by Amy Cross
"You think she's better off like this?" I ask, glancing back at Paula and seeing that she's still muttering to herself. "Look at her. She's a vegetable. You think she'd be happy sitting in the corner of some institution, rambling away to herself for the rest of her life? Maybe it'd be more humane to just reach out and wring her neck."
"I think she could get better," he continues. "With care and attention, with therapy and the right medication, I think that over a period of several years she could significantly improve. In fact, I think there's a chance she could make enough of a recovery to essentially be considered..." He pauses. "She's never going to be cured, and she's never going to be sent out there to live in the real world again, but I think she could lead a happy and productive life in an institutional environment. She's intelligent, and I believe we could learn a lot by studying her. I don't want to see her tossed onto the scrap-heap."
"And would she ever know what she did?" I ask. "I mean, would she be able to accept the murders she committed?"
"Perhaps."
"And would she feel guilt?" I add.
"At the moment," he replies, sidestepping the question, "she seems to have convinced herself that those murders were committed in collusion with Dr. Huston. She's very successfully displaced all those negative emotions onto an imagined construct based on one of her teachers from the university. She seems to think that Dr. Alice Huston was responsible, at least on the emotional side. Still, I'm confident that one day we'll be able to break through the psychological barrier and make Paula realize what really happened. She's a smart young woman, and I think it'll be fascinating to see the extent of any recovery she's able to make. I want to study her." He pauses. "Her mind is so tightly knotted, it's going to take a miracle to break through completely."
Staring at Paula for a moment, I find myself struggling to believe that she could ever get better. She seems like a complete wreck of a person, ruined for all time, and I can't help wondering if there's any point to her suffering being dragged out. Then again, Jacobs is the expert, and I guess there's no point in me trying to decide what's best for Paula. If Dr. Jacobs thinks she should be helped, I trust him enough to go along with that diagnosis. Enough people have died already, and there's no need to toss Paula Clarke onto the fire just to satisfy some primordial need for revenge.
"Fine," I say eventually.
"Fine?"
"I'll do it," I continue. "I'll testify at her trial. I'll say she's as mad as a box of fish. Whatever. Just give me a script. If it saves her from the death penalty, I'll even do a little dance."
"Thank you," he replies. "So many people in your position would be consumed by a desire for revenge. It's very kind of you to see past that, and to understand that Paula's a fragile soul who needs to be protected and helped."
"Good job I'm an angel, then," I reply bitterly, turning and limping away along the corridor. "Let me know when you need me!" I call back to the doctor, even though I'm already dreading the thought that at some point in the next couple of years, I might have to take the stand in Paula's trial. Then again, I guess there's a fair chance that I won't live long enough, in which case the poor little bitch is screwed anyway.
"Oh," I say, suddenly remembering something and limping back to the window. "I almost forgot." Taking out my phone, I bring up the camera app and aim it at Paula, before knocking on the glass. "Hey! Psycho girl! Say cheese!" Without waiting, I take a photo.
"I can't let you do that -" Dr. Jacobs says, looking shocked.
"Cool," I reply, putting the phone away. "I promise I'll delete it later."
As I make my way toward the elevator, however, I'm starting to fill with a new sense of rage. The truth is, I know that Paula Clarke isn't the one who should be the focus of my anger. I know everyone has accepted the evidence and believes she was acting alone, but I don't buy the explanation that she killed a whole bunch of people without any help. She seemed so goddamn tentative when she was cutting me up, and she was too much of a mess to have orchestrated everything that happened. Limping into the elevator chamber, I hit the button for the ground floor and then I turn and watch the doors close.
Dr. Jacobs was wrong. I'm not a good person. I haven't "seen past" my anger. I just know that it's not Paula Clarke who's responsible for all of this.
Joanna Mason
"Paula Clarke is a fascinating case study," Dr. Huston says as we sit in her office. "I must say, I'd recognized certain troubling aspects of her personality, but I hadn't gone so far as to label her as a schizophrenic. Troubled, yes, and perhaps not exactly in tune with reality, but schizophrenia? I wouldn't have guessed that. I suppose many of us were guilty of trivializing her problems and assuming that they could be pushed to one side."
