“You have been chosen because you have special aptitudes for working around violent persons. You are probably no stranger to D Seg, Disciplinary Segregation. And you've doubtless heard rumors about who occupies Cell Ten. Put all of it out of your mind—everything you've heard. Nothing—no wild rumor, no piece of grapevine gossip—has prepared you for contact with such an individual as this.
“As you know from the documents you've signed and the agreements you've made, you have entered into a contract with your government. That contract forbids you to ever discuss any of the events you will see or hear in your duties—and you will want to tell someone about this. You must not. You must keep your own counsel.
“As officers involved in the Cell Ten Unit, you will begin to learn jargon, a unique vocabulary. The person who occupies Cell Ten is never an inmate, a prisoner, a convict, a con, a fish, or anything but ‘occupant.’ In your reports it is never ‘and then he said,’ or ‘we fed the man in the cell.’ It is ‘and then the occupant said,’ or ‘we fed occupant.’ Get used to that euphemism. We never identify occupant, refer to occupant's name, nor—when addressing commands—do we employ any slang name, nickname, or proper name of any kind.
“We never threaten occupant or speak harshly to occupant in any manner. One issues a direct command, when necessary. Should occupant not comply, one withholds appropriate privileges: food, for example, for a daily feeding infraction such as refusal to return tray and cup. Or withholding of toilet tissue, or even weekly hygienic ablution—or, in severe instances, we have the spectrum of physical acts of recourse ranging from drugs to sleep deprivation.
“Are there any questions so far? I'm sure you must have many. Yes?"
“I was reading the hygiene period regulations. I can understand how he—uh, how occupant can never be allowed to retain anything like a toothbrush or shaving gear. But wouldn't it be easier if he had a small plastic bowl and a soft washrag and soap so the occupant could keep himself cleaner and—"
“You must get used to the nomenclature, Officer. ‘Wouldn't it be easier if occupant had a bowl and a soft washrag and soap so occupant could keep cleaner.’ No ‘he’ or ‘himself’ please."
“Sorry."
“It takes time. And one hears such questions frequently. Let me give you a rather bizarre illustration to answer your question. Here is a rare survivor of a brush with Cell Ten.” He passed a photograph of a guard with a black patch over one eye. “He liked to call occupant by name and take other familiarities while in the cell and during transport. Occupant managed to hide a tiny piece off a bar of soap. We keep it as a kind of training artifact.” The doctor produced a small vial and held it up.
“Would anyone like to speculate what this is?"
“It looks like a fleshette made for a .22 handgun,” one of the officers said.
“Excellent. It's a dart for a blowgun. The body of the dart is soap that occupant managed to anneal in some fashion, then carefully reshape, harden, and sharpen to the tiny, needlelike dart you see. Interestingly, the feathery material happens to be rodent hair. The machinelike precision of the craftsmanship is quite typical.
“We never found the blowgun itself. Some speculated that it was part of a drinking straw and that occupant swallowed it after shooting the correctional officer. The dart struck the man in the left eye. It had been dipped in feces. The eye became infected, and as you can see—or rather, as you can't see—he lost it.” The doctor almost had a note of pride as he explained the way the incident had occurred.
“Occupant's many skills include a martial art of considerable obscurity, one fighting technique of which involves the control of an acute and focused halitosis. It is my belief that one of the occupant's methods of passing time during incarceration is to practice control of vital signs—respiration, heartbeat rate, and so on—and that this martial skill is honed even while wearing a facial restraint. I further contend that one of the ancillary benefits of this odd discipline is increased facility at expectoration. The dart was—in my opinion—expectorated.” There were a couple of nervous giggles in the room, immediately stilled by his look.
“The halitosis technique is called ‘breath of death.’ Bizarre, to be sure. Once you become better acquainted with the occupant of Cell Ten, I can assure you that you'll find nothing whatsoever humorous about the possibility of occupant spitting a feces-poisoned dart into your eye—from some eight feet away, I should add—or forcing a column of foul exhaled air into your face when you least expect it, blinding you perhaps for just the half second it takes to head-butt you to death, or sever one of your carotids with his teeth.” He looked into each face for a moment. He was certain he had their attention.
“And now we come to the reason why we've chosen the Cell Ten Observation Room for this initial meeting,” He glanced at the thick gray curtain behind him.
“Let me tell you a story."
The room itself was unthreatening in appearance: brown steel door and steel-rimmed observation port, over which a heavy security curtain had been drawn. Dr. Norman stood in front of the curtain, facing the small room. The men and women stood uncomfortably close, and there was some of the awkwardness one feels in a crowded elevator as one waits for ones floor. Norman, whose disciplines were in the mental sciences, chose his settings with the greatest care.
“An infant, a male Caucasian baby, was found in the garbage dump outside Kansas City, Kansas. The baby, filthy, on the threshold of death, was rushed to a nearby emergency ward. The infant miraculously survived. It was placed into a local orphanage maintained by the state. It suffered neglect, however, and the child was one of several children surviving when the orphanage was investigated and subsequently closed down. The word ‘surviving’ is one we encounter repeatedly in this story.
“The baby boy became a textbook victim of the foster care system. There was a pattern of accidents, some reported and some not. Injuries. Abuse and neglect. Once again the boy was abandoned. Once again the boy survived.
“He was ‘adopted,’ if that is the correct word, by a woman who was in charge of several foster children. Later it was learned that she was a former prostitute with a history of alcoholism and child abuse, and it was while in her brutal hands that the little boy suffered his most traumatic exposure to various forms of sadism.
“Both the child's foster mother and the man who called himself the boy's stepfather kept their charges tied up much of the time. But this child had ways that apparently infuriated them. They kept him in a metal box with a few air holes in it, in a stifling, dark closet, and chained under their homemade bed. He was forced to remain motionless for long periods, usually in total darkness, and to lie in his own urine and fecal matter. When he made a sound he was savagely beaten.
“The man, a known sexual degenerate, began abusing the boy, who was forced to eat and drink from a dog dish, which was also kept under the bed.” The atmosphere in the room had grown extremely oppressive. The correctional guards had become more apprehensive as the doctor spoke, and some of them could imagine body odor smells in the small observation room. Coughs sounded loud as gunshots. There was more movement as the men and women grew tired of standing, and the brown steel and beige concrete, compliments of that uninspired interior decorator—the federal prison system—was becoming increasingly threatening.