Suffer the Children

Suffer the Children
Written by
K.Silence

© Copyright 2004 K. Silence
All rights reserved. Distribution of any kind is prohibited without the written consent of K. Silence.

She asked a lonely question
I gave a lonely reply.
Two hearts beating a different rhythm
and I couldn't wait to watch it die.
Bleed out until there's nothing,
nothing left to take.
So I took her down a morose path,
and drowned her in my mistakes.
A river of tears and the wind blows down
to stretch this path
and as I burned her down
I inhaled my grief
and my smiles a frown,
but I couldn't keep the anger bound.
She looked so lonely, her bleeding stare,
her eyes a graying mist.
The fog laid down a blanket of death
but she's too cold to resist.
This memory is haunting me,
it’s too late to take it back.
So I dug up the dirt and buried her in black.
She cried and I couldn't reflect her tears.
She hurt and I couldn't feel her pain.
She bled in my hands and my hands remained dry.
Inside that grave of her shame
my guiltless eyes watched her die…



Prologue

Shame, mercilessness, pain, I remember them well. Bouncing back at me through the breathtaking darkness were splashes of light, the not-so-beguiling gleam in my father’s cold dark eyes. Why light when light represented holiness? Why holiness when holiness represented God? Why God?
Why can’t I control myself? I controlled them so well, almost God-like. But the seemingly simple task of controlling my own hunger for death is entirely out of my control. I have been throwing that question to God for years. Why does it eat at me like acid? Why am I a killer? God made me, right? He created me, the murderer of the innocent. I am a poison to society, but I am flesh and blood, just a man. To my dismay, but not to my surprise, the answer to these questions doesn’t come. Still I listen. What else have I to do in these last hours before our death?
Allyson breathes softly. In…out…in…out. Her breathing is so steady I know it will be only minutes before she awakens again. I never meant to hurt her, but I’ve said that too many times to really even take myself seriously. I did hurt her and that is all that matters now. I am a guilty man, guilty of lusting, loving, and hating; an ordinary man in a fucked up world.
I always thought that I used drugs to numb the pain, but I’m so high I can barely keep my eyes focused and my hand steady while holding this pen, perhaps one milligram short of death but I still feel. I feel regret, and shame, and anger towards my self, towards a world built on unrealistic fantasies of perfectionism. Yet I cannot recall ever feeling all of these emotions at once, at least not this strongly.
She moved! Her back is to me but I think I saw her finger twitch a bit in their restraints. She is such a beautiful woman, a beautiful woman who doubted her beauty. Ignorance is to blame for why she lies scarred because of me. She should have left me. She could have left me long before those scars were created.
I love the way her beautiful black hair is spilling down onto the floor. It’s a shame, all the times I took for granted, running my hand through the pool of silk that streams from her pretty head. There was never a tangle, never a flaw – never a flaw until she met me.
I’m so afraid, dreading what I have to do. At least I’m not shaking anymore, but I know it’s all there in my head. No matter how high, I can’t block out the fact that this is it, the end. The end is scarier than I thought. I can feel it, and can’t really describe the feeling as anything other than emptiness, a vast space of nihility.
I’m sure this will be taken as a suicide note, but really it’s just my final entry. Everything must at least have a decent ending. To go out without a departing quote would be so boring. But, really, I am afraid. Hell, even when I tried to kill myself I wasn’t this afraid. Funny, I used the word hell. Such an appropriate word since I know I am going there. There’s a morbid romance in knowing we’ll die together, me and my love. And I somehow find it so arousing.
Sometimes I am certain God must have created her for me, my personal doll… my beautiful, perfect Allyson. The candlelight almost bounces back at me from her pretty pale skin. How many times have I blackened her soft skin? How many times have I broken its silken surface and watched the dark red blood spill down, staining the perfection? And in this light she almost looks dead.
I dread this task. I regret being the one thing that could perhaps spare, or end her life. I know I cannot let her live. Its times like this that I wish she could control me. She could live another day. It breaks my heart, but proves I still have one.
I can’t believe I have done this, made this idiotic mistake. A million apologies and I’m not so sure I’m really sorry, just sorry that I picked the wrong girl. No artist alive could have painted a more beautiful creature. But God made her I’m sure just so I could destroy her. Artists are so sickeningly demented. I should know. I am one. And God is by far, my favorite Artist. She was young – a virgin. I never asked. I knew. It must have hurt. It hurt me just to get inside of her. But if I had known who she was, I would have left her there by the deserted road, and driven away, never looking back.
No regrets. I always said no regrets. But there’s nothing now I don’t regret. I deserve this. My selfish need for power and control taught me a lesson. I deserve to make this choice and nothing less.
It’s not easy being in control, being God. Would I have done it if I had known who she was, if I had control? No. But I didn’t. I don’t. Of all the girls in the world walking into my traps like rats toward cheese on those wooden slabs, so unaware of what’s waiting to crash down on them - her of all people. It is no coincidence, this I can assure you. There are no coincidences. There is only fate, and like revenge, its best served cold.
