Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 63579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Clicking, I open up a newspaper article with Western’s young face on the front page. I can see the similarities, but back then, his eyes weren’t deep, never-ending pits of despair. I’ve never seen eyes quite so empty in all my life. Looking at his picture here, it almost seems like two different people. Young Western is lean, muscled, clean shaven and his hair is messy, but not long like it is now. His lips are full, his jaw perfectly sculpted.
I know that he had a lot of fans when he was in prison, women that were utterly obsessed with him and would send letters. I found an article about it. It happens, and is a strange phenomenon, but often times people convicted of a deadly crime have a fan base, those that become utterly infatuated with the person behind bars.
Mayor Bill Whart made the call on Tuesday, June 22nd, 2003, when he saw local man, Western Aiken, abduct two people at gun point. Following them into the swamp, he witnessed the murder of Daniel Gregory and the attempted sexual assault and then murder of young teen, Braithe Gregory.
Frowning, I make a note to try and get hold of the autopsy report for both Daniel and Braithe. I always found it hard to believe that Braithe was about to be assaulted. It seemed like a far stretch. The entire story just doesn’t make sense. Bill is just waltzing down the street and “happens” to witness Western force the two people into his truck at gunpoint and then decides he’s just going to follow them instead of immediately calling the police?
Bill is someone I don’t trust.
He has a huge fan base in town after this event, but, mostly, I think it’s because people would rather see him as a hero and Western as a villain, than to really consider that maybe, just maybe, the man behind the suit is actually the monster.
It’s easy to blame a biker’s son.
It’s not so easy to blame a man who is in control of your entire town.
I write down a few notes, mostly wanting to see if I can get my hands on those autopsies and, also, if I can find out more about Bill.
His involvement in this runs deeper, I just know it.
I keep scrolling until I stumble across a blog post, written by a local lady named Sally, who claims that the Prisoners of Purgatory are involved in the cases of local foster kids who continue to go missing. She claims that they take the boys and sell them to human traffickers. They go for foster children because there are far less chances of the family really trying to find them.
There have been multiple boys go missing in the last decade, all local, and the club is still claimed to be the biggest suspect.
Narrowing my eyes, I write down some notes to look into that, too.
Could the club be involved?
Is Western truly a monster?
Or is it all so twisted and intertwined that it’ll be almost impossible to find out the truth?
Either way, I’m going to find it, even if it is the last thing I ever write as a journalist. It very likely could be, if things go wrong here. I could be digging into a case that is even more dangerous than everyone thinks, yet I can’t seem to find myself able to stop.
The low buzzing of my phone snaps me from my thoughts, and I reach down and pick it up. Leo is calling. Frowning, I answer it.
“Everything okay?”
“Not really. I’m in lock up.”
Shaking my head in confusion, I blurt, “What?”
“It’s a long story, but, I need someone to come and get me. Can you come down?”
Pushing to my feet, I tell him I’ll be right there. It’s late, and I don’t even want to begin to imagine what he has gotten himself into this time. I quickly change out of my pajama top but leave the pants. Pulling a tank top over my head, I shove my hair into a ponytail as I rush out the front door to my car.
Arriving at the police station, I notice a few bikes parked in the darkness beside the two police vehicles that are there. Not thinking too much about it, I push through the front doors and see an officer standing with two bikers. Two bikers from the same club Western runs. Coming to a stop, I stare at the two men. They’re tall, equally as terrifying, and both of them look directly at me when I enter the station.
“You related to that prick in there?”
The man speaking is a large biker, built of solid muscle, with a beard, sandy blond hair, a lip ring, and tattoos creeping up his neck. His eyes are a mix between green and yellow, and to look at, he takes your breath away, but to speak to, terrifying. It doesn’t help that he has dried blood on his chin from a split in his lip, and the beginnings of a black eye can be seen. Taking a step back, I glance at the officer, praying he’ll intervene and help me out here.