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Contents
More from Kenneth James Allen
THE HUMANIST
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Don’t forget to check out my other books
Special Extract
Special Extract
More from Kenneth James Allen
From my twisted mind
The Steal Dossier
The Humanist
The Isolationist (A Humanist Prequel)
Identity Series
Identity
From my peculiar mind
Caddius Finch Files
Machines
THE HUMANIST
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
THE HUMANIST
First edition. April 2020.
Copyright © 2020 Kenneth James Allen.
Written by Kenneth James Allen.
For those who think a little bit differently to everyone else
“The man who lies to the world, is the world’s slave from then on.”
Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged
“Nothing is like it seems, but everything is exactly like it is.”
Yogi Berra
“Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her, and to wonder what was going to happen next.”
Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
Prologue
She’s been with me ever since the beginning, as if she imprinted herself into my brain.
I still remember two things she told me—her words continue to ring in my ear like an ever-present whisper.
One: People like myself don’t go to jail.
That is true. Oh, so true.
And two: The law isn’t about common sense.
She’s right. She’s right about a lot of things. She’s right about just about everything.
The law is about what you can prove, about what you can make people believe.
And when you have deep pockets and influence, you can make people believe anything. It’s not about what makes sense. Sometimes fantasy is way more believable than reality. If enough pieces fall together, people will fill in gaps and make sense of the picture. Sure, some of those pieces might be the wrong way around, upside down, or even from a different puzzle. But most of the time, people believe what they’re told.
I think about these words often, especially when we’re together—as we are now.
Trying to brush my thoughts aside, I hug her tightly, our heads on each other’s shoulders.
“Do you think this is what the people want to hear?” I ask.
“Yes,” she replies, her voice like sunshine. “They’ll buy it. Hook, line, and sinker.”
We release each other. She holds my face while my hands move down her body, coming to rest on her hips. Her eyes are mesmerizing, deep, and soothing.
“Just don’t tell them the thing,” she says.
The thing.
“Of course not,” I assure her. “You know what’d happen if I did?”
“It would hurt a lot of people.”
“I know.”
We kiss—long, deep.
I know.
I never want to let her go.
But sometimes, what we want and what we get are two different things.
Chapter 1
2003
Grant Taylor Interview
DETECTIVE MIKE KOLTON: You understand why you’re here?
GRANT TAYLOR: [inaudible]
KOLTON: Sorry, you have to speak up for the recording.
TAYLOR: I think so. It’s been a rough few days.
KOLTON: You’re here to help us with our investigation into the deaths of your wife and children.
TAYLOR: Murder.
KOLTON: Sorry?
TAYLOR: Murder of my family.
KOLTON: Yes, that’s what we’re looking into. We need your help.
TAYLOR: [sob] Yes.
KOLTON: You said you don’t want a lawyer. Is that correct?
TAYLOR: I don’t see why I need one—if I’m not under arrest, and I’m here to help.
KOLTON: Okay. You want anything before we start? Coffee? Something to eat?
TAYLOR: No.
KOLTON: You just let me know at any time and I can get you something, okay?
TAYLOR: Fine. I’d rather just get into this.
KOLTON: Well, let me step through this at a higher level, and then we’ll get into more detailed questions. First off, I want you to know I’m on your side with this, okay? You need to tell me the truth, okay? I can help you, but you need to tell me. I just want to know what happened. Is there anything you want to say before we begin?
TAYLOR: [inaudible]
KOLTON: Again, Mr. Taylor, you need to speak up.
TAYLOR: I can only answer questions about what I remember.
KOLTON: I understand, Mr. Taylor. Let’s just concentrate on the questions.
TAYLOR: [inaudible]
KOLTON: Where were you on last night?
TAYLOR: I, I’m not sure.
KOLTON: It wasn’t that long ago.
TAYLOR: I know. I know.
KOLTON: Were you at home?
TAYLOR: Yes. At home.
KOLTON: What were you doing?
TAYLOR: I, I don’t remember.
KOLTON: Were you celebrating something?
TAYLOR: I’m not sure. I don’t remember.
KOLTON: Are you okay, Grant? Would you like some water?
TAYLOR: No.
KOLTON: Something to eat?
TAYLOR: No.
KOLTON: I’m just trying to make this easy for you.
TAYLOR: I know what you’re trying to do.
KOLTON: And what’s that?
TAYLOR: You’re trying to be my friend. Trying to get me to confess to something I haven’t done.
KOLTON: Do you feel the need to confess?
TAYLOR: I haven’t done anything.
KOLTON: Let’s get back to the questions. Let me help you. What wa
s your relationship like with your family?
