by Patrick Bailey
Juliet Norville was jogging in the park outside the city on a chilly summer morning about 6 am. The park was deserted or so it seemed. Only the birds rustling in the trees could be heard.
The mist was heavy in Forest Park in Portland, the largest park within any major city. As she came to an opening in the trail, at the site of a large barbecue pit, she spotted a man who was drinking from a can of beer.
The man rose up, attacked her and held her down. He began to tear away her clothing.
"Hi honey, nice of you to make our date. I thought you forgot all about me," the rapist moaned in mock concern.
She screamed, but there was no one to hear her. Suddenly there was a sound like popcorn popping. Just some bird, the rapist thought.
Schemas stood looking down at the rapist.
"Are you not able to hear this woman's screams?" asked Schemas. Schemas was wearing a blue suit. His hair was jet-black and he was a very handsome human being, or at least looked like one.
Grunting, the man rose from the ground and lunged at Schemas, yelling curses.
Schemas held the man and looked at him. The man had a coarse, brown beard. His breath stank of beer and his eyes were bloodshot.
"You have neglected your health," declared Schemas, calmly. "Your eyes show that you have not slept well."
"You son-of-a-bitch," said the man, drawing away from Schemas and pulling out a large knife from the back of his pants.
He glared at Schemas. "When I'm done with you, you'll sleep for a long time, motherfucker," said the man, and swung the knife at Schemas.
Schemas backed away and took the knife away with one quick movement.
"I was hoping to talk to you about your actions," said Schemas. "I am trying to determine the causes of evil. You have evil in you. From where did it come?"
The rapist was puzzled. His sexual lust was now dispelled, leaving only an adrenaline fear. Without the knife he had no choice. He began to run through the woods.
"Wait, you have left your knife! I will return it to you." Schemas ran after the rapist and caught up with him. "You must not commit this crime again."
Schemas brought the man to the ground and castrated him. The rapist yelled in pain.
"You have evil in you and you mustn't use it any longer," said Schemas. His tone was flat, clinical, but not hostile. Schemas was not feeling adrenaline. He was not human. He had simply reacted and now he had done what he had to do. The evil man who had tried to rape the woman would rape no more.
He returned to the barbecue pit but the woman was gone. He could have focused on her energy, her aura, and found her present path in his mind but she was of no consequence to him now. She was safe. That was all he had wanted.
Joe Schemas enjoyed the United States. He was on the west coast up north in Oregon. He had rented a penthouse apartment in downtown Portland and enrolled in classes in criminology at the university there.
"There must be a vigilant attention to the rights of suspects," his professor intoned. "The use of illegal searches or undue harassment is no longer standard practice nor can any of this tainted evidence be admitted into courts as evidence. The Warren Court has been pretty clear on this."
Schemas never spoke in class unless he was called upon to do so. He took notes, not because he didn't already know the information, which he had already read and memorized, but because he wanted to fit in. He was interested in learning about the type of people who would enforce justice on Earth.
He was surprised that they did not study evil or even seem to be interested in it. To Schemas it seemed these people just accepted evil and tried to protect the innocent from it. But he felt that they would never win the battle until they could understand it. It seemed to him senseless that they would seek to protect the rights of the guilty.
Schemas was not interested in the rights of the guilty. Schemas' mind was on justice, never mercy or redemption or paying debts to society. Schemas wanted to erase evil. He wanted to understand it first, but until then he wanted to erase it. No one who committed evil should ever have the opportunity to do so again. This was Schemas' logic. Since he could not understand evil, he would never be able to predict it, so it simply had to be eliminated once it had been demonstrated.
One day Schemas found a note on one of his test papers on which he had made a perfect score. "Please come to my office. I would like to talk to you about this test." It was from his "Crime and the Courts" professor.
"Yes, Professor, you wanted to see me?" asked Schemas, standing in the doorway of the tiny office in the Administration of Justice Department.
Prof. Jamieson looked up.
