The Prison Inside Me (10 page)

Poor George. It is all too late—too late for you, too late for me. Poor Caroline, and especially poor Trey. How can I face them? How can I tell them what we have done? We love you, Caroline and Trey. Can you ever forgive us for what we have done to so many children, and now to you? Will you ever be able to understand that your father was sick, not a criminal, not a perverted deviant, but a loving man with an illness beyond his control? And will you ever be able to forgive me for blinding myself to his needs? Yes, I could have helped him, I could have taken steps to avoid all that is about to happen. I did not. How can I atone for what I did, or what I didn’t do? How can my selfishness ever be forgiven? Will you still love me when you find out about all this?

Susan, now in full control of herself, spoke slowly to him as he left the room, unhearing, pouring out her heart with each word. “It’s all right, George. We’ve been through so many tough times together, and we always came out on top. We’ll find a way out of this one, too. We can do it together, holding each other’s hand, just as we have always done. You’ll see. Everything is going to be all right.” She called after him more kindly now, feeling so sorry for him and playing her role as the social worker she was, “Poor George, poor me. Go sit at your desk; I’ll be down in a few minutes, and we’ll work something out. We’ve done so well together; we’ll work this out, too.”

You are a bastard to have done this to Trey, to me, to so many others. I should have divorced you as soon as I found out about your sickness. In sickness and in health, what bullshit. I needed your sickness, and it made me betray all that I knew, all that I learned, all that I am. I joined you and made you even sicker. And I, a psychiatric social worker, should have known better; I should have known where all this would lead. You’ve taken me down with you. We both need strong punishment for all these years of trouble and grief we’ve given to others, to those poor little boys, and now to our own two children.

She sat a long moment, thinking and looking once more at the night table where she knew George kept the Glock.

I can’t do this. Oh, God, help me. Is there no other way out but to do what has to be done? That’s right; we were dead a long time ago, when this whole thing started. I’m worse than poor George. He can’t help himself. And I knew what I was doing and just continued to do it. I was fully conscious that I was doing something bad, something that one day would end in this disaster. What difference does it make if we both die? We have been dead all along. I could have put an end to this at the beginning, somehow. But I needed him for my selfish purposes. I guess he was selfish, too, but the controls that I have on my behavior are missing in his. How could I say I loved him and then play the major role in his—our—doom? Susan, steel yourself; it’s the only way out. Oh, my poor kids, but better they find out this way than when we are both around to listen to their recriminations. “How could you do this to us? We’ll never be able to face our friends!” Worse, they’ll be patronizing: “We’ll stand by you to the bitter end!” Well, kiddies, this is the bitter end, scripted by your loving mother who can’t bear to see you hurt. You’ll be hurt, I know, but thankfully I won’t be here to see it or to tell you how sorry I am to have done this to you. Please don’t think of me as a bitch. I love you both more than I can say. I’m not going to leave a note; they’ll know. They’ll know I did this for them. I have to do it for me, and for George, too.

I’ll need gloves to make it look like George committed suicide. Then I’ll take them off, put them back in the drawer, go back downstairs, pick up the weapon, and end it all. It will look as if both of us committed suicide, something we had to do when they find out about the problem. Wait! If I destroy all those photos and hide George’s computers, and maybe his cell phone, too, who is going to know about this? George commits suicide because of something or other. No one but I knows what he has done, so far, anyway. I can remain to console the kids and maybe get Trey to understand that his father did this for him. Trey never mentioned that he knew that others were involved. He thought he was the only one. Someone has to stay behind to make this thing right.

Susan got up. She walked over to her dresser and slowly put on her suede gloves as she withdrew them one by one from her drawer. She walked over to George’s night table, opened the drawer, took out the Glock, checked its magazine, and then released the safety. She started downstairs.

George sat at his desk staring at nothingness. His mind brought back images of his uncle Ed.

I hope you’re dead, you bastard, roasting in hell. If you’re there, you went to prepare the way for me.
He smiled to himself.
Of course, it had to end like this. It’s OK. Everyone dies sooner or later. Poor Susan. Did I do this to her? Or was it you, Ed, you son of a bitch, who did this to her, to us? Daddy, why didn’t you stop me from going places with him? Where were you when that bastard brother of yours did this to me? To me and Susan? Daddy, Mommy, I loved you both so much. How I cried at your funerals. Mom, you wondered how I could have cried so much when Daddy died. He could have saved me, and he didn’t. When he was dead, my hope of escaping from this prison I am in died with him. I went into that grave with his casket. How could he leave me? How could he leave me again? How could he betray me that one last time? I know I shouldn’t blame him, but he held my way out. Now I’m a grown man, the master of my soul. When do I stop blaming everyone else? I’m the guilty one. I could have stopped all this, but I didn’t want to. I’m the one who needs punishment, not them.

