Autumn Lives Here
birds, candy, The Woman in Black, and a short story debut involving legal matters...
If you're creepy and you know it, clap your hands!
Vol. 24.
We're in the most wonderful time of year. Maple leaves and monsters. Costumes, candy, ghost stories, scary movies, pumpkins and roaring fires. Some intentional.
Are you up for getting a little sinister?
Phobia of the week!
Great movie, I couldn't stop laughing
Ornithophobia. That's the fear of birds, and it can mean a fear of a particular kind of bird or all of them. Some people fear the feathers, some the song or squawk, and some people can't bear the sight of a bird on the tv. People who suffer from this phobia fear being attacked by the bird, so situations like having a hungry seagull dive for their french fries is a trigger.
And if you were wondering, yes, there was a reported increase in ornithophobia after Hitchcock's The Birds was released, but in his hands, it could have been about ladybugs and people would have freaked.
The Woman in Black
by Susan Hill
Vintage, 1983
Young solicitor Arthur Kipps is sent from his London firm to the far away and isolated Eel Marsh House to retrieve the paperwork of recently deceased client Mrs. Drablow. Kipps puts the anxious warnings from the locals down to the old woman living alone for decades out in the marshes, often cut off from the town, but he soon begins to see and hear a pattern of supernatural events that terrify him.
This story has a long set-up before the scary stuff begins, but once it does it's non-stop ghostly happenings. Set around the 1930's, but truly a Gothic, with Kipps being cut off from civilization without a car or phone. Even his flashlight breaks.
This is one I'll re-read and likely enjoy just as much the second time.
Scare Scale: 3.5
I Spend A Lot of Time Thinking About Candy
The 2022 results are in. Take a look at the best-selling Halloween candies state by state for this year and see if you agree. I just have a real hard time seeing Jolly Ranchers as a favorite, but to each their peach.
And Now, A Short Shock...
Experience
“Can you give us an idea of how you'll proceed today?”
The dark-haired reporter flicked her microphone towards Mr. Neilson. He traded his briefcase to the other hand while gathering his thoughts. He was not a man who spoke glibly.
“Discussing what kind of man Thomas Blane is, that's my only intention. Discuss what this man has done. What he did to those women and children. Really, the work of my team and I has been to gather the facts of his actions and put them in order. He wrote his story. Excuse me.”
Mr. Neilson nodded to the reporter and climbed the steps of the Francis K. O' Roarke Criminal Court building, his six associates closely behind him.
“That's the word from William Neilson, representing the State in today's sentencing, which is due to start in just about twenty minutes. I see Rachel Woodroe, head of Thomas Blane's team, approaching.” The reporter hurried to join the group of reporters and camera operators swarming around Woodroe, who stopped to address them. Under one arm was a thick leather binder, while a soft-sided leather carrier was slung over one shoulder. Her tailored suit was a brown tweed accessorized with a gold brooch.
“Ms. Woodroe, what can you tell us about your strategy?” several reporters called out.
The attorney representing the convicted took a breath before answering.
“I wouldn't call it a strategy. Mr. Blane has been found guilty of his crimes and- oh, sorry, but we need to get to the courtroom now.”
Ms. Woodroe and her team hurried up the steps while each reporter turned to their respective camera operator and addressed an anchor in the studio. The chatter of their segment wrap-ups finished one by one.
Inside the courtroom, a small pool of media were allowed to film and take notes on the proceedings. It was a grand room, constructed a hundred years before of dark mahogany panels and pews. The lighting consisted of both blown-glass lamp sconces on the walls and overhead LED. The American flag and state flag stood side by side to the left of the judge's bench, while an enormous oil painting of the scales of justice, crackled and mellow with age, covered the right-hand wall.
