Confession by Gary Whitmore - HTML preview

Chapter 15

Curtis, Mississippi, has dramatically changed since the 1960s. The Ku Klux Klan no longer has a presence, sending terror into the hearts of the African-American community. The town’s once dirt streets are now paved. It’s a peaceful community where everybody gets along.

The Stein Chevrolet had grown into a thriving business with Billy at the helm. The used cars were moved to a more significant site on the other side of town. That decision increased car sales.

It was the middle of September, and Billy sat in his office. He held the A Killer’s Tale book in his hand, and the cover pictures of five gravesites made his temper flare.

Billy glanced at the wall of the framed pictures of Allan and his annual fishing trips over the past forty-five years. The wall was covered from floor to ceiling with those fond memories.

Billy glanced back at the book; his blood boiled while getting up and pacing around the office.

A walk over to his windows had him staring out onto his lot of new Chevrolets.

His phone on his desk buzzed, ignoring it. The phone buzzed again, still ignoring it.

A few seconds had passed, and there was a knock on his closed office door.

The door opened, and Judy Williams, an older African American woman who was Billy’s secretary, entered. “Mister Stein, your accountant’s on line three,” she said while seeing him staring out his window.

Billy glared at her. “Like I said earlier, I don’t want to speak to him. Can’t you listen to orders? I should fire your black ass,” Billy yelled.

Judy rolled her eyes and left his office, then closed the door, accustomed to his temper flare-ups.

Billy threw Allan’s book across the room and then stared out the window, looking concerned.

In Daytona Beach, Sam read the last page of A Killer’s Tale while on the back porch.

He glanced at his small backyard for a second to rest his eyes. The traffic on A1A and the waves of the Atlantic Ocean were heard.

A glance back at the book had him wondering if pursuing the idea that kept popping into his head was doable.

Sam got up and went inside his house, into his den, up to his desk, and opened the bottom drawer.

Inside was a bundle of old files, and Sam set them on his desk.

These were the case files for the five girls killed by the October Slayer. Sam has not looked at these files since he was in Phoenix. They have been tucked away for the past ten years and forgotten.

Sam glanced at the case files and Allan’s book, afraid of unleashing that demon.

While walking around the room and glancing at the book and case files, that haunting question, “Should I forget about this forever?” came back.

Sam walked back to his desk and sat down.

“This bastard must be caught!” a thought popped into his mind while opening another drawer and removing a pad of paper and pen.

He made a “Fall Slayer” column and an “October Slayer” column on paper.

Sam opened up the book and flipped through the pages.

Then, under the “Fall Slayer” column, he wrote “1962 – Annette Boyer, 1963 – Rhonda Wilt, 1964 – Angie Dunham, 1965 – Sandy Lurcott, and 1966 – Fran Schaefer.”

Sam looked at the labels of the five folders, and then under the “October Slayer” column, he wrote “1962—Rhonda Moore, 1963—Fran Adams, 1964—Sandy Yoder, 1965—Angie Gardner, and 1966—Annette Watson.”

“The author used the girls’ real first names with different years,” Sam concluded while comparing the two columns.

Sam opened another drawer and removed a cigar box containing all kinds of small, mostly junk items.

After rummaging through the box, Sam removed two Army Warrant officer bars. “How the hell did that author know about this?” Sam asked himself while he looked at the bars. “The book had Sergeant stripes dropped off in Robert’s coat pocket.”

The sound of the front door opening and closing was heard. This could could only be one person.

“Sam, where are you?” Cindy inquired from the living

room.

“I’m in my den, honey,” Sam replied, then placed the Warrant officer bars on his desk.

Cindy entered and walked over to Sam, kissing him on the forehead. “I hate to sound like a broken record, but when are you going to get an alarm system for your house? Anybody could pick your lock and slip inside,” Cindy warned.

“I’ve lived over seventy years without an alarm system. I’ll be fine,” Sam replied, glancing at the case files.

She glanced at Sam’s desk. “What are those folders?” she asked while she picked up one of the folders.

Sam snatched it out of her hands. “It’s a copy of the case files on the girls that were killed by the October Slayer. They have some pretty graphic pictures inside.”

It dawned on her, glancing back at the case files. “Why, Sam? Do you want those nightmares to return?” she scolded.

“But Cindy, that book had information that only the killer and myself knew,” Sam said while holding the book.

“Like what?”

