by Shawn Inmon
“Philosophers have been asking themselves whether the ends justify the means for thousands of years, and no one’s come up with a satisfactory answer. I’m no smarter than any of the people who have gone before me, that’s for sure. John Brown’s raid on the armory at Harper’s Ferry is a classic example of that. His ultimate end—ridding the country of slavery—was undeniably good, but kidnapping and murdering people to accomplish that? Was that okay? I can’t say it was. Here’s what I do know. When your core values are clear, your decisions are easy.”
Scott let that settle into him.
“What are your core values?”
“That’s a good question. Honesty. Empathy. Dedication to others, I guess.”
Jerry nodded sympathetically. “The first thing that occurred to you was honesty. But, you haven’t been able to be honest with anyone, have you? You’ve essentially had to hide who and what you are from everyone. That’s a conflict that will grate on your spirit. Then the second core value—empathy. That’s a beautiful trait, but can you be empathic with everyone? If you feel empathy for those you have dedicated your life to stopping, that’s another conflict. If your life is in conflict with two of your core values, how can you be happy? The answer is, you won’t. You’ll constantly feel like you’re at war with yourself.”
“That’s pretty close to the way I’ve been feeling. For those reasons and others, I suppose. I was trained to kill, but killing in the army is different from what I’ve had to do. In the army, you’re a hundred yards away and pull a trigger. With what I do, I’m often looking into their eyes when the light goes out of them.”
Lynn stood and held her hand out for Scott’s teacup. “I’ll get you a refill.” She stepped into the kitchen and turned the water on to boil. When she came back, Jerry and Scott were each absorbed in their own silence.
She said, “Let me ask you something. When you kill these people, what do you feel?”
“A little tormented, I guess. Sadness that I’ve put myself in this position. But, satisfied that I’m helping someone else.”
“And what would you feel if you didn’t kill them? If you just let them go?”
“Overwhelming guilt about the people they would kill. Completely innocent people.”
“I have a suggestion, if you’re open to it,” Jerry said.
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Two suggestions. For one, you’ve got to weigh this whole situation out. Weigh out the cost of what you’re doing versus the cost of the guilt you’ll feel if you don’t do it. Those aren’t likely to be equal. One will be heavier. My best advice would be to give yourself permission to follow the path that is heavier.”
Scott nodded. “And the other suggestion?”
“You’re racking up negativity on your spirit each time you do this, but you’re not refilling the positive. You said the first man you killed was going to kill his family. How old was the oldest child?”
“He had a daughter that was twelve.”
“And that was 1974. So, she would be eighteen now. Have you ever looked her up? Or the man’s wife? Seen what her life turned out like?”
“Honestly, I was hoping to never return to that little town.”
Almost said, and there’s no internet for me to look things up on yet, but let’s not complicate things any more than we need to.
“Maybe you should.”
“You’re right. Maybe I should. It would help me if I could see some of the good that has come out of my life.”
“Right now, I think you need to decompress. Why don’t you grab your gear and come stay with us? I’ve converted the garage to a workout area. I can set up a cot for you out there. You can come and help me at the dojo if you want. I can always use the help. Have you been doing your katas?”
Scott looked away. “No.”
“They will help center you too.”
“Do you really want a man who just confessed to multiple murders staying in the same house with your kids?”
“I know you. Plus, anyone who tried to attack those two holy terrors would find themselves with blood spurting out of several orifices. They are warriors already.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Scott did stay with the Werbeloffs for a few months. He was close enough to be able to drop in on Cheryl, Mike and the kids every other day or so, and he was able to help Jerry out at his dojo.
Werbeloff Karate was located in an older building in downtown Evansville. It was a little drafty, and the plumbing made odd sounds, but it had plenty of open space for the growing number of students.
Scott went there to work with Jerry every day. He swept up, unclogged the toilet, caulked around old windows and did other equally glamorous tasks. It was the closest he had come to having an actual job since he had been a gofer at the car dealership in his first life.
In exchange for his hard work, Jerry let him have free lessons. Working out six days a week went a long way toward healing what was wrong inside him.
On January 20th, Jerry and Scott stayed home from the dojo and watched the news. Scott held his breath, wondering if any of the changes he had made would change the way Inauguration Day played out.
It didn’t.
Immediately following the inauguration ceremony, the news anchor announced that the plane holding the hostages had cleared Iranian airspace.
Jerry and Lynn looked at Scott, then at the television, then back at Scott.
“I guess I always believed you on some level, because I could tell how sincerely you believed it yourself. What you were saying was so impossible, I thought you might be delusional, though.”
Not much I can say to that, is there? ‘No, my friend, I am not crazy?’
The full realization of what this meant seemed to soak into both Jerry and Lynn’s brains. Scott could see the wheels turning.
“So you’ve already lived through this day, this week, this year, before?”
“Yep. For the most part, I was out of society, so aside from the things I read in the newspapers, I didn’t know too much.”
