He also had a four page rap sheet of various offenses, such as robbery, possession of stolen property, possession of controlled substances, and distribution of narcotics in Georgia, Tennessee, and Alabama. He’d been imprisoned, paroled, fined. Also included were a long list of aliases: Damon Malantino, Damon Peterson, Jim Jackson, Eugene Wallace Hubbard, and Marvin Allen Williams.
Perry was born in Ohio on July 8th, 1944, but grew up in Gadsden and Oxford Alabama, two nearby towns in northern Alabama. He worked in construction, was the father of two daughters, and was divorced from their mother. In one Alabama arrest, he had threatened to cut off the fingers of a man’s son if the man didn’t tell him where some money was hidden. He claimed to have made over $150,000 in drug dealings in 1979.
Eugene Perry and Cindy Sue Brown (aka Loralei) hooked up sometime before 1980, probably by a mutual involvement with the drug scene in the Atlanta region. Cindy had been arrested in Gadsden, Alabama, for possession of controlled substances in October of 1979 and in Atlanta in May of 1980, where she was sentenced to thirty-six months probation.
Perhaps Cindy Sue liked Perry’s green eyes, and he liked her cute little figure. Even while he was in prison in Florida, he wrote to Cindy’s grandmother, confessing his love for Cindy Sue, and when he was paroled, they hooked up again. Cindy Sue claimed she was afraid of Perry, and that he had conned her into falling in love with him.
In Tyrone, Georgia, a little town south of Atlanta, at Camper’s Paradise, they had lived together for about three months in a trailer, which was located near the camp office. Perry also owned a blue and white Cadillac and a pop-up camper, which he parked next to the trailer. Many of the fellow campers believed Cindy Sue and Perry were married, or at least living together as a couple. However, Perry also was off and on romantically involved with Barbara Price, a fellow camper and the office manager, who collected the rent. She also had a twelve-year-old son, who sometimes lived with her.
Barbara Price had known that a big van show was coming to stay at the campground for about a week. She’d told Perry that, if he stayed a week longer than when he was planning to leave, he could sell a lot of drugs to the bikers, and that she would take a small percentage of the profits Perry would make.
Perry stayed and made money. So did Barbara Price.
On August 25th, she and her son were found gagged and tied up with rope and each murdered by two shots to the head.
Perry claimed he left Paradise on August 20th, 1980. He’d need plenty of excuses and several more aliases to get out of trouble in Georgia and in Arkansas.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Karen Staton had set her alarm for 6:30 a.m. on the 28th of September, but she waked before it sounded. She had taken her bath the night before and planned the dress and sandals she’d wear to the first day of reopening the jewelry store. With the stoic resignation she had exhibited since she and her mother had made the decision to reopen, she climbed out of bed and went into the bathroom down the hall.
Her mother was already up and had the coffee ready. She, too, displayed a strong, silent countenance, and tears were not going to fall that day.
Opening the store was something they must do. It was necessary for their survival, both physical and mental. The Christmas catalogue was being printed and would arrive sometime in mid-November, and they had to be ready. As in most retail businesses, Christmas was make or break time.
Ruth offered her daughter some toast and bacon, but she declined, saying she wasn’t hungry. She drank a little coffee, kissed her mama’s cheek, and went out the kitchen door.
The short drive to Cloverleaf Plaza in her Camaro was such a familiar one, she realized when she parked her car under a parking lot light that she didn’t actually remember it. The walk to the store took about twenty-five steps, and when she reached the front door, she had the key ready in her hand. She took a deep breath and unlocked the door.
The store seemed so empty. Until the replacement jewelry arrived, the display cases would have to be filled with something. Having no rings or watches or chains or pendants beckoning customers to take a look would do nothing for the morale of those who worked there or those who came to shop. The insurance company and their suppliers had been extremely helpful in getting claims processed and orders filled, and Karen expected the mail run to be heavy on the first day back.
