The Yearbook Photos
This was the weirdest cell Alberto had seen. Most guys festooned their place with permissible assortments and clippings from approved magazines, but this cell, many times normal size, was a studio apartment. There was a real bunk bed… looked like cherry wood… a full size pillow top mattress on the bottom and a plush single on top. He had the top corner of the full folded back like Alberto’s mother used to do. A fastidious creeper no doubt, but Alberto was confident he’d have the bottom bunk soon enough, and his new cellie would be thanking him for the exchange.
There was a sofa, belamped doughboys, and a matching coffee table laid out with a breakfast spread of epic proportions for a prison. Ah! And there it was, the source of that intoxicating aroma that had greeted him when first entering this otherwise empty wing—fresh brewed coffee standing ready and steaming on the granite counter of a kitchenette. It wasn’t that mud they serve in mess, either; his nose knew.
They had refused to tell him anything about his new cellie, which usually meant he was a perv, an expectation that seeing him now did not dispel. Pristine snow white hair, round flushed face, thick glasses, and a dopy grin. He couldn’t imagine any another reason for this Mayberry escapee to be here. His short-sleeved powder blue oxford was, however, perplexing… like everything else in here, not normal prison issue. The rest of them were decked out like high school janitors.
Opie closed the gap between them with a rush and shot out his hand, squealing, “Glad to meet you, I’m Cillian Buckley.”
Already weirded out, Alberto, beamed with pleasure, seizing the offering like he was sealing a deal… which, given this place, he guessed he was. Almost laughing, he gave one of his five standard greetings, each tailored to his end game, “I’m Alberto Westerly… and before you ask, No, I’m not Italian. My mom was just really into Japanese South American Dictators. I’m pretty sure he’s not my dad, though. What do you think?” He turn his chin this way and that as if seeking the perfect light to showcase his chiseled, definitely-not-Asian features. Looks were an asset that Alberto prized above all others, except his genius. Combine these and take away giving a crap about a planet full of useful idiots and he was an irresistible success machine… two years in Oshkosh notwithstanding.
Rather than releasing his hand, Buckley, blindly grabbed behind Alberto’s elbow and pulled his whole forearm in as if trying a feeble snatch and run. A bit shocked, Alberto tried to yank his arm back, but Buckley held on until Alberto gave him a hard shove and stepped away. The old man, gasping, fell to one knee.
Not insensible to his good fortune at landing this fish, perv or not, Alberto stepped forward and pulled Buckley to his feet. He strove for concerned warmth and complete innocence with, “Are you okay, Dude?”
It was then that Alberto noticed the décor by Buckley’s bunk—A collection of palm sized photos taped to the wall. Some were mug shots, but these formed an artful sun spiral around a triangle of high school yearbook photos… none were Buckley’s own.
As he stared, Buckley tapped Alberto’s elbow and said, “Sorry, Mr. Westerly. I took a dizzy spell. What a first impression, Aye?! Weirdo Alert!!!” Then, pointing to the couch, he said, “Take a load off. I’ll pour you some coffee. Help yourself to breakfast.”
As Alberto sat to Buckley’s repast, Buckley carried him coffee in, of all things, a Deputy Droopy mug. Mimicking the hound’s nasally drawl Buckley asked, “Did you watch Droopy as a kid? He’s my faaaaaavorite.”
Incredulity flashed across Alberto’s face for a split second before he mustered sincerity. “Oh, yeah! One of my favorites too.”
The coffee was made to order and filled to the brim. Buckley might be a cream puff, but his hand was perfectly steady as he handed the mug down to him. Alberto took a quick sip from the caramel colored pool of wonder to keep it from spilling in his own hands, and sighed deeply. He was right, this was the best coffee he’d ever had. His nose knew.
After a minute or so of quiet culinary pleasure, Alberto broke the silence. “So what’s with this place?”
Pleased, Buckley said, “Do you like it? It’s not like being home, but it’s safe and quiet. Let’s me read in peace, and watch TV.”
Alberto grew eager. “We have a TV?”
