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Murder, suicide puzzle police

By ERIN SULLIVAN
Published December 15, 2006

ZEPHYRHILLS - The only things that marked where they died were two old traffic cones, bleached bone white in spots by the sun, signaling to people not to park in those spaces, as if the large blood stains weren't warning enough.

When young people die, mourners leave their love and pain in flowers and teddy bears and notes at the site. When older people die - and in such a manner - it seems like no one knows what to do. They ignore it, pretend it's not there. Maybe the sun will bleach the blood stains, too.

Their generation was taught to be strong, and William Beattie was always strong in front of people, despite the fact that the love of his life was dying.

Then, on Wednesday afternoon, he surprised everyone.

He shot his wife and turned the gun on himself.

Detectives found a suicide note in the glove box, along with the husband's wallet and house key. The note did not say they were sorry, just that "we have been told what our lives will be like," said Sgt. Rob Perrault of the Zephyrhills Police Department.

They asked for someone to call their son, who would break the news to their daughter.

The note was signed by both husband and wife. She would die soon anyway, and it seems he just couldn't see a life without her.

* * *

Everyone called him Norm, because his middle name was Norman. Everyone called her Betty, though her name was Elizabeth Hazel. He was 78. She was 76.

They've been married "oh, forever," said Peggy Guy, their neighbor in Zephyrhills. "Probably about as long as we have."

"And we've been together 58 years," said her husband, Max Guy.

"He thought an awful lot of her," Peggy said of Norm and Betty. "There was no question - he was good to her."

Family members could not be reached Thursday, but friends and police told what they knew:

Norm was born in Scotland, but was brought to America as a child and had no trace of an accent. Norm and Betty lived in Michigan and had a son and a daughter. He ran a hearing aid business, which his son took over when they retired to Florida more than a decade ago.

Some years back, Betty was diagnosed with breast cancer. As her health worsened, Norm never seemed to break.

Most days he rose before dawn, Betty still sleeping, and quietly got himself ready. He walked, wearing galoshes and a tweed cap, to Silverado golf course, which is next to their neighborhood. Norm loved to golf, but hurried home after playing so he could wake his wife and then bathe her, brush her hair, get her dressed, make her food and give her her medicine. He took her to the beauty parlor to get her hair done every few weeks. He cleaned the house and did laundry and chores.

Betty was too sick to leave the house much but sometime around last Christmas, Norm took her to a party at the clubhouse. They didn't stay long.

"She told me what a nice fellow Bill was," Max Guy said. "To take care of her like that."

Norm never complained. When people asked, he said Betty seemed to be getting better, "poor thing."

"He always bragged about her and said she was the most perfect wife and mother," said Valerie Patton, the pro shop manager who spoke with Norm each morning as he warmed up.

"I feel sick," Valerie said Thursday, after learning of the couple's death. "He was so nice."

* * *

On Thanksgiving, Betty was taken to the hospital. Then she was taken to Sunbelt Health Care Center, a squat blond brick nursing facility off Pretty Pond Road.

Norm hadn't been golfing much these past few weeks. He spent all his time with Betty.

They were told her cancer was terminal. There was no hope.

She was released Wednesday. That morning, they ate and Betty had physical therapy. Then they said goodbye to the nurses and patients they'd gotten to know. No one noticed anything awry, no long pauses, no extra-long hugs.

About 2:50 p.m., Norm rolled Betty in her wheelchair past the Christmas tree in the foyer and out the doors to the parking lot. Everyone thought they were going home.

He took her to the driver's side of their maroon Buick, which faced a tree with blackened berries. Betty was still in her wheelchair when Norm shot her in the back of the head with a blue steel .22 caliber handgun. Then he raised the gun to his right temple and fired.

No one heard the shots. But someone saw their bodies and called 911 at 3:03 p.m. They had been outside for little more than 10 minutes.

This is the first murder in Zephyrhills since 2004. Detectives don't think it was anything other than what it seems - a murder and a suicide.

But the case is open. They want to know why he shot her and, especially, why there, in a drab parking lot in broad daylight on a random afternoon. Why not at home, where, at least, they could be around things familiar and be comfortable before the end.

Erin Sullivan can be reached at esullivan@sptimes.com or 813 909-4609. Times researcher Caryn Baird contributed to this report.

[Last modified December 14, 2006, 23:10:43]