Early Graves - Thomas H. Cook - ebook

Early Graves ebook

Thomas H. Cook

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A gut-wrenching true-crime account of a couple on a twisted killing spree in the American South. Evil has a way of finding itself. How else could you explain the bond between Alvin and Judith Ann Neelley, who consecrated their marriage in blood? Before the killings started, they restricted themselves to simple mischief: prank calls, vandalism, firing guns at strangers' houses. Gradually their ambition grew, until one day at the Riverbend Mall in Rome, Georgia, they spotted Lisa Ann Millican. Three days after Lisa Ann disappeared, the thirteen-year-old girl was found shot and pumped full of liquid drain cleaner. In between her abduction and her death, she was subjected to innumerable horrors. And she was only the first to die. Drawing on police records and extensive interviews, Thomas H. Cook recounts the story of Judith Ann Neelley, who at nineteen became the youngest woman ever sentenced to death row Review Quote: "Strong writing, particularly in the portrait of the South's urban Tobacco Roads, enhances the book's grisly appeal." - Publishers Weekly "Cook has shown himself to be a writer of poetic gifts, constantly pushing against the presumed limits of crime fiction." - Los Angeles Times Book Review Biographical note: Thomas H. Cook (b. 1947) is the author of nearly two dozen critically lauded crime novels. Born in Fort Payne, Alabama, Cook published his first novel, Blood Innocents, in 1980 while serving as the book review editor of Atlanta magazine. Two years later, on the release of his second novel, The Orchids, he turned to writing full-time. Cook published steadily through the 1980s, penning such works as the Frank Clemons trilogy, a series of mysteries starring a jaded cop. He found breakout success with The Chatham School Affair (1996), which won an Edgar Award for best novel. His work has been praised by critics for his attention to psychology and the lyrical nature of his prose. Besides mysteries, Cook has written two true-crime books, Early Graves (1992) and the Edgar-nominated Blood Echoes (1993), as well as several literary novels, including Elena (1986). He lives and works in New York City.

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Contents

Cover

About the Book

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Acknowledgments

A Note on the Book

The Convergence of the Twain

PART ONE: UNKNOWN VOICES

CHAPTER 1: City of Seven Hills

CHAPTER 2: Fire in the Night

CHAPTER 3: Boney and Claude

CHAPTER 4: “Where Is Lisa Ann?”

CHAPTER 5: “Where I Left Her”

CHAPTER 6: “To Feel Like a Father”

PART TWO: ROMAN CENTURION

CHAPTER 7: Roman Centurion

CHAPTER 8: Who Was Lisa Ann?

CHAPTER 9: “2 Good 2 Be 4 Gotten”

CHAPTER 10: Unraveling Threads

CHAPTER 11: “Are You Patricia?”

CHAPTER 12: Bearing Witness

CHAPTER 13: Voices

CHAPTER 14: Full Court Press

CHAPTER 15: Twenty-five to One

CHAPTER 16: “I’ll Take Him”

PART THREE: THE DIVERGENCE OF THE TWAIN

CHAPTER 17: Judy

CHAPTER 18: “Why?”

CHAPTER 19: “I Thought He Would Throw Up”

CHAPTER 20: Advisaries

CHAPTER 21: Life and Letters

CHAPTER 22: The Little Chicago of the South

CHAPTER 23: The Ones Who Got Away

CHAPTER 24: “She Did”

PART FOUR: JUDGMENT

CHAPTER 25: “The Main Part of a Woman”

CHAPTER 26: “He Was Always Smiling”

CHAPTER 27: “Al Did”

CHAPTER 28: “How Would You Draw Hers?”

CHAPTER 29: “Evil, Evil”

CHAPTER 30: “She’s Mine”

CHAPTER 31: “If It Had Been True”

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About the Book

A gut-wrenching true-crime account of a couple on a twisted killing spree in the American South.

Evil has a way of finding itself. How else could you explain the bond between Alvin and Judith Ann Neelley, who consecrated their marriage in blood? Before the killings started, they restricted themselves to simple mischief: prank calls, vandalism, firing guns at strangers’ houses. Gradually their ambition grew, until one day at the Riverbend Mall in Rome, Georgia, they spotted Lisa Ann Millican.

