Genre: Utopian
Setting: Hospital
Required Scene: Falling Away from Religion
OFFICE MEMORANDUM – UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT
DIRECTOR, FBI
SAMUEL BELL,
Murder Case,
Paterson, New Jersey
SAMUEL BELL, white male, 26. 5’10’’ 153 lbs. Dark hair, blue eyes.
Arrested at St. Joseph Hospital on July 25, 2064. 16 Murders Confirmed.
The following contents were gathered from investigations by the SAC, New Jersey.
SAMUEL BELL (hereinafter BELL), age 26, was apprehended at St. Joseph Hospital Room 1211 shortly after a security report by ████ ███████ a fellow nurse. Records show that BELL had worked at the Hospital since March 2056, following his training at, and release from, the State Clergy Orphanage, Branch 4 (SCO-4) at age 18.
BELL is now in custody for the murder of 16 individuals during his 8 years of work as a practice nurse. All victims were suffocated ████████████████████████████ ███████████████████, a procedure that hence induced his media alias ‘The St. Joseph Suffocator.’ Due to his unique method, no murder weapon was to be found. Within 48 hours of his arrest, BELL confessed to all 16 murders. A thorough search of Medical Records at St. Joseph Hospital since March 2056 has uncovered 17 cases of parallel casualties, but BELL insists he “had no hand” in the remaining one.
According to his co-workers, BELL was generally quiet and composed, keeping his interpersonal relationships minimal. Many of BELL’s peers, while appalled by his felonies, uniformly stated that he never appeared to be a “threat to others.” Based on BELL’s reclusive personality and genuine lack of community ties, it seems unlikely that he had conducted said murders under instigation and/or with an accomplice.
NOTE: While BELL has reported the method of his murders in detail as part of his confession, he expressly refused to clarify his motive unless “in the sole presence of an ordained man.” ████ ██████ of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Newark was commissioned for the undertaking ███████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████.
— — — — —
“A slimy bastard, that one,” said Benson. Myron had just closed the file when the detective walked in. “If you ask me, he doesn’t deserve a hearing.” Benson leaned down and placed a steaming cup on the table. Myron noticed the glossy chrome appendage on the back of his neck. “Why is that?” he asked. “Well, he’s guilty, for one,” Benson said. “As far as I can tell, the case is a no-brainer for the prosecution. All the evidence is in order, and he ain’t even going for a plea deal. But word came down that all processes must be met before Bell’s day in court. It’s like he’s the only one rooting for the chair at this point. But I guess that’s the big boys’ business.”
Benson took a long, noisy sip from his cup. Myron followed suit. The coffee was bitter and hardy, just like the ones served at roadside diners and diocesan offices. Myron remembered the brand well, from the nationwide ban across state ministries that it had briefly endured toward the mid-2040s. The Conference claimed that the prohibition aimed to abate all products of exploitation from third-world countries. The press, less pious by nature, argued that it was due to the ever-increasing rate of death by heart attack in the cleric population. Whatever the case, the prohibition stood for less than five years before it fell out of favor. With NOVA in commercial practice, neither concern bothered the faithful to the point of legal significance.
“Anything you need, Father?” Benson asked. “I’m to provide whatever helps your sessions, so fire away. I doubt the Sandman will throw you anything solid, anyway. Most likely, he’ll just dance around your questions and fuck you in the ass.” Benson chuckled. “Not literally, of course.” Myron ignored the profanity. “The Sandman?” “Oh yeah, that’s the name the precinct had for Bell before the Bureau took over. Probably not the smartest one you’ve heard, but it stuck. You know, putting people to sleep and whatnot.” Benson brushed back his hair with a humble smirk lingering on his lips. “That and whatever our first responder thought he saw.” “What did he see?” Myron asked. “Well, it’s like you read. A nurse called security, the security called him, and by the time he was over, the deed was done. He says Bell didn’t struggle when we took him in. This gave him time to get a look at the deceased before the doctors rushed in. We usually don’t have that.” Benson paused to slurp his coffee. “God, this shit is strong. I love it.” “Detective.” “Right,” Benson continued. “When the kid came back to the precinct to file the case later that evening, he looked shaken. Confused, you know. It took half a dozen beers off the shift to get him talking. Now, this ain’t in the case files or anything, so don’t take it to heart.” Benson cleared his throat. “He said the victim was smiling. Her mouth stretched in a full-fledged grin, ear to ear.”
