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chapter 9 : USA, The Night Stalker.

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Richard Ramirez was born on the 29th of February 1960 as the youngest of five children.  It was avowedly speculated that his traumatic childhood had a tremendous influence on him and on the crimes he later on committed. His father, a former police officer, was a violent alcoholic who kept constantly lashing out on his wife and children. It was stated that Richard, at a very young age, was struck to the head with a falling piece of furniture and merely a few weeks later, he was struck again with a swing. At such a young age, the skull, still not fully developed, cannot provide full protection for the brain. That’s why, the experts speculated that his frontal cortex could’ve been damaged in that incident. Such damage can cause poor impulse control and aggressive tendencies. As a matter of fact, Richard started suffering seizures ever since. 

In order to elude his toxic home life, Richard took the habit of frequenting his cousin Miguel’s house who was much older than him. Miguel was a military veteran who served in the Vietnam War. The terrors he’d seen at war messed him up. He kept his gun in the fridge claiming he wanted to keep it cool. He would also boast to the 12-year old Richard about the horrors that happened at war and he would depict the graphic details of the several ways they used to capture and kill people. He even showed him pictures of him posing with a severed head of a woman whom he had killed and raped. Richard was never repulsed by the macabre stories he was hearing and witnessing. On the contrary, he was fascinated. On an eventful day, Miguel and his wife got into a heated fight. In the spur of the moment, Miguel shot his wife in the face in front of the 12-year-old Richard. As Miguel was arrested, Richard moved in with his sister and her husband Roberto. The environment was no better either. Roberto was a peeping tom who would have sexual gratification over watching women at night and Richard would tag along his nocturnal exploits.

 

It was during his teenage years that Ramirez began associating sexual fantasies with violence. He worked part-time at a holiday inn in summer. During that time, he kept using his passkey to rob the guests and to stalk them while they slept. Once, he let himself into the room of a couple and he attempted to rape the woman except her husband caught him and police were called. Richard lost his job, but no charges were made against him.

 

At the age of 22, the school-dropout moved from Texas to San Francisco, California. Richard’s first ever crime was presumed to be that of the murder of a nine-year old girl whom he had lured to the basement of the hotel he was staying in.

 

Once Richard got a taste of crime life, he didn’t step back. On the contrary, things escalated and a series of macabre crimes were committed by this monster: A 62-year-old was found stabbed repeatedly with a throat slashed near decapitation, a series of break-ins and stolen valuables, hijacking a car and killing the owner…

 

He broke into a house of 64-year-old Vincent and his 44-year-old wife Mazine, shot the husband and tied the woman who managed to escape and tried to attack him. This infuriated him, so, in a fit of anger he gouged her eyes out, put them in a jar and shot her three times. 

 

In 1985, Bill and Liliane fell victims to this ruthless killer who raped Liliane, gave the couple electrical shots then proceeded to beat them with a hammer. Before leaving the crime scene, he drew a pentagram on the wall with blood. This was the first time Richard used a sign of satanism in his crimes, but surely wasn’t the last time, as he himself was a satanist. In a later interview he actually said: “As far as Satan is concerned, I believe malevolent being his description eludes me but I have felt powers that are evil.”

 

His satanism was also portrayed in several other crimes: He broke into the house of a couple and after murdering them, he turned towards their 8-year-old boy and asked him to show him where the valuables were, and he made the little boy promise to Satan that he wasn’t hiding anything from him. Luckily, the child was able to get out of the house and ran towards the neighbors.

 

Richard also entered the home of a couple, killed the man and made the woman swear on Satan that she wouldn’t tell anyone.

 

The Night Stalker crimes didn’t stop there. He went on with a series of more break-ins and more murders. The horrific crimes of Richard petrified the people of California and baffled the police. Richard’s Mode of Operating was different with every crime that he committed, to the point where police didn’t link the crimes together. All cases were treated and investigated separately. That is until two smart detectives made a connection with several crime scenes. They discovered a distinct shoe print for a specific model that was left unintentionally at a variety of crime scenes. This made an outbreak in the case: the culprit they were looking for is a serial killer.

 

Police held a press conference where they revealed that a serial killer was at large and they dubbed him “the Night Stalker”. Police told people to lock their doors at night and they revealed details about the murders and the most crucial key evidence they had, the shoeprint.

