AS FROM A TALENTED ANIMAL
by Carley Eason Evans
2014 Copyright All Rights Reserved
20 – Over Distances
(David’s Journal Entry)
The pharmacy job was boring and I didn’t stay there long. I quit after six months, did an internet search and found the job I had for the remainder of the time I was ‘on the loose’ so to speak. I found employment in the large distribution center. Although I realize that sounds just as boring as stocking medications in the pharmacy, the distribution center job involved travel in a van to all parts of Rapid City and to some of the outlying areas. This travel afforded me opportunities to identify more victims — and if you haven’t figured it out yet — that was what I was searching. At all times, I searched for people over which to wield power — the power to terrify hearts, the power to take lives. Being inside a van, I was able to spot potentials — people who appeared vulnerable or deserving or better yet — both.
I tried to explain this to Max Peterson at our next interview but he was distracted by Felix, or so it seemed to me. I thought perhaps Max wanted to spend his precious time with the guard more than he wanted to spend his time with me. He kept glancing at Felix while I talked about the red-haired woman I killed soon after graduating from college. Max acted as if he didn’t know I’d gone to the University of Iowa or that I graduated with a degree in Chemistry. But, he also didn’t appear particularly interested in these facts, ignoring me when I told him I graduated with honors. While I talked, Max looked at Felix who gave him a knowing look at least once. I smiled at the two men who were attempting to communicate something to one another.
Then Max stared at me, said, “Excuse me, did you say you’d graduated from the University of Iowa with honors?”
I grinned, said, “I did.”
“My, my,” said Max; then he mocked me, “You must be so proud.”
“Well, where’d you go to school?” I paused. I’d never asked Max for any personal information so I wasn’t entirely surprised by the look he gave me or the silence that fell in the small room. Of course, Max just shook his head and told me he had no intention of sharing any of his life with “someone like you, David.”
“Someone like me?” I asked rhetorically.
Max ignored my comment, asked, “Well I guess you should tell me about the red-head.”
“I just did,” I protested. “You weren’t listening.”
“No, I guess I wasn’t.”
Felix shifted. I looked at him, said, “What’s with you?” The guard didn’t answer.
“Something’s come up, David,” I said.
“My article — well my rough draft of it — has stirred some questions about you,” I said. “At the magazine, my editor asked me the same question I’ve asked myself — why there’s no forensic evidence against you after all these years?”
“Cause I’m too good,” suggested David. Then he laughed, “Or because I didn’t kill anyone.”
Max pointed to the guard, said, “The latter is what Felix thinks. I’m thinking your brother also believes you didn’t kill anyone you claimed to kill.”
“Felix,” I said, “you old dog.”
The guard involuntarily smiled at me, then moved into the room toward Max. Felix said, “You knew that, didn’t you, Mr. Mock — that I haven’t thought of you as a killer for years now.”
“No,” I said honestly, “I didn’t know that. You always seem so paranoid when Michael is here. You act terrified that you’ll let me out instead of him at the end of our visits.”
“Well, that would cost me my position, Mr. Mock.”
“Why do you call me that, Felix?” The guard usually called me David. I wondered why he was using my given name today.
“Because you are not David Stone,” said Felix. “As Dr. Wiggins always tells you — there is no David Stone; there’s only Richard Mock.”
“But,” I said, “Dr. Smack — I mean, Dr. Wiggins thinks I’m a killer, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Max Peterson, “I think Dr. Wiggins believes you are the serial killer you pretend to be.”
“Am I that good of an actor, Mr. Peterson?”
“I guess so,” said Max. But I spotted the doubt — that nagging uncertainty — in his expression. He didn’t know for sure. He was afraid of being made a fool. He was distressed that Dr. Smack might — in fact — be correct. Max was worried that I was indeed a hideous monster. And in Max’s doubt I had my power over him. Then, I looked at Felix. The guard was looking at me with the same pity and understanding I loathed. Now I knew why I did not have power over him. Felix didn’t believe. Without belief in my monstrosity, there could be no fear and without fear, there was no power.
“Well,” I said to Max, “what are you going to do about it?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Well,” I continued, “if I didn’t kill all those people — any of those people — then I am being held for nothing.”
Felix nodded his head, whispered, “That’s exactly right.”
“I’m not sure,” said Max. “Why don’t you do something?” he asked me.
“Not sure what I can do,” I lied.
Felix offered, “You could tell the superintendent that you lied when you confessed.”
I glared at the guard, then whispered, “I guess I could do that.”
“Sure,” said Max in a manner that sounded half-hearted, “you could do that.”
D.S. March 15, 2011
The idea of denying my confessions bothered me for the entire weekend. During the week, most inmates had assignments — essentially job tasks around the hospital. I worked in the laundry on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and in the gardens on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Not surprisingly I preferred the gardens. Being outside was good. But on the weekends we each had too much time on our hands — time to worry, time to get bored, time to grow anxious and crazy.
On top of having more time with myself and with no one else, I also had another dead person calling across time and space, reminding me that I was not an innocent victim. This person I killed in Wyoming. I’d driven across the state border on a weekend excursion — I’d decided to go camping, try my hand at fishing. I had nothing better to do.
Just across the border, my old heap failed me. I stood peering under the faded blue hood pretending I might discover what was wrong when a bright red pick-up truck pulled over in front of my car. A forty-something gentleman hopped out of the cab, called out, “You need some help there, buddy?”
