The Prison Inside Me

by Gilbert Brown

  Two weeks later, George bought a Glock from a gun shop, with one hundred rounds of ammunition. On the background check form, he indicated that the owner was to be Susan Campbell Nichols. In the space provided, he indicated her previous experience on the range in her hometown from the time she was fourteen years of age. He took the form home to have Susan sign it and to ensure that the information he had recorded was correct. Susan was very curious as to why George didn’t purchase the Glock in his own name. He had carefully thought that out, too. “You have more experience with these things than I. You know all about handling these weapons, gun safety, and all that. I just think it will be easier to get a license, not only because of the burglary incident near us two weeks ago, but also because of your knowledge of the use of weapons. Anyway, a woman always needs more protection than a man. I may be away on business trips, attending a math conference, or something like that, leaving you all alone in the house so far out of town.”

  OK, Susan thought, what difference does it make who owns the weapon? If it makes George more secure, I’ll humor him, and we always had them around the house when I was growing up and never used them. “But,” she said sharply to George, “if we’re going to have a firearm in the house, you are going to learn how to use it. We’re about to spend a bunch of hours on that private range across town with a good professional to show you the dangers of using it carelessly, how to use it properly, how to use the safety, how to clean it, and how to store it so no one else can get to it. After all, we have young kids in the house all the time, and one day those kids will be our own, I hope!

  “Besides,” she continued, “my dad, Elizabeth, and I had great fun times competing with each other in marksmanship on the range. I’ll bet right now I can teach you a thing or two about hitting targets. I think I can win a lot of money from you in our competitions! And one more thing: we go to target practice before our martinis, not after!”

  And indeed, happy times were recreated as she and George went to the range at least once a month, either on a holiday or a Sunday, since George was so busy on working days. George learned all the fundamentals that Susan already knew. After three months of introduction, their fun competitions in marksmanship began, with Susan winning most, but not all, of the time. Their once-a-month trips to the range were a bonding experience that brought back many memories, now all happy, of her growing-up years.

  George kept the weapon in a locked metal box on the top shelf of their bedroom closet. George had the only key. While Susan was satisfied with this, George would often remove the Glock from the box, load and insert its magazine, arm the safety, and hide it beneath his undergarments in the drawer of the night table at his side of their bed. Susan had no knowledge of this until much later.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The list that Szysmanski provided Susan included a briefcase containing a laptop computer, a computer tablet, a cell phone, various papers from the desk, Susan’s cell phone, and an entire filing cabinet that was discovered hidden behind a second locked door in the master bedroom walk-in closet that led to a narrow, low space under the eaves of the house. Since it was after midnight when the crew arrived back at the police station, having to call for a larger vehicle to carry the four-drawer filing cabinet, all the material was locked in a room with a sign saying, “Do not enter. Crime scene evidence.” The police lab would begin its review of the material the next day, Friday.

  When the two officers who were searching the master bedroom found the filing cabinet, they opened it and found file folders with aged and faded photographs of naked boys, others with financial records of Recovery Camp, and some musty and faded official-looking documents that seemed to be court orders. The nature of the search didn’t allow time to review these papers in situ, so they were taken to headquarters for later review. The two officers suspected that since the files were hidden behind locked doors, the family didn’t want their location known. They carefully relocked the second door to the closet and were very careful to remove the filing cabinet, carrying it downstairs while Szysmanski occupied Susan’s attention so that she would not be aware of its removal. They placed it in the street behind one of the police vehicles so it could not be seen from the house, one officer remaining with the cabinet until the larger police vehicle arrived to take it away.

  Susan never bothered to look at the document she had refused to sign of the material that the police had taken. It was only on Friday morning that she glanced at it and saw that a filing cabinet was listed. She ran upstairs immediately, unlocked the door in the back of the closet, went inside, and all but fainted when she confirmed that the filing cabinet on the list was the hidden one under the eaves, one of several that were in the house.

  She locked the door again and rang up her lawyer. The voice answered, “Hubert and Borne, how may I help you?”

  “I have to speak to Mr. Hubert immediately.”

  “One moment, please.”

  “Barry Hubert here.”

  “Barry, it’s me, Susan.” She sounded extremely agitated. “Barry, that police crew that was here yesterday found an important filing cabinet with all the camp financial records that we had hidden under the eaves of the house. Those records may show some discrepancy in our tax filings. I’m really worried; they took the whole cabinet. I really need that criminal lawyer.”

  “Look, Susan, if it’s tax records that concern you, I can handle that. We can fix all that right here if an error was made in reporting income or expenses; we can always bury something in capital expenses or somewhere else. It will all be very small change, anyway, and we can make a deal with the county or even with the IRS, if it comes to that. I’ve handled dozens of these problems; I know everyone involved and can make it easy for you.”

  “Barry, it’s not that,” Susan said, even more agitated. “That cabinet may contain other information that I don’t want published. It may result in horrible gossip about George and me. I really need a criminal lawyer. If you don’t know one, tell me, and I’ll find one another way.”

