Last Meal

“Hey Banks,” the stocky ginger-mustachioed guard nodded as he passed through the door that led into the main prison complex. Thomas let the gate swing back into place and lock fast with a loud clack as the electric bolt snapped back against the strikeplate. It didn’t matter how many time he heard that sound, there was always a sort of finality to it that made him feel both secure and a little afraid. The rest of the world was now locked outside. He was locked inside. With them.

He nodded back to the guard. “Hey, Bukaski,” he said. Awesome thing, the guy nod, he thought. Saves you hours of useless conversation. Just walk past any other guy anywhere in the world, a slight upwards jerk of your chin, they respond in kind and you go on your way. Guess that beats pissing on a tree or something.

“Crowds give you any trouble?”

Banks looked back out the wire-reinforced and bulletproof windows on the spectacle outside the yard. White vans with TV news call signs he had never even heard of were parked all along the main fence, with light tripods and camera crews as far as he could see. Beyond them were all the inexplicable crowds of supporters and protesters, all with their ridiculous signage. He imagined people all over the country with a heaping assortment of protest signs for any and every occasion, flipping through them before an event like he used to flip through records in the store when he was a teenager. Hmm… anti-gun laws, pro-marijuana, pro-life, oh here we go, no more death penalty. Perfect.

“Nah, I just had to park down in the overflow area and walk my ass up here, not that I couldn’t use the exercise.” Truth was, he almost welcomed the change of pace. Fifteen years of working in the same place, and any little bit of variety was a good thing. “Why do you think they do it, anyway? You know, the people with the signs. As if the Governor is going to drive past and say, ‘wow, you’re right, mister dude with a sign, I should totally let that man go free!’”

Bukaski chuckled. “I saw a funny one today when I came on.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, it said ‘Cook Mine Caswell Done’ and had a picture of an electric chair below it.”

Banks shook his head. “They realize it’s gonna be lethal injection, right?”

Bukaski shrugged. “Sure, but it was funny.”

“Yeah, not bad.”

The guard was still chuckling when he buzzed the interior door and let Banks into the administration wing of Oregon State Penitentiary. Thomas could still hear the angry chanting outside until he made the last turns down the hallway that led to the prison’s kitchen. He put his personal items into the locker with the metal plate that read “Chef”, and put on his kitchen whites. He was professionally trained; he’d even done a year in Paris at Ferrandi, with several additional years working the line up and down in some of Manhattan’s best restaurants. But then Wall Street’s pain became small business’ fatality, and, faced with a choice between leaving the big city and ending up flipping burgers, Thomas moved back west, and eventually secured a job here in his hometown’s penitentiary in the kitchen. The former head chef – a cranky and grizzled man they all called Chef Spoon – retired a year later, and they offered Thomas the job as his replacement.

Serving meals for inmates. He’d tried to work out a clever metaphor to compare the people he cooked for now to the people he’d cooked for back in New York City, but he had never really come up with a good one. Fact was, he was now getting paid here better than he had been then, even considering the cost of living differential. Just enough that he couldn’t afford to take the pay hit he’d have to accept by moving back east and trying it all over again. Like it or not, he was stuck here in the prison with the rest of them. Sometimes it felt like the only difference was that he could go home at night.

Tonight, however, was different. Tonight, there was an execution. And in spite of what that seemed to mean to all the news crews and the dozens of people with their homemade protest signs, an execution meant only one thing to Thomas Banks.

The special meal.

The kitchen was deep cleaned following the evening meal; even though, as head chef, Banks got the entire day off prior to coming back in for this specific task, his crew and the inmates who worked here knew to keep it all spotless for him. It seemed even cleaner than usual, in fact. Banks wondered if perhaps this was true in fact or just his perception. It made sense to him that they might go a little further in keeping the kitchen pristine, considering the work he had ahead of him tonight.

