Window to the Soul
Sissy Clarkson woke up much earlier than usual and ran to her bedroom window. There was not a cloud in the sky. She smiled. Every indication pointed to its being a sunny day. The eleven-year-old hummed a happy tune as she skipped into the kitchen where her mother was preparing breakfast.
"Morning, Ma!" she called cheerfully.
"Call your Pa," her mother, Effie, told her. "Tell him the hotcakes are done."
"Where is he?"
"In the barn, milking the cows."
The little girl went outside in search of her father. When she returned to the kitchen, her six-year-old brother, Colt, was sitting at the table, fork in hand, ready to eat. Effie was scooping the hotcakes off the griddle. Moments later, her husband came through the door.
"All my morning chores are done," he announced.
"Good. After we finish eating, I'll get the children ready to go," his wife declared.
"I've already got my money in my pocket," Sissy said.
"Why do you need money?" her brother asked.
"To buy something, silly! Why else do people need money?"
"I better go get my money out of my bank then."
"Why? You're not coming with us."
"Yes, I am!"
"You're too young."
"No, I'm not!" the boy insisted and, on the verge of tears, turned to his father. "You said I could go."
"Your brother is six. He's old enough to come with us," Esau agreed, putting his son's mind at ease. "I reckon I was about his age when I went with your grandparents to see Ninian Huxted."
"I think I was six, as well," Effie added. "Maybe seven."
After the family had their fill of hotcakes and sausages, Pa hitched the buckboard wagon to the horse while Ma helped Colt get dressed. Since it was a special occasion, the boy wore his best Sunday go-to-meeting clothes as did his parents and sister.
"My bank!" he cried.
"I'll get it down for you."
With his pennies in his pocket, his face and hands freshly washed and his hair combed, Colt was ready. He ran out the door and, with his sister's assistance, climbed into the back of the wagon. As the family neared the center of town, they saw other wagons. It seemed to Sissy that everyone in the county was going to the same place as they were.
"Look at all the people!" Colt exclaimed.
"There are more people here than there are at church services," his mother noted.
"That's understandable," Esau said. "Services are held every Sunday whereas this is a special occasion. It's been three years since the last one."
When the little boy saw the church steeple rising above the surrounding buildings, his excitement intensified.
"We're almost there!" he cried.
"I'll tie the horse up to a tree, and we can walk the rest of the way," Esau suggested. "With this large crowd, all the hitching posts on Main Street might be in use."
As they made their way through the throng of people, the adult Clarksons greeted friends and neighbors while their children ogled the peddlers hawking their wares.
"That man is selling licorice," Sissy observed.
"I want licorice," her little brother called.
"Not yet. You just had breakfast," Effie said.
It was not long before they passed another vendor. This one was selling caramels.
"I want some," Colt cried, reaching into his pocket for his pennies.
"No. You have to wait until later."
They passed four more sellers, all offering sweet treats. Four more times, the little boy wanted to purchase them only to have his mother veto the idea. Meanwhile, his sister scanned the crowd for one particular person. It was not until they were standing in front of the courthouse that she saw him.
"There he is!"
"Get your miniature gallows," the peddler shouted to be heard above the loud voices around him.
Sissy handed over her money and was given a five-inch carved wooden gallows complete with a miniature noose made from twine. It was an appropriate souvenir since the Clarksons, like their friends, neighbors and people from around the county, had come to town to witness a public hanging.
* * *
Far from being solemn or forlorn, the atmosphere in town was jolly and festive. It seemed more like a Fourth of July picnic than a hanging. People talked, laughed and enjoyed refreshments either purchased from the peddlers and local shops or brought from home. It was, as the Brahmin in Boston and New York would call such a gathering, the social event of the year.
