Touching Cottonwood

by Randall Simpson

  The circumstances of the escape were rather plain and straightforward. A guard had gone by the escapee’s cell before the first call for lights out and had found it empty with the bed neatly made. A handwritten note to Superintendent Tremont was resting on the fluffed-up pillow, much like a bedtime mint in a five-star hotel.

  The superintendent got dressed and rushed to his facility. Guards rushed to get out of his way as he stormed ahead into his office. He first called in his chief security officer and fired him on the spot, exactly as he had done in all previous escapes. He then mobilized all extra personnel not on duty to report to the facility immediately to assist in a special search of the surrounding countryside. He called the Washington State Patrol and all local police agencies. He did everything that was in his control and power to do. He knew that each minute the inmate was missing, the odds of capturing him, or even of finding him and killing him, decreased. This inmate, especially this inmate, needed to be caught and returned—though killed would suffice.

  After the superintendent had mobilized a search party and done all he could immediately do, he took the time to read the handwritten note from the inmate, thinking it might suggest a place to start in the search. It read:

  Dear Stephen,

  As superintendent of this facility, it will be your responsibility to catch me or, I suppose, even kill me. You will no doubt take my departure from here as a personal insult to you—please don’t. This is not about you, Stephen. As I told you, it was my time to go. You could no more have prevented this event than you can prevent a sunrise or the spring from coming. There are simply things in this universe beyond your control.

  You operate a very tidy and organized facility here, Stephen, and most of the prisoners here deserve this fate, as they actually have committed the crimes they were accused of and need to pay their debt to society. I, however, happen not to be one of those. I was only here because there were some here who needed me, and I’ve done my best to lift their spirits and to show them respect. I hope that after my departure the suicide rate does not go back to its formerly shameful levels. I think easing up on your rigid control could go a long way toward preventing that. There is far more to life than discipline.

  For your sake, Stephen, I would again suggest that you just let my escape go. Consider your record still only at three escapes, as no power on this earth could have prevented me from leaving today. I know these words may inflame you even more, as your pride will suggest that to you. Let it all go, Stephen, and realize that your heart beating, the sun shining, the earth turning, and my leaving are just the way of things—inevitable and inescapable.

  Best Regards,

  Matthew Duncan

  The superintendent folded the note in half and then in half again. He then tore it into the smallest pieces he could manage. If he could have torn it into atom-sized pieces, he would have. He dropped the little pieces into the trash can by his desk.

  “Bullshit!” he said out loud. “Pure bullshit!

  By sunrise the following day, there was no sign of the missing inmate. By sunset the next day, there was no sign. A week later, there was still no sign of Matthew Duncan. A warrant was put out for his arrest, and the case was handed over to the Washington State Bureau of Investigation.

  As the days passed, Superintendent Tremont grew progressively despondent. His anger over the escape turned from the inmate to his staff and then, finally, toward himself. In his mind, he believed he had failed, and for the first time in many years, even since childhood perhaps, Stephen Tremont felt failure. His feelings of failure were his darkness.

  Map of Cottonwood

  Three

  Cottonwood

  In the rugged and ancient mountains and hills of southwestern Colorado, surrounded by the thick trees of the Uncompahgre National Forest, between the larger towns of Montrose to the north and Durango to the south, was the small town of Cottonwood. It was nestled along the Little Bear River, which eventually fed into the larger Uncompahgre. This small and quiet community sprouted from a few miners’ cabins over a century ago. Gold and silver had first attracted the seekers of fortune to this area, and when mining no longer proved profitable, farming and even some ranching were added to provide growth for the town. The fertile lands in the valleys around Cottonwood and the surprisingly temperate climate allowed for prosperous orchards of peaches, pears, and even grapes to be harvested. After mining days had gone bust, it was farm families and farming business that sustained the town.

  But the growth days for Cottonwood had long since passed. Over the previous few decades, the population had been slowly declining. Entire families had moved away, and the youth of the town—its best and brightest and hope for the future—were also leaving. The economic health of the town was poor, and its young people moved away as soon as they reached adulthood—attracted by the lure of exciting new lives and opportunities in larger cities.

  Along Main Street, many of the shop fronts were now being boarded over. Each time a new piece of plywood went up where once a thriving local business had existed, an almost physical pain could be felt in the hearts of those who remained in Cottonwood. Day by day, month by month, and year by year the slow death of Cottonwood was felt and seen by its residents, and there seemed little they could do to stop it.

  The physical and economic decline of Cottonwood could be likened to a slowly spreading darkness, beginning as a slight dimming of the light of a once vital community and moving toward an ever-weakening and ever-darkening future. The town of Cottonwood was dying.

  Equal and parallel to the darkness seen in the physical decline of the town was darkness with another face and form. It came not from without, but from within. This other face of darkness descending upon Cottonwood was something not easily seen. It did not reveal itself in boarded-up shop windows, declining school enrollment, or more homes for sale. It did not reveal itself openly along the streets of Cottonwood. It crept in through the back doors and alleys of the hearts and minds of her residents. It was a darkness born of hardened and rigid attitudes and from seeing the world through ever-narrowing perspectives. Just as old age can stiffen and weaken the body in countless ways, this other form of darkness could be seen in narrowing outlooks and brittle imaginations.

