The Listener

By Bruce Weber

Wrongly convicted of murder and sentenced to life in prison, Jack Larner retaliates violently against a sadistic prison guard and is cast into solitary confinement. In the darkness and isolation of his tiny cell, he undergoes a bizarre and inexplicable transformation. When he emerges he appears quite normal, but with one exception: when in Larner's presence, no one can tell him a lie.

 

Larner considers this transformation to be a curse, but when the prison authorities learn of it they enlist Larner's help in extracting willing confessions from suspects they could never have convicted.  Larner is eventually set free, but is constantly hounded by various branches of the security state, forcing him to come to their aid. Larner soon learns that a man can be just as imprisoned walking the streets as he is behind bars.

 

As you read Jack Larner's story, you might find yourself wondering what your own life would be like, if no one could tell you a lie.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stanfield Books
• Release date: Aug 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215823545

Book preview

The Listener

Bruce E. Weber

Stanfield Books

Contents

Title Page

Also by Bruce E. Weber

The Listener

About the Author

The Listener

Bruce E. Weber

a Stanfield Books publication

Copyright ©2023 Bruce E. Weber

Printed in the United States of America

All rights reserved.

* * * * *

Disclaimer

This is a fiction book. Any resemblance to actual persons     or events is a coincidence.

* * * * *

Formatting and Cover Design by Debora Lewis

This book is dedicated to my faithful readers, to whom I am sincerely grateful.

Also by Bruce E. Weber

Dark Manna

The Dark Side Of Enlightenment

The Perils Of Watching

The Sacrament Of Lust

Kissing Lucy Thai

Prayers For The Devil

A Dutchman In Paris

The Sunny Side Of Death

The Gates Of Paradise

Rice Whiskey And Muddy Water

Lunch With Caravaggio

The Most Interesting Man In The World

(Coming in early 2024.)

The heart is deceitful above all things, and beyond cure. Who can understand it?

Book of Jeremiah, Chapter 17, verse 9.

The Listener

The room was twelve feet by twenty feet wide, its walls gray-painted concrete, its floor of worn green linoleum. A row of fluorescent tubes on its ceiling cast a white pall over the windowless room, which smelled strongly of Pine Sol. On a chair at one end sat a man, bolt upright, wearing a khaki prison uniform. If he'd stood he'd be six feet, two inches tall He had dark hair, his skin pale except for ruddy cheeks speckled with blue-black stubble. He sat with his eyes nearly closed, his hands in his lap, massaging his right hand.

Beside him at a long table sat Warden Jenkins, a bald man dressed in a dark gray suit, his two chins covering the knot of his red tie. Both men sat in silence, the only sound being the buzz of the fluorescent bulbs overhead.

A green metal door opened slowly with a rusty creak. A man was led in, shuffling in leg-irons and handcuffed, with a prison guard at each side gripping his arms. He wore a stained gray sweatshirt and blue jeans. He was placed directly in front of the dark-haired man, who sat with his eyes still lowered. The guards pushed the chained man into a chair and stood close to his side.

The rusty green door creaked open again and two men appeared, both in gray suits, who approached a table nearby and produced recording equipment, a camera and notepads.

One of these men, a tall thin man with a callow complexion, handed a clipboard to the man dressed in the khaki prison uniform, who sat rigidly still with his gaze downcast. The gray-suited man turned to Warden Jenkins and said, Ready when you are, Warden.

The chained man glared at the man seated in front of him. He sniffed and tried to rub his itching nose against his shoulder, then turned to the Warden. Who's this asshole?

The Warden said. His name isn't importance, Mr. Muller. He wants to ask you some questions.

Mr. Muller grinned, showing crooked yellow teeth. Ha! You think I'm gonna tell him anything? Your boys worked me over already and I didn't tell 'em shit even after they broke a couple of my ribs. This guy gonna yank out my fingernails?

The Warden turned to the man in the prison uniform and said, Go ahead, Jack. The man opened his eyes fully, blinked twice at the glaring light, glanced at the clipboard in his lap, then looked at the chained man sitting in front of him. In a low voice he said, Susanne Clark. Where is she?

The chained man's eyes gaped. His chest rose and fell rapidly with his breathing. A bead of sweat coated his upper lip. He tried to close his eyes but was only able to blink rapidly. He struggled to turn his head away from the questioner but his head only jerked slightly. Then he became transfixed on the other man's eyes. His lower lip twitched and his chin quivered. He opened his mouth but the only sound he made was a low croak. Then he inhaled deeply and said, barely audibly. 606 Monroe Avenue, here in Michigan city.