When the church bell rang out, signifying the noon hour, the conversation died down and the crowd's anticipation rose. Necks craned as people looked toward the jail, waiting to see the door open and the sheriff bring the prisoner out. The spectators did not have long to wait. Three minutes after twelve, the lawman emerged, leading Rip Pratchett to his fate. Four muscular farmers, deputized for the occasion, accompanied them, ready to prevent the legal execution from devolving into a riotous lynching. To deter a possible escape attempt, the prisoner's hands were bound behind his back.
Colt, who stood barely over three feet tall, whined, "I can't see anything!"
Esau picked his son up and put him on his shoulders so that his head was above the crowd.
For the most part, the townspeople toned down their boisterous behavior as Sheriff Willoughby escorted the condemned man the short distance from the jail to the gallows, which had been constructed on the courthouse square specifically for the occasion. As spectators' eyes followed their progress, softly murmured words could be heard: killer, murderer, monster.
Colt leaned forward and whispered in his father's ear, "Is that the man they're going to hang?"
"Yup. That's Rip Pratchett."
At six years old, the boy did not fully understand what he was about to witness. He was told that Mrs. Pratchett had died and that her husband had killed her. Because of this, Rip was arrested, tried and convicted. Now, according to his mother, the man would get what was coming to him. Having been born on a farm, Colt knew what killing meant. Esau had to sometimes kill an animal for its meat. Did that mean his father had something coming to him, too? If so, what?
Although the prisoner had put up no resistance as he was led to the courthouse square, once he had to mount the steps of the scaffold, fear set in.
"No!" he groaned and tried to pull away.
Two of the deputies had to help Sheriff Willoughby drag him to the top of the gallows.
"I didn't do it!" Rip cried. When the sheriff ignored his protests of innocence, he turned to the people in the crowd and appealed to them. "I didn't do it. I didn't kill anyone, least of all my own wife."
If he had expected mercy from the townspeople who had gathered to see him executed, he was surely disappointed, for not a person among them wanted his life spared.
"Hang him!" an angry man yelled from somewhere to the left of the Clarksons.
His outcry was followed by a chorus of like-minded shouts.
As though performing in a play, the five-man hanging team took their positions on the stage. Two of the deputies remained at the bottom of the steps in case the prisoner broke free and tried to run. The other two stood on each side of Rip Pratchett. Sheriff Willoughby grabbed hold of the hemp rope that was suspended from the heavy crossbeam of the gallows and placed the noose around the prisoner's neck.
Realizing there was to be no reprieve, the condemned man's pleas for mercy turned to words of prayer.
"Our Father who art in heaven hallowed be thy name."
The sheriff tightened the rope and stepped back.
"Thy kingdom come."
As he awaited his death, Rip Pratchett looked at the people in the crowd. Many of them he had known all his life. Most of them frequented his general store and purchased their supplies from him and his wife. The couple had been an integral part of the community. Furthermore, he had always been an honest businessman who frequently showed charity to those in need. Yet there was not a kind expression to be seen that day. Hatred and a lust for vengeance were written on every face—except one.
"Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven."
Rip's eyes met Colt's. Neither one could look away.
"Give us this day ...."
Sheriff Willoughby pulled the lever, the trapdoor opened and the prisoner fell, mercifully breaking his neck in the fall. When the townspeople saw the motionless body at the end of the rope, they were disappointed. They felt they had been cheated out of their prize. Even those who had benefited from the shopkeeper's charity in the past had wanted to see him suffer in the end, to dance the hangman's jig.
"He didn't even twitch!" the blacksmith protested.
"Hanging is not like it was in the good old days when they strung people up from the limb of a tree," the wheelwright agreed. "Sometimes they would dance in the air for almost ten minutes."
"I heard of a hanging that went bad," the church deacon added. "It took the man's head clean off his shoulders."
The mayor, a former Civil War hero, joined in the discussion.
"I recall the first hanging I ever saw. It was July 7, 1865. I remember the date better than I remember my wedding anniversary. That was the day they hanged the four Lincoln conspirators: David Herold, Lewis Powell, George Atzerodt and Mary Surratt."
