Shame (33 page)

“Her shameless antics sometimes worked. When Parker would flash her a smile or wink at her, Van Doren would act as if she had received a boon from the gods. Notes were sometimes smuggled back and forth between the two of them. They acted like naughty schoolchildren who couldn’t wait for recess. But with no school playground available to them, there was only one alternative.

“Van Doren became a frequent Death Row visitor at the penitentiary. At Raiford, the visitors’ room is hardly what you would call a romantic spot. There are no sofas, no easy chairs, and no dark corners. The room is institutional, with harsh fluorescent lighting. Tables and stools, the only furniture, are bolted to the floor. The room smells of desperation, with an unpleasant mingling of cigarette smoke and body odors and disinfectant.

“The visitors’ room bathroom is even less appealing. The room is all concrete and cold. There is no door at the entrance and no windows inside. The stalls have no dividers and offer no privacy, and the toilet seat covers are made of metal. There are no mirrors, no place to primp. The bathroom is a step up from a hole in the ground, but not a big one. It is a place for bodily wastes.

“And the place where Leslie Van Doren carried out her seduction of Gray Parker.

“The Florida penitentiary system allows no conjugal visits, but the visitors’ room bathroom at the Union Correctional Institution was known by Death Row inmates as ‘the honeymoon hotel.’ For a hundred-dollar bribe the correctional officers
would turn their heads and allow the visitor and prisoner a joint five-minute bathroom break.

“It is hard to imagine a less romantic spot to engage in intimacy, but that is where Parker and Van Doren met for their silent and hurried assignations. Parker described their time together as, ‘Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am,’ but it wasn’t remembered that way by Van Doren, who, by description at least, managed to make a silk purse out of a shit hole.

“Their passion, she said, was one for the ages. One for the wages might be more accurate. It was Van Doren who paid for their time together. She funneled the money to Parker, who in turn distributed most of it back to the guards. As for their weekly rendezvous, Van Doren painted a picture of their passion that even the most flowery romance writer would be loath to put a name to. But their intrigue did provide a number of diversions, not the least of which was Van Doren’s becoming pregnant.

“Her pregnancy was showcased during the penalty phase of Parker’s trial. There, Van Doren tried to change her image from that of vamp to that of mother and apple pie. Gone were her racy outfits, all replaced by maternity clothes. With each passing day, her burgeoning belly drew that much more notice, a notoriety that Van Doren clearly relished and sought out. She made no secret of who the father was, proudly revealing her lover and the circumstances of the conception. It was difficult to tell who was more chagrined: Florida’s Department of Corrections or Parker’s wife, Clara. As a result of her pregnancy, a no-contact visiting area was established, with inmates and visitors separated by Plexiglas. But the deed, quite apparently, was already done.

“As Van Doren’s pregnancy came closer to term, the tension in the courtroom increased. Parker’s long-suffering wife tried to ignore Van Doren, but she was a difficult woman to overlook. Every day she sat center stage in the gallery knitting blue booties, the modern-day and even more horrific version of Madame Defarge.”

“A half-brother,” Caleb said. “I have a brother.”

His voice sounded so different and so hopeful that at first Lola thought he was still delirious.

“No,” she tried to tell him, but he wasn’t listening.

“When I was growing up I always dreamed of having a brother or sister. I thought if I only had someone to talk to, someone to share the pain...”

“You have no brother.”

In the background Elizabeth’s voice continued to narrate.

“I don’t understand.”

Lola reached over and turned off the player. “That woman did have a baby boy, but he wasn’t any brother of yours, even though she tried to pass him off as one.”

The momentary hope left Caleb’s face. His features became hard. “Whose baby was it?”

“Whose baby wasn’t it? I don’t think they ever determined who the real father was. Miss Van Doren wasn’t the most discriminating of women.”

“That speaks well of my father, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe it does.”

“How so?”

“Listen to the tape. It explains things. In his own way, your father tried to be responsible. I think he was trying to spare you and your mother.”

“That’s bullshit. The man never thought about anybody but himself.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. You ever hear that old Johnny Cash song ‘A Boy Named Sue’?”

Caleb shook his head.

“It’s about a father who only stayed around long enough to name his boy Sue before leaving home forever. Because of his name, the boy had a terrible time growing up. With a name like that, you can be sure, other boys put him to the test. He had to constantly struggle and fight and stay strong. As an adult, Sue
finally met up with his father. He’d waited for that moment his whole life. He wanted to hurt the man who had made his life so miserable. But the father said that he had named him Sue because he knew he wouldn’t be around to help the boy grow up. Your father knew that as well.”

“What’s your point?”

“That maybe your father gave you some things you’re not even aware of, or that you are not willing to accept.”

Caleb’s face reddened, and not because of his fever. “Listen. You are a man who wears dresses and because of that you’ve seen a lot of headshrinkers, but that doesn’t mean you know what the hell you’re talking about. Serial murderers have no empathy for other people. None. They don’t feel the pain of their victims. And that’s what I was—just another victim.”

“But isn’t it possible sometimes your father saw beyond himself, saw beyond his madness?”

“That’s wishful thinking. My father saw nothing. He was a mimic. He mimicked the emotions of other people like I can mimic a noise or a voice, or the way you mimic being a woman.”

“I don’t think of myself as a mimic.”

“Oh, that’s right. You’re a
berdache
.” Caleb’s voice hardened. “Tell me, do you squat when you pee?”

“I’m sorry you’re hurting,” Lola said. “But lashing out at me won’t help you.”

She stood up, but before leaving the room, she felt his forehead. “You’re still very hot. You need to rest.”

“Not before the grand finale.”

Lola looked at him quizzically.

“My father’s death,” he explained. “It’s coming up.”

Caleb hit the Play button.

