Together Chased the Butterfly | Hadyn Archambeault
It was the summer of 1980, and the Florida heat was getting to all of us.
Corey, from accounting, was desperately fanning himself with a ruler. Dennis, from advertising, was slamming Poland Springs like his life depended on it; I suppose it did. And Rodney, from legal…The poor guy looked like he was on the verge of passing out from heat stroke.
I, in a sticky state not too dissimilar to my less esteemed colleagues, was stripped down to my sweat-stained undershirt, clicking and clacking away at the typewriter. My arms stuck to the desk like putty pressed into newspaper. The heat was so unbearable that I hadn’t the foggiest idea what I was putting to paper—and I was too hot to care. The air in the building was acrid; it reeked of tobacco and muck sweat. While mindlessly typing, an exhausted Angela, the secretary, approached my desk.
“Campbell, Mr. Foley would like to see you in his office,” she groaned.
Oh, god, what does he want now? I thought.
“Sounds good. Thank you, Angela,” I wearily and monotonously replied, languidly grabbing my chambray shirt off my chair and my kipper tie I’d thrown off my neck in a fit of heat-induced, claustrophobic rage.
Staggering toward George’s office, I nearly suffocated in the clouds of cigarette smoke that enveloped me.
Who on God’s scorched earth would smoke on a day like this? I thought.
Even through my dry eyes, I could clearly make out his gluttonous figure from behind the frosted glass windows. Once I was in his line of sight, George waddled toward me with an urgency and spoke in a manner I didn’t know he possessed.
“Campbell, my boy. You've just been handed the story of a lifetime on a silver platter, my friend. Come in. Come in.”
He turned to Angela. “Thank you, sexy.”
She chewed her gum, shooting him a look of disgust and lurched back to her desk, cooling herself with her paper fan.
I was a junior reporter for the Sunshine Herald and George’s unofficial errand boy, so when he’d call me into his office, it either meant he was pissy about a deadline or he was out of Viceroys. So I was rightfully disturbed to see the wide, unnaturally white grin plastered on his leathery face—one I’d only seen once before when late one evening, he and his inebriated country club buddies stumbled into his office after a successful afternoon of golf.
Sitting down in his burgundy leather chair, he started.
“I got a call from the warden of the Cocytus Correctional Facility in Oakley, Alabama—bumfuck nowhere. There’s a guy on death row that’s getting the chair in two weeks—Clifford Hayes. Yeah, that Clifford Hayes, The Devil of Mobile County. Apparently, Hayes wants to talk to you; he read those pieces of yours on the Zodiac and that neanderthal that was just arrested up in Pensacola two years ago. What’s his…?”
“Bundy,” I replied.
“Bundy! Jesus Christ, I’m losing it. I don’t get what broads see in him. Anywho, for some weird reason, he liked what you wrote and said he wants you to interview him before he gets the Old Sparky.”
I was stunned. “Listen. I don’t know if I can—”
George interrupted me, dismissively waving his hand as he shuffled through a large stack of paperwork on his desk. “If you’re worried about expenses, I’ve got it covered. Besides, the returns on this thing are gonna be huge.”
I tried, again, to interject. “No, I mean—”
He stopped me, setting his paperwork down and lasering onto me. “Kid, you have any idea what kind of opportunity this is? No, you don’t; that was a rhetorical question. Hayes is notoriously hush-hush. We’re gonna be the only ones with the dirty deets that’re brewing in that sick fuck’s head. Everyone’s gonna be crawling to us on their hands and knees, begging for what we’ve got. I’m…I mean we’re…gonna be filthy fuckin’ rich. And you’re doing the interview. I already bought the tickets to Mobile. Angela has them on her desk.”
George yelled from across the floor. “Ain’t that right, Angie?”
She flipped him off without looking up from the answering machine.