As one, the cameras panned to watch Mr. Neilson and his team enter and congregate around the two tables at the left of the room. Neilson went to the front table and set his briefcase down, snapping it open to remove several bundles of papers and a laptop. As Ms. Mason and Mr. Usaka whispered to him, he listened and nodded, arranging his work supplies as he did at the start of each day he appeared in court. Ms. Mason and Mr. Usaka seated themselves to Mr. Neilson's left, while the three junior associates settled at the table behind him.
The cameras turned in unison as Ms. Woodroe and her defense team entered and took the two tables on the right side of the room.
Ms. Woodroe took the left corner of the first table, closest to the center aisle, unloading her shoulder bag of multiple thick folders, each with coordinating colored tabs sticking out. The seat to her right was taken by Mr. Perez, and two seats to his right was Ms. Williams. Their junior associates sat at the table behind them.
A side door at the front right of the courthouse opened and Thomas Blane was brought out. He was shackled but wearing a suit, surrounded by four armed and burly guards who transferred Blane to the custody of four armed court bailiffs. Blane gave the room a squinty-eyed glare as he shambled to the defense table, pausing to smirk when he spotted the bank of television cameras. All eyes were on the man and Ms. Woodroe felt a moment of disgust as she watched him shiver with pleasure at the attention.
Blane was directed to sit between Mr. Perez and Ms. Williams. It was unnecessary for him to be next to Ms. Woodroe as there was really nothing he could contribute, he was there simply to be present for the day's proceedings.
“All rise! The Honorable Martin Simmons presiding!”
A chamber door to the back left opened and Judge Simmons entered quickly and took his seat. He was a man of average height who wore his gray hair lightly oiled and combed in a side-part. His larger than average nose was accentuated by black rimmed glasses, which hung upon large ears. A green and gold striped tie was seen from the top of his robes.
“Be seated.” The packed gallery and the attorneys complied immediately, while Blane moved slowly, seeming to want all eyes on him until a bailiff murmured, “Sit.”
“This is number 79908 on the docket, Your Honor. Thomas Blane for sentencing.”
“Thank you. Ms. Woodroe, your client is clear about the proceedings today, is that right?”
Woodroe stood and said, 'He is, Your Honor.”
“Let's proceed. This is, as we all know, a ground-breaking matter no matter which way it goes -”
Blane smirked.
“...one that will be studied in the future. Let's try to do the right thing here. The State may begin. Mr. Neilson.”
Mr. Neilson rose to his feet, buttoning his suit jacket as he stepped around the table.
“Thank you and good morning, Your Honor. Thomas Blane has been found guilty of a litany of truly heinous crimes. A jury has listened to the evidence, looked at the photos and even heard Mr. Blane's own confessions. He is guilty, without a doubt, guilty. There are no ifs or maybes to explore. Guilty.
The citizens of this state and this country are looking upon Thomas Blane with repulsion.” Mr. Neilson pointed at Blane now. “He has contributed nothing but pain, terror and grief to this world, and the experts who examined him unanimously agree that he will never be rehabilitated. Unanimously agree that there is no hope of change. This man who sits before you is human in shape only. What's more, he doesn't see any of us as human. We are his prey. If anything could make matters worse, he isn't just brutal, he is a coward. He sought out victims who couldn't fight him. The State believes that there is no reason at all for Thomas Blane to continue breathing when so many of his victims cannot. Your Honor, we will be calling on the family members of Thomas Blane's victims, they will tell you themselves that they want this evil man to die. Thank you.”
Mr. Neilson returned to his table, unbuttoned his jacket and sat.
There was a pause, as if the room waited to see if Blane would react to being called a coward, but the convicted just raised his eyebrows a bit and continued to smirk.
“Ms. Woodroe,” Judge Simmons said, “You may deliver your opening statement.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” she said, rising to her feet. She paused, stepping around the table and to the right of her team, positioning herself to address Judge Simmons while also facing the bank of cameras.
“We have rules in society. Some of these rules are ethics or good manners, things we have been trained to do or don't do since childhood. These rules help people to get along, and to feel secure in society. Respecting others, being honest. It's the little everyday things that show others that we are a good person. But some of us never learn these lessons because the people who raised us never learned them themselves, so they don't have the skills to pass them on.” She paused to let the judge think about this.
