by Ike Hamill
This was a different kind of problem I brought to him though.
The conversation had to restart three or four times before he understood what I was getting at.
“I’m looking for a pattern in these dates.”
“What kind of pattern?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Then it won’t do you any good.”
“Pardon?”
“You’ve got four dates there,” he said. “I can find any number of patterns there, and I can also make a strong case that those dates are purely random. You don’t have a large enough sample to do yourself any good. You’ll need a hundred more dates. Then, I can find you a pattern.”
“But this has only happened four times, as far as I can tell.”
“Then you’ll have to wait,” he said. “Unless you can correlate some other variables.”
“Like what?”
“Do you have an idea of what caused the phenomenon on those dates?”
“No, that’s what I’m trying to investigate. But it’s really difficult to investigate if I can’t go watch it, and I can’t go watch it if I don’t know when it’s going to happen again.”
“It’s a little hard to speculate when I don’t even know what we’re talking about,” he said. “These dates are years apart. There could be any number of instigators.”
I paused at that. Jeremy was a man of logic, and he was never going to believe the theory bouncing around in my head. I barely believed it—that’s why I was investigating. But, I needed a confidant. Maybe a man of logic was exactly the person who could help me put this thing in the proper context. I decided to tell him what I knew.
“That’s nonsense,” he said.
“Right. I know. But, if it’s not, think of the possibilities.”
“For what?”
“For understanding the nature of man. For understanding the root of evil, and evil deeds. What if we find out that there’s something beyond free will that causes people to do evil? If we could find the source, then maybe we could help squelch the effect. Maybe we could decrease the amount of pain and suffering in the world.”
“Some people just have bad brain chemistry,” he said. “Other people were warped by the terrible cycle of circumstances in which they were raised. There’s no external force other than those that causes evil. Evil is not a thing, it’s just what we call antisocial behavior.”
“I know. Believe me, I know. But what if in some cases it’s not. Look at these men, and all the pain they’ve caused. Seventy-three murders—can you imagine how many ‘terrible cycles’ they were responsible for creating? Imagine the evil deeds they perpetrated as the effects spread out through the people they touched. Can you imagine how much pain and suffering came from their hands?”
Jeremy took a moment to process what I was saying. His response was slow and deliberate. “You’re right—they’ve caused terrible pain. You might be able to make a case that the criminal justice system had a hand in creating, or at least not recognizing, these monsters. That’s a far cry from your hypothesis.”
“But look,” I said. I had my folders with me. I fanned them out, letting him see all of the correspondence. “I’ve got letters from fifty inmates here. All of them were in contact with these four men before and after they stayed in that cell. They all describe the same changes.”
“Prisoners are locked in a tight, boring environment. Of course they would invent a mythology and spread it amongst themselves,” he said. But, as he was talking, he was looking through the letters. The dates of incarceration were very different—in four different clumps. Despite the time difference between the accounts, the language was very much the same. People used the words “inhabited,” “haunted,” and “possessed.” I even had a few letters from guards. They said the same things.
These four men, despite the fact that they were inmates, could pass for pretty normal guys. Then, at some point while staying in that cell, they became some of the most dangerous murderers the state has known. Reading the accounts of their crimes, one would think they were all committed by the same twisted mind. They all showed a reckless disdain for laws and human life. They seemed determined to cause mayhem and destroy happiness. And, they did it all with very little concern for their own well-being.
“The similarities are striking,” Jeremy said. “Did they just copy each other?”
“I’m sure it’s a possibility. My gut says no, though. Look at Al Hudson. He had the lowest body count, because he didn’t take any pains to hide his craziness. David Mitchell waited until he was paroled. On the outside, he was able to rack up quite a few more crimes before he was taken down again. If anything, he didn’t copy Al, he improved on him. It’s the same with Hopkins and Poole. But, even though they weren’t committing crimes right away, everyone seemed to see the change. With Mitchell, the parole board overlooked his recent change and judged him on his behavior before his hearing. One of the board members even said that Mitchell seemed disturbed, but that was probably due to stress in the face of his upcoming chance at parole. After that, they were much more careful about who they let out.”
I could tell that Jeremy was beginning to come over to my side. He still needed a bit more convincing.
“This is mostly observation. What’s your theory?”
“I try to remain objective until I’ve collected all the evidence, but if I had to go out on a limb…”
I paused. I don’t believe in ghosts, or possession. Sometimes it seems like the world is an easier place to navigate for the people who do. When they run across something they don’t understand, they can just wave their hands and blame it on God. Or, they can blame it on Satan. With people like me and Jeremy, it’s much harder to encounter something we truly don’t understand. My brain wants to classify everything, which doesn’t lead to the type of flexibility required to contain a phenomenon like evil.
“What if it’s a virus?” I ask. “Or, maybe it’s a fungus. There’s a fungus in South America that takes eight years to mature and produce spores. What if there’s something like that present in this cell, and when you inhale the spores, it makes you into a psychopath?”
