On Killing and Innocence: The Chronicles of Henry Fellows

Good

I’m sitting in a stolen car with expired tags in the parking lot of a police station. Downtown Fort Worth, Texas. There’s nothing special about this station. I’ve done this before, fidgeting in somebody else’s car or atop somebody else’s motorbike. Funny thing about police station parking lots—the cops that pass you by, going in and out to do whatever it is cops do, they never suspect there’s a criminal whiling away out there.

It’s the perfect hiding place.

I discovered this by happy accident. Happy accident—maybe that’s the story of my life.

Happy probably isn’t the word you would use; neither should I.

Either way. Here I sit.

My name—well, I’ll get to that, cause you’ve all heard of me, and I don’t want to ruin the surprise. Before you say anything, I know. A conventional human being wouldn’t need to think about giving out his name.

Conventions. Conventional wisdom says I shouldn’t be alive. For a spell, conventional wisdom declared me dead. Maybe conventions aren’t worth what they used to be.

Hello, I say to the officers walking by. They look bulky and authentic, nodding their heads at me with a polite seriousness. I myself am a fraud. The whole package. Even my hello. Just said hello, because… there’s some weird reason I’m sure, some little siding in my brain that believes it makes sense to draw attention to myself.

Maybe part of me considers it a game. Always good at games. I remember being the best at hearts, or Monopoly, or darts, even chess. And so it goes. A 38-year-old man still playing.

Hello, I say to another pair of officers. These fellas seem to be in a hurry. Must be a pressing matter. Something of import. Perhaps one of Tarrant County’s fine banking establishments has just been robbed. Perhaps someone’s child has been abducted. Perhaps somebody ran the wrong red light and his picture got flagged and now he’s got to go back to Mexico where he belongs.

Doubt it. Pretty sure I know what’s wrong.

The world is a twisted place. In my travels, I found that Mexico was particularly twisted. Particular like every person you meet is particular—they have certain tendencies, qualities, foibles, imperfections, quirks. The United States is extremely particular about its twistedness. That’s probably why I always came back. Love it here. Not that it’s better or worse than any other twisted place. Not judging. Not judging Mexico, either. If Mexico was all that bad, Americans wouldn’t flee there for their two weeks of sun, tequila and whatever other twists they might encounter.

Who am I to say? I’m a criminal, after all.

Turning on the car radio, I dial up the news. There’s a manhunt on. Yeah, they’re looking for me. It’s interesting to be the subject of a manhunt. Not the good kind of interesting. That’s why I’m here, but only in a way. We’ll revisit that momentarily. Right now I have to decide whether or not to walk into that building of brick and forms and little rooms and law. It won’t be pleasant, what with all the shouting and the handcuffs and the questions and the disbelief and the testosterone. Who knows? I turn up the radio.

The man can’t spit the over-annunciated words out fast enough. Some local somebody has informed on me; now the Long Arm is hip to my presence in the North Texas area. That’s why cops were running. Dudes were probably amped up to catch me. Notorious criminals get police amped up. It’s understandable. Having to walk by the same notorious pictures on the wall everyday has to get annoying. The photos themselves; it’s rare to find a flattering likeness, if ever. It must leave them with an insatiable desire to catch the guy so they can tear down the picture and replace it with somebody else just as notorious.

Round and round we go.

The man on the radio says that I’m armed and dangerous. To be on the lookout. He says it like he’s announcing the winner of concert tickets, like he’s introducing the next crappy pop song. Annoying. Anyway, apparently I have two numbers now. One if you want to talk to me, which nobody knows, another if you want to talk about seeing me. I turn the dial off. I’ve heard this all before. For a while now. It’s all so unfulfilling. I used to be a fairly normal guy—now I have two numbers and they talk about my misdeeds on the radio.

Here I sit. I feel like it’s time for confession, but I don’t think I’m going into the station, yet again. God knows the desire is there. I’m weak, enervating under the high Texas sun. The pavement is baking, radiating off heat. Everything real looks like a mirage. My hands are starting to quiver, but that’s nothing new.

Hi there, I say, waving to more running officers. It would be a shame to spoil all their fun. Maybe with all the hullaballoo, the guy from Mexico will get away and back to his loving family. It’s a small comfort, completely fabricated. The things you do for comfort when you’re alone too long.

