by Chris Mooney
‘Spoken like a true psychopath.’
Borgia pressed himself up against the kennel door. His eyes were hot. Wet.
Was he crying?
He was crying.
‘Don’t you want to clear your conscience?’ Borgia asked. There was no real emotion in his voice, but the manufactured tears continued to spill down his cheeks. ‘Or are you really the soulless psychopath they say you are?’
‘Your name – your real name. We’ll start there.’
Borgia swallowed, his jaw set. ‘Terence Davidson,’ he said. ‘I entered the project when I turned fifteen – the Spaulding Psychiatric Center in Philadelphia.’
‘Why? What happened to you?’
‘A neighbour’s dog kept shitting in our backyard, so I decided to take care of the problem. The neighbour’s daughter caught me with the dog before I could do anything, and when she threatened to tell everyone, I … made sure she wouldn’t be able to talk.’ Borgia voice’s contained no shred of shame, regret or guilt. ‘Instead of juvenile detention, the judge said I could undergo psychiatric help at Spaulding, and you know what happened there. You know what you did.’
‘And your two companions, Marie Clouzot and Brandon Arkoff?’
‘They were at Spaulding.’
‘I want their names. Their real names.’
‘Marie Clouzot and Brandon Arkoff. Now tell me –’
‘No,’ Fletcher said. ‘When were you released from Spaulding?’
‘I wasn’t released, I escaped.’
‘How?’
Borgia grinned. ‘Marie freed us – all of us. Brandon, Marie and I – we fled together. She took care of us. We stayed together, we lived together – we survived. Together.’
‘How heartwarming,’ Fletcher said. ‘Why did you try to kill Ali Karim?’
Borgia recoiled as if slapped. ‘I didn’t kill him,’ he said.
Fletcher sighed. ‘Why did you give the order to have him killed?’
‘That came from above. The Director himself. You’ve made a lot of enemies, Malcolm. We can’t afford to have you or anyone associated with you running around the country – who knows how many people know your dirty little secret.’
‘I’ll say it again. I had no involvement with the Behavioral Modification Project. I was trying to expose it. Ali Karim spent a small fortune hiring forensic archaeologists to try to find out where the hospitals buried the bodies.’
Borgia’s eyes widened, surprised and possibly offended. ‘Karim,’ he said, his voice rising, ‘was helping that murdering whore the world knew as Theresa Herrera find her precious little boy. Karim was helping to hide you all these years – you, a murdering psychopath who had helped to orchestrate a secret mass murder. Karim protected you, the Bureau protected their murderers – gave them new identities, relocated them, paid for everything – and who helped me and the others? Who protected us? Nobody. Nobody helped us and nobody was looking out for us. Karim deserves to die, you deserve to die – the whole goddamn murdering lot of you needs to be punished for what you did. And you’re going to tell me, right now, where you buried the bodies.’
Fletcher said nothing, mesmerized by Borgia’s psychotic breakdown.
Borgia kicked the kennel door. ‘Where did you bury the bodies?’
Fletcher said nothing.
‘TELL ME!’ Another kick, another roar: ‘TELL ME WHERE YOU BURIED THE FUCKING BODIES!’
Beats of silence, and then Fletcher said, ‘Do you want the truth or your version of it?’
‘The truth,’ Borgia said, panting. ‘This has always been about the truth.’
‘Then I’ll tell you.’ Fletcher waited a moment before continuing. ‘Contrary to what you’ve been told, I had no involvement with the Behavioral Modification Project.’
Borgia backed away from the kennel door.
‘I didn’t bury any bodies,’ Fletcher said. ‘After the Bureau closed down the project, well after they shredded all the documentation and destroyed every last bit of evidence, I –’
Fletcher cut himself off when Borgia turned, raised the Glock and fired randomly into one of the kennels. Fletcher jumped to his feet, the ceiling’s web of chain link preventing him from standing upright, and he yelled as Borgia fired again.
‘Look at me.’
Borgia swung his attention back to him. ‘You made me do that,’ he said. ‘You killed them. Their deaths are on your hands because you keep lying.’
