The Ultimate Frankenstein

by Byron Preiss (ed)

  "And do you think you're his brother? After all this?" Hartford demanded.

  "From my neck to my knees I am, and down my arms. My hands, my calves and feet, my head all belong to other people."

  "Good Lord," said Hartford. "They didn't mention about you being his brother."

  "Partly his brother," Frank corrected him. "The court suppressed that information. It was considered too shocking for the case, and for the trial. They said that the press would make too much of it. They claimed it would be too prejudicial." He looked at Hartford. "They took it out of my records too, I guess."

  "I didn't find any specific mention of it," said Hartford carefully, unwilling to accuse the authorities of deliberate tampering. "They might have buried it somewhere I haven't looked yet."

  Frank shrugged. "Would it make any difference? I don't know what Victor expected. I wouldn't, would I, not with Sacton's brain. Sacton didn't know a thing about it." He made himself not sigh. "I found out about Sacton a few years ago. They hushed up everything about him, too."

  "You can't blame them. Elihu Sacton's brain. No wonder you've had trouble." Hartford was pacing again, still keeping his distance from Frank. "How many personalities did they think he had?"

  "A dozen or so," said Frank patiently. "I haven't noticed them, really, but sometimes I think one or two of them must be around."

  "Why is that?" asked Hartford. In spite of his best intentions, he was fascinated.

  "Well, there are gaps in my memory." He went on with care. "I know these hands strangled Victor, but whether the hands did it, or one of those other personalities in Sacton's brain caused it, I can't be sure. What part of me is responsible for what happened? I haven't found out whose hands these are. He must have been a big son-of-a-bitch, judging by their size."

  "That answers the question about Victor." He stopped a moment. "And the little girl. Do you remember anything about her?"

  Frank shook his head, looking directly at Hartford. "I think I can remember meeting her, but it's . . . fuzzy. I think she might have given me a flower. I have an image of a little girl with a flower, anyway. The rest ... I don't know."

  "She was beaten and drowned," said Hartford with deliberate bluntness.

  "I know. I heard all about it at the trial. It was awful." He looked down at his enormous hands. "I suppose I could have done it. I'm strong enough, God knows. But I don't think I'm capable of it, not I as I am now. I can't answer for then, or for the brain that did it."

  "It's the brain in your skull, isn't it?" He made this an accusation.

  "Yes, but it's not like it used to be. Over the years I've gotten . . . better integrated. Learning to talk again helped. I still feel . . . alien, but not internally hostile, the way I did at first, when all these . . . these parts"—he held up his hands as examples—"were not working together."

  Hartford halted for an instant, then moved again. "But you have reason to think that you are not technically responsible for the murders."

  "Well, the body isn't, I don't think." He followed Hartford with his eyes. "It could be the hands, but I suspect the brain was. It's different now."

  "Are you certain of that? Are you confident you could never murder again?"

  "Sacton's brain might want to, but the body wouldn't. We're in better balance now. I'm not Elihu Sacton, not any of his personalities. In a very real sense, I never was."

  "Elihu Sacton's brain," said Hartford, in order to be certain.

  "Yes. At least there are some records of his personalities. Three of them were . . . maybe still could be homicidal. That would be the issue now, wouldn't it? I think the court determined he might still be capable of killing, didn't it?" He tried to smile but his mouth never did it right.

  "According to the records," said Hartford very carefully. "His case was one of the first. We don't know how to evaluate some of the results: there wasn't a good enough methodology then, and now ..."

  "Now it isn't really possible, is it?" said Frank quietly.

  Hartford paused and shook his head. "No. I guess not."

  ▼▼▼

  Doc Reginald scowled at the test results. "I'm sorry, Frank, but they're inconclusive. I don't know what to make of them, and that's the truth." He looked down at his patient, strapped to the scan platform, and regarded the machine tracings once more. "The trouble is, how much of this interference is due to brain transplant and how much of it is multiple personality echo? I don't know if we can differentiate one from the other."

