SECOND TO KNOW
by Sam Douglas
"What's that you're drinking?" Stanton Aldridge asked the woman sitting two stools down in the almost deserted hotel bar. It was nearing closing time, and he was just trying to delay the inevitable return to his empty room. The woman was rather plain but authoritative looking. A flawless but unpainted and stern face looked out from under a tight and meticulous hairdo and over a dark business suit. He guessed that she was here in Bremington representing her company on some kind of a business venture. This hotel specialized in such business, especially the upscale. His own company used it for the image only. Everything else about them was decidedly downscale.
The woman gave no clue that she had heard his question. He moved over to the empty stool between them and asked again, " What's that you're drinking?" Even though they were practically alone in the bar and it was almost closing time, he wasn't trying to pick her up. She was way too prim for his taste. Her glass had just caught his eye in the mirror over the bar, and he wondered what kind of drink they packaged like that. The
glass looked more expensive than the stuff he normally drank.
The woman finally turned her head and looked at him. "Are you talking to me?" she asked. Even though she was looking him straight in the eye, she gave the impression that she was looking down her nose at him.
He raised his palms and turned his head in a signal that there was nobody else around. "Yes, Ma'am," he said, "My name is Stanton Aldridge. I was just wondering what that is you're drinking, fancy glass and all. It's just honest curiosity is all." He gave her that tiny, humble smile that had always served him well with authority figures.
She seemed to size him up and decide he was harmless. "I'm Maxine Henderson," she said. "And this," she raised her glass, "is a Custom Manhattan Prime. That's all I ever drink here."
"Wow," he said, "That's the most expensive thing on the menu. It must be good."
She gave him that straight in the eye, down the nose look again. "I drink it because it's the most expensive drink on their menu," she said. "I'm on an expense account."
"What's it taste like," he asked," liquid gold? Or platinum?"
"It's good but I can't really describe it," she said.
"Give me a taste," he said.
Her eyes widened in surprise. "I will not," she said. "I don't even know you. Buy yourself one if you're so curious."
He shook his head, "Lady, I could never afford even one of those. And my expense account would never pay for it."
She lifted her glass to her lips, and he stared at her as she drained the last of the drink into her mouth.
It tastes tangy, he thought, and not all that good. I'd never pay that much for this stuff even if my expense account would cover it.
The woman seemed to suddenly become aware of her surroundings again. She looked around, then down at her empty glass, seemingly a little perplexed. Then she got up and left the bar without saying another word.
He watched her go, an amused look on his face. Seeing them afterwards is sometimes almost as much fun as the experience itself, he thought. His drinks had put him in a nostalgic mood, and he sat alone thinking about how he'd discovered the peculiar gift he'd just used.
"Last call?" the bartender was standing in front of him with a question mark on his face. Stanton glanced at his watch. He wanted another drink, he was in the mood for another drink, and it would probably bug the bartender since he was the only customer left in the place.
"Yeah, give me one more," he said; and while he waited, his mind regressed to the first time he'd used his unique power, actually the time he discovered he had the power. It was at a middle school baseball game. He was standing with Petey Wilson by the bleachers watching the other kids play. Neither he nor Petey was good enough to be on the team. Neither of them had ever been on any kind of team, but they liked to watch.
"Jackie Gilbert's coming up," said Petey. "He already hit one homer. He'll probably hit another one."
"Yeah," said the 13-year-old Stanton, "he'll probably hit another one." Both of the boys envied Jackie Gilbert his athletic ability so much that they hated him. Jackie was good at everything. He played all the sports, baseball, football, basketball, soccer, track, and he excelled at them all. It just didn't seem fair to Stanton nor Petey.
"I hope he strikes out," said Petey. "I don't even care if we lose the game if Jackie Gilbert would just strike out."
Neither boy had ever seen Jackie Gilbert strike out, but Stanton agreed out loud with Petey. "Yeah, I'd like to see him strike out just once," he said. But silently he wondered how it would be to be like Jackie Gilbert. Silently he wondered how it would be to hit a home run in front of a bunch of people. I'd give anything to hit a home run, he thought, as he stared at Jackie Gilbert digging in at the plate.
