The Making of A Serial Killer

CHAPTER 6 THEY CALLED HIM PSYCHO

Blood and Bumper Jack

It’s hardy so very hard to understand

What made this man put a gun in his hand?

Well, I guess I came to the end of my rope,

‘Cause when I lost my love,

I lost my hope,

Now I’m livin’ in a house

of steel and stone.

Thus he watched summer turn to fall, and when the gloom of winter settled in, the prisoner shivered under a thin blanket, blasted by the cold draft from his open window. Except for an hour a day in the yard, the only time he saw a human face was when a guard would shove the food through the slot in the door.

Over the winter months, the prisoner came to know the other convicts by yelling through the food slots. There was Blood, a fierce black man who walked as tough as he talked.

There was Rambo, a young white guy who had OD’d on acid and took two M-16’s he had stolen from an armory, hit the street, and fired on anything that moved. When the cops showed up, it was a war. Two cops were left dead and several were wounded. Rambo wound up with several life sentences.

Then there was Bumper Jack, who got his nickname from the weapon he’d used to bash a man’s brains out. That big black nigger had no morals, no scruples, nothing but hard time bedeviling his mind.

One day on the yard, Blood and Bumper Jack got into it. Blood produced an ice pick and plunged it to the hilt into Bumper Jack’s upper right chest. Then he stabbed him on the top of the head, the left shoulder, and the left hand, before Bumper Jack could scramble away and pick up an empty milk crate to defend himself.

Suddenly, the prisoner stepped in between the two fighting men yelling, “You got him good, Blood!” Blood’s eyes had glazed over with murder, but the prisoner tried to reason with him.

“The guards are coming. Come on, man. Give me the pick before you get into some serious shit.” The two men continued to struggle, but the prisoner kept trying to break it up. “Come on, Blood, don’t do this! You got him good. He ain’t worth killing. Give me the pick, man. Look! The goon squad’s coming!”

Finally Blood’s eyes cleared. He looked around and pitched the weapon up on the roof. When it was all over, Bumper Jack survived, and Blood became the prisoner’s friend.

RAMBO

Now, Rambo was as crazy as a sack full of rattlesnakes. He cared no more about living than he did about dying. He had been locked up in solitary for three years since his battle with the forces of oppression, and he was insanely dangerous. He would yell out from his cell, “You black muthafuckas ain’t worth a shit! You worse than dogshit! Yo mama’s a monkey, yo daddy’s a coon!” On and on he would rave.

The prisoner tried to tell him, “Hey man, you need to cut that shit out. One day them blacks are gonna jump on you, Rambo or no Rambo. You ain’t got no M-16’s in here!” But Rambo wasn’t listening.

One day Sergeant Black got tired of Rambo’s mouth. He was the color of the ace of spades, and he hated whites with a passion. So good ol’ Sarge handcuffed Rambo behind his back, as they always did, and pulled him out of his cell. But this time, he let a couple of the blacks that Rambo had been calling dogshit out with him—except they weren’t cuffed. Rambo was kicked senseless, and after that they never heard a peep out of that bad boy. He just sat in his cell and stared at the walls.

When they took me,

I was so tender and full of life,

But now this prison cuts my heart

Like a sharp and deadly knife.

When the nights cast shadows

It’s a gray picture at best.

You close your eyes but you never seem to rest,

Livin’ in a house of steel and stone.

BLAM!

The prisoner was looking out beyond the bars in his cell window, his thoughts dancing on the horizon, longing for freedom. A flood of emotions erupted through the dam of his troubled heart, and this time there was no turning back. It was the creeping crud again. He had pleaded to be moved to another cell, but kindhearted Sarge was playing games. He’d promise to move him but he never did. Well, by God, today was going to be different! Like Popeye says, “I can’t stands it no more!”

The prisoner grabbed hold of the solid steel desk that crowded his tiny cell and slung it into the iron door. BLAM! It crashed into the immovable iron keeper of his person that was blocking his way to freedom.

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! The heavy metal desk slammed into the door. “You damn well better let me out of here this time!” BLAM! BLAM!

“Cause one way or another…” BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

“…I’m coming up out of this shit!” BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

This went on nonstop for an hour and the iron began bending away from its hinges. Finally, Sergeant Black came running down the stairs screaming over the racket, “What the hell are you doing?”

“This is it…” BLAM! BLAM! “…do or die…” BLAM! “…you bastard!” BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

“You promised me months ago…” BLAM! BLAM! “…you would move me out of this shit-hole!” BLAM! “All you’ve done is laugh at me!” BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! “Now I’m coming out!” BLAM! BLAM! “…one way or another…” BLAM! “…I’m coming up out of this sewer!” BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

“Well, you can just rot in hell for all I care,” said the big ape as he stormed back upstairs. He didn’t want to get his nice polished boots soiled.

Like an animal pushed too far, the crazed man went wild, assaulting the iron door—BLAM!

BLAM! BLAM!—until it jumped away from its frame. “Ahhhh!”

Sarge came running back down the steps, this time with a worried look on his face. “You—you quit that, you hear? Or I’ll charge you with escape!”

“Ha! Ha! Ha-a-a-ah! That’s what I’m in here for, you asshole!” BLAM! “You’re not gonna move me?” BLAM! “I’m busting down this goddamned door!” BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

“OK, OK…pack your shit, you got it.”

And so the next day the prisoner was let out of solitary confinement, only to discover they had kept him in the Happy Hotel from Hell six months longer than they were supposed to. Thanks a lot, Sarge.

Believe I heard a rebel yell

From a man called Cowboy

Singin’ Chaingang livin’

…of your life you’re given

A-many years and a-many tears

Before you see your home again.

Ooooh, I wanna go home.

THEY CALLED HIM PSYCHO

When the prisoner they called Cowboy was taken out of his solitary cell, he was put on the chaingang. The first day out, he was loaded onto a modified trailer that had been cut in half lengthwise. They herded 400 convicts onto it like cattle. Front to back, crammed in like sardines. If someone farted, there was no place to go. You just held your breath. It was freezing cold, and he was not issued a jacket.

In the early morning frost, the trailers drawn by old John Deere tractors rumbled off down dusty, bumpy roads, into the angry red eye of the rising sun.

The turnkey’s eyes said to me,

“Look a-here, son, don’t you run

Or I’ll bring ya down with my gun.”

Chaingang livin’…of your life you’re given

A-many years and a-many tears

Before you see your home again.

When the prisoners reached their destination, they were unloaded and given wooden-handled hoes. Cowboy overheard some of the boys making bets as to whether or not he would last the day long. He pondered this, and decided he would endure, no matter what. And what a trial it proved to be!

They were set to work against a square mile of cane-grass. Their hoes cut the cane and beat the hard ground all day, except for a 30-minute lunch break and two 15-minute breaks.

