Daniel returned to his small auto repair business. He locked away the memories of the terrible accident in a distant closet of his mind.The shock and fear of the last several weeks was behind him.  He had his life back again.  Fear occasionally filled his dreams or stalked him when he heard a distant siren, but the feeling faded.  When he held the tire iron, Daniel could reopen the closet and bring back that night and the tragic, exciting event.  Outwardly, he was a normal man with an unfortunate...secret...past.

​

The second murder took place nine months after Charles MacAllister was laid to rest at Crown Hill Cemetery. Ed Kohl waved his cigarette in young Daniel’s face – too close.  Daniel had walked away at first, but returned late that night, when Ed was alone.  As he stared at the mangled body, Daniel experienced the same delicious realization.  He had just killed his father.  The feelings were identical to the first time, except for the faint glow of satisfaction, a morning ember to save and feed.  Daniel Kohl’s heart gave the same command.  Run!  His mind bottled the fear.  He turned, and walked slowly away, turning to look at the heap of death shrinking with each step.

​

Peter Idens had told reporters that the murder of Mark C. Chase was possibly linked to the murder of Charles MacAllister.  The wounds were similar, but there were still no leads.  Daniel Kohl smiled at the television.

​

The next three encounters were less immediate and less impulsive.  Each time his father tracked him down, Daniel was patient.  He thought things through carefully, studied his father’s habits, and allowed the excitement to blossom before he acted.  The last murder had taken place in Daniel’s own house, in the basement, next to the furnace, on a large sheet of Visqueen.  Although his father was only there a few hours, Daniel discovered new ways to enjoy hurting his father, variations of the pain he remembered from decades before.  Daniel invented new ways to pay his retribution.  That’s right...beg!  Who’s bigger now?  Who can hurt now?  Who?  You fuck!

​

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Harold Jasper patted his pocket for the wallet he knew was there.  He cleared his throat, spat on the ground next to his truck and walked into the Marathon mini-mart to pay for the gas.  The sun had slipped away hours before, but the moist air clung to the day’s leftover heat.  His striped, collared shirt and khaki pants were stained with sweat and pasted to his skin.  Sixty years of southern fried cooking, beer and whiskey hung around his middle.  His voice rattled from a constant stream of cigarettes.  The hair he had left slipped past silver into full white glory and gathered in soft fluffy patches, now smeared against the back of his head.  His face was brown sugar with great, heavy features and sagging eyes.  Beads of sweat slid down his forehead.  He looked worn.

​

Every year on the anniversary of his daughter’s death, he’d made the trip to the Porcupine Mountains in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, the U.P.  This was the twenty-first solo journey from his Tennessee home.  He and Jenny had spent two weeks of every summer in a small cabin with a view of Lake Superior near the pictured cliffs.  Their first visit to the U.P., almost twenty-seven years ago, had sparked an incredible joy in Jenny.  She was enamored with the beauty of the cliffs and the crystal glaze of the lake.  He remembered her unshakable belief that her mother had been there.  She’d told him she felt complete when she was there.   Harold promised her they would make the trip every year.

​

He never intended for his Jenny to make the journey in an intricately carved bronze urn.  He never imagined leaving his little girl in the thickly wooded land, a little at a time, tossed into the same wind that sculpted white caps on the waves and touched the colors on the cliffs.  Harold only wanted her to be happy.  These were the thoughts he kept from himself during his yearly pilgrimage, as if forgetting the purpose for the trip would somehow make the twenty-plus hours in the car easier. 

​

Harold stepped to the counter as the man in front of him stepped aside to count his change.  A spiritless woman in a red apron and a matching baseball cap peered silently over the small round lenses wedged into her wide ruddy cheeks. 

 

“Pump 3,” rasped Harold.

“That all?

“Pack a’ Marlboros.”

The register profaned in clicks and beeps.

“Forty-three eighty-eight.”

