Face of Evil

by George Morris De'Ath

  “That’s enough,” says Lydia calmly, and the guards immediately release Jason. “Thank you.” They leave the room again without a word.

  “You’re a fucking sadist,” Jason growls, chains clinking as he wipes saliva from his face.

  “And you’re a murderer,” Lydia retorts. “So I guess neither of us is going to heaven.”

  “Why did you do that?” Jason demands, slamming his manacles on the table.

  “Because you weren’t cooperating,” Lydia replies, calmly. “Look Jason, this isn’t complicated. Give me what I want and you get what you want too. It’s not a trick.”

  “I don’t know what you want from me!”

  “I want to know why you are the way you are,” says Lydia.

  “How can I answer that?” says Jason. “Can you answer it? Go on, try. Why are you the way you are?”

  “That’s not how this works, Jason,” says Lydia, shaking her head. “I’m not here to answer your questions; you’re here to answer mine.”

  Jason scours her with his eyes, the wolf sizing its prey, circling, formulating a new plan of attack. “What was the question again?” he asks, that familiar smirk creeping back onto his face.

  “Why did you kill those people?” Lydia asks.

  “Just something to do.” Jason shrugs. Lydia feels anger boil up inside of her, and is distantly aware that it has little to do with his stubbornness. Something about this man doesn’t make sense to her and she can’t figure out what it is, and it’s making her mad at herself. She knows that something about this whole situation is wrong, but can’t find the language to describe what it is. She’s aware of it only in the abstract, like a jigsaw puzzle that doesn’t quite fit together properly.

  “I swear to you, Jason,” she says, hotly, her own mask slipping, “you may think you’ve known torture in here but I can devise punishments worse than you can imagine. Mark my words if you don’t start talking, I will make your life hell.”

  “I don’t know why I killed them,” says Jason, raising his voice. “I don’t know what made me do it. Why don’t you tell me? Huh?” He whips his chained hand in her direction. “You’re the shrink. You’re the expert. You tell me why I did it. Go on!”

  “You don’t know?” says Lydia, incredulously. “You don’t know why you murdered all those people? You don’t remember? Do you have amnesia or something?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Why did you display their bodies like you did? Like some sick kind of art?” asks Lydia fiercely, leaning towards him.

  For a second, Jason looks hurt. A deep hurt, like grief, and it takes Lydia by surprise. Then a second later he’s smiling, not the usual smile, but a bitter grimace of resignation. He sits back in his chair and fixes Lydia with a penetrating look. “Do you like art?”

  “Do I like art?” She repeats the question incredulously.

  “Do you?”

  “Sure,” Lydia replies with a shrug. “I like art. Why, is that what this is all about to you? Do you think you’re an artist?”

  “You tell me. You’re the one who’s interested in my work.”

  “I’m interested in what makes a human being capable of doing what you did,” Lydia replies, coldly, “not to appreciate the aesthetics of torturing people.”

  “If their deaths hadn’t been spectacular, would you be quite so interested?” There’s a calm, judgemental quality to his voice that Lydia resents. Is he judging me?

  “Spectacular?” she says, mastering her anger. “Is that what you wanted people to think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know? Don’t you remember?”

  “I don’t know,” Jason repeats, forcefully. “Maybe I was on drugs or something.”

  “No you weren’t, Jason,” says Lydia. “You weren’t on anything and even if you were, there are no drugs that can make a person do those things.”

  “I honestly don’t know what to tell you,” says Jason, sitting back in his chair, suddenly calm. “It’s all a blank to me.”

  “A blank?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Like when you wake up and can’t remember the dream you just had, even though you know you had it and you can sense it right there at the edges of your mind.”

  “You’re saying these events are like a dream to you?” Lydia asks, watching him carefully.

  “That’s right,” says Jason. “Like a dream I forgot a long time ago.”

  There’s a long pause. Lydia is trying to decide whether she believes him or not. It doesn’t seem plausible, but Jason is so defiant, so utterly impervious to her questioning that it forces her to entertain the possibility that he might be telling the truth.

