Everything She Ever Wanted [067-011-4.5]

by: ann rule

Synopsis:

From #1 New York Times bestselling author Ann Rule, a true story of
obsessive love, murder, and betrayal.  A series of brilliantly
manipulated crimes brings two families to ruin, and at the center of it
all is a sociopath whose evil hides behind her soft words and gentle
manners.  To be the subject of a two-hour ABC-TV miniseries.

This portrait of Pat Allanson, a seemingly proper Southern belle,
reveals a sociopath with a history of misguided love, denial, and guilt
who destroyed those closest to her.

Pocket Books

ISBN: 067169071X

Copyright 1993

Zebulon, the seat of Pike County, fifty miles south of Atlanta, is
little more than a town square, the four streets surrounding it, and
some houses radiating beyond.  Like scores of other small towns in this
part of Georgia, it is sheltered by a green blur of trees-pine,
dogwood, magnolia, and oak.  On a hot summer's day, their branches form
a leafy dome that traps the sodden heat, and everything beneath grows
as if in a hothouse.  Shade gives only an illusive promise of surcease
from the sweltering summer temperatures.  Cosseted in a perfect
environment, the kudzu vine creeps along the orange earth, smothering
each thing it covers, an innocuous-looking blanket of pointed leaves,
an emerald parasite.

The courthouse in Zebulon is red brick, with white gingerbread trim and
an alabaster bell tower gleaming against the sky.  Magnolias, oaks, and
maple trees dot the broad lawn, and each of the courthouse's four
entrances is flanked by blood red geraniums in stone urns.  A tilted,
graying stone memorial sits in one corner of the courthouse grounds,
its purpose to honor seventeen white Zebulon boys who died in World War
I, including two Marshalls, two Pressleys, and a Pike.  Only one name
is listed under the chiseled COLORED in the lower right corner.

E. R. Parks remains segregated even on a heroes' memorial.

The businesses across from the courthouse hide behind contiguousbut
totally different-stone facades with squared-off rooflines of varying
heights: a clothing outlet store, some antique shops, a furniture
store, a hardware store.  The Reporter, Zebulon's weekly newspaper, has
its offices at the end of the block.  There are Coca-Cola and Dr.
Pepper machines every seventy-five feet or so along the sidewalks.

Vehicles-mostly pickup trucks-park diagonally along the street.  A
earless yellow dog, in no danger, ambles casually across the road.

When Hollywood producers were looking for a typical southern town as a
filming site for Murder in Coweta County starring Andy Griffith and
Johnn Cash, they chose Zebulon.  Pat Taylor and Tom Allanson also chose
Zebulon to live out a fantasy of their own.

It was 1973 when they came to town, first living as lovers, then as man
and wife.  She was a slender woman with emerald green eyes and a pile
of bouffant curls.  He was a tall, tanned man.  She was beautiful, he
was handsome, and together they seemed to have the kind of love that
could survive any adversity.  Pat described her feelings in a note she
wrote to Tom on the back of their wedding picture: We are joined
together as one for life-what greater thing is there for 2 human souls
than to be twined together for life, to strengthen each other in all
our labor, to lean on each other in time of need, to rest on each other
in time of sorrow, to minister to each other in time of pain, to be
with each other always with our memories and our ONENESS LOVE to
sustain us....

I feel that in loving My Tom I am nearest to heaven.... When I came to
you, Tom, I put me within your hand-my body, heart, and soul.  You are
my love, and you make me wholly yours in all the ways there are; this
sweet bondage is more enduing than locks or bars.  I will never leave
your breast to dream of other things for I have found in My Tom the
"end-of-my-quest.  My body blooms all over from every vien [sic]
because I'm Tom's Pat.  Behold, I left the old me far behind and shed
my old life leaf by leaf...

And so she had.

Pat and Tom set out to create from their perfect love a perfect
world.

And yet, within that paradise lurked the possibility of jealousy and
rage, of adultery, fornication, incest, rape, and even murder, grim and
violent intrusions from the real world.

Each of them had family ties far too strong to let loving commitment
grow unstunted.  Back and back and back, old slights magnified rather
than diminished.  Pride, like the kudzu covering the dry earth, only
scabbed over deep and painful wounds that had never healed.  Untangling
the story of their lives is akin to following the verdant convolutions
of that parasitic vine that eventually kills every living thing that
sustains it.

They had come to each other from the cold ashes of failed marriages.

At thirty, Tom was younger than Pat by six years; he had two short, bad
marriages behind him and she had one long one in which she had felt
trapped and smothered.  Both of them had sought perfect love most of
their lives.  Despite the odds, they truly seemed to have found it in
each other, although -at least on the surface-they had nothing more in
common than potent sexual passion.

Tom was strong as an ox, and Pat was tiny boned and fragile, often
ill.

He was a blacksmith; she loved doing dainty handwork, embroidery and
painting.  He had a college education, and she had married first when
she was in the tenth grade and dropped out of school.  He was calm and
soothing, and she sometimes seemed anxious and frightened.

It didn't matter.  All he had to do was open up his huge arms, and she
would crawl up on his lap and hide in the safety of his strength.  Tom
always told Pat, "Remember, Shug, 'First things first'-and the first,
most important thing is that I love you more than anything in this
world."

And she would answer in the soft little girl's voice that belled her
thirty-six years, "I love you, Sugar.  I love you, Shug."

Pat Taylor had known Tom for years before she really saw him.

Her whole family-her parents, retired army Colonel Clifford Radcliffe
and his wife, Margureitte; her children, Susan, Deborah, and Ronnie; as
well as Pat herself-was deeply involved in the horse show world of
Atlanta.  The Radcliffes' stables boasted some of the area's finest
horses.  Pat, who was living with her parents, taught riding to an
exclusive clientele, and both her daughters were champion
equestriennes.

Tom Allanson had worked with their horses and sold them feed when he
was employed by Ralston Purina.  The son of an attorney, he had set out
to be a veterinarian, although he had not quite reached that goal.  Tom
had been a friend to Pat's family, nothing more, but any woman who
watched him at work, naked to the waist, his muscular torso glistening
with sweat, would have noticed him.

Shoeing the Radcliffes' prize Morgan horses, he lifted their hooves in
his hand as easily as if they were lambs' feet.

And then, a series of events in the fall of 1973 brought Tom and Pat
together.  Pat was free of romantic commitments, and Tom, who was
seeking a divorce from his second wife, needed a temporary place to
live.  The Radcliffes had plenty of room at their horse farm on Tell
Road in East Point south of Atlanta, and they invited him to stay.  He
could sleep on the sofa in their den, and they could use his help with
their horses.

To a pragmatist, their coming together was expedient; to a romantic, it
was fate.  Whichever, Tom Allanson and Pat Taylor soon spent every
waking moment together.  He loved everything about her, and she
continually surprised him.  He knew almost nothing of her life before
he met her and didn't care to.  She, however, was insatiably
curious-about his family and the women whom Tom had loved before he
loved her.

In spite of the fact that Tom was still married, they had a wonderfully
romantic courtship.  Tom could not believe his good fortune at having
found Pat, and he was awed that she loved him back.  His biggest fear
was that her health would completely break down and he would lose
her.

When she was taken with one of her fainting spells and hospitalized, he
was desolate, standing helplessly beside her bed with her pale hand in
his huge work-gnarled fist.  He lay single roses on her pillow and
gazed at her with tears in his eyes.

Pat tried to send him away, warning Tom she wouldn't be good for him,
that he deserved a "whole woman."  She begged him to face the truth.

"You don't want me, Tom," she'sobbed.  "I can never give you
children-I've had a hysterectomy.  I'm just an old woman with a scar
down my stomach.  Nobody would want me.

It only made him love her more.  He didn't need more children; he and
Pat would raise his two children and, of course, her boy, Ronnie, was
still only in his teens.

Pat and her family became everything to Tom.  They had given him
shelter-and love-when no one else would.  Pat's mother, Margureitte,
was the kindest woman he had ever known; she would do anything to help
her children and grandchildren, and Tom respected the colonel for his
army service and for his dignity and military bearing.  He pleaded with
Pat to marry him as soon as his divorce was final.

Pat couldn't take stress or dissension or disappointments.

When Tom listened to her speak of her longings, he realized that what
she wanted in this world wasn't that much; she just wanted it so
badly.

He vowed to do whatever he could to make her life so happy and calm
that she would regain her health.

Pat had one special dream-a dream that no man yet had been able to make
come true.  She longed to live on her own plantation.

More than a century had passed since the Civil War, but Pat yearned for
the genteel life of a southern belle as it was evoked in Margaret
Mitchell's novel Gone with the Wind.  She wanted her own Tara; she
wanted to be Scarlett O'Hara.  Somehow, someday, she believed Tom was
going to get her her own place, a spread of land where she could hold
her head up proudly.  A place where she could grow the roses she loved
so.

"I'm like a rose, Tom," she explained softly.  "And like a rose, I'm
selfish.  I want all the sun for myself, all the rain.

Roses need everything so that they can bloom and be beautiful."

She wasn't really selfish, he knew.  It was only her appetite for life,
for love, she spoke of.  That was one of the things he admired about
her: she reached out for life with her two hands, grasping all its
wonder and clasping it to her breasts.  She made him see what could
be-should be-for them.

Together, that first October, they came across a place that seemed
meant just for them.  Pat was having a good week, feeling strong and
healthy, and she and Tom went deer hunting.  He was so proud of her.

The way she tramped around the woods with him, cooked over a campfire,
and loaded her own gun, shouldering it as well as any man, amazed
him.

"She knew more about guns than most men," he said later.  "She had me
buy a .44 carbine so she could go deer hunting with me-that's a
powerful carbine."

She was such a remarkable woman.  Pat could do just about anything.

They cuddled together through the long cool Georgia nights, warming
themselves with a sexual fervor that had not diminished with
familiarity, but had only grown more intense.  So it seemed a good omen
for their future together when they found the red brick house with a
porch all around it in Zebulon during their hunting trip.  There was a
For Sale sign on it, and they learned it was the old "Hoyt Waller
place" and that Waller was selling it because he was divesting himself
of some of his many real estate holdings.

After Pat pointed out the tremendous potential just waiting to be
tapped in the sprawling farm, what they could do with it, Tom was as
wild to have it as she was.  The place was right on Highway 19 a few
miles north of Zebulon.  Its four hundred feet of road frontage was
fenced in with freshly painted white horizontal boards.  There were
soaring pine trees beyond the roadside meadow and a curving drive wound
between tall Georgia holly bushes all the way back to the brick house
and the barn.

"It was just perfect," Tom remembered.  "I wanted to stay there until
the day I died.  It had everything I ever wanted.  The house was a
brick ranch-style house.  It had a twenty-five-acre pecan grove plus
twenty-seven more acres.  It had everything you could ask for.  It was
the most beautifully landscaped place.  It had the orchards.  It had
the garden spots.  It had the vineyards.

Apple trees.  Pecan trees.  Pear trees.  Catalpa trees.  Rose
gardens.

It had a beaver pond on the back side of it, and the pastures, the
deer, the quail.  It was just a beautiful place.........

All they had to do was figure out a way to buy it.  Waller wanted
forty-two thousand dollars for the spread, and it would take some fancy
financing for Pat and Tom to swing that.  There was money in Tom's
family, all right.  His father was a successful East Point attorney who
had made a bundle of money in land deals.  Still, Tom knew his father
wasn't likely to help him out.  He couldn't remember the last time he
had done anything his parents approved of.  They were still so angry
about his second divorce, there was no point in even asking them for
help.

Anyway, it seemed that his father enjoyed watching him fail.

Tom was the last of three Walter Allansons.  Old "Paw"Walter
Allanson-was the first, and then came Tom's father, Walter O'Neal
Allanson, and finally Tom himself, Seaborn Walter Thomas: "Tommy."  Paw
and Nona, Tom's grandparents, were well up in their seventies, but they
had always been more like his parents than Walter and Carolyn Allanson
ever were.  Paw still farmed his place over on Washington Road in East
Point.  He had made a small fortune over the years and he was
frugal-but he wasn't stingy, the way his son was.

Tom figured and figured until he came up with what might be a way to
buy the Waller place for Pat.  He had long wanted Nona and Paw to live
near him, especially now that they were older.  His grandmother was in
failing health, and Paw couldn't go on forever.  Tom took Pat over to
meet them, and left her chatting with Nona while he and Paw went out
walking around the farm to discuss "business."

Paw and Nona were polite to Pat, although they were a little puzzled to
see Tommy with his third woman in a decade.  She was obviously older
than Tommy by several years, and Nona thought she dressed awfully
flashy.  The old woman was surprised when Pat told her she had three
children and that both of her daughters were already married.  Nona,
whose speech was compromised by a stroke, and who was too polite to
speak what was on her mind anyway, listened quietly as Pat rattled on
about her wonderful plans with Tommy.  Despite Nona's earlier
misgivings, she couldn't help but like Pat-and catch her enthusiasm.

Meanwhile, Tom explained to Paw about the place in Zebulon: the fifty
acres and the house and barn and all that went with it that could be
had for only forty-two thousand.  It was a buy that Tom couldn't just
walk away from-not without consulting Paw.

The two men worked out a plan.  Paw would give Tom the money for
twenty-five acres, and that money would serve as a down payment for the
whole place.

Tom would find a way to make the balloon payments due down the road.

Tom said he would like either to build or move a house onto that
acreage for his grandparents.  That sounded good to Paw; since Nona's
stroke, he had been doing both the outside chores and the inside
work.

He prided himself on the fact that he took excellent care of his wife,
but it would be nice to have a woman around to spell him and cook a
meal once in a while.  Tom assured Paw that Pat already loved both him
and Nona.  He had told her how good they had always been to him.

Colonel and Mrs. Radcliffe, Pat's parents, also helped Pat and Tom
with the down payment on the Zebulon property.  Their only request was
that they call their farm Kentwood in memory of Pat's brother, Kent,
who had died when he was in his mid-twenties.  Although Pat would have
much preferred something more romantic and evocative-like Rose Hill
Farm or Holly Hedge Stables, or even Tara Orchards-they called it
Kentwood Morgan Farm.

At long last she had her love and her piece of earth, a fine brick
house, and a barn big enough for all the horses she and Tom would
raise.  They would make it a showplace where they could host grand
riding competitions.  Tom could shoe horses and she could teach riding
and, afterwards, they could stroll hand in hand through her own rose
garden.  There could be nothing more perfect than the hushed twilight
of a soft Georgia night, and being in love.

Pat and Tom moved onto the wonderful property on Highway 19 in late
1973, and Tom immediately began to work on the place, sure his divorce
from his' second wife was imminent.  When he was truly free, he would
marry "his Pat."

Making the house just right for her was a labor of love and, as he was
able to afford materials, he remodeled and refurbished.  "I redid it
just like we planned," he said.  "We got lumber out at Fort McPherson
and redid the barn and the pastures.  I had such great expectations.

j'i at proved to be remarkably unhandy at home improvements and
although she picked up a paintbrush from time to time, the bulk of the
work was Tom's.

He didn't mind.  He was euphoric just to be with her and to have
Kentwood.

Ronnie, fifteen, moved in with his mother and Tom, although he was
certainly welcome to stay with his grandparents.  Pat loved her son.

She indulged him too.  She bought him anything he wanted and let him do
whatever he asked-except visit his father.  He missed a lot of school,
and Pat didn't push him to go.  He was both spoiled and neglected.

When Tom tried to explain that boys needed some discipline so that they
would grow into good men, Pat gently reminded him that Ronnie was her
child, and that she knew best.

Ronnie adored his mother; there were no lengths to which he wouldn't go
to please her.  If she voiced a wish, Ronnie would carry out her
bidding.  His devotion didn't stop him from getting into trouble, like
getting drunk and wrecking cars and doing other things not sanctioned
by the law, but he didn't want any of it to disturb his mother.  If she
was hurting too bad and needed pain medication, Ronnie always found a
way to get it for her.  If someone wounded her feelings and needed a
reminder not to do that, Ronnie took care of that too.

Not everything in their new life went smoothly, of course-but Tom was
so happy nothing much bothered him.  On Christmas Day 1973, he went to
take a big gelding out of the barn and it came out running full tilt.

He held on, but even his weight didn't stop the spooked horse and it
dragged him along, fracturing his right collarbone.  For a blacksmith,
it was a bothersome injury and kept him off work.

Pat was jealous of Tom's wife, whom everybody called "Little Carolyn"
since his mother's name was Carolyn too.  Of course, she was called
"Big Carolyn."  If the truth be told, Tom was kind of proud that Pat
was so jealous of him, even though, Lord knew, she had no cause to
be.

Little Carolyn was pretty, but she was nothing compared to Pat.  Pat
was a perfect lady and was beautiful and fiery and her kisses tasted
like honey.  He was eager to get his divorce.

Pat refused to have anything around her that might remind Tom of Little
Carolyn.  "I remember I came home once," Tom said later, "and something
came flying out the door and shattered on the sidewalk.  It was a
brand-new J. C. Penney's radio.  It had been in my bedroom and it
belonged to me, but as far as Pat was concerned it belonged to Carolyn,
and she wasn't having anything of Carolyn's in the house.  She just
pitched it out.

She hated Carolyn so bad, she even tried to say once that my children
weren't mine-that they were my father's children, that they'd had an
affair while I was married to Carolyn."

Tom didn't believe Pat meant that about his kids.  She often talked
about bringing Russ and Sherry to live with them and how she would be
their mother.

It was Just that Pat was so highstrung that she sometimes said things
she didn't mean.

Still, she wouldn't allow Tom to display pictures of his children in
her house.

The divorce from Little Carolyn dragged on and on, and Pat cried with
frustration.  She wanted to be married to Tom, not just living with
him.  But a hearing in early spring of 1974 ended, not in Tom's final
decree, but in another postponement.  After realizing that Tom and
Little Carolyn Allanson were far, far apart on monetary agreement, the
judge said, "I will not grant a divorce at this time."  Hearing that,
Pat turned white and dug her fingernails into Tom's arm.  She made it
out of the De Kalb County Courthouse but she fainted on the front
lawn.

Someone screamed and paramedics were summoned.

Gradually she came around and Tom half led, half carried her out of the
crowd that had gathered.  He wondered how much more of this kind of
strain she could take.

And then, suddenly, It was all right, as if Pat and Tom's love was
somehow blessed.  On May 9, 1974, Tom had yet another divorce
hearing.

He expected one more delay and the hearing seemed mostly an irritant.

Tom and Pat were scheduled to be at a Morgan horse show in Stone
Mountain, Georgia, that evening.

Pat had decreed that they would go to Stone Mountain as "Scarlett and
Rhett" and had busied herself making their costumes.  Dressing up and
slipping into another persona never failed to cheer her up; it was
almost as if she could step out of her own life into an existence she
craved.  And everyone always raved about how clever she was as a
seamstress.  She knew she and Tom would be the hit of the Stone
Mountain show.  She had chosen royal blue as the Kentwood Morgan Farm's
show colors, and their chairs, tents, and blankets all matched.

Pat's gown was white with a sweetheart neckline, puffed sleeves, and a
voluminous hoop skirt.  She would wear white gloves, white feathers in
her hair, and she would suspend her favorite gold-rimmed cameo from a
moire ribbon around her slender neck.  When she posed for Tom in her
costume, he stepped up and circled her tiny waist with his two hands.

She had never looked more beautiful, and she knew it.

Tom felt a little foolish when he saw his costume, but he 								
shrugged and tried it on: a black cutaway coat with tails, a white
satin vest over a shirt with ruffles at the neck and wrists, and a top
hat.  Pat even had a fake mustache for him to stick on.

Standing in front of a long mirror together, they looked as if they had
just returned to Zebulon through some dusty curtain in time.  They also
looked incredibly like Scarlett and Rhett, and Pat was elated.

They were both thrilled beyond words when Tom's divorce, at long last,
was granted that very day.  They quickly reserved a chapel at Stone
Mountain for their wedding.  But nothing in Pat's life ever seemed to
happen without fanfare.  Her wedding to Tom was no exception.  It made
headlines.  A slightly sentimental reporter for the Griffin Daily News
related that Pat and Tom had not only met "cute," they had married
"cute."  Under the headline THEY WERE DETERMINED TO GET MARRIED, a
threecolumn spread described the nuptials: "Pat Radcliffe and Tom
Allanson had an unusual wedding, to say the least.

Pat had explained to the reporter that she and Tom had known each other
for fifteen years-ever since the day she had called Tom as a last
minute replacement for her regular blacksmith.  They had not gotten
along at all, Pat laughed, since she was a specialist in Morgan horses
and Tom preferred quarter horses.  However, she had won him over.

"When Pat was stricken and confined to bed, Tom became a regular
caller," the reporter wrote.  "And from that came wedding bells.  'She
moves about so much that it was the first time I had to catch her,' Tom
beamed the other day."

The Griffin feature story did not mention that Tom's divorce was brand
spanking new.  It didn't mention any other marriages for either the
bride or groom, only the romantic and chaotic details of May 9, 1974.

Pat and Tom had engaged the chapel for a 2:00

P.m. wedding, and rented "one motel room" for that night.

"Tom was taking a van loaded with horses to the show when he had a
blowout.  Another tire went and he was stranded on a busy interstate
near Atlanta," the paper reported.  "He made his way to a service
station.  As chance would have it, someone passing by knew where he
could get two large tires for the van.

"Tom's bride-to-be was waiting at the chapel in Stone Mountain when the
ceremony time arrived.  He sent word that he had run into trouble and
would be late.  By the time word reached Pat, she already had guessed
that something had gone wrong.  The ceremony was canceled.

"When Tom finally got the van repaired and to the horse show, word had
spread among show people about what -had happened.  They suggested
since the show tents already were beautifully decorated, that one of
them be used for the wedding.  Tom and Pat agreed.

The Rev.  William Byington, a Baptist minister, was called.  He said
that in all of his many years in the ministry, he never had been called
on to perform a wedding ceremony under such circumstances.  But he
agreed to do so.  With show people looking on in one of the tents, he
asked Tom and Pat to pledge their love to each other in a standard and
simple ceremony."

Pat managed to get in several plugs for their new Kentwobd riding
facilities and mentioned that she would continue teaching riding at
Woodward Academy on the Riverdale campus.  She and her horses would
commute both ways daily.

"But back to the wedding story," the Griffin newspaper continued,
obviously pleased with such fascinating new residents of nearby Pike
County.  "The couple stopped at Western Sizzlin' Steak House for a
Sunday night meal.  When they had finished, Tom took the van and his
bride was to follow.  He pulled onto the expressway and moved slowly
into traffic.  He checked the rearview mirror to look for the vehicle
his wife was driving.  Tom heard a noise that sounded like a wreck.  He
stopped.

"Someone had had a collision with his wife and she lay inured in the
vehicle.  She was taken to the Griffin-Spaulding Hospital for
examination and treatment.  She was strapped up and told it would be
all right for her to go home.  But the pain in her shoulder
persisted.

Next day, she went to an Atlanta hospital, where it was learned she had
a broken collarbone.  She came home in a cast and has been in one
since.  . . . The newlyweds have managed to smile through it all and
are looking forward to establishing their farm home here."

The picture accompanying the piece was, of course, perfect for the
story.  Pat and Tom, as Scarlett and Rhett in their antebellum finery,
smiled for the camera as they were united in marriage in a huge
flower-bedecked building: the lovely slender woman with feathers in her
hair and an ivory fan open in her small gloved hands, the huge man with
the tremendously proud grin.

Why Pat had pulled directly into the path of an oncoming car remained a
mystery.  She might have been blinded by the sun, but she was probably
only careless.  She was not a particularly good driver, and she was
easily distracted.  Driving a truck and pulling a horse trailer behind
cut most of her side and rear vision.  She may well have been exhausted
after three whirlwind days at the Stone Mountain horse show, but it was
an exhilarating fatigue; she had gone from being "left at the chapel"
to being a bride whose wedding was the focal point of the whole show.

It had turned out better than even she could have envisioned.

It was even kind of romantic that she and Tom had both suffered broken
collarbones-they shared everything.  His own injury was long since
healed, but Tom remembered how painful it had been, and he was
especially tender with Pat, never letting her lift anything heavy or
reach for something if he could get it for her.

Gradually, she resumed her riding lessons, and Tom divided his time
among his work at Ralston Purina, shoeing horses, and fixing up their
place.  As their fortunes increased, they planned to buy more and more
Morgan horses.  They would have the finest Morgan stables in the state
of Georgia.  They already had the finest marriage.  That, Tom was sure
of.  "Two human souls joined together for life .  . ."

There was only one cloud over their happiness.  While Pat's family was
pleased with her marriage to Tom, and Tom's grandparents found Pat a
sweet and thoughtful woman, his parents were another story entirely.

Walter and Big Carolyn Allanson wanted nothing to do with Tom's third
wife.  In fact, they had sided with Tom's exwife during the divorce,
and resisted all his efforts to let them see what a fine woman Pat
was.

Hoping to ease the situation a little, Margureitte Radcliffe made
overtures to the Walter Allansons.  She called and invited them to join
her and Colonel Radcliffe for dinner at the officers' club at Fort
McPherson.  "They were not interested," Margureitte later said, "and I
thought, How can they not be interested when they do not know us?"

Margureitte, who always prided herself on her sense of propriety and
her impeccable social grace, was shocked to find Tom's parents so
hostile.  Using a phrase she often sprinkled through her conversations,
she sighed, "I never in this whole wide world thought people could act
like that."

Then Tom lost his job at Ralston Purina, and he suspected it was his
father's fine hand interfering in that too.  He tried to make up for
his lost salary with his blacksmith work, but that caused a bit of a
problem in his relationship with Pat He was surprised to find that his
bride was not only jealous of his exwife, she was jealous of any woman
who might cast an appreciative eye on him.  She plain didn't want him
around other women, not unless she was with him.  He tried to explain
to her that horse barns were not exactly prime spots to find other
women and that he spent 95 percent of his life around men, but it did
no good.  Pat insisted on accompanying Tom on his farrier rounds.

He was proud of her, but she sure put a damper on male conversation.

Instead of jawing easily with the good old boys who hung around as he
shod horses, Tom worried whether Pat was comfortable and feeling
okay.

Her presence made his customers uneasy too.  But he loved her too much
to ever feel smothered by her attention.  If she wanted to be with him,
then she was always welcome.

He wouldn't have dreamed of telling her to stay home.

Lavished with Tom's love, Pat's health improved-at least enough so she
was able to help on the elaborate grounds of Kentwood; she could manage
the riding mower.  She gave a few horseback lessons, and they sometimes
rented their surrey or the sulky and their horses for shows and
parades.  She and Tom went often to horse shows.  But they both soon
realized that they would have to budget tightly and worle harder to
make Kentwood the kind of place they visualized.  Pat wanted everything
now, and Tom had to gentle her down and explain they Just couldn't
afford all thata bigger barn, a grandstand for horse shows, more roses,
chandeliers, more horses and more buggies, more elegant livery for
their drivers.

All of it took money, and the money would have to come from somewhere
outside their household.  Without his job at Ralston Purina and with
the broken collarbone that had kept him from shoeing horses for a
couple of months, Tom had lost ground financially.  Now he could work,
but his blacksmith business was going downhill instead of up-mostly
because of Pat's insistence that she always be present, or because he
so often had to drop everything and rush home when she had a spell of
fainting.

Tom could never tell when Pat was going to pass out.  Sometimes she
would be driving their jeep around the place and she would just faint
at the wheel and fall out the driver's door; sometimes he would race
home to find her lying by the telephone.

No, it was impossible to even think of Pat working fulltime; he didn't
want her to do that anyway.  He wasn't even sure she should be giving
so many riding lessons.

Tom wanted to get his grandparents moved onto the place too.

He had promised to do that, and that promise, he thought, should be
honored before the big expansion of Kentwood.  But even with worries
about money and feuds with his parents, Tom was happy.

When he and Pat saddled up their horses and rode over their own land,
he thought he was probably the luckiest man who had ever lived.

Sometimes Pat wore one of her costumes for a ride around their place,
and the sight of her with the burgeoning spring trees behind her was
enough to make him want to weep with joy.  They called each other
"Sugar" and eventually that was abbreviated to "Shug."  They had
special songs and little sayings that were just for them to know
about.

"First things first, Shug," they would say.  They would see to what was
important and the rest of their plans would fall into line.

Tom had never told Pat how bad things were with his parents especially
with his father.  Walter Allanson could have a crude mouth, and he had
used it to talk about Pat.  Although he had never met her, his father
detested Pat.  When Tom was first living with her, he had told his son
she was a slut, a woman whose bad reputation was common knowledge.

"She'll lie down with any man with a truck and a horse trailer.  You
damn fool, can't you see that?"

Pat had had affairs that were no secret, Walter Allanson had pointed
out.  If Tom had anything to do with her, he was a bigger idiot than he
had already proved he was.  "Stay away from that, Tommy," Walter had
argued.  "That's bad stuff there."

Of course, his father's warnings had only made Tom want Pat more.  It
wasn't true what he said about Pat; Tom didn't believe a word of it.

That was his father's way of ruining things for him, the way he always
had managed to tarnish those things that meant the most to him.  Pat
would be heartsick if she heard what Walter Allanson had said about
her, and Tom wasn't ever going to tell her.

It was difficult though, because Pat kept urging Tom to make peace with
his family.  She suspected-correctly-that there was money in Tom's
family, even though-except for his aunt jean Boggs, Walter's
sister-they lived rather austerely.  Tom had told her that Paw was
shrewd and had hidden money stashes all over his place on Washington
Road.

The way Pat understood it, Paw had sold the back part of his land to
Tom's father, and Walter had seen to getting it zoned for
multidwellings, then sold it to builders who had put up the Forest
Apartments, the Gray Estates, and the Club Candlewood Apartments.

There had to have been a great deal of money coming into the family
from those transactions.  Tom didn't seem to care a hoot about it, but
he was the Allansons' only son, and Paw and Nona's favorite grandson,
and eventually, she figured, it would all belong to him.  Heaven knows
they were never going to make Kentwood what it should be if Tom didn't
get his rightful inheritance.

Tom's aunt jean Boggs and her husband, Homer, had a fine house in East
Point and she dressed as if she were a wealthy woman.  Tom told Pat
that Jean hadn't had anything to do with her brother Walter after some
fuss over their father's property-not for seven or eight years.  She
had children too, but they hadn't been raised by the elder Allansons,
the way Tom was; he was almost like Paw and Nona's own son.

Now that she and Tom were married, Pat was sure Walter and Big Carolyn
Allanson would accept her.  She came from the Silers on her mother's
side, a fine old family.  She had parents to be proud of-Papa was,
after all, a retired colonel.  Pat considered herself far superior to
Tom's ex.  She was a lady, whose children were riding champions, a lady
who had met Governor Jimmy Carter and the Japanese royal family
personally.  The Allansons had to recognize that and be grateful that
she had married their son.  It would all work out.

Tom wasn't optimistic about that happening anytime soon.  He knew how
muleheaded his father could be, but it was impossible for him to
explain to his bride why they couldn't go calling on his parents.  As
much as he loved her, he had already learned that Pat had a way of
aggravating people, of speaking without thinking and saying the wrong
thing at the wrong time.  And then there was her appearance.

Personally, he loved the way she looked and dressed, but seeing Pat
through his father's eyes, he shuddered.  She showed too much leg and
too much bosom.  The little old-fashioned clips she used to hold her
halter tops together had a way of working loose.  She was a
magnificent-looking woman, but the sight of her would only give his dad
more ammunition to talk against her.

He wouldn't subject Pat to that.

And now that he was married to her, he saw that Pat was even more
impetuous and sensitive to slight than he had realized.  Her
grandmother Siler had died the spring they married and the Siler clan
gathered in North Carolina to bury her, most of them meeting Tom for
the first time.  There was a ruckus as the funeral procession was
organized.  Pat's aunt Mary Adams and her husband, Charles, pulled
their Cadillac just behind the hearse and waited for the procession to
begin.  But Pat had a fit.  "Mama Siler would have wanted me to be
first," she sobbed.  "I was her favorite.  Tom, just you pull the truck
in there-right there in front of the Cadillac."

Bewildered but obedient, Tom jockeyed the farm pickup with the round
Kentwood emblem featuring a Morgan horse on the door into line, edging
out the Cadillac.  Nobody stopped him.  He was fascinated to see the
way the Silers parted the waters for his beloved.

Pat calmed down some as they led the endless string of vehicles to the
cemetery; her sobs halted and she sat up straight and almost proud.

She explained to Tom how special she had always been to her
grandmother, and he could see that everyone loved Pat, her folks, her
daughters and Ronnie, his grandparentseveryone but his parents, who
were as stubborn- as hogs in a sweet corn patch.

Pat was too smart not to realize that her in-laws wanted nothing to do
with her.  She was hurt and angry.  It wasn't fair-she hadn't done
anything at all to harm them.  Was it a crime for her to love their son
more than life itself?  She was six years older than Tom, but no one
could consider that that was robbing the cradle.  Why did Walter and
Big Carolyn have to be so petty?

Their relationship with his parents-or rather their lack of
relationship-became a constant irritant to Pat.  Although she and Tom
still had wondrous, dreamy days in Kentwood, tiny fissures began to
break through their seamless joy.  Pat complained to anyone who would
listen about Tom's father and his ex-wife, Little Carolyn.  She
insisted they were somehow responsible for Tom's losing his job at
Ralston Purina: "Somebody called up and told them there was a
countersuit [to the divorce] and they were going to put [Tom] in jail
and all this, and Purina has a very strict law about that-so Tom lost
his job.  . . ."

Furthermore, Pat felt Walter was making it his life's mission to see
that Tom never got a job again.  "He has had several applications in
for good jobs," she said, "but each one his father has managed to put a
kink in.  Tom wanted to be on the mounted patrol, and his father
stopped that too."

It may well have been true.  Walter Allanson's animosity toward his
only child was as bitter as gall.  He would not accept Tom's divorce
and remarriage, and Pat had a right to feel resentful.  But Tom soon
realized that his new wife was no peacemaker and that she had precious
little tact.  She was always on his side-and that was good-but she
talked far too much and her comments got back to his father, and things
only got worse.

As the spring of 1974 edged toward full summer, Pat Allanson was a
woman on fire.  It was a side to her personality that Tom had never
seen before.  He had known her to be loving and passionate, wistful and
sad, and as frightened as a child.  He had not seen her rage.  Instead
of being content that she and Tom we re finally man and wife and
letting the rest of the world go by, she nagged at him constantly to
"do something" about his father.

"You call yourself a man?"  she taunted Tom.  "If you were a man, you
wouldn't let him treat us like he does!"

Her tears hurt Tom far more than her words-it tore him up to see Pat
cry-but he had never been able to win in confrontations with his
father.  He had no idea what Pat expected him to do.  He wanted to run
his own life, his own farm, and his own marriage-but Pat seemed to be
in his face whichever way he turned.  He couldn't make her see that
they didn't need his father, or his father's money.

Pat persisted.  She wanted Tom to work things out with his parents, and
she demanded to be welcomed into his family-not to be treated like
trash.  They were insulting her and embarrassing her, not to mention
her parents.  Any husband who truly cared for her wouldn't stand still
for such treatment.  Their marriage was only a little more than a month
old, but their bliss was souring like apple cider turned to vinegar.

Pat began to withdraw from Tom.  The newlyweds already had
fifteen-year-old Ronnie living with them, and now Pat started asking
her daughters, Susan and Deborah, or other relatives to visit.  Her
aunt Alma Studdert and Alma's granddaughter, Mary Jane Smith, were
frequent overnight guests.  Pat and Alma would rock for hours on the
back porch glider and watch the sky turn dark over the fields of
Kentwood when Alma thought Pat would have chosen to be in bed with her
new husband.  Pat's daughters and relatives couldn't help but notice
that Pat was avoiding being alone with Tom.  This struck them as
decidedly odd since she and Tom were technically still on their
honeymoon and should have been in the googly-eyed stage of marriage.

Having family close by was not new for Pat; she had always needed them
for security.  But now that she- had Tom to keep her safe, her
relatives were puzzled by her obvious reluctance to be alone with
him.

Maybe she didn't want to say something she would regret.  She seemed
quietly heartbroken, and, in spite of her beauty, her family knew that
Pat had always required continual emotional support.  Tom's parents'
total rejection had crushed Pat.  It had leached joy from her life,
leaving her marriage flat and sere.

Tom and Pat's honeymoon was over far too soon, and the situation only
grew worse when Pat's mother, Margureitte, received an unexpected phone
call at the office of the children's dentist where she worked.  It was
from Walter Allanson himself.  "Perhaps you have some influence with
Tom," he began without preamble.

"Would you please tell him to stop doing the things he's been doing-and
to do what he's supposed to do?"

Margureitte Radcliffe was a woman who remembered long, complicated
conversations verbatim.  Her most common when was one of indignation
and shock over the behavior of less refined people, particularly those
who misunderstood her daughter, Patricia.  Pat could do no wrong in her
mother's eyes.

And, ironically, Tom could do no right in his father's.

Her voice full of disbelief, Margureitte later described the bizarre
conversation she had had with Walter Allanson.  "He told me that Tommy
had come into his ex-wife's apartment and put formaldehyde in some
milk!  [I said,] 'Did you call the police?"  He said they did and they
had it tested and there was formaldehyde in it.  They were pouring the
milk out into a glass for the little girl.  He-Mr. Allanson-said,
'Well, I'm sure Tom did it.  , " Margureitte was appalled.  It didn't
make sense.  It wasn't like Tom to do such a thing.  He loved his
children.  He would never have harmed them.  Of course she told her
daughter about the call, and when she heard about Walter Allanson's
accusations, Pat became almost unhinged with frustration.  How could
Tom allow anyone to lie about him that way?  He was permitting his
father and his ex-wife to ruin his reputation with vindictive lies.

Margureitte Radcliffe decided she had had enough.  She would not allow
anyone to hurt Patricia this way.  She spoke to Paw and Nona, Tom's
grandparents, about the trouble between Walter and Tom and Pat, but
there was nothing they could do about it.  They explained stoically
that their son was a "cold person.  He's never been wrong in his life,
never made a mistake in his life, and he's never admitted he was sorry
for anything .  . . not since he was a child."

Never famous for minding her own business, Margureitte took it upon
herself to straighten out her daughter's new fatherin-law.

On Monday, June 21, 1974, she went to Walter Allanson's law offices
without an appointment and asked to be announced.  Mary McBride was his
receptionist; her granddaughter Becky had gone to school with Pat's
daughters and she asked how they were.

Margureitte was shocked to realize that Mary didn't even know that Tom
and Pat were married.  The Allansons were certainly ones for keeping
secrets.

When Walter got off the phone, Margureitte marched into his office,
undeterred by his astonished stare.  Her memory of their first meeting
remained crystalline in her mind ever after.  "Mr. Allanson," she
said.

"I didn't want to corner and see you, but I had to come .  . . because
I've tried to have you all meet us.  I couldn't believe all the things
I've heard-that you were a stern man and a hard man-and I just can't
believe any father could be like that.  . . . Tommy's not said
anything, but I can see his heart has to be breaking inside from the
attitude that you and his mother have with him.........

Walter Allanson was hardly cowed by the indignant words of the woman
before him.  "Mrs. Radcliffe," he said ominously.  "Let me tell you
something.  I'm Scotch, I'm a strict disciplinarian, and I'm a stern
man.  I have schooled myself that when I'm finished with someone, I'm
finished with them.  I don't have a son.

"Mr.  Allanson," Margureitte said, "you don't mean that.

11 Deep down inside you, this is some kind of front that' t you are
putting on.  Deep down inside you, you have to have some feeling.  ',
"No, Mrs. Radcliffe, I do not.  . . . If Tommy would drop dead today,
I would not go to his funeral, and if he was dying and would ever call
me, I would not lift a finger to help him.  In fact, I would do
everything I can to ruin him."

"Mr.  Allanson!  Have you always felt this way about him?"

"No.  About a year ago, he changed.  I think the boy has a tumor."

Margureitte drew herself up.  "Well, if I thought a child of mine had a
tumor, rather than accusing him of things, I think I'd do everything I
could to persuade him to seek the proper medical advice."

"He won't pay any attention to me," Walter Allanson said.  Then he
mentioned the formaldehyde in the baby's milk again, and added that Tom
had also put sugar in the gas tank of his car on May 9.

"That couldn't be," Margureitte countered.  "Tom was in Stone Mountain
getting married on that day; there were at least three hundred people
at his wedding.  Really and truly, Mr. Allanson, you must have
something back in your cases and you should be looking there instead of
thinking that everything that happens is Tommy's fault."

"Well," Allanson said, leaning across his desk and glaring at
Margureitte, "I want to tell you what he did, Yesterday morning,
sometime between nine A.m.

and one-thirty P.m someone broke into our house and stole three
guns."

Walter Allanson wanted the weapons back and he instructed Margureitte
to have Tom mail them to him.  "He's not to come and bring them to me,
because I'll kill him when I see him.  If he doesn't mail them to me,
or the police department doesn't make the case against him, then I'll
get him."

Margureitte blanched.  "Mr Allanson, you can't mean that.  . . . Even
though your son hasn't done anything to you?  If he came to you and
said, 'Dad, I don't know what this is about, but can't we sit down and
talk it over and let bygones-let it be over with,' Mr. Allanson, you
couldn't forgive your son?"

"No.  I'm finished.  I don't have a son.  I don't have a daughterin-law
either.  Your daughter is not my daughter-in-law."

Her face stiff with horror, Margureitte Radcliffe left Walter W,
Allanson's office.  Her visit had only made things worse.

EveryU", one in the family felt it.  The atmosphere at Kentwood in late
June was thick with tension.

Liz Price, an old friend of Tom's and a horse show acquaintance of
Pat's, owned a farm seven miles south of Kentwood.  Her daughter,
johnette, exercised their horses three or four days a week and
occasionally rode the Morgans in shows.  Liz was present when Tom
walked into the kitchen one evening with an onion from the garden and
presented it to Pat with a flourish.  Liz was surprised to see Pat
frown and brush his hand away fretfully.  "She was always fussing at
him," Liz recalled.

Pat's daughter, Susan Alford, who was twenty-one that summer and often
came out to Kentwood with her baby son, Sean, had always been able to
gauge her mother's moods; she saw that Pat was strung out to a fine
thread.  She picked at Tom for having no backbone.  She demanded that
he defend her honor, go to his parents andforce them to welcome her
into the family circle as his wife.

Susan saw that Tom was so completely smitten with Pat that he would do
anything to please her, at least anything within his power.

But Tom knew he had no power at all with his father.  He never had.

Pat's aunt Alma rocked on the porch glider one velvet night in June,
but she couldn't relax.  "I can't put my finger on it," she commented
to Liz Price, "but something bad's fixing to happen.)$ .  . .

On June 28, Pat was alone at Kentwood.  Tom had gone over to
Barnesville to shoe horses, and Ronnie had said he would be in Zebulon
on a painting job.

It was a glorious sunny day and Pat was finally feeling well enough to
do a little more work around the place.  She got out the riding mower
to cut the grass.  In a statement she later gave to a Pike County
deputy, she described the terror she had endured that afternoon.

I was there by myself and we have a great big huge yard; we have
fifty-something acres there .  . . and I was cutting way up the very
front part of the road-which is a long way from the house.  I was on
the small riding mower and I was just nonchalantly cutting around.  I
had just started cutting .  . . a I nd I saw a truck go by.  It looked
just like our truck, a blue camper truck.  I knew it wasn't ours
because the camper top was off.  . .

. You know how something just goes through your mind and it just sort
of sticks?  I went on around-it was a good acre-and there is a big tall
hedgerow about fourteen feet high between our farm and the field next
to us and .  . . I could see the top of a camper.

I thought, Well, gee, that man must have had trouble with his truck.

.

. . And all of a sudden I got right at the end of the hedgerow where we
have a great big tall tree.  And there he stood.

Sleeves rolled up, and he just dropped his pants.  . . . I didn't know
what to do.  I slammed the brakes on the tractor and it seemed like I
was frozen for an hour, but I know it wasn't but a second."

Pat told the deputy the most shocking part of her ordeal.

She recognized the man.  She had seen him for years around East Point,
and lately his picture had been in all the papers and on political
signs.  The man who had exposed himself to her was Walter Allanson, her
husband's father!

"I was sure it was him.  The only thing that threw me offthere was a
cigar in the man's mouth.  . . . I had never seen his daddy smoke a
cigar.  . . . I have never seen him with anything except a cigarette in
his mouth.  . . . I slammed the tractor into third gear.  It doesn't go
very fast.  I headed across to go to the neighbors next door, and there
were no cars over there, so I headed back up my long, winding driveway
and another acre to get back to the house.  I ran straight into the
house."

Tom always kept his "shoeing book" right there in the house so that Pat
would know exactly where he was all the time in case she had a "sinking
spell."  Pat hadn't called the sheriff first; she called Tom.  She was
in such a panic that he could barely understand her, but then she
blurted out that his father had stood right out there in their hedgerow
and exposed his penis to her.

Tom could scarcely take in what she was saying, but one thing was
certain-she was hysterical.  "He said, 'Shug, for crying out loud, stop
and hang up the phone and call the sheriff!"  And Pat had done just
that.  The sheriff told her he was on his way, and before Pat could
dial again, the phone rang.  It was Ronnie, calling from Atlanta, where
he was visiting Margureitte.

She was so frightened that she really wasn't sure where Ronnie was, she
told the sheriff later.  She had thought he was in ZebuIon painting a
house.

But then, who knew where Ronnie was half the time?  He and his friend,
Cecil "Rocky" Kenway-who often stayed at Kentwood with him-were like
most teenagers, taking off for God knows where whenever they pleased.

Ronnie told his mother that he had had a sudden presentiment about
her.

"Mom, I don't know why-I just wanted to call and see if everything's
all right."

Pat began to tell her son what had happened, when Ronnie stopped her
and said, "Mother, are the doors locked?"

"Oh, my God, I don't know.  Wait a minute.  I'll call you back.

She set the phone down and ran to lock all the doors in the house, but
then she was struck with a terrible thought: Oh my God, what if I've
locked him in the house with me?  He could have come up the hedgerow
that lines the back of the house....

Ronnie held on the line until Pike County's chief deputy sheriff, Billy
Riggins, raced the two and a half miles from the courthouse in Zebulon
to Kentwood.  Riggins found an attractive but hysterical woman standing
at the kitchen phone, clutching an unloaded .22 rifle.  Since Riggins
didn't know it was unloaded, he gingerly removed the gun from her grip
and she handed the phone to him.  "Please talk to my son and reassure
him that you're here with me."

After.  Riggins spoke to Ronnie and hung up the phone, he was assaulted
with a torrent of words as Pat told him how horrified she had been to
see her own father-in-law standing there in the hedgerow waving his
private parts at her.  "I've been ill," she told Sheriff Riggins.  "I
have a lot of trouble with blood clotting, and what have you, and I
have to have oxygen.  I have high blood pressure and all from an
accident I was in-I just got out of the hospital.  This was the first
day I felt well enough to mow.

"My son said for me to ask you to load the gun for me, so I'll have
something to protect myself after you leave-at least until my husband
gets home."

"Where are the shells for this .22?"  Riggins asked.

"I don't know."

Tom called back just then and told Riggins where the keys to the gun
cabinet were.  The deputy chambered the rounds and showed Pat how to
shoot the gun.  She wasn't unkno*ledgeable about guns.  She could load
and shoot a .22 rifle, and she had used a much more powerful gun when
she went deer hunting with Tom the previous fall.  But she was
apparently too frightened to think straight, and her hands shook.

Riggins noted that she also seemed terribly embarrassed, and, hell,
what woman wouldn't be?  It was a humiliating thing to have to turn in
your own kin for showing off his privates.  It wasn't natural.

"Can you describe the man you saw?"  he asked.

"Yes," she began slowly.  "Of course-I mean I knew it was his father.

. .

. There he stood wearing that same kind of hat that he wears, that kind
of floppy hat, and his shirtsleeves rolled up like he does, and just
dropping his pants.  Yet at the same time I was thinking, How could it
be his father?  You know?  But I know it was him."

The Pike County deputy managed to calm Pat down and suggested that she
talk with her husband about whether they 99 wanted to bring charges
against his father.  Pat seemed composed enough when he had to leave on
another call.

This was, in fact, Riggins's second visit to Kentwood Morgan Farm.  In
early April, Tom Allanson had called him to report that somebody had
shot one of his cars full of .22 bullet holes.  The car was parked out
in back of the barn, and it looked as if somebody had used it for
target practice.  Riggins had never been able to pin the shooting on a
suspect, and Tom had had no suggestions.  There were a lot of visitors
coming and going at Kentwood, and then there was fifteen-year-old
Ronnie Taylor living there with his mother and stepfather, and from
time to time his teenage friends.  But this time a suspect had been
positively identified.

When Tom got home a few minutes after Riggins left, he listened in icy
shock to Pat's accusations against his father.  His father was a mean
SOB on occasion, but Tom couldn't even imagine Walter Allanson as an
exposer.  His father was much too controlled to do such a thing, or had
always seemed so to Tom.

Still, his dad had done about everything else he could to make their
lives miserable.

Tom called his father's law offices and no one answered.  His life
seemed to be spinning out of control.  It was one thing to have his
father angry with him.  Lord knew he was used to it.  But every day
brought some new shock.

Margureitte had told him his father didn't care if he lived or died and
wouldn't even spit on his grave if he did.  His father had accused him
of putting poison in his own baby's milk and of stealing guns from
him.

And Pat believed his father had ruined him in the job market, and would
actually kill him if he got the chance.  That was exactly what he had
told Mrs.  Radcliffe.

Even Nona and Paw had warned Tom that he might be in danger.

But this.  His father had done the unforgivable.  Walter Allanson, an
attorney at law, candidate for judge, had exposed himself to his
wife.

Tom was enraged.  Poor Pat was so sick she could barely move, her
collarbone hurt her all the time, and still she had been out there
trying to help by mowing the lawn.  How dare his father frighten and
shock her that way?

It made Tom realize that Pat had been right; he couldn't let his father
get away with it.  Neither of them could stand for such shabby
treatment.  As much as he dreaded the prospect, Tom knew that he would
have to confront his father.

Walter O'Neal Allanson and his wife, Milford-but called Carolynwere
both fifty-one in late June of 1974.  They had been married for
thirty-two years, more than half of their lives.  They lived in East
Point, a gracious suburb adjacent to Atlanta's southwest border.

Theirs was by all accounts a comfortable marriage, although some said
that Walter had strayed a bit in his forties.

If he had, Carolyn had let it go.  The woman involved was long dead.

In his fifties, Walter Allanson had grown almost puritan in his
opinions about the sanctity of marriage, as virtuous as a reformed
hooker.  If there were children involved, he was inflexibly against
divorce-a sometimes difficult stance for an attorney whose practice was
general law.

Walter was a handsome man with iron gray hair and clear bluegray eyes,
a compactly trim man-save for a slight falling away of his chin line as
he moved through middle age.  "Big Carolyn" was a plain woman who
rarely wore makeup.  Her hair was brown and combed back from her face
into nondescript waves.  She was neither slender nor fat; rather, her
figure was full breasted and solid.

The months ahead promised to be as challenging and exciting as any in
the Allansons' lives, ever since Walter had announced his candidacy for
a civil judgeship.  He had a good reputation, and there was every
reason to think he would win in the fall elections.  Carolyn truly
enjoyed her job as a nurse in a local doctor's office, but both she and
Walter came home for lunch every day.  They were always together.  If
the early fire had gone out of their relationship, they were
companionable.

Walter came from simple people, uneducated but with native
intelligence.  His childhood had been hardscrabble, and.  it was
important to him to have money against tomorrow's uncertainties.

He was shrewd when it came to real estate.  He had bought the house at
1458 Norman Berry Drive in East Point for a good price.

The neighborhood was prime then, with Norriian Berry Drive a pleasant
boulevard divided by a green strip of young trees and shrubbery in its
center island.  Russell High School, Walter's alma mater, was almost
directly across Norman Berry.

The house was built in the.  forties of dun-colored brick and white
siding with peaked dormers.  It was a solid house, set on a plateau so
high above Norman Berry Drive that a man could get winded just walking
up the driveway.  Oaks, pines, laurel hedges, and rhododendrons grew
thick, shutting out the noise of the street below and separating the
Allanson house from neighboring properties.

Carolyn's mother-"Mae Mama" Lawrence-owned the property to the west of
them, but you could hardly see her house through the foliage between
them.  Walter planted a grape arbor out back, and it thrived.  He laid
down a strip of concrete smac dab in the middle of the backyard so he
could turn around and not have to back up the 194 feet to the street.

It didn't add much aesthetically to the yard but it was practical.  And
Walter Allanson, if anything, was a most practical man.

His pragmatic view of life had cost him any relationship with his
sister jean, even though she and her husband lived only a few blocks
away.  And now his rigid moral views had shut his son out too.  Walter
detested Pat, and he would far rather lose Tom than bend even a little
toward his new wife.  Walter didn't need anyone in his life who
questioned his authority.  Tom had known that since he was a little
boy.

A number of people had reason to resent a man like Walter Allanson.

Lawyers make enemies, often unaware.  Over the :E years, he had
represented the usual assortment of clients who felt they hadn't been
given proper attention.  But Walter didn't run scared.  He had always
considered himself fully capable of defending himself.  Still, his
partner, Al Roberts, his law clerk, and his secretary had noticed that
he was jumpy and tense in the last weeks of June 1974-not at all like
himself.

On Saturday, June 29, 1974, Carolyn and Walter Allanson left the house
on Norman Berry Drive a little after nine, driving their 1963 white
Ford station wagon.  Walter wanted to check on one of his real estate
purchases.  It was a beautiful morning, with only the edges of the day
betraying the heat to come, and they headed northeast of Atlanta toward
Lake Lanier in Forsyth County, where Walter had picked up a piece of
waterfront property.  There were no buildings on it yet, but the land s
and earround homes.  He and Tommy had built a good boat dock up
there.

Then they had had a bad winter in '71 and the dock got so much ice on
it, it had sunk itself.  Tommy dove and dove and put lines on it and
they had hauled it up.  With the help of Walter's best friend, Jake
Dailey, they had cleaned it off and started all over.  Tommy had been
there working on the new dock until Walter washed his hands of him over
Pat.  Now, he would have to finish the last of it himself.

The lake was an hour's drive at most, but Forsyth County might have
been a world away from Atlanta: wherever you went you could find huge
platters of fried catfish and hush puppies, collard greens, yams,
cornbread, biscuits, and barbecue for only a few dollars.  It was well
known that Forsyth County still banned blacks after sunset.  The crude
warnings weren't posted anymore, but the sentiment was the same.  It
was said the Ku Klux Klan was active in the county.

The Allansons' old Ford station wagon, rusting out on the doors, wasn't
a suitable vehicle for a hopeful judge-to-be, but it was a good work
car.  Walter and Carolyn rode with the windows down, smelling hot pine
needles and baked red clay.  The kudzu was halfway up telephone poles
and creeping higher as it choked out weeds and fences and anything else
in its path.  They crossed the Chattahoochee and the thickets of
spindly pine trees grew denser.  Cement spillways waited in the dry
earth for a deluge to fill their hollows with rain.  In June, they were
as useless as Christmas tree ornaments.

It was too dry even to remember rain.

The atmosphere changed with each mile beyond Atlanta.  There were signs
advertising sorghum syrup, boiled peanuts, and chewing tobacco.  In
Cumming, the county seat, old men in overalls talked of other, better
days and spat brown streams of that tobacco from the front porches of
the aged red brick buildings of Main Street.