​

Harold handed the woman three twenties.  He rested his fists on the counter as she counted his change.  His knuckles cracked, one-by-one from pinkie to pointer and back again, as he mechanically rolled his weight across his fist.

​

“Sixteen twelve,”sighed the woman as she handed him the money.  Her tired gaze spilled past him staining the next customer, same as the last, same as the one after.

​

Harold stepped away from the counter and tucked the money into his wallet.  He walked outside, waited for a car to pass and patted his pocket for his wallet.  The door to the truck groaned.  Harold mimicked the sound as he eased himself in behind the wheel and tugged the door closed again.  A dirty fingernail pinched the plastic strip against a yellow, callused thumb and pulled open the pack of cigarettes, tossing the trash on the floor next to the grease-stained paper bag that had been his dinner. 

​

Harold lit the cigarette and pulled out of the station, accelerating onto the I-69 entrance ramp. His eyes scanned for a hotel as he continued north.  He would complete his pilgrimage tomorrow.

​

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Daniel Kohl paid for his gas and stepped to the side while the lifeless cashier helped another customer.  He was turning to leave when his father cracked his knuckles, one-by-one, over the kitchen table.  Daniel flinched.  His brows burrowed into his eyes.  His heart raced and his mind foraged for the memories.  He thirsted for them.  Hated them.  Molded them.  He hurried to his van as his father’s voice screamed after him.

​

“Look at me!  Open your God-damned eyes!  Hey, you little prick!"

​

Daniel gripped the wheel.  His hands turned white.  His face flushed, and the sweat streamed from him, forming tiny pools on his pock-marked face.  He shook his head, his mouth hurling the shape of No invisibly into the night air.

“Get up!  I’m hungry.”  The voice paused, and he heard the sharp inhale of breath, the staccato crackle of tobacco and paper being consumed by fire.  “You’re going to fix me some eggs this morning.

No.  Daniel closed his eyes.  Feeling a small point on his cheek warm, then sear.  His eyes shot open and he jerked his head to the side, slamming into the driver’s side window.  “I’m up!”  He watched his father walk from the mini-mart and get into a faded blue pickup.  Tennessee plates.  It pulled out of the station and onto the highway heading north.

​

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Harold pulled his truck into the Motel 8 parking lot.  A few other cars sat, some still clicking and humming in front of the evenly spaced, once-red doors.  He gathered his two small bags and stepped around the front of the truck to his room, shoved the key into the lock and turned.  Stepping inside the cool air, he flipped the light on and set his bag on the table by the door.  His hand knocked against the light hanging too low over the table and set the room into a see-saw of shadows.  He tossed his tired eyes around the room: a double bed, a table and chair, and a night stand with a clock and a lamp.  A TV with a remote and a station guide was secured to the dresser with a thick cable.  All he cared about now was getting some sleep.  The morning had stretched too long.  His plan to drop by the office and hand out the work orders turned into three hours of dealing with problems.  He would normally reach the Michigan border by the end of the first day of his pilgrimage.

​

The clothes peeled reluctantly from his skin before he washed up in the sink.  The broad white porcelain basin soon mirrored his home rituals: thick-framed glasses to the left, next to his watch, tooth brush and tooth paste upper right, shaving cream and razor farther to the right and near the front edge.  The cigarettes, with a book of matches shoved into the cellophane, held a sacred place on the night stand, where fumbling morning fingers could manage to start the day’s first smoke before his feet touched the floor.

​

His hand instinctively reached to the right for the bathroom light switch, then swept to the left when he caught the habit.  Click.  He turned toward the bed.  The light by the door was next, leaving the chirping dark and the headlights of another car angling between and around the curtains.  He sat on the bed finishing his last cigarette just as the phone rang.  The flat orange light on the face of the phone flashed.  He sighed and picked up the phone, “Hello?” 

