Explosive Dreams

by Hadena James

  Death and incarceration were the two things that stopped serial killers. On rare occasions they went dormant for a prolonged period of time for whatever reason. But those really were the rare occasions and when they went dormant, their cases went cold. We’d never had a case go cold.

  My own vanity aside, cold cases were bad news. The return of the serial killer was never good. It was hard to connect them to the original case unless they did something so unique, it couldn’t be duplicated by anyone else. Or they were caught and confessed.

  Their vanity meant that a confession was usually available. Sometimes they even claimed kills that weren’t their own. This was more likely when the killer went dormant, because inquiring minds always wanted to know what the killer had been doing for the past x amount of years. Living life with a family and a few kids and working a day job just didn’t seem to be enough.

  We had a very limited window to catch this serial or he’d go dormant until only the gods knew when.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Time is strange even when you aren’t injured. It becomes even stranger when you are. I had never bothered to fill the prescription of pain pills prescribed by the hospital in Quincy. I’d spent weeks doped up, slipping in and out of reality depending on whether I was going up or coming down. I hadn’t wanted more of the same when I got home.

  Yet, I had gotten it. Some days were normal enough. I got up, piddled around all day long, being checked on by different people. Once in a while grabbing a nap in the afternoon and then staying awake until bed time.

  Some days were not as normal. Some days, I’d be puttering along and fatigue would hit hard and fast. Making it to my bed was an effort. It always started in my legs and worked its way up. Xavier kept checking my circulation and it was fine. He would shrug and tell me it must be the healing process.

  September was coming to an end. My back still hurt. The specialist kept telling me everything was going perfect, more than perfect even. My healing was exemplary. Every time he told me that, I wanted to punch him in the face. Clothing no longer irritated it, but sitting down with my back resting on something was pure hell.

  My family had gotten in the habit of visiting, often. At least once a week, my sister-in-law and the kids came over. They fixed dinner and I helped with homework. My mother came over at least once a week, but she didn’t come to fix dinner. She usually brought some delicious indulgence that I shouldn’t have. My migraines should have been getting worse, but the constant pain seemed to keep them at a bay. It was either that or I had one all the time and just didn’t realize it. Nyleena spent Thursdays, Sundays and Mondays at my house, watching football. It wasn’t making me any more domestic, but it was interesting.

  The excessive amount of time spent in my house was making it feel like a home. I hadn’t had one of those since I went away to college. Some days, during my killing time, I’d find something I’d never seen before. It was usually something decorative, courtesy of Trevor, but it was still interesting.

  So what did sociopaths do when they couldn’t work? I watched a lot of TV. I’d found a new TV show that kept me entertained. I played a lot of video games. I did books of puzzles in a few days. I read often, sometimes two or three books in a day. Every couple of hours, I made myself get up and move around for fifteen minutes to keep from getting stiff.

  Strangely, my couch was showing wear in one spot. It was the spot I sat in all day, every day. I didn’t venture out very far, just the houses of Lucas and Gabriel. Malachi was too far to walk, by the time I reached his block, my back would burn. The skin might be grafting better than expected, but it didn’t feel like it.

  Some weeks earlier, I had discovered that I was indeed a very dull person. My limited hobbies had proved to me that while I might be smart, I didn’t use it for much. The fact that anyone spent time with me was a miracle.

  Today though was something new. Nyleena stood beside my bed. Spread out before the two of us were several suits. It was her goal to see me wearing one of them within the next hour. It was my goal to not be seen in any of them.

  I had court today. Not trial court, but sentencing. It seemed there were some issues with the jury putting our mad bomber into The Fortress because he had a tendency to talk to himself. It had fallen to the SCTU to prove that just because he talked to himself, didn’t mean he should be put somewhere other than the first SuperMax prison ever built in the US. The Fortress was more inescapable than Alcatraz had ever thought to be. The accommodations were a little nicer, but only because each prisoner had their own cell. On the flip side, TV was limited to PBS and Create, and movies followed a very strict guideline of being only Masterpiece Theatre and putting all those killers in the same room for any length of time was risky, meaning it happened twice a year. A few civil rights groups had tried to get conditions changed, but it had fallen on deaf ears. We’d gotten rid of the death penalty, PBS and Create seemed like a fair trade off.

  “Definitely the green one,” Nyleena said.

  “Or not,” I pointed to the blouse. “My back cannot take something that requires two shirts. We have to find something nice that doesn’t require a jacket or an undershirt. Materials should also be considered. Why are you doing this? Why isn’t Trevor magicking up something for me to wear?”

  “Because he is trying to magic up something for Lucas to wear.”

  “Oh,” I sighed. “How about the green one without the jacket?”

  “The jacket is required for the green one.” The green one was very Jackie O. style. I liked it and in any other situation it would have been my first choice.

  “Why don’t we go back to black slacks, short pumps, and the silky shirt?”

  “It’s polyester,” Nyleena informed me.

  “Fine, the polyester shirt.”

  “Your holster will ruin it.”

