Happiness & Homicide: A Picture Is Worth 1,000 Words

"William, I need you to take a look at this photo here. Well, this series of photos one at a time and tell me your thoughts on the photos. I'm going to record your reactions to them, like in past meetings with you. Would you be alright with us filming the interview this time? We want to get a clearer picture of your state of mind during the crime." "Where's Phil?" "He'll be along shortly. Do we have your permission?" "You didn't answer my question. Where is Phil? He's usually annoyingly early for these little chin wags." The man sighs and sets his bag down. "He doesn't want to see you today, Wil. He needs some time from the last encounter. I think you scared him." I light a cigarette. "Could you please not smoke?" "Could you please smoke my pole?" I take a long drag, then blow a cloud of smoke in his direction. "Those things will kill you, you know." He says, his tone highly irritated. I smirk. "So will a lot of the people in here, but it will be more painful than anything lung cancer would ever do. Lung cancer won't rape with a pencil sharper's razor blade taped to their cock. Lung cancer won't put broken glass in your food and mock and belittle you while you slowly suffocate on your own blood, bleeding internally. There are drugs to make you comfortable as you die from lung cancer, there's nothing that can make you comfortable being murdered slowly or even quickly in a high-security lockdown facility. I think I'll take my cancers with the cigarettes."
He loses some colour in his cheeks. "Anyway, I'm Peter, I'm just filling in with Phil for the day. I don't really know what he was trying to accomplish with you, seeing as you'll be incarcerated for life. Maybe he's trying to be a British John Douglas, but he's certainly not even in the ballpark." "I think baseball is for men who can't handle real contact sports." He fumbles with his papers. "I didn't-I don't...can you just do what you do with Phil?" I stub my cigarette out. "As you wish." I stand up and begin to pull my joggers down. "Jesus Christ!" I stop and look at Peter. "What? You said to do what I do with Phil." He puts his hands over his eyes. "Is that what you do with him? Have sexual relations with him? Does he-?" He falls silent and grips his face. I can't have him mocking Phil. That's my job. Phil is mine. I tie my joggers back up. "I'm just fucking with you. Now you said you wanted a little visual aid?" He mutters something under his breath. "What was that?" I lean in close to him. I know this kind of physical proximity is nerve-wracking for him. He's beginning to sweat through his cheap button down top. "I'd have thought they paid you, people, better." I crack open a Diet Coke. "What? And where did you get that? Certainly, you don't have privileges!" "I have a mini-fridge." I point over to my bed where there is a little fridge in the shape of a classic coke can. Peter turns a blotchy purple colour. "I'm going to report you to the head of this prison for this." "Why? It was a gift from his wife." He looks as if he's about 30 seconds away from having a stroke. "How do you know his wife?!" She got lost one day and found herself talking to me as I was chained out in the hall waiting to speak to him. I shared some kitchen and cooking tips with her that made her quite the source of gossip around her dinner circle. She sent me that as a thank you." I gesture over to the mini-fridge. Peter stares deeply into me. "What are you?" "A Gemini. A lover and a fighter. A joker, a toker a midnight smoker." He tears open the case and sets up the camera. "That's it. I've had enough of your bull. Rumpus time is over." 

He throws a collection of photos in front of me and they spread out all over the table. "Look here, you sick bastard, I want to know why you did this!" I shrug. "Who said I did it?" "The evidence!" "The evidence doesn't mean anything. I never said I did it. My DNA is not at the scene or on either of the bodies nor are my fingerprints. You only think I did it because of a loose correlation between the type of crimes committed there and by the ones I've been convicted of." "Are you trying to tell me that you didn't commit one of the crimes of which you were accused and convicted of?" His neck reddens to match his face. "Not at all. I was convicted of that traffic offence; you know the driving without a license and driving a stolen car." "Did you steal the car or are you going to tell me it fell out of the sky?" "Nah, if cars were falling from the sky the world would be a more dangerous place. I stole it. Needed to go out for a ride, clear me head you know?" "Why don't you have a driver's license?" "What? That's not in your little file?" I mock his Birmingham accent. "Stop that!" "Is everyone in Birmingham as thick as you?" I ask, still copying his accent. He doesn't say anything, but he's getting angrier. "Do you do this to Dr Robinson?" Now that one catches me. "Who?" "Phil. He has a surname. Didn't that thought occur to you? Phil Robertson. And he's not just law enforcement, he's got a PhD and he's doing a project on you, a kind of book I think." I always knew he had a surname, I never thought to ask him about it. It's not really important. He's writing a book on me? Why wouldn't he tell me that? "Not so smug and mighty are we now, Wil?" There is no way that he told me and I forgot. No, he told me this was to help him catch serial offenders and to sharpen the tools of law enforcement. I can't help but feel a little raped.

