Percival Thorn: an Unpublished Autobiography (Short Story- not cannon)

Warning- this short story involves mild mentions of gore, assault, and death
I am very unhappy with this short story, and will be reworking it completely. This is not canon!

“Some people are deeply disturbed by the harm of their fellow man, and when witnessing the suffering of others they may find themselves moved. There are others, in small count, who are incapable of this empathy. No amount of torture nor kindness can move them to consciousness. We meet these people in our neighbors, in our colleagues, and- for the less fortunate- in our families. Samuel Kasper was one of these people.”

 -Percival Thorn


Percival Thorn: an Unpublished AutoBiography

Excerpt One

Interestingly, the smell of a decomposing body is a scent that we are hardwired to know, and we recognize it without having experienced it previously. Dead animals have a tangy almost urine-like scent, both rodents and house pets will smell the same when decomposing. But the decomposition of a human, when not in large amounts, is often reported as having a sweetness to it. On the day that we entered Samuel Kasper’s home, I had the privilege of experiencing this smell for the first time in my career. 

Julian Pepper- Samuel’s only surviving victim- was abducted ten minutes away from NorthWest Oklahoma University while walking to the bus stop through a heavily wooded trail. At the place of his abduction, his flip phone was left opened and upright on the trail with little to no damage. We discovered it roughly two weeks after Julian went missing.

Samuel was identified when the photographs from Julian’s phone were extracted. Myself and several colleagues were gathered around the only working computer in the office when the photos were opened. Briefly before his abduction, Julian took a self-portrait photograph. The phone screen lit his face, as well as a seven foot, long haired man with sunken eyes who stood directly behind him.

As the head investigator in Samuel’s case, I was on the scene when his home was searched in the Summer of 1999. To our luck, Samuel Kasper was not home at the time that we entered.

 I was in my brown coat and work tie with the addition of my badge pinned to the breast of my coat. Blue latex gloves were stretched over my hands and a white rounded mask covered my nose and mouth. Around my neck hung a weighty camera that bounced against my chest as I jogged up the wooden porch steps.

The home was humid. The walls were a tacky yellow from nicotine, and the windows had developed a film. Flies lazily wandered and flocked in the corners of the ceilings, which created a quiet hum in each room. The air was thick, and there was an unmistakable tang of sweet.

Samuel’s living room had an avocado green velvet couch that had crusted and grained. The middle cushion had a deep indent, and in the center the green fabric was stained black. As I held my camera up, a colleague leaned in to place a bright yellow evidence marker atop the stain.

Samuel’s bedroom was occupied by a bare mattress on the floor with a single yellowed pillow and a thick blanket on top. On the floor, just beside the bed, a desk fan whirred. The wallpaper beside the bed had a spread of thin white scratch marks.

The kitchen was crowded with dishes, jugs of bleach, and specks of mold flaring from behind the fridge. In the metal sink was a red plastic bucket filled with a slosh that had the consistency of mucus. The fridge was stocked with three auburn bottles, a capless jug of milk, and a head wrapped tightly in cling wrap. I held my camera to my eye and the fridge briefly flashed white.

I photographed each section of the house extensively. This included the numerous speckles of staining on the carpets and splotches of brown on the wallpaper. 

The last room that I photographed was Samuel Kasper’s basement, which I discovered after lifting the trap door hatch in the garage. It was long, and heavy, and the hinges grated loudly. Wooden plank stairs delve down to concrete flooring, and the silhouette of my own shadow at the bottom made a twinge briefly spark in my chest.

The air that wafted out was warm and moist, and incredibly rotten with the exception of a fruit-like undertone.

Each plank bent under the weight of my shoes as I stepped into the basement. My heartbeat was pressing behind my eyes, and my nose began to sting. When I reached the bottom step I stopped and stood very still, because someone was breathing from across black room. I groped for the lightswitch.

A single dangling light bulb flickered and lit the basement in yellow, and Julian Pepper was sitting upright against the concrete brick wall holding his intestines in with both hands. Dark red had smeared from the center of the room to the very corner, where Julian had crawled to die.

