Baby Be Mine Page 9

  Honnie forced her fumbling fingers to perform the everyday—but now difficult—task. She stood before him naked. Her body shivered from exposure and intense anxiety. Benny leered at her. Honnie closed her eyes and lowered her head.

  Benny turned and stepped toward the door. Honnie grabbed a piece of her discarded clothing and started to put it on. Benny swung around. Startled, Honnie froze. Benny emptied his rifle into her body.

  Four dead. Only one member of the family remained. But the oldest daughter, Sue, was out of Benny’s reach. Away at college, she was the only family member to survive that night.

  The next morning, Benny boarded the bus to go to school. When the driver pulled up in front of the Merrigan home, Benny said, “They won’t be coming to school today.”

  Benny was arrested and tried as an adult. He was sentenced to four 45-year terms—180 years in all. Yet, he was eligible for parole in 1982. His appearances before the parole board since then came often. Kathleen’s sister, Marge Wolfer, attended every hearing to argue against his release. Billy insisted he was a changed man. The parole board disagreed. Thirty-three years later, he was still behind bars.

  Three decades after Kemper killed four members of the Merrigan family, a lone gunman struck Conception again. On June 9, 2002, 71-year-old Lloyd Jeffress attended the 10:45 A.M. service at the First United Methodist Church in Kearney, Missouri.

  The next day, he drove through the peaceful, rolling cornfields of northwest Missouri. High on a knoll sat Conception Abbey, a Benedictine monastery. The centerpiece of the thirty-acre campus was the beautiful Romanesque-style Abbey Church dedicated in 1891.

  At 8:35 A.M., Jeffress pulled his green Chevrolet Cavalier into the visitors’ parking lot. He stepped out of his car wearing blue work pants and a blue baseball cap. He carried two boxes into the Basilica of the Immaculate Conception. Placing the packages on a table, he opened them with feverish haste. From one he retrieved a MAK-90 assault rifle. The butt of the gun was sawed off—the raw end covered with duct tape. From the other, he pulled out a .22-caliber Ruger.

  The armed man walked through a doorway into the monastery. There at the end of the hall, he encountered Brother Damian Larson, meteorologist and groundskeeper of the abbey. Jeffress raised his rifle.

  Brother Damian raised his hands. He shouted, “No! No!” Then he crumpled to the floor.

  Jeffress walked up to Brother Damian’s prone form. He aimed his rifle again and put a bullet through the monk’s head.

  Abbot Gregory Polan was working in his office when he heard the sound of a gunshot. At first, he thought it was the sound of a window crashing and rushed into the hall to find and assess the damage. Other monks stepped out of their offices and joined him. Then they heard more loud sounds. This time, they recognized the noise as gunfire.

  The abbot said, “Go and take cover and lock yourselves in the rooms. I’m going to call 9-1-1.”

  Back in the hall where Brother Damian’s body lay, Reverend Kenneth Reichert and Reverend Norbert Schappler opened the door to their office and poked their heads into the hall. Jeffress shot Reichert in the stomach and then shot Schappler once in the groin and again in the leg. Schappler crawled into the office and called 9-1-1.

  Another monk darted into a doorway and shut it behind him. Jeffress raced after him, but the door was locked and he could not get in.

  The gunman headed back to the basilica. He met 85-year-old Reverend Philip Schuster on the way. He shot Schuster twice and pressed on.

  Jeffress took a seat in a back pew. He laid down his assault rifle. He put the barrel of the Ruger into his mouth. The thirty-two angels decorating the sacred sanctuary smiled down upon him. Jeffress pulled the trigger and died on the spot.

  Two of the wounded monks survived the rampage. But Brother Damian and Reverend Schuster were dead. The abbey grounds crawled with uniforms. Even the United States Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms was called to the scene. They removed a suspicious package the size of a shoe box from the back seat of Jeffress’ car.

  The ATF agents, with an assist from the Olathe Fire Department, exploded the box. Inside was nothing more than fishing equipment and instructions from a shooting range.

  Everyone knew who committed the massacre but no one really knew why. Authorities showed Jeffress’ driver’s license photo to each individual at the abbey—every monk, every visitor, every lay employee. Not one of them recognized the man.

