CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

I am hate. That emotion drives me and gives my life meaning.

Being unique and driven by a single emotion causes me to seek out the association of people who share this feeling. After assuming the identity of Jonathan Franklin, I skim my way through the Bureau. Every time I meet an agent, I touch him or her, which proves so simple since Franklin was in the habit of shaking the hand of everyone. He had an easy-going, ingratiating manner that I continue to simulate.

When I touch someone, I receive surface thoughts and images from that person. It is nothing like what a true fragmental can return, just strong impressions really. The basic personality of a person is apparent, regardless of the surface affections that people so often present. A person cannot conceal his true dislike behind a flashy smile and friendly manner.

When the White House summons me to personally report on the manhunt, I meet the President. He is a bland man, disappointing. When this is resolved it would be interesting to take him over, though this is just a whimsical thought at the moment. Leaving the President when I grow bored could prove difficult, since anyone walking away from a dead President might have a lot of explaining to do.

The most interesting person that I have found is an agent named Dean Thompson in Cleveland. When we shook hands a week ago, a vivid image of a woman looked back. Her green eyes were sick with fear and blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. A dark bruise covered one cheek.

At my request, a records clerk brings me Thompson’s personnel file. I find a typical special agent, highly intelligent, with degrees in psychology and law. He must have studied to pass the psychological batteries, since the results are normal. His ultimate goal, as expressed in his annual career evaluation interviews, is to join the Serial Crime Unit.

Intriguing. Serial killers fascinate me. The personality—narcissistic, amoral, sociopathic, compulsive—has existed since time out of mind. I have passed through their lives and their bodies. Nowadays, with such a mobile population, anonymity is easy and killers can wander with impunity.

Who was the woman in his mind? Further inquiry reveals that Thompson is working on a series of killings in Cuyahoga County. The Bureau is involved because the locals suspect a serial killer. The files are brought to me and I find a series of pictures of her, most of them from a crime scene or the coroner’s. There is one from a family album. She is victim number two.

But the image in Thompson’s mind was not of a dead woman, but of a woman about to die. He had been there. Two plus two equals four. What better way to get into the Serial Crime Unit than be involved in investigating a serial killer? Of course, it will be difficult for Thompson to produce a killer when he himself is the killer. He probably already has a fall guy picked out and is laying a trail of evidence.

This is not just professional ambition, but a twist on what must be a lifelong preoccupation. I suspect that if one investigates where he has lived in the past that one will find unexplained disappearances and killings. There are such disturbing stories in every city, but he would be responsible for some in his community.

There is a mirror on the wall in the office of the special agent-in-charge for Cleveland. I have appropriated the office for my own use while in the field. I place a chair facing the mirror.

A secretary summons Dean Thompson to the office, then leaves us alone. Thompson is a tall man, with strong shoulders and long, fine fingers. His dark, well-trimmed mustache lends a certain handsomeness to his narrow face. His eyes are calm, even eager, at being summoned by someone as important as myself.

“Please sit in this chair,” I say as I shake his hand. An eagerness to please is the dominant emotion within him.

He sits in the offered chair, frowning a bit with perplexity. I place both my hands on his shoulders and watch him in the mirror. I want to gauge his facial reactions as well as use my ability to skim off the thoughts on the surface of his mind.

“I know what you are,” I say.

Rapid images flicker through his mind: a slashing knife, pounding fists, unzipping his pants. I recognize some of the faces as other victims from the files, yet there are many who are not in the current files. A brief undercurrent of fear tingles through him. The fear is not debilitating for him, but intoxicating.

I laugh. “You like to kill women, don’t you, Special Agent Thompson?”

His eyes do not betray the slightest reaction to my accusation, a mark of the true sociopath. A conscience is completely alien to him. Guilt is something that other people feel. He is true kin to me, not weak like my father.

