Evil Season

by Michael Benson

  This time the madness came and it didn’t leave—not until 2007, by which time his life was irreparably ruined.

  It started like a scene out of a horror movie, Invasion of the Body Snatchers. He woke up one morning and things looked different. He noticed that every person he viewed from a distance had glowing eyes. Bright, white lights. He couldn’t see their eyes at all, just the lights radiating from the sockets.

  He wondered what was wrong with him, but no answers were forthcoming.

  Everyone he saw from a distance had glowing eyes, while those up close sneered and snickered at him. He couldn’t figure out why everyone was laughing at him. What was so funny? Everyone was in on the joke except him. It was unnerving.

  Anytime he went anywhere, he thought someone was following him.

  “I was lucky that I didn’t kill one or more people that I thought were following me,” he said.

  He believed he’d been implanted with a tracking device, or his car had. Every time he drove from one place to another, there was someone on the other end waiting to follow him.

  It got to the point where he was afraid to eat, scared that his food had been poisoned.

  Then came the hallucinations. That started in a Bennigan’s. He was partially drunk when faces started to change. He couldn’t stop looking at everyone’s lips. Lips moved very fast and turned into flying butterflies.

  He thought maybe it was the alcohol that had caused it, but that theory crumbled when he hallucinated stone-cold sober: the same pattern, mouths moving very fast as if emitting comically sped-up jibber-jabber, then metamorphosing into a magnificent monarch butterfly.

  He knew his phone was tapped, and he scared one poor woman who worked for the phone company. She was parked next to some phone junctions and was inside her van, peering at a computer screen. Murphy was convinced he’d found surveillance headquarters.

  “Hey,” he yelled, pounding on the woman’s vehicle, “what do you think you are doing?”

  She didn’t stick around to find out the details of Murphy’s beef. She started up the van and got the hell out of there. He walked away more convinced than ever that there was a massive conspiracy. He thought about the conspiracy all the time. It was on a grand scale. How could it be so big? Who could be the mastermind behind it?

  He did not seek out psychological treatment. Instead, he allowed the astonishing events in his brain to erode his quality of life. The events were beyond his control, beyond his comprehension, and they became increasingly terrifying.

  People stopped seeming human. He was surrounded by beings of an alien species. Everyone was an alien, except for him. He was alone in a war against everyone.

  He wasn’t just going to take it anymore. He was going to fight back, the lone soldier, representing the suddenly absent human race.

  Since it was a war, he chose a military target: MacDill Air Force Base, which was only four miles away from where he worked. The site was intriguing because there was a contingent of Navy SEALs there.

  There it was.

  There was the answer he’d been searching for. It had to be the SEALs who were messing with his mind. He was the subject of some kind of psychological warfare or mind-control experiment. Project MKUltra, the CIA called it.

  Murphy was guilty! He had lied, told people that he was a SEAL, even though he’d rung the bell. That was why he was the subject of the experiment, he reasoned. That was why he was being punished so cruelly.

  He theorized about how it worked. He figured that the SEALs must have teamed up with a squad of cyber SEALs, a group of “Internet freaks” that haunted fake SEALs until they forced the imposters to confess. He found the cyber SEALs on his computer and discovered that there was a page on their site for confessors.

