Trusting Evil

by Mary Leo

  I wrote down some questions for Speck sometime around three this morning. Couldn’t sleep. Worried about being prepared. Can’t let him catch me off guard again. Too bad that most of the questions ended up in the trash—weren’t good enough. Seems like I should have been able to come up with pages. Couldn’t. Came up with one. Had to be worded just right. It’s in my pocket. Burning a hole.

  Strange thing to be thinking up questions for Richard Speck. Seems too civilized. Too refined. Have to play him for the freak he is. Talk about prison life first then throw in “did you kill those women?”—like some afterthought. Wonder if the prick will take the bait? Tell the truth for once in his sorry-ass life? Admit he’s the killer. Clear it with all those fools who didn’t believe the facts, didn’t believe the evidence that was right in front of them—Speck’s fingerprints on a door, his sweat-soaked T-shirt rolled up inside the purple slacks of one of his victims—saying the cops must have planted the T-shirt. And when the cop-theory didn’t work, those same fools said Speck was in the townhouse before the murders as a date for one of the student nurses. Some quote in the paper read, “Those girls were wild. They must have gotten him confused with one of the other boys who hung around the townhouse.” Who would spread such a nasty lie?

  As if it was at all possible for the surviving nurse to identify the wrong man. Not with his face. His tattoos. Ever since the first time I saw Speck on the street corner I could recall exactly what he looked like, with his scarred-up face and twisted, evil smile and those send-shivers-up-your-spine plastic eyes. It was his smile that always sent me spinning. Still does. That sinister “trust me” smile. Like he’s Mister Wonderful, Mister I-just-want-to-talk-and-be-your-friend kind of a guy. Satan himself, all wrapped up in human form, slipped up through a crack in hell and ended up in South Chicago and nobody recognized the son of a bitch. Nobody, except one brave young woman named Corazon Amurao who hid under a bed for five hours and identified the right man.

  • • •

  Mike’s been trying to ignore the whole Speck thing. Like it’s not going to happen, concentrating on his work, trying to get our extras ready. They could use a couple more days to understand what they have to do, but we haven’t got the time. “No more delays,” to quote the warden. And when the warden speaks around here, everybody jumps. Hollywood could use somebody like him. Might change the whole concept of a schedule.

  Mike must have walked these guys through the scene fifteen times this morning. Some of them don’t seem to get it, or still don’t give a shit. I can’t tell. The result’s the same. Even Vivian can’t seem to get a spark.

  Our job is to work with the AD to help block the movements of the extras. The director of photography—the DP has marked the floor indicating where they should stand for the camera. Because this is a non-union movie, it’s up to us to make sure they don’t miss their marker. We’ve already told the men how to stand, where to stand, which way to look and to act like they’re having a conversation with one another. So far I’m not impressed. Neither is the AD.

  Usually, I’d step in and take over. I’m better at this part than Mike. And sometimes, with a group this size, it takes two of us to get everyone going, but right at this moment I’ve taken on the ‘don’t give a shit’ attitude as well. Been busy watching the trailers. Thinking up a plan. Watching Tiffany go in and out. I now know where she keeps her camera—third trailer on the right. Next to the Honey Wagon. That’s a good thing. A lot of the crew mill around the Honey Wagon on breaks drinking coffee or getting a snack, so I won’t be noticed. Been waiting all morning for the right moment to ask her what she’s taping. Hopefully, she’ll volunteer her schedule.

  Mike yells out his frustration, “Come on, guys. One of you lies on the bench while the other helps guide the weights.”

  “I don’t need no help with them weights,” the black hulk lying on the bench says. He must be over two-fifty and has a physique like Arnold’s.

  “I know you don’t, but that’s not how the scene goes down.”

  “Then I ain’t doin’ no liftin’,” he says and stands up not more than two inches in front of Mike. The man looks like a building. A large, square, brick building with arms. Mike takes a step back, smiles and says, “You’re right. You lift and he’ll watch. That’s a great idea. Just great.”

  The inmate grunts and stretches out on the bench.