Phyllis, their part-time employee who was determined to stay with them, arrived shortly before nine, and Karen assigned her the task of calling people whose watches had been repaired and needed to be picked up. Most of their customers knew about the robbery and would be understanding about the delay in notification. Thank goodness, the robbers had left the repair box alone.
Edwin Vinson, the manager of Hunt’s Department Store, came over midmorning, bringing cinnamon rolls one of the girls from Hunt’s had baked that morning.
“We thought you might enjoy these with your coffee,” he said. They were still warm. “Suzanne had put some fall clothes in layaway,” he said, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. He handed Karen an envelope. “Her money and receipt are in here.”
Karen glanced at the receipt. Suzanne had picked out a pair of brown corduroy pants, a brown plaid cotton blouse, and a burnt-orange sweater. Those colors were in for fall, and Karen remembered Suzanne telling her about the cute things she had bought for the first cool October days.
“Thanks, Edwin,” she said. Karen did not allow her eyes to fill with tears. She knew she must protect herself and detach. That was the only way she could survive. “I’ll give this to Tom.”
Around 11:00 a.m., Ruth arrived for work, feeling somewhat comforted after spending an hour or so in her kitchen reading the sympathy cards and letters that had been arriving since September 11th. One letter in particular pleased her. It was dated September 15th, 1980, and typed on Westark Community College stationery from an English teacher who knew Suzanne.
Dear Mrs. Staton,
I would like to express the deep sorrow that I feel for the loss of your husband and daughter. I knew Suzanne as a student in my English class the spring semester of this last school year at Westark Community College. Suzanne made a strong impression on me, not only because of her superior ability as a student, but because of her personality. She has been the only student that I have had who made straight-A’s all semester. Also, I was impressed with her modesty and kindness. She was a real asset in the classroom. I know that she and her father are a great loss to their family and their community.
Sincerely,
Joy Lowe, Chairman
Division of Humanities
As any mother would, Ruth felt pleased to read the gracious words about her Suzanne. She did make a mark in the world in which she lived. And if she had lived, she would have accomplished whatever she wanted to do. Ruth felt confident about that. Suzanne’s English teacher said so.
Ruth chatted with Phyllis about the cards she’d received in the mail.
“You wouldn’t believe how many we’ve gotten,” she said. “It will take me forever to read them all, and I can only read a few at a time.”
Phyllis smiled and hugged Ruth.
“Karen has me calling people about their watches. Each person wants to tell me how sorry they are and how much they liked Mr. Staton.”
“Oh, that’s nice, but it might take you all day if you have to talk to each person.”
Ruth walked over to Karen. “What shall I do first?” she asked.
“Well, the mail needs to be opened and boxes unpacked.”
“Okay, I’ll get right on it,” Ruth said.
Karen would be carrying the full load now, but her mother was confident she could do it. Karen was their firstborn, and she had always achieved what she set out to do, even early on when she’d been playing outdoors making mud pies.
The phone rang, and even though Karen stood next to it, she could not answer it. She felt like her throat was closing up, and a surge of panic fill her chest.
“Phyllis, can you get the
phone? I’ve just remembered something I must do or I’ll forget it.”
“Sure,” Phyllis said.
It wasn’t until she was home that night and telling her husband about the first day back after the murders that she realized Karen had not once answered the phone all day.
During those first days, Karen did not attempt to answer the ringing telephone. It reminded her of that Wednesday evening when she’d lifted up the phone to call an ambulance but instead had fallen on her knees to the floor and left the phone dangling, the dial tone echoing Karen’s own weeping that had come tumbling out in gulps.
—||—
The days passed, merchandise arrived, and shelves were beginning to be stocked with sparkling gold and silver bracelets and rings. Wedding sets beckoned newly engaged couples, and each day was a little bit easier than before.
