Debbie looked down on her reflection in the table again. It was as if she was on trial and her defense was the prosecution. She felt hope slipping away.
“Yes, that’s true,” she murmured.
Kenneth Wilson stood and paced the floor. “Okay, here it is. Darrowby’s sworn testimony is going to be difficult if not impossible to beat in court. We have two options. Go to trial and go for a not guilty verdict, which is highly unlikely. Or—”
Another measured breath. Debbie hated those.
“We go for an insanity defense.”
Debbie tried to interrupt. But she couldn’t find the words. Maybe, she thought, because she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Emma Stanley sat next to her. She knew Wilson’s legal team had rehearsed this. All she could do was try to stand again and protest.
This time, Emma Stanley was ready and coaxed Debbie back down. Her stare penetrated. “Honestly, your only real hope is the latter.”
Debbie waved her hands in front of her, as if this would clear the madness from the air. “No. Stop. I’m not crazy. Darrowby, he’s the real killer of my husband. Him, and those damned cats.”
Debbie cut herself off. Her eyes bulged as she slapped her hands over her mouth, as if she could pull the words back.
Wilson smirked and stepped away from the table. “Exactly.”
He resumed his pacing. “There are two options we can pursue. We can go for cognitive insanity. Basically, this means you were impaired by a mental disease and you did not know the act was wrong.”
He stuck his finger in the air for effect, as if he were in front of a jury. “But, I don’t think that will work. You would need to establish you had a long history of mental illness. And you do not have any history whatsoever. At least,” he said with a sigh, “leading up to the opening of Murcat Manor.”
Debbie folded her arms tight and glared at the lot of them. “Yes. That’s right. I have no history of mental illness. Because I’m not crazy. So let’s go to trial. I’m not guilty of anything. Darrowby, he’s the real killer. What are we waiting for?”
Wilson continued, unhampered by Debbie’s interruptions. “Next, there is incompetency.”
“Hey,” Debbie fixed her stare on Wilson and tapped the table like a schoolteacher wanting a daydreaming student to focus. “The guy in the suit. Yes, you. Are you even listening to me?”
Wilson gave the same condescending smile. Only this time, it looked patronizing. He maintained his pacing.
“Very simply, under Michigan law you performed a crime that is a result of a mental illness wherein you lacked the substantial capacity to either appreciate the nature and quality or the wrongfulness, or you were unable to conduct yourself to the requirements of the law.”
“Wait, what? I didn’t perform any crime.”
“Please, Mrs. Stevens. Let me get through this.” Wilson spun on his heal and faced Debbie. “Case in point. Darrowby stated you blamed the deaths of your patrons on the cats and supernatural powers they possessed. You did personify your cats, right? You gave them names of people, rather than animals, such as Tabby or Shadow or Tigger.”
“That’s right. Well, all except one. Midnight. Bob named her. But it wasn’t really me who named the cats.”
Emma Stanley spoke with a soft comforting voice. “It wasn’t you? Who then did name the cats?”
Debbie vividly recalled the first day of building Murcat Manor when they found thirteen little kittens in the rubble. “Their names just popped into my head as I picked them up. One at a time. It was like they were telling me their names. Amy, the one Bob named Midnight, hissed and scratched me when he named her.”
Debbie chuckled a bit at the thought. “I don’t think she liked being called Midnight.”
Debbie realized her mistake. Must be the meds. The attorneys stared at her like she was from another dimension.
“Forget about the cat’s names,” Debbie said. “Look, I’m not sure where you’re going with all of this, but I can assure you I have not committed any crimes Darrrowby is accusing me of.”
Wilson shot an open palm in the air. He looked at Debbie, and she could swear she saw pity in his eyes as he continued.
“You had a mental breakdown because of the stress of running the bed and breakfast, the twenty-five thousand dollar monthly bills, and each additional death of your guests. Factor in Darrowby’s aggressive approach to you and your husband as the prime and only suspects, and, well, you can clearly see how that would only have added to your mental anguish.”
