Beth Mallus
Dr. Horace Simms frowned while reading the file for the tenth time. He shook his head and dropped the offending paperwork on his antique oak desk. Taking a sip of coffee, he stared out the window. The weather was beautiful for a change, and he took a moment to enjoy the quiet natural views the sanitarium had to offer.
Long ago, he would have listened
to the radio. But after a decade of disco followed by several years of
synthesized trash, Dr. Simms realized that his days of enjoying what radio had
to offer were over. He was a Beatles fan in a
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at his office door.
“Come in,” he called back. He had not been looking forward to this.
At just 17 years old, Beth Mallus was one of his biggest concerns. Not because she was disruptive, but because she wasn’t.
She confidently entered the office. Meeting the Doctor’s gaze, she traversed the room and seated herself in the chair opposite him. Crossing her legs, she leaned back and smiled.
“Well, Beth. I’ve got good news
for you,” he said, without a hint of celebration. “The State of
“Thank you, that is good news!” she beamed.
“During your six months here, you have completely recovered from your earlier breakdown, and are ready to be released. At least, that’s what all your therapists say. And who am I to disagree?”
Beth kept her smile and shrugged.
“How do you feel about all this? Are you ready to face the real world again?”
“Absolutely.”
“And about the unpleasantness earlier? How do you feel about that, now?”
“It was wrong of me,” she said, adopting a serious expression. “I wasn’t in control of myself. I’d never done anything like it, and I never will again.”
“Well that’s exactly what everyone wants to hear,” he said sharply. “Isn’t it?”
She paused, then leaned forward. “Have I done something wrong, Dr. Simms?” She said, as if speaking to an old friend. “You seem like you’re mad at me,”
“Mad?” He said. “Hmm… No. Mad isn’t the right word. If there was a cobra in my office, I wouldn’t be mad at it, either.”
He picked up the file and browsed it while speaking. “I’ve been working here for over 30 years. I’ve seen all manner of psychotic breaks, dissociative disorders, personality problems, and outright shit-flinging lunacy. I’ve treated zealots, murderers, rapists, and even child molesters. It’s all part of my job. But in all that time, no one has ever scared the shit out of me more than you.”
“Why would you feel that way?” She asked, widening her eyes. Then, she furrowed her brow. “Ah, it’s because I killed Jamal Wakes, right?”
Dr. Simms sighed. “Murderers are nothing new here. This is a sanitarium for the criminally insane. And your case was completely understandable. You shot the man who raped you. Right there on the first day of his trial, in full view of everyone. No attempt to hide your action. No premeditation. You just grabbed the bailiff’s sidearm and opened fire.
“His trial was going to be a formality. According to the evidence, including that new DNA technique, he was obviously guilty. Some folks thought you did everyone a favor.
“Nobody wants to put a rape victim in jail for killing her rapist. And certainly not when she’s just a 16 year old girl. And, it has to be said, he was black and you’re white. No matter how advanced our society claims to be, that still played a factor, I’m sure.
“So that’s how you ended up here. And in only six months, you’re ready to be released. You and I are the only ones who know you’re just as dangerous as you’ve ever been.”
“What?” She asked.
“I’ve been doing this a long time, Beth. I’m pretty good at it. Even though you snowed the other doctors who worked with you, I know what you really are.”
“Oh?” She narrowed her eyes.
“You’re a sociopath. Well, technically a psychopath. Officially we haven’t used the word ‘sociopath’ for a while, but I prefer it. You have no conscience. No morals. No ability to empathize with others. I can see it in you.”
“That’s just-“ Beth began.
“You’re a very high functioning sociopath,” Dr. Simms interrupted. “In fact, you may be the highest functioning sociopath I’ve ever even heard of. Most people like you are so dangerously insane it’s obvious right away, or so narcissistic it’s disturbing to even casual observers. But not you. You blend in perfectly.
“You’re amazing and terrifying at the same time. You’re smart enough to emulate normal human behavior. But you could easily kill a baby without a twinge of guilt. Hell, you don’t even know what guilt is. You’ve never felt it your whole life.”
Beth remained silent.
“You’re wondering how I knew. Not because you’re embarrassed. You don’t understand embarrassment. That would require you to care what other people think. You just want to know where you slipped up. Well, don’t worry. It was a thousand little things. You fooled the rest of the staff here, rest assured.”
He stared at her, awaiting a response.
She shrugged. “What do you want from me?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “There’s nothing I can do. The state has already released you. As of noon today, you’re free.”
She regarded him for some time, a half smile frozen on her face. He remained silent and returned a nonplussed expression.
He pleasant demeanor disappeared and was replaced with one of mild annoyance. “You wouldn’t be going through all this drama if you didn’t want something. Tell me what you want.” she said.
“There we go,” he smiled. “That’s the real you. To you, other people are just very complicated machines. And, like any machines, they can be controlled when properly operated. You want to know the quickest way to make me leave you alone.”
“Yes,” she confirmed. “That’s what I want.”
He leaned back. “All right then. So now we’re negotiating. That’s step one.”
She stared at him with frighteningly dispassionate eyes.
“Here’s what I want,” he began. “I want the whole story. The real story of you and Jamal Wakes. Everything that led to you killing him.
