"That was their argument," Will explained. "I don't think anyone needs a reason to go to a football game other than to watch it ... "
"I understand, 523, but now you're here," Cole cut him off. "It's strange how one seemingly minor decision can change everything."
Will tried to recall how he had come to that ‘minor decision' ... what was he even doing in that part of town on that night? He remembered: there was no reason. Sometimes he drove around to relax, and to think. It was a small town, and he'd seen the stadium lights before. But that was the first time he'd gotten close enough to be drawn in.
"There were other things," Cole continued. "Your fiancee testified for the prosecution. Why again?" He had a perplexed look and shook his head slowly.
Will sighed. "She testified regarding the status of our relationship, and our sexual activity." Will flushed and put the palms of his hands over his eyes as he continued to speak. "She claimed that I was avoiding having sex with her, and that I would go out at night to avoid it."
"Was that true?" Cole asked.
"The truth is that the woman never wanted to have sex," Will replied. "Her saying I was avoiding it was bizarre."
"But there was more to her testimony," Cole continued.
"Yes," Will replied. "She told them that I often went out late at night without telling her where I was going."
"So? Why was that significant?"
"There were other attacks—rapes and murders—that had occurred in the town during that time—at least two of which coincided with my late-night drives," Will explained.
"But you weren't charged with those other crimes?"
"Surprisingly, no."
"Why surprisingly?"
"Because the whole case was conducted like a witch trial—someone was going to hang. Ended up being me ... I was convicted on circumstantial evidence, alone." Will was angered every time he thought about it—circumstantial evidence. They were essentially calling him a liar: he'd been an upstanding member of society his entire life, and it didn't even earn him the benefit of the doubt.
"Happens all of the time."
"Yes, it does. But they had physical evidence that could have exonerated me," Will said.
"What do you mean?"
"They'd recovered DNA from the girl's body immediately after the attack."
"What happened with that?"
"It was misplaced," Will replied.
Dr. Cole's eyes widened. "Hmm ... no physical evidence, the girl in a coma ... the rest must've come off as pretty convincing."
Will nodded his head in recognition, and then shook it in disgust. It seemed to him that Pam's testimony might have tipped the scales with the jury. He'd worked himself into a rage many times thinking about it, but he was now helpless to release it.
"No matter how you got here, you're here now," Cole said with a tone of depressing finality. He stood and poured himself a cup of tea, the fragrance of Earl Grey permeating the room.
"I'd offer you some," Cole said, "but you can't have anything today—medical tests and procedures in the afternoon." He sat down and put the steaming mug on the coffee table.
Will felt the weight of the situation increasing—the stress was getting to him. He thought he had held up fairly well through the past year; his mind was strong, and he knew it would get him through this, too—if he could keep it on his side.
"Let's move on," Cole said. "I have many questions. Some may seem irrelevant, but I assure you, they are all significant. So answer them the best you can. My positive evaluation of your mental state is required for you to continue in this program. If we find that you don't qualify for some reason, mentally or physically, you'll be removed, and you'll have to serve the conventional sentence. Is that clear?"
Will nodded. It was the last thing he wanted.
Cole clicked his pen a few times. "Who are the most important people in your life? Give me five or six."
Will thought for a few seconds and recited a list that included his parents, his sister and her family, his best friend Matthew, and his ex-girlfriend Danielle. Pam didn't make the list. Hearing the names of his loved ones conjured up a deeply disturbing feeling; a convalescence of guilt, shame, and nostalgia. If he spent the next twenty-five years in prison he would essentially be dead to those people. And they'd be dead to him, too. They'd probably come to visit him a few times a year—at first. But then they would just fade away into the past. Maybe he was already dead to them. Maybe they thought the real William Thompson was the rapist—not the scientist, son, brother, friend. Maybe the good William never existed.
"523," Cole said, interrupting his thoughts. "Let's move on."
Will regained his focus.
Cole asked numerous questions, and as he had warned, many seemed irrelevant. What was his favorite color? Favorite food? If he could design his own world—his own heaven—what would it be like, and what would he be in that world? Similar questions about Hell. What things in this world, the real one, could make him happy? That was a question Will had frequently asked himself—and one he had difficulty answering, even before the horrific situation by which he was now consumed. He was asked about his childhood, and his best and worst memories. Lastly, he was administered an IQ test.
After the test was completed, Cole collected the exam and pencils and told Will to relax for a minute. "For this last part, someone else needs to be here," Cole said.
Will couldn't believe there was more—he was already mentally and emotionally exhausted. And now there would be two people interrogating him?
Cole walked over to his desk and picked up the phone. "Bring in Mr. Jones."
*
Heinrich Bergman stood next to a large window in his office, shielding his eyes from the late morning sun as he spoke into his mobile. "Go ahead, Lenny."
"I found out who's prying into the Thompson case," Lenny said. "It's a lawyer in Chicago—one Jonathan McDougal."
"That's just fucking great."
"It's about the lost DNA evidence, as you expected," Lenny replied.
