Eye for Eye

by J K Franko

  What made the decision for me was the second reason. We were concerned (my therapist agreed with my assessment) that if I terminated their treatment, I might be putting myself in danger. If I was no longer useful to them, but still knew all their secrets, my life might be in jeopardy.

  There was no way around it. I was stuck with them.

  So, I worked to manage my own stress issues through therapy and with medication. My therapist also recommended that I write this journal as a form of therapy.

  In this journal, I’ve included everything I’ve learned from Susie and Roy through their confessions. I have also included supplemental information gleaned from my own research.

  I must admit that I’ve found the rewriting of Roy and Susie’s revelations cathartic. Writing has helped me to cope with the anxiety that continuing to treat Roy and Susie has generated.

  And, while that is all well and good, this journal has also served another purpose—and one that, to me, is even more important.

  Insurance.

  You see, Roy stopped by not long ago to thank me “for everything.” He does that. Random acts of gratitude. He brought me a bottle of Macallan 18. And he seemed truly grateful. In fact, he ended by saying that we should all get together and go out on his boat sometime.

  I didn’t have the guts to ask which one.

  After thinking on it, though, I sent Roy a thank you note. It read as follows:

  Dear Roy,

  I wanted to send you a long overdue “thank you” for the bottle of scotch and for the kind invitation to go out boating. It is a pleasure to work with you and Susie. I am very pleased with our progress and am happy to be here for both of you for as long as you desire.

  However, please rest assured that, should you ever wish to change therapists, I have taken copious notes to ensure a seamless transition in treatment. Furthermore, please know that should anything happen to me, I have taken great care to ensure that these same notes fall into the right hands, in order to ensure your continuity of care.

  Warm Regards,

  C.J. Martin, PhD

  This journal was to be my buried bone, and if something “happened” to me, it would sing. But, if no one ever read it, which I hoped would be the case, that would mean that we—Susie, Roy, and I—all lived happily ever after.

  That was my initial plan.

  As a psychologist, however, I am not a big believer in happily ever after.

  I strongly believed that if I was going to ensure that I survived Susie and Roy, that they didn’t want me dead, I needed something more. More than just the threat of disclosure if something “happened” to me.

  I was sick of feeling beholden to them.

  I was sick of living in fear.

  That’s when a solution occurred to me.

  And that’s where the real story begins.

  PROLOGUE

  I have come to believe in choices—the power of decision.

  Though I have said elsewhere that, as a psychologist, I am not a big believer in “happily ever after,” my thinking has evolved.

  Happiness depends on your point of view.

  Living “happily ever after” is a choice, because ultimately, happiness is a choice.

  This is a scientific fact.

  From a psychological perspective, happiness is best thought of as an emotional state brought about by positive thoughts, feelings, and experiences. We psychologists refer to it as a “positive affect.”

  A significant percentage of what makes one happy is controlled by the individual. Indeed, some research indicates that only 10% of happiness is based on circumstances—external events. A much greater part of happiness depends upon how one processes external events.

  How you see, process, and react to reality determines whether or not you will be happy.

  This means that our experience of reality ultimately is what we choose it to be.

  For the first time in years, I can finally say that I am happy. It has not been for want of trying. But, at first, it was difficult to process everything that I was exposed to in a way that made me happy.

  After all, it’s hard to put a positive spin on murder.

  At first, it was impossible for me to see what Susie and Roy were doing through rose-colored glasses. I found it hard to accept that two seemingly normal people could be capable of such evil. That my patients, one of whom I had treated for years, were capable of murder.

  Try as I might, I found it hard to compartmentalize the information. Their actions haunted me.

  But, even more so, I was overwhelmed by the fear that they might turn on me.

  I was not just a loose end.

  I was the loose end.

  They had shared everything about their crimes with me—and only me. And I mean everything, in meticulous detail. It was no secret that I was the weak link. The one thing that could bring them down.

  Being in such close proximity, and in the confidence of, two active killers was very disturbing to me.

  Try as I might, I could not initially find a way to be happy with these circumstances.

  But, as I said before, happiness is a choice. Who we are and what we do with our lives is a choice.

  We create our happiness.

  This is the key nugget of wisdom I have taken away from all of this.

  We are not what happens to us.

  We are what we choose.

  Ultimately, it was a choice that I made that finally brought an end to my torment. That choice put me in a place where I can once again be happy.

  For you to understand that choice, I must share with you something that happened years ago at an ostensibly happy event. I say ostensibly because it was a happy night for almost everyone concerned. There were two people there that night who figure in our story—in my story.

  The first is Sandra Bissette. For her, the night in question was the beginning of what would become a successful career in politics and the law.

  For the other, Billy Applegate, the night would end in tragedy.

  1974

  Everybody loves a party.

  And there’s nothing quite like a political party. I don’t mean “political party” as in Democrats or Republicans. I mean political party as in a party about politics: in this particular case, an election night celebration.