When the topic of conversation drifted from the hanging of the town's shopkeeper to the national tragedy of the president's assassination—a wound still fresh in people's minds after nearly ten years—the Clarksons decided it was time to head home. They had enough excitement for the day.
"I want to buy some candy first," Sissy said as they made their way back to the wagon through the slowly dispersing crowd. "I still have some money left."
"All right," Effie agreed. "And you can get your treat now, too, Colt."
Her son, still sitting on her husband's shoulders, did not answer. From the moment his eyes met Rip Pratchett's, he had forgotten all about licorice and caramels.
* * *
"I'm worried about Colt," Effie confided to her husband the following Sunday as she dressed for church. "He hasn't been the same since the hanging."
"I noticed he's been quieter than usual."
"Maybe we shouldn't have taken him. Maybe he was too young to see such a thing."
In 1890, there were no child psychologists or grief counselors to help children come to terms with death. Youngsters, especially boys, were expected to take things in stride. It was all part of becoming a man.
"He'll get over it," Esau confidently declared.
But Colt could not get Rip Pratchett out of his mind. The memory of the doomed man's blue eyes staring into his would not go away. Weeks passed, and although the boy began talking more, he was never the same as he was before witnessing the execution. Weeks became months. His mother still worried about him, and his father continued to insist that everything would be fine.
"Why do you keep that?" Colt asked his sister, pointing to the miniature gallows she proudly displayed on her windowsill.
"For the same reason I keep the toy elephant I got when we saw the Bailey Circus," Sissy answered. "It's a souvenir to remind me of the day."
"Why do you want to remember it? A man died."
"A bad man died. He killed his wife, and he deserved to be hanged."
"He said he was innocent."
"Of course, he did! No one admits to being a murderer."
"Maybe he didn't kill her," Colt said, remembering those blue eyes that looked into his just moments before the condemned man was put to death.
"It doesn't matter now. He's dead, so why bother thinking about him?"
The possibility of an innocent man being wrongly executed did not seem to bother Sissy. She viewed the hanging solely as a form of entertainment, like the circus, a parade or the the Fourth of July fireworks. The human tragedy connected to the event completely escaped her.
It was the boy's mother who helped him eventually come to terms with what he had witnessed. Effie had just taken a batch of cookies out of the oven when the boy walked into the kitchen and asked her about Rip Pratchett.
"How do they know he killed his wife?"
"He was arrested, put on trial and found guilty."
"What's a trial?"
Over milk and cookies, his mother explained, to the best of her limited knowledge, the legal process involved.
"There are two lawyers. One tries to convince the jury that the person is guilty by questioning witnesses and presenting evidence. The other will argue his innocence. It's up to the jury to decide which of the lawyers made a better case."
"I know what I want to be when I grow up," the boy announced after washing down his third cookie with the last of his milk.
"What's that?"
"A lawyer."
"Why?"
"So that when innocent people get arrested, I can help them."
"And what if they're guilty?" Effie asked.
"I'm only going to work for innocent people."
"How will you know the difference?"
"I'll just know it," Colt answered.
* * *
Shortly after Colt's thirteenth birthday, Esau Clarkson died. Effie and her son left West Virginia and moved to Pennsylvania where Sissy was living with her husband, who after serving in the Navy, had taken a job at the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard.
Despite having grown up in a rural area where he attended a one-room schoolhouse, Colt proved to be a good student. Upon finishing his secondary education, he was accepted into the University of Pennsylvania where he continued to excel in his studies.
"It looks as though you're going to fulfill your dream," Effie said when her son graduated college with honors.
"I'm not there yet, though. I still have to complete law school."
"I have no doubt you'll do it."
Effie's confidence in her son proved to be well-founded. After finishing law school, he opened his own practice. It took time for him to establish a name for himself; but when he did, people from all walks of life asked him to undertake their defense.
"Why don't you get a partner?" Annalisa Eastland, his fiancée suggested. "You have far too much work to handle by yourself."