Oregon hadn’t had many executions since he had been here. This was only his third “last meal” (who else could say that, he wondered?), but each one had been memorable. How often do you cook a meal for a man, knowing that it was to be the last thing he ever ate? Regardless of the man, the awareness of one’s mortality had to be a serious weight on their mind. Or maybe they were resigned, and just waiting for the clock to wind down to the end. Banks figured they must all be as different as the meals they chose to finish off the end of their lives.

He’d heard the stories, of course. The convict out of Florida, who got lobster tails and shrimp, and washed it all down with a mug of A&W root beer. Ted Bundy got a steak and eggs. The one dude in Utah who had apple pie while watching the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Fried chicken. Pecan pie. The Oklahoma City bomber got mint and chip ice cream.

Any of those seemed easy enough. He’d heard about one who just asked for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with the edges cut off and a bag of BBQ chips.

The chef shook his head, looked at the clock and decided it was time to get ready. It was going to take a good hour to prepare the meal right. He wasn’t on Iron Chef or something; it wasn’t a race, but he wanted to prepare the meal right. It doesn’t matter who’s in the chair, it matters what’s on the plate.

Yesterday, he had left a list for his assistant before he had gone home. He found most of the items he’d requested in the pantry. The rest he found in the cooler, including the large paper-wrapped package with the meat for the dinner’s main entrée. He left that in the cooler for now. He would season it on the grill, and wanted to keep it cool until he was ready for it.

He set the carrots in one bowl of cold water and the Yukon gold potatoes in another while he returned to the pantry and gathered the seasonings. A pair of small saucepans were quickly half-filled and put on the back burners, and he tossed in a few dashes of herbs while they heated. He stood in the center of the kitchen for a few moments before he realized what was missing. Crossing the room, he tapped on the radio, and smiled peacefully as one of REM’s songs on the oldies station flowed out to fill the room’s many empty spaces.

This is better, he thought. It’s too quiet without a hundred people nearby.

He even found himself singing along with the music as he peeled and chopped the carrots and potatoes. It was such a different experience than cooking for a thousand inmates. He was only cooking for one, now. He’d heard that several prison chefs set aside a bit extra for themselves, but Thomas could never bring himself to share this last meal. It wasn’t his meal, after all, and it just didn’t feel right. Plus, tonight he found he just hadn’t an appetite.

This would be the third meal he would prepare for a man about to die. In spite of his love of cooking, this number rested on his shoulders like he was Atlas holding up the sky. Shaking his head, he turned his mind back to the meal. Since he was alone, he even used the special ceramic knives he otherwise had to keep locked up in the cabinet for safety reasons. They were sharp, light in his hand, and made him feel like he was back in Europe or somewhere else, the head chef of his own top-rated restaurant back on midtown Manhattan, or some well-respected bistro in Paris. Hell, some little dive in pretty much anywhere, US, would be nice. He just felt like a chef again, and that was, for the time being, its own reward.

Cleaned, peeled and chopped, he tossed the vegetables into their respective pans and let them rise to a simmer while he prepared the gravy.

He wasn’t cooking anything that made its own, so he had been forced to use a mix. He hated that, but he had no other choice. He stirred the ingredients into another sauce pan, and set the temperature low. That’s right, Tom, you’re just making a meal. Don’t think about the rest of it.

The first special meal he had prepared for John Matthew Daniels. He had thought it was almost funny at first – the man with three first names. Thomas had only been at the prison for a few months, but Chef Spoon had asked Thomas to stay and assist with the special meal. That had been the time Thomas had finally gotten up the courage to ask what no other of the kitchen staff would ever tell him.

They’d been working in the kitchen for about a half an hour, just the two of them, and Thomas had finally begun to feel a sense of mutual respect and camaraderie as he was stirring the chowder for the inmate’s final meal. He had been a serial bank robber, and had shot two security guards and a cop in his final robbery attempt. The crime had been twelve years earlier, and the trial had been two years after that. Ten years of appeals before the inevitable execution had come to call, and there they were, preparing the man’s meal.