The detectives on the case were pissed off at that revelation, because it was the only piece of evidence that pointed towards the culprit and with this being shared with the public, it would compromise the case.

 

Indeed, Richard saw the press conference and he knew they were onto him. He took his sneakers that were linked to the crimes and threw them off the golden gate bridge.

 

On August 24th, he had an urge to commit a crime so he lurked outside this house where a boy named James lived alongside his parents. James was alerted to the presence of the creepy man that’s why he woke his parents up and noted the car color model and few numbers from the license plate. Richard drove off when he noticed the entire family was up. Meanwhile, James contacted the police.

 

On August 28th, the stolen car was retrieved and the police were able to find a fingerprint from the rear-view mirror. Although Richard has wiped down the entire car before disposing of it yet he missed that little spot, which brought his downfall.

 

The fingerprint found had a match in the police database : it belonged to a 25-year-old drifter from Texas who had a previous record for traffic and drug violations. This ex-convict was indeed Richard Ramirez. His mugshot was released to the media and another press conference was held where they addressed Richard by name, calling out for him to surrender.

 

On August 31st, Richard looked over a newspaper rack whilst he was strolling down the street. Every single one had his picture printed on the front page. He panicked and he threw himself into a highway where he attempted to hijack three cars but was unsuccessful. Not accepting defeat, he ran until he found himself in a bad neighborhood where he was spotted by a group of people and then he was attacked by the angry mob. He was beaten by a metal bar to the head and held hostage until the police came and arrested him.

 

Whilst awaiting trial, Richard was bragging to his fellow inmates that he would smuggle a gun to the court and shoot the prosecutor. This led the law enforcement to install metal detectors by the door of the courthouse on the day of his trial. Later that day, a juror failed to attend as she was found shot in her apartment. The jury was terrified for their lives and were convinced that Richard was behind it and that he orchestrated the whole thing from his cell. Nevertheless, this was proven later to be false accusations as the real culprit was brought to justice: it was the victim’s boyfriend not Ramirez.

 

This case garnered so much media attention. During his trial, the courtroom was flooded with women screaming like fangirls and drooling over Richard’s presumably good looks. As a matter of fact, the juror who died was replaced by a woman named Cindy who turned out to be one of Richard’s fans. The subsequent trial turned into one of America’s most notorious courtroom dramas punctuated by continual outbursts from Richard. He even carved a pentagram on his hand that he kept showcasing whilst he was on the stand.

 

On September 30th, 1989, after an eight-month trial, Richard was convicted with all charges: 13 counts of murder, 5 attempted murders, 11 sexual assaults and 14 burglaries. During the penalty phase, he was sentenced to death in the California gas chamber.

 

While waiting for his execution date, Richard became unwell, his health fell apart due to complications secondary to B-cell lymphoma and he ended up passing away at the age of 53 whilst sitting on death row for more than 23 years.

 

The night stalker horrified people because he didn’t have a fixed M.O, he didn’t select his victims following certain criteria as most prolific serial killers did : Richard didn’t spare anyone. He targeted women and men of all ages: children, adults and even the elderly. Walking the streets of California or LA, everyone was terrified they would encounter this ruthless man because nothing guarantees you would walk away unscathed.

 

What infuriated people more about Richard after he was apprehended, is that he refused to discuss his crimes and he kept making outrageous outbreaks to the media that caused havoc, anger and pain. He said in an interview: “A serial killer comes about by circumstances and like a recipe, poverty, drugs, child abuse. These things, you know, contribute to a person’s frustration and anger. And at some point in life, he explodes.” In an attempt to justify his horrendous deeds, he added: “There are desires that if I didn’t give into them, I would be crushed by them”.

 

Richard was never apologetic about the things he did. He even admitted that he didn’t particularly care for people, nor for himself and what happened to him. As a matter of fact, he only said whilst chatting on this matter: “I believe in the evil in human nature. This is a wicked world. And in a wicked world, wicked people are born. I’m not gonna blame society, my race, people or anything. It is up to the individual like myself to keep on knocking on whatever door they want to get into”. Then he later added: “we are all evil, in some form or another. Are we not ?”

