Eye of the Beholder

by David Ellis

  The lyrics, however sophomoric, were filled with rage. Riley imagined an outcast, rejected by women, probably by everyone. Terry Burgos likely would fit that bill. But Burgos hadn’t written the lyrics. And what was really bothering Riley were the biblical verses that Burgos had cited on the paper found in his basement. Six different passages. He’d read them all, thanks to a cop who had a King James Bible in his locker. All but one of them was from the Old Testament and could be attributed in some way to these acts of violence.

  The book of Hosea said that for nonbelievers, God would “rend the caul of their heart”—or “open a heart once so cruel.” Romans wrote of lesbians being worthy of death, which corresponded with the “lesbian” in the song. Leviticus talked of burning a promiscuous woman to death, which could be loosely translated to being scalded with battery acid. Exodus referenced the infamous eye-for-an-eye, tooth-for-tooth, limb-for-limb language for those who practice abortion—in the lyrics, a senior “now trim since she got rid of him” probably referred to a senior who’d had an abortion. The book of Kings suggested death to those who mocked a prophet. The biblical verse hadn’t mentioned anything about drowning, but presumably the “neighbor’s daughter” in the song had mocked the song’s author, who evidently considered himself some kind of prophet.

  That left the final murder described: Now it’s time, to say good-bye, to someone’s family, stick it right between those teeth and fire so happily. This last murder in the first verse had a different quality in the song; the percussion and bass disappeared, and the singer had sung the lyrics a cappella to the tune of The Mickey Mouse Club.

  And Burgos had followed these lyrics. He had stuck a gun between Cassie Bentley’s teeth and fired a bullet through the back of her mouth. He had done so after beating her severely. The corresponding biblical passage, from Deuteronomy, had described a different act of violence—the stoning of a whore. The lyrics and the biblical passage weren’t compatible. Burgos had followed them both; he had stoned Cassie and shot her.

  But Burgos had originally written down a different verse, not from Deuteronomy but from Leviticus, which had talked about adultery, and which called for death to both the adulterer and the adulteress. Why had Burgos changed biblical passages?

  Riley didn’t know. It was just the first day of a long investigation. But he could already see his arguments forming. He would need to find discrepancies between the lyrics and Burgos’s actions. An insanity defense was inevitable—Burgos had killed at the direction of God—and Riley would need to show that Burgos hadn’t followed that direction faithfully.

  A cop knocked on the door to the room and told them that Professor Albany was here. Riley had very much wanted to make the professor’s acquaintance. Albany owned the printing company where Burgos worked nights. And, more important, they had learned Albany had taught a class that both Cassie Bentley and Ellie Danzinger had attended.

  Frankfort Albany walked into the room looking every bit the college professor in an off-white shirt, open at the collar, with a tweed sport coat, and slacks in desperate need of an ironing board. He wore his hair long and off his face. All he was missing was the pipe. His washed-out expression resembled those of many people Riley had seen this long day, people who had gone through a range of emotions.

  They sat, Riley, the chief, Joel Lightner, and Professor Albany, around the desks with the tape recorder in the center. The professor looked around the table at each of them, as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know where to start. Ordinarily, Paul would break the tension, but he wanted to hear what Albany would say.

  “I really—I just can’t believe this.” He reached into his jacket and removed a small metallic case, opened it up. Cigarettes. “Does anyone mind?”

  “Not if you’re sharing,” the chief said.

  The professor’s movements were tentative. He was shaken up, and falling back on ritual comforts, tapping the cigarette, flipping open the lighter, squinting into the fire as he lit up. He slid the case over to the chief, his eyes catching on the course materials sitting in front of Paul.

  “Tell me about Terry Burgos,” Riley asked.

  “I—I have to say I like Terry,” Albany said with a trace of apology. “He did his work without supervision and got it done. He was good at setting the artwork, careful with detail. He never left a job half finished. He kept a clean work space. He was—well, he was a loner. Even after he lost his day job at Mansbury, he wanted to continue working nights. I think he liked working alone. And since he got the work done, I had no reason to say no.”