Myron felt a knot in his stomach. “Was that always the case with Bell’s victims?” “I wouldn’t know, Father,” Benson said. “The precinct was only in charge of the last one. And I don’t recall seeing any such description in the Bureau files, either. Not that they would have accounts of the killings that happened all those months ago.” “Right.” Benson sat down across the table and crossed his legs. “As I said, this information never made it to the official reports, and for good reason. According to the autopsy, no irregular substance was discovered in the victim’s system. The converter fluids had been dosed right, and her NOVA scarab was intact. Had Bell not been around, she would have checked out the next morning without a hitch.”
Benson stopped briefly to clear his cup. His Adam’s apple surged upon each robust gulp. “My guess is that Bell messed around with her facial muscles after her death, for whatever reason these sick fuckers tend to have. Or, more likely, our boy just saw things that weren’t there in the height of his rush. Adrenaline can do that sometimes. Especially to boots his age who don’t know what to expect.” Myron raised his brows. With his clean-shaven face and slick blonde hair, Benson appeared to be at most in his late twenties. Had he not remembered the scarab on the back of his neck, Myron would have thought the detective was being vain. Benson seemed to have noticed his look. “A thing of wonder, isn’t it?” he said, gently tapping his finger on his device. “My only regret is that I haven’t gotten it sooner. I’m turning 43 next month, and I feel younger every day.” “It’s quite impressive,” Myron admitted. “Right? Who would have thought we’d live forever? By the hands of a clergyman, of all people. No offense.” “None taken.” Benson leaned back in his chair. “ Got any plans for an installation, Father?” “No, I can’t say I have.” “Why not?” Benson asked. “I’d say a 15-year run without defects is assurance enough. Wait, you’re not one of those pro-death monks, are you?” “No,” Myron said. “Well then, I insist you think on it at least. It’s not just that you have more to live. You learn you have more to live for,” Benson beamed with a harbinger’s glee. “Thanks, detective. I promise I’ll give it thought.” Myron answered.
— — — — —
The corridor to Interview Room 2 was grim and narrow. Save for an occasional security message or government bulletin, its cascade of concrete and glass was seldom obstructed. Upon reaching a sizable metal door, Benson pulled out his radio and signaled their arrival. Myron glanced at the poster hanging adjacent. The fonts in bold read ‘NOVA: A Life at a Time.’ Below was a picture of Cardinal Mayweather, caressing a prototype scarab in his palm. Both were excerpts from the Cardinal’s renowned speech of 2049 upon his introduction of the technology. At the time, he was but a senior researcher at a lab customarily sponsored by the Conference. Now, his resignation seemed the only remaining hurdle toward a prospective presidency.
“I’ll be right outside the door, Father,” Benson assured. “If anything goes wrong, just press the emergency button under your side of the table.” “I got it, thank you,” Myron said. “You nervous at all?” “No, I’m a little giddy, but I think that’s mostly the coffee.” “Good. Again, don’t expect to pry out his whole life story. Chances are, Bell’s request for this little catechism is to get inside your head without the authorities dropping in. Don’t give him too much about yourself, either. Think of it as an exorcism. You know, without all the vomiting and levitation.” “I’ll keep that in mind.” “Good luck, Father,” Benson said. “Who knows? Maybe the Sandman will have a softer spot for you.”
— — — — —
“You wearing a wire?” Bell asked. He was leaning slightly forward, as dictated by his handcuffs. “No,” Myron answered. “I understand that’s part of the deal you’ve made with the Bureau.” “Well, I just had to make sure,” Bell said. “Not that I’d have any way of knowing.” Myron sat down slowly across the suspect. Enfolded in lust for a frantic mass, the papers had readily portrayed him as a gaunt and restless eccentric. Under the cold ceiling light looming between them, Bell’s features appeared bleaker still.
