Strangers |
Issue 9
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The verdict was wrong. A murderer was found not guilty. Elena Breen was the prosecutor. The killer, Andreas Dane, began to stare at her as the judge revealed the jury's decision. Andreas had killed his wife. It happened while they were hiking on a mountain trail. The evidence was circumstantial, and that was not enough to persuade the jurors. But Elena knew he was guilty. He had pushed his wife over the side of the mountain. He had testified that she fell and her death was an accident. The five-day trial was over, and the victim's family departed through a side door. The courtroom was quiet. Andreas, at a separate table with his lawyers, turned toward Elena again and stared, a familiar tactic for defendants, a sign of intimidation or gloating. A look or a stare could have the power of a threat.
Then, as he left the courtroom, Andreas stopped and touched Elena's shoulder. "See you again," he said. Then he was gone. Later, at home, she thought about justice and injustice, trials and verdicts. Andreas believed he had committed the perfect crime. Pushed a woman off the mountain while they were hiking. Her body was found in a ravine. In photos from the crime scene, the body was covered with a blanket or tarp with one foot exposed. Elena had visited the site only once. She had walked among the rocks where weeds grew through the cracks. It was strange to see weeds sprouting through the rock. The mountains, Elena thought, were ancient relics, millions of years of history in tangible form, the perfect place for a modern killing. The primary evidence was a confession by Andreas, who talked too much when he was questioned by detectives. But Andreas withdrew the confession later. He was under duress, he said. The detectives had pressured him and he made a false confession. Elena didn't believe him. The jury was never told about the confession. Inadmissible evidence. |
MICHAEL KERR is a technical writer in the Dallas area.
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Some people were safe while others were at risk. Elena was safe in her gated community, in a house protected by security guards. Other people were in danger elsewhere. Sudden death was what happened to someone else. She began to wonder how other people coped with the chance of sudden death. Did they know they were in danger? She was thinking too much about death, death as a surprise.
Three days after the trial, there was a phone call. A sheriff in Colorado had seen reports in the media and recognized the name of the defendant. Five years earlier, the sheriff said, there was a fatality in a car accident on an isolated road. A woman, the passenger in the car, had been killed. The driver was Andreas Dane. No charges were filed, but the sheriff was suspicious. The accident had occurred in the daytime on an otherwise empty stretch of the road. Something didn't add up. But there was no evidence. The car had veered off the pavement and overturned. When the deputies arrived, Andreas was standing next to the vehicle and was uninjured. Two people were in the car, and one was killed while the other was unhurt. Something wasn't right, the sheriff said. Something happened.
Elena was out jogging one morning, four days after she left the courtroom. Her route was the clay path around the reservoir, a distance of one mile. As soon as she started, she felt a presence, a threat. Andreas had his own force field, his area of influence, and she felt a weird static in the air. He was behind her, and then he ran past her. He ran ahead of her without looking back, and no words were spoken. His shoes slapped at the clay. He wore a jogging suit, dark blue. He moved with a slippery gracefulness, plunging ahead without hurrying. Elena stopped for a moment as she processed the surge of emotions. Here it was again, a surprise, suddenness, a threat from nowhere, unseen until it was too late. The threat approached without warning and disappeared. Far ahead of her, he continued down the path and veered off toward the paved road that led to the shops and restaurants downhill from the reservoir.
After a run, she always stopped and ordered coffee at a restaurant with outdoor tables, each under its own umbrella. She didn't drink the coffee but liked to sit at a table in the breeze and watch the other joggers as they circled the reservoir. In the wind, the water had taken on a ruffled glow. The clay was heating up in the sunlight.
She was certain that he would return. She waited in the shade from the umbrella. He walked up from behind her. She felt his presence before he spoke. She was safe while others were in danger. She was always safe. She wasn't afraid.
She didn't object as he dropped into a chair and stared at her across the table. Once again, she was aware of the look and its implications. A power move. A stress test. A way to subdue another person.
"You wanted to put me away," he said.
"I tried."
"Do I look like a stone-cold killer? Be truthful."
"I have a gun," she said. She carried the pistol in a holster on the back of her belt, hidden but accessible. She had never fired the gun, but it provided a sense of security.
"Why do you carry a gun?"
"For people like you."
"What kind of people am I?"
"Not the good kind."
"Is there a good kind? I'm not sure. Maybe I haven't met the good kind. I travel in the wrong social circles. May I see the gun?"
