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Here’s his obituary. I found it online.
ShockAndBlah:
Aww it says that for decades he helped refugees get affordable housing in Chicago. Is what Daphne did a crime? Not getting help?
BurntheBookBurnerz:
I don’t really know about the law; I went to art school. It FEELS like it should be? Maybe it’s manslaughter?
StopDropAndTroll:
Of course YOU went to art school. Who gives a fuck at this point about counting her crimes? She’s going to die in prison anyways.
ShockAndBlah:
She’s living this dream life in Florida and she’s still pulling shit like this. I just don’t get it.
CapoteParty:
She probably doesn’t either.
BurntheBookBurnerz:
It almost feels like she’s devolving. You see that happen with some killers—they just become more depraved and reckless. It’s not about the money or revenge anymore; she gets a kick out of seeing men die. That’s probably why she killed Warren.
PreyAllDay:
Yeah, like Ted Bundy. He starts out luring college girls into his car, but by the end he’s breaking into sororities to slaughter groups of them. His last murder was a twelve-year-old girl, by far his youngest victim.
ShockAndBlah:
Funny, isn’t that when Ted Bundy moved to Florida? Maybe it’s Florida that makes these killers devolve.
PreyAllDay:
Well, that’s the Florida Man phenomenon for you. . . even serial killers aren’t immune.
CapoteParty:
Out of curiosity, does anyone know what senior center she ended up in? I’m visiting Florida soon and thought it would be cool to see where this is all happening. I know the town but there’s so many old folks’ homes. . .
StopDropAndTroll:
Really? In Florida? Surprising.
PreyAllDay:
Hey I’m local. I think they’re trying to keep it quiet, you know to stop someone from offing her. But. . . my cousin used to work at Coconut Grove Seniors Center, and she remembers Daphne and Warren Ackerman. . . so there you go.
The day’s interview did not get off to a good start. Ruth had tossed and turned all night, getting up to check and recheck that every curtain and blind in her house was firmly shut and that both locks on her door were in place. At one point, a garbage can had fallen over outside and Ruth had been startled awake, certain that someone was breaking down the door. To make matters worse, Ruth kept running through the Joe McLaughlin story Daphne had told her.
This murder-by-omission was so close in fact to the murder Ruth was trying to solve that for a moment she wondered if Daphne had changed the names and fiddled the details, so she wouldn’t catch another murder charge in Florida. Daphne had described the scene so well that Ruth could envision her sitting in a different living room, watching a different man get increasingly disoriented, fall to the floor and start seizing, limbs jerking sporadically before, finally, going still with death. All that was missing was the vial of insulin. Then she could see Daphne, absorbing it all with a satisfied look on her face before walking next door to her own apartment building. It was a repulsive image, but it played incessantly in Ruth’s mind, looping over and over as she tried to drift off.
Ruth slept through her alarm and was over an hour late to Coconut Grove, finding Daphne grumpy and unsettled. They had only been recording for a few minutes when Daphne began to shift uncomfortably, clutching her stomach.
“I need a break,” Daphne said, wiping her forehead. She was uncharacteristically disheveled, her skin clammy and pale.
“Are you okay? Should I call someone?” Ruth asked, pausing the recording. Was Daphne about to drop dead in front of her?