The Dark Heart

by Julie Cave

  Angus looked at his lawyer, who nodded. He took a deep breath, and mentally transported himself back to a time more than 20 years ago, when every base instinct was for violence and every moment of pleasure derived from hurting others.

  “I was born in a small town in Southern California,” he began. “My father was a metal worker and an alcoholic. My mother left us when I was about five. My father was a mean drunk, abusive to my mother and me. She eventually had enough and left. I haven’t seen her since, although several years ago I heard that she’d been hospitalized for a mental illness and died there. Once she was gone, Dad drank more and I copped more of his abuse. I also got an earful of his hatred and prejudice.

  “Dad always thought Mom had run off with a man she’d worked with — a Mexican man. I grew up hearing about how cunning and mean and dishonest minorities were, that they hated us and that we’d be better off without them. He hated African-Americans, Hispanics, Asians, Jews, Arabs, and anyone without white skin, equally. I heard my father call them every name under the sun.

  “Growing up in southern California, I saw clearly that there were problems between different people groups. When the Rodney King riots erupted in Los Angeles, my father used them to hammer home the point that black people were dangerous and hated us, and that we should do everything in our power to eradicate them. He wanted America to be as it once had been — a nation of white people who held all the power. I agreed with him, because it was the only time that I felt close to him, that I felt he was proud of me. Instead of clipping me around the ear for being stupid, he’d clap me on the back and tell me that I understood life, the way things ought to be.

  “By the time high school was finished, I was committed to the cause of hatred. I made life difficult for a few minorities in my grade. I was too smart to cause physical confrontation, but I’d deface their books and put KKK symbols in their lockers and call them terrible names. Then I’d go home and tell my father, and he’d laugh. He’d crack me open a beer and we’d sit down and drink together like we were good buddies.”

  He stopped and took a trembling breath. “You must believe me when I tell you that I don’t believe any of that stuff anymore. I’ve changed completely. I became a Christian, and now I believe that every human being is created in God’s image and is valuable. I no longer see people in terms of the shade of their skin or their facial features. I see them as brothers and sisters of mine, a blood relation. In fact, now I thoroughly believe that we are all one blood, as the Bible says. And that’s exactly why I can’t kill anyone, let alone Malia and Lola, Detective. I’m finished with violence and bloodshed. I want my life to be about the opposite now.”

  Detective Jones nodded. “Duly noted. Please continue.”

  “I met Randall Shutter after I started at college. We met at a bar and just started talking. We became friends and I guess we soon realized we shared a lot in common. He often talked about having a covert army undertaking attacks on minorities all across the region. Several meetings later, he told me about the Southern Cross Militia.

  “He brought sophisticated planning, the cold, ruthless violence of an experienced killer. He taught me everything he knew, and I was a willing student. When I introduced Shutter to my father, Dad was enthralled. He saw in Shutter everything he’d wanted to be. I wanted Dad to be proud, so I listened to everything Shutter said. Dad admired him, and I wanted Dad to look at me the way he looked at Shutter.”

  Angus stopped for a moment to take a long drink of water.

  “He was an experienced killer. He’d gotten a taste for it during the Vietnam War. Back on American soil, he had been murdering here and there, but what he really craved was attention and notoriety. He thought a militia could bring him some of that. Nobody had ever caught him, and this was why he was so charismatic. In our minds, we were freedom fighters. When he stood up to talk to us, we saw him as a fearsome and awesome leader.

  “He planned everything to perfection. Each of us had a specific job to do, based on our strengths. I didn’t know much about explosives or planning violence, but what I could do was recruit.”

  Angus stopped again as memory rose in him like a bitter wave. The room was silent and motionless, as if nobody dared moved or interrupt.

  “I was young, cocky, and good-looking in those days,” he continued. “Because my father had spent a lifetime teaching me about ways in which one could control and abuse others, I was able to pick out potential recruits who could be easily influenced.

  “I’d pick the loners, those who were new in town, those with low self-confidence, those who wanted to fit in, those who desperately wanted friendship. I’d move in, strike up conversation, invite them to meet some of my friends, and eventually we’d reel them in. I didn’t tell them that we belonged to the Southern Cross Militia specifically, or that we were white supremacists. They didn’t need to know that initially. But over time, they would eventually come around to our way of thinking because they wanted to be part of our group.

  “Meanwhile, while I was recruiting and swelling our numbers, some of the other guys were planning attacks. The way Randall Shutter wanted to do things was to make a big statement, something that would jolt the conscience of the mainstream. He wanted something big.”

  Angus looked up and he started to see recognition dawn on the faces of those around him. They were starting to remember Randall Shutter and the Southern Cross Militia atrocities of the 1980s and ’90s.

  “So he organized us all into groups of three or four and tasked us with various jobs. The jobs included things like harassment, stalking, intimidation, and violence. Those of us who were most loyal got the jobs that were the most difficult.”

  His stomach tightened, sick at the memory. A wave of nausea rolled over him.

  “My group and I would go out during the night and prey upon minority people who were alone — walking home from work, going for a jog. We’d ambush them and . . . beat them up, kick them.”

