Guards wouldn’t give D.T. his mail—’specially Mohlerson, he’d tear it up right in D.T.’s face: letters from his sister, friends, Mama’s obituary. They turned all his visits away, lawyers too. Oh, D.T. was at a place worse than death, was in a living hell, a place no one should ever be, buried alive, alone, no reason or answers for it. No penance or closure, just an open wound, never healing, always pain. He hadn’t been able to see his mama for the last time; convicted of a rape he hadn’t done; accused of a murder he didn’t commit; his teen life snatched away like that, had him in a world of misery, suffering, beyond relief, way past vindication, too far gone for vengeance.
D.T.’s lawyer was a fighter, got a court order to have the brass ’range for him to visit his client. All they done was let D.T. talk to the lawyer on the phone, didn’t want anyone ’portant to see the hurt’en they’d put on him, turned his face black and red. The lawyer hadn’t a what’s what ’bout the murder and all. Just had good news to tell D.T.: that the courts had overturned the rape conviction, that he would be back in court in a couple of weeks. D.T. wasn’t ’cited, caught the lawyer by surprise, told him all what had happened, blew the lawyer’s wig back. He jumped right on the case, told D.T. to hang on, he would get him transferred. Oh, he should’ve been got took out the gut of the beast.
The lawyer made some waves, had them give D.T. all his property: legal documents, notepad, and stuff. Gave him his reading glasses and case; the fancy gold ink pen Ms. Prichard gave him was still in it. Mohlerson kept fucking with D.T., playing in his food, tearing up his mail, taunting him in the worst way, saying God don’t like ugly, ’plying him and Ms. Prichard was coupling up. Mohlerson had a picture of D.T.’s sister, stuck it down his pants, then bad-mouthed his mama. Said he rather see Ms. Prichard dead than with D.T.’s nigger ass and was glad he killed the filthy whore. D.T. was ’furiated, a mad dog, wanted to kill that cracker!
* * *
I was over at the graves, shining shoes, working my way to D.T., had something ’portant to tell him, had a care package for him too: snacks and hygiene stuff, snuck it in my shoeshine box, heard how they was treating him. Made it just in time and saw D.T. get his wish. He caught Mohlerson off guard, too busy rubbing D.T.’s picture ’cross his nuts, and for the last time. The kid reached ’tween the bars and got hold of Mohlerson’s shirt. Oh, drew that fancy ink pen and stabbed Mohlerson in the neck over and over, screaming, “Same thing make you laugh, make you cry!” Those blue eyes was cold, reptilian, no moist, gleam, only a blue so black, soulless.
Mohlerson fell to his knees, clutching his neck, trying to hold it together. Blood gushed out, squirting horror on the glass, spilling to the floor. He stared up from the pool of red death into D.T.’s eyes, evil and unforgiving, watching him wallow in agony, waiting fiercely for Mohlerson to die. Oh, wish I could’ve threw his carcass to the gulls.
* * *
I was ear hustling at the rotunda, heard ’em say the murder case against D.T. had been dropped. Oh, I had took the bloody ink pen from him, stuck it in my waist, and waited . . . It was a good ’nuff chapter for an ending.
HOW EBAY NEARLY KILLED GARY BRIDGWAY
BY TIMOTHY PAULEY
Monroe Correctional Complex (Monroe, Washington)
When it was announced that the Green River Killer had been apprehended, most people assumed he would be tried, convicted, and executed in short order. Based on the sheer volume of bodies he had stacked up, it was difficult to imagine any other outcome; even his legal team didn’t have much hope for him.
One of Bridgway’s junior lawyers, however, had a vision. He was just a couple of years into his career and was basically brought along to take notes, but he saw the bigger picture in a way others couldn’t, wouldn’t, or hadn’t even considered. To Martin, being the guy who saved this monster from certain execution would be an excellent springboard from which he could launch a lucrative law career. With that in mind, he began some informal discussions with a colleague in the prosecutor’s office the day he was assigned to assist on the case. It was a long process, but Martin felt certain he had the leverage to see his vision to fruition.