I want nothing more than to walk into that drab cop shop and drink their stale coffee, watching a public defender squirm under the weight of counseling me. The guy would probably be terrified. I want nothing more than my one phone call. Likely I’d use it to call my other number, or maybe call the radio station to tell the guy that the search was over.

I’m a criminal. Think I already let that out of the bag. Fifteen months ago I escaped from the highest level maximum security prison in America, and ever since it’s been nothing but work. Pretty much a total bummer.

My name is Henry Fellows. It used to be a moderately well-known name. Certain circles anyway. Business circles. Former heir to the Fellows Security Corporation. Now it’s the name of the FBI’s number one Most Wanted.

There goes the mystery.

They don’t know I’m Henry Fellows because I don’t have Henry Fellows’ face anymore. A doctor in the Caribbean made sure of that. A doctor in Europe made sure the work done in the Caribbean wasn’t so aesthetically upsetting. Not that I blame the first doctor. He wasn’t exactly starting with a pristine palette. At that point my mug was winded, cracked, bruised and bloody. Escaping from prison can take a toll. I’m sure you weep for me.

After all, I did bad things.

I’m wanted for murder, corporate malfeasance, bank fraud, mail fraud, wire fraud, any other fraud I can’t think of right now. God knows what else. Well, escaping from prison, for one. Guess that’s technically a crime, but it’s not like when you’re caught they send you to a courtroom. Just back behind the walls. They don’t want to do any of that, I’m sure. A bullet is the only sane conclusion to my story, says the average lawman. The average lawman wants to put me down, the menacing goblin that I am, the threat to who knows what and who knows where. Not that it really matters. You go out one way or another. A felon on the run with a plan for the future is the definition of hubris.

This is the fifth time I’ve sat outside a police station, deciding. Been all over the world. Walked up the steps to Scotland Yard, fumbled over words with desk sergeants in San Francisco and New York and Sydney. The truth just won’t come out. They won’t believe it. I’m not the guy they’re looking for. Yeah, I could make a fuss, blow out into some histrionics and they’d pull me in, slap some stainless steel on my wrists, but then what? A DNA test, if I’m lucky. More likely, they’ll ship the wish-he-was Henry off to some place with white coats and large black men.

I know about those places. Prison’s not so terrible next to those places. Had a tussle with depression years back, said some things to a friend on a phone, next thing I knew, there they were: white coats and large black men. I’ll admit, there are times when insanity breeches the ramparts of my mind. Not important. Not when white coats and large black men are in the offing. Guessing the coats are white so they can tell when the crazies have urinated on themselves or bludgeoned their bodies or whatever. The black men are there because they are strong, imposing, and know how to put a crazy down. Not that I’m a racist. There were some white guys too. They just don’t stand out in a sea of white coats. I was grateful for the big black guys. When they weren’t pulling some super-strong, meth-fried lunatic to the ground, they would talk to me. I just sat there. It was too scary to do anything else, not to mention dirty. I’ll never forget what one of them said to me. His name was Chris. The dude had arms that could strangle a water buffalo and a voice as calm as the afterward of a lobotomy.

Why here? Why now? he asked me. I was sitting as rigid as the furniture, watching the crazies, minding everyone’s business.

Don’t know, I said, not really wanting to get into it. Just counting the minutes until I can get out of this place. It was a lie. I remember counting the seconds.

Yeah, you need to get your mess in order. You one of these? He turned and pointed to poor souls manifesting poor behavior: schizophrenics throwing food, bipolar beasts banging their heads into the walls. As they do.

No, sir, I said. I’m not one of these. It was maybe one of a handful of times when I unequivocally knew what I was and what I wasn’t. If you’re feeling a little sad, lost in the cosmos, whatever, go and take a field trip to the place with white coats and large black men. It’ll sort you right out.

Just an observation.

