Frank didn’t respond.
“That concludes this interview,” the one attorney who had spoken said. “We see what you’re trying to do now . . . and it’s not going to work.”
“What is it you think we’re trying to do exactly?” Frank said.
“It’s obvious,” he said. “Set my client up. He had nothing to do with the disappearance of Miss Hepola and doesn’t know anything about it. We came in today—voluntarily—to see if we might be able to assist your investigation, but all you’re interested in is framing my client because—what?—your investigation has stalled? Well, it’s not going to work. Not on my watch.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Benton III said. “I don’t have anything to hide.”
“Don’t say another word, Trey,” his dad ordered. “Everyone out. Now.”
They all filed out.
As the last and only speaking attorney left, he turned and said, “In the future, direct all questions to me. Not my client. Understood?”
Without waiting for confirmation that it was understood, he turned away again and strolled out behind the others.
“Wonder what the hell that was about?” Frank said when they were gone.
“It was after Stone Mountain came up,” I said. “That’s what they were reacting to.”
He nodded. “Yes it was. And we’re gonna have to find out why.”
13
A few nights later, Susan and I were having a rare dinner out at a little country-style cafe called the Blue Goose, around the corner from our rented farm house in Ellenwood.
The small restaurant, like the food it served, was simple and plain. There was very little in the way of atmosphere or ambiance.
It was early for dinner and only two other tables in the place were occupied—both by elderly couples.
We were here early because we both had to work tonight—she at Scarlett’s, me on the sting team at Stone Mountain.
I had come to think of this as possibly our last supper. I wasn’t sure we’d still be together after what I wanted to talk to her about.
“What’re you gonna have?” she asked, a wry smile on her face.
She knew exactly what I was going to have because I had it every time we ate here. That was my MO. Once I found something I liked at a place, I usually stuck with it.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’m thinking about the country fried steak with white pepper gravy, green beans, and mashed potatoes.”
“Really?” she asked. “Huh. It’s just . . . I thought last time we were here you really enjoyed the country fried steak with white pepper gravy, green beans, and mashed potatoes.”
“No, I did. You’re right. Maybe I should get that again. Just thought I’d try something new.”
After we ordered and I started to bring up what I wanted to talk to her about, she began asking me questions about my new job.
“Are you loving it? You’re loving it, right?”
I nodded.
“You seem happier in general. How’s it goin’? You gettin’ settled in okay? Everybody treatin’ you right? Y’all any closer to findin’ those girls?”
“Yes to everything but finding the missing women,” I said.
“I know you’ve just started but . . . thought any more about changing your major or . . .”
I shrugged. “Not really. Plan to stay in school where I’m at for now. Maybe transfer to Candler when I’m done.”
She pursed her lips and nodded.
“How are things with you?” I said. “I feel like I hardly ever see you anymore.”
“Same old same for me. Not much changes in my little life.”
“Are you happy?”
She shrugged. “I guess. Don’t really think about it. Why?”
“I just wondered. I . . . we don’t see each other much anymore. I was trying to find out what’s going on with you. And the way you said same old same didn’t sound . . . very . . .”
“I’m tired most of the time,” she said. “And I don’t have much time to sit around asking myself how I’m feeling. I just don’t. But even if I did, I probably wouldn’t.”
“You work too much,” I said. “I don’t want you to be tired all the time or not have enough time to . . . think or—”
“We’re barely making it as it is,” she said.
“I’m makin’ a lot more now,” I said. “Or will be very soon. Why don’t you quit one of your jobs?”
Wait, what’re you doing? You’re supposed to be breaking up with her, not making her more dependent on you.
It was true, but I cared about her and felt bad for what seemed to be a joyless life.
She frowned and shook her head. “The truth is, Aunt Margaret can’t afford to pay me enough to live on and I can’t quit helpin’ her, so . . .”
I nodded and thought about it.
“Why?” she asked. “Are you not happy? Is that what this is really about?”
“No, this isn’t just about me. I just don’t see how you can be happy the way you’re living. And if we’re not happy . . . we need to make changes so that we—”
“So you’re not happy,” she said. “But I thought you were now. At least a lot happier than you had been.”
“I have much higher job satisfaction,” I said. “But that’s not exactly the same as being happy, is it?”
“How could you be happier?” she asked.
“Again, I’m not just talking about me,” I said.
“Well, let’s start with you.”
“Okay. For starters . . . I owe you an apology. I’ve let you do too much.”
“I thought . . . I got the feeling from you I didn’t do enough.”
“I’ve made it clear I want more time together, more intimacy, more connection, more sex, but I’m talking about the way I’ve let you . . . mother me . . . enable me. I’ve let you do too much of . . . that kind of thing. And I want you to stop.”
“But I like taking care of you. I’m good at it. I—Are you sayin’ I can’t do anything for you?”
