Overwhelming violation saturated my very being. I hated the feeling, but I clung to it like a piece of flotsam in a raging flood because it was very simply all I had to keep me afloat.
Waking up in a cold sweat seemed to be the norm for me as of late. When it first started, it had only been once every few days, maybe twice at most. Now it was rare for a week to pass without it happening three or even four times. Recently I’d even had an incident where it occurred twice in one night. The lack of a decent night’s rest was taking a measurable toll, and I was definitely feeling the effects.
More often than not I spent my waking hours on autopilot, fueled by bitter coffee and an almost constant, insatiable desire for a cigarette. Considering that I’d quit smoking-well, except for an occasional cigar-somewhat over a year ago, I found the craving more than a bit unusual. Thus far, I’d managed to keep it in check with nicotine gum, but I wasn’t sure how long that would last. The need was beginning to achieve absolutely ridiculous proportions.
Of course, one could easily imagine that after surviving a run-in with a crazed serial killer, nightmares would be expected. The problem was that I’m not exactly sure you could call these events nightmares; this is not to mention the fact that they hadn’t even begun until several months after the fact. On top of that, the episodes weren’t about my brush with death at all. At least I don’t think they were.
To tell the truth, I couldn’t really be certain what they were about.
The bald facts were that I would wake up in a cold sweat with my heart pounding in a furious attempt to escape the confines of my chest. My mind would be a jumble of nothingness, and I would be incapable of pinning down a single thought. That, in and of itself, brought on sudden panic. I had always been very cognizant of my dreams and night terrors, remembering them in vivid detail. It went way beyond troubling for me to suddenly be devoid of that clarity.
And then there was this inexplicable feeling of violation.
All of it together was bad enough, but there was something even worse happening-I wasn’t always waking up in my bed. Sometimes I would find myself sprawled on the living room floor. Other times, it might be the kitchen. One time, I had even awakened lying next to my truck on the cold concrete of my garage. I can personally guarantee you that is definitely not a place you want to find yourself half-naked in the middle of winter.
I think perhaps that was the incident that frightened me most. Upon gathering my wits, I had even felt the hood of the truck to see if it was warm. It wasn’t, but it hadn’t really meant much since I had no clue how long I’d been lying there. For all I knew, the truck could have had plenty of time to cool down. Of course, as cold as it was, I wasn’t suffering from hypothermia, so my only assumption could be that it really hadn’t been for very long. The only thing that finally quelled my panic to any extent, however, was the fact that the fuel gauge hadn’t appeared to have budged. So most likely I hadn’t been driving in my sleep, but if I had, then at least I hadn’t gone far. Still, the not knowing was a threatening cloud that had been hanging over me ever since.
Other than the sensation of debasement, there was one constant in all this I was able to grasp, that being no matter where I awoke it was always with a very particular sort of pain. It was always localized, though not always in the same place. Sometimes it would be in my side, sometimes my back. Another time it had been on my shoulder. Wherever it occurred on my body though, it was always the same savage burning sensation. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, depending on your point of view, it would always fade away within a handful of minutes and there would be no visible evidence with which to identify its cause.
The fear and panic brought on by all these constants was a different story. They took quite a bit longer to subside.
So far, I’d managed to keep these incidents to myself while I tried to figure out just what they were all about. However, the increased frequency was making them much harder to keep a secret. Unfortunately, my wife was bound to find out soon, and she wouldn’t be happy about it. She knew as well as I that when these kinds of things started happening to a Witch- especially me -something beyond terrible was about to make itself known in spades.
And as usual, I was going to be right in the middle of it.
Either that or I was finally going completely insane. Given my recent history, I had to wonder if that might be the preferable option.
As neighborhood diners go, Charlie’s Eats at the corner of Seventh and Chouteau was just about as boilerplate as you could get. Housed in the renovated and whitewashed cinder block remnants of a long-closed gasoline station, Chuck’s, as it was affectionately labeled by the regular patrons, was busy 24/7. Being located well within the Saint Louis city limits and not terribly far from police headquarters, it was also a regular hangout for cops. There were two favorites, Chuck’s, and Forty, which was directly across the street from headquarters. Word among the cops I knew was that Forty was the place for a quick sandwich or greasy burger. Chuck’s was where you wanted to go for something served on a plate-and to flirt with the waitress.