“I’m sure you realize the legal implications of my request, Father.” Bell continued. “That our conversation must remain submitted to your memory only.” “Well, yes,” Myron admitted. “By his oath, a priest is prohibited from disclosing any contents of a personal confession. Unless, of course…” “The penitent intends mortal harm towards others,” Bell bridged the pause. “I assure you that will be of no concern, Father. I have already attained all that is relevant to my interest. And you know well enough that killing more wouldn’t be possible under my circumstances.” Even while informed of Bell’s capacities, Myron could not help but waver at his casual tone. “So you do not renounce your murders.” “I most certainly do not, Father,” Bell said. I’ve made that clear from the moment of my arrest, even to the dimwits at this precinct.” Myron chose not to comment on the suspect’s pride. He sat silently as Bell’s frigid curiosity shimmered over his face. “But I assume the reason for your visit is bound to its context, not its affirmation.” Bell continued. “You want to know why I did what I did.”
“Yes,” Myron admitted. “Why?” Bell asked. “You told me yourself that you don’t have a wire on. As an ordained man, you cannot make my motives public. What could you hope to gain from being the only one to know?” Myron paused in thought. Naturally, he had asked the same question. “I wanted to understand, as a fellow man. In the end, that’s all I am,” he said. “I appreciate the honesty,” said Bell.” “Your predecessor had something much more pretentious to say.” Myron flinched. It had never occurred to him that he wasn’t the first to consult Bell. “Not that it made a difference,” said the suspect, his gaze still fixed on Myron’s face. “The truth is, I want to tell you. Although whether you would choose to reach the bottom line is a different matter altogether.” For but a moment, Myron saw a faint smile brush past Bell’s lips. “Out of respect for your decent nature and my particular standing, I will recite my accounts as orderly as I can. However, patience is the word. You will not reach the end, nor comprehend it, while untrodden the due course.” “I understand,” Myron answered. “Good,” said Bell.
— — — — —
Who
“The first of anything I remember was the ivory-white hedges lining the garden. The Orphanage was low on funding that year, and one of the workers had planted crops across the estate to supplement the inventory. By fall, all but one had failed. Upon turning the corner where the hedges ended and walking down a passage of gravel beside Residence Hall, one would reach a small lemon tree. The workers, even the one who had planted the tree, had long forgotten its existence. The children paid it no mind. But the tree was, for me, a promise of something unexpected. Despite the lack of sunlight and the dense frost of winter, it held on. And so did I, year after year, until, to my delight, the tree yielded fruit. The excitement as I collected my prize was unlike anything I had felt before. For once, I had something entirely to myself. A graceful rush of anticipation flooded my chest as I delved into my trophy, teeth and all. What followed was a feeling of stark horror. I realized, in reproach of my naivety, I had imagined a pleasure unfit. Where I had expected a rich concord of sweetness and flesh was but lashes of bitter acid. Wincing in disdain, I threw the fruit at my feet.
Later that evening, the Dean gathered the children and ranted on for a good while, regarding a pair of missing garden shears. He thought one of the older boys might have hidden the tool away with ill intent. This was, in his words, an act of contempt. Despite his interrogations, the shears were never discovered. But if the Dean and his staff had been vigilant beyond the orphanage walls, they would have found it, hurled over the garden hedges and resting upon a puddle of dead leaves. They would also have found, not too far away from it, the uprooted remains of a small lemon tree.”
Where
“Of course, I wasn’t aware of my standing in the world then. My circumstances. My age. Even my name, I had learned in retrospect. Like my peers, I discerned in due time the bearings of closed doors and the vanity of expectations. For many, these were disadvantages enough to abandon all wits. I was not deterred. Fortunately, I showed promise in the only area of expertise that could resettle my odds: academia.
Mathematics and the sciences were my forte, aside from an arbitrary fondness for the English language. All shared the quality of systematic order. If one understands the rules and honors them, the system rewards. The same tactic was pertinent to my endurance outside the classroom. Save the sporadic whims of its constituents, the Orphanage operated much like an apparatus. In the end, the products had but three destinations: to test one’s providence against the labor market unattended, to remain in the Orphanage for handywork, or to secure a stipend sponsored by the clergy upon recommendation. For me, none other than the last was worthy of resolve.
