Eye of the Beholder by David Ellis

almighty being is not someone who lives in our world. Terry Burgos wanted to kill, to lash out at an indifferent society, and his brain was searching for an excuse.”
    A dramatic pause. Camera angle adjusts again. “Terry Burgos did not fit the legal definition of insanity because he knew that what he was doing was against the law. But that doesn’t mean he was sane. Terry Burgos suffered from severe paranoid schizophrenia and killed because of it. The fact that he may have been aware that a criminal law existed, that forbade him from doing what he did, does not change that fact.
    “Terry Burgos deserved to be locked up and treated. He did not deserve death.” She nods her head. “For Sunday Night Spotlight, I’m Carolyn—”
    In the dark room, nestled in the corner, beyond the view of the sole window, Leo puts down the remote control, stares at the television screen, dissolving to a dot and flickering with static. Dissolve and flicker, flicker and dissolve. He brings his knees to his chest and holds his breath, squeezes his eyes shut, listening for the faintest sound, listen, listen.
    The house buzzes from the utter silence.
    I’m not like him.
    He jumps at the ring of the phone. His eyes cast about the room as the rings echo. The answering machine kicks on. Leo hears his own monotone request that the caller leave a message, followed by a long, tortured beep.
    “Leo, this is Dr. Pollard. You’ve missed two sessions, Leo, and you’ve not returned our calls. Are you taking your meds? We’ve talked about the importance of doing that.”
    I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you anymore.
    “I’m going to give you my home phone number, Leo. It’s important you call me.”
    Leo buries his head in his lap. He waits for the doctor to complete his message, the machine to click off. With the room once more silent, he raises his head again.
    I’m not like him.
    He takes a breath. Thinks about it.
    I’m better.

Sunday
June 19, 2005
     
    10
    L EO CRAWLS up the dark staircase, his body spread over four carpeted stairs, his limbs splayed about like a spider. The body weight is transferred evenly. Stairs don’t groan from the burden. No chance of slipping or stumbling. No groan, no slip, no stumble.
    You can’t hear me coming.
    At the top of the staircase, he can see into the bedroom. The darkness is thinned by the light through the window, from a street-lamp below. The room is quiet save for the contorted snores of Fred Ciancio, like his nose is battling his throat.
    Leo rises slowly. One of his knees cracks and he holds absolutely still. Fred Ciancio doesn’t move. Loud, uneven, wet snores, his head cocked to the right on the pillow.
    Weapons. Look for weapons. Eyes adjusting now.
    No weapons. Nothing.
    He wasn’t expecting Leo.
    He slips it out of the back of his pants. Holds it in his right hand.
    Ciancio stirs. Unconscious response to Leo’s body heat, to the adjustment in the room temperature.
    But Leo is not hot.
    “What—?” Ciancio’s head pops up.
    Two long strides and he’s at the bed. He lands on his chest, presses Ciancio’s head down to the pillow with his left hand, his palm over Ciancio’s mouth.
    He shows it to him, the tip of the weapon between Ciancio’s eyes. His face moves in toward Ciancio‘s, so the old guy can make him out. The sharp weapon moves from the bridge of Ciancio’s nose. He runs it along Fred’s pajama top, down his chest, feeling for the rib cage. He finds a seam between the ribs.
    You shouldn’t have called, Fred.
    He doesn’t die quickly.

Monday
June 20, 2005
     
    11
    C HIN UP, HECTOR,” I remind him, as the elevator door opens. The reporters are waiting in the lobby of the federal building, perking up as I emerge from the elevator bank with State Senator Hector Almundo, who has just pleaded not guilty to eleven counts of fraud, extortion, bribery, and theft. The senator, smartly dressed in a gray suit and black tie, heeds my advice, moving stoically past