  Meanwhile, Tiffany saunters by. The inmates turn to watch in unison, as if they’ve been cued. First thing they’ve done together since we started. Like holding up a piece of meat in front of a row of hungry dogs. Works every time.

  Interesting look on her face. As though she’s getting some kind of kick out of knowing that every man in this place wants her, or at least pretends to.

  I step in front of her. “Tiffany. Hi. My name’s Carly. We didn’t get a chance to really meet last night. Thought I’d come by and introduce myself.”

  She looks at me as if I’m pond scum. “Were you talking to me?”

  “Yes. We shared a table for awhile last night at Bud’s—Carly Rockett.” I stick out my hand. She grabs it with one of those weak, limp handshakes that makes you want to pull your hand away in disgust.

  “Oh, that’s right. You were sitting next to Mike. Look, I’d love to chat, but I’m really busy. Is there something you wanted?”

  Now, there are people you like right off and there are people you hate. She’s in yet another category. “We’re all in a crunch this morning, but I was wondering…I saw you with a Camcorder the other day. Can I ask what you’re taping?”

  “Why?”

  Okay, so now I’m at a loss. “Just curious.”

  I get another look. The woman should be on film with all her animated expressions. The quintessential drama queen. “I’m doing a little research for a short on the making of a movie. Look, I really have to go.” She walks right over to Mike. As soon as she gets close to him, her whole demeanor changes. All full of jelly-sweet smiles. She whispers something into his ear. He laughs. She laughs. He puts his hand on her shoulder and guides her in closer as he says something into her ear. She smiles and runs her hand down his arm. Random intimacies, like they’re getting ready to become lovers.

  Just as well.

  I turn and walk out the doorway, past a guard who smiles and nods, then it’s through the tunnel for a couple feet and out the side door, past another smiling guard. This is going to be a snap. She’s all wrapped up in Mike’s charm for the moment. Now’s the time. She probably won’t be back in her trailer for hours. Too busy with whatever she does.

  Once outside in the courtyard, all I have to do is walk over to the trailer, slip inside, find the camera, which is probably sitting right out in the open, pick it up and…then what? How do I get it over to the library? It’s a huge thing. I certainly can’t hide it under my shirt. Doesn’t matter. First I have to get it. I’ll think about the rest later.

  The courtyard is a mesh of cables, humanity, white trucks, trailers and RVs. Everyone has arrived. Even Arnold, who stands talking to the director. Can’t help but notice how handsome Arnold is. Sends a quiver through me—he’s powerful, but with a sensuous smile. The man could get any woman he wants with that smile. Tell them anything and they’d believe him. A truly seductive man.

  The trailer I want is right in front of me. More of an RV than a trailer, a two-tone beige number with a green awning. My heart beats up in my throat. Hard to swallow. Hard to breathe. Can’t let my nerves get to me. I force in a deep breath, stretch a little and begin my precarious walk. I head straight for it, not looking at anyone or anything. Like I’m in a hurry. Don’t bother me. Backstage at McCormick Place all over again. Just walk in like you’re supposed to be there. Worked every time.

  Another guard passes me with a smile and a nod. They seem to be everywhere this morning, like roaches when you turn on a light. Doesn’t matter, though. I could go just about anywhere and they’d think I had the right to be there.

  I focus on the metal door
knob not more than five feet in front of me. Will it open? Has to. What would I do if it didn’t? Can’t think about that. Why would she lock it? It’s not her personal trailer. Several people must use it. The thing has to be open.

  The whole walk excites me. Reminds me of situations I’ve pushed aside. Good memories. The ones Mike pulls out of me when we’re alone: Catching Donovan as he’s getting into his limo, Dusty Springfield while she’s putting on her makeup, or finding the open door that got my friends and me into the very first Beatles concert. I was always successful. Why should this be any different?

  I get to the RV without a hitch.

  Instinctively, without looking around, I reach out for the doorknob.

  Someone taps me on the shoulder.

  I freeze, thinking it’s the wicked witch herself. What kind of bullshit will I come up with this time. Think, Carly, think. I turn, all smiley, “I was just—”

  “Are you looking for this?” Mike says while holding a large black Camcorder case.

