Sandman

By Thomas Trabosci

Psychologist Emily Morgan has everything in life a woman could ask for; a loving husband, a nice home, and a successful private practice in the city. But this seemingly perfect life soon changes when she agrees to take part in a new - and controversial - inmate analysis program aimed at understanding the psyche of one of the towns most heinous serial killers, Edgar Dumont. Intrigued by Edgars lack of remorse and calm demeanor, Emily enters a world of unadulterated violence and cruelty as she becomes trapped within his deadly game of manipulation and deceit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469169514

Thomas Trabosci

THOMAS TRABOSCI is a native New Yorker, currently living in Pennsylvania with his wife and two sons. His unique writing style, coupled with an ability to take basic, everyday life scenarios and morph them into unconventional tales of horror and suspense, has injected a fresh and exciting player into the literary game. He is also the author of Out of the Shadows.

Book preview

Chapter 1

David Morgan stacked the French toast he prepared for breakfast on two plates and carefully placed them on the kitchen table. Next, he artfully arranged four strips of perfectly cooked bacon, extra crispy, in a parallel formation alongside each plate’s edge. He poured hot, fresh coffee for both himself and his wife, and then placed the syrup jar on the table before walking down the hall. Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, David leaned against the banister and called up to his wife.

Honey, breakfast is ready.

Okay, I’ll be down in a minute, a distant voice replied.

Try not to be too long - it’s going to get cold.

Don’t rush me. It takes time to get this beautiful.

You’d be late to your own funeral, you know that? he playfully yelled back.

David returned to the kitchen, took his usual seat, and checked the app on his cell phone for last night’s scoreboard. Relieved that his favorite team hadn’t lost any ground in the standings, David placed the phone on the table.

He could hear his wife moving about on the second floor, and couldn’t help but grin as he envisioned her upstairs, working frantically in the bathroom to get ready. Even though she made a joke out of it and told him he was crazy - as far as he was concerned - Emily was undeniably beautiful. On more than one occasion David caught a pair of roaming eyes checking her out (when they assumed he wasn’t looking) at the bank or standing in line at the grocery store. He didn’t get mad, or jealous, at their quick peeks. Instead, David would have some fun with her secret admirer and give his wife a playful pat on the fanny, just to show the stranger she belonged to him. That was typically enough to curb any stray glances. Her looks were an attribute that remained strong with Emily over the years - taking forever to get ready was another. So, he sat in the kitchen alone and patiently waited.

Emily Morgan began to smell the coffee, and bacon, all the way from their upstairs bedroom. The house smelled delicious, and it made her belly growl. Anticipation of a nice breakfast with her husband encouraged Emily to quicken her pace. With hair and make-up now complete, Emily darted into the bedroom and picked out a silky purple blouse and black slacks. She slipped on a pair of heels and headed towards the bedroom door, allowing her nose to guide the way.

Emily paused momentarily as she walked past the full length mirror and surveyed her thirty nine year old body. She and David didn’t have children, so her physique never experienced the transformation associated with pregnancy, childbirth, or even breastfeeding. So, at 5’7" and 126 pounds, Emily could still hold her own. Wavy brown hair cascaded below her shoulders - when it wasn’t up in a bun - and her piercing green eyes could still demand their fair share of attention. Her waist was slim, complimented by a pair of not particularly long but shapely legs she was fortunate enough to keep fairly tone. Emily could cheer that she was winning the battle against cellulite (for now), although traces here and there seemed unavoidable. She scanned the image in the mirror, and promised her reflection to investigate local spin classes, or begin walking more at lunch. Still, as good as she looked; Emily had a hard time believing she would turn forty next year.

One more year sister, she said to her reflection with a sigh. Next year it’s the big 4-0. Where did the time go? The voice inside her asked.

Babe, everything’s getting cold! David yelled from the kitchen.

Coming! Emily yelled back.

She spun around the mirror (twice) to confirm the outfit worked, and headed downstairs to join her husband. David finally heard the clip-clop of shoes descending the stairs. She entered the kitchen, gave him a peck on the cheek, then rustled his hair before sitting down.

Well look who has decided to join us, David teased, running both hands back through his hair.

Oh, did I mess up your style? Emily snickered.

Ha, ha, he responded.

Everything looks great babe, Emily confessed as she poured a generous amount of syrup over the plate. She picked up a slice of bacon and dragged it through the sweet, sticky pool.

Thanks, David replied. He paused a moment before adding, Including you.

She tried not to blush, but David had a way of making her feel like a teenager. Emily became embarrassed, and felt the warmth begin to creep into her cheeks. What do you have planned for today? she asked between bites, trying to take the attention off of her.