‘I’m telling you the truth.’ Fletcher’s ears were ringing from the gunshots. ‘I can’t tell you where the bodies are buried because I don’t know. The Bureau took measures to make sure the bodies would never be found – that no evidence or documentation regarding the project would ever be found.’
Borgia’s eyes were vacant, his grin vicious. ‘Marie was right. You are a monster. A liar and a monster, just like the rest of them.’
Fletcher was about to speak again when he heard a faint scream, the sound coming from the passageway. The scream was followed by a clear voice crying for help.
Borgia backed away from the cage and grabbed the cattle prod from the operating table.
‘I’m telling you the truth,’ Fletcher said.
‘The world will know soon enough what you did,’ Borgia said. He pointed the cattle prod at him and added, ‘And so help me God, you will tell me where you buried the bodies.’
Borgia stormed through the passageway. Fletcher sat back against the floor and grabbed his right boot.
81
Fletcher gave the heel of his boot a sharp twist. The seal broke. Quickly he unscrewed the heel. Now it was in his hands and he slid the compartment open, revealing the false bottom. Inside and set in the hardened, contoured plastic were lock picks and a small, five-inch folding knife.
The knife went into his mouth. Lock picks in hand, he threaded his fingers through the chain link, grabbed the padlock and went to work.
Jimmy Weeks had jumped to his feet when he heard the gunshots.
The police had found him. They had come in with guns ablazing and they were searching for him and they didn’t know where he was because he was locked alone inside this dark room. He sucked in a deep breath and screamed at the top of his lungs, screamed ‘HERE! HELP ME, I’M IN HERE!’
He stopped when he heard the deadlock for the big, heavy door snap back.
Jimmy swallowed, his throat raw, throbbing, and nearly collapsed in relief. He was alive, he had survived; he was going home to see his parents.
The lights for his room went on; the sudden brightness, as always, felt like needles flying into his eyes. He gripped the cage’s chain link as the big, heavy door swung open, and with his eyes slammed shut he screamed in relief and fear and, now, anger: ‘That crazy woman locked me inside here – there are other people in here, I heard them, they’re –’
Jimmy cut himself off when he heard an electric crackle. His eyes flew open but he couldn’t see much of anything. Something sharp and cold hit his neck and then a blast of lightning flew through his body like millions of tiny electrified bolts. His legs gave out and he collapsed against the floor. His muscles twitched in painful, uncontrollable spasms. He heard keys jingling and then the crackling sound came again and more bolts of lightning slammed into the back of his head and through his limbs and the scream died on his lips.
Marie Clouzot stood in one of the printing press’s ground-floor offices, undressing in the submarine glow of Brandon’s computer screen. She’d heard the gunshots; they were faint, coming from the basement. She knew what Alexander was trying to accomplish (and that was his name, Alexander Borgia, not Terence Davidson; they didn’t use their old names any more). Alexander believed he could convince the monster to tell him where he’d buried the other patients.
During the drive to Baltimore, she had reminded Alexander of the many doctors and nurses who had been caged inside the basement’s chain-link kennels over the years. True, some of them confessed to knowing full well that Namoxin was an experimental medicat
ion with many side effects. And, yes, two of the doctors had admitted to working in the secret Behavioral Modification Project. But none of them – not one single doctor or nurse, she reminded Alexander, would say where the bodies had been buried. They kept professing their ignorance of such matters before and after a hand or foot had been amputated. When they watched their sons and daughters being led to the operating table.
Alexander’s response was always the same: I have to try. Alexander could shoot the doctors and nurses rotting in their cages, he could march Jimmy Weeks into the operating room and torture the teenager in front of Malcolm Fletcher and nothing would come of it because Malcolm Fletcher was a psychopath – a devious and cunning psychopath who would rather die a horrible death than share his secrets. The man was without a conscience.
Alexander refused to let the matter go, and, finally, she threw up her hands in surrender. Do whatever you want, she’d told him. Just get me the hair. The company who crafted the beautiful diamonds on her necklace could, if cremated remains weren’t available, create any size jewel using human hair. Alexander promised to grab a sample from Jimmy Weeks – and Malcolm Fletcher.