TAYLOR: [silence] It was good, just like everyone else.
KOLTON: You didn’t fight? You were away a lot with your work.
TAYLOR: Yeah, we fought. Like I said, just like everyone else.
KOLTON: Was your wife unhappy you spent so much time away?
TAYLOR: I don’t know. Maybe. It was never really a thing.
KOLTON: Were you having an affair?
TAYLOR: What? No! Why would you say that?
KOLTON: Did she find out? Is that why you did it?
TAYLOR: I told you, I didn’t do anything. What are you trying to do here?
KOLTON: We need to ask a lot of different questions, Mr. Taylor, to get a picture of the events leading up to the murder.
TAYLOR: That wasn’t a question. That was an accusation.
KOLTON: I’m just trying to understand your relationship with your wife. We know how it can get sometimes. You get successful, other things catch your eye; you go down a different path.
TAYLOR: I’ve never cheated on my wife. Never.
KOLTON: We’ll come back to that. What about the early hours of this morning?
TAYLOR: Of this morning?
KOLTON: Yes, this morning. Do you remember?
TAYLOR: Asleep, I guess, since it was two in the morning.”
KOLTON: What time did you go to bed?
TAYLOR: I don’t remember.
KOLTON: You know, this would go a lot easier if you helped me.
TAYLOR: [shouting] I’m trying to help you! I just don’t remember. It’s like my memory’s been wiped.
KOLTON: I understand that, Mr. Taylor. Sometimes trauma impacts our ability to remember events. I’ve seen it with people who’ve been kidnapped, innocent bystanders who were part of bank robberies—people in the wrong place at the wrong time.
TAYLOR: No, this is different. I can’t remember anything.
KOLTON: If it helps, your tox screen came back clean.
TAYLOR: Well, something happened.
KOLTON: Like I said, that’s what we’re trying to figure out. Now, you said you were in bed. Where was the rest of the family?
TAYLOR: I don’t know. In bed, too, I guess.
KOLTON: And you weren’t moving around the house? Do you have any history of sleepwalking?
TAYLOR: What? No! What are you suggesting? Do you think I did this? I didn’t do this!
KOLTON: I’m just asking questions, Mr. Taylor. Trying to understand what happened.
TAYLOR: I didn’t do this.
KOLTON: Here, I want to show you something.
TAYLOR: Okay.
KOLTON: [reveals crime scene photo] This is a picture of the knife we recovered at the scene. Grant, have you seen this knife before?
TAYLOR: No. Never.
KOLTON: Are you sure? Take another look. Think hard.
TAYLOR: [silence]
KOLTON: For the record, Mr. Taylor.
TAYLOR: No. I’ve never seen it before. What is it? Did the killer use it?
KOLTON: Maybe you bought it a long time ago, maybe a gift for someone? Maybe for your son?
TAYLOR: I bought my son a car for his birthday. I certainly would never buy something like that for Kane.
KOLTON: You didn’t pay cash for this knife from a pawn shop at Lincoln Square?
TAYLOR: No. Of course not. I’ve never been to a pawn shop in my life. Never.
KOLTON: Okay. Mr. Taylor, the crime lab performed a blood stain analysis on the knife and found evidence of your wife and son’s blood.
TAYLOR: [sobs] Why are you telling me this? Why are you showing me this?
KOLTON: I’m sorry, Mr. Taylor. I’m just doing my job here.
TAYLOR: I’ve never seen it before.
KOLTON: Mr. Taylor...Grant...your fingerprints are also on the knife.
TAYLOR: [sobs] What? Impossible.
KOLTON: The only set of prints on the knife.
TAYLOR: There must be some mistake. I’ve never seen the knife before. Someone fucked up, somebody’s gotten that wrong. It can’t be. I don’t remember.
KOLTON: I’m afraid not, Grant. Listen, this can go a lot easier if you tell the truth. Tell me what happened that night. I can help you. Tell me what happened. In your own words.
TAYLOR: Nothing happened. I don’t know what happened.
KOLTON: You don’t know what happened? Why do you say that?
TAYLOR: [silence]
KOLTON: Is it because you did something and maybe you can’t remember it?
TAYLOR: [silence]
KOLTON: I can’t help you if you don’t talk. Is there anything you can tell me?
TAYLOR: I want my lawyer. Terry Barr. Now.
KOLTON: This is it, Grant. Your last chance. As soon as your lawyer gets here, we won’t be holding back.
TAYLOR: I’m not saying anything more without my lawyer.
KOLTON: Interview suspended.
Chapter 2
2011
This story isn’t about death row, but about who’s on it.
