District Attorney Bledsoe,
My name is Thomas Stahl of Bayson, Oklahoma. Now I know you may be asking yourself if I am indeed the same Thomas Stahl as the one showing up in the papers of late, as I have no doubt the dark events of our little town have reached the publications of Oklahoma City by now. And I am sorry to tell you that yes sir, I am. We are shaken, sir, shaken to the very core over the deaths. That they happened on our property compounds our grief, but it is a grief we share with the town and the county. We are a close knit community, Mr. Bledsoe, thought we aren't technically Beaumont residents--our land is Bayson but the city center is some thirty miles out, which is why Beaumont, a mere three miles from our land, is where we do our shopping and our worshiping, it is where our children go to school. It is a place that we proudly call home and want, above all things, for it to remain that way.
I am a simple man, Mr. Bledsoe. I do not make a habit of writing letters to big city lawyers, but it has come to my attention that your office will most likely be prosecuting the boys and I feel it is my duty as a citizen of the great state of Oklahoma, to tell you my story. Reason being, there has been some debate over the involvement of the girls in the crime, Ariel Moore and Rusty Wannamaker, and if they are to be prosecuted on lesser charges. Well, sir, I can only tell you how things look from my perspective and I tell you, they do not look good.
I suppose it all began back in May when my youngest son Paul had to be committed to The United Methodist Home for the Mentally Ill. Paul is twenty-two and I will be honest with you, sir, no longer playing with a full deck of cards. It's a downright shame, and the doctors think that it may very well be schizophrenia. The one I spoke to at UMH, Dr. Abbott, said that Paul was probably born with it, though it is common for the disease to metastasize (show up) when a person is in their early twenties. He said all it takes is something they call a psychotic break, some kind of trauma or dramatic episode that causes the patient to snap. He compared it to changing gears while driving, which I found no end of ironic being that Paul's one love in life, besides Ariel Moore, is driving his big rig.
Maybe I need to back up here just a little bit for you, Mr. Bledsoe, so you can get a better idea of what happened. When Paul was a senior Beaumont High, he used to go with little Ariel. She was just a freshman at the time. He'd bring her round the house, the two of them necking like they was getting paid top dollar to do it, and I have to admit, it had mother and I a little nervous. With eight children, we had sure seen our share of young love in action, but this Ariel, she was the preacher's daughter and as loose as a clown's pockets. I caught that girl doing things to my boy that would make a roadhouse hooker blush. But what could we do except pray that it would fizzle out? Well, eventually, it did. Ariel took up with her English teacher and Paul was left to lick his wounds.
Now I know what you're thinking, and no, this was not the psychotic break that caused his illness to surface. That didn't come till this past May, but in order to paint the most effective picture of what happened for you, Mr. Bledsoe, I need to stress that Paul's mental state had begin to deteriorate after Ariel moved on. Sure I'd expect the boy to be heartbroken the way any young boy might be after losing his first love, but our Paul was obsessed. She was all he talked about, all he thank about, pining and mooning around the house like some kind of sick dog. Well, he stayed that way for close to three years, until one of his older brothers, Matthew it was, got Paul a job driving a rig to and from Wichita. This seemed to cure the boy. He love that rig like it was hauling a whole cargo load of Ariel Moore's, and for a while, it seemed our boy was finally getting back to his normal self. Till that Sunday afternoon of course, back in May, when everything changed.
Mr. Bledsoe, I'll be honest, I've always been a church going Christian, and I have the utmost respect for those who choose to dedicate their lives to the Word of the Lord, but I find it to be a down right tragedy when a dedication to one's work, be it the good Lord or otherwise, superceded their dedication to the family. Now, not being from Beaumont you might not know of whom I am insinuating, so I'll lay it on the line for you. I am speaking of the Reverend Moore and his hellcat daughter, Ariel.
