Cody McFadyen: The Darker Side

He sits at this table as he sat at the one in his video clips. The rosary has been replaced by cuffs around the wrists, but the posture is the same. Michael Murphy is exactly where he wants to be. In his mind, jail was just the next best pulpit to preach from, the death penalty he and his sister had received was an opportunity for martyrdom. They confessed without prompting or the need for a trial. In terms of the video clips, "viral" remained an apt term. They've made their way around the world and back again via the Internet. In most instances their use is voyeuristic, the opportunity to peer into the last moments of another human being, to put an ear to the confessional booth. But it can't be denied that they ignited a debate that will probably rage on for months or longer.

There are those who feel that their methods were inexcusable, but that the message still has merit. Murder, one person had said, is not a Christian virtue, but full truth before God is. In other words, we don't condone how they did it, gosh no, but as far as what they had to say. . well. .

There is a radical fringe who consider Michael and his sister to be heroic, revolutionary. I'd run across a website selling T-shirts with slogans like Full Truth or Hellfire and Only God Can Judge the Murphys . All of this would sicken me if not for the most basic truth: support is in the minority. Most Christians, the majority by far, decry every aspect of what the Murphys did. Many have written open letters of apology to the families of the victims on behalf of all Christians and Catholics, and I am reminded of that section from the catechism of the Catholic Church Father Yates had read to me about the guiding principle of love. It's nice to see that for most, those aren't just words. The Murphys remain a ball of contradictions for me. Understanding the monsters the way I do is like harmonizing with a dark melody. I can never duplicate it, not exactly, but I can hit the notes an octave or so above, and from that surmise their song. I've achieved some of that with Michael and his sister, but many aspects elude me. Fanaticism, when it is applied to serial murder, is almost always a smoke screen. Terrorist leaders who preach death in the name of God aren't really interested in God; they're just getting off on making people die. Hitler spoke of strengthening the Aryan race; in reality, he was just another serial killer.

I've seen little evidence that either Michael or Frances took sexual pleasure in the crimes they committed. The physician at the women's prison where Frances has been housed confirmed that she is still a virgin. They never asked for the death penalty to be taken off the table. True believers? Or is there some dark joy buried deep, hidden so well that even they'll never see it?

"Do you really want to know?" he asks.

"No, Michael. I just had some free time today to come and chat with you. Of course I want to know."

He folds his hands and smiles. "Then confess something to me. It does not have to be something huge, but it can't be something small either. Tell me and I give you my word, I'll reveal to you what happened to the others."

I consider this offer. It's never a good idea to trade in an interrogation. Once they have what they want, they don't need you anymore and they can shut down. Michael's drug of choice is truth.

"Swear to God," I say.

"I'm sorry?"

"Swear to God that you'll tell me if I confess to something."

He shrugs. "Very well. I swear to God."

I sit back in my chair and think about it. He's not going to be happy with something like masturbation. It has to be personal, it has to be difficult, it has to ring true, but my personal integrity needs to remain intact at the end of it.

"My mother died when I was twelve," I say.

"What of?"

"Pancreatic cancer."

"I'm sorry. That's a painful way to die."

"Yes, it is. Toward the end, all she did was moan or scream, day and night. The painkillers didn't help."

"That must have been difficult for you."

Difficult? It comes to me now like it was then, a glistening piece of horror. My mother's hair had always been long and full. The radiation had made her as bald as a baby. I'd always thought her eyes were one of the most beautiful things about her. Because of the pain, they rolled in her head, or she squinched them shut tight, or she cried. Her curves had been reduced to a skeletal waste, and her scent, that mother-smell that had once been as comforting and natural to me as breathing, was now alien and reeked of sickness and the Horseman. My dad, bless him, was a good dad, a great dad. He was a wonderful husband to my mom. But he couldn't take it for too long in that room, next to that bed. He'd visit for an hour and spend the next two days recovering. So it was left to me. I sat by her side and stroked her forehead and sang to her and cried with her. She was at home, and we had a hospice nurse, but I got the nurse to let me help with most things. At twelve, I changed my mother's diapers and I both hated and cherished the moment.

"In the last weeks, she begged me every day-sometimes twice a day-to kill her."

Kill me kill me please, honey, kill me, she'd moan or screech, over and over and over. Please, please, please, kill me and make it stop, make it stop, Oh dear God, make it stop. .

"Mom was Catholic. Her faith had always been strong. She raised me to believe. In spite of it all, there she was, begging to become a suicide."

"God tests us," Michael says.

I glance at him and I consider killing him. Just for a millisecond.

"I believed that suicide meant she would go to hell. One day, toward the end, she had a good morning. It happened sometimes. She'd come back to us. Her eyes would get lucid and we could actually talk for a bit. It never lasted long. That morning I could have called my dad in, but I didn't. I decided to talk to her alone."

"About her death wish." It's a statement, not a question.

"Yes. I told her that suicide was a sin, that if she asked for death and got it, she'd go to hell. I told her that she needed to tell me she wanted to live until the end. I needed to hear those words from her."

He cocks his head at me, and narrows his eyes.

Does he see where I'm going? Maybe. Maybe this is his talent, maybe he smells sins like a dog smells meat.

"She was lucid. She still hurt, but I was able to get through to her, and she showed me at that moment what real faith could be. She smiled and told me what you told me. 'God is just testing me, love,'

she said. 'It will be over soon.' 'Say the words, Mom,' I asked her. She was a little puzzled, but she was tired, so tired. 'I want to live to the end,'

she told me. An hour later, she was gone again, back inside the pain, begging for death."

"Your mother sounds like an extraordinary woman."

"Yes, yes, she was."

He leans forward a little.

"The sin, Smoky? What did you do?"

I hate that he's using my first name.

"I just needed to hear the words, you know? So that when I killed her, it wouldn't be a suicide."

There it is, I think. The truth of you.

Because his eyes had widened as I said those words, ever so slightly. Not the widening of shock or surprise, but thrill .

"You murdered your mother?" he breathes.

"I brought her peace," I growl. "The peace that your God wasn't giving her. She was being tortured daily. We don't let animals suffer like that. Why people?"

"Because, Smoky-people have souls."

I feel like spitting in his face.

"Whatever. The bottom line was I poisoned her with an overdose of morphine pills. I knew how; I helped with her medication. And it wasn't a suicide, so, against your beliefs, she didn't go to hell for it."

He taps a finger against the Formica top of the table, considering.