 
When Time Was

By Bobby A. Troutt

Copyright 2011 Bobby A. Troutt

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Table of Contents

House on Carolyn Lane

The Summer of '54

Flight 407

Walk With A Blind Man

Spin the Bottle

*****

When Time Was

House on Carolyn Lane

My name is Theodore Walker Pierce and I am doing research work on mental health murders and crimes. I am the understudy of Dr. Isabelle Cartworth of the Polk County Mental Health Hospital in Briarwood Hills. It was early one autumn morning in 1970, around 6:30-7:00, when a call came into the station. I saw Detective Byrd leaving his office in a hurry. I asked him if I could go.

He paused for a second and replied, "Sure Toby it might be good for you; your first real crime scene."

Donald Reed was squirrel hunting in the woods alongside Patterson Road. There was a huge hickory nut tree down by the creek where he had noticed several squirrels playing the other day. Squirrel hunting had been good around Long Pond in Hardin County for the past two years. In fact, there was an abundance of game around there. Donald had two of the best squirrel dogs around; they could tree a squirrel in minutes. That day Donald had seen something in the air, but he couldn't figure out what it was. He was jumpy and so were the dogs; they were having a hard time keeping their focus on the squirrels. Even the squirrels were restless and he had never seen them like that. Within the misty fog you could hear some squirrels barking and jumping recklessly about the treetops. In the distance you could hear a woodpecker pecking, sending an echo through the woods. Yet, there was a haunting quietness. There were a couple of squirrels nearby so Donald thought he would try his luck. He shot twice, hitting one and missing the other. The other squirrels jumped from limb to limb trying to get away. He shot again, this time he was able to hit the other one. As he reloaded, the dogs brought him his game and as he placed it in his hunting jacket. He looked up and noticed a flock of crows flying recklessly above a cornfield. As they grew louder and louder he knew something was wrong. He went up the hill to check it out as the dogs ran ahead of him. The cornfield lay abundant with dry, parched stalks of corn. Some of the stalks had scattered ears of hard corn still attached with dried out kernels ready for shelling. The ground laid in wait for the harvest as the dried up corn tassels were scattered about the field and waving in the dry air. As he made his way through the rows of corn, he kept one eye on the crows at the end of the field and one of his dogs that were barking up ahead. The fog was moving in from the nearby creek and it laid low at his feet. Finally, he reached a small clearing at the end of the cornfield with tall grass. Suddenly he stopped dead in his tracks. The dogs had stopped barking and were lying quietly in the grass. The crows were still circling and cawing overhead, but not as much. He laid his gun down on the ground and looked into the young lady's eyes.

"Ma'am are you alright?"

A half naked woman covered in blood was sitting on the ground. In one hand she held tight to a bloody butcher knife. She didn't say a word; she only stared. She didn't move or blink an eye. Quickly, he took off running through the field and down toward the hollow to get to the highway. It was still early and there were not many cars, but he was able to flag one car down and told them to get the police. Within a few minutes the Missouri state police, who were nearby, answered the call. Donald filled them in and took them to where she was. Carefully, the policemen approached her as Donald stayed back. One of the officers waved his hand up and down in front of her face. She never moved or batted an eye. The other officer told the others she was probably in shock. The other policeman radioed it in. One of the officers took his handkerchief and eased away the knife. She looked to be between 19-20 years of age. One of the officers stated to the others that she may be in a catatonic state and that was the reason they were not getting a response. Her legs and feet were cut up and bruised; apparently she had been tied up. Her face, legs and arms were full of scratches; it looked like she had run through briars. She was bloody and her hair was matted with blood and leaves. The burns on her neck, wrist and ankles made it appear she had been bound with rope, but escaped. Who was she and where was she running from was the million dollar question. The crime team finally arrived on the scene by way of an old logging road nearby. As they marked off the perimeter, a group of officers were sent out to search the nearby neighboring farms to see what they could find out.

Detective Mike Howard Byrd was in charge of the case. I kept my distance and observed the abrasions on her arms, breasts, legs and back. It looked like they may have been from a belt or heavy rope. They found very little evidence at the scene. It looked like she had been held captive for a while. There were traces of mold in her hair along with spider webs, dirt and blood. Her legs and back also had several insect bites. The dress she was wearing was ripped and hanging off of her. They were not sure if she had been raped. Their main concern was to get her to the hospital. As they carefully loaded her into the ambulance, Detective Byrd turned and looked at her. He saw one tear running from her eyes. He began to choke up but he promised her he'd find out the truth. As the ambulance eased out, Detective Byrd had the area searched once again but found nothing.

About that time one of the officers radioed in and said, "We may have found something."

Detective Byrd replied back, "We are on the way."

Meanwhile the ambulance pulled into Polk County Municipal Hospital in Briarwood Hills which was about 50 miles southwest of St. Louis. She was processed through the hospital as a Jane Doe. She was examined; there was no sign of rape or abuse. Considering her catatonic state, she was sent to the psychiatric ward at the hospital for further evaluation. She was placed under the care of Dr. Isabelle Cartworth.

About the same time Detective Byrd, the other officers and I arrived at a house on Carolyn Lane. The house sat back from the road with a neighboring house nearby. It was a split level house with a basement. The white weather boarded house was tarnished with a dull gray. It was trimmed in black with black shutters and a small front porch. The grass was tall and the roof needed repair. The air was filled with an eerie screech from a porch swing being moved by the wind. The police had combed the neighborhood, knocking on doors and asking questions. Finally two officers who were helping with the investigation in the neighborhood found what they were looking for at 550 Carolyn Lane. They had knocked on the door of the house but no one answered. Just as they turned to leave, they heard something and turned around. Their eyes caught a man's face looking out of the basement window. He was crying out for help. They took off running and forced the front door open. As they made their way around in the house, they searched for the basement door.

"Here it is!" yelled one officer.

"Okay," replied the other, "I'm coming."

They slowly eased the door open and proceeded down the steps, not knowing what to expect.

"Down here," cried a voice.

"We're coming" replied the officers.

They entered the basement and found a young man lying on the floor bleeding and another body that appeared to be dead. As one of the officers went over to help the young man, the other called in for an ambulance. About that time they heard someone calling their names from upstairs. They answered and realized it was Byrd. Byrd and I went to the basement while the other officers searched the house. The neighbors had started gathering outside in the yard.

"What have we got?" questioned Byrd.

As the officers filled him in, I jotted down some notes.

"One is wounded and bleeding," said one officer. "The other man is dead. According to the name on this letter we found in his pocket he is Ollie McDougal."

They looked around to see what they could find. Over in the corner they found a mattress, cut ropes, some chains attached to the wall, food, water, a blanket and a pillow. The ambulance finally arrived. The paramedics hurriedly worked on the wounded young man trying to stop the bleeding. Eventually, got him stabilized, loaded him up and took him to the hospital. As they were leaving the crime team moved in and set up. Detective Byrd had made his way back outside and I followed him. He talked to some of the neighbors to see if there were any witnesses to what had happened. A lot of them told him that Ollie stayed to himself a lot and didn't have much time for anyone except his daughter. They couldn't believe it had happened so close to home. One neighbor said he was crazy. One man said he had only lived across the street a little over a year and he really didn't know him. However, he was suspicious of him and tried to warn the neighbors about him, but they didn't want to listen. They told him he had a slight drinking problem.

"Why don't you talk to Miss B.," he said. "She has a crush on him. Hey, Mrs. B. come here and talk to his man."

At first she started to turn and go the other way, but Byrd motioned for her to come over to him.

"She's the old busy body in the neighborhood," warned the other man.

"Okay, sir, I get the picture," replied Byrd.

"Yes, sir," she said as she stepped up to him.

"What do you know about Mr. McDougal?" he asked.

"Well not much," she said. "He was pretty nice to me. It was just him and the girl. I have baked them pies and cakes on several occasions. I live across the street. My husband died several years ago and I get lonely sometimes for some companionship and I think he is cute."

"Well thank you Mrs. B.," replied Byrd.

"Oh, one other thing, do you officers have a steady girl?" she asked.

I looked at Byrd and he looked at me; we both smiled and he said, "Yes, I do. If anything happens to her, I'll let you know."

She just giggled and said, "Oh, I bet you would be fun company."

As we were walking away someone yelled, "Detective Byrd, look at this."

The officer handed him a picture of a man and a pregnant woman standing by a car.

"It must be McDougal and his wife pregnant with the young lady," said the officer.

"Could be," replied Byrd.

I quietly listened and continued to take notes.

"Look at the car, it must be a '49 Pontiac so that would make the girl around twenty-two years of age," stated Byrd. "Did she look that old to you?"

"Not really," replied the officer.

"Maybe they had two children. She could be the youngest," said Byrd. "Check the plates out on the car and see if you can make them out."

"No, sir, I don't believe I can," replied the officer.

Then he noticed '1949 Mitchell, Indiana' was written on the back of the picture.

"I'll check it out," he said.

After interviewing of the neighbors they all agreed that McDougal was a weirdo. One of the neighbors said he thought he was weird from the first day they moved in. That he kept all his windows covered and you could hardly see any lights on in the house at night. Another neighbor stated she had never seen him without her and when the poor child was growing up she didn't have anyone to play with.

"The other children in the neighborhood shunned away from her," one man said. "I've lived beside them every since they have been here. A few times when I took my trash out, I would pass by his kitchen window and he looked like he was crying. Even though there was a fence between us, I could see him pretty good when I peeped over it. But, he never saw me. I never saw the girl with him."

Then an old woman spoke up and stated that she was out from time to time walking her dog. A few times when he was checking his mail he looked at her, but turned away when he thought she was looking. A couple of times he raised his hand at her, shot her a bird and laughed. She said she shot him one back and even let her dog use his yard as a bathroom so she had the last laugh.

After speaking with the neighbors, we headed to the hospital to check on the young man since there was not too much concrete evidence discovered at the house.

"It has been a long day," said Byrd.

I agreed as we hurried to the hospital. When we arrived at the hospital Detective Byrd checked on the young man and then the girl from the cornfield. We entered through the emergency room and Detective Byrd inquired about the young man and the girl. The young man's name was John Michael Pierce; he was in room 213. The girl's name was Catherine Joann McDougal. She was in the psychiatric ward. We made our way to the young man's room. Detective Byrd knocked on the door. A voice from the other side told us to come in. The young man was lying in the bed with a big bandage on his side. He was awake, but weak from the loss of so much blood. Byrd asked him if he could ask him a few questions and the young man told him he could.

"John, I am Detective Byrd and this is Toby. Toby is doing research work on criminal murders."

"I guess you would like to know what happened," John said. "I'm not even sure if I know. I met Jody, Catherine as most people call her, when we were freshmen at McKinney College. We became good friends right off. It was so strange; we would hold hands when we were out together having fun."

"Is she your girlfriend?" asked Byrd.

"Oh, no, it's nothing like that," John replied. "We're just friends and that's all."

"Go on," replied Byrd.

"Everything was fine freshman year. My parents came down to the school and I introduced her to them; they loved her. I'd go over to her house sometimes and that is where I met Mr. Ollie. He was nice at first, a little possessive and a little edgy. Jody had told me her mother died during the birth of her first child. She knew Ollie had never really gotten over it because he talked about her so much. He was strange and weird, but he was good to Jody. Everything was great until one day out of the blue he changed. He was different towards me. He didn't want me seeing Jody anymore. He did everything he could to keep her busy; she hardly had any free time. About two weeks ago she vanished, disappeared. I couldn't find her anywhere. I asked Mr. Ollie where she was and he told me she had gone to visit some relatives for a while. But, I didn't believe that because she would have told me. I started checking around, but no one knew anything. A couple of days later when she hadn't returned, I got worried and decided to go to her house. I waited for him to leave and snuck in to see what I could find out. As I slowly moved throughout the house, I heard some noises coming from the basement. I cautiously made my way down the stairs. As I stepped off the last step I saw something moving across the room. It was her; it was Jody. She was tied up with rope and had some duct tape across her mouth. I asked her what on earth was going on and if she was alright. She was bound head and foot with nylon rope. I tried to get her loose, but the rope was so knotted up. I took the tape off her mouth and she began crying hysterically. All she kept saying was he was crazy and had lost his mind. I hushed her and told her to be quiet, but she was so upset that she started fighting me. I noticed a butcher knife in a nearby box. Quickly, I grabbed it and started cutting the rope. About that time she screamed. I immediately looked around and Ollie stood at the bottom of the steps. I stood to my feet with the butcher knife still in my hand. Ollie cried out and charged toward me. We began to fight and she screamed. I dropped the knife in the scuffle and he picked it up and stabbed me in the side. I fell to the floor on my knees as I screamed out Jody's name. She was so messed up she jumped on his back and they wrestled about the room. She was able to get the knife away from him and started stabbing him. Ollie fell to the floor with blood running from his chest and neck. I cried out Jody's name over and over but she never heard me. She panicked and ran up the stairs and out the back door. That's about all I remember until the two officers found me."

"What do you make of it?" I asked Detective Byrd.

"I'm not sure," he replied.

"Why was he so good to her and then treat her like that?" I asked.

"Who knows," he said. "There are some strange people out there in this old world."

"I have never run across a case like this in all my studies," I said, "what else can happen?"

Detective Byrd told John they would keep in touch and if he thought of anything else to let him know. We left John's room and went to the psychiatric ward to see the girl. When we got there Dr. Cartworth was with her so we waited. Within a few minutes she came out the door. Byrd told her who we were and that we wanted to ask her some questions and she said that would be fine.

"How can I help," she asked.

"What do you make of this?" Byrd asked. "What is your professional opinion?"

"She's still in the catatonic state and it could last anywhere from a short while, months, or even years. And then again she may snap out of it all at once. I don't know, but apparently she has been through some devastating trauma. I don't know exactly what she's been through. But, she sure has been through a lot. It's not rape or any type of sexual abuse, like you would expect. This is something deeper. She has calmed down and is resting which is a good first step. But, as of right now, that's about it."

Detective Byrd handed her his card and asked her to let us know if there was any change. We both agreed that it was a puzzling case; it had too many loose ends. I had read about similar cases before in school. And most of the time when the case started unraveling, the pieces would start to come together within a few days.

John had been released from the hospital. We got to me his parents when they came to pick him up. As we entered his room, he was sitting in a wheelchair waiting for his paperwork.

"Detective Byrd and Toby, this is my dad, John Louis Pierce and my mother, Christine."

"Glad to meet you," we replied.

"Nice to meet you," they said.

Then I thought to myself, my last name is Pierce and my dad's name is John Louis Pierce also. But, my mother's name is Evelyn Carol Pierce. Surely, it's just a coincidence.

"This is such a tragic thing to happen to such a sweet girl," said Christine. "What on earth would cause Mr. McDougal to do such a thing?"

"In my business you run across a little of everything," replied Byrd. "I'm glad your son is alright."

"Do you think Jody will ever come out of it?" John Louis asked.

"I don't know," replied Byrd. "We may never find out, but time will tell. Tragic things happen all the time that people recover from."

"We know," said Christine. "We lost our daughter several years ago."

"I don't think we'll ever really get over it," said John Louis.

"I'm sorry to hear that," replied Byrd.

John interrupted and asked Detective Byrd if he could see Jody before he left.

"I don't know for sure," answered Byrd, "but let me see what I can do."

We all left the room and took the elevator to the psychiatric ward. Byrd talked to the nurse in charge because Dr. Cartworth had gone down to the cafeteria for some coffee. The nurse was hesitant but about that time Dr. Cartworth came up to the nurse's desk. Byrd explained John's situation and she agreed to let him see Jody. She was sitting in a chair looking out the window when we went into the room. She never moved or acknowledged we were there. John walked over to her and placed his hand upon her shoulder and started to talk to her about school and the fun things they had done; she never made a sound or moved

"I'm going to pray for you," he said, "and I want you to pray for me in your own special way. The Lord can get us through this, but you have to be strong and believe," he said as he kissed her on the forehead. "I'll be back to see you as soon as I can."

"Well, that's enough time for now," said Dr. Cartworth. "She needs her rest."

As we all turned to leave and headed for the door, we heard a frail voice from behind us. We turned around and there stood Jody.

"Please don't go," she said.

Her eyes were wet with tears. It was an unbelievable sight.

"It's a miracle from God," I shouted.

We all ran over and hugged her. But Dr. Cartworth asked us to calm down.

"She's been through a lot. Let her have some time to collect herself and you all can come back to see her tomorrow."

As we left that day I couldn't get over what I had witnessed. One minute she didn't know a thing and the next she was awake, crying and talking. I couldn't believe it; prayer does make a difference. Byrd was happy too, but he tried to hide it with a stiff upper lip, so to speak. As we headed back to the station, Byrd had decided to search McDougal's house again.

"There's something there but I don't really know what it is. But, I might find something that will help Jody."

"Are you going to search it tomorrow?" I asked.

"I believe so," he answered.

The next day, the crime team, Byrd and I returned to the house on Carolyn Lane. It was still marked off with crime tape. As the team searched the house from top to bottom and in every nook and cranny, they found a trap door in the closet under the steps. There were two boxes filled with old newspaper clippings, souvenirs, pictures and other odds and ends. The officers who found it called for Byrd; he was outside. Byrd came in, eyeballed the content of the boxes and told the officers to put them in his car so he could take them to his office. About then another officer came running in.

"Detective Byrd, I think you need to see this."

We rushed out to the backyard where the officers had dug up a little section of a small garden. In the shallow grave was a body. Byrd called for an ambulance. He felt confident; he looked at me and told me the pieces were finally coming together. About then an officer came up to Byrd and told him they had found a car covered with a tarp in the shed at the end of the yard.

