Eyes of the Predator: The Pickham County Murders (The Hunters)

by Glenn Trust

  The wind rushing by the window reminded her of the wind blowing against her bedroom window earlier and the confrontation with her father, the hulking man who filled their lives with misery. She shook her head trying to drive the memory away and the picture of her tearful mother firmly pushing her out of the house.

  “You warm enough?”

  She turned her head slightly. The young man’s voice brought her back to the here and now. It was the one called Clay.

  “What?” she said softly.

  “You warm enough? You shuddered. Thought maybe you were getting cold. We can turn the heat up some if you want.”

  “No, I’m fine,” she replied staring out the window into the pre-sunrise dark. Headlights approached and passed on the southbound side of the interstate in a streaming blur. It was hypnotic.

  Lyn closed her eyes. She was tired.

  The two brothers exchanged looks over her head as Lyn leaned unknowingly, on Clay’s shoulder. Small breathing sounds escaped her partially open mouth as she drifted off.

  “She sleeping?” Cy, the older brother and driver whispered.

  “Reckon so,” Clay whispered back with an eyebrow shrug.

  “Gonna be a long day for her.”

  “Yeah. Looks like it’s been a long night too.”

  The pickup rushed on in the dark. The brothers sat quietly, staring up the highway and listening to the girl’s soft snores.

  20. Crime Scene

  Pungent diesel fumes from the generator on the county’s fire department light truck hung heavily in the damp night air. The garish white light seemed to turn all color into shades of gray. Even the blood pooled around the shriveled, lifeless form of Harold Sims was just a darker charcoal gray seeping into the gravel.

  The noisy hum of the generator drowned out the night sounds. The light and droning white noise gave the little churchyard an isolated, surreal feel.

  Two firefighters stood by the light truck drinking coffee and talking, watching what was going on. Every now and then, one would adjust the throttle on the light generator.

  George Mackey stood beside his pickup ‘preserving the crime scene’. The assignment left him little to do in reality. Sandy Davies was the primary on the call and would handle all county follow-up. Of course, there were the Georgia State Patrol troopers who had gathered at the scene when the call went out. Standing, huddled around one of their high-speed pursuit cars, they talked quietly. A couple of them smoked. Their voices were hushed, almost reverent as if they were in church, or at a funeral. They also had no real function here, but what the hell, you didn’t find an old man dead in a churchyard every night, at least not in this part of Georgia, not in Pickham County. Mr. Sims’ lonely, painful demise in the dark parking lot would be a remembered thing in these parts. Deputies and troopers on duty would spend a lot of time talking about the crime scene and their presence that night, even if they had no part in the subsequent investigation. They weren’t happy about Harold Sims’ death, but he was dead and being there was definitely something.

  A deputy or state trooper in Pickham County might go years, even his whole career, without handling one murder. Accidental hunting shootings, sawmill accidents, traffic deaths, bar fights, yes, but a for real, stabbed through the kidney, bled to death in the dust, whodunit murder? Those didn’t come around often, maybe never again. The death of Mr. Harold Sims, black male, five feet-eight, thin build, seventy-nine years of age would be remembered.

  An investigator from the Georgia Bureau of Investigation stood with Sandy asking him questions. Occasionally, he would gesture at the body, the crime scene, or the woods, and Sandy would respond in short, direct sentences. It was clear that Sandy didn’t care for the intervention from the GBI, but it was policy with the sheriff’s department in Pickham County that all homicides were referred to the GBI. It was that way in many rural counties, and it made sense. They handled these cases routinely.

  The GBI man gave a nod at something Sandy said and walked towards George.

  “How you doing, deputy?”

  “Had better nights,” George replied, still leaning against his pickup. “Don’t get many of these out here.” He nodded towards Mr. Sims’ form still lying in the dust.

  The GBI man turned his head slightly and followed George’s gaze. “Yeah, me too.” He turned back to George and put his hand out.

