3/21/10
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…
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