The Weight of Living

by Michael Daigle

  The bodies were buried without clothes in shallow graves in wooded areas off deeply rural roads, and found by hunters and hikers in various states of decay, and since they were in different states, no one connected them. The report writer noted the dental impressions did not match any records on file, and no schools reported missing young girls. We can be so thick sometimes.

  None of the information was connected until the last girl was found alive.

  “The testimony of Female No.1, a minor.”

  They had referred to her by a pair of initials, then blacked them out. Thanks a lot. They mentioned her brother, but did not include a name or initials.

  Nagler winced often as he read the four pages of single-spaced typing after reading the first sentence.

  “My father raped me for the first time when I was seven. I guess I was lucky that he started on me so late. He still had my three sisters and brother.”

  The girl told police that her father killed the oldest girl because she tried to run away. He locked the remaining children in a root cellar while he disposed of the body. The girl said he killed the second girl because the third girl tried to run away. She said he killed the third girl “just cause he could, I guess,” she told the Atlanta police. “I made her,” the girl reported he had said. “I owned her, just like I own you all, but I don’t need her anymore.”

  The girl and her brother escaped while their father was disposing of their other sister. He had put them in the same root cellar each time and didn’t realize his prisoners had dug a hole to the outside.

  The girl told police her brother, about fourteen, took the second truck and drove her to the Interstate near Atlanta and headed west. He apparently believed their mother lived in Omaha. He told the girl that he wasn’t coming back to Georgia.

  The officer who took the report attached a handwritten note. “Do we believe all this? She is just a kid.”

  The report made no mention of what happened to the girl after telling her story to the police. Or whether they investigated any of it.

  The last page of the report held the photo of Randolph Garrettson that Nagler had seen before: Shaved head, two-day beard, unsmiling mouth shut with a jutting jaw and dead eyes; loveless, possessive. Nagler stared into the hard eyes. How do we prove you’re our man?

  He grabbed another beer and stepped onto the side porch where the cold air drew tears.

  Still no Lauren.

  Nagler sat and pushed the Atlanta folder and Yang’s report aside and picked up the photo album from Appleton’s estate and turned over a few pages.

  The men stood in pairs on opposite sides of their elegant automobiles. Cadillacs, Duesenbergs, Buicks; smiling men, sharing that special knowledge, possibly a wink to acknowledge what no one else knew about them; men who saluted themselves with wine and whiskey.

  Nagler smiled wryly. The masters of their universe.

  What did they think when Appleton asked them to pose next to the grand cars in front of his imposing house? Nagler imagined that a quick turn through the newspapers of the day would find these same men posing before banks being opened, with mayors and councilmen, opening railroad stations, factories, at political luncheons. Was it no different? Arthur, Jonathan, William, a photo please. That’s a beautiful car, Henderson. New? Bought it off the second shift working double-time, I presume. Of course. When you are ready to expand, see me for the financing, will you? Be still now; smile. That’s it. Thank you, gentlemen.

  An afternoon at the country club. A meeting at the business association, lunch with new investors.

  Men no one questioned. Nagler laughed. In a time with no cell phones, no Internet; messengers. I’ll be out, Miss Wilson. Back tomorrow.

  You could be anywhere.

  And yet, there you were, raping girls young enough to be your daughter. Did they fight back like Sarah Lawton, or did they submit, souls crushed, and then after you left, cry into their pillows, bodies and hearts aching, waiting for the next visit, while you, downstairs with your fellows, toasted your prowess, winking with the rest of the men. How often did you congratulate yourself for showing them “the ways of the world?” Did you feel any shame when you walked into the front door of your mansion, handed your coat to the maid, and then gently kissed your wife, discreetly, don’t you know, not to show too much affection in front of the children. Probably not. They were just objects, possessions, like the workers in your factories. Like my grandfather to the mine owners, or my father to the owners of the stoveworks, Nagler thought bitterly. Names on a list, a number, a production quota; a measure of profit.

