by Glenn Trust
“That’s what he said. Had Texas plates on the car.”
Parsons opened the small notebook he retrieved from his pocket and scanned down the page. “Gannet, you remember what kind of car?”
“Chevrolet, I think. Older one, but seemed in pretty good shape.”
“And the man? What did he look like?”
“Not real big. Kind of average. Thin, brown hair. Not much else.” Gannet looked at the deputy with concern. The cheeseburger was forgotten. “What’s wrong, Grover? My wife is still there. Is she in some kind of danger?”
“No, probably not, Gannet. Tell me about the girl. What did she look like?”
“Can’t.”
“Why? You said it was a couple.”
“Well, that’s what the fella said. He and his wife. He called her Sarah. But she stayed in the car and never came in.”
Deputy Parsons stood up quickly, stuffing the notebook back in his pocket. He called to the kitchen. “Gotta go, Fran. Box it up, and I’ll come back later.”
“It’ll be cold, Grover!” she shouted after him. “And that’s no fault of mine.” Fran poked her head out from the kitchen to see Grover Parsons move quickly through the door followed by Gannet trying to keep up with the deputy. She gave another scowl at the old man at the counter, who never looked up from his paper, and then disappeared back into the kitchen where agitated banging and clanging could be heard for some time.
Outside, Parsons turned to Gannet. “Follow me. When we get there, you go in the office and stay there with your wife. Don’t come out.”
“What is it, Grover? What’s going on?”
“Probably nothing, and then we can go back and finish our burgers. Just need to check it out. That’s all.” With that, the deputy cranked the car and pulled onto the two lane road that would lead back to the Creek Side Cabins and an old Chevrolet.
Deputy Grover Parsons picked up the mike as he increased speed. All of north Georgia law enforcement heard the transmission or had it relayed to them within seconds.
77. The Break
The break came in the early afternoon. George Mackey and Sharon Price had only spent a brief time at the state patrol post outside Toccoa. Nervous energy and knowing that there was only a limited amount of time before a third murder, in as many days, would be committed by the man in the Chevrolet, made the anxious waiting unbearable.
They had checked in with Bob Shaklee, who was doing the same in west Georgia near the Alabama line. Waiting. It was all they could do.
They were all in position as best they could be without knowing where the Chevy had been headed. They all knew that the clock was ticking for the young girl. They hoped the break would come before time expired. They were also aware that the break might never come.
Investigative success usually involves a combination of detailed, professional retrieval and analysis of evidence, deductive skill, and artful intuition that leads investigators on the right path. The two GBI agents and the deputy from Pickham County knew that many investigations took wrong turns and headed down false paths only to be later recognized as such.
Successful investigations often turned on the slightest of chances…a single misspoken word, a chance witness, an escape vehicle breaking down, or some other random, fortuitous act. These and a thousand other items might lead an investigation to a successful conclusion. Unfortunately, there were a million things that could steer it wrong.
The fact that the description of the vehicle, perpetrator, and possible next victim had been broadcast across Georgia and the southeastern States might bring them the break they needed. Or, it might not.
Scores of BOLO’s are broadcast across the law enforcement frequencies daily in Georgia in addition to the thousands across the entire country. The sad reality is that most never turn up a lead, at least not a timely one.
In a nation of three hundred and fifty million, and twice as many vehicles, the odds were against them. One older model Chevy with a white male and white female occupants, riding in plain view on the public road system were as hidden as a cockroach under a rock. They were all but invisible.
If the driver was a bit more cautious and made efforts to conceal his movements, spotting them would be highly improbable, if not virtually impossible. Unless the gods smiled soon and they got their break, the clock would expire for the young girl in the Chevy.
It was Price who finally spoke in the midst of her nervous pacing.
“Let’s go, George.”
He looked up from a metal chair in the Toccoa Post’s break room.
“Where to?”
“I don’t know. Anywhere. We can do our own search grid for the car.”
“There’s troopers and deputies all over Georgia looking, Sharon. Not likely we’re going to be much help. We need to stay in the north Georgia area and Bob in the west so we can respond if the car or the man and girl turn up.”
“I know, but that doesn’t mean we have to sit here.” She paused, thinking. “Let’s start our own grid and start checking every little road.”
“That’s a lot of roads.”
“Yeah, but not as many as down in the flat lands. The hills and mountains up here limit the number of roads.” She paused again, conscious of how ridiculous she must sound, and then shrugged and said, “It’s a shot, George. That’s all, just a shot. Besides, I can’t stand just sitting here waiting, doing nothing.”
George thought of the young girl’s voice on the cell phone message. Like Sharon, he knew that her time was limited, if she still lived at all. He shook his head to shake that thought away. He could not be late again. And with that fear burning in his brain, he looked up.
“All right. Let’s do it. I can’t stand the waiting either.”
After grabbing some triangularly cut sandwiches and drinks from the break room machines, they loaded into George’s pickup and headed out from Toccoa. Sharon outlined a fifty square mile grid to the north and west, crisscrossed by small winding county roads and state highways. She navigated and George followed her directions as they munched the cardboard sandwiches and gulped their drinks.