Walter slowed at the four-way stop at Hammond Corners, paused, and went
straight ahead on Route 306 until it deadended on Highway 53.  He had
driven this route so many times he barely noticed the signposts.  He
turned onto 53, and they came to the Y where they would veer off to the
left toward the lake on Truman Mountain Road.

Walter stubbed out a cigarette in the glass ashtray that perched
precariously on the dashboard and glanced over at J. C. Jones's
store.

It was quaint and jerry-built, but it was a gold mine for J. C.:
white-painted concrete blocks, gas pumps out front, and the old
signs-PEPSI, ICE, and FISH BAIT.

Jones was a shrewd old boy, rotund and cheerful.  Walter knew he had
bought up a whole mile of land along 53 when it was cheap.  He and his
pretty wife worked from six in the morning until nearly midnight,
selling everything anybody might conceivably needfrom fishhooks to
thick homemade sandwiches and lemonade.  They were always threatening
to retire, but hadn't made any move to do it.

Walter thought about stopping and then figured they could come back
down the few miles from the lake if they needed anything.  He eased the
station wagon left and headed up narrow Truman Mountain Road.  The oaks
and pin oaks and pines were dense here, enough to throw the road into
shadow.  The sunlight was only a blurry yellow haze as it was swallowed
up in the trees.  It was so quiet they could hear the whir of tires two
hundred feet away as Highway 53 passed by the back of the narrow strip
of woods.  Walter lit another cigarette and turned to say something to
his wife.

The shots came absolutely without warning-from somewhere in the woods
up the six-foot bank to their right.  There was no question of
defending themselves or of evasive driving.

Walter and Carolyn Allanson were helpless, caught in their fishbowl of
station wagon windows.

"What!"  Carolyn cried out, before her husband pushed her down and
gunned the motor.

They were hit, or rather the station wagon was.  Once, twice.

More.  No-they were hit.  Walter felt a trickle of blood on his face
and had the sense that they were both bleeding.  The splat of bullets
hit the car again and again.  The windshield spiderwebbed in front of
Carolyn, then in front of him, and then the ing window struts bulged
and the glass inside exploded.

w He kept driving and heard the back window disintegrate.

When it was finally quiet, Walter could hear again the wind in the
trees.  He looked back and saw no one at all in the woods.

With a shaky hand, he helped his wife off the floor and kept on
driving.  Both of them were cut and dappled with blood.

But they were alive.

The call came in to the Forsyth County Sheriff's Office in Cumming at
11:20', and Sheriff Donald Pirkle and Deputies Jim Avery, Randall
Parker, and Richard Satterfield responded to J. C.

Jones's store.  The station wagon had been hit nine times, and the
officers retrieved four bullet fragments from inside the vehicle.

Back up toward the lake, the sheriff and his men located an area that
could only be a carefully prepared ambush site.

Branches had been cut off a pine tree and arranged as a shield to hide
a shooter from the road .  There was a beer can on the ground with a
half inch of beer, still cool, in the bottom, and six .22caliber bullet
casings.  Behind the blind of limbs, the investigators detected a trail
through h the woods that led back to Highway 53.  There were faint
tracks in the dirt shoulder of the highway, zigzagging impressions,
indicating that a large vehicle had been parked there recently.

Someone had apparently waited quietly in the burgeoning heat of the
June morning for this particular vehicle to head up Truman Mountain
Road.  The space between the severed tree limbs had given the shooter a
perfect straight-arrow look down the road toward the Joneses' store.

It was a miracle that the Allansons had not been hit by at least one of
the bullets.  Or maybe the shooter had only meant to scare them.

Whoever it was had certainly done that.  Walter Allanson's hand
trembled as he lit a cigarette.  Yes, he answered Satterfield's
question.  He did have an idea about who had ambushed them.  "My son.

I think my son did it.  We had trouble before.  He stole guns from me a
few months ago."

Allanson offered his son's name: "Tommy.  Walter Thomas Allanson.  He
lives in Zebulon, Georgia."

Pat and Tom were having dinner that night with the colonel and
Margureitte at their Tell Road horse ranch in East Point around 6:30.

It was there that they received the message that Nona and Paw had to
talk to them at once, and that was how they learned that someone had
shot up Tom's parents' station wagon near their Lake Lanier property.

Tom wondered why his life was growing steadily more bizarre and
violent.  He had no idea who might have wanted to take a bead on his
father's car.  It might even have been an accident, some damn fool
poaching deer.  But Pat wasn't all that concerned about the ambush
incident.  Since Walter Allanson treated her like trash, his
misfortunes didn't distress her.  He was an evil man, she reminded Tom,
and he probably had a lot of enemies.  He might even have exposed
himself to somebody's wife or daughter-somebody too angry to waste time
going through legal channels to punish him.

But Tom-Tom did things by the book.  On Monday, July 1, Pat and Tom
appeared at the East Point Police Department at 5:15 P.m. Pat,
extremely agitated and tearful, did most of the talking.  She demanded
that a warrant be sworn out for the arrest of Walter 0.

Allanson, charging him with public indecency and threatening telephone
calls.  Sergeant Charles Butts informed Pat and Tom that he had no
jurisdiction over incidents occurring in Zebulon and directed them to
either the Pike County sheriff or the Zebulon Police Department.

Tom stood quietly behind Pat until she completely broke down in tears,
and then he stepped forward and told Butts, "My father's running for a
judgeship in this county.  This kind of man doesn't need to be running
for any office."  Butts swore later that he had heard Tom say softly
that "if this kind of stuff keeps up, I'll kill the bastard."

Very likely, Tom did say that.  And now both father and son had
threatened each other.  But Tom did not yet know that his father had
accused him of the Lake Lanier shooting.  Nor did Walter Allanson know
that Pat had accused him of indecent exposure.

On Tuesday, July 2, Margureitte was in her office when the phone
rang.

She was amazed to hear Walter Allanson's voice.  She had not expected
him to call her again.  Right after her first meeting with him in his
office, she was so wary of Allanson that she had gone to the East Point
police to try to tell someone he was dangerous-especially to Tom.  She
had also told the women in her office that she was afraid of Tom's
father.  Now, here he was, calling her again.

"This is Mr.  Allanson."

"Yes, Mr.  Allanson."

"Mrs.  Radcliffe, what time do you go to lunch?"

She told him that she usually had lunch between twelve and one,
depending on the patient load.  "I'll be a little late getting out
today."

"I want to tell you something, and show you something."

'Well, Mr.  Allanson, I'll be glad to talk with you."

"You'll come to my house She agreed to go, but as soon as she hung up,
her office staff surrounded her, aghast that she would even consider
such a thing.  The man was obviously unhinged and she would be putting
herself in frightful danger.  After all, he had already "shown
something" to Pat.  "You are not going over to that man's house," one
fellow worker said vehemently.  "If you try to go, I'll have to call
Colonel Radcliffe and tell him."

As it turned out, Walter Allanson was quite willing to come to the
dentist's office.  He drove up in a station wagon whose windshield was
crisscrossed with tape.  It looked as if it had been through World War
Il.  He motioned to her to look at it, and Margureitte was terrified
being so close to such a dangerous man.

Walter told Margureitte that he blamed Tom for the shooting.

She quickly replied that she knew for a fact that Tom and Pat had been
in Lithonia shoeing horses at the time Allanson gave for the ambush,
and that there were witnesses to prove it.  "Mr. Allanson, I told you
before.  Why don't you look for someone else?"

Allanson opened the station wagon door and beckoned her in.

"I was really shaking inside by that time," Margureitte said later."

'No sir, Mr. Allanson,' I told him.  'It's hot and I'm not going to
have much time to talk with you."  .  . . And then I said, 'Mr.
Allanson, I've met Tom's ex-wife one time, but I've talked to her
numerous times.  . . . Tell me really.  What kind of a person is she?

Is she a nervous person?  Is there any reason she would want to do you
harm?  Is there any way she would benefit .  .

. other than to hurt Tom?"

"Well," Allanson allowed, according to Margureitte, "she's a nervous
person and she has a quick temper, but I don't know why she would want
to do anything like this."

Margureitte continued to try to help him ferret out the real culprit in
the ambush shooting.  Fighting to stay calm, she once again suggested
that he must have a former client who hated him enough to do these
things.  And then she brought up the incident at Kentwood the previous
Friday, although it was painfully embarrassing for a lady to discuss
the exposure of male privates with someone she knew so slightly-much
less the alleged exposer himself.

Allanson stared at her as if she had taken leave of her senses.  "Mrs.
Radcliffe," he sighed.  "As a Mason and a gentleman, I swear I did not
come out to Pike County on Friday and expose myself to your daughter.

I have not been in Pike County for some time.  . . . Lady, I have high
blood pressure and I am under a doctor's care.  I take medicine for
that, and when you do this it affects your sexual life.  I have not had
sex for some time.  So why in the world would I go out there and expose
myself to your daughter?  In fact, Mrs. Radcliffe, if I were going to
be on display at a flower show, I would have to go as a dried
arrangement!

As Margureitte Radcliffe retold it later, the whole meeting with Tom's
father was thoroughly shocking, horrifying, and distasteful to a woman
with tender sensitivities.  But she was fighting for her child, and her
child's marriage.  She could scarcely force herself to keep talking to
Allanson after his crude revelations about sex, but she did it.

"Then just as I had to go, he turned around to me and said, 'Mrs.
Radcliffe, you tell Tommy that I will get him because in my heart I
know that no matter what you say, no matter what witnesses he's had,
that he is the one that is doing these things.

And I will kill him the first chance that I get.  You know what?  I
think it will be this weekend.  I think he'll try to get me.  Tell him
that he had better be able to duck better than he can shoot, because
I'm not afraid to die.  Yes, I think the whole thing will be finalized
this weekend."

Margureitte returned to her office and informed her fellow workers that
she felt Walter Allanson was a sick man, that he probably had a tumor,
and that he was very, very dangerous.

That was Margureitte's way.  If she could not reconcile other people's
behavior with her view of the world, she invariably suggested
"professional help."  Now the only thing "in the whole wide world" she
wanted to do was to protect Pat, and she had just spent an hour of
"absolute terror" with a person she considered a madman.  Perhaps Pat
should have waited before marrying into such a family.  But even so,
Margureitte would fight to the death to protect her child.  There
wasn't a thing she wouldn't do to see that Pat was happy.

Not one thing.

argureitte reported this latest encounter to Pat and Tom, but despite
all the uproar, or maybe because she and Tom needed a diversion so
desperately, Pat continued to look forward to an Independence Day
parade in which she and Tom were scheduled to ride, in costume, on two
of their finest Morgans.  She loved pageantry.  Tom smiled at how
childlike she could be sometimes, how she enjoyed dressing up and
pretending.

To please Pat, he had agreed to ride beside her, but by July 3 Tom was
fully expecting to die in the Atlanta parade, to be held July 6, the
Saturday after the official holiday.  He felt in his gut that his
father was going to shoot him right off his horse and all of Atlanta
was going to see it.  It didn't make any kind of sense -especially not
with his daddy running for judge-but what else could Tom think?  Mrs.
Radcliffe said his father wanted him dead, Pat said his father wanted
him dead, and Nona and Paw were of the same mind.

Tom was thirty-one years old, and he was deeply, desperately in love
with Pat.  But after only seven weeks of marriage, what the hell good
did it do him?  His life was draining away from him because of his
father.  He was probably going to be the top story on the weekend news,
only he wouldn't be around to watch it.

+ July 3, 1974, was a coolish rainy day in Zebulon, hardly propitious
for the holiday ahead.  On the one hand, things seemed completely
normal; Pat measured Tom for alterations to his costume for the parade
and tacked together the long skirt and bodice she would wear.  She
chattered happily about what a great showcase the parade would be for
Kentwood Morgan Farm.  But on the other hand, nothing was normal.  Pat
and Tom had gone down to Pike County to get a restraining order against
his father.  But the police and sheriff in Zebulon didn't take them
seriously.  "Everybody knew him in these parts," Tom said later.  "So
that went nowhere."

Tom no longer felt safe in leaving Pat alone on the farm.

She had him just about convinced to go see his father and have it
out.

They had to find some way to come to a meeting of the minds.

Tom dreaded the prospect.  He knew for a certainty his father would try
to kill him, but Pat kept urging him to do something.

They couldn't go on the way they were.

Walter Allanson and his friends were edgy too, and had been for
months.

Jake Dailey had lent Walter his own .32-caliber pistol earlier that
spring-just in case there was trouble.  At 10:00 on that Wednesday
morning, July 3, Jake had driven up the Allansons' driveway with a new
battery for one of Walter's boat engines.  He wasn't there more than a
minute or so when Lee and Mary Dorton-who lived two doors down'-hurried
over.  They hadn't recognized his truck and they knew Walter and
Carolyn were at work.

Everybody was jumpy.  Dailey and the Dortons grinned nervously as they
recognized each other, but they decided to check the house out as long
as they were there.  Lee Dorton and Jake Dailey noticed that there was
a light on in the basement.  That was peculiar, and Jake suggested that
they walk around the house and check all the doors.  They did that, and
found them all locked.

Everything seemed as usual.

At Kentwood Farm in Zebulon, the atmosphere was also laced with
apprehension.  Pat had been ill all during the night of July 2. She
told Tom she had exacerbated the injuries to her collarbone trying to
saddle a horse.  And she had a new torment.  "Your father-or if it
wasn't him, someone-called all night long and just breathed on the
phone.  Didn't you hear it ringing?"  she asked Tom incredulously.

"Between that crazy man and my collarbone, I didn't get any sleep."

They had a horse show to go to on Friday and the parade on Saturday,
and Tom insisted that Pat see a doctor.  She demurred at first-she had
to finish her parade costume-but Tom insisted and Pat finally agreed.

"I hadn't had any sleep since his father had started threatening our
lives," she said later.  "Tom said I just couldn't keep going on like
this, not with the high blood pressure and all the other problems I
had."

Pat couldn't get an appointment with her regular doctor, but Tom said
she should go to her orthopedist, Dr.  Thompson, anyway.

His office was on Cleveland Avenue just off Norman Berry Drive, not
more than two blocks from Tom's parents' house, but almost sixty miles
from their place in Zebulon.  Pat said she would call there.

Tom finished his horseshoeing that morning before they left for East
Point, and he made a decision.  The way to make peace with his father
would be to talk with his mother.  But that wouldn't be easy either.

He had tried to call her at the doctor's office where she worked and
she just got upset with him.  He couldn't call her at home because his
father was usually home when she was.  Tom would have to go to see her
before his father got home from work.  If he was lucky, he would have
perhaps an hour's window of time to try to talk some sense to her.

. . .

Exactly what happened on Norman Berry Drive on July 3, 1974, would be
the subject of conjecture for almost two decades.

Certain things were unarguable: Big Carolyn and Walter went, as usual,
to their jobs that Wednesday, she in her white nurse's uniform and he
in bluish gray striped trousers, a white business shirt, and a dark
gray tie.  They ate lunch together as always, promptly at noon.  Big
Carolyn got off work shortly after four, and Walter was supposed to
leave his office by six.

The only thing unusual on that day was that Walter had left his office
from 2:45 to 3:00 P.m. When he returned, he showed his secretary, Mary
McBride, what he had purchased.  It was a Marlin .45/70 lever-action
rifle with a box of ammunition to go with itthe largest caliber made.

He had paid Berryman's Sports Center in East Point $201.15 for the
gun.

In the space of just a few months, Walter had obtained two weapons-the
.32 pistol Jake Dailey had lent him and the new, powerful rifle.

It was an hour's drive or more from Zebulon to East Point and Pat and
Tom left Kentwood well before midafternoon, with Tom driving carefully
because the rain had brought up the oil slick on the roads; he didn't
want to risk any further injury to Pat."  Pat said goodbye to Tom at
Dr. Thompson's office on Cleveland Avenue about 3:30 P.m. and watched
him walk off toward his bank, where he had some business.

At about the same time, Horace Smith, a fire fighter with the East
Point Fire Department, was driving one of the department's fire rigs on
a test run down Norman Berry Drive.  He noticed the tall man striding
along the south side of the street, a man with long light brown hair
who wore Levi's and cowboy boots.  Suddenly, Smith recognized the man;
he was an old friend.

Smith yelled, "Hey, Tom!"

But the tall man didn't answer.

4

A second unusual event took place that afternoon, varying Walter
Allanson's heretofore precise schedule once more.  First he had bought
the rifle, and then he left for home early.  His staff recalled that he
had received a call at his office sometime around 5:30 from a woman who
didn't give her name.  She had been brusque.  "You'd better tell Mr.
Allanson to get home as fast as he can," she said.  "His son is headed
over there to cause trouble.

Allanson ran to his car and drove home.

Big Carolyn was already home with her grandchildren, Russ and Sherry,
whom she had picked up at the day-care center.  She carried in a case
of Cokes she had bought for the next day's picnic-and a blowup plastic
blue dinosaur for the kids' wading pool-and set them down on the dining
room table.  When Walter walked in, he unwrapped the new rifle and left
the box it came in beside the Cokes.

"Daddy," Big Carolyn told him, "it's the oddest thing.  It wasn't
lightning at all today, but the lights won't go on, and the
television's dead."

Walter ran down the basement steps and found that someone had pulled
the main switch.  He pushed the circuit breaker over and back and all
the lights came on and the refrigerator started to hum.

Within minutes, Little Carolyn-or as Walter called her,
Junior-arrived.

Suspecting that somebody had been in the basement, Big Carolyn stayed
upstairs in the kitchen with the youngsters while Walter and Junior
searched the house inside and out.  They checked all the windows and
doors to be sure they were locked, and looked to see if anything was
missing.

That was when they discovered that the phone line had been cut.

Walter said he also missed two items: an old leather suitcase and an
Excel 20-gauge shotgun he had had for years.  He went to Lee and Mary
Dorton's house, two doors down, and called the East Point police.  The
Dortons came back to his house with him, and while they were waiting
for the police, he showed them where the telephone line had been neatly
sliced in two.

According to the Dortons, Walter didn't seem anxious or even very
concerned.  He was more matter-of-fact about the situation.  After all,
it was daylight, early on a summer's evening.  And, Lord knows, it
wasn't as if he hadn't been expecting trouble.

Sergeant C. T. Callahan of the East Point police pulled up the long
driveway on Norman Berry at one minute after seven and Walter Allanson
met him outside.  He wanted to report a burglary.  "I can't tell where
he got in," he said, "but he took a suitcase and my twenty -gauge Excel
shotgun-" "He?"

"My son, Walter Thomas Allanson."

Callahan moved toward the house and said he would check it out, but
Allanson blocked his path.  "No need.  I did it myself.  I've checked
it once, and there's no one there."

Despite Callahan's concern about a citizen doing the job he was trained
for, Allanson was adamant.  He had once served as a reserve police
officer himself; he knew what to do.  There was no need for the police
to bother coming inside.  He only wanted official confirmation that the
phone line had been cut, and he led Callahan around to the east side of
the house and pointed out the dangling wire.  It had obviously been cut
deliberately; whoever did it would have had to wade through thick
rhododendron bushes to get to it.

Allanson went into the house and returned with the .45 rifle to show
Callahan.  "I got this rifle here," he said.  "I know who it is, and
I'm going to take care of it myself."

"Don't do anything drastic," Callahan warned.  "Call us first."

Shaking his head, Callahan backed down the drive.  You never could tell
about family beefs.  But you didn't argue with Walter O'Neal Allanson;
he was an outstanding citizen in East Point.  Probably half of the East
Point police force knew him.  Callahan couldn't force police protection
on him if he didn't want it.

Walter walked back in the house and put the new .45 in its box on the
dining room table.  Then, leaving Big Carolyn and the kids at the
house, Little Carolyn drove him over to her nearby apartment to be sure
that no one was waiting inside to attack her when she came home, and to
see if anything had been stolen.  The place was just as she had left it
that morning on her way to work.

They drove back to Norman Berry Drive.  On the way, Little Carolyn
spotted a blue jeep with a Pike County tag on it in front of them and
said, "Daddy, that's Pat!"

"Well, just follow her, Junior, and see where she goes."

They followed the jeep as it turned onto Norman Berry Drive and then
into the driveway right next door to the Allansons'.

That was Big Carolyn's mother's house.  Mae Mama Lawrence was getting
on in years, and they certainly didn't want her upset.

The jeep sat there for a moment, but as Walter leaped out of his car
and started toward it, Pat quickly backed down Mae Mama's driveway and
disappeared down the street.

"You go look for her!"  Walter called to Little Carolyn.  She did as he
said and drove slowly around adjacent streets, but the blue jeep had
vanished.  When she came back, Walter instructed her to stay in the
front yard and watch to see if Pat came back again.

She walked to the crest of the sloping lawn and scanned both sides of
the boulevard for Pat.

But then Sherry started crying and Little Carolyn hurried into the
kitchen to see what was wrong.  Later when she tried to reconstruct
what came next, Tom's ex-wife saw the scene in agonizing slow motion.

Big Carolyn had turned toward Mary Dorton, who was standing nervously
in the dining room.  "Well, where's Walter?"  she asked.

"He went to the basement," Mary answered.

"Whatever for?"

Mary shrugged.  "I don't know."

Although he had searched the basement before, "Daddy" Allanson,
carrying his borrowed pistol, had clomped downstairs again.  The three
women huddled together with the crying children and thought they heard
another man's voice-or maybe it was just Walter-muttering to himself in
the basement.

Suddenly, Carolyn heard her father-in-law yell up the stairs,
"Junior!

Get the kids out of the house!  I have him cornered in the
cubbyhole!"

Both Carolyns pushed the children toward Mary Dorton, who clutched them
in her arms and ran toward her own house.

Walter called up the stairs once more.  "Mother!  Bring me that new
gun!"  Still in slow motion-or so it seemed in retrospectBig Carolyn
took the .45-caliber rifle from the box on the dining room table and
headed toward the basement.  Little Carolyn begged her not to go
downstairs.

At 8:04 p.m.-almost exactly an hour after he had first responded to a
call from the Allanson residence-Sergeant Callahan's radio crackled and
he heard a familiar address.  Too familiar.

This time, the complainant was a neighbor: Mary Dorton.

"Car 26-Evening: Signal 6-Holding: 1458 Norman Berry Drive."

"I'll take it, " Callahan responded.  "I was just there an hour ago.)$
To the East Point police, "Signal 6" meant there was a burglar in the
house, and "Holding" meant that a citizen was detaining the suspect by
physically holding on to him.  It was definitely an emergency
designation, intended for the B (burglary) car on the evening watch.

Other cars moved in to back that unit up.

Callahan arrived in two or three minutes-his was the first car on the
scene.  As he pulled up the driveway and around to the rear of the
Allansons' house, a young woman came running toward him, her eyes wide
open, screaming.  Callahan couldn't make any sense out of what she was
saying; she was a hair away from complete hysteria.

He called for backup, and for detectives.  Lieutenant Gus Thornhill, Jr
a nine-year veteran with East Point, was supervising the evening
watch.

He headed for the scene, right behind the patrol units that had been
dispatched.

Callahan edged cautiously around the house.  There were two cars parked
out in back, a 1963 Ford station wagon with several shattered windows,
and a 1964 Chevrolet sedan.  Most of the windows of the house were six
or eight feet above ground, but in the rear there were several
ground-level windows in the basement.

The cellar door was a'ar, but Callahan avoided that entry until he had
some backup.  Instead, he crouched down and shielded his eyes as he
peered into one of the basement windows.

He gasped involuntarily at what he saw.  A middle-aged woman dressed in
some kind of white uniform sat upright near the bottom of the steps
descending into the middle of the basement.  There was a great splotch
of blood across her breasts, and she didn't move at all.

Had she been there all along?  Callahan wondered.  No, she couldn't
have been-not unless Walter Allanson had shot her and that was why he
hadn't allowed him to search the house on the prior call.  The first
rule of crime scene investigation was "Don't assume anything."

Callahan had no more time to ponder what might have happened.

There was a cacophony of sirens approaching, and East Point police
units raced up the driveway and parked along Norman Berry Drive.

Officers surrounded the house.  They had no idea who might be inside,
alive or dead.  They knew only that there was a burglar in the house
and a dead woman was sitting on the basement steps.

Officers peering in the basement windows could make out sprays and
droplets of blood on many walls and items in the cellar.  There was
blood everywhere.  Whatever had happened in this house, it had been
horrific.

Patrol Officer Cecil McBurnett, Jr was working a "wreck car" (accident
investigation) that evening and heard the Signal 6 go out on the
burglary on Norman Berry.  He was only three blocks away, so he
responded to give backup to Callahan.  He turned off Martin and headed
east on Norman Berry.  He was checking house numbers when he saw a man
leap from the lawn near Mae Mama Lawrence's house and hit the sidewalk
running.  The man turned to look at the patrol car, not once but
several times, and McBurnett saw him full-faced.

McBurnett did not yet have a description of the burglary suspect, but a
running man near a crime scene couldn't be ignored.

He had just spun his car around and was heading back to apprehend the
man when he heard a "Help the officer" call on the radio: "I've got a
woman shot.  The perpetrator is in the basement holding a hostage."

McBurnett's natural response was to go to the aid of his fellow
officer, so he left off his pursuit of the running man and turned into
the Allansons' driveway just behind another patrol unit.  Still, the
image of that man stayed in his mind.  He was wearing Levi's, boots,
and a green and brown striped shirt.

McBurnett had no fix on the man's size; he had been running hunched
over.  He could have been five feet ten inches tall-or six feet six.

When McBurnett arrived at the Allansons' house, he found incredible
chaos.  A young woman was screaming and out of control; more and more
police and EMTs were arriving, with their blue and red whirling bubble
lights giving the night a psychedelic glow; and the falling rain made
it seem like anything but the eve of the Fourth of July in the suburbs
of Atlanta.

Sergeant William Vance and Detective J. E. Lambert noted gouge marks on
the open basement door; it had probably been jimmied.  They also saw a
light on at the top of the steps, the bulb eerily spotlighting the body
of the dead woman.  The rest of the basement was bathed in shadows of
black and gray.  Lambert peered toward the heating and air-conditioning
unit and thought he saw an arm protruding from behind it.  Spooked, he
fired his pistol in that direction.

The round hit something metal and clanged loudly, but there was no
human movement.  The arm had been only a shadow.

Captain J. D. Lynn ordered a canister of tear gas to be thrown into the
basement, and all the doors were sealed.  If there had been a burglar
in the house on Callahan's first visit an hour before, he might very
well still be inside.  The men surrounding the house fully believed
they had a hostage situation.

They waited, officers poised at each of three exterior doors of the
house and at all the windows.  Five minutes.  Ten minutes.

No one bolted from the house, vomiting and blinded by the gas.

After fifteen minutes, Lieutenant Thornhill, Detective Lambert, and
Sergeant Vance donned oxygen masks provided by the East Point Fire
Department and edged into the basement.

It was so hard to see; tears ran down their faces despite their masks
and the fans the fire fighters had set up to air out the cellar.  They
stumbled over lumber and tools, a half-finished boat, a surfboard, a
miniature railroad track mounted on a sheet of plywood.  It was like
anyone's cellar, a repository for things to be used later, or things
once used and no longer needed.

They could make out the white-clad body sitting on the basement steps,
and, just opposite, behind the heating system, there was the brick base
of a fireplace.  It had a large rectangular hole in it-three feet high
by about a foot and a half wide-easily large enough for a man to hide
in.  They had no idea how far back it went.

Outside the hole they found a bloodstained flashlight, turned off, and
a .32-caliber pistol wedged between a surfboard and the plywood that
held the electric train.  Their own flashlights picked up a profusion
of still-liquid puddles and droplets of blood on the floor around the
hole in the base of the fireplace.

Back toward the stairs they located a .45/70 rifle and a crowbar near a
stack of interior doors.  Their tear-gassed eyes burned and blurred,
but behind the doors they discerned what looked like a leg clad in blue
pants.

They moved closer with their guns drawn.

Ca tain L nn ordered the uniformed division to fan out on foot to check
the neighborhood for a suspect.  At that point, they knew only that an
older woman was dead.  The young woman on the scene was too hysterical
to be of much help, although they knew now that she was Carolyn
Allanson, the ex-daughter-inlaw of Walter Allanson.  She repeated over
and over that someone had been in the basement and Daddy Allanson had
gone down to "get him."  She continued to babble about "Daddy" and
"Mother."

Daddy had had someone "caught in the hole" and she had begged Mother
Allanson not to go down in the cellar.  Almost as an aside, the
distraught woman said that she had seen "Tom's new wife" driving around
the block in her blue jeep.  Beyond that, she was no help at all.

When they tried to probe deeper, she lost control again.

They couldn't count on much of anything the woman said in her current
state.

It was no secret to the East Point police that Walter Allanson and his
son, Tom, had been feuding.  They had heard rumors about an ambush up
at Lake Lanier and Tom and Pat had been in to the police station only a
few days before, trying to charge his father with indecent exposure.

If Pat Allanson was in the neighborhood, the East Point police wanted
to find her as quickly as possible.  They had so little to go on as
Captain Lynn, Sergeant R. W. Jones, and Sergeant Callahan drove their
police cruisers in ever-widening circles around Norman Berry Drive,
looking for anything that seemed unusual, for someone running, and for
either Tom Allanson's blue pickup truck or the blue jeep Pat had been
seen driving. from the Allanson house.

The King Professional Building occupied the triangle of land just
between Bayard Street and the point where Norman Berry drive intersects
eve avenue.  It was new
construction, a manystoried concrete structure whose white fretwork
panels made it resemble an out-of-place mosque.  The wide cement
parking apron was almost empty of cars at 8:20 on a rainy night, but
the East Point officers spotted the blue jeep they were looking for
parked there.

They suspected this was the vehicle Carolyn Allanson said she had seen;
there was already a statewide want out on it-and on its alleged driver,
Patricia Taylor Allanson.  Callahan noted the license plate number, CY
242, a 1974 Georgia-issued plate.  A quick radio check with "Wants and
Warrants" elicited the information that the plate had been issued for a
new jeep, purchased three months before in Marietta, Georgia, and that
it indeed was registered to Patricia R. Taylor of the Kentwood Morgan
Farm in Zebulon.

In the rapidly dimming light, the three policemen could make out the
form of a woman sitting in the jeep.  There was no way of knowing if
she was alone, or if someone was crouching down beside her or behind
her.

They leaped from their police unit and approached the jeep from behind
with guns drawn.  The woman in the vehicle didn't move at all-not even
to turn her head to glance at them.

"Get out of the jeep!"  Callahan shouted.  "Get out of the jeep with
your hands up!"

For a moment there was no movement in the little blue ragtop jeep, and
then a pretty, slender woman wearing a miniskirt and a halter top poked
one bare leg out, slid to the ground, and turned to stare back at
them.

She held up one arm and gestured that she could not raise the other
because it was injured.

"Anyone else in there?"  Callahan called.

She shook her head.

"You sure?"

"I'm all alone."

Callahan and Jones moved to either side of the woman they presumed to
be Pat Allanson and led her inio the police car.  She didn't resist,
but she winced as if her shoulder hurt her.

"What is going on?"  she asked.  "What has happened?  Where is Tom?"

"Are you -A4rs.  Allanson?"

"Yes.

"Well, he shot his mother."

Pat sagged a bit, and then said forcefully, "No, he couldn't have s of
"Well, his ex-wife said he did."

Pat didn't care about what Tom's ex-wife said.  She insisted that if
anybody did any shooting, it wouldn't have been Tom.

At this point, they couldn't argue with her.  The only thing they could
be sure of was that the elder Carolyn Allanson was dead.  For all they
knew at this point, Tom might be dead too and, as improbable as it
seemed, they might be looking for Walter Allanson.  The basement up the
street had been so obscured by walls, doors, and junk that they
couldn't be sure of anything, and they hadn't yet been informed about
what the investigators back at the house might have found.

None of the police units circling the area had made any definite
sightings of Tom.  His new wife seemed to be in shock.  All she knew
was that she had been waiting for him for hours.  She was worried
sick-so much so that she had called her parents, Colondl and Mrs.
Clifford Radcliffe, to come and be with her.  She would, of course, be
glad to talk with the officers about anything they wished-if only she
could wait for her mother and daddy to get there.

She appeared panicked that the officers would remove her from the
parking lot before her mother and father arrived.  "Please don't take
me away.  They're on their way, and they won't know where to find me if
you take me away from here."

She said she had no idea where her husband might be at the moment.  He
had been wearing a brown shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots when she
last saw him.

"How tall is your husband, ma'am?"  Lynn asked.

"Tall.  Real tall-six foot three or better.  He's a very large man-but
very gentle.  I believe he weighs over two hundred pounds.

Captain Lynn got on the radio and broadcast a BOLO (be on the lookout
for) on Tom Allanson, giving the additional descriptive information on
his appearance.  The details fit the running man that Officer Cecil
McBurnett had observed just after hearing the report of "Burglar in the
house" at 1458 Norman Berry Drive.  The man had been running toward the
intersection of Cleveland and Norman Berry, and, incidentally, the King
Building.

Of course, that man had been hunched over and no one knew how tall he
was.  Had it been Walter?  Or Tom?  There was no way Lynn could be
sure.  Tom had last been seen in blue Levi's and Callahan had said
Walter was wearing blue trousers when he talked to him earlier.

Lynn, Jones, and Callahan had far too much to do to wait for Pat
Allanson's parents.  They took Pat with them as they drove slowly
around.  the neighborhood.  They stopped now and again to check garages
where a shooter might be hiding.

Pat heard the radio chatter constantly and tried to understand the
police codes.  They had told her only that Tom's mother was dead.

Shot.  They hadn't said anything about Tom's father.  Or Tom.  She bit
her lip and stared nervously out the squad car's window.

They turned from Cleveland onto Stewart Avenue and drove right past the
very spot-Nalley's Chevrolet-where Pat's brother, Kent, had died eight
years earlier.  Shot too.  Pat looked away, her thoughts known only to
herself.

After a while the police took Pat back to the King Building, where the
colonel and her mother were waiting for her.  Her mother took her hand,
and the colonel demanded to know just what was going on and why his
daughter was being detained.

The police retrieved Pat's pocketbook and sewing things from the jeep,
and they instructed the Radcliffes to follow them to the East Point
Police Department.  And there they waited, the three of them.  The
police were too busy even to talk to them.

Pat thought about sewing on her Fourth of July parade costume-just to
keep her panic down-but there didn't seem much point.

Probably she and Tom wouldn't be riding in the parade Saturday after
all.  She didn't even know if Tom was alive.

The blue jeep was towed into the city garage.  The detectives saw a
container of take-out fried chicken in the front seat, and noted it
along with their other observations.

. . .

Back at 1458 Norman Berry Drive, East Point officers had completed
their search of the basement.  Milford Carolyn Allanson still sat on
the basement steps, shot through the heart.  They had found another
body there too.  Walter Allanson lay on the floor parallel to the
steps; his body had been hidden by the stack of doors.  His new rifle
was on the floor four feet from his body, and a few feet from the body
of his wife.  There was no way of telling which of them had fired the
rifle, or if, indeed, either had.  One round had been fired from it,
and it was partially cocked with a live round half into the chamber.

Walter Allanson had obvious gunshot wounds in his face, neck, and
torso.  In all likelihood, it was his blood that had left trails of
gore over half the basement-particularly near the hole in the base of
the fireplace and then pooled beneath him as he bled out.

After Detective Marlin Humphrey, Jr took photographs, Lambert, Vance,
and Patrolman Bob Matthews removed the bodies of Walter and Carolyn
Allanson, carrying the victims up the steps to be laid out on the wet
grass of their side yard for more police photographs and to await
transportation to South Fulton Hospital.

They could not be declared legally dead without a physician; the bodies
would then await postmortem examination.

Bob Matthews, who worked as an identification officer, bagged the
.45/70 carbine rifle and the .32 pistol, which had six empty
chambers.

The investigators could not hope to do a thorough crime scene
investigation until daylight, which was still hours away.

Lieutenant Thornhill ordered the property cordoned off and stationed
patrolmen to guard it until morning.  They now knew what had
happened.

It would take them a long, long time before they knew how and why.

Jean Boggs, Walter Allanson's sister, hadn't felt well all day.  She
was standing at her stove fixing something to eat at 8:30 on the night
of July 3 when a neighbor came to the back door.  "I don't want to
frighten you, but I think something's wrong at your brother's house.

Maybe you'd better call him.

There are ambulances and police cars and everything up there."

Alarmed, jean heard the phone at Walter's house ring six, ten, twelve
times with no answer.  She didn't know, of course, that the phone line
was severed and the rings she heard were silent in her brother's
house.

When she called Mae Mama's house, a policeman answered and suggested
that she had better go on down to her brother's house.  He wouldn't
tell her anything else, nor would the desk sergeant at the East Point
police station.  That scared her.

Her husband wasn't home, but her neighbor said he would drive her over
to Walter and Carolyn's place.

"When we got up there," Jean said later, "I remember seeing oodles and
oodles of people going up and down the bank where my brother lived and
up and down the driveway-many strangers.  I also remember seeing a
television station there .  . . Channel Five."

Jean walked up to a policeman who was holding people back with his
extended arms.  When she told him who she was, he summoned Captain
Lynn, who listened quietly to her concerns.

"Ma'am, all I can tell you is that he [Walter] has been shot."

"Shot?  .  . . What about Carolyn-Carolyn, Walter's wife?"

"She has been shot too."  Jean Boggs's knees buckled as she heard Lynn
say, "They have been carried to South Fulton Hospital and I would
recommend that you go there."

Jean didn't get much more information at the hospital, which was only
two blocks away.  The receptionist summoned a nurse and Jean begged,
"Please tell me something.  Just not knowing is killing me."

The nurse turned and went down a corridor, and another nurse
appeared.

"Could I see my brother and sister-in-law?"

"No.  Two bodies are just arriving back there and they have not been
identified, and that is all I can tell you.  You'll have to wait for a
detective to get here."  Both nurses seemed upset, and they evaded all
Jean's desperate pleas for information.

It was a nightmare.  Jean demanded to see Lieutenant Thornhill, who she
had been told was in charge.  She knew Gus Thornhill.  Surely he would
be straight with her.  She would identify her brother and
sister-in-law.

Who else was there?  Her parents were too old to go through this, and
she didn't even know where her nephew Tommy lived now.

Thornhill hurried over, and when Jean saw him he was holding Carolyn
Allanson's driver's license in his hand.  Her heart turned over.  "Are
Walter and Carolyn back there dead?"  she breathed.

"Yes."

"Can I see them?"

"Mrs. Boggs."  Thornhill looked away from her and took a deep
breath.

"I have known you a long time, and I feel like a friend of yours.  I'm
going to ask you out of friendship not to go and look."

"IV'hat haPPened?"

"Tom killed them.

No.  NO!  Tommy wouldn't do that.  It didn't make any sense to jean.

Vaguely, she was aware of a television set in the background.  The
shootings were already on the news.  Everyone was looking for her
nephew, Tommy, who was believed to be wounded.  All Jean could think
was, My Lord, I will have three to bury instead of two.

And then jean realized that she had to get to her parents and tell them
before they turned on the television.  It would kill Paw and Nona to
hear it like that.  Gus Thornhill said he would drive her to the elder
Allansons'.

As Thornhill and Jean Boggs left the hospital, they passed an ambulance
parked at the ER doors.  One of the two back doors was open.and Jean
saw a body covered by a bloodied sheet.  One bare foot stuck out.

Transfixed with horror, she was drawn toward the ambulance.  It took
both Thornhill and her neighbor to pull her away.  "Gus, I want the
truth," Jean said.  "Is that Walter?  Is that my brother?"

"Yes, ma'am, but I must still ask you not to look."

When jean and Gus Thornhill reached the elder Allansons' place on
Washington Road, she asked her father to sit down, but he stood,
resolute, braced, an old man who had known tragedy before and survived
it.

"Paw," Jean said softly.  "Walter and Carolyn have been killed -1 don't
know any way to break this to you any gentler-and they're looking for
Tommy, Paw."

Paw's first words were hollow.  "Well, I have been expecting something
like this."

When they told Nona, she began to scream and scream.  Her physician,
Dr.  Lanier Jones, came over to give her a shot so she could sleep.

Paw was worried sick about what might have happened to "the boy."  He
called down to Kentwood and the phone rang twenty times, an empty sound
in an empty house.  He would keep trying until he got Tommy on the
line.  When jean finally got home, she realized that she was still
clutching an envelope they had given her at the hospital.  She stared
at it blankly, wondering what it could be.

"I dumped the contents of the package I had into my hand," she later
recalled, "and it was my sister-in-law's rings and they were just
coated with blood, and with that I said, 'Oh my God, I just can't stand
any more!"  Gus Thornhill called Detective George Zeliner at home at
9:30

P.m. on the night of July 3 and asked him to come in to the station to
interview two subjects: Carolyn Allanson the younger and Patricia
Taylor Allanson.  When Zeliner arrived at East Point police
headquarters, he was given a rundown on what was known so far about the
double murder which wasn't much.  Zellner had been with the East Point
department for two and a half years, and he had been a detective for
only a year.  He was a thin-but muscled-young man.

It was ten minutes to eleven before Zellner could turn his attention to
Patricia Allanson, who was waiting nervously on one of the station's
long oak benches.  He saw a very attractive woman with startling green
eyes.  She wasn't crying; she looked exhausted and apprehensive.

The older couple with her were being very solicitous.

Zellner explained to Pat that under the Miranda decision he had to read
her her rights as she was-at least nominally-a suspect and/or a
material witness in the shooting deaths of her husband's parents.  Pat
signed the waiver with only a trace of concern.

With Detective Lambert standing by as a witness, Zellner began to
interview Pat.  "Mrs. Allanson, I wonder if you would start with this
afternoon?"  he asked.  "What happened leading up to your husband's
disappearance?"

Pat spoke rapidly and breathlessly; she had waited so long to talk to
someone.  Zellner had only to ask a short question here and there to
keep the flow of her thoughts channeled into some sort of order.

She began with her own numerous physical problems, her sleep
deprivation, and Tom's absolute insistence that she see a doctor.

"We finished shoeing horses in the morning.  . . . Then Tom brought me
in and took me to Dr. Thompson's office like he always does, 'cause I
can't drive without it hurting me.  . . . He walked up to the door with
me like always.  . . . It must have been threethirty-something like
that.  I got through at the doctor's and Tom still wasn't in the
waiting room, so I went outside and the jeep was there.  . . . When he
left me, he walked in the opposite direction toward the C&S Bank.  I
thought he was going up there to talk to them about a loan he has
there.  He was trying to get an extension on it because he had been
having to pay so much alimony and so much court costs and all and his
father had made him lose a couple of jobs he had, and he had been
begging and pleading with his father to leave us alone.  His father
would call and make threats and his father came out to our house last
Friday when I was cutting grass .  . . and exposed himself.7 .  . .

Then he [Walter] called and told my mother to tell Tom that he was
going to kill him.  . . . Tom had said several times he was going to
see him, and I said, 'No, just leave him alone.

Pat shifted gears suddenly.  "I waited and waited for Tom and he didn't
come, and he has never left me like that."

"What time did you come out of the doctor's office?"

"They took me so soon .  . . they weren't very busy today.  I went in
and he took the X ray of my shoulder.  I don't think I was in the
doctor's office over an hour at the very most.  . . . I went outside
and Tom wasn't in the jeep .  . . and I had the skirt for the costume
and I started working on it.  I kept looking at my watch and I went
back in the office and asked if I could use the phone.  I was going to
call over to my daughter's.  . .

. It wasn't like him at all and I was beginning to get worried about
him because of the threats his father had made to him.  The first thing
that entered my mind was that just maybe .  his mother and father had
driven by and maybe he was talking to them, or maybe he had gone to
talk to them.  . . . I waited and waited and waited.

Then I really started getting nervous.  . . . It was really getting
late.  . . . It must have been six because all those cars from across
the street in the professional buildings-everybody was coming out of
there.  I was trying to figure where there was a telephone.  . . . The
only telephone I knew of was in the King Professional Building.  I got
in the jeep and drove there.  . . .

Tom knew I couldn't drive that thing any great distance without it
hurting me.  So I tried to call his mother's office and there was no
answer-" "Where does she work?"

"At Dr. Tucker's office.  I looked that number up.  I had to go into
that chicken place and get some change.  . . . I was so nervous .  .

.

I didn't know whether he got run over by a car or something!  I started
thinking, Now just stop and think.  I called the hospital first to see
if there had been anybody hit by a car or anything.  I knew he had his
wallet in his pocket.  . . . He had his jeans on."

"Were there any guns with him or anything?"  Zellner asked.

"He didn't have any guns with him.  . . . Tom couldn't kill anybody."

Pat explained that Tom's parents and maternal grandmother lived very
close to her doctor's office.  "Tom .  . . told me he was going to talk
to them one more time: 'I am going to beg and plead with them,' the
said].  I said, 'Don't beg and plead with your father.  just leave him
alone.  Maybe if we just leave them alone, they will leave us
alone."All we were trying to do was just start over again.

Pat said she had called everyone she could think of-Tom's parents'
house, his mother's office-but she didn't know Mae Mama's number, so
she had gotten in the jeep and driven around looking for Tom, becoming
more and more concerned.  She called her own house in Zebulon, although
Tom would scarcely have had time to travel all the way to Pike
County.

She even called Liz Price and told her Tom was missing.  Pat said she
had finally called her mother and father to come and help her.

Zellner noted that Pat Allanson was highly dramatic as she described
her terror.

"I sat there and started working on the skirt .  . . out in the open
lot.  I didn't want to get too close to the building.  I knew it would
get dark up there, and I didn't know anything about who might be
hanging around up there."

"You never did actually go to his mother and father's house?"

"No.  I drove into his grandmother's drive.  . . . I was gong to try to
talk to her but I chickened out at the last minute.

I thought, No, this is stupid.  They won't talk to me anyway.

They will probably just shoot me because they have threatened to kill
us both."

The picture Pat painted was of two young people in love, besieged by
wicked in-laws and a vindictive former wife.

Zellner heard at least a half-dozen times about the "excessive"
alimony, the lecherous exposing father-in-law, the threats and the
strange calls in the middle of the night.

It sounded as if she had been living in hell.  She appeared to be a
helpless, ill, and inured woman who had spent hours gripped by anxiety
when her husband failed to meet her at her doctor's office.

"Do you have any idea where he might have gone?"  Zellner asked about
Tom.

"I don't know unless he has gone home.  But how could he go home.  I
don't know how-" "Where are you-all living now?"

"We have a farm in Zebulon.  I bought a farm down there.

When Tom and I were married, we moved out there.  . . .

Everybody knows it by 'the Pat Allanson farm."  I have had a Morgan
farm for over fifteen years in Georgia and I am known for my horses.  I
moved down there to get away from up here for us to start again."

"Is anybody at home now?"

"No.  In fact, the farm is unlocked.  Everything is wide open because
we expected to come right on back.  We have horses that haven't been
fed, cows-or anything."

"Did you say you don't think Tom would be capable of anything like
that?"  he asked, meaning murder.

"Listen to me, " Pat said fervently.  "The only way Tom could hurt
anybody is if they tried to hurt him first.  Tom couldn't go in there
and do something to somebody just out of the clear blue sky.  No way.

Not Tom."

"Even if all this back pressure had built up on him?"

Pat shook her head impatiently.  The police were wasting time by not
questioning Tom's ex-wife Carolyn Allanson further.

"Tom wouldn't have gone off and left me there unless it was vitally
important or unless he wasforced to go .  . . or they did something to
him.  I don't know.  But if he went back to their house with them, I'll
guarantee Carolyn would not have wanted them to talk.  . . . If they
listened to Tom, then they would have found out that she parties and
that she leaves those childrenand all kinds of things that she didn't
want them to know.  . . . Tom didn't shoot anybody unless somebody
tried to hurt him first, and I still don't believe he even shot anybody
then."  But she said she would not put-it past Carolyn to use a gun.

She has shot at Tom before-when they were living together.  . . . I
still remember him being late to shoe horses at my place because of
that.  . . . But if he was caught in the middle of it-if everything has
tried to be pinned on him-" Pat drew herself up as if she were about to
make a most important pronouncement.  "If he is running, he is running
because he is scared because somebody is going to try to put it on
him.

" "Would you have any idea where we might find him?"

"Where would a man go with no money-if he even has a dollar?

He would listen to me, but I don't know where to look for him.  Do you
think I don't want to find him?"

"If you should hear from him, be sure and let us know."

"Listen," Pat said earnestly.  "Is there any way?  I don't know if he
is near a radio or television.  Isn't there any way?  If I could just
tell him to come in "We'll see what we can work out," Zellner said.

"If we can do it."  Pat Allanson was eager to go on television to give
a dramatic plea to her fugitive husband-if that was what it would take
to get him back.  "If they haven't killed him," she said bitterly, and
Zellner wasn't sure whether she was referring to his parents or the
police.

"No," Zellner assured her.  "Nothing like that-yet.  But it could come
to that if we don't get him."

Pat, supported tenderly by the Radcliffes, was allowed to leave the
East Point police station after Colonel Radcliffe posted a
thousand-dollar bond.  She would be staying with her parents at their
Tell Road stables until Tom was found.

Zellner interviewed Carolyn Allanson next and failed to make much sense
out of her story.  She was still in shock.  She kept repeating that
Daddy Allanson had been searching for a burglar in the house, that he
had gone down to the cellar and called to Mother Allanson to bring down
his new rifle.  Through tears, Carolyn told Zellner that Daddy had
saved her life and her babies' lives by ordering them out of the
house.

She did not mention a shooter-or shooters-by name.  Zellner decided to
talk with her again when she had regained a modicum of control.

Chief Deputy Billy Riggins of the Pike Count Sheriff's 0

e was at home late in the evening of July 3, 1974.  Five days before,
he had shown a panicky Pat Allanson how to load a gun to protect
herself from further sexual advances from her father-inlaw.  Her
complaint was certainly peculiar, but it hadn't seemed to be a major
incident, and Riggins hadn't expected to hear from the Kentwood Morgan
Farm again soon, although the sheriff's office had received an
inordinate number of calls from the Allansons in the short time they
had occupied the property.  Riggins had half a suspicion that the lady
was one of those nervous types.  For all he knew, she'd seen a stalk of
corn waving in the wind and imagined an ear of corn right into a man's
pecker.

But then it had been the very next day, just four days ago, when
Riggins went out to Kentwood again at the request of the Forsyth County
Sheriff's Office.  Walter O'Neal Allanson, the alleged exposer, and his
wife had been ambushed near Lake Lanier in that county.  Riggins had
checked out the Allanson farm on June 29 and reported back that no one
was home.

The new residents were proving to be anything but boring.

Nevertheless, Riggins was shocked on this rainy Wednesday night when he
got a call forwarded by the Pike County dispatch center.

The East Point police wanted him to send deputies out to Kentwood Farm
and see if there was any activity there.  Most particularly, they asked
him to be on the lookout for Walter Thomas Allanson, the owner, who was
being sought for questioning in the murder of his parents.

Riggins sent deputies out to sit on the place, and they waited in the
drizzling rain.  They reported back that the house and barn were
apparently empty, and that there were no vehicles on the premises.

Riggins asked them to call him back the minute they caught sight of Tom
Allanson.

Sometime after 2:30 A.M Riggins's phone rang.  Deputies had just seen
Tom walking into his house.  Riggins called the GBI (Georgia Bureau of
Investigation), the sheriff's office in Spalding County-which adjoined
Pike County-and the Griffin Police Department and asked for assistance
in apprehending Allanson.  Tom had always seemed like a real pleasant
fellow, but he was huge and, if the East Point police had their
suspicions right, had just blown his mother and father away.

Riggins was not about to go in with his tiny squad of men to arrest
Allanson.  Next, Paw Allanson called Riggins to say Tom was home.

Riggins dialed the Allansons' number and was more than a little
surprised when Tom himself answered the phone.  Tom sounded
exhausted-but quite rational.

"You know we're good friends, Tom," Riggins began.  "I got a warrant
here for your arrest, and your granddaddy has called us and said you
were home.  I don't want any problems or anything."

"That's okay," Tom said.  "It was me who told Paw to call.  I won't
cause you no problems."

And he didn't.  Tom Allanson walked out the front door of his house at
3:00 A.M. and was arrested for murder.

Riggins read Tom his rights under Miranda and advised him that there
were two warrants charging him with the murder of his parents.  He
studied Tom Allanson's face for a reaction.  He saw no tears.  Nor did
he see surprise.  The man before him seemed mostly very, very tired-and
quite possibly in a state of shock.

Riggins didn't question Tom.  Rather, he held him in the Pike County
'all for the hour or so it took for Detective Georg I e Zellner and
Sergeants C. T. Callahan and Bill Vance to arrive to transport the
prisoner back to Atlanta.  Outside, the gray rain drummed against the
courthouse in Zebulon and the wind scattered scarlet petals from the
geraniums in the stone urns.

It was just before dawn in Zebulon when the East Point officers
arrived.  "You've already been advised of your rights, but we have to
do it again," Zellner explained to Tom.  "We've got two warrants here
charging you with the murder of your mother and your father-" "And
that's about as ridiculous as it can be," Tom answered, his voice flat
with fatigue.  He turned around willingly and waited while the East
Point investigators looked for a pair of handcuffs big enough to circle
his massive wrists.

They drove back to East Point in a deluge.  It was officially the
Fourth of July now.  The tape of the East Point investigators'
conversation with their suspect was blurred by the loud drum of rain on
the police unit's roof and the steady swish-swish-swish of windshield
wipers.

"What happened this afternoon?"  Zellner asked.

Tom explained that he and his bride had had a "big disagreement" two
nights before-July 2-and that they had continued their "fussing" during
their trip to her doctor's appointment.  "I finally just told her I was
gonna leave, give her the money, the house, and everything else-I
wasn't any good for her-I wasn't doing anything but hurting her-and I
Just left and started for home."

Tom estimated he had left Pat about 5:00 P.m. the evening before and
walked and hitchhiked his way back to Zebulon.  "But I mostly
walked."

Tom told Zellner that he had realized how bad he was for Pat, that it
must be him who was making her so unhappy and sick.  It didn't seem to
matter how much he loved her.  But then he had changed his mind.

"About halfway home, I realized that was the worst thing I could do,
'cause she couldn't get along without me."

His story was simple.  He had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion once
he got home.  He wasn't running from anyone, he said, because he had
done nothing wrong.  He hadn't even known his parents had been killed
until his grandfather had called him.

Tom was voluble about his problems with his father, recounting all the
acrimony and infighting over his recent divorce.  Tom hadn't seen his
father outside a courtroom, he said, since he had been kicked out of
the family home the winter before.  He hadn't wanted to see him, and he
certainly wouldn't go over to his parents' house when his father would
just as soon shoot him as say " Howdy.

He suggested his father had had enemies-someone out to get him ever
since he had announced for judge.  "But I don't know why anyone would
want to kill my mother," Tom said quietly.  "She's a good woman.  She's
always been a good woman."

Tom told Zellner-just as Pat had-that his ex-wife Carolyn was a woman
completely out of control, particularly when she drank.

"But they've taken her under their wings-since the divorce.  They paid
for her lawyer, and she works at the office with Mother.  But she gets
drunk now and then, and calls and tells me, 'I want to see you dead."

" For a man in his precarious position, Tom talked too much, coming up
with theories and obscure suspects.  He couldn't seem to bear the
silences.  His drawl was laconic and slow, nothing like Pat's
rapid-fire speech, but he talked a lot.

"There was a girl that committed suicide on my granddaddy's farm," he
suddenly remembered.  "She was an alcoholic.  I flat know my daddy was
playing around with her.  My granddaddy said Daddy got all her stock in
her company when she died.  But I know for a fact my daddy was playing
around with her-that old gal would get drunk and she'd just talk and
talk and talk.  That's back when I was in college."

The woman had been married, Tom-explained.  "She used to come over to
the house all the time, get drunk, and crawl all over him all the
time.

