Brownstonelit's Blog

10/17/10
Whoever had the medium sized black dog was at both murders… Charley’s and Rox’s. Did he belong to the shooter or to the two other law enforcement individuals who were always present? The one whose sleeve is covered with the blood of Charley. The one whose finger swipes across his forehead cannot be denied. The one who draws the car on the shoulder and not in the road…

The “fort” was an old restaurant at the corner of Patterson and Ashley- right near the Ashley Daniel Hotel were the MOT’s body was found after he had been intimidated and died. His death certificate said something about “quarantined”; but could this be because a cardiac arrest doesn’t usually come with signs of being beaten all to Hades?

The letter was written by a female with red fingernails- red fingernails gouging in the backsides of men during intercourse. Red fingernails on the hands that took the coffee grounds and strew them all over the kitchen the week after Charley was buried. Woman’s hand that took Charley’s house keys from his key ring- from inside the house. The red fingernails belong to G.

Rox- the young girl who was used for “entertainment” by certain law enforcement agencies- she was intimate with 3 of the 4 who murdered her that night. It was autumn- you could see the breath escaping through her thin lips as she lay there on the ground being beaten. They say she drowned, yet there was no water in her lungs… but they should have been looking at her throat.

The one who kicks and beats wears camouflage. He likes his boots and swears to protect the brotherhood. Beware the man who bears a tattoo of a dragon on his arm. Is this the POW of months ago I could not trace? This is the man whose association with the woman whose name begins with a B is well known. He likes seafood…

There is much already known and much to learn yet, but I am fast approaching the tipping point where the scales of justice will soon find their momentum to pursue.

10/16/10
Forced to return to those clues which remain unvested, I try to piece the strangling threads together in a plausible way.

Clues like these:

1177 Turn…something- an envelope with a letter inside to this address and the name on the front of the envelope reads Mr. Ronald C… something. The hand writing it has bright red finger nails

A letter from a woman in Tampa…
The decorative plate with the palm tree on it…
December 17…
The man standing at the carved fence who will talk…
The 4 in flannel…
The shovel…
The compass…
Beware of the man with the dragon tattoo on his arm…
Three sets of hands on her throat while the soft spoken one, who knows it is wrong watches…
Jessica…
The woman in the home who has an injury to her ankle- she will talk…
The woman whose name begins with B has something to say- she wears necklaces made of beads…
She appears from under water…
The small white dog…
The necklace with a V engraved in it…
The fort…

Many of these clues have led me to Rox and many more will lead me to what happened to Jessica. On October 23rd, I shall reconnect with the proper authorities and establish their level of interest in re-opening this case. On October 24th another package goes out to someone else whose keen interest has been steadfast and patient. Today I shall send an update of what I have learned since I sent the first package. Monday I meet with others who I think will have to concur that a blind eye can no longer be turned towards such a travesty of justice as this.

Learn the shorthand of the dead, Jessica… I am here. I will listen.
Charley, Rox and the MOT will show you the way.

10/15/10

Today is a day of great personal importance to me. I ask that you all send a measure of positive thought my way. Committed to solving the entirety of this now very possible series of murders connected with Charley’s death takes more than just patience, intuition and research; it requires evidence. Grant me your trust for the day that what I am attempting to parlay will help move this process forward by stronger wheels than I can personally employ. I will place my trust in those who have guided and mentored me this far and trust that the larger picture they can see before me is the right picture for what it is we are trying to achieve. Today I seek wisdom to know what the right path will be.

Beyond that, let us return. There was a reason why Rox kept appearing to R from under water. At first we thought perhaps that she was stuck; reliving her murder over and over and could not move on. This was further complicated by the introduction of the compass and the shovel… but it became apparent that neither tool was necessary for where they left her. So why the presentation of a blood stained shovel… or a compass?

Seldom do they introduce something… or someone without segue or reason. And now the name Jessica appears over and over. Jessica has something to do with the shovel and the compass and the “fort” and December 17th has something to do with…

Did I ever tell you History was one of my favorite subjects???
Unless we understand history… we are doomed to repeat it.
They did not understand history and so they did repeat it. Again and again and…
Shame on them!

