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Four months later, on Friday the thirteenth of January 1995, I ran into some bad luck. Not my fault—just one of those things. I was driving a plain old work truck—a dark blue 359 series Pete with a four-hundred-horsepower Cat engine—but at least the air conditioner worked. It had oversized stacks that were ten inches over thirteen feet and gave me some hard times under bridges till I hacked off five inches.

This night I was headed down Highway 76 towards Denver with a flat load of extruded aluminum under tarp. I'd just passed the Sterling exit when I heard a big “Boom!” Slabs of rubber flew through the air in all directions.

I turned off cruise control, pulled onto the shoulder and jumped out. The inside rear driver's side tire was burning like a Roman candle. I got the extinguisher and put it out three times, but it kept relighting like those trick candles at birthday parties. The brake drum glowed orange hot and I knew I was in trouble.

I pulled the pin on the fifth wheel and removed the hoses and connecting lines. Then I went to the landing gear and cranked it down so I could drive the truck out from under the load.

By the time I got into the cab, flames were licking at the underside of the trailer. I released the brakes, moved the truck a hundred feet away, parked it and set out warning triangles. As I waited for the fire department, other truckers stopped to see if they could help. I told them that there was nothing to do but enjoy the fire. After fifteen minutes the firefighters sprayed enough water on the drum to cool it off.

Now all my tires were flat and the wiring and hoses were burnt off. The seals in the wheels were burnt and leaking. I took a close look but couldn't determine the cause of the fire. Was it something I did wrong? I considered myself a great truck driver, at the top of my skills, and I didn't want any “driver error” entries on my record.

A wrecker hauled me and the burnt truck to Sterling. It took me a few days to work my way to our Fontana yard near San Bernardino, where I picked up another old Peterbilt for a load to Spokane.

A week later, on the night of January 20, the company put me up at the Ridpath, a great old hotel in downtown Spokane. I was in the lounge flirting with the barmaid when a woman walked in carrying three bags and a large purse. She was about five-six—long dark hair, pale blue-gray wolfish eyes, good figure, nice face, maybe in her midtwenties. She sat at a table about ten feet away and ordered a beer.

While she drank it slowly, I smelt her perfume and watched her as she looked the place over. She was in no hurry to check in. Motel 6 was more her style, it seemed to me.

When our eyes met I smiled and said, “Mind if I join you?” She nodded a yes and I glanced over at a table of other Systems truck drivers watching me make my move. They looked like they had a bet going to see if I would be shot down. The girl and I talked some small talk and I learned that she had just arrived in town and didn't know anybody. I took it she was broke.

The trap was set and I laid plans for the night. I was learning to be more forward with these barroom cowgirls. What was the worst thing that could happen? They could say no and walk away? So what?

After we got to know each other a little better, I said, “My company has put me up for the night and if you haven't checked in already, why don't you share my room? Maybe we'll behave ourselves and maybe not. That's up to you. I never force myself on anybody. Hell, we could start with some dinner. It's on me.”

She blinked at me like she was a little surprised and said, “Best offer I had all night! Who do you drive for anyway? What's your name?”

I told her the truth, and after she finished her beer I helped her pick up her bags. At the elevator door she took my arm like we were engaged.

In the room I turned on the TV and she went into the bathroom while I ordered pizza and a six-pack from room service. While we were eating, she told me that she was a strip dancer and wouldn't mind showing me how good she was. She took one of her bags into the bathroom and came out in a leather miniskirt. That was some tease! She had a tattoo of Tweety Bird on her ankle, giving the world the finger. She sat on my penis and we did it for the rest of the night.

 

She was asleep when I got up in the morning, so I left her thirty dollars and directions on how to reach me through the company. Then I caught the shuttle for the systems yard.

I had a little talk with the owner about my tire fire. I told him that I'd driven eighty miles at cruising speed when it blew. I'd felt no drag, and the truck was on cruise. He read a report from the mechanics and told me that the automatic slack adjuster had ratcheted up against the brake shoes and stuck. The friction caused the drum to get hot and melt a hole in the tire, and the tread burst into flames when I stopped. So it wasn't driver error. What a relief!