"Yes, please come in and sit down, Mr. Schemas. You have scored well on all my tests this semester and if it weren't for you I would think that my class was too difficult. You see, you are the only one to whom I can give an "A" this semester. I was curious about you and what your future plans were. Are you going into law enforcement?"
"Yes, Professor."
"Are you going to be a police officer?" continued Prof. Jamieson.
"I will be involved somehow in enforcing the law. I am interested in order and justice," answered Schemas. His tone was flat and calm. The professor felt somehow that Schemas knew much more than he offered. It wasn't his classroom behavior, since Schemas rarely spoke. It was the way Schemas filled out his tests. They were perfect. Too perfect, too clinical. They weren't like those from students who had been students most of their lives. There was no tentativeness in them. No hesitation. No self-doubt.
There are better thoughts to have when you wake up in the morning than what kind of knife the killer used to mutilate his victim. Maybe thinking of baseball or Buddhism's noble eightfold path to enlightenment. Charlie figured the killer was probably fussy about knives. He probably bought good ones, the kind you get in a cutlery shop or at some gun-and-knife show where the men are all a little fat and they wear combat-fatigue shirts which are too long to tuck into their baggy pants. There had been another similar murder to Jane Preston's a month ago, and that murder weapon hadn't been found. That bothered Charlie. Usually a killer disposes of the weapon and it is eventually found. It's dangerous to keep a murder weapon. Charlie wondered if the murderer cleaned it to use it again. He wondered if he used the same knife at his family's barbecue. It was one of those thoughts that Charlie hated. He hated getting inside a sicko's mind. But he had to. It was his job.
Det. Cranston was a husky man, not fat but not slim. It was hard to tell by looking at him if he was athletic. He had a bit of a beer belly but he moved quickly and he was a fast runner. The extra weight didn't slow him down. And it came in handy when he was wrestling with some punk. He had brown hair and a moustache. He was 45 and his hair was thinning on top. He was the type of man who had been handsome once and on a good day he still looked pretty good. If he wasn't too hung over.
"Charlie, you're going to have some company for a few weeks," said Capt. Pierce.
"Company? You mean that stray cat you've been trying to unload on someone?" asked Charlie.
"No, Charlie I wouldn't be that cruel to a stray cat. You are going to have a student from PSU named Joe Schemas who is doing an internship with the department as part of his college credit."
"Me? My God, Captain, with all due respect, do you think Homicide is the best place for a student intern?"
"No, of course not. It is against the law for bartenders to drink while on duty and I don't allow them to have more than one drink after they get off their shift. I think it may have been the Spirit." said Chang.
"The what?" asked Charlie.
"There is word in the Chinese community here that a Spirit is walking the earth in Portland. An Evil Spirit."
"Chang, are you being serious? I haven't heard anything about this."
"The Chinese keep these things to themselves. I wouldn't mention it to anyone except that I owe you my life and I should give you all the information I can."
"You think that Camilo might have seen the Spirit? You think the Spirit might have killed that woman who used to work for you?" asked Charlie.
Chang nodded his head slowly up and down. "Something is out there somewhere in Portland. It is evil. It is not human. I think Camilo saw it."
"When can I talk to Camilo?" asked Charlie.
"He'll be here tonight at 8," answered Chang.
"I'll try and swing by for a nightcap," said Charlie.
Chang and Charlie then returned to the pinball machine where Schemas was playing.
"So, you got hooked, Joe," said Charlie. "How much have you sunk into this baby since I left."
"I'm still playing on your nickel, Charlie," said Schemas.
Charlie looked at the machine scoreboard and saw that Schemas had accrued 84 free games. "Holy Shit, Joe, that's 84 bucks! How did you do it?"
"It's all hand-to-eye coordination. And pushing the machine around a little, like you said," said Schemas.
"OK, let's cash out," said Charlie to Chang. "Hey, I better bring my new partner around more often. I may even break even with you someday, Chang."
Chang looked closely at Schemas. He seemed to look through him. "You are very skilled, Mr. Schemas," said Chang. "The gods look with favor upon you."
