Blood Echoes: The Infamous Alday Mass Murder and Its Aftermath Page 10

  As he began making plans for an immediate flight to Welsh, he was informed by Director Beardsley that several high officials of the Georgia Department of Public Safety had decided to go along as well.

  As Angel well knew, none of these officials had ever gone to Donalsonville. In fact, they had scarcely communicated with the agents assigned to the case, and knew nothing of the subsequent investigation. Still, they had determined to go to West Virginia for the capture, and as a result, Angel’s more immediate travel plans were put on hold so that the considerably more complicated travel arrangements and security measures of the accompanying officials could be made. Angel could see the writing on the wall. A criminal investigation was about to turn into a media event.

  While Dungee was narrating his version of the last few days’ terrible events and Angel was frantically trying to leave Georgia, West Virginia authorities were in the process of concentrating and enlarging their effort to capture the three other men who were still at large.

  By early evening, scores of men and women were pouring into the area of the abandoned car, and shortly after 8:00 P.M., a command post to control and alert them was set up in the offices of the Olga Coal Company in Caretta, West Virginia.

  Using topographical maps, West Virginia officials established checkpoints at every imaginable point in the area around and between Caretta and Yukon, where the men had last been seen. By 9:00 P.M., roadblocks had been set up throughout the adjoining counties, while specifically designated road patrols fanned out in all directions from the central site of P. C. Mincus’s green Caprice.

  An hour later, after creating search grids of the entire region, full police dragnets were launched on foot into the surrounding hills. For the next few hours, perhaps as many as a hundred men and women, scattered at various points over many square miles, began moving through the thick darkness that had by then descended over the West Virginia borderland.

  All through the night, in sortie after sortie, they pushed through the thick summer undergrowth toward a group of heavily armed men they could but faintly hope to glimpse before being seen themselves and fired upon.

  At the same time as foot and automobile patrols continued to search the difficult terrain of the West Virginia hill country, Ronnie Angel was literally in the air. Having obtained warrants for all four fugitives, along with an array of forms related to their formal extradition, he was now on route to West Virginia.

  He was not alone, however. The “Uniforms,” as he called them, were everywhere, and although they’d assured him that they had only come along to assist him, Angel continued to worry that they might do or say something which might endanger the case, a possibility he wanted to avoid at all cost. Accordingly, he had determined that neither he nor any of the agents under his command would attempt to question any of the fugitives until they were in formal custody in Georgia. Instead, they would limit their activities to the gathering of physical evidence, the processing of the crime scenes, and the final provision for the transfer of the Isaacs brothers, Coleman, and Dungee to Georgia.

  Meanwhile, by the time the first morning light had broken over southern West Virginia, almost two hundred men and women had gathered either for direct action or to hold on standby for a full-scale, inch-by-inch search of the wooded area into which the Isaacs brothers and Wayne Coleman had disappeared. All during the night they had been marshaling their forces. Helicopters and small planes had been brought in from nearby bases for airborne searches to be conducted at first light. Scores of patrol cars cruised the winding roads, while perhaps as many as a hundred officers gathered at grid points to await the final assault, their rifle barrels forming a stiff, black thicket against the morning sky.

  While additional forces had been massing during the night for a sweep far more extensive than the ones that had been launched late the preceding afternoon, other officers had been moving relentlessly through the nightbound woods since sunset.

  Still others had arrived somewhat later. Two of them, Harold Hall and L. D. Townley, had come with Prince, a prize tracking dog they’d brought with them from the Bland Correctional Institute in White-gate, Virginia, a town nearly two hundred miles away.

  At around midnight, Price, his handlers, and Troopers F. E. Thomas and L. R. Bailey moved into the woods. Some minutes previously, Prince had been allowed to sniff his way through the abandoned car, and had then shot off across Route 16, entering the woods at full run at exactly the spot where, hours before, Officer Ryan had seen the fugitives disappear into the undergrowth.

  For the next four hours, Prince continued to bound through the heavy brush, but in a pattern that began to concern Thomas and the dog’s handlers. He would run up and down the hills, moving back and forth from the woods to the command headquarters in Carreta in a way that suggested he might not be trailing the fugitives at all, but rather some particular police officer. In other words, Prince had perhaps begun to follow the posse that was following him, literally chasing his own tail.

  At three in the morning, with Prince still moving in this confused pattern, Thomas and Prince’s handlers, now utterly exhausted by the long slog through the dark undergrowth, decided to return the dog to the original site of the abandoned car, then make a wide arc around the area to avoid his picking up any scent other than those he’d picked up in the car.

  The results were immediate.

  “It was like everything just suddenly came clear to him,” Thomas recalled. “He just took off into the woods and kept going for the next few hours without any letup at all.”

  Suddenly, Prince’s large black muzzle rose into the air, the indisputable sign that the fugitives were near at hand, that the dog no longer needed to trail them over ground, but rather that their scent still hung in the air around him.

  The men continued to follow him through the brush, now tensed and watchful, their guns at the ready. Within a few minutes, Prince began to froth at the mouth, barely able to contain his excitement as he closed in upon his targets, yet still carefully obeying the foremost law of his training, never, under any circumstances, to bark unless commanded to do so by his handler.

