By Reason of Insanity

by Shane Stevens

  On Friday morning the headlines had screamed the latest Chess Man outrage and he read about it over coffee in a local donut shop. He had come to like reading of his exploits in the newspapers, and began to see himself as a heroic figure. Much like the Batman on television. No one knew who Batman was but he fought the forces of evil and he always won. Which was exactly what he, Bishop, was doing. He too was fighting the evil demons who would destroy him, destroy everyone, every man they could. And he too would always win.

  Reading about himself that day in the coffee shop, Bishop came to a decision. In his next encounter with the powers of darkness he would leave word that the Batman had struck again.

  The final Saturday and Sunday of October were spent mostly in meditation. With the TV blaring loudly, he would sit in front of the set hour after hour, his eyes glued to the screen, his mind empty of all thought. Slowly, ever so slowly, his focus would turn inward as his vision blurred to pinpoints of light, to shimmering suns of pure white and to final fiery incandescence. Transported, in his mind he would see strange and wondrous things, shapes and colors and textures beyond comprehension, beyond anything even his disordered imagination could fantasize. In such state he was oblivious to everything external, seeing all, feeling all, knowing all from within.

  As the intensity eventually lessened, he would begin to form shadowy figures that slowly hardened into the hated enemy. Demonic beings lashed out at him, diabolic bodies sought to ensnare him. Opening like the petals of a giant flower, feminine forms slithered round his arms, his legs, pulling him irrevocably toward their center where they would close over him, squeezing out the juices of his life, crushing his bones to pulp. But he fought them valiantly, going from flower to flower until all were leveled and he stood solitary and fierce against the next terrible onslaught, and the next and the next.

  During the weekend Bishop also visited a chess parlor on 42nd Street, above a clothing store. Here he watched dozens of players, all of them passionately involved in the game. He talked to a few—one was a truck driver who had learned chess while in prison. “There was nothing else to do,” he told Bishop, “nothing at all.” So he was forced to take up chess. Eventually he came to love it.

  For his own part, Bishop didn’t reveal that he too had learned chess in an institution. Nor did he mention that he was considered a very good player. Not wishing to cause undue comment, he allowed the truck driver to win. Everybody seemed pleasant enough in the parlor and he felt comparatively safe, especially with his hornrimmed glasses, lightened hair and full beard. People, mostly men, were constantly entering and leaving the place, and when Bishop finally left he promised he would return.

  On the way home he had picked up the latest issues of a half dozen detective magazines. In each he found photographs of female models in distress-type poses, some bound to chairs, others sprawled on floors at the feet of sadistic males, all of them seemingly moments away from death. In the apartment he put them with his photographic equipment where they could be easily seen.

  Monday morning saw Bishop once more in Jersey City at the YMCA on Bergen Avenue, where he had rented a room the previous Friday. The Y was in an area of heavy traffic, and his appearance occasioned no special interest. To the clerk who gave him his letter, he was just another faceless young man in a world full of travelers. Nor did the name Thomas Wayne Brewster have any significance. Both man and name were immediately forgotten.

  To Bishop it had seemed a perfect choice. He needed a Jersey City address and wanted not merely a mail drop but an actual residence. The Y was cheap and it was anonymous. He didn’t intend to live there of course, but it would be a convenient backstop in case of emergency. From a lifetime of television he had learned all about evasive action. Meanwhile he would pay each month in advance and collect his mail whenever any was expected.

  After examining the birth certificate and mussing up the bed to show occupancy, Bishop had gone to the Social Security Administration office on Kennedy Boulevard, where he filled out an application for a Social Security number on form SS-5. He printed his full name as Thomas Wayne Brewster, his place of birth as Jersey City. For his mother’s maiden name he put Mary Smith, his father, Andrew Brewster. His mailing address was 654 Bergen Avenue, date of birth May 3, 1946, present age twenty-seven, sex male, color white. He checked the appropriate box for having never before applied for a United States Social Security, railroad, or tax account number. At the bottom he signed his new name.