A tear came to his eyes. He laid his head down on the desk, quietly sobbing.

And now I’ve done it to Trey, too. Susan is right, How could I? Oh, Susan, you don’t know; you can’t know; you’ll never know what torture it is to have grown up as I did, with evil kindness all around me. Around me? No, Susan, inside me, now. Susan, I’m in a prison, and I can’t get out. It’s not a prison I made. Yes, I know, everyone will tell me that this prison door is open. I can walk out anytime I like. They’ll tell me this, but they don’t understand. They’ve never been inside this prison!

Oh, Susan, and now I’ve transmitted it to Trey, like some genetic deformation. Daddy, please come back, please, please, please, and save me, save your grandson, save Susan. You always make things right. Come back and do it again. I love you, Daddy; I love you. Why did you leave me with Uncle Ed? Why couldn’t I tell you when it was happening? I was so close, so wishing for you to save me. Would you have believed me? Why did you leave me? Daddy, I can’t do it myself. You have to do it for me. If you don’t come to me, I’m going to come to you, to hold you again, to hold Mommy again, to be happy again. I haven’t been happy for so long. Please wait for me. I’m coming.

George lifted his head from the desk as he heard Susan came downstairs, enter the study, and stand alongside him. He never moved and never looked up, staring straight ahead. When he fell, she straightened his slumping body in his chair and put the gun in his hand, letting it drop to the floor. She picked up the phone and punched in 911. She went back upstairs and put her suede gloves back where they belonged. She came downstairs to await the police whose siren she could now hear.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“S
iz.” District Attorney Alice Withers glared at Szysmanski, speaking in a voice that was clearly condescending. “You have nothing. I can’t go to the grand jury with this.”

“Alice,” Siz pleaded, “look, it’s all there. Harry sent me over here to talk to you. I’m sure he agrees with me. The medical examiners report that it’s not a suicide. Then there are her fingerprints on all those old photos and file folders, the absolute lack of them on the telephone she said she used to call nine one one, her access to the murder weapon, her prints all over his computer and cell phone, the fact that she recommended kids to the camp—geez, just the fact that she hired Markson, the best defense lawyer around here—and we even have a motive.”

“What motive?”

“She knew her husband was a pedophile. She was deceived all these forty years they were married. So she gets even. She was trained as a kid in using guns; we know that from those records we got from the range that her family used to go to. It all fits.”

“Siz, this is all circumstantial. No jury will believe it, and Markson will eat us alive. Even if we can get an indictment—you know a grand jury will indict a ham sandwich—the judge will throw this thing out. And with disclosure, Markson will call and ask me if I’ve lost my mind. Siz, I have no time for this. And as for that weapon, she may not be the only one who knew it was there. I’ll bet their kids knew, also. Maybe one of them was in the house and did it, and a protective mother is covering up for them.”

“Alice, she’s a murderer, running around loose. Next blood is on your hands.”

“You mean if she gets married again, and to another pedophile? You can’t even prove that she knew of his actions. Fingerprints on his files and on his computer? Pedophilia is a felony, but looking at dirty pictures is a misdemeanor. Maybe she touched them accidentally. You say she was deceived all these forty years. She knew, but she didn’t know? C’mon, Siz, there are holes all over the place.”

“No good, Alice. We have her prints on the photos, too.”

“So what? He had some dirty pictures. Maybe that’s a crime, but, Siz, he’s
dead!
I can’t try a dead man, and finding someone who would testify that they have knowledge that she knew of his habits is near impossible. Who is she going to tell about this? Her kids? Her grandkids?”

“So she’s just going to walk away, scot-free?”

“If you can convince Harry to keep the file open, maybe someone will come forward and denounce the whole thing. And maybe Santa Claus will come with a big raise for you, too.”

“This is all wrong. We punish murderers; we don’t reward them by ignoring them.”

“That’s true,” Alice responded with resignation, “but we can only punish them if a jury says so or if we can get a confession. Confession is out with Markson as her counselor. And no jury is going to say anything other than ‘not guilty’ from the lack of evidence we possess. If you can get a warrant for her arrest, Markson will sue this city into bankruptcy. And a warrant is impossible. No judge is going to give you any leeway with what worthless info you have. Look at it this way: a denounced pedophile is dead. I, too, can believe she is guilty. But he’s dead, and whoever did it saved the city a lot of money and saved me a lot of work. No, I’m not in favor of vigilante justice, but this isn’t that. It’s some kind of family feud. You know what happens to people who get into someone else’s family feud.”

Szysmanski sighed in resignation. He looked very downcast, shaking his head.

