It was one of those dreary February days, the kind you really wished didn’t exist, but do. Cold, gray and without any seeming hope of better weather. Even here in Northern Virginia, it seemed like winter decided it will never go away.

I sat at my desk, looking out the window to avoid working on another one of a string of projects that quite honestly I wish I didn’t have to do. I laughingly am what they used to call a newspaper reporter, or in even more pretentious terms, a ‘journalist.’

These days what that means is creating content for the web edition that often borders on the absurd. An article about a new ice cream parlor opening in a neighborhood in Alexandria. Interviewing the outgoing superintendent of schools, trying to get them to recount anything interesting over a 40 year career, when you know in the current climate they just want to say “see ya!” and run, not walk, out the door. I do whatever I need to do to keep the lights on and someday in the current century maybe hope to retire.

These days that often means I am my own stringer, investigative reporter (‘how much sugar do you use in your maple walnut sorbet?’), copy editor, copy boy, and yes, the web equivalent of a typesetter (we theoretically have a web design department, but they are too busy playing Fortnite most of the time to actually do anything).

If I told you my background you wouldn’t believe me. Yes, I went to Columbia Journalism School back in the day, when that was considered prestigious, and after graduating it actually looked like I could make a difference. An article about the failures of recycling got me notice from national media, another article about corruption in the DC government was mentioned (at least once) as a possible candidate for a Pulitzer (which of course didn’t happen). It always amazed me that an award was named for a man who was not known for the things the prize that bears his name is supposed to be about, like integrity of reporting.

Anyway, so how did I find myself here where I am now? Easy, with the growth of online ‘news sites’ and blogs and social media the world shrank. Magazines that once prided themselves on doing investigative articles focused on the design of their website and having plenty of pictures of beautiful people wearing little and content focused more on being ‘click bait’ then being real news. Not only was I well into middle age and not likely to look good in hipster wear and a beard on photos on the website, my kind of reporting is ‘boring’ according to the ‘editors’ of said publications /sites. What I had now was a living, but it definitely was second tier. To get out my writing urge I often spend time in between what passes as work writing fiction that I publish on online fiction sites.

The mess I am writing about started with getting a call from my boss saying that I needed to call the warden of the Virginia State Penitentiary. When I asked her why, I could hear her sigh pretty clearly, which translates to “you should be glad you got called at all” in her world, and gave me the number.

Knowing she would consider every minute I waited as an insult in her ability as an editor, and I had far too many of those racked up already, I called the number I was given right away. The phone was answered on the other end by a bored voice and I asked to speak to Warden Warden (I know, I know, save it... ). I waited, and at least 3 other people picked up, asked me what I wanted, put me on hold, until I finally heard “Warden Jack Warden here.” I could just hear his chuckle at his own joke (I wasn’t laughing). He sounded like the actor who played the NORAD General in the movie “War Games”, in fact I was visualizing him as that, a big guy with a large drawl.

I introduced myself, then spoke.”Warden, I was told by my editer, Susan Sontag (okay, not her real name, she had a quarter the talent and was 20 times more annoying than the real deal), that you wanted to speak to me and it was important.”

I heard the mirth in his voice die. That was a relief, if this was the typical “We would like to show you the improvements we have made to our correctional facility with regards to rehabilitating prisoners”, which usually meant a new coat of paint in the common areas and maybe a new net on the basketball hoop in the recreation yard, the mirth would have continued. Instead it dropped like a rock.

“Yes, it is. What do you know about the “Unknown Serial Killer’ sase, George?” My ears pricked up, that was not fluff, the Unknown Serial Killer was one of the biggest stories of recent years, the person responsible had killed at least 25 people yet no one could figure out why he did what he did.

The fact was it took a long time to even realize it was a serial killing. The victims had nothing in common, they were from all over the country, they weren’t famous, they were mostly men but there were a few women in the victim list. They didn’t know each other, either in real life or online as far as anyone could tell. FBI profilers were stumped, they could find no seeming motive behind the killings.

The killings themselves were done in a variety of ways and the only reason they knew it was a serial killing was each victim’s body was found with a small calendar showing the month of February, with the time around Valentines day colored in red.

As you can imagine, once it was discovered a serial killer was on the loose and these were not random, media ran with it in the 24/7 news cycle. Social media blew up with theories, that this was an attempt to kill off conservatives, to kill off white men, to frighten people into not voting, you name it. It didn’t matter there was no such pattern, each theory had its proponents and believers.

In fact they only caught the person responsible because he walked into a police station in Alexandria, Virginia and confessed. Unlike the other loons who claimed to be responsible, he was the only person who came in who could give a detailed description of each crime, including facts that were kept out of the public reports.

