It’s not that they were so terrifying, it’s that they were so mesmerizingly deformed.
Perhaps at one time Ronald Van Cleave and Paul Henderson looked like regular humans, but now they resembled a pair of overly developed cartoon characters. There wasn’t an inch of fat on either of them. Their horribly swollen musculature looked to have been attained not only to administer deadly punishment, but to fend it off as well. High school football for them likely served as the training ground for a future filled with even greater violence.
Van Cleave was the larger of the two, six-three or four, weighing at least two-fifty. His feral, gunmetal gray eyes were constantly on the move, scanning his environment for threats, real or implied. Even behind bars, he projected a kind of animal restlessness that threatened to erupt into violence at any moment.
Henderson was the more circumspect of the two, standing taller than six feet and weighing in at not less than a couple of hundred pounds. His guarded black eyes reflected evil, plus an all-encompassing hatred that labeled him as someone to avoid.
Both were charismatic, however, exuding an unexpected sensuality that was both fascinating and repellent. It’s no wonder Henry Carson feared them. He should have exercised better judgment in selecting them.
I chose to interview them separately and when Deputy Al Striar and I entered the small, windowless conference room on the basement level of Freedom Town Hall, Ronald Van Cleave, his hands cuffed in front of him and his feet chained to a bolt in the floor, sat at the interview table glaring at us.
“Who the fuck are you?” he said by way of greeting.
Our introductions served to raise his temperature. “I want a lawyer.”
“Soon enough. You’re not under arrest and you’re not a suspect. I wanted to have a little tete-a-tete with you in an effort to confirm a few facts.”
“What’s tattatat?”
“An expression,” I said. “French.”
I called out to the guard who was stationed outside the door. “Would you be so kind as to remove Mr. Van Cleave’s shackles?”
Van Cleave’s eyes registered surprise.
The guard asked, “You want me to unchain him?”
“Please.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“I am.”
“Okay.” The guard did as he was asked.
Striar and I sat down opposite Van Cleave. “Can we get you anything?”
Van Cleave looked at us warily and said nothing.
I instructed the guard to bring us a few bottles of cold water. When he did, Van Cleave accepted one. “What do you want from me?”
“I was just getting to that. My apologies for any inconvenience we may have caused you. I hope to get through our business quickly.”
“And then I can go?”
“Yes.”
He looked first at Al Striar, then again at me. “Okay.”
“What can you tell me about these so-called play parties?”
“Nothing.”
“Even though you were a participant.”
“I never participated in anything.”
“You’re saying you never attended or took part in any of the play parties that were arranged and supervised by Henry Carson?”
“Who’s Henry Carson?”
I sat silently for a while, closely monitored by Ronald Van Cleave’s malevolent stare. I leaned across the table and lowered my voice. “May I confide in you?”
Van Cleave continued to stare at me. He said nothing.
I went on. “This is a pretty informal conversation we’re having here, Ron. It is Ron, isn’t it?”
He nodded.
“I’m sorry to say that I’m not respecting the answers you’ve been giving me. Should you continue to be evasive and uncooperative, I’m afraid I’ll be forced to change course here.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that if you don’t start answering my questions, I’m going to arrest you and charge you with the murder of Henry Carson. Perhaps you remember him now?”
“I never murdered anyone.”
“That’s District Attorney business. Who, by the way, is a whole lot less pleasant than I. But whatever happens, it’s bound to be a stain on your record. We can prove you were a player in a series of parties that ultimately resulted in Henry Carson’s death.
“By participating, as you indeed did, in a number of these so-called play party events, and by serving as Mr. Carson’s enforcer, you’re implicated and you’ll be duly charged. My guess? At the very least it would spell the end of your athletic career. Amateur and pro.”
He sat mulling for a while. Then he said, “Okay. I played.”
“At the play parties?”
“Yes.”
“Which means?”
“Me and Paulie, we made it with a few of the girls.”
“Swim team members?”
“Yeah.”
“Against their wills?”
“No. Not on your life. Paulie and me ain’t into rape.”
“Okay.”
“Some of them other guys, them swimmers, they were into roughhousing. Coach Hank, too.”
“Did you assault Steffi Lincoln?”
“You know what,” Van Cleave said, “regardless of what you said, I think I’m done talking to you. Either bust me or cut me loose. I know my rights. I want a phone call.”
“Okay.” I summoned the guard. “Please place the restraints back onto Mr. Van Cleave and return him to his cell.”
“What about my call?”
“I’ll consider the request.”
The guard shackled Van Cleave’s ankles and cuffed his hands behind his back. Then he marched him out of the conference room.
“What do you make of that?” Al Striar asked.
“I’ll let you know once we’ve interviewed Paul Henderson.”