Panting, I slide myself off of Weinberg’s body and drop to my bottom, my knees bent towards me. I drape either arm over my knees and grab my left wrist with my right hand, the grip slippery with fresh blood.
There I remain, gulping in deep breaths, feeling my heartbeat race as the sound of sirens appears outside.
Only then do I raise my gaze, finding the small silver camera still lying on the floor, a single red light flashing atop it.
“Pauley, cut the feed.”
Chapter Sixty-Four
Friday, January 21st, 2015
9:42 pm
I’ve often wondered how long it would take me to sit down and recite the entire story. In the time since it all happened, I’ve had so many nights to lay awake and stare at the ceiling recounting it back, it has become difficult to plot it all out linearly. That fact is one of the few real trepidations I had in doing this at all, wondering how it would all shake out or if we would even have the time to share everything I wanted.
Turns out it takes just under twelve hours.
There is so much more I could share with her. I could go into great detail about what happened when the police arrived or the entire litany of court proceedings that followed.
I don’t, though.
Those things aren’t what brought her here today and they will do nothing to further my own purposes.
With just a couple of days left on my clock, the impression she leaves here with will be of paramount importance as to how my legacy is defined. Any additional information I give her will only detract from that.
“Wow,” Pearson whispers, taking down the last of my tale before turning her gaze to me.
Her eyes are clear, but there is a solemnity to her expression that relays the sorrow she feels.
“Yeah,” I agree, rocking my head just a bit.
Her mouth forms a couple of words, but no sounds escape. After a moment, she glances to the clock, seeing we are down to our last fifteen minutes together.
“So you never intended...” she begins, her voice trailing off.
I shake my head, but don’t bother vocalizing the response.
“Like I said,” I say, “we were flying by the seat of our pants. The original plan was to go to Rider Life and steal a ring. If that had happened, if they had chosen anywhere else to have a barbecue that night, if...”
My eyebrows rise as I shrug my shoulders, letting her know that these are just a few of the thousands of variables I’ve thought of over the years.
“Even there at Weinberg’s, if he hadn’t been home, if he hadn’t had a gun, if...”
Again, I shrug. One of the few incontrovertible truths I’ve discovered over the years is that no matter how many times I rehash what went wrong, what brought everything together, it doesn’t change what happened.
Tomorrow, I will wake up in jail.
Tuesday, I will not wake up at all.
“What happened after that?” she asks.
My gaze shifts away, recalling the events of that evening. It is the only part of the entire story - even the parts that were greatly altered by drugs and alcohol - that I can’t recall with complete clarity.
From the moment Weinberg shot Quasi onward felt like I was trudging through a dream state, the events as surreal to me then as now.
“Four minutes later, the police arrived,” I say. “I was still seated in that exact spot on the floor, staring at the camera that had since blinked out. Not one word crossed my lips as they cuffed me and took me away.”
The familiar clatter of typing resonates in the background as I continue, my voice distant.
“The public defender wanted me to make an argument that since it wasn’t premeditated, and I was under extreme emotional duress, I could plead insanity, at the very least avoid the death penalty. I refused, entering a guilty plea.
“Since by that point I was quite well known in these parts, the judge got off on coming down hard on me, saying it was clear from the moment that broadcast began I had felonious intent. Looked almost gleeful as he sentenced me to the chair.”
Without the screen separating us, I can read her facial expressions as she types, a look bordering on sympathy passing over her features.
“In Tennessee, there is a little known law that if a murder is viewed by more than three credible witnesses, a person’s execution can be expedited,” I say.
It’s the kind of law some politician put into place so they could stump about how they are upholding the moral right by keeping their taxpaying constituents from paying for longer prison sentences, never once considering the hypocrisy that they were condemning someone to die to save a few dollars.
“Since mine was seen live by almost a million people, I never really stood a chance,” I say.
The door opens beside us, Marshall’s grip on the handle as he leans his upper body inside.
“Ten minutes,” he says, retreating before either one of us has a chance to respond.
When he is gone, we both slowly pull our focus back to facing forward, neither one quite sure what to say.
“At this point, please ask whatever lingering questions I haven’t gotten to,” I say.
The time is past for reminding her to be patient, for telling her we will get to things later. Anything else in the world she wishes to know about the saga of Chaz D should be asked now, as there likely will never be another chance.
She matches the gaze a moment before drawing the notebook over in front of her. She flips the top page open, its lines all filled with blue ink, and pulls up a second one beneath it.
I’m too far away to see what is written, but I can tell there are just a couple short items jotted down.
This is her wrap-up list.
“Any regrets?” she asks.
