WARNING:
Objects In Mirror Are Closer
Than They Appear
By
Thomas J. Aron
Copyright 2008 Thomas J Aron.
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The heavy night had created a haunting crypt for the mind. It warped all perceptions, stole away precious freedom, and resurrected old memories long considered dead. Robert Anderson had been on watch. His overtaxed eyes were laded with a gritty residue that his tears could not cleanse. During the night he had begun to die. The darkness had produced a hundred forms of fear that had taken root in his soul.
The murderer, Edwin Blane Cromwell, Jr., had been cunning, calculating, and patient. He had not attacked in the dark. He was still out there, waiting.
The wounds to Robert’s spirit could not be hidden. The bathroom mirror now reflected an aura of decay about him. The cautious morning light had not eased his blinking nor had it exposed the man who was coming to slaughter him.
It had begun with a midnight pounding on his front door. Nothing sounds like a policeman’s knock and his report to Robert had been ominous. Cromwell had escaped from the Pueblo asylum, one hundred eighty miles to the south, and that had been broadcast as a statewide law enforcement bulletin. The clerk at a convenience store only blocks from Robert’s home had called in. She had seen the escapee here in Jackson City.
Shortly after his escape, Cromwell’s personal notes had been discovered. They were a rambling braggado about his exploits and had included a kill list. Robert was on the list along with Judge Oscar Christiansen, District Attorney Bill Hillard, and a psychiatrist at the Pueblo hospital, Dr. John Monette.
The notes embellished Cromwell’s pleasure from inflicting pain on others. There were explicit reports of his violent rapes of two gay orderlies at Balboa Naval Hospital. He happily explained his ability to attack the second man because the first one refused to report his rape. “If they both had stayed in the closet,” he wrote, “I could have enjoyed myself for years.”
The notes also described the killing of his live-in girlfriend, Mary Jane Heidenreich, the crime that had brought Cromwell together with everyone on his list. Her murder had occurred in their apartment just a half-block from the Jackson City Police Station. This fact had amused him.
The policeman completed his report and took up post from across the street. One cop in one patrol car offered Robert little protection, a token gesture at best. He considered calling his friend, Father Tolar, but decided it was too late an hour to bother the priest. He’d just have to trust God and the solitary policeman out front.
Judge Christiansen was a tough-minded war veteran who had boxed professionally. His independent thinking had created disfavor with the Supreme Court. One of his rebellious orders had read: “The high court’s opinion is much akin to what you find on the bottom of your boots after strolling through a corral.”
Christiansen became annoyed with cops swarming his place. He phoned the Chief and threatened contempt of court. That ended it. The judge turned loose his two German Shepherds and went back to sleep.
Most of the protection went to the District Attorney. Hillard had reacted like a terrified rabbit, finally blacking out after downing several scotches and a large bottle of Nyquil. Several cops stayed in the DA’s house, sleeping in shifts on the living room sofa.
Cromwell’s killing Hillard would be special. The man had disgusted him. “Besides,” he wrote, “anyone can kill a cop, but you make history if you whack a DA.”
The psychiatrist had fled to Switzerland within an hour of Cromwell’s escape. The doctor’s secretary left with him. His angry wife remained behind. Cromwell must have enjoyed Monette’s divorce court antics and his disgraceful firing from the hospital.
The killing of the defense attorney had been of the highest priority. While Robert had waited in the night, he contemplated the killer’s motives. Why was Cromwell after him? Had he not saved him from execution? That was crazy, sort of. He never believed that the guy was insane, but he was certain that he was unusually cruel.
Maybe he should have been executed.
Still standing before the mirror, Robert lit his first cigarette since the nightmare began. After taking a couple of drags he relaxed, his hands stopped shaking. He then wet his face, stroked on the soap, and began to shave.
There is an aftershock from an intense night of fear. A man shaves very carefully the next morning. Maybe it’s from a lingering fear. Maybe it’s from exhaustion. Maybe he just doesn’t want even a small razor nick after safely escaping the night.
