Aileen
Wuornos always craved fame. Long before she was hunted and caught
by Florida law enforcement, long before she confessed to killing
seven men, she told friends that she wanted to do something
“no woman has ever done before” and to have a book
about her life. Just as that life was finally ended by lethal
injection after more than a decade on Florida’s Death Row, along
came Sue Russell’s book, Lethal Intent.
Packed with exclusive material that sheds a different
light on this rare, if not unique, serial killer, Lethal
Intent contains new insights and intimate memories from
her family, friends and childhood peers. (Peers who lost their
virginities to Aileen, who began prostituting herself at a horribly
early age.)
Lethal Intent reveals Aileen's devastating
double abandonment by her mother before she was age two, the
crimes of her father, and the myriad events that helped set
her path of destruction. It even contests the widespread superficial
judgment of Wuornos as a “man-hating lesbian” via
new insights from men with whom she shared sexual and romantic
relationships. Lethal Intent also explores the dynamics
of her fateful relationship with Tyria Moore, the lesbian lover
who knew Aileen was killing yet stayed by her side, and how
those dynamics moved her closer to a life of murder. And much,
much more…
Florida, 1990
Snarling with rage, she rammed the barrel of her .22 revolver
into Dick Humphreys' ribs with such violent, malevolent force
that it broke the skin right through his shirt, roughly scraping
away the top layer of flesh.
Out of his car, he stumbled backwards in his
shocked effort to evade her. Tripping and falling, struggling
to regain his balance, back on his feet, then down again. And
thinking about dying here and now, out in the middle of nowhere,
and Shirley, and the kids… was it all going to end like
this?
Breathing hard, moving in for the kill, she'd
shot fast, aiming straight for his torso, wanting to see the
flying bullet hit home. One was never enough. He was a big guy,
too, this one. Must have been over six feet, around 200 pounds.
She pumped a second. Then a third. Later, she'd forget in a
haze of violence about the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, and
the seventh. Three of the bullets were fired ruthlessly into
the back of a helpless man, twisting, turning, trying to run.
Blood flew, spattering onto his spectacles
and his gold wedding band.
It was the day after his 35th wedding anniversary,
and he didn't die easily. An ex-police chief, an expert in hostage
negotiations, the unlikeliest of victims, none of it mattered
now as he groaned, gasping for air. He was slumped down on the
ground, right by the concrete culvert he'd stumbled over. And
still he was fighting for life. When she heard him making gurgling
noises she felt kinda sorry for him and re-aimed her pistol,
unloading the shot to the back of his head. Better put him out
of his misery.
Couldn't let him live. If he lived, he'd rat
on her. Her ass would be up on attempted murder. Her face would
be plastered all over the place. She could kiss hooking goodbye
if that happened. And then what? The only way she could make
money was to hustle.
No, she was definitely going to let him die.
Them die.
Each time it was easier. The fear, the body
coursing with adrenalin, and oh God, it felt good. She had her
prey. She had the power. She had the control.
The bastards deserved to die, anyway, she thought
bitterly. They probably would have raped her, skipped off without
paying her, tried to screw her in the ass, beaten the shit out
of her, strangled her, maybe even killed her. Maybe they had
a gun, too? Who knows what they might have done? That's how
she had to look at it.
Well, it wasn't going to happen. Now she was
the one calling the shots.
You bet, she took their cash and their stuff.
That was out of pure hatred. The final revenge. You bastards.
Dirty sons-of-bitches. You would have hurt me. Damned right,
she'd take their things. Get her money's worth.
After they were dead, there were no regrets.
It didn't bother her, what she'd done. They were old. Their
fathers and mothers were probably dead. Why worry about it?
She knew in her heart she was a good girl.
