As I sat down at the table, I found Haines’s eyes fixed on me. “Hello,” he said; he wasn’t addressing me so much as he was my bruising.
The correctional officers filed out. When we were alone I produced a piece of paper with typewritten questions on it.
“The last time we talked,” I said, “we began to discuss your family.”
His eyes continued studying my neck. He was like a wino fixated on someone else’s full bottle.
“Your bruising is recent,” Haines said. “It’s not yet in full bloom. I would guess it happened last night.”
“According to you,” I said, “you had a perfectly normal childhood, with no physical or sexual abuse.”
“I don’t believe your bruises are consistent with manual strangulation; I see no telltale marks from prying fingers.”
“Did you love your parents?”
“And what you have isn’t the kind of bruising that occurs from a figure-four hold or a carotid restraint, or even a lateral vascular neck restraint. Neither is the bruising pattern consistent with the ligature marks from a tightened stocking, but it was some kind of garrote, wasn’t it?”
“I’m into autoerotic asphyxiation. Is that something you practiced as well?”
I was rather proud of my transition into another question. The Feds had actually wanted me to ask him about autoerotic asphyxiation.
“If I answer that question,” Haines said, “will you answer mine?”
When I finally nodded he said, “I never practiced, or was personally interested in, autoerotic asphyxiation. What caused those marks around your neck?”
“An animal-control pole.”
My answer delighted Haines. “I never considered such an application. What a perfect use. As you know, I prefer the up-close-and-personal techniques, but there were those occasions when having a little distance would have made things much easier. And while I would never perform the coup de grace with such a tool, it could certainly prove useful as a prelude to a kill. Now who was it that wanted you hurt and why?”
“It was my girlfriend. She was dressed up as Little Bo Peep and I was the sheep. I’m afraid she got a little rough.”
“I hope you don’t think you’re pulling the wool over my eyes with that story.”
He wanted a smile, so I frowned. Haines’s initial greeting had summed up only too well where we were: in the heart of darkness. Whenever I visit San Quentin, I have to sign a form at reception that states the prison authorities aren’t responsible for me if I am taken captive and won’t be bargaining for my release. The form also states they aren’t liable for any injuries I sustain and that if I die it’s my own tough luck.
San Quentin is the only place in the state of California where you can legally kill another human being. The prison has the dubious distinction of having the largest death row contingent in the nation. At last count, almost six hundred fifty prisoners were waiting to die. They once hung inmates at San Quentin, and then they built a gas chamber and gassed them with hydrogen cyanide, but nowadays lethal injections are used on the condemned. The gas chamber-painted in awful lime green-has not yet been retired, though. It is still the death room. The condemned inmates are strapped down on a gurney inside of the gas chamber and lethally injected.
Most of the condemned inmates live in the East Block, a five-story cage of the damned that is loud and leaky. Scott Peterson, who was convicted of murdering his pregnant wife Laci, is one of those there. The privileged killers are in North Segregation. No one would mistake North Seg for a country club, but it’s relatively quiet and on a good day wouldn’t be mistaken for a leper colony.
I was a visitor, but it still felt as if I was the one on death row.
“Actually,” I said, “one of the reasons I came here was to question you about my attackers.”
“And why would you question me?”
“Because my assailants sounded as if they were acting on your behalf. They definitely were true believers, referring to the Prophet. Isn’t that what you’re calling yourself these days?”
“I have never referred to myself as a prophet. It is others that have given me that title.”
“These three had all swallowed your end-of-the-world drivel hook, line, and sinker. I heard them talking up your favorite buzzwords like ‘Gotterdammerung,’ and ‘Ragnarok,’ and ‘the twilight of the gods.’ They also said something about settling the score.”
“I had nothing to do with the attack on you.”
“Their leader said my death would debunk the very notion that there is such a thing as good and evil. That sounds like your blather.”
“I find all of that interesting.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
“Do you blame Christ for his many so-called followers that have killed in his name?”
“I’d be more comfortable if you compared yourself to Adolf Hitler.”
“My point is that if these want-to-be disciples were trying to act in my name, they were not directed by me. I am very selective in the followers I choose.”
“What? They need to have a pulse?”
“Many are called but few are chosen.”
“I am going to nail my attackers,” I said. “The ringleader had some distinctive tattoos. You better hope he doesn’t implicate you.”
“I am guilty only of being a visionary.”
“Spreading ignorance doesn’t even make you a false prophet.”
Haines continued to stare at the bruising on my neck. “I suppose I should be flattered that they tried to avenge me as well as pay homage to my handiwork.”
“When you strangled your victims, were you playing out some kind of bondage fantasy?”
“Is that one of the questions those Quantico miscreants prepared for you?”
“Is that a yes?”
“Why do you shill for the Behavioral Science Unit?”
“Since you won’t talk to the FBI, I ask questions on their behalf.”
“And you think that serves a purpose?”
“You were a meteorologist.”
“I am a meteorologist.”
“You studied weather patterns. For a time your specialty was hurricanes. You worked on trying to understand what caused hurricanes to form, and when they did form you tried to predict their paths. The profilers are doing many of the same things you did. They accumulate data and try and figure out why certain individuals act as they do.”
“So, I’m a hurricane, is that it?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. The similarity starts and stops at a lot of hot air.”
Before my partner and I captured Haines, he had been known in the media as the Santa Ana Strangler. After he was arrested a new nickname had caught on, one that was proving more popular than the original. Most people now called him the Weatherman, a nickname Haines detested. While it was true that he had been a weatherman on television for two years, he thought the title demeaning. As Haines was quick to point out, he was a trained meteorologist with many years of experience in the field.
I liked it that the nickname of the Weatherman nettled him. At his trial, he had helped bring the name upon himself. After his guilt was pronounced by the jury, Haines had stood up and sung the song “Stormy Weather.” He didn’t quite do the Billie Holiday version, choosing to alter the lyrics to suit his own situation, but the effect was absolutely chilling. As the judge tried to regain control of his courtroom, Haines assumed a weatherman persona, complete with hand gestures and facial emphasis. Pointing to an imaginary screen, he said, “You can see we have an intense low-pressure area forming all over the Southland, and with it you can expect killer winds. If I were you, I’d shut your windows and lock your doors, because the big, bad wolf is about to blow.”
And then, even as the bailiff was dragging him away, Haines did his imitation of the wolf blowing down a house, which caused more screams in the courtroom.
He was always a good meteorologist, though. Later that day there were heavy winds throughout Los Angeles: Haines knew his stormy weather.