  “It isn’t like the wash machine can’t get rid of wrinkles.”

  “It isn’t the wash machine I was thinking about. I was thinking about the snaps on the holster snagging the material.”

  “Ok, well,” I sighed at her.

  “How about the black slacks, the polyester shirt and a jacket?”

  “I don’t want to wear a jacket. I don’t want to wear a holster, but holding a gun in my hands the entire time I talk doesn’t sound like a good idea.”

  “You won’t be allowed to take it into the court room.”

  “Yes, I will.” I informed her.

  “No, you won’t.”

  “I am not going out there without a gun.”

  “You can wear it there, but you’ll have to check it at the door.”

  “So, I’m going to be trapped in a courthouse full of felons with no weapon? I think that is a terrible idea.”

  “It is a terrible idea, but there is nothing I can do about it.” Nyleena wasn’t involved in this trial. She was going as a spectator. It might be the first time since she had graduated that she had just sat and watched as someone else practiced law. I think a part of her was excited.

  “I’ll check my gun without a fuss, if you agree to the polyester.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Nyleena scoffed.

  “Hello?” Xavier shouted from downstairs.

  “Up here!” I shouted back. Xavier’s footsteps could be heard on the stairs. Soft and quiet, but not as stealthy as Lucas. He knocked. “Come in,” I told him.

  “I brought you a gift,” Xavier held out a holster to me. I turned it over in my hands. “It goes on your hip.”

  “That’s handy,” I said. “Polyester it is.”

  Nyleena sighed heavily. The fact that I wasn’t in a T-shirt and jeans should have thrilled her. I hadn’t thrown a fit about dressing up for court. My pajamas would have been even better.

  “Get dressed, everyone’s about ready,” Xavier left the room.

  “Just remember to keep that temper of yours in check,” Nyleena said. She followed Xavier out. I struggled into my clothes. The hip holster worked well for the Beretta. I missed
having two, but there was only so much a girl could do. I’d have to go with just one gun today.

  The drive was very quiet. The five members of the SCTU were loaded up into a single SUV. It was being driven by an agent from the Department of Justice. A second SUV had shown up and loaded a few members of the VCU, including Malachi, since they had been in on the manhunt and capture. I wasn’t sure what any of them would say. The prosecutor had gone over a few things with me. Mostly to keep me from being surprised by any questions the defense might ask. The prosecutor, a Ms. Heidi Klein, had also told me to keep my temper in check. I wondered what this meant for Malachi. His temper was worse than mine.

  The Federal Court House in Kansas City had been built after the serial killer laws had gone into effect. Those that worked within its halls were specialists. The prosecutors only handled the cases of serial killers, mass murderers and spree killers. The judges were the same, they didn’t sit on other cases and they could form a committee for any trial. A committee trial meant that for whatever reason, the assigned judge decided they needed support. Usually three judges sat on a committee trial with one leading all the proceedings. My thought was that the other two were there to go drinking with afterwards and have someone to talk to about the things they had been shown during the trial. There were also two full time psychologists in the building that dealt with judges, prosecutors and defense attorneys in need of a little therapy.

  The guards were all US Marshals, but like us, they weren’t just US Marshals. They were something else. It was standard practice for the Marshals service to be stationed at federal courthouses, but the Marshals at this court house looked a little more jaded. Their faces had more lines than most and they had a few visible scars. They did hand-offs to VCU or SCTU if the prisoner was sent to The Fortress. If the prisoner was remanded to another penitentiary, they handled it themselves.

  The DOJ Agent stopped outside the back entrance of the court house. He didn’t open the doors and no one else moved to do it either. We waited. After a few minutes, Marshals in tactical gear swarmed out of the door. I wasn’t used to an armed escort. Usually I was the armed escort. However, with two SCTU members down, it was considered a necessary precaution. I’d been prepped for it, but it was still bizarre. We were all considered targets, killing us would be a badge of honor for some serial killers. Most of those serial killers wouldn’t do very good inside The Fortress. We brought gifts when we visited and they appreciated it.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Ms. Klein handed me a jacket as we entered the federal court house. I took it and stared at it. It was simple and black with no buttons.

  “You can keep your gun, if you cover it,” she said.

  “Excellent,” I gingerly slid my arms into the jacket. Keeping my gun was a big deal for me. It had saved my life several times.

  We were not allowed in the court room when we weren’t testifying and we weren’t allowed to talk about the case or our statements. Ms. Klein led us into a small conference room. Inside was a bailiff with a shotgun. I wasn’t sure why he had a shotgun and I didn’t ask. I smiled at him as I took a seat.

  The ride over had been brutal. It had been impossible to get comfortable. Lucas and I both had been constantly shifting in our seats, struggling against the seat belts that pinned us against the seat. I’d felt every small bump and there were a lot of them between Blue Springs and Kansas City.

  One by one the men in the room left. They were gone for about an hour each. Their return was solemn. We didn’t speak to each other at all. There was no need. We all knew that he belonged in The Fortress, it didn’t matter whether he talked to himself or not.

