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

by Jeanine Cummins

  He bounded down the steps and crossed the street without looking for traffic, lucky that it was a weekend afternoon and there weren’t many cars on the road. He didn’t stop until he got to the far curb. He looked back across the street to confirm that no one had followed him, and then lowered himself onto the curb to think for a few moments, acknowledging the searing pain in his right hip for the first time. He flinched, but the pain passed once he was seated and he concentrated on trying to take stock of his situation.

  He was somewhere in downtown St. Louis. He was in the business district and there weren’t many people around. He guessed by the afternoon light that it was somewhere between three and four o’clock. He didn’t have a single penny and no one had been waiting to collect him upon his release from jail. Fabbri had been so adamant that his family was behind him, supporting him. And his father had embraced him so tenderly at the elevator the night before. But he hadn’t had any direct contact with any of them since. Surely they hadn’t abandoned him? Tom’s life had changed so utterly in the last two days that he couldn’t be sure of anything any more. Maybe they did think he was a murderer. Maybe his parents had decided that, after all, it might be better to cut their losses and leave him to get himself out of the situation he had dragged them all into. There was only one way to find out. He had to get to a phone.

  He looked around and realized he was on the edge of a parking lot and that there was a pay phone not too far away. He made his limping way toward the phone, the pain in his hip demanding more delicate movement now. He didn’t think about the fact that he had no quarters until he was standing in front of the phone staring at it, but that problem was easily enough solved: he would call collect. The more urgent problem, clearly, was what number to call collect. He knew his grandparents’ address by heart but the phone number had never seemed that important before. He was usually dialing out from there, not in. Besides, Julie knew the number, so if he had ever needed to call and tell his parents he’d be home late, she had just dialed for him. He cradled the receiver against his shoulder and dialed 411 with a visibly shaking index finger.

  Within a minute, the operator had connected Tom’s collect call to the name and address he had supplied. Grandma Polly answered on the second ring.

  “Grandma?” he said, but the operator was talking over him.

  “Will you accept a collect call from Tom?” she said in a pinched and nasal voice.

  “Of course!” Grandma Polly responded, and Tom’s heart melted once again with relief at the sound of her voice.

  “Grandma?” he said. “I got out. They let me out and I don’t know where to go. Nobody was here to get me and I don’t have any money for a taxi — I don’t even know where I’d get a taxi and I’m afraid to go back into the police building in case they decide to lock me back up or something . . .”

  Tom’s words came rushing out, and if it hadn’t been for the raw emotion he was feeling, he would have felt rather silly for the tumble of timid words.

  “Listen to me, doll baby, everything’s gonna be just fine,” Grandma Polly soothed. “Your mom and dad are on their way down there right now. They just got the call about fifteen minutes ago and they rushed outta here like a whirlwind. They should be there real soon. You just sit tight, you hear? Don’t worry about going back inside there. If you’re scared, then you’re right to be scared and you just follow your old instincts. Stay right where you are — they’ll find you.”

  Tom picked at a sticker that was peeling from the corner of the phone box and the tears came rushing down his face while his grandmother talked. It was so good to hear her voice. And she was so loving and encouraging that all of his previous fears were allayed. He knew he should hang up soon, that this collect call would cost her a fortune.

  “Okay, Grandma, I’ll wait here. I guess I better go — I called collect,” he said. But despite his best efforts to sound strong, the tremble in his voice was unmistakable.

  “You’re just gonna rush off the phone like that?” Grandma Polly teased. “You run off and have all these adventures without us, and now you won’t even give me the time of day on the phone. You have an appointment or something? Something more important to do than fill old Grandma in on the happenings?”

  Tom laughed, clearly relieved that she wasn’t letting him go. She had sensed his trepidation and she didn’t care if this call ended up costing half her life savings. She wasn’t about to hang up that phone.

  “Tommy, I don’t know if I told you this, but I’ve been learning that electric slide dance? I’m getting real good at it, you know. I was showing Grandpa just the other day — I did a whole demonstration for him right there in the living room. He was sitting in his favorite chair, so I made him put his newspaper down and I put on a little country music and I did that whole electric slide for him. I just love to dance. Do you know the electric slide dance?”

  “Uh, no, Grandma, I can’t say that I do,” Tom responded.

  He knew what she was doing, trying to distract him from his predicament, but he was so caught off guard by the image of his grandmother partying around the house to Garth Brooks that the tactic was actually working. He was laughing instead of thinking about the fact that he was standing alone in a nearly abandoned parking lot with a broken hip, a broken life, and two dead cousins.

  “Well, it’s a date then. As soon as you get home, I’m gonna teach you the electric slide. That way, whenever one of you kids is ready to get married and we throw a big old party for the wedding, you and I can cut a rug together. What do you say to that?”

  “Sounds great, Grandma,” Tom answered. And he meant it.

