Manslaughter - How to Get Away with It

Lots of people die of sickness or old age. Some people are murdered, with pictures in the paper, court proceedings, and convictions.

This is the story of how I died - a quiet little death, some forty-six years ago.

How did a well-respected bank teller, a religious man, get away with his second (that I know of) manslaughter?

Let me explain.

In 1979, I was 12 years old. I was 5' 7" tall and physically developed. As such, men hit on me. Some of them, realizing my age, backed off. Others not so much.

It was nothing new to me. My earliest recollection of being used to satisfy men was when Mum and Dad (my biological Dad) rushed me to the hospital after taking my aunt's antidepressants. I tried to fight the consultant off, but I was two. I had no chance.

When I was ten, Mother remarried after being widowed for four years. His name was Colin, and he was a real Jekyll-and-Hyde character. 

Colin met us all at the same time, Mum, me, and the others, my sister and brother. Friends introduced Mum and Colin when she needed to look at a tent. They all erected the tent in his garden. I think he knew I was a vulnerable kid; he saw it. That was part of the attraction.

To Mum, he was pretty submissive. She did what she wanted and didn't seem to take his wishes into account much.

To me, he was a Monster.

I witnessed his first murder when I was ten. It may have been manslaughter, I am not sure. But she was definitely dead. I knew what he had done, but I would never tell. He had hung me over the edge of a bridge and warned me not to. I can still see the black water churning as he held me tightly by the ankles.

It wasn't necessary, though.

Once you have seen someone take a life, it adds a whole new level of fear. I knew what he was capable of. Living with someone like that, never knowing when he might change, required hyper-vigilance. 

Fortunately, having a volatile, violent mother had given me just that; I was able to keep out of his way, mostly. 

I was most vulnerable when I was asleep.

Many a night, he came to my room. You would have thought he would creep in silently, terrified of being caught. No, he was too clever for that. He would wait until Mum was engrossed in a TV program and then say:

"I'm just going to put the kettle on and check on Ruth."

Mum was too into her program to worry about how long he spent "checking" on me. Sometimes Colin required my sexual services. Other times, he indulged his passion for strangulation.

He called it "The Punishment". Whenever I did something good, got praised, I'd get The Punishment. He did it because he didn't want me to have any sense of self-esteem.

It involved his strangling me until I became unconscious, then releasing his grip. When I came to, he would do it again. Four or five times, usually. He didn't want me to achieve; he wanted me to fail. When he abused me, he would call me names, tell me what a failure I was ...

...then one night, I didn't come to.

I died.

Later, I learned how he covered it up, how he escaped punishment.

I don't think he wanted to kill me. But, knowing the speed at which he worked, he had this planned, just in case.

He pulled me back into a sleeping position in my bed. He took Mum in her cup of tea and said: 

"I've got a headache, love. I'm going for a walk."

Mum, more in the television than in the room, nodded.

Colin went down to the phone box. He telephoned his pal, Guy. Then Guy phoned a few mutual friends.

They agreed to meet in our street, parking away from our road and walking discreetly to meet on our drive. Pedophile rings relied on secrecy. They already knew they would never tell.

Fifteen minutes later, there were five adult males on the drive. And each of them had a spare pair of shoes.  Colin snuck into the house, into the bedroom, and let them in through the window. 

Careful footprints on the windowsill. In the carpet. On the drive.

They crowded around my bed and touched themselves. Ejaculate was on my floor, bed coverings, and sheet.

Then they silently left, out of the window, changing shoes quickly. They left the first shoes under Colin's ancient car. They put on the second pair, went back to their cars, and drove back to the comfort of their homes.

Colin pulled the covers neatly over my cold, dead body. He crept out, took the shoes into his workshop, and cut them all into tiny pieces. He buried them loosely under the ash where he had his regular bonfires. He slipped back indoors and went to watch TV with Mum. 

In the morning, Mum was surprised to see that it was 7:45 am and I was missing. I hated being late, and most mornings I was up before my 7:30 alarm.

Mum opened my bedroom door and called my name, as Colin showered and got ready for work. The bank waits for no one, he used to say. Humming to himself as he knotted his tie, he called out:

"Everything alright, love?"

A horrified scream answered him.

Mum shook my body and realized I was dead. My sister rushed in and then slowly backed out of my bedroom. "She's dead!" she told my brother, in a shocked whisper.

Mum, ever the medical professional, picked up the phone and called emergency services. 

Time ticked by, and Mum sat at the kitchen table with the others. The solemn faces, wrought with anxiety, didn't cry. They just waited. 

Under the table, even the dogs looked glum. Six pairs of eyes gazed at Mum with a mixture of sadness and defiance. How dare she forget their breakfast?

Eventually, the sound of sirens broke through the morning air. An ambulance driven by calm, capable paramedics arrived and checked my non-existent pulse. 

"She's dead." 

Mum burst into tears, sobbing. The others started crying too, holding each other. My brother and sister are crying over my death. I was surprised to see such emotion from them.