10/14/10

It is important that I be clear about what I am about to say, so that you know that this is not for hype or for sensationalism. This is for the sheer purpose of venting my fears and my posture about this case. In the past year and a half, but more intensely these past 10 months since contact with Charley was first made, the unfolding of this case has been both gradual and haunting. With each step I have been awed at the capacity equally for a man’s compassion and regret and for brutal cruelty by others who must ultimately carry the mantle of guilt over his death. No longer as a curiosity or a vehicle by which I might catapult my own literary career… this case has become a very personal matter of consequence to me. In investigative reporting that normally would be considered the worst thing that could happen- because then the reporter becomes the story and not the story itself. But I feel confident that Charley meant for this to become personal. That he calls upon me to become fully vested so as to drain every amount of hesitation or fear of self effacement from my stance and propel me in my focused approach.

To date I believe I have discovered the identity of his shooter and the evidence necessary to prove my findings. With help I have learned the identity of Rox and of her possible resting place. Now comes another name… and the tools perhaps by which she may have become another victim and my heart is pained at the depth of depravity of those both dead and alive that were involved.

From the inception, I have often pondered over the high stakes of this case. What constitutes the necessity for murder? Of course in the mind of the debauched and depraved, there comes a myriad of motives and yet…what constitutes the necessity for such a broad umbrella of lies that they must be promulgated, supported and maintained over a span of decades by handfuls of people? Further still, why such a task of discovery would fall to me?

As I touched on the other day, we are brought to our destiny sometimes kicking and screaming and sometimes with the calm of a newborn lamb ignorant of the process of social slaughter. This case- this journey has been fraught with both personal and professional blessings and curses. It has provided distractions when distractions were beyond necessary. It has provided a broader understanding of the ethereal and the corporeal and in doing so; it has grown me in capacities I could have never anticipated. I have a new path in life- a new passion with which to feed my soul and my gratitude for such is boundless. I have purpose and to those who seek and flounder in shallow waters searching for same- you know the comfort and the confusion of finding your designated reason for existence rippling about your ankles.

It seems small to some—this bit of chaotic history that has taken over my intellect and my life and yet what more noble deed can I do than to help right a wrong and save from eternal anonymity the souls of those who suffered for another’s demented folly? It cuts me to the very core to think that these girls- for indeed, those just on the cusp of womanhood are little more than overgrown petticoats at play on a playground in which they do not fully understand the rules of the game- became the pawns in this pathetic game. I have girls and so my heart bleeds with empathy. I cannot imagine the terror they must have felt at the hands of men who treated them like so much chattel in the wind. As objects of entertainment, to be exploited and then discarded without regard for their right to live long and useful lives, creating and raising daughters of their own.

It is my solemn vow as a once daughter, a mother and as keeper of the promise to Charley that I will keep searching for you. No matter how many… no matter how hard they try to keep your faces hidden… no matter what the personal cost. I will listen, I will follow where you lead in order to give you voice. You will not be forgotten and those who have left you behind will know that one day… one day… they will answer for their crimes against you.

No spouse, nor grandchild—innocent as they may be, will go to their grave remembering these people who murdered other innocents as the good and noble soldiers they have painted themselves to be for the last forty four years. You will go to your graves (Grim and those who helped you) naked, wrapped only with the truth of what you have done. Though it is wrong to wish for another’s demise, I will wish for then for this:

That you live long and haunted lives. That the faces of the men and woman you murdered never fail to invade your slumber. That you come to know the pain and the fear you inflicted on others- and like green kindling upon your deaths, you burn slow and steady in the fires that brought you forth that you might become more intimately acquainted with the measure of Hell you forced upon others. Rest assured your prayers for forgiveness fall to the ground unheeded, as you have shown no remorse for your infractions. No church can harbor you… no sanction protect you… neither cover of lie, nor fostered margin of blame will keep you safe enough from my prying hands.

You can run, but you can no longer hide.

10/12/10

And so night falls and while I have enough to keep me occupied with work and homework, it seems as though that may not be enough, because someone posed the question to me this evening:
How many other young girls went missing around the time of Charley’s death?
Are there more?
Is this why they keep showing the name Jessica?
Another victim?

Dear God, have you no soul Grim?
Eyes vacant…
Absent of heart…
Lack of conscience…
You seek only to destroy…

Is this how you earned your name- preying on young girls and plotting their deaths for your boy’s club? Where is your coin tonight Grim? Shall we flip it and see what will it show… heads or tails?

