2000      

A crack of thunder followed by a nearby bolt of lightning illuminated the words written on the building I stood before.  John Henry Asylum.  Maximum Security.  To an outsider, it would have looked like a clichéd scene from a horror movie, but it was my job.  For nine years I had wandered the halls of this asylum, meeting murders, rapists, and the general scum of the Earth.  I was a criminal psychologist.  I was the guy who decided who was crazy and who knew exactly what they did.

                I made my way through the numerous security checks into the entry way of John Henry Asylum.  Without a second to spare, I was greeted by a smiling figure with his hand extended.

                "Dr. Heathcliffe!  Always a pleasure," came the man's joyous voice.

                I quickly scanned his short, stout structure before meeting his handshake.  His rosy cheeks and general ‘nice old man' image always left me suspicious.  I couldn't understand why anyone would be so cheerful in a place like this.

                "Likewise, Mr. Owen," I said without skipping a beat.

                Gus Owen had been the warden of the Asylum for longer than I had been working there.  I sometimes wondered if he'd always been so happy around the criminally insane.

                Motioning for me to follow, he led me down a hallway taking us to the very heart of the asylum.

                "Could I get you any coffee, Dr. Heathcliffe, maybe some tea?"  Owen asked, his smooth head reflecting the fluorescent lights from above.

                I replied with a polite, "No thank-you," and continued following him down the hallway.

                "I'm sure you've heard, Doctor," Owen began, looking back at me over his shoulder, "That we're housing the famed mass murderer, Timojoh."

                I nodded, "I am aware of that."

                Owen's remark forced me to snicker gently under my breath; of course I knew that, he was who I was there to examine.  We continued to walk in silence until we reached a tall steel doorway that opened with the sound of a loud buzz.

                Owen started back down the hallway and said, "It is here, Dr. Heathcliffe, that I take my leave.  Mr. Harding will take you from here."    

                He shot me an informal wave goodbye and made his way down the hallway.

                I strolled through the doorway, turning to face a small control room occupied by machines, monitors, and Paul Harding.  Harding was a large, beastly man, standing a solid 6'6".  He looked great for a man pushing sixty, the sole identifiers of his age being his graying crew cut, and the slight crow's feet at the corners of his eyes.

                The bear of a man stood up and stepped out of the control room to greet me, "How goes it, doctor?" He said with his hand extended.

                We heartily shook hands as old friends always do.  Harding and I had known each other for about nine years, although he'd been working at John Henry long before I had ever started there.  We met and instantly clicked.  I had watched his family grow through photographs and even got to meet them on occasion.  We shared interests in everything from books to movies and even old music.

                "Oh same old, you know how it goes," I replied with a smile.

                Harding's friendly grin slowly faded, we both knew we had to get to business as soon as possible.

                "This guy, Timojoh," Harding started, "He's a tough nut to crack.  We can't figure out his real name.  No real social security number and several fake IDs.  We have a DNA test in the works, it should hopefully be back soon.  Other than that, we've got nothing'.  He won't talk, and when he does he's basically stone cold.  Plus we still have no clue why the hell he calls himself Timojoh.  The name's beyond me."

                "What about finger prints?" I asked.

                "Oh!" Harding exclaimed, "That's the messed up part, the son of a ***** burned his own finger prints off.  Burned them!  Can you believe that?"

                My eyes slightly widened.

                "I doubt that felt good..." he trailed off.

                Apart from that last part, I really wasn't at all shocked.  I hadn't dealt with a tough case in awhile, but I had dealt with them.  I felt that I could take anything, and that I was the ‘tough nut to crack', but I was in for a surprise.

                Harding led me down a corridor to our left, down to the last door on the right just before the metal wall holding a large, red ‘DEAD END' sign above a smaller one reading ‘No Exit'.  He scanned his identification card on the laser pad right next to the door and it clicked allowing us to enter. 

                I stepped in, but Harding stayed back.  "I better get back to my post," he said, heading back, "Best of luck, doc."

                I muttered a quick, "Thanks," and turned to face Aaron Nasbeth.  Aaron was a newer addition to the John Henry team, similar in stature to Harding but quite a few decades younger.  Nasbeth was the strict type who always had to go by the book.

                He stood tall and stiff like a British foot guard outside the Queen's palace.  He shot me a defined militant nod as if to say it was okay for me to go in.  I nodded back at him, not because I needed his approval, but I felt compelled to humor him and make him feel important.  I grabbed a clipboard holding Timojoh's stats and known information, and unlocked the sealed door with my own ID badge.