  “Did you know any of the victims?” Lydia asks finally. “Before you killed them, I mean.”

  “No,” Jason replies.

  “Not one?” Lydia asks, a note of surprise in her voice.

  “Not one.”

  “Huh…” says Lydia softly, sitting back in her chair, her eyes fixed on him.

  “Lemme ask you something,” says Jason quietly, leaning over the table. “D’ya ever get the feeling you’re being watched?”

  “You are being watched,” Lydia replies impatiently, gesturing to the window.

  “Not me,” says Jason, “you. And not just here, anywhere. Everywhere. That feeling like there are always eyes on you.”

  “You’re talking about a manifestation of self-doubt,” says Lydia. “Insecurities. I have no insecurities.”

  “Oh, come on,” Jason grins, “everyone’s insecure about something.”

  “If these are the games everybody warned me about,” says Lydia flatly, “they’ve clearly grossly overestimated you.”

  “Funny thing to say,” says Jason, his eyes flashing with annoyance, “after everything I’ve accomplished.”

  “Murder isn’t an accomplishment, Jason,” Lydia says, returning to her calm, patient persona.

  “It’s made me famous, hasn’t it?”

  “And is that all you want to be known for?”

  “Out of my hands now, wouldn’t you say?”

  “It’s never too late to change,” says Lydia. “Never too late to start making amends, if you really want to.”

  “How do you suggest I do that, locked up in here?” Jason asks defiantly, holding up his shackles.

  “Well,” says Lydia thoughtfully, “if you did get out someday, what would you like to do?”

  Jason considers the question for a moment. “I always wanted to be a teacher,” he says finally.

  “Really?” Lydia asks, genuinely surprised.

  “Yeah,” says Jason wistfully. “At a little school, someplace quiet. Wife. Two kids. One boy, one girl.”

  “A normal life?”

  “Yup,” Jason agrees. “A normal life.” He looks away, straggly hair hiding his face. “But the world didn’t want that for me.”

  “So you believe in fate?” Lydia asks, curiously.

  “I think we all have our parts to play,” Jason replies. “Don’t you?”

  “I’ve never really considered it,” Lydia lies.

  “You’re not as good a liar as you think you are,” says Jason, smirking.

  “And you’re not half as smart as you think you are.”

  “Yeah I believe in fate,” says Jason, sitting upright, suddenly animated. “And I’ll prove it to you as well.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “One day soon I’m going to ask a favour from you,” says Jason seriously. “A big one. And you’re gonna have to do it.”

  “Oh I am, am I?” Lydia asks, her perfectly pencilled eyebrows raised. “Why is that?”

  “Because you won’t have a choice,” he says, simply.

  “We always have a choice, Jason.”

  “You’ll see,” says Jason, the smug smirk spreading across his lips. Lydia feels a shiver run up her spine. “You won’t have a choice because you are who you are, and your impulse is to act.” />
  “Like yours is to kill?” asks Lydia, coolly.

  “Some of us are born wolves,” says Jason, as though reading her mind. Lydia’s uneasiness grows. “I can’t help what I am.”

  “So you’re a predator?” asks Lydia, scratching notes in her pad as she speaks.

  “Naturally.”

  “Do you prefer to prey on men or women?” Lydia asks, casually. “Or both the same?”

  “It isn’t a sexual thing, darlin’,” says Jason with what is unmistakably a leer. Lydia obliges him by tucking her blonde hair behind her ear with those slender fingers.

  “But you do like women?” she asks, looking him straight in the eye without flinching.

  “Well yeah, but…”

  “Ever had a girlfriend?” she asks quickly.

  “Not exactly.” He frowns, retreating. “I had one, once.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “Anna, her name was… is. We dated for a while, when we were kids. Eighteen, nineteen, I can’t remember, but we had a fun time. I took her to movies, to picnics, I treated her well. I did good by her, but then I…” he breaks away, shaken slightly, as if he was recalling a painful memory. “I broke up with her, got bored,” says Jason conclusively to himself as he goes to fold his arms, but the shackles prevent it. Lydia feels that familiar buzz of success in her chest. He’s rattled.

