All the Dying Children

by James Halpin

  Between reading the coverage and the newsroom chit chat, Reed was pretty well familiar with the story. Richardson took a few minutes to bring him up to speed on why he was inheriting the crime story of the year and then wished him luck.

  “So you’re a witness?” Reed asked as they headed back to their cubicles. “I might need to get a quote for the story.”

  “Are you ready?” Daly smirked. “Write this down: Go fuck yourself.”

  * * *

  The text came in a few minutes before six o’clock. Daly had been about to log out of his computer and head home when the phone dinged in his pocket.

  “Picking them up. Holland’s at 7.”

  It was Phil Wojcik. The cops were making their move. Radcliffe and Gillespie would be paraded in handcuffs into Magistrate Brian Holland’s office for arraignment at seven o’clock.

  Daly jumped out of his chair and ran over to Reed.

  “They’re picking them up now. We need to get over to Holland’s,” Daly said. “Can you let photo know?”

  “Ten-four,” Reed said, picking up a notepad as he rose.

  Reed walked over to the photo department to get a photographer and Daly went to Richardson to tell him the news.

  “They’re picking up Radcliffe and Gillespie now,” Daly said. “Joe’s getting photo on it, then we’re going to head over there.”

  “We?” Richardson asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “I just want to be there. I want to see them,” Daly said. “After everything I’ve been through, I deserve at least that much.”

  “It’s a public courtroom,” Richardson said. “But this is Joe’s story. We can’t have you even helping on it anymore.”

  “What about posting it?” Daly said. “Should we go live now or wait until they’re arraigned?”

  “Is anyone else on it?” They both knew the Other Paper would get the story sooner or later. They just needed to be first.

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think so, but if the cases are already docketed someone could find it,” Daly said.

  “Check the docket. If it’s in the system, let’s break the story first,” Richardson said.

  Daly went back over to his computer and ran a search through the online court dockets. There they were: Vincent P. Gillespie, age twenty-eight, and Marvin G. Radcliffe, age fifty-six, were charged with causing suicide as criminal homicide, involuntary manslaughter, criminal conspiracy, and producing child pornography. Daly couldn’t help but notice that a charge of arson was absent from each of the docket sheets.

  Maybe it’s still pending, he thought. Then he pushed the question out of his mind. At the moment, there wasn’t time to consider the legal nuances. Daly printed out the docket sheets and went to the door to meet up with Reed.

  As they ran down the stairs and headed to the parking lot, Daly paused. This could be an opportunity to get exclusive video of an arrest in a major case. He wasn’t supposed to be on the story, but he figured it couldn’t hurt for him to shoot some video with his cellphone. There wasn’t time to run Radcliffe through the system and find his address. But Daly had already been to Gillespie’s house.

  “You know what? I’m going to take my own car,” he said. “I want to see if I can get video of them arresting Gillespie.”

  “You sure?” Reed asked. “By the time you get to Pittston, they could already be gone.”

  That was true. But Daly also knew that the wheels of justice turned quite slowly. He figured there was a fair chance that the cops hadn’t even left yet to pick them up.

  “Yeah. I’ll just take a look and then meet you at Holland’s office,” Daly said.

  Daly jumped in his car and headed north toward Pittston, hoping he wasn’t too late.

  * * *

  Gillespie’s street was still. As Daly turned onto the narrow lane, he crept forward at barely an idle as he squinted his eyes, trying to see if there was any activity ahead. When he was convinced there wasn’t, he let off the brake and let the car roll down the street slowly, looking for anything out of place. There were no signs of a disturbance, no police lurking in SUVs with tinted windows. The street was quiet except for the faint rush of traffic that could be heard coming from Main Street. Daly watched as a cat lazily crossed the street and a slight breeze ruffled the Eagles flag dangling over Gillespie’s well-kept lawn.

