Back To Reality

This travel hockey sucks big time. I’m here for the boys, but this is a fucking cult as bad as the fucking bloodsuckers. This team rep or manager or whatever you want to call her – she is worse than any Nazi, always demanding the boys’ papers. I have birth certificates, some kind of USA Hockey cards and papers, and photo ID’s supplied by the league that I have to carry around at all times, prepared to show them at every check point. One team we were playing – there I go with the “we,” I’m part of the cult –claimed that Sam was too young to be playing. Whatever it takes to win is okay, I guess. I thought I was done with that – whatever it takes to win.

I waited a couple days and got Frank Morton back in the office to talk about … well, … reality, I guess. I didn't know where to start, so I suggested that the vampire hunters wanted his help. And what if Morton was crazy? I'd be buying into his delusion, perpetuating that delusion. And I remembered the novel, Mother Night, by Kurt Vonnegut, and its moral: You are what you pretend to be, so be careful about what you pretend to be. I watched his face for his reaction.

A close-lipped smile came to his face, and he pointed out that he no longer had to go to see any shrink because I now believed that he was a vampire. He laughed out loud, but was quickly silent when I told him I wanted no more surprises like people claiming to be vampire hunters showing up in my office, taking up my time, trying to convince me that all the mumbo-jumbo about vampires was true.

Morton was alarmed. His eyes widened, and beads of sweat started to condense on his bald head. I’m sure that his pulse, if he even had one, was quickening. He claimed that Wallace was interested not in talking, but in having him killed. They were on a mission to exterminate Morton and “his kind.” He was animated, now, louder and more forceful. He was angry, not afraid. He shot up from the chair, pointing an index finger down at me from across my desk. He screamed that the vampire killers would kill him and would kill me to cover their tracks. He went on about how the stalkers and killers said that the vampires were guilty of human experimentation and genocide, but that they were on a campaign of mass extermination, mass murder, themselves.

He moved to the window and looked down upon Public Square. He stood there for several seconds, staring. Then he tapped the glass with the same index finger he had pointed at me, telling me that the bum sleeping on the bench forty, fifty years ago, would be dead. He snapped his sausage fingers, “Just like that. Swift, clean, neat. Who cared back then?” He chuckled, “Actually, who would care today? Nobody missed them then; nobody would miss them now. Darwinism -- survival of the fittest." He stopped. "Survival of the fittest," he said again, only this time, under his breath with a wistful look, as if he was somewhere in the past. He continued, more focused, palms on the window, fingers spread, saying that some would risk it today without fear of retribution.

He turned around to face me and said that it was very difficult to describe the feeling, the urge, the craving – that he was driven by it. He said, quite seriously, without emotion, that he could take me now, kill me, but that he was controlling the urge. He claimed that when the feeling rose within him, engulfed him, as he described it, he fought against it and did not kill. He said that he had a supply of human blood and that he slaked his thirst momentarily, but that the desire, the urge, only really subsided with the kill. He said that sometimes the feeling was overwhelming and all-consuming and that some of them gave in to it all the time -- take what nature condemned them to take, so to speak. He admitted to giving in to the urge every now and then, saying it casually, without remorse. He said that someone once likened the feelings they had to the urge to push that pregnant women have, and it was obvious that he was trying to recall the feeling at that point.

The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. He told me that I was in no danger and to relax, but the guy gave me the heebee–jeebees, and then he said that they had a right to try to survive in the world, just like everyone else.

The hunters and trackers were ruthless, he explained, likening them to wild, killing animals. I asked him if they were human. He shook his head and quietly said, “Hitler? He was human. Pol Pot? Human. Stalin? Harry Truman? All human. What humans do in the name of nationalism is a crime. What humans do to each other in the name of religion and their gods is a crime. What humans have done to each other over the course of history -- well, you know the answer to that question. These trackers and the killers are human, fanatics; and they base their mission, their ‘final solution,’ so to speak, on a false premise. They believe we all are evil creatures, wanting to kill off the human race.”