Whatever the case, time of day wasn’t even a factor, as the greasy spoon never seemed to be at a lack for a uniform at the counter or occupying a booth. Whether it was one officer or several coming off duty or just taking a meal break, there was always a blue shirt nearby. The small parking lot even had a pair of spaces reserved just for city police cruisers.
I took a quick right from Seventh Avenue into the entrance of the lot and then slowly cajoled my truck between the rear end of an old station wagon and a slightly canted utility pole. As I tucked my vehicle into the first available space, the sun was just beginning to peek up over the jagged horizon that was East Saint Louis, Illinois. Now that it was filtering across the Mississippi river in a glittery band, it momentarily bathed the city in that indefinable yellow-orange glow that immediately precedes the actual dawn of the day. The eerie kind of color that occurs only in nature, and then, fleetingly-a shade of the light spectrum that will never be found in a box of crayons nor be captured in exactness by any artist, no matter how talented.
As it always did, the glow rose quickly in intensity to become a full-fledged sunrise, raising several visual octaves from the chalky orange to bright yellow-white. I gave a quick glance around the parking lot and spotted a tired-looking Chevrolet van which I knew from first hand experience was nowhere near as decrepit as it appeared. The vehicle’s owner was the reason I had made this early morning trek into the city from the outlying suburbs where I lived, and since I couldn’t see him through the windshield, it was a safe bet that he was already inside the diner.
I switched off the truck and levered the door open, tucking my keys into my pocket as I got out. A crisp breeze was blowing and the temperature was holding steady for the moment at a brisk 42 degrees Fahrenheit. According to the radio, the high for the day was expected to be somewhere around 65. Considering that it had been in the mid 20’s on Thanksgiving day with snow flurries, this was about par for the course. It was December in Saint Louis, and it was as unseasonably unpredictable as it could get.
I locked my vehicle, even though it was probably unnecessary considering that there were two police cruisers on the lot, not to mention that the person I was here to meet was a city homicide detective. Security around here definitely wasn’t much of an issue, but locking up was a habit, and a good one at that.
I yawned as I started around toward the front of the building. Even though for all intents and purposes I was a morning person, I had been dragging a bit when I climbed out of bed on this particular day. I had been up late working on a piece of software for a client of my home-based computer consulting business. I couldn’t complain, really. I got to work from home and set my own hours. No neckties, no suits, and I did fairly well pulling down a decent enough living for my wife and me. And with her being an in-demand freelance photographer, we were actually living fairly comfortably. Still, I’d be forced to pull a late night every now and then, and last night happened to be one of the thens.
I’ll admit though, in this instance it had been less by absolute need and more by choice. With what had been happening to me lately, I wasn’t in any real hurry to go to bed. Don’t get me wrong, sleep was definitely something I had a strong desire to embrace, but I preferred to wake up in the same place I started, sans the pain, panic, and profanation. These days that was a game of chance with the odds stacked in someone-or something-else’s favor.
I stifled another yawn as I rounded the corner of the building and dodged an exiting patron with a mumbled “Sorry, excuse me.” Coffee, bacon, eggs, sausage, toast, and a host of other breakfasty smells enveloped me in a warm, olfactory hug as I grabbed the handle of the glass-fronted door before it could fully close, then tugged it open, and stepped inside the small diner. My ears were filled with the murmurs of ongoing conversations between patrons, liberally punctuated with throaty chuckles, clanging utensils, and barked food orders-all of which were underscored by the sizzle and pop of items on the hot griddle.
Directly in front of me was a Formica-sheathed counter complete with vinyl-capped stools bolted to the floor before it and the busy grill behind. Around the perimeter were small booths, the cushioned seats of which were covered with the same obnoxious red vinyl as the stools. A clear Plexiglas enclosure occupied one end of the lunch counter, and its shelves were piled with donuts on their way to being stale. A squat cash register took up residence at the opposite end.
Aged but carefully lettered signs posted on the wall offered such things as “Bottomless Cups of Coffee” and “Slingers” to go-a local indulgence involving among other things, hash browns, eggs, and chili. A sheet of paper was laminated to the back of the cash register with strips of once clear, but now severely yellowed, packing tape. Judging from the fuzzy edges and lack of clarity, it was obviously a photocopy of a photocopy to the power of ten at least. But it was still readable, and posted in plain sight it boasted: These Premises Protected by Smith and Wesson.
