Murder of a Teenage Life (Part 1)

Most bad people have their excuses for the evil things they do. Not the kind of excuse that a child would tell its mother to avoid punishment, but more like a delusion that they trick themselves into believing in order to justify their crimes. Most crimes are committed for selfish reasons such as greed, jealousy, lust, or revenge. The perpetrators delude themselves into believing that their goals are noble, but there is no honor to be found within people such as these. There is only the same simple fantasy that plagues the rest of society, to give ourselves justification for what we inherently know to be wrong.

There is however, a minority among criminals, a rare breed so to say, whose motivations are pure, and who are free from the burden of excuses. This kind of criminal is both better and worse than the others all at the same time. They are free of the selfish motivations and ridiculous excuses, yet they commit crimes with no remorse and no regard for their victims. They have within themselves an innate potential for evil deeds that exceeds that of the average human being. I accepted this to be human nature at a young age, but for the longest time I could not understand why it was. I realize now that people only make excuses when they feel guilt. Without guilt, there is no excuse, and without an excuse a person’s potential grows exponentially. A criminal with an excuse, though often violent, is incredibly easy to predict because their actions are guided guilt rather than pure rationale. A criminal with no excuse on the other hand, is almost impossible to predict, making them far more dangerous than any normal person. I was sixteen years old when I realized that I was one of these people. When I was vindicated from the pressure of guilt I was able to do things I had never known I was capable of doing. I became numb, immune to all feeling including guilt, pain and anxiety. I did not worry about who I hurt nor did I fear for the salvation of my immortal soul.

I could not cry no matter how much I wanted to. There is no clever metaphor that could describe how I felt at that moment. I felt like I was dead, as dead as Joshua’s blood soaked corpse cradled in my arms. His body still warm from the heat of the life he lost only moments ago. It was unreal, I felt that at any moment Joshua would come back to life and everything would be okay, but he never awoke. My baby brother, only twelve years old, will never grow up. He will never have his first kiss and never fall in love. He will never know how painful it is to struggle, how much it hurts to be rejected or to fail and he will never know how refreshing it feels to start over. He will never become someone’s husband. He will never raise children of his own. He will never grow old and look back at his life with a sense of gratuitous satisfaction, because he is only twelve years, one-hundred and twenty-two days old, and no matter how long I hold him or how hard I squeeze, he will be the same age forever.

I could think of nothing except how he must have felt in his last agonizing moments of life. The anger he must have felt at me for leaving him to care for himself for more than four years. The confusion he must have felt when some stranger pulled him away. The fear he must have felt when his killer pressed the blade against his bare neck. The pain he must have felt, when he saw his own blood pouring down onto his clothes. And the disappointment he must have felt in me when he looked up at me for the last time, realizing that his big brother had failed to protect him.

Joshua had already been dead for quite some time when the paramedics finally arrived. A crowd of spectators formed around the scene, all of them desperate to catch a glimpse of Joshua’s body and the boy who was holding him who must have been his killer. When the police finally arrived they must have thought it was an “open and shut case”, for they saw nothing more than one dead Black kid and one living one covered in the victim’s blood. I did not resist them when they pulled Joshua’s body from me nor did I speak as they lifted me up by my shoulders and patted me down, searching the pockets of my jeans for any weapons or contraband. I did not look up from the ground when they pulled my arms behind my back and fastened the cold metal cuffs around my wrists. I did not flinch when the bystanders shouted crude names and insults at me, or when the officers locked me in the back seat of the police cruiser and drove away. I was in a daze as they drove, listening to the muffled voices of the people outside the car as they made explicit gestures toward me. The uncomfortable plastic seating in the back of the car provided little resistance as I slid from side to side with each sharp turn of the car. My wrists began to hurt as the metal cuffs pressed into them.

In what seemed like days later, we arrived in the parking garage of the homicide precinct. I remained in the back seat of the car for several minutes as the two officers who had detained me walked into another room. Several minutes later I was escorted out of the car and into a room where my cuffs were removed. I was examined, my fingerprints were taken and I was escorted into an interrogation room. The room was barely larger than a walk in closet. There was gray paint peeling on the walls. A camera was perched in the corner of the ceiling between the door and the two-way mirror that I had seen before only in television police dramas. An old wooden table sat in the middle of the room complete with three metal chairs, two on one side and one in the center of the opposite side where I sat quietly. There was a window with tinted glass and metal bars to protect it. There was also a fluorescent light in the ceiling that emitted an eerie unnatural light into the room. The air conditioning was on full blast and chilled my skin beneath my clothes, still wet with Joshua’s blood.

