She Is Risen (She Is Risen: The Gun Control Case Studies) (7 page)

            “Devlin, please… no…” Jenny cries in hysteria,
sounding like the little girl she was long ago.

            His insides are shaking as he flips the switch
on the headset to end the call.  Devlin crawls on his hands and knees across
cold water that is soaking the tiles of the bathroom floor, not caring if more
CIA agents are en route.  He lifts the lid of the toilet seat and vomits, his
stomach violently emptying its contents into the clear water below.  Every
muscle in his body is shaking as he hovers over the toilet seat, staring at a
floating mass of regurgitated sustenance that has become the repulsive truth of
his life.  He shuts his eyes, remembering moments like these from the war, and
finally understanding how far removed he has become from his former self.  With
all of this death, and these dreadful feelings consuming him, he wonders if he
is doing the right thing.   

:: Begin Encoded Message ::

H.E.N.A.

Pr2ss5r2 C44k2r Pr4t4c4l

Pr4c5r2 L4r1b2ll C1rd3g1n 1s Ch32f Ps6ch4l4g3st. 2x2c5t2
c1s2 st5d32s f4r g5n v34l2nc2.  1cc2l2r1t2 th2 pr4c2ss 1nd r2p4rt b1ck thr45gh
s2c5r2 ch1nn2ls.  G1th2r 3nf4rm1t34n t4 pr2s2nt t4 Th2 Pr2s3d2nt w3th3n n4t
m4r2 th1n 60 d16s.

Maxwell Out.

:: End Encoded Message ::

Professor Lorabell Cardigan stands
before her college class of over forty students with a wide smile and pride in
her gaze.  She pushes her glasses snugly onto her face, showing off her deep
brown eyes, and then brushes her sleek, black hair aside, letting it dance
lazily behind her shoulders.

            “What are the control factors in psychology?” 
The Japanese professor asks her class, stepping casually to her right,
playfully engaging them in this new lesson.  Lorabell holds up her fingers one
by one as she continues, her white lab coat drowning out most of her short frame,
going halfway past her knees to the point where her black slacks are barely
showing.

            “The common control factors are:  water, food,
sex, pain, emotional bonds, spiritual beliefs, and what I like to call ‘X
Factor’ needs.” 

Professor Cardigan courts a young
man in the second row playfully for a short moment, causing him to grin
sheepishly and lower his head.  She is holding up five fingers on her right
hand and two fingers on her left, representing the seven major control factors
for human behavior. 

            “Now I have an assignment for you,” Professor Cardigan
beams, letting her hands drop lazily to her sides as she walks around the
podium to the whiteboard at the head of the class.  “First, I want you to
outline where your life is right now,” she instructs, writing her words almost
verbatim on the shiny, white surface in small, neat black letters.  “Then I
want you to imagine a scenario where you would be tipped over the edge.  I want
to see what it would take to push you to a state of primal survival.”

            “There has been a lot of talk about gun control
in the news lately, and you have seen many scenarios where people went ‘off the
rails’ or ‘off the chain…’  Whatever your terminology.” The professor states
boldly, turning back to face the class. “We need to discover what it takes for
a person to get to that point in their lives where they feel they have no
choice but to harm others or themselves.  So my assignment for you is simple… 
If you were to go ‘off the rails’ and use a firearm to harm others, how bad
would your life have to be at that point?  Using these seven control factors
that I have outlined; how badly would you need to be affected in each area
before you felt the urge to pick up a gun and take action?  So your goal in
this exercise is to create a scenario that is so severe… by the time you have
it all laid out, your only option will be to commit some sort of gun violence.”

Professor Cardigan raises her hands
with her fingers outstretched and lowers them slowly, speaking softly as she
continues.  “I know this is a sensitive topic for some of you, and it can be
very personal especially when you have been the victim of gun violence, or
witnessed gun violence.  Please trust me that all of your papers will be kept
confidential, and you are welcome to talk to me at any time about these personal
experiences.”  She lets her arms drop back to her sides and smiles, while
turning slightly, looking at the faces of the students for signs of angst.  “Remember
when we discussed psychological hot buttons that people have?  What I would
like you to do is identify your personal hot button; something that makes you
enraged more than anything.  Then I want you to use those seven psychological
control factors to create a scenario where gun violence is your only answer.” 
She stops for a moment, holding up her right index finger toward the class to
take a drink of water from a clear, plastic bottle at the podium.

