Only once after Charles first left John Simonsen's house did he land himself in jail, where he met Mrs. Katherine, an elderly lady with mental disorders who was accused of a murder. She had been there for several years when they first brought Charles in, after a long chase through the woods. She remembers him well.

***

Katherine

I'm Katherine. I'm turning 50. Soon. I am. Oh, Charles? Yes, yes. I remember him. Yes. I'm 50 soon. Oh, right, Charles. Let's see. He was a mean little spirit, yes he was. When they first brought him in, he cussed them out and bit them. So violent for the child he was. Never obeyed the rules in the jail. Always fighting with the other inmates. Spitting and hissing like an animal. But sometimes, I'd see a speck of a child in him. I'll be 50. Did I mention my name is Katherine? Oh, right. I'm sorry, dear. Charles... I can't really describe him. A lost soul. He would cry a lot at night. For his mother. He was badly teased by the inmates. Do I have to say? Oh thank you. I hate remembering that. I couldn't do a thing, either. I was stuck in another cell next door, and my old lungs couldn't shout for help loud enough for anyone to hear, and the inmates would muffle him.

I'm going to be... oh, dear, I already said that, didn't I? Oh. Charles. He broke out. Yes. I don't remember how. Not at all. But he did. And those men were dead, serves them right. Good for nothing bums. I'm turning 50. What? No. I never saw him again. Poor thing. I hope he finds some good doctor or something soon. Get a stethoscope on his heart. Or his mind. That poor child.

Oh, did I mention? I'm Katherine. I'm turning 50.

No one ever saw Charles again. He never stepped foot in anyone's house again. He was constantly on the run, always leaving bloody footprints behind. Leaving broken hearts behind, people crying for their loved ones. Many lost their loved ones. So many. No one ever caught him; it seemed he had become a phantom, a nightmare.

Michael W. Norris was one of the many people who lost a loved one by Charles Lee Ray. He was about to be married. My own personal best friend, Karen Barclay, lost her husband as well, and it seems to wound her more because of just how close she could have been to Charles...

Mike

I still remember her. Madeline. She was a sweet thing, she was. Dark hair and eyes like autumn leaves. I met her in the autumn, you know. But I suppose it wasn't meant to be. On our wedding day, she wasn't there. Well, she was. But not in the way we had planned. She was hanging from the church canopy. Her last words to me were that she loved me.

She tried to tell me something about Charles, but she never finished her sentence. I used to be a novelist, you see, but when she died, well... I became a detective. No one wanted to look for the Lakeshore Strangler anymore anyways. They just hoped he'd die soon. But I was determined. I searched for him, researched long into the night. Sometimes stayed up for nights in a row. I think I felt that if I could just ask him why, I could feel a little more complete. Like I could have a bit of Madeline back.

But when I finally caught him, he was already dead. His body lay there, and I felt as if my world was gone. I would never find out what Madeline had tried to tell me. I could never have that one part of her last words. While everyone else would rejoice that Charles Lee Ray was finally in his grave, I would feel hopeless. In my eyes, I had failed Madeline. But then the doctors and police came. They began to make theories about him. About his life, his age. One of the doctors noticed his sickness. They reckoned he'd had it since birth. And as they began to diagnose his cold dead body, I noticed.

He was small. I had always imagined a large, burly man-the novelist in me, I suppose- but instead what we got was this skeleton. He looked more like a tortured spirit than a killer. Like Emily Rose or something similar. And then I realized. This is what Madeline had been trying to tell me. This is what confused her. She couldn't understand how such a small human could be this vicious nightmare. I can't either. Trauma, perhaps.

I've been through some trauma, myself. Please don't tell me that means I'll be Lakeshore Strangler number two...

Karen

I can't believe that my son is gone. My Andy. My precious Andy. If Elizabeth were alive, well, I don't know what she'd do. To know that her son killed his father's childhood friend. To know that her son and mine could have grown up together, as best friends. How life changes.

I remember first meeting her. Minna Elizabeth Ray. She was pregnant with Charles. My husband (well, back then he was my fiancé) Andrew was thrilled for me to meet her and Ronald. He told me how he and Ronald grew up in the same neighborhood together. Oh, the stories he had about Ronald. They were the school pranksters. My fondest memory is of the four of us eating dinner together, with Andrew and Ron re-telling the mischief they got into. We had laughed so much that night. It was that night that I had suggested she name her baby Charles. While the men got into a conversation of their own, Elizabeth and I were talking about the baby. She let me put my hand on her stomach, and I felt the life. His life. Kicking inside her. That was Charles Lee Ray.

She loved the idea. "Charles," she had sighed. "One of those old romantic names. With those dashing dark haired-men and the blonde naive girls." We laughed. She was such a sweet girl. Ronald was an amazing man. Funny, too. He made us all laugh.

But then the war called him away. Elizabeth had to move. I had held her close. By now, Charles was three, and she was pregnant with a baby girl. She had named her Karen Lisé. "After you," she said, hugging me. "So I can remember you." We were crying. I don't know how we had gotten so close. "If you need anything, write! Or call!" I had shouted as they drove away.

There never was a call. No mail, either, save once. Elizabeth had sent me a card. A Christmas card, with the family picture inside. I still have it. I keep it with me, because she was such a dear friend. I look at it a lot, and think how much things have changed. So badly.

I wonder if my husband remembered Charles. The night he killed him. Charles wouldn't remember Andrew, I'm sure. We had been downtown that day. Andy and Andrew and I. We had bought Andy a doctor suit. He so wanted to be like his father. He had just turned three, and so we were celebrating. I remember Andy had run off, and I couldn't find him. I was so worried. We had looked frantically for him. Finally, we saw him walking out of an old alleyway. I had hugged him and asked what he was doing, and in his three year old vocabulary, he told me he was taking care of a patient. Some imaginary friend, I suppose.

To think, I had said that day to them, "I could never lose either of you." And then it was that night I lost Andrew. The cruel irony.

I wish I had known of Charles whereabouts. I would have taken him in. It would be my duty, you know. To take care of him. After all, Elizabeth did designate me his godmother...