They Gotta Sleep Sometime: Murder In Memphis

By James Paavola

Learning to cope with bullies is an unfortunate part of life, a hurdle to overcome. But for too many, being bullied is traumatic, having lifelong consequences. Who can say that being the target of bullying won't affect every decision they will make in their lifetime?...or the decisions of their children?...or those of their children's children? Memphis Police Lt. Julia Todd learns that three of her elderly aunt's high school classmates have died in their hospital beds within the past six months. Her investigation takes her to Central H.S., class of 1948, where she discovers a clique who bullied students they considered to be different. Now sixty years later the dead bodies of these bullies are piling up. Todd and her team scramble to prevent a fourth murder, then a fifth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Paavola
• Release date: Jan 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9780983410911

James Paavola

Dr. James C. Paavola is a retired psychologist. His primary focus had been children, adolescents, families, and the educational system. Jim began writing mysteries at age sixty-four. He lives with his wife in Memphis, Tennessee.

Book preview

Bullying

Most of us have been bullied at some time—whether through cruel name calling, spreading lies, property destruction, threats, or physical assault. Bullying assails two of the most basic human needs—to feel safe and to belong. Of course, many of us have also at times been bullies—perhaps acquiescing to peer pressure, or securing our place in a social pecking order.

Bullying thrives when there is a reduced capacity or willingness to empathize beyond one’s self or one’s peer group. Often motivated by anger and self-centeredness, bullies strive to elevate their sense of power and security at the expense of others. Learning to cope with bullies is an unfortunate part of life, a hurdle to overcome. But for too many young people, being bullied is traumatic, having lifelong negative effects. Who can say that being the target of bullying won’t affect every decision they will make in their lifetime?…or the decisions of their children?…or their children’s children?

Empathy

Empathy is a feeling of compassion and tenderness upon viewing a victim’s plight.

—Stephen L. Franzoi, 2000

Empathy is the capacity to read the cues of others and thus imagine the experience of the other. Empathy provides the highest level of deterrence for abusive behavior. It is most effective…because it is based on a recognition that not every person has the same needs or feels the same, even in very similar circumstances.

—Gail Ryan, 1997

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Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a harder battle. —Plato

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This book is dedicated to my parents,

Carroll and Martha Paavola.

I know you would have been proud.

Acknowledgements

I want to express my sincere thanks to my wife, Marilyn, who has continued to encourage my writing, and who is blessed with the ability to give constructive criticism while gracefully dealing with my defensiveness. I also want to thank our daughter Shannon who, after reading a draft of the manuscript, designed the book cover to match. And to Bradley Harris who again agreed to edit my work. He continues to teach. I continue my attempts to learn. To all of you—Thanks.

Chapter 1

For Every Action…

A Reaction

April 2008…snippets from nightmares long ago. A distant sound: Click…click, hum…hum, click…click, hum…hum. Repeating. Rhythmic.

Fear growing. The taste of blood.

The sound louder. Metal on metal: scrape…scrape. Something rubbing: hum…hum.

Mouth hurts. Faster. Must go faster.

Scrape…scrape. Hum…hum. Louder.

My face, wet. Blood and snot on the back of my hand.

Scrape…scrape. Hum…hum.

Can’t see. Everything’s blurry—a long, dirty, white ribbon.

Scrape…scrape. Hum…hum.

Losing my balance…wobbly…Ahh!

• • •

Midnight, June 11, 2008…angel of mercy. She had been waiting in the stairwell for twenty minutes. She eased the door open. The hospital hallway was quiet, empty. She stayed to the right side as she walked down the hall, her chin lowered, the bill of her baseball cap pulled down, straining to hear the slightest sound. She found the room and slipped inside. This was her first time. More energized than nervous. Her focus keen, her movements efficient.

