Chapter 5
Inadmissable
CORMAC
As it turns out, amnesia is not a good enough reason not to stand trial.
And according to Clyde, that means they have enough evidence to convict me without even asking me a single question.
Sitting here in a black suit, my ankles chained together and my wrists stuck in handcuffs far past the point of discomfort, my skin itches for me to escape.
From what I can tell, they must be broadcasting my trial, putting all my alleged sins on display for the rich and powerful so they feel like the monster amongst them has been put away. So they can pretend they're safe.
But what nobody is saying is that these people that I'm meant to have killed were highly deserving of it.
Of course, they can't say that. This is my trial, not theirs.
Who they were in life doesn't matter in this room, only who they can paint them to be now that they're dead.
The evidence they've presented against me thus far has been overwhelming for me to take in.
And their questions for the witnesses, though they make little sense to me, seem to be guiding them towards what they already know.
The only person who could have done these things was me.
Though there hasn't been a smoking gun, so to speak, the dates of the murders lining up with my travel is enough for reasonable suspicion.
Nobody here believes that I don't remember anything.
Every pressing question is met with a nearly identical answer.
I don't know.
I can't remember.
I'm sorry, Your Honor, I really don't have the answer.
The only expert witness I've been afforded is Dr. Sad-Eyes, whose real name is Dr. Dean Prentiss. He explains my symptoms, my injury that led to the coma and memory loss, the extreme injuries that nearly killed me.
He tells them my agitation, panic, and other actions since waking up are consistent with TBI-induced amnesia.
His professional opinion is that I need to be institutionalized for my own safety, and thanks to the public scrutiny of the case, not imprisoned. But as far as I'm concerned, those are the exact same fucking thing.
"Exhibit 34B," the opposing counsel props up a chart, with some lines and dots that make no sense to me, but apparently do to the forensics expert sitting in the hot seat right now. "What can you tell us from this chart?"
The woman smooths her harsh bun back, leaning into the microphone and pointing at the top half of the chart, "The top line shows the DNA extracted from a hair on the scene of victim number nine. The bottom line is from the suspect, taken by cheek swab during investigation."
"And, in your expert opinion, are these two samples from the same person?" the lawyer asks.
None of us needs her to answer that, they're fucking identical even to my eyes.
A sinking feeling settles in my stomach.
Before this moment, I could convince myself that I wasn't capable of these things, that all they had on me was unfortunate coincidental timing.
But this... there's no denying what's right in front of me in black and white.
I did these things to these people. I killed them, horrifically and symbolically, leaving a trail of their blood and their crimes for the world to find.
I'm a murderer. And even if I can't remember doing it, that changes nothing. The person who did those things is hidden inside me somewhere, possibly just waiting for the next victim that requires my attention.
"Yes. The pattern is consistent, and I'm sure if you were to find DNA from the other crime scenes, they would match as well," the expert finally answers, repeating what I already knew.
But out of seventeen crime scenes, only one had a semblance of actual evidence?
I don't know much about serial killers, but that seems pretty fucking impressive to me.
I must have been having an off day on murder number nine.
A small, amused smile pulls at my lips, and I have to hide it lest anyone in this room see it and take it for what it is.
"Objection," Clyde mutters. "Irrelevant. There is no DNA found at other crime scenes, and implying there is is misleading."
"Sustained."
I have to admit, for being such a squirrelly little man, Clyde has been impressive. He seems completely unassuming in his poorly-fitting suits and secondhand shoes, but maybe that's part of his strategy. He makes people believe he's feckless and small only to step on their toes at every turn.
"The prosecution has no further questions at this time," the other lawyer announces.
Now that it's Clyde's turn to speak to the forensic expert, all I can do is look down at my fucking hands for the hundredth time, examining the tattoo more closely as if it hasn't been plaguing me for months now.
These tattoos are the only things I see daily besides my fucking doctors and the police.
They follow me everywhere, even into my fucking dreams. A kraken on my thigh that tries to drown me.
The medusa spanning across the back of my hand, her snakes that traverse down each of my fingers come to life and strike me with their venom in my nightmares.
