by J. A. Faura
Stephanie got in about 30 minutes after he had gotten there. After giving him a hug and a once-over, she had gotten him a cup of coffee just the way he liked it and left him alone to continue his work. She knew him better than almost anyone else and knew that what he wanted more than anything was for things to be normal again, so she had known to just let him do his thing, the way she had done many times before.
At eight in the morning she went into his office to let him know that his appointment had just arrived, “Steven, Dr. Barlow is here.”
He looked up from his desk, “Please show him in, Steph.” He closed the files on his desk and stood up to greet his guest. Dr. Nigel Barlow looked like the stereotype of an academic. He was in his 50s, about six feet tall, thin and athletic, Steven thought. It looked like he kept himself in pretty good shape. He was impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit with a nicely matching, small bow tie. He was almost completely bald, with only a neatly cut band of gray hair surrounding his head. He wore round, stylish glasses and had an air about him of someone who was in a moderate state of anxiety. Steven made all these assessments as the man came over to shake his hand. There was something that made Steven uneasy about the man, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He was definitely nothing like Tyrone Leonard. He didn’t have the same charisma or the presence that Leonard had. The look Steven saw in him was more like what? Hunger?
He put the thought aside and greeted Barlow, “Dr. Barlow? It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Barlow pumped his hand up and down as they greeted, “Mr. Loomis, quite the contrary, the pleasure is certainly mine. Quite an honor, indeed. I am much obliged that you agreed to see me.”
Steven detected a faint British accent. Barlow had obviously been in the US for some time, but the accent still came through. There was still something that was bothering Steven and it was starting to send red flags up, but he’d be damned if he knew what it was. Maybe he was just on edge, wary of people he didn’t know. He didn’t think so, that had never been the case before, but then again, the circumstances had never been as they were now.
He held his hand out toward the small round table in his office, “Please sit down. Can I offer you some coffee, water?” Barlow walked over to the table, set his briefcase down next to the chair and sat down, “Most kind, no, thank you, I’m fine for the moment.”
Steven now sat across from the man. He wanted to just lean back and relax, listen to what the man came to talk about, but he found he couldn’t do it. He was uptight, edgy, the way he felt before an operation and it was a strange enough feeling that, given the circumstances, he found he couldn’t just relax.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, and started the conversation, “What can I do for you?”
Barlow, sitting back in his chair with his legs crossed and his hands on his lap, proceeded to let Steven know why he was there.
“First of all, Mr. Loomis, let me apologize for my insistence on seeing you. I dare say I made a most annoying pest of myself with your assistant, but what I want to discuss with you is of the utmost importance, you understand. I also wanted to say that I am most sorry for your loss and for your other…difficulties.”
This last part he said with something akin to annoyance, as if it had been something he knew he had to get out of the way but didn’t really care for. Steven nodded and waited for him to continue.
Barlow went on, “You see, I am a criminal profiling consultant. I work with the FBI, have now for some years, and I am very interested to learn as much as I can about Donald Riche and his actions, how he came to do the things he did, his motivations, that kind of thing.”
What Barlow had said was in no way remarkable, it was something that someone in his field would most likely say, given the situation. What was odd was the way in which he said it. There was no gravity, no sense of professional detachment in what he said. He sounded and looked more like a kid talking to someone who’d played with Michael Jordan wanting to know what it had been like to play next to him. There was an eagerness, a sort of… there was that idea of hunger again. Steven’s unease continued to grow. He gave up on trying to understand the reason for it and simply decided he would try to let his instincts guide him. They’d never let him down before.
He gave Barlow a puzzled look and decided to play dumb, “I don’t understand, Dr. Barlow, surely you have access to more information about those things than I do. I’m not sure that I can be of any help to you.”
Barlow’s countenance had shifted slightly. No longer the eager and obsequious guest, he now looked at Steven with an intensity that hadn’t been there before.
His tone also changed. He now had a more purposeful set in his voice, “On the contrary, Mr. Loomis, I believe it’s you and only you who can provide the insights I need. You’re right, I do have the details, the information about Mr. Riche and his actions. I do, after all, consult with the FBI. As you can imagine, however, everything I’ve reviewed is provided in reports, photographs, written statements, that sort of thing. It is all very detailed and complete, but it lacks the most critical element.”
Steven now leaned back into his chair and took on a different tone himself, more guarded and careful, “What element would that be, doctor?”
Barlow noticed the change and once again tried to take on the simple, curious tone he’d begun with. He tried but just couldn’t pull it off, “The intimate element, of course. I want to understand the motivations and the thought processes that led Mr. Riche to engage in his quest, his journey. Those are things a report simply cannot convey, Mr. Loomis. I am interested in understanding the inspiration that took Mr. Riche down the path he chose.”
Steven’s instincts were now on full alert. There was something most definitely off about Barlow. The deferential, almost wistful tone with which he referred to Riche’s ‘quest,’ the eager, hungry way in which he said he wanted to understand the ‘inspiration’ that had driven Donald Riche.
