Archive for March, 2015

LAW OF THE HARVEST…coming this summer of 2015!

March 22, 2015

3/22/2015

Ok…so a feather floated to my feet yesterday as I worked on our beach, clearing debris and boughs of soggy pine straw from the sandy shoreline. Eager for another message, I acknowledged its gift–lifted it from the water and laid it upon a rock of my fire pit to dry. Lost again in the rigors of  raking and burning, I forgot about the feather and continued to work. Hours later, sore but happy to finally be outside in the sunshine…a large boat came too close to the dock –kicking up a huge swell of water that rushed the shoreline.

My back had been to the water, cleaning our chairs from winter’s mildew and so did not notice the wave’s approach- but rather heard it, as it slammed the shoreline and splashed the nearby fire pit. Hearing the cacophony, I turned abruptly and noted the feather that had been placed on the warming stone to dry, was missing.

“Well…the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh”, I guessed and went swiftly back to my chores.

As my husband cleared the cover from the boat and worked about replacing the radio and fish finder–I continued to wash chairs and rake debris. Three more chairs in, I absentmindedly stepped too near a fire ant hill and got bit. Annoyed at my misfortune, I ran to the water’s edge and shoved my feet, river shoes and all into the cold water up to my ankles…to stop the little suckers from biting me further.

Caught off guard, but refreshed by the cold swirling water I watched with satisfaction as their little bodies floated away. Those that clung, I brushed away- thrust my foot back into the water to soothe and then noted the very same little white feather I had saved hours before, was now floating in front of me for the second time that day.

What are the odds?

In spirit world- pretty good,  I would surmise.

So what was the message?

The message was, to now bring this book out of the shadows and into the public light.

That’s right…I am now at the point in the book and my research where I am editing and reaching out to those who will be the ones to help me bring closure to the effort. I have several law enforcement colleagues that have been tapped for such and of course, a copy to my lawyer for perusal, with a few messages to those still active in  peripheral cases as a head’s up– to make certain the content will not compromise their efforts to get certain people a new trial.

Carlton Gary’s case is integral for sure- but not the sum total of all that this book entails. It is not even the sum total of all that was brought to me to investigate by one very brave and dedicated woman. It is more…so much more.

Am I completely done with the book? The final chapters are outlined, but at over 500 pages… I must begin to reign in the timelines, tailor the fit and rework my original book cover for polish.

I promise you dear readers…in as much as Charley’s case took you places you never thought you would go–this book will take you that much farther and beyond where even I thought it could go. The city of Columbus, Georgia  will begin to feel the rumble first…then several other metropolitan cities, the Florida Keys and islands beyond.

The title for the book has morphed from its original working title, due to the extent of additional victims found allegedly connected to this case and will be published under the following:

LAW OF THE HARVEST: A True Crime Investigative Memoir

by T.A. POWELL

(copyrighted materials 2014)

And just to wet your whistle?

Here’s the Prologue…

 

Prologue:

“While it is not my intention to begin this book with a riddle for levity’s sake, it is my intention to ask you to use your intellect from page one. You see, some murders are prompted by basic emotions that render a killer’s motivation most obvious. Other murders are committed out of a need to serve a higher purpose such as; personal or ideological loyalty and/or religious martyrdom. But the Columbus Stocking Strangler murders will never rise to the elegance of such, no matter how much the perpetrators of these atrocities might insist. These graphic slayings of seven elderly white women were executed for a series of reasons that for over 37 years have gone undecipherable and in the end, were simply part of a much larger puzzle that until now has remained hidden; the terror of the unholy trinity… the lords of the harvest.

So let us continue with the riddle.

What is another word for Thesaurus?

Thought provoking, isn’t it?

For how do you describe something that in essence exists only to describe everything else, but not itself? I think you would agree with me then, that sometimes there simply isn’t a better word or group of words to describe a thing other than the words that originally describes it the best. Thus, you have the reason why the title for this book could be nothing other than, Law of the Harvest.

The word harvest is defined as the process of gathering mature crops from the fields. In like token, reaping is the cutting of mature grains or produce for harvest, typically using a scythe, sickle or reaper.

But in Columbus, Georgia in 1977, the word harvest took on another meaning and the tools that were used to harvest these ‘matured’ victims will not only shock you…but lead you to other horrors before, once shrouded in mystery and considered as stand-alone murders.

The harvested souls of Columbus:

Mary Ferne Jackson, a white woman, age 60, was harvested by strangulation with a nylon stocking on Thursday, September 15, 1977. Jackson was also brutally beaten and …

Jean Dimenstein, a white woman, age 71, was harvested by strangulation with a nylon stocking on September 25, 1977. Dimenstein was also brutally beaten and …

Florence Scheible, a white woman, age 89, was harvested strangulation with a nylon stocking on October 21, 1977. Scheible was also brutally beaten and …

Martha Thurmond, a white woman, age 69, was harvested by strangulation with a nylon stocking on October 25, 1977. Thurmond was also brutally beaten and …

Kathleen Woodruff, a white woman, age 74, was harvested by strangulation with a scarf on December 27, 1977. Woodruff was also brutally beaten and …

Mildred Borom, a white woman, age 78, was harvested by strangulation with a nylon curtain cord on February 11, 1978. Borom was also brutally beaten and …

Ruth Schwob, a white woman, age 74, was almost harvested by strangulation with a nylon stocking on February 11, 1978…but survived.

