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

by Glenn Trust

  61. Day’s End

  Bob Shaklee kicked his shoes off and stretched out on a hard bed in the Colonial Hotel in the center of Everett. It was a hell of a lot nicer than the StarLite motel in Roydon, but a long ways from the Ritz in Atlanta. He had worked a case involving threats to the governor once that had taken him to Atlanta. The governor’s office had put him up at the Ritz Carlton in the upscale Buckhead neighborhood, instead of the usual mid-market, garden variety hotel the state generally provided. But today the hard bed and austere room provided by the Colonial were fine with him.

  Pulling his cell phone from the case on his belt, he leaned back on the pillow and punched ‘Home’ on the speed dial. A smile that erased the weariness and unpleasant memories of the day spread across his face when his sixteen year old daughter answered.

  “Whatcha doin’, Punkin’?”

  “Daddy! Hey, mom. Dad’s on the phone.” The background noises coming from his home melted the memories of the day.

  ****

  In a room on the fourth floor of the Colonial, Sharon Price stood leaning on the window frame and staring out onto the quiet court square of Everett. The fourth floor was the highest floor in the hotel. That made it the smoking floor, which suited Price completely.

  She inhaled deeply from the cigarette in her hand and let the smoke wisp away into the night air through the open window. Slowly the thoughts of the day faded. The images of the bodies of the old man and young girl receded from the front of her brain where they had been seared in place all day.

  There was no phone call for her to make. She was alone. Sharon Price had grown up in a backwater part of Georgia, not much different from Pickham County. Change the names of the towns; you would hardly be able to distinguish one from the other. Her mother had died of breast cancer at an early age. Her father had been there when she went away to the University of Georgia in Athens. He was a good father who had done his best to raise a daughter on his own. She had come home for Christmas during her sophomore year and then never saw her father again.

  Just after the New Year, he had been working late in the convenience store he owned on the outskirts of the small town they lived in. It was a town much like Everett. Someone had come in while he was closing and shot her father in the chest. Robbing the till, the killer managed to make off with a grand total of three hundred seventy-four dollars. He was never caught.

  Her father lay bleeding out on the floor. They said it probably took over an hour for him to die. He wasn’t found until the next morning when a local farmer came in for coffee.

  After the funeral, Sharon Price changed her major at the university from accounting to criminal justice. She landed a job with the GBI after graduation and worked her way into investigations.

  The cigarette smoke drifted through the window into the night air letting the day’s memories drift out with it until the room began to chill. Stubbing the butt in the small plastic ashtray that had not been cleaned after the previous tenant, she tugged the window shut and pulled the musty drapes. Time for bed. There was another long day ahead tomorrow.

  ****

  Anxious frustration pushed Clay on his quest, and his foot pushed the accelerator of the pickup. Scanning side to side and ahead, he looked for any vehicle that might resemble an older Chevrolet sedan. Having no idea where to go, he had been driving around east Georgia, searching the major highways and interstates for the old Chevy. Eventually he had decided to just head west from Savannah towards Atlanta, two hundred and fifty miles away. It wasn’t north, but it was a central hub for interstates and highways. Anyone traveling very far in any direction through the state might well pass through Atlanta. And there were several truck stops. He would search them all if necessary. Besides, it was still in Georgia, still home, or close to it.

  Like Lyn, his backcountry Pickham County roots might make him seem naïve, but he was not stupid. He knew that this was a useless chase. He had stopped trying to understand what compelled him to search and just accepted it.

  Still, the odds of finding the girl were…well, finding her wasn’t very likely. He would give it another day, no more. Then, having fulfilled whatever sense of obligation it was that urged him on and, hopefully, shed of the guilt and sense of responsibility that had preyed on his mind all day, he would have to turn back to his brother and the job in Savannah.

  A light rain had begun to fall, and the drops of rain on the sides of the windshield reflected the lights from the cars around him. Some of the drops reflected red and blue light, as if from a prism.

