Authors: Bill Floyd
The Killer's Wife (16 page)
“I
don’t know exactly how they were chosen. I can tell you that it wasn’t strictly visual, although that was part of it. It was primarily more of a gut instinct, like when you meet someone’s eyes across a room and there’s an instant attraction, that sort of sensory flash, except in this case it was only on my end. So far as I know, anyway … I always saw them among large groups of people, and it was like they stood out more starkly, maybe, like they were somehow more well defined. Almost like they were highlighted.”
don’t know exactly how they were chosen. I can tell you that it wasn’t strictly visual, although that was part of it. It was primarily more of a gut instinct, like when you meet someone’s eyes across a room and there’s an instant attraction, that sort of sensory flash, except in this case it was only on my end. So far as I know, anyway … I always saw them among large groups of people, and it was like they stood out more starkly, maybe, like they were somehow more well defined. Almost like they were highlighted.”
The courtroom was dead silent except for the sound of
Randy’s voice. His court-appointed public defenders had entered a plea of Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity, and they’d made it clear he wouldn’t be testifying on his own behalf. Randy, however, had provided the police with a lengthy and, from all accounts, exhaustive confession while he was laid up in the hospital recovering from the gunshot wounds Todd Cline had inflicted. The doctors’ initial diagnosis hadn’t been good; he’d lost a sizable chunk of his spleen, and one lung had collapsed. He’d been afraid that he might die without ever having made his exploits known to a wider audience. His attorneys had wanted to file a motion to suppress the confession, but rumor had it that Randy instructed them not to do so. He knew this was his moment. Although his voice on the digital recorder’s playback was flinty, and he often paused for a drink or to clear his throat, every word came through clearly.
Randy’s voice. His court-appointed public defenders had entered a plea of Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity, and they’d made it clear he wouldn’t be testifying on his own behalf. Randy, however, had provided the police with a lengthy and, from all accounts, exhaustive confession while he was laid up in the hospital recovering from the gunshot wounds Todd Cline had inflicted. The doctors’ initial diagnosis hadn’t been good; he’d lost a sizable chunk of his spleen, and one lung had collapsed. He’d been afraid that he might die without ever having made his exploits known to a wider audience. His attorneys had wanted to file a motion to suppress the confession, but rumor had it that Randy instructed them not to do so. He knew this was his moment. Although his voice on the digital recorder’s playback was flinty, and he often paused for a drink or to clear his throat, every word came through clearly.
The prosecutors were playing clips from the confession throughout the trial, and on the day I was to testify they’d chosen this little tidbit. The sound was turned up too loud and rang tinny off the functional yellow walls of Courtroom #3. The room belonged to Judge Rita Oliver, a hefty woman with slate gray hair and sharp blue eyes. She ran a tight ship; the few times when victims’ relatives became demonstratively emotional, Oliver had them escorted quickly out of the observer’s gallery; leading questions from the defense and prosecution alike were met with quick admonishments; she talked down to Randy on several occasions and even he seemed resentfully respectful of her. Anthony Turnbull, the lead prosecutor, a short, handsome man in his
early sixties who favored bow ties and carried himself in an efficient, slightly effete manner, had warned me that I might be shaken by what I heard, as would the jury and reporters and family members gathered here to witness the trial; that was the exact intent of playing the tapes. The men and women seated in the jury box hunched their shoulders and inclined their heads toward the stereo speakers that had been placed on either side of the prosecution’s table. From my spot on the witness stand, I couldn’t do anything except stare at my hands while the recording droned on.
early sixties who favored bow ties and carried himself in an efficient, slightly effete manner, had warned me that I might be shaken by what I heard, as would the jury and reporters and family members gathered here to witness the trial; that was the exact intent of playing the tapes. The men and women seated in the jury box hunched their shoulders and inclined their heads toward the stereo speakers that had been placed on either side of the prosecution’s table. From my spot on the witness stand, I couldn’t do anything except stare at my hands while the recording droned on.