  After passing the house, Daly continued on down the street and then went around the block. Gillespie had no reason to expect anything was about to happen, but Daly was conscious that a car turning around in front of his house could draw suspicion. He completed a full circuit around and then pulled over between two parked cars a few doors down from Gillespie’s house. From there, he could see the door as well as anyone pulling on to the street.

  He waited for five minutes, then ten, then twenty. There was nothing but a mail carrier working the street, shuffling door-to-door dropping junk into mailboxes.

  Daly started wondering if he’d missed it. He reached for his phone to text Reed if there had been any progress on his end. But as he unlocked the phone, he caught a glimpse of movement in his rear-view mirror. He looked up and saw a dark SUV with tinted windows finishing the turn onto the street. Instinctively, Daly reached for his voice recorder and turned it on so it would be ready to go. He also closed out of the text app and got his cellphone camera ready.

  Getting out of the car now would be a sure way to piss the cops off, but Daly needed to be ready to go as soon as they got into the house.

  Through the rear-view mirror, Daly watched as the SUV slowly rolled down the street, growing larger in his view as it went. Whoever was behind the wheel didn’t seem in too big a rush. Then, as the SUV glided past, Daly could see why: The driver was a woman who looked like she probably remembered hearing radio reports about the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.

  Tossing his recorder on the dashboard, Daly closed out of the camera and began typing the text to Reed.

  The tap at the window startled Daly. When he turned and looked up, he was face to face with the barrel of a forty-caliber Sig Sauer pistol.

  “Hello, Erik,” Gillespie said. “Put the phone down. Now.”

  Daly was petrified. Slowly, he reached up and put his iPhone on the dash next to the recorder. He thought about hitting send on the unfinished text to tip off Reed, but Gillespie was watching intently. There was no chance of getting it off unnoticed. Even if he did, Reed would probably just think he had fat fingers.

  “Get out,” Gillespie said, pulling on the door handle. “Let’s take a walk.”

  Daly leaned out and stood up, trying to calculate the chances of him getting away unscathed if he took off running. The gun was about eight inches from his chest. Gillespie’s finger was on the trigger. Even if he were a terrible shot, Gillespie would be hard-pressed to miss at that range.

  “My editor knows I’m here,” Daly said. Then again, he thought, this guy is already charged with killing four people. He probably doesn’t give a shit.

  “Well, then they’ll know where to look, won’t they?” Gillespie said.

  As he finished speaking, he turned his gaze up the street. Rounding the corner were two black sedans with tinted windows. The antennas and light bars were dead giveaways. The cops had arrived.

  “Move,” Gillespie said, pushing the gun into Daly’s side. “To my house. Now!”

  With the gun dug into his ribs, Daly began moving across the street in the direction of Gillespie’s house. As they walked, Daly looked to the approaching police cars, hoping someone would recognize him before it was too late. Gillespie noticed.

  “Eyes front!” he snarled. “You’ve got five seconds to get to the door.”

  Daly quickened his pace. But he could hear the police cars gaining speed. From the corner of his eye, he could make out that Gillespie was looking in their direction. Without shifting his gaze, he reached int
o his pocket, grabbed his wallet and tossed it in the street. At least the cops would know he was inside if they raided the place.

  “Hey!” Gillespie said. “Last warning!”

  They reached the front door just as the first police car screeched to a stop at the curb. Gillespie reached around Daly and turned the knob, pushing Daly into the dark room just as the first officer’s boot hit the blacktop.

  Gillespie gave Daly a push, relieving the pressure of the gun muzzle from his lower ribs. As Daly’s eyes adjusted to the dim light of the living room, he heard the door slam home and the metallic click of a deadbolt engaging. The room was surprisingly neat, considering the sole occupant of the home was a twenty-eight-year-old man. There were two white plush couches forming a corner around a coffee table. A flat-screen TV was mounted on the wall, looming over the room as the empty chairs faced it obediently. A bowl full of potpourri on the glass coffee table gave the room a slightly lavender smell, masking the faint hint of light cigarette smoke that clung to the drawn drapes.