  “What the hell—?”

  “Why steal it when all you have to do is ask?” he says.

  “But I thought you didn’t want anything to do with this?”

  “I don’t. But it’s one less felony. Hopefully, the Captain has everything else under control.”

  “You realize this makes you an accessory.”

  “Not if you don’t get caught.”

  “Not a problem. I’m good at this kind of stuff, remember? What reason did you give Tiffany for borrowing her camera?”

  “She wants me. Isn’t that enough?”

  “But what did you tell her?”

  “Home movies for some friends. They’ve never seen inside a prison before…we’re having dinner tonight. She’s from St. Paul.”

  Weird shit passes through my mind, like I’m jealous and can’t you just borrow the camera without the dinner?

  But I don’t comment.

  He says, “Where’s the barb? The put-down? Go ahead. I can take it.”

  “Thanks for getting the camera.” I reach for the case.

  “Have it back here tomorrow. Aren’t you going to say something about my going out with Tiffany?”

  I want to tell him how I’m feeling, but it would only complicate our situation. “What you do on your own time is your business, not mine.”

  “Fine,” he says and shoves the case into my hands. “And this is your insane business, not mine. Just don’t get caught ‘cause I won’t be there to save you this time.”

  Mike turns and walks away. He knocks over a table of props as he goes. “Hey,” somebody yells. But Mike keeps walking.

  Chapter Twenty

  Belushi, Arnold and another actor wait for their cue. The set is perfect. Everything is ready. Once Arnold walked in F-house our extras immediately cooperated, as if their big brother came in to stop the temper tantrums. I guess Arnold has that power. Now the men seem anxious for the scene to start—showing off for their new friend.

  Mike and I have been busy jotting down which of the inmates is working this morning, just in case they want to film the scene again tomorrow. Found another inmate to take the place of the guy with the jean fetish. Looks just like him, at least from a distance. Lucky for us, the camera didn’t catch his face.

  Vivian’s been pretty quiet today, busy watching Arnold. Ever since he’s arrived she hasn’t taken her eyes off him. I’m grateful. Don’t think my nerves could stand her chatter.

  “We have to do it now,” Captain Bob says while standing directly behind Mike and me. “You get a camera?”

  I turn in his direction, almost startled by his appearance. “Yes,” I tell him and show him the black case to confirm my answer.

  “Good. Got Speck waiting in a room next to the showers.”

  “What happened to the library?” I ask.

  “Can’t get there. Have to do it here. Right now. While everybody’s star gazing. Speck’s clean and sober. Got his lover with him. Time’s right. Should be safe once that camera out there starts rolling. You come with me, Mike.”

  “Me?” Mike says, visibly surprised by the request.

  I jump in, “He doesn’t want any part of it.”

  “Can’t do it without you, Mike. It’s gotta be you. Can’t let Carly do it.” We stand in a tight little circle next to some camera equipment, just behind the director and the AD. Fortunately, everyone in this building is getting ready for the scene to start so their total focus is on the set-up and not on us.

  “What do you mean, can’t let me in? I’m already in.”

  Captain Bob guides us away from anyone who might overhear what we’re saying and continues. “Too dangerous for you, Carly. Warden’s having the entire crew watched and accounted for. Don’t want no repeat of yesterday’s action. He wants you guys out of here ASAP, so the guards are gonna stick to your backs. Make your life miserable until you’re done. Got some of us pulling double shifts just to watch you folks.”

  “I’ll take the risk,” I tell him.

  “I won’t. Gotta be Mike. You go missing, Carly, and somebody will notice. Might blame me. Can’t afford the questions. Not many women on this crew. Can count ‘em on one hand, but there’s plenty of men to go around. Nobody will miss Mike for a long time. The more I thought about it, the more sure I was that things could happen with Speck that you don’t want to see. He might get a kick out of making your stomach turn. Man don’t like women, remember? Don’t know what he might do now that he’s met you. Wouldn’t want to see your picture end up on his wall along with the others.”

