Page 4 of The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair

Chapter Three

RUTH: Hello, my name is Ruth Robinson and I will be interviewing Daphne St Clair.

So, what do we know so far? We know that Daphne has been charged with the first-degree murder of Warren Ackerman here in Florida.

We also know that Daphne has confessed to killing more people across numerous decades and in different locations.

She has given details about these murders to the police, but these details have not been shared publicly yet.

And because Daphne has confessed to murdering Warren and will almost certainly plead guilty, she will never have a full criminal trial.

So, this podcast is a record of history, a chance to get to the heart of the facts before Daphne is imprisoned, or—realistically, considering her age—dies, taking the stories with her.

Keep in mind, however, that Daphne will probably only give you her version of events.

So, let’s solve a mystery together. Let’s find out who Daphne St Clair is. And what, exactly, has she done?

Ruth Robinson was escorted through Coconut Grove by a grim-faced woman.

She was very petite and Ruth, who was five foot eleven, towered over her.

She walked briskly, ushering Ruth past rooms where wrinkled faces peered out at her.

She might be projecting, but the residents looked frightened.

The senior center felt hushed and leaden, as if the knowledge that a murder had been committed in their midst, that the killer was just down the hall, had paralyzed them all.

“Wait, do you mind if we stop at the bathroom?” Ruth asked as they passed a washroom. The woman huffed in irritation but stopped walking, glowering outside as Ruth went in.

Ruth stood at the sink, feeling a strange wave of anxiety wash over her.

She splashed water on her face and fixed her lank ponytail in the mirror, staring at her reflection.

It wasn’t exactly awe-inspiring. Sure, she had good eyebrows, thick and dark, with a strong arch.

But her skin was sallow, which was rare for a lifelong Floridian, and a recent breakup had left her with sleep-deprived shadows under her eyes as dark as bruises.

She knew she needed to leave this bathroom, to meet Daphne, to launch a groundbreaking podcast and kickstart her career, but she couldn’t seem to make her feet move.

Lately, she’d felt so frustrated and angry with life.

She couldn’t seem to get out of this hole she’d been floundering in since her mid-twenties, couldn’t seem to break free of the past. This was her big break, an opportunity to change everything.

But what if she fucked it up? Ruth wished she could call Jenn.

For the last two years, Jenn had been the one talking Ruth down.

But that was the whole point of a breakup: you had to figure it out for yourself.

Ruth took a deep breath, yanked the hem of her shirt down, and stormed out of the bathroom, hoping that momentum would carry her even if willpower wouldn’t. The Coconut Grove employee fell into step beside her, not saying a word until she stopped abruptly.

“That’s her door,” the woman said, pointing around the corner.

“I thought someone might be posted outside her door,” Ruth said.

The woman scoffed, her white teeth flashing under the dim overhead lights. “She can barely walk more than a few steps. We keep her door and the patio doors locked and our facility already has excellent security.”

“Okay. Well, thanks for bringing me,” Ruth replied.

“It’s my job. Personally, I think it’s disgusting that you’re here. We all loved Warren,” the woman replied flatly, knocking and then opening Daphne’s door with her key.

RUTH (Voiceover): It’s a strange situation, interviewing a serial killer in an old folks’ home.

There were no shackles or armed guards to keep me safe.

Instead, I found myself in a spacious apartment with an old woman sitting in a striped armchair, the sunlight glinting off her dyed black perm.

Daphne didn’t look dangerous; she looked like she was one slippery bathmat away from death.

But I knew there was milk in my fridge older than her last kill and I reminded myself not to eat or drink anything in this place.

Daphne said hello and offered me a seat, and I was struck by her voice immediately.

It was flatter in person, a cut-the-crap tone, as if she only had a minute to talk before she needed to get back to her chores.

RUTH: Hello, thanks so much for having me, Mrs. St Clair.

DAPHNE: You can call me Daphne. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together so we might as well dispense with all the Mrs. bullshit.

RUTH: Okay, Daphne, then please call me Ruth.

DAPHNE: Ruth? There are a lot of Ruths in here. Everyone here is named Ruth, Doris, or Phyllis. But young people aren’t named Ruth anymore.

RUTH: I guess my mother hates me.

DAPHNE: It’s certainly possible. But she’ll probably never admit it.

RUTH: Are you normally this blunt or just with journalists?

DAPHNE: Don’t get your undies in a twist. This is just how I talk.

RUTH: Well, we are here to talk about you. So, why did you decide to confess to these murders?

DAPHNE: I was bored. In this place, every day feels exactly the same. I just felt like making something happen.