It took only a quick survey of the scene to spot my friend in a booth at the back corner. Of course, it would have been hard to miss him, considering that he was most likely the tallest individual in the room with the possible exception of the cook manning the grill. At the moment, however, he was certainly the only full-blooded Native American present. Shrugging off my jacket, I made my way toward him, my progress impeded for a short time as I did a quick box step in the narrow aisle with a young coffeepot-wielding waitress. With the dance and a quick apology out of the way, I hooked around the end of the counter and traversed the scuffed tile floor to the corner booth.
“Heya, Kemosabe,” Detective Benjamin Storm greeted me as I slid into the seat opposite him.
“Yo, Tonto,” I returned before stifling yet another yawn.
“Long night? Ain’t you usually the early bird.”
“Yeah, usually.” I nodded then explained. “I picked up a new client, so I had quite a bit of customizing and data conversion to do for them, so I was up pretty late.”
I wasn’t about to tell him that the project was something I could have easily done during regular business hours. He had a tendency to worry about me just as much as my wife, and if I told him what had been happening lately, I would end up having both of them to deal with. Besides, something told me that it was all going to come to the surface soon enough, so I was going to make the best of what peace I had left.
“Decent cash?” he asked.
“Yeah, it’s a pretty good account,” I answered.
“Good deal.”
“Coffee, sir?” The young woman who’d done the two-step with me moments ago appeared stealthily at our table, a Pyrex globe of the black liquid in each hand. They were distinguished, as usual, only by the green or orange pour spout.
“Don’t call ‘im sir,” Ben quipped with a chuckle. “He’ll get a big head.”
“What’s wrong? Are you jealous?” she asked him before returning her attention to me. “Sir? Coffee?”
“Absolutely,” I answered, instantly turning the heavy mug in front of me upright and sliding it toward her. “Regular, please.”
She deftly filled the mug, pouring expertly from the side of the pot, then topped off Ben’s in the same fashion. “You guys ready to order, or do you want a few minutes?”
“I’m ready.” Ben looked over at me and raised a questioning eyebrow. “How ‘bout you, Row?”
“Uhmm,” I muttered as I pulled a single page menu encased in well-worn laminate from behind the napkin holder and gave it a quick once over. “How about…a number three, over-easy, wheat, and a side of biscuits with sausage gravy.”
“Ewwww, runny eggs? Don’t you know you can get sick from those,” she said as she wrinkled her nose.
“Wendy ain’t ‘zactly the most tactful person when it comes to ‘er opinions,” my friend expressed.
“Oh, shut up, Storm,” she chastised him with the same good-natured familiarity of her earlier jab, which told me he was a regular here just as I’d suspected. Then turning back to me, she offered, “How about you have scrambled instead?”
“Would that make you feel better?” I asked with a grin.
“Yes. Yes it would.”
“Okay, scrambled is fine.”
“You want cheese on those?”
“Sure.”
“Cheddar, American, or Monterey Jack?”
“Hmmmm, do I want cheddar?” I asked her with a bit of hesitation.
“Yes, you do. Good choice.” She smiled. “Now, what about you, Storm? I guess you want your usual?”
“Yeah.” He nodded and flashed a quick grin her way.
“You’re in a rut, Storm,” she told him with a grin of her own as she turned and headed back up the short aisle.
“Hey, Wendy,” Ben called after her, a good-natured tone underscoring his words. “Tell Chuck I said don’t be so friggin’ stingy with the onions this time.”
He had purposely spoken loud enough to be heard by virtually anyone in the diner but most especially the fry-cook. His answer came as a grumble and a mock threatening wave of a spatula from the large man behind the grill. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, Storm. Yer always complainin’ about somethin’.”
The exchange was met with a few lighthearted chuckles from some of the other regulars in the diner, along with some additional friendly jibes. Chuck finally laughed then threw up his hands in an imitation of surrender, announcing in the process, “Hey, if youse don’t like it, go eat somewheres else.”
The restaurant settled quickly back into its morning routine, leaving our booth in a quiet wake.
