KENHARDT - Secrets 42

His hands were up in an instant, clawing at my hands and arms. I stood my ground, holding my body as far away as I could from his. He was kicking. Jolting in the chair, gasping for air. More noises erupted from his throat. I listened to the sound of Patrick Brooks choking to death.

Finally. After a few moments, his body ceased and went limp. I waited longer before reaching forward and feeling for a pulse. There wasn’t one, I then dragged 90KG body to his bedroom and plopped him in his bed. I didn’t want the children walking into the kitchen the next morning and seeing that. At least when they found him, he would presumptuously still be asleep. Angela would call the police, and they would call the police, and they would take it from there.

I looked at Patrick as he laid on the bed. His eyes were still open and I left them that way. I searched inside myself for any feelings of remorse or guilt for what I had done, but it was difficult to find any. He was a terrible man, A wife beater. A child abuser. Those poor kids couldn’t go on like that, living in secret, hiding what was happening to them from the outside world.

Of course it would be hard for them - there was no doubt in my mind of that. And if anything, I felt for those children who would no longer have a father. But in due time, they would understand. They would come to appreciate the gift I had given them. For it was not the gift of life that mattered, rather, the gift of taking one away.

Three weeks after that on June 16, 1965 came who you refer to as victim four, but who I knew as Robert Baldwin.

Oh, Robert Baldwin. Perhaps one of my favourite kills of that summer, All of the men deserved what they got, but Robert was very deserving.

He was a charmer, Kind, friendly, a real gentleman. Everyone in Kenhardt adored Robert, including his wife, Flora. She was a sweet girl, only four years older than I was at the time. I had met her a few times around town. I had met her a few times around town, at social gatherings, the local pub. She was beautiful beyond belief with her blonde hair and gemstone green eyes. He was older than her by fifteen years. It was a wonder by nearly everyone in Kenhardt how she was chosen. How Flora became so fortunate to be married to Robert. They were married six years when I ended his life.

It was the year prior when I first began noticing the signs. Flora and I weren’t very close by any means, but I developed a knack for sensing the victim in people. Ever since that night with Mark Irving, it was as though I had a radar in my brain, and other victims radiated their grievances. I was certain that no one else would be able to detect such a thing. Flora was always smiling - glowing really. She was happy, hopeful, and radiant. She would talk about her marriage and how wonderful things with Robert were. But I didn’t believe her. I knew she was lying. There was something in her eyes that gave her away. As though she were reading a script, or rehearsing lines.

It was mid - August of 1964 - the summer preceding his death - and a few of us were down buy the lake having a few drinks. IT was scorching that day, everyone was in their swimmers either in the lake or lounging on the rocks. I recall this day specifically because Flora Baldwin showed up in a long sleeve T- Shirt. A few of the guys were teasing her, trying to get her to go in the lake, but she refused, said she was coming down with something. Everyone simply shrugged it off and allowed her to do her own thing, which consisted of sitting on the sidelines of conversations, watching silently and never speaking.

I realized, then, the severity of her situation. Because not only was he abusing her, but he was silencing her, taking away her voice. The poor darling couldn’t speak, let alone go for a swim, He was killing her, slowly but surely, and nobody knew except me.

On June 16,1965, I made my move. The weeks leading up to that night, I had studied and did my homework, as usual. I knew when Robert would be home and when Flora would be out. On this particular day, she happened to make a trip to the beach with some of her girlfriends. I knew that was my opportune time to strike. It would be one of the only times that she was out of the house, out of his sights. And he would be alone.

This was my earliest time yet, just after five thirty pm. The sun was still shining and the weather was warm. I didn’t know how long I would have until Flora and her friends returned from the beach, so I made my move quickly.

Because of the situation, I had to change my method, once again. There was no relationship between Robert and me - no chance of easy proximity. The other victims simply let met into their homes because they either knew me, or wanted to. But Robert and I didn’t know each other. And you may think that would prove difficult, but clearly you do not know me.

I rang the doorbell and waited. Robert had a large home - larger than any of the other men’s homes I’d been to that summer. There was a garden out front, I assumed where Flora did her planting, where she went to relax, her happy place. I pictured her kneeling in the garden, surrounded by flowers, a tear falling from her cheek, the bruises covering her arms. Anger bubbled up inside of me. I was ready.

Robert opened the door. He Didn’t know who I was. I told him that I was a friend of Flora’s and that she had asked me to pick something up for her. He was a tad hesitant, but eventually let me inside. We began walking through the house, through the living room towards the hallway that would eventually lead to the stairs. I didn’t have much time, I pulled the knife from my purse. He was walking in front of me, leading the way, his back to me, I walked closer towards him and in one quick motion, shoved the knife through his back where it would in turn puncture his heart….

