Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (66 page)

“Truly
successful decision-making relies on a balance between deliberate and
instinctive thinking.”

―
Malcolm Gladwell

~~~

Detective
Roman Bronowski

Roman Bronowski
took his time driving back to the station after leaving the Wilkinson’s house.
His mind preoccupied, the detective was suffering from an unfamiliar state of
indecision. He hadn’t felt this uncertain since his first couple of years on
the force.

Where to now?
Roman wondered.

He needed to
sift through the information he had on these two intertwined murder cases. As
he drove, he went over the sequence of events, right from the start.

It all began when
Stanley Huber’s attorney brokered a deal to get Huber’s cocaine possession and
trafficking charges dropped.

Huber asserted Chester
Wilkinson, a pillar of the community who’d been dead for three years, had not
died as originally determined through accidental misadventure—but instead, had
been murdered. Huber claimed Wilkinson had been given scopolamine, a drug the
coroner wouldn’t routinely test for during autopsy.

Scopolamine is a
common over-the-counter hypnotic sold in drug stores. It's taken for motion
sickness, but it has a hypnotic side effect. Under scopolamine, Wilkinson
would've been highly suggestible. Once enticed out on the balcony, he wouldn't
have resisted when pushed to his death.

Huber alleged
the murderer was Grant Wilkinson, claiming Wilkinson had confided to Huber, a
premeditated plan to murder his father. Wilkinson reportedly devised his plot
after watching CSI, where scopolamine had been used in precisely this manner.

Wilkinson’s body
tested positive for the drug once exhumed, so Roman had been convinced Grant
Wilkinson had murdered his father. The case, up until that point, was cut and
dry.

Convicting Wilkinson
would only be a matter of gathering further evidence and determining his
motive.

But then search
warrants for Grant Wilkinson’s home and place of business were executed, and thousands
of images of child pornography were discovered.

The case had
become ugly, particularly as the forensic tech found pictures of Bronowski’s main
suspect as a child, being abused by the murdered victim. This certainly covered
motive.

A subpoena was
issued, this time to André Chevalier, the suspect’s counselor. Roman was still
waiting for those results.

Then unexpectedly
the hard drive had been wiped clean and Edgar Gates had been professionally
assassinated.

A tip from an
unknown ‘eyewitness’ stated they’d seen Grant Wilkinson on a water tower near
the crime scene. The very same place where two spent shell casings had been
found.

The sniper had
fired shots from that tower.

Another search
warrant, this time for a .300 Win Mag Sniper Rifle with night scope and
silencer kept at Wilkinson’s shooting range. Then,
bang
—Roman had
possession of the murder weapon, with Wilkinson’s fingerprints all over it.

The long
distance shots that murdered Gates could only have been made by a skilled
marksman. Grant Wilkinson, an ex-Army Ranger, was a trained sniper.

Every finger of evidence
clearly pointed to Wilkinson as the main suspect.

It was so easy,
too
easy
. All of the i’s dotted and the t’s crossed. Wilkinson had been served
up on a nice, neat platter, complete with a ribbon and bow.

A horn sounded,
momentarily distracting Roman. Unable to recognize any flaw in his driving, he
went back to his thoughts.

Why kill
Chester Wilkinson? Why kill Edgar Gates? Why wipe the drive?

Grant Wilkinson had
been framed for Gates’ murder. Was he also set up to take the fall for the
death of his father?

After today,
Roman felt differently about him. The guy was a war-hero who wore the scars to
show it. Wilkinson had volunteered information, he didn't lawyer up and he even
suggested potential leads.

Because of what Wilkinson
shared with him, Roman was now aware Chester Wilkinson had abused at least one
other boy. Countless others might have also fallen victim to the sick bastard. Who
had the pervert been molesting over the last fifteen years before his death?

The list of
potential suspects could be very long, indeed. Other adults with a mighty big
ax to grind.

That sicko
could've been abusing kids up until the day he died, only three years ago.
Roman had to find the killer—it was his job. He couldn't wanting to give a
medal to whoever offed the asshole. It was more like a public service than a
murder.

