by Karlin
shirt. There are thousands who look just like me, so it was no surprise that there were witnesses who thought that they had seen me near the scene of one of the crimes.
The lab results were beyond me. How could they have found my blood under the fingernails of one of the victims? Was somebody trying to frame me? Who? Why? Was it a lab error? Or had the statistics of this caught up with me – the lab tests are 99.9% accurate – and maybe I was the lucky one who fell into the other 0.1%. As I fell further and further into a fuzzy world, I couldn't make head or tail of anything.
I sat in prison for months, waiting for a trial that went by in a blur. How could I defend myself? There were witnesses, there were forensics – yet I was completely innocent. The system decided that I was guilty, and I headed off for the endless, mindless torture of prison life. The rapes and murders continued, by the way, since the real serial killer was still out there. The police put it down to 'copy-cat' crimes.
I survived prison as best as I could, always in a daze. The boredom, the violence, eventually the inevitable divorce. An innocent, sane person in prison is likely to lose either his sanity or his innocence. The only alternative was suicide. I have a stubborn moral streak and a strong animal desire to live, so it was my sanity that suffered. I floated through prison, disconnected from reality; not knowing or caring what the next day or year would bring me. I viewed what was happening around me, or even to me, as a kind of reality show, entertainment that didn't have anything to do with me personally.
You may not believe my story. A few years ago, if someone had told me a story like this, I would have laughed at him. Sure, yeah, you were completely innocent. Yep, absolutely, the witnesses and the lab results are all wrong. Pull the other one, it has bells on.
But it happened. It happened to me, and it could happen to you. What would you lose in prison – your sanity or your morality? I regained my sanity in that instant when I decided to escape. I left the safe cocoon of blurry survival, found reality, climbed over that wall, and ran.
The moment I ran, I also started eroding my innocence. I was immediately an escaped convict. A few minutes later I was a thief. Where would this end? I didn't know. One thing was for sure. I was not going back to prison. I would rather die – and I meant that literally.
Now I was free, but a fugitive, with only my wits to live on. I had managed to get some normal clothing, and I was gradually putting some distance between myself and the scene of my escape, but I was far from calm. My face would be all over the papers and the television in a matter of a few hours at best. I needed a place to stay, and some way of finding food to eat.
I was still headed south, and had already reached one of the less well-to-do neighborhoods. I slowed down, and started looking carefully at the apartment buildings on either side of the street. Soon I found what I was looking for - a building with all of the shutters closed. There was a good chance that there was nobody home in the building, so I would have a chance to 'visit' one of the apartments and get some things that I needed.
I walked up to the building, and started up the staircase. The apartments on the first floor had those modern steel security doors. I doubted that I could break one of those down, and if I did manage to get through one of those doors it would make a huge racket. I continued up the stairs, hoping to find what I needed. Sure enough, on the third floor one of the apartments still had its original wooden door.
I rang the doorbell, then knocked. A thought ran through my head – 'breaking and entering', but then I caught myself, thought 'liberty or death', prayed that God have mercy on Patrick Henry and myself, and put my shoulder to the door.
It was harder than I thought, but on the third try the door flew open, splinters scattering from the door frame. I kick the loose splinters into the apartment, closed the door as best as I could, and got down to business.
I grabbed a small backpack that I found hanging on a hook behind the door, and headed for the kitchen. I had no interest in jewelry or silver. I needed cash and food, and didn't want to be weighed down with stuff that I would have a hard time unloading later. I found some bread in a drawer, oranges in a basket, and some sliced cheese in the fridge. I was about to head to the bedroom, figuring that my host might keep some cash in a nightstand or sock drawer, when I thought of an old trick. I opened the freezer, and started pulling things out. Frozen ready made food, more bread, ice cream – and a can of coffee. Some people keep their coffee in the freezer as a way of keeping it fresh. But some, like my latest victim, keep cash in a can in their freezer.
