The Dead and the Dying (13 page)

Paula Clarke

Opening my eyes, I blink a couple of times as the cold light of morning streams into my small, rented room.

Somewhere else in the apartment, one of my room-mates is making a noise in the kitchen. My initial instinct is to rush out of my room and shout at her, to remind her that some people are trying to sleep. When I look across at the clock by my bed, however, I realize that it's almost lunchtime, so I guess I don't really have a right to get angry. My room-mates are all complete idiots, and I despise them with unreserved passion, but I've learned over the years that I have to pick my battles carefully. Unless I want to be ridiculed, at least.

Sitting up, I think back to the events of the past few hours. It feels as if last night was a million years ago, and as I look at my hands, it's hard to believe that I was in that old guy's garden, and that I contemplated killing him. I try to imagine how it would have felt this morning if I'd woken up and known that I'd ended the life of another human being. The truth is, although I'd have been worried about getting caught, I don't think I'd have felt in any way guilty. Taking a deep breath, I try to imagine what it would have been like to have had someone's blood on my hands; I guess it would have been pretty gross, but I still wouldn't feel bad on a moral level.

I've always been like this. When other people talk about morals, I get a little confused. It's as if they have some kind of built-in filter that keeps them from doing, or even contemplating, truly bad things. I know, on an academic level, that killing that old man would have been bad, but on an emotional level I feel absolutely nothing. Ever since I was a kid, I've been worried that something's wrong with me, and I guess the events of last night prove that I've got some kind of problem. The correct term would probably be 'psychopath', since I don't seem to have the right emotional reactions at all. It's not that I'd have enjoyed killing the old man. It's just that I wouldn't really have felt anything at all. The only emotion I ever really feel is anger. Everything else - compassion, love, hope, fear, excitement, list - I just observe in other people.

"Paula!" calls out a voice, followed by someone knocking on my door. "Did you use the big saucepan last night?"

I stare at the door, shocked by the sudden intrusion. At least I always keep the lock turned, which means no-one can burst in on me. I've been living with these two bitches for almost a year now, and I swear to God, they get so completely worked up over trivial things, it's hard to believe they can actually function in society. Sometimes I want to just bash their heads together and remind them that there are more important things in the world that a few unwashed pots and plates.

"Paula?" Elle continues, with her usual catty tone, "I know you're in there. Someone used the big pot last night and didn't clean it. Was it you?" There's a pause, and she's obviously waiting for me to admit my terrible crime and beg for her forgiveness. "Paula, we all need to work together to keep the apartment tidy, okay? It's a lot easier if we each do out bit."

"No," I blurt out, even though parts of last night are kind of blurry. I've got a vague recollection of making some food when I got home, but I can't remember for sure.

"No?"

"I mean, I didn't use the fucking pot," I continue, determined not to cede any ground in this ridiculous and pointless argument. "I don't know who did, but it wasn't me!"

"Briar else says it wasn't her," she says with a sigh. "Can you
please
clean up after yourself? We all have to live here, Paula, and it makes things difficult if one of us doesn't clean up her shit."

"It wasn't me!" I shout back at her, trying to restrain my anger. Damn it, there's a part of me that wants to open that door, grab that bitch's head and ram her through a window. Of course, I'd have to do the same thing to Briar, since they're best friends, but that wouldn't exactly be a chore. Right now, they're both lucky I don't storm out there and teach them a lesson.

Moments later, there's a mumbled voice somewhere further along the corridor.

"She says it wasn't her," Elle says.

Great, now they're whispering about me.

"Well, just tidy up after yourself," Elle says eventually, sounding tired. "Let's just try to all be good room-mates, okay?"

I stay where I am, listening to their voices getting further and further away. I know those bitches like to talk about me. They treat me as if I'm some kind of freak, and they think I don't notice. I guess they think I'm just a piece of trash, someone to be mocked and then ignored, but they'd soon change their opinions if they knew what my life was really like. Getting out of bed, I consider going through to the kitchen and teaching them a lesson. If I could contemplate killing that old man last night, I'd have no problem dispatching those two bitches, although I guess there'd be something to link me to their deaths. I'm not a coward, but I've got no desire to end up being caught. Elle and Briar are safe for now, but now that I've started to consider the possibility of killing people, I don't see why I shouldn't bide my time and then finish them off at some point in the future.

Closing my eyes, I start to imagine what it'd be like to stand over Elle and Briar's dead bodies. They deserve to die, and I wouldn't feel remotely bad about being the one to end their miserable lives. I just need to find a way to ensure that I'm not suspected. Now that I'm starting to think of murder as an option, a lot of my problems suddenly seem a lot easier to deal with. Why shouldn't we kill people who get in our way? It's unnatural and wrong to just bottle everything up and pretend that these people don't drive us crazy.

