do you want me to tell them that I first was alerted to Molalla by you and your husband? I could do that, but I can’t work for psychics, because that’s selling my credibility. And when it’s all said and done, my credibility is all I have.”
Pamela ponders then nods. “Sure, that’s fine. Our main concern is that the girls get found, before, God forbid, another one disappears. Rob is convinced that there will be more. Like I told you before, Rob has strong visions of Ashley at this location asking for help, and after Miranda was gone, he had an equally strong pull from her.7 Maybe it has more to do with the school bus stop that they both used or the fact that they were friends, but there is something going on in that creepy house in Molalla.”
Linda agrees to visit the location in question herself. “Give me your phone number and I promise I’ll call to tell you anything that I find. I promise.”
Meanwhile, the FBI task force and K-9 units continue the methodic searching of every square foot of land in and around the Newell Creek Apartments. In the rear of Ward Weaver’s place a large, disassembled hot-tub leans precariously against the house. A lanky teenaged boy clutches a garden hose8 that sprays a stream of water onto a two-foot wide slab of freshly poured concrete.9 He is so engrossed that he doesn’t even notice the various dogs and cops wandering around.
The next few days pass slowly with no information surfacing for investigators, public or private.
Linda presses her own search. Linda and Philip are parked a hundred yards from a rural Molalla residence with an overgrown yard and so many derelict vehicles it seems abandoned except for one light reflecting dimly from the kitchen window. They’ve been in surveillance for an hour, hoping to discover some human movement among the stillness. As dusk approaches, they see a rusty Ford van with Virginia license plates chugging its way into the driveway.
Philip scrambles to attach a telephoto extension to the front of his camcorder.
The van slowly pulls up and parks. Within seconds the sole occupant emerges. At the same moment Philip captures the driver’s image in his viewfinder. “I’ve got him; I’ve got him,” he whispers jubilantly to Linda sitting beside him peering through binoculars. The man being videotaped is tall, thin and angular. A patchy gray beard and bald head stand out before he turns to head for the house.
“Get me a good close-up of his license plate.”
“You got it.” For several quiet minutes Philip continues to zoom his camera onto assorted objects. Next he exits the car and begins walking toward a distant fence.
Linda rolls down the window. “Where do you think you’re going? Get back here before someone sees you.”
He laughs. “It’s almost dark, nobody’s going to see me. Look at all those woods. I’m just going to slip over that fence and wander around, see what I can tape. I’ll tell you one thing for sure, your psychic lady got it right. This house is very, very creepy.”
At 9:15 PM the pair of video sleuths finally return home. As they cross through the living room, they are semi-acknowledged by their sons who are engrossed in a video game.
Once inside his studio, Philip hooks up the tape he shot at Molalla and soon is examining his playback. Linda notices a stack of pages dangling from the front of her fax machine. She puts on her reading glasses and snatches a fistful to peruse. While she saunters toward Philip’s space, she becomes transfixed, absorbing paragraphs, slowly switching from page to page. Fully engrossed, Philip stares at some Molalla house footage showing the bald man with the scraggly beard. Linda startles him when she places a hand on his shoulder. “Philip,” she exclaims, “I’ve just got the background checks on Roettger and Weaver. Ollie’s note on the cover page says that while there were over five hundred registered sex offenders in Clackamas County, not one of them was registered as living in the Newell Creek Apartments.”
“What about Roettger? What have you got on him?”
“Pretty much what we expected. They initially hit him over the head with a lot of counts. It looks like thirty-nine total counts of sodomy and child rape, but inexplicably it was all plea bargained down to just one count of ‘attempted unlawful penetration of a minor’. But here’s a really strange thing, the background check on Ward Weaver10 says that right this minute he resides in San Quentin Prison on death row, awaiting execution for a double homicide committed in 1981.”11
Philip shuts the video off and stares at Linda. “That’s impossible, he’s in Oregon City!”
Linda shakes her head and rattles one of the papers. “No, no. It says he had clubbed a stranded motorist to death.” She runs her fingers along a paragraph. “It says he raped and strangled the guy’s female companion before finally burying her in a grave and sealing it with concrete. This was all done in Weaver’s own backyard. And he got the death penalty for it in 1984, yet incredibly, according to this, he’s still alive. Unbelievable!”
Philip asks the obvious. “What the hell is going on, Linda?”
Linda reluctantly comes to the only conclusion she can. “There must be more than one Ward Weaver! I guess I need to get the date of birth on the Oregon City Weaver so we can find out if there is any connection between him and the one on death row.” She shakes her head and shuffles the many pages. “You know, this is beginning to feel like that old movie, The Hills Have Eyes.”
“What about the stuff we taped tonight?”
“Did you get a clear shot of the license plate?”
For an answer Philip begins playing the videotape and initiates a freeze-frame depicting a close-up of the Virginia plate. She smiles and quickly kisses the back of his head before jotting the number down. “Tomorrow morning I’ll have Oliver run that plate through DMV and the utility bills for that old house. Maybe we’ll get the lead we need.”
With no new information forthcoming on either Ashley Pond or Miranda Gaddis, frustration and fear build. On Saturday evening Linda, Philip and the two boys are in the living room watching America’s Most Wanted. During a commercial break, Linda reminds the others about an important event scheduled early Sunday morning. “Maria called and said a massive private search for the missing girls has been organized.12 Tomorrow morning, they plan to scour every inch of that whole canyon around Newell Creek,” she says solemnly. “They need more volunteers. I think we should all participate.”
Her son, Jonathan, immediately protests. “Aw Mom, I’m going fishing with a friend tomorrow, I told you about it last week.”
Philip’s son, Damon, also complains. “I’m going bowling tomorrow.”
Philip squeezes her hand. “I’ll go for sure if you want to.”
“I need to. I think a day of physical searching will do me some good. It’s all so frustrating.”
“Okay Love, but I’ve got to warn you, it is very rugged terrain with a lot of brush. You don’t do well with sticker bushes and pine cones.”
Linda’s reply surprises him. “I don’t care. I’ve got to look for these girls myself.” At this moment, Linda feels like she’s gotten nowhere and let Ashley and Miranda down. She is determined to do anything that will help
