Post by Deleted on Jan 24, 2016 5:22:45 GMT -5
That was how long he had been operating.
He was 14 years old when he committed his first murder. In the outskirts of Belfast, where he lived with his Grandfather, after his father had died at the hands of an IRA attack. It was the Real IRA, or was it Provisional IRA, that was responsible for the death of his father? It was so long ago, he couldn't remember. He hardly remembered what Northern Ireland was like, he had been gone away from there for so long. But now he sat here an old man who has spent his last few years in a welfare facility, as his memories continued to fade away.
Except for the murders. All of those memories were safe. They stayed with him regardless of his deteriorating mental condition. Especially the first one. Even the name of the boy stayed with him. Thomas McNulty, aged 16. He was a couple of years ahead of him in school, and took glee in reminding young Michael that his parents were no longer with him. It was no secret. His mother died giving birth to him, being the only child between his two parents. His father would die nine years later, thanks to one of the IRA's that were hell-bent on attacking the Police Service of Northern Ireland and others associated with British rule. And on top of that, there was the issue of being considered "Black Irish", and the insults that were associated with his skin tone. Basically nothing was left off of the table when it came to the insults of Thomas McNulty.
That is, until young Michael Connor Ellison had enough of the young man. Young Michael had tracked him from football practice to his house, and waited. There was a rumor that he was to be taking a young lass out on the town later that evening. It worked out that Michael had nothing better to do that evening, as well. He stayed away from his Grandfather's house as often as he could, considering the Old Man's disposition towards him. And at this time of day, he was probably three sheets into the wind. Amazing that only the violence in his life still left imprints on his memories.
Michael had prepared everything for the attack. He had a burlap sack, a leather case full of coins, and even a decent blade should he manage to subdue his quarry enough to use it safely. But little did he realize that it was his plan that was the most dangerous weapon that he had in his whole repertoire. Right down to using what was around to help him subdue the older, larger boy. He had chosen an alleyway that was close to the street, on the same side of the street that he intended to walk. He was able to use an age-old tactic of being able to watch his quarry, yet the quarry could not spot him. And despite all of that size that young Thomas McNulty had at his disposal, it wasn't enough to help him recover, as the burlap bag went over his head as he passed the alleyway, before getting slammed head-first into the blue Peugeot 405 parked inside of the alleyway.
Thomas had struggled to get the bag off of his head, but Michael drew the string around the top of the bag to close in around his throat. As he worked the string, Michael capitalized by slamming the leather sack of coins down on top of his head. The coins made a dull clinking noise as they impacted the skull of Thomas McNulty over and over again. Unable to get the bag off of his head in a timely manner, young Thomas opted to cover and protect his head, as Michael slammed the bag into other vital areas of the body. Such as the ribcage, the back, wherever there was an opening and a blow that could be landed to cause some damage to his prey.
This was when Michael pulled out Father's Tooth, the name he gave his father's old F-S knife. Michael continued to keep the attack going with the coin purse, while he plunged the dagger-like blade into the side of Thomas McNulty. Michael had used the knife before to kill animals, as he remembered how dogs and cats alike, who were barking and screaming their pleas and anger would no longer be able to voice their pleas for mercy once he was able to completely sheath the dagger with their bodies. The same proved to be true for young McNulty, as his screams for help faded away after the blade punctured his lung underneath his armpit.
The strength that Thomas prided himself on left his body the moment he pulled the blade from his side. Much like how much of his blood evacuated his body, thanks to the major artery that Michael had hit that ran the side of his body. He had rolled onto his back, as Michael drove the dagger into him a few more times, for good measure. Michael then undid the rope that held the burlap sack on Thomas' head so he could see the surprise on Thomas' face when he realized that this was NOT an attack perpetrated by the IRA, who was allegedly using the same tactics on other PSNI family members in an effort to curtail said policemen from doing their jobs, but rather the young man he made a mission in life to torment.
To this day, Michael Connor Ellison was unsure if Thomas had known who was REALLY responsible for his death or not. His eyes were glassy, much like the animals he had killed before would go shortly after driving the knife into them. He would like to think that McNulty knew that it was him before he moved to the Otherside. He would like to think that the contorted horrible look on his face after pulling the sack off was because of the revelation that this was the work of the young boy he tormented vice a terrorist group. But either way, Michael had felt relief, for the first time in a long time. More than relief. He felt GREAT! ECSTATIC, even!
While his Grandfather was an abusive and negligent man, it was him that gave him the idea to off this bastard. He would always say "Back in my day, we handled our shit with no bitching!" He would always say along with it "So what if you're smaller? Be smarter, and you'll win. I guarantee it!" Michael proved to be smarter, and more lethal, in this encounter. To the point that after watching Thomas McNulty die, he would mark the bag with a symbol that represented the IRA. A circle with a cross in the middle of it, before dragging him behind the Peugeot and out of immediate sight of those who would use the street to walk about. It made perfect sense, considering the IRA was targeting family members at the time of the murder. And after all, who would suspect a fourteen year-old kid with a family full of cops?
So 83 years later, he found himself sitting across from a young police officer, after being yanked off of Old Man Murphy, who was on his way out of the world and had grown sick of others fighting to keep him alive at the ripe age of 109. If anything, Ryan Winters, as he was known as now, was doing his friend a favor, rather than have to watch and see him struggle in between the world of the living and the dead. It was one of maybe a handful of murders he had performed over his lifetime that was not for his own personal pleasure, but rather as an act of mercy.
Hell, Winters himself was starting to teeter on the edge of both worlds himself, and did not want to fight it anymore. After all, 97 years on this planet was long enough. Especially after everything he had been through in his life. Century plus living as the norm, be damned! So he had made the decision to spill what he did have left of his mind at this time. He had come to that conclusion as the young lady scrolled through the information with a quizzical look on her face, as she digested the information that she was able to glean off of the Pad about him as she could, before she set the Pad down and looked up at him with a look that portrayed questions about him.
She started by saying...
Detective Brink: Good evening. My name is Detective Clarice Brink. Can we get you anything to make you more comfortable?
Winters smiled at the Detective, or at least he thought he was smiling. The stroke he suffered two years ago sometimes played hell with his facial expressions, but he mustered it up the best he could, as he says...
Winters: I'm quite fine, young lady. Clarice. What a pretty name...