After all, I've hidden from my true self for long enough. It's clear that, if I plan carefully, I could do great things. Useful things. The world would be a better place without most of the people who live here, and if I'm able to kill them without feeling guilty, why shouldn't I use that power?

Joanna Mason

"Oh, yeah, I kept a fucking detailed diary," Gazade says, as the crackly video runs on my laptop. The footage is from twelve years ago, when Gazade was on trial, and I remember every second as if it was yesterday. I've got some old Lou Reed songs playing quietly in the background, to help my concentration, but my attention is focused on the screen. "I'm organized, see?" he continues. "I keep my shit in check. Everything's written down, in case I need to refer to it."

"And where is that diary now?" asks the prosecutor.

"Well, that's the question, isn't it?"

There's silence for a moment.

"Mr. Gazade, if that diary still exists, it would be very useful to -"

"So you can prove I'm not insane?" Gazade asks, interrupting him. There's a murmur from the benches. During his trial, Gazade was continually questioned about his mental health. His defense team wanted to present him as a madman, and as someone with a low IQ, so that they could try to fight the death penalty; Gazade, however, couldn't resist boasting of his brilliance. "You'll have to forgive me," he says with an unconvincing grin, "but I don't see the diary turning up any time soon."

Sitting in the dark, wearing just some underwear and a t-shirt, I continue to stare at the screen. There's a half-eaten sandwich on the table, a relic from a time earlier this evening when I actually thought I might be able to eat something. Unfortunately, the nausea quickly came back, and pain has been gnawing at my sides for most of the evening. I'm even starting to regret tossing my pills, but deep down I'm glad I don't have the option to make the pain go away; my mind is still foggy, and I can't afford to surrender, not even as the pain gets worse and worse. If I can't use my mind anymore, there's no point being alive, so I have no choice but to push forward.

"Did you destroy the diary?" the prosecutor asks.

"Why would I do that?" Gazade shoots back. "To piss people off? To upset people? To fuck with their minds? For what reason would I destroy something I worked so hard on? For what goal? For what purpose? To annoy then? To wind them up? To waste my own time?"

"Perhaps you saw it as evidence."

"Well..." Gazade grins. "Yeah, that might be the case, but it's no reason to
destroy
it. Hide it, maybe. That diary is a fucking resource, man. It's a marker of my brilliance. I'm a smart guy, yeah? It'd be a hell of a shame if my genius went to waste. See, the diary didn't just list how I killed the first bunch of people. It also listed my plans for the next ones. I had it all mapped out, man. At least six more. Maybe if someone's smart enough to find the diary some day, they can continue my work."

"And you'd like that, would you?"

Gazade shrugs, but the grin on his face makes his answer clear.

Hearing my phone ring, I take a deep breath and keep my eyes on the screen. It's been the best part of twenty-four hours since the incident at the prison, and I've managed to avoid taking any calls from the office. I know I'm going to be hauled in and treated as if I did something wrong, and I know I can't put that moment off forever; I figure I can at least delay it, however, until I've cleared the fog from my mind. I need to prioritize things, and right now these tapes and transcriptions of Gazade's trial have to be my focus.

"I gave the cops a code," Gazade continues. "It's in the diary. It's so the cops know if anyone finds the diary one day, see? I've been clever."

"And how would someone find the diary?" the prosecutor asks.

"By being smart," Gazade replies.

"For the benefit of the court, could you explain what you mean by that?"

"I mean there's clues, man. Clues in the ether. If someone's smart, and I mean
really
smart, they'll find the diary. Of course, they'd probably have to be like me in order to find those clues, and then once they had the diary..." He pauses, and slowly a smile creeps across his face. "Well, they could do what they wanted, huh? They could really go to town, if that was their heart's desire."

"And where are these clues hidden?"

"They're not hidden. They're in plain sight. I'm giving them to you right now, over and over and over while I'm talking to you. It just takes a fucking genius to spot them."

I hit the pause button and stare at the screen. Twelve years ago, Gazade's testimony drove me crazy. I took it as a personal challenge, and I spent almost an entire year going over and over his words, trying to work out where and how he'd left these supposed clues. To be honest, I started to lose my mind, and it was only thanks to Dawson that I eventually came back from the brink. In the end, I decided that Gazade had been lying all along, that there was never a diary and that there certainly were never any clues as to its location. I failed to understand his clues, I wasn't smart enough, and eventually I rationalized my failure by deciding that there were never any clues in the first place.

I was wrong.

Hitting the play button, I watch as Gazade grins.

"So you see this as a kind of challenge?" the prosecutor asks.

Gazade nods. "Maybe there's no-one out there who's smart enough to find the damn thing. Or maybe that cop, the one I had on my table, maybe she's smart enough. Maybe she's got the brains. Maybe she's up to the job."