At the end of the day, the prisoner literally crawled back to the trailer. They had to send him to the hospital. When he finally got to see the doctor, he took one look at him and laughed, “There’s nothing wrong with you! Get out of my sight!” Ha! That was Parchman. It’s just the nature of the beast: kindness was preyed upon, the weak abused, and the ruthless respected.

Cowboy was forced to pick cotton and dig ditches until he was exhausted and sick. You had to get no less than sixty pounds of cotton a day or you were punished. Rows upon rows of white cotton gleaming in the blistering sun. Eighty pounds of cotton dragging in a sack behind you.

Off in the distance dust devils whirled about like demoniac sentinels, keeping watch over the slaves. The guards on horseback would shout, “Awright girls! All I wanna see is assholes and elbows! Get that cotton!” And that’s what they would do.

One day picking cotton, they brought the water tractor around as they did every day. The men were filling their water jugs. But Cowboy never used a jug. Instead, he would kneel and drink from the spigot.

As he knelt to drink, someone threw water in his face. He stood up and looked about, but nobody said a word. So he knelt down again—he was thirsty—and again, someone threw water in his face. This time he jumped up and punched the man nearest him.

Someone in the gang yelled, “It ain’t him! He didn’t do it!” Cowboy stopped fighting the man and asked him if he did it. “No,” he said, so Cowboy left him alone, and turning toward the gang he demanded, “Whoever threw water in my face ought to be man enough to own up to it!”

The biggest, meanest, ugliest, blackest man he had ever seen before in his entire life stepped forward snarling, “I done it, Whitey. Whatcha gone do about it?”

Cowboy took one look and charged him, feet and fists flying! They ended up rolling in the dust like mad dogs. After that day, they no longer called him Cowboy. They called him PSYCHO.

BUNNIE

July 29, 1988. Danny was paroled from the Mississippi pen under the conditions that he return to Shreveport. He moved back into his parents’ home. James Harold had met Bunnie Mills, a 58-year old country singer, and introduced her to Danny. She became his lover, paying for their dinners and movies, taking him on trips, buying him clothing and gifts, and taking care of his vehicle repairs with her credit cards.

As Bunnie described it, “I had given his dad one of my country and western tapes, and he called me on the phone and invited me over for dinner. He had put his wife on the phone, and she invited me too. They were very friendly. I didn’t know Danny was there. So I go bouncing through the back door and say, ‘Hi everybody, how you doing,’ and all of a sudden this good-looking guy comes out of the living room, and he says, ‘Oh my goodness,’ he says, ‘She’s a beautiful woman,’ and he says, ‘I think I’m going to lose my heart.’ I went over to him and patted him on his heart, and I says, ‘That’s okay, honey, I’ll take care of your heart.’ It was just friendly.

”We had dinner, and after we ate, they asked me to play my guitar and sing. I did, and Danny says, ‘Oh, I love your guitar.’ He says, ‘Let me play it.’ And of course I didn’t know that he could play So he played, and he sang a couple of songs that he had written, and right away I recognized that he had talent, he could write well and he could sing well. I’m always looking for songs, and I was interested in perhaps producing him one day and publishing his songs, and helping him in the music all that I could. So I called him back that night, and told him I would like to get with him so we could talk about our music. And that’s how it started.

“Danny came to me every time he got depressed. He would come to my house constantly and confide in me, though the relationship was back and forth. I never knew when Danny was coming to my house and when he wasn’t.

“Danny was a very humble person, and he would tell me that he couldn’t get along with his dad, but he wished that he could. When he would talk about his father, he would cry. He would get so upset, he would tell me how his heart would hurt. It was almost like you could crawl inside of him yourself and feel the pain that he was feeling.

“Sometimes he would get on his knees like a little child and tell me that things were so bad at home he couldn’t live there, and I would say ‘But Danny, you can’t break your parole, you have to live there. So if you go see a psychiatrist, maybe this will end some of your anxieties or whatever this thing is with you. And you’ll get well.’

“I begged Danny to go for mental health counseling. I don’t remember who made the appointment, myself or Claudia, but he said,

‘I’m not going, if I go and my dad finds out what I‘ve said, he’ll kill me.’ And I said, ‘But Danny, the psychiatrist is not supposed to reveal what you say to them,’ and I said, ‘It may come to where you have to have the family there with you.’ I said, ‘If you can get that far along with your therapy, that would be great.’ And he said, ‘No.’ He said, ‘My dad would never go.’ And I said, ‘Well, we’ll just go to your dad and find out.’ And we went through this several times. He’d say ‘Oh, God, I don’t want to say nothing else about my dad,’ and I would say, ‘Danny, I’ve made the appointment, we’re going to go over to your house and talk to your mother and daddy.’

“We went to his house and talked to his mother and daddy. I said to them, ‘I have talked Danny into going to see the psychiatrist, and so I said to James, I said, ‘If it comes to the point where Danny does go into this therapy, will you support him?’ I said, ‘If you have to go, would you go?’ And he said, ‘Yes, I would.’ He said, ‘Maybe it’s me that needs to go.’ And I said, ‘Yeah well, I don’t know about that,’ but I said, ‘I’m going to take Danny,’ and Claudia said that she would support Danny all the way. So I said to Danny, ‘OK, Danny, there you are, so we’re going.’ So then Danny—he said yes, and then he said no. And then he started to run. I chased him all the way around the apartment building about four times—him just a-running and me right behind him. I’m screaming, ‘Danny, you have to go to the psychiatrist! You have to get well!’ And he’d say that he was afraid of what his dad would do to him if he found out he talked about him in therapy.”

I met Bunnie Mills when I first got out of Parchman Pen. My dad introduced us. She is a great woman, with a real taste for traditional country music. She is a wonderful songwriter with many records decorating her wall to prove it. We had a lot in common, especially our love for music. That was the glue that held us together. She did spend a good deal of money on me. That kept my interest in her, but eventually the relationship was destined for the rocks.

Bunnie was very, very good to me. Once the bear finds a honeycomb in old tree, he doesn’t look at the tree. No, he is more interested in the honey, and he keeps coming back for more until it’s all gone. Then it’s just another old tree.

She was the first woman I had even been close to in over 3 years. I did not notice the age difference then. As time went on, it became more difficult to overlook the difference, and that finally resulted in our breakup.

Our union lasted just over a year, and during that time, Bunnie bought me four brand-new white-letter racing tires, four brand-new Mag wheels, a new 4-barrel carburetor, new battery, new water pump, and $500 worth of clothes, jewelry and shoes. We ate at all the best restaurants, her treat. We’d go to the officer’s club she belonged to at Barksdale AFB and play Bingo. She’d buy me all the margaritas I could stomach, take me to the movies I wanted to see, give me money to play my favorite video game at the arcade (Cabal), and take me on trips with her. She bought me a nice Walkman radio for my birthday. It went on and on.

Before I realized it, I began to use her. It didn’t start that way. It’s just that she would not let go of me. I tried to let her down easy, because she was completely in love with me. I didn’t want to hurt her. But she wouldn’t take a hint. I laid it out for her so many times. I even staged it so she would find me with another woman. Nothing worked. I just began to ignore her.

