CHAPTER 25

 

“We’re going to Omaha to track down Slocum’s sister, Elizabeth,” Farrell said, in answer to Kearns’ request for a destination.

They were westbound on Highway 30 again, heading for the Missouri River and the Nebraska/Iowa border. Farrell dug under the seat for his briefcase, from which he withdrew the thick file he’d taken from the veterans’ hospital.

“While you were snoozing last night,” Farrell said, “I was doing homework.”

“Learn anything else from Slocum’s file we can use?”

“Apparently the headshrinkers found him somewhat disturbed.”

“There’s an earth-shattering diagnosis for you.”

“Yeah,” Farrell said chuckling. “Only took the doctors twenty years to come up with that one. Anyway, I was focusing on details which might lead us to his current whereabouts.”

“That’s where you got the address of Slocum’s father.”

“Right. And the information about his father’s criminal history.”

“It would appear your late night reading paid off,” Kearns said, biting his lip. “Let’s hope what we got today does as well.”

Farrell shook his head. “What I found at the Slocum’s farm is valuable, but for a different reason. I’ll get to that in a minute.”

“So you weren’t bluffing back there? About the old man molesting his own kids?”

“I wasn’t making anything up. And what I’ve read so far is beginning to form a definite pathology.”

“Pathology?”

“That’s medical lingo for how he became a monster.” Farrell sifted through more of the papers in the file. “Slocum was the second oldest child; Elizabeth the youngest. When he was seven years-old, his sister almost two, Slocum’s father beat his mother after finding out she was pregnant again. I guess beatings around the Slocum household were pretty common, but this one was particularly savage.”

“You told me about this already. Slocum’s wife died as a result.”

“What I didn’t tell you was that Vernon witnessed the incident, including seeing his father kick his pregnant mother repeatedly in the stomach. This came out in some of his therapy sessions.”

“Jesus,” Kearns said under his breath. “No wonder he turned out all screwed up.”

“It gets worse. After the death of his wife, Emil Slocum began drinking more heavily, beating the children more severely, and on or about Vernon’s tenth birthday, began molesting Vernon.”

“How could a man do that to his own son?”

“I wish I knew. Or maybe I don’t.”

“What kind of abuse are we talking about?” Kearns asked tentatively.

“You name it, old man Slocum did it. Sodomy, oral copulation, beatings, starvation, cold water dousing, isolation, electric shocks; the whole nine yards. Most of this was revealed during narcotic-assisted hypnosis sessions. Apparently a lot of this stuff Vernon buried somewhere deep in his mind.”

“Sure,” chided Kevin. “He blocked it out. It’s called repression. I learned about it in the academy. Lots of victims do it.”

“That’s right.”

“Sounds like a horror movie.” Kearns said.

“I’m sure for the Slocum children, it was.”

“How did it end?”

“Old Emil Slocum signed Vernon into the Marines as soon as the kid turned seventeen: the minimum age of enlistment. This was a year after he’d signed Wade, Vernon’s older brother, into the Corps, also on his seventeenth birthday. Soon Vernon was in Vietnam earning medals.”

“What happened to Wade?”

“He was killed in action within a month of getting in-country.”

“Vernon must have taken it pretty hard.”

Farrell rubbed his chin. “Report doesn’t really say. That time in Slocum’s life was dominated by another crisis.”

“His sister.”

“Excellent,” Farrell smiled. “You’re becoming a detective. While Vernon was deep in the jungle he received word that his sister Elizabeth, who’d just turned thirteen, was taken into foster care. Vernon’s younger brother, Cole, ran away.”

“So while Vernon is off fighting in the jungle, one brother is killed, the other runs away, his little sister is taken into protective custody, and…”

“…and his father is sent to prison,” Farrell finished. “A shining chapter in the Slocum family saga.” Farrell extracted another paper from the thick file. “Vernon was in the VA hospital from the late Sixties, after I met him in Saigon, until the fall of 1986.”

“Why so long?”

“He was probably doped up. It’s common practice to keep mental patients under constant sedation with heavy-duty narcotics; makes for a docile patient. The side-effects of these drugs are often confused with the symptoms of whatever mental disorder the patient is supposedly being treated for. Kind of a Catch-22.”

