THE LOST SON OF SAM LETTERS

It Always Comes Down to Money

"I'm [the boy's] mentor," the old man said, inviting me in.

Timothy had a teenage son. The man claimed he was mentoring the boy. For what, exactly, I had no idea. But he was providing a stable role model for a boy who had lost his father to a serial murderer. Who was I to question it?

The wife was sitting on the couch—bawling. Box of Kleenex on her lap. One leg crossed over the other, arms folded at her chest, her craned leg moving a mile a minute. I felt uncomfortable, a voyeur—like I was peering in through her window and she didn't know it. This woman had lost her husband; she was clearly devastated by that loss, and uncomfortable with me writing about it. But she had agreed to help. So here I was.

Gary Evans

I should explain that her husband wasn't only shot in the head by Gary Evans, but Evans also dismembered his body with a chainsaw into several pieces and buried his remains throughout an area north of Albany, New York. I had viewed the crime scene photos, studied the reports, and understood what this woman had gone through in identifying her husband, not to mention dealing with his gruesome death.

I sat at the dining room table. She sat next to me. The old man in tan socks sat directly in front of me, staring and smiling, his arms cradled under his chin as if he had a crush.

She started weeping loudly, "My poor Timmy," she said several times through a Niagara of tears. "I cannot believe what Gary did to him."

I felt small at this point. Incredibly intrusive. But I understood her pain. Years ago, my brother's wife was murdered by a serial killer; she was five months pregnant; reports said her assailant put a pillowcase over her head and strangled her with a telephone cord. If some journalist had come and asked us about it, I'm not sure I would have wanted to go into detail.

"I'm so sorry I have to do this," I said. "But I want to portray Tim with absolute care and gentleness."

"I know ... I know ... but my poor Timmy."

More tears. More sniffling. More body trembling.

I considered leaving, and would have if my office wasn't so far away. I had even thought about getting a room for the night and returning the next day.

Then, after blowing her nose, she turned to me with a straight face, shutting off the tears completely, and said, "Before I begin talking, I want to know how much money you're going to pay me?"