  “How did she make you feel?” she asks to find no reply. “Did you love her?”

  “None of your business,” says Jason flatly.

  “Have you ever loved anyone? What about your parents?” asks Lydia. “You must love them?”

  “What kinda dumbass question—”

  “Did they hug you a lot? Your parents? When you were a kid?”

  “Na, we weren’t like that.” Jason frowns. “I mean Mom, yeah, when we were little, I guess.”

  “But not your father?”

  Jason’s eyes narrow with suspicion. “Na, Dad was a hard man,” he says grimly, “’n he brought us up the same way.”

  “You and Finley?” asks Lydia, with the casual air of somebody just helping the conversation along.

  “Well I didn’t have any other brothers,” Jason snaps. “Are we nearly done?”

  “Was your father a competitive man?”

  “Yeah, he was,” Jason replies. “He used to tell us that winning was everything and losers were nothing.”

  “What do you think he’d say if he could see you now?”

  “I don’t give a damn what he’d say,” Jason shouts, whipping his chains against the floor with a crash, getting restless. “He’s gone, ain’t he?”

  Lydia doesn’t answer; she just stares at him long and hard, and then lowers her eyes to jot down something in her notebook.

  “What are you writing?” Jason demands, irritated.

  “Just what I see,” Lydia replies, finishing the note before looking back up at him.

  “Yeah?” says Jason, reclining in his seat, attempting to recover his lost swagger. “What do you see? Tell me what you’ve learned about the monster Jason Devere.”

  “Okay,” Lydia says, calmly. “Your father taught you that the world was black and white, so when Finley died you thought he must blame you, that it was entirely your fault. You believe that you’re the reason he left and therefore why your memories of your mother are all of her being sad.”

  “You don’t know shit,” Jason says casually, but Lydia sees the truth in his sad eyes.

  “That’s why you got into trouble at school,” she presses on. “The bullying, the stealing, the drugs.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “You asked the question.”

  “So you know everything there is to know about me, is that it?”

  “Not everything. There’s still something you’re not telling me.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “I don’t know,” Lydia replies, shaking her head. “Whatever it was that made you snap and release all that bottled up emotion in the way you did.”

  “You got me,” says Jason, applauding her with slow, sarcastic claps that echo around the room. “I have a deep, dark secret. Is that what you’re looking for? Is that what’ll help sell your little book?”

  “Well?” says Lydia, folding her arms. “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

  “Sure.”

  “When?”

  “When you do me that favour we talked about,” says Jason. He isn’t mad now, but he isn’t smirking either. He looks almost sad, Lydia thinks. “That’s the day you’ll have your answers.”

  “And when will that be?” Lydia asks, impatiently.

  “Soon.”

  Thirteen

  Bed Bugs

  Snow is falling heavily again as Lydia’s deep red Mustang pulls into the hotel parking lot and eases to a stop. She switches off the engine, but makes no move to open the door. Snowflakes settle on the windshield. All is quiet, though not quite silent. The distant sounds of human activity are muffled, as if smothered by a vast duvet that has fallen over the world. Lydia closes her eyes and allows herself to tumble gently into that inviting space between wakefulness and not, her tired, still-hungover brain slipping away from her like a boat still tethered to a jetty let free to drift.

  A loud thump on the window right next to her pulls her back to the waking world with a sharp intake of breath, her heart thumping as she whips her head around, leaning instinctively away from the sound. She can see a hand in a black leather glove emerging from the sleeve of a long, dark grey overcoat. Then the coat bends at the waist and Alex’s face appears in the window.

  “Jesus Christ,” Lydia yells, yanking the door handle and shoving it open hard as Alex dodges out of the way, “are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

  “A little jumpy, are we?” The smirk on his face only fuels her temper.

  “You get off on scaring women?”

  “You wanna know what I get off on?”

