Warning: This story contains mature themes, coarse language, and graphic violence. Reader discretion is strongly recommended.

I, Daddy

It started when she was five years old.
Five!
Daddy’s little girl, so innocent and pure, but daddy was not there the one day it mattered most: the day she needed his protection.

Her life is now a constant battle with nightmares and scars that won’t go away – nightmares perched on the edge of every dream; scars that blemished her skin and tarnished her soul.

She will always be a beautiful angel to me, but the world does not see her as I do. When she looks in the mirror, she sees a ghastly image of a disfigured, hideous, and worthless girl. What’s that old saying? If she could only see herself through my eyes?

He left her beaten on the outside and broken within. Someday people will look past the scars. Someday, perhaps, she will see past them too.
But the nightmares will always haunt her.

If only I could travel back in time, I would kill that vile creature while he slept in his mother’s womb so he could never enter the world.

But thinking ‘if only’ was wasteful thinking. It solved nothing; it hurt more than it helped. I decided to focus on what I could do.

When my little girl woke up screaming night after night, a war raged inside me – the need to kill that animal battled for dominance over a lifetime of beliefs. But thanks to a scumbag lawyer who had every piece of evidence ruled inadmissible, including DNA, the case never went to trial.

That was the day my internal battle stopped.
My beliefs mutated into a black fury.
Right and wrong became a matter of interpretation.
Carl Johnson kidnapped, raped, and brutalized my little girl.
This is what I, Daddy, did to him.

I shadowed Johnson for weeks, making sure I knew every minute detail of his routine – there could be no surprises, no mistakes – my daddy’s little girl can not, will not, grow up without her father.

For her, I needed a foolproof plan, a solid alibi, and patience.
My wait ended the night I broke into his house.

In a shoebox under his bed, I found his stash of child pornography; black market pictures so repulsive I had difficulty suppressing the urge to vomit; I did not want to know what was on the videotapes.

I checked his laptop and found illegal websites and chat rooms set as favourites. That little piece of incriminating evidence would come in very useful.

I knew if I called in an anonymous tip the police might be able to convince a judge to issue a search warrant, but I also knew that if his scum-bag lawyer wasn’t able to get him off again he would spend some time behind bars, but eventually, that piece of filth and pitiful excuse for a human would eventually get out.

Surrounded by this man’s perversions, and terrified that my sweet little angel might be starring in one of those disgusting home videos, I knew prison for him would simply not do.

Admittedly, I was unprepared when he came home early. Usually on Thursdays after work he went bowling, so I wasn’t expecting him for at least another two hours.

With my heart racing, I slipped into the stairway of his basement and gently closed the door, leaving just enough of an opening so I could watch him.

The mere sight of him made my skin crawl – it took all my strength not to burst through the door and beat him within an inch of his life, revive him, then beat him again. And again. And again. But I had prepared a plan, and I was going to stick to the plan.

The corners of my mouth curled into a tiny smile when I heard him call in sick for work. He said he had to come home early from bowling because he did not feel well and that he would not be going in to work on Friday.
He did not work weekends, and he never had visitors, which meant there would be at least three to four days before anyone missed him – if anyone missed him.

He hung up the phone and walked towards his basement. I stepped to the side. Hidden by the door when it opened inward, I waited until his foot touched that first step and sprang into action.

It wasn’t anything dramatic like whispering his name to startle him before throwing him down the flight of stairs. It was a simple yet effective push.

He woke up in his basement, duct-taped to a wooden chair.

Canadian comedian, Red Green, was right when he said duct tape was the handyman’s secret weapon.

Johnson begged and pleaded for me not to hurt him before I shoved a rag in his mouth and duct-taped it shut.

I wore a ski mask, plastic coveralls, rubber surgical gloves and even those little booties doctors wear over their shoes in surgery, so I must have been a sight. But not once did he question why he was stripped naked and bound to a wooden chair. He found time to curse and threaten, he found time to beg and cry, but he didn’t once ask why.

He already knew.

