Blood Echoes (7 page)

Inside the trailer, Ned, his brother, Aubrey, and his three sons, Shuggie, Jerry, and Jimmy, lay motionlessly in the darkness, a family's heart and soul. Alive they had done the heavy labor of the farm, cleared the land, plowed the fields, driven and repaired its cumbersome machinery. But they had done more than that, as Ernestine and the surviving wives and children would always remember. Ned had lit a thousand smiles with his good humor. Aubrey, with his broad red face, had never let a chance for laughter pass him by. Shuggie, stout and huggable, seemed always to have someone beneath his outstretched arm. Jerry, reticent and reserved, the least boisterous member of a boisterous family, had brought only Mary into his deepest confidence. And Jimmy, youngest of them all, a high school prankster renowned for his “dirty tricks,” had just begun to throw off the last vestiges of boyhood.

Now they were all dead, and for the first time, the very traditions that had made the Alday family strong—particularly the sexual division of labor common to agrarian life—began to weaken it, while other, even more sinister, elements began to gnaw ceaselessly at its vital center, like a worm at the core. The saga of the farming Aldays had ended, and the saga of the “Alday victims” had begun.

Chapter Eight

D
uring the early hours of May 15, the heartrending business begun just outside the Alday trailer as Sheriff White spoke to Bud Alday continued one phone call at a time.

At approximately 3:00
A.M.
the telephone rang in the home of Patricia Alday Miller, Ernestine's thirty-two-year-old daughter.

“Patricia, this is Mama,” Ernestine said in a voice that remained very firm, unshaken. “Something's happened. You need to come home.''

“Home” meant the family homestead on River Road, and the tone in her mother's voice convinced Patricia that something dreadful must have happened. Quickly she roused her husband, the two of them throwing on the clothes they'd worn the day before, and headed for the door. On the way out, Patricia instinctively looked in on her sleeping children, the warmth of their room, the look of their bodies safe beneath the blankets already suggestive of a security and contentment she would never know again.

Outside there was a chill in the air, though enough light had broken for her to see a clear sky overhead, the promise of another bright spring day. The prospect of enjoying it had already dimmed in her mind. Her mother's voice had replaced it, cool, strained, female.
Why didn't Daddy call?

She tried to press any further direct questions from her mind as the truck backed out of the driveway and headed toward River Road. On the way, the truck racing through the early morning mist, she kept her eyes straight ahead while her mind moved through a grim catalog of possibilities, images of death and injury in a steady stream of horrible conjectures. “It only took a few minutes to get to River Road,” she remembered later, “but it was the longest drive I ever took.”

At last, as they neared her brother Jerry's trailer, Patricia could see several cars lined up and down both sides of River Road. Her husband slowed down as the truck neared the trailer, then stopped dead on the road in front of it.

From her place in the passenger seat, Patricia could see Sheriff White standing a few yards from the trailer itself. He saw her, too, and strode down to where she sat nervously in the truck.

“They're all dead, Patricia,” White told her solemnly. “And Mary's missing.”

Patricia couldn't speak. She stared mutely at White, totally unable to imagine the “dead” he was referring to. The only name he'd mentioned was Mary's, the fact that although the others were dead, Mary was not among them. Her first thought would later astound her with its irrational oddity:
What has Mary done to my family?

The truck eased on through the line of official vehicles toward the Alday homestead on River Road, Patricia now entering a state of near paralysis, her mind unable to arrange the disjointed information it had received during the preceding minutes.

Once at home, she found Ernestine seated at the dining table, utterly still, her hands folded in her lap, her gray hair neatly combed, as it always was, with little to betray the unimaginable blow she had received nearly an hour before.

For the next few minutes, as Patricia listened in disbelief, Ernestine related the evening's events, the nightlong search for Ned and the others, then the discovery of their bodies in the trailer. Through it all, she remained entirely controlled, holding her emotions in with a monumental determination.

“Mama was determined to be strong for the rest of us,” Patricia remembered, “and she was strong, very, very strong. I think the fact that she didn't fall apart that night was the one thing that held us all together.”

