The Lost Girls (39 page)

“[Castro] denies he actually was suicidal,” read the report, “but just scared of the [general population] and wanted to ensure he would be alone.”

Later that evening, Castro was examined by a prison psychiatrist. He denied any history of mental illness, repeating that he had only feigned being suicidal, to be kept away from the general population.

“The inmate seems fairly stable at the present time,” the psychiatrist wrote. “He does not seem to be actively suicidal or self-injury behavior inclined.”

Castro said he had many reasons to live, including his religious beliefs, family and children.

“He appears quite narcissistic,” wrote the psychiatrist, “but does not show evidence of mood, anxiety or thought disorder.”

But nevertheless he ordered Inmate Castro be placed on suicide watch and constant observation.

“Due to his life sentence and a high-profile nature of his crimes,” wrote the psychiatrist, “he may pose some risk to his own safety and welfare, especially as the gravity of the situation begins to sink in.”

On Sunday afternoon, Gina DeJesus was the star of the annual Cleveland Latino parade. She rode on top of a car with the sunroof open, waving a Puerto Rican flag, as part of Janet Garcia’s campaign for city council.

With the elections just three months away, Garcia had enlisted the support of the DeJesus family in her campaign for Ward 14 against the incumbent Brian Cummins. And on Friday, a photograph of Gina and several family members wearing campaign shirts had suddenly appeared on Garcia’s official Web site.

Later, Councilman Cummins would accuse his rival of exploiting Gina’s newfound fame and popularity for votes. But the DeJesus family strongly refuted that Gina’s appearance had anything to do with politics.

“People need to stop saying these negative things,” said Felix DeJesus. “It’s hurting my daughter Gina.”

Nancy Ruiz said it had been Gina’s idea to be in the parade, to thank the community.

“The only thing that I could think of,” she said, “is seeing my daughter smiling and enjoying herself for the first time in nine years on top of that car.”

At 8:43
A.M.
, on Monday, August 5, Ariel Castro was examined again by a Lorain Correctional Institution psychiatrist, who took him off suicide watch, finding there was no clinical reason to believe he was a threat to himself. Since his arrival the previous Friday, Castro had been psychologically evaluated on a daily basis, continuing to show “emotional stability” with no “problematic or self-harm behavior.”

On Monday morning, Ariel Castro was transferred 135 miles south to the Correctional Reception Center in Orient, Ohio. On arrival he was given the same standard suicide questionnaire and medical notification forms that he filled out three days earlier.

During his psychiatric evaluation, Castro appeared “upset,” complaining of being “verbally harassed” by the other inmates since his arrival.

“As the interview progressed,” wrote his examiner, “he became more spontaneous, expressive, and reactive, smiling occasionally, in describing himself as ‘always a happy person.’”

Castro’s mood had alternated between being “irritated” and “happy,” but his demeanor did not reflect dysphoria, overall distress or anxiety. Then the clinical psychiatrist asked Castro about his crimes, finding his insight into them “markedly impaired.”

“His explanation for his criminal behavior,” the psychiatrist later wrote, “focused on his ‘sickness.’ Referring to his long-standing addiction to pornography, and the mutual culpability of his victims.”

Castro also appeared “oblivious” to the realities of his life sentence, and why he should be regarded as a monster.

“[He] is incredulous that the media and other inmates should treat him so poorly,” the doctor wrote. “His goals involve going to ‘a quiet place and do my time in peace.’”

In his report, the unnamed clinician found that Castro, who said he was not suicidal, was a low suicide risk at present. But he had a warning.

“However, as situational factors change for him,” he wrote, “particularly if they should challenge his sense of entitlement and fragile grandiosity, the level of risk may increase, suggesting the need for periodic assessment of his mental status.”

The psychiatrist diagnosed Ariel Castro as suffering from “Narcissistic Personality Disorder with Antisocial Features.” He recommended that he be periodically examined for any changes in his “mental status or lethality risk, given his lengthy sentence, somewhat fragile self-esteem, and the notoriety of his crimes.”

