Brownstonelit's Blog

5/10/10
Interestingly enough…
Interestingly enough I found out today that until the early 1970’s the Georgia Bureau of Investigation (GBI) was not a separate entity, but the investigative part of the Georgia State Patrol Department. How convenient for those involved that night? I have crime scene photos that tell me one thing about that night and a retired State Trooper that tells me another. You cannot argue effectively with either a photo or a born again Christian, but I can argue with bull___. And we seem to have an abundance of that in this case. Photos and testimonies are so different from one another, that I am sick to the bone from talking about it. I have chastised Charley till I am blue. I cannot follow so many leads that lead me nowhere. Ostrich’s and badge numbers; trails to the Governor’s office and rape cases that no one wants to remember! Men whose jaws are clamped shut by guilt or conspiracy. Photos that I know are a lie, but hold some truth are contrasted by men who hold some truth but only lie. My frustration is running rampant tonight and I am tired of the inconsistency of information. Most remarkable though, even with the separate entities that were involved… all signed off on the reports as if speaking with one voice and they all say… screw you! We will die with our secrets and most of them have.

To those who have died…may you rest in Hell! To the rest of you… my patience is running thin.
Be afraid… be very afraid.

5/8/10

Twenty two years ago today I was giving birth to my first child and celebrating my first Mother’s Day—all at the same time. Last night I watched that child walk down an aisle in cap and gown and receive her Bachelor’s degree in Arts. Today I salute her for her achievements and her perseverance. Last night at 12:03 A. M. I called a tearful child to be the first to wish her a Happy Birthday and remembered what it was like to be separated from my mother by obligations, time and some one else’s need. To this grown up toddler I say quite compassionately. It will be ok. The miles between us will never matter. The time that exists in between hugs and kisses will never be calculated and my heart while fickle about things like deciding between kosher or dill pickles and thick or thin crust pizza, will never falter in its admiration and love for the tiny child that first brought me the joys and terrors of motherhood.

And to my other two daughters who taunt and terrorize me on a daily basis… I will always honor the gift you are to me. I will always be here and now thanks to Charley, I will know it is possible to always be at your side. Through this life… and the next… and the next… and the next… and the next…

For Jenny…

5/6/10

“…Far back in the hill country
is Hissing Hill. It’s a bare and lonely spot,
with one twisted house
and a tall fir tree behind it…”

This is the opening paragraph of The Witch of Hissing Hill by Mary Calhoun and pictures by Janet McCaffey- the Halloween book that Charley read to J several times the night he died. She loaned me her copy and it breaks my heart. I have it here on my desk, sitting next to my 8×10 companion, whose heart must break in tandem at the sight of the little gold cat that wreaked havoc on the witch of Hissing Hill. The binding broken now by too many reveries; the pages soft to the touch like gray flannel under your fingertips. The pages split with ragged edges of deep midnight blue filled with stars that dip at awkward angles into sweeping strokes of mossy green that ground the margins on either side. Atop the highest pinnacle of mottled vegetation sits a spired house of black with golden light emitting from criss-crossed window panes that squint at you like evil eyes, eager to disarm you—and they do. For they remind me of sketchy moonlight that pierced the piney woods surrounding the spot he laid waiting for angels to wipe his face and dry his tears. To tell him that he is safe and that the nightmare is finally over.

I read it aloud so that he can hear. I hold it close so that he can see and remember the tiny blue eyes that must have grown three sizes with every page and held his gaze as he spoke of cats, black as pitch, hissing in the moonlight. I begin soft and slow; purr and pause at all the spots a parent would. I make the sounds and growl low and guttural to make my cat the scariest cat of all and feel the crush of phantom fingers as they dig into the fleshy part of my palm in fear. On page four when the witch appears… I cackle like an old hen and rumple my eyebrows and scrunch my face to exaggerate my wrinkles. And when her fellow witches arrive, I find a new octave to brand them each and move the story forward with boney fingers that wriggle and wrangle. In between the turn of a page, I check the photo to my left and read his eyes. They are calm with resignation. I tell him I recall such precious moments spent with my daughters when they were six and so far from seven. He laughs and I cackle one more time as the power of my spell seems to wane in the glowing eyes of the make believe yellow cat. Phantom air rushes from rosy cheeks that have held it tight while waiting for the good to come and save the day. The Charley in the photo softens at the edges, becoming Charley the father and the weight of his ethereal tears floods my lungs and I can no longer breathe.

