Joe

by H. D. Gordon

  After I’d had about all of this nonsense that I could take, I ended my research by looking up two definitions. This is what it all boiled down to.

  A sociopath is usually extremely unorganized, lives on the fringes of society and cannot maintain normal relationships. The violence they exhibit tends to be unplanned and erratic. They usually cannot hold a job. They are easily identifiable because they leave many clues behind in their crimes. Disregard for social laws. Unable to feel remorse or regret.

  A psychopath is usually obsessive about organization. They can keep normal relationships; marriage, children, friends. Tend to be successful in their careers. They understand emotions, but are unable to experience them. Masters of manipulation. Delusions of grandeur. They take their time planning acts of violence and revenge. Nearly impossible to identify. Their meticulous planning does not give away many clues. Most go undetected for a long time or forever. Disregard for social laws. Unable to feel remorse or regret.

  I hadn’t known there was a difference between these terms, but after everything I’d just learned, I figured the only sure thing was that I was looking for a psychopath. I shut down the computer and climbed into bed, taking my sketch with me. Shadow Man was no sociopath. The damage depicted on this paper was proof enough. A shooting of this scale took planning. And what’s worse was that the Internet was basically telling me I had no hope of identifying him before the time came.

  Outside, the storm rolled on. I crawled under my covers and shut my eyes tight. Simple Joe versus the Shadow Man psychopath. I could think of one or two good arguments about the unfairness of that match up.

  But, dead people don’t argue.

  True, Mr. Harris, but what the hell makes you think you get to decide?

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The Decider

  Danny sat at his desk in his bedroom. On top of the desk was a black journal, a black pen and Danny’s forearms. The hour of a new day had just struck. It was officially Saturday morning. Two days left. He felt anxious to get to it, but also nervous about the fact that go-time was approaching. It was not his resolve that was faltering, not in the least. He just hoped like hell everything went as planned. As always, he had been meticulous in his preparations.

  His hand was cold and dry, gripping the fine-tipped pen poised just above the blank white page of his journal. People were going to read what he put here. He would make sure of that. Monday morning, before the fun began, he would leave his journal, along with a few other little gems, for the benefit of the fuck-face media and public, in a box near the dumpsters at the Channel Five News station. Danny had scoped out the place and he knew the station’s janitor took the trash out twice a day: once at noon and again at five o’clock. The beauty of it was that at about the time good ole Mr. Janitor was dumping the station’s unwanted shit, and subsequently stumbling across the box Danny was going to leave there, the Quad at UMMS would be filling up to capacity with unsuspecting fools, and the fireworks would begin.

  So this was important. Very important. His legacy would be written here. When crack-pot psychologists wrote profiles of him, they would use this journal to support their claims. When people Googled school shooters his name would pop up, and this journal along with it. The words he set here would be examined and debated for years and years to come. This was how he was going to be remembered. What to write, then. What to write.

  Saturday, April 18th 2012

  The world will end in two days. I will watch as it falls to its knees before me. I will sanitize this earth of the unworthy, and they will beg me mercy, but they will NOT have it. The men with their suits and guard dogs, cowering behind the walls of their castle, will feel the soil under their feet tremble, and I will bathe in the hot stench of their fear. Their stone walls will crumble around them, their dogs will desert them, and mothers will cry. Sitting on the top of the castle, it must be easy to think that you are bad, but I got something for ya, boys, and I’ll show you who’s bad. And to the rest of you, you dogs and whores and followers, I will see to it that you get your just desserts. I’ll feed you fuckers well. Believe it.

  Danny paused, removed a neatly folded, white handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed it across his brow. This was good shit. Genius shit. His best writing ever, by far. His legacy. He slipped the handkerchief back into his pressed khakis, bent forward and continued on.

