“He didn’t fall ninety feet, Mr. Cummins,” Jacobsmeyer said.
“And if there’s anybody in this building right now who can get the whole truth out of him, it’s you. He respects you and he’ll listen to you. He’s obviously petrified. He’s exhausted. But I think he has a very real desire to help. He probably doesn’t understand that making up this story to cover up some more embarrassing truth could destroy our entire investigation. The sooner he tells us what really happened, the sooner you can take him home and we can get the investigation moving in a more appropriate direction. At this stage, it seems to me that you are our only hope of finding any trace of what happened to those girls.”
Gene was silent. He felt uneasy — he didn’t trust this man. Gene was sure that Jacobsmeyer was more suspicious of Tom than he was letting on. It was true that either one of his hypotheses sounded more plausible than Tom’s version of events, but Gene felt pretty sure that Jacobsmeyer wasn’t buying his own theories. He was simply trying to win Gene over, trying to make him feel comfortable so that he would participate in questioning Tom. Ninety feet, he thought. There must be more to this than Tom has remembered or told us.
He glanced up at Jacobsmeyer, whose face was stern and patient. Gene knew that, if he cooperated, he would remain in the good graces of the police department. And that, in turn, would allow him access to his son, and with it, at least some degree of tenuous control over the situation. He was determined to do what was best for his son, to remain intimately involved. Gene lifted his hands from his knees and, lacing his fingers together, almost in a gesture of prayer, placed them in his lap. A flicker of loathing passed through Gene as he looked at the man seated across from him, the man who thought his son was a murderer. I’m gonna prove you wrong, Gene thought.
“I’ll do it,” he said.
In the article “Coercive Persuasion and Attitude Change,” cited at the beginning of this chapter, Ofshe also states that:
Under unusual circumstances, modern police-interrogation methods can exhibit some of the properties of a thought-reform program . . . Although they rarely come together simultaneously, the ingredients necessary to elicit a temporarily believed false confession are: erroneous police suspicion, the use of certain commonly employed interrogation procedures, and some degree of psychological vulnerability in the suspect . . . Tactics used to change the suspect’s position and elicit a confession include maneuvers designed to intensify feelings of guilt and emotional distress . . .
Certainly the circumstances surrounding Tom Cummins on the afternoon of April 5, 1991 could be described as utterly unusual. Bizarre, even. And secondly, as Tom sat in Guzy’s office, staring longingly out at the waning afternoon sunshine, his psychological vulnerability, feelings of guilt, and levels of emotional distress were off the charts. He had been awake for over thirty-six hours, but he no longer even felt tired or aggrieved. His head simply nodded into his chest whenever there was a moment of quiet. But despite his exhaustion and extreme emotional distress, Tom was unbending.
“I didn’t do it,” he repeated to himself, alone now in the quiet room.
In 1988, Ofshe, along with his colleague Dr. Richard A. Leo, conducted a further study for the Northwestern University School of Law. The study was entitled “The Consequences of False Confessions: Deprivations of Liberty and Miscarriages of Justice in the Age of Psychological Interrogation,” and it was published in the Journal of Criminal Law and Criminology. In that study, Ofshe declared that:
Interrogators sometimes become so committed to closing a case that they improperly use psychological interrogation techniques to coerce or persuade a suspect into giving a statement that allows the interrogator to make an arrest.
Ofshe further warned that:
American police are poorly trained about the dangers of interrogation and false confession. Rarely are police officers instructed in how to avoid eliciting confessions, how to understand what causes false confessions, or how to recognize the forms false confessions take or their distinguishing characteristics. Instead, some interrogation manual writers and trainers persist in the unfounded belief that contemporary psychological methods will not cause the innocent to confess — a fiction so thoroughly contradicted by all of the research on police interrogation that it can be labeled a potentially deadly myth.
