by Mary Leo
Trusting Evil
By
M.A. Leo
ISBN: 978-1-927111-60-4
PUBLISHED BY:
http://bookswelove.net
Books We Love Ltd.
(Electronic Book Publishers)
192 Lakeside Greens Drive
Chestermere, Alberta, T1X 1C2
Canada
Copyright 2012 M.A. Leo
Cover art by Michelle Lee 2012
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Copyright 2012 M.A. Leo
Cover Art Copyright 2012 Michelle Lee
Trusting Evil is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments or locales is not intended to depict reality and is entirely coincidental.
* * *
For Veronica Lombardo-Banghart, and for my deceased childhood friend, Cathy Toporis-Kommer, both of whom made growing up in south Chicago bearable.
* * *
There are places I remember all my life, though some have changed. Some forever, not for better…”
—Lennon/McCartney
Prologue
South Chicago, July 14, 1966
The crowd went quiet. No one said a word as the first stretcher passed about a foot in front of me. The sheet, so sheer I could almost make out a face. I wanted to run, but I would stay until an adult told me to go home.
Three kids I didn’t recognize stood next to me, the youngest about six, the other two somewhere around ten or eleven, not much younger than I was. The boy was the oldest and seemed to be in charge of the two girls. He stood with his hands on his hips as the stretcher passed. Curious. Stoic. Staring at it like everybody else did. Like I did.
As soon as it passed, a sickening smell engulfed us. I didn’t think the grownups could smell it because they didn’t seem to react, and besides they were much taller than we were. I thought perhaps the smell hadn’t traveled up that far. The boy gazed over at me, but I didn’t react. Didn’t want to react. Much too embarrassing. I knew that smell. I had just gotten my period for the first time last month, but this was overpowering and caught in my throat. I could almost taste the blood. I thought I might be sick, but I didn’t want to leave. My knees buckled, and my stomach pitched so badly that I swallowed a few times, stood up straighter and held my breath until the stretcher was well past me. When I finally did take in air the horrible smell had vanished and the boy’s focus was on the front door of the townhouse, and not on me.
One by one, body after body was carried out of that townhouse. Some covered with blood-stained-sheets or blankets. Those were the worst. A short, chubby woman wearing a white scarf and a wrinkled green paisley housedress said, “They should’a covered up all that blood. These kids don’t need to see all that. This is a terrible thing. Who could’a done such a terrible thing? That person should be dragged through the streets.” But she never moved and held onto her little girl’s hand while standing directly across from me in the front row of people.
The police set the stretchers down on the ground perpendicular to the curb. All in a neat row. All seven of them. Seven student nurses. I thought they might not like having to lie down on the dirty street, on the hard cement with only a thin piece of cloth protecting them from the bugs, somebody’s spit or a discarded cigarette butt.
A man in a white, stained shirt yelled, “Here comes another one.”
I looked up the walkway as stretcher number eight was being carried out by four policemen. It looked like all the others. Perhaps a little more blood pooled on the top of the light gray blanket. As the body passed before me, I noticed that it wasn’t covered very well. Something was sticking out on my side of the stretcher. One of the little girls standing next to me actually reached for it, gently poking at it with her finger. “Look,” she said. I did, just as one of the policemen gently moved the little girl away and covered the exposed flesh with the blanket.
But I had seen it. A woman’s hand. Palm down. Fingers curled. Nails chipped and broken. Dried blood caked across her hand. She wore pink nail polish and a diamond ring. A diamond ring that I recognized, that I had admired and dreamed of having when I grew up. I had tried it on just two days before in a hot little apartment, where a group of young women made plans for a wedding and to go to the beach, Rainbow Beach, because we would be safe there.
I couldn’t breathe. It was as if the air had been sucked out of my lungs. I tried to hold back the tears but couldn’t. That’s when the shaking started. It was at that precise moment I knew that if I had only been a little brave and spoken up the previous night, this “terrible thing” might never have happened.
Chapter One
September 7, 1987
Life should be more like a movie where each day I had a script to follow. I could manage the routine of it better if I had a script. I wouldn’t have to think, I could just do. Mornings would be easy. Nothing to stress over. To consider. To ponder. I wouldn’t need a reason to get out of bed. I would simply do and say whatever was written on the page in front of me.
Easy.
With a script I could be anyone: a princess, a mother, a rock star, a nurse. If I didn’t like the way my story was going, I could call for a rewrite. Get the writer to add some pages. Change the dialogue. Move the locale.
My doctors think drugs partnered with hours of therapy will heal me. Thing is, I’ve been on drugs and all they do is flatten my emotions. A person needs their emotions. They’re what keeps us human. Keeps us in the mix. And forget about therapy. That’s merely somebody else’s idea of reality.
A good strong script is the way to go, one with vengeance and justice. Those are the stories Americans love. The characters we root for. The characters with a high moral code, a strong sense of self worth, and the innate ability to remain sober under pressure.
Exactly why I need that script.
