The Shadowed Mind

by Julie Cave

Dinah remembered what Lakeisha Tennant's fellow street kids had said about the man who'd gained her trust. They'd described him as having dead eyes.

  "Do you think he's the one who murdered Ben?" Notting asked, looking sick. "I was the one who introduced him to Ben. I feel responsible."

  "Nobody is responsible for this except the killer himself," said Dinah firmly.

  "It's one lead we're pursuing, among others," said Cage.

  They left the Reverend Notting then, who sat behind his desk looking pale and shaken, tearing at his cuticles frantically.

  "What do you think?" Cage asked, once they were outside.

  "I think it's a great way to earn someone's trust," said Dinah. "The first victim he befriends by being a non-threatening do-gooder. The second victim he pretends to take great interest in, maybe promising media time. Couple that with the cards left on the victim's bodies, we have too many coincidences. Furthermore, it would appear that the killer is leaving a message of some type on the bodies."

  "Are you suggesting a serial killer?" Cage asked, his eyes widening.

  "I don't know. I hope not. We'd better find him before he strikes again."

  Cage rubbed his eyes and sighed. "It's going to be a long day."

  ****

  Ella Barnett stared around her kitchen with a mixture of horror and resignation. The sheer amount of time she was spending with her father meant that she was neglecting many other areas of her life, including the housework. Now that he was watching television and seemed relatively happy, she knew she had to tackle either the kitchen or the laundry. She started with loading dishes into the dishwasher and had moved onto rinsing out the saucepans when the doorbell rang.

  Her first instinct was one of dread — what had her father done now? But as she trotted toward the front door, she saw the silhouette of his head, still sitting in his chair.

  Frowning, she opened the door and was surprised to see four friends from church standing on the front porch. She immediately felt guilty. She hadn't been to church for many months, after it had gotten too hard to take her father due to his constant disruptions during the service.

  "Hi! This is a surprise," she said, standing aside to let them in. She felt awkward and anxious that they would take one look at the house, wrinkle their noses in disgust, and leave. "Dad is watching television so let's go into the kitchen so we don't disturb him."

  She realized her mistake when she entered the kitchen — it still looked like a bomb had hit it.

  "Sorry about the mess," she said, face burning with embarrassment. "I was just cleaning it up."

  "Listen, Ella, that's why we're here," said one of the girls, whose name was Karen. "We've come to give you a break, not make you feel bad about your kitchen."

  "A break?" Ella could barely fathom what that even meant.

  "You go out, do something that you really want to do for yourself, and we'll take care of your father and clean up the house for you," said Karen. Her three companions nodded. "Or you can go upstairs and take a nap. It's completely up to you."

  Ella was immensely grateful, but she couldn't help but worry about her father. "What if Dad realizes I'm not here?" she said. "He can be hostile, even a bit scary."

  One of the young men spoke up. "I'm a nurse and I work with dementia patients every day. It's not a problem. I know exactly what to do."

  "Oh, great. Okay. You should probably know that he's very good at escaping," added Ella, trying to think of all the things they needed to know. "He…."

  Karen took Ella by the arm. "Margaret is coming over for a few hours, and knows about your situation. If we run into any trouble — which we won't — she'll know how to handle it."

  Ella nodded and realized she had to make the most of the opportunity. "Well, I have my cell phone with me. You can always call me. When should I be back?"

  "We all cleared our schedules for the day," said Karen. "So come back whenever you're ready."

  In the car, Ella drove aimlessly. With sudden and unexpected freedom, she didn't know what to do. She knew that she should have a haircut or restock the pantry, but she found herself cruising into the parking lot of the big park near her house.

  She followed the meandering pathway as it wound past the playground toward the large pond, home to several families of ducks. She tried not to think, instead watching other families play and laugh without a care in the world. She thought to herself that this must be like what having a real life would feel like. She was envious of the carefree laughter — she was willing to bet that those families weren't nursing their fathers toward death.

  Near the pond, she sat on a park bench and watched the ducks cleave paths smoothly through the water. She was always instantly struck by guilt when she resented her situation. Her father hadn't asked to contract Alzheimer's disease. If he'd had any control of his faculties, he would never have dreamed of behaving the way he did. It was an awful, vicious disease that robbed him of everything he held so dear — his own dignity, the ability to care for his family, and not the other way around. It was the last thing he would have chosen for himself.

  What am I going to do in the meantime? wondered Ella. Normally she worked as a freelance writer, submitting articles on specific deadlines. It had taken several years to establish a reputation as a reliable and talented writer. Now she was currently unable to meet deadlines, and so she hadn't worked much for a few months. She rarely left the house to talk to anybody. She didn't really have any other meaningful relationships that she could count on. She'd always been introverted, counting the number of good friends on one hand. But these days, she could count the number of good friends on no hands; she just didn't seem to have any anymore.

  It was possible, she discovered, to feel thoroughly resentful, angry, and guilty all at the same time. The worst feeling was guilt, knowing that if their roles had been reversed, her father would have cared for her completely selflessly. It wouldn't bother him to put his life on hold to care for a family member. It probably wouldn't have even entered his mind. What is wrong with me? she yelled silently at herself. How can I be so selfish and self-absorbed that I can even think about resenting Dad?