Also, who wiped
Chester Wilkinson’s hard drive when it had been left at the police station?

Roman could
think of four possibilities. One, someone broke in and destroyed the evidence
without being detected. Two, someone working there, with access to the drive,
was paid or blackmailed to wipe it. Three, an employee with a vested interest,
possibly another pedophile, destroyed the pictures—maybe a cop or administrator
who had access. Four, Edgar Gates wiped it.

The first option
seemed virtually impossible, but Bronowski resolved to consult with a
specialist to see if a break-in could occur without anyone being the wiser.

The second and
third possibilities were currently being investigated by Internal Affairs.
Everyone with access would be screened. There could be a pedophile working for
the department. Perhaps he was even a cop.

As for the last
option, it seemed the only way to determine if Gates had wiped the drive was to
rule out the other possibilities.

The photos Grant
Wilkinson had received were most likely from that hard drive. The envelope the
pictures came in was postmarked four days ago, just before the weekend.

Danny Berdeaux
received a photo, ostensibly hand-delivered even earlier than that. How many others
would soon be receiving their own set of pictures?

Edgar Gates had
obviously taken a long, close look at the evidence, because he’d recognized
Grant Wilkinson. Had his death been in the nature of tying off loose ends?

If Gates himself
had been in any of those pictures, he could’ve simply deleted them and no one
would have known. Unless Gates was being blackmailed or paid off, he hadn’t
been the one to wipe the drive.

Frowning, Roman shook
his head. He felt certain Gates hadn’t been involved. He was the kind of guy
who’d want justice.

He’d read
everything there was to know about Edgar Gates. Conceived by his father during
his sixteen-year-old mother’s violent rape, Gates had been seemingly
well-adjusted. He'd been an excellent student, a hard-worker and totally
devoted to his mother and stepfather by everyone’s accounts.

Roman recalled
breaking the bad news about Edgar’s death to his mother. The woman had been
distraught. They’d been very close, Roman was certain of that.

Edgar Gates had constantly
checked the criminal database against his own DNA. He’d made it his mission to
find his biological father and to punish him. Edgar was
exactly
the kind
of person that would anonymously send evidence of abuse to the victims.

Roman decided to
compare the schools Gates had attended with Grant's and Danny Berdeaux. Had Gates
known them? He
must
have. Yet Wilkinson had denied knowledge of Gates.

Roman’s gut instincts
led him to think whoever arranged to have the drive wiped, also killed Edgar
Gates. Those images were like high octane. Something vital was on them.

Something
worth killing for.
Roman was absolutely certain of that fact.

Whoever wiped
the drive would now be confident all proof of any crime had been erased.

Luckily or
unluckily for Roman, they were wrong.

His mind went
back to the last words he’d ever said to Edgar Gates.
‘Print me a copy of
the image of Wilkinson and his father, and give me a memory stick of everything
on that hard drive. Don’t talk about this or make copies for anyone else.’

He had a copy of
everything
on that hard drive. All of Chester Wilkinson’s vile images of
abused children, and possibly incriminating photos of one or more other
pedophiles… and very, very likely, a picture of Edgar Gates’ killer.

Roman should’ve
handed that evidence over to the sexual crimes unit. Yet, instinctively, he’d
resisted. Very possibly there was a mole in the police department. Someone who’d
needed those pictures destroyed.

Someone who’d
kill
him
if they knew he’d seen those photos.

Roman had no
idea how to proceed. He didn’t want to put anyone else’s life in jeopardy,
particularly not his own. Nor did he want to spend his spare time visually
searching through thousands of images of child pornography, hoping to find a
clue.

That was about as
appealing to him as cutting off each of his fingers, one at a time.

Trust was a huge
issue. Who
could
he trust?

His partner,
Sheila Hanover was out on maternity leave with her first child. There was no
way Roman would discuss this with her. The personnel at his station were
compromised, so he was on his own.

Roman thought of
his wife and kids. If the killer knew, he would stop at nothing—including blackmailing
him with the lives of his family.

He drove into
staff parking at the police station, knowing what must be done.

