Caged to Kill

by Tom Swyers

  “It’s a hallucination. People get them when they’ve been locked up in solitary for a long time.”

  “Give me a break. When I saw your home, it was like I’ve been here before. I remembered the fragrance of the lilacs. I knew I was in this room before you even opened the door. The reflective windows, the swirls on the ceiling tiles in this room, the ashtray, the tiles on the floor, the dirty grout between them—it all came back to me in a flash. I also remember seeing the horses out through this sliding glass door while lying down on the table. I know the sound of the loud return bell on that typewriter.”

  Suddenly, Phillip put it all together. David texted that Edmund O’Neil had sex with Edith Nowak once and that Kleinschmit had run a paternity test proving O’Neil was the father. “YOU’RE A PSYCHOPATH, KLEINSCHMIT, AN ABSOLUTE PSYCHOPATH! You knew O’Neil had sex with Edith Nowak when she was underage once. But you didn’t know if once was good enough to impregnate her. So you raped me, stole my sperm to ensure that Edith Nowak became pregnant. You lied to O’Neil about the paternity test, maybe you even manipulated the results, and used that poor child to prove to O’Neil that he raped Edith Nowak. Janet Nowak was not only proof of intercourse, but the timing of her birth was proof that she was underage when it took place. You presented an airtight case of statutory rape to O’Neil but told him you could fix it all and keep it under wraps—”

  “You’re delusional, Phillip—”

  “Am I? You must have used Edith Nowak’s rape to gain leverage over Edmund O’Neil. You used your knowledge of the rape to secure and solidify your position as superintendent at Kranston. You helped buy Edith Nowak’s silence by getting her a job in the prison and stringing her along about a future together. You used the rape to buy O’Neil’s silence about the torture program you conducted at Kranston. You know, there must be over fifty prison superintendents in New York State in line for the job as New York State Commissioner of the Bureau of Prisons. Why did you get the job? Because you used the rape as leverage to get it from O’Neil, that’s why. You knew if someone else took the job, they might find out what you had been up to all these years. You had to get that job to make sure that nobody would find you out and you could keep your CIA project going undetected.”

  Kleinschmit rolled over, sat upright on the lawn, and peeled off his robe. “Where’s the proof, Phillip? Who is going to listen to your wild hallucinations? Do you think people are going to believe some ex-con who lost his mind in solitary? You need to leave now. I’ll forget this ever happened if you leave right now and never come back.”

  Phillip’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He yanked it out with his free hand while he clutched the knife upright in the other. It was a missed call from David followed by a text from him:

  Jim Fletcher just called me. He researched the name change records for several counties in and around the prison. He got a hit for Boris Dietrich in Washington County. The man previously known as Boris Dietrich changed his name to Martin Kleinschmit decades ago. I repeat: Martin Kleinschmit is really Boris Dietrich. You need to be careful. Are you at his house? Please call.

  Phillip’s eyes narrowed, his head went a bit dizzy as his entire body flooded with rage. “Hey, Kleinschmit, do you remember what you said to me about ‘time’ when I was in the box looking to get out?”

  “Time?”

  “Yeah, you said, ‘Time has a way of changing things when we can’t.’ Guess what, Boris? Your time is up!”

  “YOUR FATHER NEVER WANTED YOU. YOUR MOTHER HATED YOU.”

  “NO!” Phillip screamed, clutching his head with both hands. The knife slipped from his grip.

  Kleinschmit’s eyes turned to slits in his grimacing face. Pivoting on his red Lycra-encased backside, he rolled onto all fours—like a cat in a Speedo—and lunged for Phillip.

  Chapter 30

  David was a half-hour away from Kleinschmit’s house when Jim Fletcher had called to tell him about Boris Dietrich. As he drove over the Dunn Memorial Bridge that spanned the Hudson River at Albany, he tried to sort it all out. So many lines of lies and deceptions making a rat’s nest of evil that he could hardly keep it all straight.

