Abandoned Prayers (44 page)

She told Cutler she was going to go see the Amish again to see what else she could learn.

“I was a go-between for the Amish who didn’t want to get involved. If they didn’t speak up, he was going to get away with it and kill more and more people,” she said later.

The homicide investigator appreciated the lead, though it was not a particularly good one. After all, Diane Swartzentruber had said other rumors circulating included one about a woman, a girlfriend of Stutzman’s, who had died
thirty days before he was captured in Azle. Additionally, word had it that two other men—“bosses of Stutzman’s”—had died mysteriously, too.

Gary Cutler needed to trace Diane Swartzentruber’s information to its source—which meant Sam Miller. When Miller had been interviewed in Texas he had made no mention of the “bloody clothes.” What his questioners didn’t know was that Stutzman had made his comments about killing Pritchett
after
he gave his statement to the sheriff. The comments were made, in fact, in Stutzman’s truck on his way home from the sheriff’s office.

Though new information was finding its way to Travis County, in some ways investigators had even less than they did in June 1985. The rifle Stutzman gave to Jerry Wiggins ended up on a destruction order signed by Judge Jon Wisser.

“Ballistics didn’t match, but you try telling that to a jury. ‘We accidentally chopped up the potential murder weapon.’ Right. That sounds real bad,” Wiggins later said.

Travis County homicide detective Jerry Wiggins had to sit back down when a TV reporter called him and announced that Stutzman had signed over book, movie, and television rights to disbarred attorney Frank Hefner. It was unbelievable.

But it was true. The next day Hefner was spouting off on TV and in the paper. When asked who had hired him and HIC, the lawyer-turned-con-turned-investigator-turned-movie-magnate indicated it had been Rob Robinson.

Not Rob Robinson again
. Wiggins thought.
Eli Stutzman sure knows how to pick ’em
.

Movie rights would pay Stutzman’s legal bills.

“He doesn’t have a lot of resources,” Hefner explained to a
Dallas Morning News
reporter. “We thought it would be of economic value to help pay for his defense. It’s like looking around and all you see on your dresser is the watch your grandfather gave you, and you see what you can get for it.”

Hefner proclaimed Stutzman innocent and indicated that HIC had retained Omaha attorney William Gallup. Court-appointed Lyle Koenig was out.

The agreement between Stutzman, HIC, and Robinson raised a few eyebrows at the Texas State Bar in Austin, and in Thayer County, Nebraska.

“If there is such an agreement—and I haven’t seen
one—I have grave questions as to whether it’s ethical or not. My concerns aren’t directed so much to Mr. Stutzman as to the attorney in this matter,” Dan Werner told reporters hanging around the county courthouse.

Gallup told reporters he had asked that the felony charges against Stutzman be reduced to the misdemeanor “abandoning a human body.” Stutzman would plead guilty to the charge, he said.

Dan Werner didn’t say a word about that.

Sheriff Young shook his head when he heard that the defense attorney might contest that Danny had died of carbon monoxide poisoning caused by a leaky exhaust system.

He knew that the Lincoln and St. Louis autopsies had indicated carbon monoxide levels no greater than what might be absorbed during normal car travel.

Stutzman smothered his son, he thought.

Wyant still believed that Danny had been alive when he was put outside to freeze. He focused on Stutzman’s statement to Ted Garber conceding that Danny might have been alive when left in the ditch in Chester.

Either scenario was possible, and as the Nebraskans came to know Stutzman, either was likely.

The leaky exhaust was typical Stutzman—a convenient excuse.

“We have the car. We have pictures. We can prove it,” Frank Hefner later claimed.

December 30, 1987

With Stutzman awaiting his hearing, Ted Garber decided to dig a little deeper. The news media had stirred up a thick, wretched pot. Phone calls from the media after Stutzman’s arrest had been continuous, and, Garber thought, a little annoying. Garber liked media attention, but a call from an out-of-state reporter at the ungodly hour of 2:00
A.M
.?

Garber called Elvy Kenyon in for an interview. A tape recorder whirred as the two began speaking about Stutzman. It was 3:03
P.M
.

