Lunatic Fringe

Chapter 3

JACOBI

The following excerpt was taken from the personal journals of Dr. Paul Jacobi.

October 27, 1989

            My first thought upon seeing Aleister Quinlan was that he seemed a little short to be a monster.

            He sat opposite of me in a metal chair with a table separating us. His feet didn’t quite reach the floor, his small tennis shoes dangling listlessly. They had removed his shoelaces as a precautionary measure, but seeing his unresponsiveness, I felt that it was a probably an unwarranted concern.

            His hair looked like it had been combed in a hurry, and his bangs obscured his eyes which were focused on a point on the table, nowhere near my direction.

           All in all, he looked like a typical boy of eight, nothing to discern him from any other boy his age.

           In that moment, I felt sympathy for him. As soon as I recognized it, however, I made a conscious effort to quell the emotion. I had been made privy to the crime scene photos from his home. Read the police reports from the first responders. The entire faculty had. This explained the orderly in the background near the door, despite my urging the director that this needed to be a one-on-one session.

          All of the compiled information regarding Aleister informed me that I was dealing with a predator. This helped to disable any sympathy that I might have felt towards the boy, as I was cautious that it was a ruse by him to elicit just that type of response.

         Of course, this could have been an entirely baseless observation, but caution needed to be exercised. Try as I might for a modicum of objectivity, I have found it difficult to remove the images of his mother’s body or the area in which she was found from my mind. The savagery on display within the crime scene photos had shown up in my sleep on more than one occasion. Not surprisingly, there have been whispers that several of the first responders have sought psychiatric help to deal with the images that they will undoubtedly take with them to the grave.

         All of this I know, yet I find myself wondering if I can reconcile the boy in front of me with the actions he has allegedly committed. I am not naïve enough to feel it is impossible, but just looking at him tells me that this child is terrified. Of me, of the police, of the situation is something that I cannot know. But his fear is real, palatable. Given the gooseflesh on my arm, I find myself wondering if it is even contagious.

        What I wonder is if he is the source of it or a byproduct? All of these unanswered question hover over this boy and are left to me to answer. The district attorney is keenly interested in what happens here, particularly given the media circus that has erupted in the days since. I can only assume that his political aspirations have done into overdrive, as I have seen him on television more than once, expounding on his track record and the call to justice that the victims demand. His rhetoric may look good on our local stations, but I felt he was out of his depth on Piers Morgan

         These are things that I cannot concern myself with. My task is a simple one: find out what happened that night. Based on my finding, the court can decide on how best to deal with Aleister. All the same, looking at him not looking at me, I am reminded of the saying regarding sleeping dogs.

         To help him, I have to know what happened. Yet, there is a part of me that does not want to pry that far. It is as if I instinctively I know that this little boy is dangerous, despite surface impressions to the contrary, and whatever demons drive him, they need to be left well enough alone.