The elderly man was sleeping, an oxygen line under his nose, a heart monitor to his left. She watched his chest rise and fall as she drew the syringe from her pocket, pulled the cap. Grabbing the IV line, she sank the needle into the injection port and depressed the plunger till the contents had been emptied. She capped the syringe, returned it to her pocket, and left the room. Exhilarated, she strode assertively down the hall. His heart monitor alarm sounded as she pushed through the stairwell door.

Chapter 2

A Square Peg

May 1966…the worm turns. Ninth-grade math teacher, Miss Doreen Turner, demonstrated how to convert a word problem into the correct algebraic formula. Carol Stromber strained to understand. Algebra was her most difficult subject.

This is so stupid, Carol thought. Who cares how long the eagle can fly back and forth between trains headed toward one another on the same track? We should be worried about all the people who will get hurt when the trains crash into each other.

She looked up when Miss Turner asked, Can someone tell me which formula best describes this problem? One student raised his hand with enthusiasm.

Oh, no, Carol thought. Not Thomas again. He knows everything. Why don’t they just move him up to the high school? It’s not fair—

Carol flinched as a tightly folded triangle of notebook paper sailed in from the right, landing on her opened textbook. She froze, fixed on the blue-lined missile. Her stomach sank as she anticipated the contents. She felt their eyes but didn’t dare look up. Ever so slowly she moved her right hand forward. Giggles were stifled as her fingers made contact.

This was not the first note. Over the years she’d discovered them tucked inside her lunchbox or coat pocket. She knew the hate she’d find inside. She knew how she’d feel when she read it. Yet, she was driven to open it. Carol felt as if everyone were watching, barely able to contain themselves, gleefully anticipating the anguish it would cause.

Why does everyone always pick on me? she thought. Why do they get such a kick out of hurting others? Out of hurting me? It’s not fair. What if they were the ones being picked on? They wouldn’t like it. They wouldn’t like it one bit. What’d they write this time? I have to know.

The classroom noise was replaced with a hollow, echoing quiet as she intensified her concentration. Carol pulled the paper to her. She slowly unfolded it to find a heading printed in large black letters, followed by entries in different handwriting, in different colored ink.

THE BIGGEST DORK OF THE 9TH GRADE CLASS

"Can you believe the clothes she wore today? They’re even grosser than yesterday. I wonder if her mother knows what she’s been wearing?" was written in red.

"I can’t believe the principal allows her to come to school like this—dirty old army boots with mismatched laces, her jeans dragging on the floor with frayed ends, and an oversized long-sleeved flannel shirt in ninety degree heat," was written in blue.

"She dresses like one of those dirty beatniks. Grrross!! She looks more like a boy than a girl," was also written in blue.

"Have you ever seen the sick stuff she does in art class? Her paintings look as disgusting as she does," was printed in red.

Though there was no name, Carol knew they were talking about her. A handful of students had been making her life hell for years. She was on the verge of crying, but didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing how much she hurt. She’d been putting up with this since the second or third grade.

Yuk! She stinks, they would say.

Eeeuuuw! She’s got cooties.

Did you see that? She doesn’t know how to bounce the ball in four-square, and she never catches it. What a spaz.

In her adolescent rebellion Carol chose to dress like the beatniks she had seen on television and read about in magazines. She rationalized that she was being attacked and rejected for what she looked like, not for the person she was. It was her defense—porcupine quills to keep others from getting too close, from hurting her. But it wasn’t enough. She refolded the sheet of paper and stuffed it into her shirt pocket.

Carol loosed the button of her left shirt sleeve, and explored her forearm with her finger tips, slowly, expectantly. She found them, the scars that helped define her. She didn’t remember why she cut herself that first time. But she was surprised when she felt better afterward. Sometimes cutting was her way of saying, I really am the horrible person they say I am. I deserve to be cut up. At other times, it was her silent scream to the world. Here I am! In this depersonalized act of cutting, the sight of her blood confirmed she was still alive. On more depressive occasions she cut in a distorted attempt to strike back at those who had hurt her. You’ll be sorry when I’m gone. It’ll be your fault, and you’ll feel guilty for the rest of your lives. Even in those suicidal times she had never cut so deeply her life was in danger, at least not yet. The more she thought about today’s note, the greater the urge to cut, and she began to dig her fingernails into her forearm. She stopped.