As he put the
Impala in park and switched off the ignition, Roman decided to do
nothing
except lock the memory stick away in his safe at home. Sure, he’d loudly investigate
obvious leads concerning the missing evidence, digging up clues that would go
nowhere.

He’d pursue the
murders of Edgar Gates and Chester Wilkinson
—
that was his job, after
all. But when it came to the memory stick with the contents from that hard
drive, he was going to keep his mouth shut.

Better to pretend
ignorance than to join Edgar in a premature grave.

The more Roman
thought about it, the more certain he was. Edgar had delivered those pictures
to the victims. If they hadn’t been sent, Grant Wilkinson would never have told
him. If Roman hadn’t seen those photos, he would’ve given the only existing
copy of this damning evidence into the sexual crimes unit.

By doing that,
he would’ve unknowingly signed his own death warrant.

He owed the kid,
big time
. Thanks to his courage to do what he felt was right, Edgar Gates
had actually saved his life.

Roman had the
missing evidence, but for his own safety,
no one
could ever know.

“Mon ami,
helping those who have endured abuse can be a dangerous activity. It is much
like trying to assist the wounded water buffalo that is stuck in the mud. Such
an animal, maddened by fear and pain, cannot distinguish friend from foe. Be
careful with those who have suffered betrayal. For you do not wish to be gored,
n'est-ce pas?”

—
André
Chevalier

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

“Thank God
you’re here,” the young woman says upon our arrival. She’s around my age with
short, curly dark hair and expressive eyes. Like many shorter woman, she has
large breasts and an extremely voluptuous figure.

“Shawna?” I ask,
while standing on her front doorstep. “We spoke on the phone. My name is Grant
Wilkinson.” I gesture toward Danny. “This is Danny Berdeaux.”

“Thank you so
much for coming,” she says breathlessly. She’s so relieved to see us, I
wouldn’t be surprised if she literally fell on us with open arms. The poor
woman appears desperate. “Please, please come inside,” she encourages.

When I spoke to
Shawna on the phone, we found her fiancé, Miguel Alvarez, had also received a
photo of himself as a child. Unfortunately, he wasn’t taking the unexpected
surprise very well. Shawna told me Miguel refused to leave his room. He’d
withdrawn from everyone and everything, retreating into himself.

“He won’t eat,
he won’t even let me open the curtains,” she whispers. “He just sits in the
dark. I’m so worried! His doctor put him on anti-depressants. Do you think you
can help him?”

Danny smiles
warmly, pats Shawna’s shoulder in a comforting manner. He’s a natural, perfect
for this job.

“Of course we
can help him,” Danny assures her. “That’s what we’re here for. We’ll figure it
out,” he says with total confidence in his voice.

I’m glad Danny’s
dealing with her. I’m not so sure of the outcome of our little intervention.
Neither of us have worked in mental health.

She escorts us
to Miguel’s bedroom, where we find the man she loves staring blankly at a wall.
Shoulders hunched, head lowered—Miguel is clearly depressed and despondent.

“Miguel?” she
says tentatively, turning on a soft light to brighten the darkened room. “You
have visitors,” she announces.

Miguel jerks up
as if he’s been touched by live electric wire. Abject apathy quickly morphs
into blistering fury as he suddenly springs to life. “What did you bring them
here for?” he yells. “What the hell are you doing Shawna? I don’t want them!
You stupid bitch! Why did you bring them here?”

Talk about
wounded water buffalo.

Danny gapes in
wide-eyed astonishment. The manner in which Miguel viciously rounds on his
fiancée shocks me too. Poor Shawna recoils, her face screws up. Tears line her
long, dark lashes. She blinks rapidly, trying not to cry.

“Miguel,” I
reprove quietly, stepping in front of her.

Still seated, he
turns to me and points to the door. “Get the hell out of my house! I know how
to defend myself. You’ll be sorry.” His eyes flick to the side table. Is he
keeping a weapon there?

Miguel’s
outburst quickly runs down when we say nothing more and we refuse to leave. He sits
back in his chair and resumes staring at a blank wall.