"I manage to get it done, though. Besides, I use my heavy workload as an excuse to get out of defending guilty clients."
"Do you really believe all the people you defend are innocent?"
"I know they are."
"Why? Because they say so? If someone commits a crime, what makes you think they won't lie to you?"
Colt never told anyone of his amazing gift, but Annalisa was not just anyone. She was the woman he loved and planned on spending the rest of his life with. If he could trust anyone, it was her.
"When I was six, my parents took me to see a hanging."
"What? How horrible! Pennsylvania did away with public executions back before the Civil War!"
As the daughter of one of the city's most prominent prosecuting attorneys, she knew a great deal about the law and capital punishment.
"A shopkeeper named Rip Pratchett was convicted of killing his wife, and as the sheriff placed the rope around his neck, his eyes met mine. In those few seconds before he fell through the trapdoor to his death, I saw into his soul! I knew he didn't do it."
"Don't be ridiculous!" she scoffed. "You were just a child. When I was six, I was convinced my dog could read my mind because he would follow me into the kitchen at mealtime."
"This is not some childhood fantasy. My gift is real. When I meet a potential client, I look into his eyes and read the guilt or innocence in them. They do say the eyes are the window to the soul. All I do is open the window and look inside."
"If this talent of yours is real," Annalisa joked, "then don't look into my eyes. I'd hate to have you poking around inside my soul."
"Why not?" her fiancé laughed. "We're going to be married. That will make us one in the eyes of God."
"The gold band may entitle you to take possession of my body, but leave your hands off my soul!"
Although Annalisa clearly did not believe in his unique truth-detecting ability, he was not upset with her. He couldn't be. He adored her!
* * *
When Charlton Eastland ceremoniously gave his daughter away on her wedding day, he had mixed feelings about her choice of husband. On the one hand, the groom was a highly intelligent, hardworking, moral individual who obviously loved Annalisa. On the other, he was an idealist, a character trait that the hardnosed prosecutor considered to be a weakness in a man.
"No other defense lawyer in the city has won as many court cases as he has," Charlton told his wife. "And yet, what has he got to show for it? Most of his clients can't even afford to pay him!"
"Is it so terrible for a man to help the downtrodden citizens of Philadelphia?" Cornelia asked.
"My dear, you think like a woman. If you were a man, you'd agree with me that Colt Clarkson's first priority ought to be providing a proper home for our daughter."
"Annalisa doesn't seem to mind the prospect of living with her husband and mother-in-law. And why should she? Effie is a wonderful woman. But if you're so concerned about where the newlyweds will live, why don't you invite them to move in with us? Our house is definitely big enough for two families."
The thought of Colt living under his roof horrified Charlton. The times the two men had faced each other in court, the prosecutor had always come out on the losing side. Was professional jealousy the real reason he had reservations about the marriage, he wondered. Possibly.
By the time the couple celebrated their fifth wedding anniversary, however, the defense attorney's financial situation had improved. At least to the point where he, his wife and his widowed mother were able to move into a much larger house in a better neighborhood. Things were looking up for Charlton Eastland, as well. As he began his third year as Philadelphia's district attorney, he decided to run for governor.
Although he was a wealthy man himself, to achieve his lofty goal, he needed substantial financial backing. Not long after announcing his candidacy, he was visited by Thor Haugstad, a Scandinavian immigrant who became one of the city's wealthiest businessmen. Charlton was surprised by the visit since he had convicted the millionaire's son of first-degree murder while he was still trying court cases.
"What can I do for you, Thor?" the district attorney asked with suspicion.
"It's what we can do for each other that is important. I understand you want to go to Harrisburg."
"That's true."
"I might be able to help you."
"As much as I'd like your support, I can't pardon your son. Think of how that would look! If I did such a thing, I would be committing political suicide."
"I know that. I haven't come here to offer you a bribe."
"Then why did you come?"