“Okay,” I finally said after taking a healthy swig of coffee and giving Ben a solemn look. “So what’s up? It’s been my experience that when you offer to buy me a meal, something is going on, and it’s usually not good.”
“Hey,” he feigned insult. “Did’ya ever think I might just wanna buy ya’ breakfast and visit with ya’?”
I nodded. “It crossed my mind, but then reality got in the way.”
“Jeez, white-man.”
“So, am I wrong?” I asked. “Is this just social? If so, I apologize.”
He sat mute, took a sip of his coffee, and then stared out the slightly fogged window next to us for a moment before turning back to me. “Well, no, but it ain’t necessarily a bad thing. Maybe.”
“Okay.” I shrugged. “So what is it, maybe?”
He sent his large hand up to the back of his neck and gave it a quick massage as a mildly troubled expression panned across his features. After a moment he reached down into the seat next to him and brought his hand back up with what looked like an oversized index card in it.
“Porter, Eldon Andrew,” my friend told me succinctly, tossing the name out as a raw fact for me to digest.
“Sounds like a beer,” I replied.
“Just look at the picture,” he returned as he handed over the black and white mug shot.
I took the card and stared at the muddy grey tones of the photo as I leaned back in my seat, feeling a slight wince of pain in my shoulder in the process. The twinge might very well have been psychological, but the surgery to repair the joint and its associated musculature was still less than a year old. If I could believe the doctor, whom I had no reason to doubt, an occasional pain wouldn’t necessarily be all that unusual for a while yet.
I suppose that when you consider all the facts, a minor pain should actually be welcome. I mean, first, a madman bent on ushering me across into the world of death rams an ice pick into my left shoulder. Nearly up to the handle… Twice… Planting it firmly into bone on the second plunge I might add. And, if that weren’t enough, I ended up plummeting off the side of a bridge, only to have the very same shoulder forcibly dislocated by the sudden stop at the end of the fall. Of course, I suppose I should be thankful that the rope held, or the sudden stop would have been farther down and more along the line of fatal. And finally, I proceeded to hang from the damaged joint while the crazed serial murderer attempted to finish the job he’d started. I was lucky to even be alive, much less to still have the arm intact and functioning.
Still, looking at the photo that was officially labeled Texas Department of Corrections brought that night back to the forefront of everything with painful clarity. A finger of acidic fear tickled the pit of my stomach, threatening to invoke nausea. I ignored it and continued to stare at the picture.
The countenance depicted in the photograph was younger than I recalled and lacking the greasy shag of white hair that had framed it earlier this year. In fact, in the photo his head was shaved. His cheeks were fuller, and though the picture was black and white, one could tell from the grey scale tones that his complexion held a healthy color. The gaunt mask I had faced ten months before had been almost devoid of such pigment, appearing pasty and ghostly white in pallor-the color of death. Even so, his eyes hadn’t changed at all. Dark and sunken, almost hidden in their deeply shadowed sockets, they burned with a furious malevolence. Just as they had done when I stared into them months ago.
When last I had seen this face, it had been firmly attached to the ice pick wielding lunatic.
The self-proclaimed Witch hunter…
The modern day, self-appointed inquisitor with a singular purpose-to eradicate from the world those he perceived as heretics. Being a Witch, and a male one at that, I matched up easily with his set of criteria for those belonging on his hit list.
He had managed to kill six others before getting to me, two of them not even actual Pagans. Why he had not yet killed again, I was at a loss to explain.
If you asked the authorities why-even the cop sitting across from me now that I call my best friend-you would be told that it was because he was dead.
You would be told that I had shot him in self-defense, perhaps mortally, though no one could be sure. And even if the wound was not fatal, it didn’t matter because he had then fallen to his certain death from the Old Chain of Rocks Bridge into the ice-laden Mississippi river.
That was the official story. But I knew better.
Yes, I will admit that I had most definitely shot him. However, I fired the round into the arm he was using to try to choke me to death. And while there was plenty of solid evidence that I had not missed when I pulled the trigger, something told me that the wound wasn’t nearly so grievous as others believed. That same something also told me that he did not in fact fall into the river that night, but instead, escaped.
