Brother's love

Brother's love
a short story by Marcus Peterson

'All rise for the honorable judge Seymore, now entering the courtroom.'
The voice made the small crowd in the courtroom stir slightly as they rose, gray suits and blue skirts being adjusted and the man dressed in a white overall, wearing hand- and footcuffs raised his unshaved face from the table, grinning widely. Blank eyes studied the door to the judge's chambers. Judge Elizabeth Seymore entered the courtroom and fixed her gaze at the defendant and his lawyer. The district attourney at the other table shuffled his paper and took a small sip from the glass of water in front of him. Seymore moved up to her chair and sat down, adjusting her robe. Grasping the club, she looked sternly at the defendant and slammed the club down onto the desk to start the proceedings.
'Case 334-9, the state of Texas versus John James Jack Brown. This hearing is held to decide wether the defendat is mentally capable of going through a trial,' Seymore said and looked out over the small crowd. A few faces looked up from their papers and met her eye; mostly, the crowd consisted of men and women waiting for their own cases to come up. There were also two children there, accompanied by their parents, probably the next two cases regarding the custody of the children. Judge Seymore sighed. The youth of today didn't appreciate marriage as she once herself had. Nowadays, a marriage that lasted for more than two years was rare, but most often, there was a child involved, and even more often, both parents wanted some time with that child. The world was a crazy place. 'Mr. Hanson, will you please hold your opening statement?' she said, turning her head towards the lawyer now seated next to John Brown. The fat lawyer with the horseshoe of white hair on top of his bald head, rose from his chair and inclined his head in her direction and then cleared his throat and adjusted his thin, square glasses.
'The defendant John Brown is, according to the best of my and two experts' point of view, not capable of going through a trial. This point of view is based upon several interviews with the defendant, Mr. Brown, as well as studies performed without the defendant's knowledge.' He cleared his throat again and sipped some luke-warm water from the glass on the table. 'We will call two expert witnesses as well as a fellow prisoner to testify in favor of mental instability, as he can not tell right from wrong, not believing in the possibility of actions being 'wrong'. The pledge is to call off the trial for a prison sentence, and instead call for the consideration of treatment.' He sat down in the protesting chair with a quick nod towards judge Seymore and then whispered something to John Brown. Brown leaned in, with his lips twisted into a sick grin, to listen and then turned the grin towards the judge again, licking his lips slowly. Seymore shuddered in spite of herself and then turned to the attourney.
'Mr. Andrews, your opening statement, please?'
'Yes, your honour,' Mr. Andrews, the state attourney said and rose from his chair. He was a skinny man, dressed in a gray costume with a blue shirt underneath. Around his neck was a neatly tied tie, blue it's colour. On his nose, he had a pair of glasses, thick enough to enlarge his eyes slightly, with a brown rim. The lights in the ceiling reflected in the glasses as he looked up from his papers, temporarily almost blinding judge Seymore who had looked the man right in the eye.
'The state intends to prove that the defendant, Mr. John Brown, has committed fifteen murders of the first degree, six rapes, nineteen hit-and-runs, eight cases of grand theft auto and one kidnapping, with the intent of viciously murder the victim, in cold blood. The state believes that Mr. Brown is to be held responsible for his actions, as he is a coldhearted, calculating murderer and if set to treatment, he is likely to try an escape.'
'Objection, your honour!' Mr. Hanson rose quickly and shouted this, looking at judge Seymore.
'Mr. Hanson, please hold your objections until you are either in front of a legal or a medical jury. This is neither the time nor the place to call for objections. I think I can separate wrong from right. Is that clear?'
'Yes, your honour.' With a bit of a long face, Mr. Hanson sat back down in his chair. Mr. Andrews smiled smugly from behind his table. He used the small pause to shuffle through his papers and have another sip of luke-warm water. He grimaced at the taste.
'You may continue, Mr. Andrews,' Seymore said and leaned back in her chair.
'Thank you, your honour. The state intends to prove that the mental status of Mr. James Brown is stable enough to go through a legal trial to face a sentence to prison...' Mr. Hanson was about to rise and had just opened his mouth, but a quick glance from Seymore stopped him, half-raised and he sat down again. '...by calling two expert witnesses as well as two fellow prisoners who can testify in order to tell of this man's sanity.' Mr. Andrews sat back down in his chair and smiled towards judge Seymore, taking a new sip of water from the glass. Judge Seymore nodded.
'Thank you, Mr. Andrews. Mr. Hanson, it's your turn.'
Mr. Hanson rose from his chair yet again and raised his voice. 'The defence calls Dr. Nicholas Barklay.' A thin man, with a round face and bald head rose among the crowd and made his way to the witness stand. The bailiff stepped up to him and held up his hand. After swearing the oath, Dr. Barklay was allowed to sit down and leaned back in the chair, folding his arms across his chest. Mr. Hanson walked up to Dr. Barklay as the bailiff stepped back to his place, holding a few papers in front of him like a shield.
'Dr. Barklay, you are a reknowned and proffessional psychiatrist, is that correct?'
'That is correct,' Barklay replied, his voice dry and thoughtful. He sounded like a radioman during late hours of the night. 'I have studied psychiatry for the past sixteen years, earning a doctor's degree two years ago.' Mr. Hanson just nodded as Dr. Barklay spoke and then, lowering his papers, smiled. John Brown, sitting behind his table waved his hand at Dr. Barklay. Seeing this, Dr. Barklay began to sweat slightly, fine drops appearing on his forehead.
'That is all very well, Dr. Barklay. Would the attourney like an example to verify the amount of knowledge held by Dr. Barklay?' Mr. Hanson turned towards Mr. Andrews, who shook his head. 'Allright then.' Hanson was all smiles. 'So, Dr. Barklay, you have interviewed the defendant, Mr. Brown here on several occasions. Have you been able to make a psychological profile for Mr. Brown?'
'Yes, I have,' Dr. Barklay replied, clearing his throat before continuing. 'According to my analysis, Mr. Brown is mentally ill and is not liable for time in prison. He showed signs of severe paranoia, claustrophobia, spontaneous actions of violence and,' Dr. Barklay paused, swallowing, 'suicidal tendencies. My reccomendation is that he receives proper medical treatment as soon as possible.'
'And this,' Mr. Hanson said, 'is your professional point of view. What is your personal view, if I may ask?'
'Personally, I think that the motherfucker should be put away for as long as possible, and I don't give a damn wether it's at an institution, a prison or six feet under.'
'Mind your language and what you are saying, Dr. Barklay!' Seymore barked.