“Siz,” comforted Alice, “write this one off. You win some and you lose some. Put those great skills of yours into solving that random shooting on Jay Street. In a few days, we can come up with a great case, put away the people, probably kids, who did it, and save a few lives in the process. By hanging one on Susan Nichols, we aren’t going to save anyone’s life, and we sure aren’t going to revive her husband.”

“Fred,” Heather Thompson appealed to the
Herald’s
city editor, “you just can’t take me off this thing! I’ve spent a lot of time on this. I’m closing in on a great story about a trusted man becoming a pedophile. Fred, please, pretty please? I’ve got beaucoup hours involved in this. It’s my breakthrough! You can’t do this to me, after all the work I’ve done these last two days!”

“Heather, I’m sorry, but there’s no story here. It’s a suicide. Following up on these abused kids’, now adults’, leads takes us nowhere. The perpetrator is dead. Let him rest. OK, he may have abused a kid or two, but we have that as only hearsay. We can’t print hearsay and innuendo. That leads into legal trouble if his wife goes after us. We don’t need that type of problem for a dead story.”

Heather fumed, “I know I can get more leads, more people who can denounce him beyond the Scott email. Yeah, I know it’s the only lead I’ve had so far. OK, OK, it’s a lead he won’t even confirm. And, yes, as you keep reminding me, that’s not a lead because Scott may be looking to get money from the Nichols estate in some lawsuit, since Nichols made a bundle selling the camp and during his other years of successful work with the college, the college prep course, and with the kids he tutored privately. I know, I know, if Scott can get the press involved he would have a better chance to collect something, a la the other cases against the church. But, Fred, this is different. Maybe Scott is right. We can only find out if we can find others who will corroborate his story! Let me do it!”

“Heather, give it up. It isn’t going to fly!”

The young reporter, continuing even more vehemently now, “Look, Fred, I know Szysmanski has lots of other leads but he won’t talk about them. He’s gotten that search warrant. You know he’s come up with something. God, how I want to get there before he does!”

The city editor smiled. “Now I get it. It’s you vs. Szysmanski; Heather making her big break into the major leagues of reporting by beating out the cops!”

“That doesn’t make it bad. And, yes, I think I finally have something that could get me on page one above the fold. OK, tell me which of these people out there,” making a sweeping gesture to the other reporters in the city room, “isn’t hungering after the same thing!”

“Very normal,” sighed Fred in resignation, “but this isn’t what you think it is. Look, if Siz and the cops come up with something that leads to an arrest, or an action before the grand jury, I promise you can have that. Heather, you are not a detective, you are a city reporter. When the cops issue a statement, you are going to cover it, byline and all, I promise. But right now, I need you for the big Arnoldson Bennett wedding, and for the charity ball of the United Way. The boss is a big contributor to that, he wants lots of pix and copy to assure that its fund raising goal is met. If in the meantime something comes out of the police on the Nichols story, you’ll have it, no one else, I promise.”

“Shit,” Heather mumbled, “the story of my life and I’m making nice at weddings and dances.”

“That’s our business,” consoled the city editor. “But, just between us, Ben (publisher Ben Trout) wants hands off. He thinks it’s full of snakes, someone trying to shake someone down. He doesn’t want the
Herald
involved. If we can report on police or DA actions, that’s OK. He wants to keep us away from hearsay. He reminded me we are not a gossip rag or a cheap tabloid. You gotta learn to live with that.”

Szysmanski went back to the police precinct, head bowed, dejected, like a beaten man, or perhaps like a dog with its tail between its legs.
Why can’t I get someone to listen to me?
He walked into the office of the chief of detectives.

“Siz, you gotta get that idea out of your head! We got a million open cases, and this one ain’t worth anyone’s time!”

‘But, Harry,” protested Szysmanski, “this is clearly murder with lots of possible perps. Look, he’s a serial pedophile; we’ve got dozens of complaints, direct to us, through the newspaper and TV. We even have one sworn deposition, and I bet we can get dozens more. Lots of people had motive to do this.”

“Stop it, Siz,” interrupted the chief. “Who gives a shit if someone did in a pedophile felon? Whoever it was did us all a favor. And if it is a serial killer, maybe he’ll knock off the other pedophiles around here so we won’t have to chase after them!”

“Nice way to talk, Harry! Look, we have a bunch of evidence that gets us to murder one. You’ve seen the coroner’s report of the angle of the entry of the bullet. The DA was convinced enough that she got us the search warrant that produced a bunch of things, like the kiddie porn files in his computer, and the lab report showed things like no fingerprints on the phone that the Nichols woman said she used to call nine one one. Like the smudges of Nichols’s prints on the weapon. Like the way his body was leaning. No suicide note. Do I have to go on?”

