CHAPTER 2
As in the hallway, darkness found a home in the interrogation room, collecting in the corners. A solitary light bulb hung seven feet above the dark green concrete floor. The OWG painter chose the same color for the walls. However, in this light, they looked black. A metal table dominated the center making the two chairs on either side look child-sized.
Hamilton sat in one of them.
Dressed in a black Govicide jumpsuit, the serial killer rested like a rock on the far side. The weak rays of the lone bulb stretched to reach him, shadows covering everything from Hamilton’s ears back. His face, lacking a tan now, levitated in mid-air like a white mask.
Locke and the Govicide Agents tracked him for over two years. Yet Hamilton looked rested and clean when they found him on a sidewalk in Lake City last week. As one of the Agents put it, He looks in better shape than we are.
Now, Hamilton looked much like Locke expected him to look five days ago when caught. Scruffy and unshaven. Greasy, dark blond, short hair looking like it needed washed . . . twice.
But, these changes only accentuated the fact Hamilton was in fine physical condition. Perfect teeth. Perfect skin. No scars.
Locke glanced at the camera watching from the near upper right hand corner of the room, twelve feet above the floor, aimed at Hamilton like a sniper. Locke, still controlling his shivering through brute force, pulled out the empty chair and sat across from Hamilton, right in the male’s gaze. The killer showed no reaction to Locke’s presence.
“Hello, Hamilton? That’s H-A-M-I-L-T-O-N, right?” He opened the monstrous file. “First name or last name?”
Getting out a pen, Locke hoped for an answer.
He did not receive one.
“You should know we checked the System for that name and found none. Nothing even close. Two billion subjects on this World and not one with that name. Why don’t you just tell me your real name?”
He put the pen on an empty line in the file. Still no answer came.
The silence continued. Inch by inch, Locke moved the pen away from the paper. Maybe he needed to try something else.
“I’m Homicide Detective Michael Locke. You saw me last week when we caught you. I want to talk to you about our two-year Govicide Agent killing spree.” Standing, he picked up the file, held it high, then let gravity bring it back to the table. It bounced twice, banging both times.
Locke blinked. Hamilton did not.
“You killed a lot of good Agents.” Locke caught himself. From his location, the Govicide Director would be scrutinizing every word. “Allow me to correct myself. You killed a lot of excellent Govicide Agents. Agents who devoted their lives to making sure the OWG can provide everything you need. Food, electricity, clothes, transportation, healthcare. These Agents were out there for you. And you killed them.”
Hamilton remained motionless. He blinked but it was so slow he appeared bored. The murderer’s mouth remained straight across as a line on a page, his eyes steady. Hands, cuffed to the chair, relaxed on the armrests.
Now Locke understood why he had not seen Hamilton thru the window. The cuffs. The prisoner could not have moved even if he wanted to. Unless he wished to drag the chair behind him.
“When I was first put on this case, I have to tell you, I was sure the first Agent, William Cardon, was murdered just by chance.” Locke circled to Hamilton’s side of the table. “Stuffing those OWG pamphlets down his throat until he choked to death was brutal. You must be quite a fighter. Agent Cardon was what? Five inches and fifty pounds heavier than you are?” From behind, he spoke into Hamilton’s right ear, taking the time to look up at the camera. “But when the second murder happened, all ideas of chance were thrown out the window.” Locke lowered his voice. “I think an OWG Statistician said the odds were one in several million that two victims in a row would be Govicide Agents.”
Hamilton did not move. With the camera on him, Locke did his best not to show signs of frustration, but the solid hold he had on his shaking hands was slipping. He backed away and circled in front of Hamilton, coming to a stop where he started.
“Maybe you should have murdered a few of the Masses in between the Agents. Then you might have been able to say these Agents’ deaths were just accidents. To only murder Govicide Agents? Big mistake. Now, nothing but a hanging awaits you.” Locke spun his chair around and sat in it backwards. He hoped the chair back would hide his nervous body.
Hamilton took a long breath like someone was reading him The OWG Daily.
