Chapter 43
AFTER RETURNING THE cereal boxes to the shelf where we’d found them, Walter and I went back down to the cellar. While I held the pistol on Wilson, Walter ripped the tape from his mouth. He took the folded papers out of his pocket and showed them to our prisoner.
“Raymond E. Wilson, I have here a warrant for your arrest issued by the city of Downsville, West Virginia, and am duly authorized to escort you to the police station in Belle Valley, Ohio. There you will be held, to await extradition back to Downsville. Do you understand?”
I moved in, holding the Glock close enough to Wilson’s head to discourage any attempt to escape as Walter yanked the tape strips first from around his ankles, and then from his wrists.
“They gonna let me go, once I tell ’em what that bitch did to me.”
“I didn’t see her do anything.” The tapes were off. “Get up,” Walter snapped.
Wilson struggled to stand; he was stiff and sore from his hours bound to the bed frame. “You found me tied up. I sure as hell didn’t do that to myself.” Wilson massaged his wrists and rubbed his ankles together, restoring circulation.
“When I arrived to take you into custody, you were in your living room, watching television,” Walter said blandly.
“That’s a damn lie!”
“Who do you think anybody’s gonna believe—a scum-bag like you, or a thirty-year lawman like me?”
“Okay, fatso,” Wilson snarled, pointing to his swollen, blood-encrusted nose. “The cops will know I didn’t do this.”
“No, I did,” Walter said. “You resisted arrest, and attacked me. I defended myself, using the force necessary to subdue you. Now, upstairs. March.”
In the kitchen, Walter stripped off the latex gloves and asked for the Glock. I gave it to him, removed my own pair of gloves, and also gave those to Walter. He stuck them in his pocket. Indicating Wilson, Walter said, “I’ll get him cleaned up.”
While Walter was making Wilson scrub himself clean in the shower, I used paper towels and water from the sink to wash up as best I could. I got the dirt off my face and hands, but my shirt and pants were filthy from sliding down the coal chute.
Walter brought Wilson back into the kitchen and handed me the Glock. Our prisoner was dressed in fresh clothes. I kept the pistol on Wilson while Walter fastened his wrists behind his back with handcuffs.
“Where did you get those?” I asked.
“Borrowed ’em from my friends in Downsville, when I picked up the warrant.”
Walter took the pistol back and prodded Wilson toward the front door.
“Take a look outside,” Walter said.
I opened the door and surveyed the street in both directions. Webster was deserted at the moment. “Eight o’clock Saturday morning. The neighbors must be sleeping in,” I said.
Walter took Wilson to his rental car, put him in the rear, and snarled, “I’ll shoot your miserable head off it you even reach for a door handle.” Keeping Wilson in sight, Walter drew me to the far side of the vehicle and lowered his voice. “How did you get here?”
I told him about buying the Skylark that was in the motel parking lot, about my pregnancy disguise, and the false name and I.D.
“Clever,” he said. “What are you going to do with the car?”
“My original plan was to drive it back to New York City and leave it unlocked in a bad neighborhood.”
Walter smiled with approval. “Where it would be stripped down to the axle in about ten minutes.”
“I was going to take the subway home, but now that you’re here I’d like us to stick together.”
“Yes. Is there anything in the motel room that could identify you?” he asked.
I shook my head. “The tote bag with the disguise is in the trunk. I paid in cash for two nights.”
“Go get your car. Throw the contents of your bag into several different Dumpsters. Do you know where the police station is?”
“I saw it yesterday afternoon, while I was exploring the town.”
“Park the car a couple blocks away from there an’ leave it for the car thieves. Walk to the station an’ join me.” He aimed a critical frown at my dirty clothes. “Do you have something else to wear?”
“Just the maternity dress.”
“If you show up at the station looking like that, it might make somebody think Wilson’s telling the truth about you keeping him in the cellar.”
I looked at my watch. “I’ll find a store and buy a new top and slacks, then I’ll ditch these clothes.”
“One more thing. When you give your statement about my finding you with Wilson, and what he did, leave out details about your mother.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just say Wilson said your mom was dead—that’s true, that’s what he told you. If the woman’s still alive an’ reads about this, then she might show up someday. But fakes wanting money could come forward, too, telling the story Wilson gave you. A DNA test will expose a phony, but that takes a while. I don’t want your hopes raised an’ then crushed.”
I didn’t know how I felt about the possibility of meeting my mother someday, or even how I felt about her. It was too soon to sort out my emotions.
Instead of talking about that now, before I was ready, I gestured toward the back of Wilson’s head, which was visible through the rear window. “He’ll probably tell the story,” I said, “to defend himself against a kidnapping charge.”
Walter shook his head. “He won’t say anything.”
“But how can you be certain?”
“Because I’m going to tell him that if he does, I’ll make sure the guys in jail with him know he’s a child molester. If he shuts up, I won’t.”
“How can you keep other inmates from finding out what he is?”
“I can’t.” Walter’s tone was wry. “I’m only promising him that I won’t tell.”
