Authors: Bill Floyd
The Killer's Wife (22 page)
1.
R
andall Roberts Mosley’s execution was scheduled for March 10 at six o’clock in the morning. It was still twilight when I arrived at the penitentiary, passing by a small cluster of death penalty opponents who hefted placards and candles as they marched outside the gates. I knew from the news coverage that some of Randy’s victims’ families were among the protesters; I admired their sense of forgiveness and idealism, but I could never stand with them. Not for Randy.
andall Roberts Mosley’s execution was scheduled for March 10 at six o’clock in the morning. It was still twilight when I arrived at the penitentiary, passing by a small cluster of death penalty opponents who hefted placards and candles as they marched outside the gates. I knew from the news coverage that some of Randy’s victims’ families were among the protesters; I admired their sense of forgiveness and idealism, but I could never stand with them. Not for Randy.
I sat in the observation room with eleven other people,
mostly relatives of the victims, and a couple of witnesses from the press. None of Randy’s lawyers showed up. The warden came in and introduced himself and briefly summarized what we were about to see, and the rules of behavior. Warden Jenkins was a small man in his sixties, informally dressed in a collarless shirt and khaki jacket. He advised us to try to contain any overt displays of emotion, although he understood how difficult that might be. He said that, under normal circumstances, the prisoner would be given a chance to say some last words, but that Mr. Mosley wasn’t handling the situation very well and wouldn’t be making any statements.
mostly relatives of the victims, and a couple of witnesses from the press. None of Randy’s lawyers showed up. The warden came in and introduced himself and briefly summarized what we were about to see, and the rules of behavior. Warden Jenkins was a small man in his sixties, informally dressed in a collarless shirt and khaki jacket. He advised us to try to contain any overt displays of emotion, although he understood how difficult that might be. He said that, under normal circumstances, the prisoner would be given a chance to say some last words, but that Mr. Mosley wasn’t handling the situation very well and wouldn’t be making any statements.
Randy had tried to get in touch with me several times during the past year, since the ordeal with Carson Beckman. I’d ignored his requests. I was glad he wouldn’t have the chance to speak today. I felt like I’d given him ample chance to say anything he had to say. Two years of dating, four years of marriage, and then another seven when I’d suffered alone; I don’t think I’d have ever again listened to so much as a single word that came from his mouth.
We watched as he was brought into the room at five minutes before six, fully restrained, with two guards holding his legs and another couple holding his arms. I was momentarily taken aback by how fat he’d become, an extra hundred pounds at least since the day he left the key for me. He was bald, too, and it made him look even more pathetic. It didn’t help his fearsome image that he was twisting and fighting every inch of the way. Several of the people in the observation
room shifted uncomfortably, and I understood; movies had trained us for a solemn occasion, informed by quiet gravitas from the condemned and honorable satisfaction from the maligned. But Randy, as ever, seemed determined to spoil it for everyone. He screamed through his rubber mouthpiece and pushed at the guards as they strapped him onto the table. Canvas straps secured his arms and legs, and I couldn’t help but think of Hayden and Carson Beckman.
room shifted uncomfortably, and I understood; movies had trained us for a solemn occasion, informed by quiet gravitas from the condemned and honorable satisfaction from the maligned. But Randy, as ever, seemed determined to spoil it for everyone. He screamed through his rubber mouthpiece and pushed at the guards as they strapped him onto the table. Canvas straps secured his arms and legs, and I couldn’t help but think of Hayden and Carson Beckman.
I’d left Hayden back east with the McPhersons, who’d started speaking to me again once I became a celebrity of the acceptable sort. And imagine, all it took was my getting shot.
Seated on my right side was Dennis Hughes, the younger brother of Keith. Keith and Leslie Hughes had been murdered less than a year before I found out I was pregnant with Hayden. On my left were Paul and Katherine Zimmerman—their daughter Jane was killed shortly after Randy and I were first married, while he was on a business trip to Minneapolis.
Dennis held my right hand, tightly. Katherine Zimmerman held my left.
The majority of the impacted families had declined their invitations. Despite the many who’d gone on the news to express their opposition to the sentence, most were satisfied with it, but felt no compulsion to see it carried out in person. Charles Pritchett was in the observation room, seated behind me and to the right. I saw no reason to speak to him, and he finally afforded me the same respect.