Detective Brink: Okay then, we'll get started...
Winters: How long have you been a police officer? You look so young... Or is it because its so bright in here? Can you do something about how bright it is in here?
She stops running her fingers over the Pad she had brought into the interrogation room, which was very bright to even his old eyes. From the lights to the furnishings, everything was either white or bright. Even the walls were bright and shimmering inside of the room, to the point that his old eyes were starting to blur and hurt at the sight of anything other than her. And even her skin seemed to radiate light. She ran her fingers on the Pad again, and the light inside of the room began to fade a little bit. Even the table seemed to not radiate light anymore, as she says...
Detective Brink: Is that better, sir?
Winters: Yes. Thank you. Now to get started. I take it you have some questions regarding my dear friend, Mr. Murphy?
Detective Brink: We understand that you smothered your roommate, a Mr. Peter Murphy, after alleging that he asked you to do so...
Winters: Yes. He said he would rather die at the hands of someone he knew, rather than a stranger, or those pills. A fellow warrior and veteran, if you will.
Detective Brink: But why? We have people who perform those services all the time...
Winters: How old are you?
Detective Brink: I'm 32...
Winters: When was the last war that the country was engaged in?
Detective Brink: 2036. I understand that both of you were Veterans, but we have rules...
Winters: Well, he wanted an honest death from a fellow soldier. We don't have those anymore, now do we? And by those, I mean soldiers. Do we have soldiers anymore?
Detective Brink: But that is murder! Especially when you are not an authorized Agent of Death!
Winters: Are you kidding me? "Agent of Death"? Really? Sweetheart, I was a so-called "Agent of Death" probably before your own grandparents were even born! Who are you to tell us Veterans how to live when it was us that allowed you to live in the first place?
Detective Brink: Look, I understand it was the Veterans that reshaped the Federated States of America from the failing government after the wars, but there are still laws...
Winters raised his hand and slammed it down on the table in front of him, which jolted the young lady across from him, as he forced himself up from his seat, before the resistors forced him to settle back into the chair he was in. After shaking the pain of the shock from himself, he states in a voice full of defiance...
Winters: Who are you to tell me the law? WE MADE THE FUCKING LAWS!!! And as Veterans, we have the right to die as we see fit! THAT IS PART OF THE LAW YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO UPHOLD!!! HOW DARE YOU QUESTION HOW MR. MURPHY WANTED TO GO!!!
Detective Brink: I UNDERSTAND THAT! BUT PETER MURPHY NEVER SIGNED HIS DEATH AGREEMENT!
Winters: BECAUSE HE DIDN'T WANT TO DIE TO SOME PANTYWAIST WHO'S NEVER HAD TO FIGHT FOR HIS OWN LIFE!!! YOU TAKE, AND YOU TAKE, AND YOU TAKE, BUT KNOW NOT WHAT YOU REALLY TAKE!!! I KNOW WHAT I FUCKING TAKE!!! AND HE KNEW IT, TOO!!! HAVE YOU EVER HAD TO KILL ANYBODY, DETECTIVE BRINK!?!?!?
She paused as she was shocked at the question he had asked. He says...
Winters: Oh, come on!!! As an Officer of the Law, you have it within your power to take life away!!! Have you? Or is this going to be your first time?
Detective Brink: I've never... And I don't intend to start now!
Winters: Well I have, sweetheart! You have my file handy?
Detective Brink: I understand you were a Death Minister for a long time after the Fall of the Old State and Religious Orders, but...
Winters: But nothing! I did what any Death Minister would be asked to do, which was ferry the Living onward to Death, the Final Destination of every Living Soul! AS I'VE BEEN DOING FOR 83 YEARS!!!
Detective Brink: 83 years? But... How? Your records don't indicate...
Winters: My records are a lie. All of them.
Detective Brink: You mean... What? What lie are you talking about?
Old Man Winters smiled, as he dropped his Northwestern States accent that he had been using for the last 30 years, and instead broke out his Ulster Scot accent that he had laid dormant for the last fifty years or so. In the brogue, he states plainly...
Winters: Me name is not Ryan Winters, and I wasn't born in Seattle. Hell, there's probably nothing that'll show up on that Pad there that ties to me old life.
Detective Brink: Yeah, right! Nice accent, but I haven't got time for your games. You want to play the insanity card, you can sit in here for a few more hours with the brights on...
Winters: Me real name is Michael Connor Ellison. Last I knew, I was wanted for questioning in regards to killing a Regimental Sergeant Major in the old Special Boat Service of the old United British Kingdoms. Go head an look. Hopefully there's still something there about it. Not sure, but it's not like I'm going anywhere. Just keep the brights off, please an thank you.
The look of bewilderment crossed her face, but she sat back down, before running her fingers over the Pad yet again. After several movements of her hands, she looks down at the picture, before she gazes over across the table at the man before her. To her, the man across from her before was just an old man with a dusky complexion and hair that had gone pale, as a result of years inside of a nursing facility and old age.
But his eyes were still electric blue, much like the man that stared back at her who was wanted for questioning in the murder of the Regimental Sergeant Major who had stepped out of his flat and was turned into an unidentifiable pile of blood and gore after tripping a claymore that blew him, and the front of his flat, into particulate matter. The old man smiles, as he says...
Winters: Always loved me an explosive finale! Hell, after Afghanistan an Iraq, when I'd slip me a grenade into the works of a target, then to watch them blow apart a few feet away, an to watch as the blood goes flying into the air like Old Glory, little "bang-bang" just wasn't as satisfying a way of killing anybody anymore...
The horror on her face apparent at the revelation that he laid at her hands, she looked at him, a tremble in her voice, as she says...
Detective Brink: But... Why would you murder this man? A fellow comrade and soldier?
Winters: He should have let me reenlist, but he insisted on playing God with me career, so I played God with his life. Me work wasn't quite done, an at least me killing would've been contained to killing the Enemies of the Queen. Really quite tragic circumstances, if I do say so meself...
Detective Brink: But... But you've been missing for so long!!! I mean... How have you evaded capture for...
She looks down at the Pad, before she says in an exasperated tone...
Detective Brink: You've been on the run for 72 years!!! All this time right under our noses?
Winters: Unnerving, ain't it that a man of my ilk has managed to make it to Social Welfare, eh? But congrats are in order for ya. Ya got yourself a real killer on your hands. An not one of those government-sanctioned wankers, either!