Given the recent topic of our discussion and the somber mood inside the room, it would be wrong of me to smile, though that is my first reaction. For some reason, nearly every reporter wants to know this, as if finding out I have some sort of deep-rooted remorse will somehow make it all disappear.
“My mother,” I say, “and Quasi.”
She nods but doesn’t bother writing them down.
“That night was the last time I ever saw Quasi, lying there on the floor of Weinberg’s living room. I wasn’t there for his funeral and can’t imagine they’d have let me anywhere near him even if I was.”
For a moment, I pause, thinking back on all the time he and I spent together through the years.
“I can’t honestly say I regret bringing him into the fray with me. You heard the story, he was just as willing as I to jump in. I regret what happened to him surely, but more than that, I...”
I pause a moment, looking over to her and then back to the same spot on the wall I’ve been boring holes into most of the even.
“I mean, I even called him Quasi, you know? How dick is that?”
Across from me Pearson remains silent, just as I knew she would.
“As for Mom,” I continue, “that day at the house was the last time we ever spoke. She showed up to the sentencing, I could hear her wailing in the back when the judge handed down his verdict. She has even come here a few times to see me, but each time I’ve declined.”
“Why is that?” Pearson asks, just barely audible.
“Because her son is gone,” I say, shifting back to address her full in the face. “The person she’s coming to visit doesn’t exist anymore.
“That night at Weinberg’s, Charles Doyle ceased to be. From that day forward, I realized I had to be Chaz D. I had to be him if I was ever going to survive in prison and I had to be him or otherwise everything I had done was for naught.”
“Is that why the physical transformation?” she asks, motioning to my arms as they sit handcuffed in front of me.
“Yes,” I say, “though that started long before that night. Once we started posting videos online, I started popping laxatives like candy, trying to fit some ideal I thought a man like James Buchanan - later Chaz D - should repres
ent.
“Once I got here and had eighteen hours a day to myself, I started in on the working out. Read everything I could get my hands on. Started taking college courses online.”
She nods as if in understanding, though I doubt she has the slightest clue.
Very few people have ever looked in the mirror and hated what they saw to the point they would wipe it clean and start anew. Once that point is reached, there is nothing they won’t do to get there, no length that is too obscene.
None of this can be shared with her for fear it might be passed on. If the people that saw the videos, that have come to believe I am Chaz D, were to know that, it would taint forever how they thought of me.
At that point, I would be nothing more than a fraud, a phony that developed an internet persona to hide who he truly was.
The clock on the wall ticks down to five minutes before ten. Twelve long hours have passed, a stint that has seen us each use the bathroom a single time, her having survived on only a handful of grapes.
It has been exhausting and enthralling, sobering and harrowing, everything a good story should be.
The kind of tale James Buchanan would have been proud to be in, a story Charles Doyle would have been proud to write.
Pearson begins to collect her things and deposit them into her bag, starting with the notebook and moving on to her laptop. I watch as each item is stowed, the artificial barriers between us removed one at a time.
“Thank you for coming today,” I say. “I know it couldn’t have been easy.”
Her movements slow as she continues packing things away, not coming to a complete stop until all but the iPad are gone, the bag resting across her lap.
“Don’t thank me yet,” she says. “It’s going to take me some time to process this, figure out exactly what I want to do with it.”
I already know this, but it is rather admirable for her to be so straightforward about it. The top of my head dips just slightly in a nod, acknowledging her statement without comment.
That very reason is why I chose her. She will take her time and offer the story the care it deserves. Other reporters would try to rush it to press, capitalizing on the surge surrounding the execution on Monday.
She will do right by it, which will in turn do right by Chaz D.
That is, after all, what is most important here.
“Alright,” she says, reaching over and sliding the iPad over in front of her.
On the screen is a counter, the number rising with each passing second, ticking by the time we have spent here together.
“One last question.”
She takes a deep breath, enough so that her shoulders rise and fall with the effort, before raising her gaze to look at me.
“Was it worth it?”
Was it worth it?
Tonight, as Carmen Pearson and I both left that room and headed in our respective directions, we were serenaded by a crowd outside. Incessantly, it chanted for my release, just as it has every moment for a week solid.
This evening as I lay awake on my mattress and stare at the ceiling, I can just faintly hear them outside, their voices providing comfort the same way a blanket provides for a small child.
They are here now as I fall asleep and they will be here tomorrow as I rise.
This all began out of attending my father’s funeral and realizing just how inconsequential life can be if I allow it. From that day forward, I have done everything I can to ensure I did not suffer that same fate.
There are certainly parts of the journey I would change, but it is difficult to argue with the results.
Pearson wanted to know if everything I did was worth it.
Her being here today, the masses standing outside calling my name into the night air right now, proves that it was.
Turn the page to read a sneak peek from my standalone thriller, The Exchange!
