Authors: J. A. Faura
Most of what he found was standard reports done by psychiatrists at the institutions where the prisoners were being kept. After some time, they all seemed to meld together and take on the same tone. There were countless references to the Hare Scale. As Steven understood it, it was a scale developed in order to assess whether the individual was a psychopath or not. Over time, the scale had appeared to become the standard used by forensic psychiatrists, prison parole boards, and researchers in the field of criminal behavior and corrections. It had been revised, and the revised version was still the go-to resource on the subject of psychopathy.
There were a small but distinguished number of scientists that were doing work that was far from the norm in forensic or criminal psychiatry. These individuals were exploring the hypothesis that there were instances where no scale or norm developed until now could define or otherwise explain their behavior. Their contention was that there were individuals whose physiology, mental and cognitive processes, and even genetic makeup were so far from that of established human norms that they belonged to another species.
One researcher based in New York, Doctor Tyrone Leonard, Professor of forensic psychiatry at Queens College, had established a hypothesis based on evolution. His research appeared to point to the new species as what he considered an expected step in the evolutionary ladder. He was the only one of the researchers Steven was able to find who had actually come up with a name for the new species. He had named them
Homo sapiens predaer,
or
Homo predator
. A lot of what he had read was over his head, but one thing Steven did understand was that Leonard was very clear in positing that this new species had taken
Homo sapiens
’ place at the top of the food chain.
There was another researcher that Steven had found also in New York, a professor at Columbia who had developed a scale, similar to the Hare Scale, with one major difference, his scale used ‘evil’ as a unit of measurement. Individuals would fall on any one of 25 levels of his scale depending on the way they committed their murders, how many people they killed and various others criteria. Where this guy’s work, his scale, seemed to intersect with what Leonard was doing was on the last three levels.
Steven would pack all of this to take home and read in more detail, but as he understood it, the highest three levels of the scale defined behavior that was beyond that of a human being; they defined the crimes and behaviors of individuals beyond any established definition, scale or norm for psychopaths, sociopaths, schizophrenics and so on.
There were many others out there, but these were the ones whose research seemed most solid and who appeared to have invested a great deal of their careers in supporting their findings. It had been these scientists who had captured his attention, the ones that had actually provided a semblance of an answer to the questions he had and, truth be told, the ones whose findings and hypotheses coincided with a lot of what his own thinking had been.
He looked up at the clock and found that it was past midnight – no sense in waiting for Pruitt and Demers. Who knew how long it might take them to get a look in the warehouse, and he was exhausted.
He grabbed his things and turned off the lights and made his way to the street to hail a cab. One thing about staying at the office this late was that there was never a shortage of cabs. Steven caught a cab within five minutes of hitting the sidewalk. After being on the road for just over 10 minutes, his cell phone went off. It was Victor Demers, “Hey Vic, what did you find?”
On the other end of the phone, Victor Demers simply said, “Steve, we need to get together.” Steven felt a pit in his stomach. He thought he was ready for it but now realized the part of him that was a father would never die, “I just left the office. I’ll just have the driver turn around.”
After a brief pause, Demers said, “Steve, we need to meet somewhere else. Just pick a place.”
Now Loomis knew they found something, something they didn’t want to talk about at the office and something that they didn’t feel comfortable talking about on encrypted cellular phones, “Alright, there’s a greasy spoon café about two blocks west of the office and a block…”
Demers interrupted him, “Harry’s All Night Café, yeah, I know where it is. It’s as good a place as any at this hour. We’ll see you in a few.”
The guard at the warehouse was finally waking up. He felt groggy and couldn’t remember what happened, it was like he just blacked out. Then he remembered the dot and the stinging sensation on his chest. The dart was still stuck there. He pulled it out and examined it. It was like nothing he had seen before. All of a sudden he realized he didn’t hear Jake barking anywhere.