Did we have sex? Yes we did, several times. But it got to where I had to pretend she was someone else. Still, I do not have a bad opinion of her. She is a decent woman who has country fans all over the world and a wall full of records to prove it. My final thoughts about her are that she is a fine lady, one to be respected and loved.

ALL I NEED IS A JOB

I went to the unemployment office today.

Oh, they said, “Sorry, son, no jobs today.”

Johnny said, “Take this job and shove it.”

But give it to me, oooh, I’ll love it!

I need a job, yes I do, I need to work today.

“He tried to find work when he came back in 1988, but he didn’t have a whole lot of success,” said Claudia Rolling. “He had been trying to get a job as a forklift operator at Busch Distributing Company, that’s up the street from us, and he was there almost every day talking to them, pleading with them. Then he got real discouraged because they would show a lot of interest, but then they wouldn’t call him back.

“We was sitting out in the front yard one night and he wrote a song called “I Need a Job.” I wish you could hear it, because it’s a darling song, and he said, ‘You know what I’m going to do, mom?’ I said, ‘What?’ He said, ‘I’m going to take my guitar and when they open in the morning, I’m going to walk up and down in front of that place, and I’m going to sing my song.’ And I said, ‘You do that, Danny, then maybe they’ll hire you.’ He was so depressed. He even told me, ‘I’m useless, I’m not worth anything, I can’t even get a job.’

Take a look at my worn-out shoes

Look me in the eye,

I’ve got the unemployment blues.

Come on, give me a break

All I need is a job.

“His job record is very sporadic. They always loved him, his bosses, because he would do his job well. He went to work on time. If they had a dress code, he followed it. I’ve had a lot of his bosses tell me, he was one of the best employees they had. But if he was going to get promoted, he was going to leave that job one way or the other, because a promotion meant that he was of value, and he could do things that some people couldn’t do. And to Danny, a young man who’s had all of his self-esteem destroyed, that’s running words. You get out of there, because you might fail, and if you do you’d feel real bad about that.

“Now, the very last time he came home, he did get a job. My nephew had a car and he told Danny that he could have it for $500. Danny saved his money and bought the car, so he did have transportation. He had worked at Pancho’s and Western Sizzlin’ long enough to buy him a car and get insurance.

“He jogged around the neighborhood. He built him a workout table and he worked out in the backyard. The kids all over the neighborhood would come. They liked to watch Danny do karate, but he just did it to entertain those kids. He didn’t really know anything about karate.”

The only dojo I’ve attended was in prison, and hardened black-belts taught me. I have knowledge of Wing Chung and Tae Kwon Do. I am quick with both hands and feet, and I can most certainly handle myself in a fight, but I choose to follow peace. I only use my knowledge of the arts in self-defense.

There have been several photos of me published from that period. It’s easy to see I was lean and mean, 6’3” and 180 pounds of pure hard man. I was in the best shape of my life.

I ran seven miles every other day. I worked out with weights and ran around our one-mile long block with a 90-pound 5-foot-long pine log across my shoulders. The reason for that exercise was simply to increase my upper and lower strength and stamina. I’ve never seen a puny logger. I was jogging around the block one fine summer day when a neighbor had cut down a couple of pine trees in his yard. I saw a nice size cut and thought, Hmmm…so I took it home with me. It was Adopt-a-Log Day! Ha!

LITTLE ROCKY

I had a puppy my dad mistreated after I got out of Parchman. I loved that puppy. He was so cute and loving, and he was a purebred English bulldog—you know, the bulldogs that grow up tall and proud. The English bull is the most intelligent and loving of the bulldog family. They are even good with children. They are not mean like pit bulls. Well, anyway, I named him Rocky, of course, after the late great Snoopy look-alike of my childhood.

At the time I was working at Pancho’s Mexican Restaurant. I came home from work one afternoon around 3:00 P.M. As I entered the house from the carport, Dad was in the back yard and I heard Rocky yelping. I opened the door and dad was kicking the little feller. I said, “Dad! What the hell are you doing?” He just smiled like a little child who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar and was playing it off like nothing ever happened.

I looked at Little Rocky huddled up, shaking and licking his wounds, and remembered watching my dad kick my first puppy to death. I immediately scooped him up and took him away. I gave him to a Mexican cook at work, who let the dog go to a friend of his, who later said the dog was stolen one night. So who knows what happened to little Rocky? I hope he found a good home, because that dog was special. His father was a champion several times over in England, and his mother was purebred.

WEAPONS OF CHOICE

Gemini prefers knives and machetes; Ennad loves guns. Ennad actually likes all types of weapons. So do I.

GUNS:

9mm automatic handgun…

a beautiful weapon.

45-cal. Colt auto

…extremely powerful close range.

.38-cal. revolver

…very accurate and reliable.

.22-cal. Ruger auto…

also accurate and reliable.

.308-cal rifle with Leupold variable scope…

BINGO!

KNIVES:

Ka-Bar Marine Fighting Knife…deadly, sharp and huge.

STAFF:

Ancient Chinese Kung-Fu weapon.

STARS:

Shuriken or throwing stars.

All these weapons I have owned at one time or another in the course of my life. I became very relevant, you might say. I was an expert with these weapons.

GUNS. While I was in the Air Force, I outshot the instructor at the indoor firing range and qualified as EXPERT with the .38-cal. revolver. I was given a ribbon for that. My dad taught me how to handle a .38. And when I was very young, barely a teenager, I could pick off a bluejay in the top of a tall pine swaying in the breeze.

THE BOW. I have always been fascinated with the art of bow hunting. I have owned several and I used to go to the Red River Bow Range and practice. Pm not bragging, but I was pretty good. I’ve killed deer, rabbits, even birds with the bow. Now if you think hitting a target as small and quick as a bird with a bow and arrow is easy, try it some time.

THE KNIFE. I have had several knives in my days, from Old Henry’s to Ka-Bars. Any weapon just takes up space, until the human hand finds work for it. Then it becomes as deadly as its master’s intent. I’ll never forget the first knife I bought. It was a Buck lockblade. After I purchased it, I walked out of the mall, took the knife out of its sheath, and cut my finger to the bone. After that lesson, I never cut myself again. A Ka-Bar is a foot-long fighting knife, but it was comfortable hidden under a light jacket. I made an improvised shoulder holster from a black leather belt that I threaded through the Ka-Bar's holster and carried it under my left armpit. Sometimes I carried it in a waist tote bag along with a gun, or wedged between my waist 8c pants, or hung from my belt, but I never carried a knife in my boot.

THE STAFF. It's an ancient Chinese weapon. I went into a cane grove once and selected a long bamboo staff, cut it down, took it home, and practiced with it every day. I am very good with a staff.