Now, with his instincts and every one of his senses fully engaged, he finally got what it was about the man and their initial greeting that had such a powerful effect on him. It was a faint but distinct scent. Steven had smelled it when the man had first come in. It had been so faint and so strange that he couldn’t identify it. He now knew what that scent was, it was the acrid, metallic smell of blood and some sort of astringent, some sort of an astringent cleaner. The man was a doctor and probably had been exposed to blood and to a cleaner designed to remove the smell of it. Steven tried feebly to hold on to that thought because the alternatives were simply too disturbing. He wanted to get more from Barlow, to form a better idea of what the man was about and what he was looking for, so he held himself in check, remaining completely impassive and under control as he sat across from him, his mind racing to get a bearing.
“I don’t know that I can help you with any of that. I know as much about Riche as you, probably less, actually.”
Barlow gave him a thin, knowing smile, a smile that chilled Steven to the bone, “Come now, Mr. Loomis, as I understand it, you were there, you were in his studio, you experienced everything firsthand, before it was corrupted by all the technicians and investigators.”
Now Steven knew that Barlow had absolutely no interest in the science and he was not engaged in any sort of research. His interest was personal and ‘intimate’ and given his continued references to Riche’s ‘studio’ and the scene being ‘corrupted’ by the technicians, Loomis now understood much better what it was that Barlow was looking for.
“Dr. Barlow, I’m not quite sure what it is that you think I can tell you or share with you. Whatever it is that I saw or experienced at that warehouse is of a very personal nature to me, and as you can imagine incredibly painful, so I have no intention of reliving the experience, whatever the nature of your inquiry happens to be.”
As he progressed through the statement, the intensity in Steven’s voice grew and his eyes began to reflect a quiet anger that vis
ibly affected Barlow. However fit the man was, he was clearly no match for Steven. As someone schooled on human emotion and reaction, he became immediately aware of the fact that he had completely misread Steven Loomis and responded accordingly, “A thousand apologies, Mr. Loomis, it was not my intention to upset you in any way. I am very sorry for being insensitive. It is just that I have been a keen observer and longtime researcher of this type of behavior.”
Barlow was almost theatrical in his apologies, trying to physically communicate just how sorry he was.
It all gave the situation an almost surreal tone, “You see, I was, and I don’t want to sound insensitive again, looking forward to being able to better understand what drove Mr. Riche. A trial, the resulting interviews and interrogations, would have given me an excellent idea of what it was that Riche’s grand plan was.
“Once you…once he was shot, all of that disappeared. Oh, of course I have access to all of the written reports and the pictures and the few statements that he made, but none of that, none of it at all, communicates the true insights into his mind.”
Steven was now in information gathering mode. The entire exchange had revealed what Steven had intuited in the beginning. Nigel Barlow’s interest in Donald Riche was the same type of interest that a professional had in how an amateur, a talented amateur, practiced his craft.
He wanted to understand what he was dealing with, so he went along, “And what grand plan is it that you think Riche was following?”
Barlow looked surprised. He had not expected the question and now that it had been posed, he responded immediately, without taking the time to figure out how to edit his response, “What plan? Well, I don’t know, that’s what I wanted to find out, to glean from your experience. It will almost be impossible now, without his input, without his insights.
“The world will see this simply as a mass murder committed by a madman, Mr. Loomis. They will air their stories and get their rating and their experts will go on and on talking about things they simply do not understand. No one, not one person, will understand the kind of planning, the kind of careful consideration it takes to do what Riche did. None of the experts will ever address or even mention the kind of meticulous thought processes that are required to execute that kind of enterprise.
“I think what you have done is wonderful, sir, and I commend you for it. I think it is time that the world understood that there is now a more advanced being, what I call a Prime Force, on the face of the earth.”
As he listened to Barlow, Steven noticed a distinct change in the man. He was indignant, upset about what he saw as inferior creatures trying to pass judgment on the deeds of a more advanced intelligence. His whole countenance, the way he punctuated every point with his hands, how flush his face looked, the rising volume of his voice, all spoke to indignation. Steven now believed this was a man who had been looking forward to perhaps interviewing Riche and, God help him, talk shop. His was not the same type of interest that Leonard had, a professional interest in a scientific breakthrough. Barlow’s interest had to do with feeling kinship with Riche.
Loomis had wondered if he had come face-to-face with a Homo sapiens predaer in Riche. He’d also wondered whether he would come face-to-face with one again. Now he thought he had his answer. He wanted to understand them better, but he was also starting to feel something else. What was it? Not fear, he wasn’t afraid, it was more like feeling overwhelmed, like someone who’d read about sharks, who’d lost a loved one to a shark and who all of a sudden was in the water with a shark with no protective cage in between.
As much as he wanted to learn more about Barlow, he couldn’t risk more exposure for himself, his case and, most importantly, the people he loved.
Still, he couldn’t pass up one more question, “And have you done much work with people like Riche? Is that the kind of work you do?”
The question brought Barlow back to the moment, snapped him out of his tirade, but not completely.
