“Needs?” echoed Trout.

“Death by lethal injection. I thought you were following me in this.” Volker sniffed. “I wanted to be in a position where I could oversee the execution of a monster like Henker. Homer Gibbon was a perfect substitute. His crimes are every bit as heinous as those perpetrated by Henker. Gibbon has destroyed so many lives … and not just those of his victims. Their families are destroyed, ruined by what he did. If there was a God then divine justice would dictate that Gibbon burn in eternal torment. The thought that he would sit in a prison cell with television and a library and more comforts than millions of innocent people have…”

“Death row’s hardly the good life,” said Goat, but Volker turned an acid stare on him.

“Oh really? And when was the last time you visited the ghettos of West Baltimore or North Philadelphia? Have you seen the squalor and rampant destitution in Louisiana and rural Mississippi? Have you seen three or four families crowded into a rat-infested single room in Gary, Indiana or Birmingham, Alabama? No? Then please keep your privileged opinion to yourself.”

Goat flushed a deep red and sank into his seat.

“I’ve made a point to visit these places,” said Volker. “Just as I’ve made it a point to visit women’s shelters, and child protection services offices, and support group meetings for families of victims of violent crime. My whole life … or, perhaps it would be fair and truthful to say ‘my obsession,’ has been to find a way to provide punishment for men such as Gibbon and Henker. Death row is inconvenient. It is not a punishment that fits the crime.” His voice was as sharp as broken glass. “But I found a more appropriate punishment.”

“Which is…?” asked Trout, and his heart was split between the reporter’s desire to get this story and the man’s dread of what Volker could say. Everything so far had been bizarre. Red Army, covert bioweapons research. Zombies.

Volker said, “Even ordinary execution is an escape for these killers. We tranquilize them first. They feel nothing, or at worst they feel a little discomfort and some fear in the days leading up to the execution. But, I ask you gentlemen—measure that against what their victims felt and what the victims’ families feel every single day for the rest of their lives.” He shook his head fiercely. “No. That is a sin. That is immoral. That is fundamentally wrong and a crime against justice.”

“What did you do?” asked Trout.

“I devised a way for these monsters to suffer. Not just during the execution … but afterward. Long, long afterward.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” murmured Goat.

“It does if you’ve been paying attention. I have spent years seeking and developing compounds that control consciousness. Tetrodotoxin and the other elements from Bufo marinus, a species of cane toad; and an irritant produced by Osteopilus dominicensis, the hyla tree frog. Half a dozen others, all combined into what the witch doctors of Haiti, the bokor, call coupe poudre. You see, the religion of vodou makes a critical distinction between the physical body, the corps cadavre, the animating principle, or gwo bon anj, and the consciousness and memory, the ti bon anj. Correctly mixed and administered, the coupe poudre brings the physical body to the very edge of death—so close that only the most sophisticated electrical monitoring equipment will be able to detect respiration and heartbeat. The consciousness becomes separated, much as it does with certain hallucinogenic drugs, or during the spiritual exercise of astral projection. There is a disconnect between higher mind and physical body. The consciousness has no control at all over the body, and yet the subconscious mind can be manipulated by suggestion.”

Trout was breathless. “Are you actually saying that you turned Homer Gibbon into a zombie?”

“Yes,” agreed Volker with a sober nod. “That is precisely what I did. Or … a species of zombie. A variation, however you want to put it. Instead of the standard chemicals used for lethal injection, I injected him with my own version of the coupe poudre. It was an extension of something my team began many years ago, a project code-named ‘Lucifer.’ This compound is Lucifer 113.”

“How is that punishment?” demanded Trout.

Volker sighed. “Gibbon had no known family, correct? As a result, his remains are the responsibility of the state, so he was scheduled for burial shortly after the execution. Had his aunt not showed up at the last minute, Gibbon’s body would have been sealed in a cheap coffin and he would have been buried in a numbered grave in the potter’s field behind the prison. No one except the warden and the judge would know where he was buried, and there he would remain forever.”

“Again … how is that punishment?”

“No, no, wait…” said Goat. “Oh man … no, I get this. This Lucifer 113 stuff put him in … what? A kind of trance? A fake death state?”

“In so many words,” said Volker.

“But not really dead?”

“No.”

“And his consciousness … that was still there, just detached, am I right?”

