The Kill Jar Page 2

  Hundreds of drivers were stopped on the sides of local roads for interrogation by police officers. If you drove a car resembling the one allegedly driven by the killer, getting through those few square miles of my normally user-friendly neighborhood was like trying to pass a German checkpoint during World War II. Once you got out of the suburbs and into Detroit proper, the hunt for the alleged killer was taken less seriously, but the impulse for speculation about the exact nature of his crimes loomed large, even in mostly African-American inner-city Detroit, no stranger to abduction and murder but with an interest kindled by the white-on-white, suburban opera of it all.

  My own father, who resembled the abductor’s composite sketch, was surrounded by police officers at a local suburban park in the winter of 1977. He’d been sitting in his car alone, during daylight, “watching the geese”—my father’s euphemism for smoking pot. He was wearing a stocking cap, like a seaman’s, pulled down to the tips of his ears, and his roughly cropped sideburns lined his jaw. He watched the two cruisers pull behind him, then two cops get out with guns drawn, slinking toward both sides of his car.

  GETTING GONE

  Before departing for Detroit from my home in Idaho, I sat and read Kristine’s autopsy report in my car outside of a gas station, parked there to have privacy away from my kids and wife, to keep the darkness away from them as much as I could. The report showed Kristine to have been fed during her long captivity and then eventually asphyxiated, probably by the killer’s bare hand squeezing her nose and mouth to trap the air. The murder term for this is “burking,” which involves the killer restraining the victim’s torso, most commonly in a bear hug, throughout the suffocation process. Burking leaves very few physical marks, if any.

  I don’t know what Kristine’s parents thought at the time, imagining their daughter being killed in this fashion, but I can guess that the “thinking” part of them was mostly turned off. Violence just pushes against us. You don’t think a goddamned thing. You just feel.

  Some weeks after surveying Kristin’s drop site on Bruce Lane, I went home and watched the footage I’d taken and hoped to get inside of it, but there were too many decades’ distance. Where the imprint of Kristine’s body had melted into the snow, flowers had sprung up, bicycles had traversed, and lawn mowers and hedgers had clipped and trimmed the grass under autumn sunlight.

  KRISTINE WAS ABDUCTED on January 2, 1977, the day after New Year’s Day. The first victim, Mark Stebbins, was abducted the day after Valentine’s Day, 1976. The second victim, Jill Robinson, was found the day after Christmas, 1976. The fourth and presumably final victim, Timothy King, went missing shortly after Kristine was found, on the evening before St. Patrick’s Day of 1977.

  The dates suggest a link between holidays and the abductor’s modus operandi. People have thought that, anyway, wanting to bring structure to the chaos: four dead children, four holidays. Part of being human is to pine for something linear, something we can trust that brings the pieces together like a magnet pulling back the continents to where they’d started, a logical connection like coming home, but sometimes the facts are just the facts with no narrative between them. At the time of my visit to Kristine’s drop site in 2010, well over thirty years after her murder, millions of dollars and hundreds of detectives working on the largest homicide investigation in Michigan state history had failed to bring any meaningful structure to these crimes. The killer had, presumably, never been caught.

  THE KILLER INSIDE

  I didn’t know anything about the killers out in the world in the 1970s because I was worrying about the killer inside. My family had been troubled by a darkness that hadn’t yet been spoken of, but that I’d felt forming in me. The drywall in our house seemed to pulse with a sadness from the holes that’d been punched through it, when my father’s right fist, sharp around the edges, like his body, would sometimes arc into the wall before he’d head out for the night.

  As a child, images, oftentimes disturbing ones, stacked inside me like crudely made bricks, weighty and jagged in my mind. Killers will frequently report the same thing, being entirely driven by a single image that refuses to loosen from memory, the witnessing of a car bomb yanking a killer’s grandmother into the air, or the way a broken bottle carved out his mother’s ribs while he watched from a crib, transforming him while she bled out onto the cream-colored shag. No single image remade me; my transformation occurred over time, brick by brick, one thing leading to another.

