Eye of the Beast: The True Story of Serial Killer James Wood

174 Pages·1998·1.62 MB·English

by  Terry Adams

An Addicus Nonfiction Book
Copyright 1998 by Terry Adams, Scott Shaw, and Virtu Studio Corporation. All rights reserved. No part of
this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any
means electronic, mechanical, photocopied, recorded, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of
the publisher. For information, write to Addicus Books, Inc., P.O. Box 45327, Omaha, Nebraska 68145.
ISBN 1-886039-32-1
Cover design by George Foster, Jeff Reiner
Typography by Linda Dageforde
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Adams, Terry, 1946—
Eye of the beast : the true story of serial killer James Wood / Terry Adams, Scott Shaw, Mary
Brooks-Mueller.
p. cm.
ISBN 1-886039-32-1 (alk. paper) 1. Wood, James, 1947- • 2. Serial murders—Idaho—Case studies.
I. Shaw, Scott, 1953- • II. Brooks-Mueller, Mary, 1954-III. Title.
HV6533-U8A33 1997 97-34332
364.15’23’0978647—dc21 CIP
Addicus Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 45327
Omaha, Nebraska 68145
Web site: http://members.aol.com/addicusbks
Printed in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To the memory of Jeralee
Authors’ Notes
J
ames Wood is not like other serial killers. He has no victim preference, no
sexual preference. He is opportunistic and will abuse, assault, rape, kill, or
mutilate anybody, anytime. The social standards that motivate most of us to
abide by the law and lead lives of decency are the very triggers for Wood to lie,
steal, and murder.
Upon his arrest, he told Detective Scott Shaw, “I’m a monster. I have demons
inside of me.” Later, he told Mary Brooks-Mueller, “I’ll write you from prison
and pour my heart out to you. Maybe you can unscramble it.”
In reality, James Wood has no conscience. He is not possessed by demons,
but rather by rage and vengeance. He lives to manipulate, control, and deceive.
Yet he looks quite ordinary. He is a master at pretending to be normal. You
wouldn’t notice him in a crowd. But make no mistake, he is a predator, a career
killer.
To assemble this book, we drew in part from our own interviews with James
Wood—one of the most unique and dangerous criminals we have encountered
in our two decades of law enforcement work. In all, we spent four years
researching Wood and his crimes. We interviewed dozens of individuals. Some
of their names have been changed to protect their privacy. We pored over
thousands of pages of court documents, mental evaluations, and forensic records
to tell this story.
We hope this book will help educate readers about the true nature of the
psychopath and, in turn, help protect others from the likes of James Wood.
Prologue
A
ugust 1993. Bannock County Jail. Pocatello, Idaho. “Tell me about the two
girls in Shreveport,” Detective Scott Shaw asked. “The ones in 1967.”
“Scott, I tell you, I was so drunk, it’s all just a blur.” James Wood said,
leaning back in his chair. He took a deep drag off his cigarette and thumped the
ashes down the floor drain. “They were just whores, anyway. Maybe the devil just
wanted it to happen, and he chose me to carry out his work.”
“Jim, do you know what manipulative mitigation is?” Shaw asked.
“Can’t say as I do.”
“It’s self-serving bullshit. It means you have an excuse for everything you do.
You were drunk or the devil wanted you to do it. You’ll say anything you can
think of to get yourself off the hook, and when you think I’ve bought into it, you
start with the ’I’ve found God’ stuff. I don’t buy it Jim. You think you’re playing
games with me, that you can control me. I’m not a little gill who doesn’t have a
clue about dealing with somebody like you. You’re wasting my time.”
“You’re saying I’m evil?”
“No, I’m saying you’re full of crap. I know you’re used to dealing with people
and situations you can control. I’m saying, drop the ‘poor pitiful me’ garbage and
get to the point. You’re starting to piss me off.” Shaw saw Wood’s anger starting
to surface. Wood leaned forward in his chair and glared at the detective. “So,
what is it you want to know, Scott?”
‘Tell me about the two girls in Shreveport.”
“They were just two bitches I met in a bar. I had just got me a Pontiac GTO.
One night it got stolen. I was so pissed, I couldn’t fuckin’ walk straight. I knew
those two girls had something to do with it.”
“What made you think they had any anything to do with it?”
“I just figured they did, and the more I thought about it, the madder I got. So
I decided to make them pay in a big way. I went to their apartment and told them
I was drunk and asked if I could stay ’til I could sober up and go home. When
they were asleep, I went to the kitchen and got a knife from one of those things
that holds about six knives.”
“A wooden knife block?”
“Yeah. Then I went to the bedroom and didn’t say anything. I just cut their
goddamned throats. I left them there and went back to the kitchen and fixed
myself something to eat. I was hungry as hell. After a while, I went back to the
bedroom. I figured they were both dead because neither one of them was
moving, and there was blood all over the bed. I thought I’d show the bitches, so I
drug one out to the dining room. Some way she ended up under the table, and I
just screwed her right there. Got blood all over me and everything else.”
“You thought she was dead when you raped her?”
“I sure did. But, sonofabitch, I had blood all over me!”
“Why would you want to have sex with a dead person, Jim?”
“Because I showed them not to fuck with me.”
“Bullshit. I think sex with a body is just your ultimate form of control.
