Through the Window (9 page)

An ambulance raced him to the emergency room again on March 18. Once again, he was shaking, but it was worse than before. His speech was slurred, he had spasms in various muscles and his stuttering was uncontrollable. This time, his medications came under suspicion. They changed his prescriptions to 25 mg Elavil, an anti-depressant, and 80 mg of Inderal SR for hypertension. Later, they enhanced his pharmaceutical soup with the addition of 50, then 100 mg of Mellaril, an anti-psychotic, and 25 mg of Valium for anxiety.

In custody, Sells was a model prisoner. There were no disciplinary actions taken. He completed the 265-hour course in “Professional Barber-Styling.” He worked in the leather shop and as an outside trustee at the Wyoming
Honor Conservation Camp, a forestry center. In January 1991, he was released from custody. He wandered off again, first to Colorado and then back east to Florida.

IN Marianna, Florida, on December 9, the Christmas season kicked off with the traditional annual parade. Twenty-five-year-old Teresa Hall was there with her daughter, Tiffany. The 5-year-old clapped her hands, laughed and thoroughly enjoyed the passing musicians and entertainers. Her biggest thrill was Santa Claus.

The little girl was exhausted from the excitement of the evening—ready to sleep with sugarplums dancing in her head. Her eyes were drooping by the time they reached their Village Road home in a semi-wooded rural area in the unincorporated town of Cypress. The railroad tracks that traveled from Jacksonville through the panhandle and out of the state were just one hundred feet from their door. Teresa prepared Tiffany for bed, looking forward to putting her feet up and relaxing a bit after a long day.

Then, their front door was kicked in, exploding dreams of Christmas into a shattered night of violence. The invader raged through their home, knocking obstacles out of his way. He lifted a table over his head and smashed it to the floor, splintering it, splitting it in two. He jerked a leg loose and brandished it as he approached Teresa. He bludgeoned her to death with blows that fractured her skull. Then, little Tiffany suffered the same fate. The killer fled the home still clenching the leg of the table in his balled-up fist.

TERESA did not report to work at the New Beginnings Clothing Shop in Marianna the next day. Linda Schack, owner of the store, tried to call her at home. The phone rang unanswered all day, so she called Teresa’s mother, Charlotte Mitchell.

Angus Mitchell, Teresa’s stepfather, went to check on the family. His heart sank when he saw the damaged door. He entered with great trepidation and discovered the two battered bodies bathed in blood.

A few minutes later, Brian Hall, Teresa’s husband and Tiffany’s father, returned home from a trip to Quitman, Georgia, where he had worked a carpet-laying job for the last two days. Once Brian’s alibi was verified, the police had no suspects and no answers for the bereaved family.

Angel Maturino Resendiz would come under suspicion after his apprehension by Texas Rangers in 2000. Resendiz, dubbed “the Railway Killer,” had been linked to a string of murders occurring near railroad tracks across the south. Sells admitted committing the crimes; authorities, although suspicious, are uncertain.

ON March 14, 1992, Tommy Lynn Sells was arrested in Charleston, South Carolina, for public drunkenness. He received a thirty-day suspended sentence. On April 2, he was arrested again on the same charge. As soon as he was released, he left town. The mountains of West Virginia would next embrace Sells. Their rugged, primitive beauty fueled his next act of violence.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

FABIENNE Witherspoon felt pretty confident of her ability to take care of herself at the age of 20. At five feet, eight inches, with a solid athletic body, she had a physical advantage many women lacked. Her attractive, oval-shaped face, with dark brown, nearly black eyes, had just enough of an edge of toughness that no one could ever accuse her of being cute. Thick, curly brown hair fell below her shoulders, its uninhibited style suggesting a streak of wildness lying just beneath the surface.

On the 13th of May, she was house-sitting at 906 Grove Avenue in Charleston, West Virginia. It was an ordinary middle-class neighborhood where bad things normally did not happen. That day, she had only one worry on her mind as she walked a few blocks to the Women’s Health Clinic for a pregnancy test.

On her stroll back to the house she was feeling benevolent toward the world, relieved at the negative result of her test. She saw a man in his mid-twenties with uncombed, matted hair, intriguing eyes and scruffy clothing at the corner of Washington Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. He held a sign that read, “Hungry. Will work for food.”