10/11/10
Ok… back to being me. Now, other than the personal epiphany which came to me in the silence of my thoughts yesterday- I came away from the trip with some very interesting information. Because I am exhausted from work and school, but felt the need not to abandon you too long, I will share some things with you.

I spent some time while there researching a few things that have bothered me of late. Things like shovels and compasses…death certificates and special fences that have things carved in them. I thought about faces and motives… heard things, saw things… felt things. I went to the old shack- just to enjoy the view from the deck. I heard it might be an old favorite of a few folks- maybe even Rox’s. Though, come to think of it…I bet that’s one place she and Jessica would love to forget. Then I went one lake up to where her body might have been found. Now, we all know what really happened to her, but suppose you wanted folks to think she’d drown. Wouldn’t you want to make certain you could prove she had water in her lungs? See… that’s the bad thing about working with dead people. They just won’t freaking follow orders. I mean, if you told everyone she’d drown- the very least she could have done was not just lay there all bruised and battered without water in her lungs- pretending to be strangled. If you drown- you have to have some water in your lungs. It’s just that simple, right? Gosh… at the very least, you should have a death certificate and an obituary written about you to back you up…
But that silly little girl, she didn’t bother to get any of it right. No water in the lungs, no death certificate or obit… That’s why the four in flannel just couldn’t work with her anymore! She just wouldn’t cooperate.

So they hauled her off and drove to….

Well… course you didn’t really think I was gonna tell you now- did you? I try to leave all the really important stuff up to Grim to tell. Like, if he had wanted anyone to know where and when and how she died- he’d have told you, right? And how about silly other little details like…where he bothered to bury her. And who helped him? But you know old Grim…

Always a suspense freak! He just hates spoiling a surprise ending. So, since he didn’t tell you, I bet your thinking your guess is about as good as mine…right?

Wrong!
Until later then…sweet dreams, Grim.

10/10/10
The numerical power of this day is enormous- remember it as all things begin to change from this moment forward. This morning I drove away from Valdosta, a bit confused as to why I thought Charley needed me to be there so badly this weekend. Clearly it had been my decision to go and I understood J wanted me there to share the anniversary of his death and I did get information. Which of course is always a plus. Yet, I could not get out of my mind the feeling that somehow I had missed something while I was there. When I ran a mental checklist, it all added up- but felt incomplete. I had met with most of the folks I needed to- learned a great deal of the periphery information I had wanted to and even found a new lead or two. Still, there was a void. Some part of me felt empty and so with sunshine and the blush of color amongst the tree line, I sallied forth into the last day of the weekend thinking about homework and deadlines and what I might have missed. With tank full, coffee hot and cautious heart, I left J to the McDonald’s parking lot to find her way home alone.

Somewhere after Tifton I began to parse the merits of the trip in my head. As radio station after radio station faded in and out, I began to grow weary of the static in both the airwaves and my life – all the while keeping a keen eye on the time. I went over the clues left unvetted and noted Charley has never left me before to wander aimlessly without segue. For that I have always been grateful and yet it is that precedent that told me I had left some stone unturned- some clue unheeded. As I drove further, I asked each of the three I have come to have a personal connection with as to why it had been so important for me to be there; aside from the obvious sentiment of the occasion. I cleard my mind and they began the shorthand of the spiritual. But it was not until the clock approached the bewitching hour of 10:10 on 10/10/10 that I consciously surrendered to listen.

This may come as a shock to you all. After all, blog after blog has been relentless, borderline obsessive and bloodthirsty for the why’s and the wherefores of Charley’s murder… and in truth, I have not lost the passion to bring the story full circle. But suddenly I realized that as important as that is, that was not what this trip was supposed to be about and if I had been more open and less tunnel visioned… I would have understood in the dark last night what Charley was saying from the light.

For those of you who like movies, I often quote from them as gifted writers abound everywhere and when their words ring true- the music is so sweet to the soul that one never grows somnolent at their mention.

One of my all time favorites is, the Field of Dreams. So much so, that I have dirt in a canister from the field in Dyersville, Iowa where it was filmed. I have a T-shirt somewhere, a dehydrated corn husk and an article sealed in plastic about the filming on location… all this to say, that the premise of the film is the premise of what I learned today.

