Lesser Minds: The Michael Enslow Project

Lesser Minds

The Michael Enslow Project

A Novel

Matthew E. Clairmont

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Lincoln Shanghai

Lesser Minds

The Michael Enslow Project

Copyright © 2006 by Matthew E. Clairmont

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-41029-3 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-85383-0 (ebk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-41029-4 (pbk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-85383-8 (ebk)

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

The only difference between incredible genius and violent insanity …

is the right teacher.

For George, teacher, mentor and friend

&

Christina, whose desire for something to read

fueled my desire to write

Chapter 1 

He struck like a bolt of lightning. Chris Barker was the first to fall, grunting as he felt the blade twist and scrape inside his back. He shook and shivered in the chilly winter air then silently breathed his last. Khalil, an Iranian immigrant and friend, stared at the ground in disbelief. His heart started to race and he watched as the man brutally threw the knife in and out of Barker’s corpse. As if frozen in time—unable to move, speak or even think—he stood, but not for long.

Rising from the slaughtered student the dark man looked down at himself; he was covered in blood and despite the crisp air, he was sweating. He felt a rush of adrenaline and knew this feeling well. He liked it, even thirsted for it, but as he looked at Khalil he nearly had second thoughts. Knowing that in a split second the young man could regain his senses and run off into the night, he quickly struck him in the forehead with the blunt end of the knife. He was immediately unconscious.

But that wouldn’t be enough. He had to feel the young man’s life slip away. He raised the knife once more and in a quick, smooth motion slashed into the doomed student. He did it again . and again. It was magical. Again . again. This was poetry to the killer. This was rhythm. This was glory. Again. This was success. This was beauty. Again. This was life. Again. And in one brief, very surreal moment, he looked up at the sky and a thought occurred to him. It was over … finally. He withdrew the weapon from the twisted flesh and looked down at his hand, soaked in blood to the elbow. It looked sort of humorous, and he laughed.

For Michael Enslow every day was a taste of new terrors; he was in a world of hatred and ominous characters tearing apart at the seams. But he was nothing of an exception, you see … I think he liked all this despite how much he protested. He felt he could control this world and he learned to love the way that deceit would creep up on him in the middle of the night. In an age that treated him like an outcast, Enslow simply played the part. He was on to something, but I suppose that’s of little consequence now, correct?

Professor, that’s very poetic, Detective Parsons replied, but this is crucial. We need to know how you met him. What kind of individual are we dealing with?

Professor Wilkins brought his eyes up to the shapely detective, a young lady by the name of Sara Parsons who was relatively new to the California Police Department. Crime scene investigation and forensics were her expertise, so even with limited hands-on experience few things surprised her now. He looked momentarily at her brown hair that fell lightly down her face, particularly the area brushing down over her cheek. Her deceptively soft eyes gleamed with vulnerability, yet the professor knew she must have persevered to overcome any barriers of physical weakness.

His entire glance lasted less than a second, but given the chance he could describe her in detail. She was an attractive young lady, but more importantly she gave the impression of a strong-willed, honest person. Instinctively he knew she was the kind he could trust, someone he shouldn’t be afraid to confide in.

She looked at the numerous certificates that lined his walls. Evidently he’d been an instructor at Fresno State University since 1974 and was chosen as department head of psychology. He stood a lean six feet two inches, and was heavily grayed. He was a handsome, always well-groomed man, and looking at Parsons he was reminded of the young ladies he used to chase when his best days were ahead.

What area do you specialize in? She asked.

Behavioral aberrations.

So Enslow must have been right down your alley? Her partner wondered.

Looking to her left he saw an older gentleman, veteran Detective Geoffrey Mason. In contrast, his build revealed a nonchalant attitude towards diet and fitness. He wore a trench coat, held his hat in his hand, and looked like something out of an old-fashioned gangster movie. This was the kind of person he instinctively disliked: lazy, slow, and as far as he could discern, desensitized towards the plight of his fellow man.

Well you see, detectives, he said, smiling towards Mason, he comes from a much different universe than you or I. Wilkins looked to Parsons, hoping she would empathize. Enslow was a special child. He was always searching for answers, making inquiries, questioning authority. He found little stimulation in his immediate surroundings and as a result he became less and less rooted to his peers. He began spending a lot of time away from home. In fact, by the age of nine he was more apt to be out on his own.

That’s quite a leap for someone at that age. Mason smirked.

