by Spencer Kope
“I don’t know,” Jimmy says skeptically. “Computers and TVs, sure, but people are complicated. I don’t see how anyone could fix them once they’re broken, not really. You’d have to be a real genius to do that.” His voice rises with these last words, as if the mere thought is ludicrous.
It has the desired effect.
“There’s a kind of rot that runs through people, you know, that corrupts them and takes away what they are and what they could have been. It’s usually just their minds that are broken,” Murphy insists. “Well, sometimes their bodies, too, but the real person, the soul or the entity, isn’t in the mind or the body, it’s in the face.”
“In the face? How so?”
Murphy shifts on his raised bed, pressing forward, as if enjoying the discussion and eager to share his wisdom. He takes a drink from his ginger ale and then sets it back down. “When you look at me,” he says, “do you look at my hands, my arm, my left foot?” He pauses, but only for a moment. “No. You look at my face, don’t you? You’re doing it right now.”
He points an index finger at Jimmy, then at his own face. “We greet each other, acknowledge each other, recognize each other by our faces because we know instinctively that the mind, the soul, the entire being is centered in the face.”
“What about the eyes?” Jimmy says. “Some people say the soul is in the eyes.”
Murphy waves this away as an afterthought. “The eyes are in the face. It’s all the same.” Still determined to prove his point, he asks, “If you saw a picture of my hand, would you recognize me?”
“No,” Jimmy concedes.
“Exactly. Because this”—he flops his right hand around in the air like a limp fish—“isn’t me.” He points to his face with an index finger, hand cocked like a gun. “This is me. My soul is in my face: my mind, my being, my personality, it’s all there.” He seems almost euphoric as the words pour from him. “Everything we are, have been, or hope to be is in the face. There is nothing else; never has been.”
“I see,” Jimmy says soothingly, admiringly. “So, what does the fix do?”
When Murphy starts to protest, Jimmy quickly adds, “I don’t want to know how it works. OK knows better than both of us, and if he wants it kept secret for now, we need to just trust him, right? It’s just … I never heard what the fix does to make someone like Eight better.”
Murphy grimaces and starts to shake his head.
“Please?”
Murphy’s body sags, and for a moment he looks like a scarecrow again, his head hanging low. When he glances up, his words come in a whisper: “This is just between us, right?”
“Just between us,” Jimmy whispers.
Murphy pauses, staring at the cooling soup on his tray. “The ancients believed that the heart was the seat of consciousness; did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t,” Jimmy lies. “How interesting.”
“It’s only more recently that people started thinking the brain was the seat of consciousness, the place where the soul resides, but, as I said, I know better. It came to me one day when I was putting a new hard drive in an old computer. That’s when I had my revelation—about the face. That’s when I first had the idea about the fix.”
Jimmy puts on an intentionally perplexed look, and says, “But why the face?” As the words roll off his tongue I’m suddenly struck not by his verbal communication, but by the irony of all his nonverbal communication: the lifted brow, the puzzled eyes, the skewed mouth, the pinched forehead—all of it projected by his face, as if making Murphy’s point.
“It’s mostly the eyes, as you said,” Murphy whispers, “but also the nose, the tongue, the ears, the skin. All the senses are represented: sight, smell, taste, hearing, touch. Without them we may as well be a hard drive connected to nothing. Everything we are and everything we perceive,” he continues, his eyes growing wild, “is driven by our senses, and they all converge in the face. That’s the key.” He slaps the mattress. “That’s everything.”
Jimmy forces himself to smile slowly, as if a great revelation were overtaking him. “That’s why he calls you Faceman, isn’t it?”
Murphy smiles—and my blood runs cold.
“So that’s the key to fixing them,” Jimmy whispers urgently, leaning in close to Murphy. “It’s all in the face and the senses, so … what? You do something to make their face better?”
Murphy shakes his head. “Once they’re broken, they’re broken; you can’t fix the old face, you have to—” He suddenly catches himself. “No, no, no,” he says in rising alarm. “It’s not safe yet. The timing’s not right. OK will be upset. He said we can’t talk about it except to each other.” And then he seems to remember something else OK said. Lowering his eyes, he says flatly, “I need a lawyer.”
Just like that, the interview is over.
CHAPTER EIGHT
With Murphy Cotton invoking his right to counsel, Jimmy, Nate, Jason, and I raid the vending machines in the dining area and then make our way to the hospital lobby. As I emerge from the hall, the first thing I notice is the water wall dominating the north side of the room, opposite the main entrance. The trickling, gurgling water brings with it a sense of serenity, and I can almost imagine myself sitting down next to it and forgetting this long, hellish day.
A busy information island occupies a large square in the center of the lobby, so we drift to a cluster of empty chairs against the sidewall—well away from inquisitive ears—and begin to put a plan together.
“So, how do we figure out if this Onion King is real or imagined?” Jason asks.
“Two suspects?” Nate says in disbelief. “That elevates things from criminal to four-alarm creepy. It’s not exactly the kind of problem we see out here on the peninsula.”
Jason lets out a long sigh, something obviously weighing on him. Before he can put it to words, his phone gives a sharp chirp, startling him. He scans the newly arrived text and shoots off a response. “Sheriff’s on her way down.”
