by Hugh and Martha Gardenier

"The door spoke volumes about the family and the lack of trust between Charles and his parents. It seemed to be a misplaced memory from the boarding house at 51 Stanley, or the bygone flophouse, the Rogers Hotel on Washington Avenue. Places in the mind that were so bad that you kept everything, and everyone locked up. Fred and Edwina made a buck from all of them. Low class, drifting men traveling night trains and hot buses until they made it to Houston. Long-in-the-tooth women, with sagging jowls and arm flesh, addressed as Mrs., but never belonging to anyone. They were carnage with no pride left, and they strayed west on Washington Avenue because that's where the flops were."

"And then there were the "suicides." People who had fallen so far that the only step remaining was a gun, rope, knife or poison. If you were lucky you spotted them at the front desk and told them you were full. If you weren't, you cleaned up the mess after the cops dragged out the corpse. You learned to check every room and every closet daily, particularly the closets. The suicides were fond of the closets. Maybe they considered it a confessional, maybe they felt that no one who counted could see them do themselves with a twisted towel and a chair, a razor blade to the wrist, or the old favorite - clothesline hung from the ceiling light fixture. Opening the closet door was still an adventure for Charles."

"Allegations of a vice squad that was facilitating the heroin trade surfaced in early June 1954 when, without the knowledge of Chief Morrison, the Houston office of the Federal Bureau of Narcotics pulled Detective M.A. Billnitzer in for questioning. Billnitzer, in two separate interviews, was questioned over several hours about the seizure and final disposition of the heroin. After making a statement to the federal officers, the detective then went to Chief Morrison, who was confronted with the full magnitude of the problems in the vice division. Morrison tore into the Federal agents and tried to provide cover for his men until he could determine what really happened, but by that time it was too late. Detective Billnitzer blew his brains out in the night squad room on June 3."

"The four police officers filling the kitchen first noticed the escaping light from the single bulb in the refrigerator, then the slightly pungent odor of meat that was beginning to go bad. As the door swung all the way open, the enormity of the situation came into full focus. A decapitated head was lodged in the vegetable keeper. A women's head, her lifeless eyes staring, paralyzed in the last instant of death. Her face, contorted, bruised, maybe mangled, matted with white-gray hair. A torso, split along the backbone, stuffed between shelves. Feet severed at the ankles. Legs cut at the knees. Thighs detached at the hips. And it went on. A jar of Gerber's baby food sat on a shelf too small for a body part. Another jar of jelly was jammed against an arm. Peanut butter rested next to one of the legs. And in the middle sat a partially eaten raw onion. Paulk didn't open the freezer compartment. There seemed to be no reason."