LIBERATION - CHAPTER 1

Chapter 1

May 23…Three Years Later

            It was the last day of final exams, and nobody gave a shit. Nobody cared that the school year was over or that our time here had drawn to a close. There were no conversations about upcoming summer trips, no discussions regarding the pursuit of future degrees. The only thing people were talking about was Lester Mitchell. The story was on everyone’s lips. You couldn’t go anywhere without hearing his name or being reminded of his horrific crime. And for some imbecilic reason, everyone was afraid that he would come here, as if there was a perfectly rational explanation for him to visit Marlboro, New Jersey. I doubt Lester Mitchell was even aware of this good-for-nothing town’s existence. But then again, I suppose it’s only human nature to assume the worst, even if the worst is comprised of the most unusual circumstances.

            Aside from the victims’ family and friends, I believe that it was I who felt the most severely impacted by these murders. The news had grasped my mind and shaken it, causing a plethora of emotions and thoughts to rattle tumultuously through my mind. My perspective of Lester Mitchell was, for lack of a better term, conflicted. His crimes were so sadistic, so terrible, that I couldn’t help but detest him with the rest of the country. And yet, I also sympathized with him. I couldn’t help but see things through his vantage point. His crimes were sadistic and terrible, yes, but what if there was a reason for them? Perhaps something horrible had happened in his life, something that had driven him to the brink of insanity and pushed him into murdering those people. Perhaps there was more to the story than everybody realized. Perhaps the answer lied in the word that he had written in blood on the wall of the murder scene…

In some twisted, perverse way, Lester Mitchell and I shared a connection. The only difference between us was that he had succumbed to his urges, and I had not. And the fact that this mere difference was all that separated me from a killer reviled me.

            The sky was empty save for a fervent sun, showering its warmth upon everything below it. The beautiful weather almost mocked the day’s tragic events. Clutching the straps of my book bag, I strolled through the green pasture that was my campus. It would be the last time I ever walked it as a student, and yet I felt no sorrow, no nostalgia. Instead I felt disturbed, intrigued, curious. Troubled faces were all around me. As I surveyed these perturbed faces, I found myself wondering whether I was looking at some kind of alternate past. I found myself pondering, Is this how things would’ve been if I had made a different choice three years ago? Would everyone be talking about me and what I did? Would I have been reduced to a monster, a masochistic brute who takes pleasure in inflicting pain upon others? Would everyone despise me? Would the atmosphere be as melancholy and sullen as this? I paused the music blasting through my headphones to eavesdrop on a nearby conversation.

            “I can’t believe they haven’t found him yet,” Jeff Honovich was saying to a black student I didn’t recognize.

            “That’s because they’re not looking for him.”

            “What do you mean?”

            I slowed my pace to hear what kind of garbage this black kid was about to spew. Only an hour ago, I heard one idiot tell his friends that he was Lester Mitchell’s third cousin on his mother’s side.

            “Don’t you think it’s weird that an army of cops can’t find one man? They know who he is, what he looks like. So why the hell haven’t they found him yet?” The question was obviously rhetorical, yet Jeff responded with a shrug of his shoulders.

            “I’ll tell you why,” continued the black kid. “The cops were in on it.”

            The words drifted into my ears and rolled my eyes back with disgust. I sped away before I could tread on anymore of his bullshit. There’s always a lunatic rummaging through the facts, searching for some ludicrous conspiracy theory that isn’t actually there.

Next, I came across a group of young women. They were the kind of girls that usually made my flesh crawl; grotesque and horrid on the inside, but outside, they were beautiful…though none of them were as beautiful as her.

“Have you guys actually seen Lester Mitchell?” asked Jen. I couldn’t recall her last name, but I recognized her blonde hair with its pink streaks from my Consumer Behavior class.

“Obviously,” said the brunette. “His face is all over the news.”

Jen hesitated before asking, “Is it weird that I think he’s hot?”

Priscilla Chan clasped a hand over her mouth and giggled like an elementary school girl. “Oh my God! I’m not even going to lie. I thought the same thing!”

