Blood Stone

by Michael Lister

  “Got it,” she said.

  When Walt saw her, he motioned to Joe and they joined us.

  “What’s that?” Bud asked.

  “We’ve been through all the receipts from the park,” she said. “Only three men were in the park around the time all four women were murdered.”

  “Unless he paid cash,” Walt said.

  “Yes,” she said. “And he probably did, but . . . who knows . . . killers make mistakes.”

  “If they didn’t,” Bud said, “we’d never catch them.”

  “Maybe he thought he had cash, but didn’t,” she said. “Maybe he ran out and still needed to hydrate or eat something because it took longer than he thought it was going to or . . . I don’t know.”

  “It’s good work,” Bud said. “We’ve got to check them out, interview them. Find out everything we can about them. What are the chances that one of them’s not the killer? Think about it. We’ve got three guys in the park all four times one of the young women was killed. What are the odds?”

  “Not very high,” Erin said. “And it gets better.”

  “Oh yeah?” Bud said. “How’s that?”

  “One of the guys is Benton Weston,” she said. “Shelly Hepola’s boyfriend.”

  “One of the guys who was there for all four murders is actually the boyfriend of one of the victims?” Bud asked, his voice rising in equal parts excitement and incredulity.

  “Uh huh.”

  “No,” he said. “That’s not a coincidence. That’s a . . . I don’t know what that is, but that’s not a coincidence.”

  “Got to be him,” Walt said.

  “Treat all of them like it’s them,” Bud said. “Do everything by the book. Don’t cut any corners. Don’t let any of them rattle you. Treat each one with respect and dignity. Don’t do anything that could get evidence thrown out or a claim of police misconduct. And don’t just focus on the boyfriend. We’ve got two other guys who were also there. Act as if each one was the only one. Understand?”

  We all nod.

  “Yes, sir,” Erin said.

  “I’ll get with Frank and we’ll come up with an interview strategy and decide who’s going to conduct the interviews and we’ll put a plan in place. Then—”

  “I want to be in the room,” Walt said.

  “We all do,” Joe said.

  “Joe’s right,” Bud said. “We all do, but we’ve got to go with whoever gives us the best chance of getting him. I suspect it won’t be any of us. I’m sure the GBI has specially trained interviewers who know exactly how to get a confession or at least enough contradictions . . . so we can—so at trial the prosecutor can demonstrate he’s lying, impeach him with his own testimony.”

  “It should be one of us,” Walt said.

  “No,” Bud said, “it should be whoever gives us our best chance at getting him.”

  “But—”

  “Son, let me tell you something,” Bud said. “Innocent young women with their whole lives ahead of them went for a run—a run—that’s it. These were good girls, not doing anything or anybody wrong. They just went for a run. And a monster jumped out of the dark and tortured and murdered them—in our town, in a place we’re supposed to pro—the young women were people we were supposed to protect. So I can’t . . . I’m not gonna let pride or ego or turf guarding or anything—”

  “You just said it was our town, our responsibility,” Walt said.

  “It’s my responsibility to secure a conviction, to stop this . . . this . . . and I’m gonna do whatever I have to to do just that. End of discussion.”

  “There’s something else,” Erin said.

  “What’s that?” Bud said.

  “Someone else we know was in the park during all four . . . abductions and . . . Well, actually several someones. I got to thinking. These three aren’t the only ones who were in the park during all four . . . murders. So were the workers—the people who work in the park. So I looked at them too.”

  “Damn, girl,” Walt said. “What are you? Some kind of cop or something.”

  “Good work,” Bud said. “Good thinking.”

