The Man Behind the Mirror

A cool breeze blew over the heads of the corn in a field that stretched for acres, broken only by the occasional scarecrow, which hung, dilapidated and forgotten, as if victim of some bizarre crucifixion. A rustling in the underbrush betrayed the presence of a brown rabbit, searching for fallen kernels and cowering from the proud hawk that soared overhead. The sun, high in the azure sky, beat down on the creatures far beneath it, making the little movement that occurred in and around the corn fields sluggish. Little sound permeated the dense, summer air except for the occasional chirp of a songbird...

...and the growing roar of an engine to the south.

The corn fields of central Iowa flew past the hood of my car in blurs of dull brown and green, as if fleeing from the black metal vessel barreling down the interstate at speeds that could hardly be considered legal. The '37 Ford jolted as I shifted into fifth gear and crushed the gas pedal underfoot, leaving the speed limit far behind. I wiped the sweat off my brow and rolled down the window to let the breeze blow in my face, refreshing me.

Within minutes, a massive wrought iron fence loomed before me, barring entry to the sprawling brick building that lay beyond it. I steadily applied the brake and rolled to a small hut outside the gate. I handed the guard that sat inside, a man who oozed disinterest, my papers and driver's license. He grunted and, after giving the documents a quick once-over, pressed a button causing the vast gates to swing open with a creak. I muttered my thanks, and drove on, nervously eying the sign driven unceremoniously into the dirt on the side of the road:

"Central Iowa State Penitentiary"

* * * * * * *

"Y'really shouldn't worry too much, Doctor," the warden grunted as he led me down a deserted cell block "I don't think I've heard him speak once in the nine years he's been here."

I straightened the hem of my jacket and I struggled to keep up with the warden's long stride, "Does he speak with the other inmates?"

"Dunno. Though I doubt it," the burly man reached into his jacket and removed a silver flask, offering me a sip. When I refused he shrugged and took a swing. "Whenever the prisoners are out in the yard, he keeps to himself. Damn near terrifies the others, he does. This is Iowa, Doctor Bayless. We don't often have murderers here."

I nodded in assent, interested in spite of my nerves. I made a note on the pad I carried with me as another question occurred to me, "Have you had any... erm... behavior issues with him?"

The warden snorted and thoughtfully stroked his substantial mustache, "Well that's the funniest part of it, isn't it? We haven't had a single issue with the man. It's as if getting caught broke him somehow. I don't get it. If he wasn't ineligible for parole, he would have gotten it by now."

As the warden finished his testimony, we reached a heavy iron door, set into the prison's thick concrete wall. The warden fumbled for his key ring and produced a key that matched the steel of the door and opened it, waving me inside. I glanced around, eyes adjusting to the relative darkness in the room. A one-way mirror lay before me, taking up the majority of the far wall and allowing visual access into the adjoining room. Between myself and the mirror was a simple mahogany desk and two chairs, to allow comfort in observation. Through the mirror I glimpsed a table with two chairs, arranged opposite each other. A thin, balding man filled the far chair, head hanging, obscuring his face. The man's wrists were chained to the chair on which he sat. My heart fluttered against my ribs as if attempting to escape. I swallowed audibly as a wave of terror overcame me upon seeing the man's deceptively pitiful figure.

The warden filed into the room behind him and shut the heavy door with a click. He set his key ring on the table and drew a cigar from within his coat, lit it, and took a long pull. The warden blew smoke distractedly, glaring at the man behind the mirror.