By Reason of Insanity (20 page)

Then the state made another mistake. It kept the rapist fiend alive for twelve long years when he should have been killed immediately. Each imprisoned criminal costs the taxpayers $10,000 a year for his maintenance. In Chessman’s case that came to $120,000. More than the senator’s father had made in his whole life! And what was it used for? Was all that money used to help people, to irrigate land, to educate children, to build hospitals? It was not! It was all wasted, absolutely wasted on a deranged pervert—the senator stopped, told reporters he did not mean deranged in the sense of mentally unbalanced; most certainly not! Chessman was crazed but not crazy, in fact he was so damn smart in prison he kept the state from killing him all those years—so all that money that could have been used for good was wasted on Chessman instead.

In the end he was finally executed, which was just and proper. The various courts could have shown leniency, the high-court Justices could have recommended mercy, the governor could have granted clemency. But none of them did, none did because they knew their first job was to protect the people. At least they all knew it back in 1960. But if Chessman were alive now he’d be costing the taxpayers more than many of them made each year. And then one day he’d be paroled and back on the streets looking for new victims. In fact, thundered the senator, the veins in his neck popping out from anger, in fact, if the death penalty had been abolished in 1960 Chessman would have been paroled by now and out on that street, right here, today, maybe stalking your wife or your daughter at this very minute, God forbid.

Yet there is still some justice in the world, and Chessman is dead and where he belongs. But now this—the senator held the newsweekly up for the reporters to see; he had to catch himself from using the words he wanted to say—this
magazine
comes along and says that Chessman was a
victim
—he shouted the word out—of the death penalty! They say that capital punishment was the real killer and that Chessman, this sex fiend and kidnapper and robber and gunman and would-be killer, was just an innocent bystander caught up in the legal machinery—here the senator’s scorn was boundless—a
hero
, for God sake, who fought a valiant battle but lost simply because he lived at the wrong time.

“Well, I say he lived at the right time.
This
is the wrong time. When decent citizens have to lock their doors and bar their windows and keep loaded guns by the bedside. When a man can’t go to work without worrying about his family’s safety. When a woman can’t walk the street without fear of sexual assault. When the animals can kill with virtual impunity. Five people? Ten? A hundred? It doesn’t matter how many they kill. If they’re caught all they’ll get is a cozy stay in a men’s YMCA with television and free room and board for a few years. Then they’ll be back ready to kill again. And any time they can’t make it out here, any time they get bored or lonely, all they have to do is kill again and they’re back on free room and board at the country club. It’s better than working for a living! It’s even better than welfare! I’m amazed that more honest citizens aren’t killed by these criminals just so they can get back to the free life. What’s to stop them? Not society any longer. Not the courts any longer. And certainly not the fear of death. There is no more fear of death, except for their victims of course. But who speaks for them anymore? Who cares about them? They’re not news.”

He paused a moment to let that thought sink in to the newsmen.

“They’re just the little people. Unknown all their lives and forgotten as soon as they die. If anyone talks about them, they’re simply called the victim. But the killers, that’s something else! They don’t work or pay taxes or obey the law or live quiet lives of frustration. That’s not news. Instead they kill. That makes them special. Charles Manson will be remembered and written about a hundred years from now, just as Jack the Ripper is remembered a hundred years after
his
crimes. Everybody wants a little recognition. More things are done for sheer recognition than for money or sex, as far as I can see. But the only ones who get it are the killers. Who knows all the names of Manson’s victims? Or Jack the Ripper’s victims? Or Charles Starkweather’s victims? Or Caryl Chessman’s victims? Who cares? They were just people.”

The senator quickly drank from the water glass, looked at his audience.

