The Last Scoop

by R. G. Belsky

  I tried to stop thinking about Manning—to focus on my own dire situation—but I couldn’t. Not completely. I mean I’d just had sex with Scott Manning less than twelve hours earlier in my hotel room. And now he was dead? I refused to accept that. I kept hoping that, somehow, he would still show up and rescue me, even though I realized that wasn’t going to happen.

  If Manning was dead, the man who killed him was here with me.

  And he was planning to kill me next.

  But I’d made up my mind about one thing: I wasn’t going to go easy.

  Sure, I was handcuffed in his police car. But I didn’t think he would kill me inside the car. It would be too easy to trace back to him if I died there. That meant he would have to take me somewhere else—probably into the woods—to finish me off.

  And that would be my only—my last—chance to survive.

  I tried desperately to remember everything I’d ever written or read in stories about how a woman managed to get away from a deadly attacker. The one that popped into my head was about one of Ted Bundy’s targeted victims. I’d been reading a lot about Bundy and his killing spree since I started working on The Wanderer story. There had been a lot of women victims for Bundy, but only one was different. Carol DaRonch. She got away from him.

  The facts of that long-ago crime raced through my mind as I waited in Parkman’s police car.

  DaRonch was walking back to her car in a mall shopping lot when Bundy, posing as a police officer, approached her and said he’d caught someone trying to break into her vehicle. He asked her to ride with him to the station to file an official police report. Once she was in his car, however, she realized something was terribly wrong. Then he attacked her and tried to put handcuffs on her. But she did what none of his victims had ever been able to do successfully. She fought back. She punched him, she kicked him, she even bit him. “I knew he was going to kill me,” she said afterward. Eventually, he’d gotten a handcuff on one of her wrists, but her other hand was still free. She finally was able to push him away from her enough to open the car door and flee the killer Bundy.

  Could I do the same thing with my killer?

  I was pretty sure I had one thing in my favor Parkman’s other victims never did. He wasn’t prepared this time. In all his other killings, he’d clearly spent time stalking the women and then murdering them in a plan he’d thought out very well. This was all improvised. I was hoping that might make him slip up.

  He confirmed that this wasn’t his normal modus operandi when he came back to get me from the car.

  “This is your lucky day,” Parkman said. “I told you before how I normally spend a long time working on my victims. I like to see them suffer. I enjoy the way they plead for their lives and beg me to stop hurting them and promise me anything I want. That’s the best part of it for me. I kept one of them alive like that for forty-eight hours once. That’s a good memory for me, although I’m sure it wasn’t for her. But with you … we’re going to do this fast. I want to get you out of the picture. Once you and that FBI guy are both gone, then I can get back to work again. My work. There’s a lot of women out there for me to kill yet. So many choices, so little time.”

  He had a crowbar in his hand. When he unlocked me from the car, he whacked me in the head with the crowbar.

  “Just a little reminder to you not to try anything,” he said. “We can make this an easy death for you, or a hard one. Up to you, TV lady.”

  The blow from the crowbar was a glancing one, and it didn’t hurt me too badly. But I pretended it did. I went limp and made him drag me out of the car, then behind him as he walked toward the woods. Once I disappeared in there, I knew I was done. I had to make my move, whatever it was, before then. I continued to play dead as he pulled me behind him, hoping against hope that I wouldn’t be experiencing the real thing in a few minutes.

  When we finally stopped next to a big tree, he stood over me and slapped my face. “Wakey-wakey!” he said. “I want you awake for this. It’s more fun that way.”

  I saw he’d dropped the crowbar on the ground and now held a big knife in his hand. The weapon he’d used on so many victims.

  He reached down to my handcuffed hands, unlocked one of them, and started to pull the other one up to a lower tree branch next to us. I realized what he was doing. He was going to handcuff me to the tree, which would leave me unable to move or resist in any way while he did whatever he planned to do to me next.

  This was my last chance.

  I pulled my suddenly free hand away from him as hard as I could before he had a chance to lock me onto the tree branch. I might not have had the strength to do it if he’d expected it. But he’d bought into the idea that I was so out of it that I was no threat to him. He was wrong about that. I was going to be a helluva threat.

  I fought back with everything I had. Just like Carol DaRonch had all those years ago against Ted Bundy. I punched Parkman. I kicked him. I swung the metal handcuffs at his head, opening up a gash there that left blood streaming down his face. But it was the next thing I did that really saved me. I bit him. I bit the sonofabitch as hard as I could on his hand as he tried to grab me. He howled in pain, then shoved me away from him.

  I landed on the ground.

  Next to where he’d left the crowbar.

  I picked it up.

  Parkman was still looking down at his hand, cursing in anger and frustration as it was bleeding now, too. He was so upset, he wasn’t paying enough attention to me. Holding the crowbar, I walked up and smashed him across the back of the head with it as hard as I could. It worked. I knocked him unconscious.

  While he lay there not moving from the blow, I had to make a decision. I could run before he woke up or do something else. I did something else.

  I reached for the gun he had in the holster at his side. When Parkman woke up, I was waiting there with the gun pointed at him.

