James Shannon, as ordinary a man as Gottlieb had ever known, a schoolboy whose idea of acting out was cutting classes to go to a Cubs game. A man of simple tastes and pleasures, who recalled with poignant gusto a lamb stew his dead wife had made decades ago. A man who dreamt his daughter would jump joyfully into his arms one day when he came home from work, a dream as unrealistic as finding a pot of gold on his doorstep. A man with as mundane and uneventful a life as anyone could imagine, except for fathering a monster and then killing her.
Gottlieb recalled with particular vividness the last time he saw Shannon, walking down a corridor, his hands behind him as if held in place by invisible cuffs. He wondered how the man would fare in a state hospital, a place where his story would be common knowledge before his arrival, where his caretakers, as well as his fellow patients, had likely formed the worst possible opinion of him. They might pump him full of meds that would turn his face into a flaccid puff, and make him walk like an octogenarian, and render him so tremulous that he could scarcely brush his teeth. Meds that might make his arms and legs writhe uncontrollably in his old age, assuming he would last that long. Meds he didn’t need in the first place.
Gottlieb was pretty sure he wouldn’t kill himself. The bedrock of his faith, if nothing else, would keep him from it, though others might do the job for him. The perpetrators of vile acts against children don’t fare much better in state hospitals than prisons.
Still, Gottlieb thought Shannon might survive— might even get out eventually—might go ahead with his plan to move downstate and live in semi-anonymity. He’d never be happy (too much had already happened to him), but he might yet derive a measure of contentment from his life. He could take a walk in a park on a cool sunny day, he could spend Christmas or Thanksgiving with his family, he could go to a movie or eat in a restaurant, if he felt like it. He could go to a church of his choosing; he wouldn’t have to take communion in a dank auditorium that doubled as a prison chapel. He could regain at
least part of his former life.
Notwithstanding the horrendous stories his patients told him through the years, and notwithstanding his own experience with angst and trauma, Gottlieb had managed to on to a certain optimism. The horrendous stories were leavened by others that imparted great kindness and self-sacrifice, not to mention an extraordinary ability to survive. And James Shannon had good credentials as a survivor. He’d survived Christina, after all. No trivial feat, thought Gottlieb. There was a chance—a halfway decent chance, in the psychiatrist’s opinion—that Shannon might emerge from the darkness of prison and an unneeded hospitalization, of being reviled and condemned by millions of people who never knew him, and survive to see once more the light of day.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writers who venture outside their fields of proficiency are courting disaster. In my case, I hope this risk has been lessened by the input and advice of experts. Three names in particular come to mind. Reverend Barry Cass tutored me on the theological underpinnings of the concept of evil, especially as it pertains to the New Testament. Dr. Joseph Segal provided me with valuable and pertinent information regarding eye injuries and their treatment. I should add that any errors should be attributed to me and not them.
The third name is a poignant one for me. Samuel Edgar Wilhite was my guide and teacher in matters of criminal law. Ed Wilhite and I met during Eisenhower’s second term; we were college roommates; we remained companions and confidants for many years thereafter. Our friendship lasted until he died, much too young, in the first decade of the new millennium.
Three more notes of gratitude: to my friend and colleague, Dr. Sam Silverman, who read the entire manuscript of Model Child, and who suggested several big and small changes. The result, I believe, is a better and tighter book. I also would like to thank the people at SideStreet Press, Dennis Foley in particular, for their willingness to take a chance on an unknown novelist they’d never met and who lived close to a thousand miles away from them. I am greatly indebted to Cynde Acanto, for her invaluable encouragement and advice, especially regarding the book business, (still a terra incognita for me, for the most part).
The final note of gratitude goes to my wife, Judy Goodwin, who has been, in simplest terms, my most merciless critic and staunchest supporter through the years.
BOOKS BY SIDE STREET PRESS
The Drunkard’s Son by Dennis Foley
Echoes from a Lost Mind by Carl Richards
We Speak Chicagoese—stories and poems by Chicago writers,
Edited by Bill Donlon, et al
And These Are The Good Times by Patricia Ann McNair
Model Child by R.C. Goodwin
forthcoming
The Blue Circus by Dennis Foley
Model Child_a psychological thriller Page 27