“If you build it, he will come. Ease his pain. Go the distance.”

Now, I have not constructed a baseball field outside my brownstone- nor plowed under a ridiculous amount of acreage in order to right some childhood wrong… I do not expect Charley to bargain with other deceased friends for some unsanctioned baseball team to clutter my lawn. But what I did do almost two years ago when he was first brought to my attention, was ask for guidance. My own father had passed and lost, I found no internal compass able to guide me anymore. My parents had always been my true North, without them I could no longer find the rising star of my being.

Ok… I can hear you now. What the devil is this crap? What happened to Rox, the MOT and Charley? What about the murders and the porn… and the- this, and the- that????? It’s all still there, my friend and I am in no way finished with what it is I need to right… and to write. But what I wish to share with you right now is the epiphany of what it was I learned today.

“I built it. He came and together, we have gone the distance.”

Why? Because it wasn’t his pain, or J’s, Rox’s or even the MOT’s he was trying to alieve. It was mine. He came to me, to ease my pain and keep me from making a similar mistake. The mistake of half -life.

Charley died in half-life, but more importantly– Charley was living in a half-life the night he died. One foot in and one foot out. His whole world was in a state of flux, but most importantly his relationships. His job was secure, but his personal alliances were not.

R reminds me constantly that it isn’t always about the information those who have passed are giving to us, it’s about the journey they provide us to find it. But I have been so concentrated on the chaos of his death for the last 10 months, that I lost sight of the beauty of his life. The message he was trying to send me was so simple, but because I was looking for things more complicated- I refused to listen to the message he wanted me to hear.

Today at 10:10 A.M., I finally heard and even more,  I finally understood what this journey was meant  to teach me.  I suddenly saw in my mind all the people I have become connected to; both dead and alive and the role they have all  shared in bringing me to this point.

The message was so clear. As the numbers on the clock rolled over to the 10:10 on 10/10/10, I threw my arms in the air and in a somewhat reckless act of trust– I took my hands from the steering wheel, both literally and metaphorically. Closed my eyes for a second and pardon the pun… gave up the ghost. Transparent in my sincerity, I asked for guidance once again- only this time I meant it- for everything. And the message came through-no more half life. No more half hearted living. If I can’t be all in, then I must learn how to navigate my world from all out, until I can find my way back in again. I cannot play at life and think that I can always make-up for things tomorrow and accept that some times in the dark, we take a step and we never return.

Now… don’t worry. Tomorrow I will be back at pounding the metaphorical pavement to bring his murderers and Rox’s to justice. But for today- on this special day of 10’s, I urge you all to walk out into the brisk night air at 10:10 P.M.- throw your arms to sky and promise yourselves not to live a half -life anymore. Whatever half-truths you tell others or yourselves to get by, let them fall behind you now. Be honest with yourself. Be present in your world- all in or all out- but be decisive and for sixty seconds before the clock rolls over to 10:11 P.M. and the universe begins a new course…set yours too and commit to living a full life with a full heart and follow your dreams.

Until later then…

10/9/10
Just like my dream… the road bent and bowed with little illumination once we made it out of town. The stars were thin and the crickets thick as they played back-up to the whispers from the trees as we sped along the Clyatteville –Nankin Road. There we were, counting the miles and adjusting the minutes retracing his steps from that night each mile at a time. Only this time Charley wasn’t at the wheel- I was. It was a pilgrimage necessary for us both. She the daughter… I the writer- both needing to be there at the hour appointed to know and see for ourselves how black the night- how still the heart and how deafening the silence. All day long we had made distractions of our own; research at the Historical Society, interview after interview- conversations upon conversations all to fill the anxious hours before tonight.

J read from Hazel’s journal before we headed out as reminder that there was more at stake than just the rumor of a girl and a cup of coffee. It was 8:58 P.M. when we got on the road for the second time to where Charley spent his final moments. Mustang revved- top down and nothing but the wind to keep us company we drove quiet for the better half of the drive, passing a fence that now appears to be of special interest as it has been mentioned twice in R’s readings. As we reached the spot we slowed to a crawl and turned off the lights. The deep velvet of the night folded in around us and I could not imagine a more hopeless setting. Even with the stars above, the earth swallowed itself whole and you could not see two feet in front of your face. Fearful as we approached the second bridge, we cut the lights back on and inched our way forward to a stop. J got out of the car and walked in front of me down the side of the road, navigating the slim shoulder and then asked that I turn the lights out once more to embrace what her father must have experienced.

