by Julie Cave
"What happened the night she died?" Cage asked. He carried a small notebook, but seemed to commit everything to memory.
"The player with scary eyes," one of the other girls said. "She had a deal with this dude. He'd pick her up and take her for coffee. Gave her some cash for eatin' a cheeseburger with him."
"How often did she do this?" Dinah asked.
"Every second night. We thought he was social worker or somethin'. Or that he was sweet on her."
"You get social workers or charity workers down here a lot?" Cage inquired.
"Sure," the girl shrugged. "Always tryin' to do deals with us. Helpin' us depends on what they want us to do in return."
"So she saw this guy the night she died?"
"He was with her; we never saw her again."
"What happened, exactly?" probed Cage. He watched them intently.
"He came cruisin' down the street…."
"In a car?"
"Nope. On his own legs, man." The girls smirked. "They went down there." She pointed behind her, in a southerly direction.
"And she would usually come back? How long were they gone for?" Cage pressed.
"Only gone a half hour. Always she would come back, talkin' about the money he gave her, and she could buy her stuff."
"Because she didn't have to do anything for it?" Dinah asked.
"Yeah, plus he bought her food, like a cheeseburger."
Dinah and Cage glanced at each other.
"So this guy, was he white or black?" Cage continued.
"White. Tall. Skinny. Scary eyes. That about it, man."
"What made his eyes scary?"
The girls considered. "They were dead, man," one of them finally said.
"Yeah, like, flat," chimed in another.
"He looked right through you, know what I'm sayin'?"
"What color were they?" asked Cage.
There were a few more moments of consideration. "Light," one said. "Maybe blue."
The other girls nodded emphatically.
Cage and Dinah glanced at each other, their run of questions complete. The girls stood, staring at Cage. Then one of them said, "Man, we be talkin' to you a whole 15 minutes."
Cage just smiled. "Girls, I'll bet you've got drugs on you, so be thankful I'm not busting you. Now be safe tonight, you hear?"
They pouted and groaned and then pranced away toward another evening of heartbreak.
"Well that narrows it down," said Dinah sardonically. "We're looking for a man with scary eyes."
Cage smiled. "Well, it's a start."
****
Senator David Winters couldn't think of a more apt place to hold the meeting. The little cabin, built in rural Virginia, smacked of a survivalist, anti-government kind of crazy. In fact, he decided it couldn't be rightly described as a cabin; in reality it was a bunker.
Worse still was the motley crew awaiting his arrival. He was dressed in a double-breasted woolen suit, silk tie, and gold and diamond cuff links. His audience wore a varied range of clothing, from military boots and black death-metal T-shirts to housewife aprons, and some feathered, hippie, boa thing wrapped around one woman's neck. Ordinarily, he wouldn't be seen dead with these kinds of people.
Yet they were his allies, for they needed each other. They called themselves the Movement, and nobody outside the group even knew they existed. Their mission was an insidious one: no overt attempts to achieve their goals. They wanted their society to change from the inside out, so subtly that nobody else would even realize it was happening. That was why they'd enlisted the help of Senator Winters, a man powerful enough to reach that end.
For the senator, who had access to power but was cash-poor, it helped tremendously that several members of the Movement were wealthy and could compensate him for his efforts in the Senate.
"He's here," a voice said in the midst of the group, and all turned to look at Senator Winters.
Suppressing his contempt and repulsion for these people, Winters gave a jaunty wave and went to the front of the room.
The leader of the group, a portly, ageing hippie named Eddie, stood with him and raised his arm in a salute not unlike the one the Nazis had adopted. "America must remain American," he intoned.
The group all returned the salute and repeated, "America must remain American."
Winters suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. For Pete's sake, he thought. These losers think that copying something one of their heroes, President Calvin Coolidge, said after signing an anti-immigration act, made them hardcore eugenicists. At least for now, they were concerned with another act, one they hoped Senator Winters would help pass.
Eddie then explained to the group, "For those who need a recap of what we're trying to achieve, Senator Winters will be helping us introduce a relaxation of the law surrounding assisted suicide. Senator?"
Winters took over. He spoke quickly, wanting to be able to leave as soon as possible. "As discussed, I've introduced a provision encompassing the following: all patients who express a desire to die must undergo counseling for a minimum period of time; the diagnosis of a terminal illness or condition must be confirmed by three specialist doctors; and any next-of-kin who wish to be present at the assisted suicide must also undergo counseling and sign an acknowledgement form. It will no longer be illegal to be present at a loved one's suicide."
"So it's been added to the Health Reform Bill without any disagreement?" Eddie asked.
"I can confirm that. As you know, the Health Reform Bill proposes an enormous upheaval to the current health system," Winters said. "There are a large number of areas within the health system facing change. That's the beauty of making sure we've inserted assisted suicide into this bill in particular. It's so huge that our little amendment is likely to be missed."
"What's the greatest hurdle you face?" Eddie inquired.