  What do you need to throw a successful party? Well, the usual: food, drinks, and a lot of music of course, but most importantly? People. And it’s not just the “who,” but the “why.”

  People best enjoy a party when it has a purpose. Wakes, birthdays, and anniversaries all have a purpose and feature a guest of honor, but an election night celebration is a completely different animal.

  An election night party isn’t about any one person or couple. It’s about a group of people: the guests.

  The people who gather to watch election results are all of one mind. Of one spirit. They are like pack animals. All of the same skin. All focused on the same outcome. They all share the same heroes and the same enemies.

  If their candidates win, they win.

  In a sense, an election night party is similar to a sports-watching party. But in sports, when one team wins, there is no benefit to the fans.

  A win in politics, however, equates to real-world changes for constituents—such as tax benefits, government spending, judicial appointments. And, if we’re talking about a high-level election party, a national election where candidates and top donors are present, then the stakes are even higher. A victory not only means change but, more than likely, money for the victors.

  This particular election party took place in Maryland in 1974. To be precise, because I can be, this party was held the night of the 1974 midterm elections, on Tuesday, November 5th.

  It was a good year for Democrats. This was the first national election after Watergate. Nixon’s resigna
tion had severely damaged the Republicans’ chances in the election. Gerald Ford was just three months into his presidency, having taken over from Richard Nixon a few months earlier. And, of course, having pardoned Nixon in September, Ford destroyed his chances for re-election and added to the national animus against Republicans.

  This election-night party took place in a spacious colonial-style home that had been decorated in red, white, and blue, with American flags hanging from the windows and banisters. It featured a large living and dining area. The kitchen was good-sized and well-equipped. There was a generous backyard with a comfortable deck and a terrace around the pool. All of the four bedrooms—aside from one guest bedroom—were upstairs.

  There was a “pin the tail on the donkey” game set up near the bar, for those with a sense of humor. No one actually played.

  This house belonged to Daniel and Annette Applegate, two proud and active members of the Democratic party in Maryland.

  Dan’s family had always been active in politics. His grandfather had been a state representative. His father served as county judge for most of his career. Dan—born Daniel Parsons Applegate IV—was the fifth generation of Applegates admitted to the Maryland bar. While he would never actually serve in public office, he understood well the value of political contacts and actively cultivated them.

  This party was a part of that effort.

  Dan was dressed in a beige suit with the large lapels, oversized shirt collar, and wide tie that were fashionable at the time. The tie was burgundy. Annette was wearing a pant-suit. Sky blue. Colorful, yet apropos. Their twelve-year-old son, Billy Applegate, was in dark green overalls with a white shirt. He wore blue Keds and had short hair.

  Billy was an only child. His parents doted on him, as did his grandparents as he was the only grandchild in both families. Even so, Billy was a good boy and knew to stay out of the way when his parents had guests, though he stayed close enough to be in the mix and see what was going on. He was at the age where he still enjoyed watching the grown-ups. Spying on them. In fact, he was familiar with many of the faces that night from other events of this kind. It was a small community.

  Tonight, Tuesday night, the guests were arriving early, many coming over straight after work and before polling places were even closed.

  It was going to be a long night.

  The band was playing. Alcohol was flowing. Anticipation was in the air—and excitement at the prospect of big Democrat wins. After everything Nixon had put the nation through, how could voters not want a change?

  A black and white TV in the living room announced results as they came in. Dan was loitering by the green phone mounted on the kitchen wall that periodically rang with live information from a few Democrats charged with providing up-to-the-minute results from county polling.

  Remember, this was back in the days before computerized voting machines. Back then, voters went to the polling place in their precinct and used a machine to punch holes in their ballot. These were then collected and transported to a central counting center. Precinct ballots were run through a counting machine, and results were tabulated and released to the public.

  As the results came in, Dan relayed them to his guests, with each round bringing more good news. More cheering. More drinking.

  It was a good year to be a Democrat.

  In between announcements from Dan and updates on the TV, the guests mingled, danced, and drank. At peak, there were over 250 guests in and around the property.

  The party overflowed onto the street, which was not a problem. Most of the neighbors were in attendance. And these were all good white folk. The police were kind enough to block off both ends of the street and make sure that those who’d had too much to drink made it home safely.

  Inside the house was a political orgy. Supporters rubbed elbows with candidates. Candidates rubbed elbows with incumbents. Incumbents rubbed elbows with donors. And lobbyists rubbed elbows with everyone except each other.

  On the public servant side, a number of judges were in attendance. Several city council members were hovering by the buffet, and a few state representatives were sprinkled through the crowd.

  It was into this whirlwind of excitement that Sandra Bissette arrived.

  At a time when men still ran everything in politics, Sandra hoped to make a name for herself. The fact that she was a Yale-graduated lawyer didn’t hurt, nor did the fact that she had both the figure and the looks of Jackie Kennedy.

