The last part of the release was an understatement—two of the victims had been beaten savagely. And the blood. My goodness. From one end of the living room to the other. Two of the victims were found on the couch, facing the television. Looked like neither had moved in reaction to what had happened. One of them had a bullet hole—execution style—straight through the center of his forehead. Looked like some powder burns on the side of his head, ringed around another hole, which meant someone put the barrel of a weapon up to his skin and pulled the trigger.
As patrol officers did their best to hold back the swelling mob, a woman pulled up, parked her car sharply with a shriek of rubber, jumped out, and limboed underneath the crime scene tape as if ducking under a wooden farm fence.
Police stopped her before she could get close to the front door.
“Tell me that it’s not the Rowell house,” she said. “Tell me . . . please tell me it’s not the Rowell house. Please!”
The police officers looked at each other.
Of course, it was.
The woman doubled over. Fell to the ground, then began sobbing in loud bursts of guttural pain. An officer went over and helped her up, eventually walking her off toward a private area of the yard, out of sight and earshot of the crowd.
Earlier that day, George Koloroutis had taken off on his Harley from his home a few miles away from this Brook Forest neighborhood in Friendswood. George was in a meeting at work. It was around 3:30 P.M. when he got this “sinking feeling” in his gut—Something’s wrong. George wasn’t a believer in the paranormal or ESP, but this sudden rotten sensation nagged at him.
“Something was out of order,” George recalled. “My perfect little family unit was in a funky state. My girl is somewhere where I don’t want her to be.” He was talking about Rachael Koloroutis; she had been staying at the Rowell house with her best friend, Tiffany. George believed Rachael belonged at home.
With his oldest daughter, Rachael’s sister, off to college, but home for the summer, the disunity in the family unit started to get to George and he left work early, around four thirty. When he walked in the door at his home in Friendswood, George asked his oldest daughter, Belinda (pseudonym), if she wanted to head out for a ride on the bike to grab a bite to eat. George wanted to talk to Belinda about Rachael, who had been out of the house for a little over a month, ever since graduating high school. George thought Belinda could offer some insight. He didn’t like the path Rachael was on. He figured talking to Belinda, whom Rachael looked up to and had been as close as sisters could be with most of their lives, would help.
The ride, the food, and the talk turned out to be overly emotional. George dropped Belinda back at home and took off alone on his Harley—“I was not feeling good . . . this whole Rachael thing”—and decided to go out and find Rachael and talk to her. He ended up not being able to locate Tiffany Rowell’s house and, instead, found a bar, ordered a few beers, sat and listened to the band.
Consequently, George couldn’t hear his cell phone going off as details of what had happened at Tiffany Rowell’s house hit the airwaves and people started calling him.
“I’m glad I didn’t hear it,” George said, looking back, “because the messages on my cell phone were horrifying.”
George finished his cooling-off period at the bar and headed home. As he pulled into his driveway, he noticed that his wife’s car was gone.
Odd.
His oldest daughter then came running out of the house, a look of fear on her face.
Even stranger.
“What’s wrong? . . .” George asked, dismounting his bike, taking off his helmet.
“Dad . . . Dad!” Belinda screamed. Her face was white, George realized. “There’s four teenagers dead at Tiffany Rowell’s house! They know that two of them are Tiffany and this guy Marcus.”
George’s stomach tightened. His heart raced.
Rachael!
George went into the house, grabbed his youngest child—a daughter, eight—and told Belinda to get into the car. They were heading over to Tiffany’s house.
After George had dropped Belinda at home earlier in that evening, before heading out to the bar, he had tried to find Tiffany Rowell’s house so he could go speak with Rachael. He drove into the Brook Forest neighborhood, but couldn’t find Millbridge Drive. He’d only been there one other time and it was at night. Giving up on his search, George had headed to the bar.
But now they were driving toward Tiffany’s under Belinda’s direction, Belinda explaining what she had heard on the news about four teens found dead.
George was in a panic. He pulled up. Saw all the vehicles. The police tape. The cops. A group of people milling about. He told Belinda to sit tight behind the yellow police tape inside the car. Wait with her sister for her mother.