  “What are you going to do with that?” he asked, anxious now.

  He was scared; the arrogance was gone.

  I liked that.

  “I’m going to shoot you with it.”

  His eyes opened wide in fear.

  “You’re going to kill me?”

  “Nah, although I would like to do that. It would be a benefit to society to have you no longer on this planet. But I’ll leave that to the courts.”

  He relaxed a little now.

  “Be careful with that gun … it could go off.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “You said you weren’t going to kill me.”

  “No, but I have to make sure you don’t make a run for it. So …”

  I walked a little closer so I wouldn’t miss, pulled the trigger, and shot Parkman in the right foot.

  “Jesus, you bitch!” he screamed out in pain.

  But he wasn’t going anywhere now.

  “Now we wait,” I said.

  “Wait for what?”

  “I used Manning’s phone to call for help. They should be here soon.”

  Sure enough, a few minutes later, the sound of sirens came closer to us.

  “You’re in a lot of trouble,” Parkman said.

  “You think?”

  “I’m a police officer. You shot me.”

  “After you tried to kill me.”

  “No one’s going to believe you. I’m the police chief. It’s my word against yours. And you stole my gun.”

  The sirens were almost to us now.

  “You’re going to have a lot of explaining to do,” Parkman told me.

  “So are you,” I said.

  CHAPTER 60

  I HADN’T CALLED the Eckersville police. Not first. No, first I called the FBI. Then I called Jack Faron at Channel 10. Then I called Janet, my friend—and, if needed—my lawyer. I wanted a record of my story with all of them in case things went wrong when the local police showed up and found me standing with a gun over their police chief.

  I wound up talking to Gregory Wharton at the FBI. I thought that might be a pro
blem, but it wasn’t at all.

  “Where are you?” he asked when I told him what had happened.

  “I’m not sure. It’s on a highway heading north out of Eckersville. About five miles or so. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “You’re calling on Manning’s phone, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Leave it on, and we’ll track you from that.”

  “How long will it take you to get people here? I’m a little worried about dealing with the Eckersville police department at the moment.”

  “I’ve got a team of agents that should be there in fifteen minutes.”

  I didn’t understand.

  “How can you get here so fast?”

  “We’re already in Eckersville. Sent a team there earlier. Because of Manning.”

  “Oh, right,” I said, thinking about Scott Manning and how Parkman had killed him, too, like he’d killed all those women.

  “They just left him in the hospital.”

  “Hospital?”

  “Looks like Scott is going to make it.”

  It turned out that Parkman had attacked Manning with the same crowbar he used on me, beaten him badly, and left him for dead in a parking lot. But Manning survived and was able to contact the FBI from his hospital bed and tell them what happened.

  “He was very worried about you,” Wharton said.

  “I thought he was dead.”

  “Manning thought the same about you.”

  “My God!”

  “Hang on, Carlson. This is almost over. The cavalry is on the way.”

  It took a while to sort everything out.

  Parkman, as he said he would, denied it all at first. Denied being The Wanderer. Denied taking part in any of the murders. Denied abducting me or threatening my life. He said I’d grabbed his gun, forced him to drive there, and claimed I’d made up the rest of it because I wanted a sensational story.

  He didn’t know at first Scott Manning was still alive.

  And that Manning was talking and backing up everything I said.

  But, even after Parkman found that out, he continued to maintain he was the chief of police, a man with an honorable record—not a murderer. He stuck to that story even as they were leading him away to jail.

  No one believed him anymore though.

  Not even the members of his own police force.

  Faron sent a freelance video crew from Indianapolis to shoot a live broadcast with me from the scene. He said that he, Maggie, Brett, and Dani would also fly there and they planned to do the Channel 10 evening newscasts remotely from Eckersville, too. But, before that, I’d do a big “The News Never Stops” segment about everything that would break into regular programming.

  And so, once the FBI and other authorities took Parkman away, I started to do my real job.

  To be a journalist.

  We shot video at the spot in the woods where Parkman had taken me. Then more in the town of Eckersville, at the police station and other places. And, finally, at Becky Bluso’s old house.

  That’s where I was standing when they gave me the cue in my earpiece from New York that we were ready to go live.

  And then I was on the air:

  ME: Three decades ago, seventeen-year-old Becky Bluso was murdered here in this small town of Eckersville, Indiana. That brutal crime—unsolved all these years—eventually led to a series of 19 other murders of women around the country since that time. Today the man who committed these 19 murders was finally apprehended, and I was there. He tried to kill me, too. But now he’s in jail and can’t hurt anyone else.

  Law enforcement and we in the media had called him The Wanderer.

  But his name is Jeff Parkman, and shockingly, he was the chief of the Eckersville Police Department in this quiet town.

  Here’s everything that has happened …

  I then told the whole story. Parkman’s murders. His travels around the country to find female victims. His kidnapping of me when I got too close to the truth. His attack on FBI agent Scott Manning. His attempt to kill me. And how I turned the tables on him and was able to help the FBI finally catch the man we’d known as The Wanderer.