  When his turn in line came he handed over the application form and his newly acquired birth certificate as proof of his identity. After being examined the certificate was returned to him.

  The woman with the big glasses behind the desk told him he would receive the new Social Security card at his mailing address within four weeks. He told her he was starting ajob the very next day. Could he somehow get a card immediately, or at least a temporary number? She said that was impossible. All new cards were sent out from Baltimore. But she could give him a form saying he had applied for a Social Security number which would be given him shortly. Bishop smiled his warmest. That would be fine.

  He watched the woman as she gathered the papers neatly. In his mind’s eye he saw her face break apart like a jigsaw puzzle and the blood flow out of her mouth and neck and chest as his long knife skewered her to the chair. The vision remained with him even after he had left the office.

  A half hour later he deposited $2,000 in a commercial bank near Journal Square, showing the bank officer his temporary card. He had been living in Canada since childhood and was just now returning to his native state. He would give his new Social Security number the moment he received it. Meanwhile he had all this money he didn’t want lying around …

  The bank officer nodded understandingly and had him fill out the application card for a savings account, leaving the space for the Social Security number temporarily blank. Within minutes Bishop walked out with a blue bankbook in the name of Thomas Wayne Brewster.

  His next stop was a local Motor Vehicle registration and license agency where he paid five dollars for a driver’s permit, good for three months. With the permit he was given a driver manual containing a summary of New Jersey’s traffic laws. The written examination for the license would be based on the contents of the manual, and he was told to study it carefully.

  That evening Bishop spent hours at home memorizing facts from the booklet. Many of them seemed frivolous and not relevant to driver safety but he kept at it. When he finally felt confident of his knowledge he went out to prowl the city, this time finding what he needed on Third Avenue and ioth Street.

  She was standing under a clock that said 12:30 and she was open for business. When the John mumbled that he’d like some action at her place, her first impulse was to shoo him away. Her trade was mostly cars, passing cars that could whisk her to a darkened street where she would give the driver a quick blow job right on the front seat. Then straight back to her corner to wait for the next car. Fast and easy! She liked blow jobs the best because she didn’t have to take off her clothes or even open her legs. There was no strain or struggle, just a little simple mouth action and the money spilled in. She had once figured she swallowed at least a gallon of the stuff a week. All that pure protein was probably what kept her so healthy the year round. Yessir, she was strictly carriage trade. Lincolns, Cadillacs, Buicks, even Fords and Chevies. Almost anything but Volkswagens; she had once sprained her neck in a Volkswagen. The forced vacation had cost her at least a thousand dollars.

  But it had been a slow night so far and she was chilly. The end of October was never her best time; too late for hot pants and too soon for the big boots. When the John told her what he wanted and said he’d pay double to go to her place, she popped her gum and nodded glumly.

  She lived on 13th Street between Second and Third Avenue. A room in the rear, with a bed and a dresser and a hotplate on a small table. The two chairs made the room seem crowded. She hung her cotton coat over one of the chairs and flung off
her boots. The impact raised dust in the cracks of the wood floor. She got in bed with her clothes still on and he got in bed with his clothes still on, and as she put his penis in her mouth and closed her eyes she didn’t think to ask him why he was still wearing his boots.

  Much later, just before his departure, Bishop stuck his finger in a pool of thickening blood and printed his latest public name on the dresser mirror. Then he disappeared into the gloom of Gotham like a bat out of hell.

  On Tuesday morning he had returned to Jersey City, going right to the Driver Qualification Center at Roosevelt Stadium. He presented his birth certificate and driver’s permit, and quickly passed the written examination and eye test. With his permit stamped for practice driving, he made an appointment to take the road test the following week.

  In Journal Square he stopped at an auto school and paid thirty-five dollars to have a licensed instructor accompany him in a registered New Jersey vehicle when he took the road test. He was told to be at the school 7:30 on the morning of his appointment.

