Brownstonelit's Blog

4/11/10

Looking into the face of death…

Minutes later, I composed myself and walked through heavy wood doors into Valdosta history. Much as I would like to have wandered around and soaked in the experience, I was immediately reminded of the room in the lower level that had gentleman already waiting. It was a beautiful old building, filled with a ripe patina of dust and charm. I made a mental note to spend an afternoon there on my next trip down. Having no idea how the afternoon would go; especially after how lunch had gone. I took the elevator down one level, breathing deep and trying to re-establish my equilibrium. By the time the door opened, my mind had successfully switched gears and I was ready to calmly take in more information—or at least I thought so! From the elevator alcove in the corner, I walked into another large room that held several displays pertaining to local history. Having brought my lap top for reference convenience, I situated myself at a table just above a floor outlet. My husband set his up there as well so that we might research in tandem if necessary any information that my files did not already contain. Furniture adjusted and additional chairs brought in, we were ready.

At this point I noticed a fellow who stood with starched shirt, necktie and pleated pants reading a display. He was straight out of the sixties and this G-man look made me think he had to be one of my guys. When he turned and I saw a shirt boasting a pocket protector and a face hosting black rimmed glasses, there was just no other way to it! I smiled, shook his hand and found out he had come along at the request of another man I had been talking to on a regular basis. Once seated, another man joined the fray. This second man has been my most staunch ally; a noble fella with a booming voice. Introductions made, I asked them to take a seat. Two men down, I turned and spied another tall man who had entered the room. He now stood alone in front of a display case. Tall, fair and athletic in build he kept his back to me for several minutes as he studied the wall before him. I hesitated, but Saturday afternoon perusing a storyboard about the history of cotton did not look like this guy’s natural bailiwick so I sallied forth to introduce myself. Once identified as one of my guys, I invited him to sit at the table with the others while I waited for more.

When we were certain that no one else would be making an entrance I began the discussion by thanking them for their time and efforts. Everyone comfortable and recorders on—I introduced Charley’s daughter. A brief silence filled the air and then suddenly a flurry of smiles and handshakes rounded the table. I covered the basics of the case first. What had been public fodder, what they knew, what I knew… and what they didn’t know I knew; I kept to myself. I next asked for clarification on some issues I had not been able to ferret out myself. While they conversed, I secretly texted the name of my first suspected “Red” herring to my psychic/detective. The initial name had been given to me by one of the men in the room. The tall, athletic one who had once been a carrot top himself. I thought this prudent before I placed a larger target on a back of another new soul. It came back with a negative- not only from her, but after introducing the name to the rest of the group at the table, they concurred- no relevance. No one even knew such an individual, but the man with the athletic build who had suggested him in the first place. Curious, I threw out my new second name- the one we had tracked from the diner photos and back pages of the funeral book. Eyes flashed with instant recognition- another ah-ha moment. Conversation broke loose with details and fuzzy recollections. Yes he too had red hair. Yes he was from the others side of the river. Yes he had huge business- very wealthy, lots of power. As they bantered about one another’s reveries, I sent this new name into the cosmos for my psychic to review. Minutes went by as we discussed other details of the case and then a buzz tweaked my jeans. I begged them to continue, then sat and holding my phone under the table lip, read the reply privately.

“I am shown a hammer and a nail. Not sure- could be hitting the nail on the head or another meaning.” I kept pace with the conversation and while J spoke to them collectively about her father and that night. At a lull in the conversation, I texted back. Could it mean- “The final nail in the coffin?”

I had no idea when or what the response would be and so moved the conversation forward. As I listened and took notes, more details started to pour from lips both innocent and soon to be recognized as tainted. Both sides of the table were hedging- it was time to break loose. I motioned to J and she took the floor. She thanked them for their time, and then spoke about her knowledge of her parent’s marital problems to ease the flow of information from men who were obviously uncomfortable sharing what they believed might be gossip and hearsay. In the interest of allowing them latitude to introduce the possible motives of passion or jealousy, I inserted that I knew more than we had been sharing thus far. My reference was to the instability of the marriage, but before I could add such a suffix the tall, athletic gentleman across from me leaned in smiling and said… “So do we.”

It was an eerie sort of smile that felt acrid and patronizing. My phone hummed distracting me for a second. I produced a thin smile in response and he sat back into his haunches, glaring. To stall, I asked them to discuss collectively what they had heard about the layout of the crime scene that night. While listening with half an ear, I checked my phone for R’s reply to the ‘nail in the coffin’ suggestion. It held one word- “possibly”.

