Held, Pushed, and 22918 (3 Complete Novels)

by Kimberly A Bettes

  “Damn it, Candy. Why’d you have to fuck it all up?”

  No answer came from the tarp under the bed but I knew she’d heard me.

  15

  For the next few days, Candy remained hidden away under my bed. When she started to smell of decomposition, I moved her to the shed out back, hiding her behind some boxes of holiday ornaments. The day after that was stressful. I nearly worried myself sick thinking that my mother would need something from the shed and find her while I was at work. So that night after my mother went to sleep, I snuck outside and took Candy out of the shed and placed her in the back of my Ranchero. It was still difficult to leave her out there alone, but it had to be done. Besides, I had the shirt to curl up with at night, which still smelled like her.

  I knew I needed to get rid of her body, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It was nice to have her around. I hadn’t had a girlfriend in a long time and it felt good to know that I wasn’t alone. She went to work with me and even though she stayed in the car, I knew she was there. It was comforting. Just like at dinner. She didn’t sit across the table from me and eat, but she was there, just outside the house, waiting for me in the car.

  Comfort in her company. That’s what I had. Getting rid of her would be the end of that and I just wasn’t ready to do it yet.

  It was the sixth of December, a cold and overcast day. The clouds were heavy with snow and before noon, had begun dumping the puffy flakes all over the city.

  With my lawn business virtually nonexistent in the winter months, I had very little to do. After staring out my bedroom window for more than an hour, looking down at my car and at the blue package that lay in the back, I decided to get rid of Candy’s body. Her bodily fluids were seeping out of the tarp and into the bed of the Ranchero. It was going to be a bitch cleaning it up as it was, and the longer I waited the worse it would be.

  After lacing up my boots, pulling on a coat and gloves, and telling my mother I’d be back in a little while, I left, promising to pick up a loaf of bread while I was out.

  Traffic was heavy as everyone raced around the city in preparation of the storm. Last minute purchases of what my mother called staples, things you didn’t want to run out of during a storm. Milk and bread mainly.

  For a while I just drove around aimlessly, enjoying the feeling of Candy’s company one last time. After I dumped her body I would be alone again. It wasn’t something I was looking forward to by any means. But I supposed she could be replaced. One thing was certain. Hookers were never in short supply.

  I debated on where to get rid of her. Normally, the river was a great place. But dumping her there felt wrong somehow. I’d never dumped a body there in broad daylight before, plus she wasn’t like the rest of them had been. She was different. She was my girlfriend. I felt like I should do something special with her. Maybe even bury her. Of course the ground was frozen so that wouldn’t be an easy task. But still—

  Something was wrong. The car wasn’t driving like it normally did. My first guess was it was the snow, slippery beneath the tires. I quickly dismissed the idea. I’d driven in snow before. This was something different.

  I pulled to the edge of the street and parked at the curb. When I got out and walked around the car, I quickly found the problem. The rear passenger tire was flat. It either had a slow leak or I’d run over something along the way. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting the tire changed and back on the road.

  After retrieving the spare tire and the jack from behind the passenger seat, I leaned the tire against the car and began placing the jack. As I prided myself on wearing gloves, I heard someone speak. I didn’t look up to find the talker because I couldn’t imagine anyone having anything to say to me, an obviously busy stranger. But when they spoke again, I responded.

  “Hey,” a man shouted.

  I looked up from my task, right and then left. That’s when I saw the speaker. He’d poked his head through the open passenger window of the police cruiser, which was parked behind my car. We locked eyes and my heart stopped.

  “You need any help?”

  I shook my head. “No. It’s just a flat. I’ve got it.”

  As casually as I could, I tore my eyes away from his and tried to continue setting up the jack. My hands were suddenly all thumbs and shaking like those of a palsied old man. But I had to play it cool.