How? I couldn’t begin to tell you, but it was a feeling far in the back of my head. One of those sensations that begins as a slight itch that can’t be quelled by any means and then quickly grows into a fearful foreboding. The kind of mysterious intuition you just don’t ignore-especially if you are a Witch.
I think I might have breathed an inner sigh of relief while I stared at the picture. I had fully expected Ben to produce a case file or crime scene photo from beneath the table that would somehow tie into my current unexplained somnambulistic excursions. On second thought, the sigh might not have been only one of relief but of disappointment as well. I really did need to figure out what was going on, and the sooner the better.
“I’ve been carryin’ that damn thing around for a week,” my friend told me, gesturing toward the photo. “I wasn’t sure if I should even show it to ya’ or not.”
I could sense the concern in his voice, and the careful way in which he was watching me was physically palpable. I looked up from the mug shot and noticed that his jaw was held with a grim set. This expression wasn’t a hard one for him to achieve, what with his deeply chiseled features and dusky skin that visually announced his full-blooded Native American heritage. Even sitting, he was better than a full head taller than me. Standing, he measured six-foot-six and was built like an entire defensive line. The nine-millimeter tucked beneath his arm in a shoulder rig and the gold shield clipped to his belt made him appear just that much more formidable.
His hand went up to smooth back a shock of his coal black hair and lingered once again at his neck, a mannerism that told anyone who knew him that he had something on his mind.
“You worry too much,” I said as I dropped my eyes back to the photo.
“Yeah, you keep sayin’ that, but I know how ya’ are,” he returned.
He was correct. He did know how I was. Until recently, he knew most of the details-though certainly not all-of the nightmares I had experienced, both during and after the investigations surrounding two separate serial killers. Both of which had terrorized Saint Louis in the span of less than one year. He had personally witnessed me involuntarily channeling the victims-and their horrific ends. He had even saved my life in both instances when I had recklessly taken on the killers myself.
He was fully aware of the emotional toll the investigations, and especially the supernatural elements of them, had taken on me. I had been affected on many levels. Because of this and his deep loyalty as a friend, he worried more about my mental health than I did. The fact that I had only become involved in the cases at his request played more than a small part in it as well.
“I’m not going to wig out on you, Ben,” I returned in a fully serious tone. “I’m okay.”
“Yeah, but all that Twilight Zone shit you go through…” he let his voice trail off.
“Really, Ben. I’m fine,” I offered and then changed back to the subject at hand. “How did you find out who he is? I thought the evidence was inconclusive, and there were no identifiable fingerprints in his van. Besides, it’s been almost a year now.”
“Dumb fucking luck,” he answered. “A coupl’a weeks ago, County got a call from a distraught woman babblin’ about somethin’ she found in her basement. Turns out she was the owner of the house where this wingnut was doin’ his thing.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, no shit. Right outta the blue. The house was a piece of rental property she’d inherited. She lives outta state, and it was hung up in probate for a while, so she didn’t even know he was livin’ there. She thought it was vacant. Anyhow, the legal BS finally got cleared up, and then she got around ta’ comin’ inta town ta’ get it fixed up for sale. Well, when she starts cleanin’ up, guess what she finds in the basement? The fuckin’ holy torture chamber. The shrine, the candles, all of it. Everything just like you described from that vision thing ya’ had. Even found a copy of that book ya’ kept talkin’ about.”
“The Malleus Maleficarum?” I offered, referencing the fifteenth century Witch hunting manual the killer had adopted as his manifesto.
“Yeah, that’s the one.” He nodded. “So anyway, the copper that took the call gets a hinky feelin’ and calls Deckert over at County Homicide. He goes and has a look, then calls me before he even leaves the place.”
Carl Deckert was a mutual friend who had also been assigned to the Major Case Squad during the investigation. He was intimately familiar with the case, and I’m sure that when he’d seen the basement of that house it had set off more than one alarm.
“So, why didn’t you call me?”
“For the same goddamn reason I’ve been packin’ that friggin’ mug shot around for a week,” he explained. “I wasn’t so sure it was somethin’ you needed ta’ see.”
“You’re being overprotective, Ben.”
“So sue me. Hell, I’m still not so sure I should be showin’ it to ya’ now.” He sighed and then added, “Why do ya’ think I’m doin’ it here instead of droppin’ by your place?”