Meanwhile, George crossed the police line and started for the door heading into Tiffany’s house.
A large cop stopped him before he could walk in.
“My name is George Koloroutis. You can’t stop me, man, please,” George pleaded. “I think my little girl might be in there.”
Tears.
George was a big dude, with some serious bulk, and perhaps out of his mind by this point. All he could think of was Rachael in there needing his help.
George had always been the protector in the family—the man who took care of everything. Suddenly he felt helpless and weak as gum.
“Mr. Koloroutis, please,” the cop said as calm as he could manage. “Please don’t make me have to stop you from going into that house. I don’t want to have to do that.” There was something in the cop’s voice that told George he wasn’t kidding; he would do what he had to do to stop him. “If I have to do this, Mr. Koloroutis, other guys are going to run over here. We’re going to have to hold you down. Cuff you. And it’s going to be a miserable experience. Please, just don’t go in there.”
George looked at him. “I understand. I just need to know if that’s my daughter.”
By now, there were close to fifty people gathered. George fell back into the crowd. His wife, Ann, showed up. They decided to have someone take his youngest daughter and bring her to a neighbor’s.
Then they stood and waited.
Rachael Koloroutis, just eighteen years old, was indeed lying dead on the floor inside that house, her body riddled with bullets, a good portion of her skull bashed in. What George or anybody else standing there—including all the detectives and patrol cops and crime scene techs—didn’t know then was that the answers to this mystery would take years of old-fashioned gumshoe police work, a lot of it by George Koloroutis himself. It was going to be thirty-six months—almost to the day—before a suspect worth considering was brought in. It was going to turn into a case that would take investigators through nearly a dozen states, halfway across the country, and involve one of the most intense and puzzling murder investigations the HPD had ever probed. And when all was said and done, wouldn’t you know, the murderer had been right under everyone’s nose the entire time, within reach—the least likely suspect imaginable.
Adrianne Reynolds was a happy child, well-liked by classmates.
(Photo courtesy of Tony Reynolds)
Eight-year-old Adrianne is all smiles in this 1996 photo. (Photo courtesy of Tony Reynolds)
As Adrianne approached her teen years, her life at home crumbled—the only father she knew, Tony Reynolds, ended up in prison. (Photo courtesy of Tony Reynolds)
Adrianne became her own person as she approached her sixteenth birthday in 2004. In these two photos, her personality shines. (Photos courtesy of Tony Reynolds)
A few weeks before Christmas 2004, Adrianne got into a spat with a girl at her school. Soon after, their relationship turned deadly. (Photo courtesy of Tony Reynolds)
For Christmas 2004, Adrianne was given this guitar, which would have surely accompanied her during an “American Idol” audition she had planned. (Photo courtesy of Tony Reynolds)
From left to right are: Josh Schattem
an, Joanne Reynolds, Tony Reynolds, Justin Schatteman, and Adrianne. Adrianne’s stepbrother, Justin, drove her to school on January 21, 2005—the last time she was ever seen. (Photo courtesy of Joanne and Tony Reynolds)
Adrianne posed for this photo at a John Deere shrine in Moline, Illinois, only weeks before she disappeared. (Photo courtesy of Tony Reynolds)
For the first time in perhaps her entire life, Adrianne finally felt at home while living in her father’s house in East Moline, Illinois. (Photo courtesy of Tony Reynolds)
Adrianne met her killers at this high school, an alternative GED program at the Black Hawk College Outreach Center. (Photo courtesy of Jo Reynolds)
One of the girls Adrianne wanted to date when she first attended Black Hawk Outreach was Sarah Kolb, a popular “Juggalette,” who had been in trouble with law enforcement. (Photo courtesy of Rock Island County High School yearbook)
Cory Gregory became friends with Adrianne Reynolds after Sarah Kolb, his best friend, told him it was okay. (Photo courtesy of Teresa Gregory)
