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Copyright 2017 by M. William Phelps
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ISBN 978-1-947290-09-9 Trade Paperback
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All photos in this book are courtesy of the author.
“For the heart, life is simple: it beats for as long as it can. Then it stops.”
—Karl Ove Knausgaard, My Struggle
Table of Contents
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Part I
Part II
Part III
PHOTOS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The process of Writing is what keeps the blood pumping feverishly through my veins. I don’t feel right in the world unless I wake up, put some sentences together on the page and wrestle with the words until I get them into the right place. Publishing, on the other hand, is what dampens that excitement at times, pilfering much of the vigor and passion out of it. I’m coming up on what is my 20th year writing books, most within the true-crime space. It is a genre I have seen change from an ignored category the literary establishment turned its nose to—denying any interest in—to a genre split into subclasses, where some will gather together in support of, and award, those “true crime” books with long, cerebral titles and even longer subtitles. You know what I’m talking about: those true-crime books purporting to be bigger, smarter, more important and, certainly, far more intelligent than (God forbid!) those ugly, nasty, mendacious mass-market, red-and-black-covered paperbacks made popular in the Seventies, Eighties and Nineties, with deadly and evil in every other title. Truthfully, the alienation and snubbing is a facet of publishing that stokes the flames of fire within me. The notion that a writer is judged, literally, by the cover of the book he or she has written is unnerving, ignorant and, coming from the mouths of what are alleged to be intelligent and literary people, small-minded. It’s insulting and hurtful. We—those of us in the true-crime trenches, writing year after year—work just as hard as any prize winner and/or celebrated writer. And despite what title or the type of cover a true-crime book is given (generally never by the author, by the way, but the marketing and publicity machines instead), what matters is the reporting and writing between the cardboard.
Nothing else.
You can shine up a shitty book, put some sort of subtitle on it beckoning the reading public to believe the book somehow “changed the world” by broaching all sorts of social issues we are told to take note of; you can compare it to that often-conjured, popular piece of fiction forever referred to as having birthed the genre, In Cold Blood (some of which was falsified and frankly made up), a book topping just about every All-Time Top Ten True-Crime Books list; but in the end, a solid, well-reported and -researched book in which a murder or some nefarious crime occurs stands on its own merits. A literary prize, or even a nomination, a place on a list, a flashy blurb by some Pulitzer-winner does not make it any better, worse or more important than a book you’d find in a rack at the drugstore or supermarket (back in the day when those establishments actually carried true crime).
Look, are there tawdry and pulpy true-crime books in the marketplace not worth your time or money? Of course. Is there trash in every genre, including true crime? Absolutely. But come on now, let us not be judged by the clothes we wear or the house we live in. Step back and at least consider the work before handing down your insults and conclusions.
When I started, I didn’t view writing true crime as writing true crime. When I wrote my first book, Perfect Poison, I had no idea I was writing a “true-crime book.” I looked at it as telling the incredible true story of a contemporary female serial killer, a narrative populated with interesting people, exposing the injustices and victories of some of those involved. It wasn’t until somebody told me it was a true-crime book that I understood I was now pigeonholed into the red-headed stepchild genre of literature and quarantined to the dusty bottom shelf, somewhere in the back of the bookstore, in the corner, far away from civilization, generally near the restrooms or janitor’s closet.
It’s been 34 books and quite a ride. I’ve seen the genre go from books flying off shelves at a rate writers could barely keep up with to the space to sell those same books chiseled down to a few sleeves in the few bookstores left—Kmart, Target, Walmart and the drugstores cutting their space to a third of what it used to be—while adult coloring books (really!) and young adult novels, in which the same futuristic dystopian tale is told (nauseatingly) over and over—erotica, gift items and coffee shops taking up much of the space once dedicated to shelving and selling books.
I could continue to stand high atop my soapbox and wax frustratingly about the industry and all that is wrong with it, or display my irritation for the gluttony of self-published garbage saturating the marketplace and confusing the book buyer today, but that is speech for another time. I will say, however, that having a publisher such as WildBlue Press, and others like it, emerge from the hard-knock slog of selling books over the past 10 years has been, for me, a godsend. To be able to bring my readers—old and new—the stories I feel are worthy of their time and money, without those industry people totally out of touch with the zeitgeist telling me the story is “not quite right” or “needs a stronger female lead” or “readers want high-profile ‘Making a Murderer’ type of narratives today with recognizable criminal names” is, without a doubt, one of many benefits of publishing with a press such as WildBlue, run by people who understand the genre and, most importantly, what readers want within a contemporary context.
All of which brings me to the book you have purchased.