I’m taking a prospective client out to play eighteen holes and talk some business.

Really, and who is this potential fish on the hook?

Some developer who specializes in high end strip malls, David replied. He contacted our firm from a third party referral. He’s been sitting on a piece of land for a few years now and has decided it’s time to build it up. It’s a fairly nice size project, and my boss wants me to oversee it.

Define a high end strip mall. Aren’t all strip malls pretty generic? she asked.

You’re right, they are. That’s exactly what this guy is trying to avoid. The basic outline and store lineup may be the same, but he wants a more aesthetic feel to the overall shopping experience. He wants a visually stimulating look to the property, which most other strip malls lack.

I’m so proud of you, Emily said through a mouthful of bacon. Where’s it going to be, around here I hope?

No. I think the site is in…where did he say it was? Oh yeah, the name of the place was Paxton County. Don’t ask me where that is, because I’m not really sure. I’ll ask the guy when I see him later on at the golf course.

Emily sipped her coffee and rolled her eyes.

What? he innocently asked.

C’mon. While I’m wasting away in an office building on this beautiful sunny day, you’ll be out on the golf course? Chasing that silly little white ball around and drinking beer. And you expect me to believe that it’s all business negotiations and hard work? Don’t make me laugh!

Hey, in case you have forgotten, I’m a landscape architect, he defended half-heartedly. "Besides, spending time on a golf course could be considered research you know. Maybe it’ll give me inspiration, or spark some good ideas. Motivation comes from the strangest of places, and when you least expect it."

Oh brother, now I’ve heard it all! Emily exclaimed.

They stared at each other for a moment, tried to hold it in, and then burst out laughing. Even David couldn’t believe he came up with such a line of nonsense.

It’s moments like these that make you realize how much you love me, he teased. He was waving a piece of bacon at her.

His wife shot him a playful wink, finished her coffee, and wiped the syrup from her fingers. David stood to clear the table and placed the dishes next to the sink. Emily grabbed her purse and keys from the counter next to the refrigerator.

Emily began walking out of the kitchen and entered the hallway. I should be home a little early tonight. I have a light schedule today.

Okay, sounds good, David replied. He was already loading the dishwasher. I’ll be thinking about you.

I hope I won’t be a distraction, she joked, reaching the front door. Hit ‘em straight, and stay out of the woods. Emily shut the front door, denying David the satisfaction of a witty retaliation.

Emily hopped down the front steps and walked along the stone path as the warm sun touched her skin. The path, which David labored over putting in himself two summers ago, started from their front porch and wrapped around the house to their two car garage. He had done an exceptional job considering it was his first attempt at any kind of masonry. He swore he lost fifteen pounds that week by sweating alone; a story he stands behind to this day.

Their house was a two story brick colonial, with black shutters and exceptional curb appeal. In addition to the new pathway, they had remodeled the kitchen and added a new roof. The crisp black roofing shingles provided a wonderful contrast with the maroon brick face, making the house really pop from the street. Tall, white pillars flanked both sides of the front entry, creating an old southern plantation feel.

David kept the lawn neatly manicured; he hated weeds. On occasion he was known to run outside in his bathrobe after spotting the rogue dandelion from the front window, pulling it out by the roots and holding it up in triumph. Coming home to a green plush lawn was David’s badge of honor, and Emily often reminded him what a weirdo he was with this obsession.

Emily’s passion, which perfectly complimented her husband’s, was to provide just the right amount of color and charm through flowers and plants. She would think nothing of toiling outside for hours; arranging them by color, height, and sometimes fragrance. David would challenge her hypocrisy by saying his lawn fetish was no different than her flower fixation. Emily would cleverly end the argument by simply telling him he was wrong.

They agreed to move here in an effort to escape the bustle of the city. So far, they were both very happy with their decision. Living in the heart of the city was nice, but it became way too expensive and they just wanted more for their money. For the same price as a mediocre midtown apartment with little space, the Morgan’s were able to purchase this house and still have money left over. Emily still preferred to keep an office in the city for her private practice – although it had crossed her mind to work from home - but this location conveniently provided a short commute for not only her, but David as well.

On her way towards the garage, she began the daily ritual of admiring her flower beds, and silently praising her green thumb. Another gorgeous day was in the forecast ahead, and she was mired in one of those million dollar moods where you felt like nothing could spoil how wonderful you felt.

Emily’s mood changed in a heartbeat.

Approaching the end of the stone path she noticed (subtly at first) small bits of trash scattered about the driveway. As she walked further, more debris came into sight. Broader investigation cast her attention to the area where they kept their two trash cans. Emily kept this space aesthetically neat, just like the rest of the exterior. A small white fence kept the trash cans hidden from street view, and she lined this area with supplementary potted plants. The lids had been dislodged and were on the ground. The garbage bags inside were all torn open. Remnants of the previous four night’s dinner had been strewn everywhere. It appeared to Emily that the culprits must have spent hours playing with the leftovers. The suspects were no mystery.

