In my time with the Millennium Group, those visions were accurate. That being said, I'll freely admit that I didn't always interpret them correctly. There was this one time, come to think of it, where I was out in Missouri. The name of a serial killer I caught several years ago came up again, but then he turned out to be a victim. He gets no sympathy from me, all the same...
====================================================================
"O Lord, if there is a Lord/Save my soul, if I have a soul--"
Ernest Renan
========================================================================
It all started with a tiny little lion with a curly red mane, prowling through the jungle.
Or was it a tiger? Neither, as it turned out: it was just Jordan, acting the fool like any good five-year-old should. Ooh, she thought she was being a sneaky little predator, but there was no fooling these eagle-eyes.
Looking back on it, I still smile. But what she said next stopped Cath and me dead in our tracks.
"Are you and Daddy going to have another baby?"
Uh-oh. How do I explain this to her? See, I keep calling her "my miracle daughter" as I relate these tales to you. That's because we were supposed to be infertile, but then we ended up conceiving after all. Looking back, I suppose we probably could have tried again, but it was safer not to press our good luck.
Yes, I was lost for words. Fortunately, I was saved by a bell--the unmistakably electronic sound of our house phone, to be exact. When I picked up, the friendly voice of Peter Watts came through. Figuring that he might have something interesting for me to look at, I headed for the basement.
As soon as I logged in to the Millennium Group's secure site, a file containing information on a one Jake Waterston--alias Jim Gilroy--popped up.
I felt like I'd just eaten some day-old oysters at room temperature. See, back in '92, he was in Newport News, Virginia. Raped and strangled three nurses. Typical low-life.
"He's surfaced," Peter said. "Been living in Joplin, Missouri for the past five years, under the name Jim Gilroy. Last night, a Missouri state trooper got shot, point-blank. The car was registered in Jim's name."
"Let's just make sure we don't lose him again."
==========================================
I met up with Peter Watts at a small airport in Missouri. From there, we set out to make our way to Jim Gilroy's house.
"You have to appreciate Jim Gilroy's discipline," I mused. "A man of his impulses, able to keep quiet for five years."
"Well, he wasn't unknown to local PD, but he never broke a law," Peter corrected me.
I pressed the issue. "But he was facing multiple murder charges. Capital punishment. He'd gone underground successfully...why risk it?"
Before we could even think about Jim Gilroy, we had to make a stop at a house belonging to the...Haskel, I think the name was. Yes, I remember now: the family's name was 'Haskel.'
The place was a bit rustic, the sort of thing you'd find in some coming-of-age novel. I noticed some well-kept china vases on the fireplace, as well as a 45" TV set with the word "Angel" carved into the glass.
At that moment, Captain Bigelow of the Missouri State Police stepped up to introduce himself. After we'd made our introductions, he asked us if we knew Jim Gilroy. "We know him by another name," Peter began, "but yes, Frank pursued him while he was with the FBI."
"How violent is he?" Bigelow asked.
Peter replied: "He murdered three women in Virginia over a Labor Day weekend. The funerals had to be...closed-casket."
I quietly went on a self-guided tour of the house. A full-length mirror in one of the bedrooms caught my eye. Looked like it had been shattered in a struggle. Nasty one, at that--the mirror was bloodstained close to a large shard that had fallen out.
Putting on a pair of rubber gloves, I made my way to the bathroom. Sure enough, there was a bloodstain in the tub. As I looked up, the mirrored medicine cabinet presented to me my reflection. (Astonishingly, the glass did not immediately shatter.)
A vision flashed before my eyes: A woman was looking at herself in the mirror and crying. Suddenly she shattered it with her fist. She turned on the bath and, with the large shard, sliced open her wrist.
The vision ceased. Officer Bigelow might know something about all this.
"Killean Haskel," he told me. "She bled to death in the bathtub, and they buried her yesterday. Coroner concluded that it was a suicide."
"You might want to reconsider that," I said. We were in what looked like their daughter's bedroom. I picked up a photo album from the night stand and opened it. The first thing we saw was a prom-night picture of a young couple, dressed to the nines, followed by wedding pictures and Polaroids taken in various places.
"Is this Killean Haskel's husband?" I asked. "Must be," Bigelow replied. "As far as I know, she was divorced."
"Did they have any children?"
"Daughter. Madeline Haskel, now 20 years old. She lived here, too...We haven't located her yet."