I kept this to myself and redirected the conversation to the man whose crooked smile had unnerved me. In previous conversations, he had claimed to be the very first responder. Print media and hearsay contradicted one another, so I needed further documentation. Knowing that in less than 24 hours I would have my hands on crime scene photos to confirm or deny, I wanted more. I wanted eye witness testimony to round out my theory of cover-up. If his description matched the papers but not he photos, then we had reason to believe in the staging and cover-up theory. This guy said he was first on scene and had the goods, so I let him take the floor. Unknown to them I also had R’s interpretation of the scene Charley had described in our first session for reference to bounce against. To clear up any confusion, I handed Mr. Crooked Smile my notepad and asked him to recreate the scene he walked into that night. The location of the vehicle, the distance between the body and the bridge, the exact placement of the arms, hands and gun, etc.. My caution for him to be precise was well founded. He took it with a grain of salt and began to draw the margin lines of the road. I watched intently his placement of the car within the framing of the scene. Since the beginning this man’s testimony didn’t jive with what information was on record. As he spoke about what he had seen, a fellow participant asked him to confirm the identity of another first responder that night. The answer came swift. There was no other first responder other than himself and another gentleman no one recognized. When my ally insisted that he had been a neighbor of this additional man and believed him when he told him he had even inspected Charley’s revolver with the odd placement of the spent shells- the man with the forced smile rather forcefully insisted that such confidences had been nothing but an act of bravado and all lies. (A record of this is on tape… along with his drawing.) With increasing angst I texted another name to R and waited for her reply. When the sketch was complete and the verbal description recorded, my phone hummed once again and I let my attentions follow while they all discussed the differences of what they had heard and what had been drawn.  I picked up the notepad, took a closer look and then down at my side to see what she had written.

My phone read:

“Dark. Wow. I actually got grim reaper which I have never seen before.”

My knees began to buckle. Bile rose like a geyser in my throat, but I swallowed it down hard and tried to keep it from others in the room. I looked up and across the table at the man who was just putting down my pen. He looked me square in the eye and grinned. “ This is exactly the way I found him.”

3/28/10
Dining with the devil…
It has been a crazy week. Husband still on the mend and a family crisis partially under my belt and I am still reeling from recent research events of a week ago. It feels almost surreal in the way all this continues to unfold, one clue and one confirmation at a time. Numerology figures rather significantly into this if you follow such. Note; murder was committed in 1966. Daughter was only 6 in 1966. The fourth horseman of Revelation 6 is Death. Charley and Hazel were married 19 years. Hazel lived for 19 years after his death. Charley was 44 when he died. It has been 44 years since his death. If one were patient and knowledgeable enough to do an in depth numerical study of this – I imagine the resulting patterns might stagger the mind. What’s more, master numbers continue to figure into reception of clues and confirmations. I will try to relay some of what has transpired, but will continue to play the better part close to my chest as things are now beginning to move at accelerated rates.

Warned ahead of time that no one I would meet throughout my trip would be by chance, I kept mindful of all introductions made and hoped they would prove fruitful. Thus far, we had been in town less than two minutes and I had agreed to an interview with the caller who claimed to have the original case file, including crime scene photos. Having scheduled that, I moved forward settling into our room and getting interview materials ready. The long drive hadn’t left me a lot of time in between obligations. Once lodging was secured, there was little more than an hour before the next meeting so we headed into town to get our bearings and a quick lunch. As it turned out, there was a place just a couple of blocks from the Historical Society building. It was a diner J had found a year ago on her last “fishing” trip. Pressed for time and a decent review we committed to a light lunch to tide us over till later that night. As we entered, I tried to bear in mind the warning. Half way through lunch while I was drooling over an antique type writer they had once used to type out daily menus, my husband pointed out a photo three feet to the left of it. It was a man in uniform. A law enforcement uniform. It was too obvious- I asked who it was. The waitress gave us a brief history of the diner. She said it was her grandfather, who had been in the police department at the time. I looked closer at the photo and asked what year it had been taken. Just then my phone received a text from my psychic detective. The waitress replied he would have been a lieutenant (Lt.) then as the photo had been taken back in the 60’s. My head began to swim. Tall, dark, handsome and in his fifties, this uniformed figure glared back at me in mock defiance. R had cautioned me. If you are wracking your brain over clues, then you are not on the right track. It will be an ah-ha moment. That’s how this thing works. Information will come to you when it is time- it will be as though someone had dropped it in your lap. I looked again at the photo. A lieutenant- the abbreviation is Lt.

Could this be Charley’s reference to LT from the first session? I noted the time and the direct line of vision to me from the photo across the counter and decided that R’s warning had been right on the mark. I had a sinking, but exhilarating feeling that nothing this weekend would be by chance-nothing! Everything that would happen to me in the next 48 hours must be looked at with the same discerning eye. I took a deep breath. It wasn’t my lap, but it was pretty darn close. Seven feet from it, to be exact! Suddenly I lost my appetite and left most of my salad wilting away on my plate. The waitress asked me if something was wrong. I lied and told her I was full, then waited patiently till we got outside before I mentioned my suspicions to J. It made me sad in a way. Although I relished the shot at another clue, these were really nice people who had no idea what was going through my mind. I kept a smile on my face as I studied the photo and returned my text message. The rest of my crew finished their lunch in good humor, unaware of what had just been imparted. I made a mental note to get more information about the diner at the Historical Society. There was only 12 minutes left to make it on time and I did not want to be late. While they took care of the bill, I used the restroom then headed towards the door. Focused so much on the upcoming meeting, I completely missed the last photo on the wall as I walked out. Thank God my husband and C did not- it bore the name of the man in the uniform and another man by the same sir name receiving some sort of an award. The boys mentioned it when they got in the car and asked if the name rang a bell for either of us. I said no, but the abbreviation for Lieutenant sure did!

