A Rip in Heaven: A Memoir of Murder And Its Aftermath

by Jeanine Cummins

  Tom had dropped his father’s gaze somewhere in the middle of the little speech and his breath was coming in short quick gasps now. He looked around from the face of one detective to the next and his eyes screwed up again, his cheeks flushing deeper red than before. His lips worked into a tight little bow and he couldn’t speak. He was sure he would vomit but his stomach was empty. His own father didn’t believe him. His mind started to slip away from him and the sound that emanated from him was deep and low, so inhuman that Gene and the detectives didn’t realize, at first, that it came from Tom. It was a low wail that started in the pit of his stomach and caught wind as it moved up and out through his body. It was the sound of pure grief and it broke Gene’s heart to hear it. He put his arms around his son but he couldn’t stop the wailing.

  “Son, listen to me,” Gene tried, speaking directly and urgently into Tom’s ear, raising his voice to be heard over the cries. “It’s okay, whatever happened it’s okay. Just tell me. You don’t have to be ashamed.”

  But Tom was hysterical now and, even if he had had another truth to tell, he would have been unable. His tongue felt thick and he inhaled a torrent of tears through his nostrils and mouth when his wail broke long enough for him to gasp a breath. The episode lasted a few minutes and Tom fought helplessly to regain control of his senses and his body. When he finally steadied his breathing and the tears had slowed to a constant trickle, he spoke erratically. His sleeves sloppily covered his nose and mouth, but everyone in the room caught the thick words.

  “I’ve told you the truth. My God, why doesn’t anyone believe me?”

  His voice was full of desperation and his arms were clenched in front of his stomach as if to quell the nausea. Gene tried in vain to comfort his son, who was rocking back and forth now with his father’s arms around him. It was quiet for a few moments. Then Gene quickly relayed the facts as told to him by Jacobsmeyer, the main reasons why the detectives were doubting his story.

  “The drop from that bridge was ninety feet, son. You couldn’t have fallen from that height. There’s just no way. You probably wouldn’t even have survived,” Gene said softly.

  Tom shook his head dumbly. “I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know what else to tell you. That’s what happened,” he said and he gave up control again.

  To quote the previously cited police training manual, Criminal Interrogations and Confessions:

  Trickery and deceit are at times indispensable to the criminal interrogation process. It was stressed that they do not present the risk of false confessions.

  This manual, the very book used nationwide to train our police officers in how to properly conduct an interrogation, discusses at length the fact that the United States Supreme Court has sanctioned the use of deceit and trickery in interrogation settings. The text also gives various examples of instances where suspects have been tricked into making admissible confessions. Furthermore, the manual actually urges police officers to use trickery and deceit to elicit confessions whenever necessary within the bounds of what it calls “decency.”

  On the afternoon of April 5, 1991, Gene Cummins would have found these simple facts about police trickery to be extremely relevant. For although he was an educated and intelligent man, one who possessed what he would have described as a healthy degree of skepticism about the police in his current situation, he had never read Criminal Interrogations and Confessions. He was absolutely not aware that the police would resort to blatant dishonesty. He didn’t even know that this kind of deception was legal. And because of that, he never expected to sit in Jacobsmeyer’s office listening politely, with his son’s life hanging in the balance a few feet away, while the lieutenant looked him squarely in the eye and fed him outright lies.

  Tom Cummins had not fallen ninety feet from the Old Chain of Rocks Bridge. He had fallen about fifty.

  CHAPTER NINE

  For Tom, the worst moment of the entire ordeal had come when his father had entered that little room and encouraged him to tell the truth. Before that moment, no matter who screamed at him or called him names, Tom had felt sure that somehow, with the help of his family, they could straighten this whole mess out. This was obviously a mistake. A giant, cosmic misunderstanding.

