I felt sick when an unfamiliar male voice answered my home phone. He identified himself as Sheriff Jim Boutwell and told me to come home as fast as I could.
I sprinted to my truck and drove maniacally home, running stop signs, swerving, sweating. My hands were shaking on the steering wheel, and I began to do a sort of involuntary emotional and situational triage—I started to accept that something had happened to Chris. Maybe our house had caught fire, maybe she had been hurt, maybe she had become sick in some way. I focused on Eric. Where was he? Was he okay? Was he hurt? Was it worse?
When I reached our house, I saw what I feared most—our home was surrounded by yellow crime scene tape, and there was a clutch of police cars parked in front. It seemed as though the entire neighborhood had gathered there, forming a line of solemn faces on the sidewalk and standing bunched in small, worried clusters across the street. They were watching me, watching the house, and whispering to each other.
I careened to a stop, jumped out, and was moving briskly across the lawn to the front door when a police officer stepped in front of me and stopped me in my tracks. He told me to stay put, and I was left standing helplessly in the yard, the only person at the scene who didn’t know what was going on.
Sheriff Jim Boutwell, a rail-thin man in a huge white Stetson, swaggered toward me and demanded that I identify myself. When I did, he said nothing more, didn’t explain what was going on, just kept looking at me. I was distraught and could hold back no more. I blurted out, “Is Eric okay?” The sheriff said he was, that he was at a neighbor’s house.
Then I asked about Chris.
He told me simply and flatly, “Chris is dead.”
Chris is dead . . .
I stood there in our yard, weaving slightly, feeling myself completely collapse on the inside. I knew that I was standing, but it felt like I was falling—falling down, falling apart—breaking into pieces under the weight of the sheriff’s words.
It was almost as though I was diving again, but this time I was flailing, in a free fall to the bottom of the deepest lake in the world.
I couldn’t breathe.
I was drowning.
CHAPTER THREE
At the sheriff’s urging, I began to move forward. I slowly crossed the lawn toward our front door, each footstep feeling more unreal than the previous one. I was oddly weak and felt surprised that I could walk at all. My legs seemed to be made of glass, like they could shatter at any moment.
When I stepped inside our doorway, into the house that had been so familiar, the home that we had both been so proud of, it became clear that this place no longer belonged to us. That feeling was underscored by the way the sheriff was treating me—as though I were a distasteful guest he had been forced to invite into his office.
It seemed as though the house had become Sheriff’s Department property. The rooms were teeming with officers, some of them loitering and laughing among themselves, others going through our cabinets, a handful of them smoking. A man in street clothes was covering the walls and doorframes with dirty black powder, apparently dusting for fingerprints. Another officer appeared to be looking closely at our cache of firewood in the backyard; others were going through drawers, closets, cupboards, all of our possessions. I heard a happy voice call out that they had “finally” gotten ice and could now chill drinks. I listened as the big grocery store bags of cubes and crushed ice were dumped into our kitchen sink and officers began shoving bottles and cans of soda into the makeshift cooler.
Down the hall, where our bedroom was, I heard people walking and murmuring, digging through things, occasionally calling each other over to take a look at some kind of discovery. Deep inside the room, I could hear a constant series of shutter clicks, and I saw bright flashes light up the hallway walls, momentarily turning the darkened corridor into a narrow shaft of bright, white daylight. I knew Chris must still be in there, knew they must be surrounding her, taking pictures of her, recording whatever it was that someone had done to her. I very much wanted to go back to our room, to see her, to just be near her. I was also afraid of what I would see. I was picking up cues that she may have been beaten to death.
When I asked, I was told they weren’t sure about the cause of death—that there was a possibility she’d been shot. This uncertainty so early in the case was a harbinger of the police incompetence to come.
Sheriff Boutwell was close to being a caricature of an old-style Texas lawman. He stood well over six feet, wore a couple of gun belts on his slim hips, cowboy boots, and a ten-gallon hat that seemed to sit a little too high on his head. He had on a tie clip that looked like a couple of tiny handcuffs. He spoke to me in a thick, cold drawl—without empathy, without emotion. As we sat in the breakfast nook, where I had wolfed down my morning cereal, Boutwell suddenly began to tersely read me my Miranda rights, something I wasn’t expecting. I told myself this was probably completely called for—they had to start from scratch on this case, right?
Then the sheriff’s lead investigator, Sergeant Don Wood, asked that I sign a consent form for them to search my house and car. That seemed off, since they had clearly been here for some time, going through everything. But I signed the form, still trying to help, still hoping that these officers would find the answer to what had happened to Chris. I remember thinking that if rules had to be bent to solve Chris’s murder, I would be the last one to object.
With Sergeant Wood sitting beside him, Boutwell asked me for details of my day. I choked out everything I could remember—what time I had left that morning, whether anything had been out of the ordinary, what I did at work all day, who could vouch for me being there, what time I usually got home. They were mundane questions that, on this day, took on a dark and desperate importance. What was Chris wearing when I last saw her? Had we spoken before I left? Was Eric awake when I walked out? I answered as completely as I could, eager to do what it took to help the police catch the person who had hurt Chris.
