Chiral Mad 3 Read online

  She is pronounced dead at Alexian Brothers Medical Center in Elk Grove Village. She was 12 years old.

  Her name was Mary.

  April 16, 2015

  Unit 17

  Hospice of the Comforter

  “Your daughter? I do not understand.”

  Is that a ticking laugh or a faint precursor of the death gurgle? It is not a sound that Father Witmer has ever before heard. Its unfamiliarity disturbs him like a subtle threat.

  “No, you do not understand.”

  Eight people dead.

  Eight people dead.

  How many times during how many sleepless nights did you tell yourself you were not responsible. You had to say it aloud sometimes, like a prayer, like saying the Rosary:

  I did not kill them.

  I did not kill them.

  But the one, that one …

  Evil. He was truly evil.

  But even so, I did not kill him.

  I did not.

  God killed him.

  Father Witmer says. “The dead people.”

  Hank has been whispering: Marys and dead people and terrible nights without sleep. A God Who killed …

  The word most clearly enunciated: Evil.

  Father Witmer senses this is not the incoherent muttering of a man giving up the ghost. Father Witmer cannot stop himself from thinking he is on the verge of learning something dreadful and important.

  Like working a toothache that you probe to greater pain with the tip of your tongue, Father Witmer urges, “Tell me.”

  Mary Jablonski grew up motherless and step-motherless.

  You see, things were different back then. I lost my Laura, lost her when I loved her so much. That was it. I knew there would never be another woman for me.

  Mary had the nuns at St. Joseph’s, and they were good to her, they were very kind and patient, and across the street, we had the Lawsons and the Radeckis, and they had lots of kids, lots of girls, and she was with them all the time. Right after school, she’d go right over to Toni and Louise Radecki’s house and be there until I got home from work, and if I was going to be late, I’d call and Mrs. Radecki would feed her. Oh, we lived in the suburbs and people were laughing even back then about how the suburbs are dull and how everyone in each ticky-tacky house was really all alone, but that’s not how it was: we had neighborhoods with good people and it was okay.

  Mary never gave me one bit of trouble. Never. I’m being truthful, not just because I loved her and was so proud of her and not just because I lost her. I remember, she wanted a hamster when she was in third grade. The deal was, it would be her hamster and she had to take care of it. So she got the hamster—she called it Snorky, like that TV show, The Banana Splits—and she took care of it. I never had to do a thing, not even remind her. And when Snorky died, we talked about it, I remember, and then we buried her hamster. She never wanted another pet, not even a fish.

  The closest Catholic high school was 22 miles away. It was the other direction from my territory so taking her and picking her up, well, it just wouldn’t have been practical …

  Okay, tell the truth, I couldn’t really afford it.

  Lots of Catholic kids went to the public high school, Arlington Heights. It was fine. She liked it. She got good grades. She didn’t do drugs or alcohol.

  Seventeen, she wants to date and I talk with Mrs. Radecki about it and we set up rules and all. I meet the guys she dates, and they’re okay high school guys, a couple with hair longer than I care for, but it’s okay, they’re nice enough, and really, there was never anything serious going on, not then.

  And I felt God was watching over her, my Mary.

  I don’t understand the ways of God. We see through a glass darkly, but there will be a time when we will understand. I’ve talked a lot about this with Father Brennan and then Father Kelso when he replaced Father Brennan.

  We know God is there and watches over us …

  I believe that.

  So Mary graduates and takes courses at Moser Secretarial School in Chicago, she rides in on the train, and no surprise, she graduates with honors and gets a good job at Sears. She’s living at home, saving money, thinking about buying a clean used Pacer—yeah, people bought Pacers back then, funny looking cars—and then she meets him.

  I liked him. I liked the way he smiled, like he wasn’t too full of himself, and I liked his handshake, because it didn’t say he had anything to prove, and I liked the way he treated Mary, always the gentleman.

  I liked him.

  I liked him.

  He told me, after they’d been dating for a while, that way back when the boat got to the USA, great grandpa realized if you want to succeed in this country, it’s better for your name not to have too many “Cs” or “Zs” or end in an “i” or an “o.”

  That’s how Kwiatkowski became Kwiat.

  That was his name: John Kwiat.

  “So many,” Hank says. His eyes open. He looks at the priest and Father Witmer can feel himself being seen.

  “Can you tell me why so many had to die, Father?”

  Noon

  Wednesday September 29, 1982

  The second person to be killed was Adam Janus. He was 27 years old, had a civil service job, the PO, but stayed home that day. Not feeling well. The sniffles.

  Had some lunch.

  Going to take two Tylenol and get some rest.

  A few minutes later, staggers into kitchen and collapses.

  Taken to Northwest Community Hospital.

  Pronounced dead.

  3:45 PM

  September 29, 1982

  Winfield, Illinois

  They call her Lynn, Lynn Reiner.

  She is 27.

  There’s a new baby at home, the Reiners’ fourth child.

