Confession by Gary Whitmore - HTML preview

Chapter 13

A Killer’s Tale story continued.

It was March 1966.

Up in Atlanta, FBI Agent Robert was still cold with any viable leads on finding this killer of now four women.

Then, one afternoon in late March, Carl watched Robert from his desk.

Robert stared at Sandy’s file folder between discreet sips of whiskey from his flask.

Homer was at his desk, and he also watched Robert.

Homer’s phone rang. “Agent Maris,” he answered.

“It’s me, Ricky. How are you liking your new Mustang?” Ricky asked from the phone.

“I love it!”

“Great. I’ll see you at Christmas time again,” said Rickey.

“Looking forward to it.”

“Listen, Jimmy wants to know if Robert Fillert has a favorite drinking hole.”

“Yeah, and he’s been going there every night for the past month,” Homer replied.

“I need the name of the place,” Ricky stated.

“Why?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m giving you a Mustang each year, and that’ll all you need to know,” Ricky reminded Homer.

“Oh, okay. He frequents Wet Willie’s,” just outside Hatfield,” Homer responded.

“If you still want these new cars, you better not tell a soul about our conservations.”

“Okay, I won’t,” said Homer, as he loved the new Mustangs, making him a hit with some of the cute women in the office.

“Great. Now, don’t forget to come to the dealership at Christmas. I’ll have a new red 1967 Mustang waiting with your name on it,” Ricky said, then disconnected their call.

Homer looked excited and couldn’t wait for his new car.

Back in Boldger, Jimmy was alone one Wednesday night while Betty played bridge with her girlfriends.

Jimmy revisited his chest, salivating at his souvenirs from Annette, Rhonda, Angie, and Sandy. He had his new True Detective magazine, which had an article about Sandy’s killing.

The article mentioned that the FBI agent, Robert Fillert, on the case personally knew Sandy Lurcott, as she was his best friend’s sister. Jimmy was proud reading that bit of news.

Later that night, Jimmy sat naked in his living room chair and masturbated. At the same time, he reread the article, loving that this killing hit Robert. He ejaculated on the page about Sandy and closed the magazines.

He dropped the magazine into the chest and locked it, lit a Lucky Strike, feeling satisfied, and then returned the chest to his attic.

The following week, Jimmy gave Betty a bullshit story about going to Atlanta for a conference on new advances in law enforcement procedures. She bought his story hook, line, and sinker.

It was around nine that evening a few nights later, and business was slow at Wet Willie’s bar in the Atlanta area.

The building stood alone off a country road and was outlined with red neon lights. A 1966 Ford Thunderbird pulled into the parking lot and parked.

Only three drinkers were inside the bar; one was Robert, drinking alone.

Jimmy entered wearing a Fedora hat. He walked to the back of the bar and sat down at a table.

A waitress walked up to him.

“Bourbon and Coke, please,” Jimmy instantly replied.

She nodded and walked away.

Jimmy glanced down the bar to his left and saw Robert drinking alone; he smirked and walked over to him.

Jimmy sat down on one bar stool from Robert. The waitress walked up and gave Jimmy his drink.

Jimmy took a sip while glancing at Robert, who

had five empty glasses in front of him. Robert looked like a sad and pathetic drunk.

“Hey buddy, did you have a rough day?” Jimmy kindly asked Robert and faked being concerned.

Robert looked glassy-eyed over at Jimmy. “It’s been a rough three fucking years,” Robert slurred out his response. Robert gulped down his sixth drink.

Jimmy motioned at the bartender. “His next drink is on me.”

The bartender nodded, and he acknowledged Jimmy’s request.

Robert lifted up his glass at Jimmy. “Thank you, my good man.”

Robert gulped down his drink.

A few seconds later, the bartender walked up and placed another drink before Robert.

Robert sipped his drink. “How about joining me?” he slurred while holding up his drink, wanting some company. Someone to listen to his sorrows as the bartender got tired and ignored Robert.

“I wish I could, but I just got a promotion at work, and I’m taking my wife out to dinner to celebrate,” Jimmy replied.

Jimmy patted Robert on his back, then discreetly dropped a pair of his Army Sergeant’s stripes into Robert’s suit right pocket. Jimmy was promoted to Staff Sergeant in Army Reserves two months ago.