That girl is no good. If you lived in Beaumont you would have heard the rumors the way the rest of us have. I mean all you have to do is look at her. Six feet tall, cowboy boots as red as the fires of Hell, that blonde hair of hers always in a tussle as if she just emerged from a romp in the bushes—and never, forgive my language, wearing any of the proper undergarments that girls of her age wear to display decency, all that, not to mention the drink, the drugs, and the fact that she has had more fingers in her pie than the County Bake-off. I feel just horrible saying these things, but as this is official business and two boys lives hang in the balance, I know in my heart it would be a crime not to mention them.
So back to that Sunday afternoon, we had all just come from church and Paul was on his way back from a run that due to bad weather, kept him in Wichita over night. He was on his way home to have dinner with his family, when he met with the oddest sight out on Route 9. In the distance, heading straight for him was a gray pick-up truck dragging it out with a white Dodge Dart. And standing between the two cars with one foot balancing on the door of the Dart, and the other on the ledge of the pick-up, was none other than Ariel Moore howling like a she-wolf in heat. Paul was stricken with terror. Both vehicles were heading straight for him, and you may not know this, Mr. Bledsoe, but Route 9 is a narrow two-lane stretch. There is no way on God's green earth that Paul could have done a damn thing to avoid hitting them unless they decided to move, and to hear him tell it, over and over again from his white padded cell, they seemed to have no intention of doing so.
So, you might be saying to yourself, this must have been the event that caused Paul's psychotic break. Well, yes and no. It wasn't until, after pulling on the horn and slamming on the breaks, did he see the face of Ariel, his one time love, barreling towards his grill with a grin as wide as the crescent moon. Seeing her there, a split-second away from meeting her maker against the windshield of his rig, caused the boy to snap.
Ariel bailed out just in time into the pick-up of Chuck Cranston, that poor boy who at the time was the lucky recipient of her charms, and Paul just kept on driving. They found him hyperventilating into a McDonald's bag near the Texas border.
Mr. Bledsoe, you may think that I am bias. After hearing such a story it would not surprise me if you were to say, but Mr. Stahl, those kids were just having a good time, didn't you do crazy things like that when you were young? And to that I would have to say, yes, sir, I suppose I have. Furthermore, it's not Ariel's fault that Paul is funny in the head. You as a lawyer may require further "evidence" of the girl's guilt. Well, sir, allow me to provide.
I can't count how may times my brother, Jim Stahl, encountered that girl raising hell down at the train yard. He's the night watchman there, you see. Ariel and her little group of friends, the Wannamaker girl and them others, made a game of starring down trains and screaming their heads off when one got close enough to spit on. It's like she's trying either kill herself or drive the whole town crazy. Jim would tell Reverend Moore every time he seen her do it. But would the behavior stop? Not likely. I suppose he feels bad to discipline her, what with Bobby's death and all.
That's another thing you may not know about, Mr. Bledsoe. Perhaps you heard of the Crosby Bridge accident? Happened, oh, must be going on two-years ago now. A bunch of kids were drunk and playing chicken out on the bridge. Damn fools, at the last minute both cars bailed out, right over the sides and into the water, no survivors. For a while everybody assumed they had gone over the state line to be with prostitutes or something like that, till they found Bobby Moore doing the front-stroke where the river narrows down Bayson way. You have to pity Reverend Moore for loosing his son. That boy was going places; he was a track star.
After that, it seemed to everyone that a kind of evil had settled over Beaumont. People wanted something done. And instead of passing stricter drunk driving laws, educating kids on the what happens when you line up two motor vehicles and drive them towards each other at high speeds, or just taking away their licenses, the Beaumont City Council decided to confuse the hell out of everybody and make dancing illegal. Well, that was probably the damn stupidest thing I'd ever heard in my whole damn life, and it only made the kids crazier.
For example, after what happened to her brother you think Miss Moore would have developed an aversion to chicken races, but on the contrary, it seems to only have increased her appetite for them. Just this past June, about three weeks before the tragedy, she was seen on the Cranston property throwing her hat up into the air like she was pulling the starting pistol at the Kentucky Derby. But it wasn't horses that took off running that day; it was tractors. My tractor to be precise, my stolen tractor, and one belonging to Burlington Cranston, headed straight for one another in the most grandiose display of stupidity, since Mayor Dooley squandered the town's yearly budget on that god-awful statue of Gene Autry. Luckily my tractor was the victor, but Burlington's took a nosedive into the creek and it took an entire afternoon to fish it out.