“Now, in this scenario, I don’t
want you to go to extremes; we’re not talking about the Nazi camps from The
Holocaust.  I want you to describe the bare minimum amount of events that would
trigger you into a primal state of rage, where you would feel the need to
commit gun violence.  You often hear people say, ‘if someone hurt my kid, I
would,’ and they follow that statement with some very basic or extreme form of
murder.  That’s what we’re talking about here today.”

She turns back around and steps
lively to the whiteboard again, writing as she speaks. “We are asking the
question: if this event, or series of events, happened in your life; what would
it take before you finally submitted to a primal state, and committed gun
violence?  Then we’re asking the even bigger question which is: at what point
does a situation become so severe that emotion overtakes logic?  Please be as
detailed as possible, I want over 1,000 words, and you have two weeks to bring
me your papers.  Once again, enjoy your break, I will be unavailable for
questions, working on a special project until classes resume.  That’s it…
You’re dismissed.”

Lorabell winks at the young man in
the second row as the students rise to depart the class.  He pauses for a
moment to gather his books, leaving her waiting for affirmation, and then boldly
winks back, carrying his backpack in the air like a champion as he struts out
of the class.  Professor Cardigan uses her hands to conceal a naughty smile,
watching his rear end as he makes his way out to the halls of the university. 

After he has left, she returns her
attention to an important, upcoming afternoon appointment.  Lorabell feels a
strong sense of accomplishment after being hired by the CIA to assist in
developing their new gun control program.  She looks at the empty class with
the satisfaction of having something to do over the break.  A romantic
relationship that crashed and burned three days ago has the young woman feeling
unwanted, and she is ready to entertain new adventures in her life, especially
those that keep her busy.  After four months of background checks to receive her
security clearance, she is eager to finally see the wizard behind the curtain.

Professor Cardigan retrieves a card
from her lab coat, reading the expensive, embossed logo ‘H.E.N.A.’ on the front
with only a phone number and email address.  Lorabell looks at the card like a
mysterious new lover; perhaps something to keep her company during the lonely
nights ahead.  She looks down at her attire, realizing that she should probably
eliminate her fifty shades of nerd appearance.  The young professor smiles to
herself, thinking about what type of cute men she might meet at the CIA.  After
contemplating this for a moment, she puts the card back into her pocket, grabs
a black leather briefcase from under the podium, and moves up the classroom
stairs with excited anticipation for her new assignment.

CIA Black Site - Chicago

            Henri Edwards walks briskly through the heavy
double doors at his research facility in Chicago.  The black, tinted glass of
the bulletproof doors prevents the world from seeing anything that happens past
them.  When he walks behind these concealing shields, Henri feels as though he
is entering another world; somewhere safe and exclusive.  The tall Congressman
runs his fingers through his graying hair, ensuring that it is righteously
slicked back, giving off the image of dominance that he wants to portray. 

            Henri steps up to the large, oval shaped
security desk, his pale, blue eyes fixed on the young man entrusted with
watching for stray dogs trying to wander into his chicken coop. 

            “Tom, is Cardigan here yet?” Henri asks the
young security guard, clearly too busy to care about pleasantries.

            “Yes, Ms. Cardigan arrived about an hour ago,
and we created a temporary pass per your instructions.” The young man responds
quickly, looking up from his computer screen with hopeful eyes beneath his
short, curly hair.  “She’s been talking with Maxwell for the past little
while…”

            “Oh, that’s just fuckin’ great!” Henri churns
with bitter cynicism, his mixed Italian and European temper displaying lines of
tension on his tanned, aging face. 

            “I could ask her to meet you in the conference
room.” Tom offers with a guilty expression, his thin, pale chin quivering a bit. 

            “Ya’ think!?” Henri retorts with acidic
dissidence.  “No…”  The Congressman pauses for a moment, staring at the black,
solid steel security door just off to the right.  “Have her meet me in the
OBDAT.”

            The young security guard wastes no time in
following orders and soon has a phone receiver pressed tight against his small,
muscular shoulder.