“Yes. The many bokor I interviewed in Haiti and Cuba confirmed this. And our own bioweapons research bore it out. The consciousness remains. Fully aware, still connected in a passive way to every nerve ending, but totally unable to exert the slightest control over the physical body Not a twitch of a finger or a blink of an eye.”

Trout felt the blood drain from his face. “In the grave?”

Volker nodded, his eyes filled with dark light. “In the grave. Can you think of a more fitting punishment for a serial murderer than to be awake and aware in a coffin while his body slowly rots?”

Trout slumped back in his chair. “Jesus Christ … that’s horrible.”

“Is it?” asked Volker coldly.

Goat shook his head. “No, no … there’s something wrong here. Even if Gibbon were in a trance state, he would still need oxygen, right? I mean, how long would he last in a sealed coffin before his brain got oxygen starved and he just shut down?”

Dr. Volker made a face that Trout could not identify as a smile or a wince. “That would normally be correct.”

“‘Normally’?” Trout said. “Oh fuck. What’s the rest?”

“Well … as you say, the body needs oxygen, even in a reduced metabolic state. However the precise needs of that oxygen can be modified.” Volker sat down with a grunt. He looked very old and tired. “One of the principal areas of bioweapons research conducted by the Soviet Union was what people loosely call germ warfare. Project Lucifer was built around an exploration of select combinations of disease pathogens and parasites. I took it several steps further by applying transgenics to those parasites, tailoring them to my needs.”

“Parasites?” Trout asked.

“Nature is so clever, so subtle. People have no idea how many parasites are all around them. Everywhere. They have been found in the hypersanitized interiors of NASA spacecraft. They are everywhere. It’s a conservative estimate that half the world’s population is contaminated with toxoplasmic parasites, either in the body or the brain. Toxoplasma gondii is a very common parasite found in the guts of cats. Its eggs are shed in cat urine and picked up by other animals and by many home owners who are cleaning cat boxes. The eggs become cysts in the stomachs of rats, and the parasites exert control over the rat’s brain function. Normal rats will avoid areas that have been doused with cat urine; however, rats infected with toxoplasma actually seek out the cat-urine-marked areas again and again. This is the deliberate work of the parasite. In humans, scientists have noticed a definite link between toxoplasma and humans with schizophrenia. This potential for schizophrenia will cross the placental barriers and present in newborns.”

“Why include that in what you gave to Gibbon?” asked Trout.

“Schizophrenia heightens fear and increased psychological distress.”

“Jesus God.”

“The toxoplasma is only one of several parasites introduced into the mix. We have re-engineered the DNA of flukes Dicrocoelium dendriticum and Euhaplorchis californiensis to work in harmony with toxoplasma. Each of these flukes affords a measure of predictable control over the behavior of the host body. The key player, however, is the green jewel wasp, which normally targets cockroaches. It injects a venom that blocks the neurotransmitter octopamine, which is associated with alertness and movement. This subjugates the actions of the host body. We greatly accelerated the life cycle of the wasp. Where it normally takes weeks for its larvae to mature, now it happens in a matter of minutes. Unfortunately the total lifespan is accordingly diminished. In order for the parasite to stay active and in control, it needs a constant source of protein. It therefore feeds on the host body … and that, too, is a desired goal. Lucifer 113 has transformed Homer Gibbon from a man to a parasitic factory whose sole output is suffering. Gibbon was supposed to be not only awake and aware in his coffin, it was my intention that he feel himself being consumed!”

Trout and Goat stared in absolute horror at the doctor.

Trout abruptly stood up and walked back and forth across the living room. He felt like he wanted a bath so hot that it would boil even the memory of this conversation off his skin. His skin itched and he stared at the backs of his wrists as if expecting to see parasites moving beneath the skin. Finally he wheeled on Volker, forcing control and a faux calm into his voice.

“Doc, I can appreciate you wanting revenge on bastards like Gibbon and the man who killed your sister and her kids. That’s normal. If you told me you took a gun and shot him, I’d be ‘hey, no harm, no foul.’ If you told me you went all Dexter on him and carved him up into deli meat, I’m good with that, too. But this … this is fucking crazy. This is actual mad scientist stuff here. This is…”

He fished for the word, but Volker supplied it, “Sinful?”

Trout nodded as he ran his fingers through his thick blond hair. “Homer Gibbon wasn’t fucking buried in a numbered grave. He’s in a mortuary in Stebbins County. Now you have to tell me how bad this is. Can those parasites get out? Do we need to call someone?”