Jackie seemed to glance in Stanton's direction before he turned his head to face the pitcher. The first pitch came in hard and high. Jackie swung, the bat caught the ball squarely on the sweet spot. The cracking sound told the spectators that it was another home run even before they saw the ball arch far into and over the outfield. Their cheers and shouts washed over Stanton as he continued to stare at Jackie. Indeed, his eyes had never left Jackie throughout the excitement. And he had felt what Jackie felt; the force of the swing, the impact of the ball, and the tingle in his hands and arms was invigorating. It felt fantastic. Even the leisurely trot around the bases, listening to the spectators still screaming, was exhilarating. Hitting a home run is a great feeling, thought Stanton as he watched Jackie Gilbert return to the bench after crossing home plate. Jackie glanced at him with a little bit of a puzzled expression on his face.
Stanton continued to stare at Jackie Gilbert and understood only that, while he had been concentrating on Jackie at bat, he suddenly began to feel what Jackie was feeling. The bat in his hands, the breeze in his face, the glare of the pitcher all became part of Stanton's feelings as he stood by the bleachers. Then Jackie swung the bat and the sensations of actually hitting a home run overwhelmed Stanton. He didn't know what caused this to happen. He had never experienced anything like it before, but he resolved in his very resolute 13-year-old mind to try to experience it again.
"Hitting a home run is a great feeling," Stanton said out loud to Petey.
"Yeah, like you'd know," said Petey derisively.
"No, really," said Stanton. "I just felt how it was when Jackie hit that ball, Man. It was like I was in his body. I felt everything. It was great."
He was so animated that Petey looked at him suspiciously. "You're out of your friggin' mind," he said finally. "Now you think you're Jackie Gilbert. What next - Cal Ripken?"
"No, really, Petey. I felt it. I felt it just like I was Jackie Gilbert and it was great."
Petey thought Stanton was either crazy or lying to impress him, but either way it made a good story for the other kids. They started calling him Jackie Aldridge or Stanton Gilbert or Babe Ruth or things even less charitable. Strangely enough, Jackie Gilbert himself didn't say anything; but Stanton noticed him looking at him strangely when they crossed paths, as if there was something about the situation he didn't understand.
Stanton couldn't even make a case for himself, because all his arguments really
did sound crazy. Next to the actual ability he had discovered in himself, the greatest lesson Stanton learned from the incident was that he could never again tell anyone about such experiences. He would have to keep the magical feelings to himself and learn to savor them alone. Stanton had not understood or appreciated how difficult that is. He found that sometimes a greater joy than an experience itself comes from telling about it and reliving it and retelling it. He learned to forego that joy even as he learned to expand and refine the ability that allowed it.
Experiencing the home run by Jackie Gilbert had been a fluke. Stanton had just been intently watching Jackie when it happened. Now he resolved to pick something he wanted to experience and try to make it happen. It would have to be something simple, he thought. That way he would be more likely to pull it off and to recognize that he had done it. His chance came at the next ball game.
It was an evening game, and the setting was a little more formal with the lights on, a bigger crowd, and cheer leaders. Stanton was again standing by the bleachers watching the game, but without Petey. He was already fed up with being called Babe Ruth, and he felt the setting would make that even more likely.
Out of the corner of his eye, Stanton saw some kind of movement behind the bleachers. He turned his head and saw that Roy Edwards, the starting pitcher, and Jenny Parker, the head cheer leader, were walking toward each other. When their team was at bat, players could leave the bench to go to the bathroom or get a drink. Cheer leaders could also take such breaks between their sets. Stanton and most of the other boys in Middle School admired Jenny from afar. She was the class beauty who stood so far out in front of the other girls that they just disappeared in her glow. Although he always knew it could never happen in this world, Stanton had always wondered what it would be like to kiss Jenny Parker. But he had also always known that only boys like Roy Edwards got to kiss girls like Jenny Parker. As Roy and Jenny neared each other, Stanton concentrated on Roy Edwards. He suddenly felt Jenny Parker's soft hand on his arm, he felt her warm body draw near and press against him through the baseball uniform, he felt her two small but firm breasts push into his chest. He felt her breath on his face, and he felt her warm, moist lips against his. He even felt a tiny flick of her tongue, before Petey broke in. "Hey, Babe, what you doing? Going to hit another home run?"
