by Amy Cross
"And this is a game to you?"
"Isn't it a game to you?"
"It's the legal process, Mr. Gazade."
"Someone wins," Gazade replies, "and someone loses. That's the definition of a game. That's how a game is defined. That's what a game's all about."
Hitting the pause button again, I continue to stare at the screen. Gazade had a habit during his testimony of repeating himself. It's something I noticed twelve years ago, but now I'm starting to wonder if it's part of the game he was playing. I rewind the video a few seconds and hit play again.
"That's the definition of a game," he says. "That's how a game is defined. That's what a game's all about."
I hit pause. Gazade just said the exact same thing in three different ways. In most of his work, he was very efficient, yet during his court testimony he suddenly became much more verbose. After checking my notes, I rewind the video a little further and hit the play button again.
"Or maybe that cop," Gazade says, "the one I had on my table, maybe she's smart enough. Maybe she's got the brains. Maybe she's up to the job."
I hit pause. Once again, Gazade said the same thing three times. For most people, this kind of repetition wouldn't really be much of an issue, but for Gazade, it somehow seems as if it might be more relevant. He seems to have been drawing attention to certain words and phrases, as if he was trying to get someone to notice these passages more than others. Rewinding the video again, I play another of the sections that I noted down earlier.
"Why would I do that?" Gazade says. "To piss people off? To upset people? To fuck with their minds? For what reason would I destroy something I worked so hard on? For what goal? For what purpose? To annoy then? To wind them up? To waste my own time?"
Three sets of repetitions in one little burst. Figuring that this has to mean something, I write down the sentences, before noticing that on each occasion, he starts the sentence with the exact same word. In this case:
To.
For.
To.
I stare the page. The fog is still clouding my mind, but I feel as if I'm finally starting to get somewhere. After a moment, I realize that 'to for to' could just easily mean '242', so I go back through the transcript and start noting down every instance of Gazade repeating himself in this manner. Soon, to my surprise, I have more than a hundred examples, but once I've got them in order, I can't see any kind of pattern at all. I can't work out whether I'm on a false trail, or whether this is just the fog in my mind preventing me from seeing something that should be completely obvious.
I try every method I can think of in my attempt to decipher Gazade's code. After a few hours of torturous logic and failed attempts, I'm starting to get a headache and all I can think about is the fact that I still can't think properly. Sitting back, I stare blankly at the paused, flicking screen on my laptop. Maybe Gazade was right when he said that the person who found his code would have to be someone who was like him, in which case I don't have a hope of getting an answer. Still, I have to try. In the old days, before the chemotherapy and the drugs that messed up my head, I used to solve problems by emptying my mind completely and waiting for my subconscious to come up with the solution.
Closing my eyes, I wait.
Silence.
The only noise is the fan of my laptop, whirring at low speed.
I try to stop thinking, to empty my thoughts. It's not an easy process, but finally I manage to achieve a state of complete calm. There's not a thought, not an idea, in my head.
And that's when it hits me. Just like the old days, when I used to get flashes of inspiration, the answer comes looming out of the depths of my mind.
Numbers.
Going back to the list of repeated words, I strip out anything that couldn't conceivably be interpreted as a number. I'm careful to retain anything that's borderline, though; for example, I keep the word 'ain't' as a possible substitute for the number eight, and 'free' as 'three'. I'm left with more than forty numbers, and although I try to find a pattern, I can't pick out anything. Eventually I run through the entire video again, even though my eyes are burning by now, and after a while I notice that he's used the word 'prime' quite regularly, so I strip out the non-prime numbers from the list and finally I'm left with a single line containing seventeen numbers.
I blink a couple of times. I've got a hell of a headache now, probably as a result of forcing my mind to work despite the fogginess from which I've been suffering. Still, as I stare at the numbers, I realize with a slowly growing sense of satisfaction - and maybe even a little pride - that it worked. I can still get those moments of sudden realization, those flashes of inspiration, even if it's harder these days. As I get to my feet, I feel a wave of dizziness pass through my body, and I have to pause for a moment before finally my head starts to settle again. Picking up the piece of paper, I stare at the numbers and realize that I think I've finally worked out where Sam Gazade hid his diary all those years ago, and where the copycat killer must have found it.
He hid GPS coordinates in his testimony.
Paula Clarke
I don't really know why, but when nightfall comes, I'm drawn back to Queens, and I find myself standing outside that old guy's house again. It's not as if I'm gonna go break in and kill him, at least not tonight, but I feel as if I need to be here. I guess I'm checking things out in advance of the time when I come and kill him. Then again, there's a part of me that worries I'm just fooling myself. It's one thing to think about killing someone, but maybe it's just a fantasy that I'm playing out in my head.
I haven't got the guts.
By midnight, I'm starting to get cold, but I stay where I am, watching his house from the shadows. There's no sign of movement inside, and for all I know he might have gone out before I arrived. Still, I feel as if I have to stay here. I can't shake the fear that maybe I'm deluding myself. Could I really end the life of another human being, or am I just trying to make myself feel big and important? I want to believe that I've got what it takes, but I feel as if there's a line I'd have to cross in order to commit murder, and while crossing that line is easy in my mind, I might not be able to do it in real life.