The silence
lengthens.

I turn to
Shawna. Her shoulders hunch, her eyes shine with unshed tears. She seems barely
able to keep it together. André warned me people in pain commonly strike out at
others, often in aggressive, unexpected ways.

Miguel is a
perfect example.

“I think it’s
best if you leave us,” I tell her with a faint smile of reassurance. “Don’t
worry. Maybe you could make some iced tea? I’ll come out and tell you when
we’re ready for it.”

Shawna’s head
jerks in a nod. The desperation, apprehension and pain on her face tears at me.
She hesitates for a moment, then spins on her heel and flees from the room.

I turn back to
Miguel. “My name is Grant Wilkinson,” I say. “This is my friend, Danny Berdeaux.
We both received an offensive photograph in the mail, exactly as you did.”

Miguel says
nothing.

I press on.
“We’re looking for any others who’ve also received a photo. So far, there are
four of us who were molested by Chester Wilkinson.” I can’t call him my father,
not now. “We’ve decided to do something positive about it, by supporting one
another,” I offer, hoping to gain his interest.

Miguel raises
his head, for a moment he meets my gaze. A muscle in his jaw jumps, but he
still says nothing. I’m relieved when he looks away. The numb, empty look in
his eyes makes me extremely uncomfortable.

I know exactly
how he feels.

I’ve felt that
terrible pain myself.

“Do you have any
firearms, Miguel?” I ask quietly. He doesn’t reply, but once more his eyes
flick to the top drawer of the bedroom side table.

I step over to
the table, open the drawer. Inside, within hand’s reach of him is a Sig Sauer,
9mm. I pick up the gun, notice the safety is off.

I immediately
slip on the safety, tuck his gun into the back of my jeans. “I’m going to keep
your gun. I’ll keep it safe for you.”

Miguel doesn’t
protest.

We both know why
I take it.

Had he been
toying with it before we came in? Had he put it in his mouth with the idea it
may be best for him to end it? To destroy those terrible memories once and for
all?

Miguel presses
his lips together, his features grim. “I shouldn’t have yelled at her. I can’t
believe I called Shawna a stupid bitch.”

“Yeah, well.” I
shrug. “Apologize and try not to do it again. I’m sure she’ll forgive you. It’s
pretty obvious she loves you.”

Danny walks
over, opens the curtains, and lets the sun in. We each pull up a chair and sit
near the man. After tons of effort to get Miguel to engage, he finally begins
to tell us what’s been happening in his life.

Miguel suffers
from a form of chronic fatigue. He'd been quite ill and unable to function for
several months and was beginning to fear he had cancer. After a grueling and
extensive battery of physical tests that ruled out many potential medical
conditions, his doctor diagnosed Miguel with depression.

Miguel wasn't
totally convinced, but after the tests, he assumed he
must
be depressed.
Miguel grew up thinking he was a normal guy, yet he had nightmares, unexplained
fears, and sleeping difficulties.

Then, three
weeks ago he received a terrible photo of himself as a child. A photo that
confirmed every memory his mind worked so hard to repress. Seeing evidence of
his abuse had been like opening Pandora’s Box. Terrible memories immediately
flooded his consciousness.

Miguel had been
a ticking time bomb. The photo was like a match, triggering a violent cascade
of memory and emotion.

If forgetting
worked,
it would be a wonderful solution. Unfortunately, history never goes away
—
it
returns to kick a person’s ass! Like barnacles on a ship's hull, our past tugs
away, dragging us down, slowing us until we make no forward movement at all.

Renata’s words
come back to me,
‘Body, mind, spirit. If one side of the triangle
progresses, the other side benefit along with it—they are also enhanced. What
I’m trying to illustrate is the interconnection. By working on any one of these
parts, you obtain results that change these other areas of your life for the
better.’

It’s clear to me
now the reverse is also true. When one area gets screwed up, it alters the
other areas of your life for the worse.

Miguel had been
burdened, mind, heart and soul. He’d buried and denied his past for so long
he’d become physically ill. This was a case of the mind and spirit,
negatively
affecting his body.

