Their Last Secret

by Rick Mofina

  * * *

  Nicola Hope Gorman had been transferred to the Manitoba Youth Centre, the largest juvenile correctional facility in the province, a sprawling, low-standing, red brick building in Winnipeg’s west side.

  Nikki rarely had contact with other female prisoners, who all were under eighteen. She was isolated because of her age and alleged crimes. But secrets seldom survived in prison. The others knew who she was. So when Nikki’s caseworker, a broad-shouldered woman named Irene, who’d lost the ability to smile, removed her from her cell and escorted her in handcuffs past other cells toward the visiting area, the other girls mocked her.

  “Yo, killer queen!”

  “Hey, four-count girl!”

  “Super freak!”

  Nikki and Irene waited for the unit security door to be buzzed open, then entered the visiting room. Because prisoners held in MYC were longer term, policy did not separate families by glass during visits. But Nikki’s case was different. She was taken to an open area and seated at a metal picnic table bolted to the floor. No one else was in the room.

  “No contact,” Irene said. “I’ll be near. This will be supervised.”

  “Because I’m special.”

  “Yeah, so special.”

  Across the room there was a loud electronic buzz, a metallic clank, a door opened and Nancy Gorman entered. Nikki’s blank face twisted into a scowl when Telforde Rahynes followed behind. In a reflexive response, Nikki stood to leave but felt a hand on her shoulder and glanced at Irene, who gave a subtle shake of her head. Nikki sat back down.

  Nancy moved across the room, her arms rising to embrace her daughter until she saw the flash of Irene’s big palm and her icy headshake, underscoring the no-contact policy. Nancy and Telforde sat with their palms flat on the table as instructed earlier.

  Nikki’s first words to her mother were: “Why did you bring him?”

  Nancy was taken aback. “I live with him. He drove.”

  “This whole thing is your fault,” Nikki said.

  “What?” Nancy said. “I don’t understand.”

  “Hello, Nikki,” Telforde said, his eyes taking a quick walk over her jumpsuit. “They only gave us twenty-five minutes, so show your mother some respect.”

  Nikki shot Telforde a middle finger. “You’re not paying my rent anymore.”

  Disgusted, Telforde shook his head with a sideways grin.

  “Nikki,” Nancy said. “Don’t do this. Tell me how they’re treating you?”

  “Like you care.”

  “Hey!” Telforde said. “Respect your mother.”

  Nikki’s jaw muscles bunched as she stared at them for a long wordless moment.

  “You know, being alone in here I get lots of time to think of lots of things, like about how people betray you, hurt you, people you’re supposed to love and trust.”

  She shot Telforde a cutting glance of disdain and he blinked.

  “It’s time to say it,” Nikki decided.

  “Say what?” Nancy said.

  “You know, Mother, that for the longest time your boyfriend’s been fucking me and threatening to kick us to the street if I told anyone.”

  “Nikki!” Nancy cupped her mouth with her hand and looked to Irene, who seemed indifferent.

  “That’s a goddamned lie!” Telforde said.

  Nikki’s handcuffs jingled as she pointed at her mother.

  “It’s your fault I’m in here because you always knew and you did nothing! Nothing!”

  “Nikki, stop it!” Nancy shook her head. “Why’re you saying these horrible things?”

  “Because she’s a murdering, thieving, lying slut!” Telforde said. “I never touched you!”

  “You’re lucky I’m not pregnant. But you can’t touch me now. I should report you to my lawyer. Maybe it’ll help my case.”

  “You’re a lying piece of—”

  “Stop, please stop this!” Nancy said through her hands.

  “Maybe when we murdered that family, I was thinking all along about killing you—both of you!” Nikki screamed.

  Nancy couldn’t hold in her anguish, moaning and rocking. Telforde threw his arm around her.

  “All right.” Irene stepped forward. “That’s enough. The visit’s over.” Irene nodded to an officer across the room to take care of the visitors.

  Nikki stood, looking down on her mother, a broken woman.

  As Irene took Nikki’s shoulder, Nikki stood her ground long enough to spit in Telforde’s face.

  * * *

  After the visit ended, Nancy and Telforde drove for miles without speaking as he guided his Dodge RAM pickup through Winnipeg’s western edge.

  At first Telforde punctuated their stops at red lights with one-sided conversations.

  “I don’t know why she’s lying, Nancy. I swear I never touched her.”

  Nancy stared straight ahead, meeting his denials with silence until he turned on the radio, keeping it low. Eventually they got out of the city and onto the highway bracing for the long drive back to Eternity.

  They’d gone several miles when Nancy began talking. “I’ve been lying to myself for a long time,” she said.

  “Lying about what?”

  Tears rolled down her face. “That I needed to live with you because I couldn’t pay down my gambling debts and couldn’t afford to live on my own with a daughter on what I made at the Market Mart. That was one lie.”

  “Your debts are huge and I was there to help you, get you into gambler therapy, so what’re you driving at?”

  “I knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “Nikki wasn’t lying. I knew and I said nothing and did nothing. Oh God.”

  “Now just hold on, I’m telling you she’s a lying little bitch!”