In light of all this Tomfoolery I thought, dancing would be a great way to keep these kids out of trouble, so when that city boy, Ren McCormack and his buddy Willard Hewitt came to me and asked to rent out my warehouse for a dance, I was more than happy to oblige. My property is Bayson land and doesn't fall under the jurisdiction of Beaumont law. The boys gave me a deposit, they seemed very polite, and said they would be back to set up the following Friday for the dance on Saturday. I remember thinking to myself, wonderful. A night when these children are together in one room kicking up their heels and not out terrorizing the open road will be a night that I can sleep soundly.
How wrong I was.
Mr. Bledsoe, I wonder if you have ever seen photographs of my warehouse? That's what the papers are calling it, a warehouse. But in all reality it's a functioning mill. It has a red and white silo that I painted myself, as a matter of fact, with my son Paul one hot summer week. We took lemonade breaks and talked about the future. We planned a hunting trip. It was a good memory. You pass that mill if you're approaching Beaumont from the south, everyone comments on it. It makes them feel good. It makes them feel American. And now? It is known as the warehouse where "The Dance of Death" took place. The Dance of Death, Mr. Bledsoe. In the light of the tragedies, the reputation of a mill might not cross the minds of any of the good folks around these parts, and I understand that, but it crosses mine.
Anyway, back to the story. Loads of them showed up to decorate. They brought in more party supplies than I had ever seen in the whole of my life. They filled my silo with glitter, Mr. Bledsoe. Tons and tons of glitter that they planned to have rain down on their heads while they danced the night away. I have to admit I found it somewhat extreme. Where in the world did they get it all, I wanted to know? But I didn't say anything, I needed the money to help pay for Paul's mounting medical bills, so I kept my mouth shut and watched them load out bags of grain and load in bags of glitter, balloons, little fairy lights, dozens of pies and cakes, and enough punch to drown a horse.
On Saturday they all came dressed in their Sunday best and sat around that dance floor like they were attending a funeral. Mother and I found it bizarre that none of them were dancing and feared the inevitable drag race as it seemed to us that maybe these kids had forgotten how to have the kind of fun that didn't involve attempting to kill themselves. That's when we heard the ruckus.
She had shown up with the boy, Ren, and when I made my way out back I found him going at it with the Hewitt boy. They were giving Chuck Cranston and his boys a beating to end all beating. Ariel Moore and Rusty Wannamaker were cheering them on, encouraging the blows that would end the lives of Chuck Cranston and Daniel Abbott. Kill the son of a bitch, she said, and, beat the shit out of him. I heard it with my own ears.
When they went inside, the dance began, all on the inside innocent of the lives that were expiring out on the dusty ground. It is not my opinion that Ren or Willard knew what they had done till they were informed of it, hours later at the station house. When I realized the boys were dead, I called Officer Earlhaus and the circus began. The riots, the tear gas, the coroner, the arrests, and the accidental avalanche of glitter that sent three members of the glee club to the hospital, but frankly, Mr. Bledsoe, I'd rather not relive the details, you can read about them in the paper.
There is one detail that I'd like to include to end my story of woe, the one that prompted me to write this letter to begin with. I can't forget the cold eyes of Ariel Moore as they zipped Chuck Cranston into that body bag, and the shadow of a smile I saw crawl across her pretty face. It was almost as if, in some twisted way, she planned the whole thing.
I feel as if by writing you this letter I have cleared my conscious. I told my story to the local police of course, but in a small town people don't really listen to you if they already have an idea in their head. They thought I was simply trying to get revenge on Miss Moore for what happened to my Paul, but I assure you, Mr. Bledsoe, with my hand to God, that what I told you is the truth and if it comes to it, I am more than willing to testify to my statements in a court of law. Thank you very much for your time, sir, and God bless.
Sincerely,
Mr. Thomas Stahl
Bayson, Oklahoma
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