I might just be a coward. It's a disgusting, revolting thought, but I might be no better than anyone else. I have strong beliefs, and I've known since I was a child that I'm 'different', but if I put myself to the test, I might come up short. The thought of sinking into the mass of dull, identical people is too much to deal with, however, and I try to remind myself that I need to prove that I'm different. I'm not one of the sheep, the monsters who flock to prison gates in order to vicariously take part in the execution of a man they never met.
I'm better than most people.
Finally realizing that I need to get closer to the house, I hurry across the street and then climb over the fence, once again landing in the old guy's back garden. It feels insane to be repeating my little incursion from last night, and I'm totally unprepared for a confrontation, but I feel drawn to watch the old man through the window again. It's almost as if, deep inside, I've got a second mind that's making the real decisions, and my conscious mind is being controlled by these dark impulses. As I make my way through the shadows and finally crouch beneath the kitchen window, I pause for a moment and try to work out what I really want.
Eventually, I move around to the other side of the house, and to my surprise I notice that the back door has been left open. My heart immediately starts racing as I realize that there's nothing stopping me from going inside and... I pause as I contemplate the various things I could do once I was in there. If the old guy was asleep, I could stab him in the head or cut his neck open; if he was watching TV, I could smash him around the head with something heavy. All these possibilities, and many more, rush through my mind, but eventually I start to worry that I'm just an idiot, fantasizing about something I'd never actually do. If I turn back now, I'm no better than all those other idiots out there. Despite the fear in my heart, I have to back up my words and ideas wi
th actions. I've always been focused on academia, but I need to take my thoughts and make sure that they actually lead to something in the real world.
Otherwise, I'm just a fantasist.
Creeping over to the door, I peer inside. There's no sign of anyone being here, but I guess it's possible that the old guy simply went to bed and forgot to lock his back door. Then again, what are the odds of that happening on the very night that I happen to be out here? There's a part of me that wants to turn and run away, but I feel as if the open door is a one-off opportunity. I listen out for a moment, just to make sure that there's definitely no-one around, and then finally I take a deep breath and step inside. As soon as I'm across the threshold, my heart starts pounding in my chest as I realize that there might be no way back from this moment, but I figure I have to prove to myself that I can do this.
I'm going to find him, and I'm going to kill him.
Walking across the kitchen, I spot a set of knives on the counter. It's almost as if some unseen god is laying things out, ready for me. Picking up the largest knife, I feel the weight in my hand and imagine the blade slicing through the old guy's head. I don't want a struggle, so the ideal situation would be to find him sleeping and then just ram the knife into his head. As I step closer to the door that leads through to the hallway, however, my foot happens to press down on a loose board, sending a loud creaking sound through entire house.
I stop and wait.
Silence.
Checking my watch, I see that it's well past midnight, which means that the old fool is probably fast asleep. When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I have another brief wobble as I start wondering whether I can really do this. I've spent my entire life studying the things that other people do, and now I'm on the verge of committing murder. Can I really do this, or am I just an idiot who managed to convince herself that she's capable of doing darker things? I thought this would be easy once I'd made a decision, but it feels as if the doubts are tumbling through my mind, constantly prompting me to turn back and get the hell out of here.
Figuring that I've come too far to back out now, I start making my way up the stairs. With every step, I consider turning back, but I keep going and finally I get to the top and look over at a nearby door that has been left partly open. I guess that must be his bedroom, and even though I don't hear anything to suggest that he's in there, I'm convinced he's probably fast asleep in bed, with no idea that I'm coming for him. I make my way toward the door and take another deep breath. This is it, and when I go into the room there'll be no turning back. I can't deny that there's a part of me that wants to turn and run, but there's another part that's pushing me to go forward.
Slowly, I push the door open. There's a slight creak, but nothing that should wake the old guy up. I step into the room and turn to look at the bed.
For a moment, I can't work out quite what I'm seeing. There's a figure under the sheets, and even though the room is dark, there's enough moonlight streaming through the window for me to be able to make out his face. It's the old man, but his eyes are open and he's staring straight at me.
"I..." I start to say, startled by the realization that I might have to confront him after all.
I wait.
He doesn't say anything.
In fact, he doesn't even blink.
Slowly, I realize that something's wrong. There's something dark on his neck, and all over the bedsheets, and finally I realize that it's blood. There's blood all over the place, and the old man's glassy-eyed stare is the stare of a man who was dead long before I walked into the room.
"I didn't think you'd actually be able to go through with it," says a nearby voice suddenly.
Spinning around, I see that there's a figure standing right behind me. Before I can react, the figure reaches out and grabs my arm, slamming it into the door-frame with such force that I drop the knife.
"You weren't very smart," the figure says, stepping forward. It takes me a moment to realize that the figure facing me is none other than Dr. Alice Huston, the senior lecturer from my university. "You left fingerprints on the kitchen counter," she continues, fixing me with a determined stare. "Did you realize that?"
