1: Pools of Sorrow, Waves of Joy
GIL
California
1965
"Until we meet again, may the good Lord take a liking to you."
The words from his hero, cowboy Roy Rogers, echoed in his head as he stared at the black-and-white television screen. Grabbing the brim of the cowboy hat on his head, he tipped it to Cowboy Roy and Trigger as they signed off the show and an advertisement for Ajax came on.
Crash!
He jumped at the sound of glass breaking on the wooden floors. Jerking around, he saw his mother next to his dad, shaking him and speaking words that sounded off-wonky. It wasn't often that his mother used her voice.
Staring at his parents, he couldn't help but notice the colors in the room. The couch was a velvet green and as the evening's sun shone through the blinds, casting lines of light and dark over the motionless body of his dad, the room appeared to be a pale orange. Movement caught his eye and he spotted a fly that'd gotten in through the backdoor; it was buzzing around, trying to land on his dad. His mother swatted it away.
The fly landed in the liquid on the floor. Yellow with ice. Lemonade. The sharp pieces of glass were scattered over the floor, some embedded into the bottoms of his mother's house shoes. The tray she used to serve the drinks on was upside down on the floor. He went to pick up the tray when his mother stood, grabbed the phone's receiver, and handed it to him as she worked the rotary dial.
It wasn't the first time his dad had fallen asleep on the couch, so why was his mother so upset now? He saw the frantic movements of her hands as he pressed the phone to his ear. A dial tone, ringing, and then a voice. Watching her hands, he spoke the words that his mother signed.
"We need help. He's not breathing…" he wrinkled his brow in confusion as he spoke those words. He wasn't breathing..."Why?" he asked his mother. "Why isn't he breathing? Mom?" He dropped the phone to ask his questions with his hands.
She didn't answer him.
He asked the paramedics and the police the same question. He asked Father Thomas.
And then he asked God.
No one gave him an answer.
His mother showed him a Shakespearean quote. "Thou know'st 'tis common; all that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity."
Father Thomas gave him scripture. Ecclesiastes 3:2-3: "Even if their death feels too soon, there is a time for everything." Wisdom 3:1-3: "Everything, including the souls of the deceased, are in God's hand." Wisdom 4:7-9: "The idea of your loved ones at rest is comforting."...Isaiah 25:6-8...Lamentations 3:17-20, and then Father Thomas put his hand on his leg, his thigh, as he told him, "I'm always here if you need to talk, Gilbert."
God was silent.
No one could tell him why his dad had died. How did it happen? What caused his heart to stop beating? What made his lungs stop breathing? What caused his mind to stop thinking? Did his soul leave his body? If so, did it go to Heaven? To Hell? How did they know?
After that day, he was obsessed with finding out the answers. If no one would tell him, then he had to figure it out for himself.
1966
The cat wouldn't stop squirming. His grip loosened around the neck and before he could get a tighter hold, it turned and scratched him. Stunned at the sudden turn of events, he rocked back on his legs and watched as the cat made a quick run for it. He couldn't get his breathing under control fast enough to give chase nor could he get his mind to focus on anything other than the fact that he had been scratched.
Slowly getting to his feet, he stared at the blood that dripped from his finger onto the grass. His plan had failed. The subject of his experiment was a block away.
Question: Why?
Answer: The cat was alive.
It wasn't until the door to the house slammed shut behind him that he let himself react. He didn't cry; he never cried. Instead, he repressed a groan of frustration as he pulled a chair over to the sink and climbed up on it. His reaction to a stressful situation was to deal with it, then figure out how to not make the same mistake twice.
Soap burned at his wound but he didn't flinch. It had to be done because he had to be clean. Next time, he would wear gloves. Why didn't he think about wearing gloves? Once he dried his hands off, he saw that the cat's nails didn't penetrate deep within his skin, but he still needed a band-aid.
After he bandaged his wound, he grabbed a trash bag and his mother's rubber gloves that she'd kept under the kitchen sink before running back outside. He jumped on his bike, yelled out "Hi-ho, Silver, away!" before peddling off down the street.
By the time his hot and heavy legs got him to the shore of the Pacific, he was worked up in excitement. Inside, he was on fire. Lungs burned, pulse was racing, and his head was pounding. On the outside, he was stoned-face, steady, and anticipating.
All of that might as well have been buried, unattainable emotions compared to the sudden rush he felt when he spotted the animal. A dead seagull. This time there was no stalking involved, yet, he still eased up on the bird that was lying under the bottom of the pier like at any moment it was going to surprise him and fly away.
Taking out the gloves, he eased up to the bird as he slipped them over his hands. Then, he opened the trash bag. Once he got the dead bird inside, he got back on his bike and went home.
The sound of him running across the wooden floors vibrated off the walls and in the rooms, but it didn't matter. He stopped worrying about being quiet and discrete a long time ago. His mother couldn't hear him. No one heard him anymore.
Even if they had been in the same room, he and his mother would do everything in silence whether it was reading, painting or drawing, and even music. She couldn't hear it, but the vibrations through the floorboards kept her moving and dancing all by herself. And since she couldn't hear it, that meant he could listen to whatever he wanted.
They never watched T.V. anymore either. She no longer joined him at Sunday Mass because she couldn't hear the sermon but she could still read her Bible every night. The only time she interacted with him was when she was teaching him how to cook. He knew once he learned then that would be it; she would leave it up to him to do it on his own. It was the same with painting and drawing. She taught him the basics and then trusted him to teach himself the rest. To learn by doing. By experimenting.
There was a colored picture of his mother and father and him when he was a baby hanging on the wall. It was a Christmas photo. He reached a hand up and knocked it off the wall as he passed. Ever since his dad died, it was like he no longer existed. His mother spent most of her time away in her studio or hosting a gallery or event. She trusted him to be a "good Catholic boy" and not get into trouble while she was gone.
He was left all alone.