  That was an interesting point. Burgos had requested the night shift even when he had nothing to do during the day. Paul was working on the assumption that the prostitutes, at least, were abducted and murdered during the evening—that was when most streetwalkers plied their trade.

  “What hours did he keep?” Lightner asked. “Burgos said he worked ‘whenever.”’

  “That’s more or less correct. His hours were variable.” Albany crossed his leg. “We’d have overflow—work that didn’t get completed during the day—and we’d leave it for Terry. Sometimes it was two hours’ worth of work. Sometimes five.”

  “Sometimes none?” Lightner asked.

  Albany shook his head. “When is there ever nothing to do? No, there’s always something.”

  “What kind of a job has variable hours?” Riley asked.

  “A job,” Albany said testily, “where you’re trying to give someone a break. He needed the work, and he did a good job on the overflow. It worked out for both of us. Is that okay with you?”

  “You have records of his time entries,” Riley said. “We’ll need them.”

  Albany nodded absently.

  “And no one else worked with him at the plant?”

  “Correct. It was just Terry at night.”

  “How did you know he entered his time correctly?”

  “I—well, I didn‘t, I guess,” Albany conceded. “I trusted him.”

  Paul noticed that Joel Lightner was watching Albany closely.

  “What class did you teach with Ellie and Cassie?” Riley asked.

  Albany nodded. Riley figured the professor was aware that Cassie Bentley and Ellie Danzinger were two of the victims. Everyone was, by now.

  “It’s called ‘Violence Against Women in American Culture.’ We discuss the glorification of hostility toward women in pop culture. Movies, television, music.”

  Violence against women in music. How appropriate, under the circumstances. Riley snapped to attention, as Lightner did the same.

  “Wait a second.” Riley slid the paper with the song lyrics across the table to Albany. “Does that music look familiar to you?”

  Albany looked at it for only a moment. “Of course. This is Tyler Skye’s song. ‘Someone.”’

  “For God’s sake.” The chief leaned forward. “You teach this?”

  Albany looked at the chief like he’d look at a student. “Study it, is a better description. Yes, of course. Can you think of a more appropriate song?”

  “And who’s Tyler Skye?” Riley asked.

  “The man—well, really, the boy who wrote these lyrics. He was a high school student. I mean, this is the anthem of the rejected boy, no?” When no one responded, Albany cleared his throat and explained. “Tyler Skye was a student who wrote this diatribe and posted it, one night, all over his school. They discovered he was the author and expelled him. A year later, he’s a high school dropout and the lead singer in a garage band called Torcher. And he committed these lyrics to song, obviously. Torcher was very big in the underground music scene on midwestern campuses. The lyrics aren’t particularly well written, but they are certainly edgy. That appeals to students, the controversy, the rebellion. That’s often more important than the substance.”

  The professor looked around the decidedly hostile table, smoking his cigarette nervously. “Look, the point of the class was, these lyrics were harmful. Part of a larger problem about society’s view of
women. I can’t imagine how Terry could have come away with anything different from our class.”

  “Terry took the class?” Riley sprang forward.

  Albany’s eyes cast downward. “I let him sit in, yes. Terry—Terry wasn’t educated, but that didn’t mean he was dumb. He was—curious is a good word. I gave him many things to read and consider. He didn’t bother anyone. He sat in the back of the class and didn’t say a word. Until, that is—well, you know about Ellie.”

  “Until he developed a fixation on Ellie Danzinger,” Lightner said. “That’s where he met Ellie, right? And Cassie Bentley? In this class of yours.”

  Albany nodded. “Obviously, I didn’t have the slightest idea that anything like this—”

  He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

  “Tell me about Cassie Bentley,” Riley said.

  The professor pinched the bridge of his nose. “A sweet girl. Very sensitive. Moody. Unable to trust people. But very sweet inside.” He took a breath. “I know she’d had some attendance problems. She had them in my class, too.”

  “Paint me a picture,” Riley requested.