It is not just her loss, but his too that I mourn. Oh, Charley… they grow up so fast. I cannot imagine the pain you felt in the tearing of the veil between the here and now and the then and forever lost. What grief you must have suffered through the years- watching and not being seen. Whispering and not being heard. Holding and not being held… Each of you standing in front of a mirror that reflected one another’s loss.

As you tucked her into bed and pulled the sheets to her tiny chin that night, what were your thoughts? What was it that made you think to leave was better than to stay? That you must go and give credence to men who lie as involuntarily as would they breathe? That someone else’s hand fifteen minutes later would feel sweeter in yours than hers? That another set of eyes held the power to beg for five more minutes of your time with more conviction than that of your little girl’s?

Oh, how fickle the human heart. Oh, how fragile the eternal soul. What price you both have paid. Would that I had the power to bring you back for just one second to hug the child inside the woman who has waited 44 years to know you. Would that you could return just one more time to read this book– To wrinkle your nose and cackle like a hen. To hiss at the blackness of the night and howl at the bravery of a moon that still mounts clouded shelves of blue each night you are gone from her side. To say, ‘Let me tuck you in tiny one and I shall tell you the story of how a little yellow cat with gold eyes conquered hate in the tiny house on Hissing Hill.’

And so he began…

“…Spells are that cat’s specialty. ‘We’ll just turn day into night’
The visiting witches drew in their breaths,
For that was the hardest spell of all.
Jezebel sat in front of Sizzle,
Staring with eyes like yellow moons.
The witch whirled around,
Wove her arms into twists,
and began to murmur the spell.
As she shrieked the last word
She pointed a boney finger
at the sun through the window. And pop!
Jezebel turned into a yellow cat…”

For Julie.

5/5/10

Beyond nostalgia…

The last few days I have been doing further research on the results from the ballistics’ report in question and I wonder why no one ever did follow up on the discrepancy. In order for you to follow this train of thought, let’s go back to the beginning of this blogging process when I put forth some of what was included in the GBI report; in particularly the last portion of the report containing the responses about item (3) and item (6).

Let’s revisit: (information found at the tail end of GBI State Crime Lab report, reference Case # 76917)

“…
SERVICES REQUESTED: Firearms identification; check paraffin casts.

RESULTS: Item (1) the paraffin cast of the right hand is positive for nitrate.
Item (3) the bullet identified as being removed from the left side of the head shows the remains of three lands and grooves with left hand twist.
Test bullets fired from the .38 Special Colt Commando, Item (6), shows six lands, six grooves with left hand twist.
…”

If we review what is written by Ann L. Davis two blogs ago, then one would have to assume that the bullets were fired from two different guns… wouldn’t we?
But more importantly… wouldn’t they?

P.S. Item (4), the bullet removed from the frontal lobe area of the brain- the bullet fired through the chin is not even mentioned. Why?

5/4/10

In the midst of last week’s chaos, some landmark things happened. A banquet to attend and celebrate the college graduation of my oldest, the arrival of my latest published novel- The Danburg Diary and serious research materials for the book to follow The Coffee Pot Conspiracy called, The Dead Line. But there was another landmark met in the middle of all that— my birthday! At 52, I am nine years older than Charley was when he died. I think back to my 44th year and how defining it was in my life. Not as defining as death, mind you– but that was the year I was diagnosed with a life threatening tumor. In light of what happened to Charley, it certainly pales in comparison. Still, because of him I see how vastly different the lives of my family could have been if I had died.

