“Well,” Bill said when I started to ask pointed questions, “I would rather you come up here and talk to me in person.”
This can sometimes be a hassle—especially at the end of the book writing process.
“Where do you live?” I asked Bill.
Come to find out, his house was in upstate New York.
Great, I told myself. I live outside Hartford, Connecticut. Bill’s house was a five-hour drive on a good day.
I spoke to his wife again a few days later. She told me that a friend of the family wanted to meet me. This person had read one of my books. She was a fan.
I wanted to tell her no. I just don’t have the time. I have to finish the Gary Evans book. I’m on a deadline. My publisher was expecting it. A trip like that, interviews, meet ‘n greets. It’s all good. I love doing that stuff. But time was my enemy here. I didn’t have much left.
Before I could nicely articulate that thought, however, Bill’s kind wife mentioned something about having chocolate and gourmet coffee, sandwiches, “all sorts of goodies,” I believe she said. Damn, this woman must have known my vulnerabilities. My weaknesses. Robust, dark coffee and expensive chocolate—the right kind—are like kryptonite to me. I rarely refuse.
“Would you mind, Mr. Phelps, snapping a few photographs with everyone and signing some of your books?”
For a week I agonized over this trip, desperately wanting to call them back and say no. I just couldn’t do it. They had not told me one thing about Gary Evans I thought I could use.
Yet something beyond the chocolate and coffee dancing in my head nagged at me; my gut was telling me to go. And then there’s always that little problem later to weigh: When the book comes out, they could step forward and say, “We wanted to talk to him but he wouldn’t interview us.”
In the end, the truth—and my quest for it—is what matters to me most. These people had something to say. I needed to be there to hear it.
So I headed up to northern New York, stressing over every mile, traffic light and stop sign, pounding on my steering wheel in frustration.
Part of me repeated is mantra: This is a waste of time. A damn waste of precious time I need to finish my book.
Chapter 2
HEADING UP TO BILL’S HOUSE, I got lost for about an hour, but finally found the street and soon rolled up the driveway to his house, pulling into a parking spot near a set of horse barns. The house was quite beautiful, nicely built, rustic, country. This was soccer-mom territory. The Waltons. Beaver Cleaver. You know, suburban bliss.
Steeping out of my car, an interesting and jarring blend of aromas hit me: pine tree and horseshit. What a juxtaposition of smells. I live in a farming community now, so I am quite aware of the dynamic of a place where animals are raised and worked. You either accept it or move away. But up there in New York is was different. The air was fresh and crisp. It was going to be a good day, I could feel it.
As I stood for a moment, collecting my coat and brief case, I couldn’t help but recall a trip I had taken for the same book a few months before this. It had been a bit longer of a ride, but in the same general region of the state. A woman had called me after receiving a letter I had written her asking for an interview. She was the wife of one of Gary Evans’ victims. As we spoke on the phone, she cried. I felt bad. Talking to victims’ family members is tough stuff. You’re pillaging their memories, asking them to open up a portion of their lives they may not have thought about for years—and may not want to. Conducting these same interviews on my TV series, DARK MINDS, years later had taught me that murder affects a family in various ways. There’s a ripple effect that lasts forever. The pain stays fresh no matter how long it’s been.
Anyway, this woman, through tears, agreed to speak to me. But again, “I will only do it in person. I have photos of ‘my Timmy,’ ” she said (the victim’s name was Timothy), and she wanted to share them with me. “Please come up here.”
Shit... “Timmy,” I’m thinking. This is going to be a tough interview with a woman in a tremendous amount of emotional pain.
Knocking at her door after a long, tiring trip, this old man, very frail, with wrinkled, leathery skin like a baked potato, lots of sun spots, greeted me. He was wearing black slacks, a button-up dress shirt, and, strangely enough, tan socks and no shoes.
I thought, This is strange. An old man with no shoes on; he must be the dad. Timmy’s father.
“I’m [the boy’s] mentor,” the old man said, inviting me in. I stood for a moment on the stoop, slightly puzzled.
