Criminal Zoo

by Sean McDaniel

  I stare at him, saying nothing.

  The governor drops his leg to the floor, then leans forward. “No, I’m not here to hurt you. There are enough people out there who’ll do it for me. I’m here to understand you.”

  “Why is it that everyone wants to understand me? Like there’s a prize in it if you figure me out.”

  “Don’t be flattered,” the governor replies. “I visit in depth with all the exhibits.”

  “Quit calling me that. We’re not exhibits. We’re humans.”

  “No, you are not human. You left humanity behind when you murdered innocent people. Tell me about your victims.”

  “There are no victims. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Do you remember them? Each of them?”

  “Look, Governor, I’m not sure what you’re going for, but I’m no riddle to solve.”

  “Did you look them in the eyes before you killed them? Did you see fear? Was that what turned you on?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Who was your first? Do you remember?”

  “Hey, you’re the guy with the files. You tell me.”

  The governor stares at me. Almost like he’s staring through me. Says nothing.

  “I’m not supposed to be here. This is a mistake,” I inform him.

  “Really? A mistake?”

  “Yeah, really.”

  “We have an explicit and comprehensive checklist to make sure we don’t make such mistakes when sentencing someone to the ‘white nightmare,’ as you call it, and then to the Zoo.” The governor pauses a moment, then asks, “Did you know that one in every twenty-five people is a sociopath?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “That’s four percent of our population. Around fourteen million Americans. I thought maybe if I visited with you, you could help me. Show me what makes you tick. You know, like why you’re hardwired so differently from the rest of us.”

  “You will never understand me. Nobody will. You can’t understand what I was becoming before I was put in here.”

  “Sure sounds like a riddle to me.”

  “Not a riddle. A transformation.”

  “Ah, yes, I read that during interviews you stated you were becoming a God. So what’s stopping you now?”

  “Do you know how to become a God?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Simple. Do as a God does enough times and become as a God is.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What else would there be?”

  “I don’t know, I guess I was expecting there’d be some kind of powerful, heavenly intervention or something.” The governor looks disappointed. “At least a magic spell.”

  “If you make fun of me, I’m not going to talk anymore.”

  “So you can’t finish becoming a God because you can’t do as a God does anymore?”

  “I can’t even do as a man does.” I glare at him.

  “I want to know about you. About how you became a monster. About your victims. About why they’re now dead. Help me understand.”

  “I’m not a monster. Besides, I thought your files told you all about me.”

  “They tell me stats. Not how your mind works. Help me, and maybe I can help you.”

  “Help me?” I ask with skepticism. “How can you help me?”

  “I can help you get out of here.”

  “You just called me a monster.”

  “Who knows—perhaps even the heart of a monster can be changed.”

  The keeper stares hard at the governor. “Sir, are you kidding?”

  “Keeper, mind your own business,” Governor McIntyre advises.

  I nod. “You should want to help me get out of here, because if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t even be in here. None of us would.”

  “See, that’s where you’re wrong. You are the reason you’re in here. Your actions have placed you here, not mine. But how about this: there may be a way to get you out.”

  I stare at him, trying to decide if he means it. “Why would you help me?”

  “When I first envisioned this place, I was angry. Incredibly so. I had just lost my wife, and I wanted the blood of the person who caused me such horrible pain. But that was years ago. I still believe each of us must be held accountable for our actions, but now I seek something more valuable than revenge. I seek understanding. I want to truly understand why some people wouldn’t hurt a fly and others think nothing of slaying their neighbor. If we know our enemy before he becomes our enemy, we can better protect ourselves from him. If we can identify those four percenters, we can better protect ourselves against them.”

  “And you think I’m one of those ‘four percenters’?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then once again, why would you want to help me get out?”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” the governor says. “I still very much believe in the need for this place. Violent crime has fallen dramatically since the Criminal Zoo’s inception. Now people have a little more at risk if they are caught. But I have come to the awareness that perhaps we need more than just this place. I’m willing to listen if you’re willing to talk. You have nothing to lose.”

  “You would help get me out of here…like set me free?”

  “Set you free?” The governor laughs. “Good Heavens, Samuel, of course not. But I could possibly help you get into a regular prison, where you’d at least be treated like a human. As a matter of fact, better than that. I hear the exhibits that make it out of here are Gods in prison. There’s your chance to become the God you always wanted to be.”

  I look at him and then past him, to the viewing wall. The crowd of L1s is large. Bigger than I’ve seen in a long time. For once, I’m not the one everybody is here to see.

  “Samuel, help me understand the mind of a sociopath and I’ll do everything I can to make it worth your while. Perhaps by offering you release from the Zoo, I can save thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of people, from being preyed upon in the future. And when I say I’d help you get out of here, I am deadly serious.”

  “‘Deadly serious?’ Wow.” Maybe it’s time to tell someone everything. “Let me out of the straps and get this stupid helmet off me. And then I’ll talk.”

  The governor looks over to the keeper.

  “Sorry, Governor McIntyre, but that’s against Zoo policy,” the man says, shaking his head. “The exhibit must remain in the confinement chair, restrained, during the L2 visit.”