Checking both side and rear mirrors for other vehicles, finding none, I complied. Again- even once your eyes adjusted there was nothing but the unrelenting pitch. In silent vigil we each cast our prayers into the void and bid her father freedom from pain. “He would have been dead by now, I think”, she said. Neither star nor human blinked a tear at the statement. No ghost exercised…or demon fought… just the night, the two of us and the endless silence.

I do not know what I expected of such a trial- or that I expected anything at all. But there we were- the three of us, caught somewhere between 2010 and 1966 and there was nothing but the night to act as segue… and nothing but the dawn to look forward to.

It has been a long day filled with introductions and unexpected blessings and information. We spent many hours talking and listening… trying to engage others to our cause. I thought about Charley throughout it and Rox too, not trying to forget that Hazel too shared these last hours with him- not knowing if the marriage would last or fail… not knowing if the coffee would still be warm when he returned. And the children… how they slept in their beds unaware that the world would come crashing in all around them before the last rain drop fell.

It is now 11:53 P.M. and approximately the same time of night that the second set of witnesses (boys from Florida who had passed the crime scene, made the infamous phone call to the Lowndes County Sheriff’s Department) now might stand at Sam Daily’s store waiting for the call back to rejoin the Deputy Sheriff at the scene. It is also not long since J and I have returned from 44 years ago. The minutes will continue to click by as we recount the hours and the events that carried the beginning of lies through the night and decades beyond. We could have easily stayed away- returned to the hotel and dug in for the night and let the moment pass from where we were… but that would not have made either of us happy. W each had made a promise, for better or worse to be there for that hour when Charley’s world had come to an end and taken with it the infrastructure of a family.

May this trip, and his death not have been in vain. I read something on a church sign as we drove back from the spot earlier in the day I wanted to share with you. I thought it poignant.

“Nothing ruins the truth like stretching it.” I will bear that in mind as I strive to tell his story without interjecting my own.

Goodnight Charley…

10/9/10
I will begin today much like I believe Charley did forty four years ago… with a cup of coffee and concerns about the quality of a marriage. This is the beginning of the last day he spent on earth forty four years ago. The last day as a son, brother, father or as a husband. Today is a Saturday… forty four years ago it was a Sunday. This day holds great potential and insight for me and I will not allow myself not to be present for what can be perceived. I have placed myself in his shadow and will walk this day with him. I will reread the accounts of the hours just prior; knowing that mother’s love has carefully altered and omitted what is real- what is true and what has become the threads for me to follow. I ask only that Rox and Charley afford me the continued information necessary for me to bring this to the powers that be with plausible theory, credible witness and irrefutable evidence.
For you Grim…
No matter how far you run or how hard you try to scrape the dirt from under your fingernails… I will find you. You, the shovel, the brotherhood, the compass and the girl. I’m watching… we are all watching now. You cannot escape from those who have moved on. They follow your footsteps everyday… watching… waiting for that one lie, that one misstep that will bring you to justice.

Your scar, Grim… is it still there? Just under your left eye? The one where she scratched at your eyes as she begged for her life? Three sets of hands on her throat, while one with the soft voice who really liked her watched. Did you watch, Grim? Was it you who stood back and gazed with affection on the woman-child who was being beaten and strangled before you?

One more lie… one more misstep that will bring you to justice. And you thought I would swallow the line that it was really all about the moonshine. That Charley would kill himself over the likes of G. That everybody would simply let this thing go- that Rox would let this go. Silly mortal, you underestimated us both.

10/8/10

She stood at the Emerald Gates and knocked to come in.

She may have been kicked out of the house by her mother and father right after high school. She may have lived with an Aunt. She may have done a lot of things, but none of them worth being murdered for.
I will come back to these things again and again…
The four in flannel.
The white dog that followed her everywhere.
The muddy boots.
Protecting the brotherhood.
The three that strangled- the one that watched.
The blood on the shovel.
The compass that pointed.
The number 7 that marked the spot!

I am here at the gates of Oz… knock, knock, knock.
The lake, the grave… the night it all went down.