A Serial Killer’s Daughter Read online

  In Texas, we stopped at Goose Island State Park, to visit the Big Tree, a massive oak whose arms twisted to the sky, and tossed a bit of Grandma’s Chex Mix up to the swirling gulls.

  We crossed over to Padre Island via a ferry at Port Aransas and spent the next several days parked right up next to the beach. Dad carved a large birthday card for Mom in the sand and helped us kids build elaborate castles, finding the just-right shells to decorate our fleeting dwellings with. I squealed as the tide came in and broke apart our creations, carrying them back to the ocean.

  Dad inadvertently ran into a Portuguese man o’ war one morning in the surf and came back to the trailer, jumping and yelling, with a bright purple, angry mark stretched over his foot. Dad’s hooting and hollering gave me the giggles.

  The seashore cemented in my heart on that magical trip, but I was so young that as I grew up, I’d ask Mom again and again, “Did we really visit the Big Tree, feed the gulls, and stay on the beach for days?”

  She would say, “Don’t you remember?”

  While my brother was in school, I’d tag along with Mom to church, where she worked as a part-time secretary. Sometimes we would run into Grandpa Bill, who would wave as he drove a riding lawnmower over four acres that jutted up against fields. I liked playing out back near the white shed; there was often a horse to pet carefully over the barbed wire fence and an old pile of boards to get into trouble on.

  On Sundays, Mom sang in the choir and Dad ushered. While my parents were busy during the service, my brother and I sat next to my grandparents in a wooden pew. I often sat between my grandmas, fidgeting in frilly dresses with lace petticoats, scuffing my black patent Mary Janes on the tile. Grandma Dorothea’s offer of yellow-wrapped Juicy Fruit gum and Grandma Eileen’s offer of green Echo Hills golf pencils to doodle with on the bulletin usually kept me busy. Granddad Palmer helped by giving me the giggles and Grandpa Bill sometimes offered to take us all out for brunch at Furr’s Cafeteria afterward.

  Sunday after Sunday, I wistfully daydreamed as I stared out the stained-glass windows, wishing I could weave through the towering pine trees swaying in the wind. But if I fidgeted too much or caused a disturbance, Dad would haul me out of church, and I’d get stuck sitting in our tan, two-door hatchback Chevy, with its sticky, too-hot-in-the-summer leather seats. Dad would loosen his tie and, with his sleeves rolled up, prop up his arm on the open windowsill and read the thick Sunday edition of his beloved Eagle.

  If he wasn’t fuming too much—if I’d gone out in his arms willingly, not kicking and screaming—Dad would pass me the comics with a grin or let me run around the grounds, zigzagging through the pines, kicking up needles, no matter how I might scuff up my fancy shoes, tear my tights, or dirty up my nice dress. Mom would shake her head and ask, “Can you at least act like a lady on Sundays?”

  I’d simply reply, “Nope.”

  And Dad would say with pride, “That’s my tomboy.”

  Dad committed murder three more times after I was born. Even now, it’s not possible to reconcile the man and life I knew with the other man—and his other life.

  After his arrest, Dad talked about his ability to “compartmentalize” his two sides.1 It was his way of separating the dark from the light. Since his arrest, I’ve fought to hold on to the man I knew and the places we loved, but the truth is, he continued to inflict devastation, taking other lives and ruining more families, while living with and caring for his own family.

  APRIL 1985

  Dad murdered Marine Hedge, a grandmother and widow, at the end of April 1985. She lived down the street from us, and Mom and I would wave hello to her on our way to my grandparents’.

  Mrs. Hedge went missing on a stormy night. When I heard the police were searching for her, I felt scared. I was six years old, and only Mom and I had been home that night—how did I know if we were safe?

  A few days later, a police officer walked up our driveway. He was out canvassing the neighborhood and stopped to ask Mom some questions. I grew even more frightened when they found Mrs. Hedge’s body in the country a week later—she had been strangled. I don’t know how I knew this at my young age, other than overhearing the TV news or my folks talking. At the time, Dad had reassured me: “Don’t worry, we’re safe.”

