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.
"I warned ya, Doc," he muttered "he doesn't look like much."
I nodded, mouth dry and lost for words. Seeing my nerves, the warden produced his flask and handed it to me. After a moment of hesitation, I took a long draught, assuaging my nerves. The warden sat down at the table, eyes fixed on the broken man beyond the mirror.
"I don't know what happened to him," he said as I handed him his flask, "You read the papers. They say he's a monster. And I know he is. It's just... he seems too harmless. I can't imagine him killing anyone." The warden nodded to a small door on his left, "Whenever you're ready."
I glanced at the door, fear clutched my heart like an icy hand. I adjusted the tie that suddenly felt like a noose around my neck. The warden glanced at me.
"Look, like I said, he's not gonna say nothin'," he said, calming me, "and even if he tries anything I'll be right out here." the warden smiled and nonchalantly pulled a revolver from the holster on his belt and placed it on the table.
I nodded and opened the door. The man made no attempt to recognize my presence.
"H-hello, Mr. Keller. My name is Doctor Don Bayless. I'm a professor of psychology at Yale and I'm doing a study on the criminal mind. May I ask you a few questions?"
Dominik Keller simply stared at his shoes. I glanced at the mirror, now at my back, raising an eyebrow at the warden I knew sat behind it. My heart pounded in my throat, as if attempting to bash my windpipe to pieces. I slowly took the seat across from Keller and shuffled through my papers. I removed a yellowing scrap of newsprint dated October 31st, 1929 and slid it across the table. The headline read, "Des Moines: Man murders wife and boys; pleads innocence".
"Nine years ago you were found guilty for the murder of your wife and two sons," I began, eyes firmly locked on Keller, struggling not to betray that swirling storm of fear that raged inside me. "Why would you do that?"
Silence.
I cleared my throat and tried once more, "Mr. Keller? Please answer my question. What drove you to do such a thing?"
Once again, Keller did not deign to respond.
I leaned forward, elbows planted on the table in front of me. I lowered my voice, "This may not be your fault. I believe that something snapped inside of you that night. You had just lost everything when the Market crashed. I understand. I can help you. But you need to talk to me."
Keller slowly raised his head, his eyes locking onto mine. I caught my breath. The man's gray eyes were full of steel, a strength miraculously unbroken by nearly a decade in prison. Yet, there was something else in his stormy eyes. A sadness. a tortured stare that I recognized immediately. I had known that stare, seen it in the eyes of the boys who crawled through the muck and the wire in the fields of France. I had seen it in the reflection in my canteen as I huddled in the trenches, struggling not to think of home and hoping that a German bullet would take me before typhoid did. I had seen it in the eyes of my captain when we had lost forty men and gained a mere four yards. It was the look of a man who had seen slaughter. A man who had been through hell.
Keller opened his mouth and spoke, his voice cracking from disuse, "Do you have a family, Dr. Bayless?"
"I have a wife," I replied, taken aback.
"A wife," he echoed, "Do you love her?"
"Of course I do," my mind flashed through the memories of our wedding, our honeymoon at Niagara Falls, as if thumbing through a photo album.
"So you would never hurt her?"
"Of course not," I muttered, dreading where this thread of conversation was heading.
"I loved my wife, Dr. Bayless." Keller growled, eyes never leaving mine, "I loved my boys. I miss reading to Ivan before putting him down for a nap. I miss tossing the baseball with Gabriel in our front lawn. I loved my family. And they were taken away from me."
I broke away from Keller's gaze, shuffling my papers, "Mr. Keller. I must remind you, you were found holding a knife, over your wife's body. You-"
"Do not presume to tell me what happened!" Keller roared, cutting me off as he leaned toward me, rage burning in his eyes, "I know what happened. I did not kill my family, Dr. Bayless. I was framed. I told them over and over and they refused to listen. You understand?! Ha! No one understands the pain that I've felt every day for nine years. The pain that I felt when I found the love of my life in a pool of her own blood. The pain that nearly drowns me like a flood every time I wake up. The pain I feel when I realize that I can barely remember my wife's face. You know nothing."
I stared at Keller, the pen and paper lay on the table before me, forgotten. I met his eyes once more and the light of awareness blazed through me. In years to come, I could not explain how I saw what I did in that moment. Nevertheless, when my eyes met his, I knew that he had been telling the truth. I could feel the waves of sadness that radiated from him like heat from a flame. Keller was a tragic figure, not a bloodthirsty monster. This simple man had been imprisoned in his own mind by his tragedy as much as he was imprisoned in Central Iowa State Penitentiary. I failed to comprehend how no one could recognize what I could in this man. No attorney, judge, or prison guard saw what was obvious to me. I dropped my gaze and pulled all of my papers into one pile. Without a word, I stood and shuffled to the door.
Keller laughed humorlessly, "Well? No more questions, Doctor? Am I just too crazy for you?"
I turned on my heel, taking in Dominik Keller's broken form for the last time, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." With that, I opened the door and strode back into the observing room, my thoughts clouded with anguish.
* * * * * * *
Within a quarter of an hour, I was barreling down the Iowa interstate, eager to return to my apartment in New Haven, miles away from the man behind the mirror. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, the hair on my neck standing up on end. I shuddered. I could still feel Dominik Keller's tortured gaze drilling into my back, silently begging for help.