He spun a tale of misery and woe in a softly beguiling voice with a barely Southern accent. Below his plea for pity lurked a scintilla of dangerous flirtation. He told her his name was Tommy Sells. He said that he and his wife lived under a bridge, and his children were so very hungry. A wave of compassion welled up in Fabienne, tinged with a drop of sexual attraction. She brought him to her home to scrounge up what she could. Once there, she grabbed
two black trash bags. Into one, she threw graham crackers, Cheerios, scalloped potato mix, vanilla wafers and more until the bag bulged. Into the other, she stuffed folded, clean clothing. She smiled at him and asked if he needed anything else.

“My wife really needs some underwear,” he said.

Fabienne went into the back bedroom to find a few pair. As she turned from the chest of drawers, there he was, right behind her. And in his hand was a knife from her kitchen. Her gullibility gleamed on its blade.

Sells brought the knife to her throat. “Take off your clothes,” he demanded.

She hesitated, but the cold blade of the knife under her chin jerked her into action. With fumbling fingers, she removed her shirt and unfastened her bra. She kicked off her shoes and pushed off her socks with the toes of her opposite foot. She reached for the waistband of her pants, and froze.

Sells clenched the knife between his teeth, pushed her hands away and pulled down her pants. As soon as he started to remove his clothing, Fabienne’s eyes looked away, riveting to the floor. Then, he shoved, smacked and threatened her into the bathroom and down to her knees. At the point of the knife, she took him into her mouth.

He pushed her back on the floor, spread her legs and penetrated her vaginally. Fabienne just lay there, praying he would finish, just finish and leave her alone—wondering all the while how she could have been so stupid.

He stopped, rose to his feet and ordered her into the shower. There, he inserted his fingers inside her, making her wince. Then he brutally penetrated her again.

He shoved her out of the shower and onto her knees, once more demanding oral sex. Please, please let this end, she thought.

He jerked her toward the toilet and made her bend over. She felt the pressure of the head of his penis against her anus. She spotted a ceramic duck on the back of the commode, and, grabbing it, smashed it into his head. Shards of duck flew around the bathroom and she pummeled him
again and again with the remains of the figurine.

In the struggle, she got a hand on the knife and wrested it out of Sells’ control. She stumbled out of the bathroom and toward the front door. But, he was on her again, manhandling her into the bedroom. She stabbed him. He grabbed her wrist and regained possession of the knife, jabbing at her. She jumped back and received a deep slice across her skin, but now, she was in control of the knife.

They wrestled through the bedroom, alternating control and exchanging stabs, cuts and blows. Finally, he got her down on the floor and got on top of her. He strapped her wrists and ankles together with Scotch tape. Then he secured the bindings by tying strips of sheets he ripped from the bed over the tape.

He raised an antique piano stool over his head and beat her scalp and body without mercy. The blows were so hard, the seat broke loose from its base. He made a half-hearted attempt to slit her throat, but by this time, he was in a panic. The cut he inflicted there only required three stitches.

He grabbed a VCR and a boom-box and made his escape. He left behind the gifts of compassion, an overflowing bag of clothing and an equally stuffed bag of food.

AS soon as Fabienne regained consciousness from the blow to her head, she fought her way out of her bonds. She wrapped herself in a blanket, picked up her portable phone and rushed outside, trailing Scotch tape in her wake.

She called 9-1-1. Her descent down her front steps left a trail of dripping blood and crumpled tape.

“I have never seen a person alive with so much blood on her,” said Sergeant Richard Westfall of the Charleston Police Department.

Before leaving in the ambulance, Fabienne told investigators that the man who had assaulted her was Tommy Sells and that he slept by the river.

Sgt. Westfall processed the crime scene with Detective H. S. Walker while Detective Rollins and Lieutenant Epperhart searched the riverbank for suspects. Sells was not
an unknown quantity to the criminal investigation division. He had been observed for four or five weeks holding a sign at the corner of Quarrier and Clendenin Streets. In a short time, Detective Carl Hammons had an address for their suspect. He and Westfall went to 833A Bigley Avenue and questioned Sells’ former roommates, Curtis Sizemore, Rebecca Gibson and Karin Pamela Young.

When the officers initiated the questioning, they were certain that they were talking to one man and two women. They were wrong. Karin Young was not a woman. By the end of the interview, they knew. Karin was a transvestite whose transformation was so complete and convincing, he fooled two men with extensive vice experience.

