Naalson walked through the
gateway of the prison. A shiver passed over him as the anguish of the
imprisoned washed over him. In his own way, they were his brothers
and he grieved their imprisonment, however necessary for the greater
good. Naalson hated that expression 'the greater good'. It was one
that was introduced by the Christians, if he recalled it correctly.
That 'greater good' being the good for their distant god. Naalson
flicked an invisible bit of lint off of his suit and waited as the
guard waved a metal detector wand over him. It chirped as it passed
over his wrists. Naalson pulled back his shirt sleeves to reveal the
dead watch on his left wrist and the medical id bracelet on his
right.
“Sign in at the right,” the
guard instructed in a bored tone. Naalson leaned over to peer at the
names of the guards assigned at the door but they turned away before
he could catch their names. The yellow painted brick had all the
charm of a deeply infected wound's purulent drainage. Naalson half
expected the smell underneath the scent of the industrial cleaner
that had been used earlier in the day. He picked up a black pen with
his left hand and signed his name; Naalson, Loptr. The guard looked
up at him suspiciously. “What kind of name is Loptr?”
“It's an old family name from
my mother's side. We're Norwegian originating from the Jotunheimen
region,” Naalson explained with an air of someone who had to
explain his name far too many times. The guard nodded and said
something about people always getting his name wrong too. “I'm here
to see the warden,” Naalson said, shrugging up his sleeve a bit to
glance at the watch face, “He is expecting me.” The guard
gestured another one over to him.
“Please see Mister.. uh.. Na..
Nel ..” The guard looked awkardly at Naalson.
“It's pronounced Naal-son,”
he said.
“Oh, yes. Right. Got it.
Please see Mister Naalson to Warden Schmitt's office,” the guard
instructed his companion. The uniforms and the semi-military haircuts
gave them an almost nondescript quality. Naalson noted, however, the
one who let him in the door had black hair and a moustache with grey
hairs beginning to show. He noted that the one lazing behind the desk
was a red head like himself, just a lighter color and with less
freckles. The guard walking infront of him had blond hair and ice
blue eyes. He vaguely reminded Naalson of someone he knew once that
died by misadventure with a sprig of mistletoe.
As they moved through the
administrative offices portion of the prison, Naalson could
practically hear the walls groan with despair. This, he concluded,
was a cursed place. He rubbed his right wrist absentmindedly and
wondered if he was going to find himself face to face with a snake.
The warden's secretary looked up from a sheaf of reports and blinked
in surprise. Naalson was quite possibly the tallest man he had seen.
Naalson towered over the guard but was surprisingly lean. His
carefully groomed beard hid his scars and a few of his freckles. His
hair was cut in a manner that was virtually identical to the one worn
by the majority of the corrections officers. When the sunlight fell
on it through the chickenwire impregnated windows, it seemed to have
the color of a spark against the dreary grey of the office.
“Warden Schmitt is expecting
me,” Naalson said, “I'm actually a few minutes late.” The
secretary looked down at the paperwork and then shuffled around more
papers. “The warden is in, isn't he? I was told today and this
time, tuesday at nine o'clock.”
“Yes, here you are,” said
the secretary, holding up a neon pink sticky note, “To discuss the
matter of your nephew. One moment.” Naalson folded his hands
behind his back in a position similar to military at ease. Then an
uncomfortable feeling crawled up his spine, a bodily memory of sorts.
Naalson brought his hands back down to his sides as the door to the
warden's office opened.
Warden Schmitt was not an
impressive looking man. He was perhaps the most boring looking person
that Naalson had ever laid eyes on during his travels. Naalson was
mildly impressed with this unconscious feat. Schmitt was reviewing
some manner of paperwork, peering over wire rimmed glasses. His mouse
brown hair was thinning but carefully groomed. His face was clean
shaven where a beard or moustache might have lent him some visual
sense of personality. A small man, Schmitt didn't strike fear into
people with his stature. Quiet spoken, it wasn't his voice that many
feared, at first.
“Elliot, put that on the
pile,” Schmitt said, waving a hand at the towering stack of papers
on the corner of his desk.
“Warden Schmitt, your nine
o'clock appointment is here,” the secretary coughed, embarrassed by
his superior's behavior. Schmitt looked over and then up at Naalson.
“I see, very well. Bring me
the report when this meeting is over, then,” Schmitt said. He stood
up and gestured towards the second chair in the room. It was a small
chair for Naalson to sit down in comfortably but somehow he managed
to make it look so. “What can I do for you, sir?” Schmitt said,
attempting to sound ingratiating in his bland voice. Naalson couldn't
help the vulpine smile that came when Schmitt asked his question.
