Archive for March, 2010


March 26, 2010

The trouble with blogging about an unsolved murder is that you cannot always write about what you know, nor whisper about what you don’t! As Sherlock Holmes used to say– “The game is afoot!”

Will be doing location research the next few days, but will post findings once I have returned.
Until later then…

Continuation of session one…

March 24, 2010


Synchronicity is a wondrous thing and many events have happened that continue to show that I am being led, not only in this matter but in other areas as well. Take last night for instance. As I kept vigil and bore witness to my husband’s convalescing… I picked up my much anticipated copy of Inside the Divine Pattern by Anthony Douglas Williams and set about reading my way through an evening of gentle frustrations. Now, those of you familiar with the 11:11, 12:12, 1:11, 2:22, 3:33, 4:44 etc., sequence, Numerology, Freemasonry and the sacred geometry of ancient Egypt and specific disciplines of various other prophetic cultures such as; Olmecs, Mayan and Hopi will see my segue… those not, take heed and do your homework. Anyway, in recent weeks I have had the chance to rediscover my Numerological birth chart. Yesterday morning I reviewed it in an effort to gain further insight to several situations and paths of potential consequence. It is amazing what information can be stored within our names and numbers and how well we and our entire universe are defined by such. (Pythagoreans would be proud.) Personal annotations aside, I shall continue in a more direct fashion. I was reading a section on this man’s birth chart, while my husband leapt from channel to channel in frustrated measure. Though Williams is of another birth month, it’s ultimate breakdown was still somewhat similar to that of my own, numerically. Williams understood connectivity, was a fellow writer and had great questions about the posturing of one’s sequential placement within the universe. We shared many of the same characteristics. In fact as confirmation of such, I quoted a small paragraph to my husband as he his jockeyed for television satisfaction. “Who does this sound like?” I asked, then read…“ I would rather learn than be entertained and that is reflected in what I watch (even)on television. My favorite genres are generally documentaries that relate to history, religion, nature or science.” Before I could proceed any further, he interjected, “YOU- YOU-YOU!” I agreed and smiled, knowing I was no longer alone in my entertainment selections. He settled on a movie taped earlier, while we were at the Doctor’s. I set sail of course to devour chapter after chapter until I could see neither print, nor hear Matthew McConaughey’s voice ringing in my ears. The evening progressed in quiet manner. Moving through several chapters, I took note of several more situations similar to my own and noted the clock. Earlier in the day I’d had him set the timer to watch something I’d spotted of interest. It was the HBO movie, Eddington and Einstein. Long a fan and fascinated by Albert Einstein’s raucous humor, beyond his personal brilliance as a scientist, I was delighted to find something of worthy caliber to enjoy before the end of the day. I checked the clock-8:30. The movie was still a good thirty minutes away and so I decided to continue reading. I finished the chapter on God’s First Man and God’s First Son and moved on. As I turned the page, what do you think the next chapter was dedicated to? You guessed it! The discovery of the 11th dimension, the studies surrounding the theories of Sir Isaac Newton, his search for the numerical bible code, the string theory and Albert Einstein’s search for a single theory to explain the universe.

My point to all this and the subsequential appearance of 11:11 on my cell phone as my daughter called, the 1:11 when I got back into bed in answer to my personal prayer for guidance and affirmation… is that life is a series of patterns and that we are not alone. Even as I search to find the truth about who killed Charley and why, I must be mindful to pay attention to evidence-both conventionally found and un. But also to those people who speak to me, both here and from other places I am not equipped to navigate right now. The beauty of this journey is that I am being blessed with people who have skill sets far beyond that of my own to guide me. People who believe in the right of a victim to be heard and that justice delayed, will not ultimately prove to be justice denied. In that vein..

The following is another segment of the first session with the psychic/detective. Names within this transcript are names that have already seen print through the initial investigation of this case. Some have been abridged to intial only as I continue my investigation. Their placement in this transcript however shows them in a different light than perhaps first cast upon them 44 years ago. Hindsight is twenty – twenty they say. My disclaimer to you for this blog is that this information was received while working with a psychic/detective medium. While it is her job to relay images and presentations to me in the manner in which she receives them from the victim; it is my job not only to listen with objective ear and scribe what it is that is being told, but to bring these narrations from speculation into the realm of fact with whatever hard evidence can be found to corroborate.

Session one, continued:

“He is showing me 1439 blue oak. Three times she repeats.
1439 blue oak, 1439 blue oak, 1439 blue oak
Do you understand?
I say I think so and ask if I can have clarification. Does oak stand for Oak Street?
She closes her eyes, and then nods confirmation.
1439 Oak Street, blue house
Do you understand? Does this mean anything to you?
I respond, ‘I think so.’

