Another piece of gossip that quickly gained traction was a report that police were now searching for two men working in tandem. A serial killer team working hand in hand seemed the most plausible explanation for how the girls had been taken from such familiar surroundings without a single clue being left behind. One man entered Natasha Gallagher’s bedroom, rendered her unconscious, and handed her out the window to a second person. One man distracted Kacey Robinson and Madeline Wilcox while an accomplice moved in and knocked them unconscious.
According to Carly Albright, neither story carried much credence. As far as she knew, investigators were still searching for a lone killer, believing strongly that the three murders’ M.O.s were too identical and disciplined in nature to be the work of multiple perpetrators.
There was, Carly explained, one interesting trend beginning to emerge in Edgewood, and, just as the satanic panic and multiple serial killer theories could be attributed to a recent increase in gossip—somewhere along the line, suspicion had begun to replace caution—so too could this new pattern of behavior. In the days following Madeline Wilcox’s death, there’d been a sudden sharp increase in the number of verbal arguments and physical altercations occurring between local residents. Loose lips and drunken slurs led to fistfights in parking lots and front yards. Joking around turned serious and then violent. Old feuds were rekindled, and new ones started. A rash of false accusations broke out, and it took an official warning from police to tamp it down. The tip-line took in calls at a record pace, but most of them were trivial nonsense, and law enforcement was considering shutting the whole thing down.
I had personally witnessed this new dynamic during one of my infrequent morning jogs. Making my way up Perry Avenue, I came across a group of kids on bikes and skateboards. In the middle of a roughly formed circle, two boys were fighting. They couldn’t have been more than eleven years old. I rushed in and broke it up.
“I know who your parents are!” I lied. “Now shake hands and make up, and I won’t tell them what I just saw.”
“I ain’t shaking that fucker’s hand,” the smallest of the two boys snarled.
“Why not?” I asked.
“He’s telling everyone my father’s the Boogeyman.”
And then there was the curfew. Beginning on Monday, August 15, by order of the Harford County Sheriff’s Department, all residents of Edgewood were required to be off the streets by no later than 10:00 p.m. Exceptions were being made for night-shift and health-care workers, and security company employees. Gas stations, restaurants, and bars all closed early with, surprisingly, only a handful of complaints from their owners.
Once Madeline’s body had been released by the coroner’s office, the Wilcox family opted for a private funeral at a small church on the Eastern Shore, for which I was both grateful and relieved. After speaking to a handful of friends and neighbors, I realized it was pretty obvious that most people shared my reaction—there’d already been enough funerals in Edgewood this summer.
Despite the turmoil swirling throughout the rest of town, 920 Hanson Road remained a safe haven. While my mother reacted to Maddy’s death with predictable bouts of grief and reflection, she also stayed surprisingly calm about the situation. She told me one night after dinner that she was doing all she could to remain faithful and optimistic, sending casseroles and trays of cookies and brownies to the police station to help feed the officers working overtime, and praying as hard and as often as she could. She resolutely believed it was all in God’s hands now, and although she didn’t come right out and say it, I think for whatever reason she also believed that the murders were finally over.
My father wasn’t quite so sure. He woke me early one Saturday morning and quietly asked for my help installing new locks on the outside basement door, as well as the door at the rear of the garage.
Still, most nights, the three of us talked and laughed and shared a dinner table, and I went to bed counting my blessings that two such kind people had found each other in this world and made me a part of their lives.
As the month wore on, I thought the long days and pressure at work was finally starting to get to Carly. She’d been moody all week and short with me on the phone. I eventually asked if she needed a break from our calls and the whole Boogeyman business in general. To my surprise, she started crying, letting it all pour out while giving me the whole story.
Earlier in the week, while working on an article in her bedroom, she’d heard something at the window. When she got up and looked outside, she was almost positive she saw a dark figure scurrying away into the darkness. The next day, while making her way around town for work, she started to feel strange, convinced that someone was following her. That evening, the nightmares started. Bad ones. She’d barely slept all week, and the stress and exhaustion were taking their toll. She apologized, but I told her there was no need and that I understood. What I didn’t tell her was that I was experiencing similar feelings of paranoia and having nightmares of my own.
9
On Friday afternoon, August 19, Detective Lyle Harper and Major Buck Flemings from the Harford County Sheriff’s Department held a joint press conference on the steps of the courthouse. More than thirty-five news organizations from all over the country attended. Major Flemings spoke first, announcing the formation of a brand-new task force consisting of members from the sheriff’s department, state police, and Federal Bureau of Investigation. Detective Harper would be heading up the task force, and as he stepped up to the podium next, I immediately noticed how tired and thin he looked. I couldn’t help but think of his wife at home and three adult children scattered around the state, and I hoped they were rallying around him to offer their support. He looked like he needed it.
Harper spoke for a short time, concluding with a grim-faced promise that the task force was “working around the clock to put an end to the senseless killings in Edgewood.”