I woke up this morning with a hangover, but then I wake up most mornings with a hangover. It’s all right. I can handle the hangover; it’s the voices that I can’t handle. Makes me agitated. Forces me to get drunk every night. All that talking. All that crying. Drinking’s the only way to make them stop. Dims their anger. Allows me some temporary peace until morning. I’m usually better in the morning.
I can drive, all I need is time to take a shower, down a few aspirin along with my coffee, pull my hair back and I’m on it. That’s what I told Mike, my ex-boyfriend turned business partner, when he came to pick me up from my apartment at eight a.m., an unheard-of hour, if you ask me.
But he didn’t believe me so he drove. I hate being a passenger. Usually get car sick, especially if he drives his van. That’s why I made him drive my Corvette, but somehow it still feels like I’m in his minivan.
Sometime after the first hour of morning nausea has passed I ask Mike, “How far is this place, anyway?”
My head is resting on my down pillow, pushed up between me and the reclined seat. I never travel without it. A pillow and a fresh bottle of JD tucked inside my suitcase. Something I learned from my mother—the pillow, not the JD.
“In this traffic, there’s no telling. Another half-hour. Hour, maybe. Why don’t you sit up, Carly. You might feel better,” he says.
We’re moving at snail-speed.
My seat is pushed back as far as it will go and I’m curled up in a ball, trying to sleep away the
movement. The windows are open and a warm breeze blows my hair around my face. I’d give anything for a shot of bourbon to go with the moment, but Mike told me I couldn’t have any booze on my breath at a prison. The warden wouldn’t like it.
“The only thing that will make me feel even remotely better is a drink. Ever hear of hair of the dog that bit you? Old saying, but absolutely true. I’m sure we can find a neighborhood tavern that opens early.”
I can’t tell Mike I brought my own bottle, he won’t understand.
“I don’t think that’s a wise move.”
“Then, what good are you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. When I was in high school I was voted most likely.”
I uncurl and look over at him. “Most likely what?”
“Now there’s the rub. That’s all the award said. Mike Holtzer is most likely to. And I’ve been trying to figure that out for eleven years now. Still waiting for the answer. Most likely to…” He shrugs.
“…stop and get me a drink. Just a small one. Something that comes in a shot glass would be fine. Nothing fancy. I don’t even need the chaser.”
He tilts his head and glances over at me. “Can’t do it. Come on, Carly. It’s a great day. Drink in some sunshine instead,” he says, nudging me with his hand as I try to regain my comfortable position.
He nudges me again. Reluctantly, I sit up and look around. The breeze slips across my face and plays in my hair. I close my eyes and enjoy the feeling. For a brief moment my headache vanishes and the nausea lifts, then he starts talking again. “Look over there.” He points to a small pasture with a few chestnut-colored horses grazing next to a wire fence. “Let’s stop and see if they’ll come over to the fence. I haven’t seen a horse up close in years. I used to ride when I was a kid. My uncle had a horse ranch. I loved going there. I could ride all day.”
I’m tempted, and if I had that damn movie script I probably would laugh and tell him how I own a horse ranch in Colorado then the two of us would walk off into the morning sun.
Fade out.
Roll credits.
But this isn’t a movie and I don’t own a horse ranch and my head is pounding again and I just want to get where the hell we’re going.
“You know, Mike, this thing was built to go over a hundred. We could be there in no time if you let me drive.”
He lets out a short little breath, looks straight ahead and I can tell by the look on his face that I hurt his feelings. He’s so damn sensitive. After all this time, you’d think he’d know not to mess with me in the morning. I lean back on my seat and let the breeze do its thing. Mike moves in and out of traffic. Suddenly the road clears out in front of us. I can feel the engine purring. Feel the sense of speed that I love. The rush of it. I figure he’s probably doing eighty-five or ninety. Now I can relax. Go with the moment. Enjoy my blue sky. No clouds. No smog shit. Just clear blue for as far as forever.
Not being able to see the sky for a few weeks is one of the reasons why I didn’t want to work this film, even though we’d make a lot of money. Mike insisted. Said he wanted to move us into a real office instead of sharing one with another company. Live the Hollywood dream—as if that could ever happen in Chicago. When I found out we had to work inside Pontiac prison I told him to find somebody else.
A lot of good that did.
Here I am on my way to a state lockup, nauseous, with a mind-numbing headache and a list of dos and don’ts from Major Warden—no excessive makeup, wear a bra, no sex with the inmates and don’t wear blue jeans; the inmates will try to buy them. As if I’m going to negotiate a blue-jean-sex-deal with some rapist.
Who are these people that run the world? Do they really think that we’d do anything for a few minutes of film?
It’s this damn business I’m in. Everybody thinks movie people are ruthless. Anything to get the picture made.
I guess that’s how Mike thinks. “We do whatever it takes to keep the camera rolling.” At least that’s what he always tells the production office when he closes a deal. I just nod and go along. It’s easier that way.