  Clay glanced at the mirror while traffic around him slowed. The police car, emergency strobe lights flashing, roared up to his bumper.

  Great. The perfect end to the day.

  He guided the car through the slowing traffic and moved onto the shoulder of the interstate. The Georgia State Patrol cruiser followed. As they pulled off the road, the rest of the traffic picked up speed, resuming their trips. Clay waited impatiently in the truck, both hands on the wheel, as the Trooper approached carefully, flashlight shining into and around the truck’s interior.

  ****

  Spray from the semi rig he was passing covered the windshield, temporarily blinding Leyland Torkman. He turned the wipers on with a jerk and continued passing the truck. Easing back into the right lane, he signaled carefully and put some distance between the Chevy and the big rig.

  The bright pinkish lights of the I-95 and I-26 intersection glowed garishly ahead in the rainy mist. Knowing that police communications between states were notoriously unreliable, and that in the unlikely event anyone had reported his abduction of the girl, it would take hours for that information to make its way to local police, even in an adjacent state, Lylee had left Georgia and proceeded up the coast of South Carolina. The old car whirred steadily along on the wet pavement. Contentment flowed in a loop from him into the car, to the wheels splashing on the pavement, back through the chassis and frame into the seat, and into him. It was a pleasant sensation.

  Turning his head, he reached out and placed his hand on the thigh of the pretty brunette. After several hours in the car with him, she had overcome the initial shock and fear. She stiffened and looked at him with defiance.

  A smile spread across his face at that. He moved his hand up and down her thigh as she straightened as much as she could in a symbolic effort to resist him.

  Defiance. That would change, he thought, smiling more broadly at her. Before he was done, she would be whimpering at the realization that there was to be no salvation. He would take his time. She was special. The end would be special. He would see to that.

  Blue and red emergency lights ahead signaled an accident on I-95 that had traffic slowed at the giant interchange of the two major traffic corridors. There was no thought, just reaction as his planned direction changed. Smoothly, Lylee guided the car onto the ramp from I-95 to I-26 towards Columbia. He would not be slowed, or possibly stopped, while the law muddled around him at a traffic accident. Merging into traffic, he settled again in the seat and the contentment returned.

  ****

  Swallowing the scream down and pushing the fear deep inside, Lyn glared at the man touching her. She had been staring through the rain speckled glass, head resting against the window when his touch had startled her. As she had earlier during their ‘pit stop’, she sensed that it was important for her immediate survival to show some resistance, to challenge him just enough to show that she was different, but not enough to anger him. It was a fine line to walk, and a mental effort that heightened the fatigue she felt, but she had no choice.

  Hours ago she had forced out of her mind all of the ‘what ifs’. What if she hadn’t had a fight with her father? What if she hadn’t taken the ride to the truck stop? What if she hadn’t gotten into the truck with Henry, or into this car with…with whoever this was?

  For now, she had to live with what was happening and survive. Most of all survive. The thought of Clay and the call she had made to him on Big Leon’s phone was a
guilty memory to be pushed down inside for now. She was where she was. There had never been any dramatic rescues or heroes in her life. She expected none now.

  ****

  Sitting on the edge of his bed, stripped to his underwear, George Mackey cradled a dirty tumbler holding three full fingers of bourbon in his hand. The thought of calling his ex-wife and asking to speak to the girls crossed his mind. He considered it for a moment and then pushed it aside. He had no desire to fight tonight, and a call to Darlene would inevitably lead to an argument. Besides, it was late and the girls were probably in bed.

  Turning the glass of bourbon slowly in his hand, he wondered if the parents of the girl murdered and left on Ridley Road had been notified. He had made a few death notifications in his time with the sheriff’s department. Traffic accidents mostly. It was always unpleasant, but traffic accidents were something people knew about. They had some connection to everyday life. Not everyone died in traffic accidents, but it wasn’t unheard of. It was something a parent could hate but understand.