​

“I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, sir.”  The grave voice didn’t sound sorry.  “But, our night clerk failed to warn you about the parking situation when you checked in.  We’re asking our guests to park in the lot opposite the building, so we can seal the asphalt first thing in the morning.  We’d appreciate it if you’d move your car tonight, since the crew will start very early.”

​

“God damnit,” croaked Harold.  “How early they startin’?”  Weariness wracked his body, knowing rest was so near.  His head hung.

​

“Probably arrive at five-thirty and start at six.  They want to finish the entire lot in one day and they got to start next to the building so guests can park there tomorrow night.”

​

Harold considered for a moment, then decided he’d need more sleep than that.  “God damnit, why didn't you tell me before.”

​

“I’m very sorry, sir.  I’ll mention this to the morning manager and I’m sure he’ll make some sort of adjustment to your bill.”

​

A sigh of resignation poured from his tired body.  “All right.  But they’d better not make any noise in the morning.”

​

“Yes, sir.  Good night.”

​

Bed and back creaked as Harold stood.  He clicked on a light and pulled the khaki’s back on, patting his pocket for the keys he knew were there, then stepped outside.  The concrete sidewalk still felt warm against his feet and the damp air instantly coated his back and stomach in a fine film.  Shit.  He stepped between his truck and a van that had since pulled in next to him, another poor traveler they will wake up to move his car.  His fingers automatically sorted through the keys on the chain, third key from the small, plastic Jack Daniels bottle.

​

Harold suddenly tensed.  His fingers lost the key they had just found.  The hair on his neck and back stood up, sending a deep chill across his shoulders.  His breath held.  He turned as a hard shadow arced through the black night.  Harold’s head snapped forward.  Pain crushed the back of his skull.  Once.  Twice.  An acrid smelling cloth smothered him.  The dark became black.  Nothing.

​

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A white van lurched onto the highway, slowly building speed.  Daniel Kohl’s eyes were wild, alive.  He screamed triumph to the oncoming headlights across the median.  His chest seized as he drove past a police car with flashing lights behind a sports car on the right shoulder.  Daniel outsmarted his father once again.  This time the visit to the basement would not be so short.  The basement is ready.  There will be time.  Who’s better now, old man?  Not so easy to win any more, is it? 

​

Ninety minutes later, a garage door on the east side whined open.  The old, white, windowless van backed inside, and the overhead door closed again.  Harold didn’t notice when the back of the van opened to spill a faint yellow light over him.  He didn’t feel himself being pulled from the van, dragged across the garage and tumbled down the stairs. 

​

Harold’s next sensations were pain in his head and neck, the stab of something hard digging into his wrists and the stiff ache in his shoulders from a great, hanging weight.  The silent black around him offered no comfort.  A musty, metallic smell pushed through his slow thoughts.  He tasted salt.   The crustiness of dried blood clung to his lip and down his chin.  Then, the slow terror that this wasn’t just a dream.  His swollen tongue moved through a silent prayer.

​

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

​

Eugene Felderman looked at the row of men sitting behind the folding, white, plastic table.  Each had a black, plastic stand with bold, bleach-white letters that shouted their names, as if everyone who might ever sit on the other side of the table were deaf.  Drew Mangold– middle-aged, like Eugene, but much more powerfully built.  His thick forearms rested heavily on the table.  Keith Hall – young, smooth face, but with very old eyes and yellowed teeth. He slouched uncomfortably in his chair.  Quentin Kuntz – thin and angular, with an aquiline nose and long chin, and lips faintly visible outlining the small slit that must be his mouth.  He sat tall, the apparent remnants of strict parentage.  Dr. Masterton – whose white letters shouted the loudest and insisted that he needed no first name – older than the others but leaning forward with a hostile energy toward the lone chair where Eugene now sat.