I looked at the bloodstained sheets on the bed. Another vision, this time of Jim Gilroy straddling a terrified Maddie. The scumbag licked his fingers as she screamed.
"Have you typed and cross-matched the blood?" I asked Officer Bigelow.
"I'll get a tech to take a sample," he said. "We assumed it was the mother's."
"We need to find the daughter," I concluded. "She might know something that could help us."
===========================================================
Later that evening, Peter and I were at the Missouri State Police's barracks. The three of us--him, Bigelow, and myself--were watching video of the state trooper's death at Jim Gilroy's hands.
"Looks like the trooper took the proper approach," Bigelow said. "Seems he just didn't see the gun."
As I jotted down the license-plate number--RH7-487--a flicker of movement on the right-hand side of the screen caught my eye. "Pan right," I ordered. Peter complied with a few keystrokes.
"Is there a report?" I asked as Bigelow gave me a complete forensics report. "Killer used armor-piercing rounds," he said.
Peter interrupted him. "Wait--Jim Gilroy never used a gun. He garroted his victims. Cut them."
"Hold on, hold on," Bigelow exclaimed. "Are you trying to tell me that Jim Gilroy didn't kill my trooper?"
"You know him as Gilroy," I countered, "but we know him as Jake Waterston. He's neither rash nor careless. He wouldn't have acted on impulse unless he believed that his new identity was being threatened.
I turned to Peter and asked him to go back. We saw something move in the passenger's seat.
"That's not Gilroy. He's six-foot-two, and whoever's in there is much smaller." I flicked through the report. "Oh, look at this. There were two blood types identified: B-negative and A-negative. We know that Gilroy's is A-negative...but the video doesn't show the driver getting hurt or anything. Maybe Gilroy isn't driving."
I closed my eyes to think for a second, and the answer came to me. "The passenger is Maddie Haskel. If Gilroy were driving, she'd have been dead already."
"Well, if Gilroy isn't driving, and if he isn't the passenger...then where the hell is he?" Bigelow asked. ============================================================
It was about 1:30 in the morning. I went back to the Haskel place to see if I could find another angle.
The best place to start would be the last place I'd seen: Maddie's bedroom. It's funny...Someone told me once that you can tell a man by what you find on his bookshelf. Hers was mostly children's books, but a big red volume labeled "WEST HIGH SCHOOL" along its spine called out to me.
I flicked through the pages, and was soon rewarded with a picture of Maddie Haskel. Underneath, I saw a handwritten message: "Dear Maddie--See you soon after BASIC TRAINING. then you're mine. Love, Bobby W."
"Bobby W.," huh? I made a beeline for the very back of the book. I found a Dean Walker; a Bart Wear...and, finally, a Robert Webber. Black curly hair, handsome in a James Dean kind of way...but I remember those eyes most of all. They burned with an unsettling fire...They leant an intense, bordering on insane, aura to his features. Did he aspire to the Army as a means of controlling his unstable impulses...or feeding them? The second seemed more likely. (By the by, I never went for that whole "you're mine" thing so common in teenage love stories. It always manages to end badly.)
Most of the time, the yearbook will ask the kids to write something about themselves, and his was simply "Being all I can be."
I kind of figured.
As I closed the book, a pile of envelopes, all stamped, fell out. One of them, stamped and unsealed, was addressed to "Angel Haskel." Now, let it be known that it's usually not good form to read someone else's mail, but the normal rules of etiquette go out the window when lives are on the line.
"Dear Angel," the letter began, "I never told you about the night you left. I'd gone out for groceries, and when I came home, you were gone. I was terrified. I was lost. I couldn't get a straight answer out of anybody. I must have driven for hours looking for you, but there was no sign. I got tired and kind of gave up. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I gave you up on that night. Please forgive me."
I found another one, marked "December 24th."
"Dear Angel, it's Christmas Eve. I remember when I was ten years old and I caught Momma putting presents under the tree. Broke my heart. Believing in Santa was the last bit of little-kid mystery left in the world. I'm looking up at the dark, winter sky right now, wishing that weren't true, wishing that old guy in the red suit would bring you home. I miss you so much. I got to go. He hates it when I write to you. I can hear him coming up the stairs."
As I read those words, I too heard footsteps. It was Peter Watts.
"Did you find something?" he asked.
"Just some letters. I think they're to her father," I replied.
"Records show that his name was John Haskel. He split...long gone."
