It flashed through the sky and then was gone.
Lucy was sure she had seen a UFO and was equally sure aliens were here to
secretly make contact with a human being. Maybe they would choose her. Maybe
she would get to visit their ship. Maybe
they would take her to their planet and she
would be the first human being to ever visit. She had always had an obsession
with aliens and outer space. Really
anything to do with science fiction.
Perhaps it was because her life on earth had been rather mundane and
uneventful. A rambling woman, who never spent more than a few years anywhere
she lived. Grew up in Maine, then it was
on to New York. Left the Big Apple for the Big Easy for a three year stint in
New Orleans. Then it was on to a more simple life of small town Alabama. Four years of that, and she found herself in
suburban Chicago. Now she was in
nowheresville, Montana, her sixth of what she referred to as, “Where I live”
and yet to find what she could call home.
No matter where she went, she always felt unwanted and out of place.
Lucy was an odd girl growing up. Her
father was a trucker who often spent weeks on end away from home. When he came
back he spent most of his time catching up on sleep life on the road rarely
allowed him. When he was awake, he was
watching football or baseball. To him time was precious, and he’d rather spend
it with television and beer, than with his daughter. It was clear to Lucy that he had wanted a son
and that he resented her for not being one.
To try and gain his approval she went out for basketball and surprised
herself by making the team. She was so
excited to tell him that she called his cell phone and left him a message. A message that he would never return. He was killed when his truck hit a patch of
black ice causing him to fall into a ravine.
It happened in Illinois, not far from where she lived during her time in
Chicago. She always wondered if he had
heard her voicemail before he had gone off the road that night. She hoped that
he had. That maybe he had listened to it
and for the first time in his life smiled at the thought of his daughter.
She never attended another basketball practice after that. She failed to see the point. The only reason
she had gone out in the first place was because she thought it would make her
father happy. While the coach understood
and empathized with Lucy’s decision the girls on the team did not. They
considered her to be a quitter and her self departure got her a permanent ban
from their kliq. Had she stayed out for
basketball that year in seventh grade, her life would have turned out
differently. She would have been popular
among the girls, and noticed by the boys.
Instead by the time she was a senior, there were kids who had thought
she had moved.
She was never invited to parties or get togethers. She never went over to anyone’s house. No one
ever came to her’s. She was simply the
kid who’s mother went loony after her husband died in a trucking accident. The
kid who shut herself off from the rest of the world, who never learned to cope
with her father’s death. That’s how the
fixation with science fiction began.
Her grandfather had her go through all of her father’s things that he had been
keeping at their house. She found a collection of old films that he had owned
as a kid. One of them was E.T. a famous
film from the early 1980’s about a lonely boy who befriends a lost alien who
had accidentally been left on earth. She
fell in love with the idea and hoped one day she might get to meet an E.T.
She also knew the stories of the not so friendly aliens. The type that came to Earth not to make
friends but to wipe us out or do painful experiments on us. At this point even that seemed like a
refreshing alternative compared to the life she was living. Or if anything at least it seemed more
exciting.
She was more into the idea of making a friend.
She fantasized about showing an alien around earth and teaching them
about our planet and our ways. She
fantasized about traveling with him and learning about where he was from and
how they did things. Maybe there she’d
be important. Maybe there she’d be well liked and popular. Or if it had to be where the aliens weren’t
friendly, maybe she’d be the one to come up with a master plan on how to defeat
them the way Jeff Goldblum did in INDEPENDENCE DAY.
For now though, she was just a 32 year old nobody looking up at the sky
continuing to wish that the flash she had seen would come back. It most likely wouldn’t, but it was nice to
think that maybe it would.
Wednesday, May 15, 2019
Monday, April 15, 2019
Complete The Story: 9 of 198
Looking back, it
could have gone either way. It didn’t work out, which makes it look like fate,
or a stupid decision, or both. But at the time, I did have a few things in my
favor. I had a 8-4 lead going into the third period. I had taken Tri-County’s Brett Allison down three
times in our match. Looking back on it
now, choosing to go down in the third period was not a wise move. I’d have been
better off to have chosen neutral and gone for another takedown.
Allison and I had wrestled each other twice earlier that season. In the dual I had ripped him apart 14-4, scoring five takedowns and a set of three near fall points. It was an exciting win for me because he had been the conference runner-up and the sectional champion from the year before. He had taken third at districts, being one match shy of state qualification. It gave me a confidence I didn’t see often during my high school career.
We met again at the Oskaloosa duals where ahead 9-4, Allison threw me in a headlock and pinned me. The loss motivated me and I made up my mind that if we met again at the SICL Conference, I’d win our final battle.
When the whistle blew, Allison tried to break me down but couldn’t do so. I should’ve gone for a standup but for some crazy reason I went for a Granby roll. Allison caught me half way through it, sat on my hips, readjusted and the referee slapped the mat.
It’s a moment fifteen years later that still haunts me every bit as much now as it did then. Nothing against Allison. A kid with 100 career wins, and as said before a sectional champion. It’s not like I lost to a slouch. Yet being a two time SICL medalist would’ve meant something in my career. It’s not the toughest conference in Iowa high school wrestling, but it is a respectable one. I took a bronze medal my junior year and had it not been for being stupid out on the mat, I would’ve taken home another bronze medal my senior year.
I suppose it’s one of those many things that make me hell bent on making it as a writer. What makes me even after all the failures and disappointments I’ve endured for nearly two decades, continue to believe in myself. I wanted to be a great high school wrestler and I worked very hard to be one. A lack of athletic ability, a lack of natural talent and an assortment of other reasons I was denied that dream. I may die having never done anything of significance. I may one day be put six feet underground having never achieved anything of stature. I suppose I don’t know for an absolute fact that I’m going to succeed in life. All I do know is that I’m going to continue to try. I’m going to continue writing screenplays, novels, novellas and short stories. I want the name Stephen Stonebraker to be synonymous with writer, with story teller. I want the whole world to know of my work.
The motivation, the determination, the refusal to ever give up, had I won that match against Brett Allison that day, I don’t think it’d be as strong. I don’t even know if it’d exist.
It’s a surreal and confusing feeling. I hate knowing how my wrestling career turned out. I’m bitter and depressed about it often. Yet on the same hand I realize that one day I may make it as a writer. That one day a publisher may be interested in one of my novels. That an agent may think I have a hell of an idea that could make some money. That a television executive could think I have great ideas and want to bring me on board as part of the writing staff for his show. The day it happens, the day I make it, I already know the reflection I’ll have upon my high school wrestling career ending in disappointment. It had to. Had it not, I would’ve been content. Had I been a great high school wrestler, I would have concluded I got out of life what I wanted and I never would have sought anything greater. Writing would be nothing more to me than a hobby. I know I never would have attempted a novel. I know I never would have attempted a screenplay.
I truly believe that someday I’m going to hold in my hands an award for something I wrote. As I stare at it I’ll think of a 2004 SICL bronze medal that I failed to earn. I think at that moment the anger, bitterness and sorrow I feel will leave my body. For I’ll know that had I earned that bronze medal that day, whatever award I hold in my hands for my writing, I wouldn’t be holding.
Allison and I had wrestled each other twice earlier that season. In the dual I had ripped him apart 14-4, scoring five takedowns and a set of three near fall points. It was an exciting win for me because he had been the conference runner-up and the sectional champion from the year before. He had taken third at districts, being one match shy of state qualification. It gave me a confidence I didn’t see often during my high school career.
We met again at the Oskaloosa duals where ahead 9-4, Allison threw me in a headlock and pinned me. The loss motivated me and I made up my mind that if we met again at the SICL Conference, I’d win our final battle.
When the whistle blew, Allison tried to break me down but couldn’t do so. I should’ve gone for a standup but for some crazy reason I went for a Granby roll. Allison caught me half way through it, sat on my hips, readjusted and the referee slapped the mat.
It’s a moment fifteen years later that still haunts me every bit as much now as it did then. Nothing against Allison. A kid with 100 career wins, and as said before a sectional champion. It’s not like I lost to a slouch. Yet being a two time SICL medalist would’ve meant something in my career. It’s not the toughest conference in Iowa high school wrestling, but it is a respectable one. I took a bronze medal my junior year and had it not been for being stupid out on the mat, I would’ve taken home another bronze medal my senior year.
I suppose it’s one of those many things that make me hell bent on making it as a writer. What makes me even after all the failures and disappointments I’ve endured for nearly two decades, continue to believe in myself. I wanted to be a great high school wrestler and I worked very hard to be one. A lack of athletic ability, a lack of natural talent and an assortment of other reasons I was denied that dream. I may die having never done anything of significance. I may one day be put six feet underground having never achieved anything of stature. I suppose I don’t know for an absolute fact that I’m going to succeed in life. All I do know is that I’m going to continue to try. I’m going to continue writing screenplays, novels, novellas and short stories. I want the name Stephen Stonebraker to be synonymous with writer, with story teller. I want the whole world to know of my work.
