The Trevor James Case Files: Interview #1

(a short story)

“Is it on? Is the microphone working?”

Standing behind the tripod, Derrick silently sent back a thumbs up. The awkwardly large black headset made the young man’s intrinsic strangeness all the more prevalent. Derrick removed his left headphone to hear both the audio feed and real voices. He wouldn’t miss even a little bit of what came next. This job had become the most chaotic storm he’d ever seen, partly courtesy of the hurricane that was Penelope Worth.

The wall doesn’t really work with that shirt. Derrick thought, as he stared into the screen documenting their video playback. Oh well. He would just have to allow it.

It was indeed a shame, but there was also no other way this could have been done. As Derrick considered that the fluorescence brought the room to a bit over-lit, Penelope leaned in, just out of the shot that was noticeably color-washed.

This is still good. Derrick mused to himself. It looks real. Maybe too real.

Penelope cleared her throat lightly, not really needing to have done so. “The Mr. Trevor James.” The breath of a nervous laugh escaped her, small but cathartic. “I must say, my partner and I here have been through quite a lot just to meet face to face with you. This has become quite a day to remember.”

Trevor smiled warmly, appreciative, and bowed his head. “I’m honored that you think so much of this occasion. Miss…?”

Penelope’s brow bent in concern—she hadn’t expected polite. It practically made things even more unnerving. “Penelope Worth. As you can imagine, we have quite a few questions for you. Some of them may be difficult to answer, some you may have already answered, some perhaps both. If you don’t feel like sharing, you don’t have to. Details are nice, but I’ll leave description to your discretion.” Penelope fidgeted, satisfied.

Derrick rolled his eyes as he heard both of Penelope’s digitized and authentic voices proudly make awful wordplay. She argued it was part of her schtick; Derrick was decidedly not a fan of the behavior. To her it was part of the ritual. There was a method to the madness of how Penelope made it as far as she did in journalism. She knew that she had to rule it, so she did.

“I will do the best I can,” Trevor agreed. His English was well-spoken, pronounced clear; his accent slightly Ugandan—Penelope could tell.

“We would like to know about your parents,” Penelope started, coming on strong, “What was it like to be raised by them?”

The corner of Trevor’s mouth twitched in an immediately corrected flash of annoyance, but he quickly maneuvered to follow up. “My father was an immigrant from Uganda, and my mother was born in Detroit. Instead of brothers or sisters, I had many cousins. There was a lot of family around where I grew up, on my mother’s side. My parents worked extremely hard to give me a house to live in, and a chance to go to college. Twenty-thousand dollars they put away, in hopes that their son may live a better life than they did.”

Penelope licked her lips before continuing; Derrick could tell that she felt the answer wasn’t substantial enough. “How involved were your parents in your upbringing?” Penelope fired, aiming deeper.

Trevor’s smile widened, his teeth were impeccably white and clean. “Are parents ever really that involved in their child’s life? They work, have their own relationships, burdens. The result? My parents were always tired. If you ask me, they pushed themselves too hard for my sake, and I ended up being raised more by my aunts, uncle, and cousins than I was them.”

“What was your mother’s family like?” Penelope prodded, hungry for something more.

With a heavy sigh, Trevor paused and stared at the table for a moment. “Mean, mostly. A few of my aunts were strict and bitter; some even intolerant of myself and my father. Theodore—the only uncle I’d ever met—was a good man. A kind man with a true heart. His death…” Trevor’s voice wavered in pain. “I believe his death was a test for us all. He was so meaningful in life; he bore no shortage of love for anybody. I learned so much from him, and from losing him.” Trevor exhaled sharply, kneading his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “I am sorry. I… have not talked about Theodore for some time.”

“That’s perfectly alright. I am sorry to hear that about your uncle. I’ve read about Theodore actually. He was a good man. An upstanding man.” Penelope cleared her throat again, this time a bit harder. “If you don’t mind me asking; why do you think you were treated the way you were by some of your family?”

