All the Dying Children

by James Halpin

  For more than a year, the treatment had been routine. Gillespie went to see Radcliffe and talk about the mundane happenings of his life. It was boring, and he felt his mother got far more out of it than he did. Eventually, Radcliffe had approached Gillespie’s mother and confided in her that he thought her son was a terrific young man who was capable of great things. He wanted to take young Vincent Gillespie under his wing and hire him as an assistant. Of course, Mrs. Gillespie had been floored by the acknowledgment of her son’s talents. She hadn’t even considered the strange nature of the request. By the week’s end, Vincent Gillespie had the job.

  At first, the job seemed routine: filing papers, answering phones, adjusting the calendar. But over time, Gillespie noticed Radcliffe was getting increasingly familiar in their interactions. He was standing closer, touching him more. The jokes grew dirtier and the hours grew later.

  Then came the evening Radcliffe had asked for a handjob. Gillespie had been mortified at the idea. He wasn’t gay, so why was this man trying to get him to do such a thing? But he was young and alone and under pressure. He caved and did as he was told, hoping that would be the end of it.

  But it was just the beginning.

  The abuse lasted several years, until he was about eighteen and started sprouting the first wisps of a beard. He had grown too old for Radcliffe’s tastes.

  Radcliffe, however, had not been ready to give up his hobby. Instead, he asked Gillespie for help finding new helpers. At first, Gillespie resisted. He wanted no part in making other kids go through what he had. But Radcliffe had videos. He reminded his young assistant what those videos showed, and how embarrassing it would be for his friends and family to see them.

  In his naivety, Gillespie hadn’t even considered that publicizing those videos would be a sure ticket to prison for Dr. Radcliffe. All he could picture was the everlasting humiliation he would endure if they ever got out.

  So he made a deal with the devil.

  Vincent Gillespie continued working as an assistant for Radcliffe all through college, although his responsibilities had shifted from alphabetizing paperwork to shooting pornographic videos of himself with younger kids. A few of the kids he passed up to Radcliffe for some personal attention, but most of them the doctor saw only on film. Gillespie’s job responsibilities also included selling the footage online to help finance the operation. He learned that there was no shortage of perverts out there willing to pay top dollar for scenes they could never find in Hustler.

  “How many were there?” Daly asked.

  “I’m not exactly sure,” Gillespie said. “About a dozen, I’d say.”

  “What about Soma? Why did you start using that?”

  “Dr. Radcliffe was getting paranoid,” Gillespie said. “He kept worrying that someone was going to tell. I told him that they were scared and didn’t want anyone to find out, but he wouldn’t listen. So he started doing some research and designed the app. He made me record the message and then he spliced it into the audio feed. When he saw the kids during counseling, he recommended the app and talked them into using it. He also worked on them during the sessions, trying to convince them they were worthless. He filled their heads with talk about how everyone was going to find out what they had done and how embarrassing it would be.”

  Gillespie paused, wiping a few beads of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, waving the gun up over his temple. He sniffled before continuing.

  “He took a bunch of scared kids and used them, then turned their hopelessness against them,” Gillespie said, staring blankly toward the front of the house and contemplating the police blockade surrounding them. “And I helped him do it.”

  He could have been lying. It was clear he was caught. He was caught on video, caught in online chat rooms, caught by his proximity to the kids. His choices were to go tilting at windmills and fight a losing battle against a mountain of evidence, or turn state’s evidence and hope for leniency. It didn’t surprise Daly that Gillespie portrayed himself as a victim, another pawn being manipulated by a malevolent force. Such was often the case when co-conspirators part ways. But for some reason, Daly believed him. It didn’t excuse what Gillespie had done. But it did help explain it.

  Suddenly, the phone rang, giving both men a start. They looked to the handset sitting on a charger on the kitchen counter, illuminated in the darkened house only by the reflections of police spotlights that penetrated the curtains.

