***
Me? My name was Walter Jenkius, a dyed-in-the-wool Republican, an unabashed Pollock and now a warder at the Stateville Correctional Center, aka prison, for the worst of the worst offenders in the state of Illinois. My few buddies down at the VFW hall simply called me Walt. Walt was plenty good for me, although I’d been tagged as The Boogeyman or Boogey, for short, by the inmates. Those handles stuck with me during my thirty-five year career. Even some of my coworkers called me by that nickname to my face. To them, I guessed I resembled a ghoulish character who worked the graveyard shift at the prison for the better part of those years. It made perfect sense to them, although it was hurtful to me.
***
What was it that I found so disturbing, so mysterious and so bizarre about the prison? I noticed, or rather felt, it on my first night on the job. As soon as I walked through the gates, I immediately sensed it. It was almost palatable, as if a malevolent pall had fallen over the place. The main cellblock by itself was imposing, formidable and foreboding, but those things alone didn’t account for my reaction. There was more. And that more, I learned later, was the pure evil that resided within. I experienced those same sensations every time I reported to work.
Stateville, I always thought the name was more apropos of a facility for wayward kids or like a government sponsored Boys Town or Mooseheart. But Stateville it was: a maximum security prison for men opened in 1925 and built to accommodate about 1,500 inmates on a site of over 2,200 acres, of which 64 acres were surrounded by a 33-foot high, concrete perimeter wall with ten towers. It was one of three sites in which executions were carried out by electrocution in Illinois. Between 1928 and 1962, the electric chair was used thirteen times at Statesville, including the state's first electrocutions in 1928 of three convicted murderers. Although greatly expanded, it still remained open to this day. That was my home away from home for a very long time. But its presence and my experiences inside its walls still haunted my daydreams and nightmares.
Yes, those experiences, the supernatural ones I vividly remembered and couldn’t forget. They were frightening, yet they piqued my curiosity. The first was a mild scare compared to the others that would later follow. I was working the tower in the "F-House," commonly known as the "roundhouse," that had a layout which featured an armed tower in the center of an open area surrounded by several tiers of cells. As I scanned the cells one night, something odd caught my eye. It looked like a ghost or manifestation or whatever such things were called. The apparition was distinctly human in shape and appearance, but yet it wasn’t human, couldn’t be human since it wafted effortlessly in and out of locked cells at will and finally disappeared as the inmates slept. It had form, but no substance. I didn’t know what to make of the incident and mentioned it to no one believing they’d think me crazy.
There was already enough craziness around here. Stateville reeked of mental illness. To that point, the sheriff of Cook County, Illinois correctly asserted that his jail ran the largest mental health institution in the United States. Ditto for Stateville, but on a smaller scale. In the late 1950’s, there was little in the way of effective psychotropic medicines to soothe sick minds. We frequently administered a good helping of Thorazine to chemically restrain an inmate who was acting out. If that didn’t work, on went the straightjacket, to be followed by solitary confinement in the hole and, if that remedy failed, we’d beat the crap out of him to shut him up. We politely called the last act corporal punishment and not a beat down. There were no such things as inmate civil rights violations in those days. The prisoners weren’t in the least bit civil and had no rights in our opinion. The notion of talk therapy was ludicrous since our resident population was well beyond such help.
***
My VA monthly disability payment, coupled with my prison paycheck, kept me financially afloat. My lifestyle was pretty modest as such things went and I really wanted for nothing. My folks had paid off the mortgage on the house well before they passed. As an only child, I inherited it without liens or worries. So I was in pretty good shape as far as money was concerned. I lived out a quiet, solitary life and that seemed to nicely suit me. I spent many of my off-hours reading as much as I could on the history of Stateville and its residents and found it fascinating. I began a diary, recording not only the strange happenings I’d experienced, but other, significant events which occurred while serving my time there. Time serving was what it was all about, for both the warders and inmates alike. I intended to write the definitive history of Stateville and nothing less. But I now damned myself for my foolishness and folly. I couldn’t have foreseen the consequences of my hubris. I simply refused to believe the truth back then.
***
The first specter I recognized was Richard Speck, the infamous killer of eight nursing students on the south side of Chicago in 1966. In a single, violent episode, he systematically tortured, raped and strangled the nurses one by one. I knew him well and thought he was a despicable human being, not only for the murders, but for his disgusting lifestyle while in prison that included drug use and openly engaging in homosexual acts with other likeminded inmates. In Richard’s case, he took hormones to enlarge his breasts and enjoyed dressing in women’s underwear while performing fellatio on his fellow cellmates. Such activities were commonplace, but usually discrete. Richard was so brazen that he seemed to taunt his keepers with his vile encounters. He’d spent a number of days in solitary confinement during his stay at Stateville for his outrageous actions. Regrettably, his death penalty was overruled and he remained imprisoned for twenty five years under my watch before he died of a heart attack. I’d liked to have personally flipped the switch on Old Sparky for Richard. He was the only inmate who I truly abhorred. The apocalyptic tattoo on his upper arm pretty well summed up Richard’s life: Born to Raise Hell.
