Luggage By Kroger: A True Crime Memoir Read online

  "Catherine," I said, "you know that thing came from somebody wanting bail or something, and you just took it without asking questions."

  "I bought it," she insisted. "There's been a mistake."

  "Let's forget the TV for now," said Lloyd. "I'll buy you a new one. I want to know how we resolve this problem. We need a truce, or somebody might get hurt."

  We all looked at Catherine. Finally she pointed at me and said: "You have to take it all back. I want the tape from Special Crimes. And I want you to go up there and tell Don Stricklin you're crazy. I want you to say, 'Don, I'm so sorry. I didn't know what I was saying the other day. I was just so upset because my wife loves some other man, and he shot her telephone. And, now I realize I've taken my anger out on Catherine, who has done nothing. Don, I am the one who is crazy. I take it all back.' Make a tape of that, and then get the other one back, and give it to me. That's what you have to do."

  "That's not going to happen," I said stoically. But I was laughing on the inside, impressed with her bluster. In spite of the troubles Catherine had injected into my life, I still enjoyed her tirades, even while I had become the prime target.

  "Catherine," said Strong, offering a compromise and looking like a clown in that helmet, "the tape has no meaning until you give it some. It will sit over there turning to mold if you just walk away and forget about it."

  "I can't forget about that," she said, looking to Lloyd for support. "I can't have something like that laying around in my past for somebody to pull out and play whenever they want. Lloyd wouldn't stand for that either."

  At this point, she had no knowledge of the Exorcist Tape made by Strong. She only wanted the tape of my statement about our relationship. I could only imagine her rage if she ever learned Strong had taped her meltdown with Stricklin, Carpenter, and me as an audience. The threats echoed in my head: He has to beg for my mercy.

  Lloyd shrugged his shoulders on her demand, and I agreed that she had a point. Lloyd wouldn't want the cops to hold a statement like that on him, and, if he thought he could win, he probably would file a suit to order my tape seized and destroyed. But, I figured, too, that he wasn't in the mood for the kind of crusade required to fight Special Crimes.

  "This is all so silly," Catherine said. "If we lived in Los Angeles nobody would bat an eye over a broken umbrella. They'd just call us normal."

  "Don't forget the suitcase," said Strong. "That's the one the gorilla couldn't destroy."

  In return, he received the Medusa. To his credit, Strong didn't even blink. And he didn't turn to stone. Lloyd realized his mediation had disintegrated and stood up apparently ready to leave.

  "So that's it?" he said, looking first at Catherine and then at me.

  "I think we settled it," I said. "There's nothing else to say as far as I'm concerned."

  "We'll see about that," Catherine said, and they walked out the door.

  FORTY

  December 5, 1979

  "Gary, there's been a serious mistake," Don Stricklin was saying in an afternoon phone call to my desk in the press room. "That stolen TV? Turns out it wasn't stolen. Our investigator miscopied the serial number while he was over at Strong's. It has to go back. Can you come over to my office?"

  "Sure," I said. I pulled on my jacket and headed for the district attorney's office building, wondering why I had been summoned for this. I hadn't reported the television stolen. But I thought maybe there was something else. And I figured I needed to keep Stricklin in my corner. The last week since the visit from Catherine and Lloyd Oliver had been fairly quiet. We had received calls from Catherine at first and tape recorded all of them, delivering the tapes to Stricklin first thing each day. Sometimes she talked so long without stopping that we would take turns sleeping with the receiver on the floor and her just yakking away. I wanted to record any further threats, but she hadn't made any. Instead, she talked about her emotional trauma and apologized for frightening me.

  I had to admit her new attitude was softening me. I had started to question my actions, particularly the betrayal to Special Crimes. Although I thought it had been a wise move, it still left me feeling weak and embarrassed—as if I had run to the principal after some bully had grabbed me in the schoolyard. I wondered if I hadn't overreacted to her tantrums and tried to relive them in my mind to determine if they had really been so threatening. She talked violently, of course, but I began to wonder if Catherine really wasn't about 80 percent bluff. One of her attorneys later would describe her to a magazine writer as someone with a "felony mouth and a misdemeanor mind." I never mentioned my second thoughts to Strong because I knew he's just play that Exorcist Tape again and show me the suitcase.

  A couple of days before Stricklin's call, another of her attorney pals had paid me a bizarre visit in the press room. He had handled her estate case against the Tedesco family and obviously was considering an appeal of the jury's rejection of her claim as the widow. I had only met him briefly one time before, but he sat down beside my desk to chat just like old friends. He said he wanted to share some advice and learn what I might say if I were called to testify about Catherine in a retrial.

  "All I can ever do is tell the truth," I told him.

  "That's all we would ask," he said. Then he got up to leave while I shook my head.