Stanton's breathing was labored from the experience with Jenny. He ignored Petey and left the ball park.
It took several more experiences before even he finally realized what he had uncovered in himself. He experienced the feeling of the school's premier gymnast through watching Jacques Moran go through floor exercises and the parallel bars at a school meet. He felt what it was like to score a touchdown through the school's star running back, Bobby Estrada, in an intramural game. Stanton knew he would never be able to actually do any of these things, but now he was able to experience them anyway. What he discovered was that he had the ability to interject his brain's essence into another person's head. It was not a physical thing. It was not something that the other person knew was happening even though it sometimes left him or her a little confused or disoriented. Stanton did not, could not, take over another person's body or will. He merely occupied other people's minds while they performed as usual. Since all sensations emanate from the brain, Stanton felt exactly what the other people felt regardless of the activity. So Stanton actually experienced all the sensations and all the emotions that Jackie Gilbert felt when he hit the home run and that Roy Edwards felt when he kissed Jenny Parker. He also discovered that he didn't have to be actually watching the person during the activity. Once he interjected himself into the other person's brain, he didn't even have to be present to experience the emotions the other person was feeling.
Life at school became much more enjoyable for Stanton with this new ability. When classes got boring, as they often did, he'd pick someone in the room and experience the boredom through them. Oftentimes, he picked the teacher, sometimes a BMOC, sometimes a brain. Problem was they were almost always bored, too, even the teachers. They were usually feeling the same things he was feeling. But it passed the time, and it helped a little knowing he wasn't the only one bored out of his skull.
In social settings, school dances, student meetings, the fact that Stanton had always been a loner worked for him and his new found ability. While everyone was ignoring him, he was experiencing them, the smells they smelled, the tastes they tasted, the feeling they felt. Occasionally, something unique happened and Stanton got a bonus of something he had never experienced before. Through Mr. McGurkey, one of the younger faculty members, he even had sex with the waitress in a back room at Let It All Hangout, a student soda shop. But most of the time, the experiences were no more than a mild diversion, nor much more invigorating than his own.
That had been the pattern of the ability through college and into his professional life, now as an area representative for a furniture manufacturer. The power still had its moments. He'd driven at Darlington in the 500, discovered that those guys are exhilarated and a little scared all the time. And he'd climbed the highest peak in Colorado, but the sensation was about the same, the rush and the fear all at the same time.
So the gift had become an ability he tolerated more than anything else. Try as he might, he had never discovered a way to make it work for him, to advance his business or social ambitions. Most of the time, the effort to use it was not worth the result. It just sort of lingered around in his subconscious until some external force stimulated it, like the haughty attitude of the woman at the hotel bar.
He saw her again the next morning in the hotel restaurant. She looked a lot better to him than she had the night before. He couldn't decide whether that was because he had a good night's sleep or she had. He made his way over to her table. "Good morning," he said.
She looked up from the papers she'd been reading. It seemed that a tiny frown crossed her face quickly. "Oh, hi," she said.
"Mind if I join you for breakfast?" he asked.
She thought about that for about a second before she said, "I really need to review these position papers before my meeting today. I want to do that during breakfast." She gave him a little smile and a little shrug before returning her attention to the papers.
He stood there, dismissed and isolated, for a moment before saying, "Well, see you later then" and turning away. He made his way to an unoccupied table near the exit and sat down facing her table. He had just placed his order for bacon and eggs when a tall, sleek looking man approached the woman still leaning over her papers. The man spoke and she looked up. From this distance, Stanton couldn't even read her lips, but she said something to the man, smiled, and pushed her papers aside. The man sat down beside her, and they continued to eat, talk, and laugh while Stanton got his order, ate hurriedly, and left.
