“Yes,” I ventured. “But my guess is that this holds true in your fires. I believe that the guy we’re looking for isn’t either well-educated or particularly smart. While he may have street sense, instincts that help him, he probably wouldn’t have been a good student in school. It’s unlikely that he’s a master criminal. Not just based on the stats. The crime scenes suggest this may be true.”
“How?”
“Well, the gasoline. It’s readily available but not the most stable fuel. Leaving the cigarette butt in the woods. A more intelligent arsonist would know about DNA. He didn’t wear gloves when he made the Molotov cocktails. This guy doesn’t plan well. He picks the churches, watches for when they’re empty, and then shows up with his gasoline and his homemade bombs to ignite them.”
“You’re saying that we’re looking for someone pretty basic who isn’t doing a particularly good job of all this.”
“Yes,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean he’ll be easy to catch. Like I said, he seems to have fairly sound instincts. And cases like this are rarely easy. No one sees anything. If they keep their mouths shut and don’t brag, no one’s the wiser. Unless he burns another church and gets caught in the act or leaves a larger fingerprint behind, we could be in trouble here.”
“So what do we do?”
“We go out and find him.”
“You still think he’s living somewhere around Pathway to Salvation?”
“Or he attended services there, maybe worked on one of the ranches. Let’s visit the pastor, ask more questions and see if we can figure this out.”
Thirteen
Stooped, gray-haired, wearing cargo pants and a black t-shirt, Trey Wilkins showed up at the Polunsky Unit as agreed at one o’clock that Saturday afternoon. A retired parole officer, Wilkins set up his video camera in the prison’s visiting room. There, cubicle after cubicle had a thick, hazy Plexiglas window and a phone hookup to a caged area on the other side. The place looked old and institutional. The once white paint on the metal counter where Wilkins put his notebook and pen had cured a dirty yellow, patches scratched and chipped. Wilkins hated the way it smelled of institutional cleaners.
A slight man in his seventies, Wilkins had begun his Death Row project ten years earlier. His website’s viewership small, only a few hundred logged on to watch each session. But Wilkins considered his interviews with those awaiting execution a public service. He saw his role as that of a conduit that allowed the inmates to have their final say and the public to judge for themselves if they agreed with what happened in the death chamber.
As he waited for Kneehoff to be brought out, Wilkins’ nerves stood at attention. His personal views on the death penalty were complicated. When his best friend was murdered during a robbery, Wilkins pushed for the ultimate punishment. He felt a surge of relief when the man responsible died. But over the years, Wilkins questioned if anyone, even the government, had the right to take a life.
Most of those Wilkins interviewed were young when they came to Death Row. Like his friend’s killer, they committed their crimes as drugged up teenagers. They murdered while robbing a convenience store, during a carjacking or a drug sale. Not that they didn’t take a life. Not that the victims and society didn’t have a right to retribution.
Still, the death penalty didn’t sit well with him. Someday, perhaps, Wilkins thought he’d understand it all, but maybe not.
The prison system public relations guy showed up, and Wilkins handed him an audio hookup. Moments later, a guard placed it on a duplicate counter in the inmate interview space across from him. The guard said a few words, and Wilkins tried out his sound equipment. It worked.
One thing Wilkins felt certain of was that if Texas had the death penalty, someone like Liam Kneehoff had to be the poster boy for why it was justified. All those women. So much death. For what? For pleasure?
The evidence ample, Kneehoff wasn’t innocent. Even he admitted murdering the women. Wilkins had watched live coverage on the news channels in the past months of bodies being dug up around Houston. How many women in all had Kneehoff murdered? That was one of the questions on Wilkins’ pad of paper.
While Wilkins was something of a fixture on Death Row, Liam Kneehoff would be his first interview with a serial killer. That bothered Wilkins, made him nervous about what kind of man he’d face.
