The Ackerman Thrillers Boxset: 1-6

by Ethan Cross

  Powell keyed the mic and said, “Resident Ralston, I will give you one week with no work and double rations in exchange for helping with this demonstration. I want you to do your best to succeed in killing Seville. I want you to try and be faster than the system. If you succeed, you will not be held responsible. But, rest assured, you will be stopped before you can harm Seville. Surely a week of the good life is worth one shock?”

  Ralston seemed to consider the offer and then said, “Two weeks of the good life. And premium channels on my box for free.”

  Powell laughed. ”So we’re negotiating now? I tell you what. I’ll give you all that for trying, and I’ll give you a bonus of double that if you can get that knife within two feet of him.”

  “Okay. Deal. When should I do it?”

  “Surprise us.”

  Ralston was still for a moment. Then he slowly slid his hand toward the knife, paused for a few seconds, and then he snatched it up and swung the blade in a backhanded arc toward Seville. It would have been a clumsy all-in type of move in a knife fight but, under the circumstances, it would have been effective enough. The swing had the angle and force of a killing blow.

  But it didn’t even come close to connecting.

  No sooner had Ralston started his lunge than the system had recognized the threat and delivered enough electricity to stop Ralston dead in his tracks. It looked like Ralston had run headlong into a brick wall. In the span of a millisecond, he had gone from active threat, man with a knife, to pacified threat, a man on the ground in pain.

  “I still don’t buy it. It just can’t see everything, everywhere, every time.”

  Powell’s face split into a crooked smile. “Since this facility opened six months ago, we have had zero successful attempts at resident on resident violence. Not one. So something sure seems to be working.”

  *

  Maggie was still fuming, and Dylan was lost on his iPad in his own little world. The hotel room had double beds and a flat-screen television tucked into a dark armoire. It smelled of cinnamon and old wood, and the air conditioner was temperamental and lazy. Maggie occupied one of the beds, her feet up, back against the headboard. Dylan was in a similar position atop the other bed. The only difference being that Maggie had instantly stripped off the top two layers of the bedclothes and deposited them neatly in the corner. Then she had checked for traces of bed bugs on the mattress and, thankfully, found none. Dylan, on the other hand, was actually sitting on top of his bedspread. She wanted to explain to him that a lot of hotels never wash those top bedspreads, but she held her tongue.

  Play it cool. Don’t be weird.

  She turned on the television. She needed a mindless distraction from all the noise in her head.

  That distraction didn’t come.

  Instead, the television showed a handsome, young reporter over the headline, “Arizona Governor Orders Investigation.”

  Behind the reporter sat a security fence surrounded by protesters. She turned up the volume.

  “As you can see behind me, the new experimental prison designed by Powell Prison Technologies has been a magnet to controversy since its inception. Some say that the new prison relies too heavily on technology and ‘artificial intelligence.’ Others have argued that it’s a violation of the inmates’ constitutional rights, that it’s dangerous and cruel and unusual punishment, and that its true purpose is to create a slave labor force out of illegal immigrants and minorities. The controversy surrounding this prison—where inmates are given more freedom but less privacy—only increased when Leonard Lash, the former leader of the Urban Liberation Front, was selected randomly to be one of the first inmates participating in the prison’s pilot program.

  “And now, on the heels of the governor’s decision to allow the program to move into its second phase, which would increase the number of prisoners to one thousand and incorporate the manufacturing portion of the …”

  The reporter continued on, showing overhead views of Foxbury Correctional Treatment Facility. The strange prison she should have been investigating at that very moment.

  “—the prison and the small community of Foxbury were rocked by an incident that many claim justifies all the fears and objections to this new prison concept.”

  “Is that why we’re here?” Dylan said.

  He startled her. When the boy was lost in his electronic devices, it was easy to forget he was even there.

  “Yeah. Your dad’s there now.”

  “Why aren’t you there too?”

  “That’s a good question.”

  “Are you and my dad getting a divorce?”

  The question jolted her like a physical blow.

  “First off, your dad and I aren’t married.”

  “But you live together and love each other? Isn’t that what being married is?”

  “Well, not exactly. What brought this up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Your dad loves you very much.”

  “I know.”

  “Why were you so angry at him during the game?”

  “I wasn’t. That catcher said—”

  “I saw you before that. When your dad hit the home run. You were almost in tears.”

  Dylan ground down on his lower jaw in anger. It reminded her of a face Marcus often made.

  “I wasn’t crying.”

  “But you were upset.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You have to have some idea.”

  “It’s stupid.”

  “I’m sure it’s not. Things we feel are never stupid. But we might not have any real reason to feel that way, and we need to recognize that and talk about it.”

  “It’s just that sometimes I wish my life could go back to the way it was before I met him. Then I feel bad for thinking that.”

  “You shouldn’t feel bad about it, but you also need to recognize that what happened to your mom isn’t your dad’s fault.”

  “I know,” Dylan said but didn’t sound convinced.

  Maggie jumped up and dropped down beside Dylan. The bedsprings popped and groaned as they contracted. “You want to hear a story?” she said.