His rude dismissal occupied his mind the entire day and distracted him from his own meetings. Not only didn't he make any sales, but he felt he might have lost a couple of orders. At the end of the day, he really needed a drink; so he stopped by his room just long enough to drop off his briefcase and freshen up before heading for the hotel bar.
As soon as he entered the room, he saw her. She was sitting at the bar, maybe on the same stool as last night, with the same drink in front of her. She also had what appeared to be the same stack of papers as this morning in front of her. It crossed Stanton's mind that the papers could well be just a prop to help her divert guys like him. He'd learned his lesson that morning, so he sat down at the far end of the bar and ordered his beer. But he couldn't help but look at her. She looked even better than she had this morning. She seemed to have shed the authoritative air and looked softer and warmer and more feminine. She even looked younger. Stanton could not understand how he'd gotten the impression last night that she wasn't his type. The way she looked now, she was every man's type.
His mental worship of the woman was interrupted by the approach of the man from breakfast. He walked slowly up behind her, put his hand on her shoulder, and leaned down to say something in her ear. She smiled even before she turned to look at the man. He sat down on the stool beside her, and she pushed aside her papers. He motioned toward her drink and said something. She answered and lifted the glass to his lips to let him sample it. He nodded, and her gestures told Stanton that she ordered the man a drink from the bartender. Stanton could read her lips this time. She told the bartender to put it on her bill.
Stanton ordered another beer. He was tempted to tell the bartender to put it on her bill, too, but he thought better of it. He sipped his beer slowly, watching the less and less subtle exchanges between the woman and the man down the bar. They'd begun by just touching each other's arm or hand as if to make a point in talking. Then the hands had lingered. Then the hands had wandered. They began to whisper into each other's ears. Then the lips actually touched the ears. Then the lips wandered. This progressed through several rounds of the Custom Manhattan Primes, all apparently on her bill; and as closing time approached, the hands and the lips had become completely intimate.
Finally, the woman whispered something into the man's ear, her lips touching the ear. They both stood up, apparently preparing to leave. Stanton could wait no longer. During the evening as he watched the two flirting with each other and as the effects of his beers built up, he had decided that he must experience sex with this woman. He stood up abruptly from his stool, stumbling a little as he did. He walked unsteadily down the bar and bumped the man's shoulder seemingly accidentally. The man twisted toward Stanton, bumping his head and pushing him toward the bar where the woman was standing. She reached out to ward him off and caught his wrist. Her nails dug in a little and a tiny trickle of blood appeared on Stanton's arm. The man also reached out to steady Stanton. "Oh, excuse me," said Stanton, staring into the man's eyes for a couple of seconds before moving on out of the bar.
He walked past the front desk to the lobby elevators and entered one that seemed to be waiting for him. He had punched the button for his floor, nine, and was just starting to wonder why it took elevator doors so long to close when a hand caught the door and prevented it from closing. It was the man from the bar. He entered and held the door while the woman also entered. Neither of them acknowledged Stanton's presence. The man punched the button for the seventh floor and began nuzzling the woman's neck right below her left ear. Stanton felt his own breath becoming shorter as he watched the man gasp a little. The elevator stopped on the seventh floor and they left, still not glancing at Stanton.
He got off the elevator on the ninth floor and quickly made his way down the hall to his room. Once inside, he removed his coat and tie and lay down on the bed leaving the room in darkness. He closed his eyes and waited for the experience to intensify.
Soon his breath again became short, he gasped and began to tremble a little. Sweat broke out on his upper lip and then on his brow. He felt a high sense of excitement and a tenseness in his muscles. There was a feeling of exhilaration and of intense purpose - but it wasn't sexual. The feeling peaked and subsided. Stanton lay panting on his bed, confused by what he felt. It was decidedly not sexual. It was something he had never felt before.
