Mea Culpa
The Full Story

So far, this had been the worse day that she had ever had on this job in the ten years that she had been a Staffer. She had worked long and hard for her position here. She blushed. Position...she thought again about her apartment, the reward awaiting her after work.

The cool clear plastic clipboard brought her large nipples into hard, concentrated awareness as she thought about her bed at home being kept warmed by the most luscious creature she had ever met. They had only met a month ago at a nurse's conference in London, and the relationship was off to a gelignite good start: passionate, with plenty of bumps. Her soft brown eyes twinkled, pupils dilating, thinking about their last heated night together. She shifted her shapely, twenty-eight year old figure within the confines of her nurses uniform.

Nurse Crushank was the youngest Assistant-Head Nurse in the Facility's 56 year history. And for the while, at least, this meant...night shift.

`Well,' she thought, `at least it isn't usually this bad.'

Her jumbled thought's were interrupted as the doctor quietly opened the door to his office. He closed it behind him, rather heavily stepping out into the sterile, evening-lit hall. The size of the Facility required that the lights be low at night, in order to simulate darkness, giving the feel of natural earth environments. This was as much for the good of the Staff, as it was for the Inmates. Clumsily using her empty, transparent clipboard, Jaimie attempted, quite ineffectually, to hide the still erect nipples on her full breasts from Dr. Truman's tired eyes.

"Yes?" he said, doggedly, rubbing his distinguished gray hair.

"Sorry, to bother you, Dr. Truman, but...have you seen Dr. Nehru?" She tried to control her irritation, but could not hide a flushed scowl. She had a marvelous flush response, and Truman had never failed to notice this, approvingly.

"You're never a bother, Jaimie. I'm just tired. Yes. Dr. Nehru went home just before the security breech was discovered." He tried to calm the exasperated Head Nurse. It had been a rough night, for everyone. Two suicides, and now this. He pleasantly noticed how perfectly she filled out her tailored white uniform. He attempted not to notice.

"He got someone to cover for tonight, AND the next few days. And..." looking at his quartz watch, "that replacement will be here any minute." He looked at Jaimie knowingly, "Dr. Nehru is really in need of more than chemotherapy. He won't be able to work at all at this rate." His nonchalance and second guessing had worked their magic. The Nurse's temper quickly abated and a look of horror overcame her thin, strained features.

"Thank you, doctor. But, I-I didn't mean..."

"That's all right, Jaimie," flicking his thumb at his office door, "but, I've really got more pressing matters to deal with here. Buzz me at a few minutes to midnight, will you? That's the sport. Really. Thanks."

"Why," she hesitated, temporarily flustered, wondering why he could always charm her so easily, "of course, Doctor. I am sorry to have disturbed you. Oh. Is everything all right at home then?" She brushed her brunette hair out of her eyes with the clipboard, and only then, with the subtle glance he made toward her form showing nipples, did she realize her tactical error. Her areolae suddenly darkened at the realization, showing dimly through her uniform and undergarments.

The tired look which had washed out his rugged, hard cut features, was briefly replaced with a warm, licentious, but friendly, grin. He grabbed hold of her shoulder gently and gave her a warm squeeze. This had always been a move that got him a warm response from most females. His thumb accidentally brushed her left breast as he removed his hand, and she blushed involuntarily. She realized that she enjoyed the touch of his hand, involuntarily or not.

His ex-wife had always told him that he was a little too good-looking to be completely trustworthy, but his present state of exhaustion made good work of shadowing this usual dazzle of personality.

Though, never before had he had trouble showing Jaimie warmth and tenderness, even though their one date had been disastrous. Her sexual tastes, just a bit too...sophisticated for him.

"Yes, thank you, Jaimie. Everything is fine. I have someone there now, and I'll be heading out soon."

She nodded her approval and headed off, rather nervously, down the corridor to the control center of the Facility. Truman listened to the clicking of her heels for a moment. Thoughts of her in lace, or leather, bounded before his mind's eye. Before he could shake the thoughts off, he returned to appreciating the view he was getting of her very female backside. The way she moved when she walked, suspended momentarily, the matters weighing on him, though, only for the briefest of moments. He sighed, thinking of nights never achieved with the object of his unrequited fascination these past few years.

She had wished that there was something she could do for him, but she had problems of her own to deal with tonight. There was insanity here tonight, to be sure. Mental Institution or not, there was still order in the way of events around here; but, not on this evening. Short staffed, screaming patients on the fourth floor, two suicides.

