Eyes of the Predator: The Pickham County Murders (The Hunters)

by Glenn Trust

  “Okay, Ronnie.”

  “I mean it, George. This is a one-time pass. There will be consequences next time.”

  “I understand.” He continued looking at the ground taking his medicine.

  Putting it completely behind them, Kupman continued, “Good job on the vehicle description. We need to get this out and get all the jurisdictions around looking for the car,” Ronnie gave George a light thump in the shoulder, “and a male driver with a longhorn ring on his hand.”

  “Ronnie, I feel sick about this. I could have stopped him. I should have.”

  “The way I see it, George, we have two real clues in this case, the car and the ring, and they both came from you. Pretty damn good police work in my mind.”

  The look on George’s face was doubtful.

  “All right, George,” Ronnie went on, “here’s what we are going to do. You are going to go to your car, get on the radio and put out a BOLO on a mid-nineties GM make, probable Chevrolet sedan. Dirty, dusty or with primer paint. And a driver, probably male, wearing a ring with a longhorn head on it. Then you are going to go interview the Ridleys. I’ll meet you afterwards.”

  George nodded quietly.

  “I,” Ronnie continued, “am going to advise Sheriff Klineman and Bob Shaklee that you reviewed your note pad from last night and found the description of the vehicle along with the approximate time you saw it. When the Sheriff asks why you didn’t bring this up earlier, I will tell him that you wanted to check your notes and confirm the description and time before putting out potentially incorrect information. Just another example of excellent work by Deputy George Mackey.” Ronnie’s eyes crinkled in amusement, “He won’t believe it of course, but as the Savannah stations will be here soon to interview him, he is damn sure going to make sure they know that the key pieces of evidence uncovered so far, were discovered by one of his deputies and not the GBI. He won’t want to rock the boat with reports of any alleged sleeping in rest areas and such.”

  He chuckled outright, “Actually, George, thank you. This is going to be interesting.”

  “Ronnie, I can’t…you don’t have to…”

  “Shut up, George. For once just do what I say. Oh, and make sure that that information about the car is duly recorded in your notepad…just in case someone wants to see it.”

  Chief Deputy Kupman walked off towards the crime scene and Sheriff Klineman. There was a wry smile on his face.

  George Mackey turned to his truck, took the mike in his hand and inhaled deeply before sending the notice across the airwaves for officers to ‘Be on the Lookout’.

  “All units, BOLO…”

  A minute later, the description of the suspect car and the ring was traveling at the speed of radio waves, which is the speed of light, throughout Georgia and northern Florida. It would make its way eventually through the Carolinas, Tennessee and Alabama by the end of the day, and then steadily across the country. But George knew that if there was no follow-up information or additional evidence within the next day or so, the BOLO would be filed away and forgotten, along with a thousand others, in favor of newer more relevant notices coming through the law enforcement networks.

  George finished giving the information over the radio and put the microphone back on its clip on the dashboard. He took the notepad from his breast pocket and wrote for a minute or two. When he was finished, he put his truck in gear. He had work to do.

  40. Lions and Jackals

  About the time the Purcell brothers were pulling their pickup out of the lot to go to their jobsite, Lylee Torkman had pulled the old, faded Chevrolet to the self-service gas pump furthest away from the truck stop store and cafe. He leaned forward as he pulled in scanning for CCTV cameras watching the pump. This was an old truck stop, and he did not see any that were obvious, but there were sure to be cameras at least to record tag numbers of vehicles that drove off without paying. Reaching in the back, he plucked an old, white painters cap off the floorboard and pulled it over his head. It had a large bill that would obscure his face and made him look harmless; a painter filling up before heading to the job. He couldn’t do anything about the car’s plates, but some things couldn’t be helped. He had taken the precaution of removing the tag off a similar make and model car in Texas and putting it on his own when he got to Florida. Stolen tag reports didn’t make it across state lines unless they were associated with some other crime, and right now, he was not associated with any crime, at least that anyone knew about.

