WARNING:
Objects In Mirror Are Closer
Than They Appear
By
Thomas J. Aron
Smashwords Edition Published by Thomas J. Aron
Copyright 2008 Thomas J Aron.
ISBN: 2010-03-31
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The heavy night had created a haunting crypt for the mind. It warped all perceptions, stole away precious freedom, and resurrected old memories long considered dead. Robert Anderson had been on watch. His overtaxed eyes were laded with a gritty residue that his tears could not cleanse. During the night he had begun to die. The darkness had produced a hundred forms of fear that had taken root in his soul.
The murderer, Edwin Blane Cromwell, Jr., had been cunning, calculating, and patient. He had not attacked in the dark. He was still out there, waiting.
The wounds to Robert’s spirit could not be hidden. The bathroom mirror now reflected an aura of decay about him. The cautious morning light had not eased his blinking nor had it exposed the man who was coming to slaughter him.
It had begun with a midnight pounding on his front door. Nothing sounds like a policeman’s knock and his report to Robert had been ominous. Cromwell had escaped from the Pueblo asylum, one hundred eighty miles to the south, and that had been broadcast as a statewide law enforcement bulletin. The clerk at a convenience store only blocks from Robert’s home had called in. She had seen the escapee here in Jackson City.
Shortly after his escape, Cromwell’s personal notes had been discovered. They were a rambling braggado about his exploits and had included a kill list. Robert was on the list along with Judge Oscar Christiansen, District Attorney Bill Hillard, and a psychiatrist at the Pueblo hospital, Dr. John Monette.
The notes embellished Cromwell’s pleasure from inflicting pain on others. There were explicit reports of his violent rapes of two gay orderlies at Balboa Naval Hospital. He happily explained his ability to attack the second man because the first one refused to report his rape. “If they both had stayed in the closet,” he wrote, “I could have enjoyed myself for years.”
The notes also described the killing of his live-in girlfriend, Mary Jane Heidenreich, the crime that had brought Cromwell together with everyone on his list. Her murder had occurred in their apartment just a half-block from the Jackson City Police Station. This fact had amused him.
The policeman completed his report and took up post from across the street. One cop in one patrol car offered Robert little protection, a token gesture at best. He considered calling his friend, Father Tolar, but decided it was too late an hour to bother the priest. He’d just have to trust God and the solitary policeman out front.
Judge Christiansen was a tough-minded war veteran who had boxed professionally. His independent thinking had created disfavor with the Supreme Court. One of his rebellious orders had read: “The high court’s opinion is much akin to what you find on the bottom of your boots after strolling through a corral.”
Christiansen became annoyed with cops swarming his place. He phoned the Chief and threatened contempt of court. That ended it. The judge turned loose his two German Shepherds and went back to sleep.
Most of the protection went to the District Attorney. Hillard had reacted like a terrified rabbit, finally blacking out after downing several scotches and a large bottle of Nyquil. Several cops stayed in the DA’s house, sleeping in shifts on the living room sofa.
Cromwell’s killing Hillard would be special. The man had disgusted him. “Besides,” he wrote, “anyone can kill a cop, but you make history if you whack a DA.”
The psychiatrist had fled to Switzerland within an hour of Cromwell’s escape. The doctor’s secretary left with him. His angry wife remained behind. Cromwell must have enjoyed Monette’s divorce court antics and his disgraceful firing from the hospital.
The killing of the defense attorney had been of the highest priority. While Robert had waited in the night, he contemplated the killer’s motives. Why was Cromwell after him? Had he not saved him from execution? That was crazy, sort of. He never believed that the guy was insane, but he was certain that he was unusually cruel.
Maybe he should have been executed.
Still standing before the mirror, Robert lit his first cigarette since the nightmare began. After taking a couple of drags he relaxed, his hands stopped shaking. He then wet his face, stroked on the soap, and began to shave.
There is an aftershock from an intense night of fear. A man shaves very carefully the next morning. Maybe it’s from a lingering fear. Maybe it’s from exhaustion. Maybe he just doesn’t want even a small razor nick after safely escaping the night.
Robert scraped away slowly. Steam from his hot water fogged the mirror. He wiped it off. The clear streaks reflected the chair in the next room, the living room where he had sat the night. The chair was straight-backed with nothing to soften his vigilance.
