Authors: Bill Floyd
The Killer's Wife (2 page)
W
hen we had been married for about a year, Randy and I participated in a search party for a missing local boy named Tyler Renault. Tyler’s mother and older sister had been found murdered in their beds two days earlier, and the rumors were flying. El Ray was a suburb of Fresno, and was usually spared the grotesqueries of big-city crime. One school of thought had it that the estranged husband had killed his wife and child, and indeed the police had questioned him several times, but hadn’t yet taken him into custody. He maintained his innocence, but no one gave that
very much credence. Another theory, most often whispered, was that the family had been the victims of a religious cult whose membership consisted of some burned-out youths that congregated in the trailer parks outside the city limits and sold meth to sustain their depraved lifestyles.
hen we had been married for about a year, Randy and I participated in a search party for a missing local boy named Tyler Renault. Tyler’s mother and older sister had been found murdered in their beds two days earlier, and the rumors were flying. El Ray was a suburb of Fresno, and was usually spared the grotesqueries of big-city crime. One school of thought had it that the estranged husband had killed his wife and child, and indeed the police had questioned him several times, but hadn’t yet taken him into custody. He maintained his innocence, but no one gave that
very much credence. Another theory, most often whispered, was that the family had been the victims of a religious cult whose membership consisted of some burned-out youths that congregated in the trailer parks outside the city limits and sold meth to sustain their depraved lifestyles.
We didn’t know the Renaults personally; their house was a few miles away from our neighborhood, and life had been such a constant rush since the honeymoon that we barely knew the people who lived on our own street. Randy’s job as a compliance officer for Jackson-Lilliard Corporation, an internationally based chemical company that produced industrial dyes for use in everything from textiles to house paint, kept him traveling a good bit of the time, inspecting satellite plants, auditing their applications guidelines, and making sure they were all within the legal- and industry-standard parameters. And Shaw Associates, where I’d worked since we moved here after I graduated college, had already promoted me from assistant to the marketing VP to a business analyst’s role, assessing their focus group/demographics-targeting procedures and trying to streamline them in a way to maximize profits and impact. So we hadn’t gotten very much in the way of settling in accomplished since we’d moved here. There were still boxes in the garage that had never been unpacked.
But the crime was all anyone had been talking about, and when Judy Larson from the First Methodist called and told me that the police were asking for volunteers to beat the bushes for any sign of Tyler, of course I signed us up. Randy hadn’t been thrilled at first, but he seemed to warm
to the idea. Probably he conceded to going along just to avoid my recrimination, which gave me a smug sort of satisfaction.
to the idea. Probably he conceded to going along just to avoid my recrimination, which gave me a smug sort of satisfaction.
Our designated search grid was a meadow just east of where Highway 1 cut through the edge of the suburbs. Along with seventeen other adults, mostly strangers, we walked in a staggered line through the waist-high stalks of yellowed weeds and thick undergrowth, swatting at the insects humming around our sweaty faces in the late spring morning, all of us looking for a body. Some sign of violence. The pair of uniformed city cops assigned to our group strolled up and down the line, calling Tyler’s name through their bullhorns.
Randy strode confidently, an imposing figure in the hazy sunshine; at six-four he was the tallest of the men walking the line. He was in great physical shape, his wide shoulders and large chest filling out the Lands’ End shirt I’d bought him for his last birthday. I sometimes still caught myself wondering how I’d managed to land him; he had sharp brown eyes and close-cropped black hair, olive skin and an expressive mouth; he was an archetype of what most women would classify as exceptionally attractive in a catalogue model sort of way. I’d catch them—alone or in pairs, older women and teenaged girls alike—at the mall or in a restaurant, following him with their eyes as we passed, and then I would become painfully self-conscious. I was shapely enough, at least I imagined so, but petite, and even our friends often commented on our appearance as a couple, Randy’s robust physicality and my somewhat more delicate presence. If they were tactful, they’d
say we complemented each other nicely; if not, they said we looked funny together.
say we complemented each other nicely; if not, they said we looked funny together.
We were somewhat acquainted with the people flanking us on the line that afternoon, by which I mean that we’d met them once or twice before and at least knew their names. Roger Adler and his wife, Georgia, were members of our church. He’d taught math at the local high school for twenty years. She was a retired accountant. Their children were grown, and they seemed like the sort of active, content people everyone dreams of becoming when they retire. Randy had commented in the past that they’d each probably had cosmetic surgery, but I couldn’t tell. They both just looked “great for their age” in that generic sort of way you associate with older couples in magazine ads promoting vitamins and organic foods. Roger walked beside me at first, Georgia on the other side of him. He used a short stick he’d picked up off the ground to swat at the bugs. Often he paused and peered intently at the aluminum cans or snack wrappers that were tangled in the high grass. Georgia wore short pants and her thick white thighs were soon laced with bramble scratches. She pretended not to notice, but I could hear her cussing under her breath. After a few minutes she switched places with her husband so she could talk to me.