  A few weeks after Mrs. Hedge’s body was found, I was climbing the huge pines at church and Mom yelled, “Get down before you break an arm!”

  Minutes later, running inside, I fell—and broke my arm. Dad rushed to my side, rigged up a splint, and placed me in the back of our new silver Oldsmobile station wagon. He drove me to Wesley, where I had surgery on a compound fracture of the elbow. Doctors put my bones back together with pins and placed my arm in a split-cast. Due to complications, I ended up staying five days in the hospital. Mom rarely left my side.

  Because my injury was so severe, I wasn’t able to finish first grade, and we weren’t able to go on vacation to Padre Island. I felt awful about missing the beach, and I could tell Dad was disappointed—he was really looking forward to our trip.

  My young mind tied everything together: the shock of my broken arm, my guilt over our canceled vacation, and my fear when learning that our neighbor who had gone missing was found murdered. It would be thirty years before I fully faced these events, attempted to understand their traumatic impact, and began to recover.

  Best I can figure, my night terrors began around this time. When Mom heard me scream, she would quickly come to my side, sit on the edge of my bed, and try to soothe me back to sleep. Half-awake, I’d often argue with her, sometimes belligerently, saying, “There’s a bad man in the house—in my room.”

  She would gently reassure me, “No, you’re dreaming, you’re safe—go back to sleep.”

  I’d drift back off because my mom was right there and my dad was right across the hall—and he’d never, ever let anyone or anything hurt us.

  That summer, because we weren’t able to go to the beach, my mom and her sister, my aunt Sharon, took the kids to FantaSea in Wichita. My cousin Michelle was nine, I was seven, and we were quite the sight. She had jumped out of a swing and broken both her wrists around the same time I broke my arm. With plastic bags around our casts, we stood under a waterfall that day, our hair pulled back in ponytails, grinning as we watched our older blond-headed siblings tackle the waterslides. Michelle’s older sister, Andrea, and I would later shake our heads and laugh about our moms’ attempts at adventure.

  That afternoon, Mom and I were out on a raft in a wave pool when a wave came up and tipped us, causing me to fall overboard. As I sank, partly weighted down by my cast, Mom firmly grabbed my good arm and brought me back up. A lifeguard had been ready to jump in and save me, but Mom had me, no problem.

  CHAPTER 5

  Go Comet Hunting in the Winter

  AUGUST 1985

  In 1985, after thirty-seven years with Kansas Gas & Electric, Grandpa Bill retired as a plant operator with a steady pension and a gold watch. He took the cousins on a tour of his plant once, and I remember being in awe of the massive generators he had worked around for decades. Grandma Dorothea joined him in retirement after twenty-five years with Leeker’s. Mom had worked alongside my grandma as a bookkeeper for a few years before she accepted a job with Snacks convenience store. I liked visiting them in their wood-paneled office, watching long, thin strips of white paper curl as their fingers flew on their adding machines.

  After my grandparents retired, my brother and I and my cousins, Lacey and her younger sister, Sarah, sometimes stayed for days at a time with them. We were known to wreak havoc and were often sent downstairs to the wood-paneled family room or outside to run amuck. We liked playing hide-and-seek downstairs; the unfinished part of the basement was a great place to hide. Outside, you could crouch down behind the garden tools in the old white shed that smelled of machine oil and dirt.

  In the evenings, with Grandma, we would watch old black-and-white movies with smartly dressed, mouthy heroines who solved mysteries. We also pla
yed Uno at the dining table while passing around popcorn and drinking RC Cola. Grandpa would accuse us kids of holding a Pick 4 card up our sleeves. We’d shake out our arms and say, “Nothing’s here, dude.” He’d raise one eyebrow and chuckle.

  We girls, who shared the same color hair and eyes, sometimes slept in my grandparents’ king bed in our dads’ old bedroom. Photos of my dad and uncles rested on a white shelf above my grandparents’ bed, and we giggled over what they used to look like. I’d drift off to sleep, listening to the wind chimes that hung on the back porch gently sounding with the breeze.

