A Serial Killer’s Daughter

by Kerri Rawson

  Jail was taking its toll.

  And I was watching the disgrace and downfall of my hero, who was trying hard to keep it together. I could tell from the strain on his face.

  “I need to write Dad before I fly home.” I was on the phone with Mom after Dad’s hearing.

  “Don’t tell your father about my foot.” Mom had twisted her foot the month before and broken a bone. She was now hobbling around on crutches, wearing a boot.

  What to tell my father and not tell him had become a matter of contention, not just with her but with his brothers too. There was an ever-changing and growing list of what I could and could not tell him. I also had little idea who was writing or visiting him and what they were telling him.

  Word got to Dad anyway about Mom’s injury, and he heard Grandma Dorothea was continuing to decline. My family was collectively trying to protect my grandma, but she wanted to write and visit him herself. She was diminishing, suffering from dementia and possibly Parkinson’s. She was well taken care of by my uncles and their families, but it didn’t seem to matter what Dad was told: he still begged for answers in his letters, worried about all of us.

  When I wrote, I’d try to fill him in as best I could while attempting to dodge anything falling under the new “family privacy” label. I’d often say, “We’re fine. Everyone’s fine,” figuring the more we could alleviate his concerns, the more likely he would be willing to plead guilty. (Survivor’s tip: it’s rather unlikely, two months after your father has been thrown in jail, that much of anything is “fine,” let alone that you are “fine.”)

  April 23

  Dear Dad,

  Hi. I was happy to get your letters and hear how you’re getting along—I worry about you being alone and in such a harsh environment. I’m glad you were able to go outside and can now talk to other inmates and have people to play cards with.

  A part of one [of] your letters you wrote someone, maybe a stranger (fan mail?) is now on a website about the crimes. You might want to be careful who you write to, and who you give poems and drawings to. All that stuff could end up on the Internet or hurt your case in court.

  Mom is planning to stay with Grandma and Granddad for a while. Dudley is staying with friends from church, he is doing well.

  I’m coming to town this week, because our Corsica is struggling and Mom is going to give us the Tempo. I’m going to meet with your psychologist while I’m there. I’ve been in contact with your lawyers the last couple of weeks and Brian plans to help also.

  We were glad you waived your hearing on Tuesday. Even though I am going to be in town, I’m still not ready to visit the jail. I promise I’ll come see you sometime, though.

  You were wondering about Grandma Dorothea. She stayed with family. Then she fell again and had to go to the hospital. She was there for a few days and then asked to be taken to a care home. She’s doing better.

  Brian is doing well; he is keeping busy with classes. Mom is doing okay and trying to adjust to her new life.

  Darian and I are doing fine. I’m back to subbing. It finally warmed up here and the flowers and trees bloomed, but this weekend we are under a winter storm warning if you can believe that.

  We know you are still deciding on your final plea, but the family feels if you are guilty, then you know you’re guilty, so why do you have to look at the evidence? We don’t really understand the legal issues involved but are trying to respect your decision. Things would be much easier on us, media-wise and court-wise, if you were able to plead guilty, but we know that’s ultimately up to you.

  I was wondering if something happened to you as a boy and if you wanted to open up and talk about it? I’m so sorry if something did happen to you. You should know it’s not your fault if something happened when you were little. We’ve been told in cases like these, there is usually something that happened to the person committing the crimes that changed who they were.

  Your psychologists and lawyers cannot tell me anything related to the case or anything you’ve told them. All I know is what you passed on through the pastor, in your letters, and the little the FBI told me on the first weekend. We know there’s evidence but don’t know exactly what that is.

  Emotionally we all feel like it’s still impossible you had anything to do with this—the man we know and love. Intellectually we know there is a whole other side to it and things that support that side. We’re trying to come to an understanding—there could be two different people in you. Someday we would like answers, if you are able to give them or have them yourself.