She looked aghast at the fact of who was sitting in front of her. He admitted his crime against the Regimental Sergeant Major with a smile on his face and zero remorse as he told her what he knew about it with no provocation about it whatsoever. She stood up from her seat and left the room, a million questions running through her mind.
The first question was how was he able to evade capture for so many years? Especially considering all the biometric information that was on file for Michael Connor Ellison? Sure, criminals were able to employ countermeasures to alter their biometric information, but it was expensive! And this guy was far from rich!
Why admit his crimes now? Was he losing his mind? Or was this all a hoax, as she initially thought when he changed the accent of his voice? Other colleagues were starting to look at her, to include Inspector Ayers, her immediate superior. He approached, as he says...
Inspector Ayers: I heard everything. Are you okay in there?
Detective Brink: I'm sorry, sir. I just didn't expect to have this dropped on me. I mean, that's a serial killer in there!!!
Inspector Ayers: Keep your voice down!
Detective Brink: But sir, this is completely out of my depth! Murder is one thing, but something of this caliber?
Inspector Ayers: Look, he may have killed a man 72 years ago and that could have been that, and...
Detective Brink: You didn't look him in the eyes like I did! That man is a predator! PURE EVIL!!! Couldn't you hear it in his voice?
Inspector Ayers: You want me in there with you? I mean, its not like anybody here has experience with something like this...
Detective Brink: I don't think anybody should go in there. We should check out some stuff. Like his biometrics...
Inspector Ayers: He was a legitimate Death Minister, so his biometrics are all thrown off. Maybe this old man just wants to absolve his Soul before he dies...
Detective Brink: That's what Agents of Death are for, not us! We're supposed to find information and make recommendations, not be confessed to outright! He's screwing with the system!!!
Inspector Ayers: This sometimes happens. Especially when murderers run for long periods of time. This is why you and every other Law Enforcement Agent Level 4 and above are cleared to Execute when required. But you are still a Detective, and you and I both know he's not done! And may I remind you that our job is to find the facts and relay them to those who have a particular interest. That would mean that at least there is closure in that old case! And if he's what you say he is, he's not done absolving himself. And there may be more interested parties when this is all said and done.
Detective Brink: But WHY ME??? Why me, of all people?
The Inspector shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders, as he says...
Inspector Ayers: I don't know, but he's obviously chosen you as his Angel of Death. Any other Angel, and they would have probably released his Soul already. Even though there's no paperwork on him. Damn Angels seem rather trigger-happy, truth be told...
Detective Brink: He hasn't reached a Century yet. Maybe why he chose to divulge this information to me, rather than them.
Inspector Ayers: He could have fooled me. He must have had a hard life to look that old! Regardless, it is still our job to know the extent of what he has done over his life. Especially if he lays claim to murdering people from 83 years ago. How old is he?
Detective Brink: 97 years old. Which would mean he killed someone when he was 14. But why? And how?
Inspector Ayers: Why ask me? Ask him! He has the answers you seek.
Detective Brink: I don't know if I really want to know.
Inspector Ayers: Look, I get that you're new to this job, but sometimes this is part of that job! It is your job to chronicle the information of criminals, and to determine their disposition. You are trained for this!
Detective Brink: You're right! I've GOT to do this! Be professional. Get the facts. Do what is necessary when it is all said and done. Where should I start?
Inspector Ayers: The beginning, I suppose? Provided he hasn't forgotten that far back. Either way, find what you can. Good luck, Detective. And remember, someone will always be watching.
The Inspector walks away, as the Detective breathes in deeply, before exhaling and opening the door to see that Winters, or Ellison, she should say, is still sitting in his chair, being restrained by the resistors, the crooked smile on his face as he says...
Winters/Ellison: Apologies if I alarmed ya. But the Inspector is right, this is part of your job. An I intend you fulfill your part of the job.
Detective Brink: So what should I call you? Winters? Ellison? You got any other names, by chance?
Winters/Ellison: I was known as David Ferryman for a bit of time. After Ellison, but before Winters. Would a been more changes, if the governments kept their status quo. Honestly, once sanctioned death dealing became the norm, I hadn't needed to hide meself so much, though I did have to hide what I had done before the fact.
Detective Brink: David Ferryman... Gladiator? You were a Gladiator?
Winters/Ellison/Ferryman smiled, as he states...
Ferryman: Professional Wrestler is the proper term...
Detective Brink: You fought for money in front of a crowd for their pleasure. Gladiator is the proper term.
Ferryman: Fine, I was a Gladiator. And before you ask, no I didn't murder anybody in the ring. We had much stricter guidelines then as we do now. Life was considered more precious back in those days. People were loathe to dispose of each other, but I knew then, as many realize now, that some people just do not deserve to share the same air that we breathe. Though I never did force anybody to swallow pills, or had to stick to government-sanctioned and authorized ways of reducing the population. Gotta say that my time as a Death Minister was fulfilling, but it got boring at times. Really loved when riots would occur. Allowed me to be creative and flexible with the law...
Detective Brink: Jeez...
Ferryman: Jesus can't help you here. Or at least, that's what I would say back when Jesus had many more followers than he does now. Especially those that I chose to meet their end. You see, most of the people I chose really did need to go the fuck away, and in the worst way possible. I took those who would be Gladiator fodder now and sent them to meet Jesus, or Allah, or Yahweh. I think I sent a few people to Buddha, come to think of it. Oh, and maybe a handful went on to meet L. Ron Hubbard. Don't ask, because I cannot even begin to describe what THAT was all about.
Detective Brink: So how many unauthorized Releases have you performed in your life?
Ferryman: That's a tough question. They all kind of blend together, truth be told. But prior to 2036, and not including kills authorized as a result of necessary casualties of war, its hard to say. Do you need an exact number? Of KILLS?
He grins, as she is visibly unnerved by the term "kill". To "kill" was something evil, while to "release" was necessary. To "murder" is to release without authorization, but still acceptable. Unless the term "kill" was tied to "murder". As for Death? Nobody escaped Death. After all, Death was an inescapable part of Life, and the Great Circle. But Death came regardless of who or what was doing the "releasing".
She grimaces, as she realizes what he was doing. He's prodding at her, to see if she could withstand what he had for her. To see if she had the stomach for what he wants to absolve himself of. She could see it in his eyes, as he smiled that crooked smile. Was that a result of a stroke? Then she said...