  I thought about Bobby Meredith and the other Stone Mountain Park Police. They were also always around, in the park, when the abductions and murders had taken place. I was reminded of how many killers like the one we were after had tried and failed to be cops, how many had become security guards or police buffs—hanging out at the station or the local bar frequented by cops, or inserting themselves into the case in some way. I remembered how much Ed Kemper, the Co-ed Killer, had wanted to be a state trooper and how he had spent so much time at the Santa Cruz cop bar he was thought of as a friendly nuisance. I had all these thoughts and had every intention of doing something about them, to look into Bobby Meredith and the others, but I’d get busy with other aspects of the investigation and fail to follow up and that would be a fatal flaw in my handling of this case, one that would cost me far more than I could fathom.

  “We need to look more closely at all of them,” she said, “but one of the guys has been tried for assault and rape before. He got off, so he doesn’t have a record, but . . . it was a technicality. I think he did it. And what if he’s still doing it? What if he has escalated?”

  29

  “I’ve been waiting for y’all to show up,” Patrick Dorsey said.

  He was a tall, thin man with a sun-damaged face and a long gray ponytail. His fine gray hair had receded to about the halfway point of his smallish head which made his long ponytail look all the more out of place.

  Patrick Dorsey worked for Stone Mountain Park maintenance and in the past had been accused of assault and rape.

  Walt and I were interviewing him while Erin, Joe, Frank, Bud, and two GBI agents were reaching out to the other suspects.

  Frank had been advised by his interview expert on how to proceed and that was how we were doing it—each man would be interviewed in the field by two members of the task force. If it warranted follow-up, formal interviews would be conducted at the station by a GBI agent who specialized in them.

  I didn’t want to be partnered with Walt, but I wasn’t given a choice.

  “Knew the minute I seen the report on the TV news,” Dorsey was saying, “it was just a matter of time ’til somebody knocked on my door.”

  We hadn’t exactly knocked on his door. We had driven up to his worksite on the east side of the mountain and asked to speak to him.

  I wasn’t sure what they were working on, but several men in yellow hardhats were scattered about—as was heavy equipment, white and green PVC pipe, and large wooden crates.

  “Then you know why we’re here,” Walt said.

  Dorsey nodded.

  He was still wearing his thick leather work gloves, hardhat, and dark knockoff aviator shades.

  “Mind removing your sunglasses?” Walt said.

  Dorsey took off his gloves and shoved them in his jacket pocket, then removed his shades, folded the arms, hooking one of them over the neck of his sweatshirt.

  “Do you have an alibi for the time of the murders?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I certainly do.”

  “How do you even know when they were?” Walt said.

  “Well, whenever they were I got an alibi and I’a tell you why. ’Cause I didn’t do it. Simple as that. Never killed anybody in my life.”

  “Tell me about the assault and rape charges,” Walt said a little too loudly.

  We had walked some fifteen feet away from where the men were working, but not so far that they couldn’t hear that.

  “Come on, man,” Dorsey said. “No need for that shit. I’m cooperating. Answering your questions. Haven’t asked for a lawyer.”

  “You’re not under arrest,” Walt said. “Not entitled to a lawyer.”

  “Everybody’s entitled to an attorney, man. It’s the American way.”

  “We’ll talk more quietly,” I said. “Just answer our questions honestly. We’re not looking to jam you up.”

  �
��I don’t know . . .” Walt said. “I hate a fuckin’ rapist.”

  “I ain’t a rapist, man. That was a misunderstanding. That’s all. We were high as fuckin’ kites, man. Neither of us knew what we were doing. It was my old lady’s best friend and after she realized what we’d done in a more sober state of mind she freaked. Rather than admit to her friend that she fucked her husband, she . . . claimed I raped her. Swear to God. That was it. She destroyed my life but she saved her friendship. Women, man, right?”

  “And the assault?” he said.

  “Both of ’em jumped me. I didn’t assault anyone. I defended myself from some serious fucking bodily harm. One of the investigating officers called it what it was. Scorned women bullshit. He’ll tell you. Give him a call.”

  “We will. What’s his name and number?”

  He produced a small card with both on it a little too quickly.

