms in which this is performed were all in a line on one side of the hall from the seminar room (having once been examination rooms in this building, a former doctor’s office) and adjoin one another through internal doorways from which I had removed the doors, and substituted curtains on both sides.

Part of the reiki format is for silence during the massage part, as we explained to the class ahead of time. So, it was a simple matter for me to switch with my female assistants as NEEDED, with no one the wiser.

The female students would REMEMBER my session, even though they never knew I was in there. I not infrequently got contacted by them later. A significant chunk of my congregation had found their way to my flock in this manner.

Of course, this was all done with everyone fully-clothed, all on the up-and-up, you understand. Nothing illicit, nothing “pinpointable.”

The visualization-meditation session was done with the seminar room’s lights off. This was where my artistic side really came out. I interspersed Hindu- and Buddhist-flavored imagery with my motivational speaking, the kind of New-Agey thing that corporate culture compulsively gobbles up these days.

Afternoon break-time would come next, and people usually used this time to get phone numbers and addresses for my church and its services’ schedule.

Subsequently, evaluation forms (with spaces for comments) would be filled out, and literature for both the class and my church would be passed out to those interested (unofficially, of course). Certificates of achievement would be handed out to the participants, and a quick check made to ensure all had signed the class roll at the beginning of both morning and afternoon sessions.

And that would be it for that day.

After that, since it was Wednesday, I spent some time going over notes for my sermon that night.


Chapter 3

At the compound of Fellowship’s Light Ministries, I kicked things off with my standard opening gambit. Sitting on my brocade-covered throne atop the carpeted dais, in front of the altar, with the choir’s two sections of transverse pews on either side of the dais‘s foot, I hastened to clarify the meaning of the word “light” used in the church’s name.

“Many of our guests and some of our new members may not be aware of why we call this church Fellowship’s LIGHT Ministries. It might almost sound like we’re calling it ‘Lite,’ like Coors Lite or Bud Lite, which are called ‘lite’ because they’re lower in alcohol, and thus more drinkable, and less demanding on the drinker.” The choir laughed, and the rest took their cue from them.

I stepped out from behind the speaker’s podium and carried the portable mic with me. “No, it is rather in reference to the spiritual light that emanates from fellowship with others in this pursuit of purpose and wisdom in life, the pursuit in which we all--hopefully--are engaged. That’s at least PART of the whole point of life, isn’t it?

“The light that comes from the inner self comes together in fellowship, and is more than the sum of its parts--it is more than the sum of all the ’brightnesses’ of the individual lights. It is the light that grows brighter in the sharing.

“And what better life lesson could we impart to the little ones among us than this sharing of light? That’s where it’s at. That’s where the future lies. THAT’S the other part of the whole point of life, ISN’T IT?” I cupped my hand to my ear, and gazed side-long, attentively at them, like the proverbial drill sergeant. They didn’t disappoint me.

“YESSSSSSSSS!”

We were off to a quick take-off tonight. I gestured at the plaque on the wall with the hymn numbers. “Everyone, please stand and join me in singing hymn number 389, “Majestic Thunder,” page 309 in your hymnal.” Maury Kilgore, the keyboard player who worked this as one of his weekday gigs, launched into it with gusto.

A couple more high-energy hymns, standing