Colin didn't cry. He kept up his pretense of shock. 

"She's not dead, the ambulance is here."

"I'm sorry, Sir. Your daughter is dead", the paramedic said sympathetically. 

"She's my stepdaughter. I saw her last night. She was asleep." 

He shook his head, like he couldn't believe it was real.

"We will have to inform the police," the second paramedic told Mum. "Don't touch anything."

Mum nodded, tears still streaming down her face.

The paramedics left.

Mum sat back down at the table. "This is a nightmare. How can this be real?"

"I'm sorry, love. I need to phone the bank, let them know I won't be in." He dialed the number and spoke briefly to his manager. 

He let out a big sigh and sat at the table, holding Mum's hand. "I'm so sorry." 

Mum stared at him, "I don't understand. I don't get it. She was fine yesterday. Fine."

More tears.

The doorbell announced the police sergeant and two constables. Colin answered the door and let them in. 

"She's in there." He pointed to my room. 

They looked around and checked my body. "Get forensics." The first constable, a red-haired young man with a round face, spoke into his radio. 

Forensics came, in white protective suits, and swabbed down every surface. The police explained they would need to interview everyone down at the station. Mum nodded. 

"You can sit in when we question your son and daughter." 

The others looked at each other and held hands, eyes wide. Aged 9 and 7, my sister and brother had a close bond. The closeness they had helped them get through what they had to witness. 

The day flew by. Word got around quickly. Mum found herself fielding phone call after phone call. Well-meaning friends. Not so well-meaning journalists. Eventually, Colin pulled the phone cord out of the wall, and silence descended. 

Nanny had phoned, of course. One of the few welcome voices. She had many questions for Colin. She suspected he was behind my strange, untimely death. She was very shrewd.

Nanny knew that I would never allow people into my room. She knew I wasn't messing around with boys. She knew that there was definitely something very fishy going on. But in this world, young police officers who have a theory don't listen to older women.

Later that day, one of the police officers from earlier came to take the family to the police station. One questioned Mum while Colin sat with the others. Then it was Mum's turn to wait, while Colin told the detective constable what he "knew".

"You were the last person to see Ruth alive", the detective constable remarked.

"I'm not sure about that, now," Colin said. "Yes, I saw her lying in her bed. But I just assumed she was asleep. I didn't check her breathing or anything."

"I see. And could anyone else have been in her bedroom? You stated your wife was watching a film for most of the evening." The DC held Colin's gaze.

"Well." Colin looked slightly sheepish. "Ruth's Mum isn't aware of this. But Ruth has had boys from school in her room. I caught them. But her Mum would have gone ballistic, so I didn't mention it." He looked directly at the detective. "I didn't want to cause more trouble," he showed the palms of his hands and shrugged. 

"Okay, that's it for now. Don't leave the area, please. We will interview you again when the forensic team has concluded their fact-finding."

"Ok." Colin got up and left the bare room, joining Mum outside.

"Let's go home."

An officer appeared to drive them. There was silence in the car.

The others went off to their rooms. My brother was crying. 

"I have to tell you something," Colin began. "I found boys in Ruth's room once or twice. I didn't tell you because your depression was bad.' 

Mum stared at him. "She always was boy-mad. I told them that in the interview."

Colin nodded. 

"Ok, I've got some rubbish to burn. I need a little time." 

Mum imagined he wanted time to grieve.

Colin went to the garden. He burned some rubbish and the shoes his friends had left behind, so there was no evidence to link them. Colin loved fires, the way they destroyed everything. He smiled to himself, a crafty smile. The plan was working.

The next morning, the phone rang. The police wanted to talk about the evidence forensics had found. I had marks around my neck; the cause of death was asphyxiation. The traces of semen they had found in my room suggested I had been playing sex games. I was still a virgin, and my hymen was intact. 

Forensics had also found the footprints. The police were suggesting I had been allowing boys into my room.

"But who are these boys?" Mum asked. "We don't know. Were there any boys Ruth was particularly interested in?" "I don't know," Mum replied sadly. 

I have spent years wondering why Mum didn't challenge Colin. It didn't even occur to her that it could have been him. I wonder, did she suspect, and just kept it to herself? She didn't want to upset the order of things; she wanted to stay married, keep the nice home, and the image of a stable family.

Mum busied herself with my funeral arrangements. She asked the others if they knew anything about the boys. They didn't. My brother asked how the boys could have come in without us knowing. Even he knew, at 7, that something funny was going on.

There were certainly more questions than answers.

The police put forward the evidence they had. Of course, in 1979, there were no DNA tests. They spoke to a few boys they thought I might be friendly with. They had stone-clad alibis. 

They had measured the handprint from the marks across my throat. It would have been a perfect fit for Colin's hand, but they didn't check it. They believed they had the truth, and they didn't want to accept any other answer.

Bottom line is, they marked it down as death by misadventure, and the world moved on.

I was his second manslaughter. How many more had Colin gotten away with? Before me, after me, there could be many. And if he got away with it, how many others are doing the same?