Chapter 40 Origins

Chapter 40 Origins
Richard POV

The hospital fluorescent lights were too bright, making the blood on my hands look artificial, like stage makeup. I tried to breathe and something sharp stabbed my chest—the punctured lung the doctors had mentioned before sedating me. Except the sedation wasn't working. My mind was still lucid, still processing, still remembering.

Still confessing.

"Mr. Kellerman, you need to stay calm." The nurse—young, too young to understand what she was recording—adjusted the monitor attached to my chest. "We're doing everything we can."

"Turn it on," I said. My voice came out wet, bubbling. "The recording. Turn it on."

"Sir, you should rest—"

"Detective Bruno requested documentation of any statements. NYPD protocol. Turn on the goddamn recording."

She hesitated, then reached for the bedside camera they'd positioned at Bruno's insistence. The red light blinked on. Recording. Documenting. Just like David had taught me.

"This is Richard Kellerman," I said to the camera. "Former NYPD Detective, badge number 4782. Current date is October 29th, 2025. Time is—" I checked the wall clock. "1847 hours. And I'm making this statement voluntarily, of sound mind, fully understanding that this is being recorded for legal proceedings."

The nurse stood frozen, suddenly understanding she was witnessing a deathbed confession.

"I need to tell you about the day I found my brother standing over our stepmother's body. About the choices I made. About the thirty years that followed." I coughed, tasted copper. "About how one decision at nineteen years old made me an accomplice to serial murder."

The memory came sharp and clear despite the morphine. November 15th, 1997. I'd driven home from college for the weekend, arriving late because of traffic. Dad's truck was in the driveway but Catherine's sedan was gone—she must have been running errands.

The house was dark except for the basement light.

I found them in Dad's workshop. David sitting on the floor, very still, very quiet. Catherine lying beside him, surgical tubing still wrapped around her neck. Her eyes open but not seeing. Already gone.

"David?" My voice had come out wrong. Too high. Too young. "What did you do?"

He looked up at me. Twelve years old. Baby brother I'd protected his whole life. His expression was blank. Not shocked. Not guilty. Just... curious.

"She was going to take away my research," he said. "She found the animal room. Said I needed a psychiatrist. I couldn't let her do that."

The animal room. I'd seen it. Dad's basement "project space" where David conducted what he called "biological studies." I'd thought it was weird but harmless. Kids were curious about death, right? I'd dissected frogs in biology class. This wasn't that different.

Except it was different. Catherine had known it was different. And now she was dead because she'd tried to intervene.

"She's dead, David. You killed her." I knelt beside Catherine, checking for a pulse I already knew wasn't there. "We need to call 911. We need to—"

"We need to call Dad."

I stared at my brother. At his clinical composure. At the complete absence of remorse or panic.

"David, you just murdered our stepmother. We're calling the police."

"No." He stood, careful not to step in the blood. "We're calling Dad. He'll know what to do."

I should have called 911 right then. Should have taken my twelve-year-old brother into custody, called for backup, let the system handle it. But David was my brother. My baby brother who I'd watched over since he was born. Who I'd protected from bullies and bad grades and social awkwardness.

So I called Dad instead of 911.

And that's when everything changed.

"Mr. Kellerman?" The nurse's voice pulled me back to the present. "Your blood pressure is dropping. I need to get the doctor—"

"No. Let me finish." I looked at the camera. At Bruno who would eventually watch this. At prosecutors who would use it. At the jury who would judge thirty years of conspiracy. "Dad arrived within twenty minutes. Looked at Catherine's body. Looked at David. Looked at me. And you know what he said?"

The memory was so clear it hurt worse than my ribs.

"He said, 'This was bound to happen eventually. I'd hoped we'd have more time.' Like he'd known. Like he'd been expecting David to escalate from animals to humans. Like Catherine's murder was predictable outcome rather than shocking tragedy."

Dad had knelt beside Catherine's body, checking what I'd already checked. No pulse. No breath. Gone.

"How long?" he asked David.

"Forty-three minutes," David answered. Clinical. Precise. "I documented the response patterns. Humans struggle differently than—"

"Shut up." Dad's voice was hard. "Richard, you're patrol now, right? Just finished your probationary period?"

I nodded, not understanding where he was going.

"Good. You're going to be the investigating officer on Catherine's accidental death. She slipped on wet stones by the pond, hit her head, drowned while unconscious. Simple tragedy. No suspicion of foul play." Dad stood, already planning. "We move her body tonight. Stage the scene. You file the report tomorrow. Case closed within forty-eight hours."

"Dad, we can't—he killed her. David murdered Catherine."

"David made a mistake. A serious mistake. But he's twelve years old. Do you want your brother in juvenile detention? Psychiatric institution? Labeled a killer for the rest of his life?" Dad's eyes were hard. "Or do we handle this as a family? Protect David. Give him the help he needs in a controlled environment where we can manage his... tendencies."

"Help? He strangled her because she wanted to get him actual psychiatric care—"

"And we'll get him care. Private care. Discrete care. Not the kind that creates public records and ruins lives." Dad put his hand on my shoulder. "I need you to choose, Richard. Family or system. Brother or justice. Because once we call the police, there's no taking it back. David's life is over at twelve years old."

I looked at David. At my baby brother who I'd protected his whole life. Who looked at me with that blank expression, waiting to see what I'd decide.

I should have chosen justice. Should have called it in, let the system handle it, lived with being the brother who turned in a killer.

But I chose family.

God help me, I chose family.

"What do you need me to do?" I asked Dad.