First, I took care of that nasty cut on the side of his head that he got from falling down the stairs. I couldn’t have him passing out from blood loss, I wanted him to be awake for what I had planned for him.

Duct tape probably would have sufficed but there was no sense in taking chances. I grabbed his utility stapler off the workbench and stapled the cut closed.

I warned him to hold still, but he was jerking and bouncing around so much that he made me accidentally shoot a staple into his eyeball. Even with a gag his screams were loud. The houses in his neighbourhood were spaced far apart so his muffled screams wouldn’t be heard. It’s his own damn fault, he shouldn’t have moved so much.

All in all, not counting the one in his eye, it only took six staples, some crazy glue, and a strip of duct tape, and he was good as new. Well, at least he wasn’t going to bleed to death. Not from that cut anyway.

He was crying so hard he was blowing snot bubbles out of his nose. He looked pathetic but I couldn’t duct tape his nose or else he’d suffocate. I tried to ignore it when I came back from his workbench with a hammer and several three-inch nails.

I explained he cannot be bouncing around like he was, so he left me no choice but to make sure he stays put.
I set the first nail on his instep.

Just as I swung the hammer he started bouncing around again. I missed the nail and accidentally crushed two of his toes.

If his new screams were of any indication, that must have really hurt.

Good.

Several tears, muffled screams, and four nails later he was secured to the floor.

From the day I started planning I decided I would wear a mask until the deed was done. If he somehow escaped or someone showed up unexpectedly and he lived, I couldn’t risk him being able to identify me, or worse, have him coming after my family.

I could tell by the look on his face he was wondering who I was. To answer him I showed him his collection of kiddy porn and whispered one simple word, “Daddy.”

I didn’t think it was possible, but he looked even more terrified than when I stapled his head or was nailing his feet to the floor.

Good.

He knew the sins of his perversions had caught up with him because he started crying even harder. Realization that he was not going to live through it set in.

I waited for his tears to stop.

Once he has accepted the utter finality of what is going to happen, he will start to wonder how long he will live.

His eye changed its focus. I knew he was thinking about what else he will have to endure before he finally dies.

I grabbed the stapler again and gave him a hint.

I stapled his balls to the chair.

His muffled screams echoed in his damp and dirty basement.

I returned to his worktable for the next tool: his cordless drill. I started drilling into his thigh and much to my surprise, he did not pass out. I guess a hole in your leg is not that big a deal once you had your nuts stapled. I drilled another hole and that time I hit bone.

He finally passed out; that meant it was time for stage two.

I used smelling salts to wake him.

The nails were gone from his feet, his testicles were no longer stapled to the chair, and he was lying on the floor with a rope around his neck.

His hands were secured behind his back and his feet were bound at the ankles with duct tape. That stuff really does have a lot of uses.

The rope around his neck was strung over a rafter and laid in a pile next to him. His eyes, or should I say his eye, was begging me to stop. I leaned closer to him to whisper in his ear.

“Did you stop when all those little girls begged you?”

He started crying again; if he was able to talk, ‘No’ would have been his answer.

I pulled the rope.

He frantically tried to stand to ease the force of the rope around his neck.
I kept pulling. Eventually, he made it to his feet.

I gave the rope a final tug until he was struggling to release the tension on his throat by standing on the balls of his feet. I secured the rope to a post and returned with a blowtorch.

“Time to seal up those nail holes in your feet, Carl.”

The smell of burning flesh invaded my nostrils as I cauterized the holes in his feet.

His muffled screams of agony filled the basement.

He passed out and nearly hung himself.

I released the tension on the rope and used more smelling salts to wake him, then slowly pulled him to his feet again. I assured him I was not going to use the torch anymore and I put it back on the workbench. I returned with the hammer, still wet with his blood when I nailed his feet to the floor.

“Since you like kids so much,” I told him as I knelt at his feet, “let’s play a little game. This little piggy went to the market.”

Whack!

I swung the hammer violently, crushing his big toe into a mishmash of blood and broken bone.

