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PHILIP
by BUD TANT
Monday Afternoon
August 21, 1989
Philip Brooks,
#80194 (WM), was late for The War. Philip Brooks was the kind of guy who
had been too late for everything in his painful life. So the U.S. Army
sent the bastard son of Sonja Brooks to Germany to drive tanks. It's too
bad Philip was late for The War, because Philip Brooks is without a doubt
the most efficient killing machine I've ever met.
Now, nobody's
really sure who ol' Phil's father was. It's a matter of much conjecture,
and the "smart money" is on a man they called Tall Paul before someone
killed him in a Paragould, Arkansas bar in 1959. Philip Brooks is 6'3" and
weighs a lean 225 pounds. He moves like a cat because he's never drank
alcohol nor used drugs. Philip Brooks never learned to play baseball,
football or basketball. The men in his life didn't even know he was
Sonja's son because she insisted that he call her "Aunt Sonja". Just
"Sonja" when nobody was around. "Just don't call me Mama, boy..."
Phil Brooks was gangly and quiet as a child. He stuttered, but
nobody kidded him about it more than once. Eventually he lost his stutter
except for when he was a little excited, like just before he was going to
kill a man.
So Phil joined the Army when he was 16. Lord knows,
Sonja was more than happy to sign on the dotted line. But that was 1972
and, of course, Phil Brooks was late for the War, so, like I said, they
sent him to Germany to learn how to drive tanks.
Phil didn't make
any friends, ever. Women liked ol' Phil because he was one hell of a man
and he liked playing with the women, but it never lasted more than a day
or so because, you see, while they were forgetting to teach Phil to play
baseball, football and basketball, Phil's mama and her boyfriends forgot
to teach Phil love, too. Phil Brooks has no feelings. He only knows that
when he twists a neck until it pops or plunges a knife through a body or
gets off a particularly good shot with a gun, he gets a sort of tingling
feeling that runs from the nape of his neck down to his loins. He likes
it.
Now, Phil liked the Army. He liked the food, and they gave him
money each month. But most of all Phil liked his tank. It was a lot like
Phil; big and mobile, heartless and lethal. Yeah, ol' Phil was crazy about
that tank.
One night the company was coming home from some late
maneuvers in the freezing sleet and snow. Phil was driving that baby with
his tank team behind him, anxious to get back to the base so that they
could go get drunk and laid. The whole column was in a hurry as they came
through the village with cobblestone streets, slick with ice.
Germany is an old country, and some of the historic architecture
survived WW II. One old church was built back in 1500 or some ridiculous
thing, and it was no more than a few feet off the road, in the middle of a
sweeping curve. The right track grabbed a curb and the tank turned and
slid into the church, wreaking irreparable damage on the hallowed old
structure.
The German people were incensed, never having liked the
U.S. Army to begin with. Much ado was made over the incident, and
retribution had to be exacted. When the bureaucratic ax fell, it landed
directly on Phil Brooks' head.
He was honorably discharged from
the Army at a time when most of his fellow soldiers would have relished an
early discharge - of any type. But not Phil. Phil loved the Army and, most
of all, Phil loved his tank. He was as close to feeling something as he
could get when they told him he couldn't be in the Army any more, and he
couldn't ever drive his tank again.
So Phil went Stateside because
of an old church built back some stupid time in the past. That old church
cost many lives. Nobody is really sure how many, and Phil ain't saying.
Phil went home, only there wasn't a home. Sonja was in the middle
of some meaningful relationship, so after spending the nigh with her, Phil
took his duffel bag and went of into the woods to live the way the Army
had taught him. He just wished he had his tank, that's all.
Phil
stayed in the woods a long time. It was 1975 when he came home from being
late for the War, the perfect thoroughbred, who never even got to the
starting gate.
As young boys are wont to do when they're bored,
Phil devised games and lived inside his head. He was particularly fond of
Bruce Lee and, in fact, some call him "Brooks Lee." That's because he can
kick the ceiling before you can raise your hands. He taught himself to use
num-chuks with the ones he made for himself as a boy. Phil could beat a
concrete wall to sand in a few minutes with his blurring num-chuks.
Phil liked the woods. Living was easy. Hell, the U.S. Army had
forgotten to take his shelter-half and pancho, not to mention the deluxe
field jacket he had been issued by his beloved Army. So Phil was warm and
dry most of the time, and he made a game of killing animals to eat. It was
really no contest for, you see, as I said, Philip Brooks was the perfect
killing machine.
The longer Phil stayed in the woods, the more he
realized there were certain amenities that he couldn't snare, shoot with
his bow or dig up from the forest's floor. So Phil began to scout around
for the answer to his problem.
The Army had taught him stealth,
and it really wasn't a contest once he spotted his military objective. He
began breaking into houses and stealing things. Just little things at
first; pots and pans, utensils, a little Crisco and what have you. But
before too long he found a house that had his favorite things inside.
