by Mary Leo
“You don’t know about this place, Carly. It’s debasing to these men, what they have to live with each day.” Her hand is still outstretched, waiting, fingernails polished a soft pink. The same color Suzanne Farris wore the night she struggled for her very life.
“They aren’t men. Most of them aren’t even human. They need to be eradicated. Shot down like they deserve.”
“And are you the one to do that, Carly? Which one? And when you kill him, what about the next one and the next? They’ve all done evil things. Are you going to kill all of them? And with such a small weapon. How many shots? Two? Six? We have over a thousand inmates in here. You’ll have to do better than what you have hidden between your breasts.”
I can feel the anger well up inside me. She’s always talking, reasoning. I yell out, “I don’t care about the other men. Just Richard Speck.”
I break away from her grasp and stand up, pulling my gun out as I go. She doesn’t move. “Now, I don’t want to hurt you, Vivian, but you’re always talking. Can’t you please, just shut up for once in your silly life? Let me do everybody a favor.”
There’s some noise outside the door. Some running. Some shouting. I aim directly at her head.
She says, “I believe you, Carly. But—”
She speaks. Her mouth moves, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. Someone else whispers in my brain—telling me what to do. She knows where Speck is hiding, Carly. She’s been keeping him from you. Naughty Vivian. She knows, Carly. She knows right where he is.
My head pounds. I can feel the pressure behind my eyes. I need a drug. A drink. Should have had a drink this morning.
“Take me to him,” I yell out. “Right now!” She doesn’t respond. Too scared. I slow down. Show her some reason, some sweetness. She likes sweetness. “It’ll be all right. No one will bother us. We’ll just quietly walk out the door and over to F-house. He’s probably there right now, painting. He really likes to paint. Did you know that? He actually enjoys it. Who’d have thought he would ever get to do anything he would enjoy? I never did. I bet his victims’ families never did. It’s so nice that the prison can afford him such creative pleasure. So nice that you can entertain him.” I get angry again just listening to myself. “Let’s go. I’m tired. I want to get this over with.”
She stands, shaking as she lifts herself off the sofa. For an instant, I want to reach out and help her. Want to grab her arm, look into her eyes and tell her that it’s okay, but I’m pointing a gun at her. Why? What is this? What’s going on? I shouldn’t be…
The door bursts open. Captain Bob and Mike come in. The Captain has a .45 drawn and pointed at me. Dead on. I pull Vivian in tight against me and rest the barrel of my .38 up against Vivian’s head. My other hand pulling at the back of her hair. I stand behind her. Just like in a movie. We’re in a standoff.
Everything gets quiet. No sounds. Just breathing.
The pressure inside my head builds.
Is this a movie? Part of a scene? But I’m pointing my weapon at the wrong person. I don’t want to hurt Vivian. What’s happened? Where’s Speck? He’s the one. This isn’t how it was supposed to go down. This isn’t in my script. It’s all Vivian’s fault—with that stupid meddling of hers, always poking her nose into other people’s business.
“Slowly put the gun down on the floor and step away from Vivian,” Captain Bob orders.
“Carly, this is insane. Don’t do this,” Mike begs.
“You still don’t get it,” I tell him, shaking my head. “I’m supposed to prove to Lisa that I’m not chicken. I can do the scene now. I can call the police. Get Speck away from the windows. Out of our tent.” Mike gets a confused look on his face. I don’t understand it. Doesn’t he know? Didn’t he read the script?
“He’s not in a tent, Carly. He’s in prison.”
“But I still have to prove it to Lisa. I have to kill him. You know that. It’s all in there on the page.”
“Lisa knows how brave you are, Carly. You don’t have to kill anybody to prove that.”
Why can’t he understand? Why can’t they all understand? “I’m not brave. Those nurses—they were brave. Every one of them. Or else why didn’t they scream? Why didn’t they yell out the window? I was there—we were all there. On the swings. Or did the nurses already know about me? That I wouldn’t help. None of us would. Too busy with our own lives.”
“No one knew, Carly. No one knew he was in that townhouse,” Mike says. He sounds as if he’s pleading now, but he’s not right. I know he’s not right.
My vision is suddenly blurred. I don’t want to cry. Don’t want to show any weakness. Not now. Not when my actions are so important. “I knew. I knew he was inside as soon as I saw it. Just like that night in the rain at Pauline’s—watching him from Sharon’s bathroom window. The screen gave him away. The pulled-out screen next to the back downstairs window. It wasn’t there when I fell in the cinders, but when we went back around to the park for the second time there it was, propped up against the wall like nobody would notice. I noticed, but I didn’t do anything about it. Didn’t tell anybody what I knew.”
“You didn’t know, Carly, nobody knew. How could you? You were a little girl. A child.” Mike is always taking my side, protecting me. The Boy Scout walking me across the street. What does he know?