Merchants from throughout the shopping center stopped by to check on the Statons and give them encouragement. One man in particular, Stan Steele, who operated a radio station, was particularly helpful. With his radio voice that was especially soothing, he passed along the news from the stores, the temperature expected by midday, and how great the Pointers football team was coming along.
But one day was particularly hard. Two women entered the store and looked all around. Karen had seen them before. Van Buren was a small town with lots of familiar-looking people whose names she didn’t know. One lady leaned over the counter by the cash register and peered all around.
“Wonder where the bodies were?” she said.
Karen looked at the woman, smiled only slightly, and said, “The bodies were my father and sister.”
The women left—not in a huff, but rather like shamed dogs with their tails between their legs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Rick and his mushroom-gathering friend hitchhiked to Alberta, with a stop made in Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, where they slept outside on a pile of rocks and shivered all night in the cold. Another ride took them to Regina, Saskatchewan, where a kind person invited them inside his house for showers and food.
In Alberta, Rick split from his companion because the guy wanted to pick close to the U.S. border, and Rick didn’t want to get that close to chances of getting captured. Instead, he went on to Edmonton, where he got a job washing windows from scaffolds on tall buildings. That lasted two weeks, just long enough to get him enough money to move on.
Uneasy about staying too long in one place, he worked for a month at a local moving and storage company. He then moved farther north around Fort St. John, thinking he’d find work in the oil fields, which were somewhere up in the bush down logging roads. These treks were by foot, and Rick was getting more and more exhausted.
He stopped for the night in the open country, thinking he should try to sleep in a tree, but that turned out to be impossible, so he climbed down and gathered some firewood for a night on the ground. His fire went out, and it was too dark to gather more. He listened to wolves howling in the distance and prayed for daylight to come soon.
In the morning, he continued on his journey on foot to the oil rig only to find it had shut down because of political fights between Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau and the oil companies. Only a skeleton crew was left, but he was fed and given a ride back to the nearest town.
He went back to Edmonton and met a man named Joel LaPlant, who was a lowlife, like Rick. LaPlant allowed him to use his name and social insurance number to get a photo ID made. Because the weather was almost blizzard-like in Edmonton, Rick went to Calgary, where he’d been told the weather wasn’t as bad. There he stayed at a hostel and met a man named Ivo Shapox. He and Rick went out drinking at night, spending all the money he made in day labor jobs. During one drinking spree, Rick stole Ivo’s birth certificate, and using his ID, he hired on with an oil company and spent time out in the field.
Rick was always moving. Always drinking. Always looking over his shoulder. With each move he made, the more desperate he became, and all feelings of self-worth were gone. He felt like he was on the end of a long, long trail.
He remembered the warm living room of his home in upstate New York with his parents and siblings. He could almost smell the salt air of the Atlantic when he and his father took out the sailboat and imagined the warm water on his back as they scuba dove in Florida. His father and brother had tried everything to get Rick back in the arms of his family and back on track to lead a decent life. It wasn’t to be, and he was nothing but a drunk, a druggie, and a pimp. Rick found it hard to climb up out of the gutter and much easier to stay down amongst the slime.
Rick was in this frame of mind on December 9th, almost three months to the day after the Arkansas crime, when he arrived in Vancouver after working in a bakery and a small ski resort in Alberta. He found a cheap room and went out to a crowded tavern for a beer. When he was approached at the bar by an older man, who was trying to pick him up, he realized he was in a gay bar. Had he realized what kind of bar it was, he wouldn’t have entered because he had a deep disdain for gays. However, since he was already there, he thought he’d just play along until the time was right.
“I’m going to get us a room,” the man said.
“Okay,” Rick said and followed him out the door.
The man walked half a block up the street and into the Broadway Hotel. He registered at the desk and asked for two keys. He then went back outside to the street and gave Rick the key to room 312.
After a five minute or so wait, Rick walked into the hotel and pushed the elevator button for the third floor. He knocked on 312, and he was invited in by the overweight, balding man in his fifties. He wore an expensive suit and well-polished shoes. He took off his silk tie and unbuttoned his shirt.