  There was a brief hesitation on the line. “OK, Susan, I’ll tell my colleague at Markson and Bennett to call you. They are very competent. I’ve known them for years; they’ve handled great defenses of other clients who had really serious fraud charges against them and always came out on top. Someone will call you in a few hours. Just relax. You are in very competent hands.”

  “Thanks, Barry, but please hurry.” Susan hung up the phone and wondered how she could find another lawyer if Hubert left her out in the cold.

  “Heather, you again?” Szysmanski said as he answered his cell phone on Friday morning. “You’re wearing out my phone!”

  “Not this time,” said Heather very lightly. “I may have beaten you to something.”

  “I doubt that. You probably want information or that I should write your story for you.”

  “OK, did you know that Nichols had a prior for lewd and lascivious conduct, maybe child molestation, when he was nineteen?”

  “I surrender, dear; you are a great reporter. With that kind of thinking and records search, you could be a great detective!”

  “I don’t mind thinking like a cop; I just don’t want to look like one!”

  “Heather,” Szysmanski sighed, “we know all that. We have better sources than you. What else have you got?”

  “It’s not what I got; it’s what I want. You don’t want me to write several thousand words about police obstruction of the public’s right to know, do you? I know you were in the Nicholses’ yesterday with a search warrant from Judge Halloran. You were there until almost midnight. You got something. And I know you want to tell me all about it so that I don’t make lots of mistakes that will paint the police as stupid!”

  “Heather,” Szysmanski said very patiently, “you know I can’t give you that information. We have barely started to look at what we’ve got,” he lied gracefully, “and until we can form some kind of
indictment, this is all privileged information.”

  “OK, Siz,” she answered firmly, “let’s cut the bullshit. I’ll tell you what you’ve got. You’ve got a computer, maybe two or three, some cell phones, some files, some writing samples, some financial records, some fingerprints, and maybe some dirty pictures, because once a cop, always a cop; once a reporter, always a reporter; and, just for your information, once a pedophile, always a pedophile! Look it up!”

  “Heather, my darling child, you are good! Maybe you can tell me who will win the fourth race today at the track, too. But I still can’t answer your questions until some formal charge can be made. I can tell you that we took some stuff, that we had a search warrant, that we haven’t had time to review all that was taken, that no charges have been filed, that we are still waiting on the lab report, and so forth. That’s enough to get you started. I think you want to get me fired. Heather, that’s all I can tell you!”

  “But that’s not all I know, and I have to go to press with what I know, like that e-mail from Glenn Scott. My God, he lives now in California and won’t talk to me, but I have confirmed that the e-mail is his, and I can quote it. I can just see the head on page one above the fold in tomorrow’s edition: ‘Police slow to investigate accusation of pedophile charges in Nichols suicide’—no—better yet, ‘Nichols murder!’”

  “You shouldn’t be a reporter but a mystery novelist. Heather, I promise that when I know what’s going on, I will break all the rules and call you. The news is yours first, and you can make that byline of yours come out in bold when it breaks.”

  “OK, I’ll make a deal with you. I promise to be kind to all who don’t deserve it. I know you must have found files with names of kids who went to Recovery Camp. Give me only ten names—I can probably find them somewhere else if I dig hard enough—so that I can help you, you heard me, help you, run down additional people affected. Isn’t that a cool deal?”

  “You don’t want to get me fired. You want me to go to jail. Heather, you know I can’t do that. However, and you better promise me this, just as your boss sent me that e-mail from Scott, if you do locate anyone who talks, you better let me know, or you’ll be down here and not on a social visit. OK, to be blunt, that e-mail or anything else you pick up verbally has no standing. If you find someone, and if they are willing to come in and sign a sworn deposition here, then we have something to go on. Otherwise, your next demotion will be as gossip columnist. We can’t go forward on hearsay, and with your background in the press, you should know what libel is.”

  “Siz, I don’t mind you being a cop, but I object when you become a college professor. OK, a bet: I’ll get there before you do, and I’m alone, and you have that overloaded bureaucracy of the police department to make thousands of calls for you. Are you game?”

  “Be a nice girl; go write your story and make lots of trouble for rewrite and your editor. If you want to make a bet, I’ll put up a latte that it winds up on page eight, and at the bottom, too!”

  “Siz, have a nice day, and I hope Dawes puts you back on the Jay Street thing.”

  Heather walked over to the city editor’s desk. “Fred,” she began, “I think this Nichols suicide thing is turning out to be a homicide. Szysmanski is awfully evasive. We know he had a search warrant. He says he can’t tell me what for or what he found. I followed up on Scott, but when he heard I was a reporter for the Herald, he wouldn’t talk and just hung up on me. I e-mailed him asking for his collaboration in clarifying his accusations, but I don’t expect another answer from him. I know that Siz has files with the names of kids who were at Nichols’s camp. Years ago, maybe even just a few years ago. If I could speak to one of those former campers, maybe we could have a story from it. I tell you, Fred, this thing has legs; it will run for days! He ran that camp almost thirty years, and if he hit on one kid, he must have hit on lots of them. I did some research on pedophilia, and once one, always. What if I wrote up something about police now investigating or suspecting Nichols suicide is a homicide, omitting the pedophile angle, and adding that as interest develops?”