Before becoming a Juggalo and self-proclaimed “druggie,” Cory Gregory was very much into playing sports and studying. (Photo courtesy of Teresa Gregory)
Jo and Tony Reynolds became worried when Adrianne didn’t show up for work at this Checkers Restaurant in Moline. (Photo courtesy of Jo Reynolds)
Cory Gregory and Sarah Kolb told law enforcement that Adrianne and Sarah had a fight inside Sarah’s car in the parking lot of this Taco Bell in Moline. Adrianne was never seen alive again. (Photos courtesy of Jo Reynolds)
This photo of Adrianne Reynolds appeared on the missing person flyers distributed around the Quad Cities. (Photo courtesy of Tony Reynolds)
As details began to emerge from a core group of Quad City Juggalos, Adrianne’s body parts would be found in Black Hawk State Historic Site. (Photo courtesy of Joanne Reynolds)
Adrianne’s killers chose this area, just beyond these wooden stairs, to hide her severed limbs. (Photo courtesy of Joanne Reynolds)
Realizing he could not escape justice, 17-year-old Cory Gregory wound up leading investigators to an area inside Black Hawk State Historic Site where he and two accomplices disposed of Adrianne’s chopped-up body—this after they got high and gorged themselves on McDonald’s fast food. (Photos taken from video provided by the Rock Island County State’s Attorney’s Office)
Found approximately ten feet underground and inside a manhole, Adrianne Reynolds’s head and arms were recovered inside this black garbage bag. (Photos taken from video provided by the Rock Island County State’s Attorney’s Office)
The Rock Island County Jail and Sheriff’s Department became the epicenter of the investigation as Cory Gregory began to talk about his role in Adrianne’s murder. (Photo courtesy of Joanne Reynolds)
The Rock Island County Justice Center was the focal point of the litigation against the three teens charged with Adrianne’s murder, dismemberment, and concealment of her remains. (Photo courtesy of Joanne Reynolds)
Cory Gregory ultimately led investigators to a farm in Millersburg, Illinois, where the rest of Adrianne Reynolds’s dismembered body was recovered. (Photos taken from video provided by the Rock Island County State’s Attorney’s Office)
While an investigator reads Cory Gregory his Miranda rights at the second crime scene in Millersburg, Cory’s lawyer (right) looks on. (Photo taken from video provided by the Rock Island County State’s Attorney’s Office)
Nathan Gaudet, one of the Juggalos Adrianne hung out with, is asked on camera by investigators if he cut up Adrianne’s body into seven pieces. (Photo taken from video provided by the Rock Island County State’s Attorney’s Office)
These mug shots of Nathan Gaudet were taken after his arrest.
(Photos courtesy of the Rock Island County State’s Attorney’s Office)
These mug shots show how Cory Gregory looked when he was arrested in late January 2005 for the murder of Adrianne Reynolds. (Photos courtesy of the Rock Island County State’s Attorney’s Office)
The many different faces of sixteen-year-old Sarah Kolb. This was how she looked (above) on the day of her arrest and weeks later (two photos below), after some time in prison. (Photos courtesy of the Rock Island County State’s Attorney’s Office)
Cory Gregory in his most recent mug shot. (Photo courtesy of the Rock Island County State’s Attorney’s Office)
A more mature looking Sarah Kolb after a few years behind bars. (Photo courtesy of the Rock Island County State’s Attorney’s Office)
Some names have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals connected to this story.
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Notes
1 From HelpGuide.org, a nonprofit online resource that helps people “understand, prevent, and resolve life’s challenges.” If you need more information about this all-too-common problem of self-mutilation many teens suffer from (and are very good at hiding), or you suspect a loved one might be cutting, please visit HelpGuide.org at: http://www.helpguide.org/mental/self_injury.htm, or call a professional who can help.
2 Some of the information in this paragraph and the quote following it is from an article, “The CSI death dogs: Sniffing out the truth behind the crime-scene canines,” by Laura Spinney, Wednesday, May 28, 2008, The Independent.
3 http://www.lectlaw.com/def/i053.htm
Too Young to Kill Page 34
