I

The homicide had been perfectly captured by a surveillance camera on location. The victim, a middle-aged man wearing a navy-blue suit and red tie, was standing on an exit ramp outside his workplace. He was talking to a woman customer standing next to him, when an SUV came driving onto the ramp.

The vehicle accelerated to approximately 30 MPH before it struck the man; he did not react in time to move out of its way.

At first glance, the surveillance video gave the false impression that the top of the victim's skull broke off on impact. On a second viewing, it became evident that the victim was wearing a hairpiece which came off when the SUV struck him down.

It could have been a hit-and-run crime. But, as the video showed, the driver did not escape. After the SUV had crashed through the glassed doorway and stopped, she stepped unharmed out of the car (the seatbelt and airbag saved her), walked out of the building and embraced the woman.

And according to the woman's testimony, the murderer then said: "Mom, don't cry. I got him. I got him good."

***

The detained woman, an olive-skinned beauty with almond-shaped eyes and long hair dyed blonde, was nineteen years old. She sobbed; her lawyer gave her a handkerchief.

"My client is still in shock," the lawyer said before Garris could sit down by the table. "I must protest that you haven't let her see a psychiatrist yet..."

Garris made an effort to soften his tone. "I see your concern. Let me ask her a few questions first, to see if she's fit to stand trial. Consider this a preliminary hearing."

He settled on his chair, regarded the girl with a forced neutral expression and knotted his fingers together in a praying gesture. "Ms. Washering, I'm lieutenant detective Innis Garris at the Homicide squad in this precinct. Do you understand why you're here?"

Imelda Washering wiped her golden-brown eyes and nodded. "Yeah. People say I, like, killed a man..."

Garris had already heard the witnesses; now he wanted a confession, to get it over with.

"Would you say that you acted with a lucid mind? Can you remember everything?"

She nodded. "Sure. It was this morning...I went to the Bayliss Street Auto Salon with my mom, she was, like, going to buy me a nice semi-used car for my birthday. That's where I met him..."

Her tone instantly shifted from grief to disgust when she said "him," meaning the murder victim.

"Did you know the man? Or recognize him from before?"

She shook her head as if the question were obscene. "Of course not!"

Garris frowned. "You entered the auto salon, and then... if you can take me through step by step... what happened?"

"This used-car salesman came and occupied Mom with his schtick. I didn't suspect anything then, he seemed nice... showed us around, let me sit in one car and take a test drive around the block... Mom like, waited with him on the exit ramp... and when I stopped by a traffic light..."

Ms. Washering paused, visibly shuddered and shook her head. "That's when I spotted the card. His card, in the corner of the dashboard. With his photo and name on it." She stared Garris in the eye with intense conviction. "I, like, realized who he was, what he was, and that I'd left Mom alone with him. So I drove back to the exit ramp, saw him reach out for Mom's hand, and... I stepped on the gas and ran him down. Then the cops came and arrested me."

She looked down. "I realize now it was so stupid of me. I could have hit Mom with the car."

Garris realized now why the lawyer had wanted a psychiatrist.

"I'd like to have a word with your lawyer. It won't be long."

Outside the interrogation room, Garris told him: "Your client sounds completely insane. What's her medical history? Does she have a drug problem? Alcohol? Schizophrenia?"

"You won't believe me, officer..."

"You'd be surprised what I'm prepared to believe."

"I know her family. Great parents, never did a bad thing in their lives. Imelda is squeaky clean. No rap sheet, no drug convictions, no medical record. I had a talk with her before you did and she sounds completely sane, except for one detail..."

"What?"

"Ask her about Sylvester Bevere. I'm going to plead insanity and I expect the district court to go along."

Garris felt himself losing his temper. "You say she's sane, and yet..."

"I didn't say defending her is going to be easy."

"If your client tells you anything else, no matter how trivial it might seem, tell me."

***

"What about this Sylvester Bevere?" Garris asked Imelda when he had returned. "Why did you kill him?"

The girl seemed both giddy and embarrassed, not like a remorseful killer. "Well it was like, you know, a thing I just had to do. I'm sorry about the mess I caused and how much I upset Mom, but now I'm glad I got him."

"Please explain. Did this man do something to you in the past?"

