Tag Archives: Murder

BESIDE THE ROAD — NEW BASED-ON-TRUE-CRIME SERIES BOOK #4

Dead Men Do Tell Tales

New Book Release – June 2020 – by Garry Rodgers, DyingWords Digital & Print Media Canada

Warning! Beside The Road is based on a true crime story. It’s not embellished or abbreviated. Explicit descriptions of the crime scenes, factual dialogue, real forensic procedures, and actual police investigation, interview and interrogation techniques are portrayed. Some names, times and locations have been changed for privacy concerns and commercial purposes. 

Prologue

He lay beside the road. He lay beside the road as dawn’s first streaks smeared the eastern sky and the horizon’s weak rays cast frail shadows through early mist. Songbirds introduced the day—while an owl’s screech signed off the night—as he lay on his back in death’s putrid stench… discarded and dumped down a backwoods bank beside the road.

Light spread through the rural woods where a poorly-paved path cut a meandering trail high above him, shielding his corpse from passing view. The sun unhurriedly appeared. It evaporated the overnight dew that formed in early summer, and the temperature began to rise from a tolerable chill. Predictably, the sun climbed the cloudless sky towards another afternoon’s peak of uncomfortable heat.

By nine, the sun angle was right for direct beams to touch his torso through the picket-fence gaps in roadside trees vertically rising from the steeply-sloped bank. A stand of coastal Douglas fir, native to British Columbia’s central Vancouver Island, guarded his body while a canopy of Western red cedars sheltered his cadaver from the direct sear of mid-day heat. The forest floor was a pad of thorns and ferns and moss and sticks and leaves and sticky needles that slowly deteriorated along with him as part of the universal plan.

Hour by hour, as the world turned and time passed, intermittent sunlight radiated him into a zipper-like pattern. Low luminosity left a softening effect on his exposed skin while solar gain from higher scales scorched him with a dryness that turned his trunk zebra-striped in a way few deceased people present. He had a piano-key pattern and a rarity produced by alternating spectrums of electromagnetism.

Day by day, as the Earth evolved and entropy progressed, he became a unique specter—part putrefaction where light hit him low and part mummification where diffusing blows of afternoon rays parched his flesh.

He was clothed. Partly clothed, that is, with his feet in shoes and his privates in shorts. His singlet, or wife-beater muscle shirt, bunched about his upper chest. His head was bare and so were his arms. His hair was stringy strands of brownish sludge that trapped the decomposing flesh and fats flowing from his scalp. And, his left hand reached as if grasping for help while his right helplessly crooked behind his back.

His face was mostly exposed to the bone and his eyes were gone. His cranium sucked in the sunlight and left him with a bare-skull appearance where his teeth—a distinctly different dentition—gave a half-snarl and a half-sneer similar to a pirate’s ghastly flag.

He had a name. He once had a family, and he once kept some friends. He once had a childhood and he laughed and he played and he schooled and he fooled around like anyone passing through their youth and into their adulthood would. But, his life was extinguished and his consciousness had parted ways with his physical entity—his remains left on the slope beside the road to break down.

Now, he was a medical mess with nature’s creatures consuming his corpse. Insects cycled through their growth stages and carried on the continuous loop of evolution. Forest vermin feasted on their share of his disarticulating decay while circling birds apprehensively watched for their chance at a piece of the putrefied pie.

He had a past. He had a past not to be proud of that caused him to be in his present condition—a dead and discarded human body that lay in silent stink beside the road.

Chapter One — Tuesday, July 9th – 1:10 pm

Leaky Lewis sent me a text. body beside the road. prob foul play. can u attend?
I texted Leaky back. What road, ffs? There’s a thousand roads in this town.
Leaky replied. o sorry. nanaimo lakes rd. approx 6 mi west near gogos sawmill.
I typed. Helpful. Are you there now?
He responded. no. im in council meeting. thats why text and not call.
I returned. So who has the scene?
Leaky pecked. uniforms got it. forensics en route. i called coroner. she’ll meet u.

——

Leaky Lewis was my boss at our Serious Crimes Section. He was junior to me in service, but that was okay. I preferred investigating murders more than stretching budgets and scrambling resources like Leaky had to do. And, this case of the body beside the road stretched and scrambled our budget and resources to the max. We used almost every investigation tool and technique available before we finally solved the most baffling and bizarre homicide file of my long detective career.

