They spent a large amount of time talking about Rickie’s frustrations with getting any information from the IRS or Social Security, until he finally said, “I guess when my mother forgot to report his income, Social Security lets IRS know and then I guess this wasn’t the first time and I guess they wanna know why he hasn’t collected his Medicare. All the lady would tell me is that they had no record that he was going to the doctors. And he was going to the doctor in ’87 … ’88 about every other two or three days and they’d put him in the hospital to dry him out and say it was a heart condition.”
Hussey didn’t seem to know what to make of that, so he asked, “How were you accessing her account?”
“She left the thing online.”
“She did?” Hussey asked. “Okay.”
Russell said, “I don’t understand what you meant she left the thing online.”
“Well,” Rickie explained, “she set it up where you can do it online. It was all with all this other stuff in September.”
Hussey asked, “She did it in writing?”
“No. When I was younger we always lived in code. Because of my father. She would just, you know, leave things like this and then I would know what to do with it because we couldn’t let my father know what was going on. And then I thought all that garbage was gone but … I guess not. It was just like laying … just like … just lay there. Just … and then you just infer what she wants. I mean she just …”
“Yeah, but”—Hussey must have been scratching his head—“I’m confused about the online banking thing. You must have had some specific information about how to do …”
Rickie interrupted, “Well yeah. Well she just … she just left her thing … her code and all that on there. You know what I mean?”
“Left it where?”
“Just in a bunch of papers.”
“So have you got those papers?” Hussey asked.
“No, I don’t have it anymore. I’m sorry, I don’t.”
Detective Russell asked, “How do you remember the codes and everything?”
Rickie said, “When I was five my father just reiter … I gotta remember everything … everything …”—he startled mumbling—“certain times that I just (mumble mumble) remember.”
Rickie then told them that Mom always asked him to take care of her things when she was gone, but paying her bills was outside of the norm. He rambled, “But, well I mean … I mean when … when … when … when you go (mumble) table and … not a table but it’s like a … like a little counter. And you haven’t heard, thought … think about this person since, you know, ’88 and that’s laying there on top. And then you look through things and try to find out and then you find all this other stuff here and then you find this stuff here and then you call … no, it is out of line.”
Detective Russell, perhaps to change the subject and get Rickie back on track, asked, “Can Detective Hussey makes copies? Those might be important to the investigation.” Rickie handed over the papers that he had brought with him.
They talked a little bit about his relationship with me and Cheryl and asked if I had ever been abused physically or sexually. “Both,” he replied. “Physically I knew when I was living in the house, sexually she just told me recently. The mental … the physical abuse was when we were born all the way up.”
“The sexual abuse?”
He said, “I hope it didn’t happen until after I left but I don’t know.”
They kept Rickie gabbing for a long time about his business, and seemingly inconsequential stuff, until Detective Russell asked him about buying his truck with cash. “Where’d you get the $21,000 cash if you don’t mind me asking?”
Rickie said, “I’ve been saving it for a long time. Where we used to live with my wife my bills had been nothing. I made $60,000 and our bills weren’t even $800 a month. I paid cash for my wife’s car a couple of years ago.”
“Will you give us consent to go search your mother’s house for any clues that might lead to her or your dad’s whereabouts? We may have to dig up the yard, we may have to dig up plants, we may have to look anywhere in that house, okay?” Rickie gave his consent.
Russell asked him, “Anything else you think that we need to know about your mother being missing? Anything to help us try to locate her.”
Rickie said, cryptically, “We used to do this all the time when we was younger.”
“What’s that?”
“It’d get in trouble and then we’d leave. And her family (mumble) wouldn’t even know where we were for sometimes six months, a year or two years.”
Russell said, “But she hasn’t done that since your dad’s been gone.”
“Nothing … nothing … when we moved to Florida and … and it left and my grandfather moved in I … you know … I thought everything was gone … it was over with. It was, you know …”
“Right. And you said since ‘it’ left.” Russell caught that. “You didn’t think much of your father, did you?”
“No.”
“I mean he abused you, he treated you and your family like shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Supposed to go to your sister’s wedding, never showed up.”
“No, he didn’t,” Rickie confirmed.
The detective was finally onto something. “Did you notify her that he wasn’t coming to the wedding?”
Rickie said, “My mother told me to go tell Cheryl have a good wedding because he was gone. He wasn’t coming back.”
Russell abruptly asked, “Did you kill your dad?”
“Excuse me?”
“Did you kill your dad?”
Rickie said, “No, sir. No, sir.”
Russell pressed on. “If you killed your dad, you did it to protect your family.”
“I didn’t kill my dad.”
“You did it to protect your sisters.”
Rickie said, “There was nobody living there anymore.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Detective Russell stated. “He abused everybody for years.”
“No, I didn’t kill my dad. That doesn’t say I didn’t want to many times, but I didn’t.”
“You kill your mom?”
“No,” Rickie told him, “I loved my mother. My mother was my savior a lot of times.”
