A Child is Torn: Innocence Lost (24 page)

“Beverly, maybe you should go back upstairs?” I got the feeling he was trying to protect her from something. She shook her head in response. They exchanged a look; she seemed to be giving him permission to speak with us.

For a split second he closed his eyes, looking like he was steeling himself. I looked at Jean; she looked as perplexed as I was.

“That boy, detective, is not my grandson. He’s no blood of mine.”

I watched his wife for her reaction; her hands were twisting her blouse with a new intensity.

Jean’s forehead creased and she squinted in a look of utter confusion. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought Evan, Brad’s father, was your biological son. Was he adopted?”

Mr. Madison’s was starting to pump his leg up and down in a nervous manner. The dog got up slowly, obviously in pain, and put its snout in Mr. Madison’s lap. He rubbed the dog behind its ear.

“We were hoping Evan was my biological son.” Again, he glanced at his wife. She looked dazed; her mind was obviously somewhere else.

“I’m sorry,” I interjected, “I don’t understand. What do you mean, you were hoping? You didn’t know that Evan wasn’t your son?”

“When Brad was born, we… well, we figured it out. I had raised Evan as if he were my son. I loved that boy as if he were my own. I treated him as if he were my own, knowing he might be the seed of that crazy bastard.”

I leaned forward and Jean sat up.

“I don’t under—”

A sudden noise stopped her. Mrs. Madison was standing up, a pathetic moan coming from her mouth resembling the sound of a wounded animal.

Mr. Madison stared at her. She nodded for him to continue.

“My wife, detective,” he directed his words toward Jean, “my wife was raped and tortured by her stepfather and stepbrother. They’d been abusing her most of her life doing horrendous things to her. Sick things. When we met, we were still in high school. When I found out what they were doing to her, I wanted to kill them, but she was terrified. She was only fifteen years old, and I was just a kid myself. So, we just ran away and eloped. A few months later we found out she was pregnant, and we prayed that Evan was mine. I raised him like he was my own… he looked just like his mother. He was such a beautiful little boy, looked just like my Beverly. He was a good boy, never a problem, did well in school. We were beginning to believe that he was mine.

“Then Brad was born, and damn if he wasn’t the spitting image of that maniac. There was no question in my mind he was Arnold’s grandson, not mine, which could only mean Evan was not my son, but that bastard’s. That’s why I’m not surprised about what happened—that kid is the seed of the devil.”

I looked over at Mrs. Madison. I could see the pain on her face. I wanted to take her in my arms and comfort her. I could only imagine the pain this woman had endured as a young girl.

“Did you ever have these people prosecuted?” Jean asked.

“Detective, I’m sure you’ve heard of Arnold Maurer and his father?”

The name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it; I could tell Jean recognized it immediately.

“Are you telling me that Arnold Maurer is your wife’s stepbrother, Brad’s grandfather?”

“Either him or his father Dennis Maurer, my wife’s stepfather. Both those pigs raped her.” His jaw clenched, and his eyes were blazing.

Jean could see my confusion and she turned to me to explain.

“Arnold and Dennis Maurer—father-and-son serial killers. It’s believed they raped and tortured over forty couples maybe more. They would break into a home and—” She looked over at Mrs. Madison and stopped.

“Mr. Madison, Mrs. Madison, my apologies if this has brought up times you wish to forget, but I think you have answered some very important questions. Brad is very tormented by what has happened, and now that we have an idea of what may be the core of the problem, we can help him.”

I approached Mrs. Madison, and touched her shoulder. “If there is anything I can do, please…” I knew no words would heal this woman’s pain.

Jean handed Mr. Madison her business card. “Thank you for being so forthcoming, sir. Again, my sympathy for everything you have endured.”

He gave her a noncommittal grunt and stood up, the dog’s snout falling back to the rug. He walked us to the door.

“Please, don’t come back again. Let us live in peace. That boy has grandparents—he doesn’t need my wife, and she doesn’t need that boy in her life.”