“This little piggy stayed home.”

Whack!

“This little piggy had roast beef.”

Whack!

“This little piggy had… ah fuck it!” I said as I swung the hammer in quick succession.

Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!

“There now, that takes care of the rest of your little piggies.”

As I stood, I heard muffled curses buried amongst his screams and tears.

“What was that, Carl? You are going to do what to me?” I smiled as I showed him the bloodied hammer. “I don’t think you’ll be doing anything for a while, especially walking.”

I twirled the hammer in my hand for show before I lowered it, claw facing him, between his legs. I didn’t have to lift it much and he was shooting crap out of his nose again and begging me to stop.

Men will threaten retribution regardless of the amount of pain they are in but touch the family jewels and they become instant pacifists.

He was getting a bit wobbly on his feet, so I placed the wooden chair behind him and returned to the rope.

I pulled it harder.

He was struggling and twisting until his mangled feet eventually found the chair. I secured the rope again and left just a little slack. That way if he fell off the chair, or jumped, he would hang himself… eventually.

His body was reaching critical mass; pain receptors were starting to shut down. Soon he would pass out and I would not be able to rouse him

It was time for stage three.

The threshold for psychological pain is much higher; thoughts can cause more damage than physical pain, and it lasts much, much longer.

“You are going to die, Carl,” I told him, “Either by my hand, or by your own, but you will die. Anytime you want to stop this, you just have to jump. But it will be a slow and painful way to die. I did not use a hangman’s knot; it will not tighten around your neck, and there won’t be enough of a fall to snap your neck either. Death by hanging will be very slow and quite painful.”

I showed him the drill with parts of his thigh still stuck in the bit.

“Or you can die my way,” I waved the drill, “a little quicker, but definitely more painful.

I poked his bleeding thigh. He screamed, but he did not jump.

“I need to make sure you never hurt another child again. Maybe instead of killing you, I should let you spend the rest of your pathetic life behind bars. You won’t be missed for at least a couple of days. Think you can stand on that chair until then?”

He nodded his head, somewhat enthusiastically.

“So, you would prefer I leave you here like this, with all your kiddy porn, so whoever finds you will know what you are and what you did?”

He nodded his head again, not quite as enthusiastically.

I turned my back to him and let him watch me lay the drill on the workbench. I paused to allow his mind a chance to wander; to wonder.

I listened carefully to his breathing. It slowed. He was starting to believe he would survive.

I turned to face him holding a pair of garden shears.

Panic grabbed him as I tapped his manhood with the tip of the blades.

“Well, Carl, I did tell you I needed to make sure you never hurt another child.”

I snipped the shears in front of him a few times for effect; the metallic sound of the blades clicking unleashed more screams. Tears raced from his eyes and mucus shot out of his nose like a gushing geyser.

“Don’t worry Carl,” I said as I tapped his manhood again with the garden shears, “if they find you early enough, they might be able to sew it back on. But I bet you will think twice before you stick it in another–”

My words failed me; I couldn’t even bring myself to say it.

I snipped the shears a few more times and lowered them to his groin.

He jumped off the chair.

I returned the shears to the workbench as he struggled against the rope that was slowly cutting off his oxygen. If the noose had been a hair tighter it would have strangled him already, but I left just enough slack so his jaw took some of the weight… a slow and painful way to die indeed.

Before the lack of oxygen rendered him unconscious, I helped him stand on the chair again.

I poked a finger into the hole in his leg; the pain jolted him awake.

“You’re not getting off that easy, Carl. I want you to live. I want you to suffer. I want the world to know what you are. You ruined the lives of innocent children. And now, Carl, I am going to ruin yours.”

I spread his child pornography on the floor around him.

“In the morning I will call the police and tell them where you are. That gives you enough time to stand here and think about the lives you have ruined. If you can hold out until the morning you will live. They say it’s not when you are locked in the cell that prison begins, it’s when they open the cell again. I hear the inmates have a special welcoming committee for pedophiles like you.”

