Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

…

“Aw, Marty, don’t be like that!” Roy’s voice was smooth and wild as he called down the echoey hallway leading away from his cell. “We could make a good team, you an’ I…” 

His words stuck to Martin’s skin like ash- clinging to every exposed inch of him and infusing his clothes with the heavy scent of smoke. 

The lawyer shook his head as he walked, thoughts racing through his mind so fast he felt dizzy by the time he was out of the building. 

That couldn’t have really happened. There was no way that Aaron had tricked him like that. No fucking way. 

And yet… 

It was obvious once he thought about it. Roy had been so masterful at the accent that one time, he should have known then. Everything had been a setup. 

Hell, he had probably wanted to get caught. The brat probably reveled in the fact that he didn’t even have to be on the run- just pardoned and released after six months of treatment or whatever his sentence was. Martin couldn’t remember then. 

He couldn’t heave a sigh as he stepped into the taxi cab; his heart was in his throat and he held his breath, waiting for someone to come out and tell him it was all a joke. No one did. 

He couldn’t cry, either. When he got home, he just made himself a coffee and drank it numbly while the news played awkwardly on the screen in front of him. 

Tucked between the ugly lime green couch cushions, Martin supped from his mug and stared mutely at the blaring television. Newscasters, with frowns upon their aged faces, informed the masses of the major blunder- or possible reformation  of a convicted killer -made by one Martin Vail, big shot attorney at law. 

Martin stifled a sigh, or a scream. He couldn’t tell which, he didn’t really feel anything at that moment. 

“Aaron Stampler, a nineteen year old ex-Alter boy at St. Michael’s, and hailing from rural Kentucky, has been granted a nine-month stay in a maximum security Mental Institution. The name of said institution has been withheld for the privacy of the patient.” 

Patient. 

Ha. 

That’s a laugh. 

Martin’s mind muttered bitter things as he sat. 

Call a madman a patient and not guilty-

“By reason of insanity,” the newscaster finished his thought. 

Martin smacked the remote and it changed quickly to a national news station by accident. 

“The Butcher Boy of St. Mike’s has left Chicago residents and the rest of the US in a state of shock. As a nineteen year old boy, after accusing a resident priest of sexual abuse, murdered the man in cold blood. He was apprehended minutes after the crime took place, and eventually was found not guilty by way of the insanity plea. US officials inform us to “Accept the ruling as fair and just” and to drop the issue.” 

Click. Channel change. 

“...says in a rather unabashed quote, here we’ll take a look at it right now, that ‘Part of Aaron [Stampler] is guilty and part of him is innocent, and the part that is innocent is the part we need to help.’ Yeah, that was a quote from our psychologist, Dr. Molly Arrington, who actually worked with the boy-”

TV off. 

Martin sat in silence. 

And he waited for the earth to swallow him up. 

…

“Thank yuh-you, ma’am,” Aaron drawled, blinking up at the nurse as she handed him a small paper cup full of pills. “I guh-greatly ‘ppreciate all you duh-do- do foh me,” he smiled, cheeks pink. 

“Of course, darling,” the nurse cooed, handing him a plastic water bottle that crinkled in Aaron’s hand. “Get some rest now,” she advised before leaving the room. 

She was supposed to wait and watch him take the meds, but they rarely did it anymore, and after three months in this place, things were starting to fall into a rhythm. 

She closed and locked his door as he watched with narrowed eyes, slipping the meds into a small plastic baggie he kept hidden in a crack next to one of the rubber-plated power outlets, and stuffing it away.

In the beginning, when they forced the meds down his throat, or at least stood and watched as he swigged ‘em down, he would just puke them back up as soon as they left. Now that he had a place to keep ‘em, thanks to the fact that they served certain sandwiches with small plastic baggy-like wrappers over them, he would save each and every little brightly colored discs and bulbs and spheres and capsules. Maybe he would need them. Maybe he wouldn’t. 

He didn’t worry often, but he did when someone mentioned Linda and asked if she would visit. 

“How du-d’you kn- know ‘bout Linda,” he’d asked dumbly, hating that he had to play the part of dingus Aaron again, but did so anyway to save his own hide. 

“Yoh face is all over da news,” the man had trilled, eyes darting about every which way. He had tried to kill his whole family by turning the gas on in his house and locking every door in the middle of the night. 

He had also cheated on his wife. 

Aaron knew at that moment that this man had no right to be sitting in this building and grinning like a fool and eating jello on the daily with that kind of sadistic mind. 

Because Aaron did what he had to do. Didn’t he? 

He had to kill Rushman and free himself, right? But maybe Linda never had to die. Maybe she was just as innocent as Aaron and they could have run away together and never thought of that bishop again. 

