Death Theory

by John Mimms

  Upon seeing these messages, Pac stared at his mother in disbelief. His mother continued to laugh.

  “Ha, now your brother knows what a worthless piece of crap you are!” she snickered.

  Hurt and anger coursed through his veins like deadly venom, but instead of stopping his heart, it flicked a switch in his brain.

  Pac was on his mother in the space of a breath. He wrapped his fingers around her neck and squeezed with all his might.

  “You bitch!” he shrieked. “You won’t ruin my life anymore! You damn bitch!”

  She tried to fight back, clawing and sending knee kicks up, but this only enraged Pac more. He slammed her back against the wall, jarring the bathroom door open. He pulled her forward and then, like an offensive lineman driving a blocking sled, he drove her backwards, and into the bathroom. Her robe caught on the door latch, pulling it free and revealing a sight no son should ever see. He slammed her naked body into the bathtub and reinforced his grip on her neck.

  Once he had her pinned in the tub, it didn’t take long from there. When her lips turned purple and her bloodshot, bleeding eyes rolled back in her head; he knew it was over. Not that his mother’s life was over, her life was simply collateral damage. No, his torment was over, his burden was gone, and he was free. The lifeless face of his mother etched from the horrified struggle for her last breath did not faze him in the least.

  Pac’s last gesture before leaving his mother to her eternal rest, was one he considered appropriate and poetic. He ran the bathtub up to a few inches from the top and left it, but not before stating a heartfelt eulogy.

  Unlike Mikey, the unfortunate pooch in the kitchen sink, this soup would brew for two whole months. But, he hadn’t stopped there. He crafted the letter which the police found and sent it to his brother, hoping to repair the damage his mother had done. He then deleted all the others, leaving the one as a shining testament to his love and loyalty as a son to Rosie Pacheco.

  “It didn’t take me long to see we could work together,” Dr. Staples as he walked around Pac’s body as if he were examining a new rug.

  “I’ll have to give you credit though, dumping the body in the cemetery, and planting those empty vials in Presley’s house. It was better than I hoped because the big oaf has done everything, but confess. I was upset at first when I heard about your phone call to the police. I figured you were acting like a starved-for-attention narcissist. I know how much you hated the idiot, but it was brilliant Pac! Great job, my boy!”

  His tone changed to one of deep disappointment.

  “But in the end, you were more unstable than I feared. Trying to kill off five people at one time? How the hell did you intend to get away with it?” Dr. Staples chuckled.

  “Well, thanks to you, I can fix it. I’ll just call the police and tell them you showed up and set fire to the guest house. Then you came after me and I had to shoot you in self-defense ... case closed.”

  Dr. Staples bent down and studied the computer monitor. The thermal camera revealed four rainbow colored people lying on the ground. It was difficult to say if they were dead yet. If not, they would be soon.

  He tapped each image on the screen as if he were counting.

  “Five,” he said in a dreamy voice. “If I didn’t have to call the cops ... it could have been a nice addition to my orchard.”

  Chapter 37

  JEFF AND THREE OTHER people, including Grammy Lee, all lay dead in the guesthouse of Dr. Staples. The doctor sat, mesmerized by the data compiling on screen. He had been so engrossed with his lecture to Pac, he did not realize that someone was in the hallway listening.

  The doctor picked up the phone and called the police. He reported the fugitive Michael Pacheco had set fire to his guesthouse, and then he had to shoot him in self-defense. He knew it would take the fire department at least fifteen minutes to reach his house. The police would be about five minutes behind. Plenty of time to set a good fire and get everything in order. What he had not considered into his equation was the eavesdropper. She now knew everything.

  Debbie had returned from getting Jeff’s gift and heard the crack of the pistol as she got out of her car. She came in the backdoor to investigate and overheard most of the monologue by the doctor. Rage took over common sense as Debbie stepped into the study with tears streaming down her face.

  “You!” she screamed.

  Dr. Staples jumped, as if he had received an electric shock, but when he saw the source of the outburst, he smiled pleasantly.