I explained the man in the photo hit several of the high water marks of Charley’s reference. He was older than G by approximately 20 years. He had been affiliated with law enforcement. He had position, influence and some money. When I texted his name to R, it came back. “…animal references- tied to G”. I made a note in my binder then asked if J still had the funeral book with her. She nodded and motioned towards the rear of the vehicle. C took it from behind his seat and began to flip pages, searching for the registry. Most of the handwriting was difficult to read, but he finally found a match. Then out of the blue, J announced she had seen the same last name with a nick name in front of it-the nickname of “Red”. I was confused for a minute. Had the photo across from me at the counter been the photo of Charley’s LT, or the red headed man who he presented as being the go to guy- the man who helped the shooter do the cover up of his murder? While C searched for more names, I thought about the photo. Even though it had been in black and white this man could not have had red hair- the grain of ink had been too dark. The light changed, the car pulled out of its slip and my spirits waned. How was I to decipher all this properly if every time I got close, another truck load of misinformation got dumped into the mix? Just then my husband said, “Could it have been the other man?” The car grew silent. “What other man?” I asked. “The second man in the photo on the way out the door- the one you and J missed in your haste to get back on the road.” My heart jumped- another photo? I had been chasing the identity of the man with the red hair for several weeks. C looked again for the name starting with “Red” but could not find it. Frustrated, I begged him to look once more. I told him to check the very back pages where they had listed the floral arrangements. Bingo! There he was in ink.

“# (77) Wreath with white mums, red bow signed – from “Red __________ and family.”

Oddly enough it was just one page over from this entry…
# (90) Wreath with white mums, 2 glads, red carnations and bow signed from- “A Friend”. (G)

We pulled into the parking lot of the Historical Society as I tried to catch my breath.

3/27/10
3/27/10

If yesterday was any indication of how the rest of the weekend would be, then there would not be enough coffee to get me through it. The drive down was filled with both relaxing and anxious moments. I filled in most of the bald patches of scenery with conversation and quiet reverie. Reviewing interviews in my head and mulling over tid bits of information received which had yet to be clearly understood. I concentrated on the holes of that night. There were still too many inconsistencies between several sources that needed to be laid out upon the proverbial table and vetted before I felt I could move forward with any confidence. Some gave a different view of the body and placement than what has been recorded in print. Some had no idea at all and others stood defiant that there’s was the empirical true representation. Was this a case of over active ego–misguided intentions, misinformation and/or blatant deception? This many years out it is hard to conjecture why so many variations on the theme. I kept private score to myself and tallied the amount of times I revisited each of the descriptions that made no sense. Mile markers clicked their way past my peripheral vision, as I made another mental invitation for Charley to step up to the plate and guide where and when he willed. When we left at 8 in the morning with coffee in hand, the day was pleasant with a touch of cloudiness that lifted the longer I drove. By the time we hit Tifton, the sun was bright and I had received my first phone call. Someone was overheard chatting up a storm at the local barber shop about somebody in the deceased’s family wanting the case reopened and somebody else thought that I should know about it. This individual was reported as saying, he didn’t know why no one had bothered to contact him yet as he had information. First hand information about that night. I was cautious to alert Julie and took down the information to consider my options. I had been warned- not once, but twice to back off and leave this thing alone. I wondered just how serious the consequences of the warning might be, but this person had information that I had been unsuccessful in garnering elsewhere. In fact he might be holding the only remaining file on this case. I thought about the caller who had initiated the warnings. Well intentioned or not, a warning had been made, but I was willing to risk whatever consequence to retrieve what this man had. How ironic…The one person I wanted to approach but had been told to avoid turned out to be the one person I should have been searching for all along. I hung up with my informer and took a deep breath.

I pulled over into a parking lot and took the information from my source and made the first of two phone calls. The first number volunteered no response. With no voice mail attached, I moved to the second number. Heart pounding, palm sweating I punched the numbers in eyeing the traffic from the side of the road. It rang several times before an answering machine kicked in. Disappointed but somewhat relieved I could now compose myself better, I left a brief message and asked for a return call if interested. Many miles later, my contact returned the call.

Just as I pulled off the ramp to head into downtown Valdosta, a deep voice reverberated through the phone with hesitant, but certain compliance. Yes there was a file on Charley. Yes there were photos of the crime scene that night. Yes there was further information he could share with me and yes he would show it all to me if the family wanted. While he spoke about other cases of local renown, I forced myself to breathe and stay in the lane. The last place I thought I would find the missing links in this investigation turned out to be the first place I should have looked. By the time I pulled into the hotel parking lot, I had secured the opportunity to meet with him the following day. The rest of the afternoon was for another important meeting- the first of many. A meeting which would bring some of the most fascinating men and clues to the forefront of my investigation. Men whose entire lives had revolved in and around the law. Men who worked through the insanity of the 60’s, the bug tickets of Bolita, the stills of moonshine, illegal gambling rackets and corruption of every conceivable perversion. Men who shared two common threads… they were all still alive and they had all known Charley!