 

In a macabre story of murder, Satanism, serial rape, burglaries and more, we’ve traveled back in time from the sixties all the way through to the eighties in the United States, where we’ve witnessed the story of the infamous Night Stalker who terrorized the streets of California and Los Angeles, the story of the man who still to this day remains a mystery even to psychologists and experts. The way his brain worked and the decisions he made were never understood, and he, on his part, never elaborated more on the topic, taking these secrets with him to his grave.

Written By : Sarra Barnoussi.

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Chapter 5 : Medea, A fractured halo.

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The heat was unbearable to say the least, a suffocating hand squeezing the very air from my lungs. As if eternal damnation wasn’t torture enough for the inhabitants of this cursed realm.

Tartarus wasn’t for the weak. Or at least, that’s what I gathered from the looks of it. Down here, the whispers of Asphodel and Elysieum were a cruel joke. Every instinct in my body was begging me to turn and flee, until a flicker of movement in the distance snagged my attention, making me halt in my steps. 

Someone was watching me. 

“Mermerus?” a woman’s voice echoed through the abyss, “Mermerus, is that you?”

Words died on my tongue. Though a silver of desperation lingered in her voice, everything about the approaching figure sent chills skittering down my spine. Crimson red robes, the color of spilled blood, clung to her form, a stark contrast to her pale skin. Her untamed black hair almost covered the entirety of her back. Something about her seemed disturbingly primordial. This was no benevolent spirit, no sorrowful soul. This woman was a true creature of darkness, someone who had not simply adapted to Tartarus but seemed to thrive in its haunting embrace.

As she drew closer, I could see the disappointment in her eyes slowly settle in. For I wasn’t Mermerus, nor did I know of this person she despondently wanted me to be.

Mere inches separated us now. She towered over me then reached out her hand to cup my face. Her touch wasn’t one of comfort, but far from it.

“You do look remarkably like him.” She murmured, the softness in her voice a fleeting mirage.

“Who is he?” I managed to let out as she turned around and started to make her way back.

“My child.”

“And where is he now?” I dared to ask.

The sound of her footsteps abruptly stopped. In the deafening silence, she turned, a cruel smile twisting her lips.

“Dead.”  She said, her voice devoid of emotion, “I killed him.”

A minute passed, or maybe an eternity I’m not certain. Those last three words hung in the air between us, words that felt more like a boast than a regretful confession. 

“Oh please, spare me the shock, I’m sick of it, Who are you boy? Did Aphrodite send you to further taunt me? Sending a boy who looks like my dead child is a wicked move I must admit.” 

“No, my lady.“ I gulped, “Forgive me but I don’t even know who you are.”

A notorious laugh escaped her lips. “Gods and their twisted games.“ she spat, a flicker of something akin to boredom flashing in her eyes. “Fine then, I am Medea, Grand-daughter of the sun. Daughter of the sea, Niece to supreme sorceress Circe. Witch.” She took a step closer, forcing me to crane my neck to meet her gaze. “ A mere thread separates the bumbling foolishness of mortals and the cruel whims of the gods » she hissed, the last word dripping with venom. “ And I walk that thread fueled by powers you, child, can faintly comprehend.”

Ignoring the termance in my voice, I managed to ask “How did you end up here then? amidst this…torment?”

“Why don’t I show you?” she whispered, her voice laced with dark amusement.

Before I could protest, she reached out for my hand. She muttered something in a tongue I couldn’t quite decipher, a strange incantation. The world began to wrap and twist, the great sleep, the great forgetting, darkness, then light.

The world solidified again, I was no longer in Tartarus. My body didn’t feel like mine, Stagnant powers lurked within me, Realization dawned on me.

 

I wasn’t looking at Medea anymore, I was Medea.

 

Everything was a blur, experiencing one’s memories through their eyes was nothing short of disorienting. The visions got slightly clearer; A Flash of a golden fleece, the triumphant glint in a pair of unfamiliar eyes. A love so intense it burned. Sacrifices made, yet promises shattered, betrayal, passion morphed into a cage of raging fury, lust for revenge, bloody hands. The smell of death, A chilling satisfaction, A hollow victory, Then back to darkness. 

My eyes fluttered open. I stretched my hands, relieved to feel my own body again.

“How did you do that? Doesn’t being in Tartarus stop you from casting any spells?” I breathe out, still dizzy from the lingering magic.

Medea arched an eyebrow as if I had just asked her the most nonsensical question ever.