Mike, on the other hand, was having a run of bad luck. His identity theft ring had just been busted, and he was booked into county jail with a bail he could never raise, not to mention the prospect of ten years in prison looming ominously over him. Just in case he had some question about how mad they were at him, the guards assigned him to a cell in the highest-security section of the jail, three doors down from Gary Bridgway. He’d have to have been a complete idiot not to get that message.
When Mike called his wife from jail, he tried to avoid talking about his case. All that would do is depress her, so he casually mentioned that he was living practically next door to Gary Bridgway. Molly’s reaction was quite unexpected and caught Mike off guard. She seemed very interested in the fact that Mike was a neighbor to the most notorious serial killer in the history of Washington State.
When Mike called Molly again the next day, she almost immediately brought up Bridgway. He filled her in on the details as best he could, but there really wasn’t much to tell. They spent the majority of their lives locked in cells, so even though Bridgway was in close physical proximity, there was little opportunity to interact with him, even if Mike actually wanted to do so. Toward the end of their conversation, Molly asked Mike if he could get Bridgway’s autograph for her. Mike was repulsed by this and almost hung up, but Molly was quick to point out that Mike hadn’t exactly left her financially secure. After the cops were done seizing all of his stuff, there was almost nothing left but bills. Eventually, Molly admitted that she’d done some research and discovered that a Bridgway autograph was currently selling for four hundred bucks on the Internet. Mike ended the call, assuring her he’d see what he could do.
Meanwhile, Martin was getting close to arranging a deal, and it was time to pitch the idea to Bridgway. Seemed simple enough: trade some bodies for his life. Bridgway was screwed anyway, so what did he have to lose? After an hour talking with Bridgway, however, it seemed that the small degree of trust necessary for him to get on board with the idea was lacking. Understandably, Bridgway was leery of a trap and reluctant to agree to the deal unless his fears could be put to rest.
Bridgway had only been back from his attorney visit for a few minutes when Mike showed up at his door. When the tier porter had been caught smoking, Mike, with only a series of identity thefts on his record, was the logical choice to replace him; if the guards had to let a prisoner wander around outside of his cell, everyone was more comfortable with a guy who’d passed a bunch of bad paper than with the other, more violent prisoners on the tier. Mike was hired the same day the tier porter was fired. His first mission was to get his wife a Bridgway autograph.
The problem was, Bridgway didn’t want to sign. He found it hard to believe anyone would want his autograph for anything other than to screw him over, so he refused all of Mike’s pleas. Every day Mike would try another angle, and each time he’d get the same answer. Every evening, when Mike called Molly, he’d catch hell for failing to produce.
Tuesday afternoon, Mike had a brainstorm. He was pushing the dirty dust mop down the concrete tier when he noticed a piece of paper sticking out of Bridgway’s door. It was common practice for prisoners to slip written communications through the crack in their doorjambs; the guards would eventually pick them up on their numerous daily walkthroughs. As soon as Mike saw the paper sticking out of Bridgway’s door, he quickly scanned his surroundings to see if anyone was watching him.
Upon closer inspection, he saw that the paper was a store order. This was the method through which prisoners were able to purchase snacks and personal hygiene items. The procedure was to list the items one wished to purchase, then sign the bottom to authorize jail staff to take the necessary funds from the prisoner’s jail account. Mike made three more passes along the hallway, each time looking out of the corner of his eye through the small window in Bridgway’s
door to see if the guy was paying any attention to him. He appeared to be reading a book, so on the next pass, Mike reached out and snatched the store order on his way by, stuffing it down the front of his coveralls in the same motion. Nobody appeared to notice. That evening, the first Bridgway autograph was in the mail to Molly.
Friday afternoon, Bridgway went to meet with Martin again. Martin had nearly convinced him to agree in principle to the verbal arrangement he’d hammered out with the prosecutors, but Bridgway left the visit without actually agreeing. Martin could tell he was close, but there was still no deal.
