Monster (63 page)

“Everybody’s coming clean,” Richardson said, keeping his voice calm, “and you’ve been indicted for the murder of Cher Elder. Now when I first talked to you up in Fort Collins, you gave me a story that wasn’t true ...”

Luther took a step toward Richardson. Anderson moved to intercept him, but Richardson just leaned further back in his chair and smiled.

“I’ll have a lawyer present when I’m questioned and that’s the only way that I will be questioned,” Luther yelled. “You ain’t worked no case, the only thing you’ve done is everything in your fucking power to put all that bullshit on me. I’m sure you’ll be able to do whatever you want. You’ve had two fucking years, the State of Colorado, the FBI, and everybody else fucking backing your play. All I ask is you give me a fucking attorney when I get there to fight it with, not some fucking deadbeat public defender that doesn’t want to fucking do his job.”

The more Luther ranted, the wider Richardson smiled. It irritated Luther even more.

“Just like this fuckin’ bullshit case here,” Luther screamed.

“They come down on me hard because of your bullshit out in Colorado. I ain’t no fuckin’ serial killer. I’m an angry bastard, but I ain’t no fuckin’ killer. I’ve helped more fuckin’ people out than you have ever helped out in your whole life. Well, I ain’t got nothin’ to say, I ain’t a fuckin’ rat.”

Luther turned on his heel and left the room with the guard hurrying after him. Richardson, his hands behind his head, just laughed. “Be seein’ you Luther,” he called after the inmate’s retreating back. “Be seein’ you real soon.”

After leaving Richardson, Luther called Debrah Snider and demanded to know what she had told him. Ever since the indictment in Colorado, his letters had grown more accusatory. He didn’t know it for sure, but he suspected she was talking to the police.

“When I go to the gas chamber in Colorado because you think you and Babe are doing the right thing, who will you have to love you then?” he wrote. “You’re not evil, just stupid when it comes to certain things. I’m not Tom Jekyll. I’m Tom Luther and yes I do have both good and bad in me. But only God knows how much of each.”

He even wrote to Snider’s mother, telling her of her daughter’s betrayal at his trial. “The victim lied her ass off,” he wrote. “But the thing that hurt me most was Deb. She got mad at me and gave a statement against me to the state police, telling them that I admitted to her that I did it. Which was partly so, but she confused what I said.... The state had no case without Deb.

“Between her and this woman in Colorado [Babe], they’ll get me in the gas chamber before they are done. Deb claims that it’s a morals and principles issue with her. Lately, I’ve had the feeling that Deb has been working with the cops on the Colorado stuff, too.”

Luther told Debrah he wasn’t even offered a deal in the rape case because of Richardson, nor could he expect one in Colorado.

In the next letter he complained that the guards were telling each other and the other inmates that he was a serial killer. He believed they were getting their information from Richardson.

“I want to go home, Tom,” Debrah wrote him. “I want us to face whatever we have to face in Colorado and get on with what little we have left as a life. I want to complete my part in this Cher Elder case, face whatever I have to face with you and have it done.

“Why don’t you see if you can talk Colorado into letting me die for whatever crimes you may have committed. I’m not as good or pure as Christ, but he was able to sell the world on his theory of letting one person die for the sins of a bunch ... and my blood is as good as yours.”

The day before Richardson arrived in West Virginia, Snider went to visit Luther. “I thought you said you were the only one who knew where her body was?” she asked.

Luther cocked his head, looking right through her. “Well,” he said with a smirk, “I guess that wasn’t true, was it?”

Now Richardson was in town, and Luther wanted to know what Debrah told him. “Nothing, Tom,” she said, but he didn’t seem to be listening. He was already concocting another Tom Luther story.

“Cher,” he said, “had a Colombian boyfriend. He’s a drug dealer. Byron set up a deal between the Colombian and Southy, but something went wrong and Cher got killed. Remember, I told you all this before?”

Snider was puzzled. The Colombian drug dealer/boyfriend was a new story, but Tom kept acting like it was old news. Then she realized what he was doing.
He thinks this is being recorded,
she thought.

“You know, Deb, the only reason Richardson’s coming for me is because of you,” he said. Then he sighed. “I think I’m going to plead guilty and get it over with.”