Debbie balled her fists and tried to stand again. “No. No, no, no, no, no. You’re my attorneys. You work for me. See how that works. I pay you—”
“Correction,” Wilson said. “It’s your parents, as executors of your grandparents’ estate, who are paying us. They used cash and sold assets to pay for your defense. Most of your grandparents’ wealth, including the equity in their house, was used as collateral to secure the three and a half million dollar loan to finance the building of Murcat Manor. Going to trial, which I believe would not go well for you, would cost far more than what money is left over from the Dempsey estate.”
Emma continued with her soft, soothing voice. “And as much as you or I don’t want to say this, your parents think you’re mentally ill in some capacity. They also believed you killed your grandparents, their parents, as evidenced by their not being here today. Their absence speaks volumes.
“But they also lean in the direction that the stress did get the better of you and that, at least to an extent, you are not responsible for your actions. I don’t know how to say this other than simply tell you, although they do not want you to go to prison for the rest of your life, they do want you committed.”
That was it. Those words left Debbie feeling as if she was slammed in the gut with a nail-embedded two by four. Her breath left. Her soul died. She understood she was truly alone in this world. All she had left was Kenneth Wilson and his dispassionate team. It was his way and nothing else.
Debbie quietly sat and relented. “What does this entail?”
“First, we file a motion for a competency hearing. Then, there’ll be a psychiatric or psychological evaluation for you. Finally, the competency hearing will take place. After that, if you are deemed incompetent to stand trial, you will be handed over to a state mental facility until your competence can be reestablished.”
Debbie did what she knew best in overwhelming stressful situations. She folded her arms on the table and buried her head. “Mental facility? You mean a loony bin.”
Ethan Kennedy’s whisper was clearly heard. “She really does believe the cats performed the killings. I think she’ll pass a lie detector test if we stick to this story.”
One of Debbie’s eyes popped open just above her forearm. “Ummm, I’m still in the room and can hear you.”
Debbie knew her only way out was to go in deeper. Tell the truth. The cats killed everyone. Be convincing. Pass a lie detector test. Be declared incompetent to stand trial, then committed to an institution. This outcome was not what she expected coming into the meeting, but it was better than rotting the rest of her life rotting away in prison.
Wilson continued talking. Debbie refused to look at him. Darkness and pain killers were her solace.
“Understand, this does not mean you will never be tried. You will be reevaluated many times and quite possibly tried at a later date if you are found competent to stand trial. Darrowby’s relentless. He’ll be pressing for the rest of your life.”
Debbie would raise a white flag if she had one. She accepted the inevitable. She peered between her arms at Wilson. “Don’t worry about that. The cats really did kill all those people. The only regret I have is that they didn’t kill Darrowby. That would make everything so much easier. Those hellcats truly are haunting me from ashes of Murcat Manor.”
Chapter 64 Thirty-Three Years Later
Debbie Elaine Stevens stood behind one of the dozen large counters lining the puke-pink colored walls of th
e kitchen cafeteria. Her job today, as it was for the other eleven females working at their respective stations, was to bake five Thanksgiving Day turkeys and prepare side dishes for the staff at the Southern Michigan Correctional Center.
They were also making holiday meals for local homeless shelters the prison helped support with cheap inmate labor. The prisoner population would be served their normal tasteless cafeteria slop.
With uncanny speed and the precision of a culinary artist a skilled chef would be proud to watch, Debbie chopped celery and onions for her homemade bread stuffing. She wasn’t in the privacy of the amazing kitchen in Murcat Manor, her personal domain where she had once ruled supreme.
But Debbie was in her natural element. Although she would not be in charge of serving and entertaining hundreds of people every week, she retained a sense of normalcy that helped her feel human while living out her life in a most horrible place.