  “Heather,” the editor mused, “give me maybe two hundred words on the murder-suicide angle. I’ll show it to Ben and see if he approves. We have to go lightly at this point, because one unproven allegation in print could cost us a lot of money, not to mention journalistic embarrassment.”

  “OK, I can do that, but wait! I’ll bet that if I call some of my mother’s friends, I can find some kid who went to Recovery Camp and follow up with an interview that may produce a lead to pedophilia! Fred, pedophilia is a real grabber; circulation will soar!”

  Fred looked up from his desk at Heather, sternly. “You’ve been to school, and you know the rules. You write something with only hearsay, and it will die right here on my desk. And, remember, if you get something firm, an accusation by someone of a felony, it must be reported to the police. We can report about sworn statements and depositions. Anything less than that is pure baloney. We only print baloney if it’s for sale in paid supermarket ads!”

  “I hear you,” she said as she left for her desk with a big smile on her face.

  Her call to her mother yielded two names of boys who were at Recovery Camp. She found one of the names in her computer directory. She dialed the number.

  “Mr. Zelko, my name is Heather Thompson. I am a reporter for the Herald. We are doing a follow-up article on Mr. George Nichols’s suicide. Perhaps you read something about this in yesterday’s paper. Do you have a few moments to spare?”

  “My pleasure. What can I tell you?”

  “I understand you were a camper at Mr. Nichols’s Recovery Camp. Why did you go there? What kind of camp was it?”

  “My mother sent me when I was nine, in third grade, or maybe it was fourth grade. I was having trouble at school with reading and math. I only went on weekends for about two years, as I remember. It was twenty-five years ago, you know. Mr. Nichols was great with his help. I went from being a big troublemaker to being one of the best students in math. I even went on to major in engineering at college. I now work for Polart and Walker, the big engineering firm. Mr. Nichols saved me from a very bad time. I am eternally indebted to him for what he did for me. I was so sorry to read of his death. He helped a lot of kids, and I’m sure he would have been able to help many more. His death is a tragedy.”

  Heather listened with an internal sense of disappointment. I call this guy to get gory details of perversion, and all I get are unprintable accolades.

  “Mr. Zelko, this is wonderful to hear. Tell me something of your family, if you would be so kind.”

  “I live here in Trout Lake, and I’m married to the most wonderful woman. We have two boys, seven and nine, and,” he added with a smile in his voice, “I am their math tutor! Just like Mr. Nichols was mine! I hope to make winners out of them as Mr. Nichols did for me!”

  This is going nowhere, Heather thought. Maybe I should ask him if Nichols ever grabbed his crotch. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Zelko. One last question. I would like to speak to others who were at the camp to get a good story together to praise what George Nichols did for all of you. Perhaps you could give me a name or two of others you know who were at the camp.”

  Zelko thought a moment and gave her some useless first names of friends he’d had long ago. He couldn’t remember last names, although he offered names of other classmates who hadn’t attended the camp. Heather thanked him, leaving her telephone number in case he had other “thoughts” that should be included in her article. Her last thought as she hung up her phone was thankfulness that she got paid for wasting her time.

  Throughout the day, her mother called with other names of boys who had attended the camp. Heather called four of them, to no avail. Each only sang the praises of a great teacher and tutor, a mentor who helped them reach achievements otherwise unattainable. Nichols was an idol, a great man, a real father to all, dedicated to each one’s succ
ess. She obtained further leads from two of the four but decided not to call. The clock in the city room told her she had less than an hour to get the two hundred words to Fred that he had requested.

  She began hitting her computer keyboard. “Trout Lake police are investigating the possibility that the death of George Nichols, previously reported in the Herald as a suicide, was actually a homicide. Officers were seen at the Nicholses’ residence late Thursday with a general search warrant issued by Judge Alex Halloran. With that warrant, police took possessions from the residence but as yet have not revealed what materials were taken or what evidence was found. Police are still awaiting the full report from the county medical examiner as to the nature of the gunshot that killed Nichols…”

  Szysmanski was sitting in Harry Dawes’s office, looking at a printed copy of the medical examiner’s internal computer report and a few sheets printed from the early laboratory computer report of materials taken from the residence. Two other detectives were present, invited by Dawes.

  “This is bad news,” Dawes began. “The entry wound angle, the position of the body leaning toward the side of the wound, the distance of the weapon from the entry wound—it all stinks. The files full of pictures of naked little boys, all sort of faded from age; no faces, only torsos. These pics were taken years ago and saved. The prints of both Nichols and his wife are on those file folders and even on some of the pics; no prints other than Nichols’s on the phone when the lady says, at least according to your notes, Siz, that she used that phone to call nine one one. Even you,” he said half-jokingly to Szysmanski, “can figure this out.”