| ALT.CONFESSIONS, Part 2 |
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The city was getting ready for the evening, which is when he worked. He parked his old Honda in the Champion Burger parking lot but stayed in the car. He still had ten minutes. He closed his eyes and tried to collect his thoughts. Really, he told himself, really, he was not in danger. They had tracked him from interscope to unicorn. That's all it meant. Interscope was not as tight as they had let on. That's all. Don't panic. Just don't panic. Unicorn was tight. Unicorn came recommended. One of the better relays. There was no way they could reach him. He was safe. Absolutely. Besides, he could not afford additional relays. They were out of the question. He was stretched as it was. Just didn't have the money, simple as that. There's a limit to what you can do on night manager's wages. Unicorn had to be safe. There were no other options. Simply HAD to be. He stepped out of the car, almost convinced. He looked at his watch. Two minutes to go. Plenty of time. He had never been late for work, never missed a day. It was part of him, part of his makeup, dependability. "Evening, Mr. Crodin." "Hi, Jim." He noticed the smirk. Jim didn't like him. No one really liked him, he was aware of that. He was probably the butt of their jokes. But he wasn't here to be popular. He was here to feed the paying public. It was a job. "Evening, Mr. Crodin." "Evening, Andy." "Hi, Bradford." "Evening, Liz. What's the story tonight?" "Low on fish filet again. They didn't ship the full order. Again." He shook his head, then combed his hair back with his hand. He saw the problems that might come up and already thought of alternatives. He looked around. Jim and Andy were here. William over there. Rose missing. "Seen Rose yet?" "Ah, yes. She called in sick." He grimaced. You don't get a job and then don't show up. Just not done. He saw his dad, forefinger like a sword in his face when he was running a hundred and one and couldn't gather the strength to deliver the papers. You don't get a job and then don't show up! Mom nervously in the doorway, helpless. Dad larger than life by far. He got out of bed, steadied himself, and got dressed. He survived. He finished his paper run, and went back to bed. All better the following morning, too. "Ruth?" "She's checking the stores." "Good." She said goodbye and was gone out the door. He said goodbye and settled in for the night shift. To: elassing@mdnet.com (Evelyn Lassing)She received his message that night. A gentler message, almost an apology, she thought. His earlier message had stayed with her. She didn't know what to reply. It starts with your dungeon, he said. How could he be so sure? So sure that's where it started and so sure that she had a dungeon. But she did have a dungeon, she's had one for a long time, and she was never going to tell anyone about it, not for any price. Not even to rid herself of her mother. Then his message whispered again. How did he know? He said the word, and although she had not thought of it as a dungeon it was the perfect description. She knew that He KNEW. He KNEW. And now he wrote again. Friendlier, apologetic. She would have to answer. In a way she was glad to answer. To: confessor@interscope.ca (The Confessor)Her first reaction was to tell him to mind his own business. But he was right. How did he know? She had enjoyed her 'encounters' as he put it. And portions had been relegated to the dungeon. He knew that too. And he wanted to help her. So she decided, against her better judgment and revolting propriety, to try. |
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To: confessor@interscope.ca (The Confessor)An erection stirred as he opened the message and began reading. She was buying it, she was going to tell him. We were going all the way here. He smiled into the blue glare of the screen and he felt his mouth go dry. He read on. Then his erection waned, the bitch was waxing poetic, philosophical. Jesus. Endlessly filled. Oh, Christ. What a wimp. But, he had to remind himself, she was biting, wasn't she. Very definitely biting. He would get her yet. To: elassing@mdnet.com (Evelyn Lassing)He did not hear back until Sunday night. He should have done something about the apartment that weekend, it was getting bad. Yes, he knew, but he was waiting, suffering. Had he pushed her too hard, too fast? Had he pulled too hard on the line? He knew he had to be careful, give her just enough line, reel her in a bit, ease on the line again, wear down that prudence, delve into lust itself, that's how you get details. Every detail. He felt an erection stir again, just at the thought. But no reply. He slept badly Saturday night. He missed something, and realized it was work. He was off this weekend. He really should do something about the apartment. Sunday. The entire day. Not a word. And he knew, he could not prompt at this point. It was up to her. She has to come, like a kitten, jump up onto his knee of her own accord. At six thirty she came. To: confessor@interscope.ca (The Confessor)He read and was