"Probably; I should take the case; I mean, the guy's crazy and he needs a good defense," Nelson answered, shutting his eyes tightly and shaking his head, as if he were cancelling out his words and refusing. He sighed. "If I can get him to plead guilty, he can stay off death row."

"So you think he did it?" I asked. "Freddy was crazy, but in a lighthearted, disorganized sort of way. Getting caught naked in the theater at midnight, freeing the butterflies from their enclosure... he was like some trickster god, or agent of chaos. Those murders are so disturbing and evil, even for me." My student films had always been dark, lots of gore and dismemberment; Nelson had acted as a corpse and murderer in several of them.

"I'll admit, I wouldn't have picked him as the 'Golden Years Killer,' or the 'Good Son.' Elderly couples with their hearts and brains cut out, posed like they were drinking tea, eyes and faces stretched into rictus smiles. These murders took so much work, and Freddy couldn't focus on anything. But, they have his DNA, he doesn't have an alibi, and he never was consistently treated for his schizophrenia," Nelson explained.

"Have you kept in touch with him?" I asked. "I haven't talked to Freddy Chopin since he got expelled senior year."

"Expelled for painting "MURDERER" on the university provost's driveway, yeah. I've seen him a few times," Nelson said. "He'd show up at my house with a carton of beer, no phone call or invite, of course, and Greta would cook and we'd chit chat and bullshit like the old times. Sometimes he was clearly medicated, and could hold a conversation. Other times, he'd start crying for no reason. The last time was ten years ago, and he screamed at my kids; I told him he'd better not come by anymore. That was the end of it. Greta thought I was too harsh, but he was clearly not a safe person to have around my family."

"Does Greta ever ask about me?" I said, knowing the answer.

Nelson shook his head. "I'm not going to lie to you, Deacon, she hasn't. Greta's in her own world, Deacon. Out of the old group, she only still talks to Marianna."

"How did they catch him?" I asked.

"It was Marianna, actually. You know, she's a profiler with the FBI. She had a hunch Freddy was involved, and came down here personally. Freddy was living in the tunnel between Santhorne Hall and Sturdevant Hall, and she popped open the boards over the tunnel entrance. He was lying there in a nest of blankets, sleeping peacefully." Nelson said, admiration in his voice.

"Have you gotten to talk to him yet?" I asked, standing up to leave. I really wanted to get to my studio, and the more time I spent with Nelson, the less I'd have to make something.

"He's still in the psych ward. He got the message out to me about representing him, but I can't meet with him till he's stable enough to advocate for his own welfare." Nelson sat up, noticing me walking toward the door. "Nice seeing you, pal, don't be a stranger. How's your Dad, by the way?"

I groaned, already out in the hallway; I appreciated the concern, but needed a break from that. "He's alright, about the same. It's my stepmom that's going crazy, harassing me about him. When he's with me, he's forgetful but calm and reasonable."

Nelson stood in his doorway; he was several inches taller than me, and cut an imposing figure. "I could use someone like him as an expert witness. Freddy's whole story has the stink of Monarch mind control on it, and no one knows Monarch better than Preston Kincaid."

I pursed my lips and nodded. "Eight years ago he would've been perfect. Preston Kincaid isn't really around these days, unfortunately." We shook hands and I walked down the hallway, leaving him standing there watching me.