My mother wasn't there, and I don't think [her husband] knew anything
about it.

Tom paused in deep thought.  "You know, I still loved him as a father,
but it was kinda hard to understand at the same time what he was
doin'."

Tom denied that he had a bad temper.  He had never had a fight or hit
anyone-"off a football field."

"Paw called me tonight," Tom said, recalling his conversation with his
grandfather.  "I asked him to call the sheriff's back there, and let
them know I was here.  He said, 'Are you all right?"  and I said,
'Yeah, except for I'm going to Jail."  He said he heard I was shot, and
I said, 'Well, I'm not."

Tom had a scrape on one leg.  That was all.  He figured he had got that
somewhere while he was walking home from East Point.

Sixty miles.  A very, very long walk.

Tom was adamant that he had not been at his parents' home earlier in
the evening, or anytime in the past several months.  He himself had
begun to wonder-after talking to Margureitte Radcliffe-if maybe
somebody was trying to set both him and his father up, some unknown
enemy stalking them.  Both Tom and Walter had been getting weird,
threatening phone calls.

Could that be possible?  Was there someone who didn't care if both Tom
and Walter Allanson died, someone who might even have something to gain
from their deaths?  It was a far-out theory.  Too far out.  A dozen
hours after the murder, the East Point detectives were almost positive
that they had the right man in custody.

Tom Allanson.

As soon as Tom arrived in East Point, he learned that Pat had hired an
attorney for him: Calhoun Long.  On his attorney'sand his
wife's-advice, he had nothing more to say to detectives.  . . .

All murder seems senseless.  But this double murder seemed more so than
most.  Two responsible, well-known citizens of East Point were dead and
their son was in Jail.  He wasn't a man with a criminal background, nor
a man on drugs or on the street.  He was a man with a new marriage, a
fine farm, a good reputation among horse people and with everyone he
had worked for.  He was a good old boy, easygoing, likable, and kind.

Nobody but his ex-wife and his parents had ever had a bad word to say
about him.  Why would Tom Allanson throw all of that away in a moment
of blind rage?

Even Tom's demeanor on the long ride back from Zebulon warred with the
image of a man given to blind rages.  Rather, he had showed no emotion
at all.  His parents had not been dead twelve hours, and yet the three
detectives had seen no tears nor heard any choking up in his voice as
he discussed their deaths.

That bothered them.

Susan and Bill Alford were far away from Atlanta when they heard the
devastating news of the double murder of Pat's in.

laws.  They were headed to Colorado to pick up some prize Morgan horses
for Kentwood Morgan Farm.  Before dawn, they received a call at their
motel telling them to come back home at once; there had been a
tragedy.

Both Susan and her great-aunt Alma had had some foreboding of disaster,
a sense that "something bad was fixing to happen," but this news was
beyond anything they might have envisioned in their worst nightmares.

Pulling a still-empty horse trailer, Bill and Susan Alford turned
around and headed home.

The East Point police investigators would not sleep for another day.

Nor would they celebrate the Fourth of July in the traditional way.  At
the first clear light of day, they were back at the crime scene.

Detective George Zellner, Sergeants Maulin Humphrey and C. T. Callahan,
searched the interior of the house, and Sergeant Bill Vance and a
uniformed squad combed the sodden yard.

As Vance and his crew worked their way through ivy and underbrush
between the Allansons' house and the house to the east, Vance found a
shotgun 135 feet from the basement steps.  It lay where it had
apparently been dropped, its stock protruding along the fence line on a
dirt path that ran between the Allansons'side yard and that of Paul and
Harriett Duckett, who lived next door.

The gun was 40 feet from the sidewalk.  It was an Excel singleshot
shotgun, exactly like the gun that Walter Allanson had reported stolen
when Callahan answered Allanson's first complaint the night before.

It was fully cocked and loaded.

As they were searching the area, the officers moved into the Ducketts'
yard.  "There's no need for you to be pulling up geraniums and stomping
through there," Harriett Duckett scolded.

Vance and Patrolman Bob Matthews apologized, but geraniums were
expendable at the moment.

The Ducketts said they had both seen a tall man running down the dirt
path about 8:00 the night before.  Their dog Roman had barked
frantically.  Later, Paul Duckett had attempted to alert the police
swarming over his neighbors' property, but the scene had been one of
such confusion that he had been waved back toward his own house.

"My first sight of him was nothing but legs because of the dogwood
trees," Duckett said.  He weighed close to 250 himself, so he was a
good judge of size when he described the man's appearance as he broke
into the open.  "I saw his right profile when he hit the street.  There
was a police car there, kind of keeping pace with him.  Then it turned
around and came back next door.  The man was tall, probably weighed
over two thirty, and he had on dark pants and a light shirt.  He was
holding on to himself - " Duckett demonstrated by clutching his own
side.

Harriett Duckett, who was still surveying the damage to her garden, had
seen the man too.  He had run off the patio, into the clearing right at
their driveway, and then headed east past the Pilgrim Press Building on
the corner.

Both of them were a little annoyed that their tips to the police had
been ignored, and Harriett recalled that she had finally managed to get
a patrolman's attention about 10:30 the night before and said, "Look,
you missed your man.  He went around the corner on Harris Street."

Neither of the Ducketts had met the Allansons, so they had no idea if
it was Tom they had seen.  They had heard no shouts or shots before
they saw the running man; only later, when the tear gas was fired into
the Allansons' house, did they hear a sound of shots.

They agreed to attend a lineup on July 6.

Inside the Allansons' basement, the lingering smell of tear gas
droplets stung the eyes of the investigators.  In the daylight
filtaring from the windows, Sergeant Callahan and Patrolman Bob
Matthews could see that most of the bloodshed was near the stairway
where both victims had been found and back at "the hole" in the brick
fireplace wall.  The basement floor was spattered brown-red with
now-dried blood all around the furnace and the area in front of the
hole.  The hole in the brick wall led to an area about six feet by ten
feet, large enough for a man to hide in-not comfortably, but it was
possible.  Looking out, the line of sight would be straight ahead to
the stairway down from the kitchen.

The hole itself had a dirt floor and was partially filled with jun,- an
old lemonade cooler, burlap sacks, paper bags full of nails.  With
flashlights held at an oblique angle, the investigators could see seven
marks on the bricks inside the hole that had been left by ricocheting
bullets.  Fragments of those bullets were also visible, along with
chips of concrete.

And yet they found no blood at all in the hole.  There was blood on the
wall outside the hole, and the trail of blood on the floor led from the
opening in the wall all the way to the bottom of the steps eighteen
feet away, where blood had spurted and cascaded until the body that
contained it could no longer stand upright.  They scraped samples for
typing, but it seemed obvious that it was Walter Allanson who had bled
here.  His wife had never moved after she sat down on the stairs.

Carefully, Matthews and Callahan bagged the fractured chunks of bullets
they found on the dirt floor of the hole.  There were no bullet casings
in the hole itself, but a dark blue shotgun cartridge lay on the floor
just outside the rectangular aperture.

Vance found one shotgun pellet inside the hole too.  And when Matthews
lifted a piece of wood in front of the hole in the wall, he found a
second 20-gauge shotgun cartridge.  This one was yellow.

The one vital bullet they never found was the single round that had
been fired from the .45/70 Marlin rifle that Big Carolyn had carried
down the stairs, obeying, as she always had, her husband's orders.  The
spent casing was there all right, next to the rifle itself.  The slug
was gone.

The detectives were also puzzled that there was no blood inside the
hole; firing into that hole would be akin to shooting fish in a
barrel.

And hadn't Little Carolyn Allanson said that Daddy Allanson had called
out, "I've got him trapped in the hole"?

If Tom Allanson was the one in the hole, he was lucky to be alive.

In fact, he had no wounds, nothing beyond a quartersized abrasion on
his left leg.

Ballistics-bullets, cartridges, casings, fragments, line of fire,
angles, ricochets-were tedious, but in a case like this one, they were
essential to finding the truth.  This basement had been a shooting
gallery where two people died, and it was highly unlikely that they had
shot each other.  That meant that at least one person had survived.  To
reconstruct, the East Point detectives had to find everything they
could, everything-tangible and intangible-left behind by the guns
involved.

It seemed obvious that the Excel shotgun had been fired two times, the
.32 pistol six times, and the new Marlin .45/70 rifle only once.  The
question was, who had shot which weapons?

And why?

Belatedly, Pat Allanson was given a paraffin test on her hands to see
if she had recently fired a gun.  The test was designed to turn up
primer residue-if the subject had not washed her hands, smoked a
cigarette, used toilet tissue, or performed other normal human
functions.  It was not the most accurate test for gunshot residue, and
Pat was not given the test until early July 4.

The test results were negative.

Tom Allanson was also tested for gunshot residue.  He remarked to the
officers who were administering the test that he had done some target
shooting a few days before.  Even so, his testlike his wife's-was
negative.

Tom was being held in the East Point jail and Pat was staying with her
parents on their Tell Road farm.  Their neighbor Liz Price and Pat's
son, Ronnie, tended to the animals at Kentwood Farm, the paradise Tom
and Pat had created in Zebulon.  They had been married only fifty-four
days.  It was perhaps inevitable that when the Griffin Daily News
printed the story of the Allanson murders under the headline NEW
RESIDENT OF PIKE COUNTY HELD IN DEATH OF HIS PARENTS, it once again
featured the picture of Pat and Tom on their wedding day, dressed as
Scarlett and Rhett.

				 While investigators swarmed over their home, the late Walter and
Carolyn Allanson awaited autopsy by Dr. Robert Rutherford Stivers,
chief medical examiner of Fulton County.  In the six years since
Stivers had come to Fulton County, he had performed some thirty-eight
hundred autopsies, and on this gloomy Independence Day, he set about to
do two more.

He noted that Walter O'Neal Allanson weighed two hundred pounds and
measured sixty-nine inches tall; like most humans in late middle age,
he had shrunk a few inches since his youth.

' @ i Dictating into a tape recorder as he worked, Stivers described
what he found: "The body is clothed in a white shirt, blue and white
pants and underwear, black shoes and socks.  . . . The body temperature
is cold and rigor mortis is present in the extremities.  The
examination of the exterior .  . . shows multiple entrance gunshot
wounds.  These are present in three rather distinct patterns.  They
number twenty entrance wounds altogether.  . . . There is a cluster of
wounds within a five-inch-in-diameter circle on the left side of the
face and neck, with the center of this circle overlying the angle of
the mandible [the back edge of the jaw!, and there are ten entrance
wounds in the left side of the face extending from the area of the nose
and the upper lip and down across the neck.  . . . There is, secondly,
a cluster of wounds in the back of the left wrist and hand extending
for a total distance offourinches.  . . . These number five wounds.

"Then there are five wounds in a scatter pattern over the chest of the
decedent, one each in both shoulders, one over the lower portion of the
sternum-ahh, central upper abdomen-and then one each in the right and
left abdominal quadrants.  . . .

Dr. Stivers determined that the wounds to the hand, the shoulders, and
the abdomen had not passed through any vital organs.  The deadly trauma
had come from the wounds to the face and neck.

"There is a path of destruction extending .  . . in a slightly upward
from left to right direction .  . . passing through the left carotid
artery and causing massive hemorrhage into the left side of the neck
and into the larynx [voice box] .  . . with destruction at the base of
the tongue.  Death was caused by gunshot wounds to the face and
chest."

Walter Allanson had bled to death when the carotid artery, which ran up
the left side of his neck, was severed.  But in Dr. Stivers's opinion,
he could have moved about, walked forty or fifty feet, and even fired a
pistol after he sustained the wounds he did.  He could not, however,
have spoken or shouted.

His tongue and larynx had been virtually obliterated.

Carolyn Allanson, Dr. Stivers recorded, had been five feet five inches
tall and weighed 130 pounds.  She wore a white nurse's uniform, blouse
and pants.

"There are perforations of the clothing of the left upper and anterior
panel of the blouse.  . . . Upon examination .  . . there are multiple
perforating wounds of the left upper chest within a four-inch-diameter
circle with fourteen entrance wounds .  . . [that] include the left
breast of the decedent.  . . . There are multiple missile tracts of
destruction which pass through the tissue of the left breast, the
sternum, the upper heart, and the right lung.  . . . Death is
determined to have been caused by a shotgun wound to the chest."

Carolyn Allanson had died almost instantly.  "The'upper portion of the
heart is totally destroyed, as well as a portion of the right lung.

.

. . There may have been a moment or so of consciousness until the lack
of oxygen to the brain cells would take place, but for all practical
purposes, she died immediately.  The top of the heart is essentially
missing."

Dr. Stivers speculated that Carolyn Allanson might have had some
spasmodic muscular movement for a short period of time.

Could she have cocked a rifle?  Possibly.  Could she have pulled the
trigger?  Possibly.

Pat went to the East Point J'all and insisted on seeing her husband.

She was led into a visiting area and was disappointed because she had
intended to give him a big hug to show him that everything was all
right.  Instead, the officers pointed to a chal in front of a glass
panel.  She would not be allowed to touch Tom; she could only talk to
him on the phone that hung on the cubicle wall.

Tom looked terrible.  He had stubbly whiskers and she could tell he
hadn't slept.

"I have everything taken care of, Shug," she began.  "Now you just
remember that I'm handling this.  Don't say anything.  I've got you a
good lawyer.  You just trust me and you don't talk to anyone else, you
hear me, Sugar?"

He nodded.  She was so brave.  When he began to ask her something, she
glanced sideways at the cops and put her finger to her lips, shushing
him.

"Shug, just you hush.  I'll be back."

Still reeling from shock, Jean Boggs struggled to hold what was left of
her family together.  She was an attractive, slender brunette, but her
face was drawn with tension now.  She went to the East Point city jail
a little later in the day on July 4. The police were not eager to let
her see Tom, but finally George Zellner told her she could do so-if he
was allowed to be in attendance.

Jean had not seen her nephew Tommy in a year or two-an indication of
how alienated this family had become.  She offered to get him an
attorney, and Tom replied, "Well, you will have to get in touch with
Pat.  She'll be handling all that.  She probably already has someone
picked out."

"Pat?  Pat who?"  Jean asked, mystified.  My wife."

"Aren't you married to Carolyn?"

"No.  We got divorced, and I married Pat Taylor."

For the moment, Jean was dumbfounded.  Just as Mary McBride, Walter's
secretary, hadn't known Tom was remarried, neither had his own aunt.

Tears rolled down Tom's cheeks as he assured his aunt he had not killed
his parents.  "You know how it was.  I was frightened to death of
Daddy, but I would have no reason to shoot and kill Mother.

Tom explained to his aunt-as he had to the three detectives on the long
ride back from Zebulon the night before-that he had walked away from
his new wife because he felt he only brought her unhappiness.  "I made
up my mind that I was leaving her, so I hitchhiked."  He didn't know
how many rides he had gotten or how many miles he had walked as he
headed south to Zebulon.  Later in their conversation, Tom was adamant
that he didn't want to take a lie detector test.  He didn't trust their
results.

Jean Boggs was deeply troubled, but she believed in Tommy.

She loved him; he had grown up with her own children.  She could not
fathom that he would hurt his parents.  She wondered what kind of
person Pat was, this new wife whom she had never heard of.

The rest of Jean Boggs's day was taken up with arranging for her
brother and sister-in-law's funeral.  They would be buried out of
Hemperley's Funeral Parlor, just as Kent had been, and just as almost
everyone who lived in East Point was.  Mae Mama inexplicably demanded
that her daughter be buried in a blue dress in long sleeves.

"I won't look at her otherwise," the old lady said.

A solemn party went to Walter and Carolyn's house: Jean Boggs, Nona (in
a wheelchair), Paw, their preacher, and their doctor.  The house was
locked, but Jean steeled herself and went down the outside steps into
the basement, averted her eyes from the profusion of bloodstains, and
climbed to the kitchen up the stairs where her sister-in-law had
died.

All those doors were unlocked.

The house still reeked of tear gas.  Choking, she saw that all the
storm windows were in place, trapping the ga despite the fire
department's fans.  Frantically, she kicked out two storm windows to
get air, cutting her heel.  Then she let her parents in.  jean
maneuvered her mother's wheelchair to the open front door, where she
could breathe, and then carried Walter's suits to Nona and let her
choose which one to bury him in.  jean couldn't find anything blue for
her late sister-in-law to wear; she would have to buy a new dress in a
color Big Carolyn apparently had never worn.

It was nightmarish.  It wasn't happening.  Carolyn's woven straw purse
still sat open on the dining room table.  The case of Coca-Cola was
there too.  The inflatable blue dinosaur shivered and bounced as they
walked near it.

But it was real enough.  Reporters from the Atlanta papers ushed to get
in and take pictures, and perfect strangers walked up the driveway,
trying to peek in the windows to see what they could see.  They acted
as if they had every right to be there.  Didn't people have any
consideration at all?  Jean and the preacher got Paw and Nona out of
there as soon as they could.

Al Roberts, Walter's law partner and his friend since high school,
called at the elder Allansons' home on Washington Road to offer his
condolences.  After speaking with Paw and Nona, he and his wife and
daughter moved on to the den.  The doorbell rang and Roberts saw two
women walk in.  The younger woman immediately began to sob and
scream.

Paw!  " she cried, clutching at the old man."  He didn't do it!

Roberts's daughter, Martha, spoke to the newest visitors, calling them
by name.  "Hey, Miz Taylor-er, Allanson.  Hey, Miz Radcliffe."  She
explained to her father that this was Tom's new wife and her mother.

Margureitte and Pat walked back to Nona's bedroom, and Pat's hysterical
sobbing could be heard all over the house.

Roberts knew Walter's mother couldn't stand much more, and he hurried
back to urge Pat Taylor Allanson to leave Nona's room.  After his
second, more urgent request, Pat walked to the kitchen, where the table
was laden with pies, cakes, and covereddish casseroles from the
Allansons' friends and fellow church members.

Pat answered the kitchen phone, spoke briefly, and then, apparently
recovered from her hysterics, dialed a number herself Roberts, who sat
a few feet away, was astounded as he heard pat's conversation with
Calhoun Long, apparent y Tom's attorney.

Oblivious of her surroundings, Pat said in a loud voice, "He did not do
it-he went to the doctor with me.  When I came out of the doctor's
office, he was gone.  He walked to Zebulon."

And then, right in front of the late Walter Allanson's law partner, Pat
told her husband's legal counsel about the incident of the previous
Friday.  As Paw sat at the kitchen table trying to eat some soup, Pat
rattled on about how his dead son had exposed himself to her only six
days earlier, on June 28.  She recalled her terror to Calhoun Long, and
then proceeded to give alibis for Tom for the ambush incident at Lake
Lanier the next day.  "My mother, Mrs. Radcliffe, is on the extension
in the bedroom, and she will tell you the very same things I have."

Tommy's new wife certainly had no sense of time and place, and Al
Roberts wondered how she could even imagine that Walter had exposed
himself to her.  Roberts knew Walter Allanson would be incapable of
such an act, and furthermore he knew exactly where Walter had been on
the day she was talking about -right there in their law offices with
him.

Walter had arrived for work at 9:10 on that morning and had stayed
there all day long-with the exception of the fifteen minutes around
3:00 P.m. when he went to pick up the deer rifle.  If Tom Allanson had
shot his own father because he was outraged that Walter had exposed
himself to Pat, it was all for naught.  There was no way he could have
been showing his penis to his daughter-in-law Zebulon, sixty miles
away, in the hedgerow at the plantation in on June 28.  No way at
all.

If Pat had told Tom his father had done that, she had made a terrible,
tragic mistake.

The doorbell rang again and Paul Vaughan, Walter's law clerk,
arrived.

Roberts asked Vaughan to go out with him for a glass of iced tea.  He
was perplexed-shocked-by this woman Tommy had married.

Vaughan verified Roberts's recall; he had seen Walter on June 28 too.

They discussed the Lake Lanier ambush, but there were things Al Roberts
hadn't heard about.  Vaughan said that Walter had told him his boat
engine had suddenly exploded but that he had managed to get to shore
without sinking.  The clerk also recalled a phone message left for
Carolyn and Walter from a man identifying himself as their son.  "He
said to tell them he had missed thembut that he would get them."

Al Roberts didn't know what to think.  Pat Allanson and her mother,
Mrs. Radcliffe, seemed so at home in Paw and Nona's house, and Pat
herself had seemed overcome alternately with grief and hysteria, a
woman not quite in control.  She had been almost vulgarly specific
about the exposing incident and then had forced herself to be coldly
businesslike.  Perhaps she had been so shocked that she couldn't see
what effect her words were having on the old couple who had just lost
their only son.

Mrs. Radcliffe dressed and acted like a proper lady.  But Pat was
something else again.  She was a fine-looking woman, all right, but she
was obviously older than Tommy, and her clothing was flamboyant; the
dead man's partner saw why Walter Allanson had not approved of her.

It was also apparent that Pat and her mother were a teamthat no matter
what Tommy's wife said, Mrs.  Radcliffe backed her up.

Her head began to nod almost from the moment Pat opened her mouth.

As their investigation continued, Detective Zellner and Sergeant
Callahan followed up on the ambush shooting in Forsyth County on the
Saturday before the Allansons were killed.  In fact, Mary Rena Jones,
who ran the J. C. Jones store with her husband, was sure she had seen
Tom near the gas pumps, standing next to his blue pickup truck, on
Friday the twenty-eighth, around 5:30 P.m. She had seen the Kentwood
Morgan emblem on the door, and, of course, both Joneses remembered
seeing Walter Allanson the next morning after he had been shot at.  He
and his wife had come in with cuts all over their arms.

"I told him that before I'd let someone shoot me, I'd shoot them
first," J. C. put in.  "He told us it was his son who had shot at
him."

Mary Jones picked Tom's picture out of a laydown of suspects.

Zellner and Callahan knew about the sugar in the Allansons' gas tank.

They knew about the exploding boat, the phone calls.

Either Tom Allanson was guilty of it all, or someone had done a dandy
job of setting him up to look guilty.

On July 5, George Zellner typed up a probable-cause affidavit
requesting a search warrant in Pike County.  The East Point
investigators wanted to search the premises of Kent'wood Farm and a
1971 GMC pickup truck (license plate RL 7223) for certain items: One
.22-caliber semi-automatic rifle; One man's shirt, color brown and
green striped; Blue jean pants; Boots having soil and blood stains.

The investigators located several pairs of jeans, but none with
bloodstains.  Two pairs of jeans were in the washing machine with a
still-damp load of otherwise white items of clothing.  A woman would
never have mixed the jeans with white clothes.  A i man might
have-especially a man trying to wash blood away.  The Allansons had a
gun rack at Kentwood Farm with several rifles and shotguns.  The
investigators found a .22-caliber Remington Model 66 rifle, loaded with
Federal copper-clad bullets.  The empty cartridges recovered in the
shooting at Lake Lanier had been the same type.

They didn't find the striped shirt.  When a neighbor told them that he
had seen Tom walk down the road in the wee hours of July 4 and that he
had been wearing only a T-shirt and jeans, they figured they would
never locate the green and brown shirt; it could be anywhere between
East Point and Zebulon.

Elizabeth Thomason, a forensic serologist with the Georgia State Crime
Laboratory, received blood samples from Dr. Stivers on July 5. The
vials of blood retrieved at autopsy showed that both the Allansons had
the same type of blood: 0 positive.  All the blood samples from the
basement-from the floor, light switch, gun, holster, boards-were type 0
positive.  But then the prime suspectthe man who waited in the East
Point jailwas the natural son of Walter and Carolyn Allanson.  He would
have type 0 positive too.

It was a moot point.  The only wound Tom had was the scrape on his left
calf, and it had barely bled.

The normal physical evidence that is usually so helpful to homicide
detectives-hairs, fibers, blood, fingerprints-has greatly diminished
worth in a "family murder."  Both the victims and the accused have
reason to occupy the premises where the crimes take place.  Their
fingerprints could be expected, and so could their clothing fibers,
hairs, blood, urine, saliva, even semen.  It didn't matter that Tom
Allanson had not lived in the Norman Berry Drive home for six months;
fingerprints last for years, even for decades.  Alien physical evidence
would be of use in this case if the killer proved to be someone outside
the family and not a regular visitor to the Allansons' home.

The fingerprint question didn't matter anyway; Detective Marlin
Humphrey, Jr had dusted for prints in the Allansons' basement to little
avail.  He failed to raise any prints on the fuse box, basement doors,
or furnace.  Walter's borrowed .32 revolver had a partial latent as did
a light bulb; both proved to be those of East Point police officers, an
embarrassing discovery but not surprising in light of the chaotic
terror that had reigned in that basement on the night of July 3.

The mystery behind the deaths of Walter and Carolyn Allanson probably
would not be unraveled through forensic science; the answers would come
from a more imprecise area: human behavior.

The Saturday after the murders was a day that seemed forty-eight hours
long.  Tom Allanson appeared in a lineup at the East ; Point police
station on July 6. He was by far the tallest man present.  All the
subjects wore white T-shirts and either jeans or work pants.  Some were
fire fighters, some were cops, and one was a friend of Tom's, a tall
man who volunteered to join the lineup so that Tom wouldn't stand out
so conspicuously.

Viewing the lineup were Harriett and Paul Beauregard Duckett and Patrol
Officer C. L. McBurnett, Jr the only eyewitnesses who had seen the
fleeing man just after the murders.  The Ducketts and McBurnett walked
in separately, checked off the form without speaking, and left the
lineup room.

Each had checked space No.  2: Tom Allanson.

Things looked bad for Tom.  His aunt jean was offering to help, but he
didn't dare tell his wife about that.  Pat assured him continually that
she was taking care of everything.  He wasn't to worry; she would see
that he had the best legal defense money could buy.  He just had to
remember not to talk to anyone but her.

When he argued with her that to him the truth seemed the best route,
Pat shushed him.  No, he must not even suggest such a thing; anybody
knew that a man who tried to handle his own defense was a fool.  He had
to believe in her, she explained, because no one loved him the way that
she loved him.

And no one ever would.

That same Saturday, Walter and Carolyn Allanson had a 'mint funeral in
the chapel at Hemperley's in East Point.  Their caskets were side by
side, and they were closed.  Mae Mama Lawrence's insistence on a blue
dress with long sleeves for her daughter was moot; no one could tell
what Carolyn wore.  Mae Mama commented tearfully that it was just as
well that her daughter and son-inlaw had "gone together.  They were
always together.  Neither one of them could have lived without the
other."

The chapel was full to overflowing, and floral tributes filled it with
an almost suffocating sweetness.

Pat was too ill to go, but she wanted her family to be represented at
the chapel.  She called her daughters, Susan Alford and Deborah Cole,
and begged them to go to the Allansons' funeral.

Susan was twenty-one and Deborah was nineteen and they were horrified
at the thought of walking into Hemperley's in front of the deceased's
friends and relatives.  They hadn't even known the Allansons.

"You're going to be there for Tom," Pat insisted."  If you don't go,
I'll have to get up out of this sickbed and go myself.

You just walk right in with your heads up high, and you show him you
care-that we all care."

As far as Margureitte and Colonel Radcliffe were concerned, they backed
Tom to the limit, but they felt no allegiance to his parents.  They had
issued gracious invitations to the Allansons in life and all their
overtures had been rudely refused.  They did not now feel it was
incumbent upon them to join the mourners for people who were virtual
strangers-by their own choice.

Pat's two daughters went to Hemperley's, their faces aflame with
embarrassment when they realized there was no way they were going to go
unrecognized.  They were further mortified when the chapel began to
buzz and heads turned to gawk at them.

Their arrival had actually produced a massive gasp.  They could feel
disapproval and curiosity from every side.

Suddenly, there was the sound of chains clanking at the back of the
room, and eyes finally turned away from them.  Tom Allanson had been
allowed to attend his parents' services, but George Zellner and C. T.

Callahan had brought him in both handcuffs and leg-irons.  The
leg-irons were removed, but still handcuffed, Tom stood with his head
bowed.  Susan and Deborah saw that tears streamed silently down his
cheeks.  They managed to catch his eye and smiled wanly.  And then they
left.  Their few minutes in the chapel would remain one of the more
hideous memories of their lives.

The Allansons were buried side by side in Westview Cemetery.

. . .

Shortly before 5:00 P.m. at police headquarters that Saturday,
Detective Zellner interviewed Mrs.  Clifford B.

Radcliffe, the woman Pat Allanson affectionately called "Boppo."

If he had found her daughter talkative, Zellner didn't know what
"stream of consciousness" was until he interviewed Margureitte
Radcliffs There seemed to be no pauses in her conversation, and she had
much to tell him.  She spoke in a perfectly modulated society voice.

She was a daunting woman who gave the impression that never, ever, ever
had she-or anyone she was related to, or even acquainted with-had
occasion to be involved in a criminal investigation.  She would be glad
to help Zellner, of course, if only to straighten out this ridiculous
predicamen.t Tom was in as quickly as possible.

Yes, indeed, she had spoken-not once, but twice-with the deceased Mr.
Allanson.  He had confided in her that he suspected Tom of all manner
of mischief and misbehaving-from putting formaldehyde in his own
children's milk to the theft of suitcases.

The dead man had made his son's life utterly miserable.  For what
reason, she could not say.

Why, even Bill Alford-"my granddaughter's husband"-had called her from
one of Tom's many divorce hearings as he struggled to be free of Little
Carolyn Allanson.  "Mr. Alford's getting ready to study law, you
see-and he said, 'You will not believe what is happening.  I'm here and
I'm seeing it and hearing it, and I don't believe it.  Tom is not being
allowed to present anything.... But yet Mr. Allanson is getting on the
stand and saying his son is a drunkard!"  All these horrible things
about his son, yet he-Tom-doesn't even drink and he doesn't even
smoke.

Mrs. Radcliffe explained that Tom had been their feed man for years,
"but we have only known him in recent months in the capacity we do
now.

His wife is our daughter.  We have known him as a very nice, clean-cut
young man-never anything bad about him from anyone."

"You ever heard him say anything negative about his father?"

"Never!  Never have I!  Nor have I heard him say anything about his
father at all."

Mrs. Radcliffe told Zellner that the most unpleasant person she had
had contact with through Tom was his ex-wife, who would call constantly
at all hours to harass Tom and Pat for money.  Sighing, she murmured,
"What did she do with all of the money?  Because she had gotten a
tremendous amount of money-and was [still] getting her money."

"Did they stay with you often?  Tom and his wife, your daughter?"

Zellner put in.

"They were there until they were married, in our home.  He slept on a
sofa in our den."

Margureitte Radcliffe explained that she had had very little contact
with Tom's parents, who had been quite rude generally.  Walter Allanson
had frightened her too, she said, as he accused Tom of all manner of
theft.  In the next breath he had told her he would "get" Tom.

Zellner didn't have to ask questions.  Margureitte seemed eager to get
all of her contacts with Walter Allanson out in the open.  "He acted to
me like he thought I knew something that I didn't know and that he was
trying to Justify himself to mewhich wasn't necessary.  . . . I came
away firmly convinced that this man was dangerous, that he was very
devious, that he was very cunning, and I couldn't figure out why.  I
could not figure out his purpose."

Pat's mother confided that she had been so alarmed by Walter Allanson's
behavior that she had gone to the East Point Police Department and
pleaded for advice about what to do.  "I told them, 'I really feel that
the man is ill, really and truly ill."

She had never even seen Big Carolyn Allanson.  "I had only one
conversation with Mrs. Allanson and that was when I called her at her
officeseveral months ago-hoping she would accept our invitation, at her
convenience, for her and Mr. Allanson to have lunch or dinner with
Colonel Radcliffe and me."

Mrs. Radcliffe recalled her fear when Walter Allanson had driven his
shotup station wagon to her place of employment and insisted she view
what he said Tom had done.  "I saw three places with some kind of tape
or something over them on the windshield .  . . and there were some
shatters around it.  . . . He said, 'Do you know that on Saturday, on
our way up to the lake, Tommy got out on that road and built an ambush
up on an embankment, and then when Carolyn and I were on [the road], he
shot at us?"  I said, 'No, he didn't-because he was out shoeing
horses."  He said, 'Well, it has to be him,' and I said, 'No.  It does
not have to be-because everything you have accused him of, he has had
lots of people around him at the time that these things have occurred
"Did you really, personally, know where Tom was that day?"  Zellner
asked.

"On that day?"

"Yes, ma'am.

"He had called us, and there are people who know he shod horses at
their place," she explained.

Colonel Radcliffe sat beside his wife as she explained her unnerving
encounters with the late Walter Allanson.  "Really and truly," she
confided.

"I tell my husband, it seems to be like the Lawrences-all of them-had
some kind of feud.  I felt like we were kind of in on the tail end of
something here."

"Caught in the middle?"  Zellner offered.

She nodded.  "Right.  But I'll tell you-perfectly franklythat I don't
feel like there's one way in this whole wide world that Tom Allanson
could, would, kill his parents.  . . . I have two theories on him.  Am
I supposed to tell my theories?"

Zellner nodded.  "You can if you want to, yes."

Margureitte Radcliffe hinted broadly-and incredibly-that she suspected
the dead man and his daughter-in-law might have been romantically
involved.  It was, of course, only her own theory.  "I really and truly
feel like this thing was set up and I feel like Mr. Allanson and
Carolyn planned to do something to Mrs. Allanson and blame it on Tom
and perhaps-at the last minute -it backfired on him and that Carolyn
did the whole bit."

Mrs. Radcliffe was confident that there was no way "in the whole wide
world" that Tom could be guilty of murder.  If that should be true, she
would be "the most absolutely shocked person in the entire world."

"But you said earlier," Zellner reminded Margureitte Radcliffe, "that
it is your nature to see the good side of everybody."

"Well, I was trying to see the good side when I was speaking to Mr.
Allanson.  . . . I still don't feel that anybody can be that hard-"
"Pretty much changed your mind at the end, didn't you?"

"That's why I came to the police department, and I said [to myself], Oh
my God, I hope that nothing happens to that man, because if it does .

. . Tom will be the one that will be blamed for it.  . . . I was
terrified of that man .  . . and I think his parents-the elder Mr. and
Mrs.  Allanson-were afraid of him too.  .

. . Yesterday, she [Nona] said she could say it for the first time -she
never could say it while they were alive-that they were never parents,
never 'mother' and 'father' to Tommy.  I've heard a lot of [other]
things, but they were hearsay."

Zellner asked about Pat's first marriage, and Margureitte explained
that she had been married very young and that it had never worked
out.

"Her father and I-Colonel Radcliffe and I -supported them for sixteen,
seventeen, eighteen years.  Right, honey?  She got nothing out of the
divorce.  . . . She's got fine children too, I'll tell you that."

It had been quite a day.  A lineup with a positive ID of Tom
Allanson.

A double funeral.  And a long, long interview with Mrs. Clifford
Radcliffe.  According to her, the late Walter Allanson had been a
monstrous, fearful man with a heart as cold as death.

And "Tommy," like herself, saw only the good in everyone.  He had been
a dutiful son, a fine son-in-law, and had alibis for every incident his
father accused him of.

For all but that very last, fatal encounter.

In the weeks that followed, the investigators learned that Tom would
inherit nothing from his parents.  Tom had known that for months.  He
knew that both his father and mother had cut him out of their wills the
previous Valentine's Day.  In fact, Tom was specifically eliminated in
codicils to their existing wills.

He had tried to explain that to Pat, but she never seemed to
understand; she thought that he would, of course, be declared their
natural heir.  Each of his parents' wills had designated Carolyn's
brother, Seaborn Lawrence, as their executor.  Walter and Carolyn were
each other's heirs and then they stipulated that, should they die
together, their estate would go to Tom's children.

Item Eight of Walter Allanson's will read: The provisions of this Will
are made for the purpose of omitting my son, Seaborn Walter Thomas
Allanson, completely, due to his disowning of the family and his
failure to support his children, and I figure that his part of my
estate was [already] used [by me] for the purpose of supporting his
children.  The trustee and executors are specifically instructed that,
under no circumstances, is he to receive anything from my estate, and
they are to oppose his appointment as Guardian of these children by any
Court whatsoever, and in the event that he should succeed in being
appointed as Guardian, then the trustee is not to pay any funds
whatsoever to the grandchildren or to him as Guardian, but shall retain
the funds until the payment age of twenty five (25) is reached by the
grandchildren.

It was a slap from beyond the grave.  Tom had been paying five hundred
dollars a month toward his children's support, and he would dearly have
loved to have them back with him.  He had had high hopes that one day
soon he would be able to raise them on the grounds of Kentwood.  He had
left their mother in desperation-sick at heart in a loveless
marriage.

Clearly, his father had never forgiven him.  The only thing that Walter
had forgotten about was an insurance policy in which Tom was still
named as beneficiary-but Tom wouldn't know about that until months
after his parents had died.

The house on Norman Berry Drive was cleaned and put up for sale.

Despite the horror that had exploded there, it sold rather quickly.

Paul and Harriett Duckett, right next door-and eyewitnesses to the
fleeing gunman-bought it.

None of the financial mopping up mattered to Tom; all he had ever
dreamed of had come true when he married Pat and they lived together at
Kentwood.  As it turned out, he had lived with her on that wonderful
spread of land for less than a year; their time as man and wife had
ended in less than two months.  Tom would celebrate their two-month
anniversary in court .  .

......

... .

being arraigned for double murder.

Their love had burned as white hot as any iron ingot, and now their
lives were as cold and gray as the steel such an ingot might become.

The glory was all gone, and he could not, for the life of him, fathom
why.

part 2.

Seaborn Walter Thomas Allanson.

Tom was born out of time, if not place.  He would have made a far more
satisfactory son for his grandfather than he ever had for his own
father.  Paw Allanson had never known quite what to make of his son,
the austere and ambitious Walter O'Neal Allanson, and Walter always
seemed to look at his Tommy as an impediment and an irritant.

Actually, Carolyn and Walter had been reluctant parents to begin with,
not thrilled when Carolyn became pregnant in 1942.  Both Carolyn and
Walter were only nineteen and he was in the Army Air Corps, serving in
World War I.

Perhaps they had not planned to have any child, and they would never
have another.  Carolyn gave birth to Tommy on April 22, 1943, in
Ocilla, Georgia, where Paw and Nona lived at the time.  The baby was
very large, a precursor of the size he would be as a grown man.

In their early years, it often seemed to Walter and Carolyn that every
possible obstacle had been placed in their way.  Like so many young men
who graduated from high school in 1940, Walter had to go to war.  When
the war was over, he came home and went to Georgia State University.

Next, he received his law degree from Atlanta Law School and his
master's in law from John Marshall Law School.  Carolyn worked as a
nurse to put him through.

Just when Walter was finally ready to practice on his own, the Korean
War came along and he was called up again.  He was over thirty before
he could really begin his life.  A decade of his prime years gone, he
was home and in practice in East Point, with offices across the hall
from his high school friend, Al Roberts.  Walter and Carolyn had a lot
of catching up to do.  Walter worked as a justice of the peace in East
Point from 1952 to 19Sc, and he joined all the organizations that a
young man in a hurry needed: the East Point Masonic Lodge, the Optimist
Club, the American Legion, the First United Methodist Church of East
Point.

Carolyn was the choir director and taught piano to students at home.

One Sunday, it was Walter's turn to teach the young marrieds' Sunday
school class, and he rose and surveyed the group somberly before he
said, "I'm Scotch, I'm stubborn, and I want things my way."

It was a disclaimer, a prelude to his lesson that morning on how
Christians could be all different kinds of people.  You could, he
explained, be stubborn or meek or aggressive or a darned fool and still
be a good Christian.

Stubborn was as apt a description of Walter Allanson as anyone could
ask for.

No excuses.  No apologies or promises to change.  He was who he was.

Carolyn kept on working full-time for Dr. Tucker in East Point, and
things gradually got better and better for them.  They made up for all
the wasted years.  In March 19S9, Walter and Al Roberts moved into a
larger suite of offices and continued their law practice.  They did
well.  Walter wasn't a rich lawyer with an estate in Atlanta's
exclusive Haines Manor section, but he made a comfortable living.  He
practiced general law: wills, divorces, contracts.

His staff found him almost unfailingly cheerful and pleasant to work
with.  He joined the Coast Guard Auxiliary and worked his way up in the
East Point Masonic Lodge No.  88 to become a Thirty-second Degree
Mason.  He loved boats and he liked to fish but he liked to do it in
solitude, without the nuisance of taking Tommy along From young Tommy's
viewpoint, his father had been either studying or working his whole
life.  Indeed, both his parents had worked for as long as he could
remember.  Walter was a man who seldom showed emotion.  Tommy was
humiliated the few times he tried to relate to him.  His father was
closed in and rigid.  He had a set way of doing things.  His
expectations for his son were just as unyielding.  Carolyn Allanson was
warmer, but she deferred to her husband when it came to dealing with
Tommy and in the matter of getting ahead in the world.  Their home
wasn't built around the boy; the boy would have to fit in wherever he
could.

It was not surprising that Tommy looked to Paw for the love and
attention he didn't get at home.  He spent the happiest days of his
childhood on his grandparents' farm.  He was proud when he went into
the feed store with his grandfather and Paw winked at him as he
announced to the clerk, "This is my son, Tommy."  He loved to hang
around with his grandfather as they worked with the horses and other
farm animals.  The old man and the husky blond boy both loved
animals.

Tommy went to the Harris Street School in East Point until he was nine
and then his parents enrolled him in the Georgia Military Academy in
College Park.

He attended that private and prestigious school until he graduated in
1961.

The military discipline wasn't that different from the rules his father
set down.  But between the military academy and the many weekends he
spent with his grandparents on their farm on Washington Road, Tommy
didn't see that much of his parents.  He went hunting with Paw, and Paw
cooked breakfast for him.  The two of them would scrounge through waste
bins in back of the supermarkets for outdated vegetables to give to the
cows and pigs.  They would tease his grandmother when they came home
with their boxes of brown lettuce and mushy tomatoes, saying, "Look
what we brought for supper!"  Nona was a pretty, greeneye woman an she
ran the household.  Paw let her; in his taciturn way, he idolized
her.

And, like Paw, she loved Tommy and loved having him around.

Paw Allanson was an old-fashioned southern man.  He had a fourth-grade
education and he had labored as a steelworker for fifty-five years.  He
had lived through the Great Depression and never really trusted banks
again; he salted away most of his cash in hiding places on his
property.

Nona and Paw had bought the property on Washington Road in 1934.  The
house on the property in East Point was little more than a shack
then.

But the farm proved to be a canny buy, and as the Atlanta area boomed
over the years, it appreciated many, many times over its purchase
price.  Both Walter and his sister jean were expected to work hard
doing farm chores, since their father was often off hafting steel
girders for buildings all over America.  They had horses, cows, hogs,
and chickens and there was always work to do in the fields; they sold
their beef, pork, and produce-steel work was sporadic-and the farm took
up the slack in their income.

When Walter was about twelve, he contracted rheumatic fever.

His survival became the focal point of his parents' existence.

Nona was always exhausted because she was up day and night turning
Walter so he wouldn't get bedsores.  Penicillin had yet to be
discovered, and strep infections of any kind were often fatal.

Paw and Nona didn't mean to neglect Jean, but her needs took second
place in their fight to save their son.

Walter and Jean had never had a solid brother-and-sister
relationship.

Walter was four years older than Jean, and their personalities were on
entirely different tracks.  Walter's illness distanced them even
more.

When Walter got out of bed after his ir parents were long siege with
rheumatic fever, the' so grateful he had survived that they gave him
everything he asked for.  To Jean's eye, her brother was always
greedy.

A greedy boy and a greedy man.

Many years later, when Walter persuaded Paw to sell him the back half
of the thirty-four acres he owned on Washington Road, Walter resold it
and made a handsome profit.  But Jean had asked her father first, and
she was both outraged and humiliated when she learned that Paw had sold
her brother the acreage she wanted.

Her efforts to please her parents had always failed.  Walter came first
because he was a son, and her father doted on her mother, but Jean was
left out.  The Allanson family relationships would always be distant
and strained.  Paw had become a gnarled, ornery old man, but he was
devoted and gentle with his wife, Nona, and he loved Tom.  As for his
own offspring, he might do business with his son, but he didn't really
care for either Walter or Big Carolyn.  He often ignored Jean.

Jean and her husband, George "Homer" Boggs, had two children, David and
Nona.  They were quite a bit younger than Walter's Tommy and as cousins
they would never be close.  The Allanson line had continued, but only
grudgingly.  Tommy was it for a long time.

The last Allanson to carry the name unless he had a son.

Years would go by when jean wouldn't see Walter.  And yet he was her
brother.  She may not have liked him very much, but she loved him.  She
had always assumed that, one day, they would settle their
differences.

And then, suddenly, it was too late.

Tom Allanson had often shivered in the emotional chill of his childhood
home.  "That's why I grew up being such a sucker for love," he
remembered years later.  "I never had any.  I can never remember-even
once-hearing my parents say 'I love you' or feeling them put their arms
around me.  . . . They showed they cared about me by giving me a good
education, they fed me, they took care of me, but that was their form
of love.  I understood that, although I found out later in life that I
wasn't exactly planned when I came along.  I wasn't exactly a
blessing.

But I was the kind of kid that thrived off of love.  I needed to be
told.  I needed to be shown.

Tom grew into a huge teenager who towered over his parents.

He looked like a big old country boy and that suited him fine.

All his life he would hide his intelligence and his education and speak
with a deep southern drawl.  He was happiest in the country, competing
in a rodeo or working in a horse barn.  Teenage girlsand not a few
grown women-watched Tom Allanson longingly from the rodeo stands.  His
jeans fit him like second skin, and he exuded masculinity.

One of the women was Liz Price, who would move in and out of his life
for years to come, and she laughed as she remembered knowing Tom.  "He
was my ideal man coming up.  A big rodeo star and-oh, how he fit those
jeans!  You hear about his jeans?  I thought he was God's gift to
women.  . . . One day I was walking across the horse show grounds with
a bucket of water in my hand, and somebody says, 'There goes Tom!"  and
I turned around, looking for him, and I ran right into a guy wire with
my neck and I poured all my water in my boots!"

Tom didn't know women looked at him that way.  He had had few
compliments in his life and his self-esteem was wrapped up only in his
skill with horses.  While he was still in high school, he learned to
shoe horses and worked as a farrier when he was only sixteen.  He had a
crush on Liz, who was a few years older than he.  But he never
mentioned it to her; he was much too shy.  "I won't say I was all that
good on my first horse or two," he remembered.  "Liz was my first
horseshoe customer and I like to ruined her horse."

After Tom graduated from the military academy, he enrolled in the
University of Georgia in Athens.  He played football; he was a line
coach's dream at six foot four and 250 pounds.  But he was forced to
drop out of football-and the university-in 1963 when a rodeo accident
ended his playing career.  He transferred to Truett McConnell Community
College and graduated with an associate degree in science.  Then he
returned to the University of Georgia.

Despite his father's vehement oppos't'on, Tom married for the first
time while he was in college.  He was mesmerized by a tall, slender,
raven-haired girl with clear blue eyes, Judy Van Meter.  "I fell in
love with this young girl up there in Athens," he said.  "She was
beautiful.  She looked absolutely beautifullike Lynda Carter, 'Wonder
Woman."You couldn't tell me anything as far as my parents goes.  I was
in love.  My dad said, 'You can't get married until you get through
with your college."  And I said, 'Well, you can't stop this love I've
got for this girl."  He said if I got married, they'd cut off all my
funds for college.  Well, I got married and he cut it off just like he
said he would.  There wasn't another penny.  So I had to make it on my
own."

Tom's marriage to Judy didn't work out.  "She had a champagne
appetite," Tom recalled ruefully.  "And I had a beer pocketbook.

I was trying to go to vet school and work, and she was working too.

She started playing games.  . . . If I didn't do what she wanted me to
do, there was no more sex."  He would later admit that it would be a
long time before he had good sense about women.

When his first wife shut the bedroom door on him, his eye soon wandered
to an even more unsuitable choice.  "YOU couldn't tell me anything
then-no more than you can tell any young man in love."

Tom's next love was, unfortunately, his wife's best friend, Carolyn
Brooks.  Carolyn was a delicate-appearing woman who swept her blond
hair back into a chignon.  "She looked like Grace Kelly," Tom said,
shaking his head.  "All my women were real pretty."  Carolyn was in her
twenties and also married-to a man almost fifteen years her senior.

"She gave me attention, and I wasn't getting that in my marriage," Tom
said.  "My wife was withholding sex and Carolyn was free with it.  We
started going to the Moose Club togetherand that was out of character
for me.  I didn't drink-never have."  Tom said Carolyn enjoyed dancing
and drinking, and it didn't concern him in the beginning.

Two divorce suits would be filed when Tom's wife and Carolyn's husband
discovered their romance.  Tom had yet to distinguish between love and
sex.  He believed that he had finally found what he was looking for and
that Carolyn would make a good wife as soon as their divorces were
final.

Despite his romantic misadventures, Tom managed to stay in college and
he graduated from the University of Georgia in 1966 with a bachelor of
science in agriculture, with emphasis on veterinary medicine.  He went
to work after graduation for the Beaver Dam Angus Farm in Colbert,
Georgia, near Athens, and stayed there for three years as cattle
manager over an eighteenhundred-head herd of Angus.  He then attended
Graham's School for Cattlemen and Horsemen in Garnett, Kansas, and was
certified to perform artificial insemination.

If Tom Allanson didn't understand women, he most definitely did know
orses.  He was now a farrier who specialized in "corrective shoeing"
and worked with quarter horses, thoroughbred Morgans, and Arabians.  By
this time, he had bred, trained, and shown quarter horses and Morgans
in halter, western, trail, reining, and fine harness classes.  He was
soon a judge in western horse shows.  He was a working fool.  Stripped
to his jeans and an undershirt to offset the heat of a Georgia summer
and the flames of his blacksmith rig on wheels, Tom was larger than
life.  His shoulders were ax-handle wide and his hugely bulging arms
matched those of any professional wrestler.  But, for all his physical
power, he was the gentlest of men, who truly believed the lyrics of
romantic country and western songs.

Given the right woman, he would have undoubtedly remained faithful for
fifty years.  But Tom had an uncanny talent for picking the wrong
woman.

Tom and his bride-to-be, who was soon called "Little Carolyn," were not
well matched.  He had a college degree and she had left school in tenth
grade.

He was noncombative and she had a fiery temper.  But Carolyn was
attractive and sexy, and Tom wanted so much to be married and create a
faihily of his own.  He married Carolyn with high hopes on October 25,
1968.

I had this idea," he said, "that I could change her.  I could stop her
drinking.  I could sober her up and she wouldn't never have a problem,
'cause I was going to take care of her.  You can't do that if they
don't want to change."

They moved back to Atlanta and Tom went to work for Ralston Purina.

The fourth Walter-Walter Russell Allanson, called Russ-was born in
1970.  When he was just a baby, Carolyn and Tom had so much trouble
getting along that they separated, and Tom asked his father to file
divorce papers for him.  He moved Carolyn and Russ up to Athens and
figured his second marriage was over.  "But I just couldn't stand being
away from my baby boy," Tom remembered.  "I went back up to Athens and
got her and brought her back home, and then a year passed and another
baby was born.  My daddy had the divorce papers in a drawer; he'd never
filed them."

Tom's second child, Sherry Lynette, was born in 1972.  Though Tom's
parents didn't particularly approve of Carolyn, either as a wife or as
a mother, they did want to see him settled down.  Big Carolyn and
Walter were pleased to have grandchildren.  However, when Little
Carolyn wrecked her mother-inlaw's car, Walter was livid.  Why couldn't
Tom have picked a wife with at least a lick of sense?

Tom himself was beginning to rethink his reconciliation.  All he had
wanted was a peaceful home to come to after a hard day's work, but what
he got was a complaining nag.  The house was messy and the kids were
crying.  He found it difficult even to remember the pretty little
blonde he had fallen in love with.

One night, Carolyn drank too much and, according to Tom, she started
waving a gun around.  Worried for Russ and Sherry, Tom tucked a baby
under each arm and headed out the front door.  He was in the doorway
when his wife pegged a shot at him with his own .357.  The doorframe
splintered beside him and he took flight, his long legs landing the
three of them beyond the front porch.

Nobody was hurt, but his stomach turned over when he thought of what
might have happened.  Tom knew he couldn't go on in the marriage, but
he had no idea how he was going to escape it without hurting his
kids.

He didn't want to file charges against Little Carolyn, though, and
wondered what he was going to do.

He wasn't yet thirty years old, and the love he longed for was still
somewhere off in the distance, tantalizing and elusive and always
beyond his grasp.

By the summer of 1973, Tom had finally come to a place where he knew he
had to walk away from his five-year-old marriage or die trying,
literally die.  In his mind at least, that was well within the realm of
possibility.  The fragile blond he had married who "looked like Grace
Kelly" regarded him with unveiled disinterest if not frank malice.

Anytime a woman sights down on a man and pulls the trigger, he has to
figure the magic has gone out of their relationship.  Tom was going to
have to stop picking his women for the way they looked and concentrate
on more permanent attributes.  He acknowledged that he had made another
major mistake with Carolyn.  Their marriage had been dead for a long
time.

On September 23, 1973, Tom left Carolyn.  He couldn't support two
households; he had nowhere to go for the moment but back to his boyhood
home on Norman Berry Drive.  He dreaded it.  He was a head taller than
his father, but Walter could still diminish him with a word or even a
scornful glance.  Tom didn't expect to find shoulders there to cry on
or someone who felt concern for his situation.  The most he hoped for
was some breathing space to get his feet on the ground and figure out
his future.  He didn't find what he needed.

Tom's parents had not been much upset by his first divorce.

He was a college boy then, and the marriage was over quickly.  But when
he went to his father asking for legal advice about his Plans to
divorce Carolyn, he found that the rules had changed.  Walter
disapproved mightily.  Tom had children, and that made it a completely
different situation.  Walter leveled his cool bluegray eyes at his son
and intoned, "You can get a divorce any day in the week as long as you
don't have children.  If you have children, you live in it [your
marriage]-no matter what the circumstances are.  I don't care if your
life is threatened, you live in it."

Walter refused to listen to any of Tom's quite cogent reasons for
wanting to be free.  He didn't care if Carolyn sometimes drank too
much, and he didn't care if she had fired a gun at Tom.

Hell, he didn't care if she ran over him with a truck.  Tom was a big
boy and he should have been able to handle his wife.

"I want no part of a divorce case for Tom," Walter confided to a
lifelong friend.  "I wouldn't touch it.  I told Tom's wife, You're
twenty-one years old.  Get you an attorney of your own.  'I won't have
a voice in it this way or that."

At length, Walter had grudgingly said he would look into the divorce
matter for his son.  But in truth, Walter did everything he could to
block a divorce, even while he kept promising Tom he would file for
him.  He was actually trying to delay long enough so that his son might
change his mind.  He had spent more than half his life supporting Tom,
and he didn't relish supporting Tom's ex and his two children.  Walter
knew it would come to that; he wasn't the kind of man who let his kin
go on welfare, and Little Carolyn surely couldn't keep herself and the
kids afloat alone.  Walter would take care of his own if he had to, or
at least those who couldn't do for themselves.  His grandchildren would
never go hungry, but he would seethe at the imposition and resent the
son he blamed for it.

He hadn't been happy to have Tom back in their house anyway.

His son was thirty years old-a grown man.  Tom tried to help around the
place, and he had gone up to Lake Lanier and worked on the dock "just
like a horse," according to Jake Dailey, Walter's old friend.  But
almost everything else Tom did aggravated his father.

Tom's only emotional support came from his grandparentsPaw and Nona.

And when he found out that his father had done nothing about his
divorce papers, he went to another attorney, who filed for his
divorce.

