Story Title: Through Their Eyes

Summary: James has been the president and curator of the Museum of Death, but the position has led to certain proclivities of an unforeseen variety. With his way of life threatened, he uses his born nature to take care of the problem. Warning: Due to the perverse nature of the story, it is not for all audiences.

Pairing: N/A

Rating: M

Word count: 3941

Disclaimer: All things Twilight belong solely to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement is intended.

Notice: This story deals with a mix of fact and fiction, and all objects and murderers mentions are real just as the museum is real, but the info provided in this story is not necessarily all available in the museum.

He'd been the curator and president of the Museum of Death for five years. James remembered when he'd been nominated into the one year position for the first time. At the time he'd thought it would make a nice mark on his papers when he started working towards getting his PhD as an Art Historian, but as that first year had progressed, he'd found a genuine interest in it.

James had impressed upon the partners his desire to continue being the president of the museum. Since he actually wanted the job, the partners had nominated and voted him back into the position every year.

James was willing to admit that his desire to remain in his position had nothing to do with altruism. It also didn't have to do with politics though.

He just loved his job.

He checked his watch, noticing it was five minutes until eleven ante meridiem and headed to the front door of the museum to unlock the door for the group who were supposed to be arriving then. Traditionally the Museum of Death was only open Thursday through Saturday, but it had a by appointment schedule for the rest of the week.

Today being Tuesday, the guests visiting were here by appointment, and as it was a small group of history students from the local college, he was here by himself. There was no point in having a large staff for such a small appointment. Besides, he didn't mind giving the tour.

In fact, he quite enjoyed it.

It was fun to see the horror in their eyes when he started to explain some of the details about the different items and their uses.

It was even more fun when one of them passed out, though it usually didn't happen with college students, he had to admit. It was far easier to scare younger students, but they didn't honestly get as many kids that were in primary school – usually about the only time it happened was if kids were researching something specific, like the Golden State Killer, H. H. Holmes, or Charles Manson. Hell, there were even students who came to view the letter they had from the still undiscovered Zodiac Killer.

James sincerely hoped that the Zodiac Killer would never be revealed. It would be nice to see one truly perfect serial killer, though James knew several issues with the man's killing method – not the least of which was his need to brag in the letters that he'd continually sent.

Bragging was how people got caught, James should know.

"Welcome to the Museum of Death, my name is James, and I'm the president of this fine establishment, but for today, I will also be your tour guide," he stated genially once he'd opened the door and the sixteen people had filed in.

The professor, a tall woman of almost six-feet with short, graying hair, by the name of Alice Whitlock – Mrs. Alice Whitlock, actually, though her husband had been dead for decades – had toured the museum with her students more than once in the last five years.

If James were honest, he'd always admired her spunk. For an older woman, she probably had more youth in her than most of her students did. He supposed he appreciated her love for life, or at least he would if he truly appreciated anything of that nature. It was a refreshing breath of air from the norm.

The fifteen students in her group this time varied from robust to gracile. There was a pretty even split male to female, with eight of the students being women and seven being men – including one twink who immediately caught his eye for no reason other than he'd never deliberately singled out someone who was gay before, but James already knew who he was working on tonight.

After all, Carlisle Cullen was one thorn in his side that simply had to disappear. Permanently.

James closed his eyes for a moment before resuming his gentle smile for the college students and their professor. "If you'll follow me, we'll start in the wing for modern murders."

He turned on his heel and headed down the right hall and directly into the none too modest area reserved for items exclusively from well-known murderers who were almost all of the first eighteen years of the twenty-first century.

"In here we have acquired numerous items that have belonged to recent murderers, though none of these items were used in the murders as there are propriety laws with people who have been convicted. The United States has laws in place allowing them to hold on to most evidence usually for at least forty years or longer and then often the most interesting objects are melted down after that to prevent re-circulation and use in future crimes. Though we do have actual items from older murders, as laws have changed and they used to be more lenient. In here though, we have a game worn 49ers number 32 Jersey, and we have the Bronco from the famous police chase after he committed theft and fled the scene. Now I am aware that the murders he may or may not have committed were in the mid-90s, but sadly the partners who support the museum do not see my wisdom, and so his stuff remains in this wing."

