by Linda Palmer
Walter leaned his back against the refrigerator. The pressure of his weight partially muffled the noise. In the near quiet, I realized how exhausted I was, both emotionally and physically. I hadn’t been to bed for more than twenty-four hours, and I’d had little sleep before that. Menacing Ray Wilson was much harder on me than I had supposed. He actually believed that I would torture him with pliers. I had gambled on that—and won the gamble—but now I was fighting to keep from crying with the strain, and from revulsion at what I’d been driven to do.
I looked up to see Walter studying me.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” I lied.
“Did you get the information you wanted out of him?”
“Some of it. He swears it’s all he knows. He was so frightened, I think he was telling the truth.”
I recounted the story Ray Wilson had told me. As it unfolded, Walter reached out and encased one of my hands in his big paws.
Walter’s solid, bearlike presence helped me get through the telling. By the time I finished, my throat was so dry I could hardly swallow. Not wanting to sip from a glass Wilson had used, I ran water in the sink, caught some in my cupped palms, and splashed the cool liquid into my mouth. When I’d had enough and straightened up, Walter gave me a clean handkerchief from his jacket pocket to dry my hands.
Walter pursed his lips in thought. “Now I know why there wasn’t any missing child report made on you.”
“Because I wasn’t missing—she paid to get rid of me.”
“Sounds like your mom was in a bad spot. Scared. In a strange country. You should be thankful she didn’t kill you—she could have done. Housecats are better mothers than some human females. But this one paid money to give you a chance.”
“And look what that turned out to be,” I said sharply.
“Yeah, she made a big mistake, but you grew up an’ made a good life for yourself.” Walter’s tone was stern. He wasn’t going to let me fall into a trap of self-pity.
“You’re right. I have no right to be bitter about the woman who gave me up. I’m alive, and I survived that … thing … in the basement.” I couldn’t bring myself to voice my next thought: I wonder what became of her. I think Walter knew what was in my head.
I looked away, unable to deal with that yet.
Mercifully, he changed the subject. Tapping the floor with the toe of his shoe, he asked, “What did you plan to do with our friend down there after he talked?”
“Make an anonymous call to the police, let them know he was tied up in his cellar, and suggest they check for outstanding warrants.”
Walter pulled back one lapel on his jacket and indicated the folded papers stuck in a pocket. “Got a warrant,” he said. “It’s to bring Mr. Wilson back to Downsville on the stolen car charge.”
Amazed, I asked, “How did you manage that?”
“Was a long time ago, but I still got some friends in Downsville law enforcement. An’ a couple judges who remember me fondly. I convinced one of them to issue the car theft warrant. Won’t hold up more’n a day at most, but by then I hope we’ll have something else.”
“A stolen car warrant?” My energy came back with a rush of anger. “What about what he did to me?”
Walter grimaced. “The statute of limitations has run out on your case. I have an idea how we can get him for good, but you gotta help me.”
“You saw the scene in the basement. Whatever it takes, I’ll do.”
“My friends in Downsville got official pals here in Ohio. I found out Wilson was arrested for indecent exposure at a schoolyard three months ago. He claimed he was drunk an’ just takin’ a leak—excuse the expression. They should’ve tossed his tail in jail, but he’s on probation. Thanks to my friends talkin’ to their friends, some Ohio cops are gonna search here this morning. I want us to search it first—now—to make sure they don’t miss anything.”
“Let’s get started.” I began to move toward the living room. “You take the bedroom.”
“Not so quick,” Walter said. “You haven’t heard what I’m suggestin’ you do.”
That stopped me. “What?”
“We’ll take Wilson to Downsville. They’ll put him on ice until Ohio takes him back on the probation violation.” He paused for a moment, seeming to be reluctant to go on.
“Walter, what do you want to say?”
“How would you feel ’bout telling what happened to you—what he did. You got a big job in TV now. That makes you a celebrity. If you talk about your experience, maybe other girls—ones he’s done stuff to recently—maybe they’ll have the courage to come forward. If one of ’em does, then we can lock him up for a long time.”
“Maybe he hasn’t harmed anyone else.”
“There’s always another victim with these guys,” Walter said. “They don’t stop until they’re put away, or dead. I’d prefer him dead, but I’m not a killer.”
My stomach muscles clenched painfully to think that a world of strangers, and my friends, would learn about … that time in my life. Nancy and Penny and Matt. Tommy and Betty, the cast and crew of Love. I couldn’t help wondering if they’d look at me the same way after they knew. Would I have that label stuck on me for life: child victim?
At the same time, I knew I couldn’t live with myself if I let fear stop me from doing something that might help put Wilson in prison.
“Will you?” he asked.
I didn’t want to talk right at that moment, so I just nodded.
Walter smiled. “Good girl. I’m proud of you.” He pulled two sets of latex investigator’s gloves out of a pocket and handed a pair to me. “Let’s get to lookin’.”
Chapter 42
“WE WON’T REMOVE anything that’s evidence,” Walter said as we pulled on the latex gloves. “We’ll leave it for the Ohio cops to find.”