  "I don't mean to intrude, but are you okay?"

  The sudden voice next to her startled her. At some point, while she was deep in thought, a man in his late forties or early fifties had joined her on the bench.

  "Oh, thank you, but I'm fine," said Ella, embarrassed. There was no way — no way — she or anyone in her family would air their personal problems to a complete stranger.

  "You've been crying ever since I sat down," said the man gently.

  Ella brushed her hand over her cheek and found dampness there, much to her surprise. She hadn't even realized it — perhaps that meant that tears were so commonplace now that she didn't register them.

  "My father is very ill," she said after a few moments, surprising herself and her self-imposed creed of non-disclosure. "I take care of him."

  "I'm very sorry. That must be enormously difficult for you," he said with great empathy.

  Maybe it was the kindness the man showed her, or just the fact that Ella desperately needed someone to talk to, but she suddenly found herself spilling out everything from the details of her father's illness to the conflicting emotions waging war against each other inside her.

  The man listened intently, not interrupting, and making encouraging noises when Ella paused for breath.

  Finally, she sat back, took a deep breath, and said with great mortification, "Well, that's it. I'm done. Thanks for listening. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to dump it all on you. It's really not like me to do that."

  "Anytime," he said kindly. "It's a tough situation." They sat in silence for a few moments, and then he remarked, "If that ever happens to me, I want to be gone before the end, you know, before it gets really bad."

  "Unfortunately, Alzheimer's doesn't work that way," replied Ella.

  "Well, I'd sort it out myself. I wouldn't wait for the disease to run its course."r />
  Ella turned to him, shocked. "You'd commit suicide?"

  The man considered. "Well, I suppose ultimately that's what it would be. But I'd like to be surrounded by my family and friends, dying with dignity on my own terms."

  His words both intrigued and appalled Ella. "So you support euthanasia, do you?"

  "Yes, I do. What would your father have wanted, if he had the choice?"

  "He would not have supported suicide," said Ella stoutly. "He would follow God's will to the very end."

  "Is it God's will that he should suffer so terribly?" the man asked. "And by extension, that you should also suffer?"

  Ella didn't know how to reply. "I — I don't know," she admitted.

  "Wouldn't it be easier on everyone, if he'd had the chance to end it himself, before his illness became so bad? Death is inevitable anyway, right?"

  It would be easier, admitted Ella to herself, but that doesn't make it right. Why on earth did I get into this discussion with someone I don't even know?

  She stood, feeling uncomfortable. "Listen, I have to go," she said. "Thanks for the listening ear."

  "Just think about what I've said," he said, as she turned to go. "Surely God wouldn't want anyone to suffer so much!"

  Ella felt the sudden urge to go home to her father. She felt contaminated by the words of the stranger and disoriented by the unwelcome emotions they stirred.

  When she arrived home, the four visitors were cleaning the house and her father remained in his chair, glued to the television. Ella rushed over to him and hugged him fiercely. "I love you, Dad."

  "I love you, too," he replied, kindly. Ella searched his eyes for recognition. "Even though I have no idea who you are," he added.

  Ella sighed.

  ****

  The killer moved with purpose and precision. He felt untouchable, cunning, and alive. His mission was succeeding beyond his wildest dreams, and he felt he could conceivably keep moving on the fringes of society as long as he dared.

  Although, he had to admit, he was starting to feel the first pang of frustration. He had a specific target in mind for his next victim, and he just couldn't find one. It was irritating that the homeless were so wary. Perhaps they could see in him what others could not, he reflected. It didn't help that he'd narrowed his target to exclude any with mental illness or drug addiction. He'd already proven those points. He was after a perfectly lucid, perfectly competent homeless person who had ended up that way due to a series of bad choices.

  The killer parked the white van under a street light and climbed out into the balmy night. The van proclaimed that he represented the Drug Response Team, and that free coffee, sandwiches, and blankets were offered. The Drug Response Team was a real, non-profit organization that worked at the forefront of homelessness — offering immediate supplies, health services and referrals, and drug treatment options. For tonight's purposes, he was an imposter, although he really did offer coffee and sandwiches. No one could ever accuse him of being unprepared.

  Eventually, they came out of the shadows. Some took the food and scurried away, almost as if they were afraid of being seen under light. Others stayed for a long chat. It was those the killer canvassed, searching their history as much as they'd allow.

  After what seemed like hours of pointless, mind-numbing conversations with people he considered to be completely useless to society, a seed of hope flowered in him as he watched a woman walk quickly toward the van. She looked to be in the mid-thirties, was white, and had shoulder-length brown hair that was in need of a wash. She was small and thin, and she moved with downcast eyes, trying not to attract attention. The killer immediately sensed in her a vulnerability that could be manipulated. This woman was used to being a victim, he thought.

  She stood to the side, waiting for others to finish their drinks and wander away. Only then did she approach and say quietly, "Could I please have a coffee and a sandwich?" She did not look at him.

  The killer bestowed on her a beaming smile. "Of course. My name is John and I am here to help you in any way I can."

