It's A Crime (12 page)

I finished
getting everything just right before going into the bedroom to get dressed. I slid into my jeans and pulled a black tee shirt over my head, tucking it lightly into my jeans. I wore no shoes. Applying a small amount of baby pink gloss on my lips, I pulled my hair up into a high ponytail. I was making my way into the kitchen when the doorbell rang. I sprinted to the door and yanked it open.

There
on the threshold stood...Jonathan.

Are you fucking kidding me?
Really?

My
disappointment at seeing him in my doorway got me in such a state, my face flushed with anger, the burn spreading up my neck and across my chest. He casually walked into the apartment.

“I’ve left several messages on your phone
, emailed you, texted you.” He stopped to look at me. “You too fucking busy to answer?” His tone angry, he strolled past me.

“I haven’t returned your call
s because I want nothing to do with you. I don’t know how else I could get this through your thick head. I want nothing to do with you. LEAVE. Is that clear enough for you?” My voice sounded shrill even to my ears. I stood there like an idiot, trying to block him from going further.

Jonathan pushed me out of the way
with as much care as if he were swatting a fly away and took a few steps further into the apartment. He stood in the hallway between the kitchen and the living room looking around, expecting to see someone. He spotted the decanter and wine glasses I set out and looked at me. His eyes blackened as his anger grew. He turned to walk into the kitchen.

“What the fuck?
Where are you going? Get out of here! How did you get past the doorman? I had your name removed. How did you get the code?…I
will
be changing that elevator code.”

“Expecting company?”
He was unfazed by my tirade. “Don’t be an ass, you know I have friends in the building. Answer the question.”

“Fuck you.
Get out or I’ll call security!”

“Answer
the question.”

I
walked to the phone adjacent to the door and lifted the receiver, pushing “O.” Jonathan reached me in two easy steps, grabbed the phone out of my hand and pushed me backward. I stumbled into the counter top.

“I. SAID. GET. OUT!”
I shoved him back with both hands. I was so angry I had no fear. I reached to grab the phone from him and he pushed me back, easily holding me at bay with his other hand.

I turned and
stormed over to the counter. Grabbing my cell, I started to dial when I heard a loud thud. I spun around and saw Cole standing just inside the doorway, his arms at his sides, his fists flexing. He was standing a few feet from Jonathan, who was sprawled on the floor, ready to deliver another punch if Jonathan gave him reason to. I almost felt sorry for Jonathan…almost
.
Cole was more than capable of dealing with Jonathan so I put my cell back on the counter.

“The lad
y said leave.” Cole’s voice so low and menacing, I got chills. He growled, taking a step closer to Jonathan. Jonathan held his hand over his bleeding mouth but managed to scramble back and quickly rise to his feet, holding up his free hand in Cole’s direction. He turned to me, his eyes delivering a silent threat I was thankful Cole didn’t see. It shook me. I grabbing the counter; my fingers turned white with the force of my grip.

Cole
opened the door and backed up, allowing Jonathan to pass without removing his eyes from Jonathan. Jonathan maintaining a wide berth between him and Cole when he walked from the apartment down to the elevator. Cole followed him out and spoke to him in a low, intimidating voice. I strained to hear what he said, but was unable to. Jonathan pushed the button for the elevator and stepped in when it arrived. After seeing the elevator door close with Jonathan inside, Cole turned back to the apartment, stopping to bend down and pick up the wine he left outside.

Chapter 11

Jonathan stepped out of the elevator to find Tony, the doorman, holding the door open stiffly.

“Miss Preston
does not want you here anymore. I see you anywhere near this building, I call the cops.”

Jonathan turned
to face Tony, a murderous look in his eyes.

Tony
didn’t back off. He stared unwavering into Jonathan’s eyes, not shaken by his venomous look. He raised his hand to his hat and stepped back inside the building, letting the door close after him.

Jonathan stepped back
, bending his head and looked up the height of the building. Mentally he pushed his anger down, where it settled in his gut, radiating out, encompassing all of his being. He forced himself to move forward. He had to do something. Someone would pay. Someone had to. After all he’d been paying all his life.

The boy was born in a home for unwed mothers.
Given up for adoption. Thrown away.

The adoption agency was happy to arrange for the baby’s first family.
The foster family kept the boy for three years. Then the foster family brought the boy back to the agency because he hurt their new baby. The foster family refused to adopt the boy and gave him back to the agency.