I am not sure if I waited for several minutes or several hours, but some time later the door opened and two men stepped into the room. One of them was a Black man in a dark suit and tie. The gold shield of his badge dangled on a chain around his neck over his red necktie. There was a black mourning band secured horizontally across his badge, symbolizing the recent death of a fellow officer. The other man was White with blonde hair and blue eyes. He wore a shirt and tie but he did not have a jacket. His badge had the same black band across it and was clipped to his belt. He was several years older than the other detective and glared at me with disdain in contrast to his partner’s stoic demeanor. I determined that the White detective was supposed be the “bad cop” who would tell me all of the horrible things that would happen to me if I didn’t confess. The other detective, a man of color who I was supposed to identify with, will swoop in to protect me when it seems that his partner is about to cross the line. He will then dangle an excuse for what he believes is the crime I committed and perhaps even promise me a lenient punishment. I know all of their tricks and I could easily talk my way around the two of them, but I had already decided before they even arrived that I was not going to play their game. I did not care if they released me or if they arrested me for murder, for it was nothing more than I deserved for allowing my little brother to die.

“I’m Detective Bolton,” said the Black detective politely, “this is my partner Detective Schurlock.”

“Like Detective Holmes just spelled different,” said detective Schurlock cynically.

Detective Bolton waited in vain for a response from me. I responded by staring sadly at the table in front of me, not saying so much as a single word.

“Well first off,” said Detective Bolton, “you’re not under arrest as of yet. We want to get your side of the story before we make any decisions.”

Detective Schurlock pulled his chair around the table so that it was directly in front of me. He turned his chair around so that the back was facing me and sat down with both of his arms crossed on the back of the chair. He stared at me menacingly with a slight smirk, as if he had already solved the case. Detective Bolton attempted to initiate “small talk” with me, a feeble tactic to create a nonthreatening environment for me so I would feel more comfortable talking to him. He offered me a glass of water and a snack from the vending machine. Marcus had told me more than a year ago that this part of the interrogation was called the “initial interview.” He had always reminded me that no matter how friendly they seem, the police are not my friends and that I should never accept anything they offer me, whether it be a can of soda or a reasonable excuse. This was all a part of a trick to get me to start talking, because the more I talk, the more difficult it would be for me to lie. I did not give him the slightest response. After several minutes of Bolton’s one sided discussion, Detective Schurlock interrupted.

“Might as well give up on the chit chat, Trev’,” said Detective Schurlock, “He’s too smart for that, aren’t ya’ son?”

This was the part that Marcus called the “confrontation”. In a few moments Detective Schurlock would present the “facts” of the case. Whether or not these facts were true is irrelevant to the police, they only care about how I react to them. This is when the interrogator begins to place the pressure on the suspect. Marcus had me train my body and mind to remain calm and alert during stressful situations such as these, but the training seemed useless to me at that moment. There was no point in putting on a false appearance of complacency when I honestly did not care.

“Here’s what we got,” began Detective Schurlock, “we’ve got about a dozen witnesses who will testify that they saw you with the dead boy, the victims blood all over the clothes your still wearing, and as soon as we run the prints on the murder weapon, we’ll be able to place the knife in your hands at the time of the killing.”

I knew that the part about the knife was a lie because I had seen the killer stuff the blade into his pocket before he ran to his car.

“You know what’s gonna’ happen to you now, don’t you? First there’s gonna’ be a hearing where they’ll decide to try you as an adult, then the prosecutor’s gonna’ tell a jury of your ‘peers’ a story about a cold blooded killer who decided to cut some innocent kid’s throat for kicks. There gonna’ send your ass to prison. Not juvenile detention, but real prison with adult inmates.”

Detective Schurlock was trying to back me into a corner in hopes that I, like a cornered animal, would take the first opportunity to get out. Detective Bolton would most likely start creating what Marcus called a “theme” in order to help me rationalize the crime I supposedly committed.

“You think you’re a thug, tough guy?” said Detective Schurlock, “a kid like you won’t last five minutes inside a real prison.”

I could see that Detective Schurlock was become agitated. All of his efforts to try to frighten me without giving him the slightest flick of the eyebrow or a guilty glance to the side for him, must have been like running into a brick wall.

“Are you even listening to me kid?”

When I did not respond, Detective Schurlock stood up from his seat and walked over to me. He grabbed the corner of my chair and turned it violently so that I was facing him. He then grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and pulled me up from the chair.

“Admit it,” he growled, “you killed that kid, didn’t you? You tried to bully him, you told him to give you his money, and when he said no, it pissed you off, didn’t it?”

“Rich!” called Detective Bolton to his partner.

Detective Schurlock ignored his partner and continued to tell me his fabricated version of the story.

“He stood up for himself and you killed him for it, didn’t you?”

I stared down at the floor, refusing to make eye contact.

“Answer me!” yelled Detective Schurlock, his stale breath making me wince as he spoke.

