Descent into Madness: Birth of a Serial Killer

By David Burford

When Reginald J. Smythe discovered an old, handwritten journal at the bottom of a steamer trunk purchased at an estate sale in Atlanta, Georgia, he knew there was a story to be told. In his hand, he held the personal thoughts of Willfred Medford McCallister III, a notorious serial killer. Smythe researched McCallisters life and journeyed into his heart, mind, and soulfrom his humble beginnings to his bitter end.

According to McCallister, he led a fairly normal and most unremarkable life. Born in 1929 in Brufford, Texas, he was the only child of Willfred and Shirley. He grew up, served in the military, worked at various jobs, paid his taxes, and bowled with his buddies. But all that changed one dark night in November of 1984 when he ran into Albert DeMoss. Then McCallisters descent into the dark of humanity began.

Smythe narrates a heart-wrenching tale of violence and cruelty, a story of one mans journey to becoming a serial killera man who murdered more than forty people.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781450297578

David Burford

David Burford has worked as a correctional officer for the Colorado Department of Corrections for the past several years, gaining an intimate knowledge of the darker side of humanity. He and his wife, Ann, live in Southern Colorado. This is his debut novel.

Book preview

Descent

into

Madness

Birth of a Serial Killer

SKU-000450197_TEXT.pdf

David Burford

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

DescentintoMadness

Birth of a Serial Killer

Copyright © 2011 David Burford

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-9755-4 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-9756-1 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-9757-8 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 2/9/2011

Contents

Introduction

The Dream

1

2

The Descent Begins

3

A Quick Trip Down Memory Lane

4

5

Frank and Delroy

6

Sweet Justice

7

The Headaches

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

St. James’ Final Day

15

The Trial Begins

16

The Immorality of Youth

17

Bruce Algren

18

19

20

Pamela’s Story

21

22

23

24

25

Bruce

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

The Call

33

34

McCallister

35

36

The Damned Voices

37

38

39

Pamela Atwood’s Closing Thoughts

40

A Candid Admission

41

Final Thoughts of Co-Editor David Burford

Introduction

I am Reginald J. Smythe, editor of this exposé on the life of the notorious Willfred Medford McCallister III. I hope you’ll allow me to pontificate for a brief moment, as I would like to put my two cents in for what it’s worth. I realize you don’t know a damned thing about me, but by the end of our journey together, from Willfred’s humble beginnings to his bitter end, I believe you will discover more about Willie and me than you’d like. Some experts say it’s therapeutic to look into the soul of another human being. I, on the other hand, am not quite convinced that delving deeply into anyone’s mind is healthy for your own psyche.

However, that’s exactly what we’re going to do here.

I’ve given this matter a great deal of thought, and have concluded that to label Willfred Medford McCallister III as nothing more than a depraved and immoral murderer without understanding his motives is like proclaiming Jesus Christ a fraud without first studying the Holy Bible, line by line, verse by verse, in order to comprehend the magnitude of his incredible ministry.

Both men merit a thorough understanding, for widely different reasons of course, and that requires that we keep our mind open and embrace a spirit of forgiveness for both sinner and saint. In my humble opinion, it would be regrettable to dismiss either McCallister or Christ without fully understanding them, without walking a mile in their shoes. After you have read the subsequent material, I believe you will agree that McCallister is, at best, a most interesting character and, at worst, a monster that society created with its ignorance.

You hold in your hands a unique opportunity to understand McCallister, as honestly and as forthright as possible, through his handwritten journal which I discovered in an antique steamer trunk at an estate sale outside Atlanta, Georgia during one of my frequent bouts with writer’s block. The journal lay hidden beneath a scrapbook filled with dozens and dozens of black and white photographs, as well as an original movie flyer from the premiere of Taxi Driver starring Robert DeNiro and a very young Jodie Foster. It sat for years in the darkness of that weathered trunk, watching and waiting for someone like me to find it and unleash its secrets onto an unsuspecting world.

