Cody McFadyen - Abandoned

“This is FBI Special Agent Alan Washington interviewing Douglas Hollister in his home, located at …” He goes through the process of listing all pertinent information, including date and exact time, who is present, why we are there. Hollister smokes and listens, his eyes fixed on something in the distance. “Mr. Hollister, can you testify for the camera that I previously read you your rights?”

“Yes, I can. You did.”

“And can you confirm for the camera that you’ve waived your right to have an attorney present for this interview and confession?”

“Yes.”

“And can you further confirm that you’re doing this of your own free will and not as the result of any duress or coercion?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell us why, in fact, you’ve agreed to this interview and taped confession?”

Hollister pauses, using the moment to take another pull on the cigarette. There’s no ashtray, but he’s beyond caring. He taps ash onto the top of the coffee table.

“I’m scared. The guy who did … what happened to Dana … he’s after me. I’ve decided my best chance at surviving is being protected by the police.”

“Thank you, sir. One last thing. You supplied us with this video camera?”

“I did.”

“And you supplied us with the tape currently being used to record this interview?”

“Right.”

“You confirm that we tampered with neither the camera nor the tape?”

“I so swear!” Hollister says, then giggles.

“Can you give me a contemporary affirmative answer, sir?” Alan’s patience is endless, awe-inspiring.

Hollister stubs the cigarette out on the coffee tabletop and lights another. “Sorry. Yes, I confirm no tampering has happened.”

“Thank you.” Alan says nothing for a moment. I know he’s collecting his thoughts, settling in for however long this takes. “Let’s talk about Avery, Mr. Hollister.”

Douglas seems to sink into himself. His eyes gain a furtive quality. “Avery.”

“Avery was your son?”

“Yes.”

“We found Avery dead in the master bathroom of this house, sir. He was strangled. Did you kill him?”

“Yes. Yes, I did.” He sounds amazed.

“When did you kill him, sir?”

“Late last night.”

“About what time?”

“I guess around three in the morning.”

“How did you kill him, sir?”

Hollister puts one hand over his eyes as he speaks. He doesn’t want to see us seeing him as he tells it. “I gave both the boys drugs to make them sleep. Told them it was medicine. I didn’t want them to be awake and afraid when they died. I went into Avery’s bedroom first. I didn’t want to use a pillow to smother him—I wasn’t sure about that. I was afraid it would take too long. I read yesterday on the Internet about the carotid arteries, about how you could use them to knock someone out quickly. I figured I’d do that first, in case the drugs hadn’t worked right, just to make sure he was out.”

Burns jots something down in a notebook. Probably a reminder to check the browsing history on Hollister’s computer.

“I came in and sat him up and got behind him. He started to wake up when I put my arms around his neck. I don’t know what happened. I thought I gave him enough drugs, but maybe he slipped some of the pills to his brother when I wasn’t looking. Avery was clever that way.” He swallows once, his Adam’s apple bobbing hugely. “He just kept struggling. It wasn’t knocking him out.” The hand over his eyes remains. The hand holding the cigarette rests on one of his knees, burning away, forgotten. “So I had to do it the old-fashioned way. I let go of him and he was kind of freaking out. So I hit him a couple of times in the face, really hard.”

“You used your fist?” Alan asks, probing for more details, guiding Hollister gently toward the hanging rope.

“Yeah.” His breath hitches. “He got out half of one word. You know what it was? Da- , he said, and then my fist hit his mouth. God. He wasn’t even totally awake.”

“What happened next?”

“I started choking him. Hard. So hard. I’ve never grabbed anything that hard in my life. I remember I was kind of snarling, you know? Like this?” He draws his lips back from his teeth in a feral grin. The hand still covers his eyes. “I must have looked like a monster to him. He must have thought I was so angry. But I wasn’t. My face wasn’t contorted because of anger. It was effort. I was trying to make it go fast for him; I was squeezing so hard my hands ached and veins were standing out on my arms.” The amazement is back in his voice, replacing the misery. “His face got so red. Deep black-red. His eyes were popped open and his tongue was out and he was pissing himself. God, it was horrible. I had his hands pinned under my knees, and I could feel his chest bucking against me. Then—it stopped. He stopped. Everything stopped. He was dead.” He takes the hand away from his eyes. He draws on his cigarette.

I feel like killing Hollister. At least he’s not crying. I’m not sure what I would do if I had to witness his crocodile tears.

“When did you move him to the bathroom?” Alan asks.

Hollister stubs out the second cigarette, lights his third. “Right after. I couldn’t believe how much he weighed. Deadweight, they call it. Now I understand. He was so heavy. My heart was pounding so hard, and I felt like everything was very, very sharp. Do you know what I mean?”

“I think so.”

“I moved Avery in and put him on the floor. At first he was just lying there, but then I turned his face in to the carpet. Because his eyes were open. I think it’s bad luck to let them stare like that after they’re dead. You understand? I was trying to be respectful. You understand?” He grins, ghoulish, insane. It fades. “It was too much. I should have gone right to Dylan, I should have finished him then, like his brother, but I just couldn’t. I brought his body into the bathroom, but I was still too shook up from Avery to kill him. I needed time.” He nods once, to himself. “Yes. I needed time.”

Alan takes it all in stride. “Mr. Hollister, why did you kill Avery?” Hollister stares off, considering this. It occurs to me that perhaps now, in the light of day, he’s starting to doubt his reasoning. “Sir?” Alan prods.

“I needed to run. I was going to have to empty my bank accounts and run. Live on a cash-only basis. That was no life for two young boys.”

I’ve seen this kind of reasoning far, far too many times. It’s the epitome of malignant narcissism. A father or husband is planning to either run away or take his own life. He decides it would be cruel to let his family go on without him, so he kills them. The truth is that he can’t stand the thought of them despising him once he’s gone.

“Why were you going to have to run?” Alan asks.

“I screwed up. I was supposed to pay him. I didn’t. So he took Dana and … he did what he did to her.” He grimaces at the memory. “He told me he was going to let Heather loose. Then he told me he was going to do to me what he did to Dana.”

“Who is ‘he,’ sir?”

Hollister gets very quiet now. “You can learn to live with almost anything,” he says. “As long as you don’t have to deal with it on a daily basis, it’s not that hard. The first few weeks and months might be difficult, but time sort of … covers everything with dust. Just like in the real world. The years roll by and dust covers everything, and then the dust turns to dirt, and then trees grow in the dirt. Soon enough, houses are put up, and no one has any idea that shiny new house was built on a graveyard.”

He takes in a huge drag of smoke, which makes him wince and cough a little. “Heather and I started out in love. I really loved her. She was smart, she was kind, she was good in bed, a great mother. She was focused on her career more than I liked, but that wasn’t a big deal in the beginning. At least that’s what I thought. My mistake.