  While I talked, the station ran pictures of his victims on the screen below me.

  All nineteen of them.

  Innocent women who Parkman had killed.

  Like he almost killed me.

  A newsbreak like this generally only ran a minute or two. But this one went on for much longer. It was quickly picked up by the cable news channels and the TV network news shows and went viral on a lot of social media and websites.

  At the end of my live broadcast, I said:

  Again, one of the worst serial killers of all time—the man who was known as The Wanderer—has been apprehended. More details about this sensational breaking story will be coming on the Channel 10 evening newscasts tonight at 6 and 11. For now, this is Clare Carlson reporting to you live from Eckersville, Indiana … and glad to be alive to do it.

  CHAPTER 61

  THE EVIDENCE AGAINST Jeff Parkman built quickly in the days afterward.

  FBI investigators put together details of his trips that matched up with the locations of many of the murders. A search of Parkman’s home and office turned up evidence like pieces of clothing and strands of hair—believed to be “souvenirs” he’d kept from the murders. No one had any doubt that Parkman was The Wanderer, despite his continued denials.

  But the biggest thing was the DNA results. Now that they had a suspect in custody, the FBI was able to compare his DNA with the DNA found at the various crime scenes. It was a match.

  When he was confronted with this, Parkman finally broke down and confessed. To all nineteen of the murders. And more, too. There were some dead women out there he was responsible for that we didn’t know about. Parkman seemed almost eager to boast about the murders once he knew there was no way out for him.

  I remembered him telling me that’s why he’d first put Marty Barlow on the trail of The Wanderer. “I want people to know about my accomplishments—I want them to know that there’s someone out there who is the greatest serial killer ever. Better than Bundy, better than Son of Sam, better than Zodiac or any of the others.”

  Jeff Parkman had carried out his murderous spree anonymously for three decades. Now he was finally getting a chance to tell the world about it. During hours of questioning, he described in terrifying detail how he stalked, tortured, and then murdered his victims.

  The final death toll was still unclear.

  But there was no doubt he would achieve his goal: to go down in history as one of the worst serial killers of all time.

  Scott Manning made a full recovery from his injuries.

  I went to see him in the hospital in Eckersville several times before I went back to New York. The last time his wife was there at his bedside. She knew who I was from the news accounts of everything that happened. I’m not sure if she knew the rest of the story about me and her husband. She was pretty and pleasant and she thanked me profusely for helping to save Scott’s life. She squeezed his hand when she said that, then leaned over and kissed him.

  I nodded numbly and hoped I didn’t give anything away with the expression on my face when she did that. Damn, I had a big problem. My problem was I liked her. I wanted to hate Susan Manning, but I didn’t. That made this all so much harder for me. I finally told Manning I’d talk to him when he was out of the hospital and back at FBI headquarters in New York.

  I never have though.

  I’m not with Gary Weddle anymore either. I told Weddle the truth about what happened between Manning and me in Eckersville. I realize that probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but I needed to. I couldn’t start a whole relationship with him with this on my conscience. He was hurt, but I think he would have continued seeing me anyway. Except I knew I couldn’t do that. Not now. I’d realized that ever since I slept with Manning. I was still in love with Scott Manning. I knew that for a fact, even though I was also pretty sure no
thing would ever come of it. I wasn’t in love with Gary Weddle. I liked Weddle. I liked him a lot. But I wasn’t in love with him. He finished up his consulting job with the station and then disappeared from my life, too.

  What the hell was wrong with me anyway? Why could I never settle down in a healthy relationship with a good guy like Gary Weddle? Why did I always have to go after the one I couldn’t have? Why couldn’t I be satisfied with a good guy who I liked? Well, maybe for the same reason none of my marriages ever lasted either.

  Terri Hartwell made one last try to get me to join her campaign team for mayor.

  Her connection with the long-ago murder of Becky Bluso—albeit an innocent one—didn’t hurt her popularity. In fact, her poll numbers went up. Like they did after her involvement in exposing the payoff scam between her top aide, Chad Enright, and Morelli. She was widely expected to be the next mayor of New York City.

  “Remember what I told you that first day we met in my office?” Hartwell said to me. “You’re a tough lady. I’m a tough lady. We’re a couple of tough ladies, you and me, Clare. Let’s work together. We’d make a helluva team. Look what we’ve accomplished so far. Imagine what we could do if we were running this city.”

  I thanked her again for the offer, but I told her I already had a job.

  The only job I ever wanted.

  I was a journalist.

  At Channel 10, we worked The Wanderer story and all the follow-ups for days after Parkman’s arrest.

  I did most of the initial on-air coverage. In addition to an inside look at the investigation as it proceeded, I went back and interviewed family members and loved ones of the nineteen women who had had their lives snuffed out by Parkman. I’ve always had mixed feelings about doing stories like that. On the one hand, it’s usually good television and delivers ratings. And, I suppose, it’s a way to remember the dead. But it also opens up a lot of wounds and terrible memories for the people I was interviewing. Wounds and memories that they thought they’d put behind them a long time ago.