“...when Judge Irwin announced Parker’s death sentence, the nine-months pregnant Van Doren fainted in court. Three days later she delivered a boy, whom she called Gray Junior (not taking into
account, or perhaps not caring, that Parker already had a son with that name). She did her best to make the birth of her son a media event and was shameless in using the baby to get center stage. At a press conference held just two days after giving birth, Van Doren held the newborn up as if he were a trophy and said, ‘The governor should show clemency to Gray Parker, the father of my baby.’

“I was out in the audience, part of the media. I probably should have kept my mouth shut, but her crocodile tears prompted me to shout, ‘Isn’t that a bit like the story of the boy who shot his parents, then threw himself on the mercy of the court because he was an orphan?’

“Ms. Van Doren didn’t like the ensuing laughter. But the laughter didn’t stop there. I had come to the press conference prepared.

“‘Can you tell me your blood type, Miss Van Doren?’ I asked.

“‘My what?’

“‘Your blood type.’

“‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said.

“‘Apparently not. For your information, your blood type is A positive. And your baby’s blood type is O positive.’

“Standing at her microphone, she looked very confused. ‘So what?’

“‘So who’s the real father of your child? It can’t be Gray Parker, because his blood type is B positive.’

“The press conference exploded with questions, some for me and some for Leslie Van Doren. I told the reporters that Gray Parker had suspected the child wasn’t his and had asked me to investigate. I also said he would gladly submit to a DNA test to prove beyond any doubt he wasn’t the father.

“As for Van Doren, she very loudly declared, ‘Either Gray is the father or it was Immaculate Conception.’

“In subsequent days, reporters proved conclusively it wasn’t the latter. According to several published accounts, Van Doren had done as much hooking as she had cocktailing.

“As for Parker’s suspicion that the child wasn’t his, he never told me much more than, ‘I tried to not give her my seed.’

“Though I asked him several times, he never elaborated on why he had practiced this birth control. Perhaps Parker was distrustful of Van Doren’s self-aggrandizing and knew that she would use a baby in just such a way. Or it might have been that he didn’t want another child of his born into the world. By his own account, he hadn’t been a very good father, and with his imminent death it was clear he wouldn’t be able to improve upon that track record.”

Elizabeth sat in the middle of her hotel room, overwhelmed by the emptied boxes. She’d have to put the Do Not Disturb tag on the door. There was no way the maid would be able to clean the room.

She wondered if she had some Walter Mitty complex about being a superdetective. That wasn’t what crime writers did. They didn’t solve crimes, just documented the circumstances surrounding them. So what the hell was she doing?

Maybe I’m trying to be like that actress who played me in that movie-of-the-week version of
Shame,
she thought. She had been embarrassed at how they had portrayed her as a busy little sleuth. No, Elizabeth decided, I’m not playing that actress. I haven’t had my breasts augmented yet.

Elizabeth picked up a stack of pictures of Gray Parker. As a child he hadn’t yet learned to hide his feelings. In almost all the pictures he was frowning, not afraid to show how unhappy he was. But his mother had taught him to put on a cheery face in public and that anything else was unacceptable. As Parker matured he learned he could get by more easily by pretending to be who he wasn’t. In almost every picture she had of Parker the man, he was flashing a broad smile.

Elizabeth continued to sort through the pile. She found one of her old speeches. It had been typed and whited out and had several pasted inserts that were now threatening to come apart.
Public speaking hadn’t been as easy for her back then. As a crutch, she had always typed out a prepared speech. Now she was more confident. Her notes were usually written on an index card.

She read the last page of her old speech.

“Parker was, and always will be, an enigma. The easy thing to do would be to paint him as rotten to the core, but he confounds such a broad brush. His behavior was sometimes good, even noble, and that’s bothersome. It is disturbing to see a so-called cold-hearted killer demonstrate a capacity for caring. From both a personal and a societal standpoint, it’s easier to think of a serial killer as a total monster than as someone with any vestiges of humanity. It complicates matters, it jars the psyche, to see images of a murderer not in keeping with the headlines or the mind’s eye.

“I think the most terrible thing of all to accept is that for the most part Gray Parker was only too human. He is someone we can’t easily dismiss, and if we look carefully in our own mirrors, there are times when his reflection stares back.”

At the bottom of the page were the names. Elizabeth felt she knew these women better than anyone else. It had been her tradition always to read the names of Parker’s seventeen victims at the end of her talk. Elizabeth thought that by remembering their names she honored their memories.

It had been a long time since she had finished her speech with that memorial. To herself, she read the names aloud.

F
ERAL KNEW THE
transformation would come soon. He loved watching old horror films, especially those with transformations, like Lon Chaney turning into the Wolfman. That’s how his legal name was. It amused him that all he had to do was switch a few letters, and he became what he was: wild. A savage and untamed beast.

He started on his second walk around the inn. He had already checked the temperature of the spa, dipped his finger into the pool, made stops at the sundry machines, lingered over his selections of a candy bar and then a soda, and stopped several times to smell the flowers. But he still hadn’t seen any sign of Queenie.

He considered how else he might learn which room she was in. Later, he could visit the night clerk and do a Gary Gilmore on him, get the information while making the clerk’s death look like a robbery, but that would mean waiting until after midnight. And it would entail additional risk. Gilmore was said to have had a death wish. Feral most certainly didn’t.

What Feral liked most about Gilmore was his sense of humor, something he never lost. Gilmore had told one of his lawyers, who was bald, that he could have his hair after the Utah marksmen shot him dead. Volunteer marksmen. Who said citizens shirked their civic responsibilities? There had been no shortage
of volunteers for that job. But the shooters had never known if there was a bullet or a blank in their chambers. None of them could have the certain satisfaction of the kill.