filled with righteous revulsion. Jesus, she's a nutcase. She's crazy. And she's getting away. Foiling him. To: elassing@mdnet.com (Evelyn Lassing)She did not respond. He sat by the PC well into Monday morning. He checked his mail once every ten minutes or so. Not a word. He had lost her. God damn it! He stood up with force and kicked the chair into the laundry pile. God damn it!! He had been so close. Was she really that stupid? Had she actually bared her soul and this was it? Or had she played him for a fool? He couldn't decide. She was either laughing her ass off or he had scared her away. He read their exchange again. There was not a single juicy detail. Forces and feelings, and filling. And her awful, sick slaughter. He couldn't make up his mind about her. But he would find out. He sent her another message and then went to bed, smiling. To: elassing@mdnet.com (Evelyn Lassing) |
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She understood but did not believe. She was suddenly left midair, no support, no love, no earth. He had been lying all along. It was clear, very clear now. And she, like the spine- less, blind fool that she was had walked right into his trap. Into his stupid, stupid trap. She started crying and the message blurred. She had no idea what to do, or where to go for help. There was no help. Not even daddy could help now. She turned the computer off and laid down. She couldn't face school today. She felt sick, physically ill. She had a temperature. But he could not have been serious. He could not put THAT on the alt.confessions. He could not be that cruel. She had nothing to tell him, was never going to write him back. But she had to know, she had to know what she didn't dare to know. She waited, slept, fought the fever, her demons, her sobs. The dark room had turned nightmare. Her prison into a real one. She finally worked up the courage to log on Tuesday night. She still had the fever, was weak, but had to make sure, make sure that he hadn't done what he had threatened. But he had. Under the subject of "Evelyn's Confession". Everything. Every message, including her slaughtered mother. For the world to see. She cried in disbelief. It could not be true. It simply must not be true. Not in a world where she lived. And if he had done this, then, of course, he would send copies to her mother. It was the end. A blackness descended on her. It really was the end. In a way she was relieved. There really was only one thing to do. She didn't really sleep, and she really wasn't awake. The darkness had not left her the following morning and stayed with her as she collected her books and coat and made off as if she was going to school. It was cold outside and the city was indistinct in a gray fog. She drove toward the docks. |
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"Good news, Mrs. Lassing. I think we may have a line on him. A friend of mine knows this guy at MIT who knows the sys admin." "He knows whom?" "The sys admin, system administrator, of unicorn. The computer in Finland." "I see. And he'll know who the Confessor is?" "He may, if he originates there, but I doubt that. But he will know what machine his messages are coming from." She understood that. Morris was calling from school, she could hear recess in the background, many students, lots of bustle, lockers slamming. They sure never had pay phones at her school. "Thank you Morris. Thank you very much. Let us know." "Sure will." He hung up. She replaced the handset and walked back into Evelyn's room. She picked up her messages again. That boy had made love to her daughter. She bristled at the thought: he had spoiled her, violated her, her own flesh and blood. And he knew that she knew. Steven had insisted. Morris has to know, has to read and see what the Confessor really had done. Otherwise, why should he put himself out to help us? She had agreed, very reluctantly. And now they had a strained relationship indeed, she and Morris. She read through the messages again and again felt the knives in her heart. Evelyn, her own daughter, ungrateful daughter, had hated her, with all her heart. Had hated her with a passion. Why? She tried to see, to put these strange and distasteful pieces together, but nothing fit. All she wanted for her was a good life, a good and proper life. Like her own. Like her own? Yes. Like her own. Only her own life wasn't very good now, was it? Was this the life she wanted to avoid, to end? Did I make her to do this? Did she hate me that much? Morris came over after dinner. "Good news and bad news." He seemed pleased with himself. He looked over at Steve, then back at her. "We know where he came from." "Where?" "Germany." "He's a German man?" "No, the bad news is that this is another relay. But we had kind of expected that." "Where to do go from here?" "I'm going to log in to the German machine. No one knows much about it." "I want to let him know." Morris disagreed again. Don't scare him off. She didn't care, she wanted him to know that they were getting closer. She looked at Morris with new eyes, with confidence. He would find him, she just knew. To: mrcool@fenster.audi.ge (The Confessor) |