Timothy had a teenage son. The old man that let me in claimed he was mentoring the boy. For what, exactly, I had no idea. But he was providing a stable role model for a boy who had lost his father to a serial murderer. Who was I to question what he was doing?
Ok, great... let’s do this.
The wife I spoke to on the telephone was sitting on the couch—wailing. Box of Kleenex on her lap. One leg crossed over the other, arms folded at her chest, her craned leg moving a mile a minute. I felt uncomfortable. Like a voyeur, as if I was peering in through her window and she didn’t know it. This woman had lost her husband, she was clearly devastated by that loss, and uncomfortable with me writing about it. But she had agreed to help. So here I was.
This is very important. I should explain that her husband (Timmy) wasn’t only shot in the head by Gary Evans; but Evans dismembered Timmy’s body with a chainsaw into several pieces and buried his remains throughout an area north of Albany, New York. I had viewed the crime scene photos, studied the reports, and understood what this woman had gone through in identifying her husband, not to mention dealing with his gruesome death. This was a horror show. This man wasn’t just murdered. His body was defiled in ways one cannot imagine.
I sat at the dining room table. She sat next to me. The old man in tan socks sat directly in front of me, staring and smiling, his arms cradled under his chin as if he had a crush on me. He gave me the creeps, to be perfectly honest. It gave off this very strange vibe.
The wife started weeping loudly, in a very dramatic fashion. “My poor Timmy,” she said several times through a Niagara of tears. “I cannot believe what Gary did to him.”
I couldn’t either. But I saw the crime scene photos. I read the autopsy reports with my mouth agape.
Admittedly, I felt small at this point. Incredibly intrusive. But I understood her pain. Years ago, my brother’s wife was murdered by what was reported as a serial killer. She was five months pregnant. Reports said her assailant put a pillowcase over her head and strangled her with a telephone cord. If some journalist had come and asked my niece and nephews and brother about it, I’m not sure they would have wanted to go into detail.
“I’m so sorry I have to do this,” I said. “But I want to portray Timmy with absolute care and gentleness.” Timmy, I should note, was not such an upstanding citizen. But that was not my goal in writing about him. I wanted to also talk about who he was as a father and husband.
“I know... I know... but my poor Timmy.”
More tears. More sniffling. More body trembling.
The old man just continued to stare at me. Remember that kid in “A Christmas Story” wearing the goggles, standing in line with Ralphie, waiting for Santa... the weird kid who randomly said, “I like the Wizard of Oz...” That’s what this felt like.
I considered leaving, and would have if my office wasn’t so far away. I had even thought about getting a room for the night and returning the next day. But, after blowing her nose, Timmy’s wife turned to me with a straight face, shutting off the tears completely, as if she could at will, and said, “Before I begin talking, I want to know how much money you’re going to pay me?”
Ah-hah! Here we go. That’s the vibe I was feeling. Ulterior motives. Here they were now front and center.
As she waited for my answer, I looked over at the old man in tan socks. He smiled. Then said: “I’m her lawyer.”
Bingo! It was starting to make sense.
&n
bsp; “I’m not a tabloid journalist,” I said defiantly. “I do not work for the National Inquirer—and I certainly do not pay sources.”
She got up, saying, “Then I don’t talk about Tim.”
It was funny to me how, at that moment, he wasn’t “Timmy” anymore; he was Tim, a commodity, a memory to barter with, something she thought she could spin into a few dollars. Most people think because you’ve written a few books, you’re living in a McMansion, driving a BMW and vacationing with the likes of the Kardashians and Hiltons in Hawaii and Paris and Prague. The truth is far different, of course.
“How ‘bout we come to a deal,” the lawyer suggested. And as he said this, I realized who he had reminded of. It had been bothering me. One of those tip-of-the-tongue things. Hume Cronyn. The old guy from the film Cocoon. This lawyer was a dead ringer for Hume. I could see him and his actress wife, Jessica Tandy, being whisked up to space while standing aboard that boat at the end of the movie. Hume and the lawyer were identical twins.
