Forty-Six Minutes

A fictional story based on the actual events of the 1996 Kathleen Weinstein murder in Tom's River, New Jersey.

Forty-Six Minutes

by R.L. Ohlhausen

 

            “Don’t do this, don’t break your mother’s heart.” I said with a final bit of desperation; tears streaming down my face again. Giving my last appeal to be spared, “I’ll go with you, I’ll drive you to talk to your mom, Okay?” As I utter those words, I feel a gentle click against my ribs. Discretely pulling my coat open, I glance into the side pocket. The red light on the recorder is off. This tape, now my testament; my heart encoded in the hiss of the background. The subtleties in my voice punctuate the hidden farewells to family and friends. My assailant reaches into the front seat demanding my keys. He opens the door and steps out of the car. I search his eyes for any sign that my attempts to connect with him have worked but hope for sudden redemption is not there.

            Two hours earlier I had stopped at the local deli for a late afternoon lunch. There in the parking lot my attacker had come up behind me as I unlocked the door to my car, grabbing me by the jaw, throwing me face down into front seat. He got in the back, shouting obscenities and punched the electric lock. Like a sharp blow between the eyes, terror hit me, the white blinding kind, engulfing me in a primal state of fear. I was unable to utter a word and barely able to hold the steering wheel, my hands trembling. I started the car and attempted to drive while he mumbled his stray orders, hesitating at every intersection. Up one street and down the next, I drove in circles.

             During that first half hour, my initial shock subsided, giving way to the harsher cruelty of desperate hope. I managed to untangle the dry fluff that had been haunting my tongue and choked out a question, “So what do you intend to do with me?” This seemed to unnerve him and he did not answer. It became painfully obvious that he had put no effort into planning any further details of his crime.

             We pulled away from the city streets. My hands stopped shaking.  My glazed eyes fixated on the white lines painted on the highway and I drifted into road hypnosis. I wondered how far we would drive. I forced my composure further and gathered what I could of my sensibilities. We drove on. “Take that dirt road.” he directed. I slowly turned, hoping we would stay close to the main road but we continued for about half a mile until we reached a wooded field. He pointed for me to pull off and I drove some distance in amongst the trees and parked. I took a deep breath and tried to convince myself that my circumstance was still in a state of fluctuation. I could still walk away from this.

            Making use of the time, I felt that I had to show this adolescent criminal some sort of tangible humanity. I offered him the meal that I had bought moments before I was assaulted, “You’re welcome to the that, I’ve lost my appetite,” I said. It was all I could do to digest my own panic. He said he was hungry. I turned to reach for the sandwich on the seat beside me and noticed the micro cassette player, which I used to record school lectures. I slid my hand across the seat, palming the recorder as I watched his eyes in the mirror. I dropped the tape player into my inside coat pocket and handed him the sandwich. He leaned over into the front seat, took a bite and sat it down beside me. “You gonna drink that soda?” he asked, taking little notice of my distress. “No,” I blurted. Holding my coat close to my body to muffle any noise from the machine, I fumbled for the rewind button and pressed it. A few seconds later, I felt the snap of the tape player stopping. I pushed record and opened my jacket just enough to capture the conversation.

 

            Admiring the interior of my Toyota that he had come to claim, he began to query me, “Where do you keep the deed?”

            I looked at him puzzled. “Do you mean the title? The bank keeps the title; you have to pay for the car first,” I said. “You look young, like thirteen. Do you even have a driver’s license? What is your  name?”

             “Michael… I’ve been driving ‘hardship’ since I was fourteen.” he asserted. “What do you do for a living?” he asked me.

            I perked up. “I teach special education at the middle school by the K-mart, 7^th and 8^th grade. I would like to get into administration. Too many politics though,” I said.

             Conscious that the recorder was on, I guided him, crafting my lines. “What do you like to listen to? I like Paula Abdul and my son really likes Michael Jackson. I really don’t believe all of that stuff about him being a pedophile,” I rambled on a bit.  He rolled his eyes at me as if I were oblivious to someone his age. “I don’t like Michael Jackson,” he paused.  “I did when I was little, I danced like him, even better,” he added with a bit of narcissism. I turned on the radio.

            “Where did you grow up?” I continued with my line of questioning.

            “Both my parents were in the Army. Went to school in Alaska,” he divulged.

            We settled into bursts of conversations like that; me constructing my dialogue with purpose, him eagerly offering up his evidence. “What’s that you’ readin’?” he asked, spotting the textbook lying on the seat next to me. “I was headed to take a test on that. I’m taking classes for my master’s degree. We’re studying Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs.” I watched his face.

            “Do you have any goals? College?” I coerced.            

            “Yea, thought about it but I can’t get in….Who’s this Maslow?” his curiosity surprised me.

            “He’s a psychologist; he talks about needs, goals, achievement. He would be a good one for you to read,” I added.