  Every citizen of Cottonwood fully recognized the physical decline of their community, but few of them could see the other hidden face of darkness growing in their midst. Many grieved over the physical decline of their community and prayed daily for some economic miracle to occur to pull the town away from the economic cliff they felt to be plunging over, albeit in slow motion. Few, if any, of their prayers, however, related to the other forms of darkness in Cottonwood.

  On Sundays, Pastor James Harrison of the First Methodist Church of Cottonwood would look over the top of his bifocals at his dwindling and aging congregation and offer up special prayers for the town. The prayers would usually go something like:

  “We are being tested, Lord—we know that—but the faithful remain. There is an answer for our community, and we know that too. We may not be able to see the answer, but in time it shall be revealed to us. Our numbers may dwindle to a handful, but the soul of Cottonwood shall remain steadfast and faithful.”

  And so, day by day, month by month, and year by year the prayers of the Cottonwood faithful were offered up. Even those who lacked faith in prayer held to their unwavering hopes and wishes that, somehow, conditions in Cottonwood would change for the better—before the town vanished entirely. The constant stream of prayers, hopes, and wishes drifting up and out of Cottonwood represented a certain kind of energy and potential being cast out into the cosmos to drift among the wishes, hopes, and prayers of a billion other souls in their never-ending needs. These eternal prayers were all like so many seeds scattered in the wind, blown from a dandelion on a summer’s day, looking for a fertile place to land and just the right combination of water and sunlight to burst forth.

  Four

  The Home

  The Colo
rado Western State Home for the Developmentally Disabled was located about four miles north of Cottonwood. Because of its long name, the facility was simply called “the Home” by residents and employees. It remained one of the few stable and bright spots in the region’s otherwise struggling economy. The facility was by far the largest employer in the area, and the majority of its staff were citizens of Cottonwood.

  The Home was built in the early 1950s. It was located near Cottonwood, because at the time, a certain Colorado state senator from the area chaired the state committee responsible for selecting the Home’s location. Even back then, the gradual decline of the area could be seen over the horizon, and placing the Home in the area was a huge economic win for the region. Without it and the jobs it brought, Cottonwood might have already become just another forgotten ghost town in the Colorado west.

  The Home still had the general look of an institutional building built in its era—clean red brick, accented by gray steel trim; however, there had been a few improvements over the years. Some of its interior had been remodeled to create a more warm and inviting environment for the residents. Narrow and dark common areas had been opened up and brightly lit, with skylights added. Cold, bland tile floors had given way to colorful carpeting and cheerfully painted walls. There was also the addition of a large, secured, outdoor patio area. These upgrades helped improve the overall feel of the Home, though the long and narrow hallways leading to residents’ rooms remained, and a few parts of the building were still oppressive and cramped. Despite some of its dated architecture, the Home remained one of the better such institutions in Colorado, and there was always a long waiting list of people across the state wanting to get family members into the facility.

  The residents of the Home were all severely enough disabled to be deemed unable to ever successfully integrate into society. Several were abandoned by their families at different points in their lives and had become wards of the state. Many needed nearly constant attention, and all were incapable of carrying out most major life functions without assistance. The residents ranged in age from their early twenties to well into their nineties.

  The staff members at the Home were a typical mixture of the highly skilled, the semi-skilled, and the relatively unskilled. This included the blue-collar workers in maintenance, grounds keeping, food service, and security, and the professionally trained doctors, nurses, therapists, and front-office administrative staff. The Home did not have a pastor or chaplain on staff, so Pastor Harrison from Cottonwood was used for such needs.

  As was the case with any health service organization, the staff made the difference in the quality of care. The majority of the Home’s personnel were completely dedicated to the best care possible for the residents. Many of them felt lucky to be working at the facility, as jobs in their particular niche of health care were limited in southwestern Colorado, and without the Home, they would be forced to move to Grand Junction, or perhaps even Denver, to find similar jobs.

  Though the Home was an economic bright spot for Cottonwood and a highly respected institution, darkness had taken root there as well, entangling itself like a vine weed and wrapping its roots deeply into the institution. It was the most selfish kind of darkness, thinking only of its own wants and desires. Though this darkness hid itself well, it was beginning to reach out from its hiding place to scar the innocent lives of others. Over the course of the previous few weeks, several female residents at the Home had been sexually violated.

  The darkness had so far been kept secret from most of the staff and residents’ families. The nature of the crimes indicated that a staff member had committed these reprehensible acts upon these innocents. The few staff that knew about these violations trusted the Home’s chief of security, Eddie Flynn, and the facility’s director, Dr. Paul Reese, to properly handle the issue. Those aware of the atrocities were asked to keep quiet about them for the time being, as they appeared to involve a fellow staff member, and the investigation into the matter needed to be handled most discreetly. It was a sensitive issue requiring a carefully orchestrated internal investigation. These staff members acquiesced to being silent and keeping the crimes a secret, but their silence would not hold forever—they expected quick results.