“You can at least tell me why, Hamilton. Why would you kill these Agents who provide everything? Without the OWG and Govicide, there would be no clothes, food, electricity, healthcare, all of it. I mean,” Locke picked up the file and opened to the last murder, “why would you kill Barbra Bitner like that? Stacking all those OWG Manuals on top of her until she suffocated to death? She was out there working for you.” This time, Locke slid the entire file across the table to Hamilton. It stopped just on the edge of the table, one corner sticking out over the end. “Why, Hamilton? She was taking a nice, hot bath. You dragged her out into the middle of her living room and killed her. Why?”
If he had known the interrogation would go this way, Locke would have found a way to get out of this interview. Director’s mandate or not. This was embarrassing, like getting caught using your Sex Credits with another female. He imagined the Director sitting there, asking himself why he had allowed a Homicide Detective to interrogate the worst murderer in OWG history. His arms shook. The seat back would not be enough to cover them up at this pace.
And then Hamilton spoke.
“Did you say your last name is Locke? L-O-C-K-E?”
Hamilton’s mouth moved and the words came out. Just above a whisper, yet his voice bounced with more energy off the walls than Locke’s.
Locke’s arms stopped shaking. His back drooped. He was not a total failure. At least Hamilton said something.
“Yes. Locke. L-O-C-K-E.”
“You probably don’t know this because history before the OWG has been erased, but a famous person had your last name. One of us.” The killer’s mouth returned to a straight line.
“Locke? Really? What do you mean by “one of us”? Who is “us”? Who are you?” Locke pushed the chair closer to the table until the back of it touched the glistening steel, moving the table a sliver toward Hamilton in the process.
There was no response to his questions. Locke waited a reasonable amount of time before continuing. “Those words: person, people. They are un-mandated by the Exalted Ruler. We’re all called subjects. And you’re not going to make it any easier on yourself by using those words.”
No response. Locke felt the heat of the Director’s expectations radiating from the camera behind him. The detective needed to make this scene go somewhere before the Director got bored.
“As for the past, Hamilton, the time before the OWG is not important. There was nobody famous before the OWG. It was a time of anarchy and death and starvation. We can’t learn anything from those subjects who were inferior to us. Just as somewhere in the future, subjects will not find they can learn anything from us because we will be inferior to them. It’s called e-vo-lu-tion.”
Hamilton’s chest moved up and back, but at just a fraction of an inch. While Locke felt his own chest heaving against the seat back. Was the prisoner really less nervous than he was?
“Don’t you know, Hamilton? Only the OWG can determine who is and who is not famous. So, there couldn’t have been anyone famous before the OWG.”
He had heard about some hard luck cases, prisoners who seemed despondent during an interrogation, although Locke never encountered one. Hamilton was not even going to try to change Locke’s mind by blaming it on someone else--saying there was an accomplice or claiming he did not know they were all Govicide Agents. He was just going to sit there and listen.
This was not working. If Locke could not get Hamilton to breathe harder than he was, Locke needed a different plan, one that involved more force.
In a split second, Locke jumped from his chair and pushed it, screeching, across the room. It clanged into the corner below the camera, went up on two of its legs, and found its balance on all four again. Out of the corner of his eye, Locke saw Patterson’s face appear in the window. Seeing Locke was okay, his face disappeared.
Hamilton’s eyes had not followed the chair. They did not follow Locke jumping up. Like none of it happened.
Locke stomped around the table to Hamilton’s side, seemingly sure of himself. But, inside he questioned why Hamilton didn’t react to the outburst.
“Tell me how you’ve lived all these years with no record of your existence. Or how you traveled around the World without any record of using a bus, ship, or train? Planes are out of the question since a subject like you could never get on one.” One point he and Hamilton had in common. The only point. “How about your health? No record of you using OWG healthcare. No records anywhere, except of you killing all these Agents.” He reached down and slid the file back across the table, hard enough that it flew right off the other side. Hundreds of the pages skidded over to the door.
He would have to clean it up. All in good time.