“As you can gather, Thomas Blane was not taught basic steps for being a good citizen because no one in his childhood possessed those skills themselves. We've seen the few photos of him growing up that exist, we've seen the filthy house he grew up in, what we now call a hoarding situation. We've heard about his mother, and no matter how we feel about this man as an adult, we have to pity the child who was raised by that woman. How many of us would have been successful adults after that upbringing?
But we are here for another set of rules that Thomas Blane didn't learn to follow. Laws. Thomas Blane is not a good person. He admits it. I agree. Part of what makes him, well...who he is, stems from not being taught to respect laws. Another lesson about civilization that his mother was unable to pass on to her child. I'm not here to try and argue what has already been adjudicated. But he is human. He deserves to live the rest of his life in prison, yes, absolutely. We don't need to kill him. Let's show him mercy, for once in his life. Thank you, Your Honor.”
The judge nodded as he scribbled quickly.
“Mr. Neilson, present the state's argument, please.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
Mr. Neilson buttoned his jacket and strode to the center of the floor, addressing the judge.
“We are here to decide Thomas Blane's punishment. It's ironic that we are taking so much time, effort and tax dollars to decide on the most fair punishment for this man, as he took the lives of nine people without any thought other than his own pleasure. He acted as judge, jury and executioner, deciding all on his own how slowly or quickly each would die, how much suffering each would endure. And now he asks for mercy for himself.”
Mr. Neilson turned on his heels and directed his next comments at the defense table.
“But let's look at that argument that the defense is presenting. He deserves mercy because he's human.
That may sound like the argument of someone who has nowhere else to turn, when the only thing you can say for someone is, “He's human.” Your Honor, I challenge that argument.”
An expressionless Judge Simmons watched Mr. Neilson.
“He may walk upright, he may possess speech and opposable thumbs and everything that we can see that physically identifies a human, but I do not believe Thomas Blane to possess certain qualities that a human must have.”
Mr. Neilson paused here. The room was silent, holding its breath, waiting to hear where this was going. Mr. Neilson's face puckered in disgust as he spoke.
“For one thing, he lacks empathy. Empathy is what makes us wish our fellow man well, it's what makes us hurt when someone else hurts. Empathy allows us to put ourselves in someone else's place and imagine how we'd feel when something unfortunate or painful happens to them. Thomas Blane proved nearly a dozen times that he lacks empathy. It isn't in his make-up. He lacks the ability to love or feel affection. That in itself is not a crime, but Thomas Blane used this lack of affection for his fellow human as a tool. He truly believes that his inability to form normal connections with people or animals is some kind of super power, as if it makes him stronger than the rest of us. He will never be able to realize that this is what makes him unable to be rehabilitated.”
Mr. Neilson turned slightly towards the cameras.
“But the largest defect in Thomas Blane's personality is his desire to do as much damage as possible. We need to consider this.
You can go through life as a survivor of childhood abuse. You can get through life as a rude, mean, selfish person. You might even go your whole life without once feeling love or just fondness for another living creature. You can live a solitary life. People do that. But you cannot fill your emptiness with evil acts, which is what Thomas Blane did. Because he didn't just harmlessly live his empty life, he filled his head with twisted ideas, moving from the thoughts, to looking for victims he could commit those horrendous acts upon. He couldn't come up with anything better to do with his life than to inflict pain. Upon women. Upon small children. To kill a good man who tried to stop him. This is why I challenge the statement that he is human, because humans don't behave inhumanely.”
He paused and turned to look at the bank of reporters.
“But what the state is asking for, the retribution we seek, is called inhumane by some. It will cause Thomas Blane's death, certainly, but more than that, it will allow him to experience. It will impart valuable lessons about human emotions. We believe this is the justice his victims and their families have a right to, and deserve. Thank you, Your Honor.”