  Back in New York by early afternoon, Bishop walked from the underground train terminal to 630 Fifth Avenue at 50th Street, across from St. Patrick’s Cathedral. He rode the escalator to the government passport office on the mezzanine, where he filled out a passport application and paid his money. The lines were long, including one for pictures in the building’s basement. He didn’t like the idea of having his picture taken but there was nothing to be done. At least, he kept reminding himself, with the glasses and beard he didn’t look much like Thomas Bishop.

  By the time he had finished everything it was after four but he considered the afternoon well spent. Barring acts of God or war, his passport would be ready for him within a week.

  That night at home Bishop was jubilant. He already had the birth certificate and would soon possess a driver’s license and Social Security card and passport. With them he would be safe anywhere.

  But more than that, they would form the basis of the first new identity that was truly his own. All the others had either belonged to people still living, like Daniel Long and Jay Cooper, or were complete fabrications, like Alan Jones and David Rogers. Each carried with it a certain danger, a clear and present reminder that he was merely imitating someone who might discover the impersonation, or else be asked to present proof of the existence of someone who never existed at all.

  But Thomas Wayne Brewster did exist, was once alive, and lived no longer. The records were there for all to see. His records now.

  Long live Thomas Wayne Brewster!

  TWB.

  Bishop suddenly stopped, startled by the thought.

  TWB.

  Thomas William Bishop.

  No!

  That life was over too. Finished. Dead and buried the night he escaped from Willows. The night he became Vincent Mungo. And a dozen other men in the past four months, including the infamous Chess Man.

  Chess Man frowned in delight. He had been glad to get rid of Thomas William Bishop. Even that name had not been really his. It was still another creation for someone who didn’t live, who had never lived at all.

  No one had been Thomas Bishop, least of all he.

  He was Thomas Chessman.

  That was his true identity. He was Caryl Chessman’s son, and the world knew it because he had told them. And he would go on telling them.

  He was also Thomas Brewster.

  But no one would ever know that.

  In his ecstasy over his new existence Chess Man promised himself a party, a real celebration at home with just the two of them. Himself and the very first photographer’s model who came to his house to pose for detective magazines.

  By Wednesday the neighborhood newspapers with his classified ad were on the stands, and he called his answering service. Someone had already left her number. He phoned immediately. Could she come that afternoon? An assignment was overdue and required about three hours’ work. Prevailing rates of course. Paid at the end of the session.

  She needed the money, had modeled only once before for a clothing catalogue, and didn’t know how the game was played. The furthest thing from her mind was treachery and death. At twenty she was immortal. She agreed to meet him at a local restaurant, from whence they would go to his downtown studio. He would be carrying a copy of True Detective so she would know him.

  At three o’clock he arrived back home, the model by his side. For an hour he took pictures of her bound to a chair, gagged and trussed on the floor, roped in a kneeling position and generally appearing distressed. Bishop had bought the ropes earlier that day in a discount store on Canal Street. Much to his surprise, he liked the feel of rope in his hands and the pleasure it gave him when he tied knots. And most especially when he was tying them around a female body.

  The film in the camera came from a nearby photography supply shop. Bishop had decided to use real film since he wanted pictures of his model victims bound and gagged. While he couldn’t have the films developed commercially, he thought someday he might learn how to set up his own darkroom facilities. Meanwhile he had the clerk show him how to load the film and operate the camera. He also bought a book on photography as a hobby.

  When he had shot several rolls of legitimate pictures and they had taken a break he again tied the model to the chair, this time tightly, and gagged her. She suspected nothing of course, since these were the kind of photos wanted and it was all part of the session. She was trying to be very professional. As he hovered over her she thought he was merely gauging distance and light. He arranged her hair differently, he opened her blouse a bit to show more cleavage. She blinked. Suddenly he ripped the blouse down the front and yanked it off her. She wore no bra. He then feverishly slit apart her brief skirt with a single-edged razor blade and struggled it from her body. As the now terrified girl strained against the ropes he photographed her from various angles, acting the complete artist, shouting at her to do this or that in mock imitation, smiling all the while.

