by Nikki Sex
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.
Roma
n 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.
Chapter 27.
“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 ph
oto 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?”
