The Criminal Mind

by Thomas Benigno

  “You know me—but you don’t know me,” he said blandly.

  I winced as a bolt of pain shot down my left leg—the side minus a kidney—the side the Jones Beach killer left his mark on—a zigzag scar from the hatchet job he did on me.

  My grimace did not go unnoticed. “That war wound you caught a few years back acting up on you?” he asked snidely.

  But despite the pain swirling around in my head and down my leg, I still pressed him, firmly believing that I was soon about to die. “I’ll ask you once again: Who the fuck are you, and what is this place?”

  He smiled slyly down at me while tilting the pistol back and forth in his hand. He was relishing the control he had over me. “I think you’ve got this place figured out quite well already,” he said.

  “This room…What is it, some kind of a waiting area or meeting place?”

  “Very good.”

  “But for whom?” If I was going to die, I wanted to know the truth. And if it all possible, I wanted the world to know it, too. Meanwhile, the monster was enjoying himself. Standing over me, pistol in his hand, he was practically gloating. My biggest fear though, was that he was also looking to enjoy himself after he pulled the trigger, which meant that my death would not come quickly. If quick was his intention, he would have killed me already.

  “For whom?” he asked back, with sardonic glee in his voice. “You really have no idea who comes here, do you?”

  “Maybe I do and maybe I don’t.” I winced again. The pain in my leg had waned, but the pain in my head had not.

  “For a pretty smart guy, you do know that you’re only still alive because you got lucky.”

  Not sure what he meant, I continued to goad him. “You think too much of me. Lucky? I never thought I was lucky. You’re the lucky one. Right now, I’m looking pretty unlucky, don’t you think?” Thoughts of my son, John, and my daughter, Charlotte, filled my head, and with them, an irrepressible sadness.

  He stepped back and sat down in a red wing chair that was near the desk by the cave door. For the first time since getting hit, the pain in my head began to lessen as my stress level went from DEFCON I to DEFCON II. “Fuck you,” he shouted. “There’s no such thing as lucky. There’s only ambition and the mind you’re born with. You either use it to create your own destiny, or you don’t.”

  “In your case, a criminal mind.”

  “Ha! You should know.” He leaned forward in his chair. The barrel of the pistol that had been pointed at my head was now pointed at my chest. “Your uncle…now there was a degenerate murderer. And are you so different? That criminal mind…that may be something we both have in common.”

  “Oh, sure. We’re so alike, you and me. Wanna order a pizza now?”

  “Keep talking. You’ve got some sense of humor for a man who’s about to die.”

  “We all have to go sometime.”

  “And your sometime is very soon.”

  “So then…considering all we have in common, tell me…who is this place or waiting room for, anyway? I don’t think I’m going to be surprised by your answer.” I was baiting him and silently praying to God he wouldn’t catch on.

  “Oh, really,” he said brashly. Too full of himself at the moment, he took the bait. “You think you’re something, palling around with the rich and politically connected with that center of yours for those loser veterans. I, however, have got real connections.” He poked himself in the chest several times with his thumb. “Your money gained you those contacts. My power got me mine.”

  “What power? What are you talking about?” I had a good idea, but I wanted to hear it from him.

  He then rose, extended his arm, and again pointed the pistol straight at my head. As he did, the tentacles of an intensifying throb that had begun at the back of my neck reached my eyes and stayed there—a mass of pulsating pain.

  I pressed my palms against my temples in the hope that by doing so I might make the pounding subside as it had before.

  He sat back down and accidentally knocked the chair against the desk, which jostled the computer and caused the monitor to light up. Boldly displayed on the computer screen was the search page for TOR—the access browser to the dark web—the perfect anonymous router for running a criminal enterprise like child sex trafficking.

  I glanced over at the screen. “So, this is the way you contact and gather all the miscreants?”

  “You really are pressing your luck,” he said, with a calm, but no less scary seriousness.

  “C’mon, you don’t want to kill me…at least not yet,” I said. “You’re having too good a time.”

  “Ha.” He chuckled, then looked toward the open door behind him that led to the cave tunnel he had dragged Paul into. In the silent break in our banter, I could hear the sound of wood crackling, along with another sound I couldn’t get a fix on––like the slow stirring of a pot of stew. “I have stage four pancreatic cancer,” he said, matter-of-factly. “So, you see, I don’t have much longer, either––another thing we have in common.”

  “Happy to hear it. That explains the missing boy on the bicycle. Got sloppy there. He was not an orphan or foster child, or a boy from a broken home. This was a child of a living, breathing mother and stepfather—teachers. And if I check the tires on your car, wherever the hell it may be, will one of them have a bulge in it?”

  “By the way—no need to keep looking for that boy.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me. You’ve got everything figured out.”

  “Can I ask you a favor?” I bit my lip so hard in an effort to contain my rage, it started to bleed.

  He didn’t answer, but just looked at me amusedly.

  I wasn’t done. “Hey, you think you might drop dead before you pull that trigger?” The funny thing was, I actually believed that the more I joked and insulted him, the more he seemed to like it—the more an odd, pathetic loneliness appeared to rise to the surface. I glanced at the computer, having no doubt that it contained enough information to bring crashing down the lives of countless men in the highest levels of business and politics.

