7/29/2014
I have so much to plow through, but life continues to put a foot in my path. So busy with business and social obligations, my hours have been limited this past week and I have been struggling to find both quiet and space to get things out of my head and down on paper. Yesterday while walking to my office a small bird crossed my path and in his wake, he left a small black feather. The combined symbolism of a forthcoming message, perhaps about death. I smiled knowing that it meant the universe was giving me a heads up that important information was on its way.
And indeed, just hours later it arrived!
What’s that you say?
Someone I thought dead is still very much this side of the veil?
Now that’s quite a message for such a small bird!
So let’s chat a bit…
Yesterday afternoon I received a call that garnered some very important information that I believe may provide greater link between the Boston Strangler and the Columbus Strangler cases. While I cannot give you specifics, I will let you know that the more I weave my way through this legal tapestry of buffalo chips and hogwash about Mr. Gary, the more I am amazed that the citizens of Columbus bought into it so heavily back in 77/78 and even more astounded that the courts itself, allows such hog-swallow to continue still. In the 70’s DNA was foreign to the local-yocals who called themselves the law. But not now, in 2014— so who are you kidding?
Lack of a positive DNA match today is the Willy Wonka golden ticket to freedom for the innocent and the ticket to Hell for the positive match. So why is the issue of unmatched DNA between Carlton Gary and the victim’s of the Columbus stranglings being held out of the mix in this case?
Shall we ask the DA? Many have so far and she has yet to render a cohesive statement that rationalizes the disregard of such.
Surely she has a good excuse to ignore the facts in this case? The DNA, the bite mark molds and the shoes?
A friend of mine once said murder is always about one of three things:
A woman.
Money.
And a woman.
Maybe he’s right?
Corruption allows for everybody to join the party.
But for now, let’s ask the big white elephant question sitting atop the chest of these victims?
Why wouldn’t a District Attorney allow every piece of evidence to carry its weight in a life or death trial?
The shoe mold?
The bite mold?
The DNA?
Who is being protected and who is doing the protecting?
Dig an inch or so deeper into the backgrounds of your key players at the time and you see some folks knew other folks…some folks did business with other folks…some folks had Godmothers and some the metaphorical Godfather.
So who is the Don in this case and why does he carry so much weight this many decades later?
Secrets, my dear readers.
Everybody had them then…has them now.
Secrets that the echelon could not afford to have been made public to you back then…the parties, the trysts, the togas and the masquerades. Who was tied to who; figuratively and literally? Why sleep with your wife if your neighbor would do? Why sleep with a woman at all, if your wife never knew?
California crept upon your sidewalks and dripped rainbows across your lawns and you never saw the truth of what he was doing. He smiled, you listened. You loved his taste, his sense of style…his pseudo sophistication. You casually invited him into your homes and your yards without the slightest thought of why he cared about your Boxwoods or your Hollies. Why this window faced this way and that window that way…who liked to play his silly games and who liked to watch. Who drank the pots of coffee and who placed their grounds around your petunias? Was it for the flowers or for the dogs? Only the Strangler knows for sure.
The Strangler who sat on an orange and brown couch, amidst a puff or two of toking bliss and relived your visits with another. How he held your hand, accepted your drinks, talked about your silverware then bashed your head, moved you from bed to floor and back again as you cried and screamed that you did not understand his anger. Why were you such worthless pawns? He tried to tell us all…it wasn’t really about them. It was about perverse passions…occult obsessions…misguided worship and betrayals. Jesse James and John Wilkes Booth! Oh how they would cry at what has been done to their beloved initiation rituals. RC Christian would take back his gold and knock down the granite walls of Elberton if the world knew the truth of what they’d done. Such follies! You knelt upon their chests, said your three words and walked away…your freedom bought with the souls and ambitious associations of those on high and an inconvenient black man whose finger prints never even matched. Howdy Doody does law in Southern Georgia!
Times were very volatile in Columbus during those murders and so many of you were frightened that you too could become a headline in a newspaper; so frightened in fact that you were willing to forgo your common sense for false security. Your cops apparently felt the same way too, otherwise they wouldn’t have tried to cram the latent scapegoat Carlton Gary down your throats years later. They would have gone straight to the source to gather the guilty. They would have bound their hands and dragged them in. The Judas goat, tidy in his ascot…would gavotte about the streets of Broadway and proclaim his innocence, but you…you would have known that three knots does not an innocent man make, nor a gas lamp a European lodge.
You want to know who really killed your elderly women, Columbus?
Look to the pillars…the stars…the guide stones and the tunnels under your feet…all perfectly appointed by your Columbus Strangler.
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