Let the Guilty Pay

by Rick Treon

  “I don’t think I’m going to say anything before they inject me. They’re going to ask me if I want to say any last words, and I’m just going to shake my head, then drift off. I’ve said everything I need to say in this letter. Thank you for reading, and for coming to visit. It has meant the world to me.”

  Before confessing to beating Summer Foster to death, Heller answered a few other questions that had surrounded the case.

  Authorities have claimed Heller believed Foster—the woman with whom he lived for the greater part of two years before the murder—was having an affair. They pointed to that as his motive for killing Foster, but they were never able to prove it.

  But in his letter, the only copy of which was sent exclusively to the Ledger, Heller confirms the long-held theory.

  “One of my biggest regrets in life, other than the obvious one, is blowing up at Summer after she told me about sleeping with that neighbor boy. She told me in the middle of her party, and that’s why I left to go drink. If I’d stayed there and talked it out with her, I probably wouldn’t have gotten arrested.”

  I wondered who this neighbor boy was. Someone I went to school with? What counts as a neighbor? What’s a boy to someone as old as Heller? My sister might not have been the only high schooler she’d slept with before I killed her. The notion that I did the world a favor by ridding it of a serial predator passed through my thoughts.

  No. Few people deserve what I did to Summer.

  The other central figure in the investigation and trial of Butch Heller is Bartholomew John Beck, Foster’s former neighbor who witnessed the murder as a 16-year-old. He recounted the slaying to the police that night and was District Attorney Martin Gamble’s key witness during the trial. Beck later wrote a true crime book about the case. Writing as John Beck, Cold Summer: The true story of a murder that rocked the Texas Hill Country debuted at No. 47 on the New York Times bestseller list for hardcover nonfiction and remained near that spot for two weeks. It was similarly ranked when the book came out in paperback.

  When he heard the letter read via telephone, Beck first said he was not the “neighbor boy” Heller mentioned. Beck then said he was pleased Heller had found peace with what he did, and he hoped his execution could help bring closure to those affected by the case.

  “Butch Heller changed a lot of lives that day,” Beck said. “Summer Foster was a pillar of the Hinterbach community in the 1990s, and she is still missed by many of the people whose lives she enriched. We can only hope they find some peace when this case comes to its final resolution.”

  Gamble and Heller’s defense attorney, Jackson McGrady of Austin, declined to comment for this story. (Read McGrady’s comments on the 20th anniversary of the murder here)

  One question never answered by Heller—either during police and media interviews in the 20 years since killing Foster, or in the letter sent to the Ledger—is why he left a Phillips head screwdriver sticking out of her eye. Police and other authorities never provided an explanation, except to say that it was a crime of passion.

  It appears the answer to that question will die, along with Heller, at 9 p.m.

  The last two paragraphs were a message to me. Veronica wasn’t going to tell anyone, though I’d gathered that by the fact that she’d digitally printed Heller’s confession and provided photographic evidence. There would be no authorities knocking on my hotel room door. The ghosts of Summer Foster and Butch Heller might finally leave me alone.

  As relief floated from my gut to my head, I clicked the other link: https://www.lonestarledger.org/news/9-13-19/murder-high-plains.htm

  Murder on the High Plains: The son of a U.S. congressman killed a confidential FBI informant. Then he turned his sights on me.

  By Veronica Stein vstein@lonestarledger.org

  BORGER — Paul Schuhmacher stood over me, cold eyes staring through the clear plastic of an industrial face shield, waiting like a surgeon for someone to hand him the instrument of my death.

  I’m not ashamed to admit that I urinated on myself. I’d been working with Schuhmacher, the son of a prominent Texas politician, for about a week. He was “my” welder, and I was “his” helper on an oil pipeline between this small town and Fritch, both of which are north of Amarillo in the Texas Panhandle.

  But during that week, I came to realize the son of U.S. Rep. Grant Schuhmacher, R-Hinterbach, was a violent killer.

  The man about to hand Schuhmacher a grinder, fitted with a blade designed for cutting through steel, was Bartholomew John Beck—the true-crime author whose name is most closely associated with a brutal Central Texas murder in 1999. Beck had told me about the recent slaying of Sylvia Davenport, whose body he discovered stuffed inside a piece of steel pipe near Fritch. I drove north from Austin expecting to get the scoop on a small-town murder.

  I had no idea I would become the killer’s next target.

  Because you are reading this story, you know that Schuhmacher was unsuccessful. What follows is the true story of Davenport’s murder, the search for her killer, and how Beck saved my life.

  The rest of Veronica’s story was broken up into sections, much like her longform anniversary story had been, though there were no intricate graphics or other multimedia elements. I read the rest of the article, which was as accurate as I could expect from someone trying to hide the fact that her savior had gotten away with homicide two decades ago.

  It even included a no-comment comment from Grant Schuhmacher’s office:

  Congressman Schuhmacher was devastated at the news of his son’s death. He will cooperate with the authorities in any way necessary as the investigation unfolds. The congressman requests the public and media respect his privacy as he mourns this tragedy.