Resting on its seat was his skeet-shooting gun. The weapon had been selected because of its two short barrels. He had chosen 00 Buckshot, a powerful load that would put nasty bullet-sized holes in any flesh.
Robert knew that shooting Cromwell with both barrels would have the same effect as dozens of hits from a .38 police special. This was a lot more firepower than the policeman out front had.
The shotgun also offered a remedy for last night’s darkness. Just beyond the fringe of the porch light Robert had seen a glint from the bumper of the police car. The blackness absorbed the rest of the vehicle, the cop in it, and all the neighborhood outlines with their comforting familiarity. There had been many different approaches for Cromwell’s attack, but the swath of the shotgun’s blast would have reduced them.
This truth, however, had not eased Robert’s concerns.
Shaving completed, he strained again to escape the horror of his long night. Correct thinking that was the answer. He tried new thoughts, memories about his childhood and home as it once had been. Last Christmas immediately came to mind.
On Christmas afternoon he had sat and stared at his father’s body in the funeral home. Even though Dad had been in a tuxedo, he hadn’t looked good, hadn’t looked pleased about being dead.
Robert made other attempts at distraction, but nothing worked. Try as he might, he could not avoid remembering the night he first met Ed Cromwell.
The unhappy court clerk had called about 3:00 a.m. and told him that he had been appointed to represent a man in the jail. Robert had made a weary response about the rude awakening, but the clerk hung up on him.
Twenty minutes later, he arrived at the police station. By then his mind had regained its professional discipline, though his appearance was grossly unprofessional. He berated himself for not asking the clerk about Cromwell’s charges. Then he laughed, “They wouldn’t have called me out of bed for parking tickets. Must be a good one!”
Robert’s pace picked up excitedly. As he marched in, he saw Hillard leaning against the counter, talking to a sleepy policeman. The presence of the District Attorney himself, and not a deputy, confirmed the fact that this was a major crime.
The DA was a sallow fellow with a strange sensitivity to criticism. A senior partner at Salmon & Hines had made some phone calls and gotten Hillard appointed to fill the vacancy caused by the death of the predecessor. That’s how the prestigious law firm disposed of its disappointing associates, dumped them into public jobs.
“Anderson,” Hillard called out. Robert briskly crossed the lobby. Without further word Hillard straightened and held up his right arm, fist clenched. Then he slowly extended upwards his index finger. .
One finger – Murder One.
The cop opened the swinging half-door at the end of the counter. He nodded towards a side door leading to a hallway. Robert stepped through with growing alertness.
Coming towards him was an anxious little man, too pudgy to be of much use out on the streets. His uniform tag read: A.T. Brubaker, Detention Officer. He nervously stole a quick glance at the empty hallway behind him.
Although Alvin T. Brubaker had studied police science at the community college, he had yet to feel comfortable anywhere. During his second year in patrol division, he suffered a mental breakdown. The catalyst had been a dead cat someone put in his hat on his locker shelf. The night before, he had fired several frightened shots at an unseen assailant that turned out to be an amorous tomcat. The cat-in-the-hat prank finished him.
Afterwards he was assigned to jail duty, doing paperwork. That night, however, an unarmed Brubaker had to escort a prisoner, the biggest man he had ever seen. Alvin missed his revolver, constantly fingered the empty holster on his belt.
“Follow me,” he barked at Robert as he started back down the hall. Then he turned and asked, “Do you have any guns, knives or other weapons?”
“Do I need any?”
Brubaker’s nervous face darkened. “You might.”
He turned and hurried toward the cells. Robert followed quickly. They passed into the double-door system that forced them to stop in the trap between steel doors. Six seconds after the first door clicked shut, the second door clicked open in front of them. Both men were caught up in the hard sounds of their freedom being removed. Guards, prisoners, and lawyers all feel the confinement close in on them.
Brubaker led Robert past the window of the control room. The TV monitors flickered from one scene to another, causing nervous shadows to play about the hallway outside the window. The dull gray walls and the polished tile floor of the hallway were well known to everyone who had been led hopelessly to their cell. Scuffmarks witnessed that this route was not always peaceful.