"She sure was all sorts of messed up," I reply, glancing over at the bookshelf and seeing a row of Dr. Huston's books lined up neatly. The woman seems to be an expert on serial killers, especially Sam Gazade.
"And might I ask how you're doing?" she continues. "I understand that Paula attempted to replicate the injuries that Sam Gazade caused. The newspapers were full of some rather grizzly details, I'm afraid. One struggles, at times, to comprehend the madness that exists in the minds of others."
"My dancing days are over," I say, turning back to face her, "but apart from that, I should be hobbling about in no time." As the words leave my mouth, I feel a sharp jab of pain in my hip. I'm getting better at hiding my discomfort, but I spot a faint smile on Dr. Huston's lips, which makes me think that she knows I'm in pain.
"I can't imagine what it must have been like," she says, "to have woken up on that table and realized that the same thing was happening to you again."
"I'm just lucky that the table leg was loose again," I point out.
"I imagine Paula wanted to replicate every aspect of your previous encounter with Gazade," she replies. "Even down to his mistakes. It's going to be quite fascinating to pick through her actions and try to work out what she intended. So far, she seems to have been filled with a jumble of conflicting motivations and plans."
"She was nothing like Gazade," I reply. "Not really. Maybe she wanted to be like him, but she couldn't do it."
"Because she's a woman?"
"Because she's a different kind of psycho."
"Perhaps women just aren't capable of that kind of barbarity?" She pauses, and I can see that the question is important to her. "A lot of people would say that Sam Gazade's crimes were typically masculine," she continues. "They'd say that women don't want to do the same thing to men, or that they can't. We're the fairer sex, after all."
I shrug. "I'm sure we're capable of something just as bad," I say eventually, "but I doubt we get there by copying men. They've had a head-start."
She smiles. "I'm sorry I couldn't..." She pauses for a moment. "What I mean is, I wish that I'd been able to recognize the girl's problems. It's so easy after the fact to say that one sees little clues here and there, but I can't stop thinking back to the times I interacted with Paula and failed to spot the signs that she was seriously ill. It's not that I blame myself. I'm beyond such silly, self-perpetuating recriminations. Still, I like to think that I'm a keen student of human nature, Detective Mason, and it irks me to think that someone like Paula Clarke could have slipped through all our interactions so easily."
"And how often did that happen, exactly?" I ask. "How often did you interact with her?"
"Just a handful of times," she replies. "I knew that she was studying Sam Gazade, so I agreed to talk to her about the Gazade case on a few occasions. She was aware that I'm widely considered to be one of the leading academic experts on Gazade, and she wanted to run some ideas past me." She pauses again. "I have to say, those ideas were certainly rather inflammatory. She viewed the Gazade case entirely through the lens of feminist dogma, and while that's a perfectly legitimate means of pursuing an academic study, I felt that she lacked perspective. She was pushing an agenda, rather than exploring a thesis. I tried to nudge her back in the right directi
on, but she was determined to follow her own path. I suppose, in a way, that should have set off alarm bells. I'm sorry that I didn't spot the signs."
"She seems to have become fixated on you," I point out.
"So I understand," she says, with a faint, sad smile. "I spoke to a gentleman from the police. From what I understand, Paula had a series of imagined conversations with me. It seems possible that, at times, she observed her own actions as if she was watching through my eyes. It's not a particularly unusual form of emotional displacement, although I must admit that it gives me pause for thought. I can't think of anything I ever did to encourage such interest, but I suppose my status as an expert on Sam Gazade might have triggered her response. She looked up to me and maybe even wanted to become me. It's hard to be certain, but she might have turned on me eventually."
"I'm going to testify at her trial," I reply. "I've been asked to stand up and tell everyone how fucked-up she is, in case the prosecution goes for the death penalty. I figure it shouldn't be too hard."
"You want to help her stay alive?"
"I don't see the need for her to die," I tell her.
"She killed a lot of people."
"Did she?"