She smiled, as if Garris had amused her. "Not me personally! I mean, like hello, I'm still alive. But I'm sure he's killed lots of people in the past."

"You said before that you realized 'what' he was. What did you mean by that?"

"I thought that was, like, totally obvious. It's like, in my heart, I've always known it."

Garris sent her a questioning look.

With complete earnestness, the girl said: "Sylvester Bevere was not human, but a monster who had to die."

Garris froze for a few moments, baffled, hoping that the girl would show the courtesy of going mad before his eyes, just so that he could dismiss her as another lunatic.

But she didn't. She started to get restless. "Can I go home now?"

"Can you remember where or when you got this idea about Sylvester Bevere?"

"No. Like I said, I've always known it. I want to go home now."

"Imelda, you can't walk away from what you've done. A police officer will take you to a holding cell, until your lawyer has found a psychiatrist to examine you. If you are found to be sound of mind, you will stand on trial for murder."

The girl began to sob. "But don't you see, Sylvester Bevere wasn't a human being! He was a monster! He had to die! You'd better check the body to make sure he really is dead!"

Garris sighed and left the room.

***

II

Patricia McKinnick had the day off, and Garris did not want to bother his superior; he had already tested her patience with other cases left unresolved. He called for Dr. Schmidt, the pathologist at Antonioni University, and asked for a meeting.

They met over a light dinner in the Snake & Cross pub.

Garris ordered a beer, and drank half of it very quickly. Schmidt, who only drank soda, ate a grilled sandwich and regarded Garris with cold eyes.

"Did you come to ask me about your drinking problem?"

Garris shrank a little. "I don't have a problem except this case. Is it possible to hypnotize a person into becoming an assassin?"

Schmidt made a thin smile. "Are you sure this is not about your drinking problem?"

"Have you seen The Manchurian Candidate?"

"That was a movie. Brainwashing is fantasy. You can't hypnotize people into killing others."

"Suppose it wasn't hypnosis, more like... conditioning?"

Schmidt ate of his sandwich and let Garris continue.

"Our deepest beliefs are the ones we are taught in our childhood. We are told that there is a supernatural character named 'Santa Claus' who gives presents to children. If the murderer had been, say, the member of a cult, and she was taught that a person by a certain name was an inhuman supernatural being who must be destroyed, the Devil in disguise..."

"What certain name? A common name?"

"No."

"I assume the killer knew her victim."

"They had never met before. All she knew was his name. They met by chance. At least, so it seems."

Schmidt pursed his lips. "This person could live her entire life without ever meeting her intended victim by chance."

"The person who did the conditioning could be guiding the killer..."

"Which would produce evidence leading back to the mastermind, which would make this convoluted scheme futile," Schmidt pointed out. "You're not making sense."

"I know." Garris finished his first beer and stood up to go buy another... when he felt Schmidt's hand on his shirt sleeve.

"I've seen cops become alcoholics before," he said softly. "They always say they've got it under control. Remember Bert Satten? I've seen his liver. If he hadn't been killed first, he'd be dead from cirrhosis."

Garris froze, hesitated, torn by conflicting urges. Finally, he sat down. "I..." He made an annoyed flick of the hand. "Never mind that now. What I've got is a teenage killer who doesn't understand she has killed a person, and that she did it only because his name was Sylvester Bevere. It'll be all over the news soon."

Schmidt nodded. "Ah yes, the stiff was sent to our morgue this morning. I haven't had time to examine it yet. Struck by a car, was it? He was smashed up pretty bad." He stood up. "As I see it, you have two approaches to the case. Either find the method by which the killer was indoctrinated... or... find the person or persons who wanted Sylvester Bevere dead."

"Of course. Thanks."

"Your mind is getting duller. Lay off the alcohol. I mean it."

Garris gave him a troubled look, and then walked out of the pub before he might order another drink.

***

After a search in the national and international police files, Garris found that Sylvester Bevere had no rap sheet. He made another search for personal data on Sylvester Bevere in medical, insurance and auto vehicle registers.

He found two Sylvester Bevere. One was a U.S. citizen, 43 years old, employed by the Bayliss Street Auto Salon; his current address was in Precinct 20; he had a wife but no known offspring.