Through another set of steel doors were eight cells for overnight prisoners. This night there were no puking sounds, no moaning, coughing, cursing, or snoring. The usual sounds were gone. Tonight it didn’t sound like a jail.
However, a jail always smells like a jail, a mixture of sweat, urine, and fear. The odor is breathtaking and always unforgettable. Though the cells held only one man that night, the smell was still there. It lingered in everyone’s memory.
Brubaker had stopped short of the last set of doors, waiting for the control officer to admit Robert by electric switching. The steel latch buzzed and the door to the end cell popped open. Robert thought of Father Tolar as he entered.
A handsome, smiling, blond-haired man stood up. It seemed that he kept getting up and getting up. “My God,” Robert thought, “this guy’s massive.”
He had intended to watch the man’s eyes, but his perception was lost on the huge bulk. The prisoner might have been in his late twenties, maybe two hundred thirty pounds, and very tall.
Robert’s mind was filled with all the legal advice he intended to give and all the questions he had to ask. There had been no room for fearful thoughts, a condition that probably saved his life right then and there.
With an automatic motion, the two shook hands. Cromwell’s powerful grip sent a hot flash up to Robert’s neck. He gasped hard. Cromwell’s smile persisted and his grip intensified crushing Robert’s smaller hand. He felt a joint snap and the pain struck his neck again. It took all the strength he had to pull back and free himself.
Robert’s anger was quick, followed by a foolish thought of hitting the man. Fortunately his professional mind restored him to reason. However, before Robert could resume normal breathing, the giant hulk of a man plopped down hard on the small bunk. His countenance exploded.
Cromwell leaned over, exposing a thick white neck below the collar of his orange prisoner uniform. Face in his hands, he began quivering and sobbing. The shaking escalated, his sounds grew louder. Had this been the drunk tank, Cromwell might have been in convulsions. Here it looked like a psychotic event.
“There’s a woman out there. Believe what she says,” he cried. “There’s a woman out there. Believe what she says!” Cromwell was shrieking through episodes of uncontrolled sobbing. Robert took notice that Brubaker was watching them, safely from around the corner in the hallway.
Stimulated by the jailer’s cowardice, Robert stepped directly in front of the seated man, bent low and yelled, “shut up! I’m your lawyer! Shut up!” He dared not show any fear of this guy, at least not with Brubaker watching. Taking a step backward, Robert spoke in a quieter voice, “I am your lawyer, do you hear me?”
Cromwell’s wailing slowed, his sobbing subsided. His body noticeably began to relax. The huge head nodded, but did not look up. Robert spoke forcefully, “do not talk to anyone, no one! I will see you in court in just a few hours, so keep silent. Do you understand?” The head nodded again.
Robert’s exit pace scarcely matched his quickened mind. Thoughts of police reports, arrest records, witness statements, autopsy results – a thousand ideas raced through his head. Mired in all that was the uncomfortable feeling that Cromwell had put on an act, a show for Robert’s benefit and maybe to impress the security cameras.
Brubaker walked strenuously to keep up with Robert. He was eager to talk now. Most of his babble drifted past Robert’s busy mind, but through the din came a surprise. It brought their walking to a halt.
“The DA wants the autopsy right away, starts in fifteen minutes.” Brubaker puffed out the words. Robert was incredulous, “fifteen minutes?”
Defense attorneys usually don’t get to attend the autopsy, but Hillard’s arrogance might let him in. “At the hospital?” he asked as he broke into a race-walker’s stride.
Brubaker had more to say. “Yeah, and there should’ve been two of them. The guy just killed his girlfriend. The other one got away.”
Robert slammed to a halt again. “Other one?” He heard his own mind answer, answer with Cromwell’s own words: “There’s a woman out there, believe what she says. There’s a woman out there, believe what she says!”
“Yeah, a cocktail waitress. He tried to do her too, but she got away.” Brubaker was shouting as Robert trotted out of the building. “She said he was a crazy son-of-a-bitch and now she’s gonna hang him!”
Robert ran the five blocks to Highland County General. He entered through the open garage and slowed to get his bearings. Only then did he notice that his right hand had begun to throb. It hurt, but still worked. It seemed that all this was becoming some sort of grotesque play.
