The Secrets on Chicory Lane

by Raymond Benson

  The first thing I thought was that he would be found not guilty by reason of insanity. That was surely a no-brainer. After all, he was supposed to be on medication. Had he gone off of it? What had been the trigger for him to commit such a vile deed? The questions mounted, and I was determined to find out the answers. But what good could I do? I was stuck in Chicago. Eddie was in jail in Texas; he was fifty at the time. Would he be properly represented? Would he be able to afford a good lawyer? It was doubtful. He had no family or friends whom I knew of. Eddie was all alone.

  On December 26, I attempted to phone the police station in Limite to find out information about Eddie’s legal status, but I was unable to get through to anyone. All I learned was that he was being held in the county jail until after the holidays and that a public defender was representing him. A public defender. For Christ’s sake, Eddie had no chance!

  For a good part of the day, I debated with myself whether or not I should jump on a plane and fly down to assist him. Eventually I dropped the idea. Aside from perhaps offering to help pay for legal services, what could I do? I also had my professional reputation to consider. The media would have a field day linking the famous romance author Shelby Truman with a “devil-worshipping” murderer who rivaled Jack the Ripper in his modus operandi. At the time, I didn’t think it would be wise to insert myself into the investigation or judicial process. Later, though, I came to the conclusion that Eddie needed advocates.

  News from Limite was sparse for the first few months of 2006. Eddie was held without bail. The trial was scheduled for September, so that meant the poor man would be stuck in a cell, possibly without medical attention. He needed a hospital, not jail. Through the media, I finally saw a photograph of the victim, Dora Walton. The woman with whom Eddie had been living—his “High Priestess”—was a brunette and beautiful in an “exotic” way; she may have had Mediterranean or Middle Eastern blood. She was forty-one years old at the time of her murder.

  Things started looking up for Eddie in the summer. Robert Crane, a respected defense attorney in the state, volunteered his time pro bono to represent the defendant. I phoned Crane’s office, explained who I was, and offered to help in any way I could. Crane explained that they were going for an insanity defense, but it was going to be a tough ride. The prosecution’s psychiatric examinations were “inconclusive,” and, apparently, Eddie was mostly lucid and rational and knew exactly what he had done. He’d even signed a confession outlining the steps he’d taken to drug, strangle, and eviscerate his victim. The fact that he had aborted a seven-month-old fetus was the clincher. Crane said the best he could hope for was to prevent Eddie from receiving the death penalty.

  It was all so unbelievable. It made me physically ill for months to think that I had slept with—and loved—this beautiful but very sick man.

  To make things worse, my father died at the end of August.

  20

  Limite was still hot in September. The arid climate could be stifling, especially when one was acclimated to an area of the country that usually had a short, moderate summer and seven months of winter. As soon as I stepped out of the airport to pick up a rental car, the “dry heat” hit me hard. The odor of petroleum in the air was something that residents became so accustomed to that they didn’t smell it anymore. After being away for a long time, I’d forgotten about it, too. Boy, did Limite stink.

  As I drove into town, familiar sights bombarded me; however, many spots were also overrun by new buildings and facelifts. The east side of town had expanded even farther, such that Chicory Lane was now fairly deep in the medium-sized city of a hundred thousand or so inhabitants. Limite had certainly grown, but had the people progressed with the times? When I drove into my father’s apartment complex, I noticed a pickup truck in the parking lot with a rifle on the gun rack and a Confederate flag bumper sticker. No, sometimes social attitudes and trends never changed. I figured all smaller cities in rural areas were the same way. It’d take time for change to trickle down from the larger, cultural centers of the country—if they did at all.

  My father had lived simply, so there wasn’t a lot of stuff to get rid of from the apartment. Furniture and clothing would be donated, of course. Getting his personal affairs in order would take a bit of time, and I planned to stay as long as necessary to complete the task and put the apartment on the market. Billy was already on the payroll in Chicago, so I didn’t have to worry about work.