THROWING STARS. I've possessed a few in my journey through this life. They are fun to play with and they can be very dangerous in the right hands. I had a target nailed to an old oak tree, and I would throw the stars at the target. I never missed. The metal stars would embed themselves so deeply into that hardwood oak I would need a pair of pliers to pull them out.

NOTHING BETTER

The Snow Queen boards her icy sled and takes wing, freezing everything beneath. Sunsets linger in a brilliant glow of orange and red, receding to deep purple and shades of blue. Nights grow longer, embracing winter’s harsh elements.

Lovers groan and moan under patchwork blankets quilted by aging hands as the silver full moon rises, joined by billions of twinkling stars.

Ice skaters take to frozen ponds of green and blue, dancing about on steel blades, cutting figure eights across the cold hard home to the bass and turtle.

That’s when the hunter takes to the woods, aiming to bag his favorite wild game: dove, turkey, rabbit, squirrel, bear or deer.

The brisk winter air bites at his bones as he tiptoes through the fallen pine cones. With the shoulder gray skies above, and the snow below, it’s just the hunter and his .308 Remington bolt-action hunting rifle.

He’s hiked for miles into deep forest to the place he knows that trophy buck is bound to be. He was there before dawn, to find a good vantage point downwind and wait for the sun to come up.

As dawn arrives he scans the area through his scope. So far, nothing but a few cat squirrels dancing in the trees above. They peer down at him wondering what kind of creature he is. Completely cammoed-out, he doesn’t move. He looks just like a tree.

Then, suddenly! He hears it—TAT-TATTAT—the telltale sound of a buck prancing through the underbrush headed his way! His pulse quickens, his senses go on full alert. At that moment, the hunter is more alive than he has ever been.

He searches through the crosshairs in the scope. Then it appears, a rack that could be mistaken for a pair of moose antlers. The hunter holds the breath that puffs out of his open mouth because of the cold. He puts the crosshairs just below and behind his front shoulder, dead center over the deer’s heart. He eases out his breath, and as he does he squeezes the trigger.

KABOOM!

Through the scope he sees the big fella fall, so he knows he has hit him. But kicking and raising hell, the deer gets back up and charges back into the thicket. The man waits patiently, listening to the animal barrel into trees, making all kinds of noise until he falls again. This time he won’t get up.

The hunter eases down the blood trail in search of the fallen whitetail or mule deer. He takes his time. There’s plenty of blood sprinkles to lead the way to the animal’s side. The hunter knows the prey is his, even before he walks up on his carcass.

There he lies, a magnificent eleven-point muley. The man takes the muzzle of his rifle and nudges the muley just to make sure, but his tongue is hanging out of his mouth and his eyes give it away—the cold fish-eye stare of DEATH.

He kneels beside the animal, extracts his Ka-Bar hunting knife from its sheath, splits the deer open and cuts out his insides. He will take his carcass to the butcher for steaks and sausage.

I have also been bow-hunting, and that is a much more difficult hunt. When your instincts are good, there is nothing better—except a good piece of—can I say this? A good piece of pussy!

LIKE A WEREWOLF

November 4,1989. Jay Mitchell, Danny’s boss at Pancho’s Mexican Buffet, claims that Danny was fired for missing work three days in a row, and that he exploded in a fit of temper and threatened to kill the manager and the cook.

That is just not the way it happened. I was the best damn worker they had. But the manager at that time had a grudge against me because I was dating all the waitresses and none of them liked him. He was married and tried to hit up on several of the girls, but they put him down. They called him a dirty old man behind his back. I guess he resented their flirting with me.

Anyway, after work one day, as I always did, I checked the shift roster twice before leaving and I was scheduled to be off for the next two days. I made double sure, because I had just moved into an apartment of my own, and didn’t have a phone yet. Apparently, my boss changed the roster sometime after I left work, and didn’t or couldn’t contact me about the new schedule. That’s why I blew my stack on being fired, because it came as a complete surprise, and without a job, I’d lose my apartment. Which I did.

I came to work thinking everything was fine—until the manager said, “You’re fired.”

November 6, 1989. Julie Grissom, 24, a petite brunette who modeled clothes at a Shreveport mall, was found murdered, along with her father Tom Grissom, who worked for AT&T, and her 8-year old nephew Sean Grissom. The medical examiner placed the time of death two days earlier, the same day Danny was fired.

The killer reportedly used duct tape to bind Julie, and then raped her, stabbed her to death with a Ka-Bar Marine fighting knife, left bite marks and saliva on her breasts, then carefully cleansed her vaginal area with vinegar and posed her body provocatively. The duct tape was then carefully removed, and the crime scene apparently cleansed of prints. Julie’s just-washed blouse was left in the washing machine.

The killer was blood type B, and a secretor like Danny Rolling; however, later DNA testing failed to conclusively link him to the crime scenes, and to date he has not been charged with this triple slaying, although Louisiana authorities have declared the case closed.

Danny’s pastor, Rev. Mike Hudspeth, stated that one night about the time of the murders, Danny showed up at church, somewhat incoherent. “He wanted to stay around the church a bit and pray. I got the impression he was really high on something.” The church was just down the street from the scene of the crime.

The bodies were discovered by Bob Coyle, a neighbor who said, “It was a nightmare over there. Just a bad, bad situation. You just don’t think about that happening in a neighborhood like this.”

The only statement Danny has made about this case was reported by Bobby Lewis, the jail-house snitch who testified against him at the Gainesville student murder trial. In an interview with The Florida Alligator, Lewis recalled what Danny allegedly told him. “The old man was outside doing some barbecuing or watering the yard or something. He went and put a knife to him, took him in the house and tied him up. Taped up the old man, the girl and the kid, then he took the old man into a utility room and killed him first. Came back into the living room and took the little kid, rolled the kid onto his stomach and killed him. Stabbed him in the back through the heart. Took the girl into the bedroom, raped her and killed her. Did all kinds of stuff to her. He was like a werewolf. He had all the power over everybody to kill them or do whatever he wanted with them.”

Julie went down to the creek to fetch a pail of water.

She ain’t been seen since.

Wonder where she’s been?

Don’t want to get lost in Boggy

Bayou, way down in the swamps.

Fishing in Boggy Bayou again, thought I saw Julie there.

Must have been a mirage, turned and she was gone

I don’t get no sleep at night, she haunts my dreams

Comes around at night by candlelight.

I know one night she’ll come for me

We’ll kiss, oh, and hold each other tight

She’ll take me to where the spirits come alive at night.

WINDOWS TO FANTASY

You’d think even the most dedicated voyeur must have bad nights.

True enough, but this one never wasted time on unattractive targets.

His mission always consisted of beautiful women. He had several backups. If one objective didn’t work out, the next one would. He covered a lot of ground.

Take for instance this one gorgeous babe he used to look in on. She lived a good six miles from the little house on Canal Street. He knew her routine down to the days she had her period. He would rise early (4:00 A.M.) and jog the six miles to her parents’ home in near-freezing temperatures to watch her get up, go through her daily devotional, and have her bath, before she went to work. She was one beautiful babe! The hopeless dreamer fell in love with her.