"Left some deep wounds, though."
We heard a car pull up. Through the window, a police car's red and blue lights flashed. It was Bigelow, with news for us. "We found Jim Gilroy's car, in Springdale, Arkansas, about two hours south from here."
If my suspicions were right...and they usually are...then we had to catch up to our lead in a hurry.
We got to Springdale just as a tow truck pulled the car out of the water. Two troopers busted open the trunk with crowbars. Inside was Jim Gilroy, nee Jake Waterston, his face badly bruised and bloodied, his lungs full of water, and a bullet hole in his thigh.
Jim, Jim, Jake...Karma's a bitch, don't you think?
==========================================================
A couple of hours later, Peter and I paid him a visit at the hospital.
They'd put him in the jail ward. Bigelow and a trooper named Flanagan were in there, grilling him. Sad to say, they were getting nowhere: the jailbird refused to sing. I decided to make my move.
"Who was Maddie riding with?" I asked. He feigned ignorance, but I knew better.
"I know you," I continued. "You used to live at 898 Gadsden Place, Newport News, Virginia. You worked at a mill by the docks, and drove a '73 Impala. Your real name is Jake Waterston and you killed three women. You have no reason to lie."
I saw it in his eyes: he knew the game was up. "They beat me and left me in the trunk. Ever stop to think that I'd be dead if not for the air pocket in there?"
"Not in the way you do. Who's Maddie riding with?"
"Her boyfriend, Bobby Webber. He got me 'cause I wasn't ready for him."
"What did you do to Maddie?"
"Nothin'."
"You killed her mother."
"That hothead? She killed herself."
"You let her. You perpetrated the abuse on Maddie."
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Peter Watts coming in through the security gate. Time to play my last card.
"Who's 'Angel'?"
No reply. Of course.
I knew I wouldn't get any more out of him, so I took my leave of him and went to talk to Peter. He turned out to have some good news.
"I found Maddie's father. Turns out he was an inmate at the Fond du Lac Correctional Institute in Waupan, Missouri. He died there last year, and he's buried in an unmarked grave in a potter's field close to the prison."
"...Maddie must be after something else," I said, almost to myself, as I left the hospital. I needed some cool air, and time to turn things over in my head.
My mind flashed back to those letters. She must have known that her father was dead. The writing of those letters didn't add up, though. She'd written them in the present tense. Were they a confessional...an oral history...or...or...
The answer hit me like a strong vodka-and-tonic, but I'd need Maddie's medical records before I could confirm my suspicions.
==========================================================
Later the next day, at about 6:30 in the morning, we gathered at the Arkansas State Police headquarters, and sat down to look at Maddie's medical records.
Sure enough, we found a birth certificate from St. Mary's Hospital for Angel Webber, born on July 14th. Neither of us knew what had happened to the baby, but I had an idea...an unpleasant one, I admit. Just to be sure, I'd need to access Jim Gilroy's bank records. Peter Watts found a phone line and set up an Internet connection with his laptop.
A few minutes later, he'd found something. About ten months ago, Jim Gilroy received $7,000.00 in his bank account...wire transfer. It was only two months after Angel was born. I could only conclude that he'd bought Maddie's baby, sold it, and bought himself a TV. The wire-transfer came from the account of a lawyer named Rudolph Barnard.
A little more investigation revealed that Angel was adopted by the Travis family in Little Rock. The state police immediately sent out three squad cars after they placed a call and got no answer.
==========================================================
By the time Watts and I got there, it was already a hostage situation. The cars were lined up outside the house, parallel to each other, and the cops all had their sights at the front door. Oh, it was tense, I tell you--nobody dared to even so much as breathe, lest some fool pulled their trigger too soon.
In a split second, the sharp CRACK of a freshly-fired gun popped the atmosphere around us like a pin to a child's balloon. Somewhere around me, a radio blared out a frantic set of orders.
The door opened. Out came Maddie, her face totally blank and her lower lip bleeding slightly. I begged the firing-squad around me to stay their execution, and I ran to her. "It's over, Maddie," I said, as I took the gun from her limp hands. No resistance at all.
A quick peek inside showed me everything I needed to know: The Travises were still holding the baby, and Bobby, at the foot of the stairs, was dead. Looks like she took his gun, then he hit her; and finally she'd had enough and gave him what was coming to him.
No more problems.