  “Bob Shaklee, GBI.”

  “George Mackey.” George returned the quick handshake.

  “This one’s a puzzle. No apparent reason for someone to take out Mr. Sims. He and his wife heard noises, he comes through the woods to check it out, and then he’s dead. She never sees or hears anything from him again. No scream, no shouts, nothing. The church is locked up tight, and there’s no sign of forced entry anywhere. But he stumbled on something out here in the dark. Something bad, but no sign of what. No damage to the building. No way to make out tire tracks in the gravel. Nothing.”

  “Except Mr. Sims,” George said nodding again toward the body.

  Shaklee looked over at the body. “Yeah, that’s going to be a tough situation. Mr. Sims, what’s left of him, is the only evidence we have. Family’s not gonna get the body back for a while. We’ll have to take it to Savannah and have the medical examiner do the autopsy. There may be some evidence on the body. Fibers, hairs, something. The wound will tell us something about the weapon at least.”

  “It was a knife, a big one. Not too hard to figure that one out, and tough as this might be for you, it’s a hell of a lot tougher for old man Sims, I’d say.” George looked at the ground and spit a stream of tobacco juice to the side.

  Shaklee stood quietly, letting the acid in George’s comment fade away into the night.

  “Sorry,” George said looking up. “A little edgy I guess. Like I said, don’t get many of these around here. Shit, we don’t get any of these around here.”

  “I understand,” Shaklee said, nodding somberly. “Guess we have our work cut out for us.”

  “George. Call me George.”

  “Okay, George. I’m Bob. Let’s get to it then. Deputy Davies said you know the county as well as anyone.”

  “Probably true. Been here all my life.”

  “Any ideas? Who might do something like this? Got some bad folks in the area? Drug dealers? Bad kids? Anything or anyplace we can start looking.”

  George thought of the Gantry boys out and about that night, but no, they weren’t this mean. Whoever did this was just mean. Really bad, not just teenage drinkers.

  “We have our share of bad folks, and there are some druggies in the county. Same as everywhere I expect. This doesn’t seem to fit them though.”

  “Why’s that?” Shaklee asked letting George think it through until he was ready to say his piece.

  “Seems too professional,” George continued slowly pondering the scene. “If they’d beat him, hit him with a tire iron, even shot him, might make more sense. But that knife wound, from the back, through the kidney. Seems like he was ambushed and then executed. Just one wound, least that’s all I saw. If it was a local knifing, I’d expect it to be real sloppy, multiple wounds, a lot of them, some defensive wounds too, but non-lethal. Maybe one final death wound once he had weakened. But messy. Know what I mean?” George looked over at Shaklee.

  The GBI man examined George with a bit more respect.

  ““That’s pretty observant, George. Yeah, one well placed knife thrust. Seems pretty professional.”

  “One more thing,” George added.

  “What’s that?”

  “Professional but not military. I think the perp intended to cause maximum pain under the circumstances,” George let that sink in for a moment. “Large knife, through the kidney. He didn’t cut the throat and trachea to kill and prevent Mr. Sims from making noise at the same time. One thrust, right through the kidney, back to front. The shock and the pain must have been terrible. I think that’s what he wanted. He’s a mean asshole.”

  “Maybe they struggled an
d that was the only angle he had. Maybe he panicked and took the first opening he had with the knife.”

  “Maybe,” George said slowly, “but I don’t think so. Seems to me this was an ambush. Mr. Sims never saw his killer until the attack, maybe never saw him then. The knife was big. The single wound was large, extremely painful and deadly, but not immediately. The perp would have been able to watch Sims die, see his pain. I think he enjoyed it.”

  “Really,” Shaklee said, looking thoughtfully back over at the body. “That’s a pretty advanced theory from just one body with a knife wound.”

  George shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Gravel crunched behind them and a large white SUV with ‘GBI Crime Scene Unit’ stenciled on the side pulled up. Two crime scene techs got out and gathered up large briefcases that resembled a salesman’s sample cases and a couple of camera bags. They walked up to Bob Shaklee.