Mike started this company about two years ago, as a joke on April Fool’s Day. I never thought it would go anywhere. Mike did. He thought I was serious about how easy it would be. He takes everything I say as if it’s the God’s honest truth. Most of the time I’m talking crap just to hear myself. Just to make sure I can still string a sentence or two together. Mike took those sentences and started Rockett/Holtzer Casting. I’m Rockett, Carly Rockett. He’s Michael Joseph Holtzer, somehow related to Bill Murray on his mother’s side. Like that makes him some kind of expert on the movie business. I think he and Bill shared a turkey one Thanksgiving when Mike was five. Instead of a turkey, they should have shared Bill’s sense of humor. Mike’s a sourpuss, always telling me how to live my life, always in my way when I want to have fun and always making me money with this damn company we formed.
That’s the problem. I like the money and I can’t really do anything else.
We’re an extras casting company. Who’d have thought I’d ever end up casting background—those uncelebrated folks who fill up an airport or a party or, in this case, a prison.
I used to work for Fred Niles Communications. They made TV commercials, mostly, and shot the studio portion of Wild Kingdom from their sound stage. Bob Newhart got his start there, along with some other movie-types. Now that was a company. Generated millions. I answered the phones and learned a little about how cameras work. Pretty much a mindless job that paid well. All my money went to fast cars and all my free time was spent drinking. It’s an art, you know, maintaining the high without getting drunk. Most people don’t get it right. They drink fast to get the buzz and then stop. The trick is to keep on drinking, slowly, throughout the day. Like the steady drip of an intravenous. Liquid drugs being pushed into your veins. Making you dizzy. Making you forget.
Mike didn’t look at my job with Fred Niles quite the same way. He decided that somehow I had an inside track in the film business because of all the contacts I’d made on the phone. He then used all those contacts to make us an overnight success. Which, unfortunately, we are. Now I have to actually think about my work and I have very little free time. I’m trying to stay calm about this whole thing. Trying to maintain. A shot of Jack Daniel’s would help with that maintenance but it’s that old sourpuss again. The man just can’t seem to lighten up, at least when it comes to alcohol. Must have had a drunk in the family—an aunt or uncle. Maybe the same uncle who owned the ranch.
“Carly, wake up,” a voice says just as I’m about to ride a huge turkey with Bill Murray.
I open my eyes. “Not now. I’m having fun with Bill,” I chide, closing my eyes again, trying to get back into fantasy.
“Carly, open those sweet eyes of yours and get out of the car. About twenty reporters are heading our way. They must have heard about the shoot.” He strokes my cheek, slides my hair off my face and tucks it behind my ear. “You’re better at this than I am.”
I relent to his whining. The morning sun glares down on me. Brutal. “I can’t do anything until I find my sunglasses,” I balk. My head is in a fog.
The reporters buzz towards us in a tight little swarm while I desperately search through my bag, trying to look under the box of stationery I need to carry around with me, just in case I have to write something down. Something important. Something that can’t be forgotten.
“Here they come,” Mike says. “You ready?”
“No…yes! I found ‘em.” I slip on the glasses, stretch my face into a smile and step out of the car. This attack must be Mike’s doing. He loves publicity. He probably called the Trib and the Sun-Times to set it up.
Voices shout out questions: “Do you think the parole hearing will go in his favor?”
“Are you here to protest?”
“Who are you representing?”
“Whose brother are you?”
“Did you go to school with the victims?”
Mike and I sta
nd in the middle of the swarm and I try to understand what the hell they’re talking about. People are very strange these days. Maybe they’re asking questions about the script. Maybe four aspirin are too many and I’m in some sort of aspirin time warp.
Then, just as I’m about to start babbling about the movie business, an Asian woman wearing a pretty yellow dress calls out the clarifying question. “Do you think that Richard Speck deserves to be set free today?”
I have a hard time focusing in on her words. It’s like the world has stopped. Where does such a question come from? And why is she asking me about Richard Speck? Does she know something about me? About my past? How could she? I don’t talk about Speck, about the nurses, or about that night. Ever. Richard Speck set free? The man who walked into my peaceful South Chicago neighborhood and in one night changed the people in it forever. This man set free? This monster?
Another car pulls up.
Mike says, “You’ve got the wrong people. We’re part of the movie crew for—”
He never finishes his sentence. The group turns their attention on the older couple getting out of another car and attacks them with the same questions. I turn around and focus on the building we’re supposed to go into. I know that building. Seen it countless times in the newspapers. It’s not Pontiac at all.
It’s Stateville.
A sickening rush of white heat engulfs me.
I get back into my Corvette, slide over to the driver’s seat and say, “I’m not gonna do this. Not going into any prison where Speck lives.” I pull out my spare key and turn that V-8 over, ready to leave Mike in my dust. He holds onto the car door.
“What do you mean? I can’t do this alone,” he says.
“Too bad then, ‘cause I’m leaving. Let go of my car.”
