NEW YORK, June 24 — When you think “serial killer,” certain characteristics come to mind: egotistical, manipulative, violent, and — usually — male.
But in 1989, Aileen Wuornos proved once and for all that men don’t have the exclusive on serial violence when she became one of America’s most well-known female killers, inspiring the 2003 film Monster, starring Charlize Theron as Wuornos.
Wuornos went on a year-long killing spree, murdering a total of seven men on prominent Florida highways. Posing as a hitchhiker and often using her position as a sex worker, Wuornos lured her victims to remote locations... before turning on them with a.22 caliber pistol.
Journalist Joseph Reynolds details Wuornos’s horrific crimes — including the murder of veteran police officer Dick Humphreys — in his compulsively readable true crime book Dead Ends.
Read on for an excerpt of Dead Ends.
She was standing near the northbound entrance ramp to 1–75 with her thumb out, a somewhat bedraggled blond wearing cutoff shorts and a floral T-shirt, a tote bag over her broad shoulder. [Dick] Humphreys’ glance caught a pleading in the woman’s eyes. He pulled over. She came up to the passenger door, peered through the window, and smiled. Humphreys noticed the scarlet splashes across her forehead. Burn scars, maybe a birthmark.
“I really need to get up to Ocala. My kids are with their sister up there and my car broke down.” Humphreys waved her in with his broad hand. She was inside the car, the bag between her sneakers. Humphreys drove up the incline and merged with 1–75’s northern flow.
She was talking, bouncing in the seat, waving her hands and asking questions — where was he from? What did he do?
“An investigator? You mean, like a cop?” Her lips curled up to show a crowd of sour teeth. “Really? Mind if I have a beer? I’m wiped. I just need something to drink.” Humphreys looked over, but she already had a bottle of Miller in her hand, removing, the cap with a quick twist. She took a long pull. “Thanks. You know, I’m really stuck. They want all this money for the car. Damn, I need to get a hundred dollars and there’s no way... just no way. I don’t know what I’m goin’ to do. See, see here.”
She fumbled with the bag at her feet and came up with a plastic business-card wallet, flipped it open, and shoved it toward him. Humphreys glimpsed a colour photo of two blond children, formally posed atop a table. One of those Kmart studio portraits. “All these cards here,” she gushed, “these are my clients. You see, I had this pressure-cleaning business, but I got all ripped off. You know, I mean, I’m a Christian, but I sometimes do some things. You know, like, I mean as a professional call girl. Thirty for head. Seventy-five straight sex. Just off in the woods.”
Humphreys waved her off and cut in. “No, no. I’m on my way home. I can give you a ride, but best not go on anymore about any of that.”
The woman seemed either genuinely distressed or was working up a scam, but the veteran cop let it pass. On that Tuesday afternoon, Dick Humphreys was preoccupied. The transfer to Ocala already had him down, and that anniversary the night before had only added to the weight of time. He didn’t notice the woman’s hands as they set the bottle down between her feet.
“Hey.”
A glance showed Humphreys the long barrel of the revolver that had replaced the beer in her hand. Despite a metallic rush of adrenaline, the veteran cop kept his cool. The.38 service pistol he usually carried had been left at home that morning.
“Just get off at 484.” She punched the barrel hard into his rib cage. “And then make a right.”
“Are you sure you want to go on with this?” Humphreys spoke as if he were cautioning a child about to do something foolish. She shoved the revolver, digging into his heavy belly.
“Just do what the f*** I tell you. Fat motherf***ing cop. You motherf***ers give me nothing but s***.”
He flipped the turn indicator. Over the rush of cool air blowing from the AC, the signal beat like a metallic heartbeat. Humphreys eased the car down the exit off the interstate and came to a stop. “Take a left, take a left.”
Humphreys squinted into the facing sun and peeked at his watch. 4:45. She continued to work the barrel into his flesh. Simple highway robbery, he figured. Take the cash, maybe the credit cards if she was as dumb as she seemed. Probably take the car. Leave his ass up in the woods. Shirley’s going to be scared silly. Goddamn, what kind of walk is this bitch going to leave me with?
“You get up here across from Marion Oaks, you make a right. Take it straight on up.”
Humphreys made the right that took them into what looked to be a failed subdivision. The streets were laid out, but somebody had dropped the ball. The street went nowhere. Brittle weeds and spindly scrubs had reclaimed the unsold lots, a few still flagged by bedraggled survey ribbons of dirty orange plastic. And then there was no more street to drive.
“Pull it up here.”
Dick Humphreys brought his car to a stop alongside a concrete casement holding a sewer grate. He figured they were at least a half mile from the highway. At least she hadn’t taken him way out into the woods. It would be an easy walk to one of the houses in Marion Oaks after she was done. The sun was still up. Humphreys knew if he just kept it cool not much was likely to happen.
“Get the f*** out.” She opened her door and backed out, leaving her bag on the floorboard. Humphreys pulled his keys out of the ignition and picked up his briefcase. She was around the back of the Olds and standing at the rear fender. As he shoved his door wide, he looked up at the.22 she had in her hand. A cheap nine-shot revolver. Hell, he thought, even if she got a shot off there was a good chance it wouldn’t be a kill shot. He got out and carefully, slowly stepped away from the car and faced her, his back to the sewer grate. Humphreys held himself quietly, waiting, feeling the grip of the briefcase growing wet in his palm, feeling a bruised ache where she had shoved the gun. And then he knew. She was raising up her arm. She was taking a small step backward with her right foot.
The bullet hit him down there. In the gut. His hands were up. The briefcase dropped. His arm. He dropped to the ground. Make a small target. Roll. His back. And another. They were all over him. There was nothing but fire. Fires burning way down inside and getting bigger. There was no air down there in the grass. He needed to get up, was up. On his knees. Then up to his feet. But no. He couldn’t. He fell back against the concrete. He was choking. His throat was full. If he could just spit it up he could breathe. It was hard to grab air. He felt her close. She was close. She was all bright white and red.
“Die, motherf***er.”
He saw the gun coming in. The long steel finger against his chest. Funny how he felt that. Everything was cold and wet. But right there it was hot. And then there was nothing at all. Dick Humphreys was gone when her last hollow-point round rocketed behind his left ear and through his skull, spraying fragments of lead and bone through his abandoned brain. — The Lineup/Reuters
* This story was originally featured on The-Line-Up.com. The Lineup is the premier digital destination for fans of true crime, horror, the mysterious, and the paranormal.