"If we can keep the media and the public unaware of it, the battle is half-won," replied Winters. "Senators are far more likely to vote for a bill if their electorate is either supportive or unaware of such a controversial issue."
"Which senators will you be able to get on board?" a woman named Susan Epping asked. She was the treasurer of the group and kept the finances in a vice-like grip. Winters reflected sourly to himself that getting the money out of her once the bill was passed would be the hardest part of his task.
"Most of the liberal senators will vote for the bill, given their support of the presidential desire to overhaul the health system. However, we can't forget that even these senators may come from a state where euthanasia is widely unsupported. A senator's first priority is getting re-elected, and this means following what the majority of his or her electorate wants. The last thing a senator wants to do is vote for this bill despite knowing that his electorate wouldn't support it, and then have it exposed in the media. So my main priority is to keep the assisted suicide section pretty low-key so that they don't even realize it's there. As for the conservatives, I think we can forget it. There would be very few conservative senators even willing to discuss the issue, let alone vote for it."
"But there will be senators who do read the whole bill, or have their staff do so," added Eddie. "So you may not be able to keep it as quiet as we would want."
"True," agreed Winters. He wished vehemently that Eddie wouldn't think or speak. "I have plans in place to deal with any eventuality, should it occur."
"What will you do if the conservatives or the media somehow find out about it?" someone else in the group asked. "Will it get back to us? It is vitally important that we operate in total secrecy."
Paranoid loser, thought Winters. Silently he cursed his cash flow problems.
"As I said, I have plans in place for any eventuality," he said finally. "The fewer people who know about them, the better."
"I'd have thought we would be in a position to know," grumbled Eddie. "Given our support of you?"
Winters knew the hidden meaning of that comment revolved around the money that would change hands. The k
nowledge that Winters was being paid was limited to a very few. Many of the members of the Movement were anti-capitalists and thought Winters should be helping them as a matter of principle. That was probably the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard.
He shrugged. "It's my way or the highway. I know the Senate; you don't. You'll have to trust me."
This was true. The Movement had no other way of accessing the Senate so directly.
The group wanted him to stick around to discuss some other ideas they had, but Winters couldn't think of anything worse. He declined and kept an expression of disgust off his face with only the greatest effort.
As he drove away, he entertained the thought of dousing the bunker with gasoline and setting fire to it at their next meeting so that he wouldn't have to deal with those people again.
Maybe once it's all over, he mused. The thought gave him a warm glow.
****
The killer arrived at the halfway house sporting a notebook, camera, and tape recorder, the necessary tools of any journalist. The director, Reverend Stephen Notting, was happy to get publicity for the place and so he had allowed the killer free reign.
His chosen prey, Ben Steffan, had readily agreed to talk to him about his illness and the struggles he was facing, proclaiming that he wasn't ashamed of his condition and that the public needed further education to eradicate the social stigma associated with mental illness.
The killer became so infuriated by Steffan's monologue that he nearly broke his neck right then and there. He managed to calm himself down and arrange a proper interview to be held in the common room of the halfway house.
Steffan was built like an ostrich, thought the killer as the other man led him into the common room. He had a long, skinny neck atop which sat a round, bobbing head complete with fluffy scraps of hair. His blue eyes were large and unblinking and his forehead permanently furrowed.
They sat at a long table and Steffan brought over two cups of coffee, which tasted awful. The killer slapped on a friendly, compassionate facial expression and opened his notebook.
"So," he began, "as the Reverend may have explained, my story is on this facility and those who live here. Basically I'm interested in why you're here, your experiences here, and what you plan to do when you leave. Your privacy will be as tightly controlled as you wish. Do you have any questions?"
Ben shook his head.
"Is it all right to turn this on?" The killer motioned toward the recorder.
Ben nodded.
The big staring eyes were starting to get to the killer. He cleared his throat. "So when and where did this all start?"
"I started to cycle downward from about the age of 15," Steffan told him. He spoke with the practiced air of someone who'd been to a lot of therapy and discussed his condition many times. "I didn't know what was wrong with me. I saw and heard things differently than my classmates. I found a level of complexity in our lessons that nobody else seemed to grasp. Yet I didn't understand the simplicity of what they were trying to teach me. My teachers were baffled — I was clearly intelligent and yet I was unable to learn. Anyway, I drifted through high school and started an art major at college. Art was a great outlet for me; I could put down on paper the things I saw in my head."
"Mmm-hmmm," said the killer, pretending to jot down notes. He watched the Adam's apple bob up and down on Steffan's skinny throat and dreamed of twisting it until he fell lifeless to the floor.
"I had my first psychotic break at 19," continued Steffan. "I found myself involuntarily committed to a psychiatric ward at the Washington hospital here in DC. I was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia."
"What does that mean?" the killer asked, his interest piqued despite himself.
"I suffer from auditory and visual hallucinations," explained Steffan. "Or as they say in the movies, I hear voices. I see things that aren't there. All the hallucinations try to convince me that I'm in danger or that those around me are trying to hurt me or that the government is hunting me. I have to work out what is real and what is false."