  Take care of yourself, watch your back, and try not to worry too much about the family. Some of them are having a hard time with things, and that might be why you are not getting as many letters or visits.

  Try to stay strong and healthy. God is with you, he will never leave you nor forsake you. He has loved you even before you were created, he loves you no matter what, and will forgive all your sins if you ask for forgiveness.

  Sending you all my love and prayers,

  Kerri

  Some letters were lost or held at the jail, possibly stolen by others somewhere along the way or misplaced in the early months. Brian wrote Dad, but the letter was returned because my brother kindly added a long-distance calling card and the jail didn’t allow that. In this case, letters between Dad and I crossed in the mail. We sat down on the same day, sixteen hours apart, to write each other.

  April 23

  Dear Kerri,

  Hi, how are you today? Are you and Darian doing okay and keeping busy???

  I heard you maybe going to be in town to see Mom next week. I would love to see you but know that would be hard and maybe too soon yet.

  I can always write you, before the rest of the family. I don’t know why, but you seem to understand me and these letters helps break the ice for other letters to follow.

  A line or two would help me to overcome the sadness from not hearing from loved ones. And Kerri, it may be the mail is not getting through. I receive a lot of mail from others, pen-pals, but few from family. I did receive third letter from Mom and one from Grandma Dorothea.

  Both you and Mom are welcome to visit me but like I said, the media may spot you or it may be too soon. It will be so hard to see any of you. I will be completely broken hearted, sad, but nice to see someone beside non-family.

  By now you have heard the pre-hearing waiver on April 19. Mom was very happy I did the family wish. Arraignment is May 3, my attorney’s want me to plea, Non-Guilty to buy some more time to decide our final plea. Bottom line, if I plea non-guilty, I’m not selling the family out at this time; I need time to make final decision.

  Getting use to my new family, the Pod inmates—Dirty Dozen. Not only do I have respect now, the Pod is getting to be known and inmates are becoming Celebrities! Some Pod deputy won’t guard us, due our rank now. Makes them too nervous. This week, we had a lock down for five inmates. No day room privileges. We took a pledge today all of us would face lockdown if the PD push us to hard. Some of the PD want to bust me so they can claim they lock me down for a day or two. I did 43 days of lock-down, big deal!

  I busy my day with letters, pen pal (Christian and others) family, puzzles, Eagle, TV, games, cards, exercise, laugh, joke and war stories with other inmates. Also, some visitors, one pen pal and Pastor.

  I keep track of those who wrote me and answered, keep me busy. I have received about 98 letters so far. A good portion I have returned. You may start to see some my letter, poem, showing up on Internet, I try not to write anything not already known or will be known, or hurt attorney-client relationship, or the family. But if this media event start to get out of hand, I shut it down quickly, with few pen-pal letters.

  Take care, tell Darian hi, miss you!

  Love,

  Dad

  CHAPTER 32

  At Some Point You Have to Face Your Fears Head-On

  APRIL 2005

  MICHIGAN

  Early on a Sunday morning, Darian drove me an hour nort
h to the Flint airport, in late-season, slowly falling snow. I found solace in the fluffy, white flakes dropping soundlessly, but flying home to Wichita felt like I was headed straight to the beasts with their cameras and microphones ready, mouths open to devour me.

  God is my rock and my salvation, whom shall I fear?

  I had planned to fly in the weekend before, but my father’s two attorneys—kind, considerate public defenders—had suggested I delay my trip due to my dad’s first court appearance. They figured a mass of media would be staking out Mid-Continent Airport awaiting my arrival. They even offered to pick me up and help get me to my family.

  While sitting at my gate in Atlanta, waiting on my connection, I looked around to see if I recognized anyone. On alert. These people were headed to Wichita and would know about my dad.

  On the plane, I scanned faces again while working my way back to my seat.

  I don’t recognize anyone, but maybe they recognized me? If they did, what must they think of me?