  After digesting both articles, I had a few questions for Veronica. I started by leaving her a voicemail, then tried hard not to sound frustrated in the text I sent.

  Hey, read your email. I have some questions and things I want to talk about. Call me when you can, please.

  I put down the phone and wondered how long I would have to wait.

  The answer came less than ten seconds later.

  “Thanks for finally calling back.” I immediately regretted my passive-aggressive greeting.

  “Sorry, but I wanted to make sure you read the stories before we spoke.”

  “That makes sense, I guess.”

  “We obviously have a lot to talk about, but I’ll let you ask your questions first.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said. “How long have you had that letter from Butch? I’m assuming he really did write the letter.”

  I heard her chuckle. “Wow, paranoid much? Yes, he wrote the letter. It was waiting in my mailbox when I got back. It had only been there a day. By the way, you’re not—”

  “No. I’m not the neighbor boy who was sleeping with her, though that would’ve made a better story. And no, I don’t know who he is. I never even heard any rumors.”

  “I didn’t think you were,” Veronica said. “That’s why I made sure to put in your denial.”

  “Thanks for that.”

  “What other questions did you have?” she asked.

  “We both know Heller wasn’t confessing to killing Summer in that letter, though you did a great job framing it that way.”

  Butch, despite taking two innocent lives, seemed to have turned into an honest man since losing Summer. I had to believe he was done lying and manipulating people. I had to believe a man could change—truly reform and redeem himself—after doing something despicable.

  That’s how I knew Heller was confessing to something else.

  “I don’t know why you made it seem like he’d confessed to killing Summer instead of our sisters, though. I thought we’d agreed that you were going to write the truth. What changed your mind?”

  I couldn’t see her, but I knew tears were leaking from the corners of her eyes. “A combination of things. I spent a lot of time hating you, hating the thought of you walking around out there in the world while
Butch couldn’t. But then I got to know you and realized you weren’t the conniving, deceitful monster I’d imagined. You’re a genuinely good person who saved my life and is willing to finally tell the truth.”

  I heard that sniffle of hers and had to hold in my own tears.

  “But even after all of that, I was still going to follow through with the original plan,” she continued. I waited for more, but I only got silence.

  “And then you read the letter,” I said.

  “Yes. There was obviously a lot in that letter that I didn’t write about or show my editors. But the bottom line is that Butch is ready to die. He wants it, and he asked me to let him find peace.”

  We both observed an undeclared moment of silence, even though Heller wouldn’t be dead for nearly twelve more hours. I had no more questions for Veronica, though plenty for myself.

  I’d spent two days coming to grips with the fact I would spend the rest of my life in jail, with intermittent furloughs to appear in court during what was sure to be a nationally televised spectacle. My parents—who were already concerned because I was mostly drifting through life—were going to be mortified.

  Veronica interrupted my navel-gazing. “Now I have some things I need to tell you.”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  “First, I’m going to cover Butch’s execution tonight for the Ledger and the AP.”

  “Oh Jesus. Are you going to be able to do that?”

  She sighed. “Yeah, I think so. Don’t forget, I’ve been lying as long as you have.”

  “True.”

  “The execution is late, which means the AP in Dallas is going to need the story to be filed as soon as it’s done. It needs to be written ahead of time.”

  I smiled and shook my head. She may have gotten in it for dubious reasons, but Veronica was a dedicated reporter. “You called to get a quote from me. A real one this time.”

  “I figured you’d want to since this story will be published in most papers across the country. Except the major Texas dailies, the Times, and the Post. They’re all sending their own reporters.”

  “Can I email or text it to you a little later?”

  “Email it to me in the next hour or so if you can. With traffic and getting into the media viewing area, I’ll have to take off about five hours before the execution.”

  “Not a problem. Anything else?”

  “We’re in a good place, don’t you think?”

  “I do.” I didn’t know if I believed myself, but how else was a person supposed to answer that question?

  “Good. I have an idea. This whole story we’re involved in is crazy when you think about it. Paul killing Sylvia and trying to frame you by staging her body. Her connection to the FBI and trying to sabotage the job. Your journey into, then out of, then back into the national spotlight.”

  I agreed but didn’t say anything. I already knew where this was going.

  “And, as you saw on my computer, I’ve already started a manuscript. I’ll have to get rid of the parts about you killing Summer, but I bet I can keep—”

  I jumped out of my seat. “Wait. You didn’t delete that?” I could feel heat traveling from my chest to my face. “Didn’t you give your computer to the DPS crime lab as part of the investigation?”

  I looked at my door and saw flashes of a SWAT team breaking it down.

  “I deleted it off the computer, then off my cloud account when I got cell service. But I had a copy on a thumb drive at home.”

  My breathing slowed some, but I continued staring at the door. “So, you want me to hook you up with my old agent and publisher, right?”

  “Not exactly. I want you to help me finish it.”

  Veronica continued to surprise me. “That’s an interesting offer,” I said. “Can I think about it?”

  “Of course. I wasn’t trying to pressure you into anything.”

  I sat down and leaned back in my chair. “Okay. Thank you.”

  “Well, that’s what I wanted to talk about. I’ll be looking for an email with your quote for my stories.”

