Yes, here he could be who he had always conditioned himself to be.
No-one.
‘The darkness drops again but now I know that twenty centuries of stony sleep were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle. And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born.’
William Butler Yeats
Chapter Nine
September 28th
20:06
O’Dywers, Ashe Street, Tralee (Trá Lí)
County Kerry, Ireland
EVIL can be subtle, insidious, capable of infiltrating the most secure of philosophies and ideologies, planting its ‘vicious mole of nature’ in even the most righteous of minds. Oligarchies and organisations can be founded with the most noble of aspirations in mind, and yet find themselves becoming the most capricious of despots, with their power resting amongst a small segment of society, the wealthy, royalty, military and corporate.
But what constitutes an evil act? To answer that, it must first be defined what evil actually is. Is slapping one’s child considered evil? Were the acts committed at Auschwitz during wartime evil? The rape and murder of children? Is it the act which is evil, or the person who commits it?
* * *
Daylight was a distant memory by the time Joe arrived at O’Dywer’s. Despite the month, the air was warm as he finished the last of his cigarette outside the entrance to the pub. Anyone who smoked in Ireland nowadays was pretty much made to feel like a leper, the social ostracisation akin to being an endangered species. Joe was immune to the attention it now brought. He had only ever been a social smoker anyway, and given he was about to have a pint, it was his excuse for having one now.
The open fire to his right was burning as Joe stepped through the doorway, the crackling of embers and coal adding to the relaxed atmosphere the pub always held. He made his way down the narrow walkway adjacent to the bar, stopping long enough to order a pint of Guinness before removing his coat and taking a seat on the brown, velvet banquette in the empty booth at the bottom as instructed by his mysterious caller. He had deliberately gotten there early in the hope he could control the situation when, and if, his furtive guest arrived. The Guinness was refreshingly cold as Joe took a long drink, emptying half the glass. He realised he hadn’t been here in a while. He had always preferred O’Dwyer’s around this time, its early evening occupants mostly consisting of regulars ruminating over the newspaper or talking about their day at work. The sounds of the hushed conversation and the smell of brewed hops and whiskey were comforting.
Joe leaned back, letting out a huge sigh of frustration at his being here instead of a booth somewhere with Victoria Carter. He began to irritate himself further with the thought that this meeting might be a complete wind up. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Feeling his eyes becoming heavy, he closed them and let the gentle murmur of social interaction wash over him. What felt like instantly, a presence made itself known by sliding onto the bench opposite. Glancing at his watch, Joe realised he must have dozed off.
The man before him was stocky, built like a rugby player. Middle aged with auburn hair thinning on top, he had the intense stare of someone who took life extremely seriously. His black coat with its wide collars, buttoned almost right to the top, made him look like a spy from an old 1930’s movie. Joe rubbed his eyes and quickly centered himself, shuffling forwards on the bench slightly.
“Hello,” he said firmly. “Can I get you anything to drink?” His journalistic instincts kicked in, knowing he could get more from someone if they felt at ease.
The stranger glanced from side to side, quickly checking behind him and towards the bar before speaking. “No, I’m fine.” His Belfast-accented voice was strong, the voice of someone used to having people do as he told them.
“So, mate. Can I ask who you are?”
He paused before speaking. “Peter Stamford.” His hands were clasped in front of him, the thumbs methodically working around each other in a thoughtful fashion.
Joe took another mouthful of Guinness as he assessed the man before him. So far, he wasn’t giving much away.
“So, Mr. Stamford. Why am I here? Just so you know, I turned down a date with an attractive woman, so I hope you’re going to blow my mind.”
The man before him didn’t react to Joe’s flippancy. “I work at Absolom, Mr. O’Connell. I was one of Obadiah Stark’s strap-down guards.”
Joe shifted in his seat. “Okay, you have my attention.”
Stamford leaned towards Joe, his breath smelling like he had already frequented a pub before arriving here. “You were there, when he died, at the back of the room. What did you see?”