When his emotion ebbed enough that he could evaluate his feelings rationally, Stanton realized that something strange and perhaps traumatic had happened to the man from the bar and that it undoubtedly involved the woman also. He got out of bed and took the stairs down to the seventh floor. He peeked out from the stairwell door and saw nothing. He stepped tentatively out into the corridor and looked both ways. He saw nothing. He didn't know the woman's room number, but the corridor was empty and quiet. As he stood wondering what his surrogate experience meant, the elevator door opened. A hotel maid stepped out with her cleaning cart. What the hell is she doing here this time of night, Stanton wondered idly. He lingered as she walked away from him down the hall. He listened intently, trying to muster all his senses to detect anything unusual. It was quiet. There was nothing.
Finally, he went back up to his room. He took a shower and went to bed. He had a lot of trouble going to sleep. Whatever had happened between the man and the woman continued to bother him. He got out of bed around five and got dressed. He went out into the hallway, looking for direction, any hint to tell him what he should do. He walked down the stairs again to the seventh floor and walked out into that hallway seeking any clue to last night's mystery. Again, there was nothing.
Frustrated, he got on the elevator and went down to the main floor. It was quiet there, too. The restaurant would not open for another hour or so. He made his way to the desk in the lobby. The clerk on duty was a young man who appeared to be only half awake. "Excuse me," said Stanton, "but can you tell me if there was any kind of disturbance in the hotel last night? I'm on the ninth floor, and I thought I heard some noise coming up from below."
The young man looked at him sleepily and said, "I didn't hear anything. I've been here since midnight, and nobody reported anything."
"Must have been my imagination," said Stanton. He took a newspaper from the stack on the desk and settled in one of the lobby chairs to wait for the restaurant to open. When it did, he was their first customer, taking a table with a view of the door and settling in with his newspaper and coffee. He had no appetite, but he ordered breakfast anyway and dawdled over it watching the door constantly. He didn't have any sales calls until later, so he ordered more coffee and lingered. Neither the man nor the woman from last night showed up.
"You want anything else, Sir?" Stanton looked away from the door. The waitress was standing by his table with a tiny look of impatience on her face. The breakfast crowd had filled the restaurant and she obviously wanted the table back.
"No, no," he said, "just the check, please." He left the restaurant and went back to his room to get his briefcase. He got off the elevator again on the seventh floor and again found nothing suspicious. He didn't even see any of the cleaning crew yet. So he walked up the stairs to his floor, got his briefcase, rode the elevator all the way down, and left the hotel.
His sales calls used up the afternoon, so it was after six when he got back to the hotel. As soon as he entered, he sensed an air of urgency, even before he saw or heard anything. There seemed to be an aura of tension as soon as he walked through the big double outside doors. He looked around and saw several men whom he hadn't seen before, but that was normal in a hotel. He shrugged off the feeling and headed through the lobby toward the elevators. As he neared the elevators, two of the men approached him.
They were both dressed in suits and had that officious air of authority about them. "Mr. Aldridge?" asked the shorter, older one.
"Yes, I'm Stanton Aldridge. What can I do for you?"
"Mr. Aldridge, I'm Sergeant McCaskill of the police department. This is Detective Robrowski," he motioned toward the taller, younger man. "We're investigating a murder that occurred in the hotel last night. We think you might be able to help us."
"Well, I'll naturally do anything I can," said Stanton, "but I don't know anything about any murder. Who was murdered anyway?"
McCaskill pulled a little notebook from his inside coat pocket and flipped it open. He turned a couple of pages and then looked up at Stanton. "A lady named Maxine Henderson," he said. "Did you know her?"
Stanton tried to maintain a blank face, but the detective's words hit him right between the eyes. They also cleared up the confusion he'd felt since last night's surrogate experience. Instead of experiencing sex with Maxine, he'd experienced her murder. The terrible feelings of exhilaration and purpose he'd experienced were those involved in killing someone.
"Did you know Maxine Henderson, Mr. Aldridge?" Detective McCaskill repeated, a bit of pique in his voice.
Stanton came back to the present. "No," he said. "I don't know anybody by that name."
"The bartender said you might have been with her in the bar the other night."
"Oh," said Stanton, "there was a woman in the bar, but I didn't know her name. I didn't know her at all. I just spoke to her, something about the drinks, I think."
