None Shall Sleep

by Ellie Marney

  “Mailing on campus doesn’t mean he has to be a student or a professor,” Westfall points out as he flicks the lights back on. “He could’ve ridden the bus to campus and used a postbox there.”

  “Yeah, we shouldn’t rule that out.” Cooper rubs his face. “Okay, so how are Gutmunsson’s replies forwarded? We need to go talk to the faculty mail handler in the English department at Georgetown.”

  Emma’s chin juts. “And I need to talk to Gutmunsson.”

  “You want to shake him up with this?”

  “Hell yes.”

  Cooper stands to face her. “You need to persuade Simon to write back to the Butcher—today. I want to find out where his reply letter is going, and see who shows up to collect it.”

  “Then I’m going to need a copy of that letter, to take to the hospital.”

  “Will a photocopy be okay?” Westfall has packed up his camera.

  “That would be great, thank you.” Emma turns back to Cooper, bites her bottom lip. “And… you need to take this to Raymond. This really is part of the Butcher case and Raymond needs to find out from us, or things will get complicated. More complicated than they are already,” she amends.

  Cooper thinks for a moment, nods, then leaves to use the phone in Neilsen’s office. Bell walks beside Emma out to the common room, tracking Cooper’s exit.

  “D’you think Raymond will raise objections to this? To us?”

  “Absolutely. But I’m the one Simon Gutmunsson is talking to, so…”

  “Fun job.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Bell steps in closer, his voice quiet. “You gonna be okay with him, after last time?”

  Emma swallows, straightens. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  Cooper arrives back from his phone call. “Okay, Raymond has an ultimatum for you to pass onto Gutmunsson. He said if Simon isn’t cooperative, he’ll make sure the bureau pursues a new litigation attempt.”

  Emma frowns. “Simon’s already in for the term of his natural life and then some. What does he care about new litigation?”

  “You said he cares about his sister. Raymond said he’ll have the old evidence against Kristin reexamined.”

  “He wants to prosecute Kristin Gutmunsson?” Bell is appalled. “For what? She was cleared during her brother’s court case and she’s assisting the bureau now.”

  “When it comes to Simon Gutmunsson, Raymond prefers to use a stick than a carrot.”

  “Raymond wants to dangle Kristin’s freedom over Simon’s head.” Emma’s lip curls. “Nice. Real classy.”

  Cooper’s expression is cold. “If you’re trying to get something out of Simon Gutmunsson, you use every bit of leverage you’ve got. Raymond might not follow through, but he might not need to. Hopefully the threat is enough. Otherwise Simon has no real incentive to help us.” He checks his watch. “Okay, I’m putting you both in a bureau car to St. Elizabeths. I’ve arranged to have an agent accompany you—like you said, Miss Lewis, this really is part of the Butcher case. We need a qualified agent to—”

  “Stand in the asylum foyer while I talk to Simon?” Emma’s tone is bullish. “He won’t cooperate if there’s an agent there, you know that. And he won’t tell me the truth if I wear a wire.”

  “Miss Lewis, you’re an untrained civilian.” Cooper’s tone is placating. “This is an FBI investigation into a person of interest in an active homicide case—”

  “Hasn’t that been the situation with Simon all along?” Emma’s hands go to her hips. “He’s been a person of interest since the first interview.”

  Cooper’s expression becomes adamant. “I understand the circumstances, but there should still be some supervision. The local agent will drive you and we can say he supervised, even if he stays in the foyer. I’ll catch up with you at St. Elizabeths—I have to speak to whoever sorts the mail in the Georgetown English department.”

  Emma gives him a bland look. “That’ll be fun. University English departments aren’t generally very welcoming toward the FBI.”

  Cooper straightens. “I’m not wearing a sign that says ‘FBI Agent.’”

  Emma does a visual tour of his brown suit. “Uh… actually, yeah, you are.” She lifts her chin at Bell. “Why don’t you take Travis and send a real live college-aged person in to see them?”

  Bell’s head turns. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, Lewis, but I don’t look like I’m going to college.”

