Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror (3 page)

Huntsville
Unit

Texas
State Penitentiary

Est.
1848

Not
only was Huntsville the oldest prison in the United States, it also
boasted the country’s most active execution chamber. Over four
hundred inmates had checked into
The Walls
and had never checked out. There were a few who managed to slip
through the cracks though. Anton Harris, who had protested his
innocence for the murder of his sister and her friends after a drug
fuelled night out, had already been strapped down and was about to be
given the needle when the call came granting him a stay. His relief
didn’t last for long, as his appeal was thrown out, and two
weeks later he was strapped in for the second time. They called it
the most humane method, but Roberts thought that the idea of feeling
your body shut itself down was pretty shitty no matter what kind of
spin you put on it. If it were up to him, he would choose the chair.
A quick jolt and done. Your brain was turned to mush before you
really knew anything about it. Unfortunately,
old
sparky
had been retired years earlier, so
lethal injection it was.

He
had been brought to
The Walls
earlier that morning, and with his execution scheduled at six sharp,
it only left him with a few hours to live. This was the time when an
inmate might begin to beg, plead, and proclaim his innocence. But not
Roberts. They had him bang to rights. Guilty as charged. During the
first year or two spent in prison, he’d been forced to undergo
psychological evaluation. He had a series of discussions with a wiry,
nervous looking doctor called Jones. Roberts didn’t like the
way Jones moved, the way his eyes darted and flicked from side to
side as he asked his questions. He was also a nose breather. You know
the type—the ones who wheeze and whistle out of their nostrils
instead of the mouth.

“
Why
do you choose to kill?” Jones had asked as he peered over his
glasses.

Roberts
paused to consider, and there was silence apart from Jones’s
maddening nasal wheeze. He considered making up some elaborate story
to justify his actions, but in the end he decided to be honest.

“
Because
I like it. I like the way it feels,” Roberts said, adding a
sneer he hoped would unsettle Jones.

“
You
like the power it gives you?”

“
Yes.”

“
And
what about your victims? Do you feel anything for them?”

Another
pause for consideration. More nasal wheezing.

“
No.”

Jones
nodded and wrote something down.

Snort
wheeze. Snort wheeze.

“
Tell me about your family—”

Roberts
was already lunging over the table before he realized he was going to
do it. The guards reacted quickly, but not quickly enough to stop
him. He remembered laughing at the way Jones screamed. It was high
pitched like a schoolgirl. The guards had pulled him off and beaten
him with their truncheons, but not before he had managed to get his
fingers up Jones’ nostrils and tear away his nose. Roberts
laughed as he was dragged away, watching the screaming doctor as he
tried to hold the jagged remains of his face in place. There would be
no more psychological evaluations after that. He had been placed in
solitary confinement, and had remained there until his transfer
earlier in the day.

The
door at the end of the hallway creaked open and unhurried footsteps
approached. Roberts remained where he was, stretched out on the
bed—his six-foot-seven frame not made for standard issue prison
cots. It was lucky for him that he wouldn’t be sleeping over.
Officer Remy approached the bars. He was a flabby man who seemed to
be on the verge of bursting out of his uniform, which was stretched
to tearing point across his immense stomach. He was short, standing
only a shade over five feet. His skin was freckled and he sported a
carrot colored crew cut. Every time Roberts saw him, he was sweating
and had brightly flushed cheeks. Remy watched Roberts through harsh
little eyes, which combined with his huge jowls and downturned mouth
gave him the look of a bulldog chewing on a mouthful of wasps. He
looked flustered and angry, but Roberts noted that even here Remy was
walking with his usual arrogant swagger, swinging his key chain and
giving the thousand yard stare.

“
Looks like you have friends in high places,
maggot,” Remy said in his southern drawl.

Roberts
smiled but didn’t stand.
Maggot
was Remy’s standard insult, and was as cheap and clichéd
as the man himself.

“
Hey,
motherfucker, I’m talking to you.”

“
Kiss
your mother with that mouth, officer Remy?” Roberts responded
curtly, standing up. Even with the bars between them, he was pleased
to see Remy take a cautionary step back.

“
Sit
your big ass down,” said Remy, who suddenly seemed less sure of
himself. Roberts didn’t sit. Instead he folded his arms and
waited.

“
You
just made history, maggot. You have a visitor. First time in the
history of this fine institution that a dead man walking has been
allowed a visitor on execution day.”

Roberts
kept his expression neutral, but inside he wondered who it could be.
Family was out of the question— those bridges had long since
been burned, and he had no friends.

“
Who is it?”

“
How
the fuck should I know, retard? All I knows is that y’all must
have someone way up the food chain looking out for you, cus this is
unheard of. Says his name is Elgin. Don’t expect no stay of
execution though, freak. Visitor or no visitor, you are gonna die
today.”

Remy
smiled, showing the immense gap between his front teeth. Roberts
wondered how many people Remy had accompanied here and seen put to
death. He looked the type that would get a kick out of it, like the
kind of man who would get off on those last desperate moments as a
prisoner would finally accept the inevitable. Perhaps Remy was on the
wrong side of the bars. Roberts held his silence, and realizing he
wasn’t going to get a reaction, Remy wiped the back of his
forearm against his sweaty head.

“
I’ll
bring a chair and he can sit right here in the corridor. You have one
hour.”

Five
minutes later, Remy returned with a folding chair, which he set up in
the hallway. As he left he shot a venomous glance at Roberts, who had
seemingly ruined his day. Roberts paced his tiny cell. Five steps
from wall to wall, it was hardly the Ritz. He waited for another five
minutes, then heard the door creak open and echoing footsteps
approach. His mystery visitor had arrived.

