A Southern Psycho

-The faint soul demurs-

~1~

Late autumn leaves that had drifted in from the surrounding hills would occasionally come to life, stir crablike and scrape across the concrete surface of the prison yard.

Attorney Bud Schultz entered the main gate along with a small number of visitors. He had come early at 8:30 A.M., just after prisoners' roll call, so that he wouldn't have to wait long to see his client, Ben None.

The fat attorney had slack lips and drooping eyelids that hinted at relaxed morals, a paunch over his belt where his grey suit jacket hung open. His narrow-brimmed hat was slanted back from his forehead.

After passing through several gates with the rest, he was given the once over with a metal detector after he placed his keys, pen, watch, lighter, loose change and a pack of cigarettes in a lock box. He was allowed to keep his belt. He presented his attorney registration card and photo ID, then was waved on through to the visitors' unit for prisoners held in segregation. This was a grey room. On one side was a bank of cubicles enclosing bullet proof glass that separated the prisoners from the visitors. Black phones clung like leeches from the wall in each one.

Overhead, long fluorescent tubes created a harsh clinical tone. The green linoleum floor had a worn path toward the center and was scuffed to a grayish-white in each cubicle.

Shultz took a seat in #3. The prisoners had not come in yet. He placed his soft hands on the desk-like shelf at the base of the window and waited. He had never met Ben None before, and he wonder what such a man would look like. He had been told that None had spent almost ten years in segregation, locked in an eight by six foot windowless cell furnished with only a steel sink-toilet combo and a steel bunk bolted to the wall with a thin foam mattress. Shultz shuddered to think how filthy segregation cells were since they were never cleaned. Unheated in the winter, boiling hot in the summer. A grimace tightened the loose fat of his face as he recalled hearing how rats and mice ran freely over concrete floors that were often awash with feces that ran off from plugged toilets. No man could stay completely sane in such an environment. Suicide was a frequent avenue of escape.

Troublemakers--those who flaunted their hatred of authority and those who fomented rebellion--wound up in isolation or segregation. Others, however, who represented no real threat to the prison system wound up in segregation merely as a demonstration by prison authorities that they held the power of life and death in their hands without any restraints. Since segregation was not considered punishment, a prisoner's petition for a 602, a redress of grievances, would always go unanswered.

Shultz smiled. Prison was a microcosm of the world. The good, the bad, and the ugly were all subject to the vagaries of existence. The only ones who survived in segregation were the ubermen. Those rare beings who somehow drew strength from adversity.

Schultz knew little of Ben None, but he knew None had survived ten years, there bouts, in conditions guaranteed to destroy the strongest of men. Whether he was still sane or not was the question. That was Schultz's mission: to find out. A mission that would have been more proper for a psychiatrist or a psychologists. But then, they were not as easy to come by as a sleazy lawyer with a short memory who would do anything for a buck and not ask questions.

Schultz glanced at his wrist, then remembered he wasn't wearing his watch. He was hungry. He'd skipped breakfast in order to be early. His stomach was growling for bacon and eggs, a stack of hot, buttery pancakes and a steaming cup of coffee followed with a smoke.

It shouldn't take long with None, he thought. Then he could scoot his butt down the hill to that nice little family restaurant in the valley that he'd noticed coming up.

A door opened on the prisoners' side of the glass. Orange coveralls were escorted in by muscular guards. All were wearing a 4 piece. The third prisoner, a man of medium height and build with tired cobalt blue eyes in a refined chiseled face, took a seat across from Shultz.

It was a once handsome face that was now drained and haggard; the jaw covered in a light stubble; the blond hair on his head long and unruly. Shultz stared at the hands resting on the shelf across from him. They were long and slender, the hands of an artist.

In his thirty some years of lawyering, Shultz had known all the various criminal low lifes. You couldn't always tell what a man was from his looks. Monstrous looking men could be choirboys, and fair-haired choirboys could be monsters. The greenish-blue eyes of Ben None held something of the latter. It was subtle, but Shultz had seen it before. Something dark behind the light. An indefinable quality that proclaimed this is a man you don't fuck with. It would be missed by most people, but Shultz had seen it before. It belonged to those who had not joined the human race. Those who would never follow any will but their own.