(In my mind I try to recall pages from Hazel’s diary about that morning when she was baking a chocolate cake and had to run out for milk. In the hearing between Hazel and the American Casualty Life Insurance Company, G stated that Hazel had driven by her house. Hazel swore she never went on Oak Street as it would have been out of her way. I confirm that the street name sounds significant, but cannot verify at that moment as I may have that impression confused with another. But I am almost certain that was where GB lived. I will confirm when I can get back to diary and/or city directory for Valdosta from 1966.)

She redirects.
He is showing her a red truck. A period truck – style of the day.

She redirects and places her hand above the names written and asks again for my pen, explaining names have energy. She circles three names she says are elevated off the page and appear in red.*

They are as follows:


(* These three raised and then circled):

He has a definite reaction to these three names. They are connected somehow. All three names remain elevated and in red.

She redirects.

She asks for a photo of Charley.
I give her the one I have been talking to all long. It is tinted.
She smiles. She says she is happy to see how he was and not how he is. She tells me he was a good man. He has very high energy- a good, good man.
She continues:
He is showing me a woman.
She is attractive; she has dark brown hair- black hair.
She asks me if I understand. If I know who this person is.

(At first when she says dark brown hair I am uncertain. I have never seen a picture of “G” (GB) and do not wish to identify someone I have never seen. Then she commits to black hair and I recognize that immediately as Hazel. She was noted for her painted jet black hair- her Jackie-O look.)

I tell her Hazel, his wife. She smiles.
I show her photos from the bin.
She recognizes the woman from the photo and I confirm her as Hazel.
She looks at other photos.
Photos of moonshine busts, car boots filled with whiskey… scenes outside in wooded areas with stills and barrels.
She asks if I know if any of the men in the photos are Charley.
I cannot confirm.
She redirects.
He is showing her G.
G is a man eater. There is an association between G and HS. She has difficulty getting clear description of connection- strong bond, but unclear.
I ask if I can get clarification on LT.
I ask if LT stands for someone’s name or could it be an abbreviation for lieutenant/second in command.
She cannot confirm either way.
Only that he shows LT as an older man with money and a tight bond with G.

She asks that I let her try to explain what he is showing her happened that night.
She tells me he shows her G did not pull the trigger- another male, a younger male was involved. He pulled the trigger for the fatal shot to the right side of his head. G manipulated. G ordered the hit, so to speak and had others carry it out. It was between G, the older man- LT and the younger man.
He is showing her the younger man was easily manipulated by G. That G was involved with several men at a time. That the younger man was in law enforcement.

(At this point I ask to redirect so that I might get some things out of my system. Too many of the people involved in the investigation had motives or perceived motives to want Charley dead and I am anxious to know if I am on the right path or if I need to redirect my research.)

I ask what Charley presents when I say the name, PH. RPH, to be exact.
She closes her eyes for a moment and I am caught off guard by her immediate response, especially since according to the diary Hazel felt certain PH was the one who pulled the trigger that night.

RS tells me he shows camaraderie—arm around shoulders- a tight bond—nothing negative—a closeness.

(Confused by the sheer swiftness and declaration of innocence by nature of the answer, I asked her to clarify.)

She tells me he shows closeness like that of a brother.
She asks if I know who this is. I tell her, ‘yes… it was his partner’.

I ask her then to redirect.

What does he present when I say the name J F? (Local Sheriff- Lowndes County)
She closes her eyes. (I am certain now I will get the nod I am looking for.)
She says he tells her crooked, underhanded- good ole boy, untrustworthy
I ask if he was part of the people who hurt him that night. He shows her insignificant reaction- a void. Does not configure into what he suffered that night. I pause for a moment.

I ask for clarification.
Charley shows her that JF was crooked and by all means a good ole boy—but shows nothing when it comes to the circumstance presented him that night.
(I was dumb founded by the banality of the response, but showed no reaction.)

She continued.

Three men- tight bond.
Two to be law enforcement.
(I wait with baited breath for the names, but he gives only initials.)

He shows me three men who were in collusion;
K (one initial only)
J (one initial only)

I ask for clarification. She has none further to give.

I ask about the Fraternal Order of Eagles.

She tells me he refers to those three men.
K (initial only)
J (initial only)

(I am no further ahead.)

I ask her to redirect.
She tells me all three names/initials come up-elevate and glow.

(I know now that F may only have been peripherally involved and that I have several more angles and individuals to investigate.)

