by Amy Cross
Paula smiles meekly, but it's clear that she's uncomfortable. After a moment, her gaze falls upon the Sam Gazade mug I'm clutching in my hands.
"Oh," I say, feeling a little embarrassed. "Yeah, this is... I wanted to buy an item that represents the full cultural storm that has descended on this place. I figure I could write a whole paper about this mug alone. Hell, maybe even a book!"
"It's..." she starts to say, but her voice trails off for a moment. "I didn't know they were selling mugs," she says eventually.
"How's the essay coming along?" I ask, figuring I should at least be polite.
"It's fine," she mutters, before adding something inaudible that I can't make out.
"Well," I continue, "I guess I should let you get on. Have fun, or whatever you're planning to do while you're here. Are you going to stay for the whole day?"
"The what?" she asks.
"Until midnight," I reply. "Are you going to stay until the big moment?"
"I don't know," she says. "I hadn't thought about it."
"Apparently there's going to be a choir," I reply with a smile, but it's clear that she's still in no mood to talk. "Maybe there'll even be burning pitchforks if you're lucky."
She mumbles a reply, but once again it's too quiet for me to understand.
As I walk back to my car, I start to feel a little dirty for having come down here. I could probably try to persuade myself that I'm taking an academic interest in the Sam Gazade case, and that I came here because I wanted to study the dynamics of such a highly polarized crowd. The truth, however, is that I came to gawk, just like everyone else. I might be a student of human nature, but I'm by no means immune to the impulses that affect everyone else. Sure, I'm not about to start waving a placard, but I guess that's partly because I don't really have a very strong opinion one way or the other. I'm blessed, in a way, by the fact that I can take a well-rounded approach to the whole thing, rather than being the victim of a burning determination to get any particular point across. I can't imagine what it would be like to have a strong opinion. As far as I'm concerned, the execution of Sam Gazade is a fascinating social and cultural phenomenon, but my interest is mostly academic, even if the five dollar mug showing Sam Gazade's face might suggest otherwise.
Paula Clarke, on the other hand... I can't help wondering what drove her to come down here for the big event, but I guess I shouldn't try to analyze her too much. After all, she's just one girl. One perfectly-timed, perfectly stupid girl.
Joanna Mason
"Mason! You in here?"
Leaning over the toilet, I let out a sigh. I've been kneeling in the stall for almost an hour, my body consumed by a feeling of desperate, gut-wrenching nausea. This is one of the side-effects that always hits when I've had a chemotherapy session. My body is reacting to the poison, and even though vomiting can't possibly help, I'm a victim of my stomach's turmoil. Occasionally, I stick two fingers down my throat and force myself to bring up some bile, but that's really only to make myself feel better. It's futile, in the end.
"I'm here," I call out, just as I hear Dawson letting the door swing shut.
"You okay?" he asks, pushing the door back open. "Mackenzie said you've been in here for ages."
"I'm fine," I reply, grabbing a piece of toilet paper and wiping my lips. I know I should get up and go out to face the world again, but I still feel as if I'm going to throw up at any moment. "Talk to me," I continue. "Tell me what's going on. Any news?"
"On the case?" He pauses. "Don't take this the wrong way, but this is the ladies' bathroom, so I'm just gonna wait outside until -"
"Is there anyone else in here?" I ask.
"Um, no, but -"
"Then stay," I tell him. "Just tell me the latest. I've got some kind of stomach bug, but I can still listen." I take a deep breath, which makes me feel a little better.
"It's just that I was thinking about the links between Edward Hunter's murder and the Sam Gazade case," he continues, sounding a little awkward. "Um, so, like you said, there are definitely too many coincidences for it to be, um, a coincidence, so the obvious conclusion is that someone is trying to copy Gazade, or maybe make some kind of statement. And if that's the case, then we need to be ready for the possibility that there might be... more."
I take another deep breath. Maybe, just maybe, the waves of nausea are starting to pass.
"Jo?" Dawson says. "You still there?"