The motivation, the determination, the refusal to ever give up, had I won that match against Brett Allison that day, I don’t think it’d be as strong. I don’t even know if it’d exist.
It’s a surreal and confusing feeling. I hate knowing how my wrestling career turned out. I’m bitter and depressed about it often. Yet on the same hand I realize that one day I may make it as a writer. That one day a publisher may be interested in one of my novels. That an agent may think I have a hell of an idea that could make some money. That a television executive could think I have great ideas and want to bring me on board as part of the writing staff for his show. The day it happens, the day I make it, I already know the reflection I’ll have upon my high school wrestling career ending in disappointment. It had to. Had it not, I would’ve been content. Had I been a great high school wrestler, I would have concluded I got out of life what I wanted and I never would have sought anything greater. Writing would be nothing more to me than a hobby. I know I never would have attempted a novel. I know I never would have attempted a screenplay.
I truly believe that someday I’m going to hold in my hands an award for something I wrote. As I stare at it I’ll think of a 2004 SICL bronze medal that I failed to earn. I think at that moment the anger, bitterness and sorrow I feel will leave my body. For I’ll know that had I earned that bronze medal that day, whatever award I hold in my hands for my writing, I wouldn’t be holding.
Sunday, April 14, 2019
Complete the Story: 10 of 198
Physically Dan and I looked nothing alike. I'm a short Caucasian. I like to think of myself, even with my Santa Claus bowl full of jelly as being somewhat built. I have dark brown hair and bright blue eyes. A long chiseled face, with a dominant chin. Dan was Korean. A round face, that split time between a gruff black beard and being cleanly shaven. He too was short, but still quite a bit taller than me.
Our friendship started as only as it could. He walked into my room one day and without even introducing himself said, "you're the kid that spends all his spare time working out right?" I replied that who ever said that could be talking about me as I went to the gym twice a day. He said, "Good, I'm going with you." And that was how it all started.
For the next two years Dan and I were the best of friends. I taught him everything I knew about pumping iron and he taught me what it means to truly not give a shit. I like to think of myself as independent. I like to think of myself as one who sticks to my convictions with bravery and sureness. I like to think I'm one who marches to the beat of my own drum without a care as to who likes it and who doesn't. To a degree I think I am, but even to this day I'm nothing compared to what Dan was then. A lot of people claim they don't care what other people think, but I've never met anyone who exemplified that statement more than he did.
He was the most fearless person I've ever known. He'd walk into a KKK meeting, look them all in the face and call them all a bunch of hillbilly racists. He had no problem with confrontation and he'd call anyone out for their bullshit.
He and I once rode with a group of individuals to Sioux Center to use the bowling alley at Dordt. Some of the people we traveled with for some reason or another didn't like me. Not sure what it was about me they didn't like, but they didn't like me. On the way back to Orange City, I sat in the front seat of the van, while they sat in the middle and Dan sat in the very back. I tried to talk to the group and join in on the conversation but they never responded to me. I figured it was because they couldn't hear me. When we got out of the van, Dan said loud and clear that he knew they could hear me because he could hear me. He looked them straight in the face, told them they were pompous and stuck up and he was sorry he associated with them because of the way they had treated me. I can't say had it been the other way around that I would have stuck up for him in the same way.
Another time Dan asked a girl out and she agreed to go on a date with him. When he showed up to take her to dinner, she stood him up. He tried to contact her to see what had happened and she ignored him. Later on that year, they took a speech class together. Dan gave a speech on dating etiquette. The do's and don'ts of dating. While he never said her name, it was clear to everyone in the classroom that when speaking of the don'ts, he was referring to her. Perhaps a bit petty in his vengeance, he was ruthless and relentless.
Dan was disappointed in the world. He saw people as fake, dishonest and disingenuous. He liked me because to him I was one of the few raw and real people he knew. He often told me that he thought most of the world operated on image and perception. That they weren't really themselves. What they actually thought and felt was suppressed do to societal expectation, wanting to fit in and be accepted. We didn't see who they really were, but who they thought they ought to be or who they thought others thought they ought to be. Life and the people in it depressed Dan and he spoke to me about this often.
A little Chinese restaurant became a second home to us as Dan hated the cafeteria food at Northwestern College. During that year, I think we tried everything on the menu. The owner became so fond of us that she offered both of us jobs. I felt I was too busy, but Dan took a position as a dishwasher. He lasted about a month. He was often late and sometimes wouldn't even show up. While she loved Dan's personality, he wasn't very ambitious. At least not when it came to showing up to do the dishes. Knowing Dan as well as I did, I wouldn't call him lazy. He wasn't lazy. You can't go to the gym with me, as obsessive as I am about lifting weights on a daily basis and call someone lazy. It was more a reflection of his depression.
He came home with me over Christmas break as he had nowhere else to go. His family was from Wilmington, Delaware and he couldn't afford to fly home. So he rode the six hours back to Sigourney with me. He got to spend the month of December seeing the little town and nearby Oskaloosa and Ottumwa that I grew up in. I often wonder what that was like for him. Such a different area than what he had grown up in.
I suppose all the stories I have of Dan are anecdotal. No real point. No conclusion. No closure. Simply a guy who misses a great friend of his, who he'd love to see again. The optimistic side of me thinks that maybe Dan went back to South Korea. He often talked of how his parents struggled to make it in the United States. How his father and mother were very poor and still felt discriminated against even after living here for twenty years. I wonder sometimes if they didn't all pack up and move back to South Korea. Maybe he doesn't have access to internet over there.
I also wonder sometimes if he decided to shut himself off from the rest of the world. He told me that he one day wanted to grow out his beard, grow his hair real long, wear it in a ponytail and spend the rest of his days traveling from town to town. Walk the entire country. I'd like to think maybe that's what he's doing. It angers me a bit that he'd shut me off, especially for this long but it beats the other thought I have of him.
I sometimes wonder if he might have committed suicide. Our last conversation as much as I try and block it, leads me to this possible conclusion. Dan said that he felt life was going to be a consistent struggle for him from now on. He saw little to no reward in his future. He never outright said that he thought of ending his life, but he made it clear that he wasn't looking forward to living it.
I can't tell you how many times I've tried looking him up on the internet. Found dozens of Dan Kims, Cheung Yeung Kims, and about everything else. His father's American name was Peter, his brother's Thomas and his sister's Sarah. They owned a small grocery store in Wilmington. Dan, last I talked to him had started a t-shirt business. Even with all of this information, I've never been able to find anything on him. I talk to others from NWC, and they're even more lost when it comes to Dan than I am. It's like he vanished into thin air.
At this point, I'm almost positive I'll never see Dan again. My friend Tony Hofteizer and I joke of how if either of us ever makes it rich, we're going to head out looking for him. I honestly think that's the first thing I'd do if I won the lottery or struck gold as a writer. I can see myself getting all things in order and then heading out to Wilmington and doing a little investigating. I'm scared of what I might find.
I'm close to 34 now. Someday I'll be 44. Then 54, then 64 and so on. I'll know then as I know now how hard it is to come across people in this life we call friends. How difficult it is to find people who have your back and stick up for you in times of need. One of my best friends Dennis Woods Doderer was six months shy of his 37th birthday the day I was born. That tells me all I need to know about the many things left to look forward to in this life. Yet even with all of the many changes and things I'll endure, I know I'll always look back on my friendship with Cheung Yeung "Dan" Kim as one of the best I ever had.
 |
| The only pictures I have of Dan and I. Taken by my Aunt Shirley on Christmas Eve of 2006. |
Monday, March 18, 2019
Complete the Story: 8 of 198
The yellow lines on the highway sped by in a blur, and we flew through the night, and we felt free. But we weren't, and we knew it. We were running away from something, running away was never the path to freedom. I thought about telling John to turn back. I thought about suggesting what he already knew. We had nothing. Enough money to share a meal and maybe one more tank of gas. We'd have to sleep in the truck. We didn't have enough for a hotel room. A 2,340 mile trip from Biloxi, Mississippi to San Francisco, California and we were only in Houston. There was no way we were going to make it. Another 1,900 miles to go, I wasn't even sure if we'd make it out of Texas before we ran out of gas. In fact, I knew we wouldn't.
But it didn't worry him. He had no fear. Probably because back in Mississippi he had nothing. His parents already knew. They disowned him and had kicked him out of the home weeks before. He had no family, no friends. No one to turn to. Except me. I'd like to think that had we been born at a later time that it'd been easier. It'll never be easy for young men or young women to come out, but I like to at least tell myself that it's easier now then it was then. 1950's Mississippi was not a place for us. Not that 2016 is. We were two 17 year olds who hadn't finished high school, who had no money, no jobs and nothing but a stolen pickup truck and each other. It's selfish and it's petty of me to feel envy for young homosexuals today. If anything I should be happy for them that they no longer have to endure the hardships that John and I had to. Not that they don't have their own struggles, but today they have more places to go, more allies to turn to. We didn't. What I ought to feel I suppose is thankful, but what I do feel is anger. Anger that I had to grow up in a time where John and I were denied our basic rights as human beings because we were different. Anger that because someone else felt freedom didn't apply to people like John and me.