“And don’t tell me it was a sudden moment of rage. That’s bullshit. That kind of rage comes from victimization. To feel victimized, you have to feel like the victimizer got away with something and is happy about it. And that requires you to put yourself in his shoes. That’s empathy. And you, Beth, don’t have that ability.”
She pondered this.
After a while, she finally spoke. “Why should I tell you anything? I can just sit here for three hours and then leave.”
“You’re unique,” he responded, ready for this. “Incredibly so. I’ve never heard of anyone like you, even in psychiatric medical journals. Most sociopaths aren’t able to function anywhere near your level. You are an anomaly and could be incredibly useful to the whole science. I might be able to take what I learn from interviewing you and help thousands.”
“I don’t care.” She responded.
“Yes, I know,” he said. “I have a proposition for you. From what I hear, you’re very interested in medicine. You’re a straight-A student, and you’ve applied to numerous pre-med colleges. Do you want to be a doctor some day, Beth?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because I can help.”
“Oh?”
He smiled. Yes, he had her now. “So it’s true, then? You want to be a doctor.”
She nodded.
“I went to Harvard Medical School,” Dr. Simms said, “I’m on their Alumni board. I have some pull. If you get good grades in pre-med, I can get you in to Harvard, or any med school you want. If you tell me what I want to know.”
Beth looked back at him. “Hmm.” She said. “Well…”
I’ll start with my mother.
Rather than listen to the many dire warnings from her friends and family, my mother assumed love would conquer all. She followed her dreams (and my father) to Chicago. He got her pregnant and left her for another woman.
So I grew up poor.
She raised me on her own, on minimal salary. For 16 years, she moved from job to job, never at one place more than two years. A waitress here, a receptionist there, that sort of thing. The whole time, she never considered getting an education to better her position. So we lived on the South Side, barely able to afford rent for a shithole apartment in a crime-ridden neighborhood.
When I was seven, there was a drive-by right outside my building. They’d used an Uzi, nearly cutting the victim in half. I got my first look at the inside of a person and couldn’t look away! An amazing universe existed inside every human body! I wanted to know more.
I set my sights on becoming a doctor. That singular obsession is why I’m straight-A student. It’s why I studied biology, chemistry, and physiology at the library after school. It’s why I stole medical journals from doctor’s offices so I could read them and learn more. And it’s why I killed a man.
The whole Jamal Wakes thing began about a year ago, when I was 16.
“I have cancer,” my mother said, over the sounds of the neighbor’s TV and the other neighbor’s rap music. Both were clearly audible through the paper-thin walls of the tiny apartment.
“What kind?” I asked.
“It’s my liver,” she said, with a soft smile. “I’m not going to be around much longer.”
“Is it a Hepatocellular carcinoma?” I asked, intrigued. “Probably not a Hepatoblastoma, right? That’s rare in adults.”
“You’ve always been different,” She sighed, stroking my cheek. “I know that. And this time it’s kind of nice. I don’t have to worry about your pain or anguish. Just my own.”
“Ok,” I said. “How long have you got?”
“Less than a year.” She said.
“Ok,” I said.
She stood up and trudged to her bedroom. She cried a bit, but eventually quieted down.
Her cancer came at an inconvenient time; she was only going to last till I was 17. How would I survive until college? For that matter, how would I afford college?
No immediate solution came to mind. If it were easy to escape poverty, everyone would do it. Of course, I’m not everyone. I’m not weighed down by arbitrary morals invented by financially comfortable people. I don’t have the oppressive limitation of a conscience.
About a week later, the answer landed in my lap.
Even as a kid I knew I was different. I had to deliberately make a best friend so people would think I was normal. That’s where Lisha came in. She was perfect for a girl like me. In the ten years we’d been “buddies” she never once suspected how devoid of ethics I was. She was too self-absorbed, and way too stupid.
She was overtly selfish and I really respected that. I pretended to care about people. She didn’t even bother. It was great. Just by standing next to her, I was the nice girl. And with her being black, we were interracial pals; an inspiration to everyone.
She’d only befriended me to piss off her mother, who hated white people. Somewhere along the way, that was forgotten and we ended up genuine friends. As for me, I’m truly not racist. Before you can value one race over another, you have to think people have value at all.
“Beth, just look… at this!” She demanded as we walked home from school.
She pulled her shirt open enough to reveal a diamond necklace. No doubt another gift from her new boyfriend.
“Jamal gave it to me!” She declared. “Isn’t it to die for!?”
“Nice,” I said, wondering how much it would sell for. “Jamal doesn’t mind that you’re only fifteen?”
“Doesn’t keep him from fucking me, if that’s what you mean,” she giggled. “He gets what he wants.”
“He’s a drug dealer, Lisha,” I said, playing the role of concerned friend, “He’s dangerous.”
“Pfft,” she said, fingering her new diamond, “He’s got like 4 tough guys with him at all times. And when I’m with him, they’ll protect me, too. I’m safer around him than I am at home.”
“He needs those guys around cause other drug dealers want to kill him,” I warned. “You’re gonna die in a drive-by some day.”
“Want to go to the mall?” She asked. “The new Huey Lewis album is out! My treat! Jamal gave me some spending money!” With that, she pulled out a large wad of bills. It must have been at least $500.
