the rumpus room

The Cranium Killer struck again, this time even closer to home, down by Marina Del Rey.

Seems that LA’s newest serial killer has refined his craft, not just bashing-in his victims’ skulls, but taking their brains out and leaving them right there on the kitchen table for everyone to see. Action News’ very own Flint Rockway was LIVE from the scene.

It’s not that I mind the whole serial killing thing. Everybody needs good entertainment now and again, and the population can always use a good culling; it’s just that I wish he would leave people’s brains alone. The whole thing was just so unsettling.

According to Flint, the victim, 55-year-old Jewish immigrant Yeardly Yankoff, had been in and out of psychiatric hospitals his whole life. What Flint really wanted to say is that the man was crazy as a loon.

What he also wanted to say was that the man’s brain was not only removed from his skull, but that it was then placed on a cutting board and carved up like so much blood sausage.

What he also wanted to say was that it seemed like the Cranium Killer was looking for something. Interesting.

I was even more concerned with the fact that Fanny didn’t come over last night, and started wondering where she might be. I decided to go over and see if she was home. After all this time, I still hadn’t been inside her apartment.

When I got there I was surprised to find the door unlocked. I just let myself in. Why not? We were in a relationship now. I think. What I found would be interesting, to say the least.

To begin with, the place was a pig sty. I never imagined Fanny so untidy, but I shouldn’t have been surprised either. Nurses are nurses twenty-four hours a day, and there isn’t much time left for good housekeeping.

Her apartment wasn’t gross; there wasn’t the smell of rotten food everywhere. It was mainly just clothes, piles and piles of laundry that looked like they were once on their way to the washing machine, but for some reason never made it. There were so many clothes, in fact, I imagined it must be every stich Fanny owned. Truth was, I had never seen her in anything but scrubs.

There was a small entryway table with stacks and stacks of mail piled high on it, like Fanny had been avoiding collecting it then gathered it all at once. I knew from personal experience what that was all about: Salty.

And then there were about a dozen hat boxes. Hat boxes? But I’d never seen Fanny wearing a hat. And now that you mention it, there weren’t even any hats anywhere: just the boxes. Strange.

That was pretty much it. Oh, except for one other thing: news clippings. There were news clippings everywhere, and when I say everywhere I mean EVERYWHERE.

They were all laid out not-so nice and neat on her kitchen and dining room tables. They were pinned up all over the walls, taped on all the mirrors, hanging on the fridge. While there seemed to be no real pattern to it, the closer I looked, the more I realized they were all about just one thing: the Cranium Killer.

There were maps and those pins and strings like the FBI uses. Was Fanny really an undercover agent for the federal government? A spook? A G-Broad? Didn’t seem like it, but it would explain a lot. Still, I had my doubts. Not my Fanny. Not my delicate flower.

Maybe she was just a true-crime junkie. A weekend warrior. If so, what was she doing at the Hacienda Palms. Had she gotten some kind of hot tip? Was there more here than meets the eye? It was peculiar, to say the least.

Maybe she was Betty Bersinger. Maybe she was minding her own business when one day she gets hit right over the head. Figuratively. And now she’s in waist high.

Or maybe, just maybe, there’s something much more sinister going on here. From all the pushpins and red and green twine everywhere, there was no denying the Cranium Killer was on his way. It was only a matter of time.

Or maybe he was already here. Or maybe it wasn’t a He at all.

Reading about the victims, including the two in Compton and Gardena, I began to see the similarities. They were all men. They were all middle to upper middle in age. They were all lifelong bachelors. They all had some sort of mental health issues. And one more thing: they were all shut-ins. That’s right. Whatever it was the Cranium Killer wanted with these men, it was inside their homes. But why shut-ins? Then I started to think…

But I’m no shut-in. I thought I made that abundantly clear from the start. Still, it had me worried. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this skull-cracking, brain snatcher and I were on an unavoidable collision course.

In fact, I got so wrapped up in the articles, I forgot I had essentially broken into someone else’s apartment and could get caught at any moment. You know, just like in the movies.

There was handwriting at the end of the last article.

Understatement of the year.

I might not have been a shut-in, but I was a man, middle age, and a bachelor. Why take any chances?

Then, just like in the movies, I heard a car driving up. Fanny was home. How did I know? Break job, remember?

I got the hell out of there, making sure I hadn’t moved anything or left anything out of place. Then I wiped the door handle for fingerprints. Fingerprints? I’d seen way too many detective movies.

The elevator door opened just as I closed the door to my apartment. I heard Fanny’s squeaking shoes walking by and, just as she was about to go inside her apartment, through my peephole I could see: she looked my way. She saw me. Dammit, she saw me!

Wait. She couldn’t see me. Or could she? I went and sat back down on the couch. Fifteen long minutes later she came over. Everything was fine; or so it seemed.