The only time I caught Randy’s eye, he glared at me like some hungry animal. One of his PDs, an overstressed guy with curly hair and a beer gut named Allan Beyer, had come by the house last week and picked up a suit of Randy’s dress clothes, so he wouldn’t have to appear before the court in a prison jumpsuit. I’d wanted to either burn or throw away everything of his, but the prosecutors had told me there was an outside chance that some random item might be collected for further evidence at some point. So Mom and I had put it all in the garage and locked it up.
Even with a clean, pressed shirt and tie, Randy’s appearance was slipshod; he’d let his hair grow and was sporting a thin beard. It only made him look more aggressive.
His tone on the playback was conversational and animated, as though he was talking to friends over cocktails. “Once I’d spotted them, once I’d experienced that initial spark, it was pretty much a done deal. I followed them from the moment I saw them, keeping a good distance, sort of drinking in the details of the way they walked, the kind of
clothes they wore, how they interacted with people on the street. You know, whether they were polite or rude, if they tipped their waitress. You can tell a lot about a person by that kind of stuff, without ever speaking a word to them. If it was a woman—and it was usually a woman—I’d memorize her hairstyle, the brand of shoes she wore. I’d try to guess her sizes. That sort of thing.”
clothes they wore, how they interacted with people on the street. You know, whether they were polite or rude, if they tipped their waitress. You can tell a lot about a person by that kind of stuff, without ever speaking a word to them. If it was a woman—and it was usually a woman—I’d memorize her hairstyle, the brand of shoes she wore. I’d try to guess her sizes. That sort of thing.”
The voice of a detective who’d been there during the recording intervened. “What about when they got into a car?”
“I’d be ready to keep on following them. I mean, you have to understand, these sightings most often happened at a bar or a restaurant, maybe once or twice at the airport. You watch people like I do, you get a feel for when they’re preparing to leave, and by then I’d be good to go. I rented the cars through my company, because I was usually wherever I was because of work. Except for some of the earliest ones, like the Renault family.”
“And Daphne Snyder. She was from El Ray, too,” one of the interviewers said casually.
There was a long pause. “Yeah, she was different,” Randy finally said, an air of either regret or nostalgia in his voice, it was difficult to tell which. “She was the one who brought me down. Her parents must be so proud.”
Officially, this trial was for the murders he’d committed in California, and Daphne Snyder’s parents were in the courtroom. I knew them from seeing their faces in the papers, and I wasn’t the only one who looked at them now. Several reporters stared openly. Mr. Snyder was focused on the back of Randy’s head, like he could make it catch fire by
simple force of will. Mrs. Snyder, who looked as if she hadn’t slept at all during the five months since the crime took place, got up from her seat at the end of the row and walked steadily out of the room without glancing back. A moment later, her husband followed.
simple force of will. Mrs. Snyder, who looked as if she hadn’t slept at all during the five months since the crime took place, got up from her seat at the end of the row and walked steadily out of the room without glancing back. A moment later, her husband followed.
“But with the majority of the others, it was in faraway cities,” Randy reminisced mistily. “That was part of why it took you guys so very, very long to catch me. Most serial killers operate within an hour or two of their homes, a fact of which I’m sure you guys are aware. I read in the newspaper that you guys have already brought in a profiler from the Bureau. Do I get to meet him?”
“If you keep talking to us,” one of the detectives prompted.
Randy laughed, knowing he was being played, relishing it. “Well, I really do want to meet him. I’ll be interested to hear his impressions. But back to what I was saying. I travel a good deal for work, and I figured that it would be next to impossible to trace someone who was picking his victims in a completely random manner. Most perpetrators have a giveaway, like their victims are all similar in appearance, or they’re all hookers or something like that. But with me, they were all different. I’d see these people, and I’d feel the pull, and I’d know they were the ones. Then I’d follow them home, and the chase was on. I used my nights after meetings and conferences, while all the other jerk-offs were getting soused at the hotel bar or trying to find an escort service that wasn’t trafficking in total skank, and I’d do my research.
