What didn’t sit well with Cooper was the story Marsh told. It was bizarre—of that there could be no doubt—but it wasn’t a lie. Cooper was as wily as they came; a veteran of over thirty years. He had a keen gift of seeing things from different perspectives that brought closure to even the most baffling of cold cases. And something told him that Jeremy Marsh was telling the truth. Or at least Marsh believed he was telling the truth.
That was the hunch Cooper was going on right now. And after some rudimentary checking into Marsh’s story, he had a few useful bits of information to support the theory that was slowly coming together in his head. He just needed a few more pieces in order to make it solid.
So as he walked slowly throughout the living room and took everything in—the full glass of whiskey on the coffee table, the rolled up sheets of an old term paper next to the glass, and most importantly, the open medical books riddled with yellow on specific parts of text—his theory began to gel. But it was only when Cooper took out his notebook and began scribbling onto the pad while looking at those medical books that everything solidified at once.
Cooper stared at what he had just written, eventually lowered the pen and notebook, sighed and said: “Son of a bitch.”
* * *
Jeremy waited alone in the interrogation room. Cooper and a second detective watched him from the two-way mirror.
“Has his story changed any?” Cooper asked.
“Nope. He must have told it ten times now. Not one word has changed.”
“I’m not surprised.” Cooper pinched the bridge of his nose, his usual chocolate skin now ashen.
“You okay, Coop?”
Cooper nodded, his eyes closed, his fingers still pinching his nose. “Just not looking forward to what I’m about to do.”
* * *
Cooper entered the interrogation room carrying a large cardboard box under his arm. He set the box on the floor, and sat across from Jeremy.
“How are you feeling?” Cooper asked.
The boy looked exhausted. His face was a milky-white; dark purple rimmed his eyes.
“Tired,” the boy said.
“How’s your head?”
The first officer on the scene had rendered Jeremy unconscious with his night stick when he saw the bloodied cricket bat ascend for the umpteenth blow.
“Sore.”
“Jeremy, I’ve got your confession. I’ve heard it several times now. So have the other detectives. The reason I’m—”
“Officer, I know what I did was wrong. I committed premeditated murder. I won’t ever deny that. But it was either me or him. If I didn’t get Tate, he would have eventually gotten me…just like he got my mother.”
Cooper dipped to one side and pulled a photograph from the box on the floor. He slid it across the table to Jeremy.
“You know who that is, Jeremy?”
Jeremy looked at it. “It’s the man I killed tonight. His name is Dr. Tate. He works at the VA hospital where my mother worked.”
Cooper breathed in deep and slow. “His name was Arnold Becker. He was a retired school teacher.”
“What?”
“His name was Arnold—”
“Are you telling me I killed the wrong man? Or did…holy shit…” He looked away, went into a brief daze, blinked and looked back. “Did Fallon set me up?”
Cooper said nothing. He dipped to one side again. This time he pulled the rolled up papers and Jeremy’s school books from the box. He smoothed out the papers then opened to the pages in the medical books marked with highlighter.
Cooper slid the papers to Jeremy first. “What is this, Jeremy?”
Jeremy took the papers but didn’t look at them. “Those are the documents Fallon gave me.”
“And you read them?”
“Yeah.”
“And you claim they revealed information about chemical warfare, using veterans as test subjects?”
“That’s right.”
“It’s an old term paper you wrote in medical school, Jeremy. There’s nothing in there about chemical warfare and experimental testing.”
“Huh?” Jeremy whipped his head down onto the paper. His eyes raced feverishly over the text. “Are you blind?” He thrust the papers back at Cooper and pointed at them. “It’s all right there.”
Cooper took the papers, did not look at them, and slid the open medical books towards Jeremy. The books were open to various chapters on the human brain. “Look at what you have highlighted here, Jeremy. The sections deal specifically with the cause and effects of schizophrenia. You highlighted the words ‘frontal lobe’ repeatedly.”
“So? So?”
“People who suffer from schizophrenia see a gradual deterioration of the frontal lobe in the brain,” Cooper said.
“I know that. I know all about that.”
“I know you do. And it took me awhile to get it. And I don’t think you were consciously aware that Bret Fallon—Bret O Fallon—is an anagram for frontal lobe.” Cooper showed Jeremy what he had scribbled in his notebook the night he was in Anne Marsh’s living room. The word ‘frontal lobe’ had been written then rearranged numerous times until it spelled out ‘Bret O Fallon.’
Jeremy’s mouth fell open a crack.
“Even your story about the chemical warfare makes sense, Jeremy—Fallon, like the frontal lobe in patients with schizophrenia, was deteriorating. Your subconscious concocted a story to accommodate your visual and auditory hallucinations.”
Jeremy finally spoke. “You are out of your—”
“There is no Bret Oliver Fallon, Jeremy. He exists only in your mind.”
“Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.”
“Jeremy, the symptoms of schizophrenia usually don’t become prevalent until well into the late teens—sometimes the early twenties. It’s not uncommon for a traumatic event to trigger those symptoms. In your case the loss of your mother was too much to bear. You unknowingly developed the entire conspiracy idea and created Bret Fallon from your existing knowledge of psychology and the brain.”