  Convinced that they were now very close to the fugitives they had been tracking for eight hours, the men began to move more slowly, their eyes darting about constantly, searching for the first sign.

  It was a shirt, and they all saw it at exactly the same time. Through a clearing, approximately a hundred yards away, they could see several figures lying on the ground beneath a granite overhang that jutted out at the base of the mountainside.

  Instantly, the four trackers dispersed around the cove, silently taking cover in positions that matched the remaining three points of the compass, thus blocking all avenues of escape for the men who slept obliviously beneath the overhang.

  Once the officers were in place, Thomas called to the prone figures he could see sleeping on the ground some forty yards away. They did not rouse themselves in any way, and when he saw no response, Thomas decided that a more determined effort to get the sleeping men’s attention was required. He emptied a twenty-round clip from his AR-15 into the mountainside above their heads.

  As the men stirred within the cove, Thomas called to them again. “This is the West Virginia State Police,” he cried. “Lay down your weapons, and stay on your stomachs.”

  The stirring stopped.

  “Now, the one closest to us, crawl out and down this way with your hands over your head,” Thomas commanded.

  One by one the men followed Thomas’s instructions until they all lay flat on the ground, one behind the other, in a strange human line, fingers touching feet, faces in the dirt.

  Once they’d been handcuffed and read their rights, Thomas and Bailey searched the cove, while Hall and Townley kept the prisoners covered. The searches completed, it was now time to move the prisoners out of the woods.

  But there was a problem. Since Thomas and the other trackers had been following Prince through a solid darkness, they now found themselves in a co
mpletely unfamiliar terrain.

  “We were lost,” Thomas remembered. “We were just in the woods somewhere with four prisoners who had killed six people, but with no idea exactly where to take them.”

  Their only hint was the sound of traffic. It was sporadic and very distant, but from time to time a car could be heard moving along a mountain road. Each time they heard it, they moved in its direction, while at the same time vaguely following the meandering course of a little mountain stream.

  At last, it led them home, and through the trees Thomas and the others could see people gathering on the road above them.

  Waiting on that road, stretching out in all directions, some in uniform, others in plain clothes, scores of officers and local residents watched as Thomas, his beleaguered but triumphant posse, and the men they had captured, slowly ascended the hill toward them. When they were about halfway up it, still trudging wearily through the heavy brush, they heard the first gentle round of what would be a long applause.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Angel’s plane touched down at just after dawn on the morning of May 19. From his window, he could see a large contingent of West Virginia State Police, including several of its highest officials, all in full uniform, waiting for their Georgia counterparts to stride down the gangway for a hearty salute.

  Within minutes, the plane had emptied, and a long line of police vehicles pulled out of the small airfield near Welch, West Virginia, and headed toward the command post that had previously been established in the offices of the Olga Mining Company in Caretta.

  Angel presumed that after checking in at the command post, he would be escorted to the site from which the manhunt was set to be launched within only a few minutes.

  While on the way to Caretta, however, he and the other Georgia officials were notified that the three remaining fugitives had been captured nearly at the exact moment their plane had touched down in West Virginia. At present, the report continued, they were on their way to the state police barracks in Welch, still in the custody of the officers who had captured them. The report added that none of the three had been injured in any way. They had immediately surrendered upon being confronted by police, and no shots, other than those used to awaken them, had been fired during their apprehension.

  A few minutes later, when Angel arrived at the barracks in Welch, his worst suspicions were confirmed. Several dozen law enforcement officers were crowded outside the barracks’ main building, their own substantial numbers swollen by an almost equal number of people from the print and television media. Camera crews, television newsmen, newspaper and magazine reporters swarmed over the grounds of the barracks, their equipment vans and cars lined up in all directions along the road which led to the barracks’ entrance.

  Angel had just begun to elbow his way through the crowd when several police cars made their way to the front of the barracks. Inside one of them, he could see the men he’d been sleeplessly pursuing for four days. They looked worn out, depleted, sapped of even enough energy to hold up their heads. It was the way captured people often looked, helpless, almost pitiable. But as Angel leveled his gaze in their direction, he felt no pity whatsoever. He had seen pictures of Ned, by then, and Shuggie, Jerry, Jimmy, and Aubrey. He had seen Mary sprawled across the forest ground, the hard sunlight on her nakedness. The distress and weariness of the men who glanced toward him from the shadowy depths of the patrol car did not impress him. He simply waited for them to be delivered into his custody.

  Their hands cuffed behind their backs, escorted by a police officer on either side, and surrounded by fifty to sixty others, Carl and Billy Isaacs and Wayne Coleman were led into the barracks where yet another swarm of law enforcement officers anxiously waited for them.

  Angel drew back reflexively, the atmosphere already a bit too hungry for his taste. It was worrisome as well, the kind of three-ring circus that could undo the most meticulous of investigations. People who knew nothing about the murders, the investigation, the physical evidence or anything else having to do with the crime were now in control. The “Uniforms” were yapping to reporters who were as ignorant about the facts of the case as they were. It was the sort of situation that could destroy a case, and Angel wanted nothing to do with it.