Leaky’s name was Jim. Jim Lewis. He’s a great guy, but had a serious incontinence problem with post-urinary drip. That’s why the nickname. Leaky couldn’t venture far from the trough without Depends, but he made sure we had everything needed to do our job.

By “our” I mean the seven-person squad tasked with investigating violent persons offenses that happened around the Nanaimo area. We’re located on central Vancouver Island in British Columbia right across from the craziness and congestion of the City of Vancouver. Nanaimo has Canada’s mildest year-round weather. I’d been here on the southwest coast for years and had hit my best-before date. During that time, I’d seen a lot of serious crimes because Nanaimo had an extraordinarily high homicide rate.

Leaky looked after our entire plainclothes unit. Besides the Serious Crimes bunch, he supervised the Commercial Crime unit, Sex Offenses, Forensics, Drug Squad, and one poor prick plagued with frauds and bad plastic. Leaky also oversaw the secret squirrels in our intelligence branch and two notoriously bad-behaved boys on the Street Crew.

——

I pulled up to the crime scene on Nanaimo Lakes Road in my unmarked Explorer. Like Leaky texted, it was just over six miles west of the city limits near a small sawmill run by industrious Slavic immigrants called the Gogo family. There were two police cruisers parked on the right-hand shoulder, the north side, with their red and blues flashing. Two other vehicles sat along the shoulder. One was our forensic unit’s mobile shop. The other belonged to Global TV’s roaming cameraman.

A uniformed cop with a paddle-board stop sign directed traffic around the entourage. She pointed to the left lane and gave me a “get-going” motion. I didn’t recognize her. Likely a new recruit. I hit my grille lights and she startled. Then, she smiled and pointed to the steep bank beside the road.

I parked, got out, and walked toward the marked car at the front of the pack. Already I could smell it. It was that unforgettable stench—somewhere between reeking ammonia in ripe rotten eggs and the putrid aroma of deeply-decayed roadkill. It was the smell one never mistakes.

A senior officer guarded the scene. He’d been with the patrol division for a long time. The patrolman introduced me to the stop-sign gal. I was right, she was a brand-new hire.

“What’s happening?” I was matter-of-fact.

“Body down the bank.” The old harness bull thumbed to the thick stand of Douglas fir trees rooted to the slope and standing tall. Western red cedars loomed overhead. “Been there a while from the look and smell.”

“What do you think?” I stood at the edge. It was loose gravel beside the road’s crumbling pavement. I did not want to slip and take a tumble.

“At first I thought it was a deer.” He scrunched his nose. I could see the young officer kept her distance. “That’s what the guy who reported it thought, too. He was riding his bike up the grade and caught a whiff. So, he stopped and looked over and saw his dead deer wore running shoes.”

“Witness guy still around?” I looked about. The only civilian seemed to be the TV man rolling film.

“No.” The patrolman shook his head. “I got my cadet to take his statement. Gotta start somewhere, right? Then we sent him on his way.”

“Great, thanks.” I paused to look around and take in the scene.

It was bright sunshine and getting uncomfortably warm. The early afternoon sun was south-southwest and high enough to shine over the bank and flood its light on the slope. The site was at the leading edge of a tight left-hand bend, and the road was sharply inclined toward the west. It led to a double-S curve with a cautionary slow advisory sign—not the sort of place to safely pull off.

The traffic was light. A loaded logging truck approached and followed the young officer’s direction. It chugged up the grade and disappeared through the curve. A smaller silver SUV arrived. Instead of bypassing as the officer indicated, the SUV came to a stop behind my Explorer. I saw the new cop frown as the driver put it in park and shut off the engine.

I knew who it was. The door opened and a silver-haired lady with a silver clipboard matching her mane got out. Honey Phelps, our coroner, walked toward me.

“Hi, Honey. Imagine meeting you here.” I smiled. Honey. I love the name. It perfectly suited her. She’d been with the Coroners Service for years, and I’d worked with her at countless death scenes. She was always the consummate professional but with a black humor tinge.

“Is that you?’ Honey whiffed the air like a bear. “Or is that my client?”

“Probably a bit of both.” I chuckled. “I haven’t had a look yet. Waited for you to get here.”

“Looks like Forensics beat me.” She nodded toward the big rig that looked somewhere between a SWAT team’s truck and an indie rock band’s Winnebago.