Rushing past several gurneys in the dim hallway, he headed for the light coming out of the doorway to the morgue. A grumbling man stormed out of the darkness and bumped Robert hard. Someone called out, “Hi, Doc.”
Robert closely followed the pathologist into the room. As the doctor tied on an apron and donned the surgical gloves, his grumbling grew louder, more vicious. He let loose a string of profane insults aimed at no one in particular. The cops cautiously stepped back. Hillard became nervous, confused.
During this unfriendly interlude, Robert enjoyed an unchallenged admission to the autopsy. The illusion that the doctor had brought him was maintained. This gave him an edge in his defense of that big, cruel man.
Under the bright lights, the nude body of a young woman lay face up on a stainless steel table. It was very cold in the room. At one time or another, almost everyone attending an autopsy gets a strange urging to cover the corpse, to keep it from getting chilled. Robert immediately felt that way.
Equally strange had been someone’s effort to protect her modesty. Across her pubis lay a single square of paper towel. In minutes, the pathologist would cut, expose, and evaluate with great intimacy, her entire body. Yet someone had wanted to show respect for her womanhood as if it was finally time to give her some dignity.
“Too late,” Robert thought, “too late.”
He moved closer to the table and stood to the left of the pathologist. The doctor was behind her head and worked right-handed. Robert would watch for any expressions, maybe a raised eyebrow or a look of surprise that would not be caught on the tape recording. Cases could be won on the strength of an unreported grimace.
Mary Jane Heidenreich was no longer a human being. She now was just a piece of evidence. Robert keenly sensed a sudden change in everyone’s attitude.
Hillard and an older cop, a sergeant, stood at a safer distance from the table. Two other cops remained back by the now-closed door. They were young, probably viewing their first autopsy, and unhappy about having to do so.
The sergeant was unhappy too. He had more experience than anyone in the room and he had restrained himself when Hillard played up his grandiosity. He also was unhappy with the doctor and regarded him as incompetent. He was unhappy with the two rookies too. Most of all, he was openly unhappy with the presence of a defense attorney at the autopsy.
Robert ignored the sergeant’s glare and closely monitored everything in the room. The doctor began by taking pictures with an old Polaroid. Before snapping them, he removed the paper towel from the woman and dropped it on the floor.
That ended the decency.
The body was rolled over for more pictures, then rolled back. Measurements were made and recited into the microphone suspended from the ceiling. The doctor swabbed her orifices, taking specimens. “She had sexual intercourse shortly before death,” he proclaimed. His speech was neutral and loud.
Then the cutting began. An intense odor filled the room. Everyone seemed to suck in their breath simultaneously, creating a timeless, lifeless silence. That soon was ripped away by the whining of the circular saw in the air, then as it growled it way through the woman’s skullcap. The bland medical voice continued with a litany of observations. His dictation sounded memorized, rehearsed, and bored.
Robert’s alertness paid off. During the skull sawing, one of the young policemen ran from the room. “One less witness,” he thought. He looked at the round wall clock with large numbers and made a mental note of the time.
The autopsy had started at the top of the body and with grueling efficiency, proceeded toward the bottom of the torso. The young woman’s identity completely vanished as flesh was pulled back and the rib cage split and pulled outward like a butterfly’s unfolded wings.
The doctor’s monotone droned on as he continued the slicing and bagging of her tissues. Then his tone changed. “She hadn’t eaten for six to eight hours,” his revitalized voice reported, “but she certainly was a busy woman!” He now had an aroused interest.
After a theatrical pause, he added, “she was pregnant, probably eight to ten weeks.” As if to prove his point, he removed a tiny fetus and held it up.
With most of the attention directed toward the doctor’s raised hand, Robert managed to glimpse the other young cop exiting the room. Two less witnesses now. This was going well for Robert, for Cromwell.
The doctor slowly rotated the fetus in his bloody glove. He seemed to be in deep thought. Hillard’s attention was captured by it. The sergeant grew restless, but remained quiet. Robert sensed that this was a critical moment, a turning point in the case.
“Guys,” the doctor began slowly, “I can’t say what killed her.” He continued to turn the fetus slowly. “I don’t know the cause of death. Ideas? What do you think?”
