To Probe A Beating Heart

by Wren, John B

  To Probe a Beating Heart

  To Probe a Beating Heart

  The Fall of a Serial Killer

  JOHN B. WREN

  To Probe a Beating Heart

  The Fall of a Serial Killer

  Copyright © 2011 by John B. Wren

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011909307

  Printed in the United States of America

  Cover Design By Katie G. Jones

  ISBN 13 978-0-9889371-0-9

  ISBN 10 0988937107

  For Lois

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to acknowledge the input of my wife, Lois who read the first several versions, always with a positive attitude, offering suggestions and correcting my grammar and spelling. I also want to recognize Melanie Rigney and Sarah Collins Honenberger for their early editorial comments in producing this novel. The characters in the work are fictional and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental.

  INTRODUCTION

  The Clan, quietly opened their eyes and ears . . .

  In 1876 in a small town in central California, Liam Rynne, a young boy, went missing on a warm June afternoon. It was assumed after a few days that he had been taken by some wild animal and would never be found. Three years later while clearing land for a new road, Liam’s remains were found buried not far from his home. The area was, at the time of his disappearance, unsuitable for anything and remained untouched during those intervening three years.

  Based on the condition of the bones, the spattering of blood on his clothes and the damage to his skull, it was determined that he had been severely beaten and murdered. Liam’s killer had buried him in a shallow grave and covered it with rocks to keep animals from resurrecting his bones. His shirt, belt and shoes were still identifiable as belonging to him and the matter became a murder investigation immediately. After some questioning of the family and friends, several conversations with the local population and a bit of actual police work, a suspect was identified. Carl Mason, however, upon hearing that the burial site had been found, decided that his fortunes were better pursued “back east” rather than in California and hurriedly left town in the middle of the night.

  Liam was dead, Carl had run off and the local authority had neither the will nor the resources to dedicate to a long distance pursuit. Liam’s family had no ability to inspire the authorities to continue the pursuit of Carl and the case was thus closed. That, however, did not end it for Liam’s family. The Celtic Clans of nineteenth century America did not hold the same qualities of the Clans prior to the sixteenth century in Europe, but a “Clan” kinship was still felt in many respects. The family has always been a very basic and solid unit within the Irish communities. The relationships crossed many divides and it was and is common to know of a “cousin” who is several times removed, but a cousin nonetheless. The kinship and resulting support of the family or the Clan was a factor in many an introduction, or in a helping hand to someone a bit down on his luck or to a group traveling across the country to new beginnings.

  So it was with Liam’s family. When it was made known from father to son, brother to brother and cousin to cousin that Liam’s killer was getting away with murder, word spread across the country like a cold wind. This cry of injustice spread throughout the Clan and crossed to other families, other Clans. The thought that someone could commit such a crime against one of their own and go unpunished incensed the Clans and inspired a number of them to keep an eye open and an ear alert, because, sooner or later, someone may well see or hear of this Mr. Mason, and justice may be found.

  Actually most people figured that Carl had gone somewhere else and they would never see or hear of him again and poor Liam’s family would not find that small modicum of justice to which they were entitled. Whatever the specific scenario that actually occurred, Carl was eventually found.

  As the story is told today, a distant cousin of Liam’s who had seen one of the pictures of Carl, spotted him while traveling through a small town in Kansas in 1880 and the local authorities were notified. Slow reaction by the police and again no resources allowed Carl to run once again, this time to Oklahoma. It did make the newspapers in a few states and after a short time, he was again located by another in Liam’s extended family later that same year. This time, three rather large and rough “cousins” took it upon themselves to seize Carl, secure him with rope and chain and secret him back to California. They immediately took him to James Rynne, Liam’s father, for disposition. James was not sure what to do. After some consideration and discussion with his brothers, James determined that since the local authorities did not do their job initially, they, the family, would handle Carl’s punishment. The family was very basic, lacking in sophistication in these type matters and they did not want to simply murder Carl. He had to be “punished” for his action. They did not want to hang him, or shoot him, that would be too quick. They considered stoning him which would allow everybody to participate, but that would not do. No, it had to be more meaningful. “Liam was missing for three years,” said his father, “Perhaps Mr. Mason should also be missing for that long.”

