Authors: George Right
D (33 page)
"Painful death."
"Yes. Well, or shameful one; it works, too. But I couldn't give it to them–it requires the hatred and contempt of a large number of people..."
Oh yes. As, for example, in case of execution of a bloody maniac.
"Didn't you think about mass acts of terrorism?" I asked aloud.
"Certainly I did," he nodded. "But during powerful explo
sions, the majority perish instantly, so it won't work. However, death from poisoning with certain gases can be painful enough... but I could neither buy nor make them. I am not a chemist."
"I see," I said.
"You don't believe me," he sighed.
"In any case, what you told me sounds rather..."
"It is not necessary to choose politically correct formulations. Let's use elementary logic. If my story is a lie, then I deserve execution as a monstrous serial killer. And if it is the truth–you understand why I want such a death. So simply don't interfere, OK? Do the formalities that the law requires of you, but nothing more. Eventually, it's just simpler for you, in all senses, isn't it?"
"It is."
"So, do we agree?" he stared into my eyes with hope.
"Don't worry, Mr. Jackson."
When "the New Ripper case" was heard for the first time, the court hall had overflowed; moreover, even outside in front of the building, a fair crowd
gathered
, shaking placards like "Fry the bastard!" over their heads. The second process attracted much less interest. Very few people doubted that it was a mere formality and with his guilt so incontestable, the sentence would be confirmed. Even most of the relatives of victims–excepting those who were called as witnesses for the prosecution–preferred not to come, probably having found it too hard to relive painful memories. Though I do not doubt that they were going to attend the execution.
The prosecution portion of the hearing rolled as on rails to its obvious ending. Evidence, protocols,
testimony
... "Does the defense have questions for the witness?" "No, Your Honor." "Produce the next witness..." What questions could there be to the undoubtedly proven facts? The artist carelessly struck a pencil on paper, drafting portraits of the participants of the hearing. Once I caught his derisive, but sympathetic glance as if to say, "Bad luck, guy. Though the case is headline-making, you definitely won't become famous for it..."
And here is, at last, my statement in pleading. I stood up, winked to the artist and, without hurrying, opened the papers.
"'The independent expert psychiatric appraisal which has been carried out... having considered the presented audio- and videorecord of the conversation..." (yes, yes–I recorded video, too, using a tiny directed camera
lens i
n my top button, in the best traditions of spy movies) "using the techniques of analysis... on the basis... complex case... the conclusion... paranoid psychosis of traumatic genesis. Thus, on the question of whether the
subject
was sane at the moment of he committed certain criminal acts and whether he can bear responsibility for them, the answer is–negative.'"
Noise in the hall. Jackson looks at me with round eyes. Then he tries to move forward, but guards hold him:
"Son of a bitch! You promised me!"
The accused
, known before for his equanimity–by the way, it's one of the signs of his disorder–has real hysterics. I smile indulgently to the judge. Informal, but quite indicative confirmation of the expert opinion...
The prosecution inertly demands yet another psychiatric examination. The judge rejects. Oh yes, certainly–experts can make mistakes (though the opinion I presented is decorated with very authoritative signatures). But any doubt is treated in favor of the accused. Especially when the matter is not feigned illness to save his life, but feigned health to go to the electric chair. In this case the pathology is obvious even without sophisticated medical terms...
The sentence. Everyone stands up.
"... not guilty of capital murder by reason of insanity and he shall be placed for compulsory treatment in the Greenhill psy
chiatric hospital until such time..."
"You bastard!"
It's not Jackson shouting now. This is a woman in a black scarf, the mother of one of the victims. And she shouts not at the murderer but at me. She believes that I saved the torturer of her child from his deserved punishment. Though, actually, a lifelong stay in a mental hospital is not a wonderful existence. And it is certain that Jackson will stay there for life; with his experience of successfully faking mental health nobody will believe him ever again. I think, at least thirty years... these institutions provide good care and very careful supervision, so they definitely won't allow him to die ahead of time. Some men try to calm the woman, then remove
her
from the hall. I can understand her feelings, but I'm only doing my duty, aren't I?
The artist g
azes hard at me
and his pencil flies fast across the paper. I do not doubt that behind a door TV reporters already wait.
* * *
"... right from the crime scene. The police department representative just confirmed that the body found belongs to Mike Goldman, a young, but already well-known lawyer who became famous for achieving a not guilty verdict in the case of serial killer 'Jack-is-Back Jackson.'” This event caused controversial reaction not only because so many people wanted Jackson executed, but also because Goldman achieved the verdict by making and using recordings of a private conversation against the will of his client. However, his actions were recognized as lawful since they were carried out in the interests of the client who was lately recognized as incapacitated. For the current cruel murder, the police have no official suspects yet, but the most likely motive is revenge by some friends or relatives of Jackson's victims; it is known that some of them continue to blame..."
"Bob, they're taking him away right now! Shoot!"
"Get away from the stretcher!"
"The people have a right to..."
"Officer!"
"Okay, okay, we're leaving..."
"V-vultures..."
"Cool! I managed to take a close up of his face!"
"Oh,
what's the use?
They won't allow it to be aired due to ethical-fucking-reasons. Politically correct assholes, it's impossible to work nowadays... Well, show me what you have. Damn, turn the screen towards me, I can't see! Hmm..."
"What's wrong?"
"Well, nothing's wrong... But have you ever seen on the face of a corpse with fifteen knife wounds such a satisfied smile?”
DESPAIR
Yes, it is the absolute top, pinnacle of des
pair!