'Thank you, Dr. Barklay. I'm done your honour.'
Mr. Andrews approached the witness, as Hanson returned to John Brown, shuffling his papers, peering at the doctor in the witness stand through his thick glasses.
'Dr. Barklay, how many interviews was it that you actually did with Mr. Brown?'
'I performed eight interviews all in all.'
'And your professional analysis were based on these interviews entirely?'
'That is correct.'
'Then I would like to make the honorable judge, as well as the defence aware of the fact that according to Texas state law, atleast ten interviews must be held with a man before his mental status can be declared. Therefore, I would like Dr. Barklay's testimony to be stricken from the record, as it has no value to this hearing.'
Mr. Hanson's double chin dropped slightly where he sat, and John Brown's eyes widened, then narrowed as he turned to look at his lawyer. Hanson, however, didn't even notice, as he was furiously scrabbling through his papers. Seymore sighed and nodded.
'Mr. Andrews is right, and I declare Dr. Barklay's testimony as non-legit, it shall not be accounted for in the final ruling. Thank you, Dr. Barklay, you may step down as you have no further value to this court.'
Dr. Barklay, suddenly wearing a blank and pale mask on his face stepped down from the stand and walked out of the courtroom, his footsteps echoing in the omnious silence followed by the door slamming shut behind him. Mr. Andrews returned to his seat, turned to Mr. Hanson and smiled.
'Mr. Hanson, I hope your next so-called 'expert' witness is more legit than your previous one.'
'Yes, your honour,' Hanson said and then gathered himself. 'The defence calls Dr. Lisa Norman.'
A young woman dressed in a tight white blouse and blue jeans moved to the witness stand and swore the oath. Mr. Hanson moved up to her, looking at her with slightly discomforted eyes. Dr. Lisa Norman was no doubt a very beautiful woman. This didn't pass John Brown either, who howled and whistled until the bailiff shut him up.
'Dr. Norman, you have conducted a study of the defendant, Mr. John Brown, without the defendant's knowledge for a period of nine weeks. Would the attourney like Dr. Norman to demonstrate her knowledge in human behaviour?'
'That won't be necessary.' Mr. Andrews wore a poker face as Hanson turned back to Dr. Norman.
'Dr. Norman, what is your conclusion after studying the defendant for nine weeks?'
Dr. Lisa Norman smiled and put her manicured fingernails to her lovely chin. 'He is utterly and completely insane. During these nine weeks he showed signs of paranoia and suicidal behavior. During the study, he attacked a fellow prisoner and almost killed him, but afterwards he showed no signs of remorse whatsoever.'
'You are aware of Mr. Brown's childhood?'
'Yes, I am. He grew up in southern Dallas, never going to school, as his father kept him locked up in his room for five years, only letting him out once every month to get some air and sun while his father cleaned his room. His mother had died at delivery. After being sent to the Kuwait during the Gulf War, Mr. Brown showed signs of post-traumatic stress according to a report written by Dr. James Carragher at UCLA. This stress later developed into paranoia and violent tendencies. These two factors combined later resulted in Mr. Brown becoming paranoid and violent without signs of remorse.'
'And this showed during your study?'
'Yes. He treated the other prisoners as if he was their superiors, outranking them, as if he was in the army. For example, he ordered a fellow prisoner to attack a guard during a break in the laundry.'
'Objection, your honour. Hearsay.' Mr. Andrews didn't even bother to rise from his chair as he spoke.
'Objection sustained, that last comment will not be accounted for in the rulng.' Seymore nodded at Hanson. He cleared his throat and nodded at his papers as he spoke.
'Let me rephrase the question, did or did not Mr. Brown show violent tendencies during the study?'
'He did.'
'And did or did he not attack fellow prisoners without appearant purpose?'
'He did.'
'So what is your professional reccomendation, Dr. Norman?'
'My professional reccomendation after studying Mr. Brown is enclosed treatment at a well-guarded facility. He is not fit to spend time in prison, as he would be a threat to the security of any prison in this country.'
'Thank you. The defence rests.' Mr. Hanson returned to his seat, whispering something in John Brown's ear again. Brown was smiling wickedly, licking his lips. Brown's eyes followed a fly through the air as it buzzed towards the ceiling.
'Mr. Andrews?' Seymore's voice cut through the silence.
Mr. Andrews walked up to the witness stand and turned towards the window by the west wall, smiling slightly.
'Dr. Norman. How did you determine the signs of paranoia? What did Mr. Brown do to make you so sure that he was paranoid?'
'He spent several hours discussing conspiracy theories with fellow prisoners, claiming the conspiracy was there to frame him and lock him up forever. He also said this to the guards and to Dr. Barklay.'
'You are aware that this is all hearsay, and you are also referring to a series of interviews which is not available as proof in this hearing?' Mr. Andrews turned away from the window and looked at Dr. Norman. 'How was the study performed?' Mr. Andrews smile wasn't pleasant.
'I studied Mr. Brown through see-through mirrors, via interviews with fellow prisoners and guards, and by watching him unseen from hidden locations.'
'And while you watched him, did he show any signs of violent tendencies?'
'Yes, he did. At three occasions, he attacked three separate guards with fists and chains, attempting to kill them. At yet another occasion, he started thrashing his cell.'
'So, what you are saying is that because he attacked guards and thrashed his cell, this man should not be placed in prison? I'm certainly not a legitimate doctor in human behavior, but according to Dr. Jack Harrison's 'A Penny for a Prisoner's Thoughts', attacking guards is a quite common thing among prisoners who feel that they are being held unfairly. And the same things goes for the thrashing of the private quarters. Let me quote the book.' Mr. Andrews walked over to his table, grabbed a book laying on it and held it up so he could read from it.
''Nine out of ten prisoners, sentenced to five years or less, claims they have thrashed their equipment in their private quarters, giving the reason that they felt claustrophobic.' Now, Dr. Norman, I understand that Dr. Jack Harrison was your mentor at UCLA, so he is probably qualified enough to write something like that?'
'Yes.' Dr. Norman's reply was low, almost unhearable.'
'Come again?'
'I said: Yes.'
'So, would it be appropriate to say, that Mr. Brown's behavior really isn't anything special? That he is actually reacting like any other prisoner who feels he has been treated unfairly, and has feelings of claustrophobia? Because, as far as my knowledge of the law extends, it is not a valid cause of insanity to feel claustrophobic when locked up, am I right?'
'Yes.'
'No further questions your honour.' Mr. Andrews returned to his table.
'Mr. Hanson, any questions?'
'No, your honour.' Hanson sighed and put his hand over his eys.
'Dr. Norman, you may step down and is free to leave.' Seymore nodded at Dr. Norman who stepped down from the stand and walked out of the courtroom, sighing deeply.
'The state calls Dr. Mileen Narzawskij...'