It seemed Richard, “Birdman” Speck, had returned to his old haunts. He was nicknamed after the character in the movie The Birdman of Alcatraz because he cared for a pair of Sparrows that had mistakenly flown into the cellblock. After he died, I saw him several times watching other inmates and wishing he could participate in their activities that he was so fond of when alive. At least that was what I believed: Stateville was probably the only home where the Birdman had made any friends. He’d sorely missed his brethren since his death.
***
Proscribed activities, even the more egregious ones, were often overlooked by the staff. An uneasy détente existed between the prisoners and their warders. And that was the goal of trying to keep order and peace. Unless an incident involved violence, the warders simply ignored it. It was all about coexisting and serving time on both sides of the bars that separated the two. Sometimes we would conduct shakedowns of the cells for contraband, but otherwise we didn’t hassle our guests. It was simply our way of reminding them who was in charge. They were, of course. The inmates ran the asylum called Stateville.
***
The ghoulish sightings continued off and on over the years and I dutifully recorded each one in my diary. I believed the spirits of deceased prisoners haunted the prison and their combined evilness permeated the facility throughout. I thought it was almost tangible. I finally screwed up my courage and asked one of my warder friends if he’d experienced the same sightings. I trusted he would keep my confidence. Bill said he hadn’t, but sometimes he had spooky feelings as he turned darkened corners in the main cellblock. He mentioned the hairs on the back of his neck stood up on such occasions, saying he thought that was only a literary expression and not a physiological one. He now knew better, sensing other, unsettling things as well that made him uneasy such as seeing shadows move about that defied explanation. Weird sounds which emanated from unknown sources were other strange phenomenon he couldn’t explain. The building was old and in need of major repairs and maybe that accounted for the creaks and groans that he’d heard over the years. At least he believed it was the only logical answer. He wasn’t so sure about odd shadows and the hairs on his ne
ck though. Bill acknowledged there was a spooky, malevolent force at play; he felt its presence, but couldn’t put his finger on it. Nor did he want to.
Less bizarre events occurred as well and as to be expected. One incident I vividly recalled since I witnessed it in the exercise yard on a beautiful spring morning in 1980. I had the tower watch and looked down in surprise as two inmates scuffled. Fights were fairly common, but this ended with one inmate dying a painful death in front of me. Despite my radioing for immediate assistance, the older attacker repeatedly knifed the other to death before my eyes. The response team had arrived too late to save him. The attacker was charged with first degree homicide and sentenced to death by electrocution. That meant he had about another twenty or so years to live before the appeals processes were totally exhausted. He’d be executed when he was about 80 years old and at the end of his life anyway, so no skin off his nose. No doubt the criminal justice system would have its way in the end. Room and board at Statesville for that period of time would cost the taxpayers of Illinois about $640,000, not counting the costs of medical treatment for the inmate as he aged. That was simply how the system worked.
***
Each warder had his own list of snitches whose names were recorded on 3x5 cards in those days and secured in the superintendent’s office safe. Snitches had to be damn careful when conveying the latest gossip or infraction or planned prison break or newest contraband for sale or whatever. If they weren’t, they could have been beaten or carved up with a shank. The warder had an obligation to protect the snitch even though that was impossible under the best of circumstances. Far and away, snitches were the best intelligence sources we had to work with. Surreptitious video and listening devices were still some years off, if the state could afford to buy them.
From time to time my snitches would report unsettling, disturbing things taking place on the block. Ones consistent with what I had experienced with the apparitions I’d seen quite often. Apparently, a few others shared my ability to see and sense them. But one report in particular intrigued me: the sighting of two, well-dressed men in their late teens or early twenties who walked the tiers late at night. Both were Anglos and neither wore prison garb, but double-breasted suits which harked back to an earlier time in America. I was puzzled about the two wraiths and didn’t have a clue then about their identities. However, I eventually would learn the horrible truth about their incarnations and how they terrorized the city of Joliet.
***
Bobby Rodgers’ body was found by a classmate as he walked to school one morning in early May. Bobby had been reported missing the day before when he didn’t return home from school. His parents and neighbors searched the routes that Bobby could have taken without result. Bobby had turned fourteen the month before and his parents described him as a responsible kid. I knew the area where he went missing very well since it was only a few blocks from my house. I’d often walk there at night before reporting to work. It was a woodsy park with several trails leading to and from the local high school. I enjoyed my walks there because I rarely encountered anyone on the paths. I was still sensitive to the furtive, awkward glances at my face by the occasional passerby.
The autopsy of Bobby’s body confirmed what the police had already surmised: he’d been strangled to death. Murders simply didn’t happen in those days in the blue collar city of Joliet. Murders were the province of Chicago, some forty miles to the east, but not here. Our local media made the most of the event with lurid stories about the murder. Speculation about the killer or killers ran rampant for several months after Bobby’s tragic death. Residents even started locking their doors to keep the evil out and their children safe. It was a sad, bad time for our fair city, but things would get worse.