                I entered the dark, one window, confined conference room staring down at the clip board.  Scanning the figures, I realized Timojoh was one sick freak leaving a blood trail of fourteen bodies spanning thirteen years.  Finally, I looked the man in the face, completely oblivious to whom exactly I was about to see.

                The man's bushy red hair, patchy chin strap, and long face struck a familiar cord with me.  I studied his face more closely and noticed one green eye and one blue.  Instantly, the sight tugged me straight from reality into the past.

1977

                I was staring directly into those same eyes, blue on the right and green on the left.  I was scanning the darkened and slightly yellowing skin around the green eyes.

                I was fifteen, he was seventeen.  His name was Ron Joithom.  I'd noticed several injuries he'd had before, but none ever as apparent as this one.  We were walking to the park to play football with some friends when I finally stopped to ask him about it:

                "What happened to your eye?"               

                Ron turned towards me, his face stern and his teeth gritted, "Don't worry about it."

                Taken aback, I heeded his word and left the subject alone, walking the rest of the way in silence.  That was the first time he'd ever shown a hint of anger towards me apart from the time I stole the marbles from his Kerplunk game back in 1967 when I was five.

2000

                I stood, frozen and awe-struck, unable to form words.  Apart from two long scars on his cheek and one across the bridge of the nose, Timojoh, was one in the same with my best friend from childhood.

                "Well?" He said in a raspy voice, "Shall we begin?"

                My breathing shortened as I searched for something to say, having nothing come to mind.

                "What's the matter, doc," he smirked, "Lost your syzygy?"

                "Excuse me," I squeaked as I fiddled with the door knob.  The time it took for me to finally get the door open felt like hours, but emerging on the other side felt like sweet relief.  The relief, however didn't last long.  I pressed my back up against the cold steel door, Timojoh's last word ringing over and over in my head.  Nasbeth rushed to my side, asking if I was alright, but I tuned him out.  My breathing grew heavier as I began to sweat profusely.  The word, syzygy, now imprinted in my skull, once again sent me spiraling into the past.

1977

                It was August 9^th, the last day I ever saw Ron.  We were sitting atop the large rock behind my house, just talking, while the sun went down.  It was the day before his birthday and when I asked how excited he was, his answer could not have been any more morbid.

                "A birthday is just another day, Jack," he said to me, "Nothing special whatsoever.  It comes and it goes.  In the spectrum of things, no one really cares; we're all nothing to everyone else."

                I scanned the expression on his face; I could tell he was holding back the tears.  It was hard for me to see the person I looked up to since I was five in a state like this.

                "Ya know, Jackie," Ron continued, "There is a certain syzygy to life, to everyone's particular life."

                He noticed my questioning look and went off into an explanation:

                "Syzygy is basically a word for unity, or alignment if you want to get technical.  Everyone is supposed to have unity with one another, but all that has been lost over time.  That's why no one matters anymore; we have all lost our place in life, our syzygy."

                I nodded.  It was an interesting way of looking at life.  Depressing, but interesting.  Ron rested his head on his knuckles. I glanced over to find him staring off into his own abyss, the light breeze gently blowing his bushy hair.  He looked genuinely at peace there.  The image of him, sitting next to me in his blue jeans, red converse shoes, and his Led Zeppelin T-shirt would be forever imprinted in my head after that day.

                The sound of Ron's father angrily yelling for him caught both of our attention.  Ron jumped off the rock and cursed under his breath.  The way the light hit his face illuminated his healing black eye and several scratches on the side of his neck.

                He took a deep breath and began to walk off, but stopped and turned towards me, "I think people regain their syzygy in death...Maybe that's the only way for any of us to have any meaning."

                I raised one eyebrow, "By dying?"

                Ron was staring into his abyss once again, "Maybe...There's a certain purity in death, kind of a rebirth."

                His words were beginning to scare me slightly.  I tried to think of something clever to say, something that would brighten the mood, but I fell flat.  Ron opened his mouth as if he were going to tell me something important, but shut it after hesitating.

                "I'll seeya around," he said, a hint sadness in his voice, as he ran off to meet his father.

                The next day, on Ron's birthday, firemen pulled out three horribly burned bodies from the flaming wreckage that was the Joithom house.  The bodies were charred beyond recognition, and the technology of the time couldn't technically identify them, but there was one for Mr. Joithom, one for his girlfriend, and one for Ron.  I couldn't stop the tears at any point the entire day and night, and they returned on and off for the rest of the week.

2000

                I took control of my breathing and wiped the sweat from my brow.  Nasbeth's voice grew louder.