  The first thing I did after unpacking was drive to the funeral home where my father’s body was being prepared. Some family friends from the church my parents had belonged to their entire lives had stepped up to the plate and graciously taken care of arranging a viewing and funeral for me. It was something I wasn’t prepared to do myself; it was just too painful. The enormity of what happened didn’t fully hit me until I saw him in the casket. I cried like a child.

  A few days later, my father was buried in Limite Cemetery on the northeast side of town, right next to my mother. Dad had purchased the plots a long time ago, which was ironic since I could have paid for them with no sweat. Taking care of official death notices and Dad’s estate was a slower process, so in the meantime I decided to look into what was going on with Eddie’s trial. Coincidentally, it was due to begin in a couple of days.

  I phoned Robert Crane to let him know I was in town. He offered to make sure I got a seat in the courtroom, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to be there. “Your name will be on the list should you decide otherwise,” he said.

  “How’s Eddie doing?”

  “Well, he’s fit to stand trial, and he can communicate when he wants to. Most of the time he stays silent. I fear being locked up is having a negative effect on his mental condition.”

  “Can’t something be done? Can’t you sue the county or something for inhumane treatment?”

  “Unfortunately, no. Eddie was found to be mentally sound by the court-appointed psychiatrists. It didn’t matter that the doctors I brought in said otherwise. They’ll be testifying at the trial, though. We’ll do what we can and hope for the best. Ms. Truman, there’s no question that Eddie will be found guilty and will, at a minimum, get life in prison. The prosecutor’s going for the death penalty, so the goal is to prevent that. Nobody ‘wins’ here, but perhaps we can save a life.”

  I decided to attend the opening of the trial. Luckily, no one from the press knew who I was. I went through the x-ray screener and checked in with the court officials so I could slip inside when they opened the doors. The courtroom held only so many seats; therefore, they were at a premium. Some news outlets weren’t able to get in. No one showed up to support Eddie, but the victim was represented by family members and friends. Mr. Crane sat alone at the defense table. When he saw me, I gave him a subtle nod, and, recognizing me, he smiled back.

  Interestingly, I saw an older man in the courtroom who I thought looked familiar. He was tall, had a head of white hair, and appeared to be in his late seventies. I’d seen him somewhere before. Who was he? It really bugged me. Was he someone from our church? One of my former teachers from high school or junior high?

  A door on the side of the bench opened. A bailiff led out Eddie, who was dressed in an ill-fitting suit. He was bald and thin, with dark circles under his eyes. He didn’t look well at all. He must have lost twenty pounds since I’d seen him last, almost twelve years ago. I’d aged, too. I was fifty-two and Eddie was fifty-one. He ignored the spectators behind the rail and sat at the table next to Mr. Crane. I was sitting in the back, so I doubted he could have spotted me had he attempted to look. I preferred that he not see me at all, but if he did, I planned to give him a smile. He probably needed it.

  The trial began. Judge Fredrickson—a gruff-looking man with fat cheeks—took his place as we all rose. Then the jury entered and took their seats—twelve men and women and a couple of alternates. There was one black juror—a middle-aged man—and four white women of various ages. The rest were all clean-cut, white, all-American male citizens of Limite. Th
e youngest appeared to be in his twenties, the oldest in his sixties.

  The District Attorney, a man named Paul Shamrock, got things going with the opening statement. He was a slick good ol’ boy type, perhaps fifty-something, and he spoke with a heavy West Texas accent. Shamrock was a charmer, used to putting on a show for the jury. He laid down the basics of the case. “Edward” Newcott had been living with a common-law wife, Dora Walton, at his house and place of business on Chicory Lane. When he started to refer to Eddie as a “known devil worshipper,” Mr. Crane stood and objected; it was overruled. Besides, there was probably no way that anyone in Limite didn’t already know about “Evil Eddie.”