Well, as the seasons began to change, sunrise came earlier and earlier, until one morning the Eyes were outside her bathroom window when morning broke. The cloak of darkness was yanked away, revealing the voyeur’s presence. But he couldn‘t make himself leave. He had to see her—possess her in his mind one more time.

As she was drying off her silky skin, she saw the man in the window staring at her. Their eyes met.

She froze. She stared back at him. For a moment frozen in time, they stared deeply into each other’s eyes. The voyeur came—then left, never to return.

Look, I am not so dense I don’t realize that in real life, girls don’t get off on strange shadowy figures peering through their bathroom windows lusting for their charms. That young damsel that caught me checking her out at dawn was so petrified that she couldn’t even move! That’s what I saw in those pretty baby blues—shock! That would be the natural response when one’s privacy is invaded, especially a woman’s bathroom sanctuary. I doubt very seriously that the lady was turned on by it all.

The main reason why I never went back to her window was the element of secrecy had been compromised.

This time the voyeur was cruising a new neighborhood in Bossier City searching for a window to his fantasy.

He parked his canary yellow ‘71 Malibu in the parking lot of a shopping center near a Kentucky Fried Chicken and set out on foot, drawing on the thin black leather gloves he kept in the glovebox of the Chevy.

Time, approximately 11:00 P.M. Moving in and out of strangers’ back yards, checking out the lay of the land, he came upon a house standing by a vacant lot. Like a moth to the flame, he was drawn to it.

No rest for the wicked. Peering in one window after another, the Eyes quickly discovered it was occupied by a gorgeous young blonde. Time passed and the damsel finally retired around 12:00 midnight.

Danny had not come to harm anyone, so Ennad took control. It would be rape, not murder. He searched the carport and found an old black t-shirt. Poking holes in it, he fashioned it into a mask and pulled it over his head.

At that moment, the Dark One grew ever greater—ever stronger. Gemini had arrived, thirsting for blood. But this night, thank God, he would be denied his crimson flow of pain. Instead of a red river, it would be just a stream easily dammed.

The front door was opened and the Evil entered the sleeping woman’s home. Danny had brought no blade or weapon of any kind, but Gemini searched the kitchen in darkness, and the street light pouring in the window revealing a large, sharp carving knife on the cabinet counter.

The air became very still as the intruder crept stealthily into the young woman’s bedroom. The Dark Shadow stood over her bed and watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she slept. Suddenly, the blonde sensed a presence. She awoke to a masked Reaper hovering over her, brandishing a carving knife. Shocked and terrified, she screamed! But only once, and briefly at that.

The intruder quickly subdued his prey. But during the struggle, the woman reached up and grabbed the blade of the knife to defend herself. S-S-SHUCK! It was yanked from her grasp, slicing her thumb and palm to the bone. By this point, the attacker was on top of the woman, muffling the screams with his hand over her mouth. The woman settled down after being cut.

“Let’s take a look at you, lovely.” And he eased up the t-shirt over her breasts. She was about to die, but a very unusual thing happened, which entered the mind of Gemini and drove him away.

The woman had an infant perhaps eight months old lying next to her. The child had been overlooked until then. She did not cry or appear frightened, but rather interested. She just sucked on her bottle and gazed wide-eyed with wonder at the strange man on top of her mother. At that moment Gemini was conquered by the innocent eyes of a tender child.

The little angel took the nipple of her bottle out of her mouth and smiled sweetly at the masked figure. It was a smile that lights the world with joy. Something in that beautiful infant’s eyes drove the Evil Spirit away and Danny regained himself. He saw the blood on the terrified blonde and on himself.

“Oh, Lady! I’m sorry! I—I didn’t mean to hurt you.” And he got up off the traumatized woman.

She looked confused. Then slowly, carefully, like a caged wild animal whose captor just released it from prison, she got out of bed, then dashed out of the house barefoot in her t-shirt and panties, screaming at the top of her lungs!

The child was left behind and Danny stood there alone, admiring the calm, angelic behavior the infant exhibited. She just lay there in her spot and resumed feeding on her baby bottle, completely satisfied. Realizing the child would be all right, Danny fled into the night.

That woman had looked into the eyes of DEATH. But that night the bewildering gaze of a wide-eyed child conquered, as Evil gave way to innocence.

Danny would never forget the eyes of that precious child. They held the same look he once saw in the eyes of his own child, Kiley—the very same look. It was as if Kiley were looking at her father, pleading with her beautiful blue eyes, “Don’t do this, Daddy, please don’t do this!

The Night the Big Chevy Died

The Grim Reaper came seeking a soul,

Swung his sickle, but his aim was low.

In the darkness an angel of light appeared,

Stood champion, honored and revered, Matched bloody sickle with flaming sword,

And broke fate’s cruel cord.

The wind screamed and the storm cried

The night the Big Chevy died.

April 27, 1990. ‘Twas a night meant for neither man nor beast, an angry storm brewing in the east. The thunder of its approach threatened Shreveport, but that didn’t stop Danny Rolling from having a night on the town. He splashed on his favorite after-shave, and dressed himself in virgin white from head to toe. Gazing in the mirror, his reflection portrayed him so:

Small gold chain about his neck

White cotton Bugle Boy shirt

Gold watch on his left wrist

Black silver buckled leather belt

White cotton Bugle Boy pants

Patchwork python snakehide Acme boots

Thus he stepped out into the gathering gloom, a white spot in a pool of India ink. Pausing for a moment in the cool breeze, he dug into his pocket, pulled out his keys, and opened the door to his favorite chariot. That car! That beautiful car! All that chrome trimming a cool-black 1960 Chevy Belaire two-door hardtop, with the legendary 283 under the hood.

He ran his hand affectionately over its smooth surface. Every time he looked at it, the love affair began all over again. He had nicknamed it the Batmobile. Everywhere he went in that car, people would smile, wave, and give the thumbs-up. It was a rare sight, a vision from the past, when automobiles were put together to last, each one with its own distinct character.

“Time to spread your wings and fly, my love!” Danny said, as he sat in the driver’s seat. He shut the door with an assuring thud and fired it up, and its Mag wheels chirped off.

He arrived at his favorite watering hole, the Superior Bar and Grill, a trendy hangout for Shreveport’s upper class where every Thursday through Saturday evening, big spenders and beautiful women piled in. Danny had always been somewhat amused at the changes people went through after they had a couple of drinks under their belts. Doctors who only minutes prior had been looking up some poor slob’s hemorrhoidal anus were now looking across salty glasses of tequila and down the low-cut blouses of cooing kittens competing for their attention. Lawyers who entered the place all starched and prim with clients on their mind soon loosened their proper ties and got starry-eyed, spilling alcoholic beverages on their expensive shoes.

