Manifest destiny, p.1
Manifest Destiny, page 1
Made for Success Publishing
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data
Daniel, Zachary
Manifest Destiny
p. cm.
LCCN: 2022910262
ISBN: 978-1-64146-744-5 (HDBK)
ISBN: 978-1-64146-745-2 (eBOOK)
ISBN: 978-1-64146-746-9 (AUDIO)
For further information contact Made for Success Publishing
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This digital document has been produced by Nord Compo.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
About the Author
Chapter 1
There’s an unsettled nervousness before committing an act you know is wrong. The mind is sharp and focused while adrenaline courses through your body, ready to push you past your limits.
I enjoy that sensation and thus welcomed it as I sat patiently on the park bench. It was time.
She emerged from behind the hedges, jogging from the south side of the park. She was a couple of minutes late—perhaps her coffee took longer this morning. I gazed down at the rumpled newspaper by my side. September 21, 1995. A single glance at the headline had me cursing under my breath.
OPEC RAISES PRICES.
My daily commute was already taking a chunk out of my wallet, but apparently the turban-wearing extremists wanted a little more.
She took a sharp turn by the fountain at the center of the park. Perfect, she was on her normal route. Sweat began to bead at my fingertips, and my chest tightened.
It was now or never.
I pulled the hood of my black sweatshirt over my head, departed the bench, and began trailing her. The sweatshirt was a gift from my father when I made the high school baseball team. Two sizes too small now, it gave me a slim runner look.
Swinging past the playground, my anticipation built. A wave of anger buried deep within me began to emerge as the feelings of being buckled over a baseball field bubbled up from my subconscious.
The park was nearly empty, with only a few morning walkers passing by the pavilion near the opposite side of the park. The dawn housed a calm silence that was only interrupted by the occasional rustling of the leaves or the chirp of a bird. It was almost perfect, but after today, it would be forever tarnished. However, it was a burden I was willing to bear.
Keeping my eyes open for anyone outside their usual routine, I closed the distance between us, and when she rounded the corner toward the forest trail, I knew we were alone. Her pace was quick, and I forced myself nearly to a sprint to shorten the gap.
As we entered the grass cushioning, the trail began to narrow until great oaks hugged the path. The branches arched high above, only letting slivers of light illuminate patches of the route. Fallen leaves in various stages of decay covered the trail, and the noise made from their trampling interrupted the quiet of the jog and left colorful crumbs in their wake. With her headphones on, my movement behind her was silent and unsuspected.
She ran in athletic attire, wearing a skin-tight white vest with matching sweats and running shoes. She held a small plastic water bottle in her left hand. Half-empty now, the contents sloshed violently inside. She had terrible running form, especially for someone so experienced. Her arms flailed wildly instead of purposefully and in sync, and her choppy motion held no rhythm, no balance. Her blonde hair was tied in a ponytail jostling side to side with every stride. I focused chiefly on its movement, for within a few steps, I would be able to reach out and grab it.
I was ready to strike. I steadied myself like a lion before the pounce.
“Now!” my mind screamed, and I lunged for her. Diving, I catapulted myself onto her, swiftly covering her mouth with my right hand. She lost her balance from the weight of my body before her legs caught themselves, tripping her and forcing us both to the gravel. We landed hard and skidded for a few feet. The small rocks and dirt embedded in my arms and knees, but the pain from the abrasion was masked by adrenaline.
Her face absorbed the brunt of the fall. The dirt smeared on her cheeks, turning crimson as the wounds beneath began to bleed. As she struggled against my grip in an effort to break free, my hand was dislodged from her mouth, and she got out a short, piercing scream before I was able to recover. The echo of her scream seemed to carry into the ensuing fight.
I soon established myself on top and used my weight to subdue her. With my knee pressed against her back, I reached into my backpack for the duct tape. I started the tape on the left side of her mouth, extending it across when suddenly, I realized I couldn’t tear the tape.
Her movements were violent, and she was trying desperately to throw me off. I needed at least one hand to keep her secure. After a desperate struggle to sever the tape, I became panicked that someone would appear behind us on the trail at any moment. My hands were perspiring at a faster rate than I could wipe them off on my shirt.
Every neural impulse was fixated on finding a quick answer. Her mouth had to be taped shut, but I couldn’t risk her squirming free for even a second. My frantic neurons suddenly recovered, and I knew what I had to do. I wrapped the duct tape rapidly around her head, allowing the roll to simply hang after the fourth rotation.
Within a minute, I had carried her struggling body out of sight of the trail and tied her to a tree. Other than a few scrapes on my arms and legs, it couldn’t have been scripted better.
Deep breath. Now comes the hard part.