  James’ brother, Samuel suggested “a reasonable and equitable punishment.”

  So it was, that three years later, a young attorney with a Boston law firm, a relative of Liam’s family, several times removed, was anonymously contacted by one of the Clan and advised that his distant cousin’s killer was ready to be returned to the system that had failed to find and punish him. Carl Mason’s remains were to be found in a deep and open pit several miles from the location of Liam’s shallow grave site. The Clan had done what the authorities could not or would not do.

  * * *

  The Clan MacLaragh and the sept, Rynne, are parts of a very loose grouping of families and individuals, continues to the present day and as in the case of Liam, they remain ready, willing and able to respond to the injustices that the authorities cannot or will not address. These incidents are very few, but nonetheless very real. In the fall of 1991, a little girl of the Clan disappeared from her neighborhood of Cleveland Heights, Ohio without a trace. The predator, seen in a rainstorm from a distance, could not be identified and the Clan, quietly opened their eyes and ears, patiently observed, gathered information and waited for that unknown individual to make a mistake.

  * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  Starting his life with a negative balance . . .

  All stories have a beginning and no matter how far back you go, that starting point seems forever flexible. We will begin this story with the development of the predator himself. He began his life within unfortunate circumstances, beginning with his very conception, continuing to and beyond his birth and childhood.

  * * *

  It was the summer of 1967, Nadia Lupasco, a slight, almost attractive girl, with large dark eyes and pitch black hair, had just finished her last year of schooling in Darza, Romania. She was looking forward to becoming a member of the working population and living in Bucharest. Like many unfortunate young girls, she trusted the wrong young man and a night of pleasure led to an unwanted pregnancy. Stelian, a tall, athletic looking young man with dark hair and eyes to match was a promising young football player. His interest was go
ing to America to become a rich and famous athlete. He flirted with Nadia and charmed her into his hotel room and his bed. She listened to his boasting, believed his ‘come on’ lines and imagined herself going to America at his side. Stelian saw her as a one night stand, a night for which she should be grateful and he was gone in the morning before she woke, never to be seen again. That one night, the first ever away from her home and the subsequent fight with her mother together with the threat of a beating at the hand of her father, further darkened her horizons. Nadia was not brave, nor was she very strong, but she decided that she was now eighteen and did not have to put up with this treatment from her parents. Quietly, she packed a bag with her few better outfits, took all the money she could find in the house, secreted herself to the kitchen where she took a loaf of bread, a block of cheese, a knife and a few apples, and walked quietly out the door. She would never return. She would never see her mother or listen to her screaming again. She would not face her father, nor would she have to hear his ranting or suffer his beating. Nadia took the train to Bucharest where she would start a new life, a better life.

  A week of flop houses and diminishing money led Nadia to a restaurant that was looking for a serving girl. She took the job and earned enough to pay rent in a cheap boarding house where some of her co-workers lived. As time passed and the routine became more mundane, she started having a drink or two at the bar every night before going home. After ten weeks on the job, she noticed that her belly was beginning to swell. She drank more, cared less and started to beg cigarettes from her friends. When offered a line of white powder for the first time, Nadia knew she should have said ‘no’, but was seduced with the thought of sweet oblivion. One line led to another and she was soon addicted. The drug was free at first, but once she was hooked, there was a price to be paid. Nadia had very little money and the bill was settled in cash when she had it, but more often on her back, and in time it no longer mattered to her.

