Beyond Reason (5 page)
Authors: Ken Englade
A FEW DAYS AFTER THE BODIES WERE DISCOVERED, SERGEANT Brown took some of the evidence to Richmond to be analyzed by the state crime lab. While he was there, on a hunch he asked two Richmond detectives who he knew specialized in cult activities to take a look at the crime scene photos.
“What are we supposed to be looking for?” one of them asked.
“Just take a look and tell me what you think,” Brown replied, handing them a thick stack of color prints.
Brown settled into a chair and watched silently as the two men spread the photos out on a desk and started picking through them. Their indifference changed to interest, which quickly changed to excitement.
“Hey, look at this,” one said eagerly, pointing to a picture of a blood-stained section of floor.
“Damn.”
“And this!”
“And look here!”
“Here, too. Look at these chairs.”
One of them motioned to Brown. “Which way is north in this picture?” It was a photo of Derek’s body taken from the doorway going into the house.
Brown told him and the man shuffled the print so the body was oriented on a north-south axis.
“And which way in this picture?” It was a picture of Nancy’s body.
Again Brown showed him.
“Ummmm,” he grunted, like a gypsy reading tea leaves.
“What do you think?” Brown finally asked. “Is there anything there that indicates cult activity?”
“Oh hell, yeah,” one of them said. “Come here, let me show you.”
“No,” Brown said, “you don’t have to show me. I’m not an investigator. But I would like for you to come over to Lynchburg, though, and talk to the members of the homicide squad.”
“When do you want us there?”
“How about tomorrow night?”
“You got it.”
WHAT THE TWO RICHMOND DETECTIVES TOLD MEMBERS of the squad got their attention. Cults, particularly satanic cults, they said, were much more prevalent than most people believed; in fact, they were much more common than most law enforcement officers believed. Hotbeds of such activity in Virginia were Richmond and Charlottesville, but this did not mean it was absent from the rest of the state.
“What do you have that shows satanism in this case?” one of the investigators asked.
“Okay,” said the visiting officer, “let’s go down the list.” Raising his right hand with his fingers pointing upward, he lowered them one at a time as he ticked off his points. “First,” he said, “there is the placement of the bodies themselves. You’ll notice that both are pointed in the same direction: north.”
“What does north have to do with it?”
“I’ll explain that later. Let me make my points first.”
“What makes you think that wasn’t coincidence?” asked another.
“Maybe,” the visiting detective said, sounding doubtful. “Let me go on.”
“Second,” he said, dropping another finger, “look at the blood pattern. These bodies were outlined in blood. They didn’t just happen to bleed that way.”
“How do you know that?”
“I don’t
know
it, but see how it looks like the bodies have been purposely traced in blood.”
know
it, but see how it looks like the bodies have been purposely traced in blood.”
Everybody looked. It could indeed be interpreted that
someone made a conscious effort to “paint” the blood into a specific pattern. Heretofore they had been operating under the belief that the “mopping” marks throughout the house had been made by the killer in an attempt to destroy his footprints, not to perpetuate some obscure cult ritual.
someone made a conscious effort to “paint” the blood into a specific pattern. Heretofore they had been operating under the belief that the “mopping” marks throughout the house had been made by the killer in an attempt to destroy his footprints, not to perpetuate some obscure cult ritual.
For an hour or more the Richmond detectives explained what they took to be indications of ritualistic murder. Some of them seemed pretty farfetched. There was, for example, a mousetrap found near Nancy’s body. It had been sprung, but it was empty. A small piece of cheese was nearby. The odd thing, though, was that there was no blood on the bottom of the trap even though it was resting on a surface covered in blood. To investigators, that could mean only that it was put there after the blood had dried. Furthermore, the trap was pointed to the north, as was the silverware on the dining room table. Every candle in the house had been burned. Granted, they did not know
when
they had been lit, but that was just another piece to the puzzle. There was a puddle of a black waxy substance on the floor at one corner of the table, between where Nancy and Derek sat to eat dinner. The substance never was identified, nor was its presence explained. The dining room chairs seemed to have been placed in a semicircle. There was the strange V-shaped cut on Derek’s chin. Further, looking closely at the bloodsmeared floor, one could see what appeared to be a 6 inside a vee. Three sixes is the recognized symbol for the Antichrist. The brand name on the mousetrap was Victory, which was represented on the product with a large
V
, the letter presumably also representing the word
voodoo
.