Not again, she muttered under her breath.

As David was wiping off the countertops he heard the front door re-open. He pushed the start button on the dishwasher and folded the hand towel over the sink.

David!

He poked his head from the kitchen.

Hey, what’s up? Did you forget something? Or did you need to tell me again what an amazing husband I am? He could see from the look on his wife’s face that she did not return for the sole purpose of feeding his ego.

Those damn cats from next door got into our trash again! There’s litter scattered all over the driveway. That’s the third time this month!

How do you know it’s them?

Because I just finished dusting the entire area for paw prints, she answered sarcastically.

David immediately regretted asking the question. He knew who the culprits were and how much this annoyed his wife. The neighbors had routinely allowed their two felines to roam the neighborhood unchecked. Emily put a lot of work, and money, into their landscaping - it should not be disrespected or ruined. The nightly raids had steadily increased over the past four months.

Of course it’s them David! Who else could it be?

Well, what do you want to do Emily? They’re old people, and those cats are like their children. David did his best to delicately defuse the situation, but she was having none of it.

I want you to go over there, today, and have a talk with them. I’m not asking you to be rude - or mean - just explain the problem. I’m sure they’ll understand. Can you do that for me?

David sympathized with his wife’s frustration. Even he was getting a little annoyed at the turds increasingly showing up on their lawn – that’s to say, when they were too lazy to bury them in the fertile soil of Emily’s flower beds. Not to mention the pungent aroma of fresh cat piss from time to time. He never appreciated the potency of that smell until recently; it was enough to knock you over.

Okay, okay, I’ll have a chat with them as soon as I get ready. I promise. He gave her a hug and told her not to let it spoil her day.

Thanks David. I swear, if this persists, those cats are going to pay! I’ll put a contract out on them, she threatened. With the canine mafia or something.

David watched his wife storm out the door a second time muttering under her breath. You’re looking good babe! he said cheerfully as the door slammed closed. The loud bang made him wince.

Canine mafia, he thought to himself. That’s pretty clever.

David went back inside the kitchen and poured himself a second cup of coffee. While standing at the window, Emily’s white Audi eased out of the driveway and turned onto the street. He watched her license plate, TALK2ME, fade out of view. With a fresh mug of brew in tow, he headed upstairs to prepare for what he hoped would not only be a lucrative business deal, but on a personal note, a low round of golf on his scorecard.

While in the shower he smiled again thinking about Emily’s canine mafia remark. He envisioned a burly Rottweiler in a vest and fedora (smoking a cigar) shadowed by Doberman and Pit Bull henchmen, each of which were working over the two cats. Through intimidation the dogs were making the cats promise never to come near this house again. Classic, he thought while rinsing off.

He turned off the water and exited the shower, wrapping a linen towel around his waist. David entered the bedroom and started to get ready. He began laying out his clothes on the bed. Trying to decide between a white or red Nike shirt, David’s casual glance out the bedroom window exposed something that caught his attention.

He spied one of the neighbor’s cats casually strolling through his backyard. He didn’t know which one it was, but that was irrelevant. The animal walked through his vegetable garden on its way across the yard towards the near fence.

Like a battle tested soldier, David ducked down out of sight to avoid alerting the intruder and army crawled across the carpet. After peeking up over the window sill to reach eye level, it dawned on him how ridiculous he was being. Feeling quite embarrassed, David rose to his feet and was appalled to observe the animal urinating into one of Emily’s potted plants. The nerve of this creature!

You little monster, David whispered. He tapped hard on the window to grab the cat’s attention. Hey! Hey you… you dumb cat!

The animal’s ears rotated toward the sound first, followed by his head. The cat nonchalantly glanced up in his direction, and David swore he was making eye contact with him. David stared down at this beast from the second story window, all the while consciously pressing the towel tightly to his waist as not to expose himself to the neighbors.

The animal never wavered. David thought for one brief moment that the cat appeared to be mocking him in some strange way, almost daring him to make the first move. David tapped the glass again, trying to startle the cat. Why isn’t he running away? The cocky feline dismissed the human’s efforts as merely noise – with no real credible threat behind it - before heading off and leaping over the fence separating the two yards.

That damn cat didn’t even care that I was watching him!

While David stood at the bedroom window pondering what had just transpired, out of nowhere the other cat streaked across the lawn. A flash of fur bolted across the width of his yard as the first cat’s brother effortlessly followed suit over the fence. Astonished, David’s grip unintentionally loosened, and the towel fell to his feet. Naked, he knew he needed to follow through on the promise to his wife.