  At an early stage in her pregnancy, she attempted an abortion with the aid of one of her co-workers. That failed abortion attempt, her addiction to the white powder and securing her place of employment by sleeping with her employer made her existence so shameful that she often thought about allowing herself to fall into the river and float away. Her pregnancy continued to its term, complete with the indefinable effects that the alcohol and drugs that she put in her undernourished body would have on her and her developing baby.

  When the baby was finally born in April, 1968, she gave him up immediately to an orphanage, not wanting to be reminded of that night, nor the young man whose name was Stelian. In filling out a form at the clinic asking for names and such, she wrote Stelian as his first name, a name she did not like, and ‘Lupasco’ was entered by the clinic as the surname. The name meant nothing to her and she just wanted to be away from the clinic, the baby and the memory of that night and the previous nine months. Nadia drifted back to her serving duties and resumed her destructive path of drinking, smoking, doing more frequent lines of cocaine and very slowly dying.

  Young Stelian’s first year was spent in an orphanage in a small village outside Bucharest. It was a wretched place with substandard care and the occasional vermin scurrying through the nursery. Food was never adequate, and the children’s sickly pallor combined with slight statures and vacant eyes evoked sympathy before reason. It was a heart wrenching place to see, and even more so in which to live. Nadia had continued on her self-destructive path, Stelian the elder, unaware of his offspring had left town and Stelian the lesser was alone, in this cold and unforgiving place. Neither Nadia nor Stelian the elder gave thought to their child starting his life with a negative balance.

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWO

  Then he heard a voice . . .

  Stelian the lesser was almost a year old when an American couple came to the orphanage looking for a baby to take home to complete their family. Ellie and Allen Swall, had been married for six years and as much as they tried, they were not successful in having children. Allen wanted a son to brag about, Ellie wanted a daughter with whom she could have afternoon tea. Most of all they both wanted a bright, healthy child that would make them proud and complete their family.

  Adoption was not a consideration until the doctors indicated there was no other way. Adoptions in the United States were difficult if one’s history was less than perfect and all but impossible if there were large enough flaws in your record. However, foreign adoptions were relatively easy and less expensive in the long run. Both European and Oriental sources were considered and the European market won. It would please the Swalls to have a child that resembled them. Allen was of Mid European descent, Ellie was mostly Hungarian with a touch of Romanian. She had dark brown eyes and long black hair that she brushed constantly. Ellie was naturally dark, an almost permanent tan color to her skin, and tall, standing eight inches over five feet without shoes. She was a very attractive woman, and drew the attention of both men and women. Allen was tall, athletic of build and also darker in eyes, hair and skin coloring. This was a fit that could not be ignored. The Swalls could little afford multiple trips to Romania, the selection was not as wide as they had hoped and the choice was quickly made.

  Stelian Lupasco was adopted by the Swalls and would go to America. America, that adventure that his father had wanted and would have done anything to achieve, that adventure that his mother had dreamt about with her tall handsome football player but would never realize, that dream such as it was, would now be little Stelian’s. He was far too young to understand the concept of a new country, of a new family, but he was bright enough to see that changes were happening. Once he was held by someone who wanted him, once he had a meal that satisfied his hunger, once he slept in a clean warm bed only to wake to someone who held him and fed him again, he sensed that his life was better, he was beginning to feel a sense of “safeness” that he never felt before. His greatest problem now seemed to be learning the new words that they used. Stelian could not understand anything they were saying.

  Names were important to Ellie, and Stelian was not an acceptable name. She had thought of a number of names in the years that she and Allen tried to have children and one came to the fore more than any other. Allen had his wish, a son and he was not about to deny her that choice of a name. Ellie’s grandfather was always nice to her when she was growing up. He brought her presents when he visited and made her birthdays more memorable by taking her to Disney World four years in a row. Her graduation from high school was made special when he handed her the keys to a new car. Grandpa Averell passed away less than a year after that and the last gift from him was an inheritance that would provide her a small, but regular income for the rest of her life. She wanted to name her son Averell in his memory. How could Allen argue?