“Yeah. I think they’re inside suiting up.” I motioned toward the Forensic Identification Section vehicle. “Let’s go have a chat with them.”

Honey looked at my Explorer and then at me. “You alone? No Harry today?”

I grinned. “Nope. I’m batching it. She’s tied up in a court case.” I referred to my usual partner, Sheryl Henderson who we called ‘Harry’ after the Bigfoot in the movie Harry and the Hendersons. Sheryl was a large lady with large hair and an even larger personality.

Honey and I walked up to the Forensics vehicle just as Sergeant Cheryl Hunter stepped down. Her understudy, Matt Halfyard, stayed inside. We called him Eighteen Inches.

Cheryl was dressed in her bunny suit. It’s the white Tyvek coveralls that CSI people constantly wear. I’m sure she slept in that thing.

“What do you think?” I asked Cheryl much the same thing I’d asked the senior patrolman. It was usually a pretty good opener.

“Not sure yet.” Cheryl had her digital Canon ready. Matt was loading a video camera. The first thing Forensics always do is film the scene before they enter it. That step was non-negotiable, and the guarding officers made sure no one went near the body before Forensics began their painstaking thorough task of recording the overall scene. Examining the body beside the road would follow.

“I’m not sure what to think.” Cheryl was always careful with opinions and cautious with conclusions. She was like all forensic examiners. They work with facts. Not fables. It was the nature of the beast.

“I haven’t been down to the body yet.” Cheryl looked to her left and over the bank. “It’s about twenty-five feet downslope and looks like it’s hung up against tree trunks. I have no idea if he… it looks like a he from the size and style of running shoes… that’s all I can really make out from here… if he was hit by a vehicle and sent flying over the bank or if he was driven out here and dumped.”

I looked around. The TV camera guy looked back through his viewfinder. “Doesn’t look like a suicide type of scene.”

Cheryl and Honey agreed. We’d all seen a lot of suicide scenes and this one didn’t fit. My gut feeling said dumpsite.

“Let’s just take this step-by-step till we see what we’ve got.” Cheryl was the voice of reason. “One thing’s for sure. This isn’t a recent scene. From what I can see above the shoes is bare-bones with putrefied flesh partly attached.”

“Been here a while, then.” Honey observed.

“Yeah.” Cheryl looked up at the sun. “But it doesn’t take long in this weather.”

“We’ll figure it out.” Honey smiled. “Let’s have a better look at who’s down there beside the road.”

*   *   *

Beside The Road — Book 4 in the Based-On-True-Crime Series by Garry Rodgers is just released  — June 2020 — and now downloadable from these leading EBook retailers:

 

 

 

 

WHY CASEY ANTHONY GOT AWAY WITH MURDERING HER DAUGHTER

In October of 2008, Casey Marie Anthony of Orlando, Florida was charged with intentionally killing her two-year-old daughter, Caylee. Casey Anthony, then twenty-two, was indicted on first-degree murder and other homicide-related counts. She faced the death penalty. After a forty-three-day, media-sensation trial, the jury let Casey Anthony off on all matters relating to Caylee’s death with one-exception. That was lying to police during her toddler’s missing person investigation.

During the jury trial, Casey Anthony’s case became a social media sensation on par with the TV spectacle back in the O.J. Simpson days. At one point, Time Magazine labeled her as “the most hated woman in America”. The public who followed the proceedings overwhelmingly viewed Casey Anthony as an immoral, immature and incredible piece of “white trash”. Even Anthony’s high-profile lead lawyer, Jose Baez, referred to her as a “lying slut” during his closing remarks to the jury.

However, Jose Baez used those remarks to Anthony’s advantage. He portrayed how his client was misjudged by the mainstream and how the prosecution failed to prove “beyond a reasonable doubt” that the evidence was sufficient to support a conclusion that Casey Anthony deliberately planned and premeditated Caylee’s death. Here’s a look at why Casey Anthony was wrongfully acquitted and got away with murdering her daughter.

The Background

Casey Anthony was born on March 19, 1986 to George and Cindy Anthony of Orlando. George Anthony was a police officer and his wife, Cindy, was a homemaker. They had a son, Lee, who was older than Casey. By all later accounts, this family was anything but functional.

Casey was an outgoing and highly social kid. She was also notorious for bending the truth and pushing boundaries. Casey became pregnant with Caylee at age nineteen and, to this day, there is no official record of who the biological father was.