I ask her to redirect.

What does he present when I say the name, C Jr.?
She tells me he responds; moonshine situation- handler.

What does he present when I say the name C Sr.?
She tells me he responds- puppet master.

Then she asks for my pen and draws a line from the name JF on top of the page, down to C Sr. at the ¾ mark of the page and says bond; association; together.

(I mentally recall the Indictment appeals 514 F.2d 64 that shows from 514 F .2d 759 that the following were indicted and convicted for charges of illegal gambling through the Fraternal Order of Eagles and the Valdosta Entertainment Company/ F for obstruction of justice. April 8, 1975. This event is 9 years after Charley’s death and there was no way Charley could have known of these events. Any association then would have had to have been established well before his death in ’66. I drink slowly from my cup of hot chocolate and try to keep my brain from exploding.)

I asked to redirect. She nodded and said yes.

Can he show and/or present to you whether what happened to him was over business or domestic issues?

She tells me he shows her both, though G = death.

Again, he goes back to the older man LT and the younger law enforcement officer.
He shows her the younger male got pleasure from pulling the trigger- took pleasure in the beating and the killing. He shows her at least three who volunteered to take him out. Several people who would have volunteered to do it. He is in their way-causing a problem. He motions with his hands. He pulls it all towards that woman.
He shows her the black widow—she has manipulated the situation.
G = black widow.

2 + 2 = SILENCE

March 21, 2010


A source of mine tipped me off to another author; Charles Weems, a retired ATF agent who has written two books (A Breed Apart and Agents That Fly) that I will make a mental note to read in between investigations. For now I must concentrate on my own. It is raining today and that gives me guiltless pleasure in sitting at my desk, hacking away at my transcripts and creating new timelines. It is tedious work, but the view from my window counters the affect of too much coffee and calms me. Who knew such gently rolling hills, evergreens and ever grays of Georgia’s landscape could have ever held such vile contempt for the common law? I will try to reach out to Mr. Weems later today- he may have heard something about my Charley, even though his focus seems to have concentrated on the northern portion of the state.

Tapped for local inspiration, I am thinking of heading south and poking around a bit- directly connect with folks who have been long in their suffering of the mystery surrounding Charley’s death. It would be interesting to try and get them all together at one time to go over impressions and jar their collective memories. I have tried to follow protocol investigating this case and it has served me well on only a few fronts. Few records seem to have survived both the elements of time and the initial lies put forth about what happened to Charley that night. More difficult still is the charge of asking those still alive what they recall—especially those not directly related as their frustrations get longer as their memories get shorter. I am trying to steer clear of contacting family, but am fast approaching the time where it needs to be done. G’s family and BC’s family will need to understand that I cannot hold anyone’s feet to the fire to get information… but this book will be written and I prefer it be the most educated version possible. There will be fact and speculation alike, but the one certain fact in all this is that Charley did not commit suicide. I think it is now a foregone conclusion that it was murder; by what degree shall be determined by what facts and evidence are found.

A trip may be just the thing. When I make new contacts, their information begs of me to revisit old ones- each shedding new light. While I explain my intentions and my process, I hear the fear in their voice as they find my sessions with the medium both fascinating and frightening to consider. While I appreciate their concerns, I applaud their tenacity to see this through for better or for worse. Each new player seems to perish before introductions can be made. Epitaphs are now my chief companion these days and I hate that. But I hate that in the same vein that I hate missing the first turning leaf of each fall… the first shaft of a spring rain as it breaks across the face of my picture window or the chance to become private audience to the gentle glide of an unexpected winter’s folly across my stoop. It is bittersweet that I cannot connect with most in the here and now, but perhaps it is better this way. I can read and hear of their deeds and not wade through the endless mire of up close and personal misconception. For a man speaks best with what he done and who he aligned himself with, not with the waving banner of his faith or his suggested birthright. I hate that Charley was surrounded by so much corruption and yet I cannot all together clear his soul of indiscretions by their default. At some point too, I must ask the tough questions of his character and his associations. Why were you there that night? What were you hoping to achieve and why was G so involved in both your private and your public life? Who was there that met you on the road that night and why was it 8 years later they confessed and provided evidence to someone suggesting they killed you out of self defense? Why was this information given to someone who never made it public? And why did investigating officers sign off on a three week investigation, as if everything added up and made perfect sense? But even more importantly…who taught them this new math by which adding two and two equals silence?

Oh what a trip back in time this will be! A ride full of provisional trust bought by consequence and conscience; all because one night I shared a glass of wine with someone who said, ‘Let me tell you a story about my daddy! I was only six years old when it happened…’ For you Julie…

Facts are easy. Truth is elusive.

