by R.R. Rapoza
Look at it. Painted over and boarded up to keep out the looky loo's. Don't they realize doing so keeps the victims and their souls locked in? Keeps the truth locked in? The room will be burned into my memory forever, especially the smell; a combination of urine,blood,sweat,tears,and even fear.
To a detective, every room tells a story.
I can still hear their screams. The begging and pleading for their mommies. No amount of Plywood and paint would keep them out of my head. I see the scrapes of missing paint on the radiator and dried blood on the shackles. I see the 12 pairs of kid's shoes piled in the corner. I see the outline of the dirty mattress on the floor after having it sent to the lab. They say a raccoon will chew through his own paw to get free from a trap; now I believe it.
It was a group of detectives entering the room that day, but a group of fathers surveying the grim scene. Words were both unspoken and unnecessary. Wondering what hell these kids had gone through and where they were. Wondering what kind of demon would do such a thing. Unspoken vows that the animal responsible would pay. That case changed many lives.
Johnson turned in his badge the next day.
Jefferson, slowly drank himself to death two years later.
Rodriguez and Koslowski swallowed pistols 5 years apart.
Only I am left to avenge these children but I will never catch me.
[When Not writing or working R.R. Rapoza consistently shows he is not brilliant on his far from serious blog, Briliant Donkey.]