Joe smiled at the direct nature of the question. “Straight to the point. Okay, what did I see? Well, I saw one of history’s most infamous serial killers strapped to a table, receiving a cocktail of non-recreational medications, whilst most of the world’s media and a dozen or so people who wished him dead looked on. Am I missing anything?”
Stamford smiled a knowing smile. “You’re missing everything.”
“Oh, really? Okay, let’s assume for the sake of argument that you’re not jerking my chain. What did I miss?” Joe did little to hide the intrigue in his tone.
“What do you really know about Absolom, Mr. O’Connell? Did you know that we pretty much provide an environment where the inmates eat, sleep and defecate in their cells and only leave them for one hour a day? With the full support of the Government, we have ensured that the prisoners never allowed themselves the audacity of hope that they would ever see the light of day as free men.”
“That’s quite a profound statement,” Joe said quietly.
Stamford ignored him and continued. “We perfected the tradition of behaviour modification. Strip searches, metal detectors and constant video surveillance are common practice at the prison. Yeah, they’re deemed excessive and humiliating by the Irish Human Rights campaigners, but really, they only serve as intimidation techniques. Because of a previous incident a number of years ago and picketing by those pain in the arse bleeding hearts, Sabitch had to abandon the strip searches that were a daily part of the program. Then the same Government that had supported many of his methods suddenly baulked at such extremes, probably due to media pressure, forcing him to agree to acknowledge the prisoners human rights. Their human rights! I mean, seriously.
“Joe Fort imprisoned on drug trafficking charges; the only Irishman ever convicted of terrorism for hire. Santiago Margarito Rangel Varelas, murdered his two year old stepdaughter with kicks to the head. Upon investigation she also had numerous broken ribs and had been sodomised, all injuries Varelas told the police she had sustained having fallen at home. Stuart Swango, physician and serial killer. David York, serving 135 years for child molestation. Mohammed Rassim, one of the four former al-Qaeda members sentenced to life imprisonment in 2007 for their parts in the London July 7th bombings. The list goes on. I can’t think of one inmate there who deserves any leniency or compassion of the slightest modicum. And then you had Obadiah Stark.”
Stamford hesitated for a moment as though thinking. “He never showed signs that any of those measures had any deterrent effect on him. He was simply a vacant, black hole of a human being. I hesitate to even call him a man, as he seemed to lack the most basic human emotions. There was no empathy, no remorse, not even hatred. Varelas demonstrated anger at his incarceration, denying he had committed a crime. Stark didn’t emote at all. You simply couldn’t gage the man for a baseline. He never caused any trouble, but you could see it in his eyes. It was more than darkness. It was simply…emptiness, as though he had no soul.” Stamford’s voice slowed as though recalling Obadiah had forced him to experience a deep disquiet.
“Stark was kept in Sector 17; call it an ‘ultramax’ within the supermax. A group of cells where there is virtually no human contact whatsoever, not even with the guards. Almost the entirety of Stark’s incarceration at Absolom was spent in Sector 17.”
Joe’s expression remained impassive as he finished his pint and wiped his top lip.
“Okay, I can count at least four violations of civil liberties going on at Absolom, but assuming I actually give a crap that they are happening to criminals, why should any of this interest me?”
“It should interest you, Joe, because you’re not reading between the lines. What I’ve just told you illustrates how well-oiled a machine Absolom is. There are no mistakes or oversights. It has a perfect record for a reason. Which is why what I am going to tell you is all the more disturbing.”
“Go on,” Joe instructed, quietly becoming more excited at Stamford’s building up of his exposition.
