The Dead and the Dying

by Amy Cross

  Taking the shovel, Paula looks around for a moment, as if she can't quite decide where to start digging. I swear to God, there's something deeply wrong with this girl. It's as if she veers constantly between anger and blankness; at the campus, she can be quite aggressive when she's defending her arguments, but right now it's as if she's in a complete daze. Then again, I guess I understand her predicament. After all, she believes she killed the old man, which has to be enough to knock her off-kilter. It's crazy to see how easily she's bought into the idea that she suffered some kind of blackout, but I guess she's learned over the years not to rely on her own senses.

  "Tell me about yourself," I say, watching as she tentatively starts digging a grave in the forest floor. The truth is, I've already spent plenty of time looking into Paula's background, but I need to hear it all from her own lips. I need to know her version of the truth. "At the risk of sounding like a cliche, Paula, tell me about your parents."

  She glances at me, and it's clear that's feeling uncomfortable.

  "Tell me about your mother," I continue. "What's she like?"

  "I live with her," she replies, struggling to break the hard, dry soil. "We live together."

  "Just the pair of you?"

  She nods. "During term-time I have a room in a shared house, but every vacation I go back to my mother's place in Chicago. I don't like leaving her there for too long. She's not very good at looking after herself, and I don't have any brothers or sisters."

  "What's wrong with her?" I ask. "Alzheimer's?"

  "Maybe. She's just a bit vague sometimes."

  "And your father?"

  "He left when I was a kid."

  "Don't you have any contact with him?"

  She lets out a gasp as she finally gets the head of the spade deep into the soil, and with great effort she manages to properly break ground for the first time.

  "My father's not relevant to my life," she says eventually, as she continues to dig. She seems very calm and clinical, as if she's excised the man from her knife with surgical precision. "He made sure of that when he ran away with a younger woman and left my mother to raise me alone. It's his fault that..." She pauses for a moment, as if she's worried she's said too much. "He's a deadbeat," she adds eventually. "He's not a good person to have around. I'm lucky that he left and that my mother was able to raise me properly."

  "When you say that he's a deadbeat -"

  "He left my mother and started a new family somewhere else," she continues, with obvious bitterness in her voice. "He doesn't like us to mix. I've seen him a couple of times, but I've never met his new family. My mother says it's because he's ashamed of me, and she's probably right. He's just a misogynistic asshole and he doesn't deserve to be treated like a real person. He's worse than shit."

  I smile as she continues to dig. That little speech about her father was too neat, and too well-rehearsed, to be natural. In fact, I can't shake the feeling that it must have been drilled into her from an early age. I know I shouldn't draw too many early conclusions, but it's clear that someone has done a number on this girl's head, leaving her with some serious emotional issues. I suspected that she was troubled, and that's why I started following her and coming up with a plan to use her difficulties for my own ends, but I'm still shocked by just how badly damaged she seems to be. It's a wonder she can function in society at all.

  "Your secret's safe with me, you know," I continue. "If I was going to call the police or report what you did in any way, I'd have done it by now. I wish I could have got there in time to stop you, but I wasn't quick enough. Still, maybe it would have been wrong of me to interfere. I want to be more of an observer than a participant, Paula. I guess my background in sociological study means that I like to watch other people doing things, rather than getting dirty myself."

  "It's fine," she murmurs, putting most of her effort into the task of digging a grave. It's clear that she's struggling, and that she's not used to manual labor, but I'm enjoying watching her determined perseverance. Despite all her flaws, she seems to have a degree of inner strength, and I'm starting to think that I was right when I saw her potential. She's everything I need, and more. It's little short of a miracle that such a pliable young woman has wandered into my path at such an opportune time. If I didn't know better, I'd suspect that divine intervention had delivered this dark little angel into my hands.

  "Why have you been killing people?" I ask.