By the time nearing my release, I had amassed achievements and favors sufficient to land me in any stipend position I wanted. I would have applied for missionary work or even an administrative post at the State Clergy Headquarters, had it not been for Cardinal Mayweather’s gift to humanity. NOVA, of course, stirred a public sensation from its onset. However, its ubiquitous presence in the United States did not arrive until years later. The hesitence of most, I assume, was more a product of doubt towards one who would so selflessly offer a share of his miracle than towards the innovation itself. To consumers versed in the austerities of late capitalism, a device that programs telomeres to stimulate a complete regeneration of body cells was justly an idea far more comprehensible than altruism. Despite the ensuing waves of medical trials and the testimonies of pioneers, it was not until 2055 that this threshold of skepticism had fully waned, and the heirs of immortality numbered in the millions.
Then all at once came again the age of cathedrals. The practitioners’ awe of their good fortune soon transferred to an allegiance to the Cardinal and, by extension, to the Catholic Church. With a steady realization of opportunities begotten by existence unbound, conversions on a more collective scale also began to take hold. Rates of felonies and social disparities plummeted, giving way to an unprecedented passion for education and leisure. While initially alarming, the explosion of human capital was quickly balanced by a fluid interchange between careers and functions generated by the Church. Above all, the population relished an abolition of haste and hatred, as there was now enough time for each to master all deprivations of body and mind. It seemed, as Cardinal Mayweather had promised, ‘paradise come, a life at a time.’
A wonder it was to see penitentiaries become schoolhouses and hospitals, mere venues for checkups. As subscribers were absolved of all medicinal needs – save the minor inconvenience of renewing their scarabs once a year – all but clergy-endorsed hospitals gradually receded from use. Around this point, facilities such as St. Joseph Hospital began enlisting attendants to relieve collateral turnovers. Besides a hearty compensation, these positions guaranteed opportunities for technical training and due transit into the ranks of NOVA researchers. And thus my prospects were sealed. Favored at last by will and resources, I beheld the doors open to my undertaking.
My first year at St. Joseph passed swiftly. Under protocol, I learned to operate the NOVA scarabs and to administer correct amounts of sedatives and converter fluids for their renewal. None was demanding work. For the most part, abidance and precision were all that was required. As the seasons turned, so grew my hopes to join NOVA’s mission at ground zero. More than anything, I yearned then to become part of a story bigger than my own. To matter beyond myself. It seemed that all skills I had mustered and all disciplines of failure endured had been for this very goal. As it appeared, my footing, while treaded unexpectedly, was sturdy. I was on my way.”
When
“The winter of 2056 was, as you would recall, exceptionally bitter. While this usually did not account for higher traffic at the Hospital, it did produce victims of peripheral casualties. Such was the case of Nicholas Frost. Aged 73 and a loyal advocate of NOVA, Frost was registered at St. Joseph on the verge of alcohol poisoning. For his state, standard procedures for detoxification would have sufficed. However, it had completely eluded the pedestrians who had called for his ambulance that Frost, in his inebriation, had suffered a slight concussion at the back of his head – and that his NOVA scarab, while seemingly intact, had consequently resorted to default.
As no irregularities were reported on Frost’s initial diagnosis, it was ruled that he needed only to spend the night in treatment until the alcohol wore off. And so was Frost hospitalized, his peril left unattended. It wasn’t before well into the midnight shift that his Central Monitoring System detected anomalies and began raising hell, the sound of its shrill alarm ripping through corridors that had long remained celibate. As the holidays were near, only a handful of staff remained on duty. Authorized or not for Rapid Response, the closest at hand was to attend. I rushed to Frost’s room and found him restless, clawing at the sheets in a violent fit of trance. As inexperienced as any with such emergencies, I scrambled in perplexity until I discovered, to my dread, Frost’s pillows drenched entirely in the azure hue of his converter fluids.