  Were these photos Appleton’s blackmail, just in case? They would have bought silence, especially when paired with the photos on the other album which showed these men with naked teenage girls.

  Did they collect those photos like French postcards soldiers brought back during the Great War? Did they each have samples tucked under folders in a bottom drawer like folders of pornography on a hard drive marked “fishing trips?”

  Clever men, unquestioned men; unassailable.

  Men who thought that no one would ever see these photographs, that no one would ever know where they spent their afternoons even after Appleton had been exposed.

  How quickly those photos melted in trashcan fires. Or were they shoved up under cellar beams, sealed behind a new garage wall, stashed in a second safe no one knew about? Secrets hidden. I’m shocked, officer. We all thought Mr. Appleton was a pillar of the community.

  And here you all are, he thought, smiling.

  And after I make copies and give them to Dawson, your secret even after all these years, will be exposed. And in a way, too late for it to truly matter Sarah Lawton would be avenged. Maybe that would bring her sister peace.

  And the Mine Hill Foundation’s name would be splashed all over the county attached to the dirtiest, most unbelievable story anyone would have ever read.

  Come out, come out wherever you are.

  Bait came in all forms.

  ****

  “Frank.”

  Lauren’s voice penetrated the sleepy fog, and her hand on his neck pulled him back to consciousness. “Hey.”

  Nagler sat up and peeled a sheet of paper from his right arm where it stuck when he fell asleep. He shook his head and blinked a few times to focus. Lauren rubbed his neck and he smiled up at her; then he saw Calista Knox crouched in the corner of the room on the floor, her face pale and twisted in pain.

  Where to start?

  “Where have you been?” he asked.

  Lauren glanced at Calista, and then sat in the other chair at the table.

  “You first,” she replied. “What’s all this?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Like three. I’ve got coffee,” she said as she reached into a paper bag and produced a tall paper cup.

  Nagler swirled the beverage around, pried off the lid and took a long drink.

  “Isn’t that hot?” Lauren asked, smiling.

  Nagler shook his head, no.

  “This is Dan Yang’s report on the financial parts of John Guidrey’s Atlanta files. This pile is the personal part of that report, very nasty stuff. These are photo albums that were in the boxes of books delivered to Leonard’s store, and this is...wait.” He peered inside the brown envelope that was supposed to hold the flash drive that also was found in those boxes. He shuffled some of the papers on the table. “There’s supposed to be a flash drive....”

  “It’s in the computer slot,” Lauren said.

  “Did you...?”

  “Glanced. There’s a letter you need to read, and photos you need to look at.”

  “Lauren.”

  “You left the screen open, Frank.”

  “Yeah, okay.” He nodded to Calista. “You alright over there? Awfully quiet.”

  Lauren touched his hand and her face pulled back. “In a minute. First read the screen,” and she flipped the computer to face him.

  It was letter from Bruno Hapworth.

 
Nagler sipped more coffee and thought he might need something stronger.

  “Frank, when you read this I will be long gone, out of the country. I began shuffling assets of my own offshore in small amounts to not attract attention shortly after the thugs from the Mine Hill Foundation began blackmailing me. Sorry I will miss the foreclosure sale of Lauren’s mother’s house. This is an exit I had planned before I met you at the stoveworks. I’m sorry if you now feel used.

  “On this drive you will find copies of every document I had in my possession relating to the foundation’s business. The owner traveled out of state quite often and gave me access to everything. You will find pages of email correspondence. I told him that was careless, but he didn’t seem to care. I detected an air of desperation in the man at the end.

  “You will find names of accomplices, lists of corporate names and accounts, and lists of the properties he controlled, and a list of targets. Pay attention to page four of that list.

  “I presume by now you have at least perused the collection of children’s books that I sent to Leonard’s store. Enclosed is a list of key titles that will in the form of simple stories tell you the unknown story of the Sisters Home and its connection to the Mine Hill Foundation that goes beyond simple ownership of the building.