“I’d case the home, drive around the neighborhood, get
a feel for the terrain. These days, you can search the Internet for any number of escape routes, but I used to use paper maps.” Directions to the homes of some of his most recent victims had been found on his company laptop, as well as in the computer he’d kept out in his shed. That PC had also revealed his obsession with a number of unsavory Web sites, some featuring surgeries or autopsies, others that trafficked in S&M, and yet others that showed photo after close-up photo of anonymous pairs of eyes. “I’d observe the house, get to know the family routine, like when they came and went, how late they stayed up at night. Then I’d get my kit together, you know, my tools, stuff I couldn’t carry on planes with me. I’m sure you guys are familiar with all the implements my wife found in my shed at home, but on the road it was always easy to gather the knives and tape and that sort of thing from local stores. I kind of enjoyed that part of it. There was always a pond or a creek where I could get rid of the stuff after I’d used it, and I never bought it all from the same place, so your brethren could never chase down my receipts.
a feel for the terrain. These days, you can search the Internet for any number of escape routes, but I used to use paper maps.” Directions to the homes of some of his most recent victims had been found on his company laptop, as well as in the computer he’d kept out in his shed. That PC had also revealed his obsession with a number of unsavory Web sites, some featuring surgeries or autopsies, others that trafficked in S&M, and yet others that showed photo after close-up photo of anonymous pairs of eyes. “I’d observe the house, get to know the family routine, like when they came and went, how late they stayed up at night. Then I’d get my kit together, you know, my tools, stuff I couldn’t carry on planes with me. I’m sure you guys are familiar with all the implements my wife found in my shed at home, but on the road it was always easy to gather the knives and tape and that sort of thing from local stores. I kind of enjoyed that part of it. There was always a pond or a creek where I could get rid of the stuff after I’d used it, and I never bought it all from the same place, so your brethren could never chase down my receipts.
“And then, on the last night or the next to last night I was in town, I’d do the piece … And that’s how I thought of it, you know, like it was a concert or a presentation. I always knew I’d take credit for it one day, and I wanted each time to be special, to have its own variations. After the piece was complete, I’d go back to my hotel and clean up. Ninety percent of the time I was on a plane heading home within a matter of hours, back in the arms of my loving wife, and no one knew shit.”
“Your MO was the same, though,” a detective reminded him. “The removal of the eyes and the placement of foreign objects into the sockets. Jurisdictions around the country knew they were dealing with a serial. Sooner or later we’d have traced your travel patterns, found out the same person flew into the locales where the crimes took place.”
“So you say,” Randy teased, his smugness obvious even on tape. “But ‘sooner or later’ never came. The relevant jurisdictions never got together to compare notes. You never would’ve caught me unless my wife had called it in.”
My palms were drenched. I kept smoothing them on the chair, but it was leather, and eventually I had to pat them on the cloth of my dress. Turnbull and his prosecutorial team had advised me on my appearance, even though they couldn’t advise me on my testimony; I wore a severe navy blouse and matching skirt. The prosecutor and his jury adviser said we were going for “deeply wounded but not pathetic.”
“So these people who appeared …” The amplified sound of someone flipping through their notes raked the courtroom. “‘Highlighted’ was the term you used. They always lived in suburban-type neighborhoods?”
“Not all of them. Not Carrie Pritchett. She was in an apartment. Which actually made things more difficult, because anyone looking out their window across the courtyard could’ve seen me when I forced the door.”
A sob escaped someone in the observers’ gallery. I saw the contorted face of a man in the third row, and recognized him from some of the news coverage. It was Carrie
Pritchett’s father, who was rumored to have made a fortune catering ritzy affairs in Hollywood. Judge Oliver frowned at him. Pritchett’s hand was over his mouth, but a few more hitches escaped before he controlled himself. He must’ve felt my eyes on him, because when he finally looked up he stared straight at me. It was a hard stare from a grieving man. I felt intrusive and lowered my eyes, knowing I couldn’t even begin to imagine the pain Randy had brought down on him.
Pritchett’s father, who was rumored to have made a fortune catering ritzy affairs in Hollywood. Judge Oliver frowned at him. Pritchett’s hand was over his mouth, but a few more hitches escaped before he controlled himself. He must’ve felt my eyes on him, because when he finally looked up he stared straight at me. It was a hard stare from a grieving man. I felt intrusive and lowered my eyes, knowing I couldn’t even begin to imagine the pain Randy had brought down on him.