March 20, 2010

I sit, blurry eyed at the prospect of another long day ahead of me and yearn for coffee in the worst way. Personal events take precedence over public events this day and my concentration wanes without caffeine to coax it gently back between the guardrails of my reality. This work continues to boggle the imagination and I catch myself having late night and early morning conversations with the now too familiar face of my 8×10 Charley. I confess at times I know too much about his life and then in the same stroke of insanity, I demand that he stop holding back vital information to my research. Like a belligerent child he balks at my insistence and where uncommitted Mona Lisa lips once held court, now a cheeky grin emerges. His eyes, once pale blue and vacant now spark with fire and ice and change their vibrancy based upon my questioning. I am caught off guard by his reactions. They run the gambit from tender mercies for his children– to outright rage for the betrayal of his mistress. I read and reread transcripts from both sessions to be certain I have not missed a clue, continually reappraising what I know I can prove and what I hope I can prove. I reconstruct the murder…blow by blow, in the order of escalation, as told by its victim.

I refocus my mental lens and add peripheral information retrieved after the fact, careful not to omit anything. It is like painting a Monet backwards. Bits and flecks of alleged scenarios, names, dates and liaisons lay sullen and uncooperative upon a darkened palette. Charley’s face looms center- detailed now with textured layers of colored emotions, playing with shadow and light. I hear his cries of anguish, his sarcastic and caustic laugh, tender reveries and wonder how this man addressed his maker in the final seconds of his life. It is the collective picture of these tiny bits and flecks of information which elude me still. So eager to complete this portrait of a man, I pick up timid brush and with feeble strokes record the events of that night as I know them so far. Once finished I stand back and view the carnage, still incomplete. I try to fill in the edges, placing feathered greens against the ruddy red clay and slowly add the drool of midnight rain as it puddles and pools atop coagulated blood in the dim of a headlight’s glare. It is there in that half light that Charley will eternally lay.

This is the image that haunts my nights. Unlike a piece of art, I am reminded that this is one man’s life and one man’s hour of death.

I glance again at Charley’s 8×10 and smile while half digested clues ferment in my gut…wondering if I am still up to the job. Patience and trust he whispers through painted lips… all will be revealed in good time. I eye my watch and wait with baited breath for the next windfall of information. Maybe tomorrow, maybe tomorrow.

Facts are easy. The truth is elusive.
I am reminded that this is part of my journey and that I am not meant to deconstruct Rome in a day—only to understand how it was built before the fall from grace. While I talk about things I have yet to discover, I am also reminded about all the things I have already discovered. My gratitude is endless to those both in and out of organizations that continue to climb these steps beside me. I know I must tread lightly in their shoes, for they are trusting that I not lead them further away from the truth we all seek.
Until later then…

Dead men tell no tales… they tell the truth!

March 17, 2010

First… Happy Saint Patty’s Day!
Second… I apologize for the days in between blogging, but sometimes your life gets in the way of your living. Truth is, I have taken some mental days off from Charley and tried to live in my own life for a change. Sometimes that is a difficult thing to do for a writer, especially in the midst of a story where you are pulled deeper and deeper into the psyche of your characters. This is why writing I believe, is such a solitary business. It is all consuming in the same way I think the serious pursuit of most artforms are. A muse, regardless of her medium is a very jealous mistress who hates to be interrupted by such a banal segues as life. Apart from my thinly veiled distance, I have needed some down time to consider the appropriate couching for this story. The ratio of antagonist to protagonist now is staggering, as each day brings more evidence to the table and in like token more chaos to the plot. As author, I continue to seek a distinct voice for the protagonist/narrator and while I search for a character to fill such a void, it is my own voice that continues to seep through. Never before have I faced such a challenge. While every author provides his own narration, he is usually adept to find another vessel in which to carry it. Thus far, I have been confounded by the inability to throw my voice into another vessel. It is quite possible that Charley has meant for me to narrate, but there in lies the greater danger. Always the trap; when does the reporter become the story and not the story itself? This is where one must make the decision to be either the vehicle or the passenger… subtext, subtext, subtext!

