He was humble, meek even, this man who murdered his wife. The sheriff was giving me a tour of the jail and introduced me to him through the bars. I had never knowingly met a murderer before, though I have known several since.
He looked normal.
This was the first murder trial I covered as a reporter. I was 20 years old, naive. Each day, the sheriff brought this tall, lanky, quiet man into the courtroom. He was facing the death penalty. He was polite, kind.
He blew his wife's head off with a shotgun at point-blank range in front of dozens of witnesses, including policemen. She had left him because he threatened to kill her. He waited for her to get off work, forced her behind the wheel of the car while he sat behind her in the back, the shotgun against her head.
She was screaming.
It was quitting time. Factory workers poured from the doors into the parking lot. They scrambled back to call police. Some just stood and stared. He kept telling her, "Drive on, just drive on."
He wanted her back. He loved her.
She was screaming.
The cops told him to drop the gun, drop the gun, drop the gun.
He fired, they fired.
They hit him in the shoulder and as they approached him, he begged, "Don't hurt me, Don't hurt me."
He sat meekly in the courtroom.
Before he killed her, he killed her husband. She was the only witness and it was ruled accidental something or other. They built a house with the insurance money and then he said he was going to kill her.
She was tiny, tiny. Short, very slim, long brown hair.
She lost a baby while they were together. I found the tombstones the other day.
He got life in prison, and he got paroled.
She got a beautiful tombstone.
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