There's the sound of shuffling paperwork from off-screen. "You're referring to Detective Joanna Mason," the prosecutor says after a moment. "For the benefit of the court, I'd like to remind the jury that Detective Mason was briefly captured by Mr. Gazade and was intended to be his next victim. Fortunately, she was able to get free and bring Gazade into custody."

"Yeah," Gazade mutters, "she seems smart. I reckon she could do it."

"So this is a direct attempt to challenge Ms. Mason?"

"No," Gazade replies. "It's a challenge to anyone who's got the brains to find the clues and use 'em. I just figure she's one of the few people on my intellectual level."

"And this is a game to you?"

"Isn't it a game to you?"

"It's the legal process, Mr. Gazade."

"Someone wins," Gazade replies, "and someone loses. That's the definition of a game. That's how a game is defined. That's what a game's all about."

Hitting the pause button again, I continue to stare at the screen. Gazade had a habit during his testimony of repeating himself. It's something I noticed twelve years ago, but now I'm starting to wonder if it's part of the game he was playing. I rewind the video a few seconds and hit play again.

"That's the definition of a game," he says. "That's how a game is defined. That's what a game's all about."

I hit pause. Gazade just said the exact same thing in three different ways. In most of his work, he was very efficient, yet during his court testimony he suddenly became much more verbose. After checking my notes, I rewind the video a little further and hit the play button again.

"Or maybe that cop," Gazade says, "the one I had on my table, maybe she's smart enough. Maybe she's got the brains. Maybe she's up to the job."

I hit pause. Once again, Gazade said the same thing three times. For most people, this kind of repetition wouldn't really be much of an issue, but for Gazade, it somehow seems as if it might be more relevant. He seems to have been drawing attention to certain words and phrases, as if he was trying to get someone to notice these passages more than others. Rewinding the video again, I play another of the sections that I noted down earlier.

"Why would I do that?" Gazade says. "To piss people off? To upset people? To fuck with their minds? For what reason would I destroy something I worked so hard on? For what goal? For what purpose? To annoy then? To wind them up? To waste my own time?"

Three sets of repetitions in one little burst. Figuring that this has to mean something, I write down the sentences, before noticing that on each occasion, he starts the sentence with the exact same word. In this case:

To.

For.

To.

I stare the page. The fog is still clouding my mind, but I feel as if I'm finally starting to get somewhere. After a moment, I realize that 'to for to' could just easily mean '242', so I go back through the transcript and start noting down every instance of Gazade repeating himself in this manner. Soon, to my surprise, I have more than a hundred examples, but once I've got them in order, I can't see any kind of pattern at all. I can't work out whether I'm on a false trail, or whether this is just the fog in my mind preventing me from seeing something that should be completely obvious.

I try every method I can think of in my attempt to decipher Gazade's code. After a few hours of torturous logic and failed attempts, I'm starting to get a headache and all I can think about is the fact that I still can't think properly. Sitting back, I stare blankly at the paused, flicking screen on my laptop. Maybe Gazade was right when he said that the person who found his code would have to be someone who was like him, in which case I don't have a hope of getting an answer. Still, I have to try. In the old days, before the chemotherapy and the drugs that messed up my head, I used to solve problems by emptying my mind completely and waiting for my subconscious to come up with the solution.

Closing my eyes, I wait.

Silence.

The only noise is the fan of my laptop, whirring at low speed.

I try to stop thinking, to empty my thoughts. It's not an easy process, but finally I manage to achieve a state of complete calm. There's not a thought, not an idea, in my head.

And that's when it hits me. Just like the old days, when I used to get flashes of inspiration, the answer comes looming out of the depths of my mind.

Numbers.

Going back to the list of repeated words, I strip out anything that couldn't conceivably be interpreted as a number. I'm careful to retain anything that's borderline, though; for example, I keep the word 'ain't' as a possible substitute for the number eight, and 'free' as 'three'. I'm left with more than forty numbers, and although I try to find a pattern, I can't pick out anything. Eventually I run through the entire video again, even though my eyes are burning by now, and after a while I notice that he's used the word 'prime' quite regularly, so I strip out the non-prime numbers from the list and finally I'm left with a single line containing seventeen numbers.

I blink a couple of times. I've got a hell of a headache now, probably as a result of forcing my mind to work despite the fogginess from which I've been suffering. Still, as I stare at the numbers, I realize with a slowly growing sense of satisfaction - and maybe even a little pride - that it worked. I can still get those moments of sudden realization, those flashes of inspiration, even if it's harder these days. As I get to my feet, I feel a wave of dizziness pass through my body, and I have to pause for a moment before finally my head starts to settle again. Picking up the piece of paper, I stare at the numbers and realize that I think I've finally worked out where Sam Gazade hid his diary all those years ago, and where the copycat killer must have found it.

He hid GPS coordinates in his testimony.