True Crime Fiction

by Michael Lister

The vast majority of murders ranged around the Northwest, but he traveled to Florida, continuing to kill young women, some very, very young, after escaping a Colorado jail at the end of December 1977.

  After killing at least two women at Florida State University and brutally assaulting several others, Bundy then killed twelve-year-old Kimberly Diane Leach in Lake City before being captured on February 15, 1978.

  Executed in 1989, Bundy was then cremated, which created a problem for police departments that later began searching for his DNA.

  Following a few dead ends, investigators finally recovered a vial of Bundy’s blood drawn in 1978 from a clerk’s office in Columbia County—where he murdered the Leach girl.

  Bundy’s blood and the DNA profile it contains will now make its way to the FBI database so that investigators across the country might be able to now close several other cases.

  The hunt to track down Bundy’s DNA was primarily for the purposes of ascertaining whether or not Bundy was responsible for the death of eight-year-old Ann Marie Burr, the little girl many believe to be Bundy’s very first victim.

  It’s interesting to note that a Florida law passed in 2009 requires police take DNA samples of all those arrested in felony cases.

  Anna’s not quite finished reading the article when my phone vibrates, and continues reading to herself as I answer it.

  “Thought you were on vacation,” Reggie says.

  Reggie Summers is the sheriff of Gulf County and my boss—at least one of them. I have a different one at Gulf Correctional where I’m a chaplain.

  “I am,” I say.

  “From here and the prison?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Then why am I getting complaints from the sheriff of Jackson County that one of my investigators is harassing the fine folk up there?”

  I think about who we talked to today, who might complain, and why.

  “You there?” she says.

  “Yeah, sorry. I was just thinking about it. Sorry you got the call.”

  “Glenn was cool about it,” she says, referring to Glenn Barnes, the sheriff of Jackson County. “Just wanted to know what was going on and I couldn’t tell him. So what’s going on?”

  “Dad is working one of his old cold cases and I’m helping him a little.”

  “Which case?”

  I tell her.

  “Why now?” she asks. “Is there new evidence or—”

  “He’s got the time now that he doesn’t have a job,” I say. “But he doesn’t feel like he has much.”

  “Why’s that?”

  I tell her about his lab results and the bone marrow test and the fear that he has chronic lymphocytic leukemia.

  For a long moment she doesn’t say anything.

  She doesn’t talk about it much, but her mom has been sick—and in fact the reason she returned to Wewa was to care for her.

  “I’m so sorry, John,” she says, and I can tell she means it. “Do what you need to do. Spend as much time with him as you can. Don’t worry about things here. And if you need more time just let me know.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff. I really appreciate that. We’re hoping the test comes back negative, which is a long shot, or that it’s the highly treatable kind.”

  “I hope so too. My mom beat hers. It happens all the time. Just stay in touch and let me know if you need anything.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And the next time y’all are in Marianna go by and see Glenn—as a courtesy and a favor to me.”

  “We had already planned to,” I say, “but we’ll do it first thing now.”

  74

  “So make the case for Bundy,” I say.

  I am driving Dad’s truck. He is sitting awkwardly on his side in the passenger seat. We are driving along Highway 73 on our way to Marianna, the morning sun burning the dew off the pastures and pines.

  “It’s all circumstantial,” he says, “but . . .”

  Anna and Taylor are in her car in front of us—on their way to her parents’ place in Dothan, which is about thirty miles above Marianna.

  “Janet Lester looked an awful lot like Stephanie Brooks,” he says. “Maybe as much as any of his victims.”

  He’s right. She did.

  Stephanie Brooks (again, not her real name) was the young woman Ted was in a relationship with in college who called it off—and became the pattern for the type of victim he was drawn to and preyed upon. Attractive. Straight, longish dark hair parted in the center.

  Victim type, particularly for a serial killer, is highly significant, and Janet’s similarities to Stephanie cannot be dismissed or downplayed.