She reached to the back part of her belt and unclipped the holster. She removed the gun and placed it on the table. Guns were efficient, in use for centuries. They did what they were supposed to do. The basic design had always been the same, but the propulsion was more powerful than ever. The purpose had never changed. This was a well-designed instrument, a miracle of engineering. People had been killing other people since the beginning of time, but now they could do it in an impersonal way, with professional skill. Any amateur knew how to use any kind of gun. The purpose, of course, was to cause sudden death, a fatal surprise.
"Impressive," he said. "You've been to the shooting range? With the two of us here, you have proximity. Can't miss. Guns are so awkward. They leave evidence, which is important in a criminal case. Is it possible to have a crime without evidence? There is always a clue. Maybe the demeanor of the suspect. Can you look at someone and know that this is a killer? Are there signs or indications that a person is capable of murder? It's not an easy act. There is planning and preparation. How do you identify a killer?"
"Call it an aura."
"That's interesting. Like a halo in reverse. It's something you can't hide. They can't hide their true selves?"
"Their true selves always come through," she said.
She had seen murderers in courtrooms, always at a distance. She had developed a superstition about getting too close. She was afraid of a sudden movement, a lunge. The lunge toward death. Before their arrival in the courtroom, defendants were searched for guns and knives. Her greatest fear was a stabbing, which was a personal, up-close, face-to-face attack, personally brutal. Centuries ago, killers must have welcomed the change from knives or daggers to guns. A gunshot was faster, with a less intimate connection between the killer and the victim. Guns were more useful at a distance, and death was no longer the result of a face-to-face assault. Guns were anonymous. Death was impersonal.
"You have two murders to keep hidden," she said.
"So you heard about Colorado. But I never murdered anyone. Two unfortunate accidents. In Colorado, it was a case of not wearing a seatbelt. Then on the mountain it was carelessness. Can you prove otherwise? Is proof important? If you can't prove it, did it happen at all? Are you going to follow me for the rest of my life? I saw the look in your eyes. I would like to see the evidence, but there is no evidence. I have a right to live without harassment."
"You have no right to live."
"And you follow me. You threaten me. You show a gun, a public threat. You followed me when I was jogging. You followed me all the way to this restaurant. You follow me and make threats. I've seen the way you stare at me, the way you look at me with such loathing. You hate me so much. You were watching me all through the trial. You stared at me with such hatred. There is no evidence of any crime committed by me."
"You are guilty."
"Jury says not so. Whenever I see you, I have a humiliating experience. How long does this continue? I am afraid. It is humiliating to be afraid. You know where I live. Of course you do. I saw you at my house, outside at my personal address where I stay. I saw you and you were spying on me. You followed me home after the trial."
"No."
"I have a right not to be afraid. You must correct this. I have a right to live without fear. This is a fundamental right, living without fear. You threaten to shoot me. I've never shot anyone. I don't know how it feels. You have never fired a gun. You have never been to the shooting range. But you make threats."
She picked up the gun, aimed at his throat, and fired. Screams erupted all through the restaurant as chairs and tables were overturned and people ran. She dropped the gun on the floor. She stepped over his body. She went home.
Three days after the trial, there was a phone call. A sheriff in Colorado had seen reports in the media and recognized the name of the defendant. Five years earlier, the sheriff said, there was a fatality in a car accident on an isolated road. A woman, the passenger in the car, had been killed. The driver was Andreas Dane. No charges were filed, but the sheriff was suspicious. The accident had occurred in the daytime on an otherwise empty stretch of the road. Something didn't add up. But there was no evidence. The car had veered off the pavement and overturned. When the deputies arrived, Andreas was standing next to the vehicle and was uninjured. Two people were in the car, and one was killed while the other was unhurt. Something wasn't right, the sheriff said. Something happened.
Elena was out jogging one morning, four days after she left the courtroom. Her route was the clay path around the reservoir, a distance of one mile. As soon as she started, she felt a presence, a threat. Andreas had his own force field, his area of influence, and she felt a weird static in the air. He was behind her, and then he ran past her. He ran ahead of her without looking back, and no words were spoken. His shoes slapped at the clay. He wore a jogging suit, dark blue. He moved with a slippery gracefulness, plunging ahead without hurrying. Elena stopped for a moment as she processed the surge of emotions. Here it was again, a surprise, suddenness, a threat from nowhere, unseen until it was too late. The threat approached without warning and disappeared. Far ahead of her, he continued down the path and veered off toward the paved road that led to the shops and restaurants downhill from the reservoir.