“My name is Jimmy Nalla,” Jimmy whispered near Robert’s ear, but Robert did not hear him. Jimmy patted Robert on his back and headed to the door.

Robert remained in a drunken stupor at the bar, on the verge of passing out.

Jimmy went home that night with no concerns that Robert would suspect him of being the killer. “He’s too stupid,” Jimmy chuckled, thinking about Robert finding those in his suit coat pocket.

October 1966 took forever to arrive, and Jimmy was getting itchy for another adventure. He sensed he would never get caught and could continue for years.

This time, Jimmy made it a more extended trip to Arkansas.

He drove his Thunderbird into the parking lot of a Piggly Wiggly in the small town of Garrison, Arkansas, one night for his next victim.

A blonde female got out of a 1964 Dodge Dart about one hundred feet away and headed to the store with her purse in hand.

“She’s my girl,” Jimmy said while sipping his bottle of Jack Daniels. He put the bottle down and got out of his car.

He rushed to the Dodge Dart, opened the hood, reached inside, yanked out the cable from the ignition switch to the distributor cap, closed the hood, and rushed back to his car.

He tossed the cable under his seat inside his car and waited while sipping more Jack Daniels.

Twenty minutes later, he watched as the blonde woman walked out of the store with her grocery bag in hand. He noticed she was wearing a micro mini dress with a brownish pattern and thought she was incredibly sexy.

She walked to her Dodge and got inside. She tried to start her car. It would not start, so she tried again, but it still would not start.

She got out, opened the hood, and peeked inside. She knew nothing about engines, but for some reason, she felt that if you looked inside, they would magically fix themselves.

Got back inside and tried to start it again, but it would not start.

Got back out, walked over, and stared at the engine.

Jimmy started his car, drove it, parked it near her Dodge, and got out, leaving his engine running.

“Excuse me, are you having car trouble?” he asked while exiting and walking up to her.

The woman looked up at Jimmy, and his eyes lit up as he knew her. It was Fran Schaefer, the girl he had a crush on in high school and played that cruel joke on him.

Jimmy looked her over, and she was still sexy but gained a little weight. Then, the horrible memories of that day flooded his mind and made his blood boil.

“Fran Schaefer? Is that you?” he said while he acted cool.

Fran thought for a couple of seconds while she glanced at Jimmy. Then her eyes widened when she remembered.

“Jimmy Nalla? I don’t believe it. What are you doing here in Arkansas?” she replied, happy to see someone from her hometown, even though she thought he was creepy back in high school.

“I was sitting in my car looking at a road map because I got lost on my way to Little Rock for some Army Reserve duty. Then I saw you,” he lied through his teeth. “What’s wrong?”

“My car won’t start. It was fine when I went into the store, but now it won’t start,” she said.

“That’s the way it goes with automobiles. They work one minute, and they are breaking the next,” he said. “Let me take a peek,” he added, looking in the engine compartment.

After burying his head under the hood of her car, Jimmy looked at Fran. “Ah, there’s your trouble. Your cable is missing from the distributor cap to the ignition coil,” he said and pointed to the distributor cap.

“How could that be missing when the car was sitting still?” she asked while looking at where he was pointing.

“I don’t know,” he replied, then faked like he pondered a viable answer. Maybe it fell out and is underneath the car?” he said, then dropped to his knees and peeked. “Nope, it didn’t fall out,” he said, then stood up.

Fran looked worried. “What am I going to do?”

“Why don’t I give you a ride home, and you can get it fixed in the morning?” he offered.

“I don’t want to be a bother. I can call a friend,” she replied.

“Oh no, it’s no bother. After I drop you off, I’ll head to Little Rock.”

The sound of thunder filled the air, and drops of rain started falling.

“Let’s hurry before we get soaked,” he said.

Fran ran with Jimmy to his car and got inside while the clouds poured on them.

Once inside, she looked at his Thunderbird. “You have a beautiful car,” she replied in awe.

“Ricky took over Dad’s business, and since I didn’t want to join him. So, Dad said I can get a free car each year for the rest of my life. It’s part of my inheritance,” Jimmy beamed while driving out of the parking lot.

“Are you still living in Boldger?” she said while he pulled onto the street and drove off.