The worst is the bat, attacking not only me but everyone I remember loving from before this happened.
I can't even imagine how my nieces must look now. They'd be eight and twelve, I think. I wonder when the last time I got to see them was. If it was just before my attack, or if I'd disappeared from their lives for years before the world discovered my extracurriculars.
I try to shake away the guilt creeping in at how I've probably devastated the few people I ever loved, distracting myself with the now instead of what I might have left behind.
Due to my good behavior, I've been allowed the privilege of clothes and being released from my confines for a few hours every day, just long enough to walk through the halls with police escort and work to gain back a tiny bit of my strength at the insistence of Dr. Dean, now that I've graduated from physical therapy.
I almost look like a human being again, no longer the willowy stick of a man who might blow over in a strong breeze.
The first few days of doing fucking squats and lunges in the corner of my room were pathetic. I nearly fell over after three of them, my legs shaking under the weight they're unused to carrying now.
I don't pay too close attention to what goes on between Clyde and the expert, or the next one.
I know my fate.
Because I know that I'm responsible for theirs.
The next few weeks, or maybe months, I’m not sure, roll by in a blur of people speaking a language that makes no sense to me.
The legal language, the objections, the experts, the police who swear they've interacted with me, yet I have no memory of them.
It all just kind of muddles together beneath the layer of practiced dissociation I do remember.
The next time I come up for air in the real world, it's to Clyde chuckling under his breath.
"What's so funny?" I sigh, fighting the urge to lay my head on the table in front of me.
According to Clyde, that level of disrespect to the court wouldn't look good, and appearances are everything.
I have a fucking predator animal spanning my neck, but looking lazy and uninterested is going to make all the difference.
"I knew something was fishy with the DNA sample when the forensic analyst didn't answer when it was taken or by whom," he flips through a folder just delivered to him by his assistant. "It was supposedly taken from you while you were unconscious in your home and there is no filed chain of custody."
"So?"
"So two things, for one, it violates your rights under the fourth amendment for your DNA to be taken without a warrant.
And there isn't an officer’s name on the evidence form.
So there's no way of knowing who took the sample or what they may have done with it.
It just somehow landed in the prosecution's lap from out of thin air.
" His voice suddenly rises, "May I approach the bench, Your Honor? "
The judge nods, gesturing him forward.
He takes his little tan folder, waving for the prosecution's attorney to come along as well.
For a few minutes, the three of them speak quietly between each other, Clyde remaining calm, the other lawyer slowly becoming decidedly not. He glares at me, then at the police he's been guiding and coaching into their winning argument for months.
At his furious expression, my skin goes cold.
Whatever mistakes they've made will change everything.
When Clyde returns, his expression screams that he might be whistling if he could. So utterly pleased with himself, smug as all hell, sinking into the chair beside me while the other guy storms to his chair, rifling through his paperwork, muttering furiously to the man beside him.
"Prosecution," the judge says impassively, "Exhibit 34B has been ruled inadmissible."
"What does that mean?" I ask Clyde.
"It means they can't use it," he answers, a smile in his voice.
"No, I know that. I'm not an idiot," I fight the urge to roll my eyes. "I mean what does it mean for me?"
He turns to me, his tired eyes glittering with the promise of an insane payday, "It means they have no evidence tying you to a single crime scene and their whole case falls apart."
"Your Honor," the prosecutor begins. "You can't—"
The judge holds up a palm, "Do you have any other evidence or a witness tying Mr. Fomori to a crime scene?"
"Not yet, Your Honor, but the dates line up and—"
"Purely circumstantial," Clyde assures him.
The judge sighs, "In the case of the United States against Mr. Cormac Fomori, I'm ruling a mistrial due to inadmissible evidence.
" The sound of his gavel echoes in my ears, the rest of the world swirling around me.
"Prosecution. Meet me in my chambers. Mr. Fomori, as per your doctor’s orders, you'll be returned to St. Jones hospital. "
My breathing turns shallow as a bailiff hesitantly uncuffs my wrists, the blood rushing into them with a cold, tingling sensation.
Mistrial.
Free to go.