When Bridgway got back to his cell, the guards had already delivered store. He asked about his, but they informed him nothing had come for him. Bridgway was pissed, and the moment he got back to his cell, he wrote an angry kite to the store officer. An hour later, when it was time to pass out chow, Mike couldn’t believe his good fortune when he saw the kite sticking out of Bridgway’s door. When he came out to help distribute the trays, Mike crouched as he passed Bridgway’s window, snatched the kite, and then continued on to the food cart. Soon, another four hundred bucks was in the mail to Molly.
The following Tuesday, as expected, Bridgway put his store order in the crack of his door. This time he ordered large quantities of everything. Having experienced difficulty with the processing of his previous order, he was preparing for any similar episodes in the future. His order was so large that it took two forms. Mike was ecstatic when he got back to his cell and discovered he’d scored two autographs instead of just one. Molly would be very happy about this, and Mike couldn’t help but smile as he put Bridgway’s order forms in with his letter to Molly and sealed the envelope.
That Friday, Bridgway stood with his face in the window of his door as soon as he heard the store cart rolling onto the tier. He waited in patient anticipation as the store officer opened the door of the first cell and handed its occupant his purchases. The process repeated three more times before she got to Bridgway’s neighbor. The door next to him clicked shut, and Bridgway’s face registered an expression of shock mixed with anger as he watched the cart roll past his cell. Before the store officer even reached the next cell, Bridgway called out, “Hey! Where’s mine?”
Officer Finkel tried her best to just ignore him. Everyone knew who Bridgway was. Some of the officers gave him grief any way they could, but most just tried to treat him the same as every other prisoner. None of them, however, had any desire to get close to Bridgway. They dealt with him as quickly and professionally as they could.
When Bridgway began hollering and banging on his door, nobody was anxious to be the one to have that conversation. Even though he was locked in a cell, this man had dozens of murders to his credit. Now he was having a psychotic episode. Officer Finkel passed out the remaining three bags on her cart and got out of there as quickly as possible. The moment the door shut behind her, Bridgway began pounding harder and yelling louder. “I want my store, you assholes! Give me my shit!”
The jail staff believed Bridgway was a psychopath, the likes of which no one had ever seen. Whatever his problem was, he could put it in a kite like everyone else. All his screaming and carrying on did nothing but further instill in the staff the desire to keep their distance. The less they saw of Bridgway, the better.
Eventually, he calmed down. Every time an officer would walk past his cell, Bridgway tried to engage him or her in a conversation about his store problem. Each time, he got the same response: “Put in a kite.”
For lack of any other recourse, Bridgway sat down and wrote kites to everyone from the mail commander all the way down to the store officer. There were eight in all. He meticulously described his problem, signed his name, and put them in the crack in his door.
When Mike saw the thick stack of paper in Bridgway’s door, his delight was hard to hide. He bit his lower lip to keep from laughing out loud as he pushed the dust mop down the tier. Each time he passed the cell, he’d sneak a glance through the window, only to see Bridgway sitting on the edge of his bunk facing the door. For fifteen minutes, Mike continued sweeping and mopping the tier, waiting for the opportunity to make his move. It was starting to look like that opportunity would not come, but Mike couldn’t let a whole stack of kites get away.
When he finished cleaning the tier for a third time, Mike rinsed out the mop, hung it up, and headed back toward his cell. As he neared Bridgway’s cell, he heard a toilet flush. A quick peek through the window allowed him to see Bridgway moving to his bunk with his back to the door. Mike ripped the kites from the door crack, stuffed them down the front of his coveralls, and hurried back to his cell without so much as a glance in the direction of the cops. If they saw the move, so be it. It was his last chance, and he wasn’t about to let this opportunity slip through his fingers. Either they didn’t see or they just didn’t care. Whatever the case, Mike made it back to his cell with no reaction from the cops.
On Monday, Martin arrived at the jail right before lunch. The prosecutor’s office was ready to officially offer Bridgway a way out of the death penalty if he would agree to lead them to the unrecovered bodies of his victims. The papers had been drafted. It was time to meet with Bridgway, and Martin was confident he’d locked in the deal. Now all he needed was for Bridgway to sign on—and how could he refuse?
