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From out of nowhere, half a dozen doves arrived, soon followed by half a dozen more. She stared in his direction, her eyes blinking behind her glasses. “Sometimes I see someone and I think it’s my son,” she said. Scott, who is 83 years old, lives on West Twenty-fifth Street in the Heights, a Houston neighborhood about five miles northwest of downtown. Scott and their younger son, Jeff, called Mark’s friends and classmates, asking if they had seen him. I am making an hour.” His mother and father shook their heads in disbelief.
On April 20, 1972, her seventeen-year-old son, Mark, a blue-eyed kid whose cheeks dimpled when he smiled, walked out the front door of that house and was never seen again. They got in their car and roamed the streets, peering down alleys and stopping at the local drive-in restaurants. Their son, who was only a junior in high school, had left for Austin without saying a word?
They called hospitals to see if Mark had been admitted, and Walter, a self-employed carpenter and handyman, drove to the Houston Police Department to report that Mark was missing. They were convinced that something terrible had happened.
A few days later, they received what seemed to be a hastily written postcard from Mark. Mark hadn’t even taken his beloved Honda C70 motorcycle. Scott was then 44 years old, a switchboard operator for Dresser Industries.
Detectives were at the shed now, the reporters continued, their voices rising, and they were digging up the bodies of teenage boys—all of whom had apparently been murdered by Corll.Big and broad-shouldered, with thick black hair and sideburns, he was known, in the words of one reporter, as the “pleasant, smiling candy man of the Heights,” always handing out treats to neighborhood children who dropped by his mother’s factory.A police officer who had gone to high school with Corll and married his cousin insisted that he was “a quiet, well-mannered, well-groomed, considerate person.” He had a nice girlfriend, Betty, a single mother who let her children call him Daddy.Some days she would meet the postman at the mailbox to see if he had another postcard. Scott, sitting on a flower-print couch in the living room, stared at her black and white screen and sensed that her prayers would forever go unanswered.According to the reporters, a 33-year-old man named Dean Corll had been shot to death at his home in Pasadena, a Houston suburb.
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Some of the bodies were covered with a layer of lime powder and shrouded in clear plastic, their faces looking up at the men uncovering them.