The questioner said, Is this a house?

The chained man whispered, Yes. Boarded up.

Where is she, in this house?

In the basement.

Is she still alive?

The chained man licked the sweat from his upper lip. She should be. I hadn't started on her yet.

While he spoke, one of the gray-suited men shouted into a land-line phone, Get an ambulance to 606 Monroe Avenue. Look in the basement. Victim should still be alive.

The questioner asked, Are there any others there?

Muller was still panting. Yes, yes, why am I telling you? He leaned forward. Why do I tell you? They give me some kind of drug?

The questioner said again, Are there any others?

The chained man leaned back, looked up at the ceiling, and said. Two.

Still alive?

They're in cages.

The man with the phone shouted, Send two ambulances. There may be other victims.

A half minute of science followed. One of the men at the table got up to adjust a camera that was aimed at Muller, sat down and looked at Jack Larner, the questioner. Ask him how many others there have been, names and dates if possible, and where their bodies may be found.

The rest of the interview lasted twenty minutes. After saying he had no more to tell, Muller's head fell forward, his chin resting on his heaving chest.

The Warden motioned for Muller to be led away. When Muller was pulled from his seat he looked at Jack Larner, his eyes narrowed to slits. He whispered, Why did I tell you? Are you some kinda hypnotist?

Larner said nothing. As Muller was led away, the clinking of his leg irons echoed against the concrete walls.

After a few seconds of silence, the Warden looked to Jack Larner and said. Well, Jack, this is the tenth time you've helped us, just as we asked for. On behalf of those kidnapped girls and their loved ones, I offer my sincere gratitude.

Jack Larner, Prisoner number 33478, rose stiffly from his chair. He nodded to the Warden and was escorted down a long hallway to his cell. When the cell door slid sideways he stepped in, walked to one of the wide, barred widows and stared out at the sunny afternoon.

Jack Larner's corner cell was at the end of a cellblock, to keep him isolated from the prison population. It differed from the other cells by its two large barred widows, the result of a recent renovation to that cell alone. His favorite thing to do, since he'd been released from solitary confinement, was to stand at that window, sunrise to sunset, to gaze at the precious light. After three months in solitary, in a six-foot by nine-foot cell with only a high barred window, deprived of sunlight and fresh air and human companionship, it was the light that he had missed the most.

Despite the fact that, on one of those dark days in solitary, a light had been ignited within him that sustained him even now, he still craved the warming balm of sunlight.

~ ~ ~

Jack Larner had been standing at that window massaging his injured right hand, his posture straight as a ship's mast and as immobile, when his cell door was tapped. It slid open. A short, squat prison guard named Plimpton said. Warden wants to see you, Larner. Said he wants to see you, if you have the time.

Larner turned to the guard and smiled. If I have the time? He really say that?

The guard's round pale face formed a wide smile. His words exactly. Maybe he thought you were busy with one of your projects.

Larner stepped to the door. Just so happens I've got a brief opening in my busy schedule.

The two men walked down a long corridor of cells, the openings of metal cell doors being only small squares, those squares covered with small sliding covers. Death Row was not meant to be conducive to the warmth of human contact.

They turned right at the end of that row of cells, waited for two sets of barred doors to slide sideways, stepped into an elevator, and in five more minutes of walking through sliding hissing doors, stood at the wide mahogany entry of Warden Jenkins' office. A guard sitting at a desk near it rose, tapped on the heavy wooden door twice, then opened it.

Warden Jenkins stood and stretched his hand across his desk. He shook Larner's hand but was careful not to grip it too firmly, then he motioned for the guard to leave the room: he wanted no witnesses to this conversation, just in case he blurted out something he didn't really want to say.

After shaking hands he motioned for Larner to sit in an overstuffed red-leather chair across from the desk. Larner sat down, unable to resist wiggling his butt into the soft leather-bound cushion: it had been a long time since he'd sat in such a comfortable chair. He looked down at his right hand, then massaged it slowly with his left hand, softly kneading the still-swollen palm.