Neither of us replied. He started to close the door behind us, but the Jack Russell ran up the steps, whining to be let in. He opened the door wide enough for the small dog to slither through, and then shut it.

I didn’t say anything until we were on the highway. Jean’s grip on the steering wheel was turning her knuckles white. She shook her head in disbelief.

Finally, I spoke up. “What were you going to tell me in there about the Maurers?”

She kept her eyes on the road; snow was starting to fall, reducing her visibility.

“I think they’re the only known father-and-son serial killers. He was right—they were monsters.” She turned on the defroster and wiped away some of the fog from the window. “They would target a young couple; they would hang out at bowling alleys or discos in the early sixties and stalk them. The defroster was starting to work and she began to relax behind the steering wheel. “Anyway, they would target these young couples, break into their homes when they thought they would be in bed, and torture and rape both of them while they made the other one watch. It seemed like they got worse with each murder.” She bit her lip, frowning, and continued. “They’d been doing it for at least two decades before they were caught—at least the father was. Authorities aren’t sure when his son joined him. “I read one report that they disemboweled the husband and raped the wife with the husband’s intestines. They finally screwed up and left one of their victims alive and they were identified and finally caught and imprisoned. Arnold Maurer, the son, was murdered in a prison yard fight. Dennis is still alive, a very old man, still in a maximum prison, I think. Somewhere in upstate New York.”

“Do you think Evan knew who his father was?” I asked.

“Shit. Damn it, I should have asked Mr. Madison. I sure as hell can’t ask him now. If Evan knew… maybe somehow Brad found out.” She looked at me. “Do you think he found out who his grandfather was, or great grandfather, and...”

“I don’t think so. I can’t say for sure, but I think it might be some sort of defective gene. I would be curious to see Arnold and Dennis Maurer’s brain scans, though. I’d love to compare them to Brad’s. It would help prove the argument that nature can dominate over nurture.”

“Are you saying there’s no hope for this kid? Is he destined to be crazy like his grandfather?”

“I can’t determine that. Remember, only a percentage of his DNA comes from his father’s bloodline. Now that we understand what the root of the problem may be, we can start looking for a solution. With medication, therapy, and a lot of love, maybe we can give Brad a brighter future.” I sat back, questioning my own optimism.

“Let’s get home, before this storm gets worse. Marty would kill me if something happened to you!”

For some reason the thought of Marty being worried made me smile.

Chapter Thirteen

Thanksgiving

Hope

It was after 1:00 in the afternoon before I got to Marty’s house for Thanksgiving. I’d been in a panic all morning knowing my mother was there alone with thirty or more Keals.

Before I was even out of my car, a flurry of male children bundled in scarfs and mittens greeted me with questions.

“Are you Hope?” asked one. “Is your name Hope? Are you Uncle Marty’s girlfriend?” Some of the boys were giggling and loudly singing, “Hope and Marty, sitting in a tree….”

I smiled as I maneuvered my way through the wall of young Keals as quickly as I could. I’d never been nervous or intimidated by children before, but even though it was eighteen degrees outside, I was starting to sweat.

I walked into the house and was assaulted by a deafening noise. Grown men were shouting at the television and no matter how loud the men shouted, the football players on the field were not paying attention to their audience and continued to ignore the critics’ suggestions. That did not make their audience very happy. The crowd realized there was a stranger in their mist and immediately a hush fell over the room. I immediately became intimidated as, a two dozen or so eyes turned from the TV and were now staring at me.

“Hi, honey.”

It was my mother, strolling into the room like she lived there. “We’ve been waiting for you to get started.”

She started handing out cheese and crackers to the men whose attention, apparently, was in fact easily swayed. One of them kissed her on the cheek like he had known her all his life. Once again their attention was drawn back to the TV when someone realized there was a celebratory dance being shown on the football field. A chorus of “What the hell happened?” rang out through the room. I was safe for the moment.

