I HAD SEEN JASPER Ross-Johnson’s picture in the newspaper, obviously. But that didn’t prepare me for the man that shuffled into the visiting room at Howard R. Young Correctional Institute. He moved with a heaviness that belied his birdlike stature. I’d seen that a million times before, in almost every prison I’d ever visited. Criminals, especially of the notorious variety, were never as physically imposing as I’d expected. On top of that, prison—the confinement, the stress, and most of all the horribly unhealthy food—sapped years of life in the span of days. But the true killers always made up for that when I looked into their eyes.
I turned to look at my camera operator. She stood over my right shoulder, filming. We’d just met that morning and I’d forgotten her name.
“You’re getting this, right?” I asked.
She nodded. When I looked at him again, the same disjointed feeling struck me. Maybe it was the fiery red of his skin. Or maybe the thin layer of lightly colored stubble that seemed to cover his entire body, from his head to the backs of his hands. It could have been the way his drab prison-issue clothing draped on his frame. The way it was perfectly pressed, as if it were hung from the tracks at the local dry cleaners, waiting to be picked up.
As he neared the window, his eyes met mine. Tiny and dark, they delved deep. I forced myself to breathe and keep eye contact until he looked away. His eyes slipped to the camera, and I was able to take a breath. Then he sat down heavily across from me. His legs tightly crossed, Jasper rocked forward before speaking.
“Nothing has caused the human race so much trouble as intelligence.”
I shifted in my seat. “Excuse me?”
He frowned, watching me. Something about what he’d said struck me, though it came with no context whatsoever.
“That’s from a movie,” I said.
Jasper’s dark eyes shined. He clapped his little hands together. I smiled, caught off guard by his childlike excitement.
“Do you know who?”
I thought about it but shook my head.
“Hitchcock,” he said.
And it came back to me. “Rear Window!”
Jasper clapped again. “Exactly.”
The guard turned his head toward Jasper. The little man noticed the attention and his demeanor changed immediately. He slumped down in his chair, almost as if he was returning to the character he had been playing when I first saw him enter.
“Nice to meet you, Theodore,” he said, his tone changing back as well. “I’ve seen your work.”
“You have?”
“Of course,” he said with a soft laugh. “I watched a good amount of television … prior to this. My incarceration.” His eyes flickered. “Three hundred eleven days … six hours … and thirteen minutes.” A sharp focus returned. “I wish I could have enjoyed your second film, the portrayal of Joseph Bender’s life.”
“That film wasn’t released,” I said tersely.
“I know. You failed to stay appropriately nonbiased. Something about his sister. And a lawsuit. I read Variety.”
I flinched, and he smiled. “She … misled me.”
He barked out a laugh. “She was an exotic dancer, correct? I’m sure she did far more than mislead you.” He paused, shaking his head. “I don’t know why every article mentioned that. We do love the tawdry, don’t we?”
My voice grated a little, but I fought to soften it. Play it cool. “I try to let the story tell itself.”
Jasper leaned forward. “Is that what you call it?”
“Excuse me?”
“A story,” he said. “I guess that’s the truth of it. Life is just a story. Though we write our own script, you never really can predict the ending. Regardless, I guess you’re here to talk about my early years. That’s how you handled your first film. And I believe that’s how you would have handled your second. You certainly have a gift for the cinematic scene.”
My teeth clicked together as I forced my mouth shut. He must have watched the clip I put on Twitter. The one from the Bender film that got me in so much trouble. Breathing in through my nose, I told myself to slow down. He was testing me. They always did that, in their own way. That’s why he was bringing up Bender and the incident. But I could handle it. I just had to breathe.
That’s when I realized my mistake. I’d broken the cardinal rule of making a documentary. I’d arrived that afternoon with an agenda. That story of the woman on the beach was like a needle in my brain. I needed to know who she was. And if she had caused him to slip up after so long. What was it about her? Could she be his kryptonite?
That’s not how it works, though. I should have learned that from Geri Bender. I’m not calling the shots. I’m not some novelist sitting in a coffee shop, staring out the window at the passing world, and playing God on his laptop keyboard. No, I am the light-shiner. This was not my story. It was his.
So, I leaned back and tented my hands. “Is that where you’d like to start?”
Jasper looked thoughtful, then nodded. “Yes, that seems appropriate.”
ACT ONE/SCENE 3
EXT. THE BEACH—DAY
We see the same beach in daylight. Happy families—dads with muttonchops and moms in high-waisted bikinis—lounge on the sand and splash in the green-gray surf. The camera pans past the dunes to the opulent mansions overlooking the coast, focusing on the childhood home of the Halo Killer.
A CHYRON appears on the perfect blue sky: MAY 29,1971.