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He had to add relays. Unicorn was supposed to be safe, damn it. Watertight. But they had found fenster. He could not sit down, could not calm himself. His tiny apartment, shrinking now with plates of half-eaten food, pizza boxes, beer, and Coca-Cola cans began to suffocate him. He stepped over clothes and underwear and papers out to the kitchen, back again and back to the kitchen. Calm down, you have to calm down. You can't think unless you calm down, you know that, you know you can't think unless you calm down. He had to add relays, but he couldn't. He'd covered that already. And he had to get to work. Can't miss work. Where's his uniform? Does it smell? He would have to do his laundry soon. Now, what if they did find him? Did it really matter, did it matter at all? How could they possibly tie him to the girl's suicide? He had never heard of such a thing. Could it be done legally? He had no idea. He looked at the watch again, he had to get going, he mustn't be late for work. But maybe it all was a ploy, maybe she wasn't dead at all? Could that be? Stop thinking! Stop! You have to get to work. Where's that uniform? Why does it smell so bad? |
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"Are you sure you're doing the right thing, here?" Steve, her wishy-washy husband, was having second thoughts. Well, let him. "Of course I am. He killed my daughter." "What are you going to do if you find him?" "I'll press charges, of course." "For what? For posting her messages on that bulletin board?" "No, for killing my daughter." "Dorothy. Please use some sense. That will never hold up in court. The police is not going to press charges of murder based on that." "You know very well what was in those messages. You read them as well as I did. You know that he drove her to do it by exposing her to everybody." "There's nothing illegal about that. He has not broken any laws." "He's hiding. He's hiding behind those aliases. He's a criminal." "There's no law against aliases either. We don't have a case against him, even if we find him." "He killed my daughter. Don't you understand. He killed my daughter." "Dorothy. You've read her messages too. I think we are as responsible for what happened as he is." "Why don't you ever say what you mean? You mean me, don't you. You mean that I killed her don't you? Why don't you have the guts to just come out and say it?" Steve didn't answer. He started to sob again. Shaking his head and sobbing. Then he left the room. Well, let him. She would do this on her own. She and Morris. It was him, the Confessor, not her, NOT her, that had killed her daughter. How dare Steve even think that she was responsible? How dare he? Steve came back into the room. He carried a piece of paper. "He's answered you," he said. To: elassing@mdnet.com (Evelyn Lassing)She turned pale, then pink with indignation. She swallowed several times and her eyes bulged slightly. The paper in her hands shook with her outrage. He was nothing but a cockroach, creeping and begging and biting at the same time. A slime, a worse than slime. He had to be crushed. And for him to accuse her! He had to be obliterated. To: mrcool@fenster.audi.ge (The Confessor) |
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He could not go to work. Could not. Could not conceive of work, could not drive. Had to stay here, stay inside. Stay safe. Had to stay pretend safe. His dad said it over and over: You should never have been put on this earth, he said. He meant his mom, especially when he was yelling. You should never, NEVER have been put on this earth, he yelled. And his mom, red with shame and inability, would make to leave. Don't you dare leave when I'm talking to you, he would yell, and I would slink out. Like a slime, afraid he would detect my slithering, like a worse than slime. And daddy had come back and found him. To: elassing@mdnet.com (Evelyn Lassing)"Groveling doesn't become you, Beth. Stop shivering and get me my coat. We must not be late for church. Bradford! You have one minute." He ran as hard as he could up the stairs to get his shoes, his church shoes and in his fever to comply he tore the lace. When daddy said minute, it meant sixty seconds, that's what he said it meant, and he'd better be ready or he would be carried to the car, ready or not, and sit in the back of church with only one shoe, or in his underwear once. Never again. He didn't find another lace, or cord, just slipped the shoe on and ran down. Undetected until he got in the car. "Your shoe is unlaced, Bradford!" "Yes, dad, I know." "Why?" "I broke it." "You sit in the back when we get there." "Yes, dad." "You'll answer for this when we get home." "Please, dad." He could hardly sit from his last spanking. "Groveling doesn't become you, son." It was him. He knew, knew that it was impossible, of course. But knew as fiercely that dad was back. He had never gone away, just watched him for a while without saying anything. And now he was back. Working his way back into his room, back into his life. Back from the grave. He read his note again. He knew he couldn't answer, he couldn't answer without groveling. Better say nothing. His next message came Sunday at four o'clock. To: wk@wk.berkeley.edu (The Confessor)Yes, daddy. Yes, I know. There was only one thing to do and he had to do it quickly. It wouldn't wait. Bradford Crodin gathered his printouts, his messages from Evelyn, his messages to her. All incriminating and real; all needed for confession. He found his only white shirt and even found a tie. He combed his hair as best he could and stepped out into the late Sunday. |