Jeremy barked out a laugh. “So Fallon isn’t real, huh? Well then do me a favor and go down to Frank’s Tavern on Chestnut and check with the bartender there. I’m sure he wouldn’t forget a face like that. Oh, and check the phone record of the Bluetooth! I’m sure—”
“We did go to Frank’s Tavern, Jeremy. The bartender remembers. He remembers you…talking to yourself for fifteen minutes. He said you were alone.”
Jeremy opened his mouth but Cooper kept going.
“As for the Bluetooth…?” Cooper said. “It didn’t even have a battery in it when we took it from you, Jeremy.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not lying.”
“My cell phone,” Jeremy said, “not the Bluetooth, but my cell phone. It rang that night. There was a car with high beams and the phone rang and some guy wanted to know who I was and then he hung up and then—”
“We checked your phone records. You had no incoming calls that night.”
“But what about the car?”
“A guy outside a place like Frank’s Tavern with his high beams pointed at you? You’re lucky that’s all he pointed at you. Not the safest of neighborhoods.”
Jeremy lowered his head. When he brought it back up he looked like a child. “So what does all this mean?”
Cooper stared at Jeremy; there was a twinge of sorrow in the detective’s eyes. “It means you murdered an innocent man, son. You’re very sick…you’re very sick and you need help.”
Jeremy looked at the two-way mirror, then at Cooper, back at the mirror, then finally Cooper again. His last words before he clammed up for the night were: “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe any of this. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were one of the higher powers Fallon was talking about.”
6
Cooper made it a point to visit Jeremy in the forensic unit at the state hospital two weeks later. They sat across from one another in the lounge area not far from Jeremy�
�s room. Each man had a cup of coffee.
“How are you feeling?” Cooper asked.
“Not too good.”
“I understand they’re treating you with Haldol.”
“That’s right. I used to read about it in books—never thought I’d end up taking it.”
“Any recurring doubts?” Cooper asked.
Jeremy sipped his coffee then stared at the cup as he answered. “No. I know Fallon wasn’t real. I know I murdered an innocent man.”
“You weren’t well at the time, Jeremy. I’m not justifying what you did, but you have to understand that you were very sick when it happened.”
He kept his head down. “I know.”
Cooper reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the Bluetooth. He set in on the table between the two of them and gauged Jeremy’s reaction. “It’s over now. With proper treatment you can get better.”
Jeremy picked up the Bluetooth and clicked it open. There was no battery inside. “I heard a man’s voice in this.”
“I know.”
Jeremy clicked the battery compartment shut. “Can I keep this?”
“It’s evidence.”
“Then why did you bring it?”
Cooper succumbed to a smirk. “A little test I suppose. Guess I’m always on the clock.”
Jeremy smiled. Then his face went flat. “I’m a murderer.”
“But when you thought it was your mother’s killer?”
Jeremy shrugged. “It felt right then. But now? I don’t know if I can live with this.”
“Give it time.” Cooper sipped the remainder of his coffee, stood up, and pointed to the Bluetooth in Jeremy’s hand. “Tell you what—keep it. I’ll just say I lost it.” He tossed his coffee cup in the trash. “How ‘bout I drop by for another coffee sometime?”
Jeremy nodded. Cooper extended his hand. “Take care, Jeremy.”
“Goodbye, Detective Cooper.”
7
For the past four days Jeremy had been cheeking his medication and then flushing it at the first opportunity. When he felt ready, he returned to his room and took the Bluetooth out from under his mattress. He didn’t know why Cooper let him have it that day, but now he did. Cooper liked Jeremy; he was trying to protect him.
Jeremy fixed the device snug to his ear and took a deep breath. “Are you there?”
Fallon’s voice came through brilliantly. “I’m here, kid, I’m here.”
Jeremy smiled. “I’m not safe in here, am I?”
“No—Tate’s boys will find a way to get to you.”
Jeremy gave one hard emphatic nod. “Then I think I’m gonna need your help again.”
END
Job Interview
1
Monica Kemp stood and faced the table of prospective employers. Behind that table sat a man and a woman—middle-aged, meticulously groomed, straight-faced. They whispered to one another about Monica’s performance.
“Miss Kemp,” the woman began once the whispering was done, “your performance was exemplary. All areas—exemplary.”
Monica nodded. “Thank you.”
“Your training?”
“My father.”
The woman nodded approval. “You would be our youngest female asset.”
“That would be something,” Monica said.
“Assuming we take you on of course.”
“Of course.”
“If we did, you’d be in the two percentile of applicants we green-lighted for immediate assignment,” the man said.
Monica gave a polite smile. “I like to think there’s always more I can learn.”
“And there will be—more to learn.”
“Of course,” Monica said again.
“So,” the woman said, “that would leave us with the final hurdle.”
“The final hurdle?”
“What weeds out those ninety-eight percent,” the man said. “Despite stellar prerequisites like the ones you’ve exhibited today.”
“I’m confident,” Monica said.
“Most are.”