“That’s my girl…Okay, your flight leaves tomorrow at noon. I’ll let you clock out early to get your things in order. You’re gonna be staying at a luxury hotel right on the coast. Only the finest for my best writer. The bus ride from where you’ll be staying to Oakley is just under an hour, and you’re gonna be meeting with The Devil two days from now and every day after up until his…y’know…I wanna squeeze him of everything he’s worth before he squeals. I want you to bring the fattest notepad, the sharpest pencil, and the shiniest typewriter you’ve got. Got it? Oh, and bring this, too.”
George pulled out a tape recorder and slammed it down in front of me.
Peeling myself off the chair, and with a pat on my back from his large, hairy, sticky, sunburnt hand, he sent a neurotic me back to my work station, having to haul the heavy tape recorder.
I spent the next couple of hours at my desk in a haze, mulling over how I’d approach this interview, how I’d approach him. While my obsession with the psychotic was undeniable, my relatively small works on the Zodiac Killer and Ted Bundy afforded me detachment from my subjects—detachment that this face-to-face interview would not provide. I’d be getting in the cage with the lion, so to speak.
He’s read my work? I thought.
What did he think? What does a lion think? Can a lion think? I’d only been able to theorize, speculate. But now I’d have all the questions that had plagued me for so long answered. And I’d finally be cured of my writer’s high withdrawal.
Like promised, George let me go early, and as I picked up my tickets from Exhausted Angela, the fire sprinkler system went off, ruining whatever nonsense I had typed. I had much more important work to do. From across the floor, and with his golf club held behind his head, George yelled to me through the sound of the alarms with that same, sleazy, bleached grin;
“I expect great things from you, Campbell! Don’t let me down!”
I could barely sleep that night; I was a man possessed.
The next day, I made a beeline for the airport, schlepping my luggage.
The flight itself was largely uneventful. The minor turbulence paled in comparison to my restless thoughts. A tiny bag of peanuts and a Harvey Wallbanger fueled me while I examined photos of Clifford’s crime scenes from behind a copy of The Miami Herald. Before long, I had landed in Mobile.
Walking out of the airport, I hailed a taxi and told the driver to take me to The Cadillac Hotel, per Foley’s instructions. Stepping out of the cab, valises in hand, I was disappointed to find the hotel wasn’t nearly as lavish as Foley had made it out to be. It was right on the coast of Mobile Bay, but it looked like it had washed up from the depths of the Gulf of Mexico. The building’s lemon yellow exterior seemed to be on the verge of collapse, and was sun bleached to all hell.
My room was somehow even worse. The carpeted floors were moldy from the estuary, the Venetian blinds were broken, and the floral bedding might as well have been stolen from a raisin ranch. The wallpaper was a sickly green, peeling at the corners. It looked like someone had slapped seaweed on the walls. There was a large, rusted pipe in the corner of the room that rattled incessantly. Despite the overwhelming humidity of the bathroom, the shower had no hot water, and the tub was teeming with silverfish.
But at that moment, I didn’t care. Yes, because of the stomach-churning state of my room, Foley’s promise of riches seemed as flimsy as the hotel’s roofing, but the story I’d get? One could only dream. I dropped my baggage, tossed my keys on the scratched up nightstand, and plopped myself on the mattress, staring up at the spotty ceiling.
My mind was racing, thinking of the insight I’d get, the book deals, the fame!
I might even get a spot on The Johnny Carson Show, I thought.
I shot up, retrieving the sheet protected and laminated photos, documents, articles, everything I had obtained and preserved the night before, sprawling them out on the bed with the urgency of a bomb technician.
From the late, sultry afternoon, long into the stifling night, I paced around the wretched room, devising questions, taking notes, and practicing the tape recorder. I’m surprised I didn’t receive any noise complaints. I felt like I was the only one in that hotel. As far as I was concerned, it was just me, a Cup O’ Noodles, and Clifford’s work.
The ride to Oakley the next morning was bleak. The potholed roads proved to be a nuisance, and the lifeless landscape was laden with dilapidated houses, downed power lines, and demolished pecan farms.