​

The room itself offered nothing of comfort.  In fact, it lied.  The white linoleum floor, with thin seams of silver that dissected the floor into false square tiles, seemed to grow up the walls and across the ceiling without ever admitting a corner or edge.  The brightness of the room denied shadows their natural space, lying even to the legs under the table.  The room permitted sound, but mocked it with a deadness before and after.  A one-way mirror gave the room more eyes than it showed.  Today, the mirror was blind, but it served as a reminder that the room was sometimes used for more serious inquiries.  Fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling and buzzed like giant insects about to feed on anyone found sitting in the sacrificial chair. 

​

“Mr. Eugene Feldermen,” commanded Drew Mangold as a means of introduction.  He looked down at his notes.  “He’s the poetry teacher at Pendleton,” he added, with a baritone emphasis on the word poetry.   The white room offered no reply except the lie of institutional silence.

​

“Uh, yes,” replied Eugene.  “I’ve not been to an inquiry like this, so I’m not sure of the…”

​

“You are here to speak on behalf of Mr. Kohl, are you not?” accused Dr. Masterton in a voice of sharp ice.

​

“I don’t know that I’m really speaking on his behalf, but…”

​

“Oh?  Then why do you propose you are here, Mr. Felderman?”  The doctor’s gaze cut.

​

“Well, uh, Daniel asked me to come before the panel and share my perspective of his…growth…”

​

“So, you ARE here to speak on his behalf then.  And you will be speaking on his behalf from your perspective as his…poetry teacher.  Well then, what do we need to hear from you?”

​

“Gentlemen, I’m not here to condone or forgive anything Daniel Kohl has done.”   The practiced line tumbled out of Eugene’s mouth like a line of dominos.  “As I mentioned, he asked me to come here today.  I was under the impression that this panel was looking for inputs on Daniel’s personality and his behavior here at Pendleton.  Is there something specific you’re looking for?”  Eugene forced himself to meet Dr. Masterton’s eyes, but quickly moved on to the other – easier – eyes.

​

“One role of this panel,” droned Keith Hall, “Is to make recommendations about our inmates.  We provide inputs to parole boards, the warden, legal counsel, even to the governor in special cases.  In this case, where the death penalty is being appealed, we’ll take your inputs, along with others, and share the details with the judge and both legal counsels.  They will then determine what is relevant and what to permit in court.”  He paused and guided his old eyes on the treacherous journey from the papers on the table, to Eugene’s eyes.  “Your comments, I assume, are intended to support Mr. Kohl’s appeal of the death sentence and would be of interest to the defense counsel.  If that is so, then please tell this panel why you support him.”

​

“Keith,” said Dr. Masterton in a smoothed voice, “this is absurd.  How much time are you willing to give a poetry teacher who sees Kohl once a week?”

​

Keith gripped the table as his eyes moved toward the doctor. 

“Cliff, have you ever spent time with Mr. Kohl?” 

As the doctor drew his breath sharply in preparation for his volleyed response, Keith Hall quickly injected, “Other than before the trial, when your analysis declared him mentally fit and not eligible for the insanity plea?”

 

The doctor deflated.  The room offered its white sympathy.

​

“Mr. Felderman?”  prompted Keith.

​

“Yes.  Right.  I first started working with Daniel about two years ago, when he became eligible for the poetry therapy program I support.”

​

The doctor sniffed.  The room sniffed.

​

“I guess I would summarize my two years by saying that Daniel lives in a dual world.  He lives in this reality, where killing is a crime and results in a death penalty, or life in a place like Pendleton.  He’s fully aware of this world and how to live within it.  But, he prefers his own world, where his actions warrant no response from society, where he lies to himself and enjoys it, where he is the most powerful being.  He is extremely intelligent, one of the brightest men I have known.  He applies his intellect when and where he wants - choosing to do things that bring him pleasure.  We all know that involved killing old men.  But, he is safely kept away from that world.  Now, it involves a lot of reading and, I don’t mind telling you, writing some pretty good poetry.”

​

Doctor Masterton’s slow measured handclap was half-muzzled, half-echoed by the room. 