Only then did I realize the risks at stake. As Frost’s scarab degenerated, so did its administration over the fluids. Hence, all that had been in circulation were expelled from whence they were injected. Whatever would happen next was beyond my reckoning. In a state of frantic helplessness, I reached for the call button. The only option now for Frost’s survival would be to put him on life support until the doctors arrived. I leaned forward, only to be halted by a sudden grip on my wrist. ‘Don’t you dare,’ Frost said. His breath was thin, but glowing with a drone of strange ecstasy. His grasp tightened, as if to raise all strength against his redemption. ‘Don’t you fucking dare.’ Frost said again. I stood petrified as a visage of triumphant joy flooded across his face. Upon every breath toward certain death grew the vigor of his salutation. ‘I’m home,’ Frost whispered. He inhaled once, then was no more.
After the incident with Frost, I took a short leave from my profession. This was nothing unnatural as far as the Hospital was concerned. After all, even with NOVA, there was never a complete absence of death. Whether from car crashes, heart attacks, or, as Frost’s case proclaimed, physical injuries, people still died. Hence, a nurse’s break was readily condoned, if not encouraged, as a casual expectancy.
I confess, however, that what unsettled me so was not the event of Frost’s death but rather its manner. Of course, I had learned of the state of blissful transcendence to occur moments before death – nature’s courtesy to a life in passing. This was nothing of the sort. No surge of brain chemicals could leave a man so bereft of reservation. I knew what I had seen. Frost welcomed death to his final breath. He would have it no other way. I faintly speculated that the leakage of his converter fluids had contributed to this anomaly, although I had no way of knowing for certain. It wasn’t until long after my return to St. Joseph that I came to comprehend the full gravity of my discovery.”
The room erupted with a harsh metallic buzz. Myron sat still, startled by the breach. Only then did he remember where he was. Bell, on the other hand, appeared nonchalant. “Don’t be so surprised, Father,” he said. “It seems that our first hour has ended. Detective Benson will be expecting you outside.” Bell straightened his back, with his hands still outstretched, “I trust you will hold to your pledges, Father,” he said. “If the detective starts snooping for scraps, please extend him my regards.”
— — — — —
Myron stepped through the metal doors of Interview Room 2. Benson was nowhere in sight. In his stead stood a tall man wearing a blank suit and a blank face, gazing across the corridor in an expression so unmoving he hardly seemed to be alive at all. Myron was at once intimidated by his presence. “Good evening, Father,” the man said. “We have not met, but I hear you’ve read my work.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out his card. On its crest, the letters DEPARTMENT OF INVESTIGATION were printed in blue. “Special Agent John Mason of the FBI. I’m currently leading the Bell serial murder case,” he reported. Myron shook his hand. He wasn’t sure of what to say. “I imagine you’re well into Bell’s story by now,” Agent Mason continued. “I do admit my memorandum had left out some personal details. But such is the requisite of my position.” “So you have already heard it.” “Well, yes,” Mason said. “Everything from Bell’s upbringing to his dabbles in medicine. Not to mention what he went on to become eventually. Frankly, Bell has never been reserved in his recount. However, I do find him most elusive in his choice of visibility. By the day after his arrest, he had given me all I needed against him in court. No leverage or pressure was required. All were answered, but the question of why. I believe he has saved that solely for you.”
“And so is the purpose of your visit,” said Myron. “To bring your question to rest by my hand.” “Not quite, Father,” Agent Mason said, his mouth curling into an eerie, calculated smile. “The Bureau concerns itself with practicality, not remorse. I, for one, couldn’t care less about Bell’s motivations past the point of his indictment. Nor do I intend to sway you from your oaths. No, I’m here to offer you a choice. At the cost of my confidentiality, no less.” The Agent held up a small photograph. At its center stood an elderly man in neat clerical clothing. “Upon Bell’s request for an ordained individual, the Bureau elected Reverend Lowell, Chief of Chaplains at South Woods State Prison, New Jersey. A man credited for his expertise and compassion, Father Lowell shortly acquired the privilege of attending Bell’s accounts in full. Yesterday, only two days after his session, he was found dead. He had taken his own life.”