  In February 1986 I stayed up all night comet hunting, alongside Grandpa Bill, Dad, and Brian, parked on a dirt road. We were some of the lucky ones to finally catch a glimpse of Halley’s Comet in the bone-chilling, hazy blue-gray dawn. It passed by quickly, and I wasn’t even sure I’d seen it. But the guys all agreed the slight, fast-moving round object streaking across the sky was indeed Halley. After it went by, as the sun was beginning to show, Grandpa said, “Well, that was something. Now, who’s hungry?” And he proceeded to take us out to a breakfast of biscuits and gravy at Grandy’s.

  AUGUST 1986

  Dad was a blast to adventure with, splashing cannonballs in motel pools, running down sand dunes in thunderstorms, and yelling right alongside us on Space Mountain. But in August 1986, while we were vacationing in Southern California, my dad flipped out early one evening.

  Noticing dusty footprints on top of a van parked under our motel balcony, he was convinced someone had climbed onto the van and broken into our room while we were gone. I’d never seen him that on edge before: bug-eyed and sweaty, pacing back and forth, ranting like a lunatic. He even made our family use a password to answer the door, even though he was the only one coming and going with bags from the car.

  I learned how to navigate around my dad during these trickier times by watching my mom. It was best to go along with him; he’d settle down soon enough.

  Despite my dad’s irrational behavior that night, we had an unforgettable vacation. We stopped at sites along our route between Kansas and the Pacific Ocean. In California, we went to Sea World and the San Diego Zoo, and we spent three magical days at Disneyland.

  When school started in August, I brought in photos of my vacation, and my third-grade teacher attached them to a bulletin board. I can tell you all about our trip, and I can describe my classroom in detail. What I can’t tell you is why, only a month after our return, Dad murdered Vicki Wegerle, a mother of two children. Mrs. Wegerle lived near the Sweetbriar area where my dad and brother went to the barber, around the corner from the library where I spent hours perusing the bookshelves. I can’t fully separate out that time period in my life now. I have my memories, and now I know the truth.

  JULY 1988

  My family continued to attend church almost every week, and around the age of ten, I served as an acolyte. Around that same time, Dad served occasionally as an assistant to the pastor, donning a robe and a colorful vestment, doing his best to chant his way through the Apostles’ Creed. Dad and I would sit across from each other when we served together—occasionally catching each other’s eyes and silently communicating, I blame Mom for this—I’d rather be fishing.

  When Dad was laid off from his job at ADT in July, he came home dejected. I remember him opening the kitchen door while holding a typed piece of paper and asking Mom to step outside. When they came back in, Mom looked worried. Dad had drawn up plans to add on to our home, but those plans were set aside that day and never picked up again.

  Dad found a temporary job with the 1990 census, but it required long business trips. He was often gone for days at a time—traveling around Kansas, but also in Missouri, Arkansas, and Oklahoma. I missed him and was glad when he was home. We went on long walks with Patches, stayed up late watching scary movies after Mom went to bed, and shared paperback mysteries—ones Mom didn’t necessarily approve of me reading.

  Dad was later put in charge of a large office floor of workers downtown, across from the main library branch—one of our favorite places to hang out. I found his temporary office fascinating, with its portable cardboard desks and high-up, important view. And I remember him closing the office for the last time, hauling out boxes of supplies and saying the census was over and the government didn’t need any of this stuff.

  That winter was terrible for my family. Mom fell ill in December, spending twelve days in the hospital with pneumonia. Dad tried his best to take care of us kids and the house, though he backed the Oldsmobile into our neighbor’s car on our way to see Mom at St. Francis.

  I ended up with a D in English, even though I’d always been a good student, but I’d never seen Mom ill for more than a day or two. My relationship with Dad seemed to be fraying at times. It felt as if he was pushing me away—he was preoccupied and moody. Life felt unstable and I was fearful our family would crack under the stress.

  In January 1991, Dad murdered Dolores Davis, a mother and grandmother who lived a few miles east of us.

  APRIL 1991

  In the spring of 1991, Dad took up the hobby of stamp collecting. He often spread them all over the kitchen table while Mom was at choir practice. I’d already learned it was better to leave Dad to his own devices. If he was content, he caused less grief in the house and I was in less trouble, owing fewer quarters to the swear jar.

