Of Guilt and Innocence

by John Scanlan

  “What about starting some type of fund or foundation in Ashley’s honor? People do that all the time, too. People take up a cause and petition the governor for law changes, they say these things change their lives, make them want to help change things so other kids don’t get hurt.” Mark’s voice was starting to fade. He was throwing out every idea he could think of in an attempt to help his brother. Tom was still his idol, and to see him in such pain and then to hear his name tarnished was agony for him. He wanted desperately for Tom to do something, to stop the public humiliation television shows such as the one he had just been watching would soon bring him.

  But Tom had had enough; his breaking point had been reached. He stood up quickly and faced his younger brother.

  “What the hell do you watch all day? The Kidnapped Children’s Network? How many people do you actually know who have actually gone through this? Huh? I’m guessing two!” Tom took a deep breath to regain his composure and lowered his voice. He moved in closer to Mark and spoke intensely, though his voice was only a whisper, tears beginning to well up in his eyes.

  “I don’t give a shit about any other kids getting hurt. My daughter is dead. Nothing is going to bring her back. Nothing is going to make me whole again. No foundation, no ribbons, nothing. Do I look like John fucking Walsh? I have no causes now. She was my cause. She was the reason I worked hard to make money, for her. That was my cause. I’m not going to be out there begging the person who took her away from me to turn himself in, cause it’s not going to happen. I’m not going to give that piece of shit the satisfaction of seeing my tears. Him or anyone else. No one can tell me how to grieve for my daughter.” Tom stopped, his chin quivering a bit, his eyes wide, staring deeply into Mark’s.

  Mark looked down briefly, then looked back into Tom’s eyes. He felt badly that he had provoked Tom in such a way. These were emotions he had never seen from his brother before. But he knew he needed to press further, for Tom’s own good and the good of his family.

  “There is something else, Tom. A woman named Angela was on television just now claiming to the whole world you had an affair with her.” Tom closed his eyes and kept them shut as he stood in front of Mark. “I’m not going to preach to you about marriage, or even ask you if it’s true. But if it is, you should get in front of this. At least tell Lisa, I mean my God, in her state if she found out from a reporter or the news—” Mark shook his head as he abruptly stopped. Tom took a deep breath and opened his eyes. They were no longer wide and alert. They now seemed tired and worn down.

  “What do you want from me? Huh? I’m a bad guy, Mark, I’m not the person you think I am. I’ve made plenty of mistakes, and now my family is paying for them. What’s left of it, anyway.”

  “Well, are you going to tell her?”

  “I don’t know . . . she’s so out of it she wouldn’t understand. She would be destroyed worse than she is now.”

  “You’ve got to tell her, Tom. And you have to watch her with those prescriptions. She’s taking too many. Take it from me, I’ve been through it. If you don’t help her she’s going to become addicted.”

  “That’s her problem,” Tom said in a cold, uncaring tone while looking away.

  Mark was visibly taken aback by this comment and he shook his head from side to side quickly as if to rattle the words around in his skull to make sure he had heard them correctly.

  “WHAT? What the hell do you mean, ‘that’s her problem’? She’s your wife. She’s all you have now. She is hurting worse than anyone I’ve ever seen and she needs you to keep her from a lifetime of addiction and dependency on things that don’t make her hurt so bad. She will never deal with this if she is doped up all the time like she has been.”

  Tom just stood there for a moment looking away from Mark. He took a deep breath and nodded his head yes, then patted his brother on the right shoulder. It seemed to be enough to satisfy Mark, even though nothing had really been said to that effect, and he lumbered back inside and plopped down on the couch. Tom had no intention at all of doing anything Mark had suggested; he was just too worn down to discuss it any further.

  He had always relished the role of mentor to Mark. He couldn’t open up to his younger brother. To tell him his fears about all the mistakes he had made. He couldn’t tell him that he only cared about himself and not his ailing wife. He had begun resenting Lisa for Ashley’s death, though he hadn’t said so to anyone and had tried not to show it. He actually preferred her heavily medicated as she had been all week because he could be alone and didn’t have to deal with her grief as well as his. Her current supply of oxycodone and the sleeping pills would both last her for about a month, assuming she took them as prescribed.