“Sure!” I said, dragging my eyes off the money to meet her happy expression with one of my own.
“Oh right,” she said to herself and shoved half of the bills down the front of her skirt.
Seeing my quizzical look, she said “Always keep half your money in a safe place. Somewhere nobody else knows about.”
“Your panties aren’t a place nobody knows about.” I said facetiously. “You get more hands up your dress than a Muppet,” I laughed.
“Ah!” she slapped my arm with exaggerated fake ire. “Like you can talk?!”
It was a reasonable comeback. I was just as slutty.
“Besides,” she continued, “I’m done boning around. I’m all Jamal’s now. If he caught me fucking another guy he’d kill us both.”
I shrugged. She wasn’t exaggerating. Jamal was a mid-level drug pusher that catered to teen clientele. Mostly he dealt meth, but he could get anything you wanted. His territory included high schools all over the South Side. The occasional 15 year old girlfriend was a fringe benefit to his line of work, and he tended to be very possessive of things he considered his.
She continued to prattle on about Jamal for the next 15 minutes as we headed toward the Metro stop. Lisha loved talking about herself or her man. Over the years I had learned to tune her out and concentrate on my own thoughts.
“What are you doing this weekend?” I heard her ask.
“Hmm?” I said. “Nothing. Why?”
“Want to go clubbing? We can totally get in to like seven clubs I can think of. I know guys there who owe me!”
“Aren’t you with Jamal on weekends? At his drug kingpin kind of place? Getting fucked by him while his bodyguards listen through the door?”
“Usually, yeah. But not this weekend. He’s out of town to visit his brother.”
“Didn’t even know he had a brother,” I said.
“Oh sure. They’re, like, total opposites. Ty (that’s his brother) is as straight as they come. He has a nice house in Aurora, a wife, 3 kids, the works. Total success story, ya know?
“Anyway, Jamal’s real proud of him. He goes and visits him every month for the weekend. So that leaves me free to hang out with my best bitch.”
“Cool!” I said. “I’m up for some clubbing!”
“Awesome!” she said.
Did you notice my conversation with Lisha gave me the way to pay for college?
No?
Well, I have an unfair advantage. I know Lisha and you don’t.
She’s never had an original thought in her life. She’s one of those people who relies on others to do her thinking for her. At some level, she knows that, so she gets strong-willed boyfriends who will tell her what to do.
Out of nowhere, she suddenly decided to store half her money in a safe place? That’s not her. She doesn’t plan ahead.
At some moment of genuine concern for her, Jamal must have given her that advice. It made perfect sense. He’s exactly the sort of person who should put some money away and not tell anyone about it. Not even his closest confidants. In his business, he can’t trust anyone.
He certainly can’t use a bank. He might get arrested someday, and the state would seize his accounts as drug money. Same problem goes for safe deposit boxes. It has to be cash, and it has to be hidden somewhere only he knows about.
People think they’re complex, unpredictable beings. To me, they’re all depressingly predictable. And pretty much interchangeable.
Jamal must have had a lot of money stashed away. And it was probably stored at his brother’s house. That house would be like another universe to him. A location and lifestyle so foreign to his own that it may as well be Mars. It’s the furthest, most disconnected place he has regular access to.
And the money! It must have been a lot of money! All of it untraceable cash! Not only that, but nobody other than Jamal even knew it existed, let alone where it was.
How could I pass up an opportunity like that?
I could look up “Ty Wakes” in the Aurora phone book to find out where he lived. That was easy enough. But houses are big with lots of stuff in them. Jamal could have hidden the money anywhere.
I could search the house slowly over time. I would need a reliable and undetectable way to repeatedly break in, then a schedule of exactly what to search on which session. Also, I would have to carefully put everything back where I found it. It would probably take a whole lot of visits.
Even then, I might not find it. It was all speculation on my part. There might not be a stash at all. Or, if there was, it might not be at his brother’s house. I could end up getting caught for burglary while searching for something that doesn’t even exist.
So instead I came up with a simpler solution. I wouldn’t need to find the stash at all, or even confirm its existence. Jamal would do all that for me.
I’d miss out on clubbing with Lisha. I needed to catch Jamal at his brother’s house. She’d get over it.
Being poor and living in a city with great public transit, I didn’t have a car. But I knew a guy who did. And a teenage boy will do anything to get laid. He gladly lent me the car. And before you get all morally outraged, remember girls manipulate boys with sex all the time. And usually, they just hint that sex might be possible. I actually put out. And, truth be told, it was pretty good. Win-win.
After picking up some supplies, I drove out to Aurora. I didn’t have a license, but the odds of getting pulled over during the half-hour trip were slim. Finding Ty Wakes’ address at a gas station phone book, I parked down the street from his house.
Lisha was right. Ty really had gotten out of the ghetto and into a nice neighborhood. Each house had a large lot, a lawn, and kids toys out front. Unlike the constant noise of Chicago, it was so quiet I could hear the TVs in the summer night. It was a small slice of paradise and a taste of what my life would be like if I got a medical degree.