"Gazade's second victim was found three days after the first," I reply, trying to sound stronger than I feel. "If we find another body in three days, we know we've got a serial copycat on our hands. Except... This isn't a regular copycat. This person is more clinical. It's almost like an experiment. I can't explain it, but something feels wrong. Different."
"So do you think..." He pauses.
"Do I think what?" I ask.
"Could Gazade himself be involved in all of this somehow?" he says. "I know it sounds crazy, but hear me out. What if, somehow, he's got some kind of apprentice situation going on? What if he's managed to communicate with someone, and he knows what's happening?"
"No way," I reply.
"Hear me out," he continues. "Gazade has been allowed to receive letters, right? And he's been allowed to send them too. Heavily vetted, of course. I mean, people go through his correspondence and look for anything inappropriate, but a guy like Gazade gets loads of mail from freaks all over the country. So... What if there's some kind of code hidden in the text? What if -"
"You're reading the situation all wrong," I say firmly. "This copycat isn't really a copycat. It's not someone who's trying to get inside Gazade's mind, it's more like..." I pause as another wave of nausea hits me. "It's more like this person is forcing himself, or herself, to go through the motions of everything Gazade did, like they're daring themselves to see if they've got the stomach to be a killer. But at the same time, they hate it. They're taking shortcuts so they can get to the end result as quickly as possible. Gazade tortured his victims. This killer just focuses on getting the job done with the minimal amount of fuss."
"So you don't think it'd help to go and talk to Gazade?" Dawson asks.
"Talk to him?" I pause to consider the lunacy of the idea. "Why the hell would it help to talk to him? The guy doesn't know anything about this. Hell, he probably isn't even aware of Edward Hunter's death. Until we release details to the media, which by the way would be a really bad idea in the current circumstances, the only person who knows what's happening is the killer. Don't over-complicate things by drawing Gazade back into the mix. You..." I stop speaking suddenly as I realize that something's wrong. I feel strange, as if I'm more confused than normal. "Fuck," I mutter, "just... I don't know, just don't..." I pause again. "This isn't a conventional copycat," I say finally, repeating the last idea that made any sense to me. Damn it, I can't talk right now. I'm drifting into one of those chemotherapy fogs again.
"Then what kind of copycat is it?" he asks.
"It's someone who doesn't want to be a copycat," I reply, hoping I can hold my thoughts together for a few more minutes. "It's someone who's driven by a different kind of impulse. Maybe someone..." I pause, as a million ideas race through my mind. I used to be so good at coming up with ideas and explanations, but these days the chemotherapy is affecting my ability to think properly. I keep hitting roadblocks in my mind, and my thoughts keep passing through clouds of nothingness that slow me down. "Maybe someone with an academic interest," I continue eventually. "Maybe someone killed Edward Hunter because they wanted to test whether they could do it, or they wanted to test something else, or..." I pause again. This is the point at which, in the old days, I'd have made a huge leap of logic that would have helped us to move the case forward; with the drugs in my system, however, I've come to a full stop. It's as if I can feel the limits of my mind.
"Okay," Dawson replies. "I guess we'll focus on the details of the Hunter case."
Silence.
"Do you mind if I ask you something?" he adds eventually.
"Shoot."
"Are you okay?"
"Stomach bug," I say, feeling as if I might bring up some more bile at any moment.
"Bullshit," he replies. "How many stomach bugs can one person have, Joanna? It's like you get one every other week." He waits for me to say something. "We've known each other for a while. I'd like to think that if there was something wrong, you'd tell me."
"There's nothing wrong," I say firmly, trying not to sound too annoyed. I've been expecting Dawson to start asking questions, and I've been aware for a while that he's been giving me suspicious looks. He knows me well enough to be concerned, and he also knows about my history. "Can't a woman vomit in peace these days?" I ask.
"It's not..." He pauses. "It's not back, is it?"
"No," I mutter.
"You'd tell me, right?" he continues. "If your cancer was back, you'd tell me."