  He chuckled again. “Would you believe that I had the Secretary of the Treasury down here, along with the CEOs and CFOs of several Fortune 500 corporations?”

  “Sadly, I do believe it.”

  “You read and hear about sex scandals,” he continued. “These people aren’t rich and powerful because they are good, honest people. They are rich and powerful because they are unscrupulous and relentless.”

  “But how are you involved?” I thought to myself: Was there a part of me that in some small way was becoming sympathetic to this wretch of a man?

  “I’m my father’s son. It’s in my DNA. I never had a choice. I was genetically predisposed, no—possessed—is more like it.” He looked down at the pamphlets on the floor. “As for AMBLA, there are thousands of us who believe that our desire would not be as great as it is—if it wasn’t real and natural and right for adult men and young boys to be together—just like it is real and natural and right for adults to be together.”

  “You are truly making me sick.”

  “Which is why we go underground.”

  “Is it real and natural to kill the boys, too?” I scowled in disgust as I spoke. “I swear…if there’s a God in heaven—”

  “Fuck you,” he said, matter-of-factly.

  “No, fuck you. Are you so warped as to actually attempt to find some common ground with me by talking about DNA, and comparing having sex with children to sex between two consenting adults? Let’s be clear: And if these are my last words, so be it. We have no common ground. You’re a degenerate. I’m not, and if you think you’re powerful, think again. You and your ilk are the weakest among us. Real men suppress their darkest urges, especially when it causes harm to others—especially children.” Somehow my determinatio
n to make my case caused the pain in my head and eyes to subside. But make no mistake about it: I was keenly aware that I was soon going to die, which explained why I momentarily lost my voice. I took a breath, swallowed, and continued. “Like you said so calmly before, you are ‘your father’s son.’ So, I suppose he was a piece of shit, too. But answer me this—if you can—because I’m having a hard time with it.” I was breathing heavily, and my voice was cracking with every word spoken. “Who the fuck is your father, anyway? And who the fuck are you?”

  “You’re just buying time, because you have to know the answers to both those questions by now.”

  “Maybe I do and maybe I don’t—but what I truly can’t figure out, is who your mother is.”

  “That’s the bigger mystery, isn’t it?” he asked, as he sat there looking at me with a Cheshire grin. “After all, if you’re not certain who my father was, and who I am, it might not be as much fun killing you.”

  “If you’re your father’s son, your father has to be Richard Holcomb. Just tell me who your mother is, and then you can blow my head off.”

  “But do you deserve to know who my mother is?” He seemed to be enjoying the cat-and-mouse conversation, which didn’t surprise me in the least.

  “If anyone deserves to know, it’s me. Besides, you’ve got the gun. You win. I lose. Take your victory lap, but at least let me know who gave birth to the man about to kill me.”

  “None of this patronizing shit is going to work with me, but since you’re going to die anyway, I’ll reward you with the simple truth. My mother is my great aunt—my father’s aunt. She used to own the shop upstairs.”

  “The old sewing shop lady?”

  “She wasn’t that old when I was born.”

  “Wow. No wonder. You poor bastard. After your Great Uncle Frank conveniently dies from food poisoning, your father shacks up with his aunt—your great aunt—and wonder upon wonders, a chip off the old block is born to continue the legacy of Richard Holcomb—kidnapper and murderer of little boys. And aren’t you lucky—getting that double-dose of DNA evil? I almost feel sorry for you.” As I spoke, his head dropped slightly and so did the barrel of the gun. Had I gotten to the son of a bitch? Not a chance. “And your father is the same Richard Holcomb who was attacked at Mount Seneca Seminary, and who later murdered his college girlfriend.”

  “A charge that was never proven.” He picked his head back up and looked straight at me.

  “It never could be. He jumped bail, a sizable one at that—but not to the family who posted it.”

  “Since you appear to know everything…” He straightened his arm again, seeming quite intent on pulling the trigger.

  “But I don’t know everything,” I said boldly. “I still don’t understand how your father—who, by my count, was preying on young boys most of his adult life—could have also had a girlfriend in college, who he incidentally killed. Is he attracted to young boys? Is he attracted to women? Which is it?” Not that I could have cared less about the distinction. I was biding time, hoping there would be an earthquake, or a plane engine falling from the sky, or just about anything that could provide the earthly miracle that would save me. And whether this beast was amusing himself or simply enjoying the discussion, I couldn’t be sure. But as long as he was continuing to engage me, I was going to keep him talking—and stay alive, even if only for only a few minutes longer.

  “My father was abused by a priest. That phony profligate of the Catholic Church hurt him almost as badly as those students did. Where was the justice for him then? He tried to live a conventional life, dating women in college, but he couldn’t.”

  “So, are you saying that what happened to your father provides some justification for him becoming a pedophile and mass murderer—and for you to follow in his footsteps?”

  His face turned dead serious. “This conversation is over,” he uttered with an indolent and frightening indifference as he straightened his arm, leaned forward, and pointed the barrel of the gun at an imaginary bullseye on my forehead.