 

I hauled some freight to Cheyenne and made another delivery at Denver. I called our office from there and was assigned to pick up a load of railroad iron for Seattle—twenty-seven pieces, forty-four thousand pounds' dead weight. From Seattle I would take a load of cedar boards to Pennsylvania. The dispatcher said a woman named Angela Subrize had left a Spokane phone number.

I called and she asked me if I could figure out a way to help her visit her dad in a little town near Denver. I told her that I was in Denver right now but I was coming back through Spokane on my way to Seattle to drop off a load. She could stay with me in the truck for a day or two, and I'd take her to Denver on my way to Pennsylvania. She gave me directions to where she was staying.

We rendezvoused at her place and she acted thrilled to see me. As I carried her bags to the truck, she clung to my arm in gratitude. Our one night together had been good and I was looking forward to more of the same, but not tonight. I still had to drive 290 miles to Seattle, unload the railroad iron, load the cedar and turn around and head back east.

The cedar was loaded and tarped by 10:00
A.M
., and Angela and I drove to North Bend and showered at Ken's Truck Town at Exit 34 on I-90. It was starting to rain when we finished dinner with Lady Rose, a nice lady who ran a CB station that relays weather reports to truckers. She predicted there'd be snow and ice up on Snoqualmie Pass.

That meant no sleep for me. I had to get over the mountains before the state patrol made me put on chains—a bitch of a job. We cleared the pass in light snow and finally reached the Idaho border at 2:00
A.M
. Sunday. I caught my first sleep in three days.

 

Eight
A.M
. came early as my alarm sounded and Angela stirred in my arms. With her hand she made my penis jump. She aroused me fast and we played till we needed showers again.

It was after ten when we pulled out. The roads were bad and it was slow going. We reached Fort Bridger, Wyoming, at 4:00
A.M
. Sunday. At a phone booth I overheard Angela arguing with somebody on my telephone credit card. When she hung up, she said her dad didn't want to see her. Now she wanted to go to Indiana to connect with an old boyfriend.

I listened as she dialed another number and made up with the boyfriend right over the phone. Was she faking all this for my benefit? Why? You never know what these lot lizards and hitchhikers are up to, no matter how much they pretend to like you.

I told her I didn't want her anymore. “Stick with your boyfriend.”

Out in the truck she fell into my arms and enticed me with her fresh-smelling body. After an hour of sex she began to act like a boss instead of a piece of ass. “Let's get going,” she ordered. “My new husband's waiting in Indianapolis.”

“What's the big hurry?” I said. “I have to go through Indiana with this load of cedar. Don't worry. We'll get there.”

She started a long story about all the guys that took advantage of her and she thought she was pregnant and didn't know who the father was and blah blah blah….

I said, “How do you know you're pregnant?”

She said, “I missed my last two periods and I been feeling sick in the morning. Now that my boyfriend in Indiana wants me back, we'll make love over and over and then it'll be his baby.”

I can be a little slow-witted with women, but I finally saw through her shuck. “So that's it,” I said. “I guess if your boyfriend told you to get lost, you'd claim the baby was mine.”

“The thought crossed my mind,” she said. “But you're a romantic and you'd want to marry me. I never want to be a boring old married lady with a baby.”

“Basically you saw me as a free ride and a pocket full of money?”

“Hey, you enjoyed screwing me, and I enjoyed screwing you! I can't deny it, Keith. You really know how to make a woman feel great.” She started pulling up her panties and said, “We're off to Indiana!” She acted like I should be all thrilled and excited.

Women!
The whole world revolves around what they want. Sure we were good in bed together, but I could say the same about thirty others. Most of them just used sex to get their way. When my wife Rose wasn't in the mood or my old girlfriend Julie Winningham didn't want it, they'd say, “Just hurry up and get it over with.” The cruelest words! A woman is the only person that knows whether there will be sex that night. A man can only hope. I thought Angela might be different.
Wrong again, Keith.