Casey Anthony was also unemployable. She bounced between jobs including one she got fired from at Universal Studios. She remained living with her parents who financially supported Casey and Caylee. By the summer of 2008, Casey Anthony was partying hard and neglecting Caylee for extended periods during which the grandparents cared for the little girl.

Caylee Anthony was last seen alive on June 16, 2008. She was with her mother, Casey, and they left George and Cindy Anthony’s home to spend time with Casey’s new boyfriend. After not hearing from Casey and Caylee for days, the senior Anthony’s began to get worried and suspicious. Casey made numerous conflicting statements to her parents about Caylee including one story that a new nanny was sitting for her.

After one month of absence, George Anthony learned that Casey’s car was at a tow yard. He went to recover it and notices a strong smell coming from the trunk. He feared the worst and expected to find his dead and decomposing granddaughter when he opened it. Instead, the trunk only contained a bag of rotting garbage.

The Investigation

Still, the Anthony’s were concerned enough about Caylee’s condition that they called the Orange County Sheriff’s Office to file a missing person report. This was on July 15, 2008. The police interviewed Casey Anthony the next day who told them that a nanny by the name of Zenaida Fernandez-Gonzalez had been hired to look after Caylee but refused to return her. Effectively, this was now a kidnapping situation.

As the police dug deeper, they found Casey Anthony’s statements to be false and misleading on four points. She was arrested and charged with the felony offenses of misleading the police and obstructing a criminal investigation. Casey spent a month in jail before she was able to raise a bail bond.

Meanwhile, the police moved their investigation focus from a missing child to a murder case. They processed Casey Anthony’s car and used a novel forensic technique to analyze the trunk air. Laser Induced Breakdown Spectroscopy (LIDS) examination identified airborne particulates consistent with a decomposing body. Two cadaver dogs also gave positive indications when smelling the car.

One human hair was removed from the trunk. It was matched as similar and consistent with Caylee’s known samples from her hairbrush. However, no DNA testing was done to make a positive identification and would become an evidentiary enigma at trial.

The police also searched computer drives on devices that Casey had access. Data retrieval experts found searches for key words and phrases like “chloroform”, “how to make chloroform” and “neck+breaking”. One examiner stated he had retrieved 84 incidents where Casey Anthony allegedly searched the word “chloroform”.

This information or evidence was brought to a grand jury. They returned a Capital murder indictment on October 18, 2008. Casey Anthony was re-arrested and, this time, she was denied bail.

Caylee Anthony’s body was found by a utility worker on December 11, 2008. It was in a wooded area near the Anthony family home about a ten minute walk from the property. Little Caylee was in an advanced decomposition state and had been stuffed inside a plastic garbage bag and wrapped in a blanket identified to her bedroom.

A forensic pathology examination did not determine the exact cause of Caylee’s death. She was too decomposed for that. There was, however, a highly-incriminating piece of evidence indicating foul play. A piece of duct tape—the duct tape murder weapon—was stuck across what would have been her nose and mouth. Caylee Anthony’s death classification was ruled a homicide.

The Jury Trial

From the moment Casey Anthony was arrested on her obstruction of justice charges, her case took on a life of its own. This was the dawning of social media outlets and the height of cable news networks. This sad and serious situation seconded the attention of people across the nation and around the world.

It had the stuff of crime novels and horror movies. Here was a lying and cheating promiscuous young mother who not only abandoned her female child but murdered her. Then, the blood-relative offender callously tossed the remains of a toddler in the bush. Mainstream America wanted Casey Anthony’s head and the prosecution team promised to deliver it. They elevated their game and filed for the death penalty.

Orlando was aflame with rumor and speculation. So much so that it was unlikely to find an impartial juror. The state extended its jury poll range 100 west to Clearwater in Pinellas County. Selection started on May 9, 2011 and by May 24, the panel was selected, transported to Orlando and sequestered for the next forty-three days until they delivered a verdict.

Lorraine Drane Burdick headed the state prosecution. Jeff Ashton and Frank George aided her. Jose Baez led Casey Anthony’s defense and Cheney Mason, Dorothy Clay Simms and Ann Finnell backed him. Mark Lippman represented the parents/grandparents, George and Cindy Anthony.

