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For every minute I sit inside this interview room, staring across a table at a kid who should probably be in college, stressing about finals and schmoozing with girls, I struggle to understand how he ended up here.
No one would accuse Garret or Gage of being angels. But cold-blooded murderers?
Murdererswillingto go to prison for life?
That’s where I fail to bridge the gap between what we’ve been presented, and what I’m able to accept.
Beside me, Fletch sits in quiet contemplation, his ankle resting on his knee and his hands linked in his lap. He appears at ease while Garret recounts more of the night his life changed forever, but where I’m able to affect a general calm, Fletch bites down on the rage surging through his blood after a bad night and a worse morning.
Sometimes, drug addicts don’t want help. And when they’re more interested in their next hit than they are in surviving another day, they kick and scratch and bite to get their own way. Often, a desperate dad will do whatever it takes to make his daughter happy—even if that means physically picking up his ex-wife and driving her to a rehab facility.
But when that addict’s fear of a missed hit leads to self-harm, she ends up in a seventy-two-hour hold at the hospital instead.
Last night was rough on Charlie Fletcher. Possibly the worst he’s ever had.
“So at what point did he die?” Fletch studies Garret’s exhausted eyes. The bags crowding beneath them, and the way his shoulders aren’t quite as broad as they were when this began. “Before amputation or after? Before you flayed his cock, or after?”
“Flayed him first.” Garret chews on his thumbnail and glances down instead of at us.
He’s not becoming remorseful for his crime, but rather, fed up with answering questions. Tired of the merry-go-round we’re on.
The guy and his buddy confessed, and yet, they’re not allowed to pass ‘Go’until we get the whole story.
“He passed out a couple times because he was freaking out,” Garret explains. “So we stopped and waited for him to come back.”
“How long was he out each time?” I ask. “Hours? Minutes?”
“Just a few minutes, usually. We didn’t know how to wake him up again, so we figured we’d try cutting tiny slices into his belly, like paper cuts. They worked, because he woke up again and kept on screaming.”
“Ammonia probably would’ve done it,” Fletch mutters. “So his cock went first. Then what?”
“Legs.”
“Where on his legs?” I ask. “Ankles? Knees? Thighs?”
“Ankles.” Garret puts his hands together, as though wrapped around the handle of an axe, then he brings it down with a swing and claps his hand to the table. “Took one swing.” Bringing his eyes to mine, he adds, “I wasn’t sure how it would go down. If the bone would snap easy, or if I’d have to hack at it. But it only took one really good whack to take it off.”
“Then you went to the other side?” Fletch asks after a tight exhale. “One ankle, then the other?”
“The mattress made it a bit tricky,” Garret volunteers. “The downward force of the axe on his leg meant the mattress compressed under his weight. So the second ankle only shattered a little on the first swing. I had to pull back and go for a second shot.”
“How long is this taking?” Sitting forward, I wait for his eyes. “From the cock, to the ankle, to the next ankle, how much time has passed?”
“A minute or two.” He slumps back and shrugs. “Not long. We knew he wouldn’t last long after the first chop before bleeding out.”
Appearing almost bored, though I know different, Fletch bounces his ankle on his knee. “Didn’t think to bring a flame and cauterize the wound? Woulda bought you bunches more time.”
Frustrated, I look across at my partner with a questioning brow. “Seriously? We’re offering tips now?”
Humored, Garret actually manages a grin. “No, we didn’t think to bring a flame. Or ammonia. But next time for sure.”
I don’t consider his threat credible. Crazy, I know, but I don’t feel like these kids are a danger to society. This thing with Paul was personal.
Extremelypersonal.
Though, I can’t tell if my thoughts are colored by the rest of what’s happening in my world, or if my assumption is based on critical thinking.