  Frank closed his eyes in resignation. "You do notice something that shouldn't be there, something that is . . . foreign?"

  "Oh, yeah, so far as it goes, it's clear that the brain isn't behaving normally. There are lines here I've never seen before and it's anybody's guess what they mean." Doc Reginald patted Frank on the shoulder. "I'll hand this over to your attorney, of course, but what it does about your Habeas Corpus I'm damned if I know."

  "Well, I don't know that much about it myself," said Frank, doing his best to make light of the situation. "Are you going to run any more scans, or is this it?"

  "We'd better get another set, for comparison to the first two. We don't have a good enough sample of variations yet. There's too much irregularity from one to the other." He touched the operating lever. "You don't mind going back in, do you?"

  "Not really," said Frank, though he found the narrow confines of the scanner upsetting. "Let's get it over with."

  "Right you are," said Doc Reginald, and prepared to run the scans again.

  ▼▼▼

  Gregory Hartford pored over the test results and scribbled notes in the margins of the analysis Doc Reginald had offered. He paid little heed to Frank, who sat on the other side of the battered table, waiting to answer questions. "I won't be much longer. Sorry to keep you waiting."

  "I don't have anything else going on," said Frank mildly. A new inmate had arrived the day before and Frank wanted to keep away from him, knowing how many of the other prisoners represented him as the terror of the institution. As much as he tried to be unmoved by this, it always bothered him.

  "Doc Reginald has volunteered to be a witness for you, did you hear about that?" said Hartford as he folded the tests and slipped them into a file folder.

  "He didn't mention it, no," said Frank. "That's very kind of him."

  "He seems to think you got a raw deal. He thinks you've become someone who's a mixture, and that having Sacton's brain doesn't make you Sacton." He leaned back in his chair, balancing precariously on the back legs. "He said that it doesn't make any sense to keep you locked up this way."

  "What way does he think I should be locked up?" asked Frank, watching Hartford with curiosity.

  "Hey!" Hartford came back down on all four chairlegs. "What makes you say that?"

  Frank regarded Hartford without blinking. "He's not going to recommend someone like me be turned loose, is he? He couldn't do that. Where would I work? Who would hire me? What would I do? Look at me. All the rehabilitation in the world isn't going to change this." He indicated the scars on his face and neck.

  "That's probably true, and you can bet there are people who have used the way you look as an excuse to keep you locked up in this prison. Well, we've got laws against that now, and you've been kept here without a trial when you are obviously capable of appearing in court. It's time the people who put you here answer for it," said Hartford. He shifted in his chair. "Because you sure as hell shouldn't be here. You're right about that. And we're going to get you out." He drew himself closer to the table. "And speaking of getting you out of here, I have filed a writ of habeas corpus on your behalf, along with a motion for trial, on the grounds that not all the pertinent facts in the case were presented at the time your trial was waived. Once we get the body out, the next thing to do is to erase the mark against the mind. We've got a ton of material to present if they'll let us. I don't know how far we'll get with it, but it's worth a try, and it tells them that we're serious about the habeas corpus."

&n
bsp; "What happens if they say yes?" asked Frank, startled at the zeal of his attorney. "I've been inside a long time. It might be easier if—"

  "We get you out and we get you a proper trial. That's just for starters. We make sure we have expert testimony, the kind of thing you were deprived of before. We get information about brain transplants into the record—if there's anyone who knows enough about it to give the court the right information—and we push the medical ethics of your case for all we're worth. We show that you are the victim just as much as that little girl was. Maybe more the victim, because you were taken advantage of by your own brother and turned into—"

  "A monster?" Frank suggested. "Won't I be that, still?" "Not when I'm through with it. I can show that you were not responsible for anything that occurred after the surgery, that you were made the scapegoat for what Victor did. We can work every angle on this, from the advances in medicine since your operation to the social pressure you had to endure. I've been boning up on things. We've got precedent-setting issues here with you." His eyes brightened at the prospect. "If we handle this right, it could go all the way to the Supreme Court." "In other words, we try Victor in absentia " said Frank. "Something like that," said Hartford. "If nothing else, we should be able to establish much more than a reasonable doubt in regard to your legal responsibilities in the murder case, and your entitlement to compensation for your imprisonment and suffering. That last is a little chancy," he added, "but I think we can try for it. With any kind of jury, we should be able to get you everything you want, and then some." He slapped his hands onto the table. "That's the first step."

