EQMM, Sep-Oct 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  As we drove east from the airport, he glanced over at me and said, “Most people, the first thing they say about Bismarck is that it's flat."

  I smiled out the car window at the proof of that. “Hey, I'm from Florida. We invented flat."

  The Missouri River was behind us. The North Dakota State Prison was ahead of us. There was nothing but flat all around us. I felt right at home, give or take a few palm trees and an ocean or two.

  "We have a nineteen-story skyscraper,” he said with wry braggadocio.

  "And you can see it from four counties."

  He laughed. “Just about.” Then the smile faded and he glanced at me with a sober expression on his deeply tanned and weathered face. “I expect you've done some homework since the last time we spoke."

  "Erin Belafonte,” I said, staring at the highway and clicking into my memory. “Twenty-two. Jessica Burge, thirty-one. Caroline Meyers, thirty-two. Those two, Jessie and Caroline, were best friends. Nobody knows for sure if they knew Erin, but a lot of people felt sure they had at least been acquainted, because they tended to hang out at the same TGIF parties in the condo complex where Darren Betch worked maintenance. He showed up at the parties. The guys liked him. The girls thought he was hot."

  "A few of the men did not like that,” Luis commented drily.

  "I'll bet. Betch never arrived with anybody, but he sometimes left with someone. Never the same someone, apparently. The last woman who was seen going out the door with him was Erin Belafonte. That was also the last time she was seen by anybody who knew her. She was captured on videotape at an ATM machine two days later and then on a grocery-store camera that night."

  I went silent, because so had Erin Belafonte, and my heart suddenly hurt for her.

  "She looked terrified,” I said, and then cleared my throat.

  "You all right?” Cannistre asked.

  I nodded, but turned to the window so he couldn't see the tears that had come to my eyes. “I write about a lot of them. If I don't feel it, I can't write it. Just now, at that moment, that's the first time since you brought up this case to me that I felt anything about it."

  "Does that mean you'll do it?"

  I stared out the windshield. “I don't know, but at least it means I can do it."

  We came within sight of a big red brick building that could only have been a nineteenth-century prison or orphanage. Clean, plain grounds. A tower above the main floors. Foreboding. Grim. I never get blasé about the first moment of seeing a prison, any prison. There is always that flash of claustrophobia, that instant of depression, before reality shoves through and reminds me I'm just a visitor. At those moments, and even when I know that certain lives, lived certain ways, could probably only end up in such places, I want to know, What were you thinking? How could you have been so stupid?"

  * * * *

  We went through the preliminary security, got our hands stamped with ultraviolet ink, entered a code to get through gate one, went through a turnstile, presented our visitor's passes, and then went through four more iron-barred, clanging gates to get to the visiting room. This being North Dakota, the room was different in one respect from other prison visiting rooms I had seen. There were the usual vending machines and toys for children, but this one also had display cases of Native American arts and crafts made by the inmates and offered for sale. I saw some beautiful beaded jewelry.

  Security was provided by an officer on a raised platform in the room and also, Cannistre told me, by two other officers in a control room where they were operating and monitoring two 360-degree cameras. The cameras’ “eyes” were smoked glass balls in the ceiling and it was impossible to tell which way they were pointed at any time.

  Cannistre went to stand near the officer on the raised platform.

  I chose one of the twenty round oak tables in the room, one in a far corner away from the children's toys, and sat down to await the arrival of “my” inmate. Women alone and with children began to come in, along with a smattering of obvious lawyers. Then it was the inmates’ turn. Their shoes sounded heavily on the gleaming white linoleum floor. Soon the room filled with the quiet murmuring of adults and with children's noises.