I began to get ideas. I put the truck into gear and headed east on Interstate 80.

As we neared the Nebraska line, Angela was napping in the coffin. I kept thinking about the what-ifs.
What if I get her to Indianapolis and she doesn't want her old boyfriend? What if he doesn't want her? What if she doesn't even have a boyfriend and faked the call?
Was this just one more tactic to stay in my sleeper? Free meals, free showers and all expenses?

I groped in her purse and found pepper mace. I hid it where she wouldn't find it.

The storm had overtaken us during the night and Interstate 80 was getting slower. It was dark when I hit Laramie and started grinding up the Elk Mountain grade. Snowflakes caught in my headlights like sparks, and visibility dropped to a few feet.

I worked my way over the top and down toward Cheyenne. I saw several trucks jackknifed into piles of twisted metal. I was so tired that I thought about parking for the night. Indiana was still over two days away and at least three days in my logbook. If I got stopped by a cop or checked at a weigh station, the book would show that I'd driven too far and too fast, and I'd risk a citation.

It seemed like forever, but we finally made it to the first rest area on Interstate 80 in Nebraska. At 7:00
P.M
. I checked the tarps. I had to sleep till I stopped seeing white streaks in my eyeballs—at least four hours. I reminded Angela that I didn't have the luxury of napping while someone else drove.

I was exhausted, but she didn't want to understand. She was in a hurry to get into her boyfriend's bed. I told her that Indiana could wait for one more sleep period—“If you need to get there quicker, get on the CB radio and find another ride. I'm shutting down for a while.”

She changed tactics again. Sex, of course. I stroked into her over and over, but that only made me more tired. I was half-asleep while I was still inside her.

I pulled out and said, “Wake me in four or five hours.” She looked angry. At this point I really didn't care. I saw right through her. I was mad at her for the very thought of blaming me for her child. That's about as low as a woman can get.

After twenty minutes she yanked me awake and said, “I won't sit here one more minute!”

I rolled over and told her to shut up, but she rattled on. I'd just started to get back to sleep when she shoved against my shoulders and told me we had to leave—
right fucking now!
I kept trying to doze, and she kept waking me up.

This went on for an hour till I sat up and shoved her away. She was already dead. She just didn't know it yet.

 

I drove east to the first rest area in Nebraska and parked at the very end. I let the truck idle down and told Angela I needed to use the restroom. I stepped out to make sure we weren't being watched. Traffic was light. I got back inside.
Party time!

I ordered her to shut up and arrange the bed. When she got into the sleeper I pushed her facedown and rolled on top of her. “Get off me!” she said, thinking it was just one more stupidity by the clumsy-ass trucker.

“No,” I told her. “It's about time I get a little something for allowing you all the comforts of home.”

She whined that Lady Rose had told her I was a nice man. I said, “You're about to meet the Keith that Lady Rose doesn't know.”

I got out my duct tape and started to wrap it around her mouth. “You don't have to do that,” she said.

“Oh, yes I do.”

She said, “Listen, baby, I'll do what you want.” When I didn't respond, she said, “Just let me pray first.” She clasped her palms together and prayed to Jesus Christ loud enough for me to hear. Then she said, “You won't hurt me, will you?”

“No, I won't hurt you,” I lied.

She told me she never gave head, but I could screw her again. I nodded in approval, and she began to get into the sexual experience like we were lifelong lovers. She kissed me like she loved me and guided me in. Afterwards she climbed on top and rode me till I was half-crazy.

After my second orgasm she claimed to be hungry and asked to stop at a restaurant. I knew this trick. When we stopped, she would yell rape. It wasn't going to happen. I screwed her a third time and held her close till I came again.

She grabbed for her purse and I jerked her hand back. I said, “You were reaching for your pepper mace, weren't you?”

She yelped, “No, I wasn't!
No, I wasn't!”

I said, “It doesn't matter. I took it out.'

She said, “Oh, no!”

I told her we were going to play the death game and there was nothing she could do about it. After the way she'd treated me, she had it coming.

