But I’m transported elsewhere; I’m unearthed like a lost
artifact, like Joe Tarricone from a torn plastic bag of bone and fabric.
Shouldn’t there be more of me than what the crime scene investigators inventory:
two pelvic bones, a sawed-off femur, a tail bone, several rib bones, scattered
vertebrae, a collar bone, a scapula, more fabric, a leather belt, and some
twine? Is that all there is left?
Fortunately, Gypsy Tarricone never lost hope. Rule writes: “… wherever she was, Gypsy thought of her dad determined not to give up her search for him as decades passed.” Deep down, Gypsy knew who ended her relationship with her father, she knew who had killed him—Renee Curtiss.
Three decades after the killing, construction worker Travis Haney bulldozed the earth and set into motion a murder investigation. The most chilling question came from police detective Denny Wood regarding Renee Curtiss’s involvement in the killing method (p.165):
“Well, think back. You were either working the chain saw or holding on to the limbs while they were being cut off. It’s a huge difference if somebody’s flexible and warm or whether they’re stiff as a board and cold and frozen. Was he frozen when you cut him up?”
Why the morbid fascination with true-crime? Is it because of
my place of employment? And why do I always examine the family photos and read
the captions prior to starting the book? These are real people. There are no
happy endings. Yet I go back for more. I guess I’m escaping my own predicament.
I guess it’s my way of rediscovering me. I, alone, know what has happened; I,
alone, can move my tired old bones from place to place as I start from scratch,
as I build a new family album of happier times.
10 comments:
J.R.-Every once in a while I get the hankering for an Ann Rule or Patricia Cornwell. I also first study the pics, so I feel able to picture the characters perfectly. It's not a job hazard for you, more like human curiousity.
I share your sense of unreality; been through the same thing. All cut up. Love turned to hate.
Well, maybe entertain you with a Canadian anecdote, a true story about a lady here in Hamilton ON about l952 who also cut up her husband.
Her name was Evelyn Dick.
At one point at the trial, a chilling, yet somehow off-the-wall question from the prosecutor, "Why did you, Missus Dick?"
Fuck 'em...you may have been removed but they cut themselves up and erased their own selves. You had nothing to do with it, I am your alibi.
I've always been scared to death of true crime books. There's the true horror genre in our world. Not the devil possessions and the vampires.
I have to agree with TWM. That's one sick bitch that needs treatment and has been playing the emotional incest game for too long of a period. Enjoyed the allegory. Huck's Gang
I used to read Ann Rule’s books all the time - and I also checked out the family pictures and captions first. Not sure why I stopped. For the past few years I haven’t been able to read anything particularly gory.
And, yes, perhaps for you reading these books is like unraveling a mystery – as you are doing in your own life.
I dig the structure of this post ~ and love the finale.
The picture evokes earlier times of pond construction. Maybe it's good we don't how things will shift over the years after all. A tough business this life, with or without the more gruesome of true crime elements.
So it's safe in the cocoon still? The stresses created are being blamed on you. I agree with the gang. She needs to quit the emotional incest and get help for the pathological liar she really is. Can understand your wanting to read these stories. So much like life. Huck
I looks as if you've removed the toe-tag. See you at Saturday's shindig.
Great writing. No ring on his finger no ring in his nose and in your case no tag on your toe. Enjoy. MW
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