The whole visit took about ten minutes. I was satisfied with what I had found, but decided to take some jewelry just to make it look more like a real theft, and not like an escapee had stopped by for some basics. I dumped all of the drawers in the bedroom out on the bed, put the few rings and earrings I found in the knapsack, and left, taking care to close the door behind me.
My luck held out, and nobody noticed me. My next step was to get out of town, which was a lot easier now that I had some cash. But what was the best way to go? If I took public transportation, a lot of people would see me. On the other hand, most people don't look at the other passengers on a bus or train. They would walk right past their own mother if she didn't call out to them. A cab driver, though, would start chatting with me and might report me to the police.
I realized that my face wouldn't be readily recognized until later that evening, when it would likely appear on the news. So I opted for public transportation. A bus to the train station, a train to Haifa, and I was gone.
I knew Haifa pretty well, since I studied engineering there. I left the old British train station, crossed the parking lot, and headed for one of the older neighborhoods where I knew there were some deserted Turkish buildings. I could run into some drug addicts in these old buildings, but, on the other hand, they could run into me, a convicted killer.
I managed to survive the next few weeks without too much difficulty. I cleaned out an old apartment, one that some other vagrant had fixed up with plastic sheeting covering the broken windows and a jury-rigged door. I stayed put for a few days to let the excitement die down and to let my beard grow out a bit. Then I ventured out, but only in the dark, buying food in twenty-four hour stores or little groceries, trying not to frequent the same places too often.
There were plenty of opportunities for petty theft as well. Once I got up my nerve, I found that I could walk off with fruits, vegetables or even cheese in the crowded open-air market. Sometimes I managed to take a little cash from a vendor as well. About once a week I broke into an apartment and borrowed some money.
It turns out is that if all you are really interested in is bare survival, you don't need much. I knew that eventually I would have to make a move, somehow come up with a new identity, or maybe leave the country. For the time being, though, my best bet was to wait it out.
'Waiting it out' was the right thing to do, but the day came when things caught up with me. It had been about a month since my escape, and I was getting used to my lifestyle. It wasn't luxurious, but it was a hell of a lot better than prison. It was late at night, close to midnight, and I needed to buy a few things. I went to a grocery store about twenty minutes away, one that I knew was open until midnight. I liked coming to these places close to closing time, when the clerk was in a hurry and wouldn't pay much attention to me.
I didn't recognize the kid at the cash register, which was just as well. It made it less likely that he would recognize me as well. I paid for my few items, and only then noticed that he was watching a small TV mounted on an arm opposite the counter. I had mistaken it for a closed circuit security monitor, but it turned out to be a TV meant to entertain the help in the late hours of the evening.
He was engrossed in his show, and hardly looked at me. I hadn't seen television since my time in prison, so I watched for moment. It was a crime show, one of those that shows the unsolved crimes and asks the viewers to call in if they have any information. I froze, fascinated as my own pho
to appeared on the screen. The police artist had done some sketches as well, including one showing me with a beard. The artist had done a good job. I would have to do something else to disguise myself. Maybe I could shoplift some hair dye or something.
The kid at the counter ran my items through the barcode reader without glancing at me. He was riveted to the screen. I was trying hard to look inconspicuous, which may have been my fatal error. He glanced at me as he handed me my change, looked back up at the screen, and then back at me. His whole posture changed as he figured out who had just bought some tuna and soap in his shop. There was no doubt that he would call the police as soon as I left.
He found a pencil and started scribbling down the phone number that they'd showed on the screen for people with leads about those photogenic unsolved crimes. That was his fatal error. I had little choice. There were some bottles of liquor behind me. I grabbed one, and swung it down on him as he bent over the paper. The bottle burst, leaving me holding a bottle neck with jagged broken edges. The clerk collapsed on the floor, probably just knocked out. I was about to attack him again with the broken bottle, but I was afraid of the mess the blood would make.