  When my family was running late for a party back in ’76, for instance, my father threw my mother onto the floor. I don’t remember why we were going to the party. We didn’t often do those things. What I see now, and for all these years since, is my father wearing his suit while my mother cowers beneath him in a corner, covering herself from the threat of his lashing.

  I figured he’d kill her one day, but right then all I could do is sit on the bottom bunk of my bed and stare at the television. I had a switchblade stashed in the coils above my head, just under where my brother slept, but I didn’t think about using it on my father, not in that moment as protection for my mother or in any other moment—I was too afraid of him. I thought about using it on everybody else, the people outside of my family, for a lot of days afterward, and then for a lot of years, too.

  I can still see the lapels of my father’s 40-long suit jacket from that day. They’re brown, like his wispy, goatee-style beard. My mother is on the floor, the bangs across her forehead perfectly hair sprayed, but she’s oddly curled like a seahorse, the way Timothy King’s body looks to me, too, decades later, in the black-and-white photo tacked to my office wall, a crime scene flashbulb lighting up the newly fallen snow surrounding his corpse.

  A few months after my father whipped my mother into the ground, I set fire to my backyard, the flames licking upward into hot daylight from a patch the size of an overturned van.

  At school a few years later I threw a lit book of matches into a girl’s lap for taking my queen during a chess game. I hadn’t thought of her dress catching fire, before it did.

  When I was a teenager, I watched pornography with another teenager I didn’t know. That same year, a man washed my back in a public shower.

  One time, as an adult, a stripper wrapped her legs around my waist and said, “Why don’t you screw me after I get off work, then drop me back at jail.”

  Those images that darkened me have been compounding since childhood. Initially inherited by circumstance, I am the one who builds them now.

  And brick by brick, they build me back.

  THE FIRST TIME I hurt myself intentionally, I was a grown man in my mid-thirties already, probably in 2004 or 2005. I stood in the bathroom mirror and slapped myself as hard as I could with my good hand against the right side of my face. My right ear rang; it sounded like a butter knife tapping the rim of a wineglass for a toast. The slope across my jaw turned red. I did it again. The second time hurt, too, but not the way I’d expected it to.

  That stripper on work release from the county jail had hurt me more, asked me to take off my shirt beside the stage, told me to lift my arms, spun me around while snaking out my belt. She lashed me across the back a dozen times, about ten other men in the bar watching us, some of them laughing, some of them glaring at me like I’d stolen their thunder. I’d gone home and looked at my back in the mirror, the lash marks puffy like burns. I hid my back from my wife for a week while they healed, and I felt dirty and good at the same time.

  Now, it’d been a different feeling than letting a stripper inflict pain. I’d been so overwhelmed, so full to the brim with sadness from everyday life that it was the only thing I could do to come awake for a minute. My fingernails left marks when I pulled them across the swelling I’d caused, two white tracer lines dragging through a patch of red above my stubble line.

  I made a fist with my right hand and when I punched myself in the cheekbone I got a bruise beneath my eye that never fully cleared up. I’d broken a blood vessel; years later, there will stil
l be a red squiggle. I had so much pain inside that a sock to the eye had the effect of a hug somehow, an embrace from a friend who knew me well, had been there, understood my need for the pain to keep coming back to me, so that I remembered what love felt like.

  At that time, I hadn’t even been marked by the Oakland County Child Killer case yet. Ted Lamborgine and all of the other names surrounding the OCCK were just faded impressions out of old newspapers I’d once read.

  I had no idea that in a few years I’d be pulling up their case files and beating the crap out of myself in ways that nobody could see.

  Four dead kids. All of them scratched from memory and tossed into puddles like bad lottery tickets.

  And everything I’d learn, and the time I’d spend learning it, would come at a price.

  RICH BOY

  One of the suspects in these killings, Christopher Busch, was born rich. Bearded and obese, still living in his parents’ upscale home into his twenties, Busch was a child porn addict with multiple molestation charges pending against him in seemingly unrelated cases. A few weeks after being polygraphed about the OCCK murders, Busch was found dead in his home, shot through the forehead by a rifle while lying atop the sheets in the upstairs bedroom he’d spent most of his boyhood—and adulthood—in. There were no more known, related abductions after Christopher Busch’s death.