  Eddie and Dora were friends with another unmarried couple who lived together in another part of town—Wade Jones and Catherine Carter. Jones, a former member of LaVey’s Church of Satan, worked for Eddie, and Carter was a regular fixture at the “black house,” as it was called. The quartet ran a Satanic church called The Temple—all stuff I already knew—and they were controversial figures in Limite. Crane didn’t object to any of that. The DA promised that evidence would show the two couples had engaged in a drug-fueled “black mass” of Satanic rituals—objected to by Crane but overruled—and that afterward, according to the defendant’s own written confession obtained by the police, “Mr. Newcott” drugged, strangled, and mutilated his victim in a frenzied state. Shamrock said the jurors would hear testimony about how Eddie had cut open Ms. Walton’s abdomen, removed her unborn child, and then built a “demonic sculpture”—again the objection, again the overruling—in the front yard of the house for everyone to see “as a slap in the face to humanity,” for this had occurred on Christmas Eve, a “sacred night for anyone living in Limite.”

  It sounded pretty bad.

  The prosecution’s opening statement was over in an hour. The judge didn’t want to take a break, so Crane rose to outline what would become the defense’s strategy—that the defendant was a mentally ill person who didn’t realize what he was doing on Christmas Eve of 2005. Testimony from medical experts and psychiatrists would attest to Eddie’s condition. After hearing all the facts, Crane promised, the jury would agree that Eddie should be found not guilty by reason of insanity.

  I noticed one juror roll his eyes.

  We broke for lunch. Eddie and Crane remained sitting at the defense table as the spectators got up to leave. It was then that Eddie turned his head around to look at the crowd that had come to see him. I noticed him nodding at the tall, white-haired man who looked familiar, and the old gentleman nodded back. Someone on Eddie’s side? Who could it be?

  Then Eddie’s eyes found me. They grew wide with recognition. His jaw dropped slightly. I did what I’d planned—I smiled and gave him a thumbs-up. He was too shocked, I think, to respond. I went out with the throng and looked for a fast food joint in the area to get something to eat. As I walked, reflecting on the day’s proceedings, I found it surprising that I wasn’t as upset about the trial as I’d feared. It was terribly interesting, and as a writer, attending it could only help me in my work. But yes, it was also painful to see Eddie at the defense table. It hurt to see his shaved head and his decrepit body. For a man who was once spectacularly gorgeous, he appeared to be a completely different person. It was so very sad.

  Outside in the street, a news crew spotted me and a young woman came over with a microphone, followed by a cameraman. “Pardon me,” she said, “aren’t you Shelby Truman?”

  “Yes,” I said, but I didn’t want to be interviewed. “Please, no comment, I don’t wish to talk, sorry.” I started to walk away.

  “But Ms. Truman, we understand you used to live across the street from Evil Eddie … Ms. Truman.” She started following me in that irritating, obsessive way media people are so good at.

  I turned and forcefully told her to stop following me. “I mean it,” I said. Finally, she looked apologetic. “Very well, thank you,” she said and pulled the cameraman away. He had been shooting anyway, so I figured I’d be on the ten o’clock news doing the get-out-of-my-face routine. It was interesting that she’d known about my connection with Eddie. But I didn’t mind, as long as my romantic involvement with him over the years didn’t come out. Even if it did, what the hell, it was the truth. My publicist would probably love the revelation.

  A Wendy’s burger joint provided refuge, and I spotted a few other folks who had been spectators that morning. Best to avoid them. However, as I sat with my salad and baked potato, I noticed the tall, white-haired man at a table by himself. He ate slowly, seemingly lost in thought. I built up the nerve to approach his table.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  He looked up. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry, but I know you somehow, and I’m trying to remember how I do. My name is Shelby Truman, and I’m attending the Eddie Newcott—Edward Newcott—trial.”

  The man blinked, and I thought he would choke. “My word, little Shelby Truman.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “My name is Jim Baxter. I used to be a police detective. You knew me as Detective Baxter, back in the sixties.” He tried to stand up but I stopped him and sat across from him.

  My God, it all came back to me. He was the nice policeman that had investigated the abduction of my little brother back in ’66.

  “You gave me gum,” I said.

  “Did I?”

  “Yes, and you were nice to me. Gosh, I remember you, Detective. How nice to see you.”

  “Very nice to see you, too. I understand you’re rich and famous.”

  I shook my head, embarrassed. “Well …”

  “Don’t look that way, you should be proud.”

  “Thank you, Detective.”