The surgeons had dug over forty pellets out of my side. The force of the impact broke two ribs, and I wouldn’t ever be sleeping on that side again. I lost part of my liver, and was later told that I’d been within minutes of bleeding to death when the paramedics had arrived at Abraham Locke’s house. The liver is a regenerative organ, I was pleased to discover, and grew back. I spent two weeks in the hospital and countless hours being interviewed by Detective Matthews and other policemen, all of whom were uniformly displeased with me. None, however, was as angry as Duane Rowe, who hadn’t spoken more than a few words to me in the entire time since, despite the fact that his wife and I had kept in touch. He was initially so furious with Carolyn that he might’ve divorced her, if he hadn’t been so happy to have her alive. Her wounds weren’t as serious as mine, but she’d undergone multiple skin grafts, and spent several months recuperating.
I had rejected the book and movie offers, but given the Rowes my blessing to accept the same. From what I read in the papers, they’d sold the rights for a healthy six figures. Lane Dockery’s sister was writing a book of her own.
When Randy was finally strapped down, all the fight seemed to go out of him at once. The medics tipped the table where he was splayed, and it canted upward slightly so that he was able to look at us. The glass separating the observers’ gallery from the injection room wasn’t mirrored, and the warden had told us he would be able to see us clearly. He granted his final regard to each of the witnesses in turn,
his face pinched and twisted. I heard Pritchett cursing him one last time. Then Randy’s eyes settled on me. He tried for a menacing grin, but with the rubber guard jammed between his teeth he just looked ill.
his face pinched and twisted. I heard Pritchett cursing him one last time. Then Randy’s eyes settled on me. He tried for a menacing grin, but with the rubber guard jammed between his teeth he just looked ill.
I smiled for him, though. As the medic hooked up the IV and pushed the plunger on the first syringe, the one with the drugs that would sedate him, I kept looking right into his eyes. I wanted my face to be the last thing he ever saw.
The terror and sorrow he experienced at the end were clear in his expression, until the drugs hit his nervous system and his features went slack. Then the medic fed the other drugs into the IV line, the ones that would paralyze him and finally stop his heart. A few minutes crept by before his chest quit rising and falling. A minute or so after that, a doctor pronounced him dead.
2.
T
wo months later, I sat in Pullen Park with Jeanine Dockery, watching the children play in the mild midmorning sunshine. Jeanine had flown in that morning and was leaving the next day to meet with her publishers in New York. The hard glare reminded me of how I’d first met Duane and Carolyn Rowe in this very same park last winter. Too much had happened since that meeting, and I didn’t see Duane anymore, and Carolyn only rarely. The press surrounding the Carson Beckman affair had made it difficult
for them to continue with any anonymity in their chosen profession, so they’d shifted their duties from fieldwork to managing a small workforce of other private investigators, consisting mostly of former police officers that knew Duane personally. Carolyn had told me Detective Matthews had retired from the Cary police force to take a job with their firm.
wo months later, I sat in Pullen Park with Jeanine Dockery, watching the children play in the mild midmorning sunshine. Jeanine had flown in that morning and was leaving the next day to meet with her publishers in New York. The hard glare reminded me of how I’d first met Duane and Carolyn Rowe in this very same park last winter. Too much had happened since that meeting, and I didn’t see Duane anymore, and Carolyn only rarely. The press surrounding the Carson Beckman affair had made it difficult
for them to continue with any anonymity in their chosen profession, so they’d shifted their duties from fieldwork to managing a small workforce of other private investigators, consisting mostly of former police officers that knew Duane personally. Carolyn had told me Detective Matthews had retired from the Cary police force to take a job with their firm.
“They do good work,” Jeanine said when I updated her. “And they were helpful in writing the book.” Jeanine looked better than I’d imagined when I only knew her as a voice on the phone. A slender, soft-featured woman of fifty-eight with hazel eyes and auburn hair, she was slightly stooped from an early onset of osteoporosis. The wrinkles that bunched her face when she smiled were an attractive feature rather than a distracting one. But her voice was still that gravely, throaty rumble, and I enjoyed listening to her as she told me about the publication schedule for her nonfiction book. She kept referring to it as “Lane’s book,” but I knew from Carolyn that Jeanine had done almost every bit of the work.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t more helpful with that,” I admitted. “I needed to forget about as much as I could.”
