A Child is Torn: Innocence Lost (3 page)

The phone rang, and I begrudgingly decided to answer it.

“Hi, Mom. Sorry I just got in, haven’t had a chance to call anyone back.”

That’s about all I got out when I realized she’d been talking before I had even answered the phone. It took me a while to make sense of her ranting.

“What would possess a child to do that? I hope he isn’t one of yours—is he one of yours? Hope? Please tell me he isn’t one of yours.”

Then it hit me. Of course the media had gotten ahold of this one. It was all over the TV and radio. This was the horror of all horrors; a child murdering his parents in cold blood. Had my mother had this fear while I was growing up? I must admit; it had occasionally crossed my mind when I was a teenager, but I would have been kinder.
Here, Mom, eat your oatmeal. It’s full of yummy poison that will keep you asleep until I come home from the school dance after curfew.

“Yes, Mom. He’s one of mine. He’s just a baby; Oscar (our dog) probably weighs more than he does.”

“Why? Hope, why did he do such a dreadful thing?” What would possess him? Did they beat him? Was he one of those children who were locked in a cage and starved?”

She was rambling, so I put the phone on speaker and popped my frozen dinner into the microwave. When I heard the noise stop blaring out of the phone, I picked it up and took it off speaker.

“Don’t know, Mom. That’s what I’m going to find out. He doesn’t seem to have been mistreated, but who knows. Not all scars are visible. Mom, I’m fixing my dinner, can I get back to you?” If anything could get my mother off the phone it was the knowledge that I was eating.

“Sure sweetheart, you just be careful. Love you.”

“Love you too,” I replied, but she had already hung up. My mother loves to talk; listen, not so much.

The next time the phone rang it was my boss, Judy.

“I need you here first thing in the morning. They had a special arraignment and the judge is sending Brad Madison after they release him from the hospital tomorrow.” Judy wasn’t big on phone etiquette, no “hello;” she always got right to the point.

“No problem Judy. I’ll be there.”

“Thanks,” was all I heard before the click of disconnection. In all fairness, Judy was a wonderful boss, and great therapist; she just had too much to do. She abbreviated the less important conversations to make room for the important ones.

It wasn’t long before the nighttime rituals were completed and I was nestled into bed. I fell asleep reading Nelson DeMille’s latest novel.

Chapter Two

Jean

Moran had asked if she wanted to go to The Liars’ Den, the local pub that served as the hangout where the officers would go to after their shifts. But Jean was anxious to go home and see her husband and kids. Besides, she was drained; she had seen a lot of crime scenes in her day, but never one quite like this. It wasn’t the scene that had disturbed her so much—it was that little boy’s demeanor. As much as she wanted to believe there was no way a child was capable of such horror, she couldn’t deny that he had admitted to the crime.
I hurt them
. The sound of those words echoed in her mind.

Most people would think the horrific sight of those mutilated parents would be what she kept visualizing. No, Jean was able to compartmentalize; and since those visuals wouldn’t provide the answers to her questions, she didn’t harp on them. She wanted to know the “why,” and it was that little boy’s words that would lead them to the answer.

As she entered the house through the garage door, it wasn’t her kids that greeted her, but Roxy, her golden retriever, jumping and sliding on the slick kitchen tiles. Jean smiled as Roxy lost control of her paws and went into a four-legged split. “Roxy, baby. How’s my puppy?” She never could stop herself from talking to the dog in baby talk.

“Dad called. He’s bringing home pizza.” Her son Cliff greeted her as she handed Roxy a biscuit from the ceramic jar on the kitchen counter.

“He said he’d be home by seven if there’s no traffic.” Cliff was almost eighteen, six feet tall, towheaded, and every pubescent girl’s dream. As he shut the refrigerator door and took a bite out of a Granny Smith, she opened her mouth to warn him to wash it first. She stopped herself, knowing it was no use; she knew exactly what his reply would be.

“Ma, do you really think sticking this apple under a little bit of running water is going to stop me from ingesting all the chemicals that have been saturating this particular apple during its entire growth process?”

Instead, she asked, “Where’s Bethany?”

“On the phone with ‘Mattheeeww,’ her new flavor of the month,” he replied, imitating his twelve-year-old sister. “Ma you’ve got to do something about this daughter of yours. She is overheating!” Then flashing that perfect six-thousand-dollar smile, he leaned over and gave his mother a kiss. “Be back in an hour!”