Later that night, Snider called Richardson at his motel room, where he and Anderson were plowing through her letters, and told him about the Colombian boyfriend story. “That was definitely the first time I ever heard that one,” she said.

Then she was crying again. “Please, please tell me when you’re going to take him back to Colorado,” she said. “I want one more chance to see him and say goodbye.”

“It’s too late, Deb,” Richardson said gently. “I’m takin’ him tomorrow morning.”

The next morning, a Sunday, Richardson and Anderson were back at the prison. This time, they were standing in the hallway when Luther turned a corner with a dozen other inmates and saw them.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he yelled, looking around at his comrades, putting on a big show. “I told you I didn’t want to talk to you.”

Richardson smiled, stepping forward. “Well, Luther,” he said. “I ain’t here to talk to you, either. I’m here to take you back to Colorado for the murder of Cher Elder.”

The other inmates retreated and pressed their backs against the wall as they watched the confrontation. They didn’t want any part of what was going down. Luther looked around, nervous without his friends. “You can’t,” he yelled, though he didn’t sound convinced. “I’m gonna fight extradition.”

“Too late,” Richardson said, waving his paperwork under Luther’s nose. “This here’s a governor’s warrant. I’m takin’ you now.”

With that the waiting guards pounced on Luther, who was handcuffed and his wrists shackled to a belly band. They also shackled his ankles to each other and placed his knees in braces, making it impossible for him to bend his legs or run.

He struggled and screamed profanities at Richardson. “He looks like Hannibal the Cannibal,” Richardson said to Anderson, referring to the serial killer in the movie
Silence of the Lambs,
when they finished trussing his prisoner.

Luther was placed in a car between Richardson and Anderson, while a West Virginia state trooper drove toward Pennsylvania at eighty miles an hour. They were escorted by a half-dozen other state police cars with lights flashing.

At the state line, another half-dozen Pennsylvania state police cars were lined up across the road, their lights flashing, too. They took over the escort responsibilities to Pittsburgh. There the caravan was met by another six city police cruisers. At the airport, they were joined by several state police vehicles who were responsible for airport security. They sped across the airport tarmac at sixty-five miles an hour.

On the ride to the airport, Luther remained belligerent, cursing Richardson every chance he got and swearing when each new leg of the journey was met by more police escorts. Finally, Richardson got tired of it. “Luther, we’ve got a long day ahead of us. Why don’t we just try to get along?”

It seemed to take the steam out of Luther. He looked sideways at the detective and half-smiled. “Goddam, Richardson, you lost a lot of weight,” he said.

Richardson nodded. Until the day before at the prison, they hadn’t seen each other since May 1993 at the Fort Collins hospital, when Luther ripped out his pubic hair as he demanded to know where Richardson lived, but they’d rarely been out of each other’s thoughts in the intervening two years. The detective had lost thirty pounds; there were dark circles beneath his eyes and he often looked as tired as he felt.

“Yeah, Luther,” he admitted, “thanks to you.” He looked at Luther.
Well, at least I’m not the only one,
he thought. His prisoner had also lost a significant amount of weight and all of his hair had turned gray. He had wanted to make this personal between him and Luther, and he had succeeded more than he bargained.

“Jesus,” the detective said, “you sure got old and gray.”

“Yeah,” Luther said, then laughed. “Thanks to you.”

As it turned out, the first pilot wouldn’t let them board. “This man isn’t getting on my plane,” he said, looking at the shackled prisoner.

The airline apologized and gave Richardson three $25 certificates good at airport restaurants while they waited. They soon put them to good use.

Richardson offered to buy Luther, who didn’t know about the certificates, “anything you want” at the airport McDonald’s if he’d promise to behave the rest of the trip.

“Yeah, the fuck you will,” Luther said, eyeing him suspiciously.

“No really, even throw in french fries and a strawberry shake,” the detective replied. “Deal?”

“Sure,” Luther nodded. “No more trouble.”

Leaving their prisoner in the airport security lockup, Richardson and Anderson then treated themselves to the biggest steaks they could find at the airport using the gift certificates. When they were finished, Richardson went to the McDonald’s and got Luther a hamburger, fries, and a shake. It felt good to put one over on him.