I tried to shake him. I tried at that point to flush him out. I should have bailed out at that point and ended the interview, sending him off to another lawyer. I think that if it was my money, my fee, I would have done that. Maybe not. I think that’s what I was saying before. Choices become apparent only after the outcome and cannot be divined at the time – we are carried along by the current unable to alter the course of our lives at any given moment. It is only afterwards that we say we should have done this or we could have done that, but in the end, we really had no opportunity at the time.

I said something like, “You’ve killed humans. And you get some kind of pleasure or a rush from that. Now, you take the position that you’re the victim. Doesn’t make a whole helluva lot of sense to me. You say it’s part of nature to kill humans, but that doesn’t excuse the killing. You are all role-playing.”

And he explained their philosophy, which, I guess when you think about it, is what people live by all the time by saying that they lived by our rules, one of which was that anybody could do anything as long as they didn’t get caught; and if they got caught, they would suffer the consequences. I suppose that’s what the Green River killer who just confessed to 48 murders did – he did what he wanted to do until he got caught; and if he didn’t get caught, he continued on his path.

Morton put his hand on my shoulder, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. He pointed out that life was a series of negotiations, and he hired me to make a deal, knowing that they wouldn’t keep their side of the bargain. He said that he knew that they were going to kill him.

"Josef Mengele," I said. "Is that true?"

He turned his head to look at me again, "Yes, that's true, if you want it to be true. He says that is who he is. He's a professor doing genetic research. He has an air of legitimacy about him, don't you think?"

Genetic research. Morton said that the man who claimed to be Mengele also claimed that he had been doing the same kind of research for more than a century, different places, different circumstances. He claimed to have been Gregor Mendel, a monk who did all the early work in genetics, the father of modern genetics.

I asked Morton why Mengele, or whoever he was, killed his wife, trying to address the matters directly at hand. I stood and joined him at the window, where we could see that the flags on the pole atop the Terminal Tower hung limply and that there was no trace of a cloud in the light blue sky. He whispered that he still enjoyed the weather after all the years he had been alive, that every day was different, and his eyes were brimming with tears. He blinked back the emotion and breathed deeply, telling me that he really did love his wife.

And I asked him again why the man who thought he was Mengele killed his wife. I waited. The whir from the air-conditioning vent filled the quiet. My thoughts drifted to something grounded in reality and the reason I originally took on Morton as a client. The murder charge. The alternative -- well, I didn't want to think about it. There was little to link Morton to the crime. All of the evidence was circumstantial. But circumstantial evidence could convict as well as eyewitness evidence. It was just a little easier to defend against. And here, the prosecution had very little to run with. Could the argument with his wife and the drug paraphernalia that could pass for equipment to drain a body of blood be enough for a jury to convict him? Possible, but highly unlikely. The police had moved too quickly in this one, and the county prosecutor was likely to offer some type of plea bargain. We would end up having a trial. And Court TV would be there. I looked at Frank Morton. He was interested in what was happening in the busy scene below. He felt my stare and looked me in the right eye. “Why did he kill your wife, Frank?" I asked again.

He said softly that they had certain philosophical differences, and I asked the follow-up question, “Over what?” The whir of the air conditioning stopped. A muffled voice invaded the silence as we stood side-by-side at the window, looking down over the Public Square panorama.

"The existence of our species," he said, teeth clenched.

Mengele

I'm okay with this if you're okay with this. We're heading to places, strange places. And just to re-iterate, I've changed the names to protect people's identities and any similarities to any person, living or dead or who thinks they are one of the undead, is merely a coincidence and not intended by the writer. Also, if you have any comments, please feel free to leave them. I may or may not get back to you. If I'm not too paranoid on any given day, you might find a reply in your e-mail.