The prosecution opened their remarks to the jury by painting Casey Anthony as a thing of evil who deserved to die. They claimed Casey murdered her child so she could be free from parental responsibility and carry on a life of sex, drugs and rock n’ roll. An example was her excessive partying while Caylee was missing. To top it off, Casey got a new “Bella Vita” tattoo (meaning “Beautiful Life”) while Caylee was rotting in the rough. It was what the social media frenzy wanted to hear, and the state representatives assumed the jurors liked it too.

The defense took a different approach. They emphasized to jurors the state had absolutely no forensic evidence to prove their case and everything the jurors would hear was circumstantial or hearsay. Jose Baez took a calculated move. He told the jurist panel the state would offer no motive, no cause of death and no proof Caylee Anthony was intentionally killed. In fact, Baez said, there was every reason to believe Caylee accidentally drowned in the family swimming pool and it was George Anthony who covered-up and hid the body.

The hook was set and the jurors sat through 106 prosecution and defense witnesses. Some were forensic specialists. Some were civilians. And, some were members of the Anthony family.

The Case Falls Apart

Bit by bit, the defense team cross-examined expert and lay witnesses alike. Their constant focus was that no hard forensic evidence or “smoking gun” existed and therefore there was no conclusive proof of how Caylee Anthony died… or who killed her. All the while, the defense led by Baez suggested an accidental drowning and a panicked attempt at an in-family cover-up that Casey was not part of.

A big blow to the state was when the computer analyst evidence of “chloroform” searching fell apart. It turns out one expert witness used a flawed algorithm and the truth seemed to be that “chloroform” might have only been searched once. On the stand, Cindy Anthony (Casey’s mother) claimed it was she who searched  “chloroform” but couldn’t explain why. The prosecution asserted Cindy was covering up for Casey. The defense used the issue as a wide and unsettling smokescreen.

George Anthony became a lightning rod for the defense. They painted him as a sadistic child molester who sexually, physically and psychologically abused Casey as she grew up and caused her to be the loose and lying character she was. The stress was so bad that George Anthony threatened suicide and had to be hospitalized for psychiatric observation.

During the trial, the Baez team never entered a lick of evidence that Caylee drowned or that George Anthony had one bit of involvement in her death, never mind abusing Casey. They accomplished their strategy through suggestion, innuendo and letting their powerful opening statement stay planted in the jurors’ minds while the prosecution failed to squash that misleading bug.

In closing to the jury, prosecution lawyer Jeff Ashton told the panel to use their common sense when deciding their verdict. “No one makes an accident look like a murder,” Ashton said.

Jose Baez took a more strategic summation. He sensed jurors would base their verdict on emotion, not evidence. It might have been a gamble when Baez said, “If you hate her, if you think she’s a lying no-good slut then you’ll look at the evidence in that light. I told you at the very beginning of this case that this was an accident that snowballed out of control. What made it unique is not what happened, but who it happened to.”

He continued. “The burden rests on the shoulders of my colleagues at the state attorney’s office. They must prove their case beyond all reasonable doubt and jurors are required, whether they like it or not, to find the defendant not guilty if the state did not adequately prove its case against Casey Anthony.”

The jury deliberated for 10 hours and 40 minutes. On July 5, 2001 they returned with an acquittal on Casey Anthony for all charges except for the minor one of lying to police. Casey Anthony was granted time served, and she was out on the street in a week.

Why the Jury Acquitted Casey Anthony

There are two principles dear to Anglo-American criminal law. One is an accused is presumed to be innocent until proven guilty beyond all reasonable doubt. Second is an accused has the right to be tried by a jury of their peers. The peers must unanimously agree that all elements of the state’s case were supported by evidence that convinced them—beyond all reasonable doubt—that the accused committed the crime they were charged with.

That’s a big burden to carry. In Casey Anthony’s case, the jurors were not split on their decision. Each of the twelve jurors—unanimously—voted to acquit her because they felt—as a group—the prosecution failed to meet their burden of proof and did not take them—the jurors—over the threshold of doubt. Reasonable suspicion? Yes, in spades. But… not past reasonable doubt.

Why did this happen? There are twelve reasons. Some were acknowledged in public interviews jurors gave to media sources after the trial. Others are identified by psychologists and criminologists who’ve had nearly a decade to dissect the Casey Anthony case.