========================================================
A little while later, I paid Maddie a visit, had a friendly chat. We were in a small interrogation room at the prison where she was serving her sentence.
"The Travises send me a picture once in a while," she began. "I asked them not to tell Angel anything about his mother...He'd have just grown up to be another Bobby, another Jim, another man just like my father. You saved me that day...You're the only man in my life that ever did anything nice for me."
A guard interrupted us. Time's up.
"I spend my time thinking of Angel. Prayin' that he ain't thinkin' of me."
Sometimes, you see, happy endings aren't always what you'd think they should be.
Or was it a tiger? Neither, as it turned out: it was just Jordan, acting the fool like any good five-year-old should. Ooh, she thought she was being a sneaky little predator, but there was no fooling these eagle-eyes.
Looking back on it, I still smile. But what she said next stopped Cath and me dead in our tracks.
"Are you and Daddy going to have another baby?"
Uh-oh. How do I explain this to her? See, I keep calling her "my miracle daughter" as I relate these tales to you. That's because we were supposed to be infertile, but then we ended up conceiving after all. Looking back, I suppose we probably could have tried again, but it was safer not to press our good luck.
Yes, I was lost for words. Fortunately, I was saved by a bell--the unmistakably electronic sound of our house phone, to be exact. When I picked up, the friendly voice of Peter Watts came through. Figuring that he might have something interesting for me to look at, I headed for the basement.
As soon as I logged in to the Millennium Group's secure site, a file containing information on a one Jake Waterston--alias Jim Gilroy--popped up.
I felt like I'd just eaten some day-old oysters at room temperature. See, back in '92, he was in Newport News, Virginia. Raped and strangled three nurses. Typical low-life.
"He's surfaced," Peter said. "Been living in Joplin, Missouri for the past five years, under the name Jim Gilroy. Last night, a Missouri state trooper got shot, point-blank. The car was registered in Jim's name."
"Let's just make sure we don't lose him again."
==========================================
I met up with Peter Watts at a small airport in Missouri. From there, we set out to make our way to Jim Gilroy's house.
"You have to appreciate Jim Gilroy's discipline," I mused. "A man of his impulses, able to keep quiet for five years."
"Well, he wasn't unknown to local PD, but he never broke a law," Peter corrected me.
I pressed the issue. "But he was facing multiple murder charges. Capital punishment. He'd gone underground successfully...why risk it?"
Before we could even think about Jim Gilroy, we had to make a stop at a house belonging to the...Haskel, I think the name was. Yes, I remember now: the family's name was 'Haskel.'
The place was a bit rustic, the sort of thing you'd find in some coming-of-age novel. I noticed some well-kept china vases on the fireplace, as well as a 45" TV set with the word "Angel" carved into the glass.
At that moment, Captain Bigelow of the Missouri State Police stepped up to introduce himself. After we'd made our introductions, he asked us if we knew Jim Gilroy. "We know him by another name," Peter began, "but yes, Frank pursued him while he was with the FBI."
"How violent is he?" Bigelow asked.
Peter replied: "He murdered three women in Virginia over a Labor Day weekend. The funerals had to be...closed-casket."
I quietly went on a self-guided tour of the house. A full-length mirror in one of the bedrooms caught my eye. Looked like it had been shattered in a struggle. Nasty one, at that--the mirror was bloodstained close to a large shard that had fallen out.
Putting on a pair of rubber gloves, I made my way to the bathroom. Sure enough, there was a bloodstain in the tub. As I looked up, the mirrored medicine cabinet presented to me my reflection. (Astonishingly, the glass did not immediately shatter.)
A vision flashed before my eyes: A woman was looking at herself in the mirror and crying. Suddenly she shattered it with her fist. She turned on the bath and, with the large shard, sliced open her wrist.
The vision ceased. Officer Bigelow might know something about all this.
"Killean Haskel," he told me. "She bled to death in the bathtub, and they buried her yesterday. Coroner concluded that it was a suicide."
"You might want to reconsider that," I said. We were in what looked like their daughter's bedroom. I picked up a photo album from the night stand and opened it. The first thing we saw was a prom-night picture of a young couple, dressed to the nines, followed by wedding pictures and Polaroids taken in various places.
"Is this Killean Haskel's husband?" I asked. "Must be," Bigelow replied. "As far as I know, she was divorced."
"Did they have any children?"
"Daughter. Madeline Haskel, now 20 years old. She lived here, too...We haven't located her yet."