My parents didn't know about me. Other than John, nobody knew. I could still turn back and I think I knew eventually that I would. As much as I loved hearing John tell stories of the beats and Allen Ginsberg, I guess I knew we'd never make it to San Francisco or at least I wouldn't anyway. When you're young, you can't help but put your dreams ahead of your realities. My fantasy was to live in a world where I could love John openly. Where our lives didn't have to happen behind closed doors. Maybe had we been closer it would have happened.
Once we ran out of gas, a trucker gave us a ride all the way to Glenwood, New Mexico. That's when we began to walk. It was hot and it was scary. I never saw one, but I heard the rattles in the grass only a few feet away. It made me wonder what other critters might jump out and get us. After what seemed like forever, we made it to the next town. I don't even remember the name. It had a bus depot. It was there, as I tried to sleep on that cold, hard bench that I realized that this was point of no return. One more step to the west and I was headed to San Francisco. Headed into the unknown, the uncertainty. I began to panic at that moment, wishing I had never gone. John slept on the ground below me. As harmonious as he looked, I'd like to think he dreamed of our lives together in San Francisco. That he imagined us living out our lives in adventurous reward. I couldn't wake him from that. As soon as he woke, I'd let him know I had changed my mind. That I was going back to Biloxi. I figure I was about to crush his dream soon enough. The least I could do was let him dream about it for a few more hours.
He told me he understood. He told me he supported me. I had security back home. A well enough off family, high school to finish up and a job I could go to. His grandpa had given him a ring that I always understood to be the most valuable thing that he owned. It was enough to buy me a one way bus ticket back home.
I convinced my parents and everyone else that I had followed John out of Biloxi trying to get him to change his evil ways. That I felt John wasn't really like that and I could change him. That'd I'd be the one to get him to give up his gayness and I'd bring him back the good Christian boy that he had been raised to be. His parents thanked me and told me not to feel bad because they too had tried and failed. I was made out to be a hero. A savior, and thought to be one until the day they all died.
I never saw John again. Back in those days we didn't have cell phones and internet. No one was in any hurry to try and look for him. When asked where I thought he went, I lied and said Canada. I have tried a few times over the years to look up John Milner, but I've had no luck. It doesn't surprise me much, he always hated the name Milner. Always said he couldn't wait to get married and take a different last name. Sipes, it could have been, although I don't think it's much better.
I saw on the news recently that there are kids who refuse to stand for the pledge. I stood for the pledge of allegiance every morning of elementary school. I recited those words every time. "With liberty and justice for all." Every morning. Every single morning I'd say those words. I guess all didn't include me, and it didn't include John.
But it didn't worry him. He had no fear. Probably because back in Mississippi he had nothing. His parents already knew. They disowned him and had kicked him out of the home weeks before. He had no family, no friends. No one to turn to. Except me. I'd like to think that had we been born at a later time that it'd been easier. It'll never be easy for young men or young women to come out, but I like to at least tell myself that it's easier now then it was then. 1950's Mississippi was not a place for us. Not that 2016 is. We were two 17 year olds who hadn't finished high school, who had no money, no jobs and nothing but a stolen pickup truck and each other. It's selfish and it's petty of me to feel envy for young homosexuals today. If anything I should be happy for them that they no longer have to endure the hardships that John and I had to. Not that they don't have their own struggles, but today they have more places to go, more allies to turn to. We didn't. What I ought to feel I suppose is thankful, but what I do feel is anger. Anger that I had to grow up in a time where John and I were denied our basic rights as human beings because we were different. Anger that because someone else felt freedom didn't apply to people like John and me.
My parents didn't know about me. Other than John, nobody knew. I could still turn back and I think I knew eventually that I would. As much as I loved hearing John tell stories of the beats and Allen Ginsberg, I guess I knew we'd never make it to San Francisco or at least I wouldn't anyway. When you're young, you can't help but put your dreams ahead of your realities. My fantasy was to live in a world where I could love John openly. Where our lives didn't have to happen behind closed doors. Maybe had we been closer it would have happened.
Once we ran out of gas, a trucker gave us a ride all the way to Glenwood, New Mexico. That's when we began to walk. It was hot and it was scary. I never saw one, but I heard the rattles in the grass only a few feet away. It made me wonder what other critters might jump out and get us. After what seemed like forever, we made it to the next town. I don't even remember the name. It had a bus depot. It was there, as I tried to sleep on that cold, hard bench that I realized that this was point of no return. One more step to the west and I was headed to San Francisco. Headed into the unknown, the uncertainty. I began to panic at that moment, wishing I had never gone. John slept on the ground below me. As harmonious as he looked, I'd like to think he dreamed of our lives together in San Francisco. That he imagined us living out our lives in adventurous reward. I couldn't wake him from that. As soon as he woke, I'd let him know I had changed my mind. That I was going back to Biloxi. I figure I was about to crush his dream soon enough. The least I could do was let him dream about it for a few more hours.
He told me he understood. He told me he supported me. I had security back home. A well enough off family, high school to finish up and a job I could go to. His grandpa had given him a ring that I always understood to be the most valuable thing that he owned. It was enough to buy me a one way bus ticket back home.
I convinced my parents and everyone else that I had followed John out of Biloxi trying to get him to change his evil ways. That I felt John wasn't really like that and I could change him. That'd I'd be the one to get him to give up his gayness and I'd bring him back the good Christian boy that he had been raised to be. His parents thanked me and told me not to feel bad because they too had tried and failed. I was made out to be a hero. A savior, and thought to be one until the day they all died.
I never saw John again. Back in those days we didn't have cell phones and internet. No one was in any hurry to try and look for him. When asked where I thought he went, I lied and said Canada. I have tried a few times over the years to look up John Milner, but I've had no luck. It doesn't surprise me much, he always hated the name Milner. Always said he couldn't wait to get married and take a different last name. Sipes, it could have been, although I don't think it's much better.
I saw on the news recently that there are kids who refuse to stand for the pledge. I stood for the pledge of allegiance every morning of elementary school. I recited those words every time. "With liberty and justice for all." Every morning. Every single morning I'd say those words. I guess all didn't include me, and it didn't include John.
Sunday, March 17, 2019
Complete The Story: 7 of 198
Reporters are trained to develop a sixth sense, a nose for when a story smells fishy. And something about this one wasn't right. First of all, there was no way a single man could've gone into that burning house and pulled out all twelve of those children, plus the two adults. Not in that amount of time anyway. According to eye witnesses he was in and out of that house fourteen times in less than five minutes. A faulty electrical outlet caused the fire to break out at 8:58 p.m. and by 9:02, everyone was out of the house and safe. The man, who witnesses described as white male, 5'10, 150 lbs, brown curly hair had been wearing a backpack and a Central City Community College t-shirt had been walking with two other students when they noticed the fire.
"He just sprung into action." 18 year old Jessie Feldkamp said when questioned. "As we were walking I saw the smoke and yelled, 'Oh my God, that house is on fire!' We didn't even see him take off. He was in and out of that house with a little girl in a matter of seconds."
"He was like a bolt of lightning." 19 year old Heath McKimm added. "I've never seen a person move so fast in my life."
"We really didn't even see him to be honest." Feldkamp continued. "We just noticed more and more kids outside on the lawn a safe distance from the house."
"You mean you didn't even see him set the kids on the lawn?" I asked in disbelief.
"No." There was no hesitation in her voice. Her assurance was incontestable. "They just seemed to appear one by one."
"They seemed as confused as we were." McKimm said. "It all happened so fast that we had no time to process it."
"Did you see where he went afterwards?"
"No." They both shook their heads. "We didn't. He just disappeared."
"What was the man's name?"
As quickly as Feldkamp and McKimm had been to answer my previous questions they hesitated at this one.
"His name?" I repeated again holding my pen against my pad.
Luckily for me the Fire-chief Jim Wilson was nearby with questions of his own. Having more authority than a local reporter for the Central City Contributor, he didn't ask for respect, he demanded it.
"Barry." Feldkamp answered. "I think he said his name was Barry."
"His last name?" I continued my questioning.
Both Feldkamp and McKimm looked at one another as they motioned that neither one of them knew.
"We had just met him." Feldkamp said.
"We were studying at the library and struck up a conversation with him." McKimm added. "When we left to head back towards the dorms he decided to walk with us."
"You think he stays at the dorms?" I asked.
"I think so." Feldkamp answered.
I realized it was getting late, these kids were exhausted and probably had class in the morning. Their was no reason for me keep them here. I had their names and where they went to college. If I needed them again, they'd be easy enough to find.
Jim Wilson must have felt the same way as he told them to be safe and get on home.
"Chief." I asked him. "Have you had a chance to talk with any of the victims? The children? The adults."
"No." He answered. "They were all taken to Methodist Regional to get checked out. I'm going to head that way here after a bit. Had to make sure that everything was ok here first."