Three days after Lisa Ann disappeared, the thirteen-year-old girl was found shot and pumped full of liquid drain cleaner. In between her abduction and her death, she was subjected to innumerable horrors. And she was only the first to die.

Drawing on police records and extensive interviews, Thomas H. Cook recounts the story of Judith Ann Neelley, who at nineteen became the youngest woman ever sentenced to death row

Review Quote:

“Strong writing, particularly in the portrait of the South’s urban Tobacco Roads, enhances the book’s grisly appeal.” - Publishers Weekly

“Cook has shown himself to be a writer of poetic gifts, constantly pushing against the presumed limits of crime fiction.” - Los Angeles Times Book Review

About the Author

Thomas H. Cook (b. 1947) is the author of nearly two dozen critically lauded crime novels. Born in Fort Payne, Alabama, Cook published his first novel, Blood Innocents, in 1980 while serving as the book review editor of Atlanta magazine. Two years later, on the release of his second novel, The Orchids, he turned to writing full-time.

Cook published steadily through the 1980s, penning such works as the Frank Clemons trilogy, a series of mysteries starring a jaded cop. He found breakout success with The Chatham School Affair (1996), which won an Edgar Award for best novel. His work has been praised by critics for his attention to psychology and the lyrical nature of his prose. Besides mysteries, Cook has written two true-crime books, Early Graves (1992) and the Edgar-nominated Blood Echoes (1993), as well as several literary novels, including Elena (1986). He lives and works in New York City.

Early Graves

The Shocking True-Crime Story of the Youngest Woman Ever Sentenced to Death Row

Thomas H. Cook

 

BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT

 

Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG

 

Copyright © 2014 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany

 

For the original edition:

Copyright © 2011 by The Mysterious Press, LLC, 58 Warren Street, New York, NY. U.S.A.

 

Author’s Note: In the interest of protecting the privacy of individuals whose identities are not central to the true story told here, certain names and other descriptive details have been altered in several instances.

 

Copyright © 1990 by Thomas H. Cook

 

Project management: Lori Herber

Cover adaptation: Christin Wilhelm, www.grafic4u.de

Cover design by Jason Gabbert

 

E-book production: Jouve Germany GmbH & Co. KG

 

ISBN 978-3-95859-009-0

 

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All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this e-book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

For Timothy Seldes and Miriam Altshuler

Love, Honor, and Obey

and for

Kenneth Kines, and his son, Seth

Acknowledgments

Early Graves could not have been written without the generous cooperation of a great number of people. At the very beginning of my research, John Siler, Cathy Drake, and Brown Keyes were instrumental in setting up my interviews with Alvin Neelley. But they were only the first of a large number of public officials who selflessly gave of their time. I would particularly like to thank Kenneth Kines, who devoted many hours to assisting me, but also David Burkhalter, Elaine Snow, Mike Jones, Mike Ragland, Lonnie Adcock, and Ralph Bishop, of the Rome Police Department, Jim Carver and Sam House of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, Linda Adair and Ken Dooley of the Rome Youth Development Center, Craig Fowler of the Georgia Department of Family and Children Services, Sue Hitchcock of the Open Door Home, District Attorney Ralph Van Pelt and Investigator John Bass of the Chattooga County District Attorney’s Office, Linda allen of the Macon Youth Development Center, Harold Richards, Gary Wright, Cecil Reed, Jackie Tanner, and Charles Houston of the Dekalb County Sheriff’s Department, District Attorney Richard Igou, Assistant District Attorney Michael O’Dell, and Investigators Danny Smith and Darrell Collins of the Dekalb County District Attorney’s Office, Court Bailiff Mary MacPherson, and Jimmy Lindsey and the staff of the Dekalb County Clerk’s Office, Judge Randall Cole and his assistant, Lisa Hall, John Kilbourn and Rodger Morisson of the Alabama Crime Laboratory, and Joe Blackwell and Wade Hill of the Fort Payne Fire Department.