  The air cracked because Telforde never saw or expected the stinging whip-snap on his face as Nancy slapped him. He cursed, pulled back. The wheel twisted and the truck swayed.

  “What the hell?”

  “Nikki’s right. It’s my fault she turned out the way she did—I can’t live with it. I gave my daughter to you, you ruined her, now four people are dead and she’s so damaged that—oh God!”

  Nancy unleashed a torrent of punches and scratches until Telforde, one hand slipping on the wheel managed to seize her wrist.

  “Get hold of yourself, Nancy! I swear I never touched her!”

  “I want out now!”

  Telforde still gripped her wrist, eyes wide on her, the road, then her. “Calm down!”

  “I know what you did!” she screamed, pulling away, closing her right hand into a fist, driving it into Telforde’s groin, piston-like, again and again. The pain was blinding, Telforde yowled, his hand tensed on the wheel, jerking it left. Suddenly the pickup was vibrating, the road had disappeared and they crossed the grassy median to the moan of an air horn before they slammed head-on into an oncoming big rig.

  * * *

  It was late the next afternoon before investigators confirmed that Telforde Rahynes and Nancy Gorman were the two fatalities in the accident west of Winnipeg.

  The truck driver, who was from Ohio, was not hurt and not at fault.

  At the Manitoba Youth Centre, Irene brought Nikki into a room where several grim-faced people sat at a table, including her lawyer, an MYC director, two RCMP officers, two people from Child and Family Services, an MYC psychologist and a chaplain.

  The chaplain broke the news to Nikki about her mother’s and Telforde’s deaths.

  Nikki lowered her head.

  Any thought to report Telforde Rahynes as a pedophile and rapist had died, too.

  Condolences were offered from around the table.

  Then the director said arrangements could be made for Nikki to receive a compassionate leave to attend her mother’s funeral under police escort, of course.<
br />
  Nikki’s eyes watered but she did not cry. She shook her head.

  “I don’t want to attend the funeral. She got what she deserved.”

  Thirty-Eight

  Cielo Valle, Orange County, California

  Present day

  This is so risky on so many levels but I’ve got to do it.

  Kayla had cut school midway through the day—“I’m feeling sick,” she’d told her teacher—and went home where she would determine if Emma was being truthful about her past.

  Emma continued to give her an uneasy feeling with her odd reaction at the restaurant the other night. Maybe she swallowed wrong, like she said, but it looked to me like she’d gone into shock about what Dad said about his new book, or something. And Kayla still couldn’t find anything on the fatal fire at the so-called “Tony’s Diner” in Maryland.

  It all seems so suspicious. But I can’t tell Dad about it; he’ll just try to analyze me and send me to Doctor Hirsch. It’s up to me to do this.

  Kayla knew Emma would be at her school, knew that her dad was gone for the afternoon to deal with his passport, or something called a NEXUS card. For the moment, she had the house to herself. She’d done a little research and had formulated a plan. Now was the time to execute it.

  Tug greeted Kayla at the door, happy to have company, following her upstairs to her room, where she got out her laptop and searched online for Darmont Hill College in Indianapolis, Indiana. She found the school and called the registrar’s office, mindful of the time difference. Counting on the office still being open, she exhaled when a live person answered.

  “Registrar. Records.”

  “Can you help me? I’d like verification of the graduation status of a former student?”

  “Who’s calling and what does this concern?”

  “I am an assistant for an author, Benjamin Grant. He’s considering hiring a researcher but needs verification of the graduation status of a former student. I’m calling on his behalf.”

  “This is not military but for civilian employment?”

  “Yes, civilian employment.”

  “Please hold.”

  Another person came on the line and after Kayla briefly repeated her request the woman said: “Student’s full name, please?”

  “Emma Anne Chance.”

  Kayla heard typing on a keyboard.

  “Date of birth?”

  Kayla had managed to get a look at Emma’s driver’s license in the kitchen last week. She’d taken a photo of it then and provided her birth date now.

  More typing and something happening at the other end.

  “Miss, our policy is that Mr. Grant make the request on the business letterhead. Only then will we proceed.”

  Kayla thought of a way she could do it. “Will you accept it if I scan it and email it to you?”

  “Yes, send it to the following email.” The woman provided the address and instructions. “Make sure the request includes the student’s name, date of birth and the request number I’m going to give to you now. We’ll respond to the requesting email but it can take up to two weeks to process.”

  “Two weeks?”

  “Most requests are completed sooner, but we are backlogged.”

  “And is there a fee?”

  “No fee.”

  “Thank you.”

  Kayla had a copy of her dad’s letterhead in her computer. He and her mom had created it using a free online template he never changed. Kayla duplicated it, then replaced his contact information with her cell number and an email account she’d created on Yahoo: BenjaminGrantBooks. She typed the request on her laptop, printed it from the printer in her dad’s office, scanned it and sent it to the address of Darmont Hill College.

  Then Kayla let out a long breath.

  In about two weeks, I’ll know the truth. But I’m not done yet. There’s more to do.

  Thirty-Nine

  Winnipeg, Manitoba

  2001

  Nicola Hope Gorman.