Why do I taste blood? Such a metallic taste – such a familiar taste. I’m biting the inside of my jaw again. Another bad habit I can’t seem to break. But if I’m correct and you can’t pre-think a thought, a thought just is, then it’s so useless, the very idea of self-will. I mean, sure you can call it "thinking", but who put it there? What formed that particular thought or idea? It’s infinity of creation. You have to think before you talk, think before you think. It’s all out of our control, and you’re all walking around in this delusional realm thinking how you’re so fucking special because you did this and you did that, well you never did a damn thing. Different actions create different reactions. You were just lucky, not smart, only lucky.
I was a little less fortunate, so all you damned conformists can suck my nuts. You don’t matter. When they forget your name, they’ll remember mine. In the end, who left the biggest impression, hm? The detective? The detective that never figured out who I was? Be aware that he never would, had I not allowed it. I may be sick but I’m not a fool. And if it’s the price of immortality, I’ve already paid my dues. Besides, I’d rather share with the world my thoughts than to keep them buried in this abysmal reality.
Ally’s waking up. I want my kids to know that I didn’t want to hurt her. I’m not sure I know what love feels like, but I’m sure I love her. It hurts, that’s how I know. Hurt and love, aren’t they the same? I know what I have to do. No regrets.


Chapter 1


“There isn’t much to hear about my father,” replied the thin dark-haired boy standing in front of the two way mirror, ostensibly unconcerned that an officer was most certainly on the other side watching his every move.
The boy, Julian Angeloro, was considered an extremely dangerous criminal, a gruesome calloused murderer. The handcuffs binding his wrists in front of him gave confirmation of his precarious unpredictability, and potential danger to her.
However, Dr. Robin Watkinson wasn’t very frightened or intimidated by him, but rather Julian seemed to be intimidated by her presence and prying, shying away as far as he could from the Doctor. As a criminal psychologist, talking to dangerous and insane individuals was anything but out of the ordinary.
More likely than not, she had no problem getting her patients to open up to her. If they thought it could serve them in any way they were more than willing. Most of them had been screaming all along for someone to hear them out, but their silent screams were over looked. They all had the mentality of a child no matter how high their IQ, and the lack of ability to grow up properly usually came to be the very reason they wound up the dangerous people that they were. Speaking with Robin was just an opportunity to have those cries heard.
It was the very part of them that was human, yet somehow they were monsters all the same. Most of them tried to be proven insane, going extra lengths to convince her they didn’t know the difference between right and wrong, but not this boy. Julian Angeloro was trying his damnedest to convince her that he was stable minded and a very sane individual, and knew he was no killer. However, Robin was considering all possibilities.
Robin had evaluated hundreds of hardened criminals; killers, rapists, pedophiles, and just blatant psychopaths, trying to divulge what made them what they were. What moment did they become twisted, and what birthed their mental instabilities? In a way they were teaching her more than any of the college scholars ever had about the dangers of the human mind.
But no, she wasn’t afraid of the kid standing there like a helpless fawn caught in the high beams of an oncoming car, but rather drawn to him and that reflection of sadness that danced around him. This kid was hurting and afraid and not at all predatory. His innocence was nagging at her. What if? What if, her conscious kept saying to her, what if he was innocent, and they were railroading an innocent youth?
Even though he had long shaggy unkempt hair, and that sort of punk-kid aura about him, she simply couldn’t see that boy hurting anyone. Other’s would have looked and said he was nothing but trouble. But something about him was screaming for her to believe him, to believe he was telling the truth, to believe that he wasn’t capable of killing another human being. Though, his exterior was tough and stubborn, his fear and desperation weakened those hard dark eyes.
Robin considered him a kid because he was one. Sixteen years old, in fact: the youngest person in the penitentiary. For thirty unaccomplished minutes she’d tried to pry something out of the boy in the seclusion of the small room. The place he’d called home for two horrific weeks. Hampton County Correctional Facility was where he lived in an eight by ten room with the rest of the dangerous criminals who awaited trial.
Robin waited patiently for him to continue, but he didn’t. He was a hard one to break, this boy, stubborn to the core. Something in his pinewood brown eyes reminded her of a lost puppy. He seemed to only wear that one expression. Smile as much as he dare, he couldn’t conceal it.
As a “head doctor” Robin was aware that Saint Parrish was, oddly enough, a criminal psychologist’s ideal location, at least the ones who were lucky enough to get a job in the city. Maybe it was something in the water, but the historic town founded upon a man known as no other than Joseph Parrish, was most known for its criminal activity.