  Chapter 21

  An Apology and Clarification

  On May 22, 2002, Murphy sat at a computer in a library and wrote a long and rambling message to a website called Apologies and Clarifications, in which he admitted to lying about his military career. He claimed that he was attempting to set the record straight. He began by admitting he was a “Liar,” with a capital L. His lies had been about his feeble attempt at BUD/S Training in 1986. He requested out of the program “long before Hell Week.” He discussed his duty on the Peleliu, Murphy wrote, he went UA (unauthorized absence) for four months, and during that time assaulted a man just south of San Francisco. He wanted the world to know that he was sorry about the violence and that he apologized to both the man and his family. After returning to the civilian world, he wrote, his pattern of telling lies continued. On several occasions he led people to believe that he had been a Navy SEAL. He told one fellow that he’d been on secret missions in Central America. Sometimes he tempered his lies. He admitted that he did not succeed in becoming a SEAL, but he claimed that this was because he’d suffered from hypothermia during Hell Week. Because he was almost twenty-eight years old at the time, the cutoff age for a starting SEAL, he was not allowed to roll over into another class. His lie continued to say that, even though he was not an official SEAL, he had been allowed to stay on as a SEAL photographer. He frequently claimed that he had been allowed to hang out with the SEALs and that they had taught him a thing or two about defending himself. Not true. He wanted to apologize in particular to the SEALs and thank them for all of the hard work they’d done protecting American freedom. He wanted to apologize to the SEALs who’d died in the line of duty, and apologize to their families. He was ashamed of his lies.

  He wrote God bless them all. I apologize to the Hillsborough County Sheriff ’s Department. I was not attacked by masked men at gunpoint, another lie. Instead of working harder to achieve real achievements, I made them up. To any persons over the years I have threatened, I mean you no harm. To all persons involved with helping to show me the error of my ways, thanks, I appreciate your efforts. Forgive me if you have felt threatened. He said that these represented all of the worse deeds that I have done.

  The other lies he’d told were of a personal nature, dealing with romance and whatnot, and he didn’t seem as interested in apologizing about those. He didn’t feel it was necessary to go into detail regarding the lies he’d told about being a SEAL, nor did he want to get into the incidents that had led up to his public apology. He asked for an opportunity to make up for his lies, to pay back to society, and promised that he would “obtain counseling” to help in that endeavor. He concluded: I would like to serve my country in the future to help keep it free. I support our War against Terrorism! Sincerely, Elton B. Murphy.

  Murphy later claimed he’d even lied in his confession, lied to humiliate himself even more than necessary. He said he’d dropped out of SEALs way earlier than he actually had. In reality he’d made it four and a half weeks before ringing the bell.

  After confessing to his lies, and in a “psychological stupor,” he went home to his medicine cabinet and took out a razor blade. He rolled up his sleeve and cut himself twice on the arm, then—bleeding pretty good now—called 911 and said that earlier that morning he’d been abducted by a group of men claiming to be Navy SEALs.

  The deputy who came to his home thought he was nuts, and calmly told Murphy that he’d seen this sort of thing before, that Murphy’s best bet was to “seek professional help.” If it happened again, the deputy would have to arrest him for filing false reports.

  Murphy didn’t follow the advice, but he did take action. The next morning, with the help of his brother, Dean, and Dean’s wife, Murphy packed up all of his belongings into his Explorer and a U-Haul trailer.

  “I abandoned my home,” Murphy remembered. “I told myself that I had to get out of that crazy environment while still alive.”

  Chapter 22

  Return of the Military Flashlights

  He moved back to Tallahassee, hopeful that a change of scenery would end his troubles. He would get a new place to live, a new job, a new lease on life. He would be closer to his kids.

  It didn’t work. Switching cities couldn’t
kill the demons in his head, a sad fact he realized during his first full day in Tallahassee. He’d already procured himself an apartment on Magnolia Drive—in the same apartment complex, the Talla Villas, where he’d lived with Paula and the kids before buying a home. He’d already gotten himself a job, hired immediately at the Seminole Barber Shop, a busy three-chair shop on the edge of the Florida State University (FSU) campus.

  The shop had been in business for thirty years, with FSU students making up the bulk of the exclusively male clientele. That was a big change from working at Regis, where the majority of the customers were beautiful women.

  All of these accomplishments? Not bad for Day One.

  Murphy was driving through town on the Apalachee Parkway, when he stopped at a red light. He glanced over to the car idling beside him and the occupants had the bright-light eyes. White, glowing, so bright—their eyes resembled intense military flashlights.

