“Do you often find that you…ah…think that people are plotting against you?”
I looked across the steel table at the man sent to evaluate me. He had been there less than five minutes, and I could tell that he was already anxious to have this over with. Not because he was afraid of me—I was handcuffed to the table, and it was bolted to the floor. No, he wanted to be gone because this was a waste of time. I had a strong feeling he’d already made up his mind before he came into the room.
The problem was I didn’t know what that meant. Was he going to say I was sane and turn me back over to the police? Or was he going to say I was crazy and keep me locked up in this place? Either way was bad, but I wasn’t sure they weren’t preferable options to being out there in the world.
So I was honest.
“Um, no. Not until last week when I started getting the weird text messages.”
The doctor pursed his lips as he glanced over his paperwork. “Ah yes. These delivery messages that you said you received both before and after the…ah…incident at your workplace.”
I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice. “It wasn’t an incident. Some poor woman was murdered on the tenth floor. And no, I didn’t know her. I work on the twelfth floor. And no, I didn’t kill her. I was sitting in my office when it happened.”
The man raised his eyebrows slightly. “No need to get angry, Mr. Jacobs. I am not your enemy. I’m merely here to evaluate you based on…ah…your behavior and comments to police when they apprehended you. That and…well…the series of events that appear to have unfolded around you.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath before responding. “Look, I know how this sounds, okay? A woman dies…gets killed…in my building. And then my co-worker is found burned to death outside my car in the parking garage. I told the police what happened when they got there, but they still took me in. Checked my car and found the bag with gloves in it that had whatever chemical was used to burn them, I guess? I don’t know…”
The doctor interrupted. “Carbon disulfide? That’s what you told the police was on the gloves at the time of your arrest.”
Swallowing, I nodded. “Yeah…yeah, but not because I know that. It’s because that’s what the 911 operator told me it was. Or…well…at least they implied it.”
He cut his eyes back up at me from the notes. “This 911 operator that wasn’t a 911 operator.”
“I don’t know if they were a fucking 911 operator or not. But they are in on it. They have to be. The things they were saying, the stuff they knew. They…or somebody…planted those gloves in my car.”
Sitting the notes back on his lap, the doctor looked up at the ceiling. “But you say you did call 911?”
Clenching my hands, I nodded. “I did. But like I told the cops, after…after Becky did what she did…I hung up on them. I was going to call someone else, try to find another number for the police or something, when I noticed that my phone was wrong.”
“Your phone was...ah…wrong?”
I sighed. “Look, my phone…I’ve had it for over two years. It’s a little banged up, but I’ve taken good care of it. Only thing is, a month ago it fell out of my pocket when I was getting out of the car. I thought it was broken, but it was okay except for a little place on the back where the plastic is rough now. It’s hard to see, but it would always poke me when I held the phone a certain way. Bugged the shit out of me. But when I was searching for another phone number to call, I was also thinking about how I could have gotten that crazy person instead of the real 911. Had they messed with my phone? So I checked. That spot on the back was gone. That’s when police came up to the car and ordered me out. I tried to tell them that it wasn’t my phone, that it had been swapped out for one they could control, but they wouldn’t listen.”
I had started staring at the table as I spoke, and when I looked up, my stomach sank. The doctor was smiling thinly at me.
“So, to be clear. According to you: You’ve been getting strange messages on your phone. A woman in your office…in your building…is murdered by arson. A few minutes later you get a video of that murder. A few minutes after that, a woman you’ve worked with for years comes up to your car, douses herself with something similar to what was seen on the video, and lights herself on fire. And this occurs while you are talking to a mysterious person who is “in on it” after trying to call 911. When police arrive, you are in a car with gloves potentially used in these crimes talking about how your phone is not your phone. You are then arrested, and after being interviewed, you become irate. They give you a sedative and send you here. Does that pretty much sum it up?”
I shook my head. “I know how that all sounds. But check my phone…that phone. It should have at least some of the text messages on it. And you should be able to see that I was on the line with 911 for several minutes.”
The doctor frowned at me. “The problem is that they have checked. There is no indication that you got any text messages like you describe, and there is no record on your phone or otherwise of you making any calls to 911—or any other number—that afternoon. In fact, the only evidence we do have are things that point towards you being involved. There’s no sign of any conspiracy. No proof that you are being framed. Just you and the people dying around you.”
Picking at his pants leg, he went on. “I’m not here to interrogate you, Mr. Jacobs. Only evaluate your mental stability. The version of events you have described is, frankly, fantastic and unbelievable. What I have to determine is if this is a product of genuine mental health issues or simple malingering.” He stood up. “To that end, we’re going to do a series of tests this morning. Assuming that is still necessary after you are shown what has been found. Someone is here to see you.” With that, he knocked on the door and stepped out. As he left, a frail-looking older woman stepped in, her eyes red-rimmed and shining as she looked at me.
“Mama?”
“Wally, are they treating you okay?” She looked so painfully old and thin as she moved over and sat down across from me, a small brown sack clutched in her left hand. I reached forward as much as I could and she took my hands with a warm squeeze. “Not being mean and feeding you okay?”
I nodded, tears filling my eyes. “Yeah…my head hurts from where they drugged me, but otherwise I’m okay. But Mama, you’ve got to help me. I didn’t…”
The words died in my throat as she raised her hand. Her face was full of pain and sadness as she shook her head slightly. “No, honey. Don’t lie like that. Not to me.” She lifted the sack from her lap and sat it on the table. “I’ve already seen the video you made.”
I felt my tongue going numb as I looked between her and the sack. I had no idea what she was talking about, but it was obviously very bad. “Um…I…Mama, what video?”
She looked exhausted as she reached into the paper bag and pulled out a cell phone. She tapped at it inexpertly. “They said I could show it to you. Said it might make you see that you’re caught. That you can stop lying.” She held out the phone with trembling hands. “You take it. I can’t watch it again.”
I saw my own hands shaking as she passed the phone to me. A video was already cued up, and I could see from the paused still shot that it was me in my apartment. But I had never taken video like that. What the fuck was this? My heart thudding, I hit play.
And saw myself confessing.
“I…I just got this thing in me. I open it up and…I’m a sick fucker. I want to see someone being trapped in a room and burned alive. I want to see Becky, that disgusting thing, set on fire. I need to do this. Listen! Please…just listen. There is a bag under my seat. A video in my car. Catch me…please.”
None of this made any sense. I didn’t remember saying any of this…yet it seemed oddly familiar at the same time. I shifted my hand as I held the phone. Holding it like that was poking me because on the back…wait, this was my real phone! I looked up to tell my mother when motion drew my eye back to the small screen. My video self had moved closer to the camera, and where he had looked tormented before, now he was smiling at me as he said one last phrase.
“Delivery completed.”
I looked back up as my mother raked something across her throat, the wound sending out a stream of blood as she tumbled to the floor. I screamed and pulled at my handcuffs, but they didn’t budge, and within a handful of seconds, she had grown still. Glittering next to her, I saw what she had used to kill herself. A set of keys. I struggled to free myself, to go to her, until my arms and legs ached with the effort, and then I sat there, alone and weeping, for what felt like hours. Finally, trying again, I stretched out my leg past its limit and began edging the keys toward me.
That’s when my phone buzzed on the table. Even without picking it up, I could see the text notification.
You have a delivery scheduled.
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Credits
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