“Of course not. I do things for you all the time and—that’s what a relationship is. But you know the difference. You know what I mean. An act of love or kindness because you want to is very different than . . . doing something out of obligation or because the other person is . . . drinking or . . . being stupid. I’m working on my defects of character and what I’m tellin’ you is you’ve got to let me.”
“Okay,” she said. “Of course. You know I will. I can do that. I can absolutely do that.”
Our food came and our conversation ended and I was filled with an overwhelming sense of futility, like nothing was going to change, like I hadn’t adequately communicated what I wanted to, and it wouldn’t have done any good if I had.
14
As Erin ran along the sidewalks and trails of Stone Mountain Park, we were stationed in various locations near where she was jogging.
A relatively small operation, the four of us—me, Frank, Walt Thurman, and Joe Ross—moved around to try to keep a visual on Erin as she attempted to attract the attention of a madman.
In her running clothes and with her longish hair worn the way Cheryl Carver had worn hers, Erin looked a lot like the other victims. She was bigger and older but as she ran in the dark it was hard to tell. Like Frank I was apprehensive about this operation, but if someone were going to capture the imagination of the madman, it would be her. This was giving us a good chance at catching him.
The night was cold, and though dim, it wasn’t nearly as dark as the first night I had come out here to run.
A waxing crescent moon appeared to hang just above the mountain, drops of moonbeams refracting off the hard, damp, solid granite surface.
“You okay, Erin?” I asked on the radio.
She nodded without saying anything.
“Tol’ y’all she was a bad mama jama,” Walt said.
She had been jogging on and off—mostly on—for hours. It was truly astounding to see, but I felt like she was ov
erdoing it and wanted her to stop soon.
“You need a break?” I asked.
She shook her head and continued running.
“You’re doing great,” Frank said. “Just don’t overdo it on this first night. He might not even be out here tonight. Pace yourself.”
“She’s fine,” Walt says. “I’m tellin’ you she’s a—”
“Just a little more tonight,” I said. “Just because she can do more doesn’t mean she should.”
Along with Erin, there were a half dozen other joggers in the park, a few middle-aged female walkers, and at least two couples pushing a jogging stroller.
Earlier there were far more people present.
“Look at them,” Walt said over the radio. “Given what we know . . . they look so . . . exposed, like a damn herd of unsuspecting wildebeests or somethin’.”
“You been watchin’ some nature shit on public television again?” Joe asked.
“Hey, man, what I do in the privacy of my own home is my business.”
While Walt and Joe went up the mountain walking path ahead of Erin, Frank and I stayed at the base to keep Erin between us.
“We’ll call it after this,” Frank said.
I nodded. “Think we need to.”
“You settling in okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. Great little department. You were right about Bud. He’s a . . . He’s very surprising. Very refreshing.”
He nodded, then looked around. “Where do you think the women are? Out here somewhere?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “Absolutely none. But . . . I went to a couple of the road schools with a psychologist who lives here.”
“Here—Stone Mountain? Or here—Atlanta?”
“Atlanta,” I said. “She’s studied and consulted with the FBI’s Behavioral Unit. She’s working on becoming a profiler. She’s not official or anything. Hasn’t had any actual firsthand training. But she’s good. If she’s willing . . . I’d like to get her take on what we’re dealing with here. She wouldn’t say anything to anybody and I think she’d have a lot to contribute.”
“We need all the help we can get,” he said. “Just keep her out of the way—and out of the view of the press—and let her know if she talks to anyone at all she’ll be jeopardizing any future she might have in profiling.”
“Thanks and I will, but it won’t be an issue. She keeps clients’ secrets all the time. She’s a true pro.”
He nodded to me, then said into the radio, “Let’s call it a night.”
Erin broke radio silence for the first time. “I can do more, Frank. He probably doesn’t attack until late at night anyway.”
“I know, and I appreciate it,” he said. “I appreciate all you’ve done and I know how bad you want to get him. We all do, but we’ll be back tomorrow night. This is probably gonna take a while, so we better all pace ourselves and—”
“Truth is,” Joe Ross said, “we don’t even know for sure that he’s snatching ’em here.”
“That’s true, but—”
And then another voice came across the radio—one from the forensic search team—and just like that we knew for sure.
“Frank, it’s Gerald. We found something. And it’s bad.”
15
While still watching her, we let Erin walk to her car alone—not wanting to break her cover in case she was being watched.
We then drove west around Robert E. Lee Boulevard to a wooded area about halfway between the entrance of the walkup trail and the famous north face where the laser light show took place.
Parking on the side of the road behind one of the search team vans, we entered the woods, crossed over the railroad tracks and continued toward the base of the mountain.
Eventually, we arrived at crime scene tape stretched around the bases of pine trees and a portable bank of lights trained down on what looked to be the badly broken body of a naked young woman.
Gerald Manning was a short, roundish, middle-aged man with a puffy red face, large glasses, and bushy strawberry-blond mustache. What little there was of his hair was grown out in long, thin strands that swooped across the top of his head.
I didn’t know what his title was or exactly what he did and I didn’t ask.