I came late in the evening, so I didn’t have long to wait. Within an hour of my arrival, the Wakes family went to bed. I had worried that Jamal, more accustomed to a different lifestyle, might stay up much later, but he went to sleep with the rest of the family. The last of the lights in the house shut off around 11pm.
The gasoline can was unexpectedly heavy. It had a full 5 gallons in it, and I’m not a very strong girl. Still, I managed to lug it down the block to the house. Walking to the back where I wouldn’t be seen, I set the sloshing can down to catch my breath.
The Wakes’ house was a large, two-story suburban dream with a basement. And, like most basements, it had little windows at ground level with weak latches. I was able to open the window simply by pushing it inward to deform it away from the clasp.
Once inside the junk-filled basement, I spread gasoline over every surface I could find, as well as the stairs. The laundry machines were located down there, along with a hamper of dirty clothes. This came in handy, as the clothes soaked up plenty of the gas and I put them strategically near major beams and supports.
Throwing a lit match in, I ran from the house as fast as I could. As I sprinted away, I saw the orange light of the growing conflagration dancing across the trees and sidewalk. I kept running. There was no time to stop and admire my work.
Safely back at the car, I got in and hunkered low. It wouldn’t be long before people came out of their houses to see the commotion and I couldn’t let myself be seen. Peeking over the dashboard, I watched as the fire rapidly overtook the house. It worked better than I thought it would. Turns out it’s pretty easy to burn down a house.
Once the first floor was ablaze, the fire alarms inside went off. Shortly afterward, Ty, his wife, and two of their children rushed outside. In their pajamas and nightgowns, the kids looked at the spectacle of their burning home.
Jamal came out moments later, clad only in his boxers, carrying a backpack.
No time for clothes, but he got the backpack! I can’t tell you how exciting that was! The thrill surged through me. I wanted to pound the roof of my car and shout in victory. I’d made a lot of assumptions along the way, and they were all true! Holy crap! There really was a stash!
The adults looked around frantically for a moment, then Ty rushed back in to the burning building. After a few tense moments, he emerged again with their youngest child. The family huddled together, all of them safe and unharmed, though the wife continued to cry hysterically.
I breathed a sigh of relief. If someone had died in the fire, it would have brought the police, and that would have ruined my plan. Close one.
The neighborhood came alive with people marveling at the fire. They crowded around the Wakes family, asking the same questions over and over, confirming that they were ok, and all the other things good neighbors do in a crisis.
It only took 12 minutes for the first fire engine to arrive. The next two came shortly thereafter. They put out the fire within half an hour, then spent the next hour soaking the charred remains. The house was ruined, though the outer structure stood intact. Blackened and sooty, but intact.
Before leaving, they cordoned off the area with yellow tape. Looks like they were planning an arson investigation. That was to be expected. I didn’t make any effort to hide what I’d done.
Ty’s family went off with one of their neighbors, presumably to stay the night. Jamal, now clad in some borrowed clothes, waited out front of the smoldering remains. No sense in him taking up a neighbor’s hospitality, I guess. He’d just go home. No doubt someone had called his bodyguards to come get him.
Eventually, the excitement died down, everyone went back to bed, and Jamal sat alone on the curb.
This may look like a golden opportunity, but it wasn’t. What could I do? There’s a good chance he was armed. And even if he wasn’t, what then? I had no plans to involve him in the theft at all. I would simply wait until the money was unattended, then steal it.
All I had to do was follow that backpack.
I’m very patient. I always have been. I sat in the car for quite a while watching Jamal and made plans within plans. What would I do with the money if it was less than $10,000? What if it were between $10,000 and $50,000. That sort of thing. Time alone with my thoughts was always pleasant. I didn’t have to put on any acts for people.
Finally, after an hour of waiting, I saw headlights coming down the quiet street. The car stopped in front of the Wakes house and Jamal got in the passenger side. His retinue of bodyguards had come to get him, of course. They drove off into the night.
The backpack. It was the only thing in the universe as far as I was concerned. Until it came out of the car, I would follow Jamal and company to the ends of the earth. I waited until they were out of view and started my pursuit. Within Aurora, it was easy to remain unnoticed. I knew they’d be going to the freeway. Once on the freeway, I stayed as far back as I could without losing track of them. As expected, they returned to Chicago.
When we passed the I-90 interchange, I knew we weren’t headed to Jamal’s place. I didn’t have to wonder for long, though. They got off at Wacker and headed toward Canal.
“Oh!” I exclaimed out loud. It was a good idea! Jamal was pretty sharp. He was going to Union Station. There, he could put the stash in a locker. Sort of a poor man’s anonymous safe-deposit box. Not a viable long-term solution, but something he could do right now until he came up with a better plan.
His car stopped right in front of the station. He hopped out and strode purposefully in to the main concourse. His bodyguards were going to wait with the car. I didn’t have the luxury of a driver, so I simply parked and followed him in. Parking directly in front of Union Station will get you towed within 10 minutes, but I didn’t care. It wasn’t my car and it had served its purpose.
Keeping out of view, I followed him into the station. I had to stay well back; it was past midnight and there were not a lot of people around. As I expected, he bee-lined to the lockers. I realized if I wanted to know which locker he put it in, I would have to get considerably closer. But that was a risk. He might see me.