After entering the Cocytus Correctional Facility, I was searched and escorted to the visiting area. I didn’t notice anything wrong with the room until he entered. I noted how cold it felt when he walked in.
To say he was intimidating would be an understatement. Even the pictures in the papers that looked like they were on the verge of tearing at the seams from his colossal figure did his sheer size injustice. He was dressed in an uncreased khaki short-sleeve jumpsuit. His bulky arms were covered in brilliant butterfly tattoos. His hands were massive but looked soft, free of calluses. When he sat down in the steel chair across from me, I thought it would fall to pieces.
When the grizzled guard left, I anxiously reached for the tape recorder and pressed play.
“This is Jason Campbell with Clifford Hayes—”
“Cliff.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You can call me Cliff.”
“Okay, Cliff. I’m here with Cliff Hayes, The Devil of Mobile County. Speaking of, how do you feel about that nickname?”
“Oh, I love it.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah! Are you kiddin’? I reckon it has a much nicer ring to it than just plain ol’ Cliff, don’t ya think?”
“I-I guess you’re right.”
“You guess?”
“Sorry. Yes, you’re right.”
“Relax, I’m just bustin’ yer balls.”
“So, you’ve read my work?”
“I have.”
“What did you like about it?”
“Hold on now, I said I’ve read your work. I never said I liked it.”
“Did you invite me because you didn’t like it?”
“Well, I never said that neither. What’re all these questions about you? I thought you were here so we could talk about me?”
“We are. I just wanted to know why you invited me specifically. I’ve heard you’re pretty taciturn when it comes to your…how should I say…nature.”
“Taciturn?”
“Media-shy.”
“Ah, I get ya. Well, I do like your work. But that don’t make me gay er nuthin’. I ain’t no queer. I want that on record.”
“Well, what about my work resonated with you?”
“I guess I saw a part of myself in your writings.”
“You see yourself in the Zodiac and Bundy?”
“I see myself in how you write about ‘em, at least. And on the whole me bein’ hush-hush about the motives behind my proclivities, I don’t want my voice in the wrong hands is all. A man of your vocation ought to respect that. And I’m not ashamed to admit that I think your hands’ll do the job just fine. And sayin’ that don’t make me gay! Got it?”
“Mhm.”
“OK, good.”
“Well, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask about the tattoos.”
“Ahh, see, I’m already glad I picked you. No one even thought to ask about ‘em.”
“Why butterflies?”
“Well, before she passed, God rest her soul, my granny used to collect butterflies. I’m talkin’ Monarchs, Morphos, Swallowtails, Spotted Jokers, Viceroys, Jersey Tigers, Painted Ladies…You name it, she found it. I mean, she had cases and cases full of ‘em. I tell you, you could fill the Grand Canyon with how many she had to her name. She’d even keep the ugly ones. Or, sorry, the ones I thought were ugly, at least. Granny used to say ‘All God’s creatures are beautiful.’ She took real pride in her craft.
Growin’ up, I was too immature, too infantile to understand the gravity of her work. I just thought she was some crazy ol’ coot. But I remember late one night, I must’ve been thirteen at the time, I snuck downstairs, well past my bedtime, mind you, to get myself a snack. Even to this day, I’m a slave to the ol’ sweet tooth. Anyway, I’m sneakin’ downstairs, creepin’ toward the kitchen when I see that the office lights are still on. Now I’m thinkin’ to myself, ‘What the hell could she be doin’ at this hour that’s so goddamn important?’ So as to not get caught, I took a teensy-weensy peek from around the corner to see what that witch was up to. And what I saw was one of the most heavenly things I ever seen.