A deal? I thought. What deal, dude?
“Can she co-author the book or something? Maybe you can give her a percentage? She’s a wonderful writer and has a unique perspective on this story.”
I dropped my head. “Look, if she doesn’t want to talk to me, I’m leaving.”
“You can’t really tell this story without her,” he said, trying his best to sound threatening.
Timmy’s wife started pacing in the kitchen. Then, I think after gathering up the nerve, she spoke, saying, “If you”—and now she was pointing at me— “print anything bad about Tim, I will sue you. He wasn’t a thief, as everyone says. And if you say that in your book, you’ll be sued.”
Timmy had been committing burglaries with Gary Evans. They had known each other for many years. I had a photograph of Tim planting a kiss on the barrel of sub-machine gun. Evans had taken the photo. These two guys together were expert thieves.
“I’m tired of people talking about Tim like that and I will sue you, Mr. Phelps!”
“You can’t really write your book without my client’s help,” Hume Cronyn added.
I ignored him and asked her to take a breath and sit down.
She did.
I waited a few beats. Allowed her to settle down. Hume went back to staring at me. Now I realized the look in his eye wasn’t a crush, but he saw me a cash cow. Hume saw dollar signs.
“Your husband was a convicted burglar, ma’am,” I explained. “That’s why I’m here. I want the complete story, not just the side of Tim that was a thief. I want to know who he was as a father, a husband. You know, the good times.”
“Tim was no thief. He was a good man. And if you print that he was a thief, I’m just warning you that you will be sued.”
I reached inside my briefcase and pulled out Timmy’s mug shot. “You see that,” I said, sliding it toward her, “that qualifies your husband as a convicted thief. Would you like to see the police reports and arrest record I have on Tim?”
She ran out of the room. I got up and left. Hume Cronyn stopped me on the way out and said he’d call me if she changed her mind.
“She just wants a little bit of money,” he said, doing that thing with his fingers—you missed it by that much!—to make a point of what he meant by “a little bit.”
I left my card with him and took off.
Weeks later, he called. “She’s not going to talk to you unless you pay her.”
“Tell her I said good luck.”
Chapter 3
BILL AND HIS FAMILY WERE WAITING IN THE FOYER for me. Cameras. Chocolates. Cookies. Just as promised. I signed several copies of my books, gave a few copies away that I had brought with me, talked a bit about my career, and sat down. My previous experience with Tim’s wife convinced me that Bill and his family also wanted money—that the chocolates and photo ops were a precursor to the inevitable.
Ugh.
As I would come to find out later, they had all met at the house hours before my arrival to discuss “things.” Turns out Bill invited me to his house to size me up, check me out, make sure I was responsible enough to leave with the significant information I was about to be given. One person there that day later told me, “I remember being very eager as we drove up to [the house that day]. Neither one of us chatted too much on the ride up as it seemed we were both deep in our own thoughts. Once we arrived, we went right into the house to go through Gary [Evans’s] things and determine what could and could not be exposed. There are many possessions and secrets that are held dear to Uncle Bill.”
I had landed on a treasure trove of information without realizing it.
Uncle Bill was the man my serial killer, Gary Evans, had gone to grammar school with; but, as I soon found out, Bill had also remained friends with Evans’s up until Evans’s final arrest.
Continuing, that family explained what was said before I arrived: “We discussed how you may just be some guy out to tell a story and we were afraid you would tell only the bad stuff, not knowing any of the good things, or any of Gary’s background.”
As I talked with everyone briefly after my entrance, I got a sense that they were your average, wholesome, good-natured people, one of whom was excited to meet me because of my work. I felt comfortable. These were standup citizens. They were honest and honorable. I was flattered by the attention they gave. They sincerely felt they had important information for me to include in my book about Gary Evans. They were proud to be part of it.
I had been overreacting.
Before I get back into the meeting, let me give you a bit of context for what will soon happen.