He went into his room and immediately dropped to his knees to look under the bed. The wooden box was one he'd made for his dad while in art class. It was supposed to be used for his work tools. He thumbed over the box, thinking of his father, before lifting the lid. He caught the reflection of his pupils as they dilated in the blade of the scalpel.
1970
Music drifted up the staircase as he made his way down to the living room. The floorboards under his bare feet weren't vibrating. As he entered the living room, he saw the record spinning on the turntable by the window and the speakers upright against the walls. John Lennon's voice flowed out of the speaker as the music of the Beatles entered his mind, entertaining his thoughts. It was their newest record, Let It Be, that he'd wanted for his birthday but never received. She waited for Christmas.
~"Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup
They slither wildly as they slip away across the universe-"~
He stared at the presents wrapped under the tree and when his eyes landed on the one for his dad, he sighed and looked over his shoulder at his mother. Sitting in her favorite chair, knees up to her chest, she was reading the book that was resting on her legs. Two teacups and a pot were on the coffee table. He poured himself a cup and added sugar before taking a drink.
~"Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my opened mind
Possessing and caressing me-"~
And like every Christmas since his dad's death, they will have dinner with three plates on the table with only the two of them eating. The third plate left as empty as the seat it was placed in front of. And then his mother will open the present that she'd bought for his dad, cry as she holds the tie to her chest, and then without a word take it to her room and hang it in the closet with all the other ties.
Then he'd go to Mass and she to the attic which was her art studio. The whole day, the two of them, with no words spoken between them.
~"Jai guru deva, om
Nothing's gonna change my world-"~
He missed his dad, but he was gone and he was never coming back.
He also missed his mother, and even though she was there, she wasn't.
She ignored the way he kept to himself because she herself was the same way. There wasn't even anger toward him for bringing home the dead animals. He built a workspace for himself in the garage without a reprimand. He brought home book after book from the library without being questioned. She didn't even ask him what he did with the dead animals once he was done performing necropsies on them.
She didn't want to know. Didn't care to know.
He couldn't talk to her; his words fell on deaf ears regardless if he had spoken them or signed them. That was why he couldn't tell her about the secret he and Father Thomas shared.
He feared her silence along with God's.
~"Nothing's gonna change my world-"~
And when he started killing the birds and rats when he couldn't find any more dead ones, she picked up a book or paint brush and turned her back to him.
~"Nothing's gonna change my world-"~
He opened the only present wrapped for him under the tree. He smiled as he saw it was a camera.
He'd gotten books from the library about photography and couldn't wait to put what he learned into practice. He even transformed his bedroom closet into a darkroom so he could develop the film himself.
He found that he was especially drawn to black-and-white photography and film. There were no words to describe how he felt as he viewed the photos he'd taken. Pictures lost something special in color. Or, it was because color brought life. The things he took pictures of weren't living.
They didn't need color.
~"Nothing's gonna change my world-"~
1972
~"Images of broken light which dance before me like a million eyes
They call me on and on across the universe-"~
He walked through the halls of the high school as he thought about the human heart. The organ in the body that was about the size of a fist that, like a fist opening and closing, pumped blood through the body. It was the center of the circulatory system. The heart was the center of life in the body. The center of everything. Life couldn't exist without the heart.
The heart made sure that blood was carried to all the areas of the body. Oxygen and nutrients so that the body could function properly, and blood carried carbon dioxide to lungs so you could breathe. Even the heart's electrical system was what controlled the rate and rhythm of your heartbeat.
~"Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letterbox
They tumble blindly as they make their way across the universe-"~
A problem with the electrical system—or the nervous or endocrine systems, which controlled your heart rate and blood pressure—could also make it harder for the heart to pump blood. Any disruption and it could kill. His dad's heart killed him by simply being, in a sense, overheated.
He was stopped in his tracks, his thoughts interrupted as Richard Dixon appeared in front of him.
Question: If a fist hit you in the heart, could it stop your heart?
A hard fist impacted his chest and his knees buckled as his lungs choked on his breath. He fell to his knees as he heard laughter through the buzzing in his head.
~"Jai guru deva, om
Nothing's gonna change my world-"~
He went home to an empty house, changed into a suit and tie-the same ones he wore to church-and then met his mother at the opening of her art gallery at the Santa Monica Pier. She spoke with her hands and he spoke her words with his voice. He barely registered anything else around him as he focused on her hand movements; he didn't miss a word.
~"Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world-"~
As he stopped speaking, he heard the applause and stepped away. His mother didn't hear the applause but smiled as the paintings were revealed. His mother's work was praised, champagne was passed around, and he watched as his mother's hands moved, eyes sparkled, and contagious smile captured the attention of everyone in the room. He spoke her words to the guests but not one of their eyes fell upon him; not even his mother's.
Her attention was elsewhere.
He was a ghost.
Just like in school.
A while later, as he sat on a bench while people talked and moved around him, he stared at the vibrant colors and images on the canvases. In her grief, his mother made art.
Question: What would he make with his grief?
Leaving the gallery, he crossed the street to his '69 Chevy Camaro and opened the trunk. He grabbed his camera, shut the lid, and then headed toward the main strip of Route 66, otherwise known as Colorado Avenue, as he started taking pictures.
There was a group of high school girls smoking cigarettes and wearing too much makeup with their hair up looking like movie stars, climbing in and out of the backseats of convertibles and hatchbacks. He noticed one girl, eyes black with mascara, arms crossed over her chest, staring wide-eyed across the parking lot at some guy talking to another girl.
Raising the camera, he took a photo.
Continuing down the street, he heard the music playing from the cars, the laughter and chit-chat and yelling of voices all around him. Everywhere was neon lights, car lights, and cigarette lights. A beer being passed over from a cooler, a car horn honking at a car stopped at a green light as two guys hung out the passenger windows talking to some girls on the sidewalk. A moment later the door opened and the guy in the front passenger seat got out to drop the seat forward to let the girls into the backseat. Then they drove off down the avenue.
