A Question of Will

by Craig Spector

  As civilization matured and populations grew, it became in the best interests of all to find more civilized solutions. Tribal elders interceded on behalf of kith and kin, mediating the warring parties, seeking equitable resolution. If negotiations broke down, the feud would resume. Not just the murderer but the accused’s entire clan was held responsible for upholding the conditions of a settlement, be it payment -- in the form of gold, land, perhaps a virgin daughter offered in marriage -- or otherwise taking steps to ensure the future peace. A murderer who broke such a vow might well be slain by his own clan, for the common, if not greater, good.

  As civilization progressed, systems inevitably evolved, to codify and ascribe order. Under Anglo-Saxon law, a ninth century code known as the Dooms of Alfred specified the actual price of a human life, as the killer paid a fine, or Wergeld, to the victim’s family, the exact amount arrived at through complex equations based on social status of the deceased. If the accused failed to pay, they were judged as demoted to outlaw status -- rejected by all in the community, and fair game for any who would seek either bounty or blood vengeance.

  In addition to the wergeld, the murderer was levied a separate sum, the Wite, payable directly to the governing noble. In time, the wite outweighed the wergeld, so much so that by the twelfth century the reigning noble took the entire payment, sublimating any claim by the victim’s clan. Murder was thus redefined, deemed a violation of the King’s peace: a crime not against persons or family, not even against community, but against the ruling monarch. In so doing, the centuries-old relationship between killer’s clan and victim’s clan was destroyed -- the bereaved held no special status, no right to compensation, nor had they any say in determining the killer’s fate.

  With the Industrial Revolution and the advent of the modern city, power to enforce the law, and indeed whom the law served, was increasingly transferred from ordinary citizen to paid professional. Police forces, prosecutors, judges and penal systems inherited the right of action, as the state became the offended party, solely entitled to seek and secure justice on its own behalf.

  And here is what the loved ones of the murdered became entitled to as a result: exactly zip. Zero.

  Nothing.

  ~ * ~

  Click.

  "... Shockwaves rocked the town of Glendon tonight, as authorities arrested a suspect in the murder of Kyra Kelly, a popular local high school student. The suspect, William Wells, was detained after fleeing from police who sought him for questioning in the death of Kelly, who was viciously murdered on Oct. 22... "

  Click.

  "...Wells, a student at Glendon High, was charged with the brutal slaying of the Kelly girl, after blood analysis provided a match to blood found at the crime scene..."

  Click.

  "... authorities as yet have no motive for the slaying. Sources close to the investigation report that Wells has refused comment on the charges leveled against him..."

  Click.

  "Tonight on Action 9: When Kids Kill Kids..."

  Click.

  ~ * ~

  The feeding frenzy churned. Carefully coiffed anchormen and pert anchorwomen projected ersatz earnestness, eyes flitting to teleprompters as they reported and opined, dutifully regurgitating factoids against boxed video graphics of chalk-lined silhouettes, pausing occasionally, post delivery, to add a woeful headshake or cluck of tongue.

  It was the kind of crime hungry media types lusted for: smart, pretty middle class white girl, cut down in the flower of her youth by bad boy loner from the wrong side of town. But as the story heated up, Kyra’s image -- already reduced to cypher or pre-broadcast lead-in tease -- was increasingly pushed aside to focus on the new center of the unfolding drama: sixteen year-old William Wells.

  The Post screamed WILL KILL!, the Daily News trumpeted KID KILLER CAUGHT! Video vultures circled as Wells was hustled through the system, as arrest begat grand jury begat indictment, and on. Silent, sullen, and oddly photogenic, Wells was a perfect blank upon which to project an audience’s deepest trepidations. And project they did, rendering him everything from soulless psycho to black leather Jekyll & Hyde, a symbol of a society increasingly afraid of its own progeny. Glendon collectively shuddered as it joined the sad ranks of places distinguished mostly by the spectre of violent and senseless death… humble places with humble names like Littleton and Jonesboro, Pearl and Padukah, Edinboro and Springfield, Bethel and Moses Lake. But what the crime lacked in body count or sheer spectacle of lurid firepower, it made up for with brute intimacy -- the deed had been done with bare hands -- and a mystery compounded by the lack of easy answers… or any answers at all.