The warden folded his large pink hands on his desk blotter and leaned forward. Jack, I have to thank you again for your help. That girl in the basement on Monroe Avenue was still alive, should be okay in a few days. The other two were in pretty bad shape. The word now is they'll survive, but they'll need a lot of psychiatric care. The Warden looked away, toward a landscape picture on his opposite wall: he did not care to look Larner in the eye for too long.

Then he said, We'd never have been able to get Muller to talk. Those two guards who led him in had leaned on him pretty hard, broke his ribs and probably ruptured his spleen, but he wouldn't talk. A few minutes with you and he spilled his guts about this and a whole bunch of other cases we can now close. Sixteen women in all, Jack, and we'd never have gotten a confession if not for you.

Larner gazed out the window at the still-bright day. He had ignored the warden, having lapsed into a happy daydream of walking in the sun. He was jolted from this peaceful state when the Warden asked a question he'd asked several times before. Jack, have you figured out yet how you can do this, how you can make people tell the truth?

Larner's wide shoulders slumped. Trying not to show his impatience, he said. We've been over this before. I told you, I don't make anybody do anything. I just ask and they tell me. Sometimes I don't even have to ask. They just blurt stuff out and there's nothing I can do about it. Larner turned again to the window. It's been like this since I got out of solitary.

Warden Jenkins sat back, unfolded his hands, laid them flat on his desk, and stared at Larner's hands as he spoke. He knew well why Larner incessantly massaged his right hand, and wondered vaguely if the man would ever regain full use of it. The Warden's mind drifted to a ghastly scene that had taken place in the prison cafeteria, and the vision of Larner's bloodied hand, but he forced his focus back to the present. You remember I made you a deal, that if you helped us one more time I'd start proceedings to get you paroled. You helped us and I am grateful and I am sure the parents of those young women will be grateful to you forever. So I'll get to work right away on your pardon. But you have to remember, you are here not only for one murder conviction but also for what you did to Tallmadge. The Warden's eyes narrowed, again affixed on Jack Larner's hands. It will be somewhat difficult to persuade the Parole Board to go along with this. It's not easy to get a man set free who almost tore another man's throat out with his bare hands.

Larner's only reaction was a thin smile. After a few seconds of silence, he said. I remember you said if I was paroled I'd have to make my whereabouts known at all times to law enforcement, so they can call me in if they want to interrogate somebody. Larner leaned forward, stretched out his left hand, and with its long index finger he tapped the Warden's wide mahogany desk. So, I'd get to go free, but not really free, since I'd have to be available to help the authorities. I helped you all these times like I agreed, and thanks for the windows you had put in my cell. But that's it for me, Warden. I don't want your parole. What kind of freedom would it be, having to be at the beck and call of law enforcement? And what if I suddenly lost this ridiculous skill I seem to have, to get people to tell the truth? You could slap me back in prison−

We couldn't do that, only if you broke parole.

Larner sat back in his chair, his fingers gently rubbing its soft leather arms. His face contorted in a brief sneer, then lapsed into a look of calm. I've never committed a crime of any kind, other than lying on my tax returns. I was convicted of killing a man whose body was never found, strictly on a corpus delicti case conjured by the District Attorney and on the testimony of two cops who lied. And any jury would find what I did to Tallmadge justifiable. Larner waited for the warden to dispute this, but Jenkins' only response was a sad silence.

Larner leaned forward and added quietly, And it was you bastards who let an animal like Tallmadge keep his job here. You knew what he was like. Even the other guards were scared of him. I took his abuse for months and complained every day but I was ignored, till one day I couldn't take it anymore and I snapped. Larner leaned back in his chair and whispered, Then you stuck me in a hole for three months, way more than usual. He looked out the window at the waning light: for Jack Larner, the setting of the sun was the most mournful moment of the day. Feeling bereft of strength he murmured, still staring out that dim window, So there's no reason for me to believe anything you tell me.

Warden Jenkins said, Jack, I won't argue with you on any of these points. But I don't need your consent to begin parole proceedings. In the mean time, I hope you'll consider helping us again.

The Warden pushed a button on his desk, but before the door to his office opened, Larner stood up and said, Thanks again for the windows, Warden, but as to me helping you again you can forget it. And don't bother threatening me with solitary again. I've been there. Nothing in this world can scare me now.

~ ~ ~

Warden Jenkins watched Larner leave, then sat back in his chair and exhaled a sigh of relief. Every time he'd been alone with Larner he'd had felt a powerful urge to start