“There is an inquiry going on,
Mister Schmitt,” Naalson said, “I believe word of it has reached
your office.” Schmitt looked confused. “Clearly the memo was
misplaced. Your secretary's desk is almost as bad as mine,” Naalson
said with that same smile, his tone sounding genuinely warm and
friendly. “An inmate recently was reported to have become deceased
under your watch under suspicious circumstances.” Schmitt's attempt
to be pleasant dropped away and the tepid looking man scowled as much
as such a man could manage. “The report,” Naalson continued,
sounding bored with the entire affair, “Said that you were the last
man to see him alive.”
“Are you accusing me of
something?” demanded Schmitt, his voice turning hard. It was a tone
that the inmates were troubled by. Because when Schmitt was angry,
bad things tended to happen.
“Oh, I'm not accusing you of
anything,” Naalson said mildly, “Merely stating the facts of the
report that I received. And this inmate, I believe his number was ...
No, that doesn't matter. “ Naalson leaned forward, steepling his
fingers before his face as he rested his elbows on the warden's desk.
“Erick Ericksonne was his name,” Naalson said, “the report
reads that he committed suicide. However, it also reads that all
suicide watch protocol was followed. No belt, no shoelaces, no sheet
on the cot. Hell, no cot even, just a mattress in a bare cell. We all
know how those parts of the facility look. With the dehumanizing mint
green and pink colors that make you think of those damned after
dinner mints that taste like chalk, am I right?”
Schmitt blinked quickly. He had
the feeling that he was in the presence of someone quite dangerous
though he couldn't parse the reason why. “I have one question for
you, John,” Naalson said, gesturing with his right hand towards the
warden. “Why did you strangle him? Wasn't it enough that you had
him in solitary on suicide watch for refusing to say the pledge first
thing in the morning? Wasn't it enough that you had his food rations
cut in half? Are you really so patriotic
as to murder a man for 'disrespecting the flag'?”
Schmitt
hit the panic button under his desk. Nothing happened. He pressed it
again. “Oh, tech gets gitchy around me,” Naalson said, smiling,
“You should see my watch. Something about my ... energy.” Schmitt
felt sweat beading up along the back of his neck. “Or, really,”
Naalson said suddenly as he leaned back and raised his right index
finger as though he had an exciting revelation, “Is the problem
that Erick was a pacifist? Well, we should say, was in this case.
Proper context is important as is clauses. You hate pacifists. You've
hated them since the war. Can't say I'd blame you much except for
there's one small problem. This isn't the war. You can't kill a man
with impunity, no matter how well you cover it up.”
“Turning
off the camera on the room, clever man,” Naalson said, “But, you
forgot about the one in the hallway. It caught you 'adjusting' your
belt. The very same belt you used to strangle your prisoner.”
“That's
a lie,” Schmitt said in an icey tone. The vulpine smile returned.
Schmitt wondered how this man knew. He wondered if he hadn't paid the
guard on duty enough money to keep his yap shut. He wondered if the
camera actually was on. “You're trying to blackmail me,” Schmitt
said.
“Oh
no, blackmail is beneath me,” Naalson said, “I'm here to give you
a choice. Confess your crime or suffer Erick's fate.”
“What
are you going to do? Kill me?” Schmitt couldn't keep the note of
panic out of his voice at the last part of his statement.
Naalson
scoffed, “I wouldn't dirty my hands. Your hands, however...”
Schmitt's
hands shook and began to move of their own accord. Naalson watched
as he took of his belt and stood up. “Stop this,” Schmitt said.
“You
are doing this to yourself,” Naalson answered as Schmitt looped one
end of the belt over the pendant lamp hanging from the ceiling. He
watched with emotionless eyes as Schmitt's filled with panic and he
struggled. As he teetered on the rolling chair with his makeshift
noose around his neck, Schmitt's face turned red. Naalson stood up
and walked around the table. He gripped hold of the back of the
chair. For a moment Schmitt's stance stabilized and the awful
pressure around his throat eased up for a moment. “Off to Niflhel
with you, snake,” Naalson said in Schmitt's ear before kicking the
chair out from under him.
Schmitt's
secretary opened the door. “Sir, your nine o'clock appointment is
here,” he said, looking down at the report in his hand. The
secretary looked up and screamed at the sight of his superior
dangling from a light that could barely hold him. “Oh god,
somebody... somebody do something!” the secretary screamed as
others around him scrambled into action. In the chaos, no one noticed
a mouse scuttling out of the room and evading their stomping feet.