Chapter 2

All five members of the Parole and Appeals Board grew impatient. The inmate they were currently waiting on was the last appointment on a seemingly endless list of filth and degenerates. Numerous inmates had already pleaded their innocence; tirelessly arguing that they were victims of false accusations, police profiling, and a biased society. According to each of the prison’s estimated six hundred guests, not a single one of them was guilty - or deserving - of their incarceration if you asked them. It was business as usual for the members serving on the review board, blah-blah-blah.

Today was unusually humid and oscillating fans were strategically located in each corner of the large room, trying to compensate for a less than adequate air conditioning system. All they really accomplished in doing so was to re-circulate the already stale air. As with most government funded facilities, budgets were tight. Distributed monies were rarely enough to maintain unforeseen expenses or repairs; or, in this particular case – system upgrades. So, for now, the uncharacteristic heat seemed to be getting the best of everyone and would have to be endured.

The review board’s members sat in a neat row behind an old, rectangular mahogany table. In front of each person rested a glass, notepad, and case files that varied in size, depending on the inmate contained within. A pitcher filled with ice water sat in the middle of the table. The humidity inside the room caused condensation to form on the outside of the pitcher, resulting in a pool of water at its base.

The lone woman on the day’s committee tried in vain to cool herself by fanning her face with a manila envelope, but all she managed to achieve was a tired arm and additional sweating. She shifted in her seat several times during the fanning to avoid having her pant leg stick to her thighs. She glanced up at the clock above the door to validate it was in sync with her watch, and uttered a mixed sigh of frustration and mild annoyance for being kept waiting. This same feeling was shared by the other four persons at the table. Just as she was about to recommend rescheduling their last appointment and adjourn for the day, her attention turned to the sounds drawing near.

In the distance, beyond the closed door, she heard approaching footsteps. They all heard the sound. All five of them listened to the slow, methodic shuffling of shoes being dragged across the floor. One pair of feet seemed to drag behind the others, and she assumed steel ankle binders were the cause - restricting a natural range of motion - thus limiting a person’s ability to take full strides. Alongside the shuffling were the faint sounds of additional steps; heavier, more official. The panel noticed a few shadows through the space between the floor and the bottom of the conference room door. The woman shifted again in her seat, albeit this time in a response to nerves. Their last appointment had arrived.

The room echoed as the heavy door creaked open. A coolness seemed to sweep inside the otherwise sweltering space. Two prison guards, both of whom had yet to see their thirtieth birthday, proceeded to escort the prisoner inside. The silhouette he cast in the doorway made him appear larger than he really was. The guard to the inmate’s left gestured for him to keep moving forward.

Clad in a loose fitting, county issued orange jumpsuit with the numbers 87723284 stitched along the back - and over his left chest - the inmate stopped two strides short of the mahogany table and stood before them. The previous mood in the room, one of anger and frustration, quickly amended itself to a feeling of nervousness and awe. Nobody spoke. The woman took a swig of water to quench her suddenly dry mouth.

Here, was Edgar Dumont.

Heavy steel cuffs and thick chains shackled the inmate’s wrists together. A secondary set of chains ran from his wrists down towards his feet. These secondary restraints were attached to thick metal bands just above the inmate’s ankles. Finally, for good measure, a third chain snaked through the previous two and attached itself to a thick leather belt hugging the man’s waist. The belt’s buckle was strategically turned around and fastened behind the inmate’s back, keeping the locks well out of reach. Whenever he walked, the chains connecting his ankles dragged along the tiled floor. This was the sound they all heard during his approach, which reminded one board member of ghost noises he experienced as a child in the local fun house during Halloween. Those memories still gave him chills to this day.

Edgar Dumont was not eligible for parole; the severity of his crimes guaranteed that would never happen. Still, Edgar never wavered from filing request after request, appeal after appeal, in an effort to exhaust, or just simply annoy, the county’s correctional system. He regarded the filings as nothing more than an escape from the boredom of incarceration – a game he privately enjoyed. Absurdly, under federal and state laws, no matter how heinous an inmate’s (alleged) actions might have been, their constitutional rights assured them an audience - in a proper forum - with the sole purpose of being heard. It was all bureaucratic nonsense, and Edgar knew it.

Physically, Edgar Dumont was a hulking sight of a man. His 6’4" frame harbored a solid 260 pounds of mass, making some of the room’s occupants more than a little uncomfortable…chains or not. Wide, strong shoulders were further complimented by a thick neck, and a muscular back. Long, jet black hair, unkempt and dirty, hung down hiding most of his face. The texture appeared greasy, as if he hadn’t bothered to wash it in weeks. It was matted in spots, and the woman was convinced he must have fleas; if not lice.