A fact that still bugged the perfectionist in James, though how anyone could call a man getting justice for being called an abuser when the bitch had been sleeping around James still couldn't figure out. As far as James was concerned, the man hadn't done anything wrong. And it was a good thing to avoid getting him started with the hack job proof of the so-called robbery. James had seen the recording more times that he'd ever openly admit and the only thing he was a hundred percent certain of was that it was impossible to tell who the person truly was in that video – the grainy, poorly lit image could have been any tall African, Spanish, or Jamaican man.

"We also have a complete and detailed article of the Urban Legend, The Slender Man. You can read it here –" he pointed toward the large marble tome that had been encased in a frame "– or take one of the pamphlets with you about him. And there's one of Aaron Hernandez's number 81 jerseys from his time as a Patriot. With the empty spot next to his jersey being for his prison outfit he was wearing when he committed suicide, which we are hoping to acquire when it goes on auction later this year as well, but whether that will happen is yet to be seen. And finally –"

"Wait," one of the students spoke, making him pause

He looked toward the young female. A girl with long brown hair and a simple heart-shaped face. "Yes?" he asked, barely masking his displeasure at being interrupted. He wanted to get through the boring stuff.

And, as far as he was concerned, modern murderers lacked the creativity of those which happened even sixty or so years prior.

"My name's Bella, and I'm a Mythology Major – I know, you don't need to know that, I babble when I'm nervous." She paused, pulling in a breath. "Anyways, the Slender Man, who is that? I'm not familiar with any such legend."

He smiled briefly, a genuine one, which was a rarity for him.

"The Slender Man is not what you're probably thinking of when you speak of Urban Legend, he's not like the Loch Ness Monster, Bigfoot, or the Jersey Devil. Instead, he was the creation of some photoshop expert online in 2009. The idea being that he was supposed to be per some sort of deity, a specter, or perhaps even a vampire. In all honesty, the urban legend varies greatly depending on who you ask. But his viral notoriety became such that it led to two students from a Junior High in Wisconsin to stabbing a girl nineteen times in the year of 2014. For the record, that girl survived and made a full recovery. In truth, I don't believe there has been an actual killing with regard to the Urban Legend, but there have been a multitude of attempts, most of which occurred in 2014 or early 2015."

The young woman, Bella, was writing in a notepad for the entire time he was talking.

"Does that answer your question, Miss Bella?"

She looked up at him briefly before looking away, blushing furiously. "Yes, sir."

He recognized a shy sort when he saw one so he chose to ignore the blush, turning back towards the wall with the police's uniform encased in glass. "And finally, the uniform and badge of former police officer, Drew Peterson, accused and convicted on the murder of his third wife. I'll give everyone a few minutes to look over everything and then, unless you have any questions, we'll continue on to the next area and proceed with the tour."

He stepped over to the far edge of the room as he let the students look at everything, overhearing as two of the closest talked about Simpson's car – okay James knew it hadn't actually ever been the man's car, but that was a minor detail. It was how the car had gotten so famous, after all.

"Do you think they'd care if I reached over and touched it?" a guy, who had to have an exceedingly low IQ, asked.

"There's a reason it's behind a velvet rope, Mike," the blond bombshell next to him, hissed.

"But Rosie," Mike whined.

James blinked, he'd have never guessed they were together, but he recognized that type of whine – the kind that was reserved for intimate relationships only.

Of course, what she said next confirmed his suspicion. "Sometimes I wonder what I even see in you." She stuck her nose in the air and turned to walk away, but paused to grip his ear and yank him away from the exhibit just as he started to reach out toward the car.

Even though James was grateful that the woman, Rosie – likely some pet name for Rose, Rosanne, Rosita, or something – had prevented Mike from putting his grubby fingers on the million dollar investment, part of James couldn't help but wince in sympathy.

"Any questions about this part of the museum?" he asked after giving them a good five minutes to look over the different items and to read the texts about them.

When no one spoke up, he headed out of the room they were in – what he usually referred to as the East Wing, though he supposed the museum actually wasn't big enough to have wings – and into the main area of the museum.

"This is where the vast majority of our inventory is. Though we have a small selection of stuff in our Historical Murders room, over there –" he pointed toward the doorway straight across the room from where he now was "– that room is strictly for pre-twentieth century murders, including several items from H.H. Holmes' murder house, an article of clothing from one of the hoo –" he broke off in order to correct himself "– prostitutes killed by Jack the Ripper, and the gun used to execute Micajah Harpe, one of the Harpe brothers who were river pirates of the 1700s. And you will certainly be allowed to explore all of that at your will in a little bit."

