You could see the illusion of a wound, Sachs thought bitterly.
The detective called out, "They've notified the guards at all the exits. But, Christ, this isn't a lockdown corridor. As soon as we closed the doors here he could've stood up and wandered anywhere. He's probably stealing a car right now or on the subway to Queens."
Amelia Sachs began giving orders. Whatever the detective's rank he was so shaken by the escape that he didn't question her authority. "Get an escape bulletin out now," she said. "All agencies in the metro area. Federal and state. Don't forget MTA. The name is Erick Weir. White male. Early fifties. You've got the mug shot."
"What's he wearing?" the detective asked Welles and her partner, who both struggled to remember. They gave a rough description.
Sachs was thinking, though, that it hardly mattered. He'd be in different clothing now. She gazed down the four tentacles of dim corridors she could see from here and observed silhouettes of dozens of people. Guards, janitors, cops . . .
Or maybe the Conjurer, disguised as one of them.
But for the moment she left the issue of pursuit in others' hands and turned back to her own area of expertise: the crime scene, whose search was supposed to be a brief formality but had now become a matter of life and death.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Making his way cautiously through th
e basement of the Manhattan Detention Center, Malerick was reflecting on his escape, offering silent patter to his revered audience.
Let me share with you a trick of the illusionist's trade.
To truly fool people it's not enough to misdirect them during the illusion. This is because when confronted with a phenomenon that defies logic the human brain continues to replay the scene afterward to try to understand what happened. We illusionists call this "reconstruction," and unless we set up our trick cleverly enough an intelligent, suspicious audience will be fooled only briefly and will figure out our method after the routine is over.
So how do we trick audiences like this?
We use the most implausible method we can--either one absurdly simple or overwhelmingly complex.
An example: one famous illusionist appears to push an entire peacock feather through a handkerchief. Audiences rarely can figure out what kind of sleight of hand he uses to make it seem that the feather actually penetrates the cloth. What's the method? It does penetrate the cloth. There's a hole in the handkerchief! The audience considers this method at first but then invariably decides that it's too simple for such a great performer. They'd rather think he's doing something far more elaborate.
Another: an illusionist met some friends for dinner at a restaurant and was asked to show them a few tricks. He declined at first but finally agreed. He took a spare tablecloth, held it up in front of a table of two lovers dining nearby and vanished the couple and their table in one second. The friends were astonished. How could he have done it? They never guessed that, supposing that he'd probably be invited to perform, the illusionist had arranged with the maitre d' to have a prepared, collapsible table on hand and hired an actor and actress to play the couple. When he'd held up the cloth they'd disappeared on cue.
In reconstructing what they'd seen, the diners rejected the actual answer as too improbable for such an apparently impromptu performance.
And this is what occurred with the illusion you just witnessed, one I call the Shot Prisoner.
Reconstruction. Many illusionists forget about this psychological process. But Malerick never did. And he'd considered it carefully when planning his escape in the detention center. The officers escorting him down the corridor to the lockup believed they saw a prisoner slip his cuffs, grab a gun and end up shot dead right in front of them.
There was shock, there was dismay, there was horror.
But even at such peak moments the mind does what it must and before the smoke dissipated the officers were analyzing the events and considering options and courses of action. Like any audience they engaged in reconstruction and, knowing that Erick Weir was a skilled illusionist, undoubtedly wondered if the shooting had been faked.
But their ears had heard a real gun fire a real bullet.
Their eyes had seen a head explode under the impact and, a moment later, a limp body in the pose of death and blood, brain, bone and glazed eyes.
The reconstruction resulted in a conclusion that it was far too implausible for a man to go to such elaborate lengths to fake the shooting. So, confident he was dead, they'd left him alone, unshackled, in the corridor while they went off to make their frantic radio or phone calls.
And my method, Revered Audience?
As they'd walked down the corridor Malerick had peeled off the bandage on his hip and removed a universal handcuff key from a tiny slit in his skin. Once out of the cuffs he hit the woman guard in the face, the other in the throat and pulled her gun from her holster. A struggle . . . and finally he'd aimed the gun behind his head and pulled the trigger. At the same time he tapped the firing circuit of the tiny squib taped to a shaved portion of his scalp under his long hair, blowing up a small bladder of fake blood, bits of gray rubber and fragments of beef bone. To add to the credibility of the act he'd used a razor knife blade--hidden in his hip with the key--to cut his scalp, an area of the body that bleeds profusely but with little pain.
Then he'd lain like a discarded rag doll, breathing as shallowly as he could. His eyes remained open because he'd filled them with viscous eyedrops that produced a milky appearance and allowed him not to blink.
Fuck me, look what I did! Oh, fuck! Help him, somebody!
Ah, but Officer Welles, it was too late to help me.
I was dead as a roadside deer.