Um, yes—I suppose so. Wilkins replied, turning his attention back to the former, perhaps more understanding detective. Educationally, Enslow had quite frankly risen above the secondary subject matter in the traditional sense. It offended him to see his helpless teachers struggle with elementary concepts. He thirsted for insight, and while his grades in public school suffered, it didn’t deter him from what he felt was important.

And that was …? Parsons asked

Knowledge. Quite simple, yes? Well, from a very young age Enslow devoted his life to the truly intellectual experience. As head of the psychology department I supervised a number of tests on Mr. Enslow, each which conclusively depicted his intelligence to be considered nearly genius. If you were someone who provided a challenge, it was a thrilling adventure. If you weren’t, however, he didn’t have time for you.

What about his family life? The older detective asked. What was his relationship with his siblings like?

Well, Detective Mason, I believe your records will reveal that Mr. Enslow lost his parents at a very young age. He was intended to live with an uncle, but instead chose the streets. Wilkins rose from his seat and walked to the window. A glimmer of light fell down on his face making him squint momentarily. He slowly softened his tone and continued. His parents had little money and less education . quite often they could not identify nor meet his needs. His father was prone to intoxication, and being the head of the household, he left his wife and child with little control over their lives or their bodies. Emotions in the Enslow family were unpredictable and ultimately explosive. He was regularly beaten until the day they died.

Mason glanced up at his partner disapprovingly. He wasn’t amused by the professor’s apparent tendency to assert an obvious dramatic flare, making the facts that much harder to accumulate. He was growing restless, years of similar investigations having drearily limited his patience. Though he didn’t say a word, he voiced his objection with a deep and lengthy sigh, the kind given with the intention of being heard and interpreted accordingly. Wilkins turned around to face the detectives and took the hint.

His parents never appreciated nor understood their son. Wilkins said. Had they taken the time they’d have noticed that as he grew older he exhibited a predilection for solemn, even gothic philosophy. Even after his disciplinary problems ceased, everyone failed to recognize the potential hidden within his tortured body and twisted mind. The professor paused momentarily before regaining himself and returning to his desk. He sat down, looked quickly at Detective Parsons then spoke to her partner.

By then he was thirteen years of age, just three years away from his high school graduation. Parsons gave a puzzled look to her partner, which was returned as if to confirm they were both surprised by the statement. With his silence Mason granted his partner the opportunity to speak.

At thirteen? She started. So he was never held back?

The professor looked at her awkwardly, humored by the very notion. Held back? He asked, a smirk starting in the corners of his mouth. Oh, no, quite the contrary. It’s my understanding that Mr. Enslow was advanced from grade six directly to nine.

He basically skipped junior high? Mason asked, astonished. But I thought his academic performance was poor?

The professor struggled to explain the situation to his inquisitors. Well, the idea behind his advancement was that a higher level of learning would stimulate a greater challenge. It would keep him occupied with an increasingly difficult workload. Parsons carefully watched the compliant professor struggle for words and found herself feeling awkward, as if she were forcing him into submission. On the other hand she knew they needed these answers.

And the result? She asked, greeted only with silence. Dr. Wilkins …? This time the professor answered rather quickly.

Immediately following his placement the administration noticed a great improvement in his attitude and work ethic. Wilkins softened his voice as he spoke. But as the year continued, he began to slip. I think eventually even this was not his intellectual equivalent, and he failed to find anyone who shared his passion for learning.

I’m sorry, but I refuse to believe that this guy’s so brilliant. Mason violently exclaimed. Wilkins, though admittedly not intimidated, found himself assuming an unmistakably defensive position. Still, the detective continued as aggressive as he began. How bright can the guy be if he clams up as soon as we arrive?

If only to back up her partner, Parsons spoke up. Professor, he’s right. Dr. Wilkins turned his attention to the calm detective. The disappointed look on his face made her feel like she’d betrayed him, a feeling which she regretted deeply even as she continued. Why doesn’t he realize he’s only making it worse? Wilkins thought for a short moment, inhaling slowly before responding in a characteristically calm manner.

Enslow was raised to look out only for himself, the professor said, and his journey for understanding was his sole concern. We are not born as moral beings, but we become who we are through our contact with others and our interpretations of the environment. The professor looked briefly at Mason. Anyone who doesn’t completely follow his belief system is simply an obstacle—and an expendable one at that.

You know, that’s sick. Mason replied. A prolonged and irritating silence followed. In an attempt to relieve some tension in the uncomfortable situation, it was Wilkins who finally spoke.