He stopped moving. His body froze. He gasped for a breath and tried to turn around. I wouldn’t allow him to. I kept the knife inside his body, holding it there for a long time. He dropped down to his knees, and still, I held the knife in place.

Finally, I removed it, slowly, wiping it with the napkin I had readily on hand. That was all. A single stab wound through the heart.

Nothing too sadistic or violent. That would be unnecessary and reckless, and reckless led to being caught.

I then walked in front of him, He was crumbling on the floor, both hands clutching his chest. The blood was exuding through his fingers, dripping from his hands to the carpet below him. I stood there staring at him. He looked up and we made eye contact. He was gasping for air, trying to say something, One word: WHY?

I knelt down so that we were at eye level. I did him the courtesy; I answered his dying question. I explained to him why I did what I did. I was doing it for Flora. I was doing it for all the women out there, for all the victims of abuse who were silenced and without a voice. I told him that he would no longer be able to hurt anybody. And that was all I needed.

Once his eyes closed and he collapsed to the floor, I checked his pulse. Then I grabbed the black marker from my bag and left my mark.

Surely you remember John Morgan? The man who burnt down his own house in 1957, killing his own wife? You probably know him more formally as victim number five.

It was July 1,1965, the beginning of a new month, the peak of summer time in Kenhardt, The sun was shining, the flowers were blooming, the lake was glistening. Everyone was enjoying themselves that day, Everyone except John.

After their house burnt down and their mother passed, Adam and John Jr moved in with their aunt and uncle. They saw their father on occasion, but to be quite honest, I think the boys were scared of him - scared of their own father. Fearful of what he was capable of.

No one ever did find out what happened that day, what made John snap and set his house aflame. He was known to be a bit of a heavy drinker, and authorities believed that alcohol was involved. One too many and he grabbed the diesel Jerry can.

After the house burned down, John moved into one of the cottages down by the lake. It was where the elderly folks went to retire. Where people emigrated to when their spouse passed, or their children grew up and moved out. They were quaint little places, the cottages. A place where people went when they were alone.

John Jr and Adam were twenty - five and twenty - three respective. They had moved on with their lives, found loving women to marry, and were beginning to settle down. To my knowledge, they hardly saw their father anymore, which would subsequently prove beneficial to me. No one would be with him, No one would notice - or care - when he was gone.

Around the time that I began my duties that summer, I knew in the back of my mind that John Morgan would be on that list. Just as I always knew that I would end with Paul Monoly, but it wasn’t necessarily that I planned each one out accordingly. One thing happened after another, and eventually, circumstances simply led me to each one. A chain reaction of events.

After MARK, MIKE, PATRICK and ROBERT, I was feeling invincible, on top of the world. As though I could do anything and everything. I was powerful. I had finally regained all of the strength that had once been so selfishly taken from me. And let me tell you, it was a magnificent feeling.

The authorities were on the hot trail of the person who they were now calling The SAD Killer, it was catchy, I must admit. It was never my goal or intention to create a name for myself. I was simply doing my job, performing my tasks. The signature was of lesser importance. It was simply a final thought, a last act. But they ate it up with hot sauce, fiend over the signature, made a big commotion over it. The SAD Summer, it would later be called, referenced to multiple times in years to come, The man who got away with murder…

As though a woman could not be capable of such a thing, This is what I was telling you about earlier. The woman of Kenhardt were invisible, unseen. No one paid attention to them, No once cared. As long as we remained in the kitchen with a ring on our finger and enough food in the fridge for dinner, no one was complaining.

It wasn’t difficult killing John Morgan. I chose a day - a Sunday - the first of July. Everyone was out enjoying themselves, not paying any attention to the small cottage at the end of the row. I made my way over to his place, the method I would use swirling around my head, It would be perfect.

Now, given the circumstances of what he’d done to his family, the ideal way to end John’s life would be to set his house on fire. It would be the perfect murder. A beautiful way to avenge the death of his wife and the damage he caused to his two sons. And it would be believable. He set his house ablaze eight years ago, and here he was again, history repeating itself.

But I couldn’t ensure his death that way. And do you know how much work that would be? I’d need litres upon litres of diesel. I’d be putting myself at Risk by being visible while I doused his house. It simply would not work. I had a better idea instead.

I arrived at John’s cottage - home and knocked on his door. I knew he would let me in, it was never a question. Every other man had let me into their homes thus far. That was the gift of being a woman. I was not threatening in any way. The perfect culprit. Unseen and invisible. Hiding in plain sight. The Black Widow of Kenhardt.