  “This entity is a stain on the entire county, Frank. It is a self-sustaining organism that moves on merely because persons connected with it, like me, do their small parts.

  “I am ashamed of my part in this, but I leave it to your good graces to bring this to an end.

  “Good bye, my friend. Bruno.”

  Nagler leaned back in the chair and wiped his forehead. Where to start? It wasn’t six months, Bruno. It was years. “What’s on page four?”

  Lauren shook her head and turned the computer way from Nagler.

  “That can wait. You need to see this now,” she scrolled through a several pages of documents to open a file marked “New.”

  “Look,” and she turned the screen back to Nagler.

  The page contained six photos of young girls. “These look like the ones...”

  Lauren nodded. “Yes.”

  All the girls sat on the edge of a large poster bed. Their hands were clasped at their waist and their legs tightly held together.

  All naked.

  Six girls, blank faced, frightened eyes, knees clasped tightly. Captions under the photos were just numbers one through six.

  The voice from the long-ago phone call to the hotline filled Nagler’s ears.

  “She is six.”

  Our street girl.

  She is six.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Victims teaching victims

  The rage that erupted blocked the rise of nausea.

  “Who are they? Where are they?”

  Nagler was staring at Calista.

  “Who are they?” he demanded again. “I’m getting pretty damn tired ... the whole lot of you.”

  “Frank,” Lauren reached over to touch his arm, but he pushed her hand away. “Who are they?”

  Calista buried her head in her arms, which were wrapped around her knees.

  Nagler frowned and reached over to Lauren, who at first glared back, then shook her head slowly several times.

  “It’s okay, Lauren. Don’t fight over me.”

  Calista pushed herself to her feet and pulled a chair away from the table and sat. She arranged the computer, still displaying the photos of the six girls in the center of the table.

  “They’re cousins, I would guess,” she said softly, glancing at the screen. “Between nine and eleven or twelve.” She gently touched the computer screen, as if caressing each face.

  “Cousins!” Nagler shouted, throwing up his hands. “Fuck. Cousins!” He started to stand, then squeezed his forehead. “Is that another lie?”

  “Frank,” Lauren said softly, touching his face. “Just listen.”

  Calista hid her face for a moment, then dropped her hands and stared at Nagler fiercely.

  “I’m the girl from Atlanta who escaped, Frank. I know that somewhere in that cop’s report, there is mention of all that, and that photo in the middle of the table is the man who raped me. You don’t have to believe me. But it is true.”

  Nagler fumbled through the papers for the grainy photo of Randolph Garrettson and held it up. “This one?”

  Calista slipped from the chair to the floor, closed her eyes and buried her head again in her arms. “Yes,” she said. “I havn’t seen his face in years. Please put it away.” She raised her head. “Please.”

  Nagler glanced at the photo and then at Calista, shaking on the floor, and placed the photo on the table face down. Then he sighed; he clenched his fists to stop his hands from shaking. He exchanged a glance with Lauren, whose eyes were round and wet with disbelief and pain.

  “I want to believe you,” he said softly, “but didn’t you already explain to me that you lived on the street and hung out with Alton Garrett after you ran away from your mother’s home because her boyfriend was raping you? Which is true?”

  As soon as he said that, he knew he had wandered in to that blame-the-victim side of sexual assault that he hated, and it was a place he didn’t want to be. He glanced at Lauren, who also had recognized his wrong turn, and then stared at the table.

  “Calista, I just need to know which version to believe.”

  Her mouth formed a crooked smile; Nagler saw the nascent return of the old Calista. “Not versions, Frank, pieces. Old habit for survival. Tell just enough to stop the questions, and if it doesn’t work, make stuff up. Never, ever, get anywhere near the truth, because the truth hurts like hell. Why do you think Alton Garrett ran? He knew where you were going with your question about the little girl, and he needed to protect himself. Why do you think Sister Katherine became a nun? What truth was she seeking?”