  I ended the call and started to calm down. Then I heard a knock on the door.

  51

  Excerpt from Cold Summer

  No witnesses spoke on behalf of Butch Heller at his sentencing hearing, during which the same jury that found him guilty of murder would decide between the death penalty or life imprisonment. But he and his court-appointed attorney, who had been two years ahead of Summer Foster in high school, listened to a parade of friends and community members describe Summer as the beacon of Hinterbach. Every speaker called for his death.

  When the judge asked if he had anything to say, Heller finally broke his silence.

  “Your honor, members of the jury, I’d like to thank you for taking time out of your lives for me,” Heller said. “I know you didn’t have a choice, but that doesn’t mean your efforts aren’t appreciated, even by me. But I’m going to take up a few more minutes. I need to get this on the record.

  “I am guilty of a lot of things. I’m a drunk. Not always a fall-down, belligerent drunk, but a drunk, nonetheless. I’ve stolen things. I’m a liar. Most of what you’ve heard about me is probably true. Except for one thing: I did not kill Summer Foster.”

  The jury took less than an hour to hand down the death sentence. His attorney stopped advocating for Heller the moment the verdict came in, though he had been contacted by some big-shot Austin lawyer and agreed to help in the transition. Heller’s appeal was filed a month later, and thus began a legal process that continues as of the publication of this book.

  52

  Butch Heller

  July 4, 1999, 8:54 p.m.

  As he navigated the final mile to Summer’s house, Heller was learning how drunk a man can get after losing his alcohol tolerance. He’d done okay during the first few hours, but after Verna talked him into visiting Jeannie’s grave, Heller lost all will power.

  The whiskey started hitting Heller as he passed the small WELCOME TO HINTERBACH sign on Highway 16. He watched the last of the fireworks fizzle in the sky but shifting his eyes to the horizon made him lose focus. He swerved to miss one of the cars parked on the curb and slowed to a crawl.

  He sped up again when he saw Summer’s house, hurrying to give her his confession. It had taken a conversation with pure innocence to make Heller realize that he could still find happiness.

  The car didn’t slow as fast as he wanted. Heller knew he wouldn’t be able to pull in behind the line of cars parked outside her yard. He stomped harder on the brake pedal and pulled off to the left, cursing as he felt the Pontiac lurch over the curb. He kept steering across the sidewalk and put the car in park before its long nose hit the fence.

  He opened the car door and stumbled out. “Summer, are you here? Summer? We need to talk.”

  Heller found his way to the gate and nearly fell as he pushed his way through. He closed his eyes, begging his body to cooperate. She would not take what Heller had to say seriously if he couldn’t stand up straight and deliver his message with conviction and sincerity.

  He rose and took a deep breath, then tried to glide toward the tables that weren’t clean yet.

  “Summer, baby, are you out here?”

  As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Heller could barely see the outline of someone lying near the shed. At first, he thought she fell. He rushed toward her and knelt beside her head. He was about to caress her face and comfort her, but he pulled his hand back when he felt the sticky film on her skin.

  “Jesus.” Heller grabbed her shoulders and began gently shaking her upper body. “Summer, can you hear me?” That’s when he noticed the screwdriver sticking out of her right eye, the end of the handle tapping the grass beside her face.

  Heller slumped over the body. He thought he would start weeping—and he did feel tears pricking at his eyes—but he chose a different reaction.

  “Honey, I know you can’t hear me down here. But maybe you’re already up in heaven and can hear me there
, so I’m going to say this just in case.”

  Heller looked up to the sky. “I love you. I have since the first time we met, and I will keep loving you until the day I find you up there. I shouldn’t have gotten so mad at you earlier. You had every right to cheat on me because I’ve cheated on you.”

  He paused for a moment. As ridiculous as it was, Heller still needed to gather his courage.

  “I counted on the way over here, and I’ve slept with four other women since we started seeing each other. Three of them were one-night stands, all of them after having a few too many. I was also drunk the first time with Candy. And God’s-honest truth, I never thought I’d see her again. She gave it up for free the first time. But when she told me she was a pro, I started paying her. We continued for months. I wasn’t seeing her when she told me about the baby, though. I swear.”

  The tears finally fell from Heller’s eyes and he could no longer speak over the crying. But he had to. Summer deserved to hear the whole confession.

  “I hope you know that I wanted to tell you. I thought about it every day, but I was too weak. Any time you wondered where I was, from about a year ago until the wreck, I was helping Candy through the pregnancy or helping with the baby—” Heller shook his head at his continued cowardice, then drew a deep breath “—with Jeannie after she was born.”

  He reached down and grabbed Summer’s hand—which was not nearly as cold as he expected a dead person to be—and interlocked their fingers.

  “I know we had our talk about the wreck that killed Ruth Ann Beck. But I’m a degenerate liar and still couldn’t tell you everything. I had Jeannie in the car with me that night. I was going to bring her to meet you. I was hoping you’d see her beautiful little face and fall in love with her. I wanted us to be a family. But then the wreck happened, and I was the only one who got to walk away, even though I was the only one who should’ve died.”