Soon, the sheriff clumsily opened a new line of questioning, asking me whether Chris and I had a happy marriage, whether I loved her, whether there was anyone else in my life, whether there had been violence between us, whether we argued, what our sex life was like. I was totally honest, wanting to share with them everything, every single detail, as transparently as I could. I told them that our marriage, like any marriage, was not all sunshine and puppy dogs, that we had our ups and downs, but that ours was a forever marriage, that we were a good match, that we loved each other very much.
Sheriff Boutwell brought up the note I had written and left in the bathroom. He didn’t want to know too much about it. He just wanted me to admit to him, unequivocally, that I had written it. I groaned, aching at being reminded of what I had done, not knowing yet if Chris had seen it. I told him that I was the author and that I profoundly wished I could take it back.
As the hours of questioning went on, I could see that the sheriff and his sergeant were trying to do some kind of good cop–bad cop routine. Boutwell would speak to me angrily, his questions taking on an accusatory tone. Wood was supposed to be the good cop—acting more sympathetically, accepting my answers, encouraging me to tell them more. He did some of that, but the approach clearly wasn’t working the way they had planned.
The problem was that Sergeant Wood seemed to keep forgetting his role. When the sheriff acted angry at me, Wood would explode at me as well—at least until Boutwell gave him an enraged look. Later, I realized that, even during the attempted role playing, Wood was just incapable of setting aside his sycophancy toward the sheriff, a mind-set that was rampant in the entire Williamson County system.
Boutwell had made headlines for his unique law-and-order style on two occasions, neither one of them displaying particularly good police judgment, but they were the stuff of Texas law enforcement legend.
In August 1966, a former Marine with a brain tumor, a troubled childhood, and a drug problem climbed the tower
at the University of Texas carrying a small arsenal of rifles, pistols, and a sawed-off shotgun. When Charles Whitman reached the top, he began firing at the students below, ultimately killing thirteen people. Boutwell, then a reserve deputy in Williamson County, was at the airport he owned when he heard about the UT attack. He climbed into his own small plane, flew to Austin, and began buzzing the bell tower, firing repeatedly at Whitman in an attempt to distract him so police could take him out, which is ultimately what happened. Whether Boutwell’s spectacular flyby shooting made a difference in stopping Whitman is unclear. But the incident did leave a lasting impression of Boutwell as a cop who would do almost anything to get his man.
Later elected sheriff of Williamson County, Boutwell again made national headlines in 1983, when he finagled detailed confessions out of the proven serial liar and self-proclaimed serial killer Henry Lee Lucas. While in Boutwell’s custody, Lucas confessed to 360 murders, give or take a few. Boutwell was still basking in the glory of the Lucas case when Chris was killed.
Only later would we all learn that the Lucas confessions had been made in exchange for cheeseburgers and milk shakes, cigarettes and jaunts in Sheriff’s Department cars to play at looking for bodies. Lucas may not have killed with the abandon he bragged about, but he did murder the myth of Sheriff Boutwell’s infallibility. Sadly, I was in the penitentiary by the time the truth came out.
I knew none of this as we sat in our breakfast nook, going over the details of my life with Chris. By this time, we had been talking for hours and I was desperate to see Eric. I asked again to go to him. Who knew what he had witnessed? The officers stepped away to speak in private and then came back, saying Sergeant Wood would take me to see my son. They decided we would not go out the front door but would move from backyard to backyard, staying away from the television cameras that had already gathered in front of our home.
I learned later that they wanted me outside at the back of the house so they could remove Chris’s body through the front.
Eric was with the neighbor two houses away and across the street. So I slipped through our back gate into the yard next door, with Sergeant Wood following. We walked to the other side of the yard and faced the next fence. This part of the neighbor’s fence had no gate.
The sergeant hesitated. Vaulting the fence was going to be a challenge for him. He ran his hand along the top, groping for a firm hold. One foot found the fence’s two-by-four cross-member. He seemed unsure about what to do with his other foot.
Wood was out of practice and out of shape. I considered helping him—I wanted to get to Eric as soon as possible—but I didn’t want to embarrass the sergeant or damage his ego. I didn’t know what else to do, so I stood and watched.
After one false start and one hand-scraping failure, Sergeant Wood climbed to the top of the fence. He wobbled for an instant, then hurled himself over and onto the ground, landing hard. It wasn’t pretty, but he made it. When I was able to follow in short order, I could see that our physical differences registered uncomfortably with him. I felt bad. It’s almost laughable how concerned I was about hurting the feelings of one of the men who would do so much to destroy the next twenty-five years of my life.
When I finally got to Eric, the poor little guy was wearing someone else’s diaper and some other kid’s shirt. He was disheveled, and I could see right away that he had been crying—a lot. He must have felt so alone and so scared.
When he saw me, we ran to each other, collapsing against the wall and weeping in each other’s arms. Finally—finally—I had the chance to hold our little boy. I didn’t know what he might have seen. I didn’t know whether he had been threatened. We both cried for a long time—huddled together—holding on tight to all that was left of our family.