Three hours later, after testimonies from Dr. Narzawskij and Dr. Bergstrom, both well credited professionals, as well as three testimonies from fellow prisoners to John Brown; all three of them indicating that John Brown showed signs of violent tendencies, but they had not seen it themselves, the court summoned again after a twenty minute recess. Mr. Hanson got some kind of revenge as he was able to dismiss one of the attourney's prisoner-witnesses as a previous drug-addict who couldn't find his own arse even if he had a map. Even judge Seymore had had to smile.
'The time has now come for me to call my verdict,' Seymore said as she sat down in her chair and looked sternly at the attourney, the lawyer and the defendant in turn. 'And I must say that this hearing has been one of the worst shows of incredibility that I have ever witnessed. Nevertheless, I have found that the state has managed to prove that the defendant, Mr. Brown, is in fact capable of going through a regular trial. This case will be tried in the high court in seven weeks time, during which, Mr. Brown is to be returned to prison, where he will be kept in an isolated cell. Court is dismissed.'
There was a sudden stir from John Brown, then he rose and his eyes were wide. 'No!' he shouted and tried to raise his hands, but the handcuffs linked with chains to his feet stopped him. 'No! I won't go back there!' He turned to hos lawyer. 'You lying son of a bitch! You said you'd fix this! I'm not going back to prison you fucker! Never!'
'Bailiff, remove this man from my courtroom!' Seymore barked and the bailiff hastily moved over to Brown, seizing him by the shoulders. Brown dropped and rolled underneath the table as the bailiff's hands slipped. The bailiff took a step back and then plunged in under the table to wrestle down Brown. There was a struggle underneath the table, during which, the crowd in the room began to stare. Seymore, however, was so stunned she couldn't speak. The struggle went on, until suddenly, a gun fired. The bailiff slowly rose, looking down at Brown who was laying on the floor. The bailiff took a step backwards, and suddenly, blood streamed out of his mouth and down onto his uniform. There was a shriek from a woman in the crowd. The second bailiff's eyes widened as he reached for his gun, but Brown stood up, turning the table over on top of Mr. Hanson in the progress, aimed at the bailiff and pressed the trigger of the Glock in his hand. The second bailiff was hit right between his eyes, his brain substance, mixed with blood, splattering allover the wall behind him.
Brown grinned at the fallen bailiff and then went over to the judge, strolling, even. 'I'm not going back there,' he said, looking at her. 'Now get down from my seat.'
'What?' Seymore said, staring at Brown in disbelief. 'Over my dead body!'
'I was hoping you'd say that.' Seymore's head was split in twain by the shere force of the bullet from the gun in Brown's hands. Walking over to the first bailiffs, limping slightly, Brown reached down and rose again, holding the keys to his cuffs. Unlocking them took him no more than fifteen seconds, and then he stood in front of the crowd, holding the gun towards them, pointing it at them each at a time.
'We are going to play a little game. It's got nothing to do with 'do not collect two hundred dollars, do not pass go, go directly to jail'. No, this game is called 'John Says'. It's quite easy to follow the rules. I say what you are going to do, and you obey. Any questions? No? Good, then the game starts... now.'
Holding the gun in his left hand, he made his way down to the courtroom doors and locked them with the springs by the top and bottom of the door. Brown turned around and hopped down the aisle, appearantly limping a bit on his left leg, leaping over the fence with just a little bit of trouble and walked over to the second bailiff. He took the gun from the dead man's hand and held it in his right hand. Grinning, he turned to the judge's box and put the guns on the desk, then leapt up on the podium and started tearing at the robe around Seymore's body. With a ripping sound, he tore it away and then pulled it over his own head. Then he took off the top of the overall and let it hang around his waist. Taking the two guns, he placed them down his pants, next to eachother and sat down in the judge's chair. Extending his arms outwards, with his fingers as V's, in an imitation of Richard Nixon, he smiled.
'Are we having fun yet?'