I shoved her on the floor of the sleeper and began to choke her. I kept up a steady pressure till she was out, then waited for her to breathe again. After the fourth or fifth time, she stopped breathing for good. It was tiring work, and I slept for three or four hours.

When I woke up, I put her body in a plastic garbage bag and set it on the mattress with her head pointing towards the driver's-side sleeper door. I wasn't sure what to do with her because she'd been seen hanging out with me for over a week off and on and she'd used my credit card to call her dad and boyfriend. She probably had a rap sheet. Her fingerprints might even be on file. I decided that I had to make her disappear completely.

I drove to a McDonald's and ordered for two. I sat in the truck and talked to her. “If you just played straight with me, bitch, you could be eating right now.” I laughed. I didn't feel remorseful at all. To me she was just another bitchy woman, better off dead.

I felt her breasts as they stiffened up. I started to get hard, but I'd had my fun already. Now that I had a full stomach, it was time to make her invisible.

I needed to be on the far side of the scale house in the morning so I wouldn't be documented. In a few hours I drove by, and the scales were closed. At Mile Marker 198 I pulled into a spot that looked dark—no other parking lights or headlights. If there was anybody else there, I didn't see them. I was going to do a magic trick and I didn't want to give away my secrets.

 

It was 3:00
A.M
. on January 23, 1995, just ten days after my truck caught fire. Angela was already starting to stink. A bad smell comes off dead skin. Not putrefaction, just a skin smell. It's unique, comes from chemicals in the body. Dead deer don't smell like that. Just humans.

I retaped her hands in front so her fingerprints would disappear first. With the truck dark I laid her stiff body on the pavement. I tied a length of black nylon rope to a cross member under my trailer, just long enough to allow her body to drag between the dual rear wheels so she wouldn't be seen from passing vehicles. I connected the rope to her ankles and placed her nose-down under the trailer. That way I could drag her backward and grind off her face and prints. I did all this in about three minutes. A few clusters of traffic passed me but didn't slow down.

I waited for another group to pass before I reentered the highway. It was a good three miles between me and the drivers in front of me. Traffic was running at about seventy-five, and the top speed of my truck was sixty-four, so I had to allow ample time to grind her to hamburger before the next cluster caught up. I did the math, and my timing was perfect. I ended up dragging her twelve miles before I slowed down to check what was left.

As I pulled over, the next cluster of trucks started to pass, and one of the drivers asked me on the CB, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I'm just stopping to get rid of some coffee. Do you want to help me?”

He laughed and said, “No, thanks.”

The cluster disappeared down the highway. With the road dark again I crawled under the trailer to see what was left of Angela. One shoulder was gone, a thigh gone, her chest was broken, guts gone, arms and hands gone up to her shoulders.

I figured that other drivers would see her body parts in their headlights and think they were roadkill. A two-legged deer! Her face was ground off to the ears—no dental work to worry about.

I dragged what was left down the bank and dumped her in twelve-inch grass about fifty feet from the freeway and ten feet inside the fence. Lights were coming my way as I got back in my cab. Another trucker checked to see if I was okay, and I stuck to my story that I stopped to wet down a tire. A cluster courteously moved over to the left as I entered the interstate.

 

At Exit 305 near Grand Island, I pulled into the back of the Union 76 station and took a short nap. When I woke up, I phoned in my hours and lied about my location so it would match my logbook and throw the cops off. Then I went outside and cleaned the rest of Angela off the truck.

I drove to Lincoln, crossed over to I-29S and down to I-70 and headed east to match what I'd recorded in my logbook. I made it look like I'd gone through Denver in case they found the body right away.
Hell, officer, I wasn't even in Nebraska
. Who could prove otherwise?

I got rid of her clothes at the Ohio Turnpike, unloaded in Pennsylvania, and picked up a new trailer with a load of frames for Denton, Texas. I'd gotten away with another murder—maybe. I was on edge again because I'd been seen with the victim. I thought,
It won't be long before I'm caught. What made me kill her? Just because I was tired and she was bugging me? What the hell kind of reaction was that?

I made me sick.