  “Well ... hello, Debbie,” he crooned.

  “I trusted you!” she screamed.

  “Indeed, you did,” Dr. Staples said casually. He then brought the pistol up, and pointed it at her. “I’m sorry, dear.”

  Another deafening report ripped through the room. The force spun Debbie around and she fell, face down, almost landing on the body of her psychotic admirer.

  DEBBIE EXPERIENCED a terrible sense of déjà vu when she opened her eyes. She was back in the hospital. Dr. Mallet regarded her with a reassuring smile, but the gesture was lost on her. She remembered what happened ... she remembered everything. Before the doctor could speak, she burst into hysterics. As she wailed, pain tore at her shoulder where the bullet had penetrated. Debbie didn’t notice. It was nothing compared to the pain burning her heart.

  Debbie threw a glass of water at Dr. Mallett when he asked if she wanted to speak to the resident psychiatrist. She would be damned before ever talking to a shrink again. The glass shattered on Dr. Mallet’s forehead, requiring ten stitches. He had the nurse administer a sedative, not only for the safety of the hospital staff, but for Debbie’s safety as well.

  When the sedative wore off several hours later, she was alert, but groggy. She didn’t throw anything when Captain Dean and Sergeant McCartney came by to offer their condolences. Not even when they asked to question her about Dr. Staples.

  “He went on the run after he shot you,” Captain Dean said. “We haven’t found a trace of him, but we’ve got enough evidence to put him under the jail. The sick prick recorded every ‘experiment’ in both high definition color, and with a thermal camera. He fled so fast, he left everything behind.”

  “You know, I found something else out about Conroy Staples,” Sergeant McCartney said. “It turns out, he had to surrender his medical license about ten years ago. Some drugs came up missing at the hospital he was in at the time. Three of his patients turned up dead by suicide. All of them showed positive for the same drug – the one that was missing.”

  “The same as the vials we found at Aaron Presley’s house - pentobarbital and chloral hydrate,” Captain Dean interjected.

  Debbie didn’t feel like talking. In fact, she felt as if she were in a dream. A nightmare making her previous one seem like a parade. She heard what the detectives were saying, but she was completely numb to the meaning. It wasn’t only the drugs, she was a hollow shell, and she wished they would leave.

  “Why would he steal those drugs and kill his patients?” Debbie mumbled distantly

  “Don’t know.” Captain Dean shrugged. “Maybe some kind of psychological experimentation. I intend to ask the bastard when we catch him.”

  “Elvis, is he out?” Debbie whispered.

  “Yes, he still says it’s his fault. I think he means he came up with the cockamamie idea that Pacheco and Staples perverted it,” Sergeant McCartney said.

  Elvis came by to see Debbie the next day. They both mourned the loss of their friends and family. He confided in her about his talks with Vicky. He believed his arrest was a sign of her telling him he was following the wrong path.

  “I bet you think I’m crazy,” Elvis said, his eyes downcast.

  “Not at all,” Debbie replied. “I just hope I can talk to Jeff like that.”

  This made her burst into tears again. Elvis held her like a father comforting a daughter until her tears dried up.

  Debbie had to stay in the hospital for a week this time. On her release day, Elvis picked her up a
nd brought her home. He had taken care of her groceries for the week and made sure Lily didn’t miss a meal or a good belly scratch. The next day he took her to Jeff and Grammy’s funeral. It was a beautiful ceremony, which Debbie insisted be a dual service. Grammy loved Jeff and, as far as Debbie was concerned, Jeff was family. They were married in her heart.

  The next day, with the assistance of Captain Dean and Elvis, Debbie emptied Jeff’s apartment. Dean talked to the landlord and insisted he grant access. Elvis toted boxes.