  Tom didn’t know how long she planned to be medicated and he didn’t really care to know. He was just in a state of being. He was just there. He did not want to think about the future or how he would overcome what had happened. He did not want to look out for his wife. He didn’t care what was being said about him and what his reputation would be. He just wanted to exist in each moment, no more, no less.

  Tom exhaled loudly and sat back down in his chair, his empty gaze returning to the yard. Visions of a strawberry blonde chasing a small dog and giggling resumed. He raised the glass of sweet tea to his lips, then slowly lowered it back to the table.

  CHAPTER 17

  “Make yourself comfortable. You’re going to be here awhile,” the detective said as he took off a pair of handcuffs and guided his prisoner to the chair in front of him. There sat a young black man, roughly twenty-two years old, in a dirty white wifebeater and black shorts. He sat looking down at the table in front of him, his hands placed on either side of his head under his thick, short dreadlocks. The detective sat on the other side of the small table in a similar chair. The room wasn’t a typical interrogation room from television. It was small, with similarly small furnishings. The square table was located in the back right hand corner and only two small folding chairs accommodated it, one on either side. Two other chairs were left unoccupied against a wall and above them hung the obligatory two way mirror.

  Detective Chris Cantore was dressed in a white, long-sleeved dress shirt with a black tie. He had jet black hair that was loosely combed forward and mussed up so that the points formed by his hair product were going in different directions. His brown eyes were fixed on the young man he had before him and he leaned his head down as if trying to look under the dreadlocks that covered his prisoner’s face. “So this is what we got, Jemile. I got you dealing coke and heroin to undercover police officers. Not once, not twice, but nine times. Nine times. That’s gonna set you back, my friend. Oh yeah, and then, and this is one of my favorite parts. Not my favorite part, that’s coming, but one of my favorite parts. So then, when we go to pick you up, you have a crack pipe in your sock and a gun on you. A stolen gun.” Detective Cantore smiled as he continued to look at the top of the dreadlocked head. “You want to say anything to that?”

  “I told you I was holding that gun for someone else, it wasn’t even mine. And there ain’t no way I sold nothin to an undercover cop.” Jemile looked up for the first time with anger in his eyes. “Crooked ass cops probably made up the story just to try to put me in jail,” he said as he looked back down.

  “You know, I thought you might say that, so . . .” Detective Cantore stood up abruptly from his seat. He wheeled over a television which sat on a large podium with a DVD player on the shelf underneath it and placed it in front of the table so Jemile could see it. “Now this is my favorite part,” he said as he turned on the television.

  As the television picture came into view, Jemile could see what looked like a news broadcast. The screen was frozen, but clearly depicted a woman facing the camera holding a microphone. She was on a street and behind her right shoulder, in the background, Jemile could see several people on the sidewalk.

  “Now watch this closely,” the detective said as he hit the play button. The reporter began speaking about a murder that
had been committed in the house she stood in front of and the camera panned over to the house then back to her. Jemile’s right leg began to bounce up and down as he bit his lower lip. The reporter continued, saying that the murder was most likely linked to the South Florida Strangler. Detective Cantore hit the pause button and the screen froze once again.

  “Now that you have just a touch of the back story on this, here’s a better version of this disc. This exact screen, actually. We have some cool toys that allow us to zoom and focus and all that good stuff.” Detective Cantore replaced the disc currently in the DVD player with a different one. It appeared to be the same screen that had been paused on the previous disc, however, it was zoomed in over the reporter’s right shoulder to the people on the sidewalk.

  The people were fairly clear, even though they were slightly pixilated. Jemile recognized himself instantly but remained silent. He stood there, on the sidewalk looking around, facing the camera, obviously unaware he was being recorded. His facial features were difficult to distinguish, but the dreadlocks were perfectly clear. From off camera came another black male who walked up to him and the two slapped hands. Jemile pulled him in for a brief embrace and the man continued on his way. The disc stopped playing again.