`Christ,' she wondered, `what were the statistics on THAT.' And then this Vaughan situation. It simply unnerved her. To think that HE had escaped. Every time he had looked at her, it had reminded her of that incident, when she had been a child of ten, budding breasts already apparent. She had gotten trapped in a well for three days before anyone had discovered her. It was another two days before they had found that crazy man's dwelling. It belonged to someone nobody had seen recently around that time, so it was thought that this man must have been a traveler, and a trespasser, who had first saved, then later abused her, at his leisure, in his perverse ways. He never was found. She couldn't help herself thinking that Vaughan was in actuality, this man, now years later, kept under lock and key, by her.

Another childhood fear hidden beneath the professional facade of an adult. She couldn't remember what had taken place, but the reports were that she had been found tied to a bed, her tender young skin chaffed in several places until it was raw; dried fluids on her naked, pristine body; a leather thong tied securely over her mouth, the smell of that, something she had ever since found to be compellingly erotic. It had been a week before she had come around to attend her surroundings. Longer before she could walk properly.

She shook the thoughts off with a shudder. Perhaps this was why she had always had such a hard time dating. Her affairs had all been short, but fiery. She always seemed to end up with someone that she didn't know well. Someone beautiful, but still mostly a stranger to her.

Jaimie dated frequently. But, the men were few and far between as of late. The past year, she had begun to feel a push from the center of her body, that biological clock was ticking off the minutes until she knew that she would have to conceive a child. But the right man just hadn't come along, yet. So she had contented herself with her light flings, experimentaions, and shallow lovers. Not a completely unpleasant past time.

Passing an open, buffed metal door, she feigned looking at her watch after realizing that the doctor was still watching her as she walked away. How she wished he wouldn't do that, for it did irritate her so. But, she found herself smiling despite her ambivalent feelings toward David...Dr. Truman. He continued to watch her steps with interest.

Jaimie tossed off all the confusing thought's that were drilling her, and began to think about the time she would have when she got home, climbed in next to her beautiful Nikky, and gently nuzzled the woman's soft, firm breasts. The thought made her flesh tingle in all the right places.

More powerful thoughts interrupted her visions. Thoughts of what they would do to each other later, during the upcoming weekend. Leather toys, devices of bondage and light, altruistic pain; inducing in them both, uncounted orgasms and perverse ecstasies. She momentarily saw David as he had once been on her bed, though it had lasted such a short time. If only he had adjusted to her, such a beautiful thing could they have enjoyed together. A lustful, sex-flushed look once again overcame her fully feminine features; and this time, she didn't care who saw it.

She had left Dr. David Truman standing there, trying to sum up the energy to re-enter his office. Finally, resigned to the task, he shrugged off his indecision and considered what a waste it all was. He had lusted after Nurse Crushank for years before giving it up, and considered it a step forward to go through with his present situation. Still, the thought kept coming to him, that, just because it hadn't worked once, those several years ago, perhaps, just perhaps...well, times change, don't they?

He knew had chosen a good woman, though. Young, both in body and in soul, and beautiful to a fault. It wasn't his doing that her estranged husband was psychotic and quite lethal. Richard Vaughan had in fact, on several occasions attempted to terminate that lovely lady's life.

Truman rubbed his pained brown eyes and tried to stretch a little. He still looked good for all of his forty-two years. But these emergencies were beginning to make him look older than he wished. He'd been going from one emergency to another since the night before, with only the occasional snack and the eternal cup of coffee to keep him on the consciousness track. He took a deep breath, opened the solid walnut office door and slid furtively back into the stuffy confinement of the cramped, though prestigious, Facility Director's Office.

The gentleman in the dark suit was busily reading Vaughan's file and mouthing the stem of a fine, unlit briar pipe. A young man in blue with hat tucked deftly beneath his arm, stood by the coffee machine wishing hard that the coffee would finish brewing. The young Officer's eyes were as bloodshot as the other men, his acne covered face tense with the trial of staying awake at such an hour, yet his uniform still had a fresh, crisp look to it.

However, like the doctor and the man seated, his face showed no such well defined contours. Being the Detective Lieutenant's Assistant had originally sounded like such a good idea, such a well placed career move. He would be wearing a regular suit soon, just like the Detective Lieutenant. But after all the late nights, the double shifts, he wondered if he would ever catch up on his sleep. The doctor closed the door as the men continued on with their main objects of concentration.