Janet Cofer was harvested by strangulation with a nylon stocking on April 20, 1978. Cofer was also brutally beaten and …

Two years later?

Mary Sue Ogletree, a white woman, age 54, was harvested by slitting her throat in addition to over 33 other stab wounds to her body on June 8, 1980. Ogletree was also …

All of the victims had been assaulted, presenting trauma to the left side of the head; the first three found with their faces hidden beneath a pillow to muffle their screams during their profane violation. Indeed, the harvest that began in 1977 proved to be a productive culling of Columbus’s finest matrons; a killing spree that crossed over several seasons, leaving behind a bewildered city and the mangled corpses of seven elderly white women and one battered and bruised survivor.

Now, 38 years later we dip our shovels back into the cold swollen earth that swallowed the Columbus Stocking Strangler’s victims and ask the women who died beneath the crush of the killer’s knees and the stockings in his hands, to tell us their stories and point the way to other harvested souls from a network of serial killings that have spanned not only multiple decades, but reached across the four corners of this country as well.

So why this case? Why now?

Because spirit knew this case was the key to opening a larger set of locks that have kept this country in the dark about other serial killings and the true impetus of the killers. Beyond that, because I too, am now in the harvest cycle of my life and just the like the string of victims left behind would want someone to speak for me, if God forbid…

My name is T.A. Powell and I am an investigative forensic author who works with active and retired law enforcement, plus a psychic medium detective, to unlock the shorthand of the dead and speak for those who can no longer be heard.”

 

LAW OF THE HARVEST…coming this summer of 2015!

 

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I could quote a piece here …

March 17, 2015

3/17/2015

Happy St. Patty’s Day…

Less than five hours after  my last post,  our beloved old Chihuahua, Scrat died in my arms and I prayed that my father was there to take him from me just before his final breath. Heart broken, I have made my way through the quiet of the following days and tried without tear to manage a smile on his behalf …it is amazing the space such a tiny creature can take up in one’s heart.

Beyond that, spirit has been very generous with information of late and I grow weary of the chase and prefer now to lay the matter at the foot of editor and fly without care for consequence. So many loose ends…so many victims untethered.

The unholy triad walk through their days on this side and the other with bated breath. One for certain dead…one who like the opossum tends to like to “play” dead and the other left holding the bag. His “Folly” will be his downfall.

The poet sings from within his coffin and has left his words for all the world to see  and yet they read and did not acknowledge. Minus the “Key” they did not understand…but with the “key” all is revealed. So, will the dead man rise to claim his innocence? Will his lover paint the airwaves with his disclaimers and satisfy the critics?

Spirit has provided that enough questions can be answered…even evidence proffered that any other speculation garners credibility simply by proximity.

The Sociopaths, even for all their clever banter and charades, can never overcome their collective Achilles heel…the ego! They published for all to see, what they could not share in private…how ironic!

Shall I quote the page that tells it all?

Shall I sight the skit whose cover draws the map?

Shall the meadow and the Grove finally give up their secrets? The black mountains their collective lies? Shall we all sing ring around the roses with new meaning?

Dear Richard…the arrow points the way! Do you remember the day? The grass was not green yet…the shirt, short sleeved and red. They circled you and took their turns? Do you remember how it ended? It was a game…a sport for them. Orion…remember?

Hope you have enjoyed this little sampler, Mr. Folly…they left you holding the bag and I intend to exploit such insensitivities. The two of you thought the pen was mightier than the shovel…and it was. But then, you can’t believe everything you read.

So much nonsense in the verbiage- my eyes get crossed! Or would that be, crost?

Here’s a riddle for you?

What does a rose (or rather a bed of roses), a dripping pen and a dirty shovel all have in common?

Can you say the answer out loud and not betray them?

I know…”IT”…is not really all that funny, but then…neither were your intentions or acts committed.

I could quote a piece here that would give away all and yet if drawn to do so, must reference its title and its author and I know you would rather keep that quiet for right now…but not for long. Someone once waited 15 years in between publishing.

I am not so patient as he.

Stay tuned…

The gift of faith…

March 12, 2015

3/12/2015

Happy Birthday to my father…

Were he here, he would have been 88 years old today, had my mother not been so lonely in heaven without him and come to collect him one early morning 9 days and 6 years ago on March 3rd, 2009.

I’ve missed you everyday since then daddy, but I know you missed her more and so you had to go. That I can wrap my head around… that I can forgive, though I was never meant to be an orphan…even at this age. It sucks. Just every once in a while, reach down from where you are and kiss my cheek– hold my hand in yours and tell me you two are fine and that you miss me too.