At 6:30pm, the call came to intendent Harry Boxter's phone. A hostage situation at the court hall, three people already dead, women and children in the hands of a murderer and rapist. Harry got there as quickly as he could. As he stepped out of his car, he was met by a crowd of journalists asking questions. In the buzz, he couldn't even make out a single question, so he ignored them and entered the court hall. Outside the door to the barricated court room, as SWAT-team stood at ready with H&K MP-5's, teargas and bullet-proof vests. Chief Damien Carell was also there, examining the door to the courtroom. As Harry stepped up next to him, Damien smiled and turned towars him.
'John Brown, now with 18 murders on his concious. He's in there. We've not yet been able to make contact via the intercom, but it won't take long now. We've been calling for ten minutes.' Damien was still smiling, inclining his head backwards, towards three men sitting by something that looked a lot like a phone. Harry guessed it must be the intercom.
'So, this is the John Brown that I put away? My brother?'
'The very same. Your twin brother. That's why I called you. He will probably ask to speak with you. You carrying your piece?'
'Yeah,' Harry said, patting the bump by his left armpit. He never left home without it. 'What's the situation so far?'
'Oh, not much happening. He's killed the bailiffs and judge Seymore.'
'Jesus Christ! He's killed the judge?'
'Yes. And he's just getting started...'