  But with the revelation that his own father didn’t believe him, Tom simply and wholly gave up hope. Sometime during the ensuing hysteria, Gene was bodily removed from his son and Tom was once again alone with Jacobsmeyer and Pappas. He didn’t care what happened now. It could not possibly get any worse. He didn’t care if they arrested him. He didn’t even care if he got convicted. And when Jacobsmeyer hinted that confessing was better than getting the electric chair, Tom couldn’t bring himself to care one way or the other. The electric chair didn’t scare him — it couldn’t be worse than this. He just wanted to be left alone — to cry and to grieve and to sleep.

  “Let’s try this again, shall we?” Jacobsmeyer said, settling into a chair opposite from where Tom sat. “This is what happened.”

  Jacobsmeyer again went through his various scenarios with Tom, who sat shaking his head. But his heart wasn’t in it any more. His denials were growing quieter and weaker with each new accusation, and Jacobsmeyer sensed this.

  “After Robin jumped in to try and save Julie, you freaked out, ran down to the riverbank, and jumped in to look for them. When you couldn’t find them, you went to seek help and that’s when you flagged down the trucker to phone the police. That’s what really happened. Right?” the lieutenant concluded.

  Tom looked up at the ceiling and let all of the breath leave him before answering. “You know,” he began slowly, with the courage born from sheer hopelessness, “you are going to believe whatever the hell you want. I’ve told you the truth. So if this is what you want to believe, then fine. Sure. Why not? That’s what happened.”

  Confession.

  “Bingo,” Jacobsmeyer said, looking up at Pappas, who was in his usual spot behind Tom’s chair. “We’ve got ourselves a confession.”

  Jacobsmeyer and Pappas left the room quickly, like men on a mission, and for the first time all day Tom, left alone, did not sleep. He tried to consider what had just happened to him, and the only emotional reaction he could manage was relief. He was no longer afraid. He had hit rock bottom. The word “confession” didn’t scare him either. There was no tape. He hadn’t signed anything. And the “confessional” phrase had been spat out contemptuously during a moment of sarcastic frustration. Now that was taking sarcasm to a whole new level. Robin would have been proud, he thought, and he giggled to himself. He was still chuck-ling at the thought when the door banged open and Pappas stuck his head in.

  “Come on,” he said to Tom.

  Pappas took Tom down to the basement of the police station and across an ill-lit underground parking garage. An hour ago, Tom would have been terrified at the thought of being alone in a place like this with the brutally intimidating Pappas. But now he felt confident, secure. The man wasn’t screaming or glaring at him. He was walking along beside him, almost like a civilized human being, Tom thought.

  “Where’re we going?” Tom asked, his voice rich with a new boldness.

  “To the video-recording studio,” Pappas answered, less gruffly than Tom had heard him speak all day, “so we can record your confession.”

  It was almost as if the prospect of wrapping up the case had subdued any animosity the man had previously felt toward Tom. He didn’t hate him nearly as much for being a murderer as he had before for being a liar. Tom didn’t have any particular desire to stir up the man’s wrath, so he raised his eyebrows and nodded, remaining quiet. He would wait until the video camera was rolling before he would proclaim his innocence again. They reached a door at the far end of the garage, and Pappas opened it for Tom. They were in yet another long linoleum-floored hallway that was strung with closed doors. Pappas led the way toward one and reached for the knob. It was locked.

  “Shit,” he said. “The equipment guy isn’t here yet. We’ll wait i
n here.”

  He turned and led Tom toward an open door at the end of the hall. Inside there were several snack and soda machines and a table with two long benches. Tom sat down while Pappas threaded quarters into one of the machines.

  “You want one?” he called over his shoulder to Tom.

  “Sure.”

  Pappas placed a cold can down in front of Tom and opened his own as he sat down.

  “Cigarette?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  It was Tom’s first cigarette all day and it did more to relax him than he had ever dreamed possible. He held the Coke in his non-smoking hand and took swigs from it in between drags. Pappas appeared almost pensive beside him, if the man was capable of pensiveness, Tom thought.

  “What the hell happened up there?” Pappas asked quietly.

  Tom was shocked by the utter calm of the detective’s voice. It was almost uninterested. Tom shook his head and sucked on the cigarette, smiling wryly. He felt more in control than he had all day.