Anthony Turnbull stood and punched the pause button. The prosecutor affected a grave sense of historical import, as if his bow tie and dour composure alike consciously bore the weight of all past and future American jurisprudence within their mannered presentations. His slight lisp became a tool for emphasis. He addressed me by my married name, even though I was already effectively divorced; the prosecution wanted the jury to feel my intimate betrayal. “Mrs. Mosley, you heard what your husband said about coming back home to you. On any of these occasions, any of the times when we now know he had committed murder while away on these business trips, did he seem distraught or confused when he returned home?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you notice him being stressed out, or in any state of emotional upset?”
“Not that I recall.”
Turnbull leaned on the jury box. “And yet the defense would have you believe that Mr. Mosley is a lunatic, a man so deranged he didn’t know right from wrong. I would ask
the jury to consider how a man who planned these murders in detail, down to casing the areas where he would break into the victims’ homes, a man who carefully plotted his escape routes, could be in a state of mental impairment severe enough to warrant his being found Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity. It is the state’s contention, bolstered by Mrs. Mosley’s testimony, that Mr. Mosley was not deranged at all, but rather a coherent, vile butcher. Only a cold, calculating mind, functioning at a normal or even above average level, could carry out such acts and then structure his behavior so as to foster a veil of deceit so total and competent that even his own wife, the woman who shared his home on a daily basis, didn’t suspect him to be guilty of anything.”
the jury to consider how a man who planned these murders in detail, down to casing the areas where he would break into the victims’ homes, a man who carefully plotted his escape routes, could be in a state of mental impairment severe enough to warrant his being found Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity. It is the state’s contention, bolstered by Mrs. Mosley’s testimony, that Mr. Mosley was not deranged at all, but rather a coherent, vile butcher. Only a cold, calculating mind, functioning at a normal or even above average level, could carry out such acts and then structure his behavior so as to foster a veil of deceit so total and competent that even his own wife, the woman who shared his home on a daily basis, didn’t suspect him to be guilty of anything.”
I thought of Randy’s bruises and excuses. I remembered all the presents he used to buy me when we were first dating, the gold necklace and the mix CDs he made and the weekend trips he planned. The sketch he’d drawn and presented me with on our third date, how my face in it seemed incomplete, needy, a portrait of longing that might never be satisfied; even then he’d been trying to control me, to offer me a vision of myself as inadequate on my own. I thought of the way he would cry out in his sleep at night. I remembered his listening to me for hours, like I was the only person in the world worth listening to.
Turnbull crossed his arms contemplatively. “Indeed, during the past few days of testimony we have established that Mr. Mosley deceived nearly everyone in his life. We have heard from coworkers who had no clue what lay behind his facade. We’ve heard how he fictionalized an entire
life story. He claimed to have lived in orphanages and foster homes, to have suffered abuse at the hands of staff members and the families with whom he was placed. In reality, we have seen the records showing that while his mother may have been abusive on occasion and his biological father absent from the time the defendant was three, he wasn’t remanded to state custody until he was nearly fourteen years old. He lived with only one foster family, who from all accounts treated him with the utmost care, as one of their own, until their untimely deaths in a house fire when he was seventeen years old.”
life story. He claimed to have lived in orphanages and foster homes, to have suffered abuse at the hands of staff members and the families with whom he was placed. In reality, we have seen the records showing that while his mother may have been abusive on occasion and his biological father absent from the time the defendant was three, he wasn’t remanded to state custody until he was nearly fourteen years old. He lived with only one foster family, who from all accounts treated him with the utmost care, as one of their own, until their untimely deaths in a house fire when he was seventeen years old.”
“Objection,” called out Beyer, the lead defense attorney. “That insinuation is out of line. Not only is Mr. Mosley not on trial in the deaths of his foster parents, but as the state well knows, it has never been established or contended by any law enforcement entity that a crime was even committed in that incident.”
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