I take a step back, my heart racing as I try to work out what just happened. I didn't stab the old man. I was going to do it, but someone had already done it when I got here.
"I guess you could wipe the fingerprints away," she continues, stepping toward me. "But what about the fingerprints you left on his body? What about the blood under your nails? Did you think about all the different ways they'll be able to identify you, Paula? Are you even aware of how forensic tests can isolate even the tiniest fiber?"
"There's no -" I start to say.
Suddenly she reaches out and pushes me. Although I try to keep my balance, I fall onto the bed, landing directly on top of the old guy's corpse and feeling his still-warm, sticky blood on my hands and face. I quickly get back to my feet, but it's too late: his blood is all over me, and there must be plenty of my DNA on his body. There's no way anyone would believe that I didn't kill him.
"Why did you do it?" Dr. Huston asks.
"I didn't do anything," I stammer.
"You broke into his house, brought a knife upstairs, and stabbed him to death," she continues firmly. She seems strangely blank, as if she's neither horrified nor shocked by the sight of the old man's body. I've always had a huge amount of respect for Dr. Huston, even if I disagree with many of her ideas, but right now she's behaving almost like a robot. If I didn't know better, I'd think she shared my sense of passivity when it comes to emotions.
"No!" I say firmly.
"Yes!" she replies. "You did this, Paula. What's wrong? Don't you remember?"
"I didn't kill him!" I blurt out, starting to panic. "I came in, but I didn't do it!"
"Then why are you here?" she asks.
"I was..." I pause as I realize that there's no way I can explain this. "I..." I start to say, before realizing that there's nothing I can say. There are tears in my eyes, and I feel as if I've completely lost control.
"You broke in," she continues. "You used that knife to kill him. I heard you, Paula. You were talking to him."
"I was?" I ask, with tears streaming down my face.
She nods. "You told him what you were going to do, and then you killed him before he had a chance to stop you. Don't you remember?"
I shake my head.
"I'm sorry," she continues, "but there's no point hiding from the truth. I would have stopped you, but I was too late. Still, now that it's happened, we need to focus on finding a way forward for you. Judging by your actions so far, I'm starting to think that did prepare very well for any of this. Would that be right?"
"What are you doing here?" I reply, trying to wipe away the tears.
"I've been watching you," she continues. "I was at the prison gates last night and I saw you. Frankly, you looked like a mess. I followed you and watched as you came here, so I decided to follow you again tonight. Here we are again, but tell me, what drew you to this guy? I saw you talking to him last night, but there must be more to it, mustn't there? You weren't just going to murder a random old man, were you?" She pauses. "I know you quite well by now, Paula, and I know you're smart. You're not the kind of person who's prone to random violence, so there has to be a reason for this behavior. Doesn't there?"
Taking a step back, I try to work out what to do. I know I didn't kill this guy, but if that's the case, then there's only one other person who could be responsible. Then again, I don't believe that Dr. Huston would ever do anything like this, which means it must be me. I've always known there was something wrong with me, and now I can see the proof. I killed a man.
"Let me help you," Dr. Huston continues. "I've been concerned about you for a while now, Paula. Your work on the course is somewhat erratic, and if I might be so bold, I'd venture the suggestion that you're very troubled. Is that right? Do you have problems in your life?"
"I didn't kill him," I say, staring
down at the blood-soaked corpse. Tears are trickling down my cheeks, and I can't take my eyes off the old man's twisted, bloodied body. It looks like there was something of a struggle when he died. How can I not remember anything? I guess I must be more disturbed than I ever guessed. "I didn't do this," I say, my voice reduced to a tearful whimper. "I didn't, I swear..."
"Of course you did," she replies. "That was your plan when you broke in through the back door."
"I didn't break in!" I shout. "It was already open!"
"You should probably keep your voice down," she continues calmly. "You don't want to wake the neighbors, do you?" She stares at me for a moment. "You broke in through the back door, Paula. I watched. Then you came inside, took a knife and killed him. Deep down, you must know that's the truth." She pauses, as if she's waiting for me to say something. "You know it's true, don't you?"
I shake my head.
"Please, Paula. Face the truth. You did this."
"No," I whimper. "Please..."
"You killed him, she says firmly. "You're not an idiot, Paula. You can see the truth when it's right in front of you. Maybe you suffered a blackout, but there's no doubt that you're the one who stabbed this man to death."
Backing away from her until I'm in the far corner of the room, I try to work out what to do next. There's no way I could have killed this guy without remembering, but at the same time it's the only explanation that makes any sense. Feeling a wave of nausea rush through my body, I crouch down on the floor as I try desperately to come up with an answer. I squeeze my eyes tight shut and try to remember sliding the knife into the old man's body, but all I remember is coming into the room and finding him already dead. Unless I've completely lost my mind, there's no way I could be responsible for this.
Suddenly I feel a hand on my shoulder.
"Don't worry," Dr. Huston says calmly. "It's going to be okay, Paula. In fact, I know exactly what we're going to do to make all of this go away."
Sacrifice part I