She pauses. "I thought -"
"Maybe," I reply, interrupting her. "There's some debate on that point right now. A lot of if's and maybe's floating around, if you know what I mean. It's not as if we can just sit down and ask her what happened, is it? Even if she suddenly started spilling her guts, we couldn't be certain she was telling the truth."
"I'm sure the whole thing will be fascinating," she says, clearly keen to avoid going into the specific question of whether Paula is really responsible for the recent murders. "In fact, I've already decided to mount a major study, looking into Paula's life and experiences, and tying them to my extensive work on the Gazade case. I don't want to be immodest, but I believe this could be the most important work of my career. There are so many questions to be asked about Paula. How could someone with so many emotional problems, and with such a twisted and distorted view of the world, manage to hide the extent of her problems from everyone else?" She pauses. "How did a monster walk among us without being recognized?"
"I guess it happens sometimes," I reply, fixing her with a determined stare. "I guess sometimes those little monsters manage to grow up and become big, adult monsters, and no-one notices."
She smiles politely.
"I know it might be a bad time to ask," she continues, "but I was wondering if you'd be willing to sit down with me some time and talk about your experiences. As I said, this is intended to be a very thorough and in-depth study of Paula's life and, indeed, the life of Sam Gazade. I intend to look at gender and duplicity through a number of lenses, and I was hoping you might be willing to break your silence, as it were, and talk to me about your perspective."
"Between you and Oprah," I reply, "it's gonna be a tough choice. I think Oprah might give me more free stuff."
"I can promise you a study of unprecedented academic rigor," she says. "We'll delve deeper into the psyche of the serial killer, from a gender-based perspective, than anyone has ever dared to go. I can't say that it won't be painful, but I can assure you that all the hard work will be worthwhile."
"Maybe," I reply, figuring that it might be a good idea to keep her interest for a little longer. "I'm kinda busy in the next few weeks, but next month..." I pause for a moment. "I might even have a different perspective after next week. I've got some pretty big stuff coming up."
"Cryptic," she says with a grin. "I look forward to talk to you about everything."
Grimacing at the pain in my hip, I slowly get to my feet. I swear to God, I'm already sick of being a cripple, and it's only been a couple of days so far.
"I need to get going," I tell her. "Everything takes twice as long while I'm hobbling about." I pause for a moment. "There's just one thing I don't understand. When we picked apart Paula's equipment, we found a video camera." I watch for any hint of a reaction, but to her credit, Dr. Huston has a damn good poker face. It's almost enough to make me believe the she wasn't involved. Almost. "The thing is," I continue, "there was no tape in the damn thing. Imagine that, huh?"
"I suppose she was planning to record only the later stages of... whatever she had planned for you."
"I suppose so," I reply, turning and limping toward the door. "The funny thing is," I add, "I could have sworn I saw the little red light at one point. Those can't come on unless it's actually recording, can they? And they can't record without a tape."
"Perhaps it was one of those modern devices that records to a chip," she suggests, "or perhaps it uploaded its images directly to a server?"
"No," I say, acting as if I'm puzzled. "We took a good look at it. There was a slot where a tape should go. Still, I guess there's no point obsessing. We found Sam Gazade's diary among Paula's possessions. I'm pretty sure the whole case is closed." I smile. "I need to learn when to let go, right?"
"It must be difficult," she replies, standing up and coming over to open the door for me. "I look forward to our next meeting, Detective Mason. I've wanted to interview you for so long. You have a thoroughly unique perspective on the actions of both Sam Gazade and Paula Clarke. They're two of the most fascinating modern serial killers, you know, and in a way they're like two sides of the same coin."
"I'll try to be useful," I reply, turning and limping out of the door and through to the next room. The truth is, any doubts I might have had about Dr. Huston have not been completely dispelled. I know exactly what I'm dealing with here, and while it's certainly true that Paula Clarke managed to hide her psychosis for a long time, I'm starting to realize that there are other people who've managed to do an even better job. Some of them, in fact, have even risen to become highly-respected academics. There's no way Paula Clarke was working alone. She had help, and I know how to prove it.
Joanna Mason
"What the fuck is this?" I ask, picking up a leaflet showing Sam Gazade's grinning face. "Some kind of theme park?"