He answered the door and took in my appearance. I asked if he remembered me from all those years ago. The girl that lived across the street from your house. The one you burnt down in 1957. Not those exact words, but he claimed to remember me. Once I mentioned my father, he was nodding, oh right, Yes, Yes, The Dennikin girl.

The conversation came naturally. He offered me a tea and I declined. We sat on the couch, chatting about life and what he was doing living out here all alone in a cottage by the lake. As usual, I kept things brief, skipping ahead to the good part.

‘Why did you do it?’ I asked suddenly.

‘I’m sorry?’ He was taken off guard.

‘Burn your own house to the ground, Kill ANNA.’

He stared at me, wide eyed. ‘I’, he opened his mouth, ‘That was a long time ago.’

‘It was eight years, John,’ I said. ‘And because of you, she’s never coming back. Anna will never have the opportunity to live the life she wanted. And your sons.’ I said.

‘John and Adam, You ruined their lives, destroyed everything they knew, diminished the small bit of happiness they had left. And for what? What did you accomplish?’

He remained silent, staring down at his hands. He was ashamed of himself. Disappointed, Remorseful. But none of that mattered. His emotions now didn’t matter. The damage was already done. There was no changing that.

Before thinking about it any further, I removed the knife from my purse, and in one quick motion, shoved it into his chest. I slid the knife out and stabbed once more, aiming for his heart, just as I did with Robert Baldwin.

He eyes widened as he realized what was happening. He tried to lurch forward and grab me, so I pushed the knife further into his chest and twisted. He froze.

After another moment, I swiftly removed the knife and retreated from him, standing as quickly as I could. I watched as he clutched his chest, mumbling words that I couldn’t understand. Something about why and how could you? Why are you doing this? Help me…

But I didn’t help him. I stood there and watched, waiting for him to take his last breath and die. And I must admit, it took a while. God, that one took a while. But eventually his eyes fluttered closed and his breathing stopped. I slowly moved forward and checked for a pulse. There was nothing.

He died from blood loss. In my opinion, that was an easy way out - a polite way to end things. It could have been much worse. He could have suffered like his wife, gasping for air, dying from smoke inhalation and burning to death. He had it easy, and even then he didn’t deserve easy.

Be patient, now, there are only two men left on this list. Do you want to hear about them or not?

The 6th was David Hill. He was thirty eight years old when I ended his life on July 23 1965.

I had my sights set on David for a while. Much like the other men I ridded society of, David Hill was a ‘GOOD MAN’. A hardworking husband, a proud father. But his wife and little girl didn’t know the evil’s he possessed. Nobody did. And that’s what made him so dangerous.

David Hill was classic con - man. I observed him from a far, pulling tricks and stealing money. He would make trips to the local pawn store, buy the cheapest jewellery he could find, then resell it to people for ten times the amount it was worth. And people fell for it, They bought it. And he made a huge profit from this business.

But that is not the reason I killed David Hill. Petty theft is one thing, not enough to kill a man for. No, what he did was far worse. And it was something that struck close to home for me.

He was eighteen years old when he raped Natasha Watterson. She was two years younger, unsure of her place in the world. When a popular guy like David Hill showed interest in her, she was swooning. But much like Mark Irving and I, things did not end well for them.

I came across Natasha years after the incident, when she was a cashier at the local bakery, age thirty four. She was married and had two children. We bonded over our love of Sourdough. Although she was ten years older than I was at the time, we got along splendidly. This was two years before I would avenge what David Hill did to her.

I would go to her place and see the kids, Millie and Jerome. Her husband was a good man, someone that she deserved. At the time that I became friends with Natasha, I was still trying to recover from my recent tragedy, and Natasha helped me with that, I opened up to her, told her about what happened to me that night with Mark.

Her eyes were empathetic, her hands on min. She wasn’t just consoling me - she was connecting with me, resonating with everything I was telling her, It was after that she revealed to me a similar thing had happened to her when she was just sixteen. A tragedy, really, It nearly ruined her life. She couldn’t go to school. She became scared of everything and everyone around her. And when she finally did recover and immerse herself back into the world, she could not come in contact with men, She was fearful of them, fearful of what they were capable of.

She didn’t date or have a boyfriend until she was twenty - three. By that time her PTSD had finally loosened its grips on her and allowed her to find love and happiness. Natasha met Antonio and the rest was history. They had Millie and Jerome. They moved into a beautiful house. And everything was right in her would again.

