Thicker Than Blood - The Complete Andrew Z. Thomas Trilogy (92 page)

But it was not a normal evening. I turned away from the fence and walked back across the parched, yellow grass towards the prison. Two guards waited for me on the steps, smoking cigarettes and talking. When they saw me approach, they instinctively put their hands on their holstered pistols, watching me warily. Seven years of perfect behavior had taught them nothing. They treated me fairly, but beneath their professional exteriors, I had no doubt that every guard who'd ever watched me despised me. I sensed that loathing in everyone, even the doctors and psychologists who wanted so desperately to study me.

Near the steps which ascended back into the prison, I stopped several feet from the guards. I wasn't allowed to be within six feet of prison staff without handcuffs. I'd forgotten that rule once five years ago and surprised a guard coming in from the yard. He beat me unconscious with his nightstick, and I stayed in the hospital for two weeks. The warden determined the guard’s actions were justified. I had fucked up.

"Turn around," Haywood said, slowly descending the steps. He dropped his cigarette on the ground and stepped on it, twisting the toe of his shiny black shoe on the dying ember. A short, stout white man, he moved quickly. He stepped forward, holding a pair of handcuffs, and in an instant he'd cuffed me. Then he took my right arm and escorted me up the nine steps, through heavy, black double doors. Jerry, the other black guard, walked close on my left side.

As we headed through the dull, gray corridors towards the showers, I stared straight ahead, listening to our footsteps echo down the long, empty hallways, and the distant ruckus of other inmates. Muffled excitement pulsed inside of me, a rare emotion within these walls. I'd waited a long time for this night.

# # #

I sat in a hard chair, in a small room with white, windowless concrete walls, my feet chained together in leg irons, my hands cuffed behind my chair. Two guards stood behind the cameras, watching me. I could still smell the fragrant prison soap in my hair, and I wore a new, bright orange uniform. Across the large rectangular table sat Dr. Richard
Goldston
, a handsome, sharp-witted man. He may've been over fifty, but his face was smooth, without wrinkles, and his hair space black. He wore silver-framed glasses pushed down on the bridge of his nose, and when he looked at me, his smoky-brown eyes were penetrating but kind.

The woman who had wanted to do the interview stood beside the cameraman in a conservative yellow suit. She reeked of poignant questions, a zombie for her network. Though one of the top journalists in the nation, intelligent and savvy, she was utterly incapable. When I agreed to do an interview with the network, I had one condition. Dr.
Goldston
, a former FBI agent in the Behavioral Sciences Division, would conduct the interview. Regarded by his peers and colleagues as the sharpest, most qualified criminologist in the country, he'd dedicated his life to understanding and tracking serial killers, not to becoming a media whore. I respected that, and I respected his books. I wanted to meet him and feel his probing intellect.

Goldston
laid a bulging, cream folder on the table and opened it. It was full of crime scene photographs, forensic reports, and several documents I'd never seen before.

He looked back at the woman and her cameraman. "You ready, Laura?"
Goldston
asked.

"Yes, we can start now," she said.

Goldston
lifted a tape recorder off the floor and set it on the table. "I’m recording this for my file, too. Is that all right with you, Andy?"

"It’s fine," I said.

He pushed the record button and holding up one finger, spoke into the air: "August 17
^th
, 2003. Eight p.m. Montana State Prison. Deer Lodge, Montana. Subject: Andrew Thomas." He cleared his throat and withdrew a sheet of paper from the folder covered in indecipherable cursive.
Goldston
looked up from his notes and smiled. He didn’t fear me.

"I want to first thank you for doing this. I appreciate the opportunity to talk with you."

"Certainly," I said. I was nervous about the cameras and kept looking directly into them.

"When we spoke on the phone, I asked if anything was off limits, and you said there wasn’t. Is that still the way you feel?" he asked, and I nodded.

"This is the first interview you’ve agreed to do since your incarceration in 96'. You’ve remained silent, refusing to speak even at your own trial. Why have you waited until now?"

"I’ve been dealing with things. Privately."

"Are you responsible for the killings at the Blue Sky Motel?" he asked. There was no emotion in his voice. He was interested solely in obtaining information, not judging or condemning me. He put me at ease, and I could see why he was so well-respected.

"No."

"The Washington boxes?"

"No."

"Are you responsible for the bodies found at your cabin in the Wyoming desert or at your lake house north of Charlotte?"

"No."

In the thick silence,
Goldston
swallowed. "You consider yourself innocent?" he asked.

"I do."
     