I didn’t truly come to appreciate McCallister’s words until I curled up on the couch in front of a stone fireplace late one night, a mug of cocoa in one hand and his journal in the other. Huge snowflakes blanketed the hillside above the Inn where I was recuperating from knee surgery, and the wind howled like a banshee. Late into the night, I read his often-venomous words until my eyes blurred, and I reluctantly headed to bed.

The following morning, as the sun slowly crept its way over the hills, I awoke from an extraordinary dream of McCallister standing on the concrete steps of the White House with a bloody knife in his right hand and a malicious smile on his face. My pulse raced, as I couldn’t wait to pick up where I had left off on his tale of bloodshed and the redemption of mankind. I don’t think I’ve had a decent night’s sleep since that fateful first encounter with McCallister, but I don’t have anyone to blame except myself. I wanted to know how his story ended.

After an exhaustive research into McCallister’s actions, I decided to publish his journal, along with the firsthand accounts from the police detective who doggedly tracked his path of destruction, as well as a freelance reporter who was also majored in psychology. They both provide invaluable insight into his particular psychosis. Without their timely input, I doubt we would understand the severity of McCallister’s dementia, his malady that eventually led to his ultimate demise.

In the remainder of the text, you will read a detailed and often sordid account of the actions of a very troubled soul. Without altering the eventual outcome, I felt that it was necessary to change the names of his victims, as well as some of the more brutal details of his executions. I have also omitted sections laced with profanity and many of his later entries, which were mostly undecipherable.

However, what I will not do is trivialize his descent into total and undeniable madness. It’s what some might call his slow, twisting path into the very bowels of Hell. His ill-fated choices led him along his path of self-destruction and, although we might wish to shoulder a measure of the blame, McCallister has to be held accountable for his actions. He chose to flee from his demons until it was too late, and for that, he paid a terrible price. He came face to face with the devil himself, and was as lost as any man ever was.

We have to learn from McCallister’s journey, from his maddening descent, so that we don’t fall into the same trap that he did. If we don’t learn anything from his plight, if we turn a blind eye to his suffering, then we’re doomed to repeat his fall from grace. There’s an evil waiting for us out past the bright lights, beyond all sense and sensibilities, gnashing its teeth as it craves to taste the tenderness of a mournful soul.

Here’s the question of the day:

Are you willing to suffer through a tale of heart-wrenching violence and intolerable human cruelty, with the expressed purpose of illuminating a side of McCallister—the inner beast lurking within his tortured soul—that is both horrifying and yet compelling?

If so, then prepare to witness the eternal struggle between good and evil.

The Dream

A solitary figure stands on a rocky ledge overlooking the valley of eternal damnation. Drifting up from the fiery pits below are the horrific screams of those unfortunate souls who have come before and who must spend eternity roasting in the flaming pits of Hell. A shiver runs through the man as he waits patiently for something to happen, without any idea what that something might be.

He glances over his shoulder and sees his sad and sordid past. Ahead is an unknown future, filled with unlimited potential … and unimaginable horrors. A hot, scorching wind swirls up from the chasm below and buffets him with its eerie intensity. He looks intently into the flickering flames and sees the face of the devil taunting him from within the blazing inferno.

Lucifer, sovereign ruler of the underworld, the man cries out. Will you let me pass?

The devil laughs at the man’s bravado, knowing full well that this warrior of the people is about to engage in an epic battle for his immortal soul. Satan, in his limited view of humanity, understands that this man represents the very best and the absolute worst in all of us. His life, which some might consider sad and pathetic, is as it should be—a jumbled puzzle of choices and consequences.

This warrior’s heart races as he prepares to make one more in a long line of decisions. Some have been good; others have turned out very, very badly. A single faltering step forward will pitch him headlong into the utter madness and he’ll be lost forever, alongside the other tormented souls. There is only heartache and pain to his left, of which he knows only too well. The meandering path to his right will leave him to question his very survival. Will he live to reach a ripe-old age or will he end up stone-cold dead on a slab of chilled concrete in some county morgue? If he stops long enough to reevaluate his situation, if he rebukes Satan’s icy stare, he might survive for one more day, another agonizing minute, or a single, solitary breath.