  “Now, let’s watch that again in slow motion.” Detective Cantore restarted the disc from the beginning, this time, in slow motion. The image of what appeared to be a hand reaching around the back of the black male Jemile had pulled in for a hug was now visible with the video slowed. That hand, presumably Jemile’s, could now be seen slipping something into the back pants pocket of his visitor. The black male then pulled his shirt down over his back pants pocket and walked away. Detective Cantore stopped the recording again and sat back down, smiling at Jemile, who was leaned back in his chair with his head up and arms crossed. His gaze, though it was on the table in front of him, appeared to be far off. He nervously bit his lower lip. “Do you recognize those guys? The guys on the second disc?”

  “Nope,” Jemile said sharply still gazing at the table in front of him.

  “Well, the first guy, the one in the white tank top looking toward the camera, well, that guy is you, Jemile. Your wardrobe doesn’t change much does it?” Jemile didn’t respond. “And that other guy, the one you pulled in for that warm embrace, did you recognize him?”

  “Nope.”

  “Hmmm . . . you must hug a lot of guys like that then. Pull them in nice and tight. I bet you blew on his ear when you pulled him in, didn’t you? Maybe I’ve got this all wrong, maybe you weren’t dealing drugs, maybe you just like touching dudes. Getting them all close like that. I bet you—”

  “MAN, IT AIN’T LIKE THAT! I AIN’T NO FAG!” Jemile interrupted in an explosion. Detective Cantore just smiled back at him.

  “All right, Jemile, just to refresh your memory a bit,” Detective Cantore opened a folder and pulled out a booking photo of a black male that looked similar to the one in the video with Jemile. “You know this guy, don’t you?”

  “Nope.” Despite his defiance, Jemile knew he was in big trouble. He knew there was no way out of this. Jemile had been dealing drugs since he was fourteen years old. He had had a few brushes with the law but nothing ever resulted in jail time.

  “So you’re probably wondering why I’m still talking to you at this point and you’re not already in a jail cell getting used to your new pad for the next twenty years. Well, because it’s your lucky day, I guess. See, normally I could give a shit about a drug dealing thug like you, but today, well, I’m going to give you the opportunity to help yourself out a little bit. I want your supplier. You know, your buddy from the disc.” Detective Cantore pointed to the booking photo that still lay on the table. “I want him on tape. You know, better than this one. I know you get your stuff from this guy. Slipping that envelope of money in his back pocket, I gotta give it to you, that was smooth. Thank God for video manipulation. Anyway, we know he goes by the street name Prince. His real name is Tashawn Jordan. You’re going to get me Prince on tape discussing his operation and who he gets his shit from. See that’s who we want, and that’s how this works. Hell, he can’t be that smart of a guy either, agreeing to meet you on the street like that when there is a homicide investigation going on two doors down. It gives me hope that you can pull this off. You give us Prince, he gives us his guy. If you do that, well, then maybe some of these more serious charges go away.”

  Jemile smiled at Detective Cantore, flashing his gold teeth. “You crazy right? You think I’m giving you shit? First off, Prince ain’t gonna tell me any of that shit, and he sure as hell ain’t gonna give you anything. And you expect me to wear a wire? He’d smell that shit a mile away. He’d cap my ass. Ain’t no way.”

  “Jemile, maybe you’re not understanding the situation you’re in. A fully loaded, stolen gun was found on your person. A crack pipe was found on your person. Detectives are going to testify you sold them felony drugs nine times. You’re going away for a long time. This is you’re only shot to avoid that. You give us Prince, those things get reduced to maybe a misdemeanor and probation. And besides, what’s Prince gonna think when we show him this video? And then we tell him all the charges we got on you, you think he’s gonna trust that you won’t roll over on him? I’m sure he’s got friends in the can. Guys that would be willing to shut you up for him before your trial.”