“Yep. And the place hasn’t changed much,” he said, then glanced at Fran. “How do I get to your place?” he added.

“Turn right at the second traffic light,” she replied.

“How long have you been living here in Arkansas?” he asked while turning at the traffic light.

“I moved here to Arkansas to be with my mother, but she recently got remarried and moved down to Miami, Florida. I’m going to move down there in three months,” she replied.

Jimmy thought for a few seconds. “Ah yes, I remember hearing your parents got a divorce,” he said while he turned right at the second traffic light.

While he drove down the street, he reached under his seat and grabbed his whiskey bottle. He opened it and took a swig.

“Would you like a drink?” he offered, holding out the bottle.

“No, thanks,” she replied.

Jimmy screwed the cap back on the bottle. Then looked a little mad. “Remember that cruel joke Ralph Johnston, those other guys, gals, and you played on me? Remember how you tricked me into a romantic moment at the lake but left me naked in the woods?”

Fran thought for a few seconds while she recalled her high school days. “I do, and I’m so sorry for that day. We were stupid jerks back during high school. I hope you can forgive me,” she said but suddenly got a little nervous.

“Sure. We were dumber back in those days,” Jimmy pretended, but he was still furious inside. “So, whatever happened to Ralph?”

“We got married after we graduated from high school. He’s in the Navy and just left for Vietnam three months ago. We have a little.”

“That’s nice,” Jimmy said, interrupting her sentence. “Remember that night we graduated? And you had that party down at the lake.”

Fran thought for a few seconds. “Yeah. But someone played a mean trick on me with Daddy’s car.”

“Oh, you mean someone took a shit on the seat?”

Fran looked surprised at Jimmy for knowing. “How did you know?”

Jimmy had a smirk on his face, and Fran knew it was his confession. “I also pissed on the passenger seat,” he beamed.

“Why the fuck would you do that? You’re an asshole!” she said, recalling getting home and her Daddy being furious she had shit all over the rear of her jeans when she came into the house.

“I was in love with you, and you treated me like shit! My Dad beat the hell out of me with a belt for letting a girl get the better of part of me that day!” he yelled.

Fran looked at Jimmy, seeing the hatred in his eyes, and she got scared.

“Please let out right here. I can walk home,” she said but didn’t finish the sentence because Jimmy tightened his grip on the neck of his whiskey bottle and slammed it into the side of her head.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” she screamed while she felt the side of her head and saw blood on her fingers after she touched the area the bottle hit.

He slammed the whiskey bottle harder into her temple, and it shattered. She got woozy.

She looked shocked at him. “Why are you doing this?” she softly said while she was weak.

“Because I love it,” he replied, then punched her hard in the face and broke her nose.

She slumped down in her seat and passed out cold.

Thirty minutes later, Jimmy found a secluded area in the woods ten miles east of Garrison,

Arkansas. It was an area that wasn’t touched by that small storm.

Fran was soon naked and tied to a tree, and Jimmy was ready for his next victim. He had great pleasure in using her naked body for batting practice, with her screams echoing in the woods. Those screams soon turned to silence as Fran was dead.

After marking her stomach with the number “5” for his calling card, Jimmy took pictures from all angles, including one where he looked like a proud hunter.

Jimmy had everything back in the trunk of his car, then

picked up her teeth from the dirt.

After erasing his tracks with a tree branch, Jimmy drove off down the paved country road.

While driving down the road, he glanced at Fran’s clothes, purse, and shoes on the passenger floorboard. He pulled over and stopped his car alongside the road.

He looked inside Fran’s purse and removed her driver’s license, noticing a picture of a baby girl about seven months old.

After shoving her license and picture into his shirt pocket, he shoved them into his pants pocket, then stopped and placed her clothes and shoes inside the trunk.

Jimmy rushed back into his car and drove off.

When he drove thirty miles from the crime scene, he was about to throw out her shoes but decided to keep them.

Jimmy headed east to meet with Ricky for their annual fishing and camping trip.

Then, the next day, Jimmy drove to Artabatian Lake outside Pierce.

Ricky met him there with a new 1967 yellow Ford Mustang.

Ricky looked inside the Thunderbird and saw broken glass and blood stains in the passenger seat. “This doesn’t look good, big brother,” Ricky said and was concerned.