After his examination, Inmate Castro was housed in a far corner cell on the segregation section’s second floor, well out of view of the other inmates.

Due to his notoriety, a special “operations order” was put into effect, limiting his movements in the segregation unit to ensure he never came into contact with any other inmates. He would spend twenty-three hours a day in his cell, being checked by guards every thirty minutes, and allowed out an hour for exercise.

Back in Cleveland, minutes after the Cuyahoga Land Bank announced that 2207 Seymour Avenue would be demolished early Wednesday morning, Anthony Castro and his sister Angie arrived to salvage family photographs and other memorabilia of their childhood growing up there. Under police supervision, the two Castro siblings went inside for what they termed a “demolition party.”

When they came out carrying plastic bags of stuff, WOIO-TV news reporter Scott Taylor handed Anthony a copy of his father’s 2004 confession note, asking why they had come.

“I went because we have photos,” replied Anthony. “We have family mementos in there. I fully agree with the demolition of the house, but I don’t want to see those things demolished with it.”

Describing his father as a “hoarder,” Anthony said the house was a “mess” after all the police activity.

“It’s stressful to do this,” he said, “but this is one of the last steps for our family to put this all behind us.”

Soon after they drove off, the Cleveland Public Power company cut off electricity to the house, and Google Maps erased it from its “Street View.”

The following day, Seymour Avenue was shut down to traffic, as workers went in the house and stripped it right down to the bare walls. With the current popularity of so-called “murderabillia,” officials wanted to make sure that nothing could be removed from the “horror house,” and auctioned off on eBay.

“We are taking a lot of precautions,” said Cuyahoga Land Bank President Gus Frangos, “to keep scavengers from getting any material for that purpose.”

At seven on Wednesday morning, Gina DeJesus’s aunt Peggy Arida was at the controls of a giant excavator as it began razing 2207 Seymour Avenue to the ground. The demolition was watched by more than one hundred people, including Michelle Knight, who arrived clutching a bunch of yellow balloons. She was the only survivor to witness its destruction, being broadcast live on all local TV stations, as well as several national cable channels.

As the jaws of the excavator tore through the roof and the walls of the house, Prosecutor Tim McGinty addressed the media.

“This was one evil guy,” he declared. “For ten years this house was the secret prison of a psychopath named Castro, but right now is a testament to the courage and relentless determination to live by the survivors, Michelle, Amanda and Gina. It will be gone.”

McGinty said Councilmen Brian Cummins and Matt Zone would now work with the community to decide what the site should be used for.

Then, holding a bunch of yellow balloons and surrounded by neighbors, Michelle said a prayer for all the missing people still out there, asking God to give them the strength to know that they were loved.

“It was important for me to be here today,” she explained to reporters, “because nobody was there for me when I was missing.”

“Michelle,” asked a female TV reporter, “what do these yellow balloons represent?”

“It represents all the millions of children that were never found,” she said, “and the ones that passed away that were never heard.”

“People have seen you over these few weeks,” asked the same reporter, “and the incredible strength that you have and the source of inspiration that you truly have given everyone. When … people call you an incredible role model, how do you respond?”

“I feel very liberated,” Michelle replied, “that people think of me as a hero and a role model, and I would love to continue being that.”

Then, as Pastor Horst Hoyer rang the bells of the Immanuel Evangelical Lutheran Church, Michelle and the neighbors released the yellow balloons into the sky, as 2207 Seymour Avenue was reduced to rubble.

On Saturday, August 10, five days after he arrived in the Correctional Reception Center, Ariel Castro began writing a journal. For the next three weeks he would write occasional entries in what he called “A Day in the Life of a Prisoner,” chronicling his life in captivity.

“I eat, brush and go back to bed,” he wrote in his first entry, “get up, lay down, get up, lay down. This goes on all day. I pace in my cell, meditate, stare at the walls as I daydream a lot.”

He complained about “warm” food and the way he had been treated by one of his prison guards.

“[He] mistreats me,” wrote Castro, “for no apparent reason.”

Castro had already received visits from his mother and sister, and had officially requested a guitar to play in his cell.