“I am a witch, boy. Forever bound to earth. I am tied to the four elements. Tartarus is filled with one of them in all its forms, Fire. My power comes from within. Although this cursed place has tamed it, it could never quench its flames.”

The frustration in her eyes mirrored the confusion churning within me. The visions… hazy fragments that have left me reeling. “I felt them…” I stammered, meeting her gaze, “Your emotions, your rage, as if they were mine.” The weight of a story demanding to be told hung in the air. “Tell me Lady Medea, what has happened to you?”

 

A sigh followed by, then she began to unravel her past before me.

 

“Colchis was my home. Magic flowed through my veins, a birthright passed down from my ancestors. Then came Jason, a Greek hero with eyes that shimmered like the Aegean sea and a smile that promised forever. How foolish I was. For him, I defied my own blood. I won him the golden fleece, a prize named by his uncle in order to reclaim his throne. Looking back now, I realize what a waist of muscles Jason was. Without my magic and my wits, he could’ve never returned to his lands victorious AND unharmed. I vowed to protect him. I fled my home to be by his side. Bloody sacrifices on the altar of his empty ambitions. I was promised by Aphrodite an everlasting love as beautiful as dawn breaking over mount olympus if I aid him in his ‘heroic’ quest. I forgot however that while Jason was the goddess’s chosen, I was nothing but her pawn. A mere puppet that will grant her ephemeral glory once hit by Cupid’s bows. But promises made by the gods are fickle. A lesson I had yet to learn at that age.” 

Medea’s fists clenched, turning her knuckles white. She glared into the distance, as if she was reliving the past.

 

“Another woman caught Jason’s eye upon our arrival to Greece. A princess named Glauce with royal blood and a kingdom to rule over. He cast me aside, leaving me and our children within a blink of an eye . Foolish, foolish man. He had underestimated me, like the rest of them. My grief turned into rage. Revenge became the ultimate goal, a burning ember demanding to burn all it touched. Killing him was never an option. I needed him to feel an ounce of the agony I have felt while breathing still. So I did what had to be done. I took from him what he grew to value most, his new fiancé, her father’s money, and our own offspring. And if I had to, I would do it all over again.”

 

A look of serenity washed over Medea’s eyes. She unclenched her fists, her shoulders relaxed. I waited in silence for her to finish her story.

 

“Heaven and Hell became mere words to me. I fled Corinth, cloaked in the golden chariot my grand-father Helios sent me, leaving Jason a broken shell of the man I once loved. People may call me a villain, a mad woman, the devil incarnate for some, but I call myself a hero. I was the one who won the golden fleece. I have defied dragons and armies, navigated foreign waters alongside Jason’s crew and secured his throne all by myself. I deserved the recognition. I have spent my whole life diluting myself to make it easier to be loved. I have dimmed my magic, a witch masquerading as a human for an oath of eternal happiness. I was more than content with working in the shadows and letting Jason take credit for my mastery if only it meant he would be with me. And what do I get in return? Betrayal. Tragedy is a condition to existence, and I have chosen madness as my defense against it. For the dog that weeps after it kills is no better than the dog that doesn’t. My guilt will not purify me. And I accepted that long ago. Let them fear my wrath, let them whisper of my madness. Let them blindly pretend that all of their favorite heroes haven’t bathed their hands in blood too. But of course, blood doesn’t taint a man’s heroism. When a man seeks vengeance, it’s a mark of strength. When a woman does the same, she’s branded a monster.”

 

She tipped her chin upward, as if addressing the very gods who have betrayed her.

 

“I am no longer a pawn of fates. I am Medea, I am my own person and I shall spend my remaining days here in Tartarus, my new found home, where I truly belong.”

 

I stood there, transfixed. Words failed to decipher what I felt at that moment. Medea eyed me up and down one last time. 

“It’s truly incredible how much you look like Mermerus.” she softly whispered,  “Be careful boy. Don’t trust anyone but yourself down here.”

 

My mind grew heavy with questions left unanswered. I watched as Medea disappeared in the swirling sulfurous mist just as she had emerged from it moments prior.  As I started to make my way back towards the gates, I realized that by simply accepting her fate, this scorned woman has already defied the gods. I may not call her a hero, as she demanded to be called, but she definitely wasn’t a villain either. The very line between good and evil blurred before me. I left Tartarus with a heavy heart and a newfound perspective.

 

 

Written by : Fatma Ben Romdhane.

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