From the corner of my eye I noticed a woman hobbling toward me. I recognized her face from the photos hanging on the wall in the den. It was Mary, Marty’s only sister. She was dragging along a toddler who had attached himself to one of her legs.

“Hello, Hope. I’m glad to finally meet you.” She looked down at the child. “Sean Terrance O’Reilly, would you please remove yourself from Mama’s legs!”

Her request went unheeded. She took a deep breath. “Here, let me take your coat. Marty’s in the kitchen.”

I gave her a timid smile.

She threw her arm around me. “Relax, Hope,” she laughed. “We won’t bite, I promise, well…” She looked down at her son who was still clinging to her ankle. “Well, most of us don’t bite. I can’t make any guarantees about this one.”

I thanked her as she took my coat. I noticed my mother had made herself comfortable and had joined the men in their ranting at the TV.

I was relieved when I spotted Diane. She was talking to a few of Marty’s sister-in-laws. She saw me, and tried to make her way over to me. Just before she got to me, Justin caught her attention; he was arguing with a Keal brother about some Yankee statistics. She grinned at me and lifted up her left hand, wiggling her fingers. I caught a glimpse of a shiny diamond on her ring finger.

Thankfully at that moment, I saw Marty, and I let out a sigh of relief. I started forward to give him a hug and a nice big kiss and then stopped, taking another look. He had Marty’s face, Marty’s hair, Marty’s build but his posture was all wrong.

“Tommy?” I asked hesitantly. At that moment, Marty walked out and gave Tommy a shove, and then he leaned over and grabbed my hand taking it to his lips.

“Hope, this is Tommy, my ugly twin brother.”

“Don’t you mean your much better looking twin brother?” Tommy said with confidence. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet the girl who stole my brother’s heart. Not an easy feat, Hope,” he assured me.

“It’s very nice to finally meet you Tommy.” He handed me a beer, which I accepted gratefully.

The Captain came out of the kitchen and called for everyone’s attention. “Everyone in the dining area.” He spotted his sixteen-year-old granddaughter. “Patty, go outside and round up the kids. We’re getting ready to eat.”

Surprisingly, she promptly and obediently grabbed her jacket and headed out the door.

It took a while but before long everyone was gathered around a lineup of makeshift tables. Someone walked over and turned off the TV and I heard a few of the men grumble about the loss of the football game.

I stood next to Marty as the Captain said grace. I glanced over at my mother who was standing next to Marty’s father. I could swear I saw her cross herself.
No
, I thought,
it must have been my imagination
. I pictured my father rolling in his coffin, laughing his ass off.

As we sat down to eat, more introductions were made, with my mother doing most of the talking. She had been there for five hours and already had everyone’s name committed to memory. She knew who was married to whom, and which child belonged to which family; I was flabbergasted.

After dinner most of the men settled back down in front of the football game. Mary and most of Marty’s sister-in-laws proceeded to clear the table, insisting that I leave them to it.

“There isn’t enough room for another body in the kitchen,” one of them told me. I tried to insist, but I couldn’t fight them all.

The Captain, my mother, Marty and I were left at the table.

I could see the Captain was anxious about something, and I was about to find out why. He pulled an envelope out of his pocket.

“Marty, this came for you yesterday. I thought this would be a good time to give it to you.”

Marty took the envelope, looking confused. He immediately recognized the return address.

I looked at the Captain, hoping for more information.

“It’s the results from the detective’s exam,” he announced.

Marty stared at the envelope. I could tell he was petrified.

“Go ahead, Marty. Open it,” said Tommy from the doorway.

Closing his eyes, Marty tore open the envelope.

“Well?”

Marty looked down at the paper, and then slowly looked at each one of us with a look of disappointment on his face. I got ready to console him.

“I passed,” he said, now grinning. “I passed!”

Shouts and kisses showered him as everyone came back into the room to celebrate.

It was the best Thanksgiving ever.

Brad’s Story

“Brad, can you tell us what happened the night your parents died?”