Robert suddenly knew. “Doc, you’re holding the cause of death,” he thought. Immediately there was validation.
The sergeant was disgusted. “Doc, I figure that they had sex and then she surprised him with a marriage offer she thought he couldn’t refuse. You know, knocked up and all.”
His voice grew angry. “He lost it, beat her up and strangled her with his belt. We found it around her neck.”
He became animated, getting even louder. “Christ, she’s got bruises all over her, bad ones on her neck, which you didn’t talk about, and a footprint in the middle of her back. Didn’t you see it, Doc?”
He looked at Hillard, who was still lost, and then back at the doctor. Seeing that both of them were unresponsive, he shouted, “Shit, he strangled her! He finished her off by holding her down with his foot on her back and pulling up on the belt. A big, strong guy like that could’ve broke her neck too!”
The doctor slowly nodded, “sounds okay to me.” Hillard continued to stare at the fetus, unaware that his First Degree Murder case had just been lost.
Robert looked up at the microphone, then over at the clock. Again he made a mental note of the time. This case was all his, no problem. “Thank you, doctor,” he muttered to himself.
He would lead with an insanity defense. The storyline would be that it was crazy to make love and then immediately kill your lover. It obviously was crazy to go out to a bar, pick up another woman for more sex and try to kill her too.
The surviving waitress had called Cromwell “a crazy son-of-a-bitch,” right? Hadn’t Cromwell lost it in the jail, in full view of the cops? He certainly had all the outward appearances of an insane man.
With the botched autopsy as a powerful back up, good things should happen with an insanity defense. Yes, the big man had a lot of dumb luck going for him. In the arraignment, Judge Christiansen agreed with the insanity idea and sent Cromwell to the state mental hospital for evaluation by Dr. John Monette.
Robert needed to shed the emotional debris he’d collected that horrifying night. Father Tolar generously gave him comforting counsel. The priest’s solution had been a spiritual one. Robert was relieved of his first Cromwell anguish and his mind became more peaceful.
For weeks thereafter, Robert worked diligently to get all of Cromwell’s records. His Marine Corps material arrived and the dicey stuff about his rapes of the two orderlies was shocking. That alone made it worthwhile for Robert to drive to the hospital and confer with the doctor about Cromwell’s unsettling behaviors.
Monette administered the usual tests and Cromwell failed them convincingly. Moreover, the doctor had developed personal feelings about Cromwell’s violent capabilities, apparently a primal fear. The psychiatrist concluded that Cromwell was legally insane.
Robert had coached his client before the formal hearing. The big man understood the legal strategy and was pleased, perhaps too pleased. He seemed to be unnaturally well informed about everything, everyone.
The hearing unfolded exactly as Robert had hoped. Most of the psychiatrist’s testimony was boring. Only when he reported Cromwell’s violent rapes did he become emotional. The courtroom audience grew nervous too. Otherwise, Monette’s one hour and ten minute appearance on the witness stand was a sleeper. Cromwell was found not guilty by reason of insanity.
Up to that point, the case had gone exactly as Cromwell apparently had wanted. However, the lawyers, the doctor, and the judge all agreed that he did not belong back with the public. The audience breathed an audible sigh of relief when Christiansen ordered him to the state hospital for life. Everyone had agreed on that decision except Ed Cromwell. He very definitely did not agree.
The memory of Cromwell’s final court appearance flashed in Robert’s memory. The big man’s face had become distorted, his eyes extended in their darkened sockets. His neck hardened, his veins laced across his huge muscles. Cromwell was boiling and now he appeared again, here in the shaving mirror.
As he was about to be led from the courtroom, Cromwell had stopped and glared at Robert. He gave a threatening jerk on the restraints. The metallic snap of the cuffs raised a murmur from the crowd. The escorts stiffened, expecting an explosion of violence. It did not occur. Cromwell had slowly relaxed his arms. However, his eyes never left Robert. With each step, he continued to turn his head allowing his focus on Robert to remain uninterrupted.
Now he quickly turned away from the mirror. Something did not feel right. As Robert walked out of the bathroom, he tasted a bitter belch. He understood the truth. The Cromwell threat was not over.