At 48, Kenyon looked older than his age, the inevitable
result of sunshine and his share of beer. He said he and Stutzman, both carpenters, were drinking buddies who had met two years before. They had worked on two or three jobs together in Dallas.

“I wrecked my car and he give me a ride, and he was working in Dallas and I worked in Dallas a time or two. So I worked over at Dallas with him on a job,” he said.

He told the police chief that they had met when Stutzman had just returned from a trip to Colorado, driving the Gremlin.

“What did you do?” Kenyon recalled asking, just making small talk with a person he said had just happened along.

“He said, ‘My boy was in a car wreck.’ The boy’s name was Danny. And it bumped his head and—he had a word for it—blood clot.”

Garber pressed for details: “Did he tell you where this wreck was, where this wreck occurred?”

“I think he said Colorado. Now I’m not for sure on that. But he said his godfather and his little boy were in the wreck, too. I didn’t have no reason to doubt him. And the boy died. That was the whole deal on his family then.”

The boy’s body, Stutzman told Kenyon, had been sent to New Mexico for burial.

Garber wondered why Kenyon believed such a story. Why would a man send a body all the way to New Mexico for burial? It wasn’t the boy’s home; his family wasn’t there. Garber thought it was a stupid lie—the kind that could easily be disproved with a telephone call.

Stutzman had said that his house on Toronto was sold and that he needed a place to stay, and Kenyon had offered his place as long as they split groceries and utilities.

Stutzman had moved in a week or two before he was arrested.

When the word got out through the local media that the police in Nebraska were looking for a man named Eli Stutzman who was believed to be in the Dallas–Fort Worth area,
Kenyon said Stutzman was quick to place the blame somewhere else.

“Tell me in as much detail as you can when you saw the article in the paper about him and his son. What happened then?” Garber asked.

“He went down and got the Sunday paper, and he brought the paper back, and I looked at the paper. He said, ‘That’s a lie. That’s not me. That’s my cousin!’ ”

“There are lots of Amish named Eli Stutzman,” Stutzman said. “It’s a cousin of mine that they are looking for.”

Kenyon confronted him. “Eli, tell me the truth. That’s you. I thought you told me your boy died in an accident in Colorado.”

“I didn’t want to tell you the boy died on the way to Ohio. What they are saying is not the way it was. It didn’t happen that way. It’s not true.”

Kenyon had no way of knowing if his friend was lying or telling the truth this time.

But the picture in the paper
was
his.

“I said, ‘Well, you better go down to the police and tell them and straighten things out.’ ”

Stutzman said he would, after he got hold of his lawyer.

“Eli got on the phone and talked with someone who he said was his lawyer, and then he got off the phone and said that his lawyer told him he would meet him down at the police Monday morning.

“And the next thing, y’all were here.”

“Do you remember what attorney that was? Did he ever tell you?”

“No. I don’t believe he ever said his name. But he told me that he was a real-estate attorney, and he recommended him to somebody else.”

“As time went along, what happened? Was there any mention about his son?”

“No. He showed me a picture of him one time. He said, ‘This is Danny.’ That’s the only time he discussed anything about his boy.”

“There was no more mention of the boy after, other than when he showed you the picture?”

“That was all.”

“At what point did he tell you the truth, that he was lying to you?”

“That was the next time I talked to him. That was on the telephone. He said, ‘Well, I lied to you. I’m sorry I lied to you and got you in trouble.’ ”

“He called you from the jail?”

“Yeah.”

“That was the first time that you heard from him straight out that he had been telling you stories?”

“Yeah. That’s what he told me. ‘I lied to you, it didn’t happen the way I told you, but it didn’t happen the way it was in the paper.’ ”

Kenyon didn’t know what to believe.

“Did he ever tell you how it happened?”

Kenyon said he didn’t ask. “I didn’t say ‘Hey, man, did you do what they said or not?’ ”

Garber wanted to learn more about the attorneys Stutzman had hired.

“When did the attorney from Dallas—did he mention the name Robinson?”

“Yeah.”