  No one deserves mercy, and no one will have it. You have placed yourselves on false pedestals, and you have placed them too high up. Your fall will be long and ruthless and terrifying, your screams rebel cries of death. God will not hear your cries. He will not intervene. I have Decided, and will choose the souls I wish to take. Your blood will run in pulsing, wide rivers of deep red, and I will stand in the middle of it and drink until I am too drunk to stand. I will see it pool around me and I will hear your screams and see your last breaths, and I will say, “OH, HOW THE MIGHTY DO FALL!” And my name will fall upon the lips of all, spoken in whispers and dark places. And respect and awe will underline the tones. Your reign has gone on too long. Your persecution will be suffered no longer. You brought this on yourselves. So, Run, castle men and whores and followers. RUN! You DIRTYSTINKINGMOTHERFUCKING PILES OF SHIT! CUZ I’M COMIN FOR YOU!

  Come Monday, I am coming for you.

  Danny read his entry aloud once, savoring the sounds of the words, and shut the journal, positioning it in the center of his desk. It was nearing one-thirty in the morning, and he had better get some sleep for tomorrow. There were still plenty of things to be done.

  He went into his bathroom, flipped on the light and brushed his teeth, humming the tune of a Jimmy Buffett song around the sides of his toothbrush. He removed his clothing, folded it, and placed it in the hamper beside his bathroom door. After putting on his nightclothes, he combed his hair. Then he made sure the door and windows of his apartment were locked, and climbed into bed.

  Sleep came quickly and easily. He had no silly raven dreams. The castle was close now. He could see it on the horizon and in two days’ time, he would be at its gates. And everything would be all right.

  Scratch that. Everything would be fucking great.

  He was just a bad guy.

  Chapter 27

  Eric

  “Come on, Jenny. I ain’t such a bad guy. I’m not gonna ruin her in two hours.”

  Jenny had called about Monday. She was worried that Eric might be a bad influence on their daughter, like he was going to take her out for an ice cream and a shot of dope or something. Jenny hadn’t expressed any such concern when he’d asked her two months ago, before his fat parole officer had granted him permission to cross state lines to visit his daughter. He realized now that she had figured Eric wouldn’t be able to get the go-ahead. Jenny was still angry with him after all these years. Yes, he had fucked up, but he was a better man now, and he thought deserved to see his daughter. But Jenny had sole custody, so he had to play nice.

  Always a fucking game. Always gotta play someone’s fucking game.

  “I didn’t say that you would ‘ruin’ her, Eric,” Jenny replied. “But you need to understand that she doesn’t know who you are. So I don’t want you to go telling her to call you daddy or anything and confusing her. She calls Hank daddy…I hope you understand. I’m only looking out for Ava.”

  Oh, I understand, all right. I understand that you’re a self-righteous bitch.

  “I-I just want to see my daughter, Jen.”

  A sigh. “I know, Eric. I know. What time will you be here on Monday, then?”

  “I plan to leave school and head straight there. My last class lets out at noon and I should be able to reach Lawrence by two, two-thirty. I only have permission to stay for a few hours, so I won’t be in your hair for long.”

  They hung up shortly after that. Eric stuffed his cellphone in his pocket and went over to where he’d left his trash-stabber and half-empty trash bag.

  “What’d she say?” asked Toni.

  Eric slanted a smile at his commun
ity service comrade. “She’s still willing to let me see Ava, but she wanted to make sure I wouldn’t tell her I’m her daddy. ‘Parently she’s married to that Hank guy.” Eric’s shoulders slumped a little. “Ava calls him daddy now.”

  Toni shook his head, clapping Eric on the back in a consolatory gesture. “Well, hey, now ain’t that some shit? That’s just how it be sometimes, brother. Don’t fret too much on it. You done your time and you tryin’ to do right now. You ain’t a bad guy, man.”

  Eric gave a small nod. Yeah, but I’m not a good guy either, am I? I killed a little girl about Ava’s age. Not on purpose. No, not on purpose, but that don’t mean shit to that little girl’s family.

  “Hey,” Toni said, interrupting Eric’s thoughts. “I mean it, man. You ain’t no bad guy. I met some real fuckers in the state pen and you’s something like an angel when set next to them.”

  It was true. Eric had met some real bad guys in prison. Prison was chock full of psychopaths and sociopaths and rapists and pedophiles, and no, he wasn’t like them. He could remember perfectly the day that he got transferred from the holding facility in Kansas City to the Federal penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas. They’d brought him over in the back of a windowless white van and pulled straight into the concrete room that served as the loading dock for new prisoners. On the ride over Eric had been scared out of his mind. He’d been to jail on a few short occasions in the past, mostly just overnight stays for public intoxication. Prison was a whole different beast.