Marie slipped out of her trousers. She was going to change into the only piece of clothing she’d taken from the funeral home – a coveted black Chanel suit. Brandon had bought it for her, and, as much as she loved it (and she truly did), she had put the ensemble aside, wanting to preserve the delicate fabric for the day of her own funeral. No one would come, of course, except Brandon – provided he survived her.
Brandon was hunched over his laptop. Its screen held multiple windows, each one offering a different camera view of the basement. He was busy downloading the final set of videos. Years ago, as a surprise, he had purchased a commercial security-camera kit, complete with night vision and microphones. Every night before bed he’d hooked up the computer to the television, and together they would watch the wonderful movies. Sometimes she closed her eyes and listened only to the moaning, the pleas and cries for help. The unanswered prayers to God.
The movies were wonderful: the video quality was superb. When they had first started, Brandon recorded everything on videotapes and audiocassettes. During the day, she would listen to the audiocassettes on her Walkman while she was out and about, doing errands, while at work. At home, she would play them on the portable radio/cassette player. At night, she would fall asleep to the lovely voices. Sometimes she played the cassettes or videotapes while they made love.
Marie felt a sense of finality grip her. It was over – at least here in Baltimore. There were still other doctors and nurses living out their lives under new identities. Alexander wouldn’t be able to find them, however. He would disappear with her and Brandon, and Alexander Borgia would become just another one of Malcolm Fletcher’s many victims.
‘What the hell is he doing?’ Brandon nearly whispered the words.
Before she could ask, he had grabbed the wireless mouse. A click and he enlarged one of the camera windows. On the screen she saw Malcolm Fletcher pressed up against his cage door, his fingers threaded past the chain link and gripping the padlock.
Marie didn’t have to tell Brandon what to do. He had already turned back to the keyboard.
Fletcher felt the padlock spring free. He threaded it out of its clasp and it dropped against the floor. He took the knife out of his mouth.
‘Help me.’
The dry croak came from the sickly woman dressed in dirty jeans and a dark cotton T-shirt. The remaining fingers of her right hand gripped the chain link.
‘Help me,’ she croaked again. ‘Please.’
‘I’ll have you out of there momentarily,’ Fletcher whispered. He was standing outside his cage. ‘I need to secure the area –’
The sprinklers turned on, water raining down on him, on everything.
Not water.
Gasoline.
82
Fletcher’s eyes clamped shut. His mouth clamped shut and he heard the woman’s low scream as he turned and ran blindly through the spraying downpour of gasoline, heading towards the open door leading into the concrete hall.
The gasoline was no longer raining down on him. He stopped, gagging and gasping for air. Gasoline slid down his face and hair. He whisked it away. Some sort of gritty substance covered his fingers. He opened his eyes. They burned and everything in his field of vision was blurry – the bare bulbs hanging from the corridor’s ceiling, the doorway leading back into the operating theatre. Some of the people trapped in there were screaming, some were rattling the chain links.
Pop and hiss as a bright blue flame ignited on one of the pipes and clouds of flame exploded through the room in a series of white flashes and sparks. A loud rumble followed, and then a thick sheet of steel dropped from the top of the doorway and crashed against the floor, sealing off the room.
Screams erupted from behind the door and another scream erupted behind him. Fletcher turned, coughing on the gasoline fumes rising from his skin and clothing, the piercing, agonizing howls of the trapped victims trailing him as he staggered down the hall. He wiped at his face again. His vision had cleared slightly but his eyes continued to burn and tear. He brought the hand closer to his face and saw tiny rough particles the colour of dark chocolate covering his skin. Not sand. Sand wouldn’t be added to gasoline.
Fletcher heard the electric crackle of the cattle prod followed by another scream.
‘Stop fighting me, you little shit,’ Borgia hissed.
Marie had turned away from the computer screen, about to run, when Brandon clutched the meat of her arm and pulled her back.