Now I don’t know if it was the way the light was hittin’ her as she sat at that ol’ mahogany desk, but it was like God was showin’ me the divine answer. The way she was pinnin’ the butterfly so precisely, holdin’ it down to the board, spreadin’ its wings, piercin’ the thorax with such fervor…I was enraptured, aroused. Gave me one hell of a rush, I tell ya. It was the toothsome act of total domination over somethin’ so small, so helpless, and preservin’ that action that I was compelled to reproduce. But I reckoned butterflies wouldn’t be sufficient; I needed somethin’ with a bit more meat on its bones. So I started real small with squirrels, then graduated to stray cats, foxes that would roam the ol’ cemetery, and I even improved Granny’s craft on Old Man Eugene’s beagle, Milo. Man, you shoulda seen the look on his face, pacin’ the streets all day, tryna find Milo; fuckin’ priceless. But I still wasn’t satisfied. I realized I needed to work my way from somethin’ to someone, and that someone quickly grew into someones. I guess what landed me in this wonderful facility is that I worked on enough someones or I worked on a certain someone that people started carin’.
After I’d get my fix, I’d head on down to the tattoo parlor and get me one of these beauties. You see this one right here on my forearm? Yeah, that one. The Red Admiral, it’s called. He was my first, my favorite. That’s the butterfly Granny was preservin’ on that fateful, toothsome night. You ever get a tattoo? Nah, who am I kiddin’? You look like the kinda guy that’d jump just at the sight of a needle, no offense.”
“None taken.”
“Well, the feelin’ is incomparable. I can picture it now, lying down on that table, the needles piercing my skin. I like to call it the blissful burnin’. Now, I got these winged inks to preserve those sweet, fleetin’ moments, but as I worked on more and more persons and my tattoos started multiplyin’, I realized that I was also preservin’ myself, embeddin’ myself in the earth. When I get the Yellow Mama in two weeks’ time, I’m gonna fly high into the sky and spread my wings across the world. I like to think Granny’d be real proud of me.”
“I’m sorry, the ‘Yellow Mama?’”
“The chair.”
“Oh.”
“Hey, do you think they’d let you bring in some pie, or like a cheese danish? Ooh, maybe a cheesecake. Somethin’ with a good mouth feel. Desserts’ll sure keep this sweet-toothed mouth of mine a talkin’.”
I was transfixed. I took notes with such strength and swiftness that day, that by the time our hour was up, my pencil had shrunk to a stub. I had struck gold.
***
The next day, as luck would have it, on my walk from the bus stop to Cocytus, I spotted a small confectionery in downtown Oakley. Sweet Mimi’s was one of the only places of business that was still open; many of the shops on the strip were boarded up. So I did my due diligence and fed Cliff Sweet Mimi’s sweets to keep him talking.
Around a week before The Devil’s execution date, the owner of the confectionery, Barbara Sneller, inquired about my habitual purchases and my presence in Oakley.
“Listen, I love that you’re comin’ in every day, supportin’ my business, but you’re gonna get diabetes eatin’ like that.”
“Oh, don’t worry. These aren’t for me,” I chuckled.
“Well then I pray for the health of whoever you’re forcefeedin’ my sweets to. What you got in them cases?”
“Just my work equipment.”
“What line of work are you in that’d bring you to a place like Oakley? I can tell you ain’t from around here. You stick out like a sore thumb.”
“I’m a reporter.”
“Oh, what are you reportin’ on?” She asked, numbly.
“Not what, but whom,” I gushed.
“Okay then, who are you reportin’ on?” She disappointedly replied, as if she already knew the unfortunate answer that awaited her.
“The Devil of Mobile County,” I enthused.
Barbara sighed, setting down her tray of peach cobbler.
“It’s people like you that make me sick to my stomach.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You reporters, with your pens and papers, flockin’ here like a wake of vultures. Haven’t we suffered enough?”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you don’t get to tell me you’re sorry. Tell that to my dear friend, Holly Miller. I reckon you got photos in them fancy suitcases of yours. Well don’t ya!?”
I nodded.
“So you know what that man did to her poor Bennett? How he pinned him? How he—”
She stopped herself, choking back tears.
“May God rest his small soul…You know what happened last year?”
I shook my head.
