Someone else's murder Part II
The end of something horrible took place on New Year’s Day. We start each new year with high hopes, and plans for a better future.
A few years ago, a girl named Meredith Emerson went hiking in Vogel State Park, a few dozen miles from here next to a place unfortunately called Blood Mountain. She was picked off by a predator who had wandered up here in search of easy prey, which he found. He led arresting officers to Ms. Emerson’s body, and will spend the rest of his life in prison…we hope.
On 11 August 2009, a woman named Kristi Cornwell left her parent’s home and went jogging on Jones Creek Road, also not that far by country miles from where Ms. Possum and I live.
She was talking to her boyfriend in Atlanta—150 miles from here—when she was heard to say “Please don’t take me.” Her cell phone was found later, even closer to where we live.
The story of Kristi Cornwell’s disappearance made national headlines. Exhaustive searches were conducted. Locally, the efforts to find Ms. Cornwell were heroic and untiring. Community awareness was kept at a heightened stage.
Last November, Ms. Cornwell’s abduction was the subject of an hour-long episode of Discovery ID’s series “Disappeared.” My refrigerator still has a pinned-up sketch of the suspect and a “vehicle of interest” that was being sought by the GBI.
Kristi’s brother never gave up. The day she disappeared, he was up here from Atlanta in two hours, and he never left. I surmise I saw him more than once, flying up and down the Dooley Creek flats in a helicopter that continually prowled the area. Volunteers combed the extensive woodlands and national forests of this vicinity. Cadaver dogs, profilers…nothing was spared, as it should be.
Nothing was ever found.
On New Year’s Day, acting on a tip from the GBI that a prime suspect’s cell phone had “pinged” a tower off Moccasin Road—about six miles from here—Ms. Cornwell’s brother entered the woods. Less than 100 yards from the road, he found her charred, skeletal remains. The killer burned and partially buried her body. An autopsy is pending to determine the exact cause of death, but forensic examination has positively identified her.
As someone with a passing acquaintance of the cynical nature of law enforcement, I did not maintain the family’s hope that this ordeal would turn out otherwise. It was not a question of “if,” it was a question of “when.”
That question has been answered. It is hard to write about this without crying. I know exactly how Kristi Cornwell’s family feels. My father was murdered by a serial killer in 1985. No arrest was ever made, although the authorities knew the identity of the killer. Knowing something and proving it in a court of law is apples and oranges.
My father’s killer fell under a truck in the 1990s, proving that there is a God. The prime suspect in Ms. Cornwell’s murder killed himself in 2010. Cornered by law enforcement seeking to apprehend him for a kidnap/rape in an adjoining county, and suspected of an attempted snatch not far from here in North Carolina, the creature put a gun to his head and possibly did the world a favor.
(Although I know his name, I maintain a policy of not mentioning the names of killers, nor will I deign to call such an animal a man.)
The case will remain open, as is my father’s. There is no statute of limitations on murder, and until there is a conviction, there is no so-called “closure.”
In fact, there is never “closure” in a murder. People who speak of such an academic, abstract concept are just that: academicians or talk-show hosts who are educated way beyond their intelligence. There is no nostrum for the next-of-kin; there is no balm we can rub in our chests and wake up in the morning not thinking about and missing those taken from us. My father would have been 103 this past month. It’s doubtful he would have made it that far under normal circumstances, but his killer robbed him of God’s allotment of days. His killer took from me the chance to hug him and say “good-bye” under the peaceful conditions of our appointed times.
Ms. Cornwell was decades younger than my father. She has a son who is old enough to understand the horror of what has happened. Her parents must suffer the agony of burying a child, which is never supposed to happen in the natural course of events. My prayers are with them, that they may find the peace and strength to carry on.
The community at large will never know if that mook who took his own life was the one who murdered Ms. Cornwell, or if there is another predator living among us.
(Just days after I wrote this, some lunatic shot an Arizona congresswoman. I looked up “deranged” in my dictionary, and his grinning mug shot was in there. More on that in a bit.)
A few years ago, a girl named Meredith Emerson went hiking in Vogel State Park, a few dozen miles from here next to a place unfortunately called Blood Mountain. She was picked off by a predator who had wandered up here in search of easy prey, which he found. He led arresting officers to Ms. Emerson’s body, and will spend the rest of his life in prison…we hope.