Maybe he didn’t have to shed any blood at all. 

He sat back in his cell and smiled to himself. 

Nah, he had made the right choice, and he was happy. 

Wasn’t he?

…

“So we’re here with Dr. Molly Arrington, neuropsychologist of twelve years, and she has worked personally with the Butcher Boy of St. Mike’s, or perhaps you know him better as Aaron Stampler, convicted killer. Molly, tell us, have you ever seen anything like the Butcher Boy’s case in all of your years of training and meeting with with mentally ill people?” 

“Well firstly, his name is Aaron. The man that killed Archbishop Rushman was named Roy, and he is not who people think he is.” Molly blinked nervously towards the camera. “But… to answer your question, Dylan, no, I have never seen anything like I have seen with Aaron. No. Aaron, in the times that I met with him, he exhibited traits of D.I.D, or Multiple Personality disorder-” 

“I’m sorry, can you explain what DID is, for our viewers?” 

“Oh- yes, um, DID is Dissociative Identity Disorder, and the definition of it is basically, it is a rare psychological disorder in which two or more personalities with distinct memories and behavior patterns appear to exist within one individual. Aaron showed signs of having two distinct personalities, and we later were able to identify the second personality as ‘Roy’.” 

“Roy?” The interviewer sniggerd quietly, and Ms. Arrington frowned. “Interesting. So, would you say that there is any cases where someone has tried to fake these memories or personalities?”

“It is common for people, especially young people, to try and gain attention by faking mental illness, including DID, but what I saw with Aaron was beyond faking, if that makes… any sense. He… he was so truly scarred and broken by a series of traumatic events, that his mind literally split having to carry the weight of that trauma. He really is just a scared kid…” she looked directly into the camera then, tears at the edge of her bright eyes. “And he is undoubtedly innocent.” 

…

Chapter Text

…

It’d been two years. Chicago was no longer in a state of shock. Murders happened all the time, anyways, and the Butcher Boy’s fame had been swept under the rug as soon as another crazed maniac shot up twelve hookers in a strip club downtown. 

It was the circle of life, or fame, or whatever you want to call it. 

And Martin changed after all that. 

He didn’t want to take anymore big cases, hell no. He stuck to meandering in the slums and settling debts rather than scoping out any publicity or screen time. 

He was a nobody, now. 

And then he got a phone call. 

“I know this isn’t what you wanted,” the voice said quietly. “I know you’re sticking to low-radar cases, I know that-” 

“Slow down. Sylvia, was it?” Martin supped his black coffee and adjusted in his office chair. 

“Sylvia Brackfold,” she repeated. “My… my sister went missing and I want justice for her.” 

“Again, slow down. Who is your sister, how long has she been gone, and how are you planning on getting your quote-unquote ‘justice’?” Martin leaned back in his chair and tucked the phone beneath his ear, pinned by his shoulder. He was just doing this for a laugh, really, he didn’t want let alone need anymore screen time in this lifetime. After that massive fuck-up with Aaron and Rushman, he wasn’t about to put his name out on anything ever again. 

“My- She went missing almost four years ago, now. I believe I know who killed her, and-”

“Woah, woah, so now it’s killed? ” Martin sat back up. “You said ‘missing’, so pick one or the other.” 

“Her body hasn’t been found, but I believe I know who killed her, and I want to sue him for $20,000 and put him in prison.” Sylvia’s voice was shaky but full of resolve. Martin decided to play along for a bit longer till he turned her down. 

“Alright. So, age, name, profile? If she was a blonde, I can get you a big camera crew to film her childhood home,” he grinned like the bastard he was on the other end as Sylvia’s breath caught in her throat. 

“Um… eight-eighteen, brown hair, blue eyes, and her name, you asked for?” 

Martin rolled his eyes and sighed, “Yeah, I’m gonna need to know who this broad is if you want me to fight for her.” 

Sylvia took a deep breath.

“Her name is- was- Linda Forbes.” 

…

This is what freedom felt like. A stuffy apartment and a shitty job down the street. 

No cuffs, no bars, no jail time, and Aaron, with his smug smile, was a free man, dammit, and he was gonna act like one. 

“I swear you look really familiar,” some chick named Haley droned as she pressed her lips against Aaron’s. The boy raised his eyebrows. 

“Mm… do I?” He asked against her mouth, slipping one arm behind her waist to pull her body against his. 

She nodded into the kiss and ran her fingers through his hair. 

“Where do I know you fr-”

Aaron crushed his mouth against hers and shrugged. 

“Dunno,” he mumbled, slipping a hand up to unhook the back of her bra. “Guess I just have that face,” he growled. 

Suddenly, the girl pulled back and looked at him full in the face. 