Revulsion twisted my lips into a frown. These girls wouldn’t be caught dead speaking to me, and yet they’re attracted to a perverse, blood-thirsty psychopath. For the briefest of moments—and I’m ashamed to admit this—I couldn’t help but wonder what these girls would have thought of me if I had taken a different route three years ago. The thought repulsed me more than their words. I turned away from the conversation, only to find myself in the midst of another.

“I cannot wait for them to catch this guy,” snarled Anthony Bona. “When they do, they should reinstate the death penalty in Jersey. Just for him.”

Becky Ramirez looked appalled to hear her boyfriend’s stance. I could detect the scent of a potential argument brewing between them. Again, I slowed my pace, just to hear how hostile their debate was about to get.

 “I’m sorry, Becky,” said Anthony, though he didn’t sound the least bit apologetic. “But Lester Mitchel deserves to die. I’d do it myself if I could.”

“Then you’re just as sick as he is!” she retorted.

“So what would you do? Lock him away in prison and let him live out the rest of his life? He doesn’t deserve that! He’s a fucking maniac.”

“Exactly! Lester Mitchel is certifiably insane, Anthony. Literally. Or did you not hear? They just discovered that he has a history of mental illness. He takes medication and everything.” I had actually overheard this piece of news earlier. Apparently, Anthony had not.

“So what?” he asked.                         

“OK, listen. Was what he did horrible? Absolutely. But you have to take into account that the man had no idea what he was doing! There’s no—”

“Bullshit! He knew exactly what he was doing!”

“—justice in handing a life sentence, or the death penalty, to someone who’s mentally ill,” continued Becky. “Lester Mitchell should be committed to an institution where he can actually be treated.”

Now it was Anthony’s turn to look appalled. “Institution? Like a mental hospital?”

“Yes, you ass. Like a mental hospital.”

“Yeah, sure. Send him over to St. Matthew’s. I’ll treat him myself.”

As the distance between this bickering couple and I grew, Anthony’s snarling voice and Becky’s high-pitched whine faded into nothingness. Such a shame. Their conversation had been pretty entertaining.

I resumed my normal pace and continued into the parking lot, stuffing my headphones into my jeans pocket along the way. The old Jeep was there to meet me, its front bumper dented and its tail light shattered from two separate collisions. The scratches that covered its black body, however, were not my fault. They were key marks, reminders of my fond high school years. I could pay to have them fixed—if I had a job—but the marks that high school had left on my mind would never fully heal. I climbed into the car, slipped the key into the ignition, and gave it a turn. You would expect the engine to immediately start running because, you know, that’s how it’s supposed to work. But no. On a good day, it takes two turns for this engine to actually kick into gear. So I gave it another try, and voila—the hunk of junk was up and running. But then I remembered Lester Mitchel, and a grimace found its way onto my face. It was hard to call such a tragic day a good one.

Rather than dwell on how I failed my Sociology final, I reflected on all the madness I heard throughout the day. What Lester Mitchell did to that poor family. How Lester Mitchell had eluded the police and was now seeking refuge in Marlboro. That Lester Mitchell had a history of mental illness. That Lester Mitchell had only evaded capture because the cops were somehow involved in his crime. That Lester Mitchell should be sent to an insane asylum. So many conversations, so many words from so many different mouths, and yet no one had breathed a word about…well, the word. Not a single person had mentioned—what I found to be—the most peculiar and intriguing detail of the entire story. It wasn’t how Lester Mitchell escaped the police or why he committed such an inhumane crime. It was a very minute detail, one I couldn’t understand, a single word that aroused my curiosity like no other.

It was several minutes before I realized that my hands were steering the car without the attention of my mind. I always found it odd when that happened. And also slightly dangerous. So I turned on the radio to keep myself in the present. But instead of hearing the poppy, mainstream hits that I usually loathed, my ears filled with the clash of argumentative voices.

“I don’t get it, Ronny. I really don’t. How in the world does someone like Lester Mitchell manage to escape the police? How?”

“I have no idea,” said the DJ named Ronny. “But those cops should be ashamed of themselves. They—”

My fingers interjected by switching to the next station. I had spent the majority of my day listening to stories about Lester Mitchell. All I wanted to do now was bob my head to some crappy, irritably optimistic music.