In addition to these public officials, many private citizens assisted me in my investigation. Of particular importance were John and Donna Hancock, Debbie Kines, Fay Freeman, Dennis Benefield, Claire and Dallas Dougherty, Lillian Ritter, Virgil Cook, Dr. Jean Jones and Dr. John Steiner of the Ethel Harpst Home, Britt Miller, Ben Farrington, and George Westmoreland.

Two other people deserve special mention. Mickie Strickland gave invaluable assistance both as a research assistant and as a sounding board for ideas about the case. Hers was a steadily helpful presence in the writing of this book. I cannot thank her enough. And last, it should be noted that my mother, Mickie Cook, continued over a period of many years to remind me of the case. Once I began to work on it, she assisted me in a number of critical ways. This book could not have been written without her care and attention, and for that I offer her my most profound appreciation.

A Note on the Book

During the many months of research into the lives and crimes of Alvin and Judith Neelley, I had occasion to interview scores of individuals. Differing accounts of certain events inevitably emerged. When accounts have been in conflict, I have presented the ones that seemed to me the most plausible from my own knowledge of the people and events connected to the case. In addition, police summations of lengthy and often repetitious interrogations are notoriously condensed, hours of testimony reduced to a few short pages. In recounting such interrogations, I have tried to use the actual language of the participants on those occasions when it has been available to me, as in tape recordings, for example. Otherwise, I have attempted to recreate the actual nature of the interrogation as it has been described to me by people who were actually present. In other cases, I have combined numerous interrogations into one so as to avoid repetition and for the benefit of the narrative form. Courtroom testimony rivals police interrogations for repetitiousness and the accumulation of irrelevant detail. Wherever possible, I have edited courtroom presentations, whether as witness testimony or attorney arguments, in such a way as to preserve both the trial’s relevant information and its undeniably dramatic tone.

The Convergence of the Twain

HE WAS BORN on July 15, 1953, in Trion, Georgia, a small village in the mountainous northwestern corner of the state, a region of pine forests and green wooded slopes that seem to swirl one around the other. He was the youngest of three children, and there was something so cute about him that his older brother and sister petted him continually, laughing and joking with him as they played games in the yard of their small, white-shingled house. From the very beginning, charm was his forte. He was a jokester, a prankster. All his life, he had a smiling face.

She was born on June 7, 1964, in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, a dingy little town of seedy trailer parks and honky-tonks about ninety miles south of Nashville, just near enough to give off a sense of drying up and turning brown under the heady lights of the Country Music Capital. Local iconography consisted of Jesus nailed to the cross or Elvis painted on velvet. There were plenty of twanging guitars, but they were played by country-music has-beens or never-weres in the steamy red-neck bars. It was an easy town to make jokes about, and as she would later discover, he had a million of them.

Everyone thought he was great, particularly his mother. It was that smile of his. When he flashed it, his whole face lit up. There was just something about him, the watery blue eyes and pink, roly-poly body, that made everyone grin.

All the kids in the neighborhood loved to play with him. One day they even played a little golf when the kids next door brought out their father’s putters and knocked the balls around. There were hills to climb and swimming holes and creeks to swim in. It was a great childhood, filled with days of hunting and fishing and hanging out with the other Boy Scouts in Troop 101. He learned to say the Pledge of Allegiance, to honor God and country, to build a fire, to tie knots. His childhood was a festival of joy. He would never complain about a single day of it.

Her mother worked as a housewife, her father as a construction worker and carpenter. She saw her mother all the time, but her father was often busy, so that she did not see him as often as she would have liked.

She had a sister, Dottie, and a brother, James, whom everyone called Jimbo. They were both older than she. And then there were Bill and Davey, her two younger brothers.

They lived in the section of Murfreesboro known as Walter Hill. They had a garden and trees to climb. They were not rich, but they were not poor either, and none of the children ever lacked for food and clothing. It was not a bad childhood. She would never claim that she had been deprived.

His first school was Fort McHenry Elementary, and from the very beginning he was the class clown. He loved to tell jokes and rib the teachers. And once, when one of them asked him a question he couldn’t answer, he broke the other kids up when he told her that if he’d already known the answer, he wouldn’t have been in school in the first place.