RUTH: You do realize that prison is also a place where every day will feel the same. And that it’ll be much less nice than this place?

DAPHNE: Yes, Ruth, I’m not senile. Maybe I also wanted people to know that I’m not your typical fogey. When you get away with something for so long, you want people to know.

RUTH: Okay, so you’re not like other girls. It’s not common though, for serial killers to just call up and confess to a murder that’s being treated as a natural death, is it?

DAPHNE: No. Usually they only confess when the police already have enough to nail ’em. And the Palm Haven Police were never going to catch me; they’re a bunch of yokels with sunburns and Segways.

RUTH: I don’t disagree. They have a history of bungling murder investigations. They got lucky when you confessed.

DAPHNE: But serial killers do confess, you know, every now and then. Ed Kemper called up the police and confessed. I’m pretty sure the Railroad Killer did too.

RUTH: Do you know a lot about serial killers?

DAPHNE: I read a lot of true crime books. I read a lot in general, though. Not much else to do around here. So don’t make a big deal about that .

RUTH: So do I. Books, documentaries, podcasts, ever since I was a kid and found an old copy of Ann Rule’s The Stranger Beside Me in a motel. After that, it was a bit of an obsession.

DAPHNE: And here you are, finally getting into the mind of a killer. That’s why you liked them, right? Because they taught you about monsters?

RUTH: Hmm. . . I suppose that is interesting.

But for me, it was the solving of the mystery.

My favorite part was always when they’d caught the killer and were trying to make him confess, to reveal all the people he’d killed and all the places he’d dumped the bodies.

But I guess your story is different because you confessed when nobody even thought a murder had happened. Was it guilt that made you do that?

DAPHNE: No, I don’t think that’s the case. I’ve always had very high self-esteem.

[A knock on the door.]

ATTENDANT: Pills.

DAPHNE: Service with a smile, huh?

[Door slams.]

DAPHNE: Oooeee! Touchy. I’ll just take these in the bathroom. Let’s take a break.

[Sounds of Daphne getting up, shuffling along, opening doors.]

RUTH (Voiceover): Daphne was gone for a while.

I got up and began to roam around her living room.

There was a large television and a bookshelf stuffed full of books.

Most old people had rooms full of photos of their families, but the only pictures in the living room were paintings.

I saw a couple of Edward Hopper prints and a few David Hockneys (one of which I had a feeling might have even been an original).

The bedroom door was ajar, so I pushed it open, aware that I was now definitely snooping.

There was a large hospital-style bed that could be raised and reclined.

The closet was bursting with clothes, shoes, and jewelry, all relatively new.

On the far bedside table, I found the only photograph in the apartment: a small framed black and white photo of a woman holding a little boy, maybe around two or three.

The woman had dark hair and ivory skin, and a luminous smile.

She was stunning, dressed in a tight Fifties pencil dress.

But it was the way she had her arms wrapped around the little boy, their cheeks pressed together as they laughed, that stopped me. This was a moment of real happiness.

DAPHNE: What are you doing?

RUTH: I, uh. . . sorry!

[Feet shuffle out of the room, and the door slams.]

DAPHNE: Classic journalist, always digging through people’s garbage.

RUTH: I’m really sorry. . . You know, I’m sure this must be tiring for you. I could come back tomorrow.

DAPHNE: Okay, come visit again, just keep your mitts off my stuff.

RUTH (Voiceover): And that was the first interview.

It was clear that Daphne was toying with me.

She shrugged when I asked her questions, as if to telegraph that she didn’t take anything, even murder, too seriously.

And I could see that she didn’t want me to dig too deep, to reveal herself fully.

I knew that the next time I visited, I’d need to have a better plan for controlling the interview.

Ruth drove away from Coconut Grove, trying to shake off her uneasiness. She felt like the sea on a windy day, churned up into a soupy froth, all bubbles and whirlpools. It was humid out, and she grabbed her hair and lifted it off the back of her neck, trying to take deep breaths.

Ruth had pretended to be awed by Daphne to get the job, figuring that Daphne didn’t want a journalist who was going to grill her.

But now there was a power imbalance as Daphne was steamrolling Ruth, which would make doing a podcast difficult.

The listeners needed to know who Daphne was: as a child, as a woman, as a mother, and as a murderer.

Anything less wouldn’t be the truth. But Daphne didn’t seem interested in revealing everything.

She wondered again why Daphne had even confessed. Daphne had a cushy life; why would she trade it all for a stark prison cell, fluorescent lightbulbs, concrete floors, and a world calling her a monster? Why would anyone go through the hell of a murder investigation if they could avoid it ?