  “Are you going to answer that?” Daly asked after the fourth ring.

  Gillespie was silent. He turned his head back to the floor, ignoring the call. When the phone went to voicemail, the caller hung up. A couple of minutes later, the silence was again shattered, this time by the sound of a bullhorn out on the street.

  “Mr. Gillespie, this is Corporal Mike Durden with the Pennsylvania State Police,” the voice boomed through a grainy loudspeaker. “I would like to talk to you. Can you please pick up the phone?”

  Another moment of silence, then the phone buzzed back to life. This time Gillespie didn’t even look at it. Instead, he jumped up and marched to the front window to peer out from behind the blinds.

  “I have nothing to say to you,” Gillespie shouted.

  “Why don’t you talk to them?” Daly asked quietly from the couch. “Tell them what you told me. They would …”

  “Enough!” Gillespie shot back. “No more talking.”

  He turned on his heels and made a beeline back to the computer desk to reclaim his seat. No sooner had his backside hit the cushion than the silence in the room was shattered by the splintering tinkle of breaking glass. Daly barely had time to register a small canister coming through the front window when everything went blank.

  A blinding burst of white light seared the men’s eyes as the flash-bang grenade burst in front of the coffee table. The flash was accompanied by a deafening crack that sounded like Zeus himself had descended from the heavens. A paralyzing shock wave hit the men, rendering them both momentarily senseless. From his perch on the couch, Daly fell forward, simultaneously trying to massage his blinded eyes and pounding headache. He could see nothing. Through his stupor, he heard the sound of a door being kicked open and police barking commands. Then came a volley of gunfire. Rapid bursts of lead transformed the living room into a five-yard-wide battlefield, with Daly curled in a ball in no man’s land. He prayed the cops would see him as a victim. He prayed that the gunshots Gillespie was blindly hurling at anyone at the front of the house would somehow miss him.

  The last thing he remembered was a sharp pain burning through his stomach. Then all went dark.

  CHAPTER 22

  Monday, April 9, 2018

  9:12 p.m.

  For the past several hours, Jennifer Talmadge and other members of the media had been camped out at the edge of a police perimeter waiting for information about what they could neither hear nor see. At one point, Pittston Police Chief Joseph Rossi had come to the edge of the perimeter to dole out a few tidbits to the hungry reporters. Speaking in a gruff, terse voice, the chief had confirmed what the reporters already knew – that the police were involved in a standoff with a subject they had been trying to serve with a warrant.

  “That’s all I can say right now,” Rossi told the reporters, expressing regret he did not feel. “It’s an ongoing investigation.”

  Aside from that impromptu news conference, the reporters on scene had mostly occupied themselves with getting reaction from shocked residents and then, when that grew monotonous, making small talk as they waited for another update.

  Talmadge had sent in a short story for the website saying police were involved in a standoff with an unknown suspect. Richardson had decided, for the moment, at least, to hold off on revealing that Daly had been in the area to cover a major arrest and was now missing.

  When the gunshots rang out on the street, Talmadge and the other reporters perked up an
d craned their necks toward the sound as it echoed like distant fireworks. There was no mistaking the volley of explosive violence that penetrated the night sky.

  Cameramen grabbed their gear and aimed their lenses into the darkness, focusing on action they could not see. The newspaper reporters flipped open their notebooks and began scribbling descriptions of the sound and of the reactions of the people on the street.

  Not a single person – not the media, the gawkers, or the firefighters and medics standing by – tried to seek cover. Everyone watched in earnest, trying to catch a glimpse of the gunfight.

  Talmadge counted about a dozen shots that blasted off in quick succession before it was over. A dozen shots shattering the nighttime quiet, leaving only silence and mystery in their absence.

  For a moment, the throng of reporters stared toward the void. Then, as the perimeter collapsed and officers rushed toward the action, they pushed forward as far as they could before the road guard halted their advance, leaving them to shout questions for the commanders to ignore.