Truman watched the seated Detective with anticipation as he rounded his desk and re-seated himself. The legal documents had already been read and now sat very orderly on the edge of Truman's leather topped desk. Det. Lt. Jensen was evidently now into the controversial "Mea Culpa" document itself; a fabrication, or, call it what you will. Truman thought angrily and bitterly about this. How that man had come to rule his life, to wreck the solidarity of his life-style, and all in just a few short years. He knew he was badly in need of a long vacation from this place. But a well placed, quick thought of Tommy Nehru closed off all of his self-centered complaints.

David began to watch the hard featured man sitting opposite.

`Yes,' Truman speculated to himself, `he's beginning to see the gravity in Vaughan's condition.' He sat back, interlocked his fingers behind his head, and commenced to wait for the Detective Lieutenant to finish.

In days of old it was usual to find ways to rest one's guilt through external means, as is indicated by the following pages. During the bombing of London, WWII, this document was discovered in a structure of a Church which had been erected in the year 1299. This Church was not spared the destruction similar throughout the rest of the City.

This document was written on a single roll of parchment, wrapped in a Midrash, and sealed in a heavy urn, which itself was sealed into a stone and mortar column supporting the rear wall of the building. Since the exile of the Jews from England was also in 1299, it is both intriguing and ironic that the two documents should be found in so un-Jewish a structure. We are not concerned with the Midrash here. It is my contention as an Historian, that the document was entrusted to a Jew, who during the Jewish Expulsion, hid the sealed urn and then took flight, undoubtedly hoping to be allowed to return to continue his protectorate of what was by now, nearly a Holy relic to its protector. He may quite possibly, be a relative to the Author.

The following document has been translated from its original Latin script into English, by me, as well as could be done considering its present deteriorated state. It has been considered that the person to whom it was originally entrusted to, passing it on to a descendant, and so on, perpetuating it like some foul, hidden legacy, until the Jewish Expulsion necessitated its release and concealment.

It is this document that is the premise of my "Great Vaughan Theorem" which has put me in such disrepute with my Colleagues for so long, due to lack of substantial proof. The publishing of this piece positively eradicates all ill feelings, and eliminatesthe dissension of my professional standing in the British Historical-Scientific Community, with which I have had to sojourn without for such a very long time.

Richard William Vaughan, PH. D.

Sussex, England 1988.

Praise God. A New Century.

Into this document have I put the relentless and incessant Thoughts which have of late, tormented me through Darkness...and through Light. I yearn for the innocence of my youth in Stalybridge. O', the need...to have a place in which to hide my conscience. To entrust this to a friend, in secrecy, and in Faith, so that I may know, that somewhere is a place in which my guilt and my conscience are put to rest. For my burden in great. So, I entrust this to a friend, in Faith. One indebted to me. A Jew, as I originally was a Jew. Though due to my position, never can I divulge this to any who do not already have possession of this knowledge.

Quickly now, I must write.

These following events took place in the fair and lovely lands of Lancashire, of Middle England. God allowed me the Grace to grow up in a borough with the name Stalybridge, East of the Town of Manchester, where stands the Castle of that same fair name, from whence I presently scribe. Both are located at the foot of the Pennine Ranges, so called the "backbone" of England. Since the Town of Stalybridge is the foci of four different counties: Lancashire, York, Derby, and Cheshire, I was fortunate to receive a great deal of variation in my education. Embracing God and the Church, I served both well and was eventually appointed as assistant to one of Authority. A man of worth, by name of Truman, and called Judge. At the time, being one of six and thirty years, and I, of two and twenty.

These years are dark indeed and only a man of wit and ingenuity can survive and prosper through them, as I have done. But for the most part, without the dignity one might know as a youth. Or, so it would seem of late....

Always have I served my Master well. A Gentleman by birth. A Judge and Exorcist, by Royal Appointment and Church Sanction. None do we answer to, save only to King William II, Himself, called Rufus, from the colour of his hair; third Son of William I, called the Conqueror.

And more closely to Ralph Flambard, Bishop of Durham, Principle Minister and favourite of the King. Though some have been heard to say that Bishop Flambard dealt to the people a great oppression and cruelty, especially in the raising of moneys; I found him to be most generous at Court...and in Council.

The Honorable Truman of Richmond, Norman Keep, in North Riding, Yorkshire...my Master, and I, have for two years now, scoured the lands for witches, demons and their servants. Position was assured to us for the life of King William. Horrible is the work and much need have I felt for the solace of Prayer, but as no righteous Man will deny, God's Work MUST BE DONE.