Shultz rubbed his nose, then picked up the phone. It is easy to decide who is insane in the loony sense. They don't matter. But those who are different from us, those who do not believe as we do, they are the really dangerous ones. Dangerous because they are not insane.

"Ben None?"

The weary head nodded. His expression unexpectant.

"I'm Bud Schultz, an attorney. I've been appointed to tell you that you will be coming up for a parole hearing in two weeks."

None's eyes lowered for a moment, then he looked up, the face coldly somber, immutable. "How's that? I haven't served even a third of my sentence."

"Doesn't matter. Somebody with a lot of pull wants you out. It's all being arranged . . . anonymously. I don't even know who." Shultz took an envelope from the inside pocket of his coat and waved it at the guard stationed nearby. Then looked back at None. "He'll make you a photo copy of the papers inside. I'm told people sometimes lace paper with acid." He sighed. "Any how, the answers to the questions they'll ask you at the hearing are in here. Memorize them. Any questions?"

"Should I tell them I've found Jesus?"

Shultz stood up and buttoned his coat. "Oh, do. They love that."

~2~

There was a widescreen TV on the wall with a camera on top. On either side were some kind of four foot tall plastic jungle-like plants with large drooping leaves. Facing the screen was a metal folding chair. None hobbled into the hearing room hindered by a 4-piece: handcuffs, waist chains and leg irons followed by two hefty guards and the Case Commissioner.

He sat down in the chair.

The screen was on showing the state seal. Fifteen minutes late the screen fluttered revealing a man and a woman, roughly in their thirties, sitting behind a polished wood table. The man had a meaty, milk-fed face and wore gold framed glasses. Bald on top, hair combed over. The woman also wore gold-framed glasses fitted to a long schnoz. The mouth was small, the lips thin, the chin pointed. The faces of both had the prim constipated expression of the highly moral.

The man placed his hands together on top of the table next to a manila file and smiled perfunctorily. "Hello, Ben. I'm Jim Biglow and my associate is Mary Davenport. We are your Hearing Examiners on the staff of the Parole Commission. What we decide based on your testimony will determine whether or not you will be granted parole."

He paused to withdraw some papers from the file.

"Ben, according to our records you claimed justifiable homicide at your trial in the deaths of three men in a bar room altercation. Is that still your contention?"

"No, sir, Mr. Biglow, sir. It certainly isn't. I was a young hot head who couldn't control his temper. I have had many sobering years to reflect on my misdeed and can only express my greatest heartfelt sorrow for what I did. I can only stress that I am no longer that young foolish hot head. I have matured and in my maturity acquired wisdom and patience. As the good book says, 'A fool gives full vent to his anger, but a wise man keeps himself under control."

"Well, spoken, Ben. That is what we like to hear."

"Yes, indeed," Davenport chimed in, smiling with approval. "Now, Ben, do you harbor any resentment toward the justice system or for any representatives of law enforcement for your confinement these past ten years?"

"Most assuredly not, Ms. Davenport, ma'am. I have received more than the utmost kindness and consideration a person in my circumstance could expect to receive. I have nothing but the greatest admiration and respect for the dedicated staff of this fine institution."

Biglow beamed. "Indeed these are the words we love to hear. To know we have succeeded in reaching a lost soul who has faltered from the righteous path is always gratifying."

"It is gratifying, indeed," Davenport agreed.

"I see nothing in your record about drug abuse," Biglow said.

"Yes, sir, sir, and you never will, sir. The only high I need is God's glorious creation. As the good book says, 'Wine is a mocker, strong drink a brawler, and whoever is led astray by it is not wise."

The hearing went on over an hour, then Biglow said, "Ben, I am well pleased with what I've been hearing--"

"Yes, and I second that," Davenport interjected.

"--and I've only two more questions I'd like to ask. First, do you have a home to go to if you are granted parole? And what will you do for employment?"

"Well, sir, the answer to that is, yes. I have a cabin near Kullhorn. And as to work I'll find it even if it's only washing dishes, for I am determined to make something of myself--no matter what."

"Excellent."

Biglow and Davenport put their heads together to confer. After a moment they broke from their huddle all full of smiles.

"Ms. Davenport and I are in complete agreement, Ben. We see no reason why your parole shouldn't go through."

Ben rubbed a tear from his eye. Smiling he looked at the screen. "I don't have the words to tell you what I really feel. God bless both of you."