On 11 August 2009, a woman named Kristi Cornwell left her parent’s home and went jogging on Jones Creek Road, also not that far by country miles from where Ms. Possum and I live.
She was talking to her boyfriend in Atlanta—150 miles from here—when she was heard to say “Please don’t take me.” Her cell phone was found later, even closer to where we live.
The story of Kristi Cornwell’s disappearance made national headlines. Exhaustive searches were conducted. Locally, the efforts to find Ms. Cornwell were heroic and untiring. Community awareness was kept at a heightened stage.
Last November, Ms. Cornwell’s abduction was the subject of an hour-long episode of Discovery ID’s series “Disappeared.” My refrigerator still has a pinned-up sketch of the suspect and a “vehicle of interest” that was being sought by the GBI.
Kristi’s brother never gave up. The day she disappeared, he was up here from Atlanta in two hours, and he never left. I surmise I saw him more than once, flying up and down the Dooley Creek flats in a helicopter that continually prowled the area. Volunteers combed the extensive woodlands and national forests of this vicinity. Cadaver dogs, profilers…nothing was spared, as it should be.
Nothing was ever found.
On New Year’s Day, acting on a tip from the GBI that a prime suspect’s cell phone had “pinged” a tower off Moccasin Road—about six miles from here—Ms. Cornwell’s brother entered the woods. Less than 100 yards from the road, he found her charred, skeletal remains. The killer burned and partially buried her body. An autopsy is pending to determine the exact cause of death, but forensic examination has positively identified her.
As someone with a passing acquaintance of the cynical nature of law enforcement, I did not maintain the family’s hope that this ordeal would turn out otherwise. It was not a question of “if,” it was a question of “when.”
That question has been answered. It is hard to write about this without crying. I know exactly how Kristi Cornwell’s family feels. My father was murdered by a serial killer in 1985. No arrest was ever made, although the authorities knew the identity of the killer. Knowing something and proving it in a court of law is apples and oranges.
My father’s killer fell under a truck in the 1990s, proving that there is a God. The prime suspect in Ms. Cornwell’s murder killed himself in 2010. Cornered by law enforcement seeking to apprehend him for a kidnap/rape in an adjoining county, and suspected of an attempted snatch not far from here in North Carolina, the creature put a gun to his head and possibly did the world a favor.
(Although I know his name, I maintain a policy of not mentioning the names of killers, nor will I deign to call such an animal a man.)
The case will remain open, as is my father’s. There is no statute of limitations on murder, and until there is a conviction, there is no so-called “closure.”
In fact, there is never “closure” in a murder. People who speak of such an academic, abstract concept are just that: academicians or talk-show hosts who are educated way beyond their intelligence. There is no nostrum for the next-of-kin; there is no balm we can rub in our chests and wake up in the morning not thinking about and missing those taken from us. My father would have been 103 this past month. It’s doubtful he would have made it that far under normal circumstances, but his killer robbed him of God’s allotment of days. His killer took from me the chance to hug him and say “good-bye” under the peaceful conditions of our appointed times.
Ms. Cornwell was decades younger than my father. She has a son who is old enough to understand the horror of what has happened. Her parents must suffer the agony of burying a child, which is never supposed to happen in the natural course of events. My prayers are with them, that they may find the peace and strength to carry on.
The community at large will never know if that mook who took his own life was the one who murdered Ms. Cornwell, or if there is another predator living among us.
(Just days after I wrote this, some lunatic shot an Arizona congresswoman. I looked up “deranged” in my dictionary, and his grinning mug shot was in there. More on that in a bit.)
posted by Robert at 8:43 PM
3 Comments:
So much for a happy new year...at least for some.
Sad...
No balm in Gilead? No sir.
My mother was killed at the age of 56 in the same year, 1985. Her killer has returned to my family a couple of times since. It was Cancer.
Different, of course. But still no balm...
Let's hope that the psychopath who killed Ms. Cornwell was the same one who put a gun to his head. We don't need murderers running around loose in the vicinity of Scorpion Hill (or any other Scrapplers' neighborhood for that matter).
God Bless and Keep Safe good sir,
Hawkeye
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