"Of course," I lie.
"It's just that -"
"I'm fine!" I say, raising my voice a little. Damn it, I need to stay calm, otherwise he's going to be certain that something's wrong. "I guess I'm just unlucky," I continue. "I've got a sensitive stomach, and I ate a dodgy curry last night. It's not a big deal, and it's definitely not cancer. Do you seriously think I'd be able to keep cancer a secret? You saw how sick I got the last time."
"I guess," he replies. "Sorry. You know I was only asking 'cause I'm worried about you."
"Worry about giving me some privacy instead," I tell him, keen to get him out of here. "I'll be out soon and you can tell me how the case is going, and I can point out all the mistakes you're making. Until then, I just need to bring up this bad curry in peace and quiet, without an audience."
"Sure," he replies, and moments later I hear the door swing shut. Worried that he might be loitering, I lean down and look under the stall door, but sure enough I see that the rest of the bathroom is empty. Leaning back over the toilet bowl, I stare down at the water and realize that I can't keep going like this. There are only so many times I can claim to have food poisoning or a stomach bug before people like Dawson refuse to believe me. Still, I can't tell the truth. Not yet, anyway. I feel as if I need to keep everyone at arm's length, and the lie provides a barrier. Telling the whole truth would make me feel to bare and raw. Right now, I just need to get over this latest bout of nausea, and then I'll be okay. Until the next chemotherapy session, anyway. As I feel the fog start to settle in my mind, I realize that I just have to wait it out. These foggy moments never last too long, although they're definitely coming more frequently.
I'm starting to wonder if maybe I should just stop the chemotherapy altogether.
Dr. Alice Huston
"Nine hours," says a voice nearby.
Glancing over my shoulder, I find that Harry Gillespie has managed to sidle over to me without making a sound, and now he's grinning like an idiot. I'd hoped to get some peace and quiet in the campus library today, seeing as it's Saturday and most of the students should be sleeping off hangovers at home. I guess I hadn't counted on the fact that members of staff can be every bit as irritating as the student body.
"Don't tell me you're participating in the media frenzy," I mutter, turning back to my laptop screen.
"Seriously?" Harry replies, reaching over and grabbing my Sam Gazade mug. "You've got your coffee in this thing, and you're going to lecture me on post-modern social phenomena?" He holds the mug up to the light, before running the tip of his finger across the black and white image of Gazade's face. "This is cheap crap, Alice. It'll start coming off as soon as you wash it. Some guy was probably sticking these on in his garage last night. If you're gonna buy serial killer souvenirs, at least splash some cash for something that'll survive the dishwasher."
"I was just curious," I reply testily, unable to muster much enthusiasm for this conversation. "There was a guy selling all sorts of crap down at by the prison gates this morning and -" I stop immediately, as I realize I should never have admitted that I went to the prison.
"We'll make a culture vulture of you yet," he says, patting my shoulder. "You want to come out for a drink tonight? A few of us are heading down to that new sports bar by the river. We're hoping and praying that they'll show some actual sport, but likely as not they'll have the fucking news channels on all evening. Still, if you're gonna have a depressing night, you might as well get wasted in the process. Am I right?"
I sigh as I click through to one of the library's research portals.
"Am I right?" Harry asks again.
"You're right," I reply firmly. "In your limited context, at least."
"So you're not coming?"
"Sorry. I'm busy."
"Got a date?"
"No," I reply, sighing again. "No date. Just me."
"Going down to the prison gates again?"
"No!" I say firmly, although I immediately realize that my denial was a little too firm.
"Hey, there's no shame in it," he replies, holding up his hands. "That whole place is gonna be a fucking carnival of grotesque human squalor. Hell, depending on the night goes, the guys and I might just get wasted and come down to join you. I've never been wasted outside a prison gate while some nut-job gets executed. It might be a new experience. Something to tell the grandchildren one day, you know? When they ask where I was at the exact moment Sam Gazade was finished off, I can proudly tell 'em that I was standing outside the gate with a beer in my hand and a fucking great big grin on my face. How does that sound for a story, huh?"