By the late afternoon hours of April 5, the St. Louis Metropolitan Police Department was under heavy scrutiny from the community, and their desire to close the case was indeed great. Two gifted and beautiful young girls were missing, and the police couldn’t produce any answers about their attackers. They couldn’t even produce bodies. The media had devoured Tom’s wild story about four brutal rapist/murderers, and the sensationalism surrounding the case was reaching heights never before experienced in St. Louis. Julie and Robin were already being caricatured into downright saintly personas in the media. In short, the case was turning into a circus, and the police department was in the center ring. The spotlight was on. They needed answers fast.
When Guzy returned to Tom in the small office, a new detective accompanied him. His name was Christopher Pappas, but Tom couldn’t remember how he had learned the new detective’s name. The niceties that included introductions had now ceased — he must have heard Guzy call the man by name.
“You ready to tell the truth now?” Guzy asked.
Tom nodded. Guzy stood across the desk from him, leaning toward Tom on his fists. The new man, Pappas, now stood behind Tom, who could feel hands gripping the back of his chair. Tom sat forward a bit.
“Good. Now. You didn’t go off that bridge, did you?” Guzy began quietly.
Tom swallowed hard and nodded cautiously.
“God damn it!” Guzy erupted and slammed his two hands against the desk again. “This did not happen! There is no way you went off that bridge. We know you’re lying. You’re just making this harder on everybody. The Coast Guard has told us there is no way you could come out on the Missouri side.”
Pappas threw his two cents in from over Tom’s shoulder.
“I’ll bet you didn’t know there are water-intake valves out there in that stretch of river. You would have come up with a better story if you had known that. If you had gone off the bridge where you say you did, you’d be stuck in a pipe somewhere by now, sucked right in.” The closeness of the man’s voice made Tom cringe, but at least he wasn’t shouting.
“Look, I’ve told you what happened, I don’t know what else . . .”
“Shut up,” Guzy interrupted him. “Just shut the fuck up, scumbag.”
“I want to see my father,” Tom stated then.
Guzy laughed. He actually seemed to find humor in Tom’s request.
“Oh, you want to see your daddy! How quaint,” Guzy mimicked in an unnaturally high and whiny voice. “Well I’m afraid there’s nothing Daddy can do for you now, sonny boy. You’re fucked. We know what you’ve done and you’re not going to see your precious daddy or anybody else in your sick family for a long, long time unless you start telling the truth.”
Tom bit back a sob, shook his head, and remained silent. Guzy pointed to the door, and he and Pappas both shuffled out without further conversation, leaving Tom alone once again. When the door reopened, Pappas was back, and this time it was Jacobsmeyer who was with him. Pappas immediately resumed his position behind Tom’s chair, while Jacobsmeyer sat down on the edge of the small desk, dropping his manila folder theatrically beside him. He sat directly in front of Tom on the little desk and leaned into his face while he spoke.
“Guess who’s here,” Jacobsmeyer said to Tom.
Tom felt a flicker of hope as his mind raced with possibilities. Julie and Robin? Dad?
Jacobsmeyer smiled. “You know the four guys who you say raped and killed your cousins, the four guys you met on the bridge? Well, lucky day for us! We’ve found two of them. Of course, their story is a little different from yours and there are two of them. In a situation where we have their word against yours, we have to take int
o account the fact that your story is, of course, physically impossible. Stand up a second there, son.”
Tom’s heart felt as if it were lunging around inside him, beating against his rib cage one minute, ready to come up his throat and out his mouth the next. His heartbeat was so strong and rapid he could feel it in his skin, in every extremity. His knees trembled as he pulled himself to his feet.
“See that mirror over there?” Jacobsmeyer indicated the mirror on the wall behind him. “Well, it’s not really a mirror, and if you could just stand over there and let those nice young men on the other side get a good look at you.”
“You mean you found those guys? They’re . . . they’re . . .”
“That’s right, they’re right through that mirror. And they told us what really happened up there. We know that you’re the sick fuck who killed those two girls. So stand in close there and let them look at you.”