  Preliminary psychiatric evaluations only deepened the enigma. School records indicated Wells was intelligent, with an I.Q. of 134, though he consistently had poor grades, even poorer attendance, and an almost pathological aversion to authority. Other diagnoses offered a host of criteria from the American Psychiatric Association’s DSM-IV guidelines: 314.01, Attention Deficit Disorder. 312.8, Conduct Disorder. 313.81, Oppositional Defiant Disorder. 301.07, Antisocial Personality Disorder, and on. A mix ‘n’ match smorgasbord of dysfunction, and a perverse inversion of the maxim once popularized by a President’s wife: it takes a village to raise a psycho.

  Still, Wells did not fit the stereotypical profile for a teen killer. He was not addicted to drugs, not a gang banger, not the victim of sexual abuse or the product of a broken home. Indeed, Wells’ parents were cut from much the same blue collar cloth as the Kellys: God-fearing, hard working, frankly horrified at their only offspring’s alleged crime, and unable to accept that their boy might be a stone cold killer.

  Equally mystifying was that repeat canvasses of the neighborhood and interviews with Kyra’s teachers, counselors and classmates revealed very little that wasn’t already common knowledge. Kyra was bright, pretty, a bit on the quiet side. A good student; honor roll, college bound. Lots of friends and acquaintances, no serious boyfriends, and no one who could rightly be called an enemy. Mildly rebellious of late, but nothing that didn’t come with the territory of being sixteen. In a student body stratified into the usual grab bag of brains, jocks, stoners, bangers, dweebs, feebs, goths and phreaks, Kyra Kelly was the oddest of social anomalies: a good kid, liked by all who knew her, able to transcend the social cliques, very much her own person, choosing her own path.

  By contrast, Wells was the embodiment of non-achievement and poor social integration. A loner with no close friends, no compelling goals, no visible hopes or dreams, he seemed most noticeable by dint of just how unnoticeable he had been. There were no handy signatures to sharpen the collective hindsight on — Wells had no computer at home, nor had he demonstrated any capacity to cruise the Information Superhighway, thus no trail of Internet websites full of pornography and hate cults to pollute his impressionable mind; his CD collection was sparse and sporadic, with nary a Marilyn Manson or gangsta rap album in sight; no visible video game addiction, sodden with virtual violence and imaginary, media mayhem; not even a black trenchcoat or swastika-festooned leather jacket to telegraph troubled teen to the masses. In all, a forgotten and forgettable kid, seemingly destined to grow up hard, go nowhere fast, and end up bad. Wells and Kyra were as different as night and day, and ran in different circles, with no overlap.

  But there was the fire…

  A small detail, disgorged by neighbors some seventy-two hours after his arrest. It seems William Wells had lit a trash barrel blaze, the afternoon of Kyra’s murder. The fire itself had been no big deal -- papers burning in a backyard ashcan -— and had been easily doused by the elder Wells, without need of departmental assistance. But the ensuing argument between father and son had been bitter and divisive, and ended with Wells storming out into the coming night. No one knew what he had burned, or why. But the simple fact of it seemed proof enough of an unstable psyche.

  As for William Wells -- he offered nothing. No explanation. No confession. No denial. Not a word. It was not that he didn’t compreh
end his circumstances. Just that he didn’t seem to care.

  But unanswered complexities did not make for good copy, nor did ambiguities sit well with broadcasters accustomed to feeding pre-chewed sound bytes to a public weaned on getting the world in twenty-two minutes, sans commercials. People needed a ready answer, a slot in which to neatly fit the William Wells of the world. And a week later, it came.

  ~ * ~

  Click...

  "...shocking videotape uncovered in the tragic murder of Kyra Kelly. The Action 9 news team now takes you to Link Lenkershem, outside Glendon Hills High School..."

  Cut to Lenkershem, standing on the football field of the school, intoning dramatically. "Concerned citizens of Glendon have puzzled over the death of Kyra Kelly since Oct. 22, when Kelly’s bruised and battered body was discovered barely clinging to life in a vacant house not far from here. Her senseless death has rocked this peaceful bedroom community -- and everywhere, parents, authorities and educators ask... why? Now, a just discovered videotape may provide insight...