My last session and subsequent correspondences with my colleague, the psychic detective has brought a great many new avenues to research. In deed, Charley’s message to me about being just the tip of the iceberg is right! Now I must steer this ship in even another direction towards an individual whom I thought not only peripheral, but inconsequential to the overall anatomy of this murder at best. The scope of this investigation increases with every session. We were however able to narrow the real estate of our search a bit, thanks to some recently revealed information. One would think that might make it easier, but not so, not so. While the parameters of the locale have become more defined, the plot thickens like chilled molasses. This case reminds me of the Labraya Tar Pits. Dark, deep and damn near impenetrable. The surface, viscous and smooth remains incapable of reflecting anything more than the face that looks upon it. It gives up nothing without probing relentlessly under its surface. Yet every time you stick your hand into the deep, black goop another set of bones is dragged up to the surface and you are face to face with yet another set of derelict remains to deal with and identify.

Still searching for the owner of badge #1439, the meaning of MOT and the red haired man who helped cover up the murder that night. I’ll find you though. Charley has promised! And there’s one thing I’ve learned about Charley through this investigation this past year…
Dead men tell no tales… they tell the truth!

Only the tip of the iceberg…

March 10, 2010

Reviewing notes from this last session…
If what information has been received through this last session with the psychic/detective rings true, then this case has more layers that an onion and smells just as bad too! It seems that every time I think I am on target for logical segues… I find that another angle has been tossed into the mix that leads me in another direction. I was fairly certain that the “big” project C was working on when he was murdered was this illegal gambling thing involving Crockett and Futch- the Fraternal Order of Eagles/ Valdosta Entertainment/Amusements indictments, but not so. Oh it may have had a little to do with that peripherally, but according to this past reading…the main focus of C’s energy was focused on the porn tapes mentioned back in the original case file. I have got to find the transcripts from the trial between Hazel and the American Life Insurance Company of the spring court session in Lowndes County as there may be more information to be derived from there. I have checked and the law firm who handled Hazel’s case no longer has the transcripts, the Federal Employees Department is incapable of locating theirs and the location of Hazel’s copy is currently in doubt.

C has left me some very interesting footnotes for my investigation to follow. There is a money trail to this thing… big money. Folks talking about the money makers- numbers racket- the lottery- illegal gambling, prostitution. Said Valdosta was worse than Vegas back then. I remember when they said there was all sorts of money around to be made. They mentioned a lottery, I was puzzled. Course that was because I was thinking about today’s legal lottery for the promotion of the Hope Scholarship Fund. Shame on me! So, I started to dig through some of my older interview notes and sure enough I found some leads. Folks still alive who remembered rumors about bags of money being taken to the local airport back then by “local law enforcement” who acted as bagmen for possible organized crime. Bags of money allegedly placed on a plane that made weekly flights to Tampa, Florida. Study your history folks. Who do you think waited at the other end of this flight to pick that money up??? Still curious about the ‘lottery’ moniker, I did a little research of my own. Research refers to the “lottery” of the day- as a numbers racket, a game they called bolita that raked in big bucks allegedly for underworld figures.

According to the psychic/detective, solving who killed Charley is only the tip of the iceberg to this thing! That alone tells me I have a long way to go yet before Charley is finished with me, but having been placed in the path of this thing I cannot turn my back on him now. As ironic as it seems, there are now just as many major angles to this investigation as ways there are to spell his first name.

Here are some of my concerns:
I need to find the man with the red hair that allegedly helped the shooter cover his tracks that night. I need to find out whose dogs were used that night to search at the crime scene. Who was BC’s girlfriend at the time. She is tied to the red truck. A badge number that is way too high to be local law, and I need to find out why C thinks the trail will lead me to M O T.  I need to discover what M O T stands for… although I think I may already know and the thought that I might be right… is frightening!

Is this heaven?

March 7, 2010


With the successful run of another show now in the can, I am free to move forward in another direction. For months now I have stood at the great precipice of this case and wondered what other adventures might ensue if I make another footfall towards its rim. Out of fear I have paced the edge and waited for either signal or fate to plow my path. I now know it is mine alone to clear. This is not only a chance to discover the anatomy of a murder, but essences of the man that was murdered and in doing so perhaps rediscover the essence of who I am.

Life is a funny thing. Just when we think we have it figured out, it changes the landscapes around us and we become both instantly lost and found within a new adventure. Were it not for Charley, I would still be wondering why in perpetual motion, I continue to remain so still. Why all my valiant efforts and dedication to my craft have garnered much, yet not provided true release for this soul? Is it for lack of context or lack of volume? If this internal mantra be true, that I bleed in ink– then how much can be bled for others before I begin to truly bleed for myself? When does the compassion of my pen run dry? And what will I have to show for endless nights and early morning vigils kept silent and steadfast unto the sacred art of writing? As it feeds my soul, it breaks my heart anew with longing that I be better for its worth and yet am I? Does it bring to others what it has brought to me… and to that end am I gifted enough to write of its intrinsic worth?