  “I take full responsibility for whatever happens,” the governor replies.

  “Sir, are you crazy?” The keeper looks dismayed. “This man is a serial killer. He mutilates people just because he has nothing better to do. What makes you believe he won’t come after you?”

  “Because he doesn’t want to be in here anymore. Besides, you’ll be right behind me, and you have a Zap-stick. If he makes a move in my direction, hit him with it.”

  My keeper stares. “You’re not really going to try to help this sick bastard get out of here, right?”

  “That’s not your concern. What is your concern is doing as you are asked.”

  “My concern is my job. If something goes wrong, I’m fired.”

  The governor turns to the ceiling camera. “I, Governor Jon McIntyre, hereby request that exhibit CZ One-Zero-One-Three be released from his restraints.” He turns back to the keeper. “There, it’s official. Now please release Mr. Samuel Bradbury.”

  I am released of all straps. Unbound, free to move. Free to attack. Free to show the governor how I feel about his fucking Zoo. But I wouldn’t get far. The keeper would be on me in seconds, Zap-stick jammed into my head. Not worth it. Besides, Governor McIntyre has just offered me something no one else can. He offered me hope. So I tell him my story—being a kid, Mom leaving, living with my da
d, all the way to now, an exhibit in the Zoo.

  Upon wrapping up my memoir, the governor looks at me, shaking his head. “My goodness, Samuel. That is a tale of woe if I’ve ever heard one.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “You should’ve been there.”

  In an Unexpected Direction

  A new day, a new L2. But now things are different. I have renewed hope in my heart. The governor’s visit changed everything. He’s now in my corner. I told him everything he wanted to know and he promised to make good on his offer to help. I want out. Not after a year. I want out right now. I have no idea how long I have been in here, but every day is hell. Seems like years.

  I am strapped into my confinement chair, my new L2 glaring at me. He is a big man, even bigger than my keeper. The Zoo knife looks tiny in his giant mitt. The look in his eyes terrifies me. All the other L2s look at me with hatred. I can identify with hatred. There is a sick familiarity, not comfort by any means, but a recognition accompanying that stare. But not this huge man. No, instead he looks at me with nothingness. There is only blackness in his eyes, void of all emotion. I don’t like it. I have no idea what hides behind the blackness.

  The L2 goes in an unexpected direction before my keeper can jump in. The man doesn’t go for my face like all the others, but for my left hand. In the blink of an eye, he stabs the knife straight into the middle knuckle of my pointer finger. The blade goes all the way through my finger, through the knuckle, and into the chair. I scream.

  “Hey!” the keeper yells. “You can’t do that!” He moves to the L2. But the huge man is fast. He punches the keeper in the head before the Zap-stick becomes an issue. The keeper goes down in a heap. The L2 turns back to me. Still only blackness in his eyes. No excitement. No rage. Nothing

  “Help!” I scream. “Help me!”

  The piercing alarm suddenly drowns out my cries. Its shrieking confirms that the control room is aware of an L2 gone rogue. The Regulators will be dispatched. The man finishes what he started. He cuts off my pointer finger at the middle joint. I scream and scream, try to scream the pain away. The alarm is undeterred by my howl.

  The L2 quickly moves to the next finger. Cuts off my middle finger with unbelievable power and speed. The little pocket knife was never intended to be used to amputate body parts, an offense that’s strictly prohibited. Then the giant takes off my ring finger. Stabs straight into the joint, twists, separates the bones, and slashes. Like he’s done this before. Three fingers gone. Only my pinky and my thumb left.

  The enclosure door swings open. The man turns to face the Regulators, their guns and Zap-sticks held at the ready. The L2 stands tall. Smiles. Drops the knife. I watch, as if from a dream.

  “Okay, okay, fellas—you got me,” the L2 says. He raises his hands. “No need for weapons.”

  Without warning, a Regulator lunges forward and hits the man in the chest with a blast from the Zap-stick. I watch the man fall in slow motion, wonder if this all really just happened. The excruciating pain in my left hand confirms it in the moment before I waver, surrendering to the darkness that often takes me away from these L2 visits.

  Blackness, like the man’s eyes, starts at the very edges of my vision and quickly closes out the light. Time for me to go away, at least for a little while.

  I climb from the dark abyss. I am in the Repair Shack. My right wrist is handcuffed to the metal bed railing and my left hand feels like it’s in a hamburger grinder. What is left of the hand is heavily bandaged. A renewed surge of pain brings nausea with it. I turn my head and vomit on the bed linen.

  “Hey!” An attendant runs into the room. I’ve seen him before. He’s an asshole. “You stupid fuck, don’t do that. Now I have to clean that shit up.”

  “My hand…” The words feel as if they are sandpaper against the lining of my throat. “My hand hurts really bad.”

  “Fuck, I’ll bet,” the attendant says. “Dude, that shit had to hurt. Having your fingers cut off by a pocketknife, one at a time? Ouch!” He laughs.

  The pain is overwhelming, a fire burning throughout my entire soul. “Please help me…”

  The attendant says something, but his words are lost as I drift back into the abyss.