On the other side of us, keeping pace with Randy, was Dalton Forte, a corporate lawyer who worked out of a company headquarters that shared space in the same office block as Randy’s employer. Forte was one of those forty-somethings whose year-round tan and spiky hair would’ve
been more at home on a teenager in some reality TV show: creepy or pathetic, depending on your disposition. He and Randy played racquetball at lunch sometimes, and today they soon fell into a comradely banter that was completely out of place, given the circumstances.
been more at home on a teenager in some reality TV show: creepy or pathetic, depending on your disposition. He and Randy played racquetball at lunch sometimes, and today they soon fell into a comradely banter that was completely out of place, given the circumstances.
Georgia felt compelled to make the obligatory comment about how monstrous it all was, this tragedy that had befallen the Renault family. I’d been hearing the same clichés from everyone I talked to during the past few days:
it’s so sad, so pointless, the work of a real sicko, they need to kill whoever did it on sight, skip the trial, save the state some money, it’s a reflection of how modern life has become devalued
… on and on. As if anyone thought it
wasn’t
a monstrous thing. But I’d spouted the same lines, of course, simply wanting to be on record registering my repugnance. Todd Cline, a policeman who lived down the street from us, had been one of the responding officers the morning Trudi and Dominique Renault’s bodies were discovered (by the estranged husband, no less) and Todd had dropped some salacious and unsettling hints that went beyond what was in the newspaper. He said that certain things had been done to the bodies, things he wasn’t at liberty to discuss, but it had been worse than anything he’d personally come across in eight years on the force. Certain things about their eyes.
it’s so sad, so pointless, the work of a real sicko, they need to kill whoever did it on sight, skip the trial, save the state some money, it’s a reflection of how modern life has become devalued
… on and on. As if anyone thought it
wasn’t
a monstrous thing. But I’d spouted the same lines, of course, simply wanting to be on record registering my repugnance. Todd Cline, a policeman who lived down the street from us, had been one of the responding officers the morning Trudi and Dominique Renault’s bodies were discovered (by the estranged husband, no less) and Todd had dropped some salacious and unsettling hints that went beyond what was in the newspaper. He said that certain things had been done to the bodies, things he wasn’t at liberty to discuss, but it had been worse than anything he’d personally come across in eight years on the force. Certain things about their eyes.
Dominique Renault had been ten years old.
“I can’t believe someone would do that, not even the husband,” Georgia said, wiping the sweat from her neck with her shirt collar. “You never hear about something like that happening someplace like this.”
An exasperated, theatrical sigh sounded from my right, and I cringed inwardly. Before I could slap him quiet, Randy piped up: “Actually, ‘things like that’ most often happen in places like this, if by ‘someplace like this’ you mean our comfortable-middle-class-idyll-convenient-to-the-highway-and-only-twenty-minutes-from-downtown. Three out of five homicides last year occurred in planned communities like ours, or in regular neighborhoods outside of the inner city. Of course, no one really lives in the inner city anymore, so ‘someplace like this’ is kind of a broad term nowadays, Georgia.”
“I’m glad you were here to sort that out for us, professor,” quipped Forte. “Your insights on exurban planning and crime rates are invaluable. Been listening to NPR again, I see.”
Randy favored him with a “screw you” smile and pointed ahead of our skirmish line. Fifty yards farther on, the meadow terminated in a wall of trees. Up until a few years ago, it had most likely been a fairly dense stretch of forest. Now you could see gaps showing through to the other side, the bulldozed and unearthed hillsides where a new housing development would rise up next fall. “I’m just pointing out that most of America now consists of places like this, and the crime rate has largely remained the same since the early eighties. Except for crack, of course, and I think we can all agree that the Renaults weren’t killed as part of a drug deal gone awry. What you have here is either a classic domestic situation, or you have a troubled individual out there that did the deed. And who’s still at large, I might add. In which
case, the fact that the boy was taken instead of being killed at the scene might be an indication that he’s still alive. Probably not around this particular meadow, I’ll grant you, but there’s always a chance.”
case, the fact that the boy was taken instead of being killed at the scene might be an indication that he’s still alive. Probably not around this particular meadow, I’ll grant you, but there’s always a chance.”
I watched my fair share of true crime stories on TV, just like my husband did. Hell,
Primetime
ran three such investigative procedurals every week, detailing everything from the discovery of the crime through the verdict. I assumed that’s where Randy was getting the information to make these broad assertions. I know he’d never listened to NPR a day in his life. When we were first dating, I thought it was charming how he’d hold forth on practically any subject as if he’d read extensively on it. So many guys his age only talked about sports or money, it was kind of refreshing. Over time, I realized that he was grossly mistaken in many of his “informed” opinions, either quoting things he’d heard in passing completely out of context, or fabricating evidence for what were his own already presumed conclusions. Still, he could make it sound pretty good, and I learned the hard way how much he hated to be challenged, reverting quickly to sullen pouting or outright denial, so I usually just let it go. It wasn’t any big deal, when it was just me he was spouting off to. But around other people, it could be particularly trying.