Detective Brink: If you can provide me an accurate number of KILLS, that would be highly appreciated. Its so that we can inform living family members who may still mourn and care that we have found the perpetrator of the family member's death, and the circumstances that surround it.
Ellison: Hmm... I see. Well, to be quite honest there was only a few that I could lay claim to as Michael Connor Ellison. At least directly. There was the first, when I was 14. I was thinking about it when you were looking over my dossier, as I have thought over all of them. Even the ones accrued during war. Because let's face it, I do have to answer for ALL of them. Even the sanctioned ones. But the name of the first one? It was Thomas McNulty.
He was a 16 year-old bully who got his comeuppance, truth be told. After terrorizing me as a child for the fact that my parents were dead and I had a different skin tone and hair style than most, I finally decided to do something about it. I decided to terrorize him, for a change, and I did so with a vengeance. I put a bag over his head, dragged him into an alley, and beat him unmercifully before I stabbed him with Father's Tooth. That was the name I gave the knife that my father had and I took after he had died at the hands of whatever faction of the IRA that wanted to kill policemen in Northern Ireland at the time. It was so long ago, its hard to remember such details of a highly fractured group of religious psychopaths.
I took advantage of that last bit though, as Thomas was much like me in that his father was also PSNI Officer. After I looked at his face, with the hope that before he died he saw who did this to him, I marked the bag in his blood with the symbol of the IRA. Then I dragged him further into the alleyway and put the bag back over his head. Made it look like an IRA hit on a family member of the police. It was a common tactic used by the IRA at that time. The funny part was, in hindsight, I managed to allow myself to cry once the "tragic details" of the murder came out. But I was not bothered by anyone else after the fact. At least not until I found myself in the service of Her Majesty and the Special Boat Service.
Detective Brink: So the only murder that you account for as Michael Connor Ellison is the death of Thomas McNulty?
Ellison: Oh, I killed plenty as Michael Connor Ellison. During my training as a Marine, there were a few "accidents" that occurred during the process, as did they occur during my training as a Swimmer Canoeist. Though to be fair, they all would have probably died downrange if they were going to allow themselves to get killed the way the wound up dead. I mean, its not my fault that they accepted men who could barely swim into the Royal Marines, is it?
The real body count went up when I deployed to Afghanistan and Iraq. But those were mostly authorized. Funny, the only time I was ever disturbed by killing was when kids were involved.
Detective Brink: You killed children?
Ellison: It was them or me, and I chose me! Fuck them! They could have told their shitbag parents that I don't wanna shoot at Royal Marines today! Then it would have been on those shitty parents to kill their insolent kids themselves! But my want for killing? The wars were what did it for me. Especially when I had to kill kids. Made me want to kill their adult counterparts even more. For six years, I was part of Her Majesty's Marines. I loathed every minute in garrison and back in England, and loved every minute I was sending Allah his shitty worshipers back to him in pieces! If I had it my way, I would have retired a Marine. Then we get to the Regimental Sergeant Major...
Detective Brink: The man who denied you the possibility to reenlist?
Ellison: Denied me my career, that fucker! Oh God, I hated that fucker! He was a Pakistani fuck, so why did they even send his ass to the fucking sandbox as it was? I honestly think he was resentful of the fact that I was good at killing his Muslim brothers and sisters, but that was my fucking JOB! After I got drummed out, I tried like hell to find other suitable work, only my discharge wasn't the one that most people wanted. Disqualified for Government Service, if you can believe that! And where else can I do what I do best? For the fucking gangsters?
I finally decided that if he was going to deny me my career, that I should do the same to him. I knew the fucker was about to retire, so I decided that I'd get him before that could happen. I watched him and his routine for weeks before I set him up. Only regret I have about it was how I went about it. The problem was that I did him the way that a commando would have done him, which narrows the field of suspects to very few. I figured an asshole like him was bound to have made some enemies during his career, but I shouldn't have done him like I did with the claymores. That was stupid.
Should have went into his house and broke his neck. Left him in the shower and made it look like a slip and fall. Or maybe shot him and made it look like a suicide. Perhaps left a note on his computer saying that his only love was the Marines, and that he couldn't think of a life where he wasn't a buggering asshole to a bunch of young guys who were TOO good at their job! ANYTHING other than the fucking claymores!
But after that, I was smart enough to go back to Ulster and get myself some papers in another name so I could leave the country clean. Until now, nobody was for sure that I was the one who whacked the Regimental. But after that, it became open season for me. Didn't bother trying to keep that part of me in check anymore. The military was behind me, and I figured maybe, just maybe, I could do some good while getting the joy out of doing what I was good at.
Detective Brink: Where did you go from Northern Ireland?
Ellison: Went to Canada. St. John's, Newfoundland. And talk about a target rich environment. Lotta shitbags in that fucking place, let me tell ya. But I'm tired. Been a rather eventful day, you think?
Detective Brink: It is late. I'll have you moved to a holding facility. Let the Correctionals know about whatever meds or needs you have regarding your housing situation. You'll otherwise probably be isolated from Gen Pop, due to the nature of your crimes.
The old man snickered at the thought of being isolated because of his crimes, as he says...
Ellison: I'm an old man! The only people who should be worried about me are other old men and women with one foot already crossing the threshold of Life and Death. Hell, they'd probably BEG me to relieve them of the burden.
Detective Brink: That isn't my call to make, but if it makes you feel better, you could always think its protection for yourself. Not a lot of 98 year-old detainees. You might make history tonight by being the oldest.
Ellison: This old and still gaining all sorts of notoriety! Make me Ma proud, may she Rest in Peace. So we'll start again in the morning?
Detective Brink: You probably will. Get some rest. Tomorrow will probably be a long day.
Ellison: I bet. Sweet dreams, young lady...
Detective Clarice Brink got to her feet and walked out, as she felt a shiver within her as she spoke to him. Even in his advanced age and state of physical decay, he still scared her. Much in the way that some zoologists must be terrified of some of the animals they had to interact with. Sure, they were used to humans, but at any moment they could turn and murder their handlers. He was much the same way now, but who knows what the future would entail? Would he turn and try to take her with him? Or is this the last stand of a proud beast who was looking to die with some dignity?