Tom’s feet were planted firmly on the floor and he twisted hysterically, refusing to move toward the mirror.
“Don’t worry about a thing, they can’t get to you in here. Of course, if you don’t start telling the truth and we’re forced to let you go home, I can’t promise you they might not wait around outside for you. And I couldn’t blame them, really. I think you’re a sick fuck, they think you’re a sick fuck. Only difference is, I can’t really do much to you myself because I’m a police officer.”
“You can’t let them go!” Tom erupted. “If you’ve got them, you can’t let them go, you have to believe me. They raped my cousins.”
Tom was shaking before the mirror, but Jacobsmeyer merely rolled his eyes at the boy’s terror. They made him turn left and then right for a nonexistent audience before they allowed him to sit down again. There was nobody on the other side of that mirror. Clemons, Richardson, Gray, and Winfrey were still at large; there hadn’t been so much as a hiccup in their daily routines, and they were all quite busy getting on with their lives.
“So what do you think now, brave boy? You ready to tell the truth?” Jacobsmeyer asked as Tom tried in vain to control his trembling.
Tom nodded.
“All right. Here’s what I think happened,” Jacobsmeyer began, opening the folder from the desk beside him. “You went to that bridge last night because you wanted to have sex with Julie, didn’t you?”
“No,” Tom said, but Jacobsmeyer continued as if he hadn’t even heard.
“You went to the bridge to have sex with Julie and when she refused, a struggle ensued. According to our two witnesses” — Jacobsmeyer accompanied the word “witnesses” with a flourishing wave toward the mirror on the back wall — “Julie fell and then Robin jumped in to try and save her.”
“No. No, no way,” Tom started. “Those guys are lying. They did it . . .”
“You didn’t mean for Julie to fall, but it happened and you panicked,” Jacobsmeyer continued, increasing the volume of his voice to be heard over Tom’s protestations.
Tom continued to shake his head and murmur his denials, but Jacobsmeyer went on to list various sick and twisted plots, each one incriminating Tom in his cousins’ deaths. Eventually, Jacobsmeyer grew angry and threw the folder to the floor.
“You know what? We’ve been trying to help you out here but we’re not gonna get anywhere as long as you refuse to cooperate,” Jacobsmeyer shouted, looking at Tom with disgust. “You make me sick,” he added, before storming out of the room.
It was dinnertime at Fair Acres Road but nobody was interested in food, least of all Tink. Grandma Polly was desperate to do something helpful and, as was her habit, she sought solace by trying to feed her loved ones. Her petite figure was cast in silhouette as she stood in the kitchen doorway, looking into the darkening dining room where her daughter Kay sat at the table with her head resting in one hand. She was trying to fill her mother in on what had taken place that afternoon, but she couldn’t seem to construct a chronological sequence of events. Every moment since the rude five A.M. awakening was a kind of blur of surreal activity. Grandma Polly wiped her hands on the clean apron she wore and went to hug her daughter.
“How about we make some dinner for these kids, hon?” she asked. “They still need to eat.”
Kay smiled weakly.
“That’s a great idea. Mom, listen, I’m not quite sure how to say this, but I think maybe I should make dinner tonight. The girls love your cooking, but they are really screwed up and I want to try and make things as normal as possible for them. I’m thinking of making something really simple and plain — at least try to trick their bellies into thinking things are normal. Tink hasn’t eaten a bite all day and both of them have been throwing up.”
“Of course, doll baby,” Grandma Polly answered, squeezing her daughter’s hands. “Whatever you think is best. But only if you promise to let me help.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Kay went into the living room, where her father and her two daughters sat glued to the television. Kay’s two brothers had also arrived and were doing their best to lighten the mood without seeming insensitive. Their family tragedy had been advertised every hour of the day on the television as “breaking news” with announcements to “tune in live at six for detailed coverage.” Kay glanced at the clock. It was about five minutes to six, and breaths all over St. Louis were being drawn in. She went and sat between her two daughters on the blue velvet couch, hoping to get a few words with them before the ugly newscast and the inevitable upset that would follow.
