Primal Fear

Primal Fear

William Diehl

STORY MERCHANT BOOKS

BEVERLY HILLS

2012

Copyright © 2012 by the Estate of William Diehl. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.

http://seven-ways-to-die.blogspot.com/

Story Merchant Books

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This book is for
my children, their husbands and wives,
and my grandchildren:
Cathy, John, Katie, Emily and Chelsea
Bill and Lori
Stan, Yvonne, Nicholas and Jordan
Melissa, Jack and Michael
and Temple
And always for
Virginia

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author wishes to thank Dr. Everett Kugler of the Georgia Mental Health Department, for his invaluable assistance in the research of mental disorders; attorney Brett Merrill, of Swainsboro, Georgia, for his guidance in law and trial procedures, and for his continued encouragement; Chip and Kathleen, and Steve Collura, for their patience; the members of Save the Beach and the Gunn Committee, for their concern and support; and author Stanley Booth, who couldn’t write a bad sentence if he tried, for the inspiration of his words and for making even the darkest days a little brighter.
Salud.

I believe in the law. I believe in the sanctity of the courtroom and in the majesty of justice. I also believe that things are not always as they appear, that sometimes facts can be manipulated the way a magician manipulates an audience. He distracts you with this hand, while the other hand does the tricks. It’s called misdirection. The prosecutor in this case is a magician. He has misdirected your attention from the facts of the case with flashy tricks and information that really have very little to do with my client’s guilt or innocence. He has produced a body of what he calls evidence—all of it circumstantial. He says my client had motives, opportunities, desires, but produces no hard evidence connecting him directly to the crime. He says my client is immoral, that he is a liar, that he was caught cheating the victim, that he was desperate. My client does not deny these allegations—but does motive or opportunity or desire make him a murderer?

Is he being tried for being immoral? Or for lying? Or for cheating? Will you send this man to the electric chair because he is desperate? I say in the interest of justice you must ignore the wizard’s card tricks and look in his other hand—the hand where the real evidence should be, because if you do, you will see that it is empty. This is a court of law, not a magic show. My client faces the death penalty.

Can you twelve ladies and gentlemen honestly say that my opponent has proven this man guilty beyond the shadow of a doubt? The system makes mistakes because no matter how finely crafted it may be, it suffers the weakness of human fallibility. My client is human and he is fallible—but so is the magician who seeks his death. So I ask you not to be deceived by misdirection. Study the evidence carefully and when you do, I am convinced you will have no other choice than to find my client not guilty of this crime.

Martin Vail
Summation to the Jury
The State
vs.
Nicholas Luma
September 3, 1979

T
HERE IS NO CRUELER TYRANNY THAN THAT WHICH IS PERPETRATED UNDER THE SHIELD OF LAW AND IN THE NAME OF JUSTICE.
M
ONTESQUIEU
, 1742

ONE

FEBRUARY 26, 1983

When Archbishop Richard Rushman, known to Catholic, Protestant and Jew alike as “the Saint of Lakeview Drive” because of his great charitable works, stepped out of the shower, he had less than ten minutes to live. Death stood in the doorway.

The hot shower had relieved the bishop’s tension, and he started to hum along with the stereo playing in the bedroom. Beethoven’s
Ode to Joy
—possibly his favorite piece of music. The majesty of the chorus never ceased to thrill him. It was so loud he did not hear the apartment’s kitchen door open.

The kitchen door’s unlocked. Good. The room so spotless, so sterile-clean, stainless steel and tile, like the autopsy room at the hospital. The music. So fitting. Lovely. Overpowering. Volume all the way as usual, he won’t hear a thing. In the bedroom, conducting the orchestra, eyes closed, imaginary baton in hand, humming along. So fucking predictable.

The archbishop stood in the doorway of the bathroom, dabbing himself dry with the plush Turkish towel. He was a tall, handsome man, muscular and hard, with a tan line from shoulder to shoulder where his T-shirt usually ended. Dark, thick hair tumbled down over his forehead. He flexed his bicep, admiring the bulge as he dabbed under his arm. When he finished, he threw the towel on the bathroom floor and began to sway with the music as he stood naked in the middle of the room.

Chocolate for energy. Can almost feel it zooming up like an electric charge, down there, too, swelling me up, preparing the big O. That’s what he calls it, the big O. Don’t screw up, hold your hand against the big six-foot refrigerator door so it doesn’t make that little popping sound when it opens. Like that, perfect. There they are, all those little pony bottles of chocolate milk. Soldiers on the door shelf.