  How did you tell parents that their daughter had been brutally and sadistically murdered, for no apparent reason, other than some animal had picked her out of the crowd? What understanding could they have? What sense could they make of that? It was something he had not had to do, and he was glad of it.

  Closing his eyes, George saw the old Chevy glide by in the dark, except this time, he followed in his county pickup and stopped the car. He pictured himself walking up. The slender brown-haired man would be behind the wheel. The girl would be in the passenger seat, and he would stop anything from happening to her.

  But that couldn’t be. It would never be. The girl was already tortured, dead and in the weeds on Ridley Road.

  She was dead. George was too late. He was always too late for the important things, it seemed.

  But at least he could have looked the animal in the eye. And then what? Yes, then what? Arrest him? Kill him? Be killed by him? All possibilities. George was too tired to figure it out.

  In one gulp, he downed the bourbon and laid back on the bed waiting for the alcohol to dim the day and allow him to drift into sleep.

  ****

  Angel Sims…Mrs. Harold Sims…sat on the front porch of the house she and her husband had shared for sixty years. They had raised their family there. The chair he had been sitting in the night before rocked gently in the breeze blowing in with the rain.

  Unconsciously, she reached out to touch the arm of the chair where his arm would have been resting. The wood was damp and cold, and her fingers recoiled quickly, settling in her lap.

  A lone tear marked its way down her brown, weathered face. She watched the woods where the trail entered on the other side of the yard, where he had disappeared into the dark just about this time last night. Mist swirled across the yard, brought up by the rain and humidity and the cooler night air. It was as if Harold had disappeared into the mist. She knew he wasn’t coming back, but her gaze was expectant, hopeful. It was all she could be.

  62. Traffic Stop

  “Driver’s license and proof of insurance, please.” The trooper’s flashlight shone directly into Clay’s eyes causing him to squint.

  Clay took his hands from the steering wheel and reached into his back pocket to retrieve his wallet. Flipping it open, he handed the license and insurance card to the trooper who kept the light partially in his eyes and partially on the license so that he could read them in the dark.

  “Guess I was speeding, officer,” Clay said, uncomfortable with the trooper’s scrutiny and light in his eyes.

  “Yes. Yes, you were, Mr. Purcell.” The trooper raised the light so that it was full in Clay’s face again. “Is there some reason for that?”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Looking for someone? Who?”

  “A girl. Her name is Lyn,” Clay said impatiently. “Look, sorry I was speeding officer. I know I got a ticket coming, and I’m not trying to be smart, but I need to get moving again. Could you check me out and write the ticket, and I promise to hold the speed down from now on.”

  “A girl named Lyn,” the trooper continued calmly and without acknowledging Clay’s comments. “Who is she? Girlfriend? Wife? Some sort of domestic problems between you?”

  Clay’s head dropped in exasperated resignation. “No. Nothing like that. She’s a girl my brother and I met last night…this morning…at a diner on the interstate. She needed a ride so we took her to a truck stop outside Savannah.”

  “That was nice of you. So where’s she headed?”

  “Canada.”

  “Canada? Really? Where’s she from?”

  “Somewhere down in Pickham County. She wouldn’t say where exactly.”

  The trooper’s next question was spoken in a voice that had suddenly lost the neutral-toned modulation of a routine traffic stop. “Tell me exactly where you met this girl and where you left her. The whole story.”

  The trooper’s tone startled Clay. The traffic stop had just taken a turn, and he wasn’t sure if it was for good or bad. The one thing it did, for certain, was raise his concern for Lyn.

  Clay quickly recounted the encounter at the I-95 Diner and the trip to the AcrossAmerica Truck Stop. He explained the phone message Lyn had left and his search for her at the truck stop. When he got to the part about Lyn leaving in a vehicle described as an older, faded Chevrolet in the company of a medium built white male with brown hair, the trooper stopped him.

  “Mr. Purcell. I need you to come back to my vehicle with me.” He opened the door of the pickup and backed up waiting for Clay to follow.