She didn't know the answers, and may not ever care to know...
He was 14 years old when he committed his first murder. In the outskirts of Belfast, where he lived with his Grandfather, after his father had died at the hands of an IRA attack. It was the Real IRA, or was it Provisional IRA, that was responsible for the death of his father? It was so long ago, he couldn't remember. He hardly remembered what Northern Ireland was like, he had been gone away from there for so long. But now he sat here an old man who has spent his last few years in a welfare facility, as his memories continued to fade away.
Except for the murders. All of those memories were safe. They stayed with him regardless of his deteriorating mental condition. Especially the first one. Even the name of the boy stayed with him. Thomas McNulty, aged 16. He was a couple of years ahead of him in school, and took glee in reminding young Michael that his parents were no longer with him. It was no secret. His mother died giving birth to him, being the only child between his two parents. His father would die nine years later, thanks to one of the IRA's that were hell-bent on attacking the Police Service of Northern Ireland and others associated with British rule. And on top of that, there was the issue of being considered "Black Irish", and the insults that were associated with his skin tone. Basically nothing was left off of the table when it came to the insults of Thomas McNulty.
That is, until young Michael Connor Ellison had enough of the young man. Young Michael had tracked him from football practice to his house, and waited. There was a rumor that he was to be taking a young lass out on the town later that evening. It worked out that Michael had nothing better to do that evening, as well. He stayed away from his Grandfather's house as often as he could, considering the Old Man's disposition towards him. And at this time of day, he was probably three sheets into the wind. Amazing that only the violence in his life still left imprints on his memories.
Michael had prepared everything for the attack. He had a burlap sack, a leather case full of coins, and even a decent blade should he manage to subdue his quarry enough to use it safely. But little did he realize that it was his plan that was the most dangerous weapon that he had in his whole repertoire. Right down to using what was around to help him subdue the older, larger boy. He had chosen an alleyway that was close to the street, on the same side of the street that he intended to walk. He was able to use an age-old tactic of being able to watch his quarry, yet the quarry could not spot him. And despite all of that size that young Thomas McNulty had at his disposal, it wasn't enough to help him recover, as the burlap bag went over his head as he passed the alleyway, before getting slammed head-first into the blue Peugeot 405 parked inside of the alleyway.
Thomas had struggled to get the bag off of his head, but Michael drew the string around the top of the bag to close in around his throat. As he worked the string, Michael capitalized by slamming the leather sack of coins down on top of his head. The coins made a dull clinking noise as they impacted the skull of Thomas McNulty over and over again. Unable to get the bag off of his head in a timely manner, young Thomas opted to cover and protect his head, as Michael slammed the bag into other vital areas of the body. Such as the ribcage, the back, wherever there was an opening and a blow that could be landed to cause some damage to his prey.
This was when Michael pulled out Father's Tooth, the name he gave his father's old F-S knife. Michael continued to keep the attack going with the coin purse, while he plunged the dagger-like blade into the side of Thomas McNulty. Michael had used the knife before to kill animals, as he remembered how dogs and cats alike, who were barking and screaming their pleas and anger would no longer be able to voice their pleas for mercy once he was able to completely sheath the dagger with their bodies. The same proved to be true for young McNulty, as his screams for help faded away after the blade punctured his lung underneath his armpit.
The strength that Thomas prided himself on left his body the moment he pulled the blade from his side. Much like how much of his blood evacuated his body, thanks to the major artery that Michael had hit that ran the side of his body. He had rolled onto his back, as Michael drove the dagger into him a few more times, for good measure. Michael then undid the rope that held the burlap sack on Thomas' head so he could see the surprise on Thomas' face when he realized that this was NOT an attack perpetrated by the IRA, who was allegedly using the same tactics on other PSNI family members in an effort to curtail said policemen from doing their jobs, but rather the young man he made a mission in life to torment.
To this day, Michael Connor Ellison was unsure if Thomas had known who was REALLY responsible for his death or not. His eyes were glassy, much like the animals he had killed before would go shortly after driving the knife into them. He would like to think that McNulty knew that it was him before he moved to the Otherside. He would like to think that the contorted horrible look on his face after pulling the sack off was because of the revelation that this was the work of the young boy he tormented vice a terrorist group. But either way, Michael had felt relief, for the first time in a long time. More than relief. He felt GREAT! ECSTATIC, even!
While his Grandfather was an abusive and negligent man, it was him that gave him the idea to off this bastard. He would always say "Back in my day, we handled our shit with no bitching!" He would always say along with it "So what if you're smaller? Be smarter, and you'll win. I guarantee it!" Michael proved to be smarter, and more lethal, in this encounter. To the point that after watching Thomas McNulty die, he would mark the bag with a symbol that represented the IRA. A circle with a cross in the middle of it, before dragging him behind the Peugeot and out of immediate sight of those who would use the street to walk about. It made perfect sense, considering the IRA was targeting family members at the time of the murder. And after all, who would suspect a fourteen year-old kid with a family full of cops?
So 83 years later, he found himself sitting across from a young police officer, after being yanked off of Old Man Murphy, who was on his way out of the world and had grown sick of others fighting to keep him alive at the ripe age of 109. If anything, Ryan Winters, as he was known as now, was doing his friend a favor, rather than have to watch and see him struggle in between the world of the living and the dead. It was one of maybe a handful of murders he had performed over his lifetime that was not for his own personal pleasure, but rather as an act of mercy.
Hell, Winters himself was starting to teeter on the edge of both worlds himself, and did not want to fight it anymore. After all, 97 years on this planet was long enough. Especially after everything he had been through in his life. Century plus living as the norm, be damned! So he had made the decision to spill what he did have left of his mind at this time. He had come to that conclusion as the young lady scrolled through the information with a quizzical look on her face, as she digested the information that she was able to glean off of the Pad about him as she could, before she set the Pad down and looked up at him with a look that portrayed questions about him.
She started by saying...
Detective Brink: Good evening. My name is Detective Clarice Brink. Can we get you anything to make you more comfortable?
Winters smiled at the Detective, or at least he thought he was smiling. The stroke he suffered two years ago sometimes played hell with his facial expressions, but he mustered it up the best he could, as he says...
Winters: I'm quite fine, young lady. Clarice. What a pretty name...
Detective Brink: Okay then, we'll get started...