His chest rose and fell steadily, and he watched me with his head tipped back against the crease in the wall. I stared at Julian, and he stared at me. 

“Julian Pepper,” I said. 

Julian said nothing.

It was then that I raised my camera to my left eye, and the basement briefly flashed white. When I lowered the camera, I was disappointed to find that Julian had lost consciousness. 

Although I do not recall it, my hands were shaking when I took the picture, and it came out blurry. The only photograph I had gotten of Julian Pepper in the basement was blurry, and it is the only photograph of him gutted that was not taken by Samuel.






Excerpt Two

I pulled the metal chair back from the long table which made the legs jut against the floor in a groan. Samuel sat across the sleek wood table with both wrists together and his elbows pinned to the surface. His broad shoulders were hunched, and his dark hair hung down to curtain each side of his face. He breathed heavily, but slowly through his nose. His legs forked outwards rather than resting under the table since his knees came up too high. His shoulder was still heavily wrapped from the wound of a bullet.

I had been seeing Samuel every single day for the past week. I would arrive in the early mornings, I would speak with him until the evenings with breaks, then went home to sit on my back porch to think about it.

As I had each day prior, I drew my recorder from my pocket, turned it on, and placed it on top of the table. The conversation between Sam and myself is told now exactly as it happened.

“Morning Samuel,” I said, “How are you feeling?”

“Morning,” he said.

“Did you want anything before we start? We still have coffee.”

“Cigarette,”

“Alright,” I said, and slid my hand into the inner pocket of my coat.

After lighting the cigarette, I extended my hand to offer it to him. Samuel’s long arm came uncurled, the chains of his cuffs jingled, and he pinched the cigarette between his middle finger and thumb

“Do you want to start where we left off yesterday?” I asked, “If you’ve had more come up we can-”

“I’ve been thinking about Julian,” he said.

This was a topic Samuel often wanted to discuss, and it frequently halted my progress with him.

“How are you feeling about him today?”

“I miss his body,” he said. “I want my polaroids.”

“I’m not in the position of obtaining them” I said.

For a while, Samuel stared at me. Then, he leaned back causing his chair to creak.

“What does his stomach look like?” Sam asked. 

“Uhm,” I said, “I haven’t had the privilege of seeing it. How does his recovery make you feel?”

“Mad.”

“Do you feel robbed?”

“Yea,” he said. “When did he wake up?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t visited him in the hospital yet.”

The light above us buzzed, and the air vent in the corner of the room hummed as it worked. Then, Samuel leaned forward and pressed his face into his hands.


Excerpt Three

On the first Wednesday of every month, I had obligated myself to attend lunch with Julian Pepper. Three years had passed since I met him at the bottom of Kasper’s basement, and he had since wed a woman who I never had the privilege of meeting, and become a banker.

We would drive out- separately- to a diner by the name of Shake n’ Shack just a mile from the station, and share a lunch. It sat alone just off the highway in a flat field with overgrown grass. Beside it was a large teal sign that read; Shakes and Pasta, written in custard white.

It had been built in the 80’s when I began my work in Oklahoma, and in those early mornings I often visited the shack for coffee. The mint wallpaper had since yellowed and peeled from the ceiling in strips, and the sill of each window grew a caking of dust.

I would sit at the very back of the checkered diner just beside the mute jukebox and I would wait. And every time Julian arrived I would say;

“Hello Julian, how are you feeling?”

To which Julian would always reply;

“I’m feeling a bit inside out.”

He would offer me a cigarette and I would remind him I do not smoke. Then we would order our meals, and shortly after, we would look for something to say to one another. On this day, during some time in the winter of 2002, we had this to say.

“I’ve been thinking I should write a book,” I said.

“Oh, yea?” Julian said, and picked at a dry dot on the table. I watched him. “What about?”

“About Samuel.”

Julian didn’t reply.

“How do you feel about that?” I asked.

“Will I be in it?”

“Certainly. Yes, certainly Julian, you are very crucial to the case.”

“Well,” he said. 

Then, for a very long time, Julian said nothing at all. And neither did I. The fan above our table spun lazily, and the heels from a waitress clicked past us.