“Do you see what color you’re wearing, Hamilton?” Locke grabbed the loose sleeve of Hamilton’s garb and twisted it. “That’s black. It’s not red. So, even though I’m in Homicide, you’re going to Govicide. You know what that means?” Locke shook the material back and forth. “That means OWG isn’t looking at you like some serial killer who could get five years in jail. No. You’re looking at an execution. Govicide is the only department that executes subjects. They’re looking at this as an economic crime--not a life crime. Killing Govicide Agents is an economic crime.”
Hamilton kept his gaze straight ahead, acting as if he was alone in the room. Locke gave his sleeve another pull then let it go. This was the farthest he had gone with a prisoner without striking him.
But that was next.
Locke pulled back his right arm and made a fist, scarred from years of use. Just as he was about to unleash it on Hamilton’s jaw, the murderer turned his head and looked up at Locke. His left eyebrow cocked up as if to say, You aren’t really going to hit me, are you?
The thought caused Locke to hesitate.
Then he noticed the absence of anything in Hamilton’s eyes.
No fear behind them. No anger, no sadness, nor hate. They were the same color as his jumpsuit. Bottomless black. So black, he believed Hamilton might not even feel the pain, like he was not human at all but a machine.
Would he even bleed?
The fist should have been flying by now. But Locke waited. It hung in the air, wavering like a child’s kite in a slight breeze. Hamilton did not look at it but kept his empty eyes on Locke’s. The two males glared at each other, a sea of loathing between them. But Locke felt his hate inside was ten times greater than Hamilton’s.
This was his chance and he was blowing it. Stallings watched and here Locke hesitated to hit a prisoner. And all of it being taped.
Locke’s conscience screamed, Hit him!
Don’t hit him, Locke’s rational side bellowed. He might just laugh. Remember what he did to all those Agents who were bigger and more powerful than you.
In the end, Locke sided with rationality. Allowing his fist to drift down until it relaxed at his side, he took a deep breath. How would he explain this?
“You know what?” Locke took a step away, “I’m going to allow Govicide to get the first punches in on you. The first cuts. The first broken bones.”
Those words warmed him, but he felt weaker, like he had broken a promise to Jade.
At least his arms did not shake anymore.
He looked up at the camera, hoping Stallings believed his fake explanation. Locke circled to his side of the table.
“If that’s how you want to play it, Hamilton. That’s fine. I’ve been patient, tracking you down for two years. You’ll have to be patient now until Govicide comes and takes you away. I’ll just move on to my next case.”
Locke turned toward the door.
“Do you ever think about the Pyramids?” Hamilton’s words slid out as if the last five minutes had never happened.
Locke spun around in place.
“The what?”
“The Pyramids.”
“What do they have to do with anything?”
“Everything. Do you ever think about the Pyramids?” Louder this time.
“Do I think about them? Not really. But I don’t make it a habit of thinking about buildings.” Locke moved forward so the light would fall on his face.
Hamilton shook his head twice. “Is that what they are to you? Buildings?”
“Yeah. Buildings made of stone and sand.” Where was this going?
“But they aren’t buildings. They’re burial sites.” The killer leaned forward as far as his shackles would allow him.
“Burial sites? Burial sites are un-mandated. It wastes OWG Land.” A fifth grade lesson.
“But they weren’t un-mandated when the Pyramids were built.”
“That’s not true.” With a mind of their own, Locke’s feet moved him over to the table once again. “Burial sites have always been un-mandated. And those Pyramids were built about forty years ago when the OWG--”
Hamilton laughed, his cuffs jingling in rhythm with his head.
“What’s so funny?” Locke felt a volcano inside him rumbling.
The murderer’s chuckle continued. “Those Pyramid burial sites are thousands of years old.”
Locke yelled, “Thousands! Thousands? Humans haven’t even existed for that long.” A second grade lesson. “It’s not possible the Pyramids are that old. Read any textbook.”
“Locke, you keep believing what you want. But do you really believe just fifty years ago buildings were constructed with stone and sand, yet everything else is made of steel and concrete? Doesn’t that sound strange to you?”
