Too Young to Kill (45 page)

With his oldest daughter, Rachael’s sister, off to college, but home for the summer, the disunity in the family unit started to get to George and he left work early, around four thirty. When he walked in the door at his home in Friendswood, George asked his oldest daughter, Belinda (pseudonym), if she wanted to head out for a ride on the bike to grab a bite to eat. George wanted to talk to Belinda about Rachael, who had been out of the house for a little over a month, ever since graduating high school. George thought Belinda could offer some insight. He didn’t like the path Rachael was on. He figured talking to Belinda, whom Rachael looked up to and had been as close as sisters could be with most of their lives, would help.

The ride, the food, and the talk turned out to be overly emotional. George dropped Belinda back at home and took off alone on his Harley—“I was not feeling good . . . this whole Rachael thing”—and decided to go out and find Rachael and talk to her. He ended up not being able to locate Tiffany Rowell’s house and, instead, found a bar, ordered a few beers, sat and listened to the band.

Consequently, George couldn’t hear his cell phone going off as details of what had happened at Tiffany Rowell’s house hit the airwaves and people started calling him.

“I’m glad I didn’t hear it,” George said, looking back, “because the messages on my cell phone were horrifying.”

George finished his cooling-off period at the bar and headed home. As he pulled into his driveway, he noticed that his wife’s car was gone.

Odd.

His oldest daughter then came running out of the house, a look of fear on her face.

Even stranger.

“What’s wrong? . . .” George asked, dismounting his bike, taking off his helmet.

“Dad . . . Dad!” Belinda screamed. Her face was white, George realized. “There’s four teenagers dead at Tiffany Rowell’s house! They know that two of them are Tiffany and this guy Marcus.”

George’s stomach tightened. His heart raced.

Rachael!

George went into the house, grabbed his youngest child—a daughter, eight—and told Belinda to get into the car. They were heading over to Tiffany’s house.

After George had dropped Belinda at home earlier in that evening, before heading out to the bar, he had tried to find Tiffany Rowell’s house so he could go speak with Rachael. He drove into the Brook Forest neighborhood, but couldn’t find Millbridge Drive. He’d only been there one other time and it was at night. Giving up on his search, George had headed to the bar.

But now they were driving toward Tiffany’s under Belinda’s direction, Belinda explaining what she had heard on the news about four teens found dead.

George was in a panic. He pulled up. Saw all the vehicles. The police tape. The cops. A group of people milling about. He told Belinda to sit tight behind the yellow police tape inside the car. Wait with her sister for her mother.

Meanwhile, George crossed the police line and started for the door heading into Tiffany’s house.

A large cop stopped him before he could walk in.

“My name is George Koloroutis. You can’t stop me, man, please,” George pleaded. “I think my little girl might be in there.”

Tears.

George was a big dude, with some serious bulk, and perhaps out of his mind by this point. All he could think of was Rachael in there needing his help.

George had always been the protector in the family—the man who took care of everything. Suddenly he felt helpless and weak as gum.

“Mr. Koloroutis, please,” the cop said as calm as he could manage. “Please don’t make me have to stop you from going into that house. I don’t want to have to do that.” There was something in the cop’s voice that told George he wasn’t kidding; he would do what he had to do to stop him. “If I have to do this, Mr. Koloroutis, other guys are going to run over here. We’re going to have to hold you down. Cuff you. And it’s going to be a miserable experience. Please, just
don’t
go in there.”

George looked at him. “I understand. I just need to know if that’s my daughter.”

By now, there were close to fifty people gathered. George fell back into the crowd. His wife, Ann, showed up. They decided to have someone take his youngest daughter and bring her to a neighbor’s.

Then they stood and waited.

Rachael Koloroutis, just eighteen years old, was indeed lying dead on the floor inside that house, her body riddled with bullets, a good portion of her skull bashed in. What George or anybody else standing there—including all the detectives and patrol cops and crime scene techs—didn’t know then was that the answers to this mystery would take years of old-fashioned gumshoe police work, a lot of it by George Koloroutis himself. It was going to be thirty-six months—almost to the day—before a suspect worth considering was brought in. It was going to turn into a case that would take investigators through nearly a dozen states, halfway across the country, and involve one of the most intense and puzzling murder investigations the HPD had ever probed. And when all was said and done, wouldn’t you know, the murderer had been right under everyone’s nose the entire time, within reach—the least likely suspect imaginable.

Adrianne Reynolds was a happy child, well-liked by classmates.

(Photo courtesy of Tony Reynolds)

Eight-year-old Adrianne is all smiles in this 1996 photo. (Photo courtesy of Tony Reynolds)

As Adrianne approached her teen years, her life at home crumbled—the only father she knew, Tony Reynolds, ended up in prison. (Photo courtesy of Tony Reynolds)

Adrianne became her own person as she approached her sixteenth birthday in 2004. In these two photos, her personality shines. (Photos courtesy of Tony Reynolds)

A few weeks before Christmas 2004, Adrianne got into a spat with a girl at her school. Soon after, their relationship turned deadly. (Photo courtesy of Tony Reynolds)

For Christmas 2004, Adrianne was given this guitar, which would have surely accompanied her during an “American Idol” audition she had planned. (Photo courtesy of Tony Reynolds)

From left to right are: Josh Schatteman, Joanne Reynolds, Tony Reynolds, Justin Schatteman, and Adrianne. Adrianne’s stepbrother, Justin, drove her to school on January 21, 2005—the last time she was ever seen. (Photo courtesy of Joanne and Tony Reynolds)