  But everything was okay. After the delousing, fingerprinting, mug shots and pull your pants down below your knees, squat and cough, he had been shown to his cell. He started to believe that everything was going to keep on being okay—that he was going to get through this. His first night at Leavenworth, he learned the foolishness of that belief.

  His roommate had been an enormous black man who went by the name of Mad Marvin. Mad Marvin stood over six feet and had Hulk-like muscles from his toes to his neck, wrapped under a firm layer of fat. Marvin had laughed, hard, clutching his midsection when he saw Eric. After the guard had closed the door to their cell, Marvin told Eric to Take a seat, little man, get cumferble. Name’s Mad Marvin. You can call me Marv. What they call you?

  Eric had felt a chill crawl up his spine then, because despite Marvin’s gap-toothed grin and gentle giant façade, he could see, or rather sense the sly beast lying in wait behind Marvin’s eyes. Mad Marvin was not a good guy.

  But, then, neither was Eric.

  That first day had passed by without much incident. The two things Eric had been worried about were the cafeteria and the yard, where the prisoners were allowed to get some exercise. But things went better than he could have hoped. He even made some acquaintances, all black, of course—but he wasn’t stupid enough to think they were his friends—and Marvin had even gone to the trouble of introducing him to a few people who supposedly had the hook-up on some shit you might want.

  By the time “lights out” was issued on his cell block, Eric felt even more confident that he could make it through this god-awful experience alive, perhaps even unscathed. Mad Marvin had other plans on his mind.

  “Sleep tight, little man,” Marvin had told him as the lights went out on the cellblock, from the bunk beneath Eric’s. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” And then he had laughed again. The sound of it was guttural and somehow ugly and dirty.

  The feeling that had come over Eric was so strong that he couldn’t convince himself to ignore it. Later, when Eric reflected back over the whole thing, he would refer to the feeling as raw survival instinct. Marvin was silent after that, his heavy breathing becoming deeper and deeper. Instead of sleeping, Eric stared at the gray concrete ceiling of the cell, waiting. He had no idea what he was waiting for, but he was.

  Eventually, he allowed his eyes to slip closed, his own breathing to steady and lengthen. He was tired and ready for sleep to take him, but sleep would not come. Instead, he listened to the quiet of the prison cell block around him. And finally, as his insomnia was just beginning to seriously irritate him, he heard it. Eric didn’t open his eyes, but he was instantly alert, his heart a deep pounding drum in his chest.

  Marvin was up. Eric could feel him standing nearby, could hear the rasping air as it was pushed through the giant’s nostrils and gap-toothed, open mouth. That moment was the only time in Eric’s life he had come close to literally pissing his pants. In fact, if he was being honest, a few drops had actually found their way out to roll down his inner thigh like tiny warm, wet kisses. The fear he felt was so intense that it was something akin to shock. This is it, Eric thought, this is my payback, karma or whatever, for what I’ve done. With this thought came no comfort, but he could see the poetic justice in it nonetheless.

  He was surprised when his voice came out flat and calm. “Don’t miss,” he said, and Mad Marvin’s breathing hitched and quieted. “You’ll only get one shot.”

  All was silent, as if the very air in the room had paused to watch the show. For a moment Eric was too afraid to open his eyes, too terrified to move. Awful feeling. So he just lay there, with his eyes shut, face blank and hands still tucked behind his head, as if in open invitation to his heart. It was a terribly vulnerable position, but that night Eric came to the full understanding of the saying “scared stiff”. For that eternal moment, he was.

  It passed, as all things do, and he peeled his eyes open slowly, squinting a little in the incomplete darkness of the cell. And there Mad Marvin stood. Two feet from Eric’s face, Marvin’s big bulk of a body seeming to tower over him despite the fact that Eric lay on the top bunk of their metal bunk bed. Eric kept his hands behind his head, but they were ready now. If the big man swung, Eric would do his best to fight back. Yes, he was afraid of Marvin, but Eric would not think twice about killing him to save himself if he got the opportunity. He turned his head on his flat pillow, and looked into Marvin’s eyes for as long as he could manage. Then he looked down to see the crudely-made shank clutched in his gorilla-like hand. He brought his hands down slowly to his sides, clenched into tight fists.