"Was that the only time you saw her?"
"Yeah, I think so. I don't remember seeing her after that."
"You didn't see her yesterday or last night?" Robrowski asked.
Stanton turned toward him. "No," he said, "I don't remember seeing her yesterday at all."
McCaskill flipped the pages in his little notebook again and looked up at Stanton again. "That's a little strange, Mr. Aldridge," he said, "because we've got a waitress in the restaurant who remembers you talking to Ms. Henderson at breakfast yesterday. She even thought that conversation ended on a sour note."
"Yeah, yeah, that's right," said Stanton quickly. "I did see her in the restaurant; and since I'd talked to her the night before, I just stopped by her table to say hello. There was no problem, though."
"That's not exactly the way the waitress remembers it. She thinks Ms. Henderson blew you off."
"Well, that's not what happened," said Stanton. "I don't know how the waitress got that idea."
"Okay," said McCaskill. "But that's the only time you saw her yesterday?"
"Yeah, as far as I can remember."
The detective turned pages in his notebook again, shaking his head a little as he read. "The bartender said you were both in the bar again last night. Didn't you see her then?"
"Well, I was in the bar for a couple of beers last night; but I don't remember seeing her," said Stanton.
"The bartender said you were staring at her all the time you were there."
Stanton shook his head. "That's not true," he said. "How could I be staring at her all evening and not even remember she was there?"
"The bartender also said you left at about the same time and that you had words with the gentleman who was with Ms. Henderson."
"So she was with someone, huh?" said Stanton, relieved that they knew about the other man. "Maybe he killed her. Did you talk to him?"
"No, no. That‘s not the way this works, Mr. Aldridge," said Detective Robrowski. "We ask the questions, you answer them. Did you have words with Ms. Henderson or her companion last night in the bar?"
"Like I said before, I don't even remember seeing Ms. Henderson last night much less her companion. And I didn't have words with anyone."
"For your information, Aldridge," said Sergeant McCaskill, pointedly dropping the mister, "we did talk to the gentleman who was in the bar with Ms. Henderson last night. He's David Campbell, a colleague of Ms. Henderson. They're attending the same business seminar, and they were in the bar discussing it. Mr. Campbell also remembers you bumping into him as you left. He said he didn't know why you'd want to do that on purpose, but it seemed a little too forceful to be accidental. So it seems everybody remembers this incident differently than you."
Robrowski spoke up again, "Campbell says when he and Ms. Henderson left the bar, they went back to their own rooms on the seventh floor. We checked, everyone in the seminar is on that floor. He said she went to her room, he went to his room, and he didn't see her after that. What did you do when you left the bar?"
"I went back to my room, too, for the night."
"And you didn't see either Ms. Henderson or Mr. Campbell after that?"
"I've already told you I didn't see either one of them at all last night. Hell, I don't even know Campbell."
It was McCaskill's turn to talk again. "That's another oddity," he said. "The desk clerk says he saw the three of you get on the same elevator. How do you explain that?"
"The desk clerk's wrong," said Stanton with a shrug.
"Okay," said McCaskill, "Everybody's wrong and you're right. You say that you went back to your room for the night. Did you leave it at all after that?"
"No, I went right to bed and didn't leave my room till this morning."
"These things are stacking up, Aldridge," said Robrowski. "We've got a night maid who says she saw you after midnight. Not only that, she says she saw you on the seventh floor. What were you doing on the seventh floor?"
"I wasn't on the seventh floor. I told you I never left my room," said Stanton.
"So the maid is wrong, too, huh?" said McCaskill. "Were you ever on the seventh floor? Could she have seen you there some other time?"
"No," said Stanton in a weary voice. "I was never on the seventh floor."
"So that means you were never in Ms. Henderson's room?"
"Of course not. I told you I only saw her a couple of times casually."
McCaskill shook his head, "You've got to be the unluckiest guy in the whole world with all these people seeing things that didn't happen. Listen, I tell you what, we do have some DNA evidence from the crime scene. You say you were never there so it can't be yours. Why don't you just give us a sample of your DNA and that might clear everything up."