In Every Move You Make, I describe serial killer Gary Evans this way: “[Evans] was, when it came down to it, a twisted sociopath who had burglarized dozens of antique shops around New York, Vermont, Massachusetts and Connecticut. [ New York State Police Investigator James] Horton had been playing a game of cat and mouse with Evans for the past 12 years, using him as an informant and arresting him for various crimes. Evans, a master escape and disguise artist, had helped the state police on a number of unsolved crimes in the area. Horton had developed a personal relationship with Evans throughout the years, and some cops didn’t like it.
“… Evans, at just under five foot six, 185 pounds, had built his body into a machine, carving it like Greek statue through years of lifting weights. He never drank alcohol, used tobacco or drugs, and hated anyone who did. He lived on a very simple, yet disciplined diet of cereal, bread, pasta, rice and sweets. He despised meat of any kind. Even when he was in prison, Evans would trade meat for bread. As a criminal, he took pride in his work and tried desperately to outdo himself with each crime. It was a game. Every part of his day was spent detailing and thinking about his next job and how he was going to avoid being caught. He had never worked a full-time job in his life and had told Horton numerous times he never would. Horton had pulled some strings for Evans once and found him jobs. But Evans always ended up quitting after a few days.
“Horton’s last encounter with Evans was the final blow to their relationship. In 1995, Horton needed Evans to testify in a rape-murder case against a known rapist and alleged serial murderer. Evans had even befriended the guy, under the direction of Horton, after being put in a jail cell next to him, and eventually got him to admit to murdering a local college student. All Horton wanted Evans to do was stay out of trouble until the rapists’ trial.
“But Evans ended up stealing a rare book from a Vermont museum and Horton, in his words, later told Evans that he ‘fucked’ him on the murder case.
“They hadn’t spoken since.”
Chapter 4
IT WAS IMPORTANT TO UNCLE BILL and his posse that they explain their connection to Gary Evans. They shared a profound loyalty to Evans, regardless of the crimes he had committed. The killer that Evans had become wasn’t the tender, caring individual they had known. This was important. One of them later told me, “Not that Gary’s actions were condoned by us in any way, but think of it as if your best fr
iend slowly became a different person ...you’d still have that love of friendship toward him. Gary had a very troubled childhood and everyone seemed to look past that [once he admitted to killing five people]. Not that all children from abusive families turn out to be serial killers, but once you feel no one cares for you and you are constantly told you are worthless, you begin to believe it and care less about yourself.”
All this was true about Evans. He had viciously sexually abused, according to him, by his father. He had been treated—by both parents—like an animal, starved, beaten, and so on. According to sources for my book, Evans’ mother had taught him how to steal. He never really had a chance in life. I got scores of letters after the book was published. Readers felt guilty that at some points in the book they felt sorry for Evans. None of this excuses Evans’ behavior later on in life, but it does explain it and put it all into some sort of psychological context. It somewhat answers that “why” question we all ask after hearing about the crimes of a malicious, brutal killer.
“We discussed in depth the things we would not tell or show you,” a source at Bill’s that day told me later. “We put some things away and began to lay out the items Uncle Bill wanted to show you. We sat around and shared stories about Gary, both fond and not so fond. You have to remember that Uncle Bill knew Gary for many, many years, and most of his memories are that of a friend.”
To me, this was new information. I had thought Evans and Uncle Bill lost touch throughout the years. I never knew Evans had stayed in contact (right up until the end) with this man.
When they heard my car enter the driveway, I was told later, they all ran toward the window.
“We were nervous and anticipating what you had to share with us as well.” I had been researching Evans for about a year by then. They knew I had uncovered a lot of new information about him.
“Once you began to talk and ask questions and share information with us, Uncle Bill reciprocated. I distinctly remember at one point, as I sat at the table, I noticed him and [my fiancé] make eye contact. [My fiancé] was the most pessimistic about meeting you, and with his eyes, he seemed to ‘tell’ Uncle Bill you were trust worthy.”
MADNESS, SEX, SERIAL KILLER: A Disturbing Collection of True Crime Cases by Two Masters of the Genre Page 10