  “Sure you do.” She steps in and ruffles his hair. Snags a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches hanging off the back of a nearby chair, pushes it into his hands. “Put that on. Then find yourself a pair of sunglasses and you’re all set. You’re much more likely to get something out of the university staff than a government agent would.”

  Cooper pinches his bottom lip between his finger and thumb. “She’s got a point. Okay, Mr. Bell, you can come along. And bring the jacket.”

  Emma steps forward as they both start to turn. “Wait. Are you going to the School of Medicine as well?”

  Cooper nods. “We’ll get a list of current students and recent graduates. And ask the staff to check their stocks of ether.”

  “You don’t know if the Butcher’s still on campus. Be careful.”

  “We will,” Bell says gravely. “Be careful with Gutmunsson.”

  “You know it,” Emma says, but she smiles with a closed mouth.

  Emma asks the bureau agent to make one pit stop before they reach St. Elizabeths. On the last leg of the drive, her attention shifts long enough to notice that the view outside the cab window is bright with sun. It’s a lovely day, the long cirrus clouds like pulled taffy, high and white. And here she is, beneath those clouds, being driven to a mental asylum by an FBI agent, with a xeroxed copy of a murderer’s letter in her pocket.

  The agent doesn’t even make it to the foyer—he waits in the car. Dr. Scott meets her personally at the door to the asylum.

  “Thank you for meeting me,” Emma says as they begin the sign-in procedure. “I know it’s been a hectic morning.”

  “It’s fine, Miss Lewis. It’s very nice to see you—Simon’s behaviors have shown a marked improvement since you started visiting. Until this morning’s unpleasantness.” Scott looks well, color in her face, her lipstick glossy and perfect. She’s clearly perturbed, though. “Can I ask what your intention is with this interview? Are you hoping to get more information from Simon about the letter?”

  Emma signs the visitor ledger, avoiding Scott’s eyes. “There’s been more than one letter.”

  “It bothers me a great deal, this correspondence. That I wasn’t alert to it, that Simon participated in it… You must be angry, that he’s been lying to you.”

  “He never lied,” Emma corrects as they walk on. “He simply omitted information that would have given the authorities a better understanding of what was going on.”

  “You sound a little like him, when you say it that way.”

  Emma’s posture stiffens. “I’ve had to learn how they think.”

  “They?”

  “People like Simon. Serial offenders.” Emma wants the conversation to move past her own experiences. “Does it make you question whether Simon can be rehabilitated, knowing he’s been helping another killer?”

  Scott seems surprised. “No. Not at all.”

  “Lots of folks would say he’s going straight to hell for the things he’s done.”

  “Simon’s deranged,” Scott points out as they reach the oak door. “He’s already in hell. Whether he’s punished further in some speculative afterlife is largely immaterial.” She knocks. “Hello, Pradeep. One to see Simon Gutmunsson, please.”

  Pradeep, glancing through the slot, sees what Emma has brought with her. “That is not, strictly speaking, allowable.”

  “I’ll allow it,” Scott says. She turns to Emma. “I’d like you to let me know what you find out from Simon. The more I know, the better equipped I am to treat him. And it’s easier for me to cooperate with the FBI if I’m kept
in the loop.”

  Emma weighs this up and decides that Scott has been nothing but helpful. “All right.”

  “Thank you.” Scott turns away, turns back. “Oh, and Miss Lewis?”

  “Yes?”

  “Simon has told me that he enjoys his conversations with you,” Scott says gently. “You seem to be a good influence on him, and I can’t help but think of you as an ally in Simon’s treatment. I believe he considers you a friend. I know you’re trying to get information from him, and quickly, but it would be a shame if you damaged that budding friendship by using an adversarial approach, don’t you think?”

  Emma blinks, nods. “Understood.”

  The door opens and Pradeep stands aside to allow her entrance. Simon enjoys his conversations with you. He considers you a friend. Emma finds that whole concept more horrifying than she has time to contemplate right now. She has to steady her heartbeat and step inside.