  Relatives suggested that Jeffress was angry with the Catholic Church for the way he was treated after his five-year marriage ended in divorce in 1959. The Church issued annulment papers dissolving the union in 1979.

  It was more than twenty years since that final chapter of Jeffress’ marriage ended. A search of his apartment uncovered no indication that he was obsessed with the Church or haunted by a long-simmering lust for revenge.

  All the authorities had was a loner who at the age of 71 committed suicide after raining carnage down upon a serene refuge in Nodaway County.

  As horrific as all these crimes were, the one act in Nodaway County that for decades defined the area to outsiders was the vigilante killing of Ken McElroy. But after the turn of the millennium, a sequence of violent murders inflicted on one generation of the Stinnett family in Skidmore overshadowed the county’s entire history of homicide.

  15

  Born in the late fifties, Becky Harper grew up in Skidmore, swaddled in the arms of small-town America. The turmoil of the 1960s that upended many households only grazed Becky’s childhood. Aside from all the traditional holidays, the highlight of every year was the excitement of the annual Punkin Show.

  In her senior year of high school—1975-1976—Becky met Cheryl Huston and made a friend for life. When Becky became engaged to Buck Potter, Cheryl helped her pick out the wedding dress, threw her a bridal shower and helped in the planning for the big day. And, of course, Cheryl was Becky’s maid of honor.

  Becky’s twentieth birthday was May 12, 1978. Her wedding day was May 13. For weeks before the ceremony, Cheryl teased that she would kidnap Becky and whisk her away from the wedding.

  After the church service in Clearmont, Missouri, Cheryl got her chance. Outside the sanctuary, Becky realized she’d left behind the clothing she planned to put on at the reception after she took off her wedding dress. Cheryl snatched the clothes, grabbed Becky and off they went.

  Cheryl stopped along the way at the A&W convenience store. There, a giddy Becky traipsed through the aisles in her wedding gown. Buck had to drive up Highway 71, across the state line into Iowa and enter the reception hall in Clarinda all alone. He worried that his new wife would be a no-show. After a few laugh-filled detours, Cheryl delivered Becky to the reception.

  Buck showed no inclination to follow the community standard of holding a steady job to support his new wife. As a result, that burden fell on Becky. In the fall of 1980, Cheryl got a job at her parents’ store, the B&B grocery, where Bo Bowencamp was shot by Ken McElroy earlier that year. The bond between Cheryl and Becky intensified as they worked side by side.

  Cheryl thought Becky was the hardest working, most organized and most giving person she had ever met. “There’s not a selfish bone in her body,” she said.

  In late 1979, Becky became pregnant with her first child. Unfortunately, that pregnancy ended in a miscarriage that broke Becky’s heart. In early 1981, Becky was pregnant again. The first few months were nerve-wracking as Becky prayed she would not lose this baby and feared that she would miscarry again.

  When it looked like she’d carry this child full-term, Becky was jubilant. Cheryl threw her a baby shower to celebrate. Becky’s daughter Bobbie Jo was born on December 4, 1981—the same year Ken McElroy died in the streets of Skidmore. She was Becky and Buck’s only child.

  Bobbie Jo was born with a cleft palate—the fourth most common birth defect in the United States. A cleft palate or cleft lip affected one in every 700 newborns.

  It was a congenital problem caused when the opening in
the roof of the mouth between the two sides of the palate did not fuse as it should during the development of the fetus. A child born with this condition required a coordinated battery of services including possible surgical procedures, specialized dental care and speech therapy; Bobbie Jo underwent surgery to correct it when she was two years old.

  The cleft palate was not the only obstacle to Bobbie Jo learning to speak clearly. Severe ear infections affected her hearing and inflicted excruciating pain on the little girl. When months of medical treatment did not alleviate the problem, Bobbie Jo endured another surgery to put tubes in her ears.

  Bobbie Jo was a winsome child just the same. Even her difficulties in speech brought smiles of remembrance decades later to those who knew her when she was small. One of her mispronunciations engraved deep in Cheryl Huston’s heart was the recollection of Bobbie Jo saying, “I want to sit in the miggle,” when she wanted to squeeze between her mother and Cheryl.

