The Equinox

by M J Preston

  Logan patted him on the shoulder and walked down the corridor to Hopper’s cell. When he peered through the bars Hopper was huddled in the corner, his knees pulled up to his chest, and the bible clutched tightly in both hands as he rocked back and forth. His hair was still wet from the shower he’d taken, but there was a faint ripe smell still lingering in the cell.

  “You got a problem, Hopper?”

  Hopper gaped at Logan awkwardly. Logan thought there was a minute hint of embarrassment on his face. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen, his nose runny and irritated: he’d been crying.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  He wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

  “You want to talk, Hopper? Okay, we’ll talk. I’ll give you an hour, but that’s it. I need to get some sleep and thanks to you I haven’t had much. So you have an hour.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hopper whimpered, then sniffled.

  Logan was bowled over. Sorry?

  This from the man who had watched, lacking any emotion, while they dug up body after body. It had to be a ploy.

  “I know you hate me, Chief Logan. Everyone hates me for what I’ve done, but this isn’t over, and I have to tell someone because I’m damned and…” Hopper broke into a fresh bout of sobs and began to shudder uncontrollably.

  Logan didn’t feel any pity. Tommy Parkins and the sixteen other boys they’d dug up ensured that.

  He looked over at Pearson and said, “Main interview room.”

  They cuffed and moved him to the room, then set up the video equipment. While Hardy stood guard, Pearson and Logan stepped out to discuss the approach and speculate. As they spoke, Logan poured them each a coffee.

  “What do you make of this, Ron?”

  “I don’t know. Hopper knows he’s going for a psych evaluation at the end of the week; maybe he’s trying to work an insanity angle.” Pearson took the coffee.

  “Could be,” Logan said, but he doubted it. The shaking, the tears – those had been too real, and he didn’t think the fat man was that good of an actor. He speculated that whatever had him spooked was somehow tied into the uneasiness that Hopper displayed when they dug up the last grave.

  He gave his watch a cursory glance; it was 1:33 AM. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Pearson took his place, as he had done during all interviews since his arrival, behind the two-way mirror. Logan sat down across from Hopper at the table where he had first bartered for his cigarettes and bible.

  3

  “He’s coming for me,” Hopper said gravely.

  “Who’s coming for you?” Logan asked and shot a glance toward the mirror. The camera’s red light blinked behind him.

  “He calls himself Franklin, but that’s not his real name. I don’t want to die.” He shuddered. “I’m afraid. Terrified, actually. I know I’m damned, but he’s coming for me because I told.”

  Hopper looked like he wanted to be embraced, reassured, like a scared child. Logan shivered at the very thought of any human contact with this man and equated it to touching fecal matter.

  “Hopper, slow down. What are you telling me here? Are you saying you had an accomplice? Who is Franklin?” A second killer? It’s possible, but all the evidence points towards one man. Then again, forensics had a lot of work to do in reconstruction and DNA, he thought.

  “You won’t believe it, but it won’t make any sense unless I start at the beginning,” Hopper said, then asked. “Could I have a cigarette, Chief?”

  “You can’t smoke in this room,” he answered. “I’ll take you out for a smoke and then when we come back in here you better get at it. I don’t want to be here all night and one more thing.”

  “What?” Hopper asked.

  “After this, you are to give full cooperation to Detective Pearson. As of Friday, you will be leaving Thomasville and in his charge. We will be finished, Hopper, except for the trial. I’m assuming you will plead guilty and considering that I doubt there will be one. I want your word that from this point on you will allow Detective Pearson to take over and you will cooperate, especially in the department of identifying the other boys. Do we have a deal?”

  Hopper’s eyes flicked over to the two-way mirror. “Okay.”

  “Alright. Let’s go have that smoke.”

