by Lee Taylor
“I’m not asking the questions. Some other guy is. A Gangster Disciple, maybe. Didn’t catch his name. Didn’t want to. Actually, I’m not doing much of anything. Set up a tripod for the camera, told Speck and his friend where to sit so that the lighting’s good. I zoom in every now and then, but mostly I just sit and watch. Where’s that other bottle of JD? I’m getting entirely too sober.”
“I’ll get it,” I tell him and head for the door.
I leave the door open while I go out to get my flask in my car, disgusted now over the visual of Speck having sex on camera. Enjoying himself. Making his lover happy. The very thought of it makes my stomach turn, my mouth dry.
From the open doorway I can hear the whistle of another Andy Griffith Show starting. I conjure up the vision of Andy and Opie walking along with their fishing poles. Happy. Talking. Laughing. A father and his son.
Once, I wanted a little boy like Opie. A good boy. Sweet. Naive. And a husband like Andy. Positive. Nurturing but ardent, like my dad. That dream ended when I was fourteen. Couldn’t think of marrying some guy after that, or having babies. Not in this world. Not with guys like Speck running around. But somehow, even with all that self-determination, I ended up with Mike: a tall Opie.
Some of Speck’s victims probably had that same kind of dream. Wishing for a little Opie or a husband like Andy or even Barney? Barney was a loveable kind of kook. I could see how somebody could love his type. But Speck stole those dreams and now the bastard has dreams of his own. Probably thinks this video’s going to make him a star of some kind. Get him love letters from desperate women who get off on that kind of crap.
“Can’t you find it?” Mike asks, while standing in the doorway. I’m sitting in the front seat, digging through my glove compartment.
I pull out the flask and hold it up for Mike to see.
“Well, you’re taking too damn long.”
“I’ll be right there,” I tell him as I slide out of my car and slam the door shut. The sound resonates through me like a gun shot. Wakes me up. Pushes me back to the now.
The only thing Speck is going to get out of this video is time in solitary. I’ll see to that.
Twenty-two
July 13, 1966
Okay, so I messed up and turned chicken when I saw Wolf trying to break into Pauline’s and didn’t run out to give him our letters. Lisa was right about me. Chicken all the way. I promised myself I would never tell the girls about what happened ‘cause I’d never hear the end of it.
We got up early the morning of July thirteenth and took down the tent, folded it neatly and stored it in the basement in a cardboard box. Before we took it down I looked around for evidence that Wolf had really slept there but everything looked the same as when we left it, except for some change I found under my blanket. Gave me a creepy feeling wondering if it was his change, but I still didn’t say anything.
Father Caneen said Mass that morning. He was about two hundred years old and moved like an old troll. Everything felt like slow motion. Even when I stuck my tongue out for communion and closed my eyes, after a while I had to peek to see if he was still there because nothing was happening. One of the altar boys snickered. I gave him a look and Father Caneen slapped my nose with his finger as he placed the sacred host on my tongue. Needless to say, my day wasn’t starting out very good.
After Mass we went to mail our love letters to the Beatles in the mailbox across the street from Saint Patrick’s. I felt certain that the letters were doomed. After all, they were really intended for Wolf to deliver and I had chickened out.
“Let me kiss the back,” Sharon announced. “My mom gave me her old lipstick and it’s a real creamy color.” She pulled out the battered tube from her lime green vinyl purse along with a small mirror and proceeded to smear on the bright red glaze. Then after smacking her lips a couple times, she puckered up to the large manila envelope we had shoved our letters into and kissed it as if she were kissing Paul himself. When she finally finished, her face flushed from the excitement of the kiss. The three of us took hold of the envelope and dropped it into the mail slot while reciting our mantra. “And hope that our dreams will come true, but then while you’re away, I’ll write home every day and I’ll send all my lovin’ to you.”
Plop went our letters to the bottom of the mailbox as we gingerly let go of the envelope and allowed the metal door to slam shut.
None of us was in the mood for a walk to the bridge that morning. Too tired from the events of the night before, so we decided to just go home. Maybe we’d meet up later.