The child standing before Dr. Robin Watkinson was all too familiar. It thrilled, yet frightened her when she was asked to evaluate him for his murder trial, but what could she say? She was one of the best Criminal Psychologists around. She jumped at such a once in a lifetime opportunity. And having an ex-husband who was the prosecuting attorney who’d specifically wanted her was always a good thing, and often helped pay the bills. Perhaps it would give her another opportunity to write another book to add to her collection over the years. She’d written four by then, one about no other than Kody Angeloro.
Her ex-husband, Eric Watkinson, a very handsome, very successful lawyer, she was sure would have Julian Angeloro put away for a very long time. And she was supposed to be helping put this child away.
Robin felt biased to say the least. It wasn’t fair for her to judge this kid. Of course she slightly cringed at the sight of him, looking so much like his father, the evil heartless murderer that had nearly ruined her life. All the while he’d been right under her nose.
Ever since over a decade before, when Eric had been the prosecuting attorney against Julian’s father, Kody Angeloro when, at the age of 25, he’d been arrested and charged with assault and battery, and unlawful physical restraint, after he’d handcuffed his wife to their bed, then beat her viciously about her face and body with his fists and a belt she owned encrusted with metal studs.
When Angeloro called Allyson’s mother and announced unsympathetically that he’d hurt her and she wouldn’t wake up, Allyson’s mother had him arrested, and her daughter spent six days in Joseph Parrish Memorial Hospital recovering.
It had been a small and common case that Eric won, but since it was Angeloro’s first known offense, and Eric was rather new at the business the brutal killer only received a sentence of six months in a psychiatric ward where he would undergo psychiatric treatment and attend anger management classes each day. Angeloro was released after serving 90 days with legal documents citing he was fully rehabilitated, and no longer a threat to society.
The Doctor was completely mistaken. Her sessions with him had been completely under Angeloro’s control as he manipulated and conned her just as he had his wife for years.
There were rumors that Angeloro and the young Doctor had some kind of sexual affair as she was spotted visiting him on odd occasions. It was even rumored that a patient caught Angeloro having his way with the pretty Doctor on her desk, but was never validated, and his case was laid away to gather dust. After all, who would take the word of the patient that claimed this to be true?
Unfortunately, because he’d seduced and took advantage of the unprofessional Doctor whose conscious consisted of a burning in her loins, two days after his release he brutally raped and murdered the mother of a young child. Angeloro abducted her as he spotted her pushing her child in a stroller with no one around to witness the abduction. Angeloro left the child there, screaming for her mother. The infant’s screaming was heard and the child was discovered by a neighbor who immediately phoned the police.
Eric had always been rather certain that the reason Angeloro had gotten the easy way out when indicted for his crimes against his wife was only because Allyson, who was nothing more than a horribly naïve child, slightly choked up on the witness stand. It was the classic case of battered wife syndrome. She still loved him and desperately didn’t want to hurt him and as BWS tends to go, felt she could do no better than Kody. Every glance the manipulative sadist cut in her direction sent her gaze down to her lap.
She rather smoothed it all over, or as Robin believed, blatantly lied to save her sociopath husband, as if she feared the very presence of him. He had more than physical control over her. He had mental control over the young girl as well as she lied on the stand, saying that she had willingly let him restrain her for sexual purposes and that she had enraged him when she became claustrophobic by ordering him to release her, calling him demeaning and slandering names, and testified that she was aware of his mental illnesses before she provoked him.
“Kody was drunk, and I upset him and… and I guess I had suspicions of him having an affair so I told him to untie me and go f one of his whores. I don’t really think he was aware of what he was doing. I don’t think he meant to hurt me like that,” lied the gullible child-like woman, with just as much the child-like mentality as the man who controlled her.
Strangely enough, Robin heard about her husband’s case against Angeloro and was too busy to follow it closely. She never got a chance to see the defendant face to face. Had she seen him she could have put him away for the rest of his life.
This boy before Robin, staring out of the window absently, and appearing as harmless as a fly was the sadist’s son, his flesh and blood. As for the Angeloro’s, something seemed to flow through their blood – Something that made them incredibly cruel, or so it seemed.
Kody Angeloro was nothing less than a sadist, savagely killing at least nineteen young females in the five years that the infamous and particularly brutal serial murderer stalked the girls of Saint Parrish, until his death at the age of 26.
Perhaps even more invigorating, Kody was considered a genius, with an IQ of 150, and had the clever ability to outwit the cops until his dying day. He concealed most of the bodies in fresh graves, citing that the soil was soft and easy to dig up. And who would have thought that anyone besides their deceased loved one occupied the grave? No one really knew how many deaths he was responsible for.
Kody Angeloro’s father, Vincent Angeloro, was not your typical abusive father. He was a twisted sadist, targeting most of his sexual aggression and sick fetishes towards his innocent sons, and taken by the youngest child, Kody Angeloro, more so than the others. Kody claimed his father abused his sons, physically and sexually, and every wife or girlfriend he’s ever had, and insisted that he was far more abused and exposed to horrifying sexual acts forced upon him than his older brother, Trent.