The trouble with blogging about an unsolved murder is that you cannot always write about what you know, nor whisper about what you don’t! As Sherlock Holmes used to say– “The game is afoot!”

Will be doing location research the next few days, but will post findings once I have returned.
Until later then…

03/24/2010

Synchronicity is a wondrous thing and many events have happened that continue to show that I am being led, not only in this matter but in other areas as well. Take last night for instance. As I kept vigil and bore witness to my husband’s convalescing… I picked up my much anticipated copy of Inside the Divine Pattern by Anthony Douglas Williams and set about reading my way through an evening of gentle frustrations. Now, those of you familiar with the 11:11, 12:12, 1:11, 2:22, 3:33, 4:44 etc., sequence, Numerology, Freemasonry and the sacred geometry of ancient Egypt and specific disciplines of various other prophetic cultures such as; Olmecs, Mayan and Hopi will see my segue… those not, take heed and do your homework. Anyway, in recent weeks I have had the chance to rediscover my Numerological birth chart. Yesterday morning I reviewed it in an effort to gain further insight to several situations and paths of potential consequence. It is amazing what information can be stored within our names and numbers and how well we and our entire universe are defined by such. (Pythagoreans would be proud.) Personal annotations aside, I shall continue in a more direct fashion. I was reading a section on this man’s birth chart, while my husband leapt from channel to channel in frustrated measure. Though Williams is of another birth month, it’s ultimate breakdown was still somewhat similar to that of my own, numerically. Williams understood connectivity, was a fellow writer and had great questions about the posturing of one’s sequential placement within the universe. We shared many of the same characteristics. In fact as confirmation of such, I quoted a small paragraph to my husband as he his jockeyed for television satisfaction. “Who does this sound like?” I asked, then read…“ I would rather learn than be entertained and that is reflected in what I watch (even)on television. My favorite genres are generally documentaries that relate to history, religion, nature or science.” Before I could proceed any further, he interjected, “YOU- YOU-YOU!” I agreed and smiled, knowing I was no longer alone in my entertainment selections. He settled on a movie taped earlier, while we were at the Doctor’s. I set sail of course to devour chapter after chapter until I could see neither print, nor hear Matthew McConaughey’s voice ringing in my ears. The evening progressed in quiet manner. Moving through several chapters, I took note of several more situations similar to my own and noted the clock. Earlier in the day I’d had him set the timer to watch something I’d spotted of interest. It was the HBO movie, Eddington and Einstein. Long a fan and fascinated by Albert Einstein’s raucous humor, beyond his personal brilliance as a scientist, I was delighted to find something of worthy caliber to enjoy before the end of the day. I checked the clock-8:30. The movie was still a good thirty minutes away and so I decided to continue reading. I finished the chapter on God’s First Man and God’s First Son and moved on. As I turned the page, what do you think the next chapter was dedicated to? You guessed it! The discovery of the 11th dimension, the studies surrounding the theories of Sir Isaac Newton, his search for the numerical bible code, the string theory and Albert Einstein’s search for a single theory to explain the universe.

My point to all this and the subsequential appearance of 11:11 on my cell phone as my daughter called, the 1:11 when I got back into bed in answer to my personal prayer for guidance and affirmation… is that life is a series of patterns and that we are not alone. Even as I search to find the truth about who killed Charley and why, I must be mindful to pay attention to evidence-both conventionally found and un. But also to those people who speak to me, both here and from other places I am not equipped to navigate right now. The beauty of this journey is that I am being blessed with people who have skill sets far beyond that of my own to guide me. People who believe in the right of a victim to be heard and that justice delayed, will not ultimately prove to be justice denied. In that vein..

The following is another segment of the first session with the psychic/detective. Names within this transcript are names that have already seen print through the initial investigation of this case. Some have been abridged to intial only as I continue my investigation. Their placement in this transcript however shows them in a different light than perhaps first cast upon them 44 years ago. Hindsight is twenty – twenty they say. My disclaimer to you for this blog is that this information was received while working with a psychic/detective medium. While it is her job to relay images and presentations to me in the manner in which she receives them from the victim; it is my job not only to listen with objective ear and scribe what it is that is being told, but to bring these narrations from speculation into the realm of fact with whatever hard evidence can be found to corroborate.

Session one, continued:

“He is showing me 1439 blue oak. Three times she repeats.
1439 blue oak, 1439 blue oak, 1439 blue oak
Do you understand?
I say I think so and ask if I can have clarification. Does oak stand for Oak Street?
She closes her eyes, and then nods confirmation.
1439 Oak Street, blue house
Do you understand? Does this mean anything to you?
I respond, ‘I think so.’

