by Ivan Bering
“Bullshit, listen to the rest.”
Monk continues to drink beer and fuss over supper, careful about the sequence with which he completes the layers of ham, lettuce, onion slices, cheddar cheese, mustard, salt, pepper, and tomatoes.
I drink the rest of my beer and kept reading aloud.
But crime and punishment was an issue the man on the street understood and when Dr. Max Armstrong’s innovations burst onto the scene, it became apparent: alternatives were now possible. Here was an opportunity to establish responsibility and take control, a move to soothe the widespread feeling of helplessness.
The guilty or innocent debate no longer required a legal team; if doubt no longer existed, why not execute?
Monk speaks up again, “The more I hear, the more concerned I become that ‘mercy’ has been deleted from the system.”
I know this is his opinion and don’t want to get into it with him. “We are lucky in our Sector to have Stephen Miller as the Judge. The entire system needs his type of leadership; some unanticipated events will test all of us.
I know the impact on repeat offenders will be accepted by the police forces; but eventually, the public may wonder if they asked for too much…… …will it be perfect? Not likely but I am optimistic. Alright? Let me finish.”
Armstrong’s scientific innovations allowed a dramatic paradigm shift and the associated legislation was passed in …..
Monk interrupts. “Leave it Charlie. I heard all I want to know about the system.”
I shut down and we tear into the sandwiches. Food out of the way, I open another beer. I’m not driving tonight, and I’m a little careless with my consumption.
“I am curious about Dr. Max Armstrong. He seems to be a real character. You meet this Armstrong guy at least once didn’t you?’
“Dr. Max, as well as being brilliant, is tough and aggressive. You would not want to stand between him and one of his ambitious goals. It was obvious many of his colleagues were jealous, but I’m not sure it’s because of his science or libido. He was one son of a bitch of an interview; his mind was on something else.
However, I will say, he is one helluva good looking guy, regardless of what planet he comes from.”
“Come on Charlie finish your beer and let’s go. I don’t want to miss any of this game the coach is starting the new kid, the seven-foot center.”
As we drive to the game, Monk continues to lament about the rigidity and harsh punishments of Justice Reborn. Monk is silent for a few blocks and then.
“All society must now face an uncomfortable question. Since there is no place to hide, are we seeing man’s true nature? It’s hard to reconcile and remember we are all selected from the same gene pool.”
###
Both men sat in the Judge’s chambers; both silent and upset, mugs of coffee untouched. They waited for a confirmation or correction call from Doug’s senior man, Jessie Lopez. Doug Brewster, head of the Legal Division finally broke the silence.
“Stephen, we can’t duck this one. I discussed the issue with both of them this morning; the father is furious……he claims the girl was underage.”
“I can’t believe anyone so smart could be so dumb. Damn it he has women literally chasing him. Why go for a young teenager? Did he think no one would find out?”
“He seems to think it’s a game. You know he loves to match wits with anyone, likes the high of being on the edge, the risk adds to the affair.”
“Jessie is researching the family and digging into Max’s record. But I don’t think it will change anything. The only question is: how outrageous will this mess become?”
Doug’s phone rang, causing both men to twitch.
“Alright Doug, you may as well answer it. We have to know all the details maybe there has been an error. Maybe the girl recanted.
CHAPTER 5: the five star couple
The killings always began the same way: a woman, without a companion, booked a hotel room for an extended stay, four or five days.
Unfortunately for the killers, a long term hotel quest spied a man leaving one of the crime scenes, a fortuitous sighting, a short-lived glimpse of an individual with a large scarf and sunglasses. This one brief look allowed the police to declare: it was a couple.
Today, the male half occupied the room, on the second floor of the Ritz. His female partner left earlier in the day, their staggered departures all part of their plan. At times, he brooded at being spotted after the first killing but tried to flush the feeling from his mind. Now the housekeeping, a chore he could not share; he had the expertise.
He was not a large man, very slim, a few inches below six feet. His bare chest signified strength and fitness; his clothing, including his underwear, formed a mound on the floor against the exit door. With his back to the door, he sat on his haunches like a Vietnamese peasant and scanned the room.
After the second murder, the media labeled them: The Five Star Couple. They were pleased with the media name; it reflected each partner’s unique contribution to the killings.
His knowledge and expertise equaled whatever forensic expertise the police could muster; in fact, he was a year or more ahead of most cities. His tools, an array of chemical sprays and a miniature vacuum device, were all assembled. Even though he knew the technology and the details, his caution resulted in careful, premeditated moves.
The murdered girl’s body sagged against the pillows at the head of the bed, nude and posed in the yoga lotus position. Various body fluids associated with her recent death stained the sheets and floor. The intense and prolonged tortured ended when they broke her neck; the approach meant fewer weapons to transport.
The killer waited for the application of the first fine spray to soak the body, the furniture, the clothing, and carpeting in the room. The delay allowed him to read last night’s newspaper, the hotel being one of the old fashion exceptions which supplied printed news to all guests; the headlines blared:
PRISON DECOMMISSION STARTED:
155 DEATH ROW INMATES EXECUTED
The Warden at White Rock prison, in Sector 13, confirmed the first step in the Prison Decommission program, euphemism for “empty the jail”, was started by processing the death row inmates. An average of four prisoners has been executed every day for the past number of weeks. S3 Interrogation is being used to confirm the guilt of each inmate: any prisoner found to be innocent is released; otherwise, the inmate’s execution sentence is completed.