I had to chance it. Closing in, I watched as he picked a locker and deposited quarters into the slot. Putting the backpack in, he closed the locker and put the key in his pocket. He walked off, back toward his waiting car.
Ok. This was something I could work with. The backpack was in a locker and he was no longer around to protect it. In a pinch, I could crowbar the locker open, snatch the bag, and run out before the transit cops caught me. But I was sure I could come up with something less risky than that.
I peered at the locker and started coming up with a better plan. Around the time I’d figured out how to get in, I heard the absolute last thing I wanted to hear.
“Beth, right?” came Jamal’s voice from behind me.
I spun around. Maintaining my composure, I smiled and said “Yeah! You’re Jamal, right? Lisha’s boyfriend? We’ve met before.”
“Yeah. Hey,” he said. “Uh, you need a ride somewhere?”
Ok, so he didn’t know what I was up to. He just happened to see me, and thought he’d say hi. Over his shoulder I saw the reason for my miscalculation: The men’s room. He had a piss before going back to the car, and that brought him right on a path to see me. Damn it!
“Wow!” I said. “I see why Lisha’s in to you. You’re, like, really muscular.” I giggled.
He smiled back. “Work out every day.”
“It shows!” I said, stroking his bicep. “Um…” I said, coquettishly not meeting his gaze. “You know, Lisha and I are, like, real good friends. We share, like, everything. Really, everything.”
I kept rubbing his bicep, then moved on to rubbing both arms.
He smiled and put his hands on my hips.
“You know,” I said. “I think maybe I need some pot. Would it be ok if I dropped by your place later to buy some?” I looked up at him and gently bit my lower lip.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’d be just fine. But I gotta’ go catch up with my boys now.”
“Mm-hmm,” I smiled, and watched him leave.
As soon as he was out of sight I hissed “Shit! Shit, shit, shit!”
Pacing wildly I seethed to myself for several minutes before I calmed myself.
Finally, I plopped down on a large expansive bench. I really had to think this one through. This was a horrible complication. What was initially going to be a simple theft was blossoming into a much larger risk.
All along, I wasn’t particularly worried about Jamal. I figured I’d steal his money and that would be that. He’d never tie it back to me. He might blame one of his henchmen or Lisha or maybe his brother. But how could he blame some girl he’d only met a few times who happened to be a friend of his girlfriend?
Now things were different. He’d seen me immediately after stashing it away. If it disappeared now, he’d definitely suspect me. He’d be an idiot not to. And Jamal was not the forgiving sort. He’d chase me forever, and kill me when he caught up.
After an hour of pondering, I had my solution. It scared the shit out of me. But I had to do it; I’d never get another chance.
I would have to kill Jamal. And I knew how to do it.
I felt strange. A feeling I’d never felt. I had a reluctance to kill him, but no rational reason behind it. It was risky, sure. If it went wrong, I’d be killed by his bodyguards or spend the rest of my life in jail. But the feeling wasn’t caution. It was… I don’t know what the hell it was. But I overcame it.
I went to the locker where he had put the backpack and checked the number. It was locker number 38. Huge stroke of luck.
Fishing a few quarters out of my pocket, I got locker number 33. Leaving it empty, I took the key with me and headed out.
That night I couldn’t sleep. I was too amped up. I lay in bed, awake, until the dawn. I may have drowsed off a few times, but real sleep never came to me. I tend to get like that when I’m in the middle of something. Once 7am rolled around, I showered, dressed, and caught the Metro.
Chicago has plenty of jewelers. Hell, it has a whole diamond district. But I didn’t want a jeweler. I needed someone with less repute. Little known fact: Many pawn shops will do engraving. They have lots of jewelry, and people often want engravings with their purchase.
Even then, asking a pawnbroker to engrave an “8” over a “3” on a clearly labeled Union Station locker key is a bit dicey.
I figured the easiest way to gauge sleaziness was to check the shop for car radios. The more they had for sale, the more flexible they must be. Over the course of the morning, I went to dozens of pawn shops and only found four with enough car radios to risk asking for the engraving. The first three turned me down. But the fourth did it for an additional fee.
That’s one of the many advantages I have over other people. I don’t really feel a sense of rejection. I’m not afraid to ask for something I want. What are these pawn shops going to do? Call Union Station and warn them? Not likely. They don’t give a crap. So I had nothing to lose and eventually found one that did what I wanted.
By noon, I was striding in to Union Station with a key for locker number 38. I’d rubbed motor oil into the new engraving to make it look a little older. It worked like a charm.
In case anyone was watching, I went to locker 38 and tried the key. Naturally it didn’t work. But I spent some time trying to open it anyway, just for show. Then, after a few minutes of failure, I set off toward the facilities office in a huff.
People who work for Chicago Metro don’t give a shit about anything. They just want you to go away. The facilities desk was manned by a corpulent woman. I could tell from the dead expression in her eyes that she would be no problem.
“I, like, can’t get in to my locker,” I said accusingly in my “entitled girl” voice. It was a calculated risk. The goal was to make her want to be rid of me as soon as possible. It could backfire if she decided to be deliberately obstructive.
“What seems to be the problem miss,” she said emotionlessly, barely able to summon up the energy to look me in the eyes.