when
they had been lit, but that was just another piece to the puzzle. There was a puddle of a black waxy substance on the floor at one corner of the table, between where Nancy and Derek sat to eat dinner. The substance never was identified, nor was its presence explained. The dining room chairs seemed to have been placed in a semicircle. There was the strange V-shaped cut on Derek’s chin. Further, looking closely at the bloodsmeared floor, one could see what appeared to be a 6 inside a vee. Three sixes is the recognized symbol for the Antichrist. The brand name on the mousetrap was Victory, which was represented on the product with a large
V
, the letter presumably also representing the word
voodoo
.
“These things have significance in satanic rituals,” one of the detectives said ominously.
“Does that mean you think this was a cult killing?” one of the homicide squad members asked.
“No,” said the heftier of the two experts, “that’s not what we’re saying. What we’re saying is we don’t know for sure. Some of the signs are there, some aren’t. And some of those that are are wrong. A lot of it could be coincidence. But I’ll tell you this: If it was a cult-type slaying, it was done by
amateurs, by a person or persons who didn’t know what they were really doing.”
amateurs, by a person or persons who didn’t know what they were really doing.”
“Like someone who just started dabbling in it.”
“That’s it.”
“Could it be that whoever left these signs was just trying to throw us off the track?”
“Sure,” the Richmond detective agreed. “There’s a good possibility of that, too.”
WHAT THEY HAD SAID WAS UPSETTING. IT MUDDIED THE investigatory waters. If nothing else, it emphasized just how complicated the entire case was getting to be. The sheer brutality of the murders was bad. The fact that investigators had failed to immediately identify a suspect was worse. Worst of all was the knowledge that they did not even have a clue as to motive. And then the Richmond detectives blew more smoke at them.
The message from Richmond affected members of the homicide squad in varying degrees. None of them wanted to believe
in toto
that Derek and Nancy were killed by one or more devil worshippers. Some thought the Richmond guys had made some interesting points; some thought they had been watching too many horror movies. But a few took what they had heard very seriously indeed.
in toto
that Derek and Nancy were killed by one or more devil worshippers. Some thought the Richmond guys had made some interesting points; some thought they had been watching too many horror movies. But a few took what they had heard very seriously indeed.
Those investigators went to their libraries and checked out every book they could find on satanism. They spent their spare time, which wasn’t much considering they were working twelve to fourteen hours a day, poring over the texts in an attempt to fit the scholarly studies into the context of a local murder.
From very early in the investigation the dozen investigators involved got in the habit of meeting at the command post at eight o’clock every morning. Some would bring coffee, others would bring donuts, and for an hour or more they would sit around over sugary pastries and sticky cardboard coffee containers comparing notes and arguing theories.
The satanism hypothesis rose to prominence for lack of
any better one. When all the other leads they followed turned out to be dead ends, police began looking at anything that would produce results no matter how farfetched it seemed. Even Sheriff Wells, who from the first believed the murders were committed by a single person, specifically whoever had been a guest in the Haysom house that night, began wondering if there might not be a cult connection. In guarded comments to the media, he spoke of “unusual aspects” of the murders.
any better one. When all the other leads they followed turned out to be dead ends, police began looking at anything that would produce results no matter how farfetched it seemed. Even Sheriff Wells, who from the first believed the murders were committed by a single person, specifically whoever had been a guest in the Haysom house that night, began wondering if there might not be a cult connection. In guarded comments to the media, he spoke of “unusual aspects” of the murders.
One investigator became so sure that satanists were at work that he turned downright paranoid. He complained to others that he was getting mysterious telephone calls, that his house was being watched, and, more disturbing, that he was certain he was being followed by a blond youth driving a red car with “666” on the license plate. He was so convinced of this last that every time he saw a red car, he almost ran his own vehicle off the road trying to see who the driver was.