  WICHITA

  The airport was quiet when I landed: no media, no cameras, no beasts. I still felt self-conscious as I rolled my carry-on down the narrow concourse.

  At the bottom of the ramp on the other side of TSA, Grandma Eileen and Mom were waiting for me. Mom looked stronger than she had in February. There was color and life in her face, but she was leaning on crutches, wearing a cumbersome orthopedic boot on her left foot.

  I scanned the city as we drove to my grandparents’ place, turning to look out the different car windows as if I were on patrol.

  This place means me harm.

  After exiting I-135, we slowly drove by my old house. It looked lonely with no brown-and-white springer spaniel waiting at the gate. And it didn’t feel like my home anymore. It stung, and with tears I was trying to swallow back, I filed home into the list of things I’d lost.

  I spent the next week around the corner from that house, at my grandparents’ home, a peaceful, quiet place filled with memories. Looking out onto the park behind their house, standing where Grandma had stood for decades doing dishes by hand, it hit me how close Mrs. Hedge’s old house was—and what insanity it was that my dad had murdered our neighbor when I was six.

  I grew up playing in the narrow ditch that ran behind our three houses, coming home covered head to toe with mud. I played ball with my cousins down in the park on holidays, and we used to hit golf balls from my grandparents’ yard over the low-slung chain separating it from the park. In winter, I’d trudge through new snow with my brother as he pulled our orange sled to my grandparents’ tiny sledding hill.

  On one blistering summer day when I was eight, Dad, Brian, and I took our sleek, aerodynamic neon-orange kite down to the park. Later I was goofing around, standing on a rusty red swing set directly behind Mrs. Hedge’s old house. I slipped and fell, knocking myself hard between my legs on the metal pole.

  Dad became edgy, irritated—like it was my fault I’d gotten hurt. In pain, and confused by his reaction, I asked to head back home. A few minutes later, walking along the ditch, Dad was swinging the kite haphazardly and one of the square plastic ends poked me in the eye, causing it to bleed.

  Wincing, I quickly covered my eye with my hand and then winced again when I heard his booming voice: “Watch what you’re doing!” There it was again—his irritation at my pain. Like my mishap had put him out. But something else was there, in his eyes and downcast posture. Shame.

  I went inside and sat on the toilet with the lid down—our first-aid spot, where countless scraped knees had been patched up by Mom. I wanted Mom to stay near, as I always did when Dad was off.

  She checked over my first injury, telling me she had done something similar falling on a bike when she was a girl. Then she drove me to Wesley—to the same emergency room I had been in a year before for my broken arm—to have my eye cared for. I had to wear a patch for a few days.

  It was a lousy day, but my eight-year-old mind made it worse, tying it together as something bad that happened right behind the house where Mrs. Hedge had gone missing the year before. After that, I grew more fearful—not only afraid of that home but leery of the whole park.

  Now I gripped my grandparents’ kitchen counter, closing my eyes, nauseous. A long-forgotten memory, tinged in red static, attempted to sear through me.

  Had Dad been “off” that day because we were playing behind Mrs. Hedge’s house? Why did he get so mad when Mom and I got hurt? He didn’t do that when Brian was injured.

  Dad’s in jail. He can’t harm anyone else now. You’re safe—stand down.

  MONDAY

  My dad and his public defenders asked if I was willing to speak to a psychologist who had been hired by the state as part of my dad’s defense. Brian talked to her on the phone, and I agreed to meet with her while I was in Wichita at Aunt Sharon and Uncle Bob’s home. The psychologist was friendly, and she quickly put me at ease. For the next few hours, sitting at my aunt’s kitchen table, I shared what life was like with Dad growing up: camping, fishing, vacations.

  All normal and fine. Nothing to see here, folks; put the DSM-IV away.

  The psychologist’s pen flew over a yellow legal pad. It helped me to talk openly about him, but it zapped me emotionally. And when she left, I still had no idea why my father needed a defense at all, seeing as he was guilty.