Florida, 1990
By 6:30 p.m., Wednesday 12 September, the sun was slipping low
in a vibrantly clear, panoramic Florida sky as teenagers Paul
Babb and Michael Smith pedaled their bicycles aimlessly, casually
exploring a largely undeveloped wasteland intercut with a patchwork
maze of dirt trails and paved roads, each ending abruptly in
a cul-de-sac just short of the bushes. Less than half a mile
off CR 484, just west of I-75 and Marion Oaks (a luxurious,
gated housing community with a waterfall at its entrance), they
weren't far from home, yet this was new territory to them. It
was a somewhat desolate expanse of low-lying brushland behind
a power station, unpopulated save for a sparse scattering of
houses.
Three-quarters of an inch of rain had fallen that
day, barely cooling what had been a balmy 91 degrees. It was
the prettiest, somehow laziest, time of day.
Pulling down one paved strip of cul-de-sac abutting
some farmland, Paul and Mike (seventeen and fifteen years old,
respectively) idly observed what looked at first sight like
a lumpy heap of clothing piled close to the edge of the grass,
to the left of a concrete culvert. Drawing closer, Michael was
in the lead when, wide-eyed with horror, he focused in on the
clothes.
"Come here quick!" he yelled to Paul.
"What? It's just a pile of clothes,"
Paul retorted uninterestedly.
Slowed by the sandy road, he had dismounted from
his bicycle and casually wheeled it towards his friend. He was
within a foot of the clothing before he saw just what it was
that seemed to have rendered Mike speechless. What had appeared
from afar a shapeless form came into focus as something horribly
different.
First Paul saw a man's face, framed with gray
hair, curled among the fabric. His bloody spectacles were raised
up on his forehead. The man was wearing brown trousers and shoes
and argyle socks, and was hunched forward in almost a sitting
position, his torso curved over towards his knees. His white,
short-sleeved shirt was heavily stained with blood both at the
front and on the left shoulder. Protruding from his pocket was
a Cross pen-and-pencil set. His left front trouser pocket had
been turned inside out as if ransacked. He was still wearing
his watch and his wedding ring. And he was obviously dead.
The boys' shock was followed rapidly by plain
fear. Might whoever was responsible still be lurking nearby?
Their systems pumping into high gear, they clambered aboard
their bicycles and furiously rode the two and a half miles back
to Paul's house without exchanging a word.
Michigan, 1969
In a depression in this ravine, tucked at the foot of a huge
spreading tree, sat one of a number of makeshift, fort-like
constructions, patched together from logs, tree stumps, pieces
of plasterboard, plywood and scraps. To prepubescent Aileen,
this was no playhouse, however. It was a place of business;
a hideaway where she calculatingly removed her clothes and performed
sexual acts on boys for which they rewarded her with cigarettes
or loose change. This little girl had learned at a frighteningly
early age to disassociate herself from her body; to blank off
her emotions.
Small, fair-haired and slender, this child-woman
was courted by the youth from Troy and Rochester, in so far
as they enjoyed her unusual services. But more significantly
she was constantly derided and denigrated by them, pummeling
the shaky self-esteem that lay beneath her bravado. Sought after
one moment, rejected the next. Used and cast aside.
One not so unusual night, when Aileen was twelve,
on the brink of thirteen, she slipped out from her room to keep
a midnight rendezvous at the fort with a boy called Johnny,
barely older than she. While they were coupled on the ground,
a noise from above disturbed Aileen. Looking up, she caught
sight of a trio of boys hiding in the branches of the tree spying
on them, and doing a rather inferior job of keeping quiet. Realizing
that they had been spotted, they snickered out loud. The laughter's
volume built; infectious schoolboy stuff. But as it increased,
so did Aileen's fury. Close to tears, feeling humiliated and
badly betrayed, she started pulling on her clothes and backing
away from the fort, but, not yet content, the descending boys
harassed her further. They even had the gall to shout at her,
noisily demanding a refund on Johnny's behalf as if he were
a dissatisfied customer at K-Mart. As she ran off into the woods,
she could hear the sound of their laughter pealing out behind
her.
Florida, 1987
She hinted around the subject of killing, tantalizing rather
than revealing. Never came right out and admitted to killing
anyone herself, or even to witnessing any murders. Just sat
there with a kind of smug smile, repeating her claim that she
knew about some murders no one else knew about. She also bragged
how tough she was and said she knew her way around weapons.