It was the girls he liked to rib the most, and often, during recess, he’d go down to the pond and bring back a few baby frogs to scare them with. They’d scream wildly when he came up suddenly and stuck one of the frogs in their faces. It made him laugh and laugh.

Like all the other children in her neighborhood, she attended the Walter Hill School from 8:30 to 2:45, then played throughout the remainder of the afternoon. It might have gone on like that forever. It was even getting better for a while. Her father had started his own construction company in 1973. He was making good money, between two hundred fifty and three hundred dollars a week. Sometimes he drank a little, and most of the time he seemed far away, but he never said harsh things or lifted his hand against her. The drinking didn’t really matter, she loved him anyway.

When he was in the fifth grade, one of the teachers slapped his behind for hanging out the window and he went tumbling to the ground. The kids laughed hysterically, and he played it to the hilt. A few weeks later, feeling his oats, he talked back to the principal, which landed him in trouble, but only for a while.

The Christmas of 1973 was the one she would always remember. Her sister Dottie got a little pink Cinderella watch. Bill got an orange bicycle and Jimbo got a little Honda motorcycle.

As for her, she sat quietly and watched the other children tear open their presents. Then her father came over, sat down on the floor with her, and helped her open her presents. One was a little blond-headed doll with a pink polka-dot body. The doll talked when the string behind its head was pulled. The box said its name was Drowsey. She never changed the name. She also got a “Tote-a-Tune,” a little red keyboard with a strap around it. It used batteries and came with a book of songs. It made her laugh when her father showed her how to play it because his hands were too big and his fingers wouldn’t fit the keys.

As the years passed, these two toys became her most precious possessions, the only things she ever owned with which she would not part.

In seventh grade, he started picking up girls and taking them to the pool. Other people had a tendency to show up, too, once they heard that he was there. It got so the pool owner would let him in free just so the other people would show up and pay the entrance charge. A funny guy, a prankster, someone with a great sense of humor, always attracted a large, admiring crowd.

One Saturday night in March of 1974, when she was nine years old, her father mounted a motorcycle and headed down the road. He’d been drinking, and he made a mistake, perhaps no more than a tiny miscalculation, but enough to slam him into the highway guardrail. He rode it for a hundred feet before it spun into the air and hurled him to the pavement. When they told her he was dead, she could hardly believe it. She had always been the quiet one, but for a long time after that, she seemed to turn to stone.

PART

ONE

UNKNOWN

VOICES

CHAPTER

1

City of Seven Hills

YEARS LATER, REMEMBERING it all again, Ken Dooley would find it hard to believe that so much horror could begin so mundanely, with no more dramatic fanfare than the ringing of his phone.

He answered it immediately, glanced at the clock, and unconsciously recorded the time: 7:00 P.M.

“Hello.”

The voice at the other end did not alarm him. It was a female voice, calm, precise, without a hint of nervousness, nothing to make him in the least suspicious.

“Is this Ken Dooley’s house?”

“Yes, it is.”

“My name’s Susan. I’m a friend of Cherie, your wife. From way back. When she lived in Kentucky.”

Dooley nodded dully, glanced about the dining room, his mind more on finishing the dinner he’d just made for himself than on the voice still holding him on the line.

“I’m going to be passing through Rome,” the woman said, “and I wanted to stop by and see Cherie.”

“Okay, that’s fine,” Dooley said.

“How do you get to your house?”

Dooley gave precise directions. “Well, once you get to Rome, get on Maple Street and come to Lindale, to the Daither Park Diner and take a right. After you take a right, we’re the third brick house on the left.”

Dooley waited for the woman to answer, and when she didn’t, he decided to make absolutely sure that she couldn’t miss his house. “There’ll be a red Volkswagen in the driveway,” he told her matter-of-factly. “And a green and white Buick, too.”

The woman seemed satisfied that he had told her enough. “Okay,” she said. “Well, you tell Cherie that I’ll see her when we get to Rome.”