  "The first step? And then what?" Frank asked. It sounded like something out of a movie, not anything that could happen to him.

  "Yes. After we get your release we make sure that everyone in the country knows what's going on. Look, you're potentially a hot guy. I've seen the demographics on medical fuck-ups, and they're very favorable for you. So far they make media stars out of heart transplants, and most of those guys don't live long enough to tell about it. You had a brain transplant long before anyone else thought about it, and it took. That's the really big news, since no one else has been able to do it since, even with all the improvements in surgery." He made a sweeping gesture. "Think about it. You have another man's brain, another man's hands and feet, and from everything in your tests, you had no trouble with tissue rejection. That's nothing short of amazing. We can use that to the hilt."

  "Use it how?" asked Frank apprehensively.

  "Look, you can't turn back now. If you do, with the kind of questions I've been asking, the government'll be down on you, and God alone knows what they'll do."

  "They haven't done anything so far," said Frank, his certainty faltering.

  "That's because they'd forgotten about you. You can't count on that continuing, not after what we've started. You stick with me. We'll make sure you're protected, don't worry about that. We'll find a way to keep you from being a guinea pig ever again." He clapped his hands together, his face shining with purpose. "We get your story on every television broadcast from Maine to San Diego, we make sure every paper in the country covers your retrial." He was so enthusiastic that he got up and paced. "That way they won't dare to sweep you under the rug, or cart you off to some government installation. And there are side-benefits you can get out of this. I've been looking into selling your story to one of the big magazines or book publishers. You can get real money out of a deal like that. Who knows, your case is odd enough that there might even be a movie deal in it. Maybe Nick Nolte could play you—what do you think?"

  Frank looked baffled. "Movie deal? They made a deal already, before."

  "Never mind that," said Hartford. "That's in the past. It doesn't mean anything. We work out a deal to do the story again, and this time, we make it about you, about what was done to you, not that crazy brother of yours."

  "How . . ." He tried to order his jumbled thoughts. "This isn't possible, really, is it? I can't see how you could . . . It's unreal."

  "That's because you're in here. You don't know how the world's changed out there. It doesn't matter what you see on TV, the real world will blow your mind." He stopped and looked chagrined. "I didn't mean that the way it came out. It's just that everything is so much more exciting than it was when you were locked up here. We're going to change that. The world is full of possibilities you've never dreamed of."

  For an instant, the vision that filled Frank's thoughts was terrifying. He dreaded that world outside, the one he longed for. "But—"

  Hartford waved his panic away. "If we work this out, you can come out of this with a nice little nest egg and the chance for some privacy as well, if that's what you want. But you might like being a star." He grinned. "I've been thinking it over and I can see lots of ways this is going to pay off. Aside from the movie and the book, there are going to be lots of medical facilities all over the country that will want to study you. Think about it. You can insist on grants and per diem payments every step of the way. You can protect yourself from getting rooked into anything clandestine. I'll handle all that stuff for you, every step of the way." He stopped and perched on the edge of the table. "I think you've suffered a real injustice, no doubt about that. But that's the key."

  "I don't understand." Frank started to get up, but Hartford put his hand on his shoulder.

  "You're the victim of injustice. You deserve a break or two. That's what's going to get you all the goodies." This time his grin was anticipatory. "You might not think so now, but a year from today, you're going to be famous."