Mr. Neilson sat down.
“Your rebuttal, Ms. Woodroe,” the judge said as he wrote.
Ms. Woodroe stood and tugged the bottom of her brown tweed jacket. She quietly cleared her voice before beginning.
“Mr. Blane knows that he is never going to be a free man again. Why not keep him alive to have a long, horrible life in a cage?”
There was a murmur in the room, which caused Judge Simmons to call for quiet.
Ms. Woodroe continued, pointing a crooked finger at Blane.
“I've sat across from Thomas Blane many times during the course of gathering information for this very day. I've spoken to him at length, as have my associates. He is a man who wants to be in control of all situations, an honest-to-God control-freak. Think back to what he did to his victims, how he controlled them. This is a personality trait that resides in his core, this need to control everything and everyone. Which is why I believe he should be allowed to live out his natural life in prison. Frankly, I can't think of a more just punishment for him than spending everyday for the rest of his life being controlled by other people. Being told when to wake up and when to go to sleep, when to shower and clean his space. Imagine the anger he will feel everyday at having to eat whatever is given to him, at having to follow orders given by his guards. Imagine how he'll feel being denied the drugs and alcohol he relies so heavily. It will eat at him every minute!”
Blane did his best to keep his face immobile, but his thin lips still twisted in anger. None of this shit had been pointed out to him before. He knew it was his future but she was really enjoying rubbing it in his face. Blane wished he'd met her two years ago when he was having a good time.
She turned to the cameras, then to the gallery, looking individuals in the eyes.
“If the conversations I've had with Mr. Blane are any indication, and I believe they are, I can promise you that if allowed to live, Mr. Blane will live in misery. Probably spending much of his time in solitary confinement for his own safety, and this will be unbearable for a man like Thomas Blane, because for all his terrible deeds, he is a man who wants to be near people. He needs to be near people in order to manipulate them, but his crimes will ensure that he has little contact with anyone other than the guards. To believe that death is the worst that can be inflicted on a man such as Mr. Blane is wrong. If we are calling for justice, letting him live would be the greater justice for his victims.”
As Ms. Woodroe spoke, Blane had leaned over to Mr. Perez and whispered, “What is she doing? I didn't agree to life in prison, this was supposed to be criminal insanity.”
Mr. Perez was nearly a decade younger than Blane, taller by six inches and outweighed him by a good fifty pounds. He tilted his head to whisper, “You were found competent at you first trial and our attempt at the hospital was denied three days ago. We sent you the notice.”
“I didn't open it. You son of bitches had better bring up criminal insanity or I'm gonna lose it here. Starting with you.”
“You do and you'll be leaving skid marks all the way to the execution chamber.” Perez faced Ms. Woodroe and concentrated on her argument.
Blane leaned back, pulling his bottom lip into his teeth and chewing in frustration before leaning towards Ms. Williams on his right. “Don't even,” she whispered.
Finishing her argument, Ms. Woodroe seated herself.
Judge Simmons had occasionally been writing notes during both arguments but now he wrote in earnest. The room was silent, waiting for his next instructions. Blane rocked and swiveled his chair, turning towards the cameras to smile, and then he attempted even more. Mr. Perez's face remained placid as he angrily whispered, “Don't you dare turn around,” just as Blane swiveled to look at the gallery, making eye contact with the father of Amy Travis. Raymond Travis had been waiting two years for this day, and that moment of looking into Blane's twinkling eyes brought a roar from Travis' throat that sounded shockingly like a bear even to his own ears. He found that he was on his feet and clenching his hands while locking eyes with his daughter's killer. Blane smiled as two bailiffs approached and blocked Travis, though he never took a step nearer to Blane. He sat down to bide his time, as he'd been doing.
Perez grabbed the back of Blane's chair and yanked it to face forward.
Judge Simmons was aware and let the bailiffs handle the issue. When he raised his head he addressed The State.