1. Casey Anthony’s legal defense team did a better job relating to the jury than the prosecution did. Jose Baez led a masterful coup of jurors’ emotions and used them to neutralize their feelings against Anthony. From his opening remarks, he and his support staff implanted seeds of doubt to have jurors discharge their duty in Anthony’s favor.

2. George and Cindy Anthony were unreliable witnesses. The jurors saw enough of their dysfunctional home structure to truly wonder if the grandparents had some part they weren’t telling. It was one more brick in the reasonable doubt wall. Jurors were initiated with the accidental drowning theory and they never got past it, regardless that no proof of an accident ever surfaced.

3. The “CSI Effect” came into play. This is a relatively new phenomenon with juries who’ve been exposed to TV shows and movies where the screenwriters manage to solve—beyond all reasonable doubt—their plot within their time frame through some sort of scientific or forensic proof. This didn’t happen in the Anthony trial, and throughout the defense kept using the term “fantasy forensics”.

4. Jury members got hung up on issues of motive and cause of death. Neither is a required element in proving a murder case, although they’re certainly nice to have to shore up a prosecution. Because the state never proved either motive or cause of death, the defense capitalized on this to further form doubt in the jurors’ view.

5. The prosecution became overzealous in persecuting Casey Anthony. Long before the trial, the state attorney’s office sought and got death penalty approval. They never relaxed on it. It was too much responsibility for the jury to know might send a young woman to her end if they convicted Casey Anthony with any sort of doubt in their minds.

6. The defense did an outstanding job of deselecting jury members. They “deselected” people rather than “selected” them. This was a truly unique approach. The defense team painstakingly used social media boards to build a profile of what a sympathetic (to the defense) juror would look like. They used this formula to question potential jurors and deselect or disqualify 392 candidates who didn’t fit their ideal profile.

7. The selected and accepted jury members were analytical types. They were interested in hard proof and not circumstantial evidence. When the “fantasy forensic” ruse set in, the jurors became more and more doubtful  they had any concrete evidence to convict Casey Anthony.

8. The jury was sequestered. They spent nearly a month and a half locked together. Humans being what they are, jurors quickly became a tribe. Leaders and followers emerged through group dynamics. Most humans prefer harmony to discord, and they naturally compromised in agreements. The Casey Anthony jury became one unit during their sequester period, and they solidified towards giving Anthony the benefit of the doubt despite compelling circumstantial evidence.

9. The jury played favorites with the lawyers. Jose Baez came across as a genuine, likeable person. In the words of one juror later interviewed, “He seemed like the only one in the room who cared. Jeff Ashton was ambitious and arrogant. He was mechanical and cold and we didn’t like him.”

10.  Jury members caved-in. In another interview, a Casey Anthony juror said, “We did our first vote and it came out half to acquit and half to convict. We talked about it for a while going through the evidence. I’d say some people got intense, but there were no personal attacks, no yelling. Then the vote was 11-1 to acquit. The one guy who wanted to convict basically looked at us and said, ‘Okay. Whatever you all want.’ He knew he wasn’t going to convince us.”

11. The prosecution failed to deliver clear, relatable and understandable circumstantial evidence. Still another juror had this to say. “The prosecutors didn’t give us enough evidence to convict. They gave us a lot of stuff that made us think she probably did something wrong, but not beyond a reasonable doubt. The prosecution didn’t even paint a picture for me to consider. How can you punish someone if you don’t know what they did?”

12. The jury members gradually diminished their common sense.  “No one makes an accident look like a murder.” They forgot the big picture—the duct tape murder weapon. This became not a trial about who intentionally killed an innocent and defenseless child. Here was a horrible mother who did not report her missing daughter and compounded the tragedy by lying to the police about what happened.

Casey Anthony refused to take the witness stand.

She had her chance to explain. There’s no other rational conclusion. Casey Anthony murdered Caylee and the jury wrongfully acquitted her.

FROM THE SHADOWS — NEW CRIME BOOK RELEASE FROM GARRY RODGERS

What if six members—three generations—of your family were slain in a monstrous mass murder?

From The Shadows is based on the horrific true crime story of grandparents, Ed and Patricia Bartley, parents Gunner and Trisha Jephsen, and their two prepubescent girls who disappeared on a Vancouver Island camping trip. Ella was just eleven. Lily was only nine.