His father was furious.  Still working for Ralston Purina selling feed,
and shoeing horses in a second job, Tom contributed as much as he felt
he could to his family, but not enough, in his father's estimation.

Just before Thanksgiving, 1973, Walter ordered Tom to move out of his
house.  After saying he would not take sides in his son's dispute with
his estranged wife, it was apparent that he had done just that.  Tom's
parents declared Little Carolyn the injured party and rallied around
her.

Fortunately-or so it seemed at the time-Tom had had somewhere to go.

He had known and worked for the Radcliffes for several years, but until
recently he had known their married daughter, Pat, only slightly.  Now
she was unmarried, and he had been pleasantly surprised when she let
him know that she was interested in him.  They had begun to date.  Tom
liked her whole family.  The Radcliffes approved of him, probably more
so because they felt the need for some kind of stability in Pat's
life.

Tom wasn't literally single, but he was the next best thing to it.

When his father and mother ordered him out, the Radcliffes said Tom
could stay at their place temporarily.  He could sleep on the sofa in
their den.  It was, allegedly, an arrangement of convenience.  Of
course it was a smoke screen.  Pat had declared her intention to marry
Tom Allanson six months earlier, long before he had any idea of even
dating her.  She had dedicated herself to seducing him and captivating
him and he had been a sitting duck.  For all his headlong rushes into
marriage, Tom was essentially naive.  Pat was six years older than he
was, had grown children and a twenty-year marriage behind her, but she
knew how to cajole and steer a man over the jumps of any emotional
obstacle course she devised.

"I guess you could call her an aggressive/assertive woman," Tom said
many years later.  "She was very much aggressive in that she knew what
she wanted and she'd go after it.  In a way, I kind of admired that in
a person."

Tom had been just about the lonesomest man in Atlanta when Pat decided
she wanted him.  By his own admission, he was virtually "starving" for
affection.  "Pat was so cool about the way she did things that you
didn't know what was happening to you," he remembered.  "You were in
quicksand really before you realized you'd got your feet wet.  Because
of the way she did.  I'm just saying .  so nice, so gentle, so calm,
and so innocent.  And then this little piece went here, this little
piece went here, and this one went here, and everything-and then all of
a sudden you were not in control.

And she turned it a little bit tighter, a little bit tighter.

. . . You didn't feel it as it was turning, but then- And I never knew
what hit me."

During their courtship, Pat displayed an absolute devotion to his
needs, and Tom reveled in it.

On New Year's Eve, 1973, Tom and Little Carolyn Allanson's custody and
support hearing was on the court docket.  Tom was shocked to find that
his parents not only were not going to testify for him, they took the
stand on behalf of his wife.  They never mentioned Carolyn's accident
that wrecked their vehicle, but Walter hinted on the witness stand that
Tom sometimes drank too much.  In fact, Tom neither drank nor smoked.

He listened incredulously as his own blood relatives convinced a judge
that he was at fault, and that he should pay what he considered
excessive and impossible support and alimony to his nearly ex-wife.

Later that night, Tom stormed over to Norman Berry Road to confront his
wife and parents.  He was no angel; he could be a real hothead when he
felt he had been injured.  Walter later claimed that Tom had "cussed
out" Big Carolyn that night.  It was more likely that his epithets were
directed toward his father.

"I'll";", They had a major blowup, and Walter again ordered him out of
the house.

When Tom left that night, it was the end of something.  He would never
again have even a civil relationship with his own father.  It was as if
his father had disowned him and adopted the woman who'd tried to blow
his head off.  Tom couldn't understand that.  Carolyn was the one who
had wrecked his mama's car, but his daddy now seemed to want her around
all the time.

She had a perfectly good apartment of her own to go to.  Tom remembered
Little Carolyn's smug smile as she watched his banishment.  He was hurt
and he was mad, and his future seemed like a long, grim tunnel ahead of
him.  All he had left of his blood kin were Paw and Nona.  He had no
one else'he could count on-only Pat and her parents, the Radcliffes-and
he was grateful for all of them.

The fact that his father had warned him about Pat, had called her a
slut and a harlot, only made Tom want her more.  He saw his father as a
jealous hypocrite.  "I wouldn't listen," he said.

"That was like telling a teenage boy to not think about sex.  I'd look
at Pat in those little miniskirts and halter tops and .  . .

all I can say is she would have corrupted a preacher.  I was
vulnerable.  She needed someone that was good with horses, and somebody
who could shoe her horses free and somebody who could sell her feed
free.  I was just an easy mark.  Some woman comes along and tells me
she loves me, and of course I said, 'You love me?  Well, all right!

You've got me."  By that time, I didn't think anyone would love me ever
again."

And so in 1973, Tom chose to see an entirely different Pat than the
woman his father had warned him about.  Beyond his recognition that she
was a woman who marked her territory and took what she wanted, he had
found her kind and gentle and as frail as a rose battered in a storm.

She wasn't well, but she fought desperately to keep going.  She fainted
easily, slipping to the ground so softly.  When that happened, Tom felt
helpless and protective.  All he could do was pick her up and carry her
into the house and lay her down as gently as possible on the sofa.

There was another attraction.  Pat had introduced Tom to sex unlike
anything he had ever known before.  When they were together, she seemed
to forget how sick she was and strived only to pleasure him.  No other
woman had done that for him.  He was besotted with Pat.

Pat's daughter, Susan Alford, and her husband, Bill, returned from a
trip once to find their apartment occupied.  They saw first a huge pair
of boots and then a triumphant Pat and a sheepish Tom, who was hastily
tucking his shirt into his jeans.

"There, Tom!"  Pat said for everyone to hear.  "You've had sex before,
but you've never had anyone teach you how to make love until I came
along All of them, save Pat, were embarrassed, and Susan bustled around
to make iced tea while Bill made awkward conversation.  Tom was glowing
like a teenager in the grip of a consuming crush.

Two days after the New Year's Eve custody hearing, Tom's father wrote
him a curt letter on his law office stationery.

_7anuary 2, 1974

Tommy: This is to inform you that I talked to Mr. Turner this morning
and he informed me that your wife was awarded all of the furniture and
household appliances, including the refpigerator and freezer in Mrs.
Lawrence's basement, and that you not be allowed to remove the same.

Your wife also asked me to look after this refrigerator and freezerfor
her,- so this puts me in the position of being her bailee.  Therefore,
I have put my own lock on this basement to insure that these two
appliances will not be removed until such time as I get a Court Order
instructing me to do otherwise.

If you intend to be your usual bull-headed self and remove them ... I
intend to file charges against you and anyone who assists you ...

for breaking and entering and theft....

While you have some help I suggest that you move your junk ;@ from the
garage and my backyard, and return the fan that was loaned to you.  Any
of yourjunk, equipment or othenvise that is left ... after _7anuary 15,
19 74, will be placed on the street for the City to pick up.

You will please give Mrs. Lawrence your back door key as you are
forbidden to enter the house.

Walter 0.

Allanson Allanson also sent a letter to the East Point police, warning
them that he would file charges against his son and anyone who might
help him try to remove appliances from his grandmother's basement.

Tom didn't want furniture and appliances; he wanted only a few of his
more portable belongings.  But he had to be careful about what he chose
to retrieve from his former life.  If ever there were an acrimonious
divorce, Tom's divorce from Carolyn was it.  According to Margureitte,
Carolyn bombarded the house on Tell Road with calls.  "I'd only met her
once at a horse show some time ago-never thought anything about her one
way or the other-and [she] called us and called us at all hours of the
night and day."

Tom didn't make that much money to begin with, and he had to give five
hundred dollars every month to Carolyn, a fact of life that Pat
resented fiercely.  Carolyn just wouldn't let them be.

Pat and Margureitte complained that if the money didn't arrive, or even
if it did, they were still being plagued with harassing calls from
Tom's ex-wife demanding more money.

Pat detested Little Carolyn because she had once had Tom and because,
technically at least, she was still married to him.  Pat had begun to
call him "my Tom" or "Pat's Tom."  And Tom thrived on her
all-enveloping possessiveness; he had never had a woman love him like
that before.  He was overwhelmed by the syrupy writings she composed
for him.  All her o's were carefully traced hearts.

Pat was convinced that Little Carolyn was consumed with jealousy when
Tom bought the Zebulon farm for her, and again when they were married
at Stone Mountain.

Margureitte agreed with her.  Without coming right out and saying it,
after the murder Margureitte tried her best to let Detective Zellner
know her personal theory about Tom's daddy and his daughter-in-law.  If
that wasn't cause for murder, she didn't know what was.  And that, she
felt, would explain why Walter hated Tom enough to just as soon kill
him as look at him.  Walter had purely terrified Margureitte.  She
shuddered to think about Pat out there all alone at Kentwood when he
had come down and blatantly exposed himself to her.

If ever a man had a right to be bitter and resentful toward his father,
it was Tom.  But Tom was gentle; his hurt went inside.

He would never have murdered his own parents.  Never in the whole wide
world.  It wasn't fair that he was locked up.  If there was anyone
behind the shooting of Walter and Big Carolyn, Pat and Margureitte both
insisted they saw the fine hand of Little Carolyn Allanson.  They could
not understand why the police weren't using the information they had
given about her.  They were convinced that they had all but handed the
investigators a blueprint for murder, and they were annoyed that none
of them recognized it.

There is nothin neat about murder; its untidy ravels can never 9 be
woven back into the fabric of time perfectly.  Blood can eventually be
scrubbed away and property disposed of.  But questions seem always to
be left begging for an answer.  Even with a suspect in jail accused of
the murders of Walter and Carolyn Allanson, the East Point police
investigators still had a great deal of work to do.

On Sunday evening, July 7, George Zellner received a call from Little
Carolyn.  She had remembered something that she heard the night of the
murders, something she had not told them before.  Talking at the police
station with Zellner and Gus Thornhill, Carolyn was considerably calmer
than she had been in their earlier sessions.  Her version of the events
just before the shooting had not changed substantially, but she now
remembered more.  She had heard Daddy Allanson yell upstairs that he
had "him" cornered in the hole, but she had never remembered a name for
"him" before.

"Did you ever see your father-in-law while he was in the basement?"

Zellner asked.

"No, sir."

"But you heard him?"

"Yes-only when he said for Mother to bring the gun down and when he
said, 'Junior!  Get the hell out of here!"  Carolyn recalled that she
saw her mother-in-law start down the steps with the gun and that she
had wrestled with her, trying to take it away from her.

"Why?"

"I didn't want her to go-I didn't want her to get killed."

Mother Allanson had been distraught.  Carolyn had heard her say, "If I
see him, I'll shoot him!"  Then she told the detectives that Mother
Allanson had said something while she was going down the stairs.

'qA%at?"

"Just before she was shot, she cried out, 'Tommy!  Tommy!  Tommy, don't
hurt Daddy!"' The detectives stared at her.  How could she forget that
for days?  And then Zellner asked quietly, "Did you hear anything else
?

She nodded.  "I heard a man's voice-not Daddy's-shouting, 'Shut up!

Shut up!  Shut up!"

"Was it Tom's voice?"

"I can't swear that it was."

Carolyn said that Mother Allanson had been carrying the hunting rifle
in front of her as if she was ready to fire it.  It was at that point
that everything had exploded.  Little Carolyn had started down the
steps after Big Carolyn, Walter had shouted to her to "Get the hell out
of here," and she had heard a blast.  She saw her mother-in-law just
sit down, and a burst of red begin to blossom over her left breast.

Little Carolyn had known her mother-inlaw was dead; there was so much
blood and she just sat there like a wax figure.

Carolyn said she had fled, but that she heard what seemed like five or
six consecutive shots.  "Pop!  Pop!  Pop!

And then she thought she had heard another blast.

The noose was tightening around Tom Allanson.  His former wife must
have had reasons to want to incriminate him, but would she deliberately
"remember" details to make him look even more guilty, or was she simply
coming out of her shock and telling the truth?  Detectives doubted that
she was the killer herself, despite the Radcliffes' suspicions.

Tom Allanson was arraigned on Monday, July 8, 1974, before East Point
Municipal Court Judge R. M. McDuffie.  There would be no bail.  On
August 2, the Fulton County grand jury returned a true bill charging
Walter Thomas Allanson with two counts of murder.  If convicted, he
could face the death penalty.

On August 8, Judge Charles Wofford heard arguments over whether bond
should be granted to Tom Allanson.  Tom had new counsel.  Although Cal
Long was a perfectly adequate attorney who had successfully represented
the Radcliffes in lesser matters in the past, Pat wanted Tom to be
represented by the top criminal defense lawyers in Atlanta.  But that
would take a great deal of money-ironically, it would take more money
than she had originally planned to spend to turn Kentwood into a
showplace.

Tom had needed four thousand dollars by July 15 to retain a new law
firm.  His aunt Jean had lent him two thousand dollars, but he had to
pay that back within a week.  Pat paid Jean back with a check that, to
her chagrin and Jean's anger, bounced.  To raise money for Tom's
defense, the Radcliffes mortgaged their Tell Road farm for as much as
they could get: thirty-five hundred dollars.  Then they put the farm up
for sale.

Tom wrote to his grandparents, Nona and Paw, begging them to help
Pat.

Despite his own predicament, it was Pat's desperation that seemed to
eat at him.  "Please help my Pat."  She had no money to pay the
utilities on the farm, and no "spending money."  Paw and Nona were slow
to respond with money, although they were backing Tom emotionally.  The
elderly Allansons were the only resource Tom had.  Pat had quickly
managed to alienate Jean Boggs by dismissing any of her suggestions
about how to help Tom.  Tom explained to Paw that Pat would go to work
in a minute if she could, but a job would kill a woman in such delicate
health.  She was already selling off her precious antiques to help
him.

Still Paw held tight to his cash.

Unsure of where the money for legal representation would come from, Pat
nevertheless retained the firm of Garland, Nuckolls and Kadish,
assuring them that she had adequate funds.  She wanted Tom free, and
somehow she would find a way.  Reuben A. Garland was the canny, grand
old man of the firm, and his son, Colonel Edward T. M. Garland, was a
brilliant and colorful man in his late thirties.  You couldn't do any
better in Atlanta than to have the Garlands represent you.

Father and son would be assisted by John Nuckolls, who now pleaded for
Tom's release while he awaited trial.  Pat was there in the courtoom,
along with Margureitte and the colonel and old Paw Allanson.  Nuckolls
argued that Tom had absolutely no record of violent behavior prior to
the crimes he stood accused of.  And he was sorely needed at home.

"Your Honor," he pleaded.  "There's a serious financial problem in
connection with that stable [Kentwood] due to a mortgage.  The farm was
purchased five months ago.  It was purchased on a down payment with a
balloon and that balloon is coming due, and they are fixing to lose
that farm because of the inability to meet the notes.

Even worse, Nuckolls pointed out, both Tom's wife and his grandmother
were in very poor physical condition, and his continued incarceration
wasn't helping.  "Your Honor, I have two letters from doctors
concerning his [Tom's] wife's condition."

Nuckolls explained that Pat was suffering from pulmonary emboli, a
release of clots into the bloodstream that would ultimately pass into
her heart and lungs.  "She has had open heart surgery and has an
umbrella valve implanted in the heart.  Her condition is reported by
her doctors at Emory Hospital and her private physician, Dr. -William
J. Taylor, as undoubtedly terminal with a life expectancy of two years
or less."

Pat certainly appeared to be ill.  Since the shootings, she had lost so
much weight that she looked like a skeleton.  Her mother and her aunts
had tried everything they could to get her to eat; if she did eat, she
threw up.  Her aunt Thelma made her special homemade soup, and Pat
couldn't even hold that down.

The defense had a number of prestigious character witnesses, including
Colonel and Mrs. Radcliffe, standing by to vouch for Tom's
gentleness.

Nona and Paw wanted him out on bond too.  If he were to be released,
his counsel assured the court that he would go straight to Kentwood and
stay there, leaving only to assist his defense team from time to
time.

William Weller, for the Fulton County District Attorney's Office,
quickly erased the picture of Tom Allanson as gentle, describing him as
"a mountain of a man" who was charged with "blowing his mother's heart
out."  Although he had known Tom and his family for years, Judge
Wofford reluctantly agreed with the state that there would be no bond
and that Tom would remain in jail, but he set the earliest trial date
possible', the first Monday morning after Labor Day: September 9,
1974.

Tom's defense team had lost only the first round, but already Ed
Garland could sense trouble.  Although she obviously hadn't the
foggiest grasp of the way the law worked, Pat Allanson clearly didn't
trust her husband's lawyers.  She would not allow Tom to confer with
Garland unless she were present.  She watched him like a hawk,
monitoring and editing his responses even as they emerged from his
mouth.  She spoke for him whenever possible.  Why was she so concerned
about what her husband might say?  She was almost hysterical about
losing "her Tom.

Garland detected that Tom ached to talk to him alone, that the man had
a heavy load on his mind.  There might well be extenuating
circumstances, something a top defense lawyer could build a case on,
but Pat seemed to be afraid to let Tom speak freely.  In her zeal to
protect him, she became a defense lawyer's nightmare.

Worse, Ed Garland could see that Tom trusted his wife implicitly.  The
man was addled by love, consumed by love; he would gladly die for
her.

Ed Garland sincerely hoped it would not come to that.

In less than a year, Pat had fallen in love with Tom, married him, they
had purchased Kentwood Morgan Farms, and now it was all gone.

She was far too ill to live in Kentwood alone, and she couldn't
'possibly do the chores or handle the horses by herself.  What was the
use?  They were probably going to lose Kentwood anyway.

Without Tom, she could never meet the balloon payments.  When fall came
round again, Pat was back living with Margureitte and the colonel on
Tell Road, while Ronnie stayed on in Zebulon so the place wouldn't be
empty and a target for vandals.  He wouldn't be sixteen until November,
but he had always hastened to help his mother.  He never refused
anything she asked of him.

Tom Allanson awaited trial in a sweltering jail cell.

Margureitte Radcliffe traced all the misery in her family to 1974-to
the passionate alliance between Pat and Tom and the violence that
followed so soon after.  Once things started to slide, it was ll:ke an
avalanche.  A pebble or two at first, and then the flowers and grass
from the hillside, and finally the very foundation of their lives.

As it was in most felony cases of such importance, there was a delay in
going to trial.  Tom's pretrial motions wouldn@t be heard until October
and Pat told him she had hit bottom.  She had no money and no strength
to go on.  She couldn't bear it that the trial had been delayed.  She
told him she really needed to be in the hospital.  "But I won't go,
Sugar," she said softly.

"Because that would mean I couldn't see you at all, couldn't come and
visit you-and that would surely kill me.  Besides, the premiums on the
medical insurance are past due and I can't pay for that or for my
medicine."

There could have been no more degrading purgatory for a man like Tom
than to be caged and see this fragile woman he adored reduced to
poverty and illness gone untreated.  Pat had become the only person who
mattered to him.  Her moods, worries, opinions, and well-being
determined his own.  Her fears and sorrows had the power to leave him
twisting in the wind.

Tom's attorneys would far rather' have seen him plead guilty to- lesser
charges than innocent to murder.  Pat would not have it.  She came to
every lawyer-client conference, attached to her husband's side, it
sometimes seemed, like an annoying growth.  It was almost as if she had
a secret fear that Tom would tell the Garlands and John Nuckolls
something that would endanger her.

But that was ridiculous.

Ed Garland finally got a!chance to talk with Tom alone, and he seized
it.

"Tom,- listen to me.  I cannot defend you unless I know the truth.

I'll defend you on what you say to do, but I've got to know .  . .

because all this stuff cannot be true."

Tom would later admit that he did finally tell Ed Garland what had
happened that night in the basement of his parents' house.  But he
would not let Garland repeat what he had saidnot to anyone.  Tom
exacted a promise that Garland would not use that information in
defending him.  He had promised Pat.

She, of all people, loved him more than anyone on earth.  And they
would do it her way.  Garland was supremely frustrated; he was one of
the best criminal defense attorneys in the state of Georgia, and he was
ethically bound to proceed with one legal arm tied behind his back.

Mary Linda Patricia Vann-"Patty"-two and a half in 1940, the most
beautiful baby in Warsaw, North Carolina.

Always in delicate health and subject to frequent fainting spells, Pat
suffered pulmonary emboli (blood clots in the lungs) and was
hospitalized in 1973.

Suitors filled her room with roses, but the one suitor she wanted most
backed away.

(INSET) Pat, 1973, when Tom Allanson fell in love 14 with her and they
moved to Zebulon, Georgia, to build their dream plantation: Kentwood
Morgan Farm.

(BELOW) It was a high point in her life when Georgia Governor Jimmy
Carter rode with Pat, costumed in velvet, in one of the Kentwood Morgan
Farm surreys.

Pat was distraught when she learned what Tom had told his onorney.  "I
thought she was going to divorce me right there," Tom remembered.  But
they did what Pat wanted.  She absolutely refused to consider a plea
bargain that would dictate that Tom would go to prison, if only for a
few years.  She would die without him.  He had to be free, and he would
be, she promised him.  She would brook no compromise.

It was agreed that Tom'would plead innocent to all charges.

And that left his attorneys precious little ammunition with which to
defend him.  They had character witnesses who admired Tom, and
witnesses who would demean the character of those who testified against
him.  Hardly the stuff of which a powerful defense is constructed.

Private investigators for the defense had tried to find someone who had
seen Tom far away from the shooting scene.  They had even advertised
for such a witness in the Atlanta Yournal personals: REWARD ANYONE
SEEING TOM 6FT 4, 250 POUNDS, LIGHT HAIR, 2 WEEKS AGO, WEDNESDAY, JULY
3RD BETWEEN,4:30 AND 9:00 ON CLEVELAND AVENUE BETWEEN S. FULTON
HOSPITAL AND I-75 OR GIVING HIM A RIDE ON I-75 FROM CLEVELAND TO
CENTRAL, PLEASE CALL 344-5729, 436-8435.

URGENT!URGENT!

The ad backfired, and became State's Exhibit No.  102.

It was an endless hot summer and fall as they waited for the trial, and
a relief when October 14, 1974, finally came.  Both Pat and Tom seemed
to believe that he would be found innocent and they would be together
again, perhaps in time to save their plantation.

Hoyt Waller expected a balloon payment by December or he would
repossess their paradise.  Tom thought he could find some way to scrape
the money together, if only he were free before the end of October.

Tom's divorce skirmishes had been held in small county courthouses; his
murder trial would be held in the Fulton County Courthouse in downtown
Atlanta.  Outside the massive white marble courthouse, the oak trees of
Atlanta glowed golden, the dogwood's leaves were tinged with red, and
the maple's turned a clear bright coral.  Inside, as in all courtrooms,
there was no sense of season, only the dust of many seasons, many
years.

"The court calls for trial," Judge Charles A. Wofford, white-haired and
benign, intoned, "the case of The State of Georgia v.

Walter Thomas Allanson, charged with murder, Indictment No.  A22765,
Colonel Edward T. M. Garland for the defendant and Colonel William
Weller for the state."

Customarily, relatives of the accused sat behind the gallery divider,
but Pat insisted on sitting at the defense table.  That was fine with
Tom, but Garland threw up his hands.  Dressed in a dazzling new outfit
each day, sewn by her own hand, Pat was the picture of the anxious,
devoted wife standing by her man.  Her vantage point at the trial also
allowed her to instruct Garland and,to nudge and whisper to Tom.

It took only a day to pick a jury, although they went through more than
four dozen candidates before both Ed Garland and William Weller
accepted a panel of seven men and five women, eight blacks and four
whites, with two alternates.  An inordinate number of the prospective
jurors had relatives in law enforcement, or knew either the prosecutor
or the defense team, or had very strong feelings about the death
penalty.  In the end, Tom Allanson's fate would be decided by a Sears
Roebuck store manager, a retired teacher, two postal employees, an
insurance analyst, a grocer, a physical education teacher, a phone
company clerk, a retired waitress, a payroll administrator, a
housewife, and a retired airline pilot.

As Assistant D.A. William Weller called his witnesses one by one, they
painted a devastating, unrelenting picture that would be hard for Ed
Garland to erase.  Sergeant Butts of the East Point Police Department
testified that Tom had been so angry two days before the killings-as he
sought to charge his father with public indecency-that he had said, "If
this kind of stuff keeps up, I'll kill him!"  Deputy Richard
Satterfield of Forsyth County, an investigator into the abortive ambush
at Lake Lanier four days before the murders, described how Walter and
Carolyn Allanson had almost died in a storm of bullets.  Mary Rena
Jones of the Jones store said she had seen a blue pickup truck with a
round decal on the door the morning of the ambush.

Weller called Walter Allanson's employees and neighbors, and then all
of the East Point police investigators who had pored over the house and
the yard on Norman Berry Drive or who had gone to Zebulon and arrested
Tom.  Twenty-two convincing witnesses for the state, none of whom had
particular axes to grind.  Step by step, Weller built his case,
implying to the jury that Tom Allanson was not only guilty of shooting
his parents on July 3, but that he had been present at all the earlier
attacks and harassments.

Tom sat frozen at the defense table, his longish hair cut now above his
ears and his shoulders straining at a tailored navy blue sport coat.

When Mary Jones testified that she had seen him drive by her store on
the morning of June 29, 1974, in a blue pickup with a canopy and a
Kentwood Morgan Farm circular seal on the door, he shook his head
slightly.  He knew that seal hadn't been on the truck since Pat's
accident in Stone Mountain two months before.  Pat's reaction was much
more obvious to the jury.

Frowning and grimacing, she wrote a note and shoved it dramatically
across the defense table to Ed Garland.

On cross-examination, Garland got Mrs. Jones to admit she hadn't
recognized the driver of the blue truck, nor had she mentioned seeing
the truck on the day of the ambush.  Her testimony warred with her
first police report.  She had first recalled seeing Tom the day before
the ambush at Lake Lanier.  Garland fought to have Mary Jones's
testimony thrown out, but he lost.

For the second time in two days, he asked for a mistrial, and for the
second time, Judge Wofford denied his request.

There would be many legal tussles between the defense and the
prosecution during the trial, times when the jury would be banished
from the courtroom.  Judge Wofford was an easygoing, folksy jurist.  He
invited the male members of the jury to remove their jackets and even
their shoes if they were pinching.

Ashtrays would be provided for those who cared to smoke.  He apologized
for the delays and explained that "if you're inclined to blame anyone,
blame the court."

Little Carolyn Allanson was probably the biggest gun the prosecution
had.  She was right next door to an eyewitness, and television
mysteries had made eyewitness testimony seem infallible.  Carolyn had
never said she saw Tom that rainy night in July, but in her third
interview with George Zellner, she had recalled that she heard her
ex-mother-in-law scream out, "Tommy!

Tommy!  Tommy!"  She was on the witness stand for much of the third day
of trial, examined and cross-examined.

The Allansons' next-door neighbors, the Ducketts, and Officer McBurnett
were, of course, true eyewitnesses to a tall running man who fled the
crime scene.  All of them pinned Tom Allanson a little tighter to the
wall.

Hampered as he was by Pat's refusal to allow her husband to plead
guilty to lesser charges, Ed Garland could only try to stem the
damage.

He was good.  He elicited an admission from McBurnett that he had
glimpsed Tom in the police station before he identified him in the
lineup.  McBurnett had, like most of the East Point officers, made it a
habit to glance into the identification room to wave to a particularly
attractive female clerk who worked there.  On June 6, Tom had been
sitting in the ID room as McBurnett passed.

Several of the investigating officers had not saved their notes or
reduced their interviews to written reports.  Garland was agile, a
fencer poking tiny holes in the fabric of the state's case with his
rapier.  But only tiny holes.  The state's eyewitnesses included a
police officer and a fire fighter.  The Ducketts both described the
huge man who had run past their house even as the first sirens howled
through the Norman Berry neighborhood.  It would be a herculean task
for any attorney to overcome that kind of testimony.  Ed Garland was
further handicapped by Pat's courtroom behavior and her continued
insistence that she and not her husband's attorney should decide how
his defense would be handled.  When Pat was dissatisfied with the way
things were going, she punched Tom in the ribs.  She seemed to hover
just at the edge of hysteria, watching and listening for some danger to
Tom.  It drove Garland nuts.

On Wednesday morning, October 16, Ed Garland, his jaw tight, asked
Judge Wofford for a conference in chambers out of the jury's hearing.

The opposing attorneys were both present, as was the court
stenographer.

"Judge, I think it's necessary, to protect my reputation and the
integrity of the judicial process," Garland began, "[to note] that I
find substantial disagreements between the defendant's wife and myself
concerning how the case .  . . should be conducted.  . .

. There are certain witnesses that I decline to put on the stand, will
not put on the stand .  . . because of my investigation in the case.

"I also find there's an inability to communicate with my client
effectively because of his desire to have his wife present, and I find
that his wife is unstable.  His wife is affecting his judgment insofar
as my ability to communicate with him."

His exasperation obvious, Garland told the judge that Pat wanted to
select which witnesses would testify, and that she was telling Tom that
he must testify.  Almost always, a competent criminal defense attorney
chooses not to put his client on the stand; once he does that, he opens
the defendant up to crossexamination from the prosecution and
devastating questions often ensue.  Pat apparently felt she could coach
Tom in the proper way to testify.

"I want the record to show," Garland continued, "that I requested that
she remain out of the courtroom during the case.  She has refused, and
the defendant has demanded that she be allowed to be present.  . . . I
feel like the approach I have taken is the best I know how to do.

That's all I wanted to put on the record, Judge."

"Would you like me to bring her in here-have Mrs. Allanson
broughtin?"

"I think it will just get into her crying and gnashing of teeth,
Judge," Garland sighed.

"Colonel Garland, I have watched her-her facial expressions a number of
times," Judge Wofford said.  "Now, she has not made any audible
statements in the courtroom.  . . . She's made no truly noticeable
gestures-unless you were watching her carefully.  . . .

I have felt for the days this has been proceeding that she has been a
detriment to the trial, but she committed no action that was
sufficiently overt .  . . for the court to take action.  I recognize
that her presence is definitely a stumbling block to the harmonious
proceedings that we still have ahead."

Ed Garland, fighting for his client, was truly stymied.

"What has occurred has occurred outside the presence of the jury and
the court," he said.  I asked her to leave yesterday where I could talk
to him alone, to remove him from her suggestive influences.  . . . She
went across the courtroom and faked a heart attackin my opinion-to get
the attention."

Judge Wofford nodded.  Pat Allanson had gasped a'nd fainted the moment
he had walked out of the courtroom, and the sheriff's deputy had
informed him of it.

Ed Garland explained further.  "When I tried to talk with him .  . .

gave him my uninterrupted counsel, and got him to reflect on it, she
pulled a heart attack .  . . and demanded that she be present with him
in all my discussions.  .

. . I find that with her acting the way she acts, that he doesn't think
clearly."

Nobody in Judge Wofford's chambers could argue with that.  But there
didn't seem to be anything they could do about it.  In her
near-hysterical fight to save Tom, Pat continued to disrupt his trial,
but she always managed to stay just within the bounds of courtroom
propriety.  The judge had warned against demonstrations, and her
grimacing and whispering remained on the edge of what he would allow,
barely restrained.  Her visits to Tom left him unsettled and worried.

She wanted him to testify; she warned him Ed Garland wasn't doing right
by him.  Outside the courtroom, Pat often fainted and clutched her
heart.  On one occasion during a break, she pointed out a policeman to
Tom and whispered desperately, "Oh my God, Tom!  That man raped me!"

And then she fainted once again.

"What did she expect me to do?"  Tom later asked futilely.  "Deck a cop
right there in the courthouse hallway?  I couldn't do anything.

Tom Allanson descended further into his own private hell.  The way
things were going, he now figured he would probably be found guilty and
executed.  Who would look after Pat?  He was so in love with his wife
that his biggest worry was not his own bleak future, but hers.  What
would she ever do in this world without him?

Ed Garland trudged on, feeling Pat Allanson around his neck like an
albatross.  He attempted to have her description of what Tom was
wearing on the day of the shootings excluded.  It didn't help his
client's case one bit to have his own wife corroborate the state's
eyewitnesses.  Garland's objections were overruled.

The jury saw dozens of pictures of the blood-drenched basement and
heard Sergeant Callahan describe the scene he had found on the night of
July 3. But had Tom been one of the people in the basement?  If Garland
could convince Pat that he had to keep Tom off the stand, the case
would come down to ballistics.

Ballistics were not nearly as emotional or fraught with danger as Tom's
testimony could be.

Three guns had been present: a .32 revolver, a brand-new Marlin deer
rifle-really an "elephant gun," high-powered as they come-and a
20-gauge shotgun.  Could anyone prove who had fired which guns?

Garland was able to establish on crossexamination that Tom's hands had
been clean of unpowder residue when he was tested, and that no
fingerprints had been found on any of the weapons.

Kelly Rite, a criminalist and microanalyst from the Georgia State Crime
Lab, was called to the stand as an expert witness for the
prosecution.

He testified that the shotgun cartridges, one blue and one yellow,
found in the "hole" itself and on the basement floor just beneath it
had come from the Excel shotgun, the "stolen" gun.  They had once
contained approximately twenty pellets-No.  3 buckshot, the same gauge
as those found in Walter and Carolyn Allanson.  The buckshot itself was
consistent with the type used in the empty cartridges, although lead
pellets, unlike bullets, bear no definitive markings that can identify
the weapon from which they have been fired.

Rite's laboratory tests indicated that the shotgun had been about ten
feet from Carolyn when it was fired.  Whoever shot Walter Allanson had
been over forty feet away, and the angle of the deadly buckshot had
been from left to right.  Some of the pellets had "skipped" as they hit
a flashlight Walter had carried and the overhead light fixture.  The
closer a shotgun is to a target, the smaller the circle of damage it
will leave in the target -or in the victim.

Carolyn Allanson's wounds had been centered in her left chest area;
Walter's wounds were widely scattered from his face to his hand, wrist,
and abdomen.

Rite concluded that only two shots had been fired from the Excel
shotgun in the Allanson basement, one hitting Carolyn and one striking
Walter.  He had test-fired the gun and found that a cartridge would
eject directly back about six to eight inches and fall at the feet of
the shooter.  Reconstructing from the physical evidence, he could
speculate with accuracy what had happened.  Someone had fired the
shotgun from the hole or just in front of the hole.  Someone had fired
a pistol into the hole, not once but six or seven times.  Someone had
fired the Marlin oncefrom an area near the stairs.  Rite had determined
that the empty casing found near Walter and Carolyn was from the Marlin
.45/70the "elephant gun"-but the slug itself had never been found.

It appeared that there had been at least two shooters in the basement
that night.  There could have been three.  But if Tom was that third
shooter, would he be capable of murdering his own parents?

To establish a pattern of vindictive behavior, Prosecutor Weller
continued to focus on the harassment of Walter Allanson principally the
Lake Lanier ambush-before the fatal night, and Ed Garland fought like a
tiger to keep it out.  Connecting Tom to all those bullet holes in his
parents'station wagon would only bury him deeper.  Weller, of course,
insisted that the ambush shooting was only part of a "total continuous
transaction" from June 29 to July 3. And countless hours would be spent
arguing over when the Morgan Kentwood seal had been removed from Tom
Allanson's pickup truck.  In fact, it had not been there since May, but
witnesses from Jones's store still claimed to have seen Tom driving a
truck with that seal on the morning of the ambush.  Garland wanted that
false identification excluded from the jury's consideration, but Judge
Wofford ruled against him.

And he lost again when he attempted to keep word of Walter and
Carolyn's rancorous wills from the ury's ears.  The jury heard of them
in Mary McBride's testimony as Walter Allanson's secretary.

"They have accomplished their motive," Garland complained to Judge
Wofford.  "They wanted to hit the jury over the head with a
sledgehammer and then tell them, 'Now you ignore the headache."

That's what we have here.  We have thrown horse manure in the jury box
and want to ask them not to smell it.

We have flashed wills here and said, 'Oh, there were wills.

There must be motive.  He must have killed for financial gain."

Perhaps the biggest defense loss of all was Ed Garland's attempt to
have a mistrial declared over Carolyn Allanson's altered recollections
of what she had heard the night of the murders.  Her firm voice
testifying that she remembered hearing screams of "Tommy!  Tommy!

Tommy!"  before the fatal shots might well be a death knell for his
client.

The state rested, and Ed Garland rose to present the case for the
defense.  It would be an arduous uphill climb and he knew it, but he
gave no sign of that as he questioned his first witness.

Garland and his investigators had located a number of people who knew
Tom Allanson well, and who had seen him on Saturday, June 29.  The
shots had hit his parents' car a little after I 1:00 A.m. as it headed
up Truman Mountain Road.  If Garland could show that Tom was someplace
else at that time, it would neutralize the continual testimony about
the man in the blue pickup with a canopy attached and with the Kentwood
seal on the door.  In the best of all possible worlds, he might even
produce someone who had seen Tom on the night of July 3, far, far away
from his parents'home.

Garland began with the Saturday before.

James Strickland, a Kayo Oil gas station attendant, saw Tom and Pat
Allanson in his station in Barnesville-some ninety miles south of Lake
Lanier-on the twenty-ninth between 10: 15 and 10:30

A.m. They were driving a blue truck with a green horseshoeing trailer
on the back.  Strickland remembered no emblem on the truck's door.

Bobby Jackson, a man who had been "rodeoing" with Tom for a dozen
years, saw him on June 29.  Jackson was on his way to a "jackpot steer
roping" in Madison, and heading east on 1-20, just east of Atlanta,
when he recognized Tom's shoeing rig pass him.

He testified it was between noon and 12:30, and Tom had exited at the
Lithonia off ramp.

Edgar Milton Smith, president of Voice Communications, Inc of Atlanta,
had horses pastured in Lithonia, and Tom had arrived shortly after
12:30 the afternoon of June 29 to shoe them.  He had stayed until
approximately 6:00 that evening.

Robert Wait, Tom and Pat's next-door neighbor in Zebulon, had seen them
come home at eleven o'clock on the night of June 29, driving the blue
pickup with the green horseshoeing rig on the back.

Donald Cooper, a potential horse buyer, had been to Kentwood on June 29
and found Tom and Pat gone.  He had seen the canopy of the blue truck
on blocks in the yard.

Liz Price, Pat and Tom's neighbor and friend, verified that the
Kentwood Morgan emblem had not been on their blue pickup since Pat's
accident just after their wedding.

Garland was doing the best he could with what he had, and yet he hadn't
even touched on Tom's whereabouts on the murder night.

Pat had brought Garland the next witness, and the defense attorney
approached him warily.

The witness's name was Bill Jones, and he was employed at a liquor
store located on Cleveland Avenue at the 1-75 freeway.  He recalled
that, yes indeed, he had met up with Tom Allanson at twelve minutes to
eight on the evening of July 3 when Tom came in to ask for change to
make a phone call.

"Some people want change for the telephone-which is outside on the
parking lot against the post," Jones testified, "but ever since I have
been there, no one has asked me for change to make a long-distance
call.  . . . He even added Zebulon, Georgia.  . . .

The only reason why I would have remembered thathis wife came in the
next night after and asked me was there a man in there that evening,
and I told her what had happened.  . . . See, when he said 'telephone,'
the light bulb went on in my mind because my wife goes to sleep on the
sofa at night roughly at eight o'clock.  I have to call her by eight.

. . .

When he said 'telephone,' I looked at my watch."

The voluble Mr. Jones estimated that his store was located about two
miles from Norman Berry Drive in East Point.

The state demolished Mr.  Jones as Weller took'over crossexamination.

Jones admitted that, while he had told Sergeant Callahan that Tom had
been in the store at 4:30

P.m he had later told a private investigator that he didn't know if Tom
had been in at seven or eight-or nine, for that matter.  Jones
recalled, after being prodded, that Pat Allanson had been in the liquor
store to see him at least three times, and after that he had been
visited by defense investigators on several occasions.  He denied
vigorously that he had seen a reward for information posted in the
Atlanta Yournal.

He was not a credible witness-undoubtedly one of "Pat's witnesses" that
Ed Garland had told Judge Wofford he did not want to put on the
stand.

But he was the only witness who placed Tom away from the slaying
scene.

And he was far from impressive.

Mrs. Clifford B. Radcliffe was.  Dressed impeccably, her beautiful
gray hair perfectly coiffed, she made her way gracefully to the
stand.

Ed Garland approached her, smiling.  "And what is your husband's
occupation?"

"My husband is with the federal government with-in a security support
branch.  He's a retired lieutenant colonel."

"He's here today, is he not?"

"Yes, he is."  She smiled serenely.

'Right there?"

"Yes."

"The man who just took his glasses off?"

"The most distinguished man in the courtroom," Margureitte replied
proudly.

Garland had let her go a bit too far.  He wanted the jury to see what
fine people the Radcliffes were, but he didn't want to leave them with
the impression that they were holier-than-thou.  He quickly changed the
subject.  "Now, Mrs. Radcliffe, is your daughter present in the
courtroom?"

"Yes, she is."

"She's the defendant's wife?"

"That is correct.  That is our daughter."

Garland hurried on before the witness could point out that Pat was the
"most beautiful woman in the courtroom."

Margureitte disputed the ridiculous idea that the Allansons' truck had
ever had an emblem like the one the Lake Lanier witnesses described.

Next, she verified that Pat and Tom had come for dinner on June 29, and
had been summoned from there to Nona and Paw's.

Garland leapt ahead to the evening of July 3. Margureitte testified
that Pat had called them, worried sick, around 7:30.  "I told her that
me and her father would meet her, to stay exactly where she was.  . .

.

I told her to stay at the King Professional Building at the parking
lot, to park away from the building.  . . .

We'd be there and we were there."

Garland moved into Margureitte's two strange and frighteninly
encounters with the late Walter Allanson.  Bill Weller objected.

"Your Honor, it seems to me we're going into an awful lot of hearsay.

. . . It's too bad I couldn't have poor .  . . Mr. Allanson here to
come and say what he said or didn't say-but I'm sort of in a peculiar
situation .  . . Your Honor.  . . . If it's all right for him to go
into hearsay of a man resting six feet under, it's all right for me to
go into something the wife said to her also.

Judge Wofford refused to let either lawyer bargain for future
rulings.

He nodded to Garland, who asked the witness what Walter Allanson had
said to her.

Margureitte's tone was dramatic as she recalled her last conversation
with the late victim.  "He said, 'I think it will all be over by this
weekend, that Tommy will either be 'ailed or he will be dead,'and I was
terrified."

"Did he say anything in response to your statement that Tommy didn't do
it [the ambush]?  .  . . Did he say anything about whether it could be
anybody else that could have done it?"

"Your Honor," Weller objected."  I think we are leading a little bit.

Garland grinned ruefully."  I think we are, Your Honor."

Bill Weller questioned the defendant's mother-in-law.  Even on
cross-examination, Margureitte Radcliffe was a most forthcoming
witness.  She was, however, disturbed by quotations attributed to her
from her July 6 interview with Detective Zellner.  Even when told that
they had come directly from a transcription of an audiotape, she felt
sure that words had been added or left out.  A comparison to the on
inal tape showed no such omissions or additions.  "[The night Pat
called you] she had no idea where her husband, Tom, was at that time,
did she?"

"She said he had gone to talk with his mother," Margureitte replied.

"Oh, she told you that?"  Weller sounded surprised.

"Yes.

"She didn't tell you that she didn't know where he was and she was
frantic waiting on him?"

"No."

"She told you that he had gone-" He had gone there.  . . . I was
frightened."

Garland fought back with hearsay oh'ections and was sustained.

"Now, Mrs. Radcliffe," Weller continued.  "Tom Allanson's final decree
on his divorce from the second wife, Carolyn, was on the ninth of May,
1974, wasn't it?"

"To my knowledge, yes, sir."

"And they [Tom and Pat] got married when-the latter part of May
1974?"

Weller led the witness smoothly into a trap.

"They were married on the evening of May 9."

"Oh, they got married the very evening that the divorce decree went
into effect?"

"That is correct."  Margureitte sat up straighter and fixed the
prosecutor with a thin smile.

"Now,-isn't it a fact that the late Mr. and Mrs. Allanson would not
accept your daughter?"

" I don't know.  They did not know her."

"Well, I didn't say that.  I said, they did not accept her as a
daughter-in-law, would they?"

"He said that .  . . he didn't have a son, so therefore, how could he
have a daughter-in-law?"

"Yes, ma'am.

"That's right."  Margureitte fixed her eyes triumphantly on a
chastened-appearing Weller.  She was a disaster as a witness on cross;
she offered too much information and she came across as supercilious.

On balance, Garland's case would have been better off without
Margureitte's testimony.  She was more help to the prosecution.

It had been a very long day, this fourth day of trial, and Judge
Wofford released the jury at 6:00 P.m. Ed Garland asked for yet another
mistrial and was again denied.  Each request, of course, would add to
the likelihood that an appeal for a new trial would be granted.  He was
a cunning attorney; he knew exactly what he was doing.  The lawyers
wrangled over legal points in chamhers long after the jury had
dispersed.

On Friday morning, October 18, the first witness was Fred Benson, a
blacksmith and longtime friend of Tom Allanson's.

Garland hoped to throw doubt on Tom's identification in the police
lineup three days after the murders.  Benson had been a voluntary
participant in the lineup of July 6. He explained why.  "I went in to
see Tom, see, and Detective Thornhill was real nice-took me back to the
cell to talk to Tom.  . . . All these Officers were in there [the
police station) .  . . and they were fixing to have a lineup.  They
brought these two car theft boys out.  They were little bitty short
guys, looked criminal-criminal-type-looking people-with moustaches."

"You don't mean to say that just because they had a mustache-" Garland
cut in quickly.  Several of the jurors had moustaches.

"You know.  What I'm trying to say-they didn't look like Tom.

If you've seen Tom, he's twelve foot tall, only man in the world I have
to look up to."

Two other lineup members were fire fighters, who had stripped down to
their T-shirts and trousers.  Benson volunteered to stand in the lineup
so that Tom would have a better chance.  He was a big man too, and he
figured he would offset the "little bitty" criminal types.

Benson had also known Tom's ex-wife for many years, and Garland
elicited his opinion of her.  "Mr.  Benson," he asked.

"Do you-from your knowledge of Carolyn Allanson of Athens, Georgia- Did
you hear what people generally said about her in reference to her
reputation for truthfulness and honesty?"

"Most anybody in Athens-" "Answer yes or no."

"Yes, sir."

"Was that reputation good or bad?"

"It was very bad."

"And based on that reputation, would you believe her on her oath?"

"I wouldn't believe her if she was standing on a stack of Bibles.  I
told Tom-" Benson was just getting warmed up.

"Just answer the questions," Garland stopped him.  "All right, your
witness."

Weller dispatched Tom's fellow farrier quickly.  Looking chagrined,
Fred Benson turned to the judge.  "Your Honor, I didn't get to say all
I wanted to say-" "You have said all they will allow you to," Judge
Wofford explained.

Pursuing his strategy to cast doubt on Tom's identification in the
lineup, Garland called Hugh Maples, a private investigator working for
the defense team, to the stand.  He recalled the circus atmosphere that
Fourth of July weekend at the East Point police station.

"Did you have occasion," Garland asked, "to be at the East Point jail
in the presence of Tom Allanson on an occasion when there was a
disrobed hippie girl?"

The jurors exchanged glances.  Every day there seemed to be a surprise
or two in the testimony.

"Yes, sir."

"Tell the jury about that incident."

"This was on a Saturday prior to the lineup.  . . . Pat was back there
. . . talking with Tom.  . . . Chief of Police Godfrey was up at the
other end of the hall talking with this hippie girl .  . . she had just
taken a shower and was complaining about no towels.

"How was she dressed?"

"She wasn't dressed."

"Did that attract any attention from the policemen?"

Several jurors smiled and a few gallery members tittered.

"Several.  Yes, sir.  . . . Detective Zellner leaned around the
corner.

He called someone to come there, and I turned and saw it was Officer
McBurnett."

"And could Officer McBurnett see the defendant, Tom Allanson?"

"Yes, sir."

Garland ended his questioning there.  Had the jurors understood that
this prior viewing would have further contaminated McBurnett's
identification of Tom in the lineup?

Ed Garland knew in his bones that Pat had concocted a story for Tom to
tell, believing her version would fly better than what he might say.

Garland didn't want Tom on the stand, and he certainly would not put
Pat on the stand; she was so unstable emotionally that he couldn't
predict what she might do.  So Garland was left with a defense that
only nibbled at the edges of the questions in the jurors' minds.

Bill Weller kept making sarcastic references to the fact that most of
Tom's witnesses were "horse people," as if that would automatically
make them lie for him.  Bill Jones, the liquor store eyewitness, had
been pretty well tainted as a defense witness.  So Garland could only
chip away at the lineup and at Carolyn Allanson's reputation for
honesty.

None of it was really enough to fight double murder charges.

There was a hush in the courtroom as an old man made his way to the
witness stand.  Walter Allanson-Paw-had come to testify for his
grandson in a murder trial where his own son and daughter-inlaw were
the victims.  He had loved Tommy since the day he was born.  He didn't
look like a sentimental man.  Actually, he appeared to be a
weather-beaten old cuss whose expression reflected no discernible
emotion.

"Did you have occasion, Mr. Allanson," Garland asked, "to have a
telephone call from Carolyn Allanson?"

"Yeah .  . .

"When did Carolyn Allanson call you?"

"About six weeks ago."

"In that conversation, what did she say to you?"

"She wanted to come out to the house but I had company coming.  I asked
her to wait till Sunday to come.  Then in talking to her, she's telling
me she loved Tom, and I asked her what all went on out at the house at
the killings.  She said, 'Mother Allanson got killed."  That's what she
called her mother-in-law, see, and then [she said], 'But we didn't mean
for Walter to get killed-' " What could she have meant: that there had
been a plot to kill her mother-in-law, and her father-in-law was killed
by mistake?  It was doubtful that young Carolyn had been romantically
involved with her husband's father, as Margureitte had suggested.  Was
this simply the testimony of a very old man who would do anything to
save his grandson?  Quite possibly.  Paw had no further observations or
remembrances to offer on Carolyn, and the jury seemed oblivious to any
spicy connections his testimony might have evoked.

Weller seemed to think that the old man was fabricating.  "Mr.
Allanson," he began on cross-examination.  "You want to do everything
you can to help your grandson, don't you?"

"I want to be fair with the world."

"Yes, sir.  You want to help him and do everything you can to help
him?"

"If it takes anything to help him, the truth is what I'm telling.

"And really," the prosecutor asked, "it's pretty well your philosophy
that the dead are gone and the living are still here, isn't it?"

"Yeah.

Nothing further."

On redirect, Garland elicited Paw's opinion of Tom as far as violence
went.

"I've known him and he's a fair, square boy," he replied.

"Wait a minute.  I'm asking you about his reputation for
peacefulness.

"Good."  Paw did not waste words.

While questioning Paw, Bill Weller had, for the third time in the
trial, managed to get the information on the record that Tom Allanson
was a quick-draw expert.  He had, the prosecution maintained, once shot
himself in the leg while practicing in college.  Paw Allanson agreed
that Tom was a "pretty good quickdraw" shooter.

Nona Allanson, who could barely speak due to a stroke, entered the
courtroom in a wheelchair.  She testified that she had heard her son
Walter threaten to kill her grandson.

"Did you tell your grandson that?"

"Yes, I told him."

Weller had no questions.  Lawyers rarely make points with the jury by
cross-examining such a vulnerable witness.

The long week of testimony was over.  Next would come the summations.

The members of the jury would hear neither Tom nor Pat Allanson
speak.

They had watched their interplay and wondered about them, seeing the
pretty woman whisper passionately to her husband and his attorneys,
seeing the man on trial gaze at her with such longing in his eyes.  The
jury had not seen Tom and Pat kiss and hold each other as they did
during court recesses, but they had picked up on the sexual tension
between them.  They had been curious, and undoubtedly wished they could
have heard Tom and Pat testify.  There seemed to be so much about this
case that remained unexplained.  But both sides had been represented by
extremely able attorneys, and now it was time for final arguments.

Bill Weller contended that Tom Allanson had killed his parents
deliberately.  "Everything points to him.  He has no reasonable
hypothesis.

The only reasonable hypothesis, the only reasonable circumstances-this
man murdered his mother and his daddy in cold blood.  He's the only one
had a motive.  No phantom involved in this."

Weller came as close to naming Pat Allanson as an accomplice as he
dared under the law.  She had not been formally charged with any crime
because the D.A."s office wasn't sure just where she fit in-if at
all.

Weller asked the questions the D.A."s staff had asked one another.

"What's she doing way up from Zebulon fifty or sixty miles away driving
around the Allansons' home-if not to let him off to do his little
deed?

Is she the fly in the ointment?  Is she the rejected woman that the
parents would not accept because they had another daughter-in-law and
two children?  And the constant needling-constant needling-crying .

.

. about somebody exposing himself and here she is a grown woman.  . .

.

Every time you hear some witness, 'Yes, she was with him."  This wife's
everywhere.  She's here waiting for him.  She's there.  She's driving
around the house.  He's walking to Zebulon.  She's next door looking
for him at his grandmother's house thirty minutes before."

Weller reminded the jury that Tom had been seen on Norman Berry
Drive.

"Three eyewitnesses.  . . . That policeman looked him flat in the face
three or four times.  Mr. and Mrs. Duckett saw the police car running
down the road with him.  They described him, jeans, boots, Tarzan hair,
tannish shirt-or brownish green , all the same color scheme."  Weller
ended his summation with a call to the jury to simply add up the
established facts.  It was all there.

Ed Garland contended in his final arguments that the case against Tom
Allanson had not been proven to a moral certainty, and that was what
was needed to convict.  "That is what this case is about.  There is no
moral certainty in it.  There's no firm piece of evidence you can plant
your foot on and say, in fact, in that house that the defendant fired
that weapon and killed those two people.  It does not exist-but there's
this assumption, speculation.  There's positive proof to the contrary
that someone else did the shooting on the twenty-ninth of June.  . .

.

"There's not one piece of evidence that puts this defendant in that
basement-not one-and if you consider a guilty verdict, you have to
speculateyou have to assume.  . . . In this case you're dealing with
circumstantial evidence.  Lots of bits and pieces of circumstances.

The law sets an even higher standard.  It says this, that the
circumstances must exclude every other reasonable theory-must exclude
every other one!"

And it was true.  There was no physical evidence that placed Tom in
that charnel house of a basement.

It's just not there," Garland continued.  "Was there a boot print, a
bloody boot print walking from this basement through that blood where
the man was lying in the trail of blood?  Somebody had to go right
through it.  Was there .  . . one bit of blood on an item of clothing
this defendant had?"  They went there to his home and arrested him.

There was not and there's a reasonable doubt.  . . .

"If you can meet the challenge of the law, then you will stand up and
write a verdict of not guilty in this case because there are hundreds
of reasonable doubts."

Ed Garland's voice dropped as he spoke the final sentences of his
argument.  He would not be allowed to speak again.  Bill Weller would;
the onus of proving a case is always on the state and the prosecutor is
allowed a rebuttal statement after the defense finishes.  "I ask you to
write a verdict of not guilty," Garland pleaded."  In this case-not
proven-to follow your duty as jurors..... and return a verdict that
says this case has not been proven....... I now give the burden of Tom
Allanson's life to you.  Please look after it."

Step by step, in rebuttal, Weller went over the case the state had
built, asserting that the defendant had pried open the door into his
parents' basement and then waited coldly for them to come home so he
could murder them.  It was a good argument, and plausible, and Weller
was persuasive.  "I want to quote one thing from the Scriptures, from
the Book of Proverbs, and I'll leave it with you," Weller concluded."

'He that curseth his father and mother, his lamp shall be put out in
the midst of darkness.

The jury could find Tom guilty of murder, not guilty of murder but
guilty of voluntary manslaughter, or they could find him not guilty,
period.  In a two-count indictment such as this, they had to return a
separate verdict on each count.