  Gene and Ginna’s parents, Grandpa Gene and Grandma Maria, had arrived in St. Louis from Florida early that morning, much to the relief of the gathering siblings. Grandpa Gene had always been a force to be reckoned with. As a young man, he had studied for the Catholic priesthood for seven years before meeting his wife and falling in love. He married Maria after a whirlwind courtship and, instead of becoming a Catholic priest, he became a Catholic salesman, for John Fabick Tractor Company. But his faith in and devotion to God had never wavered over the years, even when he had chosen the marital vocation instead of the priestly one, and he had raised all of his children strictly in the Roman Catholic tradition. Even now, despite his age and arthritis, all eight of his children considered him one of the most powerful, most dedicated, and most intelligent men they had ever known. And his friends and colleagues agreed. So there was an unspoken sense among the siblings that his arrival in St. Louis would mark the beginning of the end of this tragedy. To some degree, they had maintained their own childhood mantra, “Don’t worry — Daddy can fix it.”

  Grandpa Gene’s impeccable honesty, solid work ethic, and tremendous success had earned him quite a reputation in the St. Louis business community. People knew his name and respected him. But it was his personality that people most admired. Grandpa Gene loved a good story, and was known to employ all props within reach when relating one of his tales. At the dinner table, for instance, he’d use a knife to represent whatever street he was describing, and then he’d reach for the salt and pepper shakers to stand in for the buildings. He sometimes became so engrossed in the construction of his scene that he forgot where the story was going. But he always managed to find his way back to the punch line and earn a few laughs from his listeners along the way. His quick smile and the twinkle in his sharp blue eyes hadn’t faded a bit over the years, and he still used them to flirt with Maria, the love of his life.

  Kevin had collected Grandpa Gene and Grandma Maria from the airport early that morning and had checked them into the local Marriott before driving them to Ginna’s house. First Grandpa Gene stopped to privately speak words of comfort to his daughter and share some tears. He then made a beeline for the telephone and started dialing, calling in favors. He spent the next hour calling every contact he could think of in St. Louis — and that was no small list. Grandpa Gene had friends in the Coast Guard, friends
in the police department, friends in the government. He even had friends in the St. Louis Cardinals baseball administration, although he couldn’t think of any way they could be particularly useful at the moment. He called everyone he could think of, and before the hour was out, he had left a tidal wave of information-gathering, damage-controlling, eager-to-help activity in his wake. He would see to it that every possible human effort was made to find his granddaughters.

  As they pulled into the half-empty parking lot, Kay and Gene were surprised to find their son limping to approach the van before they could even park. They had assumed he would be held inside until they arrived to pick him up. After a brief and tearful reunion, the threesome drove straight to Frank Fabbri’s office. Tom wanted to know how the family was holding up, and Gene filled him in while they drove.

  “I want to go and see Ginna as soon as we’re done here,” Tom said as they pulled into the driveway that was Fabbri’s parking lot.

  Gene thought for a moment before he answered. He knew that this wasn’t his decision. “Okay,” he responded.

  Fabbri set Kay and Gene up comfortably in a separate, if similarly decorated, room across the hallway from his personal office. He supplied them with yellow legal-sized notepads and a variety of pens, suggesting that they might spend some time writing notes about their experiences over the last forty-eight hours. Anything at all they could remember about any interaction with the police would be helpful, he explained, starting with the very first moment of the ordeal, right up to the present. He offered them use of a phone if they needed it. Then he crossed the airy hallway and closed the big wooden door, shutting himself and Tom inside his chrome-and-black office where they could talk privately and at length about his circumstances. Kay started writing her notes immediately, while Gene sat down and dialed Ginna’s number. His own father answered.

  He was forty-six years old and he still greeted his father with “sir.” Grandpa Gene listened intently while the younger Gene explained what he expected the next few hours would bring. Fabbri had insisted on seeing Tom right away, before he was taken home, he explained. And Tom was anxious to see Ginna, so they would be bringing him by on their way home.

  “I’ll arrange to get Tink and Kathy over here too, then,” Grandpa Gene said.

  Gene thought about arguing, about explaining Rick’s discomfort with the situation, but he stopped himself before he started. There was no use arguing with Grandpa Gene anyway. The man was almost always right, and young Gene felt reasonably sure that this time was no exception. The decision had been made and it was final. By the time the two Genes hung up, someone was already en route to pick the two sisters up from Fair Acres Road.

  The sun had set again and dusk was dropping down over the eaves of Ginna’s crowded little home on Petite Drive. Tink and her cousin Danni Thess were parked on the living-room sofa, keeping a lookout for Tom’s arrival. The night before they had been told he was on his way home, and the next thing they knew he had been arrested. The relief everyone had felt with the news of Tom’s release had been replaced with a growing sense of unease as the day stretched into evening and Tom still made no appearance at the house.

  When the big blue van finally did round the corner and approach the house under the canopy of trees, Tink slapped her cousin’s leg and they both stood, pressing their faces against the darkening glass. Grandpa Gene noticed this, and within a moment he had motioned Tink and Kathy alone out onto the front step and gathered the rest of the large family into the kitchen to give them privacy.

  Tink linked her arm nervously through her sister’s and their two stomachs rolled in unison as the van approached the driveway and made the turn. Their father was driving and their mother sat in the passenger seat beside him. The blue polyester curtains were pulled tight over the back windows so that the seats inside were obscured from view. Kathy gripped Tink’s hand as they waited for the van to stop. They prayed that the back door would open and reveal that their brother had come home.

