Florida Son

by W. J. Costello

  “On the surface they seemed to be normal people. But beneath the surface they were monsters. The worst kind. Their home was a house of horrors. A nightmare in suburbia.

  “They kept their secret hidden for over a decade. Nobody knew about it. Nobody even suspected. Nobody could have imagined it.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Crowley used to wave to their neighbors every morning as they went off to work. If only the neighbors had known. If only they had known.

  “It just goes to show that you never really know what goes on in the lives of other people. You drive past their perfect houses and their perfect lawns and you imagine their perfect lives. But what you imagine is never the reality. What you imagine is just some fantasy theater in your own mind.”

  As Ruth spoke I looked over at Julie now and then. Her tanned face had no expression. I could tell she felt uneasy. The story about the Crowleys was making her uneasy. She had undoubtedly heard it too many times.

  She saw me looking at her.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said to me. “You’re wondering how any mother could send her child to Toddler Town Day Care.”

  “I’m not thinking that,” I said, and held up my hand. “I swear.”

  “Max used to love that place. He was happy there.”

  “I’m sure he was.”

  “Toddler Town Day Care is accredited by the National Association for the Education of Young Children. It has a good reputation. The staff members are qualified and caring. The center has a friendly atmosphere, a stimulating curriculum, a structured schedule.”

  “Sounds like a great place.”

  “And its reputation shouldn’t be sullied by what happened in that house when the Crowleys were living there.”

  “I agree.”

  Ruth told the rest of the story. I sat perfectly still as I listened.

  Neighbors thought Mr. and Mrs. Crowley were childless. There were never any bicycles in their driveway. Never any toys on their lawn. Never any children around their house.

  But they were there.

  The children were there.

  Two of them.

  One son and one daughter.

  They were chained to a pole in the basement and raped up to five times a day. Brother and sister were forced to have sex with each other. The walls were padded so that nobody could hear the beating and the crying and the screaming.

  The abuse went on for a decade. The two children were captives in their own home. They never went to school. Never stepped outside. Never felt the warmth of the sun.

  It was as if they existed only to please the monsters that lived upstairs. Day after day. Month after month. Year after year.

  Mr. and Mrs. Crowley had bolted doors across every window in the house. Then they had sheared off the bolts.

  Escape was impossible.

  Twice the girl got pregnant. Once by her father and once by her brother. Her mother performed the abortions.

  The two children were fed only cat food. Nothing but cat food. Every single day. They were given a garbage can to use as a toilet.

  One day the boy managed to remove a length of pipe from the basement ceiling. Later that night he bludgeoned his parents to death on the basement linoleum as his sister cheered him on. They found keys in their father’s pocket. They used them to free themselves. Then they walked out the front door and began the rest of their lives.

  “The girl kept a diary during her captivity,” Ruth said. “The whole story came out in the press. I read all of it. I tried to imagine what those years of rape and torture and psychological games did to those two children. They must be in their early thirties now. God only knows what those years did to them.”

  The three of us sat quietly for a time. I listened to the wind and thought about the Crowleys. I tried to picture the house they used to live in. The nice house in the nice neighborhood.

  I glanced at Julie.

  “You know what we have to do.”

  “No,” she said. “What do we have to do?”

  “We have to go visit Toddler Town Day Care.”

  CHAPTER 20

  THE PUBLIC RESTROOMS at Sarasota Oceanfront Campground were too small. At least the men’s room was. I can only assume the ladies’ room was too. The cramped men’s room had only one sink, one toilet, two urinals. A single camper could have easily monopolized it.

  I generally try to avoid using campground restrooms. I prefer to use the one in my RV. But I made an exception that day because the public restrooms at Sarasota Oceanfront Campground were located conveniently near the beach.

  A guy stood at the urinal beside me. His lack of height could have kept him gainfully employed as a circus sideshow attraction. The guy had some serious problems with his plumbing. I could hear him spritzing. I didn’t look but I was pretty sure his shoes had yellowish dribble stains on them.

  “My doctor gave me pills to fix the problem,” he told me out of the side of his mouth. “Most of the time I forget to take them.”

  I grunted.

  He spritzed some more.

  I zipped up, flushed the urinal, moved to the sink.

  In the mirror I saw him shake it a few times. I scolded myself for not using the bathroom in my RV. At least there the embarrassing sounds come only from me.

  “Take care,” I said, and turned to leave.

  Halfway to the door I heard a flush.

  Then I heard his voice again. He mumbled something to me.

  My hand rested on the doorknob.

  “What’d you say?” I said over my shoulder.

  “Do I have to repeat it?”

  “I didn’t hear you the first time. What’d you say?”

  “How. Do. You. Like. This. Campground?”

  His tone of voice gave me a whiff of his essential nature. It was arrogant and condescending. I didn’t care for it.

  “Campground’s fine,” I said, and pulled open the door.

  “What kind of work do you do?”

  I stood half in and half out of the doorway.

  “Why do you ask?”

  He shrugged a Napoleonic shrug.

  “Just curious.”

  A forced smile feels phony. It uses fewer muscles than a real smile. A real smile makes wrinkles around your eyes.