The jury retired to deliberate at 6:00 P.m. on Friday, October 18.  At
8:27

P.m. they buzzed the courtroom and asked to come before the court.

Judge Wofford understood that they had a question.  But it was not a
question.

Joseph Thackston, the payroll administrator, had been elected foreman
by his fellow j u rors, and he said, "We have reached a decision, Your
Honor."

"You have?"

"Yes, sir."

Judge Wofford immediately sent the jurors back into the jury room and
placed a call to Ed Garland and Bill Weller.  No one had expected a
verdict so soon.  Tom was brought over from jail, and the colonel and
Margureitte supported Pat with their arms as they entered the
courtroom.

By 8:44 P.m all the principals were present.  Pat stared at the jury,
her face full of hope.

"Mr. Foreman," Judge Wofford asked, "has the jury reached a
verdict?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Mr. Weller, will you receive and publish the verdict, and Mr.
Allanson, will you and your attorney stand right out here, please, and
face the jury?"

Assistant District Attorney Weller unfolded the piece of paper and
began to read, "Dated October 18, 1974.  We the jury find for the
defendant-" Tom sighed with relief, and Ed Garland started to smilebut
only as long as it took to take half a breath.  Weller continued to
read.  "We the jury find for the defendant guilty on both counts of
murder The jurors had mistakenly used the wrong terminology.  They had
found Tom guilty, but the term "find for the defendant" meant, of
course, that he had been acquitted.  The relief and then the letdown
were excruciating.

"You will go back in the jury room and correct your verdict," Judge
Wofford explained to the jury.  "It will be, 'We the jury find the
defendant guilty."  In other words, you have one word too many in
there."  They returned with the word deleted.

Ed Garland asked for a polling of the jury.  Tom stood as if made of
stone, as pale as marble, showing no emotion at all.  Pat watched the
jury in utter disbelief, her chin trembling and her eyes filling with
tears.  As each juror spoke the word "guilty" aloud, she swayed as if
she could collapse at any moment.

Georgia justice was swift; there would be no wait before sentencing.

Tom Allanson would know his fate before he left the courtroom.  He
could be sentenced to death-twice.  He might now be facing the electric
chair.

Weller asked to address the court.  Those watching expected to hear him
ask for the death penalty.  Instead, he began, "I have spoken to the
family of the late Mr. Allanson and .  . . I think I can state that
they do not wish the state to press for the death penalty in this case
because of the emotional involvement between the defendant and his late
parents.  Because.  of the family's wishes, we will waive the death
penalty and request the court to direct the jury to sentence the
defendant to two concurrent life sentences.

A few moments later foreman Thackston handed the sentence to Bill
Weller.  On the judge's orders, he had hastily written in his own hand
the words that charted Tom Allanson's future.

"Your Honor, shall I publish the sentence?"

"If you will, please, Mr.  Weller."

"We the jury," Weller read, "fix the sentence of the defendant at life
imprisonment on both counts, the sentence under Count II to be served
concurrently with the sentence on Count I.

Tom and Ed Garland stood before Judge Wofford as he read the sentence
again.  "It is hereby the verdict of this court that these be your
sentences, a life sentence on Count I of Indictment No.  A-22765, and
to run concurrently with that, a life sentence on Count II of
Indictment No.  A-22765, and may God's love sustain you now and in the
days that are to come.  The court is no w adjourned."

It was 9:00 P.m only sixteen minutes since they had all been summoned
there.

Pat threw herself into Tom's arms and kissed him on the mouth, clinging
to him desperately until deputies stepped in to handcuff Tom and lead
him away.

"Tom?"  she called after him, and he stopped and looked back at her,
his expression one of blank despair.

She blew him a kiss and said, "I'll see you tomorrow?"

He nodded.

"Good."  Pat smiled brilliantly-for Tom's sake.

Margureitte, who sat in the front row of the courtroom watching, called
out, "I love you, Tommy!"

He had been so thankful when he became involved with Pat and the
Radcliffes and they had welcomed him into their home and their
hearts.

They had transformed his life.  How could everything have gone so
terribly wrong?

Technically, Tom would become eligible for parole in seven years.  It
didn't matter.  Seven years without Pat was like imagining a thousand
years without air.  Puling slightly against his handcuffs, he struggled
to get one more glimpse of her.  If he had wanted to, Tom could have
flung the deputies beside him against the wall, but he never thought of
it.  He watched Pat walk out of the courtroom, borne on her
parents'arms, and then let his guards lead him away.

Tom didn't know that Judge Wofford himself had come down from his bench
to speak with the Radcliffes and Pat's daughter, Susan.

Susan Alford had wiped away her own tears and listened as the judge
comforted them.  "You know, it's really sad, Mr. and Mrs. 
Radcliffe.

That boy didn't get a fair chance.  That boy was there in the basement
that day of the killings.  Something happened.

Maybe a terrible argument.  But it wasn't a premeditated shooting.

Why in the world wasn't this done another way?"

Judge Wofford was only echoing the unspoken question on ever one's
lips.  How could it be that a nice guy, a good old boy like Tommy
Allanson, was on his way to prison for life for the cold blooded
shootings of his own mama and daddy?  How could it be that the perfect
love he had finally found in his Pat had ended in death and despair?

try Linda Patricia Vann was the name they gave her at birth.  She would
have many names in her life.  Patricia, or rather Pat, was the only one
that would stay with her.  She was born into a southern family whose
roots were so deep in the earth that no hurricane of scandal could tear
them loose.

She was a Siler.  And Silers took care of their own.  They were the
Silers for whom Siler City, North Carolina, was named.

Her maternal grandfather was Tasso Wirt Siler, born November 3O 1879.

He had studied to become a Lutheran minister but changed his religious
allegiance and became instead a fire-andbrimstone Baptist preacher.  A
tall, strong man with an expansive wit and a kindly heart, he combed
his thick white hair into a subdued pompadour and wore round wire
eyeglasses.  Tasso Siler was highly respected in the close-knit
community he served.  A truly good man.

In 1900, when he was twenty-one, Tasso Siler married Mary Value
Phillips, five years his junior.  She was a slender, almost ethereal
girl, quite beautiful, who seemed too frail to serve her husband and
the Lord as a preacher's wife.  Mary Siler seldom betrayed her own
deepest emotions.  She was given instead to reciting optimistic sayings
and poems, and to recording her journal.  We were so happy," she wrote
of her days as a bride.  "It did not seem our lives could be made so
sad in tines to come.  But it's best that people can't see ahead.  If
so, some of us might give up."

Six decades later, she lamented the passing of another year.

"What we have done will soon be a sealed book.  If it's been good or
bad, we can't change it.  It will stand as it is.  It is sad, for some
of us will have marked up pages in our book from many unkind words to
someone, or maybe [we] did not try hard to make others' lives happy."

The Rev.  Silers would live in countless parsonages around Wilmington
and Warsaw, North Carolina, in their more than fifty years together.

Mary was dutiful, dedicated, and fecund.  She gave birth to thirteen
children.  Later to be dubbed "the Righteous Sisters" by an irreverent
younger generation, the girls were Edna Earl, Swannie Lee, Florence
Elizabeth, Alma Mehetibel, Mary Louise, Thelma Blanche, Myrtle
Margureittesubsequently just Margureitte-and Agnes Fay.  The boys were
named Mark Hanna, Wade Hampton, Robert Winship, and Floyd Frazier.

Mark died in infancy, as did an unnamed infant girl.  When a minister's
salary could no longer stretch to feed more children, the Silers chose
the only certain birth control available to them in the 1920s; Mary
moved into a separate bedroom and their conjugal pleasures ceased.  She
was only thirty-seven and Tasso just forty-two.

Margureitte was particularly attentive to Siler family history.  By
1991, she would proudly list her parents' descendantsdown to the sixth
generation.  They had 13 children, 47 grandchildren, 95
great-grandchildren, 84 great-greatgrandchildren, and 2
great-great-great-grandchildren.  Over the years, tragedies occurred,
as they do in all families: babies died, young soldiers never came back
from war, and children succumbed to cancer and rheumatic fever and,
one, impalement on a bedpost.  A young wife disappeared, leaving her
children to be raised by whomever, another threw her baby away in a
trash can (it survived), and a few descendants-or their mates-went to
prison for violent crimes.  Such negative minutiae were never
officially acknowledged, and bad marriages were simply ignored in the
recitation of the family tree.

"We are all so fortunate," Margureitte wrote in a booklet she typed
herself in 1991 to give out at the twenty-fifth anniversary of the
Siler Family Reunion, "to have had such a wonderful heritage.  None of
we children can blame any of our mistakes on our childhood.  . . . I
remember when we had a bad storm how Mother would gather us all around
and sing 'Nearer My God to Thee,' while Daddy went to the door and
watched the storm.  Mother said Dad was daring the Lord to hit him."

Perhaps more than most families, the Silers had their idiosyncracies,
and they were all very strong-minded.  Thelma, who was a perfectly
healthy child, refused to walk until she was five years old.  When the
Rev.  Tasso Siler dropped dead in his own yard in 1960 at the age of
eighty-one, hundreds of mourners attended his funeral and his widow
took to a wheelchair in her grief.  She was not ill; like Thelma, she
simply decided not to walk.  Although she eventually got back on her
feet, she never got over his death.  But while there might be
eccentricities, arguments, recriminations, and even banishments that
took place inside the Siler family, no one on the outside murt know.

Under the most intense pressure, the Siler women stared back at the
world with a look of inflexible serenity that was inviolable: "the
crystal gaze.

Myrtle Margureitte was next to last in birth order, and arguably the
most beautiful of the Reverend and Mrs.  Siler's children.

She had a heart-shaped face with a high rounded forehead, huge blue
eyes, and full lips.  Coming into puberty in the darkest years of the
Great Depression in the sexually repressed household of a Baptist
minister, Margureitte was something of a rebel.  Her rebellion and her
fertility would cause her gentle and loyal mother pain.

According to family lore, Margureitte ran off to Wilmington with Robert
Lee Vann when she was only fifteen and became pregnant.  Vann was a
slight youth, some five years older than Margureitte.  It is not clear
whether they ever lived together, but on March 16, 1936, when
Margureitte was sixteen, she gave birth in her parents' house to her
first child, a ten-pound stillborn girl.

She wept and named her dead baby Roberta.

Bereft, she soon became pregnant again.  Margureitte felt that somehow
the dead Roberta might have lived if she had only been born in a
hospital.  She was insistent that her next child would be, and so,
indeed, she was.  The baby was born on August 22, 1937, in the J. W.

M.

Hospital in Wilmington, North Carolina, a city that stands just where
the Cape Fear River widens into the Cape Fear inlet on the Atlantic
Ocean.  The baby girl came into the world at 6:18 that morning and her
young mother rejoiced that she was alive and healthy.  Margureitte
labored long to bring forth her second ten-pound female child.  This
was Patricia, a replacement, some said.  The lost Roberta found, some
said.

Margureitte gave her maiden name as Myrtle Margureitte Siler on the
birth certificate, and her age as twenty.  She was really just eighteen
when Patty was born.  She said that she had been married for three
years to the listed father, Robert Lee Vann, twenty-three, and that he
was employed in a radio store.  But some family members wondered
whether the Vann boy was really Patty's father.

If they ever existed, the records of Margureitte's marriage and divorce
to and from Vann were lost.  One of Vann's brothers, younger by a
decade, could not recall that Robert Lee was ever married to
Margureitte.  He remembered that his brother worked on the railroad but
never in a radio store.  His memory may well have been faulty; he would
have been under ten when his older brotherwas with Margureitte.

Although Margureitte has said that Vann was her husband and the father
of her children, Robert Vann may have been an expedient red herring.

Some of her family believed that Margureitte had fallen in love with a
married man.  He was a farmer and carpenter in Warsaw, North Carolina,
and his name was John Cam Prigeon, a huge young man with blond hair,
full lips, and protruding ears.

And he was a terror.  Prigeon was as wild as Margureitte's father was
pious.  A drinker of spirits and a brawler on occasion, he walked along
any path he chose.  His wife knew of Margureitte, the preacher's
beautiful daughter, but she said nothing.  Her husband had a violent
temper.

In her strict Baptist household, Margureitte's latest misadventure must
have been greeted with dismay.  But the family undoubtedly rallied
around her, thinking she would get "Cam" Out of her system.  She was,
after all, a Siler, and the teenage mother and her new baby girl
returned to Warsaw in that strange blazing summer of 1937 to live with
her parents.  The headlines had been full of disasters and tragedies
for months: five hundred Texas children perished in a school explosion,
Amelia , Earhart was lost over the Pacific Ocean, the Hindenburg
dirigible melted in a fireball of burning hydrogen gas, the king of
England abdicated, movie sex queen Jean Harlow succumbed to uremic
poison at twenty-six, and war was brewing in Europe and Asia.

It was also the year that Margaret Mitchell won the Pulitzer Prize for
Gone With the Wind, at once a historic re-creation of the gracious life
of the Old South and a terrifying tale of its destruction during the
Civil War.  Its beautiful heroine, a survivor and woman of intricate
wiles, would become Patricia's life model.

Margureitte had to work, and so Mary Siler raised Patty for the first
five years of her life.  Patty called her "Mama," and her grandmother
Siler doted on little Patty to the point of obsession.  Patty shared
Mary's life and Mary's bed.  She had only to voice her every wish and
it was granted.

The little girl was exquisite.  She grew thick taffy-colored curls and
her eyes were bigger even than Margureitte's and as green as new leaves
in April.  Mama Siler kept her in rumy dotted Swiss dresses,
sunbonnets, and white Mary janes.  Her aunt Ednawho was so much older
than Margureitte that she was more like a mother than a sister-sewed
every stitch of the child's clothing.

Everyone who saw her said she was much prettier than Shirley Temple.

And she was.

Mary Siler made Patty the center of her life.  Each of her own thirteen
children paled beside her golden grandchild, "Next to God," she often
said, "I love Patty more than anything in the world."  There was always
fruit from the orchard and vegetables brought by parishioners, but
Patty would eat nothing but pancakes.

Her grandmother gave up trying to feed her vegetables, eggs, and
cereal, and served her flapjacks three times a day.

Of all the grandchildren living in or visiting at the parsonage, Patty
was special.  When the other youngsters clamored for Cokes, Mary
explained, "No one can have it-because there's only one."  And then she
would beckon Patty into the back room and surreptitiously give her that
single Coca-Cola.  When the children were naughty, they were sent out
to find their own switch and were whipped.  But Patty was never
spanked.  Instead, her grandmother picked her up gently and whispered,
"Now bend over, and be sure and cry real loud."  She could not bring
herself to strike Patty, so she only pretended to hit her.

While her mother cared for Patty, Margureitte worked at a number of
jobs, looking for a career that would lead her into the life-style she
sought.  Born into the country preacher's world of meager circumstances
and self-sacrifice, she yearned for gracious living, fine things and a
lovely home.  She was clever and quick, and she had always wondered
what it would be like to be part of the horsey set, riding to the hunt,
performing in shows with jodhpurs and a well-cut jacket.  She lopged
for romance and true love, but her days were spent working at a dull
job as a clerk.

As fertile as her mother, Margureitte once again conceived, her third
pregnancy before she was twenty.

This time, Margureitte made no pretense of a husband.  She agonized
over the few choices open to her.  She had to work and Mama Siler
couldn't take care of two toddlers.  Margureitte would have to give
this baby up for adoption.  She arranged to stay at the Florence
Crittendon Home at 4759 Reservoir Road in Washington, D.C. Required to
work both before and after her delivery to pay for her board, room, and
medical care, Margureitte chose to take the training the home offered
in practical nursing.  It was hard work and arduous for a pregnant
girl, but she was then and always would be a woman who put the best
face on things.  "I have nurse's training," she explained confidently
even fifty years later.  "I'm not a registered nurse, you understand,
but I have two years'training."

On October 10, 1939, Margureitte was at full term.  She was given a
shot of Pituitrin to start labor.  "Pit" usually triggers hard and
frequent contractions.  After twenty-four hours, a drained Margureitte
gave birth to a nine-pound six-ounce son.  The baby's hair was white
blond and his features were bold and masculine.  He looked nothing at
all like her delicately pretty daughter.  Some people thought he was
the image of Cam.  She named him Reginald Kent Vann and would call him
Kent.

She loved him, and could not give hLr baby boy up, not once she had
held him.  That was so like Margureitte; right or wrong, she would
always love her children to distraction, and when her mind was made up
she was resolute.  No one could legally force her to hand her infant
son over for adoption.  But she had to stay in Washington and work at
Florence Crittendon until she paid off her debt.  She carried bedpans
and changed sheets until her arms and feet ached-but she kept her
baby.

Although Margureitte gave her last name as "Vann" on Kent's birth
certificate, the line for a father's name was left blank.

On the line that asked "Legitimate?"  someone had crossed out "Yes" and
"Unknown," leaving "No."  When Margureitte returned to her family in
Warsaw, locals who saw the husky blond toddler marveled at his
resemblance to John Cam Prigeon and chortled knowingly, "There goes
little Cam."

Margureitte had few assets and no reason to think that her life would
be any easier in the future, but she was young and healthy and very
beautiful.  She was a sweet young woman but determined.  Wanting so
much to make a home for Kent and Patty, she vowed she would spend her
life "helping" her children, creating for them the most perfect of all
worlds.

She tried to be with them almost all the time, possibly to make up for
the early years when she was not with Patty.  They had never had an
opportunity to truly bond with each other.  She had handed her baby
daughter over to her mother, and that had hurt Margureitte even though
she idolized her mother.  In the world Margureitte grew up in, the
perfect woman was longsuffering, patient, soft-spoken, and lived a life
of gentle servitude to her family.  She sometimes wondered how her
mother managed, but vowed to emulate her.  Looking back over her years
as a mother, Margureitte would murmur, "We're on earth to do for our
childrento help them any way we can."  She half believed in
reincarnation and her own place in a stream of reborn souls.  "The
doctor I worked for for so many years always told me, 'You came back to
help someone."

At last disillusioned with her love life, Margureitte looked elsewhere
and, quite suddenly, her luck changed.  Just as the rest of the world
was gripped in the bleakness of World War II, Margureitte's world
blossomed.

Whether she met the man who would be her lifetime love in the romantic
way they recalled, or in the more mundane manner her sisters
remembered, didn't really matter.  Margureitte described meeting Second
Lieutenant Clifford Brown Radcliffe in 1942 at a party in Washington,
D.C. Her retelling of that encounter makes it as idyllic a meeting as
any starry-eyed schoolgirl might envision.

"That never happened," one sister snorted.  "Margureitte was working as
a waitress at the Lobster House near Fort Bragg in Fayetteville, and
Clifford came in, and that was it."

Whichever, their eyes did meet and lock across a crowded room.  It was
love at first sight.  The young army officer was a half-dozen years
older than Margureitte and very handsome with classically aquiline
features, dark hair and eyes.  In fact, he looked like the movie stars
who were portraying gallant army officers in films of the forties.  He
wasn't terribly tall, but at five feet ten inches, he was certainly
taller than Margureitte.

Clifford was from an old family in Westchester County, New York, whose
ancestors had come over on the Mayflower.  He had a deep and cultured
speaking voice and he gazed at her as if he were utterly fascinated.

As indeed he was.  He was not deterred by the fact that she had two
small children.  Not at all.  They were married on january 8, 1942, in
the Fort Bragg chapel, and Margureitte broke the news to her mother
that now she could raise her own babies.  She had a husband and they
planned to take both Kent and Patty with them wherever Clifford was
stationed.

When Cliff was transferred to Texas, it was time for Patty to leave
Mama Siler and be her real mother's little girl.  It was stunning
news.

Margureitte's sisters begged her not to do it.

"Don't hurt Mama like that-she has a bad heart," they cried.

"You'll kill her if you take that child away from her."

But Margureitte was obdurate.  She had worked and waited years for this
moment.  She and Clifford took the children with them when they left by
train for Clifford's duty station in Mineral Wells, Texas.  Patty was
five and a half and had very firm ideas of her own.  She turned up her
nose at everything on the menu in the dining car.  She wanted
pancakes.

She wouldn't eat anything else.  Margureitte was afraid Patty would
starve if she didn't relent.  Patty got her flapjacks.  That was all
she ate for the entire trip across America.  And for weeks after.

She still cried for "Mama."

Back home in Siler City, Mama Siler was inconsolable.  They had taken
her baby away.  She lay in bed for days, mourning her loss.  But she
didn't die; she lived for many decades more.  Margureitte now had her
little daughter back and, if she was sometimes willful, the young
mother would blame Mama Siler for that.

"It wasn't natural for my mother to be so obsessed with Patty.

Although Patty and Kent were only two years apart in age, they were
vastly different in temperament.  Patty was stubborn and spoiled
rotten, used to having her own way.  Everyone in her small world had
always catered to her.  First her grandmother and her aunts, and now
her mother.  It was hard not to.  She was such a dainty, beautiful
child.  Her mother liked to use a southern expression to describe her:
"Patty's so pretty she can't whistle."

When she was happy, her laughter was like bells.  When she cried, she
could break your heart.  It was impossible to say no to Patty.

Kent was a sensitive, studious boy.  He was blond as a Scandinavian and
his big cars stuck out.  He was never cute-his bone structure was too
rough-hewn-but he was an endearing little boy whose gaze was straight
on.  He willingly took a backseat to his sister.

Patty had scant patience with her little brother.  In her mind, she was
meant to be an only child, and she grew cranky when attention moved
away from her.  Those first five years in Mama Siler's house had ruined
her for sharing.  She needed her spotlight, and she felt cold without
it.  She looked upon her brother as an interloper.  It was more than
the normal sibling infighting.  She hated him," one relative said
flatly.  "She always wanted him gone."

He almost went.  Kent, who had been born perfect, contracted
irneningitis shortly after the family arrived in Mineral Wells.  The
army base was in the grip of a massive epidemic.  Kent's fever raged
above 105 degrees for days and he came very, very close to dying.  When
he finally recovered, the doctors told Margureitte that he was almost
totally deaf.  After that, Kent always wore hearing aids, but he became
adept at reading lips.  People could not sense how profoundly deaf he
was unless they turned away as they spoke to him.  Then he was lost.

Margureitte and Clifford Radcliffe let Patty and Kent grow up believing
that he was their natural father.  He had accepted her children so
readily that it seemed the reasonable thing to do.  After all,
Margureitte was Patty and Kent's mother, and Clifford was the only
father they had ever known.  There was no point in bringing up Patty
and Kent's real father.  It would only confuse them.

4f, When "Daddy Cliff" was away in the war, Margureitte often took the
children and stayed near his family in Mamaroneck in Westchester
County, New York.  Her in-laws accepted her only grudgingly, not
pleased to have their son marry a woman they thought was divorced, but
they eventually admitted she was a gracious and refined young woman who
took marvelous care of her children.  She was an utterly devoted
mother.  It is quite 'possible that they, too, believed Clifford was
Patty and Kent's natural father; they often remarked on certain
physical traits the children shared with their son.

The children were all any grandparents could ask for.

Patty always looked perfect, like a child in the society pages in her
starched pinafores and black patent-leather Mary Janes or in a ,bowler
hat and fitted coat.  His mother put Kent in the proper clothing too.

Photos show him with a Buster Brown haircut grimacing into the camera
as he wore a tailored tweed coat and i a matching Eton cap.  His knobby
knees look ridiculous above long dark stockings.  He wasn't a boy meant
to be dressed up like a fancy pants kid, and he looks uncomfortable and
self-conscious.

Kent idolized his stepfather.  Although he was a rather smallboned man,
he was larger than life to Kent.  Clifford was often far away fighting
a war, and when he was home he was an awesome figure in his impeccable
uniform, an austere-even cold-man who had little patience with small
boys.  Clifford Radcliffe's own father had been just such a cold man'
and generation unto generation it had continued.

Clifford did enjoy little girls because they could be dressed up as
pretty as dolls and carried around.  He remonstrated with his wife if
their clothes weren't perfect and clean; he hated to find tears or
holes in their dresses or panties.  He found no such charm in
rough-and-tumble little boys.  But Kent desperately wanted Clifford's
approval.  He was an intense boy.  Early on, he set impossible 'able
goals for himself.  And even as he set such high standards, he seemed
to know already he would never meet them.

The Second World War was a lonely time for Margureitte Radcliffe, but
not nearly as lonely as the years before she met Clifford.  While he
was in Germany, she knew he would come back to her-if he could.  She
believed in her heart that Clifford had been telling her the truth when
he said he had adored her from the very beginning, and that he always
would.  And she was grateful that it was so.

And then Clifford Radcliffe was listed as missing in action, and
Margureitte didn't know if he was alive or dead.  Word finally came
that he had been injured in Germany; he had suffered a facial wound.

She would love him no matter how he looked, of course, but Clifford had
been so handsome that it seemed especially tragic that he would be
disfigured.  Margureitte was told only that her husband had been sent
to a hospital in England.

His homecoming was as romantic as a love song.  One day, she heard a
cane rattling against her door.  She ran to open it and it was
Clifford.  Home safe!  He had grown a mustache and it completely hid
any remaining scars.  Everything was all right after all.

Margureitte had a place in the world.  She was a married woman, an
officer's wife, and she had her foot on a solid rung in the social
hierarchy of service wives.  Together, she and Clifford moved up
through the army ranks.  After the war, the family was transferred from
one duty station to another as Clifford's orders came through-to
Germany, Japan, Atlanta, Alabama, and back to Germany.  They had no
children together, but even though Margureitte never bore Clifford's
natural child, he always treated Patty and Kent as his very own.

Clifford would eventually become Colonel Radcliffe; he worked in
military intelligence, the most elite and mysterious specialty in the
army.  He was well suited for it, with his keen mind and a certain
natural distrust of the obvious.  When he strode the streets of
Frankfurt, Germany, in his trench coat, the wind slightly ruffling his
iron gray hair, Colonel Clifford RadCliffe looked as if he had stepped
from the screen of an Alfred Hitchcock movie.  And woe be unto any
underling who couldn't adhere absolutely to his interpretation of army
regulations.

Margureitte was the ideal colonel's lady.  She never lost her southern
accent and her voice was dulcet-toned and graciously modulated.  When
Clifford and Margureitte stepped out for an army social function, they
looked like a million dollars.  Her figure was perfect for her
strapless chiffon evening gowns, her gorgeous legs looked even more so
in her ankle-strapped shoes with three-inch heels, and Clifford was
handsome in full dress blues.

Margureitte would recall later to her granddaughters that, wherever
they were stationed, men made passes at her.  "Your grandfather was
insanely jealous of me at the officers' club-if I danced with another
man, he would become quite upset.  It was 'i, just easier not to dance
with other men, even if they were friends of ours.  . . . I loved Papa
and I did not want to upset him-I had to lavish all the attention on
him."

Patty seemed to thrive on the peripatetic life-style of an army
family.

She was such an enchanting child that she was welcome wherever they
went.  People made a fuss over her just as her grandmother and aunts
back home in North Carolina had.  Margureitte couldn't bring herself to
cut Patty's golden brown hair and it grew past her waist.  Usually, she
wore it in tight, long braids looped up with ribbons and barrettes.

Sometimes she coaxed Margureitte to let it hang free in thick waves.

When they were stationed in Japan, the Japanese reached out shyly to
touch Patty's radiant hair with wonder.

The Colonel Radcliffes moved in rarefied circles in the Far East.  It
was in Japan where Patty became the tennis partner of the young crown
prince.  Margureitte and Cliff were thrilled to see their lovely
daughter accepted by royalty.  Patty herself took it for granted; she
had always been treated like a little princess.  She was not awed by
the young prince.  When the Radcliffes were reassigned , the royal
family presented Patty with a full ceremonial Japanese kimono, obi, and
sandals.  The heavy satin garments rested in tissue paper in her bureau
drawer wherever she lived.  Patty loved costumes.

When she reached puberty, she didn't get chubby or sprout pimples.  She
moved gracefully into her teens and became, if anything, more
flawless.

At thirteen, the planes of her face changed subtly from the roundness
of childhood to the classically defined cheekbones of a genuine
beauty.

She posed for a snapshot wearing a white organza gown and stole, the
fitted arty dress held up by two narrow spaghetti p i straps over
creamy white shoulders.

Patty's hair was cut, finally, and swept back from her face in
shimmering waves and then combed under in a pageboy.  She wore bright
red lipstick and her green eyes were arresting in their intensity.  She
had a slight overbite but it scarcely detracted from her beauty.

Rather, it gave her a pouting, sensuous look.

She was fully developed, a southern beauty blooming early.

She looked at least eighteen.

Patty was sweet and loving with adults, but she could sometimes be
artless, even cruel, with her peers.  She was far and away the
prettiest of the many girl cousins in the Siler clan, and she knew
it.

She had heard it often enough.  Once, when she noticed an ugly-duckling
cousin staring at her as she combed her hair, Patty turned and
whispered, "You might be as pretty as I am someday."  She pretended to
be shocked when the girl ran away crying.  But she seemed to be adroit
at finding the other girls' sore spots.  Early on, there was something
in Patty that went for the jugular, detecting weakness in an adversary
and moving in relentlessly.

Patty had never been much of a student, although she was smart
enough.

She loved sewing and crafts, and she was very talented artistically.

She preferred reading romantic stories and poems and, in her mind, she
became the heroine.  She was Scarlett O'Hara and she was Elizabeth
Barrett Browning.  She was the Highwayman's sweetheart waiting at her
window in the dark of the moon for her lover to come take her away.

Not surprisingly, Patty was fascinated with boys.  And they with her.

Most of the eighth-grade girls were flat chested and gawky, but Patty
Radcliffe looked like a movie star.  And, as always, Kent took a
backseat to his sister.  He was shy and hesitant about asserting
himself.  His hearing loss, although very well hidden, made him just a
little slower on the uptake than his peers.  Patty still detested
him.

Everything he said or did seemed to irritate his older sister.

When Patty was in her early teens, Colonel Radcliffe was ordered back
to Fort McPherson in Atlanta.  It was a happy move for the family; the
Atlanta area had become home.  And there, history would repeat
itself.

The Siler women all seemed to blossom early.  It was more usual than
not for them to bear their first children in their mid-teens.  When
Patty was fifteen, Margureitte was only thirty-three and nervously
aware of the dangers of having a beautiful teenage daughter who looked
years older than she was.  But what could Margureitte do?  Patty had
never had any rules to follow, no brakes at all to slow her impetuous
pursuit of whatever caught her fancy.

She met eighteen-year-old Gilbert Taylor at a party on the Fort Mac
base; he was an army brat too, a lanky, skinny young man whom Patty
found terribly handsome.  She put all her romantic fantasies into the
relationship and Gil fell hard for the lovely and seductive teenager.

Suddenly she stepped from childhood to womanhood.  She would not answer
to "Patty" any longer; she was Pat, or, when the moment called for it,
she asked to be called Patricia.

Pat became pregnant almost immediately.  She didn't mind; it meant she
could get married.  Gil was both proud and jealous.  He wanted to
believe this was his baby, but he knew Pat had been dating another
young man too, a soldier.  It was Gil's baby, but his insecurity with
Pat never quite went away.  As much as he wanted to believe in her, she
kept him slightly off-balance, letting him wonder.

Her parents would have preferred that she marry into an officer s
family.  A hearty, boisterous man, Gil's stepfather, Mike Downing, was
only a sergeant and his mother, Eunice, a buxom, flamboyant woman-not
the kind Margureitte would have picked as a friend.  Eunice dressed to
show off her hourglass figure.  She was pretty in a flashy way, a great
cook, and goodhearted, the very antithesis of the properly reserved
colonel's wife Margureitte had become.

The sergeant worshiped his wife.  "I thank God every night for Eunice,"
Mike often said.  He showered Eunice with presents, including diamonds
and a new Cadillac every four years.  Eunice had beautiful things,
nicer than a lot of officers' wives.

Privately, Margureitte found it all a little vulgar, but there it
was.

Colonel and Mrs. Radcliffe accepted the inevitable.  It could have
been worse.  Eunice was very well thought of in enlisted circles, and
active in.  projects to benefit army dependents.

A wedding was hastily planned, to be held in the Fort McPherson chapel
on September 6, 1952.  "All they had in common was physical
attraction," Margureitte later commented ruefully.  "Pat was vastly
superior in IQ."  The colonel had wanted her to go to a fine school to
study art; she was so talented.  He felt Pat's future was ruined by
this unfortunate marriage.

Pat wore a white satin gown with a three-quarter-length skirt and an
off-the-shoulder neckline edged in net ruching.  A short veil fell from
her Juliet cap and she carried white orchids.  Her white satin pumps
matched her gown.  She looked lovely and at least twenty-two.  The
bridegroom was less regal in a suit two sizes too big for him, a white
carnation boutonniere, and saddle shoes-which he had forgotten to
change before the ceremony.  Gil looked like a kid dressed in his dad's
clothes.

The newlyweds had very little time together.  To support his growing
family, Gil-whom Eunice called Junior-enlisted in the army.  He was
sent almost immediately to Korea, and Pat moved back home with her
parents.  Nothing had really changed.  Margureitte and Clifford took
care of her, and she used her allotment check for things she wanted.

Of course, there was a baby on the way.  Pat was adamant that she
wouldn't go to an army hospital.  She didn't want to be on an assembly
line and have some doctor she didn't even know walk in at the last
minute to deliver her baby.  She had heard the army even made the new
mothers get up and take care of their own babies and eat their meals in
the cafeteria!  She saved her own money so she could have her baby in a
nice civilian hospital, Georgia Baptist.  Unfortunately, she thought
she was in labor twice and was rushed to the hospital each time.  As a
result, Pat had spent all her savings before she was really ready to
have her baby, so she ended up having to go to an army hospital
anyway.

When Pat went into actual labor on March 4, 1953, junior Taylor was far
away, but her mother and the colonel drove her to the hospital.  She
rolled in the backseat, sobbing about how cruel Gil was to put her
through such pain.  After assuring the doctors that she had extensive
nurse's training, Margureitte was allowed to be right there in the
delivery room with Pat.  It was, perhaps, the first time that
Margureitte was unable to absorb all her daughter's pain.

The child was finally born, a dark-haired baby girl.  Susan.

Her mother was sixteen, her grandmother thirty-four.  "How I loved that
baby," Margureitte recalled in a gentle, pained voice nearly four
decades later.  "I don't know what happened.  Susan just became pure
evil.  just evil.  Of course, I can't forgive that."

But the early affection between Susan and her grandmother was mutual.

For the first three decades of her life, Susan found Margureitte the
"sweetest, kindest person in my whole life.  I thought she was
perfect."

Unlike his sister, Kent was a diligent student and got excellent
grades.  He was thirteen when Pat and her baby returned from the
hospital.  He adored his little niece and gingerly held Susan, grinning
with delight at how small she was.  Pat let him play with the baby, but
she was vaguely annoyed whenever he was around.  Pat was a married
woman and a mother, only visiting in her parents' house, marking time
until Gil came home; it wasn't really her home anymore.  But she didn't
see it that way.  As always, she viewed her brother as the
interloper.

Kent's presence grated on Pat because he took so much of her mother's
time away from her and her baby.  If it weren't for him, things would
have been perfect.  Margureitte did the cooking and the housework and
rocked Susan when she was fussy.  It was almost as if Pat hadn't gotten
married at all, and she liked the cozy feeling of being a little girl
again.

When she became a grandmother, Margureitte took on another name.

Clifford still called her Margureitte or "Reit," or sometimes "Reichen"
with a German touch of endearment.  Her sisters continued to call her
Margureitte.  But soon tiny Susan would call her "Boppo."

The colonel was called "Papa."  Boppo and Papa fell easily into the
role of matriarch and patriarch of an expanding family.

It became them, and they seemed transformed overnight from youth to
late middle age even though they still made a handsome pair.

They would have been happy to stay on permanent assignment at Fort
McPherson in Atlanta.

Pat liked everything about the home Margureitte and the colonel made.

No matter how many times they were reassigned by the army, Margureitte
always managed to decorate with taste and elan.

Sometimes they lived in big old barrackslike barns, and sometimes on
bases where the officers' housing was splendid.  The Radcliffes had
collected exquisite pieces in their travels around the worldfine china,
paintings, objets dart, Japanese screens, silver tea sets, thick rugs,
and gleaming furniture.  Later, when the colonel's mother passed away,
her full china closets and family heirlooms came to the Radcliffes.

Margureitte had vowed to live graciously a long time back, and she had
succeeded.  Wives of younger officers saw her charm and poise as a goal
to aim for.  Why wouldn't Pat want to live in her family home, instead
of in a cramped apartment or some tinny trailer somewhere?  She had
grown up with the very best.  She had been groomed her whole life for
elegance.  Moreover, she had been imbued with the absolute belief that
she was special.  She was, after all, a colonel's only daughter.

And Kent-as far as he knew-was a colonel's son.  There was nothing he
wanted more than to enlist one day in the army himself.

He thought that would please his father.

Kent shot up like a young sapling in his mid-teens.  Almost overnight,
he went from being a little blond boy to an awkward, acne-scarred
teenager.  With his thick glasses and the burr haircut that accentuated
his protruding ears, his appearance gave scant promise of the
good-looking man he would become.  He competed on the swimming team in
high school; he had the wide shoulders and flexible muscles for it.  He
was much taller then the colonel, but he still looked to Cliff for
approval.

He rarely got it.

After a year, Gil Taylor came home from Korea unscathed and reclaimed
his family.  He moved Pat and Susan to Shirley, Massachusetts, to his
next post.  There, they lived in a minuscule apartment, and Pat seemed
to enjoy playing at being a housewife.

Like most young service families, they had almost nothing in the way of
furniture or possessions: a cheap orange and avocado upholstered couch
with maple-stained arms, triangular Formica end tables, and Melmac
dinnerware.

Gil had filled out.  He was tanned and muscular and probably thirty
pounds heavier than the skinny kid Pat had married, an attractive
man.

Pat soon became pregnant again.  On June 14, 1955-just over two years
after Susan was born-she gave birth to a second daughter, Deborah
Dawn.

Boppo and Papa were stationed in Gary, Indiana, and Margureitte worried
herself sick about how her little girl was doing.

Pat was only seventeen, with two babies to take care of; it seemed she
faced one traumatic situation after another.  She had always had a
flair for the dramatic; she experienced no emotion moderately.  If she
and Gil ran low on food toward the end of the month, she translated
their predicament into abject poverty and called home for help.  There
were many "emergencies," like the time Pat was "overcome" by paint
fumes when she tried to brighten up her apartment.  She wrote her
mother that they didn't have enough to eat-that sometimes it got so bad
they had to scavenge for windfalls in apple orchards.  "If we can
afford meat at all, it's only a half pound of hamburger or one pork
chop.  . . . If there's one piece of bread, the kids get it."  That
just tore Margureitte up inside, the thought that her daughter and the
babies might be hungry.

It seemed as though Boppo was constantly burning up the highways
between Gary, Indiana, and Shirley, Massachusetts.  She was horrified
on her first visit to see where Pat and Gil were living; their
apartment was in a building whose other residents looked highly
suspicious to her.  She reported to the colonel, "Cliff, I believe
they're living in a whorehouse.  It's not a fit place for them."

She had returned home alone only reluctantly that time.  But then Pat
called and said she had almost choked to death on a pork chop-served at
one of her "single pork chop" meals-and Margureitte drove all night to
get to her.  This time she insisted that Pat and the babies must come
back to Indiana with her, and Gil let them go.  Margureitte told her
husband that there were rats running all over the place, that Pat and
the babies were in "terrible condition.  They were the most pitiful
sight when I got there."  Susan remembered how happy they all were to
see her grandmother arrive, a one-woman army to the rescue.  "We adored
her.  When Boppo showed up, we knew that things were going to be under
control again."

When they arrived back in Gary, Kent gave up his bedroom to his sister
and moved into the living room.  It would be a horoughly entrenched
pattern.  Rescuing Pat from danger was gradually becoming the entire
thrust of Margureitte Radcliffe's life.  With her mother's enthusiastic
support, Pat would spend the next several years traveling back and
forth between her parents'home and Gil's duty stations.

Gil was sent to Iceland, Germany, and Washington, D.C and he usually
went by himself.  There was a plethora of emergencies, each one only
serving to convince Margureitte that Pat and the children should stay
with her.  Pat was driving one day when Deborah accidentally hit the
door handle and fell out into the street.  Luckily, there were no cars
behind them.

Susan's baby book bears a cryptic notation.  "Age 3. Susan run over by
a truck.  Not injured."  Susan does not remember being hit by a
truck.

How odd that all of her baby presents, all of her measurements, her
first words, were listed in her baby book, but something as potentially
tragic as being "run over by a truck" has no details at all.

. . .

When Susan was four and Deborah two, Gil was assigned to the
Philippines and he persuaded Pat to bring their little girls and join
him there.  Things would be better; he would make her happy.

He adored his beautiful young wife and was thrilled that she would
leave her mother behind and come to him.

While they were in the Philippines, Deborah caught a fungus infection
from her cat and all her hair fell out.  She was partially bald for the
next three years, but Pat designed clever hats to cover her hair
loss.

Every dress had its matching hat.

She was a superb seamstress and made most of the two little
girls'clothes.  Susan and Deborah always wore either matching or
contrasting outfits for special occasions-dressed not unlike the way
their mother had dressed as a child.  Pat took scores of pictures of
her daughters and of the events that marked the passing years of their
lives.  Susan and Deborah in Easter coats and bonnets, Valentine's Day
dresses, Christmas dresses-two browneyed little girls looking like
dolls.  To glance through the Radcliffe and Taylor family albums was to
see Christmas dinners, Halloweens, Easters, and birthdays right out of
Good Housekeeping.  Everyone was smiling.  Everyone was dressed
precisely right.  Boppo and Pat, of course, wore frilly aprons as they
carved a turkey or carried in a birthday cake.  "It was strange," Susan
recalled.  "At that time, Mom didn't care how she dressed-but she
always wanted us to look perfect."

Pat went through a period when her clothes were almost matronly.  Gone
were the soft dreamy dresses of herearly teens.  In her twenties, she
wore high-necked blouses and long skirts in muted colors.  She parted
her hair on the side and pulled it back in severe tight curls.  Heavy
harlequin glasses hid her green eyes, and her shoes were Cuban heeled
and sensible.  And all the while her figure was as slim and attractive
as always.  But it was hidden beneath those clothes, her sensuality
blunted.

Despite Deborah's miserable fungus, they all enjoyed the Philippines
for a while.  But then it began to unravel.  Pat wrote her mother that
she had suffered two miscarriages and she needed Boppo to come help
her.  "I was four or five months pregnant, and I was all alone.  I
didn't know what to do, so I just sat on the toilet and flushed them
away."

But this time her mother couldn't come; she was in Europe with her
husband at his duty station and she had to choose.  For once, she chose
Cliff.

Susan had a vague memory of being injured while they were in the
Philippines.  "Somehow, my hand was crushed.  I don't know if it got
shut in a car door or what happened.  I only know it was Christmas time
and I was in the hospital and I heard them singing carols in the
hall.

My mother came to see me, but I wouldn't look at her.  Children
remember things oddly.  I heard the carols and I turned my face to the
wall until my mother went away.

Pat wrote again to her mother, saying her doctor had told her that Gil
was an animal and was wearing her out with his insatiable demands for
sex.

Margureitte was horrified, and when Pat became pregnant again, her
mother insisted that she return to the States.  Once more Pat and the
girls went back to "family."  Boppo and Papa were still in Germany, but
Pat and the girls lived in North Carolina with Mama Siler, who was
delighted to have her precious Patty back.

This time Pat gave birth to a boy.  Ronnie Taylor was born in November
of 1958.  Pat was twenty-one, immature, indulged, and seemingly
incapable of taking care of her husband and her children without the
support of her family.

She also tended to embroider on the truth a little and was given to
hysteria and histrionics.  But her family considered her only a little
highstrung.  And, in upper-class southern women, being high-strung was
almost an admirable trait, bespeaking fine genes.  The Silers had
produced a number of "high-strung" females.  When their antics became
tiresome, the rest of the family intoned, "She needs professional
help."  Otherwise, they scarcely noticed a tizzy or two.

In 19S9, Pat and the children again tried living with Gil-in the
Magnolia Gardens Apartments in Falls Church, Virginia.  "I think we
were too much for her-without my grandmother to help," Susan
recalled.

There was a new, frenetic quality about Pat.  She fought constantly
with a woman who lived in an upstairs apartment.  Margureitte, by now
back in the States, was appalled when she visited and heard Pat
screaming insults.  "You're actin like a fishwife, Pat," she gently
remonstrated.

Pat kept the door locked all the time, frightening her children with
warnings that someone was trying to get in.  Susan yearned to breathe
fresh air and escaped outside whenever she could.  She wandered all
over the neighborhood-alone-but felt safer than when she was locked in
with her mother's fears.

There was no one trying to break into the apartment; Pat simply wanted
Gil to come home and help her, and her stories usually got her what she
wanted.

She was often hysterical, but that too served a purpose.  When she was
small, she had only to stamp her foot and pitch a fit to get her way.

Now, she was using the same methods.  And what Pat really wanted was to
go home, to live with Boppo and Papa and have all the onerous burdens
of parenthood lifted from her shoulders.

She also wanted to be rich.

Pat still dressed her children with exquisite good taste.

She fixated on the way Jackie Kennedy dressed John-John, and she wanted
Ronnie to look just like him.  She saved her money to buy her babies
the very best.  But on at least one occasion, she was apprehended for
shoplifting in a Falls Church department store.

She had hidden some Feltman Brothers toddlers' outfits in her
clothes.

Among the most expensive children's clothing made, Feltman Brothers'
garments were far beyond Pat's budget.

Margureitte was aghast.  "That terrible, terrible, rude store detective
took her to the front office and just treated her very, very badly.  We
could have sued them, but we decided not to."

Things in Falls Church were not going well.  Ronnie was having
convulsions, which would continue regularly until he was almost twelve,
and Pat wrote that no one in the entire state of Virginia was even
civil to her.  When Margureitte heard her daughter's version of her
life in Falls Church, she insisted that she move home to Atlanta at
once.

Of Margureitte's two children, her son was the one who truly needed
some bolstering, but he rarely asked for help and Pat's demands drowned
him out.  Now a handsome and powerfully built young man, Kent had come
home from Germany with a broken heart.

He had fallen completely in love-the all-out, noprotective-walls first
love that happens only once.  The girl was German, tall and
flaxen-haired.  Her name was Marianne Krauss.  She loved Kent too.

She was an extremely nice girl and she wanted to marry him.  But she
couldn't even imagine leaving her parents to go off to America
forever.

Nor could Kent face never going home again.  In the end, when he left
Germany he was as alone as he had ever been.

His troubles piled up and he occasionally drank too much.

Sober, Kent was as gentle as most really big men are; he had nothing to
prove.  His strength was awesome.  Even a little tipsy, he was
good-natured.  But if he drank a few bottles of beer or too many rum
and Cokes over his limit and someone put him down, he went wild.  Kent
could level a bar in no time.

But that really wasn't him.  The episodes were aberrations.

Kent, when in emotional pain, was far more likely to turn inwardto
blame himself for whatever went wrong.

If there were secrets among the members of the Siler clan, and indeed
there were, the world was allowed to see only their staunch loyalty and
sense of family.  Charity toward others and religious devotion were
also prominently on display.  Susan and Deborah, as very little girls,
delighted in car trips with their great-aunts.

"They sang-oh, how they sang," Susan recalled.  "We'd be going to
Sneads Ferry for a fish dinner and the car was always alive with
music.

Hymns, you know-like'The Old Rugged Cross,' and 'We Will Gather at the
River,' and 'Amazing Grace."  We loved those times.

Each aunt would try to outdo the others, and it just made us feel safe
and happy."

Their aunts-"the Righteous Sisters"-often made Susan itnd Debbie
giggle.  Susan's favorite was her great-aunt Thelma, who generally did
and said what she felt at the moment-even to complete strangers.  She
said grace at the lunch counter at Rose's Dime Store in Jacksonville,
because that was the Christian thing to do and she didn't care who
snickered.  Thelma often went up to fat women and said, "I know I'm a
stranger, but I just have to tell you that you have such a pretty face
it's a shame you went and let yourself get so stout."  She had been
known to offer intimate marital counseling to couples at her church
when they hadn't asked for it.  She never failed to be amazed when
people did not seem to appreciate her Christian concern.  "But I loved
her so," Susan recalled.  "She didn't think she was pretty at all-not
like my other aunts-but she was just so good."

Hospital visits and funerals were always a large part of the Silers'
social life.  The Rev.  and Mrs. Siler had, of course, raised their
brood to care tenderly for the sick and to give the recently deceased a
properly somberbut loving-goodbye.  "I know it sounds awful," Susan
said, "but I never saw Boppo happier than when she was on her way to do
for the sick.  She'd go sit all day in the hospital with people she
barely knew, but she'd always say they were practically her best
friends.  Of course, if they were sick too long, it got to be old and
she lost some of her enthusiasm.  And she always took a hot dish to the
house when somebody died.  I was mortified once when she stood there
and gave the whole recipe for the escalloped corn she brought-it had to
be shoe-peg corn and all-to these people who were grieving.

Since the Silers lavished such caring on strangers, they were
absolutely steadfast in their support of one another.  Pat Taylor's
closest relatives were a brick wall against the outside world-her
mother and stepfather, her grandparents, her aunts.  Whatever pickle
she got herself into, they came running.

There were those in her extended family, however, who looked upon her
with slightly less enthusiasm.  Pat's peers in the Siler family
thoroughly disliked her.  Beginning in August 1966, the huge Siler
Family Reunion would be held in White Lake, North Carolina.  It was an
annual tribute to the late Rev.  Siler and a celebration on a grand
scale, with mouth-watering barbecue, fried chicken, potato salad,
"heavenly hash," biscuits, and every pie known to mankind.  Women
cooked in shifts, and family members brought handcrafted items to be
auctioned off in the Siler Auction.  The proceeds were used to put fine
young men through Baptist Bible colleges.

Pat's things always drew the highest bids at the auctions and perhaps
that was cause for some resentment.  But over the years Pat's female
cousins had stored away anecdotes about her that gradually became Siler
folklore.  Little Patty Radcliffe, the "beautiful" cousin, apparently
managed either to anger or to hurt the feelings of most of her plainer
kin.  When Susan and Deborah grew older, they were invariably
buttonholed at the Siler reunions by someone still smarting from Pat's
cruel-but deft-tongue.

"No one ever seemed to forget whatever it was Mom did to them," Susan
said.  "They'd always want to tell us all about it.  And Debbie and I'd
say, 'Wait a minute.  We weren't even born at the time you're talking
about."  Mom just had a way of riling people, and getting under their
skin.  The aunts still loved her like they always did-but, well, you
have to understand the Silers.

The cousins would say they loved her too, but they didn't like her.

Nobody in our family would ever, ever admit they didn't love another
Siler."

Everybody liked Kent; he was as noncombative and lovable as a big Saint
Bernard puppy.  He never caused a fuss.  In college, he studied
engineering and played varsity football.  Then he suffered another
crushing disappointment, which everyone else had seen coming- Despite
his hearing loss, Kent had clung to his belief that he would one day be
a soldier.  But when the time for his physical examination came, there
was no way he could pass the stringent hearing tests.  His profound
deafness kept him out of the army.  All the men in his life were career
army, and he had wanted so to move into that world.  But he couldn't
hear.  It was that simple, and that final.

That disappointment added to the loneliness he still felt from the loss
of Marianne.  It helped when he made a firm platonic friend in Cindi
Alan.* Both of them were uncomfortable with their fathers, who were
both colonels and as unbending and unemotional as stone.  Their mutual
problems drew Cindi and Kent together.  It wasn't a romance, but it was
a haven.

After a while, Kent wanted more than a buddy and he began dating
another girl.  Cindi wasn't hurt when on July 3, 1961, Kent, now almost
twenty-two, married Meta Raye Crawford, the daughter of yet another
colonel stationed at Fort McPherson.  Meta Raye was a dainty,
dark-haired girl, very pretty, and both sets of parents smiled on the
match.  Kent was the The names of some individuals have been changed.

At their first mention in this book, these names are marked with an
asterisk.

second of Margureitte and Cliff's children to be married in the chapel
at Fort McPherson.  But sadly for Kent, the union lasted only a year.

There were no recriminations; the marriage simply wound down.  Kent had
never forgotten Marianne and he could not have Marianne.

After graduating from college, Kent worked as a draftsman for a
construction company, and he was as talented with a pencil as Pat was
with a needle and thread.  His huge hands could produce the most
precise and delicate drawings.  But even with his parents back in the
States, Kent's life became free-floating.  He would have liked to be
with them more.  But he often felt that he was crowding people at their
house.  Pat and her children lived there most of the time.  Her crises
and emotional tizzies had begun to accelerate; whenever she was far
away from home, something went wrong.

Gil's parents were assigned to the Orlando/Lakeland, Florida,
area-where they would eventually retire-and they were understandably
eager to see their grandchildren.  From time to time, Pat gave in to
Eunice Downing's pleas and agreed to bring the children down for a
visit.

Susan remembered that visits to her other grandparents were fraught
with scenes and high drama.  "Grandma Downing loved my mother and us
and she was a wonderful cook-I got my love of cooking from her-but we
hardly ever got to eat there.  Somehow, my mother always took offense
at something that was said, or she'd get into fights with my dad's
brothers' wives.  She'd tell us to get into the car because we were
leaving.  We'd cry because we were hungry and we wanted to eat, but
we'd end up driving around and around the block while Grandma Downing
would be out on her front porch begging us to come back."

On one of the ill-fated visits to the Downings, Pat called home for
help, relating a bizarre story about her mother-in-law: "I think she's
trying to poison me!"

Pat's cries of murder never failed her.  Although Margureitte and the
colonel were on overseas assignment, Margureitte's sister, Aunt Lizzie
Porter, drove all night from North Carolina to Florida to "rescue" Pat
once again.

Aunt Lizzie Porter was a slender, patrician woman who worked for the
telephone company and raised her son, Bobby, by herself after her
husband left her.  Bobby commented that no matter how many times his
cousin insisted someone was trying to kill her, no one ever called the
police or paramedics-or any authority.  Instead, Margureitte or one of
the Righteous Sisters would leap into a car and drive great distances
to save Pat.

Eunice Downing was bewildered; she never could figure out what she had
done to upset her daughter-in-law, but she kept trying to bridge the
communication gap-and was invariably left with a table laden with
rapidly cooling food and the sight of her small grandchildren sobbing
out the back window of a disappearing car.

In 1963, Gil Taylor was transferred to Germany, to Bad Tholz and then
to Bad Aibling, near Frankfurt.  Pat agreed to go with him.  For a
while, things went well, but soon Pat was embroiled in feuds with the
neighbors.  She almost seemed to seek out confrontations
deliberately.

On occasion, she fought physically with neighbor women, scratching and
pulling hair.  She told Gil that their husbands were flirting with her
and hinted that some had gone further.  She was furious when he seemed
doubtful.

A theme was emerging.  More and more, Pat portrayed herself as an
innocent beauty besieged by sex-crazed males who couldn't keep their
hands off her.  Gil had heard so many of his wife's dramatic stories
and seen the most minuscule of problems blown into huge scenes too many
times.  That was just Pat.  She craved Upheaval, hysteria, and
emotional fireworks.  And she had to be the center of it all.  He was
an unsophisticated man and at a loss to know how to deal with her.

Usually things blew over if he just ducked and sought cover.

They seldom had a pleasant family outing.  When they took weekend trips
to Lake Kimsey, Pat accused Gil of drinking.