Despite these confessions from Kody, Dr. Robin Watkinson was a firm believer that the brothers and even the father had the knowledge of right and wrong. Kody was a cold blooded murderer. What if she did go along with Eric and prove this boy, Julian, capable of controlling his actions? Perhaps Saint Parrish would be a safer place. But would her guilt be laid to rest?
Why would Julian be dumb enough to be the last person seen with the victim, leave fingerprint everywhere, and not at least try to plead insanity? He’d passed all tests and evaluations with flying colors. He was too smart that if he were a sociopath, he’d be trying to manipulate her into thinking he was insane and a tortured soul with a horrible past of abuse.
After all, if all that Kody’s auto-biography stated about the abuse and cruelty of his father was true, then this boy was exposed to the same void of affection as his murderous father. Julian and his younger sister, Micah, had been living with Kody’s father since their mother’s demise. Robin merely wanted to prevent history from repeating itself.
Although, Julian’s grandfather assured investigators that Julian had been in bed by the time he had, it meant little to investigators. Julian had been known for sneaking out, since his Grandfather rarely allowed him any type of freedom. It would have only taken an hour to kill Anya Patton in her room on the cool night of March 14th.
She wasn’t even discovered until the next morning when her mother went to wake her for school, and found her lying naked, face down on her bed, a ligature around her neck had been used to strangle her to death, and her wrists and ankles were tied as well. It was later determined that she may have been sexually assaulted as semen was found on the bed and the victim’s panties and Julian’s DNA was a perfect match.
Immediately the parents fingered Julian, reporting that they had warned their daughter to stay away from him since the moment she’d became infatuated with him. Others spoke out that the family was cursed and obsessed by death. But who knew what kept them in Saint Parrish if they believed such? Who knew what kept Robin there?
She was not a firm believer in curses, although, consequently she somehow believed that insanity is something that cannot be maintained if that particular person is destined hereditarily to become disconnected from certain emotions. If one were blind could he will himself to see? In Robin’s humble opinion, such was the case. But not everyone who suffered from insanity is dangerous. They needed the right environment.
None-the-less, it was too great a risk to trust a person as susceptible to becoming a sociopath as Julian Angeloro. And Robin was dying to dig deeper. Even if he was prone to having a personality disorder, posttraumatic stress disorder, or becoming just a plain psychopath, chances are, since he was intelligent enough to already have a scholarship to any college in the state, he was smart enough to know that killing someone was wrong. He seemed, by no means, dissociative.
“Perhaps, you could tell me your first memories of your father,” Robin broke the silence, and Julian made a sort of grunt.
Of course there was a hesitation before he spoke. “I don’t remember much. I was only six when he died.” He took a deep breath, “I remember he liked to paint, and some of the paintings scared me when I was little. He was really good though. I don’t know what happened to them. I heard they were sold on ebay or something…”
“Do you remember anything about the paintings? What did they look like?”
“He painted dead girls. Different paintings… I dunno… the – the painting he called Dead Dolls with the dead girls stacked on top of each other… It was just scary. It was like a junkyard of dead girls. It was really creepy.”
“How did that make you feel, to know your father enjoyed painting girls this way?”
Julian shrugged, his back still to her, “I was too young to think about it at the time. I didn’t think he was evil. I definitely didn’t think he was a killer. He was my Dad. A lot of artists draw morbid things, and they don’t go around killing people.”
“Did you love him?”
“Yes. He was a good dad. Well, I thought he was. I didn’t know what he was doing… killing those girls. I was a kid. I just thought he was my Dad, the man that played ball with me in the front yard, and played video games with me, and took me camping. I looked up to him and thought he was the strongest guy in the world… like most kids do about their dad. I think I stuck to my Mom more. I sat back and admired him, but mom just seemed safer. Now he disgusts me. He tricked me. He lied to me, and he’s why I’m here, right?”
“Do you still think about him?”
Julian let out an exasperated sigh, “How can I not think about him? He put me here.”
“Do you still love your father, Mr. Angeloro?”
“Please call me Julian. No, I don’t love him. I hate him. He’s destroyed my life. He was never my dad. He was this fake person that pretended to be a good dad enough to ease his guilt.”
Robin leaned forward, interested and relieved that he was finally talking. “What guilt? Guilt about being a bad man?”
“Guilt about lying to me. He was a lie. He hurt me. I loved him, the person I thought he was and that’s not even who he was. It was just a fucking lie.”
Robin hesitated, taking in Julian’s body movements and how he seemed to slump more when he was talking about his father. “Do you blame your father that you’re here now?”
“I blame him for everything.”
“Do you blame him for Anya Patton’s murder?”
Julian turned to her suddenly, “I blame him because everyone blames me for her death.”