Always have I been a man of contrivance and continuance, and as I have begun to think of late, lacking a bit, perhaps, in the True Integrity. Judge Truman though, has always shown himself to be a man most Devout....

Why, many is the time that after our interrogation of a wench to no avail, Judge Truman would stay alone with her, while I would retire with our attendants to pray for her Eternal Soul. Not infrequently, did Judge Truman convert the wench, wretched, though sometimes pleasant to look upon as she may have been, back into God's Just Ways; and occasionally...she would be released; though nearly as frequently his Holy method for achieving success led to the poor creature's demise.

However, of the men whom we interrogated, they seemed to be more stubborn. Of them all, very few admitted freely to their charges, for such was the power of Lucifer. Therefore, their tongues had to be loosened, by torture; and they eventually had to be destroyed, and Sanctified, by the Sacred Fires. Men, have I deduced, are more susceptible to Lucifer's Entrapments. Little pain do I believe they felt, as they were frequently in such a possessed frenzy, frothing and twitching at the post, that they appeared to be totally unrecognizant of the condition of their earthly forms. More than once, it had appeared, that the transgressors had died in the throws of sexual congress with unseen demons, while they burned.

Possibly, for many of them, Our Lord managed entry into their Souls just as they achieved Purification at the burning stake, and they expired in a state of Grace. God forgive me the sin of Pride, but I am proud to say, that we have destroyed near fifty and one hundred of these Advocates of the Devil. Accredited to mine own Execution-Exorcisms are the demise of seven and forty men, and thus, the release of their Souls from their earthbound, Satan-satiated bodies.

Praise God that my Liege and I were here on Earth to cleanse its Holy Soils of these vile and filthy vermin.

But, now, quickly and to the point.

One day, more than several fortnights ago, the forthcoming described incidents occurred.

And thus, my present consternation.

Judge Truman and I were recently put up at the Castle Manchester, for safety, comfort due our Position, and convenience.

The Castle Manchester was built thirty years ago by Lord Alan Rufus, in our Lord's Year of Seventy and One Thousand. It was built on a lofty crag rising about six rods above the Swale River. The Keep, with its pinnacled towers, covers five hectares, with walls one rod thick, and six rods in height.

Though Judge Truman and I were put up at the Castle Manchester for our comfort and safety, it was mostly convenient for Lord Henry of the region, brother to William Rufus. Lord Henry, it was, who originally sent for us to Purify and Cleanse his Dominion of God's Vile Enemies, as he had frequently come upon many complaints from his Nobles and peasants alike, of strange happeningstance and unusual goings on. Not unlike others which the Judge and I had encountered throughout the Realm in previous demonic encounters.

To accomplish our task, the means by which we achieved it were simple and modest; torture and suffering being the most common and efficient a means of persuasion to affect the Truth from our questionable wards. Lord Henry lent us access to His Personal Executioner. The peoples local to the Castle Manchester were in habit of bringing anyone of too unusual a capacity of life, to us for interrment and questioning, but never...the Nobles. Also, did we discover many Evil Ones while traveling through the countryside in our own pursuits of evil ones.

Of those brought to us by the peasants, most it seems, but not all, were guilty before God and man. The layman did not have the acuity which was so evident in my Master, and occasionally, they would be wrong.

All went well for a quadruple of fortnights. At that time, I had been with Judge Truman for three years.

On one particularly cool and grey, after noon time, a band of peasants brought to us a young woman of age, but less than a score of years [about 15]. Amoungst the complaints and evidences against her, besides Luciforous fornication, she seemed to have an uncanny ability to heal the sick and wounded, both for herself, and for others. Dismissing the peasants, the Judge and I set into questioning the wench in the upper dungeons, down below the walls of the Keep, called the Walls of Tremble, by the peasants.

Judge Truman, thin but sturdy, was unusually anxious. Even beyond his usual febrific fervor. But, I think of this, he was not aware. Bound, the girl was then questioned in the flickering, cool torch light for hours. Stuffiness of the sealed chamber, with no windows at this depth, soon became apparent to me. However, the girl eventually acquiesced and gave her answers forth, quickly and honestly to all my observances and considerations. Towards the end of the questioning, Judge Truman confided in me of the girl's hidden perversities, which he had skillfully deduced from her allegedly innocent divulgences.

Two hours later, of the five of us present, Judge Truman, I, Lord Henry's Executioner, the keeper of the dungeon, and the wench, all were finally convinced of her sins. Duty was complete.

