The Prison Inside Me (4 page)

The detective listened for a moment. “Yeah, this is a rush job. If I wanted it tomorrow, I would have called you tomorrow. Yeah, I love you too, even when you don’t bring me coffee.”

The city editor looked over Heather’s shoulder at the screen. He picked up the phone on Heather’s desk and punched in four digits. Heather heard him say, “Ben, I’m here in the city room with one of our new, bright stars, Heather Thompson. (Heather knew he was talking to Ben Trout, the owner and publisher of the
Herald
.) Maybe you saw the blurb on page two of this morning’s edition about the suicide of a guy named George Nichols that happened Tuesday night after we went to press. Anyway, Heather has an e-mail from a Glenn Scott, some kind of subscriber we can’t identify until circulation opens at nine, accusing Nichols of molesting him when he was a kid. Yes, of course, we will run this down. But in the meantime, how do want us to proceed?”

Heather stared at Fred as he listened intently, making notes on a pad on her desk that she couldn’t read because his hand was in the way and interrupting every few minutes to say, “Yes, sir, I got that.” He finally terminated with, “We’ll get that done right away.”

The city editor turned to Heather after he hung up the phone. “He wants us to relay this to the police immediately. We have an accusation of a felony, and we are required by law to inform the authorities. He says we can’t publish any of this for fear of legal action until we get some kind of statement from a third party to corroborate the accusation and to whom we can attribute the information. Remember, this Scott may not even exist or may have some other grudge against Nichols. The best ‘third party’ would be the police, although maybe his family would also be acceptable. Do two things: Call Mrs. Nichols again and say you wish to speak to her about anything that would get her to meet with you. Then, get circulation on the line at nine—no, in fact, go down there and get the information about Glenn Scott, if he exists at all. Send this e-mail to my machine and then forward it to the cops. On second thought, I can do that, but you have better contact with Szysmanski. You give him a call and lay the thing out for him, maybe after you have ID’d Scott with circulation. OK, let’s get to it. Oh, yes, I almost forgot, one more thing. Check our files to see if we have a prior on Nichols. And then find out where he was before he moved to Trout Lake, and check felony files in that state for some prior record. Didn’t he go to Demotte State College next door? Maybe he lived there.”

“Holy Mother of God,” Szysmanski said in a half whisper. He was looking at the coroner’s report of the Nichols suicide just given to him by Harry Dawes, the chief of the Detective Bureau. He read the short passage silently to himself several times before he looked up at Dawes.

“…cause of death is a gunshot wound to the head entry about one and one half inches above right temple; location, size, and shape of the wound, stippling and smoke residue, and edges are all consistent with a gunshot from a distance of six to nine inches with no intervening structure. Internal extensive damage and the recovered bullet are consistent with the firing of a 9-mm handgun. Projectile recovered from left side of mandible.”

“Harry,” Szysmanski began, “we better get that projectile from the med examiner and match it to the Glock that’s in our lab. He couldn’t have held that weapon six inches from his head above his temple and fired it downward at an angle, unless it was deflected by his head bones into a downward path—not much chance of that. That bullet was fired by someone else, standing over him. Boss, we don’t have a suicide; we have a homicide.”

Just then, another detective burst into Dawes’s office, where Szysmanski and Dawes were conversing. “Chief, open your computer and see the e-mail that the
Herald
just sent us. It’s from some guy named Scott or something accusing Nichols of molesting him when he was a kid.”

Dawes turned to Szysmanski and asked, “Another one? To go along with your phone call? What have we got here?”

“I don’t know,” Szysmanski answered, “but I’ll bet this is just the tip of some iceberg. Harry, we got enough here to get into the Nicholses’ house and see what else turns up. We gotta get his computer, wherever that is. His wife was very vague about it when I asked her. I can’t believe she doesn’t know where he keeps his computer, tablet, and cell phone. I think we got enough here to ask the DA’s office to get us a search warrant. The sooner the better, too. What do you think?”

Dawes stood up, indicating that the interview was over. “Get a crew of four together, maybe including Brighton since he’s been in the house, and get ready to go. I’ll push this with the DA to get to the judge before noon to get the warrant. You can be in the house by one. And, oh, yes, take someone from the lab to dust around the desk and the den to see if any strange prints turn up that don’t belong to the house. Siz, are you following up to see if we have a prior on him?”