Alberto would not have thought it possible, but Buckley’s dopey grin went even bigger.
Buckley said, “Yes, a nice flat screen, Blue Ray player, the works. They’ll bring it when I ask for it, but I didn’t want it distracting us right up front while we are trying to make friends. Nothing like a Green Acres marathon to nip the chit chat, am I right?”
With anyone else, Alberto would have assumed this a jest, but with this guy... little chance. Alberto exuded, “For sure. Love me some Zsa Zsa.”
“Eva,” Buckley said, his eyes giving just a hint of displeasure. “Easy mistake... I guess.”
Alberto kept sipping and then shifted the conversation to something he knew a little more about. “What are you in for?”
Buckley’s ever smiling reply was bald. “I got life without parole for killing the three people in the yearbook photos over there by my bed.”
Alberto did his best impressed face. Maybe Buckley did, maybe he didn’t. Claiming to be in for murder was, after all, a useful tool. Oooooo… I’ve killed before. I’ll kill again. Woo woo, fear me. Alberto said, “Let me guess, you’re innocent.”
Buckley’s smile didn’t waiver, “Oh, no. I’m guilty. They got me dead to rights.”
Alberto snorted, “Must be why they put us together… to keep us from being a bad influence on all the railroaded innocent lambs in the other cells.”
Alberto himself had been busted for conning a police officer’s wife out of a couple grand. He foolishly made it personal by seducing her to seal the deal. Lesson learned.
Buckley looked at his watch, and said, “I’d love to tell you the story, Mr. Westerly, if you want to hear it, but I only have about twenty five minutes to get it in, so…”
“What happens in twenty-five minutes?” Alberto asked. But Buckley just stared at him grinning until Alberto finally just waved him on, thinking almost audibly, What a schmuck.
Buckley began a practiced tale. “David and Eric Kleber, fraternal twins. A year behind me in High School. Perfectly normal on the outside, if a bit nerdy...”
Alberto chuffed.
Buckley laughed, “Touché, Mr. Westerly. Yes, I too traveled in the ‘nerd herd.’” He punched his pronunciation of nerd herd and made gleeful air quotes as he said it. “In point of fact, I actually met the Kleber Twins in the computer club. You are too young to know or care, but, in the 80s, our school computer was the size of a Volkswagen Microbus.” Buckley pulled out a cell phone from somewhere wiggled it around and said, “These techno-delights are far more powerful than that thing was, but back then, Computer club didn’t mean apps or Google look ups, it meant coding. We thought we were cool cats.”
Cell phones were not allowed; there were even laws about it. But something told Alberto that it came with the TV and the Studio cell. Could be useful, but he needed to play his cards right.
“Even so, some kids gave us a hard time now and then…” Buckley said, “Just typical school yard foolishness, but these boys, didn’t deal well. Still, they seemed fine. They joked, had friends… no girlfriends though…. none of us had girlfriends. The twins were inseparable.
As for sports, neither clods nor stars. Both entered the gifted program freshman year and they stayed until their grades fell apart junior year.
Their music shifted from Billy Joel and Hall & Oats to anything with Satanic pretense. Black Sabbath, Ozzie Osborne, Iron Maiden. Satan was cool. Distain was cool. Adolph Hitler was cool. Looking at other people like they were bugs to be exterminated was coooool. Some teenage Nazi hopefuls outgrow it, but Eric and Dave never did. They didn’t live long enough to. They wanted their names etched in that dark part of people’s minds where vampires and werewolves are real and history’s boogie men haunt dreams.”
Alberto had to concentrate to keep from rolling his eyes. There was nothing more awkward than watching wienies trying to act suave… history’s boogie men haunting dreams. This guy was no Stephen King. Alberto said, “Ooooo… nice. That gave me chills, Buckley.”
Buckley simply nodded at the compliment and went on. “In their senior year, they made their stand at the Prom. Carrie was one of their favorite movies. They loved the gym burning almost as much as McDowell’s shooter scene in ‘If…’ It wasn’t hard for them. They only needed enough chains and locks for the five gym doors, a few gas cans, a couple stolen guns stashed on top of the bleacher stacks, and lots of ammo.
