Over time, Addie and I had a “thing” between us, but I didn’t feel the need to commit. She was a prostitute and it seemed one-sided for me to be with only her. So, I decided I wanted to play around a bit. I started getting with other girls and tried not to let her find out.
I never did forget about the fight with Homey, what I saw as his betrayal against me. I was angry for a long time. It took me a while, but I finally cooled down and we settled our differences. I was glad then that I hadn’t shot him. Plus, I thought, if I had, the cops would have gotten involved.
I think I was always looking for a new game. Gambling came next in my life. It was a thrill and a great way to earn a buck. One time while shootin’ craps, I won more than $4,000. The first thing I did was buy a classic ’66 Chevy Malibu for six hundred dollars. I loved that car. It was the first car I’d ever owned. I loved driving it and played my music loud with all the windows down. Cops turned their heads when I drove past.
In the meantime, I was still living with Addie. A nagging little voice in my head started to wonder: What if Addie gets busted and goes to jail? What if she finds out that I’m messing around with other girls? I knew that had the potential to get ugly. I got scared and moved out; I didn’t need more trouble.
For the first time, I started thinking about my life and the more I thought, the worse I felt. I realized I was everything I told myself I never wanted to be. But here I was and it felt too late for me now. I was in over my head and there was no turning back. I couldn’t see a way out of my lifestyle.
I had been thinking a lot about life and realized I’d been upset that the big plan Homey and I had of going to California to work construction had failed. I couldn’t help but think it would have been nice if I had a job. A decent, steady job might help to keep me straight and out of trouble. Homey, on the other hand, missed New York and wanted to go back. I was beginning to feel the first inkling of burn out. Thinking about my life made me depressed but, ironically, it still didn’t stop me from digging myself in further.
We, both Homey and I, wanted to leave town but didn’t have enough money to get us anywhere. So, I did what I was good at–I stole all the electronic equipment from Addie’s house, including the TV and stereo, plus any money I could find. Sure, I felt bad about doing that to her, but we needed the money.
That night, Homey and I drove to Houston, Texas. We stayed there for one month, sleeping in the car the whole time. Homey got a job as a mechanic’s helper. I took up with a bunch of hustlers I met in a local pool hall. Before long I was helping with burglaries; I drove my car while they broke into places.
Finally, Homey and I got a room together in Texas but that lasted fewer than two weeks. We decided we didn’t like Houston, so we moved to Dallas for a couple of days. From Dallas, we drove to Parkin, Arkansas, where some of Homey’s family lived. We stayed there for a couple of weeks then drove back to St. Louis. I wanted to show off my car to my family, friends, and, especially to my old girlfriend Anita. During my absence, Anita had given birth to my first child, a little girl she named Daketa. She was born in 1978 when I was twenty years old.
Back then, it was more important to show off my car than to assume responsibility for my daughter. Besides, none of the guys in my crowd stayed around to help when their girlfriends gave birth to their children. Welfare checks took the place of fathers. That was just the way it was. I’m not proud of it, but raising a baby was the furthest thing from my mind. Getting high and figuring out ways to separate people from their money were more important.
While I was in St. Louis, I loaned my car to Homey so he could take my mother to visit his mother in New York. I left all my things in the car, including the electronic equipment I’d stolen from Addie. I thought Homey and my mom would be back in a few days.
When they didn’t return, I called the New York police and reported the car stolen. Within a few days, the police called, saying they’d found the car and my cousin. I took the bus to New York. By then Homey was in jail. I got my car back only to discover that Homey had sold all the electronic equipment.
When Homey got out of jail, we met up and an argument erupted between us on a busy street. A city bus was coming. Homey was so angry that he tried to push me in front of it. I stumbled off the curb, but got out of the way just in time and the bus screeched to a stop.