  An excellent mother, her husband later said.

  Not feeling well, general achiness.

  Two Extra-Strength Tylenol.

  She is pronounced dead at Central DuPage Hospital.

  Lynn Reiner.

  Her full name: Mary “Lynn” Reiner.

  April 16, 2015

  Unit 17

  Hospice of the Comforter

  “That was the third Mary.”

  “Yes,” Father Witmer replies, as though having a rational conversation.

  Silently, he prays:

  Come, Holy Spirit,

  Replace the turbulence within us

  with a sacred calm.

  Replace the anxiety within us

  with a quiet confidence.

  Replace the fear within us

  with a strong faith.

  “The first Mary was my child.”

  Father, Son, Holy Spirit, Father Witmer prays. There seems a humid pressure around his head, a circling echo: Marys and dead people and a God Who killed and Evil Evil Evil …

  She came home late from a date with John Kwiat, much later than usual. I was in bed, pretty much asleep, just enough to hear her bedroom door close maybe louder than normal—maybe.

  Next day, Saturday, I’m up at maybe 8:30 but Mary’s not around. That’s not like her. She’s the original early bird.

  I knock on her door.

  Go away, is what she says, and she doesn’t sound right.

  No, let’s talk, Mary.

  No, go away.

  The door’s locked. I rattle the handle.

  Mary.

  And I wait a while and the door opens and there she is, and she isn’t in a nightgown, still wearing her Friday night clothes, and she has been crying, and she looks bad.

  Daddy …

  Tell me.

  And I try to put my arms around her but she doesn’t let me. She backs up and then we’re both sitting side by side on her rumpled up but still made bed.

  Please, I say to her, please talk to me.

  And after what seems like a long time, she does. She tells me and it sounds like she’s reading a foreign language. She can make out the words, but not their meaning.

  And I am praying, Jesus, Je
sus, Jesus, but not aloud, and when I take her hand, she doesn’t pull away.

  We can’t let him …

  Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I encouraged him. I don’t know. He started, when he started, I should have said No, and then … I don’t know. But he had no right …

  Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.

  I want to kill him.

  You can’t do anything. You can’t. You know what would happen to you. I don’t know what would happen to me.

  The police.

  No! I’m ashamed. I am ashamed. No one can know! No one can ever know.

  Will you pray with me?

  She does.

  At least she gets down on her knees with me. And I am praying and maybe she is praying but her prayers end with sobbing.

  I thought, or maybe I thought I thought, it would be okay.

  Then one day I get home from work. The day had been fairly warm for autumn, right around 55-60, but it was kind of drizzly. A lot of days felt drizzly.

  Mary was in the garage.

  She was hanging from a few feet of clothesline.

  Her face was so blue it was almost black.

  That was Tuesday, September 29, 1981.

  I prayed. This was how I prayed:

  Lord,

  Give me strength.

  No, Lord! I do not ask for strength to bear my suffering.

  All must suffer.

  On the Cross, The Son of God suffered and died.

  We all suffer as we must.

  Lord, I do not ask for my soul to be filled with compassion.

  I do not want compassion because it would make me able to forgive. I do not want to forgive.

  Our Father Who Art in Heaven, Our Father Who Sees all Things Upon this Earth, Our Father Who is the God of Righteousness and Fairness and Truth:

  Give me Justice!

  Give me Justice!

  In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit.

  Amen.

  5 PM

  Wednesday September 29, 1982

  Arlington Heights, Illinois

  Adam Janus’s younger brother Stanley and his wife, Theresa, left the hospital where Adam had been pronounced dead. They had a funeral to plan. They went to Adam’s nearby home.

  Stanley’s head was pounding. His back hurt. A slipped disc, maybe, something, but he suffered from chronic back pain.

  His wife gave him two Tylenol. She might have made a funny-in-sad-times remark like, “These are supposed to bring relief and I could use some myself,” and then she took two Tylenol as well.

  Maybe Stanley heard that comment before he went down.

  Maybe Theresa regretted saying it as she fell.

  6:30 PM

  Wednesday September 29, 1982

  Lombard Illinois

  Mary McFarland was 31 years old, employed at the Illinois Bell telephone store. She had a severe headache, went into the employees’ back room, took several Tylenol, and collapsed.

  Mary McFarland was not pronounced dead until 3:15 in the morning of the next day at Good Samaritan Hospital in Downers Grove … The fourth Mary.

  Lab reports came in relatively quickly for an era before the ubiquitous computer. Six had died of cyanide poisoning. Each victim had ingested 100 to 1,000 times the amount of potassium cyanide needed to cause death. Basically, cyanide asphyxiates you from within. It inhibits red blood cells from utilizing oxygen. In high doses, it usually causes a quick, but not merciful, death.