"Think nothing of it, Ben. Now go out there and make us proud."

They were both smiling as the screen blanked out.

Ben stood up. One of the guards opened the door.

"What a load of shit," the Case Commissioner muttered.

~3~

Two A.M. footsteps came down the catwalk. The steel outer door opened. A flashlight shown in on him through the bars of the inner door.

"Drop you cock and grab your socks, Ben. Time to go."

Ben stuck his hands through the bean chute and let the badge cuff him, then the badge unlocked the cage door and chained the cuffs to a waist chain, then put leg chains on. Two other badges stood back in the shadows.

"How is it, Ben, that a psycho like you can make paper?" the badge asked when he finished. Behind him another badge shut the steel door. "Now we're all nice and private, aren't we?"

The two badges came around and grabbed Ben's arms.

"I guess you know what's comin', doncha, Ben?"

"Yeah, I know." The face somber, the eyes cold.

"You're due for a tune up." The badge punched a fist into his palm several times. "Hold'm tight, boys." He placed the flashlight in the bean chute, then threw a quick right and left to the chest and stomach. Ben doubled over gagging up a thin stream of vomit. "What a pussy. Yuh cain't take it, can yuh, Ben?"

"Kick the motherfucker in the nuts," one of the badges said.

"Hold'm tight. I'm goin' for a field goal." The badge swung his foot up. Ben turned slightly receiving the kick on his thigh. A numbing pain shot down his leg paralyzing it.

"Hah, he won't be getting' any pussy for a long time," the badge said.

The badge grabbed a clump of Ben's hair and jerked his head up. "That was your going away present, Benny. And when you come back--and yuh'll be coming back, yuh all do--we'll be here to give yuh a homecoming present.

The badge took his knuckles and scraped them viciously back and forth against Ben's head.

"Boy's I'll jest bet ol' Ben would love to kill us'in, wouldn't yuh, Ben?" He grabbed Ben's ears, shaking his head side to side, and in a mocking, piggy voice said, punctuating each word, "but-yuh-jest-won't-get-tuh-do-it-will-yuh-Benny?

Ben was silent. They straightened him up and half carried him onto the catwalk as he struggled on his good leg, the other leg dragging behind on the grating.

They hustled him through a series of walks to a holding room where a badge with a clipboard told them to uncuff him. The badge ushered him into the release office where he was given some forms to sign; in another room he was fingerprinted and photographed to verify his identity and to show he was legally released. Then he was led into a clothing room where he was given a pair of worn jeans, shirt, underwear and a faded blue prison jacket. In another room a clerk gave him what few personal items he had had when he arrived at the prison: a leather tri-fold wallet and a couple of keys. There was a check for the money he had in his Inmate Trust Fund, five bucks in cash and a bus ticket.

A little before eight he limped out of the main entrance where a white prison van waited to take him down Blue Jay Lane to the small town in the valley.

Ben None was free at last.

~4~

The van dropped him off at the town square. There was a small rotund park in the center, and he sat down on a bench near a fountain. He rubbed his thigh feeling a tingling sensation build as the numbness and pain slowly dissipated. The air was chilled. Grey clouds clung to the sky like dirty plaster.

A few cars circled the square. Some angled in front of a farmers bank to wait until it opened. There was a hardware store, a clothing store, an office supply store, another bank-- newer, bigger--and a jewelry store. The city hall was behind him and a barber shop. Farther down the town's main street was the bus station. He watched the awakening scene with the disconnectedness of the outsider.

The prison jacket he'd been given did little to protect him from the morning chill. He shivered. His breath left the warmth of his mouth and fogged the air. He had only twelve dollars in the check the prison clerk had given him and five dollars cash. Not nearly enough for a warm coat.

A black SUV came into the square and parked in front of the clothing store. A portly man, with black hair thinning on top, got out carrying a purse size leather pouch in one hand. The car beeped as he pressed a key fob, then stepped to the front door of the store and opened it.

Ben smiled thinly. Before rolling codes were introduced in the nineties he could have quickly broken into a car using a code grabber from anyone using a remote. And it was still possible but required more ingenuity and time. It seems every time an obstacle is placed before a criminal the criminal always finds away around it. Stopping crime becomes a never ending battle between the haves and have nots.

