They had photos of Laurie and her family, though neither of them believed they had a personal angle to exploit, for want of a less predatory word. Karen and Allyson had never faced the threat of Michael Myers. Laurie’s own experience was their only way in. Probably a good thing, Dana thought. Their journalistic ethics had already taken a beating.
Aaron glanced at the handwritten label on an old cassette, slipped it into their tape recorder and pressed play. An old recording, the audio came through distorted and muffled, so Aaron turned up the volume. It was the recording of a state doctor interviewing Loomis about his professional opinion on his infamous patient.
The prefatory statement to the state doctor’s question was lost to time and the limits of technology. The audio picked up in the middle.
“…Dr Samuel Loomis, January twenty-second, 1979. Do you wish to give a statement regarding your former patient, Michael Myers?”
No hesitation in Loomis’s reply. “My suggestion is termination.”
“Doesn’t pull any punches,” Dana commented.
“When it came to Michael Myers,” Aaron said, “Dr Loomis had a one-track mind. Never wavered.”
And Dr Loomis’s grim recommendation, a warning from nearly forty years in the past, continued…
At that moment, inside Smith’s Grove State Hospital, Kuneman, who considered himself a seasoned security guard, approached Michael Myers’ cell with some trepidation. While most of the patients possessed various quirks or oddities and others were prone to manic behavior or depression, Myers was an outlier, well beyond the limits of any bell curve describing the population of the facility. Eerily, almost inhumanly calm, he radiated a controlled menace, a terrifying capacity for cold-blooded violence simmering beneath the shape of a man. Kuneman considered the possibility that his perception of the serial killer was biased by past events. But he thought it was more than that.
Of course, Dr Sartain considered Myers at least somewhat rehabilitated. And Sartain was the expert, so Kuneman had to defer to the professional and simply do his job. Nevertheless, he took a moment, standing before the metal door, before he opened it.
There he is, Kuneman thought. Nothing unusual.
The Shape stood on the far side of the cell, his back turned to the door. Again, Kuneman noted how still Myers seemed; no shifting foot to foot, no swaying. His arms hung at his sides, not the slightest twitch of a finger. A marble statue couldn’t move any less.
“A-2201,” Kuneman said. “Myers, Michael.”
“A shot of sodium thiopental would render him unconscious.”
Outside Smith’s Grove State Hospital, on the far side of the road, Laurie sat in her idling pickup truck, watching the facility through the security fencing. She hadn’t intended to come here. She’d almost convinced herself to let the fate she’d described to Allyson play out just as she suggested it would, with Michael Myers’ transfer to maximum security in Colorado. After all, she had her family dinner with Allyson to look forward to… But she’d found herself pacing at home, needing to get out. And once she climbed into her truck, she drove on mental autopilot, coming directly to Smith’s Grove because some deep-seated part of her psyche refused to relax and let events play out on their own. Part of her believed that without direct action and preparation on her part, she’d fall into the role of hapless victim again.
She reached over to open the glove box, reached inside and pulled out the comforting weight of the Smith & Wesson revolver.
If asked, she couldn’t say what she intended to do next.
That thought terrified her.
No longer motionless, The Shape walked down the dim hallway, manacles and shackles binding his wrists and ankles, limiting his mobility to a shuffling gait. Kuneman had hoped the restraints would diminish Myers’ threatening aspect, but chains only made him seem more dangerous.
The other patients scheduled for the night’s transfer had already been lined up along the corridor and stood facing the wall. Haskell, four years into his tenure as a Smith’s Grove security guard and least likely to tolerate insubordination from any of the patients, had also been assigned to the transport detail. He watched the motley group suspiciously, baton at the ready. Some chattered among themselves—any variance to their daily routine agitated most of them—while others rambled incoherently, a personal running commentary only they understood.
As Myers approached the rear of the line, Haskell called out instructions to the group for the second or third time, repeatedly slapping his baton against the palm of his hand to add weight to his commands. “Stand up! Hands up! Shut up!”
Without fuss, The Shape fell into line with the others.
Kuneman again considered the possibility that Myers’ reputation rather than his recent behavior had spooked him.
“Then a shot of potassium chloride to stop his heart. He goes quietly, without incident.”
“Forehead on the wall!” Haskell continued.
Kuneman referred to his patient transfer checklist to verify nobody was missing. “A-2209, Aaron White… A-2217, Anthony Murphy. A-2243, Jeffrey Neundorf.”
Roll call complete, Kuneman led the group of twelve patients toward the loading area. A long buzzer sounded as the door lock released. Kuneman and Haskell shepherded the patients out to a parking area where a secure transport bus idled under harsh spotlights. Kuneman stepped forward to check with the armed bus driver, who had his own matching checklist.
Before the patients began to board, Lynch, a wild-eyed patient who always seemed on the verge of jumping out of his own skin, had worked his way back behind Myers. At the door of the bus, Kuneman shouted to the milling group of transferees, “Everybody line up! Time to go!”
Haskell walked up and down the group until the semblance of a line reformed. Nodding to the driver, Kuneman stepped away from the open door and nodded for the first patient to board the bus.
“I’ll be with him to make sure his light is extinguished. My ear on his chest to hear for myself that his vitals no longer function. At that point, with the help of a coroner, we will extract the brain for our studies and immediately incinerate the body.”
As one patient after another boarded the bus, the driver checked off their names. Soon the whole bunch of them would be somebody else’s headache.
With The Shape next to last to board, the door buzzer sounded again and Dr Sartain hurriedly approached the bus, wearing a brown suit rather than his usual lab coat and clutching a file in his hand. He stopped beside his eerily silent patient. “Don’t worry, Michael. I’ll be by your side.”
Kuneman suppressed the urge to shake his head in disbelief, though he couldn’t claim surprise. He didn’t need to poll the entire staff of Smith’s Grove to know that Sartain was the only person sad to see Myers leave. Everyone else would probably sleep sounder knowing he was locked up three states west.
“Would have been here sooner,” Sartain continued, glancing toward Kuneman, “if not for a few reports I needed to complete before the trip.”
Curious, Kuneman glanced at The Shape, but nothing in Myers’ face or body language indicated that he’d heard or cared about Sartain’s presence or excuses. He climbed the steps carefully, due to the limitations of his leg shackles.
From where she’d parked her pickup truck, Laurie heard the buzz of a door lock release as a muted sound. Nevertheless, she sat up straight, her palms suddenly damp as she clutched the revolver between them. Almost without blinking, she stared at the group of patients preparing to board the transport bus.