            “You gonna show it to me?” he asked, reaching for the book. The subject matter seemed somewhat surreal given our current status as victim and perpetrator but I did what could to use it to my advantage. We flipped through the pages and carried on like strange friends with my occasional breakdown, followed by pleas for him to take my car and leave me there.

            “This is a lease car? When will they know the car is missing?” he continued, focusing again on the car, giving no thought to when someone might notice that I was missing.

            “They’ll know soon. It’s not paid for, you have to pay every month and take it in for scheduled maintenance when you have a lease,” I said. I handed him the wallet from my purse, “You should just take my credit card and go rent a car and steal that one.” With that, I felt the click of the recorder shutting off. The first side was full. Distracting him with family photos I reached back into my coat, carefully flipping the tape over. I pressed record again. Twenty-three minutes down, twenty-three left to fill. I turned my thoughts to scripting the evidence in the making, affixing his fate on the thin brown magnetic ribbon. He warmed up to me about his past, his childhood, brushes with the law and that he had always gotten away with every crime he committed. “I’m just lucky, I always get off even if I get caught,” he said. When I asked why he was doing this, he replied, “Tomorrow is my birthday; your car is my present. I turn seventeen.” He gave a deviant’s grin as if his luck wouldn’t run out. He had imposed on himself a deadline to obtain a new Camry by his birthday. Mine simply happened to be the one that crossed his path today. A cold chill ran up my spine knowing that I was the remaining obstacle.            

            “What chapter was that you were telling me about before, in that book? What was that about?” he inquired.

            “Chapter four, about motivation and recognition. The test I’m missing right now was over that.” 

            “So what were you trying to teach me about it?” he continued his almost childlike curiosity and I continued to oblige him to prolong my safety.

            “If you have good intentions you’ll get good things back. You have to put good out to make something happen in your life. You have to help people, not hurt them,” I told him. He responded, “I want to help people, I want be a social worker. My mom works outside of Newark. I am going to go see her tonight, show her this car.” My thoughts went to my own family.

             “I love my son, I love my husband; they need me, Michael” I said, hoping he would not suspect the urgency in the thinly veiled pointedness of my words as I directed them to those I loved. I handed him another photo, “This is my son, he is six years old; he needs to grow up with a mother.” I choked back hard but broke down again, this time hitting the dashboard. I wanted to jump out of the car and run.

            “Are you a Christian, do you believe in God?” I probed through my tears. “God is not angry with you yet, he will still forgive you. We can walk away from this. I promise not to say anything to anyone,” my voice cracking.  I wait to say anything else. Something inside me quietly echoes, ‘Make peace with it’.

            “I am Christian. Baptist. I believe God will forgive me at any time,” he proclaimed. “What’da you got in that box?” he asked, pointing to the floor.

            “Oh, those are therapy magnets, from Japan, they are new here in the U.S. and expensive. I bought ‘em to help the arthritis in my foot.” 

            His hand, wrapped in an Ace bandage, “You think they’d work on my wrist?”

            “What did you do to it?” trying to show my juvenile captor some genuine compassion.

            “Baseball, I sprained it.” another lie. “What do you do with those things to make ‘em work?” he added. I explained to how to use magnets. He paused again and looked down at the seat, “Well, I didn’t hurt it playing baseball. I was jumping a fence, running from a cop Saturday night.” One more link to his identity.

            “It doesn’t matter, these will help. Take them with you, take the car; just leave me here. I can find my way home in the dark. Okay?” I said. The radio blares the six o’clock traffic. “I can drive you anywhere and that will keep you out of trouble. Let me drive you to see your mother. I’m sure she would tell you not to do this,” I continue to beg. He shrugs at my offer, tossing the rest of the sandwich out the window

            In my coat I feel the stop of the recorder. It’s finished. Pondering his next move, he leans back and grows quiet. A chill fills the air in the car. There’s no more reason to talk, he knows what he is about to do. Staring through the windshield into the field, I watch the sunset and I wonder how far will we walk. I close my eyes and drift into a lucid vision; I see my son crying. I see myself in the cemetery. It grows dark. The radio goes quiet and I open my eyes. Michael motions to me to open the door.

            “If you get out, I’ll just tie you up,” his last lie drifting on the crisp evening air.

            “I know you’re going to kill me.” He hasn’t waited here this long to let me walk away. Saying nothing he reveals the revolver and taps the glass. I hesitate as long as I can but have to relent and open the door. The car chimes, breaking the quiet. He throws my photos on the ground beside the sandwich and closes the door.

             A discordant peace comes over me as my executioner follows in the darkness. The processional pace arouses my deepening calm, I hear every rustle of the dry maple leaves. My ears ring with deafening silence between each footstep. I turn to look at him one more time. I can barely see his face but the boy I had been talking with is no longer there, just a monster behind me now. We stop at an opening between the trees where I can see the evening sky; the stars welcome me. This is as far as we would go.

Author's Note

Fictional story based on the actual transcripts of the tape found with the body of Kathleen Weinstein. (Prepared for contest for 4 pages or less.)