Winters: How long have you been a police officer? You look so young... Or is it because its so bright in here? Can you do something about how bright it is in here?
She stops running her fingers over the Pad she had brought into the interrogation room, which was very bright to even his old eyes. From the lights to the furnishings, everything was either white or bright. Even the walls were bright and shimmering inside of the room, to the point that his old eyes were starting to blur and hurt at the sight of anything other than her. And even her skin seemed to radiate light. She ran her fingers on the Pad again, and the light inside of the room began to fade a little bit. Even the table seemed to not radiate light anymore, as she says...
Detective Brink: Is that better, sir?
Winters: Yes. Thank you. Now to get started. I take it you have some questions regarding my dear friend, Mr. Murphy?
Detective Brink: We understand that you smothered your roommate, a Mr. Peter Murphy, after alleging that he asked you to do so...
Winters: Yes. He said he would rather die at the hands of someone he knew, rather than a stranger, or those pills. A fellow warrior and veteran, if you will.
Detective Brink: But why? We have people who perform those services all the time...
Winters: How old are you?
Detective Brink: I'm 32...
Winters: When was the last war that the country was engaged in?
Detective Brink: 2036. I understand that both of you were Veterans, but we have rules...
Winters: Well, he wanted an honest death from a fellow soldier. We don't have those anymore, now do we? And by those, I mean soldiers. Do we have soldiers anymore?
Detective Brink: But that is murder! Especially when you are not an authorized Agent of Death!
Winters: Are you kidding me? "Agent of Death"? Really? Sweetheart, I was a so-called "Agent of Death" probably before your own grandparents were even born! Who are you to tell us Veterans how to live when it was us that allowed you to live in the first place?
Detective Brink: Look, I understand it was the Veterans that reshaped the Federated States of America from the failing government after the wars, but there are still laws...
Winters raised his hand and slammed it down on the table in front of him, which jolted the young lady across from him, as he forced himself up from his seat, before the resistors forced him to settle back into the chair he was in. After shaking the pain of the shock from himself, he states in a voice full of defiance...
Winters: Who are you to tell me the law? WE MADE THE FUCKING LAWS!!! And as Veterans, we have the right to die as we see fit! THAT IS PART OF THE LAW YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO UPHOLD!!! HOW DARE YOU QUESTION HOW MR. MURPHY WANTED TO GO!!!
Detective Brink: I UNDERSTAND THAT! BUT PETER MURPHY NEVER SIGNED HIS DEATH AGREEMENT!
Winters: BECAUSE HE DIDN'T WANT TO DIE TO SOME PANTYWAIST WHO'S NEVER HAD TO FIGHT FOR HIS OWN LIFE!!! YOU TAKE, AND YOU TAKE, AND YOU TAKE, BUT KNOW NOT WHAT YOU REALLY TAKE!!! I KNOW WHAT I FUCKING TAKE!!! AND HE KNEW IT, TOO!!! HAVE YOU EVER HAD TO KILL ANYBODY, DETECTIVE BRINK!?!?!?
She paused as she was shocked at the question he had asked. He says...
Winters: Oh, come on!!! As an Officer of the Law, you have it within your power to take life away!!! Have you? Or is this going to be your first time?
Detective Brink: I've never... And I don't intend to start now!
Winters: Well I have, sweetheart! You have my file handy?
Detective Brink: I understand you were a Death Minister for a long time after the Fall of the Old State and Religious Orders, but...
Winters: But nothing! I did what any Death Minister would be asked to do, which was ferry the Living onward to Death, the Final Destination of every Living Soul! AS I'VE BEEN DOING FOR 83 YEARS!!!
Detective Brink: 83 years? But... How? Your records don't indicate...
Winters: My records are a lie. All of them.
Detective Brink: You mean... What? What lie are you talking about?
Old Man Winters smiled, as he dropped his Northwestern States accent that he had been using for the last 30 years, and instead broke out his Ulster Scot accent that he had laid dormant for the last fifty years or so. In the brogue, he states plainly...
Winters: Me name is not Ryan Winters, and I wasn't born in Seattle. Hell, there's probably nothing that'll show up on that Pad there that ties to me old life.
Detective Brink: Yeah, right! Nice accent, but I haven't got time for your games. You want to play the insanity card, you can sit in here for a few more hours with the brights on...
Winters: Me real name is Michael Connor Ellison. Last I knew, I was wanted for questioning in regards to killing a Regimental Sergeant Major in the old Special Boat Service of the old United British Kingdoms. Go head an look. Hopefully there's still something there about it. Not sure, but it's not like I'm going anywhere. Just keep the brights off, please an thank you.
The look of bewilderment crossed her face, but she sat back down, before running her fingers over the Pad yet again. After several movements of her hands, she looks down at the picture, before she gazes over across the table at the man before her. To her, the man across from her before was just an old man with a dusky complexion and hair that had gone pale, as a result of years inside of a nursing facility and old age.
But his eyes were still electric blue, much like the man that stared back at her who was wanted for questioning in the murder of the Regimental Sergeant Major who had stepped out of his flat and was turned into an unidentifiable pile of blood and gore after tripping a claymore that blew him, and the front of his flat, into particulate matter. The old man smiles, as he says...
Winters: Always loved me an explosive finale! Hell, after Afghanistan an Iraq, when I'd slip me a grenade into the works of a target, then to watch them blow apart a few feet away, an to watch as the blood goes flying into the air like Old Glory, little "bang-bang" just wasn't as satisfying a way of killing anybody anymore...
The horror on her face apparent at the revelation that he laid at her hands, she looked at him, a tremble in her voice, as she says...
Detective Brink: But... Why would you murder this man? A fellow comrade and soldier?
Winters: He should have let me reenlist, but he insisted on playing God with me career, so I played God with his life. Me work wasn't quite done, an at least me killing would've been contained to killing the Enemies of the Queen. Really quite tragic circumstances, if I do say so meself...
Detective Brink: But... But you've been missing for so long!!! I mean... How have you evaded capture for...
She looks down at the Pad, before she says in an exasperated tone...
Detective Brink: You've been on the run for 72 years!!! All this time right under our noses?
Winters: Unnerving, ain't it that a man of my ilk has managed to make it to Social Welfare, eh? But congrats are in order for ya. Ya got yourself a real killer on your hands. An not one of those government-sanctioned wankers, either!
