“In the next seven weeks, the law failed to arrest anybody for the murder of Robert Colvert. The law operated on the mistaken assumption that the killer was a transient and long gone. The law failed to come across a young man who would in hindsight seem like an obvious suspect. A short, red-haired young fellow who hung around the station and bummed change for cokes and candy bars and, when locked out of his room for nonpayment of rent, often slept outside in his car…Who suddenly had lots of bills and pockets full of silver to pay back his rent…Who bought his girlfriend presents…A physical description was given to the cops, but the man had never stood for a mug shot. No one put two and two together. The murder had major consequences for Charlie [Starkweather]. As he would say later, the crime seemed almost to make him whole; it seemed to move him from a life of fiction and fantasy into action…The killing made him feel good; that was the short of it…”
- Harry N. Maclean, Starkweather: The Untold Story of the Killing Spree That Changed America
Chances are you’ve heard of Charles Starkweather, his 1958 killing spree, and his girlfriend, Caril Ann Fugate who – depending on what you believe – was either a hostage, an accomplice, or the mastermind of the whole bloody mess. The murders – eleven in all, six men, four women, and a two-year-old girl – has been the subject of movies, documentaries, books, articles, and television specials. Starkweather is name-checked in Billy Joel’s We Didn’t Start the Fire, and is the subject of Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska album, which the Boss considers his masterpiece.
Even if you don’t know the Starkweather name per se – despite its memorability, its terrible aptness – you’re probably familiar with the derivative media. Both Terrence Malick’s lyrical, visually poetic Badlands, and Oliver Stone’s chaotic, emptily provocative Natural Born Killers, are based on Charlie and Caril Ann, and their lethal sojourn through the backroads of western Nebraska.
With so much already written, said, shown, and sung, you might ask whether Harry Maclean’s Starkweather serves much of a purpose.
I think it does, for two reasons.
First, having been just recently published, it is a summation of sorts, imbued with the advantages that come with the fullness of time.
Second, it is meant as a corrective, a reframing of a story you think you know, but probably really don’t. Part of the reason that the tale of Charlie and Caril Ann has endured – despite the grim reality that mass murder is as American as baseball and apple pie – is the legend that they were a romantic couple shooting their way out of midwestern conformity. The reality, as Maclean strenuously – and at times pedantically – argues, is that Caril Ann was a victim, a fourteen-year-old dragged along on a traumatic nine-day nightmare, fearing for her life every minute.
***
Besides writing true crime, Maclean worked as a lawyer, and it shows in Starkweather’s methodical structure. With the exception of the introduction and the epilogue, in which Maclean – a Nebraska native who grew up in Lincoln at the same time as Charlie Starkweather – discusses his own connection to the murders, while proudly extolling the virtues of the Cornhusker State, the book proceeds directly from point to point.
There is crisp opening chapter introducing us to Charlie and his girlfriend, Caril. Then there is a long chapter that recounts each of the killings, followed by an even longer one covering both Charlie’s and Caril’s trials, appeals, and punishment. Maclean then switches into advocacy mode, in which he argues at length for Caril’s innocence, before ending with a discussion of the crime’s impact and cultural resonances, in an attempt to support the book’s preposterous subtitle.
At about four-hundred pages, this is pretty lengthy, and its thoroughness – and more than occasional reiterations – make it feel longer.
***
Starkweather worked for me, but it felt wildly uneven. The chapter on the killings, for instance, was extremely frustrating. Maclean presents it Rashomon-style, separately telling the woeful tale of each murder from the perspective of both Charlie and Caril, even reverting to the present-tense for more immediacy.
This is in an interesting gambit, and seems good in theory, demonstrating the subjective underpinnings of what we accept as objective truth. In practice, though, it is repetitious and confusing. There is already a lot of information to hold in your head, without having to parse very different recollections. Additionally, as we learn throughout, much of what Charlie Starkweather said was false, meaning we are wasting time exploring his point of view. This would’ve been more effective if Maclean had used his own judgment – based on his voluminous research – to choose the most likely sequence of events by comparing statements to forensic evidence.
***
Other parts of Starkweather were far more engrossing. Maclean’s narrative of Charlie and Caril’s confused road trip is carefully pieced together, and captures the oft-unacknowledged beauty of Nebraska. Late in the book, Maclean notes that he drove their route, and it shows.
The trials are also well handled, despite the fact that it often covers the exact same ground already trod. As a lawyer myself, I think that Maclean did a fine job explaining the various aspects of a criminal proceeding, and noting how different things were back in the late 1950s, in a time before Miranda rights and Gideon v. Wainwright, when sheriffs still lived in their jails, with their wives doing the cooking for inmates.
***
This book isn’t for everyone. In fact, I hesitate to recommend it, though I liked it. The repetition mentioned above gets tedious. Excellent episodes – such as Charlie’s appeals and execution – are interspersed with lawyerly listing and re-listing of evidence. There is an entire chapter in which Maclean pretends he is a judge, and then relitigates Caril’s trial. At another point, he delves into the realm of psychoanalysis, discussing sublimation, dissociation, and sociopathy. Nothing illustrates Starkweather’s essential qualitative inconsistency better than the epilogue, which is disorganized, meandering, off-topic, and somehow still engrossing.
But here’s the thing: this case obsessed me. It beguiled me. I spent more time than I’m willing to admit watching interview clips on YouTube, and staring at black-and-white photos of Caril and Charlie, trying to get past their eyes, trying to get beyond. I rewatched Badlands. I watched the documentary The Twelfth Victim, which movingly argues for Caril’s innocence over four episodes. I read – in some cases reread – the numerous state and federal court opinions concerning Charlie and Caril. Finally – much to the chagrin of my kids – I put an end to the endless succession of Taylor Swift songs playing in my house, and listened to Nebraska from start to finish. It was time extremely well spent.
For me, then, Starkweather – in its too-much-ness – proved to be exactly what I wanted.
***
It’s an interesting question, who gets to tell a story. After all, most significant events have multiple participants, each with their own viewpoints, and their own claim to authorship. With regard to the Starkweather murders, only two people knew exactly what happened.
One of them was a young girl who told the same story over and over again. And in telling that story, she was willing to make admissions against her own interest, which is a powerful indicia of reliability. After her conviction, she spent eighteen years in prison with an immaculate record. Upon her parole, she lived a quiet life within the bounds of the law.
The other was a young – but older – boy with strong sociopathic tendencies, a history of violence, and a love of guns. This boy gleefully admitted to eleven murders, and then told ten separate stories, each one of them different. He sexually mutilated one of his victims and – if we believe his claims that he had sex with Caril – he was a statutory rapist, too. Despite the hideousness of his actions, his glib relationship with truth, he was called by the State of Nebraska as a star witness.
For nearly seventy years, we’ve ignored the girl and listened to the boy, even though the boy was convicted of murder, never professed his innocence, and rode the lightning.
Perhaps it’s about time we listened to Caril’s version, and at least considered it.