It’s hard to tell a killer. They look like normal everyday people. Some of them look nasty but plenty of others look like your next door neighbor.
This is a killer
12 year old Christopher De’l Atkins
MARION COUNTY, Fla. – Update (April 9):
The three teenage victims of a triple homicide in Florida were apparently involved in illegal activities with their three suspected killers before the murders, which unfolded in a flurry of gunfire, dumping of bodies and ditching of a car in a pond, court documents reveal.
The two suspects who have been arrested told police how the fatal shootings played out, according to their arrest affidavits. In the affidavit, investigators describe the suspects’ activities with the victims on the night of March 30, which included driving to a “trap house,” smoking, “car hopping,” and committing burglaries.
The group planned to rob someone for marijuana and was traveling through Ocala, according to the 17-year-old’s account. The 12-year-old, known by the nickname “35,” told police the teens were driving toward Ocklawaha when the 16-year-old pulled out a handgun and shot the two victims who were in the front seats. Silvernail’s car then struck a garbage dumpster in the area of SE 183rd Avenue Road in Silver Springs. The owner of the dumpster called police at 10:48 p.m. and saw Silvernail bleeding. A woman who lives in the area told police she heard four or five loud “pops” that sounded like gunshots and looked out her window and saw the sedan hit the dumpster, according to the affidavit. She told police a male then got into the driver’s seat and sped away.
The 12-year-old told police he then shot “the female victim,” though it was not clear whether he was referring to Silvernail or the other teen girl. He said the 17-year-old forced him to shoot the unnamed girl “or his family would be killed,” according to the affidavit. The 12-year-old told police he did not think one of the victims was dead after he shot her. The 17-year-old also told police he shot one of the victims “because she was still alive. She was going to snitch on us all. We was all going to go to jail for life.”
The 16-year-old, known as “Reaper,” then drove Silvernail’s car and stopped to dump the male victim in a ditch, the 12-year-old told police. The three suspects then drove the car to a pond, where it was later found partially submerged.
So this 12 year old kid pulled the trigger on one of the victims. He said he was threatened and forced to kill on orders from his 17 year old accomplice. The 16 year old initiated the killings. The 17 and 12 year old finished them off, apparently. Well, I don’t have the full story. This is a piece of their confession.
These two. Just 12 and 17 years old.
Maybe this 12 year old is telling the truth. Maybe he was threatened to kill by the 17 year old. So he killed one of the teenaged girls. Finished her off. Then he went along with the plan to dump the bodies. Maybe he was the least culpable of the three killers. Maybe so.
Still…he’s a killer. A twelve year old boy. Take a look at him. The one on the left. This is a killer.
This is a would be Killer
The Gloomy Boomer, age 12
Do I look like a killer? I think I look pretty angelic for a twelve year old. And yet, but for the hand of fate, I would be forever cast as a genuine killer.
1965. This kid, Ernie Betts, he lived down the street from us. We became friends. He was my age. I remember the times we wrestled on my front yard and he always won. He was definitely stronger than me. My memories of him are sketchy. He liked to brag how his parents, immigrants from Europe, loved to eat raw meat. I remember thinking how revolting it was, eating raw meat.
One afternoon we found ourselves playing war on an empty lot where they were building a house and had dug these trenches for the plumbing. We crouched in these trenches like WW1 soldiers and pretended to fire our wooden rifles at the enemy across the lot. At one point an old lady from the corner house spotted us. She knew Ernie’s parents and it spooked him. He wasn’t supposed to be playing with me. This is the part that doesn’t make sense. Ernie asked me to cover him with dirt so as not to be spotted by the old lady. Naturally, I complied. He covered his head with his jacket and I covered him with dirt. Then, if memory serves me, I jumped up and down on him to pack in the dirt I’d used to cover him. Afterwards I moved off the lot to give the appearance I’d all along been alone on the lot.
Almost immediately all hell broke loose. The old lady’s running toward Ernie’s makeshift grave, followed by a construction worker, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. At this point I ran toward the scene of my crime only to be confronted by the old lady, who is screaming, “you killed him! you killed him!”
