Read Online Cruel Death by M. William Phelps - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: M. William Phelps
Tags: Non-Fiction
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the base.
“They were swerving and Beej sees a cop, so he’s afraid they’re going to get pulled over, plus he wants the rush,” Erika said. Not to mention that he was living up to his true SEAL reputation of protecting your fellow men at any cost.
BJ got into the left lane of a two-lane, thirty-five-mile-an-hour road. His plan was to make himself noticed by the cop—BJ was heading straight into oncoming traffic.
“All the cars coming toward us,” Erika explained, “are going into the trees and bushes and onto the other side of the road.” By this point, BJ was pushing the Audi to speeds of 125, 130, Erika insisted.
The cop was close behind.
Erika was screaming, “Slow down . . . Beej,” tightly gripping the dashboard. “Stop, you’re going to kill us.”
Then she peed in her pants.
And grabbed the keys out of the ignition, which slowed the car instantly, thus propelling her head against the dashboard.
BJ was convicted in a Norfolk, Virginia, courtroom on a variety of charges. But, because he was a SEAL, some later asserted, he was given a slap: community service.
This was one of the only times, Erika remembered, that BJ had ever gotten caught.
Erika finished this portion of her interview with a story that spoke to BJ’s bigotry and staunch hatred toward any other race besides his own. They’d be driving around, Erika explained, and BJ would say, “Hey, let’s go shoot us a nigger.”
“What?”
“No one will ever know.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ve got to kill someone,” BJ told his wife, “where there’s no motive.”
BJ was saying that it was the toughest murder for investigators to solve because there was really no reason for the person to have been killed.
“Let’s go down to the ghetto,” he continued saying to Erika, “and shoot us a nigger. It’ll be really fun.”
“No! I want to go home. Let’s go home.”
Erika admitted that there was a time when she and BJ liked to snort cocaine. It was approximately the end of the year 2001, when she and BJ went out one night to buy come coke. They were in Altoona. BJ found some woman, Erika explained, and made the buy.
When they got back to the apartment and set up the lines, BJ was the first to snort.
The coke burned his nose something terrible. Made him cough and choke.
It was Ajax. They had been ripped off.
BJ couldn’t let it go, Erika said. He had to do something about it.
BJ left the house. Went to the “cement store,” Erika said, “and bought a big . . . five-gallon” bucket of acid.
In order to see if the acid would indeed melt away the drug dealer’s body after he killed her, BJ took one of the rats they fed to their snakes. He placed the rat, alive and kicking, inside the acid bath. There was a smile on BJ’s face, Erika said.
A day later, the rat was just about completely gone.
16
Control Freaks
Erika called home one night in 1999 after she met BJ. She wanted to speak to her dad. According to Mitch, Erika explained that she and BJ were thinking about getting married.
“Erika,” Mitch explained, “why would you ever do that? You’ve known him for what, a few weeks? Why would you even consider doing that, honey?” Mitch was perplexed. This wasn’t the daughter he knew. “If you’re that intent on getting married, live with him for a while and find out who he is.”
Mitch’s astute point was centered on the notion that you not only have to love someone to get married, you also have to like the person. You don’t marry someone because you have fallen in love with him. People fall in love every day. And people also fall out of love every day.
That old cliché has some wisdom to it: get to know each other first.
“No, I won’t do that. I won’t live with someone without marrying him,” Erika said sharply, subtly using religion as an available crutch to go through with something she obviously had already done.
And that was the end of the discussion. Mitch never heard
“They were swerving and Beej sees a cop, so he’s afraid they’re going to get pulled over, plus he wants the rush,” Erika said. Not to mention that he was living up to his true SEAL reputation of protecting your fellow men at any cost.
BJ got into the left lane of a two-lane, thirty-five-mile-an-hour road. His plan was to make himself noticed by the cop—BJ was heading straight into oncoming traffic.
“All the cars coming toward us,” Erika explained, “are going into the trees and bushes and onto the other side of the road.” By this point, BJ was pushing the Audi to speeds of 125, 130, Erika insisted.
The cop was close behind.
Erika was screaming, “Slow down . . . Beej,” tightly gripping the dashboard. “Stop, you’re going to kill us.”
Then she peed in her pants.
And grabbed the keys out of the ignition, which slowed the car instantly, thus propelling her head against the dashboard.
BJ was convicted in a Norfolk, Virginia, courtroom on a variety of charges. But, because he was a SEAL, some later asserted, he was given a slap: community service.
This was one of the only times, Erika remembered, that BJ had ever gotten caught.
Erika finished this portion of her interview with a story that spoke to BJ’s bigotry and staunch hatred toward any other race besides his own. They’d be driving around, Erika explained, and BJ would say, “Hey, let’s go shoot us a nigger.”
“What?”
“No one will ever know.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ve got to kill someone,” BJ told his wife, “where there’s no motive.”
BJ was saying that it was the toughest murder for investigators to solve because there was really no reason for the person to have been killed.
“Let’s go down to the ghetto,” he continued saying to Erika, “and shoot us a nigger. It’ll be really fun.”
“No! I want to go home. Let’s go home.”
Erika admitted that there was a time when she and BJ liked to snort cocaine. It was approximately the end of the year 2001, when she and BJ went out one night to buy come coke. They were in Altoona. BJ found some woman, Erika explained, and made the buy.
When they got back to the apartment and set up the lines, BJ was the first to snort.
The coke burned his nose something terrible. Made him cough and choke.
It was Ajax. They had been ripped off.
BJ couldn’t let it go, Erika said. He had to do something about it.
BJ left the house. Went to the “cement store,” Erika said, “and bought a big . . . five-gallon” bucket of acid.
In order to see if the acid would indeed melt away the drug dealer’s body after he killed her, BJ took one of the rats they fed to their snakes. He placed the rat, alive and kicking, inside the acid bath. There was a smile on BJ’s face, Erika said.
A day later, the rat was just about completely gone.
16
Control Freaks
Erika called home one night in 1999 after she met BJ. She wanted to speak to her dad. According to Mitch, Erika explained that she and BJ were thinking about getting married.
“Erika,” Mitch explained, “why would you ever do that? You’ve known him for what, a few weeks? Why would you even consider doing that, honey?” Mitch was perplexed. This wasn’t the daughter he knew. “If you’re that intent on getting married, live with him for a while and find out who he is.”
Mitch’s astute point was centered on the notion that you not only have to love someone to get married, you also have to like the person. You don’t marry someone because you have fallen in love with him. People fall in love every day. And people also fall out of love every day.
That old cliché has some wisdom to it: get to know each other first.
“No, I won’t do that. I won’t live with someone without marrying him,” Erika said sharply, subtly using religion as an available crutch to go through with something she obviously had already done.
And that was the end of the discussion. Mitch never heard
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