When Sells had first met Karin, he was deceived as well. So much so that the first time he was intimate with Karin’s sister, Gina, he had a moment of doubt about her, too. “I’m going to put my hand down your pants, and if I find anything there that shouldn’t be, I’ll kill you,” he’d told her. He said it was a joke. He said Gina thought it was very funny.

Curtis, Rebecca and Karin told the investigators that Sells had come to the apartment about 5 o’clock. He told them he was bleeding from a fight, but was not going to go to the hospital. While there, he had removed his shirt and stuffed it in a garbage bag. Westfall retrieved the shirt and bagged it as evidence.

When asked if they knew where Sells had gone, Curtis volunteered that he had taken him to the place where Sells had been living for the past week. It was the apartment of his girlfriend’s daughter and Karin’s sister, Gina Young.

AFTER arriving at Gina’s place, Sells called his mother to ask her how to butterfly a cut. She asked, “What kind of cut?”

“Oh, a cut here and a cut there.”

“How many cuts?” she insisted.

He held the receiver to his chest and turned to his girlfriend, “Gina, Mom wants to know how many.”

Gina looked him over and counted a total of twenty-three, but a few of those were only superficial wounds. Sells’ mother explained how to bandage his injuries and told him to get to a hospital. Instead of seeking medical attention, he sent Gina out to buy a fifth of Jim Beam and score some dope.

When she came back from her mission, Sells was dripping with fatalistic self-pity. “Gina, if I die, make sure I get back to Missouri.”

An hour later, Detective Hammons and Sergeant Westfall arrived at the door of Apartment #4, 303 South Ranch Road in Elkview. Gina stepped back from the doorway and allowed the officers to enter. They found Sells lying on the living room floor in obvious pain, with multiple stab wounds to his abdomen. His external bleeding was minimal, but internally it was profuse. His spleen and kidney were nicked, a lung was partially collapsed and his testicles were sliced. The detectives called for an ambulance and rushed him to Charleston General Hospital for trauma surgery and a week-long stay.

INITIALLY, the case appeared cut and dried, but when prosecutors prepared for trial, problems arose. It had not been long since Fabienne had filed another sexual assault charge that was never prosecuted. To the jury, the questionable nature of that charge could cast doubt on her current claim. To make matters worse, the defense uncovered psychological reports that reflected poorly on the victim. They threatened to use this information in court in defense of their client.

In light of these revelations, the prosecution was no longer confident it could find Sells guilty and put him behind bars in a jury trial. They were ready to deal with the defense. Some jail time, they reasoned, was better than the chance of none at all. The two sides agreed on a plea bargain. The sexual assault charges were dropped. On June 25, 1993, Judge Tod J. Kaufman sentenced Sells to “an indeterminate term of not less than two years and not more than
ten years” for malicious wounding. The judge gave him credit for four hundred and two days’ time already served. He was housed in the Northern Correctional Facility in Moundsville, West Virginia, just south of Wheeling.

SELLS had one friend waiting for him behind bars: Billy Young, Gina’s heterosexual brother. Young watched Sells back from the moment the cell door clicked behind him until Sells left that facility.

Sells started out his term as a model prisoner, earning the designation of trustee. He soon abused that position, though. He and another inmate named Gregory Carter found a .357 pistol on the inside. They planned to trade it for dope. For safekeeping until then, Sells hid the weapon in the warden’s office. Another trustee caught him in the act and reported him. Charges were filed and then dropped when Sells was moved to maximum security at Mt. Olive Prison.

This time, while in prison in West Virginia, Sells taught himself to read with the help of a Bible. “I could not read ‘Run, Dick, run; run, Jane, run’ when I quit the ninth grade at the age of sixteen,” he admitted. He worked hard at his self-education, pushing himself to reach his goal—sending the first letter of his life.

In 1994, Sells struck up a friendship with a newly arrived inmate, John Price. Price was a nurse who had been working for a home health service company based in Logan, West Virginia. Three of his friends were found dead after injections of Dilaudid, a morphine-based prescription drug that is ten to one hundred times as powerful as street heroin. It was without doubt that he was the source of the drug, but evidence of a more active role in their demise was weak. Facing the possibility of a life sentence, Price pled guilty to providing the drug and paraphernalia, but denied having administered the injections. He was behind bars for causing their deaths.