The construction worker dug him out from under the dirt. No more that a few inches of dirt. But he was out cold. And by now I’m howling like a struck puppy. But then a miracle occurred.
He came to!
So I’m off the hook?
I’m glad as hell I didn’t kill him. I’m not crazy about Ernie–he liked to brag how he could kick my ass–but I don’t necessarily want him dead. So I’m glad he’s alive and well.
I figure I’m off the hook.
But the cowardly little bastard. He went and told his parents I tried to kill him. Not pretend kill him. Seriously kill him. You see, he wasn’t supposed to be playing with me. His parents were very strict about who he was allowed to hang out with. I was on their black list. I was one of the kids of that weird woman down the street. She let her kids run wild and no way was he allowed to hang out with any of us. So he let me take the fall.
He told the cops I tried to kill him.
I was arrested and charged with attempted murder.
Booked. Finger Printed. Mug Shot. The whole works….
They stuck me in Juvenile Hall were I spent three days in a cell listening to Elvis Presley sing “crying in the chapel” on the intercom.
I have one distinct memory of Juvenile Hall. You had to push the cell intercom button and ask permission to go down the hall and used the bathroom. IF the guard felt inclined he would buzz open your door and you could get a bit of exercise on the way to the bathroom. Anyway, so I’m standing there, taking a pee when this bad ass Chicano kid sidled up to the urinal next to me and asked what I was in for. I told him I buried a kid alive. Word got around. They held a meeting. I was asked to join their gang. This was an honor I couldn’t refuse.
But it wasn’t to be.
I was released into the custody of my Aunt and Uncle and went to lived with them in Monterey, California, far from the Chicano Gang’s Turf. I lived in the attic of a large old house where Teddy Roosevelt once slept. The atmosphere there was constrained. The discipline was tight. My life became regimented.
Overnight I went from Huck Finn to one of Charles Dicken’s Kids.
But the courts never pressed charges for Attempted Murder. I never went to CYA camp.
Then a sequel. It turned out Ernie had a medical condition I’d been unaware off. One day on a visit home I witnessed the ambulance arrive at his door and he was carried out on a stretcher.
I never saw him again.
Is he still alive? I hope he is. I hope he had a wonderful life. He stabbed me in the back, but I don’t hold a grudge. All I know, I’m not a Killer.
But let me share something with you. The reason I’m writing this post. I’ve been thinking about that 12 year old kid. Christopher Atkins. I keep imagining him in his cell. Poor god damned miserable kid. I can’t help myself. I know what he did was horrible. But I also know what he’s probably feeling right now.
How did I ever get myself into this mess?
6 thoughts on “How Do You Tell A Killer?”
Your experience is exactly how mom explained it…a boy hood prank made to appear like a serious crime resulting in your life being completely upended for a time. That said, perhaps by your getting away from Salinas for a while, you avoided worse consequences in life.
Interesting ! I am glad I got to hear the whole story.I don’t know why I didn’t press you for more details about that . I mean after all we have talked alot about all sorts of things over the years. I guess maybe because I was a crazy teen once that ran wild . Did so much stealing and other stuff I would not do today. Well I do still do a little stealing of herbs at Safeway . I justify in my head as they charge a fortune for a bunch of dill all I need is a little pinch.That is how it goes with any thing we do that we know isn’t right. We tell ourselves a story that we can live with in our own hearts and head.
Panda is the Saudi Arabian equivalent of Safeway, except for the absence of all booze, magazines showing unclothed women, and, of course, any magazine citing Israel. Here is one of the absurd epiphanies that allowed me tp write my novel, The Theory of Sand.
The Language Tape
Supermarkets are the oases of Riyadh. They hold the few distractions for single foreigners: cookies, cakes, ice cream, steaks; weekly magazines and newspapers. Westerners wander into Safeway and Panda and remain for hours, wandering hypnotized up one aisle and down the next, struck by the variety of different soups, or astonished by the ingredients of German cereals. I like to dip into the glossy waters of the magazine rack.