(In my mind I try to recall pages from Hazel’s diary about that morning when she was baking a chocolate cake and had to run out for milk. In the hearing between Hazel and the American Casualty Life Insurance Company, G stated that Hazel had driven by her house. Hazel swore she never went on Oak Street as it would have been out of her way. I confirm that the street name sounds significant, but cannot verify at that moment as I may have that impression confused with another. But I am almost certain that was where GB lived. I will confirm when I can get back to diary and/or city directory for Valdosta from 1966.)

She redirects.
He is showing her a red truck. A period truck – style of the day.

She redirects and places her hand above the names written and asks again for my pen, explaining names have energy. She circles three names she says are elevated off the page and appear in red.*

They are as follows:

JF
BH
PH
BC*
CW B
WW
GB*
CA C
HS*
Hazel

(* These three raised and then circled):
*BC
*GB
*HS

He has a definite reaction to these three names. They are connected somehow. All three names remain elevated and in red.

She redirects.

She asks for a photo of Charley.
I give her the one I have been talking to all long. It is tinted.
She smiles. She says she is happy to see how he was and not how he is. She tells me he was a good man. He has very high energy- a good, good man.
She continues:
He is showing me a woman.
She is attractive; she has dark brown hair- black hair.
She asks me if I understand. If I know who this person is.

(At first when she says dark brown hair I am uncertain. I have never seen a picture of “G” (GB) and do not wish to identify someone I have never seen. Then she commits to black hair and I recognize that immediately as Hazel. She was noted for her painted jet black hair- her Jackie-O look.)

I tell her Hazel, his wife. She smiles.
I show her photos from the bin.
She recognizes the woman from the photo and I confirm her as Hazel.
She looks at other photos.
Photos of moonshine busts, car boots filled with whiskey… scenes outside in wooded areas with stills and barrels.
She asks if I know if any of the men in the photos are Charley.
I cannot confirm.
She redirects.
He is showing her G.
G is a man eater. There is an association between G and HS. She has difficulty getting clear description of connection- strong bond, but unclear.
I ask if I can get clarification on LT.
I ask if LT stands for someone’s name or could it be an abbreviation for lieutenant/second in command.
She cannot confirm either way.
Only that he shows LT as an older man with money and a tight bond with G.

She asks that I let her try to explain what he is showing her happened that night.
She tells me he shows her G did not pull the trigger- another male, a younger male was involved. He pulled the trigger for the fatal shot to the right side of his head. G manipulated. G ordered the hit, so to speak and had others carry it out. It was between G, the older man- LT and the younger man.
He is showing her the younger man was easily manipulated by G. That G was involved with several men at a time. That the younger man was in law enforcement.

(At this point I ask to redirect so that I might get some things out of my system. Too many of the people involved in the investigation had motives or perceived motives to want Charley dead and I am anxious to know if I am on the right path or if I need to redirect my research.)

I ask what Charley presents when I say the name, PH. RPH, to be exact.
She closes her eyes for a moment and I am caught off guard by her immediate response, especially since according to the diary Hazel felt certain PH was the one who pulled the trigger that night.

RS tells me he shows camaraderie—arm around shoulders- a tight bond—nothing negative—a closeness.

(Confused by the sheer swiftness and declaration of innocence by nature of the answer, I asked her to clarify.)

She tells me he shows closeness like that of a brother.
She asks if I know who this is. I tell her, ‘yes… it was his partner’.

I ask her then to redirect.

What does he present when I say the name J F? (Local Sheriff- Lowndes County)
She closes her eyes. (I am certain now I will get the nod I am looking for.)
She says he tells her crooked, underhanded- good ole boy, untrustworthy
.
I ask if he was part of the people who hurt him that night. He shows her insignificant reaction- a void. Does not configure into what he suffered that night. I pause for a moment.

I ask for clarification.
Charley shows her that JF was crooked and by all means a good ole boy—but shows nothing when it comes to the circumstance presented him that night.
(I was dumb founded by the banality of the response, but showed no reaction.)

She continued.

Three men- tight bond.
Two to be law enforcement.
(I wait with baited breath for the names, but he gives only initials.)

He shows me three men who were in collusion;
JF
K (one initial only)
J (one initial only)

I ask for clarification. She has none further to give.

I ask about the Fraternal Order of Eagles.

She tells me he refers to those three men.
JF
K (initial only)
J (initial only)

(I am no further ahead.)

I ask her to redirect.
She tells me all three names/initials come up-elevate and glow.

(I know now that F may only have been peripherally involved and that I have several more angles and individuals to investigate.)

I ask her to redirect.

What does he present when I say the name, C Jr.?
She tells me he responds; moonshine situation- handler.

What does he present when I say the name C Sr.?
She tells me he responds- puppet master.

Then she asks for my pen and draws a line from the name JF on top of the page, down to C Sr. at the ¾ mark of the page and says bond; association; together.