  “You ain’t gonna show him this shit! You can’t do that!” Jemile leaned forward in his chair as he shouted. He knew it would mean a target on his back if Prince thought there was a chance he had or would flip. He leaned back with his arms crossed again. He tried to consider what his legitimate options were. If he gave up Prince he knew he would be facing a death penalty on the streets. It wasn’t an option. He shook his head from side to side again.

  “You know what, screw this. Time’s up,” Detective Cantore said as he stood up. “Get up, Jemile, get up and put your hands behind your back. Hope you enjoyed your last day in the hood cause you won’t be seeing it for a long time.” Detective Cantore came around to the other side of the table.

  “Wait!” Jemile shouted as he leaned in his chair away from the approaching detective. “Just wait a second.”

  “You gonna give me Prince?”

  “No, but I can give you something else. If I give you Prince I’m dead. But I know other stuff.” He looked desperately at the detective in hopes he would have the opportunity to bargain for his freedom.

  Detective Cantore looked at Jemile pensively. He didn’t care about anything Jemile had to say other than information about Prince, but something about Jemile’s desperate plea made him curious.

  “OK, Jemile, I’ll bite,” he said as he went back to other side of the table and sat down.

  A week had passed since Anne Bradford’s death and Jorge and the taskforce still had not gathered enough evidence to obtain a search warrant for her son’s apartment or his vehicle. Jorge was confident that Louis had not fled the area as of yet, even though twenty four hour surveillance on him had been discontinued two days ago. Someone drove past the house each day and the car was always in the same spot. Even when an officer was sitting in front they never saw Louis do anything but go between the garage and the main house.

  The police had also confiscated a large sum of money from Anne’s bedroom during a search of her home after her murder, as well as frozen her bank accounts. Jorge was trying to make the decision to flee, and life in general, as difficult as possible on Louis.

  Jorge was certain that something that had been collected from the garage or the main house would come back from the crime lab and link the other South Florida Strangler victims to Louis, and then they would have enough not only for a search warrant, but an arrest. He was hoping for the crime lab’s report on those things today. What had Jorge most anxious was the small amount of DNA successfully collected from the back of Anne’s neck. He had high hopes a profile could be extracted from the samples obtained. If it could, he knew it would be a match to Louis.
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  As the hours ticked away he found it hard to focus on anything other than the pending results, so he, John, and Kristin decided to go to a nice lunch to ease the tension a bit. While there, Jorge received a phone call on his cell phone. The call was brief, but Jorge’s reaction to it was telling to the other members of the lunch party. They assumed this was it.

  “What is it?” Kristin asked, seeing through Jorge’s attempts to hide his excitement.

  “Gonna have to wrap up your meals and eat them later. We gotta meet with Narcotics ASAP.” Jorge said as he motioned for the waitress.

  “Narcotics, why? I thought we was waitin on a call from Forensics?” John said looking confused as he packed up his lunch.

  “We are, but Narcotics just called me, said they got a guy in custody saying he has some info on the South Florida Strangler. They said it sounds legit.” The three hurried out of the restaurant, each carrying a Styrofoam container.

  Jorge, John, and Kristin all pulled chairs up to the table across from Jemile, who by now had a can of cola in front of him. Detective Cantore leaned against the two way mirror and prompted Jemile to tell the detectives what he had told him. Jemile took a sip of his soda and began speaking in a slow, calm tone, much the opposite of how he had spoken in the bulk of his interrogation with Detective Cantore. “The house where that lady got killed, the old lady, I’ve seen stuff there.”

  “What kind of stuff do you mean? Just to be clear, you are talking about 320 J Street, the Bradford residence, correct?” Jorge asked, tape recorder on the table in front of him.

  “Yeah, 320 J Street, a few houses down from me. I lived in that house all my life and long as I been there she lived there with her son, the fat dude. Weird guy, guess he was a child molester back in the day, least that’s what my grandma told me. Anyway, she always told me to stay away from him, you know, when I was younger cause he older than me you know, he like forty.” He took another sip.