“I put my backpack in a locker, and now this key, like, totally doesn’t work,” I said with a snotty sneer. “And I’ve got my history project in it and me and Shirley Madison spent, like, forever working on it and it’s totally due tomorrow.”
“Just a minute miss and I’ll call maintenance to help you,” she emitted.
I snorted and crossed my arms. “You people should, like, totally check these keys or something every now and then.”
“Very sorry miss the maintenance man will be here shortly feel free to have a seat over there,” She droned.
A few minutes later, a bedraggled man arrived in his overalls. After a brief conversation with the fat woman, he gestured for me to follow. He took my key, looked at it, and led me to locker 38.
Trying it out, he said “Don’t work.”
“Duh!” I said, as obnoxiously as I could.
“Lemme try the master,” he mumbled, producing a large key ring with scores of keys dangling from it. Selecting one, he slotted it into locker 38 and opened it. Blocking my view of the locker with his body, he asked “Can ya tell me what’s in here please, miss?”
“It’s, like, my backpack. It’s black with, like, a blue stripe on the back.”
He stood to the side. “There you go, miss.”
There it was, right where Jamal had left it.
Pulling it out of the locker while trying to hide my excitement, I said “Like, thanks. You saved my life.”
Casually putting the backpack on, I walked out like any other school student.
Walking down Canal street, I stopped in at a Burger King. I couldn’t wait to look at my spoils. I opened the backpack and peeked in.
Cash, cash, cash!
Quickly closing it again, I went home. There’d be plenty of time to count it later in private.
Sitting on my bed, I stared at the backpack. My future was in there, and it was time to take a look. Unzipping it, I carefully began pulling the contents out on to my bed. Inside was a large Ziploc full of crystal meth and several rolls of bills. A lot of bills.
Setting the meth aside, I unrolled the bills and got to counting. Most of them were hundreds, with a few twenties thrown in here and there. No real pattern. I giggled as the count rose higher and higher.
In the end, I had $84,300. More than I’d dared hope!
I knew how to legitimize it. I’d deposit it bit by bit over the coming years, claiming it was cash tips from escorting. The IRS doesn’t care if you’re a whore, so long as you’re a whore who pays taxes. I’d have to pay on the order of 40%, so I’d be looking at a gain of just over $50,000. Not enough to pay for all of a medical degree, but definitely enough to get me through pre-med.
I lay back on my bed, surrounded by money. I giggled and fist-pumped the air and rolled around in my newfound wealth. I allowed myself a few minutes of such celebration before I got back to the task at hand.
Taking a moment to regain my composure, I doffed my clothes and searched my closet. I needed a suitably slutty outfit.
I settled on a baggy, off the shoulder shirt a-la Flashdance, and a tight miniskirt. A pair of high-top sneakers added a touch of tomboy to the ensemble.
After quickly fixing up my hair in the mirror, I headed out.
Forty minutes and two trains later, I was in Jamal’s world. It was even worse than the slum I lived in. His house stood on a street strewn with trash, needles, and the homeless. Every house on the block had barred windows, and obnoxious rap music emanated from at least 4 unique sources.
I waited in the junk strewn living room with two of his bodyguards. They played Super Mario Brothers and smoked pot while two other thugs in the hallway discussed the benefits “Bonin’ bitches”.
Finally, Jamal made an appearance.
“Hey,” he said. “Beth, right?”
I arched my back a bit and smiled at him. “Yup!”
“You wanted some pot, right?”
I nodded. “Mm-hmm!” Walking up to him, I added. “Could we maybe talk about it in private?”
He smiled at me. “Yeah, sure. How ‘bout my bedroom? No one in there right now.”
He really was a good looking man. I have to admit it. Also, he had a lot of money and was the quintessential “Alpha Male”. I wasn’t the first woman the throw myself at him. He handled it smoothly and got me to the bedroom without fanfare.
As soon as he closed the door, I kissed him firmly on the lips. No need for prelude, and most men like a sexually aggressive woman.
I was worried he might not go for it. After all, he was dating Lisha, my best friend. Nailing me would be the most profound of betrayals. But fortunately, he was just as ruled by his dick as all the other boys I’d known. He didn’t even hesitate. He wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me in.
I’ll spare you the details. But, to be fair, I’ll admit it wasn’t bad. I always like sex, and this was no exception. However, this time I had to hide my climaxes. I couldn’t let him know I was having a good time, or the next part wouldn’t work.
As he got dressed, I sat on the bed and glared at him.
I took a deep breath. It was Go Time.
“You know,” I said in a level tone. “Lisha always goes on and on about how great you are in bed.”
“Heh,” he said, pulling a grungy T-shirt over his head. “Now you know first hand.”
Putting my shirt back on, I said “Yeah. Now I know she’s a fuckin’ liar.”
“Huh?”
I pulled my miniskirt on. “With all the ass you get, I thought you’d be a good lay. But god, what is wrong with you?”
“What the fuck you talkin’ about?” He shot back.
I rolled my eyes. “Oh puh-lease. I’ve deflowered 14 year old boys more skilled than you. You’re like a god damned visit to the gynecologist.”
He clinched his fists. “You best be watchin’ your mouth, bitch!”
