preempting Jones from garnering too much spotlight. “The kind of guy who kills for no reason. Kills people he don’t know.”
“As opposed to people you do know,” I said.
Jess said, “If somebody fucks with you and then you kill them, man, that’s different.” He glanced around at his fellow inmates.
It always fascinates me how they differentiate the severity of their offense from those committed by their fellow inmates, as though to calibrate what kind of crime is truly reprehensible.
“I don’t think he knew her.”
“Probably didn’t know her if he’s a serial killer,” Jess went on, doing a push-up on the arms of his wheelchair. “Serials do their thing. They have a plan and they stick to it. So whoever drives into the rest area at seven P.M. … boom.”
Normally I might have let them carry on conjecturing, but today I just didn’t feel up to hearing any more of the sort of discussion that I’d already been having with myself, with Anthony, and others. And so I said, “Let’s table this for now. Thanks for your concern. Did you all finish the reading I passed out?” I’d given them the short story “The Captain’s Daughter” by Alexander Pushkin.
They all nodded, except Travis, a young, skinny black guy wearing a do-rag. He’d said nothing thus far and looked angry and bored.
“Okay, so…”
Jones surprised me yet again by having managed to get a copy of the story from one of the other inmates and reading it. He began the discussion. “Tell you one thing. It snows a fucking lot in Russia.”
“Yeah, even more than here,” Peter spoke up.
“Got to be way north of here,” said Jess.
“I love the bad guy in the story,” Daryl said. “The fake czar.”
“How so?”
“He was all dressed in black and shit and the way he just turned up in the middle of that snowstorm. Boy, he turned out to be one no-nonsense dude.”
“Riding his horse all over the place, taking out towns, cutting off heads. Not bad for a badass life,” said Raul.
“Well, until you’re caught and executed,” I pointed out.
“I hated that servant,” Peter spoke up. “I wanted the fake czar to kill him.”
“And why did you hate him?”
“He was always interfering.”
“The captain’s daughter … she was kind of like an olden-days version of a bimbo, wasn’t she?” Jones said, and everybody laughed.
His manner was a bit too flippant for my liking, much less to be harboring the secret of having stalked and killed several women within a short period of time. But then again, the brand of insanity that might drive such a serial murderer was probably something I could hardly fathom. I supposed I had to reserve judgment on Jones.
When the class was over, Peter waited behind as he often did. He’d been writing journal entries, scribbling dispatches about his life up until the school night when he committed an act of such extreme violence, claimed by his teachers and friends to be a dumbfounding contradiction to his quiet and self-contained nature. Then again, wasn’t it always the quiet types, the introverts, the dreamers who ended up surprising us with unforeseen malice? Peter seemed genuinely bereft and agonized to be held responsible for his parents’ murder. He’d been put on a potent psychotropic medication that, he confided to me, only made him feel fogged in. Despite my revulsion at what he’d done, I managed somehow to feel motherly toward him.
“They say you actually knew her,” he spoke up. “The woman who was killed.”
I told him she drew my blood at the hospital, and that even though plenty of photos of her had been published in the local newspaper, when I found her I didn’t recognize her, but quickly assumed who she was.
Peter’s face wrinkled up. “My mother used to follow them, the stories of these murders. She used to worry about them.” He hesitated again. “She even got scared whenever she was alone.”
I pictured him grabbing a shotgun, slowly and
“As opposed to people you do know,” I said.
Jess said, “If somebody fucks with you and then you kill them, man, that’s different.” He glanced around at his fellow inmates.
It always fascinates me how they differentiate the severity of their offense from those committed by their fellow inmates, as though to calibrate what kind of crime is truly reprehensible.
“I don’t think he knew her.”
“Probably didn’t know her if he’s a serial killer,” Jess went on, doing a push-up on the arms of his wheelchair. “Serials do their thing. They have a plan and they stick to it. So whoever drives into the rest area at seven P.M. … boom.”
Normally I might have let them carry on conjecturing, but today I just didn’t feel up to hearing any more of the sort of discussion that I’d already been having with myself, with Anthony, and others. And so I said, “Let’s table this for now. Thanks for your concern. Did you all finish the reading I passed out?” I’d given them the short story “The Captain’s Daughter” by Alexander Pushkin.
They all nodded, except Travis, a young, skinny black guy wearing a do-rag. He’d said nothing thus far and looked angry and bored.
“Okay, so…”
Jones surprised me yet again by having managed to get a copy of the story from one of the other inmates and reading it. He began the discussion. “Tell you one thing. It snows a fucking lot in Russia.”
“Yeah, even more than here,” Peter spoke up.
“Got to be way north of here,” said Jess.
“I love the bad guy in the story,” Daryl said. “The fake czar.”
“How so?”
“He was all dressed in black and shit and the way he just turned up in the middle of that snowstorm. Boy, he turned out to be one no-nonsense dude.”
“Riding his horse all over the place, taking out towns, cutting off heads. Not bad for a badass life,” said Raul.
“Well, until you’re caught and executed,” I pointed out.
“I hated that servant,” Peter spoke up. “I wanted the fake czar to kill him.”
“And why did you hate him?”
“He was always interfering.”
“The captain’s daughter … she was kind of like an olden-days version of a bimbo, wasn’t she?” Jones said, and everybody laughed.
His manner was a bit too flippant for my liking, much less to be harboring the secret of having stalked and killed several women within a short period of time. But then again, the brand of insanity that might drive such a serial murderer was probably something I could hardly fathom. I supposed I had to reserve judgment on Jones.
When the class was over, Peter waited behind as he often did. He’d been writing journal entries, scribbling dispatches about his life up until the school night when he committed an act of such extreme violence, claimed by his teachers and friends to be a dumbfounding contradiction to his quiet and self-contained nature. Then again, wasn’t it always the quiet types, the introverts, the dreamers who ended up surprising us with unforeseen malice? Peter seemed genuinely bereft and agonized to be held responsible for his parents’ murder. He’d been put on a potent psychotropic medication that, he confided to me, only made him feel fogged in. Despite my revulsion at what he’d done, I managed somehow to feel motherly toward him.
“They say you actually knew her,” he spoke up. “The woman who was killed.”
I told him she drew my blood at the hospital, and that even though plenty of photos of her had been published in the local newspaper, when I found her I didn’t recognize her, but quickly assumed who she was.
Peter’s face wrinkled up. “My mother used to follow them, the stories of these murders. She used to worry about them.” He hesitated again. “She even got scared whenever she was alone.”
I pictured him grabbing a shotgun, slowly and
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