  My instincts told me to look back at the police car, to make sure they had gone on their way, leaving me to my work. I knew if I looked and they were still there, that would seem suspicious to them. Plus it would probably make me shit myself. So I kept my head down and tried to change the damn tire as fast as I could.

  Then I heard a car door close. And then another.

  That was not good. I knew before I even looked up what was happening. And I was right.

  The cop walked toward me on the sidewalk, one hand on his hip holster. The look on his face wasn’t as friendly as it had been when he asked if I needed help. This was a different look altogether. He was in cop mode now.

  “I’ve almost got it,” I muttered nervously as he approached.

  “Where you heading?” he asked, glancing over into the back of the Ranchero.

  “I’m just going to dump some trash and pick up a loaf of bread for my mom. Storm’s coming and she doesn’t want to run out.” I smiled, but it didn’t garner a response from the cop.

  “What’s that in the back of your car?”

  “Just some trash. I have a lawn maintenance business.”

  The cop eyed me suspiciously, not believing a thing I said.

  “Do you do a lot of lawn care in December?”

  “Not as much as I’d like too do. But I also rake leaves, trim trees, and clean gutters. I shovel snow on days like today.”

  Nodding to the back of the car, the cop asked, “Is that what that is? Tree branches and leaves?”

  “Yeah. Sure is.” I hated to lie but I hated the thought of going to jail even more.

  “Wrapped up in a tarp?”

  “Well I didn’t want any of it to fly out all over the place. Although it would be good for business, wouldn’t it? Maybe I could get paid twice to pick it up.” I forced a laugh, tight and obviously phony. A bad response to a terrible joke.

  “Oh shit,” someone said from the other side of the car. I stood and saw the other officer, who I had forgotten all about, step back away from the car and clasp his hand over his mouth, his eyes wide.

  The cop that stood next to me drew his weapon, aimed it right at my chest, and said, “Get on the ground.” When I failed to move, he said, “Do it now. On the ground, arms out to the side, legs apart.”

  He was serious. I could tell by the way he held the pistol, the way he stood and moved and shouted.

  Figuring it was my best and only option, I dropped to my knees, then got on my stomach and assumed the position I’d been ordered to take. All thoughts of running vanished when he slapped the cuffs on my wrists. He then pulled me up from the cold, wet sidewalk and led me to the patrol car, where he nearly pushed me into the back seat and slammed the door.

  I watched as the two officers uncovered Candy’s body and searched the rest of my car. By the time we left what was now being referred to as the scene, the area was swarming with policemen. Red and blue lights flashed everywhere. Crime scene tape cordoned off the area as detectives went to work learning all they could about the dead girl and me. While they worked to unravel the mystery, I was taken to the station and questioned.

  When they interviewed me, I told them all they wanted to know. My lawyer, a court-appointed asshole with a birthmark on his cheek that looked remarkably like Richard Nixon, had a fit about it, but it wasn’t his call. It was mine and I chose to talk, though he tried his damnedest to get me to keep my mouth shut.

  It all came down to this. I was never big on telling lies. Lying took a lot of effort, and quite frankly I was too lazy to do it. I had much better things to spend the energy on than trying to keep straight an elab
orate web of lies. Remembering who I told what and when was more work than I was willing to put into it, so I opted to tell the truth. There wasn’t much I could do anyway, even if I’d wanted to lie. The police had caught me with a dead hooker in my car. My bedroom was full of things belonging to dozens of missing women. Even if I’d wanted to lie, I couldn’t have. My best bet was to tell the truth and that’s what I did.

  It took more than nine hours for me to tell the police all that I’d done. I confessed to everything, told them all about all the prostitutes. Who they were, where I’d picked them up, what I’d done to them, and where I’d dumped their bodies. They asked questions and I answered.

  When it was all over, the interrogation, the trial, and the hate-filled letters from the families of the hookers, I was sentenced to death, which was fitting considering what I did.

  Once, after the trial and my sentencing, my mother came to visit me. When they came to get me and said I had a visitor, I knew immediately who it was. There was no one else it could be.