The Decommission Plan is to shut down all prisons within 12 months. Although there is a definite plan for the death row inmates, there has yet to be an agreement reached in how to process the remaining prison population. The simple approach of “just open the doors” puts the public at risk and would never be accepted. An informed source states there are many ideas and the debates have been intense, but no agreement has been reached.
During death row interrogations, a prisoner may reveal additional crimes. The recent adjustment to Justice Reborn, Amendment 33-2, is in effect at White Rock. This amendment allows for an execution even if the inmate was never formally charged with the newly revealed felony. However, prison officials refuse to comment on how this is being implemented. Our understanding is: when unsolved crimes surface during an S3 memory scan and guilt is confirmed, the presence of a Legal Division representative is all that is required for an execution to proceed.
The article went on for a couple of more pages, but he did not have time to read any more; there was a job to finish. The housekeeper used his second spray application to saturate specific spots, next scrubbing and vacuuming the troublesome areas. His creeping anxiety screamed: get out, leave, and leave now. But he relished mastering the tension and exercising his discipline; each square foot required all his attention. He did not rush.
Other thoughts started to surface and challenge for dominance. Was it time to get out of the city? This fifth girl might force a change in police priorities. Because all the girls were prostitutes the public and media outcry remained subdued, in fact some e
ven treated it as a joke: a recent cartoon featured a prostitute going up to a hotel room and getting a bigger bang than expected. But this sluggish police response would not last.
An extraordinary development generated more confusion, particularly when he started dumping bodies in their target neighborhoods. The media labeled him: Horny Harry. He roamed the streets raping and killing any girls, except prostitutes. The police were furious with the press for the inappropriate name, but the rapist-killer thrived on his notoriety and communicated with the news media using his new identity. His letters to the press were sick announcements about his charm and stamina; unbelievably, he christened himself a ‘lover’.
The police would never reveal how resources were allocated, but he assumed Harry would be their first priority. Regardless, the housekeeper knew with each killing there was the chance of a mistake or an opportunity to leave a clue for a perceptive detective. Best to move to another city? His internal arguments swayed back and forth; first the risk had increased and then: no, the risk was reasonable.
The hard housekeeping work produced a fine sheen of sweat, his upper body gleaming, the room silent except for his heavy breathing. When he reached the inside of the hotel room door, he dressed and packed. Before leaving the room, he used the third high power spray whose fine disbursement was able to reach all corners. The chemical mist would slowly settle and cover the entire murder scene. As long as the crime scene remain undetected for the next 24 hours, the combination of sprays would convert the space into a neutral hotel room.
Before stepping into the hall, he carefully adjusted his large sunglasses, a wig, and a hood, all selected to provide an effective cover but still not look suspicious. The enhanced disguise all a result of that one unfortunate sighting. The ‘Do Not Disturb” sign would remain on the outside door lever; this sign would buy them time. As well as booking the room for four days, they had booked the prostitute for the entire week.
The more days which passed before the body was discovered, the more difficult a detective’s job would be, witnesses struggling with fuzzy memories and security tapes possibly erased and reused.
The hallway did not present a challenge, and he casually strolled to the stairwell, best to walk down to the lobby. The killer descended a couple of flights of stairs without encountering another hotel guest. Overconfidence could be the downfall of the Five Star Couple. The housekeeper knew the dangers, but he could not help thinking the killing was as close to the perfect crime as anyone had ever executed. Not like the imbecile, Horny Harry, who continued to provide the press with clues and brag about his lovemaking prowess and sexual stamina.
As he strolled out of the hotel, he thought back to the beginning. For the housekeeper, violence started early, a frequent visitor, his father and brother delivering unprovoked brutal punishment. The beatings and pain became a regular cycle in his life, until he matured, gained strength and mounted an offense with his fear converted to rage. His demonstration of explosive anger and the week in the hospital convinced his father, and his older brother then behaved like a docile pet.
The enjoyment and high from random acts of violence became a habit; however, after a couple of incidents with the police, he realized some control was necessary. It was about this time he met his current partner, and he had someone to help him manage the incidents and to share the fun, her analytical mind and poised regime provided a stabilizing dimension. With some proper planning, the cycle of rage and violence could continue and the intoxicating highs enjoyed.
As he stepped through the front door of the hotel, the suffocating heat delivered a shocking contrast to the air conditioned hotel. It was not raining, but many people used umbrellas to provide protection from the blazing sun; everyone appeared to be hustling, in a hurry to get to the cooler environment of an office building.
The housekeeper walked away from the hotel at a leisurely pace, his rage satiated, his demeanor like a Buddhist monk. In a matter of days, another cycle would start a slow build, daily ratcheting up the desire for a violent climax. With the help of his partner, he would plan one last assault in this city.