  In a corner, a small desk displayed loose wires projecting from the dark space beneath like tentacles. A blank monitor remained, but the computer tower had been seized. A tripod stood next to the desk, but no camera was left to record scenes from the couch directly across from it.

  “Sit down,” Gillespie directed, pointing the black tip of the pistol toward the couch.

  For an instant, Daly hesitated. Then he did as he was told. As he sat down, he felt angry and impotent. He’d always imagined himself capable of stunning acts of bravery if it ever came down to it. When he saw Bruce Willis running across broken glass with bare feet in “Die Hard,” he figured he could do the same. And there had been no doubt Daly would have lathered up the mud and gone on a killing spree just like Sylvester Stallone in “Rambo: First Blood Part II,” had the right circumstances arisen. But now, confronted with an actual life-or-death situation, Daly found himself cowed, agreeing to sit on a couch peacefully because he was afraid of a man with a gun.

  The sound of a fist hammering on the door broke the silence, sending vibrations echoing through the house.

  “Police!” a cop shouted from outside. Daly recognized the voice. It was Phil Wojcik. “Open up!”

  “I’ve got a gun,” Gillespie called back. “If anyone comes through that door, this guy gets it.”

  There was a brief pause before Wojcik spoke again from the other side of the door. This time his voice was more subdued.

  “We just need to talk to you,” he lied. “Put the gun down and come out with your hands up. Nobody needs to get hurt.”

  “I can’t do that,” Gillespie said. “It’s too late now. You’ve seen my computer. You heard what’s on that app. They’re never going to let me go.”

  “I don’t know that,” Wojcik said. “You’ve been cooperative. You gave us a statement. And now you’re in a position to help us get Dr. Radcliffe. If you keep on cooperating, the judge will take that into account. This isn’t a death sentence.”

  “It might as well be. I’m done,” Gillespie said.

  “Now hold on,” Wojcik blurted out quickly, sensing the desperation in Gillespie’s voice. “Don’t do anything rash. Is there a way we can talk without shouting through the door? Can we give you a call?”

  Outside on the porch, Wojcik raised his eyebrow and exchanged a look with the handful of other cops standing with guns drawn by his side. They strained to hear any type of response or movement from inside the house. All they got was silence.

  “Okay, we’re going to need some backup here,” Wojcik whispered. He pointed at two uniformed Pittston city cops. “You two go around back and post around the corners. The rest of you form a perimeter up front. Nobody gets in or out.”

  The officers jogged to their assigned positions, forming a box around the home. Wojcik ran back to his unmarked car and grabbed the handset to his radio.

  “County, this is X-Ray 314. We’re going to need SERT at this location,” Wojcik said.

  The Pennsylvania State Police Special Emergency Response Team would arrive within minutes to try and talk Gillespie out. But there was no doubt he would be coming out, one way or another.

  CHAPTER 21

  Monday, April 9, 2018

  5:35 p.m.

  Back at the newsroom, John Richardson was at the city desk reading early copy and waiting for an update from Joe Reed when the scanner crackled to life with an urgent voice.

  “County, this is X-Ray 314. We’re going to need SERT at this location,” the grainy voice broke through the static.

  Richardson immediately perked up. The SERT team meant something big was happening. And Richardson had a good hunch it had something to do with the cops picking up Gillespie and Radcliffe.

  “Where was that?” he asked no one in particular.

  Jennifer Talmadge, the night police reporter, popped her head up from her cubicle.

  “Pittston,” she said. “Off Main Street. You want me to check it out?”

  With a phone cradled against his shoulder, Richardson raised a finger gesturing for Talmadge to stand by. Then he hammered out the digits to Daly’s cellphone. Four rings, and it went to voicemail.

  “Christ,” Richardson said, disconnecting and immediately dialing the number again. “Where the hell is he?”