Sneak Peek #1
The Exchange
Prologue
To look at the file sitting closed on the table, it would appear that a great deal of investigation had taken place. More than a half inch thick, the interior of the plain manila folder bulged in the middle, paperclips affixed to the top holding contents inside, a thick rubber band keeping the package intact for transport.
Flipping it open told quite a different story.
The vast majority of the material inside – everything but a single page, in fact – was photographs. Taken from a myriad of distances and angles, they encapsulated every single inch of the bedroom scene, almost reveling in the macabre. From the contorted pose of the victim to the sprays of blood spatter covering the posters above her headboard, nothing was spared, each item in the room documented with painstaking detail.
As for the report, it was nothing more than a few short lines, all jotted down in slanted script. In a couple places there was even an occasional wobble visible, hinting both at which detective had done the analysis and the extreme impetus he had to finish the task as quickly as possible.
Based on the concentrated gore of the photos, a first reaction would be to empathize with whoever had filled out the documentation. The images seemed to convey a scenario that was rarely found outside of horror movies or nightmares, the sort of thing no human should ever witness, let alone linger over.
Moving on quickly was a natural reaction.
Still, to the untrained eye, someone looking at the materials for the first time, it was impossible to see what was depicted in the photos and justify the way it had been simplified to nothing more than four sentences.
There were just too many questions that sprang to mind, too many things that needed to be addressed before anybody could think to wrap the investigation.
Appears to be an obvious case of suicide. Deep slashes on wrists and trajectory of blood indicate as much. Knife found on the scene, bagged as evidence.
Will look into the message written in victim’s blood on the wall, which is curious, but does not alter conclusions in the slightest.
Chapter One
Erika Wernick had been awake for more than an hour before the pale gray glow of dawn appeared at the top and bottom of the blinds pulled closed over her bedroom window. Faint and indiscreet, she knew what time it was the moment the light appeared, the sun rising at the same time every day in the spring since she was just a child.
There was a time when having such familiarity was something Erika reveled in, the very thing that brought her back every few months, had her aching to return each time she was gone.
Now it just reminded her of how much she had lost, of how much things had changed in the preceding months.
In the six weeks she had been back, there was not a single morning that Erika had managed to sleep through the night, the reasons for it seemingly numerous but essentially coming down to one of two things.
The first was the dream, her subconscious never letting the events of that night drift too far below the surface, especially cruel on days when she had managed to hold it at bay during her waking hours. Never was she able to completely push the thoughts away - the accident too recent, the nerves too raw – and she doubted she ever would.
Some things, a person just doesn’t forget.
It came at various points, sometimes letting her get nearly a full night’s rest before showing up, others arriving just moments after she laid down. Never did it play out exactly the same way, choosing different places in the sequence to begin, highlighting different aspects that may have escaped Erika for even the slightest instant.
The only thing that ever remained constant was the fact that after it arrived, her night was over, the ability - or even thought - of sleep just too difficult to consider.
The first couple of times it had occurred Erika had made the mistake of rising from her bed, going to the kitchen for tea or even moving into the living room and turning on the television. Whatever brief reprieve such activities had given her mind had proven not to be worth the effort though, the inquisition her mother would inevitably leve
l on her far outweighing it.
The other thing that usually caused Erika to wake, the thing that had pierced through the darkened veil of slumber on this particular night, was the pain. A mirrored image of whatever battle her psyche was fighting, the myriad aches and pains of her body were still just as raw.
This particular morning it was her knee, the severely sprained MCL not quite recovered, still susceptible to the slightest bump as she moved about in her sleep. Far more painful than the fractured wrist or countless cuts and bruises she had endured, it had woken her just as many times as the dream in the preceding weeks, a ratio she hoped would have started to recede with time but was fast resigning herself to the possibility it might never do so.
With such resignation also came the idea that she might not even want it to, the pain just one more reminder of what had happened, one more way to feel connected to all that was and might never be again.
By the time the first light of day broke into her consciousness, the agonizing ache of her leg was long past. In its wake Erika had remained staring up at the ceiling, counting off the minutes in her head, preparing for the day ahead.
Not one part of her wanted to do what was just over an hour away, though she knew there was simply no way of getting out of it. Her mother would not condone it and the guilt she would unleash would far outpace anything that could occur in the coffee shop across town.
Besides, Erika had promised her Uncle Ern she would go, and if there was one rule that every person in Big Bear knew to abide by, it was not to upset Ern.
As predictable as the appearance of the morning light outside her window, exactly four minutes later a gentle scratching sound came at the door. A moment after the old brass knob rotated a half turn and the aging hinges let out a low moan, the sound preceding the appearance of her mother’s head popping in.
“Erika? You up, honey?”
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