Then it begins…


I feel as though I should be looking in other directions for answers and yet my compass continues to point in the same direction as before…

Surrounded by photos of those I love and cherish… those who have moved on, I ask them to guide me. On Sunday Charley holds up 4 fingers… he keeps repeating the number 4- over and over. Now, all this could be in representation of the “4 in flannel”… or it could be his way of reminding me of the date, December 17th when he tells me there will be a big shift in this case.

He also tells me what I thought about this case on Thanksgiving is correct- that I am right on. He tells me that Jessica is tied to an attorney- that she may have been pregnant. That Charley may have known that along with everything else. He reminds me that December 21st is also significant… he begs that I must be patient. That all is working out, that I must wait while final details are being worked out elsewhere.

Route 44…
Does this have something to do with the railroad? The hut, the lockbox or the state agent that used to live out there??? I must look into his history and divine if there is something I missed there. Hazel’s journal may hold information I need. I will review that again and see what else comes through.

I am still awed at the fact that Grim felt he had the right to try and remove Charley’s wedding ring. That he did so at the request of G and the four in flannel- in an attempt to set up the affair/suicide theory. So they could cover their tracks and get rid of any trail that might lead to them back to the bodies of Jessica and Roxanne.

They bait- he follows. First they demand the evidence and when he refuses, they begin to beat him. The shooter begins to wave his gun back and forth in bravado…threatening to play his favorite game with Charley’s head; Russian Roulette. Charley realizes things are not what he thought and G laughs at his ignorance. The shooter cocks the trigger and places it near Charley temple. “Tell us- tell us, damn it… or I pull the trigger and splatter your brains across the asphalt” he yells into the night. “Don’t be a fool Covington- she never loved you, you fool. Give it to us… now. We know you have it!” the shooter employs as he rubs the barrel of the gun just above Charley’s right ear. “There are two bullets… really want to play this game with me?” he asks and spins the barrel one more time for effect.

Charley looks into G’s eyes. There is nothing there- he asks her to explain what went wrong. Why she was doing this- he has an ad in his wallet for a two bedroom house not far from there. He promises her he was going to leave- he asks her to give him more time… just a little more time. The shooter hits him in the back of the head with the butt of the gun.

“Shut up and listen…” he spits into Charley’s ear. G speaks, asking again where the MOT is. The shooter waves his gun again for punctuation and Charley brushes him aside as inconsequential- as though he should stop playing with sharp objects and go sit in his room and think about what he has done. This is between him and G- nobody else. He moves towards G to gauge her insincerity, but then everything changes. G nods her head to the others. They grab him from behind and force him up against the car hood and the front right tire. She gets in his face- demanding cooperation. Telling him he meant nothing to her. That he was a stupid man who got his shorts and his heart confused. That he never had a chance with her- that it was all just a game to get him where they wanted him…alone… late at night…on an empty road…without help. They demanded he give them the MOT. Told him what they would do if he did not comply.

He stalls- looking to G for understanding. How could she do this? How could she be one of them? G tells him she was pregnant- but then follows it by saying she had a miscarriage. But it never mattered- it wasn’t his kid anyway. Charley reels from the revelation and buckles under the shooters hold. They demand the MOT- Charley struggles, refuses to tell them anything- he calls their bluff. The shooter gets cocky- screams and yells. Charley still refuses to tell them anything. They threaten one more time, he calls their bluff again with silence and the shooter gets an itchy trigger finger- he threatens and then in his anger his finger slips forward and he blows Charley’s head off. As the victim slumps beside the front right tire, chaos ensues. Stunned- they all eye one another. The shooter kicks at Charley and when he does not move- they panic.

The shooter begins cursing and yelling at him in frustration. The other’s yell and fight- the shooter f___’d up- he screams obscenities at Charley for dying before they could get the information out of them they needed. He rummages through the car- searching frantically for the MOT. It is not there. It is not anywhere. They run their bloody fingers through their hair and plot. They make a call… they have a meeting. They hide evidence… they manipulate the scene with blessings by higher ups.

Then it begins… the rain and the cover up that has lasted 44 years.

The trail will lead to MOT…the trail will lead to MOT.
Merry Christmas Grim.

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