I watched her struggling against the restraints, yearning to break free, but I knew there was a slim chance of that happening. The knots were sailor knots, a type my father taught me back in Boy Scouts, and not easily undone. Nonetheless, she fought, but her efforts were fruitless, and her mumbled screams through the duct tape were futile.
There was a calm feel to the forest. The leaves bristled in the slight breeze, and for the time being, it felt as though we were the only two on earth. I eyed her as I started my monologue.
“Why did you do it, Nancy?”
She shot to attention but didn’t respond. There was no use playing dumb now.
“How do you go home to your family at night? What’s the dinner conversation? ‘Hey, Sam, could you pass the potatoes? Oh, let me tell you about the elderly woman I murdered today.’” Her eyes darted towards me. I couldn’t tell if it was because I knew her son’s name or the crimes she committed. Either way, the stare was deadly.
“You must be surprised I know so much,” I continued. “I mean, you couldn’t possibly believe that you could keep this up forever.” She was still silent.
“How’s the husband? Ever thought about offing him? C’mon, Nancy, don’t tell me you never considered cashing in that life insurance policy on him.” Now I was reaching, but her eyes told me I was probably right. They possessed such an unremorseful cruelty that it sent a small shiver down my spine.
She was mumbling now, and I knew I needed to hear her last words. Everyone deserves to have that final say, no matter the crime. I handed her a small pen, fitting it between her hands, and tossed a pad of paper on her lap. Immediately, she started writing.
Meanwhile, I put on a pair of thick latex gloves, always orange, because it was my favorite color. Then I pulled out the syringe, an 18-gauge needle to be exact. When she laid eyes upon it, a fearful dread overcame them. She squirmed as if she could retreat into a safe haven. It was odd. She was a nurse and worked with needles all day. They were even her weapon of choice, yet she recoiled at the sight. Although I couldn’t say I wouldn’t be doing the same given her situation.
While I waited for her to draft her parting words, I took a seat against a sturdy oak facing her. I cleared away the shriveled leaves that had fallen to forge a spot on the dirt floor. I took in a deep breath, letting the cool fall air prick the inside of my chest. Releasing the excess, I watched my breath dance away into an invisible mist. The thought of how we took such a gift for granted and how quickly it could be taken away brought a sobering calm. I felt the anxious anger momentarily drift away.
A short grunt indicated she was finished. I rose from my resting spot and took the pen and pad from her, examining it. Short… very short for a last confession, and shallow, unapologetic, without a hint of remorse. I scoffed at her last words: “Do you know who my husband is? Whatever
“You think this is about money?” I was chuckling now. “C’mon, Needle Nancy.” I fancied my nicknames. “You murder six patients without remorse and expect no consequences? Whatever sick fantasy you were fulfilling, I hope it was worth it.”
I had gloves and a needle as planned. I then took a moment to examine the scene. After noting the area was secure, I grabbed my tourniquet and, rolling up her sleeve, wrapped it tightly around her frail bicep. I made sure to softly explain the procedure, which I suspected she knew all too well herself.
“Now, Nancy, you know what this wonderful drug is?” I flashed her the syringe as I located a large vein on her arm. “In about five to ten minutes, your heart will stop beating, and you’ll die. Now, I’m not sure if you’re religious, but I suggest making peace with God or whatever higher power you believe in.”
I moved my attention back to her arm. She resisted when I tried to locate a vein but relented once I became more forceful. She squirmed as I injected the potassium chloride into her arm. I had combined it with a painkiller to neutralize the pain—no need to be barbaric. As I withdrew the needle, she relaxed, staring ahead as if in another world. Maybe she was making a last plea to her maker, or perhaps her thoughts were with her family.
I had always been curious about what a person’s final thoughts were before death. Perchance there was a great secret to life that can only be realized in its last moments. I would know one day, but not today. No, today, only Nancy Papperman knew. The wife of Steve Papperman, a successful banker, and the mother of 7-year-old Sam. She was a stay-at-home mother who only recently started back in the workforce, working twice a week as a CNA in a nursing home. She had frequent spa appointments, an addiction to shopping, and ran the neighborhood gossip like a talk show. I doubt that she would be missed by many outside her family. Through my investigation, I had failed to come up with many redeeming qualities and wondered if anything I said even registered with her.
“Nancy? You know this would have never happened had you not euthanized those people. Unfortunately, you did, and the law may not have caught you, but I have.” Her gaze didn’t avert from the distance she was staring into.
I may have gotten in the last words, but they fell flat, sounding like guilty justification or boasting as they left my mouth. I cringed.
We sat there in silence. It was a silence similar to a graveyard. Whenever I visited my father’s gravestone, the quietness of the cemetery felt different than anywhere else.
I averted my attention to the woods of Cyrus Park. My favorite park would never be the same, for me or for others. There was no doubt that the northern Trenton community would be shaken by today’s events.