  Bobbie Jo was a small child when her father moved down to Texas, leaving his family behind. After a short separation, Becky and Bobbie Jo joined him there. The reunion did not last long. Buck did not provide for his wife and baby, and didn’t pay much attention to them either. Becky gave up on the relationship and returned to Skidmore as a single parent.

  She needed a paycheck to support herself and her little girl. Unfortunately, employment opportunities in Skidmore were very limited. Cheryl told her mother Lois that she’d give up her own job at the store if her mom would rehire Becky. Lois worked out a plan that enabled her to employ them both.

  Becky and Buck’s divorce was final in 1985. By the time Bobbie Jo stepped into her teen years, her mother had married again. Bobbie Jo’s half-brother Tyler was born when she was 13 years old.

  Bobbie Jo was a shy child for most of her life. In the fifth and sixth grades, she was ridiculed a lot because of her slowness in speech. Many of her school friends still cringe at the memory of their childhood cruelty to Bobbie Jo.

  She underwent a dramatic change, though, when she entered Nodaway-Holt High School in Graham, Missouri. It was as if she emerged from the cocoon of her introversion, leaving the obstacles of her childhood behind. She gained a large measure of popularity and success with ease.

  She joined the 4-H club, became a cheerleader, worked on the school newspaper and yearbook and excelled as an honor student. She loved riding horses and got tremendous enjoyment from barrel riding. Bobbie Jo’s special rapport with animals was a great asset for her in this beat-the-clock sport where communication between horse and rider and the agility of both outweighed any need for brute strength.

  Barrel racing was an event of graceful simplicity—one woman, three barrels, a horse and a ticking stopwatch. Bobbie Jo—decked out in a long-sleeved shirt, heavy-duty jeans, sturdy roper boots and a cowboy hat—sat astride a Western saddle and guided her animal through the course of barrels.

  In the traditional configuration, the barrels form a triangle. In Texas style, they were set in a straight line. Riders streaked their horses as close to these obstacles as possible to shave seconds off their time. Knocking over a barrel earned a five-second penalty.

  Some young women were drawn to the sport by their keen sense of competition. Bobbie Jo, though, derived most of her gratification in the union of herself and the horse—the two working together to achieve a common goal.

  Romance galloped into Bobbie Jo’s life, too. She and Zeb Stinnett grew up in the same neighborhood and knew each other from childhood. In high school, their casual acquaintance grew into a serious relationship. The two were inseparable. Zeb graduated and got a job at the Kawasaki plant. Kawasaki was a major employer in Nodaway County and its large facility sat on a hill high above the town of Maryville.

  Bobbie Jo graduated in the spring of 2000. Her mother beamed with pride as Bobbie Jo received her diploma. Cheryl Huston stood by Becky’s side sharing the joy of the moment.

  In April 2001, Bobbie Jo got a job at Earl May Feed and Supply just off State Highway 71 and in the shadow of the looming Kawasaki plant. Most of the year, it was a part-time position, but she worked full-time hours during the busy seasons.

  She was a dream employee. Her supervisor, Chuck Ellis, said she was dependable and flexible—always willing to fill in when another employee was out sick. She wasn’t the kind of worker who needed to have a list prepared for her by her boss. She knew what she had to do and took the initiative to get it done. If she finished her own work, she helped out with other projects and made every minute of her time on the job productive.

  Bobbie Jo enjoyed gardening and made the effort to develop a knowledge base on all the store’s products. More than for gardening, though, she had an intense love for animals. That passion drew her into the pet corner. She was happiest at work when feeding the small pets—she even liked cleaning the cages and aquariums. Soon, Chuck gave her the responsibility of ordering the fish and small pets-bunnies, guinea pigs, gerbils, rats, mice, finches, doves, cockatiels and parakeets—for the store.

  She was quiet, but upbeat—more of a caretaker than a salesperson. She allowed customers to browse unimpeded, but whenever there was a question about one of the critters in her care, she shared her bottomless bounty of knowledge about each one.

  She often talked to Chuck and her coworkers about her desire to breed rat terriers. Soon, her dream was a reality named Happy Haven Farms. Her first dog, Tipsy, a 7-year-old white-and-brindle piebald female mini, delivered her first litter on January 17, 2002. From those puppies, Bobbie Jo kept a white-and-red brindle male named Twister. He was an affectionate pup with a passion for chasing squirrels.