The woman at the center, Tracy Fortson, will not like everything she reads about herself and her case. Moreover, Tracy’s supporters will find fault in some of my reporting. This is inevitable. I cannot stop it. Yet I do want to acknowledge it, adding that within this story—seeing how at its core lies the challenge of believing that overwhelming circumstantial evidence and questionable forensic evidence is enough to convict and the idea that a cover-up took place seems more and more likely as you begin to dig in—is the first time I have encountered a murder victim’s parent siding with the person convicted of his murder. That, alone, is something we need to take note of and keep in mind as we go through this case and try to understand what happened.
I could not—and would not—have written this book without Tracy Fortson’s input. I promised Tracy a voice in this book and entirely delivered on that.
As I began to wind down my interviews and finish the manuscript, I began to see that there are additional questions to be answered. The more I dug in, the more I began to agree that this case needs an objective investigation, from an outside official source, separated from the bounds of the good ol’ boys’ Southern Justice League in the Deep South. I have issues with certain aspects of this investigation and the players involved. I am certain mo
st readers will, too.
There were several people involved in this case I chose not to speak to—and they know why. I don’t apologize for that. Just want to point it out.
Lastly, this book, save for the interviews I conducted, is based on thousands of pages of primary documents connected to the case and those I dug up myself. The public record for this case is immense.
Finally, I want to thank Donna Dudeck and Jupiter Entertainment for once again introducing me to an incredible true-crime story.
Part I
“When dealing with people, remember you are not dealing with creatures of logic, but with creatures bristling with prejudice and motivated by pride and vanity.”
― Dale Carnegie
1.
Sheriff Tom Lutz had a terrible cough. He didn’t know it yet, but the Persian Gulf War veteran was on the verge of being diagnosed with interstitial pneumonitis, a rare but powerful lung disease from being exposed to chemical weapons.
As a sergeant with the Madison County Sheriff’s Department (MCSD) in Danielsville, Georgia, an exceptionally small county north of Athens, Lutz considered the morning of June 17, 2000, an average day thus far. A lazy, hot-as-hell, Saturday morning in the South, nothing too spectacular happening in the office or around town. No urgent calls of break-ins or domestic issues. No drunks from the previous night waking up in the tank, sitting in their own piss and puke. No cops scraping somebody off the interstate with a shovel after a terrible accident. It was, in the scope of a Saturday morning, your typical start to your typical weekend in north central Georgia, the local sheriff watching the clock until he could head home to his family.
In law enforcement, however, all you have to do is be patient long enough and your day will take a turn you never saw coming. For Lutz and the MCSD, that abrupt, full-circle pivot began just after 9 a.m. As Lutz finished his second cup of coffee of the morning, a rather interesting call came in. A man in Colbert, a shanty little county town of fewer than 500 residents, just over 200 households, less than a square mile in size, reported several dead birds he and his girlfriend had stumbled upon across the street from his house.
Birds?
Not crows, blue jays, chicken hawks or robins, as if some sort of celestial, horror event out of Stephen King novel had occurred. Or perhaps a random and unexplained environmental event that Steven Spielberg might open one of his films with. The birds this man referred to were pastel-colored, exotic fowls you might encounter in the rainforest, Asia, or perhaps locales such as Australia and New Zealand.
“Name’s Larry Bridges,” the man said before explaining what he’d found, giving dispatch his address.
Near 9:40 a.m., Sheriff Lutz found himself driving into Colbert, meeting Larry Bridges in the driveway of his home. Larry explained to Lutz that he was “concerned” about a neighbor, a man he had not seen in close to two weeks. Larry Bridges further clarified that it was the neighbor’s exotic birds, actually, that he and his girlfriend had found dead.
Standing in front of Larry Bridges, listening to this strange tale, Lutz adjusted his Stetson, put a hand on his duty belt and then glanced across the street.
“You say birds?” Lutz said.
“Yeah,” Larry said. “Come with me. I’ll show you.”
John Sharpe Road, where Lutz was now walking across after leaving Larry Bridge’s driveway en route to the alleged missing neighbor’s property, could not have been any more off the beaten path. Jack Sharpe Road met Tom Sharpe Road at a fork that connected to John Sharpe Road, a dead end in the shape of a tuning fork. When someone out here said “everybody knows everybody,” they weren’t speaking in clichéd, general terms; everyone on this street was on a first-name basis. Just so happened that Larry Bridges and Doug Benton, the 38-year-old alleged missing neighbor, had been good friends. Larry was worried about his buddy. It was unlike Doug not to care for his birds.
Lutz was a cautious man and ardent investigator who did not jump to conclusions. Having been a medic with the 2nd Battalion 7th Infantry, awarded his first Bronze Star with “V” for valor and a second Bronze Star while serving in Bosnia from 1996–97, Lutz was well-schooled in the art of dealing with people under duress. What’s more, having been a volunteer soccer coach with the Madison County Recreation Department—not to mention a public servant all these years—the sheriff knew how to talk to people, understanding what motivated their needs and concerns. Listening to Larry, feeling a true sense of dread the man projected, Lutz knew it had taken Larry Bridges a lot to make the call and wouldn’t have done so unless he truly believed something was wrong. Larry’s gut was speaking to him. And if there was one thing a cop knew to trust more than perhaps most everything else, it was that intuitive, internal instinct all human beings possess.