She glanced to her right where her new cell mate, Madison La Croix, finished cutting a case of cabbage and carrots into a mound of shredded produce. Madison had been transferred from another facility earlier in the week. She had killed her abusive husband in a last ditch effort to save herself two decades ago.
The jobless parasite had come home to their trailer in a drunken rage and, as his custom was, would handcuff Madison to the hot water radiator and beat her. She overheard him tell someone on his cell phone that he would be finished once and for all, and to come over in fifteen minutes and help clean up.
Unfortunately for the now silver haired mother of three, the state did not see this as a case of justifiable homicide, since Madison was not actually cuffed and beaten at the time she stabbed him thirty-one times with a pair of fabric scissors.
But a Battered Women’s Assistance League paid for a legal defense that saw to it she was incompetent to stand trial due to the years of mental and physical abuse she endured. A paper trail of prescription psychiatric drugs for ADHD and a few minor episodes of rebellion from her youth was all her legal team needed to exploit her history of mental problems and inability to discern right from wrong.
Like Debbie, Madison had been moved through numerous facilities over the past three decades, due to the state reclassifying the criminally insane and figuring out how best to house and rehabilitate them. The most recent decision, because of massive budget cuts, resulted in her being relocated to this facility in Battle Creek.
The Southern Michigan Correctional Center housed hundreds of convicts as well as those deemed criminally insane and incompetent to stand trial. Everyone was lumped together in one place, with those incompetent to stand trial isolated from the Level 2 more dangerous criminals, and the Level 3 convicts—hardened and volatile people, most of whom were serving life sentences with nothing to lose and would kill for any small reason, including fun. Debbie was certainly glad to be kept apart from those creeps.
Madison ended up here and not with the general population of prisoners. Debbie related to having a top rate legal team beating the system and they formed an immediate bond. Debbie had gotten her new cellmate a tryout in the kitchen. This was her first day.
She looked over to Madison. “Hey, how are you holding up? Everything okay?”
Madison gave Debbie a wry sideways smile. “Oh, just fine. As long as I’m in the kitchen, that is. I love it here. Thanks again for the good word and getting me in here. I owe you. And I always pay my debts. I promise you that. You’ll see.”
Madison took a violent whack with her chopping knife and cut a head of cabbage in near symmetrical halves.
“Ha! See that? A perfect split. I pretend I’m cutting up my asshole of a husband and feeding him bit by bit to the pigeons. This is all I think of. All day. All night. For the past thirty years. You’ll see. Now that I know and trust you, we’re like sisters now. Right? Of course we are.”
Madison clutched the knife handle and split a second head of cabbage, then began chopping again. “I’ll tell you every plot I can think of to kill the bastard over and over. I’m a very creative person. You’ll see. After all, we have lots of time. It’s not like we’re going anywhere. I think the time will pass quickly. For both of us. Don’t you? You’ll see.”
Debbie was aghast as she slowed her pace with the knife. This sweet little innocent Madison might not be so virtuous after all. Debbie didn’t know what to say, so she remained silent, a trait prison culture instilled in her over the years.
Madison continued. “And you, well little Miss Beat the System, let’s not forget about you. I know your reputation. To the legal system and in the public’s eye, you’re known as the most prolific female serial killer of our time. Your story, it’s in high demand. And why not?
“But I can understand why you deny every request for an interview. Oh, there must have been hundreds over the years. The media. Best-selling authors. Television screenwriters. And let’s not forget graduate students working on research papers.”
Madison was almost as fast as Debbie with a knife as she mowed through more cabbage and carrots, although she resembled more of a greasy spoon hash slinger than a Rodeo Drive gourmet chef. That little insight into Madison’s head, along with the gleam in her eye as she chopped and sliced and diced with fervor, gave Debbie reason to believe perhaps her new friend really was crazy after all. She’d have to request a new cell mate.
Debbie sighed as she tossed more celery and onions on the cutting board and picked up her speed. Her right hand was now cutting almost as fast as her left hand could toss the whole vegetables on the table.