I have been deep in thought about my dad for several days now; not that he is not always in my heart, but specifically since my recent dream at the shores of an ocean where we were all together and celebrating something special.

But today is his day and I want to thank him for something we battled over for years…my faith.

Born Catholic, I toyed with the study of many religions- which I’m sure drove my father insane. Now on the other side, I’m certain he forgives the shorthand I came with since birth…a shorthand he never understood…till now!

My father once told me that the greatest gift he could give me, other than life itself, was the gift of faith. In my testy youth I found that a sappy and religiously pandering statement. Now, in doing what I do and what I have learned through my own throws of dealing with overwhelming grief over the loss of loved ones…I have to thank him for teaching me the truth about my faith. It is the most important gift after life itself, for it is faith that makes all the trials  in life- the lessons that we survive to evolve to a higher place…doable. Not wonderful…but doable.

Now that doesn’t mean that we necessarily reach a place through faith where pain no longer pervades our lives or affects our emotions, but it affords us a place of acceptance that lets us know that we are never truly separated from those we love…that the veil is as thick or as thin as we make, or need it to be in the process of our healing.

My faith allows me to reach across the veil– to see and hear what others cannot.

Faith allows me to serve those who have suffered at the hands of others- a place to come for resolution or help. My faith allows me to tread where angels lead the way and it is with their guidance and support that a blessed few are allowed to come to the truth of earthly justice. Not all will…but that is not for me to decide…that is what the heavenly court is for.

The book has now reached 489 pages and will show a trail of murder, wrought by the unholy three who ravaged Boston, California, Atlanta, Columbus and the Florida Keys. The names have not been changed…not like in Charley’s book where I let fear invade my need to be truthful. In this book however, the guilty are who they are and their legacy’s will suffer the consequence of their actions as is willed by another court, other than my own.

You cannot hide in death what you think you buried in life; be you poets, preachers or practitioners of chaos and magik. This ring around the ROSES, will not cover your sins from prying eyes–at east not mine and once published…not from anyone else’s either. Does that bother you? That your secrets are no longer secrets… your lies no longer buried with your victims?

They had much to share and are still sharing! What is it I always said about Charley’s case? Dead men tell no tales…they tell the truth! Well, dead women enjoy their cosmic gossip- but have many truths to share as well. Women from Boston, Columbus, California and the Florida Keys!

So here is a question for you, that was asked of me by spirit early on in this case:

Do you understand the red key?

In the beginning, I didn’t. But after more than a year of research into this case and following spirit’s lead without question… I do!

The collective legacy’s of the unholy trinity (the three killers-the lords of the harvest) now hangs in the balance of justice. Let the public decide what is truth and what is fodder.  My job is simply to provide record of what has been discovered.

So here’s to my father’s birthday.

Happy Birthday daddy…my gift to you is my public acknowledgement of my spiritual faith. May it keep us connected always! Hugs to mom and I hope Birthday cake in heaven is just as good as it is  here!

xoxoxoxoxo

t

Something …other than spaghetti.

March 7, 2015

3/7/2015 Finals at last are finished and in two days this production ended and another audition process begun and somewhere in between there is me. This morning I took a break from final posts and book research to watch a curious film that had mostly German and Swedish speaking actors and then…there was Pierce Broslan in the mix..the ever accented, pepper haired actor who suffered the loss of a wife, the estrangement of a man-child and the ridiculous advances of a former sister in law. It sounds like an absolute wreck of a movie, but it was set in Italy and they could have been speaking Chinese for all I cared, so yearning for a chance to travel and be somewhere else for a holiday, was I. Each year that goes by I promise myself I will do something else…go somewhere else, and then the rigors of life and the budgets of households and children and daily chaos– suck the wind out of my sails and I am exactly where I started. Not in a bad place…not in an unfulfilled job or life…just here…and here is not there…wherever there is at the moment of my need to be in another space. With school ending for a sabbatical of a summer and work slowing a bit and the sun rising earlier and the sun setting later on the morrow…I pray that one day I walk myself into a Post Office and order a God Blessed Passport before the  assholes of the world have screwed everything up, before I can finally see some of the world I dream about. Ireland…England…Italy…even Seattle seems pretty exotic to me these days. Perhaps it is the endless hamster wheel of school and work that get me to this point every year, where I just want to pick up my coffee cup and find my own “Bramasole” to rehabilitate. (Those who understand, Under the Tuscan Sun will get  my drift)…but that is not the point. The point is that this morning, for ever so brief a period…I basked in a lemon grove, watched colorful boats bob up and down in the quaint inlets of idyllic seaside villages… dipped my toes into the rippling waves along pebbled shores of southern Italy’s Mediterranean waters… watched the sun dip and bend between clouded shelves of blue, just before sunset…a painted sky of pastel purple that accompanied my my soul as it metaphorically wandered amidst the halls of a plastered palace in a place a thousand miles away. Pathetic as  that is…it was something. And every once in a while in between the magic of the theatre…the murder and the grief of those I try to help and the papers I try to write, or the books I live to research and publish…there is calm and the promise of something more. Something Italian…something…other than spaghetti.


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