Brian Lane - Mind Games with a Serial Killer

And no one, from the prosecution to the defense to the reporters who mined this turf, none of them has ever come up with anything ghastly that Bill Suff endured while growing up.

The Suff home was not exactly the Cleavers’; there was definitely booze, adultery, and one stop discipline, but not to an extent not prevalent in a great many American homes across all economic classes. The only rumor—and that’s all it is—that there was something slightly more problematic was an indefinite allegation of incest between eldest sister Roberta and one or more of the brothers, but, sad to say, even that is not enough to make a serial killer, or else Miss America would be out there leaving bodies in her wake.

However, the Suff family does have a sort of paranoia that could prove more than a little disconcerting to a child, and, although the Suffs all talk to one another constantly, bicker at one another constantly, battle with each other constantly, move in and out of each other’s homes constantly, depend on each other for everything, they make no bones about the fact that none of them trusts the other and that truth may be acceptably sacrificed for a perceived greater good or just to keep a momentary peace.

There probably never was any incest, but they all sure as heck do act inbred. Their world extends out over many siblings and marriages and friendships, across county and state lines, but some-how it’s a very very small world indeed.

And, whenever you circumnavigate this world you always seem to find yourself coming back to Ann.

She’s a subtle creature, that Ann. And remember, I like her. But, as direct and outspoken as she is, there are always layers of complex emotional meaning to her simple statements.

Remember the old joke about the two psychiatrists passing each other in the hall—one says to the other: “Good morning!” And the second psychiatrist replies: “Good morning to you, too!” And then, as they each walk away, they each say to themselves: “I wonder what he meant by that?”

Ann has that effect on you. She’s like Chinese food. You order it with no MSG, you eat it and comment on how good it tastes without MSG, and then later you’re sure it had MSG.

Both Ann and Bill tell the story of how one day she caught teenaged Bill naked in the bathroom in the presence of sister Roberta. Ann yanked Bill out of there by the ear, dragged him to his room, and grounded him for his impropriety, even though both she and he swear he had not touched Roberta in any way. Nonetheless, when Ann caught Bill, the first words out of her mouth were: “It’s a damn good thing you didn’t enter her!”

Now where in the hell did that idea come from? Either Bill was not merely naked but aroused, or he really did have Roberta cornered. Or perhaps Ann was flashing on some experience from the past, from Bill’s or her own, but, no matter, her worry was infectious. And that desperate a worry can become a self-fulfilling prophecy. If you really are innocent but are consistently accused of a crime, then you might as well commit the crime. And, if your superego is thus far checking your baser instincts by making you feel guilty about having such impure thoughts, then those thoughts somehow become okay when your very own mom admits to them by accusing you. She didn’t put the idea in your head, she just affirmed it.

And then, despite her ability to read your mind, all too often this mom couldn’t find water if she fell out of a boat. Prescience turned to quackery, brilliance to folly, wisdom to naiveté.

She had no idea, for example, that William Sr. would abandon her that day after dropping her at work. And she never ever knew about the divorce suit and demand for custody of all the kids that he filed against her a few years earlier when the family lived in Fresno. Maybe he never served her, or maybe she’s lying, or maybe she simply blocks out perceptions that would be too painful.

But, determined to protect her brood, Ann takes up her children’s fights even as she won’t allow them to defend themselves. Then she judges them. She loves them unconditionally but she pronounces their guilt. On Leeza , no less.

And Mama Ann never grants salvation.

She controls by threat of too much love. When second husband, Shorty, died, Ann devastated Bill by saying that she could not even read his will to the kids because in it Shorty admonished and chided them for not being caring towards him. He had served as the “real”, I’ll stand-by-you father to them, yet they had not returned the favor and acted like his loving kids. Of course, Ann disagreed, knowing how caring and considerate Bill and the others had been to Shorty, but from his grave Shorty apparently had another opinion.

For Bill, once again, rejection. But rejection by whom? By Shorty, or by Ann? Because Ann would never show Bill the will, so maybe Ann was lying, maybe this was just her being cruel.

Interestingly, it is Bill who tells this story. Ann swears that she never told Bill any such thing, and that Shorty’s will was not uncomplimentary to her children in any way.

At the time Shorty died, Bill was in the midst of his killing fury— hookers were dropping like flies—and so it may well be that his killing mind-set found fuel in rejection even where there was no rejection at all. He just needed to justify acts that he was powerless to control, to pretend that he was in control when he had no control.

Certainly, Bill sees rejection everywhere. He smiles and puffs himself up with positive thoughts, but he always expects to be whupped. In all things, he’s never surprised when he finds himself surprised. He wears the martyr’s robe well—just another of his uniforms.

The thing that amazes me is just how differently Bill and Ann remember past events. My sense is that Bill rewrites the practical truth to fit his emotional truth, so he’s not being dishonest even though he’s wrong.

In November of 1966, Ann went into labor. William Sr. drove her to the hospital, and the kids all stayed at home, with sixteen-year-old Big Brother Bill in charge.

Bill recalls being incredibly excited at the prospect of a new sibling, but, for two days, he heard nothing from his parents. Then Dad and Mom came home from the hospital without the baby.

Dad said the baby had died, and both he and Mom were not going to talk about it.

So they didn’t.

The dead baby was named Glenda Marie.

And, according to Bill, there was never a funeral nor any explanation as to what happened. He was distraught, but he couldn’t let on. He was also suspicious, but he couldn’t prove anything. Years later, when he was in jail in Texas, he broached the subject of Glenda Marie to his mother. He insisted that he was saving money in order to buy the sister he never knew a headstone, and he wanted to know where she was buried. The answer was Lake Elsinore Cemetery.

Indeed, I checked—Glenda Marie Suff, born and died November 6, 1966, is buried in Lake Elsinore Cemetery. At the same time, the County has no live birth or death record.

Elsinore being Elsinore, you could pretty much get a cemetery to bury anything you wanted without any questions being asked. They’d probably dig stuff up for you, too. The cemeteries there need the business. It’s tough to compete when sand dunes are free. And rattlesnakes do a dirge you don’t forget.

Meanwhile, Ann tells me that Bill’s story is all wrong anyway. Yes, Ann was an emotional wreck over the dead baby—Glenda Marie’s lungs had collapsed just after birth, when the doctor clipped her umbilical cord—and Bill was also visibly upset when he heard the news, although he tried to maintain a stiff upper lip for the sake of his parents and siblings, but there was indeed a funeral several days later, special services attended by Bill and all the family in order to provide needed closure.