Free Eye of the Beholder by David Ellis Page B

far away. “How do you know I’m gonna die?”
    “Are you saying you can’t die?”
    His face goes serious, his eyes opening wider. Like he’s day-dreaming.
    “Mr. Burgos?”
    “You can kill a body. You can’t kill the truth.”
    A pause. A change of topics, perhaps. The subject is not making this easy. Like talking to an infant.
    “Did those women deserve to die?”
    Burgos leans back in his chair. He’s enjoying a thought. Like the reporter isn’t even there. “It’s not for me to decide.”
    “Who decides, then?”
    “You know.” Burgos rocks in a chair that doesn’t assist him. Back and forth, the first sign of animation.
    “God decides,” says Carolyn Pendry. “Did God tell you to kill those women?”
    “‘Course He did.” Burgos punctuates it with a jerk of his head.
    “You said Ellie Danzinger was a ‘gift from God,’ Mr. Burgos. What—”
    “God gave her to me.” The gentle rocking of his body accelerates.
    “How did God do that?”
    Burgos raises his hands for emphasis, two hands slicing the air, the shackle connecting his wrist dancing in the air. “You all think I’m crazy because I see things you don’t. But that don’t make me crazy. You all believe in the Creator and in the Second Coming, but if Jesus came down you wouldn’t believe Him.”
    Camera cuts to the reporter, Pendry. A thoughtful expression on her face.
    “You’d say He’s crazy.” Burgos keeps rocking.
    “Did Tyler Skye tell you to kill those women?”
    Burgos brings up his knees, puts his feet up on the chair. Arms around his knees, a round ball, rocking back and forth.
    “Did—”
    “God did.” He nods his head emphatically.
    “Tyler Skye’s song didn’t tell you to kill those women?”
    “Tyler was a messenger. So am I.”
    “Mr. Burgos, according to that song, weren’t you supposed to kill yourself last? Wasn’t that what Tyler Skye had meant with the last line?”
    Burgos takes a breath. Blinks his eyes slowly. Keeps rocking back and forth.
    “Why didn’t you kill yourself, Mr. Burgos? Why did you kill Cassie Bentley instead?”
    Like he’s in a fog. He doesn’t respond.
    “You said Cassie ‘saved’ you, Mr. Burgos. What did—”
    “Cassie saved me. God told me I wasn’t done. He gave me Cassie instead.”
    He begins to hum to himself. Looks up at the ceiling.
    “Mr. Burgos, did you think your attorney was wrong to call you insane?”
    “Insane. Insane, insane.” Burgos begins to laugh, a giggle.
    “Mister—”
    “What’s that? Insane.” He frowns suddenly, staring off, concentrating. “What’s that?”
    “Insane,” the reporter says calmly, “means you can’t control what’s inside your brain.”
    “That’s everybody.”
    “It means you can’t tell right from wrong.”
    “That’s everybody.”
    “Mr. Burgos, would you kill those girls again if you had the chance?”
    “Kill those girls again.” He stops moving. His eyes are open in slants, staring into space, his shoulders gathered about him. The camera zooms in on his expression.
    “I’m gonna sleep now.”
    “You don’t want to answer my questions?”
    Burgos doesn’t answer, his foggy stare frozen on the screen.
    The screen shrinks and moves to the corner of the television picture. Anchorwoman Carolyn Pendry, today, looks into the camera with a crisp, professional manner.
    “Fifteen years ago today, Terrance Demetrius Burgos was sentenced to death. The jury rejected his lawyer’s claim of insanity and imposed five counts of capital punishment. My brief interview with Mr. Burgos, eight years ago, was the last, and only, time he granted an interview.”
    The camera angle adjusts. Carolyn Pendry turns. “Did Terry Burgos really view the violent lyrics of Tyler Skye’s music as a call from God? Did he deserve death for his actions? The debate rages on even today.
    “But in this reporter’s opinion, the verdict is in. Anyone who would take sophomoric, abusive lyrics and read them as signs from an