“Mr. Neilson, are you ready to begin the victim impact statements?”
“We are, Your Honor. We'd like to call LouAnne Stein, mother of Rebecca Stein.”
Mrs. Stein came forward to a lectern at the left of the room, just feet from The State's table. She was a short, thickly built middle-aged woman, who tearfully spoke again about the horror of finding out what had been done to her youngest daughter, what Thomas Blane had done, just as she had during his trial. And as she'd done then, she said that Blane didn't deserve to live, that she wanted him to die.
Next came another mother, Sandra Park, who talked about her kind teenaged daughter Keri, who had been too trusting, too helpful. She turned to Blane and spat, “The only thing I want in this world now is your death.” For once, he was following the advice of his attorneys, staring straight ahead as the families spoke.
Mrs. Park was followed by John Todd, Monica Glassman, Trey Ayala, Wendy Taylor, Marie Pettigrew, Richard Donnelly, Steve Zander and last of all Raymond Travis, who stared at the back of Blane's head as he approached the lectern with such intensity that every bailiff in the courtroom tensed and shifted in their stance.
“He's been alive for too long. That's what I've got to say. It's time we get this done.”
Mr. Travis returned to his seat without incident.
Mr. Neilson raised himself from his seat and said, “Your Honor, that concludes the victim impact statements. Thank you.”
Judge Simmons nodded and wrote something.
“Ms. Woodroe, does anyone wish to speak at this time?”
She had been dreading this moment. She leaned towards her client and whispered, dropping her voice to the most authoritative tone, but Blane still insisted. Ms. Woodroe swallowed a sigh while rising to her feet.
“Your Honor, Thomas Blane would like to address the court.”
“Very well. Mr. Blane, you have the right to speak on your own behalf.”
Blane stood and smiled at the judge, feeling the power of all these people listening, and the millions of people watching at home. He took a moment to let that feeling wash over him.
“Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the court, you people at home who are watching,” he gestured at the cameras and smiled as if making a new acquaintance. “I know that I am a bad man. That's what you're all wanting to know, isn't it? If I realize that I'm bad? Yes, I do.”
Each member of his council stifled their reaction. Ms. Woodroe in particular wanted to shove a pen into Blane's throat.
“For all the evil I have brought unto the world, I am truly sorry. I really am. I want to express my deepest sorrow to the families that are here today, those who have experienced the loss of a daughter or son, a wife, sister, mother...let us bow our heads in prayer for two minutes-,”
“Mr. Blane,” Judge Simmons interrupted, “get on with your statement.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Blane smiled. “My apologies.” He turned towards the cameras. “I was raised very badly, as you've heard, but that's no excuse and I'm not going to try and make excuses for my behavior here. Other people go through horrible childhoods but don't come out the way I did. So doesn't that make me something of an enigma? Don't you wonder why I did what I did? Wouldn't everyone in this room like to know what flipped my switch? I know you do. I'd like to know myself. I had a wife and a baby daughter at home, good paying county job... it's a mystery, right? So why not keep me around to see if someone can find out? Because I don't believe it would do you all a bit of good to kill me, or even have me rotting away in some maximum security prison where, let's be honest, I will have no reason to do anything more than read paperbacks all day and eat three meals. I think I should be placed in someplace like the Ritterfield Hospital-”
“Objection!,” Mr. Neilson called out. “Your honor, the question of a psychiatric facility was ruled upon. He has been found to be competent.”
“Councils will approach.”
Ms. Woodroe motioned for Blane to sit, which he did, crossing his legs and folding his arms to watch what would happen.
Mr. Neilson and Ms. Woodroe met at the bench, where Judge Simmons quietly told the prosecutor, “Why not let him speak? It's a Hail Mary and we all know it.”
“Respectfully, it seems to get us off track, Your Honor. We can't entertain a third option and he knows it.”
“I understand how it could seem that way, but I don't want it to be said that Mr. Blane didn't have a chance to speak. What do you say, Ms. Woodroe?”