“Out of society?”
“I lived most of my life in a cabin in the Vermont woods.”
Jerry got a faraway look in his eyes. “If you’re going to hide from the world, a cabin in the Vermont woods is a pretty damn good way to do it.”
“Regretting your life choices?” Lynn asked, pointedly.
Jerry snapped out of it. He smiled at her and hugged her. “Of course not. I wouldn’t trade this life for any other. But what thinking man doesn’t dream of a life of solitude, alone with his thoughts, from time to time?”
Jerry gave Lynn the side-eye to see if she was buying it. Based on the expression on her face, she was not.
“But still, you know big things, right? Natural disasters, scandals, new inventions, things like that. So, what about—“
Scott held his hand up. “Nope. Doesn’t matter what you’re going to ask. I’m not going to tell you. Believe me, you don’t want to know what’s coming. It kind of sucks the air out of the moment.”
“You’re right. Life is for living in the moment. Thinking too much about the future steals the happiness away from the now.”
“I lived like a hermit in that life, because I just wanted to study where crimes had happened, and decide if I could stop them or not. I ignored things like robberies and what not. People can always get more stuff, more money. I wanted to be there when something horribly undeserved and unfair happened. Like happened to me when I was a kid.”
Jerry and Lynn exchanged a puzzled glance.
“When I was ten, my father shot my mother with my little sister and me in the house, then shot himself. That’s how we came to live in Evansville. Our grandparents came and got us and brought us home.”
“Wow, okay,” Jerry said. “And if someone had been waiting in the bushes outside your house when you were ten years old and killed your dad, things would have been better.”
“I sure think so. No way to know for sure, of cou
rse, but my mom would probably still be alive. It would have been terrible in the moment, losing my dad, but our house was always filled with so much anger and violence, I think it would have been a relief just to get away from that.”
“You’ve been carrying a heavy load by yourself for a long time. No wonder your spirit is flagging. Working out with me at the dojo is helping though, right?”
“It is.”
“Let’s keep it up for a while. We love having you here with us. The kids love beating up on you every day.” Jerry drummed his fingers on his knee. “I think this is something you shouldn’t be tackling by yourself.”
Lynn dropped her chin and looked at Jerry. “No.” It wasn’t loud, but that one word carried weight.
Jerry nodded. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right. I can’t take off and leave everything we’ve built behind. But, we could get a little camper trailer and make a few trips a year to help out with the bad ones.” He turned to Scott. “I’ll bet you’ve had some tough ones, haven’t you?”
Scott thought back to Charles Rodman Campbell and a few others. “Yeah, but so far it’s been fine. There’s a reason I am not married and don’t have any kids. If I screw up and get killed, or arrested and sent to jail for the rest of my life, so what? It’s all on me. Fair enough.”
“How far ahead do you know these events?”
“2001.”
Werbeloff whistled. “And you’ve got things you want to change all the way up until then? How in the world do you remember all that?”
“I’ve got a system, and a damn good memory. Thank you for the offer to keep letting me stay here and work out with you at the dojo. I’d like to take you up on it for a few months. That would feel good, if I’m not imposing too much.”
“We’d love to have you here,” Lynn reiterated.
“Good enough. I’ll stick around for a while, then. In a few months, I think I’ll take a trip back up to Maine.”
Chapter Fifty
Scott fell into a routine, which was something he had been missing in his life for a long time. If the dojo was open, he went in with Jerry and helped with whatever he could. He worked his body hard, which freed his mind to see things from different perspectives.
Three nights a week, he spent the evening with Cheryl, Mike, and the kids. He got to know his niece and nephews better. Well enough that he knew he would miss them when he was gone. It was the same with the Werbeloff kids, not to mention Jerry and Lynn themselves.
Scott was tempted to find a little place, maybe use his VA loan to buy a house, and settle down. One night, as he was lying on the cot in the Werbeloff’s garage, he got his notebook out and reviewed the crimes of the late 20th century. There had been a gap of seven months between the John Lennon assassination and the next event on his calendar. Soon enough, though, he knew he would be needed somewhere else. If he didn’t go, someone would die, and he would feel responsible.
In mid-April, he was having dinner at Cheryl and Mike’s house when the evening news announced from the other room that John Lennon had died.
The adults all moved to the living room to hear the details, which were sketchy at best. Essentially, Lennon had suffered a heart attack that morning in his apartment at the Dakota and he couldn’t be revived. As the newscaster read the story, they showed footage of the night someone had attempted to kill him. In the background of that shot, talking to a police officer, was Scott McKenzie.
Cheryl hugged Scott close and said, “I’m sorry, Scotty.”
“Better this than him being gunned down a few months ago, right?”
The revelation hit Scott hard, though he didn’t want to admit it in front of his sister.
I keep swimming, constantly swimming, like a shark. I never stop to look back and see if what I am doing is actually helping anyone. I think it’s time to do that, if I can.