Hesitatingly, I wondered: would Judge Truman try to convert this outwardly sweet, but perhaps misguided young thing? I noticed, there was a flushing and moistness to the Judge's face, whenever he achieved immediate distance to the accused. I attributed this to...many things...but, now....

Judge Truman pulled me aside at this point and told me that this woman was perhaps, not beyond his abilities to resurrect the Fear of God in her once again, and that we should now retire to eat and rest before he attempted this miracle. It would be the mid night hour soon and he wanted to begin before so unHoly an hour. He said he would need of me to Pray with the others for her redemption if he was to be successful. I glanced at her, considering his request, as not unusual, and realized in the wench, an unwholesome lividiousness to her being that arose within myself a feeling of tensile defference, a rising of my heart to within my throat and a desire, to immediately seek her counsel. It was at that moment, that I realized how correct an accounting of the situation the Judge had made. Safety, would require distance, prayer and suffering.

As we were leaving the chamber, the girl, delirious, murmured a name through her unevenly swollen and bleeding lips. The name, as I do now recall it, was Angelique. Immediately, Truman's face drained of all color, save that of white. Quickly, Truman walked over to her from the dungeon cell's great wood and iron door, and grasped the frail young thing by the jaw with his thin but powerful, and prematurely aging fingers. He glared, painfully, into her eyes. Something came to him from those tantalizing depths and Truman entered into her dazed stare. Something, or someone, in that girl's terrible eyes, gripped him, for his ashen features suddenly flushed red, rage burning in the veins in his face; and in a great anguish, he lept upon her, wringing her slender throat.

Thrashing and cursing her repeatedly, weeping like a child lost in a seashore fog, his fit was continuing, the passion unabating.

His violence increasing, which was not of Truman's position, nor of his usual demeanor, and we implored him to stop; til finally, he did break loose of her; though mostly at the insistence of our insistant, and restraining fingers.

The poor limp woman/child slumped, dazed and choking to the straw covered, dirt and rock floor. Truman staggered back, aghast and obviously stunned, staring into some terrible void, convulsing and appearing quite possessed. Covertly, so the attendants should not see, I drew forth my dagger, fearing an exchange of the girl's demon, from her to Truman. But... finally, he composed himself, and exited quickly, the chamber, so fouled by the smoke of human flesh. Even the very skin of his being seemed to be itself charged now with life. He was shaking at this time, and quite uncontrollably so.

Once out in the tunnel, Truman leaned against the cool rock wall and breathed deeply, holding his hand in pain. Whispering, he said to me in gasping breaths that this particular girl's demon was unusually strong and clever, and that we must not remain in her presence any longer. Truman then ordered that her tongue be removed and immediately so.

As the Executioner re-entered the chamber to do what he was bidden, I saw Truman's hand. Sickeningly, my own fears grew within me.

For then, and for the first time, I noticed that she had bitten him hard enough to draw a goodly amount of blood, which flowed, not freely enough. Truman swore a Prayer to Our Lord and then we left the damp confinement levels to seek out the doctors; but not, however, before he had instructed the executioner, through the screams of pain echoing out from the cell, that he was to destroy the girl--quickly, and as he wished; though before the rapidly approaching, mid night's hour.

This pleased and confused the man, since all immediate deaths were typically by order of the Lord of the Castle himself; and to give this girl to him as toy and butchery was, to him, too much pleasure to expect from a Holy Dispenture. He did not argue, knowing the authority which was upon our Titles.

Two night's later, on the second day of August, in the fortieth year of his age, the thirtieth year of his reign, and with no legitimate issue, King William lay dead in his own hunting fields, killed by his good Norman friend, Lord Walter Tyrrel, when an arrow glanced off a nearby tree and found its place within the good King's breast, killing him instantly. The present King Henry was also within the ranks of the ill fated hunt.

Fearing death by the King's own, on his own hunting fields, or by one of the King's successors, sadly, Lord Walter fled England on the spot, only briefly to reside in France, where he should have become King David I's favourite, had he remained.

However, Lord Tyrrel stopped only briefly in France before departing with all speed for the Holy Lands, and King William's body was found later than was possible to account for his death. Murder was considered, though none believed it other than those to whom intrique was a holy lifestyle.