  In a panic Murphy looked around to the other cars in his vicinity. All of the occupants had the spotlight eyes. When he went to work the next day, all of his customers were aliens, with glowing eyes and smirks on their lips.

  Everyone in the shop—coworkers, customers, everybody—was determined to humiliate him, all part of the “cosmic collective prank” that was being pulled on him. He even felt it when he was watching TV.

  The talking heads were poking fun at him.

  “I felt very discouraged,” Murphy recalled.

  Even with his life in free fall, Murphy was not ready to fully commit to the notion that there was something wrong with his mind. He believed he was the one who was right. He didn’t have hallucinations; he had the unique ability to see the awful truth. In a world filled with villains, he was a lone victim.

  No, he didn’t think he was sick—but he was becoming increasingly aware that others thought so.

  “There were people in my life who were certain I needed help,” Murphy said. Among them was Sylvie Tarlton, his former boss at Regis (who would later testify at Murphy’s trial).

  His brother and sister-in-law were the most insistent. Before Murphy left Hillsborough County, he promised them that when he got to Tallahassee, he’d see a shrink.

  He told himself that he was doing it to make them happy. He was okay. About a week after his arrival in Tallahassee, he visited a mental-health facility affiliated with FSU Medical Health Clinic, which occupied a truly scary, old building. The horror movie in his mind was so much scarier than anything Hollywood could make. He’d never been in a house of sick minds before, and it freaked him out. He was happy that his stay was brief. After making him wait, a woman took down his information. He told her what had been happening to him. She gave him an appointment to see a psychologist in a couple of weeks, and Murphy went home. Just before his appointment the clinic called him to verify that he’d be keeping his appointment. Murphy said he’d changed his mind. He didn’t need a psychologist. A man tried to talk him into coming. Murphy said thanks, but no thanks. And it wasn’t like his symptoms had eased. They’d worsened. “Escalated” was how Murphy put it, explaining: “I was driven to do some really insane things with a lot of negative incentive from all of the people I was in contact with.”

  One portion of Murphy’s mind was aware of the self-destructive nature of his behavior, and concluded that he punished himself as penance for past sins.

  He would always need to work off the blemishes on his soul, but—a revelation—he could concentrate on refocusing his punishments so that they made a positive contribution to the world.

  Murphy’s angels and demons waged war, and for a time the side of good was winning. Murphy dedicated his life to picking up garbage at the side of the road; he became the enemy of litterers everywhere. He walked up and down the streets and roads, sometimes from 4:00 A.M. until midnight. He carried plastic or paper bags as his receptacle. It went on for months.

  There were days when working twenty hours outdoors was not punishment enough. His suffering was too mild, so he would pick up garbage for twenty hours while barefoot. Those were the days he would wade into snake-infested ditches in pursuit of waterlogged garbage.

  The roads he patrolled were often open and desolate. When he ran out of bags, he would just make piles on the shoulder of the road, one pile every half mile or so. One time he found fourteen shopping carts in a ditch not far from a grocery store. He gathered them up and pushed them back into the parking lot, where they belonged.

  Because his wanderings were never preplanned, there were many nights when he ran out of energy many miles from home. On those nights he would find the least-traveled spot—under a bridge, in the woods, in a couple of abandoned homes—where he would lay his head down and go to sleep. He slept in construction sites, in houses under construction.

  The cops always hassled him. At least six times he was questioned by police. Most of the hassles were small. They looked at his driver’s license and sent him on his way. On June 19, 2002, for example, deputies from the Leon County Sheriff’s Office (LCSO) were called to the corner of North Meridian Road and Ginny Lane on a report of a suspicious person. Murphy showed the deputies his ID and allowed them to search his backpack, which contained clothing and a sheet inside a plastic bag. In his written report, the responding officer noted that Murphy’s apartment complex was right down the street.

  There was this phase Murphy was going through. He just couldn’t stop helping people. He concentrated all of his energy on volunteering to do good deeds.

