Buttons

November 2018-Death Row, West Livingston, Texas

The numbers. 5, 17, 12, 6, 1.

Five—the number of children molested and murdered by the man sitting across from me separated by a cold steel table six-foot-long, three feet across. Not wide enough.

Seventeen—the number of children that went missing in the Dallas area in 2012. Most have never been found. Children with kindred characteristics to the five dead ones.

Twelve—the number of children that Trevor Ray Gaston is believed to have killed, but never convicted of in a tri-state area before he was arrested six years ago. His arrest came after a massive manhunt that had begun in Oklahoma and ended in Texas.

Six—the number of days left before this killer is put to death by the state of Texas.

One—the number of people sitting at this table that shouldn’t be here.

I am a clinical psychologist that deals with early-stage substance abuse in college students. Two days a week I sit across from some young genius trying to crash through their education by swallowing pills or snorting dust while forgetting about the hard the work, by student and parent, that got them into a premier university in the first place. The other three days I sit at my desk pecking away at a novel I started writing fifteen years ago.

I am paid handsomely by the University of Texas system, live in an upper-middle-class neighborhood with two cars, one wife, two children, and a cat named Perky. Yet for some reason unknown to me, I am now sitting across from a stranger, less than fifty-feet from Death Row—an infamous felon who, in less than a week, will feel a needle prick his skin and put an end to his miserable life.

This is not where I want to be.

Trevor Ray Gaston’s purpose for requesting me as a final visitor is a mystery. At first, I had been intrigued by the request. Professional curiosity and a positive endorsement from my wife prompted my acceptance. The intrigue and curiosity dissolved when I passed through the first metal detector and into Huntsville State Prison. The mystery remained intact; one I hope to unravel in the four hours I have been granted to spend with the man known as the Button Killer.

The Button Killer. Trevor Gaston was branded with this moniker by the endcap tabloids and the nightly talking-heads after he murdered the Oklahoma girl and some cop out of Tulsa started putting together evidence from a string of killings in the tri-state area. White letters over a red background, The Button Killer, set below Gaston’s mugshot, scrolled across the bottom of television screens for the weeks leading up to the trial. They couldn’t stop talking about —Trevor Ray Gaston—The Button Killer. With each newscast, more information about the crimes committed, more background stories, made up or true, it didn’t matter. Gaston’s name was known by everyone across the land. Parent’s thanked God he was behind bars. Newscasters raced to tell the world more about the murdering pedophile. Note, the boldness of the journalists was elevated by the knowledge Trevor Gaston was locked away and unable to reach them or their daughters.

Foregoing politeness, I ask him, “Why am I here, Mr. Gaston?” Go for the answers I want before he gets whatever he is seeking.

“Call me Trevor.” A casual conversational posture distorted only by his wrists being secured to the table with unusually shiny cuffs. Metal on metal sounds loudly in the bare room as he re-positions his folded hands.

“Why am I here, Trevor?”

“Tell me about your daughter.” His smile reveals dark, ugly gums; most of his teeth knocked out by the prison’s justice system. Everybody hates a child molester.

Immediately, I knew I must not relinquish control to this man diagnosed as a psychopath.

“Screw you,” I tell him with what I hope is a commanding tone.

Last night, I sat in my study with the only light provided by my laptop, reading the voluminous files written about Gaston; the trial transcripts, profiles of the victims and the psychological profile written by the renown Dr. Frederick Gunter. I wouldn’t recommend it as a casual read.

“Screw me!” His fist slams against the cold steel table. “No screw you. You are in my house by my invitation. I make the rules, Doc! I ask a question, you answer. You ask a question, I answer. Simple Simon. Got it?”

Who was in command now?

I suppress a sudden childlike urge to hide under the table. I don’t want to be in this room with this man. I don’t want to think about my daughter. I don’t want to think about my family. I have a deep-seated irrational fear that this lunatic will somehow steal the images safely sequestered in my mind.

Why am I here?

I stand, prepared to make an abrupt exit, the hell with his “invitation”. But interrupted by primal curiosity I sit back down. He sits silently, inspecting his cuticles as if waiting for a manicure.

Is he waiting for me to give him an answer...to give him what he wants? I glance across the room at the two guards. Both men are massive, six foot-plenty and easily tipping the scales at 270 pounds. Proudly on display, muscles toned by years of lifting weights stretch the limits of their uniforms. One is black. One is white. Both with shaved heads reflecting the incandescent overhead lights. Neither man reacts to the pounding fists or the current conversation taking place just a few feet away.

“I know her name.” He bites his bottom lip after delivering this disturbing information. His grey eyes dance with savage vivacity under the harsh lights.

“Why am I here, Trevor?” I stare as he continues to work his bottom lip, wondering if he can swallow it. Perspiration beads on my brow below a receding hairline.

“You know why. The fuckers want my brain after they pump me full of the NoGo juice. They want to study it, see if they can discover what evil lurks inside. Find out what makes me tick. Made me tick." He is staring at my forehead. A sly grin unfolds across his heavily scarred face and then it is gone.

“I am not that type of doctor, Trevor. And I don’t know what you are talking about.”

It was the truth. If someone wanted to explore a murdering pedophile’s dead brain, it was news to me. It sounded like something out of American Horror Story.

“I didn’t say you!” Raising his voice again.

The guards shift.

“I said they," lowering his voice.

The guards re-shift.

“What will they find, Trevor?” Psych 101 ask a question then let them talk.

“Not a fucking thing!” He laughs. Spittle flies and silvery drool crawls down his chin.

Somewhere in Texas, there is a judge who ruled Trevor Ray Gaston mentally sound and capable to stand trial.

He never saw this.

“That is,” he pauses, looking over his shoulder at the guards before leaning towards me, “unless demons live in my brain.” Stretching a secured hand to its tethered limit, he taps his temple. “I don’t believe they do, Doc, not here.” Tap, tap, tap. “The demons are in my bowels, not my mind. They don’t control me; they scare the shit out of me. They are always here.” He rubs his belly just below the sternum. “Longtime compadres, mi amigos,” he frowns, “when I’m dead, they will leave. Adios amigos.” Again, glancing over his shoulder before whispering, “That’s the only way they will leave me alone, Doc; the demons. When I’m dead. They’ve been there so long. I want them out.” He stops talking, looking past me. “Nothing for the brain butchers to see. They can cut my fucking brain into a thousand pieces; they won’t find a goddamned thing.” Amazingly, I watch as a tear falls from the corner of his eye, running down his pock-marked cheek.

“Demons?” I glance down at my hands, I needed to know they weren’t trembling “You have demons, Trevor?”

He doesn’t move, staring at me with those gray, lifeless eyes. The sparkles have fled. Nostrils flare slightly. Lower lip once again under a relentless assault. Gaston’s greasy black hair (they will shave it next week, I think) frames his horrific mask.

“Nah!” He laughs, slapping his hand against the stainless-steel tabletop. “I’m just screwing with you Doc.” He laughs harder, spitting and drooling like a mad man.

I allow him to finish.

“Tell me about the buttons, Trevor.”

Silence.