                "Dr. Heathcliffe!"  He exclaimed, "Are you alright?"

                "Yeah," I lied, "Fine.  I just started feeling a little sick in there.  It's nothing; I've had a cold for the past week."

                Nasbeth nodded, obviously realizing my lie.  He backed off, but continued to eye me closely.  I slouched my neck and rubbed my eyelids with my fingers.

                Suddenly, shock rose up my spine compelling me to look down at the clipboard.  I had a revelation.  I found a pen and circled the name ‘Timojoh' on the paper.  The letters danced on the paper, jumping out at me and rearranging in different forms.  I wrote the letters one by one in the margin of the document.  It was exactly as I expected, but still caused me to gasp.  Timojoh was an anagram of Joithom, Ron's last name.

                That entire series of events had left me flabbergasted.  How could it be possible?  I had seen the firefighters pull three bodies from Ron's burning house, it couldn't be him.  But it was.  I saw his face, and I knew it was him.  Who else would use the word ‘syzygy'?

                Regaining my composure, I turned to step back into the conference room.  Many absurd thoughts taunted my brain: thoughts of Ron being a ghost returned from the dead, thoughts of losing my own sanity, and thoughts of this being one very realistic dream.  I shook them off and entered the room.  The sight of Ron sent a chill down my spine but I forced my feet to carry me to the chair across from him.  His expression remained stiff as my footsteps echoed in the silence.  After what seemed like an eternity, I finally sat down in the chair.

                "So, Mr. Timojoh," I began, trying to sound as cool and collected as I could, "Tell me your case."

                "Cut the crap, Jackie," he replied, "You know exactly who I am."              

                My inner strength began to dwindle, "Don't call me that..."

                Ron smiled, "C'mon, Jack.  What happened to me being your hero?"

                Clenching my jaw, I shook my head.

                "I thought you'd be glad to see me...Aren't you happy to find out that I'm alive?"

                "You're a murderer," was all I could manage.

                "Am I?" He shot back, "Or am I doing the job holy men don't have the balls to do?"

                The conversation was growing increasingly difficult for me.

                "I told you back when we were kids, that fateful night.  The night before my birthday was it?"

                I nodded slowly.

                "I made my point very clear," his words grew intense, "I couldn't of made it any clearer for you.  This world has gone to hell.  The people have lost their sense of purpose, their alignment, they're syzygy."

                A slight grimace told me he noticed my cringing at the word.

                "Yes, I'm sure you remember that word," he said, now smiling.

                I stayed still, unable to acknowledge him with an answer.

                "What I said then holds true today.  People need to die to be reconnected with their syzygy.  Listening to a man with a white collar and a black outfit will do nothing.  We're all too far gone, we all need to die, even you, Jack," he spat, "I may be a murderer to the police, but to the world I'm a savior."

                I shifted my gaze to the table; I couldn't look the man in the face.  Whoever he was now, he wasn't my friend.  I tried to force that fact into my brain, but it didn't come easy. 

                "I have your fate in my hands, Ron; you know that, don't you?"  I said, still unable to look at him.

                I could tell in his voice that his smile faded, "Yes, and I know you will do the right thing...I know you wouldn't put a savior away."

                "Ron, you're not a savior!" I shouted, now able to face him, "I may have looked up to you as a child, but you're not who you were then anymore.  You're just a mixed up man, and you need help."

                I thanked God for several years of psychology training to help me think straight, but the words were still easier to say than to believe.

                Ron shook his head, "You would never betray your best friend.  How many times have I stuck by you throughout the years?  How many times have I stuck up for you when older kids were mean to you?  We grew up together!"

                My rational side pleaded with me not to listen, but the Jack Heathcliffe inside me from 23 years past wanted to take Ron out of John Henry, hide him, and find a way to live like we used to.  Tears welled up in my eyes, but I shut my eyes in order to confine them.  One, however, escaped, making its salty wet trail down my cheek and hitting the ground at my feet.  I had to leave.  Rising up from my chair, I turned and headed for the door.  I heard Ron's voice, but I tuned him out as I emerged at the side of Aaron Nasbeth and face to face with Paul Harding.

                Harding smiled when he saw me, "We've got the DNA test back.  It seems Timojoh's real name is-"

                "-Ron Joithom," I cut him off, "It's an anagram."

                He shot me a questionable gaze, "Yeah, how'd you know?"

                Nasbeth now faced me, genuinely intrigued, "Wow, you must be pretty good to get his real name out of him after only a couple minutes."