Myron stood dumbfounded. He recalled now the blotted last lines of Agent Mason’s report. “Father Lowell was, of course, immediately taken under autopsy,” Mason continued. “There were no signs of foul play. As bizarre as it seems, the Reverand’s suicide had been deliberate. It appears that whatever Bell’s bottom line was, it was enough to cut down the lifelong virtues of a pious man.” Agent Mason turned to Myron with an expression of cordiality, no less mechanical than his smile. “The way I see it, Father, you are now at a crossroads. You may walk away now and remain oblivious to how Bell’s story ends. Or you may go forward and find what truth to bear alone. Whatever your choice, you make at your discretion – and at your own risk.”
A chill ran down Myron’s back. The Agent had geared his distance well. If Bell’s truth proves to be lethal, he would have no hand in its dealings. With this recognition, another equally troubling soon took form. “Why a second counselor?” he asked. “If not Bell’s motives, what could the Bureau hope to gain from further investigation?” “Practicality, Father,” Mason answered. “While Bell keeps his secrets exclusive now, there is always the chance that he might change his mind before his day in court. Of course, this could devastate the public integrity of the Bureau, not to mention the Cardinal’s good work. So if you were to follow in the footsteps of the late Reverand hereafter, the Bureau must make sure that Bell never sees that day.” Once more, Myron was lost for words. The Agent’s smile grew wider, as if to offer him solace. “Paradise comes a life at a time, Father Myron,” he said. “Surely you understand.”
— — — — —
“Welcome back, Father,” said Bell. “I was beginning to think you’d given up on me.” Myron walked silently to his chair. The door creaked shut behind him. “I met Agent Mason outside,” he said. “I understand he’s leading your case.” A gleam of intrigue emerged in Bell’s eyes. “Quite unemotional, isn’t he? I can’t say I’m surprised by his visit, Father. If there’s anything Agent Mason fears, it’s the thought of others knowing more than he can control.” “He told me your previous counselor died,” Myron said. “Reverand Lowell took his own life yesterday.” A brief silence settled between them. “I see,” Bell answered. “I assume his verdict was inevitable.” “Inevitable,” Myron said, his voice growing colder now. “And I see you would intend the same end for me.”
Silence fell once more. Bell’s gaze lifted to Myron, unblinking and nearly dispondent. “I intend nothing,” said the suspect. “You think I gloat, Father. I had thought you were more perceptive. I’m no sociopath. No sadistic mastermind. I assure you that the death of Reverand Lowell brings me no pleasure at all. But I must also point out that he didn’t just stumble onto his knowledge. He chose to seek it. And in the end, he chose to act upon it.” Bell’s voice softened, but his stare held fast. “I see my opacity vexes you. But it does not dissuade you. That is why you have returned, as did your predecessor, to test yourself against the truth. And why Mason, although seemingly indifferent, took the trouble to test your resolve. Before you say anything, Father, I know what he is capable of. I knew that from the moment I met him. The only difference between him and me is that he takes pride in his work. In the beginning, you told me that you wanted to understand. You have held to your words. In return, I will honor mine. I ask you only, as promised, to be patient to the end.” The suspect’s tone was sincere and not without certainty. He knew that an agreement had been reached. “Very well,” Myron answered. “Thank you, Father,” said Bell. “That’ll do.”
— — — — —
What
“Before going further, Father, I must confess to certain omissions in my retelling so far. I was not forthcoming regarding my time at the State Clergy Orphanage. Perhaps you had suspected, as a former resident yourself.” “Yes,” Myron admitted. “But before your time.” “Then you would have preceded Reverend Davidson as Dean of Affairs.” “I have.” “Good. At last, something Agent Mason managed to overlook.” Despite his affirmation, Bell’s smile bore no pleasure. “While well concealed, Dean Davidson’s advancements were rarely subtle. Adjustment sessions, he would call them. To not speak of him was the only defence of dignity to the boys under his care. Of course, we knew something was wrong. But of measures beyond his ordinance, we knew nothing about. In time, we accept our discomfort as a fact of life. We had understood, to the vanity of our spite, that nothing could be done otherwise. Reverend Davidson, on the other hand, enjoyed his full term in office. Upon his retirement, he was awarded a customary implant from NOVA and a pension enough to last his extended years. So was he to go on, if not for a minor heart attack that befell him in the summer of 2059 – a product of a hereditary quirk. As the Reverend resided in the Paterson area, he was immediately escorted to St. Joseph Hospital.
