I (32 page)

At a hearing in the Julie Winningham murder case in Vancouver, Washington, Keith continued to show his contempt for authority. Addressing the bearded judge, Robert Harris, the confessed serial murderer said, “Your Honor, I was kinda hoping for a week's furlough for Christmas. But I don't believe Santa Claus will give it to me.” He grinned at the judge and added, “Well, Santa, reach into your bag of goodies and give me what I've got coming, sir.”

Judge Harris sentenced him to thirty-four years and four months.

Julie Winningham's sister, Joanie Faria, told reporters that she would try to withhold tears for her sister until the killer was put to death. “No matter what my sister did in life, there was no reason for what he did. This monster makes a joke out of murdering somebody. He shows no remorse.”

After the “monster” was sentenced to life without parole in the other murder cases, the
Wall Street Journal
observed that he spoke in the “anodyne voice of an accountant” and suggested that hell would be “an appropriate place for him.” Once again psychologists pointed out that such flat affect and failure to feel remorse were the classical signs of antisocial personality disorder, also known as ASPD, psychopathy or sociopathy. To professionals in the field of behaviorism, Keith had never been much of a mystery.

Ever protective of his image, the lady-killer offered a different spin. “Of course I feel remorse. But victims' families don't want to hear about it. Remorse isn't gonna bring anybody back. What good does it do to apologize? It's a waste of everybody's time.”

 

In jail awaiting transport to the state penitentiary, he continued to play the lead role in his own dramatic production, autographing shirts with a Happy Face, sitting for self-important interviews, firing broadsides to the media and offering generous legal advice to his fellow inmates.

On the day that John Sosnovske and Laverne Pavlinac were freed for good, he described his reaction to the Associated Press: “I started crying. I couldn't help myself for about ten minutes. I lost total composure. I was just very overjoyed. Basically my feeling is God bless them.”

He didn't explain why he'd allowed them to serve four years for his crimes.
⁸

The Happy Face Killer was scheduled to began serving his stacked-up sentences in February 1996 as inmate number 11620304. His file showed him to be forty years old and in good physical health. He was rated a “moderate” escape risk with anger, aggression and cognition problems. He would become eligible for parole on March 1, 2063, a month before his 108th birthday.

When it was time for me to start my life sentence, two guards dressed in black chained me up and put a metal box between my wrists so I couldn't get out of the cuffs—not that I would've tried. The big guy said he would shoot me if I made a move to escape.

Most of the cops and detectives who'd worked the case were pissed that I'd gotten two people out of prison and beat the death penalty myself. But some of them still had a morbid interest in Happy Face. When we pulled into the Intake Center in Clackamas, one guard asked if I would pose with him for a picture.

I was put in solitary confinement in “D” block to keep me safe from other prisoners. Lady-killers and rapists ranked near the bottom of the food chain in the prison system, barely above child molesters and crooked cops. I was allowed one hour of yard time a day—no books, no cards, no nothing. Wherever I went, the pointy fingers came out. Everyone wanted a piece of the celebrity.

On my way to the showers, I had to pass in front of ten other cells. Those little fellows acted pretty tough behind their bars, but if you opened their doors they'd piss their pants. They feared me for what I was, a serial killer who enjoyed it and said so. They didn't know how to handle somebody like me. Who did? I didn't know how to handle myself.

After eight days in the processing center, I was strip-searched and loaded into a van with other traveling cons. At Oregon State Penitentiary in Salem, I was searched again and issued jeans, T-shirt and tennis shoes by an inmate who'd had the same job for ten years. He said, “You're Happy Face?” He looked nervous. It didn't take him long to spread the word.

Now I was a “FISH”: “Fresh Inmate Stopping Here.” They put me in the tank. The place was scary—so many hard-asses with cold stares. I expected more of a welcome. Didn't I give myself up to free two other convicts? Shouldn't the other inmates at least respect me for that?

Instead they began to spread gossip that I cannibalized my victims or had sex with dead bodies. They didn't understand that the death game ended when life ended. I had the same revulsion about dead people as everybody else.

 

When the bell rang for dinner, the doors clanged open and a couple of dozen men shuffled toward the chow hall. At first I stuck out like a neon light.

A con in the chow line asked if I was Jesperson. I nodded. A buzz began. After I collected my meal, I tried to find a place to sit, but they kept saying, “Not here…. Keep walking…. Move on, man….”

