Page 10 of Collect the Pieces

Is this Gade’s room? From what I remember of him from when I was a kid, and in the interviews I’ve studied more recently, he acts childlike. It almost makes him seem non-threatening. When in reality, he’s a monster.

Does he sleep in this childish room to feel closer to his victims?

No, never mind. I can’t…I can’t dwell on the implications of this room. That’s not why I’m here. He’s a bad guy. He killed my friend. That’s all I need to know. Let the police do their jobs and discover the rest when they find his body.

I flick the light off and move to the last bedroom across the hall. The overhead light flickers to life, revealing old, heavy wood furniture with ornate carvings. The elevated four-poster bed is almost too big for the bedroom, taking up most of the floor space. A small step stool sits near the side of the bed. The covers are rumpled and tossed to the side.Thisis his room. An adult’s room, which makes the children’s setup across the hall even more concerning.

Sweat and something muskier seems to hang in the heavy air. I wrinkle my nose and slide one of the dresser drawers open. Empty.

The small closet holds a few jackets on hangers but not much else.

As I’m about to close the closet door, a small cut in the wall behind the jackets catches my attention. I search for a lightinside the closet and find one of those small, round tap lights. I push theonbutton, praying the batteries are fresh.

The harsh white glare helps illuminate the back wall of the closet. The cuts in the wall are roughly the shape of a small door. My own house has plenty of little oddities, strange doors, and closets. But those have been there for decades. The house was designed with them.

Thislooks recent and sloppily done. Like Gade was in desperate need of a hiding place and took a utility knife to the drywall.

Dread fills my body.

What’s behind that makeshift door?

I tease my fingernails into the seam and pry the rectangle of drywall loose. It swings toward me like a broken piece of cardboard. Cool, musty air drifts over my exposed wrists. No scent of decay, thank God.

Edging closer, I thrust the light forward and peer inside. VHS tapes. Stacks of them against the walls. Shoeboxes also stacked in neat rows. I don’t have to be a criminologist to know what’s on the videotapes. Probably more of what was playing out in his living room.

I duck inside and pick up a large, yellow padded envelope sitting on top of the stack of tapes. It’s addressed to Gade at this address from a PO Box in Kentucky. Inside, it feels like another VHS tape.

Sure, knowing his parole officer would be monitoring his computer usage, Gade had to go old school—all the way back to videotapes. Amazing that he’s only been out of prison for a few months and already managed to track down this appallingly large collection of depravity.

Curious about the shoeboxes, I flip the lid off of one of them.

No, no, no.

A photo of a child in pajamas with terror written all over his face rests on top.

I slam my eyes shut.I can’t.

The box is full of photographs that I assume only get progressively worse.

I rest the lid on the box without closing it fully, afraid the malignancy of what’s inside will somehow wear off on me if I touch it too much.

Slowly, I back away from the tapes and boxes. A whisperedzingof metal against the nylon of my jacket stops me. I turn my head to the side and stare. A large silver nail that has to be at least five or six inches long juts out of one of the wall studs at a sharp angle. That could’ve hurt if I’d backed into it. More large nails stick out from different spots. I can’t tell if Gade is planning to hang items or the contractor who built the house went wild on his nails budget, but it does give me an idea…

Otherwise, I’ve seen enough.

It’s time to finish what I came to do and then get out of here. The longer I stay, the greater my risk.

Gade’s eyes are glued to the screen when I return to the living room. They have a distant, far-off dreamy quality that crawls over my skin. He grunts and twitches as I stand in front of him, blocking his view.

“You’ve been worse than I expected.” I stare down at him, already weary of this disgusting man.

His throat works hard to release whimpers and muffled pleas of innocence. His fear and desperation only disgust me. I take no pleasure in torturing him and I certainly don’t want to drag this out.

My mind spirals with the dark possibilities. In a perfect world, no one person should act as judge, jury, and executioner. But the price of following the “law” in this case is an innocent child’s life being forever altered.

The videos.

The photos.

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