  “Hey, Bob,” one said. “Sorry it took so long.” He nodded over at George and George nodded back. “What you got?”

  “I’ll walk you through it,” Shaklee replied, and then turned to George pulling a small plastic case from his pocket. “Here’s my card, George. Give me a call if you think of anything else. I appreciate your insight on this,” he said indicating Mr. Sims’ body with a tilt of his head. “Anything at all, give me a call.”

  “Sure. If I think of something.”

  “Thanks,” Shaklee said, leading the crime scene techs away. “Can I get hold of you through the sheriff’s office?”

  “Yeah, they can find me pretty much any time.”

  Shaklee lifted a hand in acknowledgement and walked away with the techs, pointing at the area and indicating where he wanted them to start processing the scene. Unlike the crime scene tech television shows where the techs run the investigation, in real life they work for the investigator, not the other way around. Agent Shaklee would lead them through the scene, explaining what was necessary and the kinds of evidence they should look for in order to build a prosecutable case in the event that the investigators should find the perpetrator.

  More gravel crunched and another county car, this one a large, new SUV, ground into the church lot, braking hard and spraying gravel. Sheriff Klineman stepped out in the midst of the dust cloud he had created.

  Seeing George, he walked briskly to him. The aroma of aftershave filled the night air as the sheriff approached. He looked freshly showered and groomed. Clearly, the sheriff had considered the possibility that there might be some cameras or reporters at the scene and wanted to put on his best face for the voters who would catch this on the morning news out of Savannah. This was a big deal in Pickham County. Unfortunately, the media had not yet had time to arrive, and the sheriff was all gussied up for nothing.

  “What happened Deputy?” The sheriff’s tone was short and curt. He didn’t care for George. It was a mutual feeling, and they both knew it.

  “Came in as a missing person call. Husband had gone through the woods to check out sounds at the church here. He never came back. Sandy and I checked the area and found Mr. Sims there.” George nodded over at the body on the ground by the woods. “He was stabbed from behind. Large knife.”

  “That it?”

  “Yep. Right now that’s all we have.”

  “Where’s he live?”

  “Other side of the woods. Have to go around to Power Line Road. It’s an old farm house.”

  “His wife know what happened?”

  George nodded.

  “Okay. I’ll go visit with his wife after I see to things here.”

  The reality was that the sheriff was only there to visit with Mrs. Sims, and hopefully get his picture in the paper consoling the old woman. The crime scene was secure, the GBI would be handling the investigation from this point on and there was nothing for the sheriff to ‘see to’, except to make sure the voters knew how involved he was and how much he felt for the plight of the little old black woman who had lost her husband in a brutal murder. Such a tragedy. His concern for justice and dedication to apprehending the violent criminal who had committed such a heinous act in his county, along with a television appearance showing him standing beside the victim’s frail wife, maybe with a hand on her shoulder, or even an arm around her, would be worth votes.

  “Deputy Davies the primary on this?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you?”

  “Crime scene preservation.”

  The sheriff looked around. “Looks like it is pretty well preserved. You can go.”

  With that, Sheriff Klineman turned and walked towards the GBI man.

  21. Way to Go George

  George turned and got into his pickup. Cranking it up, he drove slowly from the parking lot. In the mirror, he saw Bob Shaklee kneeling at the edge of the gravel beside the woods peering hard at the ground and shining a flashlight. Sheriff Klineman appeared to be talking to him, and Shaklee appeared to be ignoring him. George smiled.

  Driving around to the front of the church, George shined the pickup’s spotlight moving it in a slow arc around the churchyard looking for anything that might reflect the powerful spotlight beam. Anything, like maybe a murder weapon. There was nothing.