“So we should be able to correlate against meteorological conditions,” he said. He was looking off towards the ceiling. I knew he was hooked.
“Perhaps,” I said. “Or maybe it’s some kind of magnetic field produced by the earth and somehow amplified by the local geography.”
“So we’re looking for low-frequency environmental conditions?”
“Maybe,” I said. Or demons, or leprechauns, or ghosts, but I don’t believe in those things.
Now that I’m in the cell, waiting to see what phenomenon will come, those dry conversations with Jeremy feel like they’re a million miles away. If I really had believed my own theory, would I have dared to come here tonight? Would I have risked my own sanity by staying in the cell that I theorized might be the spawn of evil?
I have one distinct advantage over The Big Four—I know what I’m up against. Ancient people were driven mad by the sight of an eclipse. Armed with the knowledge of celestial mechanics, modern viewers make sport of watching the moon pass in front of the sun. And, I have to admit, out in the real world it was difficult to fully believe my own theory. I needed to come here tonight, just to feel the place.
Looking across the aisle to the cell across the way, as the last light from the sun begins to fade, anything seems possible.
The sound from that cell is still there. I’m beginning to feel like I understand it a little more. To stick with the chalk analogy, as the sun goes down, it seems like the chalk is slowing. I’m hearing the subtle chatter of the piece of chalk scraping across the surface of the board. The sound isn’t entirely fluid. It stops and starts. It almost seems like there’s Morse code in there—little bursts of information encoded in that noise. If so, it seems like it’s not something I want to hear.
I’m humming to myself as I write. My subconscious brain wants to make e
nough noise to drown out the sound. I flip back through my notebook to see if I can find the reference. I knew it was there—on the night that Hopkins changed, his neighbors complained about the sound. They said he was singing to himself all night. Maybe that fact just got stuck in my brain, and that’s why I’m humming. I don’t think so. It seems more like I’m distracting myself so I won’t listen to the words.
I’m beginning to think I should yell for Fradeux. In a few hours, I could be back at home. My wife, Judith, and my beautiful boy, James, are back there, engrossed in our perfectly normal life. I should be there too. Any job that stands between me and the people I love should not be tolerated. At this moment, it seems like such an obvious truth. I can’t believe that I didn’t see it before.
I realize that the sun is gone. It’s below the horizon. I’ve got almost twelve hours until it comes up again, but Fradeux will be back to rescue me before then. I’m not sure I could make it twelve hours. I stop humming just to hear.
The sound is gone, but it comes back after a few seconds, like it was waiting for me to listen.
There are words there. It’s not just noise. I’m not sure how they know, but my ears are telling me that the origin of the sound is closer now, too. It’s coming from somewhere in the middle of the cell block. I should yell for Fradeux and see if he can hear the sound outside my cell. That would be cheating though. Nobody ever cracked a big story without the right amount of persistence and stamina. I’m not going to break at the first sign of adversity. Once I call Fradeux down here, I have the strong suspicion that he will end my experiment. He’s just looking for a reason to evacuate the cell once more and end his responsibility. The Superintendent of Prisons made it clear—the guards would not be held responsible for my well-being, but they would end the experiment at any time if they felt that I was in danger or causing a disruption.
Calling Fradeux away from his packing duties would certainly be a disruption.
It’s funny—the sound is made of words, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s the sound of someone speaking. I know this doesn’t make logical sense. There has to be a better way of describe it. Imagine a series of words, written on a page, and then communicated via sound, but not spoken. It’s like trying to describe what sad feels like, or how LSD changes your perception. There are no words which could describe the words. I can describe how they make me feel—disturbed, disquieted, uncomfortable, and unsettled come to mind. Insane also comes to mind.
I’m humming again. I’m humming and writing all this down, just in case it’s the record of my last sane thoughts.
CHAPTER 7: BALCONY
“SHESHAL DELIBERY,” BO SAID, as he summited the balcony with the bag in his mouth. He swung his legs over and handed the bag to James. “You can’t possibly be done with the last one already.”
“I poured it out,” James said.
“What? After I went to all that trouble to bring it to you?”
“I’m sorry.”
Bo laughed. “I’m just kidding you. The liquor store is right on my way home. Anyway, this stuff probably makes better drain cleaner than beverage. I don’t mind taking a cut of my profits and buying you a slightly better grade of rotgut.”
“No, thanks,” James said.
“Did you write anything good last night?”
“No,” James said. In fact, he had written terrible things. He had chosen a thick story, hoping to lose himself in the flurry of words and let his hand fly a little faster. Sometimes his father’s descriptions were almost pretty enough that he could forget the gruesome events they depicted. It was like looking at a beautifully composed black and white photo of a war scene. The grace of the blocking almost overshadowed the horror of the material. But even his father couldn’t lighten the mood of the terrible rape and murder he had documented.