"Your daughter's husband is the best defense attorney in the state, if not the entire country. If my son could get an appeal and a new trial ...."
"I can't guarantee Colt will take him on as a client. The young man is ... high-minded. He won't defend anyone that he believes is guilty."
"That's fine," Haugstad declared. "Because Sven is innocent."
Charlton doubted the man's claim, but he kept his opinion to himself.
"I'll talk to my son-in-law, but I can't make any promises."
* * *
At his father-in-law's urging, Colt Clarkson went to Eastern State Penitentiary to talk to Sven Haugstad.
"I didn't do it!" insisted the young man who had a reputation for carousing and causing trouble.
"The witnesses at your trial said otherwise," the attorney argued.
"They lied."
"Why would they do that?"
"How the hell should I know? Maybe they were jealous of me. Or maybe the ...."
That was the moment the prisoner looked the lawyer in the face. Colt peered through that window to the soul and knew the man was lying.
"I'm sorry," he said and rose from his seat.
"Where are you going?" Sven demanded to know.
"I can't defend you."
"But I got the death sentence. Damn it! You have to help me!"
Without a further word to the convicted man, Clarkson walked out of the penitentiary. He had no objections to the use of capital punishment, provided those condemned to it were guilty. In this case, a spoiled, overprivileged youth raped and murdered a young woman in cold blood and hoped to escape justice by virtue of his father's fortune and connections.
This isn't a unique situation, he realized. All too often, there are two justice systems in play: one for the rich and one for the poor. Well, I won't be a party to this unfair duality!
Six weeks later, on the eve of his execution, Sven Haugstad cut his own throat.
"The prison doctors were able to stabilize him," Charlton told his son-in-law.
"I don't see why they just didn't let him die. They're going to kill him anyway."
"Because the Commonwealth won't be cheated out of its pound of flesh," the district attorney said angrily.
"Why are you so upset?" Colt asked. "You tried his case. As I recall, you were pleased when he got the death sentence."
"Have you ever seen someone die in the electric chair?"
"No, but I did see a man hang."
"Hanging is a picnic next to electrocution. A quick drop and a snap of the neck, and it's all done."
Although he held his tongue out of respect, Colt did not appreciate his father-in-law trivializing Rip Pratchett's death. Before he had seen the innocence in the condemned man's blue eyes, he had seen his fear.
"Anyway, by this time tomorrow, he'll be dead," Charlton continued with a heavy sigh of defeat. "And I can't help blaming you."
"Me? What did I do?"
"You could have gotten him an appeal and a new trial. And even if you didn't get an acquittal, you might have gotten a less severe sentence."
"The man was guilty. He's getting what he deserved."
"Who do you think you are, God? No one knows what's in that young man's heart?"
Colt did not reveal to his father-in-law the secret he had shared with his wife. Like Annalisa, the candidate for governor probably wouldn't believe him either.
"Don't you think I know what this is really about?" he asked.
"Oh? What's that?" his father-in-law challenged.
"You're not concerned about what's in Sven Haugstad's heart but what's in his father's wallet. Being a district attorney isn't enough for you. You want to run for a higher office, and Thor Haugstad can help finance your campaign."
Those were the last words the two lawyers ever spoke to each other. Three months later, Charlton Eastland suffered a massive heart attack and died without achieving his goal of becoming Pennsylvania's next governor.
* * *
When influential members of the Philadelphia legal community suggested Colt Clarkson replace his late father-in-law as D.A., he adamantly declined.
"I'm a defense attorney, not a prosecutor," he told them in no uncertain terms.
It was his wife who made him see the advantages the office held.
"As district attorney," Annalisa pointed out, "you have the ultimate responsibility of seeing which cases get prosecuted. If you really can see a person's innocence or guilt, what better way to serve the innocent than to be sure they're never put on trial in the first place. Let's face it, even if a defendant gets acquitted, people always wonder if they are actually guilty."