The police investigation continued to stumble along the wrong path; the media was screaming in the wrong direction; unless Providence lobbed some biased missiles, their schedule would not be disrupted.
# # #
Emma Collins assisted Dr. Kate at White Rock prison and helped prepare the Board report concerning the multiple memory streams.
This afternoon she brooded about a recent telephone call. Unable to reach Dr. Kate, she convinced herself a call to Wilson was their best alternative: Dr. Joe Wilson would know some answers and was normally willing to discuss any scientific topic. Wilson, now retired, had been a member of Dr. Max’s original research team.
Unfortunately, her call was shuffled to his answering service; her next decision, to leave a message, now appeared reckless. How big a risk was the damn message?
Emma identified herself and labeled the message as ‘private and confidential’. First she set the stage, covering their current status and their time lines, and then she posed the two difficult questions:
“Why were multiple memory streams of the same event not encountered during the initial research work?
Second, are memory streams a real reflection of an event? Or, is stored memory modified by the emotions of the individual at the time of the event? Or, does modification occur later when the memory is relived?”
The message, although labeled as confidential and personal, might be accessed by his wife or an adolescent. There was no way to know how his household handled personal messages; maybe they all used his password. A leak would be a fiasco for the Sector.
If some unpublished facets might taint the original research, why would he tell her? He had nothing to gain. In fact, the revelations could cause problems for the entire research team. Wilson might contact Dr. Max and let him know what was going on, something the Judge insisted not be done. And why had the Judge declared Dr. Max not be contacted?
The Sector desperately needed the answers but had she made a grave mistake?
CHAPTER 6: charlie’s log: the basketball game
“You grabbed a stranger’s bare breast?”
My brother, Sam, is screaming. I shouldn’t have answered the phone. It’s early morning, and my departure has been delayed by a few dirty dishes and by reading ancient to-do-lists stuck on the fridge door; reminiscing should not be a full-time sport.
Monk must have called him as soon as he dropped me off. Sam is a few years older than me; today, he is a clinical psychologist with some big time clients. We are close, and he enjoys playing the big brother role. Although I am not a scientist, I have established a formula for our dynamic: Sam + Monk= Mother.
Sam has always been the academic in the family. My university experience was dominated by the demands of a football scholarship. By the time graduation arrived, I had collected enough knee damage that a pro career was no longer an option. However, I had accumulated sufficient credits to pursue a legal career but had trouble concentrating for more than 30 minutes. Those volumes of legal texts presented too boring a prospect for me.
After a few undirected years, I joined the police force and worked my way up the ladder. I live with two personality traits: first, a unique sense of humor and second, a tendency to lose my temper. This is a dangerous combination when confronting the bureaucratic bullshit which is ingrained in the regimental mindset of a police department.
Two other characteristics saved me: I’ve an eye for detail and am able to discern patterns and relationships, not apparent to others. So, even though I was known as a habitual hard ass with a big mouth, I managed to progress up the ladder and solve some big cases.
It’s ironic that an apostate should have a priest as his best friend, but that’s what Monk has been since grade school. The problem is that after a couple of beers in the relaxing company of Monk, I revert to a superficial 16 –year- old. Bulletproof, shallow, a joker with a world
ready to be conquered.
I try to calm him. “Listen big brother, it’s not as bad as it sounds. Relax.”
“You crazy bastard. You were drinking, weren’t you? How much did you put away?”
When my wife and daughter were killed by a drunk driver, I refused to acknowledge the new reality, even the grieving process truncated. I started drinking too much and exhibiting behavior of someone who doesn’t give a damn about consequences. As a result, I’m in therapy with a friend of Sam’s and have diminished my reputation in the department plus gained a new nickname: Crazy Charlie.
I rationalize by observing if I only have a few drinks, I can remain a humorous drunk or, on occasion, a belligerent asshole, a fun evening with no major harm done. I think I told you logic was not my strong suit.
This is going to be difficult. Damn Monk can’t keep his mouth shut. I try to be light and funny. “I confess. I had a couple with Monk before the game, but you know our spring dance will happen in a few days. I have to get in shape and be ready for the big night.”
Sam isn’t placated with that comment. Always the worrier, he’ll not let go.
“I’m listening. Tell me your version of events. How does a homicide detective get arrested at a basketball game?”
“Jesus, cool off. I had a few drinks at home while Monk prepared supper. After eating, we rushed to the game. The University men’s team is strong, and it was a blowout, a bit boring. We had a few more beers and near the end of the game hunger arrives, annoying distraction.
Right in front of us are three women; the one in the middle is miss-motor-mouth and she never stops talking. Her companion on the left is also talking. I don’t think either one heard what the other one said. The third woman, on the right, sleeps through all of this. Honest to God she is sleeping. Now in between her and the center talkative blond is a huge barrel or pail of popcorn.
Well, every now and then I reach down and get a handful of popcorn. They never noticed, too busy talking. Near the end of the game, I’m reaching down for my last handful, and the team executes one of those dramatic ally-oop slam dunks. At this point, the center blond, for once gets excited and jumps up to cheer, as my hand is going down ……and….and she didn’t come straight up. It was more of a tilt right; my hand slips right on to her right boob.”