"Let me look at it," said Byrd.

When we got there we uncovered the car, a red and white ford fairlane.

"Call in the make, model, and plates," he said, "then get back with me as soon as you hear who it belongs to."

"Yes, sir," answered the officer.

Back at the station the detective and I started going through the two boxes that were found under the steps. Meanwhile, back at the hospital Dr. Cartworth was working with Jody to see if she could recollect anything. John had decided to stay at the college dorm so he could be close to Jody and spend some time with her. His parents understood and left to go back home to Wisconsin.

"Let's ride over to the hospital and see if Jody can recognize the people in these pictures. We knocked on Dr. Cartworth's door and she told us to come in. Byrd explained the pictures and what might have happened. He wanted to know if it would be alright for Jody to look at the pictures. She believed it would be okay since she was getting stronger and more stable each day. Dr. Cartworth went in with us to show Jody the pictures.

"Jody, I want to show you some pictures," she said softly. "I want you to take your time. If you know them, don't be afraid to tell me. If it gets too hard on you, let me know and we'll try again later."

Dr. Cartworth held up the first picture of a single woman.

"Do you know her?"

Jody sat quietly a minute and then nodded her head, yes.

"Who is she?" asked the doctor.

With a trembling lip she answered, "That's my mother."

"Are you sure?" the doctor replied.

"That's what Daddy told me. I never met her," she said. "She died when I was just a baby."

"Okay, Jody, that is good. Now look at this picture of these two women and tell me if you know them."

Slowly, the doctor held the picture up in front of Jody. She stared at the picture for a few minutes.

"That one is Mama, but I don't know who the other one is. Oh, yes," she said, that's Mama's sister, Aunt Agnes. She was over at the house a while back to see Daddy. Daddy sent me upstairs because they started arguing."

"Do you know what they were arguing about?" butted in Byrd.

"I don't remember," she replied. "But when I went back downstairs, Aunt Agnes was gone and I never saw her again."

"By the way, Jody, do you remember what kind of car she drove?"

"I believe it was a red and white car; I think."

"Well that's enough for now," the doctor said. "You need to rest for the remainder of the day."

"Thank you Dr. Cartworth. We'll be leaving now; thanks for showing her the pictures."

"Well, that was a great achievement for her to recognize them. Did it help you?" asked the doctor.

"Yes," replied Byrd, "it will help close the gap."

On the way back to the station, a call came in on the radio. The red and white ford belonged to Agnes Weems.

We both spoke at the same time, "I bet the body in the garden was Agnes Weems."

"Are you ready to do some more digging?" asked Byrd.

"You bet," I replied.

"It is starting to flow and come together now. Unfortunately, it's going to be a long night."

"I wonder what his motive was for killing his wife's sister," I questioned.

"I'm not sure," replied Byrd. "But whatever it was he wasn't going to let her tell it."

"It had to be something bad or he wouldn't have gone this far with it," I said.

"You're right about that. Ollie had a secret, a lot of secrets."

We grabbed a quick bite to eat and headed back to the office. We had both talked about it and agreed, if we needed to, we would stay up all night analyzing the things in the two boxes. It was still a little early in the evening when we got back. There were a lot of trinkets and pictures of Jody growing up. As we dug through the things we came across a 1952 article from the Wisconsin Globe Newspaper. It was an article about Rinehart Regional Hospital in Rinehart, Wisconsin just outside of Milwaukee. The hospital was in the red for the last three years because of mismanagement and money missing out of funds. They had two malpractice suits against them, plus two more pending lawsuits against them for cases of neglect. They had been understaffed, over budget and to top it off a child had been abducted from the nursery. In the article, a Detective Stone was mentioned as the person in charge of the missing child case. As I looked up at Byrd I saw a little light go off in his head.

"Was it John's dad or mother who said they had lost a child, a daughter I believe?"

"Oh, no, Detective Byrd," I responded. "You don't think..."

"I do," he replied. "It's a long shot but what do we have to lose."

"Go for it," I said.

Byrd called the Milwaukee Police Department and asked for Detective Stone. However, he found out Detective Stone had died a few years ago. Byrd told them about the case in Long Pond and that he needed any kind of evidence on the missing girl from Rinehart Regional Hospital in 1952 that he could take a look at. The officer he was talking to remembered the case, but said that Stone's partner at the time could tell him more than he could.

"Would you ask him to send me the evidence of that case as soon as possible?"

"I'll tell him first thing in the morning and have him put it in the mail tomorrow."

"Thank you," replied Byrd. "I'll be looking for it."

"We might have something," I said.

"We might," Byrd agreed. "While you fix us a cup of coffee, I'm going to call Rinehart Regional Hospital and ask them to send us any employee records they have for McDougal; that is if he worked there."

What a case, I thought as I made the coffee and Byrd talked to the hospital. When I returned, Byrd was hanging up the phone.

"This will be a long shot," he said. "It's been so long ago. I explained to them and they said they were willing to help. They will be putting any information they have in the mail. Boy this coffee if good," said Byrd. "You have some more?"

"Plenty," I replied. "Look at this," I told Byrd. "You're not going to believe this."

"What is it?" asked Byrd. "It's a suicide letter Ollie had written, but apparently he changed his mind."

Byrd began to read the note. Ollie stated that his mother died from complications while giving birth to him. He said he was crazy about his daddy, because he was not only his daddy but his best friend. After his daddy died his stepmother took care of him. She would lock him in the closet for hours at a time, day on end, while she entertained her men friends. She would also go out and leave him locked up in the closet until she got back. Because of the death of his daddy and spending time in the closet while he was growing up, he became afraid of the dark and being alone. He kept his guard up at all times. He said he wrote the note because he was going to end his life. But, he didn't; he couldn't because he didn't want to be alone.

I opened up his Bible to the front page and there was a name written with a line through it, Jackie Anne Pierce, and under it was Catherine Joann McDougal. He wrote that he changed her name in 1952 when she was little so she could be named after his mother.

I asked, "Byrd do you think Jackie Anne Pierce and Catherine Joann McDougal is the same person? Didn't John's mother say they lost a daughter? Could John and Jody be fraternal twins of John Louis and Christine Pierce? I'm assuming after his wife and daughter died, he was so afraid of being alone that he abducted Jody from the hospital so he could have someone with him."

"From what we have found out so far, it sure appears that way."

"Afraid of being alone was his greatest fear and that brought him to his end," I said.

"Before we take any blood test I want to see what else turns up," said Byrd. "We don't want to push Jody back over the edge."

"You're right," I agreed. "She's been through enough already."

As the night passed, morning came early. It was a new day that shed a new light on things. Byrd wanted to go over to see Jody. He didn't want to mention anything about what we had found out. We needed more evidence and a lot less speculation. When we arrived at the hospital, John was already there. He and Jody had been talking and enjoying each other's company. Byrd asked her if Ollie ever said much about his wife and daughter.

"Oh, that's all he talked about. It always seemed so sad to me when he talked about her. You could see the hurt and loneliness in his eyes. He told me time and time again that my mother and my sister died from complications at birth. He told me they lived in Mitchell, Indiana. After their death he moved around a lot and wound up at White Rock, Wisconsin where he worked full-time at a factory and part-time as a janitor at White Rock Elementary School. He worked there, I believe he said, for three years and then moved on. Everything about daddy was not bad. There were a lot of nights when I was a little girl that he would hold me and rock me to sleep and sing the Hush Little Baby Don't You Cry song to me."

Everyone was quiet as Jody began to sing the words of Hush Little Baby Don't You Cry.

"There are times I still miss my daddy," she said when she finished singing.

In a couple of days we received the mail we had been waiting for. First, we received a letter from Rinehart Regional Hospital with a copy of McDougal's application attached. The hospital stated that he had worked there for two years in the 1950's. He was a janitor and they never had any trouble out of him. According to his work assignment sheet, he worked on the third floor. The nursery was on the fifth floor at that time. They said he was quite familiar with the hospital because he had volunteered to fill in for others when they were out sick or on vacation. Several times, they noted, he worked on the fifth floor. He was not fired; he quit on his own. As far as we know he was never seen again at the hospital. They did say he failed to turn in his master keys when he quit. We speculated that he may have returned later, used his keys and then took the child out the basement exits where the maintenance and custodial personnel entered and left.

From the paperwork of the internal investigation of the hospital, we found out several things that went on during the abduction. The head nurse in the nursery always snuck off at 2:45 a.m. to meet her boyfriend down the hall in another room. The other nurse on duty always called her friend around the same time. They were sure he had figured out the babies were alone during that time. While the babies were alone he could have very easily taken the child and left without any interference. When the nurses returned, they didn't see any reason to check on the babies since they were all sound asleep. Both nurses were dismissed. Since he had worked as a janitor, he had access to the equipment. He probably wrapped the baby in blankets, placed her on a cart and wheeled her right out the basement door. There is a slight chance he may have had the key to activate and deactivate the alarms too. They really didn't know. They said most of the information was speculation but they hoped it was helpful and if we needed anything else to give them a call.

"We may have found out the mystery of the abduction," said Byrd.

"It's very convincing," I replied.

"It seems he had it all worked out."

We let Dr. Cartworth know what we had found out. She was dumbfounded, speechless. Byrd asked her to take a blood sample from John and Jody to confirm our information. She suggested that while John's parents were there, she would ask them for a blood sample to make a true comparison. Byrd agreed with the idea. Dr. Cartworth discussed the blood tests with Jody, John and his parents. Detective Byrd also filled the family in on the evidence and the reason for the blood work was to find the missing pieces of the puzzle. Of course, everyone was shocked and elated at the same time. They were crying and hugging like a family reunion at Christmas.

"I can't believe it," they all cried.

Detective Byrd said, "Now we don't know for sure so please let's not count our chickens before they hatch."

As the nurse drew blood from each of them, she said it would be a couple of hours before we would know something. Detective Byrd explained the whole story to them while we waited for the results of the tests.

A couple of hours later, Dr. Cartworth came in with the blood tests results. Everybody seemed to be holding their breath and sitting on the edge. Doctor Cartworth began with John and Jody.

"You, my children, are brother and sister. John Louis, you and Christine are their parents."

I had never heard anything like this in all my life. It was another miracle. What a day, what a day.

"Praise the Lord," I shouted.

Why, I do believe I even saw some tears in Byrd's eyes.

"We have so much to be thankful for," said John, "and a lot of catching up to do."

But, Dr. Cartworth seemed a little held back. She motioned for Byrd and me to come out into the hallway.

"Dr. Cartworth, is there something wrong?"

"No—yes, I mean sort of," she replied.

"What is it?" asked Byrd.

"John Louis is not Jody's biological father," she explained.

"What!" cried Byrd. "How can that be?"

The police speculation is a lot like the hospital investigation. The police report questioned if the abductor knew the girl was a twin. For some reason or another he was only interested in a girl. Outside the basement door they found some surgical gloves, hair net and face mask that night thrown behind the basement door. But, they could have belonged to anybody. But, there was a spot of blood on the glove that looked like it could have come from a scratch since there was a torn place in the glove. The blood sample was sent off and it came back B-positive. The hair sample was also enclosed. Most of the police report contained general information. It was like a ghost appeared, took the child and left without a sign. There were several brought in for questioning, but there was nothing solid to hold them. They kept running into dead ends. Evidently, McDougal had never been in trouble with the law. He would have been a fine example of a ghost. He had no connection with the child or family; he probably just picked the child at random. Blood type, hair particles, fingerprints and everyday evidence is hard to prove on a ghost.

"Let's have the blood type from the hospital and the blood type from McDougal and the hair particles checked in our state lab in St. Louis. That will determine if we have found our ghost."

We gathered the evidence and headed for the lab. It was only an hour and a half drive. Luckily, they were able to process it right away and we didn't have to wait very long. It was a perfect match, no question about it. We had found our ghost. I looked up at Byrd and he looked so distant; I asked him what was wrong.

He looked at me with a puzzled look on his face and said, "How are we going to tell Jody?"

"We'll have to think of something sooner or later," I replied.

We were both quiet during the ride to the hospital. Our last report on Jody was that she was improving daily. When we arrived, we stopped in the hallway and talked with Dr. Cartworth to let her know the results of the tests. She explained fraternal or dizygotic twins happen when the mother releases two eggs, either at the same time or different times during her cycle and different sperm fertilize each egg.

"What are you saying?" said Byrd.

Then she repeated herself, explaining that fraternal twins are two separate eggs fertilized by two separate sperm to form two separate embryos which make two separate babies.

"Are you saying at the time she got pregnant by John she got pregnant by another man," he stated.

"That's what I'm saying," she replied.

"What are we going to do?" I asked. "Are we going to break up their home again?"

"Let's wait a while," suggested Dr. Cartworth, "and give it some time and then I'll have a talk with Catherine. They deserve to have their homecoming."

"You're right," agreed Byrd. "It can wait."

"That sounds good to me," I replied.

It had been about three weeks and Jody seemed like she was finally ready to go home with her family. The day that the Pierces came to the hospital to pick her up Dr. Cartworth called Christine into her office to discuss her blood test. I sat across the room finishing up my paper while Dr. Cartworth talked with Christine. She was shocked when she heard the news and started to cry. She told Dr. Cartworth that she and John Louis were having marital problems at the time she conceived. They were talking about a divorce. But, they both agreed on a separation instead. At the time she didn't know she was pregnant so they went their separate ways. She was alone and lonely; it was hard for her to deal with it. But, she met a man at a bar and they sat and drank. She told him about her situation and he talked about his. He was lost and lonely too since he had lost his wife and baby. She said they left the bar around midnight and went to his motel room. She was so angry and drunk that nothing mattered anymore. When they got there they drank and talked some more. Later on she found out she was pregnant. She completely wiped the one night stand out of her mind. She had blocked it out until now. She and John Louis got back together to save their marriage, home and family. She had never told a sole about this until now.

"What do you think I should do?" she asked Dr. Cartworth.

"Well you'll have to do what you need to do," said the doctor. "He does have the right to know. But, now may not be the right time. You'll know when the right time comes. For now, enjoy your family and be happy for a change."

"Thank you so much for understanding."

When Christine left the room I looked at Dr. Cartworth and she looked at me. We were both shaking our heads.

"It can't be," she said.

She phoned Detective Byrd to come over and bring the blood work on McDougal.

He asked, "Why, what's up?"

"I'll explain it to you when you get here."

It was long before he arrived with the blood work on McDougal. He couldn't believe what she suspected. Detective Byrd and I waited. Finally, she came back in her office and handed the results to Byrd. He looked at the test and it confirmed her suspicion; Ollie McDougal was Jody's real father.

*****

When Time Was

The Summer of '54

Autumn fell brilliantly this year with its beautiful and radiantly bold colors. They seemed to ballet across the cool autumn sky, painting a picture so pure and true. Late in the evening, you could see the gray smoke mushroom from homes burning wood and coal.

In the far off distance, you could hear the clickety clack of the Illinois-Georgia train crossing the trestle at Slick Rock Creek. Its whistle echoed throughout the hollow as it turned the point and slowly faded away into the tunnel. When the sounds from the train disappeared the air was filled with the sounds of crickets and frogs. As night approached, I found myself in a somber mood.

My name is Chigger. That's what everyone has called me since I was a child. I got the nickname after I was eaten up by chiggers while picking blackberries. I'm studying my notes for my new book and I can't help but recall the first night when I was working as a reporter for a small newspaper in Stoney Point, a small community in South Central Kentucky. Stoney Point is about one hundred miles from the Kentucky, Tennessee line and lays lazily about the Shiloh Ridge Mountains. The job at the paper was temporary to earn enough money to support myself.

I'll never forget that scorching hot summer. It was the summer of '54 and I was doing research for my new book on the recent murders happening in Stoney Point. There had already been two women killed. My first day on the job, the third body was found.

That night a call came into the sheriff's office while I was doing some research on a manor not too far from here. There had been another murder. I dropped what I was doing, raced out right behind the officers and followed them to the crime scene. It was pouring down rain and the air was sticky. I was driving a '51 Plymouth. My windows were fogged up and the wipers didn't work very well. As the lights flashed and the sirens haunted the darkness of the night, we sped down Highway 10 around 10:30 p.m.

I had never seen it rain so hard. The drops were so big they sounded like popcorn popping on the hood of my car. Thunder roared like a wretch in the night; lightning ripped through the darkness leaving only obscure shadows in the sky. I mashed the accelerator to the floor as I pushed the old Plymouth to its limits. It was eerily silent when we reached the scene. The place was covered with police. The body was not far from the road in a wooded area with a small creek running through it.

The nude body was lying face down on a small embankment. The sheriff and his deputies surveyed the crime scene and were careful not to tamper with any evidence. I eased down the embankment to get a closer look at the body, but stayed out of the way of the investigators.

She had cuts and bruises on her wrists and ankles. It appeared that she had been tied up and restrained. She was a young girl, about 18 years old, around the same age as the other two victims. They too were found naked, one in an open field a few miles from here on Highway 231 and the other in a barn off the road near the 31E and 231 junctions. It had been determined by the authorities that the girls were not from around here. There was no sign of cars tracks and none of the victims had any form of identification.

"Hey, young man," the sheriff said startling me.

"Yes, sir," I answered nervously.

"I need you to get back up on the bank and make room for the coroner."

I had to look away as they took several photos of the body. The sheriff told the coroner that it looked like the same M-O. The coroner squatted down beside the body and agreed that it sure seemed that way. He took the young girl's wrists in his hands, carefully evaluated the body and confirmed it was definitely the same killer.

"How long do you think she has been dead?" the sheriff questioned.

"At least twelve hours I'd say, but I won't know for sure until I get her back to the lab," replied the coroner.