My dad was just leaving for work when I came in through the back door. “Who’s that?” he said, kidding with me, standing next to the kitchen sink holding a glass of orange juice. “Could that be my daughter?” I stopped dead in my tracks and faced him, smiling. “I didn’t recognize you,” he said. “You’ve changed. Is it your hair?”
“No. It’s the same,” I answered, grabbing some of my long hair and flipping it back over my shoulder.
“New clothes?”
“I’ve had these forever, Daddy.”
“Then it must be that the last time I saw you, you were a mere thirteen-year-old. Now look at you.” I spun around so he could get a better look. “That’s it! You’ve aged. You’re fourteen now. Wow! What a looker. We’re going to have to keep you inside the house until you’re at least fifty. You can’t go out looking that pretty. I think there’s some kind of law about it.”
My dad loved to embarrass me. “Oh, Daddy!”
“How does it feel to be that beautiful and fourteen?”
“Groovy,” I answered while running over to get my hug. Being in my dad’s arms was like being inside a cushy fortress. All safe and warm. A place I ran to whenever I was sad or hurt. He’d wrap his big strong arms around me and I’d rest my head on his shoulder. He always smelled clean, like he just took a shower. I never knew what kind of aftershave he used since he bought it from his barber in a tall, thin bottle without a name. Whatever it was, the scent of him always made me linger on his shoulder just a little longer.
“Do you have to go to work right away?” I whined. “Can’t you stay and have breakfast with me?”
He pulled me away, “Sorry baby, have to go. But I’m off tomorrow. Maybe we’ll go to the beach or something. How’s that?”
“Mom too?”
“I think she has to work. So it’ll be just you and me, kid. That okay?”
“Sure.”
My dad wasn’t a very tall man, but he wasn’t short either. Regardless of his height, he looked great standing next to Mom. Everybody always said that they made a handsome couple. I thought they made a beautiful couple. I guess it was Mom’s bright red hair against Dad’s chestnut brown that gave them their contrasting appeal. He was getting a little grey around the temples. He said it was his Irish showing. Regardless, they still looked great together.
Dad left the room. I followed. Mom must have been in the shower because I could hear her singing. She only sang when she was taking a shower or doing the dishes. Must have something to do with running water. I followed Dad into their bedroom. My parents’ bedroom was a mixture of Irish antiques and Goldblatt’s department store originals. Mom liked blue and everywhere she could she added a little: the sheets, the bedspread, the floral curtains and even the carpet. The furniture was dark walnut with an inlaid floral design on the headboard, dresser and mirror, with family photos on just about every surface except Dad’s bureau. That surface was kept empty except for two things.
“A letter came for you this morning,” he said while taking his gun and keys off the bureau. He wore a sly grin like he already knew what was in the letter.
“Really? Do you know who it’s from?”
“Nope, but it’s written on the same thin kind of paper that you girls use for your fan letters. Could be something important.”
Instantly, my imagination took hold. “Oh-my-God. Where is it?”
“Out on the dinner table.”
&nbs
p; The words hardly left his lips as I ran from their room to the dining room. At first glance, I couldn’t see anything. Then, propped up against the silver candlesticks in the middle of the polished walnut table was a perfectly square, white envelope with red and blue striping along the sides. Airmail. I swooped up the envelope, carefully ripped open the top, pulled out the folded one-page note, held it to my chest, recited a “please, God, please let it be,” looked down at it, flipped open the page and there on the bottom, in hardly legible scribble was, Love, Ringo
I couldn’t believe my eyes. I had to stare at it for a really long time. I scrutinized the postmark on the envelope. It said Chicago, but the signature said Ringo. I’d think about the postmark later. All I cared about was the signature.
Needless to say, I let out a scream that could have been heard all the way back in London. My legs gave out and I had to sit on the floor. My dad came in holding his fingers in his ears and my mom ran out of the bathroom wrapped in a very small towel.
“What’s wrong?” Mom yelled. By now I was lying flat on the floor, holding onto the letter and crying.
