Choice of Evil

kidnapping itself was a sex crime. No, I do not refer to the mutilation of the little boy’s genitals (although that might have alerted even the most incompetent forensic psychologist), but to the fact that the very mutuality of the act was sexual in and of itself. . . much as many gang rapes of females are, in reality, homosexual orgies engaged in by those in deep denial. For additional criminological reference, see the literature regarding so-called “fag-bashing.” Some are content to be in denial, others attempt to destroy that which they are unable to successfully deny.

     One of the secrets of my continuing success is my refusal to deny anything.

What the fuck? was all my mind could react with. He says he never denies anything, but he’s some supercreature way above sex? How could this be the same guy blowing up half the damn city in a war against fag-bashers? Or would the rest of this lunatic’s little journal take me to that answer. . .?

    Denied their grotesque mutuality, Leopold and Loeb were physically separated in prison. Loeb the “master” quickly learned that he had no such power over anyone but Leopold. His lesson was a fatal one—he was stabbed to death in the prison shower room. Leopold reconfigured his sexuality into suppression, and lived to be paroled some three decades later.

     But while failure to properly execute a kidnapping is near-universal, the reasons for failure run across a lengthy continuum. Hickman failed because he was an incompetent, a defective of low intellect and excessive self- esteem. Krist failed despite his intelligence because his plans were insufficiently flexible. And he did not work alone. Speaking of which: Hauptmann, of course, was a pawn.

     Although most failures occur at the point where the kidnapper must recover the ransom money, a listing of every failure would exhaust human language. A successful kidnapping is high art.

     I have made that art my own. Redefined it. I am a perfectionist. Alone and unfailing.

I was still trying to connect what he was saying with what was happening now when the screen went blank. Then it bloomed in bright red, with black lettering clear against it.

>>Summon your operator now. A question will follow. It must be answered in order to see my next journal entry.<<

“Xyla!” I called out.

She bounced into the room, shooed me out of the chair, and took over. “Ready?” she asked me.

“I don’t know,” I told her truthfully.

We both watched the screen. In another few seconds, his message came, this time in a regular font, black letters on a white screen:

>>Prove link, you <–> Wesley. Three (3) names. No more. Send immediately.<<

“What words?” Xyla asked me urgently, her fingers poised.

I told her. Watched the screen carry the message.

Candy. Train. Julio.

Driving back, I wanted the safety of my cave. My head hurt from it all. It started reasonably. . . for a lunatic. That whole gay thing. But he was saying he was a kidnapper. The best in the business. What business? There hadn’t been a successful kidnapping in years. Nothing remotely resembling the perfection he was bragging about. When had he first written this? Why was he sending it to me? And what did Wesley have to do with a. . . “metaphorical” death?

Was he saying all those homicides meant something other than what they were? Was any of his journal true? I. . . couldn’t get it. So I stuffed as much as I could deep into my memory, packing a suitcase for a long journey.

I was in Mama’s that night. The Prof had left word he’d roll by, and I waited to. . . I don’t know what I wanted. Maybe just to be with the only father I’d ever had, just for a little while. Before I did something I knew was going to end ugly.

My father came in with his son. They sat down. The old man looked at me. . . and, for the first time, I realized he was an old man. I mean, he had to be, right? But it never came to me so hard as right that moment.

He didn’t ask me anything, just had his soup and waited. When he was done, I told him.

“Okay, let me get this straight. Motherfucker sends you his ‘journal’? A diary, like those teenage girls keep? Only this one, it’s about him being the all-time ace of snatch artists?”

“Not the whole thing, Prof. It was. . . a piece, like.”

“There’s more, then? He gets his pleasing from teasing?”

“I don’t think so. It could be techno—maybe he could only maintain security with so much data at a time. But it feels like. . . You remember those serials you told me about, the ones they had at the movies when you were a kid?”

“Oh yeah. Those were some boss cliffhangers, son. Kept you coming back for more, that’s the way they scored.”

“Right. That’s what this feels like.”

“He gets you hooked, so you don’t book?”

“Sure. But why would he care? The only thing he wants from me has something to do with Wesley—that name really opened his door. And, remember what I told you, he said he was ready to die. And I was going to help him.”

“But not die-die, right? Meta-something die. That don’t mean the real deal.”

“No. I don’t know what. . . The way it started, I thought he was going to go into a rant about being gay, you know? But he dropped that in a flash, switched to the kidnapping thing.”

“Then here’s what’s true, that ain’t new.”

“Because. . .?”

“Because the motherfucker may be crazy—hell, he sure is crazy—but no way he’s stupid, right? If he’s king of the kidnappers, you won’t know it from the papers. Like I said, that ain’t the play, no way, not today. The drug boys do snatches, but it’s to get back their powder or make somebody go along with the program, not a ransom deal.”

“So you think this is an old journal?”

“What the man said, right? Got it stashed in some computer in case he’s caught or something. . . .”

“No. In fact, he said, if anyone tried to get at it, the whole thing would get nuked.”

“But it was getting him off,” the Prof said, flatly. “Had to be. Keep fucking records of your own heists—what kind of righteous thief does that?”

“You got me. He says he’s a pro. He came across like there’s no way he’s got partners.”

“He figured out a way to do snatches without partners, man’s good,” the Prof conceded. “But he still sounds like the kind of fool I came up with. . . you know, a motherfucker so dumb, you tell him somebody with a gun’s coming for him, he runs around looking for a knife.”

“Those they still have,” Clarence said gravely.

“Always gonna have,” the Prof assured him. “Like they wasn’t born stupid enough, they got to practice.”

“Prof,” I asked him quietly, the same volume we used to speak on the yard, so many years ago. But straight ahead, not out of the side of my mouth. “Can you tell me anything?”

“Got two things to tell you, Schoolboy. Only one you gonna listen to.”

“You sure?”

“Here’s the first one: Walk away. Fast.”

The little man looked at me until my eyes dropped. “Thought so,” he said. “Here’s the other. Motherfucker’s tied to Wesley some way. And the way I see, only one way that could be.”

“Which is?”

“He’s afraid of him,” the Prof said.

“Wesley’s dead,” I said. My theme song now, I guessed it was.

“And people still not afraid of him?” the Prof challenged. “You know what they say. You know where they say