They were finally allowed to board a flight to Chicago, though not without apprehension on the part of the flight crew and passengers. Luther’s extradition took place right after the Oklahoma City bombing, and the plane was soon buzzing with the rumor that Luther was the bomber.

“Let’s tell ’em he is,” Anderson dead-panned. “And let the crowd have at him.”

It was a joke, but they didn’t forget their prisoner was dangerous. Both men noticed that every time they moved, Luther’s eyes flicked over their holstered guns, as if weighing his chances. They’d already discussed that if Luther somehow managed to get a gun and had to be shot while the plane was in the air, they would aim low so that any stray bullets would go into the cargo hold, not a passenger or through the fuselage.

They were met on the taxiway at the Chicago airport by city police. “So is this the hammer man?” one officer asked as they unloaded Luther.

How the hell did they know about that,
Richardson wondered. But he didn’t get a chance to ask as Luther was whisked off to a holding cell at the airport to await the next plane.

Boarding the plane to Denver, they were met at the door by the pilot, who wanted to know what security measures had been taken. As he talked to the pilot, Richardson noticed that Luther was sidling away from him. He looked and saw that Luther was trying to get to a small opening between the loading ramp and the plane.

Knee braces, shackles and all, Luther was thinking about jumping the twelve feet to the ground and running for it. Richardson put an arm on his prisoner and guided him back to his seat.

After they were seated, a late-arriving woman passenger came down the aisle and started to take a seat in the aisle across from them. Seeing the three men, she smiled and asked if they were going to Denver on business.

“Yeah,” Luther said.

“What for?” she asked.

“Court,” Luther responded.

“Oh,” she said, addressing Richardson. “Are you lawyers?”

“No, ma’am,” Richardson replied. “Police.”

She looked at Luther. “You’re all police officers?”

“No, ma’am,” Luther replied and smiled wide. “I’m a convict.”

The woman suddenly noticed the handcuffs and shackles. She screamed and ran down the aisle. A couple of minutes later, she returned. “I’m so embarrassed,” she apologized. “I can’t believe I did that.”

Luther leaned over toward Richardson and whispered, “Wait ‘til she sees who I am on the five o’clock news.”

Luther was talkative on the remainder of the flight. “Did you ever talk to the Colombian?” he asked.

“So now you’re blaming Cher’s death on a drug cartel?” Richardson asked.

Luther just smiled and looked out the window. A few minutes later, he turned back to Richardson and said, “I feel like writing it all out. I know I’m going to be convicted.” He sighed. “I can’t believe Byron and J.D. talked.”

He looked out the window again for several minutes before speaking anymore. Then he said he regretted never having made it to Mexico. “If I ever get a chance to escape,” he said, “that’s where I’m goin’.”

“Hold on,” Richardson said, “let me get a map so you can put an ‘X’ at the place where I can find you.”

They arrived in Denver without further incident. Richardson took Luther to the jail to have him photographed and locked up.

As Luther was being led away by deputies, he looked back at Richardson. “You know, I’m kinda glad it’s over,” he said. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life lookin’ over my shoulder for you.”

The next day, Denver’s two daily newspapers ran Cher Elder’s obituary. There was no mention of how she died, only the date: March 28, 1993.

Next to obituaries of people who’d had the chance to live long full lives, the few lines dedicated to Cher noted that she was “a 20-year-old waitress at a Holiday Inn, a graduate of Purdy High School in Missouri, who enjoyed cross-stitch, reading, art, photography and writing poetry.” The obituary closed with the notation that her parents, grandparents, and siblings grieved for her.

At home in Lakewood, Colorado, after putting his boys to bed, so did a detective.

Chapter Twenty-Six

July 12, 1995—New Jersey State Penitentiary

John Martin didn’t look so good. His skin, pulled taut over the bones of his face, looked waxy; his hands shook as he took a proffered cigarette and put it to his lips. “Got cancer,” he explained to Det. Richard Eaton, and lit the cigarette. “They tell me it’s terminal. It’s a good thing you found me, I probably won’t be around much longer.”

Martin nodded when Eaton asked if he remembered Thomas Luther. “So somebody finally wants to talk about that son of a bitch,” the 55-year-old convict said. “What took you so long?”