“You’re talking nonsense.”
“Then how were they built? If it was just that long ago, how was it done?”
Locke got the feeling if Hamilton were not chained to the chair he would have folded his arms at the end of that question. The best Hamilton could do was flop his palms upwards.
No retort came to Locke.
“Nobody knows how they were built.” Hamilton answered his own question. “And your textbooks didn’t tell you. How could they have been built just forty years ago, yet no one can explain how they came to exist? Where are the building plans? Where are the people who worked on them? Where are the machines? Where did they get the stone from? Did your textbooks explain that?”
The textbooks had not. Locke tried to think of something to say but nothing came to mind. He did not want the killer to get the best of him. He wished he had hit Hamilton.
Too late now.
Hamilton took the silence to be Locke’s answer. “Detective Locke, if nobody can explain how the Pyramids were built, isn’t it possible they were constructed much longer ago than you were taught? And if the knowledge of how to build them has passed into oblivion over thousands of years but the Pyramids still exist, is it not possible that other non-material things--ideas, thoughts, ways of life--still exist but have also been forgotten?”
“You mean like . . . rights?” Before Locke could even think the sentence, it escaped, devoid of conscious mental control. Had Hamilton’s sentence from an hour ago left that much of an impression on him?
“Yes, exactly like rights.” Hamilton banged on the armrests. Life came to his eyes, settling them into a pale blue.
“But what are they?”
“They are something the OWG has taken away.”
Locke’s back cramped at Hamilton’s sentence. “But the OWG gives everyone everything. It doesn’t take anything away.” He straightened to ease the pain.
“But what if I were to tell you in the process of the OWG giving everything to everyone, every person loses his most important possession?” Hamilton drew in his lips. No red, just white skin. He opened his eyes wide.
Scratching his ear, Locke shook his head. “That makes no sense. And don’t use that “p” word again. You killed the Agents because of rights? Because they’re a subject’s most important possession? I’ve never heard of them so how important can they be?” Locke sat on a corner of the table, facing the camera. What did the Director think of Hamilton’s pronunciation? Maybe he knew what Hamilton meant by “rights.”
Silence took over Hamilton again. He returned to his catatonic state, looking straight ahead.
“What? Is that it?” If the file were on the table, Locke would have flung it again. Instead, he pounded the table. “Do you only talk in fits and starts? I thought we were starting to get somewhere.”
But Hamilton’s lips straightened, his eyes blackened, as if they never moved at all.
“I can see I’m not going to get anything but riddles from you. I thought I might be able to help Govicide figure out why you killed those Agents. Obviously, that’s not going to happen.”
Disappointment spewed from the volcano inside Locke. When Hamilton started talking Locke thought a breakthrough was imminent. Now, he saw it for what it was: lies and teasing.
Slipping off the table, Locke made it a point to avoid looking at the murderer again as he walked to the door. This was the end of a long two and a half year chapter of his life. An end he expected. He always knew he would catch Hamilton. But, he didn’t expect the chase to end with more questions than answers.
A list of questions that would go unanswered forever if this encounter was any indication.
Govicide would give Hamilton a go-around for an hour or so after they moved him out of there. If they got the same responses, the murderer would be dead by this time tomorrow. If he cooperated, he might make it two more days. Either way, sooner or later, Hamilton would be dead by Govicide’s hand.
Or rope. Or electricity. Or guillotine. Whatever method seemed fitting.
Locke opened the door. The guards could gather the file still strewn across the floor. He did not want to be in proximity to Hamilton for one more second.
One foot hit the hallway when a voice came from behind Locke.
“Detective Locke, don’t be so sure everything you see out in the OWG is exactly like it says. If the One World Government will lie about the Pyramids, it will lie about anything.”
Hamilton’s voice lacked the energy of his preceding words. Just one more way he tried to provoke the detective. Just another way to torment Locke before they never saw each other again.
Locke would not acquiesce this time and kept moving, closing the door behind him. And slamming the last page shut on this chapter of his life involving Hamilton.