After a run, she always stopped and ordered coffee at a restaurant with outdoor tables, each under its own umbrella. She didn't drink the coffee but liked to sit at a table in the breeze and watch the other joggers as they circled the reservoir. In the wind, the water had taken on a ruffled glow. The clay was heating up in the sunlight.
She was certain that he would return. She waited in the shade from the umbrella. He walked up from behind her. She felt his presence before he spoke. She was safe while others were in danger. She was always safe. She wasn't afraid.
She didn't object as he dropped into a chair and stared at her across the table. Once again, she was aware of the look and its implications. A power move. A stress test. A way to subdue another person.
"You wanted to put me away," he said.
"I tried."
"Do I look like a stone-cold killer? Be truthful."
"I have a gun," she said. She carried the pistol in a holster on the back of her belt, hidden but accessible. She had never fired the gun, but it provided a sense of security.
"Why do you carry a gun?"
"For people like you."
"What kind of people am I?"
"Not the good kind."
"Is there a good kind? I'm not sure. Maybe I haven't met the good kind. I travel in the wrong social circles. May I see the gun?"
She reached to the back part of her belt and unclipped the holster. She removed the gun and placed it on the table. Guns were efficient, in use for centuries. They did what they were supposed to do. The basic design had always been the same, but the propulsion was more powerful than ever. The purpose had never changed. This was a well-designed instrument, a miracle of engineering. People had been killing other people since the beginning of time, but now they could do it in an impersonal way, with professional skill. Any amateur knew how to use any kind of gun. The purpose, of course, was to cause sudden death, a fatal surprise.
"Impressive," he said. "You've been to the shooting range? With the two of us here, you have proximity. Can't miss. Guns are so awkward. They leave evidence, which is important in a criminal case. Is it possible to have a crime without evidence? There is always a clue. Maybe the demeanor of the suspect. Can you look at someone and know that this is a killer? Are there signs or indications that a person is capable of murder? It's not an easy act. There is planning and preparation. How do you identify a killer?"
"Call it an aura."
"That's interesting. Like a halo in reverse. It's something you can't hide. They can't hide their true selves?"
"Their true selves always come through," she said.
She had seen murderers in courtrooms, always at a distance. She had developed a superstition about getting too close. She was afraid of a sudden movement, a lunge. The lunge toward death. Before their arrival in the courtroom, defendants were searched for guns and knives. Her greatest fear was a stabbing, which was a personal, up-close, face-to-face attack, personally brutal. Centuries ago, killers must have welcomed the change from knives or daggers to guns. A gunshot was faster, with a less intimate connection between the killer and the victim. Guns were more useful at a distance, and death was no longer the result of a face-to-face assault. Guns were anonymous. Death was impersonal.
"You have two murders to keep hidden," she said.
"So you heard about Colorado. But I never murdered anyone. Two unfortunate accidents. In Colorado, it was a case of not wearing a seatbelt. Then on the mountain it was carelessness. Can you prove otherwise? Is proof important? If you can't prove it, did it happen at all? Are you going to follow me for the rest of my life? I saw the look in your eyes. I would like to see the evidence, but there is no evidence. I have a right to live without harassment."
"You have no right to live."
"And you follow me. You threaten me. You show a gun, a public threat. You followed me when I was jogging. You followed me all the way to this restaurant. You follow me and make threats. I've seen the way you stare at me, the way you look at me with such loathing. You hate me so much. You were watching me all through the trial. You stared at me with such hatred. There is no evidence of any crime committed by me."
"You are guilty."
"Jury says not so. Whenever I see you, I have a humiliating experience. How long does this continue? I am afraid. It is humiliating to be afraid. You know where I live. Of course you do. I saw you at my house, outside at my personal address where I stay. I saw you and you were spying on me. You followed me home after the trial."
"No."
"I have a right not to be afraid. You must correct this. I have a right to live without fear. This is a fundamental right, living without fear. You threaten to shoot me. I've never shot anyone. I don't know how it feels. You have never fired a gun. You have never been to the shooting range. But you make threats."
She picked up the gun, aimed at his throat, and fired. Screams erupted all through the restaurant as chairs and tables were overturned and people ran. She dropped the gun on the floor. She stepped over his body. She went home.
END