Schemas looked at Chang. He sensed that Chang was sizing him up. "The gods are in heaven and I am on earth," said Schemas.
Cindy was in a good mood as she drove Schemas home to his apartment in downtown Portland. She had enjoyed the policeman's ball and the dancing. She loved to dance. She was so proud to be there with such a handsome and considerate man. Schemas was out of this world to her. And meeting the mayor! Why had she agreed to call him later? It was just the excitement of the party, she told herself.
"So where do I turn off Broadway?" asked Cindy.
"Just up ahead," said Schemas. "The street is Jackson Avenue."
"Did you enjoy the dance?" asked Cindy.
"I enjoyed being with you," said Schemas, calmly.
Cindy smiled. Her heart raced. Could it be true? Was Schemas interested in her? He was so smart. What could he possibly see in her? Maybe he was just being polite.
Cindy made the correct turn and they rounded through the park blocks surrounding the university until Schemas pointed to a high-rise apartment building.
"There it is, Cindy."
Cindy found a parking spot very near to the building. It was a beautiful area of the downtown area with lots of trees, flowers and flowering shrubs.
"Would you like to see my apartment?" asked Schemas.
"Yes, I would," answered Cindy. "It's such a lovely building. I'd like to see what the inside looks like," added Cindy, as she got out the car.
As they rode up to the 12th floor, Schemas said, "There's a man in the building who just walks around all day looking at birds. He wears a funny hat and always carries a big umbrella, even if it's not raining. I think he keeps a bird journal as I always see him jotting in his book," said Schemas.
"I wonder how he pays his rent?" asked Cindy.
"Maybe he believed Jesus Christ when he said that the birds don't worry about where their food is coming from, so why should man?" smiled Schemas.
"I don't think that would do much good with my landlord," answered Cindy.
They went into Schemas' apartment and it was immaculate. All the furnishings were new and in perfect order. He had a large sound system with the new "stereophonic" speaker system. There were large bookshelves in each of the rooms with what must have been thousands of books.
"No wonder you're so smart, Joe, you have more books than the library."
"They keep me company," said Schemas.
"That sounds lonely," said Cindy, looking at him.
Schemas looked around his apartment. "It's a good way to get knowledge."
"Is that all you want?" asked Cindy.
Schemas smiled at her. "I should say something romantic now, should I not?"
"Because it's in the books that way?" pressed Cindy.
"You don't understand..."
"I know that you're a man. You must have feelings. You can't always be happy here alone, can you?" Cindy felt she was pushing him and she knew she had no right to.
"I'm not sure how to answer you," said Schemas honestly.
"Are you, I mean, are you not interested in women?" Cindy might as well find out while she had the chance.
"You mean am I homosexual?" answered Schemas.
Cindy turned red. "No, of course, it's none of my businessÉ"
"I'm not homosexual," announced Schemas. "I'm sorry I can't answer you better. I guess you are used to men who know what to do when they come home from a dance." Schemas seemed to falter in his speech which she had never heard him do before.
"I usually run into my door because I'm afraid of what they might want to do," said Cindy, laughing. "But here I am giving you the third-degree because you don't make a pass at me."
Schemas smiled. "The police aren't supposed to use that third-degree anymore."
Cindy just stared back at him.
"I guess I work too much. I don't know about these things. I like you, Cindy. I feel comfortable around you and I want the best for you. I hope you can believe that."
"I believe it. And I feel the same way about you," answered Cindy. "Maybe I better be going. I'm sorry."
"Do not be sorry. You are just asking normal questions. I may not know the answers like I usually do, that's all."
Cindy kissed him on the cheek.
"Goodbye, Joe. I had a wonderful time. I forgive you for not trying to take advantage of me," said Cindy, playfully.
"I will see you at class," said Schemas, feeling in control of the situation again.