"I'm just playing to my strengths," says the hotel owner, standing behind the newly-cleaned and polished reception desk. "After your visit, I got to thinking about my unique selling point, and I realized that there are actually people who'd pay good money to stay in the room where the notorious Sam Gazade hid his diary." He reaches out and turns the leaflet around in my hands, showing me the new 'murder hotel' logo. It's brilliant, in a ghoulish, gaudy kind of way. I don't know whether to be disgusted, or just pissed off that I didn't come up with the idea first.
"Sam Gazade never killed anyone in this building," I point out. It's not often that I'm genuinely stunned by something, but the transformation of this place has certainly done the job. The faded wallpaper has been replaced by bright, vibrant colors, and the furniture looks like something straight out of an old Hollywood movie. Then there are the ghoulish splashes, such as the dabs of fake blood on the floor and the huge, looming photos of Sam Gazade and his victims that hang in the stairwell. "He just hid a goddamn book here," I say, turning back to face the owner. "Not one person died in this building."
"He didn't kill anyone here that we know of," the guy points out, with much more of a spring in his step than the last time I talked to him, "but who's to say what he got up to in that room?"
"This is..." I pause, staring at the leaflet for a moment. "This is kinda creepy."
"Sometimes -" he starts to say, before the phone rings and he answers it. "You've reached the Sam Gazade Murder Hotel. Jerry speaking. How can I help you?"
As he takes down another booking, I limp over and look at the parakeet. Maybe I'm reading too much into the bird's sad eyes, but I swear to God she seems to be aware of her owner's lunacy.
"Another booking!" the guy says cheerfully. "Do you know, since I started this promotion I've had five bookings! That's more than I had in the previous year!" He scribbles some notes into a ledger. "Honestly, I feel young again. It's amazing how fate can suddenly just drop som
ething into your lap like this. A week ago, I was an alcoholic loser, sitting around with a fucking parakeet and wasting the best years of his life. Now I'm born again! I've spoken to the bank and they're giving me a loan to completely refurbish the place. Actually, I was hoping to speak to you about your image rights -"
"My what?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
"How would you feel about selling your image rights?" he continues. "Purely for the purpose of use in this specific retail environment, of course, and on associated merchandise such as posters, t-shirts, key-rings and mugs. You'd be free to retain your rights in case of any movie deal you might strike."
"And who'd play me?" I ask, amused by the idea. "Sandra Bullock? Katherine Heigl?"
He stares at me for a moment, as if he's giving the matter some serious thought. "It might make a good comeback vehicle for Kim Basinger."
"I could see that," I reply with a smile.
"Before you dismiss the whole thing as tacky, please remember that when I restyled the hotel like this, I was merely reacting to market demand. Online inquiries are through the roof and I'm booked up for the next month solid. You've got to give the customers what they want, right? I know it's kinda hard to believe..."
"No," I say dourly, "it's very easy to believe, and that's why it's so depressing." Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my phone and bring up the photo of Paula that I took back at the psychiatric hospital's holding cell. "I want you to tell me if this is the woman who came and stayed a while ago," I tell him, limping back over to the desk and putting my phone in front of him. "Is that her?"
He squints as he takes a look. "No," he says after a moment. "Not her."
"You sure?"
"I have an eye for detail."
Swiping to the next picture, I bring up an image of Dr. Huston.
"That's her," he says, without any further prompting.
"Sure?"
"One hundred per cent," he continues. "That's the woman. God, she was so annoying, constantly wanting to switch rooms and moaning about everything. I swear, if she came back today, there's no way I'd give her a room. I don't need to pander to that kind of asshole, not now I've got proper paying customers who're willing to pay twice the normal rate." He pauses, and I can see a moment of inspiration in his eyes. "You know, I read about the Paula Clarke business. Sorry about your leg, by the way. But maybe I'm missing a trick by focusing entirely on Sam Gazade. Do you think Paula Clarke might become just as well-known over time? And this woman, whoever she is..." He pauses again. "There are so many possibilities. If I could establish that Paula Clarke also came to this hotel, I could say that I had two serial killers staying here! Do you think there's any other hotel in America that can make such a claim?"