  Stepping from the car he continued to scan around, ever cautious and alert to danger or, if he was lucky, to prey. Truck stops were busy places which made anonymity easy.

  Lylee walked to the store to prepay cash for the gas he would buy. The windows of the store were plastered with signs advertising beer. It was a great combination, eighty thousand pound trucks and beer. The irony was not lost on him, and a thin smile flashed across his thin face.

  Pulling the dirty glass door open, Lylee entered the store. There was movement everywhere. The herd was restless, in constant movement, and he would blend in without trouble, staying on the periphery and observing without being noticed.

  A fat kid at the register was sweating and waiting on customers with an indifferent manner. Lylee noticed that he was a bit more attentive to the rough looking truckers than he was to some of the other customers. The kid might have been an indifferent smart ass, Lylee saw, but he was smart enough to know what line he best not cross with the truckers, male and female, roaming through the store looking for sundries or just killing time.

  Avoiding contact with anyone, Lylee wandered and watched. He examined an item off a shelf now and then, but his attention was always peripherally taking in all that went on around him, in a sort of subconscious mental scan mode, seeing everything and everyone at once without really focusing on anyone specific unless to examine and evaluate them. The evaluation usually only took a second or two, and then Lylee was back to scan mode. But during the evaluation, Lylee’s senses would soak in all that was possible to absorb. All of the data gathered was instantly used to classify the object of the examination as Threat, No-Threat or Prey. Occasionally, not often, the classification might be, Interesting and Curious, and after a short diversion examining the curiosity, Lylee would move back to scan mode.

  An old couple was standing in front of the drink cooler as Lylee walked by.

  “Albert, they don’t have Diet Pepsi, just Diet Coke,” the old woman said to the frail looking man next to her.

  “I don’t like Diet Coke,” he replied truculently.

  “Well that’s all they have.”

  “Well, I don’t like it.” The conversation was going nowhere.

  The old woman threw up her hands, “Fine then, pick something you like and let’s go.”

  Lylee squeezed behind the pair in front of the cooler saying, “Excuse me.” The tone was perfect, indifferent but polite, drawing no attention. Too friendly, and they would notice him, smile and possibly make eye contact. Eye contact might lead to identification. Too curt, and they might notice him for the opposite reason. He moved by them in the narrow aisle, avoiding contact. The couple remained unaware of the chilling man who had just brushed by, scanning them and taking in the old woman’s thick perfume and the dark liver spots on Albert’s hand holding the cooler door open as he searched for the perfect soft drink.

  Moving slowly from aisle to aisle, Lylee continued scanning. At the end of an aisle, he stopped in front of a rack of snack cakes. His peripheral vision caught sight of a pretty, dark-haired girl in front of the magazine rack. She was holding a magazine, but just looking down and not reading. Instantly his senses reacted, and he went from scan mode to detailed examination. Data was needed. Potential prey had been discovered. As he watched, a heavyset man, a trucker, took up station a couple of feet away from the girl and picked up a magazine. Lylee knew instantly that the large man was there for the girl, not for the magazine. The girl, however, was oblivious.

  A short conv
ersation started between the two. The girl was clearly uncomfortable. While Lylee couldn’t hear everything, he could pick up that the man was offering her a ride. Lylee knew that the offer of a ride was just a pretext to get the girl into his truck. The trucker was reasonably smooth though. Not expert like Lylee, but he knew enough to let her decide he was safe by not pressing the issue. She was desperate or she wouldn’t be standing alone in the truck stop with that look of hopelessness on her face. The trucker knew, as did Lylee, that she would accept the offer. Clearly, she was frightened, alone, and intimidated by the business of the truck stop and the people around her. If he could win her trust, she would gladly accept the ride to escape the truck stop. She might not like the price she would have to pay for the ride, but that would not be collected until later, and she would have no choice at that point.