“Got it.” I was grateful to have an act to perform that would keep my mind off Walter’s plan. I began to search the kitchen as Walter headed for the bedroom.
After ten minutes, I hadn’t found anything that could put Wilson in jail, but I did learn two things about him: he must have lived mostly on dry cereal—he had five boxes of different brands on a high shelf—and he had a low standard of cleanliness. The few plates and saucers in his cabinets were dirty. Cups and glasses were stained from whatever they’d contained. There were no detergents, only a bar of soap in a slimy puddle next to the sink. Underneath the sink was half a roll of the cheapest paper towels, but there were no cleansers or sponges. A couple of rags were stuffed into holes in the walls that had probably been made by rats.
I maneuvered the refrigerator away from the wall far enough to peer behind it. Nothing hidden there, but the movement sent a wave of cockroaches scurrying across the floor. Walter came into the kitchen as I was rocking the refrigerator back into place.
I asked him if he’d found anything.
“Under the mattress,” he said. “Underwear.”
“What kind?”
“A child’s.” The disgusted expression on his face warned me not to pursue the subject.
I didn’t want to. Instead, I asked, “Did you check the bathroom?”
He snorted. “A lady wouldn’t want to use it, but there was nothing we’re after.”
“I haven’t had any luck here, either.”
“One room left,” Walter said, heading for the front of the house.
Ray Wilson’s living room was furnished with a sagging old brown couch, a wing chair with upholstery so stained and threadbare that he might have found the thing set out on the street for trash collection. A small wooden bookcase held bottles of liquor in place of books. An imitation leather recliner faced a big-screen television set.
“That TV’s the most expensive thing in the house,” Walter said. “Three thousand dollars, at least.”
On an upended wooden apple crate next to Wilson’s top-of-the-line home theater was a combination DVD and VHS player. Stacked beside the player was a two-foot high pile o
f movies. Walter and I went through them quickly, taking each from its box. They were major studio films, ranging from current pictures all the way back to some made in the 1930s. Every one of them starred young girls.
“It makes me sick to think of that pervert watching movies made innocently, for families,” I said.
Walter grunted. “But it’s not illegal to have things you can buy in any video store.”
We looked behind and beneath the cushions on the couch and the chair, and tipped them up to see if anything was hidden underneath. I found thick balls of dust, some candy wrappers—and a well-thumbed catalogue of children’s clothing. My stomach lurched as I thought of him staring at the pictures of child models, but having it wasn’t illegal.
While Walter righted the furniture and put the cushions back, I moved the liquor bottles. Nothing behind them. Walter examined light fixtures while I tested the floor-boards to see if any were loose. We looked at each other and shook our heads: nothing.
Finally, we stood in the middle of the living room, staring at each other in frustration.
“The underwear isn’t going to be enough to get Wilson locked up,” Walter said.
“I have the feeling I’ve missed something, but I can’t think what.” I closed my eyes, visualizing the rooms we’d searched. “Something’s off …” Then it hit me and I opened my eyes. “Come on.”
I led Walter back to the kitchen and indicated the high shelf next to the stove.
“Who has five boxes of cereal at the same time?” Stretching, I reached for the nearest one. The moment it was in my hands, I knew the box didn’t contain cereal. The top was folded in, to look unopened, but when I turned it upside down, two videotapes slipped out of the box.
“These aren’t professional recordings,” I said.
Walter reached over my head for the next box and looked inside. “More tapes.”
None of the five boxes held cereal.
“No titles,” Walter said. “Just some numbers on the labels.”
“Dates? Or a code?”
Walter shrugged. “Can’t tell at a glance, an’ we don’t have time to figure it out. Let the cops do that.” He set the boxes on the counter, took a tape into the living room, inserted it into the VHS slot, and pushed Play.
With the first crudely lighted images, I knew what we had found: homemade child pornography. Revolted, I turned my back on the set.
A long minute or two later, Walter turned it off and removed the tape. “He filmed himself with a little girl. That’s enough for an arrest, at least.”
“What do you mean, ‘at least’?”
“A sleazy defense attorney might get him off, saying it was all playacting. The lighting’s so bad they could claim the kid wasn’t a real kid, but a midget.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Juries have done crazy things. Judges, too. Trouble is, most good people find it hard to believe that somebody who looks normal could do sick things to children. We’ll still need a real young person to stand up an’ tell what he did.”
I knew Walter was right. Making an official report of my story might be the only way to get someone else to speak up. As I thought about what lay ahead, a cold lump of dread began forming in my chest.
Chapter 43
AFTER RETURNING THE cereal boxes to the shelf where we’d found them, Walter and I went back down to the cellar. While I held the pistol on Wilson, Walter ripped the tape from his mouth. He took the folded papers out of his pocket and showed them to our prisoner.
“Raymond E. Wilson, I have here a warrant for your arrest issued by the city of Downsville, West Virginia, and am duly authorized to escort you to the police station in Belle Valley, Ohio. There you will be held, to await extradition back to Downsville. Do you understand?”
I moved in, holding the Glock close enough to Wilson’s head to discourage any attempt to escape as Walter yanked the tape strips first from around his ankles, and then from his wrists.