  4

  THOMASVILLE CITY POLICE

  [INTERVIEW # 9]

  SUBJECT: STEPHEN HOPPER

  TIME: 2:15 AM-SEPTEMBER 18, 2009

  It was the first boy. That is where it started. I picked him up on the highway about eight miles east of here. I asked him where he was going.

  “I don’t care,” he said.

  So, I took him home, not really sure what I would do when I got there. I’d never acted on my urges. I managed to keep that part of myself locked away for a long time, restricting myself to fantasy and self-gratification. I never intended to kill anyone; it wasn’t that way at all, but living in solitaire out on that farm gave me too much time to think about the things I shouldn’t be thinking about. Living out there then was like living in my cell now. The only difference is that I now have the companionship of police officers. There? I only had my corn.

  Once the crop was in the urges intensified. I found myself driving my van up and down the highway, all the while lying to myself about what my true intentions were. I told myself this was a kind of therapy. That I wasn’t out trolling for boys. I even passed over a couple of easy pickups, congratulating myself for doing so, but I knew in the back of my mind that once I saw the right boy, I would pull over and pick him up right away.

  The right boy’s name was Randy. I don’t know what his last name was. I only know that he has haunted me every day and night since we crossed paths. I take full responsibility for this boy. Had I not picked him up I might still be sitting in the solitude of my corn.

  I took him back to the farm and asked him if he needed a place to stay.

  “No,” he said. “I just took off for a while to scare my parents.”

  He was going to be a real badass when he grew up, and I used this as an excuse to talk myself into the idea of teaching him a lesson for being so disrespectful of his parents. Inside my head, the two voices argued.

  Bad things happen to bad boys, and this boy is asking for it, the dark voice inside my head insisted. He’s looking to be taught a lesson. He wants you to do it!

  Does he, the other voice countered. Or are you just looking for excuses, you sick fuck? This is wrong! It’s not too late to stop this. You can get him back into the van and drop him off where you found him – or better yet, you can take him home. You haven’t done anything wrong! There’s still a way out!

  “Can I get a drink of water?” he interrupted.

  “Huh?” I looked up from my internal argument. I had all but forgotten he was standing there.

  “Water.” And he mimicked holding a drinking glass.

  “In the kitchen. The cupboard on the left side of the sink; that’s where you’ll find a clean glass.”

  I wondered if he could see the struggle on my face.

  “Okay.”

  He turned and walked away.

  I trained my eyes upon him. And the dark voice spoke again: He’s begging for it! Grab him now!

  When he rounded the corner, I went into the bathroom. I didn’t need to go, but I wanted to be alone for a minute to try and decide what to do. In the bathroom mirror, I confronted myself, looked at the face of the man who held onto these devious thoughts.

  Should I or shouldn’t I?

  No! There’s no turning back from this!

  If you don’t do it today, you’ll be back out on the highway tomorrow trolling again. You want to do it! It’s inevitable. He wants you to do it.

  Yes, he wants me.

  I wanted it so badly. I could feel myself giving in. I can’t explain the urges –
they were intoxicating, stifling my thoughts and blinding me to the consequences. You might say that when this happened I would live in the moment of my desires and the voice of reason would withdraw.

  I looked into the mirror, met my own eyes – and saw only descending darkness. That’s when I knew there would be no further argument.

  When I came out of that bathroom, my mind was made up. He was just coming back from the kitchen when I grabbed hold and dragged him into my bedroom. He pleaded, but I had passed the point of no return. I insisted it was what he wanted and that he deserved it. I repeated this over and over through all the begging, the cries, and I shut it all out.

  When it was over, I felt ashamed of myself and tried to comfort him. I offered him $300 and said I would drive him home and that if he “didn’t tell” I could give him more money. He held that money in his hand as he nodded and agreed with whatever I said, but I could see he was just looking for an escape plan.

  “You go and get cleaned up.” I sent him on to the washroom, and while the water ran, I began to deliberate on what I was to do with him.