'No-one would listen to me. My daddy locked me away, but no-one cared. No knight on a white horse came to save me. What do you think about that, little princess? Not even my twin brother – my own reflection in this world wouldn't listen!'
The small girl sitting in his lap cried silently into her hands. She didn't answer him. Her parents were staring at John desperately, where they sat among the other people in the courtroom. John had counted them by now, they were nineteen all in all. Five women. Two children.
'They say I'm insane, and that I should get treatment instead of prison. Whopee! But what happens? That son of a fucking bitch of a lawyer lied to me! He's incompetent!'
Mr. Hanson, still laying in a heap of debris that used to be a table, stirred as Brown spoke.
'Oh, so the motherfucker is coming to? Good.' Letting the girl down to speed off to her parents who hugged and kissed her as if she'd been missing for a month, Brown moved over to Mr. Hanson where he lay and pulled out both guns. He aimed them at the back of Hanson.. 'Hey, you fat fuck, look at me. Look at me!' Mr. Hanson stirred and moved his head so he looked at Brown. 'Good dog, can you sit too? Oh, never mind to demonstrate! I'll teach you a new trick instead. Play dead, fucker!' And he pressed both triggers three times, pumping six bullets into Hanson's body. Hanson shook from the impact of the bullets, and then laid still in a growing puddle of blood. Brown began to laugh. The child in the caressing arms of her mother continued to cry.

'That's nineteen, then.' Damien's voice was calm, but Harry knew from their college years that when Damien sounded calm, you'd better dive for cover if you were the target of his wrath. Damien wasn't exactly what you'd call a hothead, but when he was out of fuse, the explosion could level a small city. Harry shuddered at the thought.
'I think he's picked up the intercom now!' The shout came from the three men with the phone-device. 'Yes, he has! Is this Mr. John Brown we are talking to?'
The voice coming from the loudspeaker next to the phone was distorted by the intercom, but there was no denying the madness hidden behind the gibbering sounds. The voice was harsh and dry, like the voice of someone who's been drinking whisky for several years, smoking cigars and inhaling. 'Who the hell is this?' Damien nodded at Harry, who made his way over to the phone.
'This is Harry Boxter, intendant at Dallas P.D. Is this Mr. John Brown?'
'No, fuckface, this is Madonna. Is that you, baldie? You're the Harry Boxter that catched me back in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania?'
'That's right, John. It's me. Your twin brother.'
'Who the hell said you could call me by my first name? I'm Mr. Brown to you, asshole.'
'Okay, Mr. Brown, calm down now. You don't want to make this worse.'
'Worse? How the fuck could things get any worse? No man, I'm waiting for those SWAT motherfuckers to crash through that door so I can shoot some hostage and earn myself a seat next to Satan in the firey pits of hell.'
'Oh come now, Mr. Brown. You don't want to do that. There's women and children in there. Be a nice guy and let them, and perhaps we can negotiate.'
'Negotiate? NEGOTIATE!? You sure as hell didn't negotiate no nothing back in Pittsburgh! You shot me in my fucking leg and locked me up! Why should I trust you?'
'Because right now, there's a police chief out here who would like nothing more than to see you rot away in a prison for the rest of your life. I'm the only chance you've got.'
'No, fuckface, you're not my only chance. I am my own only chance.'
And then Brown hung up the intercom.