  Marie Louise Mitchell.

  Jane Elizabeth Klassyn.

  Each of them were fourteen at the time of the murders. But because of their ages, their identities disappeared into the justice system. From the moment they had been charged under the federal Young Offenders Act, it was against the law to use their real names in open court, or for the news media to publish them or their photographs.

  Ever.

  Their true identities were to be kept secret even after the case concluded, even after all sentences were completed, or they were acquitted.

  That was the law.

  The court ordered that they be identified as “Girl A,” “Girl B” and “Girl C,” and nearly a year after the morning of the grisly discovery on Old Pioneer Road, their trial began in a Winnipeg Court of Queen’s Bench before Justice John Claiborne.

  But reaching that day in court encompassed a pretrial legal odyssey of judicial matters that included intense, closed-door legal disputes among the lawyers about the true culpability of each of their clients, measured against the facts and evidence. Ultimately, each girl had pleaded not guilty to the charge of second-degree murder, then their lawyers’ bids to secure pretrial release were denied because of the gravity of the charges. Then the crown prosecutor wanted the girls to be prosecuted as adults because of the severity of the crimes but the court rejected the prosecutor’s request because of the girls’ ages.

  As well, each girl underwent a psychiatric assessment; the reports submitted to the court found they were not suffering from any disorder that would exempt them from criminal responsibility of the charges. The girls’ lawyers sought to have the girls tried separately, arguing that there could be a miscarriage of justice if the defendants were tried jointly because “cutthroat” defense tactics could come into play whereby each girl tried to blame the other for the crimes. But the prosecution opposed them, saying that the risk of “cutthroat” defense was limited because the case rested on the same facts for each of the accused. The court agreed. The girls were to be tried jointly.

  And now here they were: day one of the trial.

  Every seat in the courtroom was taken by relatives, friends and employees of the Tullocks, along with journalists and the public. All attention went to the girls when they entered the prisoner’s box. They met the eyes of the jury of seven women and five men. Gone were the prison jumpsuits—the girls were dressed in new tops and slacks. One had a blazer, making them look more like a freshman debating team than accused multiple murderers.

  In the trial’s first days, the girls’ lawyers presented a case of self-defense with the aim of putting doubt in the jurors’ minds that the girls had entered the Tullock home intending to kill anyone. But one of the lawyers was secretly anguished, believing that the accounts given to them by the girls were not all true, that one of the girls was not culpable. Yet the lawyer was unable, helpless, under the circumstances, to mount a convincing defense for her. Matters proceeded with all of the lawyers optimistic that their agreed upon self-defense strategy would result in convictions on the lesser charge of manslaughter.

  “These young girls never wanted to kill anyone,” defense lawyer Belinda Walker told the court. “They were caught in a bungled robbery and scared for their lives.”

  Lawyer Ed Tracy said that the defense didn’t dispute the physical evidence and the fact the girls had gone to the home planning to steal cash that they believed was owed one of them, adding that each of the girls had come from low-income families and had endured troubled childhoods that gave each of them an unreliable moral compass.

  Lawyer Ian Bolton said that it was clear the girls had been careful to enter when they believed the home was vacant. They had been drinking, but when it all went wrong they were terrified for their lives, honestly believing Roy Tullock had guns hidden somewhere. Tragically, fueled by alcohol and adrenaline, and circum
stances creating a fight-or-flight response, they acted in self-defense.

  The defense team did not want the girls to testify—the risk of damaging cross-examination was too great.

  “No way were these girls frightened,” Erika Stone, the Crown Attorney prosecuting the case, began. “They were angry and pissed off at the Tullocks. The facts and the evidence are unassailable.”

  Stone, who had a stellar record for winning cases because she was surgically precise, said the girls had formed “The Skull Sisters,” in a ritualistic blood pact with the intention of exacting revenge against the Tullocks. To prove it, she quoted aloud from a journal kept by one of the girls: “‘The Tullocks think people like us are dirt, they think they’re better than us... Connie’s such a lying, cheating bitch who should just die...that bitch owes me money and—’” Stone stopped to leave out identifying names, replacing them with “the others” “‘—are going to help me get it...’”

  A lot of people in town knew Roy Tullock got rid of the guns in his house long ago at his wife’s insistence, Stone said, noting “their babysitter would’ve been aware,” suggesting the girls had concocted that fear as a feeble self-defense ploy. Stone acknowledged the girls came from rough childhoods but said that they took out their twisted, exaggerated, misguided feelings of victimhood on an innocent family.

  “Their invasion of the Tullocks’ house was merely a rehearsal that went live when the Tullocks arrived home early,” Stone said, presenting the horrifying crime scene photos to the jurors during closing arguments. “The evidence rests in the Tullocks’ blood and it cries out. Their fingerprints are on the knives, their footwear impressions in the blood and their own admissions affirm that they each had a hand in the killings of Neal, Linda, Connie and Roy Tullock.”

  The case lasted three weeks before it was turned over to the jury.

  After several hours of deliberation it returned with its verdict.

  Justice Claiborne told the girls to stand.

  They were each found guilty of four counts of second-degree murder.