“But… it says in your file that there’s a lot of evidence proving you killed her. Maybe you’re afraid, Julian. You have every right to be afraid and angry. Your father left you, your mother left you. That must hurt your ability to function in such a judgmental world. Your childhood must have been put on hold after all the post trauma.”
“I didn’t kill her,” Julian insisted, “No one believes me. You don’t believe me. You’re only kind because it’s your job to be, and you’re trying to brain wash me, so you that the lawyer can chew me up and spit me out.”
“I never said you killed her.” Robin interjected. “Julian, why don’t you take a seat?”
After a few moments Julian turned and slowly approached the chair in front of the long rectangular table she sat at.
After he took a seat she continued. “Judging you is not my job. I’m here to listen to you, and am I to understand that your mother and father died and this didn’t affect you, perhaps make you angry at the world in some way?”
Julian looked down at the tape recorder, recording his every word. “Yes, it did. I was angry until I realized it wasn’t worth it. It was just letting him win. But not angry enough to lose my fucking mind and do this to my girlfriend. I could never even imagine hurting her.”
“So you’re saying you’ve never hurt her physically in any way? She never made you angry?”
“No! No way! I never put my hands on her. Yes, she’s made me angry. But so have lots of other people and you don’t see me following them around with a knife over their back. I know boundaries, okay? I know the difference between right and wrong. I have a conscious, and a heart, and sympathy, and love…”
“I understand that and I believe you do, but witnessing your father abusing your step-mother must have been traumatic for you.”
His eyes directly met hers.
“My Mother,” he corrected, quite offended that she’d called her otherwise. “She’s not my step-mom. She’s the only mother I ever had.”
“I’m sorry, Julian. I know she was very close to you and your sister.”
“How did it affect you when you witnessed your father abusing your mother?”
“I hated it. I was scared. I had no other choice but to wait for it to be over with.”
“What’s the worst thing you saw him do to your Mother? Do you feel comfortable talking about that?”
“Ahhh…. It was a long time ago. I really don’t remember much…”
Robin took a deep breath. Still, she’d not even left a dint upon the surface of him.
“Julian, do you think it’s because you don’t want to remember?”
“And what if I don’t want to remember? What’s so bad about that?” he shot back.
It was unprofessional, Robin was aware, but she’d already formed her opinion about him. It was only the human in her, but the more she thought about him being the son of a serial killer the less it made sense for him to kill someone.
“Nothing. Nothing at all is bad about that. It’s very normal to block things out when they become too overwhelming for you.” She paused, “Your father said in his journal that your Grandfather sexually and physically abused him and his brothers. I know you’ve been living with him for quite some time now. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay. I’m not going to push you.” She paused, “Now, I’ve spoken to some of your friends who say they’ve seen bruises and signs of physical abuse on you.”
“I work part time in construction. I get bruises all the time.”
Dr. Watkinson seemed to ignore him. “Has your grandfather ever struck you?”
“Struck me? Yes. Abused me? No. I know what this is all about. You’re looking for some kind of motive that I’ve been abused and it made me crazy. My father never hit me. He spoiled me. And my Grandfather has never molested or abused me.”
“I didn’t ask if he molested you.”
Julian rolled his eyes. “I can’t do this. I can’t play these games. I’m innocent, and I’ve never been sexually abused or abused in general. I can’t help that no one wants to believe me. Why would I hurt Anya?”
“I don’t know.” Robin’s voice was calm, “I’m not here to judge you, and I’m not here to condemn you for anything that may have happened to you. Listen, I want to ask you a few questions.” She paused, writing down a few notes on the notepad lying on the desk. Finally she laid down the pen and continued. “These are just some routine questions. You can answer them with yes or no. Have you ever had any black-outs, or short term memory loss?”
“No.”
“Heard any voices or points where you felt out of touch with reality?”
“No.”
She scribbled in the notebook again for a good minute and proceeded.
“Have you ever felt any amount of loss of control, or that something, perhaps a higher force or deity, may have control over your life and decisions?”
“No.”
“Besides your father or grandfather, I was made aware that you were placed in foster care for the first several months after the loss of your mother. Did you experience any type of abuse there? What were your foster families like?”
Julian licked his lips nervously. “Well, I hated it. I mean, mom died. My sister was in a completely different home. Foster homes were hell. How would you feel being passed around to strange people?”
“Were you ever subjected to any type of trauma when placed in these homes?”
“Besides getting beat up by my foster brothers, and having to scrub the toilet every morning in one home, no. Look, I’m not like my dad. I’m not a killer, and I’m not crazy. I never hurt Anya. I was at home, asleep. I’m tired of being here. I want to go home.”
So far Julian hadn’t said anything different. He wasn’t paranoid, seemingly not delusional, and so far his anger seemed quite logical, and considering the fact that he was fully aware that he could possibly get off with the plea of insanity, he still desperately attempted to make Robin believe otherwise. Even when anger was present he never seemed to take it out on her, but rather he seemed to take it out upon himself, which, in Robin’s humble opinion was quite normal for an adolescent as well.