I looked at the kid, lying on the floor, and saw that he was still breathing. So I hadn't yet committed murder – but I had to. When he came to, he would call the police, report the crime, and identify me as the attacker. I had a few minutes to think it over. He wasn't going to wake up that fast, and it wasn't likely that there would be any more customers that evening. I turned off the lights to make sure that it looked like the store was already closed.
It would be easy to kill him while he was unconscious. The store sold rubber gloves, the kind you use for dishwashing or cleaning. I could put on gloves so I wouldn't leave fingerprints. Then I could bash his head in with something heavy, say the cash register. A couple cans of tuna swung at the end of a stocking would work as well. It would be much simpler to just choke him. He was barely breathing as it was. Just tighten my hands around his throat. It would only take a minute or two. He was unconscious so he wouldn’t feel it. And there wouldn't be any more blood.
I found the gloves and managed to get them on my shaking hands. The choice was clear. Either kill him, and stay free, or let him live, and stand a good chance of being caught. I had no way of leaving Haifa until the morning. I could steal a car, but I had never done that before.
I got behind the counter and knelt down next to my victim. I was below window level now, the lights were off, so there was no chance that anybody would see me. I just had to squeeze his throat for two minutes and walk away.
I would have to dump the gloves somewhere. I wondered if they could get prints off the inside of the gloves. The easiest thing was to throw them in a trash bin, but one that was far away from the murder scene. They would be picked up early in the morning by the municipal trash crew, probably before the murder was discovered.
The clerk had fallen on his side, crumpled up uncomfortably in the cramped space. He wouldn't be uncomfortable for long. I reached for his neck and felt his pulse. He was definitely alive. I would have to do this. It was inevitable. It was hard to do.
I brought images of prison life to mind, to remind myself of why I had to do this. I imagined myself aging in prison, dying of rape-induced AIDS. I thought of leaving the country, maybe to Europe, to a remote Greek island.
Just squeeze, and it would all remain possible. Just squeeze. He was unconscious, it would be like squeezing a piece of meat in the butcher shop, a carp by the fishmonger. Hell, it wouldn't be much more than squeezing a bottle of ketchup. Squeeze and be free. Murder and be free. Mord Macht Frei.
(Tuesday, January 27) …Based on the storekeeper's information, hundreds of police crowded into downtown Haifa, searching for the escaped convict. He was soon identified by security guards as he entered the new city hall. A brief chase by the guards and two policemen ended as the criminal found himself cornered in the top floor of the building, and threw himself out of a window.
Upon reaching the criminal's broken body, investigators found a curious diary in his pocket. A police spokesman said that 'the diary was a hypocritical attempt by the serial killer to prove that he was actually a completely innocent victim of circumstance. This twisted, manipulative criminal mind will trouble us no more.'
Just Like Pa
"Oh, he looks just like Pa"
I must have heard this a thousand times as a kid. I was just like my grandfather. There were only a few old black and white photos of him. One as a child at some unidentified family event, just a skinny kid, could be anybody. A formal photo, this as a young adult, taken perhaps before his wedding. I recall seeing one of him in uniform, though I am not sure where. Perhaps at an aunt or uncles house.
That's about it for photos. If it was only that I looked like him, it wouldn’t have been a big deal. Especially after I grew that big black moustache. Guys with that fat smear of black on their face all look the same anyhow – the old Groucho Marx look.
It wasn't that I just looked like him. I sounded like him too. Acted like him, had his temper – you name it. When I was young, my parents tried not to mention it too often, but I would see their eyes flitting from the old photos on the mantelpiece to me, shaking their heads in disbelief at the similarity. My Dad always seemed kind of pleased to see the resemblance, as if I had somehow brought his father back to life.
When we had guests over, it was unbearable. Holiday time, and all of my old aunts and uncles came over, all shaking their heads, mumbling 'just like Pa' to themselves. And then my dear Aunt Kasha would burst out in her grating voice: "I can't believe it! He looks just like Pa! He talks just like Pa!" If I got upset, then I heard: "Look, he's even got Pa's temper!"