  Dr. Reese and Eddie Flynn were meeting frequently to discuss the crimes and to develop a plan to catch the perpetrator. The culprit was shrewd and had left scant evidence. State regulations required that in such cases state authorities be notified immediately, but Dr. Reese had delayed that notification. He had put his faith in his chief of security to handle this matter internally for the time being. He reasoned that the fewer who knew about the crimes, the more protected his facility would be from even greater disruptions and the negative publicity that might result from a large-scale investigation. Considering the economic value of the Home to Cottonwood, an investigation could also be disastrous for the community. So, though his patience was not unlimited, Dr. Reese chose to put his faith in the idea that he and Eddie Flynn could catch the perpetrator or perpetrators and quietly end the issue.

  The two men sat in Dr. Reese’s office discussing the most recent incident. Dr. Reese sat behind his desk, and Eddie was seated in a large green leather chair across the desk from the doctor.

  “What about the security camera recordings?” asked Dr. Reese, fiddling with a pencil like it were a small baton. “Surely, they picked up something. Who last entered the room? Who was last seen in the corridor just before the incident?”

  Eddie Flynn shook his head. “There’s not a thing there. Looking at the recordings, you could see the night nurse go into the room, and then she came back a couple of minutes later.”

  “And who was the nurse?”

  “Ann Fontaine,” said Eddie.

  Dr. Reese set the pencil on the desk and rubbed his temple. “She’s got three grown kids, a grandbaby on the way, and sings in the choir. If she’s doing this, our world is in far more trouble than we think.”

  “Ann Fontaine is an unlikely suspect,” replied Eddie. “She reported the incident to me early the next morning, after she finished bathing the resident. I don’t think she’d report her own crime.”

  “Did you compile the full list of personnel on duty that night?”

  “I did,” said Eddie, pulling out a single sheet of paper from a black notebook he held on his lap. He reached across the desk and handed the paper to the doctor.

  Dr. Reese studied the paper for a few seconds and then set it down on his desk. “They’re all as seemingly innocent as Ann Fontaine,” he said, shaking his head. “Someone is not what they appear. You’re sure this is the complete list? No maintenance personnel were called in that night, unscheduled? Maybe to fix a leaky sink or something?”

  Eddie shook his head. “Not as far as I know, but I’ll double check on that.”

  “We need to catch this person soon, Eddie,” said Dr. Reese. “I can’t keep this from the state much longer. You know how uncomfortable I’ve been in hiding this. It’s been far too long already, as far as I’m concerned. I can only give this a few more days.”

  “I’ve got some plans,” replied Eddie. “Remember those extra security cameras I had you purchase? Just this morning, I finished getting them all installed, and I think they’ll help us catch whoever is doing this. They’re hidden well enough that the perpetrator won’t even know they’re being watched. We’re gonna catch them soon—I’m sure of it.”

  Dr. Reese stared at Eddie for a moment and slowly shook his head. “I pray you are right, Eddie—from your mouth to God’s ears.”

  Eddie then left Dr. Reese alone in his office, where he pivoted his chair around to stare out the window at the brilliant-green summer lawn in front of the Home. He knew that if he and Eddie failed, in less than one week, the turmoil and disruption caused by scandal at the Home could forever change Cottonwood. Unbeknownst to Dr. Paul Reese as he pondered his dilemma and cast his silent prayers, the change that was coming to Cottonwood would begin far sooner than he thought a
nd would proceed far differently than he imagined. Even at that moment, change was at the very edges of the town.

  Five

  Suffering

  “Suffering by nature or chance never seems so painful as suffering inflicted on us by the arbitrary will of another.”

  –Arthur Schopenhauer

  A twisted mind sits in darkness, feeling alone in the world—disconnected from all things living or dead. The ability to love, to really love, to love unselfishly, has long since been washed from his heart. His universe is now himself. His needs and his desires are all that fill his lonely void from bleak horizon to bleak horizon.

  So he watches and waits. It is opportunity he is looking for—opportunity to slip between the cracks that open in the world of light where he may insert and impose his dark and selfish world. He is clever and crafty. His is the power of a secret and separate world. This secret world gives him power over the innocent and unsuspecting.

  There are none more innocent and unsuspecting than those who live their lives as residents of the Home. He watches them secretly. He waits for his opportunity and then makes his move. He slides from his hiding place, out along the nighttime corridors, quickly, unseen, or if seen, unsuspected. He waits until the corridor has cleared. It is safe. He quickly enters the room where the innocent sleeps. She is suddenly awoken. Her mind flows from dream to waking nightmare. It happens quickly. He has thought about exactly what he intends to do for a long time. The motions are quick and violent. Any struggle by her is easily overpowered by his strength. Before tears have slipped more than a few inches down her tender and innocent cheeks, the tormentor has vanished. She is left with the unreality of the attack and her inability to fully express her fear and horror to anyone. She feels alone with her pain, disconnected from the world.