Eli McMorn and the Strange Case of Kill Devil Hill: Part 12

Administrators at the Haines Island mental institution had given me the okay to interview Tommy Lawson for only one hour, and time was almost up. Lawson was the sole survivor of a 1988 Halloween incident that left five Claiborne teenagers dead. It had been years since he’d talked about the unexplained incident.

“As soon as I saw Jimmy’s class ring in the Sheriff’s hand, I knew I was in trouble,” Lawson said. “I still don’t know why I took it off Jimmy’s finger and put it in my pocket.”

According to the Sheriff’s report, Lawson claimed to have forgotten that he even had the ring. After a young bowhunter accidentally shot Lawson in the chest on the morning after Halloween, Lawson was taken to Claiborne City Hospital. A pair of emergency room nurses undressed him to put him in a hospital gown, and his filthy clothes, jewelry and wallet ended up in a plastic bag.

When investigators searched Lawson’s belongings, they thought it odd that Lawson had two class rings. One belonged to him, but the inside of the other was stamped “JC” for Jimmy Creason. The fact that Lawson was alive and that he had Jimmy’s ring raised a lot of questions that Lawson couldn’t answer.

“I told them over and over what happened, but they didn’t believe me,” Lawson said. “You’ve got to understand. Five kids were dead. The law was under pressure to get answers. I was the only suspect, so they indicted me.”

Apparently, Lawson’s court-appointed lawyer had his own doubts about Lawson’s innocence. The lawyer – Roland Galbraith III, Esq. – had a psychiatrist evaluate Lawson, and that doctor helped convince the court that Lawson was unfit to stand trial. He said that Lawson was delusional and had suffered a violent psychotic break due to drugs and stress.

“Rather than send me to prison, they had me committed, sent me here,” Lawson said. He waved a hand at his bleak surroundings. “They never proved that I killed anybody, but as long as I’m in here, case closed, right?”

The one-hour timer I’d set on my wristwatch beeped, and I knew that the guard in the hallway would walk in any minute now to take Lawson away. “Anything else you’d like to tell me?”

Lawson’s pale, bony hands shot across the table and grabbed me hard by the arm. “You’re a fool to spend the night on top of Kill Devil Hill,” he said, his spooky, yellow eyes locked on mine. “That place is vulgar, unholy. The Indians knew it. You should stay away.”

As if on cue, the guard entered the room, and Lawson released my arm. I turned in my seat to look at the guard, who hadn’t seen Lawson grab me. The guard tapped his wristwatch with a pudgy index finder. “Time’s up, McMorn.” He cuffed and shackled Lawson and led him from the room. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” the guard said to me over his shoulder. “I have to walk you out.”

I stowed my things and a few minutes later, the guard returned. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”

I followed him as he buzzed me through a maze of locked doors and bleak hallways. I could hear distant, unnerving yells from somewhere deep in the building. “You and Lawson have a good talk?” The guard shook his head and chuckled, his question laced with sarcasm.

“Not too bad,” I said. “He’s an interesting guy. I learned a lot from what he had to say.”

“Yeah, right,” the guard said and rolled his eyes.

“What?”

We arrived at the wide wooden doors to the outside. “Oh, come on. You know what. Lawson didn’t talk to you.”

“We talked for about an hour,” I said.

“Yeah, ok,” the guard said. He shook his head in humorous disbelief. “Listen, whatever happened to that kid back in the 80s, I don’t know, but he’s missing his tongue. It got cut out or he bit it off or something. He hasn’t uttered a word in years, not since I’ve worked here.”

The guard pushed open the doors, and I stepped out into the storming rain. I ran to my vehicle and once inside, I pulled out Lawson’s medical records. The only injury mentioned was from the arrow the boy had fired into his chest.

I fished out my tape recorder and pushed play. Nothing happened. The batteries were dead. I sat there for several minutes and looked through the windshield at the wide façade of the drab mental hospital. Eventually, I turned the key and guided my vehicle out of the parking lot towards Claiborne.

(All rights reserved. This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.)