  Angus remembered the feeling of splintering bone beneath his fist; the wet, gasping cry as his boot found purchase in the soft yield of an abdomen; the pouring, startlingly red blood.

  There was more silence in the room, equally stunned and horrified.

  The news reports of the attacks had warned minorities not to venture out at night alone. Yet, determined not to be cowed, many still did. Angus had not been the only cell targeting minorities; Randall Shutter had three other cells attacking at various points across the wider L.A. area.

  “Who was in your group?” Steinhardt asked.

  “Me, another guy named Harry Purcell, Malia Shaw, and Lola Albright,” said Angus. “We had different names in those days. The girls would be the bait — they didn’t look threatening. They’d pretend their car had broken down or that one of them had broken an ankle or something like that. When the victim stopped to help, Harry and I would jump out. The next day, Randall Shutter would call the press and claim responsibility, always giving them the message that minorities needed to leave the area, and that the attacks would continue until they did.”

  Angus remembered watching the nightly newscasts, proud that Southern California was gripped with such fear, proud that he was in part responsible for the terror lurking in the night. The Southern Cross Militia and their message of white supremacy became infamous.

  He didn’t tell the room how the savagery became satisfying; that the rush of adrenaline that accompanied each attack became addictive. He didn’t tell them how he’d experimented with new ways to inflict pain, or that he read accounts of other attacks and copied some of their methods. He didn’t tell them of his descent from violence into utter chaos, utter darkness, utter evil, nor of how easy it was to spiral into madness where the only bright spot was the anticipation of further harm. He shuddered, guilt and shame queasy bedfellows in his stomach.

  “Shutter didn’t participate in attacks himself. He planned them and provided us with weapons and other gear, but he never took part. I suppose this was to protect hims
elf. I found out his activities involved extortion and blackmail, and that he’d been building up a nice chunk of cash for himself. I started getting a little angry. We were living like a true militia, never staying long in one place, always in shabby, backwater houses. Meanwhile, he was sitting on a mountain of cash. What’s worse is that he lied about it. When I asked him, he pretended he had no idea what I was talking about. So I started to think about taking it.”

  “You wanted to leave the militia?” asked Elise.

  “No,” he said. “But I wanted the money. And the two were mutually exclusive. But I knew Malia and Lola wanted to leave; the violence had never sat well with them. They did it because I wanted them to, and I didn’t know how long they’d be able to keep it up. So we hatched a plan, and I promised to share the money with them afterward and we’d look out for each other.”

  “That explains the false identity documents, the lack of personal history, the money, right?” said Elise.

  “The Southern Cross Militia would never forgive me for betraying a brother. We needed to vanish and start new lives, with new identities. Initially, we moved around a fair bit, always worried they’d find us. Eventually, we picked a small town and settled down, thinking it’d be less obvious. I thought it would be difficult for Shutter to find us here.”

  Since then, they knew that Randall Shutter had been captured, charged, and now lived on death row in California. It had made sensational headlines at the time.

  “So you came to Virginia, and Malia and Lola followed you here?”

  “They didn’t follow me, so to speak,” said Angus. “We agreed to stay together. We felt there was safety in numbers; we could look out for each other. But Malia was starting to fall apart, so we agreed to use some of the money to help her.” And I wanted to keep an eye on them. I didn’t want them to talk to the wrong people. I didn’t want them to think they would ever be safe on their own, if truth be told.

  “What happened to Malia?” Elise asked.

  She was forever damaged by the things I made her do. “She had participated in some pretty awful things,” said Angus. “Terrible violence, and she just couldn’t deal with it. She had already started to take drugs to distract herself from the guilt and shame. I understand what she was feeling; I felt it, too. So did Lola. But Malia had always been more fragile, more easily disturbed. I felt responsible for her, because I’d recruited her into the Militia in the first place. That’s why I’ve taken care of her all these years.”

  “Were there any people in particular that you were afraid of coming to find you?” asked Dinah.

  “I always thought about Harry Purcell, the only member of our cell who wasn’t part of the deal,” said Angus. “He could have been resentful or angry that we’d turned on Shutter, or that he’d been left out. Or someone come to do Shutter’s bidding from prison.”

  “Let’s talk now about Malia Shaw. You saw her on the day she died, is that correct?” asked Elise.

  “Yes, I did. I checked in on her that morning. I’d taken an early lunch.” Angus glanced at his lawyer, who was so far happy with the questioning.

  “What did you find?”

  “She was sprawled on the couch, a needle near her arm. It was obvious she’d shot up recently. I thought she should sleep it off in bed, rather than on the couch, so I picked her up.” She was a bag of bones, he remembered. “As I was carrying her to the bedroom, she woke up with a gasp. She didn’t recognize me straight away, and she lashed out at me, clawing my face. I put her on her bed, made sure she was safe, and left. That’s the last time I saw her alive.”

  He leaned forward and looked Detective Jones in the eye. “I know I’ve done a lot of bad things in my life. But I did not kill Malia or Lola. I swear on my own life that I did not kill those women.”