It takes every ounce of willpower to break free, kicking and screaming, from this recurring nightmare. He rolls out of bed, hobbles over to the window, and stares out the dusty windowpane at a parking lot littered with potholes and yesterday’s trash. He glances up at the fading moon lingering in the early morning sky and realizes, with a touch of sadness, that he is stuck in the middle of another listless backwater town, along some forgotten two-lane blacktop, and he wonders how he got here.

What happened to him?

His life once held great promise, but now it was nothing more than a burned-out husk, a mere hint of the dreams he once held as a child. Why hadn’t he turned away from this pathetic life before now?

It was too late to do anything but finish his mission, and hopefully find some peace in his final act. He hoped, nay he prayed to a God he had little faith in, and whom he hadn’t spoken to in a lifetime of suffering, that society won’t view him too harshly, as his original intent was honorable and just. However, he recognized that his actions have permanently scarred his soul and ruined his chances at reaching the ultimate prize of immortality alongside the gods.

Thus begins the tale of a man who, by his own admissions, has become a serial killer. Throughout the incredible story that follows, you and I will take a journey through the heart, the mind, and the soul of this particular killer, through his own words. I’ll introduce you to him shortly, but I think we need a few minutes to reach a suitable understanding regarding what we’re about to endeavor. This exposé is not for the weak of heart, as it delves into the true nature of our being, the horrible beast within.

I compiled the journal of Willfred Medford McCallister III, beginning with his initial flirtation with murder, and complemented his incredible tale with the investigative approach of a seasoned police detective as well as the psychological analysis of a young female reporter who has studied the minds of convicted serial killers in an extraordinary attempt to predict and prevent these future abnormalities. One minute, we’ll delve deeply into the killer’s psyche, and then we take a step back to take a quick peek at the detective’s slow, yet dogmatic, progress.

Please don’t fret over the way in which the material is laid out, as I’m sure you’ll be able to follow along as long as you refrain from jumping to conclusions before you’ve had a chance to consider all the facts. Remember this thought: Things are not always what they seem to be; sometimes light is dark and dark is light. All I ask is that you keep an open mind and suspend your skepticism, if only for a short while.

The story begins with a brief introduction from our antagonist—an individual with a troubled past and an uncertain future—so, if you’re ready, let’s get started.

1

My given name is Willfred Medford McCallister III. To those who have known me since childhood, I’m plain old Willie from the neighborhood. In the minds of those who hunt me down like a vicious dog, I am nothing more than a cold-blooded serial killer. I watch the evening news, I’ve heard the so-called experts call me a sociopath, but I don’t agree with their clinical analysis of my mental instability. However, there’s nothing I can do about that now, as I’ve come to the end of my mission. What’s done is done. In for a penny, in for a pound as the idiom says.

Recently, Death’s bony hand has been knocking on the door to my soul. Its hot breath on the back of my neck is like a seductive touch from a lover who urges me to release my tenuous grip on life. Am I’m supposed to simply fade away into the suffocating darkness?

That’s not the ending I had in mind, at least not yet.

I believe a man’s word is his bond and is the truest measure of his genuine spirit, his integrity if you will. I trust that mine is noble and just, my integrity is without question. After all, I am who I am … nothing more, nothing less.

However, that isn’t enough for you, is it?

You demand your pound of flesh. Anything less and your thirst for blood goes unfulfilled.

And to think, I’m the one they insist is crazy as a loon.

I’m just your average flawed individual, no different from you, not really, although you would deny that we have anything in common. The biggest distinction between us is that I did something about our decaying society. You, on the other hand, only sat around complaining about how bad things had gotten. You blamed everyone and everything, but failed to see the real cause behind our dilemma. Your arrogance disgusts me, your stubborn refusal to perceive the inherent evil in humanity makes me sick to my stomach.