  “We know they both went to the Gulf station on 71 that night around the same time. So we have at least the possibility of a point in time and place where their paths intersected. A very good possibility.”

  I nod. “I want us to interview Little Larry again,” I say. “But you’re right. The fact that they both went to the same station around the same time that night is huge.”

  “The brutality and savagery of the crime,” he says. “Not many people on the planet at the time are capable of a bloodletting like that.”

  It’s not nearly as strong a point as the others he’s made, but I understand why he’s making it. And he’s not wrong. Not many people are capable of such an extraordinary slaughter.

  “The fact that he left no physical evidence,” Dad says. “How many killers could do what was done to that poor girl inside her car and not leave a single drop of his own blood? Or hair? Or fibers? Or prints? That has Bundy all over it.”

  “That raises another point,” I say. “I think we need to give some thought to how it was done. Because you’re right, it seems impossible for there to be that much blood in such a small, enclosed space and there not to be a single piece of evidence.”

  He nods and seems to drift off in thought about it.

  “I saw a note in the book that made reference to some other crimes committed that night,” I say.

  He nods. “Only one was possibly related, but we never found any connection. An old farm truck was stolen from the Carter’s farm, which was not too far from the field where Janet’s car was found.”

  “How far?”

  He shrugs. “Couple of miles, I think.”

  “So Janet fakes her own death, leaves her car, steals the Carter’s truck, and leaves town.”

  He shakes his head. “Truck didn’t leave town. We found it back in town. Just parked on the side of the road. Nothing wrong with it. No damage. Not even much of the gas used. Most likely just a joyride, but it was close enough to the party, the field where the car was found, the Gulf station where Bundy was, to make me look into it and make a note about it in the book. We even tested it for prints but it had been wiped clean—which was suspicious but didn’t tell us anything.”

  “I keep coming back to the possibility that it was staged,” I say. “Either by Janet or someone else. The truck could be part of that. If someone stood outside the empty car and splashed buckets of blood inside it would explain why there is no evidence at all that a killer was ever in there with her.”

  He nods. “We looked at that possibility back then, but the ME said there were definitely signs of arterial spray, meaning her throat was slit in the car. Can’t fake that.”

  I think about it. That certainly gives the greatest credence to the crime scene not being made to look like something it’s not.

  “We also have some of her prints in blood in the car,” he adds. “So we know definitively that not only was someone attacked in the car, but that it was her.”

  I nod and think about it some more. There are many things that can be faked and or staged, but certain things just can’t be.

  “Back to Bundy,” he says. “He often took his victims with him.”

  “Yeah, but he usually abducted them in one location, killed them in another, then interfered with them in another.”

  “Interfered?”

  I shrug. “Seemed better and
shorter than saying ‘played with and raped repeatedly.’”

  “So this time, Bundy killed his victim in her car instead of his,” he says. “Killed her as part of abducting her. Don’t forget how much he had disintegrated by this point. He was no longer the suave predator luring coeds to his car. He was the vicious attacker of sleeping women in their beds and a child from her elementary school.”

  Anna’s brake lights come on and I tap mine, searching the road in front of her to see if there’s something in it, but it’s just for a moment and she continues at the same speed.

  I call her anyway.

  “Everything okay up there?” I say.

  “All good. How about back there? How’s your dad feeling?”

  “He’s okay. Just a little tired and sore. But he must not be feeling too poorly. He’s building a hell of a case against Bundy.”

  “I want to hear it tonight,” she says. “Along with all the other details of your day.”

  “Just as soon as I hear yours.”

  “I can tell you mine now. Washed Mom’s dishes. Cleaned her house. Cooked lunch. Hung out and listened to her and Dad tell me how pretty and perfect Taylor is.”

  “Save some of that cleaning for me,” I say. “I’ll try to get there early enough to help with things. I can also bring pizza or something for dinner. Don’t forget you’re still on vacation.”