“You want recognition? I mean
real
recognition? Your life story in all the papers, your face on television all over the country. Books written about you; what you eat, what you feel, what you think, what you don’t think. Maybe even a movie about you. Why not? They made movies about all the killers and maniacs I’ve mentioned, including Chessman. If that’s what you want, it’s easy. Just go out and kill some people. They don’t have to be presidents, they don’t have to be big shots. Just kill enough to make a big splash in the papers. Or kill only one or two in a novel way or a crazy way, anything to get the news media interested. You too can be famous. Chessman”—Stoner again held up
Newstime
magazine—”is famous. Thirteen years after his death they’re still writing about him. He was a kidnapper and sexual deviate, but he was a victim. He was fairly tried and convicted, but he was a victim. He was legally executed, but he was a victim. Meanwhile I don’t ever remember reading a word about his victims. You know, the real victims? They’re gone, forgotten. Nobody gave them a word of print. No well-known people spoke up for them. No movies were made about them. They were nothing, the little people of dull lives who never ran amok. One of them was a seventeen-year-old girl whom Chessman sexually brutalized. Two years later she was admitted to Camarillo as hopelessly insane. Perhaps she’s still there. But Caryl Chessman is a hero. Who says he’s a hero? The newspapers say it. The big shots say it. All those who rejoiced in the killing of capital punishment say it. All the pressure groups, the so-called peace fronts, the civil liberties organizations. To them he’s a hero-victim, the perfect existential man. Christ!”—he finished the water in the glass— “next they’ll be saying we’re really murderers for executing him!”

The senator mopped his forehead with a tiny hankerchief; his voice became soft.

“You may say that Chessman is gone, dead and buried, and can harm us no more. But I ask you, is that true? Can he no longer harm us? His malignancy is still with us, his evil kind are still among us. They are still robbing and raping and killing. Each year the number of such crimes grows. How many more innocent victims must be slaughtered before we end this madness? How many more lives must hang in the balance?”

The senator studied the faces of the reporters in front of him. They were a hard sonofabitchin’ lot to work on, reporters were; to get a flicker of interest from them was like drawing blood. But he had their interest now. And in his heart and soul Stoner knew that he would have them from now on.

“Right here in our own state there is a reincarnation of Caryl Chessman, skulking through the night, stalking his victims. A moral madman, a blood-crazed maniac capable of inflicting savage attack and ghastly death. Whom will he destroy before he is finally captured? Whom do the Chessmans seek out to ravage and kill? The helpless among us, our women. How many women will fall before this diabolic monster? Only God knows. I hope and pray none”—his face grew solemn—”but as I look around me I find it hard to believe that my hope will be realized, my prayers answered. Killers roam the streets at will, the courts turn them out, the prisons turn them loose. Who can fight such madness? How can we protect ourselves? How can our women be protected? I don’t have all the answers”—a self-deprecating smile—”but I do know one thing that will go a long way toward some kind of protection, some sense of safety. We must get rid of such vicious animals once and for all. Caryl Chessman was an animal!”— Stoner’s voice thundered now—”Vincent Mungo is an animal!”—the voice reverberated through the room—”He must be stopped now before it is too late. He must be caught and
executed
, no matter what legal steps are needed. Killed! Just as we would kill a mad dog. If not”—the senator paused for effect, lowered his voice almost to a whisper—”then I’m afraid innocent people are going to be slaughtered. If Vincent Mungo is allowed to return to a comfortable ward where he can plan his next escape and his next murders, then there is no hope for any of us. Then we may as well all lie down with beasts and let the jungle grow over our bones.”

After the press conference Senator Stoner met with Roger in his office. He was pleased, the conference had gone well. Roger agreed.

“Should make a good splash in the papers,” said Stoner, rubbing his hands together. “Might even make some of the evening editions.”

Roger was not so sure. “You’ll be lucky to get anything in the metro papers,” he said glumly. “But maybe they’ll hold it back for tomorrow.”

The senator stopped his rubbing. He eyed Roger suspiciously. “Why do you say that?”

“Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what, Roger?” he asked evenly.

“They found a memo that supposedly ties Nixon into I.T.T. in some antitrust settlements. The papers are full of it, all of them.”

Stoner swore loudly, a long reverberating string of words not normally intended for senatorial chambers.