  The large trucker gave her a smile and went outside. The girl stared after him. Lylee walked down the aisle and passed behind the girl. She was unaware, still staring out the window at the trucker who was standing beside his truck. His senses drank in everything about her as he walked by. Her height, the small mole on her neck, her scent, everything. That instant of close proximity to the prey aroused him profoundly. He felt the blood rise and the plan began forming in his mind.

  Lylee walked up to the fat kid and put two snack cakes and a pint of milk on the counter.

  “Three eighty-five,” the kid said indifferently. Clearly, the slight man at the counter was not a trucker. No need to waste any politeness on him.

  Lylee took two twenties from his wallet and tossed them on the counter. He kept his head down so that the hat’s bill completely blocked his face from the camera behind the cashier.

  “And twenty in gas. Pump seven,” he said not looking up.

  The kid gave a deep sigh of disgust, and turned to activate the pump.

  “That all you got?” he said in annoyance, pointing at the extra twenty to pay for the milk and snack cakes.

  “What did you say to me?” Lylee’s voice was low, but the tone was hard and threatening. He raised his head just enough for the fat kid to see his eyes. The narrowed slits with only the pupils showing stared fiercely into the cashier’s own eyes, which widened perceptively at the intensity of the stare.

  “Uh, nothing, just a little short of change. I’ll make it work though, no problem.” The kid nervously swallowed. This guy might not be a trucker, but there was an air of danger about him that the kid was not going to challenge.

  Lylee knew that he should have just paid the clerk and moved on without drawing any attention to himself, but his blood was up. There was prey near. His body twitched with excitement. He was the king, the predator, and whether this fat kid knew it or not, he would do well to show the king some goddamned respect.

  “Would you like a sack for that, sir?”

  “Yes, I would,” Lylee replied. His threatening eyes staring at the cashier from under the bill of the painter’s hat.

  The kid quickly looked away, put the snack cakes and milk in a sack, and slid it over.

  Giving him a last look, Lylee walked outside. The kid felt himself relax as the danger moved away. Nothing was said, and no one would have noticed the exchange between the two, but he sensed that he had just come close to some force that was dangerous in a way that was far beyond the normal tough guy trucker attitude he was used to. Creepy, the kid thought.

  The old couple was next in line and they placed their goods on the counter. Todd-the-clerk was intently watching the young girl who walked out in front of the creepy man and was talking to the fat truck driver. Annoyed at the distraction from the elderly couple, he began ringing up their items with his normal surliness, giving one last glance at the girl across the lot. Yea, a little skinny, but nice ass.

  Outside, Lylee walked across the lot to his car and began pumping gas, showing no outward interest in her. She walked slowly and tentatively across the lot, unaware of his presence and of the gray eyes following her.

  The girl spoke briefly with the trucker. He smiled broadly and showed her how to climb into the truck.

  Lylee watched intently without appearing to. The prey was his. The fat trucker was nothing more than a scavenger, a jackal. Jackals didn’t take prey from lions. This jackal just wasn’t aware that there was a lion around. He would be, soon. The anticipation beat rapidly in his chest, surging adrenaline through him. The predator would fight to protect its kill. A barely audible rumbling sound escaped the thin man at every smile the girl gave the big trucker. It would have been called a growl had it come from another species of mammal.

  41. Orders

  Tom Ridley stepped out on the bare wood porch of his house as George pulled the county truck up the short gravel driveway.

  “How ya doin’, Tom,” George said stepping out, hiking up his trousers at the waist as he walked to the porch.

  “George,” Ridley said nodding and standing with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. The screen door behind him creaked as his wife, Margaret, stepped out onto the porch.

  “Want some coffee, George,” she asked, nodding her hello.

  “Sure. Worked last night. Looks like a long day.”

  “Yeah.” Ridley looked up from the spot on the porch he had been staring at. “You see her?”

  “Yeah, I did Tom. I need to ask you some questions.”

  “Okay, ask away.” Tom looked back down at the porch.

  “Tell me what happened, what you saw, heard, anything you remember.”