"Could a young man really have done all of that by himself?" It was one thing to talk to two young college aged kids, but I needed an expert opinion. The opinion of a man who had served our community for the past 27 years as Fire Chief.
"God, I wouldn't think so." He took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one up. "But there were some other witnesses here before you showed up. There story was exactly the same as those two kids we just talked to."
"Said that the kid ran in and out of the house carrying each of them one by one to the safety of the lawn?"
"My boy Jack was a two time state champion in the 100 yard dash. He still holds records at the high school. He couldn't have done that. Not carrying 25 to 50 lbs kids or two adult women that weighed at least 125 lbs. Not that fast. Not that quick. No way."
"Do you think that's what really happened?"
I'd dealt with Jim Wilson a number of times over the years. This wasn't the first major fire in Central City, nor would it be the last. Yet, in all of our many encounters, I'd never seen him as confused as he was now. Normally he was about as assured of a person as you could get. A man who easily deciphered truth from fiction. Now as I watched the cigarette dangle nervously in his hand, I could tell for the first time in his career he couldn't make sense of the situation.
"The amount of oxygen rich blood that it would take wouldn't even be humanly possible." He continued. "Running up and down those stairs. Carrying all those kids. I don't care how good of shape you're in. No one's conditioning is that good."
"Do you think that there might have been others that were helping him?"
"There would have had to have been." Jim Wilson almost seemed angry as he spoke. "You can't exert yourself that hard and that fast. The human body isn't capable of it."
He took a long drag of his cigarette, which seemed to calm him.
"But" He continued. "No one saw anyone else other than him."
"I'm going to head over to Methodist." I said as I put my pen back into my pocket.
"Don't go bugging those people with 10,000 questions Nick."
"I won't Chief."
I could see him eyeing me as I got into my car and took off for Methodist Regional. I knew I wasn't going to have much luck talking to the small children, so I decided to start with the two adults.
"Becky Baumer?"
She was sitting up in her hospital bed watching TV when I entered her room.
"Yes."
"Mrs. Baumer I'm Nick Retherford of the Central City Contributor. I'd like to ask you a few questions."
"Ok."
"Can you tell me what happened?"
She let out a big sigh and gave me a half smile.
"If you're too exhausted we can do this another time."
"No." She gave a small laugh. "It's not that. I'm not injured or anything. I actually had an asthma attack. That's why I'm in the bed."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Excitement triggers it."
"I can imagine."
"Mr. Retherford." She searched for the words as her eyes went back and forth between the TV and me.
"Yes?"
"I don't think you're going to believe me."
I pulled my pad and my pen from my shirt pocket.
"Try me."
"I was putting the last of the kids to bed." She said. "Some of the parents work late and don't even come to pick them up until 10:30. Sometimes even 11. Cindy, the other woman who runs the day care with me screamed that there was a fire in one of the rooms. I told her to grab as many kids as she could and to get to safety as soon as possible."
"What did you do?"
"A little girl was staying in the room that was on fire. I knew I had to get to that room first. So I ran as quickly as I could. The room was filled with smoke. I began to panic that maybe it had gotten her. That she had been burned or the smoke might have gotten her, but then I heard her crying."
"Did you have trouble finding her?"
"No. She was right there. I picked her up and did my best to comfort her and then..."
"And then what?"
"He just appeared. Out of nowhere. He was just there. It startled me. I didn't even hear his footsteps as he ran into the room. He said he was there to help. He asked me to hand her over to him. I did."
"And?"
"He looked me in the eye and said, 'I'll be right back for you' He took off and before I could blink he was back."
"He took her from the upstairs to the grass outside that quickly?"
"No." She gave another small laugh. "He took her from the third floor outside that quickly."
"And then all of a sudden he was back for you?"
"Before I knew it he was back in the room. He said he was going to carry me outside. And I tell you what the strangest thing was."
I stood in anticipation for her to continue.
"He told me to take a deep breath because we were going to have to run through the hot smoke. I feared that I wouldn't be able to hold my breath long enough. Especially since I have asthma. But we were out of the house and onto the lawn before I could even think about it."
"10 seconds?" I was trying to gage how fast we were talking.
"More like one or two." She answered. "It was like a flash."
"Like a what?" I asked
"A flash."
I wrote the word down and headed back to the office. This was breaking News, something that wasn't going to wait until tomorrow. I needed to write this as quickly and get it out as fast as I could.
"A flash." I thought to myself. "He came in like a flash."
I sat down at my computer and began to write.
"He just sprung into action." 18 year old Jessie Feldkamp said when questioned. "As we were walking I saw the smoke and yelled, 'Oh my God, that house is on fire!' We didn't even see him take off. He was in and out of that house with a little girl in a matter of seconds."
"He was like a bolt of lightning." 19 year old Heath McKimm added. "I've never seen a person move so fast in my life."
"We really didn't even see him to be honest." Feldkamp continued. "We just noticed more and more kids outside on the lawn a safe distance from the house."
"You mean you didn't even see him set the kids on the lawn?" I asked in disbelief.
"No." There was no hesitation in her voice. Her assurance was incontestable. "They just seemed to appear one by one."
"They seemed as confused as we were." McKimm said. "It all happened so fast that we had no time to process it."
"Did you see where he went afterwards?"
"No." They both shook their heads. "We didn't. He just disappeared."
"What was the man's name?"
As quickly as Feldkamp and McKimm had been to answer my previous questions they hesitated at this one.
"His name?" I repeated again holding my pen against my pad.
Luckily for me the Fire-chief Jim Wilson was nearby with questions of his own. Having more authority than a local reporter for the Central City Contributor, he didn't ask for respect, he demanded it.
"Barry." Feldkamp answered. "I think he said his name was Barry."
"His last name?" I continued my questioning.
Both Feldkamp and McKimm looked at one another as they motioned that neither one of them knew.
"We had just met him." Feldkamp said.
"We were studying at the library and struck up a conversation with him." McKimm added. "When we left to head back towards the dorms he decided to walk with us."
"You think he stays at the dorms?" I asked.
"I think so." Feldkamp answered.
I realized it was getting late, these kids were exhausted and probably had class in the morning. Their was no reason for me keep them here. I had their names and where they went to college. If I needed them again, they'd be easy enough to find.
Jim Wilson must have felt the same way as he told them to be safe and get on home.
"Chief." I asked him. "Have you had a chance to talk with any of the victims? The children? The adults."
"No." He answered. "They were all taken to Methodist Regional to get checked out. I'm going to head that way here after a bit. Had to make sure that everything was ok here first."
"Could a young man really have done all of that by himself?" It was one thing to talk to two young college aged kids, but I needed an expert opinion. The opinion of a man who had served our community for the past 27 years as Fire Chief.
"God, I wouldn't think so." He took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one up. "But there were some other witnesses here before you showed up. There story was exactly the same as those two kids we just talked to."
"Said that the kid ran in and out of the house carrying each of them one by one to the safety of the lawn?"
"My boy Jack was a two time state champion in the 100 yard dash. He still holds records at the high school. He couldn't have done that. Not carrying 25 to 50 lbs kids or two adult women that weighed at least 125 lbs. Not that fast. Not that quick. No way."
"Do you think that's what really happened?"
I'd dealt with Jim Wilson a number of times over the years. This wasn't the first major fire in Central City, nor would it be the last. Yet, in all of our many encounters, I'd never seen him as confused as he was now. Normally he was about as assured of a person as you could get. A man who easily deciphered truth from fiction. Now as I watched the cigarette dangle nervously in his hand, I could tell for the first time in his career he couldn't make sense of the situation.
"The amount of oxygen rich blood that it would take wouldn't even be humanly possible." He continued. "Running up and down those stairs. Carrying all those kids. I don't care how good of shape you're in. No one's conditioning is that good."
"Do you think that there might have been others that were helping him?"
"There would have had to have been." Jim Wilson almost seemed angry as he spoke. "You can't exert yourself that hard and that fast. The human body isn't capable of it."
He took a long drag of his cigarette, which seemed to calm him.
"But" He continued. "No one saw anyone else other than him."
"I'm going to head over to Methodist." I said as I put my pen back into my pocket.
"Don't go bugging those people with 10,000 questions Nick."
"I won't Chief."
I could see him eyeing me as I got into my car and took off for Methodist Regional. I knew I wasn't going to have much luck talking to the small children, so I decided to start with the two adults.
"Becky Baumer?"
She was sitting up in her hospital bed watching TV when I entered her room.
"Yes."
"Mrs. Baumer I'm Nick Retherford of the Central City Contributor. I'd like to ask you a few questions."
"Ok."
"Can you tell me what happened?"
She let out a big sigh and gave me a half smile.
"If you're too exhausted we can do this another time."
"No." She gave a small laugh. "It's not that. I'm not injured or anything. I actually had an asthma attack. That's why I'm in the bed."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Excitement triggers it."
"I can imagine."
"Mr. Retherford." She searched for the words as her eyes went back and forth between the TV and me.