I finally responded back to the warden, shocked that he was talking to me about it and intrigued. “Just what I have read, that he knocked off several dozen people and no one knows why, only thing almost everyone agrees on except Tucker Carlson and Dennis Rodman is that this guy being off the street makes them a lot happier.”

I could almost hear him solemnly nodding. “That’s pretty much right. Thing is, outside describing the killings, he won’t answer the one big question, do you know what that is?”

I gritted my teeth, last thing I needed was a patronizing asshole asking the obvious. “Why?”

He let out a small sigh. “That’s right, son, why. He hasn’t said anything about why, when we ask him he shrugs and changes the topic. He has talked to shrinks, psychics, psychiatrists, therapists, counselors, priests, rabbis and I think one Wiccan priestess (and in an aside he said to me “I can’t blame him, man was she one hot piece of horseflesh”), and not one of them could get a peep out of him.”

I decided to cut to the chase, figuring he would tell me what the guy ate, how many times he went to the bathroom, etc. “That is what I heard, Warden, that he absolutely refuses to talk about it, said the time wasn’t right, or something like that. So why are you talking to me, Warden, what changed?”

“That is the thing, son, he says he finally wants to talk about the why, but the funny thing is he only wants to talk to you, alone. You can record your conversation, he is fine with that, but no one else there, no cameras, nothing. Just you and he in a room.”

I was in shock. “Warden, I am not a particularly nervous person, but that sounds like a recipe for getting me hurt or taken hostage.”

He sounded once again like the General in ‘War Games”. “Boy, do you think I would allow that kind of thing, like some peck o’woods being able to stick a shiv in someone in MY house?” I could tell he was genuinely insulted and realizing I was rapidly pissing away my big chance at redemption as a reporter, I quickly apologized.
“Warden, my apologies, just that the guy gives me the creeps from what I
have read. The scariest thing in the world is someone who kills without reason, I just don’t want to be his next victim.”

The warmth returned to his voice. “I understand, son (I was probably older than he is, but that doesn’t matter in this neck of the woods), but don’t y’all worry. He will be thoroughly restrained, he will be chained to the floor and his arms chained at his side, about all he could do is maybe spit at you, but my assistant is a clever son of a bitch and he will make sure there is a plastic screen on the table.”

I felt a little better (well, okay, a LOT better) and I responded, “I appreciate that Warden, you don’t know how much. So what is the deal? When can I Interview him?”

I heard the man chuckle. “You must be from up north, boy, I can hear the gears whirring, he ain’t going nowhere, that is for sure, he might see the outside next century if he is related to Methusaleh. How about next Friday at 2pm? We have meatloaf that day that might make him more willing to talk, so should be mellow by when you talk to him. (Somehow, I doubted the meatloaf there would do that unless it was laced with Valium).

The rest of the week was a blur, I won’t say it flew by, is it possible for it to be a slow blur? Of course when I told my boss what was up, she practically shit herself, but she was less enthusiastic when I told her that there would be no other media coverage, no camera crews, and no video (that we could have had an exclusive on until the Daily Mail of London, mysteriously, had a copy of it posted about 10 minutes after we did) and more importantly, that she couldn’t be there. She even mumbled about calling the warden to substitute her Nxt (formerly her niece) for me, until I told her it was me or nobody and the warden had nothing to do with it. She grudgingly agreed and hung up the phone.

To say I still had worries was an understatement. Despite the warden’s assurances, I was still worried the guy was somehow out to get me, not that I could figure out why, else why ask for a reporter at a regional rag? Shades of Hannibal Lecter escaping entered my dreams, as did various ways the killer could somehow kill me if I met with him.

I spent some time reading up on the case, not that there was much I hadn’t read (occupational hazard). Some of the killings were routine, a gunshot, others were more gruesome like shoving a guy in front of a bus. Some looked like apparent suicides but the micro calendar calling card said differently, implying the killer found a way to convince them to do themselves in or they were good at faking it. All I got from reading it was more of a feeling of dread; as they say, only the ignorant sleep soundly.

The day came and I drove out to the jail complex. Not to disappoint you, but it didn’t look like a medieval fortress complete with dungeons, the complex could have been a large regional high school with the exception of the barbed wire and the armed guard towers (well, maybe with the exception of my high school in Chicago, which in comparison looked more like a jail than this did, it had more barbed wire for one).

I introduced myself at the entrance and felt like the character in ‘Alice’s Restaurant’, being inspected, infected, dejected and rejected, only to start again at the next door. When I finally was led to the warden’s office I expected the next step was to be thrown in a cell, but that didn’t happen.