My paintings? she thought. They don’t like my paintings? There’s nothing wrong with my paintings. Even Mr. Turnbull likes them. He’s always displaying them in the art room. They haven’t got a clue. They still paint like seven year-olds, with bright yellow suns in the upper corner. How dare they blast my art?

The class bell rang. Carol re-buttoned her shirtsleeve. A fierce anger was building. But there was something new. This anger was focused outward. She had always maintained tight controls on her anger, afraid of what she might do if it escaped. She looked around for the clique of eight girls and boys she knew so well. They were from well-to-do families, families her parents socialized with. Some were in this class. She spotted three talking excitedly: Linda, Mary, and Sue. Mary smiled smugly as she turned, expecting to see the usual hurt in Carol’s eyes. But not this time. This time she saw rage. Scared, Mary turned, gathered her two friends, and moved from the classroom quickly. Carol collected her books without looking away from the doorway, and followed.

• • •

Sixth period was a wash for Carol as she spent the entire Tennessee History class thinking about the clique. Her anger was consuming. She wrote their full names on a piece of notebook paper labeled: THE HATEFUL EIGHT.

Mary and John, the two ring leaders, were listed first, followed by Linda, Deborah, Sue, Robert, Patricia, and William. She thought about payback. It would serve them right to lose what made them act so superior—their looks, their money, and their precious clique. She began writing down ways each of them might become disfigured, perhaps from a fiery car crash, or having acid in their cold cream. They would be so ugly no one would want to be seen with them. Her anger churned. She envisioned each of them being afflicted in some way, all crying, all pleading for mercy, telling her how sorry they were for having caused her so much pain. But unlike the sense of relief and closure she experienced when she cut herself, she only felt more anger. This would not be the end.

Chapter 3

Drastic Measures

September 1966…the shrink. The Strombers entered a small midtown office. Carol looked angry, defiant. Her parents had been unusually intense that morning, insisting she come with them. Carol sat in the outer office while they went in to talk to psychologist Dr. Frank Diller.

So, what brings you here this morning? asked Diller as he packed his pipe.

It’s our fifteen year-old daughter Carol, Mrs. Stromber said. We’re at our wits’ end. You’ll know as soon as you see her.

Tell me what she’s been doing that’s so distressing, Diller said.

I don’t know where to begin, said Mrs. Stromber.

Diller remained quiet. He tamped down the tobacco, flicked on his lighter, took a few puffs, and waited. The silence made Mrs. Stromber uncomfortable—she felt compelled to fill it.

Well, she dresses like a bum, like a filthy hippie, she said. She acts like a boy. Her grades are atrocious. She has no friends. She refuses to go to church with us. She’s angry all the time, and she doesn’t listen to anything we say. She stays out after curfew, and she spends all her time in her room listening to those stupid folk songs and that Beatles garbage.

Is she sexually active?

Oh, dear God, I hope not, she said. What would everyone say if she got herself pregnant? How could you even suggest such a thing? What a horrid thought.

I see… said Diller. Is there anything else?

Mrs. Stromber glanced at her husband. He looked down. After a long pause she said quietly, She cuts herself.

I beg your pardon.

She cuts on her arm when she gets upset.

Tell me more, said Diller. Has she had medical treatments for the cuts?…Have the cuts been life threatening?…When does she cut?…What triggers the cutting?…What does she use?…How deeply does she cut?…How many times has this happened?…How long has this been going on?…Has she seen another therapist?

• • •

Outside in the waiting room Carol was antsy, her mind racing. I ain’t gonna sit around here all day, she thought. Wasn’t my idea to be here. I don’t have any problems I can’t handle just fine all by myself. And I sure as hell don’t need to see a shrink.