“I’m gonna make some dinner.” she said. “What are you guys in the mood for?”
Kathy shrugged and Tink said nothing.
“Tink?”
She shook her head.
“Honey, you’ve gotta eat something. You haven’t eaten all day,” Kay said.
“I can’t eat,” her daughter responded quietly. “I’m not hungry anyway.”
“I’ll make whatever you want — anything you want. Just name it.”
Tink shook her head again.
“I can’t,” she said. “I’ll only throw it up.”
“How about hot dogs? Pancakes? Ice cream? Anything, honey,” Kay pleaded, brushing the bangs away from Tink’s forehead.
Her daughter’s eyes were swimming with tears but she held them in check.
“Okay, I’ll try, Mom,” she finally conceded. “Just make whatever.”
The newscast ended up coming and going rather uneventfully. The media simply had nothing to report. Somehow, one of the local network affiliates had gotten ahold of one photograph of each of the girls and they flashed them at the top of the story, with the names reversed — Julie’s name under Robin’s picture and Robin’s name under Julie’s. It was almost too infuriating to comment on, but Tink wouldn’t let the opportunity pass.
“They could at least get their names right,” she said. “If they insist on invading our privacy and stalking Jamie and making a public spectacle out of our family, they could at least get Julie’s and Robin’s names right.”
Her jaw was set at a hard angle and no one contradicted her. Grandma Polly made supportive tsk-ing noises and Kay rubbed the back of Tink’s hair.
Grandpa Art added, “Now that’s just awful,” and Kathy slipped out to throw up.
Kay’s brother Skip, the family comedian, followed Kathy down the hall to the bathroom door. He waited for the retching sounds to taper off inside and then he knocked loudly, shouting through the closed door. “No point in flushing that — just a waste of water. Your mother is cooking, so we’ll all be in there after dinner anyway. You may as well leave it.”
That did the trick. When Kathy opened the door, she had tears of laughter in her eyes and the living room was erupting in a much-needed case of the giggles.
“Turn this crap off, shall we?” Tink said, in a more normal tone of voice than she had commanded all day.
Grandpa Art hoisted himself out of his chair and flicked off the big television. “Yeah, let’s get some dinner,” he agreed.
As Gene Cummins wa
s led into the room where his son sat trembling at yet another empty table, he felt a fleeting pang of regret for agreeing to participate in this debacle. But he steeled himself for the task at hand. He knew that Tom was incapable of harming anyone, least of all Julie and Robin. Sure, he had a kid’s history of lying and there was a good bit of evidence to suggest that he wasn’t being entirely truthful now. But whatever the truth was, Gene felt one-hundred-percent positive that it would not implicate Tom in any way. He was determined to procure the entire truth from his son once and for all, to prove to Jacobsmeyer and the rest of these guys that, though Tom may have been confused or ashamed, he was certainly not a murderer.
Gene sat down next to his son and they gazed at each other levelly. It was an awkward moment, with all the shifting eyes and heavy silence of the detectives in the room. Gene wished that they could be alone for a minute, that he could just hug his son. Tom’s eyes were full and shining and his cheeks were red and streaked, but he looked composed. He was clearly relieved to see his father. Gene took a deep breath and exhaled his words quickly.
“Tom. We have a real bad situation here,” he began. “I know we’ve had our differences in the past, you told a lot of tall tales when you were a kid and I was awfully hard on you. But all that’s changed in the last few years. That was just regular kid stuff and you grew out of it like I always knew you would. Now you’ve got your life in order and we’re all so proud of you — your mother and your sisters and I. That’s why I want you to know that no matter what happened up there last night on that bridge, you can tell me. I know you wouldn’t have done anything to hurt anybody on purpose.”
A Rip in Heaven: A Memoir of Murder And Its Aftermath Page 14