Joe Victim: A Thriller

“Things look different in the dark,” I tell him.

“That’s my point. That kid, he thinks I’m the one who took him, but how could he know that when I put a blindfold over his eyes?”

“Right,” I tell him, and we’ve had this conversation before, quite a few times actually. I guess I could use some of the fifty thousand dollars to pay somebody to shut him up permanently.

“Play some cards?” he asks.

“Maybe soon,” I tell him.

He shrugs, like soon is an insult to him. “Lunch in twenty minutes,” he says, and then he disappears. I pick the romance book back up. I stare at the pages and read some of the same words over and over. If I ever write a book where men and women fall in love, it’d be real, it’d be the kind of thing I had with Melissa. I miss her. A lot.

The two prison guards come and get me again. They really seem to have taken a shine to me today.

“Good news,” Adam says.

“I’m going home?”

“See? Sometimes you do catch on quick,” he says.

They lead me back out of the cellblock. Weirdly I’m thankful for the break in the routine. These next few days are going to be like that because of the trial. A month ago, and a month before that, and a few more before that were all the same. I wake up. I stare at stuff. I eat. I stare at more stuff. Then it’s lights out. Next week I’ll be put in front of a jury, and there’s no way they’ll convict me. I’m Joe. People like Joe.

I’m taken back to the same interview room. My lawyer is waiting in there already. He props his briefcase up on the table and for a moment I wonder if it’s full of knives. He’s in his late fifties. He has just the right amount of not looking so young that he’s cocky, and not looking so old that all the experience and wisdom he has gained will be spilling into a coffin along with the rest of him before Christmas. His name is Kevin, and Kevin is wearing a nice suit that I would never wear, cologne that makes me feel sick, and has an overweight wife that I would never touch. The photo of her clipped inside the lid of his briefcase must weigh as much as the briefcase itself.

The guards handcuff me to my chair. Then they leave.

“I got some news for you,” Kevin says.

“Good news I assume?”

He shakes his head and frowns. “Bad news.”

“I’ll have the good news first.”

“Err . . . you’re missing the point, Joe,” he says. “It’s bad news, worse news really.”

“Then the bad news first.”

“The prosecution is making you an offer.”

“That’s good news,” I tell him. “They’re letting me go?”

“No, Joe, they’re not. But they do think in the interest of expediting things, of saving taxpayer money, and of avoiding the risk of turning this whole thing into a circus, they are offering you life in jail without the option of parole. They’re trying to avoid what is looking to be a streetful of people protesting for or against the death penalty.”

“Death penalty? I don’t get it,” I say, but I’m afraid that I do.

“That’s the worse news, and I’ll get to that in a second.”

“No, no, you’ll get to it now,” I say, wanting to wave my hands in the air, but unable to. What are you talking about?”

“I said I’ll get to it, Joe. First there’s more bad news. There’s been a hiccup with the insanity defense.”

“What kind of hiccup?” I ask.

“Benson Barlow.”

“Who’s that?”

“He’s the psychiatrist the prosecution sent to speak to you. He hasn’t submitted a formal report yet, but I’ve been given a heads-up, and it’s very damning of you. Basically he’s going to say you’re faking everything.”

“It’ll be his word against mine.”

“Well, Joe, we can argue that at a trial, but I don’t see much hope in this. Barlow is an extremely respected psychiatrist, whereas you’re an extremely reviled serial killer. Whose word do you think will carry more weight?”

“Mine,” I say. “Nobody likes psychiatrists. Nobody.”

“I know the plan is to plead an insanity defense,” he says, “but here’s the thing, Joe, and this is what I’ve been telling you since I’ve been your lawyer—it’s not a great defense. You got away with murdering these women for so long that you had to be sane to do that.”