"Fine, great," said Stanton, actually relieved that there was DNA evidence. That really should clear him. He gladly provided the sample, a cotton swab inside his cheek, and the detectives allowed him to return to his room.
Two days later the two detectives were again waiting at the hotel for Stanton when he returned from his rounds. He was glad to see them. "Hello, Detectives," he said. "I assume you've got good news for me."
"Not quite," said McCaskill, as he grasped Stanton's wrist and snapped a handcuff on it. "Stanton Aldridge, you're under arrest for the murder of Maxine Henderson. You have the right to remain silent . . . ."
The words after "murder" lost all significance for Stanton. McCaskill's voice droned on but Stanton's mind hung on that word, and it blurred any other meaning. McCaskill and Robrowski hauled him downtown, booked him, and dumped him unceremoniously in a cell.
The ensuing days and weeks ran together for Stanton. He was assigned a public defender, a youngish looking woman named Cassandra Castellano. "Call me Cassie," she said when she introduced herself. "I'm going to get you out of this." She was enthusiastic, energetic, and completely out of her element. He was arraigned, pled "Not guilty," and his trial was scheduled for a month later. The District Attorney was going for the death penalty.
Although Cassie tried to guide him through the process of preparing his defense, he had trouble wrapping his mind around what was happening and the reasons it was happening. He knew he didn't belong here. He certainly hadn't murdered Maxine Henderson. David Campbell certainly had murdered Maxine Henderson, and Stanton had witnessed it. But he hadn't witnessed it in any way that would help him convince the authorities or even his own attorney. Out of desperation, he told Cassie how he knew David Campbell had killed Maxine.
After that, she briefly considered an insanity defense, but she didn't think they could pull it off. She also decided and convinced him that it would be a bad idea to put him on the stand. She was sure his trying to explain away all the evidence would instead convince the jury that he was guilty.
The DNA evidence to which the detectives had referred turned out to be scrapings from under Maxine's fingernails. Stanton supposed that it got there when he'd stumbled against her as he left the bar that evening. The Crime Scene Investigators also found one, only one, of his hairs in Maxine's room. Stanton had no idea how it had gotten there and guessed that Maxine or David had picked up the hair on their clothing in the bar and carried it into the room.
And, of course, any attempts by him to explain these things away would require him to deny or change his earlier statements. That, of course, would make it appear that he was lying, when in fact, he had been lying earlier.
His situation appeared hopeless, and he couldn't get the thought of the death penalty out of his mind. Once, a long time ago, he'd had the opportunity to witness an execution. He had been sorely tempted to do so. The temptation to enter the condemned's brain was almost overwhelming. In the end though, he chickened out. He became afraid of the effect the experience might have on him. He feared experiencing death through someone else might somehow bring a permanent consequence, perhaps even a fatal one, to him.
He also toyed with the idea of entering the executioner's brain at the time he administered the fatal chemical. That would allow him to see how it would be to kill someone legally. Through David Campbell, he now knew how it felt to kill someone illegally. On that earlier occasion, he decided not to attend the execution for fear he would not be able to resist the temptation to undergo the experience through the condemned man. Now it appeared he would experience it firsthand.
With the waitress, the maid, the bartender, and the desk clerk, the District Attorney probably did not need to even put David Campbell on the stand. When they called Campbell anyway as a prosecution witness, Stanton felt like they were piling on. As he watched Campbell in the witness chair, he felt his chances sink even lower. Campbell sat there outwardly cool, composed, and confident, like he had not a care in the world.
Stanton had already been inside Campbell's head on the night of the murder. He decided to try it again to see what Campbell was really feeling. He was surprised to find that Campbell was nervous, anxious. He testified matter of factly that Stanton had been in the bar, had shown an extreme interest in Maxine, and had left at the same time he and Maxine left. He also said that when they reached their floor, he and Maxine had gone their separate ways. He had never been in her room and had only a professional relationship with her. Stanton found that all the time Campbell testified, he was panicking, terrified that somehow he'd give himself away.