  “I’m not a detective any more. I’m retired. I’m seventy-eight years old.”

  “Well, you look great.”

  The man shrugged. “I golf sometimes, although I’m slowing down. I’m sorry to hear about your father. He and I saw each other around town once in a while. Terrific fellow.”

  “Thank you. Yeah, I’m here settling his affairs. Know anyone who needs a two-bedroom apartment on the east side?”

  “No, but if I hear of anything …”

  I gave him the realtor’s information and went back to my table, but he gestured to me, asking me to join him.

  “Mr. Baxter—”

  “Call me Jim.”

  “Jim, why are you attending the trial?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “Eddie and I lived across the street from each other, remember?”

  “Yes, I do. He was a witness in what happened to your baby brother. Eddie was, what, eleven years old?”

  “That’s right.”

  The man shook his head. “That boy went through an awful time.”

  “Yeah, I guess he did. But you caught Mr. Alpine—the man who really did it.”

  “Yes, we did.”

  “Boy, I’d sure like to know more about your investigation. I don’t think I really know much about it at all. I was only twelve then. A lot of those memories have been blocked out, you know what I mean?”

  “Sure I do. Your family went through a terrible tragedy.”

  “So why are you here at the trial? It looked like you and Eddie know each other.”

  “We do. We got to know each other very well back in 1966. And I’ve had contact with him at various times throughout the years as he grew up and became an adult. Limite may be booming, but it’s still a small town at heart.”

  “Eddie really did kill that woman, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did. But I agree with his defense attorney. Eddie Newcott is a sick man. Very sick, but his affliction is subtle. I’m supposed to testify.”

  “What are you going to say?”

  “Ms. Truman—”

  “Call me Shelby.”

  “Shelby, I can’t tell you. In fact, I may not get to testify. The prosecution has filed a motion to keep Crane from calling me to the stand. They say it’s irrel
evant to the case. Mr. Crane and I don’t agree. But the prosecution also wants to call a witness that the defense objects to. Maybe there will be an even trade. So if you’re in the courtroom if and when I do testify, you’ll hear it for yourself.”

  “When will that be?”

  He estimated that the prosecution would take a week to present its evidence. Crane planned to call Baxter to the stand toward the end of the defense. It could be two weeks before his testimony was heard.

  It didn’t matter. I was hooked and had made up my mind to stay in Limite for the duration of the trial. Baxter gave me his card, and we traded contact details.

  When I returned to the courthouse, it was time for the prosecution to begin presenting its case.

  21

  Over the next four days, the prosecution paraded several experts, witnesses, and policemen to testify against Eddie. During this phase, it all came out how Eddie had been to prison in the eighties for assault. His prior criminal record didn’t look good. District Attorney Shamrock made a big point out of the supposition that Eddie was a time bomb of anger and hate. Next came the confession itself, read aloud for all to hear. Eddie had dictated and signed it in the presence of several officers, swearing that he was not under duress. A psychiatrist went on the record claiming that depression and an anxiety disorder was not a mental illness—what? The doctor believed Eddie knew what he was doing when the crime was committed.

  One of the most compelling witnesses was Dora Walton’s sister, whose testimony, I felt, might actually help the defense. She described how she and her sister came from a broken home in Hobbs, New Mexico. Dora had spent time with a motorcycle club—an “outlaw” gang similar to Hells Angels—in California for several years. In other words, she had been some biker’s “old lady” for a while. She had been hooked on drugs and alcohol but managed to maintain her good looks. She’d had at least two abortions that her sister knew of. Dora eventually left the bikers in the mid-nineties and returned to New Mexico to admit herself to a drug rehabilitation center. It was there, her sister claimed, that Dora was diagnosed as bipolar. Right there, she had something in common with Eddie—they both suffered from mental illness. Dora began subscribing to Godless Times and felt that the words spoke to her. She began to correspond with Eddie and, in 1999, came to Limite to live with him, where Eddie made her “High Priestess.” Together, the couple made news in the small town as “a warlock and his witch” with their goings-on. After that, Dora’s sister never heard from her sibling again.