“Your Honor, I'd like him to be allowed to continue.”
“Alright. I'm sorry, Mr. Neilson.”
The attorneys returned to their seats.
“Continue, Mr. Blane,” Judge Simmons said.
Blane smiled and stood, picking up where he'd left off.
“I belong in Ritterfield Hospital or another place like that. Some place where the doctors and psychiatrists can find out what makes a guy like me snap. You can't deny that I'm unusual, what with changing my methods and type of victim. Let me be of service. I'll cooperate fully, they want to ask me questions everyday for forty years, I'll do it without complaint. No stonewalling, I hope studying me goes a long way in furthering pychology. So that's my offer, Your Honor. Let me live and do some good. Thank you.” Blane took his seat.
Judge Simmons looked to councils. “Does the State have anything to add?”
Mr. Neilson stood and said, “No, Your Honor.”
Ms. Woodroe stood and said, “We have concluded, thank you, You Honor.”
“Thank you both. Court will adjourn for now. I'll return with my decision shortly.”
Judge Simmons rose from the bench, prompting everyone but Blane to spring to their feet. Mr. Perez grabbed Blane under the arm and attempted to lift him to his feet but Blane smirked and went limp like a sack of flour until the bailiffs circled him and he was ordered to his feet to be chained and cuffed. He was led through a side door that went to a narrow hallway with several switchback turns that opened out to a staging area with a guard booth and a bank of monitors. His leg shackles were removed here and signed in. He was taken back to his holding cell, a dark room that he'd lived in for nearly a year. He walked in and backed up against the bars for a guard to remove the cuffs. Blane sat down on the cot to eat the trayed meal that was waiting there.
Two hours later a guard appeared in front of Blane's cell saying, “Back to court.”
Blane had been drifting to sleep, as he often did when he was in the cell. The darkness did that to him. He rarely knew the time, the lighting was too low for reading and he was three cells over from the next occupied cell. That guy was just a petty thief anyway, and he rarely answered Blane's questions.
When the guard told him he was going back already, Blane sat up. They both know that a quick decision wasn't good. Anything less than an overnighter in a case of this kind meant that the judge left the courtroom knowing how he'd rule, he just took the time to have dinner and watch the news to make it appear as if he'd deliberated.
The guard smiled as he told Blane, “Get that tie on and back it up.”
Blane clipped the tie on and shrugged into the jacket, thinking how unfair it was for a man to meet this day in second-hand clothes from some bible-thumper. He backed up to the slats and put his wrists together to be cuffed. The door slid open and Blane saw that the hallway was practically wall-to-wall guards, all the beefy ones that could snap his neck if it came to it.
“I'm on the highway to hell...,” Blane sang softly but no one laughed.
In the courtroom, both tables quickly filled with attorneys. The bailiff called, “Court is back in session. Judge Simmons presiding.”
The Judge emerged from chambers and seated himself, flipping open a folder in front of him. “Please bring Mr. Blane in.”
Thomas Blane was led in with four guards surrounding him while two more guards stood against the wall near the jail door. His cuffs and shackles were removed. He sat between Mr. Perez and Ms. Williams. Ms. Woodroe didn't look at him.
“Thank you all for coming back. I know it's late but I felt it's best to settle this matter as quickly as possible. The families have waited too long already.”
Blane's heart truly sank at hearing this. Ms. Woodroe sat motionless, while Mr. Perez exhaled. Ms. Williams leaned forward, hanging on Judge Simmons' every word. She seemed to be the only one still hoping to win.
“I don't want anyone to think that I didn't turn this matter around in my mind, seeing it from every angle. My decision was not an easy one to make. I'm acutely aware that a man's life is at stake here and that's something that should never be taken lightly.