But I couldn’t simply let go of what had happened to her. She told me his name - David Hill, and I kept it with me for two years, slowly turning it over in the back of my mind. By the time the summer of 1965 arrived, I knew my plans for David Hill. I knew that he needed to face a similar fate of Mark.

I watched and waited. I memorized his schedule. I knew when his wife would be out with their six - year old daughter, Poppy, And then I made my move, Making my way to his front door.

I told him that I was friends with his wife. He smiled and let me inside. He told me she was at her sister’s place for the day, but he would tell her that I dropped by, when he asked for my name, I had no reason to lie.

‘Suzanne,’ I said. ‘Suzanne Dennikin.’

He brought us two glasses of water and sat them down on the kitchen table, taking a seat on one of the chairs. Shortly after that was when I pulled out the rope. I brought it around his neck and pulled as hard as I could. And as I pulled, I spoke to him.

‘This is for Natasha Watterson.’ I said. ‘For what you did to her all those years ago. You didn’t just rape her, David, You took away her happiness. Prevented her from living her life. Scarred her in a way that no one should ever be scarred.’

I pulled harder and he fought harder. His feet kicked backwards from the chair he was seated on and nearly tripped me. But I regained my balance and held my ground.

When it was over, I checked for a pulse to ensure that he was dead. Then I placed the rope neatly inside of my purse and took out the black marker.

Alas, we have finally come to the last one, the concluding chapter of my story, the final victim, Number seven, you call him. Paul Monoly.

You might recall his name from the beginning of my story. Paul was married to my mother, After my parents separated, my mother was all by herself. She was working two jobs, trying to provide for us, as well as survive, She met Paul and all of her struggles seemed to disappear.

He was a nice guy, Friendly, approachable, willing to help. He charmed her and she fell for him. We all did, really. I was only twelve when my mother had finally found happiness again.

I was fourteen when the bruises first appeared. Fifteen when I finally took notice and realized that was going on, understood the severity of the situation. I had never witnessed abuse before, especially not first hand, I didn’t understand. Paul was a great guy. He was always smiling and laughing. I couldn’t understand how my mother could go from happy to closed - off in a matter of seconds. How her facial expression could change so drastically when he entered a room.

Eventually, I put the pieces together and realized what he was doing, But when I confronted my mother, she brushed it off, said that I didn’t know what I was talking about. Everything’s fine, she’d say to me. And I accepted her words. I listened to my mother and let it be, It wasn’t until years later that I was able to look back at the situation and see how trapped she truly was. Women don’t stay in abusive relationships because they enjoy it. They stay because they no other options. They stay because they are IN-LOVE, and they don’t want to face the reality that the men they are devoted to are harming them.

We Didn’t have much money, Paul did. In a way, staying with Paul prolonged our survival. We were comfortable. We could go out for dinner once a month. We each had clothes to wear to school. And so I didn’t complain any further. My mother told me it was fine and I believed her. Paul was, after all, a good man.

I was eighteen when she fractured her arm and broke a rib. She told the doctors that she had fallen down the stairs. CLUMSY CAT RAN BETWEEN MY FEET AND I SLIPPED.

We Didn’t have a fucken cat.!!!

I began to take more notice. I watched her closely, observed her behaviour and his temperament. Some days he would be fine, Others, not so much. He was very controlling. He wanted my mother to be at his beck and call at all hours of the day. He wanted her attention on him and him only. If she even glanced at another man in the grocery store or street, all hell would break loose.

She tried so hard to be this perfect woman, this ideal image of whatever he had in his mind. But that’s the problem with trying to conform to somebody else’s standards of you - they’re not real.

The abuse went on for years. She never left him. Things never changed. Not until August 14,1965. The SAD Summer.

Now you see why I had a vendetta against these abusers like Robert and Patrick. Because I knew what they were capable of. I was familiar with how they worked and operated. I knew how they ruined lives. And I couldn’t let it get to that. I couldn’t let them do to Flora, Angela and Joey what Paul did to my mother.

Perhaps everyone else that summer was just practice. Paul was the real target. He’s who I had been aiming for all along. This other 6 helped me work towards my end game.

My siblings and I were planning a getaway weekend with our mother, Go up North to Avondale for three days to soak up the sun an lie on the beach. We’d pack up the tents, get the picnic baskets ready, and take off. This ensured two things. One, Paul would be alone and easily accessible, And Two, my mother would be out of town with multiple alibi’s. She would never be questioned, never accused.

I bailed at the last minute, said I was coming down with something. So my mother and siblings went off without me, I stood at the bottom of the driveway, waving as they disappeared down the road, I knew it was time.

I went over to mother’s house. It was nearly dinner time and I could see the kitchen light was on. I knocked twice, then let myself in. Paul appeared, holding a dish towel.