"Yes?"
"I don't think you're going to believe me."
I pulled my pad and my pen from my shirt pocket.
"Try me."
"I was putting the last of the kids to bed." She said. "Some of the parents work late and don't even come to pick them up until 10:30. Sometimes even 11. Cindy, the other woman who runs the day care with me screamed that there was a fire in one of the rooms. I told her to grab as many kids as she could and to get to safety as soon as possible."
"What did you do?"
"A little girl was staying in the room that was on fire. I knew I had to get to that room first. So I ran as quickly as I could. The room was filled with smoke. I began to panic that maybe it had gotten her. That she had been burned or the smoke might have gotten her, but then I heard her crying."
"Did you have trouble finding her?"
"No. She was right there. I picked her up and did my best to comfort her and then..."
"And then what?"
"He just appeared. Out of nowhere. He was just there. It startled me. I didn't even hear his footsteps as he ran into the room. He said he was there to help. He asked me to hand her over to him. I did."
"And?"
"He looked me in the eye and said, 'I'll be right back for you' He took off and before I could blink he was back."
"He took her from the upstairs to the grass outside that quickly?"
"No." She gave another small laugh. "He took her from the third floor outside that quickly."
"And then all of a sudden he was back for you?"
"Before I knew it he was back in the room. He said he was going to carry me outside. And I tell you what the strangest thing was."
I stood in anticipation for her to continue.
"He told me to take a deep breath because we were going to have to run through the hot smoke. I feared that I wouldn't be able to hold my breath long enough. Especially since I have asthma. But we were out of the house and onto the lawn before I could even think about it."
"10 seconds?" I was trying to gage how fast we were talking.
"More like one or two." She answered. "It was like a flash."
"Like a what?" I asked
"A flash."
I wrote the word down and headed back to the office. This was breaking News, something that wasn't going to wait until tomorrow. I needed to write this as quickly and get it out as fast as I could.
"A flash." I thought to myself. "He came in like a flash."
I sat down at my computer and began to write.
Tuesday, February 5, 2019
Complete the Story: 6 of 198
The wind whispered through the dark, empty trees like a warning in a foreign language. Winter was coming, and with winter came the hunters. My mother warned me about the hunters from a young age. From the time I was a fawn, I can remember her telling me that as soon as the air became cool and the leaves began to brown that they would come for us. Some came with long narrow sticks that were very sharp at the end. They'd throw them somehow, I suppose sort of how a porcupine would throw its quills, but from a further distance. We often wouldn't even seen them. We'd be in a gathering eating and suddenly one of us would shout out in pain. In a panic we'd look around to see one of our friends drop with stick in their chest or in their stomach. You'd want to help, but as more sticks flew through the air, all you could do was run. Pleading along the way, that you too would not be hit by one.
Other hunters would use what my father referred to as the "sound killer." None of us were exactly sure how it worked. Their would be a loud, deafening noise. A sound so loud that it seemed to fill the entire forest. You'd feel an awful pain, begin to bleed and then begin to die. Some would drop dead before the noise even cleared.
I asked my parents why the hunters came and why the only came when it was cold.
"Do they eat us?" I asked. I knew when the coyotes came after us they did so for food.
"I imagine they might." My mother answered.
What didn't make sense to me was why the didn't eat us right after killing us. That I didn't get. Unlike the coyotes who began to feast as soon as we were dead (and sometimes even before) the hunters would instead drag us away. No one knows for sure where they'd take us, although my sister says that she saw them put one of us into some sort of creature once. Her description was so terrifying and horrific that I'm not sure I believe it. I'd rather think she was lying to me. I'd hate to think something as hideous as what she described truly exist. She said they went up and opened the creature's mouth from both ends. One took the top of its jaw and lifted it up while the other took the bottom of its jaw and lowered it down. They then lifted him up and shoved him inside, closing both ends of the jaw. At first she thought they were feeding this creature, but then the most absurd thing happened. The hunters went to the side of whatever this creature was and grabbed hold of it as if they were going to rip its arms and its legs off. As the arms dangled from the sides, they crawled inside of the creature.
"It then began to make noises." She described. "Smoke came out of it like fire."
Then she said that it made light, like that of the sun on the ground and took off. She had never seen a creature move that fast before. It's the only time she's ever seen it. None of the rest of us have ever seen one.
As to the cold, my mother didn't have an answer. No one did. All we knew was that when the air began to warm and green replaced the white, they no longer came for us. We'd spot them once in a while. We'd see them on the banks of rivers, their sticks in hands, even longer than the ones they used to kill us. We'd see them put long black extensions on their eyes. Some would come into the forest and pick the mushrooms. I always wondered if maybe they were afraid of the birds. If maybe the birds who returned every spring were our protectors. It seemed peculiar to me that no bigger than they were that the hunters would fear them. Some were the size of my hoof. Some not even that big. I suppose it's a silly idea but to a young buck eager to make sense of a question without answers, it is the best I could come up with.
One of the elders once said that one of them came into the forest and left food. Put a mess of acorns, berries and nuts on the ground. At first they were terrified to touch, wondering if they might be poison. Yet one began to eat and upon their being no reaction other than an empty belly being filled, others joined in. The only conclusion that the elder could come up with is that it might be an apology or some sort of a peace offering. They'd take one of us in the winter and then come back in the spring as a way of saying they were sorry or in some way thankful for the sacrifice that had been made. Either that or he thought that perhaps not all of them were our enemies. Not all of them wanted to harm us.
The hunters haven't gotten me yet. And thankfully they haven't gotten my mother, my father or my sister yet either. I sense it though. We talk about it often. Preparing to a point to where I sometimes feel as if it's already happened. I've pictured life without my parents. Without my sister. I've put myself into such a mental state of absolute despair on the thought alone that I can't see the reality being any worse of a depression. The thought of death terrifies me. One of their sticks or the sound they use finally getting me. I fear the pain and selfishly hope that I'm one of those who are dead before I even realize that they got me.
Other hunters would use what my father referred to as the "sound killer." None of us were exactly sure how it worked. Their would be a loud, deafening noise. A sound so loud that it seemed to fill the entire forest. You'd feel an awful pain, begin to bleed and then begin to die. Some would drop dead before the noise even cleared.
I asked my parents why the hunters came and why the only came when it was cold.
"Do they eat us?" I asked. I knew when the coyotes came after us they did so for food.
"I imagine they might." My mother answered.
What didn't make sense to me was why the didn't eat us right after killing us. That I didn't get. Unlike the coyotes who began to feast as soon as we were dead (and sometimes even before) the hunters would instead drag us away. No one knows for sure where they'd take us, although my sister says that she saw them put one of us into some sort of creature once. Her description was so terrifying and horrific that I'm not sure I believe it. I'd rather think she was lying to me. I'd hate to think something as hideous as what she described truly exist. She said they went up and opened the creature's mouth from both ends. One took the top of its jaw and lifted it up while the other took the bottom of its jaw and lowered it down. They then lifted him up and shoved him inside, closing both ends of the jaw. At first she thought they were feeding this creature, but then the most absurd thing happened. The hunters went to the side of whatever this creature was and grabbed hold of it as if they were going to rip its arms and its legs off. As the arms dangled from the sides, they crawled inside of the creature.
"It then began to make noises." She described. "Smoke came out of it like fire."
Then she said that it made light, like that of the sun on the ground and took off. She had never seen a creature move that fast before. It's the only time she's ever seen it. None of the rest of us have ever seen one.
As to the cold, my mother didn't have an answer. No one did. All we knew was that when the air began to warm and green replaced the white, they no longer came for us. We'd spot them once in a while. We'd see them on the banks of rivers, their sticks in hands, even longer than the ones they used to kill us. We'd see them put long black extensions on their eyes. Some would come into the forest and pick the mushrooms. I always wondered if maybe they were afraid of the birds. If maybe the birds who returned every spring were our protectors. It seemed peculiar to me that no bigger than they were that the hunters would fear them. Some were the size of my hoof. Some not even that big. I suppose it's a silly idea but to a young buck eager to make sense of a question without answers, it is the best I could come up with.
One of the elders once said that one of them came into the forest and left food. Put a mess of acorns, berries and nuts on the ground. At first they were terrified to touch, wondering if they might be poison. Yet one began to eat and upon their being no reaction other than an empty belly being filled, others joined in. The only conclusion that the elder could come up with is that it might be an apology or some sort of a peace offering. They'd take one of us in the winter and then come back in the spring as a way of saying they were sorry or in some way thankful for the sacrifice that had been made. Either that or he thought that perhaps not all of them were our enemies. Not all of them wanted to harm us.
The hunters haven't gotten me yet. And thankfully they haven't gotten my mother, my father or my sister yet either. I sense it though. We talk about it often. Preparing to a point to where I sometimes feel as if it's already happened. I've pictured life without my parents. Without my sister. I've put myself into such a mental state of absolute despair on the thought alone that I can't see the reality being any worse of a depression. The thought of death terrifies me. One of their sticks or the sound they use finally getting me. I fear the pain and selfishly hope that I'm one of those who are dead before I even realize that they got me.