  Pulling out onto the Jax Highway, he backtracked to Power Line Road, slowly moving the light in arcs back and forth and along the roadside ditches hoping to catch something in the light that might be of use. The only thing the light picked up was an armadillo grubbing in the dirt on the side of the road and too blinded by the light to waddle back into the woods.

  George drove slowly back to the Sims’ place scanning with his light for anything that might be evidence. Pulling into the yard, he drove up to the porch and parked in the grass. Another GBI investigator, this one female, was standing on the porch talking to Mrs. Sims. The agent’s gender immediately attracted George’s attention. There were not many female law enforcement officers in that part of Georgia. It was an interesting curiosity.

  A man in his mid-thirties sat beside Mrs. Sims in a rocking chair holding her hand. George realized that this must be her son or another relative. It occurred to him that the chair was the one Mr. Sims must have been sitting in when they heard the noises at the church. The son looked up as George approached the porch. He stopped at the steps.

  The GBI agent was making notes on a small pad. Mrs. Sims sat staring straight ahead, gripping her son’s hand. George could see that the veins in her wrist and hand were standing out from the exertion of the grip she had on her son’s hand.

  “You see my, Harry?”

  The old woman’s voice wavered and cracked, partly from age, but mostly from the pain and loss of her husband. George realized after a moment that despite her gaze fixed on the tree line at the edge of the yard, she was speaking to him.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How’s he look? Is he gonna be okay?”

  The GBI agent looked around and down the steps at George. The expression on her face said, ‘Okay, so now what are going to say? Oh yes, and why are you here…dumbass?’ George was wondering the same thing.

  “Well…,” he opened his mouth trying to think of the right thing to say, but there was no right thing.

  “Mama,” her son said. “You know what happened. Someone hurt Papa. Hurt him real bad, and he ain’t coming back. You know that.” He said it firmly but gently trying to help her through the moment.

  She lowered her head. “Yes, yes, I know.” Wet streaks glistened on her weathered cheeks. Her son leaned forward and put his head beside hers, his arm around her shoulders. They sat sobbing together on the front porch.

  The GBI agent gave George another withering look that said this time, ‘Gee, thanks for coming deputy. You really helped out and made things much better.’

  George understood and turned back towards his pickup.

  “Deputy!”

  George turned towards the old woman. She looked him firmly in the eye, lifted one weathered, brown hand and pointed at him.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

>   “You catch this person, who did this to my Harry.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll try”

  “You don’t try, son. You catch him.” It was final, nothing more to be said.

  George nodded and walked to his vehicle. Glancing up at the investigator’s face, he saw the smirk and the look that now said, ‘Way to go…asshole’. That was precisely what George was thinking.

  The noise of the engine cranking made him cringe. It seemed loud and irreverent. He backed slowly away from the house, conscious of the old woman’s eyes following him as he moved out on the road.

  He drove deliberately, not in any particular direction, just away from the old woman’s gaze and pointing hand. Her words echoing in his head. ‘You catch him deputy, you catch him.’

  The GBI agent was right. Way to go asshole. Way to fucking go.

  22. Blank Eyes

  The room was perfect, small and dingy but with cinder block walls and a heavy steel door. The closest occupied room was about ten doors away, at least that’s where the closest car was parked. No one would hear anything that was about to happen in this room. Probably no one would have heard anyway because of his preparation. Attention to detail was ingrained in his methods.

  First things, first. As the door clicked quietly shut behind them, he motioned her to sit in a chair beside a small table. He did not push or touch her in any way. He simply looked at her for several minutes.

  She avoided his stare. Her trembling increased as his gaze lengthened into minutes until she was shivering as if she had just come from icy water.

  Finally, he walked behind her. She started to turn her head, but he reached out and roughly jerked her head around straight causing her to whimper in pain.

  Stepping behind her, he pulled a piece of duct tape from his pocket and slapped it quickly over her mouth. This startled the girl, and she started to struggle but the knife was out and at her throat this time, pressing firmly into the groove between the trachea and neck muscle, about where the carotid artery would be.