I critiqued a manuscript the other day and asked its architect- for whom was this built? For whom do you write? If for the masses, then your focus becomes skewed; something commercial and homogenized. If for yourself… then you must take care not to give so much of your soul to your work that it leaves you spent and with nothing at the end of your discourse to live on. Charley…I am told I am but at the tip of the iceberg of your tragedy and see no other way but to go forward from here. I ask that you continue to guide and mentor my every thought- that I not cause harm where it can be avoided, but show no mercy where none should prevail. I ask of St. Teresa, my patron saint and the patron saint of all writers, that she watch over us all as we move through this journey. That she teach where wisdom can be absorbed… that she bless where merit warrants and that she warn where dangers exceed their worth. I thank you RS for the gift of my parent’s expressions. I thank you for the audience and captured moments for Julie… and for the release of a man who stopped in his tracks of eternity to bend and ask the child he never got to raise for her forgiveness. It was one of the most moving moments of my life and its gravity will weigh heavy upon my heart for years to come.

I am reminded of the final scene from A Field of Dreams and the moment of sacred connectivity, when a son asks a father for a catch under the dusty haze of a Midwestern sky. “Is this heaven?” the father asks as he surveys the baseball field and endless rows of corn? The son quickly replies. “No… it’s Iowa.” Then the father looks again at all before him and says, “Funny I cold have sworn this was heaven.” When the son asks, “Is there a heaven?” the father smiles and says, “Oh yes. It’s the place where dreams come true.” Filled with hope and new appreciation for his world, the son reappraises the landscape before him overflowing with objects beloved… his wife, his child, his home…. his farm and the beauty of the setting sun and replies, “Then maybe this is heaven.”

How far away from our doorsteps can heaven be if we can still touch and be touched by those who have passed beyond us? Charley has taught me to stop in my eternal tracks and ask forgiveness for all I have done both by accident and by default. With humble heart then let me ask…
“Is this heaven?”
Until later then…

More of the transcript from session #1…

March 4, 2010

I tell her G is the younger woman who they say he was leaving his wife for. The reason he committed suicide.’
At this point she is visibly affected and pulls her sleeves up to show me her arms. She tells me they will often give a physical response when something affects them strongly. The physical response is strong every time we speak her name.

I tell her the story is that he and Hazel fought that day over his affair with G. That they discussed divorce and that Gerri had supposedly threatened to dump him if he didn’t tell his wife he was leaving her that weekend. Rumor had it that he saw her (G) later that day on her front porch talking with her ex-husband and supposedly Charley became distraught over what he thought was her getting back together wither husband*, and so he drove out of town and committed suicide.

(*G does remarry her husband 3 weeks after Charley is buried.)

She tells me he did not commit suicide. She tells me they present suicide if in deed that is what happened. She tells me she can assure me Charley did not commit suicide.

She tells me he has become nostalgic and shows her his heart. He shows her his children; that he would never have abandoned them.
She tries to redirect.
He continues; he would never have abandoned them.
She asks him to show her the car and what happened at the tire.
She asks to borrow my pen again and makes a rudimentary drawing of a car; a rectangular with four circles to symbolize tires and two smaller circles with lines coming out of them to symbolize head lights, so that I might get the locations of information I am seeking.
She shows me an X at the front right tire and tells me, he shows her this is his location.
He continues to refer to a red truck.

She redirects.

He shows her the tire is for the first impact… a shock. I ask her to clarify.
She redirects.
A shock, an unexpected blow. A moment of recognition when you know everything has changed. An, “oh shit moment.”
Do you understand?
I say yes. A kind of, “WTF” moment. She confirms.

I ask her if I can ask him to show her, so that she may show me. Body tingling, she responds with confirmation. I ask if G is there. Body tingling she responds with confirmation. There are two entities there at the crime scene. The other is a younger man… a law enforcement individual.

She tells me again he came to her days ago.
She asks to redirect and he shows her he has a personal message for me.
He is showing her, he is thanking me for helping Julie.
He is showing her (J’s) 2 children. Two grandbabies.
She asks if I understand. I nod confirmation. Julie has two boys.
She tells me he is having a nostalgic moment. He is showing her emptiness… void… his loss at not being able to participate. He offers support and guidance. He is a part of their lives, though he cannot participate. His sadness is overwhelming. She tells me this is very moving for her. He shows her grief- emotional pain. Emptiness.
He shows her, he would never have abandoned them. He repeats this over and over.

She tries to redirect.