Homey thought pushing me front of that bus was justified because I had tried to shoot him a few months earlier. I guess I wasn’t rational, I wasn’t thinking about that at the time. I was furious because he took my car, sold my stolen merchandise, and now he tried to kill me. But I’m supposed to let bygones be bygones? I couldn’t stay there, I knew it was bound to get worse, so I left town. I drove to Syracuse, New York, and was determined I’d never see Homey again. I felt betrayed by the one person I thought I could count on. We were partners in crime, practically brothers. I learned a valuable lesson that day–I couldn’t trust anyone.
I didn’t let the thing with Homey keep me down. I needed money. I always needed money. Needing money meant only one thing: it was time for more scams.
At the Salvation Army’s Rescue Mission, I lied about being homeless. They gave me an eighty-dollar food voucher and a second voucher to stay in a small room for free. Later the mission found me a better apartment at the Mayfair Hotel. It was great–I had a free place to live and focused my attention on getting money for drugs and booze.
One weekend, at a party, I saw a guy who was really drunk. Stealing from drunks was easy; they’re natural targets. They don’t know what is going on and even if they do realize you are trying to steal their money, they can’t do much about it. I stole five hundred dollars from the guy’s pocket. I didn’t stay at the party much longer because the guy had friends and I was pretty sure they knew I stole his wallet.
That night I drove to Atlantic City to visit Red, who was now a pimp.
During the long, quiet drive, I tried to keep my mind off the bad things in my life, but it was hard. I thought about the usual things: where was I going to get my next meal, where was I going to stay, what was I going to do that night, or who was I going to meet up with when I got there. Eventually, I couldn’t think about those things anymore because I had thought them all through. My mind wandered and the lonely road brought out the things I tried to keep out, the sad things.
Driving was about the only time I sat still long enough to think about the emptiness of my life. I had achieved nothing substantial. The only thing I owned was a car. My life was going nowhere. I was an addict, a thief, a father to babies I barely knew, and I was practically homeless. My life had no order; it was just one dead-end event leading to the next. I had no goals. I felt dead. Maybe I was?
Relief washed over me when I finally arrived in Atlantic City. The flurry of activity brought me back to the present. I forgot all the things I thought about during my drive and realized on simple thing: I needed money. Opportunity presented itself in the form of stealing some expensive antique rifles. I was excited because I knew the rifles would sell for a lot of money, but I was too nervous to sell them in Atlantic City.
I began to feel paranoid about everything. So, I drove to Philadelphia to sell the rifles. I hated that drive to Philadelphia. Not only was I thinking about my life again, but it was the first time driving on the interstate highway by myself and I was pretty scared. I was usually with Homey and, together, we gave each other courage. Now I was on my own; a black man, driving a Mustang loaded with stolen rifles. It felt like cops were everywhere and I had a bulls-eye painted on my car. I wished Homey was with me and wondered what he was doing. I wondered if he had gotten a new partner-in-crime yet. Even though I was mad at Homey, that drive to Philly made me miss him. He was really the only friend I had in the world.
When I arrived in Philly, I got rid of the stolen rifles as quickly as I could. I sold them, cheap, at a pawn shop. I managed to get just enough money for gas and food for a couple of days. It didn’t really matter to me; I didn’t stick around t
own long. I was tired so I decided to go back to St. Louis. At this point, St. Louis seemed to be the only place that really felt like home.
I couldn’t get rid of that nagging certainty in my head. I was on the fast track going nowhere and I wasn’t even twenty-one years old.
Two
Still Running from the Law
Their lives became full of every kind of wickedness and sin, of greed and hate, envy, murder, fighting, lying, bitterness, and gossip. They were backbiters, haters of God, insolent, proud braggarts, always thinking of new ways of sinning and continually being disobedient to their parents. They tried to misunderstand, broke their promises, and were heartless–without pity. They were fully aware of God’s death penalty for these crimes, yet they went right ahead and did them anyway, and encouraged others to do them, too. (Romans 1:29-32, TLB)
I don’t remember stepping into adulthood when I turned twenty-one on May 3, 1979. That’s probably because I already thought I was an adult from the time I was twelve or thirteen. Barely a teenager, I had already done the things men I knew did: hustling and cheating others to make a living.