At last I found a guy who didn't reject me. I ate in silence. I could hear whispering behind my back, “That's him!” “That's Happy Face!” “That's the motherfucker!…”

 

I was assigned to Delta Block and celled in with another inmate. First thing he said was, “You better not be no rapist or pedophile. I don't want to live with no freak. What're you in for?”

I told him I killed eight women, but I wasn't a freak. I found out later he was a child molester. He hated himself and didn't want to associate with other sickos. He claimed to be born again but found no forgiveness for my crimes. A hypocrite, in other words. The prison was full of them.

 

The first night we were together I came back from the chow hall to find him all pissed off. My bunk was soaking wet. Someone had thrown coffee through the bars—maybe another inmate, maybe a guard. I got coffeed every night for a week. I thought to myself,
What a bunch of cowards. Don't have the guts to take me on.

The situation made my counselor offer to put me in protective custody. I was still a little shook, but I said no. I was told that some of the inmates planned to shank me in the yard. I told the security guard I didn't intend to give up any yard time. If they wanted to shank me, tell them to stick it deep. They won't get a second chance.

 

After that, I was put in a one-man cell. It was five-and-a-half-by-six feet, with a bed and a toilet. The walls were steel and the front was made of one-inch hexagonal bars on four-inch centers. I had a steel desk, a chair and a lockbox for my personal material.

Once a day I was allowed to go to the yard, and it was still the most dangerous place. There's nothing meaner than a crowd of yellowbelly cowards. You didn't dare show any fear. If those piranhas found out you were scared, you were finished, especially somebody as notorious as me. I had to take my fears head-on if I was ever to be accepted. So when I went to the yard, I walked the track like I owned it.

 

One day a bunch of inmates encircled me. A loudmouth little shit did all the talking. “Hold it right there, motherfucker.” “You don't look so tough.” “Who you think you are, big man?”

I stopped in the middle of the track and waited. The guy said, “Did your mommy spank you when you were little? Is that why you had to kill women? You look like a pussy, man.”

I stared hard into his eyes, and after a while he moved off with the other cowards.

 

On the track a couple of nights later, I heard two guys talking loud enough for me to hear. “I'd love to hit that prick one time!”

I whirled around and said, “Why not right now?” They couldn't get away fast enough.

 

A few weeks later five gangbangers stopped me in the yard. One got in my face and told me he was Taunja Bennett's cousin. I said, “Okay, I'm sorry it happened. Now what do you want to do about it?”

He says, “I'm broke, man. You gotta help me out.”

I says, “Not gonna happen.” I was nervous about being surrounded, but I didn't show it.

One of the sucks says, “He's crazy. He'd probably fight back.”

I said, “Bet your ass I'll fight back. I'm not taking extortion lying down. I'll take you out one by one.”

My nose and the leader's nose were a few inches apart. He was a Hispanic or Indian type, tattoos on the back of his neck, a toque on his head to make him look tough. I said, “You'll be the first to go, man.” He backed off. I was six-six and he was five-nothing.

In the shower I was confronted again—forty or fifty naked guys jacking around and making smart remarks. One thing was for sure—nobody in the shower had a shiv. If there was a fight, it would be bare fist against bare fist.

I yelled, “I'll take as many of you on as I can. Who's gonna be first?” Nobody moved.

When I got back to my cell I tried to figure things out, but I couldn't make any sense.
I barely got here, and they're cutting me in the chow hall and coffeeing my bed and busting my chops in the yard.
I'm starting to think that nobody likes me. Back in Clark County Jail an old con told me that when I got to the state pen the inmates would shake my hand and buy me Cokes and want my autograph. He was full of shit, like most convicts. These guys don't wind up in prison by being bright.

As I wiped more coffee off my bunk, I thought,
Well, hell, I don't like my jacket either! I wouldn't like me any more than the other guys do. I'll be in here for the rest of my life to deal with what I've become—a self-admitted serial killer. Everybody hates me, and I hate myself. And we're all right!

 

In those first few months the only good thing was that Dad wasn't here. Maybe I killed people because I wanted to be sent where he couldn't find me. Alone at night I had more peace than I ever had on the outside. None of the other guys could understand that, but they hadn't been raised by Dad.