  Bobbi Jo loved Tipsy—she was her first dog and the symbol of a dream fulfilled. She heaped praise on her little dog on her website:

  She is so intelligent that she can convey exactly what she’s thinking or feeling to you and you know it.

  Tipsy’s second litter arrived on March 7,2003. From this group of five, Bobbie Jo kept Belle, a white-and-brindle female who Bobbie Jo wrote was “a true athlete“—able to jump five feet straight up from a standing position. Belle was a natural for agility competition.

  Bobbie Jo had a dog-lover’s philosophy in breeding:

  Our dogs are bred as house pets first and foremost as we live, sleep, and play with our dogs . . .

  She also knew that it was a serious business:

  they are bred to excel as well in hunting, conformation (UKC or NKC reg’d pups only), as well as performance events (weight pull, agility, obedience). Our litters are planned up to 2 years in advance and the potential parents are picked over to maximize their good qualities, as well as vet checked prior to each breeding. We offer our puppies to GREAT homes only.

  She was quite particular about who adopted her puppies. Each prospective owner filled out an application. The two-page form requested details about the number and ages of the people in the household, whether the home was rented or owned and how much time each day would be devoted to their new pet. She also wanted to know if the applicant had ever euthanized an animal and why, and whether or not puppy obedience classes were planned.

  In no time, Bobbie Jo earned the respect and friendship of many in the rat terrier community. Quite a few other breeders contacted her for advice on a regular basis. Her forte was the genetic factors involved with the breed—her interest in this area was fueled by her awareness of the congenital aspect of her own birth defect. Her emails were full of technical language and the percentages of lineage overlap. Many swore by her recommendations for good breeding pairs. She was an acknowledged expert on the genetics of the breed—but Bobbie Jo never presented herself as the final word on rat terrier breeding. A common phrase in her messages offering advice was “as I learn more.” She was modest about her expertise, but others found her remarkable. They felt she knew as much as a studious breeder with decades of experience.

  The hereditary factors determining coat color in puppies was of particular interest to Bobbie Jo. She was determined to produce
a reliable line of brindle-colored rat terriers even though that coloration was not recognized by some of the registries. In fact, it was considered a disqualifying flaw by some. Bobbie Jo loved that coloration, though, and her goal was to change the perception and gain acceptance of it. She had a focus in her mission that went well beyond her years.

  A fellow rat terrier fancier in North Carolina, Dyanne Siktar, had a similar interest, but she focused on the pearl coat color. The two exchanged many emails and talked on the telephone about their enthusiasms. Having never met face-to-face, Dyanne developed her own mental portrait of Bobbie Jo. Because of the wealth of knowledge she possessed and her soothing and mature-sounding voice, Dyanne assumed she was in her fifties. She was quite surprised later when she learned how young her fellow breeder really was.

  In April 2003, Bobbie Jo resigned from her job at Earl May to accept a higher-paying position at the Kawasaki plant. She married her childhood sweetheart, Zeb Stinnett, on April 26, 2003, in the old stone sanctuary of Skidmore Christian Church.

  The original congregation met in a building dedicated in January 1895. A newer building erected on the same site in 1928 was where the couple exchanged their vows. Reverend Harold Hamon officiated over the service. Betty Nelson baked and decorated the wedding cake and played the piano for the ceremony. A beaming Bobbie Jo—dressed in white—clutched her grandfather’s arm as he walked her down the aisle.

  The newly weds rented a small bungalow on Elm Street—just a couple of blocks from Newton’s corner. All the money Bobbie Jo made from her rat terrier business was stashed away as the couple worked to fulfill their dream of buying their own home.

  Zeb’s step-grandmother, Jo Ann Stinnett, remembered Bobbie Jo as a sweet and considerate young woman. Zeb drove a new blue Mustang with a big booming, bass sound. He loved to ride down country roads feeling the beat of the music vibrate in the steering wheel beneath his hands. When they pulled into the driveway of Zeb’s grandparents’ home, Bobbie Jo always made him turn it down. She knew the amped-up sound would disturb Zeb’s ailing grandfather Babe.