“Perception and moral flexibility,” the woman said.
“I’m sorry?”
“All of our applicants know what’s expected of them when they walk through these doors. More often than not, it is their moral compass that fails them when perception gets foggy.”
The man added: “Any decent asset can eliminate a target when they are certain it is the target. Most—ninety-eight percent—cannot when they are uncertain.” He splayed his hands. “Perception—” He brought his hands together with a soft clap “—and moral flexibility.”
“How’s your moral compass, Miss Kemp?” the woman asked.
“Your perception?” the man added.
“I guess we’ll see,” Monica said.
The man smirked. It was a smirk he’d no doubt given to dozens of confident applicants before him. There was a solitary landline on the table. The man picked up the receiver and said, “Send them in.”
2
Monica stayed put when the door opened. A line of five people—all of them gagged, cuffed from behind—were marched inside by a large man in a black suit. All five people stood next to one another against the furthest wall like a police lineup.
There were three men and two women in the group. All of them white, all of them dressed in identical gray sweats. One of the two women wept into her gag. One man’s head was tilted skyward, his eyes closed, appearing to be in prayer. The remaining three stared straight ahead with indifferent eyes.
“There are four innocent people standing over there, Miss Kemp,” the man at the table said. “One of them is not. The specifics to his or her guilt are irrelevant; it is not an asset’s job to question an assignment, only to carry it out with proficiency.”
The large man in the black suit stepped forward and handed Monica a pistol.
The woman at the table leaned forward. “Your target is in that lineup, Miss Kemp. So are four innocent people. We need to determine your sense of perception in identifying that guilty target, while reading your moral compass when it comes to the very real possibility of killing an innocent person.”
“Do you understand your assignment?” the man asked.
“Yes,” Monica said.
The man leaned back in his seat. “Whenever you’re ready then.”
Monica popped the clip on the Beretta she’d been given, checking to see if it was loaded. It was, and she popped the clip back home. She then considered the five people along the wall.
The one woman still wept into her gag. The man in prayer had since lowered his head and tried appealing to Monica through pleading eyes. The second woman dropped her head and kept her eyes on the floor. The remaining two men stared straight ahead, but avoided eye contact with their potential dispatcher.
Monica raised the gun and waved it down the line of five. All but one flinched: the woman who kept her eyes on the floor.
Monica smirked, and then shot all five until they were dead.
“My perception was that the target was confirmed to be in the lineup,” she said to her prospective employers. “I killed all five to ensure my target was dead.” Then, after handing the gun back to the big man in the black suit, she said: “And I have no moral compass.”
Monica got the job.
THE END
Get Off My Ass
1
“Get off my ass, fucker.”
“Arthur.”
“Sorry, Ma. Guy’s riding my butt.”
Maria Fannelli looked in her side view mirror. All headlights. Ever the optimist, she said, “Maybe they’re lost and trying to get your attention.”
“They’re not lost, Ma.”
Boom. High beams.
“Mother-fucker.”
“Arthur!”
Arty squinted into the rearview as he spoke. “Sorry, Ma, but come on, this is dangerous. I don’t like people pulling this stuff with you in the car.”
“Pull over and let them pass.”
“Maybe they need help.”
They’re gonna need some fucking help, he thought.
Horns now. Not one or two burps, but a long blare.
“Oh you gotta be fucking kidding me.”
Maria gave up chastising her son’s mouth and resorted to a sign of the cross on her chest instead. Finished his salvation, she said, “Pull over and let them pass, Arthur.”
Arty said and did nothing. Oh, God how I wish Mom was home and Jim was here. The things we would do to these people.
“It’s probably an emergency, Arthur.” Ever the optimist.
The high beams flickered now, horn wailing in five second intervals, nose inches from their bumper. With Jim in the car, Arty would have stomped the brakes, and then he and Jim would have stomped whatever pulse beat behind the wheel. The inevitable collision from such a sudden stop would have mattered little to the two brothers; the reward lying in wait would be more than enough compensation for a busted rear.
But Mom was in the car. This meant egg shells. Arty lifted his foot off the accelerator. There was a chance the high beams would swerve into the opposing lane and speed pass, but Arty’s gut felt otherwise; the hand on that horn wanted Arty to know he was incompetent. Arty even made a little bet with himself: some wealthy douchebag would be behind the wheel, the car a pricey one (high beams and night had obscured the model), and there would be a woman in the passenger seat. A bitch. As angry and as entitled as the driver.
When Arty eventually slowed to a stop on the shoulder of the road, the car slowed to a stop behind them. When the passengers emerged from the car, Arty smiled inside. He’d won his bet.
“Who the fuck taught you how to drive, man?” The kid looked mid-twenties, not fat, but well-fed. Handsome enough so that whoever had his arm that night didn’t have to think exclusively of his bank account in order to get wet. Arty spotted the kid’s watch as he pointed and threatened Arty. I could fetch you and Jim some damn good Eagles season tickets that watch said. The car was a black Mercedes, only the second or third trip out of the showroom from the looks of it.
WARPED: A Collection of Short Horror, Thriller, and Suspense Fiction Page 24