“Okay,” Dooley answered. Then he hung up, finished his dinner, and stretched out in the den.

For the next few hours Dooley remained home alone. His wife and son were at the Rome Little Theater where Robby had been scheduled to audition for a part in one of the theater’s upcoming productions. But the solitude didn’t bother him. He needed the rest and relaxation. It had been a long day at the YDC, Rome’s Youth Development Center, where he taught the female juvenile offenders who’d been placed there. He liked some of them, joked with and counseled them. But there were others he didn’t care for at all. They were hard, cold, calculating, with as many different personalities as they needed to survive. He’d been around long enough to understand how important it was to know who you were dealing with at the YDC, because the one thing all the girls had in common was that in the end they’d be on the streets again, free to do the good or evil that was already in their hearts.

Cherie and Robby returned home at around nine in the evening. Robby was tired from the long day’s activities and trudged directly down the hallway to his room. Cherie sat down on the sofa in the den, and Ken stirred himself enough to ask how Robby had done at the audition. Outside he could hear the early-September winds as they rustled through the trees and shrubbery that formed a ragged, easily penetrable wall between his house and the street.

“By the way,” he said after a moment, “you got a call tonight.”

“Who from?”

Ken glanced outside. It was very dark except for the small area of grayish light that swam out from the den’s large, well-lighted window. “Some friend of yours from Kentucky,” he said. “She said she was coming through Rome and she wanted to stop and visit.”

“What was her name?”

“Susan.”

Cherie Dooley looked at her husband quizzically. “Susan?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s strange.”

Ken’s eyes drifted toward his wife. “What is?”

Cherie shrugged lightly. “What she told you.”

“What’s strange about it?”

His wife’s answer was not enough to nudge Ken Dooley from the night’s deepening peacefulness. “I don’t have a friend from Kentucky named Susan,” she said.

In the South, as in the rest of America, September is a busy month. With the summer at an end, schools reopen, and the resulting shift in schedules inevitably throws the general pace of life into a higher gear. In Rome, football season had already begun, and on Friday nights, the rural roads of the surrounding counties were dotted with bright yellow school buses on their way to and from the scores of regional intramural games. On the night of September 10, Ken Dooley traveled to Bremen, Georgia, with the team he coached and Robby managed. For the next few hours he rooted loudly from the rickety wooden stands while his team fought for every inch of the one-hundred-yard field. At the end of the game he was exhausted, and the long bus ride home, with the team shouting and laughing behind him, hardly served to ease the strain that had been steadily accumulating all day. It was a pleasure finally to reach his own house, and he smiled at the prospect of a hot shower followed by a long, deep sleep.

Cherie met him at the door. “You got a call tonight,” she said.

“Who from?” Dooley asked as he walked past her and made his way into the den, where he slouched down on the sofa by the window.

Cherie stood at the entrance to the den, her shoulder against its wooden frame. “I don’t know who it was,” she told him.

Dooley drew in a long, weary breath. “They didn’t say?”

“It was a girl, that’s all I know.”

Dooley thought of the YDC, the many girls he knew there. It was not uncommon for one of them to call him. “Well, what’d she want?” he asked.

“Just to know if you were home.”

Dooley’s eyes shifted over to his wife, suddenly struck by the oddity of the question. “To know if I was home?” he asked. “When was this?”

“Around nine,” Cherie said. “I told her you weren’t here but that you’d be in later. I think it was probably one of the people from the Center.”

Dooley nodded. “Could be.”

“Anyway, she said she’d call you back.”

Dooley looked at his watch. It was nearly eleven. “And she called just that one time?”

Cherie nodded.

“Okay,” Dooley said with a shrug. For a time he remained on the sofa, then he got up and headed down the hallway to his bedroom to prepare for bed. Far away, in the distant bedroom, he could hear the phone as it rang suddenly, then his wife’s voice as she answered it.

“It’s for you,” she called to him.

Dooley headed for the dining room.

“It’s that girl again,” his wife whispered as she handed him the receiver.

Dooley took the phone. “Hello.”

There was a moment of silence, then, to his surprise, he heard a male rather than a female voice.