Both knew that their small search was almost certainly futile, but they didn’t speak about it. Sharon studied the map, George drove and both scrutinized every vehicle they saw.
George would slow whenever they came to some small store or gas station or crossroads so that they could examine the vehicles and any people they might see. After the brief inspection, he would pick up speed again, eyes scanning alertly for an older Chevy with Texas tags. It felt better to be moving, doing something, doing anything, futility be damned.
They were miles from Toccoa in the rising foothill and mountain country when the radio chattered to life.
“All units, all units, be advised, Rye County deputy reports the possible suspect vehicle associated with the homicides in Pickham County, older model Chevrolet bearing Texas plates, now possibly located at the Creek Side Cabins, ten miles north of Crichton on the state highway. Units responding advise.”
The radio crackled and a trooper on a traffic stop on I-85 advised he was enroute to Crichton. Some lucky motorist was about to be sent on their way with a warning. Another trooper in Toccoa responded, and then George picked up the mike.
“Pickham County 301 responding with State 155,” he said firmly and then added, “Advise the Rye County unit and all responding units that the male suspect is armed and extremely dangerous. If possible and there are no signs of immediate threat to the female, stand by for this unit.”
“10-4, Pickham 301.” The pickup grew quiet while the dispatcher switched to other frequencies to relay the information to other law enforcement agencies in the area responding.
“Which way?”
Sharon looked up, squinting from the map. Her finger pointed to an almost invisible dot. “That’s where we’re headed. Take a right on the next county road. It winds around that mountain there, but looks like the shortest route.”
“How long?”
&nb
sp; Sharon studied the map for a second. “Thirty minutes…maybe. We’re closer than we would have been back in Toccoa, but the way the roads wind, it’s hard to say.”
George’s foot pressed harder on the accelerator, trying to shave some minutes off their arrival time. Lucky break, maybe. They were certainly due for some luck.
The hunter in George knew that he had to capitalize on the luck, or it meant nothing. If you stumbled upon your prey but didn’t get the shot off, or missed or just stood there in surprise, your luck would change.
To this point, the man in the Chevy had had it all his way. Luck, predatory skill, or a combination of both, he had been invisible to them. But now, they had their break.
The pickup truck fishtailed slightly as he made the turn onto the county road and increased speed again. George leaned forward into the wheel. They did not speak.
He and Sharon Price stared ahead, willing the pickup to the Creek Side Cabins outside Crichton, Georgia, determined not to miss their shot. It was time to end the hunt.
78. No Need to Complicate it
The jerk of his legs at the radio’s blaring alert almost spilled the large drink cup Clay had nestled between his knees as he drove. Arriving in Toccoa, he had passed the state patrol post and seen the Pickham County pickup parked by the front door. He had no idea what to do, but knew that he had better not be seen staking out the deputy from Pickham County.
After an endless thirty minutes in the parking lot of a nearby convenience store, Clay had decided to explore the area, listening carefully to the radio on the seat. The deputy and GBI must be here for a reason, although that reason was not altogether clear to Clay.
The radio broke squelch with a burst of static.
“Pickham 301, 10-8 from Toccoa post. Circulating in the area.”
“10-4, Pickham 301.”
Jerking the truck into gear, Clay raced back to the state patrol post. Keeping the Pickham County deputy close was the key to finding the girl, or at least, was his best chance. But as he passed the post, he saw that the deputy’s pickup was gone.
Hitting the steering wheel with his fist, he could not suppress a shouted, “SHIT!” and cursed himself for not staying closer and watching. He took a deep breath and tried to think. Now what? Which way?
Reaching for the radio on the seat, he turned the little knob for volume up a bit. There had been no radio traffic about the Chevy, just Pickham 301 saying he was circulating in the area, whatever that meant.
Despair settled down on him. Having come so far, the thought of turning back did not occur to him, but now he had no plan. He had no idea which way the deputy had gone. He could only listen to the radio and hope for some information.
Driving in aimless circles through the back roads of north Georgia, Clay wound his way out of the Toccoa area. The heavy darkness of the lost cause settled in on him. What was he doing? What was he going to do?
The thought of the girl’s voice and the message on his cell phone, which was now in the custody of the GBI, rang in his ears. It was a moment of clarity. That was the reason he was here. No need to complicate it more than that.
It was the one wild, unpredictable thing he had ever done, and he would pay the price when he got home. Cy would see to that. But for now, it was the voice on the phone that vibrated in his ears. That was enough.
The radio crackled, and a state trooper advised the dispatcher that he was on a traffic stop on I-85 near the Toccoa exit.
Another burst of static, and a trooper advised he was out at the Toccoa post.
Silence. Wooded hills and back roads flowed by.
And then another crackle, “All units, all units, be advised, Rye County deputy reports the possible suspect vehicle …” Clay struggled to steady the drink cup between his knees while reaching for the radio. He guided the truck to the shoulder as the dispatcher gave the lookout.