Trevor swallowed hard and leaned back in his chair before chuckling to himself quietly. “I was the darkest out of all my cousins, thanks to my father.” Trevor tented his brow. “Getting teased, excluded, stolen from, beat-up; nothing was really off the table. Micah. He always hated me. Micah had a cold, cold heart.” Trevor slowed down, shaking his head sadly. “He was neglected, and it made the evil in him that is in us all, very strong. He hated me because I had something he didn’t. That was enough for him.”

And just like that, Derrick felt himself being drawn in. He was circling the drain, ready and willing to dive. An icy fear prickled around in his stomach. He felt his viscera sink; he felt adrenaline in his veins. This guy is for real. The realization hit him like an oncoming train. He has real charisma. This guy is a fucking predator.

Penelope could feel it too. There wasn’t a single thing holding Trevor James back, and she could feel the fear in her blood. “Go on,” Penelope offered—stoic—in spite of her emotions.

Trevor nodded graciously. “It was ironic, really. I suffered because of the goodwill from my father. Micah really, truly did hate me to his core. On my 8^th birthday, I got this bike. It wasn’t new, but I was just thrilled. My last bike had gotten way too small to carry me anymore. Micah and my other cousins were so jealous, but not of the bike. Because I made them feel that—Micah, Lamar, and Joshua beat me up. They beat me up badly. They scrubbed my face in the dirt and gravel.” The further Trevor went, the more shadows seemed to creep over his expression. “I also had a dog. I’d gotten her earlier that year. She was a pitbull mix, just a puppy. Her name was Lola.” Trevor shook his head sadly again. “They lured her over, out from my yard. I was hurting and crying, begging for them to stop, begging them to feel the kindness inside of them.”

“PLEASE DON’T HURT HER!” Trevor suddenly screamed, flinging his arms into the air, pleading with the ghost of his past. “SHE HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THIS, PLEASE DON’T HURT HER!”

Both Penelope and Derrick felt the hairs on their arms and neck stand on end. They instinctively straightened their backs and leaned away.

Holy shit. Without needing to discuss it, both of their brains thought the same. Trevor sighed and then forcefully wiped his hands down his face, appearing to regain his composure.

His tone opened stone-cold deadpan. “While I was laying there unable to move from the pain, they tied her up and broke her legs. Micah doused her in gasoline and then lit a match. I’m not even sure why; the cruelty in his eyes I imagine could have burned hot enough. I didn’t know what they wanted. I didn’t even want the bike anymore if I would lose Lola. Micah actually made me believe that he would trade it for her. So, I told him he could have my bike. After that he shrugged and said, ‘All yours.’” An ugly scowl molested the calm in Trevor’s features.

 “He dropped the match right onto her. He held me down and lifted my head. He made me watch. He made me listen. For making him feel jealousy…” Trevor mashed his index finger against the table. “He made me feel that.”

“Is that why you killed your cousin?” Penelope added, thorns on every word.

The scowl that sat like a scar across Trevor’s broad jaw deepened. “No. I did not kill Lamar Williams.”

“According to the statements you made at the time of your arrest, you claimed that a ‘daemon’ killed your cousin?” Shivers shot like electricity up Derrick’s spine. Penelope is wired! What’s gotten into her, venom and razor blades?!

Trevor nodded, assenting. “That is correct.”

At Trevor’s response, even more shivers clambered up Derrick. And this guy is now cool as a cucumber? Goddamn.

Penelope flicked the slipping frame of her hair to the side to cast off some particularly annoying strands that had been getting in her eyes, blown about by the intense air conditioning in the room. “This daemon; is it a part of you, or connected to you somehow?”

Trevor shook his head in exasperation. “No, not in the way you are thinking. I do not expect you or anyone to understand. A few so-called ‘paranormal experts’ came to talk with me about them, but this matter is not something men can judge. A criminal psychologist explained it as a ‘unique, self-serving interpretation of a modus operandi.’ A convenient delusion. Apparently one the criminal justice system appreciated as reason enough to not execute me, thankfully.”