(I mentally recall the Indictment appeals 514 F.2d 64 that shows from 514 F .2d 759 that the following were indicted and convicted for charges of illegal gambling through the Fraternal Order of Eagles and the Valdosta Entertainment Company/ F for obstruction of justice. April 8, 1975. This event is 9 years after Charley’s death and there was no way Charley could have known of these events. Any association then would have had to have been established well before his death in ’66. I drink slowly from my cup of hot chocolate and try to keep my brain from exploding.)

I asked to redirect. She nodded and said yes.

Can he show and/or present to you whether what happened to him was over business or domestic issues?

She tells me he shows her both, though G = death.

Again, he goes back to the older man LT and the younger law enforcement officer.
He shows her the younger male got pleasure from pulling the trigger- took pleasure in the beating and the killing. He shows her at least three who volunteered to take him out. Several people who would have volunteered to do it. He is in their way-causing a problem. He motions with his hands. He pulls it all towards that woman.
He shows her the black widow—she has manipulated the situation.
G = black widow.

3/21/10

A source of mine tipped me off to another author; Charles Weems, a retired ATF agent who has written two books (A Breed Apart and Agents That Fly) that I will make a mental note to read in between investigations. For now I must concentrate on my own. It is raining today and that gives me guiltless pleasure in sitting at my desk, hacking away at my transcripts and creating new timelines. It is tedious work, but the view from my window counters the affect of too much coffee and calms me. Who knew such gently rolling hills, evergreens and ever grays of Georgia’s landscape could have ever held such vile contempt for the common law? I will try to reach out to Mr. Weems later today- he may have heard something about my Charley, even though his focus seems to have concentrated on the northern portion of the state.

Tapped for local inspiration, I am thinking of heading south and poking around a bit- directly connect with folks who have been long in their suffering of the mystery surrounding Charley’s death. It would be interesting to try and get them all together at one time to go over impressions and jar their collective memories. I have tried to follow protocol investigating this case and it has served me well on only a few fronts. Few records seem to have survived both the elements of time and the initial lies put forth about what happened to Charley that night. More difficult still is the charge of asking those still alive what they recall—especially those not directly related as their frustrations get longer as their memories get shorter. I am trying to steer clear of contacting family, but am fast approaching the time where it needs to be done. G’s family and BC’s family will need to understand that I cannot hold anyone’s feet to the fire to get information… but this book will be written and I prefer it be the most educated version possible. There will be fact and speculation alike, but the one certain fact in all this is that Charley did not commit suicide. I think it is now a foregone conclusion that it was murder; by what degree shall be determined by what facts and evidence are found.

A trip may be just the thing. When I make new contacts, their information begs of me to revisit old ones- each shedding new light. While I explain my intentions and my process, I hear the fear in their voice as they find my sessions with the medium both fascinating and frightening to consider. While I appreciate their concerns, I applaud their tenacity to see this through for better or for worse. Each new player seems to perish before introductions can be made. Epitaphs are now my chief companion these days and I hate that. But I hate that in the same vein that I hate missing the first turning leaf of each fall… the first shaft of a spring rain as it breaks across the face of my picture window or the chance to become private audience to the gentle glide of an unexpected winter’s folly across my stoop. It is bittersweet that I cannot connect with most in the here and now, but perhaps it is better this way. I can read and hear of their deeds and not wade through the endless mire of up close and personal misconception. For a man speaks best with what he done and who he aligned himself with, not with the waving banner of his faith or his suggested birthright. I hate that Charley was surrounded by so much corruption and yet I cannot all together clear his soul of indiscretions by their default. At some point too, I must ask the tough questions of his character and his associations. Why were you there that night? What were you hoping to achieve and why was G so involved in both your private and your public life? Who was there that met you on the road that night and why was it 8 years later they confessed and provided evidence to someone suggesting they killed you out of self defense? Why was this information given to someone who never made it public? And why did investigating officers sign off on a three week investigation, as if everything added up and made perfect sense? But even more importantly…who taught them this new math by which adding two and two equals silence?

Oh what a trip back in time this will be! A ride full of provisional trust bought by consequence and conscience; all because one night I shared a glass of wine with someone who said, ‘Let me tell you a story about my daddy! I was only six years old when it happened…’ For you Julie…

3/19/10
I sit, blurry eyed at the prospect of another long day ahead of me and yearn for coffee in the worst way. Personal events take precedence over public events this day and my concentration wanes without caffeine to coax it gently back between the guardrails of my reality. This work continues to boggle the imagination and I catch myself having late night and early morning conversations with the now too familiar face of my 8×10 Charley. I confess at times I know too much about his life and then in the same stroke of insanity, I demand that he stop holding back vital information to my research. Like a belligerent child he balks at my insistence and where uncommitted Mona Lisa lips once held court, now a cheeky grin emerges. His eyes, once pale blue and vacant now spark with fire and ice and change their vibrancy based upon my questioning. I am caught off guard by his reactions. They run the gambit from tender mercies for his children– to outright rage for the betrayal of his mistress. I read and reread transcripts from both sessions to be certain I have not missed a clue, continually reappraising what I know I can prove and what I hope I can prove. I reconstruct the murder…blow by blow, in the order of escalation, as told by its victim.