He’d
expected someone older than the man who came and stood by the folding
chair with a briefcase in hand. He looked young, perhaps early
twenties. He had a strong jawline and piercing blue eyes. His hair
was a short buzz cut and he wore an expensive looking black suit and
white shirt. He set his briefcase down and sat on the chair without
saying a word. Unlike Remy, he showed no fear of being in such close
proximity to the bars.

“
Good
day, sir. My name is Joshua Elgin,” the visitor said.

Roberts
didn’t answer.

“
You
have been a prisoner of the state for how long, Mr. Roberts?”

“
Six
years.” As he said it, he marveled at how much time had passed,
though it felt like longer. Elgin leaned over and opened his
briefcase, and began to rummage around inside. Roberts busied himself
by looking at his own warped reflection in the leather of Elgin’s
shoes. He had never seen such well-polished footwear. Having found
what he was looking for, Elgin turned back to Roberts, a brown folder
in his hands.

“
You
are awaiting execution for the murder of…” Elgin
referred to his folder, leafing through a page or two as he looked
for the relevant information. “Ninety-seven people.”

“
Yeah,
but between you and me, I did a hundred and two. They just couldn’t
find any bodies for the rest, and I can’t remember where I put
them.”

He
had expected this to shock Elgin, but the man simply nodded as he
adjusted his position on the chair.

“
That’s
a lot of blood on your hands.”

“
Not
enough,” Roberts fired back.

Elgin
opened his mouth to speak, but Roberts cut him off.

“
Mr.
Elgin—I’m not interested in your psychological
evaluation, and I don’t particularly care what you have to say.
The last person who quizzed me found himself needing a new nose, so I
advise you to be careful here.”

Roberts
wasn’t angry, he just got a kick out of frightening people.
Elgin’s response was completely unexpected. He laughed.
Slightly annoyed, Roberts waited.

“
I’m
sorry for laughing, Mr. Roberts, but you are quite wrong. I am no
psychologist, and for the record, I am also fully aware of what
happened to Doctor Jones. No, my purpose here is entirely different.”

Roberts
wasn’t sure what to make of Elgin. There was a calm assurance
about him that he found to be slightly unsettling. Nevertheless, if
Elgin’s intention was to raise Roberts’ curiosity, he had
succeeded.

“
So
why are you here? I’m sure you can appreciate that time is
precious to me, today of all days.”

“
Mr.
Roberts, I’m here to offer you a job.”

“
A
job? I got a newsflash for you, buddy. In around five hours’
time I’m a dead man.”

Elgin
smiled and leaned closer.

“
I
can assure you I’m quite serious, Mr. Roberts. Now please, sit
down and let me explain.”

He
was about to tell Elgin to go fuck himself, but he realized that he
had nothing better to do, and since he was already a better sport
than Remy, Roberts sat.

“
Thank
you.”

Elgin
seemed very assured as he sat on the chair in the corridor. Many
lesser men would have been intimidated, but Elgin took it all in
stride.

“
Mr.
Roberts, I represent an organization that is always on the lookout
for someone with your unique skills.”

“
And
what skills are those?”

“
I
think you know, but to save time I’ll come right out and say
it. Violent sociopaths, remorseless, honestly brutal killers, Mr.
Roberts.”

Roberts
shook his head.

“
This
is the point where I’m supposed to tell you I’m
misunderstood. Or that my mother made me do it, right?”

“
What
you tell me is entirely up to you. My job is just to assess your
suitability.”

Roberts
laughed. It was a strange sound in a place so closely associated with
death.

“
A
fuckin’ job interview? This is classic! Don’t be
surprised if I can’t make it to work tomorrow!”

Elgin
waited patiently until Roberts calmed.

“
Don’t
think of it as an interview. It’s more a case of checking your
credentials.”

“
What
are looking for me to do? Contract killings? Like some kind of off
the books hit man?”

“
No.
The role we are offering is far more rewarding.”

“
No
offence fella, but you are one crazy motherfucker.”

“
Perhaps
I am,” Elgin said with a thin smile. “Even so, I would
appreciate it if you would indulge me and allow me to do my job.”

“
Hell—why
not. This is the most entertainment I’ve had in years.”

“
Very
well,” said Elgin, as he referred to his notes.

“
In
the brief conversation you had with Dr. Jones, you told him that you
kill because you enjoy it.”

“
That
I did. I often wonder what happened to that wheezing prick.”

“
He’s
dead,” Elgin said, without looking up from his notes

“
Yeah?
I hope it was painful.”

“
He
suffered a stroke, and even though he recovered, he couldn’t
handle the indignity of having to be cared for by his wife— who
was suffering with severe depression of her own.”

“
So
what happened?”

Elgin
looked Roberts dead in the eye, but his face bore no expression, not
that Roberts could read at any rate.

“
One
morning—not long after the stroke—he struggled out of
bed, and with his one working hand, managed to load the .38 pistol
they kept in the house for protection. His wife hadn’t heard
him get up. She was in the kitchen preparing breakfast.”

“
He
offed her, right?”

Elgin
nodded.

“
He
shot her in the back of the head. My guess is he didn’t want to
leave her behind when he took his own life.”

“
I’m
surprised she didn’t hear him wheezing all the way across the
room. So he did her, then put a bullet in his head?”

“
Not
exactly. I have no doubt that it was his intention, but the recoil of
the gun knocked it out of his hand, and it wedged itself between the
oven and refrigerator. He tried his best, but with only one working
hand and being as weak as he was, he couldn’t get it out. So he
had to resort to other methods.”