I had intended to kill the doctor before the presentation, but, upon reading an introduction to the lecture, found that I had to wait. Had to learn more. For an early America, what Stark and Furgale were was shocking, unheard of. The public couldn’t get enough, and the new media of television was eager to provide, even if it had to make it up as they went along.
Stark and Furgale had been lovers, before they had been killers. A secret and young love, but no less real for all that. Stark, seventeen at the time, had fallen madly in love with Furgale, then only fifteen, at a local dance. His life had been shallow and meaningless before that. Odd jobs. Poor school performance leading to an expulsion. Almost nonexistent family life. Something changed, when he set eyes on Furgale. It was as though she was that one thing, that one shining thing, that changed the meaning of his entire horrid existence. He would have her, she would be his, and he would kill anyone that got in the way of that.
They married secretly. Not in a legal ceremony, but one of their own making. Where he swore to love only her, as long as he drew breath. The little ring, on her left hand, and the promise to buy her a proper one. To meet secretly, to love in private, is never an easy thing, however. Moreso when you are young, and the young lovers were found out. Furgale beaten and battered, by a father who, if the news stories had it right, had also sexually abused her. Committing the final act of taking the little ring from her, nearly breaking her fingers to do it.
Stark was no stranger to harsh treatment, but seeing his Angela cut and bruised, sobbing, after she had run from her families home, ripped at him. That her ring had been taken, the one thing in all the world that he knew said they were married, that she belonged to him, even when all the law in the world would say otherwise, filled him with a black rage.
Being who and what I am, I understand all too well that the details of a crime scene can take on a life of their own. People, desperate to be part of something larger than themselves, will embellish a thing out of all recognition. Which is why a good assassin doesn’t leave one. Doesn’t leave a body to be found at all.
John Stark was no Ava Black, no trained assassin. He was an enraged seventeen year old. To strip the tale to it’s barest minimum of embellishments, John Stark drove to Furgale’s house. Kicked in the front door, armed with a shotgun, and a knife. The order of the killings can only be guessed at, and the media of the day had a field day with it. But, to strip it apart a little, I’d say he shot her father first. Followed by the mother, when she called Angela, her own daughter, a whore. The older brother he killed with a bowie knife. Angela had been with him when he did it. Had come into the house soon after him and alerted him that her brother was coming up behind him when he was reloading the shotgun. Stark located the little ring, flung into a dish on the coffee table, and, with Angela still covered in the arterial spray from her brother’s body, put the ring back on her finger, and again swore his love for her.
It was only the first of many killings for the couple, but nothing came close to the raw emotional power of the first. They were painted as evil, as monsters, as aberrations, but, at that first moment, they were lovers, and he killed for her because he loved her enough.
I am an assassin, deeply in love with a convicted mass murderer. How could I hear such a story and not be moved by it? So touched by the story was I that I nearly missed it. A woman, watching me from one row over, several chairs down. Her intent face would look at me, gaze to papers in her lap, and then look at me again. I was being watched. And so, being who and what I am, I watched back. In such a way that she couldn’t tell I was watching her. I am a professional, after all.