This afternoon, waiting for the store to be reopened after prayer call, I spot a dog-earred dog of Melville’s “Mardi.” Nine Rials, a deal for such a perfect, escape-from-Saudi novel. Taking it off the rack, I notice another volume beneath.
“Learn Arabic In Six Easy Lessons,” by Dr. Sahel Al-Basel. The drawing on the cover shows sand dunes, a minaret and the smiling face of King Fahad. A single cassette is wrapped inside the plastic package.
Six easy lessons, I smile, who can learn any language in X number of lessons? But I am tempted by the utter simplicity of the offer, impulsively to buy the tape. I have nothing to lose.
I return home and toss the lessons into the corner of my desk, spend two hours writing letters home and then decide to give the Arabic a whirl. I split open the package and get ready for the first lesson.
Sliding the tape into the stereo, I lean forward in my chair and open the small pamphlet stuffed under the cassette. Although the advertising is in English, the writing inside is in Arabic, and there is no phonetic guide for the alphabet. Setting down the book, I push the start button.
“Lesson two, polite forms of greeting,” a man’s deep voice intones from the speaker.
I stop the tape, reverse it and start again from the beginning. “Lesson Two…”
Striking the stop button, I remove the tape. Where is Lesson One? Slipping the other side of the tape in, I reverse it to the beginning, then push the start button.
“Will you have a cigarette?” a man’s voice says. It must be the middle of a lesson. I turn the tape over and run it backwards again, then stop and push the play button.
“Lesson Two, polite forms of greeting,” continues the speaker. “Sabahul kheir, Good morning. Masaul kheir, good evening. DIIIIING! A door bell rings in the background of the tape.” Excuse me,” the man mutters, “someone is at the door.”
I can’t believe it. The man gets up and walks through the room, letting the tape run on while he is gone. Momentarily, I hear voices conversing in Arabic.
The tape slowly slides through the middle of the spool and onto the other side. Five, ten, fifteen minutes, all the time the man is talking to someone — all the while, letting the tape roll on emptily. Finally, a door closes, feet cross the floor and the man’s voice booms over the speaker. “Excuse me for the delay. That was my cousin. Where were we? Ah, yes, evening. The correct reply is…CLICK!” The tape reaches the end and stops.
I don’t know whether to laugh or throw the cassette against the wall. I turn the tape over and hit play.
“Massakallah bil kheir,” the speaker intones. “One can also say, masaul kheir, which means, may God grant you a good evening.” He coughs twice. ”Excuse me, I will return shortly, “The man clears his throat and walks out of the room.
I stare at the tape turning and turning but without any sound coming from the speaker. Soon a toilet flushes. Sandals strike the floor, and a distant telephone rings. In the background, the man answers the phone and begins talking rapidly in Arabic. For a second, I imagine that if I stop the tape, he will have time to complete the call and return to the tape recorder, but then I realize how crazy my idea is. I wait, all the while watching the tape move closer and closer to the far side.
The man completes his telephone call and returns to the tape-recorder. I hear him take a sip of tea or coffee. He leans close to the machine, for his voice scratches loudly over the speaker. “Excuse you for the delay. Where
were I?”
The tape ends.
6 thoughts on “How Do You Tell A Killer?”
Your experience is exactly how mom explained it…a boy hood prank made to appear like a serious crime resulting in your life being completely upended for a time. That said, perhaps by your getting away from Salinas for a while, you avoided worse consequences in life.
Could be!
Interesting ! I am glad I got to hear the whole story.I don’t know why I didn’t press you for more details about that . I mean after all we have talked alot about all sorts of things over the years. I guess maybe because I was a crazy teen once that ran wild . Did so much stealing and other stuff I would not do today. Well I do still do a little stealing of herbs at Safeway . I justify in my head as they charge a fortune for a bunch of dill all I need is a little pinch.That is how it goes with any thing we do that we know isn’t right. We tell ourselves a story that we can live with in our own hearts and head.