  Ridley continued looking at the porch and started speaking. “Early, before light, I was in the yard and I heard something. Like a car door or something. A minute or so later, I could hear the engine and the sound of the car moving on the gravel, like it was backing up and then moving forward, you know.”

  George nodded and waited, letting Tom gather himself and continue.

  “Honestly, I figured it was you sleeping on the dirt road this morning in your car when I heard it turning around.”

  George’s conscience twitched hard.

  “No, Tom, wasn’t me.” Not on Ridley Road at least, he thought, feeling the knife prick at his heart. “What happened next?”

  “Well…nothing. I just had breakfast and went about my chores here. Then I headed over to the chicken barns…but I never got there.” He paused, and then continued. “I headed down the road and thought I saw some trash someone had dumped. I was gonna pick it up.” He became quiet. The screen door squealed behind him and Margaret returned holding George’s cup of coffee. Standing beside Tom, she put her hand on his arm.

  “Did you see anything else, Tom?”

  “You mean besides that little girl out there? No not really.”

  “I know it’s hard, Tom, but anything you saw or heard might be important. We don’t have much right now.”

  Margaret reached down and handed the coffee to George who was standing on the first step.

  Taking a gulp, George shifted his focus to her. “Thanks, Margaret. How about you? See or hear anything?”

  “No, George. I was still in bed. Just old Tom here peeing out in the yard, I could hear that pretty good.”

  Tom gave her a sideways glance, shook his head, then said, “George, all I heard was a click like a latch on a car door or something. After that, the sound of tires in the gravel. I could tell he was turning around in the road.” He paused as if remembering the moment and then repeated wishfully his earlier statement. “Thought it was you, or someone dumping garbage.”

  Tom paused, head down. “I guess that’s what it was. Someone dumped that poor little girl like garbage. How could someone do that, George?” There were tears in the old chicken farmer’s eyes.

  George ran his hand through his hair and shook his head before responding. “I don’t know, Tom. There’s bad people. I don’t know why.”

  “Most terrible thing I ever seen, for sure,” Tom said softly staring back at the porch.

  Margaret reached out, put her work worn hand on her husband�
�s arm again and patted it this time. Looking George squarely in the eye, she said, “You catch whoever did this. You hear, George Mackey.” It was a command not a question. “You just catch him.”

  George looked back at her solemnly and said, “Yes, ma’am, we will. We’ll try.”

  “No trying, George.” Her voice was firm. “You catch him.”

  It was an order, given in the same tone he had heard as a boy when he and the Ridley’s boy, Robert, would get into mischief, and Mrs. Ridley would straighten them out. The order had been given, and she expected him to carry it out.

  First Mrs. Sims, now Margaret Ridley. No pressure there.

  George took a deep breath, nodded, and handed the coffee cup back to her. There was nothing more to say. He turned and walked across the bare yard to his pickup. Tom stepped off the porch following.

  “George,” he said.

  “Yes, Tom.” George stood with his hand on the half open truck door.

  “I feel like maybe I should have caught the guy. I mean, I heard him down the road, just a little ways. He probably didn’t even see the house. I could have sneaked up on him with my shotgun. At least maybe then, well maybe the girl would be alive.”

  George had to swallow down his own guilt as he tried to put Tom’s mind at ease.

  “Tom, there was nothing you could have done. She was already dead when he put her in the weeds.”

  “But I should have tried to do something. Instead I just stood there taking a leak.” Tom swallowed hard. “George, that was someone’s little girl, and now…they don’t even know.” His voice trailed off.

  “Tom,” George said taking firm hold of his arm in the way friends do. “You didn’t do this, and you are not to blame. There is nothing you could have done, and besides, it’s best you didn’t catch up with him. This is a bad man, a really, bad man. Like an animal. You catch up to him, corner him, and he’s likely to turn on you and hurt you, or worse like a cornered bobcat; shotgun or no shotgun, I’m glad you didn’t go looking for him out there.”