This terrible tragedy shocked North America and riveted the Canadian public as Serious Crimes investigators scoured British Columbia’s west coast for any sign of the Jephsen and Bartley families. Where they were, what happened, and who did it captivated all.

Police used massive resources and every available investigation aid to locate the bodies and track down suspects. That involved major media cooperation, highly-creative techniques, and the questionable help of an unsavory for-hire agent.

Then, a break came. In a “never saw it coming” conclusion, detectives learned why the Jephsens and Bartleys were savagely slaughtered then carefully concealed after being stealthily stalked and wantonly watched by eyes that looked on from the shadows.

What advance readers say about From The Shadows:

~ From The Shadows is Garry Rodgers’ best book yet. Garry keeps getting better all the time.
~ I thought From The Shadows was an awesome, super read and very hard to put down.
~ Really nice job of putting the reader on a skewer and roasting them slowly.
~ Horrifying crime story with a wicked twist! Cannot make this stuff up.
~ Excellent, excellent book! I love reading all Garry Rodgers’ work.
~ Absolutely loved it! Would make a great TV series.
~ Wow, what a read! What a ride! Wow!

*   *   *

From The Shadows is the newest based-on-true-crime story in the In The Attic and Under The Ground series.  It involves real people, real dialogue and real police procedures happening in a fast-moving and high-profile, real-life murder investigation. Here’s a sample of From The Shadows

Chapter 1 — Tuesday, August 23rd – 8:10 am

“What the fuck happened to them?” Harry wondered out loud. She gripped her Starbucks and frowned at her newspaper.

“Happened to who?” I didn’t look up—busy with a cold case email. I was in the cubicle beside Harry, my homicide investigation partner at the Serious Crimes Section.

“This missing family of six.” Harry pointed at the paper. “This shit’s lighting the news. Global TV did a lead story last night. Now it’s headlining this morning’s Vancouver Sun.”

Six missing people? One family? That got my attention. I rolled my seat next to Harry.

Three Generations Vanish On Vancouver Island Camping Trip

Above the fold were their photos. Grandparents Ed and Patricia Bartley. Parents Gunner and Trisha Jephsen. And their two prepubescent girls.

Ella was just eleven.

Lily was only nine.

“I got a bad feeling.” Harry sucked her teeth. Harry always sucked her teeth when feeling bad, and I’d worked with Harry long enough to ignore her teeth sucking but to know Harry’s bad feelings were usually right.

“This is not good.” She gulped her Grande. Harry lowered her specs, squinted at their images, and shook her head. “Not good at all.”

——

I hadn’t followed any news for the last ten days. My wife and I’d been out on our boat in Desolation Sound, seventy nautical miles from our home in Nanaimo where the unspeakable Jephsen-Bartley family mass-murders went down.

Nanaimo is a small, seaside city of a hundred thousand on the east side of Vancouver Island in southern British Columbia, Canada. The community is straight across from the craziness of Vancouver—one of the world’s most expensive, exotic, and erotic cities. Nanaimo is world-class, too—a mecca for international students and tourists. It’s a cruise ship port, a hub of higher learning, and the gateway to unlimited outdoor adventures for campers from across the country, plus around the world.

Nanaimo also has an unusually high murder rate.

——

“What’s this about?” I scanned the article.

“You haven’t been following?” Harry gave me a look like I’d not heard about climate change or what Trump just pulled off. “Fuck, you have been off the grid.”

Harry and I were part of a detective squad based in Nanaimo. We worked in teams of two, responsible for investigating major crimes around central Vancouver Island. The population isn’t big, but the area is huge. It includes vast tracks of unspoiled wilderness making “The Island” a camping paradise.

“Fill me in.” I knew Harry would fill me in—whether I liked it or not—so I gave her the opener. Harry could be annoying at times, but she said the same about me. Still, I loved her as my partner and as a friend despite being a gossipy train wreck in her personal life. We’d been partners three years, and I hoped to keep Harry till I retired. That wasn’t far off.

Retirement was a way off for Harry, though. And her name’s Sheryl, not Harry. Sheryl Henderson. Sheryl’s a large lady with larger hair and an even larger personality. We called her Harry after the Bigfoot in Harry And The Hendersons.

——

Harry squeezed her stainless mug, dented by gravity encounters. “This family is from the mainland interior. There’s Ed Bartley and his wife Patricia.” She pointed at their photos. “They’re seniors in their seventies. Pensioners who live in Summerland. Trisha Jephsen is their daughter. She’s married to Gunner Jephsen, and they have two pre-teen girls.”