  I knew my smile was phony. I felt like the Joker.

  “Take care,” I said, and walked out the door.

  He followed me out. He almost bumped into the back of me.

  “How much money do you make?” he said.

  I wanted to be nice to the guy. But nice gets stepped on.

  The average conversational distance for Americans is roughly twenty inches. Overstep that distance and you are considered intrusive. The invasion of personal space makes the other person uncomfortable.

  I took two steps toward the guy. I crowded his personal space. My nose was only inches from his.

  He frowned and took a step back.

  I took another step forward. I gave him my best smile.

  He took another step back.

  I stepped toward him again and closed the distance between us.

  His eyes showed his uneasiness.

  “I have to go,” he said, and scuttled away.

  Mission accomplished.

  My next mission was to see if Julie wanted to go for a long walk on the beach with me. One of my favorite things about Julie was her passion for exercise. It was a strong passion. Not unlike mine.

  Most of my former girlfriends have been exercise buffs. They liked to build endurance, burn excess calories, increase flexibility, polish muscle tone—all of the things that do a body good.

  I walked up to Julie’s door. Just as I was about to rap at it I heard loud arguing coming from behind me. When I peered around the back of the RV I saw Mr. Neat and Mr. Messy going at it again.

  I stood and watched.

  “I paid that already,” Mr. Neat said.

  “This’s a new medical bill,” Mr. Messy said.

  “For what?”


  “For a follow-up visit.”

  “What?”

  “My son needed more medical treatment.”

  “Lemme see that bill.”

  “Here you go.”

  “Hey—this bill’s for four hundred bucks.”

  “So?”

  “So it’s the same one you showed me before.”

  “No it isn’t. It’s a new one.”

  “You just wanna get more money out of me.”

  “Are you saying you’re not going to pay it?”

  “I already forked out the money. Remember?”

  “I’ll see you in court then.”

  “See you in court, peckerhead.”

  CHAPTER 21

  I BACKED MY motorcycle to the curb, the engine growling, the pipes rumbling. I hadn’t even gotten the kickstand down when Julie hopped off and began to look around.

  White picket fences bordered every house in the neighborhood. Sprinklers swished water on trimmed green lawns. The air smelled richly of orange blossoms. There were flowering bushes, gleaming cars, kids on bicycles, tennis courts, wide streets. Hummingbirds darted from flower to flower. Birds sang cheerfully.

  A sign in the yard across the street said TODDLER TOWN DAY CARE LLC. Behind the sign stood a single-family house. It looked like a happy house. A peaceful house.

  For some reason I had expected it to look like the Bates Motel from Psycho. Or the Amityville house from The Amityville Horror. I had expected to see flying monkeys fill the sky.

  I wondered what the house used to look like. Did it look different when the Crowleys were living there? Or did it always look like a happy and peaceful house?

  Julie stood staring at the house.

  I walked up beside her.

  “You ready to go in, Julie?”

  “It feels strange being here. It brings back so many memories. Memories of driving Max here in the mornings, picking him up in the afternoons, seeing his little smiling face. Those were the best years of my life. This place used to be a part of that life. I haven’t been back here since his abduction. This is the first time. The first time in over five years. It feels strange.”

  “We don’t have to go in. We could get back on my Honda and head back home. We could spend the day at the beach.”

  “I want to go in. Besides we’re already here.”

  The lights inside were dim. It was nap time. Two dozen children napped on blue mats spread out on the floor.

  We stepped carefully past them as we made our way toward the office in the back.

  “J-J-Julie?” a voice whispered from behind us.

  We spun around.

  “Dusty?” Julie said. “Oh my God. You still work here?”

  His blue janitorial cart was a closet on wheels. It held a broom, a bucket, a dust pan, a mop, a plunger, cleaning supplies, hand dusters, lottery tickets.

  “Yeah,” he said, “I still w-w-work here.”

  His eyes avoided our eyes. They remained averted. He pushed up his thick glasses with his index finger. It reminded me of Clark Kent.

  “Dusty has been working here since the center began,” Julie told me. “Going on almost twenty years now. He grew up in the house across the street. Do you still live over there, Dusty?”

  He nodded.

  “Short commute to work,” I said.

  Dusty rocked his body in a repetitive motion. He stared into space and fiddled with his watch. He hummed under his breath.

  “Dusty, tell Rip about your reading habits. Do you still spend your free time at the library? Are you still reading eight books a day?”

  He nodded again.

  “How many library books have you read?” Julie said. “I mean how many books overall?”

  “Six thousand five hundred and t-t-twenty-two. Yeah. Uh-huh. Six thousand f-five hundred and twenty-two . . . and twenty-two.”

  “I didn’t even know they had that many books in the library,” I said. “Authors are going to have to write faster to keep up with you.”

  He beamed.

  “Ask him a question, Rip.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like anything. He’s a walking encyclopedia. Dusty never forgets anything he reads. His mind absorbs everything. Test him. Go on, Rip. Test him. See if you can stump him. I bet you can’t.”

  “How much you want to bet?”