"Don't want to talk now?" I crush the soda can and stare at him. All of a sudden his arrogance is gone and he's a scared, unarmed little man locked in a cube with a serial killer and help is a long way away. I watch his unease turn to low-grade panic as I silently stare at him. "I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry!" I stand up quickly and he pulls away from me, ready to hit the emergency button. The best way to rattle Philly's little book is to give his colleague what he wants, communicate with him take away the thing that he thinks is special. I sit back down and collect the photos into a neat pile in front of me. Peter doesn't move, but I feel his eyes on me. His unease surrounds him like a cloud of stink. It's quite pathetic actually. No sense of adventure. I flip through the photos until I reach the middle of the stack. The memories begin to flood through me. I feel arousal stirring. I both love and loathe the sensation, the feelings. I hate the lack of control of it; I'm a slave to something bigger than me and that annoys me greatly. 

I inhale and my breath is tight. I can't let him see how this affects me. Well, why not? I'm already in prison for the rest of my natural life, might as well. It feels like I'm losing control of my body. I feel like jelly, yet I feel my blood pressure climbing. The animal in me wants to be released. I say animal, but I know that's not really what it is; animals would never behave like this. It feels as if I'm leaving my body. "What did you do to her, William?" His voice is a whisper, it annoys me, but it doesn't take away from my focus. She's twisted, thrown to the grown like a marionette I've grown bored with. Her hair and her strings, lay around her, basking in the wake of my destruction. Her life stains the carpet and hardwood around her. What a bitch that was to get out. I know, I've worked those kind of jobs before. I shiver. I wish I didn't, but I have no control over that. 

Peter watches me, his eyes moving from me to the recorder. I turn the photo over and keep looking. It's the same woman, only shot at a different angle. They've turned her now. The blood patterns on her t-shirt look like tye dye. I like that they've used both colour and black and grey for the photos. The contrast between the two allow for different viewpoints. I remember the way she screamed as I sliced through her torso. That wasn't the highlight of the evening though. A decent amount of time must have passed because Peter asks again, "What did you do to her, Wil?" I look up from the photos, look him dead in the eyes. "I took what was mine." He doesn't expect the answer, but I'm honest. "I took my respect back." I know this kind of honesty will throw him. I trace her image on the photo in front of me. "I mean, physically, what did you do." "Surely the autopsy told you that." He leans down. "You know we only found parts of her." "No, I wasn't put on trial for this one. I'd have remembered this one." "Then what's her name?" I shrug and look at the next photo, this time a man's lifeless puppet form stares up at me. "I don't know." "You just said you'd remember if you were tried for it. Were you lying then or are you lying now?" "I didn't lie at all. I'd remember her by her image, not her name. I never knew her name. Names don't matter in the long run, now do they. Most names strip people of their individuality and force them into little groups. Most names are unoriginal and annoying. I take no interest in them."

 Peter stares at me in disbelief. "You really are a piece of work." I smile at him. "Thank you." I stack the photos up into a neat pile. "I'm going to keep these." "Those are the property of Scotland Yard, you just can't take them!" "These are my work. I'd like them. I might have some other thoughts for Phil next time I see them. You know pictures are worth 1,000 words." Peter gaps. "Your work? These are your victims, you sick bastard! Do they have no value to you? They were human beings! They had-" I cut him off. "I took these photos. These were shot at up close and personal angles. You must have been given to these by dear Nick as he was the only one who knew about the secret hiding compartment under the floorboards. And they had pissed me off, yes. We all pay a price, Peter. Some prices just appear greater than others. Maybe you'll see what I mean one day. Until then, these are mind. And tell your paper pushing bosses that I'd like royalties on these photos. After all, artists are entitled, are they not?"