Actually, he scarcely drank at all-and if he did, he had to sneak off
to drink one beer.  Or they would be in the midst of a happy picnic in
an Alpine meadow when Pat would cry out that she had eaten bad
mushrooms and been poisoned, probably fatally.  It was not the stuff of
which happy memories are made.  Invariably, their holidays ended in
shambles.

When her parents were nearby for backup, Pat could maintain a
tentatively even keel, but alone, she invariably turned day-today life
into chaos.  She begged Boppo and Papa to get a transfer back to
Frankfurt.  She needed them.

Of course they would come.  Clifford Radcliffe put in at once for a new
assignment.  But things continued to go wrong until they arrived.  A
huge grandfather's clock fell over on Susan, but luckily she was just
far enough past it when it fell that she was scarcely hurt.  Her mother
explained that the uneven floors of the army housing had caused it to
tilt.

The Radcliffes were soon in Frankfurt.  Their headlong rushes to come
to Pat's rescue were, in a sense, their finest hours.  It seemed to
them that it was what they were meant to do.  If it also meant that
Margureitte had to give up any semblance of a life of her own, well,
she would make the sacrifice.  Her daughter came before anything.  This
time, however, even her mother conceded that Pat was out of control and
had her committed to a hospital for a psychiatric evaluation.  But not
for long.  Indignantly, Margureitte proclaimed the doctor "as cuckoo as
anyone I ever saw!

He actually asked Pat if she saw pink elephants!  Imagine .

With her parents nearby, Pat seemed much better.  Then there was a
blowup with Gil, and Pat and the children moved in with Boppo and Papa
in their house in Falkenstein.  She expected that Gil would come to beg
her forgiveness, and she would eventually relent and give him one more
chance.  When he didn't, she was furious.  "Your father's no good," she
told Debbie and Susan.  "He lost your German shepherd gambling."

Boppo bought two poodle puppies for Susan and Debbie, but they both
died.  Their grandmother felt so sorry for them as they sobbed, bereft,
that she bought them two more.  "I can't stand to see your
brokenhearted little faces," she said.

This time, the puppies survived.

Pat wrote to Gil and told him he should come get her.  The children
missed him and they were too much for her to handle without him.  More
than that, the men in her parents' neighborhood frightened her.  She
hinted that someone was trying to kill her.

She wrote her husband that she lived in terror of being raped.

She prophesied that Gil would live to regret it if he left her alone.

There was no question that men noticed twenty-six-year-old Pat
Taylor.

With her clear green eyes, pouty lips, and slight overbite, and the
sensual recklessness she exuded, men always looked twice-even though
their second look elicited only a cold stare from her.  But it was
doubtful that she was being sexually stalked.  It was even less likely
that anyone was plotting to murder her.  She had cried wolf too many
times.

Susan and Debbie liked Germany and, at ten and eight, they weren't
particularly- disturbed by their mother's mood swings.

They had never known anything else.  However, one day Susan and a
German friend Dorte, also ten, returned to her grandparents' house
earlier than they were expected.  Dorte skipped up the path ahead of
Susan but stopped suddenly.  When she whirled back toward Susan, she
had a bewildered look on her face.  She pointed toward a bedroom window
and said, "Your mutta-your mutta."

"What about my mother?"  Susan asked.

"Look-in the window."  The little girls peeked in the window and saw
Pat, alone, hitting herself all over her body with pots and pans.

Hard.  Susan was embarrassed.  She couldn't explain it to Dorte because
she didn't understand it herself.

Soon they heard sirens and saw German police cars with their lights
flashing screech to a halt outside the house.  The next morning, Pat's
body was a mass of bruises, scratches, and welts.

She looked as if she had been run over by a truck.  She gave a
statement to the German detectives about a salesman who had forced his
way in, beaten her, and then sexually attacked her.

"Boppo and Papa took her to the hospital and notified my father," Susan
recalled.  "I guess he believed that men had been hurting he r. He
showed up the next day, and we went back to live with him."  But there
were no physical signs that Pat had been raped.  No semen.  No labial
or vaginal contusions, none of the characteristic inner thigh bruising
that is found in rape victims.

Susan said nothing about what she had seen in the window.

She was ashamed, but she didn't really know why.

. . .

Pat and Gil had been married over a decade.  He was no longer a
teenager in love.  He had been through the mill with Pat's theatrics
and bizarre stories-but he loved her, and he loved his three
children.

When Pat was sweet to him, no man could ask for more.  If anything, she
was even more beautiful than when he married her.

It seemed sometimes to Gil that if he could find out what it was that
would make Pat happy and serene-and then give it to herthey could have
a good marriage.  He knew she needed to be around her family, and that
was a start.  When they left Germany in 1965 and flew to Fort Dix, New
Jersey, for reassignment, Margureitte and Clifford Radcliffe remained
in Germany, finishing the colonel's tour of duty there.  Gil wondered
how Pat would manage without them.  After all, they had asked for the
Frankfurt post so they could be near her, and now she was heading back
to the States.

But it worked out all right.  Pat was delighted when they were sent to
Fort Bragg in Fayetteville, North Carolina.  Mama Slier was there and
all of her beloved aunts.  If her mother and stepfather weren't close
by, she had, at least, the second string.

Gil and Pat even bought a little brick house near Fort Bragg.

The house, of course, wasn't anywhere near what Pat had envisioned.

She had become increasingly obsessed with having her own estate-a
plantation, a lavish spread of green fields and horse barns with a main
house where she could entertain.  She had never been able to take care
of even an apartment without her mother's help, but she knew she would
be happy if she could nly live the way Scarlett O'Hara had lived at
Tara before the 0

Civil War.

While driving through the countryside near Warsaw one day, Pat saw the
house she really wanted.  It was a Victorian mansion surrounded by a
wrought-iron fence.  The porch roof was supported with tall columns,
there was a fountain in the front yard, and even a carriage house-but
it was in terrible condition, with eeling paint and a sagging roof.

The rose garden was overgrown with weeds and the foundation listed to
one side.

Pat had to have it.  Gil checked it out and, despite the house's
decrepit condition, the asking price was far beyond anything an
enlisted man could manage.  He tried to explain that to his wife, but
Pat sulked: If only she could have that house, she would be happy.  If
he loved her, he would find a way to get it for her.

Whatever Gil did for her, it wasn't enough.

Later, when Pat showed the house to Margureitte, her mother paled and
said, "Pat, are you crazy?"

The house was a stone's throw from where John Cam Prigeon still lived
with his family.  Pat probably did not know the significance of that
proximity at the time, but her mother was vehement that Warsaw, North
Carolina, was no place for her to even think about living.

There is no evidence that Pat Taylor had had anything but imaginary
encounters with men other than her husband.  She used her stories of
men's unwelcome attentions to keep Gil in line.

But at Fort Bragg, she ran into her old boyfriend.  He was now a
captain, while Gil was only a sergeant.  Gil had always been jealous of
the man, even though he had long since been convinced that Susan was
his own offspring.

That evening there was a terrible scene when Pat and Gil went out to
eat with her aunts at Sneads Ferry.  Hearin' that the captain still
found their niece fascinating, the aunts urged her to encourage his
interest.  In the long run, they advised, she would have a much more
solid future than with an enlisted man.  They dismissed the fact of her
marriage to the father of her three children with the wave of a hand.

If being married to an officer would make Pat happy, then that was what
they wanted for her.

Gil might as well have been invisible.

Pat was miserable.  She didn't like marriage, and she didn't like being
alone either.  She wasn't interested in the captain.  What she really
wanted was to be home with Boppo and Papa.

The Radcliffes left Germany and were reassigned to Fort McPherson,
their last duty station before the colonel's retirement.  They bought a
small house near Atlanta, but when they realized that Pat and the
children were again planning to move in with them, they knew it
wouldn't be nearly large enough.

They found a house in East Point that Margureitte fell in love with, a
low brick rambler with white shutters.  It was set far back from the
street-Dodson Drive-and the half acre of land that came with it was
dotted with pine and maple trees.  After all the years of fixing up and
making do with army housing, Margureitte at last had her own home.  She
would have been happy to live on Dodson Drive for the rest of her
life.

The house was lovely and the neighborhood was very
upper-middle-class.

Kent came to live with them, at least part of the time, and a familiar
pattern was soon reestablished.  Every time Pat and her children
appeared to stay with Boppo and Papa, Kent obligingly moved out of
their way.  Space was always maintained for Pat.

Kent loved Pat's kids, but he tried to avoid her.  If she had been
known to hurt her cousins' feelings, she invariably aimed directly at
Kent's very gut.  "He tried to stay away from her," Susan recalled.

"But she'd follow him from room to room, and if he went outside, she'd
find him there too.  I think she was trying to drive him out of the
house forever.  He was so kind and nice, and all my girlfriends had
crushes on him.  They were only about twelve, but they could see how
handsome he was and they just followed him around."

Pat had no women friends.  She had never really had girlfriends, and
she had never missed them.  She really didn't like women.  She had
Boppo and Papa, and she spent a lot of time with her daughters.  Susan
and Debbie's friends could not believe that Pat was a mother; she
looked like a teenager, and she was so pretty.  To young visitors, the
ambience at the Radcliffes' house seemed wonderful: the great-looking
uncle, the darling young mother, and the grandma and grandpa who were
so kind.  Susan and Debbie were the envy of their friends.

Both of Pat's daughters would remember her as a good mother.  She led a
Brownie troop and she delivered her children to Sunday school and
picked them up afterward.  She gave wonderful birthday parties, and she
loved to decorate the house for special occasions.  And, of course, she
sewed for them.  She often told them how wonderful they were, and that
they could achieve anything they wanted in the whole wide world.

The one thing Pat wouldn't allow was anyone interfering with her three
children.  No one could discipline them but her, not even Boppo.  Susan
and Debbie and Ronnie belonged to her and she would see to their
raising.  But Boppo belonged to her too, and she wasn't going to allow
anyone to interfere with that.  Subtly but steadily, Pat began to edge
Kent out.  "She set him up so many times," Susan recalled.  "If she
wanted him out of the house, she'd start a fight and then make it look
as though he was at fault.  Then Papa would say, 'Kent, why don't you
just leave?"

Kent knew all too well that his presence aggravated Pat.  His mother
seemed incapable of opposing her.  Margureitte was pulled in too many
directions, and she was not a woman comfortable with direct
confrontation.  She had other ways of letting her family know she was
unhappy.  She would slam the kitchen cupboard doors loudly and mutter
under her breath.  This never bothered Pat; it made Kent terribly ill
at ease.  Driven too far, Margureitte also had a histrionic side.  She
would drop to her knees, hold out her arms, and cry, "What about me?

Why doesn't anyone ever ask me what I want?"

Kent took every word to heart.  He would gladly have given her what she
wanted-if only he could have.  He knew, he told Susan, that if he could
just be as good and kind as Boppo was, he would be a better person.

Susan and Debbie believed it too.

Their grandmother was the most selfless person they had ever known.

Kent usually assumed that his departure would ease things in the house,
and so he would leave.  Kent could look out for himself, but Pat was so
helpless.  Boppo had to take care of Pat; anyone could see that.

Choices are like dominoes, one tumbling against the next and then the
next until events go out of human control.  Margureitte would never
really have dominion over her life again.  That her own choices had set
the scene for tragedy would never occur to her.  She would only cry out
again and again, "Why doesn't anyone ever ask me what I want?"

No one ever would.

In 1964, Kent had reestablished his relationship with Cindi Alan, and
this time their friendship had blossomed into a romance.

At twenty-five, Kent was probably happier than he had been since he
fell in love with Marianne in Germany.  Cindi was attractive and blond
and she always had a smile on her face.  They were not physically
intimate, but Kent believed they soon would be.  They had fun
together.

Cindi was so proud to be seen with Kent.  Her parents approved.  His
parents approved.

They didn't see each other as often as they would have liked.

Cindi worked in Alabama and Kent worked in Atlanta, but they wrote all
the time and exchanged photographs.  Kent sent her a picture of himself
pensively staring into the distance.  He had pasted the words "Love"
and "Future!"  over the snapshot.

In November of 1964, he sent a picture and wrote on the back, Cindi,
Your long slim "Echo" continues to look for that very special day!

The day of beginning our lives together-May it come soon and bring us
our happiness.

Loving you!

Kent Another time he wrote, "I am missing you very much, Cindi.

Hurry home-so I can smile again."

One weekend when they were together, they put ten dollars' worth of
quarters into a "Three Photos for a Dollar" booth and osed together,
with Cindi perched on Kent's lap.  The last picture was of a tender
kiss.

They talked about getting married and even planned on having a little
girl.  They would call her Jessica.  Sometimes when Kent wrote to
Cindi, he sent a message to "Jessica," their secret child of the
future.  "Jessica, I know you are somewhere waiting out there.

A local paper featured a picture of Kent and Cindi and her parents on
the society page.  The copy read, Cindi Alan of Birmingham, Alabama,
who has been visiting her parents, Lt.  Col. and Mrs. Bertram Allanson
in Atlanta, was invited by a reporter to pose for a picture.  She in
turn invited her date, Kent Radcliffe, to stand by her side.  Just as
the camera shutter snapped, she extended her hand, displaying a
handsome ring.

And that is how the Alans learned that their daughter was engaged!

It was the stuff that warms the hearts of society reporters, but things
were not exactly as they seemed.  Cindi wanted so much to love Kent
completely, and she did love him, but not in the way he needed.  She
had kept a secret side of her life away from him.

She thought she could make the relationship work and she tried, but she
couldn't.  Without telling Kent the real reason, she gently broke their
enLraLyement.  They were still friends and he still loved her.  He
tried pleading and he even got angry at her, but nothing worked.  He
could not understand how she could just walk away from everything they
had planned.  He was desolate.

Kent went to Houston to stay with his uncle Frazier-to get away and to
find a job he could lose himself in.  As always, Kent assumed it was
some defect in him that had made still another romance crumble.  He was
in as vulnerable a state as he could possibly be, but he was trying to
put the torn seams of his life back together when he received two oddly
urgent messages.  One was a phone call from a female voice he couldn't
place and the other was a letter.

The message was the same: "Get back on the bus and get back to
Atlanta."

Kent did not know who initiated the call and letter, but when he
returned to Atlanta, he walked into an onslaught of crushing news.  His
sister Pat told him an ugly, unbelievabl'e story.  If Kent had harbored
even the slightest hope that he and Cindi would get back together, she
smashed it.  "Your girlfriend prefers women," she said flatly.  "I
don't know why she ever got engaged to you-maybe to cover up her real
life.  She's a lesbian.

It was true, but Cindi had never wanted Kent to know.  This was 1965,
and she loved him enough to let him go with less devastating truths.

Reeling from that disclosure, Kent was in despair.  And yet within a
short time Pat chose to hit him with an even more stunning
revelation.

Kent had always believed that he was the natural son of Clifford
Radcliffe, and no one had even hinted otherwise.  Although Kent had yet
to prove himself to the man he admired so much, he was proud to be his
son.  But, of course, he was not.  According to his birth certificate,
he had been born out of wedlock long before Margureitte ever met
Radcliffe.

Again it was his sister who lacerated him with the truth.  In a moment
of rage, Pat turned her fury on her brother and spat out, "You're not
our kind, you know.  You don't even know who you are!

You think Papa's your father but he isn't.  You're a bastard, and
you're so stupid you don't even know it!"

It was such a cruel thing for her to do.  The little boy who had
endured deafness, the teenager who had survived a broken heart, the man
who saw one marriage and his hopes for another fail, had everything he
believed in taken away from him in those appalling sentences.

Pat could hardly have believed that she was Clifford Radcliffe's true
issue.  She was older than Kent; in all likelihood, she and Kent had
both been fathered by the same man.  However, she clearly saw herself
as superior to Kent; in her mind, she was aristocracy and he was an
interloper from a lower stratum of society.  Once she had opened the
Pandora's box of Kent's genetic heritage, she reminded him of his true
roots every chance she got.

There were witnesses who heard her do it.

Kent was never the same.  He dated again, but his heart wasn't in it.

He drank too much and his abilty to deal with loss was almost gone.

Cindi wept for his pain, but she couldn't be what he needed.

Christmas of 1965 was tense, no matter how hard Boppo tried to make it
festive.  Kent was so depressed.  He had been to Alabama to see Cindi,
and even she found him so changed, so bitter.

Gil was often overseas.  He had become a shadow husband and shadow
father.  The tight little family group on Dodson Drive didn't need him;
he was as alienated as Kent was.

Kent was living on Dodson Drive, but only temporarily; he was trying to
get into an apartment of his own.  Pat's kids wanted him around, but
his sister railed at him constantly.  Boppo was torn between the two of
them, but as always she sided with her daughter, guessing that Kent was
stronger than Pat.

Kent was dating a flight attendant in College Park, Georgia, in the
latter part of 1965.  She was beautiful and she really cared for him,
but Kent could no longer risk trusting any woman enough to fall in
love.  When the girl became pregnant, she kept the news to herself,
sensing that the timing wasn't right and that Kent's feelings for her
weren't strong enough.  She bided her time, waiting for the right
moment to tell him.

It never came.

On February 1, 1966, Officer M. C. Faulkner of the East Point Police
Department received a Signal 59 directing him to 2555

Stewart Avenue, "just in front of Nalley's Chevrolet."  A Signal 59
meant a dead body.  He expected to see an accident.  And, indeed, there
was a minor traffic accident on Stewart Avenue.  An Oldsmobile sedan
parked at the curb had a smashed right front fender and the tire on
that side was flat.  Nearby, Faulkner saw a station wagon with the
tailgate dented.

Officer G. H. Wade told Faulkner that he had been called to the scene
by a salesman at Nalley's.  In response to their questions, Mary
Schroder said she had been driving her 1962 Ford station wagon south on
Stewart Avenue with her attorney husband, James, as a passenger.  "I
was making a right turn into Nalley's when my car was struck in the
rear by that Oldsmobile.  I think it's a '62 too.  The car then passed
our car and pulled to the curb."

James Schroder picked up the strange account.  "The driver looked back
at us as he passed.  I got out and started to walk over to his car and
then I saw him slump over in the seat."

A Nalley's salesman said he had heard a loud report-"like a
gunshot"-just before the accident, but another witness told the
officers that the Oldsmobile had passed his car just before the crash
and that the driver, a young man, had been smoking a cigarette.

Just when the gunshot had occurred was a moot point.  The driver of the
Oldsmobile was dead, his body stretched out across the front seat with
his head resting near the right front door.

His feet, clad in Hush Puppy shoes, still rested next to the
accelerator and brake.  There was no blood apparent; he might have only
fallen asleep.  But a .22-caliber pump-action, single-shot rifle lay on
the floor on the passenger side on a pile of crushed newspapers.  The
recoil had left it pointed at the dead man's knee, but its single shot
had done its work.

On the slight chance that the young man might be alive, he was rushed
to Grady Memorial Hospital, but he was dead on arrival.

A driver's license and Social Security card in a wallet found on the
dead man identified him as Reginald Kent Radcliffe, twenty-six, of
2378

Dodson Drive.

Sergeant Haines of the Fulton County Medical Examiner's Office arrived
to take charge of the body.  The ME's office classited Kent's death as
"violent" and as a suicide.  He had suffered a "pressed contact gunshot
wound to the mid-chest through the clothing."  He would have died
almost instantly.  A blood alcohol test revealed that the percentage of
ethyl alcohol in Kent's system was .13.  In most states, .10 is the
standard for legal intoxication.

Investigators removed Kent's belongings from his impounded car.  His
wallet held $2.40.  There was an athletic bag, a cigarette lighter,
cigarettes, two ballpoint pens, a second leveraction .22 rifle, his
glasses (in the backseat), and, also in the rear seat, a partially
empty pint bottle of rum.

There was no sophisticated forensic science test that could determine
just when Kent had fired a bullet into his heart.  Was he dead, or even
dying, when he hit the rear of the Schroders' car with his right front
fender?  Probably not; James Schroder was sure the driver had glanced
back at them after the collision.

Had Kent intended to kill himself sometime that first day of
February?

Had he driven around East Point with the gun poised and ready?  Or had
the traffic accident been only the final straw to a man who believed
that his life was without joy?  Had he grabbed the gun and fired in a
fatally impulsive gesture?

The East Point investigators even considered the possibility that there
might have been another passenger, that Kent might have been
murdered.

His glasses were unbroken in the backseat.  He was so nearsighted that
he could not have seen to drive without them.

No, it was more likely that the force of the blast knocked them from
his face and over the seat.  They dismissed the murder theory.  Too
many people had observed Kent's car after the accident, and no one had
emerged and run away.

Kent had destroyed himself.

It was early evening when the notifying officer knocked on the front
door at Dodson Drive.  Margureitte answered, feeling a premonition; no
one but strangers ever came to the front door.

When she saw the uniform and before the officer spoke a word, she cried
out, "My God!  Kent's killed himself!"

Pat stood down the hall, watching.  She tried to hug her mother, but
Margureitte pushed her away, inconsolable.  Colonel Radcliffe went to
the morgue to make the formal identification.

Kent's death made no headlines; there was only a short article on the
back pages of the Atlanta Yournal.  His obituary was even shorter.  No
mention was made of the manner of his death.

Survivors were listed as his parents, Colonel and Mrs.  Clifford B.

Radcliffe, East Point, and a sister, Mrs.  G. H. Taylor, East Point.

On Thursday, February 3, 1966, services were held in Hemperley's
Funeral Parlor and Kent was buried in Onslow Memorial Park in
Jacksonville, North Carolina.  Cindi Alan iklipped a ring on his finger
before his casket was closed.  It was engraved, "To Kent from
Jessica."

But there would never be a Jessica.  Nor would there be another baby,
one that Kent had not known about.  The flight attendant who had been
carrying his child had an abortion.  She grieved terribly, but not for
very long.  Six months later she was a passenger in a two-seater
private plane.  It crashed, killing her and the pilot on impact.

Pat was an only child now.  Kent was gone forever.  The only obvious
reminder of his existence was a picture of him as a shy grade school
boy that Margureitte kept constantly in view.  Margureitte had borne
three children.  Two of them were dead.  She refused tranquilizers.

"Why do I want to numb the pain?"  she asked hopelessly.  "Kent's
dead.

In the morning, he will still be dead.  Nothing will change.  Why numb
the pain?"

Pat grieved dramatically for her brother, sobbing about what a tragedy
it was.  She blamed Cindi.  "She killed him with a broken heart!"  But
Margureitte was not unaware of the rancor that Pat had always felt for
Kent.  She stared blankly at her daughter's tearful face.

Margureitte now devoted all her energies to Pat and Pat's children.

Besides Clifford and her sisters, they were all she had left.  And now
Pat had her mother all to herself.  None of her histrionics and
machinations had done real harm to anyone before.

Rather, she had been just an inadequate young woman, self-absorbed and
hysterical, who seemed her own worst enemy.

But now, with her brother's suicide, her overwhelming selfishness had,
quite literally, drawn blood.

Life went on on Dodson Drive.

It was 1966 and Pat was twenty-nine years old.  The war in Vietnam
raged far away.  Gil Taylor, cut adrift from his family, spent a large
chunk of his life in that war.  "From the time I was eleven or twelve,"
Susan recalled of that year, "we mostly lived on Dodson Drive with my
grandparents.  My father dropped in occasionally and he sent money.  We
kids missed him."

Pat used Gil's money for her own needs; she told her parents that he
contributed nothing to his family's support-a lie.  Boppo and Papa
supported her and the children.

The Taylor family made sporadic attempts to reunite, but they were
always back with Pat's parents within a few months.

Gil signed on for another tour in Vietnam.  On their fifteenth
anniversary, he sent Pat a picture of himself in fatigues standing
outside the mess tent.

On the back he wrote, 6 Sept.  1967.  My Darling, It.  Levine took this
of me this morning.

ANNV.  PRESENT.  Ha!  I love you.  Happy Anniversary, My love.

Pat had not lived with him for more than a fraction of those fifteen
years.

Colonel Radcliffe retired from the army and dabbled in real estate.

Margureitte decorated the Dodson Drive house so that every room pleased
her.  There were three bedrooms a'nd a den.

Ronnie, seven, slept in Pat's room; Susan and Debbie had shared a room
until Kent moved out, and then Susan got his room.  After he died, she
had bad dreams.  She cried for him for a long time.  But no one spoke
about Kent very much.  Certainly no one discussed why he had killed
himself.  What was the point?

Through her granddaughters, Margureitte lived out her old dreams of
being a horsewoman.  She prevailed upon the colonel to invest in a
horse, not much more than a plug.  They named him Sam, and Susan,
Debbie, and Ronnie rode him.  Margureitte's job as a receptionist for a
local dentist provided money for her grandchildren's riding lessons.

Pat took lessons too, reveling in her image, but she had no real flair
for riding.  She could ride sidesaddle and look pretty, no more than
that.  Her children were good-particularly Susan and Debbie.  They
studied with some of the most prestigious trainers in the South, and
learned English-style riding, jumping, and equestrienne.  Seeing her
granddaughters in their jodhpurs, tailed 'jackets, and fedoras, Boppo
beamed.  She never missed a competition if she could help it and was
very proud when they won blue ribbon after blue ribbon.  "My girls
always pinned high," she recalled fondly.  There was r,omething so
refined about this sport; the best people in Georgia participated.

Debbie and Susan got along as well as most teenage sisters.

Susan's two-year advantage in age gave her more privileges, which
Debbie resented mightily.  Neither girl inherited her mother's green
eyes; they had dark brown eyes.  Susan had thick, almost black hair,
and Debbie's was light brown.  They were both very pretty.  Susan
tended to be quiet and Debbie feisty.

Many years later, Colonel Radcliffe laughed when he recalled that Susan
and her girlfriends used to sneak out on the porch so they could peek
at him while he was in the shower.  An adult Susan shook her head in
bewilderment.  "We never did that.  Why would we?  Why would he say
that?  Maybe my girlfriends would have liked to peek at Kent-but they
never did.  And they sure didn't want to see my grandfather naked."

Ronnie's seizures continued sporadically, and many times his andparents
and his mother held a tongue depressor between gr his teeth, wrapped
him in blankets, and sped away to the hospital.  "They would never tell
us what was wrong with him," Susan said.  "And, after a while, it
didn't happen anymore."

The girls' weekends were taken up with riding lessons and shows.  Sam
was relegated to pasture, and they rode their own Morgan horses now: La
Petite and Biscayne.  Debbie and Susan were so good that they rode in
shows for other owners too.  They went to the best tack shops for their
English riding uniforms and had them tailored to fit.  Pat drove them
to their lessons and competitions and Boppo and Papa paid for
everything.  They @ I bought the horses and took care of their board
and vet bills.

"I was the Georgia youth champion for riding Morgans when I was
fourteen," Debbie remembered.  "And then the world youth champion.  I
was riding someone else's horse when I won; it was Lippit Moro Alert,
owned by Ronald Blackman."  But Biscayne threw Debbie and she broke her
arm.  Despite the pressure at home, she refused to ride her again.

usan e t the pus to win too.  Although she loved the jumping events
because they made her feel "free," she was often frightened on the
obstacle courses.  "I faked it once-if my mother had found out, she
would have killed me because it was a very elite show in Atlanta.

Biscayne and I made the first few jumps, but we were coming up on a
solid brick wall and I just knew she couldn't spread out enough to make
it.  I was terrified, and I clamped my knees down and made it look like
she'd balked.  Everybody blamed her but I was the one who was scared.

I felt guilty about humiliating her that way."

With time, the pain from Kent's suicide became less acute for
Margureitte, although she never truly recovered from the loss.  But she
still had Pat and the colonel, who accepted her grandchildren as his
own.  He called Susan "Poogie," Debbie "Diddie," and Ronnie "Sam
Houston Texas Taylor."  As for Pat, she was so much more serene when
she lived with her parents.  Her own parenting sometimes seemed
quixotic.  She continued to sew for her daughters, wonderful special
dresses that would have cost hundreds of dollars in a store, and she
encouraged their efforts.  "She was always telling me I could do
anything," Susan said.  "She was so proud of us when we did well."

But there were times when Pat's maternal talents were not quite so
genteel.  Susan recalled riding in a car with her mother when she was
twelve or thirteen and asking a question about sex.

"We were driving in the car and my class had been studying the
population explosion.  I didn't know the first thing ibout sex, and I
said, 'Well, nobody should blame somebody because God put a baby in her
stomach."  My mother laughed and said, 'Don't you know anything?  The
man puts his penis in the woman's hole and wiggles up and down."  She
went on telling me about sex in the ugliest, most graphic terms.  There
was nothing about love or no birds or bees-just a blunt explanation of
what men did to women.  I was stunned.  I don't know why she told me
that way.  When I was older, I told Boppo about it and we both
laughed.

All in all, the years living with Boppo and Papa were good.

Neither Debbie nor Susan remembered them as unusual in any way.

They adored Boppo.  And Boppo told them constantly how much she loved
them.  Boppo herself was happy.  She had her daughter and her
grandchildren.  Her sisters were an easy drive away and she saw them
often.  Mama Siler was eighty-six and frail-but still with them.  The
Silers continued to meet every August at White Lake, North Carolina,
for the annual reunion.  Aside from missing Kent, life was as good as
it had ever been for Boppo.  She had never had a house she loved as
much as the one on Dodson Drive.

She never wanted to leave it-and, apparently, neither did Pat.

Sergeant Gilbert Taylor was nothing if not persistent.  He still loved
Pat, and in his mind, it was only a matter of time until he gathered
his family around him again.  He knew what it would take, and when he
transferred back to Fort McPherson in 1969, he was prepared to give his
wife what she wanted.  Pat had always dreamed of a house finer than any
house a Siler had yet known.  Hell, she still wanted her Tara.  She
always had and she always would, and if he ever hoped to get her out of
her mama's house, he was going to have to find a way to give her what
she demanded.

They went out driving in the country looking for likely properties.

Finally, they found some land for sale on Tell Road.

They could have missed the place so easily; it was west of East Point
in the Ben Hill district, beyond No Name Road, and deadended at the
Atlanta city limits.  It didn't look like city at all.  It was deep
country with thick trees up to the road and wetlands that some
homeowners had dammed up into algae-covered ponds.  The piece for sale
was way back in, past a log cabin-like place inhabited by a maiden lady
of indeterminate age named Fanny Kate Cash, who had lived there all of
her life.  It was ]Panny Kate who was selling off the back piece of
land.

There was no house, no road, nothing but trees.  But Pat wanted it.

Here they would build their mansion and create a wonderful riding ring
for horse shows.  She would give riding lessons to help meet their
bills.  She assured her husband that the spread at 4189 Tell Road
S.W.

would be known in horse i'l show circles all over the South.

Gil had to work three jobs to pay for it: his regular army assignments,
of course, and then as a caterer loading meals on airplanes and for the
J. C. Penney Company.  He had always had dark circles under his eyes,
but now they turned almost black.  Fearing the pace was going to
outright kill him, he tried to explain to Pat, "Honey, I can't make
it.

I'm only getting four hours to sleep at night."

She shook her head impatiently.  "Sure you can.  You just have to try
harder."

He did-and they bought the Tell Road property.  They cleared and graded
a spot for a riding ring and put up bleachers, bright lights, and
fences.  However, the mansion Pat visualized was far beyond their
means; that would have to wait.  In the meantime, they found two houses
that were being sold dirt cheap because they had to be moved.  One was
white and one was red brick, and they were eased precariously down Tell
Road on flatbed trucks, past Fanny Kate Cash's place and up to a knoll
back in the woods.

They soon learned that putting the two houses together would be far
more costly than to simply build a house on their land.  It didn't help
that Pat insisted on the very best in lighting fixtures, flooring, and
fancy trim.  When Pat wanted to pave the long gravel driveway, even
Boppo threw her hands up and said, "Good Lord!  Your mother's lost her
mind!  Does she have any idea what that would cost?"

The road stayed gravel, but Gil had masons lay a red brick foundation
under the white frame house and he built a long veranda that faced out
on the show ring.  They planted boxwood shrubs out in front and hung
black shutters like the ones found on the best homes in Atlanta.  It
wasn't enough.  When it was done, they could see that they didn't have
the mansion that Pat had pictured.  All they had was a mishmash that
just looked like two houses stuck together.  Worse, they had two
mortgages they couldn't keep up with and they were about to go bankrupt
and lose it all.

Pat went to her mother and stepfather in tears.  They had to help
her.

As usual, she blamed Gil for their troubles; he didn't know a damn
thing about building and she should have realized that, but it was too
late now.  She promised Boppo and Papa that she would take care of them
in their "golden years" if they would only help her save the Tell Road
place.

Of course, her parents said they would help her as they always had, and
the malignant money drain began.  In the end, it seemed the only way
Margureitte and the colonel could come up with enough money to bail Pat
and Gil out would be to sell their Dodson Drive house and move into the
Tell Road place with them.  It would be a profound loss for
Margureitte.  She didn't want to leave her elegant home to move into a
half-finished, jerry-built excuse for a house that was so far out in
the boondocks that it took almost an hour just to get to a grocery
store.  She didn't want to leave the lovely neighborhood just off
Headland Drive and have afternoon tea with Fanny K. Cash.  "I just want
to live in my own house," she wailed, "and have my grandchildren come
to see me like other grandmothers do.  I don't want to move."

But she finally acceded to Pat's pleas.  She wanted Pat to be happy.

How could she deny her daughter her dream?

"My mother always used guilt on my grandmother," Susan remembered.

"She would start an argument by saying, 'Mother, why did you go off and
leave me all alone with Mama Siler?  Who was my father?  Didn't you
love me?  Why did you leave me?"  And Boppo would say, 'I had no other
choice,'but it hurt Boppo.  I always remember my grandmother
saying-even when I was a grown-up: 'Why can't your mother be happy?"

The Dodson Drive house was snapped up as soon as the Radcliffes put it
on the market.  They wondered if they should have listed it at a higher
price.  Boppo and Papa moved out to Tell Road and into Ronnie's
bedroom, sharing the rest of the unfinished tacked-together house with
Pat, Gil, Susan, Debbie and Debbie's boyfriend, Gary Cole, and
Ronnie.

It was crowded and uncomfortable.  Once more Pat was living with her
parents, although she felt it was time for her daughters to grow up.

She could hardly wait for them to leave home.

Debbie competed in her last horse show in Hickory, North Carolina, in
the late summer of 1970.  She was fifteen years old and she was four
months pregnant.  "I won," she recalled, "and that was my last show."

She married Gary, a husky blond laborer who was just seventeen, and
they found a place of their own.

Susan was determined to graduate from high school; she would be the
first girl in her immediate family to do so.  The move to Teil Road
meant she had to go to summer school if she hoped to graduate early
from Headland High School.  Susan was shy, but she set certain
standards that no one could talk her out of.  She was not going to
marry anyone until she had a high school diploma, and she wasn't going
to be pregnant at her wedding.  Furthermore, she was truly going to
flout tradition by le until her e' hteenth birthday in March 1971.

staying sing ig Susan graduated from Headland in October of 1970 and
went to work at the PX at Fort Mac to help the family budget.  She
attended a dance at the fort one night in 1970 with her girlfriend,
Sonia Salo.  "I met this guy I thought was a maniac," she remembered,
smiling.  "He was good-looking all right, but he was dancing with
another girl, and he kept turning her around and winking at me and
making faces behind her back.  He was a show-off and a wild dancer
too.

I finally asked Sonja what on earth was wrong with him, and she laughed
and said, 'Oh, he's okay.  That's just Bill Alford.  He always acts
like that."

Alford, a first lieutenant, left a note on Susan's car a few days later
and they met at Sonja Salo's apartment, which was in the building where
he lived.  Reluctantly, Susan agreed to go out with him.  He was six
years older than she was, and he was far too much of an extrovert for
the shy, soft-spoken Susan.  Still, his exuberance was contagious, and
in spite of herself, she was soon utterly captivated by the brash young
lieutenant.

So was her mother.  Pat took one look at George L. "Bill" Alford and
decided he was perfect for Susan.  "My mother was the matchmaker,"
Susan recalled.  "She said if she was younger, she'd take him
herself.

I believe that-but I also think she was clearing the decks.  When we
came home from ourfit'st date, I was mortified to hear her ask Bill if
he'd given me an engagement ring!  She wanted us all out of the house
and on our own.  She had plans."

On November 6, 1970, Fort McPherson photographers took a picture of
Miss Susan Taylor and Colonel John H. Calloway, the base commander, as
they pinned the insignia of Bill Alford's new rank on his uniform.  He
was Captain Alford now.  Pat was pleased.

An army captain, still in his early twenties and already on his way up,
would make a fine husband for Susan.

They were married on March 27, 1971, in the Fort McPherson chapel, the
same chapel where Susan's mother and father had been married eighteen
and a half years earlier.  Pat had been pregnant with Susan then.

Susan and Bill had a beautiful wedding.  The groom and the father of
the bride were in full-dress uniform; Susan wore a white dress with a
long veil edged in lace, purchased at Rich's Department Store, and she
carried white roses and stephanotis clustered around a huge white
orchid.  Everyone smiled happily for the photographers with the
exception of Margureitte.  Her face was fixed in the familiar crystal
gaze of the Siler sisters.  Perhaps she knew what was about to
happen.

"My reception was a disaster," Susan recalled many years later.  "My
mother chose my wedding day to announce to everyone that she was
leaving my father.  She had a restraining order against him and he had
to leave at once.  He was absolutely dumbfounded.  He didn't see it
coming.  Even twenty years after, I think he still wondered what he did
wrong.  He was there, giving me away, and then he was gone.

Banished.

My mother had a new life planned, and he didn't belong in it."

Her dramatic announcement at her daughter's wedding was vintage Pat.

She did not like anyone else having the spotlight.

At some point in the months after they all moved into the house on Tell
Road, she had apparently come to the realization that Gil could never
provide her with what she needed.  He had worked three jobs,
complaining all the time.  He was a fool.  He had been so enthusiastic
about the new place, and it turned out to be just an ordinary house in
the woods.  He had no vision; he had no sense of grandeur.  Besides,
she didn't like the way he drank beer.  She decided he was probably an
alcoholic, while in reality he was only a moderate drinker.  When she
found a cache of beer cans he had buried out in back, she was sure she
was right.

Both her daughters were married now, and she was only thirty-three
years old.  She could do so much better.

Pat became a very young grandmother only two days after Susan married
Bill Alford.  Debbie was hugely pregnant at her sister's wedding and
went into labor a day later.  Every generation of Siler women in memory
had included fifteen-year-old mothers, and the latest was no
exception.

Her mother advised her to stay home as long as possible; complications
developed and Debbie had to give birth by cesarean section to her baby
girl, Dawn.

Later, five generations of Siler women posed for Susan's camera; Mama
Siler was eighty-six, Boppo was fifty-two, Pat was thirty-three, Debbie
was fifteen, and Dawn was a month old.

Oddly, not one of them smiled.

Pat became a grandmother again when Susan gave birth to her son Sean
the next year in April.  "Mom just wouldn't let me go to the hospital
when my water broke," Susan recalled.  "She kept insisting that I eat
this great big steak and relax.  Boppo just paced and smoked, telling
Mom I had to go.  I finally got there less than three hours before Sean
was born."

The house on Tell Road was much less crowded now that Gil, Susan,
Debbie, and Gary had moved out.  Only Ronnie, twelve, was left, and he
would have been delighted to live with his father, but Pat wouldn't
allow it.  Gil had ruined all their plans for a wonderful country home
and he didn't deserve his son.  Pat allowed Ronnie to do pretty much
what he pleased.  She bought him a motor scooter, and then, when he was
fourteen, she let him fake a driver's license and he was off driving
all over Atlanta.

The colonel was now responsible for the upkeep of Pat's "plantation."

And Margureitte maintained her air of quiet dignity, smiling her frozen
smile as if her life were proceeding exactly as she wanted it to.  She
would brook no criticism of Pat, nor would she complain about her
diminished life-style to anyone beyond Debbie or Susan.  They knew how
Boppo mourned for the home she had left behind, but appearances were
everything and Margureitte made everyone believe that she adored living
out in the woods even if her determined smile cracked her face.

Pat and Gil were soon divorced, but that was not the only change in
Pat's life.  It was the early seventies and long gone were the drab
skirts and blouses and the bobbed hair of her twenties.  She threw away
her glasses and wore contact lenses.

She had looked radiant at Susan's wedding in a silver and moss green
brocade coatdress that caught the emerald of her eyes, and she really
began to blossom now that she was a newly single woman.

She teased and back-combed her thick honey-colored hair until it added
a good four or five inches to her height.  She wore makeup that
accentuated her eyes and full lips.

Nobody would ever mistake her for somebody's grandmother.

She was a hot-looking woman.  In fact, Pat Taylor was already something
of a sly conversation piece among the men who moved in the horse show
circuit: the owners, trainers, veterinarians.  In her slow southern way
she was a shameless flirt, but none of them bragged that they had slept
with her.  If any of them had, they only joked and lied and said that
they would like to.  They were all married.

Pat's metamorphosis continued.  As her teased hair rose ever higher,
her skirts grew shorter.  They barely skimmed her panty line.  She made
halter tops and wore them without a bra so that her full breasts swayed
like ripe peaches clinging to the tree.

She wore tight shiny vinyl boots that drew attention to her slender
legs.  For herself, she designed some very short wraparound dresses,
cutting the bodice in such a deep V at the front that men tripped over
their own horses as they peered at her breasts.  She also liked Tom
Jones and Engelbert Humperdinck.  She listened to love songs as avidly
as any teenager.  She especially loved "Please Release Me" and "What's
New, Pussycat?"  There was no question about it.  Pat Taylor was
sending out signals that she was most approachable.

Pat had affairs and fleeting assignations with a number of men.  Boppo
and Papa pretended they didn't know.  Susan and Debbie knew and were
embarrassed.  But their newly emancipated mother didn't care.  In her
mind, she had been held back for twenty years, suffocated in a
loveless, go-nowhere marriage.  Her changed appearance caused ripples
at the Siler Family Reunion in August of 1971.  The Righteous
Sisters-who had always adored her-were shocked at the skimpiness of her
bikini bathing suit and the miniskirts she wore.  The beautiful little
Patty Padcliffe was now the beautiful Pat Taylor.  She knew she was a
great-looking woman and she believed that men-or rather, a man-was the
only avenue to her heart's desire.

That's what she wanted, and she went after it.  As one of her lovers
later remarked, "There wasn't any way you could get away from her, even
if you wanted to-which I didn't.  Once she made up her mind she was
going to bed with you, you didn't have a chance.

She liked sex."

Pat needed a man.  She wasn't trained to do any kind of work, nor had
she ever worked.  She was an old-fashioned kind of woman, she always
said, content to do her sewing and fancy work.  She had only a junior
high school education and she didn't read anything but historical
romance novels, stories about Joan of Arc and Robin Hood, and Victorian
poetry.  She could sit a horse prettily, but not as competently as she
claimed.

For a southern girl, she wasn't a very good cook.  Her own tastes ran
to chili dogs, tuna sandwiches, tomato soup, and takeout Chinese
food.

If her mother didn't cook for her, she would eat bread spread with
pimento cheese or peanut butter or a tomato and mayonnaise sandwich for
supper.

Pat was no longer a military dependent, and without Boppo and Papa she
would have had no means of support at all.  It would seem that the
acquisition of a plantation would be the least of her worries; she
needed to find a job.  "I guess I'll have to work at the waffle house,"
she often cried to her mother.  "I can't do anything else."  Working in
a fast-food restaurant seemed, to Pat, the depths of degradation.

nd then, suddenly, any job was out of the question for Pat.

In April of 1972 she fell from one of the horses they still had at Tell
Road, and it stomped her.  Her injuries freed emboli (blood clots) to
float freely through her bloodstream.  There was real concern that she
might suffer a pulmonary embolism-fatal within minutes if it blocked
the flow of blood between her heart and lungs.  She complained of such
severe pain that it took Percodan and morphine to control it.  Her
doctors warned Pat,and Boppo that she would have to beware of embolisms
for some years, possibly for the rest of her life.

Invalidism suited Pat.  She looked especially fetching as she rested
languidly on the veranda, the heat-or a touch of feverdotting her upper
lip and forehead with moisture.  No one urged her to get up and get on
with her life-not with a wayward blood clot threatening to end it
without warning.  Boppo was, of course, even more solicitous of her
daughter, catering to her every whim.

Pat finally had surgery at Emory University's hospital.  In an
extremely delicate operation, surgeons inserted minuscule "umbrellas"
through her jugular vein, tiny catch basins that would stop a blood
clot before it rushed irrevocably into her pulmonary artery.  She spent
some time in intensive care but gradually improved.

Another catastrophe befell the family in August of 1972.  The
Radcliffes, Pat and Ronnie, the Alfords, and the Coles traveled as
usual to White Lake, North Carolina, for the Siler Family Reunion,
taking several cars.  On the way back home, the car carrying the Coles
and Ronnie had a terrible accident.  "It happened just south of the
North Carolina border," Debbie remembered.  "We had eaten there, and we
changed drivers, and I drove .  . . and everybody went to sleep.  . .

.

We were on the back roads and the last thing I remember is going around
a curve and the steering wheel locking, and I couldn't do anything.  I
was going seventy-five miles an hour.  I remember waking up on top of
the hood on my back with my legs down over the steering wheel and my
seat belt was still hooked.

... My brother got thrown out of the car completely and his whole scalp
was pulled back from the glass.  He was in the front seat and he went
out, Dawn went under the dashboard, and my husband went from the
backseat into the dashboard.  . . . Finally someone saw my brother
walking around in a daze, but we were out there for six hours before
they found us.  They took us to two different hospitals.  . . . I broke
my back, and Gary broke his neck.  Dawn had a skull fracture.  I was in
the hospital in Florence for four weeks, and in another hospital at
home for three months after I had surgery to fuse my back in five
places.  They put in a metal rod.  I had three operations."

Susan and Bill were the first ones home from the reunion, and they
walked into their apartment to a ringing phone.  "I had to tell my
mother about the accident," Susan recalled.  "I told her that Debbie's
back was probably broken, and she snapped at me, 'I don't care about
Debbie!  I want to know about Ronnie........

That's the way she was.  Each of the three of us was indispensable to
her, but she took turns.  At the time of the accident, Debbie didn't
matter, but Ronnie did.  I have no idea why."

No one was ever really sure who had been driving.  Some family members
thought that Ronnie was, and that Debbie had lied to protect him.  They
were all lucky to survive the grinding crash.

After that, Pat's luck seemed to change.  Through her contacts in the
riding world, she met the man she had been looking for in the fall of
1972: the perfect lover.  Her choice might not have been every young
woman's dream; he was as old as Papa-but not nearly as handsome-and he
had gray hair, a florid complexion, and a chunky midsection.  Put him
up next to any one of the men in the horse show crowd and he would come
out a distant second as far as looks went.  But he had it in his power
to give Pat everything she craved.

Hap Brown* was a member of Governor Jimmy Carter's cabinet, the head of
one of the most important departments in the state of Georgia.  His
name was always in the paper, he sat at the governor's right hand, and
he kept a fine house back in his hometown as well as lavish lodgings in
Atlanta.  When Hap Brown walked into the Capitol building with its gold
leaf-covered dome, people lined up to talk to him and shake his hand.

He was known all over Atlanta-all over the state of Georgia, for that
matter.

When fifty-eight-year-old Hap Brown's eye fell on thirty-fiveyear-old
Pat Taylor, he was instantly captivated.  She was lush and beautiful,
but she moved with a certain class too.  Her voice was a soft drawl, a
young girl's sweet voice.  When she spoke to him, she looked directly
at him with her crystalline green eyes, and then, seeming suddenly
embarrassed, she looked down.  He liked her directness, and he liked
her shyness.

And she obviously liked him.  He sensed he could possess her if he
chose.  Hap knew he would have to be discreet-more than discreet.  He
was not only a member of Jimmy Carter's top staff, he was a married
man, and Jimmy Carter, his boss, was not the kind of governor who would
tolerate a member of his cabinet fooling around.  Even more critical,
the money in the Brown family came from Mrs. Brown's side.  Hap had
his salary and benefits, but Cordella* controlled their true wealth.

She would certainly look upon any intimate arrangement with Pat Taylor
with far more disfavor than even Governor Carter.

Hap Brown could not help himself.  He was soon completely smitten with
Pat.  She made him feel like a man twenty years younger.  She was the
most romantic woman he had ever met, and, at the same time, the most
sensuous.  She wrote him poems that were tender and symbolic, and then
made love to him like a brazen trollop.

Like all those who loved Pat, he was concerned about her well-being.

She seemed too delicate and too refined to have to go to work each day,
but she needed to work, so Hap created a little public relations job
for her.  She missed a lot of work.  She was often ill, sometimes
hospitalized, and he visited his pale, wan mistress, held her hand, and
promised her that he would take care of her, although she must
understand that their affair would be very, very private.

She always agreed and Hap felt safe, pleased that he had found himself
a woman both sultry and sensible.  Hap's government position meant they
could be together almost all the time.  He had meetings to go to,
political functions, reasons that he couldn't get home in the evenings
or on weekends.  He and Pat dined out often.  His wife was a comforting
hour's commute away from Atlanta and it was highly unlikely that they
would run into her or any hometown friends.

Since Pat had no office skills and precious little formal education,
there wasn't much that she could do for the Department of Energy, but
there was a lot she could do for the department head.  She and Hap took
long lunches and whole days off together, driving around the
countryside, watching the verdant vegetation of summer change to gold
and orange in autumn.

Hap sent Pat flowers-roses.  She adored roses.  He bought her a gold
cameo pendant and she began to collect cameos.  She treasured each of
his gifts.  "She told me they would go out to the country and have a
picnic by a stream," Susan remembered.

"He'd put his head in her lap while she read Victorian poems to him.  I
think she really loved Hap, and she used to tell me that he was going
to 'come for her' one day, and she'd be waiting for him.  It was as if
she expected him to come riding up and sweep her into his arms."

Pat seemed to be truly devoted to Hap Brown.  If he was not exactly a
knight in shining armor riding to her rescue, maybe she saw him as a
father figure who would care for her always.  She wanted so much to be
the one and only woman in Hap Brown's life.

And sometimes, she seemed to be.  Hap looked at her with eyes poleaxed
by love.  Although he insisted on discretion, she suspected a lot of
people knew about them.  She saw the lifted eyebrows in the office when
she slipped away to meet him.  She didn't care.  The sooner his wife
faced the truth the better.

Then Hap would be free to come for her.

Hap Brown quickly realized he would get only the frostiest welcome at
the house on Tell Road.  Margureitte was outspoken in her disapproval
of the relationship.  The Radcliffes were too proper to confront him
directly, and if they had, Pat would have thrown the tantrum to end all
tantrums.  But the message was there: We do not approve.

Pat took instead to entertaining her married lover at Susan and Bill's
apartment.  She had used the apartment before to meet other married
men, but she prevailed upon Susan to serve drinks and appetizers and to
"be nice to Hap."  Susan saw that Hap was "courting" her mother in the
old-fashioned sense of the word.  He was gallant and kind and
generous.

But he was still married, and he seemed in no hurry to change that
arrangement.

Pat made no secret of her intentions.  Susan remembered her mother
pleading, "Take me home, Hap.  Take me home to North Carolina."

"She wanted to go back with the aunts and back where Grandma Siler
was," Susan sighed.  "Hap couldn't just leave and take her there, and
they'd fight and she'd cry."

Pat enlisted Susan's aid in her campaign to capture Hap, suggesting
that she call Hap "Dad."  Susan balked at that, and Pat countered,
"Well, at least you could say, 'When are you going to marry my mom and
be our father?"

" Susan already had a father, but she finally got up the nerve to blurt
out, "I hear you-all are getting married?"

Hap froze as he reached for an appetizer, drew back his hand, and
stared at the floor.  He was clearly embarrassed, and for once the
voluble politician could find no words.  The minutes that followed were
awkward.  Pat looked away and bit her lip, disappointed and
frustrated.

Susan was mortified.  She could see that Hap Brown had no
intention-ever-of marrying her mother.

For all the power Hap had, he was alarmed by Pat's growing
possessiveness.  He tried to deflect her single-minded thrust toward
his divorce and remarriage to her.  He put himself out time and again
for her and her family.  He did his best to help Bill Alford stay in
the army when a sweeping reduction in forces hit Fort McPherson.  But
Bill wasn't regular army, and even Hap's senator friends couldn't buck
the trend.  Bill left the service in August of 1973 and went to college
while Susan managed Colonel Alan's horse farm in Riverdale-the same
Colonel Alan who had once posed so proudly for an article about his
daughter's engagement to Susan's uncle, Kent Radcliffe.

Over Margureitte's objections, Hap took Pat along on a business trip to
Dallas and they had a wonderful time, but she came home no closer to a
commitment from him than before.  Some@timesfar too often for Pat-Hap
couldn't be with her.  For all her skill at manipulation and seduction,
she was either naive or blind to the bleak realities of stolen passion
with a married man.  Pat would sit forlornly on the wide veranda her
ex-husband had built for her and stare through the dark woods toward
Tell Road as if she could make the sound of Hap's car materialize by
sheer force of will.

But all she heard was the rain in winter or the cicadas in summer or
Fanny Kate Cash calling to her cats.

Pat clung desperately to Hap through Christmas of 1972 and into the
long spring and summer of 1973.  When he was with her she was happy,
but when he left, she agonized that he would never come back.

She implored him to ask his wife for a divorce.

He hedged and gave her reasons why he had to delay such a
confrontation.

Miserable, Pat felt her life closing in on her again.  She didn't even
have the horse-show circuit any longer.  Debbie couldn't be expected to
jump horses with a steel rod in her spine.

Pat had always been able to coerce Susan to ride no matter what.  "She
even convinced me to ride when I was five months pregnant with Sean,"
Susan said.  "It was a costume show and Mom had to let out the waist of
her long velvet dress and then pin me into it.  I was so wobbly and
nauseated I thought I was going to pitch forward on my head.  Mom was
the one who loved costumes, not us.

But by 1973 Pat's daughters were both married and mothers and they had
no time for horse shows.  Pat herself wore the costume that had once
almost tripped Susan up.  She had designed it in burnt orange velvet
and it had a lace 'abot and cuffs.  With it, she wore a black felt
derby with a two-foot-long ostrich plume ' She saved and treasured a
photograph from that period of herself and Governor Jimmy Carter in a
fringe-topped surrey on the Georgia Capitol grounds.  Pat was in her
glory, smiling graciously as she sat beside the governor while a
liveried driver k held the reins of a Morgan horse.  It was undoubtedly
a "photo opportunity" picture of some sort, but for Pat it was proof
that she was meant to move in the highest circles of society.

Hap Brown was her entree to those circles and she wanted him more than
she had ever wanted anything.  She beseeched, argued, implored, nagged,
even subtly threatened.  If Hap Brown didn't divorce Cordella, she
didn't know what she might do.  Together, she and Hap could have the
perfect life.  Why was he too blind to see that?

Pat was hardly a typical grandmother; she was far too involved in her
affair with Hap.  Boppo was the grandmotherly type, and she lavished
attention on Dawn and Sean.  Debbie and Gary Cole lived with her
grandparents sporadically, but their marriage was full of dissension
and recrimination.  Pat allegedly devised a way to keep her daughter's
husband in line.

Nineteen-year-old Gary Cole was severely shaken when his wife's best
friend confided that he should "watch his backside."  The young woman
whispered that Pat had put out a hit contract on him and was bragging
that she had ordered him killed.

Gary walked scared and alert for months, but nothing ever happened.  He
reconciled with Debbie and they continued their uneasy alliance.  He
told himself the rumors were only the product of a family that thrived
on high drama and flamboyant gestures.

Ronnie tended to get lost in the shuffle.  He wasn't allowed to be with
his father, and his mother, whom he adored, had no time for him.  He
began to get into trouble at school and minor scrapes with the law.