“Hey, John! How’s about fixin’ up a couple of those frozen wonders you make? And put it on my tab, will ya?” Danny asked his favorite bartender. John was used to this, and whipped it up lickety-split, then placed two tall drinks on the bar and nodded his approval. Danny grabbed both, one in each hand, and drew one of the protruding straws into his dry mouth. “Ahhhh…good stuff!” he said gratefully.

The place was jam-packed. Music was playing, but he could hardly hear it over the laughter and loud conversation.

After four or five margaritas he was feeling tight. He plotted a course through the happy hour crowd, their faces appearing and disappearing in the smoky haze. He found the front door and exited.

The sweet night air greeted him. He stretched out on the wooden bench under the bar’s pane-glass front, with the light spilling into the street. How often had he done this? There in the dark, watching the people inside, how he wanted to fit in! But somehow…he never quite did.

Lightning cast its jagged fingers earthward, striking nearby. He looked skyward and saw the wind-driven clouds racing across the heavens. “It’s gonna rain bloody hell! Oh well…” he said as he continued to slurp on the frozen green margarita. Then it began to rain.

Funny, Danny thought, how every time he got into deep shit it would rain, almost as if the heavens were weeping over him. It rained the time he got busted in Columbus, Georgia for armed robbery. And it rained the time he got arrested in Mississippi for armed robbery, house burglary, and grand theft auto. It was raining now, and darker storms lay ahead. Lightning flashed again, and the wind began to wail.

Daaaanneeee…Come to meeeeee…

Daaaannneeeee…Into my cold embrace…

The night had always had a hypnotic effect on him. Like a lover, it would call to him, caressing him, soothing him. He put down the now-empty glass on the wet wooden bench, stood up, and went walking into the downpour.

“Jose Cuervo, you are a friend of mine!” he sang. “I’d like to shake old Jose’s hand right now! You betcha!” Singing and muttering to himself, he danced alone in the rain, oblivious to the storm swirling around him.

Dashing across Line Avenue with the streetlights dancing on the road’s surface, he reached his car and fumbled for the keys. They slipped from his dripping fingers and fell onto the parking lot. Wavering, he picked them up and unlocked the Big Chevy with some difficulty.

Inside, he found the ignition and turned the key, sitting there a minute to let the engine warm. The rain began pounding a warning on the metal roof, as the street gutters opened their gaping maws to inhale the murky waters into the depths of the earth, never to be seen again.

Danny smiled to himself as the Batmobile eased onto the swimming street. Zero to fifty he plunged down the hill.

Suddenly, the Big Chevy did a one-eighty to the right, jumped the curb, and leapt sixteen feet into the air! Striking a wooden telephone pole with the crash of busting glass and the scream of twisting metal, the car was cut halfway in two. As if in slow motion, slivers of glass flew all around, like little glittering rainbows.

The door sprung open, and Danny was thrown from the wreckage onto the gritty pavement, head-first. Wham! Bam! And out went the lights.

He came to with the rain splattering on his bloody face, raised himself on his skinned elbows, and surveyed the damage.

“Oh my God! My brains are bashed out!” he cried as he felt his head. Blood poured over his face, and his once-white shirt was now completely red.

Fortunately, he had landed on the thickest part of his anatomy. Eight stitches would mend the damage to Danny’s head, but the Batmobile’s wings had been clipped. The only sign of life was one bright headlight staring aimlessly into the stormy night.

At the hospital, the police questioned Danny about the accident as a doctor stitched up his throbbing head. Amazed and baffled, they wanted to know how on earth the Big Chevy had become airborne and struck the telephone pole sixteen feet above ground zero, snapping in two like a dry twig—while all Danny had to show for it was a 3 -1/2” gash in his head and a few scrapes and bruises. It remains a mystery to this day.

THERE’S GONNA BE TROUBLE

Danny worked briefly in a phone room, until he was fired for what manager Corey Minard later told investigators was low productivity.

Phone solicitation has to be one of the most emotionally stressful jobs out there. You sit in one spot for eight hours or so, and go down the telephone listings one after another, pleading, “Please contribute to the Fireman’s Fund,” or whatever. “Oh! so you contributed last year? Uh-huh. Well, we need your support again this year…Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. When did he pass away?” And you go on and on in that vein, surrounded by edgy and grumpy oddballs filling the room with smoke from the cigarettes they burn one after another.

It just wasn’t for me. So when that tub of lard Corey Minard pulled me into his office and threatened to fire me unless I got more contributions, I almost slugged him. Instead I said, “Hey! You don’t have to fire me. I quit! Take this lousy job and shove it!” He got all emotional and called for his pee-on-buddy for support.

They hemmed me up in his office. That was a mistake. I came very close to giving those pukes a taste of chaingang fury. I turned to the hotshot assistant and said, “You better get the fuck away from that door and let me out of here—or there’s gonna be trouble!” I guess the look on my face and my tone of voice was enough, because he moved.

And I left.

SOMETHING BAD IS GOING TO HAPPEN

Agnes Mitchell saw the storm clouds gathering over the little white house on Canal Street.

“After the second time Danny was in prison, he came home, only with the promise that when he would get a job, he would move out. He was working extra time, and I would have to go and pick him up and take him home. And I was always greeted with James Harold yelling, ”He’s no good, he’s not going to live here, I hate him. One of these days, he’s going to cross me just a little bit, and I’m going to hurt him, I’m going to hurt him bad, I want him out of here!’ That was the tune every time. He would just start talking about how he didn’t want Danny. ‘All his mother does is cook and wait on him, and she’s not supposed to wait on him. He’s a grown man,’ and he would go on and on like that.

“I went by one day to pick him up, and Danny had painted his dad’s house that day. And James was sitting in the front yard with his pistol across his lap, and he was just in a raving, raging disposition. And I said, ‘What is the problem?’ He said, ‘I’m going to kill him. I run him away from here, and I don’t want him back here anymore.’

“I said, ‘What in the world happened?’ He said, ‘I told him to paint that house, this end of the house first, and I come back here, and he was painting that end there. I don’t want him here anymore, I want him away from here.’

“I said, ‘Well look, let me tell you something, you could get in trouble with waving that gun around,’ and he said, ‘I’m telling you now you better keep him away from here, I’m going to kill him.’

“And Danny was a hard worker. Danny would do whatever job that you laid out for him to do. There’s been times that I would go to East Texas, and I would help him oversee the shop, close it down and stay with the shop, and he handled the money for me. Never one penny short, my money always come up perfect. There was no way Danny could have taken a dollar and I wouldn’t have known it.

“When Danny came back from the penitentiary, he was behaving very friendly, very humble at that time. He was always a humble person, a person that you really wanted to take under your wing.

“Danny would have done well. He would have come out of every bit of that and done well, if his dad had not been so abusive to him. James Harold never let him think any different, he always told him he was sorry, he was low down, and he’d never amount to anything.