Penelope shifted her legs to cross the other direction, as her glutes were falling asleep in the hard metal chair bought on the generous budget of the federal detention center. “There’s a lot of evidence that would say otherwise, but from this conversation Mr. James, you don’t strike me as someone who is insane.”

A grin quickly pushed out Trevor’s scowl as he leaned in, resting his forearms on the silvery aluminum table. “That’s because I’m not.”

Penelope matched his intensity, putting herself forward on her elbows. “If you’ll allow me to be frank—I don’t disagree with your track record. The men you killed were monsters on the verge of causing a lot of harm. Including your cousin. The world is a less evil place because you decided to stain your hands. But you could have been a soldier. Or a social worker. Or a detective.”

Sighing once more in frustration, Trevor sat back in his chair. “I didn’t kill anyone. I only obeyed God. I did as he willed.”

At the mention of God, a nerve was struck in the recesses of Penelope’s skull. “Are you saying God willed you to burn all those men alive? To torture them to death?” Derrick noted her tone as uncharacteristically, vividly indignant.

Trevor didn’t miss the edge either. Clearly not one to back down, he turned his nose up at her. “I did not kill those men. They were already dead. God commanded me to protect us all from an evil we do not understand, and I listened. Those men were beyond saving. They were already eaten by the evil in them that is in all of us.”

Penelope cocked her head to the side; Derrick knew she was beginning to enjoy the exchange. “During your confession, when asked about the men you burned, you claimed they were truthfully daemons. But you’ve also said those men were killed by daemons. Am I to understand your interpretation is that evil spirits took over the bodies of those men, killing them in the process? And by killing them you were killing daemons, not the men themselves, because God asked you to?”

A toothy grin broke out across Trevor’s face. “But you already knew that.”

“I did,” Penelope returned matter-of-factly. “And you aren’t a detective, or ever were. You don’t know much about programming or cyber security. Your I.S.P. logs that were seized showed no history of spying on these men. Either you’re a genius hacker and covered your tracks perfectly or you didn’t even bother looking up their unsolved crimes on the internet.”

Derrick stiffened, but he didn’t abandon the shot. He wouldn’t dare. Stick with the facts, Worth. This isn’t supposed to be a conspiracy…

Penelope then imagined herself going for Trevor’s lean throat with her own teeth. He was a little older—late forties—but he actually was her type, which disturbed her more than a little. “I can’t ignore the facts. All of the men you killed were posthumously linked to strings of horrible crimes. Disgusting crimes. I’ve watched the interviews one of my colleagues hosted with your family members; none of them had ever seen you keeping tabs on such men, or anyone for that matter.” She went in for the kill. “How did you know who those men were?”

Derrick felt gooseflesh raise all across his limbs. That was a really good question, Worth. You got this.

“Because God gave me sight.” Trevor was beaming. Derrick could practically feel the warmth and hear the angels singing in the distance. “He wills that I see these men for what they really are, and he wills me to save them. It is not a matter of life and death. That is not what matters.” Trevor was perfectly blissful in his delivery. “They were all in great pain. I saved their souls from an eternity of profound suffering.”

Penelope clicked her teeth together and sat back in her hard metal chair. She ground her molars back and forth a bit, taking in Trevor’s words. Her brain was chewing on them, savoring them. There is a lot to be said about his philosophies. Penelope noted inwardly.

Penelope breathed a shallow, almost reluctant sigh. “I can’t lie to you Trevor. I’m a woman of faith. I always have been. The spiritual part of me wants to believe every word that has come out of your mouth. I believe in miracles. I’ve seen miracles. I fully believe God could have blessed you with the ability to see that those were evil men. Evil as they were—their souls were in jeopardy. You prevented them from committing further atrocity. None of them have my sympathy. But-” Penelope paused, for it was a big but. “What if you were wrong?”

Trevor beckoned for Penelope to come closer, waggling his index finger playfully. Balls of steel, Penelope braced her elbows on the table, locked her fingers, and brought herself in.

Trevor’s voice was barely a whisper. “Someone as thorough as you, I’m sure you noticed.”

Penelope had her return cocked and loaded. “I did. But I wanted to hear you say it.”  