  In April, Dad finally found a new job as a Park City compliance officer. His office was in the same building as the police station, just down the hall. He wore a brown uniform, decked to the nines, similar in appearance to a county sheriff’s, even including the gold badge over his heart. In his element, he drove around neighborhoods in a marked truck, and had an excuse to snoop in other people’s yards. He was happier employed, and life at home settled for all of us.

  My father murdered four members of the Otero family in the winter of 1974, and seventeen years later, he murdered Mrs. Davis. He was unemployed both times and stated after he was arrested that he was in similar downtrodden states. I knew when I was twelve Dad wasn’t well—but I never would have thought he could commit murder.

  Lots of people lose their jobs, experience loved ones becoming ill, go through seasonal ups and downs, or battle mental illness, yet they never cause harm. My father took care of Brian and me, cooking us odd-looking eggs for breakfast when my mom was in the hospital, and then, a month later, murdered a grandmother.

  It is truly insane, then, what my father did—taking ten lives over seventeen years and then living the next fourteen as if he hadn’t.

  CHAPTER 6

  Have Adventures, Because Life Is Fragile

  AUGUST 1991

  COLORADO

  Grandpa Bill and Grandma Dorothea took Brian, Lacey, Sarah, and me to Woodland Park, northwest of Colorado Springs, in August 1991. We towed a long brown-and-white trailer behind the Suburban. My grandma gave us strict orders that all our clothes for the week needed to fit in one sturdy tomato box per grandchild, and we could do laundry at the KOA.

  In Colorado we went trout fishing in a bright-blue lake set high in the Rockies. I was always thrilled and tickled that my grandma fished and drank beer out of a can. While riding horses through the red rocks of the Garden of the Gods, Grandma uttered she was getting too old for this sort of thing while Grandpa chuckled and sang, “Whoopie ti-yi-yo, git along, little dogies.”

  My parents drove out the next weekend and picked us kids up while my grandparents stayed on for weeks more, likely glad to have peace and quiet restored.

  Three years later, Grandpa Bill fell ill in Colorado Springs with leukemia. Dad and Uncle Bill drove to the mountains to be with my grandparents and tow the trailer back.

  After that, it became routine to visit Grandpa in St. Francis’s cancer wing. At first, I was nervous about visiting the hospital, but Grandpa took it all in stride, and his calm acceptance helped the rest of us cope. On our way to the hospital, we’d offer to bring him something decent from a favorite place like Long John Silver’s
or Braum’s, but he’d usually decline. Mom would fetch him Ensure shakes and crushed ice and sit by his bedside while Dad and I took Grandma to dinner.

  Grandpa always had a couple of paperbacks stacked on his hospital tray, often from Michener or L’Amour, and we would talk books: Grandpa, Dad, and me. Sometimes Dad would stay the night, but he always made sure to walk us girls to our cars before returning to Grandpa.

  MARCH 1995

  TEXAS

  In March 1995, Dad and I set out on a late Friday afternoon with Brian and my cousin A. D., who was two years younger than me, for a weeklong camping trip on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. During the drive, the boys conked out in the dark-brown Suburban we had borrowed from Grandpa Bill, but I’d stayed awake to keep my dad company as we headed to Dalhart, Texas, for the night. We drove through the Panhandle, eating Cheez-Its and marveling at the blinking irrigation lights out in the fields; they looked otherworldly.

  The next day, Dad and I talked for hours while driving across New Mexico, taking in the stark red-orange mesas that rose on the edge of the rolling yellows and greens of the plains.

  I was sixteen years old, a junior at Wichita Heights High School, where I switched between honors classes every fifty minutes. After school, I played golf in the fall and ran track in the spring. Some Saturdays, I would compete with my scholar’s bowl team, and on Sundays, I worked an afternoon shift, often by myself, at Snacks.

  Heading along I-40 that afternoon, the four of us listened to the trucker line over Grandpa’s CB radio and created our own handles as we said things like, “Breaker, breaker.” The highway ran parallel in places to old Route 66, and Dad regaled us with tales of the trip he’d taken to California in the mid-1950s with his folks and brothers.