Crossing the street, he neared a parked Ford Mustang with a guy sitting barefoot on the top of the car as two girls in short shorts and t-shirts leaned on the hood; they were also barefoot. Blaring from the speakers was "Witchy Woman" by the Eagles. Stopping, he brought his camera up and took a picture.
He spent the rest of the evening walking the streets, Ocean Avenue to Broadway, taking photos, catching a set by some punk band in the backlot of a bar, and then eating dinner at the pizzeria on Santa Monica Boulevard. He was walking back to his car when he heard his name being called out.
"You're Gil, right?"
He looked up at the girl who'd stopped him. She was familiar. He noticed she was waiting for him to say something, so he said, "Hi."
"Hi," she said with a grin. "Mr. Malcolm's AP Physics class."
That's right. "Ashley." Now he remembered. They had been lab partners a few weeks ago. She wore jeans and a tie-dye t-shirt, flip-flops, and her hair was blond.
She turned and held up a finger to a car full of people who honked the horn. "One second," she called out before turning back to him. "We're going cruising. Wanna come?"
He nearly froze at the offer, stunned. Then he realized he had no idea what she was talking about. "Cruising?"
"Yeah, y'know, driving around. Hanging out."
He looked at the 1961 Oldsmobile. It was pink with a white flat top and in pretty good shape. He saw the two guys in front and the other girl in back. They were waiting. "Okay." He'd never been cruising before.
Walking behind her to the car, she climbed into the backseat and he followed. As soon as he sat down in the car, he was being asked questions. What his name was, how did Ashley know him, and did he want a smoke.
Ashley did most of the talking as the guy in the passenger seat handed him a joint. "Are ya cool, man?"
"I'm actually quite warm," he said as he took the offered smoke as everyone laughed.
"You're funny."
He looked at the smoke, smelt it, and then took a breath of it into his lungs. Then he nearly choked to death to the tune of laughter.
"Take a hit, hold it, then let it out," said the driver who looked at him through the rearview.
He took another drag and did as he was told. And then blew out the smoke as he handed it to Ashley who did the same.
Speaking into his ear, she told him, "I like your camera."
"It's the, uh...new Nikon. A Nikkormat EL. It has shutter speeds from B - 1/1000th second. A mount for lenses. It's the first to have Aperture Priority, uh, AE mode. The viewfinder has a built in light meter needle that lines up with your shutter speed to allow fast exposure control. Usually shooting with light behind a subject can be tricky, but with this, it's so easy. I simply step up close to the subject and press in the exposure lock, here," he showed her on the camera, "and the center weighted meter will record and hold the exposure while I step back to finish off the shot."
Ashley looked at him with an odd expression on her face, then she smiled, asking, "You wanna take my picture?" as she flipped her blond hair off her shoulders.
"Not really," he told her as he spotted the case of beer on the floorboard in front of the other girl.
There was laughter next to him as the guy turned around in the passenger seat and told him, "You sure know how to sweet talk the ladies, Gilbert."
"I think you hurt her feelings," the driver said as he laughed. "She wants to be a movie star. Take her picture, man. Something nice for you to look at later."
"Why…?" he asked.
More laughter and a roll of the eyes from Ashley. He looked at her and felt light-headed. There were so many thoughts running through his head, noises from the radio, and her angry look. She didn't like it that he didn't want to take her picture. His hands felt sweaty as he gripped the camera tighter in his hands. He wanted out of the car.
"Hey, uh...pull over," he told the driver.
"Alright, here ya go," the driver said as he came to a stop.
Getting out, he didn't look behind him as he walked away.
A moment later he heard squealing tires and busting glass as metal impacted metal. He turned and saw two cars. A truck had slammed into the Oldsmobile before hitting a light pole. Staring stunned at the wreckage, he started walking towards the car.
The truck had run right into it, hitting the passenger side. There were people getting out of their cars, some screaming while others running to call the police. He saw the broken glass, dented metal in the doors, and the blood. It was on the broken pieces of glass both on the ground and what was left in the windows. It was also on the faces of the teenagers in the car.
No one had been wearing a seatbelt. He stood next to the car as he took in the bodies. Ashley's was slumped over the broken back window, head bleeding and at an awkward angle. Her eyes were unblinking.
Tilting his head, he saw the way the lights from the street lamp reflected off the broken glass. The way the blood dropped to the ground, how her arm dangled.
"Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good; a shining gloss that fadeth suddenly; a flower that dies when it begins to bud; a doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour."
Bringing the camera up, he took her picture.
~"Nothing's gonna change my world-"~
1974
~"Sounds of laughter, shades of life are ringing
Through my open ears, inciting and inviting me-"~
The morgue was cold and silent as he sat down the camera and picked up the scalpel. Slicing into the skin and deep into the tissue with precision, he started the thorough investigation into the dead woman's body to determine the manner of death. The retinal hemorrhages were the result of intracranial pressure from an edema. The edema was caused by acute lack of oxygen. Cause of death was asphyxiation.
The woman had been smothered. There was trauma around her nose, bruising on her mouth, and a handprint.
~"Limitless undying love which shines around me like a million suns
It calls me on and on across the universe-"~
He presented the report, the report was filed in the police file, but the detective couldn't make an arrest. The boyfriend, Mr. Samual Reitz, didn't confess and there was no evidence that he committed the crime. Handprints weren't fingerprints. It could have been someone else, argued the lawyer.
Mr. Reitz walked.
~"Jai guru deva, om
Nothing's gonna change my world-"~
The bar was loud, but Mr. Reitz was louder as he knocked back another glass of whiskey. As the saying went: "Loose lips sink ships". Or, in the boyfriend's case, his mouth was confessing to the murder of his girlfriend.
~"Nothing's gonna change my world-"~
Question: Could evil be killed without it being considered murder?
The next evening he went to visit Father Thomas. He had a theory to test.