All of my life,
I considered myself a ‘monster.’ As time goes on these feelings are being
conquered.
My
modest goal has been to feel ‘normal.’ Miguel, however,
thought he
was
normal. Remembering made him realize he isn’t. Now
he
feels like a monster.

He has all of my
sympathy.

I wouldn’t wish
a history of childhood abuse on anyone, not even my worst enemy. In Miguel’s
case, repressing those memories destroyed his health.

I tell him a bit
of my own story, explaining the best solution for abuse is to bravely push
through the details—to own your past and face your memories.

I tell him he’s
lucky to have Shawna. With one person to trust, someone he can be honest with,
he should be OK. Danny and I also offer our support.

“I don’t need
your help,” Miguel snaps. “I’ll deal with this on my own.”

I immediately
burst out laughing. I laugh so hard my eyes sting and my gut aches. Miguel gives
me a dirty look, he has no idea what I’m laughing about. He’s pissed, but fuck
it. I’m not his therapist and he’s being an idiot.

“What?” Miguel
snarls. “What the hell is so damn funny?”

“You are! You
don’t need help?” I ask in a distinctly cynical tone. “Well now, how’s that
working out for you so far?”

Miguel’s chin
jerks up. He glowers, but I can see my comment has made him stop and think.

Do it
yourself? What a stupid idea. No one gets through shit like this on their own.

For a victim of
abuse to become a survivor, and ultimately a ‘thriver’ they must embark on a
road to recovery. Reading up on the subject, receiving counseling, and talking
to people who have had similar experiences is part of the journey.

Unfortunately,
you can’t fix someone else’s problems—they have to fix them themselves. But a
friend can listen and be there for support, so that’s what Danny and I offer to
do.

I excuse myself
to speak with Shawna. I find her in the kitchen sitting in front of a pitcher
of what looks like freshly made ice-tea. Tissues are everywhere, her eyes are
blotchy and red. She sits up the second she sees me.

“Is Miguel all
right?”

“He’s fine. He
didn’t mean all those nasty things he said.”

She looks up at
me through her long dark eyelashes. “You don’t think so?”

“He doesn’t,
he’s already sorry—he told me so. People in pain often attack others.”

“Why? I just
want to help him through this.”

“You are
helping,” I assure her. “Unfortunately, mean, knee-jerk reactions are nearly
always directed at the people it’s safest to attack. That would be friends,
loved ones and those who are trying to help.”

“Oh.”

“Miguel feels
bad about what he said to you already,” I say. “I know it’s hard, but it’s best
not to take such outbursts too seriously,” I suggest. “Mood swings and
inexplicable behavior are the norm when abuse survivors start down their road
to recovery.”

“I don’t like it
when he’s mad at me,” she confides.

“He’s not mad at
you. If you think about it, Miguel’s behavior makes complete sense. How does
one feel when facing past events concerning betrayal, manipulation, humiliation
and shame?”

She shrugs. “I
don’t know.”

“Trust me, you
feel betrayed, manipulated, humiliated and ashamed. Trust is difficult, but he
has to work through it. You’ll get the man you love back, Shawna, and he’ll be
better than ever.”

I
have
to
believe this is true.

“Will he… get
violent?”

I frown. “I honestly don’t
think so. His effort to recover from abuse doesn't mean you should accept abuse
from him, either. He needs you, but he also needs professional help to get
through this. If Miguel becomes… difficult, don't hesitate to call.” I give her
my card. “Call any time, day or night, if you have questions or he gets too
much to handle.”

Danny and I stay
for a couple of hours until Miguel visibly improves. Not surprisingly, Danny
communicates easier with Miguel. I feel… irritable and a little nauseous. I
want to back off from everyone.

This shit is a
major trigger.

We leave the
suicide prevention hotline number with him. Assured of its confidentiality and
that the organization is staffed by experienced volunteers, Miguel promises he’ll
call and talk to someone later today.

I’d wanted him
familiar with the service, those people do a great job. Miguel needs all the
help he can get right now.