Twelve

I spent my lunch hour on the Internet, looking up the shining life record of Branford T. Purell. A lovely man, Mr. Purell had roamed the highways of West Texas, particularly the area of Midland/Odessa, where he had once worked on an oil rig, or as they call it in the Lone Star State, an “all reeig.” Once the area’s oil business, um, dried up, Purell took the whole unemployment thing personally, and vented his frustration on virtually any woman who happened to be walking along the road alone. He shot five of them, three fatally, for no discernible reason. The two he didn’t kill eventually recovered. Not having the same concerns as Preston Burke’s girlfriend, they fingered him pretty quickly, and his trial had roughly the same outcome as Burke’s. The difference was, Purell’s conviction stuck. Something to do with the fact that he was actually guilty.

Purell had been the kind of guy who would blame everyone else for his problems. To the day he died, he claimed the women were “asking for it by walking out there alone.” As we all know, the international symbol for a woman who hopes to die by shotgun blast is one who walks alongside the highway. It makes perfect sense when you have the right point of view.

Virtually nobody except the most vehement death penalty opponents tried to stay Purell’s execution. His own sister, contacted by his attorney, refused to put in a clemency request to the governor. Of course, this was Texas, and they’d just as soon execute somebody there as go out for a hamburger, so it’s possible Purell’s sister was just looking to spice up an otherwise dull Tuesday evening. Hey, some siblings are closer than others.

Lucille and her son Avery were the only “kin” Purell left behind, and from the look of it, they were not a close family. Lucille attended the execution, but brought a date, and after it was over, signed autographs outside the prison for a good long while seeking out television reporters and granting interviews. She made her 15 minutes of fame last more than twice that long.

It wasn’t a difficult thing to get Lucille Purell Watkins’s phone number from directory assistance. These days, you just dial 411 and James Earl Jones will tell you anybody’s phone number, so long as you’re a Verizon customer. Except his own. Maybe Verizon wants us to believe that 411 is James Earl Jones’ phone number.

Lucille wasn’t home, but miracle of miracles, she did have an answering machine, one that played “The Yellow Rose of Texas” while she instructed me to “go ahead and leave a message.” So I went ahead and left one.

I had nothing left to do except run down the parents of the usual suspects I’d taken out of the “Find-A-Friend” directory, and that was just a millimeter above nothing. But I had only a day and a half left, and I’d stupidly promised Anne I’d have something for her before the Board of Education meeting Thursday night. Sometimes, being gallant is overrated.

Trying my best to gather enthusiasm, I checked the clock. Two hours before the kids got home—plenty of time to see at least two parents. Why call ahead?

I got the list from my reporter’s notebook, put on my denim jacket, and headed out the door.

Standing on the sidewalk in front of my house, gazing into the lovely garbage-bag-and-cardboard patch I’d made from the remains of my front window, was Preston Burke.