As he walked through the old church in Santa Monica, he passed the baptismal font and dipped his fingers into the holy water and blessed himself with the sign of the cross before heading through the doors, down the hallway, and up the steps to Father Thomas's room.
He tapped on the door and waited. A couple of seconds later it opened to the surprised face of Father Thomas. Then, the surprise faded as he saw him.
"Oh, my, Gilbert. Welcome, come in." He entered the room as Father Thomas greeted him then shut the door. "It's been a long time, boy. What're you doing here? How's college?"
His eyes roamed over the room, Father Thomas's desk, two chairs, and books. The roaring fire in the fireplace. The artwork and sculptures. The closet with his robes and clothes.
The bed.
When he was a child, this room looked so big. Father Thomas had been huge. Imposing. A hand on his shoulder after he'd lost his father. Then a hand on his thigh as he asked for guidance. Then a hand inside his pants as they prayed.
Looking at Father Thomas, he told him, "It's good."
"You never were much of a talker," Father Thomas said as he gestured to the chair next to his desk.
"I would prefer it if we both stood."
In his head, he went over what he wanted to say to the Father, what he wanted to do, over and over. It wasn't that he was scared, it was that this was delicate. It needed precision.
Straight. Simple.
It was hard sometimes for him to gather his thoughts in a straight simple line in order to verbalize them into words.
He wanted to understand. He needed to understand. He needed an answer, the truth, more than anything.
It took a few minutes before he finally said, "Romans 13:4 said that "it is of earthly power that he bears not the sword in vain: for he is God's minister, an avenger to execute wrath upon him that does evil." Saint Augustine took that passage to heart as he felt that the death penalty was a means of deterring the wicked and protecting the innocent. He wrote in The City of God that "The same divine authority that forbids the killing of a human being establishes certain exceptions, as when God authorizes killing by a general law or when He gives an explicit commission to an individual for a limited time. The agent who executes the killing does not commit homicide. He is an instrument as is the sword with which he cuts. Therefore, it is in no way contrary to the commandment, 'Thou shalt not kill' to wage war at God's bidding, or for the representatives of public authority to put criminals to death, according to the law, that is, the will of the most just reason.'"
Father Thomas looked confused, saying, "I'm not following. Are you asking if it's okay to commit murder?"
"It is in nature that we realize all things exist for a reason. For us as a species to deny ourselves our very nature is to deny ourselves what and who we are. A parent killing to protect their young is observed not just in humans but other primates and mammals. A community killing to protect their community is also observed. So, why is it that we, as humans, as a species, put limitations on when we are allowed to kill for the protection of other members of our community? We call it a sin, but only in certain circumstances."
"Gilbert," Father Thomas said as he stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder.
He shrugged the hand of Father Thomas away. "You are a predator to children," he told him as he reached into his jacket pocket. "There are some species that would have already ripped your body into pieces."
For the first time in his life he saw shock in Father Thomas's eyes right before his right hand shot out and he embedded the knife into Father Thomas's ribcage, between the fourth and fifth rib. The blade went through the lung and into the heart.
Father Thomas's shock should have startled him, but it didn't. Father Thomas struggled as he tried to get away but he grabbed the back of his neck to keep him still. He should have felt something besides the warmth of blood on his hand, but again, he didn't.
He felt nothing.
He watched the shock turn to fear on Father Thomas's face as he told him, "When I remove the knife, you'll bleed out in less than five seconds."
Father Thomas went to speak but only got out a gargle. Blood appeared on his lips and he knew it was because he'd punctured the lung. Moving him around, he lowered him into the chair as he kept his hand on the knife. He wasn't lying. Once he pulled it out, Father Thomas would die.
"Let's pray together, Father," he said before he closed his eyes. "My Lord, I beg you to deliver me from every evil presence and every evil influence. I ask you in your name, I ask you for the sake of your wounds, I ask you for the sake of your blood, I ask you for the sake of your Cross, I ask you through the intercession of Mary, Immaculate and Sorrowful…May the blood and the water that flow from your side wash over me to purify me, deliver me, heal me...Amen." Opening his eyes, he stared at Father Thomas and saw the pain and fear in his eyes as he continued, "You told me that, we prayed those words together, every... single… time."
Father Thomas was pleading with him with those brown eyes but he felt nothing as he turned the knife, causing him to gasp in pain at the feel of the dull blade twisting around in his chest. With a steady hand, he slowly removed the blade. Father Thomas sputtered out a breath of air, a possible word floated out of his mouth, and then nothing. The light in his eyes faded as his body went slack.
He tilted his head as he looked down at Father Thomas's dead body. There was no guilt or regret. If he felt anything it was vindication that he'd rid the world of evil. He felt right. Justified.
His theory had been tested and he received an answer. This was a truth. His truth. And that was all that mattered.
He grabbed a couple of tissues from Father Thomas's desk and wiped the knife clean of his prints and dropped it to the floor before tossing the tissues into the fire.
Before he left the church, he went over the the candles under the Patron Saint of rape, crime victims, invoked against pedophiles, and lit a candle. He stared up at Maria Goretti, a wavy-haired young girl in a white dress holding a bouquet of lilies in her hands, and said a prayer for himself and all of the other victims of Father Thomas.
~"Nothing's gonna change my world-"~
The next night in a dark parking lot, as Mr. Reitz stuck the car key into the door after leaving the bar, he grabbed him from behind and slid the scalpel across his neck. Arterial blood sprayed over the car window and poured from Mr. Reitz's severed carotid artery.
It was the will of the most just reason, he thought as he walked away from Mr. Reitz's lifeless body, wiping the scalpel clean and pulling off the latex gloves.
~"Nothing's gonna change my world-"~
1989
~"Jai guru deva-"~
It was mid-afternoon by the time he made it to the park not far from UCLA campus. He adjusted the sunglasses on his face then stuffed his hands in his pockets as he leaned against a tree to observe the activities at the nearby baseball field. It was another hot and mild day, a hint of humidity in the air and the smoke in the air from a barbeque. As he heard the familiar clank of metal hitting the ball and lifted his head in time to watch the ball sail out into the outfield. The little boy in torn jeans, dirty shirt, and a Dodgers baseball cap took off running down the first baseline and didn't stop until he was sliding into home.