It’s been eight years since that police interview between Detective Kolton and Grant Taylor, and I’m at the United States Penitentiary in Terre Haute—a high-security prison near the Indiana-Illinois border. It has the dubious honor of housing inmates awaiting their execution and fielding countless security threats. Thanks to its clientele, it was once touted as “Guantanamo North.” Inmates are held in the Special Confinement Unit, where they live in small cells until their appeals are put to rest and everyone is content with the decision to execute them.
The facility affords restricted communications, minimal medical attention, and scant mental health services. The inmates spend a few days a week outside their cells, in slightly smaller cages, to enjoy whatever meager natural light they can find. What else would you expect for people who’ve been unanimously convicted of capital offenses and sentenced to death by a jury of twelve?
Dzhokhar Tsarnaev—the Boston Bomber, and Timothy McVeigh—convicted of the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing, both put in time at this penitentiary. But they’re of course gone now—their fatal punishment delivered at the hands of a U.S. marshal, an executioner, and a cocktail of drugs designed to stop the heart in the most humane way possible. Each of their deaths was witnessed by their families, spiritual advisors, and attorneys.
I arrive at USP Terre Haute in my Dodge Challenger—the only rental sports car I could get my hands on. I’m wearing a midnight blue, Italian designer suit, along with accessories that together are worth five figures.
The person I’m here to see didn’t arrive under his own volition. He arrived wearing an orange jumpsuit, his wrists and ankles bound in chains. He arrived with a death sentence.
And he was innocent.
Now, I should point out—I’m not an attorney. I’m not some rich bastard on a social crusade. Nor am I a reporter looking to unravel a wrongful conviction. I’ve come to confront Grant Taylor, to tell him things, to let him know how he arrived on death row. To talk to a condemned man. To clear my conscience.
It’s Sunday morning. The sun just appeared on the horizon. As I march across the parking lot, I gaze up at the deep blue sky and pop a couple tablets into my mouth. My head is killing me. I attribute it to stress.
The clouds are full and fluffy. All in all, it’s a bitch of a day to be dead. Probably not a great joke, considering Grant Taylor is scheduled to be executed within the next three hours.
Hundreds of people are gathered in front of the facility. Half of them are protesting the execution; the other half are celebrating.
The first group—the protestors—sees this as an opportunity to drag capital punishment into the public light, to condemn the process as unjust and inhumane. Some claim God himself is the only one who should take a human life.
But the other side—the celebrators—hopes Taylor dies slowly. He was convicted of an inhumane act, they argue. They’re praying for a botched execution, so he has to undergo the ordeal twice, or s
ome fuck up that makes it infinitely more painful than it needs to be.
Television reporters line the perfectly manicured grass near the prison’s entrance. Gazing into the nearby cameras, they outline key elements of the Taylor story: his start in politics, where it all went wrong, what happened to his family, the expedited trial, his swift sentencing, the annulment of his appeals...blah, blah, blah. They interview several protestors to gain a real “people perspective.” It’s a human-interest story.
But I’m not one of them. I avoid the circus for good reason.
I enter through the side entrance, avoiding the prying eyes, the do-gooders, the supporters, the haters, and the watchers. I know the side entrance is reserved for facility employees under the direct guidance and express permission of the warden.
I’m here outside normal visiting hours because I’m not a normal kind of person. My reputation and wealth go a hell of a long way in getting anything done with government or private enterprise. They’re puppets, and I pull the strings. Money, power, influence. That’s what I bring, and that’s why I’m here.
I’m reciting my monologue as I go through the security protocols. Yes, even someone like me must undertake the rigorous checkpoint routine. I hand over my phone and car keys to a guard who, to my understanding, will keep them safe until I return. I step through the metal detectors. They don’t go off.
A second guard—Carl, according to his nametag—greets me on the other side of the detectors. He’s over six feet tall and built like he grew up on a farm, with forearms thicker than my biceps. He stands there, his arms crossed, and looks me up and down—disapproving, sizing me up, wanting to ask me questions. But he’s been instructed not to talk to me, not to inquire about my background or my motivations for wanting to see Grant. The warden gave him strict instructions to take me to a meeting room, and, by the look on his face, I can tell he’s enthusiastic about it.
That’s sarcasm. I’m sure you know that.
We walk in silence down hallways, our footfalls echoing around us, the guard’s cheap rubber soles squeaking as we turn around corners. We pass doors, both solid and barred. Some of the solid doors have stenciled words on them, such as “Store” or “Office.” Beyond the barred doors and long hallways are more barred doors. I don’t think about it too much.
The Humanist Page 1