When he was finished, I glanced at my mother on the sofa, bracing myself for another round of criticism directed at the detective. Despite my frequent reassurances, she was still wary of the man.
Instead, I found her with her head bowed and eyes closed, lips moving inaudibly, clasping her rosary in her hands.
Madeline Wilcox (Photo courtesy of Frannie Keele)
Madeline Wilcox driveway crime scene (Photo courtesy of Logan Reynolds)
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL? poster (Photo courtesy of the author)
Madeline Wilcox (Photo courtesy of Frannie Keele)
Police and residents searching a field near Hanson Road (Photo courtesy of The Aegis)
Police and residents searching tree line (Photo courtesy of The Aegis)
Detectives examining crime scene at Ricker’s Bridge (Photo courtesy of The Baltimore Sun)
eight The Boogeyman
“And if it wasn’t the Boogeyman at your window, then who was it?”
1
Curious as always, and unable to locate much information in my home set of Encyclopedia Britannica, I visited the library later that week and researched the origins of the Boogeyman.
While many books and magazine articles on folklore and the supernatural provided valuable details, the majority of my notes came from a single volume: Monsters and Myths by Robert Carruthers Jr.; Lemming Publications; New York, New York; 1974.
The following is a brief summary:
Spelled a variety of different ways, including bogeyman, bogyman, and bogieman, the Boogeyman is a mythical creature most commonly used by adults to frighten children into good behavior. The first known reference to a “Bogeyman” is considered to be the hobgoblins described in England in the 1500s. The word “bogey” is derived from the Middle English “bogge/bugge” meaning “something frightening” or “scarecrow.” It may’ve also been influenced by the Old English term “bugbear”—“bug” meaning “goblin” or “scarecrow,” and “bear” representing an evil demon in the form of a bear that feasts on small children. While the description of the Boogeyman usually differs on a
cultural level, there are often shared characteristics to the creatures, including claws, talons, red eyes, and sharp teeth. Some are even described to have horns and hooves. Boogeyman-like creatures are almost universal, common to the folklore of most all countries. Sack Man, El Coco, Babau, Buba, Bagu, and Babaroga are just a handful of the names they go by.
2
On Friday, September 9, the police got the break they’d been waiting for.
Seventeen-year-old Annie Riggs was one of Edgewood High School’s most accomplished students. President of the senior class, she earned straight As across the board and was captain of the varsity field hockey and lacrosse teams. She had a broad, contagious smile and an even bigger heart. Humble in nature and possessing a self-deprecating sense of humor, Annie was well-liked by students and faculty alike.
That Friday evening marked the end of the first week of high school—only four days long, thanks to the Labor Day holiday on Monday—as well as the first full week of field hockey practice. Annie stayed late after Friday’s practice to talk with her coaches about a new offensive set and the team’s first scrimmage the following Monday afternoon. At approximately 7:15 p.m., she left the school and began walking home. A short time later, along a quiet stretch of Sequoia Drive, a masked assailant attacked her from behind. A struggle ensued, and she was able to break free and run to a nearby house for help.
Despite the presence of dozens of reporters in town, news of the attempted abduction did not hit airwaves until early the following morning. For once, the handful of residents involved kept their mouths shut.
On Monday, September 12, Carly Albright secured a copy of Annie Riggs’s handwritten police statement. It’s reprinted here, in its entirety, for the first time:
I was the last girl in the locker room after practice because I’d stayed late. Usually I get a ride home with a friend or one of my parents, but my teammates were long gone and my mom and dad were at a work dinner. I put on a sweatshirt and my watch and necklace and grabbed my backpack from my locker. That’s when I noticed how really late it was. I left the school through the side gym doors. I saw Mr. Harris on my way out and told him I’d see him on Monday. I knew it was going to rain and I could hear thunder, but even after looking at my watch, I was still surprised at how dark it was. It was like a ghost town outside. The parking lot was nearly empty, and I didn’t see anyone else when I crossed Willoughby Beach Road. Further down the street, there was an old couple getting into their car at the church, but that was it. By the time I got to Sequoia, it was really thundering and lightning. A white Jeep turned the corner up ahead and slowed down, and for a minute I thought it was my friend Lori Anderson stopping to give me a ride. But it wasn’t her, and whoever it was just kept on going. I looked over my shoulder and watched the Jeep drive away and that’s when I got a weird feeling like someone was following me. I kept looking over my shoulder but didn’t see anyone. Then I started hearing things. Footsteps behind me on the sidewalk. A tree branch snapping like someone had stepped on it. But every time I looked around, no one was there. By that time, I figured I was just being paranoid and felt pretty stupid, but that didn’t stop me from walking faster. (A little while ago, the really tall detective—I can’t remember his name—asked if I had experienced anything strange or unusual in the past couple months, and I told him no. But now I remember that that’s not really true. Another day, right before classes started, I hit the hockey ball around with a couple of friends at the school, and I got the same