Sergeant Baker, who professed not to be a superstitious man, admitted months later that he had been spooked by the murders. A husky, steady-handed member of the department’s SWAT team, Baker is not easily frightened. But the way the Haysoms had been butchered and the talk of possible cult involvement made an impression on him that wouldn’t easily go away. “It all came down on me months later,” he confessed, “long after the homicide squad had been disbanded. I was working the night shift and it would usually be two-thirty or three o’clock in the morning before I’d get home. I’d be fine until I got to my back door, and then it would start happening. I’d look in the house, and it would be all dark, and I’d start getting this funny feeling. I was terrified to open the door to my own kitchen. I’d hold my breath, put one hand on my pistol, and turn the lights on with the other. I just
knew
there was going to be a bloody body on my kitchen floor.
knew
there was going to be a bloody body on my kitchen floor.
“It’s much better now,” he smiled, “but it took a long, long time for that feeling to go away.”
The possibility that the murders were cult-inspired was
later totally rejected, but for several weeks it drove the search. Numerous hours were spent tracking down leads the detectives would have laughed at under normal circumstances. As a final irony, months after investigators had returned all the books on the occult they had checked out of their local libraries, the subject
did
reenter the case. And from a very unexpected quarter. When it did, it made investigators shiver. They wondered, at least momentarily, if they had not been very far off track to begin with.
later totally rejected, but for several weeks it drove the search. Numerous hours were spent tracking down leads the detectives would have laughed at under normal circumstances. As a final irony, months after investigators had returned all the books on the occult they had checked out of their local libraries, the subject
did
reenter the case. And from a very unexpected quarter. When it did, it made investigators shiver. They wondered, at least momentarily, if they had not been very far off track to begin with.
RICKY GARDNER WAS ONE OF THOSE MEN SOME PEOPLE like to call “baby-faced.” Husky and of medium height, with wavy, dark brown hair that he parted high on the right side, Gardner easily looked five years younger than his actual age. In March 1985, he was thirty years old, but with his rosy, smooth cheeks and a pleasant, easy grin, he could have passed for a shy graduate student. Looking upon his round, unlined face, no one would have guessed that he was a veteran witness to death, destruction, and human misery.
At seventeen, straight out of high school, he had joined the Bedford County Rescue Unit where his job was to answer distress calls at bloody auto wrecks and pull bloated bodies out of rivers and lakes. At twenty-five, he left the rescue unit for the sheriff’s department where his duties were much the same but the pay was better. He proved an able, intelligent, eager-to-learn officer. Five years later, in October 1984, some six months before the Haysoms were murdered, he was named an investigator. Investigators were the cream of the crop in the sheriff’s department, and Gardner’s appointment to that post proved he was on the fast track.
In his years of seeing Bedford County life from the violent side he had examined a lot of bodies. A year of so earlier, as a uniformed deputy, he had answered a report of an explosion, and when he arrived at the scene he found what was left of a farmer who had scattered himself over a large part of Bedford County while trying to remove a stump with too much dynamite. But in his thirteen years’ experience Gardner had never seen anything like what had been done to Derek and Nancy Haysom. He was to become involved not just as a witness but as an investigator. For him, this would
be a first. He had never before been part of a homicide investigation.
be a first. He had never before been part of a homicide investigation.
ABOUT THE TIME ANNIE MASSIE OPENED THE DOOR AND saw Derek’s body spread on the floor, Gardner had been in neighboring Botetourt County talking to deputies there about a group of men suspected of breaking into Bedford County homes. He finished up and was driving back to Bedford, intending to call it a day, when chatter on the car radio caught his attention. The Bedford dispatcher was directing a uniformed deputy to an address in Boonsboro, across the county, to investigate a possible murder.
“I’ve found one of ’em,” Gardner had heard the deputy report from Boonsboro.
One of ’em, Gardner had said to himself. Good God, how many are there? He had turned up the volume, but there were no subsequent reports. When the silence continued, Gardner had known the deputy was communicating by telephone instead of committing details to the airwaves. He had already turned the car in the direction of the sheriff’s department instead of toward his home as he had planned when the dispatcher came back on the air and ordered all available investigators to converge on Boonsboro. The message was cryptic but Gardner had noted the urgency in the deputy’s voice. He had spun the wheel again and jammed the accelerator to the floor.
He and Chuck Reid, another investigator, had arrived at the Holcomb Rock Road house simultaneously.
“What’s it all about?” Gardner had asked, slamming the cruiser door.