When he and Bridgway were alone in the attorney-visiting booth, Martin proudly laid the papers on the table and grinned as he extended a pen to the inmate. “We did it!” Martin exclaimed. “They’re ready to make a deal. It’s now or never.”
Much to Martin’s dismay, not only did Bridgway not take the pen and sign the papers, but he also ranted on for the next thirty minutes about his store and about how “those people” could not be trusted. Try as he might, Martin was unable to steer the conversation back in the direction of signing the papers. Bridgway seemed obsessed with his store and some problem he was having with the jail staff. The visit ended with Martin assuring Bridgway he’d see what he could do to resolve the problem.
The next day, Bridgway filled out another store order and put it in his door crack. Shortly thereafter, Mike collected it, and that evening it was sealed in an envelope and sent on its way to Molly.
On Wednesday, a memo was circulated to all jail staff. The commander explained that they were now required to go to Bridgway’s cell and ask him for his store order form; they were also to ask Bridgway each evening if he had any mail or communication he wished to submit. These instructions generated a considerable amount of resentment among jail staff, but they came from the top, so everyone reluctantly complied. Actually, the jail commander wasn’t any more pleased about this situation than they were, but the King County prosecuting attorney himself had personally made this request for cooperation, so what could they do?
When the officer approached Bridgway’s cell that evening and asked him if he wanted to submit a store order, the serial killer was more than a little surprised. At first he told the officer he’d already submitted his order, but when he was informed that if he wanted store he was to give them an order now, Bridgway sat down and hastily filled out another form.
That Friday, the store cart stopped at Bridgway’s cell. In fact, it stopped there every Friday from then on. Much to his dismay, Mike no longer found any four-hundred-dollar bills sticking out of Bridgway’s door, and Molly’s popularity on eBay waned. Shortly thereafter, Bridgway signed the deal, and Martin did become known as the legal mastermind who saved Gary Bridgway from certain execution. But for a time, Mike, Molly, and eBay nearly got Bridgway killed.
3 BLOCK FROM HELL
BY BRYAN K. PALMER
Jackson State Prison (Jackson, Michigan)
Allow me to introduce myself: I’m Bo Carr, I’m a serial killer. Not just any serial killer, but the best one. Oh yes, I’m bragging, and I am not a dictator of a foreign country or even a depraved lunatic doing it for sexual thrills. Does that surprise you? Does it offend your delicate sensibilities? How many have I killed? One hundred and nine
ty-eight men. Each one of them deserved it. You don’t believe me? I’ll let you be the judge.
Who was the first? Nepo Shyler. I can still see his face clearly: his bald, shaven head, his untouchable, smug attitude! What did he do wrong? Are you serious? Did you not hear who I said? Nepo Shyler? Murderer extraordinaire? He was locked up for the first time when he was thirteen years old for burning his grandmother to death because she wouldn’t give him money to buy ice cream. He was found in the basement playing with her eyeballs like they were marbles, with a gallon of melting Neapolitan ice cream dripping between his fat legs. He’s been in and out of psychiatric hospitals, juvenile homes, and prison all his life. He is a true product of his surroundings. I saw him come in and out of Jackson Quarantine five times during my stay there.
Jackson Quarantine, as you probably know, is where all the circuit courts in Michigan send their prisoners after sentencing. It is here, at Jackson Prison, that each inmate is screened for security classification before being sent to his primary prison. It could be anywhere in Michigan, from a prison camp in the U.P. or even to Gladiator School in Ionia. It all depends on what the paperwork tells the prison officials here in Jackson. It’s why I loved being there. I got to see everyone as they came through the bubble. We called it the “bubble” because the scene, as it unfolds before your eyes, bursts your bubble when you enter 7 block and hundreds of men whistle at you and the other fresh fish walking across the gallery floor in your underwear, holding your bedroll tight against your fragile chest, as if that will protect you from the predators salivating from their psychopathic lips with every step you take. For the seasoned prisoners who are returning, it’s like homecoming week: seeing the same sissies who sucked their dicks in the shower, the drug dealer who gave them their fix of brown heroin, the female guard who smuggled them a cell phone up her snatch. These are the men I cannot stand, and Shyler was my final straw.
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