Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
The four-hour drive to the state prison gives me time to reflect on many things.
I downloaded a few true crime podcasts about my dad’s killing spree.
I often listen to podcasts when I’m researching a client’s life as someone has already completed most of the work and usually, they’re speaking with the celebrity.
When I’m listening, I make a list of questions to ask to expand what I’ve heard in the podcasts.
I want to know all the nitty gritty and background to the stories because there’s always more the clients can tell.
The true crime podcasts horrify me as they are often victim impact statements.
The broadcaster goes through the records of the case and then speaks to the relatives of the dead, which I find very disturbing.
The last one I’d copied to my phone was by an FBI behavioral analyst. It is an actual interview with Barnes.
The interview must have been recorded not long after his trial for the attempted murder of my mother.
My mom’s brave testimony sealed his fate.
Hearing his voice makes me sick to my stomach.
“Mr. Barnes, thank you for speaking with me today.” The FBI agent’s voice is confident and professional. “I’ve read your case files and I’m interested to know the reason why you were accused of raping and murdering twelve women and convicted of raping another and leaving her for dead.”
“They tried to prove that in court but I was pronounced not guilty.” Barnes pauses for a beat.
“The thing is, everything they said is true, but I can’t be charged again now, can I?
That last one was a mistake. Unlucky thirteen, huh?
Look where it got me.” Barnes chuckles. “Have you noticed how many women paint themselves and dress in tight clothes exposing their cleavage and long legs?” His conversational tone is deep and charming.
He doesn’t sound like I expected. “Every one of them is advertising for a man. Am I right or am I right?”
“I can’t comment on that but why would that make you want to murder them?” The FBI agent’s calm voice comes through the speakers as if they’re both sitting in the vehicle with me. “I’d like to understand what makes you different from other men.”
“I’m no different. Every man has the same urges when he sees a woman dressed that way. They advertise and we respond. It’s what men do.”
I pause the playback to get my breath. My heart is pounding so hard.
I search in the distance for a gas station or roadhouse.
I need to take a break. There’s nothing for a few miles so I push away my fears and try hard to be objective as if I’m doing research.
I press play and I’m back in the room with them.
The interviewer hasn’t missed a beat. She isn’t afraid of him and I figure she should be.
“If every man murdered a woman he found attractive we’d all be dead.” She clears her throat and there’s a rustling as if she’s crossing her legs. “Is there a reason why you need to kill them?”
“They advertise, give you the come-on and when you respond they say no and push you away. I don’t like being pushed away.”
“Does this make you angry and lash out?” The FBI agent keeps her voice even and calm.
“Do you know how many doctors have asked me how it makes me feel? As if they don’t understand when I know darn well they do. They’re men, aren’t they? Well, most are. You’re the first female shrink I’ve seen.” His chains clink. “I hope you come again.”
“I’m not a shrink.” The FBI agent moves around and the sound of her clothes rustling is evident.
“I’m a behavioral analyst. I research the reasons people are the way they are and offer advice on how to deal with problems. I’m what used to be called a profiler.
Now, go on, tell me what you feel when you murder someone. Do you look back and regret anything?”
“No man likes to be rejected and I don’t believe a woman, once she’s advertised, has the right to reject a man.
” There’s a long pause and I stare at the silent screen in my vehicle.
Barnes drops his voice. “Yeah, I do regret not killing the last one. They wouldn’t have caught me. My DNA wasn’t on record.”
My hands shake on the steering wheel. This man could be my father and he’s talking about murdering my mother. I can’t stop listening. No matter how difficult, I must know the truth.
“I’ll ask you again. How does killing make you feel? Do you kill in a fit of anger?” The FBI agent clears her throat. “I find it hard to believe you kill women and don’t feel anything.”
“Now let me ask you a question.” He sighs. “How does it make you feel when you’re eating a slice of your favorite pie or savoring a glass of the finest wine? Does it make you fly into a rage?”
“No. It makes me feel relaxed, happy and contented.”
“There, you’ve answered your own question.
” Barnes’ handcuffs clink on the table. “I enjoyed it so much, I’d act like a pig to make them reject me.
It became like the candy you craved as a kid.
All week, at school, waiting for the bell to ring so I could go to the store on Fridays and my pa would buy me a candy bar.
I’d eat it slow to make it last. The women and killing them were like that candy bar. ”
“You say you craved them but tossed them away like trash on the side of the highway. Don’t you ever think about them and what you’ve done?”
My skin crawls as I hear his snort. He is laughing at her and playing a cat and mouse game. His voice is so smooth and conversational. It’s hard to grasp that he is talking about murder.
“I enjoy them at the time but when I’m done, it’s like eating the candy.
I toss the wrapper.” His voice becomes darker.
“Do you think about the burger wrapper you tossed in the trash? It’s the same thing.
You enjoyed the burger, so why think about the trash?
It’s self-explanatory and you seem like a smart woman. ”
There’s a rustle of papers before the FBI agent speaks again.
“During your trial, you said you couldn’t remember most of the women you were accused of murdering, although you didn’t deny meeting them. Why is that?”
“When I go to a restaurant and have an enjoyable meal, I recall the name of the restaurant and go back often.” Barnes chuckles. “Not so much the others. Some of them are imprinted in my mind and I can recall them just fine. Others are like cold pizza.”
I stop the recording, unable to go on. I need to compose myself.
The man I’m meeting, the person who fathered me, is a monster.
How he sat there calmly describing the women he murdered as if they were fine wine or cold pizza chills me to the bone.
I carry his genes and it frightens the hell out of me.