The Halo Killer’s life began in a beautiful beachfront home. With floor-to-ceiling windows cracked open to let in the crisp, briny breeze and fill the house with the sound of the rumbling surf, his parents held court. Deeply plugged into the socialite culture, they threw parties every month, and invitations were highly coveted. Moving among the beachy yet modern furniture and the original art hanging on freshly painted walls, one would expect to cross paths with CEOs, politicians, even a certain local boy turned Hollywood movie star.
During one of these parties in the early seventies, Franklin Johnson and Clara Ross stood on the landing of their great room, a perfect ocean view over their shoulders, and she clinked a fork lightly against the rim of a champagne flute. Everyone’s attention turned to Clara as she stood next to her impeccably dressed husband, holding his hand and smiling.
“We’re having a child,” she announced.
Franklin gave one of his speeches, quoting Breakfast at Tiffany’s and making up a rousing yet quirky limerick on the spot. There was laughter and a spattering of applause, as well as a few raised eyebrows. It was the seventies. Even among this mostly enlightened crowd, their marriage was considered of convenience. The addition of a child didn’t seem to fit. Maybe one or two attendees that night noticed how tightly Clara gripped Franklin’s hand. Or how she looked away as he recited his poem. In the end, the party continued, and everyone shared the couple’s joy deep into the night.
At six, Jasper Ross-Johnson would build his first memory, one that would stick with him his entire life. By then, his mother’s dabbling in real estate had turned into a thriving business, one Clara Ross dedicated more and more time to each year. It was a Sunday, though Jasper didn’t realize it at the time. His mother had left early that morning to host an open house at one of her properties. His father moved through the house, singing to himself.
From that day forward, the smell of a certain men’s fragrance would bring him back to that memory. It would call up the feeling of walls closing in around him. It would return him to an utter, unforgiving darkness. Every time the scent slipped into his nostrils, it would be as if he could feel the gentle press of padding against his ears and the steady rhythm of classical music dancing in his skull. That morning, however, he simply smelled the cologne as he stood in the hallway watching his father primp.
Franklin noticed his young son through the mirror over his sink. He turned, his smile shining brighter than the exposed bulbs above the vanity.
“Want a squirt, my little man?”
Jasper nodded. With a laugh, Franklin knelt down and misted the fragrance into the air between them.
“Step through. Quickly!”
Jasper did as he was told, his bare toes slapping on the perfectly finished hardwood floor. He danced, lost in his father’s joyful reaction.
“That’s my boy,” Franklin said, tousling Jasper’s thick, strawberry hair.
Taking the boy’s hand, he led him into the kitchen. As young Jasper watched, Franklin opened the refrigerator and removed a china plate. Pulling back a layer of Saran Wrap, he uncovered a cheese sandwich and some baby carrots.
“Huh,” he said, staring at the perfect little lunch.
Franklin snatched the sandwich off the plate and took a significant bite. Chewing, he muttered something to himself and placed the plate on the granite counter. Jasper watched him chew, waiting.
“No crumbles,” Franklin said.
His father walked away, returning to his bathroom. Jasper watched him until he disappeared around the corner. Then he pulled the high counter stool out and carefully climbed onto it. He touched his sandwich with a pale finger, looked back the way his father had gone, and then picked up a carrot as carefully as he could. Leaning forward so that his mouth hung over the plate, he took a delicate bite.
When Franklin returned, Jasper hadn’t touched his sandwich. His father never looked at the plate as he whisked it off the counter and back into the refrigerator.
“Come on, buddy,” he said.
Jasper climbed down off the stool and followed his father into one of the guest bedrooms. The window was open, and he heard the ocean rumbling as it rolled over itself and hissed back onto the cool sand. He took a step toward that pure sound, only to be stopped by his father’s hand on his shoulder. When he turned, Franklin crouched, his face close as he spoke softly to his son.
“It’s naptime,” he said.
Jasper remained utterly silent as his father opened the closet door. Grabbing a yellow Sony Walkman off the shelf, he turned to his son. Jasper never hesitated. Maybe this was their routine. Maybe he’d done the exact same thing a hundred times before. Either way, he stepped into that closet. His father hit play and slipped the earphones over Jasper’s head. Smooth jazz masked the sound of the door locking. The darkness wrapped him up. Jasper didn’t move. He didn’t sit. He certainly never napped. He stood until the tape reached its end.
When the music stopped, Jasper’s eyes widened. Confused, he remained still for a time. Then, tentatively, he took a step toward the door. His tiny hand reached up for the knob. He grabbed it, trying to turn it. But it wouldn’t open. His chest tightened. The muscles of his forearm twitched. Jasper tried to open the door again and again and again.
He didn’t stop until he heard the voice. It boomed out, a man laughing and speaking loudly. Jasper’s eyes widened. His hand fell from the handle and he took a step back, knowing at once that it was not his father’s voice.