Inside the park homerun. Not bad.
Never been a one for sports, he did, however, enjoy baseball. Gym class in high school hadn't been a pleasurable experience to ignite a love for any sport. He was never picked to be on a team, he prayed that he was the first one out in dodgeball, and if it was swin day, he downright skipped the class. His first actual participation in anything physical started in his college days. A pickup game of softball, frisbee in the quad, and hitting golf balls across the dorm rooftops. If Poker was considered a sport, he'd gladly join in the game. It was truly the only actual "group" game he participated in and enjoyed-besides the occasional softball game.
Baseball was only viewed on a television screen. His father was a Chicago Cubs fan, his mother, the Los Angeles Dodgers. His father was born and raised in Chicago, his mother a transfer student from Los Angeles. They had met in graduate school in Illinois. His father, Arthur, a botanist. His mother, an artist. They fell in love, married, and moved out to California where he was born. On his own head rested a Dodgers baseball cap that he readjusted as he felt the sweat start to coat the inside of the brim.
Behind the sunglasses his curious blue eyes were no longer fixated on the playing, but on the man coaching the children who were playing. He stayed back, watched from a distance, as Tim Dutton knelt down to be eye-level with a young boy. In his hands was a bat and he was talking to the kid about something to do with it. He really couldn't tell, but he knew the kid was having trouble hitting the ball.
He'd done some further digging on Dutton and found that he was part of a youth organization that helped troubled youths in the Los Angeles area. When he wasn't a high school substitute teacher, he was a mentor to kids as he coached both youth basketball and baseball that consisted of both boys and girls from ages eight to twelve. His jaw twitched as he watched as Dutton put his hand on the young boy's back as he handed him the bat. Dutton picked up a ball and went to the pitcher's mound and spoke instructions to the boy before throwing the ball. The kid took a swing and the ball clipped the bat and shot up into the air behind the plate. Even though the ball didn't go into the outfield, they were both smiling and happy about the effort and improvement. The boy at least got the bat on the ball.
It was a pity. Tim Dutton was actually a good coach.
As he continued to watch as the kids practiced, and Dutton coached, his mind drifted.
~"Jai guru deva-"~
He paced around the room as he worked off the nervous energy coursing through his body. In an hour he was to meet with Elizabeth. She was not only new to the crime lab but also new to Minneapolis and asked him to show her around. Him, of all people. He guessed she wanted him to be a friend. All this he had relayed to Doctor Philip Gerard, his mentor.
Peering over at Gerard, he asked, "You want me to stalk her?"
"It's not stalking. Consider it a social experiment," Gerard commented. It sounded so casual. Spying on someone. "Practice reading her while you're getting to know her habits, and then try to initiate a-"
"Date?"
"Exactly," Gerard said as he leaned on the desk with an amused smile. He found this funny. "Gil, you're twenty-nine years old and you're acting like a confused teenager. Have you ever been in a relationship?"
He looked away and eyed the diplomas on the wall above the table that were lined with forensic journals and publications, various law enforcement books and manuals. They were Gerard's diplomas that certified him an expert in Forensic Science. He'd met Doctor Philip Gerard while he was obtaining his Ph.D. at the University of Chicago, the same graduate school as his parents, in Illinois. Gerard was guest lecturing and they had immediately formed a mentor/student relationship after he expressed interest in going into forensics. His field of expertise was entomology.
"My academics have always been a priority."
That caused Gerard to nearly laugh at him as he said, "Okay. You're to be her friend, correct? It'll be a friendly get together. All I'm trying to do here, Gil, is to get you to use the skills you've acquired to appear more-less, awkward. This will help you socialize."
He started pacing as he thought about what his mentor was trying to get him to do. Normally he stayed away from people and just observed them and took notes on their behavior. It didn't seem like much but over time he realized the benefits of it. Before, when he would watch people, it was solely for his own interest and knowledge as he tried to understand them. He picked up ticks, habits, and routines people had and learned how to use that knowledge to his advantage.
Elizabeth was different. He wanted to talk to her. "A date?"
"Why are you so nervous, anyway? I thought you liked her," Gerard said with a smile.
"I'm not nervous," he defended himself. "It's...anticipation."
"That's good. If you want her to like you back, then you have to-"
"Her emotions aren't my responsibility. How she'll feel about me is incidental." He looked at Gerard then and saw his smile drop. That wasn't the right thing to say.
Gerard gave a shake of his head and said, "And there lies your problem."
That wasn't his only problem. Gerard had seen it in him when others couldn't. Sure, everyone knew he was socially awkward and barely made attempts at any form of friendship, but that was because he didn't want friendships. He didn't want anyone to get close. He didn't want to be known. He enjoyed his autonomy, his privacy and his work, too much to share with anyone. Sharing wasn't a strong suit.
Gerard was the only one at the lab who knew about his mother's condition. He took him under his wing and showed him how to, in his own words, regulate his nature into something normal. Into something more like a human being.
"Can we talk about something else now, please?" he asked.
"Okay. I saw you were studying the PD's manuals-"
He sat down in the chair as he said, "They want me to learn how to shoot a gun next. I'm not a cop. I'm a scientist."
"We all have to go through weapons training," Gerard said as he stood. "It's necessary to be in the field. A gun is a tool." He watched as he went over to the table and picked up a manual and handed it to him.
"I don't want to carry a gun."
"If a suspect has a gun, you need to know how to use one for protection. Plus, as a forensic scientist it's essential to learn how to dismantle it, how to determine if the safety is on or off, the distance different bullets can travel, what objects a bullet can penetrate, and which it can't. In forensics, it's best to not only read how something works but to learn how it works for yourself. Practical knowledge. See it, feel it, touch it, taste it. Like cooking, when you get your ingredients how do you know how to use them in the preparation of the meal if you don't know what they taste like." He crossed his arms as he looked down at him. "What's the best weapon you have in the field besides a gun?"