Sill, he cannot help being a bit concerned and his mind betrays him. While still a college student at Wake Forest, he was sloppy during a killing. The girl scratched him and he was forced to prematurely abandon her body when some hunters came through the woods. Scrapings from under her fingernails are still preserved as evidence, so a DNA test will send him to death row.

“Fingernail scrapings, Special Agent Thompson?” I say in a mocking tone. “Very clumsy.”

His eyes widen in astonishment. Guilt may not be there, but raw surprise always works.

“I know your secrets, Special Agent Thompson,” I say. “And because I know those secrets, I expect you to be very obedient. I don’t care if you continue to engage in your little hobby, just that you obey.”

He lurches out of the chair, breaking contact with my hands. He stares at me with wary eyes. The eyes are so expressive.

“Who are you?” he mutters.

“I am the Devil, Special Agent Thompson,” I reply. “Hold still.”

I move closer to touch him. He does not believe in the devil or any such supernatural nonsense; he only believes in his own compulsions and lust. A pity, since in the past I convinced many who fancied themselves witches or warlocks that I am the Devil Incarnate, and then I sent them to do my bidding. It is ironic, that I, who believe in no god, can so readily manipulate those that believe in God. For if you do not believe in God, then you can rarely believe in the opposite, the Archenemy.

“We have an understanding, then?”

He nods.

Special Agent Thompson is now my right-hand man, so to speak. He watches me kill special agents Fisher and Yalom in that cabin in Ohio. He fears me, which is the natural state that I expect and find most convenient.

We arrive in Greenville after driving all night. I refuse to use the executive jet that the Bureau provides for my use, since automobile mishaps are much easier to survive. Dozens of FBI agents are already canvassing the neighborhoods, with many more arriving every hour.

The Greenville police station is a wing to the city hall, a modern building in the middle of town. The lobby is an atrium with glass exterior walls. A modern sculpture of obscure intent dominates the middle of the tiled floor. Three plaques decorate a brick wall: officers slain in the line of duty. I read them since that is what Franklin always does when he encounters such memorials. The first met his fate in 1883 at the hands of a bank robber, the second in 1924 when he drowned while chasing a felon who escaped from a chain gang, and the last was stopped in 1928 by a moonshiner.

Even though it is not quite six in the morning, the police chief of Greenville is there to greet me in the lobby. He is a corpulent man with a ruddy complexion, eager to please, and thrilled that the infamous criminal might be in his city. The mayor also delays me in his inane eagerness to curry favor.

“Thank you, but I would like to interview the prisoner myself,” I say, cutting the chatter short.

“Yes, of course, Director,” the chief says. “You requested a soundproof room and the best we have is the council chambers, so we have set aside that room for you to use.”

The room is spacious, with thick windows along the southern wall to allow sunlight to bathe the room. The opposite wall contains a row of paintings, each a mayor of the city, all white and respectable. The raised end of the room contains a long curved table with seven chairs upholstered in ochre velvet, one for the mayor and six for the council members. The desk of the city recorder is set to the side. Over a hundred seats are available for the audience. A pair of large oak tables are located in the center of the room, with wooden chairs set around them.

Two jailers bring Rose Gardner in. She wears the orange jumpsuit of a prisoner, and her handcuffs are attached by a chain to her leg restraints, forcing her to shuffle with small steps while slightly stooped over. They guide her to a chair at one of the tables and sit her down.

She is a feisty woman. She sees me and Thompson and says, “I demand that a lawyer be present.”

The jailers look uncomfortable with this request. “It’s my responsibility, gentlemen,” I say, waving my hand in dismissal.

They act relieved as they quickly exit.

“Thompson,” I say. “You are to follow my instructions exactly. I am going to touch her for less than a second. If it becomes longer than a second, you are to pull us apart and prevent any further contact.”

He looks at me quizzically. “Do you understand?” I demand, forestalling the inevitable question.

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well, position yourself.”

Thompson stands near her and waits with his hands ready. I approach and reach out with my hand.