Dark brown eyes ominously surveyed his surroundings, casually shifting from side to side. If he swayed his head enough to one side the strands of hair covering his face would part just enough to give you direct eye contact with him. Some inmates swore he had the ability to peer into your very soul.

Edgar’s thick arms were more beef than muscle, especially in his forearms. While they lacked definition, he more than made up for that with girth. Edgar’s other distinguishable attribute was his tattoos. Each arm was a sleeve of intricately inked illustrations, starting from just below his shoulder and running down to the wrist. Depicted within the complex patterns of color and shading was an array of dragons, coy, insects, women, flowers, demons and skulls. Additional markings and numerous symbols effortlessly gelled into the arrangement, leaving only a modest amount of visible bare skin. The work was quite impressive, regardless of the individual from which it graced.

Have a seat Mr. Dumont, said the woman. She motioned towards the chair opposite the desk.

Edgar complied with her wish, and took a seat as the two guards kept a watchful eye over him. The chair appeared three sizes too small and seemed to vanish beneath him. The guards each took a position behind and off to one side of the inmate, well within arm’s reach if needed.

The individual seated at the far end of the table from Edgar’s left – a portly fellow wearing eyeglasses and a bowtie - slid a rather thick file towards his co-worker. This person, slightly older than the first and more distinguished looking, in turn, took the file and passed it off to the person situated in the center of the row. While Edgar quietly observed the folder exchange, it became clear to him that sitting in the middle was a perk held by the board’s senior member. How many years of loyal service must you put in to warrant a center seat? Edgar thought. Did this joker consider that a show of power? After thumbing through the case file rather quickly, he began to address the prisoner sitting across from him.

Mr. Dumont, your records indicate this is the fifth time you have been brought before this appeals committee over the course of your sentence. Not once - not twice - but five times!

He paused, looked at the people seated to his left, and then glanced at those seated to his right. There was a hint of sarcasm to his voice as he proceeded, shaking his head.

You have clearly chosen to waste our citizen’s tax dollars by forcing us to meet with you sir. Now, having had the previous four appeals strongly denied, it is extremely difficult for me to believe with any hint of human decency, that this hearing will look upon your application with any realistic intent of granting your release. After a short pause, he added. In fact, it would appear to me, that all you are capable of accomplishing at this point is successfully wasting not only your time, sir, but ours. Have I summed up this little charade of yours properly?

Each guard looked at each other then stared down at their shoes. Both were trying to conceal a grin and maintain a serious mood inside the room. One of the panel members spotted the guard’s struggle, and let his own grin get the best of him for a brief second. After all, the man doing the talking did have a reputation for sarcasm, and he was living up to that title nicely.

Meanwhile, inmate 87723284 listened patiently, and allowed the man to speak his mind - sarcasm aside. He spoke to Edgar with a tone you’d expect to hear from a parent scolding a small child after they’ve done something wrong. While the man berating him continued to drone on and on, Edgar amused himself by studying the other four members. He assessed their ages, wondered who had a miserable home life, and which ones took their job seriously. He guessed which of them was simply watching the clock, who cheated on their tax returns, and more amusingly, which individuals were deathly afraid of him. The answer to his last question he decided was three.

The man speaking began to raise his voice slightly, making absolutely sure he still had everyone’s attention. Most of this display was just posturing to impress his coworkers; and on some level – the guards as well.

Mr. Dumont, do you know what this is? he asked. The man pointed to a mound of paper. This is a pile of letters, e-mails, judge recommendations, and petitions. Do you know what they all have in common? Every single piece of paper in this heap has a reference of some kind back to one of your victims. Each document is a written request or affidavit from the victim’s friends, family members, and neighbors. Would you care to take a wild stab as to what these documents contain?

Edgar continued to stare.

It’s an endless plea for us to do everything in our power to ensure that you never leave this place. And, in many cases, it contains specific requests for us to arrange a meeting between you and a lethal injection.

Edgar watched the man, who became increasingly more animated, hold up a thick pile of papers and wave them over his head like he was presenting the last piece of damaging evidence to a courtroom full of jurors. He shook them back and forth, making sure all who were in attendance remained focus on them. The two guards in attendance were thoroughly enjoying the show at this point, and were thankful they pulled this particular detail. This was turning out to be much more entertaining than yard duty.

After returning the documents to the folders from which they came, he pushed them to one side and grabbed yet another handful of papers. This batch of documents was just as thick as the first, perhaps more so. His rant continued, spurred on by bravery created from having armed men in the room, and an array of restraints on the prisoner. Edgar understood this, and found hilarity in the situation. He sat politely, not once interrupting, waiting for the right time.