She looked aghast at the fact of who was sitting in front of her. He admitted his crime against the Regimental Sergeant Major with a smile on his face and zero remorse as he told her what he knew about it with no provocation about it whatsoever. She stood up from her seat and left the room, a million questions running through her mind.
The first question was how was he able to evade capture for so many years? Especially considering all the biometric information that was on file for Michael Connor Ellison? Sure, criminals were able to employ countermeasures to alter their biometric information, but it was expensive! And this guy was far from rich!
Why admit his crimes now? Was he losing his mind? Or was this all a hoax, as she initially thought when he changed the accent of his voice? Other colleagues were starting to look at her, to include Inspector Ayers, her immediate superior. He approached, as he says...
Inspector Ayers: I heard everything. Are you okay in there?
Detective Brink: I'm sorry, sir. I just didn't expect to have this dropped on me. I mean, that's a serial killer in there!!!
Inspector Ayers: Keep your voice down!
Detective Brink: But sir, this is completely out of my depth! Murder is one thing, but something of this caliber?
Inspector Ayers: Look, he may have killed a man 72 years ago and that could have been that, and...
Detective Brink: You didn't look him in the eyes like I did! That man is a predator! PURE EVIL!!! Couldn't you hear it in his voice?
Inspector Ayers: You want me in there with you? I mean, its not like anybody here has experience with something like this...
Detective Brink: I don't think anybody should go in there. We should check out some stuff. Like his biometrics...
Inspector Ayers: He was a legitimate Death Minister, so his biometrics are all thrown off. Maybe this old man just wants to absolve his Soul before he dies...
Detective Brink: That's what Agents of Death are for, not us! We're supposed to find information and make recommendations, not be confessed to outright! He's screwing with the system!!!
Inspector Ayers: This sometimes happens. Especially when murderers run for long periods of time. This is why you and every other Law Enforcement Agent Level 4 and above are cleared to Execute when required. But you are still a Detective, and you and I both know he's not done! And may I remind you that our job is to find the facts and relay them to those who have a particular interest. That would mean that at least there is closure in that old case! And if he's what you say he is, he's not done absolving himself. And there may be more interested parties when this is all said and done.
Detective Brink: But WHY ME??? Why me, of all people?
The Inspector shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders, as he says...
Inspector Ayers: I don't know, but he's obviously chosen you as his Angel of Death. Any other Angel, and they would have probably released his Soul already. Even though there's no paperwork on him. Damn Angels seem rather trigger-happy, truth be told...
Detective Brink: He hasn't reached a Century yet. Maybe why he chose to divulge this information to me, rather than them.
Inspector Ayers: He could have fooled me. He must have had a hard life to look that old! Regardless, it is still our job to know the extent of what he has done over his life. Especially if he lays claim to murdering people from 83 years ago. How old is he?
Detective Brink: 97 years old. Which would mean he killed someone when he was 14. But why? And how?
Inspector Ayers: Why ask me? Ask him! He has the answers you seek.
Detective Brink: I don't know if I really want to know.
Inspector Ayers: Look, I get that you're new to this job, but sometimes this is part of that job! It is your job to chronicle the information of criminals, and to determine their disposition. You are trained for this!
Detective Brink: You're right! I've GOT to do this! Be professional. Get the facts. Do what is necessary when it is all said and done. Where should I start?
Inspector Ayers: The beginning, I suppose? Provided he hasn't forgotten that far back. Either way, find what you can. Good luck, Detective. And remember, someone will always be watching.
The Inspector walks away, as the Detective breathes in deeply, before exhaling and opening the door to see that Winters, or Ellison, she should say, is still sitting in his chair, being restrained by the resistors, the crooked smile on his face as he says...
Winters/Ellison: Apologies if I alarmed ya. But the Inspector is right, this is part of your job. An I intend you fulfill your part of the job.
Detective Brink: So what should I call you? Winters? Ellison? You got any other names, by chance?
Winters/Ellison: I was known as David Ferryman for a bit of time. After Ellison, but before Winters. Would a been more changes, if the governments kept their status quo. Honestly, once sanctioned death dealing became the norm, I hadn't needed to hide meself so much, though I did have to hide what I had done before the fact.
Detective Brink: David Ferryman... Gladiator? You were a Gladiator?
Winters/Ellison/Ferryman smiled, as he states...
Ferryman: Professional Wrestler is the proper term...
Detective Brink: You fought for money in front of a crowd for their pleasure. Gladiator is the proper term.
Ferryman: Fine, I was a Gladiator. And before you ask, no I didn't murder anybody in the ring. We had much stricter guidelines then as we do now. Life was considered more precious back in those days. People were loathe to dispose of each other, but I knew then, as many realize now, that some people just do not deserve to share the same air that we breathe. Though I never did force anybody to swallow pills, or had to stick to government-sanctioned and authorized ways of reducing the population. Gotta say that my time as a Death Minister was fulfilling, but it got boring at times. Really loved when riots would occur. Allowed me to be creative and flexible with the law...
Detective Brink: Jeez...
Ferryman: Jesus can't help you here. Or at least, that's what I would say back when Jesus had many more followers than he does now. Especially those that I chose to meet their end. You see, most of the people I chose really did need to go the fuck away, and in the worst way possible. I took those who would be Gladiator fodder now and sent them to meet Jesus, or Allah, or Yahweh. I think I sent a few people to Buddha, come to think of it. Oh, and maybe a handful went on to meet L. Ron Hubbard. Don't ask, because I cannot even begin to describe what THAT was all about.
Detective Brink: So how many unauthorized Releases have you performed in your life?
Ferryman: That's a tough question. They all kind of blend together, truth be told. But prior to 2036, and not including kills authorized as a result of necessary casualties of war, its hard to say. Do you need an exact number? Of KILLS?
He grins, as she is visibly unnerved by the term "kill". To "kill" was something evil, while to "release" was necessary. To "murder" is to release without authorization, but still acceptable. Unless the term "kill" was tied to "murder". As for Death? Nobody escaped Death. After all, Death was an inescapable part of Life, and the Great Circle. But Death came regardless of who or what was doing the "releasing".
She grimaces, as she realizes what he was doing. He's prodding at her, to see if she could withstand what he had for her. To see if she had the stomach for what he wants to absolve himself of. She could see it in his eyes, as he smiled that crooked smile. Was that a result of a stroke? Then she said...