“So why was he released? Did the doctors think he was cured?”

Farrell laughed out loud. “Not likely. I can guess the answer, though it’s not in the records. President Reagan cut the funding for all the mental hospitals when he took office.”

“I remember reading about that,” Kearns said. “Everybody was worried about what was going to happen when all these crazies hit the streets. It was all over the news. Veterans’ advocacy groups and mental health professionals were up in arms about it.”

“Sure. When the money ran out, thousands of psychologically ill people, including vets, supposedly too dangerous to be out walking the streets, were simply kicked loose. They were suddenly declared cured simply because the VA’s budget had to be tightened.”

“It boggles the mind. Twenty years in a psych-ward, and one day when it’s penny-pinching time he gets turned loose.” Kearns shook his head. “Didn’t they know what they were unleashing?”

“I doubt it. His crimes in Vietnam were never put on record. The docs probably thought Slocum was just another combat burnout. No different than any other docile, doped-up patient.”

“Hell of a way to run a railroad,” Kearns said.

“Nobody ever said the Federal Government was perfect.”

“Even if we find Elizabeth in Omaha, will she know where to find Vernon?”

“Have a little faith. Apparently Elizabeth corresponded with Vernon while he was in the VA hospital, and on one occasion, in 1984, came to visit. She was in her thirties then, and according to notes of one of Vernon’s therapy sessions, working for the Catholic Diocese in Omaha somewhere. She’d started a career in counseling and was affiliated with Boys Town. That’s where we’re going now; to see if we can get a line on her that might lead us to Vernon.”

“First we go to Vernon’s father’s place. Now we go after his sister?”

“Take a look at this.” Farrell withdrew a stack of handwritten letters from inside his coat pocket. “I found these on the nightstand in old man Slocum’s bedroom.”

“When you were supposed to be taking a shit, and Emil and I were getting chummy?”

“Yep,” Farrell said smugly. “Thanks again for the diversion. These are letters from Elizabeth to her father, some dated as recently as four months ago.”

“Is there a return address?” Kearns asked.

“Yeah. Elizabeth still lives in Omaha, on Leawood West, near 132nd Street.

“I don’t get it.” said Kearns. “Why would Elizabeth reach out to the man who molested her as a child?”

“I haven’t had much of a chance to do more than skim the letters, but it seems Elizabeth works as a counselor. In her earlier letters she mentions having a master’s degree and working with abused children.”

“That fits.”

“I agree. A lot of people who’ve been abused end up as counselors; the same reason a lot of recovering alcoholics and drug addicts end up working with people who are similarly afflicted. Anyway, it seems Elizabeth has been writing to her father for a couple of years, trying to convince him to get help. At least the letters appear to be written in that tone.”

“Wow,” said Kearns. “This Elizabeth Slocum must be a saint. If something like that happened to me, helping the person who did it would be at the bottom of my ‘to do’ list.”

“I gather Elizabeth got no response from old Emil. She ends all the letters with a plea for him to at least write her back.”

Kearns grunted. “He called her the Whore of Babylon. I’m not sure she wants to hear what he’d have to say.”

“I wouldn’t,” Farrell said.

“So that’s our plan?” Kearns said. “Find Elizabeth and see if she can lead us to Vernon?”

“You got it.”

“What if she won’t help us?”

“Her father didn’t want to help, but look at all he gave us. I’ve got a hunch Elizabeth will put us in the right direction. Sometimes when you’re tracking someone you fly by the seat of your pants. It isn’t always logical, but hunches can be as fruitful as anything else.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Kearns replied sarcastically. “I’m too green to have any investigative hunches.”

“Then look at the bright side, kid. You’re getting a wealth of experience. Think of it as on-the-job training.”

Kearns stared at the road ahead. “Omaha it is. We’ll be there by late afternoon if the weather holds out.” He paused and looked at the older cop hesitantly.

“Thanks for keeping me out of the dark.”

Farrell stowed the letters into his coat pocket. “I promised no more fast ones Kevin, and I meant it. You do the driving and leave the worrying to me. The trail’s getting warmer. When we catch up to Vernon Slocum I’m going to need you in my corner. I won’t jeopardize that. I’ll be dealing from the top of the deck from here on out.”