When Szysmanski rang the Nicholses’ doorbell at 1:15 p.m. that afternoon, Susan looked surprised to see him and the group of men, some in police uniforms and others in street clothes with their badges hanging from their jacket pockets. “Mrs. Nichols, may we come in? This document is a search warrant issued by Judge Halloran authorizing us to search these premises, inside and out, to locate materials that may be used in clarifying the cause of your husband’s death. It would be most helpful to us, facilitate our work, and make much less of a mess of your home, if you could indicate where we can find some of the material we are seeking.”

Susan looked at the warrant, whose wording she couldn’t understand. “Please wait outside until I call my lawyer.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we can’t do that. We are authorized under law to enter these premises and begin our work as of twelve forty-five in the afternoon. If you do not let us enter your home, I will place you under arrest for obstruction and have one of my men take you downtown to book you. You’ll be able to call your lawyer from there.”

Susan looked panicked. “Isn’t there anything I can do?”

“No, ma’am, other than let us in right now. There is no objection if you wish to call your lawyer while we do our jobs.”

Susan stood aside as the men entered. She went into the kitchen, followed by Brighton, who was motioned to do so by Szysmanski. She picked up the phone there and punched in a few numbers. Brighton heard her say, “I have to speak to Mr. Hubert right away. He’s where? Isn’t there anyone else who I can talk to? Of course it’s important! A bunch of police are here with a warrant to search my house for no good reason. I need help, so get someone. What am I paying you for? Yes, yes, call me right back!” She hung up the phone.

Szysmanski was now in the kitchen with Brighton and Susan. “Mrs. Nichols, I don’t think you want us to make a mess of your house. Please help us. Please tell me where I can find your husband’s computer, tablet, and cell phone.”

“They’re in the garage, in the trunk of my car, in his briefcase. Help yourself. What else are you looking for?”

“Do you have a safe somewhere in the house? Are there any other firearms somewhere? My men have started up in your attic and will work down through your bedrooms, closets, bathrooms, cabinets, drawers, and so forth. But if you could help us with the location of the safe, open it for us, and let us see other weapons, we could be neater in our search.”

“How long are you going to be here?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Nichols. We’ll probably be finished before dark.”

“Just going to help yourself to anything I own and walk off with it?”

“No, ma’am. We will take only those items that we think can clarify the cause of your husband’s death. We will give you a receipt for these items, all of which will be returned to you unless they are to be used as evidence in a court to clarify that cause. You will be informed of all this.”

Then the phone rang, and Szysmanski indicated that Brighton should remain with Susan. He left the kitchen, calling to one of the men to meet him in the garage. Susan picked up the phone, said hello, and then continued, “Oh, thank God it’s you, Barry. My house is crawling with police who came with a search warrant. They got George’s computer and tablet; his cell phone, too. Don’t I have any rights to privacy? What can I do?”

She listened for a while and then said, “Thanks, Barry. Yes, I know you are not a criminal lawyer. No, I won’t say anything more to them. No, I won’t stop them from searching wherever they want to. Yes, of course, I have nothing to hide; they say they’ll return everything. But can’t anyone come out and help me? Yes, I’ll just stand by. What else can I do? Thanks for calling.” She hung up.

Szysmanski came back into the kitchen, now wearing surgical gloves and holding a briefcase, which he showed to Susan. “Is this your husband’s briefcase?”

Susan glared at the detective. “My lawyer told me not to answer any more of your questions. Until he gets here, I’d prefer you leave me alone.”

“Whatever you say, ma’am. Thank you.”

It was almost 4:00 p.m. when Szysmanski’s cell phone rang during the search of the Nicholses’ residence. He saw that it was Donna Baker of records.

“What’s up, Donna?”

“Bingo,” she replied in a smiling voice. “You hit the jackpot again, future chief of police. He graduated from Demotte State in 1967 at age twenty-two. Married Susan Campbell in ’69. He majored in math at college with a master’s degree in ’69. Let me know when I stop boring you, but you better sit down, now, so you don’t fall over. 1964, he’s a freshman at college, working as a swim instructor at a local camp, and, yes, you guessed it, a felony conviction in Argon County Court for molestation. Plea bargained down to lewd and lascivious conduct, probated for two years, to see probation officer, psychiatric social worker at Demotte, probation completed successfully, no further incidents or records. What do you owe me?”