Yet the inmate who walked out didn’t look particularly evil. Shackled, handcuffed, Kneehoff entered the cage, and the guards locked the door behind him. Kneehoff extended his arms into a slit in the thick metal mesh, where a guard removed the handcuffs. Kneehoff rubbed his wrists, as if restarting his circulation, then sat down and picked up the phone on the side wall. Wilkins aimed the video camera’s long lens at the window before picking up the connecting phone.
“Thank you for doing this,” Wilkins said. “I know it’s turned out to be early. Your execution is postponed?”
“Yes, we’re looking for victims’ bodies,” Kneehoff replied, his tone implying that he was part of a team working on the investigation. “It’s difficult for us to find some, you know, since it’s been so long. The city’s grown, and some of the areas have changed.”
Before bed the night before, Wilkins had watched with interest news about the most recent dig. A TV reporter speculated the workers could be searching for another of Kneehoff’s victims, and there were reports that the killer had been brought to the site. But authorities refused to comment.
“I saw they’re digging again. Is that for one of your victims?”
“Yes, that’s one of mine out in the field,” Kneehoff confirmed. “That’s a good example of why the searches can be difficult. Someone put up a new building, and now it’s hard to find the right area. So they brought me out to measure off the property and try to find the grave. Without me, they wouldn’t have any idea where to look.”
Wilkins looked down at his pad. From that point forward, he asked his standard questions, starting with Kneehoff’s growing up years, then focusing on what turned Kneehoff into a killer, if he had regrets. Most of the men and women Wilkins spoke to talked of early abuse, drugs, family disconnects and bad childhoods. They offered reasons or excuses, depending on one’s viewpoint, for why they committed their crimes. Kneehoff had no such explanations. Until his arrest, he insisted that his life had been near perfect.
“I just had this urge,” he said, as if it were the most natural of impulses. “I can’t explain it.”
“To kill?”
“Yes,” Kneehoff said, thrusting his jaw out in what Wilkins interpreted as some perverse pride.
“You murdered all those women?”
“Not all of them, you know. Not Kristilynn Cavanaugh. She got away.”
Wilkins remembered Kristilynn, the victim who jumped out of Kneehoff’s Mercedes and escaped. In the months after it happened, throughout Kneehoff’s trial, the kindergarten teacher’s story had been all over the newspapers and television news.
Afterward, members of the jury told reporters that Kristilynn’s testimony had been the most important factor in handing out the death penalty.
A ball of anxiety collected in Wilkins’ chest. He noticed the killer’s hands. Whenever Kneehoff talked about his victims, he rubbed his palms together. Wilkins thought about what those hands had done, the atrocities, the horror.
“Do you regret that Miss Cavanaugh got away?” Wilkins asked.
Kneehoff smiled amicably. He could have been talking about music or movies, a favorite vacation. “I did, of course. She was my one great disappointment. I would have done anything to finish what I’d begun.”
“You would have?”
“Oh, yes, definitely. She was the one responsible, you know, the one they used to identify and arrest me. Kristilynn Cavanaugh was the start of the end for me. In fact, for years I sat in my cell thinking of her, wishing someone would kill her for me.”
Wilkins cleared his throat. He hadn’t thought the interview would be so difficult for him, that his heart would pound,
or that he’d feel squeamish just looking at Kneehoff.
“This woman they’re trying to find now, the one they’re looking for… She’s your twelfth victim?” Wilkins asked.
“Thirteenth.”
“Ah, sorry. I must have miscounted.” Wilkins saw pride on Kneehoff’s face, heard the haughtiness in his voice. “Are there more? Ones they haven’t found yet?”
“Maybe one more,” Kneehoff said, “We’re looking into that.”
They discussed Kneehoff’s execution hold, that his next setting was still unknown. And then Wilkins allowed Kneehoff to take over the discussion, to make what Wilkins thought of as a final statement.
“You know, I don’t think they should kill me. On multiple levels, it’s wrong,” he said. “First, I’m not the same man I was when I committed these murders. Lock me up. Throw away the key, sure. But why kill me, when I’ve changed?”
“How have you changed?”