I don’t declare my grocery bags in self check
It’s the little acts of defiance that keeps the ol blood pumping
Panda is the Saudi Arabian equivalent of Safeway, except for the absence of all booze, magazines showing unclothed women, and, of course, any magazine citing Israel. Here is one of the absurd epiphanies that allowed me tp write my novel, The Theory of Sand.
The Language Tape
Supermarkets are the oases of Riyadh. They hold the few distractions for single foreigners: cookies, cakes, ice cream, steaks; weekly magazines and newspapers. Westerners wander into Safeway and Panda and remain for hours, wandering hypnotized up one aisle and down the next, struck by the variety of different soups, or astonished by the ingredients of German cereals. I like to dip into the glossy waters of the magazine rack.
This afternoon, waiting for the store to be reopened after prayer call, I spot a dog-earred dog of Melville’s “Mardi.” Nine Rials, a deal for such a perfect, escape-from-Saudi novel. Taking it off the rack, I notice another volume beneath.
“Learn Arabic In Six Easy Lessons,” by Dr. Sahel Al-Basel. The drawing on the cover shows sand dunes, a minaret and the smiling face of King Fahad. A single cassette is wrapped inside the plastic package.
Six easy lessons, I smile, who can learn any language in X number of lessons? But I am tempted by the utter simplicity of the offer, impulsively to buy the tape. I have nothing to lose.
I return home and toss the lessons into the corner of my desk, spend two hours writing letters home and then decide to give the Arabic a whirl. I split open the package and get ready for the first lesson.
Sliding the tape into the stereo, I lean forward in my chair and open the small pamphlet stuffed under the cassette. Although the advertising is in English, the writing inside is in Arabic, and there is no phonetic guide for the alphabet. Setting down the book, I push the start button.
“Lesson two, polite forms of greeting,” a man’s deep voice intones from the speaker.
I stop the tape, reverse it and start again from the beginning. “Lesson Two…”
Striking the stop button, I remove the tape. Where is Lesson One? Slipping the other side of the tape in, I reverse it to the beginning, then push the start button.
“Will you have a cigarette?” a man’s voice says. It must be the middle of a lesson. I turn the tape over and run it backwards again, then stop and push the play button.
“Lesson Two, polite forms of greeting,” continues the speaker. “Sabahul kheir, Good morning. Masaul kheir, good evening. DIIIIING! A door bell rings in the background of the tape.” Excuse me,” the man mutters, “someone is at the door.”
I can’t believe it. The man gets up and walks through the room, letting the tape run on while he is gone. Momentarily, I hear voices conversing in Arabic.
The tape slowly slides through the middle of the spool and onto the other side. Five, ten, fifteen minutes, all the time the man is talking to someone — all the while, letting the tape roll on emptily. Finally, a door closes, feet cross the floor and the man’s voice booms over the speaker. “Excuse me for the delay. That was my cousin. Where were we? Ah, yes, evening. The correct reply is…CLICK!” The tape reaches the end and stops.
I don’t know whether to laugh or throw the cassette against the wall. I turn the tape over and hit play.
“Massakallah bil kheir,” the speaker intones. “One can also say, masaul kheir, which means, may God grant you a good evening.” He coughs twice. ”Excuse me, I will return shortly, “The man clears his throat and walks out of the room.
I stare at the tape turning and turning but without any sound coming from the speaker. Soon a toilet flushes. Sandals strike the floor, and a distant telephone rings. In the background, the man answers the phone and begins talking rapidly in Arabic. For a second, I imagine that if I stop the tape, he will have time to complete the call and return to the tape recorder, but then I realize how crazy my idea is. I wait, all the while watching the tape move closer and closer to the far side.
The man completes his telephone call and returns to the tape-recorder. I hear him take a sip of tea or coffee. He leans close to the machine, for his voice scratches loudly over the speaker. “Excuse you for the delay. Where
were I?”
The tape ends.