The second family was nice.
They didn’t know the boy’s history or what he had done. The people working at the agency didn’t disclose that to them, although they should have. The agency thought what the boy had done was an accident.  Not able to grasp such a beautiful child, with the face of an angel could ever purposefully hurt a baby.  Surely, he didn’t mean to hurt the baby.

When the second family called to have him removed, the agency
began to worry. The boy had put the family cat’s head in the toilet and held it under the water. The cat drowned. It was a family pet they had for eight years. They told the agency something was wrong with the boy.

The next family had no children.
They really wanted the boy and treated him well. The boy stayed with them for a year. The boy, then six years old, took a knife from the top of the kitchen table and plunged it into the thigh of the mother. She dragged herself to the phone and called for help. The father wanted the boy gone. They decided not to adopt.

The agency tried once more.
This time, afraid they would be held liable, they told the new family the boy had hurt the mother from the previous foster home. The new father told the agency he
would
straighten the boy out. The father hit the boy. He hit the boy so badly during a drunken tirade the mother was forced to call the police. The agency removed the boy from the house and took him back. During the boy’s annual physical, they found bruises, cigarette burns and scars covering his body. The physical also revealed the boy had suffered broken bones. The father did not
straighten
the boy out; quite the opposite.

The boy was now seven years old.
The agency was having a hard time finding a home for the boy. The boy liked to hit and bite the other boys within the home and he needed to be kept away from the younger children. Sequestered.

The agency
finally found another home for the boy. They were a couple that had two older children and felt they could give the boy enough love to
fix
all that was wrong with the boy. After all, they understood boys.

The boy was
eight now. He trained himself to be well behaved. He didn’t want to go back to the orphanage. He was nice to the new family. One of the
real
kids liked to tease and hit the boy. The boy took the older kid’s baseball bat and struck him in the head as hard as he could. The family brought the boy back to the agency.

Neither the family
nor the agency wanted the boy.

The
State insisted the boy be examined by a psychiatrist, who after two years of biweekly sessions classified him as psychotic, sociopathic, and a chronic manipulator, but offered a solution that may work for all parties concerned. The psychiatrist said the boy would be monitored more closely if he lived full time in the special boy’s school where he worked.

The agency gave the doctor custody of the boy.

The boy presented signs of Pyromania and Hematomania. The psychiatrist tried more intensive therapy to no avail. There was no legal recourse to hold the boy, now a young man, in custody, and he was beyond corrective measures. At eighteen, the boy was released from the home and set out into the world.

The doctor
feared he failed the boy.

He did.

The young man found his way into the world and learned a way to make money. His looks along with his manipulative personality could earn him what he needed, the rest he would steal. There were always people, both men and woman, without integrity who’d be willing to pay him for sex. He kept the pain inside, inflicting it on others weaker than himself. This made him feel better.

One rainy
fall day, the young man had his first stroke of luck. After a “date” the young man was walking, on his way home to his rented room in South Philadelphia, and was approached by a well-dressed man wearing an expensive watch. The young man was willing to set up another “date.” This one would be easy to roll, besides the young man liked the watch. The man said he didn’t want sex, said he just wanted to talk. The young man was skeptical but followed the man into a nice bar two streets over. The man put money on the bar and bought the young man a drink. He told the young man he had a look, a certain look, a “bad-boy” look, one he had been searching for. The man said he was a modeling agent. It turned out the man was telling the truth. Now the young man’s face was plastered on billboards everywhere. He had fame, but a lot of hate. He had money, but not enough.

The young man
was determined to find out who his
real
parents were. The records were sealed, but the young man persevered and eventually found a way to hack into the system. He found his mother, a woman named Katherine Worthington, currently living in New York City. He would find out what he could about her.

The young man swore b
efore she died she would know who he was.  She would know what she had done to him…she would know his pain, he’d show her.

Chapter 12

Cole

17
years ago

Tim, Ron and Jim planned to meet in Tim’s garage when everyone was asleep. It was the 7
th
graders’ hang out night. Once a month, after the new magazines hit the stands, the boys would gather to “talk shit,” smoke cigarettes and have a look at what every boy wants to see.  A little “T&A”…every twelve year olds’ dream.