  The police report says that Christopher Busch’s death was a suicide. The temptation is to think that he felt shame or wanted to avoid prison, that the police were on his tail and so he offed himself before the finale of being incarcerated. And yet that same report negates the presence of gunshot residue on Busch’s hands, meaning it’s unlikely that he fired a weapon. Additionally, four spent cartridges were found at the scene, but there was only one hole in the suspect’s head.

  Christopher Busch had made a good suspect but he was now a victim, too, it would seem; dirty in the case and then face-fucked with a rifle by somebody with more to lose than him.

  The same police report contains no mention of blood. If you watch enough television, you know that nobody gets shot in the head without bleeding. I’ve held that report in my hands about a half dozen times. I keep thinking about it, waiting for the word “spatter” to appear, but it never does. Christopher Busch is a big, sheet-covered lump in the bed, reportedly bloodless, almost a ghost. A “suicide” who didn’t bleed, who needed four shots to inflict one wound, who was able to fire a gun without leaving behind trace evidence.

  ELLIE

  It’s 2010, my first night back in Detroit, a few weeks before visiting Kristine’s drop site in Franklin Village. I’ve come only to study the case and I’m staying at a hotel off the freeway, a stone’s throw from where twelve-year-old Mark Stebbins had been found. I watch TV and it’s dull. The rain outside reminds me of things I don’t want to think about. I get depressed watching rain.

  After a while I turn off the TV and contemplate calling an old girlfriend, Ellie, whom I haven’t seen in years. Ellie was the last girl I’d loved before raising kids. She was small, about five feet two inches tall, and an addict whose brown eyes turned to caramel in the right light, on summer days smoking Newports in her backyard, or when making love.

  And I’d loved Ellie like a Springsteen suicide run, all heat and revved-up engines and neither of us caring that the hundred miles of freeway ahead of us might end at a brick wall, the way most people only get to love when they’re young. But Ellie’s addictions had made her too unpredictable, and I’d become mean inside from futilely trying to pin her down—or maybe I’d already been mean. In the end, there was just dead air between us. That was a long time ago and we’ve both raised kids since then, had jobs of some sort, built homes we could trust for a period.

  I don’t know what Ellie is like anymore but I call her anyway. She doesn’t answer her phone, and I leave a message. I tell her that I’m in Detroit but I don’t tell her why. I say, “I just wanted to say hi.”

  I hang up my phone and know I only called Ellie because I’m still dark inside. She texts me back right away.

  Where are you?

  I’m in a hotel, I text her.

  Come over, she responds.

  She texts me her address, and I stare at my phone for a while. I haven’t told Ellie that my life is falling apart. I haven’t told anybody this yet, and Ellie doesn’t ask.

  Come over. That’s all.

  The truth is that my marriage is in its last couple of years, maybe months. I know that my hunt for what happened to these four kids has been a part of what’s destroyed us. My wife and I have tried to make it work and can’t. Right now we’re just riding things out until we can afford to live separately, until we can bear what the separation will do to our own kids. Fourteen years is a good run, but when I think about splitting up I still feel sad all the time. On good days I feel empty.

  Even if my marriage has become a shitty one, it has offered me the warmth of pretending that I am not alone, that I have companionship in my navigation through the many bouts of depression and anxiety that have dog-eared my adulthood—and yet I know that I have been willfully clinging to a lie. My wife is less companion, more accomplice in the pretension of false love; she has spoken those words to me herself, words that are rooted like tumors inside me, have grown larger around the pain of knowing that she was right.

  I text Ellie that I miss her.

  I don’t know what else to say and I don’t even know if it’s true yet, but when I think about Ellie I think of the life in me coming back. I don’t think of all the times that being with her hurt. I just think of how good I felt in the moments that were good, which were like flashes of fire.

  Thirty minutes later I’m standing on Ellie’s tenement porch, the keys to my rented SUV gripped in my hand.

  Ellie opens the door and stares at me for a moment.