Rick was repulsed by homosexuals. In his opinion, they should all be strangled at the moment of birth, but there he was in a room with a fat queer who probably had a lot of cash on him. He’d play along for a few seconds and then rob the guy.
“You’re new at this, aren’t you?” the man said.
He moved closer and touched Rick’s cheek with his soft hand. He wore an onyx ring on his little finger.
“You might be surprised and like it.”
When he felt the man’s finger on his face, Rick exploded with rage. The days of living like an animal, foraging for food and shelter and beer, had taken every bit of human compassion out of him. No shred of the cute little Anderson boy was left. He had disgraced his mother and father.
It was then that Rick pulled out a four-inch Buck knife, with the intent of threatening the man. Instead, he stabbed the man in the gut, surprised at how hard it was to kill him. He was fat, and it was excruciatingly difficult to find his vital organs with the short blade. He repeatedly jabbed and probed until the man fell to the floor. Rick didn’t even know the man’s name until ten years later when he was charged with the murder of a Toronto business executive, Michael John Hendy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Rick returned to his rented room. Killing a man with a four-inch knife was difficult, and he felt exhausted from the sheer physical strength it took to stab a struggling man. Without taking off his shoes, he fell asleep across the sagging mattress with dirty sheets, a fitting bed for a lowlife like Rick Anderson.
When Rick waked, he evaluated his situation. He had gone beyond the point of no return. He was on the run from the killings in Arkansas, which would result, probably, in the death penalty for him if he was ever caught. His life had never been the same since he met Damon Peterson, and he would be on the run forever. Nothing mattered anymore.
He found a job washing dishes at a high-class Vancouver international hotel, where much of the staff was able to speak multiple languages. As he was wont to do, he left there after a few weeks and decided to return to Edmonton. For that trip, he went by train and traveled through the Rocky Mountains, where it snowed most of the way. The train arrived at the Edmonton station during a blizzard.
He had met a man in an earlier trip to Edmonton, so he walked all th
e way to the drinking buddy’s apartment. His friend had moved, but he was able to break into a nearby unrented room. He stayed there while he looked for his friend. With the blizzard not letting up and no luck in finding his friend, he decided to go to Calgary, where he hoped to find better weather. The weather was just as bad there, so he took another bus back to Vancouver.
As always, the first thing Rick did when he got into a town like Vancouver was head for a bar, where he could always get loaded and meet a woman if he wanted to. At that particular bar, he met a woman named Edith, who was on parole for robbing a bank.
A seed was planted in Rick’s inebriated brain that maybe he, too, could rob a bank. It so happened that his rented room’s window looked out on a bank, and every time he looked out the window, he saw the bank.
But instead of robbing it, he moved again to a room in Chinatown, north of downtown Vancouver. At a bar, he saw a girl he had met earlier in Edmonton, who was waitressing there. He invited her to go home with him after work, but because his room had no television, she declined. Instead, she introduced him to her friends, who invited Rick to go out with them to live in the bush. He thought that idea sounded good, particularly since the girl was pretty cute, but he needed some cash to get supplies gathered up. He told the girl he was working on something, and he’d let her know in a couple of days.
For the next few days, he holed up in his room, drinking a case of beer he had stolen off a beer truck. With the lucidity and high mentality only alcohol can supply a drunk, he began his plot to rob a bank.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
On a stereo brought from Karen’s home, music from favorite Christmas albums drifted throughout the Staton Jewelry Store. In an effort to make the store inviting to customers, Karen and Phyllis had begun decorating for Christmas during the week of Thanksgiving. Gold and silver tinsel strands hung across the front windows, and decorative gift items, like silver trays and tea services and glass decanters and silver goblets, sat on sheets of white, fluffy cotton that looked like snow.
Closing Time: A True Story of Robbery and Double Murder Page 9