Suddenly, her body language changed. It started slowly as her head began to drop, and her face reached a ghostly pale. The spark in her eyes dimmed like the filament in an old light bulb, flickering every few seconds like a revival was imminent. Her body seemed to recede into its hollow self. Life had left her.
Her passing left me with an uncomfortable lack of satisfaction. I did not expect to feel empowered killing her but rather for avenging those she had murdered. I simply had to. Had I not caught her, my own mother might have been next.
Chapter 2
When I admitted my mother to Saint Christopher nursing home two months ago, I had my best friend Chris, who worked for the NYPD, run a background check on the home. He found a recent rise in deaths. Not unusual or suspect at first glance, but after more digging, he discovered that most of the deaths were first reported by Nancy Papperman.
She had begun working at the establishment six months prior, about the time that the death toll rose. I told Chris I was just curious and I wouldn’t worry as it was almost certainly a fluke, but I knew. Oh, I had more than an inkling that there was something more occurring, and I refused to let my mother reside there without knowing all the facts.
I began a little detective work of my own by following her during my “sick” days. I learned Nancy’s schedule fairly easily; she was a creature of habit. At night, I would sift through her garbage, looking for anything that could aid my efforts. You can discover a lot about someone through what they throw away. It took me quite a while to connect the dots, but I noticed an unusual amount of bleach being discarded. After some research at the library, I discovered it was the main component used in the production of potassium chloride. She would just slip that drug into a patient’s veins, and within a few minutes, they were dead. Quiet, clean, and unsuspecting. A tiny part of me was impressed by the ease of her operation.
Despite the evidence, I was initially skeptical that someone of her apparent intellect was capable of synthesizing such a compound. Though, upon patching up my bio of her, I re-evaluated my assumption. School records indicated that she was one of the top students in her class and had even applied for medical school but was rejected. She was plenty capable.
Other than her killing “hobby,” she also appeared to be cheating on her husband with a man named Finger, a teacher at her child’s school. Definitely could’ve picked a man with a better name.
None of the investigation would have been possible without my longtime best friend, Chris Stanky, who was practically a brother to me. Back in high school, people had a field day with his name. See, he was not so much unlike me. We attended the same schools growing up, and his father died of a stroke a month before mine was murdered in a robbery. The tragedies were the cornerstone of our bond.
As a teen, I struggled to find purpose and happiness while grappling with major depression. Thankfully, Chris and I had each other to lean on for support and thus were inseparable. We shared all our problems, hardships, and successes, and it made life bearable. Nothing could replace our fathers, but at least part of the void could be filled with each other.
Growing up, my father was God in my eyes; he did no wrong. He worked hard as a carpenter for a local business but always had extra time to spend with me. He was the one who developed my baseball skills throughout my childhood. He was the most loyal Mets fan I knew and made me promise if I ever made it big, the only team I would play for would be the Mets. He loved baseball, and at least twice a month, we would head to Shea Stadium and catch a game.
Arriving an hour before the game, we would settle into our seats: section 327, row 6, seats 10 and 11. One hot dog with brown mustard, a Dr. Pepper, and a bag of peanuts were all we needed. It was our little slice of heaven. During the game, in which the Mets normally lost, my dad would share some wisdom or joke about some funny-looking patrons. His favorite, though, was exploiting my gullibility. One time, he had me believing that every sip of Dr. Pepper had a different flavor. Subsequently, every gulp was followed by, “You’re right! That one did taste different!”
Truth was, it didn’t matter if the Mets won or lost. They did a lot of losing back in the day, but my father and I always managed to have a great time. I cherish those memories. Things had been so much simpler.
“Snap!” A twig broke nearby, and I was jolted back into reality. My head spun as I scanned the woods. A squirrel bolted up the trunk of a nearby tree. Seeing the innocent trespasser, my heart returned to my chest. I needed to get moving.
I turned my attention to Nancy, who lay in front of me. Pale, cold, not so powerful anymore, but her eyes held an eerie, unyielding gaze. I quietly cleaned up my supplies, removed the rope and duct tape, and undressed her to remove trace evidence. I felt guilty leaving her naked, which added an element of humiliation to her death, but the risk of getting caught superseded her dignity. I hesitated to remove her diamond earrings. Her family deserved to have something of hers to remember. Leaving them behind, I stuffed everything into my backpack and made sure to comb the area one last time for any trace left. Once satisfied, I quietly slipped back onto the path from which I came.
Chapter 3
Nancy was the first person I had killed. I never set out with the purpose to kill, but for serious offenders, it seemed the only fitting punishment.
I pulled into the driveway and sat a moment. The radio DJ started up a Styx song as I let my body sink back into the leather, and my mind slowly drifted back to the last time I’d heard the song.