The woman lunges at me, grabbing my arms with both of her hands, clamping down like a vise. The grip is strong from years of working on her towboat. The fragmental inside her attacks me with incredible ferocity, trying to push his essence through her hands into me. I push back with my mind and desperately pull back on my arm. For a single moment, I feel as if I am in two bodies and neither one is a welcome home. Both bodies are instantly generating as much perspiration as if we had been running a marathon for an hour. Our hearts are racing with exertion, pulses throbbing, minds in confusion.

My precautions are completely justified. Thompson pushes the woman away, which is made easier because her sweating palms make it hard for her to retain her grip on me.

We are apart, making me safe. The woman topples over face first in her eagerness to pursue me. I dance farther away. I do not know if I would win a battle with my brother fragmental; and I do not intend to find out.

The rash course of action is to just kill her now and destroy that fragmental, but I want to know what my father is up to. She rolls over on her side to look up at me with a mixture of hostility and confusion. I suspect the latter emotion comes from the woman herself.

Perhaps I can use my brother’s weaknesses against him, by torturing her body until the fragmental slays the woman out of mercy. That would be an interesting diversion, but I do not have the time.

“Pin her to the floor,” I order Thompson.

In my briefcase, I find a syringe and vial of Diazepam, more commonly known as Valium. “I estimate your weight at one-fifty,” I say conversationally. “A diet might do you good.”

I empty two ampoules to obtain four milliliters of the clear fluid, a sufficient overdose to make her drowsy, but not put her to sleep. Since the fragmental within her must express himself through her neurochemistry, the drug will weaken him and render him ripe for interrogation.

She starts to scream, “Help! Help! Anyone! Help! He is trying to kill me!” Thompson holds her tightly, pressing his knee down on her shoulders. She goes quiet when he pushes harder, forcing the wind out of her.

Checking my watch for the time, I then move swiftly, pushing the needle into the vein on her arm. I am careful not to actually touch her. The irony of this situation is not lost on me. I am using Thompson as my surrogate. The fragmental inside the woman could easily kill him, but is constrained by the weaknesses of morality. My father and brothers do not easily make the decision to kill, even when in mortal peril. The fragmental inside the woman knows that while he may die, the core will live on, for a while at least. Killing Thompson serves no purpose, since I can always find another lackey.

“Release her,” I instruct Thompson. When he stands, the woman lies on the floor, gasping for breath. The color returns to her face, but she remains calm.

“Roll her over.” Thompson does so, allowing her to relax.

When fifteen minutes have passed, the drug has completely penetrated and dominated her system. Her eyelids are even growing droopy.

“I am going to touch her for a second, no more, just like last time,” I tell Thompson. “Pull me away if I don’t stop touching her.”

“Yes, sir.”

I carefully touch her face. There is no reaction from her or the fragmental inside. Drawing my hand back, I grin in satisfaction. My well-laid plans are working. One last precaution.

“Put her on the chair and tie her there.”

Thompson manhandles her into the chair and secures her with straps produced from my briefcase. The straps cut deeply into the flesh of her arms, creating bruises.

“I am now going to touch her for a longer period of time,” I explain to Thompson. “Only pull me away if I look like I am in distress. Understand?”

He sighs, not out of boredom, for he is clearly fascinated by this bizarre process, but out of frustration because he cannot piece together an explanation for the situation.

Crouching down and positioning myself on my heels, I carefully reach out to touch the woman. I place myself in such an awkward position so that if I have miscalculated the danger, gravity will aid me falling away from the woman.

My hand touches her face, and I push inward. She is practically asleep, her thoughts dulled by the drug. My brother is further back in her mind, cowering in terror. I push forward as far as a fragmental can, seeking to grasp him and rip his secrets from him.

My brother is waiting for me, weak and sluggish, but his purpose does not require much speed. He slays the woman—his carrier—and tries to take me with him and her. He recognized that I would kill her anyway, just as I have killed all the others.

I fall back, pulling out like drowning man gasping for air.

The woman and my brother are dead.