  The cage seems farther away today, but Emma knows this is a trick of the light. At this time of day, the sun comes through the windows at just the right angle. Every detail in the chapel room is sparkling sharp.

  Simon is standing barefoot on his bed, putting up a small figure he has made out of butcher paper. When Emma gets closer, she realizes the figure is a butterfly. There are a number of paper butterflies, attached with string to the bars of the cell above the level of the suspended sheet. Simon has pierced small holes in the corners of the butcher paper, so it looks as if the butterflies are all hanging helplessly by their wings.

  He’s wearing a sweater over his institutional whites: a cream-colored knit with a line of blue around the V-neck. Emma thinks it might be a tennis sweater but that’s not really her area. The sweater is moth-eaten, with ragged holes at the elbows and hem. It looks like a relic from Simon’s past life, and serves to humanize him somehow.

  He doesn’t turn to face her when she arrives, but Emma knows it doesn’t matter: Simon sees everything. She settles herself on the floor with her props, waiting for the harsh floodlight of his full attention.

  He ties another piece of string in place. “You seem a little haphazardly groomed today, Emma. Have you been imbibing?”

  He’s noticed the bottle on the floor beside her. “Hello, Simon. No, I haven’t. But I have been talking to your sister.”

  “Naturally. How is she?”

  “She’s fine, but I don’t know for how long.” Emma hates to use Raymond’s play, but then she thinks of the Berryville victims, Simon’s part in that. Her anger about it is something she has to manage. “The FBI has mentioned reexamining her details from your old case.”

  He pauses over the final knot. “That would be unfortunate.”

  “That would be your fault,” Emma points out. “You were the one who put everyone in such an awkward position in the first place.”

  He gives her a shark grin over his shoulder. “Putting people in awkward positions is rather my specialty.”

  Emma recollects the tea party scene again, pushes the memory away. “You can stop pretending now, Simon. We know about the letters.”

  Another, longer pause. His back is to her and she can’t see his expression. He completes his task, steps down off the bed, and sits on the mattress, his face composed.

  “Ah.”

  “Yes. Ah.”

  Emma opens the bottle, knowing he can smell it, and pours herself a drink. The wine doesn’t really qualify as “high quality,” but neither did the corner store where she bought it: The age-verification process involved the proprietor asking, “How old are you?” and Emma looking him straight in the eye and replying, “Twenty-one.” But it was the most expensive red wine they had, and she suspects that after two years of incarceration, Simon’s tastes may have become more catholic.

  She takes a cautious sip. “Mm. This really isn’t bad.”

  His eyes are narrowed. “Were you hoping to surprise me about the letters, then soften me up with the wine?”

  “Maybe.” She shrugs.

  “I do have standards.”

  “Really? But standards and principles are for people who give a shit about the social contract, aren’t they?”

  Simon’s brows lift. “That’s a bit harsh.”

  Emma’s having none of it. “Your standards and principles apply to wine, but they don’t extend to valuing the lives of other people.”

  “Are you surprised?”

  “Not really. You did once poison a dormitory full of ten-year-olds.”

  “I was only a ten-year-old myself. Don’t I get points for effort?”

  She’s perilously close to losing patience. “Simon, you’ve been advising the Butcher on how to perfect his technique. And you’ve withheld information we could’ve used to save some of those kids in Berryville.”

  “Teenagers die all the time.” He waves a hand. He’s drawn thin decorative bands around his wrist in black felt pen. “I couldn’t see the point in telling you. Then you’d catch the Butcher and there’d be no more visits, no more scintillating conversations, no bottles of wine.…”

  “So now you’re happy to sacrifice Kristin for the pleasure of my company?”

  “I would never do anything to deliberately hurt my sister. She’s the one who inspired me in the first place, you know.”

  Emma rolls her eyes. “She’s got nothing to do with it. You just like killing people.”

  “Nobody’s perfect.”

  “Tell that to Kristin. She’s the one who’s going to be affected. You say she’s important to you, but actions speak louder than words, Simon.” Emma sees his blue eyes flash, and gets the feeling she’s struck a nerve. “Do you ever consider other people before you do a thing?”