They waited for the crowning of Prom king and queen when everyone would be inside the gym. Then they chained the doors from the outside, pouring gasoline as they went. When they secured the last door from the inside, they simply lit the trail of gas and climbed up to their guns. No one even paid attention to them.
Once the fire alarms went off, smoke pouring in, everyone started screaming and running and piling up at doors that wouldn’t open. Then Pop. Pop. Pop. They actually cackled as their classmates fell dead, their shots just a disorienting boom mingled with the alarms and wails.
Of the three hundred or so in attendance, just over two hundred died… shot, burned, or trampled.”
When Buckley went silent, Alberto said, “So it was a revenge kill for you.”
Buckley just kept grinning and went on. “As soon as they started choking on toxic air, their dreams of dying in infamy went up in smoke… ha ha… if you’ll pardon the pun. Anyway, after blasting the locks off, they made to escape through a laundry shoot in one of the locker rooms off the gym. As they ran through the panic, shooting anyone in their way, Eric had accidentally shot David. Both were found dead in the basement bin later. Eric struck his head while tumbling into it, and David bled out on top of him.”
With hardly a pause, Buckley shifted gears in his story. Pointing back to his photo collage he said, “The Girl is Amy Rook. She was in my grade, played Violin beautifully.”
Alberto turned to take another look. Long round cheeks. Bobbed hair. Big eyes. “Wait!” He snapped. “You said you were in here for killing them.”
Buckley tapped his watch saying, “Tick Tock… All will out in the end, Mr. Westerly. I did kill them, but be patient.”
Alberto furrowed his brows; he did not like games… well actually, he did. He just didn’t like feeling like he was being gamed. “If you’re in such a rush, why don’t you just cut out the window dressing?” He said, “If no one noticed Eric and David, what’s with the ‘cackling’?”
Buckley went on without answering his complaint and without slackening his grin. “Amy had plans. She was going somewhere. As is common with people like her, most regarded her as a bit odd… slightly off. She thought the same of them. She imagined herself a genius… a diamond sharing the planet with clumps of dirt, and suffered endless frustration over her inability to squeeze what she wanted from them… accolades… celebration… success.”
Alberto set down Deputy Droopy and moved to examine her yearbook photo more closely. What he’d taken for bobbed hair was actually an unflattering perm. With her long face, she looked like a stalk of black and white broccoli with eyes…. a Betty Crocker wannabe, with a hand knit embroidered sweater and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Alberto had practiced making his eyes smile for hours as a teen, when he’d overheard his aunt make the same observation about him.
“She doesn’t look so special,” he said, “Plain and a little dumpy.” In truth, Alberto thought most people looked plain and a little dumpy. It’s what he hated most about prison clothes, they almost made even him look ordinary.
Buckley said, “The pictures don’t do her justice. She was cute.”
Alberto gave a derisive snort. “Cute to you, maybe. But 10s don’t get excited about 4s.”
Buckley’s grin dimmed not at all, he just said, “Well, I guess I wouldn’t know, would I?” and tapped his watch face again, saying, “Tick Tock!”
He went on. “Amy decided that sharing space and her parental resources with her brother was getting tiresome. She wanted more room and time where she could be herself. So, at 16, when her parents took a weekend trip away for their anniversary, and left her behind with her 17 year old brother, she took several sleeping pills from her mother’s medicine cabinet and slipped them into his hot coco. Then she waited while they watched TV together. Dukes of Hazard, I believe it was… his choice not hers.”
Alberto mused aloud, “Some genius. A drug overdose? No respectable 17 year old is going to O.D. on sleeping pills… Oxy, but not sleeping pills. And the whole unexpected suicide angle… a tough sell.”