                I told them everything I knew.  Everything from the night before Ron's birthday to the next day when he and his family were pulled out of their flame engulfed house, dead.  The point now flogging my story was how Ron survived after I saw his body burned beyond recognition, and he was declared dead.

                I was indeed curious, but not enough to make me want to go back in there, "I'm sorry guys, I don't think I can go back in there."

                Nasbeth stared in awe, and Harding simply nodded, realizing my pain.  I walked past them and made my way back out to the lobby where I was met by a grinning Gus Owen.         

                He opened his mouth to speak but I waved him off, "Not now."

                "Wait!"  He called as I walked past him.

                I turned back to find something I never thought I would see.  Owen's face was far from cheery, it was near tears.  I didn't know what to say, so I just approached him to see what he had to say.

                "I know you always wondered why I always seemed so ‘happy-go-lucky' in a place like this," he began, obviously trying to keep from crying, "And I figured now is an appropriate time to tell you."

                 I met his gaze, feeling truly sorry for the man for the first time in nine years of knowing him.

                He forced a smile, "This is really hard for me to say, but here goes...Ten years ago I had an encounter with our friend Timojoh in there.  I got away safely, but unfortunately my wife and daughter weren't as lucky."

                My jaw dropped, I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

                He continued, "I had never been truly crushed before, like I was-like I still am, so I never really knew how I should act in front of others.  I put on a false face, a face of joy.  Sometimes I guess it probably came off too strong, but I didn't know how else to act.  I am the head of this institution, people look up to me..."

                His story got to me.  I knew now that I had to stick it out and do my job.  I had to regain my professional persona, face my own demons, and do what I had originally come to do.

                Before long I was back in the conference room, once again face to face with my best friend.

                "Alright, Ron," I said firmly, "You can't manipulate me.  I need the truth.  What the hell happened to you on your birthday all those years ago?"

                Ron looked up at me, his face stone cold.  "I guess you deserve an answer.  I'm sure you remember all the times when we'd hang out and I had random bruises and injuries, right?"

                I nodded.

                "Well, my father used to beat me.  He'd usually do his worst in areas that would be covered by clothes, but sometimes his rage was so uncontrollable he'd just go off on me anywhere and everywhere.  And his girlfriend, she just stood and watched."

                I scanned Ron's face, thinking I saw a hint of emotion behind his cold features.

                "I couldn't take it anymore, and I figured, what could be a better birthday present than an escape?  I didn't want to just straight up kill them, because then the cops would be looking for a killer.  Burning was the best option, but I needed a third body.  If they only found two, they'd go looking for me.  I got a drifter."

                Ron smiled an almost evil smile. 

                I shook my head in disgust, "So you killed an innocent drifter so you could walk away with no one looking for you?"

                "No!" Ron shouted, "No one is innocent!  You know just as well as I do.  You should of seen their faces, Jack, you shoulda' seen ‘em.  It was beautiful.  For once in their worthless, disgraceful lives they were pure.  They felt true fear in the fire, but who could blame them?  Everyone fears what they don't know.  They were purified.  As the flames engulfed them, they were set free of their earthy guilt and were realigned with their syzygy.  It was at that point that I knew I wanted to help save the world.  It was my job, because I was the only one who knew there was a job to be done."

                Any hint of emotion or remorse that I thought I saw in Ron was gone.  He was gone.  His story was sad, I couldn't sympathize with him.  I pitied him.  In his delirious world, he thought he was right.  I was finally seeing clearly, he was a troubled man needing help.  I had my verdict.

               "Ron, I'm sorry," I turned away and walked out the door.

Ron's expression melted from stone cold to worried, but he said nothing.

                I emerged to find Owen, Harding, and Nasbeth waiting for me.  Owen had once again slipped on his happy face.

                I stared at the ground, guilt welling up in me, "He's insane, possibly beyond help."

                The three intently awaited my last words.

                "There's no way he's innocent, he knows what he did but he thinks it was righteous.  The death penalty would only give him what he wants.  He needs to be locked up."

                I braced myself for my next words, hardly able to believe what I was about to say, "He will also need periodic review from myself."

                Owen, Harding, and Nasbeth obviously couldn't find the right words to say.  I walked past them, putting a comforting hand on Owen's shoulder. "You don't need to wear the mask anymore," I whispered.

                I continued walking, unsure of how Owen took my advice.  My job for the day was done, but in the big picture it had just begun.  Maybe my decision was the right one, or maybe it would turn out to be the worst decision of my life.  Whatever the case, only time would tell.