  I had time to think about the killers I have known and to wonder how he had come to be hung in their gallery. It's ... weird ... talking face-to-face to people who you know have done hideous things. Sometimes it takes an act of will to remember that, because there they are sitting across from you, laughing, talking, crying (a few of them), drinking sodas, looking like any other human being except for the prison haircut, pallor, and clothing. No horns. No twitching tail. No bloody fangs. Sometimes they're likable. Sometimes they're pitiful. Their annoyances sound as petty as anybody else's—too much light, not enough light, too much noise, too quiet, they hate the food, they're broke, their woman done them wrong, whatever. And all the while the knowledge of what they did hangs between us like an invisible movie on an invisible screen. Sometimes I think I can hear the soundtrack. I hear faint distant screaming, the whispers of somebody dying.

  My last few books had killers who were definitely short on charisma. I was overdue for a “charmer” like Ted Bundy.

  It arrived in spades and then some.

  He was so good-looking in such an unusual way that it was startling. Having seen earlier photos of him I could tell that prison had sapped and faded some of his appeal, but it was still impressive. He sat down, or rather ... kind of gracefully, athletically swung himself down into the chair across the table from me ... and grinned around the gum he was chewing.

  Darren Betch was not Native American, but you'd have sworn he was.

  Whatever his true heritage, it had given him a big strong physique, black hair, smooth olive skin, generous lips, and a strong nose. In North Dakota, home to large reservations, he could easily be mistaken for belonging to a tribe if he wanted to, which apparently he did. It had come as a surprise to the other people who attended the big TGIF parties when they found out that the big handsome guy with the beaded shirt and the long braid wasn't any more Indian than they were.

  "Why did he do that?” I had asked the detective.

  "It helped him get girls who might not otherwise have gone with him, Marie. These were nice girls. A little wild, maybe, but basically decent girls. In the end, that's what killed them. They couldn't say no to Darren, because they thought he was Indian, and they were afraid of looking prejudiced. He knew that. He used it. I told you, he is one cunning son of a bitch."

  It was an ironic, appalling theory, and easy to believe when I saw him.

  Even now, in the prison, he wore his long black hair in a classic, handsome Indian braid. If I hadn't known it wasn't true, I would have sworn he had braves and chiefs in his genealogy. He clasped his hands in front of him on the table and shoved forward so he was leaning toward me with his knuckles just over the halfway line between us. He was suddenly so close that I smelled the cinnamon in his gum. His khaki shirt sleeves were rolled up, showing off football-player forearms. He had eyes the color of pecan pie, soft brown and caramel with flecks of gold.

  He wasted no time.

  Locking eyes with me, he said, “May I call you Marie?"

  Looking right back at him, I said pleasantly and firmly, “No."

  Then, immediately, I bent over to pick up my notebook and pen from the floor where I had placed them on purpose. It was a ploy to avoid shaking hands with him. I hardly ever do that at this stage with a potential book subject. I won't refuse the handshake if they make the move, but normally I can arrange the distance between us, or shift my eye contact, so that it's not going to happen. It's strange, but most of these guys seem to understand that strangers don't want to shake hands with them. There's something too ... accepting ... about it, as if it confers approval. I usually wait for the handshake until it can mean something else, something unambiguous like goodbye, or thanks for your time.

  I was also careful not to shift my own posture, not to scoot back or stiffen when he edged so c
lose to me, and definitely not to respond to the flirtatiousness in his beautiful eyes. It was crucial that I not allow him to control my movements by the aggressive friendliness and sensuality of his. Crucial, but not easy. I could manipulate interviews with the best of them, but he had the advantage of being both manipulative and a sociopath. Sort of like the difference between amateurs and pros.

  "Thank you for meeting me, Mr. Betch."

  He gave me a slow crooked smile. “Call me Darren."

  I smiled back at him, a cool-eyed smile I keep in my repertoire and don't much like to have to use. In a relaxed tone of voice that was only possible by virtue of my other experiences with men who have killed women, I said, “I understand you're familiar with my work."

  I was being even more cautious than I usually am with these guys, because the first words out of his mouth—"May I call you Marie?"—screamed control freak. This was the kind of guy who wouldn't take no for an answer and who kept after you until you got in his car, let him in your house, gave him the access that killed you. Before he even said hello to me he was taking the reins of the conversation, or trying to. It was going to be fascinating to watch him persist, which he would. Oh, he would. On the pad of paper in my lap I began making hash marks with my pen. One slash for every time he brought up my name. There was one mark on my pad already and we weren't even one minute into the interview.