I looked at the bloodstained sheets on the bed. Another vision, this time of Jim Gilroy straddling a terrified Maddie. The scumbag licked his fingers as she screamed.
"Have you typed and cross-matched the blood?" I asked Officer Bigelow.
"I'll get a tech to take a sample," he said. "We assumed it was the mother's."
"We need to find the daughter," I concluded. "She might know something that could help us."
===========================================================
Later that evening, Peter and I were at the Missouri State Police's barracks. The three of us--him, Bigelow, and myself--were watching video of the state trooper's death at Jim Gilroy's hands.
"Looks like the trooper took the proper approach," Bigelow said. "Seems he just didn't see the gun."
As I jotted down the license-plate number--RH7-487--a flicker of movement on the right-hand side of the screen caught my eye. "Pan right," I ordered. Peter complied with a few keystrokes.
"Is there a report?" I asked as Bigelow gave me a complete forensics report. "Killer used armor-piercing rounds," he said.
Peter interrupted him. "Wait--Jim Gilroy never used a gun. He garroted his victims. Cut them."
"Hold on, hold on," Bigelow exclaimed. "Are you trying to tell me that Jim Gilroy didn't kill my trooper?"
"You know him as Gilroy," I countered, "but we know him as Jake Waterston. He's neither rash nor careless. He wouldn't have acted on impulse unless he believed that his new identity was being threatened.
I turned to Peter and asked him to go back. We saw something move in the passenger's seat.
"That's not Gilroy. He's six-foot-two, and whoever's in there is much smaller." I flicked through the report. "Oh, look at this. There were two blood types identified: B-negative and A-negative. We know that Gilroy's is A-negative...but the video doesn't show the driver getting hurt or anything. Maybe Gilroy isn't driving."
I closed my eyes to think for a second, and the answer came to me. "The passenger is Maddie Haskel. If Gilroy were driving, she'd have been dead already."
"Well, if Gilroy isn't driving, and if he isn't the passenger...then where the hell is he?" Bigelow asked. ============================================================
It was about 1:30 in the morning. I went back to the Haskel place to see if I could find another angle.
The best place to start would be the last place I'd seen: Maddie's bedroom. It's funny...Someone told me once that you can tell a man by what you find on his bookshelf. Hers was mostly children's books, but a big red volume labeled "WEST HIGH SCHOOL" along its spine called out to me.
I flicked through the pages, and was soon rewarded with a picture of Maddie Haskel. Underneath, I saw a handwritten message: "Dear Maddie--See you soon after BASIC TRAINING. then you're mine. Love, Bobby W."
"Bobby W.," huh? I made a beeline for the very back of the book. I found a Dean Walker; a Bart Wear...and, finally, a Robert Webber. Black curly hair, handsome in a James Dean kind of way...but I remember those eyes most of all. They burned with an unsettling fire...They leant an intense, bordering on insane, aura to his features. Did he aspire to the Army as a means of controlling his unstable impulses...or feeding them? The second seemed more likely. (By the by, I never went for that whole "you're mine" thing so common in teenage love stories. It always manages to end badly.)
Most of the time, the yearbook will ask the kids to write something about themselves, and his was simply "Being all I can be."
I kind of figured.
As I closed the book, a pile of envelopes, all stamped, fell out. One of them, stamped and unsealed, was addressed to "Angel Haskel." Now, let it be known that it's usually not good form to read someone else's mail, but the normal rules of etiquette go out the window when lives are on the line.
"Dear Angel," the letter began, "I never told you about the night you left. I'd gone out for groceries, and when I came home, you were gone. I was terrified. I was lost. I couldn't get a straight answer out of anybody. I must have driven for hours looking for you, but there was no sign. I got tired and kind of gave up. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I gave you up on that night. Please forgive me."
I found another one, marked "December 24th."
"Dear Angel, it's Christmas Eve. I remember when I was ten years old and I caught Momma putting presents under the tree. Broke my heart. Believing in Santa was the last bit of little-kid mystery left in the world. I'm looking up at the dark, winter sky right now, wishing that weren't true, wishing that old guy in the red suit would bring you home. I miss you so much. I got to go. He hates it when I write to you. I can hear him coming up the stairs."
As I read those words, I too heard footsteps. It was Peter Watts.
"Did you find something?" he asked.
"Just some letters. I think they're to her father," I replied.