  The question hung in the air unanswered; Nagler felt as if he was suspended above a dark cavern, about to fall.

  Calista shifted to her knees on the floor.

  “Did you look through the whole file? I’m sure there is a photo.” Calista shrugged. And then stared at Nagler with hard eyes. “The rapes, very real. Sister Katherine, true, but later. My mother’s boyfriend? Actually, the man I was told was my father, and Alton Garrett’s uncle. You know him as Randolph Garrettson. In Georgia, we knew him as Arthur Harrison. I’m not sure what his real name is.”

  Venomous.

  Lauren opened the Atlanta file and found a small folder shut with a paper clip. She held it up, and Nagler nodded. She pulled out a series of photos, perhaps the house where they lived, and a headshot of Calista, more than a decade younger, blond, shoulder length hair, but the nose and eyes unmistakable, a stamp on the back, APD.

  The photo unnerved Nagler, and had Calista burying her head in her arms again. Lauren covered her face, the weight of everything, for all of them, descending.

  “Arthur Harrison? That name doesn’t appear in any of the files I have.” Nagler’s voice was dry and empty.

  “It wouldn’t now, would it,” Calista said, her voice slightly mocking. “You don’t have enough files there, Frank. He had at least two families. But keeping control was hard as I’m guessing the other children in the families did as we did, began to ask questions when someone disappeared, or escaped briefly undetected just to gather news. I also think he was running out of money as his business scams were falling apart. He was losing control. We sometimes didn’t have food for days.”

  Nagler’s head was spinning.

  “Okay, two families...”

  “Don’t think like a cop,” she said. “Think like a serial rapist who learned the trade inside his family, someone who was raped by a relative, maybe one or more, who was also a victim of incest/rape, and who lived in a household of victims, raised by victims, victimized by victims.” She paused, eyes damp and her lips quivering. “Taught by victims, Frank. Taught that this was not about sex or lust, but power and control. What is that person trying to protect? Wha
t happens when he loses control?”

  Lauren reached over to Calista and placed an arm around her shoulders.

  “It’s about generations, Frank,” Lauren said. “Generations of victims, living apart from society and then when that becomes impossible, moving to a new place. Each move becomes a test: Are you with us or against us?”

  “That sounds like that history I read about the Garrettson family in Jefferson,” Nagler said. “Mansell’s History said they were prosperous for a while, then they disappeared after an event of some consequence. Dawson and I and John Guidrey in Atlanta figured that event had something to do with sex.”

  “That’s my family,” Calista said with a brief, soft laugh. “Or so I’m told.”

  “So what happened?”

  “This is family lore, so not all of it might be true,” Calista began. “Remington Garrettson lived up in the hills, and we were told that a grandson-slash-son shamed the family by some outside act. The practice was that as the boys got older, Remington would teach them the business side of the compound which required traveling into Morristown or Ironton for banking and other duties. Just the boys were allowed to go. One of the younger boys, not understanding that in the world outside the compound boys did not have sex with any attractive girl they saw, was said to have raped the daughter of a shopkeeper. The kids were taken away and the adults were told to clear out. No trial. Just go away. As far as I can tell, the property was never sold. Poisoned land, so to speak, still in the hands of the family.”

  “Oh, man,” Nagler said. “What happened to all the kids?”

  “Why does that matter?” Lauren sleepily asked. “Wasn’t it a long time ago?”

  “Sounds like it’s a lot of people thrown into the world, and they leave a trail.”

  “Yes they do,” Calista whispered. “I don’t know where they all went eventually, but at first they went into the foster care system. One girl I know in particular was adopted by a family in Paterson after the mother miscarried and was unable to have more children. They treated her well and she went to public school until their poverty forced her to go to work. She got a job at a local factory where the owner took a shine to her...”