  "You're the best,” he told me, with that smile. “I love your work."

  I wondered if he thought I was going to tell him that I loved his, too.

  "Thank you."

  "That last one, Marie, that was shit-hot."

  I put my pen on the table, picked up my pad, and started to get up.

  "Ms. Lightfoot, I meant to say.” His grin turned little-boyish.

  I sat back down and made a second hash mark.

  "I figured it wasn't the ‘shit’ that bothered you,” he said in a teasing tone, making verbal air quotes around the obscenity. “I mean, your books are pretty blunt with the language, so I figure you don't offend easy that way. Are you offended by your name? That's kind of sad, Marie. What's the matter with your name? Don't you like it?"

  Hash mark. Three.

  This was where I was supposed to get flustered. This was where I was supposed to turn red and stammer, “There's nothing the matter with my name. I like it okay.” And he was supposed to smile charmingly at me and press closer to me and say, “I think it's a beautiful name. That's why I want to say it...."

  "I'm more interested in the names Erin, Jessica, and Caroline,” I said.

  He pulled back just slightly, before he could stop himself. It was just enough for both of us to know who was in control here and that so far, it wasn't him.

  "Those are beautiful names,” I said, and this time it was I who clasped my hands together and leaned forward on the table. “They were beautiful girls. But there are a lot of beautiful girls who get killed, unfortunately. Dime a dozen, you might say. As you can probably imagine,” I continued, “I hear about a lot of murder cases. I can take my pick of them to write about, Darren."

  A bit of emphasis on his first name.

  There had been a shift. He had heard the threat: Behave yourself or I walk and you lose your only chance to get the world's premier author of true-crime books to write about you, Darren.

  "You write about me, you'll sell a lot of books,” he boasted.

  "I write about anybody, I'll sell a lot of books."

  A flash of anger passed across his face. I'd hit his ego. What I saw within him in that instant scared the hell out of me, and I hoped he couldn't see that pass across my face. I had to do it this way, had to push him fast, had to get a glimpse of what he could do, who he could be, before I could lower the boom.

  "You want me to write about you, Darren?"

  He shrugged, offended.

  "You're an interesting guy,” I told him, feeding him now.

  For my trouble I got an unnerving glimpse of something else in him—that canny, intelligent part that Luis Cannistre had alluded to. He hadn't fallen for my flattery; he had heard it as weakness.

  "There are other authors I like, too,” he said, laughing at me now.

  "Oh, bullshit. You know I'm the best there is. You would, if you'll pardon the expression, kill to have me write about you. I'm going to do it, but only on one condition."

  He began to smile. He knew what it was.

  "I won't write the book without knowing where the bodies are."

  I don't know what I thought he might say to that, but nowhere in my wildest imagination did I ever dream it would be what he did say.

  "Here's the deal,” he said, with a suddenly dead-serious look in his eyes. I wondered what the expression in his eyes had been the last time the women looked at him. I shivered inside. “You show me proof you're going to write it. Like, a publisher's contract, okay? And then I'll give you proof I mean it, too."

  "What kind of proof?"

  "I'll tell you where to find the first body."

  I felt my mouth drop open a little and couldn't prevent it.

  But he wasn't through shocking and surprising me.

  "Finish the book, prove to me that it's going to be published, and then I'll tell you where to find the others.” His slow half-smile appeared again and this time when he moved toward me I moved away. “No tricks, Marie. You publish the book, I give you the bodies, do we have a deal?"

  "What's in it for you, Darren?"

  He smiled again and shrugged. “I figured it out. If I can't be free, at least I can be famous."

  * * * *

  "That cold SOB,” Cannistre said furiously when I told him. I had waited to tell him until we had navigated the reverse stages of getting through security. Now we stood by his car in the wind-swept parking lot. He slammed his right fist into his left hand as if he were punching it into Betch's face. The sharp slap of skin on skin made me jump and I moved back a step from him. “Using those girls as bargaining chips!"