  “You know,” Tom said in a strong, clear voice, “when this video guy gets here, and the tape is rolling, I’ll tell you what happened.”

  “Tell me now,” Pappas pressed, like a teenager awaiting some juicy gossip, “What happened?”

  “Okay,” Tom said, nodding and finishing his last sip of Coke. “You want to know what happened? I’ll tell you what happened. You guys fucked up. You have the wrong fucking guy and there are four murderers running around out there. That’s what fucking happened. I’m not making any goddamn videotape and I’m not answering any more questions on the grounds that I may incriminate myself.”

  Tom ground his cigarette butt into the little green plastic ashtray that sat on the table in front of him. He tried not to look at Pappas for a reaction, but he felt good about his articulation. It was a brave statement and it had said all he wanted to say. Pappas nodded beside him and mulled over the remarks. “Okay,” the detective responded dully, “I guess there’s no point in waiting down here then. Let’s get back upstairs and we’ll see what to do next.”

  After a call from Gene during dinner about the news of the disastrous polygraph results, Kay spent the next half hour talking quietly on the phone in her parents’ room. Tink and Kathy couldn’t hear a word despite their best eavesdropping efforts at the door. Grandpa Art shooed them away every few minutes, but they crept back repeatedly. The first call she made was to Sheila at Ginna’s house. Sheila seemed to be waiting by the phone.

  “It’s all sorted out,” Sheila began — all business. “He knows that you may call, although he’s not privy to the details yet. His name is Frank Fabbri.”

  Kay thanked her, jotted down the lawyer’s number and hung up. Her next call was to Frank Fabbri, criminal defense attorney. Fabbri was cordial to Kay, but like Sheila, he was quick — very much down to business. After Kay introduced herself, he began firing off questions almost immediately. Kay answered them as best she could.

  “Do you mean to tell me he’s been down at that police station all day long answering questions without an attorney present?” he asked, almost angrily.

  “Uh-huh,” Kay answered. “He insisted on helping.”

  “Shit,” Fabbri responded, and then, without missing a beat, he began a detailed list of instructions. “Okay, here’s what I need you to do. Call your husband back at the police station. Tell him to go straight to the desk sergeant and say ‘This has gone on long enough. I’m taking my son and we’re leaving.’ Tell him to write down exactly what the officer says, and then to call you back immediately with the response. Then call me back.”

  Kay listened to her instructions, growing more frightened all the time, but her fear seemed to lend her resolve. Now she finally had something concrete to do. Now she could help. The only thing that had kept her from losing her temper with the police up to this point had been her maternal instinct to support Tom. She had been disgusted by the way they had brushed her aside at the bridge that morning. They had patronized her and ignored her in turns, while speaking respectfully and urgently to her husband. They wore their sexism as proudly as their badges, she thought. And now that they had given her a mother’s reason for anger, now that they accused her son, her fury was quick and motivating. She drew in a sharp breath of determination and immediately dialed the number of the pay phone that Gene had given her. The courtesy of the extra detective’s desk and phone in the homicide room had been retracted from him sometime before. He picked up the wall-mounted pay phone after half a ring.

  “Okay, you’re to go to the desk sergeant and tell him very deliberately that you and Tom are leaving. Write down his exact response and call me back,” Kay instructed.

  She hung up and waited. She jumped when the phone rang several minutes later, and she grabbed it. Gene sounded more distraught than ever.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  Kay poised her pen over the small notepad that balanced on her knee, and said she was.

  “He said, ‘You are welcome to go whenever you want, but Tom isn’t going anywhere.’” Gene read from a notepad he had acquired during the day. There was an audible quiver in his voice and he tried to conquer it by clearing his throat. “That was kinda what I expected them to say but still, I sure didn’t like the sound of it.”

  Kay nibbled on her bottom lip and answered her husband with as much resolve as she could muster.

  “It’s fine,” she said, “I think it’s what we all expected. I better let Fabbri know and then I’ll call you back right away.”