“It’s from Ringo!” I squeezed out.
“Ringo who?” Mom asked as if there was another Ringo in the world. I couldn’t answer her.
“Must be Ringo Starr. The Beatle,” my dad said to her and walked over to me. Mom went back into the bathroom, mumbling something about Frank Sinatra.
Dad leaned over me and asked, “You’re not going to die on me are you?”
I opened my eyes and said, “Not yet. I have to show Lisa and Sharon first.”
Twenty-three
September, 1987
A few days go by. The Captain is still videotaping. We’re still filming, neither of which seems to be going as planned.
I see Mike for a few hours every day. Sometime in the late afternoon he disappears. His evenings are pretty much the same. Him trying to get drunk and me trying to keep him sober. Strange turn of events. Don’t like him drunk. He’s mean. Says things that are hurtful. Doesn’t feel right—me taking care of him. Like I’m his mother or something.
All the while, he’s still disgusted by what he sees, what he hears. Never telling me exactly what’s going on or where they’re taping. The Captain moves the location every day. Security’s too tight. Won’t let me see anything or participate. Won’t let me know where. Both he and Captain Bob shield me from the dailies.
Until one afternoon in F-house when an extra walks up to me and pulls a white plastic rose out of his shirt and starts talking. It’s the kid with the dented head.
“I got this for you,” he says, all smiles and polite. “Thought you might like somethin’ pretty. You got me in your movie without shavin’ my head and I got me some extra money and smokes. My mamma would tell me to give you somethin’ back. So I got you this here flower. Got sometin’ you should know about, too.”
“Thanks,” I answer, not sure if I want to know what else he has to tell me. I ask anyway. “What’s that?”
“Your partner, Ma’am,” he whispers. “I know what he’s been doin’.”
I stare at him for a moment, realizing the full impact of what he just said. “Do you know where?”
“Yes, Ma’am. But from what I hear, a nice girl like you don’t want no part of it.”
Now’s your chance. Take it. You have to know.
“That might be true, but can you bring me right to them, if I want to talk to my partner? Do you know a safe way to get there? A fast way?”
“Yes, Ma’am. You sure?”
My instinct is telling me not to trust this guy. To walk away.
Go with him Carly. Don’t be afraid.
“Yes,” slides from my mouth as easily as a smile.
“Follow me, Ma’am.” We take off down the ramp to the showers. Nobody notices. As easy as that. Then down a dimly lit hallway and through a heavy door. Just the two of us walking through a basement corridor: cement walls, bare light bulbs, pipes and no yellow line on the floor, just jagged cracks in the cement. The noise from the inmates’ incessant pounding on the pipes clips though me like shards of glass. I can hardly believe that I’m doing this.
He keeps walking. Hardly any light now. He’s in front of me, turning every now and then to make sure I’m still there. Following. He flashes an innocent grin. Is it real or is he truly a killer leading me to my demise? What am I doing? Fear creeps into my imagination. I force it back out, trying to concentrate on the mission, finding a way to feel nothing, to be numb. At one point the lights flicker. I hesitate. He keeps going so I keep going. We turn down another corridor and walk up a few stairs and he pulls open a heavy metal door. I take a deep breath.
“Over there,” he says pointing down a short hallway to a wooden door with no markings.
We’re on the main floor of some building. We walk out. Denthead’s a step behind me. A guard passes us and nods, never saying a word to either one of us, as if we’ve been expected. When he’s passed, I can feel Denthead’s breath on the back of my neck. Close now. Too close. He rests his hand on my shoulder, slowly brushing the bottom of my ear with his fingers, then sliding his hand along the side of my neck. I stop breathing, holding back the instinct to run. He whispers, “Go on through that there door. There’s gonna be another just like it. Go through that one too and you gonna be standin’ in the room where your friend is.”
I’m immobile for a moment while I stand and stare at the door I’m supposed to go through. I move forward away from his touch, hesitate and turn to get one more look at this kid. See if I can detect anything evil in his eyes before I go through any more doors.
