“Dan, this open-pit grave was located by a couple of hikers early yesterday morning. As you can see, we’re off the beaten path here. The four identified bodies were all migrant farm workers apparently illegally in this country, and I’ve been told, off the record, that the other fifteen bodies—ten men and five women—all appear to be Latino or Latina. Cause of death in most cases seems to have been a single bullet to the head, in what I overheard one police officer call ‘execution-style.’”
The picture changed again, showing a large wooden board on which two words had been painted in ragged brushstrokes.
“Dan, images of this sign, which I’m told was found on top of the bodies, have already gone viral online. As you can see, it reads, ‘As requested.’”
“Like Nazi Germany,” I said, shaking my head.
Bratt looked up. “You lose.”
“What?”
“You lose. Godwin’s Law.”
What he actually meant was a corollary to Godwin’s Law: the implication that any argument has gone irretrievably off the rails when someone trots out a comparison to the Nazis or Hitler. “Because the Holocaust was—what?” I said. “Sui generis? Something that could never happen again?” I motioned toward the TV set. “It’s happening right now.”
“It’s just a blip.”
“It’s accelerating—and it’s going to get even worse. Hitler at least had to set up huge government infrastructure to pull off his killings. Fucking McCharles has crowdsourced his genocide.”
“There’s just no evidence that—”
I pointed at the screen. “The evidence is right there! Why—”
But we were interrupted by the Air Canada gate clerk calling our flight. Apparently Bratt’s Altitude status made him eligible for pre-boarding, as he immediately rose from his chair, and, without a word of goodbye, shambled toward the Jetway.
The next day, after my classes were done, I headed over to meet Bhavesh Namboothiri, who finally was able to see me again. I took a bus, which gave me plenty of opportunity to observe the damage that had been done during the riots. In many places, windows were boarded up with plywood, fences were still down, and there were scorch marks on the asphalt where cars had been set ablaze.
Namboothiri managed to elicit a couple more childhood memories—which were certainly fascinating to experience, and, under other circumstances, would have been worth the price of admission. But they were just pyrite; we were after nuggets of gold.
And, soon enough, he was turning up those, too: one of Menno’s lectures; then, as Namboothiri repositioned the probes, another by Professor Jenkins—sadly, apparently not the one during which I’d told an orangutan joke; another shifting of the probes brought back memories of me indeed having a tumor removed from my left breast in Calgary; one more repositioning, and Kayla and I were playing strip Trivial Pursuit, in which instead of getting a wedge each time you answered a question correctly, your opponent lost one of their six pieces of clothing; and then—
Oh.
Oh.
So that’s what I’d done to David Swinson.
I’d remained in Winnipeg that summer, having taken a data-entry job in the registrar’s office on the assumption that my relationship with Kayla would continue. David, who’d had the dorm room next to mine during the preceding academic year, had once eaten what was left in my bucket of KFC without permission. And so, near the end of June 2001, I’d gone onto the registration computer and dropped him from every course he’d selected for that coming September—and, for good measure, had him give up his place in the dorm, as well. When he returned to Winnipeg from his summer back home, he discovered he wasn’t registered and had no place to stay. Somehow—perhaps we’d find that memory later—he must have eventually realized I was responsible.
I shuddered, feeling horrible that I could ever have done such a nasty thing—and was grateful when Namboothiri moved on.
Next up were innocuous memories: a few more from my toddler days; going to see the movie version of Josie and the Pussycats—something that probably was best forgotten; Heather coming for a weekend visit, and—
“Move the fucking probes!”
Namboothiri eased off and the images melted from my consciousness, but I was gasping and my pulse was racing.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “We can stop for the day if—”
I lifted a hand. “No. No, I’ll be all right. Just…” My arm was shaking; I lowered it. “Just give me a moment.” Another memory came to me, but not because the doctor was eliciting it; this one was from my verbal index, and relatively recent: Menno Warkentin talking to me in his office, trying to dissuade me from digging into my past. “Sometimes it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie,” he’d said. But I’d replied, “No, I can’t do that.”
And I couldn’t.
I had to forge ahead.
I gripped the arms of the chair tightly, forcing the blood from my knuckles, took a deep breath, and said, “Okay. I’m ready.”
“All right,” Namboothiri replied, returning the probes to the same spots on my skull.
Friday afternoon, June 29, 2001. The corridor outside the office of Dominic Adler. Knuckles rapped against the door, and words were spoken: “Dom, it’s me, Jim. Can I have a moment?”
The door opened, revealing Dominic in russet slacks and a gray, short-sleeved shirt. “Hey, Jim. Come in. What’s up?” He gestured at a chair and turned to walk to his desk.
Jim’s body surged in from behind, and Jim’s hands grasped Dom’s neck on either side. A crack! split the air as the neck was twisted ninety degrees to the left. Dominic’s body slumped to the floor.
The front of Jim’s shoe impelled itself into Dom’s kidney, and sounds emanated once more from Jim’s mouth: “Take that, motherfucker.”
Without my asking him to, Namboothiri pulled the probes away once more. “You okay?”
Breathing rapidly, my skin slick with sweat, I reached up to wipe my brow—and once again my hand was trembling. “Jim?” Namboothiri said. I scrunched my eyes shut, but the awful memory lingered. “Jim? What did you see?”
I tried to compose myself then swiveled the chair to face him. “You’re a psychiatrist, right?”
He nodded.
“Which makes you an MD, right? A medical doctor?”
“Yes. What’s wrong?”
“So this conversation is privileged, correct? Even though I came to you without a referral, I’m still your patient, isn’t that right?”
“Jim, my God, what did you see?”
“Say it,” I snapped. “Say I’m your patient. Say this is privileged.”
“Yes, yes, of course. You’re my patient. I can’t be compelled to divulge what we discuss.”
I blew out air, took another moment, then: “Back in 2001…” I shook my head, finding the words almost as impossible to speak as the thought was to think. “I killed a man.”
“Oh… God. No, no.”
“Broke his neck. Deliberately.”
Different responses seemed to swirl on Namboothiri’s face, but at last he said: “Who was it?”
“Dominic Adler. Menno Warkentin’s research partner.”
“Was it—was it self-defense?”
God, how I wished it had been! I’d killed that p-zed in the prairie field a short time ago, and that had indeed been self-defense. Even so, I’d barely been able to live with myself since, but this—this!