I showed him a bottle of Vaseline before I tossed it on the workbench.

“I’d hold on to that if I were you, Carl, you’re going to need it. If by some miracle you survive prison and get released, always remember,” I picked up the shears and snipped them in the air a few more times, “I’ll be waiting.”

I left him standing on the chair with the noose still around his neck and slipped out the back door and hid in the bushes to remove the mask, rubber gloves, and plastic coveralls, and stuffed everything in the plastic grocery bag I’d stashed there earlier. I left the booties on to help hide identifying footprints then stepped out onto the sidewalk in a casual stroll.

Never run from the scene.

People don’t really pay close attention to someone out for a stroll; people in a hurry and running they tend to remember. They almost never notice your shoes.

My heart was pounding in my ears; I wanted to go back, to make him suffer even more. But I had a plan; I couldn’t deviate from that plan.

I crossed the street to the park and continued walking. When I reached the concrete path, I slipped the booties off and put them in the bag.

On the other side of the park, I put everything in the trunk of my car. I took a moment to collect my thoughts then drove to the police station.

“Could I speak to Detective Holden Bradford please?” The Desk Sergeant picked up the phone without so much as glancing in my direction and called the detective’s extension. A minute later Detective Bradford emerged from a door behind the Desk Sergeant; his face instantly wore a ‘Here we go again’ look.

Here we go again is right.

I went into my regular song and dance about putting Johnson behind bars. Just like the last half a dozen times I did this routine, Bradford was patient and understanding.

He listened to me babble for a while longer and just as I hoped, planned, he looked at his watch, “I’m really sorry but I–”

“You have to go!” I blurted, cutting him off. “Well, you better find him before I do because I’ve had enough of this shit! If you won’t get him off the streets… I will.”

I stormed out, trying to hide the smile that was threatening to break across my face. I heard him warning me not to do anything rash.

Rash?

I would never do anything rash. That’s how people get caught.

I got in my car and started to drive. Within minutes a car was following me. I drove around aimlessly for a little while. The car was always three or four car lengths behind me. Convinced it was an unmarked police car following me, I stopped at the local grocery store.

When I was finished shopping, I placed nine grocery bags in my trunk. Trying not to look at the unmarked police car across the parking lot, I got in my car and headed directly home.

Parked in the shadows across the street, the plainclothes cop watched me carry ten grocery bags into my house.

I threw one of the grocery bags in the fireplace and put a match to the paper and kindling I had prepared earlier in the day. The grocery bag, with its plastic and rubber contents that were spattered with Carl Johnson’s blood and DNA, burst into flames.

With a smile I returned to the kitchen and finished putting the groceries away, making sure I was constantly in front of a window so the cop across the street could keep an eye on me.

I even dared the chilly night air a few times and went outside to have a cigarette, pretending not to notice the unmarked police car.

I returned to the living room, turned on the TV, and settled down for a long night of doing nothing. I felt bad for the poor bastard across the street in the cold car that had to freeze his ass off to keep an eye on me.

The next morning was rather uneventful. The first snowfall of the year happened sometime during the night. I picked up the morning paper off the step and skimmed the headlines. I noticed a new car parked across the street. I headed back inside to prepare for my daughter’s weekend visit.

Sunday came entirely too early; my little girl’s visits are never long enough.

Her mother came promptly at 11 o’clock to take her back home.
She handed me the morning paper. The headline read: ‘Suspected Pedophile Tortured Then Hanged. Police Have No Suspects.’

We exchanged a tiny smile. It was brief, but it was the closest we came to smiling together since the divorce. I pretended not to notice Detective Bradford parked across the street as I waved goodbye to my daughter.

As soon as their car pulled away Detective Bradford got out and walked towards me.

“I have a few routine questions for you if you have a minute.”

Routine questions hell, he’s so full of shit. If Bradford had questions he would have been over here long before the story was released to the papers. He’s here to measure me up, to see if I am hiding anything.

“Sure thing Detective,” I told him, “would you like to come inside?”