  The hunch of an Arlington Heights public health nurse, Helen Jensen—whose sensitive sense of smell detected the scent of almonds—and the research of Dr. Thomas Kim, Medical Director of Northwest Community Hospital’s ICU, and the investigations of the Cook County Medical Examiner’s Office, the Chicago Police Department, and various northwest suburban police departments led to the conclusion that bottles of Tylenol had been taken from the shelves of various supermarkets and drug stores over a period of several weeks by person or persons unknown, that said person or persons added the cyanide to the capsules, then returned to the stores to place the bottles back on the shelves. Five bottles were initially and correctly linked to these initial victims’ deaths. Three other tampered-with bottles were discovered.

  There was panic. Not just in and around Chicago. Across the nation.

  Johnson & Johnson, manufacturers of Tylenol, issued warnings and a recall of all Tylenol products. The company halted Tylenol production and put an indefinite hiatus on advertising. Johnson & Johnson executives consulted with their ad agencies about the possibility of regaining public trust.

  Legislators frantically discussed the need for rapid reform in the laws and regulations for the packaging of over-the-counter substances.

  The FBI established a strong link to the Chicago Police Department, Illinois suburban police departments, and police departments throughout the country.

  The hunt was on for The Tylenol Killer.

  April 16, 2015

  Unit 17

  Hospice of the Comforter

  “What is it … What is it you are telling me?” Father Witmer says. “You must tell me, you must unburden yourself. What is it … What did you do?”

  Hank does not answer.

  Friday October 1, 1982

  Chicago, Illinois

  She was blond, and one of the rare people who truly could be deemed vivacious. Paula Prince lived in Old Town, which was being gentrified and cleansed of hippies to make way for the ascendant Yuppies. She was a flight attendant for United, loved flying, traveling, meeting new people.

  But she had a headache, wanted to shake it before she met her sister for dinner, and so she went to Walgreen’s and bought a bottle of Tylenol.

  Surveillance cameras were not yet everywhere, but Walgreen’s did have a camera focused on the counter.

  There exists a videotape of Paula Prince purchasing her own death.

  My Mary died and then Mary and then Adam and then Lynn Mary and then Stanley and then Theresa and then Mary and then Paula and I did not understand why they had to die did not even have a clue and there is yet so much I do not know and may never know God Who is God Now and Forever understands

  Saturday, October 2, 1982

  Schaumburg, Illinois

  John Kwiat awakens with a Dr. Doom tequila shots hangover, but, don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time, right?

  A little water splashed on the face, a little cold water sloshed into a glass, two Tylenols from the bottle in the medicine cabinet into the palm and here we go …

  And maybe there’s time to think Uh-oh or maybe think, Nah, what are the odds, no problem, but in seconds, the whirl of acute dizziness hits and he’s gasping for air and his legs won’t hold him and then he’s on the floor and convulsing and dying.

  He is not found until Tuesday, October 5.

  “I asked God for justice. He gave me justice. The others … I do not understand. John Kwiat was justice.”

  Father Witmer wants to yell and is careful not to. “Did you kill John Kwiat?” Then he whispers, “Did you kill the others?”

  Hank’s eyes are shut.

  There’s that awful sound of his lips: Peh-peh noise.

  Father Witmer administers the Last Rites of the Holy Catholic Church.

  Father Witmer does not begin his research until the evening of Tuesday, April 21, a day after the burial of Henry Jablonski in Queen of Angels. He must. He cannot simply accept not knowing. There are too many intimations of evil.

  In his room at Hospice of the Comforter, he takes to his HP laptop and Google.

  1982. It was the year he was born.

  (Does this have meaning, that it was the year, too, of the Tylenol Murders?)

  Now, in 2015, the case remains open.

  Father Witmer learns no one was ever charged for tampering with the bottles of Tylenol.

  Father Witmer learns no one was ever charged with murder.

  Father Witmer learns there were seven victims of the Tylenol Killer: Mary Kellerman, Adam Janus, Lynn Mary
Reiner, Stanley Janus, Theresa Janus, Mary McFarland, and Paula Prince.

  There were seven victims.

  Father Witmer cannot find John Kwiat.

  Seven victims.

  He cannot find a death notice for a John Kwiat in the state of Illinois in 1982.

  Other Google combinations tell him that in 2015, there are more than 3,000 people in the United States who are named John Kwiat or something fairly close or similar. None of a possible right age in Schaumburg, nor in the Northwest Suburbs of Illinois.

  Perhaps more dogged and learned researchers could learn more, but Father Witmer decides it is profitless to continue.

  Father Witmer sinks to his knees.

  Father Witmer prays. He prays late into the night and fears he will find no feeling of relief or validation with the morning.

  Father Witmer prays: Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!

  MIRROR IMAGE

  MARGE SIMON

  In

  the glass,

  my twin smiles,

  runs her hands lightly

  over our face, down

  our full breasts,

  gently massaging

  the tender skin,

  smiling back at me

  as she reaches for

  the little bottle

  of pills that she

  knows are not

  good for us,

  lifts the cup

  of water

  to our

  lips.

  “It is the end

  of days,” she says,

  “we must be one.”

  My

  eyes never