My grandfather died shortly before I was born, so I never met him. We have a tradition in our family of naming kids after relatives who are no longer alive, as a way of remembering our ancestors. When I was given my late grandfather's name, nobody thought that I would end up looking like him, sounding like him, acting like him, being like him. Who could know that that shrunken newborn would be the spitting image of old Pa, down to the black moustache?
My parents understood how much it bothered me to be constantly reminded of my resemblance to my grandfather, and I am sure that they would have chosen a different name had they realized how close the resemblance would be. I sometimes dreamed of changing my name, but it was unrealistic. Nobody would suddenly forget who I resembled. Besides which, the name was already part of me.
I didn't have my own identity. This stranger, my grandfather, was part of me. To some extent I was my grandfather.
I began to hate my grandfather, that stranger who had taken over my identity. When I was twelve I started reading science fiction and learned about time travel. I started dreaming of going back in time, and killing my grandfather, so that I would never have been compared to him. It didn't take long before I found out that my dream could never come true. There was no such thing as time travel, and even if there were, I couldn't go back and kill my grandfather. It would mean that I would never exist and be able to go kill him in the first place.
Kids grow up, and eventually I did too. I outgrew science fiction, but stayed with science. Played football in high school (Oh, Pa played football when he was that age…) and finally left home. I went off to a university out of town with an eye towards studying physics and finally developing an identity of my own.
It is easy to forget about home when you are away at school. I was busy with my studies, and managed to squeeze in a social life as well. My grandfather was an immigrant and made a living as well as he could as a manual laborer, so I was finally doing something very different form the things that he had done.
Mind you, when I came home for a visit, say on Thanksgiving, it would start again. As sure as there was stuffing in the turkey, you could be sure that some old aunt would start going on about how bright my grandfather was, and how it was a shame that he never got a chance to go to scho
ol.
Still, my visits home were mercifully short, and I managed to get through them pretty well.
I did get a shock in my Junior year, when I came home for winter break. My aunt had been widowed a few months earlier, so she spent a lot of time visiting. She knew that I was coming home for the break, so she brought something special for me. It was an old book, a practical guide to chemistry. 'Everyday Practical Chemistry'.
The book had recipes for making soap, varnish, drain-cleaner, pesticides – you name it. The idea was that you would cook some up in your kitchen, preferably when your wife wasn't around, save yourself the expense of buying ready-made stuff, maybe make a few bucks selling insect repellent to the neighbors, and most of all, have fun playing scientist in your own home.
When she first gave it to me, I started leafing through it, curious as to what could be in such an ancient technological book. I hadn't looked at it for more than two minutes when the inevitable 'I knew he would find it interesting! Pa always loved that book!'
My grandfather, despite his lack of a formal education, had an interest in science and technology. So the idea that by studying physics I would finally set out on my own independent path was a dead end. I was only fulfilling my grandfather's dreams.
I was upset for a few hours, but then got over it. After all, I was myself, and it was no surprise when kids turn out like their parents or grandparents. I was studying physics for myself, and it was actually nice that I discovered that 'Pa' had the same interests.
I managed to convince myself that I was finally mature enough to deal with the grandpa thing, and not judge everything that I did on whether or not my grandfather did the same.
I went back to school feeling a lot better about myself. If I thought of 'just like Pa', it was with a little smile. If I ever managed to time travel, I would go back and shake his hand. How could I have ever thought of killing my illustrious ancestor? It would be like killing myself.
I took a radiochemistry course that semester as an elective. We were taught the ins and outs of radioactive elements by an elderly gentleman, a veteran of the Manhattan project. One of the highlights of the course was a visit to Fermilab, one of the largest particle accelerators in the world.
Once we were properly impressed by the size of the accelerator and the bison grazing peacefully on top of the ring, we went to visit a few of the experiments running at the time. The experiments took place in fairly