Ronnie had never shone in the family.  His sisters were the stars as
they rode the Morgan horses.  They were both extremely beautiful girls,
and he was only an averagelooking boy.

Spring came again to Georgia, and the woods were full of the pink and
white of dogwood and azaleas.  Tired of waiting, Pat decided to force
Hap Brown's hand.  Backed to the wall, he made a choice, a choice that
sounded the death knell for Pat's plans.  She never told anyone what he
said to her, but his answer had clearly been no.

Night after night, Pat huddled tearfully on the veranda, her lace
handkerchief a sodden lump in her hand.  She neither ate nor slept.

"Hap's never coming for me," she cried to Susan.  "He's not going to
come for me."

Susan tied up the horse she had been exercising in their show ring and
looked at her mother.  She couldn't understand how such a young and
beautiful woman could be so distraught over an old man.  "You have your
whole life in front of you," she argued.  "Hap's an old man.  You can
have anyone."

But Pat seemed not to hear.  "Hap's not coming for me, she sobbed.

"Never, never, ever again."

Indeed, he did not.  Whatever he had told Pat, it seemed final.  Pat
took to her bed, and then was hospitalized.  Boppo and Papa hovered
near, afraid that she would die of a pulmonary embolism if she didn't
stop grieving so.

Pat had gentleman callers flocking to her sickroom.  A man from Social
Circle, Georgia, came to see her every day, carrying with him a single
red rose.  A man she described only as "a millionaire who wants to take
me to California in his J'et plane" often appeared at her bedside.

It was no use.  They weren't Hap.

Risen at last from her sickbed, Pat arranged to send Hap one P A R T
final message through his secretary.  "You go tell him that if he
doesn't change his mind and leave Cordella and his children and his
farm and come for me, I'll be married to Tom Allanson in two weeks.

You just tell him that."  Hap did not respond.  When Pat devised a
harassment campaign with phone calls to his office and his home, she
met with only silence.

She had threatened to marry Tom Allanson.  Who, Debbie and Susan
wondered, was Tom Allanson?  They knew him as their feed man and the
blacksmith who came to shoe horses from time to time.  But that was
all.  They hadn't even realized their mother knew his last name.  Why
on earth would she pick Tom Allanson as a threat to hold over Hap's
head?  She couldn't be serious.

But she was.  Pat had decided there could be no better way to get Hap
Brown off the dime than to be seen with Tom.  Hap was aging and fat and
Tom was a magnificent specimen.  Pat suspected she could have Tom if
she only crooked her finger.  She didn't really want him-not in the
beginning.  She used him to make Hap jealous.  Tom was only a means to
an end, a hugely virile male symbol, full of youth and energy.  But
later, when Pat finally accepted that Hap was never coming for her, she
looked more closely at Tom and rethought her options.

F 0 U R Within the space of less than two years, Pat had soared to
romantic peaks few women ever dream of, only to plunge downward into
deeper abysses of despair.  With Hap, she had come so close to having
everything she ever wanted and she cried bitter tears when she finally
accepted that he was gone.  But then she had found Tom and she knew he
would never leave her.  He gave her Kentwood Farm and passion and true
love, and suddenly all that, too, was disappearing, like smoke in a
darkening sky.

It seemed to Pat that fate stalked her, deliberately snatching away
every shred of happiness she found.  It wasn't fair.  Boppo had always
told her she was special and a special person deserved to be happy.

And yet when she got those things she yearned for, her pleasure lasted
no longer than a mouthful of cotton candy.  Someone always ruined it
for Pat.  Something always made her cry.  And she didn't know why.

After his conviction and sentencing, Tom went with "the chain"-all the
prisoners from the Fulton County 'all handcuffed and chained together
on a bus-bound for the Georgia Diagnostic and Classification Center at
Jackson Prison.

He wasn't there long.  On October 25, 1974, Ed Garland filed a motion
for a new trial.  He cited twenty-nine errors by the court to
substantiate his request.  It was a standard ploy, something any good
criminal defense attorney would do, but Tom pinned all his hopes on the
thought of a second trial.  The motion for a new trial meant he could
be summoned back from prison to the Fulton County jail, and Pat
insisted that that be done at once, even though facilities in Jackson
were considerably more modern and comfortable than the crowded county
jail; she wanted him close by.  Fulton County Sheriff LeeRoy N.

Stynchcombe was given official orders to travel to Jackson and return
with Tom Allanson.

Once he got over the shock of his conviction, Tom held on to an
impossible dream that he might be released on bond by Christmas, 1974,
pending his appeal.  He had been locked up in the Fulton County jail
for 103 days.  The approaching holiday season made things, if possible,
worse.  His request for release on bond was refused.

Pat had great difficulty accepting the fact that Tom had been found
guilty.  The shock she showed the night the jury came back with their
verdict had been genuine.  She lived in a soap opera kind of world, her
every perception colored by what she read and what she watched on
television.  She had always preferred shows like Perry Mason and
Burke's Law where trials ended with a surprise witness and the innocent
defendant was reunited with his or her lover.  That had not happened.

They had taken Tom away from her.

Pat was frantic that she was going to lose Kentwood too, her perfect
plantation.  She could not bear to have anyone else live in the rooms
Tom had remodeled just for her, or to have someone else enjoy her
special roses.  She went to Susan and Bill Alford and begged them to
buy Kentwood-to save it for her.  Bill was going to college.  Susan's
job at Colonel Alan's horse farm in Riverdale hardly paid enough to
cover the six-hundred-dollar-amonth mortgage on Kentwood, much less the
balloon payments.

Nevertheless, they went to the bank and tried to get a loan.  They
failed to qualify and told Pat there was no way they could help.

"I'd rather see it burn then," Pat spat out.  "I'll be damned if I'll
let anyone else have it!"

In November, Tom wrote to his grandparents every few days, beseeching
them to help Pat.  He had no money to pay an attorney to work on his
appeal.  Everything he and Pat had built up was being sold, all the
horses and saddles, the buggies and the tack, their tools, farm
equipment, Tom's guns.  The Radcliffes had mortgaged the Tell Road farm
twice and were selling whatever else they could.  Kentwood Farm would
go back to Hoyt Waller if they didn't come up with thousands of dollars
by December.  They were already three months behind on payments.  "You
are our last straw," he pleaded to old Paw Allanson.

Tom truly believed his wife would die if he didn't get out and take
care of her.  He had never known her when her health was not in
jeopardy, and the strain of his trial and conviction seemed to have
worn her down like wind against a sand dune.  Although Pat insisted to
Tom that she would get a job, he begged her not to.

She couldn't work; she was far too .  "We have no other choice," he
wrote to Paw.  "It all boils down now to a matter of life and death.  I
love you both, please help me, Tom."

Paw had held tightly to his money for so long, secreting it here and
there on his farm, and he had already helped Tommy out quite a bit.

But it was hard for him to let go of the amounts of cash that Pat and
Tom needed, both for attorneys and for Pat's medicine and doctors.  Tom
was asking for at least twenty-five thousand dollars for his attorneys,
and Lord knew how much more it would take to support his wife.

With growing urgency, Tom sent his letters to Paw and Nona, extolling
Pat and damning his aunt jean Boggs as a moneygrabbing "vulture."  He
bombarded the old people with scare techniques, warning them that there
would be no one left to take care of them if Jean ever got control of
their money.  But he only wrote what he believed to be the truth, what
Pat assured him was the truth.

He did love his grandparents, and if he was freed, he would have taken
care of them.  He loved Pat beyond all reason, and believed she was
slowly dying without him.  She did nothing to assuage his worries and
prodded him to keep writing to his grandparents.

His letters were transparent, but they worked on Paw and Nona.  Tommy
was more of a son to them than the son they had lost.

Grudgingly, the old couple eventually came through with enough money to
pay the lawyers and Pat's doctors.  But they would not mortgage their
own home to save Kentwood just as things seemed to be as bad as they
could possibly get, the Radcliffes sustained another blow: fires.

They seemed to come out of nowhere, as if some malevolent "barn burner"
right out of William Faulkner were passing through Georgia.  They began
on Tell Road in the last week of November.

Colonel Radcliffe woke in the early hours one morning to the acrid
smell of smoke.  Throwing on a robe, he hurried by Pat's room and saw
her standing at the window, clothed in a negligee.  She gazed,
transfixed, up past the show ring.  His eyes followed hers and he saw
smoke billowing from the stables.  Pat had apparently been too
frightened to move or even cry out.

The stables were two hundred yards away, halfway up to Fanny Cash's
place, and the colonel saw tongues of orange flame already licking at
the red siding of the U-shaped structure.  Although he was in his
sixties, he had kept himself in good shape.  By running full tilt, he
was able to save the two terrified horses inside, but the stables were
lost.  Pat visited Tom in jail and told him about this latest disaster
in their lives.  She said she had been hurt helping Papa save the
horses.  It wasn't true; she had never left her bedroom that night.

That same week, the barn at Kentwood burned too-to the ground.  It was
fortunate that the only livestock they had left was a lone renegade cow
that had been off foraging for herself up in the orchards.  And then to
bring Tom down even further, he learned that his maternal grandmother,
Mae Mama Lawrence, had died.  She too had cut him out of her will.

The house that Pat and Tom had loved so at Kentwood also fell victim to
flames, just before Christmas.  Pat collected insurance on both the
house and the barn and deposited the checks in her bank account,
ignoring the fact that they required a coendorsement with the mortgage
holder.  Then she wrote Ed Garland a five-thousand-dollar check on the
account, which bounced.  The bulk of the insurance on Kentwood wasn't
hers at all, but Hoyt Waller's.

The other policies were written not only in her name and Tom's, but
also in Paw's, as he had helped so much financially when they bought
Kentwood.  Collecting on the policies was complicated and prolonged.

Pat and Tom's share was gone at once for legal expenses.

The Kentwood sign came down and the blackened timbers of the house and
barn were lonely charred relics in the cold December fog.  The holly
bushes still lined the curving driveway, and the white fence was as
pristine as ever, but nothing else was the same.  The property went
back to Hoyt Waller, and Pat's dream of a Zebulon plantation had
disappeared in the flames.  Now all she had left was Tom, and she clung
to him desperately, fearing he would abandon her too.

Pat came to see Tom in the Fulton County jail as o ten as s was allowed
to, usually on Wednesdays.  She walked up the long, long passageway to
the old jail.  It was built on an incline, the slope steep enough to
wear her out.  They were not allowed to touch, but talked to each other
through a glass partition using telephones.  Pat would raise her small
hand and hold it up to the glass against Tom's huge paw.  She was as
loving as she had been in the very first days of their courtship,
staring through the glass at him as if her heart were about to break.

"It about drove me crazy," Tom recalled.  "She dressed in the most
revealing, seductive clothes she could."

Tom had introduced her to country and western music and they had a
dozen favorite songs that were special to them, ballads of passion and
betrayal, of hopeless love and longing, songs like "For the Good
Times," "Blanket on the Ground," and "Please, please, don't stop loving
me, 'cause I couldn't live with you gone."  The lyrics brought back the
memory of what Tom and Pat had been to each other.  Late at night, she
would call disc jockeys and ask them to play special songs "for my
Tom."  Lying on his jail bunk, he would listen to his tinny little
radio, trying to stay awake to hear the songs his wife had selected for
him.

Pat and Tom remembered their slogan.  "First things first."

They both scribbled that phrase on the back of every letter they
sent.

"First things first.  Again and again Tom promised Pat their love would
survive.

As bittersweet as their time together was, dissension seemed to
accompany Pat's 'all visits.  She rarely moved quietly through the
security system with the other visitors; every jailer remembered Tom
Allanson's wife; she didn't care for their rules and she let them know
it.  She accused them of deliberately losing some of her letters to Tom
and she began to number them so she could catch them at it.  Pat
attracted attention to both of them.  She was impatient and petulant
when Tom begged her to obey the jail regulations.  But even as she
proclaimed her undying love for him, she annoyed the guards who
controlled his daily life.

Tom could never be sure what mood Pat would be in.  Sometimes she was
cheerful and full of enthusiasm about some fancy card or drawing she
had made for him.  She was so talented artistically, and she loved to
make him old-fashioned lovers' cards with lace and hearts and little
pop-up figures.  He plastered his cell walls with the pretty pictures
she fashioned for him.  She embroidered on men's boxer shorts and gave
them to him for Christmas.  Despite the chortles from the men in his
cellblock, he wore them.

Sometimes Pat's anger spilled over during her visits.  Tom promised her
they would be together after Ed Garland got him a new trial, but Pat
had come to truly hate Garland.  She told Tom he was disrespectful to
her and she put up with him only because he was supposed to be the best
attorney in Atlanta.  "Baby," Tom pleaded.  "You just got too much hate
and revenge built up that you got to stop."

In between visits, Pat and Tom spoke on the phone.  Every evening, the
guards in the Fulton County jail carried telephones from cell to cell,
and each prisoner had his allotted time to talk.  In order to "buy"
phone time, Tom traded everything he could to his fellow prisoners.  He
didn't smoke, but he bought cartons of cigarettes to barter for time.

He gave his cell mates the best bunk, his desserts, and other choice
items off his food trays.  He did chores, read legal papers for the
illiterate, and even prevailed upon Pat to call the wives and
girlfriends of his fellow prisoners to deliver messages-a task she
performed grudgingly-so that he could have some of the other men's
phone time.

Their phone talk was so precious to them.  They discussed everything
from legal strategy to what they would do in the future.  Pat recorded
their conversations, she told Tom, so she could listen to his voice
later and not be so alone.  She could never accept that despite all the
minutes he collected from other prisoners, Tom's time on the phone was
limited.  She blamed him when he had to hang up precipitously.

With each legal setback, Pat grew more negative.  She reminded Tom in
every phone call that he was going to prison for at least twelve years
and that she would be "an old woman" when he got out.  Her voice was
very soft, alternately choked with tears and icily accusatory.  His was
desperate as he pleaded with her to try to understand.  But it seemed
there was no way he could win with Pat in their phone conversations.

Each time he heard her voice, he hoped they could have a loving, warm
call, but she twisted his words, found fault in almost everything he
said, and accused him of being cruel to her.  Tom was baffled.  She
knew he would never do anything to hurt her.  What more did he have to
do to prove he still loved her?

Pat preferred to be Tom's only visitor and discouraged even family
members from going to see him.  She told him that Paw and Nona
complained about the cold, the guards, the long walk up the corridor,
and that he shouldn't ask them to visit.  She even complained on
occasion about Boppo.  If she did allow her family to visit Tom, she
wrote out questions she wanted them to ask him.

When Susan or Debbie or Ronnie left Tom, Pat debriefed them to be sure
that she knew everything they had discussed with him.

Most of all, Pat detested Matthew Rawley,* a college friend of Tom's.

He was a minister and tremendously supportive of Tom, who needed all
the bolstering he could get.  When Rawley first came back into Tom's
life, Pat had appeared to like him well enough, although she debated
religious issues with him continually.  "Show me.  Show me where the
Bible says that," she would demand.  "If there is a God, then show me
in the Bible."  He listened patiently to her arguments and then pointed
out his source, but Pat came to hate the young minister when she
learned that Tom sometimes asked his advice.

From then on, every time Pat heard that Matt had visited Tom in jail,
she pitched a fit.  She spent much of their precious telephone time
accusing Tom of betraying her by letting him visit.

In the end, she demanded that he choose between herself and the Rev.

Rawley.

Of course, Tom chose his wife.

Boppo and Papa, who had once had every expectation of living a
comfortable retirement, were now fending off creditors.  The Dodson
Drive house was long gone, and it looked as if they were going to lose
the Tell Road farm too.  Pat and Ronnie were, of course, living with
them, and Ronnie was sent to the same military school that Tom had
attended.  Boppo was very protective of the skinny, quiet boy, and she
insisted that he at least have proper schooling, despite their reduced
circumstances.  He was no student and couldn't maintain the C average
the school required.

He dropped out in the ninth grade.

Both Susan and Debbie hit rocky places in their marriages.

Bill Alford told Susan he didn't want to be married anymore.

Susan and her friend Sonja Salo were accepted for training as flight
attendants on Eastern Airlines.  Susan and Bill were divorced, but they
remarried within six months.  Bill took care of Sean while Susan moved
temporarily to Newark, New Jersey, to attend Eastern's six-month
training school.  But whatever else was going on in the family, it was
of minor importance compared with Pat's predicament.  She wouldn't let
anyone forget it, or the injustice that was being done to Tom.  And as
if in confirmation of all the disparaging things Pat and Margureitte
had said about Tom's ex-wife, his children, Sherry and Russ, were
removed from their mother's custody by children's protective
authorities.

There was a possibility that Little Carolyn would have visitation
rights, if she straightened out her life and found a permanent
residence.  In the meantime, Big Carolyn's brother, Seaborn Lawrence,
was caring for them, despite Tom's wish that they go to Pat.

Ed Garland's motion for a new trial was delayed on February 20.  With
that piece of bad news and at Pat's repeated urgings, Tom's letters to
his grandparents grew more pressured.  The same theme wound through all
of them.  They must not trust Jean Boggsshe was only trying to get
their money.  They must believe in him and in Pat, who could be counted
on to take care of them in their old age.  Pat warned Tom of the danger
that his grandparents' wills could easily be broken if someone
unscrupulous influenced them.  That would be a catastrophe for them,
she explained, now that he was in Jail.  He was currently an heir, but
her name was not on those wills.  He was locked up, she pointed out,
and if one of his grandparents should die and her name was not
specified as executor, whatever would happen to the other?  Who would
care for the surviving grandparent?

Moreover, they had to be realistic.  His grandparents' money and
property could quite possibly bypass Tom.  He had already lost his
birthright, his parents' assets, and now Pat cautioned him that he
would probably be disinherited by Paw and Nona because they were old
and didn't understand.  If that happened, he would never have enough
money for the legal fight needed to get him out of jail.

She was very persuasive and Tom saw the logic behind her arguments.  He
wrote another letter.  Meanwhile, quietly, subtly, and without much
fuss, Pat was moving into Tom's grandparents' lives.  His letters made
Pat seem like family to them, and she visited them as often as she
could, ran errands, sat with Nona, cooked special little meals for
them.  Even when she wasn't feeling well, she talked to them on the
phone every day.  It was a bad time for the old people; their son and
daughter-inlaw were dead-murdered-and their grandson was in jail.  Paw
and Nona had been semi-estranged from their daughter Jean ever since
the trouble when Paw sold his land to Walter instead of her.  The old
people's lives had a vast empty spot and Pat began to fill it.

She carried messages back and forth between Tom and his grandparents.

Sometimes she took Debbie with her to help out in the little house on
Washington Road, and Boppo often stopped by to visit.

As each new day passed, Pat revealed a different facet of her mercurial
personality.  With Tom, she was alternately accusatory or loving, "his
Pat" who couldn't survive without him.  With his attorneys, she was
imperious and demanding, and her voice had a stainless-steel edge.

When she was with Paw and Nona, she gave them advice and took charge of
their lives.  With her parents, as always, she was a dependent, spoiled
child given to tears and temper tantrums.  She worried Boppo sick when,
in a fit of anger, she would hop into the watermelon red Cougar they
had given her and roar off down Tell Road.  She drove like a maniac,
leaving a cloud of dust behind her.  Invariably, she would then edge
her car back down the road and park it where the barn hid it from the
house.  If Boppo or Papa spotted her there and came out to try to talk
sense to her, she'd flick on the lights and speed off again.

Pat and Tom usually talked on the phone late at night, and each time
Tom hoped they could make it through an entire call without accusations
and depressing thoughts.  I love you, darling'.

I miss you more than anything in this world," he whispered one night
into the phone.  "You're my Pat, and you'll always be my Pat.  We gonna
make it, Sugar.  I need you more than anything in this world.  You're
my life-my whole entire life wrapped up in my Pat, okay?

"Okay," she murmured flatly.

It was not going to be a good phone call and he had only a few minutes
to talk.  "I'll mail you a letter tonight.  Shug, I'm going to try to
call you back."

"I'll talk to you Monday," she said without one word of endearment.

"I'm going to try to call you back.  I love you."

"Okay.  I'll talk to you on Monday.........

He had done something to make her angry.  She could change so quickly
from being sweet to being mad at him, and he seldom knew what he had
done to cause it.  He lay back on his bunk and listened to the radio.

There were no dedications from Pat to Tom.

But, as always after each phone call, Tom sat down and wrote another
letter to his grandparents, pleading for them to love Pat, to help
her-and to do that, they would have to help him get out of jail.  He
was worried more about her than about what would happen with his
appeal.

Pat had developed some kind of an infection on her hip and was using a
crutch to take the weight off her right leg.  She told Tom she had a
continual fever, and now he had something else to worry about.

"How do you feel?"  he asked during one phone call.

"Now that you called," she said, "I feel much better.  . . .

Well, I've still got a fever .  . . and I had a bad night."

'When are you going to the doctor?"

"Monday.

"For sure?"

"For sure, honey."

"I've been living on dreams ever since I met you," he began, trying to
cheer her up.

But Pat could not be consoled.  "We can't be like normal people and
think about any kind of future," she said.  "We can't even plan other
than today.  When things got bad, [at least] we could reach out and
touch each other."

"We still can," Tom argued.

9hI can't touch you, Tom.  You are healthy and you know, in all
probability, you've got a number of years ahead of you.  So therefore,
you can hold up if it took ten or twelve years.  You will live through
that.  But let's be realistic.  It's wonderful to dream and wonderful
for me to say, 'Tom, I'll wait for you forever,' because you know in
your heart if I were strong, and if I were well, I could wait for you
forever, Tom."

"You're not going to die anytime soon.  . . .

"The reason I would, would be just from heartbreak and being lonely.

.

. . I have no one to help me now."

"You've still got me.  If you don't think I'm right there with you,
look around you .  . . look at the letters."

"I know that, Tom," she said softly.  The letters, the flowers, the
cards, the statues, the pictures I'm looking at-all of those things
cannot hold me when I'm sick.  They can't support me when I have to be
supported.  They can't pay the bills.  They can't reach out for me.

They cannot protect me.  They cannot keep me secure.  They can't get me
any support or protection at all."

There was a silence.  What could he answer?  "Pat," he groaned.  "You
know it's hard for me to be here."

"What you don't understand, Tom, is that before-when I had just
accepted the fact that I wasn't going to live very longI did what I
wanted to do and that was it because I didn't worry about it.  Then,
when you came, I had a desire because you were there, and each time
that I felt like death was going to come and grab hold of me, you were
there for me to take hold of, but you aren't here anymore.

Tom pleaded with Pat to let him give her the will to live.

For what?"

"For me.  For us!"

"There is no me-or us-not now, Tom.  . . . There is meor us-in the fact
that we love each other, but we're not together.

The conversation stretched on for twenty minutes more, and when it was
over, Tom was convinced his wife was dying.  He believed every word she
said.  He was losing her and he felt completely helpless as she slipped
away from him.

Pat was ill.  She had painful sores on her thigh, and ' a larger lesion
on her right buttock that had abscessed.  They had appeared suddenly
and her doctors were baffled about what caused them.  And she seemed to
be edging once again toward hysteria.  She wanted her mother around all
the time and that wasn't possible.  Boppo had to work, her job more
important now than ever as the Radcliffes' finances were strained to
the limit.  She was an excellent receptionist and popular with both the
dentists she worked for and their staffs.  But over the years she had
lost too many jobs; it was hard for her to concentrate at work because
her family had so many emergencies and called her continually.

Pat was thirty-seven and her problems were still the focal point for
everyone in the family, the star they danced around, the burden they
bore even as their own strength waned.  Boppo and Papa, Ronnie, Susan,
Debbie, Tom, and all the aunts were the ponies in a merry-go-round
endlessly circling the brightly painted mirrors in the center.  And all
the mirrors reflected Pat.

It was as if floodlights played over her always.  She called the shots,
alternately preening, sobbing, arguing, and smiling beatifically.

Boppo and the colonel were so involved in saving her from the
disappointments of life that they had no time to evaluate what they
themselves had lost in the struggle.  If they had, it probably wouldn't
have mattered.

Everything had gone to rescue Pat-houses, horses, money, credit
ratings, furniture, antiques, and, if it came down to it, human
beings.

They had come so far, all the while dedicating their lives to her, that
they never thought of shifting the balance.

Tom had always believed his wife was delicate, but in truth Pat was
very strong physically.  She could lift heavy saddles, and her hand
around a wrist was like a vise.  Boppo was the only one who dared
confront Pat when she started acting out physically.  She scared the
rest of her family half to death.  But Paw and Nona never saw that side
of Pat.  Her bearing with them was so loving and refined, so caring and
helpful that they had come to think of her as a daughter, just as Tom
was like a son to them.

Tom's grandparents had each drawn up a will on September 11, 1974, two
months after the murders.  Utilizing the "marital deduction," which in
Georgia divides the estate into two parts for tax purposes, each left
his estate to the other.  In the event, @,'however.  that both should
die, their assets were to be divided equally between Tom and Jean
Boggs's two children-that is, Tom would get half and his cousins each
half of the remaining half.  Tom and his aunt jean were to be
coexecutors of that estate.

On March 4, 1975, the elder Allansons added a codicil to their wills.

With Pat's help, Paw Allanson contacted his attorney and arranged for
Pat to be added as an executor to serve in Tom's place if he was not
able to do so.  Jean Boggs remained the coexecutor.

They all waited that spring of 1975 for word of Tom's new trial.  Tom
was touched that Pat would attempt the long uphill climb to the
visitors' area on crutches when she was in so much pain.  On March 10,
when the hearing for Tom's appeal was delayed again, Pat was
desolate.

Both her mental and physical condition went downhill; she didn't seem
to take care of herself and Margureitte worried.

On the night of April 9, Wednesday-a visiting night-Pat discovered that
Tom had talked to one of his attorneys without her.  She was enraged
and lit into her husband.  How'could he even consider doing such a
thing?  Apparently, Tom had told Ed Garland one thing and she had told
him another, and questions had come up that she did not care to
answer.

"He is a lying son of a bitch," she exploded, referring to Garland.

"Okay, Pat," Tom said, trying to gentle her.  "You don't feel any
better about the whole case, do you?  I'm not in the habit of somebody
telling me something and then turning it around."

"You're not in the habit of a lot of things, Tom."

Tom explained to Pat that he was unable to call anyone a liar to his
face.  He was not about to do that to Ed Garland.  He didn't believe it
was true, anyway.

"You,don't have to say they are a liar," she explained, as if to a
dolt.  "All you have to do is say, 'I'm sorry; I can't see you.  We
have a rule.  That's it.  The whole law firm knows about it.

Look, we are sitting up here arguing about something we wouldn't be
arguing over if you hadn't talked to him .  'cause you've got one
story, and I've got another."

And that was the problem.  Tom could not tell his lawyers anything
about the murders-she had insisted on that often enough.

She felt she had to censor her husband's every word.  She lived in fear
of what he might say, of the areas he mi lit venture into with his
attorneys when he discussed the shooting of his parents.  Tom trusted
too many people.  He had no sense of self-protection at all, and no
sense of how to protect her either.

After Pat had railed at him for half of their visit, she made Tom
promise that he would never "do anything like this again."

"I promise.  I promise."

Then, to make things worse, Pat had left some contraband reading
material in a visitors'waiting room, meaning to go back and hide it in
a letter to Tom.  It wasn't there when she went back, and jail
authorities abruptly cut short her visit.  She turned white with
fury.

Papa and Boppo were with her that night and tried to stop the storm
they knew was coming.  Pat was seething and hysterical.  She demanded
to see the chief of J'all operations.

Tom watched helplessly.  The more she rocked the boat in the Fulton
County jail, the more likely he was to be shipped off to prison.

But Pat was completely out of control.  With all the histrionics going
on in their house, the strain on his wife, the physical confrontations,
Colonel Radcliffe temporarily lost his usual detached air and his
self-control.  Somebody had to shut Pat up.  When she continued to rage
as they walked down the long passageway from the visitors' area, he
suddenly flung his hand back and caught her full in the face, smacking
her in the eye.

Pat was struck dumb, and then she started to sob.  All the way home,
she threatened to move out and go over to Paw and Nona's and take
Ronnie with her.  When Tom called, she sobbed to him about being
struck.  "He hit me full force before we even got out of the jail," she
complained.  "Walking down the hallway.

He said I was terrible to you and about everything I did to you, and
everything was my fault.  I just finally went into tears and said, 'Get
off my back."  He said he was going to have me committed to
Metropolitan.  I told him it would be over my dead body.

"I didn't mean for all that to happen, Sugar."

I worked so hard to get pretty and everything for you."

"Please forgive me, Shug.  First things first, remember."

She sobbed into the phone, but she smiled as she hung up, a smile that
Tom, of course, could not see.

. . .

Pat almost convinced Tom that he should fire Ed Garland.

Garland was rarely available to her when she called, would not listen
to her suggestions, and she detested him.  She phoned another attorney
and asked to make an appointment with him.  She explained that Tom was
still represented by Garland, but she saw no reason why she couldn't
hire the second attorney to be her adviser.  "My father-who used to be
with counter intelligence-told me that."

The attorney said he could represent Tom after he dismissed Garland,
but he explained that he could not ethically sue Ed Garland to get back
fifteen thousand dollars Pat said she had coming.  He also suggested
that Tom's college degree and skill at blacksmithing would make him a
natural to teach in prison as part of the new Georgia Youthful
Offenders Program.  That way, Tom could be outside more, pending any
appeal.  It would be far easier on him than being locked up in the
crowded Fulton County jail.

"That would be up at Buford Prison," he added.  "It's an accredited
high school.  He could teach, and it'would be better for him.  It's
only thirty minutes away."

"My physical condition is quite critical, and while he's in Fulton
County jail I can see him once a week and talk on the phone four times
a week," Pat said, quashing the suggestion at once.

The attorney explained that Tom could have almost unlimited visits and
phone calls in Buford.

@4 His big thing is contact with me," she countered.  "If he has to go
to Jackson [prison] first, he'd be down there for six weeks and he
couldn't see me.  . . . I could go at any minute."

With a start, the attorney realized this woman was saying she might die
at any minute.  She sounded healthy enough on the phone.

It scarcely seemed possible.

Pat never told Tom that he had a choice to go directly to a teaching
job at Buford; she simply explained firmly to the attorney who
suggested it that Tom would always choose to be near herno matter what
conditions he himself was in.  Nor would she tell that attorney
specifically who her doctors were.  She had many.

She had "specialists."

The climate at the Tell Road farm was not good.  The one thing that
Clifford Radcliffe would not allow was for anyone to criticize his
wife."  Reit, " as he called her, was the most beautiful woman, the
kindest, the most well bred, and his sweetheart.  Usually he went along
with anything she wanted, and protecting her daughter at all costs was
the most important thing she wanted.  But Pat's outbursts were wearing
her mother down.

Pat had chased after both Boppo and Papa with a knife and an umbrella
when she didn't get her way.  Her behavior at the jail had been
inexcusable.

The colonel had to make a trip out of state.  It was an unfortunate
time for him to be gone.  Pat continued to insist that she was moving
out and going to Nona and Paw's.  Boppo pleaded with her to be
reasonable.  On April 10, Pat disappeared into her room and slammed the
door, and the trouble-at least for that night-seemed to be over.

But then Pat emerged, wearing a diaphanous red nightgown held up with
spaghetti straps.  She was barefoot, And there were thin crimson
stripes of blood welling up on each wrist.  Before Boppo could stop
her, and despite her crutches, Pat ran from the house and disappeared
into the piney woods and quarry area behind.  It was April, but it was
a nasty evening, full of sleety rain.  There was a power company
right-of-way back behind the trees, a wide clear swath where the towers
that carried the lines pierced the dusk.  Pat half-ran, half-hopped, a
blur of red in the fading ugh t, over the stubble-cut grass, too fast
for her mother who ran behind her, begging her to stop.

Boppo phoned for help and rounded up a number of neighbor men.  They
hurried to their cars and headed up Tell Road.  The only place for Pat
to go was along the power lines; a mile or so further on she would come
out to railroad tracks and a veterinar.

p ian s clinic.  The Radcliffes knew the vet well-he had taken care of
their horses-but nobody would be there at that time.

After hollering back and forth in the lowering twilight, they finally
found Pat, still running and hobbling, her hair streaming behind her
and her wrists dripping blood.  She had worked herself into an
ultimately hysterical state.

Still dressed in her nightgown, Pat was admitted on a court order to
the Metropolitan Psychiatric Center in Atlanta for evalnation of her
dangerousness to herself.  Pat wouldn't be staying in a "psycho ward"
in some city hospital; Metropolitan was decorated like a fine hotel,
and it was very, very expensive.

When she was admitted, she had superficial slash marks on her wrists,
and she appeared anxious, agitated, and extremely talkative.

She complained that she could not see out of her left eye because her
father had struck her.  The clinic physician was more aghast at the
festering abscess on her right buttock.

Pat was disheveled and talked a mile a minute, but her response to what
was happening around her was flat.  She gave the admitting physician a
long history of her'life.  By her own reckoning, she had always been
the victim, assailed by bad luck and other people's insensitivity.  Her
husband was in jail, she said, convicted of two murders he had not
committed.  They had only been married eleven months, and right after
the wedding, she recalled, she had been in a terrible automobile
accident.  "I've paid my lawyers forty-five thousand dollars and given
them property worth thirty-five thousand more to appeal my husband's
case to the highest courts," she declared.

Margureitte told the doctor that Pat hadn't been taking care of
herself; she was obsessed with getting her husband out of jail.

"She's been talking a lot, and she's just had a lot of negative
thoughts.

Pat insisted on calling her daughters.  "They're trying to kill me!"

she told Susan breathlessly.  "I was raped when I was only a child,"
she whispered into the phone, and told Susan she would kill her if she
didn't come down and get her out of the hospital.  Doctors listening in
noted that she was grossly distorting the severity of her injuries to
them.

Asked about the abscess on her buttock, Pat said that it and the sores
on her thigh had been caused by penicillin shots she had received from
her regular doctor, Dr. Taylor.  A check with Taylor's office revealed
that Pat had received no penicillin shots, but she had been under
treatment for the mysterious sores.

She complained of terrible pain and was given injections of Demerol.

Pat was admitted with a tentative diagnosis of "Agitated depression
with possible thought disorder."  It was a catchall diagnosis, not to
be found in the DSM-II, the Diagnostic and Statistic Manual of Mental
Disorders, the bible of the psychiatric world.  Two psychiatrists did
concur that she was "not able to take care of herself at this time."

A physical examination revealed that "the patient is afebrile (has no
fever] with no acute infections present.  Chronic subcutaneous and
muscular cold abscess formations under treatment with incision and
drainage, and antibiotic coverage is also noted.  . .

. There was no evidence of thrombophlebitis .  . . there was no
evidence of pathological process involving the left eye."

Papa's thrown-back hand had done no real damage to Pat's eye; she could
see out of it perfectly well, and even though Pat had convinced Tom
that she had only a few years-perhaps months-to live, a complete
physical showed that her heart, lungs, blood, kidneys, and all other
systems were completely normal.  She had no blood clots.  Except for
the odd abscesses, she was in good health.

Pat received individual and group psychotherapy.  During her stay at
Metropolitan she demanded frequently to go to the Fulton County jail to
see her husband.  A week into her treatment she was allowed to visit
Tom with Boppo, and she "tolerated this short leave of absence well."

After twelve days in the clinic, Pat was discharged with a prescription
for fifty milligrams of Mellaril four times a day, the usual initial
dosage for treatment of borderline psychotic patients.  She was to be
followed as an outpatient and her doctors felt the chances were good
for "significant return of function."

Pat took the Mellaril for only a short time, but she doubled her intake
of her other prescriptions.  If the clinic doctors had picked up on her
growing dependence on sedative and painkilling drugs, they did not note
it in her records.

Once released from the Metropolitan Psychiatric Center, Pat seemed not
at all psychotic.  She didn't bother to continue psychiatric
counseling.  Her abscess had begun to heal while she was in the
hospital and, for a time, she looked much better.  But it was still
painful for her to walk up the long slope to visit Tom, so they worked
out a way to "be together" over the phone.

Besides sharing their love songs on the radio, they thumbed through the
7V Guide together and decided what they would watch.

That way, Pat explained, it would be almost as if they were really
together watching the same shows.  Pat quizzed Tom later to be sure he
had watched the shows they had selected.  Sometimes he had to fudge a
little; he couldn't always dictate which channel the jail TV would be
turned to.  Once he made the mistake of praising Farrah Fawcett
Majors's beauty when i she guested on her husband's show, The Six
Million Dollar Man.

"Tom!"  Pat sulked.  "I don't want to talk about her!  I want to talk
about us."

Summer came again to Atlanta.  Tom was still locked in the Fulton
County jail.  On July 8, 1975, exactly one year to the day oince his
arrival in that facility, his motion for a new trial, so long
postponed, was denied.  "Having given said amended motion due
consideration in the light of the arguments, the same is jwreby
overruled on each and every ground and a new trial is rued," Superior
Court Judge Charles Wofford decreed.

He also denied Tom's application for ball.

Pat had never hired a the* attorney.  Much to her chagrin, Ed Garland
assured Pat that he wasn't going to quit.  Getting Tom & new trial had
become a "personal vendetta" for him.  Having to deal with his client's
wife was a cross he bore stoically.

Tom wrote to his grandparents: I know the disappointing news of the
hearing was upsetting, but don't eat my steak.  I am going to be home
soon, and I can assure you I will devour it.  I am just so thankful
that my two women and you, Paw, are holding up out there for me.

I really have to commend Ma and Pat for being so strong.  It has been
so hard on both of them.  I guess it has been physical hardships on top
of all this mental strain that has been so rough.  I sure am glad you
and Ma love Pat and she loves the both of you so much.  I know she has
been a r al blessing and support to you and Ma.  She always seems to
gain strength from somewhere when Ma is upset and calms everything
down.  Paw, I really love that woman.  She is so wonderful.

In late July 1975, Pat Allanson called Bill Hamner, Paw Allanson's
attorney, and told him that the elder Allansons wished to add a second
codicil to their wills.  This codicil, dated August 1, removed Jean
Boggs completely as executor or trustee of her parents' wills, leaving
Pat and Tom Allanson as the sole executors.  If Tom were still
incarcerated at the time of the Allansons' deaths, then Pat alone would
distribute their assets.

Nona and Paw were deemed of sound mind, and they knew what they wanted
to do.  Nona was confined to bed much of the time, her speech was
garbled, and she had little use of one hand.  Paw took wonderful care
of her, lifting her tenderly and seeing that she was always well
groomed.  He was a good cook and in relatively good health for a man of
seventy-eight.  They could manage on their own, but they had come to
depend on Pat for backup.  Her presence was comforting.  Visits from
Pat and Debbie, and often Margureitte Radcliffe, brightened their
days.

There were errands to run and things difficult for Paw to do.  It was
hard for Pat too.

Her abscess was getting worse again.

Pat had long since stopped taking the Mellaril, although she was
receiving fifty milligrams of Demerol four times a day for the pain
from her abscess.

Demerol is a narcotic drug, and two hundred milligrams a day is a high
dosage for anyone to take regularly.  Demerol is not routinely
prescribed, anyway, for more than ten days for an outpatient.

To her doctors' consternation, Pat's abscess grew larger, deeper, and
more purulent during the summer.  They could find no reason for this,
save the possibility that she was simply a 14 poor healer."  Pat had to
use a wheelchair now when she came to visit Tom, and the jail
authorities allowed them to visit downstairs in the lawyers' cubicles
to save her the agonizing trip to the regular visiting area.

In September, Pat's abscess became an out-of-control volcano.  It was
as big as a fist, extending three or four inches down into her right
buttock.  The odor from the wound was nauseatingly putrid.  She was in
constant danger of going into septic shock from blood poisoning.

On September 12, Pat went to the Bolton Road Hospital in Atlanta.  She
complained of severe radiating pain and was no longer able to walk.

When physicians lifted the dressing from the open wound, they gasped.

The thing seemed to have a life of its own.  How could this slender
woman have stood the pain of such an angry-looking pus-filled lesion?

Pat was admitted to the hospital at once.  She would undoubtedly need
surgical intervention if she was to survive.  For years Pat had
complained to everyone who would listen that she was a sick woman, a
woman who was not long for this world.

And now that might be true.  The doctors at Bolton were puzzled as to
the cause of such a deep festering wound, especially when their patient
had been taking four capsules a day of the potent antibiotic Keflex.

Pat was released from the hospital but only on a temporary basis; she
was readmitted pending surgery two weeks later.  During this period she
sometimes appeared delusional.

She became fixated on religion.  Lying in her bed in her filmy
negligees, she would often rise up suddenly, point her finger at
whoever was visiting, and cry out, "May the Lord have mercy on your
soul!"  Other than that bizarre affectation, she seemed relatively
stable mentally.  Susan and Debbie, who were often at her bedside,
grimly compared their mother to Regan in The Exorcist.

" Pat had harassed Eastern Airlines until Susan was transferred f@from
Newark, New jersey, "for compassionate reasons."  She needed all of her
family nearby.

One evening that September, Susan was on call for Eastern, and she
planned to stay the night Alt the Tell Road farm because it was much
closer to the Hartsfield-Atlanta Airport than the Alfords' home in
Marietta.  She carried with her the uniform of an Eastern flight
attendant-a blue skirt, blue and white plaid blouse, and fitted red
vest with Id buttons and wings over her left breast.

"They called me in the afternoon for a flight," Susan recalled.  "And,
out of the blue, my mother decided she didn't want me to go.  I had my
uniform on and I was trying to get out the door when she came after me
with her crutch.

People never realized it, but my mother was physically very, very
strong.  She would get right up in your face, so close that it seemed
like she could walk right through you.  She had me backed up in a
corner, poking her crutch in my stomach, when Boppo showed up.  Papa
had called her.  Boppo could control Mom.

Boppo almost never got angry, but this was one of the times she did.

Mom let me go, but she'd accomplished what she wanted.  She wanted
Boppo to come home from work-and Boppo was there.  I missed my flight,
but I managed to make the next one and wasn't disciplined.

Susan recalled that her mother's behavior that summer became
increasingly assaultive.  Pat turned on her stepfather often.  She
never drew blood, but it was a frightening time.  The only person who
had any control over her was her mother; Margurif need be, Margureitte
could eitte could stare Pat down.  And, draw on a few histrionics
herself.

"If you keep this up, Pat, I'll kill myself......... Boppo would cry.

It was her final weapon.  That threat always worked.  Emotions were so
chaotic among the Radcliffe women that suicide threats were
omnipresent.  And they were all given to sporadic bouts of melancholy:
Susan, Debbie, Pat, of course, and eventually even Boppo Thorazine, a
potent antipsychotic drug, was prescribed for Pat.  For a tirrie,
things got somewhat better.

Tom and Pat argued in late September; she was interfering in his case,
overriding his attorneys again, and it worried him.  She had attempted
to see police records of the Athens and Atlanta police departments
hoping to find some record on Little Carolyn.

It was illegal for Pat to do that.  When Tom told her that, she flew at
him.

As always, he was contrite when he phoned the next evening.

"Sometimes you do the wrong thing, darling," he tried to explain.

"Do you really expect me to go along with you when I know it's wrong?

Can't I correct you some?  Don't you understand it doesn't affect our
love?  .  . . I'm trying to keep you from making a mistake.  It's not
got a thing to do with our love."

. . . The other day, you said you were so proud of me," she sulked.

"You can't be when you call me things like you did yesterday.

Pat told her husband she was going into the hospital but she would send
him a picture first.  "I'm standing [in the picture] without the
crutches," she said.  "I have a painful look on my face.  . . . Did you
stay up long enough to hear all the songs I asked for last night?  'I
Want You in My Dreams' and 'Blue Eyes'?  I did it special because of
the way you felt about me yesterday.

To make him even more ashamed of questioning her actions, Pat confided
that he had upset her so much that she had had her first blood clot in
a long time after their argument, and that she had lost the use of one
arm.  Neither was true.

'Tom, if I was dead, do you think you would ever be able to find out
what's going on?  .  . . I don't have much longer, Tom."

"I just don't understand," he groaned.  just wash their hands?"

"I'm fighting like crazy when the doctors tell me it's hopeless."

I don't believe that," he said desperately.

"I told you you weren't ready for the truth.... I told you what the
doctor said.  They say there is nothing they can do."

"How long do they give you to live?"

"It depends on how fast it eats up the tissues."

"Nothing can stop it?"

"Nothing.  They can't do any blood transfers 'cause they've got an open
place that won't close, and it never will close because Did the doctors
it gets deeper and deeper.  . . . Now you can understand the pressure
I've been under.  You are the only thing that gave my life real
meaning.  If I do something that hurts you, it tears me up.  I been
laying here torn up all afternoon," she said softly.

"I come up there smiling, Shug, even though I hurt."

Pat's abscess was, indeed, growing deeper and deeper and deeper.  Back
in the hospital on October 1, she went through myriad medical tests.

Cultures of Pat's wound grew out both Proteus mirabilis and Staph
aureus bacteria.  She required blood transfusions, and she vomited
continually.  Given gamma globulin, she had a severe anaphylactic
reaction, accompanied by hysteria.

Since anaphylactic shock-often experienced by those allergic to bee
stings or penicillin-can kill quickly by suffocation as the breathing
passages and throat swell, Pat's panic was not abnormal.

Pat had been admitted to Bolton Road Hospital on an emergency basis,
and it became evident that the surgery had to be done soon.

On October 17, when she was strong enough to withstand an operation,
she was given nitrous oxide and a local anesthetic and the huge abscess
was excised, along with the granular tissue and the scar tissue
surrounding it, leaving a massive permanent indentation in her right
buttock.  During and after the procedure, the wound was flooded with
antibacterial materials.

Judge Wofford signed a judicial order that allowed Tom to go to the
Bolton Road Hospital under guard and donate blood; Pat's surgery had
required many transfusions and she would be hospitalized for a month or
more.

"Patient had extreme pain and required large doses of narcotics and
sedatives, and was very difficult to control under these circumstances,
but gradually through the team effort of her mother, Dr. P Dr. G and
Dr. R.-all working together-we convinced her of the benefits of
sticking to one regimen and she gradually got better," her hospital
records noted.

Pat was finally released from Bolton Road Hospital on November 21.  She
would have to return every week to have her progress monitored and her
dressings changed.  At her request, her doctor wrote a letter to the
Fulton County jail authorities.

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN.  This patient ... has a deep (3-4 inch)
ulcerating lesion of the right buttock zvhich renders her bedfast ...

and, as such, she is in critical condition, and likely to remain so for
some time.

Her husband is in the Fulton Count jail nearby where she can at least
talk to him by telephone and knozv he is in proximity.

It would be extremely beneficial to this patient ifhe could remain
there and possibly if it could be arranged at some point for her to
visit him, zvhereas if he is farther away, she certainly would not be
able to.  The emotional upset which has accompanied the t?ials and
tribulations of her husband have materially affected her health and
continue to.... She requires sedation and pain medications.... If the
problem was compounded by his being removed, it could conceivably have
a very detrimental effect on her general physical health, as well as
her emotional stability.

I believe that this could have a life and death bearing on Mrs.
Allanson's case in terms of her mental and physical well being.... The
circumstances are most unusual.  Her illness is also most unusual....

All of Pat's physicians were bewitched by the beautiful greeneyed woman
who bore such terrible pain.  Not one of them ever isolated just what
had caused her intractable infection.  In lieu of a definitive
diagnosis, they marked their records: "Chronic nonhealing abscess,
secondary to penicillin injection."

At home, with her physicians' approval, Margureitte tried to cut Pat's
use of narcotics.  She gave her pain shots several times a day as she
had for weeks now, but she gradually diluted the Demerol injections
with water.  Pat noticed the difference almost at once and was
furious.

Pat hired a private detective, without consulting Ed Garland, and had
him follow Tom's ex-wife.  She suggested that the detective seduce
Carolyn to gain more information.  "Just pull the'old suave'on her,"
Pat urged.  The planned seduction of Little Carolyn never came off.

Pat was still operating on Perry Mason plot lines, and the private
investigator only humored her.  When she told Ed Garland what she was
up to, he shook his head.  He explained to Pat that the only issues
left that might help Tom were: if they could discover new evidence, if
they could prove Carolyn had perjured herself, or if they could prove
that Tom's lineu had been contaminated by the presence of the two fire
-P fighters whom "everyone knew."

Despite all the letters saying that Tom's departure for Jackson ]Prison
would kill his wife, he was definitely headed in that direction-and
soon.  For the first time, Pat wondered if she might have called the
shots wrong in Tom's defense plan.  It was humbling for her to bring
up, because she had never apologized for anything.  "Let me ask you
something," she finally said to Ed Garland.  "Would we have been better
off to drag the cat along Vid [if we had] told that Tom went there
without any weapons and talked to his father?"

"Want my honest opinion?"

"Yes."

"Yes.  He would have been better off.  . . . It's been my opinion the
whole time, based on all my information.  . . . We could have got a
manslaughter and ten years out of this case to begin with-if only we'd
approached it along those lines," Garland said firmly.

With time off for good behavior, that ten years would have come down to
only a few.  Tom could have been out of prison and back with her long
before the seventies moved into the eighties.

Pat had truly messed up her husband's defense, and Garland was at a
loss to know why.  She wasn't stupid-far from it-and she wasn't crazy
either.  Willful, yes, and strangely secretive.  Whatever her reasons
had been, it was far too late now to change things.

Tom was going up for a very long time.

Pat beseeched Garland to find a way to have Tom incarcerated in
Atlanta.  "I will never be able to travel the distance to see him .

.

. that's just like taking a candle and putting out the light.  . . .

Now, once every four or five days I'm going to be talking to him for
ten minutes.  That keeps me alive for another four days.

Paw Allanson had a heart attack on January 15, 1976.  Pat told Tom when
he called her from jail.  "Yesterday morning, Paw had a heart attack,"
she said.  "He's in South Fulton [Hospital] .  . . the doctor is not
expecting him to die from it, you knowhe's not paralyzed or it's not a
stroke or anything.  It did some damage to the heart walls; when he
comes out, he is not going to be able to do heavy lifting.  . . . Ma
called me yesterday morning to tell me.

She was hysterical -she couldn't tell me anything.  . . . I told her to
stay calm."

Pat had been confined either to bed or to a wheelchair, but with the
news of Paw's coronary she was suddenly up and about.

Almost miraculously, she was able to drive again.  She needed a cane to
walk, but she was in the hospital visiting Paw, seeing to Nona in the
rest home and then in South Fulton where she had been placed
temporarily, and generally taking over all their affairs.

She refused to let their own daughter, Jean Boggs, have any say in
their care.

On February 4, 1976, there was a third and final codicil to the elder
Allansons' wills.  This time, the codicil was far more intricate, but
when the details were winnowed out, their daughter jean Boggs had been
completely excluded from inheriting, and Tom had become his
grandparents' principal heir.  If Tom should predecease Pat, she, as
his wife, would inherit almost everything the Allansons owned.

When it was decided that Paw could go home, it was Pat who insisted on
being there for Paw and Nona almost every day.  She was the liaison
between Paw and his attorney.  She was the only one who could translate
Nona's garbled speech.  Pat Allanson was the indispensable woman.

It looked as though Tom was going to Jackson Prison and there wasn't a
thing in the world to stop it.  Even though his case was being appealed
to the Supreme Court, he would have to !await the justices' decision in
prison.  Pat had warned him that he might have to go to Reidsville
Prison, "where men died all the time."  In comparison, Jackson
Diagnostic Center was preferable by far.

Pat's whole when had become one of bitter acceptance.  She bombarded
Tom with negative thoughts.  They both might as well be dead.  Every
time he tried to inject hope into their phone conversations, she
deflected it.  "I'm trying to explain to you that I don't have anything
to live for," she sighed.

"Oh you don't?"

"That's what I can't make you understand."

"You know better, Shug," Tom said, trying to soothe her.

"You just said you've been trying to find something that is important
to keep me interested in doing something," she replied softly.  "But
don't you understand the only thing that is important to me is you?"

"I know, darling-but I can't come home right now.  So what am I gonna
do in the meantime?"

"You can't come home period," she countered.

"You really know that is true, don't you?"

"All I know 's that you've been sentenced to two life sentences and
that is a fact," Pat said, her voice suddenly harsh.

see you want to argue about this, and we're not ever gonna get
anywhere."  Tom's voice dropped hopelessly.

"I don't have any reason to live," Pat said.  "You are the only reason
I have to live.  You said life is being concerned with the things that
we can feel and touch.  We can't feel or touch or see each other."

"Pat, you know what I'm talking about-" "It's nice to hear you talk
about things that you know we can never do," Pat whispered
sarcastically.  "Like going to other countries or different places.

.

. . I have a right to tell you how I feel."

"Every conversation, every letter, you talk about the very same
thing-about you not wanting to get well, not wanting to live."  Tom's
voice wasn't angry; he was pleading with his wife to keep trying.

"Are you telling me that you are with me and taking care of me and
looking after me and all that?"  Pat began to sob.  "I just know I
can't feel you because I can't touch you.  You act like I can feel
you-but I can't.  I know you love me and 'that's all that matters."

See, Tom-you talk about our life later, but that's going to be your
life."

"You agree with the part when I said that you're young and still
living?"

"Will you talk that way fifteen years from now?"

"Pat.  You'll be here thirty years from now."

"Not without you, I can't.  Oh, I can do anything with you, but I can't
exist without you."

Behind Tom, the sounds of caged men reverberated against the walls.  It
took tremendous effort for him to maintain a calm voice, as if he were
talking to a child, willing her to live.

"How am I going to support myself?"  Pat cried.  "How am I going to
live?"

Tom was finally defeated.  "I don't know."

It was true, he didn't.  He was locked up, with no real hope of being
outside prison walls for the next decade.  Tom tried to tell Pat she
could get her horse business back together again.

She was still living with her parents; she had a roof over her head and
food to eat.  She wasn't a destitute teenager.  She was almost
thirty-nine, and her parents still stood firmly behind her.

"You know you are going to prison, Tom," she accused, as if he were
choosing to be in prison.

I'm coming home," he promised.

"You may be home in ten or twelve years, Tom but you won't be coming
home to me."

I'm coming home to you.  I just hope you'll be there."

One theme and one theme alone began to emerge when Pat talked with her
husband as he waited to go on the chain to Jackson Prison.  Tom was
going away and it would kill her.  He might as well accept it; she
could not live without him.  If he @,over wanted to be with her again,
and he assured her he did, it would have to be in some other, better
world.  In death, they might be together; in life, they no longer had
any hope at all.

"Shug, you don't know what happens after we die, and neither do I," Tom
argued.

She blamed herself.  "I wish you could understand how terrible I feel
because you're there and I know it is my fault."

Pat had never before alluded to the possibility that she had any fault
in Tom's alleged crimes-not in their private conversations; certainly
not to Tom's attorneys.  But Tom wouldn't let her think about feeling
guilty.  He didn't blame her for any of this.  He had hope for his
appeal.

"Our lives are dwindling away," Pat cried.  She told him that she was
fighting his own lawyers to try to keep him close to her.

"Pat, you're not physically able to do that."

"It's the most important thing in our lives.  Tom, what good is it if
you're gone?"

"Don't you think I'm ever coming home?  .  . . I'm coming home to you,
Pat.  I promise you.  . . . We'll start over and we'll make it okay."

"I won't even be walking by the time you come home.  I won't be much
good for anything but companionship."

You're good for everything.  You're good for being my wife, you're good
for being my Pat.  You're my lover.  You're my super kind of woman.

.

. . Age doesn't have a thing to do with it.

. . . It doesn't make any difference as far as my love goes whether
you're in a wheelchair or you're up running around."

"Are you going to be able to say that twelve years from now?"  sure
am.

"I won't live that long in a wheelchair."