He crossed the living room and looked out the front window. The patrol car was still there. The cop still was in the front seat, reading. Good. Robert scanned his front yard, the sidewalks, the driveways, and the street both ways. Nothing. There were no vehicles out there except the police car; no movement, not even by a paperboy. Good.
His porch light was still on. That had been his idea -- turn on the outside light and keep the inside of the house dark. That way Robert could better see Cromwell come out of the night. Good plan. Robert snapped off the light. Felt better.
He made the short walk into the kitchen. His view out the back window also was unremarkable. Very good.
Robert then moved to the top of the basement steps. They led down to a landing where the backdoor was located. He had boarded it up last light. The boards were still in place. Excellent.
With renewed confidence, Robert returned to the living room and dropped into his recliner. Had he forgotten anything? He casually looked around. Suddenly he bolted to his feet and stared at the closed bedroom door. Had it been shut all night? Did he close it when he answered the cop’s knocking? He couldn’t remember.
What he knew, however, was that there were two corner windows in the bedroom. They offered easy access for any intruder. Cromwell could be in there, quietly waiting for him to come to bed.
Robert retrieved the shotgun and approached the door, safety off. Finger on the trigger, he leaned lightly against the door and listened. He became aware of a dominant sound, a loud pounding. Immediately he knew it was his heart firing at a terrified pace. The weapon now became useless in his quivering hands.
With his eyes fixed on the bedroom door, Robert backed to the front window and glanced out. The cop and the car were as they had been, the cop still reading. “Reading?” Robert wheezed. He looked again. The cop was asleep. Cromwell could have strolled in unnoticed. He definitely was in the bedroom.
Half-facing the bedroom and half-facing the front door, he realized his paralyzing dilemma. If Cromwell was unarmed when he charged out of the room, there’d be nothing but trouble for Robert.
If he shot him, there might be a murder charge filed against him. That meant he would wind up being disbarred and ridiculed. The Cromwell estate would sue him for everything he owned. “My God, I don’t dare shoot him!”
Of course, he knew that if he didn’t shoot, he would surely die and he would die badly. Cromwell’s notes promised that. The killer might be a crazy, but without doubt was he brilliant. He had maneuvered Robert into a hopeless situation.
Now he was certain that he heard Cromwell in there. Then his mind told him he wasn’t. Was he? Wasn’t he? What should he do? Should he just run out if his house? Why not just kick open the bedroom door?
In full surprise, Robert reached for the doorknob, not because it was logical. It wasn’t. Not from a new burst of courage. None of that either. He was just tired, very tired physically and mentally. Tired of the standoff. Tired of being awake. Tired of Cromwell. Just too tired. He had to get this over.
As he started to turn the knob, the door easily moved. It had not been completely closed. The truth came to Robert precisely as the door swung open.
Not only was Cromwell not in there, he never would be. He hadn’t come to Jackson City at all. Yes, the kill list had signaled his escape route. However, as a day-shift cop later would report, the store clerk failed to identify the late evening customer from Cromwell’s hospital photo. Mistaken identity. The escapee had fled in another direction. By now he could be out on the Baja or somewhere in New York City.
Edwin Blane Cromwell, Jr. would never been seen again.
Robert studied the shaving mirror again. His contemplation now seemed timeless. Years were seconds. Minutes were lifetimes. Outside the boundaries of time, he came to a new understanding about Cromwell, what he was, and what he was not.
Certainly he was no-good, but he was not insane. He had a spiritual malady, not a mental illness. Something from Robert’s talks with Father Tolar lit up in his mind. “Yes,” he said to his face in the mirror, “he has a weakness. Everyone does. Even Satan is afraid of God.”
That relaxed him.
"Life is like a mirror: if you frown at it, it frowns back, and if you smile, it returns the greeting." Father Jimmy Tolar had said that. Robert dried his face and vigorously toweled his hair. It stood up wildly. He made a face and laughed. His reddened eyes danced about happily. Then they locked on the new image in the mirror, one that reflected Robert’s silly grin.
His spirit was back.
The priest had said that the enemy is within and that the soul is illuminated from within. Robert nodded, “and the mirror sees it all. It’s closer than it appears.”
###
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