“Did your mom kill your dad?” Russell asked.
“No, I don’t believe so, no.”
Detective Russell pushed it harder. “If your mom killed your dad and asked you to help get rid of his body would you have done that?”
“Yes, I would,” Rickie admitted.
“If your mom became afraid of your dad and killed him, and you came over there and buried him, that’s one thing. If you cold-bloodedly killed your dad that’s a different story. I don’t think you killed your dad. I think something happened between them back in ’88. If your mom gets scared and kills your dad and she doesn’t know who else to call and you help her to dispose of his body, that’s a misdemeanor, okay?”
Rickie listened, possibly taking mental notes for future versions of his story. “Uh huh.”
Russell continued, “It’s a minor charge. I can understand that you would do that for your mom. Now your mom’s been living her whole life collecting your dad’s check.”
“I know.”
“She leaves this file out, she thinks Social Security’s freezing her account, coming at her and she’s gonna go to jail for the rest of her life.”
“Uh huh.”
“And now your mom takes her own life and you get scared. You come over there and find your mom and now they’re both dead, and now you dispose of your mom’s body. That’s a misdemeanor. If you killed your mom that’s first degree murder.”
“Uh huh.”
Russell continued to feed Rickie various versions of the stories he could tell. “If you killed your dad that’s first degree murder. I asked if your dad was sexually abusive and you said yeah. Was he physically abusive? Yeah. I think you’re being honest with us but I think that your dad is dea
d. Whether she was defending herself or not, I think she killed him. And I think your mom took her own life at your house. I think that maybe you, not wanting to shame your mother, buried your mom or killed your mom … I don’t think you killed her, I think you buried her … probably with your dad. I would rather go there with you saying here’s what you’re gonna find, than for us to work up a first degree murder investigation on you for two counts. I don’t think you need to go to prison for the rest of your life. I think something happened. Your dad was an evil, evil man and you covered for your mom because you loved your mom.”
Rickie agreed, “Uh huh.”
“I think that your mom felt that she had no other choice. All this was coming down, they were freezing her account, she was going to jail and I think she might have taken her own life. And instead of putting your sisters through that I think you buried your mom. But here’s your chance. If that’s what happened take us there. Give closure to your mom. Let us tell your sisters what happened.”
Rickie wasn’t falling for it. “I don’t know where my mother is. I wish I did.”
“You know where your father is?”
“I don’t really know where he is,” Rickie said.
Russell was winding it up. “If we go there and find bodies and we gave you a chance to tell us the truth up front … you understand what the difference is gonna look like?”
Rickie said, “I know that. I don’t know where my father is. I don’t know where my mother is.”
Just then, there was a knock on the door, and a voice asking Detective Russell to come out of the room. He said to Rickie, “Alright. Sit here and think about what we talked about.” He got up and, just as he was about to leave, Rickie stopped him.
He said, “I don’t know where my father is, but this is a piece of paper my mother left.”
It was the receipt for the concrete saw, in my mother’s name.
CHAPTER 25
“We Had a Part in Mother’s Leaving …”
There Rickie sat, calmly watching me being pushed into the lion’s den. I was face-to-face with the man who, at least according to the police, murdered my mom—our mom—and I didn’t want to believe that. I didn’t know what to say or do. How do I even respond to that? How do I even wrap my head around the reality of murder, in my own family, committed by my own brother? They told me that she hadn’t run away, she hadn’t been kidnapped, she was murdered by him.
That news was enough to lay me flat. But then, our father was dead—not that I cared; really, I didn’t—and I was being accused, by my brother, of killing them both! It was all I could do to maintain my composure. The police stuck us together assuming we were both murderers, so they didn’t have much concern about my safety. In their eyes, I was his coconspirator. But I’d just been put into a closed room with a murderer, and I was one of his pawns! I hoped that the police were watching us on video or something.
Rickie said to me, “It’s over, it’s over.”
I didn’t want to talk to him, to hear him, to have anything to do with him. He said it again, “It’s over. What did you say?”
I told him, “I know nothing, I know nothing, I know nothing.”
He was acting like everything between us was normal, as if he didn’t just throw me under a bus. I began to wonder, did he really say those things, or were the police playing games with me? I’ve seen enough cop shows to know that they do that sometimes, but I had never experienced it myself. In any case, here was Rickie, acting like nothing was wrong, and I had no reason to be upset with him. He asked, “Are you okay? You don’t look too good.”
I told him, “I’m just tired …” and he started right in again, saying, “It’s over, they got all the checks from SunTrust.”
I just wanted him to stop talking to me! I said, “I know, I know. We’re going to jail.”
“Are you sad?” he asked.
I couldn’t believe he was asking me that. Mom was dead, and we—yes, we—were going to jail. I said, “That we’re going to jail? Yeah.” At that point I just shut him off and stopped listening to him, as he rambled on about the garage floor. Finally I said, “They told me you said I killed our dad.”