There’s no way they can criticize your performance. It seems to me you had what
you consider a perfect partner.”
“Well, I ain’t really sure,” Wood said, looking into the eyes of the detective.
“But, I’ll tell you this…it’s the best. She got what she deserved, and I got what I
wanted. And I’ll tell you something else, Scott. It shocked the shit out of me
when I found out them two gals lived.” Wood paused, then continued. “And you
know, when I got out of prison, I looked one of ’em up. Turned out she was
teaching at one of them universities in Florida. I went down there and went right
in her class, just to let her see me. That was something!”
“Why would you do that?”
“Just to let the bitch know I was out,” Wood said, taking a drag from his
cigarette and thumping ashes down the drain. “And to show that I can do any
damn thing I want to!”
And this also… has been one of the dark places of the earth.
Joseph Conrad
Heart of Darkness
1
S
unday, October 25, 1992. Near Alton, Illinois. James Edward Wood was on
the run. This time, his fourteen-year-old stepdaughter had “caused” the
problem. It was her own fault, dammit! She shouldn’t have been wearin’ them
skimpy clothes around the house. I told her to change, but she wouldn’t mind! It
was her own fault!
Wood took his eyes off the road long enough to look over at his sullen
passenger. She was leaning against the door, her head swaying lazily with the
movement of the truck, the wind from the open windows swirling her disheveled
hair around her face.
As the dark-brown pickup slipped along the empty highway, the night before
came back into hazy focus. Started drinking pretty early in the morning with that
ol’ boy I spent the night with at the Holiday Inn in St. Louis. Later that afternoon,
after he passed out, I drove over the river to Illinois. Met the gal in a biker bar in
Alton. Had a few beers, then we went bar-hopping. Let her drive my truck for a
while, but she kept popping the clutch. Then we got to that last bar. Must’ve had
close to eighty dollars in my pocket when we went in. Ordered a round for
everybody at the bar, but when it came time to pay, I couldn’t find my money. The
bitch must’ve taken it! She’d been talking about travelin’ out west with me, too.
Told me she had a court appearance next week, and said they was probably gonna
lock her up, asked if she could travel with me. By God, she had to be the one that
took my money. Nobody else got close enough to get it! Her dirty little trick almost
caused some serious trouble, too.
Those two bikers followed us out of the bar after I couldn’t pay. But they
backed off pretty quickly when I told them, “If you ever want to see the inside of
that bar again, just turn around and go right back in.” Meant what I said, too,
every word of it. Had my finger on the trigger. Didn’t even have to show it. Just
kept it in my pocket. “Don’t crowd me, man, I mean it, don’t crowd me!”
Then what? Passed out in the truck, right there on the main street of Alton,
Illinois. Slept there in the truck all night. I know the bitch took my money! But I
made her pay this morning, by God. Just turned off on that little road and stopped
the truck right there in the middle of some farmer’s field. “I want my money,” I say,
and she says she ain’t got my money. So I just say, “Well then, if you ain’t going to
give it up, by God, I’m gonna take it out in screw. You mess with me, bitch, and
I’m gonna mess with you.” She wanted to hold off, kept asking why we didn’t wait
’til we got to a motel room, it’s better there in a bed. But I say, “Hell, no, I ain’t
waiting.” And I didn’t wait, either, by God. I did it right there on the seat!
They sped along the highway, the sun, now a little higher, filtered through
the leaves of the big oak trees lining the road. The woman, hard-looking for her
late twenties, had one long tattoo on her arm.
Wood couldn’t stop thinking about the eighty dollars. “I want my fucking
money, bitch!” Wood shouted, grabbing the woman’s arm.
“I already told you, man,” she said, snatching her arm away. “I didn’t take
your fucking money!”
“I had close to eighty dollars in my pocket when we got to that last place,”
Wood said, gearing down as they came to a traffic signal. “I didn’t spend it, and
you’re the only one who had a chance to take it.”
“Look, dude,” she said angrily. “I don’t know what your problem is, but for
the last time, I ain’t got your friggin’ money!”
James Wood brought the truck to a stop at the traffic light. They were now
near downtown Alton, and there were several cars at the intersection.
“If you don’t believe me,” she screamed, “just drive me to the police station,
and we’ll go inside and let ’em shake me down!”
“I ain’t driving you nowhere, bitch!” he snapped, leaning across and
throwing her door open. “I’m cuttin’ you loose. Just get the fuck outta my truck!”
The woman stepped into the street and slammed the truck door behind her.
“You’re crazy, man! You know that? You’re fuckin’ crazy!” she screamed at
Wood through the open window. “I’m gonna get your license number and turn
your ass in for rape!” she shouted, running toward the back of the truck.
Wood was seething. He scrambled out of the cab and rushed to the rear of
the truck, blocking the woman’s view of his license plate. In full view of the
stunned drivers behind them, Wood shoved the woman backward. The two of
them stood in the middle of the street, shouting obscenities at each other.
Suddenly Wood moved toward her, rage showing in his eyes. The woman backed
away. Wood glared at her. Then he got back in the cab and gunned the pickup
through the intersection.
Bitches like her are always causing me trouble. For the first time in my life, I