  "As we were going to do,” I pointed out.

  He gave me a look.

  I shivered, though the day was warm. “You're right, it's different. Sorry. It rubs off."

  "I know what you mean,” he conceded, and then he took a deep breath in an obvious attempt to calm himself. “What did you tell him?"

  "That I didn't know who could approve something like that. I told him I'd get back to him."

  "Good. We have to talk to the families. We'll use your motel room."

  "I don't have a motel room,” I reminded him, and then I postulated the obvious: “So I guess that means I'm staying?"

  "Aren't you?"

  After a second's hesitation, I nodded.

  Of course I was staying. How could I not?

  We were meeting in my motel room, Cannistre told me, because he didn't want publicity “yet."

  "Yet?” I said.

  "It could come in handy later. Whatever he tells you, it could jog somebody else's memory."

  "Or conscience."

  "That would be nice,” Cannistre said in the deeply wry tone I was coming to associate with him. He had calmed down a lot since I'd first given him the news, but I could still feel the waves of anger coming off of him.

  * * * *

  I've met many friends and families of homicide victims over the years, just as I have met the people who killed their loved ones. But I had never before met them as a group, and certainly never for such a reason.

  They all arrived early and then filed through my door to find places to sit in the three chairs, or on the edges of the two beds.

  "I'm Erin's mom,” the first person to come through the door told me.

  She wore no makeup save for a dab of lipstick, and she was allowing her hair to go naturally gray. On this warm day she had on a black cotton jumper, a white, long-sleeved blouse with a white cardigan sweater over it, and brown loafers that she wore with hose. She had the gray, hollow-eyed look of someone who has been depressed for years, and her next words gave me
an even deeper understanding of why that might be.

  "Her dad died the year after she went missing,” Mrs. Belafonte said, so quietly that I had to lean in to hear her. She gave me a forced, reflexive smile that disappeared so fast that I might have thought I only imagined it. “There's just me now."

  Erin Belafonte, Darren Betch's first victim, had been an only child.

  My heart began to hurt again, in the way it does when I'm confronted with pain I can't ease.

  "I'm so sorry,” I whispered to her.

  She nodded, gently pulled her hand away from mine, and went on into the room.

  "This is Billy Sterson,” Cannistre told me by way of introduction to a man in his forties. “He was Jessie's fiancé. And this is her brother Sam."

  The two men were studies in contrast, and I noticed that they seemed to keep a careful distance from each other, not looking at one another, never touching. The fiancé, Billy, was a tanned, strapping forty-something dressed in black slacks and a pink golf shirt who looked as if he might have just stepped out of the local country club. The brother, Sam Burge, had a leftover hippie look, from his shaggy hair down to his tie-dyed T-shirt and blue jeans and his brown leather sandals. Like the fiancé, he was also probably only in his forties, though, which made him too young to be the real thing.

  "My parents can't be here,” he let me know.

  "Typical,” Detective Cannistre muttered behind me, but there wasn't a chance to turn around and ask him what he meant.

  The brother explained, “They moved to Tucson. But if there's anything they should know—” He held up a cell phone.

  "They know about this meeting?” I asked him.

  "Oh yeah. They know as much as any of us do."

  The implication was: which isn't much, and what the hell is this about?

  The final three people to arrive, though even they got there a few minutes before six, were Caroline Meyers's parents and the lawyer they brought with them. Like Jessica Burge's fiancé, Billy Sterson, they had a healthy and prosperous appearance, all three of them. Mrs. Meyers had on what looked to me to be a St. John suit, a kind of fashion that costs a fortune, wears like steel, and looks classic for a lifetime. Large gold earrings and a gold bracelet matched the buttons; her pumps were the same rich pink color as the suit. Mr. Meyers and the lawyer were both in business suits. He had French cuffs with gold links that looked as if they might have been bought at the same place that supplied his wife's jewelry.