Back to the present. I’m pulling out of the station now. Can’t turn myself in just yet. Oh yeah, guess I should have mentioned, I didn’t do it. But that’s what they all say, right? Still, I didn’t. Not what they put me in for. No way. Chris was right that day, and afterward for a long stretch I really did get my mess together. Then came the event. The day of reckoning. Look, I don’t want to be dramatic either, but when you find out that your famous parents were hacked up and that you were the one that did it, dramatic seems appropriate. My motive was apparently jealousy. My prints were apparently at the scene of the crime. Apparently I had a history of belligerence with the victims. Not to mention being institutionalized for a brief spell. A cap full of dirty feathers.

All that was true. If you were the heir to a true mogul, the owner of one of the biggest companies in the world, you’d have a chip on your shoulder, too. Oh yeah, they were my parents, so I’d been to their mansion a time or two, touched whatever, the way you do when you don’t anticipate being accused of a gruesome double homicide. And the belligerence? Guilty! My father was a brilliant but aging man and had no want of his ungrateful son’s advice when it concerned the future of the company. By then I was basically running things anyway, taking Fellows Security to heights and depths he never could’ve dreamed. So we’d argue. Emails, eyewitness accounts a-many all confirmed what everyone suspected. No other suspects. Just Henry Fellows. They filmed the trial. The trial of the century, they called it, but they call every trial that until a better one comes along. Think there’s been five trials of the century since mine.

It wasn’t just my high profile or my parents’ fame that made the case so captivating to the masses. That might have been brushed aside after a few days, what with all the wars and the poverty and the famine in the world. What struck a chord was the nature of the crime. Did I say hacked? Think I did. That’s putting it lightly. You probably know most of the details, but I know every single one. The whole thing’s seared into my memory. Massive brain trauma couldn’t wipe that slate clean. Body parts all over the house. It turned into a macabre Easter egg hunt for police. For days they were pulling a kidney from this nook, teeth from this cranny. Disgusting. I was guilty for jealousy, guilty for having visited, guilty for being recalcitrant with my father, but not the rest. My service record should’ve helped. Didn’t matter. They had their man. Henry Fellows. They didn’t care about me heeding the words of Chris at the nuthouse. Only that I was at the nuthouse. My wife? Oh yeah, my precious prep-school sweetheart. We’d been having problems. Convenient. She’d been sleeping around due to my distance, not to mention building a trumped-up case for a divorce I had no knowledge was coming until the day of my arrest.

So much for a character witness.

Poor Henry Fellows. For a while, life was cloud nine: money, pictures in magazines, press conferences, all the accoutrements of excess and esteem. Then nothing. You don’t believe me, probably never will. That’s why I’m turning around, pulling out of this police station. I mean, have you asked the question yet? Who the hell is informing on a guy that can’t be found? Let’s see, best guess, the people who killed my folks and left me to rot in a dungeon. Here’s another one. They only pull this crap when I’m about to surrender myself. Yeah, doesn’t make sense to me either. It’s an itch in my brain that needs scratching. I’ll probably die first, they’re probably watching me this very moment, but I’m fixed on finding out who really did it. Throwing myself to the wolves would be nice. Finally relax. But I can’t do it, not without… what do they call it—closure?

Eh. What a bunch of crap.

I’ve been accused of everything, mostly by people that don’t have a clue. Can’t blame those people. As far as they know, I’m the worst person on the planet, a planet already chock full of assholes. Maybe it was my appearance. The media termed it all-American, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean. Makes what I did that much creepier. The old face, that is. Old Henry Fellows. Have to say, not a bad looking guy, old Henry. That’s how I got the prettiest girl in school. My sweetheart. Somebody told me her name and I walked right up to her in history class and introduced myself like somebody she needed to know. Worked great. Emma married me before we finished college. It was that sure of a thing. Henry and Emma. Emma and Henry. Sounded good either way, perfect for towels and Christmas cards.

Sure things.

I remember asking Emma why she was taken by me. You know what she said? She said I was handsome. I’m not tooting the horn right here, just trying to make a point. The question came after many conversations, dates, events, socials, the whole thing. We’d talked about everything from family to gravity to Thomas Aquinas and she’d followed right along, giving as well as she got. You’d think after diving those depths she would’ve come up with something better than, You were handsome. Struck me funny then. Still does. You don’t explore the reefs and the wonders of the deep and look over at your partner and blurt out, You’re handsome. Whatever. Metaphors aren’t my forte.