He raised his lip slightly before looking toward the archway in the back of the room. "And through that archway are props from movies which had popular "murder scenes" in them." Because for some reason the partners who paid his salary and helped to keep the door of this place open, felt the need to acknowledge stupid things like Michael Myers Captain Kirk Mask, Freddy Krueger's Bladed Glove, and Jason Voorhees' Machete and deserved the same notoriety as the items from real murders.

Frankly, if James had the money to do away with all of the bureaucratic partners and still run the place, he would. They were all thorns in his side, to one varying degree or another.

He forced himself to refocus on the tour. "But in here we have tons of things from murders and tragedies that have really occurred in the twentieth century, going backwards from the most recent ones to the oldest. To start with, we have one of the garrote wires which was supposedly used by Gary Ridgeway, The Green River Killer, in one of his killings." James barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes, he'd looked over the wire when they'd obtained it, and his guess was it was brand new – old stock, but still brand new. Besides, if it had been used the cops never would have let the museum get their hands on it and James knew it. "We also have several items owned by his victims and by him, some of which was donated by the families."

James stepped forward and stopped at one of the other exhibits set up in the main room. There were more than twenty different exhibits set up in the main room, but the tour only went over about a fourth of them. "Here we have possibly the most controversial exhibit on display, though that honor might actually belong to one we'll get to later..." He shook his head. "Here we have a handful of cups, clothing, and jewelry from the Peoples Temple in Jamestown. It's obviously controversial because of the religious connotations associated with it, but it's also controversial because some would say it wasn't murder but mass suicide, though how they can say that when 304 of them were children, I have no clue.

"Then –" he walked away from that exhibit and headed towards the next "– we have an exact replica of the electric chair Ted Bundy was executed in, minus the electricity, as well as the rod he beat one of his earliest victims with and a bag of books that he supposedly used to lure college coeds, among other items."

He paused in front of one of his personal favorite pieces. "The search for the Zodiac Killer of the sixties and seventies is still ongoing, and as such, there is almost nothing available to display, but this was one of the letters mailed to the Bay Area press. The police checked it and determined it was a fake, which is how we've ended up in possession of it, but we've had three different specialists look at it that disagree with the police."

James stopped himself from going into the suit they won which allowed them to keep the letter after the police realized they might have made an error in determining the legitimacy of the letter.

He turned to face the students and the professor, who rolled her eyes upon his turn. Unlike the students, she'd seen his spiel more than once.

"Of course, perhaps the most interesting murders and murderers that we have an exhibit for is Charles Manson, interesting because he wasn't a killer. In fact, more than one person has argued of his innocence. After all, some might say it's not his fault that others decided to act out his fantasies. And yet, he was convicted and sentenced to death in the early 70s. Which though the sentence was changed to life only a year a later, it is still one of the most assumptive charges our country has ever allowed to pass. Among the items, we have numerous possessions of Sharon Tate's and props from several of her film, as well as objects which belonged to Charles, Tex, Susan, and Patricia. It is quite easily our largest display.

"Two other displays we have of note are for Rattlesnake James, the last man executed by hanging in the state of California, after killing his fifth wife for her life insurance – and likely killing his nephew and third wife for their life insurance policies as well. We have the noose and actual gallows which were used in his execution. And we have a number of items which belonged to Doctor Mengele who was not a traditional murderer so much as a scientist who had no regard for human life.

"You can look around the displays now, and if you have any questions, I'll be right here." Next to the letter which he'd never give anyone a chance of stealing. Even though far more came to look at Charles Manson's exhibit than the letter, James knew what the most valuable possession of the museum was.

He took his place next to it as he let the students walk around and explore the museum. He casually watched as the shy girl, Bella, walked over to the exhibit for The Truck Stop Killer, Robert Rhoades. James tilted his head to the side as she carefully examined everything and took notes in her notepad. Finally, his curiosity had him walk over to where she was at.

She looked up when he got close. "Why would anyone do this?"

