It was late but I knew any attempt at sleep would prove fruitless. As dog-tired as I was, I still found energy enough to pour myself a stiff gin and tonic, plop down at my desk, and open the murder book.
The meeting with Connie Nabors had unsettled me. My rage at Henry Carson was palpable. I’d come to feel as Connie does. I wish it had been me who did it.
I brushed past the photos of the crime scene, opting instead to study those of the swim team members, a collection of youngsters, all in search of their grown-up identities, still experimenting with the lifestyle choices that would shape their respective destinies.
Not readily apparent was the fact that each of these youngsters was freighted with a dark secret. Many of them were guilt-ridden over decisions that had been made for them by Henry Carson, decisions regarding their sexual awakenings, decisions that would weigh on their psyches for the rest of their lives.
I pored over the myriad photos of Carson that had been collected in the murder book, pictures of him standing on the fringes of a swim team photo, broadly grinning while appearing in the center of a small group of team members, snapshots with various students, pictures of him alone.
What was it about this guy that was so charismatic? Charismatic enough to have persuaded so many of these kids to surrender themselves to him in the misguided belief they meant something to him?
Who was this guy?
In photo after photo, he appeared to be brimming with warmth and love for those pictured with him. His focus was riveted on them, each basking in the cocoon of his undivided attention. He wasn’t a handsome man, but there was about him an aura of kindness and warmth that appeared attractive.
In truth, he was a monster who possessed a talent for insinuating himself into the lives of others, and in so doing, earned their confidence and in turn, violated it.
I sat back and downed the last of the gin. I poured myself another.
I returned to the file and once again examined the individual photos of the various team members, focusing this time on the girls.
Janet Swift was seventeen, wearing a deep blue sports bra that clung to her well-developed breasts and revealed her tightened abs. She had on a pair of cut-off blue jeans that didn’t quite cover her entire behind.
What was it about Henry Carson that caused this young innocent to willingly surrender her virginity to him? And make herself available not only to him, but also to a gaggle of young boys, no more sophisticated than she.
My gaze fell on a head shot of Paul Henderson, the football player/body guard. He looked younger in the photo than he did in person, but the picture served to accentuate a pair of carefully guarded eyes and his slightly opened mouth revealed crooked teeth. His lopsided smile oozed the kind of all-purpose malevolence that made me angry just looking at him.
Finally I closed the file.
I found myself wishing that Henry Carson was still alive so that instead of the swift and unexpected death he experienced, he would instead live out his life in a prison cell, a daily penance for the hateful crimes he committed when he stole the innocence and probity from a group of youngsters who deserved better.
The effects of the gin barely served to dull my rage. I dropped onto my bed where, fully clothed, I wrestled a fitful sleep, replete with dreams of havoc being wreaked by me upon Henry Carson and the two despicable footballers.
I awakened drenched in sweat, depleted and depressed, frustrated that someone had gotten to Carson before I could, yet grateful they had.
I dreaded what I might have done had I found him alive. And how relieved I was not to have had to face the consequences of my actions.
None of which made sleep any easier.
Mostly I just lay there staring at the ceiling, grateful for the appearance of the first light of day and the chance to rid myself of these hellish dreams.
At least temporarily.