He shows her his connection to Hazel (wife). That he is a good person. He shows a sense of being torn between the two- G and Hazel. He has a connection to Hazel, a respect, a love. A connection- strong bond. A great affection.
He is immediately drawn back to G.
G he equates to man eater.
G is double dipping with LT.
He shows G with an older man. Wealthy- socio-economic differences. Influential, higher up. Many years her senior. Shows her having a bond with this older man and a younger male in law enforcement.

She asks me to write down the first names that come to my mind in regards to Charley’s case. I write the following, pulling from immediate memory of documents and interviews in this fashion and in this order:



She asks for my pen and then interrupts.

He is showing me 1439 blue oak. Three times she repeats.
1439 blue oak, 1439 blue oak, 1439 blue oak
Do you understand?
I say I think so and ask if I can have clarification. Does oak stand for Oak Street?
She closes her eyes, and then nods confirmation.
1439 Oak Street, blue house
Do you understand? Does this mean anything to you?
I respond, ‘I think so.’

The why’s of love…

March 3, 2010

The days continue to pass from dusk to dawn without time to think clearly and I am remiss as to what I can say here and what I should say here. Efforts in writing shall begin in earnest after this weekend. My job will continue to swallow much of my time these next two days and then into the weekend. So it will take me a day or two after this production to decompress. More importantly, I have a session with my detective/medium coming at the end of this week and its reminder begs of me again to search within my own soul for my purpose. Another chance to ask questions I have been storing up since the first. I will not want to task her longer on this if I can help it, as I know others will want to come through. As insane as this may sound, I will ask her to remain open to the perpetrators of this crime, if they wish to be heard. She says she has no control over who steps forward and I appreciate the candor and weight of her words, but I am hopeful to hear from others involved. Do you find it odd to consider, that I might desire to hear details from their perspective? I am most curious about G and realize I may appear bias in my appraisals thus far. If I am to be truthful, I will confess to you the bias you recognize is real. Unwarranted perhaps, but real none the less. Do I believe love and/or rejection of love equates to the loss of life? I do not. Love is a lesson and death is such a contradiction to what it was I believe Charley was trying to achieve. Do I have misgivings about his altruistic nature? I suppose, but only in the same fashion I have about my own. Love is always the unknown variable.

I believe that Charley loved his wife in the way a couple often comes to love. It is a love of combined identity for two people who have shared the experience of birth and death. A bond shared between two souls bound by experience and history- by their children and the years of familial ties and the margins in which they both painted a life. Bound by comfort and great affection, they create a tapestry of memories that seem to hold their lives together. But there is another love that sometimes picks at the frayed ends of a relationship and tugs away at the loose threads we create when we neglect one another… A love that while it feeds nothing on the surface of who we are, recognizes a portion of who we once were. Love’s greatest lesson is that we learn, no one controls the heart. We fall in love with different people for reasons we sometimes never know. It is a search to rebuild what has been broken in our own lives by life itself… one glance, one touch, one tear, one kiss at a time. Sometimes only subconsciously understanding it is our primary obligation to become whole- to fulfill our reason for being. Could G have become Charley’s reason for being? It is possible… in the same sense that she could also have become the reason for his demise. Was she a part of it? I believe so, but I am also curious as to what Charley could have done to her to warrant such reactions. What infraction sought could have brought such rapacious justice as reward? Jealousy? Revenge? Fear? And who anointed those who served it up buffet style?

Was this all about power and money? About the threat of Charley getting too close to the local organised crime ring? Was the karma delivered almost ten years later, the impetus for this crime? And how did G play into the larger schematic? Was she also involved with the alleged hit men?

The scenario reminds me of a scene from the play Bull In a China Shop where the lovely reporter Jane is trying to describe the uncanny attraction of five women to one man- Dennis O’Finn, a homicide detective! ‘A twist on the old triangle theory. What would you call this? A hexagon?’

Rumor dictates that there were two men and one woman at the scene of the crime.  The original information I received well after my first session from another retired law enforcement individual. According to my information received from Charley through the medium, I know it has to do with G and ‘other’ business. My suspicion is that Charley was onto the illegal gambling ring that was broken up after his death, but that still doesn’t explain what the relationship between G and B.C. would have been. Charley may have been a pawn in a much larger game and G the convenient cornerstone to the set up.