There existed only one other Sylvester Bevere, 21 years old, who lived in Quebec, Canada. There was no relation between the two.

Garris called up the dead auto salesman's wife.

***

The widow, Harriet Bocktree, was in a grieving state but she agreed to answer questions.

"Yes, my husband did have some enemies, but he got along well with most people. He had people skills, a good salesman. I don't see why anyone might have a reason to kill him."

Garris did not tell Harriet Bocktree what he thought: a used-car salesman might have plenty of ex-customers who wanted to kill him. But Imelda Washering had killed Bevere before a purchase was made. That struck Garris as unusual.

"What sort of enemies? From his job?"

"From his youth. Crazy ex-girlfriends, people who felt he owed them something. Once I got a few odd phone calls... a voice asked for Sylvester, but she hung up at once."

"Did he ever get to know a girl named Imelda Washering?"

"No, not that I know."

Garris asked for the names of Sylvester's past girlfriends and spouses, and ended the call.

It was getting late and he felt frustrated, so he left the station. His cell phone rang; Imelda's lawyer had some information to share.

"She told her parents, and they told me... it doesn't make much sense, but you asked me to..."

"Yes, yes. What did she say?"

"Imelda recalled from her childhood... she and the other kids in her kindergarten class used to play that they killed him. Sylvester Bevere. They didn't know what he looked like, but they spun fantasies based on what they had heard - that he looked like a normal human on the outside, and his name."

"Who told her that?"

"Imelda can't remember clearly; some man who came to visit them in the kindergarten several times. The Sanford Bay Daycare Center."

"Does it still exist?"

"No, it went out of business several years ago. But she does remember that her principal teacher was named Mrs. Beddoe."

"Thank you very much."

***

III

"Mrs. Beddoe? I'm detective Garris, Precinct 20. Could I please come in? I won't be long."

The middle-aged woman in the doorway stared at Garris's ID badge. She reluctantly opened the door and let him into the apartment, without a word. She seemed terribly shy and frail.

Garris tried friendly small talk, but still Mrs. Beddoe said nothing. With a gesture, she told him to sit down on her living-room couch, and she went into the kitchen.

Garris studied the many photos on the wall. Several photos showed a younger Mrs. Beddoe with her kindergarten classes; row upon row of smiling children. The dates on the photos went back to the early 1980s. In the oldest photos, the dark-haired teacher had a radiant smile; she looked so lovely Garris almost felt aroused by the sight

She returned shortly with a tray of tea and cookies; after she had sipped her tea, she spoke - with a very slight stutter.

"Husband died two years ago. Cancer. Don't get many visits these days. "

Garris immediately felt sorry for her. Something had happened to change the radiant woman in the picture into this frightened, broken person; he had seen this change in victims of violent crime.

"I was admiring your old class photos," he said. "Can you point out the girl who's name is Imelda Washering?"

The old lady's eyelids fluttered nervously. "Why?"

"She is under arrest for murder. I'm curious about her past. What sort of upbringing could turn such a normal young girl into a remorseless killer?"

Mrs. Beddoe stared at him for a few moments, frozen in terror; then she put a hand to her lips. "Oh dear. Little Imelda. She was popular with the other kids. Her parents were such nice people, too."

She rose from her armchair and moved to the wall. "There she is," Beddoe said, pointing at one class photo. "Isn't she sweet?" The child Imelda, four to six years old in the photograph, stood right below the teachers.

"Was she ever violent as a child?"

"Not really. Sometimes she got excited, though, when Mr. Smith came to tell the kids stories."

"Who?"

Mrs. Beddoe went over to the window overlooking Sanford Bay; the window needed cleaning, and the darkening, overcast sky was a pink-grayish blur. "Someone at the daycare center had arranged for him to come once a week, I think he was a writer or a retired teacher, to read for the children while the rest of the staff relaxed."

Garris immediately thought: Potential child molester.

"Did you screen him? I mean, was he safe around the kids?"

"Oh yes, I never noticed anything wrong. That man, we only called him 'Mr. Smith,' he had a big brown beard and dark glasses, a cape, and a big hat he never took off. Spoke in a deep voice. But the kids liked him. He had a strong imagination, spun stories about going on adventures and hunting monsters. The way the kids played and talked after he left, they probably thought his stories were real."

