“But my conscience has been bothering me,” he’d said during the call to Sweet. “So if I can help, I will.”
Guiher didn’t want to talk on the telephone, but he was waiting for them when they arrived at the prison and ready to tell them what he knew. He said he’d been listening to Penton’s horror stories since 1994, when they were put in the same cell together. They were both into martial arts and sometimes sparred, but Guiher didn’t like Penton personally.
He said his former cellmate used a lot of drugs in prison, especially marijuana and the cold medicine Sudafed, which contains the drug pseudoephedrine that can be used to manufacture meth. However, better than any drug to Penton was talking about raping and killing little girls.
Guiher said Penton told him that he stalked the neighborhoods around elementary schools and apartment complexes in low-income areas. Penton said he liked black, Asian, and Hispanic children best, and described them as “throwaway kids” because nobody other than their families would care what happened to them or put much effort into tracking down their killer. “He said he used to punch the girls in the stomach to knock the wind out of them and keep them from screaming when he grabbed them.”
Inwardly, Sweet cringed at the statement and wondered what sort of animal could hit an unsuspecting child so hard as to leave her gasping and defenseless in order to abduct, rape, and murder her. The detective always tried not to react to what a witness or suspect told him so that they wouldn’t zero in and say what they thought he wanted to hear. But sometimes it was all he could do not to let his feelings show when he heard descriptions of Penton’s brutality.
Guiher said that initially he didn’t believe Penton’s stories because he seemed to alter the details sometimes and couldn’t keep his stories straight. For instance, one day he’d talked about raping and murdering a girl named “Christy” and leaving her body beneath a mattress he’d set on fire. But the next day he said that he’d thrown “Christy’s” body in a lake.
“I told him he was full of shit,” Guiher said, “because he was changing his stories. But he said he was talking about two different girls named Christy.”
Sweet exchanged looks with the other detectives. They didn’t say anything to Guiher, but Christie Proctor’s body was left under a burning mattress, and Christi Meeks had been thrown from a cliff into Lake Texoma.
According to Guiher, one of Penton’s stories described how he’d been pulled over by a Mesquite police officer in a patrol car while he had Christi Meeks still alive in the trunk of his car. “He said he was going to kill the officer if he asked to look in the trunk,” Guiher recalled. “But the officer let him go.”
What Guiher revealed next was even more chilling. He said that Penton dreamed of getting out of prison to rape and kill more little girls. He’d even spent some time considering how to change his methods for subduing the children. Instead of punching them in the stomach, he explained, he’d use an electric stun gun to render them helpless.
After speaking to Guiher, who’d come across as the most reliable of all the informants, the Texas lawmen felt better than ever about their case. Now they had two former cops—granted one of them a murderer and the other in prison for sexual assault on a minor—who corroborated the stories of the other inmates, yet with enough differences and added detail to make them credible.
What’s more, Guiher didn’t know Sunnycalb. Add the inmates’ accounts to Tiffany Ibarra’s identification of Penton as her abductor and Julia Diaz’s description of Roxann’s killer with the large mole above his right eyebrow, and the case was getting better by the day.
Next up was Tim Creighton, who repeated what he’d originally told them about Penton’s boasts. He warned them that Penton was “very aware” that he was being investigated for the Texas murders.
Actually, the detective already knew that Penton was conscious of the fact that they were after him; prison authorities had been intercepting Penton’s mail and making copies for them. The inmates were like an old ladies’ quilting group, gossiping and talking about the detectives, and word got back to their suspect. Not only did he know they were investigating him, he knew his enemies by name.
Now, Creighton said, Penton was frightened. “It’s funny,” he said. “For years he’s been bragging to anybody who’ll listen about raping and murdering those little girls. But now, he says it was all a lie and that he’d never hurt a child.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
May 12, 2003
In the spring of 2003, Christi Meeks, Christie Proctor, and Roxann Reyes should have been young women filled with the hopes and dreams of youth. They might have been in college or graduating to begin careers, ready to make a difference in the world. Or they could have been married and happily looking forward to having children of their own. Or maybe just enjoying life, finding their way, while their families watched them grow up, blossom into adults, attending their graduations and weddings, and holding grandbabies.
Instead, a monster who thought of them as throwaways had ripped the girls out of their innocent childhoods, subjected them to unfathomable terror and pain, and then choked the life out of them as they struggled. Deprived of the love and comfort of their families, they’d died at the hands of a loathsome stranger, and their bodies dumped like garbage far from those who prayed for miracles and homecomings.
Yet, they weren’t forgotten. Not by their families. Not by Texas lawmen Gary Sweet, Bruce Bradshaw, Don Phillips, Billy Meeks, and the supervisors who supported their efforts. At times, the pace of the investigation was frustrating, but even with all the holdups, they stayed focused on the end goals: making sure Penton never got out of prison and giving the families of the murdered girls the answers to the questions that had plagued them for all those years.
In some ways, a lucky break helped the cause of justice. Penton made a rare mistake when he murdered Nydra Ross. Previously, he’d been so careful—whether it was scouting out where he’d hunt and where he’d murder his victims and dump their bodies, making sure to cross jurisdictional lines, and selecting children to whom he had no connection. But he’d worked with Nydra’s uncle and was drinking and smoking crack cocaine at the man’s house the night before he kidnapped, raped, and killed Nydra.
