We Were Killers Once
Chapters (65)
- Title Page
- Copyright Notice
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty–one
- Twenty–two
- Twenty–three
- Twenty–four
- Twenty–five
- Twenty–six
- Twenty–seven
- Twenty–eight
- Twenty–nine
- Thirty
- Thirty–one
- Thirty–two
- Thirty–three
- Thirty–four
- Thirty–five
- Thirty–six
- Thirty–seven
- Thirty–eight
- Thirty–nine
- Forty
- Forty–one
- Forty–two
- Forty–three
- Forty–four
- Forty–five
- Forty–six
- Forty–seven
- Forty–eight
- Forty–nine
- Fifty
- Fifty–one
- Fifty–two
- Fifty–three
- Fifty–four
- Fifty–five
- Fifty–six
- Fifty–seven
- Author’s Note
- Acknowledgments
- Also by Becky Masterman
- About the Author
- Newsletter Sign-up
Title Page
Copyright Notice
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Dedication
For Helen Heller, with gratitude for the idea,
and ten years of friendship and guidance
CLEMENCY BOARD, DECEMBER 1960
I feel that I should be given consideration for clemency because there are circumstances that at the time the crime was committed that I never had any part in doing. I never participated in the killing of any of the people. That is I never did the actual killing. Also I never agreed to it. The first killing happened when I wasn’t in the room. The killing was not premeditated or planned in any way. A witness for the state lied about me, but that I cannot prove. But my main reason is that I never killed anyone.
Signed,
Richard Eugene Hickock, Prisoner Number 14746
Being brought up one way and trying to see another way is very difficult.
Perry Smith
Immaculately factual.
Truman Capote
One
Little Brigid Theresa Quinn, with a Band-Aid on my knobby knee from jumping out of a banyan tree on a dare, and a ponytail of red hair that should have been washed four days ago—I’m only six years old when I first hear about the murder of the Walker family on December 19, 1959. Though the decades pass, and I have witnessed even greater horrors than were described that night, I still can’t see a Christmas tree without feeling the crime scene, the tree with its ornaments, the glittery packages, the bodies in the living room. Then the memory quickly fades and I’m here and now again.
Whenever I go back there I still find that same little girl.
I don’t hear about the Walker mass murder from the television. I get the scoop right in our own kitchen. You know, all the gory details that the news didn’t assault you with in those days before they started showing the body bags coming back from Vietnam. Dad’s friends from the Fort Lauderdale police department gather together on the Saturday nights when they don’t have to work the following day.
I sit on Dad’s lap at the Formica-topped kitchen table while he talks and drinks and smokes with his buddies. He smells of beer and cigarettes. The odors don’t come from the original source as much as they’re channeled through his sweat. December in Florida can be hot and muggy.
Dad’s buddies are Ken, Rory, and Mitch. They all look alike as far as I can tell, with flattop haircuts, big hands and bellies. I’m allowed to call them by their first names despite being just a little girl.