“Julian,” she brought her hands together as if in prayer, “how would you feel about undergoing hypnosis?”
“What, and let you convince me that something happened that didn’t?” He asked the question softly, though she could sense a bit of fear.
“No, to help you clarify some things for me, that’s all.” She paused to take a deep breath and suddenly clicked the stop button the audio recorder in front of her. “Listen, I know what your case rides on, Mr. Angeloro. Without my help you’re looking at a lot of time here. They’re trying you as an adult. You do understand this…? And to not work with me… I know I’m not supposed to be saying this, but…”
“No, you want motive. That’s why they sent you in here. To get me to tell you my father abused me and abused my mom in front of me, and that my grandfather molested me or whatever else you people think happened. Then I’ll have a reason to be an abusive maniac. I’m young but I’m not stupid. I’ve never hit anyone in my entire life, especially a female. My mother taught me to respect women if that clarifies anything for you.”
“On the contrary, I think you’re a very bright young man.” Her tone was as calm as his, “I know you’re scared, and hurt, and angry. But because of your family’s history there are people out there that want to see you go down.” Robin wasn’t sure why she was saying all of that, and why she saw innocence in his eyes, but without thinking about her words further, she continued, “This will turn into a witch hunt, Julian. I have no more sessions with you. Today everything is final. Do you hear me? So unless we help each other out it’s almost fair to say that you’ll be in the state penitentiary for possibly sixty-five years, or worse. I’m not guaranteeing you a pardon for your crime, but it would help if you participated, and told me a little background information about your life.”
“My crime?” Julian’s brown eyes seemed to lose their youthful light for a moment, “I didn’t commit any crime. I’m a normal person. I have goals, and this definitely wasn’t one of them.”
Julian bit his lip. His dark eyes were once again glued upon the floor. The faint glisten of tears could be seen, even from where Robin was sitting. Investigators had all the evidence needed to prove him guilty of the homicide.
Another exhale sounded from where Robin sat.
“Julian, they found semen on the bed. She had been sexually assaulted. There’s no other evidence they need.”
“She was not sexually assaulted,” Julian said flatly, “We had sex, yes? But she was my girlfriend, and the sex was and always has been consented. We did it several times that day, in fact… once at the party even. It’s not a big secret that we did do that. It’s a pretty normal thing, shouldn’t you know that as well as I? We’re two teenagers. You were a teenager once. You know what it’s like. But I am not a rapist, lady.”
“I understand… but are you sure it wasn’t an accident, and now you’re afraid?”
“An accident? An accident!? There was nothing accidental about the way she died. Those bastards made sure to show me the photos over and over, and there was nothing accidental about her death. I couldn’t do anything like that to anyone. I can’t get that out of my mind,” Julian pretended to not acknowledge the tears fall down his check. “I just keep seeing those pictures over and over. I am innocent and I’m suffering in here for something I could never imagine doing to anyone, and no one believes me.”
“Is it possible that you’re unsure if you did it or not?”
“I didn’t do it, okay? I didn’t fucking do it. How could be unsure whether I killed the love of my life or not?”
“Julian, maybe you just don’t remember. Do you think you could have blacked out?”
“Jesus! I told you, I’ve never blacked out in my life. It doesn’t matter how long you interrogate me, it won’t change the fact that I’m not crazy. I’m not a killer. I couldn’t do that to anyone. How can you keep me in here for this?”
She wanted to say, Oh, that’s simple, your last name’s Angeloro, you knew Anya, you have the family history of sociopaths, and schizophrenia… not to mention all the physical evidence taken from the crime scene.
But instead she once again tried to remain professional. “I didn’t put you here. My job is only to talk to you, get you to express the way you feel about all this, to understand what you’ve been through so I can relay that to a jury of your peers. Part of that process involves knowing what kind of childhood you had, and what your surroundings were as you developed, but without any information other than hear-say it’s hard to do. I don’t want to force you to talk about your childhood. In fact, I’m not forcing you. I just have this feeling you don’t want to talk about it because something did happen. You’ll feel so much better if you get some things off your chest even if it’s as petty as the death of a childhood pet.”
“No, you want me to say I killed her. I’m not crazy. And everyone knows that my mother was murdered by my own father, who, by the way, was a serial killer… that’s not as petty as the death of a pet.”
“I know. It’s not. I imagine that was horrible for you. It must have been such a traumatic experience losing both of your parents and being placed in a strange home. Your first foster home with,” Robin paused to flip through some papers and she pressed two fingers upon the recorder and continued, “The Burns in Hampton, how was that? Did they treat you and your sister well?”
“Yes, they were very nice. I wished I could have stayed there. They had another foster daughter, and a foster son, so me and Micah both had someone to play with, and they were really rich so they bought us so much stuff. Micah really liked it there too. She didn’t really understand about our parents. She only cried about a week after she realized our mother wasn’t coming back to get us, and after that episode she seemed to accept it.”