He’s gone and so is the guard who just passed us. I’m alone. I don’t know where I am. If this is a setup, I’m sure a class-A sucker.
There’s nothing to do now but go through the first door and then the next. At once I can hear voices and more pipe clanging. The room feels tight. Painted brick walls. Pipes running along those walls like some wild decoration. I stand behind a set of metal book shelves, near some gray file cabinets, almost afraid to move. Feet glued to the floor. Seems like some kind of large storage room.
After I get my bearings, I recognize one of the voices. That harsh, crass voice belongs to Richard Speck. I flush. I’m at once relieved that Denthead brought me to the right place, but the knowledge that I’m this close to Speck again, alone, frightens me more than I can stand.
I force myself to move, to look through an open slot between the bookcases. Nothing. More cream-colored brick walls and pipes. I walk further down. Legs heavy. There’s another space between the bookcases, only this one’s pretty wide. Have to be careful how I stand. Can’t risk being seen.
Wary, I gaze through the slot. There he is. Richard Franklin Speck. He’s wearing a blue zipper sweatshirt, stained with paint, and blue pants. His shirt, white. He sits up against a wall in a black plastic chair, facing me. Next to him, just after the corner of the room, also seated in a black chair is an inmate I’ve never seen before, a slight black man with buffed arms and shoulders, wearing Cool Dude shades, holding onto an unlit cigarette. I can’t see Mike anywhere. Maybe he’s somewhere out of view. There’s another inmate with his back towards me, sitting next to the camera, asking questions. He’s also a black man, wearing light-colored clothes, but I can’t see his face. I can only hear his monotone voice asking muffled questions.
No sign of the Captain.
There’s so much noise coming from the pipes, a fan, and the countless inmates voices that it’s almost impossible to hear what’s actually being said. I have to concentrate, strain to read lips, shut out everything else. My heart races while I stand silent, squeezed in between bookcase and file cabinet, totally focused on what Speck is saying. “When you strangle a person it’s not like what you see on TV…about three seconds and they’re dead,” he says as he uses his hands to mime strangling someone. “You gotta go at it for about three and a half minutes. It takes a lot of strength.”
How could I ever have t
hought this man knew or was a friend of The Beatles?
“And so my fantasies become realities and I must be what I must be and face tomorrow.” My senior class motto—1970.
Tomorrow has arrived. I wipe the tears from my face and once again focus in on reality.
The inmate next to the camera asks, “What are you locked up for?”
“Eight counts of murder,” Speck answers, straight-faced.
“Did you kill them?”
“Sure I did.” Speck hesitates then laughs. “It just wasn’t their night.” Cool Dude shows no emotion, adjusts his shades. No one but Speck laughs.
The inmate next to the camera asks another question, “Did you have a gun the night of the killings?”
“Yeah, the police got it.”
“Why didn’t you use the gun?”
“Guns make too much noise. I was in no shape to run. The knife was quiet. All I wanted to do is just burglary. It started off as burglary. Then all hell broke loose. I was high on acid, drugs.”
Cool Dude asks Speck for a light. Speck shuffles through his pockets, finds a matchbook, hands it to Cool Dude and continues, “One of them spit on me in the face. Thinkin’ back, being in here, she could have shit on me.” He laughs and continues. “She said she was going to pick me out of a lineup. I went off and hit her in the chest with a knife. Then there was two more and I offed them. Wound up trying to kill off all the witnesses. I forgot about one, though. Wouldn’t be here if I got her. She’s the one that ID’d me.”
The world spins. I have to sit down. Think about breathing in sunshine. Too tight in here. But I can’t leave. This is what I wanted. What I agreed to. It’s for them. It’s what they want me to do. What they need me to do.
I lean against the bookcase and slide down to sit on the floor. Don’t know if I can turn back to hear anymore. Somehow I thought I could handle this. Could witness his admission. Didn’t know he would be so graphic. So eager to tell. There he is, laughing over “it just wasn’t their night,” as if those girls had lost at a game of checkers or something as equally benign. Laughing. All he wanted was money and “things just got out of hand.” Like he had no control. It all just happened.
