by SM Johnson
Eighteen Dead
by
SM Johnson
Amazon Kindle Edition
Copyright 2011 SM Johnson
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**Book Blurb**
A killer is a killer is a killer – right?
Landon Montgomery is a forensic psychologist at a state facility for the mentally ill and dangerous, so when Nathan Kincaid kills eighteen classmates at a reunion, Landon knows she'll soon be meeting him. But Landon's not out to save Nathan – her job is to declare him competent to stand trial and send him to the executioner. The only trouble is… there might be something about Nathan Kincaid worth saving.
America's Poster Child
Nathan Kincaid. All of America knows his name, as well as most of the developed world. His place in the hall of the world's great killers was certified and assured. At this moment, his life is a total waste. Anything good he ever did, or even had the potential to do, will never count.
I knew I'd get him. I was a forensic psychologist at the state facility for persons categorized as mentally ill and dangerous. Where else would they bring a mass murderer but directly to my door?
I had done my best to avoid the news reports, and more to the point, the rag-mag sensationalized journalism, but information slipped into my self-imposed bubble despite my best intentions.
The picture, for instance. It was the photo that the media latched onto as THE image of this particular killer, today's poster child for evil. His face was smeared with red, as if he'd wiped away blood spatters with his hands. His eyes were so blackened by soot that they looked like soulless holes in his head.
His mouth was smiling.
Maybe it was a scream, I comforted myself, or a grimace caught by the camera at a very inopportune moment.
Then again, maybe it was the simple joy of revenge well played.
I thought about how to start the session, how to establish rapport. He'd refused to see me, twice, but this time he didn't. I was nervous, the way I was always nervous when I had to start a difficult conversation. All conversations with Nathan Kincaid were sure to be difficult. He was a bad man who had done a terrible thing. And it was my job to coax him to discuss the details of this bad thing, to determine if he was a calculated murderer. It was my job to tell the court if he was competent.
Session One
Eighteen dead. Three critically wounded. Five treated and released.
That's too bad.
I wanted to kill every fucking last one of them.
Your life is over.
I never had a life, so fuck it.
What did they ever do to you?
Nope. The question should be what didn't they do? You have no fuckin' idea.
I want the names of the dead.
I can't do that.
Fine. I'll find out anyway.
I'm supposed to determine if you're competent to be held for trial.
I am.
I'll be the judge of that.
Fine. Judge away. I don't care if you want to waste your time.
I have nothing better to do.
You don't believe you're mentally ill?
Nope. I'm sane.
Should I be afraid of you?
What? No. You never did anything to me.
Oddly enough, I believe you.
You should.
We'll meet in my office next time, no guards or cameras. But we still have time today. What should we talk about?
How about them Dodgers?
He smiled and the smile seemed to come easily, friendly and open, spreading slowly right up into his light hazel eyes. Right then I totally believed I had nothing to fear from him.
I wondered if his ridiculous question was an attempt to take the focus away from what he had done. Or if it was a plea for me to get to know him better. His eyes when he smiled made me want to know him better. There was warmth in them, intelligence, good humor.
I said: I don't know anything about the Dodgers.
Okay. What do you know?
He waited patiently for an answer, his eyes intense and staring into me, as if he were truly interested. I laughed a little because his steady gaze made me uncomfortable, and because I realized I wanted to say something interesting, but I didn't know what. Or more importantly, why. What did I really know anyway?
I said: I know about analyzing behavior patterns. I know about ferrets and writing.
(laugh that seemed genuine) What do ferrets write?
Ha-ha. You're funny. I didn't think you'd be funny.
(shake of head, eyes sparkling) Nope, you're the funny one.
(pause, he looks at his hands, then at me) What do you write?
I felt hot all over and I knew blood was rushing into my cheeks. Why on earth had I said anything about writing? I knew better. Don't disclose personal stuff. To establish rapport, talk about pets, mothers-in-law, television, movies. Not writing. That's dangerously close to your real self.
I said: Ferrets are fascinating creatures.
You don't want to answer.
No, I don't. Not today.
It must mean something to you then, your writing.
It does. It's just too… (I didn't want to say inappropriate)… something. Too personal, I guess.
Yet you're going to ask why I killed eighteen people and wounded eight.
And why I'm not sorry.
(silence)
You are going to ask. (it wasn't a question)
(slow nod from me)
(shrug)
I let the silence stretch then. I was supposed to be in control of this interview. It was an illusion, but the video monitors and half-listening guards would never know the difference.
I said: Not today.
Ultimately, though, that's your purpose here. To ferret out my reasoning.
To judge me.
To judge whether you're competent for trial.
I am.
We've already had this conversation.
(smile) Yes.