  I’m angry now, confused about what to say. A cacophony of voices go off in my head. Mike seems dazed, unable to speak. I stand my ground. “This is bullshit. I have questions. I want—”

  “Don’t matter what you want. The important thing is to get this thing made, right? We’re running out of time. We have to move fast. Speck is waiting. You ready, Mike?”

  Mike takes a step back, away from the Captain and says, “Like I care that Speck is waiting. I tried to talk Carly out of this. I don’t think you’re on the level, so I’m sure as hell not going to take her place.”

  “Look, either you guys want to change Speck’s life in here or you don’t. Simple as that. Whether you trust me or not, don’t matter.”

  Captain Bob seems adamant. I have to think fast. Demand that Mike do it. “If I can’t go in there, Mike, then you have to.”

  Mike turns on me, “I don’t have to do anything. My only obligation this morning was to deliver fifty-five men to this movie set. I deal in fantasy. Since when was it assumed that I moved over to reality? Give it up, Carly. This guy is crazy.”

  I pull the slip of white paper out of my pocket and try to hand it to Mike. Time to appeal to the Boy Scout. “Please do this for me. You’ve always known what I needed and just did it. Like the other night in my room. You knew I was in trouble and you reacted even though I didn’t want your help. Now I’m begging for it. If you can’t do it for me, than do it for those families you saw on our first day here. They deserve to know the truth. Get a reason why he did it. Maybe even an apology from the bastard. We all need to go on with our lives.”

  My hand quivers as I hold the folded sheet of paper. Somehow that speech came up from my soul. Sincerity wrapped in steel. Letting my guard down. Pleading for a favor.

  Mike looks down at the paper, but won’t touch it. He looks back up at me and stares into my eyes. For a moment, a flash, I see all his weakness, all his love. It’s the look the Captain gave his wife on the porch. The look my dad gave my mom every day when I was growing up—before the nurses were killed. Before he changed. I’m a little frightened to see it in Mike. Then, as if he can sense my awareness, he looks at the Captain and says, “Hell, what’s ten years off my life? Anything for your woman, right?” The Captain doesn’t respond.

  Suddenly Mike grabs me and kisses me hard on the lips like a man going off to battle. “If we get away with this, it’s going to cost you, big-time,” he whispers an
d takes the piece of paper from my hand.

  I just look at him. Can’t seem to form any words.

  “Let’s go,” Captain Bob mutters.

  Mike shoves my question into his pants pocket and tries to imitate Bogie, “Here’s looking at you, kid.” He picks up the camera case.

  “Thanks,” I tell him.

  “Quiet, please,” says the AD. “Roll sound.”

  “Speed,” says the mixer.

  Mike and Captain Bob make their way down the ramp that will take them to the showers and to Speck.

  “Roll camera.”

  “Rolling.”

  I look around to see if anyone, namely a guard, has noticed them. No one has. Everyone is intent on Belushi and Arnold.

  “Marker,” says the AD.

  “Scene 16A. Take 1.” The distinctive snap of the clapper echoes through the building.

  “Action,” says the director.

  “Action,” I quietly repeat, as Mike and the Captain disappear from my view.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Arnold walks on camera, Belushi by his side. Belushi speaks, “You. Come here. This is Captain Ivan Danko. He’s come all the way from Russia to speak to your group leader.”

  A black actor, dressed in inmate blues answers. “Well that’s nice, but who the fuck are you?”

  Arnold says, “This man have no respect for our authority as police officers.”

  Belushi says, “No shit.”

  There’s a pause in the action. Jim and Arnold relax. I’m pacing, watching each minute slip by. Waiting for Mike and the Captain to return. I can’t seem to concentrate on anything but what might be going on down in the shower room. Somebody says something and the group breaks up with laughter. I wish I could have heard it. I’m in desperate need of a good laugh. I figure it must be Arnold cracking jokes. He’s great with the men. They love him. The perfect inmate idol.

  Whenever the camera stops rolling the room explodes into a great thunder of noise. It’s given me a migraine. Concentrating on the pain of it helps the time pass.