I refocus my mental lens and add peripheral information retrieved after the fact, careful not to omit anything. It is like painting a Monet backwards. Bits and flecks of alleged scenarios, names, dates and liaisons lay sullen and uncooperative upon a darkened palette. Charley’s face looms center- detailed now with textured layers of colored emotions, playing with shadow and light. I hear his cries of anguish, his sarcastic and caustic laugh, tender reveries and wonder how this man addressed his maker in the final seconds of his life. It is the collective picture of these tiny bits and flecks of information which elude me still. So eager to complete this portrait of a man, I pick up timid brush and with feeble strokes record the events of that night as I know them so far. Once finished I stand back and view the carnage, still incomplete. I try to fill in the edges, placing feathered greens against the ruddy red clay and slowly add the drool of midnight rain as it puddles and pools atop coagulated blood in the dim of a headlight’s glare. It is there in that half light that Charley will eternally lay.

This is the image that haunts my nights. Unlike a piece of art, I am reminded that this is one man’s life and one man’s hour of death.

I glance again at Charley’s 8×10 and smile while half digested clues ferment in my gut…wondering if I am still up to the job. Patience and trust he whispers through painted lips… all will be revealed in good time. I eye my watch and wait with baited breath for the next windfall of information. Maybe tomorrow, maybe tomorrow.

Facts are easy. The truth is elusive.
I am reminded that this is part of my journey and that I am not meant to deconstruct Rome in a day—only to understand how it was built before the fall from grace. While I talk about things I have yet to discover, I am also reminded about all the things I have already discovered. My gratitude is endless to those both in and out of organizations that continue to climb these steps beside me. I know I must tread lightly in their shoes, for they are trusting that I not lead them further away from the truth we all seek.
Until later then…

3/17/10
First… Happy Saint Patty’s Day!
Second… I apologize for the days in between blogging, but sometimes your life gets in the way of your living. Truth is, I have taken some mental days off from Charley and tried to live in my own life for a change. Sometimes that is a difficult thing to do for a writer, especially in the midst of a story where you are pulled deeper and deeper into the psyche of your characters. This is why writing I believe, is such a solitary business. It is all consuming in the same way I think the serious pursuit of most artforms are. A muse, regardless of her medium is a very jealous mistress who hates to be interrupted by such a banal segues as life. Apart from my thinly veiled distance, I have needed some down time to consider the appropriate couching for this story. The ratio of antagonist to protagonist now is staggering, as each day brings more evidence to the table and in like token more chaos to the plot. As author, I continue to seek a distinct voice for the protagonist/narrator and while I search for a character to fill such a void, it is my own voice that continues to seep through. Never before have I faced such a challenge. While every author provides his own narration, he is usually adept to find another vessel in which to carry it. Thus far, I have been confounded by the inability to throw my voice into another vessel. It is quite possible that Charley has meant for me to narrate, but there in lies the greater danger. Always the trap; when does the reporter become the story and not the story itself? This is where one must make the decision to be either the vehicle or the passenger… subtext, subtext, subtext!

My last session and subsequent correspondences with my colleague, the psychic detective has brought a great many new avenues to research. In deed, Charley’s message to me about being just the tip of the iceberg is right! Now I must steer this ship in even another direction towards an individual whom I thought not only peripheral, but inconsequential to the overall anatomy of this murder at best. The scope of this investigation increases with every session. We were however able to narrow the real estate of our search a bit, thanks to some recently revealed information. One would think that might make it easier, but not so, not so. While the parameters of the locale have become more defined, the plot thickens like chilled molasses. This case reminds me of the Labraya Tar Pits. Dark, deep and damn near impenetrable. The surface, viscous and smooth remains incapable of reflecting anything more than the face that looks upon it. It gives up nothing without probing relentlessly under its surface. Yet every time you stick your hand into the deep, black goop another set of bones is dragged up to the surface and you are face to face with yet another set of derelict remains to deal with and identify.

Still searching for the owner of badge #1439, the meaning of MOT and the red haired man who helped cover up the murder that night. I’ll find you though. Charley has promised! And there’s one thing I’ve learned about Charley through this investigation this past year…
Dead men tell no tales… they tell the truth!

3/10/10
Reviewing notes from this last session…
If what information has been received through this last session with the psychic/detective rings true, then this case has more layers that an onion and smells just as bad too! It seems that every time I think I am on target for logical segues… I find that another angle has been tossed into the mix that leads me in another direction. I was fairly certain that the “big” project C was working on when he was murdered was this illegal gambling thing involving Crockett and Futch- the Fraternal Order of Eagles/ Valdosta Entertainment/Amusements indictments, but not so. Oh it may have had a little to do with that peripherally, but according to this past reading…the main focus of C’s energy was focused on the porn tapes mentioned back in the original case file. I have got to find the transcripts from the trial between Hazel and the American Life Insurance Company of the spring court session in Lowndes County as there may be more information to be derived from there. I have checked and the law firm who handled Hazel’s case no longer has the transcripts, the Federal Employees Department is incapable of locating theirs and the location of Hazel’s copy is currently in doubt.