"I suppose it depends on the criminal, sometimes it's about power, nepotism, while others it's more confusing than that, at least to anyone who is sane. After all, there are people who argue that no one who is capable of committing murder is actually sane. Though I suppose, through this man's eyes, the people were asking for it – people who should know better, hitchhiking rather than being smart and using buses or vehicles of their own. By all accounts, the two women he was charged with killing were beautiful, one a sweet young thing and the other someone who aged with a grace not seen by many. I am sure that, in his eyes, they obviously wanted it."

Bella's eyes shifted away from him while he was speaking. After he was done, she coughed slightly. "No, you misunderstand my question, why would anyone do this, make a museum to encapsulate and celebrate such crimes?"

She was hardly the first to ask such a question, so he forced him not to take offense in the way he wanted to. "Well, I suppose to fully answer that question you'd have to ask why Hollywood makes slasher films, ask why video games insist on killing things off, and even ask why books – works of both fiction and non-fiction – have mentioned and discussed murder as far back as we can date? The morbidity of it all is something which has interested people for thousands of years, if not more. And of course, there's the philosophical side which states that if history is not preserved, it is bound to repeat itself. This is a museum, not an art gallery, the point of our displays are to remind people of what has happened. If we were an art gallery, it would probably be about the gothic appeal, instead."

"I suppose," she muttered before walking away from him.

He quickly returned to his post by the letter as he watched the student look through each of the displays.

…

He got home, changing out of his suit and into a much more comfortable tee and black sweats before quickly heading down to his basement where his guest was currently waiting for him.

"Have you enjoyed your stay today?" James asked at the bottom of the steps as he flipped the switch to turn the lights on.

The lights flickered a couple of times before fully lighting the room, and lighting where Carlisle was chained to his floor. The surgeon and museum partner was ruggedly handsome in a way James knew he'd never be, what with his naturally mussed blonde hair and firm jawline. He was still in the green polo and suit pants that he'd been in when James had grabbed him last night, but unlike when he'd grabbed him, Carlisle face, neck, and shirt were now all covered in blood.

Of course, cutting out the man's tongue had been bound to have such an effect. Sadly, James couldn't have had the man screaming while he was at work for the day.

Carlisle let out a strange sounding grunt.

"Yes, I know, if you could talk, you'd tell me I wouldn't get away with this and that I'm making a mistake. The last thirty-two people said that too. And I admit, you are probably my riskiest kill as you actually have known me for years, but you were making a fuss about getting someone else in as president of the museum, and I simply couldn't allow that. It gives me so many new ideas everyday and continually teaches me about all the things I must avoid. But I assure you, after I've dissolved you in Hydrochloric Acid, no one will ever find you, you'll have simply disappeared. And since I was working today, and yesterday was at a charity auction for the entire evening, no one will ever assume that I had anything to do with it."

James stepped over to the box he'd brought down a few days prior and opened it, lifting out the set of scalpels.

"Rumor has it that if someone is careful enough, they can actually cut off all of someone's skin and the person live through it. I'm truly interested in testing out this theory."

"Ugh. UGH!" the man grunted while James' back was too him.

"You're right, that's another reason I'm never going to be caught," James said as if he actually understood him. "I never kill any two people the same way, never dispose of two people the same way, never select two people in the same classification – honestly you should be quite honored for me choosing you as my only surgeon that I'll ever kill. I've killed an even mix of males and females, young and old, and a fairly even mix of races too, though I will admit there have been slightly more Caucasians than any other. Of course, to keep my non-pattern from becoming a pattern, I must allow true randomness... so that actually helps.

"I also have never kept any trophies and never talk about it later. In fact, traditionally, I don't even brag to my victims, but you're an exception. After all, even if you could get away, you can't say to a thing to anyone, anymore."

He turned to where Carlisle was strangling against the chains.

James narrowed his eyes slightly. He didn't want to, as half the fun was watching the life drain out of their eyes. After all, in that moment, he knew through their eyes he must seem to be some sort of avenging god – his favorite death still had to be the widening of the thirteen-year-old's eyes when he'd plunged a knife into the Bree Tanner's chest while raping her – but he supposed, for the sake of his experiment, he would have to knock the surgeon out.

He stepped over to him and grabbed the man's hair, yanking his head forward before slamming it against the wall. James eyes him to make sure he'd lost consciousness before kneeling down and pull a pocket knife out of his pants to cut off Carlisle's clothes.

Once he was done, he stared in disgust at the short flaccid penis of the man a moment before he picked up one of the scalpels and started to cut into Carlisle's left arm.