Confession

Lucy sat at a table in the day room, facing the barred windows. She was skimming the letter from the journalist, lips pursed.

“. . . despite the guilty opinion . . .” The letter read. Except that was misleading. She had never sat in front of a jury. Lucy had only been in front of a judge long enough to plead guilty.

That how she ended up here, incarcerated. She never would have imagined this being her life. She skimmed the letter again.

She was not opposed to what they wanted. In fact, she was so on board that she had even collected some paper and a pencil to write the letter. It was some of the quotes in the journalist’s letter that made her pause. It was like they misunderstood what she had done, and by extension they were asking for a story that was different than the truth.

All the more reason, she thought, to respond. Lucy Garst pulled her own blank paper towards her and lifted a pencil.

“Ms. James,

I’m willing to share my story. In the interest of clarity, I’ll start at the beginning.

I never wanted kids, which was lucky because it turns out I can’t gave them anyway. Even so, I love my nieces and nephews more than I thought possible. Almost as if they were my own. I’d like to believe I love them that much, but I’ll never really be able to know.

I thought my husband, whom I married when my oldest niece was 13, felt the same. I was wrong. I also thought he loved me. Maybe, in a twisted way, he did. But it wasn’t the healthy, well-adapted love of a mature man in an adult relationship. He was, I believe, incapable. He was far from well-adapted. He was twisted and broken and had learned how to hide in plain sight.

Perhaps I should tell you about him. Even after all these years, I still feel like I have to defend how he became the person he was. I will never defend his actions. There is no defense. I know (now) only how he became the monster he was.

You see, he was abused. Not just beaten by disciplinarian parents. No. He was in the devil’s house and his monster would visit him in the middle of the night. He never stood a chance.

His own father dying before he graduated high school was like being released from hell. Yet the monster in my husband had already hatched.

I didn’t know this. Not until later.

I found him on a computer I didn’t know we had. He was looking at photos I can honestly say still haunt me. They were children.

He confessed. He broke down. He told me his story. He went to therapy. I stood by him, but I never stopped watching him. It was when my sister was coming to visit, just her and the kids and my husband was a little too excited about it. That’s when I knew.

I filed for divorce on May 18th, moved into a hotel for the weekend, and he was officially classified a missing person two weeks later.

You may wonder what the point of that family history report was. I’ll tell you.

I realized that no one else knew the threat he posed. No one. How many other kids were victims because their assailants were not known to be threats?

I knew then that I could do more. As you may know, I followed through on that.

Ms. James, please remember that this is not a confession. This is simply a story.

Did you know that sex offenders are required to register where they live? Did you know that that information is required to be publicly available?

After my husband was gone I checked the registry. My neighborhood had three. One involved children. It kept me up at night knowing that my nephews might be riding their bikes down the street in full few of this guy.

I researched him. I found out where he worked. I scoped out his house. They charged me with premeditated murder. I pled guilty. You know I was charged with four. After the first, I felt so much better about the world.

Does that make me a monster? An arm of justice?

Do you know how many offenders turn out to be repeat offenders? How many get out on parole only to return to their sick ways?

There are fewer monsters in the world now. You know I failed to cover my tracks. I guess I didn’t think anyone would miss them, so I didn’t think anyone would look for me. I’m sitting in prison now, so clearly I was wrong.

I know you want the story, how a house wife turned into a serial killer. I can’t blame my husband, he isn’t the one that killed the others. I think maybe he just triggered something in me. I think we all have a button. He pushed mine and I knew I had to protect the kids.

Our system failed us when they let the predators back into the streets. I like to believe I fixed that mistake. I won’t, like you’ve suggested, call myself a hero. A hero saves lives. I may have been too late.

Anyway, I won’t tell you how I did it. I’m not trying to teach anyone how to get away with murder - and I did not.

I’m not sorry. I’m not proud. I just don’t think I really had a choice.

We can talk again soon.

Yours,

Lucy Garst.”

Lucy finished writing and folded her papers together. She hadn’t planned for this to feel so much like therapy. It did feel good to have it off her chest. Maybe she’d write another letter soon. Maybe she’d tell Ms. James about the other men, about how she found them. About how two of the four were married to women with kids, and their new wives were oblivious to their husbands’ past. Maybe she’d write about the rush of adrenaline she felt walking away, knowing she’d done the world a favor.

Maybe.

Or maybe she’d keep it to herself. The way she kept the rest of her husband’s story to himself. The fact that she knew where he was. That she had killed him first. That it’d been an accident. That she wasn’t sorry. That she’d do it again. She wanted to do it again - and that’s how she started targeting the others.

Lucy Garst stared off into space, vaguely aware of the light filtering through the window. Oblivious to the other women that had gathered in the day room.

“She killed my brother.” One whispered.

“What’re you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Maybe say thank you?”

The group watched Lucy. She was one of them, but not really one of them.

The bell rang. Time was up. The day room was closed.