The Serial Killer and the Texas Mom Who Stopped Him

The Serial Killer and the Texas Mom Who Stopped Him

It was nearing eight o’clock in the evening on December 11, 1981, and the serial killer Stephen Morin was driving the SUV of his latest captive, Margy Palm, north out of San Antonio. 

Helicopters circled the city and police combed the streets, warning people to stay inside and lock the doors. Morin’s reign of terror was sputtering to a clumsy close after a rare mistake earlier that day. He was suspected of the murder, torture, and in some cases rape of more than 30 women in 9 or 10 states—and most of San Antonio now knew that he was on the loose in its manicured, country-club midst.

Morin’s concern at the moment, though, wasn’t escaping so much as finding an appropriate soundtrack for his kidnapping of Palm, the 30-year-old Texan in the passenger seat. Morin, also 30, had pulled a .38 revolver on her six hours earlier as she reached her

Chevy Suburban in the parking lot of a Kmart after Christmas shopping, then shoved her inside the car. Palm looked like many of his other victims—pretty, fit, and blond—and tells me that she didn’t try to fight or flee for the same reason that some of the others hadn’t: “I’ve never felt that kind of fear.

Cranked up on amphetamines and feeling cornered by authorities, Morin initially screamed at Palm in the car and threatened to kill her if she didn’t behave: “What’s one more damn dead bitch at this point?” Palm had missed the news about Morin and his horrific crimes that morning but was terrified enough to shake with fear, which seemed to turn him on.

As oblivious shoppers passed in front of the Suburban, Morin fretted about the cops closing in. They would probably both die in a shoot-out today, he informed Palm. Noticing the Christmas presents in the back seat, he reached back and started throwing them around

He wondered aloud why he never got gifts like that as a child. He railed against the “sheltered princess” next to him and noted that animals were treated better than he was growing up. All Palm could manage to say was “I’m sorry.”

She closed her eyes to calm herself, and it came to her that the man shouting at her—who had three knives on him in addition to his gun—was not her enemy. God had put her in that car for a reason, she decided. “I was not afraid of him, not hating him anymore,” she says.

She started praying aloud for Morin.

“Oh my God,” he said, shocked. “I’m in the car with a religious freak.”

Morin was a career criminal who disarmed his victims with his mutable character-actor looks, charisma, and a grab bag of aliases and backstories. (The psychologist who evaluated him before his first murder trial found him to be “rather charming,” “friendly,” and an “interesting” conversationalist, despite possibly having antisocial personality disorder.) Morin thought Palm was conning him with religious nonsense but started taking her seriously when she produced proof of her devotion: a black notebook filled with hand-copied scriptures.

Morin was used to easily overpowering women, but Palm caught him off guard. Suddenly feeling as though she was being guided by a force greater than herself, she did something she’d never done before and fully knows sounds bizarre. She took her hands out from underneath her, where Morin had demanded she keep them, placed them on Morin’s forehead, and attempted to cast out the evil.

You evil spirits, go now!” she shouted. She didn’t know it, but she was externalizing Morin’s criminality—separating him from his problem. (Externalizing is a technique that therapists sometimes use on patients to make them feel less shame.) “You will not keep destroying his life and

You evil spirits, go now!” she shouted. She didn’t know it, but she was externalizing Morin’s criminality—separating him from his problem. (Externalizing is a technique that therapists sometimes use on patients to make them feel less shame.) “You will not keep destroying his life and

“I don’t want to hurt you, lady,” Morin later told Palm, “but I don’t know how I’m ever going to let you go.