  His voice is cold. “Do you ever consider not worrying about what other people think?”

  Emma’s savoring her drink now. “You know, I’m disappointed. Here I was, thinking you were clever. That you had special insight into the Butcher case, like some kind of homicidal savant—”

  He stands. “I believe my credentials as a homicidal savant have already been established.”

  “But your insight was all from the letters. You’re not clever at all. You’ve just been… faking it.”

  There’s a significant pause, then Simon lifts his chin. “Give me a glass of wine.”

  “Ask nicely.”

  “Emma, may I have a glass of wine?”

  “Let’s consult Pradeep.”

  Emma is aware that she needs to tamp down this feeling or risk having control of the conversation wrested away from her. She busies herself helping Pradeep as the man attempts to figure out how to pass Simon a drink.

  “He cannot have a glass. But there are paper cups in my desk drawer. One moment.”

  He returns with a cup and the pincer tool. Emma pours three fingers of wine into the cup. Simon retreats to his waiting area behind the screen as Pradeep manipulates the pincer to slip the cup through the bars and onto the floor of the cell. As Pradeep returns to his desk, Simon saunters out from behind the screen to collect his wine and settle himself back on the bed.

  He sniffs above the cup, rolls a sip in his mouth, and swallows. “This could at best be described as alcohol. I don’t know if I’d stretch so far as to call it wine.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “Yes.” He takes another slow sip. “You don’t understand about that dormitory business, you know. They were bullying Kristin. Terrorizing her. Which is something I don’t tolerate.”

  You only tolerate it if you’re the one doing the terrorizing? Emma doesn’t say that. What she says instead is “You must’ve been really angry about that.”

  “I made it stop.” He gazes into his paper cup, at the red liquid swirling there. “You don’t know what it’s like, being two. Before I was jailed, Kristin and I hadn’t been separated ever, not for longer than a week—we were together in the womb.”

  “Then show her that you care,” Emma insists. “Stop jeopardizing her well-being now. You can prevent th
e new FBI litigation attempt—just cooperate with me. Tell me what you know about the Butcher.”

  “If I’m honest with you, there needs to be some honesty in return.” His eyes are not on her, but his posture leans forward.

  She thinks the alcohol has made him a little greedy. “I always try to be honest in our conversations, Simon.”

  “Your voice has a lovely musicality, did you know that? I do miss music so.…” His gaze returns from elsewhere. “Last time we talked about how you survived in the basement. That was very interesting, but this time I want to know why you joined the bureau.”

  “Plenty of times when I don’t know myself.”

  “That’s an interesting choice of words—‘I don’t know myself.’ Do you think you’re self-aware, Emma?”

  She deliberately relaxes her posture. “Sometimes. It depends on the day.”

  “Please remember that all the little lost ones are waiting, standing by the Butcher’s block.”

  “I try to be self-aware. I’m not always very good at it.”

  Simon wipes at the corner of his mouth with his pinky finger. “Did you think joining the FBI would give you a better understanding of yourself? Of why you feel the way you do?”

  “I don’t think you can tell with any accuracy how I feel.”

  “Actually I think I can.” His eyes are like a laser now. “You still run in your sleep, don’t you? You feel guilt that you couldn’t save them, and despair at the guilt. You wonder if it will ever go away, and you wonder if you really saved yourself after all. Maybe it would have been better to stay with Vicki and Tammy and all the other sad brides, if living means you’ll be slowly eaten away from the inside like this.”

  “Well. That’s very astute. And that’s what therapy’s for, I guess.” Emma puts her glass down before the shake in her hand betrays her. “I haven’t joined the FBI, by the way. It was part of their initial offer, but I never agreed to sign up.”

  “I would hope not—although you could always change your mind. There’s no accounting for self-delusion.” His lips have been reddened by the wine. “You won’t save yourself through good works, Emma. If the FBI says that, they’re lying. And if you believe it, you’re lying to yourself.”