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Authors: Michael Lister
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told me. He said if I did, not only would he let me live, but he wouldn’t rape me.”
I nodded, trying to reassure him and encourage him to continue.
Several inmates had stopped what they had been doing and were now staring at Sandy. They couldn’t hear what he was saying, but they could see how upset he was—something that excited the predators who were always looking for a vulnerability to exploit. I felt like we should move, continue this in a more private place, but didn’t want to interrupt his cathartic flow.
“He made me hold my hand behind me,” he said. “Took my index finger in his mouth in a very sexual way, then he told me to finger myself or he’d slit my throat and fuck me up the ass while I bled to death.”
He hesitated a moment, took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“I did it,” he said. “I did that to myself. I would’ve done anything. There are worse things I thought. Far worse. Better me than him, right?”
I nodded.
“He then took the shank away from my throat and gripped my larynx so hard I thought he was going to crush it and made me stick the butt of the shank up my … up into … my … self. And I did it. He said that’s all I had to do and he’d let me go, so I did it.”
I waited for a long moment but he seemed to be finished.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “No one should ever have to endure anything like that. I’m so, so sorry.”
He nodded and gave me a tight-lipped half smile.
We were quiet a long time. I walked over and stood near the front of the office next to the glass and stared at the gawking inmates until one by one they returned to what they were doing before they saw blood in the water.
“You okay?” I asked when I turned back toward him.
He nodded and really seemed like he was.
“Feel like answering a couple of questions?”
He narrowed his eyes and nodded very deliberately. “If it’ll help you catch and castrate him.”
“You sure it was a shank?”
“Positive. It was homemade. I could feel it. It had tape on the handle and it was sharp underneath it. Even with the tape it cut me.”
I tried not to wince.
“You get a look at him? Any part of him? His hands? Arms? Anything?”
He shook his head. “He put some kind of hood over my head. I didn’t see anything. You think if I did he’d be breathing without a machine right now?”
I understood how he felt, but such sentiments coming from someone so soft spoken and gentle sounded hollow and kind of sad.
“Did he have a smell you can remember?” I asked. “A certain sound? Did he use poor grammar? Could you tell what race he was? How old?”
He closed his eyes, seeming to strain to put himself back into his nightmare.
“He had a fruity smell, sort of citrusy, like orange or lime-scented lotion,” he said. “And his breath smelled of coffee. I’ve always pictured him as a young white guy, but don’t know why.”
I nodded and neither of us said anything for a long while, just sat there in the psychic reverberations the recounting of such a traumatic experience had produced.
“I’m sorry I had to ask about it,” I said, “but the information will help us catch him.”
“You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?” he said, his voice pleading.
“No,” I said. “I’m not.”
A touch of relief seemed to relax him a little.
“This helped,” he said. “Can I come talk to you again sometime if I need to?”
“Of course. Anytime.”
He stood and handed me all three Dalì books. “Just take these. Keep ’em as long as you need.”
I stood and took the books. “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll bring them back soon.”
When I reached the door and was about to open it, he said, “Chaplain, you know all that stuff he made me do to myself?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I did everything he told me to.”
I nodded.
“And when I had done every last thing he told me to he raped me anyway.”
Chapter Eighteen
I had the Dalí book on the desk in front of me,
I nodded, trying to reassure him and encourage him to continue.
Several inmates had stopped what they had been doing and were now staring at Sandy. They couldn’t hear what he was saying, but they could see how upset he was—something that excited the predators who were always looking for a vulnerability to exploit. I felt like we should move, continue this in a more private place, but didn’t want to interrupt his cathartic flow.
“He made me hold my hand behind me,” he said. “Took my index finger in his mouth in a very sexual way, then he told me to finger myself or he’d slit my throat and fuck me up the ass while I bled to death.”
He hesitated a moment, took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“I did it,” he said. “I did that to myself. I would’ve done anything. There are worse things I thought. Far worse. Better me than him, right?”
I nodded.
“He then took the shank away from my throat and gripped my larynx so hard I thought he was going to crush it and made me stick the butt of the shank up my … up into … my … self. And I did it. He said that’s all I had to do and he’d let me go, so I did it.”
I waited for a long moment but he seemed to be finished.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “No one should ever have to endure anything like that. I’m so, so sorry.”
He nodded and gave me a tight-lipped half smile.
We were quiet a long time. I walked over and stood near the front of the office next to the glass and stared at the gawking inmates until one by one they returned to what they were doing before they saw blood in the water.
“You okay?” I asked when I turned back toward him.
He nodded and really seemed like he was.
“Feel like answering a couple of questions?”
He narrowed his eyes and nodded very deliberately. “If it’ll help you catch and castrate him.”
“You sure it was a shank?”
“Positive. It was homemade. I could feel it. It had tape on the handle and it was sharp underneath it. Even with the tape it cut me.”
I tried not to wince.
“You get a look at him? Any part of him? His hands? Arms? Anything?”
He shook his head. “He put some kind of hood over my head. I didn’t see anything. You think if I did he’d be breathing without a machine right now?”
I understood how he felt, but such sentiments coming from someone so soft spoken and gentle sounded hollow and kind of sad.
“Did he have a smell you can remember?” I asked. “A certain sound? Did he use poor grammar? Could you tell what race he was? How old?”
He closed his eyes, seeming to strain to put himself back into his nightmare.
“He had a fruity smell, sort of citrusy, like orange or lime-scented lotion,” he said. “And his breath smelled of coffee. I’ve always pictured him as a young white guy, but don’t know why.”
I nodded and neither of us said anything for a long while, just sat there in the psychic reverberations the recounting of such a traumatic experience had produced.
“I’m sorry I had to ask about it,” I said, “but the information will help us catch him.”
“You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?” he said, his voice pleading.
“No,” I said. “I’m not.”
A touch of relief seemed to relax him a little.
“This helped,” he said. “Can I come talk to you again sometime if I need to?”
“Of course. Anytime.”
He stood and handed me all three Dalì books. “Just take these. Keep ’em as long as you need.”
I stood and took the books. “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll bring them back soon.”
When I reached the door and was about to open it, he said, “Chaplain, you know all that stuff he made me do to myself?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I did everything he told me to.”
I nodded.
“And when I had done every last thing he told me to he raped me anyway.”
Chapter Eighteen
I had the Dalí book on the desk in front of me,
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