Yellow Mama E zine

Criminally Insane

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by Henry Simpson

 

        A few months after Steven was sentenced, I drove up to visit him at Atascadero State Hospital. I arrived at the hospital in early afternoon, checked in, and a man in a white uniform escorted me to a grassy yard enclosed by a tall wire mesh fence topped with concertina wire. He instructed me to take a seat at a picnic table and wait, and left me alone there. I contemplated the pale, institutional architecture, wire fence, and isolation, sensing what it felt like to be an inmate; boring beyond belief.

        The doors to the main building opened and an attendant escorted Steven into the yard and seated him across the table from me. Steven was wearing a khaki-colored inmate uniform. His hair was long, his complexion pale, but he appeared to be in good health and spirits.

       “Hey, Mr. Costa,” he said cheerfully. “I’d shake your hand, but they don’t allow any physical contact here. It has to do with drugs or something. Thanks for coming. How’ve you been?”

       “Fine,” I said. “Got your letters. How’re they treating you?”

       “It’s just like Macarthur Prep. I get three squares a day, a hard rack to sleep on, and they tell me everything I have to do. The big difference here is that all the inmates are crazy and some of them are criminally insane.”

       “Made any new friends?”

       He smiled. “You’re joking, of course. You always had a sense of humor, Mr. Costa. That’s one of the reasons I like you.”

        “Do you still consider me a friend?”

       “You mean, after what you said about me in court—that I’m supposed to be manipulative, and a compulsive liar, and all that other nonsense? Honestly, Mr. Costa, I don’t hold any of that against you. I’m sure you sincerely believed what you said and felt you were correct, testifying that way. I still consider you a friend—maybe my best friend—after what happened to Doug and Bobby.”

        Silence hung there for a while.

        “And what did happen to Doug and Bobby?” I said.

        “I explained all that in court, Mr. Costa. Let’s not . . .” He made a smoking gesture with his hand.

        I handed him a cigarette from a pack I had picked up at a convenience store, and then laid the pack on the table. “You like Marlboros, don’t you?”

       “You remembered my brand.” He put the cigarette in his mouth.

       I lit it with a paper match and pocketed the matches.

       He inhaled deeply, and then exhaled a cloud of smoke that quickly dissipated in the breeze. “You must’ve read the rules, Mr. Costa. You would do that, being a lawyer and all. You know, for some reason, the people who run this nuthouse don’t trust us with matches.           Why do you suppose that is?”

        I smiled. “Seen any good movies lately?”

       He chuckled. “Saw Cuckoo’s Nest on TV the other night. Read the book when I was younger. It’s better. Seriously, I’ve been hitting the books—law books, I mean. I’m thinking about signing up for one of those correspondence courses.”

        “I’m sure there’s a big demand for lawyers in here, but the pay’s not so good.”

        He smiled. “Dope’s more lucrative, that’s for sure. I suppose you’re right about that, but the main thing is, a man needs to use his mind while he’s in prison. If I get stuck in here for a long time, I might write a book, like that Hitler guy did. He didn’t goof around, wasting his time, like most of the whack jobs in this place.” He smiled suddenly, as if a thought had struck him. “Say, I got something way ironic to tell you. You’ll laugh when you hear it. Some Fed in a suit came by to visit me. Said he was FBI, even showed me an ID card with his picture on it. Asked me about a bunch of unsolved murders he thought I might’ve been involved in. Said he might get my sentence reduced or get me released if I could help him close out some cases. I asked about West Point. He said it was still possible if I agreed to a career with the company. When he said ‘company’ I knew he was talking code for CIA. He wanted to recruit me because he thought I was a serial killer. I guess they scout people with unique talents.” He laughed. “I led him along like I was his man. I figure, what the hell, if I play my cards right, I might just be able to get out of this place and go to West Point and have the career I always wanted.”

       “What about your name and appearance? Wouldn’t they be problems? You’ve been all over the news.”

      “I’m sure the CIA can take care of minor details like that with new identities, plastic surgery, and whatever’s necessary. They do it with spies, don’t they?”

      “What did you tell him?”

        “That I’d consider and give him an answer next time I see him. What do you think I should do, Mr. Costa?”

       “Put all your lies in a book. Make yourself famous.”

        Steven chuckled. “You know what, Mr. Costa? I’d really like to get out of this dump. I may not show it, but it gets to me, especially at night. I’m not sure what’s worse—the inmates, the noise, or the uncertainty about how long I’ll be stuck in here before my lawyer can arrange an appeal or get me pardoned.” He looked me in the eyes. “I’m innocent, Mr. Costa.” He paused. “You know that, don’t you?” He dropped his cigarette under the table, took one from the pack, and put it in his mouth.