When Cindy had left, Schemas went over to his record collection. He pulled out the 45 by Lesley Gore, "It's My Party." That record always made him relax. There was something about the way that lady sang, so sincere, so pretty, with such exuberance. He liked her spirit. Lesley Gore cried a lot in her songs. Cindy reminded Schemas of that. He imagined that Cindy cried sometimes. Schemas did not know how it felt to cry. He didn't know about losing love or gaining it. He was here on Earth to learn about evil. Still, Schemas liked Lesley Gore and there was definitely no evil in her. Nor in Cindy either.
"Because that's the way boys are," Lesley sang.
Charlie thought about this. Charlie heard something in the way Joe had said it. In his tone of voice. Joe wanted to go after the killer, too. Not just as a project for school. Joe was serious. It was a crazy idea which went against Charlie's professionalism. Not the professionalism written by some bureaucrat for the police manual. It went against his feelings for Joe, his idea that Joe needed to be protected from how bad the world was before he could take his place as a police officer, if that's what he wanted. He didn't want to shock Joe and cause him so much stress that he would give up his idea to dedicate himself to police work. But Joe was earnestly trying to help. Was Jane Preston lying peaceably in her grave because no policeman had broken any rules? Was it Charlie's decision to make? What would Charlie have wanted if he were in Joe's place at Joe's age?
"You will only do what you I think you can handle, agreed?" said Charlie. "I know you want in and I know how you feel. But it's dangerous work."
"I am not afraid," said Joe. "Thank you for trusting me, Charlie."
Schemas retrieved a message from Corialis by punching in a few keys on his computer. It read (in translation):
To: Professor Schemas
I received your last report and was gratified that you have the trust of the Earth beings that you are in contact with. I considered that a strength of yours on your last assignment.
I realize also that your studies are vague and that you are not likely to reach a scientific conclusion. This lack of any definitive finding is already clear from the raw data that you have supplied.
It is possible that your studies would be better ended, and that you should return to Corialis to continue teaching. You have been gone now for some time and I think you deserve a chance to be among your fellow scholars to teach and write.
Consider this and include your analysis of it in your next report. Send me something that I can show the Elder Council. Something brief for they have little patience with scholarly work. They are get restless with subjects that they once funded in a temporary fit of interest. They want to move onto another galaxy requiring similar study. I am sure that you understand.
Charlie laid on his couch and picked up Playboy Magazine. He started reading an interview with a comedian who was talking about what made people laugh. Unexpected endings to familiar imagery was what did it, this comedian said. You create a picture of something in the audience's mind and then you give them something that they don't expect. He read the Playmate of the Month's turn-ons and turn-offs. "Meeting a serial killer," might be a turnoff muttered Schemas to himself. She was smiling so sweetly and attractively. Her hair and face were so perfect. Twenty-two years old and a recent college graduate. She wanted to work in communications or advertising. Charlie looked at her body. Perfection. Charlie always wondered what these women thought about seeing themselves in Playboy. Charlie had been brought up in Catholic schools and taught that women were not to be seen as objects of sexual desire. Their bodies were temples of the spirit, it was said. Pretty nice temples, thought Charlie.
He laid the magazine down and picked up National Geographic. He hardly ever traveled, except occasionally to a police convention, but he liked reading about exotic places. He wondered if he maybe could have been an adventurer if he had lived in the 19th century. Maybe he could have gone to Africa and been the one to "discover" Dr. Livingstone. But that had all been a publicity stunt by P.T. Barnum anyhow. Besides Charlie wasn't convinced that being discovered was such a good thing for those native peoples. There was an article about some scholar who was reading and analyzing old letters from the Colonial times in America. Hell, thought Charlie, I can't understand my own mother, how is someone supposed to understand someone who lived 300 years ago by reading their letters?
Entry in Cindy's Journal
I wonder sometimes if I will find the right man for me. Or, if the right man will find me. I am 24 years old now and am trying hard to make something of my life. I want to be in police work like my Uncle Harry was. I always liked Uncle Harry. He always seemed to have something important on his mind and he sometimes left our family dinners because he had to go to work on something. I want to have an important job like that. I could be a doctor but I don't have the stomach for it. All that blood and giving shots.