"Let me know what you find out," the sheriff requested.

"Okay, boys, take her away," instructed the coroner.

"Excuse me, Sheriff Puckett," I said as I raced to catch up with him. "Could you fill me in on what you know so far about the murder cases?"

"Aren't you that new reporter from California?" he questioned.

"Yes, sir, San Francisco," I replied. "You can call me Chigger."

"Chigger," he laughed. "What kind of a damn name is that?"

"Oh, it's a childhood nickname that I've been stuck with all my life," I replied.

The sheriff was a short, stocky black man, with a shaved head. He always had an unlit cigar in his mouth. He never smoked the cigars; he just loved to chew on the ends of them.

"So about the murders," I questioned.

"Well, Chigger," he said as he put his thumbs in his waistband and pulled up his pants. "All three were young girls between the ages of 17-26. None of them are from around here, hitchhikers I'd say. It is obvious they have all been killed in one place, and then moved to a random location. All three were raped. Their hands were bound with tape and placed over their heads. Their mouths were stuffed with their underwear and taped shut. Each victim had bite marks on their breasts and necks. Their legs were bound together after the rapes in order to move the bodies. Each victim had a quarter under each eyelid. I'm assuming it's his calling card."

Before he could finish a deputy interrupted, "Sheriff Puckett, look," he said. "It's an empty peanut bag."

"Where did you find it?"

"Near the body," the deputy stated.

"Put it with the other evidence," instructed the sheriff with a puzzled look on his face.

"What's with the empty peanut bag?"

"Probably nothing," he replied, "but we've found peanut wrappers at the other two scenes."

"Is there any significance to the peanut bag?" I questioned.

"Honestly, I don't know," he said.

"Wasn't there a series of murdered prostitutes called the Twenty-five Cent Murders that happened in the 1930s?"

"Yeah, you're right," replied the sheriff as he opened another cigar and rolled it around in his mouth. "I believe the murders occurred in 1932 and 1933."

"I wonder if there could be a connection," I said as looked into his troubled eyes.

"This may be the first major break in the case. Come by the office in the morning; there's a bunch of records in the basement of the courthouse we need to look through. Let's get home and out of this rain for now," he said as the rain beaded up on his hat and rolled off the brim.

I was so keyed up I couldn't sleep that night. Relaxed by the faint thunder in the distance and the slow drip of rain, I finally closed my eyes and got some shuteye.

When morning came, I was still tired but I forced myself to the edge of the bed and sat up. I felt like shit. The images of the crime scene had haunted my dreams. It was the first time I had actually been at the scene of a crime and, unfortunately, it would not be my last. The M-O of the murderer, the quarter under the victim's eyelids, and those stupid peanut wrappers raced through my mind like a whirlwind in a dust storm. I tried to piece it all together, but couldn't figure it out. Frustrated, I got dressed, grabbed a donut, and headed to the courthouse. The smell of rain still lingered in the early morning air, but my thoughts remained on the night before.

Hurriedly reaching the steps of the courthouse, I saw Sheriff Puckett talking with a couple of his deputies. As I approached them, I could hear him telling his deputies to cooperate with them and work together.

"Hello, Chigger."

"Good morning, sheriff," I replied.

"I was just telling the deputies that the FBI has been called in on the case," he said. "They should arrive late this afternoon."

"I figured that," I replied.

"Now, are you ready to look at those files," he said.

"You bet," I eagerly answered.

We made our way in and rode the elevator to the basement.

"What a collection of records," I said as I looked about the stacked boxes.

"I'm afraid we have a lot of searching ahead of us, Chigger. What brings you to Stoney Point anyway?"

"I'm doing research on this summer's murders and I plan to write a novel from my findings."

"Why did you choose these murders? There are murders everywhere and I'm sure California is not lacking in serial killers."

"I don't really know," I replied. "Something just drew me here."

"Well let's see what we have here," said the sheriff while he lifted the box off the shelf that was labeled 'Twenty-five cent Murders, Box 1 of 2.'

"There must be another box," I said.

"Don't worry about it, we'll look at this one first and find the other one later. Besides, it will take us at least three days to go through this one. Let's move to a table so we can sit down. Boy, this sure is heavy," mumbled the sheriff.

Randomly we thumbed through the documents, not sure what we might find.

"Arthur Jangdhair? Who is he?" I asked.

"Arthur Jangdhair, I know that name. Oh, yes, he was the rich man who moved here in the early 1900s and built the mansion up at Victoria Cove."

"The old Candlewood Manor," I replied.

"Yes, that's it," said the sheriff. "That old manor was a real wonder in its day."

"Is it still standing?"

"Sure, what's left of it. It was built in 1910 by Jangdhair and his wife, Melinda. In 1923 they died, and the house stayed empty for years because they had no children together. In 1930, Madame Christine opened up a house of ill repute. What a house it was! Madame Christine was a classy gal. She used young girls from all over the country. Most of them were either college drop-outs or college girls trying to pay their way through school."

"Who was she?" I questioned.

"She was the illegitimate daughter of Mr. Jangdhair and a topnotch call girl out of Louisville, Kentucky," the sheriff replied.

"What was her mother's name?" I inquired.

"Shucks, I can't think of it right now," he said. "You know how it is when you get old. Oh, wait a minute, I believe it was Caroline."

"How does all of that fit in with the Twenty-five Cent Murders?"

"Well, Christine inherited Jangdhair's manor and his fortune after her mother, Caroline, died of tuberculosis. Christine opened up the house and hired a groundskeeper named Howard Etheridge to take care of the place. Between 1932 and1933 five women were murdered. All of them worked at the manor. We believed all along that Etheridge was the killer but could never prove it."

"So, he got away with the murders?" I asked.

"Yes, there was not enough evidence; he had a rock solid alibi. However, we did get him for Christine's murder. He killed her one night at the manor. There was enough evidence to convict him of first degree murder. He's in prison for the rest of his life. That guy was a real wacko!"

"What was his rock solid alibi?" I questioned.

"Christine swore that he was with her every time," said the sheriff suspiciously.

"Were they lovers," I inquired.

"I don't know," replied the sheriff. "No one has ever said. From the looks of it though, we may have a copycat killer on our hands. It may be someone who is obsessed with the Twenty-five Cent Murders."

The door opened and in walked a deputy, "Sheriff there's two FBI agents here to see you."

"Damn," mumbled the sheriff. "They weren't supposed to be here until this afternoon."

"They apologized for being a little early," replied the deputy. "But, they wanted to get an early briefing."

"Okay, deputy, tell them I'll be there in just a minute," instructed the sheriff. "Are you coming, Chigger?"

"No," I replied. "I believe I'll keep looking through the box."

"Okay then, but lock up," he replied.

"No problem," I assured him.

Time passed quickly as I searched through the files looking for anything that might stand out. I came across an old newspaper article dating back to 1919 about Arthur Jangdhair's life and the Candlewood Manor. It gave his history and told how he made it to South Central Kentucky. It appeared that Jangdhair was a very influential man with many fancy friends in very high places. Mr. Jangdhair was given up for adoption when he was three years old. He lived in an Ohio orphanage for five years until a wealthy family from eastern Kentucky adopted him. He grew up and took over his adopted daddy's coal mining business. After the passing of his adoptive parents, and tired of the business, Arthur sold the business for a substantial price and then moved to south central Kentucky.

Next, I found a letter signed by Mrs. Jangdhair herself. Within the letter it read, 'Years have passed and our marriage has begun to crumble. Arthur stays gone a lot, sometimes days at a time. I hired someone to follow him. The results were shocking. On the riverfront in Louisville, he met with a high-class hooker. He spent a lot of time with her. He was seen escorting her around, showing her off, so to speak."

The next letter, written by Melinda, was dated several years after the previous one. It read, 'I've got to the point I really don't give a damn anymore. I don't have that many years left in me. I don't really care about the son of a bitch anymore. Let him take his whore and die with her.' As I read on, it seemed like Mr. Jangdhair had become obsessed with the lady of the night. He set her up in her own place and kept her as his private whore. Life went on like this until Caroline, his mistress, became pregnant with another child. Nine months later, Caroline gave birth to a daughter she named Christine. Once word of this reached Melinda, she wanted to leave him several times, but she was so afraid of him she couldn't do it. She knew of his connections and feared that something would happen to her. Melinda turned to drinking and drugs to endure the remainder of her life.

I shook my head in disbelief and placed everything back in the box. It was getting late, so I thought I would come back tomorrow. I wanted to get a bite to eat and maybe ride out to the manor. As I was leaving the courthouse, the sheriff pulled up and informed me they had found another body. I jumped into his car and we sped off in his '52 Chevy.

"Where was the body found?" I asked.

"A deer hunter found her down in a hollow off Highway 31E."

"Do they think it's the same M-O?"

"It appears to be," he answered. "The FBI will be there so you'll have to stay out of the way. They are in charge of the case now. Did you find anything in the files?" he questioned.

"No, not really," I replied, "but I know there's something I'm overlooking. I'm going back tomorrow to look some more."

When we arrived, the FBI agents were already there. I was standing beside the road when the ambulance pulled in. Her body was barely visible and lying face down in the leaves. The agents were questioning the hunter who found the body.

"It's another one," the coroner cried out.

Once the agents finished investigating the crime scene, the ambulance driver hauled her body up the embankment toward the ambulance. I held my breath because the smell was horrible. Unexpectedly, the sheet that covered her body was snagged by a limb and it pulled from her face. I saw the quarters under her eyelids. The men hurriedly placed her in the ambulance and shut the door. I knew her face would be forever etched in my mind.

"Are you alright?" Sheriff Puckett asked me.

"Yeah," I said softly.

"Do you want me to take you back to town or to your hotel?"

"I would like to go out to the old Candlewood Manor and look around," I said.

"Okay, to the old Candlewood Manor it is," replied the sheriff.

We compared notes and discussed the evidence on our way to the manor.

"We'll go up to Eddyville Prison tomorrow, if you want, and talk to Howard Etheridge."

"He's the guy that killed Christine, right sheriff."

"I also believe he's the one that killed all the other women," said Sheriff Puckett. Here we are, Candlewood Manor."

I immediately began to recall the things I had read in the article. Even though the manor lay in ruins now, it must have really been something in its prime, I thought. As I opened the car door and stepped out, I noticed an old '34 two-door Chevy. The giant columns were stained and tarnished. We entered the manor to look around. A musty smell reeked the air. The wallpaper was ripped and torn, dangled from the walls and flapped in the stirring breeze. It was huge, cold, and empty inside the manor.

"Can you believe this place," I asked in amazement.

"It's a sight to behold," replied Sheriff Puckett. "Look out here on the balcony."

I turned to see what he was talking about. The balcony hung thirty feet high over the raging Barren River.

"Wow, what a view," I cried.

Giant pines and cedars that guarded the edge of the cliff. They stood tall and bold like an unmovable fortress. Down at the river, out in the cove, we noticed some men fishing. We waved, but they didn't see us. You could hear the water below as it spattered onto the rocky bank. The air had a heavy dampness so we wiped our faces and returned inside.

"Hey, Chigger," yelled the sheriff, "Look!"

"What is it?"

"Look at all these cola bottles with peanuts in them."

"You're kidding!" I replied.

"I'll be right back," said Sheriff Puckett. "I'm going to call this in."

I began to wonder if this was where the murders took place.

"An investigative team is on the way," said the sheriff, "don't touch anything."

After the team arrived, they investigated for several hours. All they found were cola bottles, peanuts, and the wrappers. They were packing up to leave when one of the men on the team yelled he had found something.

"What is it?" the sheriff shouted.

"A quarter," laughed the deputy, "I'm rich."

"Let's wrap it up," said the sheriff, "and head back to town. Come on Chigger I'll drop you off at your hotel. We'll have to get an early start tomorrow if we're going to Eddyville Prison."

The sheriff let me off at the hotel. After he drove off and was out of sight, I got in my car and headed to the courthouse. They were locking down the building when I got there. Carefully, I snuck in and made my way down to the basement. I had placed a small card over the door lock to keep it from locking. The box was still on the table where I left it.

I read the transcripts from the trial. Caroline, Jangdhair's mistress, was placed in a foster home at the age of four in a small coal mining town in Kentucky. Soon after she was placed in the foster home she was abused by her foster father and then by some of the other relatives. The abuse went on for years. She ran away and lived on the streets of Louisville where she learned to turn tricks. While living on the streets at age 17, she was raped. She became pregnant and gave birth to a bastard son. She refused an abortion because of her beliefs, and she definitely didn't want the child in the hands of the State. Her son's name was Howard Etheridge; he was thirteen when Caroline gave birth to Christine, Jangdhair's illegitimate daughter. Howard became the groundskeeper at Christine's whorehouse. After years of prostituting, she moved up to high-class calling, the Riverfront. She entertained wealthy and influential clients.

I searched deeper within the box and found two birth certificates. The certificates revealed that Christine had given birth to a set of twins. The father was unknown.

When I read the pages of another document, I learned that it was believed, but never proven, that the killer followed the prostitutes to their homes when they left the manor. He waited until they were asleep and made his way up to their bedrooms. There was one prostitute mentioned in the document that was able to get away. She stated in her testimony that when she left the manor that night, she as if she was being followed. But, she never saw anyone. When she got home, she didn't think anything else about it and went upstairs to bed. She was almost asleep when she sensed someone standing over her. She looked up, but there was no one there. However, she sensed it again. This time when she opened her eyes there was a man standing beside her bed staring down at her. She screamed and struggled with him as he threw her about the room. Fortunately, her roommate came in and startled him. The intruder grabbed a blanket from the bed, covered his head, ran downstairs and out the door. She wasn't sure what the man looked like or if she had ever seen him before. Between the fear, the darkness, and her well-known problem of being a habitual liar, the lawyers were unsure of her testimony.

There were facts of the case jotted down on several pieces of scrap paper. Howard Etheridge became a prime suspect because he had easy access to the ladies; he knew them all and had a motive. The problem was Christine claimed he was with her each time. Soon after Christine's defense of Howard and the birth of her twins, she was his final victim. The case papers stated that Howard was tried and convicted of first-degree murder and sentenced to life without parole. The killings stopped after that.

But in 1954, the murders started again. In the twenty-five cent cases, all the victims were prostitutes. These victims were young girls thought to be hitchhiking. Nevertheless, all have died the same horrifying death with the same M-O.

I looked at my watch. It was late; I had to go. I eased open a window and slipped out. I definitely did not want to get caught. I made my way to my car and wanted to get back to the hotel before morning.

It seemed as if I had just gone to sleep when the sheriff honked his horn outside my front door. I jumped out of bed, got dressed, grabbed my usual donut and took off with him to Eddyville Prison.

"Did you get plenty of rest last night?" he asked.

"Sure," I replied. "Why do you ask?"

"One of my deputies saw your car illegally parked across from the courthouse last night. He asked me if he should give you a ticket. I figured you were working late so I told him to let it go."

A little embarrassed, I thanked him and told him I wouldn't let it happen again. After a few hours, we arrived at the prison. We went straight to the warden's office to inquire about Howard Etheridge. After a short wait, we were allowed into his office. Sheriff Puckett introduced me to the warden and we all shook hands.

"Yes, sheriff," he said, "what can I do for you?"

He asked about Howard Etheridge. The warden let us know that Howard had committed suicide the day before. He had hung himself in his cell. I looked at the sheriff and he looked at me; we were speechless.

"I'm sorry," said the warden. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"May we view Etheridge's visitor documentation?"

The warden replied, "Give me a moment."

He picked up the phone, called, and asked the chaplain to come into his office and bring all the visitor paperwork for Howard Etheridge. While we waited, we asked the sheriff if we could look at Howard's personal belongings.

"That shouldn't be a problem," he said, "since you are conducting an investigation."

He took us to a room, several doors down, where his things were.

"Help yourselves," the warden said. "The chaplain will be here in a moment."

It felt eerie digging through a dead man's things. There were books, a ring, and a billfold with three dollars in it, a pencil and nail clippers. The rest of his belongings were clothes. I picked up a Bible from the box and opened it up to see if there were any papers in it. There were no papers, but the back cover had a note written on it.

"Look," I said to the sheriff.

"What does it say," he replied.

'Christine gave birth to a set of twins. She gave the older boy by two minutes, to her best friend, Jackie that worked at the house. Jackie left with him, so I have never seen or heard from him. A family not far from here took in the youngest son, Jesse. She thought I would hurt them, but I wouldn't have. Instead it caused me to hurt her. I loved my two sons. I hated her when she sent them away. I wrote this in my Bible so the truth would be known before I died. I read in here that we are to confess our sins.'

The warden interrupted, "The chaplain is here."

"Here you go," he said, "but Mr. Howard only had one visitor on our records and that was Jesse Warren. He came quite often, once a week, during the last several months."

"That must be the son he mentioned in his note," I replied.

"It's probably his son all right. He must have gone by the last name of his adoptive parents," said the sheriff. "Thanks, warden for your help. You ready to go, Chigger?"

"Yes, sir," I answered, "thank you warden."

On our way back, I thought about Jesse, and how his father must have brainwashed him. Then we heard over the radio another body had been found. We were too far away to get there in time. The FBI came across the radio and they were almost there. From the radio conversation, the body was found on a deserted back road. It seemed to have been there some time, maybe months. It was the same M-O, coincidently, not far from where the last body was found.

Earlier a young man, named Jesse, had been pulled over by the Kentucky State Police for a broken taillight on his '46 pickup. When the officer searched his truck, he noticed a large bundle wrapped in a tarp in the bed of the truck. The trooper gave him a warning ticket for the taillight. As the trooper turned to leave, he started to ask him what he was hauling. However, he got a call involving a car accident with fatalities and had to leave.