“The last time I seen Danny was the Sunday afternoon that I took him to look for a truck, because Danny was moving. James Harold talked to Claudia that day and threatened Danny, he threatened to kill him.

That was the day of the shooting. And Claudia called Artie before it happened, and said, ‘Something bad is going to happen here, I feel it.’”

“Kevin was going to buy a house, and he was doing it strictly to get Danny out of our house,” said Claudia. “Because he felt like I did, something terrible was going to happen. I knew it, I felt it. And James would say things like,

‘He’s getting out of here one way or the other. I’d as soon shoot him as look at him.’ He had been saying things like that for two months. And not only had I heard this, but Kevin had heard it and the few neighbors that came over had heard him say it. My sister heard him say it.”

CROSSING THE BRIDGE

May 18, 1990. The dark figure stood alone on the old stone bridge. As the wind whipped around him, he looked up at the thickening night sky and began to cry.

Oh my God, how can this be?

I have become a Cain driven from his kin!

I have committed the great sin!

I’ve sown the wind…and reaped the whirlwind!

Lightning fired its blue-white bolts from Heaven’s mighty bow, and it began to rain. Only three hours past, Danny Rolling’s life had had some sign of normality, if you could call anything in his tortured life normal. At least he had a home, a family, a future. Now in the wink of an eye all that had changed. He stood under an angry sky wondering…why?

Earlier that day he had left the Superior Bar and Grill, where he had drunk his fill, and pulled his 1971 canary-yellow Chevy Malibu into his parents’ driveway.

Getting out of the yellow hot-rod, he heard thunder off in the distance. “Hmmm…a storm’s coming,” he said as if he were talking to the wind. He hurried towards the front door, kneeling to perform the Rolling ritual of taking off one’s shoes before entering the house. And the clock of fate began to tick.

The little white house on the corner of West Canal and Grassmere held many memories for Danny. There were days when the sun had shined on the Rolling family, but now the storm clouds that had gathered so many times over this house were growing sullen and heavy.

Danny went to his room, changed into his tiger stripe combat fatigues and jungle boots, and started out again. He went into the kitchen to grab a bite to eat, and James Harold asked if he had washed his hands, as he always did. The man was scared to death of germs.

“No,” said Danny, and went back into the bathroom and pretended to wash his hands to appease his dad’s phobia, then returned to the kitchen.

“Hey, Dad, you going to work tonight?” Danny asked his father.

“Yes, son, your mother should be home soon,” James answered matter-of-factly and walked away, leaving Danny standing alone in the kitchen.

“OK, Pop, be careful,” Danny called after his dad as he reached into the refrigerator for a quick sip of orange juice.

Then James told Danny to roll up the car windows. Tension between father and son was building, and Danny decided to leave.

Up to this point, everything was normal family stuff. Funny how the course of a life can change in a few seconds of hot temper!

As he reached for the door, his mother Claudia opened it and stepped inside. Mother and son faced each other.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asked Claudia, obviously concerned about her son.

“Out,” replied Danny, the smell of alcohol heavy on his breath.

“Oh no, you’re not!” said Claudia.

“What is it you want from me!?” demanded Danny, his temper flaring.

James appeared at the kitchen door and leaned against the frame, smiling innocently.

Danny turned to see his father there and blurted out,

“What do you think is so funny?” The alcohol was talking now. “You’ve made my life a living hell!” And with that he grabbed hold of a chair and flung it across the floor, slamming it into the refrigerator.

Freeze frame. The color drained from James Harold’ face. Danny knew that look all too well. It was the 1,000-yard stare of a soldier in a frozen foxhole in South Korea. James wasn’t even in the kitchen any more. He was reliving a battle in which his buddies were being bayoneted to death all around him, and he was burning up the Browning Automatic Rifle, laying waste to the North Korean Rock soldiers.

James turned and stormed out of the room, with Danny shouting after him, “That’s right! Go ahead and get it! Get your gun! I know that’s what you’re after!”

Danny sensed the situation had gotten out of control and fled. As he ran down the driveway, his father burst from the carport door, gun in hand. POW! POW! POW! James fired into the night.

Danny sprinted down the sidewalk and crossed the street, running a zigzag pattern, dodging bullets. Then James ran back inside the house and slammed the door.

Standing on the street corner, Danny caught his breath. “Damn! Dad has really lost it this time!” He waited a minute, then ran back to the house.

He tried the door, but it was locked. He began to worry about his mom, trapped inside there (no place to run). And Dad had his gun. So Danny ran to the back yard, opened the toolshed, and fumbled in the dark until his hand found the cool smooth wooden handle of his .38-caliber revolver.

“I’ve got something for you this time, Pop!” he yelled, bolting through the front yard. He charged the carport door, jumped into the air, and kicked the door in.

Danny took a shooting stance, pointing his weapon at this father. James was on the phone. “You ain’t gonna call the cops on me again, ol’ man!”

James Harold let the phone drop and grabbed his weapon off the table.

“If you want to kill somebody, kill me! But don’t you dare hurt my mom!”

James Harold pointed his service revolver at his son. POW! POW! POW!

Two bullets zinged through the open doorway, missing Danny by inches as he ducked behind the door frame. The third bullet punched through the frame and passed between his legs only a hair from his groin, spraying wood splinters.

Danny answered his father’s volley by pointing his .38 around the corner, firing blind. POW! POW! POW!

The first bullet went high to the right, slamming into the kitchen cabinet. The second drilled through James’ stomach, and the third struck him right between the eyes. He fell like an old oak tree at Danny’s feet.

Danny went wild, kicking his fallen father and screaming, “Die, motherfucker! DIE!”

Then…everything got real still. Thick red blood pooled under James’ head. He looked up at his son, dazed, and began to cry, “Claudia, call an ambulance…call an ambulance…”

With his father’s pitiful voice ringing in his ears, Danny suddenly realized what he had done—and he ran.

Run Danny run…run Danny run…

Louisiana’s after you…

For the things you’ve done…

And she’s surely gonna find you…

If you don’t keep on the run

He jumped into the Chevy and peeled rubber. He couldn’t believe what had just happened. Pure panic-stricken, he drove like a madman, running red lights, making hairpin turns at neckbreak speeds. He was a man on a mission. And the mission was…

Run Danny run…from the Lawman’s gun

Run Danny run…until your running’s done

The yellow Chevy came upon stopped traffic at a red light, and he had to wait for the light to change. Two squadcars raced by, red-blue lights flashing and sirens screaming.

Daaannnneeee…

Daaaaannnnnnneeeeeee...

And the cops disappeared off into the night.

Red to green. Danny stomped it, pushing cars out of the way. 70…80…90…100…the Malibu thundered through the night. Time stood still. The only sounds he could hear were the roar of the engine and his father’s broken voice pleading, “Claudia, call an ambulance…call an ambulance…”

He pulled into a local motel near the airport and left the Chevy, its engine crackling hot. “This oughta throw them off for a while,” he muttered and dashed across the street. He dove into the thickets and vanished.