“Did she take getting placed in the new foster home well?”
“I don’t really know. The family she lived with let her write letters, and she was only six so she didn’t say much more than, I miss you, and I love you. The day she went to stay with the family three hours away I remembered she dug her nails into my arms so hard that I bled. No one could pull her away.” He paused, “I was all she had. She was all I had.”
“Were you angry that they took you away from her?”
“Of course I was! It was my little sister. The last words my mom ever said to me was, ‘take care of Micah,’ so I always tried to. It just seems like something is always there to pull us apart.”
“Do you feel like something is really out there… a curse maybe?”
“What? No. It just – It just seems that way. I know it’s nothing supernatural. I mean there’s gotta be bad in the world, right?”
“Are you saying that someone has to be there for the weight to fall upon? Do you feel targeted for the tragedies in your life?”
“Yes. I absolutely do, and if that makes me crazy then I don’t know what’s normal. Is normal accepting these things without emotion just to keep the balance of good when there is no balance anymore? I’ve never hurt anyone. I have hated, and absolutely despised everything my father was. He hurt my mother and she was the most important thing to me, and not only did he hurt her but he hurt me and Micah and his own brother’s child… Jesus, why would I want to hurt another innocent person? Hasn’t he done enough to me without branding me as something I’m not? I love life. I always have. No matter what ever happened I’ve respected life. I’ve been dying to go to college to one day get my masters and make something of myself, and be a wonderful person, with a wonderful family. It was my sole ambition. I wanted to escape this and someone kills my girlfriend and all anyone can think about is Kody Angeloro’s child. I mean I dated her, right? What a coincidence!” Julian paused, “But it is. I wouldn’t hurt her. I’m not insane. I’m not guilty. I’m innocent. And if the justice of a government I’ve always trusted for protection puts me away for something my father did years ago then everything is just pointless anyway. I did not kill Anya. I’m not insane. I’ve never had a black-out. I’ve never heard voices. My dog never told me to murder people. You gave me a drug test. I don’t do them and even you’ve heard that drugs were a part of my dad’s problem.”
“What about the cigarette lighter with your fingerprint on it they found in the room. It had your fingerprint in blood on it.”
“We went out to a party. A string was hanging from her shirt below the sleeve and she asked me to burn it off. It was her lighter. I don’t smoke anything. Check me. I’ve never even smoked in my life. I mean, what idiot would decide to have a smoke right after killing someone? And for the record they did not find my fingerprint in blood on the lighter. They said they found blood evidence on the lighter and my fingerprint, but not my fingerprint in the blood on the lighter, okay?
Then before we left we had sex on her bed. Two witnesses were there when I dropped her back off at her home that night, and I’m sure her top priority wasn’t changing her sheets. She was sick… from drinking so much. I told them this. It’s all true. Why wouldn’t my fingerprint be there? Why wouldn’t I have sex with my girlfriend? But what in God’s name did I have to gain by killing her? I’ve lost someone I loved and one day wanted a life with, and people are blaming me. I’m being betrayed by the world and it’s really hurting me.”
“Those two witnesses also said you got into an argument at the party…”
“It wasn’t an argument. I was looking out for her. She was going to do drugs and I told her that she shouldn’t. She was already drunk and stumbling around. I was trying to take care of her. Ask my sister. Then she accused me of not wanting her to have fun. I guess I was thinking about how her Dad had already threatened to keep me away from her for good because of my Dad being who he was…All I wanted was to get her home so she wouldn’t get into trouble and so I could see her again and still be trusted. I wasn’t even mad, just disappointed and worried. Did those witnesses tell you about that? Did they say I was trying to keep her out of trouble?
“My Mom always said that good things happened to good people. She was so wrong because I never remember her disrespecting anyone. She always tried to help people and she was killed for caring about my father. Why is everything so backwards? Why do I feel like this is just a really bad dream and I’m supposed to wake up any second?”
“Is that how you feel? You feel things are backwards?”
“I’m here so, yes. I mean, why would I do that? I have a scholarship to any college in the state. I wouldn’t hurt anybody. You’re just all suckering me into this, and I can’t win. If I say I’m guilty I may get the maximum of sixty-five years in prison. If I say I’m innocent and proven guilty, I may be eligible to book a room on death row, and if you say I’m insane I get to live in here for half of my life until I’m proven otherwise. There’s this guy, when he eats he talks to himself about his daughter, Sheryl, constantly. Another that told me I was going to be dead soon. Don’t you think by the time this is over I will be insane? I watch the news in the TV room, and there are people with signs. ‘Like father, like son’ that’s what one said. They want me dead. But wouldn’t the right thing be honesty? I mean, you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free, right?”
She sighed.
