Menu
Introduction
I loved my brother Carl to the ends of the earth. Everyone else seemed fond of him too. He was an all-around good guy, six feet four inches tall, with broad shoulders. People would stare up at him, into a handsome face with pale green-blue eyes flashing above high cheekbones, in contrast to his thick, dark brown hair with auburn lights. He was the embodiment of a native to the Americas, albeit Irish and German Palatine.
A man of the woods, he loved the land—the valleys and the mountains, the change of seasons and, when he could visit, the ocean. To him life was one big creation-adventure that blended the metaphysical with the physical. He had a perpetual old-soul look in his eyes, even as a young boy—a knowing.
He was intelligent, inventive, and talented—a man of character—spiritually grounded with a colorful personality and a good share of kindness. While in high school, he volunteered his time for the newly instituted Franklin County Special Olympics. The kids loved him. As an adult, he was a consummate gentleman. It didn’t get past any woman that he viewed her with brotherly reverence and respect. He was good to his fiancée Debbie and had bought her a ring that they had chosen together while shopping in Gettysburg.
He loved his family, and whenever he could he made it a point to entertain his nieces. At one particularly famous “Uncle Carl weenie roast,” Carl had occupied an old, backless wooden chair that he had placed directly over the fire while relating a story—until the chair was smoking hot. The little girls laughed about that for days. Uncle Carl had been in the “hot seat.” Carrie and Stacey secretly placed plastic spiders and ants on his pillow every chance they got, while Gayle and Jordyn camped in his yard, borrowing tents and flashlights.
He was appreciative when rare good fortune paid a visit. However, it was the typical trials and tribulations of life, the occasional toil and heartache that made him what he was—strong but aware of both the intangible side of life and the challenges of living in the world. Sensible and earthy, he guarded no dark secrets, nor was there anything dubious lurking in his personality. He always welcomed friends with a “howdy,” and they enjoyed his company and admired his innate knowledge of the outdoors. He was a down-to-earth, extraordinary, ordinary guy.
Despite having a laborer’s rough hands, he produced some delicate, one-of-a-kind creations, especially woodcarvings. He was a gifted storyteller, enthralling his audience with detailed accounts that built to a crescendo, then ended with an astounding twist. His way with words, gestures, and facial expressions drew people to watch him as he spoke. He also wrote poetry but kept most of his rhymes private, occasionally sharing some of them with me.
All of our siblings were close, but Carl and I had a special bond as the first two of seven children. It was there before we were born and grew stronger as the years passed and as we faced life’s challenges together. We reveled in our unique connection, and talked the seasons away, gazing across our little valley encompassed by the ridges of the Appalachian Mountain chain. As we traipsed along the rugged, worn groove of the Tuscarora trail, wending through woods, along streams, and past ghostly ruts of long-abandoned logging roads, we’d share our dreams, hopes, and disappointments. Youthful ideas and ambitions ebbed and flowed, like the days and nights enveloping Pennsylvania’s forested ridges.
One moonless midnight when we were young, the scream of a bobcat pierced the air and held us spellbound as it echoed through the hollows and ridges. We pretended that we walked in the wilds before any other man, and felt a connection to a time born eons ago and encoded into our genetic bank of recollection. It fed our souls—it was the best time of my life.
As I’ve said, everyone who met Carl liked him—yet he was senselessly murdered on a Saturday night, August 5, 2006. His fate was set, however, a little over two years earlier, in June 2004, when Carl made the mistake of hiring Scott North and had to fire him three weeks later. North’s abbreviated employment ultimately cost Carl his life.
Well known by the Franklin County courts, Scott North, the lawless son of a Chambersburg cop, eventually found himself jailed once again, this time for burglarizing a tavern. A judge granted him work release, then another judge dismissed a gun charge just days before he ran from an unsupervised worksite. It was the beginning of a crime spree with a devastating end that might have been averted.
My family and I would never be the same. Murder desecrated our cherished valley. Some have described Amberson Valley as a piece of heaven, if you don’t mind traveling 20 miles or more to the nearest store, hospital, or to work. The blue-tinted mountains with ridges and hollows cradle the west branch of the Conococheague Creek as it cuts through the bowl of the valley, where a pair of one-room churches stand side by side. But now, malice had found its way into our picturesque surroundings. A storm had erased the color from our world and ushered in a dark, desperate time in which we would scour the byways and hillsides of Amberson, Path Valley, and adjoining counties in search of our brother’s body.
The criminal investigation that began with blood found at Carl’s house in Franklin County and stretched to Huntingdon County (where Carl’s body finally was found, no thanks to the police), stalled for months as authorities in the two counties shamelessly bungled the case between them. We were compelled to pursue our own investigation, as we had pursued our own search for Carl, by the astonishing incompetence and negligence of the state police and indifference of county prosecutors. The case inexplicably was handed off to Huntingdon County, despite extensive evidence that the murder occurred at Carl’s house in Franklin County, though much of it was mishandled or overlooked by state police. The case languished in Huntingdon for a full year and a half before being returned to Franklin County.
We came to the shocking realization that “the law” was not on our side. It seemed that Franklin County’s professed dedication to public safety was nothing more than a smokescreen — and when authorities fail in their duty to protect the public from lawbreakers, anyone can become a victim of a violent crime, and nothing can fix or reverse the devastation. We learned that crime victims in Franklin County can expect no diligence from police, and little justice or recompense from the courts, when officials choose to play politics. Victims look to a justice system sanctioned by the state to fight for them…but our stark reality was that those responsible for pursuing justice failed utterly, whether due to incompetence, design, or to personal or political allegiances.
Although police and court officials repeatedly admonished us to keep quiet about details of the case, I have written this book to tell the story of our fight for justice—including the heartbreak of the search, the twisted path through the legal system, two funerals years apart (one within days after Carl’s death and the other years later after his body finally was returned), and the wounds that will never heal. I have strived to provide a firsthand, unfiltered account of our ordeal. This nightmare initially caused me to question the goodness of God, yet firmly convinced me of the existence of evil. In the end, I cannot claim a hard-won triumph of any sort against injustice, grief, or evil, only battle-scarred wisdom in a life forever changed. For those who know such all-encompassing heartache, I hope this book provides some solace. Know that there are others who truly understand what it’s like to live with the horrific facts and indelible sorrow of a loved one murdered. Only those who have suffered such atrocity can understand the peculiar feeling of isolation that nags even though you may be among a crowd of well-wishers—an isolation born of incomparable psychological and spiritual trauma. May you receive some comfort from the fact that you are not alone.
To tell this story, it has been necessary to mine details, recall particulars, note unbearable facts, dig into public court records, and interview people who have had encounters with the killer. I have used dialogue from courtroom transcripts and at other times paraphrased some conversations. Some quotes come from notes I meticulously kept as events unfolded. The passages at the beginning of each chapter and at the very end of the book are taken from the Holy Bible.