‘Suzanne,’ he said, clearly surprised to see me. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you went with the family?”

‘I had to cancel last minute,’ I told him. ‘I think I’m coming down with something. The Flu, maybe.’

He rushed to my side, ever so caring as always. ‘Have a seat, Sue, I’ll put on the kettle and get some tea.’

I did as he said and sat on the sofa, I looked around the room and studied it. The home I had grown up in. The home that Paul had invaded with his presence. He ruined everything. But he would finally get what was coming to him.

My mother had always been very spiritual. She was into meditation. She believed in the Zodiac Signs and moon cycles. She used crystals to heal her spirit. There were always crystals. More specifically, there was always a giant crystal that she kept in the living room, just next to the fireplace, It was about twenty centimeters in length, six or seven in height. A heavy rock. The crystal was white and purple with sequenced colours swirled into the center. It weighed 5kgs. I would use it to help me kill Paul Monoly,

While Paul busied himself in the kitchen, chopping onions for his stew, I walked towards the crystal and picked it up. It was heavier than I remembered, I brought it back over to the couch with me, holding it in my lap. Paul entered shortly after that and placed two tea cups on the table, taking a seat beside me on the couch. He Didn’t even notice what I was holding. I glanced at him sideways, then without waiting another moment, lifted the rock and brought it down on his head.

My intention there was not to kill him. Not yet, anyways. He was unconscious. The crystal sat on the table, blood tainted on the side. I moved quickly. Tying rope around his wrists and propping him up into a sitting position. I stared at him, analyzing his face. The bone structure, the wrinkles, how his eye fluttered at one point.

I waited over thirty minutes until he regained consciousness. He began to open his eyes slowly, blinking. His head was bleeding slightly, blood dripping over his eyebrow and down his cheek.

His eyes opened fully, He jolted upwards once he saw me, sitting in front of him, pointing the gun. After that, he didn’t move once.

‘Suzanne,’ he said exasperated. ‘What are you doing?’

‘We need to have a little chat, Paul.’ I sat up straighter and crossed one leg over the other. The gun felt foreign in my hands. It was his Magnum Revolver, after all, Dying at the hand of his own weapon.

‘Where’s you mother?’ he asked, looking around. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Do you know what kind of man you are?’ I asked. ‘Are you aware of all the irreversible damaged you’ve caused?’

He only stared at me, eyes wide, mouth agape.

‘I want to know why you did it,’ I said. ‘Did your own Daddy beat you? Do you enjoy hitting women? Do you feel powerful because of it?’

‘Suzanne…’

‘I’m not finished,’ I said. ‘I know what kind of man you are. I know what you’re capable of. And my mother did not deserve this. She didn’t deserve to be with a man like you. She needed to be with someone who loved her and cared for her. Someone who would look after her, not harm her. And my mother is not weak. She simply stayed because she didn’t have any other options. You took that away from her, isolated her from friends and family, made her feel so alone that she had no one else to turn to. You did that to her. But regardless of what you did to her, what you made her become, she is one of the strongest people I know. And she raised me.’ He stared at me, processing my words, unsure of how to respond.

‘Don’t worry about answering,’ I said, carefully constructing my next words. ‘No one’s listening anymore.’ And then I pulled the trigger.

Joe stood there paralyzed, his eyes on Suzanne, unsure of what to say next. She had told him everything, laid it all out in front of him. Yet he couldn’t formulate a single word.

‘After that,’ she spoke again, ‘I was finished. I didn’t need to kill any more because my task was complete. I had set out to rid Kenhardt of those terrible men, and I succeeded. I’m sure there were plenty more out there, but I couldn’t kill all of them. But it didn’t matter - those seven were the most crucial ones. As long as I had them taken care of, my conscious would be relieved. I would sleep better at night knowing that I had brought a great justice to Kenhardt.

And as I told you before,’ she said, ‘I didn’t enjoy the act of killing, I Simply did what needed to be done, so after Paul, I never killed again, I didn’t need to.’

Joe swallowed, even though his mouth was dry. He parted his lips. ‘You have to know that was wrong, Suzanne, It wasn’t up to you to kill those men, to take the Law into your own hands, It wasn’t your decision to make. You could have went to the police.’

‘You don’t understand,’ she said, ‘And you never will. You’re a man, Upper - class, living in the twenty - first century. You will never experience the injustices that people on this earth have to face. You will never know what it’s like to be a Woman. To feel so small and helpless. To witness the misogyny and the abuse firsthand and not know how to put an end to it……

'PERFECT has 7 letters so does FOOOOOD, coincidence? I think not.