“I wish things were that easy, Julian, but they’re not. They cannot use your family’s history of mental illness as motive to this murder. It can only be used to prove that you are insane. I know you think that since you believe you’re innocent…”
“I am innocent.” He interrupted.
She cleared her throat and continued where she’d left off. “…that justice is supposed to be on our side defending the innocent. Well, you’re looking at a lot of people thinking you’re guilty without a doubt. There’s a lot of evidence that points in that direction.”
“I cannot plead insanity if I’m not insane. I cannot plead guilty when I’m not guilty.”
With those words Robin felt a certain pang, not of sympathy or sorrow, but a bitter serenity, if you will. It was his trust in a fair system that made her want to doubt that he committed the crime; Mild mannered, darkly handsome, much like his father had looked. Both had those squinty, ever suspicious eyes – in one light you could take them as angry and piercing and in another they seemed gentle and kind.
The past of his family history plagued this child. She read it in his movements, in his frightened eyes. But it was the evidence and the knowledge of how cruel his father was that made her dubious.
About his family she had come to a once and for all conclusion. They were not born evil. Maybe they had mental instabilities, but not every mentally unstable person is stricken with hostility and cruelty. She felt it was the severe sexual and physical abuse, as well as the lack of affection that made them as cruel as they seemed. It just didn’t seem likely that he would choose the hard way out, and plead not guilty if he had a glimmer of hope otherwise.
Robin felt, and felt quite strongly that he was ashamed or in denial, and was rather certain that if Kody’s father, Vincent Angeloro had been as perverse and abusive as Kody claimed, that he couldn’t have just stopped at the turn of a dime. It takes severe psychological treatment to end child molestation and physical abuse. In fifteen years of her studies, Robin had yet to see one person rid themselves of any abuse disorder. It simply didn’t happen without treatment, and often even with treatment.
Perhaps, Julian wanted to pretend he wasn’t abused, but she was certain that if she had a much longer opportunity to speak with him she could have opened up the part of himself that he hid away.
By teachers and classmates, Julian was said to be a quiet and subtle boy, making nothing but straight A’s throughout the school year. But more than that, he had goals. Most criminals Robin Watkinson had ever spoken with never appeared to have any inspiration for living at all. They were already dead. They just wanted to bring others down with them.
Robin’s voice remained soft. Julian was too fragile to make him angry just yet. “Do you think I’m going to judge you for anything that may have happened?” He didn’t answer so she continued. “I won’t judge you, Julian. I might be the only one that never has, but I won’t judge you. Would you tell me more about your father, your childhood, your Grandfather…?”
His dark eyes dropped to the floor, and he must have stared at the burgundy commercial carpet for several minutes. She knew he was thinking about it, reprocessing a few memories. The pain could be read in the prolonged reverie.
“My Father was nice to me. I never remember him hurting me. He wouldn’t I don’t think. Mom said it was because he didn’t want me to think of him the way he thought of his dad. Most of the time I just heard them fighting. I knew better than to hang around, so I would just go into my bedroom and not come out until it was over. Mom always told me it was wrong to hit girls, and that Dad was just sick. She was talking about his drug addiction. I remember most of the time he was gone or nodding off on our couch.”
Julian paused thoughtfully, “Once, when I was… maybe five, mom explained to me why it was wrong to hit females. I didn’t know any better, so when my father started screaming and yelling at her for messing up one of his shirts. I think she spilled bleach or something on it. I can’t completely remember. I walked up to my father and told him not to hit mom,” a soft laugh escaped Julian’s lips, “Then I think I told him all the reasons he shouldn’t hit girls. I don’t remember ever doing that again.
“Dad took me to my bedroom, and shut the door. I remember trying to look under the door to see if she was okay, because as soon as he reached her he started hitting her. I could hear the sound of his fist hitting her. I couldn’t see anything because the crack beneath the door wasn’t big enough, but mom was crying, and Dad was cursing, breaking stuff, and then I heard him tell her that he would kill her if she tried to turn his son against him. So that was probably my fault…
“I never tried to help her again, but it wasn’t because I didn’t care if my father hurt her. She never did anything wrong. The house was always spotless. I mean, she took care of me, and I wasn’t even her biological child.”
“Were you angry at your father for hurting your mother?” Robin asked expressionless.
“Well… yes. I cried when Mom cried. My father was very cruel to her. I was so much happier when she left him, and got custody of me. Micah was growing up, and I helped Mom take care of her. I mean, sometimes I stayed with Dad, but when Mom wasn’t there for him to hit and abuse he was fine. He got me anything I wanted, and never raised his voice at me.”
“How about your sister? Was he the same with her?”
“Um… a little more impatient I think, but I never saw him do anything to harm her. She always stayed right by me when we were with our father… because she was a girl. I just thought my Dad hated all females. I’ve always taken care of her.” A pause, “I hate knowing who my Dad was, but I’m not my dad, and I’m not guilty, and as far as I'm concerned this interview is over.”