  At one time, Edith Nowak knew Boris Dietrich and fell in love with him—not Edmund O’Neil—even though she believed O’Neil fathered her daughter. The letters Johnny McFadden discovered revealed that Boris Dietrich had promised to marry her. That’s what she had wanted desperately back then. But somehow she had no recollection at all of Boris Dietrich now.

  David could only imagine that Kleinschmit had wiped her memory clean of Boris Dietrich; gone without a trace. No ties to Boris could survive in the circle of people at Kranston. He needed a new identity after being forced out by Cleghorn, the director who followed Cameron at the Allan Memorial Institute. Maybe he knew he could never get or hold a job as Boris Dietrich. Maybe he feared that one day his ex-patients would try to track him down. In any event, David speculated that Cameron landed Kleinschmit a new job at Kranston before he died.

  While Kleinschmit was obligated to conceal his past, David understood that at the same time he still took pride in it. David saw a connection between the initials in Martin Kleinschmit’s name and the CIA’s MK-Ultra project. He envisioned Kleinschmit laughing up his sleeve when he chose that name in the 1960s. He may have regretted it ten years later when the MK-Ultra code name first became a national sensation in The New York Times.

  Kleinschmit was the one man in the system who reached out to Phillip to make his confinement tolerable by bending the rules. But now David could discern the sinister motives behind Kleinschmit’s apparent kindness. Each favor brought him one step closer to control of Phillip’s mind. Phillip had always said that Kleinschmit was a good man, a good superintendent. Edith Nowak had echoed Phillip’s sentiment almost word for word. Now David understood that Kleinschmit had implanted this powerful message in their minds to help obscure the truth. If, for even a second, it occurred to them that Kleinschmit had done some evil things, his positive messaging would subdue and smother those thoughts before they could take root.

  The Mustang hit a pothole coming off the bridge and David’s head touched the ceiling. He looked down at the speedometer. The car was doing 55 MPH in a 40 MPH zone. Phillip will blow a gasket when he reads that Martin Kleinschmit is Boris Dietrich. While David worried about how Phillip might react to that news, he was much more afraid for Phillip’s personal well-being. He feared Phillip was in real danger. If Kleinschmit had practiced mind control on his prisoner for decades, David thought it wouldn’t take much for him to reassert a hold over him. Tightening the grip of his left hand on the wheel, he reached over with his right to grab his cell phone from the passenger seat. Phillip hadn’t texted a response. There was no voice-mail message either.

  When David finally pulled onto Thoroughbred Drive, he was stunned by the enormity of the few homes that lined the street. Each one looked like it could double for a Ramada Inn. He could not fathom how a prison superintendent would afford to live here. The mansions all lay back in the woods, shrouded by trees and shrubs, hardly visible from the road. There had to be at least a half-mile between each estate.

  Even the roadside mailboxes were opulent statements—works of art that stood in obvious competition with one another. No Rubbermaid clunkers or wooden boxes on a pole in this neighborhood. Kleinschmit’s mailbox for Fifteen Thoroughbred Drive at the cul-de-sac terminus was welded atop the head of a lifelike cast-iron lawn jockey. David spotted a black Lincoln Navigator parked down the winding driveway, so he knew there was a good chance someone was home.

  David eased onto the manicured lawn at the side of the road and slipped out of the car. He didn’t want to pull into the driveway. He knew the crushed stone would pop under his tires and announce his arrival. He peered through the bushes and examined the front of the house.

  There was no sign of Phillip or anyone else: no lights, no sound, no movement. He heard the distant neigh of a horse, but nothing else except the shushing of the lea
ves rustling in a soft summer breeze. He figured he’d scope out the side and rear of the home first, then maybe ring the doorbell. He could pose as a lost tourist, looking for directions. Maybe Phillip isn’t here. Maybe he didn’t make it yet or has left already. Maybe he changed his mind and headed back to the motel after he read my text.

  David circled around the house through the woods. The closer he came to the rear, the more frequent and louder the horse whinnying became. Suddenly, there was a rustling in the leaves, dry twigs snapping in quick succession. Then he heard the steps, the sound of something running. He swung his head in the direction of the noise and recognized the white tails of two deer—doe and fawn—scampering away deeper into the forest.