“Congratulations, Mr. Felderman.  It only took you two years to learn what I assessed after a fifteen-minute conversation.  I’m delighted that your poetry insight correlates so closely to the science of psychology with its many years of proven value in these cases.”

​

“I’m sure you’re aware, Dr. Masterton,” asserted Eugene with an edge to his voice, “that poetry predates modern psychology by nearly two thousand years.”

​

“Enough,” commanded Drew Mangold. 

The white room enforced the command. 

“What’s in the folder, Mr. Felderman?”

“Ah, yes.  I thought, perhaps, that the panel would like to look through some of Daniel’s poems for themselves.  I find them...enlightening.  Even, intriguing.  If the eyes are the windows to the soul, then poems are windows to the mind.  You can read a man by reading his poetry.”

​

The doctor and the white room sniffed together again.  “You obviously don’t know the man you’re describing, Mr. Felderman.  Kohl murdered five elderly men.  He is a diabolical manipulator.  He lies to the world.  You even admitted that he lies to himself.  I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Kohl wrote these poems, specifically so that they would be read by this panel.  I find that quite likely.  What makes you think there is any bit of truth or insight in those poems?”

​

“Dr. Masterton,” sighed Eugene,

“I’ve been teaching poetry for almost thirty-eight years.  I’ve volunteered for the Poetry Therapy program at Pendleton Maximum Security Penitentiary for nearly twenty years.  Every poem and every poet is different, but there is one thing they all have in common.  Truth.  It may not be a global truth, a truth that is evident to the world.  But, it is the poet’s own relative truth.  One cannot lie to a blank piece of paper because we all have a driving desire to be heard – to say or write something that matters.  The pure, blank sheet of paper is that opportunity.  I’ve seen confessions, regret, and reformation come from inmates and from students.  The writing process is healing.  Freeing.”

​

“So, Mr. Kohl has healed himself through your poetry class?” the room used Dr. Masterton’s voice for its own mocking voice.

​

“Of course not!”

​

“Enough!”  Drew Mangold thuggishly enforced peace with a slam of his fist on the table.  “Let’s assume for the moment that there is something of value that this panel should relay to the judge and lawyers.  I’m open to it, but, Mr. Felderman, I need to be persuaded that this is worth our time.  Let’s take a look.”

​

Eugene bent to grab the folder from the floor next to his chair.  The chair squawked, and the white room tried to ignore it.  “What you’ll see,” he began, “Are a few samples that I’ve selected.  These are the best samples to reveal his character and mental state at various dates.  He’s been a part of the program for over two years now.”

​

He stood and passed copies to the four stoic panel members. 

“I’ve also included my lesson plan, an introduction of sorts, so you can understand the intent of the writing, as well as the goal of that particular therapy session.”

​

Dr. Masterton looked up from the poetry assignment, sighed and rolled his eyes, and then returned to the paper.

​

Lesson Plan for Poetry Therapy Assignment #14:

 

Poetry is a language of feeling.  By creating or recalling the feelings you wish to portray, you gain the power to inject those feelings into the objects within your poem.  When done well, you can cause the reader to feel those same emotions.

 

Recall the way you felt as you perpetrated your crime.  How did you feel before the crime?  After?  Did your actions cause you to feel a desired emotion, or were the emotions unexpected?  For this exercise, you should only focus on your emotions rather than on your thoughts or actions.

 

Select an unfeeling object like a flower, a stone, a tree, an empty bottle, or anything else you think appropriate.  Give that object a reason to feel the emotions you felt.  This is true poetic thought, and it is powerful.  Now, write your emotions in just a few lines. 

​

The stamen and the pistol weep,

Locked in their womb of damp, red air.

No. 

Violet.

Violet and dark.

 

In purple silence they dream,

Not noticing the sick sweet air.

 

That is all they have.

 

Then,

Startled,

The womb shatters into

Sunshine fear. 

Exciting, troubling yellow joy.

The stamen and the pistol sing triumphant,

“Life!”

 

But, after,

When night seeps back,

they cower into purple death.