Jimmy pondered a solution while checking out his new Mustang. Then, his eyes lit up with an idea. “Have the Thunderbird destroyed when you get home,” he said.

“Won’t doing that to a brand-new car raise questions,” Ricky said, a little concerned.

“Not if someone broke into your lot late one night and damaged it,” Jimmy said while opening the trunk.

He removed the bat and took batting practice on the fenders and other areas of the car.

Ricky watched while Jimmy beat the Thunderbird.

“I’ll come in a few days, and we’ll fill out a police report,” Jimmy said while he continued to beat the car. “We’ll say someone vandalized the car while we were fishing,” Jimmy said, then beat the fenders.

“I like that, now let’s go catch some fish,” Ricky said.

Time passed, and the annual fishing and camping trip was over for Jimmy and Ricky.

Jimmy was back home and showed off his new 1967 Mustang to Betty. She loved it!

Betty then noticed the letters under his skull tattoo had grown to “A, R, A, S, and F,” and rolled her eyes, as that looked like gibberish.

She went inside the house while Jimmy opened up his garage door.

Inside his garage, Jimmy did his same routine of placing Fran’s clothes, shoes, teeth, driver’s license, the baby girl picture, car engine cable, and the bloody tip of the bat into his chest.

After developing the pictures from his camera, he dropped the photos of Fran and him as a proud hunter into the chest.

He locked it and hid it back in his attic, then went inside the house and showed Betty the pictures of Ricky and himself fishing on the lake.

Later that night, Jimmy could not help but think about Fran while he glanced at Betty, who was sleeping. He closed his eyes and slept like a baby.

Three days later, the Sheriff of Garrison, Arkansas, Edgar Raymond, called the FBI office in Atlanta and informed them that some hikers found a dead woman he believed to be the fifth victim of the Fall Slayer.

They sent Robert and Carl out to Arkansas to look at the dead woman.

Robert and Carl arrived at the scene. Sheriff Raymond and his deputies had it roped off and guarded the area.

Robert looked terrible, and he had bags under his eyes from lack of sleep and heavy drinking.

He walked around and looked at Fran’s naked and beaten body. Flies buzzed around her dead, naked flesh.

“Take some pictures,” he ordered Carl. But this time, he was less enthusiastic because he had given up on believing he would find the killer.

“I’ll be in touch if I need anything,” Robert told Sheriff Raymond.

Robert walked back to his government car and sat behind the wheel. He drank from his flask and fumed while Carl snapped pictures and asked Sheriff Raymond questions.

Two weeks later, Jimmy had the craving to mess with Robert again.

So he drove off one weekend to Parksville, Mississippi. He drove around the town until he found a Piggly Wiggly store.

He parked his Mustang while he searched for his victim. Then he saw a skinny, mild-mannered man around thirty-five years old get out of a white 1962 Chrysler Valiant.

“He’s perfect,” Jimmy said while sipping his Jack Daniels bottle.

He waited until the man walked into the Piggly Wiggly. He waited until nobody was within sight.

Jimmy moved his car and parked behind the Valiant. He wore his new leather gloves and grabbed a brown paper bag and a lock-opening device.

After getting out of his car and rushing to the Valiant’s trunk, he scanned the parking lot, and nobody was visible. After using the device and unlocking the trunk, he quickly dropped the paper bag inside and quietly closed it, hearing the soft click.

Jimmy rushed back to his car and waited inside his car with a smirk.

After a few minutes, the man left the Piggly Wiggly with a grocery bag.

The man got in his Valiant and drove out of the parking lot.

Jimmy trailed the Valiant to the man’s house, then drove away, heading back home after jotting down the address.

Back to reality.

In Daytona Beach, Sam sat in his den in his lazy boy chair and looked stunned while reviewing areas of the book he highlighted. “How the hell did he know about that?” Sam said while he highlighted another area and was pissed.

In Kissimmee, Marty was almost finished with his book. He looked at Becky, who was working on her tribute photo album to Allan.

“Baby, I think Dad has a bestseller here,” he said while returning to his book.

She could care less, as Allan’s photo album was more important.

In Curtis, Mississippi, Billy stared out the window in his den. He had Allan’s book in his hand and looked scared for once in his life.