Jesse waited for the trooper to pull off and headed down the highway in the other direction.

On the way back from the crime scene, the agents stopped at Kelley's Market to see if anyone had noticed any suspicious travelers. While they were asking questions, Jesse walked in and noticed the two men. James, the storeowner, asked him if he wanted his usual.

"Yes, sir," he replied, "peanuts and cola."

The agents stood back and waited until Jesse left the store to question James.

"Excuse me, sir," said one of the agents while the other watched Jesse through the window. "Does he come in here regularly?"

"Yes, sir," replied James. "He buys the same thing every time. He's one of my regular customers."

Immediately, the agents ran out of the market to look for him. They sent a call across the radio that they were in pursuit of the suspect. They wanted all law enforcement to follow them on Highway 231 north near the Highway 10 junction. We were not too far away from the area when we heard the call so we joined the pursuit.

"He's going to the manor," said Sheriff Puckett.

As we raced down the highway, the sheriff radioed the agents and told them where Jesse was headed. Sure enough, Jesse slowed down and the agents saw him turn into the manor.

"You're right, sheriff," radioed one of the agents. "The suspect is pulling in now. All units move in, but use extreme caution and take your positions."

We pulled in and Sheriff Puckett took his position and told me to stay down. Sheriff Puckett filled the agents in on what he had learned at the prison. The two agents eased up to the back of the truck and removed the tarp. It was a body.

"Jesse," this is the FBI. "Come out with your hands up."

Everything was extremely quiet. No one moved or made a sound.

"Don't make this any worse than what it is, Jesse," the agent insisted.

Sheriff Puckett spoke up, "Jesse, we know everything. We just left the prison. We know your daddy's dead."

"He's dead and I want to be with him!" yelled Jesse.

Without warning, a shot was fired toward us, shattering the headlight on the patrol car. The agents returned fire. They sprayed the house with bullets, shooting out what windows that were left. Bullets ricocheted off the giant columns; Jesse didn't have a chance. When the firing ceased, everything went quiet. I wondered if they got him.

"Jesse," yelled one of the agents. "Come out with your hands up!"

Moments later, the authorities broke their positions and moved toward the house and so did I. The smell of gunfire was thick in the air. They were alert and ready for anything. No one knew what to expect. They cautiously positioned themselves to move in. A couple of the officers broke down the front door.

"Search the house," yelled an agent, "but be careful!"

They swept the house, but he was nowhere to be found.

"How did he get out?" asked one agent. "Surely he didn't go off the balcony; it's a thirty foot bluff."

"Sheriff Puckett," yelled a deputy. "Come here, quick."

Sheriff Puckett, the agents and I followed the sound of his voice to the next room. When we got there, we saw the hidden door in the floor. It opened to a long tunnel that led us to the bottom of the cliff on the rocky shore of the cove.

"There's no way we'll catch him now," said one of the agents.

"We'll put out an APB on him," the sheriff encouraged. "We'll get him."

On the way back to town, the sheriff asked me if I had enough facts and excitement for my book.

"Oh, yes," I replied. "It's been a very unusual summer, and I've enjoyed working with you, sir."

"It's been fun having you around, Chigger. When are you leaving?"

"Probably tomorrow," I replied.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

"Yeah, kinda," I said.

"Let me buy you a good old southern, all you can eat, catfish and frog leg supper for your going away present," he suggested.

"Frog legs," I said with hesitation.

"They jump in the skillet as they're cooking," he laughed.

"Oh, no, really," I chuckled, "frog legs. Why not, there's a first time for everything."

Early the next morning I got everything packed and loaded in my car. I took a deep breath and looked around Kentucky for the last time. It was far from San Francisco, but it was a good place with good people.

While I drove, I couldn't get the manor off my mind. It seemed like there was still too many loose ends. Something was pulling me back there. I turned the car around and headed to the manor. After spending quite some time there, disgusted I still couldn't figure it out, I leaned my hand on the stone fireplace. When I did, I felt a loose stone. I reached up with my other hand and slipped it out. I reached into the hole, stretching my fingers I slowly pulled out a small tin box. I opened it up and found a key. My heart seemed to stop, my lips quivered, and my breath slowed. I had seen the key before. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my key. The keys were identical. I was puzzled at first, then dumbfounded. I'd had my key all my life. I was told that my mother gave it to me when I was born. Was Christine my mother, I asked myself? Oh no, I thought, this is insane. The keys had numbers on them, mine had 26 and the other one had 37. I didn't know what they meant or what they would open. I didn't know if I really wanted to know. It must be a lock box, I thought, but where in the world would it be. I thought and looked for places it might be and found nothing. As I thought, I took the numbers of the keys, subtracted them and came up with 11, which was Christine's bedroom.

I searched her room, but couldn't find anything. Then, I noticed some loose boards in the floor of her closet. I reached down and pried them up with my pocketknife. There was the lockbox with two locks numbered 26 and 37. I took the keys and opened the locks. Inside was her journal. I took it downstairs to read it. The first of May was written at the top of the page. I began to read.

'Melinda Jangdhair, Arthur Jangdhair, and Caroline, his girlfriend, was all brothers and sisters. I found this out when I was curious to know more about my father and where he was from. When their parents were killed in an automobile wreck, they were sent to orphanages in different states. I am the illegitimate daughter of Arthur and Caroline. Caroline also had a son named Howard Etheridge. Howard and I had an affair and I became pregnant with a set of twins; Jesse and Jonathan. When the twins were born, I was afraid Howard would kill my babies. I gave Jonathan to Jackie, my best friend, along with some money to take him away. Last I heard they were in California. I gave Jesse to a family near here; I gave them enough money to take care of him for life.'

I stopped a moment and closed my eyes. "My God, what are you trying to tell me," I cried out loud.

"She's trying to tell you, brother, you're an inbred," said a voice from across the room.

"Jesse," I said.

"In the flesh, big brother," he replied. "I wondered how long it would take you to figure it out."

I jumped up, ran toward him and slapped his face. We tangled up and started fighting. We wrestled about the room then out onto the balcony.

All I could say was, "Why, Jesse why?"

Jesse laughed in my face and said, "Daddy always said you were probably a wimp. I was the only son he cared about. He taught me his way and his style. My ways made him proud."

"You're sick, Jesse," I yelled.

"I'm not sick, brother. You're a disgrace to our family name. You don't deserve to live!" Jesse screamed as he erratically ran towards me.

Jesse reached out toward me, but I jumped back and caused him to go over the balcony railing to the rocky shore of the river. As his lifeless body lay on the rocks below, I went to my knees and wept bitterly. The truth of everything hit me all at once. I cried out to the heavens, "God help me!" When I did, it was as if the dams of Heaven broke and flooded the ruins of the old manor that lay around me. In a sense, the rains brought relief to my shattered soul. I knew there would be a long hard road of healing ahead of me.

The summer of '54 forever changed my life. After many rounds of therapy and six months to complete my story, I can say I am well on my way to recovery. By the way, my book was published shortly after I finished the final draft. How do you like it?

*****

When Time Was

Flight 407

The heavy overcast clouds choked back the rain over the city of Charleston, South Carolina. I had boarded the plane and took a window seat. My name is not important, but you can call me Father O'Neal. I will be telling the story of the greatest challenge in my life that I have so longed to bring to reality.

The control tower was bringing planes in and out as fast as they could before the storm grew worse. Every few minutes, a flash of lightning lit up the runway as thunder roared deep in the heart of the dark clouds. When the bottom fell out, the heavy clouds could not hold back the rain any longer. The rain fell hard and fast as it beat down and bounced on top of the ground like millions of BBs. The wind shifted the rain from side and pushed it down hard against the ground.

I imagined the control tower and the pilot talking. Control tower to flight 407: delay taxing to runway until clearance because of the storm. I worked at the airport and had heard it many times. The past two years it has been the same flight from Charleston to Atlanta.

The storm finally eased up. Once again, I imagined the conversation between the tower and the pilot of 407. Control tower this is flight 407 taxing from tower to runway, the pilot would say. Flight 407 this is control tower, you have clearance for take off on runway 33. Have a good flight, the tower would reply. Roger, control tower, you have a good day too.

The giant turbo jet engines fired up and the plane quickly gained speed down the runway. Flight 407 lifted off the ground and disappeared into the dark clouds above. As it vanished in the darkness, the only reminder it left was the sound of its roaring engines.

One, of many, of my life long quests was set into motion with a Boeing 313 small coach, flight 407 of Southern Skies Airline. As the plane climbed higher than the clouds, the storm below seemed to settle. I reached for the button on the arm of my seat and reclined back so I could stretch my legs. Shortly, the pilot came over the intercom welcoming us to flight 407.

"My name is John Bentner, and I am your pilot. We have climbed to 23,000 feet which put us way above the storm. Our arrival time in Atlanta will be 8:20. I hope you enjoy your flight."

The cabin was filled with all kinds of people, young, old, different nationalities, handicapped, and a couple of soldiers who were headed home from Paris Island, South Carolina. As the flight attendants served us drinks and snacks, most everyone watched the movie. But, I leaned back and stared out the window and reflected back on my life. My reflection in the glass showed a tired and troubled man. My journey had been long and hard. What had I done with my life and where had it gone, I thought? Where does one find his or her place to fit in, I thought? I heard a voice at my side. When I turned, I saw the stewardess standing in the aisle.

"Father, would you like a magazine or book to read?" she asked.

I nodded my head no and smiled. As she went on her way, I turned and stared out the window once more. I thought back to when, at the age of eight, I moved in with my cousin in the bayou of Louisiana. That is where I first learned about explosives. My cousin was a pyromaniac. He loved to play with fire. As kids, we made bombs out of fireworks and gun powder. We would blow up things just to see if we could do it. He later went to prison and that is where he remains to this day.

I was a high school dropout lost in a great big world with no direction or hope. I longed to fit in and find my place. I did two tours in Vietnam as a demolition expert until I was nearly killed by an explosion. I suffered severe head trauma from the explosion.

After leaving Vietnam in 1968, I lived on the streets for the next four years except for when I was in the VA Hospital. For a year, 1973-74, I was in a Birmingham mental hospital. They said I was a genius in mathematics, aerospace dynamics, and a pyromaniac. I laughed at them and myself. I was nothing but a troubled soul. I told them I was afraid of firecrackers, but all they did was laugh. They released me from the hospital because of a lack of government funds. I went back on the streets.

Later in 1974, I got a janitor's job at the Charleston, South Carolina Airport. I eventually worked my way up to fueling planes. What a joke, a pyromaniac that fueled planes.

I was startled when the pilot came on the intercom.

"This is your pilot; we will be landing in Atlanta in about forty-five minutes. We are arriving on time and the forecast is 86°, clear, and dry. Thank you for flying Southern Skies."

I looked at my watch. About now a phone should ring in the Atlanta control tower. A voice activated device will warn the air traffic controller that there is a bomb on flight 407 coming in from Charleston, South Carolina. A red alert will be issued across the airport. Emergency vehicles will storm out of their garages and head across the airfield toward the runway of incoming flight 407. The FBI will be contacted and they will rush to the airport. I'm sure it will be Agents Walker and Grant. They are the ones who usually respond. Fire trucks, ambulances, and other emergency vehicles will follow close behind. How do I know? I had seen several red alerts when I worked there and I know their routine. Once they choose a way of doing something, very seldom do they change it. The voice on the phone will demand for one million dollars in unmarked small denomination bills to be placed in a locker at Union Train Station in Nashville within one hour, not a minute early or a minute late or the plane would blow up. The air traffic controller will take the message and record it. By that time the FBI and the Atlanta metro police will have surrounded the building. The controller will try to get as much information from the caller as she possibly can; which locker and where the key is located. She'll find out the key is in an envelope in the desk drawer behind the radio operator, but no more because the phone will go dead. Agents Walker and Grant should be on the scene now.

***

Agent Grant and I, Agent Walker, entered the control tower.

"I'll take it from her," I said as we set up our command post.

I got an update from the controller of what had happened. I listened to the tape recording and came to the conclusion that the bomber probably had prior access to the airport in order to plant the key.

"Men, he could still be in the airport or even on the plane. I want this airport searched from top to bottom. I want all employees' files pulled and background checks done on each; go back from a minimum of six months to two years."

"How much time do we have before the plane lands?" asked Grant.

"About thirty-five minutes," replied the controller.

"We don't have enough time," said Grant.

"Do what you can," I insisted.

The airport was in total chaos; we turned it upside down and inside out.

"Have you notified the pilot?" I asked.

"No, sir," replied the traffic controller.

"Has the money been sent?" questioned Grant.

"It's on its way," I replied. "We don't have a minute to lose. I want a complete interrogation of all tower personnel and anyone else that has or had access to this room, especially within the last week. Check all security cameras."

"How much time do we have left?" asked Grant.

"Twenty minutes," informed the controller.

"Time is running out," replied Grant, "the phone call should be coming in any time now."

"Get me a voice activated technician up here on the double," I said.

"There isn't enough time," warned Grant.

"We have to give it a shot," I replied.

***.

While the FBI was getting their ducks in a row, everyone on the plane was relaxed and enjoying the flight. With a smile on my face, I stared out the window and wondered if I had all my ducks in a row. The activated phone call should have warned the airport of the bomb, and I'm sure the FBI has taken over.

I had worked at the Atlanta and Charleston airports. Right before I fueled up this plane, I dropped four small homemade bombs into the fuel tanks. The capsule that covered the microchip inside was covered in a D-2H fiber hydro plastic that jet fuel could not burn through. Just under the plastic shell was the detonator device that was connected to a sound frequency which connected to the chip. The bomb was a 2x2 ball, waterproof, and transparent with a pocket of nitro connected in the center. On each end of the capsule was a magnetic polar cap that enabled it to stick to the bottom of the fuel tank when I dropped it in. The other magnetic polar cap would be used to help detonate the bomb.

I looked around the cabin at the people. If they only knew, I thought, would it even make a difference. They were of all ages, from all walks of life. I tried to look at each of them to see if I could detect their hurts and pains, their disappointments and fears, and their happiness and laughter. Those things I would never know. It could be over in seconds, minutes or in an hour, I thought. I closed my eyes, tilted my head toward the window and wondered what they would change or give up.

***

An agent ran in to the control tower, "Walker, we have tried to locate where the call originated, but we came up with thirty-seven different cities across the US."

"What, can you narrow it down?" I asked.

"I don't know," replied the agent. "He has some kind of scrambler on the lines. I'll do my best."

"Get to it," I demanded. "Time is running out. How much time do we have before it lands? Have the background checks been run on the employees? Did they turn up any with police records with explosive charges or anyone with military demolition training?"

"We're working on it, sir," the agent replied.

"Walker, what do you make of it?" asked Grant.

"I don't really know," I replied. "But it doesn't look good. He may decide to crash the plane into the airport?"

"I'll evacuate the building," said Grant.

"Go for it," agreed Walker. "Make sure all incoming and outgoing flights have been canceled. Reroute all incoming planes to nearby airports and ground all other flights, now! I want this airport to be a ghost town."

The phone rang; we paused for a second and then answered it.

"Has my money reached Nashville yet?" asked the voice.

"It should be there shortly," I replied. "What is it you really want? Can we negotiate?"

Click went the phone as an agent came running in.

"Walker, I believe the phone line he is calling from is through micro fiber sensor adaptors used by the military. I'm sure that's creating the mixed calls," he said.

"Can you break into the homing device?" I questioned.

"I don't know. I'll try; it's going to take some time," said the agent.

"We don't have time," I shouted. "Just do what you can, but hurry."

"Okay, men, we have our first break. He has military training in detonation. That should help narrow down the employee applications. Would somebody please make a fresh cup of coffee?" he suggested. "It's time I talk to the pilot."

"Flight 407 this is air traffic control."

"Come in control tower."

"We have a code red, possible bomb onboard linked to terrorism. I'm turning you over to Agent Walker of the FBI."

I explained the situation to the pilot. I asked the pilot to send the co-pilot into the cabin area to see exactly who was on the plane. The co-pilot made a quick scan of the plane, returned to the cockpit and told the pilot the passenger list faxed in from Charleston was correct. The pilot told me that everything had been quiet and there was nothing out of the ordinary. There had been no demands.

***

I noticed the co-pilot as he wandered around and then returned to the cockpit. I knew then the FBI had talked to the pilot. The passengers began to get uneasy, probably sensing something was wrong. One of them asked the stewardess if everything was alright. She told them as far as she knew everything was okay. At the time she didn't know anything was wrong.

It's going to be hard for them to catch me, I thought to myself. When I worked as a janitor at the airports, I removed my employee applications and all other information about me. I destroyed everything pertaining to me. Not only did I work as a janitor and fueled planes, I also worked in baggage and towed planes into their loading and unloading gate ramps. Cutbacks at the airports, at that time, meant I had several jobs to do. I knew the airport like the back of my hand.

Suddenly the stewardess came back in with a worried look on her face.

"I need everyone's attention," she said. "We have run into some difficulties and we are going to make an emergency landing in Atlanta."

The passengers immediately panicked. Some asked questions while others cried; their faces were full of fear.

"Please, everyone," she cried. "Let's not make it any worse than it is. If we all stay calm we can help each other get through this."

"I want to talk to the pilot," I demanded as I pretended to be afraid and concerned.

Directly, the pilot entered the cabin. He tried to calm the frightened crowd. I spoke up and told him we had a right to know what was going on because our lives were at stake. But, he assured us it was just a precaution. He told us everything would be alright and the helped ease some of the tension.

"Please follow the stewardess' directions and everything will be alright. We will arrive in Atlanta in about five minutes." Then he turned to me and said, "Father, feel free to talk to them. I would greatly appreciate it."