 “Why does everyone call you ‘Spoon’?” he had asked, simply. The answer had come in the form of a ringing smack across the back of the head by a perfectly-hurled piece of silverware. Thomas learned three lessons that night: how the chef had gotten his name, never ask questions you don’t want the answers to, and that the special meal would be one of the most difficult meals Thomas would ever have to prepare.

Thomas would never forget that man’s face, that man with the three first names. He had never seen a person so calm, so strangely at peace. He stood by while Chef Spoon delivered the meal, waited while Daniels paused to smell the chowder and hand-breaded fish fillets, the rice pilaf and even the tall glass of ice-cold fresh-squeezed lemonade. It was the middle of winter, and the halls of the staging area were uncomfortably chilly, but the man wanted to feel like he was back in his northeastern home in Maine, in the dead of summer. He knew what he had done, was unrepentant about his crimes, and seemed perfectly ready to go out of the world the way he had come into it.

Something inside Thomas had been cracked that night, and he remembered later being hunched over the bathroom john, puking his guts out, just a few minutes after midnight. They had prepared a meal for a dead man only a few hours earlier, and he had been so cavalier about it all that he had been making jokes about kitchen cutlery. Somehow, it felt disrespectful. But… disrespectful to a condemned murderer? His sense of justice felt twisted on its ear, folded, warped and forever changed.

The vegetables were into a slow boil, now. He turned them both down, added a few extra seasonings, checked on the gravy, and, recognizing that he couldn’t put it off any longer, went to the cooler for the large wrapped slab of meat.

He laid it down on the prep station, almost afraid to unwrap it for another long minute. Time was against him, however. It remained wrapped while he turned on the flat grill and gave it a quick hit from the industrial-strength butter flavored non-stick spray.

Stepping over to one of the drawers near the pantry, he pulled out a pair of nitrile gloves before going back to the white wrapped meat and opened it up slowly. It didn’t look so horrible, actually. Slightly darker than pork, lighter than beef. A bit of marbling here and there, no bone to add flavor to the cut. He decided to treat it in a bit of a mix of both meats, adjusting the temperature and time to cook in his mind. He would have to guess on the flavors. He never ate from the special meals, and this one would be no exception. He mixed up a quick, light breading with some flour, black pepper, sea salt and few other random bits from the shelf. He liked to follow an intuitive approach towards seasonings; his instructors had always said he had a natural gift for selecting unexpected but delicious combinations.

He picked up the long, narrow cut – the tenderloin, he decided to call it – and placed it in the center of the grill. It met the heated metal with a healthy hiss, and he let it sit for only a few moments before slowly rolling it on its side, waited and repeated until the outer edge of was browned. He then took it back to the prep station, cut it diagonally into long medallions, breaded them and set them aside as he went to prepare the dinner rolls.

They didn’t have very many small items of cookware in the kitchen – most were useless when trying to prepare such large meals – so the two dinner rolls sitting in the center of the large baking pan looked ridiculous, and made him smile.

“Ah, Stevie Ray Vaughan, right?” The voice behind him startled him. It was Father Aguirre from St. Joseph’s Parish. Seeing the chef jump with surprise, the priest apologized. “I was just on my way down for… well, you know why I’m here,” he said.

“Right, Father. How are you? Folks outside didn’t bother you, did they? Noisy bunch this time.”

“No, even the faithless seem to respect the collar,” Aguirre said. “One of the perks of the calling, I suppose. Anyway, I was walking past and heard the music. Which album is this from? Texas Flood?”

“Yeah, I guess. This is off the box set. Got it for myself when I got back to the states from France. Didn’t take you for a blues man, Father.”

Father Aguirre smiled. “We were all something before we were something else, Thomas. Before I went to seminary, I played a fairly mean guitar. I still play some now, though, of course, it’s different music.”

The chef considered the pastor a moment, trying to imagine him with long hair and a cigarette – all the common staples of guitar godhood, but gave up. His imagination just wasn’t strong enough, he supposed. “Of course,” he said.

