Tell me a story.
Alright, a story then.
There was prominent physiatrist in Baltimore once who did a slew of terrible things; so called, that they talk about to this day. After he was captured, the press thought up all sorts of creative names to horrify and intrigue the public. They were true, from the feasting of the symphony board on an offending flutist, to the attacks on the FBI agent he mentored; he never really denied them. Stories of his crimes were discussed over diner tables, in high school cafeterias and four star restaurants. He thought that particular quirk of humanity rather amusing.
Even more amusing is what came after the stories; after the seven men and three women meted out their verdict and the judge did his part, after the appeals and fan mail.
The tests. Mr. Chilton adored his tests. I hope he enjoyed the swans I sent back to him.
It’s a pity too, I’d be incline to tell someone what he wanted to know too provided of course, they were less obtuse and offensive then my dear Frederick Chilton. The world lost no great mind when he finally died; just another small brain- more gristle then contribution.
The tests worked like the stories but if you think they were to understand the nature of the acts this man from Baltimore performed, you’d be mistaken. No, they were intended for the same purpose as the table conversations of less intelligent minds- but at least they could claim of the virtue of honesty.
They want to minimize it all. Humanize the deeds committed in that beautiful house by the port; because then perhaps it’s less about sensationalism and more about realism. I hope they treated it well. The house, not the story; I had a lovely home.
They’d be wrong. Stories, especially ones like this particular tale won’t ever be entirely fantastic or real in that so-called lines and numbers way we occasionally think the human brain can be classified in; it will always snap back to that first you impulse you had upon hearing it, that first dark little whisper in the back of your brain- after you felt the horror, and fear and rush of excitement. The little tremor you felt in the base of your spine after you imagined how those lovely blue bloods reacted when they heard of their beloved third chair had been Sunday’s dinner.
The curiosity. That’s what you felt. That’s what you still feel and between us, it’s not about how easy to kill a man, not the feel of the steel in your hand; the way the cut of meat moves as easily as fish through water or even the pop of cartilage and bone like yesterday’s chicken. You can imagine well enough the smell of lean cuts on the stove; the sage or oils stirring the air. That’s not what brings you right back here time and again- what draws you to the story.
You want to understand the taste.
But I’m afraid anything I tell you will fail to do justice to the whole ordeal. It’d be like the scores of tests and drivel you can find in any news report, or in Mr. Chilton’s journals; it would provide a filtered version of what really transpired. No, if you want to understand both the surreal and the mundane of the entire ordeal- I suggest you go to the source.
Bon appetite.