Colt saw the logic of her argument and agreed to run. Despite never having prosecuted a case, voters chose him over the other candidates because of his outstanding record and his reputation for honesty. Once in office, he not only ensured that no innocent people were brought to trial, but he also saw to it that the guilty defendants were prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
"I hate to say it," Cornelia Eastland admitted to her daughter one day as the two women were having tea together, "but Colt is better at that job than your father was."
Annalisa frowned and replied, "I suppose so."
"Is something wrong between the two of you?"
"Not exactly."
"Why so vague? What is it?"
"Since he's taken office, I rarely see him. He works such long hours, and when he comes home, he seems more interested in what's going on in Europe than he is in me."
"You can't blame him for that. I'm concerned about the situation, too. It doesn't look as though President Wilson is going to keep us out of the war, after all."
"I know what a mess the world is in now. I read the newspapers, too. And I know how important Colt's job is. Oddly enough, I'm the one who talked him into running for office! But I never knew how lonely I would be. If only ...."
"If only what?" her mother asked.
"I believe if I had children, things would be different; but at my age, I don't see that happening."
"Did you ever consider adoption?"
"I suppose that's an option."
"If I were you, I would look into it. There are so many poor orphans out there in need of a loving home, and you'd make such a good mother."
Following Cornelia's well-intentioned advice, Annalisa visited St. Joseph Orphan Asylum. While taking a tour of the facility, she ran into an old friend who had attended school with her cousin.
"Leland!" she exclaimed.
"Annalisa! It's so good to see you?"
"What are you doing here?"
"One of the children is ill."
"You're a doctor, then. And do you work here at the orphanage?"
"No. I have a private practice, but I do what I can to help out here."
"It's nice to see you're continuing your family's legacy for charitable work."
Since the two had not seen each other for more than a decade, Mrs. Clarkson accepted the doctor's invitation to have lunch at Bookbinder's restaurant. Since both were born into wealthy Main Line families, they had much in common. No doubt, Leland Sheraton would have made a more suitable husband than the former West Virginia farm boy. This fact became apparent to Annalisa before the meal was over.
"Perhaps we can have lunch again sometime," the handsome doctor suggested.
"Yes. I'd like that."
"Would next week be too soon?" he asked hopefully.
It's not soon enough! she thought.
* * *
"Do sit down," Cornelia Eastland told her son-in-law as they waited in the parlor for news from the doctor. "You're going to wear out the carpet if you keep pacing back and forth."
"I can't sit," Colt replied. "I'm about to become a father! Honestly, after all these years, I'd given up hope."
Despite his mother-in-law's objections, the district attorney continued to walk from the hallway door to the window and back. Occasionally, he heard his wife's cries of pain from the floor above.
"I hope Annalisa is all right. It's been hours now."
"I'm sure she's fine," Cornelia said with confidence. "She's in good hands."
Another hour went by. Then two. Finally, the Eastland family doctor descended the staircase. The smile on his face augured the good news.
"Congratulations! You have a fine, healthy son."
Colt was elated.
"And my wife? How is she?"
"She's weak from the ordeal, which is to be expected. The child was large, and the labor was long and difficult. Make sure she remains in bed for the next week or so, and see that she eats. She needs to build up her strength."
"Can I go see them now?"
"Yes, but don't stay long. Annalisa needs her rest."
Even though her damp hair clung to her sweat-stained face, his wife never looked so beautiful.
"You did it, darling!" he cried. "We have a boy!"
"I'm so tired," she managed to say in a weak voice.
"I'll let you sleep. I'm going across the hall to see our son in the nursery."
He leaned over and gave her a light kiss on the forehead. It left a slightly salty taste in his mouth.
"I love you," he whispered.
At that moment, his eyes met hers, and he felt the same shock as he did on the day of the hanging. But unlike the innocence he had seen in Rip Pratchett's blue eyes, he saw guilt in Annalisa's. Looking beyond her green irises, he gazed into the window of her soul and learned the truth. The child was not his.