  Thus, Averell Swall came to America at the age of 11 months to begin a new life. A life that would find many doors to dark corridors that would end in disappointment. His first year was one of learning the new words, new faces, new feelings and a sense of comfort and security. He now had someone to hold on to and feel the warmth of another being. He now slept through the night with no fear and no hunger. He now awoke in a sun lit room to someone who picked him up and held him as she gently spoke to him and fed him. He was learning what love was, something sadly lacking at his previous home. His new home was a single family residence in a middle class neighborhood of suburban Syracuse, New York. The houses were built in the twenties and the thirties and featured large block foundations, clapboard siding, large windows, high ceilings, crown moldings, coal fired furnaces and poor insulation. Home improvement projects were undertaken to correct a number of these energy expensive features and brightly painted walls along with new appliances made these homes more desirable to the upcoming young professionals. The Swalls had purchased their house in 1964 after the installation of a new gas fired, forced air furnace with the space allowed for an air conditioning coil to be added later. Summers in Syracuse were burdened with few excessively
hot days and window fans were less expensive than having an air cooling coil and condensing unit installed. The Swall’s home was a square looking house with a large roofed front porch that ran the width of the house and an average front yard. Allen had planted flowers along the front of the house, to complement the boxwoods that had reached a height of three feet, matching the height of the floor of the porch. The first floor had a living room with a wood burning fireplace, dining room, kitchen and a small den. The second floor held four bedrooms and a large bathroom with a walk in shower that was placed next to the ancient cast iron bath tub with claw feet in one of the recent improvement projects by the previous owner. There was an attic that was unfinished and contained boxes of seasonal clothing and decorations and other boxes of things left to them by their parents. The basement was a dirty place where the furnace, washer, dryer and an extra freezer were kept. Ellie had been petitioning for the washer and dryer to be relocated to the den to save her time and energy when laundry was to be done. Allen had begun moving his books and the family financial records out of the den and up to the second floor in the smallest bedroom. With Averell’s arrival, the second smallest bedroom was prepared for him and the third smallest served as the guest room.

  As Averell grew and achieved his second year, he learned new words and meanings and the “terrible twos” gained new meaning to the Swalls. From the beginning, Averell’s habit of grabbing anything his little hands could reach was destined to get him into trouble. His habitual pulling on Ellie’s earrings and Allen’s glasses was, annoying at best, his grabbing and tearing pages in books was angering and his habit of squeezing food through his little fingers before eating his fill and spreading the rest on mom, dad and guests was the limit. By the time he could stand and walk, Averell was into everything. He would grab something and hold on to it with all his strength. He graduated to tormenting the family cat, finding it amusing to pour his milk or juice on its back, but dumping Ellie’s still warm, if not hot coffee on the cat’s head one Sunday morning led to the frightened animal’s running out of the house and into the street where it met its end. Averell soon found his way into Ellie’s cosmetics, Allen’s socks and his favorite, the Sunday newspaper. On the first day that powder and perfume were spilled and spread all over the master bedroom, Averell earned a stern scolding resulting in an hour long ‘off and on’ crying bout and imprisonment in his room. It was the first cosmetic disaster but it was not the last. Allen was equally upset within that same week when he found his socks spread around the bedroom floor and several floating in the toilet. Each episode merited the young Averell a greater punishment, rising to a spanking or a slap in the face. His third year was a mission of discovery. Everything was to be looked at from every angle, nothing was sacred. If he could reach it, he would try to lift it, if he could lift it, he would turn it over to see the bottom, if it contained something, it was spilled. By the age of four, Averell had spilled perfume, powder, cereal, socks, milk and assorted dinner foods at practically every turn in the road. He had worn them down. He was no longer the cute little baby, he was now the little monster that made messes and tore up newspapers. He spent many hours in his room, alone, repeating the new words he had heard, “damn it,” “damn it,” “damn it,” very quietly to himself.