  We Are Human Beings

  I awaken to the voices of others and to the powerful antiseptic smell of the room. The painful throbbing coming from the remains of my left hand immediately reminds me where I am. I look down and examine their bandage job. Shitty at best. A psycho fucking L2 cuts my fingers off, and these guys bandage me up like they don’t give a shit. Probably had to get home to dinner.

  My right wrist is still handcuffed to the metal railing of the bed—standard practice. I look around and confirm that I am not alone in the Repair Shack. Several other beds are filled with inmates, also chained to their frames.

  When we’re out on the floor, we’re not allowed contact. It is rare that we even see each other. We are in lockdown twenty-four hours a day, interacting only with our keepers and our L2s. We are allowed out of our enclosures for Repair Shack time and for hygiene days. We do not get physical fitness time, nor do we get any reprieve from our own minds. In the Repair Shack, and only in the Repair Shack, the rules are relaxed slightly. Here, we are treated as close to human as we will ever be.

  We are given low-grade pain medication for serious injuries; we are given antibiotics for infections; we are allowed to rest. But most importantly, we are allowed to visit while our bodies heal. It is during this time that I learn about others who share my hell.

  I look to my right. A man lies in bed, moaning. I can see his arms, shoulders, and head. The rest of him is covered by a white sheet. Both arms are wrapped in gauze from the wrists almost to his armpits. He bears burn scars over most of his shoulders, and just about all of his face. His injuries tell me everything. He is an arsonist and his last job must have gone terribly wrong.

  Perhaps I can take my mind off of my own pain if he tells me about his. “Hey, buddy,” I call out. “What happened to you?”

  He moans but doesn’t look over.

  “Hey, pyro, why are you in here?”

  His head turns, his empty gaze falls on me. He says nothing.

  I need interaction with someone other than an L2, so I push for conversation. “We never get to talk except in here. What’s your story?”

  He stares at me. It is hard to look into his grotesquely scarred face, but that’s exactly what I do.

  After a pause, he speaks. “I started a fire.”

  “No shit. All I have to do is look at you to see that. And?” I wait for more, but he turns his head, looks up at the ceiling. “A fire doesn’t get you sent here. Who died?”

  “In California. Forest fire.”

  “Yeah?”

  He turns back. “A day after I started it, a fire crew was overrun by the blaze. Two men and a woman were killed.”

  “That’s bad, but I still don’t see how that got you sentenced here. A jury unanimously voted death by Confinement Center for that?”

  “The fire crew was trying to save a man and his ten-year-old, handicapped son, who were camping at the time. They got trapped in the fire. The fire crew covered the boy and his dad with one of those space-age fireproof blankets. They didn’t have time to cover themselves. They died heroes. The boy died a few days later. Apparently he was pretty cooked. Like a turkey in an oven. I think that’s what got the jury.”

  I nod. “A cooked handicapped kid…yeah, that’d do it.”

  He looks at me, his eyes vacant.

  “Why’d you do it?”

  He just stares.

  Blocking my own pain, I encourage him to continue. “Maybe it’d make you feel better if you talk about it while you can. It makes me feel better to listen.” Actually, my hand hurts like hell and his sorry story probably won’t make it feel any better, but it will give me something else to think about.

 
“My arms hurt so fucking bad I can hardly take it!” he shouts all at once. “Give me something. Fuck!”

  An attendant enters the room. “Settle down, One-Two-Five-Seven. Stop whining like a little bitch. What do you need?”

  CZ1257. Not a name. Not a man. An animal. An exhibit.

  “My arms hurt. Please give me something for them.”

  The attendant turns from the burned man and walks to a cabinet immediately above a sink. He fishes a key from his pocket, inserts it into the keyhole just below the cabinet handle, and pulls open the door. He retrieves a small plastic container from within the cabinet. He then fills a small paper cup with water and returns to the man. He taps out a pill. “Here, take this.”

  The firestarter takes the pill.

  “Can I have one?” Actually I want more like twenty, but I’d start with one.

  The attendant walks to my bed, taps a pill out for me.

  “Can I get some water, please?”

  He returns to the sink, fills another cup, and moves beside my bed. He holds the cup just above my mouth. “Open up.”

  I do as I’m told and he drops the pill onto my tongue.

  “Nice tongue. Great scar pattern,” the attendant says. “Makes you look tough.” He smiles like he just said something funny. He pours a little water into my mouth.

  The attendant throws the cups into a trash receptacle in the corner. He locks everything up and heads back to his desk on the other side of the doorway.

  I turn back to the man lying next to me. “So why’d you do it?”

  The inmate looks at me. “I was a part-time firefighter for the forest service. It had been an unusually quiet fire season and I was broke. I needed the money.”

  “You started a fire to go back to work?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you didn’t intend to kill anybody?”

  “Absolutely not. I’m not a murderer. I told them that at the trial!” Tears flow down his charred cheeks. “I don’t belong here. I didn’t mean to kill anybody. It was an accident.” He smacks his bandaged arm against the bed rail, follows that with a scream.