"Thompson has already been inserted, and I'll be damned if we have to dispose of a perfectly good test subject because that fool McDougal wants to play detective. That son of a bitch has been making waves for too damn long," Bergman said.
"I know."
"Get out to Illinois and look into it," Bergman ordered. "They won't have justification for a retrial unless the missing DNA sample miraculously turns up. Make sure that doesn't happen."
"I'll arrange a flight out tonight," Lenny said.
Bergman flipped his phone closed and slowly paced back and forth. He trusted Lenny. It wasn't only for the man's decades of loyal and competent service, but more for what he had on Lenny. Bergman knew every operation the thug had carried out—and many of them hadn't been pretty. Of course, Bergman knew, he had given Lenny the orders on most of those operations. Their trust was symbiotic.
His relationship with Richard Greene and many of the other high-level engineers was different, however. They knew everything about the project—everything that was on paper, anyway—enough to sink the entire program. In the case of Richard Greene, Bergman knew he could count on three things to keep that from happening. First, Richard was an expert in the technology—he'd be throwing away his life's work. Second, Bergman had more than hinted at the fate of those who tried to sell out the program. His latest exhibition was Frank Weiss; this was the real reason he'd asked Richard to be present for the man's interrogation ... Finally, if the program was sunk, Richard would undoubtedly go down with the ship: he was as culpable as anyone in the program.
Bergman's thoughts turned back to the lawyer. The unplanned release of an inserted inmate would be a complete disaster—sure to draw a whirlwind of media attention. This he did not need—his contributors were already nervous. Such a situation was a vulnerability for which there was no solid contingency plan. There was only prevention; they would head McDougal's investigation off at the pass. As a last resort they could terminate T
hompson, though that might draw even more attention.
Bergman tried to remember exactly when he had lost his conscience. He was sure it hadn't happened all at once. He recalled when he'd been promoted to head of the project some twenty-five years ago, and the week afterwards when he had proposed to his wife. Life had been good for a while. At the time, he had no idea of what he was getting himself into—but now he was in as deep as one could get, and the walls were closing in. But we've come so far, he thought. They'd finally worked most of the bugs out of the treatment, and if their predictions were correct, a positive result was imminent. Such an event would change the world, and everyone would see it was well worth the cost in lives.
Explaining the lack of progress was going to be difficult, but Richard Greene would handle that. He trusted him for those types of tasks—the man could really bullshit when he needed to. The problem with the Chicago lawyer trying to reopen the case was again, difficult, but solvable. On the other hand, finding the missing project files, and the source of the leak, was daunting. If they failed, and the files got into the wrong hands, the project would be crushed. They outlined every action, technical detail, and motivation for the project. He couldn't let that happen.
*
Will nervously rubbed his knees as he and Cole waited for Mr. Jones. After a few minutes, someone knocked at the door and Cole let him in. The man who entered maneuvered his large, athletic body around the chairs, and stopped in front of the coffee table, where he rubbed the stubble on his chiseled sandstone face.
Will's eyes were drawn to something on the man's head: two bony knobs bulged out of each side of his forehead—near the hairline. They were the diameter of a quarter and raised a half an inch from his skull, as if ping-pong balls were cut in half and place under his skin. In the middle of each was a circular indentation, about a quarter of an inch in diameter. Will tried not to look, but he couldn't help it. Horns?
"I'd like you to meet a former patient; this is Mr. Jones," Cole said.
Jones walked closer and nodded to Will.
Will responded with a nod, and said, "Mr. Jones."
Jones shrugged and smiled in recognition of the alias. "I'm Number 112."
Will noticed the man's voice was a bit slurred, like he'd had a minor stroke. And he quickly did the math: if they put one person in the system each day, number 112 should have been through the year of treatment and out for weeks. Why was he still here?
"We're going to explain a few things, and get your take on what you think this next year is going to bring," Cole said. "Have a seat—both of you."
Jones sat in the chair next to Cole, across the coffee table from Will.
"523, I assume you've already been informed that you could die here," Dr. Cole said.
Will was shocked by the words. "What do you mean?"
"The death rate of this program is about twenty-seven percent," Cole replied.
Will's heart sank. "I don't understand, what do you mean death rate?" His attention was momentarily distracted by the hideous cackle of Jones, who Will believed to be mentally damaged.
Cole shook his head at Jones, then answered Will's question. "The extreme stress that patients experience during the treatment can sometimes precipitate a physical failure, such as a stroke, heart attack, etcetera."
Will glanced at Jones, and again wondered if he'd had a stroke.
"We try to choose healthy people, of course," Cole continued, "but there are always a few fluke things that can happen. The point is: there's a fair chance you won't leave this place alive."
"I wasn't told any of this before," Will responded. He was shocked—what type of risk was he taking? "They didn't tell me anything about this place!"
"Then why did you agree?—you had to choose this," Jones said.
"You were also given a plea bargain," Cole added.