How can I go on like this?

What’s the use, if no one truly appreciates what I’ve done?

My life isn’t supposed to end this way, going out with a whimper instead of a bang. I’d rather be a glowing meteor burning across the star-filled sky before exploding into a million chunks of molten lava than a hen-pecked husband whose wife likes her bonbons and soap operas more than she cares for me. I’m not foolish enough to think I’ll live forever, but I would like to stick around for a few more days and finish my story.

Long after I am dead and buried, people will still discuss my deeds as they sit around the dinner table laughing about Jimmy’s latest antics. They’ll put off calling Aunt June to wish her a happy birthday just so they can recount my actions in somber whispers and solemn words of praise. And, rightfully so, I might add. My mission should humble them all.

Of course, I exist in a world that refuses to see the real me. Instead, they view me as some kind of monster. Those who have spent a lifetime studying esoteric texts in order to understand the intricate workings of the human mind have completely misunderstood my intentions. It is a damned shame too, as they will never see the error of their ways. Someone must find the courage to look beyond the obvious flaws and see the genuine me. No one has, as of yet, and that makes me incredibly sad.

Before Death snags a foothold in my life, before the hounds from hell devour the pieces of my shattered soul, I’d like a chance to clear my name. It’s too late for a proper act of contrition and I have no right to beg for forgiveness, as I am sure it would do me little good where I’m heading anyway. My dignity, my sense of self-worth, is the only thing that keeps my finger off the detonator, and an inevitable date with my destiny.

Yes, I will admit that I killed quite a few people, but that’s not up for debate here. I chose only those who decided to ignore humanity’s laws and who carelessly flaunted their misdeeds, those who had achieved the very pinnacle of wickedness and depravity. By my hand, they met a fate they so richly deserved.

Why are the wicked mourned by the righteous?

I allowed the lawful and the just to struggle along in blissful ignorance, unaware of the rampant evil that permeates the world around them. These innocent sheep looked for solace in their otherwise pathetic, isolated lives, and preferred to keep their heads down and plow through a rocky course.

The public outcry for my immediate capture and subsequent imprisonment in some dark, dank hole became deafening. Even though most didn’t have a clue as to my real identity, various newspapers and syndicated talk shows across the country called me the next in a long line of perverted serial killers. I read their poisonous words in the checkout lines at the local WalMart store and heard the hushed whispers from those who thought what I did was oh so horrible. Their words haunt me as I try to go to sleep at night, and their accusations stir me to action.

I am so desperate to tell my side of the story that I am willing to accept the cold harsh truth that I became everything I detested … and so much more. I only wanted to save humanity from itself, but it was hard—too damned hard—to admit that I failed miserably.

How did this happen?

Look here, I’m not a smart person. I didn’t graduate from high school and I don’t have one of those useless degrees from some Ivy League school. Life shouldn’t be this demanding, this unforgiving, for those who are like me. It’s not my fault things turned out the way they did.

Those smug and self-righteous assholes who hunted me down like a wild animal are to blame. The cops chased after me and their high-priced experts diagnosed me as insane, slapped the sociopath label on me as if it was that damned simple, and declared for all to hear that I had lost touch with reality or some other kind of psychobabble crap.

You see, my life’s mission doesn’t fit neatly into society’s grand scheme of things and I’m just another innocent pawn in a global conspiracy that denies the meek and the timid their rightful place in society. Everywhere I looked, I saw egotists and self-righteous assholes telling us how to live our lives and it’s all bullshit. Haven’t we all played the role of victim at one time or another? Don’t we have skeletons hiding out in our closet that we can’t let others discover? Deep, dark secrets that fester in our subconscious minds ready to spring forth and destroy everything and everyone we’ve ever loved or respected.

When I hear the whisperings of