"Records show that his name was John Haskel. He split...long gone."
"Left some deep wounds, though."
We heard a car pull up. Through the window, a police car's red and blue lights flashed. It was Bigelow, with news for us. "We found Jim Gilroy's car, in Springdale, Arkansas, about two hours south from here."
If my suspicions were right...and they usually are...then we had to catch up to our lead in a hurry.
We got to Springdale just as a tow truck pulled the car out of the water. Two troopers busted open the trunk with crowbars. Inside was Jim Gilroy, nee Jake Waterston, his face badly bruised and bloodied, his lungs full of water, and a bullet hole in his thigh.
Jim, Jim, Jake...Karma's a bitch, don't you think?
==========================================================
A couple of hours later, Peter and I paid him a visit at the hospital.
They'd put him in the jail ward. Bigelow and a trooper named Flanagan were in there, grilling him. Sad to say, they were getting nowhere: the jailbird refused to sing. I decided to make my move.
"Who was Maddie riding with?" I asked. He feigned ignorance, but I knew better.
"I know you," I continued. "You used to live at 898 Gadsden Place, Newport News, Virginia. You worked at a mill by the docks, and drove a '73 Impala. Your real name is Jake Waterston and you killed three women. You have no reason to lie."
I saw it in his eyes: he knew the game was up. "They beat me and left me in the trunk. Ever stop to think that I'd be dead if not for the air pocket in there?"
"Not in the way you do. Who's Maddie riding with?"
"Her boyfriend, Bobby Webber. He got me 'cause I wasn't ready for him."
"What did you do to Maddie?"
"Nothin'."
"You killed her mother."
"That hothead? She killed herself."
"You let her. You perpetrated the abuse on Maddie."
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Peter Watts coming in through the security gate. Time to play my last card.
"Who's 'Angel'?"
No reply. Of course.
I knew I wouldn't get any more out of him, so I took my leave of him and went to talk to Peter. He turned out to have some good news.
"I found Maddie's father. Turns out he was an inmate at the Fond du Lac Correctional Institute in Waupan, Missouri. He died there last year, and he's buried in an unmarked grave in a potter's field close to the prison."
"...Maddie must be after something else," I said, almost to myself, as I left the hospital. I needed some cool air, and time to turn things over in my head.
My mind flashed back to those letters. She must have known that her father was dead. The writing of those letters didn't add up, though. She'd written them in the present tense. Were they a confessional...an oral history...or...or...
The answer hit me like a strong vodka-and-tonic, but I'd need Maddie's medical records before I could confirm my suspicions.
==========================================================
Later the next day, at about 6:30 in the morning, we gathered at the Arkansas State Police headquarters, and sat down to look at Maddie's medical records.
Sure enough, we found a birth certificate from St. Mary's Hospital for Angel Webber, born on July 14th. Neither of us knew what had happened to the baby, but I had an idea...an unpleasant one, I admit. Just to be sure, I'd need to access Jim Gilroy's bank records. Peter Watts found a phone line and set up an Internet connection with his laptop.
A few minutes later, he'd found something. About ten months ago, Jim Gilroy received $7,000.00 in his bank account...wire transfer. It was only two months after Angel was born. I could only conclude that he'd bought Maddie's baby, sold it, and bought himself a TV. The wire-transfer came from the account of a lawyer named Rudolph Barnard.
A little more investigation revealed that Angel was adopted by the Travis family in Little Rock. The state police immediately sent out three squad cars after they placed a call and got no answer.
==========================================================
By the time Watts and I got there, it was already a hostage situation. The cars were lined up outside the house, parallel to each other, and the cops all had their sights at the front door. Oh, it was tense, I tell you--nobody dared to even so much as breathe, lest some fool pulled their trigger too soon.
In a split second, the sharp CRACK of a freshly-fired gun popped the atmosphere around us like a pin to a child's balloon. Somewhere around me, a radio blared out a frantic set of orders.
The door opened. Out came Maddie, her face totally blank and her lower lip bleeding slightly. I begged the firing-squad around me to stay their execution, and I ran to her. "It's over, Maddie," I said, as I took the gun from her limp hands. No resistance at all.
A quick peek inside showed me everything I needed to know: The Travises were still holding the baby, and Bobby, at the foot of the stairs, was dead. Looks like she took his gun, then he hit her; and finally she'd had enough and gave him what was coming to him.
