Burgos blinks, his eyes moving away from the reporter. His tongue peeks out, wetting his lips.
“Are you ready to die, Mr. Burgos?”
His body reacts slightly, jerking, a semblance of a smile playing on his face. Like he’s amused by a long-forgotten memory. His eyes still far away. “How do you know I’m gonna die?”
“Are you saying you can’t die?”
His face goes serious, his eyes opening wider. Like he’s day-dreaming.
“Mr. Burgos?”
“You can kill a body. You can’t kill the truth.”
A pause. A change of topics, perhaps. The subject is not making this easy. Like talking to an infant.
“Did those women deserve to die?”
Burgos leans back in his chair. He’s enjoying a thought. Like the reporter isn’t even there. “It’s not for me to decide.”
“Who decides, then?”
“You know.” Burgos rocks in a chair that doesn’t assist him. Back and forth, the first sign of animation.
“God decides,” says Carolyn Pendry. “Did God tell you to kill those women?”
“‘Course He did.” Burgos punctuates it with a jerk of his head.
“You said Ellie Danzinger was a ‘gift from God,’ Mr. Burgos. What-”
“God gave her to me.” The gentle rocking of his body accelerates.
“How did God do that?”
Burgos raises his hands for emphasis, two hands slicing the air, the shackle connecting his wrist dancing in the air. “You all think I’m crazy because I see things you don’t. But that don’t make me crazy. You all believe in the Creator and in the Second Coming, but if Jesus came down you wouldn’t believe Him.”
Camera cuts to the reporter, Pendry. A thoughtful expression on her face.
“You’d say He’s crazy.” Burgos keeps rocking.
“Did Tyler Skye tell you to kill those women?”
Burgos brings up his knees, puts his feet up on the chair. Arms around his knees, a round ball, rocking back and forth.
“Did-”
“God did.” He nods his head emphatically.
“Tyler Skye’s song didn’t tell you to kill those women?”
“Tyler was a messenger. So am I.”
“Mr. Burgos, according to that song, weren’t you supposed to kill yourself last? Wasn’t that what Tyler Skye had meant with the last line?”
Burgos takes a breath. Blinks his eyes slowly. Keeps rocking back and forth.
“Why didn’t you kill yourself, Mr. Burgos? Why did you kill Cassie Bentley instead?”
Like he’s in a fog. He doesn’t respond.
“You said Cassie ‘saved’ you, Mr. Burgos. What did-”
“Cassie saved me. God told me I wasn’t done. He gave me Cassie instead.”
He begins to hum to himself. Looks up at the ceiling.
“Mr. Burgos, did you think your attorney was wrong to call you insane?”
“Insane. Insane, insane.” Burgos begins to laugh, a giggle.
“Mister-”
“What’s that? Insane.” He frowns suddenly, staring off, concentrating. “What’s that?”
“Insane,” the reporter says calmly, “means you can’t control what’s inside your brain.”
“That’s everybody.”
“It means you can’t tell right from wrong.”
“That’s everybody.”
“Mr. Burgos, would you kill those girls again if you had the chance?”
“Kill those girls again.” He stops moving. His eyes are open in slants, staring into space, his shoulders gathered about him. The camera zooms in on his expression.
“I’m gonna sleep now.”
“You don’t want to answer my questions?”
Burgos doesn’t answer, his foggy stare frozen on the screen.
The screen shrinks and moves to the corner of the television picture. Anchorwoman Carolyn Pendry, today, looks into the camera with a crisp, professional manner.
“Fifteen years ago today, Terrance Demetrius Burgos was sentenced to death. The jury rejected his lawyer’s claim of insanity and imposed five counts of capital punishment. My brief interview with Mr. Burgos, eight years ago, was the last, and only, time he granted an interview.”
The camera angle adjusts. Carolyn Pendry turns. “Did Terry Burgos really view the violent lyrics of Tyler Skye’s music as a call from God? Did he deserve death for his actions? The debate rages on even today.
“But in this reporter’s opinion, the verdict is in. Anyone who would take sophomoric, abusive lyrics and read them as signs from an almighty being is not someone who lives in our world. Terry Burgos wanted to kill, to lash out at an indifferent society, and his brain was searching for an excuse.”
A dramatic pause. Camera angle adjusts again. “Terry Burgos did not fit the legal definition of insanity because he knew that what he was doing was against the law. But that doesn’t mean he was sane. Terry Burgos suffered from severe paranoid schizophrenia and killed because of it. The fact that he may have been aware that a criminal law existed, that forbade him from doing what he did, does not change that fact.
“Terry Burgos deserved to be locked up and treated. He did not deserve death.” She nods her head. “For Sunday Night Spotlight, I’m Carolyn-”
In the dark room, nestled in the corner, beyond the view of the sole window, Leo puts down the remote control, stares at the television screen, dissolving to a dot and flickering with static. Dissolve and flicker, flicker and dissolve. He brings his knees to his chest and holds his breath, squeezes his eyes shut, listening for the faintest sound, listen, listen.
The house buzzes from the utter silence.
I’m not like him.
He jumps at the ring of the phone. His eyes cast about the room as the rings echo. The answering machine kicks on. Leo hears his own monotone request that the caller leave a message, followed by a long, tortured beep.
“Leo, this is Dr. Pollard. You’ve missed two sessions, Leo, and you’ve not returned our calls. Are you taking your meds? We’ve talked about the importance of doing that.”
I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you anymore.
“I’m going to give you my home phone number, Leo. It’s important you call me.”
Leo buries his head in his lap. He waits for the doctor to complete his message, the machine to click off. With the room once more silent, he raises his head again.
I’m not like him.
He takes a breath. Thinks about it.
I’m better.
Sunday
June 19, 2005
10
LEO CRAWLS up the dark staircase, his body spread over four carpeted stairs, his limbs splayed about like a spider. The body weight is transferred evenly. Stairs don’t groan from the burden. No chance of slipping or stumbling. No groan, no slip, no stumble.
You can’t hear me coming.
At the top of the staircase, he can see into the bedroom. The darkness is thinned by the light through the window, from a street-lamp below. The room is quiet save for the contorted snores of Fred Ciancio, like his nose is battling his throat.
Leo rises slowly. One of his knees cracks and he holds absolutely still. Fred Ciancio doesn’t move. Loud, uneven, wet snores, his head cocked to the right on the pillow.
Weapons. Look for weapons. Eyes adjusting now.
No weapons. Nothing.
He wasn’t expecting Leo.
He slips it out of the back of his pants. Holds it in his right hand.
Ciancio stirs. Unconscious response to Leo’s body heat, to the adjustment in the room temperature.
But Leo is not hot.
“What-?” Ciancio’s head pops up.
Two long strides and he’s at the bed. He lands on his chest, presses Ciancio’s head down to the pillow with his left hand, his palm over Ciancio’s mouth.