The police naturally focused first on Bobby’s parents. What were the family dynamics? Were there any violent arguments between Bobby and his folks? How about any strange behaviors of family members? Had Bobby ever run away from home? Where were the parents when Bobby went missing? These and other questions were asked of Bobby’s relatives, teachers and neighbors; perfunctory ones that ultimately led nowhere in the investigation. The circle of possible suspects was expanded to include Bobby’s friends and neighbors with the same results.
I was then questioned by the cops since I’d been mentioned by the old geezer who spent many hours sitting on his front porch watching the world go by since he even had less of a life than I did. He was a habitual busybody who lived directly across the street from one of the entrances to the park. He’d watch me come and go on my walks and thought it strange that a monster would dare to be seen outdoors. That was the tidbit thrown to the cops by the bastard and they swallowed it since they were desperate for any crumbs of information. I was now a suspect simply because of my off-putting countenance. Thank God I was no longer a person of interest, just a bona fide suspect in the eyes of the police. The Joliet cops weren’t up to speed on proper word-speak then. They weren’t up to speed on solving supernatural crimes either.
I was interrogated, not politely interviewed, several times at police headquarters by a couple of detectives from the old school, the one of hard knocks. I was asked about my whereabouts on the evening Bobby went missing: did I have an alibi; did I like young boys and similar intrusive, demeaning questions. I answered them truthfully: I may have been walking in the park that night since I often walk there; I didn’t know anyone to back up that claim; and no I wasn’t a pedophile. They were looking to build a notional, circumstantial case which the state’s district attorney might buy. With them, it was all about clearing cases and not justice. Those were two very distinct things in their minds. Political pressure often drove their investigations to erroneous conclusions. That was still true today. I knew of several cases of inmates being cleared of their crimes using the most rudimentary form of DNA analysis. Regardless, when they thought up more questions, they’d politely invite me to return to the station for more of the same treatment. I reluctantly did so because I really had no other choice.
They didn’t stop with me. They interviewed my neighbors in addition to coworkers and supervisors at the prison. Anything odd about Walter Jenkius, they’d ask. Well, that leading question led to responses such as: I was a mysterious loner, a decent employee, but a freakish, human monster who should be locked away because of my obscene appearance. I was a public menace because I scared children and dogs alike. The hysteria subsequently subsided, but not before I was deemed a criminal leper and shunned in my own hometown. What little contact I had with the outside world was now broken beyond repair. My difficult life had become even more difficult, if that were possible. My so-called buddies at the VFW even turned their backs on me when I entered the bar. I was now totally alone. I was ashamed, humiliated and wished nothing more than to be left alone to live my newly ordered life. I’d lost face once again. But this time was much more painful than the first. But my recently restored anonymity served me well and I was once again content with my lot in this life.
***
Theories of the crime ran the gamut from absurd to zany. A traveling carnival had been visiting Joliet and maybe one of the clowns murdered Bobby or how about the hobos who rode the rails through the city. It couldn’t be anyone from our city. On that point, they were absolutely correct. The speculations were endless and all wrong. Bobby Rodgers had been brutally murdered by obsessive doppelgangers, plain and simple. I knew the claim was an outrageous, bizarre one and I couldn’t convince anyone of its truth. My experiences with the not-so dead couldn’t be documented and scientifically proven to anyone’s satisfaction. That didn’t bother me since I’d written all of it down: my own definitive, very personal history of the Stateville Correctional Center. I’d let the cynical skeptics believe as they wished.
***
Bobby Rodgers’ murder went unsolved and would never be solved by conventional police methods. It’d been almost a year since his death when I first encountered the two phantoms mentioned by my snitches
long ago. I was working tower three at the outer perimeter wall when I first glimpsed them. It was a little past midnight and I’d just started my shift. Working a wall tower was the loneliest, most boring one among our other boring duties. It was a single-person post and we’d get pushed to the next tower every two and a half hours to relieve the monotony and ourselves. My position was located atop the thirty foot high, main wall that faced in the direction of Joliet in the distance. Seventy-five yards outside the wall was a twelve foot high cyclone fence with a three strand, razor wire top guard that angled inward at forty-five degrees. It was another deterrent to keep the inmates inside, but it had much more utility by keeping stray animals and stray people outside. Between the wall and the fence was open ground that was well lighted by a line of high-mast sodium vapor lamps. We called this strip of ground No-Man’s Land or The Kill Zone. As those names suggested, one was subject to being shot without warning, although I couldn’t recall a single instance of that ever happening. The tower had gun ports mounted in its thick glass surrounds and a warder was expected to shoot an escapee or infiltrator using an old M-1 rifle with a scope. The rifle had probably been handed down by the National Guard after being declared obsolete by the military. Ironically, it was the same type of rifle I’d been issued in Korea.
On that night I scanned the No Man’s Land with my binoculars as was the routine to detect any suspicious activity on the grounds. Of course that rarely happened. It was like the old joke: Why did cemeteries have fences? Because people were dying to get in! Well, no one was dying to get into Stateville, just the opposite.
Macabre Memories Page 5