“I got a call to go on the Kendal Norrit show,” he said.

“Oh wow, and how do you feel about that?”

“I think it’s stupid, they must be running out of people to interview. I’m not doing that anymore.”

“You’re not doing interviews anymore?” I said. And at the time, I think that I felt disappointed. “People are curious about these things, you could write your own book, Julian.”

“No,” he said.

“Do you not like talking about it?”

Julian shrugged at me.

“Do you feel your story has been told enough?”

“It’s not my story,” he said. “My story isn’t that, my story isn’t Sam. I don’t know Sam.”

And then, Julian said something to me that I wish I had the memory to write with complete truth. He said to me;

“I have been alive for twenty four years. I was with Sam for two weeks. Now everything sad, and you take me out for lunch.”

It was then that the waitress came to our table carrying a platter of our lunch against her hip. Lukewarm alfredo pasta was placed in front of me.

I wished then, and still now, that his words had moved me. I think that’s the kind of moment that is meant to move a person. I instead wondered, to myself, if I would still take Julian to lunch if he was not the only survivor of Samuel.


Excerpt Four

On the fourth anniversary of Samuel Kasper’s conviction, to the exact date, he was to be executed via electric chair. Although my visits with him were no longer required, I entertained myself when possible. After reading about his death-to-be in the paper, I made time to see him after work.

Since his conviction, we met in a small room inside of the prison with no table and two chairs facing one another. When I entered, Samuel was already seated. He sat hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his head hung. He was cuffed at the wrists, which then connected to a large cuff around his neck to disable him from fully extending his arms. He wore a clear plastic mask over his mouth with holes cut out of the front. 

Just six months prior, Samuel had attacked a journalist who had come to see him, and his visitor privileges had been limited. I was one of the very fortunate who still had the authorization to see him.

“Hello, Samuel,” I said as I set down my briefcase and seated myself. I sat with one leg crossed over the other. 

“Hey,” he said. His voice was muffled by his mask.

“I heard you’re going to be executed next week, how are you feeling about that?”

“I wish I wasn’t.”

“I think I wish that too, I’m sorry to see you go.”

“I had more I wanted to do,” he said.

“Do you know what you’re ordering for your last meal?”

He leaned back in his chair and let his head tilt up to the ceiling.

“I want ribs,” he said.

I smiled. 

“Ribs, and what else?”

“I just want ribs.”

“Okay, I think they can probably do that for you,” I said. “I’m going to be there in the viewing room.”

I can clearly recall Samuel lowering his head to look at me.

“Will Julian be there?” he asked.

“I don’t know, probably not. But I think it would be good for him.”

“He needs to come see me.” 

“Okay,” I said. Samuel had asked to see Julian a handful of times while we were working together. “I will try to get him into the viewing room. Do you know what your last words will be?” I asked.

Samuel shook his head no.


Excerpt Five

“Oh wow,” I said, leaning forward to look out of the passenger's window. “Look at that.”

Up on the flat topped hill beside the prison, a crowd had gathered. A news van was parked at the edge of the hill, and a reporter stood beside a couple with a rotund cameraman filming them. White posters boards glowed from the morning sun, and we were too far to see what was written on them. Julian watched them.

“I think they’re anti death penalty,” he said.

“No,” I replied, and rolled down my window as my Toyota Camry slowed to the gate guard’s post. “Maybe a few of them- morning.”

As I handed over our licenses and passes for the event, the chattering and cheering from the hilltop leaked into the car. 

“They’re celebrating,” Julian said.

“A serial murderer will be murdered today. A lot of them may be family or friends of the victims- thank you,” I said as I was handed back our IDs and passes.

Julian turned and stared at me.

“Are they going to be in the viewing room?” Julian asked.

The single metal arm that was blocking our car raised slowly, and I lifted my foot from the brake pedal.

“Family of victims? Certainly a few of them, I think this is the kind of thing that gives people closure.”

Julian didn’t say anything the rest of the car ride.


After Julian and I had our passes authorized, we were escorted down a short hallway with white glossy flooring and cream walls. My shoes clacked as we walked. At the end on the left was an opened metal door painted to appear matte. 