“Donna, you’re great, as I always said you were. Next coffee is on me, and when I make chief, you’ll be my official coffee bearer! I’m at the Nicholses’ now with a search warrant. Gotta run. Send me an e-mail to confirm. I owe you big-time!”

It was almost 10:00 p.m. before the work was done. No safe or other weapons were found. Susan sat the whole time in her living room easy chair, distraughtly watching the police crew empty drawer after drawer, take books off the shelves in the den, and make her home a mess. She saw one man carefully dusting items on George’s desk and taking photos with a cell phone. Szysmanski was the last to leave, presenting Susan with a document listing the items that had been removed in the boxes that the men had brought with them. Szysmanski asked Susan to sign the document, but she refused to do so. He wrote something in the space left for her signature, gave her the original, and kept the copies. He thanked her for her time and apologized for the condition in which the men had left her home.

Susan sat alone, her head in her hands, wondering what they had found. She knew what was in the computer. The whole sordid affair was ending, she thought. What could she do? So many years, so much hiding, but like the cancer it was, it eventually was going to kill those involved.
Ha,
she laughed to herself,
when Barry advised me that I couldn’t hide or destroy the computers or tamper with them, as that would surely put me in jail for tampering with what could become evidence, I should never have listened to him. I could have told the police that I didn’t know where his computers were, down at the college office or somewhere, and then dumped them into the middle of the lake. They would never have found them. I hope he comes through with that great criminal lawyer he promised. But maybe, just maybe,
(she smiled to herself again)
I won’t need him.

CHAPTER SIX

A
fter their first date at George’s senior prom, Susan returned home for the summer vacation. George started his graduate assistantship, taking one advanced math course. He was also assigned to teach a remedial course in algebra to incoming freshmen who had missed the entry exam in math by a few points. George loved what he was doing, getting these new students involved, seeing how they responded to his positivity and warmth, and how they really worked and put themselves out for him. He had found a niche, and he couldn’t wait for each new day. Since many professors were off for the summer, he was given an office in which he could work, complete with a telephone and access to the new computer terminals the university was installing in professors’ offices. He particularly liked the importance of having a private office, which he could use to counsel and tutor his young charges individually. He enjoyed the intimacy that came with private tutoring of students, some of whom he insisted come to see him for special help, and others of whom requested it.

He found a small two-bedroom apartment off campus that he shared with three other GAs, none of whom came from the math department. His roommate was in a program for a PhD in chemistry, two years ahead of George in his studies, having completed his MS. He was just as nerdy as George, busy with his texts, and constantly running to the lab to work on something or other. He was also teaching upper undergraduate–level chem courses, none of which met during the summer. He took occasional time to help George with how the university was run and how to succeed as a GA while still leaving time for his own studies. “Hey, you’re here to get an MA, not to be a great professor. And we all need some time for escape, too. What’s your hobby, favorite thing to do?”

When the fall semester started, Susan returned to Demotte. She called George for a get-together at the quad cafeteria. They shared their summer experiences. Susan was really interested in his teaching but had no grasp of the advanced topics in math that he talked about from the course he took during the summer. She gained a feeling of self-importance each time she thought she was spending time with a member of the faculty, which George wasn’t, but Susan had no grasp of the difference between an unpaid GA and a member of the teaching faculty.

George liked Susan, her fresh naïveté, her innocence, and especially her interest in him. She also now had the use of a car that her parents had given her to be able to get home on weekends, something he had neither resources nor time to afford. They began to meet regularly for lunch and sometimes in the dining hall for dinner, too. Susan felt she had found a man who liked her for what she was, not like her father, who liked her for someone else he wanted her to be.

Their enjoyment of being with each other took them to Demotte football games together and to Saturday night movies. Susan liked that George made no unacceptable sexual advances to her. Their heavy necking sessions were just that, never going much further. Neither had time to take away from studies, especially George, with his teaching and tutoring, or to make more serious advances in their otherwise very warm relationship. George also had in the back of his mind that he was a GA with limitations on his relationships with undergraduates. He spoke at length with his major advisor about what the university permitted in his relationship with Susan. He was advised to keep it cool, unless he wanted to marry her. “With what?” George would ask, knowing as he and his advisor both did that he was living on a limited budget where just making the rent each week was a challenge, his only source of income being his parents’ small allowance. He couldn’t afford a car, as Susan could, or even to treat her on their dates, which were strictly “Dutch,” each one paying his or her own bills.

