STARKWEATHER BOOK EXCERPT:
 

So the stage was set as 1957 came to a close. The country was filled with self-confidence and a bustling optimism. There was no real fear of an evil out there, no real fear of an evil inside. As cruel as war was, it was never random. You knew the face of  the enemy. Someone won and someone lost. Play by the rules, be decent ad respectful of another, take care of your family and go to church, and life will be good. Yes, terrible things happen, like a car-versus-train accident that kills a family of four, but seldom at the hands of another, here in Nebraska.

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The American lexicon did not include the word mass murder. Or spree killer. Or serial killer. Not that some hadn’t existed in the past, but they were never mythologized or given a categorical title. They hadn’t been brought into your home through the eye of television or given front-page coverage day after day for weeks.

 

Enter Charles Starkweather and Caril Ann Fugate.

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Charlie ejects the spent shell, slips a live round in the chamber, and slams the bolt closed. Caril jerks the gun away from Charlie and tells her mother she’s going to blow her to hell. Velda gives Caril a shove, knocking her to the floor, and Charlie grabs the gun from Caril and whirls around and shoots Velda in the mouth. Betty Jean is watching from the doorway. Velda reels but does not go down. She gets herself past Charlie and heads toward the baby but then turns around and looks Charlie in the eye, knife still in her hand. Charlie raises the rifle butt in the air and brings it down on her head. She falls down, but not all the way—she’ sitting on the floor—so he smashes the butt into her head again. She topples over and lies on her right side.

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Charlie wanted to become famous, he wanted to go down in history as a very, very bad outlaw, and he proved to whoever was watching or listening that you could do that with a knife and gun. By the time of his execution, the “bandy-legged runt” was known far and wide, even in lands across the sea. On leaving the courthouse, he would inevitably pause at the top step for a few moments and pose with an amused smirk and the ever-present cigarette pressed between his lips. The Huntley-Brinkley Report featured him and Caril night after night. The AP story on his conviction was carried with photos in hundreds of photos around the country. Charlie’s execution was a national event. Anybody of a similar mind watching would get  the idea: Here’s how a nobody can become a somebody. Here’s how motherfucking payback works. Here’s a way to make yourself feel better. To have some fun.

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“I saw her standing on her front lawn, just twirling her baton

Me and her went for a ride, sir, and ten innocent people died

From the town of Lincoln, Nebraska”  – Bruce Springsteen, “Nebraska”

 

Not too many songs have been written about Nebraska, much less by the likes of Bruce Springsteen. . . The song is a narrative of the crimes and execution as told by Starkweather. He tells of the killings and says he’s not sorry for any of them. “At least for a while, sir, me and her had us some fun.”