Death
Resides Here
Introduction by Buddy Scalera
Unedited Draft
| WARNING:
This is the unedited draft of the proposal.
The details of this narrative were not fact
checked, as they would have been in the actual
book. At the time, the book's working title
was "Stinky." |
INTRODUCTION
TO STINKY
Every
day, I sit around thinking of how to kill people.
I keep a list.
There are thousands of ways of committing murder.
Maybe more, if you’re creative. The point
is, the true work of a killer is not merely to
exterminate of life. No, it’s far more than
that. A great murder must mean something to the
killer.
When
I kill someone, it needs to bear my signature.
It’s not enough for me to put a gun to someone’s
head and pull the trigger. People expect more
than that from me. They want to witness the results
of my murder and say, “that was a great way
for someone to die.”
I
write fiction.
At
the time of this introduction, I write a monthly
comic book for Marvel Comics called “Deadpool.”
It’s the ongoing, serialized story of a demented,
but witty mercenary who takes great glee in collecting
his bounties. He’s also got a gift of gab,
which allows me to write clever and humorous dialogue
while my protagonist commits violent acts. It’s
a job.
Reality television has raised the bar on shock
value. And, as a result, I need to find creative
ways of writing scenes of murder. Usually I paw
through the newspaper for inspiration.
On
more than one occasion, I have turned to my friend
Fred Rosen for insight into the minds of madmen.
He’s an energetic type, who’s fortunate
to have carved out a successful career doing what
he loves. But, honestly, folks, what he does is
pretty creepy.
Before
I get too far, I need to come clean here. This
is my book. Mine. I started it. Sort of.
Some
time ago, Fred approached me about writing a book.
He was an established true crime writer who had
the unique opportunity to mentor a new writer.
He told me that if I was interested, and could
find a good crime, he would help me write my first
true crime novel.
I
bounced a few ideas off him before Fred discovered
a news report about Kendall Francois, the black
serial killer from Poughkeepsie, New York. He
dispatched me immediately to gather details.
Upon
my return, we pored over the mountain of twisted
information the police had compiled about Francois.
We read about the prostitutes, the stranglings,
the bathtub and the house. Even by Fred’s
standards, this was a seriously demented story.
Changes
in my personal and professional life forced me
to leave the book, and Fred took over as the true-crime
writer, a role, I admit, that did not suit my
tastes. You see, in order to write good fiction,
you need to be creative, clever and observant.
To write a non-fiction profile of Kendall Francois,
you need to have a strong stomach.
The
power behind Francois’ horrific story relies
on Fred’s ability to describe what happened.
And while reading this story, remember this: it
really happened. The people Fred writes about
are real. The victims are really dead. Francois’
house…well, it’s just as scary as it
seems. Trust me, I was there.
As
a piece of fiction, I would have trouble getting
one of my editors to buy the story of Kendall
Francois. It’s too strange for fiction. Audiences
wouldn’t believe it. What Fred writes is
real, which is what makes it disturbing.
I won’t tell you how Francois did it. Or
how he got caught. Or even the horrible discoveries
the cops made when they were digging up bodies
in the basement. I don’t want to ruin the
surprises. But when you get to the part where
he bathes the corpses of prostitutes in the family
bathtub…wait, I don’t want to give too
much away.
But
that’s why I turn to Fred when I need inspiration.
He’s seen things that most people can’t
even imagine. He’s burrowed deep into the
minds of cops and killers, and come out the other
side to tell the story. When I need to be freed
from writer’s block, I tap into the collective
experiences that Fred stores inside his brain.
It works every time.
In
the end, the book “Stinky” isn’t
about Fred, Kendall Francois, the police, the
prostitutes or even me. It’s about a very
bad man who lived in a very bad house at 99 Fulton
Street. In my notes to Fred, here’s what
I wrote about Kendall Francois’ house.