Ben took his wallet out and pinched open a seam where the sewing had frayed away. Inside the space between the inner and outer leather was a flat sheath of metal which he drew out. Within the sheath was a slide that could be pushed from one end exposing a single-edged razor blade at the other end.

He put the box cutter in his jacket pocket and waited. After about twenty minutes the man in the clothing store flipped the CLOSED sign on the door to OPEN.

Ben got up and crossed the street. The opening of the door rang a bell. The portly man was behind a counter at a cash register. He frowned when he recognized the paltry prison dress. "You need to go to Goodwill if you want anything."

Ben waved his prison check. "I've got five hundred dollars."

The man jerked his head. "Let me see it," he said, suspiciously.

Ben approached, smiling, and as he reached out to hand the check to the man he dropped it. He made a show of trying to bend over with effort, then shook his head. "My back's give out on me. I can't bend over."

"I'll get it," the man said, grudgingly.

As he bent down Ben pulled the box cutter from his pocket and cut his throat as he straightened back up. He shoved him to one side behind the counter to avoid the blood that hosed from his neck, then walked to the front door and turned the CLOSED sign out and locked the door.

He came back and opened the cash register and pocketed the paper money. He ignored the .38 revolver on a shelf beneath the register and strolled around display tables loaded with seasonal wear. He picked up a cognac colored leather duffle bag and stuffed it with sweaters, T-shirts, jeans, socks and underwear.

He found a bathroom and washed himself at its sink, dried off with a fluffy towel, then walked naked back into the clothing area, put on jeans, T-shirt and a pair of white jogging shoes with blue stripes over thick wool socks. He finished drying his hair with another sweater he picked up, then tossed it on the floor.

He moved to a rack full of coats and selected a sports jacket and a roomy tweed overcoat which he slipped on, then picked up a watch cap. Moving back to the counter he stared down at the portly man whose eyelids were fluttering. The glassy eyes lacked comprehension. The mouth opened and shut rhythmically like that of a fish out of water. A leg shot out spastically. The body jerked. The fat belly quivered beneath the shirt, then grew still; the eyes became glued on the ceiling.

Ben nudged a pack of cigarettes out of the man's shirt pocket. A flap of matches was stuck under the cellophane. Ben shook out a cigarette, put it in his mouth and lit it. He inhaled deeply. It didn't taste too good after ten years without. He inhaled a couple of more times, then stuck it inside the match book and slipped the flap under the striker. He walked to a table of wool sweaters and propped the match book between two of them with the cigarette sticking out horizontally over the table edge. He put the pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket, along with the money from the cash register, picked up the duffle bag and left the store, locking the door behind him.

~5~

"Where you headed?"

Beads of rain formed on the windshield of the eighteen wheeler only to be squeegeed away by the wipers as soon as they appeared.

"Kullhorn."

"Hate tuh see uh feller limpin' along in the rain." The driver was a big man with thinning brown hair. He rested a leathery hand on the bulbous gearshift which he was constantly shifting. The road was narrow and curvy, up and down. It was too narrow for the truck and a car to pass safely, so he kept his eyes glued on it. A stream ran on one side and trees on the other. Foot bridges crossed the stream to tenement shacks where tires hung from the limbs of sad trees for children to swing on. Bony hounds watched from porches or dog houses no doubt hopeful for an extra scrap of food that would never come. "Not safe to walk these back roads. Mean-assed dogs been known to attack people. Bunch of ass-wipe cyclists wearin' their fancy tights and brain buckets got their asses chewed a few years back on this road. You don't happen to have any smokes, do you?"

Ben fished out the pack in his coat pocket and shook one out for him, then lay the pack on the dash next to the CB.

"Just got out of stir. Wanted to walk."

"Know watch yuh mean. I did a stretch for boosting my radio. Can you fucking believe it? Going to jail just for boostin' my fuckin' radio. Some rich son-of-a-bitch kills yuh and gets off scot-free. The world's fucked up. Fuckin' law gets you comin' and goin', don't it? Fuckers tell yuh not to travel with a fat load knowin' yuh cain't break even less'n yuh do. And who in the hell do they fine?--not the goddamn coal companies, who overload us, but the trucker. Got a job lined up?"

"No."

"I've got a cus who can get you on as a lumper. But you're lookin' kinda peaked. I'll give you my address. Get hold of me when you feel up to it."