No more problems.
========================================================
A little while later, I paid Maddie a visit, had a friendly chat. We were in a small interrogation room at the prison where she was serving her sentence.
"The Travises send me a picture once in a while," she began. "I asked them not to tell Angel anything about his mother...He'd have just grown up to be another Bobby, another Jim, another man just like my father. You saved me that day...You're the only man in my life that ever did anything nice for me."
A guard interrupted us. Time's up.
"I spend my time thinking of Angel. Prayin' that he ain't thinkin' of me."
Sometimes, you see, happy endings aren't always what you'd think they should be.
=======================================================================
COMMENTARY
Most of Millennium's first-season episodes follow a "catch-the-serial-killer" template, usually with some other kind of twist thrown in for good measure. The first few episodes--"Pilot" up to about "Blood Relatives"--have been pretty straightforward, but now we're starting to see the series work its magic with other narratives and genres.
This episode, "The Wild and the Innocent," is a sequel to and inversion of "Blood Relatives," in that it's about a young mother, on the run from the law, searching for her biological infant son, whereas the earlier episode involved a young man in a halfway-house searching for his long-lost birth mother. Interestingly, both episodes end in the same way: the mother rejects the child. In "Blood Relatives," it's because she wants nothing to do with him having seen what's become of him; in "The Wild and the Innocent," it's because she realizes that he's better off with his adoptive parents.
...Actually, the episode is also playing with another narrative, that of "the killer from the hero's past returns and starts killing again." Considering that this is Millennium we're talking about, there's a twist: The killer is the victim this time around, having nearly drowned in the trunk of a sinking car.
There's honestly little else I can say about this one, other than "it's extremely dull." There's little of any value for me to comment on, and even the esteemed Lance Henriksen seems to be phoning it in.
What's more, he and Terry O'Quinn (Peter Watts) are at times saddled with ludicrous dialogue that no human being would ever spout in real life (O'Quinn, perhaps channeling Mr. Spock: "...The morticians were unable to satisfactorily reconstruct the bodies." Henriksen, as Captain Obvious: "An inordinate amount of violence and suffering has occurred in this house.").
Worse still, the lines are delivered in the most deadly-serious way possible, and the whole affair inadvertently takes a turn for the hilarious. Seriously, I just burst into hysterics whenever I read those lines!
All in all, "The Wild and the Innocent" could have used another revision or two.
Hopefully, the series will pick up some steam again come next episode.
====================================================================
(Millennium copyright Ten Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Television. All screenshots are property of Ten Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Television. All rights reserved. Special thanks to Millennium--This Is Who We Are for episode transcripts, which helped me adapt the episodes.)
This episode, "The Wild and the Innocent," is a sequel to and inversion of "Blood Relatives," in that it's about a young mother, on the run from the law, searching for her biological infant son, whereas the earlier episode involved a young man in a halfway-house searching for his long-lost birth mother. Interestingly, both episodes end in the same way: the mother rejects the child. In "Blood Relatives," it's because she wants nothing to do with him having seen what's become of him; in "The Wild and the Innocent," it's because she realizes that he's better off with his adoptive parents.
...Actually, the episode is also playing with another narrative, that of "the killer from the hero's past returns and starts killing again." Considering that this is Millennium we're talking about, there's a twist: The killer is the victim this time around, having nearly drowned in the trunk of a sinking car.
There's honestly little else I can say about this one, other than "it's extremely dull." There's little of any value for me to comment on, and even the esteemed Lance Henriksen seems to be phoning it in.
What's more, he and Terry O'Quinn (Peter Watts) are at times saddled with ludicrous dialogue that no human being would ever spout in real life (O'Quinn, perhaps channeling Mr. Spock: "...The morticians were unable to satisfactorily reconstruct the bodies." Henriksen, as Captain Obvious: "An inordinate amount of violence and suffering has occurred in this house.").
Worse still, the lines are delivered in the most deadly-serious way possible, and the whole affair inadvertently takes a turn for the hilarious. Seriously, I just burst into hysterics whenever I read those lines!
All in all, "The Wild and the Innocent" could have used another revision or two.
Hopefully, the series will pick up some steam again come next episode.
====================================================================
(Millennium copyright Ten Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Television. All screenshots are property of Ten Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Television. All rights reserved. Special thanks to Millennium--This Is Who We Are for episode transcripts, which helped me adapt the episodes.)