What's your deal with ferrets, anyway?
I rescue them.
And then come to work and rescue us. Nice.
Not always. Sometimes I find people are perfectly competent to stand trial.
As you will with me.
Maybe. Time will tell.
I can save you the time. I'm perfectly sane, rational, competent.
What do you rescue ferrets from?
Abuse, neglect, crappy lives.
You won't be able to rescue me.
That's not my job.
But it's your nature.
Could I argue that? Probably not. Certainly it's my nature to rescue the animals. The thought of them helpless and abused bruises my heart. But the animals I rescue haven't created their own miserable situations. The people I work with often do. There's a big difference.
I shrugged and said: I suppose.
Ferrets are cool. I always wanted one.
They have unique and highly individualized personalities, third only to humans and chimpanzees, or so I've heard.
Individualized, how?
Just their likes and dislikes… quirks. Some of them will do anything for a raisin. For others it's chocolate or banana or dried cranberries. Some will only eat foods of certain shape or color.
Weird.
That's just the beginning. They covet
and hide things – tennis balls, shoes, stuffed animals, a rolled up pair of socks. I had one tiny female that stashed a pile of black rubber bungee cords in my underwear drawer. The cords had been all tangled together in a small canvas bag and she worked them loose one by one. Persistent little devil. Clever.
(light laugh) Sounds like me.
His eyes were still on me, serious, steady, and I realized with a start that I had forgotten for a moment what we were here for. He seemed to be waiting for me to say something, but I got lost in my head, my stern inner voice issuing an order not to forget that he'd very recently killed eighteen people, a number that could jump to twenty-one in a matter of hours. I wondered how I could forget the facts for a single instant and enjoy simple conversation. I looked back at him, letting the silence settle around us.
Did he look like a murderer?
I suppose so. He looked tough enough. I'd guess he was five eleven, maybe two-hundred-fifty pounds. His head was shaved. The skin I could see at his wrists and ankles was colored with tattoos. One tattoo crawled up his neck from his collar bone, under his ear, tracing behind his head – a snake or a dragon – I didn't want to stare long enough to determine what the designs were. I wanted to see more of them, have him tell me what they were and what they meant to him. Tattoo talk is a good way to build rapport with a new client. But not today. Not this client.
His eyes weren't the distant cold flat eyes of a killer. They were friendly eyes, and held lots of expression, quick to gleam, dancing with almost suppressed laughter as I looked him over.
Like what you see?
You look like someone who could kill people, but you don't seem like someone who would.
Maybe we'll talk about that next time.
Are you suggesting we're done for today?
(shrug) We've met and looked each other over. That's probably a good start.
Nathan Kincaid. Was he a sociopath? Could he have been in the midst of a psychotic episode and didn't know what he was doing? Depression with psychotic features? It was reported that his son had died within the past couple of years, some kind of childhood cancer – so maybe a delayed grief reaction? There were many possibilities.
He doesn't hide behind mental illness, for sure, the way he told me he is sane and competent – didn't seem to be attempting to play or manipulate me.
And yet he did, didn't he?
His charm was his utter lack of charm, perhaps. The lazy monotone, the admission of guilt. The moment of pure rage that flared for a brief second in the beginning of our first session, when the numbers weren't high enough for his satisfaction.
A disconcerting moment, that.
He wanted the names of the deceased. Maybe he would get them from someone else, but he wasn't getting them from me. The thought made my stomach twist, as if I could become part of the crime by identifying the victims for his pleasure.
He certainly seemed rational.
And lacking in remorse.
But how much can one learn from one short interview – the initial interview, no less, in which we looked each other over, took each other's measure, so to speak. How could I help him?
How could I possibly help him?
If I stamped him competent, he would surely be tried and hung, lethally injected, whatever.
If I stamped him incompetent, there would be a series of court dates to ensure his incompetence, a series of doctors to diagnose his psychiatric deficiencies, a series of drugs that wouldn't undo what he had done.
Either way, he loses.
They say he emptied a clip into a crowd of childhood friends. They say he dropped a live grenade at his own feet.
They say he never intended to survive.
And he – he says, How 'bout them Dodgers?
His eyes are intense and knowing, a flash of rage, a flash of humor. More than a hint of warmth.
I thought I could see the man he almost was.
* * * * *
Clinical notes:
Average to high intelligence
Oriented to time, place, self, situation
Awareness of own actions, without remorse
Anti-social Personality Disorder (301.7, V71.01)
Possible depression with psychotic features (309.3, 296.24)
No obvious hallucinations or apparent response to internal stimuli
Session Two
So. They say you aren't taking your meds.
Which meds would those be?
The ones prescribed by the doctor.
Ah, so they say I'm not taking their meds.