  That evening, I had dinner with Darian’s parents and his brother, Eron. It was my first time seeing Darian’s family since the arrest, and I prattled on about everything that had happened over the past few months, talking myself hoarse. Dave and Dona were worried about me and tried to redirect the conversation for my sake. But I couldn’t seem to stop.

  Trauma.

  That evening, Dave walked me out to my mom’s car. Disheartened and wiped out, I said, “I don’t know what Darian and I will tell our kids someday about my dad, their grandpa.”

  Dave replied, “That’s several years off. Don’t worry; we’ll be old pros by then.”

  I hugged him and drove off with tears stinging my eyes—what he said had given me hope. I would hold on to those words and that hope for many years to come.

  TUESDAY

  Pastor Mike, wearing a black clerical shirt and white collar, visited my grandparents’ house while I was there. Normally a laid-back, jovial man, I noticed a heaviness had come over him.

  Mike was leading his flock through a terrible storm. He visited my father weekly, had taken Dad’s confession, and now attempted to guide him as best he could. His eyes had pain in them I hadn’t seen before, but his voice was as steady and warm as always.

  I asked about the possibility of my dad pursuing an insanity plea.

  Mike pointed out that the state hospital was likely a rougher, worse place to be than the maximum-security prison in nearby El Dorado where Dad would be sent after his trial.

  “Your dad will likely be placed in solitary—for his protection and for the safety of the other prisoners and guards.”

  Solitary. I hadn’t thought of that.

  Alone.

  “I don’t think your father will last a year in a prison.” Mom was looking at me pointedly.

  “You mean ’cause the man loves his house shoes and your great cooking?” I grinned a bit, knowing those things were gone out of my dad’s life forever. Mom smiled back.

  “What does he call those things, Mom?”

  “Creature comforts.”

  “Yeah.”

  We both were trying to contain our smirks; I was tucking my lower lip under my upper. Granddad scanned my face, his eyes twinkling, and I gave up, letting out a laugh, which he returned. It felt good to be home.

  Mike turned to Mom. “He’ll be fine,” he said, pointing out how Dad would likely find “emotional comfort” in confinement. Dad would be contained, protected from himself. He could never harm another. Nor would he have to pretend—hide behind his facade. Everyone now knew who and what he was. Dad might find some sort of relief in that.

  “Dad might even enjoy prison
. He won’t have to deal with the stress of work, home projects, his to-do list.” My sarcasm was evident. “He’s gonna like that he doesn’t have to deal with very many people—no more having to try to tolerate and work nicely with others.”

  “I agree.” Mike spoke directly to me. “Your father is gritty and capable. He’s excellent at dissociation. Got decades of time-honed skills. He’s a survivor.”

  Survivor.

  Dad was a survivor of a tough, tough sort. Tough physically, mentally, psychopathically. He would do fine in prison.

  “Dad lied to us.” I was looking at Mike again, searching his face for answers I so desperately longed for.

  “He’s not just a pathological liar; he outright betrayed all of you.”

  Betrayal.

  Not just us, his family, but the whole city too: his friends, those who worked with him, the Boy Scouts, his community, his church. For decades.

  I winced at the word betrayal, even though I’d come upon it myself a month ago. My brain shorted for a few seconds and my jaw went tight. I had to turn away from Mike and find something else to focus on for a moment.

  Betrayal.

  It was such a harsh word to hear out loud in regard to my father. But it was the truth. And the truth hurt like a real son of a gun.

  CHAPTER 33

  Most Folks Are Good and Intend You No Harm

  APRIL 2005

  Mom and her family had been busy working on our old home, preparing it for sale. I knew I needed to grab what I wanted before it was too late, but knowing I had to face the house made my chest seize.

  On the drive down the block, I gripped the car door handle, searching the blue sky for a moment of peace. Grandma was with us and Aunt Sharon was meeting us, too, which alleviated some of my fear.