Baby Be Mine (11 page)

A group of men formed a tight circle around Gunn, taunting and battering him as others raced inside the school in search of a ladder. When it was found, they propped it up on the side of the school building.

Men dragged Gunn up the rungs to the rooftop. Angry hands ripped off shingles to expose the rafters beneath. Chains wrapped around the beams and around the terrified Raymond Gunn.

On the ground, frenzied men siphoned gasoline from the cars at the scene. A chain of men passed the containers of lethal liquid from hand to hand across the schoolyard and up the ladder. On the roof, other men splashed the flammable liquid on the loose shingles, on the exposed beams and on
the body of the black man accused—but not convicted—of raping and murdering a white woman.

Gunn pulled his body into as tight a ball as the chains would allow. The match was lit. The flames soared. Smoke swirled into the country sky. One witness said that Gunn had passed out before the pyre was lit. Another said Gunn waved to the crowd before he died. But no one was deaf to his wails of agony. And everyone inhaled the reek of gasoline fumes and the stench of burning flesh.

After ten minutes of burning, the roof collapsed. The remains of Raymond Gunn fell down into the school and landed on top of a desk in the classroom below.

In Maryville, sixty National Guardsmen stood at the ready awaiting orders to leave the armory. Those orders never came.

Thousands of participants and spectators made their way home. They would claim that they were never there. Velma's students were transferred to other classrooms in the area. The Garrett School was never rebuilt. It became a site in a new high-tech treasure hunting—adventure geocaching. Participants used GPS coordinates posted on the Internet to locate a cross-country network of sites. In 2004, items placed in this cache included a 1930 S dime left in memory of Velma Colter.

Lethal violence shattered the serenity of the farmland again. To all appearances, 37-year-old Bill Taylor and his 38-year-old wife, Debbie, were a typical couple struggling to earn a living from their land. They had two children, Doug and Lori.

In the spring of 1994, Debbie visited counselors at Catholic Charities seven times. She spent her time in those sessions wrestling with personal demons, but never once indicated that she had any marital problems. Nonetheless, Bill was certain that the relationship was all she discussed.

He managed to convince himself that his marriage was in serious trouble by the time summer rolled around. His fear
gave significance to Debbie's smallest actions. He worried when he observed Debbie standing next to the high school janitor that she stood too close. He worried about the underlying meaning behind Debbie's purchase of the first two-piece bathing suit she had ever owned. His paranoia created a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Anxiety brought out an edgy, argumentative side to Bill. He raged at petty slights. He hurled accusations. When words failed to release his anger, he lashed out with a shove, a slap or a punch.

Although he was tearing apart the very marriage he wanted to preserve, Bill grabbed at opportunities to make things better. He told a friend he was working to win a contest. If he could sell enough bushels of seed corn, he would win the prize of a cruise for two. Bill said he desperately wanted to give his hard-working wife the vacation she deserved but he could not afford to give.

The farmer counted on winning that sail into the sunset to save his failing marriage. When he didn't, Bill pushed Debbie even more. On November 9, he and Debbie had a heated discussion about the possibility of separation. Bill fell asleep that night determined to find a way to avoid divorce at any cost.

He woke in the morning with a plan. Out in the barnyard, he killed one of the cats. He placed its carcass in front of the doorway to the shed housing his combine. He called Debbie over and pointed to the animal as he climbed up into the combine. While Debbie examined the dead body, Bill put the monstrous piece of farm machinery into gear. The massive weight rolled over his wife, crushing the life out of her body. The impact threw Bill from the machine, causing serious injuries to him as well.

The Taylors' son Doug called the Nodaway Sheriff's Department and reported a combine accident. Bill was rushed to the hospital at the Heartland Regional Medical Center in St. Joseph. Debbie was transported to the morgue.

At autopsy, Dr. Michael Berkland determined that Debbie
died from severe internal bleeding and crushing trauma. He also noted that some of the cuts on Debbie's face predated her lethal encounter with the farm equipment. Dr. Berkland's finding raised the specter of past domestic violence.

Sheriff Ben Espey visited Bill in the hospital on Sunday, November 13. He didn't want to go—not for the reason he was there. Espey grew up with Bill and his brother Wayne and considered both men his friends. But duty called and the sheriff set his personal feelings aside.

He read the Miranda Rights out loud to Bill, taking great care not to skip a word or forget any important phrase. When the sheriff finished reading, Bill nodded his head. Espey handed his friend a waiver form. Bill signed it—tossing aside his right to have an attorney present at his questioning.

Espey placed a tape recorder on a table between himself and Bill and said, “I'm gonna record this and it's gonna go to the prosecutor.” He pressed the red
RECORD
button and began his interrogation. Before long Bill confessed that it wasn't an accident—he knew what he was doing when he ran over his wife.

The next day, the Nodaway County prosecutor charged Bill with second-degree murder in the death of Debbie Taylor. Missouri Attorney General Jay Nixon amended the charge in December, raising the bar to first degree. At trial, Bill Taylor was found guilty and sentenced to life behind bars without a chance of parole.

Two acts of violence drew attention to another small town in Nodaway County—Conception, Missouri, originally named Conception Junction. The town of 202 was situated less than twenty miles southeast of Maryville—about thirty miles from Skidmore.

In 1972, Benny Kemper was 15 years old. He didn't have any friends, but he did have a serious crush on Honnie Merrigan. Honnie's brother Billy was in Benny's class. He teased Benny about his infatuation with his sister and belittled his fellow classmate with the typical insensitivity of an adolescent.

On the night of October 10, Benny grabbed a flashlight, a seven-inch knife and a .22-caliber bolt-action rifle from his home. Tonight, he decided he would kill Billy Merrigan.

He crossed an open field near his home and walked a quarter of a mile to Billy's house. When he arrived, no one was home. He crouched down in the darkness to wait for the family's return. Alone with his thoughts, the mind of Benny Kemper turned darker than the night that surrounded him. He reached the conclusion that if he wanted to get away with the murder of Billy, he would have to kill Billy's parents, too.

The Merrigan car pulled into the driveway at 10:40
P.M.
Once the family was inside, Benny sliced the phone line and slipped into the basement. He ducked into the shadow of the stairway and listened to the family prepare for bed. The hollow sounds of footsteps on floorboards stopped. The voices above his head stilled. He gave them a little more time to fall asleep. Then, he crept up the steps.

Tension jumped in his stomach. His breath escaped with a stuttering sigh. He made his way to the first-floor bedroom of Billy's parents, Marion and Kathleen Merrigan.

He held the flashlight next to the barrel of his weapon and raised them both. He flipped the switch on the light illuminating Marion's face. He pulled the trigger and shot straight into that face—hitting Marion square in the nose. Pulling the trigger that first time was hard, “but after the first one, it was easy,” Benny said.

After killing Marion, he swung his rifle to the right and aimed it at a terrified Kathleen. She could feel the warmth of her husband's spattered blood on her skin. Every other inch of her body felt the chill of fear. Benny shot her twice in the head.

Adrenaline coursed through Benny's body. He wanted to race up the stairs to the second floor, issuing a primal scream as he ascended. He tamped down the urge and took the steps one at a time with uncommon stealth.

Benny eased open the door to Billy's room. Billy was
awake, sitting up in his bed. Before Billy's mind could comprehend the image before his eyes, it was over. Benny shot him three times.

Awakened by the gunfire, Honnie stumbled out of bed and raced down the hall to her brother's room. Benny turned the rifle on her and herded her back to her own room. She begged for her life.

“I won't kill you,” he said, “if you take off your clothes.”

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.