Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
The world was quiet in those empty places in the night, stairwells and parking lots. And I couldn’t get what happened to her out of my head. Had someone been waiting in the car? Had they come up behind her? Did they have a gun or a knife? I could guess at what they’d threatened her with, given what we knew of the condition of her body when she was found.
Barely understanding why I was doing it, I’d taken the day off work and driven to the restaurant where Carol had worked. I didn’t know why her coworkers talked to me, what they saw in me that made them want to share what they knew, when I could tell they were tired of the media, of the endless questions. But they’d shared Carol’s story, and I’d found what I was put on this earth to do.
I didn’t find answers for Carol. In my frustration, I recorded what would end up being the first episode of my podcast—the first step into a new life. Episode one was a mess, mostly stream-of-consciousness ranting. No structure, no polish; I had no clue what I was doing, recording my thoughts only to get the frustration out, so I didn’t feel like I was carrying it alone. I posted it for the same reason. And it felt so good to get everything out of my head and into words that I did it again. And again.
It didn’t occur to me that anyone might be listening. Not really. But someone did, and then someone else. By the time I posted episode five, I had an audience—a small one, but they were there. I got a little more organized and posted a few more episodes. I never found Carol’s killer. But the renewed interest in the case—and a few pieces of evidence I uncovered—had caused the local police to reopen the investigation. That felt better than anything I’d done in my life thus far.
There was no guarantee they’d find whoever did it, but they were looking, in part because of me. They hadn’t given up on Carol. And it was an awakening. I’d done as much as I could for Carol Stevens. But there were other victims, other killers who’d gotten away. Maybe I could help someone else.
It didn’t take long before another case popped up on my radar. And I was off, investigating, for what would become season two of Evidence & Echoes.
Somewhere along the line, my audience grew big enough to attract sponsors. My episodes got a little more organized and easier to follow, which didn’t hurt. I’d learned a lot more than I realized through my years of binge listening. It helped that, along with loving research, I was enough of a tech geek to set up a recording studio, edit, and produce my own episodes. The second I could justify it financially, I had quit my day job in Human Resources, poured my savings into kitting out my van, and hit the road, traveling all over the country, investigating cases and recording episodes.
Season two hadn’t resulted in any answers—not even a reopened investigation, the police refusing to “waste” time looking into the disappearance of a murdered sex worker. I wanted more for the victim, but at least I brought attention to her story.
By the end of season two, I was in a very pared-down version of my current van, living on ramen, wondering if I was going to have to sell plasma to pay for gas. My full-time job had seriously restricted my ability to investigate, but the income had been nice.
Season three blew everything wide open. The kidnapping and murder of a teenage girl. The police had a prime suspect—a family friend and neighbor who, everyone said, was such a nice young man. But there had been a few stories that had raised questions: an ex-girlfriend who wouldn’t talk to the cops and seemed terrified; a guidance counselor who mentioned anger management issues. But no one had any evidence to tie him to the crime.
Until me.
It was part good luck, and part dogged determination to tie the smug asshole to the girl he’d murdered. I got him to talk to me—though of course he admitted nothing—but looking in his flat blue eyes, I knew he’d done it. And he knew I knew he’d done it, but we were both aware there wasn’t any proof. He’d laughed as I’d walked away, recorder in hand, knowing I had nothing, and more determined than ever to nail his ass to the wall.
The police had warned me to be careful. But the detective suggested I press on the guy’s ex. They hadn’t been able to get her to talk to them, but maybe I would have better luck. Often, I was an annoyance to the police. Fair enough. I got it—I was a civilian with a microphone getting in the way of actual police work. But sometimes, like this case, they were willing to use me to get something they couldn’t, and I was more than happy to be used.