            “Maxwell, this is Tom, I have a directive from
The H.E.N.A. Chief.”  The young man speaks with systematic poise.  “He wants
Lorabell Cardigan in the OBDAT right away for a briefing…  Sounds good… 
Thanks.”

            “What did he say?” Henri asks with a slow burn
already building in his crystalline blue eyes as he leans down closer to Tom’s
young face.

            “He was mostly respectful…”  Tom says looking
uncomfortably around the room, and then up into Henri’s piercing eyes.

            “What did Maxwell say!?” Henri demands, raising
his voice as if trying to command a domestic animal to start being wild.

            “He said ‘sure thing, we’ll be there before his
Viagra kicks in.’” Tom relays the insult with a nervous stare, as if being
forced to tell his own mother about his sex life. 

            Henri doesn’t say another word.  He turns his
wrist over above the green marble surface of the security desk, tapping the
material slowly with the top of his watch as if deciding how to reward this
insult.  After a brief pause, he exhales in a controlled fury, and then makes
his way to solid steel door, grabbing it with ferocious anger, and slamming it
so that his rage echoes through the deep hallways of the concrete building. 

            High on the solid, black catwalk of the OBDAT,
Maxwell and Lorabell are waiting for Henri, talking casually and sipping
coffee.  The large, black catwalk is the eyes of a massive datacenter project. 
Below them, there is heat rising from over twenty massive racks of servers. 
There are cooling units in the opposite corners of the room, both as large as a
two car garage.  These units also clean the air of dust particles, or any smoke
that might enter the facility.  The floor below is covered in immaculate, white
panel tiles that can be easily removed to run power or data cables. 

            Above the observation catwalk is a host of
seventy-inch, flat panel LCD displays, each of them showing crisp, high-definition
video surveillance from several projects taking place across the country. 
There are two rows of six displays, able to switch between a network of over
one-hundred-and-fifty high-definition surveillance cameras.                   

            “Great to meet you, Lorabell!” Henri Edwards
says with a dry smile as he approaches her and Maxwell on the observation
catwalk.  “Welcome to the OBDAT.”  He shakes her hand with a pleasant demeanor
after joining them next to the control panel.  “Oh, and Maxwell,” Henri
continues, showing his upper teeth and raising his eyebrows, “Tom gave me your
message… Fuck you!”

            Lorabell looks at the two men for a moment,
smiling at first, but then feels suddenly awkward, being caught in the middle
of this exchange on her first day. 

            Maxwell smirks in his typical demonic defiance,
showing a morbid disrespect for the aging Congressman.  In his efforts to
become ‘the bad boy of technology,’ Max Maxwell has completed the look by
breaking every dress code in the building.  His head is shaved and his eyes are
coated in thick, black eye-shadow.  He is wearing loose, white cargo pants, and
a black, short sleeve T-shirt with a ‘Grip Inc.’ band logo, and the word
‘Ostracized’ printed on the front.  His ears are pierced with stainless steel
studs, and he has black and red tribal tattoos running down both of his
forearms.

            “Anyway, moving on,” Henri continues, gesturing
for Lorabell to turn toward the screens, “we call this the OBDAT because it is
an Observation Datacenter.  All of the information you’re seeing on these
screens is collected and analyzed by the enormous computing power below us.”

            Lorabell stares with a bit of naughty excitement
at the two rows of large, colorful screens hovering just five feet in front of
her, and over fifty feet above the datacenter floor.  Her delicate, Asian
features display a knowing smile as she looks from one monitor to the next,
feeling a clandestine thrill for the voyeuristic aspect of her new job. 

            “We know you like to watch.” Henri declares with
a wicked smile, causing Lorabell to look at him and turn her head slightly to
one side.  “But we also know that your research into behavioral science is
highly evolved beyond your peers, and is also the closest match to the data
that we’ve gathered.”

            “But my peer reviews have been awful!” Lorabell
exclaims with a look of both vindication and surprise.

            “Anyone who is on the cutting edge of their
field will always be two things to their peers, and nothing more.” The
Congressman says reassuringly, putting his left hand delicately in the middle
of her back.  “Hated and misunderstood.” He says briefly, holding up the index
and middle fingers of his right hand in front of her.