  Tink and Kathy watched as the van stopped and their parents unstrapped their seat belts. No lips were moving in the van. Nothing was being said. But in a moment the van’s back door creaked open and Tom’s face appeared over the doorjamb, his eyes seeking his sisters before he even moved to climb down from the van. Seeing them, he gave a brave smile and stepped carefully down from the high step. Tom descended from the van like an old man. He put one foot and then the other shakily down onto the asphalt in Ginna’s driveway before turning to walk toward the house. He left the van door standing wide open behind him and limped up the driveway toward where his sisters stood waiting for him. As he came closer they could see that his lips were white with dehydration, his filthy hair stuck up at crazy angles, cemented in place by river water and silt, and his shoulders were hopping with lice from his night in jail. He limped toward them and tried to smile, but his face was twisted with the effort and he held his arms out to them as he came nearer. Tink and Kathy enveloped him in a hug and all three of them gave over to desperate tears. The three siblings just stood gripping each other and sobbing.

  “I love you, Tom,” both girls said over and over again. “Thank God you’re home.”

  “I love you guys too,” he answered, burying his face between their shoulders.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Tom’s reunion with Ginna was brief and fraught with emotion. He sat with her for fewer than fifteen minutes on her living-room couch, their four hands knotted together on a pillow across their laps, their faces tight with tears. Gene and Kay were anxious to get their son cleaned up and into a proper bed for the night, but they cleared the room, giving Ginna and Tom time alone together first. Ginna offered him the comfort he so needed.

  “Of course you’ve done nothing wrong. We’re going to get through this, you poor thing,” she said to him.

  And, at the back of his mind, behind his relief and gratitude, he marveled at her ability to console him. When he stood to go, he bent over her trembling figure and Ginna held his face in her hands. He whispered into her ear words for her alone, and he kissed her face before limping out of the house and back to the van.

  It was the beginning of another long night — the second sunset without Julie and Robin. And though hope of finding them alive was waning with each passing hour, no one seemed able to foster any sense of finality without news of a discovery. The hours stretched on in limbo. Again, no one really slept much that night except Tom. But he slept deep and black enough for the whole family to draw strength from his rest.

  * * *

  When the Cummins family awoke on Sunday morning, April 7, 1991, the front page headline that greeted them invoked fresh despair. The St. Louis Post Dispatch printed: “Suspect In Deaths Of 2 Women Freed During Search For Bodies.” Tom’s name was muddier than ever.

  Tom sat at his grandmother’s kitchen breakfast table, enjoying his first cup of morning coffee with newborn appreciation. He leafed gingerly through the newspaper while he sipped. After reading the headline, he cringed as he turned each page, as if the words and pictures they contained actually caused him physical pain. In the end, he found they didn’t. He didn’t even bother reading the rest of the article in which he was labeled “suspect.” Skipping it, he missed the few sentences that read, “Police had been searching Friday night for the owner of a large flashlight, inscribed ‘HORN 1’ that was found on the bridge. Sgt. Dan Nichols, of the homicide division, said Saturday that police knew the identity of the flashlight owner. He declined to say whether the person had talked with police.”

  Instead, Tom found himself drawn to a mini-article about Julie’s poetry. Her photograph smiled out at him from under the headline, “Woman Who Fell From Bridge Is Recalled As Promising Poet.” A chill ran down Tom’s spine while he tried to shake off the headline’s image of Julie falling from the bridge. One of her English professors at UMSL was quoted in the article, saying that Julie was “the most promising poet I ever taught.” Well, I could have told you that, Tom thought. The pape
r had printed an excerpt of one of her poems:

  Surviving on tired manuscripts

  And dog-eared love letters,

  We saw it coming.

  We used to wait for it

  In cozy cafes,

  And prophesize with our pens

  On paper napkins

  Color it with chalk

  On city sidewalks.

  Tom read it over and over again, until his coffee cup was empty. The poem was no different in the paper than it had been when Julie had sent it to him in one of her letters. Sure, it was in type instead of Julie’s neatly printed handwriting, but the sentiment was the same. When the splatter of his teardrops threatened to turn Julie’s poem into a gray and jumbled mess, Tom closed the paper and pushed the unread article away. He cried quietly for a few moments, but his grief was confused by his fear. He was still a suspect and he was still terrified.

  Detectives Trevor and Brauer didn’t have to look hard for Richardson. They reached his neighborhood early in the morning hours, when people were just starting to trickle out of their homes, some in bathrobes, snapping up their morning papers. Others were in their Sunday finery, herding their families to church. The unmarked squad car crept quietly through Northwoods, failing in its efforts to appear discreet. The detectives parked at the intersection of Barken and Edgewood and double-checked their witness’s address before getting out of the car.

  The banging went on for a couple of minutes before a sleepy Richardson cracked the door open to peer out at the two detectives from behind the apartment’s chain lock.

  “Antonio Richardson?” Detective Trevor asked.