eyes darted over the other papers. Nothing of importance. Files labeled with the name Francis Ackerman Jr. A flyer for an auction, a two-story white house displayed prominently on its face. Several of the typical bureaucratic forms that filled the tedium of most cops’ lives. He thought back on the hours he had spent filling out reports, hours that should have been spent on the street protecting and serving. But it’s all part of the job .
His eyes moved to the computer screen. A slight man with glasses filled the display and spoke in a calm, quiet voice. A feeling of déjà vu washed over him at the sight of the man. The man’s face and eyes seemed to prompt a recollection that swirled at the edge of his consciousness, but the grainy image and camera angle lacked the detail necessary to make a connection. The video looked like some type of clinical trial.
“Today, we’re going to be performing a recreation of a traumatic event that occurred in the life of Albert DeSalvo, better known as the Boston Strangler. I have documented the exact procedure in my journals and will be videotaping the entire process. I plan to observe the boy’s reactions to the event over the next week and conduct a few behavioral tests before moving on to the next experiment.”
The man, who Marcus assumed was some type of doctor or psychiatrist, reached up and stopped the camera. The display flashed, and a bare white room containing a cot and a toilet replaced the image of the doctor. A young boy sat on the cot and stared vacantly at the wall. In a moment, the door to the room opened, and the doctor entered.
“Hello, Francis,” the doctor said. “We’re going to play a game.”
The Sheriff reached up and pressed a key on the keyboard. The image on the screen froze, and the look on the boy’s face gave Marcus chills. The expression of pure terror etched across the child’s features reminded him of an illustration he had once seen of Dante’s Inferno. In that image, a demon tortured a soul that possessed an expression similar to the boy’s. He wondered if the scene before him now was all that different.
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” the Sheriff said under his breath.
“What are you watching?”
The Sheriff seemed to register that he had entered for the first time and said, “Marcus. Hello. Where are my manners? Go ahead and have a seat.” The Sheriff gestured toward one of the leather chairs in front of the desk.
Marcus sat down and repeated his question. “What was that?”
The Sheriff shook his head, and a look of disgust contorted his features. “That was a recording that a friend of mine at the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit just sent me. They have hours upon hours of this. The bureau refers to them as the Ackerman tapes. I don’t know if you’ve heard anything about it, but Francis Ackerman is suspected to be traveling through this area. We, of course, don’t know that for sure, but I contacted an old friend at the bureau and asked him to send me some more info. I wanna be prepared, just in case. It’s a fascinating story really. Anyway, I wanted you to stop by so we could—”
“What’s a fascinating story?”
“Ackerman. I’m sure you’ve seen something about it on TV?”
“I don’t watch much TV. I’m more of a book and movie kinda guy. If I am watching TV and a news story about murder comes on, I usually change the channel.”
“Really. Well, the long and short of it is that Francis Ackerman Sr. was a twisted individual. He was a second-rate psychology professor. His theories and papers were pretty much ignored by the medical community. Basically, he had a theory that killers were made and not born—pure products of their environment. He blamed society for creating these monsters. I’m not a psychologist or a psychiatrist or whatever you’re supposed to be, but from what I gather, most experts agree that the root of violent crime and abhorrent behavior stems from a combination of both.
His eyes moved to the computer screen. A slight man with glasses filled the display and spoke in a calm, quiet voice. A feeling of déjà vu washed over him at the sight of the man. The man’s face and eyes seemed to prompt a recollection that swirled at the edge of his consciousness, but the grainy image and camera angle lacked the detail necessary to make a connection. The video looked like some type of clinical trial.
“Today, we’re going to be performing a recreation of a traumatic event that occurred in the life of Albert DeSalvo, better known as the Boston Strangler. I have documented the exact procedure in my journals and will be videotaping the entire process. I plan to observe the boy’s reactions to the event over the next week and conduct a few behavioral tests before moving on to the next experiment.”
The man, who Marcus assumed was some type of doctor or psychiatrist, reached up and stopped the camera. The display flashed, and a bare white room containing a cot and a toilet replaced the image of the doctor. A young boy sat on the cot and stared vacantly at the wall. In a moment, the door to the room opened, and the doctor entered.
“Hello, Francis,” the doctor said. “We’re going to play a game.”
The Sheriff reached up and pressed a key on the keyboard. The image on the screen froze, and the look on the boy’s face gave Marcus chills. The expression of pure terror etched across the child’s features reminded him of an illustration he had once seen of Dante’s Inferno. In that image, a demon tortured a soul that possessed an expression similar to the boy’s. He wondered if the scene before him now was all that different.
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” the Sheriff said under his breath.
“What are you watching?”
The Sheriff seemed to register that he had entered for the first time and said, “Marcus. Hello. Where are my manners? Go ahead and have a seat.” The Sheriff gestured toward one of the leather chairs in front of the desk.
Marcus sat down and repeated his question. “What was that?”
The Sheriff shook his head, and a look of disgust contorted his features. “That was a recording that a friend of mine at the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit just sent me. They have hours upon hours of this. The bureau refers to them as the Ackerman tapes. I don’t know if you’ve heard anything about it, but Francis Ackerman is suspected to be traveling through this area. We, of course, don’t know that for sure, but I contacted an old friend at the bureau and asked him to send me some more info. I wanna be prepared, just in case. It’s a fascinating story really. Anyway, I wanted you to stop by so we could—”
“What’s a fascinating story?”
“Ackerman. I’m sure you’ve seen something about it on TV?”
“I don’t watch much TV. I’m more of a book and movie kinda guy. If I am watching TV and a news story about murder comes on, I usually change the channel.”
“Really. Well, the long and short of it is that Francis Ackerman Sr. was a twisted individual. He was a second-rate psychology professor. His theories and papers were pretty much ignored by the medical community. Basically, he had a theory that killers were made and not born—pure products of their environment. He blamed society for creating these monsters. I’m not a psychologist or a psychiatrist or whatever you’re supposed to be, but from what I gather, most experts agree that the root of violent crime and abhorrent behavior stems from a combination of both.
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