His eyes shifted to Jean, and then back to me again. He leaned back in his chair. His right hand formed a fist and he hit his thigh, slowly at first, then in rapid succession.

His eyes glazed over, like he was about to go into a catatonic state. He shook his head swiftly, as if trying to chase his thoughts away.

After a few seconds, he began to speak.

“I was watching TV in my room. Mommy came in to tell me it was time to go to bed, but…”

He paused, seeming to ask for permission to continue. I nodded.

“I wanted to watch the rest of the movie, but Mommy said I had to turn it off, it was late.”

His expression was changing; his face was showing signs of tension. A vein in his neck was growing larger and pulsating as he spoke. Deep in thought, he moved his head slowly from side to side.

“Mommy shut the TV off, and told me to go to sleep, but when she left the room, I turned it back on again. My dad must have heard it cause he came in and told me I wasn’t behaving, and made me turn it off.”

Brad stood up then and started walking in circles around the small room. His fingers were pinching the skin on the outside of his right thigh. I saw a look of concern on Jean’s face. I made a placating motion, indicating everything was okay.

“I couldn’t sleep.” He continued, “I was so mad I was missing my movie, and I was so mad… but I must have fallen asleep because when I turned on the TV back on, my movie was over. I remember being really mad at them then
—
they made me miss my movie.”

His pace had become faster. Now his fingers were clenched in a fist and he was banging it repetitively on his thigh, hard enough to cause a bruise to appear.

“What happened then, Brad?” I asked, hoping my question would slow him down. It was beginning to get hard to understand his words; they were coming in spurts as he continued to walk faster.

“I saw my baseball bat. It was just sitting there, and I picked it up. I was so mad. I went into my mom and dad’s room and they were sleeping, but their TV was still on. That made me
so
mad! They could watch TV, but I couldn’t. So I just hit him, I just hit my dad.”

He looked up at me with wide eyes. Glistening tears were slowly dripping over his bottom lid, and snot was running from his right nostril.

“I heard a loud crack, and I think I heard him make a noise, I don’t remember. Then I just kept hitting him. I couldn’t stop. My mom started to scream at me. Really scream. She tried to grab the bat, but I ran away from her, and then when she got close enough again I hit her. She was scared, she looked really scared. But I didn’t care.”

His words were coming faster now.

“I chased her with my bat and I hit her, she fell down and I hit her again. She was begging me to stop. She was crying really hard, “Brad, please stop,” but the more she cried, the harder I hit her. She tried to crawl away but she tripped over something and fell on her back. She was making this weird noise and I kept hitting her until the noise stopped.

He stopped and stood in the middle of the room, his hands over his ears as if he could still hear his mother’s screams. His eyes fixated on Jean.

“Do I have to leave here and go to jail?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No Brad, but I’d like you to answer something that has been bothering me for a long time. Will you try to do that?”

He looked confused but agreed.

“Brad, why did you turn down the thermostat in the room?”

He opened his fist and pushed away the blond hair falling over his eyes.

“I… I didn’t want them to melt.”

Jean stared at him, mortified.

“Melt?” She got up and knelt down in front of him.

“What do you mean, melt, Brad?”

“They keep the bodies in a refrigerator at the morgue so they don’t melt
—
so they don’t…” He trailed off.

“Decompose?” Jean suggested.

“Yeah, decompose. They show that on the TV shows. I didn’t want them to decompose. I wanted to keep them. Didn’t want them to go away, I just wanted to watch a movie.” He sobbed.

Jean pulled him close and hugged him tightly, wrapping him in her arms like a newborn baby in a receiving blanket, his small body shaking in spasms.

It took some time, but Brad was finally able to tell us his story. It was a beginning, a good start. Now I had to help him find a path that would lead him on the road to recovery, and what might very well be a life with elusive sanity. No matter how hard or long the journey, I had hope that Brad Madison would one day find a way to live with what he had done.

The End