“Because I saw his goddamn face when he lit his cigarette on the street. Saw the hate. I saw a glimmer of that same face up in the townhouse window looking out over Luella Park right before he closed the curtains. Right before he began his night of murder. Smiling. Gawking. Gazing at the park while we sat on the swings weaving our fantasies. But I never said a word. Not a word. Couldn’t take the chance. My friends would call out to him. Ring the bell. Make him come out and kiss me. Make him come out and tell me that Ringo’s letter wasn’t real. Then laugh. They’d all laugh. Sharon. Lisa. We were always pretending. Lying. Weaving stories about Wolf and the Beatles. Best friends. We were best friends. I trusted them.”
I pull harder on Vivian’s hair, staring at the Captain. He shouts at me again, as if the sound of his voice could make any difference.
Two more guards burst into the room. Guns drawn. Giving orders. Suddenly, the room gets heavy with voices.
Mike yells, “Everybody calm down.”
Silence. Gives me a chance to tell them, “They made me believe the letter was from Ringo. It wasn’t, you know. Sharon wrote it.”
I can feel myself backing down. Feel the tears on my cheeks. Getting weak. Vivian doesn’t move. I can feel her body shaking. Don’t understand why she’s so nervous. I’m not going to hurt her. She knows that. She’s read the script. I’m not going to shoot her. It’s Speck who takes the bullet, not Vivian.
“Put the gun down on the floor and nobody will get hurt,” the Captain orders.
I’m tired of hearing him. He tricked me into thinking he was someone else, someone noble. But he’s just like Speck who tricked those girls into thinking he only wanted money. Not going to hurt them. Not going to kill them. Just like my friends. They’re all the same. Liars. Cheaters. Killers.
“You lying fuck. Does anybody know what a lying fuck you are?”
Rage splashes across his face. If he could get a good shot off, he would. But I move in closer to Vivian, hugging her body with my own. Wanting to protect her from the Captain. From the moment.
“Carly,” Vivian says, “Don’t do this. It’s up to the law and God, not you. You’re mixed up right now. Somebody could die. Please, let go.”
What kind of crap is that? Just a ploy so I won’t shoot anybody. But I’m supposed to shoot somebody. It’s what the scene calls for. “No. No. No. We’re not following the scene. Not saying the right lines. The director’s going to be mad. Somebody get Speck. Bring him here. Right now. I have to kill him. This is all wrong, Mike. Can’t you tell them? Will you please get the screenplay and show them exactly what it says.”
Mike slowly moves in closer to me. Inching his way, like I’m not g
oing to notice him, “You’re right. I’ve read this part and you’re not supposed to pull out your gun until Speck walks into the room. We’ll have to do it again when he gets here.” He puts out his hand for the gun.
I want to surrender it to him. Want to curl up in his arms. Smell his cologne. Linger on his shoulder. I want him to take me away from here, but Captain Bob keeps talking. Keeps giving me orders. Telling me he’s going to take my life. As if he has that power. As if pointing a gun at me proves that he does. Only one man holds that power and he’s walking out in the tunnel, pushing his paint cart, laughing, thinking about tonight’s fuck.
Mike slips in even closer. I’m staring at him, he at me. He’s talking, sighing. Complaining about the videotape, about Speck, the Captain. I can’t quite make out his exact words. Don’t want to. Don’t want to hear him or the nurses. Don’t want to be tricked into something. Not again. Not ever.
I tell him, “You’ll just have to film the rest of the scene without me. I’m tired of all of this.”
I pull the gun straight back to my head in one swift movement, but can’t pull the trigger. Mike screams, “No.” But that’s not what stops me. It’s the look on his face. The love and fear all mixed together. Like what I’m about to do will kill him. Like I’m going to take his life along with my own.
I can’t do it. Can’t ruin his life. Suddenly a fog lifts and I can’t seem to remember the lines. Can’t remember the scene. Was there a scene? Is this really happening? It’s like something inside me snapped and I actually see what’s going on in front of me. I want to live. Need to live.
I let go of Vivian and she steps away from me. At once, I see the Captain aiming to take the shot. Only it’s not at me. It’s at Mike.
Everything moves in slow motion as I step in front of Mike.
My ears ring. My legs buckle.
As I hit the floor, I can see it. See it above me, around me, inside me.
My blue sky at the end of the sidewalk.
September 7, 1996
I woke up early this morning. Bought a dozen pink roses. Have to attend a funeral. Pay my last respects to a guy who they’re burying inside his sacred car. A guy who liked pink. There was an article about Flukey’s murder in the Chicago Tribune, over on page twenty-eight. The police are looking for the suspect: Ivory Jennings.
Strange how some people affect you. How they get under your skin and crawl inside your mind, never allowing you to think or to breathe on your own. Every word, every action, every thought is dictated until all logic disappears, all hope, and eventually, all life. When you first meet evil your instinct responds, telling you to run, to hide, to get as far away as you can, but reason slips in and says you’re overreacting, calm down, listen to what evil has to say—by then it’s too late. Once you hesitate, once you begin to consider, to trust, instinct disappears.
That’s when evil strikes.
I nearly died that day in Vivian’s office, just like that, without so much as a whisper. Evil would have won yet another victim, only the demon didn’t succeed. Good was in his way.
I caught the triumph in the Captain’s eyes when I realized he was pointing his gun at Mike. I could see his sick elation. With me out of the way, the only credible witness to the existence of the videotape was Mike.