Unspoken between us was the knowledge that Ray Wilson was not going to have it easy, for whatever time he was locked up.
With our plans made for meeting at the police station, Walter climbed behind the steering wheel and drove off with his prisoner.
The street was still empty of people, and no cars had gone by since we came out onto the sidewalk. I took a deep breath of fresh morning air and started retracing my steps to the motel.
At the corner of Webster and Cook, a Belle Valley P.D. patrol car passed me. It was cruising quietly, without excess speed or use of the siren. I knelt down, pretending to retie my shoelace, and watched it stop in front of 404 Webster. A husky young police officer in uniform was behind the wheel. In the passenger seat was a middle-aged bald man wearing a tan suit. They got out of the car and headed for Wilson’s front door.
I stood up with feigned casualness and turned onto Cook Street, increasing my pace as soon as I was out of sight of the Belle Valley P.D.
BY THE TIME I had bought new clothes, got rid of the disguise and my grubby slacks and shirt, abandoned the Skylark, and reached the Belle Valley Police Department, Walter greeted me with the news that the search of Ray Wilson’s house had produced videotapes showing Wilson molesting children. “The guys here have been spot-checking and fast-forwarding through them, but the tape quality is real bad, and there’s no sound. It’s gonna be hard to make a case.”
“So, without corroborating testimony from at least one of his victims, Wilson might go free.” I was stating the obvious. The police would publicize Wilson’s arrest, and ask victims to come forward, but given the level of humiliation and shame likely to be felt by families, it could be that no one would. Many adult women refuse to report sexual assault, fearing that admitting to having been raped would taint them. I understood that fear; I had it myself, but I couldn’t let it stop me from what I had to do. Absent names of Wilson’s victims, it was up to me to try to inspire somebody to come out of hiding and file charges against him.
Walter believed that, even though I worked offscreen, my connection to Love of My Life made me at least a minor celebrity, and therefore of media interest. Reluctantly, I’d had to agree with him. It seemed that any show business connection appealed to the press. Every time a crime was committed by someone who worked for a famous actor, currently or in the past—even if it was in a menial job—news accounts and broadcasts about the event began by mentioning the actor. If a second cousin of the man who serviced Mel Gibson’s cars was arrested, that report would lead with Mel Gibson’s name. Perhaps my speaking up about having been a victim of Ray Wilson would make it a little easier for someone else to admit it. With all of my heart, I hoped so.
After I told my story privately to Captain Don Anderson of the Belle Valley Police Department, he called for a video camera and a stenographer. When everything was in place, I sat down to face the lens. Under Captain Anderson’s methodical questioning, I recounted, in painful detail, my time in Ray Wilson’s power. While it was difficult, to my surprise, I discovered that there was also a degree of freedom in the telling. I felt as though I was being relieved of a heavy burden.
The ugly part of my story ended with my rescue by Sheriff Walter Maysfield.
Telling Captain Anderson that I was checking out of my motel and would be there soon, Walter had made his own statement before I arrived. He described how he had discovered me, and included information regarding the stolen van, about finding Ray Wilson’s fingerprints in the vehicle, and Walter’s unsuccessful attempts to capture the man. Years later Wilson was traced to Belle Valley by a private detective that I had hired.
Although Captain Anderson already knew the answer, for the sake of the official record, he asked me, “Why did you go to the trouble and expense of looking for Wilson? You must have known the statute of limitations on your case had run out.”
“I wanted to learn where I came from, and how I ended up with him.”
“What did you find out?”
“Not much. When I was a little girl, he told me my mother was dead. This morning, when Sheriff Maysfield and I confronted him, he said that she gave me to him, but swore that was all he knew about her, that she didn’t tell him her name.” A partial truth. “The most important reason I came here is that I wanted to try to stop him from hurting other children.”
WE WERE SITTING in Captain Anderson’s office, in straight-back wooden chairs next to the captain’s desk, waiting to read and sign our statements. Walter had tipped his chair against the wall as he thumbed through a stack of “wanted” circulars. I was perched at the edge of my seat, replaying in my mind every word Ray Wilson had told me about the woman who gave birth to me. I was sure Wilson believed the story, but was it true? Had she lied to him? Did I want to find out?
I looked around, hoping for something to distract me from thinking about it. Unlike New York’s Twentieth Precinct, which seemed to be busy around the clock, on this Saturday morning, there were only two police officers visible from where I sat, and no public enemies. One officer was filling out a form, and the other was reading a magazine and drinking from a tall Styrofoam cup. Coffee! I realized how much I would give at that moment for a cup of coffee—even police-station coffee.
My cell phone rang, interrupting my craving. Instantly, I felt my spine stiffen with apprehension. The people in my life had promised not to call me this weekend unless it was an emergency.
“Hello?”
“Sorry to interrupt your vacation, honey.” It was Matt. “There’s something I have to tell you.” His tone was somber. It wasn’t going to be good news.
I clenched the pen in my hand so hard it bit into the flesh of my palm. “What’s happened?”
“An actor on your show—Jay Garwood. He’s been shot,” Matt said.