  Cut to jangly home camcorder footage of the same football field, at night, a home game in progress. A time/date stamp in the corner reads 10/15 8:37 P.M., one week before the murder. As the team huddles, the camera zooms and pans across the crowd in the bleachers. It zeroes in randomly on Kyra, cheering the team. Two rows back, William Wells watches her watching the game. Wells moves forward, touches her shoulder. Kyra turns and pushes him away, as the team breaks, and the focus shifts, and the game goes on...

  Click...

  ~ * ~

  The footage was recycled again and again, cropped and highlighted like Bill and Monica’s beret-festooned hug, a moment in time, distilled to its visual essence: He reaches for her... she pushes him away... He reaches for her... she pushes him away...

  He wanted her. She rejected him. He killed her.

  Bim. Bam. Boom.

  The media had found a neat label to hang upon William Wells: sociopath. The implied answer seemed to satisfy most.

  With one notable exception.

  ~ * ~

  Paul and Julie were in the kitchen, making food neither of them would eat. A hollow gesture, born more of habit than hunger, the meal would go from counter to table to trash, flavorless, pleasureless, largely untouched. As it had the night before. And the night before that. And the night before that.

  Paul placed a stir fry pan on the stovetop and poured a dollop of oil into the bowl. Julie stood at the counter, wielding a sharp paring knife in one hand as she sliced through red bell peppers, making a neat little pile of moist slivers. They worked in a robotic and concerted silence, driven by little more than force of habit, the clatter of cookware and rustle of foodstuffs deafening in the hyper-attenuated silence.

  Just then, the doorbell chimed. Paul and Julie looked up and at each other — neither was expecting company. Paul started to move first, but Julie waved him off.

  "I’ll get it," she said, putting the knife down and wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Paul watched as she exited, then turned his attention back to the stove. A blue gas flame lit with a soft hiss, heat licking the curved steel surface of the pan. He heard Julie’s retreating footsteps in the background, the sound of the front door opening. Then, nothing.

  "Jule?" he called out after a moment. "Who is it, babe?"

  No answer. Paul suddenly felt an irrational stab of anxiety. "Julie?" He stepped away from the stove, craned his neck to peer around the hall door.

  The front door was ajar, but no Julie. Paul felt his hackles rise, moved quickly out of the kitchen and into the hall -- but as he closed the distance he first saw her hand, delicate fingers clinging to the edge of the door, tight gripped and white, then her body, slight frame hunched protectively in the space between door and jamb, as though trying to block the space.

  "Jule, is everything okay?" he asked.

  Then he was behind her, and saw that indeed it was not.

  A man and woman stood on the porch, huddled against the evening chill. He saw the woman first — middle thirties and slender in a cheap Burlington overcoat, pretty features rendered careworn, weighted with sorrow, skin pale and fair. A woman quickly being made old before her time.

  The man stood behind her: maybe late forties but with a demeanor easily a decade older, gruff and working class, swarthy and craggy, a black and white man in a world of gray. His body language telegraphed extreme discomfort, like he’d rather be anyplace else; it was clear even at a glance that their presence was entirely her idea. It took Paul a moment to recognize them. Then his eyes widened with shock.

  "Mr. Kelly?" the woman said, meeting his surprised gaze. "I’m Kathryn Wells. This is my husband, James."

  The gruff man nodded, shuffling his feet. Paul stared, still in shock. Kathryn Wells took a tentative step forward and held out her hand; Paul felt Julie bristle before him in purely animal alarm. Kathryn sensed it, as well, and halted. Her hand withdrew to smooth away strands of chestnut colored hair threaded wih premature gray.

  "What…" Paul began, then stopped as colliding questions…What are you doing here? What do you want from us? What the fuck is wrong with you? … all came screaming to mind. But what came out instead was an absurdly polite, "Can we help you?"

  Kathryn Wells smiled wanly, thankful of even the most hollow civility. She looked from Julie to Paul. "We’re very sorry to intrude," she said haltingly. The elder Wells shuffled in mute and grudging assent as Kathryn continued. "I just wanted…" she paused, re-phrasing, "My husband and I wanted to let you know how sorry we are for everything that’s happened."