There are some strange people out there, and big cities do not hold monopoly over whackos and the lunatic fringe. The Internet has brought a lot of people into your home that you would never think of inviting over for dinner. There are groups of people out there, cults, clubs, whatever ... you know, like people who go to the dentist to have implants installed so they look like movie vampires. They go out in groups, have meetings, raise a few glasses of blood for old times sake. Non-mainstream people with non-mainstream habits. Sometimes, these weird and unusual things and people, when you're in a business designed to aid people in trouble, like when they are charged with murder, come your way; and you deal with them the best way you can, especially when you're being paid a lot of money to render that aid. And you pay the consequences -- I hope not like what happened to me and my family, but you pay them nonetheless. I would guess that sometimes there might be a benefit to doing so, but I doubt it.

You enter fantasy land, something that Disney World doesn't have at the amusement park -- and none of it is amusing. Death is not a laughing matter. I've struggled to keep my head above water and maintain some semblance of a normal life for two boys whose mother was ripped from them by a lunatic cult. I check over my shoulder. [And, by the way, I wasn't in Madison, if you're reading this -- I'm not stupid enough to let you know where I am or where I'm going to be.]

I left the weird, shriveled man with Mitchell Hilliard, the young lawyer who played pro football, to be "interviewed," so to be speak. I parked in my office with Eric Waters, one of the other lawyers in the office and my friend, to get away from the loon.

Mitchell Hilliard filled the doorway and meekly rapped on the open door, as if I hadn't seen him. I looked at him, raising my eyebrows. He was so damn polite and mild-mannered, not like you'd expect a football player to be, the size of his voice failing to match the bulk of his body. His collar was unbuttoned, and the white tie was pulled askew. He held a gray legal pad in his right hand, diamond-encrusted Super Bowl ring the size of Rhode Island sparkling. I asked him if he was done with Walker Wallace the Fourth, really only half interested, as the former All-Pro football player sauntered in. He limped slightly, even though he got out of the game with "good knees." That's a relative term, I guess. I could sympathize with him because my knee complained loudly from time to time.

He blinked a few times, closed his eyes for a moment, and said that he had finished with Wallace and started to tell us that it sounded like the guy was delusional. He explained that the delusional personality constructs an entire system or scheme and becomes an integral part of that system, usually paranoid, but not necessarily. He was ratcheting up into third gear, gaining speed, when Eric interrupted, asking jokingly where Mitchell got his degree in psychology.

Mitchell never stopped, down-shifted, and told us he got his undergrad degree in psychology in three years. He wasn't big enough to play major college football his freshman year; so, he sat out football that year, red-shirted, it is called, and stayed on scholarship for five years. He had two more years of football after he got his degree early, so he got his Master's degree in psychology; and while he was playing in the N.F.L., he earned his Ph.D. in psychology.

I'm sure my jaw dropped as far as Eric's had. Eric wanted to know why he didn't tell anyone he was really Doctor Hilliard, to which Mitchell smiled broadly, my eyes catching a glint of color from the small diamond embedded in his left front tooth and said that nobody asked him and that the partners didn't even look at his resume when he interviewed. I guess that three Super Bowl rings have some magical power in interviews.

Although a lot of psychologists are impressed with themselves and their psychological mumbo-jumbo, Mitch was different. His explanation somehow took on a new and different, more believable, meaning. He explained that there were usually logical inconsistencies in the delusional system and that you could unravel the whole thing, but the delusional personality will hold onto his beliefs despite being confronted with the facts that are inconsistent. He said that he couldm't find the flaws in this case, yet.

I remember looking at Mitch Hilliard, wondering if he had been duped, actually wondering how he could be duped so badly. I stood up and turned to face the windows, looking at the cannon aimed at me by the artillerymen perpetually trying to load the cannon on the Soldiers' and Sailors' Monument, which rose from the southeast quadrant of Public Square. An omnipresent flock of pigeons flew over the monument east toward the red granite building owned by British Petroleum. The flock flew part way up the face of the BP Building and broke off horizontally, one stream flowing to the south, one to the north.