“Where are you going?” She watched him dart into the garage and into the ’66 canary-yellow Mustang they had bought him last year for his birthday. Deal was that if he got straight A’s he could have any car on the used car lot; he picked the Mustang. He was his father’s son, no doubt in her mind.

“To the library?” he teased, backing out of the driveway. She watched until he was out of sight before going upstairs.

Anxious to get out of her work clothes and into something more comfortable, she changed into a sweatshirt and a pair of worn-out jeans. Feeling better—even if she had struggled a bit to close the zipper on her jeans—she made her way to her daughter’s room. As she walked in she heard Bethany’s side of a phone conversation.

“Gotta go Angie, Mom’s home. I’ll let you know. Yeah, I’ll call you back. Yes, I promise.” Hanging up she turned her attention to her mother.

“I saw you on TV. Was it bad? What happened? Is he really only ten? Gosh, mom, you look terrible. It was bad, wasn’t it?”

Her daughter stopped her anxious bouncing on her waterbed long enough for Jean to lean over and give her a kiss. She pushed back the long, blonde curls that had fallen over her daughter’s eyes.

“Yes, baby. It was bad.”

“What’s going to happen to him?” Bethany asked.

Jean knew this just wasn’t curiosity on her daughter’s part. As much as her son Cliff was his father’s son, Bethany was all her; only without the skepticism maturity and experience bring. Her daughter was one of the most compassionate people she knew. She really believed it was her responsibility to save anyone or anything that needed saving. Whenever Bethany made someone her project, she would never give up on them.

She was only three years old when her mother first realized this. When Jean was still in uniform, she’d brought Bethany with her to work so she could catch up on some reports on her day off. One of the patrolmen came in with a six-year-old boy he had caught letting the air out of the tires on his patrol car. The kid was crying hysterically, convinced he was going to jail for the rest of his natural life. Her daughter, seeing the boy’s distress, took her lollipop out of her mouth and handed it to him. The boy, taken aback, took the candy from her sticky little hands and his sobbing turned into little gasps. Realizing he still needed something to help calm him down, she handed him her blanket; something she cherished and was never without. He shook his head, and very quietly mumbled, “thank you.” As soon as his crying ceased, her daughter turned to her with a big smile. Jean was proud as her coworkers, watching the two children, broke into their own smiles.

Looking at her now twelve-year-old daughter, she answered, “I don’t know honey. They’ll probably put him in the hospital for troubled children and try to find out what happened, or if he really did it.”

“Do you think he did it? They said on TV that he was just sitting there, watching TV while his parents were—”

Jean cut her off. “Don’t listen to what you hear on TV, Bethany. They don’t know all the facts; we don’t know all the facts. I don’t want to make any assumptions. When we find out more, I’ll tell you. It’s just so sad honey, and he’s so small. No bigger than Maxie.” Maxie was Bethany’s seven-year-old cousin whom she adored. “How about you get ready for dinner, and maybe we’ll talk about it later. Dad’s coming home with pizza.”

“Okay, Mom. Don’t worry. It’ll be okay, you’ll figure it out.”

“Thanks, baby.” She kissed the top of her daughter’s head, inhaling the sweet fragrance of coconut shampoo.

She heard the familiar tone of a text message coming from her daughter’s phone and she got up, knowing Bethany would be anxious to read it and send a reply.

“Your homework’s done, right?” she asked her.

“Of course,” she replied, rolling her eyes. Satisfied, Jean paused at the door.

“I’ll call you down when Dad gets home.”

Bethany nodded a yes, already tapping away on the keyboard of her phone.

Jean left the room and made her way downstairs.

That night the conversation at the dinner table was mostly about the kids. Her family was always aware that Jean needed to have a break from the crazy world of work. Even if they were filled with questions and opinions, they would give her a chance to just enjoy the simple things, like sitting around arguing over who deserved to win
American Idol
this season, or if Bethany’s flavor of the month, Matthew, was able to play connect the dots with his pimples.

“Mom, make him stop!” Bethany pleaded. Glenn, Jean’s husband of twenty-two years, gave Cliff a look, and the subject changed immediately. Stress in any form was not permitted at the dining room table.

It wasn’t until Jean and Glenn were getting ready for bed that her husband asked the first question about the case.

“So what’s the story?” he asked as she was sliding under the covers. After almost twenty years of marriage, she’d still yearn to do simple things like touch her leg against his as she got into bed. She still felt comforted rubbing his earlobe, like Bethany used to rub the satin edge of her baby blanket.