When she ran with the biker gang, she was into a lot of violence.
The beer supply was drying up and Lee (Aileen's
lifelong nickname) was anxious to replenish it. There were people
who owed her money, so she didn't have any cash right now: could
Paul loan her some?
"You know I work in the store and it doesn't
pay," he hedged, not liking this turn of events. "I
don't have but a few dollars on me."
"Give me what you've got," she said
aggressively.
"No, ma'am. I have to live till pay day."
"Don't give me that bullshit you don't have
any money. What are you afraid of?"
With his refusal to comply, the so-called interview
took a vicious turn. Lee grew belligerent, calling him ugly
names and using foul language.
Paul tried to steer the conversation back onto
the presumably safer ground of the autobiography she wanted
him to write for her. Privately, he'd already decided he wanted
no part of it. He didn't want to deal with her, let alone write
about her.
Making his excuses, he edged towards the door
with Lee still pushing for money. By the time he walked away
from the Carnival, she had somehow talked him out of ten bucks.
That left him just five for himself.
"I'll bring it into the store in a couple
of days," she promised.
"Fine."
"What are you going to do about the writing?"
"I'll be in touch," Paul lied, more
than happy to write off the ten bucks to experience. He decided
this must be her pattern. Hitting people up for cash. He counted
himself lucky to get off so lightly. But he still felt rattled.
It had been an upsetting, disturbing encounter and he wanted
to forget it as quickly as possible.
Predictably, he didn't see his money again, but
he did see Lee a few months later, bumping into her back in
the store. He was then dating one of the staff (who later became
his wife) and had just stopped by when Lee appeared in the company
of a homely-looking, much older man. The fellow was perhaps
in his late sixties and behaved as if he thought he'd struck
pay dirt with her.
Lee ran up and down the aisles, gathering beer
and stacking it on the counter, giggling merrily. Then she went
over to her companion and held out her hand, and he pulled out
a wad of bills. Paul was alarmed. She then scampered over to
another aisle and returned with a pack of condoms, which she
waved, teasingly, under the man's nose. He looked happier than
a clam. He paid for everything, then they took off in his beaten
old van.
Paul agonized over what he'd seen. During their
evening together, she had not mentioned prostitution. But she
had mentioned violence. What was going to happen to that old
fellow? Was she going to rob him blind? He thought hard about
calling the cops and debated it with his girlfriend.
"I know what they'll tell me," he fretted.
"They'll say, 'Nobody has committed any crime. Forget it.'"
He had talked himself out of doing anything.
But Lee's ambition to have an autobiography burned
on, undimmed. She talked to another writer and clipped and carefully
saved those questionable advertisements that run in the backs
of magazines, enticing amateur hopefuls with messages like,
"Looking For a Publisher" or "Be An Author."
One day there'd be a book about her.
TRACKING
THE WOMAN WITH DEATH ROW EYES
Sue's Journey: The Writing of Lethal Intent.
Would the eyes of Aileen ‘Lee’ Carol Wuornos
Pralle, accused serial killer, be a window to her soul? I’d
waited 9 long months to see for myself the woman apparently
destined to be the first female ever to fit the FBI’s official
criteria for a serial killer. Back on December 5, 1991, I finally
got my chance.
Lee almost sashayed, pale but smiling, into
a Florida courtroom, pausing to toss a jaunty wave at the one
friendly face in the gallery. (Not mine. That of her adoptive
mother.)
Her wrists remained shackled during the
hearing which ultimately determined that the panting press would
get their hands on her truly chilling videotaped confession.
In it, she almost casually told detectives how she’d shot to
death 7 men on the Florida highways.
She wore a grey cardigan pulled over her
regulation jail-issue orange jumpsuit, her thin mousey hair
yanked up in a scrawny ponytail. She didn’t look much like a
killer. Then again, who does?