  “I’m too big for stories.”

  “That’s good. Because this is a very grown-up kind of story.”

  Dylan’s eyes perked up a bit. ”What’s it about?”

  “It’s the story of a little girl not too much older than you. And this little girl lost someone she loved, just like you.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  “The girl?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure. She’s cute, but some of the other kids pick on her because she’s different.”

  “What color hair does she have?”

  “What color do you want it to be?”

  “That doesn’t matter. Her hair’s the color that it is no matter what color I want it to be.”

  “I was thinking you could use your imagination and fill in some of the blanks. But let’s just say that she’s blonde.”

  Dylan narrowed his eyes and considered this. “This story is about you, when you was a girl.”

  “Whoa, I say ‘different’ and ‘blonde,’ and you automatically assume it’s about me?”

  “Is it about you?”

  “No, it’s some other cute blonde.”

  Dylan narrowed his eyes again.

  She stumbled over an answer before finally conceding defeat and saying, “Okay. It’s about me, Sherlock.”

  “What’s a ‘sure lock’?”

  “Sorry, they probably haven’t taught you much English literature yet. The point is that, when I was a couple years older than you are now, my baby brother was taken from me.”

  “Did he die?”

  “No, Dylan, a bad man took him. Just like the way your grandfather took you from your mom.”

  She felt her throat tighten and her eyes water. It had been much easier thinking of it in the third person. Now that Dylan had fo
rced her to recognize it as her story, she couldn’t help but relive it.

  Dylan said, “But you and Dad and Uncle Frank got me back. Did they ever get your brother back?”

  “No, but a lot of people spent a lot of years trying.”

  “How did it happen?”

  She hadn’t intended to get this deep into the story, but Dylan seemed to have an ability to intuitively get to the truth of things. She had seen the same thing in Marcus.

  She thought about that day. The police. Seeing her dad truly afraid for the first time. Her baby brother in the swing set. The man walking out of the shadows.

  Maggie clenched her eyes shut to hold back the memories.

  “Are you okay?” Dylan said.

  “It was my fault that he was taken. I was supposed to be watching him. Even though I wasn’t officially old enough yet, and my mom got in trouble for that later.”

  “Then how’s it your fault?”

  “Because I saw the man who took my brother, but I was too scared to say anything.” She remembered him holding a finger up to his lips and looking into her soul with those hollow eyes. “I could have screamed or something. Maybe a neighbor would have heard. But even after that, I was still too scared to tell the police that I had actually seen it happen. I was so scared that he’d come back for me and my mom and dad that I told the police that I didn’t see anything. Looking back on it now, I wonder if things would have turned out differently if the police had had a description of the man who took my brother. Maybe they would have gotten him back.”

  “But you never told them?”

  “I never told anyone that. Not even your dad. The point is that I know how much I wish I had talked about things back then with my parents. So, if anything is ever bothering you, I’m always here to talk about it.”

  Dylan didn’t ask any more questions. He just leaned his head over on Maggie’s chest and wrapped his arms around her waist.

  *

  FILE #750265-6726-689

  Zolotov, Dmitry - AKA The Judas Killer

  State Exhibit F

  Description: Diary Entry

  So my mother, the filthy whore, was dead. My father—a rotund man whom I would later learn had no reservations about stealing food from the mouths of children—had murdered her and taken me. Not as a son, mind you, but as a servant. Not as another mouth to feed, but as another pair of hands and a strong young back to break.

  I don’t know all the details of how he killed her. The case never drew much attention. Just another dead whore in a country that didn’t acknowledge such trivial things.

  I’m sure her murder was clumsily executed. All knife slashes and no passion. No drama.

  Besides, I’m not writing this to show you that murder is an art form. Death can certainly be beautiful, but that’s not what’s important. It’s all about the execution. The buildup. The manipulation. The betrayal. The drama. The death isn’t even all that important. It’s the life.

  People are so easily manipulated. They so obliviously become players in the games of others. Of their countries. Their friends. Spouses. Children.

  The beauty of death wasn’t found in how each puppet’s strings were cut, but in the presentation—the rise and fall of the production as a whole.

  My mother’s death had none of that.

  It wasn’t beautiful.

  It wasn’t how I would have done it.

  But that’s beside the point.

  My mother was dead, and I was delivered into a life of slavery.

  I suppose that’s why Stasi and I connected later on. Because of our shared experiences, the similar bondage of our youth.

  Father had me making money for him as soon as I could follow directions. Probably before that, but I just can’t remember how. I was always the dancing monkey to his organ player. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

  But Father wasn’t half as smart as he thought he was. He thought that he could manipulate others, but he was a fool. He couldn’t predict behavior. Father thought that Stasi’s death would result in a certain outcome, but he was far from correct on what that outcome would be.

  But I’m getting a bit ahead of myself.

  One year, Father took a job barking for a traveling carnival and sideshow.

  He had worked out a deal to get time and a half pay for himself in exchange for handling all of the “shit” jobs around the place, and sometimes that term was literal. But, of course, Father wasn’t the one handling the “shit.” That pleasure fell to me.