“She’s here?” I ask.
“Yeah, she heard that Charice regained consciousness and wanted to take a run at her, see if she could tell us anything. The boss is a thousand miles away from sexist, but she knows that women are more likely to talk to other women, especially in a case like this.”
“Pretty hands-on for a sheriff,” I say.
“You have no idea,” Nate mutters. The words are meant to sound disgruntled, but there’s a certain pride running through them that can’t be disguised, and when I look at him he just grins and shrugs.
* * *
Angela Eccles is an attractive woman by any measure.
With long strawberry-blond hair kept neatly in a low bun, penetrating green eyes, and a swimmer’s physique, she hardly looks her forty-seven years.
Jimmy would remind me that forty-seven barely qualifies as middle-aged, but I think that has less to do with Angie’s appearance and more to do with the fact that he’s in his early thirties and starting to feel the inevitability of time.
With twenty-three years in law enforcement, Angie has a reputation honed on competence, fairness, and the ability to scrap with both crooks and members of the county council … which can sometimes seem like one and the same. It’s this experience and punch that got her elected to her first term as sheriff of Clallam County just four years ago.
Her campaign promised a no-nonsense approach to crime fighting, an expansion of mental health services at the county jail, and a new commitment to intelligence-driven policing. There were other promises, of course, promises she did her best to keep, even if she didn’t always succeed. Still, her job performance was more than adequate, convincing the good citizens of Clallam County to reelect her overwhelmingly just last month.
The first four years were tough on the new sheriff.
Perhaps her second term will be better.
* * *
Angie emerges from the main hall and strides forcefully across the lobby, barely slowing before plopping down in a chair next to Jas
on and stealing a Dorito from his half-eaten bag.
“What’s the story, boss?” Jason asks.
Angie finishes chewing, swallows, and says, “Well, her condition has certainly improved since this morning; I barely recognized her as the same woman. There’s even talk of releasing her sometime tomorrow, but she doesn’t seem all that eager to go. In fact, I think she’s scared to death.”
“Of Murphy?”
“No,” Angie replies in an ominous tone. “Get this, she says she never saw Murphy until this morning. It was this other guy, the Onion King, who kidnapped her. He grabbed her as she was walking up the front steps of her house in Tumwater and held her for probably two weeks. We’re not exactly clear on the time frame because the missing person report wasn’t filed until later.”
“So he’s real?” Jason says, looking a bit dismayed.
Angie just nods … and takes another Dorito.
“When Murphy came along and found her tied to a tree in the forest,” the sheriff continues, “she just assumed he was a hunter or hiker. After he cut her loose, they walked from the forest side by side, like nothing was wrong. By the time they reached Murphy’s car, Charice had figured out that the guy wasn’t all there. He kept calling her Eight and telling her how special she was. Then things turned ugly, and you pretty much know the rest.”
“Car chase, girl in trunk, pursuit through the forest, tear gas, hypothermia,” I summarize, using all five fingers to count them off.
That draws a round of chuckles.
“Even at that,” Angie says, “Charice hardly gives Murphy a second thought. It’s the Onion King who scares her. You should see the look on her face when she talks about him.”
Angie shakes her head. “It all sounds pretty depraved, to hear her tell it. The Onion King insisted she call him husband during her captivity. Her recollection is a bit fuzzy, but she said there was a Fifty Shades of Grey aspect to the whole thing—her words, not mine. He kept her for almost two weeks and only raped her the one time.”
“When was that?” Jimmy asks.
“Last night, after which he put her in the car, drove an hour or so, and left her tied to that tree.” She looks at me, then at Jimmy. “After raping her, he slipped a single red rose into her hand. Can you believe that?”
I want to say, Yes, we can, but decide against it. Angie has enough to digest right now; she doesn’t need to imagine or contemplate the long list of horrors that Jimmy and I have experienced in almost six years together.
As she sits staring at the half-eaten Dorito in her hand, I can tell there’s more. I can see it in her face, some disturbing aspect beyond rape and roses, beyond Angie’s will to even confront.
“Just before Murphy knocked her out and stuffed her into the trunk,” she says at last, her voice uncharacteristically subdued, “he told Charice that … that the other seven were waiting for her, that they’d all be just like sisters.”
It takes me a moment to process this, but then I just stare at her, stunned.
A murmur sifts through our small gathering, but not of words. It’s the soft rustle that occurs when feet and hands are set into motion, when the weight of disbelief bears down and dislodges bodies from their comfortable positions, forcing them to adopt a new stance, as if a change of posture will help one grasp the horror of what’s just been laid out before them.
“Steps and I have run into our share of ritualist killers, psychos, and sadists during our years with the Special Tracking Unit,” Jimmy says. “If this information is true, then experience tells me this will likely end one of two ways: either we rescue seven or bury seven.” He grows quiet and glances around, taking in each face. “Which of these it will be,” he continues, “has probably already been decided.”
This brings an unsettled silence, and it falls to me to ask the inevitable question: “So, where are the other seven victims?”