  The word all but stuck in his throat. "Famous?" repeated Frank, appalled.

  "Damn right. Once we get you out of here, there'll be no stopping you. Us." Hartford chuckled. "I bet you never thought that would happen."

  "No," said Frank quietly, "I didn't."

  "All this from one writ of habeas corpus," Hartford went on, very satisfied with himself. His mind was brimming with possibilities that he could hardly wait to explore. "Just wait. You can't imagine what's going to happen to you now."

  Frank shook his head. "No."

  ▼▼▼

  A silver-grey limousine was waiting in front of the prison gate ten days later when Frank was released. Gregory Hartford was standing by the door, grinning. "I got a bottle of champagne and a deli picnic waiting," he said as he ushered Frank into the back of the splendid vehicle. "I bet you've never traveled in one of these before."

  "Not that I know of," said Frank, looking around in awe. He felt out of place here. His new clothes did not quite fit and he was aware the world he was entering was not the one he left when the prison doors closed behind him all those years ago. He hunkered his bulk down into one of the plush- covered seats.

  "This"—Hartford indicated the limousine as he got in and closed the door—"was provided by Gargantuan Films. They're the ones who won the auction for the film rights to your story. They're working out a publicity tour for you now with Eureka Books, so that the book and film can get publicity at the same time. I wish you could have been there when I sent out all the information on you. They just about bounced off the ceiling." He tapped on the chauffeur's shoulder. "You might as well get moving, Blake."

  "Yes, Mister Hartford," said the chauffeur as he set the limousine in motion.

  Hartford leaned back on the soft cushions. "I know this probably isn't the way Spencer Dare would have handled it, but back in his day, you couldn't do deals like this." Belatedly he reached for the champagne. "Let me pour you a glass. We can celebrate the freeing of your body."

  Frank turned and stared out the tinted window at the psychiatric-prison walls, and for a moment wondered if he had perhaps been freer there than he was now.

  "We've got dinner reservations in Manhattan at eight. We'll be joining the president of Eureka Books and Samuel Flannagan, who's going to be your collaborator in the book. They're very anxious to meet you. I've got them champing at the bit." The champagne cork popped and Hartford offered Frank
the first glass he filled. "Been a while since you've had any of this."

  It took both hands for Frank to keep from spilling the wine. He watched it, following the lines of bubbles marching to the top of the flute. "I . . . don't know if I've ever had it. I don't remember." There was so much he didn't remember. In prison it had hardly mattered, but out here, he felt vulnerable, exposed.

  "Well, that doesn't matter now; get used to it." He touched the rim of his glass to Frank's. "This is the life you're going to have. Enjoy it. You've earned it. You're not in prison any more."

  There was a strange light in Frank's eyes, and his voice, when he answered, hardly seemed to belong to him. "No," he said to Hartford as the limousine sped away into the brilliant afternoon light, "I suppose not."

  THE STATE VERSUS ADAM SHELLEY

  Benjamin M. Schutz

  ▼▼▼

  FORENSIC EVALUATION

  THIS IS the report of the evaluation conducted by the forensic team of the behavorial sciences division at Goldstadt Medical Center on Adam Shelley (DOB 10/31/92).

  Social History

  Adam's mother was Mary W. Shelley, age 19 and a college freshman. She sought genetic screening of a possible pregnancy and was informed that unusual chromosomal defects were identified. She then filed for an abortion under the rape exemption. Her request was denied because the rape was not reported within the 7-day state guidelines for the exemption to be valid. An assault report had been filed with local police but there was no mention of a rape. Subsequent to the rejection of her request she apparently sought out an illegal abortionist in the city of Charlotte. She was arrested for fetal endangerment as part of the "sting" operation of the Department of Health and Welfare, which had established "apparently" illegal abortion shops across the state. A Sanctity Of Life motion was filed by the Fetal Defense League and Miss Shelley was committed to the Jesse Helms Memorial Reproduction Center for the duration of her pregnancy.