I know a man who is taking classes at the university and he helped me with my studies. We even took a little picnic once and went to a dance. I'm not sure if he invited me because he liked me or if he just needed a date. Not that he is mean or anything. He reminds me of Uncle Harry (not in looks) because he seems to have important things on his mind. This is just guessing on my part, though, as he doesn't talk about it. Men keep quiet a lot and it's hard to know what they are thinking. I know that Joe (that's his name) has many books and reads them all. He gets the best grades in our class on the courts. He says he is going on to teach. He'll be a good teacher because I learned a lot from him already. He makes it easy because he is not harsh or short with me. He seems to really want me to learn. He isn't like the other men in school. He doesn't talk about sports or drink beer. He is so serious.
I met the mayor at a lunch. It was exciting. I don't know how I got the courage to do it. I had met him at the dinner that Joe took me to. I told him I wanted to be a policewoman. He said he wanted to get more women on the force. I doubt he will remember me but I did tell him I was applying for the academy. Maybe I should put him down as a reference!
I hope my mother and father are doing well. Mom had a cold last week and was using her vaporizer. I miss that smell. I like the smell of Vicks and I remember when Mom would rub it on my chest and put flannel cloth on it. I love my mother so much. And Dad, too.
To: Elder Tartaran
I read your last message to me and am deeply gratified that you are pleased with my work. Your mentoring has meant so much to me these past years.
Earth is a vague place for study, you are of course right. The population is still quite varied and the search for answers goes on in a fragmented and unorganized way. I had hoped to be able to perceive a sense of order to it before now. But it has occurred to me that the individual human is needful of study in order to understand the entire population.
A case study that I am now in the middle of may allow me to make generalizations on the population based on my empirical research. I know that is what is expected of me, and it is why the research project was approved by the Elder Council.
I am very anxious to return to Corialis and resume my teaching. But I wish to continue here until all that can be added to my report has been sufficiently concluded.
I am not sure how much more time this will require. The humans are not on any schedule here except their routines for everyday existence. This is an advantage to me.
I wish you well and you are often in my thoughts.
Please accept my request to delay my departure. I will delay it no longer than is necessary. I will end by enclosing a brief essay after sorting through the literature available to me here in answer to your request for something to show the Elder Council.
"The human does not know which idea is more problematic: 1) Life has meaning, or 2) Life has no meaning.
If life has meaning, is he bound to discover it naturally, or does he need to work like a detective, constantly? If he does not feel he is on the right track toward this meaning, is he then lost? Hopeless? Alienated? Is any contentment in such a state merely the contentment of a human fool?
But if there is no meaning, is this a license to create happiness? Or is it a condemnation to the kingdom of thinking animals?
Some humans have written that their lives have meaning which can never be discovered. So they have it both ways. They can indulge in the idea of some cosmic state but not be burdened with trying to work out the details of such a master plan in their own lives.
Others say the point is moot. It is obvious life can be enjoyed or loathed, and only a masochist chooses the latter. A masochist who then tries to ruin everyone else's life by saying life has no meaning. People who are interested in this question are miserable people and think others should be miserable, too.
Some human writers state, mainly in the books called "self-help," that the question is not if life in general has meaning but whether or not there is meaning in an individual's life. For them this meaning must be put there. It's not hidden like an Easter egg (note: these terms are in the vernacular and I include them to show the type of symbolism and simple analogy-form that human writers use). These self-help writers cajole others to put meaning in their lives and their lives will have meaning. For them, life is like cooking. If all you put in is flour and water you get paste. You need to spice things up.
Life can be hard for the human population and sometimes they must rely on the love and compassion of others. There is evil in the world which exists side by side with this need for love and the comparisons and contradictions are nowhere explained in any of the books I have seen, except in the religions which believe in an omnipotent God and a near-omnipotent devil or Evil One. Then it becomes a sort of game with the humans as pawns.