Instead, I was escorted in front of the desk of a woman who was wearing the clothing and the look of a teenage influencer on Instagram, when her time as a teenager wasn’t yesterday, it was the day before the day before yesterday. I gave her my name, and if anyone could be said to give a silent raspberry, it was her. She pointed to a ratty chair and didn’t even tell me to sit, she made clear that a lowlife like myself should be grateful I even got a chair. I sat and cooled my heels, looking around the office, and sorry I did.

Normally I would check out the Warden’s admin, but the sight of a 50 year old woman wearing incredibly high heels, contoured makeup and a tight minidress, complete with long nails and a nose stud just didn’t sit well.

Finally after waiting an hour the door to the office labeled “Virginia State Correctional facility, Warden Jack Warden” in big, bold letters, opened. Instead of the general from War Games, though, I got Red from “That 70’s show.” I stood up, as much from my butt hurting from sitting too long as respect, and waited for him to speak.

“Welcome, son, George is it?” He may not have looked like the general, but he still sounded like him. He gave me a warm handshake, and led me into his office and nodded at a chair by his desk. I was surprised, often people in the Warden’s position had elaborate setups, but his looked like the desk of a mid level bureaucrat, not the big cheese. There were some framed diplomas and citation, pictures on the desk (I presumed to be of his family), and other than that it was all official looking. The requisite computer monitor and keyboard, not old and not new, and you had the picture.

“So we all set?” he asked me as he sat down.

I nodded. “I think so, I will admit that I had my moments of anxiety, not often you get to sit in a room with a serial killer.”

The other man gave a small smile. “No, you don’t. One thing I can tell you, after many years of being here, when you are sitting there you forget what they did, it just becomes another conversation.”

I smiled wanly. “I hope so.”

The warden came over as I got up and he patted me on the back. “You’ll do fine.”

He walked me to the door and there was a corrections officer waiting there for me.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to walk through the cellblocks, we walked through office areas, through a couple of doors, into a corridor until we got to a door labeled simply “meeting room 6.” He knocked on the door, it was opened from within and the guard there stepped out.

“All yours.” His face showed no emotion.

I walked in and looked around. The room was nothing unusual, it could have been a small conference room other than the fact it was institutional gray, the windows had metal grates on them, the floor was tile, not carpet. Also distinguishing it, in the center of the room was a small table that only had 2 chairs, both of which were bolted down. In the middle of the table was a plexiglass divider as promised.

I would like to say the man sitting at the table was unusual, but like the room, the only thing unusual was the fact that he was chained down as the warden had promised. If it weren’t for the chains and the orange jumpsuit he could be anyone, he wasn’t the unknown serial killer, he was the everyman serial killer. I knew he was a local boy from Virginia, not that that mattered particularly, people like him can come from anywhere.

He didn’t say anything, so I sat down. I looked at him with my reporter’s eye. He could be anywhere from his 40’s to his 50’s, he was of medium height, maybe 5’ 8’ tall, probably weighed around 170 pounds. His blond hair, now very sprinkled with gray, was short and was thinning as it does for men his age. The only thing I really noticed was his eyes as he looked at me. It wasn’t that they were predatory; it was they were cold, they were a blue/gray that looked like arctic ice, deep and cold. His face otherwise showed no emotion.

I took out my small recorder and asked him if he was okay with me recording it, he nodded.

We sat there looking at each other, and I could tell he was sizing me up and it made me uncomfortable. I have interviewed some pretty scary people in the past, and I have to say that Harry Stiles for some reason was scary in his blandness.

I finally opened up. “Mr. Stiles, you asked to speak to me, I am here to allow you to open up and tell your side of the story.”

He didn’t respond at all, he just looked at me. I kind of understood what prey felt like looking at a velociraptor.

We stared a while, and I was starting to get irritated. “Look, Stiles, you wanted to talk. This isn’t an episode of NCIS and you aren’t Gibbs, either you want to talk about whatever it is you wanted to say or you don’t, stop yanking my chain.”

For the first time I saw something in his face other than blankness. In fact, he grinned at me. “Wow, I thought it would take a lot longer to get to you, this is going to be fun, I went from Mr. Stiles to Stiles in 15 seconds.”

I shook my head. “Look, I don’t know what your game is, but I am not going to play it. I have interviewed all kinds of people a lot smarter and quite frankly a lot tougher than you, you won’t impress me.”

He laughed. “Oh, you aren’t afraid? You will be, you will be.”

I shook my head and stood up. “Fuck this, I didn’t come here to be lectured by Yoda, either put up or shut up, asshole.”