This is a stack of referrals, memos and reports from internal officers, employees and medical staff, the man further explained. These individuals have strongly advised against any possibility of granting your petition, or for that matter, ANY request you may bring before this committee in the foreseeable future! He was now spitting as he talked. As far as this panel is concerned Mr. Dumont, this will be the very last time we appease your blatant attempt at wasting everyone’s time!

The man slammed the documents down against the table, causing the woman and the portly fellow to jump in their seats, startled by the sudden noise. Three of them in total, and Edgar knew which ones, grew exceptionally nervous. The woman shifted in her seat, pretending to adjust her skirt. Clearly, the bravery of the man speaking had been fueled by his frustration at being made to wait, coupled with having two armed guards in the room. However, his tirade abruptly ended in mid-sentence, when he noticed Edgar looking upon him with an air of mild amusement.

An awkward silence soon followed, and the room took on an eerie feeling of unease. One of the guards, (Simmons was the name on his silver nametag), cautiously positioned his hand over the safety snap holding his revolver in place. He was careful not to draw attention to himself as he gently pulled up on the small leather strap. The tiny click went unnoticed by everyone, except his partner, Duncan.

The momentary stillness was quickly broken as the radio clasped to Simmons’ shoulder jumped to life. It startled the panel, which had now flinched twice in the past few minutes. Duncan’s heart skipped a beat as well, although he’d never admit to it.

In a rehearsed, routine motion, Simmons reached for the speaker button, craned his neck sideways, and checked in. While doing so, Simmons walked to the far side of the room for privacy. As he interacted with the transmission, the audacious senior board member behind him continued to chastise the inmate.

Officer Duncan, who remained at Edgar’s side, was fixated on the prisoner’s calm demeanor, especially in the face of being ridiculed so inexorably. He didn’t agree with the verbal abuse being dished out, no matter how deserving it seemed. In Duncan’s opinion, it all seemed to be a little over the top. But, he sympathized with the fact they were all hot, tired, and at the end of a long day. Still, Duncan glanced at all the restraints to reassure himself that Edgar wasn’t going anywhere. Meanwhile, the berating continued.

Mr. Dumont, the man demanded, May I ask what is so amusing? What could you possibly find so entertaining about these proceedings, huh? Is there something…

The man wondered, Wait a minute, is he smiling at me?

Edgar glared through the strands of hair hanging over his eyes. His lips parted ever so slightly, and a devilish grin began to form on his face. The appeals committee now realized, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they were dealing with an individual who was not quite all there. The woman became increasingly uneasy. She made eye contact with Edgar, and became mesmerized at his blue eyes. Panic swept over her as she thought: His eyes were brown when he walked in, weren’t they? I’m sure of it! Why are they blue?

The individual who had been doing all the interrogating sat frozen. A chill infiltrated his spine as he watched Edgar’s grin turn into an all out smile - bursting from ear to ear. He wanted desperately to scream out to the guards, to yell for help, but the words never came. Instead, he continued to concentrate on Edgar’s mouth. Why are his teeth red? Is that…blood? He thought.

Simmons, looking out a window while standing at the far side of the room, strained to hear the report coming over the tiny intercom. He was only able to hear every other word through the constant bits of static. Trying to piece together the information from dispatch, he cupped a hand over his free ear and tried to make sense of the details. Preoccupied with deciphering the report, Simmons was completely unaware of what was transpiring behind him on the other side of the room. He held the speaker away from his face and tapped the piece of plastic with his knuckle. Finally, the signal became clear, and information flooded through.

You found what? Simmons asked into the radio. He listened to the response and followed with, Which cell block?

A new rush of static disrupted the flow of the conversation. He tapped the speaker a second time.

Repeat that last question, he demanded, and waited for dispatch to resend the transmission. Yes, he’s been sitting right here in front of us, safe and sound. He’s never left our sight. Why, do they think it was him?

Dispatch continued to inform him about the incident.

But that’s impossible; we were with him the entire time. Okay, I understand, Simmons said. We’ll be extra diligent.

Releasing the radio’s transmitting button, he turned his attention back towards the inner room. His partner had been watching him, reading his body language as he spoke on the radio. Shrugging his shoulders, a confused Simmons made his way back across the room and once again stood on the opposite side of Edgar. The news he was given distracted him from reading the faces of the five panel members, otherwise he may have been on higher alert. Duncan sensed something may be wrong. After working together for the better part of six years, they could almost read each other’s minds at this point.

What is it? Duncan whispered, leaning in tight so the panel couldn’t hear him.