  Lydia glares at him so fiercely that he takes a step back, holding his hands up in apology, and Lydia notices for the first time that he’s carrying a thick manila envelope. “What’s that?”

  “Just a little present,” he says nonchalantly, “but if this is a bad time…”

  “Don’t play games with me,” Lydia pulls her leather jacket tighter around herself, “I’m cold and tired and I just want to go inside and…” she breaks off, glancing towards the hotel entrance. “How did you know where to find me, anyway?”

  Alex makes a face as though the question is beneath him.

  “Did you call around all the hotels in the city or something?”

  “Only the seedy ones.”

  Lydia shoves him hard and he takes a step back. “Asshole.”

  “Hey,” Alex waves the envelope, “do you want your present or not?”

  “Can we do this inside, Alex? It’s freezing.”

  “That’s a tempting offer,” he grins, “but unfortunately I can’t stay. Bad guys to catch, you know.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I felt bad about this morning.”

  Lydia’s face wrinkles in confusion. “What about it?”

  “Well, you snuck out of my place without so much as a goodbye, so I figured I must have done something to upset you.”

  “Is this how it’s going to be?” Lydia folds her arms. “’Cause I gotta tell you, the whole clingy vibe does nothing for me.”

  “Clingy?”

  “You’re making a fuss because you didn’t get a goodbye kiss?”

  “Wow.”

  “What?”

  “You’re colder than this snow.”

  “I will be if you don’t hurry this up.” She nods at the envelope. “You gonna give me that or what?”

  “Take it.” He hands the thick package over. “No, no, don’t open it now, you can thank me later.”

  Lydia’s fingers, already half-way inside the envelope, halt and then retreat. She shrugs, smooths the flap closed, and turns towards the
hotel. “Alright, see you later.” After a few paces she stops, feeling Alex’s eyes still on her, and looks over her shoulder. “When?”

  “Huh?”

  “When will I see you?”

  “I, uh…”

  Lydia rolls her eyes. “Tomorrow?” she flippantly remarks.

  “I’m rotating to nights tomorrow.” He looks disappointed.

  “During the day then.”

  “Not going to see Devere again?” There’s a definite note of jealousy in his voice, and Lydia savours it.

  “There you go again.” She smiles, slyly.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Clingy.”

  “You’re ridiculous, you know that.”

  “Pick me up here around midday,” she says, already walking away again.

  “I haven’t said yes yet!” Alex calls after her, but Lydia just waves goodbye without turning around or breaking stride until she’s disappeared inside and out of sight. She knows leaving him wanting more will only work in her favour.

  *

  The heavy, brown envelope lands on Lydia’s bed with a soft thump, and she throws her bag and jacket into a chair before stooping to fetch a bottle of water from the minibar. The rows of tiny liquor bottles make her shudder, and she shuts the door on them hard before twisting the bottle top and gulping down the cool liquid, its soothing properties radiating from her stomach to her brain in seconds.

  Setting it down on the bedside table, she falls onto the soft mattress and pulls the envelope towards her, reaching inside with those elegant fingers and extracting the contents. It’s a folder, stuffed thick with documents and worn thin at the edges, deep blue in colour, bearing upon its front the badge of the Decanten Police Department and underneath that, written in black marker pen, the name of its subject: Jason Devere. A broad smile spreads across Lydia’s lips. “Thank you, Alex,” she whispers, opening it up and beginning to read.

  As she scans page upon page of police reports, witness statements, forensic reports and crime scene descriptions, one thing becomes crystal clear: the media coverage of the Krimson Killer didn’t even begin to do justice to the full horror of these events. She knows, for example, because the papers reported it, that the eight-year-old Dimitroff twins, Ivan and Elena, had their skin flayed and swapped one with the other. But the newspaper reports never detailed the gruesome, surgical precision with which Jason Devere had carried out this task. That he had carefully removed and switched their eyes. That he had posed the children to match a photograph of them playing on the living room floor on their birthday, with the exact same toys, balloons, cards. And, Lydia physically recoils from the file as she reads, that they were both alive when the process began.