  My turn came. I stood, like a woman heading for the gallows, and walked from the room. My mind repeated the mantra keep your temper in check. The hallway stretched for miles. At least it seemed that way, as I made the walk to the heavy double doors.

  The court house was imposing, built in German Gothic style, the interior was all dark wood accents and reflective marble. The short pumps echoed like gunshots against the stone floor. I wondered if they could hear me as I walked towards them.

  The court room was silent as I entered, not through the main doors, but by side doors. I entered and was already at the front of the room. All eyes were on me. My palms began to sweat and my stomach churned.

  “State your full name and occupation for the court,” a bailiff instructed me.

  “United States Marshall Aislinn Alexandra Cain.”

  “Marshal Cain, please tell the court what division of the US Marshals service you work for,” Ms. Klein had stood up.

  “I’m a member of the Serial Crimes Tracking Unit.”

  “Thank you, Marshal Cain.” Ms. Klein walked out from behind the table. “Now, Marshal Cain, I believe you were not directly involved in the capture of Mr. Baldwin.”

  “That is correct,” I answered.

  “It was a SCTU case, was it not?” Ms. Klein asked.

  “It was.”

  “Then why were you not directly involved?”

  “I was in the hospital recovering from injuries sustained at an earlier date.”

  “Can you please tell us what injuries and how you received them?”

  “Yes,” I took a deep breath. “I was recovering from second degree burns to my back and hands. I received these injuries while attending to the victims of the Adams County Fair Bombing in Illinois.”

  “Can you elaborate Marshal Cain? Did you touch something that was hot or were you set on fire?”

  “The injuries to my hands were sustained while helping save the life of another member of the SCTU. A carnival ride, known as the Scrambler, exploded near us and he was severely injured by flying debris. Several of the wounds would not close using just pressure and tourniquets, so, I grabbed a piece of metal that was still hot from the explosion and cauterized the worst wounds. Shortly after a medic arrived to attend to him and take him to the hospital. I turned my attention to other victims. Another Marshal and I had found two victims, alive, but unconscious. As we worked on them, we heard another explosion and I shielded the victim I was attending with my body.”

  “Did the victim survive?”

  “Yes.”

  “How old was the victim?”

  “I later learned that she was eight years old.”

  “And the other Marshal, the one that was attending to the victim next to you?”

  “His victim had lost a hand during the first explosion. She also lived.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Thirty-one years old.”

  “And was she next to your victim by chance?”

  “No, it was the child’s mother.”

  “Marshal Cain, did you have to do anything specifically,” Ms. Klein stopped. “Unpleasant with the child victim?”

  “When I reached her, she was holding her mother’s hand. The one that had been severed from her mother’s body. The child was unconscious, so I removed the severed hand from her grasp and handed it to the other Marshal so that it wouldn’t get lost.”

  “So, you were physically handling severed body parts?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Was that the only severed body part you handled?”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  “Can you estimate how many injured you attended?”

  “No, Ma’am, I lost count after fifty. Many of them were dead by the time assistance arrived, I helped to identify those still living.”

  “Do you have medical training?”

  “No, ma’am, just basic first aid. I can apply pressure or tourniquets to bleeding wounds, I can perform CPR and do some minor medical treatments to prep for medically trained staff.”

  “But you were helping anyway?”

  “Yes, ma’am. My job was to identify those that were still alive and provide the best care that I could while shouting for more experienced medical assistance.”

  “Shouting?” Ms. Klein raised an eyebrow at me.

  “Yes, ma’a
m. There were approximately one hundred paramedics or trained personnel on site. With the explosions, fires, screaming victims that were not unconscious and other noises, it was hard to get attention. My communication line, an earpiece I was wearing, had gone dead from exposure to heat. So, I shouted and when my hands weren’t needed to apply pressure, I waved my arms. The paramedics were watching for signals from us.”

  “Did you have pre-arranged signals?”

  “No, ma’am, we were winging it,” this got an uncomfortable laugh from a few members of the jury as well as spectators in the crowd.

  “How many explosions do you remember, Marshal Cain?”

  “I remember hearing seven, however, I believe there were others that I didn’t hear, see or feel. For instance, there were several explosions in the parking lot. However, by the time those explosions began going off, I was already attending to victims and did not pay attention to them.”

  “Just a few more questions, Marshal Cain,” Ms. Klein moved in closer to the jury. “Of the fifty plus victims you attended, how many were deceased when you arrived to help?”

  “More than half,” I answered.

  “How many of the victims you attended to were children?”

  “About half.”

  “What was the youngest victim you found?”

  “I found an infant, it was swaddled in a light weight blanket.”

  “Can you tell me what condition the infant was in when you found it?”

  “The infant was deceased. The light weight blanket had melted to parts of it.”

  “And the parents of the infant?”

  “I do not know, there was an adult nearby, but the adult was conscious and claimed the infant was not his.”

  “I have no more questions,” Ms. Klein sat down.

  The defense attorney stood up. She buttoned her suit jacket. She was in a very expensive suit.