“Tch, course ya don’t. Hurricane Frederic. They say not many people died cause of it. They’re dead wrong. That man you’re so gleefully reportin’ on saw that tragedy as an opportunity to take Holly’s precious boy away from her and so many other sons away from their mothers. That’s what you ought to be reportin’ on. But no…”
I was practically shaking from embarrassment, wiping the sweat off my forehead with my handkerchief. “I’m sorry about your friend, Harley, and her son. I mean, what that monster did to him—”
“It’s Holly, jackass, and don’t you call him that.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Don’t you dare call him a monster. He’s a man, nothin’ more.”
“I’m sorry, I really am, but you need to know that I’m doing really important work here. The story of that man and what he did needs to be told. And according to him, I’m the only one qualified to tell it.”
“You know what? I’ve had just about enough of you and your empty apologies. You can take those attaché cases of yours and get the hell out of my store! I don’t need nor want your tainted money anyhow.”
Shambling out of Sweet Mimi’s, anxiously placing my handkerchief back in my pocket, I noticed her two children sulkily staring down at me, sitting at the windowsill of their apartment above the confectionary. I gave them a pathetic wave. I got no response. I never did tell Barbara that I was interviewing Clifford, just that I was reporting on him. I think that was for the best.
Other than having to switch from Sweet Mimi’s fresh-baked goods to prepackaged pastries from the five-and-dime, something else changed in that last week with Clifford Hayes. I noticed he had a slight limp. His nose was a little crooked. He had a scar on the left side of his neck. His teeth had a harsh yellow tint, and he’d thrust his tongue when he ate. He spoke with a similar confidence, but I spotted a tinge of worry in his voice. Each evening I’d come back to The Cadillac Hotel, I found I’d taken less and less notes. I couldn’t even look at the photos anymore.
Why did I laminate these? I thought.
On one of my last walks to Cocytus, I passed a roadside memorial for Bennett that I hadn’t noticed before. People of all ages were crowded around it, adding flowers, crosses, candles, and stuffed animals to the heap of offerings.
As the execution date neared, I saw reporters in droves slowly coming out of the woodwork, perched on the outskirts of Oakley, waiting to pounce. I guess I wasn’t any different.
***
On the day of Clifford’s execution, I, alone, sat in the dark witness room. When he came out, he had fully transformed into something smaller, someone helpless. He was trembling as he approached the chair.
“Do you wish to make a final statement?”
He sat there, frozen. Before Clifford could get his last words out, if he even had any, I stood up, turned my back to him and walked out. Behind me was white noise, nothing more.
I could barely get my foot through the door before I was flocked. Flashing cameras and readied microphones came at me from every direction.
“So, what can you tell us about The Devil of Mobile County?”
“What did he look like?”
“What were his last words?”
These reporters were hungry; I’d feed them nothing. Clifford Hayes would die with his name.
“No comment,” I replied.
I don't know, I thought.
Pushing past the ravenous reporters, I was met with a haze of simultaneous cheer and rage. People held up signs that read:
“Down with The Devil!”
“Say Yes to Yellow Mama’s Embrace”
“Fry, You Fuckin’ Pussy!”
Some lunatic threw a Molotov cocktail, starting a dumpster fire. People roared in agreement.
Through the smoky ruckus, I saw a small group of fathers and mothers, some wholly stripped of their parenthood, weakened to woebegone husbands and woeful wives, huddled together on a nearby field, detached from the chaotic crowd.
Seeing them gathered like that, I looked down at my suitcases. I paused for a moment, unsure of what to do. I looked back up. Even further from the field, I spotted Barbara’s boys with some of their friends, hopscotching and jumproping. I stared back down at my labor. I knew what to do.
I flung my work into the dumpster fire and waded through the haze to the bus stop, passing by the spirited kids along the way.
Hadyn Archambeault is a senior year English Major, with a double minor in film studies and creative writing. He's also a tutor at the Writing Center. His work has been published in previous issues of ARCH journal. He has a passion for creative writing. He's also a music lover and film nerd. He's addicted to Letterboxd, and you can follow him @hadyngrey.