Robert scraped away slowly. Steam from his hot water fogged the mirror. He wiped it off. The clear streaks reflected the chair in the next room, the living room where he had sat the night. The chair was straight-backed with nothing to soften his vigilance.
Resting on its seat was his skeet-shooting gun. The weapon had been selected because of its two short barrels. He had chosen 00 Buckshot, a powerful load that would put nasty bullet-sized holes in any flesh.
Robert knew that shooting Cromwell with both barrels would have the same effect as dozens of hits from a .38 police special. This was a lot more firepower than the policeman out front had.
The shotgun also offered a remedy for last night’s darkness. Just beyond the fringe of the porch light Robert had seen a glint from the bumper of the police car. The blackness absorbed the rest of the vehicle, the cop in it, and all the neighborhood outlines with their comforting familiarity. There had been many different approaches for Cromwell’s attack, but the swath of the shotgun’s blast would have reduced them.
This truth, however, had not eased Robert’s concerns.
Shaving completed, he strained again to escape the horror of his long night. Correct thinking that was the answer. He tried new thoughts, memories about his childhood and home as it once had been. Last Christmas immediately came to mind.
On Christmas afternoon he had sat and stared at his father’s body in the funeral home. Even though Dad had been in a tuxedo, he hadn’t looked good, hadn’t looked pleased about being dead.
Robert made other attempts at distraction, but nothing worked. Try as he might, he could not avoid remembering the night he first met Ed Cromwell.
The unhappy court clerk had called about 3:00 a.m. and told him that he had been appointed to represent a man in the jail. Robert had made a weary response about the rude awakening, but the clerk hung up on him.
Twenty minutes later, he arrived at the police station. By then his mind had regained its professional discipline, though his appearance was grossly unprofessional. He berated himself for not asking the clerk about Cromwell’s charges. Then he laughed, “They wouldn’t have called me out of bed for parking tickets. Must be a good one!”
Robert’s pace picked up excitedly. As he marched in, he saw Hillard leaning against the counter, talking to a sleepy policeman. The presence of the District Attorney himself, and not a deputy, confirmed the fact that this was a major crime.
The DA was a sallow fellow with a strange sensitivity to criticism. A senior partner at Salmon & Hines had made some phone calls and gotten Hillard appointed to fill the vacancy caused by the death of the predecessor. That’s how the prestigious law firm disposed of its disappointing associates, dumped them into public jobs.
“Anderson,” Hillard called out. Robert briskly crossed the lobby. Without further word Hillard straightened and held up his right arm, fist clenched. Then he slowly extended upwards his index finger. .
One finger – Murder One.
The cop opened the swinging half-door at the end of th
e counter. He nodded towards a side door leading to a hallway. Robert stepped through with growing alertness.
Coming towards him was an anxious little man, too pudgy to be of much use out on the streets. His uniform tag read: A.T. Brubaker, Detention Officer. He nervously stole a quick glance at the empty hallway behind him.
Although Alvin T. Brubaker had studied police science at the community college, he had yet to feel comfortable anywhere. During his second year in patrol division, he suffered a mental breakdown. The catalyst had been a dead cat someone put in his hat on his locker shelf. The night before, he had fired several frightened shots at an unseen assailant that turned out to be an amorous tomcat. The cat-in-the-hat prank finished him.
Afterwards he was assigned to jail duty, doing paperwork. That night, however, an unarmed Brubaker had to escort a prisoner, the biggest man he had ever seen. Alvin missed his revolver, constantly fingered the empty holster on his belt.
“Follow me,” he barked at Robert as he started back down the hall. Then he turned and asked, “Do you have any guns, knives or other weapons?”
“Do I need any?”
Brubaker’s nervous face darkened. “You might.”
He turned and hurried toward the cells. Robert followed quickly. They passed