He’d been talking more to himself than Loomis. Now that he realized Loomis would have questions of his own, he was more engaged than he had been, “Yes, quite a bit of work, actually. There have been instances such as these for some time now, Mr. Loomis. I dare say they’ve been occurring throughout history. And they’ve been vastly misunderstood, misjudged.”
Steven wanted him to be clear, specific, “You mean other murderers? Other rapists and murderers of children? Is that what you mean when you say other instances such as this?”
Barlow paused briefly, with a startled look on his face, “What? No, of course not! But, Mr. Loomis, I think you and I both know that Mr. Riche wasn’t just an ordinary murderer, don’t we? No, what I mean is that there have been many more instances before, even before a record was kept, where something else, something far beyond the crude vulgarity of a mere murderer undertook a task they could not complete. Instances where sad souls, tortured by conflicting emotions and the inadequacies of the human mind, decided to embrace their nature.
“Murderers, psychopaths as you call them, Mr. Loomis, those that don’t murder out of greed or jealousy or other simple human failings, are most likely half-breeds, individuals who have not yet evolved into something beyond human, but who feel the same needs, the same hunger, that those that have evolved feel. They don’t have the tools required to satisfy that hunger, to understand who and what they are and they simply act on their instincts.
“What I am talking about, Mr. Loomis, is perfect predators, engineered for their purpose. Their intellect, their ability to blend in perfectly into their surroundings, the meticulous nature of their planning and their execution, those are the things I am interested in.
“I have had the privilege to hear of their activities, to listen while they impassively and naturally explained their purpose, their ultimate plan. No emotion, no anger or rage to be found, highly developed intelligence devoted to a single purpose with no ulterior motives, no agendas. That, Mr. Loomis, is what I am interested in.
“You have pulled back the curtain and you’ve let the world in on their world. But, Mr. Loomis, I wonder if you understand what you are in for. The world is simply not ready, you see, to accept that they exist because it would mean accepting that humans are no longer at the top of the food chain and that, my dear sir, is not something the world is ready to accept.”
Steven was now certain that he was speaking to one of them. Barlow had been speaking of his interests, but he was really referring to himself and to others like him. Steven was now aware of a different feeling, rage. Rage at what was in front of him, rage at what it represented and rage that he could refer to his daughter and the rest of the girls as so many leavings, byproducts of some higher purpose.
He was afraid of what might happen if he let Barlow continue, but he also wanted to make sure he knew exactly where they stood before he left. “Maybe, maybe that’s true, maybe the world is not ready, but now they’ll have no choice but to take notice, to acknowledge that these things exist. Perhaps the system will continue to deny it, but people, everyday people, will know and they’ll prepare as best they can, do what they can do to protect themselves and their children.
“I believe we are done here, Dr. Barlow, I have nothing else to say to you and I would advise you not to say anything to me. You’re right, I have felt it, I have felt what you are talking about, the intelligence behind it, the careful planning, and the absolute and complete lack of anything human behind it. I know when I am in its presence again. It’s not something I arrive at using my reasoning, it’s something I feel.
“Now, I’m busy and I need you to leave, but before you do, I want to make something perfectly clear to you and I would counsel you to pay heed. If I see you anywhere near the trial, anywhere near this building or within 10 square blocks of my house and my family, I will kill you.”
Steven was speaking in even, reasoned tones, but his eyes were narrowed into an intense, direct stare that looked into and through Barlow. His body was
now tightened into a pitched, hair-trigger tension, a tension that many adversaries had experienced right before they had died. Barlow listened, a fascinated expression on his face. Loomis knew what he was and why he was here, truly remarkable. This had not been a part of any of the things Barlow had expected. He had expected grief, sadness, perhaps some outrage about his inquiry, but he had never expected to be made. Loomis had in fact felt what he had been amongst, knew exactly what he had been a part of, fascinating. Still, Barlow could sense the danger he was in. That was also something he had never faced before and never expected. He had never done this with someone who had taken as many lives as Loomis, who was as familiar with death as he was. Every time he had done this before, he had gotten what he wanted, the men and women with whom he had spoken had not known it, but they had always given him what he had wanted, the confirmation he longed for. Never like this, however, good lord, never like this. He did not respond with feigned outrage at any accusation or threat that Steven had leveled at him, but both men knew they were far beyond that.
He smiled a satisfied smile and cocked his head to one side, like a dog listening to high-pitched sound, “You would, wouldn’t you? You would kill me with no hesitation, fascinating, most fascinating indeed. You won’t be bothered by me any further, Mr. Loomis. You have nothing to be concerned with at all, not from me anyway.
“I am most grateful for your time, most grateful. You have given me much more than I could have ever hoped for, far more. Goodbye, Mr. Loomis. I dare say we may cross paths once again.”
Neither man went to shake hands. Barlow simply stood up and walked to the office door. Steven stood up but did not move from where he was.
Before he opened the door to leave, with his hand on the doorknob and without looking back, Barlow said one last thing, “It’s simply nature, Mr. Loomis, simply nature moving forward. Nothing evil or forbidden, just nature.”