There I beheld him. I will not lie to you now and attempt to dilute the disdain I felt in my tormenter’s wake. Upon first sight, I felt the full length of my untreated rage rekindle. Whatever faith I had left in my aspirations or better judgment quickly gave way. I had held on until then – in the same way I had held on to my lemon tree – to the hopes that I might make something of my life past my humble onset. I realized then, again and for the last time, I had imagined a pleasure unfit. Wherever I go, whatever I become, I would not be free of this bitterness. Ironically, the more I accepted my hatred, the clearer my mind became. And as I walked towards the Reverand’s room that night, no shard of doubt remained in my heart.
If I had learned anything of God throughout my lifelong intimacy with his people, it was of his impartiality. While I was not so naive as to believe his judgment would occur in life, my encounter with Frost’s passing had admittedly instilled the hope that it might afterwards. Did you know that Nicholas Frost was a war veteran, Father? Records show that he was nothing short of a hero, decorated accordingly in Gaza and Caprica. Even after his wife left him and his children disowned him, he never stopped mailing them monthly allowances. Yet, Frost died alone and unmourned. If anyone deserved to be rewarded for a life of uncompensated selflessness, it would have been him. He didn’t get what he deserved in life. But what if he did afterwards?
Perhaps what I saw in his last moments was judgment itself. A lost man turning over to reap his rewards in perpetual joy. Heaven manifest. Perhaps NOVA, a technology intended for eternal life, had alternatively functioned to reveal a hidden truth. What began as a vague prospect upon my research into Frost’s past steadily turned into certitude over the ensuing years. And so I stood over Davidson in malicious triumph. For if there is a heaven, there must surely be hell. I longed to see justice befall him. To witness the terror in his eyes as he met the consequences he had long outrun. Having made sure that the CMS alarm was silenced, I turned the Reverend’s head and pushed the tip of my surgical scissors in between the fissure of his scarab.
It took half an hour for Davidson’s converter fluids to be drained completely from his body. As the sheets underneath began to emit an azure glow, the Reverend’s chest jerked sharply upwards. A ragged series of gasps followed. I watched, unmoving, as the damned scurried to hold his breath. Only after a considerable amount of his struggle was I able to hear the Reverend speak coherently. ‘Praise be to you, good Lord,’ he whispered. A smile not unlike Frost’s rose on his lips. ‘Praise be to you.’ My heart sank. I drew my face closer to Davidson’s. ‘What do you see?’ I demanded, my caution in secrecy nearly forsaken. ‘Is that you, my Lord?’ the Reverend answered, his voice filled with elation. ‘What do you see?’ I asked again. ‘I see a garden lush with shrubs,’ said Davidson. ‘And enclosed in white hedges. I’ve spent many faithful years here. I hear the sound of our dinner bell, and my children cheering from a distance. It’s beautiful,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’ Those were the Reverend’s last words.”
How
“I wept. I wept for days, torn apart by the realization of my grave naivety. No words exist that can describe the pain. I saw now that life is but a punishment, and faith its coping mechanism – one designed to soothe the victim’s heart in favor of his great oppressor. I wished to die. There was no reason not to. If not for a lingering wail of morbid reservation, the story of the St Joseph Suffocator would not have come to be.
It was evident that both Frost and Davidson had been granted heaven after death, and that their respective paradise satiated their longing, or pleasure, in life. But was there genuinely no exception? The thought alone was sickening, but could it be that whatever transgressions of both men were deemed pardonable to the untold standards of a higher power? Or that one seemingly less at fault be condemned for reasons beyond mortal decree? I was, as you might think, a sour loser. Nonetheless, I had to make sure. I had to know. My utmost advantage was that I was now wholly unbound to the trivialities of hesitation and remorse. I was lost, and thus, I was free.