He told him as if he should've already known the answer, "My mind will always be my most valuable weapon, Philip."
That won him a smile. "Good point, but it doesn't matter. Regardless of the fact, you need to learn to shoot a gun, Gil, and learn how to ask a woman out on a date if solely for practical knowledge."
There was a tap on the door and they both turned to look at the Chief Medical Examiner, Joseph Hurd. He was looking paler than usual as he told them, "We lost the body."
He kept his face as stoic as possible as he looked at Joseph and asked, "Lost the body? What body?"
"Your case. We don't know what happened. It's gone."
As Gerard left the office to go investigate for the disappearance of Alex Garcia's dead body from the morgue, he slowly got up to follow. Alex Garcia was a drug dealer and murderer-who three months ago-shot and killed a mother and her baby over a drug debt.
No one would miss Alex Garcia, or, he thought as he exited the office, find his body.
The sound of a whistle blowing brought him out of his thoughts and watched as a little girl fell to the ground. He pushed off the tree as Dutton picked the girl up and carried her off the field to the bleachers. There were several other adult supervisors on the field coaching other kids and setting up tables with drinks and snacks. There was a medic and she was attending to the girl as Dutton gave her a high-five before going back to coaching the other kids.
He kept his eyes on Dutton as he took his time tossing the baseball to every kid on the field in several different ways as he also yelled out instructions as they took turns throwing the ball. There was a knot building in the pit of his stomach as he watched Dutton catch the ball and toss it to the young boy with the torn jeans, dirty shirt, and Dodgers ball cap. The feeling was anticipation.
Spending his entire life studying human nature had made him an expert at gauging the actions and reactions of men. Tim Dutton, despite the pride, sense of authority and professionalism, and his do-gooder attitude, was cloaked in mystery and darkness that intrigued his curiosity. He wanted to peel back the mask disguising Dutton's real face and see what was hidden beneath the surface.
And he had.
He checked his watch and then took one last look at Dutton before turning to walk away. Parked in the last row of the parking lot was a black pontiac with tinted windows. Taking out the Slim Jim from behind his back, he quickly unlocked the car's door. Getting into the backseat of the car, he laid down in the seat and pulled the cap over his eyes and as he waited.
Sometime later he heard muffled voices as the trunk to the car opened and a bag was tossed in the back next to a crate with various bottles of oils and fluids for the car. There was also a set of jumper cables, a roll of duct tape, and trash bags in the trunk.
Duct tape that matched the binds on a used, abused, and discarded ten-year-old boy. A lawyer and Judge decided it couldn't hold up in court. The evidence was tossed. Procedural error by the rookie evidence clerk who didn't tag it into evidence collection properly. Tim Dutton wasn't charged on a technicality.
Further investigation had uncovered Tim Dutton's dark secrets, but nothing could be substantiated. Conjecture wasn't evidence and circumstantial evidence wasn't enough. They would need another dead boy or to catch him in the act.
He didn't want another dead boy.
The driver's door opened, and Dutton slipped into the seat while shutting the door. He felt the car rock slightly with the movement of the 6-foot tall, 239-pound man as he adjusted himself in the seat and started the car. Then he pulled on the seatbelt and shifted from Park to Reverse.
Raising his arm up, he pointed the gun at the man at the exact moment Dutton turned to look out the back window. Dutton's brown eyes went wide, mouth gaped in surprise, as he told him, "Don't let me stop you. Back out."
Dutton hesitated a moment before easy off the brake as he backed out of the parking space.
~"Jai guru deva-"~
Driving through the city of Los Angeles, he decided to take Huntington Drive up to East Pasadena instead of using the Interstate. He needed the time to ease his body and clear his head. As he waited at a red light, he checked his mirrors. Behind him he spotted a cherry red Chevy Camaro changing lanes behind a blue Ford Mustang. Behind the Mustang was a police car. His breathing started to quicken as he decided to take a right on San Gabriel Boulevard to go south instead of north. He checked his mirror again and saw the police car wait at the light for a moment before turning to follow. Only a car length behind him now, he changed lanes to get into the left turn lane. The light was green, and the on-coming traffic was clear, so he turned. The police car followed.
He never slowed or accelerated as he kept his speed the right at the limit as he continued down the street. He could have been overreacting, but he wasn't going to take that chance. Being trained to spot and shake a tail had been part of his training. He stopped at another red light. One more right turn and he saw the police car went straight ahead and didn't turn to follow. Paranoia. It kept him alert.
At the next light he turned and headed back to San Gabriel Boulevard. He crossed California and Del Mar Boulevard then instead of going left on Colorado, or Historic Route 66 as he preferred to call it, he went left and drove down to the UPS store. Using his key to open the P.O. Box and emptied it out.
Then he got back in the car and continued back down Historic Route 66 for four more blocks where he made a left and then up a few blocks to a quick right onto Sierra Grande. On the right side of the dead-end street was an underground parking garage and on the left were office buildings and warehouses. The second office/warehouse building on the left was a two-story building with windows lining the second floor, steps going up to the main door in the middle, and a drive-in dock on the far end that was big enough to fit two cars. An electric gate fenced in the small parking lot and docking bay off the back of the back of the warehouse.
He pulled up to the drive-in dock and punched in a five-digit code on the keypad. The overhead door started to go up and as soon as it was high enough, he eased the BMW inside then cut the engine. He got out and hit the button to close the door before walking up the three steps out of the loading area that he used as a garage and into the open warehouse.
The entire back portion of the warehouse held workstations and tables with equipment and tools and machinery. He didn't need to hit a switch to turn the lights on; motion light sensors had been installed so whenever someone entered the lights would automatically turn on. He also installed a ventilation system that kept the air circulating. Right now, the high warehouse windows were open, letting in the cool breeze coming in from the San Gabriel Mountains to the north.