“You said your name was Roy?” 

“I said Aaron,” Aaron hissed through gritted teeth, hands tight around the girl’s waist. “Why does it matt-”

“Oh shit, you’re that kid from the news a few years back,” she gaped, letting him go. “The crazy one- oh shit. ” 

She pulled herself off of his lap, cheeks aflame, and she rapidly fixed her hair and pulled her shirt back on. 

“Wait- why-” Aaron sat up, confusion scrawled on his pretty little face. 

“Are you kiddin’? I don’t want to fuck around with some fuckin’ crazy,” she muttered, pulling her shoes back on and shaking her head. Aaron’s blood boiled and he slammed his hands over his eyes. Would he never ditch this fucking ditz, Aaron? Or was it Roy, that he wanted to get away from? 

Aaron could hardly keep it all straight in his head; who was who and when he killed and why… 

And now the rep of “crazy kid” was screwing with his chances of screwing. 

“Well then get the fuck outta here,” he snapped, picking up the purse beside him and tossing it hard at the girl. It smacked her in the head and she glowered at him, picking it up. 

“Psycho,” she spat before hobbling out the front door in her shimmery high heels. Aaron huffed before getting up and slipping the chain lock back on the door. 

Never know when some murderer may try and break in. 

That thought made him smile to himself, and he retreated to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal. Too sugary and the milk too watery, he choked it down and finally tossed the spoon and bowl in the already dirty sink, sighing. 

He didn’t understand where it had all gone wrong. Maybe when he accepted that ride from Rushman. Or maybe when he met Linda sixteen years before that. 

Maybe it was the fact that they had grown up beside each other, and every time his mean ol’ dad took anything out on him, Linda was there to patch him up best she could with toilet paper and hand sanitizer. 

Maybe it was when he killed her, too, instead of just letting her run away. 

But at the time,  he didn’t want her to leave. He didn’t want to be all alone again. 

“Don’t leave me ‘lone with Ruh-Rushman,” he’d begged. The stutter came after Rushman. And always stronger after- 

Fuck. Stop thinkin’ about it, you little shit. 

Aaron rubbed his eyes hard and threw himself down on the living room couch, kicking the remote until the TV flickered to life. 

“...Brackfold informs the court of her hopes to bring light to her sister’s disappearance.” The newscaster’s voice rang out and throbbed in Aaron’s ears, and he narrowed his eyes at the screen, confused and ready to change the channel. 

A clip from an interview appeared on the screen, and Aaron’s heart dropped into his stomach as he saw the girl calling herself Brackfold. 

“I… I want justice for my sister,” she was saying, cheeks pink and eyes bright with tears. “And I intend to get it.” 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Aaron started muttering it- like a prayer, or a threat. 

“Despite Linda’s disappearance nearly four years ago, Sylvia has already found recruits to help search for her and they intend to find her: dead or alive.” That was when Aaron leapt at the screen and plowed one finger against the power button. 

The TV clicked off quietly, and Aaron heaved deep breaths in the silence. This couldn’t be happening. Not now, not when he had finally broken free of all of it. 

He looked down at his hands, shaking fearfully, and he clenched them into fists until they stopped moving. 

He wouldn’t let himself slip this time. 

Even if that meant killing one more nosy little girl. 

Or, he thought with a malicious grin. A big-shot attorney. 

…

“I thought that was over with,” Molly said into the phone, wiping the excess foam from her upper lip as she eyed the steam coming from her latte greedily. “Yeah, I know it was a big deal, but the key word there is ‘ was’, John-” She stopped and listened carefully. “Why? …Really? You’re joking…” Molly’s heart rose to her throat, choking her and sending her eyes blooming with stressed tears. “You’re joking,” she repeated helplessly as she soaked up the information from the voice on the other end. 

She waited a long time before speaking again. 

“Well then, I guess I can meet with them… Yeah… Uh huh. Okay, Monday works, I guess. Yeah. Yeah. Alright, thanks Todd. Mhm. Okay. Bye.” She tossed the phone to the table and rested her head in her hands. 

A new documentary covering the Butcher Boy case. Molly hadn’t had to think of Aaron in years, and now she was being brought in to discuss him all over again? This job went downhill ever since she met that kid, no matter how bad she felt for him, she would never get over how quickly he had disappeared from the media. 

Not that that was a bad thing, of course. 

She believed that the last thing a mentally unstable child needed was publicity. She still believed it, but now he was being accused of murder again ?

Molly shook her head and brought her styrofoam cup of coffee to her lips gingerly. 

If she needed to testify again, she would. She knew that boy was innocent, and as long as Roy didn’t make an appearance, she could convince the court of that. 

It was the least she could do. 

…