“Because you don’t want Felicity to know about it,” I returned, knowing for certain that he was alluding to my wife.
“‘Zactly.” He nodded. “After everything that happened, I promised ‘er I’d keep some distance between you and the cop shit. She finds out and she’ll pull ‘er damn face off.”
“She’s being overprotective too.”
“He looks real pleasant,” a feminine voice came from behind me, interrupting us before Ben could object further. I looked up to see that the waitress had reappeared at our table and was looking at the mug shot over my shoulder. “Number three, scrambled with cheddar,” she continued un-fazed and slid a plate in front of me. “…And a side of biscuits with sausage gravy.”
“Thanks.” I smiled at her while laying the card to the side, face down and out of sight. I suspect it was just a reflex on my part, as she didn’t seem bothered by the photo at all. With the diner being a cop hangout, she’d probably seen and heard more than her share of things like this-probably even worse.
“Kitchen sink omelet with chili and extra onions.” She stressed the word extra as she planted a steaming plate before Ben with a wide grin. “Anything else I can get you two? More coffee?”
“We’re good. Thanks, Wendy,” Ben answered.
As was my habit, I took a moment to twist the cap off of the pepper shaker and liberally blacken my scrambled eggs while Ben watched, and then I returned the condiment to its original state before offering it to him.
“Jeezus, Row. That stuff’ll kill ya’,” he told me as he accepted the glass shaker but set it aside without using it.
“And what’s on your plate won’t?” I countered. “So anyway,” I continued, pointing toward the card with my fork. “That’s him all right. It’s an old picture, but it’s him.”
“Yeah, when we compared it to the sketch that was made from your description, there was pretty much no doubt. We found enough good prints in the house ta’ get a match through AFIS, and in no time we had ‘is file from the TDC. Seems ‘e was a guest of the Lone Star state for a few years. Once we had the file, everything fell inta place. Blood type, all that jazz.”
“What was he in prison for?”
“Aggravated assault and manslaughter,” he stated in a matter-of-fact tone.
“So have you notified NCIC or put out an APB or whatever acronym it is that you law enforcement types like to do?”
“A BOLO? What for?” He shrugged.
“So you can be on the look out for the guy, maybe?” I stated incredulously. “I’m assuming that’s what BOLO means?”
“Yeah, that’s what it means…But Jeez, Row, you ain’t gonna start that again, are ya’? The asshole is dead.”
“Did you ever find a body?” I demanded.
“No. So what?” he asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer. “He’s suckin’ mud on the bottom of the river.”
“The body would have surfaced by now, Ben.”
“Not necessarily, Row.” He shook his head. “What goes down don’t always come up. Trust me. Plus, the river flooded pretty good this spring. Maybe I am wrong and ‘e ain’t suckin’ mud at all. Maybe ‘e ended up bein’ fish food in the gulf or somethin’. At any rate, he’s gone. Dead. Eighty-sixed.”
“I’m telling you he isn’t, Ben.”
“All right, tell me. How do ya know?”
“It’s just a feeling, but I know I’m right.”
“Like I’ve told ya’ before, white man, this is just one feelin’ I can’t get with you on. I think you’ve just got some left over heebee jeebees or somethin’.”
“No, Ben,” I spat back tersely. “It’s more than that.”
“Okay,” he took on his own hard edge, “then where is he? Why hasn’t he killed again? Hell, why hasn’t he come after you again?”
I had to admit that I didn’t have the answers to these questions. It was somewhat of an ongoing theme between Ben and me. Something would tickle the back of my brain, and I would have some manner of instinctual feeling or precognitive episode. I would tell my friend, stressing the urgency of the vision, and he would start asking questions. Then like an idiot, I would sit there and say, “I don’t know.”
I had to give him credit though; he had come a long way. The first time I had helped him with an investigation, he had been a complete and total skeptic. This last time around, he had been extremely open-minded and willing to chase down the avenues I pointed out with only my word as a catalyst.
The real truth was that I had even been a bit of a skeptic myself at first. Even though Magick is a very real part of my religious path, until recently, I’d never experienced it to anywhere near the extent that I had during my time helping with the murder investigations. That’s the funny thing about faith. Believing in something is one thing. Having it sneak up and bat you over the head is something else entirely.
Suffice it to say, I was only now getting over the resulting headache.