  Talmadge, though, sensed her opportunity. She was only a few years out of journalism school but had learned the ropes quickly. She was sharp and had a friendly, outgoing personality that helped her build sources quickly. People liked to be around her. And, truth be told, her golden, curly hair and her deep, blue eyes never hurt when it came to endearing herself to new sources. She was a solid journalist who didn’t need to get by on her looks, but she was also an opportunist who didn’t think it below her to bat her lashes a bit if it might entice a source to part with some key information.

  Trying to be discrete, Talmadge lowered her notepad and walked to the side of the closed street, away from the craning necks of her fellow reporters. The last thing she wanted was the cameramen to see her and come running over. She made her way quietly to a uniformed cop standing along the perimeter.

  “Excuse me,” Talmadge said. “I’m with the Observer. I was wondering ...”

  “You’ve got to talk to the chief. He’s in there,” the cop said, raising a thumb toward Gillespie’s house.

  “I’m not trying to get a comment,” Talmadge said. “We had a reporter in the area before the standoff. Erik Daly. He was going to Vincent Gillespie’s house, and we haven’t heard from him since this started.”

  The uniform looked at Talmadge blankly for a moment, as if trying to decide whether she was pulling one over on him. Talmadge stared back evenly, batting a lash or two.

  “Wait one,” he grumbled back.

  The uniform turned away and reached up to key the radio microphone mounted on his shoulder. He exchanged inaudible chatter with someone on the other end, then turned back to Talmadge.

  “Chief’s coming,” the cop grunted, turning back to watch the action.

  A few minutes later, a shadowy figure appeared in the darkness down the street, lumbering toward the perimeter and the uniform who clearly wanted to be closer to the action. Chief Rossi sauntered up to the line, pointed at Talmadge and gestured for her to cross the yellow crime scene tape. Talmadge hooked a thumb under the plastic tape and ducked underneath as a couple of television reporters exchanged incredulous looks.

  Rossi turned his back to them and escorted Talmadge to a pair of police cruisers parked at angles in the street, blocking traffic.

  “Jen, what I’m about to tell you is not for publication. Are we clear?” Rossi asked.

  “Understood. We just need to know if Erik is all right,” Talmadge said.

  “He got here before us. And Gillespie got to him first. Brought him into the house just as our guys were arriving on scene,” Rossi said.

  “Is he okay?” Talmadge asked, growing impatient.

  “He sustained a gunshot wound to the torso. It didn’t look good, but we’re hopeful he’ll live,” Rossi said. “Medics rushed him to the hospital. What I need from you is how to get in touch with his people.”

  For a moment, Talmadge looked at — or more precisely, through — Rossi with a blank stare. The words couldn’t make their way past her lips as she tried comprehending what the chief had just said.

  Erik could die.

  What about Lauren?

  “Jen,” Rossi interrupted her thoughts. “Do you have a number for his family?”

  “He’s not married,” Talmadge muttered. “He has a daughter. Lauren. We probably have her number back at the newsroom.”

  “How old is she? A kid?” Rossi asked.

  “No. I mean yes. I mean, she’s in high school. I think she’s a senior,” Talmadge said.

  “Okay. Can you call work and see if you can get me her number? I want to get to her before you guys blast this all over the place,” Rossi said. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” Talmadge said.

  She pulled out her phone, swiped the screen and keyed in her passcode. Rossi could hear her repeating the story to someone on the other end of the phone who, by Talmadge’s reaction, was as shocked as she had been just moments ago.

  “I know,” Talmadge said into the phone. “I can’t believe it.”

  She flipped open a notepad and scribbled down a number, then ended the call. Talmadge turned back to Rossi and then read him back the number.

  “Her name’s Lauren,” she said. “Listen, what hospital did they take him to? My editor wants to get a few people over there. For support.”