  Finally tiring of the camera and his own frantic efforts, he surreptitiously got out his knife and approached the still struggling girl from behind and calmly cut her throat, left to right, with one swift stroke. He quickly loosened the ropes as the lifeless body slumped to the concrete floor gushing blood fiercely. With a short sob of triumph he removed the girl’s panties and then disrobed himself. Kneeling over the corpse he wallowed in the blood, scooping some in his hands and forcing it into the dead mouth, now no longer gagged. After a while he placed his streaked penis in the reddened mouth and moved rhythmically until he climaxed.

  For a long time he lay with the body, joined to it by blood. When he again moved it was with knife in hand, preening over his prey.

  Eventually he showered and slept, a long, luxurious sleep free of the demons that normally prowled his dreams. A twelve-hour sleep of the innocent—or was it the damned? Bishop knew only that he felt rested and at peace.

  Now on this Thursday morning of the first day of November, he sat with his coffee and gazed at the girl’s remains. The blood had long since dried on the cement floor but water would wash it away. The body would be taken upstairs and dumped there. The place was empty; even the stairway was mostly boarded up. A perfect grave. He would put all of them upstairs. Drain the bodies of fluids so there’d be no foul smell and bury them up there.

  Just like Arsenic and Old Lace, which he had seen so many times on television. Except upstairs was much better than down in the basement. Safer too. Sometimes people dug up basements for one reason or another but nobody ever dug up a top floor. Teddy Roosevelt was crazy in the movie so he didn’t know any better. But this wasn’t the movies and he wasn’t at all crazy. Unless maybe like a fox.

  Bishop’s only regret was that the world wouldn’t know of his deeds at home, since the bodies would never be discovered. At most it would simply be a matter of a growing number of women missing. Eventually certain suspicions might be entertained by the authorities but they’d never give him the credit without proof. They were all
secretly jealous of him. He was doing what they couldn’t do, what they longed to do if only they weren’t so cowardly. He was fulfilling all their deepest desires, their unconscious cravings. And why not? They were men and had the same chance he had. Only he took his chances. He showed them all up, and so they were angry with him. He would have to be very careful.

  After breakfast he carried the remains of the corpse upstairs, where he threw it in a storeroom filled with old cartons and assorted junk. He heard scratchings in the room and caught a glimpse of a large rat diving under a pile of rubble in one corner. Rats didn’t scare him, he had seen too many of them over the years. Huge institutional rats, the biggest kind there were. Backing out, he found a metal swivel chair which he carried downstairs.

  In his apartment again he washed the blood off the floor and put the rope in the closet, coiled and ready for the next photographic session. The gag, a piece of towel, went on the shelf He took the film out of the camera and placed the several used rolls in a smooth cardboard box he had brought home from some store. The lid was snapped on. Inside was room enough for at least a dozen more rolls of film. He left the box on the floor by the tripod.

  When he rang his answering service he was given two more names but he decided to wait a day before calling. There was no hurry. He would get around to them, to all of them sooner or later. He was the demon hunter and he would never die as long as even one woman lived. Like the vampire, he was the undead. He could not be killed. And if, strangely, he were killed, he would still somehow return to his work. Of that he now was certain.

  On the way home he bought a Daily News. They had finally found the Third Avenue and 12:30 girl.

  ROBERT ARTHUR GARDNER sat motionless behind the specially designed desk, his arms tightly folded, and stared out of steel-gray eyes across the broad expanse of his White House office toward the great central hallway and the President’s quarters beyond. In the hushed corridors men moved softly on thick carpet, their manner subdued, their voices low. Only an occasional self-conscious cough betrayed the excitement some still felt at being on such hallowed ground.