He got his flashlight and exited the booth, thinking his dog was dead. He finally found Jake just a ways down the middle alley close to one of the bay doors, near him was a half-eaten piece of steak. He had been poisoned and was dead. Before he could really grasp the thought the guard, Melvin Jackson, heard Jake whine a little and then lift his head.
Melvin forgot about the dart and everything else for that second, “Hey there, boy, what happened to us, huh?”
As he was petting the dog, he could see the dog, like himself, was coming to. Now Jackson, still a little out of it, could smell a pungent smell and immediately went back to the guard shack to turn on the floodlights and to rewind the tape on the cameras. He immediately saw that the cameras had been off and that the main breaker had been turned off. Holding a flashlight, he went over to the breaker and flipped it on.
He went back to the shack and turned on the lights and could see a big spill coming out from under a bay door. He couldn’t tell what it was, but it had a strong chemical smell to it. It was running down the middle of the alley, as all bay doors sloped toward the middle and then down toward a drain at the end of the complex. The strong smell was burning his nose and he had no idea whether the stuff was flammable or explosive, he could just tell it was still coming out from under the bay door. He didn’t know if it was a leak or if it had something to do with him and his dog getting knocked out with a dart and a steak laced with something.
Jake was on all fours now, even if a little unsteady. “C’mon, boy, let’s get back to the shack and call the police and the fire department and everybody else so we can do our job and get the hell out of here.”
Melvin did just that, he went to the shack, dialed 911 and walked up the hill in front of the complex a little ways to wait for the cavalry. In all his years, he had never been caught up in something like this and he wanted no part of it. He’d just taken the job to supplement his social security, not to get himself and his dog knocked out by God knows what and to wake up to that nasty-smelling chemical sludge, no sir.
He could already hear the sirens coming in the distance and it was the sweetest sound Melvin Jackson had heard in as long as he could remember.
By the time Steven’s cab had turned around and gotten to the café, Demers and Pruitt were already there. He was under no delusions of what they were there to tell him, but he wanted to know the whys and the hows of something like this.
He had already gotten used to that steady ache and tightness he felt in his chest and knew it would evolve and change, but never be completely gone. That Demers and Pruitt wanted to meet outside the office told Steven a couple of things. Neither man wanted this to be traced back to them in any way and they both wanted to be there and in a public place, because they considered it to be a more predictable and manageable place than the office, a place without as much video and audio surveillance as the office had. Whatever they had to tell Steven, both men felt it would have an impact on him. They both knew his background and the types of operations he had been a part of, so the fact that they felt that whatever they had to share with him was something he might not be ready for was making Steven Loomis the most anxious.
The coffee shop was right out of a painting, the lights glowing through the windows providing the only light, more of a glow, at street level in the neighborhood. As he walked, in booths that hadn’t been changed since the Korean War lined the outside walls and windows, letting the people sitting in each get lost looking into the New York night when they were sitting alone and providing those that were accompanied with a sense of privacy. The long counter in front of the kitchen followed the L shape of the coffee shop and was also lined with metal stools with red cushions matching the booths. A cash register sat at each end to allow patrons to leave through either of the two coffee shop doors. An old-fashioned case sat in the middle of the counter slowly rotating with what was left of that day’s selection of pies.
Late-night diners ranged from people that were clearly regulars, eating their usual and reading the paper, to young students getting in some late-night studying to people getting off work and doing the crossword puzzle. A waitress, who looked like she had been there since the place opened, was going through the night’s receipts.
She looked up as Steven came in and motioned with her head, “Your friends are sitting in the corner booth.”
After 30 years of working at places like this, she knew that men dressed like these men, coming to a place like this at one o’clock in the morning, weren’t coming in for the meatloaf special. She went back to her receipts. She knew if they needed something they would ask for it.
Steven looked over in the direction of the booth, saw Pruitt and Demers, and headed over. Both men had coffee and untouched pie in front of them, which meant they had found something, enough to stay there for a bit. He looked in the direction of the waitress who had kept one eye on him and one on her receipts just in case he did want something when he sat down. He gestured for some coffee and mouthed the word ‘black’ as he did so. She nodded, put her receipts book in her apron and picked up the pot. She would need to brew a new one. Even for this place, what was in there now was more a dark sludge than coffee.