C has left me some very interesting footnotes for my investigation to follow. There is a money trail to this thing… big money. Folks talking about the money makers- numbers racket- the lottery- illegal gambling, prostitution. Said Valdosta was worse than Vegas back then. I remember when they said there was all sorts of money around to be made. They mentioned a lottery, I was puzzled. Course that was because I was thinking about today’s legal lottery for the promotion of the Hope Scholarship Fund. Shame on me! So, I started to dig through some of my older interview notes and sure enough I found some leads. Folks still alive who remembered rumors about bags of money being taken to the local airport back then by “local law enforcement” who acted as bagmen for possible organized crime. Bags of money allegedly placed on a plane that made weekly flights to Tampa, Florida. Study your history folks. Who do you think waited at the other end of this flight to pick that money up??? Still curious about the ‘lottery’ moniker, I did a little research of my own. Research refers to the “lottery” of the day- as a numbers racket, a game they called bolita that raked in big bucks allegedly for underworld figures.

According to the psychic/detective, solving who killed Charley is only the tip of the iceberg to this thing! That alone tells me I have a long way to go yet before Charley is finished with me, but having been placed in the path of this thing I cannot turn my back on him now. As ironic as it seems, there are now just as many major angles to this investigation as ways there are to spell his first name.

Here are some of my concerns:
I need to find the man with the red hair that allegedly helped the shooter cover his tracks that night. I need to find out whose dogs were used that night to search at the crime scene. Who was BC’s girlfriend at the time. She is tied to the red truck. A badge number that is way too high to be local law, and I need to find out why C thinks the trail will lead me to M O T.  I need to discover what M O T stands for… although I think I may already know and the thought that I might be right… is frightening!

3/7/10

With the successful run of another show now in the can, I am free to move forward in another direction. For months now I have stood at the great precipice of this case and wondered what other adventures might ensue if I make another footfall towards its rim. Out of fear I have paced the edge and waited for either signal or fate to plow my path. I now know it is mine alone to clear. This is not only a chance to discover the anatomy of a murder, but essences of the man that was murdered and in doing so perhaps rediscover the essence of who I am.

Life is a funny thing. Just when we think we have it figured out, it changes the landscapes around us and we become both instantly lost and found within a new adventure. Were it not for Charley, I would still be wondering why in perpetual motion, I continue to remain so still. Why all my valiant efforts and dedication to my craft have garnered much, yet not provided true release for this soul? Is it for lack of context or lack of volume? If this internal mantra be true, that I bleed in ink– then how much can be bled for others before I begin to truly bleed for myself? When does the compassion of my pen run dry? And what will I have to show for endless nights and early morning vigils kept silent and steadfast unto the sacred art of writing? As it feeds my soul, it breaks my heart anew with longing that I be better for its worth and yet am I? Does it bring to others what it has brought to me… and to that end am I gifted enough to write of its intrinsic worth?

I critiqued a manuscript the other day and asked its architect- for whom was this built? For whom do you write? If for the masses, then your focus becomes skewed; something commercial and homogenized. If for yourself… then you must take care not to give so much of your soul to your work that it leaves you spent and with nothing at the end of your discourse to live on. Charley…I am told I am but at the tip of the iceberg of your tragedy and see no other way but to go forward from here. I ask that you continue to guide and mentor my every thought- that I not cause harm where it can be avoided, but show no mercy where none should prevail. I ask of St. Teresa, my patron saint and the patron saint of all writers, that she watch over us all as we move through this journey. That she teach where wisdom can be absorbed… that she bless where merit warrants and that she warn where dangers exceed their worth. I thank you RS for the gift of my parent’s expressions. I thank you for the audience and captured moments for Julie… and for the release of a man who stopped in his tracks of eternity to bend and ask the child he never got to raise for her forgiveness. It was one of the most moving moments of my life and its gravity will weigh heavy upon my heart for years to come.

I am reminded of the final scene from A Field of Dreams and the moment of sacred connectivity, when a son asks a father for a catch under the dusty haze of a Midwestern sky. “Is this heaven?” the father asks as he surveys the baseball field and endless rows of corn? The son quickly replies. “No… it’s Iowa.” Then the father looks again at all before him and says, “Funny I cold have sworn this was heaven.” When the son asks, “Is there a heaven?” the father smiles and says, “Oh yes. It’s the place where dreams come true.” Filled with hope and new appreciation for his world, the son reappraises the landscape before him overflowing with objects beloved… his wife, his child, his home…. his farm and the beauty of the setting sun and replies, “Then maybe this is heaven.”

How far away from our doorsteps can heaven be if we can still touch and be touched by those who have passed beyond us? Charley has taught me to stop in my eternal tracks and ask forgiveness for all I have done both by accident and by default. With humble heart then let me ask…
“Is this heaven?”
Until later then…