  When David had worked his way through the trees that paralleled the house and gained a clear view of the huge backyard, he spotted a lone horse in the field below. The animal was running along the length of the fence, stopping to neigh at the house every few seconds. The horse sounded distressed.

  David looked over toward the house, scanning for activity at the windows, then glanced toward the pool area. He saw a bathrobe in a white heap on the lawn between the stone deck and the house. Next, he noticed something drifting in the water; maybe it was a raft or some kind of pool float. At a loss for what action to take, he worked his way closer to the house.

  The mansion was closed up tight. All the windows and doors were shut; there was no sign of anyone. When he got a closer look at the pool, he saw the water had a pinkish cast. He didn’t know if Kleinschmit had dyed the water or if it was just dirty with algae. But then the pool float came into focus as he drew closer. It wasn’t a float at all. It was a man’s body, suspended face down, arms and legs extended in a limp embrace of death.

  “Phillip!”

  David rushed to the side of the pool. His haste was wasted; the body was lifeless. A pool-water return slowly twirled it around while the current gently pushed it down toward the rear of the yard. The pink water was actually diluted blood; the water was a much deeper crimson red close by the man’s head. David was about to jump into the pool to pull the man out when he spotted the red Speedo and realized that it wasn’t Phillip at all. It was someone else. Oh my God, that’s got to be Kleinschmit.

  In a daze, David backed away from the pool and almost tripped over a chair. His heart was pounding, his hands trembled, his feet felt like they were cast in cement. For a full minute, he was immobilized by shock before his brain kicked in again. What should I do? He debated calling 911. He could jump in the pool to try to pull Kleinschmit out.

  He quickly looked all around the house and didn’t see another person, only the horse that wouldn’t shut up. His eyes locked onto a pattern of blood spatter on the concrete pool coping nearest the house. The man in the water was still dead. His head bobbed over by the pool skimmer now. The circulating water sucked blood from his head wound through the skimmer to the pool filter. When it pumped back from the filter through the water returns, streamers of blood shot out and dispersed, turning the pink pool water to red. It had been less than five minutes. David spun and darted for the woods.

  Bolting out of the yard was a fight-or-flight response for David. Since there was nobody to fight, flight seemed like the logical option. And fly he did. David hadn’t run this fast in decades. He kept looking over his shoulder and tripping in the tangled underbrush, even falling a few times. His knees were weak. He couldn’t erase the memory of Kleinschmit doing the Dead-man’s Float in his own blood.

  As he plowed through the forest, David’s head reeled from this new series of events. The man in the bloody pool was dead. If he was Kleinschmit, death couldn’t have come soon enough. David knew there was nothing he could do to reverse that outcome. He felt that he owed it to himself and his family to stay out of it. Nothing good could come out of getting involved.

  If he pulled the body out of the pool or if he called 911, David would have to answer a lot of questions. The cops might even consider him a suspect or a co-conspirator with Phillip. Having already seen the inside of the Albany County Jail, he was in no hurry to survey what Rensselaer County had to offer. If he got involved, he could end up having to implicate Phillip to save himself. No way. If the system wanted Phillip, he wasn’t going to help them out one bit. They’d have to get him on their own.

  David backtracked his way to where the Mustang sat quietly in the sun. Sliding into the front seat, he inhaled a single shaky breath before turning the ignition, shifting into gear, and speeding away. He kept a lookout for Phillip walking along the road shoulder, but he didn’t spot a single pedestrian. A thought raced through his mind. What if Phillip was injured? Maybe he was hurt somewhere on Kleinschmit’s property? Was that why the horse was so upset? David didn’t stop to search for Phillip on Kleinschmit’s land. His self-preservation instincts had spurred him into flight without a second thought.

  When David pulled into the Red Apple Motel lot, the door to Phillip’s room was partly open. David barely parked the Mustang before he was out of the car. He flew into the room shouting, “Phillip! Phillip, are you here?” The bathroom door was shut but he heard the sound of someone spraying something inside. He pushed the door open, nearly hitting a startled middle-aged woman. She was the maid, in the middle of cleaning the shower. “Where’s Phillip?”