  When I’m off the phone, Dad picks up right where he left off.

  “The fact that we haven’t found a body in all this time lets you know it wasn’t an amateur. This guy knew what he was doing. No evidence. No body. No motive. How many other cold cases around the country right now are similar because Bundy did those too?”

  “His closest biographers say at least ten but his defense attorney says over seventy.”

  “Either way this could be one of them,” he says. “Then there’s the Visqueen plastic with her blood on it. Have you gotten to that in the book?”

  I shake my head.

  “You will. It’s in there. We found sheets of plastic with Janet’s blood type on it up close to the interstate. I think Bundy wrapped her body in plastic to transport it and some of it fell out of his car when he was loading it or some of it blew out of the window when he was getting back on the interstate.”

  “No question it’s possible,” I say. “I can see why you—”

  “I haven’t even gotten to the best part yet,” he says.

  “Sorry. Thought that was all.”

  “Remember when Bundy was first arrested in Utah? Another time when a routine traffic violation got him pulled over. Utah Highway Patrol pulled him over in a Salt Lake City suburb.”

  I nod, trying to remember the details.

  “The patrol officer saw that the Volkswagen’s front passenger seat was missing, so he searched the car. Remember what he found?”

  I do, but only vaguely. But it doesn’t matter anyway. The question is rhetorical.

  “A ski mask. Another mask made out of part of a pair of pantyhose. A crowbar. Handcuffs. Trash bags. Rope. An ice pick. Found what he thought was a burglary kit. But it was actually the kill kit of the most brutal bastard he would ever meet.”

  He pauses a moment and I glance over at him.

  “In the woods bordering the pasture where Janet’s car was abandoned we found similar items in a trash bag—and there were traces of Janet’s blood both on items inside the bag and on the bag itself.”

  75

  Glenn Barnes looks like a small-town sheriff from a hit TV show. Young but not too young. Tall, muscular, tough, with a military-style haircut, slow, sincere manner, and clear but penetrating blue eyes.

  He’s polite, laid back, comfortable to be around.

  He’s cordial to me and respectful to Dad as he welcomes us into his office.

  After an offer of coffee and a very small amount of small talk, we get down to it.

  “I’m sure y’all understand the position I’m in here,” he says. “Especially you, Sheriff Jordan.”

  “I not only understand it,” Dad says, “I appreciate it, and don’t want to do anything that causes you any aggravation or heartburn.”

  “I appreciate that. Now, let me give you the official line so we can get down to the real deal. Okay?”

  We both nod, though mine is superfluous. He’s only really looking at and talking to Dad.

  “Anyone coming into our county and conducting any kind of investigation is always told the same thing. You’re free to do so as long as you don’t interfere with any of our ongoing investigations, don’t harass our citizens, and share anything you uncover with us.”

  “We understand,” Dad says, “and don’t have any intentions of doing anything else.”

  “Now, just between us,” Barnes says. “I realize this was your case at one point. I also know that you two have a great deal of investigative experience between you. I also want this case cleared, and I don’t care who does it.”

  He looks away a little, his blue eyes narrowing as the muscles in his jaw move beneath his tan skin.

  “I knew her, you know,” he says. “Janet. Wasn’t in her grade. I was a year younger, but we had a couple of classes together over the years and my brother was in her class. She was a genuinely sweet girl. I wasn’t at the party that night, but I’ve heard so much about it over the years sometimes it seems like I was. Her poor family. Hell, Ben’s poor family. Hell, Ben himself. Sad, sad shit. I don’t think he did it. Don’t think he had anything to do with it, but he might as well have, the way his life turned out.”

  Dad and I are both quiet, waiting to see if he’s going to say more.

  Eventually, Dad says, “I don’t care either. Who clears it I mean. We’re not looking for credit or recognition. Just tryin’ to lay to rest some ghosts—my own as much as Janet’s. We’ll turn everything we learn—if we learn anything—over to you. Let your department investigate and confirm everything for yourselves.”

