Youthful Indiscretion

If someone ceases to exist, do they remain accountable for crimes they would have committed?

Ferman Winnick stared at the question on the philosophy 201 paper and wrinkled his nose. No, not a topic he fancied. He turned to question two.

Describe the feeling of loss in the heart of a sociopath.

He sneaked a look round to see who else struggled to make a decision. From his position in the exam hall it appeared the answer was no one.

A couple of rows over and down was Fiona. He stared at her, his mind running over the details obtained from her file in the Dean's office: Age; date of birth; place of birth; next of kin. He kept returning to the entry by that last one. None. No one to care for her, no one to miss her, no one to-- She glanced round at him, he smiled and looked away.

Returning to the choice of questions he found himself staring at question two again. Oh well, write what you know.

−0-

"You wanted to speak to me?"

"Ah, Ferman. Come in, come in." Dean Peaton waved towards a seat.

"Your mid-term. Interesting paper, very interesting. I won't comment on how successfully you formulate your argument, but generally nice work."

"Thank you," said Ferman.

"Hmm?" The Dean looked up, "Oh, yes, you're welcome. Now, there is an unusual request. You also need to do question one."

"What? Why?"

"Because if you don't, then, you'll fail this exam and, indeed, the whole semester." He smiled benignly, and pushed a sheet of paper over the desk. "You can use my room for the next ninety minutes. Have fun."

Ferman looked at the sheet for a moment, when he looked up Dean Peaton was already closing the door behind himself.

The nape of his neck started to tingle and he cautiously looked around. The Dean's office looked the same as every previous time, including extra-curricular visits. He was sure the gloves and balaclava were effective; no fingerprint left behind, no identifying features for a concealed security camera to catch. But still, there was something peculiar going on.

He reached across the desk, took a pen, and started writing.

-0-

Two days later he was summoned to the Dean's office again.

"Dean Peaton?"

"Ferman. Thank you for coming." The Dean stood and came around his desk, shaking Ferman's hand. "I just have to step out. Take a seat for a moment."

He shot out the door and closed it firmly, leaving Ferman standing alone in the office. Ferman looked around, unsure of himself, then sat on the same chair he had a few days before.

"Ferman Ryal Winnick."

Ferman jumped and turned to the voice. A pair of security types stood behind him. Both wearing dark suits and nondescript shades.

"You are Ferman Ryal Winn--"

"Yes, I am." He interrupted the tall woman who spoke. The tingling at his neck returned, accompanied by a knot in his belly.

The woman nodded. The man took a tablet from his jacket pocket and started tapping on it.

"Sorry, what is this about?" Ferman's stomach began to churn. He fought to remain calm, to force their hand, make them reveal something.

The man read from a list. "Fiona Grammer, and Fiona Teesdale, and Fiona Milenda, and--"

"I'm sorry, I don't know these people," Ferman said. The tremor in his voice would have recorded as a false positive on any stress meter. It was true, he knew none of these people.

"Fiona Wilson, and Fiona Macarthur, and Fiona Sweetman." Continued the stranger, his voice impassive.

An involuntary gasp escaped Ferman at the last name.

The woman spoke again. "We tracked your, peculiarity, Mr. Winnick. The University were very helpful in letting us provide specific questions for your mid-term paper. If you had been less, obsessive, with the name we may never have caught you. But between that, and analysis of your responses to the exam questions, we know it will be you."

The change in tense struck Ferman. "What do you mean, will be? Am I being accused of something I may do, this is ludicrous. I want my atto--"

"Miss Sweetman, poor Miss Sweetman. All alone in the world. No-one to care for her. No one to miss her. No one to mourn her. Isn't that so Mr Winnick." Intoned the man, his voice sonorous, resonant in the confined space of the office.

"What are you talking about?" Ferman was nervous, uncomfortable. This man spoke about things Ferman had only dared to think. "Who are you people?"

"We're from the Bureau of Sanctioned Safeguards. We're here to prevent you embarking on a twenty-three year career of murdering innocent women, named Fiona." The woman spoke, tag-teaming her partner.

Ferman stood up, "From the what? No such agency exists. This is beyond outrageous. I am going to--"

The woman interrupted, "To what? Tell us about your plans for this evening Mr Winnick? Tell us about the stolen rope, and knife, and refuse sacks in the trunk of your car?" She paused, watching his eyes closely. "Tell us about your intentions for Miss Sweetman?"

Ferman sat back down, slowly. The blood drained from his face. "I don't know what you mean."

The woman ignored him and continued, "You were a hard man to track Mr Winnick. It has taken us a long time to tease out the tangled skein of your depravity. Even in the future, forensics is never as easy as television portrays it. But now Miss Sweetman, and all of the other Fiona's, will live out their lives full and happy. Without the terror of their final moments being at your hand."

The woman reached out and touched Ferman. As his heart paused at the end of its beat, he was transported with them.

"Welcome to the Preventative Crime Penitentiary, Prisoner Winnick."

An original story and photograph by Stuart C Turnbull.