Chapter 1

Chapter 1 Household of Secrets Kyle Heller

My name is Randy Randell and I live at 3066 County Road Z with my wife, Barb Ran- dell; we are retired farmers. I have shared this house with Barb since 1992 when we married. I grew up here and raised my family here. This seems all too good to be true, but … this is also my final resting place for my fourteen victims. Now, I am at risk of being caught as the fourth serial killer of Wisconsin. As much as I don’t want to be caught, the one thing that I really don’t want is to be put into the same category as John Wayne Gacy, Ed Gien, and Jeffery Dahmer.

They were sloppy…they got caught. I feel my methods were cleaner… less messy.

In our town, Sprit Lake, we’ve been notified by the state of Wisconsin that within the year our two-lane highway will be widened into four lanes as a thoroughfare to a nearby larger city. In making this highway wider, everyone on County Road Z will get paid $3,000 per acre and $45,000 for each building. Even though the money will be nice to pass down to our two boys, Phil and Harry, I really don’t want to spend the remaining years of my life in prison.

I was a serial killer, back in the mid ‘80s and into the early ‘90s. Barb was supposed to be my last victim, number fifteen, but I fell in love with her instead. Barb Reily was her name; she had big blond hair and wore black leggings, baggy hoodies, long plastic necklaces, several thin bracelets, and peep-toed pumps in many bright varieties. This was my perfect victim; I planned on picking her up at the county fair and bringing her back to my house. After we got home, I planned to drug her using my favorite sedative, Triazolam; however, it never got that far. For my other victims, I had put three to four pills in their drinks and had waited for them to pass out. Thankfully, I never had any of my victims deny a drink; I never dealt with any struggles. Then, dead or not, I would put them into a handmade body bag and take them downstairs where I had a dirt floor, placing them in a six-foot hole that I had pre-dug. I then grabbed a shovel to place the dirt on top of them, and even though they could not hear me, I whispered, “Shhh, everything will be okay.” Every time I was done I felt whole again; my need to take a life was gone. When I met Barb at the county fair that night, I knew my days of killing were over. I am not going to lie; I sometimes thought that I could get back into my ways, but I al- ways stopped myself, knowing that it would not be fair to Barb and our boys. There were some nights when Barb and the boys were asleep when I would creep downstairs and sit on the floor and ponder if I could take another life—could I pull it off? In a small hidden place in our base- ment walls, I have a hidden compartment with my remaining pills of Triazolam and one more handmade body bag. I sometimes take them out and hold them tight to my chest and remember the thrill of the hunt. What am I going to do when my family finds out?

– 8 –

Before Barb and I were married, I made sure my basement had a thick layer of concrete over the dirt floor. I never wanted Barb knowing who I was, but with this highway coming through and knocking down our home, she will find out who I really am. Everyone will.

One morning, Barb and I were sitting on our front porch swing and talking about what we were going to do about this highway.

“Randy, I don’t want to leave our home,” Barb said with a sad tone. “I don’t either, more than you know.”

“Is there any way that we could fight it?” “No, but we could run…I mean, leave.”

She shook her head, “No, not until we get the money.”

I knew that Barb was right. We were just farmers; we didn’t have much savings. Where could we afford to go? “What about Mexico? That would be cheap.” And out of U.S. jurisdiction, I thought.

Barb gave me a weak smile. “I am not going to Mexico, silly. What about our kids? And grandkids? I want to watch them grow up. No, let’s wait for the money, and then we can move into an apartment to be closer to them.”

I looked out onto the road. I immediately pictured bulldozers and electric cement chisels unleashing my secrets in the basement. The fourteen women. They had once looked like Barb, with big blond hair and pink cheeks…but now they are nothing but bones and my demise.

Faint in the background I heard Barb say, “Honey, are you okay?”

I couldn’t answer her. I just stared out at the road, noticing a flash in the corner of my eye. I looked over and noticed the mail car coming towards our house with the yellow flashing light on top of the car. Next time, it will be cop cars with their flashing lights coming to take me away.

I sit in a daze, pondering my fate.

– 9 –