After I turned twenty-one, I got a job cleaning out sewers at the Metropolitan Sewer District in St. Louis. I needed more money to support my drug habit than the job paid, so I went to East St. Louis, on the Illinois side of the Mississippi River, and collected welfare from the state of Illinois.
That wasn’t enough, so I also shoplifted on the side. I’d hit the big department stores in downtown St. Louis, like Famous Barr or Stix Baer and Fuller, and steal dozens of men’s and women’s suits in one day. How do you shoplift dozens of suits at a time? Easy. I’d talk to the store guard, get to know him a little, and if he seemed to be a true “brother,” I’d slip him a few bucks to turn his head or go to the back of the store. I’d literally just walk out with the merchandise over my arm, pretending I was a sales rep.
That was a busy time in my life: working, shopping, hustling, shoplifting, doing drugs. It took its toll on my body and I ended up sick. I blacked out in my car one night and ended up in the hospital with pneumonia. Doctors said I almost died.
After I got out of the hospital, I met up with Homey. It had been awhile since we’d seen each other and, despite our differences, I missed hanging with him. My close call with death–the pneumonia, not the time he tried to kill me–made me feel bad about the past and I wanted to make things right. The moment I saw him I started talking about our last big fight. Homey told me not to worry about it. He said everything was in the past and he was glad to have me back in the game.
We picked up right where we left off. One day Homey and I stole thirty or forty suits from one of the big department stores in St. Louis and took them to Milwaukee to sell.
I liked Milwaukee. Lake Michigan was beautiful and it was easy to meet people in the bars. We partied a lot at a club on Locust Street, not too far from the downtown police department. I knew the risks but I didn’t care. For the moment, I finally felt like I was on top of the world; nothing could keep me down. I shrugged off all my troubles and worries.
Hustlers like me don’t stay in one place for long by nature. So a few weeks later, I went back to St. Louis where I stayed with my friend “Road Dog.” I got my job back at the Metropolitan Sewer District; Homey got a job there, too.
My worry-free streak didn’t last long. One night Homey’s brother had a birthday party in East St. Louis. In the early-morning hours after the party, we were driving home in my car and a black brother kept coming up behind me and bumping my rear bumper with his car. He didn’t bump me hard, rather, just enough to get my attention. Then he’d drive alongside my car and get real close. I couldn’t figure out what he wanted and, the more the little game of his went on, the angrier I got. I finally rolled down my window and demanded to know what in the hell he was doing.
He propositioned me for oral sex.
At the time, I was carrying a .38-caliber automatic pistol. I told him to pull his car over, trying to trick him into thinking I was interested. He did. I got out of my car and immediately flashed my pistol in his face. The guy seemed legitimately scared; he should be, I was really mad. I wasn’t gay and I definitely wasn’t cool with him following me, hitting my bumper, and wasting my time. I wasn’t really going to shoot him, even though I have to admit the thought crossed my mind. I threatened him and tried to make him think I was serious about killing him, but then I saw a bag sitting on the back seat of his car. Seeing an opportunity, I snatched the bag and told him to get lost.
I threw the bag in the front seat of my car and drove off. When I opened the bag later, I found a couple of guns and a badge. I had just waved a gun at and robbed a Mobile Reserve Unit officer! I figured–or at least hoped–he was off duty and a homosexual just looking for some fun. But now I had his guns and badge. It didn’t seem fair. I was just minding my own business. He was the one causing trouble.
I drove to Anita’s house to spend the night and she met me at the door. I asked her to let me in and she adamantly refused. “You can’t come in here. The police were just here looking for you,” she hissed.
So I did what came naturally, I stayed with Homey for a couple days. Finally, I just left the guns in my car and took the bus back to Milwaukee. I had to get away. I was a wanted man and I couldn’t go back to St. Louis. I was nervous about my warrant so, when I got to Milwaukee, I started using the name Calvin Earl Martin.