  I held my hand up. “One more thing—don’t leave me hanging without a happy ending. Tell me: What ever happened to your father, Richard Holcomb?”

  He dropped his arm again like a bratty child would who was asked a question he’d rather do anything else but answer. “He took his own life in 1996. He was sick of living and hiding, and he was about to die anyway of the same fucking cancer I got.”

  “And after he came back to Cartersville a wanted man, what about his next-door neighbor?” This one was for Charlie. I owed him that much.

  “What are you talking about?” He appeared genuinely confused.

  “I’m talking about Peggy Malone.”

  “Who the fuck is Peggy Malone?”

  “In 1965, while on her way to her high school prom in a pretty pink dress, she was abducted and killed. She was only sixteen years old.”

  I watched as he thought for a moment, until a light appeared in his otherwise cold, demonic eyes. “Too bad for you. I’m tired of talking.”

  He stood up and again pointed the barrel straight at my head. “It’s time now,” he said. “No one will find your remains. No one will ever know the secrets of this place. It will all die with you, and then with me soon enough.” He straightened his arm, the pistol firmly in his hand, my forehead a dead-on target.

  “Wrong again,” I said, as I pulled my cellphone from my pocket and held it high in the air, while his eyes widened in a furious rage and his face contorted into a wretched mass of confusion. “When I was on the floor, and you were dragging Paul away, I dialed a close friend of mine at CNN. She’s been listening this whole time—and recording everything.”

  All I remember after that was watching his hand tighten around the pistol and his index finger press against the trigger the instant I shut my eyes to the gun blast.

  Blood was streaming down the side of my face. I’ll be dead soon, I thought to myself, if I wasn’t dead already. When several shots in succession rang out, I could hear bullets ricocheting off the concrete walls and floor. The fate that I thought was sealed for eternity—in a bloody mess in an underground hellhole—was becoming more uncertain. All I knew for sure was that the pain in my head had reached a level so severe that I believed I was going into shock as I struggled to retain consciousness.

  Then I heard my name—and I wasn’t sure if it was God, or Saint Peter, or an alternate personality of my own speaking inside my head. I was that disoriented. But the more I listened, the more familiar the voice became.

  It was Charlie’s voice, and getting louder. He was crawling toward me, and as he got closer, leveled a slap across my face so hard it awakened me to a world that I was certain I had left behind.

  “No passing out!” Charlie shouted. “You stay awake!” He slapped me again.

  “Enough,” I said, straining to speak as I slowly opened my eyes to a room filled with the residual smoke of gunfire.

  “You took a bad hit to the head,” he said.

  “Am I shot?”

  “I don’t think so. You’re bleeding because he clobbered you with his pistol.”

  “I could swear I saw him pull the trigger,” I said, as I struggled to talk and catch my breath at the same time.

  “When you think you’re about to die, your mind plays tricks on you. He wasn’t letting you off that easy.”

  I grabbed Charlie by the jacket and pulled him close. “I thought you were dead.”

  “Nah. I rushed behind one of the hanging carpets when I heard him coming through the passageway door. Last he saw me, I was crossing the street in a wheelchair. He never expected to find me here.”

  “But how come he didn’t see you?”

  “I stood on my thighs. My camouflage cutoffs must have blended right into the wall and carpet.”

  I patted him on the cheek. “You survived. And I survived, thanks to you.
But tell me…Paul?” My voice cracked. “Is he dead?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe,” he said sadly.

  “We’ve got to find him.” I gestured toward the cave door.

  “You’re not going anywhere right now. Can you even walk?”

  Charlie gripped me under my arms and propped me up against the couch.

  “I just need a minute or two.” I grabbed Charlie’s jacket again, more for balance than anything else. I was sitting up, and the room was spinning in lockstep to my pounding head. I needed to get my wits about me—get my body oriented and my equilibrium back. I needed to see clearly. Charlie’s face was coming into focus. “So, you really did have a gun?” I asked.

  “Yes, pal. This time I had a gun.”

  “I didn’t feel it when I was carrying you.”

  “It was behind my back, which is why it took me so long to get it out. I was in a tight space between the wall and the carpet, so I had to inch my arm around, careful not to make a sound or shake the carpet. I thought for sure I would be spotted, but you did help by keeping him busy with that question-and-answer session.”

  “I just hope Lauren got it all. I pressed her contact number on my phone when he was dragging Paul out. I lowered the volume so she’d be able to hear us while we couldn’t hear her.”

  “That’s great, but we’re going to have to wait to find out.” He handed me my phone off the floor. “Your battery needs charging. The red warning light is on.” Charlie slipped the phone into my pants pocket.

  Though the slightest movement of my head put me in excruciating pain, it didn’t stop me from looking down at the monster sprawled out on the floor in front of us and bleeding profusely from several bullet wounds. His eyes were open and staring blankly––eyes without a trace of humanity. The dead eyes of a psychopath.

  “Get me up,” I said. “We’ve got to get to Paul.” With Charlie acting as a crutch, I slowly rose to my feet, only to take a step, lose my balance, and fall forward. But for the arms of a nearby chair that I used to brace myself, I would have hit the floor, and hard. Fortunately for me, the room was filled with chairs.