commercial ends and the TV screen flashes a large graphic containing Ashley and Miranda’s photos with a large caption underneath, “1-800-CRIME-TV.” Then, for a few minutes, a full segment airs profiling the basic facts of the mystery before ending with a desperate plea for viewers to come forward with any tips that could be useful.13
Early the next morning, Linda, Philip and twenty other adult volunteers assemble in the back parking lot of the Newell Creek Apartments. They’re joined by a platoon of uniformed, teenage Explorer Scouts, wearing backpacks and carrying walking sticks. A stocky thirty-year-old man approaches with a bullhorn. “Thank you all for your assistance this morning. This is the third search that I’ve organized.14 Today, we will spread out and look over every square foot of both sides of the canyon. There are four sector leaders. They are the fellows wearing white armbands and whistles. If you come across anything, anything at all that seems suspicious, holler loudly and the nearest leader will take command. Any questions? Okay, let’s proceed.”
Clusters of citizen searchers slowly fan out from one another, walking one step at a time, eyes glued to the ground. Linda does her pacing between Maria and Suzie. She painstakingly explores her assigned area, but finds nothing. Turning to climb back up the steep slope, Linda trips over a protruding root and rolls into a patch of thick ivy. Philip rushes to her aid and pulls her up. “Are you okay, Sweetie?”
Upset at what she perceives as her own clumsiness, Linda scrapes some mud from her jeans and straightens her glasses. “I’m fine. I’m fine, really.” A shrill blast from a coach’s whistle rings out. The entire party converges on the sound, hiking up and over a steep embankment. They discover a skinny, dark haired fourteen-year-old scout on his knees, bending over a round white object and shouting excitedly.
Somebody asks, “What’s he doing?”
Finally Linda and Philip have gotten close enough to recognize the round object. It is unmistakably a human skull. The feeling of accomplishment felt by the search party upon the discovery quickly dissolves when the Deputy State Medical Examiner15 concludes that the bones are those of an adult who has likely been dead up to a year. The local press is puzzled by the fact that the FBI task force had supposedly traversed this same territory during several of their intensive sweeps. Why wasn’t the skull spotted then?
The Medical Examiner tells newspaper reporters the remains could have been washed into the area by heavy rains after the initial FBI searches. An alternative theory suggests that despite the fact the FBI had searched Newell Creek Canyon six or seven separate times, they had not necessarily examined the spot where the skull was found, because there was no evidence that any human had been there in the months since Ashley disappeared. After all, he reminds them, the skull was discovered in a very steep, overgrown area near a stream that feeds Newell Creek. The bottom line: there is still no suspect and no crime scene.
More weeks come and go. Despite over twenty-five hundred tips that have poured in from the ever increasing national publicity, none have proven fruitful. Linda begins to empathize with the FBI task force—many leads, but nothing to give her a viable suspect either.
Because private investigators get so involved in the murky behaviors that clash between perps and victims, they frequently are subpoenaed to put their observations up for public scrutiny. It’s amazing how precise language must be when testifying “under oath.” One misstatement of fact can sabotage an acquittal.
Linda O’Neal, at this moment, finds herself in just such a situation. Dressed in a black silk pantsuit and red scarf with pearls encircling her neck, she sits comfortably erect on the witness stand in a Multnomah County Courtroom. A young deputy District Attorney is cross-examining her. “Now Ms. O’Neal, can you tell the court again why you entered the scene on 24th Street that day in search of a car?”
Linda clears her throat and responds firmly and clearly. “No sir, I did not say that I went to the house on 24th Street looking for the defendant’s car. I said that I went to the house on 24th Street to talk to the defendant’s brother.”
The DA interrupts brashly. “And why did you feel it necessary to talk with him?”
“I was simply trying to get a lead on the location of the defendant during the time in question. I figured it was worth a shot to check his story, you know. And it was while I was waiting for Mr. Terry Morgan to answer his door that I kind of looked around. I watched a squirrel chasing a blue jay. I noticed several barrels of trash that were spilling over. I looked at the garage. I remember thinking that it sure could use some new paint. I noticed through the open garage door that I had a clear line of sight to the interior of the garage. I could clearly see a brown, Pontiac Le Mans station wagon parked inside. I could even see the rear license plate. It was…” Linda closes her eyes momentarily and then recites the sequence confidently. “Now since I had been looking for the defendant in this case, I knew that was the defendant’s car.”
“Did you confirm the car’s ownership with the resident?”
“Absolutely. When Mr. Morgan finally answered his door, I asked him about the car in the garage. And he readily told me it belonged to his brother, Peter. He said it had been there for several days, because it had broken down. I believe it had blown a head gasket and when they removed the cylinder head they discovered it was warped and needed to be shaved slightly. Anyway, after they took the head off the engine they took it to Allied Machine and left it there to be worked on. They were told it would take approximately three days. That head was dropped off on November 15. As I understand it, the crux of the case against Peter Morgan centers on supposedly airtight, eyewitness testimony that places him driving his Pontiac wagon to the convenience store. This armed robbery took place on November 17. It was physically impossible for that inoperable Pontiac to have been anywhere but where it was that day—in his brother’s garage.”
The flustered DA slams a file folder onto the table. “Your honor, I have nothing further to ask this witness.”
The female judge thanks Linda for her testimony and nods. “You’re free to go, Ma’am.”
The moment she steps into the cavernous hallway outside the courtroom Linda turns on her cell phone, which rings instantly. She begins her journey from the courthouse to the underground parking lot at the same time she answers the call. “Linda O’Neal Investigations. Oh hi, Ollie. What’s happening?”
His voice rises in excitement. “Linda, I’ve got some very bizarre results from that Virginia license plate. I really think you might be onto something. First of all, I ran a courthouse check and the house is owned by Barnaby Fairchild, a retired tax attorney. He currently resides in Palm Springs. He has three adult children, all in their forties. His middle son, Paul, has criminal history in several different states. He is a real roamer. Texas, Florida, New Jersey, Wisconsin, and most recently, he’d landed in Carson, Virginia. In fact, when I ran that tag, it came up with his last known address there in Virginia.”
Linda reaches the lobby and purchases a pack of gum from the burka-clad blind Arab woman behind the concession stand, as she always does, before continuing toward the parking lot. “Carson, Virginia. Hmm. Something about that rings a bell.” She stops and taps her forehead. “Yes, yes. I remember now, Carson, Virginia is where a pair of pre-teen girls mysteriously disappeared off their front porch last summer. One minute they were there, the next minute, poof! No witnesses, no crime scene.”
Oliver responds. “That’s right,
