ENC 1101-B3 & B4: Writing for Discovery

This was his single and solitary motive for adopting the profession. When John Nathaniel was younger he had spent inordinate amounts of time pursuing women; perhaps if governing factors had been different he might have been a professional lover. This notion sauntered through his thoughts as he opened the car door, and the rain recoiled off his shoulders and head.
His good looks did little to hush his success, but it was not this that made John so pestilent to the female species, rather it was his ability to tell them precisely what they yearned to hear. He had developed a great mastery over the human language and no woman could contest her own praises spoken so sweetly. He slammed the car door behind him and briskly made for a pair of double doors at the far side of the building.
No, a philanderer would not have suited him. Women proved too easy a prey, perhaps they exposed their soft underbelly when the potentiality of love was promised, but ultimately they offered little challenge. John’s first taste of true contest was experienced in the courtroom. But this, in time, proved even less satisfying then beguiling women. In the court of law there existed too many rules, too many formalities. His opponents took refuge behind these formalities and thus escaped the full ferocity of his malevolent hand. A slight chill ran down the small of his back as he removed his jacket and shook off the souvenirs accumulated from the unpleasant weather outside.
He could barely disguise the nervous anticipation he felt as he passed through the doors that read: Maximum Control Facility, Westville County Jail. The prison faculty was not deceived by his uninspired attempts to mask his excitement and they liked him for it. Perhaps it was due in part by the fact that so little of it existed inside these walls, but for whatever reason the etiquette imposed upon the typical guest was generally waived during his visits.
The “receptionist” as he was so disdainfully dubbed was a burly, dark-skinned man who insisted upon every transgression that his proper title was that of “standing guard”, who just so happened to be guarding the front desk presently. With the now reasonably dry coat dangling from his shoulder John approached the front desk, and in a tone that suggested complete unfamiliarity he said, “excuse me Receptionist.” John had sat through lectures specifying the man’s “proper title” a thousand times, still this emphasis remained amusing— “I’m representing the State of Indiana in the litigation of State vs. James Chalmers. I’m here to see the defendant.”
The guard had his nose buried deep within the pages of last month’s Sports Illustrated and until this moment pretended as if the visitor held little weight upon his own responsibilities. “Oh, it’s you. Hey Mac, god damn you know I’m a Standing Guard”—Mac wasn’t his name of course, but the guard greeted mostly everyone as such—“I know, I know. It’s always ‘State vs. some psycho’ whenever your ass bothers me. I figured you’d be ‘round sooner rather then later, this one has got some résumé.” The guard’s eyes drifted lazily back to his magazine. “Hey Mac, what do you think about ‘dem Yanks. They going all the way this year?”
“Simon”— the guard would have preferred “receptionist”, Simon was a name he would have hidden from the world if it were not sewn into his uniform for all to view— “the Florida Marlins won the World Series two weeks ago.”
“They did?” With a look of perplexity Simon quickly flipped to the cover page of his magazine to confirm the date. “God damn, you don’t say. Good I’m sick of those bastards buying it every year.” He shot another quick glance at the obsolete magazine and tossed it into a nearby trash can.
John briefly considered mentioning that it was the Angels who took the World Series last year, but decided rather to restate his initial intentions, “I’m here to see the defendant.”
“Course you are Mac, nothing but business with you.” Simon turned his head down the opposing hall and signaled a man at its far end. “Hey, Charlie! You can play the role of receptionist for a few minutes, Mr. Chalmers has another visitor.” His gaze reverted to John and with a look similar to that which met the magazine—before it’s uselessness was discovered—and said, “this one should be a challenge.”
A grin flashed across John’s face, but only briefly. Simon snatched a steel ring adorned with keys and pretended not to have noticed, or at the very least not to have cared. He walked around the desk and started down the opposing hall, passing the other guard on his way. He called after John, “This way Mac.”
John was already behind him. It seemed as though the slowness of this trek through safety gates and security stations was determined by John's particular feeling of urgency. His gaze began to wander in an attempt to lure his focus from the impatience swelling inside his stomach. His sight of path caught the breast of the passing guard heading for the desk he had just left, in dark blue stitching embroidered in his uniform read; Frank. Another smile overtook his face, but again only fleetingly.
Some way down the corridor Simon attempted conversation, “This one is trouble,” Simon turned his head to his left side where John was now walking shoulder to shoulder with him. Similar walks with John had proven his distaste for idle discussion, but Simon hated the silence.
Much to Simon’s surprise a rare response was emited, “I don’t doubt it Simon. I haven’t met many Murderers that weren’t.” John didn’t bother to return the glance, his stare still wandered, still striving to stem the mounting pain in his stomach.
Prompted by the success of his last comment Simon continued, “Well, I’ve met my share of ‘em also and they ain’t never cause me any trouble from behind a steel door and concrete walls. Not like ‘dis one has at least.” Simon’s glare remained anchored to the side of John’s face.
The very tone in Simon’s voice warranted a certain degree of attention. John addressed this remark with a slight turning of his head so that just through the corner of his eye he could view his guide’s earnest expression. The gravity affixed to Simon’s face did much not suit it and John again reverted his attention to some invisible intrigue along the corridor walls.
At that moment Simon stopped. “Alright, this is you Mac,” Simon removed the steel ring from his pocket and plunged the specified key into the lock.
John finally suffered a quick glance at Simon, this glance was quickly succeeded by a nod of appreciation.
Simon returned the nod, and in his slow tedious manner stepped to one side of the cell door leaving elbowroom for John’s admittance.
This was his single and solitary motive for adopting the profession. In the wake of disappointment that ensued his weariness with shortcomings of the courtroom, John stumbled upon a new challenge. It took a distorted mind to end a life, but John dealt with this sort of distortion on a regular basis. Murderers were thieves of the most precious gift of all, and it was John’s duty and pleasure to bring them to justice. John observed after a time that the same distorted mind that was so efficient and suited for stealing life was potentially capable of anything. Within these thieves existed the ultimate challenge for John. These individuals had crept so deep into the delusion of their own minds that they become unable to recognize anything else. To make these monsters realize and subsequently profess their own guilt was a challenge truly worthy of John’s efforts.
With this thought John crossed the entry and settled into the darkness within.