  “They brought him to Geisinger Wyoming Valley Medical Center,” Rossi said. “Remember, I don’t want any of this getting out, at least until we can contact Lauren.”

  “You’ve got my word,” Talmadge said, turning to return to her position along the perimeter.

  * * *

  Wojcik’s black unmarked cruiser rolled up to the entrance of the hospital’s emergency department and the passenger door popped open before he put the car in park. Lauren jumped out in a panic, leaving the door open behind her as she rushed inside.

  “Where’s my father?” she blurted breathlessly to the receptionist, her eyes on the verge of tears.

  “Who’s your father?” the woman asked flatly.

  “Erik Daly. He was shot.”

  The woman hammered on her keyboard briefly then turned her eyes back up to Lauren.

  “He’s still in surgery. You can have a seat in the waiting area and someone will come get you as soon as he’s out.”

  Calming earth tones and padded chairs greeted Lauren in the waiting room. Health magazines laid out on the tables discussed issues that no one waiting for a loved one in surgery would ever care to read about. From a television hanging on the wall, a cable news anchor droned on, joined by the omnipresent “breaking news” graphic.

  Lauren tuned it out and spent the time waiting on her phone, texting friends. Wojcik sat next to her in uncomfortable silence.

  Eventually, Lauren put her phone down and joined the detective in staring blankly across the waiting room.

  “Why’d he do it?” she asked finally. “Why did this guy try to kill my dad?”

  Wojcik paused a moment before answering.

  “I don’t know if he was trying to kill him, necessarily. I think he just panicked because he knew he was caught,” Wojcik said.

  “Caught doing what?” Lauren asked.

  “You should probably ask your father when he’s done. I don’t think it’s my place to tell you,” Wojcik said.

  Lauren’s cheeks flushed and her eyes narrowed. Her chair slid slightly away from Wojcik as she turned to face him.

  “My father almost died!” she snapped. “He was shot in the stomach while you guys were trying to arrest someone. I think I deserve to know why it happened.”

  “You do,” Wojcik agreed. “I’m not trying to hide anything. I just don’t know if your father would want you to hear it from me.”

  “My father could be dying right now,” Lauren sobbed, putting her face in her hands. “He’
s on a slab and you’re worried about who gets to tell the story.”

  Put that way, it did sound foolish, Wojcik had to admit.

  “It’s just that it’s graphic,” Wojcik said. “We had two guys who were abusing kids. The teacher, Vincent Gillespie, was selecting them and grooming them so that he and a psychiatrist could make videos of them. When we first went to Gillespie’s house a couple weeks ago, we found a bunch of videos on his computer. Videos of him with teenagers. We believe he was working with Dr. Marvin Radcliffe to make them.”

  “Oh my God,” Lauren said. “That’s disgusting. But why did he go after my father?”

  “Your father found out they had created a white-noise app that had subliminal messages in it,” Wojcik said. “When we reinterviewed Gillespie, he admitted that they created it to mess with the kids’ heads. Radcliffe was also seeing them for therapy. Gillespie told us that Radcliffe was trying to instill them with a sense of hopelessness so they would kill themselves. These men were just trying to protect themselves. They didn’t give a crap about the kids.”

  Lauren sat in stunned silence for a minute. The thought of two men in positions of trust using unsuspecting kids for their pleasure and then discarding them was beyond depraved.

  It was outright evil.

  “What’s going to happen now?” Lauren asked.

  “Well, Gillespie’s gone. He didn’t survive the raid,” Wojcik said.

  Lauren felt a little embarrassed to admit it, but she was glad.

  “What about Dr. Radcliffe?”

  “We took him into custody without incident around the same time as the standoff with Gillespie began,” Wojcik said. “We got him.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Tuesday, April 10, 2018

  12:27 a.m.

  John Richardson hurried through the hospital doors and into the waiting room. He scanned the bored occupants, seeking recognition and getting only mild interest from people with nothing else to do but watch a disoriented newcomer.