Propelled by a deep, widely-felt fascination
with what could possibly make a woman kill and kill again (women
are nurturers and lifegivers, right?), I was researching her
life for a book.
Lee broke the mold of women who killed multiple
times. Historically, they were black widows who bumped off husbands
or lovers. Or professional caregivers who murdered those in
their care: babies, young children or the elderly and infirm.
Poison was often the weapon of choice.
Wuornos had apparently, in male serial killer
fashion, pumped bullets into total strangers. Her victims were
men she picked up seemingly in random fashion, either by tossing
out a damsel in distress routine (saying her car had broken
down) or offering sex. The dead men cannot tell. She robbed
them and left them to rot in out of the way spots. She was an
enigma.
And her eyes seemed important. Arlene Pralle,
a married, born-again Christian, horse farmer adopted 36-year
old Lee just months after first corresponding with her. She’d
been so moved by Lee’s eyes staring out of a newspaper she wanted
to reach out and hug her. She described her as warm and compassionate,
saying, "I knew in my heart she wasn’t a serial killer."
Billy and Cindy Copeland, who’d lived in
a neighbouring trailer to Lee and her lesbian lover, Tyria Moore,
liked Lee but always believed she was dangerous. Billy said
Lee had "death row eyes."
They couldn’t both be right. A victim who
couldn’t hurt a fly. Or a cold-blooded killer. Which was it?
Wuornos’ actual culpability was hardly in
question since she confessed soon after being arrested in January
‘91 on an old gun charge. She confessed because the police enlisted
the services of her ex-lover (and one-time fellow suspect),
Tyria Moore. Ty, in a series of taped phone calls, coerced Lee,
who still loved her, into spilling the beans to save her own
skin.
When Ty, a short, hefty redhead with a truckdriver’s
gait, took the witness stand to testify against Lee, Lee snuffled
into a hanky. She was devastated by the sight of her lost love—not
to mention the knowledge that Ty had sold her out. Ty stared
straight ahead.
The two women had finally been identified
months after witnesses saw them leave a car wreck: the car belonged
to missing 65-year old missionary, Peter Siems. (Lee confessed
to killing him, but has been unable to remember where she left
his body.)
Ty was not in Florida for at least one of
the murders and although she had dead men’s belongings in her
possession when police found her in Pennsylvania, they believed
her claim not to have been involved with any of the murders
and she was not charged with any crime. (It didn’t hurt that
she helped them hook Wuornos.)
Among the men Lee admitted to killing. Child
welfare worker Dick Humphreys, a 56-year old ex-police chief
who’d celebrated his 35th wedding anniversary the day before
his death. 50-year old sausage salesman and much-loved granddad,
Troy Burress. 40-year old Charles Carskaddon, who was en route
to visit his fiancee when Lee put 9 bullets into him, pausing
to reload.
Who were the victims? The 7 dead men, of
course. But Lee claimed to have shot her attackers only in self-defense.
Was she a victim, too? Perhaps, but she was also guilty. 12
jurors made that determination when in January ‘92, they handed
down the first of her 6 death sentences.
Getting inside Lee’s head was a necessary
but unpleasant emotional rollercoaster. On my repeated trips
to Troy, Michigan where she was born on Leap Year’s Day, 1956,
empathy reigned. She’d been on a doomed path since birth. She
was abandoned by her mother, Diane, not once but twice in what
doctors say are the first crucial couple of years of life.
She never knew her father, but she had his
genes. An unsavoury convicted child molester who was once declared
insane, he ultimately hanged himself in prison.
Diane’s alcoholic parents adopted Aileen
and her brother Keith, raising them as their own along with
Diane’s siblings, Lori and Barry. The grandfather had a fearsome
temper and abused Aileen and Keith verbally. There were beatings,
too, but the extent of them was contested by Lori and Barry.
There was voluntary incest with Keith (just 11 months her senior),
who died of cancer at 21. Aileen briefly alleged sexual abuse
by her grandfather, then promptly withdrew the accusation.