"I see," said Garris, not understanding a thing. "Did their games seem violent? Did they playact fantasies about killing actual people?"

"Well..." Beddoe turned away from the window, and frowned at him. "Sort of. They did have this game about hunting a monster. And they sang this ditty... oh, I remember it now. 'We're going to kill a monster, the monster Sylvester Bevere!'"

She sang to the tune of "We're Going To See the Wizard" from The Wizard of Oz. Hearing it gave Garris a cold shiver.

"Did the kids know a Sylvester Bevere?"

"No. No one by that name ever visited us."

"Did their parents know about this... game?" Garris wanted to know.

"You know, that was odd," Mrs. Beddoe replied. "Once, a parent happened to overhear a kid singing that ditty, and she asked about it. Then all the kids clammed up. Like they all shared a big secret. But they didn't sing that song very often after Mr. Smith stopped coming."

"When was that?"

"He stopped showing up after about two years. The kids in that class, Imelda's class, they missed him. Kept asking me, 'When is Mr. Smith coming back to tell us stories?' They were so young, they must have forgotten all about him now."

"Where can I find this Mr. Smith?"

"I have no idea. Ask the management."

"Did someone ever take a photo of him?"

Mrs. Beddoe shook her head. "Is Imelda going to be all right?"

"Only if I can prove that she wasn't herself when she committed the murder."

Beddoe started weeping; Garris felt intense embarrassment. He asked for Imelda Washering's kindergarten yearbook, and Mrs. Beddoe let him borrow several ones. Garris thanked her and left. When he shut the door, he wondered if he had been rash; perhaps he should go back and comfort Mrs. Beddoe. But he didn't.

"You coward," he muttered to himself as he headed for the exit.

***

Using the yearbooks and information from the company that once ran the daycare center, Garris compiled a list of all persons who had once been Imelda's kindergarten classmates. He spent the next day calling them up.

Most of the former classmates no longer lived in the precinct. One was dead, two had moved abroad. Of the twenty-two ex-classmates who were still alive and Garris could get in touch with, all remembered Mr. Smith fondly.

All of them told the same story about Mr. Smith: he had taught them that Sylvester Bevere was a kind of demon in human disguise, and must be killed on sight.

Three of them admitted that they had at some point gone looking for Mr. Bevere, and had found his phone number and address, but were afraid to approach or confront him - they simply feared him too much. They admitted this matter-of-factly; Garris couldn't notice any embarrassment or shame in their voices.

When Garris told the ex-classmates that Sylvester Bevere had been murdered, and pointed out that it was in the news, some of them hung up on him. Others became hysterical and laughed. But most of the ex-classmates responded that they didn't believe Bevere had really died.

"That's what he wants us to think," one of them said. "I hope I never run into him."

"What would you do if you did?" Garris asked.

"I'd rather not answer that."

Garris ended his interviews and wondered how he was going to put them in his case report. It was like talking to members of a brainwashing cult; even in adult age, the victims carried their deeply ingrained beliefs about Sylvester Bevere, evil incarnate.

But they were not his personal enemies, only the tools of the true murderer. To get any further in the investigation, he had to convince his superiors that he had a case. After he had given the evidence some thought, he knew exactly how to go about it.

***

"Thank you for coming," he told the five men and women, all ex-classmates of the Sanford Bay Daycare Center. "Imelda needs your support now, and you could be a great help in the investigation."

"That's the least we could do," said one of them, a young man who had come over from the west coast; he had a deep tan. "Imelda did what the rest of us only dreamed of. We owe her."

Sergeant Bolland brought Imelda into the meeting-room and removed her handcuffs; she greeted the five guests. The reunion quickly turned cheerful; Imelda and her ex-classmates laughed and smiled, as if they had something to celebrate. Only one of them, a black man, seemed reluctant and sad.

Garris's superior, Patricia McKinnick, entered the room. "Hello Garris, I got your call. And I brought with me, from Canada, the man you wanted these people to meet."

After her entered a grown man with a short black beard and a dark suit. He wore smoked glasses and said nothing.