I put on my best smile and said, “I surely do.”
The man wore coveralls and a red and black plaid shirt making him look like a lumberjack — except that he was small in frame and wasn’t carrying an axe. He leaned in next to me to stare at the engine. He wiggled a couple of cables and grinned at me. He said, “I really don’t know much about engines.”
“Neither do I.” I smiled at the man.
“Well,” he said, “I tell you what. I’m driving into Gillette, why don’t you come along? Just lock up your car and I’ll take you to a garage I know where you can get a towing service —.”
I interrupted him. “Yes, that’d be great.”
The man hesitated, added, “It’s a ways from here, but I’m pretty sure your car will be here when you come back for it.”
“Oh,” I said, “don’t worry about my old heap. She’s seen better days, but I think she’ll survive without me.”
“Okay then,” said the man.
I excused myself from him, reached into my car to get my short blade knife which I placed in the concealed holster in the crook of my back. From the back seat, I grabbed my camping kit — a small tent, a sleeping bag and some food and water. Then I slammed the driver’s door, locked the car and followed the gentleman to his pick-up truck. I tossed my camping gear in the truck bed, and climbed into the passenger side.
The day was overcast and the light from the afternoon was fading rapidly. As we drove along, the man grew silent. He turned on the radio and we listened to country-western songs for miles. Then he turned it down, asked me, “So you live around these parts?”
“Rapid City,” I said.
“Nice town,” he said.
“It’s okay,” I agreed.
Silence fell again. The man turned up the radio so that we listened to more country-western songs. About twenty-five miles later, he turned the radio down again, introduced himself, “My name’s Bob Miller.”
“I’m David Stone,” I said.
“Nice to meet you, Dave.”
“David,” I said.
Bob Miller nodded, cocked his head, said, “Okay.”
Silence fell once more. For a few minutes, Bob didn’t turn the radio volume back up, then he reached for the knob and turned it up louder than before. The music swelled and I shut my eyes.
“You going to sleep?” Bob shouted over the music.
“I doubt it,” I said.
After another thirty minutes of driving, darkness fell on the roadway. I said over a song, “I need to piss.”
“Oh, right,” said Bob.
“Pull over right here, anywhere, I mean.”
“Okay, sure.” He drove on a few miles looking for a turn-in. The road was wide and the shoulder relatively even. He pulled in and turned off the engine. As soon as he did, I reached back to the knife in the holster, pulled it, turned slightly toward Bob and stuck the blade under his right arm into his chest. He flinched as I’m certain it was a shock. He grabbed at me, but I’d taken the knife from his ribcage and made one clean slice across his jugular — the blood was already spurting against the inside of the truck’s windshield. He gurgled one word or semblance of a word before he died. As he tried to speak one more time, I pulled up his right shirt sleeve and meticulously carved a small diamond on the inside of his wrist. Then, I got out of the truck, stood, unzipped my fly and took my piss. After relieving myself, I leaned back into the cab, took my shirt corner and wiped down the passenger door, the dashboard, and the seat while avoiding the blood that was still gushing from Bob Miller. Then I gathered my belongings from the truck bed, turned away, and headed into the woods.
Flashlight on, I walked well into the night, using my compass to make sure I was heading away from the highway and not accidentally circling back which is so easy to do. I found a stream, set up the tent, rolled out the sleeping bag, ate a dry meal bar and drank a bottle of water, then slept. In the morning, I surveyed my map of Wyoming. I’d noted the mile markers as Bob clipped along on the highway and so I had a good idea where I was — Gillette would be a four mile hike west of my location.
When I arrived, I told the garage attendant my car was parked by the side of the road immediately beyond the border between South Dakota and Wyoming.
“You walked all that way?” he asked, incredulous.
“No, no,” I chuckled. “I hitched — got a few rides. But yes — I did hike a bit.”
“Why didn’t you hike back to Rapid City?”
I stared at the garage attendant as I didn’t have a ready, reasonable answer to this question. I shrugged my shoulders, laughed, “I guess because I’m not very bright.”
The attendant — who was probably twenty-five or so — laughed. I glared at him but he missed it because he was looking at his dirty fingernails. He said, “Well, it’s likely to cost you a small fortune to have your car towed from there to here. I’ll call my sister shop in Rapid City and have them pick it up. How’s that sound?”
“Sounds like a great idea,” I said, smiling.
“Now all you have to do is get home,” he added.
Getting home didn’t prove to be as difficult as I expected. I found the bus station in downtown Gillette — the garage attendant was kind enough to drop me off so that I caught a red-eye special back into Rapid City. Then I took a taxi to my house.
The next morning, the sister garage called me to tell me my old blue Ford Taurus had died.
“There’s no fixing that Ford, sir.”
“Okay,” I said, then asked what the garage would do with the Taurus.
“The junk yard will pick it up this afternoon, crush it most likely, sell off the metal.”
“What about the engine?” I asked.
“Worthless,” said the attendant. “You might come pick up the tires — they’ve got some tread left on ‘em.”
“No,” I said, “that’s okay. You can have them if you want them.”
“Well, thanks for thinking of us, sir. Have a good day.”
I surprised myself as I responded, “You, too.”
D.S. March 22, 2011