She jumped when the office door opened. Her parents appeared with a rather short man smoking a pipe. She noted a wrinkled sport coat, and a skinny black tie knotted off center. He wore a short goatee. A few rebellious hairs stood up in the middle of his baldpate. What remained of his hair was short, brown. Tobacco stains detracted from his smile.

You must be Carol. I’m Dr. Diller. Please come in.

He waited for her as he puffed on his pipe. Carol did not move at first, but her mother took two quick steps in her direction and started talking through clenched teeth, her eyes blazing.

Don’t embarrass us any further, Carol thought she heard. Going inside the office seemed her best option. She left her chair and crossed to the office door, entering ahead of Diller.

Please sit down, said Diller as he closed the door.

Carol walked heavy-footed to one of the chairs, plopped down loudly, and forcefully blew out air. She waved her hands to dissipate the pipe smoke that hung around the desk.

Here, he said. Let me open a window. The smoke gets a little thick at times.

He settled in the chair behind his wooden desk and studied her. He saw a slender teenager, more attractive than plain. A blue, rolled kerchief held her long, brown hair off her face. No makeup. Her attire was consistent with her mother’s description. A black peace sign had been inked into the back of her left hand. Diller felt uneasy. He had no experience with teenagers with a history of self-mutilation, or the sixties counterculture. He searched for an opening comment.

Your parents are quite worried about you. Tell me what you think they’re worried about, he began.

Carol stared at her boots.

He was caught off guard by her lack of response. Surely, you have some idea why they brought you here.

Silence.

Diller fiddled with his pipe. He tapped out the remains of the old tobacco into an ash tray, put more tobacco in the bowl, tamped it, lit it, and took a few long puffs. Smoke billowed. He used the time to consider the situation, to find a different strategy. He looked at the ceiling, a puzzled expression on his face.

"Well, perhaps it was you who brought them, he said. Carol reacted with her own quizzical look. Tell me why you brought your parents to see me. What’re they doing that’s been driving you batty?" Carol jumped at the opening.

They don’t understand me. They don’t care about me. They’re only concerned about what others think of them because of me. She caught herself and stopped. She hadn’t meant to say anything.

That’s kind of what I was guessing. Tell me some of the things they don’t understand. Things important to you.

Now Carol was off balance. Was he really asking about her parents? You know… she began, the usual stuff. They’ve been disappointed in me for as long as I can remember. I never could do that sissy ballet crap, and I never looked good in those stupid frilly dresses for Cotillion class, and I could never remember which fork to use or how to sit at high tea, and I never got the waltz. I’m their social disaster.

Their ‘social disaster’?

"I’m not a real Stromber. I don’t fit in with their uppity friends. They’re totally embarrassed by me."

And, that makes you feel…?

Like shit! Carol couldn’t believe she’d just sworn in front of this man. She stopped and sneaked a look to assess the damage. But Diller merely puffed away on his pipe.

Like shit?

Yeah…that’s how I feel.

Is that why you dress this way? You know, to show your parents how you feel? It’s only a guess mind you, but I’d think your parents would say that you dress like shit.

Carol smiled sheepishly, both because the doctor was swearing, and because she was sure her parents did think her clothes looked like shit. But she answered with a three-syllable sing-song sound he interpreted to be, I don’t know.

And what is the point you’re making with your clothes?

That I’m not one of those prissy, goody two-shoes girls. And they’re not going to turn me into one.

Are you also telling them to go jump in the lake?

Huh?

You know, go to hell. Are you telling everyone to go to hell?

I guess so.

Are you upset that you didn’t fit into ballet and Cotillion like the others?

No! I don’t want to be like them.

Me, I never could play football. Too small, too uncoordinated. Kids used to tease me mercilessly about not being able to play football. I didn’t like that, but I still would’ve given anything to be able to play. But you didn’t feel like that? You didn’t wish you could do all those things?

Okay. Sure. I wished I could do it. I used to pray about it all the time. But God never helped me. And they were so hateful.

Who were hateful?