  But some people were not appreciative. Some people were simply contrary and didn’t want to have nice things done for them. During the day of June 19, 2002, Murphy was walking on Longview Drive when he saw a house’s slanted roof in need of cleaning. It wasn’t just leaves and small branches making the mess; there were a couple of soccer balls stuck up there as well. Murphy knocked on the front door; the owner, a guy named Frank Burns, answered. Murphy offered to clean the roof and Burns told him to get lost. Murphy didn’t leave. As he was compelled to clean up everything everywhere, Murphy had no choice but to find a ladder and try to climb up onto that roof.

  The homeowner, as it turned out, was not cool with this. He came flying out of the house with a baseball bat in his hand. Murphy remembered the guy as in his forties and huge: maybe six-two, 275 pounds. The guy held Murphy in place, still on the ladder, until a sheriff’s deputy arrived.

  “Why are you doing this?” the deputy asked.

  “I have to do acts of kindness in order to redeem myself,” Murphy replied.

  “Why do you need to be redeemed?”

  “I may not be from this planet. I need to do good deeds to be accepted.”

  As Murphy remembered it, “They took me to Tallahassee Memorial Hospital in protective custody for a brief evaluation, and I was Baker-acted.”

  Florida’s Baker Act, officially known as the Florida Mental Health Act of 1971, allowed a judge to commit a person involuntarily for evaluation, if he felt the subject was a danger to himself or others.

  On June 26, one week after his arrest, Murphy was taken to the Apalachee Center, on Capital Circle Northeast, in Tallahassee. At Apalachee, the slogan was “Healing Minds and Empowering Lives.” It was run by a private, not-for-profit behavioral-health-care organization. Murphy stayed for a week. He shared a room with a guy in his twenties, and he was treated in a coeducational group atmosphere. Most of the people in his group had also been committed by the state. He took classes. There was recreation.

  “We also ate our meals together,” Murphy said. “And sang songs as a group.”

  He didn’t remember any of the songs, although he knew one of them was a Toby Keith tune. What he did remember was that they brought in a gorgeous blonde with a pleasant personality to lead the singing, and she told Murphy she thought his voice was beautiful.

  Paula and the kids came to visit. Paula’s theory was that Murphy’s problem was anger management. She told him that she’d fallen in and out of love with him a few times, and the “out of love
” periods always followed incidents in which he had anger issues.

  Paula had purchased him some clothes. She also had a five-minute meeting with one of the doctors.

  “What did they say?” Murphy asked his ex-wife.

  Paula replied, “They said you were bipolar and had seizures.”

  Murphy was stunned. That wasn’t even remotely accurate. Hadn’t they been paying attention?

  “Doctor didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground,” Murphy said.

  They put him on Tegretol, an antiseizure medication and an anticonvulsant that was also used to treat bipolar conditions in patients who suffered simultaneous depression and mania.

  At first, Murphy took the pills. Maybe the doctor knew something. Turned out he didn’t. The meds did nothing to alter his paranoia. In fact, the pills did nothing at all, and Murphy stopped taking the pills after about a month.

  The Apalachee Center was a complete waste of time. Within hours—hours!—of his release, he was again shirtless and shoeless, picking up garbage alongside some Tallahassee thoroughfare.

  Chapter 23

  The Voices

  Then came the voices, which at least got him to stop picking up garbage every now and again. He’d heard voices before, but now they gained absolute influence over him.

  On the rare occasions when he tried to explain the voices to someone, people tended to think that he was merely “hearing” his own thinking—but that was clearly not the case.

  Most of the time the voice belonged to a woman—or women. When Murphy tried to ignore the voices, they mocked him, taunted him for hours on end. When they told him to do something, he had to do it. Yes, ma’am! The voices were in control.

  Murphy looked back on it now and realized that he was swimming in and out of psychotic pools. People might have thought he was on drugs, but it was his own body’s chemicals doing it to him.