“We’ll be starting in five minutes, take your seats,” our escort said. Then, he turned to leave. We both watched him.

“Are we late?” Julian asked, quietly.

“No,” I said, and leaned into the open doorway, “but I believe we’re the last here.”

The room was incredibly intimate and small, and the flooring was the same glossy texture as the hallway. Two rows of chairs made from a metal frame with black plastic covers were set up, and only five were filled. Julian and myself made seven.

The lights in the room were off, but it was fully lit from the gaping glass rectangle in the wall that displayed a bright white room, and in the center of that room, a single brown chair with thick leather strap restraints. I leaned deeper into the doorway to look at the metal head cover that protruded from the back of the chair much like the lure on an angler fish.

Julian stepped away, and I leaned back from the doorway to look at him.

“I don’t want to watch,” he said, hushed. He stood with his arms crossed.

“Why do you feel that way?” I asked, and I believe that I felt disappointed.

“This isn’t for me- I shouldn’t be here.”

“You are exactly the type of person this is for.” 

He shook his head no, and then looked down.

“This is for victims, it might give you closure,” I said.

“No, I’m alive,” he said. 

I wish I understood what he meant. Instead of responding to him, I stood with my hands in my pockets and looked at the reflection of my shoes mirrored in the floor. 

“Will you regret it?” I asked.

Julian and I entered the room, and the door slowly came to a close behind us. It suctioned, and the room was silent.

I shifted past a woman sitting alone with her hands folded in her lap, and seated myself beside a fellow I soon recognized as Charlie. His hair had grayed since last I saw him, and mine had become salt and pepper. He had two long wet lines on both sides of his face, and when he looked at me he smiled.

“Detective Thorn,” he said.

“Hello, Charlie,” I said. “How are you feeling?” I asked.

“Sad,” he said. “How do you feel?”

I pictured Samuel in the electric chair, dead.

“I don’t know,” I said, and Charlie placed a hand on my knee. He smiled again, sadly, then looked past me at Julian.


Samuel was brought into the white room by a thin man in a prison officer’s uniform, and when Samuel was seated, his chest slowly rose and fell calmly. As Samuel stared at his reflection in the one-way glass, and we stared at him, he was secured into the chair. His wrists hung off the edge of the arm rests, and he was bound by his forearms. We could hear the strap buckles jingling through the grainy speaker directly above us.

The thin man in the prison officer’s uniform adjusted the metal head cover over Samuel’s scalp, and then, he walked to the corner right of the window and we could only see half of his body.

“Do you have any final words?” he asked.

Samuel sat upright with his head forward.  

“I would do it again,” he said.

The room was silent, with the exception of Charlie who had begun to weep into his hand. Then, the lever switch flipped, and Samuel’s entire body went very still. He did not shake, or jolt in the chair. The tendons in his neck had tensed, and his stiff fingered hands had raised level with his wrist. He was dying.

Then, his body rested.

In that moment, It became incredibly apparent to me that after today, Julian and I may never speak to one another again. And I think I was supposed to feel sad.


We did not speak to one another for the entirety of the drive to his home. My car tires crackled as I rolled onto his gravel driveway, then parked. Only then did Julian say something to me. He said these words exactly without looking at me.

“He’s not as big as I remember.”

And I did not respond to him for a very long time. The car engine hummed while we sat together.

“I’ve begun writing my book,” I said, and turned my head to look at him.

He nodded.

Then, he unbuckled his seat belt and opened the car door. He stepped onto the gravel, then turned to lower himself so we could look at eachother.

“Well, that's that,” he said.

“That's that.” I said.

And as he looked at me, his eyes became glossy. Then the door closed, and I never spoke to Julian again.

I wish, truly, that in that moment I had been moved. I think that’s the kind of moment that is meant to move a person.

//////////////////////////

Much like my short story with Rowdy and Arlo, this is not finished and was created for the sake of a writing class.
I ask because I will definitely be continuing this story, what scenes do you want to see more of? Who do you want to know more about? Anything said helps me!