By the morning of August 3 several dozen letters concerning the Chessman piece had been received at the
Newstime
office in Los Angeles, all addressed to the Editor. They were duly read by the two women who handled such matters, women who were insulated from further shock by years of service in reading crank letters, anonymous notes, obscene missiles, confessions, suggestions, threats, warnings, proposals and propositions. One reader, a grandmother, had devoted seventeen years to the effort and could tell at a glance into what category a letter fell, from smut to suicide. The other had kept up a running correspondence with an anonymous letter writer for some years, not an easy thing to do. It somehow involved a mysterious third person who acted as a mail drop.

Only two of the Chessman letters had been sent upstairs for further perusal, finally landing on Adam Kenton’s desk that morning. He showed them to Ding. One was from a Los Angeles librarian, who wrote that she had been attacked at the end of December 1947 in the exact area where Chessman was supposed to have operated. But her attacker had definitely not been Caryl Chessman; after twentyfive years she could still vividly remember the man’s face. It was not Chessman, and she was glad that he was at last receiving partial vindication. Having read his books, she believed he had been much too sensitive to abuse women sexually or any other way.

The other letter was anonymous. It was written on cheap notepaper in an obviously disguised hand, with letters slanting both ways and much covering-up of strokes. The crossing of the t’s was usually well over the letter, quick violent movements that suggested extreme anger. The whole vicious forward thrust of the writing indicated the same rage. Ding read rapidly, Kenton at his side:

Editor

I am Caryl Chessman’s son. you wrote good

about my father I thank you for that but

women not capital punishment is bad My

father knew that I miss him and never saw

him til now Write more about him.

The anonymous note was addressed:
From Hell
.

“What you think?” asked Kenton. “Crank?”

“Sounds like it.” Ding rubbed his ear. “Any chance Chessman had kids?”

“Not from my end but you tell me. You did the background.”

Ding shook his head. “No chance.” He picked on his ear lobe. “Unless from one of those sex jobs.”

“What sex jobs?” Kenton asked in feigned surprise. “He was impotent, remember?”

Ding grinned broadly. “I still think he was.” He stuck his finger in his ear. “Who knows? Maybe Lavery will get that ‘Son of Rapist’ spread after all.”

Both men laughed and soon forgot the two letters, which were routinely sent back to the files. Kenton had a story to write and Ding some people to see, and Caryl Chessman was the last thing on their minds.

As he climbed the stairs the only thing on his mind was getting his rent. Twice before he had been taken for half of it, but no more. A piece of ass was fine at the right time and he liked it as well as the next man. But money was money. So why was he wearing his new suit that made him look ten years younger? He laughed to himself. Okay, so maybe if she gave him a quick jump for twenty dollars he’d do it. Sure, what’s twenty dollars? But no more. He would get the other hundred dollars for the month’s rent or out she went. She was a nice kid with big tits but nobody was worth more than twenty dollars. He thought of the young girl’s breasts, big and firm, with bright red nipples that got rock hard when he sucked on them. Well, maybe thirty dollars, but that was tops. If she wanted more she could go whistle. It was hard enough making ends meet these days.

He climbed the third flight. Fifty-nine years old and paunchy, he owned three residential buildings in downtown Los Angeles near the skid-row area. With tax write-offs and some silent cost-cutting here and there he made a living. The hardest part was climbing all those stairs every month to collect the rents, He had a bad heart and the doctor had said to be careful. No strain, no sudden shocks. Yet he couldn’t trust the tenants to mail in their monthly checks to the small office he kept; most of them were not the stable, permanent type he wished he had, After a lifetime of business dealings he knew better than to expect miracles.

At the top he turned left and walked to the end of the small hallway. The girl had always been home this time of day, she should be home now. He knocked. Waited. Knocked again. Louder. He fumbled for his large set of keys. The only rule he had in his buildings was that he have a key to every apartment. Just in case. Whenever he found a lock changed without his knowledge the tenant was out at the end of the month. He kept a close eye on his property.

He quickly found the right key, the apartment number scratched on the head with a pin. It was his system. Turning the key, he slowly opened the door in case she was sleeping. The lock was a simple snap type. He thought of telling her to get a Sega! dead bolt, much safer, but decided against it. The hell with her.