The situation is no better explained than in a popular song, a form of art among the Earthlings, which is titled "It's My Party." This piece of human music tells of human hope, of human identity and the will to create the type of happiness that humans all seek. The song conveys all that I have read in numerous philosophical journals. The need for identity and independence, the wish to understand the wants of the human person and have them come to fruition. This is the stuff of human life. There is some haziness on whether the needs are created within the human personality or imposed from an unknown source. Humans blur this distinction. The song tells of a young woman who has emotional needs that are frustrated by unpredictable events and she is overcome, but she states that she will "cry if she wants to," thereby asserting her defiant spirit. Humans make art of these emotional dilemmas and this only adds to the interest of the human condition. A quick reading of the situation might be that humans want to be frustrated in order to rise above the frustration through art and through the presentation of the power of individual identity, thereby making them sort of gods to themselves. But there is something irrepressible in the human spirit, and I think that this irrepressibility is what's needing to be studied. I think humankind is going to "cry if it wants to," but it wants the party to finally work out. But for all my analysis, the simple fact remains that it's not so much what is said in this song as the way the singer sings it, the spirit of the delivery overwhelms the content of the lyrics. With humans the intellectual side of things does not capture the entirety of the story."
His vacation time in Bucharest, "Paris of the Balkans," had been brief but productive. He was rising in his field and he had absorbed a lot through reading and conferences and introspection. Introspection was something that most people did not consider learning, yet he had always prized his quiet moments when the noise of the world and the quiet of his mind could form a synthesis. Ideas then became individual things would could be stored in the mind and this was how genius could start. That was what he had in mind: genius. But genius takes time, more than one lifetime. There needed to be a way to prolong his life so his mind could reach its full potential.
He had heard of such a way from a Romanian colleague at a convention a year ago in Portland. That colleague had related the matter as a criminal problem, a legend of unstoppable murderers. The murderer had expressed an interest in folklore to this colleague and had taken him out and gotten him drunk. That was how he learned of a cult that needed money to survive and he got the name of someone which could be used as an introduction.
It was crossing over to something unholy. Adam and Eve had been condemned for wanting to eat from the Tree of Knowledge. Satan had tempted them. So Satan tempted him. God was Love but the Devil was Knowledge. Knowledge was the real purity to his mind. Knowledge was power. Not the kind of knowledge that you learned in books about electric circuits. The knowledge he wanted was knowledge of life's secrets, like the ancient alchemists. Isaac Newton had collected old books about the secrets of the universe. Newton had suspected that physics was not the true route to knowledge.
No one could understand him. That he knew. He had succeeded in the world of man by being less than what he was capable of becoming. He knew that intuitively and it made him angry that the world would let him succeed while inside he knew that he knew nothing. He would have to go beyond the everyday world. He would need to live a long time to find the answers.
He knew that this method would mean that others would have to die. Other lives would have to be sacrificed for the greater good of his goal. This was what powerful men did throughout history. They made the decisions even if others had to die for them. But the murderer felt righteous because his goal was not just useless pride or vanity like some drunken Viking who was feeling his youth leaving him and wanted to satisfy his bloodlust to prove that he would enter Valhalla. It was not the false god of masculine honor that drew the murderer. He had nothing to prove to the ignorant beings who took pride in such things. He wanted to rise above them.
The murderer felt that women admired warriors because women were nothing but animals, like primates who mated with the dominant male. If women were to be put to their best use they would be his blood sacrifices. They would exist only to exalt himself. Their blood would make him strong. There were so many healthy women in the world.
...mattered in the world was the love that some people were able to give to others. To be able to love others was the greatest gift that anyone could have, knew Chester. It was what the Evil One was against. The Evil One wanted everyone being selfish and everyone wanting to think about only about themselves. The Evil One was about contempt, not love. Chester had felt the touch of the Evil One. Chester wanted God and he wanted his Father and he wanted Love.
To go Home
From: Elder Tartaran
Re: Field Work on Earth
8/1/64
Fm: Professor Schemas
Re: Field Work on Earth