6 Sudden Death

All sexual crime is driven by fantasy….

—Stephen Michaud, biographer of Ted Bundy

After I killed Claudia, I couldn’t fantasize about Taunja without thinking of the two of them at the same time. My fantasies flowed from one to the other. What hadn’t happened to Claudia had happened to Taunja and vice versa. Claudia’s death was an extension of Taunja’s death. I fantasized other deaths, too. I was obsessed with rape and killing.

I realized that the reason I got away with my murders was that after I killed I took my time and thought things out. I didn’t just dump the bodies. I worried constantly about making a mistake. I did things right.

Once in a while I’d drive past a prison and blow my air horn and look up at the guard towers and yell, “Home sweet home! I’ll end up with you guys someday!”

I already had a prisoner’s state of mind. I had a premonition that by the time I reached my fortieth birthday, I’d be a retired millionaire or in prison. Deep inside I knew which one. I knew I’d thrown my life away when I started to kill.

About a month after Claudia I had an overnight load of beef going from Ellensburg, Washington, to Fresno, California. I didn’t like the truck I was assigned—a 1991 Peterbilt conventional with fifteen-speed transmission and a 3406 ATAC 425-hp Cat engine. It was painted marine blue—nowhere near as cool as my plum Pete—and it was low geared to the point where it got five-and-a-half miles per gallon. I was never at ease behind that wheel.

I was tired when I entered the southbound rest area at Turlock, California, to catch three or four hours of sleep before finishing the run. Just after midnight a pretty blonde in a red sweater jumped up on my running board and asked if I wanted to party.

Reaching down with my left hand, I fondled her breasts. I told her thanks for the feel but I didn’t want anything else. She was a small woman in her late twenties or early thirties—it was hard to tell the age of these lot lizards, with the life they led. I think she said her name was Cynthia.

“Are you sure you don’t want a little?” she said. “Don’t you like what you feel?”

I said, “Yeah, but I’m tired. Go away and let me sleep.”

She said, “Why did you feel me if you don’t want me?”

I said, “It’s a sure way to see if you’re a cop. I don’t want to be set up. Maybe I’ll be in the mood later.”

After she walked away, I shut down my truck, lights and all. If I left a light on, she’d think I was interested and wake me up. She sure looked sweet, but I didn’t trust her or any other lizard. Probably had a knife or pistol under her shirt. In Florida one hooker turned into a serial killer, murdering innocent truckers that were out on the road sixteen, eighteen hours a day to support their families.

I kicked off my shoes and crawled into bed. I was sound asleep when the passenger door flew open and something came crashing in.

When I saw it was the same girl, I was pissed. I reached over and grabbed her and slammed her on the bed. Before she could open her mouth, I started to squeeze her throat.

After a while she went limp and I realized she’d stopped breathing. I’d killed my third victim and I didn’t even know her name. And for what? Nothing! I didn’t even play the death game with her. Or have sex. What a waste.

I felt I was being watched. I opened the curtain an inch and saw two strange faces at the window on the passenger side. What had they seen? I had to clear out of there fast.

I pushed in the brake-release valves and hit the starter in the same motion. Still barefooted, I switched on the headlights and pushed in the clutch and shifted into fourth double under. The indistinct faces were still at the window—probably her girlfriends, trying to find out what happened.

I hit the gas and they disappeared. It was just before dawn and I headed south. I listened on the radio for anything about the kidnapping of a woman from a rest area. Then it hit me! What if she wakes up, like Claudia?

At the next off-ramp I parked and looked at the woman I never should’ve killed. She still looked dead, but I gagged her and used plastic ties on her wrists and ankles to make sure she didn’t cause more trouble.

Then I heard her breathing. My God, it’s hard to kill somebody! I gave my truck full throttle. I needed to get past the scale house at Livingston, five miles down the road, so I wouldn’t be documented in the neighborhood at the time she disappeared.

I slowed down to legal speed when the scale house came into sight. It was closed.

 

It was still dark when I eased into the Blueberry Hill Café parking lot. The surface was covered with six inches of powder dirt as I circled behind another parked truck. I smelled death. Was she dead? Would I have to kill her again?

I crawled into the sleeper for a look. A fine-looking girl. Nice tits! Petite, five-four maybe, 110 pounds. She’d soiled my bed with her urine, another mess I’d have to clean up. I would never be able to ask her why she jumped into my truck. I could only guess that a cop showed up or somebody chased her. Or maybe she had another motive. Thanks to me losing my cool, nobody will ever know.

I laid her next to the sleeper door so I could dump her out without dragging any of my own stuff in the dirt. At the southwest corner of the café parking lot, there was a large tree with garbage and tumbleweeds piled up around it—a perfect place for a body. I had a shovel and thought of digging a hole in the dirt and driving over her a few times to pack it down, but that would take too much time.

There was a faint glow in the east. Other truckers would be waking up, so I had to hurry. I removed the duct tape and plastic ties in case my fingerprints were on them. I carried her body over my shoulders like a sack of potatoes, dumped it facedown, and pushed her head into the powder. I stepped on her neck to make absolutely sure she was dead. Then I slung her on the garbage pile. For a grave marker I gave her a piece of tumbleweed.

 

Now I had to make tracks before I was spotted. I drove fast toward Fresno. I was paranoid over the killing and the faces in the window.

I pulled into a rest area, cleaned my mattress and threw the covers away. I drove on to Gilroy and parked at the truck stop at the junction of 101 and 152, across the street from the State Patrol office. I figured that was the safest place to be if they were looking for me.

I slept in the front seat the rest of that morning—or tried to sleep. I wondered if I’d reached the point where killing would never bother me again. I argued with myself over what I was doing. Why? When would my conscience kick in? Did I even have one?

I finally decided I wasn’t fit to live. I was a monster. All my life I’d been disliked and I’d disliked myself, but now the dislike had turned to contempt and hatred. I had to commit suicide. But I didn’t have the guts.

For the next week I checked out the parking lots for security officers before I got out of my truck. In restaurants I sat with my back to the wall, scoping everybody who came in. Suspicious movements made me shake. I was sure everybody knew I was a killer. I monitored the CB Smokey reports day and night to hear my name. I dreaded calling into the office in case there was a message from the cops.

But after a few more weeks of paranoia, I realized I was free and clear again. John and Laverne What’s-their-names were in their third year in the penitentiary for killing Taunja, and I was running around killing more.

It looked like I would never be punished by God or Satan. I decided there was no God or Satan, and when we died our lives just flickered out. The sooner a person understands that there’s no punishment after death and allows their own inner impulses to take over, the sooner they become an unstoppable serial killer. That’s the point I’d reached. It was scary, but it was exciting, too.