The industrial building had been advertised as an R&D warehouse and/or distribution center in which the offices could be used as labs or an assembly area. It had high 19-foot ceilings and a secure security fence and cameras. It also had a full kitchen on the first floor and on the second was an office suite that had a private bathroom including a shower. He turned that office into his bedroom. The offices on the first floor were made into labs while the second-floor conference room was made into his living area once he knocked the walls down. The other rooms were currently vacant, but the rest of the warehouse was open to his workspace.
Tossing the keys and mail onto a worktable he then headed back to the car.
"Pull off here, into the parking lot."
Dutton turned the wheel and parked the car in the empty lot of the minimal. He was talking to him, saying something about who he was and how he could take his money and keys to the car. The man was pleading for his life.
He didn't care about the man's life. He cared about little Kevin Greene's life.
Sitting forward, he pressed the barrel of the gun against Dutton's temple as he pulled the needle out of his pocket with his left hand. As he was distracted by the gun, he used his teeth to take off the cover to the needle tip and then said, "Okay, just a little pinprick," as he jammed it into the left side of Dutton's neck. He watched as Dutton suddenly started gasping, a reaction to the drug as it slowed his breathing and heart until he went still in the seat. Getting out of the backseat, he opened the passenger door. "But you may feel a little sick," he recited the Pink Floyd lyrics as he grabbed him and pulled him over the middle console of the car and into the passenger seat. Dutton looked up at him with his dilated eyes as his lips barely moved. He smirked as the rest of the Comfortably Numb lyrics that ran through his head, "Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying."
Shutting the door, he went around the car and got into the driver's seat. As he started the car, he finished off the lyrics, "When I was a child, I caught a fleeting glimpse out of the corner of my eye, I turned to look but it was gone. I cannot put my finger on it now, the child is grown, the dream is gone." Looking over at Dutton as he started driving, he told him, "You know the rest."
He grabbed the wheelchair that was folded up and leaning against the wall and pushed it over to the passenger door. It didn't take long to get Dutton seated and buckled in the chair or up the ramp into the warehouse. In the middle of the room was a long metal table that wasn't too unlike an autopsy table, except this one wasn't used to perform autopsies. He unbuckled Dutton from the chair and lifted him up onto the table and strapped him down. Then he left him alone as he went through to the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of beer. He twisted the cap off and tossed it into the trash bin as passed by it out the door.
He took a sip of the beer as sat down at his worktable. On the table were various blueprints and drawings, notebooks full of equations and diagrams, a sketch pad full of drawings of various insects, mostly bees and butterflies, and on the corner wall mounts were three T.V. monitors that he turned on. Two of the monitors showed the images from the security cameras outside and the third was on a local channel. It was too early for the evening news so he turned it off.
Posted to the wall right above the worktable were newspaper clippings of Missing Persons and articles of disappearances. Next to those were black and white photos he'd taken of his subjects over the years. All dead, some never to be found and others whose cases have gone unsolved. The murder of Timothy Dutton would be an unsolved case.
Below the photos was a sheet with Leo Esaki's "Five Don'ts" Rules. Esaki was a Japanese physicist who received the Nobel Prize in Physics in 1973 for his discovery of the phenomenon of electron tunneling. His five rules were:
1. Don't allow yourself to be trapped by your past experiences.
2. Don't allow yourself to become overly attached to any one authority in your field – the great professor, perhaps.
3. Don't hold onto what you don't need.
4. Don't avoid confrontation.
5. Don't forget your spirit of childhood curiosity.
He regarded the list as he leaned back into the chair before pulling over the leather tool pouch that was buckled at both ends. Opening it over the table, he pulled out the scalpel and saw his eyes reflected in the metal blade.
He finished drinking the beer, emptying the bottle, and took it along with the scalpel over to the metal autopsy table. Dutton used foreign objects, including beer bottles, to penetrate his victims.
He placed the items on a stand next to the autopsy table then grabbed his Nikon camera. After he took several close-ups he secured it onto the tripod he placed near the foot of the table.
Looking down at the man who was squirming on the table-the drug no longer paralyzing his muscles-he told him, "Romans 13:4 said that "it is of earthly power that he bears not the sword in vain: for he is God's minister, an avenger to execute wrath upon him that does evil.'" He showed Dutton the scalpel in his hand and said, "It's not a sword, but it is the instrument for which I use to execute God's wrath onto the wicked."
Dutton started twisting in the leather straps that held him against the table as he started pleading with him again.
"There are three types of people that I consider the most evil, Mr. Dutton. Men who abuse their wives. Those who deal death to kids. And then there are people like you. Those who commit sexual assault on children. You don't only abuse them, you torture them, and then kill them. Innocent children. I don't understand people like you, but I have to in order to do my job properly. I was told once that I need to acquire practical knowledge to understand humanity better. The good and the evil. So, in order to understand what you and men like you do and why, I have to do what you do. If it makes you feel any better, I consider you a necessary casualty in a Holy War against evil. You should feel...oddly blessed and appreciative to be selected for such a divine cause."
He let Dutton scream and plead and cry out as he imagined Kevin Greene and countless other little boys did until he picked up a knife and slit Dutton's throat. Tilting his head at the body on his table, he watched as life faded from Dutton's eyes as his blood flowed from the wound, out into the metal table, and down the pipe into the bucket under the table. He didn't let a single drop go to waste.
He blinked back and checked the time on his watch. In five hours he'd have to be at work. He needed to get some sleep.
The upstairs of the warehouse had once all been gray carpet and with horribly painted beige walls was now an open concept with hardwood floors. An open bookshelf divided the space with one half the couch and television mounted on the wall, and the other had an armchair with an ottoman and a small table where he would sit and read and drink. He had several closets against the back wall and on the opposite, outer wall, there were tall and long warehouse windows. There were no blinds because all the windows were so high up.