I was and am convinced she was sexually
abused somewhere because I learned that by 11 she was selling
her body to boys in neighbouring towns for 35 cents cigarette
money, earning herself the nickname ‘cigarette pig’. There was
an old man nearby who paid her for sex. And after she got pregnant
at fourteen, she sometimes named him as the baby’s father. Sometimes
she said she was raped.
Lee’s son was adopted at birth and is out
there somewhere, blissfully ignorant of his serial killer mum.
In Michigan, the picture of Lee, the misfit,
fleshed out. She’d had an isolated, virtually friendless childhood
not aided by terrible, uncontrollable temper tantrums. Her grandparents
were unwilling or unable to reach out to her, and a school counsellor’s
urgent warning that she needed help fell on deaf ears.
In her teens she was a slave to drugs and
alcohol. She shoplifted and repeatedly ran away from home and
from the juvenile halls to which she was duly sent.
Talking to the boys (now men, of course)
whom she deflowered while an adolescent, Aileen’s pain became
almost palpable to me.
Florida, where she moved in the late ‘70’s,
held a very different emotional journey, not least because it
housed most of the families devastated by Lee’s year-long killing
spree. Nice people whom she’d robbed of their loved ones, then
rubbed salt in the wounds by maligning the men’s characters.
Tracing her footsteps, I uncovered a trail
of increasingly antisocial behaviour. Most disturbing were clues
that Lee had long ago set her heart on having a book written
about her life. She was determined to do things no other woman
had done before.
Ty’s friend Cammie Green, with whom Ty and
Lee lived when they embarked on their 4-year lesbian affair,
told me she believed Lee had planned the whole affair.
Meanwhile Lee, ensconced in jail, revealed
herself to be unappealingly remorseless, demanding and money
hungry. She wanted to be paid for press interviews and watched
her clippings like a hawk. "A killing day," she said, was just
about the same as any other day.
And she grandly reprimanded warders who
didn’t afford her the deference she felt she deserved, saying:
"Don’t you know who I am? I’m Aileen Wuornos of television."
Her victims, she unendearingly claimed,
got what they deserved. Their families had better understand
that. By then, I knew most of those men through their families.
It was impossible not to be enraged by her.
By the time she came to trial for the murder
of 51-year old VCR and TV repair shop owner Richard Mallory,
Lee’s confession’s references to self-defense had blossomed.
After her arrest, she’d told detectives
Mallory was "gonna try to anal screw", and that he "started
getting violent with me, so we’re fighting a little bit and
I had my purse right on the passenger floor."
In that bag was her loaded .22 revolver.
Once she began shooting, she killed. If she hadn’t, the men
would have come after her and identified her. At times, she
said she deserved to die.
At her trial, her description of her encounter
with Richard Mallory had become one of brutal rape and sodomy,
involving wrists tied to his car steering wheel and rubbing
alcohol squirted into her brutalised body orifices. This new
version was gripping but unconvincing, full of contradictions.
And psychological experts testified she knew right from wrong.
Naturally, the prosecution made much of
the fact that if she had been attacked thus, wouldn’t she at
least have gone home and told Ty?
Instead, as Ty testified, Lee casually announced
she’d killed a man that day. She came home with some of his
belongings, sat on the floor, drank beer, seemed okay, and made
no mention of any brutality.
Mallory, the defense inferred, was into
porn, strip joints and hookers. An ex-girlfriend had said in
a police interview that Mallory told her he’d spent time in
an institution for attacking a woman, but the jury didn’t hear
that. It seemed, the defense couldn’t substantiate her claims.
But as Lee sat on death row in Broward Correctional
Facility with death sentences over her head and another penalty
hearing looming, a TV news show uncovered the fact that Richard
Mallory did indeed have a record for a crime he committed as
a juvenile. On that alone, many speculated that Wuornos might
get a new trial for his murder. It didn’t happen. After years
of hearings, in 2001 she asked to drop all further appeals and
to proceed to execution. She also finally admitted that none
of the killings was in self-defense—she killed in cold
blood.
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