All That Is Mine I Carry With Me, page 28
The hole in my mother’s skull was likely caused postmortem.
It is likely (but not certain) that she was buried without clothes on, presumably to encourage decomposition or to hinder identification if the body was found. Otherwise one would expect to find more durable clothing materials—buttons, zippers, belt buckles, the small eyelets and nails in shoes, synthetic fabrics—even after the soft natural fabrics themselves have decomposed.
And one detail that I wish I never heard: a human body buried at a depth of six feet, uncoffined and unembalmed, in ordinary soil, will decompose to a skeleton in eight to twelve years. My mother’s corpse probably skeletonized more quickly than that, he believes, due to the shallower depth of the grave and the moist, highly acidic soil of the lakefront site. The witness was reluctant to assign a precise number of years to this process, but he guessed the corpse skeletonized within seven to ten years.
Which means that for more than half the time I have been dreaming of my mother, she has been only bones. The total weight of those bones today, his report notes, is just fourteen pounds.
* * *
—
After two hours of testimony, Mr. Bailis puts a final question to my father (too dramatic, too easily parried):
Did you kill Jane Larkin?
No, I absolutely did not.
* * *
—
When the jury returns its verdict, and the courtroom is instructed to rise, my father does an odd thing. He stands and buttons his coat. He looks briefly at the jurors filing into the box. Then he turns fully around to face the crowd in the back of the courtroom. His own mother and loyal Alex on his right. The mob in the middle, including reporters and the district attorney. And finally his mutinous relatives on the left, Miranda, Aunt Kate, and me. He makes a formal little bow, tipping from the waist, no more than ten degrees or so, like the conductor of an orchestra. Is he thanking us? Is he telling us what is about to happen?
The clerk hands the verdict papers to the judge, who reads them impassively and returns them to the clerk.
The clerk: Do you have a verdict, Mr. Foreperson?
We do.
The clerk reads from the papers: Special Verdict questions. Question one: Did the defendant, Daniel Larkin, cause the death of Jane Larkin? Answer: No.
Miranda immediately bolts from the courtroom, hands cupped over her face.
I cannot move. I am frozen.
BOOK 4
On Sunday, October 15, 2017, the following article ran on page one of The Boston Globe.
A Cold Case, Decades Old, Nears Closure
In July 2016, a man named Norris White, age 78, serving life without parole in a Lancaster, California, prison, began to experience the classic symptoms of a heart attack: tightness in the chest, numbness in the left arm, difficulty breathing. Fearing that his time among the living was almost up, White decided to unburden himself of a secret. Over the next several weeks, first to his jailers and then to various law enforcement agencies, he gave an extended account of his career as a serial rapist and murderer of women.
White had already been convicted of murdering three women in Los Angeles and two more in Texas. He had also been tried and found not guilty of murdering another in Florida, and been arrested on suspicion of killing two women in Ohio but released without charge.
Now he confessed to killing at least sixty women. There might have been more, he said; he couldn’t be sure. The killings occurred from the early 1970s until 1994, in 24 cities in 16 states. He claimed multiple murders in several states, and at least five each in New York, Ohio, Kentucky, Florida, Texas, and California. Norris White led a nomadic life. The longest he ever lived in one place was three years, in Jacksonville, Florida. He preyed on women whose death would not attract attention, usually sex workers or drug addicts. But he was also an opportunist, and he would deviate from his pattern when the opportunity presented itself.
An FBI expert on serial murderers came to California to interview Norris White. The expert found him genial and eager to help. White had a remarkable memory for his crimes. He was able to recount many details. He even drew colorful head-and-shoulder portraits of the victims, in crayon, to help identify them. The expert had no doubt White was telling the truth. He was given a polygraph test anyway, which he passed.
White felt no compunction about any of the things he was describing. He told the FBI man that he simply did not consider what he was doing to be wrong, any more than a normal man would consider it wrong to have ordinary consensual sex with a woman. The expert wrote a report on the case in which he noted that there was nothing odd or off-putting about Norris White’s demeanor or appearance. He was a burly man but his manner was quite gentle.
In the year or so since Norris White’s initial confession, detectives have corroborated 34 killings with certainty, using DNA evidence. Other cold cases also have been officially closed, even without DNA confirmation, based on the accuracy of White’s descriptions, especially of non-public information. In almost all of these cases, the victim was sexually assaulted and strangled to death. It is likely that Norris White is one of the most prolific serial murderers this country has ever seen.
It is also virtually certain that Norris White murdered Jane Larkin, a Newton woman whose disappearance on November 12, 1975, has vexed investigators for more than four decades.
In the years since she went missing, suspicion has centered on her husband, Daniel Larkin, a criminal defense lawyer, now retired. He has never been criminally charged, however, and has steadfastly maintained his innocence.
In 1994, Mr. Larkin was the subject of a civil suit brought by his wife’s surviving relatives, including two of Mr. Larkin’s own children. The suit alleged that he murdered his wife. The jury in that civil suit found Mr. Larkin not liable for damages.
Now the mystery seems to have been resolved.