The next day, he begged off of going to the dojo with Jerry and instead went to the Evansville library.
Once there, he had a difficult time deciding where to begin. There was no Internet to search, of course, and the microfiche was of only limited help. The Evansville Library System was good, but it wasn’t world-class. They had the Indianapolis Star on microfiche and a subscription to the New York Times and Washington Post, not to mention Time and Newsweek, but Scott needed to drill down further.
After a frustrating few hours chasing information that wasn’t there, he changed tactics. He began searching the way he had in his previous life, when he was trying to decide on what crimes to stop before they occurred. As he looked back over the previous months and years, he naturally discovered that the people who would have been famous—Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy, the BTK Killer—were nowhere to be found. What disturbed him, though, was that there were a number of people that would have crossed his radar, but hadn’t.
There was a serial killer in Florida who had killed at least seventeen victims. He had been caught in 1979 and was currently on trial for his life.
I know I would have put him on my list. So what does that mean? Is there so much evil in the world that when one serial killer is disposed of, another will pop up to take his place?
The more he looked, the more he saw the same. Killers that would have easily made his list, but who he knew nothing about.
Is that the way it is, then? No matter what I do, the world, the universe, balances itself out? If I take out one, another pops up somewhere to take his place? Or, would these killers have come about anyway in this existence? I know I am changing things in this world by what I am doing, but I hope it is for the better. There’s no way to be sure, is there?
IN MID-MAY, SCOTT DID something he had never done before. He purposefully returned to the scene of his crime. His very first crime, in fact—Waterville, Maine.
He had one last dinner with Cheryl and Mike, then hugged and said good-bye to the Werbeloffs. He packed his few belongings into his backpack, including the karambit and telescoping baton, grabbed his jo and walked through town to the train station.
Just as he had long ago, he caught a train to Chicago, then on to Philadelphia and up to Portland, Maine. Again, he perused the classified ads and bought a used car—this time a 1976 Chevy Nova—and drove to Waterville.
As he made the short drive, he remembered how he had felt when he had last made this same drive—uncertain, nervous, wondering if he could go through with the life he had planned. Now, almost seven years later, he knew the answer to that question. He could, and he had. Now he wanted to see the results of what he had done.
He wasn’t certain how he would do that, but he knew he could accomplish it better on the scene than he could from far away. If nothing else, he would have access to the local newspaper again.
Scott knew he was running something of a risk by showing his face in Waterville again. To lower the risks, he had let his hair grow long and shaggy. He had let his beard grow out. In addition, he knew that the previous seven years had been hard on him. He guessed he might look fifteen years older than he had in 1974.
He also stayed in a different motel, on the other side of town from where he had stayed his last trip through.
First thing the next morning, Scott went back to the Waterville Library. Same building, same smell of books, different librarian.
Scott went to the area where they kept the last few months of the Waterville Morning Sentinel. He intended to start with the most recent issue and page through, again not sure of what he was looking for, but believing he would know it when he saw it.
On the front page of the Local section of that day’s paper, there was an announcement about the graduation ceremony for Waterville High School, Class of 1981. The ceremony was to be held in the high school gym and the public was invited. There would be speeches from the pastor of the local community church, an address from the mayor, and the valedictorian, Brenda M. Jenkins.
Jenkins? That’s gotta be more than a coincidence. And valedictorian? Pretty damn good. That’s one speech I’d like to see. But
do I dare? Her mother will surely be there. Would she recognize me after all this time? The last time she saw me, I was dodging her gunshots.
Scott flipped idly through the rest of that day’s paper and opened another, but his heart wasn’t in it. He realized that he had found what he had been looking for on the very first try. He returned the newspapers back to their proper location.
I’m gonna risk it.
Chapter Fifty-One
Walking into the gym the next night, Scott felt a little out of place. He had worn the best clothes he had with him, or that he owned, for that matter, but he still felt underdressed. His blue jeans, boots, and chambray work shirt stood out a little in the crowd of people dressed like they might be going to church.
Still, no one paid him a second glance. All sorts of people attend high school graduations—parents, relatives, friends, community leaders, and people that just want to be a part of a happening in their town. Scott did his best to look like one of those.
He accepted a program from a young volunteer when he walked in, then found a seat three-quarters of the way back and settled in.
The seats filled up quickly, and the ceremony started on time. The principal made a few opening remarks that stretched into a few-too-many opening remarks. The pastor of the local community church was much briefer in his blessing of the occasion. Scott approved and believed that brevity in these events was a positive.
The principal returned to the podium. He talked about what a special class this was for a few minutes, while the parents in the crowd glowed a little and silently agreed. After pumping up the crowd, he introduced Waterville High’s Class of 1981 valedictorian, Brenda Jenkins.
A tall girl with long, straight, dark hair approached the podium. To Scott’s eye, she looked nervous, but determined. The whole gym applauded for her, but two rows in front of Scott, and just to his right, a small group whooped, and a man whistled loudly.