But as accepting as he had become, on this particular point of contention between us Ben was not about to budge. He was firmly convinced that the now identified Eldon Andrew Porter was dead, never to return.
This was one instance where I wished with every fiber of my being that he was correct and that I was completely and unequivocally wrong. But that itch in the back of my head just wouldn’t go away.
“Yeah, I thought so,” my friend finally replied to my silence then let out a sigh. “Look, Row, I’m not tryin’ to be an ass here. And this is exactly what I was afraid was gonna happen. I know your intuition is pretty good. Hell, I’ve come to rely on all that hocus-pocus stuff at times, but I really think you’re wrong on this one. ID’n this whack-job was just a piece’a blind luck, and it’s nothin’ but clerical shit now. It’s just a name an’ face ta’ stick in the case file. The closed case file.”
I didn’t argue. Belaboring the point was going to cause nothing more than strife between us. Besides, I really and truly did want him to be correct this time instead of me.
“Yeah.” I nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay. So if we’re settled on that, here’s somethin’ else we found out about ‘im that ya’ might find interesting,” Ben offered, as if giving me a consolation prize for losing the disagreement.
“What’s that?”
“During his trial it seems there was a bit of a ruckus over his mental state,” he explained. “Coupl’a expert witnesses rattlin’ a bunch of psycho babble about ‘im being highly suggestible and incapable of distinguishin’ right from wrong. But as it was, he had an overworked and under funded PD for an attorney. Just couldn’t get the jury to go for the insanity defense.”
“So you think he was insane?”
“Who knows?” He shrugged. “I think any asshole that goes around killin’ people is insane, but then I also don’t think they should get off scot-free because of it.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you, but I’m not sure I follow.”
“That’s ‘cause you haven’t heard the really hinky part yet.”
“And that is?”
“When they put ‘im away he ended up in a special kind of cell block. Somethin’ called a God Pod.”
“God Pod?”
“Yeah, it’s a cell block that’s run by a prison ministry. Rehabilitation by gettin’ religion.”
“That’s not entirely a bad thing, Ben,” I said. “Faith can be an important part of a person’s life. It can provide a moral compass to those who need direction.”
“Yeah, but this is some pretty strict shit, Row,” he returned then scooped up a forkful of the dangerous looking omelet. “They pretty much brow-beat the inmates with the holy scripture.”
“And you think that if he was insane to begin with…” I let my voice fade, leaving the end of the sentence unspoken. It wasn’t that I didn’t know what to say. It was the fact that the thought of the penal system having created this monster suddenly overtook me, and my earlier brush with nausea was returning.
Ben picked up where I left off, expressing his own thoughts aloud. “What I think is that if ya’ got a mentally unstable fruitcake who’s that open ta’ suggestion, and ya’ subject ‘im to Bible study and prayer meetins’ from sunup ta’ sundown, seven days a week, somethin’s bound to snap. Maybe it snaps good. Maybe it snaps bad. I think ya’ can guess which direction I think this wingnut went.”
“Don’t tell me,” I shook my head in disbelief, “They preach Evangelical, Old Testament.”
“From what I understand, yeah. Why? That mean somethin’?”
“It would explain a slight discrepancy that bothered me.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, he embraced the Malleus Maleficarum along with a very old, very outdated, and no longer accepted Catholic ideal-that being the literal eradication of heretics. He even went so far as to dress as a priest,” I explained. “But, in my encounter with him, he seemed to come at things from a far more fire and brimstone approach, as opposed to the calmer, ritualistic trappings of Catholicism. The words he spoke were more than a sectarian ceremony for him. He was, for all intents and purposes, preaching.”
“Like I said, that’s one screwed up wingnut,” Ben offered. “But I guess it’d be a hell of a sermon.”
“Exactly.” I nodded.
“Guess it’s a good thing he’s history then,” he stated before shoveling a portion of the formidable breakfast into his mouth.
The twinge that had lanced through my shoulder earlier now returned with a treble hook of barbs trailing in its wake. The pain deep in the joint burrowed its way up the side of my neck and joined with that unforgiving itch in the back of my brain.
Now I had two problems to worry about. But for now they were mine-and mine alone.
I didn’t say a word.
December 18
Saint Louis, Missouri