Tortured Dreams

by Hadena James

The Fortress is probably the most intimidating prison ever built. Even Alcatraz is a cake-walk next to it. It houses only the worst of the worst. There are no shared cells; it drops the population too quickly. The doors are built out of steel, like an old-fashioned asylum.

  However, getting there is mind blowing. It looks like a dirt road to nowhere. We have lots of them in Missouri. Even in areas of high populations.

  About two miles down the road, there is suddenly a large sign. It reads “DO NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS FOR THE NEXT TEN MILES”. This sign seems out of place. The roadside is littered with trees, there doesn’t seem to be anything interesting. Five miles later, the road suddenly changes back to pavement. At the road change, there is another sign. It reads “THE USE OF LETHAL FORCE IS AUTHORIZED FOR THE NEXT FIVE MILES. PLEASE HAVE IDENTIFICATION READY.”

  At this point, all the trees disappear. With the vanishing trees, the structure becomes a dominating feature, despite looking small. The car is still five miles from the entrance.

  Here you can see the barbed wire fence with razor wire on the top. There are also two guard towers that loom over the road on each side. The guard towers mark the beginning of the free-fire range.

  The surprises don’t stop there though. The closer the car moves to The Fortress, the more apparent it becomes on how it got its name.

  The building is made of cinderblocks. It is ten stories tall. Behind it, is a cliff that borders The Fortress on three sides. The cliff is dizzyingly taller than the cinderblock building.

  More barbed wire fences topped with razor wire. More guard towers are visible in the distance. The guard towers have machine gun turrets on them.

  My heart was pounding rapidly as we finally reached the gates. Lucas handed both our ID badges to the guard on the outside of the gate. He looked at them, did something on a screen and handed them back. The first set of gates slid open.

  They rattled as they closed behind us. The bolts latched into place. The gates in front of us opened. We moved forward about thirty feet. A buzzer sounded. We stopped. The gates closed behind us. We waited.

  Another guard walked up to us. Lucas opened the door. I followed suit. We both got out of the SUV. A dog was brought in. Our SUV was searched inside and out. We were motioned back into the car. We got in. The gates in front of us opened. Lucas continued forward.

  He stopped again. There was a final set of gates in front of us. The metal clinked and clanked behind us. Once the gate behind us was closed and secure, the gate in front of us opened.

  Lucas waited for it to open completely. He drove through, found a parking spot, parked and got out. He smiled at me.

  “Well?” He asked.

  “Ask me when we have left,” I told him, finding my breath again.

  “It is something.”

  “I’ve seen it before. Never up close, but I have seen it before.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t worry; we won’t be interviewing him today. We have a serial killer on the menu, not a mass murderer.”

  Getting inside The Fortress was just as harrowing. We entered through a heavy steel door. Once inside, we surrendered our guns, keys and anything else that could be considered a weapon. We were wanded, sent through a metal detector that went off because Lucas’s boots were steel-toed and then wanded again.

  It took about thirty minutes before we were led into a conference room. There were two chairs on one side of the table, one on the other side. All three were bolted to the floor.

  The single chair was occupied. Lucas and I took the two that were together. Three guards were in the room with us. One had his hand on his Taser.

  “Hello again, Brent,” Lucas smiled amiably.

  “Agent McMichaels.” He looked at me. “Who’s the chick?”

  “Agent Cain,” he introduced me. “Agent Cain this is Brent Timmons, better known as the Tallahassee Terror.”

  I racked my brain quickly and came up with a few headlines. I didn’t remember much about the case, just that he had been important enough to make national headlines. That took a lot of bodies or some really extreme methods anymore.

  “Mr. Timmons,” I nodded at him.

  “I’m offended,” Brent Timmons answered. “I know who you are, but you don’t seem to know who I am.”

  “I don’t know why you would know who I am.” I countered.

  “Eight year old kills serial killer and escapes. Funny though, most of us in here would have bet money that you would end up on this side of the table, being prodded by Dr. McMichaels and not by his side, prodding us.” He smiled at me.

  “My last name is Cain,” I told him. When I was eight, it was Clachan, I thought.

  “That may be, but your picture was in the paper and while you’ve aged since then, you still look much like that picture. Then there was the picture of you in the paper again when you were 19, I believe. Different picture, different last name, but that first name and the fact that you haven’t changed much in looks despite your aging; it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out. So you changed your name. You’re still the same Aislinn Clachan that escaped the clutches of a child killer at the age of eight.”

  I thought for a minute and smiled back.

  “And I’m sure all those press reports and pictures of me and my family in the newspapers nine years ago also help connect the dots. Plus, I’m sure you’ve heard of my brother, this place may not cater to inmate interaction, but it still allows some.”

  He laughed, loudly. It sounded brittle and hollow in my ears.

  “Yes, the fact that Alex Clachan is an inmate might have something to do with it. He seems quite proud of you.”

  “Now, we can cut through the pleasantries, and get on with it,” I continued to smile at him.

  “Do you miss him?” Brent Timmons asked.

  “Every day, but I think that is neither here nor there. I miss the members of my family that were avenged by him as well. In some ways, you could say I was proud of him as well.”