  He’ll tell, and then you will go to prison. There you will be tortured and beaten and for what? The dark voice whispered to me. He wanted it! You know he wanted it! You have to kill him! You have to!

  I stood and went out onto my porch. There was a short-handled shovel leaning against the handrail. I picked it and marched back into the house. As I crossed the living room, the screen door banged behind me, and I looked back, sure that someone would catch me. But there was no one. No one to stop me.

  As I approached the bathroom, I could hear him pissing into the toilet. I stopped for a second, looked down at the shovel. The voice of reason was gone now. Why it wasn’t there to stop me, as it had done so many times before? I waited for it to save me – but I had been abandoned, left to the dark side as it chanted, Kill him! Kill Him!

  For reasons I will never know, he didn’t latch the door. I wonder if I might have lost my nerve or if that other side of me would have returned to save the boy if he had just slid the mini deadbolt over.

  I pushed the door open. His back was to me. I didn’t want to kill him – I wanted to let him go no matter the circumstances.

  Kill him now, Stephen! KILL HIM!

  I swung the shovel in a tight arc, and it clipped the side of his head, sounding off in a metallic ping. A part of his scalp, the size of a folded piece of bread, tore away and both he and it began to fall in what seemed like slow motion. The silence of those few seconds felt like an eternity. I could not breathe, nor feel, or even hear what was happening. I was transfixed. His body turned as he collapsed, and he continued to urinate all over my floor. When he crashed onto his side, one of his eyes turned independent of the other and fell upon me.

  “I wasn’t going to tell, Mister,” that single eye insisted, holding me in its gaze. “You didn’t have to do this.” The other eye rolled blindly upward in its socket.

  I dropped the shovel. It clanged on the floor.

  I could hear a continual banging. Thump! Thump! Thump!

  It’s done! Thump! You had to do it! Thump! He would have told!

  He began to spasm, shooting jets of blood out from his head in great rhythmic spurts. My ears unsealed, and I realized the thumping noise was his foot kicking against the baseboard. It echoed inside my head, and I almost screamed. The pupil of his accusing eye widened, then contracted, and as it did he kicked the baseboard one final time – Thump! - later became still.

  He was dead.

  I stood over him, waiting for him to snap out of it. The blood spouting of his skull lessened without a pump pushing it anymore. Now only drawn by gravity, it spread out in a crimson pool across the linoleum.

  My paralysis broke, and I ran for the kitchen.

  There in the cupboard, I fumbled with a bottle of scotch and swallowed down three large gulps. It burned all the way down, and on the third gulp, it was ready to come back up. Without thinking, I began to run again for the bathroom to throw up, then pictured myself tripping over his body in an attempt to make the toilet. Instead, I pivoted and ran back to the kitchen sink. Hot burning vomit came out of my nose and mouth, spraying the wall and counter. I missed the sink entirely. Then I stood at the counter, my right hand immersed in a puddle of bile, waiting for a second wave that never came.

  I do not know when I made it into the living room.

  At some point, I had cleaned the puke from my hand, but I couldn’t remember doing it – only that it was clean. I left the kitchen and fell into my recliner, slipping further into a state of numbness. I’m not even sure how long I sat there while his body lay still on the bathroom linoleum.

  All the while I stared off into space and wondered what I would do next. I considered turning myself in. I thought about what would happen to me in jail. I have always been able to fight, but realistically I knew that the numbers would be against me. Somewhere in that train of thought, I also pondered suicide. It seemed the most valid solution to my problem. I had a couple of rifles in the house; it would be quick, painless and final.

  Then, at last, the voice of reason came back. You really did it! Oh my God! You really did it!

  “Where the fuck were you when I needed you?” I fired back, then fell silent.

  It was hours before I came back to reality. At some point, I had pissed myself without realizing. It must have been quite a few hours ago because my crotch was cold and damp and it was also dark outside.