“I told you I was one of the strap-down guards at Absolom. Well, after an execution, there’s all the procedural stuff. Determination of death of the inmate, reading of a statement by the warden notifying the witnesses the execution is complete, contacting the media regarding the carrying out of the sentence, etcetera, etcetera. Then, after all the witnesses have been escorted from the death house, the intravenous lines are supposed to be crimped closed and disconnected, but not removed. This is to allow a review by the county coroner if necessary. First red flag – all the lines were removed from Stark the minute the room was sealed. I know this because I was assigned to the room for security. Then, after the body has been tagged and placed in a body bag for removal to the mortuary, all the unused chemicals are documented on a CDCR form as to why they weren’t used and then transferred to a locked fridge to await disposal. Red flag number two – I spoke to the Intravenous Sub-team a few days later after the execution. They completed an inventory of all the supplies and drugs used. I asked them for their records regarding the supplies used during Stark’s execution. None of the drugs used for an execution - Sodium thiopental, Pavulon and Potassium chloride had been released from the pharmacy on the day of the execution. When I questioned them, they said it must have been a clerical error and that they would look into it. Drugs used for lethal injection do not suffer from clerical errors, Mr O’Connell.
“Red flag number three – the Record Keeping Sub-team is supposed to meet with the team leader to check all the documentation, which is then given to the warden for inclusion in the Master Execution File. Seventy-two hours after this, the warden writes an after-action critique of the execution - what went well, compliance with regulation – and then a death certificate is issued along with a warrant of death. None of the documentation concerning Obadiah Stark’s execution is in the Master Execution File. Not a single document.”
Joe felt confused. “But Obadiah has a death certificate. I know, because I checked as a matter of course for the article I wrote after his death.”
“But he shouldn’t have,” Stamford interjected. “Not if his warrant of death hadn’t been released.”
Joe suddenly needed another drink.
“So, Mr. Investigative Journalist,” the strap-down guard announced, leaning back in the bench. “Riddle me this. How does someone who has been executed by the state have a death certificate issued, despite there being no legal documents concerning his actual execution, and why does he have all evidence of the drugs used in his execution, lines and all, removed from his body and omitted from the inventory?”
“Okay, so we have a few examples of clerical oversights. At the end of the day, Stark is still dead. Dead is dead.”
Stamford slammed his palm against the table, causing Joe’s empty glass to jump. “You’re not getting it mate. They’re hiding something. Shyte, I’m risking my livelihood just being here with you. Be a journalist, do yer job. If something illicit is going on at Absolom, someone needs to find out.”
Joe raised his hands in a submissive manner. “Easy, friend. Do you have any proof? Something that will stand up to scrutiny?”
“Other than what I told you I saw, no. Officially, Obadiah Stark was executed on September 7th, 2011. Unofficially… well, that’s where you come in. If I was you, my first port of call would be the warden at Absolom.”
The pub door opened, a cold gust of wind accompanying the man and woman who entered. Peter Stamford shot an anxious look in its direction before he began to shuffle from the booth. “I have to go.”
Joe stood to try and slow his departure. “Wait, I need more.” He went to grab for his sleeve, but Stamford had already moved beyond his grasp and was fast approaching the door.
“Dammit.” Joe grabbed his coat and moved to intercept him on the street. He thought he knew every facet of Obadiah Stark’s life and death, but his understanding had just been turned on its head by a stranger.
Joe burst out the pub entrance, scanning the pavement on either side of him but he saw no sign of the guard. Standing in the night air, a chill of paranoia washed over him. First he had relatives acting strangely when he interviewed them, now he had a prison guard suggesting that they may be more to Obadiah’s execution than he could have ever realised. Intuitively, he knew that somehow the two were connected, but he had no idea how.
He had lived and breathed Obadiah Stark for two years, and yet even in death, his ability for misdirection and obfuscation were still in play. The rules of the game had just been changed – a game Joe hadn’t realised until this very moment he was involved in.
Dr. John Franklin, BS.c. HONS, PH.D. M.A., M.CLIN, PSYCH. A.F.PS.S.I.
Case Number: 01020541/27
Subject: Stark, Obadiah James (a.k.a. The Tally Man) cont.
Victim history continued:
During 1989, Obadiah was in Louisiana, living in a flat located in St. Helena’s Parish, Baton Rouge. A fairly small parish, Obadiah committed four more murders between the months of March and December 1989. Julie Robinson, Hazel DeMarco, Tammy Porto and Claire Jackson all lived within a ten-mile radius of Obadiah’s place of residence. At the time, Obadiah had gained part-time employment for a local real estate agency where he organised portfolios for the proprietor. He also obtained a job working behind a local bar, the latter job providing a perfect location to observe and meet local women.