They found an inmate in the restroom, outside cell block 7H, Simmons answered. He paused to glance down at Edgar, then looked back to his partner. The tone of his voice was controlled, but still contained a hint of concern.

Apparently, he’s been badly beaten.

Beaten? How? Is he alright? Duncan asked.

No, he’s in critical condition. He suffered a broken wrist, facial lacerations and a collapsed lung. Plus, one of his ankles is almost completely turned in the opposite direction.

Are you serious? asked Duncan. No witnesses?

Apparently not, his partner replied. Another inmate happened to go into the bathroom and found him lying unconscious under one of the sinks. He screamed for help until some officers arrived on the scene. Otherwise the victim would probably still be on the floor.

That’s really messed up, Duncan said. How could that happen without drawing attention?

There’s something else, Simmons whispered. It was the same bathroom we were waiting outside of while Edgar was taking a leak. Do you remember that dude that went in?

Duncan nodded.

Simmons’ whispering became even lower. Dispatch is insinuating the attack occurred at approximately the same time we were down there.

I didn’t hear a thing, Duncan defended.

It gets better, Simmons said. Someone chewed off his…

Before Simmons could finish his sentence, Edgar decided it was time. He retracted his smile and took in a deep breath. His massive chest expanded as he inhaled. The woman noticed his eyes were brown again. Edgar tilted his head backwards a few degrees in order to enhance the trajectory. The next chain of events happened so fast it was difficult to keep up.

The woman was completely engrossed in convincing herself she hadn’t gone crazy watching Edgar’s eye transitions. Three of her coworkers were silently wishing they had stayed home today, and the man in the center - who seemed to be the only one focused on Edgar’s mouth - was the first person in the room who saw the fingertip about to be jettisoned from between Edgar’s lips.

With a gentle thwoop, Edgar spit out a thumb.

Duncan and Simmons never had sufficient time to react. They both knew this oversight was their responsibility, and disciplinary action would surely follow. Prior to transporting any prisoner, guards are required to thoroughly check out that particular cell. Once the inspection has been conducted, the next requirement is to frisk the inmate and determine that nothing looks suspicious. When the all clear is given, and no contraband has been found, the ranking officer scrutinizes things one more time before allowing the inmate to be released for transport.

No one had looked in his mouth.

The dismembered thumb spiraled through the air, end over end. It traveled across the width of the table, leaving a random droplet trail of deep crimson. It hit the man who had been badgering him all this time square in the forehead with a faint smack. The others practically fell over themselves as they pushed their chairs back from the table, the chair legs scraping against the floor like nails on a chalkboard. The woman let out a deafening scream as she watched the thumb plot its course.

The man was in shock. He felt overwhelmed with nausea as the taste of foreign blood encroached upon his lips as the torn digit passed over his mouth. His eyes were now shut tight as fear and panic gripped his body. Although his eyes remained closed, he could still hear a tiny splash as the thumb dropped into the glass of water on the table in front of him. Three drops of reddish clear liquid splashed up out over the glass and stained Edgar’s file.

Three points at the buzzer…we win! Edgar mused silently. His teeth and gums had taken on a shade of dark maroon. The projectile launched from his mouth left a trace of blood running from his bottom lip down to the edge of his chin, where it hovered in the shape of a tiny red bubble before dropping harmlessly to the floor.

Edgar felt strong hands grab his shoulders, and yank. The two guards acted in unison and powerfully lifted him to his feet. Edgar was awkwardly ushered outside the room; as quickly as the ankle restraints would realistically allow. At one point Simmons and Duncan were physically pulling him towards the door, with Edgar’s feet dragging behind him. Simmons was back on the radio reporting the incident and requesting additional help. Once they had Edgar out in the hallway, Duncan pushed him hard against the wall and leaned into the small of Edgar’s back in an effort to immobilize him further. Simmons was still barking orders into the small intercom attached to his shoulder.

Back inside the room, the woman was hysterical. Her boss sat in his seat, trembling. Not having any medical knowledge at all, she wondered if he had gone into shock. What was she supposed to do? Her anxiety heightened further as she noticed the finger slowly sink to the bottom of the glass like a tiny anchor, leaving a red mist in its wake. Acting quickly, the portly fellow tossed his handkerchief over the glass, hiding what was inside. This helped to distract everybody’s attention away from the shock…a little.

Additional officers burst on the scene, racing down the hall. They rushed past their two colleagues restraining the inmate in the hallway and entered the conference room. Right behind them, struggling to keep up, were two members of the prison’s medical staff. One carried a prison issued, medium sized duffel bag of basic first aid supplies and materials. The other ran behind a stretcher with all the enthusiasm of manning a battering ram; although Simmons hadn’t reported any need for a gurney. Everyone inside the conference room seemed to settle down as help arrived, particularly the woman.