“So what?” Dawes sighed. “All this hasn’t convinced the DA to go the grand jury. Siz, give it up; ain’t worth our time. The press is satisfied with suicide, and there’s no fallout; this thing is now worn out, with the complaints of the few people he molested coming to an end. Everyone—that is, everyone except
you
—is happy he’s gone. Siz, let it die, and get back to the Simmons break-in or the shooting on Jay Street. Or do I have to give you a direct order to do that?”

“Harry,” Szysmanski pleaded, “let me close this case for you with a sure conviction. It will send out a message to pedophiles, not only here but all over the country, if not around the world. It will make a name for us, keep us on the front page for weeks, and send out a warning to pedophiles to rein themselves in, because their crimes will be uncovered. Kids will be safer, and in the long run, our caseloads will be lighter with fewer of these miserable bastards to chase after.”

“Siz,” Harry explained patiently, “you’re chasing shadows. Hey! Were you abused somewhere in your childhood? I’m beginning to think so. We have a confirmed pedophile with a rap sheet who is dead. Who cares how he died? It would be the same if a truck ran over him. The community is happy; so are the newspapers and the TV news. The kids he abused who have come out of their closets after all these years are happy. Even his wife is happy, or so you say. Why are you wanting to make waves in what is already a dead issue?”

“You still don’t win, chief,” Szysmanski went on with professional calm. “You mention his wife being happy. She’s too happy for my taste. She was cold as ice, like some kind of professional killer, when I first interviewed her. Then when we got the search warrant, and we found out he was not only a serial pedophile but had a previous conviction as a young man—God, he even kept the court orders from when he was a juvenile and the plea he copped in Argon County. She got herself a lawyer who told us that the only way we could speak to his client was through him, and that the information from my initial interview at the home the night of the suicide—make that murder!—couldn’t be used legally. Legally for what? For her trial for murder one? She gave me a cockamamie story of someone coming into the house at ten at night. The door unlocked? When they kept a weapon in the house against burglars who have never appeared? And then I left close to midnight, she saw me to the door, I stood on the porch listening, and she didn’t even lock the door. And then she tells some reporter that she had no idea her husband had a prior record and that he was molesting kids at their camp. How could she
not
know? She lived with the guy for forty years and never looked at his computer? No last message ever found to explain his suicide? Someone is bullshitting me! And I think it’s that bitch!”

“Siz,” smiled Harry, “now you’ve got me scared! You have always been one great investigator on this force, just as you were as a beat cop years ago. I think you want my job! OK, I, the jury of one, find her guilty. But, Siz, what for? You want good press? Find the son of a bitch—or better, the sons of bitches—who did the Jay Street shooting. That is gonna take lots of legwork and great detective investigation. That’s gonna take days and weeks to be able to take something to the DA for the grand jury. If this Nichols case is so open and shut, if the Nichols woman is the perp, tell me, is she gonna do it again? Everyone is happy that he killed himself so he wouldn’t have to face the disgrace of what he has been doing all his life. Yeah, maybe she shot him because someone finally told her what he had been doing. Yeah, maybe she knew all along anyway but hoped against hope that abused kids are ashamed of what they did and keep it to themselves, eating away at them their whole lives. Maybe that noise she heard was someone coming to tell Nichols that he was about to let his secret out of the bag; who knows? Who cares? He deserved what he got, a few years too late, OK. But whoever did this, and I accept your prosecution of Mrs. Nichols, she ain’t gonna do it again! Unless she marries another pedophile. Not a case for us, Siz; let it go. You’ve done great work; I congratulate you. I always have admired what you’ve done for the department. Now let’s get back to something that is more serious.

“OK,” continued Dawes, “OK, just for you, I’ll give you two more days on this to bring something that will convince the DA to go to the grand jury. But this is out of respect for your previous achievements in this division and for that great sense of smell you have for potential felonies. Two days, do you hear? Not a day more! We gotta get these other two matters closed before they run away from us and we get reamed in the news for ignoring community problems!”

Szysmanski sighed in resignation. “Harry, you’ve been watching too many Westerns on TV. You are now a believer in posse justice. Like the cowboy who runs home to his mother—‘Hide me, Mom. I just killed a man.’ ‘Son, did he need killin’?’ But you gotta excuse me; that’s not my idea of justice or why I joined the detective division, that someone ‘needed killin’.’ Somehow, she is complicit in what he has been doing. She knew all along he was a pedophile and never did anything to stop him. If he is a felon for what he did to kids, then she is also for abetting his felonies. She deserves to be put away, too. I can’t get over my feeling that the misery he caused so many kids, locked in the silence of their tormented minds for as long as they live, is not just his crime but hers too. I may not be able to prove that she knew all along of his habits, but I sure can prove that she killed him. I hope I can do that in two days. And if that will get her put away, some sense of justice will be served.