  I walked in and saw her sitting there daubing her eyes with a handkerchief. I sat down across from her, picked up the phone, and looked at her through the glass.

  For a couple of minutes, my mother just sat there staring at me. Finally she picked up the phone.

  “Lester,” she said. “I only came here because I wanted to tell you something. I was going to write it in a letter, but I thought this would be better. I want to see your face when I tell you what I have to say.”

  She sighed heavily and daubed at her eyes again.

  “I’ve known all along, Lester.”

  “Known what? About the hookers?”

  “No, not about the hookers. Although looking back on it I suppose I should’ve known you were up to something bad. You never had any money. You stayed out late, drank too much, and never socialized. I should’ve known what you were doing. But I didn’t. Maybe I just didn’t want to.” She trailed off, lowering her eyes and becoming lost in regret.

  “Then what are you talking about? What did you know?”

  “Cathy Ann.”

  My heart dropped down to my stomach.

  “I know you pushed her from that tree, Lester. I’ve known it ever since you came into the house and told me she’d fallen. I didn’t want to believe it. No mother wants to think that her child could do something so awful, so horrible, especially to his own sister. But I knew. I think it was the smirk on your face that gave you away. That or maybe it was mother’s intuition. I don’t know.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I tried to tell myself I was wrong, tried to pretend that it was all in my head. I didn’t want it to be true. I spent years trying to convince myself that I had imagined your odd behavior, your hateful attitude toward your sister. I really wanted to be wrong, Lester. Then your father got sick and I became preoccupied with that. Then you went to Vietnam and I could breathe again. You weren’t there every day, in my face. I didn’t have to look at you and see my little girl crumpled on the ground. I didn’t have to remember seeing her lying in that little white casket while you sat on the front pew swinging your feet as if it was just another day. I liked it when you weren’t there. I preferred you gone. Then I could pretend it was you who’d died. Somehow that eased the ache in my heart over the loss of Cathy Ann.”

  Tears rolled down my cheeks as I listened to my mother—the only woman I’d ever truly loved—tell me that she wished I was dead.

  “When the police told me you’d been arrested and charged with murder, I wasn’t surprised. I knew all along that you had it in you because of what you’d done to Cathy Ann. I’d known and I ignored it. It’s my fault all those other women are dead. If I’d done something back then, right after Cathy Ann died, maybe had you sent somewhere, none of this would’ve ever happened. Those women would still be alive and you wouldn’t be in prison with a death sentence.”

  Through tears, I said, “It’s not your fault.”

  “It is my fault, Lester. It’s my fault because I fooled myself into thinking you were just a regular little boy who wasn’t capable of doing something so terrible. I was wrong.”

  We were both crying now, me more so than her.

  “I won’t come to see you again, Lester. This is it. I just wanted to tell you that, and I want to tell you this. I do love you. I always have. I know there were times when you probably thought I didn’t, but I did. Ever since the day your father and I saw your little chubby cheeks and that poof of red hair, we loved you. I only wish our love would’ve been enough for you.”

  “Mom…”

  “I’m so sorry it had to come to this. I’ll only remember you for the good times, for the laughs and the fun we shared when you were little. Whenever I think of you, it’ll be as though you fell from the tree right alongside Cathy Ann that day so long ago. It’ll be as though you both died because I can’t stand to think of everything you became afterward. Goodbye, Lester.”

  My mother hung up the phone and left, leaving me sobbing on the other side of the glass. She kept her word. That was the one and only time she ever visited me. A few years later, I read her obituary in the newspaper. It talked of her hobbies and likes, stated that she was preceded in death by a husband and a daughter. There was no mention of a son.

  All the years I spent behind these bars, I thought and wondered. Would I do it any differently? Would I change anything? The answer is no and yes. I wouldn’t do it differently. I loved killing hookers too much to ever not do it. But I would change one thing. That snowy Tuesday in December of 1977, I would’ve kept driving on that flat tire, not stopping to change it. A new rim might’ve cost me fifty bucks. Changing the damn thing cost me my life.