"The plea bargain would have been for twelve years—still too long for a crime I didn't commit," Will retorted. "The one-year option was the right choice—guilty or not. This is the only way I can recover my life—"
"You'll never recover," Jones cut him off.
"Oh, that's not true at all," Cole contradicted emphatically, and spoke to Will, "It depends on the individual. Look at Jones here—he's a new man. He's a survivor, and he'll be released into the world again soon." He turned back to Jones. "And you'll be a good boy out there, won't you Mr. Jones?"
Jones flushed and looked down, and Will noticed one of the man's eyes was slow—a lazy eye. Will was feeling even more frightened: what had they done to this man?
"You see," Jones said, "once you get through this place—if you get through—they'll monitor you very closely. Any crime you commit from that point forward could land you back in here. You won't want to come back."
"We've only had one graduate of this facility called back so far," Cole added. "And he managed to kill himself before being ... readmitted."
"What do you do here? What are you planning to do to me?" Will was starting to feel the way he did when his claustrophobia would act up. He edged forward in his seat and pointed to Jones. "And what did you do to this guy?"
Jones must have sensed Will's nervousness. His eyes dilated and shifted back and forth, the slower one now dragging more noticeably. He moved to the edge of his seat and tucked his feet beneath him as if he were going to stand.
"You gotta get the hell out of here man," Jones said, his voice a little slower now, but louder. He lifted his hand, and Will noticed it trembled. "They're going to ... "
"112, tell your orderly to take you back to your room," Cole commanded.
Jones stood, his eyes wide—one locked on Will, and mouthed the words, "run ... run," as he slowly shook his head.
"Go, 112," Cole ordered, more forcefully now.
Jones maintained eye contact with Will as he maneuvered around the couch, and then turned and walked out.
"That never happened before ... last time we'll do this with him," Cole said under his breath as he scribbled something in his notebook.
"What the hell was he talking about?" Will asked.
"It's not a secret that the treatment isn't going to be pleasant," Cole continued, "but it is impossible to convey to you exactly how stressful it will be."
"Why don't you try."
"I only know generalities," Cole explained. "There are physical, psychological, even spiritual aspects."
"What do you mean by spiritual aspects?"
"Well, if you're religious, imagine questioning your deepest beliefs—even your very existence."
"I don't see how anyone could touch that," Will said with some defiance.
"Now we're digressing into things of a more philosophical nature, and we're nearly out of time," Cole said, looking to Will. "My job is to evaluate your state of mind—and I find that you are sane now, and were of sound mind when you made the decision to enter the program. You are therefore cleared to proceed." He took off his glasses and put them back in their case.
"Barring a physical condition that precludes your continuing," Cole explained, "you're at the point of no return." Cole glanced at his watch and looked startled. "Oh, we have to wrap this up. You have a few more meetings today."
*
The orderlies escorted Will down the hall and to another door, on which there was sign that read: A-Level: Rm. 3 Finance. The larger orderly knocked before ushering Will in, then closed the door behind him as he left.
The room was small and carpeted, and Will detected a faint scent of perfume in the air. It was a fragrance that on another occasion might have been pleasant. In his current state, however, it was only nauseating.
A man and two women sat at small desks working on computers. "Please sit down," one of the women instructed, as she pointed to a chair next to the man's desk. Her green suit-skirt strained as she tied her red hair into a tight bun, wrapping a rubber band around it. The other woman, tall with olive skin, kept her eyes on her computer monitor as she rapidly typed.
On Will's right, nea
r the wall, the man casually stroked his black goatee while glancing back and forth between a file on his desk and the screen in front of him. His pin-striped suit looked like it was tailored to fit his thin frame. Will sat in the wooden chair next to his desk.
"This shouldn't take long, 523—you don't have many assets," the man said without looking up. "I'm Mr. Redd. We're going to run through your possessions. Please verify each item I describe, and let me know if there are any mistakes."
Will nodded. All business, no small talk.
"You have a house at 104 South Glenview in Cordova, Illinois?" he asked.
"Yes, but it's not paid off," Will responded.
"I see; you have $125,320 in equity, and owe another hundred thousand," Redd said, flipping to another page in Will's file. "You have a bank account at University Federal Credit Union through your former employer, with $14,345 in funds—including savings, checking, and money market accounts?"
"That sounds right."
"And I see $121,872 in an online banking and trading company called ElectroTrade. Looks like you could've paid off that house if you wanted to."
Will nodded. Sure, he could have. But he was going to wait so that he and Pam could pay it off together, after they got married; then the house would be theirs.
"You own a Toyota Four Runner?"
Will nodded.
"A vintage classical guitar?"
"Yes, how did you know-"
"Just answer the question," Redd cut him off rudely.
Will felt his face flush. His temper was getting more and more difficult to manage as the day progressed.
"Look," Redd said without looking away from his monitor. "You're in a new world now, and your new existence doesn't include you owning anything you had before this point. You won't even be able to cover the total cost of this program with everything you own anyway. You'll be given a government loan to cover the difference."
EXOSKELETON - A Novel Page 4