"Is that hard?"
"Without medication, it's impossible," said Steffan. "I would have a reasonable conversation with somebody only to learn that they didn't exist. So I would walk around not daring to speak to anybody, fearing that none of them existed. Then I would become paranoid that nobody except me existed and that I was all alone. The only way that could have happened was if the world had ended. That is my train of thinking, because my brain is constantly playing tricks on me."
"What medication do you take?"
"Anti-psychotics," said Steffan. "It tones down the hallucinations and helps me focus. But there are side effects." He held up his hands, which shook uncontrollably with tremors. On a sidetrack, he asked, "Did you know that schizophrenia is often inherited?"
Yes, I did, thought the killer. Why do you think I chose you?
"Looking back I can see my mother definitely suffered from it," confided Steffan. "She was undiagnosed and extremely unstable. She was a very scary person when I was a little kid. You just never knew what was coming next."
"Where is she now?"
"Oh, she committed suicide when I was 12," said Steffan. He blinked, but that was the only indication on his otherwise expressionless face that he felt any emotion over this revelation. "Did you know that the attempted suicide rate for schizophrenics is extremely high, up to 50 times higher than the rest of the population?"
"I didn't know that," admitted the killer. "What happened to the rest of your family?"
"Dad was pretty ill-equipped to deal with me and my brother on his own. We spent large chunks of time with relatives who would agree to look after us for a period, and then we'd move on when they got sick of us. When I was diagnosed, I think my father relived the trauma of his life with Mom and didn't want anything to do with me. He couldn't handle any more of it."
The killer actually made some notes — no mother, disjointed childhood, estranged father. Everything was going beautifully.
"So tell me about the three-strikes policy here," suggested the killer. "I understand you've already used up two strikes."
"One of the features of schizophrenia is the belief that there is actually nothing wrong," explained Steffan. "And the medications cause some pretty bad side-effects. So when I'm on medication, I feel fine and I can function normally, and I start to think that I've got it all under control and that I don't need the medication anymore. I stop taking it, which causes the hallucinations to flare up, and the paranoia sets in. I start to think that they're trying to poison me or implant microchips in my brain or something. I freak out and go AWOL. One of the biggest victories schizophrenics can have is to understand and accept that medication will be a daily part of their lives, for the rest of their lives. I don't think I've come to terms with that yet, which is why I've struck out twice."
"How fascinating," said the killer, thinking that for Ben Steffan it would cease to be a problem in the very near future. "Do you think there will be a third time?"
"I hope not," replied Ben. "This place has been really good for me. It's not just the medication I need, but also the insight and understanding that comes from therapy. Outside, I would never be able to afford the therapy I need. So I'm now determined not to go off my medication again."
"Great. You know, this is just so interesting," commented the killer, which wasn't a lie. "I hope you don't mind if I come back to speak to you some more?"
"Wow, I'm like, going to be famous!" said Ben, happily.
You certainly will be, but not for the reasons you think.
****
Dinah arrived back at her apartment in the early evening and set about trying to make dinner. She'd always been hopeless in the kitchen, but she had decided it was time to learn. It couldn't be that difficult.
Tonight she had a recipe for a basic chicken and vegetable stir fry, flavored with basil. Dinah carefully chopped up snow peas, sugar snap peas, and baby corn, added some diced chicken and stock, and left i
t to simmer. While it was on the stove, she picked up a copy of the photo of the boys that had been left on the body of Lakeisha Tennant.
The photo was black and white and so had to be several decades old. The way in which the boys were dressed supported that assumption. Their uniforms seemed to be heavy and non-descript, shapeless and ill-fitting. The two men who stood at either end were also unsmiling, and both wore identical uniforms that weren't much better than those of the boys.
Dinah frowned. If it was a school photo, it made sense that the boys wore uniforms — but why would the teachers all wear the same thing? It was understandable if the school was run by nuns or priests, but the uniform the two men wore was definitely not from a church. In fact, they looked almost military-like: old-fashioned combat boots, tunic-like jackets and heavy belts. Perhaps the facility was a military school or boot camp, like the ones where they send rebellious kids these days. Dinah considered it. It was certainly a possibility. She stared harder at the photo and noted that the boys all wore the same haircut, the classic bowl cut. It was possible that boys in that time all did have the same haircut, but there was something so identical about the boys that Dinah had a nagging suspicion they had their hair cut at the school. Was it perhaps a boarding school? Usually schools had a grade level and year plaque though. This photo had no such identifying markers.
Dinah drummed her fingers on the desk, thinking hard. How would she find out where the school was located and who the boys in the picture were? Or even what year the photo had been taken.
Suddenly the smoke alarm in the kitchen screeched into action, startling Dinah badly. Dinner! She rushed into the kitchen and saw a blackened, smoking mess leaking all over the stove and the air full of haze. Holding back several curse words that immediately came to mind, Dinah tried to put the ruined wok into the sink and burned her fingers. She yelled and felt her temper rise like steam escaping from a boiling kettle.