The Truth Behind a Smile

I paused for a moment contemplating how I should reply to him. “I guess not …” I said, but I was still debating whether I had an interesting enough perspective or even the stomach to hear the stories of a mass murderer.

“Well neither would I. I wouldn’t want someone with the same perspective as me to be the one telling my story either. For that I could just write a memoir though I’m sure not too many people would read it. I’d rather have an impartial observer telling my stories. Maybe even see if I can somehow affect their life or others in a positive way by sharing my experiences. Maybe my stories can change their mind on something, or they can even change my mind before I go.” He paused and looked down at the table, and the expression on his face mutated to that of a man who was out of time. Almost.

“If you don’t write about this, that’s perfectly fine. After all, I’ll never know, will I?” He tried to break the tension with a hollow laugh. “Telling someone everything … that would be enough for me. You probably don’t care about appeasing me—let’s be honest—and I know you’re here for your own personal reasons, but in any case, I appreciate your taking the time. I’ll probably even answer some questions—a lot of people have been wondering about the night that put me in here. So, at the very least you’ll get some answers you can give to the families of the victims and to your boss. But before we dive in, do you have any other questions?”

I was stunned. I had come in expecting a ruthless maniac, thinking he would call me foul names, maybe even try to play mind games with me and break me, making me in a sense his last victim. Instead, Mr. Clark had been nothing but pleasant and respectful, doing his best to ensure that I was comfortable with the situation. I could imagine that he saw my initial apprehension when I first entered the room. I mean, I was frozen with fear at the first sight of him, even with a guard almost double his size standing a few feet away. The only thing on my mind had been that I was staring into the icy blue eyes of a killer. But somehow that same killer had put me at ease and lowered my instinctual defenses within minutes of meeting.

He cocked his right eyebrow and I realized I’d frozen again; I had been staring at him without offering any sort of reply. I came to and realized he hadn’t fully answered my question.

“You’ve told me why you asked for me specifically, but I’m still wondering why you’d want to spend your last few available hours being interviewed by a stranger instead of with your friends or family?”

“Well, not many people want to stay friends with a murderer that openly confessed to being one. You sort of become the black sheep of your family for the same thing.”

“Fair enough, but not even one person?”

“People who can kill others usually don’t have many friends to begin with, my dear, so when you start off with so little and then commit crimes like mine, it’s easy to end up with no one at your side.”

Although his answer made sense, it still came as a surprise—that an old man as charming as he was would not be close enough to a single person who’d want to see him off, say a final goodbye. I’ve met many people throughout my career, and there are always people that are stuck in denial about their loved ones being criminals. Even with serial killers there are almost always a few people who couldn’t believe their son or childhood friend could ever do such a thing. Even some twisted individuals, when they hear of their backgrounds, sometimes sympathize with the murderer, especially if the person is sentenced to death row like Stephen. It’s a bit disturbing, but even knowing all this I am surprised that Stephen did not form a single bond with even one such person. He had been on death row for almost six years now and had spent it all completely alone.

“Have you at least picked up a pen pal or gotten letters from strangers about what you did?”

“Yeah, I’ve received a few letters here and there. A lot of people are calling me a monster—understandably—and even a few sick people who honored me for my crimes. Only I know the things that have happened to me in my life, so, of course, I understand why I killed those men. But I find it to be a bit absurd for strangers to admire what I’ve done when they don’t know a single thing about my life. Now, I don’t want you to think that asking you to interview me is a way to get my story out there to those people. Not in the least. I was just never able to talk about certain things, and I don’t want to have those stories die with me. Hopefully, this will help someone out there after I’m gone and help make sense of what I’ve done.”

I collected my thoughts and asked, “Did you ever respond to any of the letters you received?”

“No. Are you familiar with the case and the sentencing hearing?”

“Of course!” He was national news after all.

“Well then, you should also know that I pleaded guilty. I know what I did. I’m not criminally insane and I won’t pretend that I am to avoid execution or get myself remanded to a psychiatric hospital. I was fully aware of what I was doing, and I asked for the maximum sentence. When the judge reminded me that it was the death penalty, I didn’t flinch.” Stephen let out a chuckle.

“I think the judge and everyone in that courtroom thought I actually was insane. I’d agree with them but, a man should take responsibility for his actions, and if my life ending helps cover the sin of murdering those men, then so be it.”

The conviction in his voice would have put a stutter in my hand had I been taking notes; fortunately, I’d set up a digital recorder. Even after reading his report, and hearing so much about this case, I could not help but be surprised by Stephen’s acceptance of death.

“Well, you’ve been on death row for almost six years now. You must get lonely. Why haven’t you answered any of the letters?”

“I was sentenced to death, not to make friends. All the time I’ve spent in here waiting is part of my punishment. All that time alone in that cell are all a result of my actions.”

“Then why even read the letters? I’m sure some of them brought you a bit of comfort.”

Stephen scoffed at my remark and smiled ironically. “Most of those letters came from people describing their disgust in the most vivid details. I read the letters purposefully—part of my atonement—but sometimes one of the admirers snuck through. Usually, I was able to tell from the first line. I’d toss a letter away if it showed the slightest hint of positivity.”

“It’s only natural for humans to try and make the best of a situation,” I pointed out, “but you insist on making your time here as miserable as possible.”

“I sure did.”

“Why? Why not just end it all and be done with it?”

The expression on his face fell, the air grew denser, and his chest rose slowly to his chin and dropped sharply as he let out a gusty breath. “Because that’s not what a man does. Even though I’ve sinned, I can’t just take my own life. A man has to own up to his mistakes. Killing myself would be taking the coward’s way out. All the pain, all the struggles that came with waiting for this day were part of my punishment, part of the justice for the victims’ families.”

Stephen turned his head toward the guard and lifted his chin at him, acknowledging his presence for the first time.

“My friend over here and his colleagues have been most helpful to me and my mission of making sure I don’t enjoy my time here. Isn’t that right Clarence?”

Clarence readjusted the grip on his baton and his nostrils flared. Although Stephen had been a complete gentleman to me, it seemed he reserved a sarcastic tone for the guard, creating an almost visible line of tension between the two men.

Stephen finally broke eye contact with the guard, leaned forward—his hands cuffed to the table—and whispered, “I’m pretty sure their eagerness to help me has something to do with the fact that one of the men I killed was an off-duty police officer. I had no idea he was a cop—I was on a blind rampage, and he happened to be in my path, so I killed him,” he said coldly.