Sheriff Lutz knocked on the front door.
No answer.
After checking each door (all were locked) and cupping his hands near his temples to block the sun while looking in all the windows, Larry Bridges pointed out something.
“Look at this.”
Scattered around the property, out back of the house, inside the garage and there on the front porch, Doug Benton kept a dozen or so birdcages. Doug was a collector of exotic birds, Larry explained, which he had been breeding with the hopes of selling. Doug loved his birds. He took great pride in caring for them.
“It’s so unlike Doug to leave, be gone for so long, and not make arrangements for someone to take care of his birds,” Larry told Lutz.
This baffled Doug’s neighbor. Why would Doug take off and leave the birds to fend for themselves?
Didn’t make any sense.
How did Larry know, however, that Doug had not set someone up with the task of watching the birds?
Because 11 of them, Larry and the sheriff soon realized, were dead.
“Do you have any idea where Mr. Benton might be?” Sheriff Lutz asked.
“Have no idea. But I know those birds are worth about $35,000.”
“Do you remember the last time you saw him?”
“Oh, geez, must have been somewhere between June 1st and the 4th, about two weeks ago. He had a fight with his girlfriend. He left.”
“You know his girlfriend?”
“Yeah … yeah … name’s ah… um … Tracy … Tracy Fortson. She’s an Oglethorpe County [deputy].”
Larry Bridges then explained how it was he remembered Doug leaving on Sunday, June 4, 2000. He recalled the day specifically because Doug rode a Harley-Davidson motorcycle and Larry heard the roar of the tailpipes close to 10 a.m. on that day. So he looked out and watched as Doug drove away. He recalled Doug returning later that evening about 5 p.m. His girlfriend, Tracy Fortson, had shown up looking for Doug around 3 p.m., Larry claimed. He never actually saw Tracy, however—but had only noticed her truck parked in the driveway. Tracy Fortson’s truck was not hard to miss. A 1998 Ford F-150 4X4, with an extended cab and tinted windows, for starters. It also had a black grill guard on the front and dark black bars snaked along the bottom of the vehicle (like a step rail). Tracy had a black tag on the front of the truck, with a “thin blue line” running through it to represent her dedication to, and support of, law enforcement. The license plate tag, Larry said, was also unforgettable: “2TUFF2.”
“Like the Ford commercials say, ‘Built Ford tough,’ ” Tracy later told me as we began discussing her missing boyfriend, Doug Benton. “ ‘1TUFF1’ was already taken when I applied for a tag, so I had to settle for ‘2TUFF2.’ It was about the truck,” she concluded, speaking of her tag. “Not me.”
Tracy was not a tepid, passive woman, afraid of her own shadow. Nor was she ever known not to speak her mind. She was rugged. “Tomboyish,” some later said. Hard. A tough chick who didn’t take shit from anyone. Being the first female sheriff of the county, she’d worked in a sometime tough, male-dominated, prickly atmosphere, at least for a woman.
Consequentially, however, this made Tracy one hell of a sheriff.
Doug had a truck, too. A white and
beige 2000 Ford F-250 he’d just recently purchased. The entire bed of Doug’s truck was filled with welding equipment. Doug ran his business, Benton Welding Company, out of the truck, which had magnetic signs on both doors. Thus, in that respect, Doug’s truck was also hard to miss.
Doug and Tracy, Larry went on to explain, weren’t getting along lately. They fought a lot. Tracy might have left—he couldn’t recall the exact time—somewhere right before Doug got home that Sunday, June 4.
As the days (and soon a week) went by, Larry Bridges explained, he didn’t think much of Doug not being home. Doug generally worked construction welding jobs; with times being as tough as they were, work was hard to come by. So Doug followed the job wherever it took him. He would sometimes head out of town, even out of state, to chase work.
“The first week I didn’t think nothing about it,” Larry recalled. “The next weekend went by and I didn’t see (Doug) come home, which he normally did.”
Doug weighed 250 pounds. He went about 5 feet 9 inches tall, a stocky, brute of a build. He was powerful and could be, some later insisted, explosive—especially when he got himself going on something. He had a passion for lifting weights. In fact, Doug and Tracy often worked out together in Doug’s home gym.
As they stood outside Doug’s house, Larry Bridges told Sheriff Lutz he had asked the neighbors, many of whom were home during the day while Larry was gone at work, if they had seen Doug.
TARGETED: A Deputy, Her Love Affairs, A Brutal Murder Page 1