Kenyon was being helpful within his own limits. He did not volunteer anything. Garber had to ask even the most obvious and tedious follow-up. “What did he say?”

“He said that was his attorney, and he was gonna take care of everything.”

“Did Eli tell you about signing over any rights to this attorney?”

“He told me that they had some contracts for him to sign. I don’t know what he called them . . . just contracts.”

“Did they have anything to do with book rights or story rights?”

“Yeah, book rights.”

“Since all of this has come down, you mentioned to me that an attorney or some representatives from an attorney
in Dallas had come out to your house. You want to tell me what the situation was?”

“That was on his pickup. I bought the pickup from Junior.”

“And Junior is who?”

“Eli. I bought the pickup from him. And y’all had impounded it here in Azle, and the attorneys or the guys from Dallas or whoever they are—they was going to pick up the pickup.

“So I give up the title—he left the title and everything with me—so they could go pick up the truck. And I done paid him four hundred dollars on it, and I was going to pay the rest of it when they bring the title back. They brought the pickup but they didn’t bring the title back.”

“Did they say anything to you in regards to testimony?”

“They said I might have to go up as a character witness.”

“Did he express any remorse to you about the situation with his son?”

Kenyon said they hadn’t talked about that, and the interview was over at 3:25
P.M
.

The Nebraskans were going to plead Eli Stutzman on two misdemeanors—abandoning a body and concealing a death.
Two lousy misdemeanors
. When he heard the news, Azle police chief Ted Garber winced hard. It was a joke. He knew that Stutzman was a killer.

Garber considered calling Gary Young. Words ran through his head:
This is your business and I don’t want to tell you your business, but you need to pursue this. This is a murder. The man is a killer. He told me the boy might have been alive when he put him in the field
.

As far as Garber could see, they were going to slap a killer on the wrist and send him off for a few months of time.

“Knowing Eli, he’d probably think prison was some kind of vacation,” he later said.

January 11, 1988

Chuck Kleveland did an about-face on the concrete steps of the Thayer County Courthouse on the morning of Stutzman’s hearing. He had come to renew a vehicle license, but was confronted by the commotion of a group of media people. The man who had found Danny Stutzman’s body didn’t want to answer any more questions about how he had felt and what he had done two Christmases ago. He was not, he later said, a hero.

Inside the courthouse, Stutzman, in jeans and flannel shirt, sat facing the spectators and attorneys; his face was ashen and his eyes rarely met the gaze of others. He looked the part of a spectator—a farmer or a mechanic or anyone else from the community. Word had sifted through the courtroom: Eli Stutzman was going to plead guilty and, more important, he was going to tell his story.

The legal rigmarole went quickly. County Attorney Werner acknowledged that he and Bill Gallup had agreed Stutzman would plead guilty to the misdemeanors. Though there had been no plea bargain, Werner indicated that the state had agreed to dismiss without prejudice the child-abuse charge. As a part of the agreement, Stutzman would take the stand.

Young and Wyant, sitting with the other spectators in Judge Pat McCardle’s courtroom, were finally going to hear Stutzman’s side of the story.

Gallup eased into his questioning of Stutzman. “Now, did there come a point in time when you left your son with some people in Wyoming?”

“Yes.”

“When was that?”

“That was in July of 1985.”

“And how did you happen to leave him with those people?”

“Because of some things I needed to take care of in a couple of different places. I felt it would be better to leave him with some friends rather than be going from place to place.”

“Before you picked up your son, and before you had gone off to Wyoming, had you had some religious problems with your family?”

“Yes.”

“What was that over, briefly?”

“Just disagreements in—disagreements with different rules of the church.”

“And this caused some dissension between you and your father, for example?”

“Right.”

“Did that lead you to leave the family?”

“Right.”

“Now, when did you pick up your son in Wyoming?”

“On December 14, in 1985.”

“And what were you driving?”

“ ’75 AMC.”

“What was the general condition of the car?”

“It had close to a hundred thousand miles on it, so it was not in A-1 condition. It ran fairly good.”

Stutzman said he had put down the backseat of the Gremlin so that Danny would have more room. He gave him a sleeping bag to curl up with.