There was no sense in going through any small talk at all. All of them knew what they were there to do and the best thing to do was to just get to it.
Steven knew it had to be hard for his friends, so he got the conversation rolling, “Alright guys, what do we have?”
They had both already agreed to be as matter-of-fact and professional as possible, and that is exactly how Demers responded, “He’s the guy, Steven. He’s the guy that took all of them.”
Steven Loomis looked at both men and understood that whatever they had seen had a profound effect on both of them. Like any other human being, Steven had pondered on what they might find if this was the guy and he had come up with some pretty hard scenarios, but these weren’t beat cops, they were men that had seen and experienced some of the worst things anyone could experience and they looked haunted. Steven looked down. He wasn’t surprised. He had been pretty sure this was their guy, but hearing it confirmed still hit him hard.
He looked from Pruitt to Demers and back again, waiting for them to give him more details, “C’mon, guys, do we really have to do this?”
There was a brief and uncomfortable silence before Victor Demers went to speak, but he was interrupted by Travis Pruitt, “Look, Steven, the son of a bitch took nine little girls who will not be going home, ever. I think you know that whatever we saw, whatever he did with their bodies won’t change that. I can’t imagine what you are feeling or going through right now, and I know about your background, hell, all of our backgrounds, but I sure as shit would think you want to remember Tracy as you knew her.
“I know how this is going to come across, but as your friend I am telling you to just let it go. He’s done, off the street. Let it go and get back to Marybeth and your other children.”
Steven Loomis knew Travis Pruitt as well as anyone could know him. Like most operatives, he had a Special Forces background and was a consummate professional. He wasn’t the warm and fuzzy type, none of them really were, but Pruitt was especially detached. He knew that Travis was well aware of his background. He also knew his family well, had been to their house, and hearing him say all of this told Steven Loomis everything he needed to know about what the two men had seen. In their chosen profession, a lot of the most important things that needed to be communicated went unsaid, a lot of blood spilled over a lot of mud gave them an additional sense, a sense that picked up on what the rest of the world often missed. In this exchange Travis Pruitt had said to Steven Loomis that what they had seen, which included Tracy, was so horrible that Steven would be better off not knowing any more. The exchange also told Steven that even though the two men
knew
Steven had to find closure his own way and would probably see what they saw in the end, it felt wrong not trying to get him to drop it.
The two men had put their careers on the line and their personal time on the line to do what they did, and it wasn’t lost on Steven, “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it, guys. I’ll take it from here.”
And with that, Steven Loomis let Pruitt and Demers move on. He could see how hard it had been on them and was once again reminded that once you were a part of their brotherhood, you were a part of it for life.
Demers said, “Don’t give it a second thought, you’d have put yourself on the line for either one of us in the same situation. Steve, I don’t know what you’re going to decide to do about this from this point forward, and I don’t want to know right now. You know whatever it is, we’ve got your back. The General, us, everyone at the company, you know that.”
Steven looked down to compose himself for a second, “I know guys, I really do, and I won’t forget. Thank you.” With that, they shook hands and Pruitt and Demers stood up and left.
Steven sat back down in the booth just as Esther Jones was coming back with his coffee. It smelled good and strong. She set it down in front of him and asked if he wanted sugar and milk. He shook his head slightly but didn’t look up. Over 30 years Esther had seen looks like that many times and had always pondered what was behind the eyes. So many stories, either heard or imagined, had taught her that this particular look meant her customer was not there, he was somewhere else feeling God knows what. This guy was not her run-of-the-mill customer. He was dressed in an expensive suit and overcoat, probably in his mid-40s or early 50s, but built like a brick. Whatever he had just gone through with the other two guys left him a bit shell-shocked and Esther knew to just let him be.