the bay: “This alone, I was convinced, had driven him out to the edge of the forest, to the bush, towards the gleam of fires, the throb of drums, the drone of weird incantations; this alone had beguiled his unlawful soul beyond the bounds of permitted aspirations.”
I didn’t answer his, and Conrad’s, madness.
Ellis Haines wouldn’t talk with the FBI. He didn’t deign to open up to his court-ordered psychiatrist and wouldn’t participate in therapy. Haines refused any interviews that weren’t of his own invention. Many death row inmates solicit correspondence; Haines received ten thousand letters a year and answered very few of them. The warden had told me that in the past year more than five hundred women had expressed interest in marrying Haines.
He was the “it” serial murderer. There were websites selling Ellis Haines action figures, calendars, and playing cards. To too many, the ramblings of Haines were considered gospel, and there were many people trying to make him out as a twisted prophet. The darkness that was Haines had caught on worldwide. Other killers had tapped into humanity’s collective shadow side, but no one had ever been as popular a sideshow as Haines. His public pronouncements were among the most viewed on YouTube. The world wanted more and more of him; I think one of the reasons he liked seeing me was because I wanted less.
When I turned the corner, I could see Haines’s face from inside the Lawyer’s Room. He smiled for me; I didn’t return the smile. Haines had been an exceptionally handsome man, but the fire had scarred him. Our burns were on the opposite sides of our faces; his scarring was on the left side of his face, mine on the right. Haines’s scarring gave him a leering look that he didn’t seem to mind. It was ironic that both of us had a matching set of hypertrophic scarring on our faces; in truth it creeped me out.
“Detective Gideon,” he said, “always a pleasure to see you.”
I nodded.
“And I believe you know my posse?”
There were correctional officers inside and outside the cell. The solitary CO that had accompanied me saw me to the door but not beyond. As usual, I’d be left alone with Haines. Because his hands were shackled, Haines assumed the position for their removal, turning his back to the door and sliding his hands through an opening in the now-locked door. His body language suggested he was the one doing the correctional officers a favor by being in their company. After his handcuffs were removed, Haines momentarily rubbed his wrists before being herded to a seat.
Haines never went anywhere without at least three correctional officers accompanying him. Inmates were not allowed to approach him; nor were they supposed to speak or talk to him. The prison officials didn’t want Haines dying in captivity, like Dahmer or DeSalvo. They knew that other inmates were jealous of his notoriety, and that his death would be a feather in the cap for anyone taking him out.
As I sat down at the table, I found Haines’s eyes fixed on me. “Hello,” he said; he wasn’t addressing me so much as he was my bruising.
The correctional officers filed out. When we were alone I produced a piece of paper with typewritten questions on it.
“The last time we talked,” I said, “we began to discuss your family.”
His eyes continued studying my neck. He was like a wino fixated on someone else’s full bottle.
“Your bruising is recent,” Haines said. “It’s not yet in full bloom. I would guess it happened last night.”
“According to you,” I said, “you had a perfectly normal childhood, with no physical or sexual abuse.”
“I don’t believe your bruises are consistent with manual strangulation; I see no telltale marks from prying fingers.”
“Did you love your parents?”
“And what you have isn’t the kind of bruising that occurs from a figure-four hold or a carotid restraint, or even a lateral vascular neck restraint. Neither is the bruising pattern consistent with the ligature marks from a tightened stocking, but it was some kind of garrote, wasn’t it?”
“I’m into autoerotic asphyxiation. Is that something you practiced as well?”
I was rather proud of my transition into another question. The Feds had actually wanted me to ask him about autoerotic asphyxiation.
“If I answer that question,” Haines said, “will you answer mine?”
When I finally nodded he said, “I never practiced, or was personally interested in, autoerotic asphyxiation. What caused those marks around your neck?”
“An animal-control pole.”
My answer delighted Haines. “I never considered such an application. What a perfect use. As you know, I prefer the up-close-and-personal techniques, but there were those occasions when having a little distance would have made things much easier. And while I would never perform the coup de grace with such a tool, it could certainly prove useful as a prelude to a kill. Now who was it that wanted you hurt and why?”
“It was my girlfriend. She was dressed up as Little Bo Peep and I was the sheep. I’m afraid she got a little rough.”
“I hope you don’t think you’re pulling the wool over my eyes with that story.”
He wanted a smile, so I frowned. Haines’s initial greeting had summed up only too well where we were: in the heart of darkness. Whenever I visit San Quentin, I have to sign a form at reception that states the prison authorities aren’t responsible for me if I am taken captive and won’t be bargaining for my release. The form also states they aren’t liable for any injuries I sustain and that if I die it’s my own tough luck.
San Quentin is the only place in the state of California where you can legally kill another human being. The prison has the dubious distinction of having the largest death row contingent in the nation. At last count, almost six hundred fifty prisoners were waiting to die. They once hung inmates at San Quentin, and then they built a gas chamber and gassed them with hydrogen cyanide, but nowadays lethal injections are used on the condemned. The gas chamber-painted in awful lime green-has not yet been retired, though. It is still the death room. The condemned inmates are strapped down on a gurney inside of the gas chamber and lethally injected.
Most of the condemned inmates live in the East Block, a five-story cage of the damned that is loud and leaky. Scott Peterson, who was convicted of murdering his pregnant wife Laci, is one of those there. The privileged killers are in North Segregation. No one would mistake North Seg for a country club, but it’s relatively quiet and on a good day wouldn’t be mistaken for a leper colony.
I was a visitor, but it still felt as if I was the one on death row.
“Actually,” I said, “one of the reasons I came here was to question you about my attackers.”
“And why would you question me?”
“Because my assailants sounded as if they were acting on your behalf. They definitely were true believers, referring to the Prophet. Isn’t that what you’re calling yourself these days?”
“I have never referred to myself as a prophet. It is others that have given me that title.”
“These three had all swallowed your end-of-the-world drivel hook, line, and sinker. I heard them talking up your favorite buzzwords like ‘Gotterdammerung,’ and ‘Ragnarok,’ and ‘the twilight of the gods.’ They also said something about settling the score.”
“I had nothing to do with the attack on you.”
“Their leader said my death would debunk the very notion that there is such a thing as good and evil. That sounds like your blather.”
“I find all of that interesting.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
“Do you blame Christ for his many so-called followers that have killed in his name?”
“I’d be more comfortable if you compared yourself to Adolf Hitler.”
“My point is that if these want-to-be disciples were trying to act in my name, they were not directed by me. I am very selective in the followers I choose.”
“What? They need to have a pulse?”
“Many are called but few are chosen.”
“I am going to nail my attackers,” I said. “The ringleader had some distinctive tattoos. You better hope he doesn’t implicate you.”
“I am guilty only of being a visionary.”
“Spreading ignorance doesn’t even make you a false prophet.”