  The apartment was furnished, so there was no furniture to remove. They packed most of the clothes and sent them to Goodwill. Debbie gathered a few keepsakes and unloaded the contents of Jeff’s desk. It consisted of papers, bills receipts, and ... Jeff’s digital recorder. She considered burning, smashing, and/or throwing it in the trash, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. If there was one symbol of what brought them together, this was it. Instead, she placed it in her pocket before returning home. Elvis stacked everything in her closet, except the recorder. She kept it in her nightstand by her bed.

  Debbie cried for hours after Elvis returned home.

  They both celebrated Christmas alone. Debbie couldn’t bear the thought of celebrating while her Jeff and her Grammy lay by themselves under the cold ground. She asked Elvis to donate their gifts to charity, all except the one she had come home to retrieve the day of Pac’s great experiment. She could not bring herself to part with it, even though it was a terrible reminder. A token of why she lived and Jeff died. She wished the damned thing didn’t exist. If she had stayed with Jeff, they would be together now. She spent the holiday petting Lily and crying until no more tears would come. She was still sore physically, but she felt as if her soul had been battered beyond repair.

  Two weeks had passed since the funeral and three since Dr. Staples went on the run. Debbie’s pain had not diminished. She longed to talk to Jeff so much; she found it difficult to breathe. One night, as she lay on her bed, absently stroking Lily, a thought occurred to her. She remembered what Elvis had told her about his conversations with Vicky.

  Without further consideration, Debbie opened her nightstand drawer and retrieved the digital recorder. As she gently placed it on the bed, she felt a spark inside. It was brief, but it was something she had not felt in what seemed an eternity. She felt hope. She placed Lily on the floor and laid her head an inch from the recorder. It appeared much different up close, much more cold and impersonal – a soulless piece of machinery. It was devoid of emotions, a trait Debbie now envied. As she felt the small spark of hope begin to die like a fading ember, she reached over and turned on the recorder.

  “Jeff?” she whispered.

  “Are you here with me, honey?”

  Of course, she heard no response and she didn’t expect to ... not yet. She talked for over an hour before falling asleep with the recorder still running. Debbie woke up with the bright sun beaming through her bedroom window and Lily’s plea for breakfast. She jerked her dangling hand back from the edge of the bed and rubbed her neck.

  “Alright,” Debbie groaned, forcing herself to sit up.

  She trudged to the kitchen, filled the dog’s bowl, and then stopped in the bathroom. She sat there and cried long after her business was finished. She thought about getting a shower, but her desire to go back to bed far outweighed her hygiene. Debbie had almost forgotten last night until she saw a blinking red flash coming from the folds of her comforter. She pulled it back, revealing the blinking light of the battery indicator on Jeff’s digital recorder. She picked it up, turned it off, and then turned it back on. The battery was dead.

  Debbie tapped it against the palm of her hand a couple of times, but this action had no effect. She felt as desperate as someone who had ingested a deadly poison and could not get the bottle of antidote to open. She rummaged through several drawers until she found three loose AAA batteries. She wasn’t sure if they were good or not, or even how they wound up in the drawer. She removed the batteries from the recorder and replaced them with two of the new ones. The recorder was still dead. She pulled one of the batteries out and replaced it with the third one. Debbie smiled as the recorder lit up.

  She shut it off to conserve power and then rummaged through her drawers to find a pair of ear buds. She found one ragged pair with a frayed wire. Her heart sank until she remembered her closet. In Jeff’s possessions, there was a nice pair of closed ear headphones. She pulled them out, accidentally spilling several papers onto the floor. Debbie didn’t care, she was anxious to listen. She plugged them in to her recorder and then walked to her bed. She laid flat on her back with her head propped on the pillows. Lily hopped up on the bed and curled up on her feet. She hit play and listened.

  She made it through her line of questions and then heard her own slow and rhythmic breathing after she fell asleep. She continued to listen, almost dozing off several times despite her excitement. It was almost two hours later when Debbie’s heart leapt from her chest.

  “Jeff?” she called out.