Sunday, January 27, 2019
Complete the Story: 5 of 198
"How did you know?" I asked, not sure I wanted the answer. I thought I had been careful. I thought she had been oblivious this whole time. I suppose after a while, you get confident. That confidence turns into assurance. That assurance turns into laziness. That laziness turns into ineptness. I had been doing this for such a long time. I thought by now I could get away without going over every detail. That I had gotten to the point to where I was so good at what I was doing, that there was no way I could make a mistake. I suppose deep down inside I knew a time would come when my luck would run out. Regardless, I lived as if it wouldn't.
"Insult." She answered. "You've always had trouble spelling that word."
She didn't have to give any further explanation. Papers I had written in high school and papers I had written in college often had ink as red as the blood of my victims marked around the word. For some reason I could never get it through my head that the u came before the l. If I went back and reread what I had written, I'd catch it. I'd see inslut and I'd correct it. 10 years, 8 murders and of all things to do me in, a simple spelling mistake.
I held the phone in my hand looking at her through the glass partition. I tried to imagine what was going through her head. In love for nearly two decades and now she looked at me, her husband of 15 years and the father of her three children as if I were a stranger. Someone she wondered if she even knew at all. I pictured her reading the newspaper and coming across the letter I had written the editor. Seeing that damn spelling error and beginning to contemplate that maybe I had something to do with this. I'm sure she wanted to dismiss the fact that the Toledo Torch and her husband both misspelled insult as a simple coincidence. But then I imagined she read about how the last victim has been poisoned with rodenticide and how I had recently bought some even though we didn't have a rat problem. I imagine she began to wonder what I had bought it for.
I imagine that's why she had notified the police. Why she took the kids on a road trip to her mother's, only notifying me after they had been on the road for three hours. I didn't think much of it until Detective Vince Johnson and Officer Carl Sutton showed up at my door. Looking back on that day, I wonder if I should have lied. I can't be the only person in Toledo, Ohio to misspell insult and there probably isn't a garage in the city that doesn't have a bag of rodenticide. Yet I told the truth because I already knew the one thing they had that would convict me. The only thing they had. My blood.
My first victims were an accident. Or at least the first one was or so I'd like to think. I didn't go in with the intention of killing either one of those boys. Was it fate? Was what I did that night and what I'd do sixteen times again my destiny? Was it a matter of circumstance? I think about that night every day. What if I hadn't have been there? What if I had never seen those kids torturing that cat? Would I have became the Toledo Torch? The psychologists all say I would have. The television reports all agree. According to them the Toledo Torch as they came to call me, I, John Ray Dennis was born to kill.
They were teenagers. Both football players on the local high school team. Kenny Roberson a fifteen year old sophomore and Bryant Coolidge a seventeen year old senior. Rich kids, with nothing better to do than to bury a cat up to its head in the dirt, while one held the camera and the other started the lawnmower. I saw it from a distance. I still had on my gloves from work. I hadn't taken them off yet. It would later make it seem like a premeditated murder, but having the gloves on that day was nothing more than luck. I ran out of my car yelling at the boys to stop. When I arrived at the scene, I expected the boys to be afraid. For Kenny to stop filming, Bryant to turn the lawnmower off and for the two of them to begin apologizing profusely. Instead I was met with the one yelling at me to get off his property and the other yelling at me to mind my own business. I began to dig the cat out of the dirt when Bryant shoved me, knocking me over sideways onto the ground. I had dug out enough for the cat to escape as Kenny yelled out in frustration of its getting away and Bryant began to reprimand me.
"Your lucky my father isn't home!" The tone of his voice set something off inside of me that I had forgotten existed. This little entitled bastard had the nerve to try and treat me as if I were doing something wrong. I kept telling myself that the cat was now safe and that's all that mattered. It was time to go. There was nothing I could teach either one of these young punks. If they had it in them to torture a poor, defenseless cat the way they had planned, nothing I said or did would knock any sense into them. I should've walked away, but I didn't. It was the word "father" that filled me with rage. I thought of my own father as I tried to picture Bryant's. I pictured him, the way my father had been, an insensitive, cruel, cold and callous man. The type who would condone such behavior. Celebrate the torturing of a cat and think anyone who opposed a pussy. Had Bryant Coolidge not mentioned his father, I do believe he and Kenny Roberson would still be alive today. But he did mention him and I walked right up to that boy grabbed the handle of the lawnmower and yanked it out of his hand. I then thrust it towards him, narrowly missing his foot.
"What in the Hell are you doing you crazy..." Before he could finish I threw the lawn mower against the fence as it busted apart.
"I hope you know I got this all on film." It was the last words Kenny Roberson ever spoke. I rushed him knocking him to the ground and as I grabbed his head and began to beat it against the cement. Bryant had come over trying to pull me off, but I was in such a rage I didn't even notice. He had hit me in the face twice, bloodying my nose. My blood on the middle phalanx and knuckle of both his index and middle fingers of his right hand. I'd like to think that maybe my intention had only been to teach Kenny Roberson a lesson. To put some fear inside of him, but I know better than that. I knew he wasn't knocked out. I knew he wasn't simply unconscious. I knew he was dead, long before I ever stopped beating his head against the pavement.
Bryant stood in shock as I should have been too, looking at his dead friend. The only thing that shocked me was my own behavior. It was as if I had suddenly become possessed. Bryant began to scream for help, but advantage was mine. This home was out in the country. Outside of city limits. Two miles west of the factory I worked at and three miles south of the city. No one could hear him. He hesitated for a moment, I suppose contemplating on whether he should stand and fight, or make a run for the house to the phone. Had he gone right away, he might have made it, but the hesitation gave me just the right amount of time to reach out and grab him by the foot as he turned to run. To describe what happened next would only be speculation on my part. I blacked out and when I came too, the body of Bryant Coolidge as did the body of Kenny Roberson lay lifeless on the ground.
My thoughts and my feelings as I stood there, the blood of these boys on my shirt and on my hands, contradicted one another. I wanted to feel panic. I felt that I should feel immediate remorse. If anything distress. Instead I felt calm, uncomfortably calm. I didn't even breathe hard. I dragged both boy's bodies to the fire-pit in the yard, grabbed the can of lighter fluid and put it all over them. I noticed a bulge in Kenny's pocket as I reached in and pulled out a lighter. It scared me how as to how helpful the atmosphere and environment were. I hadn't been prepared for any of this, but everything I needed, it was all right there. It's as if something knew I was coming and what I would do. I lit them on fire and walked out of that yard and back into my car as if I had woke up on a Sunday morning and walked outside to casually grab the paper.
On the way home I thought more about my father and of how he had always referred to me as a gutless sissy. He wanted me to be a man's man, but after a few attempts of converting me into his macho indoctrination, he gave up. He took me out hunting when I was eleven years old. I pointed the gun at a doe that day but I couldn't get myself to pull the trigger. That deer hadn't done anything to me. I saw no need to do anything to it. My father hit me in the eye, a wound that later required two stitches, with the butt of the rifle. He told me I belonged in the kitchen with my mother and then he shot the deer right in the chest as it fell to the ground. He made me watch as he ran a knife across her throat and told me that he was ashamed of me and would only give me a ride back home because he knew if he didn't, he'd have to listen to my mother bitch about it.
I had many nightmares about that day. At first they were pretty much as the events had played out. I pointed the gun at the deer and I was never able to pull the trigger. They would always end with me waking up in a pool of my own sweat at the thought of that deer being shot or my father slitting her throat. Then the dreams changed. The deer was no longer in front of the gun when I put my finger on the trigger. It was now my father and this time I pulled without hesitation. I'd even wake up with my index finger bending back and forth in convulsion.
It was a nightmare I hated having. There were times when I'd wake up in the morning and slowly walk into my parent's room afraid of what I might see. Those nightmares were too real and I had to see my father, snoring in his bed before I could convince myself that it was a dream and I hadn't really killed him. What frightened me most was how satisfying it was in my dreams to have shot him. How good it made me feel. Even more frightening was the disappointment I tried so hard to suppress, at the realization that he was fine and unharmed. I did everything I could to block those thoughts out of my head. I was terrified because I think I even knew then that they were the first signs to indicate what I was capable of. What it is that one day I would end up doing. I had silenced them to the point to where I thought I had defeated them. But now they were back, and this time there was no getting rid of them.
We talked about the murders once they had become well known around Toledo. I made sure to be a part of the conversation.
"I can't imagine someone doing that to one of my kids." I said. "I'd kill him."
My friend Wayne said to me, "I hope they catch that piece of shit." I responded that I agree.
When the news-reporter said that after examining the charcoaled bodies that blood not matching Bryant or Kenny had been found, I accepted my fate that it was only a matter of time before it eventually caught up with me. I knew that if I were ever a suspect, they'd take a blood sample, the DNA would match and that'd be all they need. It was the one vital mistake, the one I couldn't undo, that I could not deny. It was the only one I ever made but it was also the only one I ever needed to make.