  The power had gone out during my stupor. The clock on the stereo was blinking away. I picked up my cell phone, and it said 11:31 PM. I had been sitting there like that for over eight hours. I got up and grabbed the shovel from the hall and decided I better start digging.

  5

  Hopper stopped and looked over at the Logan. “I need another cigarette.”

  Logan rechecked his watch. This was going to be a sleepless night whether he liked it or not. He figured a break might do him some good.

  “Alright, let’s go.”

  He unlocked Hopper from the table and locked his handcuffs to the waist chain on the jumpsuit. Satisfied, he nodded at Pearson through the two-way mirror.

  Hardy’s shift was over. Her replacement was one of the graveyard officers, Ken Hill. Mick had also arrived, having come in to fill out paperwork and set up the following week’s shifts. Before leaving, Hardy poked her head out the door where Logan and Hopper puffed away in the designated smoking area while Pearson watched.

  “Hill’s in, Chief. I’m off unless there’s something else.”

  “No, that’s it, Constable. Call it a night.” Logan did not address his officers by first or last name in front of prisoners.

  “Goodnight.”

  “Night, Constable,” Pearson added.

  She made a strange face at Pearson, then smiled at Logan. “Night, Chief.”

  Logan didn’t say anything, but it was obvious.

  6

  [HOPPER INTERVIEW RESUMES]

  I dug his grave under the anonymity of night, daring only to click on my flashlight when absolutely necessary. I didn’t want to draw attention to what I was doing, even though the road rarely saw traffic at night. The only times I did turn the flashlight on was when I had to cut a couple of big tree roots with a branch saw. My van and the big maple tree shielded my activity from the roadway, but I have no idea what spurred me to bury him there.

  I carried on for hours until it seemed I would not be able to climb from the hole. I was eight feet down at least and had to use the smaller roots to get up and out again.

  When I got back to the surface, I was panting like a dog, and I collapsed on my side looking at the wheel of my van. I thought how ironic it would be if I suffered a coronary right here, only inches from the body of my victim hidden inside the van.

  I took a deep breath, got up and opened the van doors. There he lay,
wrapped in an old bed sheet, a dark stain marking the spot where I had hit him. I reached in and tried to grab the sheet and heave his body into the hole, but I knew immediately that it would tear under strain. Instead, I put my arms under him, like a father might carry a sleeping child, and picked him up.

  As I stood holding his body over the grave, I couldn’t help but think I should say or do something. The best I could come up with was, “Forgive me.” Then I released him.

  As he dropped, the sheet covering him caught on one of the amputated roots, and he unrolled from his shroud like a mummy, but that was not the worst. There was a crunch and a snap of bone when he bottomed out, and I could swear I heard a moan – but I reasoned later that it was just the last of the air escaping from his lungs.

  The bed sheet was useless now, so I reached in, withdrew it and cast it aside. There was no point in tossing it into the hole, and I was sure it would just get hung up again.

  Instead, I took one last look at the body. His neck had broken from the fall. His head was twisted to the right and was pulled back perversely. He looked more like a mutant than a boy. I shivered.

  Behind me, the sun waited just below the horizon, threatening to rise. With that in mind, I scooped a shovelful of dirt and cast it into the hole. When the first scoop splashed across his broken carcass, my paralysis broke, and I refilled the hole with shovel after manic shovel fueled by my panic.

  An hour and a half later, the sun beat against the back of the neck just as I was finishing up. With the grave filled and the body hidden deep within the ground, I felt my senses begin to sharpen.

  Someone or something was watching me. I looked up and down Van Dyke Road then around my property, but there was nothing. But I could still feel it, the same way I felt when that neighbor kid was watching me.

  Then I looked up at the old stone chimney on my house. That was the first time I saw the big Raven.

  With the body buried I still had quite a few things to consider. I was intent on killing myself, but I struggled with the logistics. Shooting yourself is not as clean and straightforward as some think and I didn’t want to end up with half a face in some hospital ward being fed liquids for the rest of my life.