  She stops and turns to me. "I haven't been -"

  "You've killed three people," I say, interrupting her. "Don't deny it, Paula. I've been keeping an eye on you and I know exactly what you've done. First you killed a man named Edward Hunter, and then you killed a man named Patrick Donnelly, and then last night you killed Sam Pressman. Don't even try to claim that you didn't, Paula. I watched you all three times, and in case you haven't noticed, you're digging Mr. Pressman's grave as we speak."

  Looking down at the hole she's managed to dig so far, Paula seems momentarily stunned, as if she can't quite work out what's happening to her. Still, in her addled state, she seems to be at least considering the possibility that she might have been committing these murders. As soon as I saw the drugs she was taking for her emotional problems, I knew that she'd be experiencing periods of fuzzy recall, and sure enough I'm finding it pathetically easy to instill dark ideas to bridge the gaps in her consciousness.

  "You don't remember?" I ask.

  "I don't see how I could forget something like that," she says uncertainly.

  "But you believe me, don't you?"

  She pauses, and it's clear that I haven't quite sealed the deal yet.

  "What is it about Sam Gazade that interests you so much?" I ask.

  "Gazade? He..." she pauses for a moment.

  "You're recreating his murders," I continue. "You're going through them one by one, and you're recreating them with absolute precision, except you're changing the genders. He killed women, and you're killing men. Plus, Sam Pressman's not part of the chain. He's an extra death, but Hunter and Donnelly's deaths were perfect copies of everything that Gazade did twelve years ago." I walk over and look down into the shallow ditch that she's managed to dig so far. "It's just that your victims have penises, whereas his had vaginas. That makes me wonder about you, Paula. It's as if you're trying to make some kind of point about gender, or maybe you're just filled with hatred for men, but either way, there's no doubt about it."

  "I haven't killed anyone," she says, as if she's trying to convince herself. "I swear..."

  "You've not only killed them," I continue, realizing that I just need to apply a little more pressure. "You've also tortured them. You've been copying Sam Gazade's work to the letter, and you've been putting your victims through the same ordeals that he invented for his victims all those years ago."

  "No," she mutters. "It's not true. You're -"

  "I'm telling you the absolute, honest truth," I reply. "Why would I lie, Paula? Why would I say all these things if they weren't true?" I pause for a moment, watching as she struggles to come to terms with everything I'm saying. "It's okay," I continue eventually. "You're not alone. I'm here to help you, and it's going to be okay. All you need to do is finish digging this grave and make sure that the old man's body is buried deep. Once that's done, we'll go back to my home and talk, okay? I need to know what you're intending to do next. I actually think that we could help one another. Some of my work has been veering into the kind of territory that you're occupying, Paula. Let's not forget that, at the end of the day, I'm your teacher. Perhaps I should start teaching you a few important things."

  "I'm not..." she says, seemingly starting to panic. "I mean, I didn't do any of this!" Dropping the spade, she turns to run, but I grab her arm and pull her back toward me. "I didn't do it!" she shouts, with tears in her eyes. "I didn't, I couldn't, I... There's no way. I'm not a murderer... Not really... I know I went into the old man's house, but I was testing myself. I wouldn't have actually done anything..."

  "Yes,"
I say firmly, grabbing her shoulder and pushing her down to her knees. "You did it all, Paula. You decided to copy Sam Gazade's murders, and you swapped the genders for whatever sordid little reason you've managed to cook up. I saw you at the prison the other night, when Gazade was supposed to be executed. I saw you checking out books on his case from the campus library, and I know you have his diary."

  She stares at me. I can tell that she's struggling to believe such an absurd claim, but she will believe it. She's deeply damaged, and she's on drugs for depression and anxiety, and all of this means that I can take advantage of her and twist her mind until she believes whatever I want her to believe. By the end of this, she'll be convinced that she killed the three men who've already been murdered, and her fingerprints will be all over the remains of the next victims.

  "You're a very smart girl," I continue. "You managed to find a code in Gazade's testimony -"

  "No!" she shouts, dropping the spade and stepping away from the half-dug grave. "You're lying!"