CHAPTER NINE
As must happen, the unpleasant conversation eventually returns to Murphy Cotton, the mental train wreck who began all this drama and who will surely be the key to its unwinding.
“How’d the interview go?” Angie asks.
“Dude’s a psychopath,” Nate replies immediately.
Jimmy purses his lips and tilts his head slightly to the left.
“You don’t agree?” Angie says, interpreting the expression correctly.
Jimmy hesitates a moment before answering. “I’m not qualified to diagnose him,” he says by way of caveat, “but I think Murphy’s the real deal.”
“A psychopath!” Nate repeats.
“No,” Jimmy replies. “That’s a common misconception. Psychopaths know the difference between right and wrong, they just choose to ignore it. They don’t empathize with others like you or I would, so the harm they inflict doesn’t matter to them.”
“And psychopath doesn’t automatically mean killer,” I add.
Jimmy directs his index finger at me as if to emphasize my point. “That was made clear by a recent study where they determined that as many as one in five business CEOs are actually psychopaths.” He raises an eyebrow and adds, “We’ve all had that boss, right?”
Jason chuckles. “You have no idea.”
When Angie gives him a look, he waves her off, saying, “Different job; different time. You’re only a psychopath when you have to deal with the county council.”
Nate nods his agreement a little too vigorously and Angie concedes the point.
“As I said, I’m nowhere near qualified to diagnose him, but I’d say Murphy suffers from a rare form of psychosis known as delusional disorder.”
“How rare?” Angie asks.
“It accounts for between one and two percent of patients admitted to mental facilities. Like people with other forms of psychosis, those suffering from delusional disorder are unable to distinguish between what’s real and what’s imagined. The difference is they have an unshakable belief in something that simply isn’t true, and no amount of argument or reason will dissuade them. Often it’s something that could theoretically be true but isn’t. For example, they may believe that someone is poisoning them, or conspiring to get their job, or even that some celebrity is in love with them.
“In Murphy’s case, he seems to be suffering from a variant called grandiose delusional disorder, distinguished by the subject’s overinflated sense of importance or knowledge. His belief that he’s made some great discovery—this fix he keeps talking about—is what convinced me. There’s absolutely no doubt in his mind that the fix works, and there’s nothing that you or I could say to convince him otherwise.”
“What if the fix involves hurting them?” I ask.
“Even then.”
Angie shifts in her seat, a grave expression clouding her face. “And this delusional disorder is the type of mental illness that would cause him to kidnap and rape?”
“That was the Onion King,” Jimmy reminds her. “As far as we know, Murphy’s not aware that they were kidnapped—despite finding Charice tied to a tree. To him, they’re just broken. He doesn’t even seem to know their names. No, as hard as it is to say this, he may be as much a victim in this as the women.”
“See, I have a big problem with that,” Nate blurts. “Guys like Murphy run around creating all kinds of havoc, only to claim some mental incapacity when it comes time to stand tall before the judge. I don’t see how someone can be sane one moment and some kind of psychopath the next. No offense, but it just doesn’t wash.”
“I agree,” Jimmy says. “The idea of temporary insanity is a real problem; sanity isn’t something that just comes and goes randomly. On top of that, you have psychologists and defense attorneys concocting a long list of designer defenses to get their clients off: the Twinkie defense, steroid defense, mob mentality, and, most recently, affluenza, to name a few. In almost every case the suspect was fully aware of what he or she was doing, knew it was wrong, and acted willfully and with intent.”
“But if Murphy doesn’t know the difference between
right and wrong,” Angie argues, “why did he run?”
“To protect the secret,” Jimmy replies. “The Onion King told him no one could know about the fix, at least not yet. He probably told him that if anyone caught him he was to run, even if it was the police.”
“He told you this?”
“Not in so many words, but yes.”
Nate’s still skeptical. “He’s got to know it was wrong. No one runs that far with a banged-up rib cage and a sprained ankle unless they’re scared—really scared.”
Jimmy pushes forward in his chair and spreads his hands wide in front of him, palms up. “Imagine for a moment that you have an internal road map,” he says. “Let’s call it a morality map, for lack of a better name. And let’s imagine that, like traditional maps, it has destinations and routes, with perhaps a thousand different ways to get to where you want to go. Unlike traditional maps, you’re not looking for the shortest route, but the correct route—the moral route.
“Fortunately, our morality map—yours and mine—has a bright yellow line that shows us the way, and as long as we don’t stray from that optimized path, all is well. Now”—here he points at Jason—“let’s suppose that Jason is a psychopath. He knows the difference between right and wrong and is in complete control of his actions, so when he looks at his morality map and sees a bright yellow line leading him in one direction and he chooses to go in another, he’s well aware that’s he’s embarking on a path that others will find concerning, reprehensible, or even criminal.”
He points to me next. “Now, Steps here is our psychotic.”
“Thank you,” I mutter.
“Let’s say for argument’s sake that he suffers from delusional disorder like Murphy. He has a map just like you and I, and just like Jason. The difference is that, for Steps, there is no yellow line to ignore. It’s completely absent from the page. At any given moment he could be on the right path or the wrong path and he has no way of knowing the difference. It’s all the same.”