  For the second time, Daly’s phone went to voicemail. It was an uncharacteristic lapse in communication, and Richardson was growing frustrated. He disconnected again and then dialed up Reed, who picked up on the second ring.

  “Joe, is Erik with you?” Richardson asked.

  “No, I’m just waiting outside Holland’s office. Nothing’s happening yet,” Reed said. “Erik went up to Pittston to try and get video of Gillespie’s arrest.”

  For a moment, the hairs on Richardson’s neck rose up and he got a chill. There were coincidences in the news business, to be sure, but he had learned that where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire.

  “What’s going on?” Reed interrupted Richardson’s thoughts.

  “They just called for SERT up at Gillespie’s house. And I can’t reach Erik,” Richardson said.

  “Do you want me to get up there?”

  “No. You stay put. They’ll still be bringing Radcliffe in. I’ll get someone else to see what’s going on up there,” Richardson said.

  “I’m on my way,” Talmadge said before the phone hit the cradle. She grabbed her keys and a notebook as she marched out the newsroom door.

  * * *

  The fear had mostly left Daly. For hours he had been sitting on Gillespie’s couch, wondering how to escape. For a while, Gillespie had paced between the kitchen and living room with his pistol at his side, clearly agitated by the rapidly growing police presence outside his home. Occasionally, he peaked out through the blinds to see what the cops were doing. The cops just watched him back, revealing nothing. After a while, Gillespie had grown tired of pacing and had taken a seat at the computer desk across from Daly. His mutterings about what the cops were up to had ceased. Now, Gillespie just hung his head with his elbows on his knees, dangling the pistol in his fingertips.

  “Why did you do it?” Daly asked after a long silence. “Was it just about the money?”

  “Shut up,” Gillespie said, looking up at Daly with a glint of danger in his eyes. “This isn’t a fucking interview.”

  The words stuck in Daly’s throat. He wanted to ask more. But then he thought about Lauren and their comfortable life and he grew afraid again. He was all she had left. If he pushed it too far, she would be alone in the world. She would have nobody left to hold on the couch when she watched scary movies. Nobody to take her to Leopold’s Pizzeria. Nobody to walk her down the aisle when her special day came.

  It was easier to just say nothing. But Daly knew it wasn’t the right thing to do. The police outside weren’t risking any less than he was, and many of th
em surely had families waiting at home. The families of the dead children had already lost everything, and they deserved answers. This might be the only chance Daly ever had to confront Gillespie and get meaningful answers from him.

  He had to man up and try.

  “You know that this is going to be a story, no matter what happens from here on out,” Daly said. “I’m sure the TV news trucks are already out there. This is your chance to tell people your side of the story.”

  “Be quiet!” Gillespie said.

  “You don’t want people to think you’re a monster, do you?” Daly said. “The cops said you were helping them. You must feel bad about what you did.”

  Gillespie took a step back from the window and pinched the tip of his nose, then ran his hand back over his hair. He was defeated and he knew it. There was no escaping. He would go down in history as a sexual predator who raped children for money.

  “Of course I feel bad,” he said. “I never wanted to do it.”

  “Then why did you?” Daly asked.

  “Why? Because Dr. Radcliffe made me, that’s why.”

  “How did he make you?” Daly asked, skeptical.

  “It’s not like he put a gun to my head,” Gillespie said, picking up on Daly’s disbelief. “He had stuff on me. I’d been seeing him for years.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  It seemed Gillespie had started going to counseling with Dr. Radcliffe when he was still a kid, barely fourteen years old. He had gotten caught shoplifting at Walmart, and his outraged mother wouldn’t stand for her son tarnishing the family legacy. Her husband had been a county councilman before his death, and the Gillespies were known as respected members of the community. Shoplifting was simply not something they did. The only explanation that made sense to Gillespie’s mother was that there was something wrong with her son.

  The irony was that Gillespie had gone into therapy a mostly normal kid and emerged a damaged and scarred young man.