7 Survival

On most days he spent his yard time on the phone, endlessly reciting the minutiae of his life to anyone who would accept his collect calls. Like his father he was his own font of knowledge and wisdom, offering detailed ruminations about family relations, parenting, marriage, “driving truck,” education and his all-time favorite subject: how he outwitted his prosecutors and cheated the executioner. Some of his contacts listened with interest and even egged him on, but by 2001 most were declining his dollar-a-minute calls.

Journalist Robert Ironside maintained the relationship longer than most. “Keith seemed so needy of notoriety and attention. He sent me interminable letters and phoned me four or five times a week. I honestly felt a strong rapport with him. But sometimes he made me feel odd, offbeat, as if I’d touched something evil. He liked to mock the last sounds of his victims, gurgling and blubbering with their last breaths. He cried once, reverting into a little girl’s voice, imitating a victim begging for her life. It reminded me of one of our politicians mimicking the voice of a woman he was about to execute. One night he said in this very flat voice, ‘You know, Rob, it’s harder to kill people than you think.’ He sounded like he was talking about stepping on a roach.”

Keith logged his mail in a notebook—a habit left over from his truck driving days. In 1999, he sent 372 letters. After tightening his stamp budget so he could buy art supplies, he mailed only 242 letters in 2000 but received 465. Some of the letters were to and from his three children and two sisters. He had no contact with his brothers.

He estimated that he made five hundred collect calls a year. His father was steadfast in his semiyearly visits, and his older sister, Sharon, made three trips to the penitentiary. Keith kept a long list of names on his official visiting list, including every member of his family, but no one except Les and Betty showed up after 1997.

 

He often had to fight off black moods. “My nighttimes in prison are spent dreaming of seeing my kids one more time. Would I escape if I was let out by accident? Damn right I would. Back to Canada, to Chilliwack. I should have gone there thirty years ago. Dad never should have made us leave.

“Now my life is over. Sometimes I hope for death. If the state had offered the death sentence, I might’ve taken it—if I could have been executed the same day. But I didn’t want to sit in a cell for twelve or fifteen years waiting to die.

“I often think of my attempted suicides. Maybe I succeeded! Maybe this prison is the hell where I was supposed to go! Think about it. Nobody’s ever come back to describe hell. How can I be sure I didn’t die when I took those pills?

“My future is to survive, that’s all. To die an old man inside these walls. I keep trying to feel better. I polish my story. I write letters to vampire friends like Nicolas and crazy friends like Angel. I draw with colored pencils. I watch TV or take long walks on the track or lift weights or play miniature golf on our putt-putt course. I work, I visit, I play cards. There aren’t many inmates who play cribbage, though. I do miss crib. Dad and I used to have some hot games.”

 

At forty-seven Keith told a counselor that he’d stopped thinking of suicide and was beginning to feel at home with his surroundings. In his one-man cell the sharp geometric edges of the outside world began to blur and fade in his mind. Like other lifers, he stopped watching newscasts. “None of the news on that screen will ever have the slightest effect on our lives.”

In the prison society he no longer felt excluded, exiled, an object of snickers and ridicule. Nor did he tremble in fear. His size had always made him feel different, but it also afforded protection. Prison personnel reported that his inner rage seemed diminished, or under better control. He spent less time feeling sorry for himself and attacking his detractors. In some ways he seemed to be living the best years of his life.

 

Since he would never be returned to society, he was offered only token psychotherapy, but he tried to gain insights on his own. “People say I killed for no reason. I think there was a reason, but I’m not sure what it was. I keep trying to figure it out.”

He still refused to trace his sexual sadism to his great-uncle Charlie or other genetic factors. He realized that he lacked feeling for his fellow humans and regarded this as a moral defect. He was curiously impersonal about matters like sociopathy and narcissism, empathy, bonding, attachment. When he discussed such subjects, it was in terms of others, never himself. He expressed a rote sort of remorse about his victims, but only when prompted. He seemed to view the eight murdered women as minor supporting actors in the drama of his life.

The conflict with his father appeared immutable. In correspondence and conversation, he continued to refer to Les as “that prick” and “that son of a bitch.” But kinder comments revealed his ambivalence. “I still love my dad,” he said. “I love him for his talents, his sense of humor, for all the things he taught me.” He quickly added, “Dad is a fuckup to the family. I really didn’t want to be like him.”

 

On rare occasions he seemed willing to accept some blame for his crimes. Early in 2001 he wrote a friend:

Ever since I was arrested in Arizona, I’ve been denying responsibility for what I did. I blamed everybody else. Now I’m beginning to realize I had choices, and I chose wrong. Me: not others.

I guess I’m where I belong.