Terrible Thom was scheduled for Juvenile Court for his attempted arson. Judge Richard "Wretched" Stanley presiding. Since Thom was a visitor and due to go back up North, some exotic and completely illegal and unenforceable transfer of the case to his home state had been arranged.
Thom was seated at the defense table with his mother, and I at the prosecution table, when the chamber door burst open and in charged Judge Stanley, scowl on his face and black robes flowing like the Wicked Witch's from the East.
Suddenly, Thom was at my side, grabbing my hand. "Can I hold your hand, Det Young?" he said. "I'm really quite terrified of the Judge." And at that moment he wasn't the miniature monster but just a scared six-year-old kid. And I felt so sorry for him.
Thom survived the court hearing, hand in mine, and returned to Yankeeland. About a year later, I received a call from the detective I'd talked to before about Thom. He had news. It seems Thom had gotten into an argument with his mother and struggled with her. The basement door had been left open and mama slipped and fell down the stairs, breaking her neck and killing her.
"I just know this little turd shoved her down those stairs but the case is thin. 'Course it's juvenile court and, with his background, not much evidence will be needed."
"So what'll happen?" I said.
"At most they'll lock him up until he's eighteen. Then he'll be released, a full grown psychopath, to do whatever he wishes."
"Hope he doesn't come South for the winter," I said.
Over the years I lost track of Thom. But, rest assured he's, and thousands of others, out there. With names like Ted Bundy. Dahmer. Gacy. Ridgway.
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