  “A picture.” Albany looked up. “Quiet. Shy. Very polite and respectful, always. Lost, maybe.” He nodded his head. “Lost is the word. I know some people thought she was anorexic. She’d go through spells where she didn’t go to class, didn’t eat—sort of locked everybody out. Even Ellie, her roommate.”

  “What about recently?”

  “Recently?” Albany tapped his fingers on the table. “Recently. Yes, I’d heard that she was doing that kind of thing. I mean, I didn’t have her this semester in class, but I did run into Ellie not very long ago—right before finals—and she said Cassie was ‘up to her old tricks,’ I think she said. Not leaving her room. Not even studying. More of the same, really. It seemed like a roller coaster with Cassie. Up, down, up, down. Recently was down.”

  Joel Lightner asked, “You keep in touch with Cassie, personally?”

  The professor shrugged. “It’s a small campus. I’d see her. But she’s ‘Cassie Bentley,’ you understand. Everyone knows about her. I think that explains, more than anything, why she was so private. You won’t find five people that knew her well.”

  “How about one?”

  “One? Ellie Danzinger,” he said with no trace of irony. “I know Cassie had a cousin who came into town sometimes. She’d fly in and fly out. You know, life of the rich and famous. I can’t help you beyond that.”

  Lightner deflated. But Riley figured this was a dead end, anyway. Harland Bentley had had a point, in the office earlier today—Cassie Bentley’s emotional problems hadn’t gotten her killed.

  He wanted to get back to the real cause of Cassie’s death. “We have some reason to believe there’s a religious aspect to these murders,” he said. “The Bible, in particular. Do you teach anything about that?”

  Albany gave a faint nod. “Actually, with regard to this song—Tyler Skye gave an interview where he justified the depictions of violence by what was in the Bible. It was, I think, his way of shooting back at critics.”

  Riley took the list of biblical verses and slid it across the table. Albany picked it up and read them. “Yes, exactly,” he said. “These are the verses. Oh, Jesus.” He hooded his eyes with a hand. “Did Terry think—oh, God.” He looked up at them. “Look, I don’t teach that the Bible tells us to kill women like this. I’m simply showing that the attitudes against women are well rooted in our history. Tyler, himself, made that point. It’s just a class, guys. Oh, my God.”

  He dumped his cigarette into an empty Coke can. “I take it, this is how Terry killed those girls? In accordance with these lyrics?”

  The chief nodded at Albany. “You tell us.”

  “Well, surely you don‘t—” A look of fear spread across his face. “Listen, it’s all over television.” He placed a hand on his chest. “You can’t think I’m responsible for this.”

  Riley didn’t think so, but there’d be time for that.

  Riley nodded toward the list of verses he’d put in front of Albany. “The last murder,” Riley said. “Burgos wrote down something from Leviticus, then crossed it out and wrote in something from Deuteronomy.”

  Albany took a moment to recover, then looked over the list and slowly nodded. “Tyler Skye had cited Leviticus as the justification for that murder. Death to those who commit adultery.”

  “What about Deuteronomy?”

  Albany shook his head. “I don’t know. Tyler Skye didn’t mention Deuteronomy here. What does that passage say?”

  Riley told him—it mentioned the stoning of a whore.

  But Albany didn’t know. “Tyler didn’t cite that. Stoning? No, that’s not what Tyler meant.”

  “Right,” Riley agreed. “ ‘Stick it right between those teeth and fire so happily.’ He’s not talking about stoning. He’s talking about shooting someone. And he said that came from Leviticus?”

  Albany nodded. “Leviticus doesn’t mention shooting per se, of course. Just death to those who commit adultery. But Skye definitely meant the use of a gun. We know that because of what Tyler Skye did, ultimately.”

  Riley stared at him. Albany clearly held the room’s attention.

  The professor cleared his throat. “About a year ago, Tyler Skye killed himself. He shot himself in the mouth.”

  Stick it right between those teeth and fire so happily.

  “Apparently, his girlfriend left him because of his infidelity.”