  ****

  If Judge George Emmett was surprised to see friend and pastor, Angus Whitehall, in his courtroom for a bail hearing that afternoon, he didn’t show it. He simply read the schedule, looked up at the lawyers and said, “This is a bail hearing for the accused, Mr. Angus Whitehall.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” the lawyers chorused.

  “Let’s make it quick,” he suggested. He turned to the prosecutor. “What does the Commonwealth of Virginia have to say?”

  “We’d like bail to be denied,” Steinhardt said. “Mr. Whitehall is a man of means, with cash at his disposal. In addition, the police found several false identification documents in his possession, of which there could be more. He faces criminal charges in the state of California, where he once fled the law. It’s clear he has a history of trying to escape the charges laid against him. These factors mean he poses a definite flight risk. He also has significant assets he could use to aid his flight.”

  “Counselor?” the judged asked of the defense table.

  “Your Honor,” began Taylor. “Mr. Whitehall is the pastor of this town and he vigorously defends his innocence. He is a citizen of good standing in this community, with a wife and children. He has lived here for 20 years, which would indicate that any past notions of fleeing are well and truly gone. He intends to fight all charges laid against him. He has an impeccable reputation with links to the community. We would ask that bail be set at a sensible amount of $250,000.”

  Angus knew that this was a ridiculous request; there was no way a judge would set bail so low for a capital crime. But the lawyers wanted to start low and negotiate up.

  “Your Honor,” protested Steinhardt. “The defendant is wanted in two states for violent crime and has a history of fleeing the law!”

  “My client acknowledges crimes committed in his youth,” said Taylor. “Despite many previous opportunities to flee, he has proven to be a man of his word and has stayed to defend all charges.”

  Judge Emmett was not one to listen to continuing flowery arguments by either side. He looked thoughtful for several minutes. “This is my ruling. The motion for bail is granted, set at one million dollars. If the defendant cannot afford to pay the bail, he must be taken back to jail.” Emmett banged his gavel.

  Steinhardt looked crestfallen.

  Angus knew that his family home would now be put on the line as he fought to prove his innocence. The thought of telling Louise caused his heart to speed up with unease. He shook hands with Julian Taylor. “Thank you,” he said. “It’ll be good to go home.”

  “Of course,” Taylor said. “There’ll be some paperwork to fill out first, then you are free to go.”

  He turned to look at his family, who sat in the gallery behind him. Louise was dry-eyed and gaunt, her stare a long gaze at nothing.

  He moved to the railing and reached over to his children. Grace and Marcus joined the hug; Grace was crying and Marcus repeated, “Are you coming home, Dad? Are you coming home?”

  Angus put his hand on the boy’s thin shoulder and said, hardly believing the words himself, “I’m coming home, son.”

  The bail paperwork was completed in the empty courtroom. Angus used his house to guarantee the bail, signed a small mountain of forms, and was now free to go.

  Out on the front steps to the courtroom, a throng of media was waiting. As Angus and his family emerged into the sunlight, he stopped to enjoy the feeling of golden warmth upon his cheeks. The media converged on him, all asking questions at once, shoving microphones and recording devices in his face.

  Angus blinked, and then Julian Taylor pushed forward to give a statement. Angus couldn’t help but feel he’d fallen through the looking glass into a strange and confusing world. Finally, the family managed to get into the car, and Angus sat behind the wheel.

  Louise quietly asked, “What happened?”

  “I posted bail,” he told her. “I used the house as surety.”

  She nodded and said nothing more. She was still so pale, her skin as white as bleached bone.

  They arrived home ten minutes later, and Angus drank in the sight of his home, the place where he’d built his life with his family. He spent 20 minutes sitting in the l
iving room, talking things through with Grace and Marcus, assuaging their fears and just enjoying their company. One of the reasons he would fight these charges vociferously was because he couldn’t bear to be without his kids. Louise stayed in the kitchen, silently preparing lunch.

  Finally, the kids had talked themselves out and went upstairs before lunch. Angus walked into the kitchen and found Louise, crying silently as she fixed sandwiches.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, miserable. The weight of all he’d done had never been so heavy.

  “Uh . . . excuse me, sorry,” said Grace from the entrance to the kitchen. “I found something Chloe must have left here accidentally. Can I quickly go to her place and give it back?”

  Angus saw a thin, gold chain dangling from his daughter’s hand.

  “Sure,” said Louise, her voice brittle. “She hasn’t been around for a while, has she?”

  “Uh . . . no,” said Grace, a very strange expression crossing her face.

  “Okay. Well, just be back soon for lunch, okay?”

  Grace left, and Angus looked at his wife once again. “Please, talk to me,” he begged.

  Louise didn’t answer, but took a plate of sandwiches up to Marcus’s room. “You can eat up here,” he heard Louise tell their son.

  She returned, and the glassy, disassociated stare she wore on her face started to scare Angus a little.

  “Louise?”

  Louise put down the plate of sandwiches she’d been holding and turned to Angus.

  She slapped him as hard as she could, right across the face.

  ****

  Angus rocked backward, stunned by the fury in his wife’s face. Her eyes burned hot and dangerous, like furious embers spat out by a brushfire. Angus held a hand to his face, where it stung, and backed away. He had never seen this side of his wife, who was normally gentle.