 

Daniel Kohl

July 29

Pendleton Maximum Security Correctional Facility

 

 

The pistol and the stamen cry.

And, I know why.

Yes,

I know why.

Beneath their red oppressive sky

They do as I.

 

They slowly die.

 

Until, at last, a seam of light –

Not red,

but white!

Not dull,

but bright!

The sun repeals their perfumed plight -

To their delight –

An end to night.

 

Yes, I can feel the stamen’s strife.

The pistol’s wife

Just thirsts

for life!

 

And, I know why.

Yes,

         I know why.

Within their cell,

they wait to die.

 

 

Daniel Kohl

July 29

Pendleton Maximum Security Correctional Facility

​

Drew Mangold’s baritone broke the silence.  “Is this…good?”  The room stifled the words, and implied that any affirmative answer would be rebuffed by the whiteness itself.

​

“Well,” answered Eugene Felderman meeting Drew’s eyes, “They are not of a professional quality, but for a first-time poet, they are quite good.  In a university classroom, these would earn fair marks.”

​

“Why two poems.” Keith Hall said, his voice apparently disinterested in the inflection that creates the sense of a question.

​

“Daniel completed the first very quickly.  He often does this.  When he has extra time in the session, I encourage him to write a second, but I’ll give him some additional constraints. For this lesson, I chose a peculiar rhyming scheme to challenge him.  Although I prefer the first poem, I’m more impressed by the skill of the second.  He worked will within the structure of…”

​

“I’m sure he did, Mr. Felderman,” challenged the voice of the doctor. 

 

“So, your poems reveal that during Kohl’s killing, he felt…what would you say?”

​

“Alive, is the word that comes to mind for me.”

​

“Alive.” taunted the flat white voice of the room.  “Kohl comes to life by killing others.  Very clever, this poetry stuff.  I’d suggest that Kohl gets an emotional satisfaction by controlling, or possessing, and then killing his victims.  This is common behavior for almost all serial killers.  There’s nothing new here. Drew, I think we’ve seen enough of this.  It’s not worth our time.”

​

“All I’m showing,” interjected Eugene quickly, “is my premise that the page doesn’t lie.  During his court appearances, has Daniel ever talked about the life he gets from his actions?  Has this topic ever shown its face in any other forum besides here…in his poetry?”

​

The room, impatient and unapproving, glared in its harshest white.

​

“What else do you have, Mr. Felderman?” asked Drew Mangold as he cast a glance at Dr. Masterton.

​

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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We caught up with Rob and asked him a few questions.

​

1. Where did your idea for 'Only Human' come from?

​

In the late 90's, as I was beginning to remember the writer inside, there was a documentary on TV about serial killers.  I found myself puzzling over how the brain can be so broken, so detached from the rest of humanity.  One reason I write is to explain things to myself.  So, if I wanted to understand the minds of these sociopaths, I needed to explore from the inside.  Thus, the concept for the story started then and has evolved through the years as I research and imagine.

​

2. What is your writing process like?

​

I'm definitely NOT an outliner or plotter.  I am aware of several of the points the story has to work through on the way to the climax.  I think of it like crossing a fast-moving stream on stepping stones; I know where the key stones are, and I use them to pick my path.  However, I also know that I may step on a stone and it could shift and alter my path.  So, being able to react and take the story in a different direction is part of my process.

​

3. What drew you to the genre of psychological thriller?

​

I seem to be drawn to characters and circumstances that push the limits of our own humanity.  At what point does being civil or even reasonable become a burden?  What situations or emotions can push us past that brink?  It's not just in characters we consider 'broken,' like a serial killer, but what would would it look like when an average person is pushed too far?  I have several short stories that explore this idea.

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4. Who are some of your favorite authors?

​

J.R.R. Tolkien, Victor Hugo, Charles Dickens, Barbara Kingsolver, Anthony Doerr, Dante Alighieri, and Dr. Seuss

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