In his confessions, Norris White described the killing of Jane Larkin in detail. He remembered her clearly, he said, since she was so unlike his usual prey.
In the fall of 1975, White was living near Trout Lake, Vermont, in a ramshackle apartment he shared with three other men. Then 37 years old, he had come to Vermont only a few weeks earlier, when a friend offered a place to stay. A native of Akron, Ohio, White had been living in Cincinnati before coming to Vermont.
Ms. Larkin, then 39 years old, apparently came to the town seeking a rental cabin for a family vacation planned for the following summer, reprising a vacation the Larkins had enjoyed a few months earlier, in August 1975. It seems to have been only her second or third visit to Trout Lake.
White had been hired by the town to do maintenance work. That day he was assigned to work on an unpaved road in the woods, “clearin’ brush, fillin’ holes,” he said. When Ms. Larkin drove up, White was holding a shovel provided to him by the town. According to White, she asked for directions to one of the lakeside homes.
Eighteen years later, in June 1993, her bones were discovered buried in the forest nearby.
White was able to describe many details about the murder. Jane had a distinctive scar on her shoulder, he recalled, and drove a white Ford Thunderbird with a brown landau roof. He remembered that she had a flyer from a local realtor with a listing for the rental cabin.
Norris White left Trout Lake immediately after the murder. He was not fleeing, he claimed, he simply found Vermont too rural and dull for his taste. In total, his stay in Vermont lasted only a few weeks.
There is no DNA evidence available in Jane Larkin’s case, but investigators have concluded she was indeed murdered by Norris White. In May, law enforcement agencies in Massachusetts and Vermont officially closed the case. No charges were filed; it would have been an empty gesture. Several states had already begun proceedings to extradite him; prosecutors in Vermont would have to wait in line, probably for years.
Norris White did not have years. He died on September 4. To the end, he never expressed remorse for what he did to Jane Larkin or any of his other victims. He seemed not even to understand why he should feel such an emotion.
The families of Daniel and Jane Larkin declined to comment for this story. Mr. Larkin’s daughter, Miranda Larkin, stated that her father, now 81, is unable to respond to interview requests. He has battled Alzheimer’s disease for many years, according to Ms. Larkin, and suffers from the dementia typical of that disease, including confusion and extreme memory loss.
1
I am in a foul mood. Alex and Miranda—with Jeff’s connivance, I suspect—have bullied me into touring a retirement community called The Willows. I’ll be safe here, they tell me. Meet wonderful people. Wonderful activities, wonderful dining. If it’s such a fucking country club, why don’t they move in?
My daughter warns me several times to be nice.
In the lobby, we are met by the director, a woman with flyaway hair and a bossy presence. Built like a brick shithouse. (My libido still notices, long after my decrepit prick, curled up like a dog beside a fire, has lost interest in the whole business.) There is some insufferable chat in her office, then we are trooped past a dining room with white tablecloths, a deserted gym, a dark-wood library, even a hair salon. In an “activity room,” a group of women is tying yarn in knots. Finally a few boxy apartments. It is all very posh. I’m sure it is outrageously expensive.
When it is done, I point out that we have not seen the memory unit.
The director’s eyes flicker toward Miranda and Alex, but she says brightly, Of course.
Miranda says, Daddy, you’re a long way from needing the memory unit. You’re in the middle stage.
Nonsense. The middle stage. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.
The memory care unit is on the sixth floor of the building, behind a locked door.
Entering, we come into a large, open common area. On our left, in a kind of living room, a dozen or so residents are seated in a semicircle around a younger (fortyish) woman who is leading them in a dance, a seated version of the hokey-pokey. A version of this song is playing on a little portable speaker, quite loudly: You put your right foot in, you take your right foot out. You put your right foot in and you shake it all about. You do the hokey-pokey and you turn yourself around…The woman is relentlessly cheerful. She shouts directions to the dancers and sings bits of the song. All right, left foot! Here we go! But the dancers are lethargic. They extend a foot, dangle a foot, retract a foot, all in a listless, dreamy way. A few do not move at all. One is in a wheelchair. There are only two men in the group. Neither dances.
Only one woman, vivid and smiling, has gotten up out of her chair. She dances a graceful, salsa-like hokey-pokey that makes me wonder what is in her head, what is in her past. Eyeing us, the salsa dancer seems to grasp why we have come. She directs her gaze at me, performs a bit of the hokey-pokey dance—left hand in, left hand out—as if inviting me to join her.
The staff are all women wearing scrubs with colorful tops, except for one older gentleman who wears slacks and a wine-colored polo with The Willows stitched on the chest.
The director informs us that there are activities throughout the day, all aimed at improving cognition and encouraging physical movement. All activities take place inside this locked unit.
We are led down a long hallway, past residents’ bedrooms. On the walls are vintage black-and-white photos: Monroe, Sinatra, the Beatles in their mop tops, JFK, Ted Williams and Joe DiMaggio.
A few very old residents are seated in the hallway, almost motionless. As we pass, one or two face us with wooden expressions.
Most of the rooms are empty, though in one doorway I glimpse a withered foot, pink with blue marbling, tangled in the bedsheets. Bulletin boards by every door are decorated with family photos, including pictures of the occupant as a younger, more vibrant person.