weird feeling when I was walking home. Like someone was following me. But it was the middle of a sunny day, so I never really felt scared or in any kind of danger. I’d actually kinda forgotten about it until right this minute.) Anyway, by that time, I’d gotten to the part of Sequoia where there are no houses or streetlights, just what’s left of that old garage and all those overgrown trees and bushes. The wind was really starting to pick up and the temperature was dropping fast. I thought I heard footsteps again, so I checked over my shoulder one more time. Same thing. No one there. I was starting to feel like an idiot. I was only a block and a half away from home, and I told myself that I wasn’t going to look again. No matter what. It wasn’t like I was ten years old or something. But then I was sure I heard it again. Footsteps. Right behind me. Louder this time. I forced myself not to look. Walked even faster. And they went away. I actually kinda giggled, thinking I’d won, and then, out of habit I guess, I glanced over my shoulder—and he was right there. A man. Very tall. Very big. Dark pants and dark long-sleeve shirt. And he was wearing a mask. It looked like the mask from that movie The Town That Dreaded Sundown. My friends and I rented it a bunch of times. Kind of like a cloth sack with eyeholes. Before I could run or scream or do anything, he grabbed me around my neck from behind and lifted me off the ground. I dropped my backpack, and then right away we were moving backward toward the trees. He was very strong. I started screaming and trying to punch and kick him, but he was hard to reach because he was behind me. He shoved a hand over my mouth to stop me from screaming. He was wearing some kind of gloves, but I didn’t get a look at what kind. At one point, I bit his hand really hard, and I remember the glove tasted like rubber, but he didn’t even seem to notice. I mean, it had to hurt, but he didn’t make a sound. The arm around my neck started to tighten and I could tell I was going to pass out soon. That’s when I remembered the little canister of pepper spray my mom had given me. It’s not much bigger than a tube of ChapStick, and I’d put it inside my sweatshirt pocket when I was in the locker room. I grabbed it and reached behind me and started spraying—for what felt like a really long time. At first, I thought it wasn’t working or I was missing his face. He didn’t slow down, or let go, or scream. He didn’t do anything except keep dragging me farther away from home. I remember actually thinking, I’M GOING TO DIE. But then all of a sudden, the arm around my neck was gone and I was on the ground looking up at him, and the man was shaking his head, kind of like a dog that’s just gone swimming, and then he ripped the mask off and started clawing at his eyes. Then all of a sudden, he just ran away. I only saw his face for a second, and from the side, but I noticed that he had short dark hair and a really pronounced chin. I got up and ran to the closest house. When I was banging on the door, I realized that the man had never once said a word, even after I’d sprayed him. I could hear him breathing and gasping for air, but that’s it. He never made any intelligible sound. I mean, how is that even possible? I’m pretty sure that’s all I remember right now.
3
When the news hit the following morning, it struck with the force of a tsunami.
Although a police spokesman was quick to caution that the attack on Annie Riggs had yet to be officially tied to the murders of the other three Edgewood girls, the public wasn’t buying it at all. Annie Riggs was young, attractive, and wore her shiny brown hair long and wavy. That’s all it took in most people’s eyes.
By lunchtime, a police sketch of the assailant—along with a photograph of the mask he’d worn—had been broadcast across local networks, as well as CNN. Within hours, 911 and the tip-line were flooded. An elderly man recognized the person in the sketch—it was his son-in-law. A music teacher from the elementary school was certain it was her gynecologist. Another woman stated in no uncertain terms that it had to be her ex-husband. On and on it went.
The mask left behind was constructed of rough burlap. Ragged eye and mouth slits had been cut out with sharp scissors or some kind of razor, and short lengths of twine had been laced up the back to secure it in place. The Harford County Crime Lab was currently running a barrage of tests on it.
I couldn’t be absolutely positive, but I felt there was at least a decent possibility it was what Jimmy Cavanaugh and I had seen floating toward us in the darkness that night outside of the Meyers House. Later that afternoon, at home in South Carolina, Jimmy got a good look at the mask on CNN and called to tell me he felt the same way.
Annie Riggs was interviewed for hours, as well as examined from head to toe—fi
ngernails scraped; mouth swabbed; face and hair and clothing picked at, combed over, and vacuumed. For the first time, police had an eyewitness, and they were all over her. After reviewing her written statement, a team of detectives encouraged her to search her mind for anything she might have missed, emphasizing that no observation was too minor to bring to their attention. That’s when she remembered her attacker’s strange odor. She claimed it was unlike anything else she’d ever smelled before, but struggled to be more specific after that. “It didn’t stink like B.O. or sweat,” she explained. “It was something else, something… indescribable.” When pressed further, Annie went on to say that it was an organic, almost earthy smell coming from the man himself; she didn’t believe it came from his clothes or mask or gloves. And that was the best explanation she was able to muster.
Chasing the Boogeyman Page 16