“Beats me,” Reid had replied, “but it sounds pretty wild.” A former weapons instructor in the Marine Corps, Reid was short and wiry, like a gymnast, with a well-muscled torso and a firm jaw. Only three years older than Gardner, he had gray flecks in his brown hair and pilot’s lines around his eyes from years of squinting into the sunlight at targets at the other end of a firing range. Also a former
uniformed deputy, Reid had been an investigator only six months longer than Gardner.
uniformed deputy, Reid had been an investigator only six months longer than Gardner.
Together they had sprinted up the driveway.
The two had barely got their heads inside the house before they were ordered out by the lab techs. The quick glimpse, however, had been enough to give them goosebumps. Reid had taken one look at the blood-splattered living room and Derek’s mangled corpse and had thought he was having a bad dream. Three nights before he had watched
Helter-Skelter
on television, and he had not yet been able to erase those images from his mind.
Helter-Skelter
on television, and he had not yet been able to erase those images from his mind.
The sight of blood had not disturbed Gardner. The case in which a farmer had blown himself up with dynamite had inured him to the sight of large amounts of gore. But this was different. It wasn’t the sight of blood that bothered him; it was the idea that one human could do that to another that made him queasy.
Captain Ronnie Laughlin, the department’s second in command, had quickly collared the two investigators. “Go around to the neighbors and see what you can learn,” Laughlin had ordered. “You go that way,” he had told Reid, pointing up the road, “and you,” he said, looking at Gardner, “go that way.”
SINCE THEN, THE HOURS AND DAYS HAD PASSED IN A blur. They had interviewed virtually around the clock, but with very few results to show for it. By Monday, April 8, five days after the bodies had been discovered, they didn’t know much more than they had the previous Wednesday.
The day before, Easter Sunday, there had been a memorial service for Derek and Nancy at St. Paul’s Episcopal,
the
grand old church in Lynchburg whose members included the city’s elite. David and Nancy had never attended the church, but the pastor, Reverend Alexander Robertson, readily agreed to let the family hold a memorial. There was no funeral because Derek’s and Nancy’s bodies had been cremated as soon as they were released by the medical examiner’s office.
the
grand old church in Lynchburg whose members included the city’s elite. David and Nancy had never attended the church, but the pastor, Reverend Alexander Robertson, readily agreed to let the family hold a memorial. There was no funeral because Derek’s and Nancy’s bodies had been cremated as soon as they were released by the medical examiner’s office.
Reverend Robertson said a few words to the mourners and then surrendered the lectern to Richard Haysom, Nancy’s thirty-one-year-old architect son from Calgary, Canada. In a voice cracking with emotion, Richard made a plea for peace. He had been only six years old when his mother and Derek were married, so he grew up thinking of Derek as his father; Nancy and Derek were his parents, not his mother and stepfather.
“I urge our family and friends to block out the memory of their death and remember their life,” Richard urged, looking out at a sea of faces, some of which openly registered anger and frustration. “I beg you all to open your hearts. They would have wished for us to overcome this tragedy and find the strength to go on living, the strength to go on loving, the strength to go on forgiving.” It was a moving eulogy, and when he finished, there was hardly a dry eye in the place.
Among the more than a hundred people in the audience were Richard’s brother Howard, a thirty-two-year-old surgeon from Houston, and his stepbrothers, Veryan, a thirty-six-year-old criminal defense lawyer from Mahone Bay, Nova Scotia, and Julian, the thirty-three-year-old engineer who had been engaged to Margaret Louise Simmons. Standing off to the side, as though she didn’t want to be noticed, was Derek and Nancy’s daughter, Elizabeth, a first-year student at the University of Virginia who would be twenty-one in exactly one week. Bracing her like a set of bookends were her UVA roommate, a Korean named
Charlene Song
, and Elizabeth’s boyfriend, a dark-haired, eighteen-year-old German named Jens Soering.
Charlene Song
, and Elizabeth’s boyfriend, a dark-haired, eighteen-year-old German named Jens Soering.