Detective Brink: If you can provide me an accurate number of KILLS, that would be highly appreciated. Its so that we can inform living family members who may still mourn and care that we have found the perpetrator of the family member's death, and the circumstances that surround it.
Ellison: Hmm... I see. Well, to be quite honest there was only a few that I could lay claim to as Michael Connor Ellison. At least directly. There was the first, when I was 14. I was thinking about it when you were looking over my dossier, as I have thought over all of them. Even the ones accrued during war. Because let's face it, I do have to answer for ALL of them. Even the sanctioned ones. But the name of the first one? It was Thomas McNulty.
He was a 16 year-old bully who got his comeuppance, truth be told. After terrorizing me as a child for the fact that my parents were dead and I had a different skin tone and hair style than most, I finally decided to do something about it. I decided to terrorize him, for a change, and I did so with a vengeance. I put a bag over his head, dragged him into an alley, and beat him unmercifully before I stabbed him with Father's Tooth. That was the name I gave the knife that my father had and I took after he had died at the hands of whatever faction of the IRA that wanted to kill policemen in Northern Ireland at the time. It was so long ago, its hard to remember such details of a highly fractured group of religious psychopaths.
I took advantage of that last bit though, as Thomas was much like me in that his father was also PSNI Officer. After I looked at his face, with the hope that before he died he saw who did this to him, I marked the bag in his blood with the symbol of the IRA. Then I dragged him further into the alleyway and put the bag back over his head. Made it look like an IRA hit on a family member of the police. It was a common tactic used by the IRA at that time. The funny part was, in hindsight, I managed to allow myself to cry once the "tragic details" of the murder came out. But I was not bothered by anyone else after the fact. At least not until I found myself in the service of Her Majesty and the Special Boat Service.
Detective Brink: So the only murder that you account for as Michael Connor Ellison is the death of Thomas McNulty?
Ellison: Oh, I killed plenty as Michael Connor Ellison. During my training as a Marine, there were a few "accidents" that occurred during the process, as did they occur during my training as a Swimmer Canoeist. Though to be fair, they all would have probably died downrange if they were going to allow themselves to get killed the way the wound up dead. I mean, its not my fault that they accepted men who could barely swim into the Royal Marines, is it?
The real body count went up when I deployed to Afghanistan and Iraq. But those were mostly authorized. Funny, the only time I was ever disturbed by killing was when kids were involved.
Detective Brink: You killed children?
Ellison: It was them or me, and I chose me! Fuck them! They could have told their shitbag parents that I don't wanna shoot at Royal Marines today! Then it would have been on those shitty parents to kill their insolent kids themselves! But my want for killing? The wars were what did it for me. Especially when I had to kill kids. Made me want to kill their adult counterparts even more. For six years, I was part of Her Majesty's Marines. I loathed every minute in garrison and back in England, and loved every minute I was sending Allah his shitty worshipers back to him in pieces! If I had it my way, I would have retired a Marine. Then we get to the Regimental Sergeant Major...
Detective Brink: The man who denied you the possibility to reenlist?
Ellison: Denied me my career, that fucker! Oh God, I hated that fucker! He was a Pakistani fuck, so why did they even send his ass to the fucking sandbox as it was? I honestly think he was resentful of the fact that I was good at killing his Muslim brothers and sisters, but that was my fucking JOB! After I got drummed out, I tried like hell to find other suitable work, only my discharge wasn't the one that most people wanted. Disqualified for Government Service, if you can believe that! And where else can I do what I do best? For the fucking gangsters?
I finally decided that if he was going to deny me my career, that I should do the same to him. I knew the fucker was about to retire, so I decided that I'd get him before that could happen. I watched him and his routine for weeks before I set him up. Only regret I have about it was how I went about it. The problem was that I did him the way that a commando would have done him, which narrows the field of suspects to very few. I figured an asshole like him was bound to have made some enemies during his career, but I shouldn't have done him like I did with the claymores. That was stupid.
Should have went into his house and broke his neck. Left him in the shower and made it look like a slip and fall. Or maybe shot him and made it look like a suicide. Perhaps left a note on his computer saying that his only love was the Marines, and that he couldn't think of a life where he wasn't a buggering asshole to a bunch of young guys who were TOO good at their job! ANYTHING other than the fucking claymores!
But after that, I was smart enough to go back to Ulster and get myself some papers in another name so I could leave the country clean. Until now, nobody was for sure that I was the one who whacked the Regimental. But after that, it became open season for me. Didn't bother trying to keep that part of me in check anymore. The military was behind me, and I figured maybe, just maybe, I could do some good while getting the joy out of doing what I was good at.
Detective Brink: Where did you go from Northern Ireland?
Ellison: Went to Canada. St. John's, Newfoundland. And talk about a target rich environment. Lotta shitbags in that fucking place, let me tell ya. But I'm tired. Been a rather eventful day, you think?
Detective Brink: It is late. I'll have you moved to a holding facility. Let the Correctionals know about whatever meds or needs you have regarding your housing situation. You'll otherwise probably be isolated from Gen Pop, due to the nature of your crimes.
The old man snickered at the thought of being isolated because of his crimes, as he says...
Ellison: I'm an old man! The only people who should be worried about me are other old men and women with one foot already crossing the threshold of Life and Death. Hell, they'd probably BEG me to relieve them of the burden.
Detective Brink: That isn't my call to make, but if it makes you feel better, you could always think its protection for yourself. Not a lot of 98 year-old detainees. You might make history tonight by being the oldest.
Ellison: This old and still gaining all sorts of notoriety! Make me Ma proud, may she Rest in Peace. So we'll start again in the morning?
Detective Brink: You probably will. Get some rest. Tomorrow will probably be a long day.
Ellison: I bet. Sweet dreams, young lady...
Detective Clarice Brink got to her feet and walked out, as she felt a shiver within her as she spoke to him. Even in his advanced age and state of physical decay, he still scared her. Much in the way that some zoologists must be terrified of some of the animals they had to interact with. Sure, they were used to humans, but at any moment they could turn and murder their handlers. He was much the same way now, but who knows what the future would entail? Would he turn and try to take her with him? Or is this the last stand of a proud beast who was looking to die with some dignity?
She didn't know the answers, and may not ever care to know...