Almost as good as Phil's old tank - guns.
Now, Phil did like an
occasional woman, so he figured he'd just go on and sell one of the guns
and go to town and find a little hair pie to go with the rabbit he'd just
eaten.
Phil was not being long on planning. He'd been a good
soldier, but good soldiers are taught never to think. He was no leader. He
didn't formulate operations, he simply followed orders and carried out the
plans of others. So Phil got caught selling the gun and confessed to the
whole string of burglaries.
Phil Brooks, the perfect killing
machine, the thoroughbred who never entered the starting gate, was sent to
Tucker's Farm.
Somebody must have said, "Yep, that one's
rehabilitated," because they let ol' Phil go in 1980. And go he did. It
ain't exactly clear precisely which route he took. Some of the bodies have
never been found. You see, Phil learned by watching the hapless gun owner
identify his rifle that a successful criminal never leaves witnesses.
Being the perfect killing machine, ol' Phil never allowed them to
suffer. Rarely did a victim ever realize the end was coming until the end
was upon them. Merciful. It was downright touching, the merciful way he
killed all those potential witnesses.
For a microwave sandwich and
a quart of Coca-Cola here, (forgot to take the money); a Monte Carlo there
(how could the guy report his car missing when he was, in fact, missing?)
The string runs forever. Or nearly forever...
Phil was living off
the land again. Only this time there were no woods. Florida, Texas,
California. Who knows how many other states. Phil doesn't. It was always
done so mercifully.
Then he was in Arkansas again. He thinks maybe
he was coming to see his mama. He isn't really sure. He stopped at a
service station and they were just getting ready to close. The guy had a
money bag and Phil had no money. Actually, there were two attendants
present at the time. I know there were two, because I've read the
transcripts and seen the autopsy reports. It was real merciful. Each with
one small bullet hole cleanly behind the ear. He done it real good and
merciful...
Sonja came to the jail after Phil was apprehended. He
had mentioned to a girl in bed one night, who had just told him she had
warrants for her arrest for check charges, that he, too, had warrants in
Arkansas for jumping parole.
She traded Phil's parole violation
for a lenient sentence for herself. A subsequent fingerprint check run
through the N.C.I.C. computer revealed that ol' Phil Brooks had the same
fingerprints as the many they found at a gas station where two attendants
had been robbed and murdered in Arkansas.
So ol' Phil was laying
up in that jail getting fed and liking it pretty well. They told o;' Phil
he was going to the electric chair. Phil didn't care one way or the other.
Sonja arrived at the jail and told Phil he would have to plead
guilty because she just couldn't stand any more public embarrassment.
Everybody already knew now that she was his mother and she wasn't going to
sit still for him to publicize any more embarrassing family secrets.
Phil didn't have a problem with pleading guilty as long as he
could plead guilty for the death penalty. The prosecutor and judges
scratched their sage heads in bewilderment. That would be highly unusual
and, in fact, unprecedented in Arkansas.
Again, Sonja appealed to
Phil to repay her for raising him so well. And execution would be equally
embarrassing, and could drag on for years.
Phil was easy to get
along with, and certainly didn't want to cause anyone any trouble, so he
pled guilty for two consecutive life without possibility of parole
sentences.
I met Phil when I lived in the open barracks. He slept
in his clothes and boots. He didn't have underwear or socks or even
sheets. Phil was a humble man who minded his own business and didn't ask
anyone for anything.
When Phil wasn't at the chow hall or sitting
placidly on his bunk, he could generally be found rummaging around in the
trash can, searching for bits of wood and worn-out sandpaper that others
had "wasted". Phil turned those bits of wood into masterpieces.
I'm Phil's friend. Phil probably won't kill again unless someone
ever raises his voice to em, because I'm the only friend Phil's ever had.
I taught him to feel by being kind to him and giving him things without
any strings attached. It took me three years to get him to stop looking
for my motive. He's my dog, and I'll feed him what I want to.
He
taught me things. Maybe I forgot to tell you that Phil's a mechanical
genius. He solved a Rubic Cube puzzle within a day without instructions.
He could do a pyramid puzzle in a matter of hours, again without benefit
of clues or any instruction.
If I didn't love Tasha or June so
much I'd have Phil build their jewelry boxes because he'd make
masterpieces. As it is, he just cleans up after my effort. No, not
sweeping; sanding a little here, shaving a joint there, always pointing
out some little bit of technique. Phil understands physical laws. He was
born understanding them.
Phil Brooks has socks and underwear now,
and he sleeps on sheets, even though they're as brown as a paper sack, and
I don't know that he'll ever kill again. Unless, of course, any
son-of-a-bitch in this world ever looks at his friend Bud Tant, wrong.
Phil's my friend.
Blood
Cows
FACTOR 8: THE ARKANSAS PRISON BLOOD SCANDAL
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Click the photo of Kelly Duda at work to visit the
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Factor 8 Documentary website
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