Thomas Blane has been found guilty of a long list of heinous acts, including murder. My job here has been to decide what to do about Thomas Blane. On the one hand, I could sentence him to a lifetime in prison, looking at the same walls day after day for the rest of his life. He would have three meals a day, without fail, and receive good medical care. He would have access to a library and computers, and free therapy, if he so chooses. He would be able to send and receive mail, watch television and even workout in a gym. He could choose to get a college degree, all free, courtesy of the taxpayers. Mr. Blane is in good health and only thirty-eight years old. Barring any unforeseeable incident, Mr. Blane could be expected to easily live thirty-five years in more comfort and security than he had been providing for himself as a free man. When thinking about these facts, I have to ask myself if this is justice. Would keeping Mr. Blane locked away benefit anyone?”
Judge Simmons paused.
“I concluded that the answer is no, locking Mr. Blane in a prison cell for the rest of his life wouldn't benefit a single person. It would only be cruel.”
Yesyesyesyesyes!!! Blane screamed inside his head. He listened to me! He believes me! His heart thumped like he'd done an eightball. He was soaring.
“To have justice, Mr. Blane needs to experience the terror, the pain, and yes, the knowledge that he will not be able to survive, because surely his victims knew that they were not going to survive his brutality.”
“No, no, no, no, no, no!” Blane stood and screamed. “No, don't do this! Please, please, please don't do this!”
Judge Simmons continued without pause. “Thomas Blane, you are sentenced to death by retribution, to be carried out immediately in the execution chamber. May God have mercy on your soul.” To the bailiffs he said, “Please make the preparations.”
Cheers broke out in the court. Judge Simmons would normally threaten to have them removed for this, but ecstatic families were here for justice.
The cameras turned in unison to follow Blane as he fought to keep the cuffs from being locked. All six guards surrounded him, twisting his arms behind his back as he screamed. Once the cuffs were about his wrists he went limp, forcing four of the guards to each take a limb and carry Blane back through the jail door that he'd entered through earlier. Instead of going right, they carried him left down a short hallway he'd never been down before. He screamed and fought the whole way.
Back in the courtroom, Judge Simmons announced that those who had made impact statements should line up with their photo identification ready. Two bailiffs stood at the jail door, one with a clipboard, the other accepting the identifications and reading the names off. The person was handed a locker key and told to remove and place their phone, wallet, purse and jewelry in an assigned locker located in the corridor.
“Turn off your phones before leaving them, please. You're allowed one item, no electronics, no battery-operated items, no cameras.”
Each was handed a clear plastic jumpsuit with a zipper in front. They stepped into the jumpsuits and pulled the attached hood over their heads.
When they had locked their valuables securely, their keys were exchanged for small paper tags with their locker number on them. Each person initialed the tag while a guard watched.
They lined up single file in front of a door where two guards stood, each person holding their chosen item in a raised hand while the guards frisked them. Wendy Taylor, the devoutly religious widow of the murdered police officer, clutched something shiny and prayed.
The guard in the back of the line finished frisking the last person and said, “Alright, good to go.”
The two guards at the double doors pulled them open. The line of people entered the shadowed chamber. There was recessed lighting of just two 60 watt bulbs over the center of the room. To one of the guards, the low spotlights reminded him of a small jazz club, one that smelled of sweat and terror, where the performance would be messy.
“Gag or no gag?” One of the guards called out over Blane's pleas. He was strapped to a metal table in the middle of the room, which was bolted to the floor and surrounded by three inches of fresh sawdust.
“No gag!” Mrs. Park answered. “I want to hear him beg.”
The guards gave the straps that held Thomas Blane a last yank before one guard cheerfully said, “Alright, folks, he's all yours.”
They walked past Mrs. Park with her meat cleaver and Mr. Todd with his ball-peen hammer, the rest with their scissors and pliers. Mr. Travis, who was an avid sport fisherman, had brought a heavy-duty hook for hauling in marlin. The guards closed the doors behind them.
How 'bout telling a friend about Autumn Lives Here? No?
How 'bout yelling, “Autumn Lives Here!!!” at your enemies. I get the feeling more people would hear about it that way.