'Damn it! God fucking damn it!' John Brown's screaming echoed in the silent courtroom. Then Brown walked away from the intercom and looked up into the corner of the room, watching the camera placed there. Extending his fist towards it, he let his middle finger spring up in an obscene gesture and then stuck out his tongue towards the camera. Then he pointed the barrel of the gun at the camera and pulled the trigger. The camera died in a massive fizzle of sparks and electrical buzzing. The crowd sat absolutely still.
'Who of you motherfuckers am I going to take out next?' he said and turned to the people out in the room, sitting in the hard wooden benches. 'Just so they understand I'm serious here.' He stared at them, and then pointed the gun at a young man, dressed in a black leather jacket, with a cap on his head and blue jeans on his legs. The young man, shot back in the bench and adjusted his glasses as John Brown pointed the gun at him. 'You,' Brown said and pulled the trigger. The gun jerked once with a bang, the young man jerked once in the bench, and then slumped forward with blood pouring out of his mouth, staining his white t-shirt underneath the jacket. 'Woohoo! I'm Satan's fucking right hand! I'm doing Satan's work in here! I'm the fallen angel, you sons of bitches! I'm fucking immortal!' he shouted, throwing his head back and cackling insanely.
The intercom buzzed and he walked over towards it, picking it up.

'Who was it this time?' Harry's voice had reached a level of negotiation; he managed to sound calm no matter what raging storms of emotions passed through his soul. 'A kid? Are you satisfied now?'
'No, Harry the Cocksucker, it was some weird student. I never liked those assholes anyway. They look at you as if they knew more about you than you do yourself.'
'Brown, what do you want?'
'Oh, I want thirty billion dollars, a house in China and Pamela Anderson, wet and ready.'
'Come on, Brown, be serious here. I could get you a chopper, or anyone you want to talk to.'
'Oh, Harry, I'm already talking to the only person on this planet that I want to talk to. And I won't need a chopper where I'm going. But perhaps you've got something which can really dig?'
Without wanting to, Harry began to feel repulsion thumping in his brain, like a bitter taste in his mouth. Sweat began to form beads on his forehead. He wiped the sweat away with his hand. 'Brown, if you don't start to talk to me here, you won't give us any choice but to go in there, and then innocent people could get injured.'
'Oh, there are no innocents in here, Harry. Even these kids in here are guilty to something. Everyone is, even though they would never admit it, even to themselves. Those damn snobs with their so-called ethics and morals. They sit by their desks and decides how and why you should think, and you do it gladly. But now, it is my time to play God. I'm in charge now. This is my court now! It's time for another round of 'John Says'.'
And once again, the intercom went silent.

Another shot was heard through the doors to the courtroom and Harry almost jumped out of his skin at the sound. Harry rose and walked over to Damien who was now talking to the SWAT-team's leader, organizing the entry. Harry patted him on the shoulder to get his attention.
'Damien, we've got to do something. He's not interested in negotiation; he's just killing them all off until we go in and gun him down. But if we do that, he gets exactly what he wants.' Harry sounded worried
'Well Harry, I think there's an alternate solution. We're sending you in there. You'll be wearing a vest and a wire, so we can hear your conversation.' Damien's voice was like the ice on a pond during winter.
'Are you sure that is such a good idea, Damien? By the sound of it, this guy has really lost his marbles.'
'Try talking to him and telling him you're coming in.'
'Easier said than done, Damien.'

John Brown licked the blood off his fingers. He touched the body of the young woman again, right by her neck, where the bullet had entered. Smiling, he turned to the crowd of people who had drawn out to the sides, as far away from Brown as they could get.
'Ah, pure blood tastes the best. Another sacrifice worthy of Satan's grace. But you know what, people? I could really use a ham and cheese sandwich. All that mumbo-jumbo was really making me hungry.'
Brown moved over to the intercom and pressed the call-button. Immediately, Harry was there to answer.
'Brown?'
'Shut up, Harry. I just want a ham and cheese sandwich. I don't want no fucking chopper, or a house in Casablanca, just a plain ham and cheese sandwich, okay?'
'Okay, Brown, I can fix you a sandwich. Will it be okay if I come in and give it to you?'
'Harry, you're welcome. But don't you go getting any ideas, you son of a bitch; I'll be holding a gun pointed at you all the time.'
'Your sandwich is coming up.' There was no reply. Brown had switched the intercom off again.
Ten minutes later, Harry put on the bullet-proof vest after fastening the wire with tape to the small of his back. After checking the mic, he went up to the door and knocked at it twice, holding the sandwich in his right hand.