  “Proud to have a mass murderer in the family? That is twisted. McMichaels is going to have a ball analyzing you.”

  “Probably, but again, neither here nor there. Today, I’m here to learn how to analyze you.”

  “Learning are we? And McMichaels thought of me. Do you know why?”

  “You made national headlines. Impressive in a country where serial killers are being argued to be the next step in our evolutionary chain. Even more impressive when you are competing with serial killers that eat their victims or kill two or three hundred people. You’re obviously very intelligent. Not mentally ill in the usual sense of the word. I’m guessing it is because you are the new breed of serial killer, not the Son of Sam version.”

  “You learn quickly, obviously you are not an idiot yourself. Do you know why I made national headlines?”

  “I was eleven when you were grabbing the press’s attention. I don’t remember the circumstances of what you did.”

  “I would sneak into the home of a family and kill them all via decapitation. I would subdue them with gas, tie them up, put their heads on the kitchen table and severe it with a single blow. After they had woken up of course. Do you know how hard it is to severe the human head with a single blow?”

  “Yes.” I did know. Most of the time it took three or four.

  “Do you know why I did it?”

  “To see if it really takes twelve seconds for the brain to die after it has been severed from the body?” I didn’t know if this was the real reason or not, but it sounded good.

  “Good guess and in some ways, yes, that is why I chose that method. It was interesting to see the eyes blink and the mouths move. But I really did it because I enjoyed it. Nothing makes you feel more like god than killing people.”

  He suddenly attempted a lunge. It was theatrical, intended to startle me. It didn’t. It did brin
g on the calm. He sat back down, cocked his head to one side and stared at me.

  “She’s an interesting one indeed,” Timmons continued. “She didn’t startle; I’m not sure what that is though.”

  “What what is?” I asked him, to prove that I hadn’t fainted like a goat.

  “That look. I’ve seen it before, but usually it’s a permanent state. Some of the other inmates here have it.” He turned his attention to Lucas. “Where did you dig her up from and is she really as out of it as some of the other inmates or is it rehearsed to rattle me?”

  “It’s not rehearsed.” Lucas told him. I could feel him staring at me. “But she is not the subject of the interview, you are.”

  “That look could send children running for cover. It might send a few serial killers running for it as well. I can see where she would be an asset to you. It makes the blood run cold, goose bumps form and your feet freeze to the ground.”

  “My mental state aside,” I dismissed their conversation. “I’m here to learn how to interview a serial killer.”

  “And you are learning.” Timmons informed me. “See, most of the killers in this place are like me. They had day jobs, they were skilled, they are smart, they took a long time to get caught and they appreciate a little banter. Interviewing us isn’t like interviewing some gang banger or drug dealer. We like respect and give it in return. We have some of the same idiosyncrasies as the other criminals, but not many. Child molesters aren’t allowed in our sections, they don’t live long. Killing children is fine, but to molest them before hand, well, that’s just evil and unspeakable. You were brought to me because there are rules and I know them. Most of us will cooperate with the Marshals Serial Crimes Unit because they are nearly as crazy as us. They respect us. In return, we respect them and are willing to help.”

  “I see. So, because you get respect for your work from the Marshals unit, you respect them in return and help where they need help. It is a symbiotic relationship based upon respect.”

  “Yes and helping them to learn about each monster so that they can catch the next monster is also good for us. When you leave today, I’ll get dessert with dinner or I’ll get an extra half-hour out of my cell or I’ll get a new puzzle book or some other reward. We have few luxuries here and a puzzle book is a thing of wonder. It gives us something to whittle away the hours. It is harder since we aren’t allowed anything but crayons, but we take what we can get.”

  “Worried about uprisings if you have a pencil?” I mused.

  “Something like that. Completely unfounded, mind you, but still. Most of us are comfortable here. The urge to kill hasn’t left us though. We wouldn’t rise up, but one of us might take some of that pent up frustration out on a guard or another inmate should we be given something like a pencil.”

  “And crayons are harmless?”

  “They are in this place.” He pulled one from his breast pocket. “They are too soft to do much damage. Might make a mark, but wouldn’t break the skin. Hell, it’s hard to get them to write most of the time. But as I said, a luxury is a luxury no matter how small or dysfunctional.”

  “I see. Why beheading?” I asked.

  “Because it was a show of force. To cleave the spine and severe the head takes a great deal of strength. Plus there is a ‘wow’ factor to using a sword to take off a head.”

  “What sort of sword?” I asked.

  “An English broad sword. I made it myself.”

  “What did you do before you were caught?”

  “My day job?” He smiled at me. “I was an astrophysicist.”

  “Impressive.”

  “It was, but there are astrophysicists everywhere anymore. Only some of them are good at it, but they still exist. Mediocrity of the intelligent class.”

  “Unlike the Marshals unit.” I smiled.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We are all damaged. We are all accomplished and have well above average intelligence. There is no mediocrity in our unit. Mediocrity wouldn’t cut it.”

  He smiled at me. His eyes wide and laughing. His cheeks flushed.