  “You mean the tall one, the man who was here?” she asked in a Spanish accent.

  “Yes, where is he?”

  “He checked out a little while ago.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “I don’t know. He just packed up all of his stuff and got on the bus.”

  David pulled out his cell. There was no phone message or text.

  Phillip Dawkins had vanished.

  Chapter 31

  For the rest of the day, David sat in his office glued to the television news station he had set on mute and the radio all-news station broadcasting just loud enough for him to hear. He was watching and listening for information about Martin Kleinschmit’s death. The internet was off limits for news. The last thing he wanted to do was to create a digital stream of breadcrumbs by looking for news about a death that hadn’t yet been reported publicly. He knew that trail might circle around to bite him in the ass one day.

  At dinner in the dining room with Annie and Christy, David sat where he could see the screen on the small, countertop television in the kitchen. With the volume set on low, David was primed and ready; the remote lay next to his dinner knife as if it was part of his place setting. When the television flashed the headline, “Up Next: A Mysterious Death in Hampton Manor,” David grabbed the remote and rose from the table to walk into the kitchen.

  Frowning, Annie said, “David, what’s so important that it can’t wait until after dinner?”

  “There might be news about Phillip on the TV.”

  “Really?” Annie said, getting up from the table.

  “What about him?” Christy asked, popping out of his chair.

  Christy and Annie stood on either side of David, eyes glued to the tiny screen. “Shh,” he said, clicking up the volume, “here it comes.”

  The earnest, young male reporter was stationed in front of the superintendent’s mansion, as an ambulance and police vehicles flashed their light arrays in the background behind the yellow crime-scene tape. “New York State Police and local rescue crews were summoned to this Hampton Manor address this afternoon, after a stable hand reported to work and discovered his boss floating face down in the pool. The employer, Martin Kleinschmit, was pronounced dead at the scene. Police say Mr. Kleinschmit appeared to have slipped at the pool’s edge before hitting his head on the concrete coping and drowning in the pool. Police say they are continuing to investigate the incident but don’t suspect foul play at this time. They are, however, looking for a man who might have more information on the incident. His name is Phillip Dawkins and this is a picture of him. Anyone knowing the whereabouts of Phillip Dawkins is asked to contact the State Police at the telephone number below. Th
is is Bill Small reporting live for News Channel 9 from Hampton Manor.”

  David’s mind raced as he clicked off the television. They showed a picture of Dawkins in the clothes he wore on the day he showed up at David’s door. It must have been taken the day he was released. The report didn’t mention his prison record. They obviously didn’t want to alarm people.

  “Oh my God, David. Who is Martin Kleinschmit?” Annie asked.

  “He was the superintendent at Kranston prison where Phillip was holed up,” David said, before swallowing hard. “And he was also Boris Dietrich in an earlier life.”

  “Whoa!” Christy blurted. “He was Dietrich and not Phillip?”

  “Yes. Jim Fletcher called me yesterday and told me that Boris Dietrich changed his name to Martin Kleinschmit decades ago.”

  “Now that lines up with all that electroshock stuff that was going on there,” Annie said.

  “Yes, it does—”

  “But David, why do the police want to talk to Phillip about Martin Kleinschmit’s death?”

  It was time for lawyer David Thompson to make an appearance. “I’m not exactly sure,” he responded. Yes, he wasn’t exactly sure but he had a pretty good idea of what went down. Phillip said he was going to visit Kleinschmit the same day Kleinschmit was found dead? Yeah, right, just a coincidence—one worthy of an induction into the Coincidence Hall of Fame.

  “You must know something, David. Why else would you be watching the news on TV? You hate watching the news.”

  David felt Annie’s intuition radar zeroing in on him. “I know enough to get me in trouble and that’s about it.”

  “What do you know?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “You can’t or you won’t?”

  “Can’t because I love you both and I don’t want to drag either of you into this mess. The less you know, the better off you’ll be. If you’re ever questioned by the police or anyone else, you can honestly say you don’t know anything about the incident.”