  “I appreciate that, Sheriff,” Barnes says. “And I’ll tell you why. Our new DA is really pushing for results, pressing us to make an arrest. She wants Ben to stand trial, but . . . unless there’s something new uncovered, we’ve taken that case as far as it can go—and not just once but several times.”

  “Maybe we’ll find something,” Dad says. “But we do or we don’t, we won’t be getting in your way. And we’ll turn everything over to you.”

  “Thank you,” he says, standing. “That’s all I ask. Now, I’ll let y’all get to it. Know you didn’t come up here to talk to me all day.”

  It feels like he’s rushing us out, as if this was just a formality and now that it’s done he’s ready to be rid of us.

  He and Dad shake hands and exchange a few more niceties.

  “Who’s your brother?” I say.

  “Huh?” he says, turning toward me. “Oh. Brad. Brad Barnes. Why?”

  “Was he at the party that night?”

  He nods slowly, something in his eyes changing, as he studies me more closely now. “He was.”

  “What does he say?” I ask.

  “About?”

  “Any of it. Does he think Janet was there that night?”

  He nods, seeming to relax a little. “Says she was definitely there. He saw her.”

  76

  When she wasn’t crowned Miss Valentine queen, Kathy Moore wasn’t shocked. She wasn’t even surprised. But she was, at least a little, disappointed.

  Janet always got everything, but she thought this time . . . just maybe . . . she might win something for once. After all, the judges were from out of town and didn’t know any of them. They hadn’t fallen under Janet’s spell yet. They didn’t know how sweet she was. How talented. How good. How she helped her mom with her brother. How she worked tirelessly at everything she did with a positive attitude. They didn’t know how talented she was, how good at photography and fashion. So just maybe . . .

  Kathy really thought she was totally blazin’ and if there was ever a time for her, if she was ever g
oing to beat Janet at anything, the Miss Valentine pageant was it, but no. Not even this. Not even at her best.

  If someone had to win instead of her, she was happy it was her best friend. She really was. But did she have to Bogart everything? Every. Single. Thing.

  I mean, come on. Damnit man. Let me have something.

  Most Talented. Most Attractive. Most Likely to Succeed. Best Dressed. Sweetest. The yearbook read like the bitchin’ biography of Janet Leigh Lester.

  Janet may have won everything so far, but Kathy had at least one more chance. Maybe, just maybe, she and Brad could beat Janet and Ben for Sweethearts’ Ball king and queen.

  It was a long shot, sure, but Ben brings Janet down a little and Brad brings Kathy up a little, and who knows?

  Now she knew.

  The ball was totally out of sight. Everything about it so groovy. It was as if they had been transported from their tiny little backwoods town to a totally bitchin’ disco in a big city.

  And everybody was diggin’ her and Brad—the heads, the jocks, the nerds.

  This could be it.

  Ben seemed distracted and Janet far too worried about him to pay much attention to anyone else—all the students and teachers, each of whom represented a vote.

  Creepy Clyde Wolf was staring at Janet again and something about it, about the way he had gotten even more freaky-deaky about it, not trying to hide it or anything, was making Janet and Ben even more la la.

  If any night was her night, it was tonight. Even more so than the pageant. This was it.

  But no. Not even when Ben and Janet were acting all dopey and bogus. Not even then.

  Brad could tell how dejected she was. Told her he was sick of it. Said she needed to stop living in Janet’s shadow. Told her to get her own life. It led to a big fight.

  Kathy didn’t think she was in Janet’s shadow. They were friends. Best friends. They were in each other’s shadows, right? This wasn’t a one-way thing, was it? Had she been kidding herself? Did Janet see her as a fan instead of a friend?

  No, come on. Cut it out. You know better. Janet is your friend. She’s just what she seems. Y’all are just what you seem. But what do we seem to other people? Is Brad right?