Susan didn’t mind this. She had more resources than he did, but he refused to let her treat him, choosing instead to go out with her where money was needed only when he had effected sufficient economies to pay his own way. Anyway, lots of free activities were offered by the university, including concerts, plays, and athletic events. As time passed, they became very steady friends and dates.

George even was introduced to Susan’s parents when they came to the campus on Parents Day. They took a liking to him, to his shyness, to the manner in which he showed respect for their daughter, and to his dedication to his studies. “Is this serious?” they asked their daughter. To which Susan replied, “I hope so, but not until we finish our degrees!” Although they invited George to visit them at their home, George was gracious in his response but never went.

It was at Susan’s senior prom that they first discussed making their relationship permanent. Susan was going to stay in Demotte, where she had an internship with a community psychiatric service organization. George had decided not to pursue a doctorate, despite his advisor’s encouragement to do so. “I need to get out for a while, get some work experience under my belt, and get some resources to live a normal life for a change.” He had found a job at an insurance firm that was installing a new computerized system to do their actuarial research and financial work. Both he and Susan had to move from their current housing status. Susan, now almost twenty-three, brought it up as a kind of joke at the prom as they discussed their future: “Then, since neither of us can afford to live alone, let’s become roommates!”

“You mean, ‘Let’s get married,’ don’t you?” answered George lightly. “I know you, and I guess by now that after these two years together, we won’t have it any other way. I think you know I love you, although I may never have said it in those words. I enjoy being with you—the more the better—and I think you feel the same way about me. So, OK, my love, will you marry me?”

They called their parents that night together after the prom. It was almost 2:00 a.m. Both sets of parents were elated, relieved that the late-night telephone call was not some disaster—although it may have been one in the making. The next day they called to set up a time when their families could meet each other. They planned the wedding for the end of summer.

The newlyweds flew immediately after the wedding to a beach hotel for the honeymoon. As they undressed in their room, George was the same amorous person he had been during their dating, with lots of kissing and admiration of Susan’s very beautiful, athletic body. But she was taken aback, although she hid it, by his lack of arousal. Even as they lay down in the bed together, he was still not aroused. She became quite frightened that something was wrong—perhaps with her, but perhaps with George.
Have I married a homosexual? What have I done? What can I do?

George then got out of bed and went to the closet, where he opened his suitcase and withdrew what looked to Susan in the darkness like some paper. He went into the bathroom, and she saw the light go on under the door. In a few moments, the light went out, and George came back to bed, fully aroused. Their first night of lovemaking was passionate; they were almost out of control after two years of the promise of their closeness that had been limited to heavy kissing and whispered admiration and desire. She was greatly relieved that she had indeed married an amorous man who was fully capable of satisfying her. With her continued fondling, she was able to arouse him again for what became a rather sleepless night.

All during her years of sharing thoughts with her older sister and listening to Elizabeth’s liberal attitudes toward relationships with young men, Susan had become envious of her sibling’s liberty. Susan really wanted to try sexual relationships, and she did have one during her junior year. Perhaps it was her earlier relationship with her father, whose love she so curried in her attempts to please him, straining within all her physical limitations to achieve what he wanted, although it wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted his love, and maybe she attained some of it. But she never really felt that she satisfied him and thus satisfied herself. She really needed someone to love her, to make her feel like the woman she wanted to be—maybe like Elizabeth—but just to love her for what she was, to love her completely, and especially physically as a woman. She had now found that relationship, she thought, with George.

Susan was overwhelmed with curiosity about what George had taken into the bathroom with him. She didn’t feel it right to pry into his affairs so early in their relationship. She couldn’t bring herself to ask him what he had done to “turn things around.” Whatever it was, it made no difference; he was what she wanted him to be. She satisfied herself with that.