My instinct reacted.
The Captain’s eager bullet plowed into my lower back just as I knocked Mike to the floor. It burned through my flesh and lodged itself next to my spine. The fiery pain racked my body until consciousness was no longer an option. That’s when everything became clear, every emotion came into focus. During that impassioned moment of time, while I lay on top of Mike, struggling to stay alive, I began to heal.
It got kind of sketchy for awhile, the doctors not knowing if I was going to walk again. Going easy on me. Telling me there was only the slightest chance. I took that chance. Worked on it every day. Got myself up and forced my legs to work again. Had to. Couldn’t let Mike be forever in my debt. The world didn’t need another guilt-ridden victim. I walk just fine now. Friends say they can hardly notice the limp. A cane helps when I get especially tired.
Vivian somehow managed to get most of the charges dropped against me. I don’t know how she did it or why, but Mike and I have been in awe of her kindness ever since. She’s really an extraordinary woman and once I was able to sincerely apologize for my irrational and dangerous behavior, we became life-long friends. She doesn’t work at the prison any longer. They stopped all forms of entertainment years ago. Vivian runs her own business now in interior design and is quite good at it. Her clients seem to love her enthusiasm.
I don’t hear the voices anymore and I try not to dwell on the past. Have more good days than bad, and I’ve learned that’s all anybody can really ask for. I’ve also learned how to think straight at AA meetings, and more importantly, how to stay sober. I still attend the meetings twice a week, sometimes more.
As for the videotape—seems a gang member had it. Held onto it for eight years. Bill Kurtis at WBBM-TV ended up with the prize. The House Judiciary Committee analyzed every scene. It caused quite a stir in the Illinois prison system just like Captain Bob said it would. Only Bob wasn’t around to catch the glory. One night on his way home he became a victim of a drive by shooting. A witness said somebody in a Cadillac did the deed, but the police never could find the shooter. The newspapers chalked it up to another gang shooting, but I have a different opinion.
Mike and I were married a few years ago. Partners for life. He still works in the film business, but I opted out. Needed to help out a few people. I graduated from Urbana with a degree in psychology and work with kids now, inner city kids mostly. Guilty kids, and kids who witness evil or had something evil done to them, but can’t shake it loose.
We adopted an eight-year-old boy and his sweet sister, a six-year-old girl. They lost their mother to violence. Got them to accept our home and our love, then a year later, we had a baby girl of our own. Named her Vivian. My beautiful family is the reason why I get out of bed each morning. Why I take in air. They’re what’s good in the world, and I’ve come to appreciate the good more than I ever thought possible.
* * *
On December 5, 1991, Richard Speck died of heart failure. He was cremated and his ashes scattered in a secret location somewhere in Illinois. There was no funeral, no service. No one bothered to claim him. Not even his mother, Mary Margaret.
In 1995 a videotape of Richard Speck was given to an Illinois lawyer for services rendered. Since then, it has been televised and made into a documentary; however, parts of the tape are so graphic they have never been shown to the general public. The circumstance surrounding the making of the videotape remains a mystery.
And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make…”
—Paul McCartney
Author’s Note
This story is based on actual events and actual characters. However, prison personnel are purely fictional, and any resemblance to real people is coincidental. The details of Richard Speck’s movements in South Chicago are factual, the depiction of the videotape is also factual, but the time and place of the making of the videotape is fiction. The elements of shooting a movie scene inside Stateville is factual, the insider information on the talent is based on interviews with the staff who cast the extras for the movie, Red Heat. How Richard Speck lived inside Stateville and the depiction of conditions inside the prison at that time are a matter of public record. The details of the murders are based on fact. However, the depiction of two of the victims while they were alive is based on an interview with a classmate.
I grew up only blocks away from the townhouse where the nurses were murdered, spent many nights sleeping out in a tent with my friends next door to Pauline’s boarding house, and it was a good friend who actually cast the extras for the movie, Red Heat, while Richard Speck painted parts of the movie set.
I’d like to thank Nic Howell for all the phone interviews, Bill Kurtis for allowing me t
o view the entire Richard Speck videotape in his Chicago offices, the guards at Stateville for giving me an in-depth tour, Barbara Roche and Cathie Holzer for the information on Extras Casting, and for providing me with the details of the workings of a movie crew inside Stateville. I’d also like to thank Dennis L. Breo, the author of “The Crime of the Century,” for providing much of my research on the nurses.
But most of all I’d like to thank the women of Writers Anonymous for listening to all the drafts of this book; to my fabulous friends: Sylvia Mendoza, Chris Green, Cheryl Howe, Ara Burklund, Judy Duarte, Ann Collins, Lorelle Marinello, and Cathy Yardley for your continued love and support, Erin Quinn and Calista Fox for cheering me on, Liz Jennings and Christine Witthohn for your encouragement, Janet Wellington for your undying belief in this story and for your many reads of the manuscript, my two grown children, Jocelyn and Rich, my favorite son-in-law, Paul Milton, and the love of my heart, Terry (Rick) Watkins.
FROM THE PUBLISHER
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