Grabbing the tattered, unfolded map from the passenger side floor, he laid it across the steering wheel. Crichton. His finger swirled over the map searching for the small dot indicating the town’s location.
“Pickham County 301 responding,” Clay’s head jerked up, recognizing the deep voice of the deputy from Pickham County. Reflexively, he wrinkled the map in his fists as the deputy’s voice calmly and firmly added, “Advise the Rye County unit and all responding units that the male suspect is armed and extremely dangerous. If possible and there are no signs of immediate threat to the female, stand by for this unit.”
Scanning the map frantically, Clay searched for the dot that was Crichton. After a minute of tracing various routes on the map, it was there. It seemed to loom suddenly at him off the page. A blunt finger drew a course to it from what he thought his present location was on the map.
Seconds later the dirt clods spun out from under the truck’s tires as Clay made a U-turn across the road, engine roaring.
79. Not Yet
Dragging the knife blade across the girl’s flesh, he stroked himself. He moved the blade to a spot that had previously been cut and had dried. He let it drop heavily onto the cut and opened the wound again so that it started bleeding. The cuts were shallow, made only by the weight of the knife, but the knife was sharp and the cuts were painful, bleeding wounds that widened and gaped with every touch of the knife.
For a brief moment, he saw the flicker of awareness and pain cross the girl’s face and then it vanished. He knew that she had run to some faraway place, trying to hide from him.
He smiled, that was fine, little girl. He would bring her back little by little, cut by cut. He would show her there was no escape, and then her desperation and fear would overwhelm her. And as her fear overwhelmed her, Lylee would have what he wanted…what he needed.
His body quivered at the thought. He let the blade drop heavily to the top of her left breast where the point made a little hole that started bleeding. His arousal grew.
He stared at the girl’s tormented body. Blood trickled from her shoulders and over her breasts. His hand moved to his groin again.
He could see the goose bumps on her flesh. She quivered and shook slightly in the cold. Her eyes were fixed somewhere behind him. He lifted the big knife blade and let it fall again on her shoulder, sawing it slightly back and forth to open the small cut further.
Still holding the knife, he turned the back of his hand to the girl and rubbed it in the flow of blood. Something flickered in the girl’s eyes, and then she fled away again. He smiled. Soon, he thought. Soon you will not be able to hide.
His hand moved faster, stroking himself to a climax. Lylee’s body tensed for a moment.
Drained, he threw himself backwards onto the bed. He put his hand behind his head and lay there looking at her. Yes, this one was special. He could not bring himself to end it.
Normally, he would have been long finished with the girl, the duct tape over her mouth muffling her screams and cries. His hands would already have closed around her throat as he looked into her panicked eyes. The realization would have already come into those eyes that there would be no deliverance, no escape.
The fear would be so strong that he would smell it in her sweat and the urine that escaped her bladder. Slowly, painfully, her life would be choked away. It would be his.
Normally…but not this time. Not yet. Lylee wanted to bring her back from that place her escape had taken her. He wanted the complete victory that came with the perfect kill. Her awareness of her own death and impotence to prevent it would bring Lylee the awareness of his own power, and the force within him.
Somewhere deep inside, the predator’s voice called to him. Beware. Caution.
For a moment, he thought that maybe he should listen. End it now and move on. But the nude girl sitting there, her underwear cut off in tatters around the chair, blood dripping over her breasts, her eyes gazing into some far distant place, pulled him away from the warning voice.
Lylee lifted his hand to his face. He could smell her blood on it. He put it to his mouth and tasted it with his
tongue. No not yet. Just a little longer, and he would bring her back. He would taste her fear along with her blood.
A shiver of excitement coursed through his body as he drifted to sleep.
80. What the Hell
Clods of red clay and gravel spun in arcs from under the brown sheriff’s car as it bumped roughly down the dirt drive to the Creek Side Cabins, jarring Deputy Grover Parsons’ teeth in the process. Roots of the large trees lining the drive had caused the surface to buckle and swell in places, and the car was almost airborne as it took some of the bigger bumps in the drive, which had definitely not been graded for such high speed.
Gannet Carlson, proprietor of the ‘Cabins’, as they were known locally, struggled to keep up. When he got to the office, which was also the home he and his wife Margaret shared, he found Grover standing outside his vehicle in a cloud of dust.
The front door to the office creaked open, and the old woman who had checked in the young man from Texas bustled out onto the porch in none too good a humor.
“Grover Parsons! What on God’s green earth…” She stopped in mid-sentence as more swirling dust from her husband’s sliding pickup billowed up onto and over the porch.
“Gannet! You tell me what is going on and do it right now.”
Her husband stood beside his truck waving the dust away from his face as he answered, “Don’t really know, Marge. Grover here said he had to check something out. Something about that young fella that came in this morning. One from Texas.”
Marge Carlson looked Deputy Parsons in the eye. “Tell me what’s going on, Grover.”
“Don’t know for sure, Mrs. Carlson. The man you checked in and the car match the description of a man we’re after…the whole state’s after.”
“What did he do, Grover?”
“Don’t know that he did anything. Just matches the description is all. I need to check it out. That’s all.”