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The Sergeant was very polite. Felt sorry for the poor bastard. Maybe he should call the county. He looked at the papers on his desk, the many messages, and at the thin, dishevelled man across from him. "Mr. Crodin. You have done nothing. We cannot arrest you." "It's all there, officer." He pointed to the papers. "I've killed her. You see her name there, Evelyn. I've killed her." He shook his head. If he got here on his own, he could still manage. He would not call. "Mr. Crodin. I cannot arrest you. You have committed no crime. I am sorry. I cannot arrest you." "Please, you don't understand." "No, Mr. Crodin, you don't understand. This is no evidence. It's not very nice what you did, telling her secrets, I agree. But it's not a crime. We cannot charge you with that. Go home now. Rest. Clean yourself up a bit. Go home, Mr. Crodin. Take it easy." |
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To: elassing@mdnet.com (Evelyn Lassing)Steve brought her the message. She didn't know what to make out of it. She read it three times. "He's got us confused," she said. "Pardon." "He's got us confused with his father." Steve nodded. Morris arrived an hour later, all excitement. "Got him!" "You found another alias?" "No," Mrs. Lassing. "We found him." "You know who the Confessor is?" "Yes. His name is Bradford Crodin. He lives somewhere in Southern California." "How do you know. How did you find out?" asked Steve. "His last, or first actually, alias was at Berkeley. A student account. My MIT friend talked to the sys admin and after he told him what the guy had been up to, he got the forward-from address. It's a local Los Angeles internet account, coast.com. It's out of Van Nuys, California and serves only the LA basin. That's where he lives." "You're sure about his name?" she asked. "Yes." "Then we can tell the police." "Absolutely." She dictated the letter and Morris typed. |
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To: bcrodin@coast.com (Bradford Crodin) |
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Liz from Champion Burger rang the bell again. She could hear him move inside, but he did not answer the door. "Bradford!" She waited. "Bradford, are you all right?" Only the faint stirring inside. Like a rustling. "Bradford. Open up." She knocked on the door, then rang again. Nothing now. Something was definitely the matter. She found a pay phone downstairs and called 911. ____________ He heard the movement outside the door. Then the bell. This was it. A voice calling for him. It was Dorothy Lassing, her dad, had found him, come to get him, come to make him pay. He had not slept, had not eaten, had soiled himself. More words came through the door, indistinct, no meaning. He had placed the monitor on the floor and lay prostrate in front of it. Praying now that his soul would be saved. Then there was silence. Only the cars, the noise, the street outside. Then there were new movements outside, and a key in the lock. The day swung open and washed over the naked shivering on the floor. |
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The Baltimore police wanted nothing to do with the matter. The inspector shook his head at her insistence. No, Mrs. Lassing, there is nothing we can do. Nothing. He has not committed any crime. "He killed my daughter, officer." "He did not kill your daughter, Mrs. Lassing. He was in Los Angeles when she died, she was in Baltimore." "He was hiding behind all these aliases. He was displaying my daughter's most personal life, held it up to ridicule." "There no law against that, Mrs. Lassing." She didn't understand, although Steve seemed to. They left. He didn't answer messages anymore. As if he too had died. She insisted, and Steve arranged for a private investigator to find Bradford Crodin. She had to do something, something to avenge her daughter. His letter, snail-mail dated Friday April 12th, was postmarked Van Nuys, California.
It was a rage that broke through and squeezed two tears from her eyes. A rage and that deeper current of maybe guilt. They fell on the letter and seeped into the paper, smudging the words 'missing' and 'employer'. She dropped the letter and began crying in earnest. Steve left the room. € |
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Story copyright ©1996 Rowan Wolf Illustrations copyright ©1996 Romeo Esparrago |
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