“It was horrible,” she said, staring up at the ceiling, envisioning the scene in her mind. “He was sitting there covered in blood, playing
Super Mario
; both his parents dead upstairs, beaten to death. Something’s not right. I don’t believe he could’ve been strong enough to do this, but he says he did. He told us he hurt his parents.”

“You think someone else is involved? They find any evidence of someone else in the house? Do they know when it happened?”

His questions were coming faster now, and her answers slower. She thought carefully before she answered.

“They aren’t sure about the time of death. The father’s boss said that Madison didn’t show up to work on Friday, had Thursday off. Neighbor saw him come home Wednesday evening, but no one saw them after that. Weird thing is, the room was very cold. They have thermostats that work individually in each room. It was set very low, with what we think was the kid’s bloody fingerprints all over it. Like it was set to cause a problem with determining the time of death. No other footprints, just the child’s—and his fingerprints were all over the bat. And he says he did it.”

“Does the kid have any other family?” Glenn asked caressing her hair, knowing that it relaxed her.

“Uncle showed up, mother’s brother. He seemed to be in shock. Moran interviewed him mostly. He doesn’t think he had anything to do with it. Uncle claims the parents were ideal parents. We have no evidence otherwise,
yet
.”

“And what do you think?” he asked as he tried to untangle his wedding ring that had gotten caught in a few strands of her hair.

“If this kid did this, something made him do it. They had to have done something bad to that little boy. For that boy to do something so despicable, so violent… I’m going to find out exactly what they did to him, mark my words.”

“If anybody can, you will,” he replied, kissing her forehead. “Get some rest. Something tells me you’re going to need it.”

She slowly turned her back and snuggled into his arm, closing her eyes.

Marty

Marty was used to watching the other guys stuff their faces while he waited for his order to get to the table. Being eighth in a family of nine children had made waiting part of his being. He’d have to wait until his older brothers outgrew their jeans and shoes. He’d have to wait until his other seven brothers—one of whom was his identical twin—would get out of the only bathroom the boys all shared—there had been times he had peed in the tub because he couldn’t wait any longer.

His sister, on other hand, had taken up residence in the master bedroom after their mother died; she had lost a five-year battle with breast cancer when Marty was nine years old. His father, dreading the thought of sleeping in the bed without his wife, gave his eldest and only daughter, Mary, the master bedroom and bath; he settled on sleeping on the well-beaten living room sofa. Keal’s dad had never admitted that this was the real reason for the change in living quarters. When the boys would protest and cry that he was showing favoritism for Mary, he would use the excuse, “She’s a girl. She needs her privacy.”

If Marty or his brothers attempted to argue, they would be met with a stern look. When The Captain—as he was so affectionately called—put his foot down, there was no sense arguing.

“Besides,” as one of Marty’s older brothers would explain, “We don’t want to go the john and see remnants of Mary’s feminine hygiene products sticking out of the trash can.” Not quite sure what his brother meant at the time, Marty would nod in agreement.

His mind was somewhere other than at the table at the Liars’ Den, when the waitress put his country fried steak in front of him. He glanced up at the familiar face.

‘Thanks, Trina,” he said.

“No problem, Marty.” She winked as she turned and wiggled her way to another table to take an order.

“She’s got the hots for you, Keal.” Marty looked to his left; it was Justin. He’d managed to get those words out around a mouthful of hamburger, ketchup sliding down the side of his chin.

“God, Justin. Wipe your mouth,” he said, shaking his head. He was about to take a mouthful of mashed potatoes when he heard a huge belch come out of his other co-worker Paul.

“So, you going to tell us what the story is? I heard the kid raped and sodomized his mother, and was built like a gorilla,” Justin said, after swallowing what was left of his Budweiser.

Marty looked at him, bewildered.

“Where the hell did you hear that?”

It was amazing how quickly rumors got started at the station, spreading faster than a head cold in a kindergarten class.

Marty gestured with his right arm. “He’s probably about this high,” he said, referencing the top of the Paul’s chair. “I bet he barely breaks fifty pounds.”

“So who do you think did it?” Paul asked. “I thought the kid confessed. Do you think he’s lying?”

Marty didn’t want to answer that. He’d been reviewing the scene over and over in his mind. If it had been a fifteen-year-old kid built like a gorilla sitting there playing Nintendo, there would be no doubt in his mind that he’d done it. He couldn’t help thinking the scene spoke for itself—then there was the fact that Brad Madison flat out admitted killing his parents. But this wasn’t a kid the size of a gorilla; it was this tiny boy. It just didn’t feel right.