"Perfect," I reply. "I'm sorry, Harry, but I have a lot of work to do today, and the library closes at five on Saturdays, so do you mind if I just..." I wait for him to get the message, but he seems more interested in leaning over and looking at my laptop screen. "Harry, I'm busy!" I say firmly.
"Fine," he mutters, turning and heading to the door. "Whatever. Give me a call if you change your mind about tonight, though. It'd be great to have you along while we're executing a few kegs, if you know what I mean."
Once he's left the room, I sit back and let out another sigh. A visit from Harry Gillespie was just about the last thing I wanted to deal with today, and now I'm totally out of sorts. Staring at the list of research journals on the laptop screen, I realize that Harry's comments have pretty much nixed any chance that I might get some work done. Although I'm tempted to see if I can push through the malaise, I figure my best bet might just be to accept the inevitable and call it a day. Besides, it's not entirely Harry's fault; ever since I was down at the prison this morning, I've been feeling a little strange, and that encounter with Paula Clarke didn't help. Everything just feels kind of weird right now, as if the entire town has fallen under some kind of strange spell as we get closer and closer to Gazade's execution. I can only hope that, once the man's dead and everyone calms down, things will get back to normal.
Just as I'm about to close my laptop down, another email arrives in my inbox, and to my surprise I see that it's a message from Paula Clarke. Opening it up, I'm surprised to find that she's already managed to make all the changes to her essay that I requested. Although I'm a little dubious that she could have got all that work completed so quickly, I decide to open the attachment and taken a look. If I'm lucky, she'll have got the essay back on track, and I won't have to worry so much about some of the stranger ideas she expounded last time, although -
As soon as the document opens, I feel a cold shiver pass through my body.
This is worse.
This is far, far worse.
I asked Paula to remove all the outlandish, provocative passages about violence and gender, and replace them with academic, properly-referenced discussions of the key texts and the issues raised by the essay title. Instead, she's removed all the other sections and merely added more of her thoughts on gender, albeit with some proper referencing this time. As I read through the essay, I can't help but be horrified that she could have misunderstood my request so thoroughly. Then again, she's clearly a smart student, so by the time I get to the end of the essay I
realize that she can't have failed to grasp what I told her; instead, this essay amounts to an act of provocation, and a deliberate attempt to push back against everything I told her. It's hard to believe that someone who's so mousy and quiet in person could have such a stubborn streak, but it's simply impossible to interpret this essay as being anything other than a hostile act of willful refusal to compromise. She's pushing me, testing to see how hard I'll push back. I honestly don't think I've ever experienced anything like this in my entire academic career.
As I start typing a response, I struggle to work out where to begin. Her central argument is that men have spent more than two thousand years treating women violently, and that the reason for this is that men and women must always be violent to one another. She goes on to suggest that as we continue to move through the twenty-first century, it's time for us as a species to reverse the balance; she suggests that women should rise up and use force to subjugate men and make them understand the impact of their previous behavior. Sure, the essay is well-sourced, and she brings in some useful quotes, but ultimately this whole piece of work is only tangentially linked to the original topic, and I'm left simmering with rage as I realize that she has completely ignored everything I told her. In the end, all I can do is write a few basic points and tell her to come to my office on Monday morning. At least that way, I'll have time to come up with a more considered approach.
Once I've sent the email, I sit back and try to take stock of this Paula Clarke girl. It's as if there are two sides to her: on the one hand, she's painfully shy and demure in person, to the point where she can barely function; on the other hand, her essay clearly demonstrates a trouble mind, and it's clear that although she takes time to present counter-points to her arguments, she truly believes everything she's written. It's hard not to come to the conclusion that she might be seriously unbalanced, and I'm left to wonder where, precisely, she might draw the line between thought and action. She's certainly angry, but I'm not sure whether she's able to take that anger and go further.