Even though he’d pretended to help search for her, he’d immediately become the primary suspect, especially after blood was discovered in his van. Then, after Nydra’s remains were found and he was arrested, he’d boasted about his crimes to other inmates. The mistakes cost him; otherwise, the bogeyman might have still been on the loose, hunting for his next victims.
However, catching Penton because of his mistake didn’t mean that he was done killing little girls. The prosecutors in Ohio could have lost the case, or agreed to a plea agreement that would have resulted in a lesser sentence for Penton. Even though he’d received a life sentence, he was up for parole at 70 years of age and still capable of evil. Or he might get out even earlier, depending on the vagaries of the justice system. If nothing else, Sweet wanted to tack convictions in Texas onto the Ohio prison sentence; but he really he wanted Penton to at least face the possibility of a death sentence.
In several past murder cases investigated by Sweet, the killers had been sentenced to life without parole and he’d been good with that. But some murderers were so evil, their crimes so beyond the pale of human redemption, that he believed a death sentence was the only appropriate sentence. Michael Giles would have been one of those, but his age had saved him from even consideration for a death sentence. Brutal monsters like Giles and Penton could not be rehabilitated. Penton’s taste for raping and murdering children wasn’t something that could be cured.
However, Sweet had another reason for hoping Texas prosecutors would seek the death penalty. In Texas, a death sentence wasn’t an empty threat. The average stay on death row for the United States as a whole was 17 years, and in states like California twenty or more years; but in Texas, the average was ten years, and some killers in the 21st century had bee
n executed by lethal injection in less than a year. Part of that was due to a “streamlined” system that cut down on appeals; other reasons included a largely pro-death penalty population in which “frontier justice” was still an acceptable part of the culture, as well as that of elected appellate judges and parole boards, who reflected the will of their constituents.
Sentenced to death in Texas, Penton would not have the opportunity to grow old, and the killer would know that. Sweet thought that by holding the possibility of a death sentence over Penton’s neck, the coward might be willing to trade his life in exchange for telling authorities about his other victims, including helping them locate the remains. He’d still never get out of prison, and the families of missing and murdered children would have their answers.
If that was the price of Penton avoiding being strapped to a cold, steel table and put down like a rabid dog, Sweet could live with it. But it would all have to start by putting a case together so that the District Attorney’s Office could indict Penton for the murder of three little girls in Texas.
So, Sweet and the other detectives dutifully spent the months between October 2002 and the spring of 2003 running down leads, interviewing and re-interviewing witnesses, conferring with each other, updating Assistant District Attorney Davis, and, of course, talking to Sunnycalb on the telephone.
Sunnycalb even talked about getting out of prison and moving to Garland, where he could help Sweet work on the cases. “Maybe you could help me find a place to live?”
The last thing he wanted to do was help a two-time sex offender move to his town, but Sweet didn’t discourage him. In fact, when Sunnycalb asked about Texas sex offender registration laws, he had one of his department’s sex offender investigators talk to him.
Finally in May, seven years after he’d walked into the “murder closet” as a new detective and three years since he’d first spoken to Sunnycalb, Sweet was ready to talk to Penton. In preparation for the meeting, he read everything he could find about psychopaths. He knew that by definition they lacked a conscience, so appealing to his sense of morality wouldn’t work.
Psychopaths know right from wrong—so they don’t fit the legal definition of criminally insane and, therefore, not responsible for their actions—they just don’t care. They see themselves as entitled to act as they do. They tend to be consummate liars and hide their true natures behind a façade that protects them from discovery; that’s why when a serial killer such as Ted Bundy or John Wayne Gacy is arrested, invariably a neighbor, family member, or girlfriend will tell the media that they are surprised because “he was such a nice guy.”
Most serial killers have big egos and believe that they’re smarter than their pursuers, which went into Sweet’s plan for talking to Penton. He knew that Penton liked to brag about his crimes, and while he didn’t expect Penton would confess outright, there was a chance that his inflated image of himself would cause him to slip up.
Sweet and Bradshaw learned every detail about Penton’s life and character that they could. They’d agreed that they weren’t going to let him deny killing the girls; every time he tried, they’d throw it back in his face that they knew he was guilty.
As far as Bradshaw was concerned, he truly thought that he was going to meet the devil, himself. He’d shown his wife, Gail, a photograph of Penton, and she’d remarked that he had the same crazy look in his eyes as infamous killer Charles Manson. The darkness that had entered their lives on January 19, 1985, had a name, David Elliot Penton. But Bradshaw was also sure that God was with Sweet and him and that they would prevail.
This time, the team of detectives flew into Columbus and drove to Marion, Ohio, where Penton had been transferred. He knew the other inmates were talking about him now, and he had been moved for their protection.
The prison didn’t have an interview room, so Sweet and Bradshaw were waiting for him when Penton entered the cell near the front of the facility normally used for consultations between defense attorneys and their clients. He frowned and looked confused; he didn’t know who they were or why he’d been brought to the room.