“No thanks, it’ll just take a moment. It’s about Johnson’s death.”

“My wife just told me. You’ll excuse me if I’m not upset that piece of shit is dead.”

“I didn’t expect you to be broken up over it. The coroner placed the time of death around 3 A.M. Friday morning. Where were you at that time?”

I tried not to laugh.

“You know damn well where I was at all weekend; you had a cop parked across the street since Thursday night.”

“Well, you were quite upset and threatened to take matters into your own hands. Under the circumstances, I wanted to make sure you didn’t do something you would regret.”

“I assure you, Detective, I didn’t do anything I regret.”

He paused. It was only a brief pause, but he paused.

“Like I said, just routine questions. It’s standard procedure to interview everyone who might be linked to the…” he paused again, “…the victim.”

I looked at him without replying. I could tell he had a hard time referring to Johnson as a victim.

I knew Detective Bradford was the father of two young children. He knew Johnson was guilty, but there was nothing he could do about it. Johnson’s lawyer had the evidence thrown out on a technicality. No evidence, no case. That’s the law – his law.

Now he is duty-bound to find the man who did the one thing every father in the world wished they could have done themselves: made sure Johnson could never hurt another child.

Bradford looked at me a moment longer then turned to leave. He did that Colombo thing where he stops and slowly turns to ask that one last question, the one that always trips people up on the TV show, but he didn’t ask a question. Instead, he just added, “Murder is murder. I have to investigate every possible angle. It’s my job.”

I nodded.

“If there’s anything else you wanted to tell me…” he waited, studying my expression.

I didn’t make him wait long.

“Is this the part where I am supposed to tell you if I think of anything I will call you? Because we both know that is never going to happen. I want to shake the hand of the man who killed that monster; not help you arrest him.”

“Off the record,” Bradford said as he flipped his notepad closed and stepped towards me with his hand extended, “as a father, so do I.”

His grip was firm, his smile warm.

“Like I said,” Bradford continued, “just routine questions. Here’s my card. My cell number is on the back. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

He walked away without looking back.

I went into the house and thought about the one thing I said wrong.

I did do something I regretted: I left Johnson alone to die.
I don’t know if Johnson waited for help until exhaustion or blood loss caused him to fall, or if the coward jumped.

But that tiny sensation of regret morphed into a satisfied smile. Either way, it was a slow and painful death.

I thumbed through the phone directory to find the home address of one Robert McKinley, Attorney at Law.

It was time I paid a little visit to the scumbag lawyer who had the evidence against Johnson thrown out of court.

Books by Kenn Crawford

FICTION

• Dead Hunt: Some Things are Better Left Dead

• Code 900: A Derrick Stone Crime Story

• The Saga of Bayou Billy

CHILDREN’S FICTION

• The Misadventures of Mallory Malo: A Ghost Story She’s Dying to Tell You

• The Princess Knights

NONFICTION

• The Covid Chronicles: Personal Pandemic Stories from Around the World: 2020

• How to Write & Publish Non-Fiction: a Self-Publishing Guide for First-Time Writers

• 10 Things I Learned Shooting Short Films: A Reality Checklist for First-Time Filmmakers

FILM MAKING TOOLS & JOURNALS

• The Indie Filmmaker’s Shot List: Create Film and Video Shot Lists

• The Indie Filmmaker’s Storyboard Book: Create Storyboards for your Indie Film or Video Shoot

• Did I Roll My Eyes Out Loud? A Gratitude Journal for Pissed Off Women

• The Five-Minute Gratitude Book: A Journal to Teach Children to Practice Being Grateful

COMING SOON TO AMAZON

• 1811 – The Sequel to Code 900: A Derrick Stone Crime Series

• Hold Onto Your Shorts – a Collection of Thriller and Horror Short Stories by Kenn Crawford

For more information, click this link:

kenncrawford.com/books

Copyright © 2021 Kenn Crawford

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and incidents portrayed are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events, is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with those of the author.