The intruder twisted the small bottle upside down, right side up, upside down, right side up, watching the drink turn to thick, chocolatey brown before he twisted off the top and drank it. Then instead of pressing the foot pedal on the garbage container, he lifted the cover by hand and placed the bottle silently into the plastic liner.

So neat, so clean. So fucking sterile.

The archbishop sprinkled talc into a folded washcloth and, closing his eyes, rubbed it into his body. He was lost in the music, using his voice like a bass fiddle as the brass came in. Bum bum bum bum bumbumbum buuum …

God, I love the way the knives feel. Light, balanced, cold. So smooth, slick, oily, like she is when she wants it, when she’s ready.

The intruder slid open the hidden tray under the cabinet where the carving knives were stored, ran his fingertips lightly across the handles, so carefully rubbed with linseed after they were washed. He stopped at the largest one, the carving knife, its broad, long, stainless blade honed until the cutting edge was almost invisible. It shimmered in the soft rays of the night light recessed under the cabinets. He removed it, ran his middle finger down the length of the blade, leaving a thread of blood on its ridge from the slice in his finger. The intruder licked off the blood.

The chorus is beginning to build. And me, tightening, tingle in my belly, pulse in my temples, the spasms. Not much time left before it’s time to explode.

He walked through the living room with the knife held down at his side. The bedroom door was open.

Sanctum sanctorum. Scarlet drapes and bedclothes, blood of the Father. White carpeting, purity of soul. Candles glowing, clean the air. Incense…

And the ring, lying on the night table where he always put it when he showered afterward.

There he is.. All purity and light. His Eminence, His Holiness … His Crassness. Blessed saint of the city? Saint, where is thy halo? On the bedpost? In a drawer somewhere? Evil he stands and naked, conducting his imaginary symphony of angels, anointed with self-righteousness.

The music was building. The intruder walked to the table, took the ring and slipped it on his finger. His Excellency was rapt in the music, eyes closed, unaware. The intruder closed in,
reached out with the knife and tapped the bishop on the shoulder with the flat of the blade. Startled, the bishop turned. His eyes widened with surprise. The bishop started to smile, saw the knife. Questions floated across his face.

The intruder held out the hand with the ring on it and pointed the knife toward the floor. The bishop was stunned, began to smile. The intruder jabbed the knife sharply toward the carpet and His Holiness slowly lowered to his knees. Fear replaced curiosity. The bishop slowly leaned forward to kiss the ring on the hand outstretched to him.

Got to be timed perfectly so we come together. Big death, petite death … Forgive me Father for I have sinned, forgive me Father for I have sinned, forgive me Father for I have…

“Forgive me Father!” the intruder screamed.

Archbishop Rushman looked up to see the knife slashing a minisecond before it hit. He twisted, felt the blade slash into his shoulder, cutting deeply through the muscle and tissue and slashing his shoulder bone. He screamed, a horrific mixture of terror, fright and pain, like the banshees of hell howling in despair. The knife rose again, and as it plunged toward him he tried to block it with his hand, the other hanging limp at his side. The blade pierced his palm, twisted, withdrew and slashed again, and again, and again. The bishop staggered backward, trying vainly to ward off the deadly weapon. He felt a burning under his ear as the blade sliced through throat, windpipe, jugular and esophagus, nicking bone before bursting out under his other ear, a cut so clean and powerful only the bony spine kept head and body together.

Blood showered from the horrible gash.

The knife slashed again, this time across his naked belly. Then again from hip to hip. The deadly blade whipped again and again, flashing in the light as he fell backward, sending a table and lamp halfway across the room, clutching at the wounds, feeling his hand bury into the soft mass of arteries and ruptured flesh. His head lolled, jogged to and fro like a cork in water. Pain overwhelmed him…

In the small park across the street from the rectory, a city mailman unleashed his dachshund, Gretchen, and watched her waddle along the row of shrubs that separated the grass from the sidewalk. He could hear the strains of classical music coming
from behind the blinds in the bishop’s second-floor suite, and he began to hum along with the music, a melody from his past.

He stood on the walkway letting his memory drift back, sifting through time as he picked up the tune.

Suddenly a voice cried out above the music.

“Forgive me Father!”

He looked up at the window. There was a loud crash.

The light behind the blinds went askew and a moment later he heard a harrowing scream of terror, so wrought with horror that the dog feathered its ears and began to howl.

A streak of terror as real as a lightning bolt shot down his back. The hair rose on his arms. The puppy, crying, ran back to him and he swept it up in his arms as another scream just as harrowing, just as horrifying, followed, only to be cut short by a muffled cry.

Silhouetted against the blinds he saw a figure moving in and out of the light, and the mailman ran into the street, waving one arm at a passing car, yelling for help.