So when I think of 44, you would surmise that the most remarkable thing I would remember about that year is that they were successful in removing the tumor and that I didn’t die…right? While that certainly should rank right up top, something even more wonderful happened to me. That was the year I returned my hand to pen. Now how can such a thing be more remarkable than life, you might ask? Because if you are a writer…you understand that writing is for you, life itself. I cannot imagine who I might be right now if I had not been inspired to return to the pen. It is clear that something must have happened while under the knife; an epiphany of some sort. For I had written as a child and through young adulthood. I even continued to journal through my forties, but that my dear friend is not the same thing as writing. Only writing, is writing.

At 14 if you asked me what I was going to do with my life I would have answered you without hesitation and with absolute conviction… ‘I am going to write the great American novel.’ If anyone asked, ‘What is it going to be about?’ I would have replied – ‘I have no idea! But it will be great and it will be mine.’ So how did it end up that at 44 I had everything on my farm to occupy my time and yet, not enough to feed my soul? What changed me after 14? I believe something happens to your dreams when you begin to grow up. Like old shoes and ragged jeans they get tossed to the corner of your closet and once out of daily sight… you forget about them. Then years later in an effort to evolve you clean out your closet– try them on for nostalgia’s sake and find they no longer fit. Your life gets in the way of your living and you get lost on your path. Somehow in between the kids, the farm and being married I had gotten lost in my living and the frustration was endless. I kept feeling as though I was standing still, knowing that a train that I was supposed to be on had already pulled out of the station. I was late for my life and I could not tell you why or what it was I thought I was supposed to be doing… I just knew in my soul, I was not doing it! And regardless how I tried, I could not find the next train to board. Then of course, the architect of the universe saw fit to redirect me in a most dramatic way. Being a precocious child, I imagine he felt he had no other alternative than to grab my attention and hold it—so he did!

The fear of death can be an incredible tool to open our eyes and clear away the cobwebs of ego. By the time I had the surgery and was on the mend, I had committed to picking up the pen again to see what happened. I figured the worst that could happen was—I would suck. I had sucked at learning to play the guitar. I had sucked at trying to learn how to snow ski… I had sucked at math! And while these were certainly drawbacks to becoming a specialist within those chosen fields; it didn’t matter! Why? Because it wasn’t what I wanted or what I was supposed to be doing with my life! So I sucked- but I did it with style and grace because it never mattered. And what’s wrong with sucking at something, if you can own it?! Nothing! As long as you don’t let that be the reason to quit something that does matter… so I didn’t. In two years I had written 9 main stage plays and gotten them under contract with a publisher. The next 7 years were spent cutting my teeth on writing several novels. Needless to say, this all brings me back to celebrating my 52nd Birthday with Charley. Charley, the man with the moldy skin who has patiently waited 44 years waiting for my talent and intellect to mature enough to warrant his faith in me. Charley–the man whose insistence to be heard introduced me to someone who has given me a glimpse of the great beyond. Charley, whose gift of persistence has renewed my joy in self expression through ink…

And so, with pen in hand I write my thanks to him for the presents he has granted me and promise him that next year on my birthday, it is he who will receive a present…
The story of his life, as seen through the eyes of his death.

Until later then…

5/4/10

In the midst of last week’s chaos, some landmark things happened. A banquet to attend and celebrate the college graduation of my oldest, the arrival of my latest published novel- The Danburg Diary and serious research materials for the book to follow The Coffee Pot Conspiracy called, The Dead Line. But there was another landmark met in the middle of all that— my birthday! At 52, I am nine years older than Charley was when he died. I think back to my 44th year and how defining it was in my life. Not as defining as death, mind you– but that was the year I was diagnosed with a life threatening tumor. In light of what happened to Charley, it certainly pales in comparison. Still, because of him I see how vastly different the lives of my family could have been if I had died.

So when I think of 44, you would surmise that the most remarkable thing I would remember about that year is that they were successful in removing the tumor and that I didn’t die…right? While that certainly should rank right up top, something even more wonderful happened to me. That was the year I returned my hand to pen. Now how can such a thing be more remarkable than life, you might ask? Because if you are a writer…you understand that writing is for you, life itself. I cannot imagine who I might be right now if I had not been inspired to return to the pen. It is clear that something must have happened while under the knife; an epiphany of some sort. For I had written as a child and through young adulthood. I even continued to journal through my forties, but that my dear friend is not the same thing as writing. Only writing, is writing.