  Clay’s heart pounded in his chest. Stepping from the pickup, he moved past the trooper and towards the cruiser.

  “You carrying any weapons?”

  Clay turned at the trooper’s question.

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Show me your belt line and pockets.”

  The trooper watched closely as Clay pulled his pockets inside out and turned around.

  “Good. Have a seat in the passenger side,” the trooper said as he moved to the driver’s door.

  Clay did as he was instructed. Once in the cruiser, he told the story again. The trooper was particularly interested in the description of the Chevy and the man driving it, and of the girl.

  When he was done, Clay sat quietly while the rain tapped on the cruiser’s windows and ran in sparkling drops across the glass. The trooper picked up the radio microphone and began giving the information Clay had provided about the car and driver and added the description of the young girl going by the name of Lyn who may be accompanying the driver. He added that the vehicle might be associated with the murders in Pickham County earlier that date, and the vehicle and driver should be approached with caution.

  When he was done, the trooper looked at Clay and said, “I need you to follow me to the state patrol post at Statesboro. There are some GBI investigators that will want to speak with you.”

  Clay nodded. Murders. In Pickham. The pounding of his heart in his throat prevented him from saying anything more than a choked, “Yes.” A minute later, he was back in his truck following the state patrol cruiser. Their speed increased to ten miles an hour over the limit, but this time it was legal.

  63. Another Wake Up

  “George!”

  The cell phone that had been annoying him a moment before rested on the pillow and leaned against his cheek. George Mackey lay with his eyes closed, hoping the voice in the phone would stop yelling at him soon so that he could go back to sleep.

  “George! Dammit, George answer.”

  George pushed his eyes open and squinted at the light from the illuminated face of the phone. The voice was not going to stop yelling. Reluctantly, craving the sleep he had been dragged from, he spoke.

  “What is it?” he asked through the fog in his brain.

  “George, you need to get up.”

  “ What? Why…who is this?

  “It’s Bob…Bob Shaklee. Start waking y
ourself up, George. We’re gonna need you.”

  “Bob? Why? It’s the middle of the night, Bob…what time is it?” His voice had the pleading, groggy whine of fatigue mixed with what, Shaklee knew, was alcohol. It was apparent that George had self-medicated before going to sleep.

  “It’s just after two in the morning, George. Now get moving.”

  “Bob, can’t this wait until daylight?” George’s voice was pleading with fatigue.

  “No, George, it can’t. The Chevy was seen at a truck stop outside Savannah. We have a witness at the state patrol post in Statesboro, and we need to get moving. Meet us there.”

  The fog began evaporating from his brain, and George sat upright in the bed.

  “Right. I’m moving now. Won’t take long.”

  “One more thing, George. There may be another victim. Young girl from the truck stop. She was last seen alive, and he may not have had time to hurt her yet.”

  George’s mind whirled as he shook himself fully awake.

  “Girl. Another one?”

  “Yes, George. Another girl. Last seen alive. We may be able to find the killer and maybe save the girl…if we hurry. It’s a long shot, but…”

  George cut him off. “On my way.”

  He ended the call, tossing the phone onto the nightstand with his wallet, badge, and the off-duty nine millimeter Glock he carried when not in uniform. Grabbing a pair of semi-clean blue jeans from a chair by the bed, he tugged them on as he hopped into the bathroom where he washed his face in cold water and ran a comb through his hair. Squinting into the mirror in the dim, yellow light, he shook his head wryly acknowledging to himself that he looked exactly like what he was, a boozed-up, middle-aged man trying to mask his condition and pull himself together enough to take care of the business at hand.

  Turning from the mirror, he went back to the bedroom chair and grabbed a faded, short sleeved, plaid shirt that had been under the jeans he was now wearing and hurriedly buttoned the bottom two buttons and then shoved his feet into the boots beside the chair. Grabbing the wallet and badge from the nightstand, he shoved them in his back pockets and then pushed the belt clip of the Glock’s holster down over the waistband of the jeans.