Michael Shcherbakov
What if, unsuspectingly wandering in the dark vaults of the universe, you find truths so horrible and disgusting, that even the knowing of them will turn your whole existence into an everlasting nightmare?
"
Rilme Gfurku
"
All the routes do lead the frozens
Into void and eternal cold.
Fleur
In the beginning there was nausea. Not the sharp nausea from poison, which rises to the throat by emetic spasms yet giving at the same time hope for subsequent relief, but rather the viscous, dreary nausea of weakness after a long leaden sleep in a stuffy room–a nausea that fills the chest with caustic wadding, the mouth with dry muck, and the brain with pulsing lead. On the one hand, in such a condition the last thing you want to do is to get up and move at all. On the other hand, you understand that if you continue to lie down, the headache will grow even worse. So it is necessary to overcome your instinct and to get up. And it would not be a bad idea to open a window, even if it were winter outside.
Those were his first conscious thoughts. After comprehension came astonishment: he understood that he actually didn't remember what season it was. While astonishment was turning into anxiety, and anxiety into fear, he realized that he didn't remember what the day before was... or the day before that... or... He vainly tried to snatch from his memory any fragment of his life, but came across only emptiness. Or (this sensation arrived a bit later) the blank wall which cut his past off. However, the situation with his present was no better. He didn't know where he was or how he got there.
He did not know who he was or even what his name was.
With an effort of sheer will he suppressed the growing panic. I need to analyze, he told himself. He can think: that's good. I think, therefore, I am... This phrase came from somewhere. He did not know where but most likely it was not born in his brain. That meant that in the blank wall cutting off his past there were some cracks through which something can leak through, and if he consistently expanded them... scratched wider... tore them apart...
He opened his eyes.
Sight confirmed what touch had already told him: He lay on a rather rigid cot with neither bed sheets, nor blanket, nor pillow–only something like oilcloth, a dirty, sticky oilcloth under his naked body. He was, however, not absolutely naked. Here and there on his body were some rags and flaps, but they were not cloth. It was difficult to inspect them in more detail. He needed to bend his chin down to his chest, which immediately made his neck ache and, besides, the light in the room was too dim. The light came from a rectangular ceiling fixture covered with dust, burning obviously at half power and unsteadily: a shivering, agonizing light.
Accumulators are giving out: another alien, off-the-wall thought came to him. Accumulators? Why accumulators? Shouldn't the house be connected to the local electricity grid?
Nevertheless, even such light allowed him to understand that the room was very small. Except for the cot, there was only a wardrobe on the opposite wall and a little table near a wall between them. On the fourth wall there was a door, and one more door to the right of the wardrobe. No windows at all. And it smelled musty, as if nobody had lived here for many years.
At last he sat up on the cot (a painful pulsation was felt at once in his temples and the back of his neck) and then stood on the floor, feeling with displeasure the dust and dirt under his bare feet. Even worse, when he took a step something revoltingly and damply crackled under his heel–something, seemingly, alive. More precisely, alive a moment before he stepped on it. A cock
roach? Likely it was a cockroach... brrr, repulsive! He squeamishly dragged his heel through the dirty floor, trying to wipe off the remains of the creature. Then he approached the wardrobe and opened its door. Some plastic hangers were inside, but no clothing.
He stepped to a door near the wardrobe. Intuition told him that behind it there was not a corridor, but a bathroom. When he opened the door, a light automatically came on with a loud click that forced him to shudder. It was indeed a bathroom. It was very tiny but was more brightly lit than the room he had just left. On the left there was a toilet bowl, on the right a washstand, and dir
ectly ahead but behind an opaque blue curtain–the bath. Once everything here probably sparkled with radiance and chrome, but those days had long since passed. There was no stone or tile. They had been replaced with plastic. In brighter, though still unstable, light, the dirt on the floor and suspicious stains on the walls were even more clearly visible. It smelled of mold.
He turned to the toilet bowl–and frowned. Brown stains were on the seat and in the bottom. The stains, however, had dried up long ago. An association between an open toilet bowl and the bottom jaw of a skull suddenly flashed in his mind. For some time he stood, expecting the fulfillment of the usual physiological ritual, but not a drop came out. He just didn't need to urinate. But he wanted to drink–more precisely, not to drink, but to get rid of the brackish taste in the mouth.
He turned to the washbasin. It was in no better condition than the toilet bowl. At the bottom was either sand or scales of rust, and the tap was spattered with some dried residue. No, he definitely would not drink from this tap. But he could at least rinse his face and hands. He turned the faucet handle. A squeezed hiss, like from a throat of a dying asthmatic, came out, but no water. Instead, gray dust fell from the tap. Then the sound changed, as if the air met an additional obstacle. He had already reached to return the faucet to its initial position, but at that moment the tap sniffed and spat out a whole handful of cockroaches. They hit the basin bottom and scattered in all directions. Some, however, began to stupidly rush and spin in one place.
His first reflex reaction was to jump aside before the in
sects, gushing over the edge of the basin, would start falling on his feet. However, he immediately realized that it was necessary to close the tap which was still spilling out new cockroaches. Hardly had he time to do it when he felt the disgusting tickling touch from insects crawling on his ankles. He executed something like a convulsive dance, shaking them off, and then jumped aside to the toilet bowl, looking with disgust at the creatures running on the floor. If he were wearing shoes, he would squash them all, but now he could only move back as much as was possible in a tiny bathroom and hope that they wouldn't climb on him again.