The Prison Inside Me Read online

  THE PRISON INSIDE Me

  Gilbert C. Brown

  Copyright © 2014 Dr. Gilbert C. Brown

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1503007758

  ISBN 13: 9781503007758

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014919232

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

  North Charleston, South Carolina

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  So many wonderfully supportive people have helped in the writing of the manuscript that I fear I may inadvertently omit someone. I wish to thank Dr. Walton Avery, MD; Judge Eddie Green; Dr. Adrian Kuzel, MD; Mr. Jack Lawn; Mrs. Cibele Ruas Nichols, Mrs. Linda Hardister Rodriguez and Mrs. Marilyn Ulick, for their personal support and encouragement:

  In addition to these individuals, other information and inspiration was gained from the works of Charles Blow, Fire Shut Up in My Bones; Malcolm Gladwell, “In Plain View: How Child Molesters Get Away With It,” The New Yorker, September 24, 2012; Marcelo Ribeiro, Sem Medo de Falar (in Portuguese); and The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 5th Edition.

  All characters and events in this novel are entirely fictitious. Any similarity to persons living or deceased or to events is purely an unintended coincidence.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  The voice said, “This is nine one one. What is your emergency?”

  The rather calculated woman’s voice responded, “I need help. My husband just shot himself in the head. I think he’s dead.”

  “What is your name and address?”

  “I’m Susan Nichols. I live at 2456 Andrews…”

  The 911 operator interrupted, “I have that address. A police cruiser is on the way. Is this a house or an apartment?”

  “It’s a house.”

  “Do you think you need emergency medical service?”

  “I don’t know. He doesn’t respond. He looks dead.” The voice was very reserved, matching the coolness of the 911 operator.

  The 911 operator went on with instructions. “Please wait outside for the police. Please don’t touch anything. Do you need me to stay on the line with you?”

  “No,” she responded, “I’m OK. I’m going to hang up now.”

  “OK, but don’t touch anything, and wait outside. The cruiser should be there by now.”

  “This is nine one one. What is your emergency?”

  “I just heard what sounded like a shot from the house next door! Should people be setting off fireworks at this hour in this neighborhood? What’s happening?”

  “Thank you for your call. We have this information. A police car is on its way.”

  When Susan went out the front door, she could hear the siren and the flashing lights as the police car came down the street. She walked down the steps of her front porch to the curb and waved as the cruiser approached, silencing its siren, its flashing lights casting eerie images on the neighbors’ houses. Neighbors began to appear, forming in small groups and whispering among themselves as the officer completed his radio call and stepped out of the car.

  “Are you Ms. Nichols?” he asked Susan.

  “I am,” she answered, again in that detached, almost ephemeral voice.

  “Can you take me inside and show me why you called?”

  They went through the front door, the police radio cracking away in the now empty car. Susan led the way through the vestibule, through the dining room, and into what looked like a study or a den. Officer Brighton saw a man slumped over in the chair behind the desk, his right hand hanging down toward the floor and his body slightly leaning toward that side. A trickle of blood ran down his forehead toward his chin; some blood had dripped on the right arm of the chair in which he was slumped. There was a pistol on the floor that appeared to Brighton to be a Glock 30.

  “Ma’am, is this your husband?”

  “It is.” She looked away.

  “What is his name?”

  “George.”

  “George Nichols?”

  “Yes, George Nichols. He is…was…my husband.”

  “Were you divorced?”

  “No.”

  “You both live in this house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is anyone else in the house?”

  “No.”

  Brighton withdrew his portable microphone from its shoulder clip, pressed the transmit button, and spoke. “Brighton here. I think I got a DOA; looks like a sixty-year-old male, self-inflicted head wound. I’m at 2456 Andrews. Maybe a morgue vehicle. I didn’t touch the body or the scene. If someone is around from the detective division, maybe they can come out, too, to take Mrs. Nichol’s statement. Deceased identified as George Nichols, Mrs. Nichol’s husband. I don’t know. Yes, she may be the only witness. No, I don’t know. I’ll leave that to the detective division. That’s a ten four.” He replaced his microphone.

  Brighton saw the telephone on the desk. “Mrs. Nichols, did you call nine one one using this phone?”

  “Yes,” she replied, “I was upstairs when I heard the shot and came down immediately. When I saw George slumped over like that, and when he wouldn’t answer, I picked up the phone and called nine one one. What else was I supposed to do?”

  Brighton asked, “Do you recognize that weapon on the floor?”

  “Yes, we bought it a few years ago when a house up the road from our camp was burglarized. It is our weapon. George bought it against my wishes.”

  Within a few minutes, several other police vehicles pulled up to the Nicholses’ home, blocking the street. It was now almost 11:00 p.m. All the flashing lights created quite a disturbance on this very quiet street, with all the neighbors still accumulated in small groups. One man came up to a police car and asked what was happening, only to be told that it was just a police investigation.