Primetime
ran three such investigative procedurals every week, detailing everything from the discovery of the crime through the verdict. I assumed that’s where Randy was getting the information to make these broad assertions. I know he’d never listened to NPR a day in his life. When we were first dating, I thought it was charming how he’d hold forth on practically any subject as if he’d read extensively on it. So many guys his age only talked about sports or money, it was kind of refreshing. Over time, I realized that he was grossly mistaken in many of his “informed” opinions, either quoting things he’d heard in passing completely out of context, or fabricating evidence for what were his own already presumed conclusions. Still, he could make it sound pretty good, and I learned the hard way how much he hated to be challenged, reverting quickly to sullen pouting or outright denial, so I usually just let it go. It wasn’t any big deal, when it was just me he was spouting off to. But around other people, it could be particularly trying.
This time I couldn’t help myself. “I thought if someone was abducted, their chances of being recovered alive decreased with every day they weren’t found.” I said it quietly, making sure that no one outside our immediate vicinity would overhear.
“True enough,” Randy allowed, cutting his eyes at me. “But if we’re dealing with a psychotic type of person, someone who’s out of control, ‘in the throes,’ so to speak, why not kill them at the scene? I mean, they’re obviously not thinking clearly, but how then could they restrain their bloodlust and keep one of the victims alive? And why take the chance of moving them, of traveling?”
Georgia, her distaste for mutilation crimes duly noted, didn’t like where her line of commentary had led. She shivered a bit and reiterated, “Well, it’s just awful.”
But now Forte’s interest was piqued. “You said it yourself. Psychos who’ve reached the level of instability required to even commit such an act,” he said, waggling his hand back and forth beside his head and smiling at Randy, “might not be making their decisions dispassionately. Reason has been abandoned. They might simply have been driven—by the voices in their heads or the little green men or whatever sick shit is motivating them—to take the kid along. Then again, maybe they’re thinking more clearly than we’d like to admit, and think they can use Tyler as a bargaining chip if the cops hunt them down.”
“Or they might just have not been quite done with him,” Randy added, softly. He quickly continued, and I could tell he was really getting ramped up, ready to let loose. My unhappiness with this pattern was something I often decided not to think about, but while it was actually happening it was like a vise clenching around my stomach. I started to say something, anything, to switch the subject, but Randy overrode me with volume alone.
“If it was the husband, you might be right about his using the kid as a wedge with the authorities,” he told Forte in a lecturing tone, suitable I supposed for arguing a point with a corporate lawyer. “But they’ve already talked to the guy several times, and I haven’t read or heard anything along those lines. And it’s not such a good idea, statistically, since hostage situations most often end up with both the hostage and the hostage-taker dead. Now, if this was indeed a crime driven by some sort of sudden emotional overload on the part of the husband, where he simply lost it, then in that case all bets are off. You can’t predict the behavior of someone who’s operating in a fog of hysteria. But let’s go ahead and say it, the thing no one really wants to acknowledge, which is that a serial killer has struck, here in our own safe place. Profilers say that these criminals are often operating in ways that are not nearly as random or uncontrolled as those of people who commit crimes of passion. The crimes are planned in advance, down to the tiniest details and the most absurd contingencies, all based on some fantasy going on in the guy’s mind. In the service of that fantasy, they become cold, analytical.” He flashed that toothy smile at his racquetball partner. “Lawyerlike.”
Forte was watching him sidelong, with embarrassment or an errant appreciation, I couldn’t tell which. He said, “Thank you, Dr. Lecter,” and then stepped on a mid-sized branch hidden in the tall grass. It flipped up and nearly skewered him in the face. He batted it away angrily and I applauded to myself.
“We watch too much A&E,” I explained to Georgia,
who was appraising us all with hooded eyes. She’d obviously decided that my husband’s views on the subject were something she’d rather not indulge, so she started asking me about our plans as far as children were concerned. I mouthed rote words about how we wanted to get settled first, and we both had careers we were quite enthusiastic about, and so on. My husband took the time to spare me an annoyed look before he went back to rambling at Forte.
who was appraising us all with hooded eyes. She’d obviously decided that my husband’s views on the subject were something she’d rather not indulge, so she started asking me about our plans as far as children were concerned. I mouthed rote words about how we wanted to get settled first, and we both had careers we were quite enthusiastic about, and so on. My husband took the time to spare me an annoyed look before he went back to rambling at Forte.
“Serial killers typically operate within a certain area around their home base, maybe into neighboring states but rarely farther than that. Part of the whole kick, whatever rush it is that rewards him, could be the terrorizing of the local population.” He paused and stared up into the balmy blue sky. “All the rumors going around, the media attention, our little traipse through the field, even this conversation we’re having, all this could serve his needs. The mere possibility that someone you see on the street could be that person, it brings an air of the surreal to our everyday lives and, like it or not, makes us that much more aware of our own mortality. We’ve all thought about that in the last few days, I’ll bet.”
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