  When he looked back up, he saw that Marvin had that same gap-toothed grin on his face. Eric raised an eyebrow, still wary but now also confused. Marvin began to laugh. Then he laughed so hard that he shook and bent over and coughed and clutched at his stomach. Eric sat up and slid off the bed, eager to get out of that vulnerable position. Mad Marvin continued laughing and laughing, until someone on the cellblock yelled, “Yo! Shut the fuck up, you dumb fucking monkey! Some of us is tryin to sleep!”

  Marvin stopped laughing all at once. He was still only two feet from Eric, though at least Eric was no longer lying down, but he had to force himself not to take a step back from the big man. Marvin straightened up from his bent laughing position until he stood at his full height. He was breathing heavily. So was Eric, but he was trying to stifle it. Eric’s hands were still clenched into fists at his sides. Marvin’s face was blank.

  Then Eric did take a step back, but Mad Marvin didn’t see it, because he had flung himself at the metal door, making an enormous, metallic, BANG! that seemed to vibrate through the concrete walls. He pressed his huge, black face against the extra strong plexi-glass square in the door that the guards used to peek in at the prisoners, and he screamed, “I’LL PUT YOU TO SLEEP YOU FUCKING CUNT! I’LL PUT YOU THE FUCK TO SLEEP!”

  Marvin began beating his huge fists against the metal door and continued screaming. Nothing intelligible, just bellows and war cries of hideous rage and BANGBANGBANG BANG! He kept this up for what seemed to Eric like a long time, and even in the darkness of the cell Eric could see blood flying from the big man’s fists and splattering on the floor, on Marvin’s shoulders, running down the white metal door. Funny, he sort of did look like a monkey. Whoever the protester was had not made another comment. When Marvin finally stopped, he swung around to face Eric, that gapped grin back on his blood-splattered face.

  Eric said, “Can we sleep now?”

 
; The big man laughed again, not as hard as before, but loudly. No one expressed annoyance. When he got himself under control he said, “Yeah, Little Man. We can sleep.”

  They did. Marvin never tried to kill him again.

  Sometime later, when Eric had been Marvin’s roommate for about three months and had finally just begun to sleep decently at night, Eric asked him about that night. They were playing cards on the floor of their cell.

  “Hey, Marv?”

  Marvin looked up, grinning, as always. “S’up, Little Man?”

  Eric considered the wisdom of asking the question, but he had to know. “Remember that first night I got here?”

  The big man nodded.

  Eric set his cards down. “Well, I thought you were gonna kill me.”

  “I was.”

  Eric nodded in return. He had known this. “So why didn’t you?”

  The grin slipped off of Marvin’s face, and he set his cards down as well. He looked up at Eric. “Cuz I thought you was one a them little pussies who come up in here an think they better’n everybody else. Like they don’t belong here, like they ain’t fucked something up to be here, too. But when you tole me I would only get one shot, and then you opened your eyes and I saw you’s serious, I knew you was one a us.”

  “A bad guy,” Eric mumbled, and then realized he hadn’t meant to say that aloud.

  Mad Marvin looked at him seriously, more serious than Eric had ever seen him look, less crazy than Eric had ever seen him look. And he nodded. “Yeah, brother. We all bad guys in here. You gotta be a bad guy in here.”

  And that was the only conversation they ever had about any of that.

  Eric stabbed another piece of trash and tossed it in the plastic bag. Quitting time had almost come around. He had to head to his paying job after this, but that was okay. Keeping busy was a good way to stay out of trouble. But maybe Marvin had been right. Maybe taking the life of a four year-old little girl, whether by accident or otherwise, made you rotten and evil. Sure it did. And maybe someday soon God would come down and insist that he pay his debt to the universe. An eye for an eye. A life for a life. Because at the end of the story, the bad guys always lose, right?