A slender, curly-headed teenage boy in handcuffs and a dark green jumpsuit guided the driver of an unmarked police car onto a rutted road. The cop led a short caravan of vehicles carrying detectives toward an L-shaped row of corrugated metal sheds at 4500 Silver Bell Street in Houston, Texas. This was Southwest Boat Storage. They stopped near unit 11. Several men in suits emerged from the lead car. One helped the boy to step out. He looked dazed, like he could barely stand. The detectives needed this boy. He'd just revealed that Dean Corll, a local electrician whom he'd fatally shot that morning, had killed other boys and buried them in this unit's dirt floor. The detectives had initially dismissed his claims. He was a kid, coming off a paint-sniffing high. But he'd mentioned David Hilligiest, Marty Jones, and Charles Cobble. All three had been reported missing. Two had vanished on the same day a few weeks before. Despite the stifling heat on that August afternoon in 1973, they'd come to check out the kid's disturbing claim. Some of these cops were from Houston PD. Some were from Pasadena, where Corll had been shot. They'd agreed they needed to work together. Around 5:30 p.m., they approached the boat stall's set of steel doors. A padlock stopped them. They located Mrs. Mayme Meynier, the facility owner, and explained why they needed access. She was distressed to hear that her tenant was dead. Dean Corll had been such a nice man, she said, always paying his fee on time ever since he'd rented the stall in late 1970. The landlady had no spare key for Corll's lock, so she granted permission to the police to break it. One officer used a tire iron to get the job done. When they opened the doors to the windowless, high-ceilinged 12x34-foot space, a blast of pent-up heat pushed them back. Inside, they saw a cluttered stall. They entered to assess the contents. In the center of the space, two musty overlapping carpets covered the dirt floor. The blue one touched both walls and ran about twelve feet into the unit. Along the right side near the back, the detectives saw a tarp-covered car, two canisters of compressed gas, a small red bike, an empty furniture box, and a plastic bag full of shoes and clothing. They counted eight twenty-gallon metal containers. Two ten-pound bags of lime sat on one. Near the left wall, a crack in the lumpy dirt-and-shell floor exuded a faint odor. A broken rake with a white residue on its tines and two short-handled shovels reinforced the ominous impression that something had been buried here beneath lime. The boy came to the threshold. He looked pale. Instead of entering the stall, he backed away, sat on the grass, and put his head in his hands. His life had changed irreparably that day. Seventeen-year-old Elmer Wayne Henley, Jr. had just shot and killed Dean Corll. He'd said he'd done it to save himself and two friends whom Corll had decided to torture. Then he'd told detectives about the boat stall, with four, and possibly more, kids buried inside. Detective Dave Mullican had been with Henley since the shooting that morning. He stared at the forlorn teen. This kid knew more than he was saying, a lot more. He'd led them to the boat stall without difficulty, though he'd said he'd been there just once. He'd told them where the facility owner lived. What else did he know? What else had he done? But these questions could wait. First, they had to discover if Dean Corll was the killer the boy claimed him to be. A peek under the canvas tarp showed the stripped hulk of a Chevy Camaro, seemingly used for parts--a common way to profit from stolen cars. They'd have to check the vehicle's status, and then move it out. The kid's bike as well. The police photographer, Bill Hare, snapped photos of each item before stepping aside for the forensics unit. The crime scene processors took dirt and lime samples and lifted fingerprints from several locations. Items were packaged as potential evidence. Around 6:30 p.m., word arrived that the Camaro was stolen and the bike belonged to thirteen-year-old James Dreymala, a boy reported missing nearly a week earlier. Another missing boy, and not one Henley had named. With the other three, this made four possible graves, maybe five, since Gregory Malley Winkle had gone missing with David Hilligiest in 1971. It seemed impossible. Who'd ever heard of a guy grabbing and killing this many boys without anyone noticing? Still doubtful, detectives directed two inmates they'd brought from a jail-- "trusties"--to dig into the smelly dirt hump near the broken rake. The air had cleared somewhat, but it was blazing hot outside, with a dampness that stuck shirts to skin. The trusties started to dig. Excerpted from The Serial Killer's Apprentice by Katherine Ramsland, Tracy Ullman All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