So I began my expedition. Its arrangement was remarkably undemanding. As I said, despite the presence of NOVA, people still died. All I needed to do was pick out individuals whose passing would appear natural, and at times, inconsequential. Even then, I had to distance my trials far enough apart as not to draw attention. I also had to ensure that the extracted converter fluids were discreetly disposed of. At first, I made do with replacing the soiled bedsheets with fresh ones and burning them. As time passed, I learned that collecting the fluids in Hemovac drains was a much more effective method. This way, I could also bypass the process of separate disposal by subsequently injecting the fluids back into the body. With only a minute grafting over their surface area, the scarabs appeared flawless even to trained eyes. After all, the devices were technically never impaired; they were just momentarily reset.
With its means and receivers trivial alike, my experiment met no obstacles unavoidable by vigilance. As its numbers piled up, I naturally learned that deaths by drainage of converter fluids were always officially classified as suffocation. Hence, I adjusted my selection of patients accordingly. Even so, I had no shortage of diversity. From death row inmates to experienced businessmen, juvenile delinquents to elderly housewives. The only constant was the outcome. Death arrived saluted, and reaped without prejudice. All deceased passed on to heaven; this world, in turn, was hell.”
Why
“One would think, Father, that the said result would only have fed my dread. It achieved something quite the contrary. Strangely enough, as the equality of our terminal destination gradually disclosed, my initial bitterness grew thinner. For never have I witnessed so much bliss, and received so much thanks, as I have during those eight years. The key to our salvation comes not with ornamental grandiosity, but a click in the night. In their final moments, my patients understood this. They departed, grateful, into the embrace of blessed sleep. And I, their dispatcher, had at last found my place in the grander scheme of fate. A fell part of an eternal whole.
There you have it, Father. The why. One may see it as sophistry, even hypocrisy; I call it compassion. For better or worse, with Reverend Lowell gone, you are the only one who has known of it. Even Mason, for all his pride and mysticism, understands little more than what he reported on paper. And so, Reverend Myron, I leave you with a blessing and a curse. In all honesty, I hope you may bear with it. I understand that there is no pain greater than knowledge you cannot disclose, a view that cannot be shared. But I also believe the world needs people like you, who seek it nonetheless.”
— — — — —
Evening chill crept through the windows. Myron had not noticed the dark. Brushing off his stupor, he looked down at the bundle of letters brought in by his secretary. Sister Sterling was a diligent and sympathetic woman, but even her patience had grown thinner in the past week. That of the diocese, Myron imagined, would be hanging by a thread, held only by an abstract fear of knowing more than they could handle. They were, in this regard, wiser than most. Myron shuffled through the envelopes. A majority of them contained requests, often demands, from respective newspapers that the public be granted the truth about the Saint Joseph Suffocator. Even after a full month of Myron’s disregard, their devotion had not faltered. This was to be expected. With the suspect dead, only he remained to meet their inquiries.
Upon reaching the bottom of the bundle, Myron paused. There, bearing a familiar seal of blue and white, lay a beige envelope signed ‘John Mason. SAC.’ Enclosed inside was a sheet of white paper, printed with a message too brief for its surface:
“Dear Reverend Myron. On behalf of my colleagues at the FBI, I extend my sincere gratitude for your contribution to the investigation of Samuel Bell’s case. While Bell had regrettably taken his own life before his hearing, I hope it will be of closure to you that he met his end gracefully and without remorse. He was, in fact, smiling when we found him. I would think that this is a reason as good as any to consider your part in this investigation fulfilled. Again, I thank you for offering your courage and integrity to our work of maintaining order in the United States. Agent J. Mason.”
Myron let out a small chuckle. He recalled Agent Mason’s hollow expression, his frigid voice. Oddly, he found that the Agent’s demeanor did not haunt him now as it had before. A strange gleam of humor rose on his lips. His gaze scurried across the floor, past his scattered livelihood and bottles of cheap whiskey, to the bundle of envelopes he had discarded. He turned over Mason’s letter, and began to write.
Author: ozpinhead
Oz