Unhappily, it would seem that Walter Tyrrel's alarm and fright were quite needless. For if the truth be known, King William II was little beloved by his close servants and vassals. Indeed, when his body was finally discovered, there was small work of it and it was interred with abandon at Winchester, lacking any of the grandiose ceremony which should come with the passing of such a powerful monarch as the King of England. I've even heard it said that he was encased within a container of the Irish bog oak, which would be a praise for its beauty and durability, but a bane for its lack of the more royal properties of gold, silver or even marble.

A mere two night's after Truman had ordered the girl put to death, and King William lay dead in the fields, I sat with Truman; who had fallen prey to a fearful malady due to a terrible infection which the doctors had said must be demon inspired to have taken a hold of him so quickly, and so fearsomely. The bite had drawn on his Spirit and given Satan a chance to work His Wiles. So Pure a man could not be Converted to the Evil One, but only his body destroyed by His Dark Majesty.

God Save Good Truman!

In a great hurry, must I now finish.

God forgive me, but what Truman said in his fibrificity and delirium froze my very Soul. O', to thaw that Soul out but once again!

For that vicious young woman had, at least in Truman's fevered mind, appeared to him as the daughter a woman he had once found needs to put to death very near here, a fortnight of years ago.

And he had unknowingly lusted after this dead, unholy woman's daughter, this in Truman's own blistered words on his deathbed. We had recently put to death, the deada woman, Angelique's daughter.

The woman was brought to him many years ago as an infidel and a witch; a woman he had once known of in these parts, many years ago, and had been named Angelique. And such a name was not common in these lands at that time. All facts had supported this belief, at least to Truman. Never would I have stumbled upon this spurious knowledge save for my close attendance up to Truman's death on that very night.

She had indeed appeared to Judge Truman...to be his own bastard daughter.

And yet, Judge Truman had her put to death. In finality, both Mother, and daughter, dead by his hand. And thus he died in his delerium, insane.

Now I am Judge in Vaughan's place. A fate of luck and Worship...and of necessity, I am sure, as I have always been a Devout man in the Service of the Lord, and my King, whoever that may be...for I am a survivor.

But, here now sits Judge Vaughan, successor to Truman, in great fear. For since the death of William Rufus, a now dangerous Lord Henry has usurped the Kingdom. For it is Robert, Duke of Normandy, the older brother to William and Henry who is the true successor now. But alas, he is far away on the crusades. They have already taken Jerusalem, those noble Knights of Christiandom. But, where is the Duke now? For Robert would surely protect my position. Many of the old Good King's vassals have been put to death, or fled for their lives, and I fear also for mine own position and life.

For my Master and I had needs to cross Lord Henry, now King Henry I, on more than one occasion, while Vaughan of Richmond was powerfully alive, and still commanding by duties. But at that time, we knew we were safe to follow our duties no matter who was affected, for as long as William Rufus lived. But, once again, I digress. But the fear of late affects my thoughts immensely. So, now I too gaze towards that putrid land of French villeins and pomposity.

For mine own safety....

But the Work of the lord MUST be carried on! Damned may be my body, vassel of the Lord that it is, but save my Soul!

Still...I wonder. How could one who sprang from the loins of so Noble, so Devout a man as the Honorable Truman of Richmond, be a Vassal of the Devil and His demons? Surely...it cannot be? No! Surely, it cannot!

And yet...Truman HAD put the woman to death. Indeed, both women.

But also then, God forgive me, Truman himself had died.

Wherein does the relevance lie there? Am I wrong? Could my thoughts be so mistaken?

Had Truman been...before...wrong about them? Had I, been wrong about him?

Now again, I must go...descend down into the dungeon...to question yet another woman, much the same as Truman's own bastard daughter. And how may her father die? Shall I also have to see THIS daughter die?

Can I...having so recently closed my Master's eyes, can I...ever again, do the Lord's Biddings, with a clear mind...no matter how repulsive the task?

Shall she too have to die? But this time...for My security? Soon...too soon, shall I know the answer. Now I must needs go. Let Posterity Judge MY decision.

Praise God. If I have been wrong in my Faith...Praise God!

Mea Culpa. God forgive me! Mea Culpa. Mine own daughter now awaits us below.

In the Service of Our Lord...
and the present King of England...

Judge Vaughan of Stalybridge
The Castle Manchester

Det. Lt. Jensen flipped to the report on the document and began to read it. He glanced up at Truman, who was watching him intently. The Det. Lt. briefly flashed the Psychiatrist a look of serious concern, and then, returned to his reading; continuing to gulp down Vaughan's weighty file in rather large to digest chunks.