As things were calming down inside, Duncan and Simmons wasted little time in putting plenty of distance between themselves and the conference room as they rushed Edgar back to his cell. Simmons grew angrier with each step. He knew Edgar’s little charade was going to land him (and his partner) in hot water with the warden. Simmons prided himself on being diligent and thorough, and this piece of garbage had tarnished that reputation. His mind raced with sadistic ideas of how he was going to hand out a little payback when the opportunity presented itself.

Meanwhile, the conference room had been emptied of all involved. The five board members had collected their belongings and were escorted away, as a group, to another wing within the facility. The last officer to leave turned out the light before shutting the door and locking it. His orders were quite clear: wait outside the room for the warden’s arrival. Behind him, on the other side of the door, the room was now silent and vacant. In the center of the large mahogany table, under the white handkerchief, the half empty glass of water transitioned into a light shade of crimson.

Chapter 3

Emily walked through the lobby of the building where her office resided, ready for a new day. The large, black and white tiled foyer was rimmed by high glass windows, allowing natural light to pour into the space. Black leather couches were randomly scattered about in front of the main receptionist, giving the waiting are an ultra modern feel. Men and women in their best ensembles sat patiently for appointments - or possibly interviews - with one of the dozens of companies that called this building home. Some sipped coffee. A few were busy on laptops, while others were glued to a cell phone.

Emily flashed the receptionist a good morning hello, and the woman returned the gesture. They had exchanged these pleasantries for years. Next, Emily stopped at the security check where she handed her purse to the guard for inspection, and waited. The old man, most likely a retired cop, respectfully rummaged through her bag and then gave her the okay to continue. Thank you Doctor Morgan, have a nice day. Emily left the security point and proceeded to a bank of six elevator doors. She picked one at random and pressed a white button with the black arrow pointing up.

As she waited for the elevator car to arrive, Emily went through her morning ritual of scanning the building’s directory that hung in a glass case between the elevator doors. Inside the case were a list of all the businesses and what floors they occupied. She had been renting office space in this building for just over ten years now, but still got a charge out of seeing her name in print. There it was - same as always - proudly displayed in white plastic lettering against a black background:

EMILY MORGAN, Doctor of Psychology SUITE 10-A

She watched the lights above the door frame illuminate one at a time as the elevator descended. When it reached ground level, with that old familiar ding, the doors opened. Emily entered the empty car, along with a half dozen others, and pressed her button for the tenth floor. The others on board illuminated their own floors, reminding Emily of a Wednesday night bingo card. The inside of the elevator was very clean, with mirrors on the side walls and a stylish brass rail circling the space, just about waist high. As she stared straight ahead Emily wondered: Why do they put mirrors in these things? Isn’t there enough awkward, uncomfortable silence without wondering where to look? After making stops on floors three and seven, the elevator finally reached floor ten, and Emily exited. She sensed one of the remaining male passengers watching her butt as she walked off, boosting her ego for the morning.

Emily strolled through a maze of hallways, passing the coffee cart along the way as it made its rounds from office to office, offering overpriced bagels and sub-par coffee. Next up was a block of four meeting rooms and two offices you needed to pass before arriving at suite 10-A. The light brown colored door that was her destination, proudly displayed a polished brass doorknob along with a matching nameplate with black lettering:

EMILY MORGAN, PH.D

Good morning Doctor Morgan, greeted her receptionist.

Good morning Roselle, Emily replied as she closed the door behind her. And please, for the one hundredth time, just call me Emily. You’ve been working here for five years and we still have this discussion at least three times a month. You’re the best assistant I’ve ever had, and calling me Doctor Morgan makes me feel, well, old.

I know, I know. I just feel weird calling my boss by her first name. It’s just more natural for me to address you as - Doctor.

Emily smiled and quickly dismissed the conversation. If that’s what makes her feel comfortable, so be it. Roselle (or Rose for short) was polite, hard working, friendly to all her clients, punctual, and kept the office running like clockwork.

Who’s our first appointment today Rose? Emily asked as she got settled and poured herself a cup of coffee. She added one teaspoon of sugar and a splash of creamer. After taking that first sip Emily nearly moaned out loud. Add another point for team Roselle - she always had a fresh pot of java waiting.

Roselle glanced up from the day planner. You’re clear until 10:00am, and then we’ve got Mr. Wainwright.

Okay, thanks. Walter at ten, Emily confirmed. She looked at her watch – it was 9:30.

Emily disappeared into her office and decided to call David. She placed her coffee cup on a ceramic coaster and used the office phone to dial home. The phone rang four times before