“Well, look at what I’m doing, helping to recover these women’s remains, trying to do what I can to help. To make amends. If I could, I’d bring them all back to life. I can’t do that. But this I can do. To give their families peace.”
“Do you think this brings peace?” Wilkins asked pointedly. He had never found peace with his friend’s killing. It still haunted him, every day.
“Perhaps not,” Kneehoff said. Then he grew quiet, as if considering. “You know, if they kill me, they’ll deprive the people of Texas, of the world of a valuable resource, someone who can consult with authorities and help them on serial cases. I understand who these monsters are because I’m one of them.”
“You think they should keep you alive to be used as a resource?”
“Absolutely,” Kneehoff said. “I know the psychology better than they do. I can tell them what the killers are thinking, help them figure out who the person is, what they might do next.”
“Why would they ask you? I mean, they have experts, profilers who diagnose serial cases. They have academics who study…”
At that, Kneehoff sat back in the chair and crossed his arms, and Wilkins saw an arrogant anger behind his eyes and in the downturn of his lips.
“Of course they ask me. Why just yesterday, out at the dig, Lieutenant Sarah Armstrong, a Texas Ranger who’s a trained criminal profiler, asked me about a case she’s investigating. She wanted my opinion on a series of church burnings north of the city. Why? Because she knew I would be able to help her understand this man. We’re fellow travelers, you know, serial killers and arsonists, society’s enemies.”
“Arsonists and serial killers are…”
“Fellow travelers,” Kneehoff said, impatient at having to repeat his words. “I understand the man who would do this. I sympathize with him. We’re alike.”
“Church burnings?”
“Yes. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about them. Three churches. All burned pretty much to the ground. And one of the pastors died in the last fire. Haven’t authorities told the press?”
Afterward, Trey Wilkins felt the interview had gone well. Kneehoff seemed forthcoming, more so than he’d expected. At his house, Wilkins downloaded the video onto his computer and then uploaded it onto his website. That completed, he shared the link on social media, marking it #DeathRowInterview #LiamKneehoff #ChurchBurnings #SerialKillings.
Finished, Wilkins took a much needed nap, convinced he’d earned it.
An hour later, feeling refreshed, he checked and saw that the interview had a few hundred shares, better than any other he’d done. With that, he went to clean out the refrigerator. Another hour passed and he checked again. The video had nearly twenty-thousand views. As he sat at his computer, he hit refresh and watched the shares and the view numbers jump.
“So this is what it’s like when something goes viral?” Wilkins muttered.
Minutes later, local and then national television reporters called asking for permission to run segments of his interview with Kneehoff. Delighted, convinced it would generate even more hits, Wilkins agreed.
“Why the interest?” he asked a TV producer. “I mean, I’ve done a bunch of these Death Row interviews. Why are you calling me about this one?”
“It seems to have struck a nerve, and the anti-DP folks are tweeting about it like crazy,” the man said. “They’re saying we’re killing a natural resource. They’re proposing that we use these types of killers to fight crime.”
Wilkins shook his head as he hung up the phone. He felt less sympathy for Kneehoff than any of the men and women scheduled for execution he’d interviewed. Trey Wilkins looked over at his old bloodhound, Oscar, and said, “You know, pal, sometimes life still surprises me.”
Fourteen
After our barbecue lunch, Del made a few phone calls, and we took his truck to the Diamond Circle ranch, the one owned by the rotund, cowboy-hat-wearing pastor I met the day before. Not a big spread by Texas standards, little more than three-hundred acres, we drove down a long driveway to the house. Cattle grazed lazily on one side and horses on the other. A couple of youngish guys stood at the corral passing time watching the pastor, whose name turned out to be Chet, working with a filly, a pretty creature, tawny gold with a blond mane and tail.
“Nice horse,” Del said, and the pastor beamed.
“She’s going to bring us a good price,” he said. “Good lines. A beautiful animal.”
“Hard to make money in the horse business,” I offered. “We have a family ranch. Mom does some boarding. Most years we lose money.”
“Yup, that’s true. But if you luck out breeding, you can turn that around.”