  Then she touches my forearm, and it’s like being pulled midair across a canyon, and I don’t dare look down.

  LET’S START WITH THE DEAD

  Let’s start with the dead, but not the grouping of dead I’d expected.

  The first in the photo spread, a single news article tacked to what I’ve been calling my “murder wall,” is a female police officer. She’s maybe thirty, and she’s beautiful. The caption beneath her photo says, “Birmingham’s first woman cop, Reni Lelek.” Her black hair sweeps at the neckline, uneven bangs framing dark eyes, slightly squinted from joy at having the photo taken.

  Reni Lelek has a great, so-sexy smile, showing perfect teeth, teeth that would bite you just slightly when she wanted, bite you at the chin before moving up for a kiss.

  Moving across the photo spread is the former head of General Motors, Ed Cole, sixty-something and clean, in a suit-and-tie publicity shot. He’s come a long way down, once gracing the cover of Time magazine for his role in weaning America from leaded fuel but now irrevocably underlined in this small, local paper by the caption, “Killed in a plane crash in ’77.”

  And beside Ed Cole, to the right, is eleven-year-old Timothy King, whom I’ve come to see as my boyhood self somehow. Tim’s wearing a T-shirt in the photograph, his eyes so kind they seem almost like two hands held out in offering, saying, Have my lunch, and Are you okay? At the same time, those eyes have knowledge in them, not just kindness but empathy. They’re the eyes of a boy who sees pain in his forecast, even if it’s subconscious. In him, I see myself at the hands of my father, and I want to hurt somebody for what none of us can change, or protect—for the broken things in our past that will never be fixed.

  Beside him, eyes slanted sideways and appearing to look at Tim across the white space bordering their photos, is an art dealer named John McKinney.

  McKinney is fifty-something, bearded and dark-eyed, with a light smile. I look at his photo and I don’t know what I think. He seems . . . possibly like anything, which might be the point. Some people, their particular genius is in taking in, rather than giving out.

  This news article, the first I’d printed when beg
inning my research, tells me little right now. Later, it will appear to tell me a lot.

  LATE-NIGHT TV

  I’ve been falling asleep in my hotel to HBO reruns of the movie Couples Retreat so I don’t have to turn out the lights. I call my kids every morning and around dinnertime. I say to them “How are you doing?” And they say to me “Good.” And in between my questions and their answers is a world of language gone unspoken, my longing for them to know the truth of my life, to connect with the parts of me that are broken as much as the parts that are fixed, cleaned up for display.

  At night, after poring over my research, if I’m not on the phone or watching HBO, I’m thinking about Ellie.

  Ellie’s first boyfriend killed himself. The boyfriend after me died of an overdose. I was stuck between those two men. In a way I’m just like them, the suicide and the overdoser, my body traveling the chambers of darkened, haunted houses all the time, my fingertips dragging against the black-painted walls as I move forward in life.

  It’s no wonder I called Ellie.

  Ellie understands what the character Dexter refers to as “my dark passenger.” She’s been sober for nine years, but before that it was booze and heroin and coke and whatever else was in the room. My father was doing acid, weed, coke, and booze when I was a kid, and nobody in my family went untouched by addiction into our adult lives. I’d had my first drink of red wine at the age of eleven, after a mourner’s Kaddish in synagogue, and within that year I’d found a way to warm myself repeatedly from a hidden crate of alcohol in our basement, my fifth-grader’s lips slugging Amaretto and rewording prayers for the dead. At dinner inside dark restaurants with my grandfather—a dapper, cuff-link–clad physician with slicked-back, thinning grey hair and a neck that smelled of Old Spice—I’d ask for the olives from his glass then suck the vodka out of them, pondering the neon bar signs and nearby prostitutes whom I could see through the restaurant windows as they loitered at corner gas stations or got into elongated cars. They reminded me of the women I’d seen in my dad’s magazines, the glossy stacks of porn filling up the cardboard boxes that he’d left behind in our garage. Those magazines were full of stories whose narratives I became attached to, some of the first reading I’d done on my own as a kid. They stuck with me as a way of seeing the world through sex-colored lenses.