I think about the cornerstones and events of my own life this past year and know the effects of frayed edges and their cost. Perhaps that is why Charley chose me. To guide? To mentor? To warn? It is a curious thread which binds me to a man who died almost the entirety of my life ago. Maybe it is his pain that keeps me up at night…or maybe it is the echo of my own. Solving the mystery of Charley’s death will not bring Charley back or return to him the wonderful years he has missed with his children. It cannot bridge the gap between he and his wife; both chronologically in their deaths and emotionally in their lives. But according to the medium, Hazel was at his side throughout the session… quiet and stoic she let him take lead and speak his mind. Perhaps she invites me to do the same. Asking me to be quiet, so that another may speak their mind. To wait patient and not waste time on the why’s of love, but to enjoy the mysteries it brings to each of us.
Until later then…

The process of writing…

March 1, 2010

What I now know about Charley could fill a small swimming pool. What I know about Valdosta and its vulnerability to corruption during the time surrounding Charley’s death could fill an ocean. Still I am overjoyed that I have had privilege to speak with several individuals of integrity who recall the events leading up to and after that night. Individuals who spoke fondly of Charley and the sanctity of the friendship they shared. Men whose sober appraisals, paint for me a more balanced, yet defined portrait of the man with the moldy skin. These brave few who have questioned for over 40 years the implausibility of suicide. Men whose gut instincts told them the evidence didn’t add up. That they saw that night and that investigation in much the same light as me- a sham, a cover-up for something bigger. Men who have carried the gauntlet of honor for almost half a century, waiting patiently to throw it down and challenge the inconsistencies of history. I am grateful to these men who have shared memories of Charley’s public and private personas. Their revelations task me now to be truthful in my representation of the man. This book, while it will be a collage of moments- becomes not just moments of Charley’s death, but of Charley’s life and the people in it. Moments that may damn many and praise few. What this book will grant is a portrait that will show depth and margin- impression and intention- shadow and light. It will reflect the moments of his heartache and his loss, his joys and his triumphs. The moments he shared and the moments stolen from him. It is my gift to Julie. The gift to me is not only the story, but the lesson of this man’s life. His personal struggle between his head and his heart- right and wrong. I shall discover the merits of my own humanity through the discovery of his and rejoice that their is kinship in learning.
It is in this vein that I receive comfort. Through the process of writing I make this experience my own. I am certain each author has his own procedure of morphing. Mine is an unorthodox process. Unlike most that use working titles and then craft from the mass at the end; I design to create the perfect title before I can commit further pen to paper. Once selected, I must find the font that matches the flavor of the title. For me a title has a very specific voice, which speaks to me through the font. Each font says something different, so the choice must be made mindful of content. Words reflect different emotions in different fonts and sizes. Their precise placement upon a blank page becomes a road map for me to follow. Verdana, Times New Roman and Copperplate use heavy blocked letters that carry an air of authority and conviction. Heavy blocked letters with shadow effect such as, Engravers MT, speak of something distant and historical to me. Edwardian oozes flair, feminine mystique and mystery upon the moors. Matisse says something Mediterranean and exotic to me. The font Curltz, something whimsical, boundless and ethereal. The perfect font then sets the tone and mood for every word that comes after. It is my compass- my true North and cannot be compromised. Once that has been selected… the tag line must follow.

The Coffee Pot Conspiracy

What is the statute of limitations for murder in the state of Georgia?
Ironically, the same amount of time a victim remains dead.

An eternity…

(Unfortuenately this dashboard does not allow for different font. But experiment with copy/paste and see Copperplate bold for the title and Times New Roman for tag line.) Once titlte and tag are secured, I begin. I vomit in ink for 2 to 6 chapters until I think I have gotten the gist of my gut instinct about the book and then wait. The next few months are spent on research, never touching up my intial foray. Now at that place, I look back at what was written almost a year ago and marvel. Without knowing things, I knew them. Without research, I marginalized the correct characters and highlighted others. Without confirmation of fact, I trusted my gut and confirmed my own suspicions. My guestimations at the onset generally prove to be as close to the truth by the time I get to the well researched ending. How does this happen- especially when we are talking historical fiction where the event is factual and there is no room for error? Intuition is a fascinating thing, that while it begs to be acknowledged has little ego for being understood.

With many peripheral questions still waiting for answers, I will consult with the detective/medium before the week is out to get more answers. For the moment I have enough information to speculate how Charley was murdered- a good idea of who did it and what some of the possible motives may have been… what I need now is confirmation of these suspicions. Because motive gives only cause as to why a person might consider a criminal act—but not always as to what finally tipped it from thought to action. I think you can agree that many of us have had moments where we desperately wish a certain thing would go right for us- without being cognizant that sometimes the cost is that a certain thing then must go very wrong for someone else.

The night of October 9, 1966 went very wrong for Charley. I want to prove who it went right for!

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