She waved a hand dismissively and took a bite of her ice cream cone, careful not to drip it on her pink pantsuit. She looked over toward the swing set. “Thank you for letting me come and visit with Hayden,” she said. “I needed to see the life that was spared. I needed to know Lane’s death helped save someone in some way.”
In one of Carson Beckman’s final letters from Randy, there’d been mention of “the final disposition of the writer’s
property.” Randy said the view sounded spectacular, but that Carson probably should have “made it farther from your own property line.” After Carson’s death, Jeanine and a swarm of Illinois state police had combed over the city blocks surrounding the apartment Carson had rented before being evicted. They found nothing. They tackled the suburban grid where his aunt and uncle lived. Three miles from their home was a proposed development that had been abandoned when a group of environmentalists successfully sued to keep the builders from fouling a lakeshore bird sanctuary. Some of the land had already been bulldozed and foundations dug. In one of the empty cellars, among the pipe shafts and fallen tree limbs, the body of Lane Dockery was found underneath a pile of construction debris. Dockery’s throat had been cut, his eyes removed, rolled up scrolls consisting of pages from one of his true-crime books placed into the sockets. I’d read the news with sorrow and regret. I remembered the vindictive part of myself wishing ill to Dockery, when all along he’d only wanted to tell what he saw as a fascinating story.
property.” Randy said the view sounded spectacular, but that Carson probably should have “made it farther from your own property line.” After Carson’s death, Jeanine and a swarm of Illinois state police had combed over the city blocks surrounding the apartment Carson had rented before being evicted. They found nothing. They tackled the suburban grid where his aunt and uncle lived. Three miles from their home was a proposed development that had been abandoned when a group of environmentalists successfully sued to keep the builders from fouling a lakeshore bird sanctuary. Some of the land had already been bulldozed and foundations dug. In one of the empty cellars, among the pipe shafts and fallen tree limbs, the body of Lane Dockery was found underneath a pile of construction debris. Dockery’s throat had been cut, his eyes removed, rolled up scrolls consisting of pages from one of his true-crime books placed into the sockets. I’d read the news with sorrow and regret. I remembered the vindictive part of myself wishing ill to Dockery, when all along he’d only wanted to tell what he saw as a fascinating story.
Apparently, the reading public agreed. Jeanine’s version of the Randy Mosley/Carson Beckman case wouldn’t even be released for another two weeks, but it was already a bestseller on Amazon and some other prerelease retailers. She informed me of this without great pride, but as a sort of warning that the publicity might be rough on me for a bit longer. Despite what I’d said to her about needing to forget, I was long past the point where forgetting was an option. I couldn’t outrun it, and both of us knew it.
“He does seem to be doing quite well, given what he went through,” Jeanine said, still looking over at Hayden.
“It wasn’t this way at first,” I assured her. “He wasn’t really hurt, but they had to keep him in the hospital for a few days until the shock wore off. He’s had nightmares, and we’ve both been in counseling.” I didn’t know if the sessions with the shrink the hospital had recommended were doing me any good, but they seemed to help Hayden. He was back in school, making up the classes he’d missed while I kept him home during the rest of the winter after his abduction. Right now, he and Caleb McPherson and some other boys were taking turns pushing each other far too high on the swings. I called over for them to be careful, and Hayden shouted back, “Sure, Mom!” and promptly ignored my admonition, swinging higher than before. It looked dangerous to me and I rubbed my hands together nervously.
Jeanine Dockery reached over and laid her cool hands across mine. They were steady, calm, reassuring. “It’s a good sign he’s not scared,” she said.
I wanted to believe that. I wanted to embrace the power of simple bravery in the face of a world where there was so much to be scared of. But I’d ignored the core truth that sometimes fear was telling you something you needed to know, and it had cost me, had been costing me for years and years. I told Jeanine, “I’m trying to find the line between a healthy wariness and paranoia. It’s kind of tough going.”
“No shit,” she answered brusquely, and we both laughed a little. “Most people walk through their lives oblivious, and for most people that works out fine. Hayden and you both know more about the real dangers of the world than anyone should have to. But danger isn’t everything. Look around you. Think about the fact that you’re here and alive and you’ve recovered from your physical wounds. All of those things are blessings. Your boy is a blessing. Now it’s up to you to make something good out of what’s been granted to you. Scars and all.”