        I lit a match. He leaned over and lit his cigarette.

        “You always call me Mr. Costa,” I said.

        “That’s because I respect you. You’ve also become my close friend. I don’t have many of those. You and me, well, we’ve been through all these things together. I feel kind of like I can talk to you as a brother or confidant.”

         “It’s too bad so few others are left. Too bad your roomies died.”

        He looked away from me, noticed the attendant watching us, and turned back to me.            “Suicide’s no way to go, Mr. Costa. It’s the coward’s way out. I’d never do it, not like they did. Not on your life.” He smiled.

        “Bobby and Douglas were murdered.”

        He took a drag on his cigarette. “You’re wrong about that, Mr. Costa. You and everyone else. I know it for a fact because they both discussed it with me before they went and did it.”

        “Thanks for clearing that up, Steven. Guess I had the wrong idea about that. Perhaps you could clear up some other things I don’t understand. Would you mind doing that?”

Steven grinned. “I don’t have any important appointments, Mr. Costa. Definitely no dates. Have at it.”

        “One day you dropped by my office to talk about Max. You said you hadn’t seen him since you were two years old. Do you remember saying that?”

         “Not exactly, but it’s true.”

        “Well, I know this guy named Eric Palmer, a music producer. He said he had lunch with Max and his friend at a taco stand a few days before he died. You fit the description of Max’s friend.”

         Steven blinked and slowly leaned forward. “I was there. I forgot about that. It was a short lunch, the only time we met.”

         “I understand. I forget things all the time. How did you two happen to connect?”

        “Internet. I was curious about Max’s band, so I did a search and found a web page with a link to Max’s Facebook page. I sent him a message. He answered. He Friended me. I invited him to visit. He came. We met one time, that day we had lunch. He told me he had a daughter and needed to figure out a way to get some money so he could live closer to her. He met with that creep to discuss a publishing deal.”

        “Why didn’t you tell anyone about the meeting?”

        “Why should I? He was dead by then. What good would it do? Anyway, I didn’t like talking about him with most people. Whenever his name was mentioned, everyone’s eyes would glaze, they’d say he was some kind of a genius, and they’d rave on about him and forget I was there. It got real old real fast. Understand what I’m saying?”

        “He was a rival.”

        “Yeah. That’s it. You lawyers sure have a way with words.”

        I offered him another cigarette, I lit a match, and he leaned over and lit it.

        “I have a theory,” I said. “Interested?”

          “I don’t know. What does it prove?”

         I laughed. “Wouldn’t be much fun if I told you. Here’s how it goes. You riled up Doug and Bobby to insult the Ortega posse and invite them to the park for a fight. You all drove to the park, hot to trot, and killed Max, just like the others two years ago. Then you split so the Ortega posse would be there to take the blame.”

Steven shook his head.

        I said, “You asked me about the investigation, and I mentioned one word. Do you remember?”

        Steven shook his head.

       “Snitch,” I said. “You thought I meant Bobby. You feared he’d talk and drowned him. You made sure Doug kept the keys so he could take the blame, and then shoved him off a cliff to protect yourself. A murder followed by two guilty-conscience suicides. No witnesses left. You were home free.”

        “Wow,” Steven said. “You sure have an imagination. I’d have to be some kind of genius to do that.”

        “Why not? Max was a genius, and you have much in common—likeability, attractiveness. Others admire and follow you. You use them and later discard them.”

        “So, I’m a genius,” he said.

         “Tell me why,” I said. “Why kill your own brother?”

          “I’m not good at play-acting, Mr. Costa. But if it will please you, I’ll give it a try.” He lowered his head, shut his eyes, and placed his fingertips on his forehead, mimicking a seer. His breathing deepened, his upper body trembled, and a smile formed at the edges of his mouth. “Maybe jealousy,” he said. “Much beloved older brother, the talented one. Everything comes to him with so little effort. The easy life, success, fame, fortune.” He removed his fingertips, opened his eyes, and grinned maniacally. “How’s that?”

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     Henry Simpson is the author of novels, short stories, and technical works. He studied engineering, English Lit, and Psychology at UC Santa Barbara, and lives in Monterey, California.

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      From the hollows of Kentucky, John Sowder divides his spare time between creating art for Sugar Skull Press and working on various cryptid-themed projects.  He illustrated GEORGE THE HOLIDAY SPIDER by Rick Powell, which is due November of this year.  You can see more of his art at www.deviantart.com/latitudezero