At 14 if you asked me what I was going to do with my life I would have answered you without hesitation and with absolute conviction… ‘I am going to write the great American novel.’ If anyone asked, ‘What is it going to be about?’ I would have replied – ‘I have no idea! But it will be great and it will be mine.’ So how did it end up that at 44 I had everything on my farm to occupy my time and yet, not enough to feed my soul? What changed me after 14? I believe something happens to your dreams when you begin to grow up. Like old shoes and ragged jeans they get tossed to the corner of your closet and once out of daily sight… you forget about them. Then years later in an effort to evolve you clean out your closet– try them on for nostalgia’s sake and find they no longer fit. Your life gets in the way of your living and you get lost on your path. Somehow in between the kids, the farm and being married I had gotten lost in my living and the frustration was endless. I kept feeling as though I was standing still, knowing that a train that I was supposed to be on had already pulled out of the station. I was late for my life and I could not tell you why or what it was I thought I was supposed to be doing… I just knew in my soul, I was not doing it! And regardless how I tried, I could not find the next train to board. Then of course, the architect of the universe saw fit to redirect me in a most dramatic way. Being a precocious child, I imagine he felt he had no other alternative than to grab my attention and hold it—so he did!

The fear of death can be an incredible tool to open our eyes and clear away the cobwebs of ego. By the time I had the surgery and was on the mend, I had committed to picking up the pen again to see what happened. I figured the worst that could happen was—I would suck. I had sucked at learning to play the guitar. I had sucked at trying to learn how to snow ski… I had sucked at math! And while these were certainly drawbacks to becoming a specialist within those chosen fields; it didn’t matter! Why? Because it wasn’t what I wanted or what I was supposed to be doing with my life! So I sucked- but I did it with style and grace because it never mattered. And what’s wrong with sucking at something, if you can own it?! Nothing! As long as you don’t let that be the reason to quit something that does matter… so I didn’t. In two years I had written 9 main stage plays and gotten them under contract with a publisher. The next 7 years were spent cutting my teeth on writing several novels. Needless to say, this all brings me back to celebrating my 52nd Birthday with Charley. Charley, the man with the moldy skin who has patiently waited 44 years waiting for my talent and intellect to mature enough to warrant his faith in me. Charley–the man whose insistence to be heard introduced me to someone who has given me a glimpse of the great beyond. Charley, whose gift of persistence has renewed my joy in self expression through ink…

And so, with pen in hand I write my thanks to him for the presents he has granted me and promise him that next year on my birthday, it is he who will receive a present…
The story of his life, as seen through the eyes of his death.

Until later then…

5/3/10

Last week had been such a whirlwind of information and activities that I decided I needed to get out of town and take Charley with me. So with that, the Mustang convertible was loaded to the gills and I popped the recording of our meeting in Valdosta into the CD player and listened as I made my way along the highway. Sounds silly, huh? One would think I would have had the radio blasting, or a favorite CD of some Broadway show accompanying my ride… but information I received the day before had my head turning. This is why I always keep an open mind and remember that God places people in our paths for a reason. My husband had surgery a few weeks ago. In the process, we discovered a lump on his shoulder blade area just beneath his incision area, so he needed another MRI done. The morning of his MRI, I decided to bring my laptop and work on my blog while he was being ex-rayed down the hall. While doing so, a woman to my right took note of my oversized pocket book, my over stuffed book bag all over the seat next to me. She made a comment about my ‘bringing everything but the kitchen sink’ and smiled weakly. I looked at the fact that I was occupying two seats and part of the floor in front of me with all of my nonsense and smiled weakly back. I explained I am such a geek about writing, that any chance I get–I drag my laptop along for the ride. Ice broken, we struck up a conversation in between paragraphs. It proved to be fruitful. Both she and her husband were retired law enforcement; she from a Sheriff’s Department and he from a metropolitan Police Department. Seeing the natural segue, I suggested she might find Charley’s story of interest. She seemed intrigued, so I baited further. After giving her the abridged tour of my information and my card, I told her to read the blog and if she was still interested to know more- she should contact me through the web site. It took about a week, but she did!
Thankful to have another set of fresh eyes and sensing no reason not to trust her or her husband, I set an appointment to meet her to share more materials. This is where I sometimes quibble with the universe. I recognize that our paths were meant to cross. The alignment was just too obvious. The question then became…do I share information? Then it became about, how much information to share? Or, about how little information to share? And then in the scope of this case, which information to share? The responsibility I have to Charley and to J can be daunting, but the bottom line always remains the same. If Charley had been my dad… no amount of information could ever be too much if it helps solve his murder. So with a leap of faith, I met her and shared more information. It felt important to have eyes more trained than I to look at things that would involve law enforcement procedures and equipment.