  And that was the first few years of my life, at least those that I can remember. My father working me like a dog and telling me that I needed to pay for my own food plus pay back rent on my miserable life up to that point.

  My most vivid memories from this time in my life all involve my father’s boots. Sometimes I had to clean them. But I most vividly remember them stomping down on me.

  I remember my father as a giant who I knew would one day crush me and grind up my bones.

  *

  Spinelli buzzed in Andrew and the Director. Marcus really wanted to know what that not-so-discreet conversation was all about. But the more immediate question was how Powell could have achieved a perfect record of no violence.

  Marcus said, “Why do you call them residents?”

  Powell gave a nod to the Director and Andrew as they walked up before saying, “It’s all psychological. The core concepts of this place were of my design, but there have been many researchers, correction industry experts, and psychologists who have had a hand in the mapping and execution. We call them residents to say to them that this is like no other prison. Here they are part of a community. This is the town in which they work and live. The guards are the police, and I’m the mayor.”

  “A mayor with his hand on the shock collar.”

  “That’s their choice. It should be noted that the inmates in this program have been certified as having no disorder or disability that would prevent them from being able to follow the rules. These aren’t mental patients. These are men who have the potential to re-enter society.”

  “Men like Leonard Lash?”

  “Even him. I am of the firm belief that everyone deserves a second chance and sometimes third and fourth chances. And that goes back to the duties of a prison system. The goal must always be rehabilitation over incarceration. We’re not just warehousing the people we don’t want around. The goal of everything we do here is about preparing these men to be productive members of society.”

  Marcus said, “A lot of these guys can’t function out in the world. That poor impulse control of theirs will kick in, and they’ll do something. They’ll take the easy way out of a bad situation, and they’ll end up in cuffs again. Best indicator of future behavior is past behavior.”

  “How very pessimistic of you. So, by your logic, we should just put criminals straight to death because there is no way they could ever transcend their natures?”

  Marcus immediately thought of his brother. “No,” he conceded, “I do agree that everyone deserves a second chance.”

  Powell raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Philip!” he said to the Director. ”Have you not succeeded in brainwashing this one yet?”

  Marcus continued, “That second chance has to be weighed against the safety of others and society as a whole. There are no right answers there. Too many subtle levels of right and wrong. You have to find a balance between giving a second chance and allowing for restitution and making sure that criminal never hurts anyone again.”

  Powell said, “Exactly. Eventually, our program will contain multiple levels of re-integration. At least, that’s what our roadmap calls for. Think of the idea of a halfway house. But multiple levels of that kind of gradual easing back into the world. Maybe on one level they work outside the prison. In another, perhaps they live in apartment buildings with other inmates. But the whole idea is to equip these men and women to be better. Unlike much of our current prison system, which is violent, frightening, and in some extreme instan
ces, downright inhuman. Not to mention underfunded in the areas they need it most. Our idea of what prison should be is more likely to accelerate and perpetuate the cycle rather than break it.”

  “It seems like there are a lot of people who don’t agree with your methods. And this shooting has only added fuel to the fire.”

  Powell nodded. “There are people who claim this place is dangerous, even though we’ve had no injuries for six months. They’re irrational fools who fear change and hate anything they fear.”

  “What about the ones who say you’re violating these men’s rights?” Marcus said.

  “We’re preserving the rights of both the offender and potential victims. Their rights of safety, the pursuit of happiness, and to live their lives without constant fear of losing it. Think about why the justice system and the law exist in the first place. Laws are designed for the maximum benefit of your society, country, and your fellow man. When you break the law, you’ve caused harm to one of those things. You’ve shown that you can’t be trusted not to interfere with the God-given rights of your fellow citizen. The first right you lose at that point is your privacy. And until those offenders can earn back that trust, then they have knowingly sacrificed their own rights.”

  Marcus held up a hand to stop Powell, who was becoming more fervent the longer he spoke, and said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I actually don’t care about your little experiment. I’m not here to say whether or not this place is the future of corrections or shut you down. I’m here to catch a killer. I’ve heard enough to know that there’s more to this than murder. There seem to be a lot of forces at play. I understand that better now. I don’t need to hear your whole philosophical stance or see how you handle the showers unless it relates to the case. Who stands to gain the most financially by your experiment failing?”

  “That’s hard to say. A competitor maybe? Probably PSI, Prison Systems International. They would be the company we would be stealing market share from. Ours is just like lots of other industries. There’s one giant or a couple of giants who own the market and the customers. Everyone else is fighting for scraps. But the thing is that in almost every instance, the little guys are staying alive because of a niche they’re filling. So most of the time, you’re not even competing with other little guys. You’re only really competing with the giants for their customer. And PSI is the largest private contractor of prisons and prison-related industries in the world,” Powell said. “My company is barely a blip on their radar screen. The whole company’s future is wrapped up in this prison and our predictive analysis software. And even if those succeed, we’re still no threat to a giant like PSI.”