'You! Go open the door. The second you try to get out, you buy your kid a hole in the head.' The woman being pointed at with the gun started crying, but slowly got up after kissing her son on the forehead. She walked up to the door, walking down the aisle, and opened the door slowly after removing the sprinters from the top and bottom of it. Harry strolled in, with the sandwich in his hand, with both hands held above his head. Spinning, he showed Brown that he wasn't carrying any arms; he'd left his gun outside the doors. Right now, he felt naked.
'Good boy. Now, close the door, Harry Boxter, or I'll shoot the bitch next to you.'
Harry closed the door with his foot and bolted it shut with the sprinters, slamming them back in place. As he turned around, he tried to take in the situation. Brown was sitting in the judge's chair, wearing the robe, pointing two guns at him right now. The crowd in the room were spread out to the sides of the benches, trying to get away from the aisle. Those seated in the back threw longing looks at the door. Walking down the aisle, he finally reached the podium, where Brown could look down at him. He stretched and put the sandwich on the podium. Brown reached out, smiling and took the sandwich with his left hand, the right hand holding the gun pointed at Harry's head. Brown unwrapped the sandwich from the cellofan and took a big bite. Chewing it, his expression went from satisfaction to disappointment, to fury. He stopped chewing and spat out the bite in Harry's face. Shaking the gun, he raised the remains of the sandwich in the air.
'What the fuck is this? This is boiled ham! Who in this god damn world eats boiled ham with cheest? No-one I tell you, no-one! You piece of shit, I specifically asked for fried ham!' Brown's face was red with anger and in his forehead, and by his temples, veins pulsated.
'No, brother, you just said 'ham', you didn't say what kind of ham. I may have a hearing problem, but I know that for sure,' said Harry and took a few steps backwards until he hit the rail. Leaning against it, he folded his arms across his chest.
'I did! I said I wanted fried ham! Didn't I, dear folks!?' Brown shouted at the crowd. There were no response. 'DIDN'T I!?' Spittle flied from his mouth as he screamed. Now there was a murmured agreement and a general nodding of heads. Everyone seemed to agree, everyone but one person.
'No, sir, you didn't say what kind of ham. You just said ham.' The small voice came from between the protecting arms of two of the parents. They stared in horror at their daughter, who leaned forward. 'Sir, you just said ham.'
'What is this I hear? Someone opposes me? Someone denies my right to be right? We can't have that, can we? Come here, child. Step out into the aisle, so your blood won't stain your parent's clothes!'
'No!' The fierce cry of desperation came from the girl's father. 'Take me instead! Please! Don't kill my daughter! She doesn't know better.' The father hung his head and stood up. 'Don't kill my little girl.'
'Oh, the father, the hero. The real macho man. How impressive.' Brown put the barrel of the gun towards his chin, and for a moment, Harry got the wild idea that he would blow his own head off. But then he lowered the gun and pointed it at the father. 'Sure, I'll go with that.' The gun spewed it's deadly load again, the bullet planting itself into the father's chestbone, going through his body and into the wall a few rows behind him. The man stared ahead for a few moments, until he fell over forward, blood staining his shirt, pouring down his chin and nose. He spasmed once and then lay still. The girl and the mother screamed in duet, as Brown smiled at them. 'Look at that, little princess, you made your father die!'
'Shut up, Brown,' Harry said, walking towards the podium again, his hands by his sides, clenched into fists as hard as rock. 'What right do you have to kill all these people?'
'Why, Harry boy, they will be my loyal servants in hell of course, when I sit next to Satan and order the lost souls around. I'll make them eat coal and shit fire, you see, just because it'd really be something to see.'
'You sick, twisted son of a bitch. Let these people go and you might still have a chance!'
'A chance? Ha! No fucking way, Harry. If they caught me now, I'd fry in the chair anyway. I've got nothing left to loose. I'll just get myself as many servants in hell as possible. And you'll make me company.' With that, he lowered the gun to Harry's chest and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit Harry over the heart and threw him backwards and into the still standing table, where the attourney was sitting. The attourney got up to his feet as Harry landed on the table, thrashing it.
'You killed a cop! Let us go! Please!' Mr. Andrews stared at Brown. 'Please!'
'No pleas in the world could get you to declare me insane earlier. What do you think now, Mr. Andrews?'
'I think you're insane now, Mr. Brown! Please let us go!'
'I'm tired of your fucking attitude. Die.'
Another bang and the bullet penetrated Andrews' head, splattering his brain and blood allover the people on the first row. Andrews' glasses slowly fell through the air and landed on top of Harry. They bounced off Harry and landed on the floor, where they cracked.
'I'm laying here in a heap, you're standing at the podium with two guns and the crowd is off to the sides. Do you really think you have a chance?' Harry's voice was cold steel as he rose from the litter and met his brother's gaze.
They really looked alike, even though they were from separate eggs. Twins, but only by appearance. While Harry always searched for the good in people, John never searched at all, unless he mugged them, of course.While Harry chose the path which lead to upholding the law, John chose the other path, which lead to murder and sin. Harry had finally tracked his brother down in Pittsburgh a few weeks ago. After a quick shootout, he had shot John in the leg and could apprehend him shortly afterwards.
'So you're wearing a wire and a bullet proof vest, huh? Really smart. Too bad I move around, then, so they can't shoot me through the door. YOU HEAR THAT, PIGS!?' John chuckled slightly and then fixed his feverish gaze at Harry. 'Now that I know you lied to me, I know I said that you shouldn't be using any of that shit, everyone's got to die.' John Brown shook his head as he jumped out of the podium and punched Harry in the face; catching Harry off guard, Harry was thrown backwards and slid along the floor. Darkness enveloped him.