Harry touched one girl’s picture. “Ella.” She touched the other. “Lily.” Then she touched their parents. “The Jephsens are also from the Okanagan. Penticton, I think.”

“Travelling as a group?”

“Yeah.” Harry nodded. She stayed on their images. “In two vehicles. Bartley’s have a truck and camper. Jephsen’s have a car and were tenting. The whole works disappeared. Looks like twenty-one days now. Not a word. Dick-all. Nuthin.”

I let it sink in. Six people? Four adults? Two kids? Two vehicles? Three weeks?

Harry went on. “Only thing known is they were on Vancouver Island. That’s for sure. Where exactly? No one knows. I saw the internal bulletin Friday… it’s been in the news all weekend.”

I got ashore late yesterday afternoon—still hadn’t got my land-legs, let alone dug into the news. “When did this start?”

Harry drained her drink. “Gunner Jephsen was supposed to be back at work last Monday, the fifteenth. When he didn’t show up by Wednesday, his boss filed a missing person report. Missing persons, I should say. I guess he’s been at the same sawmill job for over twenty years. Totally reliable.”

“Someone knows where they are.” I quizzed Harry. “Six people and two vehicles don’t just up and disappear for three weeks. Whose case is this? Not ours, I hope.”

By “ours” I meant the Nanaimo police, not specifically our Serious Crimes Section. Detectives don’t have time to get involved in missing person investigations—unless there’s a realistic reason to suspect foul play—and the last thing a detective wants is six murder victims from one family.

“No.” Harry shook her head. She still stared at the photos. “There’s no file opened here. At least not that I know of… then maybe an assistance thing. The missing persons report was filed in Penticton so it’s their baby. But the last sighting… the last contact with them… according to what I’ve seen and heard in the news… is they got off the goddamn ferry here in Nanaimo, then phoned a relative saying they made it to the Island and were looking for a campsite. That was Tuesday, the second. Right after the long weekend. They were going camping on the Island and checking a spot. No one’s heard fuck all from them since.”

“Looking for a campsite on the Island?” I smiled at Harry, raising my brow.

——

Vancouver Island is huge. It’s enormous as islands go—forty-third largest island in the world. It’s bigger than the whole chain of Hawaii. Larger than Timor. Four Rhode Islands in one. It’s superior to Sicily. Longer than Ireland. Wider than Taiwan. And higher than Iceland.

But Vancouver Island’s population is sparse. Less than a million. It’s tiny in human density and small for its size. People are confined to a narrow strip along the southeastern shore. The vast majority of the Island is rugged wilderness—mountains, glaciers, lakes, and rivers—but it’s connected north to south and east to west by a network of highways, secondary roads, and a spider-web of logging trails.

Vancouver Island is an outdoors mecca. It has the mildest weather in Canada. The Goldilocks zone. Not too hot. Not too cold. Just about right. It’s a place where families can ski and surf, golf and fish, hike, climb, and camp from one station.

That camping spot could be a pay-for-stay site with wood and water to a help-yourself slot off a forest service road. It might host hundreds or be secluded away and suit only a truck with its camper and a car with its tent like the Jephsen and Bartley families had.

The Island has thousands of campsites from full-service resorts with fabulous food to isolated pull-offs beside fast-flowing rivers. And the Island has local, municipal, provincial, and federal parks. Some are pure wilderness. Some are too touristy.

Folks like the Jephsens and Bartley’s could have been at many places up or down the Island, across at Tofino, or secluded at smaller ferry-served hops like the Gulf Islands, the Mid Islands, or the Northern Islands near Port McNeil. They might’ve been somewhere within a few hour drive of their departure point in Nanaimo—Pacific Rim National Park, Strathcona Provincial Park, Cape Scott, or Port Renfrew. They could have camped beside Cameron Lake. Retreated to Rathtrevor. Parked outside Port Hardy. Or settled in Saratoga.

Yes, the Jephsens and Bartleys could have been anywhere on Vancouver Island. Lost somewhere within twelve thousand square miles.

But they were here—right in our own backyard—savagely slaughtered then carefully concealed after stealthily stalked and wantonly watched by eyes that looked on from the shadows.

_ _ _

 

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