“Like the night I went out to a bar called Cooters and vaguely remember some guy chatting with me. I never knew his name and don’t remember his appearance since I was so drunk. Anyway, a few days later, I found these in the pocket of my suit jacket,” he said, then showed her the Army Warrant officer bars.

“I’m not following you,” she replied, a little confused.

“This book describes the killer coming up to the FBI agent in a bar and talking with him. When the killer left, he whispered his name and dropped some Army Sergeant stripes into the agent’s suit pocket. The agent was too damn drunk to realize the killer was within his reach,” Sam stated, pissed off with himself. “I recalled that same thing happened to me,” he claimed and now realized that the killer was finally within his reach.

“But it happened long ago; can’t you let it go? After all, you’re retired,” Cinda stated.

Sam looked at the book and case files. “No, I believe this author might have evidence he didn’t publish. Evidence that might finally identify this killer, or maybe he knew who the killer was, and,” Sam said, convinced he was correct.

“Forty years have passed, and the killer is probably dead by now,” Cindy interrupted.

“That’s always possible. But I think he’s still alive,” Sam said with confidence.

“You need to drop this tonight,” she said, walking away. “We’re leaving in ten minutes for dinner,” she said when she left the room.

Sam stared at the case files and the book. The determination to pursue finding that killer again was too big to ignore.

Sam and Cindy left the house and drove to a quaint Italian restaurant.

In Kissimmee, Marty read the last chapter of A Killer’s Tale. Becky watched TV in the living room.

The phone rang from the kitchen. Becky glanced over at Marty to see if he would answer the phone. The book wasn’t going to allow him to budge.

Becky left the living room, entered the kitchen, and picked up the phone. “Becky,” she answered the call.

“I’m tired of waiting!” Billy yelled from the phone.

“I want that lien removed. so I can sell Dad’s house!” Becky snapped back, pissed.

“I won’t remove that lien until you let me go through it. Your Dad has something he wants me to have.”

“No!” Becky yelled, slammed the phone down, then stormed out of the kitchen.

Becky stormed back into the living room and sat down on the sofa.

Marty was still too involved with the book to hear her conservation from the kitchen.

“What a creepy jerk!” Becky fumed.

Marty looked over at Becky and got concerned. “What’s the matter?”

“That was Uncle Billy on the phone bugging me about Dad’s house.”

Marty looked curiously at his book, flipped through some chapters, and stopped at a page. “Dad’s book had the killer hiding evidence in a wooden chest. He also hid it in the attic of his garage,” Marty said while he held up the book.

“So what?” Becky said, but thinking of Billy, her blood was boiling. Then, a few seconds later, her eyes widened when she recalled a memory. “Wait, I remember one day when I was around five years old,” Becky said.

Becky’s childhood memory.

After Allan returned home from Vietnam, he was still stationed in Fort Benning and lived in a neighborhood off South Lumpkin Road in Columbus, Georgia.

It was one chilly day in March, and Becky was almost six years old. Her mother, Beverly, spent the week with her sister in Memphis and left Becky alone with Alan.

Allan fell asleep on the sofa. This allowed Becky the opportunity to explore the house. She got curious and decided to go inside the garage. “Too many things to hurt you in there, my dear,” Allan would tell young Becky.

But today, her curiosity was too strong to resist that day. She went inside the garage since Allan forgot to lock the door.

When Becky got inside, she was impressed with all the fancy tools Allan had hung on the wall and checked them out.

On the bottom shelf was an old wooden chest. The chest got Becky’s curiosity peaked. Becky dragged it out from underneath the bench. Allan removed the chest from the attic because he would find a new hiding place. The ideal spot was picked out but required traveling to another state.

Beck opened the chest and immediately saw a brown dress on top of some clothes. She pulled it out, quickly dressed, then strutted around the garage, pretending she was a grown woman.

The door to the garage from the kitchen opened, and Allan stormed in worried. Alan woke up and panicked when Becky wasn’t in the house. Then, seeing her in that brown dress got him furious.

Alan stormed over to Becky, quickly removing the dress from her little body. “Never, and I mean never, come inside my garage!” he scolded her, then gave Becky’s butt a few hard whacks.

“I’m sorry, daddy!” Becky cried.

He grabbed Becky by her arms. “You must never tell Mommy you found this dress. It’s a Christmas present for her,” Allan said with a raised tone.