  The voice was too clear, too loud, too close to be a dream. Her heart pounded and her breathing became quick and rapid. That is when she heard it again. This time there was no doubt. Jeff’s voice was on her recorder and he was addressing her. This wasn’t a typical one or two-word EVP, Jeff spoke volumes. Debbie listened, rewound, and listened again. She listened so many times, the only batteries she had finally died.

  When the last ounce of energy expired on the recorder, Debbie rolled off the bed, writhing in anguish on the floor. Not because of what was said or not said on the recorder, but because she now missed Jeff so much more. Despite her pain, a part of her did feel comforted by the words. Jeff had proven the Death Theory, to her at least. He had his answer and he shared it with her. There was one thing Jeff said which didn’t make any sense to her, not until she gazed across the carpet at the paper’s spilled out of her love’s belongings earlier. His last two words had been cryptic initially, but as she stared at the jumbled pile it all made sense.

  “Clean up.”

  Debbie at first thought he said, ‘chin up’, which was not helpful considering it was what everyone had been telling her for weeks now. When she saw the papers, it was as if hope suddenly bloomed inside. She dragged herself across the carpet. When she reached the pile, she sat up against the wall and began to gingerly pick up each individual piece, sorting them into common piles.

  Gas receipts, a receipt for batteries from Wal-Mart, several McDonald’s receipts, a credit card bill, and ... Debbie stopped and caught her breath as a lump formed in her throat. There was a receipt for The White River Fish House in Branson ... their first date. She wiped away tears with the back of her hand, and then stuffed the receipt in her pocket until she could find a special place for it later. She then continued to feverishly rummage through the pile with hopes of finding more treasures from their brief time together.

  Debbie began to wail when she found the Build-A-Bear Workshop receipt. Horace had been sitting on her dresser for months now, peering through the holes in his white sheet with soft and shiny eyes. She had seen him every day since Jeff had been gone without much notice, but now, somehow the receipt reminded her. She soon picked up something strange. It was a receipt from a restaurant she had never heard of. A phone number and e-mail address was scribbled on the back. She recognized the address and number as belonging to Dr. Staples.

  She turned it back over, studying the name and city. She had never heard of either one. She got up and slowly trudged to her computer. After a couple of internet searches, she found it. The town was little more than a speck in the Ozark Mountains southwest of Branson. It was the kind of place where no one went unless they were lost ... or wanted to escape the world.

  As she considered this receipt, a memory came back to her; one she had forgotten about until now. She had heard Dr. Staples tell the corpse of Michael Pacheco that he was supposed to go to the cabin until things cooled down. The area around the small restaurant likely had a remote
cabin or two.

  DEBBIE DIDN’T REMEMBER much afterward. To her, she merely switched off her computer, laid down for a nap, and then found herself standing outside in a cold northerly wind. Gray winter clouds rolled overhead, an ominous warning of the snow storm arriving later in the evening. She was dressed appropriately for the occasion, black dress with a long black overcoat. Dark sunglasses concealed her eyes, including her very swollen and bloodshot right eye. Her whole body was sore, but the overcoat concealed her remaining injuries.

  Elvis stood next to her in a dark suit, his arm draped around her shoulders, giving an occasional comforting squeeze. Elvis never attended any graveside services at Browns and Sons cemetery, especially not for anyone he had prepared for burial, but today was an exception. The swirling gray clouds reflected on the shiny surface of Mr. Fred Prescott’s casket, making it appear eerily as if it were alive with energy. Debbie and Elvis didn’t know him, but they had a purpose for being there.

  Mr. Prescott had been a lonely man in life. He had no spouse or children to speak of and, because Debbie and Elvis were the only attendees, he had no friends either. He had spent most of his life alone, but his eternal disposition might prove to be slightly better.

  Death affects everyone in diverse ways. Occasionally, time heals the wounds. Sometimes it takes more. Sometimes death’s grip on the living is a mortal demand for justice to be served. It changes the grieving in ways they could not imagine or, in some cases, remember. Debbie knew all too well about death’s ghoulish amnesia, she had now experienced it twice in her young life.