  "Then what were you doing in Sam Pressman's house last night?" I ask. "Why were you creeping up to his room with a knife in your hand? For fun? For a prank? I saw you, Paula."

  "That was a mistake," she says. "I was just... I wanted to see..."

  She pauses, and finally I see, in her eyes, the moment when her soul breaks. She knows that she was in Pressman's house, and from that simple fact she's starting to believe everything else I'm telling her. It's almost as if I'm reaching into her head and rewiring her thought processes. A normal person could never be persuaded to believe that she was a serial killer, but Paula Clarke most certainly isn't normal.

  "Keep digging," I say after a moment. "You need to get that grave dug, or I can't promise to help you."

  As she takes the shovel and resumes her work, I can't help but feel a little proud of my work. Paula's going to take the blame for everything I've done so far, and for everything I'm going to do next, and the best part of the whole thing is that the poor little bitch is going to be absolutely convinced of her own guilt.

  Joanna Mason

  "Can I trust you?" I ask as I sidle over to Dawson in the corridor.

  "Gee," he replies, filling a cup of water from the dispenser, "I'm not sure. We've only known each other for a decade or so. Maybe you should hold back a little. Don't wanna start trusting people too soon." He pauses for a moment. "Anyway, we both know you don't trust anyone. Apart from yourself."

  "Do you want me to tell you what I found or not?" I continue, keeping my voice low as a couple of people wander past us. I'm already feeling a little paranoid, since I'm pretty sure that everyone in the department knows about the incident at the prison the other night. None of them are going to let the facts get in the way of a long-sought-after opportunity to make me look bad. "I got a lead, and I want someone with me when I go to check it out."

  "No you don't," he replies, taking a sip of water. "Bullshit, Jo. You never want anyone with you when you do anything."

  I open my mouth to argue with him, but at the last moment I realize that he's right. I do tend to cultivate the 'lone wolf' persona most of the time, but only because most of the other 'wolves' I meet are complete idiots. It's so rare to find someone I can stand to be around for more than a few minutes. Dawson makes the grade because his slow-ass, methodological approach to detective work can sometimes, though only sometimes, serve as a useful counter to my all-round instinctive brilliance. He's also willing to take far more of my crap than most people.

  "So what's this really about?" he continues. "Let me guess. You know Schumacher's on the warpath, you know he wants to haul your ass into his office and tear you a new asshole, but you don't want to meekly go and knock on his door. So you've decided to come in and skulk about until he catches you, and then you can act all pissed off and pretend that you're being raked over the coals unfairly. And you think that by giving me a heads-up on this new bit of information you've uncovered, I'll stick by your side."

  "It's nothing like that," I reply, even though deep down I know that he's right. I have to get this encounter with Schumacher out of the way, so today seems like as a good a time as any. "Don't you want to know what I discovered?" I continue, glancing both ways along the corridor to check that we're alone. "I found where Sam Gazade's diary was hidden all those years ago, and I might even have found the identity of the person who retrieved it. Or at least, I've found the identity that the person was using."

  "This isn't going to work," he says with a sigh. "You've fucked up, Jo. All we can do is wait and hope to God that this killer doesn't perform another copycat murder."

  "You know she will," I point out.

  He sighs again.

  "You know I'm not an idiot," I continue. "Who cares about why I'm sharing this news with you? Stop focusing in the details and start seeing the big picture. You know this has got to be useful, right? I haven't just plucked the name out of thin air. I've been turning over rocks in the background, and I think I've found something that might be useful."

  "Go on," he replies, seeming a little uncomfortable, as if he doesn't want to be seen with me. I wouldn't blame him. After all, mud sticks in a place like this.

  "Dr. Alice Huston," I continue in hushed tones. "That's the name of the woman who checked into this hotel where the diary was hidden. I'm pretty sure she's the one who found it, and I've looked her up. She's a real person, alright. She's a professor of sociological study at the university. I'm gonna go by and talk to her, but I doubt she's involved. My theory is that someone deliberately used her name in order to hide their real identity, but I'm pretty sure they didn't pick that name randomly. There has to be a reason."