An hour later, Cornelia found her son-in-law in the nursery, staring down at the sleeping infant.
"Why don't you come downstairs?" she asked. "The cook has prepared a light supper for us."
"No, thank you."
"But you haven't had anything to eat all day."
"I'm not hungry," Colt said, his calm voice betraying none of the turmoil he felt.
"You don't have to stand guard; your son isn't going anywhere. And neither is Annalisa. I just looked in on her, and she's sleeping peacefully."
How can she sleep after betraying me?
For the past hour, he had racked his brain, trying to determine the identity of his wife's lover. He was unaware of her friendship with Leland Sheraton, so no suspicion fell on the young doctor.
I know so little about what she does when I'm at work. I have no idea where she goes or who she sees. Maybe I should have paid more attention when she talked to me.
The fact that he had not been the most attentive husband did not absolve her from guilt, however. Nor would it deter him from punishing her.
* * *
"Are you sure you don't want me to stay a few days longer?" Cornelia asked.
"There's nothing you can do," her daughter replied, still confined to her bed. "The nurse is caring for the baby, and Colt is taking time off to look after me."
"He's going to be an excellent father!"
"I know," Annalisa agreed, hiding her true feelings behind a lie and a false smile. "But it's getting late. You better go if you want to be home by dark. Besides, I'm still exhausted. I want to take a nap before dinner."
It was Colt and not the maid who brought a tray of food up to her room later that evening.
"Where's Nanette?" she asked.
"I gave her the evening off. She's been working so hard lately."
"That's thoughtful of you."
"While I'm here, there's something important we need to discuss."
"What is it?"
"Our son's name. We can't go on calling him 'the baby' forever," Colt laughed.
"I'd like to name him Charlton, after my father."
"Oh? Are you sure you wouldn't rather name the baby after his own father?"
"You mean call him Colt Clarkson, Jr.?"
"No, I mean name him after his real father."
Annalisa's face lost all its color, and her lower lip began to quiver.
"I don't know what you mean."
"I told you I had a gift, that I could look into a person's eyes and know what is in his soul. Imagine what I saw when I looked into your eyes!"
The cuckolded husband then scooped his unfaithful wife out of her bed and carried her out into the hallway.
"What are you doing?" she cried. "Put me down!"
He ignored her pleas and continued walking. He didn't stop until he reached the top of the staircase.
"Where are you taking me?"
Annalisa received no reply. Colt retained his stony silence as he threw his helpless wife down the staircase to her death.
* * *
Ferguson Mumfrey, the district attorney for the city and county of Philadelphia, was stunned when he passed his predecessor on Market Street.
"I hardly recognized the man!" he told Tyrone O'Dell, the deputy D.A. "I know he's been through some hard times with his wife dying, losing his job and house and his mother-in-law getting custody of his son, but—my God!—he barely looks human now!"
"I hear there's been talk of having him committed to Kirkbride's hospital," O'Dell said.
"When I think of how he used to be," Ferguson mused. "He was amazing! He could have gone on to become governor, maybe even president! And now he's a homeless vagrant. It's as though he has completely given up on life."
"I guess it's as they say," Tyrone observed, "the bigger they are, the harder they fall."
Over time, the once-prominent district attorney became less an object of pity and more the subject of mockery and revulsion. The longer his hair and beard grew and the stronger the odor he gave off became, the more people turned away from him in disgust.
If Colt Clarkson noticed people's aversion to his presence, it didn't seem to bother him. Since murdering his wife, he had become immune to emotions. All except one, that is. Fear still had a grip on him. It was why he now looked and smelled like a missing link in Mr. Darwin's chain of evolution. The former district attorney no longer maintained good personal hygiene because he feared looking into a mirror and seeing his reflection. For when he did, he could not help peering into his eyes, the window to his own soul, and seeing the terrible guilt that festered there.
Salem's eye is not an indication of guilt. It's just red from staying up all night playing video games!