His bedroom was at the far end and he quickly headed there. Undressing down to his boxers, he showered and then crawled into bed.
It'd been a long day.
~"Jai guru deva-"~
It wasn't until the next day, while at the crime lab when Bruce Mitchell, his supervisor, pulled him into his office to tell him the news. "Congratulations, Grissom, your transfer request to the Las Vegas Crime Lab has been approved."
He smiled slightly as he gave a nod. "Great; it'll save me the gas from all the times I drive to and from Vegas on my days off."
"You must really love Sin City."
"I love playing poker. Not to mention the long drive alone through the desert. It gives me time to think."
"Like you need more time to think. As for your last case here in the City of Angels," Mitchell handed him the assignment slip, "dead body out in West Hollywood."
He took the sheet and smiled as he left the office. Once at the scene that was out past West Hollywood, he parked in the back parking lot and pulled out his field kit and approached the brick apartment building that looked as if it'd been constructed in the 1930's.
An officer was standing next to a vehicle. It was a black 1987 Pontiac.
Registered owner: Timothy Dutton.
Rounding the corner, he approached the steps leading up to the side entrance. He saw Dutton's shoes first, and then his legs and torso. He was dressed in what he was last seen in at the little league practice. Jeans, black t-shirt. His head was pointed toward the ground as the top part of his body was lying on the steps, his legs were on the landing.
He knelt down and pulled on a pair of latex gloves as Detective Logan walked over. "Exposed hypopharynx following a cut throat," he told him as he tilted the head back to expose the throat. "Victim most likely hemorrhaged, went into shock, and suffered asphyxia from aspirated blood."
Cause of death: blood loss and aspiration of blood following a cut throat.
Bringing up the camera to his eye, he snapped a photo.
He looked down the sidewalk and got up and started toward the front of the building. Getting to the corner, he stopped walking and turned around and took in the sight before him.
The way the light came from a streetlight near the corner, the wooden fence that ran along the side, separating the apartment building from the property of the bungalow next door. And then there was Dutton's body. Lying on its back, head toward the ground on concrete steps, his arms hanging down past his head. His neck opened, exposing the hypopharynx, and the blood pooled below his head, running down the steps.
Bringing the camera up, he focused the lens and took another picture.
~"Jai guru deva."~
This was his art.
2009
WLVU Lecture Hall
Dr. Langston looked around the room at the people gathered as he took in everything that had been said. It was all very remarkable.. As he listened to Grissom tell of his childhood and his first killings, he was astonished by his memory and his description of every detail. He was also amazed at his openness. Usually serial killers tried to lie or they took pleasure in playing games and inciting a response, but Grissom was different. His honesty was refreshing.
"That was very detailed, Dr. Grissom, you have an exceptional memory."
"It's a gift," he told him.
"From who?"
Grissom smirked and said, "Who do you think?"
Langston realized that Grissom was referring to God. "You believe God gave you the gift of memory?"
"Of course," he said with a shrug.
"Do you believe yourself to be a gift from God?" He was silent as he thought about that. He thought about it for such a long time he had to ask, "Dr. Grissom, are you still with us?"
He looked down at him from the screen and gave a nod. Then, he said, "I'm...confused by your question."
Langston tried to think of a way to rephrase it when someone spoke up from the lecture hall.
"I think he's asking if you think you're better than other people. If you're a narcissist, Gil."
Langston looked back at the woman who spoke it and noticed it was the woman who had once worked with Grissom. She was blond.
"Oh," Grissom said as he thought about it again, this time with a shake of his head. "C.S. Lewis wrote that "Humility is not thinking less of yourself, it's thinking of yourself less." There was only one time that it was a purely selfish act. All others I did with the thought of the victims in mind. I wasn't thinking of myself at all."
"Was your first kill, the murder of Father Thomas, your selfish act?"
He shook his head. "That came much later. With Father Thomas...When I was a kid, I thought I was the only one. When I got older, I realized how wrong I was."
"I'm surprised you still have faith after your childhood."
He was silent; thinking. "Through science, I find God. It's a symbiotic relationship."
"Why did you keep doing it?" someone asked. "Was it fun?"
"Was, what, fun?" Grissom asked whomever asked the question.
The audience in the lecture hall were now openly asking questions. Langston was going to start allowing questions from the audience anyway, so he let the interruption go.
"Killing?" one of the students asked.
Grissom grew confused again as he shook his head. "The emotion I would attribute to how I felt when I saw someone's life leave their body would not be fun. Fun to me is...dropping straight down a track going sixty miles an hour right before coming back up into a loop before going back up a steep hill and then...plummeting down all over again. Roller coasters are fun. Killing, killing was...I would observe the subject. Then I would form questions. How should I approach this problem? Hypothesize a way to eliminate the subject in a way that could benefit me later when dealing with the same type of criminal or crime scene. What methods should I use to test my hypothesis? Experimentation. Execution. Then finally, contemplation as I drew my conclusions."
"The scientific method. In other words, you don't feel anything when you kill, do you?" Langston asked him. "It's all analytical."
Grissom considered that a moment before answering, "That's exactly what I'm saying."
It was so silent in the lecture hall; he could've heard a pin drop. He didn't know if he would have preferred it if Gil Grissom had felt something or not. Usually, killers felt arousal when they killed, or enjoyment, excitement, euphoria. Some sort of emotion.
He didn't know how he felt or thought to know that Grissom felt absolutely nothing.
"Have you ever been in love?" another student asked.
Grissom went silent, his eyes grew distant; there was a light in his eyes, almost fondness, as he smiled. "I have."
"What does it feel like to you?"
With another smirk, he answered, "Helter Skelter. The Beatles."
TBC...
Disclaimer: Songs used/mentioned in chapter: "Across the Universe" by The Beatles. "Witchy Woman" by the Eagles. "Comfortably Numb" by Pink Floyd.