  “That was awful fast and convenient,” Walt said. “Got that shit on speed dial, don’t he?”

  “Like I said . . . been expecting you.”

  “We’ll check it out,” Walt said. “Meantime don’t go anywhere and don’t even look at any women around here. Understand?”

  “All too well, man. All too well.”

  30

  When we reached our vehicle, Daphne Littleton and her camera man were pulling up in their news van.

  The camera man was named Stan and everyone referred to him as Stan the Camera Man. He was overweight and slovenly, had long, bush black hair and needed a shave.

  Walt looked at me. “Your little friend with the big tits is here.”

  “She’s not my friend,” I said. “And she’s not here for me.”

  Stan the Camera Man, who also served as Daphne’s driver and security guard—something often needed for the pushy and unpopular reporter—parked behind us, blocking us in on the narrow access road.

  “What’re y’all doing back here?” Daphne asked as she jumped out of the van. “Is it another body?”

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I said.

  “What?” she asked, recoiling at my language and tone.

  She had never heard me say anything like that before. Few people had. I rarely if ever spoke that way.

  As we were talking, Stan had climbed out of the driver’s door, rushed around the back of the van, opened the panel on the side, and was readying his camera equipment. When he heard the way I spoke to Daphne, he stopped what he was doing and turned toward us.

  “How can you sound excited about the prospects of another innocent young woman being tortured and murdered?”

  “I didn’t think they were tortured,” she said. “Are they . . . Does he torture them?”

  She was obviously asking out of excitement for a new story angle, not concern.

  “I’m talking about mental, emotional, psychological torture,” I said. “The unimaginable terror that comes from being abducted, feeling powerless, being held against your will. I’m talking about the horror of knowing you’re going to die.”

  “Oooh, that’s good. I can use that.”

  “No you can’t,” I said. “But I do have a quote for you.”

  “Great. Hold on a minute and let me get my camera. Stan, get over here.”

  Stan arrived a moment later, camera on his shoulder, mic held out to her.

  She took the mic and thrusted it out toward me.

  “We’re rolling,” Stan said.

  She turned toward the camera and said, “This is a WSB-TV exclusive. I’m Daphne Littleton. I’m here with two of the police officers working the Stone Cold Killer case. Detective Jordan what can you tell us about the case?”

  “That a reporter who derives pleasure from the death of young women is not dissimilar to the psychopath killing them. The two aberrations of humanity are on the same antisocial spectrum.”

  “Stop the camera,” Walt said.

  Stan didn’t respond.

  “Hey. Fatboy. I said stop the camera and move your fuckin’ van. Now.”

  Ignoring him, Daphne asked me, “If you’re not back here because of a body . . . Are you interviewing someone? A witness or a suspect? Is it a suspect? Who is it? Does the killer work at the park? Is he in maintenance? What’s his name? The people have a right to hear what he has to say.”

  “From a behavioral standpoint,” I said. “The only suspect that fits the profile so far is Daphne Littleton. You should definitely talk to her. The people have a right to hear what she has to say.”

  “You think this is a joke?” she said.

  Walt said, “We think you are. Now move your goddamn van now or I’m gonna arrest you and give an exclusive to Channel Five.”

  “I’m serious, John. Y’all need me on your side. Do you have any idea how bad I can make you look if I want to? Or how bad it’d look if I solved this thing instead of y’all?”

  Walt drew his weapon and grabbed his cuffs off his belt. “Okay,” he said. “Very slowly, put the mic and the camera down and lace your hands behind your head.”

  Stepping out from behind the van, seeming to materialize out of thin air, Bobby Meredith said, “I got this, Walt. Little time in our cell works wonders for uppity bitches.”

  “We’re going. We’re going,” Daphne said. “Jesus. Y’all’re gonna threaten to arrest a member of the media for doing her job.”

  “It’s not a threat,” Meredith said. “It’s happening. Now put the—”

  She turned and started walking away. “Come on Stan. We’re through here.”