  As a consequence, he decided to carry through the plan he had outlined during the plane ride from Atlanta. Thus, during the next eight hours, he permitted himself to do nothing more than answer questions from various officials who were interviewing the fugitives, while staying decidedly clear of them himself. Instead, he and Waters concentrated on gathering and securing the physical evidence. P. C. Mincus’s car had by then been impounded, and for several hours, they searched it meticulously, inventorying and bagging everything they could find that might later help to build the prosecution’s case. They also examined an assortment of items which had been taken from the fugitives after their arrest, all of which had, in the heat of the arrest, been tossed into a cardboard box with no effort made to associate any item with the particular individual from which it had been seized.

  To prevent such clumsiness from vitiating his investigation, Angel worked at full speed to gather up the evidence and complete the paperwork necessary for extradition. Only then could he take them back to Georgia, bring them fully under his own scrutiny, and begin the grueling process of finding out what had actually happened in that trailer on May 14.

  Nearly ten hours after their capture in the West Virginia hills, the men from Baltimore were finally taken aboard a twenty-seat aircraft for the flight back to Atlanta, and Angel could begin to think of how to deal with them once they were exclusively in his custody.

  Sitting only a few feet away, the Isaacs brothers, Coleman, and Dungee all seemed utterly exhausted. As Angel watched them, they appeared silent rather than sullen. Throughout the early-morning flight, they remained awake, but motionless, while just a few feet beyond them, near the front of the plane, the “Uniforms” snoozed sweetly in their seats, as if resting up for the supercharged media reception that was expected to greet them at their arrival in Atlanta.

  But it was a grand reception that was not to be, as Angel already knew even as he and Waters sat together, talking quietly of the long day’s work. For not long before takeoff, he’d called Director Beardsley and warned him of the security problems that might arise from such an extravaganza. Beardsley had agreed, and with his permission, Angel had secretly rerouted the plane to a remote airport, little more than a runway in a cornfield, where the entire contingent could deplane in total obscurity, the Big Noise now reduced to a whistling in the corn.

  The plane arrived a few hours later on a dark field surrounded by a scattering of unadorned GBI field automobiles.

  While Angel watched from a few feet away, each of the four prisoners was carried to a separate car and driven, with yet another escort car behind, to one of four separate jails within the state.

  Within two hours of their departure, Angel, now once again behind his desk at GBI headquarters on Confederate Avenue, had been notified that all four prisoners had been safely transported to their respective places of incarceration, and that there had been no incidents on the way.

  Then, after four relentless days, Ronnie Angel went to sleep.

  * * *

  He awakened early the next morning, headed back to his office, and waited impatiently for something that had by then seemed forever in coming, his first interrogation of one of the Alday suspects.

  Wayne Carl Coleman, who’d spent the night in the county jail in Gainesville, Georgia, was the first to arrive.

  With the swirl of officialdom now dissipated, Angel could carry out an interview in his own quiet style. After conducting Coleman into a small room adjacent to his own office, he and Waters watched silently as Coleman made himself comfortable behind the room’s single wooden conference table.

  Prior to this time, Angel had assumed Coleman to be the group’s indisputable leader. At twenty-six, he was seven years older than Carl, and eleven years
older than Billy. In addition, he was a more seasoned convict, his yellow sheet considerably longer than any of the others. Coleman had therefore taken the central position in Angel’s mind as the gang’s brutal chief.

  But on the morning of May 19, as he began to interview Coleman for the first time, Angel experienced his initial doubts about Coleman’s capacity for the kind of forceful, even vehement, leadership that would have been required to carry out the desperate acts that had taken place in Maryland, Georgia, and West Virginia.

  Rambling in his speech and, after a brief period of reticence, curiously nonchalant in his attitude, Coleman appeared almost as a clownish, bumbling figure. As he narrated the events following the Poplar Hill escape, he exhibited none of the terror which had been the hallmark of Dungee’s presentation. Nor did he seem particularly concerned that he’d been caught, an attitude distinctly different from that of both Carl and Billy Isaacs as Angel had observed them on the plane ride back to Georgia.

  “He acted like the whole thing, the escape, the murders, everything was just a lark,” Angel remembered. “The way he described it, it was just the boys out for a little wild time that sort of got out of hand.”

  Leaning casually back in his seat, one leg slung over a chair arm, a slender grin forever sliding onto his face, Coleman told Angel that it had all started with a simple burglary. While traveling the back roads of Georgia, they’d come upon an isolated house trailer, knocked at its back door, and, when no one had answered, they’d stepped inside and begun rummaging about for any valuables they could find.

  In a tone that suggested he was incapable of grasping the enormity of what had taken place in the trailer on River Road, Coleman presented Angel with a flat, narrowly anecdotal account of a burglary that had gotten out of hand, accident following accident, until, at the end of the chain, six of the Alday family lay dead.

  The first accident, the one that presaged all the others, according to Coleman, was little more than an inopportune arrival.