As Danny bulldogged his way through the thorns and thickets that ripped at his flesh, lightning stabbed an old grandfather pecan tree, slicing through its wooden heart. He could acquaintance, he could tell they were an interesting couple. They were nice and uniquely dressed. They’d had a few drinks and light conversation. As the night wore on, they had invited Danny to their mansion nestled away in the woods, and he had eagerly agreed.

With its majestic white pillars, the two-story structure resembled the beautiful plantation homes of the Civil War era. Their sprawling, hear the sirens off in the distance. The dragnet had begun—but they would not catch their fish this night.

Meanwhile, an ambulance had arrived at the Rolling residence, and paramedics were working over James, trying to save his life.

Elsewhere, the Clausens were preparing for bed. They were a well-to-do couple who owned the Coca-Cola bottling plant in Shreveport. Soon, they too would become part of the tragic play.

Danny had met Steve and Luisa at the Superior Bar and Grill some months back, and they had become friends. Even before making their pruned grounds had three beautiful fish ponds stocked with big-mouth bass, and the Clausens themselves fit in the picture perfectly. They were both elegant and stately people.

Lightning stretched its burning fingers across the heavens. In the thunder and downpour, the confused and desperate fugitive slooshed his way through the mire that surrounded the Clausen estate.

As he reached their residence, the Clausens turned out the lights downstairs and climbed the winding staircase to their luxurious bedroom.

The shadow in the night lurked outside their living room pane-glass double doors. He looked through the glass, a silhouette against the bluish strobes of lightning that revealed his presence.

He could see one of several giant chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and the solid white grand piano by the fireplace as he pushed his way in. His muddy boots trailed across the plush white carpet. The security system began to sing an alarm.

Up the winding staircase the shadow crept, leaving muddy brown footprints with every step. Once at the top, he took out one of the .38’s he carried and burst into the room.

Meanwhile, James Rolling was on the operating table awaiting emergency surgery for two gunshot wounds. As the surgeons examined his x-rays, they exchanged surprised and baffled glances.

“Look at that, will you? Can you believe it?”

“He’s a very lucky man.”

“I’d say it was more like a miracle! Look here. See how the bullet entered the skull? And then split in two separate halves after it hit the brain? And look where they traveled!”

“Yes, completely around his brain! And then exited the back of his head! This man’s brain must be as stubborn as a mule!”

Both men laughed, trying to take the edge off an already hectic day. Then their attention concentrated on the second wound.

“Well, bust my buttons! He must live mighty close to ol’ Saint Pete!”

“Yep, through and through. No vitals even touched. This one will heal without any help from us.”

“Well, it’s gonna be a long night. Let’s see if we can patch this old soldier up.”

Steve was lying on the couch, and Luisa was stretched out on their massive bed like a pampered calico cat, when Danny Rolling jumped into their quiet world. He pointed the .38 at Steve.

“Don’t move, Steve. I want your money. I know there’s a safe around here some place. Where is it?”

“We don’t have any money laying around here, and there is no safe.”

Steve got up and approached Danny. With his left hand outstretched, he was pleading, “Give me the gun, Danny. Come on now, give it to me.”

Surprisingly, Danny did just that. Steve took the .38 and unloaded it. As he did, the phone rang. Both men looked at the phone.

“Tell ‘em it’s OK, Steve.” He knew it would be the security service answering the alarm.

Steve picked up the phone and gave the password. “Yes, it’s Heaven. That’s right, it’s Heaven. Thank you.” And he hung up.

Danny had a sudden change of heart and pulled the second .38, pointed it at Steve, and barked, “Give me back my gun. Come on, give it to me. And the bullets too.”

Steve, obviously upset, handed Danny the guns and the bullets.

Luisa burst in, “You’re upsetting him! He just got back from the doctor today. He has an ulcer.” Then turning on Steve with her voice rising shrilly, “This is the last time we ever pick up anyone from a bar! The last time! You hear?”

After a tense pause, Danny said evenly, “All right. Let’s all go downstairs.”

They all went down into the kitchen. Luisa took one look at the muddy carpet and wailed, “Look at this carpet! We just had it cleaned!”

Danny was apologetic. “Let me clean it up for you.”

Luisa stared at him. “No, just let it dry,” she said uneasily.

They all took up places in the kitchen.

In the clear light of the kitchen, Danny got a close look at Steve and Luisa and burst into a torrent of sobs. "My God! What am I doing? Why am I doing this? You guys are my friends. I wouldn’t hurt you for anything in this world. I’ve just shot my dad. I’ve killed him for sure. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to do.”

Luisa leaned toward him and spoke gently. “How do you know you’ve killed him? Have you called the hospital?”

Danny looked up at the concerned woman through his tears as if seeing her from far away. “No,” he said softly, and brightening, “Do you think I should?”

“It wouldn’t hurt. What hospital do you think they would take him to?”

“The Willis Knighten.”

Luisa called information, got the number, dialed it, and handed the phone to Danny.

Burrr…burrr…burrr…

“Hello, Willis Knighten Hospital. May I help you?”

“Yes, I’m a friend of James Harold Rolling, who was shot earlier tonight? And I was just wondering, how’s he doing?”

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t give out that information.”

“Look, lady. James Harold and I are old police buddies, and I just want to know if he’s OK.”

“Hold on a minute, sir…he’s still on the operating table.”

“Thank you.” He hung up the phone. “Thank God above! He’s still alive! I don’t know why all this had to happen. I’m so sorry for disturbing you. Look, I’ll go now.”

Steve gestured to Luisa, “Honey, give Danny twenty dollars.” “Oh no!” Danny looked offended. “I don’t want your money!”

“Look how he changes!” said Luisa.

“Go ahead and give it to him.”

Luisa grabbed an apple, some cookies, and a twenty dollar bill from their bank bag lying right there on the kitchen table, and urged Danny to take it. He did, and left with tears streaming down his face.

Into the now-calmed storm he fled, weeping, “What has become of my life?” as the night embraced him. The storm threatened to pour out its wrath again. The lighting crashed, the thunder roared, and Danny stumbled on through the dark.

He came upon a stream where a beaver swam playfully, flipping its flat round tail with a smack atop the cool water. Danny sat there on the banks of the stream and watched.

“How I wish I were you, little feller. No troubles, no worries, just plenty of trees to gnaw on, and lots of nice cool water to play in.”

He sat there for a while, until a big black water moccasin slithered near. He moved on. He came upon the old stone bridge and stood there alone in the cool night, listening to the wind rustle through the trees. The air was sweet, heavy with night smells. Lightning flashed across the sky and the wind began to cry.

Daaannnneeee…my wayward child…

Daaannnneeee…so dangerous and wild…

Daaannnneeee…come to me and know…

I will not judge you…oh child of woe…

Rain began to fall. A shadow amongst shadows, the cursed man bid a bitter farewell to his past and crossed the bridge, as once again the night engulfed him.