Mentioning the Rocking Horse reminded me that I hadn’t spent much time home in the last couple of days. Too much going on. I wondered about Mom, if she’d made a decision, if she’d talked to Bobby. I wondered if Maggie had her robot working. Antsy to finish the job and get home, I suggested, “Maybe we can go somewhere to talk? Someplace private?”
In the kitchen over cups of coffee that tasted nearly as bitter as chewed aspirin, Del, Pastor Chet, and I discussed what we knew about the arsonist. I described what we suspected about the man, that he would be fairly young, probably not older than his mid-thirties and wasn’t sophisticated. That he was angry with God or organized religion, and that he had a long-standing fascination with fire. “I suspect he’s working days, regular hours, during the week,” I said. “None of this is certain, but that’s based on the times of the fires.”
“Does this fit anyone you know?” Del asked the pastor. “Think hard here, Chet. We need your help.”
The man leaned back, filling the wide chair, and he pulled at his double chin. Del and I waited, doing our best to be patient. We didn’t want to rush him. We needed ideas, for him to come up with names of people to talk to.
“The other thing is that this guy may be a smoker,” I added. “We found a cigarette butt in the woods near Lord’s Acre. We think he may have been smoking in the woods while he waited for the services to end.”
Pastor Chet nodded and stayed quiet, apparently clicking through those he knew who fit the profile. “Well, it’s not the boys outside,” he said. “One kind of fits that description, but he was with me most of the night Lord’s Acre burned, bringing a foal into the world. Afterward, he stayed here at the house, it being late to drive on home.”
“Anyone else?” I asked. “There must be someone –”
With that a man bustled into the room. Tall, lean, in his late twenties or early thirties, he wore an old pair of grease stained overalls and had a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He looked at us seated at the table talking, the papers in front of us, and got a strange look on his face. Then he turned to our host. “Chet, I thought we was going to cut some hay this afternoon,” he said. “I got the tractor working.”
“In a while, Beau. No hurry. I got some people here to talk to. We’ll get to it.”
I watched the younger man, saw him glance down again at the paperwork on the desk. In amongst the forms and pages of type
were photos of the burnt churches. This man, Beau, appeared drawn to them, and he angled close to get a better look.
“That’s our church,” he said pointing at a photo of what little remained of Pathway to Salvation. “Them the other churches that burned?”
I looked at his cigarette, filterless. I thought about the butt recovered at the church, and I considered how this man fit the profile.
Intrigued, I stood up for a better look, and I offered him my hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Lieutenant Sarah Armstrong with the Texas Rangers. This is Sheriff Delgado. And you are?”
He put his hand out to shake mine, but then pulled back, embarrassed. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am, but I’m dirty from working. Grease and such,” he said. “I never met a Texas Ranger before. You here about the churches?”
“We are. Do you know anything that might help us?”
The man shrugged. It was then that Pastor Chet looked up and noticed the burning cigarette. “Beau, I told you no smoking on the property. I don’t like those here, especially not with this damn drought,” he chastised. “Now you scram outta here, quick, and put that thing out before you burn a hole in something.”
The younger man shot the ranch owner an angry glance, one lost on Pastor Chet. Beau turned away and sauntered out, looking peeved. As soon as he was out of earshot, I asked, “Tell me about Beau. What do you know about him?”
“He’s my cousin’s son,” the pastor explained. “Beau does mechanical work for me and a lot of the ranchers in the towns around here. He’s good with his hands and any kind of engine. He understands equipment and such. Repairs my car when it breaks down.”
Del appeared as interested in Beau as I was. “We’d like to talk to that young fella,” he said. “Would you bring him back in here?”
“Beau? You’re not thinking he could be your man?” Pastor Chet scoffed. “Like I said, he’s family. He wouldn’t burn down our church! Not only that, Beau’s not bright enough to pull something like this off without torching himself along with the churches. His momma keeps close tabs on him. Beau barely has the wherewithal to make it through the day without someone telling him what to do.”
The Buried Page 9
