The Executioner
The Executioner
by Scot McAtee
Copyright 2012 Scot McAtee
Desolation Hill was an award winning “Green” Prison but for every celebrated honor, it was no happy place. It was the newest SuperMax Prison and the home of the most humane Death Row in the country, or so the stories went. The newspapers touted it as not only the most discreet “privacy-aware prisoner disposal system” available, but the cheapest, too. Politicians lauded it as the greatest security system money could buy. Economists praised it for its energy efficiency. The Warden called it the greatest deterrent in the history of prisons. But the prisoners called it something else-they called it The Devil’s Mouth.
“So, new guy, who’d you tick off to get this detail?” Officer Marvin Dicks asked his new colleague.
William Colts, a fifteen year veteran himself, responded indignantly. “Nobody. I asked for this job.”
“Are you stupid?” Dicks growled back. “Or just an idjit?”
“Neither.”
“Seems to me that only newbies and idjits looking to get their thrills ask to put other men to death. So which are you?”
“Neither.”
Dicks grunted and crossed his arms. “What’d you ask to be on this detail for then?”
Colts was rarely at a loss for words, but this time he was. He’d been asked that same question by the warden at the interview and he’d given a sterling answer, but he knew that his interview answer wouldn’t fly with the rank and file. “I consider it the most important job in the entire corrections system,” was something the bosses wanted to hear, but the ordinary guys, the ones who pulled the switches, knew that was just a standard answer to a standard question. So what could he tell the guy? What would make him sound like a normal guy just looking for a paycheck and not what he really was-- a guy looking for a little payback?
“Just looking for a bump in pay. Got bills to pay.”
Dicks’ head rolled around until he was peering down his nose at Colts. Colts knew his new mentor was assessing his honesty, looking for a tell.
Don’t sweat it, he’ll never see it, he assured himself. No one can tell when you’re lying.
Dicks cocked his head back the other direction and sighed. “Okay fine,” he muttered. “Let’s get busy.” He sucked down the last swig of coffee in his mug and rose up slowly from the break room table. He gathered up his gear, arranged himself just so, and made for the door. “But before we get down to brass tacks, there’s something you need to know. It’s what will keep you alive here.”
“What’s that?”
“On Desolation Hill, if a prisoner steps out of line, he don’t go to the cooler. And dead men never get the chance to meet their makers. And nosy Corrections Officers who ask too many questions, don’t live to tell the tale.”
“The tale of what, sir?”
“See, you’re already asking too many questions. Just listen and follow directions and you’ll be fine. Okay?”
Colts shrugged. “Sure, whatever.”
Dicks shook his head and sighed. He crossed himself and muttered, “Watch out for this one, Saint Michael.” Then he looked at Colts and said, “Okay, let’s get this show on the road.”
Colts followed behind him like an eager puppy. He didn’t have to ask where they were headed-he already knew. He just didn’t know in what order they’d visit those places.
Neither man spoke again until they reached the last airlock before Death Row. Then Dicks turned to Colts and said, “Ready for this? Ever seen the worst of the worst all in one place before?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Colts returned. There was something in Dicks’ eye that drew his attention. It wasn’t fear but it was something in the same family of emotions. It wasn’t quite pity, but it was close.
A buzzer sounded and Dicks blasted through the door as quickly as he could. Colts followed closely behind, so close that Dicks mumbled at him over his shoulder. “S.R.T., huh?”
“Yup,” Colts answered curtly.
“Nice,” Dicks complimented, looking straight ahead as the door clanged shut behind them. It was good to have a solid partner, one who had experience with close quartered hand to hand prison cell combat. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Home again.”
As much as Dicks seemed calm and settled, Colts felt exactly opposite. He was filled with nervous energy that threatened to set him afire. He was afraid that he would literally explode if things didn’t move ahead faster than they were. There was much to see and do before… before the scales of justice were once again balanced. It was crazy to think that by the end of his shift, all would be right with the world again. A bad man would go to his everlasting damnation and a family would have its justice.
Death Row was silent. As they passed the cages, Colts had expected cat calls or curses-the standard taunts of general population inmates. But here there was nothing, only total silence.
He followed Dicks along the passage, staring straight ahead. He knew the protocols- don’t interact with the ‘dead men.’ The easiest way to do that was to ignore them. You were to use your peripheral vision as much as possible. It was dangerous to ignore them, but you were never close enough for them to get at you and you never let your guard down. You always travelled in pairs and you were never unarmed. That was contradictory to what the newspapers told the public, but so what? John Q Public didn’t want to know all the sordid little details of a SuperMax. They just wanted to be safe and they left the details to men like him. That’s why they paid him-to take care of business. And tonight, at one minute after midnight he was most definitely going to take care of that.
They rehearsed the march down Death Row, walking the entire length of the block. The massive metal door at the end of the block drew closer with each step. His heart rate quickened with each step. It was thrilling and scary at the same time to be that close to the Death Chamber.
Dicks stopped in front of the last pair of cells. There was a number “1” painted over the cell to their left. It was in some sort of frilly French script that made Colts think of days gone by. It was a throwback to a more Victorian age, one that seemed out of place in this ultramodern prison.
“I’ve got six hours left, you sons of bitches,” hollered Cell Number One’s inhabitant, “So leave me the hell alone!” A thrown plastic cup popped against the steel bars of his cage, startling Colts. Dicks didn’t flinch.
They spun on their heels to face Cell Number One. They peered straight ahead, at the back wall, not the prisoner, according to protocol. Their job was to escort the prisoner to his final moment, to restrain or carry the prisoner if need be, but not to acknowledge his presence. They were ghosts. They were moving statues until otherwise required.
The prisoner rushed the bars, bellowing in anger, clawing at them. Colts knew he was safe where he was and he had seen this type of reaction many times before, but none of those other prisoners had such a crazed look as this one. He seemed possessed. When the man hit the bars at full speed, bouncing his head off them with a nasty sounding ‘bong,’ Colts flinched. The prisoner’s eyes went wide. He hissed and cursed at Colts, called him every name under the sun, berated his mother and his upbringing and then, when his vitriol had finally been expended, he slowly collapsed to the floor, moaning like a sick child.
Dicks elbowed Colts. They turned away from Cell Number One and again faced the massive door. In sync, they marched to it, where Dicks retrieved a set of oversized ancient keys from somewhere inside his uniform and keyed it open. It was solid steel, heavy and old. The hinges creaked as if they had never been oiled. It felt like they were opening a crypt, not a nearly brand new execution chamber in the newest institution of the land.
Inside the Chamber, they went through the routi
ne that they would follow later, when it counted. Dicks showed him where everything was, although there was very little in the room. There was an enormous wooden chair made from four by fours on a raised platform in the center of the chamber. It had thick leather straps in the same places as an electric chair would have them. In fact, everything about the chair smacked of an electric chair except for the missing metal cap and electrical leads. There was no switch to be thrown, no drugs to be injected, no hint of the method to be used to put down the rabid dogs that inhabited the cages just outside. There was just the chair. The chair and a door behind it.
Dicks tried to ignore the second door but Colts kept catching him sneaking a peek at it. Dicks never made a motion to it, never acknowledged its existence. He went about the business of preparing a man’s execution and tried to ignore the door as best he could. Was that where the corpse was taken after the State