I nodded my head. However, I was caught off guard when a little girl came over to me and sat on my lap; she had been crying. I was dumbfounded, at a loss for words, and shaken inside. So innocent and yet so tender in life, I noticed there was hope in her eyes. A hope I had never seen before. My eyes watered as her mother came for her.

"I'm sorry, Father," her mother said.

I wiped my eyes and replied, "That's alright. What is her name?"

"Hope," she replied as she left with the child.

I eased back in my seat and continued my deep thoughts.

***

We were preparing for the worst at the control tower. There had been no more calls from the bomber, and the FBI had only narrowed the traced phone calls down to 18 possible cities. The search of employee's files had turned up nothing. There was not enough time, and too many files. We were out of time. This bombing had been well planned with precise timing. We had no room for error. The main goal now was to get the plane on the ground and get the people off without incidence.

The air traffic controller yelled across the room to me, "The airport is now evacuated."

What is it going to take to flush him out? I thought to myself.

***

On the plane everyone cried and prayed as the stewardesses prepared for the worst. We all buckled up and leaned forward, awaiting touchdown. For the first time, my thoughts were mixed and random. Why am I doing this? I wondered. What is driving me? I thought.

From the window of the plane, I could see the lights of Atlanta breaking through the clouds. The pilot came across the intercom and warned us to keep our heads down and to stay in our seats. Everyone was prepared for the worst. No one really knew for sure what the problem was, only that it was an emergency landing, and as soon as we landed we would exit the plane immediately down the chute. The cabin was quiet except for some sniffling, crying and whispering prayers. I thought about the little girl, and the hope I had seen in her eyes. I would never forget it.

Suddenly you could hear the wheels of the landing gear screech as they touched down on the runway. The plane began to slow down as the passengers shouted and waved their hands in the air. Quickly the stewardesses took over, helping everyone off the plane along with the help of the pilot and co-pilot. As we made our way to the door, I exited with the other passengers. One by one we stepped to the door, dropped to our bottoms on a giant air mattress and slid down to the ground. When we reached the ground, the police led each of us away from the plane to safety. Ambulances, fire trucks and safety vehicles were there and ready if necessary. I noticed the plane had stopped on the runway away from the airport.

I stood with the other passengers and watched all the activity. Things had changed slightly, and I wondered if I needed a plan B. I racked my brain trying to decide. I didn't know if I should walk away and let it be a false alarm, or if I should go through with it and just alter my plans. I hate decisions, I thought.

The plane sat in silence on the runway like a silent giant. The FBI watched and waited before they decided to search the plane. I patiently watched as they entered the plane with their guns drawn to see if anyone was hiding on board. As quickly as they entered; they exited. I looked at the faces of the people around me. They were still afraid, unsure, and worried about what might happen next. Tension grew within me. It ate at me and took over my being. I was losing control. My thoughts raced through my mind as small drops of sweat beaded up on my brow. The hope in the little girl's eyes haunted me. I couldn't hold back any longer; I had to let it go. Carefully, I slipped the rubber band from my partial in my mouth and let it slip off the end of my tongue. Boom! The plane exploded and went up in flames. Boom! Boom! The rush was so filling.

Immediately, a chain reaction took place as the giant silver bird was engulfed in flames. People started running toward the airport. The emergency vehicles responded, but the jet fuel was so hot they couldn't do anything. I took off toward the airport with the others. My ego grew with every step I took. I did it, I did it, I thought.

The rubber band I had on my partial released the tension of the microchip detonator glued to the backside of my partial. When the pressure was released, a high pitched sound frequency scrambled the magnetic polar cap sensor on the end of the capsule. That drove a vibrating sound wave through the capsule that lit the nitro filler and caused a meltdown inside the capsule. The capsule then burned its way inside out, ignited the jet fuel which exploded and blew the plane up. As the giant rolls of smoke filled the sky and balls of fire shot through it, my dream had come true. I always wanted to see if I could do it; blow up a commercial jetliner and get away with it. My hunger and obsession had been fulfilled in so many ways.

The year was 1992, the best year of my life. I ran to the airport with the others. Once we reached the airport, I was able to slip into a restroom. I changed into a security officer uniform I had hidden in the air conditioner ducts. As I left the restroom, I blended in with the other officers and worked my way out the door to the parking garage and left in the car I had rented earlier that week. I lied to the police to get through the barricade. I told them I had to rush to the hospital because my wife was having a baby. They believed me and didn't question me. I went back to my home in Birmingham.

I knew Walker was gathering all the passengers of the flight and moving them into a room at the airport for questioning. I imagined his face. Everyone would be there but me, the priest. The interrogation would probably go on for hours, but I'm sure they'll all be free to go.

The money stayed in Nashville. I guessed the FBI watched it for weeks at a time; then they figured I wouldn't come for it. It was never about the money. That was only a decoy to throw them off track. I'm sure the money was returned.

***

It has been two weeks now since the bombing of 407, and we have not picked up any leads, I thought. I was still working on the case. My mind still pondered over the plane bombing trying to remember each and every detail. Was there something we missed? Finally the lab was able to lift a partial print from the locker key, just enough of a print to put a face and name to, Odell McHarris, last known address 502 South Needy Road, Birmingham, Alabama. After I pulled up his military record; I knew he was the man. We took off and called ahead to Birmingham to notify them of the situation. A few hours later we arrived. I didn't want any mistakes on our part, I thought. This guy had been too hard to catch.

When we arrived we found an old white weather boarded house. It was surrounded by giant maples and oaks. There was no car at home. We waited a few minutes before we moved in. We didn't want to be too quick or anxious. There was no room for error. Everything was still and quiet. Slowly, we worked our way around the house and got in position to move in. Still there was no sign of anyone. Maybe he isn't at home, I thought.

But deep down inside I sensed something evil. I gave the motion to move in. Quickly, we stormed the house, busting down the door. One of the men yelled out that everything was clear. He wasn't at home. We looked around at all his equipment, computers, maps, and charts of the Atlanta and Charleston airports. There was enough data to keep a dozen FBI agents busy for a long time. There were weather charts, data flight charts in and out of both airports for the last three years, flight plans, timers, voice activated machines, designs of planes, blueprints of planes, and blueprints of the airports. It went on and on. The phone was wired with micro fiber sensor adaptors which scrambled the phone calls making them untraceable, and a scrambler jig blocked and split the calls into thirty-seven different cities across the US. The calls could come from anywhere.

One of the agents radioed in, "Sir, we're all clear around the grounds. There's no one around."

Agent Grant motioned for me to come over and look at some letters he had found. Evidently, at one time, he had studied to be a priest before he went to Vietnam. There were also some letters from the mental hospital stating his extremely high I.Q. He was a genius in mathematics and aerodynamics. Brilliant, the doctor went on to say. Then it dawned on me; he left his prints on the locker key on purpose to lead us here.

"Are you saying, Walker, that he led us here," replied Grant.

"Right; everyone get out now, on the double, run!" I yelled.

Agents scattered in every direction. The house blew up, belching great balls of fire and black smoke. Several agents were injured with a few minor cuts and burns. Luckily, no one was killed. The countryside screamed with sirens, fire trucks, and ambulances as they raced to the scene. The old house burned quickly. Shortly, there was nothing standing but a pile of ashes. The next day we searched the cold ashes to see if there was anything left.

An agent cried out, "Walker, it's a body."

As I rushed over to him, sure enough it was, but whom? The body was taken to the medical examiner for an autopsy. A couple of days later the autopsy results came back. According to the dental and military medical records of the deceased, the victim was Odell McHarris, the bomber of Flight 407. He was hiding in a hidden room when we searched the house. That's the reason we couldn't find him. Finally, the long nightmare was coming to a close, I thought.

But, there was something that still bothered me. He could have easily blown up the house when we were all in there, but he didn't. He waited until we were pretty much clear of it. That's it, he wasn't trying to kill us, I thought. He committed suicide to let us know he got away with blowing up a plane.

When I got back to my office I put away the files of Flight 407. Case closed! However, Grant came in and told me that the coroner had found something else. He had talked to Dr. Eugene Atwater, McHarris's doctor at the VA Hospital. McHarris was dying with cancer. They had only given him a few months to live.

"What do you make of that," asked Grant.

"Anyway you look at it," I replied, "he would have gotten away with it. You want to get a bite of lunch?" I asked Grant.

"Sure," he replied. "You buying aren't you?"

*****

When Time Was

Walk With A Blind Man

The autumn skies laid in wait for the cooling of fall. The clouds streaked across the grayish blue sky as the narrow jazzed strips of clouds lay about as pillows across the Georgia horizon. The tops of the Georgia pines reached upward embedding the tips into the tiring sky as the sun rested upon each.

My name is Gideon Reynolds and this is my story. I was born in Gifford, Alabama where I lived my first two years with my dad, Will, and mother, Mary. My dad farmed and mama kept house. We didn't have much compared to a lot of folks around. But there was one thing we had that nobody else had and that was mama's turnip greens and hot water cornbread. I could eat it every day of the week. Her crackling cornbread with some side meat, salt pork, or middling meat, whatever we had at the time, was like gold to us. I want to say, those neck bones on Sunday and her meatloaf were the best. Why, watch your mouth, my mouth waters just thinking about it. We may not have had as much as a lot of other people but we had a million dollar cook. Dad worked hard to see that we had everything we needed. I had an older sister, Mary Ann, who died before I was born. She became sick with pneumonia and died. I don't really remember that much about living in Alabama, only what I have heard from others through the years. But, you know, there is something I have thought about from time to time. But, I guess it's like a lot of other things in life.

There were things I missed about Alabama. I missed my old dog Jake; we used to hunt rabbits together. He was the best rabbit dog around. One time we were hunting back off the road when Jake started chasing a rabbit, ran through an old fence and tore his back leg something awful. I carried him back home so dad could look at him, but there was nothing left to do but take off his back leg. We never hunted much after that. One day I called for him but he didn't come. I found him lying out in the yard; he was dead. Dad and I buried him at the edge of the yard. I couldn't keep from crying. It was hard for me to let him go.

I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. I loved to mingle words and tell a story that others would enjoy reading. But, I didn't think I would ever make it as a writer. I couldn't spell or write that well. I guessed I would have to go to one of those big schools to learn how to do it. But, my stories are not told from degrees, but from my heart. I didn't know what I wanted to do. I was only fourteen. That was sort of silly of me to think such since I didn't know what lied ahead for tomorrow. But it was fun to dream.

Oh well, in 1946 we moved to Fountain Run, Georgia up on Scoop Ridge. Fountain Run was about one hundred and fifty miles south of Chattanooga and about eighteen miles north of Atlanta in Sanderson County located in northern Georgia. Life on Scoop Ridge was not much different from where we lived in Alabama. About the biggest difference I could see was we had more pines and red dirt here. But, I still had my quiet time. That meant a lot to me when I wasn't doing my chores. I liked to lie down on the ground, look up in the sky, and see what I could see. I liked to watch the birds fly about. Sometimes it seemed like hundreds darted this way and that as they twisted and turned about. I noticed they would weave in and out and then explode and go their different ways. As I lay there, the ground was still held the heat from the sun. I was but a child without a care in the world; I didn't know what tomorrow would bring.

Growing up in northern Georgia wasn't all that bad. I had some good times and good memories of my childhood. But, I can't really say that about mama. Dad and mama seemed to fuss more now than they used too. Maybe that's what you do when you grow older. Daddy started drinking more and jumped from one job to another. If that was the way it was going to be when I got older, I didn't ever want to grow up. Now here's a thought, wouldn't it be nice to grow up with a childlike heart? Oh, well there goes the writing in me.

Time soon passed upon Scoop Ridge. In 1956, I was 12 when daddy finally left home. It was up to mama and me now. I cried for the both of us. I never wanted daddy to leave and I cried for mama since she was left alone to raise us. I was 12 and didn't know how to provide or make ends meet. Mama never cried much around me. She said we had to be strong; only the strong would get by. But late at night, I could hear her crying and praying to the Lord. I cried with her because I didn't know what we were going to do. We heard that daddy left because he had a lot of gambling debts. Others say it was because of another woman or even both. But he was gone no matter what the reason. We just had to move on. It didn't take mama long to find a small job. I got a job at the Trading Post; I cleaned up, took out trash, put up stock and ran errands for Mr. John. The Trading Post was a small country store owned by John Westly Fergusson from Atlanta. Mr. John was nice to me. He would give me some candy when I worked extra hours. Mama did well too. The both of us worked together to take care of our needs. We never heard from daddy again, but I still think about him. Sometimes the anger would grow strong within me, especially when I saw mama go down each day. I didn't mind pulling my load, but I was only a boy with limitations. I did what I could and so did she, but some weeks things fell short and we didn't have enough. Mr. John was good to mama. He gave her some things and let her run a tab. I tried to take on extra jobs like mowing yards and raking leaving; seasonal things you know. But the truth stood for itself. Some days we had it, some days we didn't.

Like mama always said the good Lord would watch over us and help us. What I didn't understand was where was the Lord when daddy decided to leave since he was watching out for us. I didn't know or understand why. Why was it so hard? I apologized to the Lord and told him I was sorry, but I just didn't understand.

In 1958 something happened that changed my life forever and sent me on life's journey into a challenged world. It wasn't long after that when I was working in the storeroom one day. Mr. John and some woman I had never seen before rushed into the room. I ran and hid behind a stack of boxes. As I peeped around the boxes I could see her face. She was trying to push him away. As they struggled about, he asked her where his money was. She owed him and he was determined to get it one way or another. When he slapped her, her head turned towards me. Her eyes were crying out for help. She was not only afraid for herself but for me as well. She never let him know I was there. I felt so helpless. I had never seen Mr. John so violent. As she cried, he tried to have his way with her. But, he still kept yelling that he wanted his money. She told him that she didn't have it and to get off of her; he backed off. He struck her with his fist and knocked her to the storeroom floor. As she fell, she hit her head on the corner of a wooden crate. Her body lay lifeless on the floor. Mr. John called her some names, straightened up his clothes and headed for the door. He didn't know I was in there until I stepped on a loose board. He quickly stopped, but he never turned around. He paused for a minute. I tried to hold my breath because I was so terrified he would catch me; my heart raced a mile a minute.

Then he spoke without turning around, "Gideon, is that you? The best thing for you to do is forget what you saw here today and never tell a sole. You have a good mother, Gideon; I wouldn't want anything to happen to her." As he reached for the doorknob he said, "You go ahead and finish cleaning up and take the rest of the day off. I'll take care of my lady friend after closing, okay."

"Yes, sir," I replied.

"Tell your mother I said hello and if she needs anything let me know," he said.

"Yes sir, Mr. John."

Now, one thing I learned while living in Sanderson County is that you don't mess with John Westly Fergusson. He owned just about everything in the county, even the law. They said he was the nephew of Arthur Fergusson, a mafia boss from northern Atlanta. John Westly had been in prison for murder, bid rigging and running moonshine from Tennessee to Georgia. The Trading Post, they say, was a front for gambling, prostitution, drugs and moonshine. The Fergusson's ran moonshine from the mountains north of Chattanooga, Tennessee and resold it throughout the south. They called it Smokie Mountain Fire. It was crystal clear with sparkling white bubbles. I heard once that they took in runaway girls from big cities, cleaned them up and then put them back out on the street. Arthur's daddy had come to Atlanta from Chicago after the depression. His daddy was pressured out of Chicago by the police and FBI. Later on his daddy was sent to prison for life, where he died, and Arthur took over the family business. They ran and owned most of northern Georgia from north of Atlanta to the Tennessee state line.

As the days passed, I couldn't get that woman's face off my mind. It was what I saw in her eyes that haunted me. I was so ashamed that I didn't do anything to help her. But, I was afraid if I did he would have killed Mama and me too. Little did I know that I would have to remember her face for a very long time. Every night when I went to bed and closed my eyes, I would see her face. Lord, please forgive me I always prayed. Late at night I dreamed of hearing her cries and would awake when her eyes stared into mine. Mama would come in at times and hold me in her arms and rock me until I went back to sleep. I remember the little song she hummed as she held me in her arms. She would ask me what was wrong and I would tell her it was only a bad dream. She knew better, but she let me handle it my way. I wanted to tell her but I was afraid. Mr. John had been good to us since daddy left. There were times we wouldn't have known what to do if it wasn't for him. Mr. John, like I said, was good to us. But, he also had a dark side and evil ways that scared me. I saw it several times, like that day in the storeroom. Besides, I had already lost daddy and I didn't want to lose mama too. I never told mama or anyone. In fact, as I grew up, it seemed to pass and I eventually quit having the dreams.

I continued working for Mr. John at the Post. He had people drive behind the store and I would take their goods out to them. Mr. John always had them packaged in a brown paper sack with the top folded down. But, I knew what was going on. The law didn't care; sometimes they came by for their own Smokie Mountain Fire. Mr. John always gave me extra for working in the back room during those days. But, every time I went in there, I still sensed her presence. I didn't know what he did with her body. I believed he buried her out back. However, he never brought it up again. I didn't think she was from around here and if she was, she was probably a runaway and no one would miss her. There were a lot of things that went on in the back room of the Post. I tried to turn a blind eye to it and not pay it any attention. I stayed on at the Post until I joined the army in 1962. Why, I don't know. I guess I was looking for something; I was looking for myself. There were questions out there in life and the answers are there if you seek them.