“Have a seat,” Sweet said, indicating a chair across the small table from where they sat.
Only then did the detectives introduce themselves, and Penton’s confused look turn to one of fear. He knew their names, and the blood drained from his face; then, a dark wet spot grew at his crotch, and a stench filled the room. Bradshaw would never forget the smell; strong and pungent, it reminded him of the odor of cat or goat urine. Later, he and Sweet would give it another name, “the smell of fear.” Their appearance had literally scared the piss out of him.
Penton crossed his legs and turned away to hide his humiliation. The detectives pretended not to have noticed. They wanted to talk to him, and with an ego like his, he might have shut down from embarrassment.
“I’m glad you guys are here,” Penton blurted out before the detectives could say another word. His already pasty face now ashen, he continued, “I wanted to tell you that I didn’t do these crimes I’ve been accused of.”
Sweet stopped him by holding up his hand. “You misunderstand,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “We didn’t come here to talk about whether or not you did it; we know you did it. We just wanted to meet you before we bring you back to Texas and kill you.”
Penton visibly quailed at Sweet’s threat. Terror swam in his pale blue eyes. “I didn’t do anything,” he protested.
Sweet shrugged and repeated himself. “We aren’t here to talk about it. Like I said, we just wanted to meet you before we bring you back to Texas to kill you.”
Bradshaw leaned forward. “David, we know you did it.”
Penton went silent. He squirmed in his seat, his movements agitated. They’d been warned by prison officials that Penton was into martial arts, and Sweet wondered if he was about to explode. Part of him wished he would so that he could beat the crap out of the child killer, but he knew his ultimate goal would be better served by getting Penton to talk. They also didn’t want to get into an “I didn’t do it. Yes, you did” argument. So Sweet used the moment to change the tone of the confrontation by appealing to his quarry’s ego with a compliment.
“David, I give you credit,” he said shaking his head. “You were very good at it. Look how long it took us to catch you.”
Penton smiled and seemed pleased by the compliment, though he still professed his innocence. The detectives pressed on, talking a lot about the murders and what they thought he’d done. During some parts of the conversations, he was animated, moving his head and hands around as if he couldn’t keep them still. But when they talked about the crimes, he’d sit absolutely still and not say a word. Sweet got the sickening impression that he was reliving his acts as they discussed them
At one point, Bradshaw said, “What if I told you we searched your house in Columbus and found something in the attic?”
“I would say that was a lie,” Penton responded. “I never took any souvenirs. I’m smarter than that. And if I had taken anything, all I’d have to do is call my mom; she loves me and would get rid of anything for me.”
It took every bit of willpower the detectives had not to react to Penton’s statement. He’d just confessed, apparently without knowing it, but they let him keep talking, hoping he would make other incriminating statements. He soon rewarded their patience.
“You can’t have anything but circumstantial evidence,” Penton said then smirked. “I’m not stupid; I didn’t leave any evidence.”
Again, the detectives were stunned by the admission. Sweet had always made it a practice to really listen to what people said; sometimes they’d tell the truth without knowing it, and Penton had just done it twice. But again, he didn’t react and just asked another question. “Did you use a condom?”
Now, Penton realized what he’d said and its implications. He stuttered and tried to backtrack. “I meant that I didn’t leave any evidence because I didn’t do it.”
The two detectives talked
to Penton for a couple of hours, a lot of it playing mind games. They told him that the prosecutor they were working with in Texas, Greg Davis, had sent so many murderers to Death Row that he was known as “The Grim Reaper.”
“If he wants you dead, you’re going to die,” Sweet said.
They repeated the nickname so often that Penton himself started using it, at one point even humorously. “Tell The Grim Reaper that I will confess if he pays off my debt to the state of Ohio and gets me a color TV for my cell.”
“We’re not here to play ‘Let’s Make a Deal,’” Sweet replied, which got a laugh even from Penton.
The cops and the killer danced around getting him to confess to the killings outright. But he shook his head. “I ain’t going to say shit while my mom’s alive,” he told them.
It was getting late in the day, so they decided to end the conversation by telling Penton that they’d see him soon in Texas. When the inmate left the room, the detectives let down their guard. They believed that the bogeyman had as much as confessed, but would it hold up in court?
“We need to record him,” Sweet said. Recording interviews was optional in Texas at that time and not commonly used, so he had not thought of it going into this interview and not knowing that Penton was going to be so talkative or slip up under questioning. They decided that they’d try to borrow one from prison authorities and interview Penton again the next day.
All four detectives returned to the prison in the morning. This time, Phillips and Meeks joined the other two in the interview room. When Sweet and Bradshaw were talking to Penton, they’d gone through the killer’s cell, noting how neat and tidy he kept his living space. But they’d also discovered one chilling item—a plastic bag containing clean “civilian clothes, neatly bundled with a piece of string and hidden in Penton’s cell. It had all the markings of an “escape bag,” but whether he had a plan or it was “just in case,” they detectives could only guess. Now having seen how excited their colleagues were, Phillips and Meeks wanted a chance to question Penton, too.
Bogeyman: He Was Every Parent's Nightmare Page 15
