“These people are sane. They just lack a piece of standard human equipment. They know right from wrong, but they don’t feel the distinc-tion applies to them. It strikes them as somehow beside the point.”
“And they can be quite charming.”
He nods. “And can act convincingly normal. They know what a conscience is, they understand the concept, so they can behave as though they have one.” The rueful smile. “Well. I’ve killed these boys, and it doesn’t bother me in the least, but then I’m caught, and placed under arrest, and it turns out there’s an abundance of evidence of my culpability. I’m in a jail cell, with the media damning me as the blackest villain of the century, and all I can do is protest my innocence.
“And I do so, with increasing conviction. I have to do more than insist I’m innocent, I have to do so with utter certainty, for how am I to convince anyone if I am not myself convincing? And how better to be convincing than to believe myself in the truth of my arguments?”
“Other words, you wind up believing your own lies.”
“That’s what appears to happen. I’m not entirely certain of the mechanics of the process, but that’s how it manifests itself.”
“It sounds almost like self-hypnosis.”
“Except that self-hypnosis is generally a conscious process, while what I’ve described is largely unconscious. But there are elements of self-hypnosis, certainly, and elements of denial as well. ‘I could not have done this, ergo I did not do it.’ The mind’s reality trumps the reality of the physical world.”
“Fascinating. You make me wish I’d taken more psych courses.” All the Flowers Are Dying
23
“I’d say you’re getting a crash course on the job.”
“I’m an administrator, Dr. Bodinson, and—”
“Arne.”
“Arne. I’m an administrator, the plant manager at a factory. My job is to keep the line running and handle problems as they arise. But you’re right, it’s a crash course in the intricacies of the human psyche. You know, if Applewhite believes he didn’t do it—”
“Which I haven’t yet established, but which strikes me as likely.”
“Well, that means there won’t be any last-minute confession.”
“How could there be, if in his mind he has nothing to admit to?”
“It ordinarily wouldn’t matter,” Humphries says, “because either way he gets the needle, but I was thinking of the parents of the one boy, the first victim. I don’t recall his name, and I should. I’ve heard it often enough.”
“Jeffrey Willis, wasn’t it? The one whose body was never found.”
“Yes, of course. Jeffrey Willis, and his parents are Peg and Baldwin Willis, and they’re having a terrible time of it. They can’t get closure.
That’s one good thing about capital punishment, it provides closure for the victim’s family in the way a life sentence never does, but for the Willises it’ll be only partial closure, because they’re deprived of the opportunity to bury their son.”
“And in their minds they can’t shake off the slim hope that he’s alive.”
“They know he’s not,” Humphries says. “They know he’s dead and they know Applewhite killed him. There was a manila envelope in a locked drawer of the man’s desk, and in it were three glassine envelopes, each containing a lock of hair. One was the Willis boy’s, and the others were from the other two victims.” He shakes his head. “Of course Applewhite had no explanation. Of course someone must have planted the trophies in his desk.
Of course he’d never seen them before.”
“He may believe that.”
“All anyone wants from him now, all he can do in the world on his way out of it, is tell those poor people where their son’s body is buried. That might get him a call from the governor, at the very least staying his execution long enough to recover the body. But if he honestly believes he didn’t do it—”
24
Lawrence Block
“Then he can’t admit it. And couldn’t locate the body, because he no longer knows where it is.”
“If that’s what he believes, I don’t suppose there’s anything to be done in that regard. But if he’s just putting on an act, and if he were somehow convinced that it’s in his own best interests to provide us with the where-abouts of the body . . .”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he says.
4
The cell is larger than he’d expected, and more comfortably appointed.
There’s a built-in concrete platform to support the mattress, a built-in kneehole desk. There’s a television set mounted high on the wall, out of reach, with a remote control pointed toward it and bolted to the desktop.
A single molded plastic chair—white, stackable if there were another to stack upon it—is the cell’s only movable furniture. After a tentative handshake, Applewhite motions him to the chair, takes a seat for himself on the bed.
He is a handsome man, is Preston Applewhite, although the years in confinement have taken a toll. He’s five years older than when he was arrested, and they’ve been hard years, soul-deadening years. They’ve rounded his broad shoulders, bowed his back. They’ve put some gray in his dark blond hair, even as they’ve etched vertical lines at the sides of his full-lipped mouth. Have they washed some of the blue from his eyes? Perhaps, or it could be that