  “Five bucks?”

  “Deal.”

  We shook on it.

  “Okay, Dusty,” I said. “Spell kaleidoscope.”

  “K-A-L-E-I-D-O-S-C-O-P-E,” he said, and pushed up his glasses.

  “Is he right?” Julie said.

  “I’ve no idea,” I said. “But it sounds right to me.”

  “Ask him a question you know the answer to.”

  “There aren’t that many.”

  “Stop messing around.”

  “Okay, Dusty. Here’s another one: When was the U.S. Marshals Service created?”

  “The U.S. Marshals Service is th-the oldest American federal law-enforcement agency. It was created in September of seventeen eighty-nine when President George Washington s-s-signed the Judiciary Act into law. Yeah. Uh-huh.”

  I let out a low whistle.

  “I told you,” Julie said. “I told you he’s an encyclopedia.”

  “Let me try one more,” I said. “Okay, Dusty. Who’s the best-selling author of all time?”

  “William Shakespeare is l-listed in the Guinness Book of Records as th-th-the best-selling author of all time. Number two on the list is Agatha Christie.”

  “I’m impressed,” I said.

  “And I win the bet,” Julie said.

  Dusty looked at me for the first time.

  “Time to p-p-pay up, sucker. Five bucks. Time to pay up.”

  I frowned and reached for my wallet.

  “Thanks,” Julie said, and pocketed the five-dollar bill.

  The office door opened and a woman stepped out.

  “Mrs. Walker,” Julie said. “We were just coming to see you.”

  “Miss Collins,” the woman said. “How have you been, dear? I am delighted to see you. Do come in. Step inside and take a seat. Dusty, would you mind bringing the mop in here, please? One of the girls ate something that didn’t agree with her. Thank you so much, Dusty.”

  The office smelled like monkey barf.

  The three of us sat down.

  “Now what can I do for you, dear?”

  We began to tell Mrs. Walker about the two new developments in Max’s case. She listened with a concerned expression on her face.

  Dusty came into the office and began to mop up the liquid mess on the floor. He heard us talking about the video that showed a boy’s hands communicating in sign language. He heard us talking about the fingerprints on the safe at the mall.

  I eyed him.

  He seemed lost in his own world.

  “Mind if we have a look around the center, Mrs. Walker?” I said.

  “By all means. Shall I accompany you?”

  “Won’t be necessary. But thank you.”

  “But of course. Please do let me know if I can be of any assistance. Any assistance at all. You will let me know, won’t you?”

  “But of course.”

  Julie gave me a tour of the center. We looked at every room. We looked at the yard out back. We took our time. I got a good feel for the place. When we had finished we went back to the office.

  It smelt like Lysol now.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Walker,” I said.

  “You are more than welcome, dear. Is there anything else I can do to help? Maybe you have some questions for me?”

  “Just one.”

  “Yes?”

  “Who was working here that day? The day Max got abducted.”

  She turned to her computer and tapped a few keys.

  “None of those staff members work here anymore,” she said. “Except of course for myself. And Dusty.”

  I nodded.

  “I can print you a list of their names if you like.�
��

  “Won’t be necessary, Mrs. Walker.”

  Dusty came into the office and began to clean the windows with Windex and paper towels. He wiped at them absently. His mind was elsewhere.

  “That video you mentioned earlier?” Mrs. Walker said, “I would like very much to watch it. Would it be at all possible for me to watch it? You have piqued my interest.”

  Julie and I exchanged a glance.

  “I don’t see why not,” Julie said. “May I use your computer?”

  “You may, dear.”

  Julie typed in some keystrokes, brought up Kirsten Love’s Facebook profile page, clicked the PLAY button on the video.

  Dusty set down the Windex and came over to watch.

  The four of us stared at the screen as the video played.

  Julie turned to Mrs. Walker when the video had finished.

  “What do you think, Mrs. Walker? Do they look like Max’s hands to you? Do you think they could be his hands?”

  Dusty spoke up.

  “Th-they don’t look like Max’s hands. Th-they are his hands.”

  He ran out of the office.

  CHAPTER 22

  BACK AT SARASOTA Oceanfront Campground Julie and I told her mother about our visit to Toddler Town Day Care. When we told her about Dusty’s comment she rolled her eyes.

  “You can’t take him seriously,” she said. “He doesn’t know the difference between reality and fantasy.”

  “He seems pretty sharp to me,” I said.

  “Oh sure—when it comes to certain things. He has a brilliant memory and his reading skills are off the charts. But when it comes to the real world?”

  My phone rang.

  “Rip Lane speaking.”

  “Rip, this is Marsha.”

  It was Marsha Lopez calling from the U.S. Marshals Service Florida/Caribbean Regional Fugitive Task Force.

  “You know those two guys you wanted me track down?” she said.

  The two guys she was referring to were both connected to Julie. One was her brother. The other was her ex-husband.

  “You found them?” I said.

  “We located one of them.”

  “Which one?”

  The U.S. Marshals Service uses a number of investigative techniques to find fugitives. They use everything from electronic surveillance equipment to multi-agency task forces.