Still, it finally fell to Patricia to alert her two sisters, Nancy and Elizabeth, both of whom lived in Albany, and neither of whom had telephones. The only thing to do was to call the Albany Police Department and have one of its officers deliver a message to her sisters.

But what kind of message?

Barely able to conceive of the murders herself, and not knowing how to break such news to her sisters, Patricia penned an oblique note, one that gave no details as to what members of the family had been killed and made no reference whatever to the fact that they'd been murdered.

Once the message had been received, the Albany Police Department dispatched two officers to the home of Nancy Alday, the older of the two sisters.

“It was about five in the morning, and we were all sound asleep, of course,” Nancy later remembered. “There was a knock at the door, and two Albany police officers were standing there.”

As she glimpsed the two officers through the screen door, Nancy suddenly felt that sense of dread which had earlier seized Patricia when the phone rang in her bedroom.

“Is your husband here?” one of the officers asked.

“Yes.”

“Can we speak to him?”

Nancy summoned her husband Paul to the door, then eased away, wondering, against all reason, if Paul were in some kind of trouble.

From her place a short distance away, she could hear the policemen speak to Paul for a moment, before returning to their car.

Paul approached her slowly and handed her the note the policemen had given him.

“It's from Patricia,” he said.

Nancy read the note quickly, then looked up at Paul, still puzzled. “It just says that people in the family have been killed,” she said. “Who? How?”

Paul shrugged. “We'd better go tell Elizabeth.”

They dressed quickly and drove the short distance to the small house where Elizabeth lived with her husband, Wayne. While the two sisters sat in the living room, their husbands walked to a nearby store and called the Alday homestead in Donalsonville. Patricia answered the call, and told Paul and Wayne all she knew about the murders. Stunned, the two men walked dazedly back to Elizabeth's house. On the way, they agreed that they could not tell their wives what Patricia had told them. At the time, Elizabeth was seven months pregnant with her first child, and because of that, they were afraid that such a shock might bring on a miscarriage.

“Patricia had told our husbands everything,” Nancy remembered, “but when they got back from the store, they just told us that some people in the family were dead, and after that they wouldn't say anything.”

As a result, for the next hour and a half as Nancy and Elizabeth rode through the early morning light toward Donalsonville, they assumed that some of their first cousins, younger, teenage Aldays, had perhaps been killed in a terrible traffic accident. It was not until they reached Jerry's trailer that a considerably grimmer possibility entered their minds.

“There were police cars all over the place by the time we got to Jerry's,” Nancy recalled, “but we kept going until we got to Mama's house.”

Fay Alday met them in the driveway, standing grimly in the morning light, her face streaked with tears, as she ticked off the names. “Daddy's dead,” she said. “And Shuggie. And Jerry. And Jimmy. And Uncle Aubrey.” Then the final, unbelievable detail: “Somebody killed them.”

At that moment, Nancy and Elizabeth felt as if the world had suddenly turned upside down, all the rules by which they'd lived, the little certainties of life, spilling into the void.

“I didn't know what to do or say,” Nancy later remembered. “And it was like that for a long time. It was like you just couldn't absorb it, couldn't believe that it was really true.”

By approximately 7.30
A.M.,
the focus had turned from identifying the dead and informing their relatives to a desperate search for their murderers, and for Mary Alday, who was still missing.

After talking to Bud Alday, Sheriff White had secured the crime scene from any intrusion. He'd summoned help from the Donalsonville police, from the sheriff's department in neighboring Decatur County, and had informed the Thomasville office of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation that a multiple homicide had occurred in Seminole County. GBI Agents T. R. Bentley and B. A. Turner then made the inevitable call to the GBI's Major Crime Squad in Atlanta, a newly created special division headed by a thirty-two-year-old agent with the unlikely name of Angel.

Of moderate height by law enforcement standards, his body compactly built, Georgia Bureau of Investigation Lieutenant Ronald Eugene Angel hardly looked angelic. He kept his hair in a close-cropped military style, dressed neatly but without ostentation, and let his smile do what it could to relieve the bulldog look of his face.