There are no rooms available to rent at the moment, our guide tells us. At the moment.
At the end of the long hall, we come to a final space, a small sitting area. A few armchairs arranged by a window. A table with nothing on it—no books or magazines.
A woman waits here, in a chair, hands laid in her lap. She is quite old. In her nineties, I imagine. Her hair is ashy gray. It hangs loose over her shoulders. White housecoat. Eyes a little yellow and cloudy.
This is Janice, we are told. Hello, Janice.
The woman does not respond.
How are you today, Janice?
No response.
You’re looking well, the director tells Janice.
I’m ready to go home now, the old woman murmurs.
You are home, Janice.
I’m ready to go home now, ready to go home now….
* * *
—
In the car on the way home, I am silent. Has so much time passed already? How has the end come so close so quickly? I thought I had years. The shock of it weighs on me, almost literally: I feel heavy with it, I feel pinned to my seat.
My daughter says, You’re awfully quiet.
Mm.
You want to talk about it?
I’m never going into that place.
All right.
Never. Promise me.
All right. No one can make you.
Promise me.
I promise. You never have to do anything you don’t want to do. We just thought it might be good to explore the options.
We both know, if I go in, I’m never coming out.
You make it sound like a prison.
It is a prison. Those people are locked in.
For their own protection. Daddy, I told you, that’s a long way off. The memory unit is for down the road. It’s for later. We just wanted you to see this place because they have a memory unit, for when you need it. You can transition from one stage to the next without moving to a whole different community. That’s a good thing, it’s a luxury. We’re lucky we can afford it.
Some luxury.
We have to face facts. You have a disease, you’re going to need care. I know it’s difficult, but we can’t just pretend it isn’t happening.
Did you see those people? They were zombies.
They were not zombies. They were people. With an illness. They’re doing the best they can. And they did not seem unhappy.
I’m not going to be a zombie.
Daddy, you can’t think of it from the point of view of today. You have to think of it in terms of what you’ll need then, when you get to that stage. That could be many years away. Who knows how you’ll feel then?
We need to find another way.
What other way? What other way? Tell me. I’m doing all I can, and it’s not enough. Even now, it’s not enough. Daddy, someday you’ll need more help than I can give you.
I don’t want help. I’m nobody’s burden.
You’re never a burden. Don’t use that word.
It’s exactly what I am.
Not today. Look, we’re having a nice conversation.
Today. Pfft.
We shouldn’t have even gone into the memory unit. I told you. You were the one who insisted we see it.
I have a right to know the truth.
I’m just saying. You may see the situation differently in five or ten years.
I don’t have five or ten years. We both know it.
This disease is unpredictable. Nobody knows for sure how fast it will move, how much time you have.
Just promise you’ll never put me in there.
I already promised, Dad. But what are we going to do? We need some kind of plan for what’s next.
We need a different plan, then.
* * *
—
The girl is arguing on the phone:
I do not think you’re crazy. I never said that…. No, no, I did not say that. I said you’re not being fair and objective. This is a heavy thing. It’s hard to wrap your brain around…. No! Obviously I don’t trust this con man. It’s not just him. The cops believe it, the DAs believe it. Why would they do that if there was no basis?
She is being patient but I can tell she is mad. She says, Oh my God, Jeff, would you stop? Why would they want to close the case so badly after all this time? No one even cares anymore, no one’s even heard of it. They want to solve it, not just close it…. So what? We’ve been through this a thousand times! He didn’t remember details like that because he was a vagrant and this was forty years ago!…I know, you’re a lawyer…. Who cares if he couldn’t name his roommates? What difference does it make? Look what he got right…. It was in the newspapers, yes. But that was years ago, years ago…. They were not feeding him details. They were asking questions. How could they ask about a crime without describing it? Why would they want to feed him details?…Oh my God, now you do sound crazy, Jeff. These people are all on our side and they’re professionals with lots and lots of experience—why would they do that?
Listening, she puts her hand on top of her head then extends her arm like What are you talking about? Then, into the phone:
I know, cops get things wrong. Yes, confessions can be false. I’ve heard you, I believe you…. I understand, Jeff. I get it….
She raises her free hand again, frustrated.
Would you stop with the ring! Who cares about the ring? It doesn’t matter. I can think of lots of reasons why the ring wasn’t there. How about: It was buried with the bones for forty years! Or maybe White did take the ring off her finger and he just forgot he did that. This all happened forty years ago, Jeff! The surprise would be if he got every little detail exactly right!
She listens for a long time. Then:
Jeff, is it possible you’re so convinced Dad’s guilty, and you’ve felt this way for so long, that you just can’t accept the idea he’s not. Isn’t that possible?…Do you have any idea how crazy you sound?…They did not write the confession for him. Stop. That’s ridiculous…. They did not feed him details. Why would they—…Jeff, I’m tired, I’m not going to fight with you…. All right, you’re discussing, I’m fighting…. Because you’re wrong, Jeff, that’s why. I love you but you’re wrong…. I can’t. We’re going in circles now. Can we just—