BY THAT MONDAY, THE HOMICIDE SQUAD HAD MOVED its command post from the Ruritan Club to the temporarily empty Boonsboro Elementary School. Although their business was deadly serious, the investigators found in the new location grist for a form of black humor. To see a large group of big, beefy men (no one could ever doubt they were cops) operating in an environment designed for six- to ten-year-olds
was to laugh in spite of the circumstances. They shuffled from foot to foot trying to pretend they didn’t feel like Gullivers in Lilliput. Around them were teeny tables with teeny chairs. Teeny desks were lined up against the wall. Coathooks hung for teeny people projected outward below waist level—a good way to ruin everything if you didn’t watch where you were walking. In the hall, six-footers practically had to kneel to use the water fountains. But the scene in the restrooms was even more ludicrous: husky former tackles and linebackers trying to use urinals that were only two feet off the floor—urinals some of them couldn’t even see over their beer bellies.
was to laugh in spite of the circumstances. They shuffled from foot to foot trying to pretend they didn’t feel like Gullivers in Lilliput. Around them were teeny tables with teeny chairs. Teeny desks were lined up against the wall. Coathooks hung for teeny people projected outward below waist level—a good way to ruin everything if you didn’t watch where you were walking. In the hall, six-footers practically had to kneel to use the water fountains. But the scene in the restrooms was even more ludicrous: husky former tackles and linebackers trying to use urinals that were only two feet off the floor—urinals some of them couldn’t even see over their beer bellies.
But if the deputies were amused by the situation, the amusement quickly disappeared. When they remembered they were there to try to catch a vicious killer, the mood turned somber.
SHORTLY BEFORE ONE O’CLOCK ON APRIL 8, THE Haysoms’ tan van, the Bronze Belle, pulled up the school driveway with Elizabeth Haysom in the passenger seat. Her boyfriend, Jens, was driving.
Elizabeth climbed out of the vehicle, said a few words to Jens, and walked into the building. Jens waited until she was inside before he drove off.
Chuck Reid watched from the hallway as Elizabeth sauntered into the building. As he watched, the first word that popped into his mind was
hippie
. She was wearing baggy, dark slacks, a wrinkled white blouse, and scuffed, black-felt Chinese slippers. Her hair, which was stringy and needed shampooing, was of medium length, brushed back over her ears. She wore no makeup. If Reid had to guess, he would say that the clothes she was wearing happened to be the first things she saw when she woke up that morning. If there had been a large black plastic trash bag with armholes draped over a chair in her bedroom, she might have worn that.
hippie
. She was wearing baggy, dark slacks, a wrinkled white blouse, and scuffed, black-felt Chinese slippers. Her hair, which was stringy and needed shampooing, was of medium length, brushed back over her ears. She wore no makeup. If Reid had to guess, he would say that the clothes she was wearing happened to be the first things she saw when she woke up that morning. If there had been a large black plastic trash bag with armholes draped over a chair in her bedroom, she might have worn that.
Appearances aside, though, when she opened her mouth everyone’s jaws dropped. “I’m here to see Investigator Gardner,” she said in a British accent as pure, elegant, and
disarming as that of a news reader on the BBC. The cops in Lynchburg had heard a voice like that only in the movies. To think that such tones were rolling out of this disreputably dressed young woman was to believe that the spring thunderheads building over the Peaks of Otter would soon be dumping diamonds upon their heads.
disarming as that of a news reader on the BBC. The cops in Lynchburg had heard a voice like that only in the movies. To think that such tones were rolling out of this disreputably dressed young woman was to believe that the spring thunderheads building over the Peaks of Otter would soon be dumping diamonds upon their heads.
“He asked me to come ’round for an interview,” she said softly, bringing all activity in the room to a sudden halt.
Reid, for one, was impressed by her accent if nothing else. “I could have sat there all day and just listened to her talk,” he said.
He didn’t know it at the time, but that is exactly what he would do in the days to follow. But that day, the privilege went to Ricky Gardner and a veteran investigator from the Lynchburg Police Department named Debbie Kirkland. To keep the word
regional
in the actions of the homicide squad, whenever possible an investigator from Bedford County, which was the department with jurisdiction, was paired with an investigator from one of the other departments.
regional
in the actions of the homicide squad, whenever possible an investigator from Bedford County, which was the department with jurisdiction, was paired with an investigator from one of the other departments.
“Let’s go down here,” Gardner said, gallantly rising from the chair in which he had been slumped and waving down the corridor. “Let’s find an empty room where we can talk.”
As it turned out, the “talk” lasted for four hours.
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