When I did not answer he slammed me against the wall and tightened his grip, this time pressing his arm against my throat making it difficult for me to breath. I did not resist or even raise my hands to protect myself. I half expected him punch me in the face or to begin choking me until I answered him. It would certainly have been a particularly brutal beating for not only did I not care if he hurt me, I practically wished for him to punch me in the face. I wanted to feel pain and to see my own blood for I felt as if I deserved to suffer for my failure.

“Hey!” yelled Detective Bolton as he ran around the table to his partner.

For a moment it appeared as if Detective Bolton was genuinely trying to protect me. If I did not know better, I would not have suspected him to be putting on an act.

“You ghetto fucks are always killing each other,” growled Detective Schurlock, “you’re all like a bunch of fuckin’ animals.”

“That’s enough!” yelled Detective Bolton as he pried his partner away from me.

“I’m done with this piece of shit,” said Detective Schurlock coldly as he threw me down to the floor.

“Yeah go cool off ya’ fuckin’ maniac,” said Detective Bolton angrily as his partner left the room.

Detective Bolton shook his head and sighed with disdain.

“Sorry about that, kid,” said Detective Bolton as he tried to help me up.

I pulled away from the detective’s hand angrily, refusing to accept any kind of aid from him. I sat with my back against the wall and my arms draped over the top of my knees, waiting for this ordeal to be over with, praying that one of them would just shoot me in the head and get it over with.

“You know, Detective Schurlock’s really a nice guy. It’s just, seeing all these dead kids day after day … it gets to ya’ after a while.”

Detective Bolton turned the chair his partner was using around so that it was facing correctly and took a seat.

“He was right though. If you get tried as an adult, you’ll probably get convicted and go to prison. That’s why we gotta’ get your side of the story. If it checks out, we could make this all go away.”

I tilted my head forward and rested it against my closed hands and kept my eyes closed as I wished for the conversation to be over.

“You may not believe it, but I know what it feels like to be in a tough situation like you,” said Detective Bolton, “I was born in D.C., in the projects. Now that’s a hard place to grow up.”

I suspected that the detective was lying about living in D.C. Aside from the telltale signs of deceit on his face, I was familiar enough with accents to know that he was probably raised somewhere in the Midwest, most likely Missouri.

“I know that sometimes you feel like you have to prove yourself to everyone, let everyone know your tough, but this isn’t the time to put on this ‘tough guy’ routine. You have to tell us what really happened.”

Detective Bolton paused and looked at me for a moment but I did not respond.

“Maybe it was an accident. Your friends pressured you into stealin’ the kid’s money. When he wouldn’t hand it over, you showed him your knife and things jus’ got outta’ hand from there. The fact that you remained at the scene until the paramedics arrived shows remorse, which is good. If you confess you’ll probably be able to plea down to second degree manslaughter. You’ll pay a fine and serve your sentence in ju-vee instead of prison. You’ll be out in five years at the most. But that’s not gonna’ happen unless you cooperate with us, kid.”

There was a tapping sound coming from the mirror. The detective looked up and sighed.

“Think about what I said kid,” said Detective Bolton as he left the room, “I’ll be right back.”

The door closed and I was left alone with my thoughts once more. I thought back to what the two detectives had said. I knew better than to believe anything the police told me, especially a bigot like Detective Schurlock who presumed that my brother and I were nothing but a couple of “animals killing each other,” or Detective Bolton who assumed that I was nothing more than a misguided, inner city youth who had to resort to stealing from little kids to provide for himself. But, I also knew that there was a very good possibility that I could go to jail for Joshua’s death. Even though I knew it was not more than I deserved for failing to protect my little brother, I could not allow myself go to prison while the real killer remained free. Joshua must have justice even if it cost me what little I had left.

The door opened several minutes later and in stepped Detective Bolton. He did not have the same look of confidence that he had before, but more like he felt regret for some unknown wrongdoing. He took a seat in the same chair that he was in before he left. His posture had changed slightly so that he appeared more empathetic. He took a deep breath before he looked into my face and spoke.

“I… I want to apologize to you for earlier, Mr. Gideon.”

I raised my head and looked up at him in surprise by the fact that he knew my real name.

“That is your name isn’t it, Daniel Gideon?”

I could feel my chest tightening up. Somehow the fear of my true identity being revealed was worse than the fear of being convicted. Part of me would rather go to jail as “John Doe” than go free with my real name.

“We ran your prints and the prints of the victim and found out that the two of you are related.”

I shifted uncomfortably when he spoke.

“Don’t worry, we know you didn’t kill your brother, but what we need to know is why you’ve been missing all these years.”

All at once I could feel my protective barrier that I had built around myself begin to crumble. I began to hyperventilate, knowing that it was only a matter of time before they realized the truth about me.

“Daniel?” asked Detective Bolton as he reached out to me.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me!” I yelled angrily as I pulled away from him.