It took a second for Bo to realize that James was not going to elaborate on his single-word answer.
“Okay. Well, I had a pretty decent night. I hooked up online with a wonderful young man from Florida,” Bo said.
“Wait, what happened to Jeff?”
“Jeff is still Jeff. Bo is still Bo. The way I figure it, online doesn’t count on my permanent record. If there’s no physical contact, I’m not even obligated to divulge it to Jeff.”
James smiled. “Does Jeff know about this rule?”
“I’m not sure I’m even obligated to divulge the rule.”
James laughed.
“I’m too young for rules, anyway. Long-term, exclusive relationships are not my forte, and I’m very open about that.”
“I thought you said you wanted to have kids some day.”
“No, if you recall correctly, you’re the one who said I would make a good father. I merely agreed with you. I may or may not decide to have kids, and when I get to that point, I may decide to revise my policy on monogamy. I don’t think the concepts of parenting and monogamy necessarily go together though.”
“Huh,” James said. “Don’t you think a kid deserves a stable family with consistency?”
“I suppose. I’m not sure I understand why that’s hand in hand with monogamy. Can’t two or more people bond together with the common cause of raising children without being sexually exclusive?”
“I think sex is supposed to reinforce the bond between people, so they have a way to resolve conflict. If you can get gratification elsewhere, then maybe there’s less reason to settle your differences with your partner.”
“That’s interesting,” Bo said. “I’ll have to think about that. There have definitely been times in the past when I’ve held back on saying something mean because I wanted to get laid. Maybe you have a point. Doesn’t a healthy relationship involve airing grievances to resolve them? If you just pave over your conflict in hopes of getting some, then aren’t you doing the relationship a disservice?”
“I think we’re out of my depth,” James said. “Were you on the debate team in high school?”
“I was,” Bo said. “How did you guess?”
James laughed. “It’s just how efficiently you changed your tone there. You sounded like a politician there for a second.”
“I’ll take that as an insult,” Bo said, smiling. “So how about you? Where’s Mrs. James Cheap-Gin, and your two-and-a-half kids?”
James shook his head. “I’m not a relationship guy, unfortunately.”
“What does that mean?” Bo asked.
James took a second before he answered. He looked up towards the underside of the tree branches overhead. “I guess I just don’t have the time. Work takes up everything.”
Bo shook his head. “What’s the point of that? You really get that much satisfaction out of your work?”
“It’s important,” James said.
“Important? Or important to you?”
“What’s the difference?” James asked.
“Before I answer that—are you going to break out that gin, or what?”
“Oh, sorry,” James said. He took the bottle from the brown bag and twisted the cap. “Let me go get you a glass.”
“No need,” Bo said. He straightened his legs and reached into the front pocket of his baggy jeans. James was amazed to see him pull a can of beer from the pocket and then slump back in his chair.
James laughed. “How long have you been carrying that around?”
“I picked it up at lunch,” Bo said. He cracked it open and tipped it up for a giant gulp. “It’s unwieldy to walk around with a can in your pocket, but it’s comforting. It reminds me that I get to go home soon. I don’t work tomorrow, so Thursday is my Friday. Besides, I like it warm.”
James took a pull from his bottle of gin. He knew that he was hardly going to make a dent in it before he dumped the rest down the drain. It would be a lot cheaper and less wasteful to ask Bo to pick up one or two of those little airplane bottles. But that would feel too limiting. He didn’t mind restricting himself, but he didn’t want to have an artificial limit on how much he could imbibe.
“You like to take your time and really enjoy it, I see.”
“I don’t drink for pleasure, just for the effect,” Bo said with a smile.
“You were going to tell me—what’s the difference between a job that’s important and one that’s important to me?”
“Oh, right,” Bo said. “I guess I’m asking—are you doing your job for a higher purpose, like the good of humanity, or just because you get something deeply satisfying out of it?”
“Oh,” James said. He took another swig of gin and let it slip down his throat, burning the whole way. “It’s a job that has to be done. Not just for me. Why do you ask?”
“If you don’t mind me saying,” Bo said, “you look like you’re carrying a lot of weight on your shoulders. In my limited experience, that kind of weight isn’t usually self-imposed. You’ve been tasked with something big, and you’re struggling to endure it because you think it’s necessary. You look like you’re sacrificing yourself for a higher purpose.”
James frowned and nodded. “You’re pretty perceptive for someone so self-involved.”
Bo tilted his head back and laughed. “I can tell you’re not from around here. People around here don’t bust balls like that. You’re lucky I like you.”
James smiled.
“I can see that I’m not going to get any information out of you through interrogation. I’ll just have to deduce your secrets using my superior intellect. You know, around here we have a surefire way of getting information on newcomers.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Works every time,” Bo said. “You know how we find out someone’s secrets?”