“They gonna let me go, once I tell ’em what that bitch did to me.”
“I didn’t see her do anything.” The tapes were off. “Get up,” Walter snapped.
Wilson struggled to stand; he was stiff and sore from his hours bound to the bed frame. “You found me tied up. I sure as hell didn’t do that to myself.” Wilson massaged his wrists and rubbed his ankles together, restoring circulation.
“When I arrived to take you into custody, you were in your living room, watching television,” Walter said blandly.
“That’s a damn lie!”
“Who do you think anybody’s gonna believe—a scum-bag like you, or a thirty-year lawman like me?”
“Okay, fatso,” Wilson snarled, pointing to his swollen, blood-encrusted nose. “The cops will know I didn’t do this.”
“No, I did,” Walter said. “You resisted arrest, and attacked me. I defended myself, using the force necessary to subdue you. Now, upstairs. March.”
In the kitchen, Walter stripped off the latex gloves and asked for the Glock. I gave it to him, removed my own pair of gloves, and also gave those to Walter. He stuck them in his pocket. Indicating Wilson, Walter said, “I’ll get him cleaned up.”
While Walter was making Wilson scrub himself clean in the shower, I used paper towels and water from the sink to wash up as best I could. I got the dirt off my face and hands, but my shirt and pants were filthy from sliding down the coal chute.
Walter brought Wilson back into the kitchen and handed me the Glock. Our prisoner was dressed in fresh clothes. I kept the pistol on Wilson while Walter fastened his wrists behind his back with handcuffs.
“Where did you get those?” I asked.
“Borrowed ’em from my friends in Downsville, when I picked up the warrant.”
Walter took the pistol back and prodded Wilson toward the front door.
“Take a look outside,” Walter said.
I opened the door and surveyed the street in both directions. Webster was deserted at the moment. “Eight o’clock Saturday morning. The neighbors must be sleeping in,” I said.
Walter took Wilson to his rental car, put him in the rear, and snarled, “I’ll shoot your miserable head off it you even reach for a door handle.” Keeping Wilson in sight, Walter drew me to the far side of the vehicle and lowered his voice. “How did you get here?”
I told him about buying the Skylark that was in the motel parking lot, about my pregnancy disguise, and the false name and I.D.
“Clever,” he said. “What are you going to do with the car?”
“My original plan was to drive it back to New York City and leave it unlocked in a bad neighborhood.”
Walter smiled with approval. “Where it would be stripped down to the axle in about ten minutes.”
“I was going to take the subway home, but now that you’re here I’d like us to stick together.”
“Yes. Is there anything in the motel room that could identify you?” he asked.
I shook my head. “The tote bag with the disguise is in the trunk. I paid in cash for two nights.”
“Go get your car. Throw the contents of your bag into several different Dumpsters. Do you know where the police station is?”
“I saw it yesterday afternoon, while I was exploring the town.”
“Park the car a couple blocks away from there an’ leave it for the car thieves. Walk to the station an’ join me.” He aimed a critical frown at my dirty clothes. “Do you have something else to wear?”
“Just the maternity dress.”
“If you show up at the station looking like that, it might make somebody think Wilson’s telling the truth about you keeping him in the cellar.”
I looked at my watch. “I’ll find a store and buy a new top and slacks, then I’ll ditch these clothes.”
“One more thing. When you give your statement about my finding you with Wilson, and what he did, leave out details about your mother.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just say Wilson said your mom
was dead—that’s true, that’s what he told you. If the woman’s still alive an’ reads about this, then she might show up someday. But fakes wanting money could come forward, too, telling the story Wilson gave you. A DNA test will expose a phony, but that takes a while. I don’t want your hopes raised an’ then crushed.”
I didn’t know how I felt about the possibility of meeting my mother someday, or even how I felt about her. It was too soon to sort out my emotions.
Instead of talking about that now, before I was ready, I gestured toward the back of Wilson’s head, which was visible through the rear window. “He’ll probably tell the story,” I said, “to defend himself against a kidnapping charge.”
Walter shook his head. “He won’t say anything.”
“But how can you be certain?”
“Because I’m going to tell him that if he does, I’ll make sure the guys in jail with him know he’s a child molester. If he shuts up, I won’t.”
“How can you keep other inmates from finding out what he is?”
“I can’t.” Walter’s tone was wry. “I’m only promising him that I won’t tell.”
Unspoken between us was the knowledge that Ray Wilson was not going to have it easy, for whatever time he was locked up.
With our plans made for meeting at the police station, Walter climbed behind the steering wheel and drove off with his prisoner.
The street was still empty of people, and no cars had gone by since we came out onto the sidewalk. I took a deep breath of fresh morning air and started retracing my steps to the motel.
At the corner of Webster and Cook, a Belle Valley P.D. patrol car passed me. It was cruising quietly, without excess speed or use of the siren. I knelt down, pretending to retie my shoelace, and watched it stop in front of 404 Webster. A husky young police officer in uniform was behind the wheel. In the passenger seat was a middle-aged bald man wearing a tan suit. They got out of the car and headed for Wilson’s front door.