“If anyone has any information regarding Lester Mitchell, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to call the local autho—”

I changed it again.

“—and Lester Mitchell has still not been caught. He is still—”

And again.

“—Mitchell is armed and dangerous. Do not attempt—”

 “—whereabouts are unknown—”

I turned off the radio with a clenched fist. The story was truly everywhere. Everyone and their mothers were infatuated with Lester Mitchell. Including my own.

“Did you hear what this lunatic did?” asked Alice the second I walked through the door. There was no “Hello, how are you?” or “How were finals?” or “How do you feel about being done with school?” There was only Lester Mitchell and his ghastly crime. Not that I really cared.

Her question made me scowl. What the fuck did she expect? That I was the one person in New Jersey, or even the Tri-State area, who hadn’t heard this news? That I was stupid and uninformed as to what was occurring in the world around me? “Obviously,” I snapped. “It’s all everyone’s talking about.” I tossed my bag pack onto the living room sofa and glanced at the TV. A news anchor was speaking off screen, but I couldn’t hear her words; I was mesmerized by the photograph in her place. It portrayed a young man in his late 20s-early 30s, with eyes so dark they appeared as black as bottomless pits. He had a large, toothy grin that didn’t seem to fit his narrow face. But even with that immense smile, the man was undeniably handsome. If it wasn’t for his long, brown hair, sticking up every which way as if he had just been struck by lightning, he actually would’ve looked sane.

Disbelief spun me toward the dining room. My parents were setting the table, but their eyes were glued to the TV. “That’s Lester Mitchell?” I asked them.

“That’s him,” confirmed Frank. “Why?”

I squinted at the photograph on the screen, as though the image was opaque when really, it couldn’t be any more vivid. “I don’t know. You hear the name Lester Mitchell, and you don’t exactly picture that.”

Chairs scraped along the hardwood floor behind me.

“Yes, he was quite good looking.”

“Is,” corrected Frank. “He’s still alive. And still a free man.”

“Well, hopefully that won’t be the case for much longer. Come sit down and eat, Tyler. And leave the TV on.”

“Wow! Leaving the TV on during dinner? That’s unheard of.” I pulled up a seat, one next to Alice and across from Frank, and joined them in ogling at the screen. But the photograph was no longer there. In its place was a reporter, an African-American woman who was babbling about facts that everyone already knew. I feasted my sights on a bowl of mashed potatoes. My hand reached out to grab it but stopped at the following words, “What you are about to see may be disturbing. Viewer discretion is advised.”

Naturally, my eyes immediately darted back to the TV. And there, plastered on the screen, was an image so haunting that Alice gasped and dropped her knife to the floor. The scene of the crime was a medley of yellow and red. The room was roped off by cautionary tape, branded with big, bold lettering: “POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS.” But all the yellow tape in the world wouldn’t be enough to conceal the blood. The stuff was everywhere, smeared on the walls, the windows, the floor, even on the ceiling. Alice shielded the sight with her hand, as though turning away from the screen wasn’t enough to protect her. The news camera panned across the room to give its audience a better look at the horror show. And then, I saw it. But again, no one mentioned it, not my parents, not the news anchor. It was like the word—inscribed in massive, capital letters—was nothing more than a miscellaneous piece of furniture. Somebody had to acknowledge it.

“What do you think that means?” I asked.

“What does what mean?” inquired Frank, through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. Watching him munch his food so effortlessly, while the scene of a homicide flashed on the TV, made me want to retch.

I frowned. “The word written in blood on the far left wall. Or do you not see it?” The question was rhetorical, but I knew if I waited long enough, he would provide me with an answer. “Why do you think he wrote that?” I added swiftly.

“Five people are dead. Who cares what psychotic babble this lunatic scribbled on a wall?”

Alice shifted her gaze to me; not because she wanted to but because staring at the TV was simply too much to bear.  “Lester Mitchell is a very sick man,” she explained as though that minor detail had somehow eluded me. “Who knows why.”

As stupid as they were, they both had made valid points. And yet, as I stared at the word written in blood across the far left wall, I couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, there was a deeper meaning behind it.