Dangerous Ground by M. William Phelps

Author:M. William Phelps [Phelps, M. W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2017-06-21T04:00:00+00:00

25

SATAN’S WHISPER

“We are each our own devil, and we make this world

our hell.”

—Oscar Wilde

JESPERSON WAS ALWAYS ASKING ME ABOUT “THE BOOK.” WHEN WAS I going to write his book? You know, finally tell the world about the Taunja Bennett case and all of those corrupt law enforcement officials. This was the drum he beat—constantly.

“You’re my last hope for the truth to come out.”

“You mean your truth?” I said.

“I guess.” He paused. “You’re not ever going to write a book about me, are you?”

“I said I would. I am a man of my word, even if that promise is to a serial killer.”

As we got to talking over the next few weeks, I opened up a bit, explaining that, at times, despite all the horrors he’d shared with me, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking of him as another person I’d spoken to or interacted with throughout my day, not the vicious psychopath he is, and these feelings were bothering (and weighing on) me. I couldn’t reconcile being friends with a serial killer, liking him in the least, or thinking there was another side to him. There was no way to explain the way I felt. I’d kept my feelings from everyone I knew. And yet, for some reason, here I was telling him.

“You have been a highlight to me for over three years,” he said. “I look forward to our talks.”

I knew this. Beyond all the groupies he’d acquired, his cellies, those in the general public who wrote to him, he depended on my friendship. I was there for him in more ways than being his storyteller. I’d never sent him money. He’d never been paid for Dark Minds. I would put twenty-five dollars, here and there, on his telephone account so he could call me on my cell phone. And even though he’d send those irritating subscription postcards that fall out of magazines (prompting me to buy him one), a commissary checklist of all the goodies I could purchase for him, I’d given in only one time and purchased a magazine (fishing), which I did not renew. He had plenty of money. He made, on average, sixty-five dollars a month working. A woman in Texas sent him forty a month, “just because”; a woman in Michigan was good for twenty-five to fifty every month; a woman in Australia, twenty dollars; a guy in Wisconsin one hundred dollars “every few months”; in addition to receiving random money orders from twenty to two hundred dollars periodically from all over the world. He’d check his account and find fifty here and twenty there from people he didn’t know. The trimmings of being a serial killer with a household name, I reckon.

“A guy from Spokane wants to come in and see me soon. He’s gay—he’ll probably be good for one hundred dollars a month when he decides to be a better friend,” Jesperson said. “I don’t play gay. I’m straight and he knows it. Call me a whore, Phelps.” He laughed.

Part of me understood those wanting to know him because he’s famous.

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