It took Birdie Jean quite some time to rise. “Right this way.”
They passed a bedroom containing a bed covered in a jewel-toned quilt. “Just here.” Birdie Jean motioned for Genevieve toenter a small rectangular room with a single window and armchair situated at its end. Shelves ran the length of the two long walls and housed volume after volume of twelve-inch-tall scrapbooks. “I believe Russell was killed in 1983. Is that correct?”
Birdie Jean had a card catalog for a brain. “Yes, that’s correct.”
The older woman located the scrapbook from that year. Genevieve helped her slide it from its place, and they set it on the narrow standing table occupying the center of the room.
The book’s spine gave a protesting creak as Birdie Jean opened it and carefully turned the pages. It was somewhat insulting to call this tome a diary. It included handwritten entries, yes. But much more than that, too. She’d adhered newspaper pages to it. A candy wrapper. A movie ticket. Photos.
When she found the page she sought, Birdie Jean positioned the scrapbook before Genevieve, then unfolded the front page of that day’s newspaper so that it expanded beyond the confines of the book. She held her silence, seeming to want Genevieve to learn the details through the sources she’d saved instead of through her own memories.
Man Found Dead in His Home, the headline read. Below, a photo depicted crime scene tape in the foreground and a modest ranch-style home in the background.
Genevieve leaned over the small print and read silently.
Russell Atwell, 23, died at his home on Farm Road 481 on Saturday evening. “Mr. Atwell was struck in the head amid signs of a struggle,” Police Chief Stanton said at a press conference in the early hours of Sunday morning. “The exact time of his death is unknown at this point.”
The similarities to the three murders perpetrated by the Shoal Creek Killer are unmistakable. Like the others, Mr. Atwell died of blunt force trauma. Like the others, he wasa white male who was at home alone when the intruder entered his home. Like the others, he was subdued via hand-to-hand combat.
At the press conference, Chief Stanton was quick to address the concern of local citizens. “It’s too soon to say whether Mr. Atwell was a victim of the Shoal Creek Killer. You can be certain that we will gather every piece of evidence and investigate this crime to the fullest extent of the law in hopes of bringing the offender to justice.”
The deceased’s wife, Mrs. Caroline Atwell, was attending Bible study with her sister-in-law Sandra Atwell when the attack occurred. Upon returning home, the women discovered Mr. Atwell’s body and notified authorities.
Mom, Genevieve thought, her heart heavy. What an unbearably traumatic thing to have found upon returning home.
“This is a tragic event,” Chief Stanton stated. “We can’t allow mass fear to run rampant and overshadow the fact that our community has lost one of its longstanding members. Our deepest condolences go to Mr. Atwell’s family and friends.”
Russell Atwell is survived by his wife, his parents, Alice and Gordon Atwell, and his younger sisters, Sandra and Dawn.
Genevieve stepped back from the table and considered Birdie Jean, who returned her regard evenly.
“I’m guessing that theCamden Chroniclecontinued to follow this story closely,” Genevieve said.
“Oh yes. The residents of this town were shaken from the time of the first murder, which happened in Winterville.” She released a mournful clicking sound of regret. “Winterville is close. Just a handful of miles up the road. Then the murders continued. It was all people could talk about and think about in those days. People were sleeping with handguns and arming their teenage children if they had to leave those children home alone to go to work. Everyone suspected everyone else. A very scary time.”
“It must have been a relief when Terry Paul Richards was arrested and put behind bars.”
“It truly was.”
“I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but I’d love to read all the articles you have about Russell’s murder.”
“Make yourself comfortable there in the chair and take as much time as you need.” She paused in the doorway to look back. “You can find me in the front of the house when you’re ready to leave.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
Genevieve toted the scrapbook to the armchair and adjusted the pages to catch the sunlight. The brightness almost seemed to enliven the words and images and mementos preserved there, making them buzz with life once again.
She refolded the front page along its crease marks, turned the diary’s page, and unfolded the newspaper on the next page. Again and again. The articles, as well as Birdie Jean’s handwritten entries and all the other artifacts saved, gave her a feel for the town at that particular point in history.
She took copious pictures of each article so that she and Natasha could go over them later in greater detail. Articles that brought to life the crime scene, the autopsy, the investigation. She read all the way until the Shoal Creek Killer was found, then glanced through the two weeks of entries following for good measure before slotting the scrapbook back into its place.
Birdie Jean sat on her fancy sofa, legs primly crossed, spine straight, reading. Graciously, she gestured for Genevieve to assume the spot at the sofa’s other end.
Genevieve perched on the cushion, purse strap over her shoulder, very aware of how long she’d already been in Birdie Jean’s home. She didn’t want to overstay her welcome.
“What is it that you’d like to ask me, Genevieve? I can see a question in your face.”
“Since you were living here in Camden during those years, I’m wondering if you have anything to add that wasn’t reported in the articles. About Russell’s death or the Shoal Creek Killer?”