Looking around the kitchen, the priest’s eyes eventually looked towards the grill. It seemed to Thomas that his face paled a bit, and he excused himself, indicating awkwardly that he needed to move along so he wouldn’t be late. Thomas couldn’t blame him. Too many metaphors, he supposed, for a religious man to wrap his mind around a last supper.

He gave the grill another coat of the non-stick spray and began laying the breaded medallions onto the hot metal. They sizzled again, and the smell of cooked meat rose up to Thomas’ nose. He thought, for a moment, that it almost smelled delicious. His stomach weakly protested the thought.

The second special meal he cooked was for a man who had gone up and down the west coast, bombing abortion clinics. He had murdered more than a dozen people – doctors and patients alike, before he went into his last one with a machine gun and was shot in the leg by an undercover policeman who had just happened to be walking by when the shooting began. The time between his trial and subsequent execution was less than five years. The man had confessed and insisted upon being executed as some sort of statement, and after what seemed like a half-hearted attempt to appeal, the courts closed their doors and let inevitability ensue. He asked for an aluminum foil TV dinner (served in the packaged tray), with an ice cream sandwich and a can of soda.

In the end, the man picked at the tray, downed the soda and smeared the ice cream sandwich all over his face and the room. All in all, he only ended up delaying his execution by two minutes.

“Idiot,” Thomas muttered. Ten minutes left until dinner. Time to get back to work.

The potatoes were softened; he drained off the water and quickly mashed them up with some crushed garlic, salt, pepper and a bit of shredded cheddar cheese, and left them in the hot sauce pan until he was ready to plate.

The carrots were softened, ready to go. He flipped the medallions, approving of the dark brown crust that had been grilled into the undersides. Thomas brought out one of the flat serving trays, put a glass, plate and silverware down, arranging the silverware under a folded paper towel. He plated the rest – carrots, mashed potatoes, and flipped the medallions on, covering them and the mash with a generous ladling of the gravy. 1% milk filled the glass, and Thomas paused to look over the entire meal, mentally patting himself on the back for what looked both simple but professional. It might not be his best dish ever, but he was proud of how it turned out.

If only my old masters could see me now, he grimaced. Paris seemed a million miles away.

He heard footsteps in the hall. That would be one of the guards, letting him know it was time. He set the tray on one of the rolling carts and placed a silver serving lid over the main plate to keep the food warm.

Officer Fuller appeared in the doorway, nodded to Thomas.

“Chef?” he said. “They’re ready for you.”

Thomas nodded back, and wheeled the cart towards the door, following the guard out.

The prison never sounded so quiet as it did on the night of an execution. It felt as if the world – minus the screaming protesters outside the east fence – all held its breath, watching in anticipation as a man was about to die. How often, after all, does anyone know the minute or the hour of their own death?

Father Aguirre was just finishing up as they arrived, and he glanced uncomfortably at Thomas as the cart wheeled to a stop in front of Caswell’s final cell. It was a simple room. A bed, a toilet. There was a book beside him on the bed, Thomas couldn’t see the cover well, but thought it looked like a John Grisham novel. An odd choice, Thomas thought, and judging by where the bookmark was placed, wondered idly if Caswell was fine with knowing he’d never reach the end of the book in time.

“Father,” Thomas said.

“Chef Banks,” replied the priest.

The guards stepped aside to let the priest exit and allow Thomas to wheel the cart in. He pulled the cart up, careful not to bump Caswell’s knees as he rolled it into place, and removed the serving lid. The smells of the meal rose up and filled the room, spilling out into the hallway.

Caswell closed his eyes and breathed it in, an odd smile on his lips. He had the kind of face that made you understand why people always described their neighborhood serial killers as being “a quiet man, a nice man, the kind of fellow who’d help you carry your groceries or cross the street.” He was just over forty, with the gray crawling up into his receding hairline, and his face had been clean shaven, probably just this evening, judging by the shine along his jaw. A normal, average haircut, albeit with the start of a comb over. No distinctive markings on his face, no tattoos. Nothing, really, to indicate that this was anything other than a postal employee, a cashier, a taxi cab driver: just a normal-looking man.