Becky was scared, so Allan shoved the dress back in the chest, locked it, and placed it under the bench.

Alan grabbed Becky by her hand and marched her out of the garage, closing and locking the door.

Back to the present day.

“After that day, I never saw that chest again,” Becky said.

“Did your mother get that dress for Christmas?” Marty asked.

Becky thought for a few seconds. “I really don’t remember,” she said. “It’s no big deal. It was just a stupid dress and a stupid wooden chest. Dad was right in punishing me. I knew the garage was off-limits. Plus, it sounds like Dad used that memory to jazz up his story,” Becky said, then got a chill. “Maybe the dress belonged to Uncle Billy? He was a huge pervert. Maybe that’s how he spent his Saturday nights?” she chuckled.

Marty looked curiously at his book. “The story didn’t mention a guy dressing up as a woman.”

Nancy and Michael rushed into the living room.

“Mommy, can we see the movie Chicken Little?” Michael asked, all excited.

“You promised,” Nancy reminded them.

Becky looked at Marty. “If daddy can bear a few hours away from his book,” she said while she looked at Marty.

“Of course,” Marty said, placing the book on the coffee table.

Nancy and Michael jumped for joy while walking out of the living room.

An hour later, Sam and Cindy returned to his house from a nice dinner. After spending time alone watching TV, he walked Cindy out to her car. Sam gave her a quick kiss on the lips and watched her drive off down the street.

Sam returned to his house, rushed into the den, and quickly sat at his desk.

Sam opened the drawer with the case files, removed and opened, and then removed three letters.

Sam opened the A Killer’s Tale book to a page, opened the first letter, and looked at it.

“Sam – You’re Too Stupid To Catch Me. All My Love, The October Slayer,” read in magazine print.

“It’s exactly the same,” Sam said after comparing one of the letters in the book to his own. Sam got mad while recalling that day in his office when he received the taunting letter.

Sam opened up the second letter and looked at it.

“Hey, Stupid. I Killed A Girl In The Woods 3 Miles East of White Falls, Alabama, Last Week. All My Love, October Slayer,” it read in magazine print.

“Bastard!” Sam said while comparing the letter to what was stated in the book.

Sam opened up the third letter and looked at it.

“Chasing False Leads Dumbass. All My Love, The October Slayer,” read in magazine print.

“How the hell did the author of this book know about these three letters?” Sam asked himself while staring at the letters mentioned in the book. “I never told anybody about those letters!”

Sam looked at the back of A Killer’s Tale and read the short author’s bio. “He was an Army CID agent. That’s interesting,” Sam said, pacing around the den. This story started eating away at him.

In Curtis, Mississippi, Billy paced around his den with a glass of whiskey on the rocks, glancing at those pictures of Allan and himself on the wall.

He walked up to a picture of them in high school. “If you were alive right now, I would snap your neck,” he cursed at the picture.

Billy walked over to his bar and freshened his drink with more whiskey.

His cell phone rang on the bar, and he glanced at the viewfinder. “What do you want?” he answered the call.

Billy paced around the room while he listened to the caller. “I don’t know why Allan wrote it,” he said, then walked while listening to the caller. “Why the fuck should I give you more money?” he replied, pissed off. “I don’t know if Sam Woods is still around. Can’t you find out?” Billy said, then sipped whiskey while listening to the caller. “He’s probably too old to do anything nowadays,” he said while pacing and listening to the caller. “We’ll find out and call me,” he replied, sipping more whiskey. “I’ll think about paying you again,” Billy replied, then ended the call.

Billy walked over to his bar, set his cell phone down, then decided to make another attempt.

In Kissimmee, Becky is in bed while she reads a romantic book called Only Time, while Marty has his head buried in A Killer’s Tale.

The phone on the bedside table rang. Becky kept her eyes on her book while she picked up the phone. “Becky,” she answered while continuing to read her story.

“If you let me go through Allan’s house, I’ll pay you five thousand dollars, and then I’ll remove the lien. I’ll also stay out of your life forever. Promise!” Billy quickly blurted out on the phone.

Becky slammed the phone down, which startled Marty.

“What was that about?”

“Uncle Billy again. I don’t care if I never sell the house and don’t want his money. I’ll never let him get his way!”

Becky put her book away, turned off her light, and rolled to her side, closing her eyes.

Marty looked curiously at his book while thinking about Billy’s persistence in getting into Allan’s house.