“You mean that you killed your victims…at the desire of their relatives?”
“Not all of them. Only the first three cases—yes, I paid my debt. And then I understood that I should continue. I realized that to try to explain anything was useless, I would have only gotten into a sanitarium. And also I understood how religions would react to my revelations. The idiots thinking that it is possible to make an agreement with Him… There is nobody to agree with there. And not at all because He is infinitely cleverer than we are. On the contrary, I doubt that He—It—has any intelligence in general. Perhaps It had long ago when It created the world… but even that is unlikely. And now It is simply a glutton…” he paused again. “So I realized that I can not save everyone or even a large number. But I tried to rescue at least some good people whom I met. And the only rescue from the fate all of us face is…”
“Painful death.”
“Yes. Well, or shameful one; it works, too. But I couldn’t give it to them—it requires the hatred and contempt of a large number of people…”
Oh yes. As, for example, in case of execution of a bloody maniac.
“Didn’t you think about mass acts of terrorism?” I asked aloud.
“Certainly I did,” he nodded. “But during powerful explosions, the majority perish instantly, so it won’t work. However, death from poisoning with certain gases can be painful enough… but I could neither buy nor make them. I am not a chemist.”
“I see,” I said.
“You don’t believe me,” he sighed.
“In any case, what you told me sounds rather…”
“It is not necessary to choose politically correct formulations. Let’s use elementary logic. If my story is a lie, then I deserve execution as a monstrous serial killer. And if it is the truth—you understand why I want such a death. So simply don’t interfere, OK? Do the formalities that the law requires of you, but nothing more. Eventually, it’s just simpler for you, in all senses, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“So, do we agree?” he stared into my eyes with hope.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Jackson.”
When “the New Ripper case” was heard for the first time, the court hall had overflowed; moreover, even outside in front of the building, a fair crowd gathered, shaking placards like “Fry the bastard!” over their heads. The second process attracted much less interest. Very few people doubted that it was a mere formality and with his guilt so incontestable, the sentence would be confirmed. Even most of the relatives of victims—excepting those who were called as witnesses for the prosecution—preferred not to come, probably having found it too hard to relive painful memories. Though I do not doubt that they were going to attend the execution.
The prosecution portion of the hearing rolled as on rails to its obvious ending. Evidence, protocols, testimony… “Does the defense have questions for the witness?” “No, Your Honor.” “Produce the next witness…” What questions could there be to the undoubtedly proven facts? The artist carelessly struck a pencil on paper, drafting portraits of the participants of the hearing. Once I caught his derisive, but sympathetic glance as if to say, “Bad luck, guy. Though the case is headline-making, you definitely won’t become famous for it…”
And here is, at last, my statement in pleading. I stood up, winked to the artist and, without hurrying, opened the papers.
“‘The independent expert psychiatric appraisal which has been carried out… having considered the presented audio- and videorecord of the conversation…” (yes, yes—I recorded video, too, using a tiny directed camera lens in my top button, in the best traditions of spy movies) “using the techniques of analysis… on the basis… complex case… the conclusion… paranoid psychosis of traumatic genesis. Thus, on the question of whether the subject was sane at the moment of he committed certain criminal acts and whether he can bear responsibility for them, the answer is—negative.’”
Noise in the hall. Jackson looks at me with round eyes. Then he tries to move forward, but guards hold him:
“Son of a bitch! You promised me!”
The accused, known before for his equanimity—by the way, it’s one of the signs of his disorder—has real hysterics. I smile indulgently to the judge. Informal, but quite indicative confirmation of the expert opinion…
The prosecution inertly demands yet another psychiatric examination. The judge rejects. Oh yes, certainly—experts can make mistakes (though the opinion I presented is decorated with very authoritative signatures). But any doubt is treated in favor of the accused. Especially when the matter is not feigned illness to save his life, but feigned health to go to the electric chair. In this case the pathology is obvious even without sophisticated medical terms…
The sentence. Everyone stands up.
“… not guilty of capital murder by reason of insanity and he shall be placed for compulsory treatment in the Greenhill psychiatric hospital until such time…”
“You bastard!”
It’s not Jackson shouting now. This is a woman in a black scarf, the mother of one of the victims. And she shouts not at the murderer but at me. She believes that I saved the torturer of her child from his deserved punishment. Though, actually, a lifelong stay in a mental hospital is not a wonderful existence. And it is certain that Jackson will stay there for life; with his experience of successfully faking mental health nobody will believe him ever again. I think, at least thirty years… these institutions provide good care and very careful supervision, so they definitely won’t allow him to die ahead of time. Some men try to calm the woman, then remove her from the hall. I can understand her feelings, but I’m only doing my duty, aren’t I?
The artist gazes hard at me and his pencil flies fast across the paper. I do not doubt that behind a door TV reporters already wait.
“… right from the crime scene. The police department representative just confirmed that the body found belongs to Mike Goldman, a young, but already well-known lawyer who became famous for achieving a not guilty verdict in the case of serial killer ‘Jack-is-Back Jackson.’” This event caused controversial reaction not only because so many people wanted Jackson executed, but also because Goldman achieved the verdict by making and using recordings of a private conversation against the will of his client. However, his actions were recognized as lawful since they were carried out in the interests of the client who was lately recognized as incapacitated. For the current cruel murder, the police have no official suspects yet, but the most likely motive is revenge by some friends or relatives of Jackson’s victims; it is known that some of them continue to blame…”
“Bob, they’re taking him away right now! Shoot!”
“Get away from the stretcher!”
“The people have a right to…”
“Officer!”
“Okay, okay, we’re leaving…”
“V-vultures…”
“Cool! I managed to take a close up of his face!”
“Oh, what’s the use? They won’t allow it to be aired due to ethical-fucking-reasons. Politically correct assholes, it’s impossible to work nowadays… Well, show me what you have. Damn, turn the screen towards me, I can’t see! Hmm…”
“What’s wrong?”
“Well, nothing’s wrong… But have you ever seen on the face of a corpse with fifteen knife wounds such a satisfied smile?”
DESPAIR
Yes, it is the absolute top, pinnacle of despair!
What if, unsuspectingly wandering in the dark vaults of the universe, you find truths so horrible and disgusting, that even the knowing of them will turn your whole existence into an everlasting nightmare?