The holidays were always rough for her. Although surrounded by hundreds of people every day, she knew she was all alone in this world. The staff and inmates were merely faces with a name she memorized and placed together. She had no family to speak of.
Gone were her beloved grandparents, Ross and Erma Dempsey. Her parents had passed five years earlier. Others who had shared her life, like her attorney Kenneth Wilson, had died. Even Clark Hodgkins, the realtor who sold her and Bob the property for Murcat Manor, had passed on.
But what hurt most was Bob, her one and only soul mate, killed by Detective Thomas Darrowby. The irony? That bastard was not only walking free from a murder he had pinned on her, he was now retired after enjoying an incredible career, having been promoted to Chief of Police not long after Murcat Manor burned. Today, he would enjoy a warm holiday meal with his extended family.
What a bastard.
“Mrs. Stevens, you okay?”
Sergeant Rosie Pyke stood behind her. Debbie despised the sheriff’s deputy who took her position as staff leader of the cafeteria far too seriously. Good lord, you’d think Pyke was the Chief Executive Officer of the United States of America barking orders in the White House War Room the way she carried on.
But she knew better than to let Pyke steal her peace she fought so hard to maintain. She had to stay thankful. Content. Focused. Her fate was far better than the alternative; being re-evaluated and deemed fit to stand trial.
Surviving with the general prison population was not an option. Her hand picked up more speed as she thought of being housed with common criminals a mere hundred yards away.
Rosie Pyke now stood beside her. She was tall and thick with short black hair. There was never a wrinkle in her uniform. Rosie was fair. But she was always a stickler for strict adherence to the rule book. Debbie tried to hold back a snicker as she imagined her with a thick mustache. She could pass as Darrowby’s brother.
Debbie could hear Bob’s words as clear as if he were alive and talking to her from across their kitchen table, reprimanding her in a most loving but stern way to treat her superiors with dignity and respect.
Debbie, my love and soul mate, you need to treat people in positions of authority with respect, regardless what you think of them. Sergeant Pyke is your superior, and should be addressed as such.
Bernie Butthead. Detective Dickhead. Pyke the—. No, better not. Thanks Bob. Even now, thirty-three years later, you’re there for me with you
r words of wisdom.
Debbie followed Rosie’s glare as she looked down on her handiwork. Debbie followed the path of the eight inch Wusthof Classic Vegetable knife where she had chopped, sliced, and diced the vegetables with synchronized speed. She had cut far more than needed. A small mountain stood piled high.
“Mrs. Stevens. I asked you a question. Are you okay? Are you even listening to me? I hope I don’t see an infraction in the works.”
Hope my ass. You’d love the chance for another write-up. “Oh, I’m fine. Just, you know, it’s the holidays. I miss my family. That’s all.”
Rosie fixed Debbie a solid glare. “Yeah, sure. Better take it easy with that knife, or I’ll have to write it up in my report as an incident. You’ve been a model patient and you don’t want to screw up by having kitchen privileges taken away. Besides, your turkeys are by far the best. I’ll be sure to have one directed my way. You can count on that.”
Debbie feigned a smile as she pictured Rosie, sitting alone in her tiny office, devouring an entire turkey. She measured five cups of cut vegetables and placed them into a large tin bowl.
Slow down, she told herself. It took her years to gain the trust of the staff and be able to work in the kitchen, where her extraordinary culinary skills gained her favor with the warden and the prison staff.
She added the mix to an even larger bowl containing bread cubes. As she sprinkled in thyme, salt, and pepper, the bracelet-like band encircling her left wrist vibrated ever so subtly. She looked at the wristband that, with a tap of her finger, would show a virtual touch screen and monitor on any flat surface.
Ancient technology, long since replaced by tiny interfaces placed behind the ear lobes and operated on the user’s electronic impulses caused by thoughts and emotions. But this was the only telecommunications the State allowed her to possess.
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