  “Very good, yes, besides respect, there is the level of intelligence we are dealing with. It is much easier for me to talk to someone with an IQ near my own than it is for me to talk to someone who is average. They don’t understand what I’m talking about. Dr. McMichaels here is near enough my own. You though, I think you might be smarter.”

  “I would guarantee it,” Lucas answered.

  “Really? Is that why you are training her? Get her to talk to some of the killers who find you beneath them?”

  “Possibly,” Lucas answered.

  “Clever. But the fact that she’s a woman…”

  “A woman who survived a serial killer at eight and another at nineteen. A woman who graduated with a Ph.D. by the time she was 26 and has seven other degrees which is why it took her until she was 26 to get her Ph.D. I think they will forgive her being a woman.”

  “You may be right, Agent McMichaels. Actually, I’d go so far as to say after you two leave, the prison will be buzzing with the news of her entering the unit. You might have killers clamoring to talk to her. So why did you pick me and not one of the smarter ones?” He narrowed his eyes.

  “You beheaded your victims,” I answered for Lucas, finally getting it. “I have a degree in Medieval history when beheading was at its finest.”

  “That would explain why you said you knew it took a lot to cleave the spine.”

  “Most beheadings take three or four whacks. To do it in a single blow was the perfect beheading, he was the executioner you wanted if that was your sentence back then.” I smiled again.

  “That is the smile of a person who has found your weakness and is ready to pounce upon you.” He commented.

  “I’ve heard worse.”

  “I imagine. I imagine that on those rare occasions your friends have seen it, they have screamed and ran for cover.”

  “A few have,” I admitted.

  “What have you learned today, Agent Cain?”

  “That serial killers of above average intelligence work with the Marshals because of mutual respect and the intellectual challenge of it. Luxuries should not be taken for granted. And that serial killers like company.”

  “Why do you say that?” He asked.

  “Because helping us, helps catch other serial killers, therefore creating more inmates and more company for the rest of you stuck in this place.”

  “She is good,” Timmons smiled. “Did you get what you came for then?”

  “Yes,” Lucas answered.

  “Good, I wonder what my prize will be,” Timmons’ eyes sparkled just a bit. Lucas reached down into a bag they had allowed him to carry in. He fished out a logic problems magazine. It was rated extremely hard.

  He slid it across the table to Timmons. Timmons clapped enthusiastically.

  “They never get the good ones,” his fingers caressed the front of the book.

  “Hence why I brought you one myself,” Lucas stood up. I followed.

  We didn’t talk until we were well away from the prison and back on the interstate, headed towards civilization.

  “Well?” He finally asked.

  “I think I understand why my brother didn’t put me on his visitor’s list.”

  “You do have a following in there. I probably should have warned you.”

  “Why do I have a following?” I asked.

  “You’re smart, pretty and dangerous. It attracts all the wrong attention.”

  “Humph,” I grunted in response. I wasn’t sure what else to say.

  “Indeed. You must remember that they have nothing to do but read newspapers and books. They will latch onto anything they see that suits their interests and you do. They follow all of our cases. They’ll enjoy having you as an addition.”

  “That’s creepy.”

  “Speaking of creepy, what do you fee
l when you detach?”

  “Nothing, just a dark calm or stillness. There is no emotion involved. I don’t think there are any emotions available in that place. And it just happens. It’s some sort of defense mechanism.”

  “Your sociopathic tendencies are a defense mechanism?”

  “Seems to be, although, it happens at other times too. I can’t predict it or do anything about it when it comes over me. It just happens and I go with it. Sometimes, it lasts only a few minutes, sometimes for days.”

  “How often?”

  “I don’t know. It might happen twice in one week and then not happen again for three or four weeks.”

  “And do you realize you look different when it happens?”

  “Yes, Nyleena has pointed it out many times.”

  “We’ll be exploring it more as it happens. I couldn’t prod it in there; just admit that it had happened.”

  “Why do you reward the killers?”

  “Because most of us are just one stressor away from being them. Every being is capable of murder in one form or another. They give into their impulses and urges, most of us don’t.”

  “How do I fit into that then?”

  “You don’t kill idiots just because you can’t deal with their stupidity. Even though I am sure you have thought about it a time or two. You have killed three times, all were dire circumstances. Most people would be victims, you aren’t. You still fit in with the rest of us and not them.”

  “I see.”

  “You say that often.”

  “I say it when I understand what is being said, but have yet to decide if I agree or disagree.”

  “I’ll remember that for future reference.”

  We drove the rest of the way in silence. He dropped me at my car as the sun was going down. Michael met me at the door. He had a binder and my laptop.

  “Take this home and study it.” He told me, handing me both as he walked out the door.

  “Ok,” I said to the air as he walked away.

  “Don’t worry; it isn’t always about sitting around. Our killer should strike in the next seven days. We have no clues, no leads, nothing to go on except his time table. That doesn’t give us much to go on. As bad as it sounds, we have to wait for him to do it again.”

  I nodded and took my stuff. My car roared to life. In the confines of my car, engine whirring, I took a moment. Brent Timmons hadn’t unnerved me. The fact that serial killers kept track of me, had. It meant The Butcher could indeed be everything he claimed to be. Suddenly, I knew exactly what I was going to do when I got home.

  Chapter 14