  She glanced up and gave a quick, nervous smile. "I'm Ashleigh."

  She accepted the coffee and sandwich and whispered her thanks. She was about to leave, which alarmed the killer. He knew he had to find out more about her.

  "Where do you currently live?" he asked, in the warm tone of one who cares about such things.

  "Uh, over there," she said, with a vague wave of her hand. He could tell she was ashamed of it and didn't want to talk about it.

  "Are you safe?" he asked.

  She shrugged. "I think I'm about as safe as I can be."

  "Is there nobody in your family who can help?" he asked. "We have resources to help find and contact family members."

  She laughed bitterly. "I don't have any family. At least none that care enough to help."

  How wonderful, thought the killer.

  "Do you have a job?" In his research, the killer had discovered that having a job did not necessarily protect one from poverty and homelessness. Many people who worked for minimum wage struggled to meet living expenses, including rent.

  "Not yet. I just moved here." She didn't stop eating to talk and spoke around a mouthful of food. "Economy isn't so good."

  "It's tough," agreed the killer. "Why did you move here?"

  Ashleigh shrugged. "Met a guy on the Internet."

  "You moved here to be with him?"

  "Used all my savings on a bus ticket up here," she said. "Turns out he's married, not interested in me in real life."

  She spoke almost dispassionately, as if she were used to being betrayed and disappointed by life.

  "What sort of job are you looking for?" he asked.

  "Anything," she said, looking hungrily at another package of sandwiches. The killer gave them to her. "I used to waitress, tend bar, clean, whatever."

  "I'll keep my eyes open for anything that comes up," the killer lied. "I'm sure we can find something for you to do."

  "Really?" Ashleigh looked at him, eyes narrowed, at once both wary and hopeful. "You'd do that for me?"

  "Sure. I'm here to help," said the killer.

  "What's in it for you?" she asked, obviously used to giving away much more than she had ever received.

  You have no idea.

  "I do this because I like to help people," he said. "It gives me a lot of satisfaction."

  And that was how easy it was to convince her to trust him. She was a woman so wearied by the burden of her life that she desperately clung to any attention or affection thrown her way. He was willing to bet everything he owned that her childhood had been marked by episodes of abuse and neglect.

  "I'll be back here tomorrow night," he told her. "I'll have more food and bring some more things you might need. Will you be here?"

  She shrugged. "I guess. I don't have anywhere else to go."

  He shot her what he hoped was a warm smile.

  Chapter 6

  It was late when Dinah arrived home that evening and she was exhausted, but she couldn't turn off her mind. She had a burning need to continue with the investigation, to use all the hours in the day to find the killer. It was like an itch that can't be scratched.

  While she made toast and coffee for dinner, she waited for her computer to boot up. The quote left on the body of Benjamin Steffan would be relatively easy to plug into a search engine and find out where it came from. The hard part would be figuring out what it meant to the killer.

  She entered the phrase into Google, and predictably there were thousands of hits. It didn't take long for her to discover that the famous Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes had uttered the phrase.

  Dinah frowned and read further. The phrase formed part of a decision of a case he'd presided over in 1927: Buck v. Bell. Dinah made a note to herself to find the original case and read it in its entirety, but for now the summary would do. Carrie Buck was a 17-year-old girl who was the first person to be involuntarily sterilized under new sterilization l
aws passed in Virginia in 1924. Carrie Buck was an unmarried mother, whose own mother was housed in an asylum for the feeble-minded. The authorities at the time deemed Buck to be a "probable potential parent of socially inadequate offspring," in the words of the legislation. A legal challenge was mounted on Buck's behalf to test the constitutional validity of the law. During the trial, Carrie Buck's daughter Vivian was examined by a sociologist of the Eugenics Record Office, who submitted findings to the court that the child was "not normal" and "below average." Based on these findings, the judge decided that Carrie Buck should be sterilized.

  Appeals followed, and finally the case reached the Supreme Court, with Buck's fate in the hands of Judge Oliver Wendell Holmes, who was himself apparently a student of eugenics. He concluded that "a deficient mother, daughter, and granddaughter" justified the need for sterilization. His decision included the quote found on the card on Steffan's body, word for word.

  Dinah rubbed her eyes. What on earth was eugenics? What did it have to do with an unmarried mother and an involuntary sterilization? She didn't understand what eugenics was or why sterilization laws even existed. So she continued to read.

  Eugenics flourished in the early part of the 20th century, reaching the height of its popularity in the 1920s. At first glance, it seemed to Dinah that proponents at the time sought to explain and treat social problems with scientific methods. Eugenicists argued that social problems were perpetuated in genetics, and therefore defective genes caused issues such as poverty, mental disability, alcoholism, criminality, and prostitution. The easiest method to deal with such problems was simply to disallow such individuals to have children. This belief brought about the introduction of sterilization laws in states, including California and Virginia, where sterilization of "defective" individuals was performed, usually on an involuntary basis.

  Dinah leaned back in her chair and shook her head. The ideas that society had accepted just because science told them to were astonishing, she thought. It seemed ludicrous now that people believed that defective genes caused poverty and crime; yet it was such a widely held belief at the time that legislation was passed to uphold those beliefs.