The very next day she confirmed my trust had not been in vain. Yes she agreed, the statements of witnessed seemed to be little more than carbon copies of one another with different signatures. The DS statements vs. crime scene photos had issues of contradiction between themselves. But then she got to the GBI crime lab report and dropped a bombshell in my lap. Now, I had looked at that report many times and as a lay person, thought I had plucked some of the more juicy inconsistencies out- but what she and her husband unveiled to me was something that should and must validate the re-opening of this case.

Let’s take a little stroll down ballistics’ avenue and see what they say about lands and grooves.
(Taken from internet)
Ann L. Davis of the Virginia Division of Forensic Science and the Virginia Institute of Forensic Science and Medicine, explains.
Most modern handguns and rifles are manufactured based on blueprints that specify their configurations. One of these specifications is a characteristic known as rifling, which refers to the spiral lands and grooves placed into the firearm’s barrel to impart a spin on the bullet for accuracy. The number of lands and grooves and the direction in which they twist, either right or left, can be determined by observing the rifling engravings in the barrel. The image at right (top) shows the rifling in a barrel having eight lands and grooves inclined to the left, as seen from the muzzle-end of a firearm. The lands and grooves appear as raised and lowered areas, respectively, in the barrel. These rifling characteristics are then imparted onto a projectile as it spins down the barrel, leaving land and groove impressions on the fired bullet (bottom).

Manufacturers use various cutting, swaging and electrolytic processes to introduce rifling into a barrel, and these processes, as well as others used in the finishing of a firearm, make each barrel unique. A barrel will produce individual markings in addition to a bullet’s land and groove impressions as the bullet passes through, and it is these unique markings that an examiner evaluates to determine whether a given bullet was fired from a particular firearm.
The rifling characteristics alone can reveal what brand and/or model of firearm could have fired a specific projectile. To figure out if a bullet could have originated from a specific firearm, however, a forensic firearm and toolmark examiner uses an instrument called a comparison microscope to compare a questioned bullet (one recovered from a crime scene, for example) to bullets test fired from a suspect firearm. Examiners generally test fire into a water recovery tank to obtain comparison bullets for evaluation under the microscope.
A comparison microscope comprises two compound microscopes joined by an optical bridge and one set of eyepieces, or oculars. The configuration is such that the examiner can evaluate items on each of the microscope stages at the same time. A dividing line separates the two items in the field of view, and allows the examiner to vary how much of each item is observed simultaneously.
After evaluation of the test-fired bullets against one another for the presence of repetitive individual microscopic markings, the questioned bullet is mounted on the left stage and one of the test-fired bullets is placed on the right stage. The examiner then assesses the questioned bullet for the same repetitive marks that are present on the test projectiles. If sufficient correspondence is found between the questioned bullet and the test bullets, with no unexplainable differences, the examiner can conclude that the questioned bullet was fired from the suspect firearm. The image above demonstrates corresponding microscopic markings consistent with two bullets having been fired from the same firearm.

Anyone care to know why this information is now center stage in this investigation? Hmmm…