Yes, I suppose it is … but are you sure it’s really Enslow’s fault? He said. He had been waiting to bring this subject up the entire time, knowing that it included its own brand of controversy.

His fault? said Mason, expressing his disapproval. With all due respect, doctor, Enslow wasn’t possessed. He knew what he was doing and now he’s going to face the consequences. That’s justice.

Really? How can you be so convinced that Enslow is a guilty man? You demanded he be held in the university’s medical center despite that fact that he’s innocent until proven otherwise, is he not? Is that not the principle of your precious ‘justice’? Wilkins snarled, arrogantly meeting the challenge.

Parsons, knowing that the conflict could blow their greatest opportunity for information, tried to interrupt. Professor, we are taking into account the fact that Enslow is simply an ‘alleged’ felon. However, at the moment his words, his confession is all we have to go by. Parsons softened her tone, trying to convince the professor that they were on the same side. "Your help is vital to us … to our case.

The professor, perhaps over-reacting, was offended by Mason’s brash interrogation and not about to ease up. Why? Because I was the only one who gave a damn about his well being? I watched that kid for years and I’ve never seen so much talent locked up in one mind! I was the only one who understood the reason that he is who he is … the only one who gave him a fucking chance!

At this point Mason had heard enough and was no longer willing to tolerate the tirade. He stood up quickly, which grabbed the professor’s attention, and when Wilkins turned to him the two were nose to nose, neither willing to submit.

I’m not going to let him be locked up on account of my statement. The professor said. It was a very conceited maneuver that effectively asserted both his loyalty to his student and his displeasure with the tactics of the zealous detectives.

Mason, further angered by the professor’s lack of respect, was showing a great deal of frustration. You have a moral responsibility to act on behalf of public safety, he said, regardless of how valued he is in your little world.

Don’t patronize me, detective, Wilkins started, I don’t appreciate your tone.

Can you believe this guy? Mason said, as he turned to his partner. He doesn’t ‘appreciate my tone’. The senior detective, extremely aggravated, looked back at Wilkins and continuing to let off steam. Look jerk-off, I’m not here to play your games. Two freshmen are possibly dead so spare me your sentimental bullshit. It’s up to you if you want that blood on your hands?

I won’t be taken on a guilt trip, detective. The professor answered, much calmer. I have been extremely accommodating, and I don’t remember asking for a warrant. You waltz in here tossing out a hundred questions expecting me to open up like a fortune cookie after one of your buffet platters. The professor stepped back having gained the upper hand. He looked at Parsons who had a slight grin after the last exchange of quips. When her partner looked to her, however, she dutifully resumed her professional expression.

Well, in here, in my world, that’s not how it works. When you get a court order, or a set of handcuffs, then we’ll talk. The professor interrupted his stern glare at Mason to glance, almost apologetically, at Parsons. She seemed rather indifferent despite the tense moment. So, if you’ll excuse me, detectives, I have a job to do, and I’m sure you do as well.

Mason was stunned. How could a man, any man, look him in the eye and tell him ‘he had a job to do’? Who was the investigator, after all? So many questions rang through his head, far too many to voice at once. Instead he stood there silently, more outraged than anything, until his partner gently nudged him and motioned to leave.

Parsons looked over at the professor before leading Mason out the door. Her glance was soft, encompassing; he could feel her sympathy drift towards him. She understood, he thought . she understood.

Chapter2 

On Monday December 16th, 2002, before the detectives were called to the campus of Fresno State, Michael Enslow, an undergraduate student just four months from earning a bachelor’s degree, walked into the university’s renowned medical center covered in blood and confessed to murdering two students the night before. Coming in from the pouring rain, he held a large kitchen knife covered in dried blood in his left hand. The nurses on duty calmed the trembling student before removing his weapon and placing him in the observation deck in the psychiatric wing for investigation. The police were immediately called and shortly the two detectives were on scene.

For four hours Michael Enslow sat absolutely still in the small room with large glass walls, staring at the ground. With the possible exception of an occasional blink, he never moved. At one moment a nurse walked by, mesmerized by the individual behind the glass, and stood watching him for what seemed like a very long time.

The unorthodox decision to hold the suspect at an on-campus location was a result of Enslow’s spirit of cooperation as well as his fragile state. Although it was arranged under the supervision of state police, and with the permission of the university president, Fresno State would come under incredible scrutiny if it were revealed that a suspected murderer was held in such proximity to the student population, not to mention the general public.

Still, in many ways it was as if the make-shift interrogation room was already a jail cell. The glass