Reading the file...

The file is my father’s murder file. As of today, barring some miracle breakthrough on the case, I am giving it up. I started the year hearing too much rhetoric about John Wayne’s 100th birthday. I got onto the Cherokee County Sheriff’s Department and the GBI [Georgia Bureau of Investigation.] For the last time, I played my “victim card”.

Come December 12th, my father would have been 100 years old. I don’t know that he would have made it; his health was bad, in spite of beating cancer four times. What he was entitled to was what the Bible calls “The fullness of [his] days”. He was denied this. At the age of 79, he was gunned down like one of Michael Vick’s dogs in the driveway of our family home.

The detective—who is incredibly young, by my standards—thought he had removed all of the crime-scene photographs, so nothing would jump out at me. He was wrong; he missed one. I am not a delicate creature; I have seen dead people before.

I now have names; people in West Virginia. One of them, maybe the shooter, is dead. Hit by a truck, perhaps there is a God who acts as overseer on our human plantation. The other is walking around free as a jaybird.

One other thing I learned from the file is that my father took the first shot in the arm. I deluded myself for years that he was shot in the head. No, he knew what was coming. He was a War II veteran. In spite of his willingness to give a wallet up—it’s only money, take it—he was shot down like a dog. He was not alone; there were three other victims. Forensics were not the cat’s ass in those days; one thing I learned from reading Dad’s file was that he took the first one in the shoulder and fell wounded. It was the the bruising and bleeding that showed the first one; the two head shots stopped everything, and he didn't suffer any longer. I had assured myself for years that it was all head shots: boom, boom, out go the lights. As with most things in my life, I am wrong.

The Van Susteren vampire has no interest in this case, as it’s not a fresh kill and doesn’t involve a vacation to Aruba. Thanks to my neighbors, but writing to her was a blow-out.

“Gee, that’s intriguing. What can I do for you?”

I only want one thing from one person. Step up and ‘fess. The file is full of pictures of people I think I knew from my rock’n roll days. The strongest suspect is dead, and his older brother is walking around bragging up north.

As of the end of August—the end of summer—I am giving up the pursuit of my father’s killer. No more letters to congressmen or Senators. No more letters to the editor. I give up; you win, you successfully murdered my father.

I know your name, but you have gotten away with murder.

Reading the file has given me deep insight. I have names. If you didn’t do it or put your younger brother up to it, I might still come for you. There is another name, and the focus may not lie where it appears. All things appear before the throne of God, and you are no exception.

You thought you got away clean. You are wrong. I will clean this up, so help me.

I name names because they need it. I am ready to name names on the Internet. The cops have made a mighty effort; I won’t denounce them as incompetent or not trying; they just don’t have a lot to work with.

I am counting…hoping…on one more miracle from the cop shop. Then, I have some names that I will put up on The Net. Taking people public is about the last thing I want to do. I can cop a good slander case if I’m wrong. The strongest suspect is dead. His brother is walking around loose, maybe trying to live with what he put his younger brother up to. I am looking at things from a different point of view; the cops may be completely off base, and I have learned something that raises a really big question about people who were present at the murder scene.

This isn’t over.