They moved into a small apartment in Demotte and began their jobs. Married life involved shopping, cooking, cleaning, and lots of decisions as to who did what. They mingled their monies in a joint account with the general agreement that neither would spend major parts of it without consulting the other. They agreed on a weekly allowance that each needed for gas, carfare, lunches, and incidentals. Their car was the same one that Susan’s family had given her as a college junior.

Their marriage proceeded quite normally, each adapting well to the habits of the other. George continued to bring work home from the office, working in some esoteric coded language she couldn’t understand, withdrawn into its problems. He would occasionally stop for dinner, which Susan prepared, and coffee, during which time Susan could talk to him about her work.
He paid close attention and gave her encouraging responses. He would then return to the desk where he did his work, and Susan would read or watch television. George had a great talent to shut out the outside world when he needed to.

Early in their relationship, they adopted a very pleasant custom. Whoever came home from work first would mix up a round or two of martinis, vodka being the preferred ingredient. When the other came in the door, the vodkas were poured as they sat either in their small living room or at the kitchen table, slowly sipping their drinks and relating to each other the day’s excitements or lack thereof. They both adored this ritual, an opportunity to make a closer contact and to relax in the enjoyment of each other, almost a confirmation of their love for each other.

Their lovemaking continued as it had begun. George often took some papers into the bathroom and then emerged fully aroused, ready for the most active amorous encounters.
What is this,
Susan thought.
Why am I not enough? Why does he have to go into the bathroom before he can get ready? What does he do in there? What is he reading? Forget it; it’s none of your business, and your sex life is all that you want it to be. Be satisfied with what you’ve got. Mind your own business, and he’ll mind his own, too!

It was in the sixth month of their marriage, when George came home one day from the office without work to do at home for the first time in weeks. As they sat at the kitchen table with their usual martinis, George opened up. “Susan, enough of this. I can’t stand my job anymore. It’s the same thing day after day—decode this, code that, debug this—I can’t stand it. I’m going to quit. I loved teaching and tutoring at Demotte, even when I was working with handicapped students, like all those athletes! I liked the interchange, the feeling that I was helping someone, that I was accomplishing something that wasn’t just indecipherable code on paper for someone to put into a computer. I’ve got to get back to the college life, to do some teaching. Susan, we just have to go where I can find work like that!”

“You’re right,” she comforted, sipping her drink. “If you hadn’t brought it up, I would have. I, too, am wasting time doing nothing but ‘scud’ and paperwork. If I even get to see a patient, my supervisor is always over my shoulder, running things and correcting me right in front of the kids, their parents, or anyone else they allow me to spend time with. It’s a giant waste of my time. I’m really not learning anything other than the amount of paperwork to be done in community social services. And at least you’ve got enough income to support us. My stipend barely pays for the gas I need to get to work.”

George contacted the head of the mathematics department at Trout Lake Community College, who, upon hearing of George’s background and degrees at Demotte, invited him over for an interview. He was offered a position for the next semester teaching advanced math and working in the math lab, a tutoring service the college offered to applicants whose math scores were inadequate for admission or students who needed extra help in their math courses. George was taken aback by the limited salary he was offered. The department chair hinted that with George’s background, he could do a lot of private tutoring at a higher hourly rate than what the college was offering and thus supplement his salary by a large percentage. The math department received many calls from parents of high school students and even middle schoolers whose sons and daughters needed help with their courses to prepare better for college entry. The chair could send George more leads than he would be able to handle.

George still demurred, saying that his wife also needed employment. He presented her CV, indicating the lines that referred to her current internship with the social service agency in Demotte. She was ready to work as a full-time psychiatric social worker and needed a local job. George subtly hinted that his acceptance of any position would be dependent upon his wife’s ability to also find gainful professional employment. The chair looked a long time at George, thinking he couldn’t let this highly skilled candidate escape to a better position, probably on a tenure path at the state university. The chair picked up the phone, punched in some numbers, and said, “Hi, Paul, it’s me again. I need a favor. I have a candidate for a position here as a math instructor. He has a wife with a degree in psychiatric social work finishing an internship with a social service agency in Demotte. He is thinking of moving to Trout Lake. He wants to know if Child Protective Services can use her. Yes, he’s here in my office right now. Yes, he has her papers with him. Hey, that’s great! I knew I could count on you. I’ll send him right over!”