“Or what?” I snorted. “You’re not even man enough to fuck; I’m not afraid of you.”
He stormed up and grabbed me by the shoulders. Spinning me to face him, he glared at me with murder in his eyes.
“What?” I said. “You think I’m not being fair? Are you one of those guys who needs to be coddled and have his ego stroked?”
Then I laughed in his face. “God damn. You’re basically a chick. Maybe you should try fucking dudes. Might like it better.”
“Shut yer whore mouth!”
“And why’s your dick so small!?” I shouted. “It’s the one thing you niggers are supposed to be good for!”
And that’s when he punched me. I knew it was coming, but wow, he was one strong man. He got me right in the face and knocked me senseless. But I kept conscious. I had one last thing to do.
Charging him, I clawed at his face. Caught off-guard by my sudden transformation from victim to attacker, Jamal fell back and put his arms up defensively. For a few moments, out of sheer brazenness, I had the advantage.
Then he remembered he was almost double my weight. With a sweep from his burly arm, he flung me across the room.
I slammed in to the dresser, then crumpled to the floor. Gasping for breath, I crawled out of the room, then stood and ran.
As I fled the house, Jamal yelled from the doorway “You better run, bitch!” And he was right. I ran like the wind.
I ran to the nearest phone booth and called 9-1-1.
It’s not the sort of thing Gloria Steinem wants you to know, but fake rape accusations happen all the time. It’s great way to ruin a man’s life. Even if he’s exonerated, there’s a shadow over him forever. Problem is, those women are usually stupid and don’t do it right. The justice system is pretty good at figuring out if someone’s guilty.
The first thing police look at is how long it took to report. If a woman claims she was raped three weeks ago, they are instantly suspicious. Actual rape victims usually report it right away.
The next thing they want is physical evidence. That means a trip to the hospital for a Rape Kit. Rapists rarely have the courtesy to use condoms, so genetic material can be collected from the victim. The new science of DNA testing can positively identify the rapist if you have his DNA to compare to.
Did I mention Jamal and I didn’t use a condom?
I made sure to be crying hysterically when the police arrived. They took one look at my bloody face and rushed me to the hospital. The doctors saw to my injuries from Jamal’s beat-down, then administered a Rape Kit. It took most of the night.
Once back at the police station, I told them my story. Lies, of course.
I heard about Jamal from my friend Lisha and knew he was a drug dealer. My beloved mother is undergoing chemotherapy and marijuana is the only thing that could make her feel better. Knowing I probably shouldn’t, I took the risk and went to his house to buy some. He raped me. I fought back as best I could but he was just too strong.
What? Well yes, I suppose that is his skin under my fingernails and he’ll have scratches on his face when you go talk to him.
He was in jail before dawn.
Getting him arrested served two critical purposes. First off, he was unable to check up on his money stash. His stash was known only to him, no one else. He wouldn’t dare send anyone to check up on it. He needed to do it personally, and he couldn’t while in jail.
Secondly, it got him away from his bodyguards. I could have killed him while we were having sex. Easily. But what good would that do me? His thugs would kill me. If I escaped the house, they’d come to my school or home and kill me. If I went on the run, they’d tell the police and I’d be wanted. Hard to get a medical degree that way.
I didn’t attend Jamal’s arraignment. It was too soon; I needed time to prepare. My first courtroom visit had to be the one where I shot him. It wouldn’t make sense if I lost sanity and killed him the second time I saw him after the rape.
He was held without bail. That was a relief. If he wasn’t, I’d have to go in to hiding until the trial. (I’m sure he was understandably upset with me). Fortunately, a multiple drug offender facing life imprisonment for rape is considered a “flight risk.”
It would be a couple of weeks at least before his trial began. I had that long to practice.
I needed a gun. But not to kill Jamal with. Chicago courthouses have metal detectors. I could probably figure out a way around them, but then the murder would be premeditated. I needed it to be a sudden act of rage.
I needed the gun for practice.
In my neighborhood, getting a gun was easy. I didn’t want to waste my newly found money, so I traded the other little present from Jamal’s stash: a big bag of meth. It netted me a 9mm Beretta 92F pistol.
I got a belt, holster, and snap-caps from an Army surplus store.
Guns aren’t nearly as loud in real life as they are in movies. I was able to practice in the boiler room of my building without anyone hearing. Or, if they heard, they didn’t do anything about it. I practiced in the daytime, when things were noisiest and fewer people were home.
In the evenings, I drilled the other skill I would need.
Normally, I would never go to Washington park in the middle of the night. It was a dangerous place even in daytime. But, I needed a wide open place to practice. And I needed a tree.
Wrapping the belt around the tree, I holstered the gun with its safety on, then snapped the flap shut. Then I took a few steps back and turned to face it.
Walking casually by the tree, I suddenly lunged at it. Reaching around to the far side, I unsnapped the holster and yanked the gun out. Then, flicking the safety off as I brought my hands together, I racked the slide. Quickly aiming at a nearby park bench, I pulled the trigger.
Naturally, the gun wasn’t loaded with real bullets. That’s what the snap-caps were for.
I practiced the maneuver for at least an hour every night.
After 19 days, Jamal’s trial finally began. Jury selection in the racially charged case had taken longer than usual. It was just as well. Eager though I was to get over with, I was grateful for the extra practice.