Now offered a large playground to prowl and pretend to live a normal life and, having been freed from not only his parents influence but also the authority of the state, Obadiah could now do whatever he wished and go wherever he liked without danger of reprisal. During this period, all evidence points towards Obadiah projecting the image of a quiet and hard working employee. He had a number of girlfriends during this period, many of whom are reported as having described Obadiah as an almost introverted character until you established a rapport with him when he seemed to come out of ‘his shell’ and exhibit a personality that was both charming and self-effacing. This is supported by a small number of people who socialised with Obadiah, saying that he seemingly thrived on the opportunity to share common interests he had, namely reading and sports. Conversely, some of his fellow employees recall that Obadiah was seen to be a loner, and often arrogant at times.
A perfect example of Obadiah’s social skills and interpersonal manner presenting themselves in order to purely serve his desires and need for manipulation, it also illustrates the paradoxical nature of the sociopath; the more sophisticated they are in regards to their behavioural control and ability to project a normal life, the more dangerous they are. Indeed, Obadiah’s relationships with women supported his deceitful pursuit of a relatively normal existence.
It was 17th March 1989 that the body of Julie Robinson, a 25 year old student from Louisiana State University was found in a secluded part of the campus. She had been brutality stabbed eighteen times and left in overgrown section of the grounds. The subject admitted to her murder during our session together, marking it as the first time he had confirmed his long suspected involvement.
Later that year, on the morning of 2nd July 1989, Obadiah stalked and murdered 28 year old supermarket worker Hazel DeMarco. Her body was found four days later in a field just outside St. Helena’s Parish. One particularly disturbing aspect of her murder was that, during her autopsy, the coroner determin
ed that she had not died from the multiple stab wounds to her body but from strangulation. This meant that she had been alive when Obadiah had decided to make her death more intimate by physically using his own strength to take her life. During the interview, Obadiah admitted he had expected her to die from the stab wounds, but that when she hadn’t, he decided to finish her “the old fashioned way. Up close and personal.” Asked by this author if he could recall anything specific about Hazel such as clothing or her physical appearance, Obadiah stated he couldn’t remember any details and responded by saying “she was just another peasant. What the fuck do you want me to say?…one less burden on the societal system if you ask me.”
The increased police presence in St. Helena’s Parish did little to deter Obadiah’s thirst for neither killing nor his continued façade of a reliable and trustworthy employee, his calculating nature providing a further layer to his virtual anonymity -anonymity that lead to another murder only months later.
The last time anyone saw Tammy Porto alive was on the evening of Thursday 28th September 1989. She was reportedly seen driving home after leaving her friends at a local bar. A man seen in her car was later identified as her boyfriend and was subsequently ruled out as a suspect when it was established that he had been dropped off by Tammy earlier in the journey, for which he had an alibi.
Her remains were discovered on Monday 6th November by some ramblers in a field four miles from where she lived and less than three from Obadiah’s house. Her body was in such a state of decomposition that she could only be identified by her dental records. Markings found on some of Tammy’s ribs and sternum indicated immense pressure had been applied to the murder weapon in order to cause such trauma to the skeleton.
During all of this, Obadiah’s routine of normalcy continued unabated, with the now increased media focus on the spate of local murders neither affecting his progress at work nor murderous proclivities. He continued to socialise and date girls, ignorant of the fact that these aspects of establishing and maintaining interpersonal relationships, social awareness and communication skills, were also dichotic, at once sensitising and desensitising Obadiah’s ability to relate to other people. Regardless of his criminal conduct or social situation, Obadiah was learning to cognitively isolate himself in relation to the murders. His increasingly idiosyncratic thoughts, behaviour and deliberate indifference all contributed to his colleagues at his place of employment noting that Obadiah was becoming more aloof and arrogant, supporting the theory that at this stage in his ‘becoming’, he had already begun to compartmentalise what he considered his normal life and his murderous one.
Hellbound: The Tally Man Page 13