I stayed with some friends in Milwaukee, guys who were usually drunk or high. I started selling drugs and taking speed.
I needed to find more ways to make money in addition to dealing and hustling. A friend told me about welfare. In those days, it meant a free check in the mail. I didn’t have to do any work so I could focus my attention on dealing. After I realized just how easy it was to get welfare in Wisconsin, I signed up under my new name. Then I used another name, “Curtis McGraw,” to get a second monthly welfare check and food stamps. I also registered with two different addresses for the welfare checks.
About that time, I started drinking cough syrup. I was desperate, doing anything I could to get a buzz. In my head, it was the only way to escape all my troubles.
By 1981, I had a fairly profitable racket going. In addition to the two monthly welfare checks and food stamps, I stole raw materials such as copper, aluminum, brass, stainless steel, and lead from factories, foundries, and various businesses and sold my misbegotten wares to recycling companies. Some days it took me fewer than fifteen minutes to steal the stuff and, on most days, I made four hundred or five hundred dollars.
It was a pretty good chunk of money and I spent most of the it on drugs and booze. But somehow I always needed more. I went back to stealing clothing from stores. On March 18, 1982, I went to a store called the Wooden Nickel in the Capitol Court Shopping Center on the north side of Milwaukee. I paid the store guard to go in the back and turn his head. When he was clear, I robbed the store with a broken pistol. I took off and was nearly home free, but a cop chased me down.
I landed in the Milwaukee County Jail.
Going to jail that day was the new low point in my life. There I was, so strung out on drugs that I couldn’t eat and I was facing jail time. I didn’t want this life. I had no reason to live. Spontaneous and unthinking, as usual, I decided it wasn’t worth it anymore and tried to commit suicide. I tore my pillowcase into strips and tied them around my neck. I wasn’t even scared about doing it; I just wanted everything to be over.
In my cell, with the cloth around my neck, I tried to get as high off the ground as possible so I would have a good chance of breaking my neck. I didn’t even stop to think about it or take a deep breath, I just let my whole body drop. The cloth got tight, but my neck didn’t snap. I was just dangling there, slowly choking myself. Slow isn’t the way it was supposed to be. I wanted it to be over, but over quickly. I tried flopping my body and jerking around, hoping my neck would break, but instead all my movement caught a guard’s attention. He banged on my door and yell
ed something. I didn’t hear him but I think he was telling me to knock it off. The guard realized I couldn’t or wouldn’t stop, so he opened my cell door and quickly cut me down. I fell to the floor and laid on my back, nearly blacking out and gasping for air.
After my vision returned, I stared at the ceiling and tried not to make eye contact with the guard.
I certainly never thanked him.
After my unsuccessful suicide attempt, I went to the Winnebago State Institution for “observation” for a short time. When the powers-that-be decided I was no longer a suicide risk, I was sent back to the Milwaukee County Jail, where I spent most of 1982. I was released on February 8, 1983, and received five years’ probation plus a requirement to go to a Residential Drug Treatment Program in Milwaukee from February to August of 1983.
The six months I spent in that drug and alcohol rehabilitation program taught me something important: that something else was controlling my life, my addiction to drugs and alcohol.
Trouble was, the lessons I learned there didn’t stay with me for long. As soon as I got out, I went right back to drugs. I couldn’t help it–it was the only life I knew. For the most part, selling drugs was easy money and being high gave me a way to escape reality. Not to mention, I was still hanging out with all the same people. My old lifestyle caught right back up with me and it wasn’t long before I moved in with old friends and again started hustling on the side.
My life was chaos all over again.
About that time I met Janice. We weren’t together for long before she told me she was pregnant with my child. I said I was happy and promised to help out. I don’t think she believed me. I don’t think I believed myself, either. Janice gave birth to my baby boy.
Serial Killer's Soul Page 3
