The Highwayman

Chapter 6: The Witchdoctor

Chapter 6: The Witchdoctor

Damian Truth was not a common man among his peers. He had a special talent that those in his circle of close friends only knew about, and the men and women he worked with. The thirty-two-year-old was a prize of sorts at the FBI based out of Pittsburgh. Some of his coworkers called his labor uncanny and mysterious. Others believed he was a prodigy of sorts, or a witchdoctor, particularly in solving hardcore crimes and hunting down serial killers.

His past entailed the projection of numerous bloody and horrifying crime scenes, all of which he had sketched in black pencil on white paper, prior to ever arriving at the places of death. His talent was rare and respected, and no one among his fellow comrades could accomplish anything in the slightest like he did. Damian’s ability was something he rarely had control of, if ever. Sometimes he could push the black and white sketches out of his mind in a string of compact thoughts and allow them to build on the construction paper in front of him. Other times he simply closed his eyes and worked slowly, building graphic details of a crime scene that was currently happening or occurred within the last twenty-four hours, which always assisted the FBI in solving the bloodiest and worst crimes.

He had worked seven cases in all dealing with serial killers across the United States; flesh-ripping sketches that he had wanted to erase from his mind, but couldn’t. Although he had enjoyed traveling throughout the world, he didn’t work outside the country. Damian’s gift took down drug lords, terrorists, rapists, and sick men who abducted young children for s****l pleasure. He was paid well for his sketching and was surprised with his own talent at times. Never did he come across as being arrogant because of his gift, although some of the men and women that he worked with believed that he had every right to because of his special ability.

He first started sketching at eight; this is when his gift appeared out of the blue. His brother, Andrew, who was now deceased because of an accident at seventeen, was roller-skating on the sidewalk at the front of his parents’ Tudor. Damian was five miles away at his pediatrician’s with his father and suffering from a summertime cold. While waiting to see Dr. Almond, he found a black crayon and white paper. He sat quietly with his legs crossed and worked in a diligent manner. His right hand moved over the white piece of construction paper, swirled in many directions, and colored in numerous shapes.

His father Ray asked, “What are you drawing, kiddo?” while thumbing through a Sports Illustrated magazine with a swimsuit model splashed over its front cover. If Ray had looked down at his son’s drawing he would have seen a small boy laying on a sidewalk with his left leg bent in an awkward manner. Had Ray paid the slightest attention to his son’s piece of “art” he would have viewed his Tudor on Market Street, the house number, and his wife’s Honda parked too close to the fire hydrant. If he was at all interested in what Damian was creating, he would have noticed the small boy crying in his son’s sketch and a bloody pool near Andrew’s left kneecap.

From that day forward, Ray Truth studied every sketch his son had produced, since what Damian had drawn had occurred five miles away from the doctor’s office: Andrew fell while roller-skating, sliced her kneecap open, and broke his left leg. And Damian knew that his father thought of him as a mystery, even today, a strange phenomenon of sorts without explanation. Neither son or father would truly understand Damian’s gift, but both believed in it, and never doubted.