Buckley grinned on, saying, “I said she thought she was a genius, not that she was one. Even so, she too knew that would have been a bad idea. Kudos to you Mr. Westerly. So, as her brother began to doze heavily, she coaxed him in a stupor to the dining room and sat him in a chair until he seemed beyond waking. Then she laid a half-eaten chilidog dinner left over from supper in front of him… baked beans, tater tots with dipping piles of sour cream and ketchup. Then she stuffed a hug bite of masticated chilidog into his throat. Her mother was always scolding him for woofing down his food, promising him that someday he’d choke to death if he wasn’t careful.”
Alberto smiled. “Well, maybe she was a genius after all. I tried something similar when I lived with…” Alberto cut himself off as Buckley’s eyes widened just slightly, making that permanent grin look maniacal. He said to Buckley, “Tick Tock, Tick Tock.”
Buckley went on. “Amy’s 18th Birthday changed everything for her. She no longer needed legal guardians, and the hiatus that her brother’s death had provided for her had been short. Down one child, and grieving, Her parents fixated on her. They were cramping her style and trying to ‘manipulate’ her choices in life.”
Alberto found himself nodding spontaneously. He knew exactly what Amy must have been going through. His own family had been nothing but a constant source of stress, trying to shape him, and mold him, and guide him, and mentor him. No matter what other words they attached to it, it was simply Ma-nip-u-la-tion. Fortunately, he escaped early, and had saved up enough money from “petty theft” to get a leg up in the world without someone looking over his shoulder all the time.
Buckley continued, “So, Amy decided they needed to go. Their life insurance policy would give her a leg up in the world without someone looking over her shoulder all the time.”
Alberto flinched noticeably at his turn of phrase coming like an echo to Alberto’s own thoughts.
Looking at his watch for the umpteenth time, Buckley, sped up. “So, you know the drill. An accidental carbon monoxide death in the garage. Then a roommate falls to her death from their dorm window freshman year, a boyfriend drowns while skinny dipping with her, a competitor in the university internship program slips in the shower, hitting her head several times, and drowns when her wash rag plugs the drain.”
Alberto was almost in love by now. He interrupted, “How did that one work?”
“Oh,” said, Buckley, “well, if you must know, after gaining illegal entrance to the girl’s apartment, Amy smeared hair conditioner all over the inside of her tub and let it dry and then just hid and waited. When the first fall didn’t kill her, Amy went in and beat her head here and there until it started looking a bit excessive. Still, the cops put it down as an accident, assuming she kept trying to get up after her fall and went down again and again until she knocked herself unconscious. Amy’s twist job with the rag in the drain also fooled them.”
“Did she get the job?” Alberto asked with obvious admiration.
“What?” Buckley said calmly, “No, horror? No shock? No disappointment with the senseless cruelty that people show to their fellow man?” Buckley asked this so honestly, still grinning, that Alberto answered him with rare candor.
“No. Are you surprised watching National Geographic? Should an impala expect an apology from a hyena?”
Buckley, peeked at his watch again, and said with a smile, “Yes, she got the job. But her life goes on like this until after her 40th birthday. Already suffering from a career long disappointment that she did not get the accolades that she thought she deserved from her students, fellow faculty, publications, or, most importantly, the tenure board, she opened fire at the party thrown for those faculty members who did get tenure that year. She dragged one of the professors who had denied her tenure from the party at gun point, and made him drive to his house. She was planning on shooting him in the liver and then forcing him to watch her shoot his wife and children between the eyes as he lay dying.
He did not drive home, however. He took a route past a police station, instead, and crashed into the building. She shot him in the head as they sped toward the station, and shot herself as soon as she had recovered her equilibrium from the crash.”
Alberto sneered, “Oh, so you didn’t kill her either. If you’re going to lie to look tough, Dude, keep the story straight.”
The dopey smile finally slid from Cillian Buckley’s face as his eyes bore into Alberto. He whispered, “Silvia Branford.”
Alberto froze as his heart quickened. “How do you know that name?”
Buckley went on. “Marissa Debois, Alex Jones, Deborah Delaney.”
Alberto jumped to his feet. “What is this? Are you some kind of plant? I knew it. Dopey face, stupid smile, dressed like a middle management accountant. Well, you can forget it. I’m not saying anything. I got two years for a con and you ain’t gettin’ me on anything else.”
