Mary McDonald - No good deed

To keep warm, he did jumping jacks, push-ups, and any other exercise that he could do in a nine by six cell. That worked, until he tired. His muscles quivered as he paced to and fro. Less than four steps from end to end, and he’d about face and repeat the march. For hours, he continued, his pace slowing until he was stumbling and lurching across the cell. They would turn the heat on soon. They wouldn’t let him freeze to death.

He hadn’t seen anyone in days. Maybe they had gone off and left him. But someone delivered the meals. They still came at regular intervals. Not the usual fare. Instead, he received cold meals ready-to-eat. He ate them, if only to keep from getting a feeding tube, but the cold sapped his energy, and he got up only to use the toilet or push the meals out. After awhile, he didn’t need to get up as often. His fingers were clumsy and stiff, and the meals too hard to open. He gave up, and sent them back out untouched. Nobody seemed to care.

Mark curled on the metal shelf and shivered. His teeth chattered until he was sure a few had chipped. He clenched jaw to stop the chattering. How many meals had come since the cold hit? Six? Eight? He lost count. He slept in short spurts, getting up to move around, but finally, he sank onto the floor, with a sigh. He had to rest.

Arms pulled into his shirt, he hunched over his drawn up knees. At least one more meal arrived, but he was so stiff, he couldn’t get up to retrieve it. He moved onto his side, the cement no colder than the metal shelf. Why bother trying to move? His eyes grew heavy. How cold did someone have to get before they died? Would they let him get to that point?

After awhile, the cold didn’t bother him so much. He must be getting used to it. Growing up in Wisconsin, and then living in Chicago, he was accustomed to cold weather.

Once, he’d gone hunting with his dad when he was a kid, and had broken through some ice, falling into a shallow pond. He recalled pushing against the ice, breaking it with his hands as he waded out, but remembered his father’s warnings to keep moving until they got back to the campsite. There, he’d been stripped of his wet clothes, and wrapped in warm blankets. His dad wouldn’t let him sleep for awhile. The next day, he’d asked why, and was told if he’d fallen asleep when he was that cold, he might not have woken up.

Mark pushed an arm out of his sleeve and bent it under his head for a pillow. He closed his eyes. Falling asleep now might be the answer to his problems. Just shut his eyes and never open them again. He’d be done with interrogations, done with the shame and fear. He’d be free.

Jim sighed as he read through the memos from the head of security. Taylor had gone crazy with some food and as punishment, they had removed his mattress. It was also noted that he was no longer getting grits. One side of his mouth quirked in a smile. He couldn’t blame Taylor. Even after living in the South for a number of years, he had never acquired a taste for the dish.

He glanced up as the subject of his thoughts was led into the room. Taylor kept his head down as he shuffled to stand beside the chair. There he waited, never raising his eyes.

Jim motioned to the guards. “He can sit.” With that, the guard secured Taylor’s shackles to the bolt in the floor.

Bill took the first turn. He circled to the front of the table. “Hello, Mark. How are you feeling today?”

“Good, sir.” His head rose, but he simply stared at a spot ahead of him on the floor.

“Glad to hear it. You had a rough time of it lately.” Bill paused and sent Jim a glance. They’d discussed their strategy. Bill would sympathize with Mark’s plight and show concern about all the guy had been through, the water-boarding, extreme isolation, and temperature control. They hoped sympathy would cause him to break down.

Taylor didn’t respond.

Bill leaned into Taylor’s line of sight, forcing the man to see him. “You’re not going to answer me?” His tone was light, as though joking.

“You didn’t ask a question, sir.” Taylor sounded as flat as his expression. There was nothing there.

Bill chuckled. “You’re right. I didn’t.” He half sat on the table, his pose relaxed. Jim marveled at the tone of concern Bill managed with his next question. “How are you holding up, Mark?”

Taylor remained silent for so long that Jim was sure he wouldn’t reply, but finally, he shrugged. “Okay. I guess. Sir.”

“That’s good. Anything I can do for you? Do you need anything? Cards? Books?” Taylor’s request for books had been sent through the channels several times, but still hadn’t been cleared.

“No, sir.”

Bill spread his hands, and shrugged at Jim with a ‘what do I do now’ look.

Jim decided to take his turn early. He stood, letting his chair scrape the floor with a harsh screech. Taylor didn’t flinch. It was time to get tough. Obviously, being nice was getting them nowhere. He reached into a folder and removed a pile of photos. Moving around the front of the table, he shoved a picture under Taylor’s nose.

“Recognize these?”

Taylor’s head moved a fraction as Jim flipped through the photos, allowing Taylor to see all of them. “Yes, sir.”

So that’s how it was going to be. Every response would have to be pulled out of the guy. “Care to enlighten us?” Jim was well aware of what the photos were, but wanted to hear Taylor confirm it.

Taylor replied in a monotone, “They’re photos I developed from my camera on September 10th, 2001.”

Jim paced across Taylor’s line of vision, but if the man noticed, he gave no indication. His gaze still appeared to be fixed at a spot on the floor.

“Do you know where we found these?” Not letting him reply, knowing it would be either a yes or a no, Jim moved to the point. “These were in a box in your home.” Jim circled around the table to retrieve a stack of photos out of a file. Returning to the front of the table, he thumbed through the stack. “They were mixed in with these other pictures.”

He leaned against the table and crossed his ankles. With a shake of his head, he studied the photos. “You know, Taylor, for a guy who’s supposed to be a professional photographer, these photos are crap.”

He held one up, biting back his annoyance when Taylor only flicked a glance at them. “Look at this. Why did you take a picture of a car parked on the side of the street? Or one of man eating a hamburger?” Jim sorted through the pictures. “Or how about this one. It’s my favorite. It’s the front door of an apartment.”

He remained silent, so Jim stepped closer and kicked the leg of the guy’s chair.

Taylor started, his eyes widening briefly. Jim bent, bringing his face within inches of the other man’s. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

After the initial surprise, Taylor sighed and lifted his gaze. It rested in the vicinity of Jim’s face, but didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

There was no spark. Just weariness and resignation.

“Well, now that you’re awake, shall we get on with this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Explain why you kept all these photos. They weren’t in your studio, they were in a box under your bed.” Jim found the one of a baby wrapped in a towel. “Except for this one. This one was found on your person at the time of your arrest. Care to explain it? Is this a relative?”

“No, sir. Not a relative. Just a baby.”

“Why does a single guy keep pictures of an unrelated baby in his pocket?”

The insinuation hadn’t been lost on Taylor and for one brief second, his eyes flashed anger. “That’s the last picture I changed.” He drew in a deep breath, as though the effort to speak taxed him. “That’s the end result.” His brow furrowed in confusion and he seemed to lose his train of thought. After a pause, he clarified, “She drowned in the first picture.”