Hell.

Over it and over it I go. She was going to leave me, and before I could really find out why, it was too late. The mess had started. I was up the creek; she was back on shore with the paddle.

I suck at metaphors.

In truth, the sucking doesn’t stop there. I’m willing to own that. I love my kids fiercely, but I wasn’t around enough, given to caprice, etc. I’d make a more comprehensive list but I want to get through this before I die.

There’s a few people reliable people out there, a few individuals that presently need to be engaged. What? You think I survived this long completely on my own? That would truly be a talent. As I make my way southward on I-35, I call Floyd. I can use his name because it’s not his name. Not about to throw anyone under the bus. Besides, nobody knows Floyd’s real name. I can tell you that he has snowy hair and that his robust forearms hint at the physique he once had. Can tell you he drinks only good scotch and how many times he’s been shot. A lot more, too. Just not the name his mama gave him.

Yeah? His voice is gravel but nevertheless a welcome sound. He doesn’t know this number; I’ve probably thrown away fifty phones since the last time we talked.

Floyd. It’s me. You drunk or asleep?

Well, I was both. Now I’m just the one. What’s going on, Deer? Floyd knows my name is Henry but he calls me Deer. There’s a story behind that. You staying underground? he asks. Don’t tell me you’re doing that police station bit again? Crazy kid.

Not a kid, Floyd.

But you are crazy. I feel around my right jean pocket for my pills but pull out the wrong bottle. Not those. Not right now. There’s a method to staving off madness. It’s all about timing.

Kid?

Yeah, I say, turning my attention back to the call and the road. Have to be cautious, stay between the lines. I can’t get clipped for some traffic violation, even with the fake face and the fake papers. Inconvenient. Look. I’m back in my hometown. Just heard on the radio that someone spotted me.

It’s bogus.

Yeah, just hold on.

No. It’s bogus. I can picture him through the phone, hand over heavy eyes, still trying to teach me right from left.

Just let me finish.

You have the floor, he grumbles. Thirty seconds to make sense or I’m hanging up.

The news report. It said where I was staying last night. Even knew the car I was driving.

Impossible.

And yet it happened all the same. Not making this up for kicks.

You ditched the car?

Like I do every morning.

Well, he says, obviously more awake to the situation. Change rides twice a day now. Until we know what’s going on.

I check my mirrors and frame a shot in my head of the cars behind just in case. Floyd?

Yeah, yeah. Thinking. So someone who knows your new face put out a tip, but didn’t bother until you were where?

Just like before.

You mean…?

Yeah. I mean I was sitting outside the frigging Fort Worth PD building ten minutes ago. They didn’t have a clue.

You’re a nutbar. These little experiments are gonna get you shot.

Chastise me later.

A few more grumbles. Okay. I’m up. Let me get back to you in twenty. Just keep moving. And don’t try to see your kids. What good would it do? You know the drill.

I sigh at the mention of my children. I’ll call you. Changing phones.

That’s my boy. Got it.

As he hangs up I put my knee under the steering wheel, freeing my hands to crack the now useless burner cell.

Mysteries. Never a good thing for a man in my situation. Somebody out there is on to me, has been for a while, and neither Floyd nor I have a clue who it might be. My head is hurting. Like a bell pealing away. The pills. I reach for the other pocket and pull out the right ones.

Put yourself in my place—you’d probably need them too.

It doesn’t bother me that Floyd calls me crazy all the time. He’s a grizzled old man, seen it all, and I’m not talking front porch wisdom. World wisdom. Lived in a hundred places, touched the parts of life normal people wouldn’t go near with a ten-foot pole wisdom. He knew me before the pills, before the headaches and the shakes and all the rest. I think that’s why he still answers my calls. In his own way he feels responsible for my erratic tendencies. Maybe he is.

I look back at a police car cruising up toward me in the left lane. Can tell by his speed that he’s going to pass and I relax. As much as a guy like me can, anyway. I’m trained for this. That’s what they didn’t know when they locked me up. You didn’t know it either. Blame Floyd. He’s the one who recruited me. For what, you ask?

A lot’s happened since then, but if memory serves, I was in some sandbox in one of the world’s orifices, trying to take a