On Wednesday, August 14, he wrote that he believed that someone had “tampered” with his food, giving him chest pains and making him throw up. That day the prison medical staff was called to his cell twice, after he complained of chest pains, dizziness and nausea.

Over the next few days, Castro became so paranoid that his food was being poisoned that he started flushing it down the toilet. He also lazed around his cell totally naked, having to be told to dress several times, when female guards were on duty. Later, a corrections officer described his behavior as “demanding and pompous.”

On Thursday, August 22, Castro complained in his journal about his treatment from prison guards. He wrote that his cell and its toilet were “filthy,” and he had asked an officer for a mop so he could clean. He had also requested clean underwear and bed linen, which had not arrived.

“Still nothing gets done,” he wrote in frustration. “I don’t know if I can take this neglect anymore, and the way I’m treated!”

He also wrote about finding “hair and plastic” in his food, which was always served in “a pool of water.”

On Monday, August 26, the Cuyahoga Land Bank demolished the two houses to the left of Ariel Castro’s house. The next day workers moved in to seed the empty lots and plant wildflowers, making it look presentable. But neighbors were divided about what should be done with it.

“It was touchy,” explained Councilman Brian Cummins. “Someone wanted to put a white picket fence across the whole frontage to keep people out. Others said they’re ‘going to hang things on it and use it as a memorial.’ So we had this back-and-forth.”

Daniel Javier, who lives across Seymour Avenue, said he wanted to keep it simple.

“Leave the place like it is,” he said. “No statues, no angels, nothing. Put a few little chairs and tables where older people can come and play dominoes—nothing for the kids because … we don’t want no drugs.”

As the days passed, Ariel Castro became increasingly anxious about his situation, venting his despair in his diary.

“I will never see light at the end of the tunnel,” he wrote, “but that’s all right, it’s what I chose. I’ve lots of time on my hands now to think and read, write, exercise. I want to make a bigger effort to try to commit to god.”

Ironically, he also worried about how warm his cell would be in the winter, after so many years of punishing his prisoners with lack of heat.

“I’m very sensitive to cold draft,” he wrote, “it literally drives me to get under the covers … I also get depressed and don’t want to do anything but just lay here, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see when I get to that bridge.”

He also fretted about being insulted by guards.

“Most of the guards here are okay,” he noted, “but the younger ones don’t take the job seriously or they are rude to me for no apparent reason. Sometimes I drift into a negative thought, I check myself and try harder not to go there.”

On Wednesday, August 28, he wrote that he was “really getting frustrated.” Three days later he said he was near breaking point.

“I will not take this kind of treatment much longer,” he wrote. “I feel as though I’m being pushed over the edge, one day at a time.”

The next day, he complained when a supervisor brought him his meal, saying his “brown rice looks like dog shit,” before the supervisor took his dirty underwear to be washed and didn’t bring it back.

“It’s nearly 9:00
P.M.
, he wrote, “still no underclothing to wear.”

At 1:29
P.M.
on Tuesday, September 3, 2013, Inmate Ariel Castro met with two members of the Correctional Reception Center’s Protective Control Committee, to discuss where he would serve out the rest of his life. He told the committee that he favored a prison facility nearer his family, asking about mail and visitation privileges.

“I believe I need protective control,” he said, “[based upon] the high-profile nature of my charges.”

Castro was then told about the Allen Correctional Institution in Lima, Ohio, less than a three-hour drive from Cleveland, which seemed to please him.

“He appeared happy that the placement would be closer for his family,” said a report of the meeting. “He asked questions about other potential placements and CRC staff explained that those placements would not be safe for him. He also asked questions about getting mail.”

The meeting finished at 1:52 and Castro was returned to his cell after the committee agreed to recommend he be moved to Lima soon.

For the rest of the afternoon, Ariel Castro remained in his cell. He was supposed to be checked every thirty minutes by guards, but they missed eight scheduled rounds that day.

At 5:29, a prison supervisor brought Castro his evening meal, but he refused to eat it, believing it had been tampered with. Half an hour later he returned it untouched to the supervisor.