There were several more gunshots and screaming, someone was thumping at the door, but then the thumping stopped abruptly after yet another gunshot. Staring at the door, Damien stood there. There was a pause, probably that crazy bastard reloading his guns, and then the shooting resumed. The buzzing from the wire attached to Harry stopped suddenly. For a few moments, Damien held his breath, holding his hand raised, ready to signal for the SWAT-team to storm the room. Then, back came breathing in the microphone. Harry's voice said: 'Oh my God. He's killed them all. Jesus Christ and Mother Mary.' The voice of Harry faded away.
'Go in there. It's too late, but go in there anyway.' Damien sighed and lowered his hand as the SWAT-team broke down the doors and charged into the room. The smell of blood hung heavily in the air, sweeping out of the room in puffs of wind. The smell was enough for Damien to almost throw up as he leaned against the wall.

'This is Unit Cobra reporting. We have twenty-four stiff ones in here. One of them appears to be John Brown.' The voice over the com-channel was a bit rusty, belonging to an experienced officer called Snake-eyes among friends. 'Jesus Christ, there's two kids in here.'
'Is Harry alive?' Damien's voice was shivering as if he was standing at the south pole without clothes.
'He's breathing, but he's got a bad cut across the forehead. He appears to have taken a bullet in the vest, as well. He's okay, now, we've awakened him. Tango is taking him out.'
'Good,' Damien said and heaved a sigh of relief. He knew that after a bloodbath like this, he'd have to resign as police chief. It wasn't impossible that he'd have to take some blame as well. But it was almost worth it, considering that Harry was still alive. He hadn't dared entering after Harry had gone in there.
Out through the doors staggered Harry, holding a hand to where the bullet had hit his vest. The cut in his forehead wasn't bleeding all that bad; the blood had coagulated quickly in the wound.
'You OK, Harry?' Damien said and put a hand on Harry's shoulder.
'He shot himself,' Harry sighed and coughed. 'He shot everyone but me and then put a bullet in his own head.'
'Atleast he's gone, Harry. He was evil personified. You know, that talk about Satan and all that... I almost started to think he really believed in it.'
'I think he did, Damien. I think he did.' Harry took off the vest and threw it on the floor. Then he took out his badge. He tossed it on the vest. 'You already have my piece. Keep it. I've seen enough blood for a lifetime. Now I'll do something else. I can't take it anymore.'
'Are you sure about this, Harry? Sure it's not an exaggeration?'
'I've just seen my brother blow his fucking brains out, Damien. That's no exaggeration.'
'I hear you. I'll have the forms mailed to you. If you feel like it, you could always fill them out, so you'll get your pension.'
'What good will that do? I'll always be a retired cop anyway. Listen, Damien, I can't stay here. Take care of the bodies, will you? I'm going to go home and get a really heavy drink.'
'Yeah, you do that, Harry.'
Harry turned his back on Damien and walked down the hallway towards the exit and out to face the mob of reporters and cameras outside. The buzz was deafening for a moment, and then the doors slammed shut. Through a window, Damien could see Harry get in his car and drive off.
'Funny though,' Damien said to himself as he turned to walk into the courtroom. 'I wonder when he got that limp.'

Marcus Peterson
Finspång, Sweden
May 15th, 2002

Skriven av: Marcus Peterson