If her intuition had been correct—and it usually was—Trevor James’ classified criminal files had been altered in some way during processing. There was a degree of information omitted or perhaps missing due to incompetence. The question came down to intent. The feds frequently withheld from the press, that was nothing new. In Trevor James’ case, Penelope knew something was definitively off.

“Have you spoken with Gerard Morrison?” Although still whispering, Trevor James seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.

There it is, that name again. Penelope noted the re-occurrence to herself. Gerard Morrison had been the only witness to the crime that specifically brought Trevor James under suspicion for the serial murders.

“I’ve met with him,” she added tersely.

“And what did he say?” Trevor taunted Penelope with the information, knowingly.

Her eyes narrowed. “He wouldn’t say.”

It had been a frustrating interview to say at the least. Trying to get into Harriet Fenroy’s Psychiatric Medical Campus had proven a nightmare. Forget the bargaining just to have them agree to the idea, she had to sign three separate non-disclosure agreements just to get clearance through the multiple layers of protected wings that led to Gerard. He wasn’t even a particularly willing or talkative participant. That, and he’d clearly been dosed with some kind of sedative before the conversation, and she couldn’t even publish that part.

Trevor nodded slowly, taking it in. “Ah… but it is not that he wouldn’t say. It was not something men can judge.”

Remembering her experience with Gerard did nothing to put Penelope in a good mood, Derrick could practically feel the temperature in the room rising with her temper. But even then—before anything else in her life—Penelope Worth was a professional. Or at least she’s supposed to be, Derrick found himself thinking.

“You’ve said that before, but the man in front of me looks human enough. If I were to take everything you’ve said at face value, it would sound an awful lot like it came from a textbook paranoid schizophrenic with the capacity for extreme, unemotional violence. So, why are you in maximum security lockup instead of a straight-jacket?” Penelope switched her legs over one another, though this time as a sort of throwing down the gauntlet. “Are you some kind of threat to national security? An existential threat? Maybe one the people have a right to know about?”

It was a challenge. Penelope wanted to know Trevor for what he was. A somber look crossed his dark, entrancing eyes. Slowly and gently as if in apology, Trevor extended his hands across the table to Penelope. She had been explicitly told that any physical contact with Trevor would be forbidden. Her eyes fell to his open, upward facing palms. To Penelope, those hands—Trevor’s hands—were undoubtedly the hands of a serial killer. They were the hands of a violent, unfeeling torturer. Yet, she wasn’t so disgusted by them. Trevor’s strange offering gave her pause enough to consider humoring it.

Derrick kept rolling, kept verifying that everything was functioning properly and recording to the cloud drive. As much as Penelope would loathe to admit out loud, Derrick was something of a professional himself. Although every fiber of his being screamed to grab Penelope by the shoulders and shake sense into her for the sake of the legendary potential of this interview, he felt an intense, serious calmness. He had his own doubts and reservations about the story himself. As much as he feared the murderer that was Trevor James, he was far more terrified by the prospect of missing the footage of whatever it was that he felt was about to happen.

Penelope could feel the pressure in the over-brightened room of mostly solid gray concrete. Uncertain, she stared up at one of the two panoramic security cameras. It would be literally impossible to hide an action from their sight, lest they were to be obstructed or destroyed. Penelope turned back to Derrick with his awkward, nerdy-ass headset. Without looking, Derrick could feel her stare burning a hole in him, so he nodded.

Penelope returned her attention to Trevor and his hopeful, beautiful eyes. When her own fell to his hands, she heard an unfamiliar voice in her head. It was quiet and diminutive; one she’d never really had to listen to. Even publishing a compromising story about her own nation’s military efforts in the Congo didn’t bring this voice to the surface. To this very point in her life, Penelope had never gotten the feeling that she was about to make a choice that would end up hurting her career in the long run. But for an alien reason, Penelope did not feel like her career mattered more than this moment. Swift as a swallow, as she’d always been in the pursuit of the truth, she placed her hands in Trevor’s. As tender as a mother would cradle its child, Trevor closed his hands around Penelope’s.