He continued, “They know about the car and the storage units. They’re going to get a warrant.” He sighed and said, “You’re going to have to help me do something you won’t want to do. I’ll tell you later, after we leave. You okay?”
I just wanted to get out of there. I had to go to the bathroom. I wanted to go home. The walls in that room seemed very tight around me. “I had to tell them we paid off Susan’s car,” I said. “They asked me about the garage sale and what kind of things of Mother’s I sold. I said I didn’t sell any of Mother’s collectibles.”
He replied, “That’s dumb, if they think we stole any of Mother’s collectibles. You’re going to have to help me do something.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine what he would be asking me to help him with, after all of this.
“Take my life,” he said.
No way I was going to help him do that! I said, “No, you can’t!” and he just said, “No, we have to be in control, and I’m going to write a letter.” I started crying, and he said, “Stacey, come on. Baby …”
He extended his hands out to me, and although I was loath to do so, I took them. I said, “They think I’m guilty, too. They think I masterminded this.”
“No, they told me I did,” he replied. “They’re just trying to break you, don’t worry. I’m at peace. It’s the gas chamber, anyways for me. I had a rough …” I began sobbing. “Shh, don’t cry,” he said. “No … no … no … Stacey, no. Concentrate … no … be strong, okay?”
He changed the subject, talking about trucks, storage units, and bank accounts. I was losing track of what he was saying. I wasn’t sure what was real and what was a story he was telling. I told him that I had to go to the bathroom, and he got up to get someone. Hussey came in and took me to the restroom. When I got back, he asked, “What are you going to tell Susan?” and I told him, “I don’t know.”
He kept rambling and said, “They talked to the Chattahoochee guy. This is where we are supposed to talk, and you know … and reveal shit and tell the story. You didn’t say anything, did you?”
I told him, “I played stupid about all the things. I played stupid about everything. That’s how come I know we are both going to jail. We both are going to jail.”
“I don’t know about you, but I am,” he said. “This isn’t going to go well with anybody. Right at Christmastime, too. I didn’t even get to see the Lord of the Rings. Well, I don’t have to worry about the storage unit anymore.”
I said, “They started to say Susan could be mixed up in this.”
“That’s what they said?” he asked. “I’m ready to end it, are you?”
At that moment, I was. There didn’t seem to be any hope for any sort of future. I told him, “I wish I could swallow pills.”
“I’m going to write a note,” he said, “then do it.”
“What are you going to say in your note?” I asked. “They still may come after me. It doesn’t matter.” I thought, just because he wrote a note admitting to killing our parents, that doesn’t mean they won’t still arrest me.
He explained, “It’s a dying declaration. There are no witnesses, no evidence.”
He was wrong. I told him, “They talked to the IRS. The IRS said she was not in trouble.”
Just then, an officer came to the door and let us walk away, with no charges and no explanation. They just let us go.
We left the sheriff’s office in silence. I didn’t want to be alone with him, but we came in my truck and he expected a ride home. I certainly didn’t feel safe but thought that as long as he didn’t know that, I’d be fine. I needed time to think. I felt like I was dealing with a caged animal—if I stayed calm, so would he. We didn’t talk during the short ride home.
As we drove by Mom’s house, I could see the CSI uni
t in the garage, busting up the concrete, and I asked him, “What in the fuck is going on at Mom’s house?”
He said, calmly, “Well, they told you something was there,” and I cried, “Yeah, but I didn’t believe them! I truly didn’t believe them.”
“No,” he said, “there’s a body there. It’s Father’s.” I shrieked, “His body’s under that floor? They were telling me the truth?” That’s when it hit me, like that scene from Rosemary’s Baby, when she realizes she isn’t dreaming about being raped by Satan, and says, “This is no dream! This is really happening!” because then I knew he would have killed me if I had said, “You need to turn yourself in,” or “We need to not do this.” I firmly believe that.
It was the first time in my life I was ever scared of my brother. He was never any threat at all, until this very moment, and then I knew he was capable of doing this and therefore he could easily turn on me. When he changed his name from Richard Jr., to be more like my father, I had no idea that the transformation was deeper than just a couple of letters.
We got home and went inside. He headed straight to his computer, and I went into the kitchen, still dazed. That’s when he came out and started talking to me about suicide. He said, “I had Mom’s car in my storage unit.” I didn’t want to hear any more of this. I didn’t want to talk anymore, but he continued, “You and Susan are going to be guilty with me. You know you’re both going to go down.”
Once he threw Susan in there, I went into protective mode. You don’t fuck with Susan. I said, “So, what’s the answer to this dilemma I’m in?” I looked right at him and he said, “You need to die so we can leave Susan free of all this mess.”
I had to think about that for a minute. The police were already talking about bringing Susan in, and it wasn’t helping that Rickie was telling them that I was involved. I saw no way out. He said, “By the way, I need to go to Wal-Mart.”
Fear of Our Father Page 19