  Two men in white medical coats entered, greeted Brighton in low tones, and then turned to Susan when Brighton pointed her out. They were standing in the vestibule. The older of the two spoke.

  “Mrs. Nichols, I’m Dr. Harlan, from the County Medical Examiner’s office. I am so sorry to be here at this time. Is it OK if I take a look at your husband?”

  “Yes.”

  The two men went into the study with Brighton.

  A moment later, another two men came up the porch steps. One was in a police uniform and stayed at the front door. The other, a bit disheveled in his business suit, knocked on the open door. “Hello?” he asked.

  “Yes?” Susan replied, standing alone in the vestibule.

  He called, “Are you Mrs. Nichols?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I come in?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am Detective Robert Szysmanski, attached to the Third Precinct. We had a call that your husband had committed suicide. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Don’t lie to me!” his father screamed. The hard slap across his face resounded in the room and reverberated inside George’s head. “Those boys didn’t lie to their mothers! You were touching them where you shouldn’t! This is a disgrace for you and for t
he whole family! How could you do such a thing to us?”

  George was sobbing. He threw himself on his father’s chest and wrapped his arms around him, sobbing through his tears, “Daddy, I’ll never do it again; I promise! Please don’t hit me again!”

  Indeed, it was the first time in his almost ten years that George had been struck by his father.

  “I’m not raising you to be a fairy, a homosexual, someone everyone else will make fun of. If I have to, I’ll beat that out of you! You’ll never do this again. I can’t stand the sight of you. Get out of here, go to your room, and don’t come out until I call you. Think of all the terrible things you’ve done, and find some manly strength to ask for forgiveness and never do it again! Now get out of here!”

  The incident had happened in the playground at the park. George had been playing with some younger boys who had a football. They then sat on the grass at the side of field. They began talking, and George asked if they ever touched themselves. Seeing no one near, George opened his pants and demonstrated. The three or four boys thought this was very funny.

  “Since I’ve shown you mine, you can show me yours, too,” he said to these wide-eyed seven- and eight-year-olds. They all thought this was great fun, and George showed them how to really touch themselves. Lots of giggling ensued, and then they closed their pants and started the football game again. George never imagined that this part of his morning would reach his mother. But it did when the younger boys got home and told their parents, who in turn called George’s father to relate the unpleasantness.

  George lay on his bed, trying to stop his tears and an uncontrollable sobbing he had never before experienced. He thought of what Uncle Ed had done to him. It wasn’t so bad. Uncle Ed had never hit him. I’ll tell Daddy about Uncle Ed, and then he’ll understand, he thought. The words “Don’t lie to me!” rang in his head. Daddy would never believe me, never, about Uncle Ed; he’ll think I made the whole thing up just to get out of trouble. He’ll hit me again for lying. He was overcome with confusion, and the sobbing overtook him as he buried his head in his pillow in an attempt to control himself.

  He heard the front door slam, and soon after, the car in the driveway started and left. A moment later, his mother came into the room.

  “It’s all right, George,” she said soothingly, sitting on the edge of his bed. “We all make mistakes. Father is very upset, but he will calm down in a while. He loves you very much and wants you to always do the right thing. This will pass, you’ll see, and soon Daddy will forgive you. It may be better if you keep away from these little boys—they’re not your age; they’re not your regular friends. You should never let anyone touch you there. And you shouldn’t touch anyone, either. You know you are my favorite baby, and I love you very much. I am sorry that you made this mistake, but it happens. I still love you, no matter what you do, because I know how smart you are and that you won’t ever make the same mistake twice. I think you need some milk and cookies. As soon as you stop crying, call me, and I’ll bring them to you. Daddy wants you to stay in your room until he comes home, so maybe you want to read something or do some homework. That’s OK, and milk and cookies will make it easier! OK?”

  She leaned over and kissed the back of his head, buried in his pillow the entire time.

  When he heard the door to his room close, he sat up at the edge of his bed. He wanted to scream after his mother, “Yeah? How about Uncle Ed? What about him? Are you gonna bring him milk and cookies, too?” His shoulders hunched over. What’s the use? Whatever I say from now on is just another of the lies that no one is going to believe. If Batman were here, he’d help me find a way out! He began to daydream of revenge against the whole world.

  George Nichols Junior was born while his father was still in the army during World War II. His father had been in the Normandy invasion, and in early 1945 his special unit was being transferred to the Pacific with an intermediate home leave, during which time he was conceived. The war ended before George Nichols Senior could be deployed. He was discharged in time to see his first and only child born.

  He had great hopes that his son might become an officer, perhaps attend West Point or even Annapolis, or perhaps become a great athlete, a leader of men, as he had been in combat situations in Europe. The father and son enjoyed lots of ball playing in the yard, roughhousing in their contacts, and just being together on walks and weekends. But George Senior’s promotions in his company occupied more and more of his time. By the age of six, George Junior began missing the close relationship, the games, the discussions, the thousands of questions his father would answer during the many hours they spent together. His father occasionally went on long business trips, sometimes taking his mother along, leaving him with a very nice sitter or sometimes with Uncle Ed, George Senior’s brother, who was a bachelor.