  As I arrived at Special Crimes, I was startled to see Catherine also walking to the door. She had a wide grin on her face and spoke to Stricklin as he opened it.

  "I'm here to confess," she said with a chuckle.

  "I'm waiting," said Stricklin.

  "I am the head of all illegal activity in Casablanca," she replied, repeating a Sidney Greenstreet line from that classic film. I smiled, and Stricklin grunted.

  "Can't we get it a little closer to Houston?" he asked.

  She changed the subject and pointed at me. "I want him to personally carry that TV down to my car and put it inside."

  "Fuck that," I said. "I didn't have anything to do with them taking your TV. I don't even know why I'm here right now."

  Stricklin shrugged his shoulders and looked at me. "She said she wasn't going to take it unless I got you to personally help load it up. Would you help me out here? I'll even help you carry it down there."

  Obviously licked on this debate, I grabbed one end of the 25-inch Sony and helped carry it to the elevator. We followed Catherine out to the curb, where she unlocked her red Cougar and opened the back door. We slid it onto the seat. Stricklin thanked me and went back to his office, after I reassured him I would be all right talking with her on the street.

  "Catherine, I know we have had our problems, but I am really sorry about this television fiasco," I said. "I had absolutely nothing to do with it."

  "Nothing?" she purred. "You can't really say that can you? Didn't you get it started by running to Don Stricklin and Jerry Carpenter? But I know it happened because I can't control my temper. I know I have to work on that. You're not used to someone like me, a woman who stands up for herself. I understand."

  Her eyes sparkled in the afternoon sun, and she tilted her head with a mischievous, cocky grin across her face. I had to agree with at least some of what she had said. I paused, and she stared at that huge television in her back seat.

  "Now, how am I ever going to get that into my new apartment? Do you have any ideas?"

  Forty-five minutes later I was lugging that Sony into the living room of the duplex apartment I had helped her rent at 1723 Kipling. I sat it down on a chest and looked around. She indeed had been busy. The place had a couch, books, lamps, stereo, and a rug on the floor. She had made it into a home. And she read my mind.

  "Yes," she said, "I have to thank you for helping me find this place. I love it. It's so close to the office, and I have so much privacy. Just living here the last few days has given me a whole new outlook on life and how lucky I am."

  She sounded like that first Catherine I had met, the ambitious professional in complete control. She had become again the woman who attracted me with her
humor and spunk.

  "Gary, I have experienced an awakening. I am really going to get my life in order and focus on my practice. You got me that murder case and I appreciate that…"

  "Catherine, please, you got that yourself. I just introduced you to Edd. I don't want you telling people I used my position to help you get an appointment."

  She waved me away and laughed, saying, "Whatever, whatever. Don't worry about that. You still introduced me, and I am grateful for that kindness. And guess what? I'm going to have a Christmas party right here in this apartment to celebrate my rebirth. I have to show people I'm still in there slugging. What do you think? Will you come?"

  "Sure," I whispered, without considering the consequences. After twenty years or more to reflect on the events of this day, I'm still not sure why I did what I did next. I'm sure that Cindy's reconciliation with Uncle Al had left me a little depressed and vengeful. I'm sure the television fiasco had left me vulnerable, foolish, guilt-ridden, and confused about the single-minded behavior of my allies at Special Crimes. I'm sure a lingering spark of attraction had flickered into a small fire within my soul as she talked about her new attitude and the Christmas party. Most of all, I'm also sure I was extremely horny, and she looked exceptionally sexy. Perhaps it was a combination of all those certainties. Perhaps it was something else I'll never understand. But whatever it was, I decided then to give our relationship another try.

  "I tell you what, Catherine," I said. "Why don't we get away from everybody tonight? I'll rent a room at the Holiday Inn and we can have dinner there. We can talk about the future and maybe find a way to move forward without killing each other."

  "You're serious?"

  "If we do that, can you promise me that I'll be safe? Can you promise me that if I fall asleep I will wake up in the morning?"

  She nodded vigorously, panting and mimicking a cute puppy waiting for a walk. She put her arms around my neck and we kissed. That kiss was more passionate than ever before. And later, at the Holiday Inn, the sex was hotter than ever before. We had fried shrimp from room service and played with the tails. We split a bottle of champagne. I halfway expected to die that night, but I was beginning to feel like I didn't care. Cindy had hired her own lawyer, and our divorce showed signs of growing contentious. It felt like Catherine was all that I had. I felt like I owed her something for all that trouble. She wanted me to be her escort for the Christmas season. She said we should try it out. That way, she'd have a date for the lawyer parties around town, and she could show everybody I had no reason to fear her. I hoped maybe she would meet someone else in the days ahead and decide to dump me if I exposed her to such opportunities. I hoped we could find some way to separate peacefully, and, somewhere down the line, she could even become a chum who would share some drinks and tell some jokes. I knew I had always managed to get along with a wide range of people. Why can't I do that with her? I asked myself. And she assured me that once the holidays had ended, I could walk away if I wanted. And nothing would happen.

