By Scott Shaw, Terry Adams, Mary Brooks-Mueller
In the summertime of 1993, James wooden introduced terror to the unassuming city of Pocatello, Idaho. Little did the pleasant neighborhood comprehend it had opened its palms to serial killer. wooden, the stranger on the town, was once well mannered and soft-spoken. He appeared particularly ordinary-he used to be a grasp at showing basic. In past due June, wooden kidnapped and murdered Jeralee Underwood, the eleven-year-old daughter of a religious Mormon kinfolk. the whole area used to be stunned and outraged. Now in Eye of the Beast writer Terry Adams groups with lead investigator Scott Shaw and forensic psychologist Mary Brooks-Mueller to deliver readers a distinct viewpoint in this case. Shaw takes us into the guts of an exhaustive research, whereas Brooks-Mueller indicates us the brain of a real sexual psychopath. Having spent years learning this example, the authors are skillful in recreating this real tale approximately James Woods-one of the nation's most unique serial killers. The case that rocked the Mormon Church.
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Additional info for Eye of the Beast: The True Story of Serial Killer James Wood
Sample text
When he saw me he got up and took a Sig Sauer pistol from the table, stuffing it into his waistband, the grip hanging over the lip of his drawstring pants. We shook hands and he walked me over to my bike. He straddled it, started it up, and rode the throttle in neutral. He yelled over the engine, “That Spectre pistol Core's selling you? ” “Mommy. That's too much for a pistol, Bird. It was me I'd charge you three hundy” “That's cool of you, dude, but he ain't budging. ” I stuck my chin at the bike.
Or get shot here and let my partners waste him? Or hope one of them gets a clean line on him right this second? Or lie down and try to stay out of the way of everyone's bullets that were sure to puncture the Monte Carlo any second? Or, or, or … drop the keys? Yes, drop the keys. If I was going to die, then he was going to die too. I pulled the keys out of the ignition and let them fall into the footwell. ” “Motherfucker—” I leaned forward and Provestgaard did too. Mellor, who was closest to the passenger's side of the car, stuck his revolver in the rear window gap and emptied it.
Shoot, in that year, 1987, he probably even had his own computer. It didn't appeal to me. The bullet put the rush of the streets in me and through me. It guaranteed I'd never direct anything but myself, and convinced me that large desks were for castrated dummies. I thought, Fuck that, I'm gonna be an undercover. ” AUGUST 2001—JANUARY 2002 IF ANYTHING, THE shooting proved that my job, and therefore my life, was not glamorous in any way. Pathetically, I'd imagined that undercover life would be like Miami Vice—full of cigarette boats, fast cars, expensive clothes, and perfect tens in bikinis sitting in my lap while I negotiated with drug kingpins.