Goldston
reached into his briefcase and took out a small tape player. "I want to play something for you," he said, setting the tape player on the table. He pushed play and for several seconds the speakers crackled. Then, through the softer static, I heard his voice:

"Barry Johnson’s in the trunk of my car you prick…
 
I don’t think you wanna take the credit for kidnapping that police officer…
 
I killed him, too… … …
 
You stay right there…
 
Want the car keys? So you can get that smelly body out of my trunk. I waive my rights…
 
Take them out slowly [Door Slams]… … … …
 
Andy…
 
What?…
 
Now I’ve gotta let you in on something…
 
Oh God… … … …
 
[Door Slams]
 
Where’s Officer Johnson’s car, Orson? Where is his car? Oh, you don’t want to talk to me now. Piece of shit…
 
Where’d he go?…
 
Where did who go?…
 
My brother…
 
What the fuck are you talking about?…
 
Shit. Oh, shit…
 
Where’s the car, Orson?…
 
Oh God…
 
Tough man doesn’t wanna talk now. Well, that’s okay, cause you’re fucked. Why are you crying, Orson? Huh?…
 
That’s not my name. Where is he?…
 
Who are you talking about?…
 
The man I came in with. Where’d he go?…
 
You’re out of your
fuckin
’ mind…
 
Where’d he go?…
 
Calm down…
 
Where is my fucking brother?!!!"

Goldston
stopped the tape. My hands shook, and I felt very cold. He could sense my discomfort, so he remained quiet for a moment, allowing me to regain my composure. I took deep breaths and closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I looked around the room, at the guards, the cameras in front and behind me, at Laura Webber, and then back to
Goldston
.

"Andy, I’ve literally spent hours going over what I just played for you. I’ve probably listened to that tape a hundred times, and for the life of me I can’t figure out what happened in that room. I even had several psychologists listen, and they were baffled. I interviewed the detective who questioned you. He said you were a different person when he came back into the interrogation room."
Goldston
removed his glasses. "What’d you feel hearing that tape?"

I stared at the table, my heart racing. "I don’t know. That was a really fucked-up day."

"How many people were in that room after the detective left?"
Goldston
asked.

I looked up from the table. "You won’t believe me," I said. "It’ll seem like I’m crazy, like I’m grasping to save my life, and I’m not. I know they won’t ever let me out of this place."

"How many?"

"Two."

"One physical person walked into that police station, Andy. There’s a videotape of it."

"I know."

"Who’s Orson?" he said, but I shook my head. "You don’t know?"

"I don’t know what he is anymore."

"Is he in your head?"

"No."

"Then you actually see him?"

"Not since Choteau."

"What does he look like?"

"Like me. He’s my twin."

I felt a cool breath on the back of my neck. "Hey, big boy," he whispered, and I shivered.

"What?"
Goldston
said. "What'd you say?"

Orson walked around the table behind the guards. He stepped over the mass of cords that linked the microphones and cameras to the outlets and leaned against the wall. He smiled, wearing jeans and a dirty tee-shirt. His hair was buzzed like mine, and he had a two-day beard.

"What’s wrong?"
Goldston
asked. "Andy, you’re trembling."

"I’m staring at Orson right now," I said, watching my brother walk to the table.

"Andy, you’re looking at me,"
Goldston
said. "You’re looking directly into my eyes."

"No,
I’m
looking at you," Orson said, standing beside me, his dirty hands on the table.

"Orson," I said, "listen to me…"

"Dr.
Goldston
, I’m Orson Thomas."

"It’s nice to meet you, Orson,"
Goldston
said hesitantly. "Where’s Andy?"

"Right here," I said. "Watching you talk to Orson. He's beside me. I'm looking at him."

"No,"
Goldston
said, "you’re looking at me."

"Who the fuck cares?" Orson said. "You wanna talk? Talk."

Goldston
gathered himself and cleared his throat. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead, and he wiped them away on the sleeve of his black jacket.

"What makes you come out, Orson?"
Goldston
asked.

"What do you mean?"

"What makes your personality come out?"

"I’m not a fucking split personality, Doctor. I’m always here. I run the show, not Andy."

"You’re always aware of him?"

"Yes."

"Is he always aware of you?"

"When I want him to be. He’s in la-la land most of the time."

"La-la land?"

"I send him away when I have things to do. Europe, Aruba. That’s his La-la land."

"But sometimes he physically sees you…"

"Because I make him see me."

"Does he know we’re talking now?"

I was speechless, walls of false reality tumbling down. Everything I'd lived for became a transparent curtain behind which Orson had lived and murdered. He'd given me a glimpse of it in Choteau, but I'd tucked that hideous knowledge away. I'd denied and forgotten it, letting my brother remain an enigma as I'd done before.

"Yes," I said, tears trickling down my cheeks.

"Shut your fucking mouth," Orson said, wiping the tears away.

"So you sent him away when you went to kill?"
Goldston
said. "How?"

"I don’t know how I did it. It’s like he lived in a fantasy world when I used him. But it was strange, because sometimes he wrote books about what I did. It was like some part of him knew what was happening even though I sent him away."

"Can you read Andy’s mind?"

"He’s as much a person to me as you are."

"Oh, man,"
Goldston
muttered. He glanced back at Laura, her face white. Everyone’s face had blanched, even the cameraman and the two guards.
Goldston
turned back to Orson. "Who was born into this body, Orson? You or Andy?"

"We both were," Orson said.

"Andy, I want to talk to Orson for..."

"You don’t have to ask his permission."