  They hung up. Kay dialed more frantically this time. She couldn’t help but notice the way her hand shook while she pushed the buttons. She tried to will stillness and calm into her extremities, but her whole body was shaking with fear and adrenaline.

  “They said he can’t leave.” She spilled the information to Fabbri without even saying hello.

  “All right, I’m on my way down there. You call your husband back, tell him to go back to the desk sergeant and tell him that you have retained an attorney for your son and the attorney’s name is Frank Fabbri. Tell him to demand that the questioning cease immediately and to write down exactly what the officer says again. Kay, your son is so exhausted at this stage, he couldn’t tell the pope what happened,” Fabbri said.

  Kay glanced at the clock on her father’s nightstand and quickly did the math in her head. Tom must have been up for at least thirty-six hours by now.

  “The next few hours are going to get a little hairy for you,” Fabbri continued. “The police don’t want to let Tom go, but they clearly can’t keep him any longer without arresting him, so in all likelihood, he is going to be arrested. The charge will probably be two counts of first-degree murder, but it sounds to me like they don’t have a leg to stand on. Really, this is just us forcing their hand, to ensure that the questioning stops immediately. So don’t let it panic you. I have to get down there immediately, so I’ll call you back after I’ve seen your son. You may want to warn your husband about what I’ve told you.”

  Kay nodded and felt her breath coming in sharp stabs.

  “Thank you,” was all she could think of to say.

  She called Gene with his next set of instructions and asked him to ring her back immediately. When he did, he sounded almost relieved.

  “Well, what’d he say?” Kay asked.

  “I told them exactly what you said, that we had retained an attorney for Tom and that the attorney’s name was Frank Fabbri, and the sergeant’s exact words were, ‘Oh shit, it’s Fabbri.’ I guess this was the right guy to hire. His reputation precedes him around here,” Gene explained.

  “Gene, I have to tell you what else Fabbri said,” Kay interrupted her husband. “He warned me about a couple of things. He says that by forcing an end to the questioning, we are kind of pushing them into making an arrest. Fabbri said that if Tom is arrested, the charge will most likely be two counts of first-degree murder.”

  Gene was silent. Something on the other end of the phone line was
distracting him.

  “Gene?” Kay said. “Gene?”

  He didn’t respond, but she heard the exchange of voices that took place in the police station’s echoey corridor. Footsteps approached. The first voice was a deep one and Kay didn’t recognize it. She couldn’t make out the muffled words, but she heard Gene say, “Yes?” and then the voice came back, clearer this time:

  “Your son is being arrested and charged with two counts of first-degree murder for the homicides of Julie and Robin Kerry.”

  Gene dropped the phone and Kay was instantly frantic. She screamed his name several times, and Tink and Kathy lost their patience, flinging open the bedroom door when they heard the terror in their mother’s voice. They stood clinging to each other in the doorway and didn’t move toward Kay, who didn’t seem to notice their arrival. She had a wild look in her eye and she was pacing with the phone in her hand, screaming their father’s name. After thirty seconds or so, Gene’s choked voice came back, and he sobbed down the line to her.

  “I’ll have to call you back,” he said.

  And before Kay could respond, she was listening to a dial tone.

  When Fabbri entered the little interrogation room where he knew Tom Cummins would be waiting, the sight that met his eyes was even worse than he had expected. He knew what interrogations were like, how traumatic they could be for a suspect, particularly an innocent one. But Tom Cummins looked as if he had been to hell and back. The young man’s eyes were so swollen and red that he could hardly open them, and he made no attempt to speak to this new man who strode in wearing the chic Italian suit. The parade of detectives had been dressed in a virtual array of wardrobes today, everything from grunge to uniform to business casual. And when Fabbri entered, Tom assumed that he was just the latest. Fabbri crossed the small room slowly and lifted his briefcase onto the table. He sat down and looked silently at Tom for a moment. He didn’t know quite what to make of the young man yet, but one thing was clear: he was miles past miserable.