Then Mitch talked about the dozen books. They looked authentic, he told us. Went back about 400 years, different languages. He recognized German, Spanish, French, Hungarian. Cyrillic writing -- or something like that. Others -- he didn't know for sure what they were. The books tracked the history of vampires with names, dates, places, proof of heritage. And Wallace was part of a network of trackers looking for vampires all over the world. Wallace claimed that there were about 50 surviving. And he thought that our client, Frank Morton, was the key. The key? It sounded like some kind of "B" movie. But Mitch said that all the stuff that he went through lent creedence to Wallace's story, elaborate as it may have been.

Mitch, looking at his grey legal pad of notes, flipping a page over, explained that Wallace thought that Morton was a vampire and that Morton would lead them to the leader, who was supposed to be in the United States, where most of the vampires had taken up residency. At that point, Mitchell had not known what Frank Morton had imparted to us. Mitchell said that the books contained the names of the vampires, the people, that had been killed -- thousands of them -- over the centuries.

I was blown away by all of this shit -- and that's what it was, shit -- gazing down at a homeless man, we used to call them bums, sitting in the fountain on the northeast quadrant of Public Square, shirt and pants off. His back was to me and I hoped for the sake of those with the window seats in the United States Court House that he was wearing underwear of some sort. He stood up, wearing something gray that could have passed for men's underwear at some time in the past. I didn't rightly know what to think or do, but my guess was that Frank Morton was stone-fucking crazy, as was the old guy.

I asked Mitchell Hilliard what I needed to know in order to defend Frank Morton, and he told me that there was a war, ... an underground war; but that the vampires, or those who thought they were vampires, couldn't afford to kill the trackers and reveal their own positions. He pointed out that Wallace said trackers have been killed, but that the danger wasn't really that great anymore and that Wallace wanted to help Morton deal with the vampire colony. Mitchell thought we were dealing with a cult following a charismatic leader.

I noticed the bum had one leg into his paint-spattered trousers down below. He lifted his left leg to put it in and fell over. He lay on the brick encircling the fountain as business suits walked around him. Two construction hats with lunch boxes in hand helped the bum to his feet and dragged him to one of the nearby benches, pants half on. The bum slumped over to his left, but stayed on the bench. The hard hats continued on their way. My thoughts at that point in time were about whether any of this was useful in getting Frank Morton off the hook.

I recall turning away from the bank of windows overlooking the Public Square and the problem the bum down there was having, looked at Eric Waters, who was shaking his head, and revealed to Mitchell that Morton had told us he was a vampire and that all this stuff was too weird for me and that we should put it all on the back burner until the case I was going to try for the next few days was over. I wanted to wake up from the dream, to get out of the 'B' movie, but Mitch wouldn't let me.

Mitchell's juices were flowing, just like when he demolished an opposing quarterback, telling us he was right about Wallace and his participation in some kind of cult activity. Mitchell actually wanted to have Wallace meet with Morton, though; and I had to draw the line there, telling Mitch that no murder client of mine was going to make any statements to anybody, especially one who might want to waste him.

Eric then asked Mitchell if the people Wallace called vampires were really different, since if Morton was right, they didn't go around like Dracula sucking people's blood. The real question was: Were they really dangerous?

Mitch tersely said they were. And why? Mitchell Hilliard, Ph.D., said that Wallace showed him the names that the suzerain, that's what Wallace called him, the leader, had used over the past 250 years. Mitchell said that he was shown the history in the chronicles; and that there was one name everyone would recognize.

It was like high drama -- I asked him the name.

Mitch looked at me, his brow furrowed, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple to his cheek, and he said, "Josef Mengele."

Don't Ever Go Away For a Weekend

I go away for a weekend with the boys -- yeah, hockey -- what else is there up here? And I come back to an e-mail telling me, not asking, from my main man, Billy, telling me he is setting up a blog for his write-a-novel-in-a-month competition.

No problem, Bilbo.