"Did you ever think about killing me?"
I came to after day dreaming, examining the question my wife had just asked me. It caught me off guard. I thought of the many times I had lied to her about where I had been and what I had been doing. All those lies and each time she had believed me. Now I was about to tell her the truth. The most honest thing I had said to her in years and I knew as she looked back at me that she doubted what I said.
"No." It was all I could manage to get out.
The idea of ever harming my wife, my kids, anyone I cared about had never crossed my mind. My lawyer informed me that my neighbor Jeff Fowlkes had recently been interviewed. He said that he had known me for fifteen years and he had never once felt threatened by me. He wondered now if it had all been an act. As if he had only been one time away from saying the wrong thing or doing something wrong. As if it was all in good fortune that he hadn't pissed me off and ended up a number himself.
"I thought about coming to you and asking you first." Her voice weakened as she spoke. "I really did."
I looked up at her at that moment. I hadn't been able to look her in the face until then. I could see the truth in her eyes, as well as the pain. There was a sense of guilt. A sense of sorrow. She took the responsibility for why I was in here. For why I sit in a jail cell awaiting trial, which will undoubtedly lead to a guilty verdict, and a sentencing of being put to death.
It was then and only then where I felt regret. Not for myself. Not for my victims, but for my wife. I had been asked if I had been sorry for any of the lives I had taken. I wasn't. Each person earned what I did to them. Molesters, abusers, animal mistreaters, con artists who had screwed people out of thousands of dollars. I am no more sorry for what I did to them, than will be the people who eagerly await the day the state of Ohio pumps 500 mg of hydromorphone into my blood. I'm sure the fathers, the mothers, the sisters, the brothers, the sons, the daughters, and the friends of those I killed won't be sorry. If anything they'll be as I was when I took the lives of those they loved. Satisfied.
I don't feel sorry for myself. I feel sorry for her though. I do regret what my wife and my kids will go through. My 12 year old and what he'll endure at school from those who are old enough to know what I did, but too immature to understand that he is not me and he had nothing to do with it. My eight year old. Too young to even begin to comprehend any of this. My three year old, who will one day ask his mother who will have to explain to him what Daddy was and why he was executed. Do I hate myself for what I did? Yes, I do. Or at least a part of me does anyway. Only for them though. My wife doesn't deserve the ridicule and shame that she'll face. She doesn't deserve the turmoil she'll face. She's no longer Angela Dennis. She never will be again. My kids aren't Christopher, Cassidy and Casey anymore. They're now the wife, the sons and the daughter of John Ray Dennis, The Toledo Torch. And for that I am sorry.
"You did the right thing." I knew I had to say something to her. It wasn't fair to sit in silence after she had said something to me that I knew took a lot of courage. I knew I couldn't comfort her. I couldn't say anything to make her feel better, but I also knew I had to try. It was the least I could do.
"Did I?" She responded.
She had the same thoughts I had, but for different reasons. I won't deny my selfishness, but her's was more out of fear. For reasons I've already mentioned and for those I haven't. She would have to leave Toledo. Change her name. The kid's names. I was the one with the job. The money. How could she support three kids without me?
"You did the right thing." I repeated it again. I wanted her so badly to believe it.
I had tried thinking about what would happen to her and my children a few times throughout the years but I blocked it out of my head before I ever got to far. After a while it never even crossed my mind at all. I wouldn't allow it too. I had convinced myself of what I needed to do and I wouldn't let anything deter my mission.
The officer came in a few moments later and informed us that visiting hours were over. She left that day having came in looking for answers, only to leave with more questions. I haven't seen her since. I might not ever again. I know I'll never see my kids again. She won't allow it and I don't think if I were asked, that I would allow it either.
I sit here now. The newspaper my lawyer had gotten me that I now hold in my hand. The very one where the journalist had the audacity to call those eight innocent. Innocent? It still boils my blood. No, they weren't innocent. None of them were innocent. They were all guilty and they all paid a price. Kenny Roberson and Bryant Coolidge paid a price for tutoring a cat. Clancy Green paid a price for molesting his daughter. Heather Lane paid a price for purposefully infesting others with HIV. Tony Timm paid a price for conning dozens of people out of tens of thousands of dollars. Lacy Pederson and Aaron Jeffries paid a price for running an illegal dog fighting ring and shooting those that didn't perform well in the head. Paul Hines paid a price for hospitalizing his children. I know I was wrong to write the paper a letter. I know I was wrong to write it and send it in without proof reading it first. I had taken the time to find an old type writer at a garage sale. I had taken the time to drive all the way to Pittsburgh to mail it. Yet I couldn't take the time to proof read the damn thing. To see as plain as day, "To call these people innocent is an insult. An insult to me and an inslut to anyone they ever hurt." I see it now and I keep seeing it as I read it over and over and over again.
"Insult." She answered. "You've always had trouble spelling that word."
She didn't have to give any further explanation. Papers I had written in high school and papers I had written in college often had ink as red as the blood of my victims marked around the word. For some reason I could never get it through my head that the u came before the l. If I went back and reread what I had written, I'd catch it. I'd see inslut and I'd correct it. 10 years, 8 murders and of all things to do me in, a simple spelling mistake.
I held the phone in my hand looking at her through the glass partition. I tried to imagine what was going through her head. In love for nearly two decades and now she looked at me, her husband of 15 years and the father of her three children as if I were a stranger. Someone she wondered if she even knew at all. I pictured her reading the newspaper and coming across the letter I had written the editor. Seeing that damn spelling error and beginning to contemplate that maybe I had something to do with this. I'm sure she wanted to dismiss the fact that the Toledo Torch and her husband both misspelled insult as a simple coincidence. But then I imagined she read about how the last victim has been poisoned with rodenticide and how I had recently bought some even though we didn't have a rat problem. I imagine she began to wonder what I had bought it for.
I imagine that's why she had notified the police. Why she took the kids on a road trip to her mother's, only notifying me after they had been on the road for three hours. I didn't think much of it until Detective Vince Johnson and Officer Carl Sutton showed up at my door. Looking back on that day, I wonder if I should have lied. I can't be the only person in Toledo, Ohio to misspell insult and there probably isn't a garage in the city that doesn't have a bag of rodenticide. Yet I told the truth because I already knew the one thing they had that would convict me. The only thing they had. My blood.
My first victims were an accident. Or at least the first one was or so I'd like to think. I didn't go in with the intention of killing either one of those boys. Was it fate? Was what I did that night and what I'd do sixteen times again my destiny? Was it a matter of circumstance? I think about that night every day. What if I hadn't have been there? What if I had never seen those kids torturing that cat? Would I have became the Toledo Torch? The psychologists all say I would have. The television reports all agree. According to them the Toledo Torch as they came to call me, I, John Ray Dennis was born to kill.
They were teenagers. Both football players on the local high school team. Kenny Roberson a fifteen year old sophomore and Bryant Coolidge a seventeen year old senior. Rich kids, with nothing better to do than to bury a cat up to its head in the dirt, while one held the camera and the other started the lawnmower. I saw it from a distance. I still had on my gloves from work. I hadn't taken them off yet. It would later make it seem like a premeditated murder, but having the gloves on that day was nothing more than luck. I ran out of my car yelling at the boys to stop. When I arrived at the scene, I expected the boys to be afraid. For Kenny to stop filming, Bryant to turn the lawnmower off and for the two of them to begin apologizing profusely. Instead I was met with the one yelling at me to get off his property and the other yelling at me to mind my own business. I began to dig the cat out of the dirt when Bryant shoved me, knocking me over sideways onto the ground. I had dug out enough for the cat to escape as Kenny yelled out in frustration of its getting away and Bryant began to reprimand me.
"Your lucky my father isn't home!" The tone of his voice set something off inside of me that I had forgotten existed. This little entitled bastard had the nerve to try and treat me as if I were doing something wrong. I kept telling myself that the cat was now safe and that's all that mattered. It was time to go. There was nothing I could teach either one of these young punks. If they had it in them to torture a poor, defenseless cat the way they had planned, nothing I said or did would knock any sense into them. I should've walked away, but I didn't. It was the word "father" that filled me with rage. I thought of my own father as I tried to picture Bryant's. I pictured him, the way my father had been, an insensitive, cruel, cold and callous man. The type who would condone such behavior. Celebrate the torturing of a cat and think anyone who opposed a pussy. Had Bryant Coolidge not mentioned his father, I do believe he and Kenny Roberson would still be alive today. But he did mention him and I walked right up to that boy grabbed the handle of the lawnmower and yanked it out of his hand. I then thrust it towards him, narrowly missing his foot.
"What in the Hell are you doing you crazy..." Before he could finish I threw the lawn mower against the fence as it busted apart.