These were the kindest words anyone had said to me since the whole thing started, and I teared up despite my best efforts. Jeanine, who I was starting to recognize as a true class act, fished a tissue out of her purse and politely excused herself while I wiped at my eyes. She walked over to the swing set and told Caleb to sit in the swing next to Hayden, and then she took turns pushing them both. I thought it was a fine thing that she’d finished her brother’s work.
My cell phone started ringing and I took it out of the front pocket of my shorts. The caller ID showed that it was someone from Data Managers calling, even though I’d taken the day off from my job. I knew what that meant. Jim Pendergast, my boss, had pushed his formerly lukewarm romantic overtures into a new phase during the time since I’d returned to work. We’d even been out to lunch a few times, and he was angling hard for a dinner date. I kept brushing him off, telling him it was too hard to find a sitter
for Hayden, but in truth I hadn’t been prepared to leave my son alone. Now, watching him push his legs back and forth in the swing, arcing up across the sun like he might take flight and not care about ever looking down, I decided it was time to answer my phone.
for Hayden, but in truth I hadn’t been prepared to leave my son alone. Now, watching him push his legs back and forth in the swing, arcing up across the sun like he might take flight and not care about ever looking down, I decided it was time to answer my phone.
THE KILLER’S
wife
wife
“Fresh plotting, high suspense, and great pacing combine to make
The Killer’s Wife
a book you can’t put down.”
The Killer’s Wife
a book you can’t put down.”
—Iris Johansen, bestselling author of
Stalemate
Stalemate
“Bill Floyd delivers a nuanced, sympathetic protagonist in the form of a killer’s unsuspecting spouse. Six years after her husband’s arrest, people still wonder: How much did she know? When did she know it? And most important, how could she have missed it? Vividly imagined and sharply drawn, Floyd’s debut presents a fresh take on an archetypal story. A welcome voice in a crowded genre.”
—John Hart, bestselling author of
The King of Lies
and
Down River
The King of Lies
and
Down River
“Riveting and original,
The Killer’s Wife
will force you to question how well you really know your friends and family. This stunning debut will keep you turning pages until the shocking conclusion.”
The Killer’s Wife
will force you to question how well you really know your friends and family. This stunning debut will keep you turning pages until the shocking conclusion.”
—Allison Brennan,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Fear No Evil
New York Times
bestselling author of
Fear No Evil
“Not since Dennis Lehane’s
A Drink Before the War
have I read a debut novel with such mesmerizing power … . It’s a story that seizes you from the first page and draws you into the ordinary worlds of richly drawn characters, both sympathetic ones and extraordinarily creepy ones … . Grab this one and hang on for one hell of a scary ride.”
A Drink Before the War
have I read a debut novel with such mesmerizing power … . It’s a story that seizes you from the first page and draws you into the ordinary worlds of richly drawn characters, both sympathetic ones and extraordinarily creepy ones … . Grab this one and hang on for one hell of a scary ride.”
—James W. Hall, author of
Hell’s Bay
Hell’s Bay
“Fighting to forget that she slept in innocence beside a brutal serial killer, Leigh Wren is horrified when her ex-husband reaches out from death row to trap her and her treasured young son. You don’t want to read
The Killer’s Wife
by Bill Floyd. But this compelling debut novel gives you no choice.”
The Killer’s Wife
by Bill Floyd. But this compelling debut novel gives you no choice.”
—Jacquelyn Mitchard, author of
The
Deep End of the Ocean
and
Still Summer
The
Deep End of the Ocean
and
Still Summer
“
The Killer’s Wife
hooked me from chapter one and kept me in suspense until the very end. A compelling, skillfully executed read.”
The Killer’s Wife
hooked me from chapter one and kept me in suspense until the very end. A compelling, skillfully executed read.”
—Mary Jane Clark,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Lights Out Tonight
New York Times
bestselling author of
Lights Out Tonight
“An irresistible look into the life and mind of a serial killer. Bill Floyd shows us a man with all the hallmarks of a real-life killer who also feels so familiar he could be your husband, father, or brother. An utterly haunting, unforgettable read.”
—Stephen G. Michaud, author of the bestselling book
about Ted Bundy,
The Only Living Witness
(with Hugh Aynesworth), and
Beyond Cruel
about Ted Bundy,
The Only Living Witness
(with Hugh Aynesworth), and
Beyond Cruel
“Bill Floyd enters the mind of madness with a pen guided by angels.”
—Keith Ablow, M.D., author of
Living the Truth
Living the Truth
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