  Sighing, Dawson heads through to his office.

  "What?" I ask, hurrying after him. "You don't think this is a good lead?"

  "I think it might be useful," he replies, clearly annoyed about something. "I also think you're trying to use it to get me on your side. You've realized that maybe you went a little too far, and you're worried that you don't have anyone watching your back. Even the great Jo Mason needs to know that there's at least one person who'll stand by her." He stares at me for a moment. "Are you ever gonna tell me what's wrong, Jo? I know you're holding something back -"

  "I'm fine," I say firmly, determined to avoid another of those conversations where he tries to get me to admit that I'm sick. "Jesus, I just thought I'd bring you into the loop. Call me crazy, but I kinda felt as if you'd be grateful when I came waltzing in and saved your ass. After all, you're the one who's supposed to be investigating the whole thing, but it doesn't exactly look as if you're getting very far. I'm sorry if you're pissed off that I scooped you and did a better job -"

  "Jesus," he mutters.

  "It's true!" I wait for him to reply, but he seems to be too busy checking his phone. "Face it," I continue, "this is the best lead you've got so far. You thought I was rambling when I was talking about Gazade, and now I've shown you that I was right. Meanwhile, you've got nothing. You're methodically moving through the case, going from A to B to C and so on with plodding regularity, and I just leaped past you and came up with something useful." I watch him for a moment, and I can see that he's struggling to keep calm. This is good. I need him to blow up at me. "As usual," I add eventually.

  "I see the old Jo's back in town," he says, sounding deflated.

  I can't help but smile. It's been a few days now since I stopped taking those damn pills, and my mind has definitely begun to clear. I wouldn't say that I'm back to normal, but I'm close, and I'm confident I'll get my full faculties back pretty soon. Of course, the downside is that I'm no longer taking the drugs that are supposed to retard the spread of my cancer before I can get in for surgery, and as I check my watch I realize that I've missed another chemotherapy session this morning. Still, if I'd let all those drugs into my body, my mind would have been way too woozy to come up with any answers in the case. This is a better way to do things, even if I'm getting occasional stabbing pains in the side of my chest
.

  "I'll look into it," he says eventually. "I'll go see this Dr. Huston woman -"

  "We'll go together," I say, interrupting him.

  "It's not your case!"

  "It's my lead!"

  "Is this a pissing contest now?" he asks.

  "I hope not," I reply, "for your sake. You know I always win those, right?"

  He sighs. "You're not on this case, Jo. You've done a good job here, maybe, but after everything that happened the other night at Sam Gazade's execution, you're kinda on the coals. Have you even seen the news this morning? Every other prison in the tri-state area is demanding a king's ransom in order to sell the drugs that are needed to reschedule Gazade's execution. It's a fucking mess, and rightly or wrongly, people are starting to blame you."

  "Rightly or wrongly?" I reply, shocked that he could even consider the possibility that any of this is my fault. Of all people, I thought Dawson would be on my side. After all, he was actually there at the prison that night, so he knows the whole mess was the fault of the governor; besides, he's always on my side.

  "If you hadn't gone throwing your weight around," he continues, "Gazade would be dead by now."

  "He'll still die," I point out. "I didn't knock that vial over, and it's not my fault that there were no spares."

  "You still made things more difficult," he adds, clearly finding it harder and harder to keep his frustration in check. "People wanted Gazade dead -"

  "You think I don't?"

  "I think you like playing games," he continues. "I think that sometimes, Jo, you act like a petulant schoolkid who demands that everyone else lets you take the lead." He stares at me for a moment. "I think it's been twelve years since Gazade hurt you, and despite everything you say, there's a real possibility that you're emotionally attracted to anything that keeps the guy alive. I know you, Jo. You're..." He pauses. "You're a little weird. It's just the truth. Tell me honestly. When you first heard about this copycat killer, what was your reaction?"