My mother and I sat in the front row. Victims got first choice of seats. Across the aisle, Ty Wakes and his wife sat uncomfortably. They opted against bringing the kids to Uncle Jamal’s rape trial.
As for Jamal, nicely dressed in a suit and tie, he sat at the defendant’s table with his public defender. He chatted casually with his attorney and never turned to look at me.
The bailiff was a burly man, slightly overweight. Too young to be a former police officer. Probably wanted a career in law enforcement but couldn’t make the grade. I vaguely wondered if he had a genuine desire to do good, or simply craved the authority that went with a badge.
“All rise!” he called out, as the judge entered the room. Everyone stood in accordance with the order as the elderly judge made his way to the bench.
“Be seated!”
My mother took my hand. She was being supportive, I guess. Four days had passed since her last round of chemo, so she was in relatively good shape.
“This court is now in session,” the bailiff announced, “the Honorable Judge Harold Weston presiding.” Then, striding across the room, he took up position next to the judge’s bench.
“We are here today,” the judge began, “to hear the People vs. Jamal Wakes on the charges of Assault in the First Degree and Rape in the Second Degree. The defendant has pled Not Guilty. Prosecution may proceed with their opening statement.”
The prosecutor stood. “Thank you, Your Honor,” He walked around his table to face the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I barely need to make an opening statement, or even argue any point whatsoever. You will see, without any creative interpretation or subtle inference needed, that the defendant, Jamal Wakes, did assault and rape his sixteen year old victim, Elizabeth Mallus...”
His opening statement lasted only five minutes. Then, the defense got theirs. I wasn’t particularly paying attention. I was just waiting for the right moment. That moment came four hours in to the trial.
I spent the entire time glaring with seething rage at Jamal. Just in case anyone was watching. Finally, I heard the words that I’d been waiting for.
“The prosecution calls Elizabeth Mallus to the stand.”
Prosecutors like to start right off with the victim. The forensics, DNA, photos of my battered face, and other aspects of the case could wait. The first order of business was to show the jury the poor innocent teen-ager who got raped.
I stood, never taking my hateful glare off Jamal, and walked toward the witness stand.
The prosecutor picked up a file from his table. The defense attorney jotted a note on a steno pad. The judge checked the witness list to ensure my name was on it. The jury fixed their eyes on me as I walked. The bailiff came from his normal location to the witness stand where he planned to administer the oath.
I continued my walk to the stand, glaring over my shoulder at Jamal. He glared back at me. Only he and I knew what really happened. Boy was he pissed.
Walking casually by the bailiff, I suddenly lunged at him. Reaching around, I unsnapped his holster and yanked the gun out. Then, flicking the safety off as I brought my hands together, I racked the slide. Quickly aiming at Jamal, I pulled the trigger.
I fired three times before anyone knew what was happening. All three shots hit their mark.
Jamal died in his seat. Nothing spectacular like in the movies. He simply slumped back. I caught a glimpse of his shocked expression before the bailiff slammed me to the floor.
After that, it was all a blur. The bailiff was quickly joined by several other bailiffs and two off-duty police officers who had been in the courtroom at the time. I offered no resistance.
Unable to see anything under the dog pile, I heard the shocked screams from the gallery and the jury. The Judge ordered the courtroom cleared, probably concerned for the safety of the spectators. I was in handcuffs so fast I didn’t even notice until it was over.
Four men lifted me off the floor once I’d been suitably restrained. A bit much, considering I wasn’t struggling. But I guess when you shoot someone in a courtroom they don’t take chances.
The last thing I saw before they led me out of the room was my mother standing in the gallery. Her hands were both over her mouth and the horror in her eyes was palpable.
“Now that I think of it,” Beth finished. “That was the last time I saw my mother alive. She died while I was here, you know.”
Dr. Simms stared at her, wide eyed, unable to speak.
Beth looked around the room and drummed her fingers. “So…” she said after a few moments of stunned silence from Dr. Simms. “Are we done here?”
He put his head in his hands. “Yes. It’s noon. You’re officially released.”
“Great!” she smiled, standing. “Thanks for the privileged doctor-patient conversation.”
“I have to ask… Did you feel anything when you shot him?”
“Sure. Recoil.”
He sighed. “I’m glad to be rid of you, Beth. Have a good life. Thought you may not believe it, I honestly do wish you good luck with your new foster family.”
“Thanks!” she said. “We’ll almost be neighbors, you and I.”
“What?”
“Naperville. It’s where I’ll be living. Same as you! You live at 642 Stevens Street, right?”
“Wha- How did you know that?” He stammered.
She pointed to his desk. “Your phone bill. I guess you bring your bills in to work. Why waste time at home writing checks when you could do it on company time, right? I totally agree.”
She opened the door to leave. “I’ll be looking forward to your med school recommendation when the time comes, Doctor.”
Waving goodbye, she left.
After a while, he stared out the window. It really was a beautiful day. Opening the cabinet under the credenza, he pulled out his emergency bottle of scotch.
Picking up his coffee cup, he paused. Shaking his head, he put the cup down and drank directly from the bottle.
Little did he know she’d be instrumental in saving the world.