Be Very Afraid : "Man in the Box"

By Philip Cosores

Oct. 31, 1996 12 AM PT

* Philip, 14, is a freshman at Servite High School, Anaheim. His teacher, Tom Tereschuk, submitted Philip's story. Philip's parents are Carol and Henry Cosores of Buena Park

Simon Drake bolts out of the double doors. He makes his way to the closest men’s room. In a stall, he vomits. Another man soon follows.

“All right?” the man says.

“No,” says Simon as he continues to vomit. “That was horrible.”

“I know. I almost lost it like you.”

Simon comes out of the stall. “We better get back for the second half,” says Simon.

The conference room is fairly crowded. Approximately 20 people sit around an oval table with a tape player on top. Simon and the man sit in the two empty chairs at the table.

“Shall we begin again?” says a woman sitting at the head of the table. One of the men pushes “play.”

A low voice begins to speak: “Man in the box confessionals, Side Two.”

The low voice is replaced by a higher, more normal voice.

“I was a pretty normal kid. Never got held back. Got into some mischief but just the normal stuff kids do. I was 16 and my friend, Tim, came over. This was about the same time the Boston Strangler was killing. We started talking about serial killers and he said that he didn’t think he could kill a man. Then I said ‘I bet I could.’ So we bet. They found Tim’s body two days later in one of those big trash cans behind supermarkets. Both his hands were cut off at the wrist and it was determined that he bled to death. After that, killing sort of became a game to me. How many different ways can I kill a man? How many guys can I kill in a week or a day? Over the next two years I killed 65 men, 65 different ways. I once killed a man with one needle . . . ha ha ha. I was 19 and I was in New Mexico. I was driving along and a Four-Runner sideswiped me. Just totaled my car. The cops came, checked my plates, found out I was wanted and sent me here. People call me the Man in the Box because I sort of live in my own world. Like in that song ‘Jeremy.’ I’m sort of like Jeremy but instead of killing myself, I kill others. My lawyer says I’m insane. Well, I don’t know what insane is but I’m probably it.”

The tape stops.

“Well, what do you think?,” says the woman at the head of the table.

“Definitely insane,” says one man.

“The guy knows what he did and if we give him insanity, then he’ll miss the death penalty. I say fry his ass,” says Simon.

“Remember,” says the woman, “insanity is the inability to clearly express reality. Let’s vote. All in favor of insanity. . . .”

Nineteen hands go up.

“Sanity.” Simon is alone. “The guy deserves to die,” says Simon.

“Thank you, Simon. You can leave,” says the woman.

Simon walks out, obviously disturbed. He gets in his car and drives to the interstate. He begins mumbling to himself. “He should die . . . deserves to die . . . what can I do . . . kill him myself. . . .

He stops at his house and enters. He goes to a room, opens a drawer and pulls out a .44. He gets back in his car and begins to drive. He stops outside Alpaugh Prison. He walks in. There is a woman behind a desk with Plexiglas 1 inch thick.

“May I help you?” she says.

“I need to see the man in the box,” says Simon.

“I’m sorry but he cannot be visited,” she says.

“I need to see him now.”

The trembling in his voice frightens the woman.

“Leave or I’ll call security,” she says.

He pulls out his gun and aims at the woman. She reaches over and pushes a small, yellow button. He fires twice but the glass stops the bullets.

“Damn it,” screams Simon.

Two officers come into the room and Simon pulls up his gun and fires.

The next day, the man in the box is in his cell reading the paper. The headline reads: “Man kills himself in prison entrance. Wanted to see man in the box.”

A smile comes across his face. He mumbles to himself, “Number 66.”

Be Very Afraid : “Man in the Box”

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