CHAPTER FOUR
I was lost in my own neighborhood.
I had no idea where to go, what to do, or who to ask for help. My parents and siblings were on the way, but they lived hours from Austin and wouldn’t be in until morning. Chris’s family hadn’t arrived yet either.
And Chris was gone. Forever.
The police had finished questioning me for the day, and the forensic people were beginning to clear out of our house. It was late afternoon, and I was walking toward home with Eric clinging to me for dear life. When our next-door neighbors asked if we would like to decompress at their place—maybe get Eric a bite to eat—I accepted with relief.
It had been several hours since I learned that Chris had been murdered. I know now that I was in shock. That day, the whole world seemed surreal—familiar, yet foreign. Eric was teary eyed, playing tentatively before me on the floor. I was propped stiffly on the couch, lost in pain and disbelief.
People who lived nearby streamed into the house to tell us how bad they felt about Chris. I vaguely remember the whispered condolences, the tears, the comfort so many people tried to give us. But I very clearly recall the sense of sudden terror everyone living near our darkened home felt—the panic of knowing that someone or something evil had entered our neighborhood, broken into one of our houses, killed a person we all loved—and then slipped away.
Any pretense of personal safety had vanished, replaced by a kind of instinctual, primal fear. I could see it in my neighbors’ eyes, in the skittish way they moved and acted, in how tightly they clutched their children.
When Chris’s father, Jack, pulled up to our house, I felt some relief. Scooping Eric up, we walked through the neighbors’ yard to our home on the corner. Jack was on the sidewalk, headed to the front door.
When something like this happens, family should be a source of healing, a safe place to express your grief and pain, a way to begin the long process of mourning and moving forward. I desperately needed to be with people who loved Chris and understood the enormity of what had happened. I was glad to see Jack, because I knew how much he loved his daughter.
I often think back to Jack’s reaction to me that day and wonder if he had already begun to worry about my being involved in her murder. The police had told me that Jack had been there earlier in the afternoon (he’d been in Austin for business and just happened to stop by), and I wonder now if the sheriff or one of the deputies had said something that made him feel I might be at fault.
All I know is that Jack was brusque and distant with me. We spoke briefly and he hugged Eric, stayed for only a short while, and then left. This wasn’t completely out of character for him, since he wasn’t exactly an easygoing or lovable guy. But his leaving Eric and me alone that night in the house where Chris had been killed was beyond comprehension for me.
In retrospect, maybe I should have taken Eric and left, too. But the shock of the day’s events left me groping for what to do, where to go. I think I decided to stay at our home that night, in great part, because I could still so much feel Chris in the house—still smell her cooking, her perfume, her hair. It was as though, by staying, we could be with her a little longer. There were traces of her everywhere—her clothes in the closet, her makeup on the bathroom counter, her favorite dish towel draped on the refrigerator door.
Eric was withdrawn and quiet, in the way children are when they have been traumatized. He wasn’t crying anymore, but I could tell he knew things were very wrong. His fear and anxiety were palpable.
I tried to keep him on his regular routine and give him some sense of continuity. He had eaten, so we lay down on the floor in his room and played until it was time for bed. I snuggled up beside him and held him close until he fell asleep.
Then I did the achingly difficult thing I knew I had to do. I walked toward our bedroom, turning on every light as I passed. I could see that someone had left a light on beside our bed.
I stood in the doorway, not breathing, and looked inside.
Lit only by the bedside lamp, the room was mostly dark, but I could see that the bed had been stripped. In front of our large dresser, I saw a haphazard pile of clothing and accessories�
��belts, scarves, and shoes that appeared to be all mixed in with shirts and pants belonging to both of us. When I looked more closely, I could see that some of the dresser drawers had been pulled out and were turned upside down or sideways and emptied on the floor.
I flicked on the overhead light and immediately felt sick.
The ceiling was flecked with blood, and the headboard was spattered with more blood and pieces of human tissue. The book Chris had been reading was sitting on its side in the bookshelf directly above where her head had been. The title was partially covered by a spray of dark blood. It was If Tomorrow Comes, a Sidney Sheldon pulp crime novel that Chris considered perfect bedtime reading. It had a story line that wasn’t deep enough to keep her awake.
I moved through the room as though I had never been there before. The amount of blood I saw broke my heart. The sheriff had told me they weren’t sure initially whether Chris had been beaten to death or shot. And to an untrained eye, the scene was confusing. Blood splatter was everywhere—arching up along the walls, splashed onto the carpet all the way across the room, obscuring our faces in a framed family picture that sat inside the headboard bookcase.
It is not enough to say that this was hard for me, not enough to say that standing there and taking in this carnage was heartbreaking. I almost felt as if seeing this, trying to process this terrible scene, was changing me, right down to my bones, altering me in ways that would never—could never—be reversed.
I walked through our bedroom as if exploring an alternate universe. For the most part, I just looked, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Once in a while, I had to touch something, lay my hand on it, just feel it, as if attempting to reinforce the distant fact that an object belonged to us.
Getting Life Page 3