Mama was sickly now so I paid a lady to watch over her. I missed her turnip greens and hot water cornbread; I missed all of mama. The world seemed like it had lost it all. The whole country was troubled. They were protesting the war in Vietnam and the civil rights activists moved across the south. Everything was in such an uproar. A lot of it I understood, but some of it I didn't. It seemed like the young people were exactly like me; they were trying to find themselves. Who knows! The civil rights movement went on strong in Birmingham and Montgomery. There was also a lot of conflict in Nashville. A few months ago when I was in Montgomery, I was able to hear Reverend King speak. He quoted from I Corinthians chapter 13, but when that which is perfect is come, than that which is in part shall be done away. When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but I became a man, I put away childish things. I want to say today, all across our land and country, it's time to awake up out of the slumber of a child, to the freedom that we all are equal and free, in the sight of a Holy and living God. For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. Let freedom ring, let freedom ring, praise God. It sent chills down my spine. I knew what he was saying and talking about because I'm black and grew up in the south. He held back no punches. The truth will set you free, amen.

A couple of weeks when I got back from Montgomery, I left for basic training at Fort Benning, Georgia. It was tough. I had come a long way now and I wasn't going to let Uncle Sam bring me down. I didn't really know what the real purpose of the war was. I could understand some of it but to this day I'm still not sure. I made a lot of good friends in the army, black and white. They nicknamed me Ace. We all stuck together and watched each other's back. About a week before I was scheduled to leave for Nam, I got a call from Mr. John. He told me that mama had died. I told my commanding officer and he let me take a furlough home so I could bury her.

On the way home, I wondered why mama never remarried. She was a pretty woman and would have made a good wife. But, I guess it's one of those things you never get around to. I never asked her why she didn't remarry.

It took just about all my savings to bury her; I wanted something nice for her. She deserved it and more. Mr. John helped me with the arrangements. He was old now and suffered with emphysema. The Post is nothing but an empty building. Some people used it for a storage shed. Fountain run had changed too. A new group of people had emerged with new ideas and new goals. It was hard losing mama; it will never be the same. As I was leaving, Mr. John put one hand on my shoulder and with the other he patted me on the back.

"You're a good man, Gideon. You're different than a lot of people I know. I am proud of you and I respect you, son. I know your mama is holding her head up high for you in Heaven."

I never thought I would ever hear Mr. John talk like that. To me, he didn't seem to be that type. But, I guess we all change over time.

Within a week after burying mama, I was deployed to Da Nang where I was placed with my platoon, Charlie Company 248. It was a whole different world out there and I wondered at times what I had gotten myself into. We spent weeks and sometimes months of heavy fighting out in the jungle. I saw a lot of men on both sides get killed. I wondered if it was really worth it. The jungle was filled with booby traps. There were underground tunnels leading everywhere. Women and children sometimes fell victim to the war. As the time passed, the casualties grew by the day. It seemed like there was no end or any answer to the madness of the war. The men in my platoon and all of the others over there were like brothers and family away from home. In the fields of Nam we were all the same. We took care of each other. I saw a lot of men crack under the pressure. I saw soldiers go home wounded, cripple, lame and even in body bags. When we weren't out in the field, we would hang around the base. Sometimes we would get a furlough, a two day pass, and we'd spend it in Saigon drinking and partying at a bar with the other guys and girls. You had to have an escape; if you didn't, from time to time, you would lose it.

I made a lot of good friends in Nam. One especially, Chris Murray, from Chicago; we were like brothers. When we were back on base, I would tell stories to the other guys to help break up the tension of the war. We'd laugh and have a great time. They would tell me that I should be a writer when I got out and try to get them published. But, I let them know it was only a hobby.

Then one day, we were sent to the Mekong River delta south of Saigon for three months. From there we went to Da Nang. Whenever we were not out on patrol in the jungle, we enjoyed a little homebrew that I made for the guys. I would slip in the ingredients and I'd make it in an old rock crock I had found. It hit the spot and helped us get through the war.

While there, Chris and I had a chance to talk about things. He mentioned to me that his sister had run away from home and they never saw her again. He wished he could find her and make sure she was alright. I told him a lot of children run away to get away from home. I asked him if he had any idea where she might have gone. He said he had no idea. He showed me a picture of her when she was young; she was quite pretty. He told me that if he made it home alive from the war, he was going to try to find her. I wished him the best. I didn't know what I would do if I didn't make it home. I was going back to Alabama where I was born to hopefully get married and settle down. Chris and I spent a lot of our spare time talking about our past and future. We also went through a lot of drunks together and got in several fights at the bars. It was one of the things we did at the time.

I had nearly two years in Nam and my time was coming to an end. A lot of the guys were going home, but I didn't know what I was going to do. I thought that maybe we were doing the right thing in Nam. I didn't know since I didn't have much waiting for me at home. I didn't know what to do. Chris still had one more year. I figured I would sign up for a second tour. War has a way of bringing a lot out a person, whether it is good or bad. When my time came, I reupped. When I told Chris he let me know real quick that I was crazy as hell. Maybe he was right. Who knows?

It wasn't long until we were back out in the jungle. The rainy season had started and it created a mess. We were out on patrol when a sniper opened fire on us. Two men were hit, but they were not seriously injured. It was like shooting at a ghost. Somewhere up in the heavy jungle growth was our man, but we didn't know where. We couldn't see him, but he sure did see us. Finally, we found him and opened fire. After spraying several rounds into the trees, we hit him. When we went to check on him, we couldn't find him. However, we did find fresh blood. When we searched for him, we found a tunnel he may have escaped through. We knew then to get the hell out of there; we knew they were there. We threw some grenades into the hole, sealing it up. About that time, they came out of the jungle growth; they were coming from everywhere. We lost three men and several others were wounded. We opened fire, shooting randomly into the jungle. As we made our way back to the clearing, the chopper landed for the wounded. It took off and we continued to move deeper into the jungle. We had been on patrol for little over a week in Cambodia and Laos. We were on our way back when we were ambushed by the Vietcong on the Ho Chi Ming Trail. The North Vietnamese had us cornered. We called for an air strike, but for some reason they didn't show. The casualties started accumulating. The more we fired back at them, the more they came. Chris got hit and he lay out in the open. I jumped up, shooting at will. As I tried to rescue him, the others covered me. I hit the ground beside him, reached over and rolled him over to face me so I could pick him up. When I did, I looked into his face but I saw her face instead. For the first time in years, my heart sunk into my stomach. I lifted him up on my shoulder and rushed back to the others. Bombs exploded around us from every direction. As our air strike drove the Vietnamese back, the chopper was finally able to land in the nearby clearing. I picked Chris up on my shoulder and carried him to the chopper. As I placed him inside, the Vietcong began shooting again. As I was about to get into the chopper, I was shot in the head. The others grabbed me and pulled me into the chopper as it lifted off. The chopper took us back to a company hospital near Saigon for treatment. Chris and I were hospitalized for two weeks. He lost his leg and I lost my eyesight.

It was 1965; they sent us stateside to Walter Reed Hospital in Washington for rehabilitation. Our time was over with in Nam. I pulled two years and three months; it was good to be back in the states. I wasn't happy to be blind. My stay at Walter Reed seemed like a lifetime. I did get to see, so to speak, some of the guys I met in Nam. They all seemed glad to see me and I was happy to be back with them. From the way they talked, they were in bad shape too. We talked about old times and exchanged war stories. Also, while there, I was awarded the Purple Heart for my bravery. I was so proud of it and everyone was happy for me. Some of the other guys also received medals. The ceremony was beautiful and I'll never forget it. I was blind and couldn't see the Purple Heart, but it was a touching moment in my life. War had a way of crippling a person for life. As the nurse took me around in a wheelchair, some of the voices sounded familiar. Some called out my nickname, Ace. What it is man or what's happening, Ace were some of the greetings I remember. Some of the guys were about to be discharged and others were just being admitted. The rehab was not too bad. I was dependent on my other senses especially my hearing, more now than ever to help me get by. They taught me the feel of the cane and I also received a Seeing Eye dog. They taught me how to let the dog be my eyes. After about two years of rehab at Walter Reed, I could get around pretty good. I got to talk to Chris about three times before he was released. After that I didn't see him anymore. He got an artificial leg and was only there for about fourteen months. He didn't have to stay as long as I did.

After I finished rehab at Walter Reed, I decided to go to college. The GI bill helped pay for it so why wouldn't I. I always wanted to become a lawyer. I always enjoyed helping others and besides that is what mama always wanted me to be. I knew she would be proud. I enrolled at Cambridge Dalton College in Maryland. It was a four year school in Northern Maryland. They were well equipped for the disabled student and offered several classes such as Braille; they allowed Seeing Eye dogs. The college was well rounded for its education department, science, and business and commerce too.

College was a struggle at first. It was hard for me to adjust to the college setting. It took me forever; it seemed, to find everything. I had to get an early start to make it to my classes on time. I lived in an off campus apartment not far from the school. I made a home brewing station out of one of my closets. I loved it; I made enough during my four years of college to get thousands drunk. In college I met the girl of my dreams, Charlene. Oh, I dated other girls before, but she was something special. I let Charlene try some of my homebrew, but she didn't like it that much. She was more of a connoisseur of the grape. Unfortunately, Charlene was one of those that got away, and I wished I had her back. She was a good girl and a big help to me. My blindness didn't seem to bother her. She accepted me like I was and that was good in 1968. We had a lot of fun together and did a lot of fun things together. She was studying to be a teacher. We both took a creative writing class just for fun. That's where we first met. We analyzed each other's stories. She wanted to do some writing for a magazine. I told the same old stories I had told time and time again, but now with a different twist. We had our ups and downs like all couples do. I told her several times I couldn't see that, but she didn't catch on at first. When she finally caught on we both laughed hysterically. It helped to ease the tension at times. We talked about getting married after we graduated. I didn't know about that. I told her I would see. She helped me a lot in college. I don't know what I would have done without her. The time in college passed as quickly as Vietnam did. She went on to get her masters and I went on to law school. After that we went our separate ways. We kept in touch and saw each other during the holidays. We still talked about getting married. I guess I wasn't as ready as she was. But, we kept in touch by phone.

Law school wasn't as bad as I expected. There weren't too many blind law school students; I was the only one in my class. It was awkward but I made it through it. My other senses had now developed into a more helpful tool than at first. My hearing was exceptionally keen. I had taught myself to identify things from the way people walked. It's funny the little things people do when they walk, whether it is a heavy person, a thin male or a thin female. Some stepped hard; some clicked or shuffled their heels. My smell became more precise; the smell of a woman's perfume or a man's cologne, a person who smoked, and so on. My other senses improved as well. I graduated from law school in 1976 with honors and passed the bar exam. I received job offers from several law firms, but I didn't accept any of them. I wanted to open my own law practice.

In 1978 I moved to New York where I rented an office with upstairs living quarters. Yep, you're right; I set up a room for my homebrew. I had to remodel the office part. I had taken on some small cases to help me get started; at that point I was appreciative for anything. Then one day, as I was going over some court papers, I smelled her.

"Charlene, is that you?" I asked.

I heard her walk up behind me. She placed her hands over my eyes and said, "Don't look."

I turned around and kissed her. I was so happy she was there.

"I knew it was you," I said.

"How did you know that?" she replied.

"Oh, I have my ways of knowing," I laughed.

Charlene was in town for the weekend and she had come by to see me. We had a lot of catching up to do. We found an eating place off 8th street called Burning Tree Barbeque Pit and Grill. They specialized in baby back ribs and pulled pork. It was the best I had eaten since I had left home. Charlene loved it too. There's no telling how many baby back ribs I ate myself. She was not teaching at the time and she thought she'd get away for a while. She decided to stay with me and help me out. I told her I needed a secretary and she said she was the person for the job. I told her that I was having the office remodeled; the office was in a mess and she would have to make her way around. She let me know that would not be a problem. She was ready to start that day. Things progressed right along. I picked up some new cases, still nothing big. At that point, I had to take whatever I could get. Starting a new practice turned out to be more work than I realized. Then one day a man came in looking for a lawyer. But when he saw I was blind, he started laughing.

I turned to him, took off my dark glasses and said, "I like your blue pullover shirt and your fly is open."

Quickly, the man zipped up his fly and said, "How'd you know that? You're blind."

"Oh, I can tell you more if you want me too."

"No, no, I'm sorry," he said. "You're a good man."

Charlene and I started laughing and so did he. He had no idea Charlene had communicated everything to me through my earpiece. We had a lot of fun with people that way. I only wished I could see the look on their faces. I asked him what I could do for him. He then went on to state his case. I told him I would represent him. I had Charlene take his name, phone number and address; I told him I would be in touch.

As he left, Charlene told me that the glass people called to schedule the installation of the new front window.

"They will be here Thursday to put in the new window. It will read Gideon Reynolds, Attorney-at-Law, 20854 Perry Street, 620-9859," she said.

"That will be fine," I told her.

On Wednesday another man came into the office. When he spoke and asked about retaining a lawyer, I recognized his voice. I didn't want him to know who I was. I asked him about his case and how I could help him. He said he had to go to court for a shoplifting charge, public drunkenness and loitering. They were simple charges; a public defense attorney could have represented him in court. But, for some reason he didn't want to go that route. I told him I would take his case. That based on his behavior I would talk to the judge and see what I could do. He told me thanks and that he would see me tomorrow in court.

"By the way, what is your name?" he asked.

"Matthew," I stated, which was my middle name.

I was named after my daddy. Luckily, Charlene had left for the day. I didn't want her to know. That night I tossed and turned in the bed. I couldn't get his voice out of my head. He didn't recognize me; I had grown up and was blind. There was so much I wanted to ask him, but at the same time I cared less.

It was early the next morning when Charlene and I made our way into the courtroom. I really needed her, especially on this case. We stood as the judge entered the courtroom. The judge called the first case. As we sat there in the courtroom I wanted to tell him so much, but I held back. Charlene took my hand into hers and rubbed it with her thumb. She sensed something was wrong. We were finally called before the judge. I presented his case and plea bargained on my client's behalf. I asked him to consider it since my client was moving out of state. The judge looked over the charges and made his decision.

"Counselor, I'll drop the loitering," he said, "since your client is leaving the state. If he will plead guilty to theft under $500, I'll suspend the charge of 11-29 in jail to time served."

I and asked my client if he wanted to accept the plea bargain and he told me yes.

"He will, your honor."

The judge slammed the gavel down on the desk, "Court adjourned for lunch. We will reconvene at one o'clock."

My client thanked me and tried to slip some money into my hand. I told him to keep his money that mama could have used it a long time ago.

He placed one of his hands upon my shoulder and asked, "Gideon, is that you?"

I removed his hand from my shoulder and replied, "You got it, dad. Let's go Charlene."

She took me by the hand and led me out of the courtroom. She told me daddy was standing there with his head down. I never heard from daddy again. I thought about him often and I still missed him. I wondered if I had done the wrong thing in the courtroom that day. But, that's life. We have to live with our choices.

Time soon passed and my business had taken off. Charlene and I had a small wedding at a chapel in downtown Manhattan. She had started teaching not far from the office and I had hired a new secretary, Birdie. She raised canaries for a hobby. She was an older lady, but she knew what she was doing.

I noticed some street children who hung around close to the office. I heard some of the things they said and I also heard a basketball bounce. One day as I was passing by, I stopped and said hello. They didn't have too much to say. I gave them words of encouragement because they were handicapped in a different way. Every time I passed by there, I always tried to stop a few minutes and spend some time with them. Some of them didn't have time for me; while others were glad I stopped. We would shoot the breeze, laugh and have a good time. There were a couple of times I represented some of them in juvenile court; nothing real bad though.

Then one day I was asleep in my chair when a young boy slipped into the office and was snooping around. When I heard him, I woke up. But, I pretended to be asleep. I heard him prowling around in the front room. I could tell he was a young boy by his walk. I lowered my hand down beside me and placed it on the dog's head to keep him from moving. Gently, I rubbed his head so he would stay put. Birdie had already gone home for the day. I heard him when he came into the office where I was.

"Easy dog," he mumbled.

I still pretended to be asleep with the dog at my side. He waved his hand up and down in front of my face. I felt the slight breeze from the movement of his hand. I didn't move or make a sound. I kept my hand on the dog's head so he would stay. The boy turned around to leave when I spoke up.

"Four fingers and one thumb."

He stopped in his tracks and said, "What'd you say, man?"

"You heard me. Four fingers and one thumb."

"How did you know that, man, you're blind?"

"First of all, my name is Gideon not hey man. I guess you can say it was a lucky guess. What's going on, little brother?" I replied.

"I'm not your little brother," he stated. "I'm Scratch."

"What kind of a damn name is that?" I laughed. "What's the name you were born with?"

"Jerome, but everyone on the street calls me Scratch."

"Well, good to meet you, Scratch. My name..."

"I know, you've already told me, Gide... or something. That dog bite?" he asked.

"He could," I said. "He likes fingers and thumbs."

The dog got up and went and sat in front of Scratch.

"He's a smart dog too ain't he?" replied Jerome.

"Pretty smart," I boasted.

"Can I pet him?" he asked

"Sure," I replied. "But be careful."

Jerome slowly reached down and started rubbing him behind his ears. The dog licked his hand and then came back over to me.

"Cool, man," he said.

"I want to know what you are doing hanging out in my crib?" I questioned him.

"Well," he said. "I noticed that you had moved in and I was wondering if you had any work for me to do. I could use some cash, bro."

"Like man, what do you do?" I replied.

"I can sweep, clean and take trash out; general stuff like that. You know what I mean. I can take care of you old man."

"Well are you any good at it?" I asked.

"It doesn't matter because you're blind anyway," he smarted off. "You won't be able to tell."

"Oh, I won't," I said.

"No, you can't man," he assured me.

"What about your hand waving in front of my face?" I asked. "You don't know how blind I actually am."