As we approached, he spoke directly to Frank, who didn’t bother with introducing us.
“If she weren’t nude . . .” Gerald began, “and other things hadn’t been done to her body . . . I’d’ve said it was possible that she slipped and fell or maybe even jumped, but . . .”
The granite rock mountain loomed above us in the dimness, an incomprehensible dark mass felt more than seen.
“Any idea who she is yet?” Frank asked.
Gerald shook his head. “Lot we can’t tell because of the damage from the impact and the deterioration of the body. She’s been out here a while. Even in the cold weather we’ve been having . . . decomposition’s pretty bad. We got skin slippage and though the bugs have started on her, no critters or wildlife have yet. Probably found her just before that started.”
Before we got close enough to really see the body I had wondered if it was even one of our missing women, but once I could see her, I knew it was. Her hair and build, her age and body type confirmed it—even in the mangled condition it was in.
She was facedown, which was a grace, but mostly the body looked like a crumpled bag of bones, as if the skeleton inside the mound of skin and hair wasn’t attached. One arm was out, as if flung back at an odd angle.
I broke out in a cold, clammy sweat as my throat constricted and my stomach seemed to bottom out.
I could feel myself getting sick and I had to look away a minute, swallow hard, and take several deep breaths.
Joe said, “Don’t suicides sometimes take their clothes off before jumping? Could this just be a—”
He and Frank and I were the only ones to arrive so far.
“She was murdered,” Gerald said to Frank as if he had been the one who asked the question.
“Are you sure?” Joe said. “Isn’t that her wrist? Looks like she cut it.”
Again he only looked at and spoke to Frank. “She was cut on some—including her wrists—but she didn’t do it herself. Her wrists and ankles were bound. The one that’s visible there slipped out of the binding as it decomposed or maybe because of the impact. There’s gonna be a limit to what we can tell until we do an autopsy—and even then . . . the body’s in such bad shape . . . there’s a lot we just won’t be able to tell—but from what I’ve been able to observe so far, I’d say she was cut on some by a very big, very sharp knife, but not a whole lot and none of those wounds were fatal. I think she was alive when her killer flung her off the mountain.”
Walt and Erin, who had gone by the inn for Erin to change, walked up and joined us.
“Oh my God,” Erin said. “Is . . .”
“She one of the ones we lookin’ for?” Walt asked.
Frank nodded. “Think so.”
“We’ll know more once we get her back and do an autopsy,” Gerald said, “but our best bet is gonna be to find a more recent victim who hasn’t been as exposed to the elements as long, hasn’t decomposed as much.”
“Kathy Dady,” Erin whispered. “We need to find Kathy Dady.”
We all nodded.
“We think there are at least three more out here,” Frank said. “One of them has only been missing four days.”
“We need to increase our search teams,” Gerald said, “but if he killed them all the same way, we at least know where to look. ’Course the base of the mountain is five miles around and some of it’s very treacherous terrain. But . . . who knows . . . maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Good work, Gerald,” Frank said. “Thank you.”
“I’ll call you when I’ve got the prelim—or we find another one.”
Frank began backing out and walking toward our vehicles.
We all followed.
We walked along in silence for a while, each of us seeming overwhelmed w
ith the brutality and enormity of what we had just seen.
“That was so stupid,” Frank said.
“What was?” Joe asked.
Frank glanced over at Erin. “Havin’ you out here tonight like bait when we didn’t know what we were dealing with. This isn’t amateur hour. I know better than that. Had no idea . . . killer like this . . . you don’t do a half-assed sting operation . . . Don’t toss out some bait on a string. I could’ve gotten you killed tonight. I’m sorry.”
“I was honored to do it,” Erin said. “I’m happy to keep doin’ it. Planned on it. More so now after seeing what we just saw. No need to apologize to me. To me that just confirmed we’re doing the right thing.”
16
Four very long days later, Erin, Walt, Joe, and I were eating lunch at a hamburger joint in the little town of Stone Mountain when Daphne Littleton, a TV reporter with WSB, showed up.
A lot had happened over the past few days.
The other three missing young women’s bodies were found, we had chased down leads and searched for connections, and witnessed as word was spreading over the metro area about what was happening out here in Stone Mountain.
We were all eating light because of a meeting with the medical examiner we had later that afternoon.
Joe was saying how unfair it was that I didn’t have to wear a uniform when I saw the WSB van pull into the parking lot.
I thought again how grateful I was not to have to wear the uniform for now—particularly the turtleneck, which had always made me feel like I was being choked.
“It’s just temporary,” Erin said. “Soon as this case is over and the task force is disbanded he’ll be—”
“You’re the one who needs to be in plainclothes,” Walt said to her. “If there’s even a chance we’re gonna run the sting operation again.”
“That’s true,” I said.
“Probably shouldn’t be seen with you losers either,” she said.
I had enjoyed getting to know and work with these guys, and though they were all between five and ten years older than I was, I felt accepted by and a certain camaraderie with them.
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