"The kids. They always made fun of me. And they still do. I hate them."

They’ve hurt you, haven’t they?

She’d let him past the porcupine quills. Carol began to tear up. She looked down.

I’m sorry they hurt you. Is that why you cut your arm?

Carol tensed, her anger flashed. They had to tell you about that, didn’t they? She squirmed, then regained her adolescent cool. It’s no biggy. I haven’t done that in a long time.

Not in a long time? How long?

Last spring.

Why’d you stop?

I don’t know. I just stopped.

Dr. Diller, your next appointment is here, came a voice over the intercom.

Oh, dear. The time just flew by. I’m afraid we have to stop for now. I’d like to hear more. I do hope you’ll come again next week.

Carol didn’t respond. She was still smoldering about her parents telling a total stranger about her cutting. She walked out with Diller.

• • •

Angry, scared, confused, Carol sat in the back seat of the car, her lips pursed, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Her legs opened and closed rapidly, humming on the seat. My parents have flipped, she thought, especially Mom. A shrink. They think I’m crazy. They’re the ones who’re crazy if they think they can lock me up somewhere…because I dress different? Because I cut myself a few times? No way I’m gonna let that happen.

You have an appointment with Dr. Diller next week, Tuesday at five, her mother said.

Carol stared out the side window.

Did you hear me?

No response.

Her mother turned in the passenger seat to look at Carol. Did you hear me, young lady? she said.

No response.

Look at me when I’m talking to you. I will not tolerate this disrespect, she yelled. Look at me!

Carol turned, lips still pursed, defiance in her eyes. You’re doing all this because I embarrass you, she said, tight-lipped.

"Of course you embarrass me. All the other parents are always bragging about their kids. There’s nothing for me to brag about. They’ve all seen you. They all know how you are, how you dress," her mother said.

Okay. Okay. Let’s just calm down, her father said. Carol, honey, we simply don’t know what to do… how to help you. We know you’re unhappy. We want our little girl back.

What did Dr. Diller say to you? demanded her mother.

I don’t have to tell you. That’s confidential, said Carol.

No it’s not. You’re under eighteen, her mother said.

Time out! Please, said her father. Dr. Diller requested that his time with Carol be confidential, unless he believed she was in any danger. And we agreed.

"Well, tell us something, her mother said. You were in there for twenty-five minutes."

No response.

What did you think of Dr. Diller? asked her father.

I don’t know.

He seemed like he’d be a fair person. I trust him, he said.

"Well, I didn’t think he was so fair, said her mother. He wasn’t overly concerned about anything I said."

Carol perked up. I thought he was fair.

Yeah? Well what did he say about you cutting on yourself? her mother asked.

Nothing, Carol said.

"Nothing! That’s a lie. He asked us plenty about it. He was very disturbed," her mother said.

What’d you tell him? asked Carol.

That’s confidential, her mother mimicked. She paused. He asked if you were sexually active.

Sexually active? What’d you say? asked Carol

I told him I’d just die if you went and got yourself pregnant, her mother said.

You what! said Carol. Mother! How could you say that?

Hey! Hey! Stop this, you two, pleaded her father. Honey, we’re worried about the cutting. We’re worried that you’ll—

Don’t even think about saying that, her mother interrupted.

I don’t do that no more, all right? said Carol.

Since when? asked her mother.

It’s been months now, Carol said. It wasn’t a big deal anyway.

That’s a relief, said her father. Carol. We still want you to see Dr. Diller. We need his help. C’mon, you said you thought he was fair. Please.

A long silence.

Carol? he said.

I’ll go one more time, she said. But that’s it.

Chapter 4

Her Very Own Fifty—Minute Hour

October 1966…can’t get no satisfaction. Carol watched as he fiddled with his pipe. This was her fifth session with Dr. Diller. She knew his pipe routine by heart. She looked forward to it. It was mesmerizing. Soothing. He scraped the bowl with the reamer of his silver-colored pipe tool, then tapped it on the