"Check this out," he said. "What am I doing now, Mr. Gideon?"

I slowly turned toward him and replied, "You're doing nothing. You wanted me to think you were doing something, so I would take a wild guess."

"Are you sure you're blind," he questioned.

"Blind as a bat, but I have learned to read people," I said.

"Well, dude, what about the job?" he asked.

"My name is not dude either."

"Okay, okay, I catch where you are coming from," he replied.

I said, "Okay, Jerome I'll pay you ninety cents an hour. You'll work three days a week and no weekends. I'll pay you every two weeks. The job is yours if you want it."

"I don't know about all of that now, we are brothers you know or haven't you noticed that. I tell you what, $1.25 an hour three days a week and weekends off. I'll even run errands," he said.

"Not bad," I chuckled. "You might turn out to be a good lawyer."

"Nope, that's not my bag," he said. "I want to play baseball."

"For who," I questioned.

"The Yankees, you should have known that by the Yankee baseball cap I have on, that is if you can see."

"Okay, alright Jerome, you don't have a baseball cap on. Don't try to play me."

"How did you know that?" he replied.

"I can't give away my secrets," I said. "But you don't have a cap on, do you?"

Scratch didn't reply.

"Okay then, Scratch, we have a deal," I replied. "You'll also take care of the dog. When can you start?"

"What about tomorrow," he said. "What about a little cash advance?"

"Are you hungry?" I asked.

"Well, sort of," he answered.

"There's a hotdog stand down the street we can try. What about that?" I suggested.

"Well, I don't know. I stole from them so I'm not allowed to go near their stand anymore. I was hungry and didn't have any money for food."

"You do know stealing is against the law," I told him.

"I know," he replied.

"There's an Italian restaurant up the street. Do you like spaghetti?" I asked.

"Yeah," he replied.

"You haven't been stealing spaghetti have you?"

"No," he laughed.

We left the office to get a bite to eat. I walked slowly with my cane in one hand and held onto my dog with the other hand. From that day on, Jerome and I became buddies. In his free time, Jerome hung out with the kids down the street or with me. Charlene became attached to him also. He was a big help to both of us. He later moved in with us; we had an extra room and were happy to give him a place to live. We took him to watch the Yankees play several times. I bought us a Yankee ball cap, even Charlene one. He never said much about his family or where he was from. When I mentioned it, he didn't want to talk about it. So, I didn't press him. He did good with the other kids, playing ball and all. He wasn't too interested in school. He said he could hustle on the street and make a good living. One day when Charlene and I went out, he stayed at home. I want you to know he got into my homebrew and got drunker than a clown. By the time we got back home, he was sicker than a dog. I couldn't do anything but laugh. I felt so sorry for him, but it was still funny. Charlene got mad at me, but she laughed at him too.

"He'll be alright," I said. "Let him sleep it off."

I took him into his bedroom and he never even knew it. The next day I talked to him, but he didn't have much to say. I believe he learned his lesson the hard way. Not long after that, I noticed he kept coming in later and later each night. And he had a substantial amount of money in his pocket. I asked him about it and he said he had picked up some odd jobs to earn some extra money. I doubted that, but I didn't press the issue. Then one night he didn't come home at all. We were so worried that we called the precinct but as far as they knew he hadn't been brought in. I told Charlene that I was going to chew him out for worrying us this way. It was about ten-thirty when we received a call from the hospital. They had found my business card in his billfold. We rushed over to the hospital. But, by the time we got there he had died. According to the officer in charge, Jerome had been gambling, shooting dice, in the alley with some other people. He had won a lot of money according to one of the boys they interviewed. Someone either in the game or watching followed him as he headed home. He never made it; he was found in an old abandoned building on the East River.

"Do they know who did it?" I asked.

The officer replied, "We are still rounding up the boys that were there, but we don't know anything yet."

We buried Jerome with his Yankee baseball cap on. He would have liked that. For the next few months I didn't realize how hard it was to let him go and how much he impacted our life. He was the son I never had. Charlene had a hard time dealing with it. The police kept working on the case. The word was out on the street, but there was little to no leads until they were finally able to bring in a suspect for questioning. I went down to the station. The boy had been in the alley that night, but left early. However, he was seen later on the eastside with Jerome. He had a criminal record and spent five years in reform school. There was enough evidence to book him and charge him with second degree murder. But days later he was released due to a technicality during his arrest; he walked free. I tried to do what I could because I believed he was guilty in some way or another. If he didn't do it, he knew who did. But, my hands were tied. The law was the law.

For the next year I struggled with the court's decision. Day after day I cried; I was angry, hurt and betrayed by the law I was taught to obey. I even thought of giving up my law practice, but one day a law firm from Connecticut called me. It was one of the law firms that offered me a job after I graduated and passed the bar exam. They wanted to know if I would like to work for them. I told them I would contact them in a day or two with my answer. I talked to Charlene and she agreed we needed to move on, that maybe a new place was what we needed because we had so many memories here. Plus, she could teach in Connecticut. The next day I told them I would take the job. I told them I needed a couple of weeks to close down my office and relocate. They said two weeks would be fine. By the end of the second week we were living in an apartment in Connecticut and Charlene was putting in applications for a teaching job.

It was 1982 when I started to work for Bennett, Ryan and Blackwell in Connecticut. The first year flew by. I stayed so busy it helped ease the hurt over the loss of Jerome. I had been working on a few high profile cases and I can honestly say they were pretty successful. The time went by and my name and work had become well established. I had plenty of cases, more than I wanted at times. Charlene was doing well; she got a good teaching job for a good school and she was happy.

You know after Jerome died we never discussed having children. Before he came into our life we had talked about it from time to time. But, we were more career minded and didn't want to give up the time to raise a family. We were okay with our decision and it was still a possibility.

I had been with the firm for about eight years when I got the case of my life; it was unbelievable. I was to prosecute a young man who was charged with murder and aggravated armed robbery. He had robbed a convenience store and killed two people, sounds pretty typical doesn't it. But, the suspect was the same boy who had been charged with Jerome's death but let go because of a technicality. It was not a high profile case like I was used to, but the firm wanted me to prosecute the case. I often wondered if they knew something. Several weeks passed and I was ready for the trial. The trial lasted a week and at the end of the week the jury found him guilty. He was sentenced to life without parole. As the court officers led him away, I bowed my head in silence. Charlene was there in the courtroom that day and we thanked the Lord for final closure.

I worked two more years with the firm and Charlene and I had built up a decent nest egg. We were ready for a change and we both wanted to go back to Georgia. So, we quit our jobs in 1992 and bought a house in the country near Fountain Run. Life was so much simpler there. We raised a garden and two boys.

We had lived there for about five years when a knock came at the door. Charlene went to answer it and it was a man who wanted to see Ace. She let him in and led him into the living room where I was resting. I tried to get the scent of his presence so I could figure out who he was. Charlene never said a word. Then he said my name, Ace, and that was all I needed to hear.

"Is that you Chris?" I asked.

He replied, "You still got the gift."

He came over and hugged me. Charlene left to make some iced tea.

"Man o' man it has been awhile," I said.

"Yeah," he replied, "it has."

"Are you staying in town for a while?" I asked.

"I don't know," he replied. "You remember I told you I was looking for my sister."

"Yes, have you had any luck?"

"Maybe," he said. "That's why I'm here. A few days ago I heard they had dug up a body here and Georgia was the last place she had contacted us from."

"I remember you mentioned that," I replied.

"The remains may be hers."

"I bet you would like some iced tea," Charlene asked as she made her way into the room.

"Thank you," he replied.

"Can you stay for supper?" she asked.

"Well, I don't know," he replied. "They are supposed to let me know something this evening."

"Oh, come on, Chris, you have time," I begged.

"Well, okay," he said. "This tea is good, Charlene."

"We have a lot to catch up on," I said.

We spent the rest of the day laughing and talking about Vietnam and our rendezvous in Saigon. I offered him some homebrew and we drank to all those who didn't come home from the war. We had a good time as we reminisced about the past. That afternoon the sheriff came by to tell Chris the remains were definitely his sisters; it was confirmed by her dental records. Chris was glad to finally get some closure. He asked the sheriff if he knew how she died. The sheriff said it had been so long ago that they couldn't pinpoint the exact cause. But, there was a hairline crack in her skull. He said it was possible someone hit her or she could have fallen by accident; they would never know for sure.

"Sheriff, we are about to eat would you like to stay?" I suggested.

"Oh, no, I have to run, maybe some other time," he replied.

"Go ahead, Chris, and sit at the table. I'm going to walk out to the car with the sheriff."

As we walked toward the car, the sheriff said, "Thanks, Gideon."

I told him, "I have thought about it ever since it happened. It has been a living nightmare, but I had to protect mama and me. Vietnam was not the place to tell Chris."

"I understand, Gideon. Anyway John Westly is gone now and it is between the Lord and him. There's nothing else we can do. He has his closure."

"And me too," I replied. "Thank you, sheriff."

"You're quite welcome, Gideon. Have a good day."

I never told anyone else about what had happened, not even Charlene. As I made my way back into the house and to the table, I said grace and we all said amen.

*****

When Time Was

Spin the Bottle

It was early in the evening in Hawkins County, Missouri when the dry lightning streaked randomly against the black night sky. You could see the lightning spread as it popped, sizzled and crackled. The deep thunder echoed in the darkness. As the silence fell, you could hear the wind driving big drops of rain hard and fast upon the earth.

It was one o'clock a.m. in 1960; college students from Blackford College in Flatt Ridge Fall, Missouri were hosting a party in a nearby two-story house. The house was packed with students inside and out. They were downstairs, upstairs and even on the balcony. The house was infested with drinking, smoking, dancing, drugs and sexual activity. The party had started around seven o'clock. There was plenty of food and drink; roasted pig, hamburgers, kegs of beer, hot dogs, wine and finger foods galore. It was spring break and everyone was celebrating because they knew it wouldn't be too long after the break that school would be out for the summer. There were several who had passed out, two boys were fighting over a girl and two girls were fighting over a boy. A lot of the students were gathered around playing spin the bottle; kissing whoever the bottle chose for them.

It was about two-thirty when one of the girls left the party and headed for home. She had just started classes in the spring semester; she was new at Blackford and didn't know that many people at the party. She had met some of them before, but didn't really know them. It was raining hard when her car stalled not too far down the road from the party. The rain was beating down hard, visibility was almost impossible as she got out to check under the hood, but she couldn't see what was wrong. When she looked up she noticed a van had stopped beside the road and turned off their headlights. She started waving her arms back and forth to get their attention. She knew someone was in the van but she couldn't tell who it was. As she was running around the car to get in out of the rain, the headlights of the van came back on. It slowly pulled up beside her car and stopped. It was three boys she had seen earlier at the party. They asked if she was having trouble and she told them her car had stalled. They told her it was raining too hard for them to look at her car but they would be happy to take her home. She was hesitant at first but they insisted she get in out of the rain. They opened the door and she got in. As they drove off, she noticed they were still partying; they were drinking and smoking pot. One of the boys offered her some pot.

"No thanks," she said at first.

But by the time the joint was passed around, she decided to take a hit.

"That's some good stuff," said one of the boys.

"Home grown, man" the other boy replied.

"Want a beer?" the guy driving asked.

"Sure, why not," she replied.

"Get her one out of the cooler," he said.

As they passed another joint around, they started making small talk with her.

"What's your name?" asked one of the boys.

"Amanda," she replied.

"That's a pretty name," said one of the boys as he took a hit and held it.

A little ways up the road, the driver turned off. The rain was tapering off.

"I've got to take a leak," the boy driving said. "What about you guys?"

"Yeah, man, we've got to go too," the other boys replied.

The three boys got out of the van and walked around to the front of the van to use the bathroom. She started getting worried because they were doing a lot of talking. She started looking around for something to use as a weapon if she needed it. She found a tire tool and hid it next to her. About that time the boys turned and headed back to the van. When they got back in the van one of the boys grabbed her and the other two held her legs. They forced her to lie down and tried to have their way with her. She fought back and screamed but no one could hear; the storm was too loud. Next, they stripped her of her clothes and tied her down. They bound her hands above her head and spread her legs apart. The thunder roared haunting the night as the lightning lit up the sky. The rain was falling hard; she could feel it on her naked foot that was sticking out of the van. One of the boys asked who was going first. Then by accident the boy who had been driving kicked an empty beer bottle out of the van and onto the ground; it spun around and stopped in front of him. The other two boys told him he was lucky number one.

As the other two boys held her down the driver had his way with her. Amanda fought and fought trying to get away, but she couldn't. She spit in their faces and tried to bite them. But they just slapped her around. She screamed, cried and yelled. But, there was no one around to hear her. Their breath stunk; it smelled like smoke and beer. By the time the last boy had his way with her, she was weak and trembling. The boys then untied her and pushed her out of the van into the dark rainy night. They pitched her clothes to her, jumped into the van and drove off. As Amanda cried, she struggled to get her wet and dirty clothes back on. She felt so helpless and ashamed. As she looked up into the sky, the cold rain fell upon her face. I feel so dirty, she said to herself. Her hair was matted together and she was trembling and weak. Partially dressed, she started walking toward the main road. Stumbling and nearly falling, she finally reached the main road. Amanda saw no one so she kept walking. Within a few minutes, she fell to the ground and laid there beside the road. She noticed the lights of a car coming but she was not able to get up. The car hit its brakes to avoid hitting her; it fishtailed to a stop. A man and woman jumped out to help her. They picked her up, put her in the car and took her to the hospital. When they arrived at the hospital, she was examined and the hospital staff called the police and her parents. By the time Charles, her dad, arrived she was somewhat better.

As her dad rushed to hug her, he cried out, "Amanda, are you alright?"

"Where's Mama?" she asked.

"She left again," he said. "But she'll be back."

She told them everything that had happened. The police told her they would pick up the three boys and put them in a lineup for her to identify. She told the police it was dark, but she was able to get a good look at their faces when the lightning lit up the sky. Plus, she had seen them at the party that night. The sheriff told her to go home, get some rest and not to worry about the boys because he would find them and bring them in.

The next day her dad had her car towed in. The mechanic looked it over and told him and the sheriff that the car had been tampered with.

The boys were finally brought in and Amanda was able to identify them. A search warrant was issued to check the boy's van. When they checked it they found roaches, empty beer bottles and other drug paraphernalia. They were arrested and charged with aggravated rape, drug possession, controlled substance drugs and open beer containers. When the deputy took them to lockup he asked them if they knew who Amanda's dad was.

"No, who?" they asked in unison.

"Charles David Brinkley, the president of the college. He has a burnt scar on his left hand and arm."

"Oh, shit! I've heard that man is crazy. Rumor has it that he dresses up in women's clothes when he is at home and he sleeps with his wife like that. How was I to know who she was? That night at the party was the first time I had ever seen her. She must take night classes because we have never seen her on campus during the day," one of the boys stated.

Meanwhile, the boy's girlfriends came into the sheriff's office and asked to talk to the sheriff.

"How may I help you?" he asked.

"We just heard that you picked up Tommy, Ricky and Michael; they are our boyfriends.

"And who are you?" he asked.

"I'm Vicky, this is Helen and Donna," she said. "We want you to know that we were with them all night when she says she was assaulted; they haven't harmed a sole."

"Girls are you telling the truth?" he asked.

"Yeah," replied Vicky as Helen and Donna agreed. "We were all at the party that night; it was crowded and noisy. We decided to leave about nine-thirty to spend some quiet time alone. You understand don't you sheriff," she said. "I bet you were a party guy in your day."

"Go on," he said. "You'll left the party at nine-thirty and..."

"We went to Sugar Creek Campground and spent the night in one of the cabins."

"Isn't the campground closed," he asked.

"Yes, sir," Vicky replied. "We snuck in."

"You do know that is against the law, breaking and entering and trespassing," he warned them.

"I didn't think about that," Vicky said.

"Are you going to arrest us?" asked Donna.

"We didn't mean any harm," pleaded Helen.

"That's not my problem," he said. "It been closed since last summer so there is no one to verify that ya'll were there."

"Oh, we were there," Vicky said, "weren't we girls."

"Yes, sir."

"All three of them," he said, "are your boyfriends, right. You didn't go back to the party."

"No, sir," Vicky answered. "But when we were leaving the party, we saw Amanda get out of a black man's car. Why don't you talk to him."

"I will," he replied. The sheriff sat back in his chair and then asked, "Why didn't the boys tell me this earlier."

"I don't know," she said. "I guess they forgot."

After the boy's lawyer came in, they had posted bail and were released. The rape charges had been dropped, for now, pending further investigation. As the boys made their way out, Amanda and her dad was coming in the door.

"Hold on," shouted Charles, "where are they going?"

"Come on in Charles and Amanda. I have received some new information regarding the case."

"Bye, Amanda," the boys and their girlfriends yelled as they disappeared out the door.

The sheriff explained the situation to Charles and Amanda.

"It can't be. They hurt my little girl. She identified them and now their girlfriends have come came in here and lied so you would let them go, and I'm not supposed to be upset. Bull!" he yelled as he hit the top of the desk with his hand.

"Calm down, Charles, we'll eventually get to the bottom of this.

Meanwhile early that same evening of the night of the party Charles Brinkley was coming home early from an out of town business trip. When he entered his house, he looked around and saw no one. He set his briefcase on the bench in the hall and that's when he heard noises coming from upstairs. Quickly, he ran up the steps. The closer he got to the bedroom; he could hear heavy breathing and moans. He slowly eased the door open and saw his wife Margaret with another female.

"What in the hell is going on here?" he cried out.

The young girl jumped up, grabbed her clothes and started getting dressed. He cursed the both of them and started throwing things at them. The student was crying and screaming as Margaret cursed him back.