“You’ve screwed the last girl you’re going to screw,” the man told him coldly. “And you’re going to pay.”

Dooley was thunderstruck. He had never heard a voice so threatening. “Who the hell is this?” he demanded.

The man hung up immediately, leaving Dooley standing motionlessly in his dining room, half-dazed by the threat.

“Who was it?” his wife asked as she came back into the room.

“I don’t know,” Dooley told her. He returned the phone to its cradle, then headed back to the bedroom.

As he prepared for bed, Dooley continued to think about the voice, how hard it was, how threatening. He talked about it to his wife, then decided to get it off his mind by checking his closet to see if there was anything he might want to add to the various items Cherie had gathered together for the yard sale she was having the next day. On the way to the bedroom he looked in on his children. Both eleven-year-old Robby and three-year-old Carrie were sleeping soundly. Everything seemed normal, so he walked on down the hall to the bedroom and opened the closet.

The sounds came quickly, four of them, loud pops that at first seemed like nothing more than a flurry of backfiring from the street. Then he heard his wife screaming to him that someone was shooting into the house.

He plunged down the corridor, through the dining room at the far end of the house, where he met Cherie, who was running toward him. He scrambled past her, hurled through the den and out the far end of the house. The front yard was completely silent. He glanced right and left, trying to make out any movement in the chilly darkness. Finally, he looked toward the road. Far down the street, he could see the red taillights of a speeding car. For an instant he thought of following it, but the car disappeared almost immediately. There was nothing to do but return to the house and call the police.

After making the call, Dooley walked through the house to check for damage. In the den he could see where two bullets had entered the house. One had come through the wall and hit the tan wicker shade of the swag lamp that hung above the sofa. A second shot had also come through the wall, then veered left and slammed into the bottom of the door. Two others had hit the roof above the window of the den, and later, as he stood outside, staring back toward the house, he realized that the gunman had been deadly serious, that he’d fired at the only lighted window in the house.

Patrolman Ray Logan of the Floyd County Police Department arrived a few minutes later. He gathered what evidence he could, then wrote up complaint number 82-09-00381.

“I’m sorry this happened to you,” he told Dooley before leaving. “And I wish we had more to go on.” But there were no witnesses, no identification of the car or its drivers, only two voices and a pair of taillights that had flickered briefly, then disappeared. “If I were you,” Logan added darkly, “I wouldn’t sleep at home tonight.”

But Dooley did remain at home that night. His children were still sleeping soundly, as they had through all of the events of the evening, and he decided not to wake them. Instead he simply returned to his bedroom and lay down, aware, as he remained all through the night, of the loaded pistol that rested on his closet shelf only a few feet away. It seemed like his best friend.

The next morning at the Rome YDC, Dooley told his supervisor about the incident. The supervisor listened carefully, then asked him to keep the whole matter under wraps, since such an event might frighten other people at the Center. Dooley did as he was asked. Throughout the day, he didn’t tell any of his students, or any of the staff, even the assistant director of the Youth Development Center itself, a tall blond woman whose name was Linda Adair.

CHAPTER

2

Fire in the Night

ON SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 1982, the day following the shooting at Ken Dooley’s house, Linda Adair returned home after shopping and dinner with her husband. Her daughter was to be married the following week, and she and her husband Gary, an investigator for the Floyd County fire marshal, had dinner at the Country Gentleman, a steak house on north U.S. Highway 27, and then, at around seven in the evening, headed for the Riverbend Mall, still gathering the necessary paraphernalia for the upcoming wedding.

They returned home at around ten in the evening, and Adair noticed that Brent, her neighbor’s enormous Saint Bernard, was still curled up on her back steps. For the last three days the dog had remained more or less in place, looking very somber and refusing to go home. Normally Brent would greet Linda as she came home, barking and leaping about the carport enthusiastically until she got inside. Then he would invariably head back across the backyard to his owner’s house next door. Lately, however, he’d refused even to get up as she approached. She’d even had to step over him to get inside her house. It was very odd for him, and she’d been wondering if the dog was all right. She bent down and petted him gently.

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