  "Have you had your period, yet?" I asked.

  "Yes, false alarm," she said.

  "You don't have to worry about that any more with me," I said. "I've had a vasectomy."

  "No more diaphragm?"

  And when I woke up the next morning unharmed, I realized I had accepted a new mission with her. I expected another blowup likely would come and considered the idea of a long-term relationship delusion. But I also realized I enjoyed her company in more ways than one. I knew I could have a good time with Catherine during the holidays while I looked for a peaceful solution. I viewed her as a box someone had placed in my hands. When I looked inside, I saw that it held sticks of dynamite. At that point, I had two options. I could throw it to the side and try to outrun the explosion. Or, I could set it down gently somewhere along the sidewalk and just walk away. I was hoping I'd be able to do the latter.

  Sure. And monkeys were about to descend from heaven with sacks of gold for everyone on earth.

  FORTY-ONE

  December 8, 1979

  Three days after our reconciliation at the Holiday Inn, Catherine asked for help. She couldn't explain on the phone. She just said to be ready to ride with her somewhere and suggested I wear jeans. It was Saturday night and Catherine showed up about seven in the Cougar with some guy in the passenger seat. At first I hesitated when she told me to hop into the rear. Then I figured, "What the hell?"

  "Meet Kenneth," she said. He pivoted in his seat and gave me a big smile. I noticed one of his front teeth was missing, and I could see he probably had a couple of inches on me. He looked like he'd be a rough customer if her plan involved teaching me a lesson with Ken as the professor. I knew he was not one of her attorney pals. But I really didn't feel too nervous. I believed I had bought some time at the Holiday Inn.

  "What's going on here?" I asked.

  "Well," Catherine purred with a chuckle, "I have to take somebody back to jail. He's a bond client who disappeared a couple of weeks ago. I know he's over at some apartments in Spring Branch tonight. I wanted to take along some muscle. Since I couldn't find anyone qualified in that category, I guess you two will have to do. Ha!"

  Kenneth looked at her and started laughing. Then he looked at me.

  "So, Kenneth, how do you know Catherine?" I asked.

  He shrugged his shoulders and Catherine intervened, saying, "Oh, you might say I've handled some legal work for Kenneth. That about the size of it, Kenneth?"

  "That's right, Cathy."

  Catherine growled and snapped at him, chiding, "Nobody calls me Cathy. Nobody."

  "Sure, sure, I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

  I tried to change the subject and asked Kenneth his occupation. He told me he worked as a carpenter. Then he beckoned me forward with his forefinger. I pulled myself over the seat to see what he wanted just as he jerked a seven-inch hunting knife from his cowboy boots.

  "Whoa," I screamed, rocketing back into my seat. Catherine glowered at him, but he laughed.

  "Don't worry," he said, flipping the blade into his palm and offering me the handle. "You should take this?"

  "Huh? We're going somewhere I might need that? If I take your knife, what will you use?"

  Kenneth beckoned me forward again and this time he came up with a .357 Magnum in his hand.

  "Take the knife," he said. "That's our last option, anyway. He'll never get past this."

  Catherine started shaking her head back and forth and clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. I had no intention of even touching the knife for fear of leaving fingerprints on a weapon that might have come from a crime.

  "You know, Kenneth," I said, "I think I'll just take my chances. In fact, to tell you truth, if we get in a situation where I need a knife like that, I'll probably just run."

  "Suit yourself," he said, and slid the knife back down the side of his boot.

  Catherine muttered, "Oh brother, this is going to be some kind of mess with you two. Leave that gun in the car."

  I must have chuckled a bit too loudly as I watched Kenneth sulk in his seat like a grade schooler dispatched to time-out because Catherine turned her attention to me.

  "And you," she said, glancing into the rearview mirror, "don't try any of your reporter bullshit where we're going because that bullshit is really weak. If we have any problem, they will take your press card, or whatever you have, and just shove it up your ass."

  "Yes m'am," I said, saluting. I wanted to reflect a courageous demeanor but that knife sincerely had me worried. I realized this could grow strange real fast with that yokel in the front seat trying to play hoodlum, and I planned to vanish at the first sign of trouble. We rode in silent darkness into Spring Branch, a suburban community just west of Houston that boasted an enclave of apartment complexes catering to young blue-collar types. I usually got confused trying to find apartments in those things, but Catherine pulled right into a parking space and led us along a sidewalk bordered by crepe myrtles and waxed-leaf ligustrums, t
hen straight to the base of a wrought iron staircase. She pointed to the balcony on the second floor, where we could see lights and activity through the window of an apartment.