"Get out of here you slut," he told the girl as he grabbed her by her hair and shoved her toward the bedroom door.

Then he reached for Margaret as she tried to cover her nakedness with a quilt. He grabbed her and slung her across the bed and up against the wall. She knew he was furious and mad. She realized her life was in danger.

"Charles, don't do it," she screamed. "Please don't kill me."

He slapped her again and rammed her head into the wall and choked her until she fell to the floor. He sat down on the edge of the bed and began to cry.

The monster within him had come out once again. He was a sick man, but didn't know where to turn. The violent rage that drove him sometimes couldn't be stopped before it had gone too far.

As he stood up to go close the curtains, he stepped over Margaret's lifeless body; she was dead. When he was pulling the curtains together, he noticed someone sitting on the bench across the street. He mumbled under his breath, I hope he didn't see or hear anything. He rushed downstairs to get a roll of plastic from the garage, took it upstairs and wrapped her in it. He cleaned up the mess and waited for nightfall. As he sat on the bed and waited, he noticed something lying next to the bed; it was a student ID. He picked it up, looked at it and then slipped it into his pocket. The campus was closed due to spring break and almost everyone was gone, except for a few students. The president's estate was on campus, so Charles had to be careful. As night began to fall, Charles slipped Margaret's body into the trunk of his car. The only person he saw was the black man sitting on the bench across the street in the commons area. Charles wasn't for sure, but he didn't think he had noticed what he was doing. About that time as Charles was closing the trunk, the campus police drove by. He waved at them; they waved back. They stopped and talked to the guy on the bench. Charles didn't know what they said to him but he got in his car and drove off.

"Now Amanda, tell us about the black guy you were with."

"His name is Devin and I met him at school; we're just friends. I did leave the party with him, but we were only gone for a little while and then he brought me back."

"Where did you go and what did ya'll do?" asked the sheriff.

"We rode around and talked because he felt uncomfortable at the party. There weren't too many blacks there and I really didn't know anyone so we decided to ride around. He brought me back to the party and I haven't seen him since."

About that time, a deputy came in and said, "Sheriff, they found the body of a black man not far from the location of the party."

"Oh, know, who is it?" she cried.

"We're not for sure yet," the deputy responded.

"Let's go," announced the sheriff.

They left and headed to the crime scene. The sheriff uncovered the body and searched for some form of identification. He found his driver's license and student ID. It was Amanda's friend Devin McKinney.

"Okay, guys let's wrap it up, but I want to hear something from you by in the morning, even if you have to stay up all night."

While on the way back to town, the sheriff tried to piece together the crimes. Devin was found not far from where Amanda was raped and not far from the entrance to the campground. But he couldn't figure out why Devin was killed; was it a racial thing. There was no sign of foul play or any drugs in his car. He was killed a few feet away from his car. It appeared that he was killed from a blow to the back of his head since a bloody tire tool was found near his body.

It was early the next day when the lab results came in. The only clear fingerprints on the tire tool and the car belonged to Amanda and Devin. It was made to look like a robbery, but it was very doubtful. However, it could be a racial thing. Someone probably followed him from the party after he let Amanda out and then pulled him over down the road. The tire tracks found at the scene where he was killed fit the tires on the boy's van.

"Let's bring them in," said the sheriff. "We may not get them for rape, but we might for murder. Bring in the girls also, but keep them in separate rooms."

It was around noon when they brought them in. The sheriff talked to each one individually. The boys did admit they left the party and followed Devin, but didn't kill him.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier that you left the party that night and followed Devin?"

"We were afraid to," Tommy said. "We didn't know he was dead until now. Since we were with the girls all night, we figured we were safe."

"But were you actually with the girls all night?" questioned the sheriff.

"Well sort of, we did leave the party for a little while, but not for long. We went back to the party, picked up the girls and headed out to the campground."

During the interrogation of the boys, they each said the rain had let up so they decided to go for a drive. Down the road they saw that Devin had gotten out of his car. They stopped and gave him a hard time about being with a white girl. He told them nothing happened; they were friends and all they did was talk. They heard a car coming down the road so they jumped in the van and drove off. Devin was alive when they left. As they passed, the oncoming car had pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. They couldn't tell who was in the other car when it passed, but it did have a college sticker in the back window. They went back to the party, picked up the girls and left. The sheriff asked them about the tire tool because it fit their van. One of the boys admitted he got it out to scare Devin but he never used it. When the car came up, he got nervous and accidentally dropped it on the ground. He was in too big of a hurry to stop and pick it up. Based on their testimony, the sheriff released them again but warned them not to leave the area. He still couldn't figure out why Devin and Amanda's prints were the only ones on the tire tool.

Unknown to everyone else, Charles was headed to Sugar Creek Campground around the same time as the boys followed Devin from the party. On his way there he was passed by the black guy who had been sitting on the bench. He recognized the car he had left in. There was a Blackford College sticker upside down on the bottom of his back glass, plus he recognized his face. There was a van between Charles' car and the black guy's car. He wanted to stay close but not too close. As Charles drove, he became more and more paranoid. Thoughts were racing through his head; he was afraid and paranoid the guy might see him and recognize his car. He slowed down and kept a safe distance. The black guy pulled over and stopped and the van pulled over right behind him. Charles turned off his headlights, pulled over on the side of the road and waited. Three boys got out of the van and approached the black guy's car. They pulled him out of the car and they were all talking at once, but Charles didn't know what they were saying. Charles watched for a few minutes, cranked his car, turned on the headlights and drove toward them. The boys ran and jumped into the van and sped off. Charles pulled up behind the black guy's car, got out and cautiously walked down toward him and asked him if he was alright.

"Sure man," he replied. "It's no big deal."

When the black guy turned, Charles hit him in the back of the head with a tire tool as Charles mumbled softly, now you can't tell anything. He got back in his car and drove on down the road to Sugar Creek Campground Lake. When he arrived at the campground, he carried his wife's body to a boat at the dock. He put her body, some rope and a concrete block inside the boat. Then he rowed out into the deep water. Carefully, he tied the concrete block to her body and threw her body into the water. Patiently, he sat and waited to be sure she went completely under before he went back to the dock. As he rowed, he thought he heard something. He stopped rowing and sat still in the boat. It sounded like someone was calling his name. Quickly, he grabbed the oar and rowed back to the dock. When he reached the dock he heard the voice again. It sounded like his wife but he knew it couldn't be. By the time he got back to his car he was out of breath. His heart was racing; he was weak and trembling. Then he heard something in the bushes. When he looked toward the bushes, he saw a pair of eyes staring at him. Whatever it was growled and disappeared into the night. He cursed it and headed back home. It must have been a wild animal, he thought.

The next day, Charles sent a message to his wife's lover, Lisa, to come and see him. When she arrived, she met with him behind closed doors. He asked her how long their relationship had been going on. She told him a few months. She went on to say that Margaret walked in on her one day while she was taking a shower. She didn't say anything but she stood and stared at her for a few minutes. A few days later she received a call from her to come by and see her. She really wasn't sure what she wanted, but she had an idea. She told him that whenever he wasn't around she called her to come over.

"I see," he replied. "And I guess you thought that was alright."

"No sir, I didn't think that. But she said she would help me out in school; make it worth my time. And I do need that."

"Well, Lisa," he said. "We have a nasty situation right here and what do you think we should do about it."

"I don't know," she replied. "You're going to expel me aren't you? Oh, please don't do that. It's just another week and then I'll be gone."

"What are you going to tell your parents?" he asked.

"I don't know, they'll kill me," she cried. "Oh, please you won't tell them will you, please."

"Well, there's only a week left, do you think you can come by my house a couple of nights and make it worthwhile with me, since you pleased my wife?"

"What will you wife say?" she questioned.

"She's gone," he replied. "She left me; I don't think she will come back this time."

"Oh," she mumbled.

"Now, you don't want me to call your parents and tell them why you had to drop out of school."

"No, sir," she replied.

"Lisa, you made your bed so you have to sleep in it with me."

"Okay, just for a week," she said, "and then I'm out of here for good for good."

"I'll be in touch," he said.

"Is that all?" she asked.

"For now," he replied.

The investigation slowed down. Tommy, Ricky, Michael and their girlfriends changed their stories again. They said the incident with Amanda was consensual; it wasn't rape. Amanda was nowhere to be found to comment on the new evidence. Plus, two more boys had come forth and said they had been with her the week before. It appeared Amanda had left Flatt Ridge and no one knew where she was. Charles didn't know where Amanda was. He thought she might be with her mother.

Finally, school was out for the summer. Most of the students were packing to go home, but some were going to the campground. It was a big tradition to open the camp for the first three weeks after school was out for the students at Blackford. Some of them worked at the camp as safeguards and counselors, but the majority of them would just goof off and have fun. The first days of camp were typical days. Everyone settled into their cabins and mingled together. They had a bonfire, roasted wieners and marshmallows, played some games and got acquainted. They would also sit around the campfire and tell scary stories. The campground had been there since the 1920's and campers had come and gone through the years. There was always something to do; horseback riding, swimming, archery, canoeing, volleyball, fishing, hiking are but a few of the activities.

There had been two caretakers in the past and the current one had been there for about three years. He was quiet, kept to himself and didn't have a lot to say. He was a little on the creepy side, wore a hooded pullover shirt, with baggy green army pants, a long-sleeved shirt and brogans. His pullover was long waisted with a hole in it and he wore a hat under the hood. Even though it was summer, he never broke a sweat. His left hand and arm was scarred from where he got burned and he had a shaggy beard and mustache. He lived in the tool shed behind the camp. He had divided it into two sections; he used one side for sleeping and the other for cooking. It was an old weatherboard shed with a tin roof and dirt floor. It also had an attic where he raised homing pigeons. He kept them in cages and would let them out from time to time. A lot of the campers teased, mocked and made fun of him. But, most of them were scared of him. Many stories have been told about the camp and the unexplained things that have happened there. Some campers disappeared from the campground and were never seen again. Some say the caretaker had been caught peeping through the cracks of the girl's shower stalls. That he prowled around at night when everyone was asleep. One summer his shed caught fire. Most people believed some boys at camp did it, but no one really knew for sure. That's how his hand and arm got burnt. Some say the fire started when he was drunk and left his hotplate on. Who knows? There was even some talk that Amanda had been seen around the campground late at night.

Then late Friday night after things had settled down for the night, they all gathered around the campfire and one of the campers told the story of the bitch hound. The bitch hound is the breed of a wild dog and a coyote; the pups are one half dog and one half coyote. Legend has it that she is searching for the killer of her pups. A long time ago three coon hunters killed her pups and mate; she has been searching for the killer ever since. Her pups were killed one night when some coon hunters came upon her den. For fun and sport, they torched them. When she came back from hunting, her mate hung from a tree and her pups were dead. For a long time she has searched for the men, hoping they will come back so she can get her revenge. They say two did and through the years she has continued to wait on the third one. She has his scent from the night her pups and mate were killed. They say she has killed two so far and she is on the prowl for the last one. She is out for blood and revenge. When she is on the prowl, bad things happen. They say her pups are buried at the campground. When the fog lays low across the lake and the moon is full you can look up toward the top of the mountain and hear her lonely cry. People of old say she turns herself into a human and walks about searching for victims. It's been told that she walks the campground late at night.

A few weeks later everyone was in the groove and having a good time at the campground. Time went by so fast. As the moonlight crusted across the lake, close to bed time, they sat around the campfire playing spin the bottle and post office. With each spin of the bottle a kiss awaited someone. The sounds of the night were creepy and it felt as if someone was watching them. The owls hooted and the crickets chirped, but deep in the darkness you could feel the presence of something watching and waiting.

"I believe we'll go for a walk," said Tommy. "Come on Vicky; we'll see ya'll later."

Vicky felt uncertain at first because of the eerie feeling that lingered about the camp.

"Oh, come on," said Tommy. "It's nothing."

"I guess you're right," she replied as she grabbed him around the waist and hugged him.

"Bye, gang," they said as they disappeared down the hiking trail.

As Tommy and Vicky walked along the lighted trail, they talked about what they were going to do after they graduated. They hugged and kissed a little; he pressed her up against a tree and kissed her passionately. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the night air was dived by the sound of an arrow racing at them. The point of the arrow pierced the back of his neck, went through her throat and out the back of her neck. Only the gurgling sounds from their necks could be heard in the night air. As the lights of the trail went off, all that could be seen and heard were two beady eyes off the trail and a haunting whining sound.

When daylight came, everyone was still in the groove. A few people asked about Tommy and Vicky. But, no one had seen them since they went for a walk. The others didn't think too much of it; it was no telling with those two. They figured they would be back sooner or later.

Two days later no one had heard from Tommy and Vicky; people were getting concerned.

Night fell again over the campground and Ricky and Helen were out on the lake passing the time with hugs and kisses. As they slowly floated around the lake, Helen and Ricky stood up to take off their clothes to go skinny dipping. Out of the darkness raced another arrow. It drove through the back of Helen's head and a few seconds later a fiery arrow drove through Ricky's chest and they both fell into the water. Across the lake there was nothing to be seen except a canoe floating in the water and a pair of beady eyes near the bank. All that could be heard was the swooshing sound of the water splashing up against the boat and a whining sound. Then it fell silent.

Early the next morning the camp leader called the police about Tommy, Vicky, Ricky and Helen. When they arrived they questioned everyone at the camp to see if anyone knew anything. The police classified them as missing persons since no bodies had been found. The police searched the campground and so did some of the campers. Then someone asked where Michael and Donna were. No one had seen them. About that time a girl screamed and ran out of one of the cabins. The police rushed over to see what was wrong. When they entered the cabin, they found Michael and Donna in bed; they were dead. There as an arrow anchored through her bed and through his chest.

"Alright, men," spoke up the sheriff. "I want this camp locked up tighter than a drum. Everyone go back to your cabins and stay there until I give you further notice."

Immediately, the camp was locked down as the sheriff and other officers searched the campground. When they dragged the lake they found three other bodies. One of the bodies was Margaret Brinkley. The other two bodies had been there so long it would be hard to determine who they were.

"Sheriff I've found something," an officer yelled.

It was Tommy and Vicky buried in a shallow grave covered with brush. The crime team arrived; they had their hands full. About thirty minutes later, at the point of the lake, two more bodies had washed up on the bank. They assumed it was Ricky and Helen. The place was like a madhouse. An officer came and told the sheriff he needed to see what he had found. The officer led him to the groundskeeper's shack. Inside they found a crossbow and arrows. The word spread fast; they asked if anyone had seen him. Some said no and others said it had been a few days. No one knew much about him. All they knew about him was that he was weird and creepy.

"I want an APB put out on him now," cried the sheriff, "and I want this placed turned upside down until we find him. Get the crime team down here on the double."

Four hours later the police were finished searching the campground. The sheriff closed the campground down until further notice and sent everyone else home. The groundskeeper could not be found anywhere, but the sheriff figured it was only a matter of time. The next morning the campground was vacant. It would remain closed until further notice from the Sheriff's Office.

Unknowing to the sheriff, high in the hills above the campground the groundskeeper had taken refuge. And little did the groundskeeper know that bitch hound was stalking him. The hound's last victim had returned; the last of the three who had killed her pups and mate. At night, as the groundskeeper sat by the fire, he could hear the whining cry of the bitch hound. He was now aware of the hound and laid in wait for her attack. The little beady eyes of the hound pierced the night as she watched his every move. When morning broke and the groundskeeper stood upon the cliff facing the campground, the two met face to face. They stared at each other and didn't move for several minutes. The hound started pacing back and forth, growling and slobbering. The groundskeeper watched her every move. Then the hound leaped for his throat, driving him to the ground as they wrestled about. The groundskeeper reached for a rock to hit the hound, but they both fell off the cliff to the rock bottom below.

Ten years had passed and the murders at the campground were cold cases. The groundskeeper was never found. The sheriff's office believed he committed the murders and disappeared. The campground had been sold three times; the murders kept it from prospering. Then a woman named Amanda and her son bought it; they had big plans to turn it around. One day while she's in the office working, a man came in looking for a groundskeeper's job. She interviewed him and hired him on the spot. She did notice between the fingers of one of his hands was a scar. He was wearing long sleeves so she couldn't see his arms.

Charles Brinkley, the president of Blackford College, had moved on to another college not too far from Flatt Ridge Fall, Missouri. He had remarried and was never charged with the murder of his wife.

Several months had gone by when Amanda went to see her daddy, Charles. He had been out of town and was due back the next day. When she got there, she didn't see his car so she went on in the house. Once inside, she heard a commotion upstairs in the bedroom. When she walked by the table, she reached for a knife and eased up the stairs. She had never gotten over the rape and it haunted her daily. When she entered the bedroom, she saw her stepmother in bed with a man. Without warning, she snapped; she was filled with rage and anger as she ran toward the bed. Before she knew it, she had stabbed the man in the back four times. Her stepmother was screaming as he fell on the bed. She noticed his arm was scarred from burns; it was her daddy. She placed his head in her lap and dropped the bloody knife.

"Daddy, Daddy," she screamed. "I didn't know it was you." She started rocking slowly back and forth as she repeated over and over, "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy."

Amanda was tried, convicted and sent to a mental hospital where she remained for the rest of her life.

Years later, after putting all the bits and pieces together, the case of the spin the bottle murders was finally closed.

*****

Discover other titles by Bobby A. Troutt at Smashwords.com

Beyond the Truth

A Cry in the Wind

Thistles and Thorns

Dead Limbs and Leaves

Troubled Waters

When Autumn Falls

To read other works by Bobby A. Troutt, visit bobbysbooks.8m.com
