Joe Victim: A Thriller

“Did he hit you?”


“Yeah, he hit me. Is that what you wanted to hear? He slapped me across the face so hard it bruised. It was the only time he ever touched me. He came into my room later that day and he hugged me, and he told me he was sorry, and he never hit me again. It was all so sudden I didn’t know what was going on. For a day I thought he was angry that I hadn’t given him a dead cat too.”

Amy doesn’t answer. I smile a little. “That was a joke,” I say. “The last part.”

She smiles a little, and she’s thinking that her PCJ—Prince Charming Joe—has just arrived. Only problem, as far as she can see, is I’m in prison for multiple rape/homicides. She knows, like we all do, that love does find a way. She’s thrilled because PCJ has a sense of humor—and that’s a plus. Women always bullshit about humor being the most important thing. They say it’s more important than looks. Hopefully it’s more important than history too. Women also dig scars, but my scar twists one side of my face into a Halloween mask, and sometimes I can still feel the heat of my skin burning from where the bullet tore the flesh open. I start to smile, but whatever moment is developing between us is suddenly lost when my eyelid becomes jammed when I blink and it looks like I’m winking. She frowns a little.

“It gets stuck,” I say. “Since the accident.” I reach up and tug it down and it stings a little bit and then starts working again.

“You call it an accident?”

I shrug. “What else would I call it? I didn’t intend any of this.”

“Then by that logic, people who get cancer could call that an accident.”

“But I don’t have cancer,” I tell her.

“Okay, Joe,” she says. “If you didn’t intend it, and if you really can’t remember what you did, why were you carrying Detective Calhoun’s gun, and why did you try to turn it on yourself?”

It’s a good question. An annoying question that has been put to me a few times now. Thankfully it’s one that comes with an easy answer. “I don’t remember that either,” I tell her.

“Joe—”

“It’s true,” I tell her, and I touch my free hand back up to my eye. The doctor warned me it would catch occasionally for the rest of my life. I don’t know why or on what, and he didn’t seem in a real information-offering mood. He seemed more interested in who he was treating, and how he was going to tell the boys about it that night at the bar.

Her expression relaxes a little. “Does it hurt?”

“Only when I’m awake.”

“Let’s move on,” she says. “Did you ever try giving your mother another pet?”

I scoff at the thought. “No. She wouldn’t have appreciated it.”

“I meant an alive pet, Joe.”

“Oh. Well, no, the same thing applies.”

“Did you ever kill any more animals?”

“You’re implying I killed John,” I tell her.

“You did kill John.”

“No, the cardboard box and lack of air killed John. Me being eight years old is what killed John. It was an accident.”

“Like your scar is an accident.”

“Exactly,” I say, pleased she’s beginning to understand.

“You still haven’t told me, Joe, whether you killed any other animals?”

“Why would I?” I ask, but yes, I have killed other animals—I’ve done it to get what I want from people.

“Okay. I think we’re pretty much done for today,” she says, and she starts to shuffle her pad back into her briefcase. It’s a similar model to the one I used to carry my lunch and my knives and my gun around in, and for a moment—for a brief second—I wonder if it’s actually mine.

“Why?”

“Because you’re not being forthcoming, that’s why.”

“What?”

“The animals. I asked you twice and twice you avoided the question. That suggests you don’t really want my help.”

“Wait,” I say, and I try to stand up, but the handcuffs keep me down.

“I’ll think about coming back tomorrow,” she says.

“What does that mean? That you might not come back?”

“I have to decide whether or not you’re faking everything you’re saying. Whether you’re telling me what you think I want to hear. Not remembering what you did to these women, I don’t know, it might be a little hard for me to buy. I’ve seen it before. I could be seeing it now. Problem with the insanity plea is you seem very aware of what you’re saying.”

I say nothing. It seems saying nothing works better for me.

She moves to the door and bangs on it.

“Wait,” I tell her.

“What for?”

“Please. Please, this is my life we’re talking about here. I’m scared. There are people in here who want to kill me. I have no idea what the fuck I’ve done over the last few years, I’m lost and I’m scared and please, please, don’t go. Not yet. Even if you don’t believe me, I just need somebody to talk to.”

The guard opens the door. Ali stands there staring at me and the guard stands there staring at her.