Who happened to be one of the most notorious murderers in recent history, Thomas reminded himself. He took a step back, nearly catching his heel on the doorjamb.

The convict looked up at him, that strange smile remaining on his face.

“Don’t worry, Chef,” Caswell said, his voice soft and lilting. “You made me my meal, I’ve got no reason to hurt you.” He picked up his utensils, eying the food contentedly. “Well, bon apetit, then.”

Thomas could feel his stomach doing flips inside him, and made his way out of the cell without further incident. In spite of himself, he could not help himself but wait and watch as Caswell took his first few bites of the meal. Potatoes, carrots, and the grilled medallions. The latter, he savored the most of all, it seemed. He chewed more slowly, as if wanting to memorize the sensation of his teeth cutting through the meat, letting the flavors and juices course across his tongue. Finally, languidly, he swallowed, a satisfied sigh escaping his lips at the passage of what was clearly the most delicious bite he had experienced.

He took a slow drink of the chilled milk, replacing the glass and drawing his finger up along a watery line of condensation that had formed on the outside of the glass.

“My compliments to the chef,” he said. “Best I’ve ever had, no hyperbole.” He looked at the faces of the guards, the priest and the chef, smiling kindly before gesturing to the plate. “Oh, but my manners. Did anyone else want to try a bite? You won’t regret it, I promise.”

The guards scowled; one shook his head emphatically. The priest left immediately, but Thomas could not help but pause just long enough for his eyes to take in what would be his final look at Vincent Caswell, the convicted murderer. His hair, his eyes, the haunting smile, and even the recently amputated limb of his leg, removed just above the knee, bandaged beneath the rolled up leg of his prison issue jumpsuit.

His eyes lingered there on the fresh bandages for one second more than he was comfortable, and he did his best not to run back down the hallway to the kitchen.

An hour later, one of the guards brought back the dishes on the rolling tray and remained while Thomas scraped what was left on the plates – which wasn’t much – and slid them into the industrial washer. The ceramic knives went back into the lock box, and gathered his belongings, turned off the radio and quietly walked back to the guard station to go home.

In the booth, Bukaski was watching a news report about the execution, scheduled to occur any moment now. For reasons he never later considered, Thomas paused and looked in, listening to the reporter and remembering what he had heard about Vincent Caswell.

When Vincent Caswell was caught, tried and convicted of the serial murders of more than three dozen women across the Pacific Northwest, it had made even more news than the murders themselves. The headlines had been abuzz with all manner of conjecture about his motives, ranging from basic sociopathy to devil worship. In the end, he never spoke to the press throughout the seven years he spent in prison awaiting execution until the one interview he granted after the most recent attempt to appeal the charges had failed.

Caswell spoke with one of the local news reporters, a young woman who, as many hauntingly pointed out, fit the general characteristics of the majority of his victims. Young, light colored hair, blue eyes. She bravely asked him a variety of questions, delving deep into his reasons behind the killings, but for most of the interview he seemed more determined to talk about the way he had chosen them, the way he had tracked them down, and the manner in which he had killed them.

Most of the details had already been gleaned by the forensic pathologists, but there was something about hearing it described directly from the man’s own mouth that cast a haunting and terrifying pall across the entire story. Many who watched the televised interview would later describe him as “the world’s most frightening monster”. His own lawyer – who, it was discovered, had not approved the interview – quit, and Caswell seemed content, now that he had completed his one and only interview, to let the end come upon him.

Though the details about the murders had seemed powerful all on their own, however, nearly all the headlines regarding his revelatory interview all focused on a single point of the interview. When asked, bluntly, why he had done it, what had triggered his desire to so brutally murder and mutilate his victims, his answer was as terrible as any viewer could have possibly imagined:

“I was hungry.”

Bukaski laughed softly. “That guy’s something, right, Banks? That must’ve been a trip – what kind of last meal do you cook for a cannibal?”

The chef opened his mouth to reply, but could only hold himself up by the wall as his stomach heaved, emptying what little contents there were out onto the hallway floor.