When it became their turn to question Campbell, Cassie turned to Stanton and whispered, "I don't have the vaguest idea what to ask this guy."
Stanton pulled his mind back to the defense table, thought a second, and said, "Ask him why he killed Maxine Henderson."
Cassie looked at him the same way she'd looked when he told her how he knew Campbell killed Maxine, like she thought he was crazy. "I can't do that. With no basis, the objections will make us look desperate. That will convince the jury that you're guilty."
The judge interrupted their exchange, "Are you ready, Ms. Castellano?"
Stanton grabbed Cassie's arm as she stood up, "We've got nothing to lose," he hissed. "Ask him why he killed Maxine Henderson?"
Cassie looked down at him and shrugged her shoulders. "I've got nothing else," she said and walked slowly toward the witness chair.
Stanton turned his gaze toward David Campbell, who was still showing no outward sign of his inner turmoil. But as Stanton intensified both his stare and his concentration, Campbell shifted in his chair and looked around nervously as if seeking the source of some distraction, like a bee buzzing around. Stanton leaned forward on his elbows and channeled his entire consciousness toward Campbell.
Cassie reached the point directly in front of Campbell and waited a moment for him to turn his attention to her. Finally, she said, "Mr. Campbell?" He turned his head toward her and looked at her uncertainly, as if he didn't know quite why she was calling his name. "Mr. Campbell," Cassie repeated. "Why did you kill Maxine Henderson?"
The question was unexpected and did not immediately sink in to the District Attorney. Instead of objecting, he sat at the prosecution table with a look on his face that said he didn‘t believe he‘d heard right.
On the other hand, the question seemed to orient David Campbell. It was something he could relate to, something that pulled him from the confusion he'd been feeling. "I didn't really want to kill her," he said. "What I really wanted to do was make love to her. But things just got out of hand."
The district attorney regained his presence and jumped to his feet to object. The judge waved him back into his seat, and Campbell continued.
"She was leading me on for a couple of days; and just when it looked like we were going to finally get together, she changed her mind. By that time, she had me so worked up that I had to do something, so I just tried to make love to her anyway. When she resisted, it just got too rough. Next thing I knew she wasn't moving anymore." He looked straight into Cassie's eyes. "She was a good-looking woman," he said. "I thought we had a lot in common." He shook his head and shrugged, "But she turned out to be a real bitch." He slumped in his chair and lowered his head only to raise it a moment later and stare at Stanton as if he believed Stanton had something to do with what had just happened but not knowing quite what that was.
Cassie moved that the charges be dropped against Stanton. The judge didn't agree on the spot, but he ordered that the investigation be reopened "to examine Mr. Campbell's statement."
When McCaskill and Robrowski reexamined the case without the preconceived notion that Stanton was guilty, they found more evidence and witnesses against Campbell than they thought they'd had against Stanton. Learning from their misadventure with Stanton, this time they really made the case airtight.
Stanton went back home and didn't stare at people nearly as much as he used to. He also changed jobs to one that didn't require him to travel nearly as much. It was years before he was in Bremington again. That trip was uneventful except for the time he spent at breakfast in the hotel dining room. Over his coffee, he read a story in the local newspaper about how District Attorney Cassandra Castellano was prosecuting a visiting business man for a murder of passion.
THE END
Jennifer says:
You are full of great story ideas, but your execution needs work. I have two big issues with this story: one, Stanton's experience of Campbell's experience of killing Maxine isn't satisfying - there aren't enough details. Two, and more importantly, it doesn't make sense for Stanton to lie about what happened that night. Even though he'd been seen with Maxine, Campbell had been seen with her, too. What's more; Campbell had been seen being quite intimate with her. I think he would be the police's number one candidate or at least as suspicious as Stanton is. I also think that a rational person would only need to be caught in one lie before they realized how badly things were going for him and confessed the truth. Work on the set up a little more and this story will flow better.
Plot - 21
Characters - 21
Mechanics - 21
Enjoyment - 23
TOTAL - 86
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