  George had a great time in elementary school. He excelled in mathematics and loved science classes with experiments. He loved school, and his outstanding grades showed it. But he really looked forward to time spent with Uncle Ed, too, who took him to ball games and camping and always treated him to great food and sweets that he loved. Uncle Ed would give him a few dollars, admonishing him not to tell his mother. “This is your ‘walking around’ money to buy your friends some candy or ice cream. Don’t let your dad or mom take it away from you and tell you to save it for later. Use it now for what you want!” Because of Uncle Ed, he could often treat his friends, which made him very popular with them.

  George couldn’t remember whether he was seven or eight when the first incident occurred. Uncle Ed had taken him camping by a lake. George loved camping, and his father really didn’t have time to take him. Uncle Ed was a great substitute. They pitched tents, made fires, canoed, and fished. Uncle Ed showed him how to clean a fish he had caught and prepare it for dinner. Uncle Ed made him feel so important, so loved. It was when they went swimming in the lake. “Hey,” Uncle Ed said, “we’re all alone here. We don’t need bathing suits. I guess this is what they call ‘skinny-dipping’!” George had never seen a grown man naked before, and when Uncle Ed took off his clothes and turned toward George, he was fully erect. George had never seen a penis so large.

  “You’ll have one like this when you grow up, too. Here, touch it, and you’ll see how hard it gets.”

  Mildly curious, George did that. Uncle Ed said, “Yours will get hard too, if someone touches it.” Uncle Ed touched him, and George felt an unusual but very pleasant tremor run through his body as his penis was rubbed and became erect. It was quite different than when he touched himself. They both laughed and ran into the water for a swim.

  His time spent with Uncle Ed was so pleasant, so special. George didn’t want anything to interfere with these moments. Uncle Ed made him feel so wonderful, important, and smart. No one else he knew made him feel that way. Other incidents continued to occur in various situations. Once when they were driving to a ball game and George was sitting alongside Uncle Ed in his car, Uncle Ed reached over, placed his hand on George’s thigh, and began rubbing. George thought nothing of it, as his uncle was driving the car at the time. It was as if he had put his arm around him in a warm embrace, the way an uncle would.

  George began to notice that whenever his uncle touched him, or whenever he touched his uncle, Uncle Ed would begin breathing more heavily, even sighing at times. Once he noticed fluid running from Uncle Ed’s penis, and Uncle Ed’s eyes were closed and he was breathing heavier than usual. He thought it strange that a grown man had to go pee-pee and couldn’t control himself, just as he used to have accidents at school when he waited too long to go to the bathroom. Oh, well, he thought, it’s all in good fun, and no one gets hurt. Not much different than touching oneself.

  When he came home from his visits and outings with Uncle Ed, he would answer his parents’ questions about all the fun he had, what they ate, what the score of the game was, how many fish they caught, and how they went skinny-dipping because n
o one was around. But he never mentioned the touching or the strangeness of Uncle Ed’s body. Somehow or other, George knew that this wasn’t something to talk about to anyone, like you didn’t talk to anyone about touching yourself. There was no harm to it; it was a private matter. He even laughed to himself about why they call them “private parts.”

  When George was almost ten, Uncle Ed moved away, transferred to another country by his firm. There was a big farewell party for him. Lots of hugging and kissing and promises to write and call marked the end of the night. Uncle Ed gave George an envelope in front of everyone, saying, “You’re a big guy now, and you need lots of ‘walking around’ money that I used to give you a little bit at a time. So, here is an advance for the next couple of years until I get home leave to visit you again. Remember, it’s yours! Don’t let my brother or your mom take this from you!” Everyone present laughed and then applauded, and there were lots of “Wows!” as George opened the envelope and showed everyone a fifty-dollar bill.

  George was very successful at school. He particularly loved his math classes, often getting the work done well before anyone else and then using the extra time to work in his book of math riddles and puzzles. Uncle Ed was gone, and George was active in Little League and Cub Scouts. His mother and father found more time to spend with him. His parents were very proud of his school achievements. He also had lots of friends in school who admired him for his intelligence. A few very normal years passed.

  The next incident occurred when he was fourteen. It was in the locker room of the club swimming pool when he and a group of his friends got into a touching scene that George had initiated. One of the boys had a development problem. When they left the locker room, this boy told his mother, who was waiting for him, of the whole affair as if it had happened only to him. The mother reported the incident to the person at the club reception desk. The club manager, concerned about the legal implications, called George’s father and told him that he had no choice but to inform the police in case the boy’s family sued the club. George’s father pleaded to let him speak to the boy’s family, to no avail.