Garris shook hands with the stranger and said, "Welcome Mr. Bevere. I'm very glad you could make it." He turned to the other guests and Imelda, and said: "Folks, this is our Canadian visitor, Sylvester Bevere..."

The instant Garris had said the full name, the mood of Imelda and the visitors changed. They all stared fearfully at the bearded stranger, backed away from him... and then Imelda drew a breath, braced herself and gave rallying cry: "Get him! Hurry!"

Imelda and her former classmates rushed the stranger as one determined lynch mob. Garris and Bolland quickly placed themselves between them and the bearded man, who escaped through the door just before the others could grab him. Bolland slammed the door shut and locked it.

Turning to McKinnick, Garris said: "See? They are conditioned to see anyone by that name as the Devil. It's their religion. They got it early, and it stuck." He faced Imelda. "By the way, that man you just wanted to kill is Omar Goldfrapp, a psychiatrist. I invited him as a character witness. We had to prove how you would react." He pointed to a corner of the room. "And there is the hidden camera that's videotaping us.

"Maybe you are him," Imelda said in a low, threatening tone, glaring at Garris as if possessed. "Maybe your name is really..."

McKinnick pulled her gun and took aim at the crowd; and so did Bolland, and - reluctantly - Garris. "Quiet!" she shouted. "Put your hands behind your heads." To Garris she said: "I've heard enough. These people are all detained for disorderly conduct in a police station. Bolland, Garris - read them their rights and book'em until Goldfrapp can have them committed."

The group appeared to calm down and let the police officers lead them away, but they were eerily quiet, like prisoners of war. Garris followed them to the cells in the precinct station's basement. The black man who had seemed the least enthusiastic stopped before the open cell door and looked at Garris.

"I know there's something wrong with us. In my mind, I know it. But in my heart, I feel that Imelda did what she had to do. I'm sorry."

"So am I," said Garris before he shut and locked the door. He hoped these victims might be cured eventually; or the other Sylvester Bevere would have to change his name.

McKinnick stopped him at the top of the stairs leading to the ground floor. "So who made them this way?"

"It has got to be an insider job," Garris said. "And I know who it is. You wanna come along and arrest her?"

McKinnick shot him a puzzled frown. Garris couldn't meet her gaze.

"I'm not doing too well lately. I'm thinking of seeing the police psychiatrist."

She nodded. "With all the weird stuff that's been coming our way lately, that sounds like a good idea. Take care of yourself, Garris. Because I won't." She patted him on the shoulder. "I'll drive."

***

IV

Mrs. Beddoe opened on the first ring. "I knew you'd come for me," she said and let them in. She was dressed as if ready for travel; a suitcase stood in the hallway.

Garris didn't want to arrest her. Whatever Sylvester Bevere had done to her, it must have been horrible enough to cause her mind to split. There was no way a professional kindergarten would let a strange man come and teach little children that murder was good... unless she was insane. By now he had a strong suspicion about the stranger's true identity.

"I came looking for Mr. Smith, the storyteller," he said. "Is he in?"

At once, the old woman's expression went blank. "Depends on who's asking," she said vacantly. "Is it time for me to tell stories for the children?" She smiled. "They love it so. Parents these days, they don't have time to tell their children stories, you see. Kids grow up without beliefs."

"I know. I'd like Mr. Smith to come with us, down to the station."

Beddoe nodded slowly. "Just a moment, officer."

McKinnick moved to stop the old woman, but Garris held her back with a gesture.

Mrs. Beddoe went into another room, and returned shortly, in her old disguise: a large false beard, wide-brimmed hat and smoked glasses. The cape draped over her shoulders made Garris think of old-fashioned stage actors.

Beddoe made a theatrical flourish with her hand, and said in a much deeper voice: "Good evening! Mr. Smith is my name, and stories are my game. I shall tell you the true story about a monster, a foul being who abducted and tortured a princess, and how a brave young woman came to her rescue..."

Garris looked at McKinnick; her eyes had gone red and moist. She blinked hard and said to the dressed-up old woman: "Mr. Smith, please come with us and tell us your story. I'd really like to hear it."




"Sylvester Bevere Must Die" (c)A.R.Yngve 2008. All rights reserved. May not be reproduced without permission.