  "Really," Julie snorted derisively. "Feel better now?"

  Paul winced as the words flew like poisoned darts, aimed straight at the Wells woman’s unguarded heart. She took the hit and stood her ground, summoning every ounce of courage in her being. "I understand," Kathryn replied. "I know how you must be feeling…"

  "I don’t think so," Julie snapped, grievously offended. She drew herself up tight, arms crossed in defiance, bristling with barely repressed rage. "I don’t think you have the slightest fucking clue how we’re feeling right now."

  "Please," Kathryn Wells started to say. "I didn’t mean anything by it. I just meant to say --"

  "I don’t care what you meant," Julie said bitterly, cutting her off. "Please, just leave us alone, alright? Just go."

  With that, Julie turned and slipped past Paul and into the house, leaving him standing there. Kathryn looked downward, and it struck him that it had taken a lot for her -— for them — to reach out like that, offering solace, however misplaced, through their respective pain.

  James Wells, on the other hand, felt otherwise. "C’mon, Kathryn," he said; as they turned away Paul heard him grumble, "told ya this was a bad fuckin’ idea."

  Kathryn nodded dejectedly, and as she looked up Paul found himself suddenly struck by the resemblance between mother and son; but where the boy’s eyes were hooded and distant, Kathryn’s were wide and sensitive, brimming with tears. Their eyes met fleetingly. Then Paul closed the door, catching another glimpse of her through the laced curtain panel. And then they turned and disappeared into the night.

  Inside, he could hear Julie in the living room, softly crying. The faintly acrid odor of smoke wafted from the kitchen, and Paul suddenly realized something was burning. The oil, he remembered, then raced back to the kitchen just as the smoke alarm triggered, a high peeling tone filling the clouded air. Paul hit off the stove and grabbed a dishtowel, fanning madly at the air, until the screeching stopped. The pan was blackened, burnt and spattered. Paul cursed and cracked a window.

  "Fuck," he hissed, glancing back at the counter, the waiting food. The hell with it, he thought disgustedly.

  He wasn’t hungry, anyway.

  TWENTY-ONE

  "So, we get this call last week," Dondi said, over his beer. "Woman with chest pains on a third floor walkup."

  Paul nodded, listening. "Then we get there," Dondi continued, "and she’s huge. We’re talking Ja
bba the Hut in a housedress: four-fifty, five hundred pounds, easy..."

  Paul looked across the booth to Tom and Joli, who were sandwiched together like muscle-bound sides of beef. They nodded ruefully. Wallace the probie was there, too, relegated to a chair pulled up to table’s edge. Dondi continued.

  "She’s sitting on this big sofa, and it’s bowed in the middle, from the weight," he said. "She’s got asthma, and tells us she’s having trouble breathing. So I ask her, where’s her inhaler? But she don’t know. Says she hasn’t seen it since yesterday."

  The others snickered. Paul sensed a punchline coming; Dondi grinned wickedly. "So, we gotta get her outta there, right? But we can tell by just by looking at her that if we lay her down on the backboard, we’ll never get her up again." He took another sip of beer. "So, we grab her arms, figuring we’ll get her standing, then slide the board between her and the couch and ease her back," He paused. "But when we go to lift her, out pops the inhaler from under her armpit. And she’s like, ‘that’s where it went!’"

  Everyone cracked up. Paul shook his head in amazement.

  "Wait, wait," Tom chimed in, "It gets better. We’re all standing there heaving and ho-ing, getting her on the board, and the TV keeps changing channels all by itself. But there’s no remote..."

  "So we’re moving her out the door," Joli jumped in, "and Wally and I are on the down side heading for the stairs, trying to keep her steady, right? And the whole time her legs are rubbing together, making this whuff, whuff sound, and the TV’s flipping back and forth, back and forth..." He gestured to the probie. "Then he looks up and shouts, ‘there it is’!"

  "There what is?" Paul asked.

  "The remote..." Dondi answered.

  "Where?"

  "Between her THIGHS!" the men shouted in unison, and lost it altogether. Wallace blushed; Joli slapped him on the back. Dondi added, "I swear to God. The top of it was sticking up like a little red eye between two canned hams. She thought something was wrong with her cable..."