Who're they, anyway?
Doctors… nurses. Notes in your chart.
Their chart. Their perceived story of who I am.
If I were diagnosed with something meds could cure, maybe I'd take them.
But probably not.
Delusions of grandeur. Out of control. Depressed. Any of this sound familiar?
I'm not depressed.
I'm certainly not delusional.
And I have never once been out of control since arriving here.
I'm good. I even cooperate.
Do you?
I'm here talking to you, aren't I?
I have to wonder why. You don't seem to want to help yourself.
I don't need help. And I don't need meds. I self-medicate. When I need to.
By smoking dope?
Dope, crack, whatever. Mostly marijuana.
Okay. Why bother coming to talk to me at all?
Something interesting to do.
You could talk to the psychiatrist.
He's lame. I'm helping you. Making your report easier to write.
Nothing's easier than using my stamp that says "Uncooperative."
(laughs) True. I guess I'll make you work for your verdict, then.
Gee, thanks. If it's just boredom that brings you here, you could always go to some groups.
Fuck groups. Groups suck. Goal group, Medication group, Verbal group.
You might accidentally learn something about yourself.
Fuck that. I know all about myself. I don't take their bullshit medications.
And no one wants to hear me talk about why I'm here. Get real.
I want to talk about why you're here.
Are you ready to talk about that?
Are you?
No.
All right. Are you chemically dependent?
I don't know.
You don't know, or you don't want to talk about it?
I don't know. I've never lived without getting high for any length of time.
Never?
Never since I was about thirteen.
Wow. How often do you smoke?
(smile) In here, never.
I mean out there, in the world.
Every day.
But you don't know if you're chemically dependent?
(shrug) Nope. It's just part of my life, like cigarettes are to smokers.
Nobody smokes pot like they smoke cigarettes, though.
I do.
You're putting me on.
No. Not really. I smoke a lot. More than once a day.
But you held the same job for ten years. You plotted and planned this whole mess.
I'm not stupid. Do I look stupid?
Not at all. But frankly I'm used to pot-heads being a bit… um… not motivated. Mentally slow.
Not me. I'm quick.
So I see. Okay, I'll ask the obvious. Why do you get high all the time?
My goal is to stay high. Holds back the rage.
What kind of rage?
The kind that makes me shake and cry and black out and do shit.
That's intense.
Yup.
Scary?
Terrifying.
Afraid you'll hurt someone?
I never would. But the stuff in my head, the images, they're not nice.
Not nice, how?
Violent, gore-filled. I scare myself.
What do you do? How do you deal with it?
&n
bsp; (laughs) I get high, silly. Isn't that what we're talking about?
Can't you deal with it another way, resolve it?
I did. That's why we're here.
(stunned silence)
Did you forget why we're here?
Had I forgotten why we were having these talks? I had caught myself looking forward to this session, dressing carefully this morning, checking my hair, wearing a touch of make-up. Oh Jesus, what was wrong with me?
Do you have to work to restrain the rage?
Every day.
Are you ever going to deal with it?
I do. Every day.
Do you know the source?
I was ostracized as a child. I didn't have any friends.
Not one.
Something terrible shifted in me then. I instantly remembered our grade school class scapegoat and was pelted by a myriad of images of the different ways we tormented him. From name-calling to physically distancing ourselves, afraid it was "catchy."
I was the worst of them. My righteous taunting keeping him at the bottom of the pile, demanding the others follow my lead to remain in my good graces. And they did. I was powerful, assertive, and no one wanted to fall out of my favor.
I don't even know how long I stared at my hands, my feet, the floor, anywhere but at him. I was afraid if I looked up he would see it in me, the hard brittle core that had held no compassion for a kid just like him. An undeserving kid. Undeserving of such harsh treatment by his peers, I mean to say.
I know why I was so awful. I was hiding an alcoholic mother and a father who hit her, who sometimes hit me. If anyone found out the mess of my home life I knew it would all be over and I would die of humiliation. So I worked very hard to keep the focus off of me. I piled all my own anger and hatred onto the "poor kid" in class – the kid who had no mother at all.
And I know why no one stood up for him. They were terrified they'd get it, too, and they probably would have.
I wonder now if secretly I was jealous of him, because if he had no mother, then he had no risk of being humiliated by one. He got me instead, unlucky little bastard.
Had I ever felt guilty about it? I wasn't sure. The truth was that I rarely thought about him. And by middle school, I was the popular bitchy girl, the one educators now call the Queen B, and I had a gaggle of followers who wore what I told them to wear, talked only to those I approved of, and focused their scorn on girls I perceived as threats to my status. The only boys I gave any attention to whatsoever were the ones I wanted to impress.