  Sandra was the daughter of lifelong Democrats, and her father happened to be the county sheriff. Although Sandra was not a part of the elite set in Maryland, she was making her way. She was two years into working as an associate at a top law firm after high-level summer internships in D.C.

  That night, Sandra was particularly interested in meeting two people: Dan and Annette Applegate. She knew that both were active in the Democratic party in Maryland, although Dan had a reputation as a snob—always riding on his family’s coattails. Annette was the nicer of the two, according to Sandra’s information. And Annette knew everyone. Sandra hoped to build a connection with the wife.

  Someone else Sandra had added to her charm offensive was Harrison Kraft—another young Yale lawyer who, unlike her, was connected in all the right ways.

  A few years ahead of her in law school, Harrison was running for state representative. He checked all the right boxes—family pedigree, education, professional credentials. There was no doubt the man was going places. Sandra had heard good things about him as a person, and was interested in seeing for herself.

  It was a little after 9:00 p.m.—Dan had just announced the results from Precinct 4 in Montgomery County when Sandra saw a good opening.

  Annette was by the buffet chatting with Howard Patrick, an older lobbyist. He was handsy, and a bit of a bore. Sandra straightened her back, raised her chin, and approached.

  “Hello Howard,” she said with a big grin.

  “Sandra, hello my dear. Don’t you look beautiful tonight?”

  “Why, thank you, Howard. Ever the charmer,” she said, allowing him to kiss her hand.

  “Have you met our hostess, Annette Applegate?”

  As Sandra turned to greet Annette, she noticed that the woman was looking past her, over her shoulder.

  “Um, excuse me, young man!” Annette said, eyebrows raised, pearly white teeth dazzling.

  Sandra turned and followed Annette’s gaze to a young boy in green overalls filching shrimp from the buffet.

  “Aw, crap,” said Billy through a mouthful of shrimp.

  “Come here, you,” Annette said, narrowing her eyes in mock disapproval.

  Billy hesitated as he took in the young woman, the fat old man, and his mother who stood waiting for him, expectantly now, with her hands on her hips. He’d never seen the young woman before. She was new.

  Unconsciously, he slowly moved to return the three shrimp in his little hand to the platter.

  “With the shrimp, silly,” his mother said, shaking her head.

  Billy moved toward her, chewing rapidly so he could stuff the other shrimp in his mouth.

  Howard put his hand against the small of Sandra’s back, a little too low, and harrumphed to her under his breath, “Better seen, not heard. That’s how it used to be.”

  Sandra tried to smile and fought the instinct to pull away. Howard’s breath smelled of scotch and cigarettes.

  Annette overheard but ignored the old lobbyist’s comment.

  “I suppose I don’t need to ask if you’ve had dinner? I left meatloaf for you in the kitchen.”

  “I know. But mom, these shrimp are amazing.”

  “And the meatballs?” asked Annette, looking over Billy toward the platter on the buffet.

  Billy blushed, “Those too.”

  “Well, it’s getting a bit late for you,” Annette said, ruffling her son’s fair hair and then kiss
ing him on the forehead, making him squirm. “Finish up the shrimp and get to bed.”

  “What about dad?” Billy asked, looking around.

  Annette sighed. “I’ll send him up for a goodnight kiss. But you come along young man, now,” Annette said, putting her hands on Billy’s shoulders and steering him towards the stairs. “Excuse me for a moment,” she said over her shoulder.

  Shit. Thought Sandra. She twisted politely away, getting the old lobbyist’s hand off her lower back as he struck up a conversation. While she tried to focus on what he was saying, it was all she could do not to stare at the green thing wedged in between the man’s tar-stained teeth.

  It took her ten minutes to extricate herself from Howard thanks to Alan Watts—a decent enough guy. His family ran a small chain of grocery stores. He had asked her out a while back, and though she’d declined, he still had hopes—she could tell. Alan came up to chat with her and Howard, and after a few more minutes of polite conversation, Sandra went to “old reliable.”

  “Excuse me gentlemen,” she said smiling, “Ladies room... ”

  Once she was sure she had escaped, she continued to work the room. About half an hour later, as she accepted another glass of white wine from a passing waiter, she felt a hand pressing low on the small of her back.

  Oh fuck, not again.

  “Yes, Howard?” She turned, fake smile firmly in place, to find Annette Applegate standing behind her.

  “Gotcha,” laughed Annette.

  Sandra laughed, both from relief and from delight at the inside joke made by the woman to whom she’d hoped to ingratiate herself.

  This is going to be a great night.

  * * *

  While Sandra and Annette chatted amiably, getting to know one another, many other members of the party were well beyond civility.

  Substances were being abused.

  The drinking had begun five hours earlier. A lot had been consumed. But there was more than just alcohol flowing.