Buckley whispered, “Flight 774 out of Logan, Flight 265 out of Miami, Flight 2453 from LAX to Chicago.”
At this Alberto laughed derisively, “What are you talking about? You aren’t gonna pin some other clown’s work on me. What?! Did these crash or something? Your cop buddies promise to let you go home if you can help frame me?”
Cillian put his head in his hands as he bowed forward. “I can still hear them screaming, Alberto. I can hear the weeping mothers, the raging fathers. Children orphaned. Others never born. They echo in my head. They demand justice, Alberto; they will not be denied. Every voice, every face, every lost soul, cut from this world by people like you. You are a wrecking ball, Mr. Westerly and when you die the just thing to etch upon your tombstone will be, ‘Every life he touched was worse because he did.’”
Alberto, stepped toward Buckley with his fists up, but turned nervously to the open cell door. No one seemed to be coming to save Buckley.
Cillian said, “I can’t save the others, Mr. Westerly, but the passengers on those flights… the ones who will go down in flames because of your future con… those I CAN save, just as I saved those people at the Prom, and Amy’s family and classmates and co-workers. They would catch you for your role in the airplane crashes. You are not half as brilliant as you think you are. You would get life in prison. But what is that to the dead and to their loved ones and to a world robbed of their gifts?”
Alberto grabbed Buckley by his shirt collar and yanked him up from the couch and onto his tip toes. “You better start making sense Old Man, or they won’t be fast enough to save you.”
Cillian said, “I did killed Eric and David and Amy. The first day The Twins joined computer club, I knew what they would do. In band, Amy’s hand touched mine while passing some sheet music. I knew what she was. I tried different things to change the outcome without killing them, I was a kid after all, but the most I ever accomplished was to change dates, slight means, exchange the particular victims.”
Alberto’s face twisted in pain. He let Buckley drop and backed up, knocking over the coffee table and scattering the breakfast leftovers. Deputy Droopy skittered across the floor and broke against the kitchenette.
“If I’d been more astute and less panicked as the time grew close for Amy’s first kill,” Cillian said, “I probably would have come up with something better and gotten away with it.”
Alberto’s intestines and stomach creaked. He put his hand to his gut and stepped back a little more.
“Now Thallium,” Cillian said, “That would have been the way to do it. Even a lethal dose takes enough time to kill that it flushes from the system before the last domino falls. And as a bonus, it mimics more-likely causes of death. Ah, but as the time drew near for Amy to kill her brother, I fell to stupidity. I invited all three out with me, but they wouldn’t come. The brother’s had already starting distrusting me, and Amy didn’t cared much for me to start with. My perpetual interest in them all, making excuses to touch their hands so I could see, didn’t help the matter. I creeped them out a bit.”
Alberto’s face went pale and he jerked violently. He fell to one knee and looked toward the corner where the toilet stood behind ornate panels, but making the move felt impossible. Surely it would all pass without him losing it if he just stayed still.
“So the very Friday when Amy was going to kill her brother, I waived them over to my lunch table and told them I had something important to discuss. When they finally started eating, I pulled the Glock I’d stolen from my neighbor out of my lunch sack, and shot each one of them in the heart. I’d practiced that move for a week.”
At this, Alberto suddenly made for the toilet, but it was too late. It was disgusting, and humiliating, but Cillian walked up behind Alberto, reached down and patted his back, saying, “Now don’t you fret, Mr. Westerly. This part will pass… and honestly it’s the worst other than the dying itself. We’ll take good care of you right to the end.”
Then Cillian turned, walked to the nearest doughboy, lifted up the lid and withdrew a blown-up mug shot of Alberto Westerly. He walked slowly to the wall by his bunk, and taped it up with the other mug shots spiraling out from the yearbook photos of Eric, David, and Amy.
The End.
About the Creator
Dean Andrews
Dean Andrews is the author of two novels: The Gateway & D'Alembert's Nightmare. Both are available on Amazon. A native New Englander, Dean has relocated to Florida. Never may he shovel snow again.
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