The Music Box

Chapter Five

"Mr. Barnes, allegedly it's only pertinent if you haven't been found guilty. You've not only been found guilty, but as far as I can discern from your file. You've exhausted all legal remedies. I think the time for denials and gamesmanship is over, don't you? Where did that scar come from?" I ask out of morbid curiosity, and also to keep him off balance and questioning.

In a pompous matter one normally sees in predators before capture, not after, he says, "I am in fact innocent, Dr. I don't care if I have any appeals left, I know the truth. Don't you know where the scar came from? I thought you read my file?" He asks, rebutting rather smugly what he sees as a lie before continuing. "After being beaten I was cut in the library for being a pedophile and rapist. And as I've indicated I am not. A prisoner named Alfredo, used a lid from a tuna can that was smuggled out of the chow hall and tried to slice my neck off."

Ahhh, the toughened facade of the male ego. It wouldn't take too long to break him. "While being escorted to my office the other prisoners were calling you, 'Patrick the molester.' How does that make you feel? It can't be a pleasant having things thrown at you? If you have no appeals left, why continue to plead innocent? Admitting the crime could make you feel better. The presentence report seems fairly damning: you were seen in the neighborhood the week prior, strands of hair later confirmed to be from your DNA were found in the home. You even admit you can't remember the details of the night very clearly because you'd been drinking, so you can't really deny what you can't remember, can you? So what is it that you're contesting? Someone else placed your DNA at the scene?" I ask with what I'm sure is a doubtful look on my face. "Then why did you flee to," I pause to look at the file, "To Jalisco, Guadalajara in Mexico for five years, if you were innocent."

Barnes responds in a vain and grandiose manner. His levels of narcissism seem unusually high. "I ran because I was going to be arrested for a crime I didn't commit! It wasn't me! I was out drinking that night, then I went home and passed out. It's true I was in the area a few days prior to the crime, but I was looking at a house to buy. Just because I was alone and don't have an airtight alibi doesn't mean I kidnapped or raped anyone. I hate coming out of my cell for anything. I don't enjoy the company of these criminals. I have nothing in common with these cretins!"

The psyche of the criminal mind is deceiving: tell a lie long enough, it becomes embedded in the brain and appears true, even to the liar. Trying to coax information from him I push on, "according to the file, the police believe you may have done something like this before. I know you weren't offered a plea bargain during the trial stage, maybe I can help you there. I think you got an unfair deal by being convicted during election time. Think about it, Patrick, you can actually get out of here without being in a body bag."

With tears watering some of his cockiness down, he whisper so softly I have coming closer to here. "Sometimes I wake up thinking I must've done these things, but I don't remember them. I feel like I'm crazy! How could I black out?" He begins to rock back-and-forth, closing his eyes as if the barbaric surroundings will disappear.

"Do you enjoy being in fear of your life? Having these bastards terrorize you. You're not like them Patrick! Of course you're not crazy. Sometimes we block out painful images to protect us. It's possible you entered into a fugue state. Maybe you had a secret friend that did it? Do you have a friend, Patrick? Someone you share things with?"

He shakes his head, "My brother died when I was young and my mother passed away a few years ago."

"No, I mean a friend no one can see? We all have them especially during hard times. It's OK, you can tell me. It's the only way we can get through this is that you have to want to remember that night so we can access the inner walls you built." I can see he wants to please me with the right answers by patronizing his delusions. "What about anyone else you might've hurt? Do you black out a lot, Patrick? Occasionally, when experiencing traumatic events we suppress our memories because its too painful to deal with. Do you think you might do that?"

He tries to plead and reason in a pathetic display of justification, "How can my DNA be a match, Dr.? I've never been inside that house before! No one believes me. I could never have done such a thing, not now, not ever! That would make me a monster! I'm not a monster! Please, I have to get out of here." The hardened mask begins to slip from his cracked mold as he faces when he's done.

His eyes look up at mine and for a brief moment, his eyes seem as the though they are gazing into my soul. The piercing look feels like he's stripping my clothes and flesh from the bone. Shivering as goose pimples travel across my skin, I have to force myself not to shudder, to concentrate and remember why I'm here. "No one can help you but me, but you have to tell me something, something new that's not in this file, even if it's not about this charge. Tell me something that happened years ago; a crime that you committed. Admit what you did, Patrick. I'm the only one that cares about you. Think about the offer: a semblance of life out there, instead of dying here. Tell me something that will make you and a victims family feel better. Now go back to your cell and think about it, Patrick. I'll see you tomorrow," I promise as I pass him to open the door. I allow my hand a pause for a brief, nauseating second on his shoulder while I call the officer to return him to the hell from which he sprung.