His smile was terrible. Relieved and sad and resigned all at once. "We're going to move her body to the pond. Make it look like she slipped. Tomorrow, you file a report as the investigating officer. Accidental death. No suspicion. Case closed."

"And David?"

"I'll handle David. This bunker your grandfather built—we're going to renovate it. Give David a proper space for his... research. Controlled environment. Proper supervision. No more accidents." Dad looked at his twelve-year-old son. "And you, David. You understand that this can never happen again. Not in this house. Not in this family."

"But my research—"

"Will continue. In the bunker. With proper safety protocols. With supervision and structure." Dad's voice was firm. "I'm not stopping you, David. I'm managing you. There's a difference."

"Managing him?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Dad, he just killed Catherine. He needs psychiatric evaluation, not encouragement—"

"He needs family who understands what he is and loves him anyway. He needs a brother who'll protect him when the world tries to destroy him for being different." Dad pulled out his wallet, counted out five hundred dollars in cash. "This is for your trouble. For filing the report. For keeping family business private."

I stared at the money. "You're paying me to cover up murder."

"I'm compensating you for the difficult position I'm putting you in. You'll need it—conscience weighs heavy, and alcohol helps." He pressed the bills into my hand. "Five hundred now. A thousand every month David stays out of jail. Consider it your salary for being his keeper."

That night, the three of us carried Catherine's body to the pond. Staged the scene. Created the narrative. Made murder look like accident.

The next morning, I filed my first false police report.

And for thirty years after that, I took Dad's money and played my role. David's keeper. His protector. His accomplice.

"I want it on record," I said to the hospital camera, my voice fading. "That I knew. From the very beginning, I knew what David was. Knew he'd killed Catherine. Knew he'd kill again. And I chose to enable it instead of stop it."

The monitor beside my bed was beeping erratically. The nurse was calling for doctors.

"Twelve women died because I chose family over justice. Because I took my father's money and convinced myself I was protecting my brother instead of enabling a predator." I coughed, tasted more blood. "I'm complicit in every single murder. Every one of them should have been prevented when I made my first false report about Catherine's death."

"Mr. Kellerman, please, you need to conserve your strength—"

"The estate." The words came out urgent now, racing against the darkness closing in. "He took her to the estate. Morgana Gaius. David took her there. Check the basement. That's where he keeps them."

"Keeps what?" The nurse was leaning in, trying to understand.

"The bodies. The ones we never reported. The ones from before he learned to dispose of them properly." I grabbed her arm, squeezed with what little strength remained. "Catherine's still there. In the walls. Dad never moved her from the bunker, just sealed her in during the renovation. David keeps her as his first subject. His original research."

The monitor's beeping went flat. Long, sustained tone.

Doctors rushed in. Shouting. Equipment. Hands pressing on my chest.

But I was already gone, sliding into darkness, carrying thirty years of guilt with me.

My last thought wasn't of David. Wasn't of Catherine. Wasn't of the twelve women I'd helped him kill.

It was of Morgana Gaius. Of the one who'd survived. Who'd seen David clearly and fought back.

And I hoped—even as consciousness faded—that she'd survive this too.

That someone would watch my confession and reach her in time.

That my last act wouldn't be enabling one more murder.

But then there was nothing except darkness and the weight of thirty years of choosing family over everything else.

The nurse stood frozen, watching the doctors work on Richard Kellerman's body. But she could still see the camera's red light blinking.

Still recording his confession.

Still documenting the truth about a family that had enabled serial murder for three decades.

She looked at the monitor showing Richard's statement, at the timestamp marking his death: 18:52.

Five minutes of confession.

Thirty years of guilt.

And one final warning: Check the basement. That's where he keeps them.

She grabbed her phone, dialed the number Detective Bruno had left with hospital security.

"Detective? This is County Medical Center. Richard Kellerman just died. But before he did—he confessed. To everything. And he said David Kellerman took Morgana Gaius to the family estate." Her voice shook. "He said to check the basement. That David keeps bodies there. Including his mother."

The line was silent for a moment. Then Bruno's voice, tight and urgent: "I'm ten minutes from that estate. Forward me Richard's confession immediately. And get that recording to the FBI—it's evidence we'll need for prosecution."

"Detective? He said the mother's body is in the walls. That she never left the bunker." The nurse looked at the recording, at Richard's last moments captured in digital memory. "What kind of family seals their murdered mother in a wall?"

"The kind that creates serial killers," Bruno said quietly. "Send me everything. And pray we reach Morgana before David decides that keeping her alive is less important than keeping his research pure."

The call ended.

The nurse uploaded Richard Kellerman's deathbed confession to the secure server Bruno had designated.

And in that confession—the truth about November 15th, 1997. About a twelve-year-old boy who killed his stepmother and a nineteen-year-old brother who chose family over justice.

About thirty years of enablement that ended in a hospital room with a monitor beeping flatline and a camera capturing everything.

Richard Kellerman died at 18:52, leaving behind a confession that would reshape the prosecution's case.

But his last words—check the basement, that's where he keeps them—those words raced ahead of him, carried through phone lines and radio frequencies and tactical communications.

Racing toward a bunker in Connecticut where David Kellerman was showing Morgana Gaius exactly what thirty years of enabled predation had created.

Where twenty-six years of documentation waited.

Where Catherine Kellerman's body was sealed in a wall.

Where Richard's final act of conscience might arrive just in time.

Or too late.

The nurse watched doctors officially call time of death, knowing she'd witnessed something that would be replayed in courtrooms for years.

Richard Kellerman's confession.

His attempt at redemption.

His last chance to stop enabling the monster he'd spent thirty years protecting.

She hoped it was enough.