amplifiers, and various other items such as cords and strings. A glass-fronted and humidity-controlled space occupied half of the back wall and housed many rare and expensive instruments. The other half of the back area was a soundproof space designated solely for music lessons.
The piece by Shostakovich still in his mind, Thomas White removed an Ibanez Tosin Abasi Signature eight-string guitar from the wall and plugged it into a Mesa Boogie Triple Rectifier amp. Cranking up the volume, he played a version of the Shostakovich composition that he had arranged for guitar, incorporating sweep-picking and finger-tapping techniques. His fingers flew over the frets as he lost himself in the music.
After what felt like only a few moments, he put the guitar down and turned to see his new student watching him with awe. Thomas checked his watch. He had lost track of time, and they were already five minutes behind. He hated to be off schedule.
The kid’s eyes were wide with wonder, and a goofy grin creased his visage. Long black hair hung over his pimpled face, and he wore a black Metallica T-shirt displaying the cover of Master of Puppets . A guitar gig bag hung over one shoulder. “That was amazing,” the kid said. “You can shred.”
Thomas basked in the praise. He bowed and said in his deep hypnotic voice, “Thank you. You must be Joel. I’m Thomas White. I understand that you want to learn the guitar?”
“I guess, man. I have a buddy that plays drums, and he’s been wanting me to jam with him. I got this Yamaha for Christmas two years ago, but I’ve never really learned anything on it. Just a few things off YouTube. Should I get it out?”
Thomas White gently rested the Ibanez guitar on a stand and replied, “No, we won’t actually be playing anything this first lesson. I assume you have an iPod or music on your phone? Most people your age do.”
“Sure, I have an iPhone.”
“Good. I want you to go through your phone and find your five favorite songs. Any genre. I want to hear the songs that speak to your heart.”
“Okay. But we’re not going to play anything?”
“Not this time. You see, it’s my belief that anyone can learn notes and chords and where to put their fingers. But not everyone can truly play. Music isn’t like a sport. It’s not a competition. It’s not about how good you are. It’s about whether or not you can release the music in your heart into the world. It’s about passion. It’s about emotion. Some of the best songs ever written only contain a few chords, but the composers poured their souls into them. I can teach you the mechanics, but that passion can’t be learned. You can fake it to a point, but just like anything else in life, the truth will eventually shine through. That’s the difference between most musicians and the true artists. So today I just want to discover your passions. It will help guide our experience together.”
The kid smiled a lopsided grin and nodded. “Awesome. Give me a minute.”
“Take your time.”
Thomas White—a man known as Francis Ackerman Sr. in a former life—watched as the boy tapped around on his iPhone. He admired the strong jaw and handsome features hidden behind the dark and greasy mop of hair. He smelled the boy’s cologne in the air. The faint scent of citrus and mint. Then he imagined Joel’s features twisted in fear and torment. Joel had the perfect face to be turned into one of his death masks.
Unfortunately, he never killed anyone he knew or even anyone with whom he held a tenuous association. Don’t shit where you eat , that was his rule. It was a simple yet effective guideline. Just like all his other rules about how to be simultaneously a prolific serial killer and a free man.
Chapter Eleven
Detective Kaleb Duran helped control the perimeter as he waited for the men from the Governor’s office to arrive. He looked toward the victim’s home—a greenish-gray ranch-style covered in vertical barn-style siding with
The piece by Shostakovich still in his mind, Thomas White removed an Ibanez Tosin Abasi Signature eight-string guitar from the wall and plugged it into a Mesa Boogie Triple Rectifier amp. Cranking up the volume, he played a version of the Shostakovich composition that he had arranged for guitar, incorporating sweep-picking and finger-tapping techniques. His fingers flew over the frets as he lost himself in the music.
After what felt like only a few moments, he put the guitar down and turned to see his new student watching him with awe. Thomas checked his watch. He had lost track of time, and they were already five minutes behind. He hated to be off schedule.
The kid’s eyes were wide with wonder, and a goofy grin creased his visage. Long black hair hung over his pimpled face, and he wore a black Metallica T-shirt displaying the cover of Master of Puppets . A guitar gig bag hung over one shoulder. “That was amazing,” the kid said. “You can shred.”
Thomas basked in the praise. He bowed and said in his deep hypnotic voice, “Thank you. You must be Joel. I’m Thomas White. I understand that you want to learn the guitar?”
“I guess, man. I have a buddy that plays drums, and he’s been wanting me to jam with him. I got this Yamaha for Christmas two years ago, but I’ve never really learned anything on it. Just a few things off YouTube. Should I get it out?”
Thomas White gently rested the Ibanez guitar on a stand and replied, “No, we won’t actually be playing anything this first lesson. I assume you have an iPod or music on your phone? Most people your age do.”
“Sure, I have an iPhone.”
“Good. I want you to go through your phone and find your five favorite songs. Any genre. I want to hear the songs that speak to your heart.”
“Okay. But we’re not going to play anything?”
“Not this time. You see, it’s my belief that anyone can learn notes and chords and where to put their fingers. But not everyone can truly play. Music isn’t like a sport. It’s not a competition. It’s not about how good you are. It’s about whether or not you can release the music in your heart into the world. It’s about passion. It’s about emotion. Some of the best songs ever written only contain a few chords, but the composers poured their souls into them. I can teach you the mechanics, but that passion can’t be learned. You can fake it to a point, but just like anything else in life, the truth will eventually shine through. That’s the difference between most musicians and the true artists. So today I just want to discover your passions. It will help guide our experience together.”
The kid smiled a lopsided grin and nodded. “Awesome. Give me a minute.”
“Take your time.”
Thomas White—a man known as Francis Ackerman Sr. in a former life—watched as the boy tapped around on his iPhone. He admired the strong jaw and handsome features hidden behind the dark and greasy mop of hair. He smelled the boy’s cologne in the air. The faint scent of citrus and mint. Then he imagined Joel’s features twisted in fear and torment. Joel had the perfect face to be turned into one of his death masks.
Unfortunately, he never killed anyone he knew or even anyone with whom he held a tenuous association. Don’t shit where you eat , that was his rule. It was a simple yet effective guideline. Just like all his other rules about how to be simultaneously a prolific serial killer and a free man.
Chapter Eleven
Detective Kaleb Duran helped control the perimeter as he waited for the men from the Governor’s office to arrive. He looked toward the victim’s home—a greenish-gray ranch-style covered in vertical barn-style siding with
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