  The others in the room reacted with appropriate disdain. But Riley was focused. Tyler Skye, purportedly justifying his lyrics through the Leviticus passage, had committed suicide, following the lyrics to the letter—putting the gun between those teeth, meaning his teeth.

  But Burgos hadn’t followed that example. He had beaten Cassie with a stone, or some similar object, and introduced a new passage from Deuteronomy to justify it. And then he had fired the bullet in her mouth—but had not turned the gun on himself.

  He hadn’t been faithful to the lyrics. It was a positive development, no doubt, for the prosecution. But it also raised a question.

  Why? Why had Burgos decided to improvise, to introduce a new biblical passage never cited by Tyler Skye or suggested by his lyrics?

  “Can’t say I’m sorry to see Mr. Skye go,” Chief Clark muttered.

  “Well, maybe you should be,” Albany replied. “Torcher has sold twice as many records since Skye’s death. Now,” he added ominously, “he’s a legend. He has a cult following.”

  “How many people we talking about?” Chief Clark asked, his eyes downcast. “How many psychos we got running around here, waiting to act out these lyrics?”

  “I would say Torcher has thousands of listeners. Not tens of thousands.”

  Paul frowned, not at Albany’s estimation, but at the chief’s acknowledgment in his question. He was suggesting what was inescapable now: Terry Burgos had been following the lyrics to a song, or at least pretending to. And he’d matched the lyrics to verses in the Bible.

  Terry Burgos killed those girls because God told him to.

  He could envision the defense now. Burgos was going to claim that the lyrics were preaching God’s word—burning and beating and torturing young women for various sins. He had interpreted these asinine song lyrics as a coded directive from the Almighty Himself. Tyler Skye, in his twisted way, had mimicked biblical passages, and Burgos had taken them as literal direction.

  That would be a problem. It made the job more difficult. It would be a nice, simple story for the jury to understand, without fancy terminology like psychosis and sociopathology. The guy thought the song was a call to him and he acted on it. He must be crazy. Could you imagine anyone doing this who wasn’t insane?

  They worked on Albany for a while longer. But Paul was no longer listening. There was no doubt that Terry Burgos committed the crimes. The evidence, less than a day into it, was overwhelming, and he’d more or less admitted it. This was no longer about guilt. This was
about insanity. If the state still used the modified ALI definition of insanity, then Burgos had to prove two things: that he was suffering from a mental defect at the time he committed the killings, and that he didn’t understand that he was committing a crime.

  But Paul knew, already, that he could find discrepancies between these acts and the lyrics of the songs. That would be key to showing that, if Burgos thought he was following the word of God—or the word of the prophet Tyler Skye—he hadn’t done a very good job. He already had more than one discrepancy—Burgos had introduced a new biblical passage and he hadn’t killed himself, like he was supposed to. And Burgos had engaged in sexual intercourse with each of the women—the prostitutes before their death, the students postmortem—and there was nothing in the Bible about that. He had committed these crimes during summer break, before the start of summer school, understanding that once summer school started the bodies would be found. He knew, in other words, that what he was doing was a crime, so he was doing it quickly before someone would find the bodies. They also knew that the four prostitutes had worked different parts of the city, which suggested that Burgos was smart enough not to return to the same place. Again, this demonstrated his appreciation that he was breaking the law, and not wanting to get caught.

  And Paul was just getting started. By the time this went to trial, he’d punch enough holes in Burgos’s conformity to the lyrics, and to the Bible, to sink a ship. And he’d have plenty of evidence to show that Burgos knew that what he was doing was illegal.

  Professor Albany was in tears a half hour later. Paul didn’t blame the guy for what happened, but he didn’t have the time or energy to care. There was only one person he cared about now, only one person he would care about for the next nine months.

  Terry Burgos, he was sure, didn’t stand a chance.

  June 5, 1997

  Deathwatch

  Being parents was everything to us. Everything that was good and true in our life centered around Cassie. This man—this monster—has taken away our life. He has taken our daughter, our dreams, everything that a parent has.