  Stan glanced at Walt, who had his gun out but wasn’t pointing it at them, then back to Bobby Meredith, then followed Daphne.

  They returned their equipment to the back of the van, got in, and began to back down the service road. And Walt and Bobby let them.

  31

  When we got back to the station, Frank and Bud were already back.

  “Well?” Frank said.

  “Claims to be innocent,” Walt said. “Said he was havin’ an affair with his wife’s best friend and rather than admit it, the best friend cried rape.”

  “Y’all buyin’ it?” Bud asked.

  I shook my head. “Not without some major substantial corroborating evidence. I mean, it’s possible he’s telling some version of the truth, but . . . I don’t know.”

  “He’s lying his ass off,” Walt said.

  “He wasn’t convicted for some reason,” I said. “We need to find out what it was. Be good to talk to the victim too.”

  “Yeah,” Walt said. “What he said.”

  “But,” I said, “even if he’s lying, even if he’s guilty of rape and assault . . . that’s a long way from what the killer in this case is doing. Doesn’t even appear to be about rape.”

  “True,” Frank said.

  I saw a flash of something just then, an image that might be part of the solution to catching him, but . . . it was gone just as fast as it had come and I couldn’t get it back. What had made me think of it, what had I said or heard or thought that . . . It was when I said these murders don’t appear to have anything to do with rape.

  Why? What is significant about that?

  I’d have to file it away for when I could really give it a good think.

  “Sounds like it’s worth following up,” Frank said, “but not our highest priority. Agree?”

  I nodded. “Should be able to get what we need with a couple of phone calls. Investigator or DA and the victim. I’ll try to track them down this evening.”

  “Thanks.”

  I wanted to ask him how Sylvia’s tests went but didn’t want to do it front of the others. I’d have to remember to check with him before he left or call him tonight if we didn’t get a moment alone before then.

  “Y’all get anywhere with y’all’s?” Walt asked.

  Frank shook his head. “Mine works out of town a few days a week. I left a message for him. We’ll see if he calls back. If not, we’ll pay him a return visit this weekend.”

  Frank had Randy North, one
of the three men who had visited the park on the same days the four victims had been murdered.

  “My guy’s in a wheelchair,” Bud said. “Goes to Stone Mountain to walk his dog. Got one of those motorized chairs. Says he’s out there most every day.”

  Bud had Teddy Sears.

  “Could he be faking?” I asked. “Using the wheelchair as a cover?”

  “That’s what I wondered,” he said. “Seemed real to me, but I’ve got a call into his doctor. So we’ll see.”

  Something occurred to me then.

  “I know we’ve got Joe staying at the campground and keeping an eye on things,” I said, “but has anyone checked to see if anyone has been camping either this entire time or at least each time the young women were taken?”

  “We need to do that,” Bud said.

  “Good thinking, John,” Frank said. “Whether they pay in cash or with a credit card, they have to register, so we should be able to tell pretty quickly and easily. I’ll get somebody over there tonight.”

  “I checked the registration records at the inn,” I said. “None of the guests have stayed the entire time or been here every time one of the women went missing.”

  Walt started to say something but stopped when Joe and Erin walked in.

  “Y’all aren’t going to believe this,” Erin said.

  “Try us,” Bud said.

  “Guess who’s out of the country?”

  She and Joe had gone to interview Benton Weston—Shelly’s boyfriend and one of the men who were in the park when she and the others were killed.

  “That little fucker,” Bud said. “When’s he back?”

  “That’s the thing . . .” she said. “They say he’s just on vacation, but he’s got no scheduled return date.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Walt said.

  “It gets better,” Joe said.

  When he shook his head it emphasized his perpetual need for a haircut.

  “And he went on a one-way ticket,” she said.

  “We had him and let him go,” Frank said.

  “Son of a bitch,” Walt said.

  “Oh, it gets even better,” Joe said.