M Sellars: Perfect Trust

I had to give him credit though; he had come a long way. The first time I had helped him with an investigation, he had been a complete and total skeptic. This last time around, he had been extremely open-minded and willing to chase down the avenues I pointed out with only my word as a catalyst.

The real truth was that I had even been a bit of a skeptic myself at first. Even though Magick is a very real part of my religious path, until recently, I’d never experienced it to anywhere near the extent that I had during my time helping with the murder investigations. That’s the funny thing about faith. Believing in something is one thing. Having it sneak up and bat you over the head is something else entirely.

Suffice it to say, I was only now getting over the resulting headache.

But as accepting as he had become, on this particular point of contention between us Ben was not about to budge. He was firmly convinced that the now identified Eldon Andrew Porter was dead, never to return.

This was one instance where I wished with every fiber of my being that he was correct and that I was completely and unequivocally wrong. But that itch in the back of my head just wouldn’t go away.

“Yeah, I thought so,” my friend finally replied to my silence then let out a sigh. “Look, Row, I’m not tryin’ to be an ass here. And this is exactly what I was afraid was gonna happen. I know your intuition is pretty good. Hell, I’ve come to rely on all that hocus-pocus stuff at times, but I really think you’re wrong on this one. ID’n this whack-job was just a piece’a blind luck, and it’s nothin’ but clerical shit now. It’s just a name an’ face ta’ stick in the case file. The closed case file.”

I didn’t argue. Belaboring the point was going to cause nothing more than strife between us. Besides, I really and truly did want him to be correct this time instead of me.

“Yeah.” I nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay. So if we’re settled on that, here’s somethin’ else we found out about ‘im that ya’ might find interesting,” Ben offered, as if giving me a consolation prize for losing the disagreement.

“What’s that?”

“During his trial it seems there was a bit of a ruckus over his mental state,” he explained. “Coupl’a expert witnesses rattlin’ a bunch of psycho babble about ‘im being highly suggestible and incapable of distinguishin’ right from wrong. But as it was, he had an overworked and under funded PD for an attorney. Just couldn’t get the jury to go for the insanity defense.”

“So you think he was insane?”

“Who knows?” He shrugged. “I think any asshole that goes around killin’ people is insane, but then I also don’t think they should get off scot-free because of it.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you, but I’m not sure I follow.”

“That’s ‘cause you haven’t heard the really hinky part yet.”

“And that is?”

“When they put ‘im away he ended up in a special kind of cell block. Somethin’ called a God Pod.”

“God Pod?”

“Yeah, it’s a cell block that’s run by a prison ministry. Rehabilitation by gettin’ religion.”

“That’s not entirely a bad thing, Ben,” I said. “Faith can be an important part of a person’s life. It can provide a moral compass to those who need direction.”

“Yeah, but this is some pretty strict shit, Row,” he returned then scooped up a forkful of the dangerous looking omelet. “They pretty much brow-beat the inmates with the holy scripture.”

“And you think that if he was insane to begin with…” I let my voice fade, leaving the end of the sentence unspoken. It wasn’t that I didn’t know what to say. It was the fact that the thought of the penal system having created this monster suddenly overtook me, and my earlier brush with nausea was returning.

Ben picked up where I left off, expressing his own thoughts aloud. “What I think is that if ya’ got a mentally unstable fruitcake who’s that open ta’ suggestion, and ya’ subject ‘im to Bible study and prayer meetins’ from sunup ta’ sundown, seven days a week, somethin’s bound to snap. Maybe it snaps good. Maybe it snaps bad. I think ya’ can guess which direction I think this wingnut went.”

“Don’t tell me,” I shook my head in disbelief, “They preach Evangelical, Old Testament.”

“From what I understand, yeah. Why? That mean somethin’?”

“It would explain a slight discrepancy that bothered me.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, he embraced the Malleus Maleficarum along with a very old, very outdated, and no longer accepted Catholic ideal-that being the literal eradication of heretics. He even went so far as to dress as a priest,” I explained. “But, in my encounter with him, he seemed to come at things from a far more fire and brimstone approach, as opposed to the calmer, ritualistic trappings of Catholicism. The words he spoke were more than a sectarian ceremony for him. He was, for all intents and purposes, preaching.”

“Like I said, that’s one screwed up wingnut,” Ben offered. “But I guess it’d be a hell of a sermon.”

“Exactly.” I nodded.

“Guess it’s a good thing he’s history then,” he stated before shoveling a portion of the formidable breakfast into his mouth.

The twinge that had lanced through my shoulder earlier now returned with a treble hook of barbs trailing in its wake. The pain deep in the joint burrowed its way up the side of my neck and joined with that unforgiving itch in the back of my brain.

Now I had two problems to worry about. But for now they were mine-and mine alone.

I didn’t say a word.

December 18

Saint Louis, Missouri

I was trying very hard to remember exactly what it was that I was doing here. For some unknown reason, I was at a complete loss. Truth was, I didn’t even know how I had come to be anywhere other than my own warm bed, and it was more than just a little disconcerting. Still, it certainly wasn’t the first time I’d experienced this phenomena recently, although the sickening feel of personal defilement was conspicuously absent this time. While somewhat of a consolation, that fact still did nothing to quell the oncoming panic, so I forced myself to remain calm and try to think it through.

Cognitive reasoning isn’t exactly an easy task when you feel like a refugee from the amnesia ward. My thoughts felt jumbled, but I was heartened that I actually had some of them for a change. Unfortunately, I don’t really think that they all belonged to me. Every now and then I would grapple with one of the memories as it tumbled through my numbed consciousness, inspecting it closely before it could get away. I was reasonably certain that such thoughts as “which pair of shoes I should wear with my new dress,” and “setting up an appointment to have my nails done before the party” belonged to someone else entirely. It was also a safe bet that said someone was female. What I was doing with her memories I couldn’t say, but they were fading from existence as quickly as they came in, and that wasn’t going to make it any easier to figure out.

There were, however, two things that kept circulating around my muddled grey matter with an uncharacteristically sharp clarity. One was a large glowing yellow rectangle. The other was a particularly nasty, and relatively familiar, burning sensation on the side of my neck coupled with a feeling of utter helplessness and disorientation. I couldn’t quite tell which of us should lay claim to this pair of thoughts. Until recently I’d thought of them purely as my own. Now in retrospect, I had to wonder. Of course, I suppose it was always possible that they were being shared by both of us.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and continued to stare at the scene before me while pondering the greater meaning of luminescent geometric shapes and inexplicable pains. For the moment I resigned myself to the present situation in hopes some thought of lesser obscurity would finally provide an answer.