‘Let me go,’ she screamed. ‘I’ve got to warn Alexander.’
Brandon was on his feet. ‘You’re not even dressed.’ He held on to her as he reached inside her handbag and came back with the 9-mm. ‘I’ll get Alexander. Go to the car.’
The hallway ended, turned to Fletcher’s left. Through his watery vision he could make out another doorway and, past it, another room containing the same dog kennels. Borgia was dragging a blond-haired man out of an open cage. Borgia clutched the back of the man’s hair and the man – a teenager – was fighting back.
Borgia hit the teenager with the cattle prod, tucking his Glock inside his pocket to keep his hands free.
Fletcher moved inside the room. Borgia, too focused on the teenager, didn’t see him until it was too late.
Fletcher didn’t use the knife; he landed a solid blow against the small man’s ear. Borgia dropped the cattle prod as he staggered. A kick and Fletcher sent him flying across the floor.
Borgia turned on to his side and reached inside his pocket for the Glock. Fletcher kicked the man in the face. The blow knocked him to the floor. Fletcher raised his foot and brought all of his weight down on Borgia’s neck and snapped it and Borgia lay still.
Fletcher grabbed the Glock and ejected the magazine clip. It contained eight hollow-tipped rounds. The teenager was curled up against the floor, whimpering, his shaking arms covering his head. Like Borgia, he wore mismatched clothing. No shoes, just woollen socks. There were no pipes hanging from the ceiling.
Fletcher moved to the teenager. ‘I’m going to bring you out of here,’ he whispered. ‘Take my hand. Stay behind me and stay quiet.’
Marie didn’t get dressed and she didn’t head to the car. She was sitting in Brandon’s chair, staring in disbelief at the computer screen. Malcolm Fletcher had escaped from his cage and now Alexander lay dead and the monster was talking to Jimmy Weeks.
Brandon. Marie jumped to her feet and reached for her handbag, almost knocking the laptop off the table. Brandon was heading down there to help Alexander and she had to warn him. She grabbed her cell and dialled his number, hoping to God he had it with him.
The phone rang. She looked back at the laptop and saw the monster hunched near the doorway leading into the hall. The phone rang a second time and she looked at another computer window, this one showing the hall. Brandon was creeping across the floor, heading towa
rds Fletcher. She realized her mistake and hung up.
It was too late. Brandon’s phone was ringing. She couldn’t hear it but she saw Brandon reach inside his pocket to shut it off. Fletcher had heard the ringing and she watched in horror as the monster turned the corner and shot Brandon dead. Brandon was dead. She screamed but couldn’t tear her eyes away from the computer screen. The monster picked up Brandon’s gun and removed Brandon’s phone and car keys. Brandon was dead, Alexander was dead, and the monster was creeping down the hall with Jimmy Weeks. If she stayed here she would die. The drums of explosives packed inside the basement would blow this building to smithereens. She couldn’t stop it; the timer had started as soon as Brandon typed the keys to start the fire to incinerate the bodies. Brandon had told her she had fifteen minutes.
Marie didn’t have time to finish dressing. She quickly slid into her coat and grabbed the computer, the wires coming undone as she fled the room. Brandon was dead and oh dear God did it hurt, but if she could beat the monster to the garage she could release the videos stored on Brandon’s computer and then the whole world would know.
83
As Fletcher crept up the stairwell of dimming light, listening for sounds and watching for shadows, his mind kept replaying the odd white flashes and sparks he’d seen before the fire had started. The answer drifted away, came back: a thermite reaction. The sand-like particles covering his hands, his hair and clothing, were either iron oxide or copper oxide.
When he saw the heavy steel door crashing down and sealing off the room, he knew: the basement chamber had been turned into a crematorium. Gasoline alone couldn’t turn human bones into dry fragments: it could reach a maximum temperature of only 560?°F. Destroying human bones required a temperature of between 1,400?°F and 1,800?°F. Gasoline mixed with a metal powder and a metal oxide, like the one covering his clothing and skin, created extremely high temperatures upwards of 2,500?°F. Such a temperature would also melt most of the medical equipment.