“Daniel,” said the detective, “if somebody’s been hurting you or threatening you, we can protect you.”

“Nobody can hurt me,” I said coldly.

“You’ve been gone for four years and as soon as you return, your brother is killed. I’ve been a cop long enough to know that most coincidences aren’t coincidences at all. Whoever’s been keeping you locked up all these years is trying to punish you for running away from them.”

“You’re wrong,” I whispered angrily.

The now familiar feeling of rage began to creep over me. It started out the same way it always did when I was younger. The back of my neck burned like it was on fire. My back tightened with apprehension. My muscles ached for the chance to break something. I wanted to smash, to throw, to tear. I was on the edge, waiting for something or someone to push me off.

“I know that you loved your brother …” said the detective as he stood up from his chair.

“Stop it!” I yelled.

“… You never meant for him to get hurt …”

“Leave me alone!” I yelled digging my fingernails into the lines of exposed scalp between my cornrow braids.

“… but if you don’t help us, whoever did this is going to get away with murdering your brother,” said the detective as he put his hand on my shoulder

“Shut Up!” I yelled as I pushed him away.

I stood up and kicked the chair across the room, narrowly missing Detective Bolton and sending it crashing against the wall. The door opened and three other detectives including Detective Schurlock ran into the room. I was prepared to attack any one of them as they cautiously moved closer to me, but they stopped when Detective Bolton raised his hand to signal them to keep their distance. I watched in the corner of my eye as one of the officers, a woman with short brown hair reached into her coat pocket and removed what looked like a small white business card.

“Daniel, look at me,” said the woman, “we found this in your belongings. This same photograph was found with Josh’s body.”

I looked toward the detective and I could see that the card she was holding was actually a photograph of my mother, the same photograph that I had carried with me for more than four years. She held the picture out to me and I slowly reached over to her and took it. I stared at my mother’s smiling face for a moment as my anger began to subside. Even after more than eight years, her smile alone was enough to calm me.

“She was your mother wasn’t she?” asked the woman, “If she were here today, she wouldn’t want this for you.”

I leaned back against the wall and sank down to the floor. The more I stared at the picture, the more guilt and sadness I felt. I could feel tears building up in my eyes.

“Before she died,” I said, “I made a promise to her. I promised … I promised that I would always protect Josh. I broke that promise today and I let him die. It should have been me instead of him.”

“Don’t say that, it’s not your fault,” said the woman detective, “Joshua died because a very bad person killed him, and if the people who took you away had anything to do with this, then they’re just as responsible. You’re not a bad person Daniel, but the people who did this are. That’s why we need to know who took you away.”

“I’m not going to talk about that,” I said as I wiped the tears from my face.

“Why are you protecting them?” asked Detective Bolton, “For God’s sake you almost went to jail for these people. If those witnesses hadn’t come forward you’d been in a prison cell right now. Why wouldn’t you say anything? Why would you let everyone think you killed your own brother?”

“I don’t care what happens to me,” I replied, “My brother is dead because I

couldn’t protect him. I should’ve been there for him, but instead I abandoned him. For four years he had no one to take care of him, no one who loved him. And when he needed me the most… I wasn’t there. The only person I have left … the only one I care about… is dead. It doesn’t matter whether or not I go to prison… if people think I’m guilty or innocent… it doesn’t change anything. There’s nothin’ anybody can do to me that could be worse than that.”

The Detectives fell silent for a moment. They all looked at me with looks of sympathy. I hate those looks, to have everyone feel sorry for me, to look down at me with pity. I would rather they all hated me than feel sorry for me. The feeling alone made me feel weak and vulnerable, feelings I always tried to hide that were all too familiar.

“You have to know that’s not true,” said the woman with brown hair, “the people who kidnapped you …”

“Nobody kidnapped me!” I retorted, “I ran away on my own! It doesn’t have anything to do with what happened to Josh! Why can’t you get that through your fuckin’ heads?”

There was a momentary pause, when all of the detectives appeared to be at a loss for words, not necessarily because of what I said, but more like they had never before seen a kid who was as messed up as me.

“Okay,” said the woman in a calming voice, “can you at least tell us about the murder? Did you see the man who attacked Joshua?”

I stared at the photograph for a moment all the while picturing the face of the killer in my head. I could see every detail of his face, his gray eyes, his twisted smile, the missing piece of his left ear, and the messy tufts of hair sticking out from beneath his confederate flag bandanna. I even memorized the license plate number on the back of his black BMW two-door sedan. I hated him with all of my being and I could not allow him to get away with what he did, even if it cost me my own life. Somehow the fate awaiting him at the hands of the police, did not seem befitting someone like that.

“Daniel?” asked the lady detective, “did you see him?”

“No,” I lied, “I didn’t see who did it.”