Born in Evansville, Indiana, on February 2, 1940, he had not lived an idyllic life. His family had come south after the small building his father had once maintained as a woodworking shop had been occupied by United States Government war industries during World War II.

Financially at sea, Angel's father spent the next twelve years wandering from town to town before settling in Chattanooga, Tennessee. As a result, Ronnie Angel had attended seven different schools before finally graduating from Rossville High near Chattanooga.

Added to this rootlessness was another problem, his mother's alcoholism. In later life, as he looked back upon his childhood, Angel could not remember a time when his mother had not needed a bottle. Thus, with his mother drunk most of the time, his father helpless to do anything about it, Angel grew up as “poor white trash,” living in what amounted to shacks, one with an asphalt floor, others without indoor plumbing, all of them growing filthier by the hour as Angel's mother focused her attention on the bottle. “Even some of the moves were just because the house would get so dirty,” he recalled years later. “I mean, it got so bad, my father would just say to hell with it, and we'd just pack up and move.”

Within the turmoil of his early life, Angel found aid and comfort almost exclusively from people in uniform. In the fourth grade it was a traffic officer who would let him sit in his car and listen to the police radio. Later it was the men in the local fire station who always put him up when things at home disintegrated into unendurable chaos. “They always had a bunk for me when things were really bad at home, or when my parents split up, as they often did,” Angel recalled. “I don't remember a time when the firemen ever turned me away.”

At fourteen, Angel went to work as a soda jerk in a local drugstore in Rossville, Georgia. The pay was thirty-five cents an hour. Two years later, he went up a notch, working as a darkroom assistant to a local photographer.

In 1958, a tree-climbing incident forced Angel to give up his job as a medical photographer. Subsequently, he took a job as a radio dispatcher for the Fort Oglethorpe Police Department, and still later hired on as a security officer at a sprawling amusement park not far from Chattanooga.

Quickly bored with such a lonely vigil, Angel applied for a job with the Georgia State Patrol. He was hired the following year, then steadily rose from driver's license examiner to trooper, and finally into the more prestigious ranks of the newly formed Georgia Bureau of Investigation.

The GBI had been created specifically to deal with a form of gang activity that was peculiar to the rural South, and, like its considerably more sophisticated northern counterpart, had its roots in Prohibition. By the mid-sixties, parts of northeastern Georgia were almost entirely controlled by redneck gangs. Brutal, ruthless, and infinitely resourceful, these gangs were usually concentrated within a dense family structure that was all but impenetrable to undercover agents or informants.

Assigned to the Gainesville office of the GBI, it was Angel's assignment to move against the gangs with full force. He did so, going undercover to arrange illegal liquor buys in an effort that resulted in the destruction of fifty-four bootleg operations. In response the gangs decided to assassinate Angel and a local district attorney. In the latter case, they were successful.

At 7:00
A.M.
on August 7, 1967, Angel was put in charge of coordinating the investigation into the district attorney's murder. He did not return to his home again until November 24. The result was four arrests, four convictions, and three death sentences, “just what they deserved,” as Angel thought of it, for the crime they had committed.

That “people” should get what they deserve was a notion Angel had never doubted. Methodical and dedicated, honed sharp by his long experience with southern violence, he moved determinedly against those whose malignancy seemed as obvious to him as any hope for their eventual rehabilitation seemed futile. Taught by his own early deprivations that bad experiences did not necessarily create bad people, he was the sort of man in whom the quality of mercy could fairly quickly become strained. He did not like sob stories, and hardly ever lingered in rooms where they were being told, and even the fact that over the years he had adopted numerous foster children, rescuing them from backgrounds markedly similar to his own, had not softened the bedrock of his ideological conservatism. He believed that children needed love, stability, and the presence of authority figures worthy of their affection and respect. In the service of that belief he was willing to make grave personal and financial sacrifices. Nonetheless, he did not believe that the absence of these positive forces were in themselves responsible for creating depraved and murderous human beings, or that such absence could be used to justify their acts.