  The Interview, Part 2

  July 13, 1991

  Potosi Correctional Center

  Potosi, MO

  Lester “Red” Wine, inmate #22918 of the Potosi Correctional Center, sits in his chair, shackled hands resting in his lap, looking every bit as forlorn as he should. It’s obvious by his slumped posture and weary face that telling his story has taken its toll on him.

  Ronald wants to speak, wants to ask so many questions. Instead, he stares in awe at the prisoner who’s just wrapped up his story, both stunned and intrigued by all he’s heard.

  In the silence of the room, each man is lost in his own thoughts, scrutinizing the words spoken by this death row prisoner. For several minutes, no one says a word. Finally, it’s the killer who speaks.

  “Well. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  Ronald nods slowly. “I think you’ve given me all I need. Yes. Thank you for sharing with me.”

  Lester shrugs. “I’ve never given an interview like this before. Figured I might as well since it’ll be my last chance to do so. I don’t think I’ve left out anything. I think I told all there was to tell.”

  “It sounds like you did.” Ronald looks down at his notebook, now nearly full of the scribbled notes he took as the convicted serial killer told his tale. “I think that’s it. I appreciate your time.”

  “Don’t you have any questions for me?” Lester asks.

  Ronald had started to close his notebook, but he lets it fall open now. His mind races with questions, whirs with so many things he wants to ask and know. But he isn’t sure how to go about it. After all, there’s a prison guard standing directly behind Lester. What will he think about some of the questions Ronald wants to ask?

  “Actually, there are some questions,” the reporter says. Glancing at the security guard, he asks, “Why did you prefer to strangle the women?”

  Lester moves in his seat, straightening into a more comfortable position.

  “Killing any other way just didn’t work for me. I tried it. It was messy and smelly and just a big hassle, frankly. Strangling was much cleaner. More personal.”

  “Personal?”

  “Yeah. I was face to face with them, had my hands around their throat, literally squeezing the life from them. I could feel the terror in t
heir pulse as it thumped harder and faster, and then slower and slower until it finally stopped. The feeling of control that comes from that is unbeatable. No drug can match it. It’s pure power.”

  Ronald scribbles the notes in his notebook, mostly writing without looking because he is unable to tear his eyes away from Lester’s for more than a few seconds at a time. The man speaks about murder with such intensity and passion. It’s mesmerizing.

  “What are your regrets? Or do you have any?”

  “My only regret is stopping to change that flat tire. Well, that and keeping mementos from the hookers. You can’t deny that you had something to do with them if your room’s full of their stuff.”

  “Do you wish you could’ve killed more people?”

  “Absolutely. I miss it.”

  “What about it do you miss?”

  “Everything. I miss the thrill of the hunt. The excitement of knowing what I’m about to do, even though she doesn’t. And the adrenaline rush I get while killing them. I never felt as alive any other time as I did when I was killing a hooker. The closest I came was when I was in Vietnam. But that was a different kind of adrenaline. That was fear-based adrenaline, not the exhilarating kind like when I killed someone.”

  Ronald scrawls more notes on the page.

  “Did you only have sex with the one woman after she was dead?”

  “Yeah. Just the one. I might’ve done more but I couldn’t get past the smell. Dead bodies put off the most disgusting smell you can imagine. And it lingers. It doesn’t go away quickly and once it’s in your nose it’s there to stay.”

  Lester wrinkles his nose at the memory of the smell. Or, if it lingers like he says it does, maybe he really smells it.

  A knock comes at the door. Another guard pokes his head in the room and says, “Time’s up.”

  The guard behind Lester puts his arm on the man’s elbow and helps him to his feet. Lester looks across the table to Ronald, who stands as well.

  “You heard the man,” says Lester. “My time’s up.”