"I hope you know I got this all on film." It was the last words Kenny Roberson ever spoke. I rushed him knocking him to the ground and as I grabbed his head and began to beat it against the cement. Bryant had come over trying to pull me off, but I was in such a rage I didn't even notice. He had hit me in the face twice, bloodying my nose. My blood on the middle phalanx and knuckle of both his index and middle fingers of his right hand. I'd like to think that maybe my intention had only been to teach Kenny Roberson a lesson. To put some fear inside of him, but I know better than that. I knew he wasn't knocked out. I knew he wasn't simply unconscious. I knew he was dead, long before I ever stopped beating his head against the pavement.
Bryant stood in shock as I should have been too, looking at his dead friend. The only thing that shocked me was my own behavior. It was as if I had suddenly become possessed. Bryant began to scream for help, but advantage was mine. This home was out in the country. Outside of city limits. Two miles west of the factory I worked at and three miles south of the city. No one could hear him. He hesitated for a moment, I suppose contemplating on whether he should stand and fight, or make a run for the house to the phone. Had he gone right away, he might have made it, but the hesitation gave me just the right amount of time to reach out and grab him by the foot as he turned to run. To describe what happened next would only be speculation on my part. I blacked out and when I came too, the body of Bryant Coolidge as did the body of Kenny Roberson lay lifeless on the ground.
My thoughts and my feelings as I stood there, the blood of these boys on my shirt and on my hands, contradicted one another. I wanted to feel panic. I felt that I should feel immediate remorse. If anything distress. Instead I felt calm, uncomfortably calm. I didn't even breathe hard. I dragged both boy's bodies to the fire-pit in the yard, grabbed the can of lighter fluid and put it all over them. I noticed a bulge in Kenny's pocket as I reached in and pulled out a lighter. It scared me how as to how helpful the atmosphere and environment were. I hadn't been prepared for any of this, but everything I needed, it was all right there. It's as if something knew I was coming and what I would do. I lit them on fire and walked out of that yard and back into my car as if I had woke up on a Sunday morning and walked outside to casually grab the paper.
On the way home I thought more about my father and of how he had always referred to me as a gutless sissy. He wanted me to be a man's man, but after a few attempts of converting me into his macho indoctrination, he gave up. He took me out hunting when I was eleven years old. I pointed the gun at a doe that day but I couldn't get myself to pull the trigger. That deer hadn't done anything to me. I saw no need to do anything to it. My father hit me in the eye, a wound that later required two stitches, with the butt of the rifle. He told me I belonged in the kitchen with my mother and then he shot the deer right in the chest as it fell to the ground. He made me watch as he ran a knife across her throat and told me that he was ashamed of me and would only give me a ride back home because he knew if he didn't, he'd have to listen to my mother bitch about it.
I had many nightmares about that day. At first they were pretty much as the events had played out. I pointed the gun at the deer and I was never able to pull the trigger. They would always end with me waking up in a pool of my own sweat at the thought of that deer being shot or my father slitting her throat. Then the dreams changed. The deer was no longer in front of the gun when I put my finger on the trigger. It was now my father and this time I pulled without hesitation. I'd even wake up with my index finger bending back and forth in convulsion.
It was a nightmare I hated having. There were times when I'd wake up in the morning and slowly walk into my parent's room afraid of what I might see. Those nightmares were too real and I had to see my father, snoring in his bed before I could convince myself that it was a dream and I hadn't really killed him. What frightened me most was how satisfying it was in my dreams to have shot him. How good it made me feel. Even more frightening was the disappointment I tried so hard to suppress, at the realization that he was fine and unharmed. I did everything I could to block those thoughts out of my head. I was terrified because I think I even knew then that they were the first signs to indicate what I was capable of. What it is that one day I would end up doing. I had silenced them to the point to where I thought I had defeated them. But now they were back, and this time there was no getting rid of them.
We talked about the murders once they had become well known around Toledo. I made sure to be a part of the conversation.
"I can't imagine someone doing that to one of my kids." I said. "I'd kill him."
My friend Wayne said to me, "I hope they catch that piece of shit." I responded that I agree.
When the news-reporter said that after examining the charcoaled bodies that blood not matching Bryant or Kenny had been found, I accepted my fate that it was only a matter of time before it eventually caught up with me. I knew that if I were ever a suspect, they'd take a blood sample, the DNA would match and that'd be all they need. It was the one vital mistake, the one I couldn't undo, that I could not deny. It was the only one I ever made but it was also the only one I ever needed to make.
"Did you ever think about killing me?"
I came to after day dreaming, examining the question my wife had just asked me. It caught me off guard. I thought of the many times I had lied to her about where I had been and what I had been doing. All those lies and each time she had believed me. Now I was about to tell her the truth. The most honest thing I had said to her in years and I knew as she looked back at me that she doubted what I said.
"No." It was all I could manage to get out.
The idea of ever harming my wife, my kids, anyone I cared about had never crossed my mind. My lawyer informed me that my neighbor Jeff Fowlkes had recently been interviewed. He said that he had known me for fifteen years and he had never once felt threatened by me. He wondered now if it had all been an act. As if he had only been one time away from saying the wrong thing or doing something wrong. As if it was all in good fortune that he hadn't pissed me off and ended up a number himself.
"I thought about coming to you and asking you first." Her voice weakened as she spoke. "I really did."
I looked up at her at that moment. I hadn't been able to look her in the face until then. I could see the truth in her eyes, as well as the pain. There was a sense of guilt. A sense of sorrow. She took the responsibility for why I was in here. For why I sit in a jail cell awaiting trial, which will undoubtedly lead to a guilty verdict, and a sentencing of being put to death.
It was then and only then where I felt regret. Not for myself. Not for my victims, but for my wife. I had been asked if I had been sorry for any of the lives I had taken. I wasn't. Each person earned what I did to them. Molesters, abusers, animal mistreaters, con artists who had screwed people out of thousands of dollars. I am no more sorry for what I did to them, than will be the people who eagerly await the day the state of Ohio pumps 500 mg of hydromorphone into my blood. I'm sure the fathers, the mothers, the sisters, the brothers, the sons, the daughters, and the friends of those I killed won't be sorry. If anything they'll be as I was when I took the lives of those they loved. Satisfied.
I don't feel sorry for myself. I feel sorry for her though. I do regret what my wife and my kids will go through. My 12 year old and what he'll endure at school from those who are old enough to know what I did, but too immature to understand that he is not me and he had nothing to do with it. My eight year old. Too young to even begin to comprehend any of this. My three year old, who will one day ask his mother who will have to explain to him what Daddy was and why he was executed. Do I hate myself for what I did? Yes, I do. Or at least a part of me does anyway. Only for them though. My wife doesn't deserve the ridicule and shame that she'll face. She doesn't deserve the turmoil she'll face. She's no longer Angela Dennis. She never will be again. My kids aren't Christopher, Cassidy and Casey anymore. They're now the wife, the sons and the daughter of John Ray Dennis, The Toledo Torch. And for that I am sorry.
"You did the right thing." I knew I had to say something to her. It wasn't fair to sit in silence after she had said something to me that I knew took a lot of courage. I knew I couldn't comfort her. I couldn't say anything to make her feel better, but I also knew I had to try. It was the least I could do.
"Did I?" She responded.
She had the same thoughts I had, but for different reasons. I won't deny my selfishness, but her's was more out of fear. For reasons I've already mentioned and for those I haven't. She would have to leave Toledo. Change her name. The kid's names. I was the one with the job. The money. How could she support three kids without me?
"You did the right thing." I repeated it again. I wanted her so badly to believe it.
I had tried thinking about what would happen to her and my children a few times throughout the years but I blocked it out of my head before I ever got to far. After a while it never even crossed my mind at all. I wouldn't allow it too. I had convinced myself of what I needed to do and I wouldn't let anything deter my mission.
The officer came in a few moments later and informed us that visiting hours were over. She left that day having came in looking for answers, only to leave with more questions. I haven't seen her since. I might not ever again. I know I'll never see my kids again. She won't allow it and I don't think if I were asked, that I would allow it either.
I sit here now. The newspaper my lawyer had gotten me that I now hold in my hand. The very one where the journalist had the audacity to call those eight innocent. Innocent? It still boils my blood. No, they weren't innocent. None of them were innocent. They were all guilty and they all paid a price. Kenny Roberson and Bryant Coolidge paid a price for tutoring a cat. Clancy Green paid a price for molesting his daughter. Heather Lane paid a price for purposefully infesting others with HIV. Tony Timm paid a price for conning dozens of people out of tens of thousands of dollars. Lacy Pederson and Aaron Jeffries paid a price for running an illegal dog fighting ring and shooting those that didn't perform well in the head. Paul Hines paid a price for hospitalizing his children. I know I was wrong to write the paper a letter. I know I was wrong to write it and send it in without proof reading it first. I had taken the time to find an old type writer at a garage sale. I had taken the time to drive all the way to Pittsburgh to mail it. Yet I couldn't take the time to proof read the damn thing. To see as plain as day, "To call these people innocent is an insult. An insult to me and an inslut to anyone they ever hurt." I see it now and I keep seeing it as I read it over and over and over again.
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