Pat always used the wheelchair when she visited Tom, even though she
could have gotten by with a cane.  The wheelchair meant they would be
allowed to meet in the attorneys' cubicles on the second floor, where
they could have some contact.  Tom didn't realize that Pat could get
around just fine with a cane, or that she had no trouble driving her
own car.

During her visits, Pat continued to chip away at Tom's belief in the
future.  When he was down, she pulled him further into the pit of
despair.  Again and again she told him her own death was imminent.  She
talked of their perfect love, now broken and hopeless with prison bars
about to separate them.  There was only one way they would ever be
together.  They would both have to be dead.  Man and the law were going
to keep them apart.

Tom didn't really take her seriously; it sounded like more of her
depression.

Pat had always been consumed with an almost unnatural curiosity about
what jail was like for Tom.  She questioned him continually about what
he thought, who shared his cell, what they talked about, and she
focused most intently on humiliations he might have suffered,
reinforcing those embarrassments in the process.  Even locked away from
her, he had no privacy with his own thoughts.  To his chagrin, she
asked him if he masturbated, phrasing it obliquely: "Do you do-you
know-what men do in prison when they're locked away from their women?

You know what I mean?"  "Pat!"  Tom barked into the phone.  "No.

Don't ask things like that.

Pat quizzed him about "the chain," and about the strip searches he
would endure, commenting how humiliating they would be for him.  She
didn't seem to have much sense of tact about how Tom might feel.  It
seemed like the further down he got, the more she picked away at him.

Tom put it down to her own unhappiness; she had no idea what she was
doing to him.

To be sure that she was taken care of while he was in prison, Tom
willingly'acceded to Pat's request that he sign over his power of
attorney to her.  That way she could handle their affairs and parcel
out what little money they had left without having to travel down to
Jackson to get his signature.  That way she would be making decisions
about his children.

. . .

Before the dogwoods budded out in the spring of 1976, Tom was on his
way to Jackson, handcuffed to another prisoner, both of them chained to
another pair of prisoners in the bus seat behind them.  That was "the
chain," and it was as long as short as the number of prisoners
shuffling off to "the or walls."

Once Tom was in Jackson, Pat made sure that she would be source of
information.  She told everyone that only his primary "immediate family
members" were allowed to write to him.  No one else wrote to him for a
long time, believing it was forbidden.

Tom viewed all events through his wife's letters.  The state of Georgia
and his wife controlled his life.

Although Pat's doctors had doubted she would be able to stand the
fifty-mile trip down to Jackson, she managed amazingly well.

While Tom was still in the "fish tank"-the diagnostic testing that all
new prisoners go through-he was allowed no visitors for six weeks.

After that, Pat visited, in a setting where they could touch.  There,
Pat spoke openly for the first time of a plan she had been hinting
at.

Since Tom would be locked up for so long, she had come to realize that
the only way they could be reunited was to pledge to commit suicide.

Initially, he didn't take her seriously.

When Tom finished his diagnostic tests in Jackson, he was put to work
as an inmate clerk and became "a pretty good secretary."

He did well.  Somehow, finally being in prison wasn't nearly as bad as
the two years of waiting in the Fulton County jail.

Whenever he and Pat visited or talked on the phone, she would mention
the suicide pact.  Tom always refused to discuss it.

Talking softly and fervently to his wife from a pay phone in Jackson,
he murmured, "Shug, don't say we'll never be together again.

Never-that's like a steel door.  'Never gonna come home.

Never gonna do this.  Never gonna do that.  I've gotta have hope,
Shug.

Pat, I would do anything in this world for you-" "Almost, Shug," she
said, so quietly that he could barely hear her.

'%%at?"

"Almost.  Almost anything."

He knew what she meant, and he realized she had trapped him.

She kept talking.  "Can you do something for me?  Say you love me more
than anyone, but don't say you love me more than anything.

"Why don't you want me to say it?"

"Because it's not any thing."

He sighed.

"I know you love me more than anybody," she argued.  "But not more than
any thing.  You love life more than any thing.

Gently, Pat reminded him that he had betrayed her in the most basic
way.  But as she kept talking about it, he had the odd sense that a
rabbit had run over his grave.  It was not fair, she complained, that
he was not willing to kill himself so that he could be with her in
eternity.  She had no one to take care of her and he was thoughtless
and uncaring to expect her to go on alone when, if he truly loved her,
they could be together in death.  Her quiet sobs echoing in his ears,
Tom went back to his cell feeling useless and depressed.

Even so, he was glad for the next call, the next visit.  Tom looked
forward to seeing his wife on visitors' day and to getting letters from
her.

She was his world-all the world that mattered to him.

Her visits, however, were sometimes as upsetting as her calls.  Tom was
a little chagrined at Pat's behavior when she came to Jackson.  Pat
waged full-scale war on the authorities who controlled her husband's
destiny.  She never failed to cause, at the very least, a hassle-and
often a scene.

All mail was censored.  Tom's letters to Pat had to be handed unsealed
to the guard for mailing, and all of her letters were read before they
were given to him.  Pat's letters were full of references to various
prison officials, derogatory and inflammatory comments.  It was almost
as if she were deliberately taunting them.  "Here I was doing my best
to be a model inmate," Tom said later, "and she kept making accusations
against the system."

Whatever she did, Tom still longed for Pat with a steady ache, and he
went to sleep nights listening to the poignant love songs -their
songs-that bespoke unspent passion and endless frustration.  It well
nigh killed him that he couldn't be with her-to help her and to take
care of Paw and Ma.  Pat continued to remind Tom not to talk to
anyone.

He must remember that he couldn't trust anyone else-not even his
lawyers.  Sometimes he wondered what the point was.  He was in prison,
and it looked as if he were going to stay there for a long, long
time.

His appeals were almost exhausted.

As the months dragged on, Pat was no longer vague about when and how
she and Tom should commit suicide.  She reminded him constantly that it
was the only way for them to be together.  "One time, she told me we
were going to do it next week," Tom recalled later, grimacing.  "She
didn't show me what she had, but .  . . she even tried to bring some
stuff into Jackson, and she wanted me to commit suicide with her right
there.  It was supposed to be some sort of pills or something.  I told
her, 'I ain't ready to die yet."  She told me to take them, and then
she'd go out and take some herself, and we'd both be dead, and we could
be together.  I couldn't.  It didn't make any kind of sense.  Besides,
I didn't believe in suicide, and that's what she wanted Pat was asking
him to make the supreme sacrifice for their love.  She was asking him
to die for her-and trust that she would die for him.  Tom wouldn't do
it, perhaps because, for the first time, he was beginning to have
serious doubts about his wife.

Dr. R. Lanier Jones had his own practice, specializing in internal
medicine, on Church Street in East Point.  Nona and Paw Allanson had
been his patients for almost a decade.  Jones was one of a vanishing
breed of doctor; he actually made house calls.  iOn the night of the
double murder of Walter and Carolyn, he had gotten out of bed and gone
over to see to the elder Allansons.

Old Walter was a brick wall of a man.  He had started in steelwork in
1926, farming in his spare time, and didn't quit until he was over
sixty-five.  Nona, younger than Paw by seven years, had not enjoyed the
same robust health.  Dr. Jones had treated her for two massive
strokes, in 1968 and 1974.  Nona's right arm and both legs were
completely paralyzed, she had only partial use of her left arm, and she
had difficulty swallowing.

Her speech was slurred so badly that only those close to her could
decipher what she was saying.  All of her life she had been active, and
she was a proud woman.  Now, she could do virtually nothing for
herself.

Paw and Nona had been married for forty-n'the years.  Not openly
demonstrative people, they were a quiet love match, and Dr. Jones was
impressed with Paw's tender attention to his wife.  "He had been
extremely strong.  . . . He lifted her, 'turned her frequently through
the night, helped her into her chair.  [All the] bodily care of her
through the years.  I thought he was an extremely strong person."

Paw kept his wife spotlessly clean and well fed.  He tempted Nona's
appetite with his corn muffins and coconut-sweet potato pie.  Most
stroke patients get bedsores, but Nona didn't.  She needed an enema
every night, and Paw took care of that with sensitivity and as little
fuss as possible.

Paw was not a smoker or a drinker, and he took few pills.

"He just didn't want it-didn't need it," his doctor recalled.  The old
man had suffered stoically through the loss of his only son and
daughter-in-law, the conviction of his grandson, and then had borne
much of the cost of Tom's defense.  But at seventy-nine, the burdens
had taken their toll.  In the middle of January 1976, Paw called his
doctor complaining of a tightness in his chest and some pain.  Dr.
Jones sent his own nurse out to Washington Road to drive Paw back to
his office.  Paw insisted he was just fine, but Jones determined that
he had had a heart attack and sent him immediately to South Fulton
Hospital.  A blood clot had blocked a coronary artery and a portion of
Paw's heart muscle had died.

Dr. Jones had Nona admitted for temporary care in a nursing home, but
she was miserable there without Paw so she was transferred to South
Fulton too and placed in a room right next to Paw's.

Jean Boggs learned belatedly about her father's heart attack from her
minister.  The pastor and parishioners from the Westside Christian
Church often visited her parents and kept her informed of their
progress.  That way, she at least knew how they were.

She hurried to the hospital and visited her father.  Then she went to
her parents' home and found the doors padlocked.  When she asked
Margureitte-Radcliffe about the locks, she was told that her father
didn't want anyone inside-not even Jean.  Pat was handling all of Paw's
business matters.

jean was hurt to think that her parents would put a relative stranger
above her.  She had warned her father that he might be sorry for
putting his trust in other people, but he paid little attention to
her.

Now it was clear that both of her parents had somehow become totally
involved with Tom's wife and her parents.

Paw was a tough old bird, and Dr. Jones released him from the hospital
on February 113, four weeks after he was admitted.  He wanted to get
out so he could take Nona home again.  Paw was given a mild antianxiety
sedative, Vistaril, after the heart attack.  He used it only
occasionally.  But he knew he wasn't as strong as he had been, and it
was a good thing to have Tom's wife to spell him.

Pat wasn't well, and she reminded him of that often, so it impressed
him even more to see her with her cane, trying to help them, smiling
through her own pain.

jean Boggs was effectively shut out of her parents'life; Tom's letters
and Pat's continual warnings about jean had apparently convinced them
that she was greedy and that she didn't care about them at all.

Besides, they had Pat now.

When Nona was hospitalized with pneumonia in March, Jean went to see
her mother and found a note on the door barring all visitors except
"granddaughter [Pat] and Mr. Allanson."  jean was hurt, and she was
worried.  She had a sense of impending disaster, but nothing she could
really prove.  She asked her pastor to help her get through to her
parents, and she complained to Dr.  Jones.

Jones was well aware that there was dissension between jean and her
parents.  "I didn't make it my business to find out why," he said
later.  All Dr. Jones really knew was that Paw had insisted on several
occasions that the doctor was not to old to call Pat Allancall jean
Boggs in an emergency.  "I was t son."  jean was not needed on
Washington Road, although she kept trying to be with her parents.  She
visited them on Mother's Day in May 1976 and took a gift.  Nona barely
glanced at it and sniffed, "I already have one of those."  jean tried
to smile and said, "Well, now you have two."

At the time, she noted how well her father looked, how alert he was; he
was fully aware of current affairs.  He was the same ornery, closed-in
man she had always known, but it was not Paw who was shutting Jean out
so completely.  It was her mother.  Nona plainly didn't want her
there.

Theirs was a family in which estrangements were not uncommon, and
although Jean was still hurt, she still hoped and expected to make
things right with her parents.  Jean knew very little about her
parents'financial affairs, but she suspected that Pat and Tom might be
eating into their capital with their constant need for money for
lawyers, writs, and appeals.

There wasn't a thing Jean could do about it.

In the spring of 1976, Pat was out on Washington Road almost daily with
Nona and Paw; Debbie, her five-year-old daughter, Dawn, and Boppo and
Papa were often there too.  It was as if the elderly couple had had a
"family transplant"-just as Tom himself had had two and a half years
before.  As refined and ladylike as she was, Margureitte Radcliffe
seemed such a warm, selfless woman.  She bustled around Paw and Nona's
home, doing the things Pat couldn't do because she was on crutches.

And Pat.  Well, Pat was family.

On Thursday, June 10, 1976, Dr. Jones received a call from Pat.  She
was concerned because her husband's grandfather was vomiting almost
every evening-not a great deal, but she just wanted to be sure it
wasn't something serious.  Jones prescribed a mild antinausea
medication and had it delivered to the house.

The next morning, Pat called and said Paw was no longer vomiting, but
she was still worried.  "He hasn't been eating properly," she told
Jones's receptionist.  "And I guess I'd better tell you.  He's been
drinking a lot of homemade whiskey.  Both of them have been mixing up
their pills, putting them in different bottles and squirreling them
away.  You know how forgetful old people can get."  The two women
agreed that old people certainly could be like that, and that it could
also be dangerous.

When Dr. Jones took a look at the Allansons' charts, he was troubled
by Pat's comments about Paw Allanson and pills.  It was totally out of
character.  The old man fought taking pills.  Jones had to be firm with
him to get him to take his heart medication consistently.  He called
Pat.

"Wlat is Mr.  Allanson drinking?"  Jones asked.

"White lightning-over rock candy," Pat replied.

'rMite lightning over rock candy?"  the doctor asked, amazed.

Mr. Allanson had never been a drinker.  He had certainly plunged in
with a vengeance.

"He's into it again," Pat whispered, and Dr. Jones could hear
frustration in her voice.  He could not go over and snatch a drink
patient's hand, but he urged Pat to keep an eye on out of his Paw and
to watch that no medications were combined with the whiskey.

On Saturday morning, Pat was back on the phone to Dr.  Jones.

She said she and her parents had gone to Paw and Nona's home in
response to a desperate call from Nona.  No one answered their knocks
on the front door.  "We went around to the back of the house," Pat
said.  "We could see Paw in the back window, without a stitch of
clothes on.  He was just babbling and not making any sense, and he
wouldn't open the door for us to get in.  My father had to crawl
through a window to get in."

Pat felt that Paw had simply been hitting the white lightning again.

He wasn't sick; he was just drunk as a skunk.  Dr. Jones weighed
putting him in the hospital, but Saturday was a difficult r psychiatric
problems.  day for admitting patients with alcohol o He asked Pat if
Paw was eating, and she assured him that she had been able to get him
to eat a little, and that he was taking fluids well.

"Well," Dr. Jones said, "if someone can be there with him, to see that
the medications and the alcohol are out of his reach, he should be
feeling better in a matter of a couple of hours."

Pat said that she and her family would be glad to watch Paw and Nona.

She would personally search the house and get all the pills and put
them up high.  She would keep Paw away from the white lightning.

"Just let him rest.  Give him as much fluid as he'll take," Dr. Jones
advised.  "I'll call you back later and see how he's doing.

Dr. Jones did call back that Saturday afternoon and Pat said that Paw
was doing better.  He had had a nap, and something more to eat, and he
was taking fluids well.  She promised to stay all night with the old
couple.  If either one's condition weakened, she would call the doctor
at once.

At nine that evening-despite his vow to keep out of the Allanson family
feuds-Dr. Jones took it upon.  himself to call Jean Boggs.  He told
her that her father had had too much to drink and was sleeping it
off.

jean was baffled.  "No, that's not right," she exclaimed.  "My daddy
does not drink."  She offered to go over to her parents' house,
suggesting that Pat was some how behind this peculiar situation.  Dr.
Jones didn't think that was a good idea at all.  If Paw was sleeping
peacefully, he didn't need a confrontation between his daughter and his
"adopted" granddaughter-inlaw.

On Sunday morning, Dr. Jones and his family were preparing for church
around nine-thirty when the phone rang.

It was Pat.  "I went in to wake up Paw, and he seems to be
unconscious," she said.  "I can't get him to wake up."

Dr.  Jones told her he would be right over.

"It took me about ten minutes to get there," he later recalled.  Pat
let him in.

"I went to his bedroom and found him in bed, deeply comatose."  No one
was in the room with Paw, which struck Dr. Jones as odd when he saw
how desperately ill the patient was.

The old man was in such a deep coma that nothing his doctor did brought
him out of it-not shouting, shaking, or even pinching.  Paw had
secretions bubbling in the back of his throat and he was lying on his
back.  Dr. Jones was afraid he would aspirate the mucus into his
lungs, and he struggled to turn his heavy patient on his side.

Dr. Jones turned to ask Pat to call an ambulance to get Paw to the
hospital.  He had to do it himself; Pat was not in easy summoning
distance.  To the doctor's amazement, he found her in the bathroom
giving a sponge bath to Nona.  "It just seemed to be business as
usual," he said.  "While a man was lying in such bad shape in the other
room, gurgling with secretions like that, it seemed a bit inappropriate
that the other household functions would be carried on in what seemed
to be such a day-to-day fashion.

Paw was critically ill.  As Dr. Jones was examining him and getting an
airway open, Pat wandered into the room and said, "You know, he tried
to murder Ma a couple of nights ago.  He tried to smother her with a
pillow."

Dr.  Jones looked up at her, aghast.

"See, see there?"  Pat said with amazing calm.  "See those scratches on
his elbows?  That's from where she fought him off."

Dr. Jones felt goose bumps rise along his arms.  There was no way that
Nona Allanson could have fought her husband offnot with one completely
paralyzed arm and the other severely compromised by her strokes.  It
would have been like a butterfly batting its wings against a buffalo.

But more than that, he knew these old people too well to believe that
Paw would ever, ever hurt his wife.  He loved her, and he had cared for
her so gently for years.

The abrasions on the old man's elbows weren't scratches; they were the
kind of extremely minor abrasions that mark aged skin that has rubbed
against sheets.  Dr. Jones felt that something was wrong.  He didn't
have much time to think about it as he fought to stabilize his patient,
but the shock of Pat Allanson's accusations against Paw stayed with
him.

Maybe there was a problem with overdosage.  With a patient in a coma,
Dr. Jones couldn't overlook that.  "Do you have any of his pill
bottles?"  he asked Pat.

She led him into a little breakfast nook and pointed to dozens of pill
bottles lined up.  He quickly sorted out those that were sedatives and
slipped them into a paper bag to take to the hospital.  It would give
them a place to start when they screened for a drug overdose in Paw's
system.

Pat handed him a single yellow capsule.  "I found it on the kitchen
floor.

When we got in Saturday morning, he was just gobbling pills by the
handful.  I think this is one of them."

Dr.  Jones studied it.  It looked like Nembutal, a hypnotic sedative.

Paw?  No, that warred with everything the doctor had learned about the
old man in ten years.  Paw Allanson wouldn't have taken a sleeping
pill, not when he had to look after Nona-and turn her several times
during the night.  But then, the Paw Allanson he knew wouldn't have
touched white lightning either.

There were so many things that could go wrong-suddenly-' in a man
almost eighty years old.  A massive stroke, perhaps.  Another heart
attack.  Things that could affect thought processes too.

Dr.  Jones's sense that something was not right grew even stronger.

Why would Paw try to kill Nona?  And why on earth had Pat Allanson left
the old man all alone, unconscious and gurgling, and calmly wheeled
Nona into the bathroom for a sponge bath?  Those ablutions were not
necessary, and taking care of Paw was vital.

"I was a suspicious doctor," he later commented succinctly.

They heard the wall of an approaching ambulance.  Dr. Jones walked
from the breakfast nook toward the front door.  In the hall, Pat handed
him what looked like an old-fashioned whiskey bottle, although it had
no label.  By tilting it toward the light, he could see a small amount
of clear liquid in the bottom.

"This is the bottle Paw was drinking from yesterday," she said.  "I
found it hidden away out in the garage."

Dr. Jones slipped the bottle into his medical bag.  He had already
made up his mind to call the police when he got his patient to the
hospital.  He wasn't even sure what he might be reporting; he would let
them sort out the information.

With sirens blaring, the ambulance crew got Paw Allanson to South
Fulton Hospital by ten-thirty.  Dr. Jones began treating him at once
for an overdose of a "sedative nature."  He didn't know what Paw had
overdosed on-perhaps the Nembutal that Pat had pointed out, perhaps
something else.  The most important thing was to use nasal gastric
suction to pump his stomach, and to keep his blood pressure, pulse,
respiration, fluids in-andout, and body chemistry within normal
boundaries.  Paw was in extremely critical condition, unable to tell
Dr. Jones what he had taken.  It was quite possible that he would die
without speaking.

Back at Washington Road, Pat soothed Nona, telling her that Paw would
be home soon and that she would stay right there with her.  Boppo and
the colonel had rushed to the hospital to be sure that Paw was getting
the proper care.

Almost exactly two years after the double murder of Walter and Carolyn
Allanson, the East Point police received another call to respond to a
case involving a Walter Allanson.  It was jarring for a moment-until
the dispatcher realized that this was Walter Allanson, the elder.  He
dispatched Officer G. W. Pirkle to the emergency room from of South
Fulton Hospital.  When he learned that the patient had apparently taken
a massive overdose of sedatives, Pirkle called Detective Sergeant
William R. Tedford for investigative backup.

Bob Ted ford was introduced to Colonel and Mrs.  Clifford Radcliffe.

He spoke with them in the waiting room while he waited for Dr. 
Jones.

The pair seemed very concerned about the old man.

Mrs. Radcliffe reconstructed the bizarre weekend for the young
detective.  "Ma called us yesterday morning-Saturday," she began.

"She said that Paw was acting strange and wild, and begged us to come
over right away and help her."

She said that both she and Pat were on phone extensions and heard Nona
Allanson begging for help.  They had thrown on their clothes and raced
over to the Washington Road house.  When no one answered their pounding
knocks on the front door, they had gone to the back of the house.

Colonel Radcliffe had started prying a rear window open.

The colonel took up the story, remarking that it was fortunate that the
ladies hadn't seen Paw without warning.  "He was naked except for a
T-shirt and an Ace bandage on his ankle."

He had shouted for Pat not to look-that Paw was headed toward the door
naked as a jaybird.  Boppo nodded.  "When he opened the door, he was
naked, all right, and he had a handful of pills."

All three of them had burst into the kitchen, but Paw had walked away
from them, they said, stuffing pills into his mouth and washing them
down with orange juice.  "He was cramming so many in his mouth that
they were dropping out the sides and falling on the floor," the colonel
said.  "I told him that Dr. Jones wouldn't want him to take all those
pills, trying to reason with him, you see.  He replied, 'To hell with
the doctor!"  and just kept on taking pills."

The Radcliffes explained that their daughter Pat was basically the one
taking care of the old couple.  "Is there any closer relative that I
could call about Mr.  Allanson's overdose?"

Tedford asked.

"Yes.  Well, I don't know-they have a daughter, Jean Boggs.

But they don't get along.  Pat has been staying with them, running
errands, this type of thing, for the past several years," Margureitte
explained.  Detective Tedford's impression was that these people were
the patient's family-or at least the closest thing to it.

After a tense hour and a half, Dr. Jones came out and said that Paw
Allanson's condition was stable and that he could say, albeit
cautiously, that the elderly man might survive.  It was touchy, of
course, treating a man with a history of cardiac problems, but Paw
Allanson had always been a tremendously strong man.

Even now, although he was considerably weaker since his heart attack
five months before, he seemed to be fighting his way back to
consciousness.

"What have you prescribed for Mr. Allanson?"  Tedford asked Dr.
Jones.

"Vistaril-that's a very mild sedative.  Nembutal-a barbiturate-and
Librax for his stomach.  But I suspect he's taken !something other than
what I prescribed.  I found so many empty bottles in their home."

Paw's condition could have been an accident, and a fairly 'common one
at that.  An old man, confused and perhaps a little wile, had had too
much alcohol and too many of the wrong 'Pills.

But Tedford was inclined to code it as a possible suicide attempt.

Elderly people were often depressed by their diminished capacities.

Dr. Jones called jean Boggs again.  He explained that he had admitted
her father to the hospital, and that he was in a coma.

'From what?"

Dr. Jones explained that her father had apparently been 'drinking
again and taking pills.  He also said that Paw had allegedly tried to
kill his wife.

jean was shocked almost speechless.  "This doesn't make any 'Oense at
all!"  she burst out.  "There is something wrong."

Dr. Jones agreed with her.  He told her he felt that whatever @,had
happened, it was a matter for the police.  jean immediately called the
East Point police and asked for a complete investigation.  "We already
have a detective on it," she was told.

By the time jean got to South Fulton Hospital, her father had been
taken to his room.  He was still unconscious and he had tubes sprouting
from every body orifice.  "Paw," she said.  "Paw, it's Jean.  Can you
hear me?"

He gave no sign that he was with her at all.

jean noticed that the Radcliffes seemed to be everywhere she went.  She
wondered where Pat was-probably home with her another.

That thought gave her a sudden chill.

When she was distraught and frustrated, jean Boggs could be abrasive
and demanding.  She had been shut off from her parents for months, and
her father might be dying.  She approached the detective, who was
making notes, and demanded that he investigate thoroughly.  A bit
ruffled, Tedford assured her he was doing just that.  She also
suggested that he familiarize himself with her brother's and
sister-in-law's murders.  Jean minced no words; she flat out accused
Pat Allanson of having something to do with her father's coma.  "He
does not drink, and he does not take pills," she insisted.  "If he's in
a coma, she did something to him.

She's practically moved in with them, and I think she's after what they
have."

Tedford had seen his share of family beefs and rivalries, and he had
heard wild accusations tossed around.  But there was something about
Jean Boggs's words that made the hairs stand up on the back of his
neck.  After assuring her that,he would keep at it until he found out
what had caused her father's coma, he hurried back to the ER to ask
that the contents of Paw Allanson's stomach be retained for
examination.

It was too late.  The emesis had already been disposed of.

By Monday morning, June 14, Paw seemed to be out of danger but he
remained a miserably sick man.  Bob Tedford and Detective H. R. Turner
drove out to 4137 Washington Road to talk with Nona Allanson.  They
were not prepared to find the lady as incapacitated as she was.  Debbie
Cole, Pat's younger daughter, answered their knock and invited them
into the living room.  From somewhere in the rear of the little house
they could hear a woman sobbing and wailing; she sounded as if she were
in desperate distress.

"That's Mrs. Allanson," Debbie explained.  "She's really upset about
everything.  If you'll wait here, I'll try to get her out here to talk
with you.  My mother's with her."

A few minutes later, a lushly pretty woman who appeared to be in her
mid-thirties approached.  Although she limped noticeably herself, she
was pushing an elderly woman in a wheelchair.  She introduced herself
as Mrs.  Tom Allanson, the "granddaughter" of the senior Allansons.

Tedford quickly realized how compromised Nona Allanson's speech was.

He couldn't understand a word she said.

"I'll translate," Pat said.  "I can understand her."

It was a good thing she could, Tedford thought, because he sure
couldn't.  Pat repeated what she said the older woman had said.  "She
said that Paw's been taking pills-too many pills.  No, she hasn't seen
him, but she says he's been drinking more than usual, and she hasn't
seen him eat for several days.  She called us Saturday morning and told
us that Big Allanson-that's what she calls Paw-was trying to kill her,
so of course we rushed right over."

It was apparent that the old woman was growing more and more upset and
Tedford stopped the interview.  Pat ushered the detectives out onto the
front porch, where they could talk privately.  She repeated, almost
verbatim, the story that Tedford had heard from the Radcliffes the day
before.  He noticed that her eyes brimmed with tears as she recalled
how Paw had gone downhill with the drinking and the pills.  She seemed
about to break into sobs.

"He tried to run me off the road, you know," Pat said quietly.

"What?"

"He did.  He tried to run me off the road."

Tedford recalled the elderly shell of a man he had seen in the R. He
scarcely looked capable of driving a car, much less aimit at another
vehicle and forcing it off the road.

"Why would he try to run you off the road?"  he asked.

Pat cast her green eyes down and sighed.  "When Paw was in the hospital
during his last heart attack, he felt he was going to die.  He had me
send for his attorneys-Mr.  Hamner and Mr.  Reeves.

He told them about a killing in 1974.  He admitted to 'them that he did
it-not my husband.  Personally, I was never so shocked in my life.  It
just took me by surprise that he would -sell that to his attorneys.  I
sat in the corner, and I started taking notes .

. . and he realizes that I know about this.  His attitude toward me
completely changed."  Tedford had read the case file on the Allanson
murders.  He wondered if Pat was telling him that old Walter had killed
his dwn son and daughter-in-law.  If she was, it was a startling-an
almost unbelievable-revelation, but she seemed incapable of uying it in
so many words.

"I hate .  she began, her eyes still bright with unshed tears, "I hate
to know something that will get someone out of tmuble but will get
somebody else into a lot of trouble."

She looked so forlorn that Tedford felt sorry for her; she was
itruggling with supressed secrets that she didn't want to tell him.

And yet at the same time, he knew, she did want to.

Finally she blurted it out.  "When Paw got out of the hospital -after
his heart attack-I was finally able to set him down one day, and I just
outright asked him would he tell me again what he to .  Id his
lawyers.

I guess I needed it down on paper-in case .  . . in case anything
happened to Paw."

The detectives leaned forward, fascinated to hear what had happened
next.  What was it that old Mr. Allanson had confessed to?  But that
was all Pat was going to tell them.  She wiped her eyes with her little
lace handkerchief and forced a bright smile.

"Oh, never mind," she said.  "I guess I was just thinking out loud.

I'm just so concerned about Paw coming back to this house.

I'm sorry to say I don't want him back here with Ma.  I'm scared to
death he really will hurt her next time .  . . ...

Pat Allanson was certainly a handsome woman; the cane made her seem
frail, but she had a perfect, full-breasted figure, and she dressed to
show it off.  Her thick auburn hair was coiled and twisted in what
women called a French roll.  The detectives knew that her husband was
down in Jackson Prison for murder.  No wonder she teared up so
easily.

She must have been through hell.

It was easier-in the beginning, at least-to talk with Pat Allanson,
with her sweet, sad manner, than it was to deal with Jean Boggs.  Jean
was an attractive woman too, slender and tall with silky black hair.

She was immaculately groomed right down to her long scarlet
fingernails.  But she was an angry, bitter woman in a hurry, and she
seemed to have little faith in the justice system.  She knew the brass
in the East Point Police Department, and she wasn't averse to going
over the detectives' heads to demand a quicker resolution to her
suspicions about her father's illness.

jean was incensed that the contents of her father's stomach had been
thrown out.  How were they ever going to prove now what she
suspected-that Pat had given him' something to make him so sick?  She
had seen the old-fashioned whiskey bottle that Paw was supposed to have
been drinking out of.  There was just no way.

Years ago, her father had made blackberry wine from the wild berries on
his farm, but he hardly even tasted it himself -he gave it away.  He
was almost eighty years old.  Why would he start drinking at this
age?

On Sunday afternoon after leaving the hospital, Jean and her neighbor,
Sherry Allen, had dropped by the Washington Road house to check on Nona
Allanson.  They found Pat there, feeding the old lady lunch and fussing
over her.  Pat asked Jean how Paw was, and Jean said he was still
unconscious but unless he got pneumonia or another heart attack or
something, he was going to pull through.

Pat shook her head, disagreeing.  "It doesn't look like he'll make
it."

"Well, we really don't know yet," Jean answered slowly.

Pat had fixed her green eyes on Jean and told her that Jean had no idea
in the whole wide world what a dirty old man Paw really was.  "You
don't know that old man," she said.

"He's done things you wouldn't believe.  He's not good and kind like
you think."  jean started to shake her head in warning as she glanced
at l'i-*er mother, but Nona just sat there and let Pat rave on about
btr husband.

Although she couldn't speak, Nona was sharp enough.  It seemed to Jean
that her mother had heard accusations this before.  Nona made no move
to correct Pat; she apparantly believed what Pat was saying.

Jean could not understand Pat's vitriolic attack on her father; he had
always been so good to her.  Why was she savaging him I with her words
while he might be dying?

Pat complained about having to get up with him the night re he had
taken sick.  "It was two-thirty in the mornin and ,@: before 9

@iw wanted some ginger ale.  I took it to him, and damn him, he drink
it!  He decided he wanted half-and-half and I took him that."

Pat suddenly changed the direction of her conversation.

"I tollked with him about death-you know, about funeral arrangements
and all.  He said he wanted to be put away in a casket with a pink
satin sheet to lie on.  I've got his clothes all picked out.  Your boy
will be one of the pallbearers."

None of that sounded a bit like Paw, jean thought.  Pink satin
'indeed.

As Jean and Sherry walked down the front steps, Pat suddenly appeared
on the porch.  She leaned across the railing and said -flatly, "I hope
he dies."

"What did you say?"  jean breathed softly.

"I said I hope he dies."

Jean walked to her car, stunned.

On Tuesday, Paw Allanson's blood pressure dropped so low it barely
registered, but medication slowly boosted it back up.  He was a very
old man, but he was made of tough Georgia stock.  He remained in a deep
coma for a week, caught somewhere between living and dying.

jean was sitting by his bedside as he slowly regained consciousness on
Saturday.  "Do you recognize me?"  she asked, truly believing that he
would not.

"Sure," he grumbled.

"Who am I?"

"Jean," he said, as if she had taken leave of her senses.  Of course he
recognized her.

"How do you feel, Daddy?"

He looked at her.  "I think I'll be all right when I get over this
stroke.

"Is that what you think you had, Daddy?"

"Yes-I feel like I'm taking the flu too.  My legs ache me so bad.

Pat maintained her position that Paw Allanson was a dangerous man,
octogenarian or not.  She insisted that he had tried to kill his wife,
and that she had no idea what he might do next.  She had retained a new
attorney, Dunham McAllister, to work on Tom's latest appeal.  She had
also asked Paw's attorneys, Fred Reeves and Bill Hamner, to fight any
attempt Jean Boggs might make to become her parents'guardian.

Pat told McAllister that she feared for her life; she had in her
possession a document that made her very vulnerable.  McAllister
contacted the East Point police and informed the investigators that Pat
had overheard Paw give his attorneys a confession to the murders of his
son and daughter-in-law.  At the time, Pat had explained, Paw had
believed that he would not survive his heart attack.

McAllister was concerned about Pat.  If Paw remembered how much Pat
knew, and if he survived his current illness, her life was most
certainly in danger.  McAllister was very worried about Nona Allanson's
safety too, citing the alleged smothering attempt only a day or so
before Paw overdosed.  Pat had confided to the lawyer-just as she had
to Tedford-that Paw had treated her coldly ever since he had come home
from the hospital in February.  She could deal with that-he was an old
man and cantankerous-but it was far more than that.  When Paw tried to
run Pat off the road, she had been hampered by her weak leg and hip.

It was all she could do to keep from crashing into a tree or slipping
over a gully.

She told McAllister that she had received harassing phone calls asking
her where she had been, what she was doing, whom she had talked to.

She hinted that the old man had watched her constantly to see if she
would tell anybody about his confession.  If he thought she might, he
would kill her without warning.

McAllister's next meeting was with Bill Weller, the assistant D.A. who
had successfully prosecuted Tom Allanson.  If Paw's confession was
true, then Tom had been wrongly convicted.  Dunham McAllister handed
over what Pat had told him were her roughly typed recollections of "the
confession."  The actual confession was alleged to be in the possession
of Paw Allanson's attorneys.

Although such scenarios are common to TV courtrooms, they rarely happen
in real life: a convicted killer proved to be innocent after all,
exonerated when someone else confesses to the crime .  But it could
happen.  Maybe Tom Allanson was doing hard time for crimes he had not
committed.  But Paw Allanson a killer?

If the old man was guilty, he would certainly be one of the most
unlikely murderers ever to surface in Georgia.

On June 21, Investigator R. A. Harris of the Fulton County District
Attorney's Office went to the First Palmetto Bank in East Point.

According to Pat, officers of this bank had witnessed an notarize aw s
signature on a typed reduction of her own notes on the old man's
admission of murder.

An assistant vice-president of the bank, A. V. "Gus" Yosue, remembered
a rather odd incident.  A woman had come into his bank around six in
the evening on a Friday a few months back, asking if she could get some
papers notarized.  She had explained that all the other banks were
closed and that "Daddy"-her grandfatherdidn't want everyone knowing his
business anyway.  Yosue had never seen her before-or since, for that
matter.  "Daddy" was out in the car when the woman first came in, and
Yosue had explained that the old gentleman would have to come inside to
have his documents notarized.

Joyce Tichenor, the head teller of the First Palmetto Bank, told
Investigator Harris that Mr. Yosue had helped an elderly man to her
window.  He and his granddaughter had a stack of papers, and Tichenor's
cursory glance had told her they seemed to be some type of real estate
documents-warranty deeds and the likemost of them apparently standard
forms.

The woman, in her thirties and very attractive, had seemed most
solicitous of the old man.  She had pointed her finger at the bottom of
several pages, saying, "Sign this paper, Daddy," or "Daddy, sign here
on this line."

Tichenor had notarized the signatures.  She had no idea what the
documents really were; it was not, she explained, her busis to read
documents brought to her.  Neither she nor Yosue nes had read the
papers.  The elderly man had simply followed the directions of his
granddaughter, signing without question.

Pat had told Bob Tedford that Paw's attorneys held a white envelope
that contained vital information, but she had been tearfully hesitant
to say more.  Tedford wanted to see what was in that envelope.  The
East Point detective called Hamner and Reeves and asked if they had
such a document.  They did, and promised to meet Tedford with the
envelope in Paw A anson hospital room.

Bill Hamner had wrestled with the question of legal ethics and the
plain white envelope he had held, he thought, for old Mr.  Allanson.

Should he have come forward earlier?  Should he have waited longer?

Hamner explained that it was Pat Allanson who had brought the envelope
to his firm.  The envelope bore only a few words, scribbled in a shaky
hand: Mr. Walter Allanson plese don't open untill I pass out "I
thought it was sort of strange," Homner said, "but the envelope was
sealed.  I just stuck it in the file.  . . . I probably had the
confession six .

. . maybe eight weeks total.  . .

. Pat came up to the office one day.  . . . She said she had been
riding with 'Daddy' and he had tried to run the car into a tree.

He was driving and she was in the passenger seat, and he had tried to
hit the tree on the passenger side.  . . . [S]he grabbed the steering
wheel to keep him from hitting the tree, and she thought .  . . he was
trying to kill her, maybe.  She said this would tie in with the
envelope."

Hamner was a civil, not a criminal, attorney and he had urged her to
give that information to Dunham McAllister, who would better know what
to do about it.  Bill Hamner and Fred Reeves had reason to expect some
startling revelation in the envelope, but they had adhered to the
instructions on the front and hadn't opened it until old Walter
Allanson had truly "passed out" and slipped into his mysterious coma.

On June 24, Investigator Harris, Sergeant Bob Tedford, and George
Boggs, Jean's husband, went to Paw Allanson's hospital room to ask him
about his "confession."  Apparently Paw hadn't seen any version of his
so-called confession.  He was only ten days past a critical coma, but
he would have to read the confession before he could confirm or refute
it.

Paw was rapidly returning to his old self and was absolutely lucid now,
with a keen memory.  With his permission, Hamner gave Sergeant Tedford
the opened white envelope.  He showed it to Paw and asked him if he
remembered writing on it.  He nodded.  "Yeah.

I was cooking supper one night, and Pat came into the kitchen and told
me that my lawyers wanted me to write that on the envelope."

"Was there anything in it?"

Nope.

There was something in it now.  Five legal-sized sheets of paper on
which a very bad typist and speller had typed what appeared to be a
confession.  Bob Tedford read the contents without speaking, and then
handed the pages to the old man in the bed.  "Did you write this?"

Paw scanned it, beginning to shake his head almost immediately.

Ap?il 19, 1976

My name is Walter Allanson, and I'm telling this to my granddaughter,
Tommy's wife, Pat Allanson, and she's doing it on the type-writer cause
I don't write so good anymore since I had the heart attack.  This is so
if I have a heart attack before Mama dies Tommy zwn't have to stay in
jail for what he didn't do.  If Mama dies first then I'll tell what I
did.  I told all this to pat, Tommy's wife, at the hospital.... I
thought I was going to die, and I knew nobbody would beleive Tommy if
he told em the truth.  Then I got better and Pat didn't say nothing, so
I didn't say nothing ... [but] I told her that ifyean didn't quit
Bothering Mama Id shoot her like I did Walter... Pat started to cry and
said I shoudn't talk like that.... I said it was the truth, but she
didn't beleive me....

The writer of the confession tended to ramble a good deal, hinting that
"Tommy" had known the truth all along but had agreed to protect his
grandfather and to tell no one.  He a so too several swipes at lawyers
in general, and Ed Garland in particular.

I neverfigured they'd be able to keep Tommy locked up.

But, of course, they had.

Little Carolyn and Walter Allanson were castigated on page after
page.

I told him he'd never give Tommy a chance, even when he was
4ittle....

Anyway, Walterjust laughed and said he'd clean up all this mess before
the week-end and then he'd take care of me and Mama.... She told me
Walter had said he'd kill her if he found she was helping Tommy, and he
was going to put us both in old folks home after he took care o
Tommy.... If Idivae of heard Walter when he threatened Mama, then he
wouldn't have even lived until the next tuesday.  Id a shot him tight
there....

The confession was, in its own way, a masterpiece, misspellings and
all.  Every question a sharp detective might have asked was covered.

The writer explained his motive for murder, how he was able to be away
from home without raising suspicions on the day Walter and Big Carolyn
Allanson had died, how frightened Pat and Nona had been, and then he
moved ahead to the actual incident.

I took care ofmama first, and then drove over to where Walter lived
...

went up the driveway.  I cut the phone wire with my pocket knife.  Then
Ijimmied the basement door open, and went upstairs to get waiters shot
gun and some shells.  I didn't know he'd bought that rifle or Id got it
too.  Yakes's Pistol wasn't there, so Ifigured Walter had it.  I went
back down into the basement, and cut the power off and went to
waitingfor Walter.

The writer had heard cars come home, people talking, Walter coming down
the basement stairs, and he realized, too late, that Tommy was there in
the basement too.

I didn't figure on Tommy being there.  He was telling his Daddy that he
just wanted to be left alone ... he said he warm't mad at nobody....

Tommy told his Daddy that Pat was at the Doctor...

The document painted Walter Allanson as a wicked man indeed; Tommy had
tried to leave-he had said what he'd come to say-but Walter wouldn't
let him go.  He told Tommy to wait in the basement while he calmed down
the women upstairs.

I was hoping Tommy would leave right then out the kitchen way, but he
was doing what he always done all his life.  He was waiting for Walter
to come and tell him it was O.K He always did what his daddy said, and
Walter knew he would.... Id already figured out that Walter was not
going to let Tommy leave there alive.  He was going to kill Tommy like
he was going to kill Mama and me.  . .

According to the long, rambling confession, Paw had somehow managed to
hoist himself up into the "hole" in his son's basement and hide there
before his grandson crawled up beside him.

I thought he was going to yell out when he found me in there.  I think
he was too scared.... Tommy said, "Let's get out of here, Paw-Daddy's
going to shoot us both.  . . .

But then they had both heard Walter talk to the policeman and refuse to
let the officer search the house, and it had all gone downhill from
there.  The writer said Walter had come back into the dark basement
again, right up to the hole, and shouted that he was going to kill Tom,
so he might as well come on out.

Then Walter hollered up for Carolyn to bring down the rifle, "I've got
him cornered-he ain't gonna get of here ever.

told you he was a coward.... He walked away from the hole, and that's
when I come up to the opening.  Big Carolyn come down the steps
hollering, "I'm going to kill him," and cut loose with the rifle, right
at where me and Tommy was.  I shot back and hit her and she fell.  I
stepped back to reload, and thats when Walter emptied the pistol in the
hole all around Tiommy.... Then I shot agian and hit Walter, but he
didn't fall right off like Carolyn did.  Tommy sta?fed saying, "oh my
God, oh My God, and I told him to get the hell out and get away, and he
kept falling over stuff and ran out the back door... (I didn't want to
kill big Carolyn or little Carolyn, I didn't want to kill nobody) but
Walter was mean and greedy and hateful ... so I had to get him first,
before he got Mama and me and milled us or put us away....

The writer of the confession seemed to know things that only someone
who had actually been in that basement could have known.

And every so often, he reminded whoever might read it that Tom was
innocent, that Pat was innocent and had tried only to protect Tom, Paw,
and Nona, and that it had been a matter of kill or be killed.

He even tossed in that Tommy had called him from the liquor store after
the shootings to say he was hitchhiking home to Zebulon.

Paw-at least the Paw in the confession-couldn't come forward to get
Tommy off the hook because he couldn't go to prison and leave his
wife.

He repeated this over and over.

MAMA DON'T YNOW WHAT I DID.  She might have a stroke if she did.

This is how it happened and how I did it....

All of his grandson's troubles and the knowledge that Tom was going to
prison for a crime he had not committed had worn the writer down.

That worried me and got my brain tired out, and probably made me have
the heart attack.  I didn't want Tommy to stay in prison, but I aint
going to prison for milling Walter, when I had to do it to keep him
from killing us or putting us away.  If I tell about it now, theyll
still lock me up, but I'm too old, and thatd kill Mama, so I can't do
it right now.  But I"M telling this now so that when I die at least
they'll beleive Tommy when he tells the truth.  After I"M dead Mama
will understand why i did what I did.

IM gonna sign this in front of a witness to put in a envelope to give
to my lawyers.  They can't open it til after I die.... That's all I got
to say.

Underneath that voluminous confession, someone had printed crookedly:
"Sworn to and subscribed before me this 16 day of April 1976.  Joyce
Tichenor, Notary Public."  There was no seal imprint, but there was
Tichenor's official stamp, and she had verified to investigators that
the stamp was indeed hers.  The printing was not.

Paw Allanson's signature was at the bottom.  It was his signature-he
was sure of it.  And the initials at the bottom of each page were his
too.  But he had absolutely no memory of writing or agreeing to any of
the contents.  He seemed dumbfoundedas well he might.  Harris
pressed.

Was there any truth in this confession?  In any part of it?  "No!"  Paw
snorted.

If Paw Allanson hadn't written the confession, who had?  The details
certainly sounded as if the author had been an eyewitness to the deadly
events of July 3, 1974.  But Paw?  He was a sturdy old man, but would
he have been capable of all the actions the confession described?

Tedford figured that was highly unlikely.  Paw was as puzzled as the
detectives were.  Of course, if he had died of an overdose, he would
not have been able to refute the confession.

If the D.A."s office believed that Paw was the real killer of his son
and daughter-in-law, then Tom would get a new trial and would quite
probably be freed.  And who, Tedford asked himself, had the most to
gain if such a thing came to pass?  Tom Allanson certainly.  Tom had
sent frequent letters to his grandparentsright up until May-urging them
to trust Pat.  But as far as any hands-on action, Tom couldn't have
poisoned Paw if he had wanted to; he was locked up tight in Jackson
Prison, and had been for months.

"Do you remember ever signing any papers for Pat?"  Tedford asked Paw
quietly.  "Anything at all?"

Paw scratched his head.  He explained that he and his wife had trusted
Pat; she had been good to them after Tommy went to prison.

"Did you ever go to a bank on Washington Road with Pat?"

Harris asked.

Paw strained to remember.  "Yeah, seems like I did.  Pat wanted me to
sign some papers-in front of a notary lady."  He could not remember
actually going into the bank, but he recalled Pat had wanted him to
sign some business papers.  He hadn't hot hered to read the papers.

Sergeant Tedford turned to Hamner and Reeves, Paw Allanson's
attorneys.

"When did you say you got this envelope?"

"Mrs. Allanson-Pat Taylor Allanson-came into the office one day in
April," Hamner replied.  "I couldn't tell you the exact date.  She told
us that Mr.  Allanson wanted us to have it."

This didn't jibe with what Pat had told the East Point detectives as
she wept in the shadow of the wisteria vine on Paw Allanson's porch.

Both Tedford and his partner had been impressed with her sincerity, her
pain, and her helplessness.

"During earlier conversations with Pat," Tedford wrote in his follow-up
report, she told us that Mr. Allanson's attorneys were in his hospital
room when he had had his last heart attack.  This is when Mr. Allanson
this statement.  Pat said she took notes during this converhad given
sation, and then, when Mr. Allanson was released from the hospital,
she had typed another statement from her notes and Mr. Allanson had
signed it.  The copy of the statement obtained from Dunham McAllister,
Pat's attorney, is exactly the same as the original obtained from
Hamner and Reeves, and could not be exactly alike if she had typed hers
from notes.

Hamner and Reeves are sure that they have never taken a statement from
Mr. Allanson in the hospital or anywhere else.... [B]ased on this
information, this statement is believed to be a forged document....

Tedford suspected other false documents might be tucked away here and
there.  f le made a note to check into the elder Allansons' wills.  Paw
was in no immediate danger of dying, although he would be in the
hospital for some time.  The doctors still couldn't pinpoint just what
had brought on his collapse and week-long coma.

Jean Boggs was a determined woman.  She didn't know yet about the
confession, but she did not believe for a moment that her father had
tried to kill her mother, nor did she believe he was suicidal.  Paw was
too bullheaded to give up on life, and he 1: had taken exquisite care
of her mother for a decade.  He would never leave her behind willingly,
and he would never hurt one hair on her head.

Paw seemed as puzzled as jean was by his condition.  He had been truly
amazed to find that he had not had a stroke.  He shook his head in
bewilderment at the thought that he had "overdosed."

He wanted to find out what was wrong with him as much as jean did.

Two specialists-neurologists-were called in on a consulting basis.

Neither could isolate the cause of Paw's coma.  They suggested that he
have CAT scans of the brain and his upper gastrointestinal tract.  The
scanning lab was just across the street from South Fulton Hospital.

Jean and her son, David, wheeled Paw there.  The tests took thirty
minutes and the results were inconclusive.

A horror was growing in Jean Boggs.  She already suspected that Pat
Allanson wanted to inherit her parents'assets.  But now jean wondered
if Pat might actually have attempted to hasten her father's demise.

Was Pat dosing her daddy with something that made him sick?  Jean had
heard that two years ago someone had snuck into Little Carolyn's
apartment and put something in Tommy's baby's milk.  She had been
told-mistakenly-that the substance used was arsenic.  In fact, the milk
had been conlaminated with formaldehyde.

jean was about to become an expert in poison-at least one poison:
arsenic.  Paw had used it on the farm years back with the animals, not
as a poison but as a cure.  It was really the only poison she had ever
beard about.  Jean called the Georgia State Crime Lab and asked to
speak to someone about the symptoms Of poison.  She got lucky; one of
the top experts in the South happened to be in the lab that day.  Dr.
Everett Solomons, with an undergraduate degree in chemistry and a Ph.D.
in medicinal chemistry, knew as much about poisons as anybody in the
state of Georgia.

"Could you tell me what the symptoms of arsenic poisoning are?"  Jean
began without preamble.  "I really need to know."

There was something about her voice.  This woman meant it when she said
she had to know.

"Well, it could show up a number of ways," Solomons began.

"Gastrointestinal upset, vomiting, or flulike symptoms, aching in the
extremities-the feet, legs, hands, arms."

"My daddy has three of those symptoms.  Is there any way that you can
check for arsenic poisoning after the person's system has been flushed
out with intravenous feeding-I mean, after time has gone by?"

Solomons paused and cleared his throat.  "Is this gentlemanis he still,
ah, alive?"

"Oh, yes."

"Well, then your answer is yes.  I can check for you.  I want you to do
some things for me.  Ask your doctor to collect a twenty-four-hour
urine specimen.  Next, cut some hair off your father's head."

"How much?"

"Oh, about a fourth of a cup."

How much hair makes a fourth of a cup?  Jean wondered to herself.  Do
you pack it in like brown sugar, or let it fluff up like shredded
coconut?  Solomons explained that the hair had to come from new hair
growth around the subject's neck.  Thirdly, she was to cut her father's
fingernails and place them in a plastic bag.

Jean hurried back to the East Point Police Department and conferred
with Assistant Chief Lieb and Sergeant Tedford.  She informed them of
Solomons'advice.  This time, they had every reason to take her
seriously.  Tedford immediately called Dr. Jones and asked if it was
possible that Paw Allanson had been given arsenic.

"It could be," Jones said, his voice suddenly aware of an unthinkable
possibility.  "The symptoms look like so many other diseases-at least
at first."

When arsenic is ingested, it seeks a place to "hide" in the human
body.

It goes rapidly to areas where phosphorus is stored and replaces it.

Human beings need phosphorus for energy.  After long exposure to the
poison, the extremities ache, circulation is compromised, and
eventually paralysis and death occur.  In the beginning, arsenic
poisoning can resemble a bad case of boneaching flu with vomiting.

Later it can mimic multiple sclerosis and other more serious chronic
illnesses.

"We're going to need lab tests," Tedford said.  "Mrs. Boggs said we
need at least two hundred cc's of urine over a twenty-fourhour
period."

Jones said he would advise the hospital at once and the urine samples
would be collected.  Tedford hung up and called the Fulton County
D.A."s Office and informed them of the new suspicions about Paw
Allanson's condition.

On June 26, Tedford accompanied Jean Boggs to her father's hospital
room.  The old man sat patiently as Jean snipped a quarter of a cup of
hair and cut his fingernails.  Tedford said he would be back the next
day to pick up the twenty-four-hour urine sample.

By 8:00 A.M. on Monday, June 28, 1976, Dr. H. Horton McGurdy of the
Georgia State Crime Lab was in possession of a brown jug containing
1,000 cc's of urine, a plastic bag with hair and hair root samples, and
a similar bag with fingernail clippings.

Analysis would begin at once.

. . .

jean Boggs was nervous.  Now that the wheels were in motion, she hated
the thought of her mother alone with Pat out on Washington Road.

Scarcely expecting a gracious welcome, she drove there anyway.  She
found Nona Allanson sitting in the kitchen with a practical nurse Pat
had hired.  The nurse stared at jean.  "Miz Allanson's went on home to
tend to some things," she said coldly.

Evidently, she had been told to beware of Jean.

jean saw tears on her mother's cheeks.  She knelt down and took her
hand.  "What's wrong, Mother?"

"There's nothing wrong with her," the nurse answered quickly.

"Yes, there is, " Jean said.  "She's been crying."

"She doesn't ever cry unless you come around her."

"Mother, what is wrong?"  Jean asked again.

"I can't tell you," Nona mumbled.

"I can't help you, Mother, if you don't tell me what's wrong."

Finally, Nona sighed and asked sadly, "Why did Daddy kill Walter and
Carolyn?"

"Who on earth told you that?"

"Mrs.  Radcliffe.

"Mrs.  Radcliffe?  Is she the only one who told you that?"

Jean thought surely her mother was confused.

"Pat told me too, and Colonel Radcliffe Nona Allanso was so upset that
her daughter could not calm her down.

Jean got Bob Tedford on the phone and he offered to come out and talk
to her mother.  jean had some questions of her own he arrived at the
house, the young detective assured too.  When the elderly woman that
her husband was not a killer, that nobody believed that.  He was sick
and he was in the hospital, but he would be home with her soon-just
like always.  Nona Allanson seemed only slightly comforted; she
remained apprehensive and tearful.

Almost as a throwaway question, Tedford asked, "You haven't been
signing any papers, have you, while your husband is in the hospital?"

Tedford couldn't be sure, but he thought her mumbled answer was,
"Yes."

"Oh, my Lord," he breathed.  jean looked up at Tedford with dread.  She
didn't even have to ask her questions.  She could see it in his eyes.

At 3:00 that afternoon, the lab called Gus Thornhill.  "The screening
test on Walter Allanson's urine 's complete," Dr. McGurdy said.  "We
found arsenic .

It would take somewhat longer, the toxicologist said, to test the hair
and nail samples.  But the first results were more than enough for
Thornhill and Tedford.  They grabbed their case file and headed for the
D.A."s office.  Andy Weathers would be taking over this case.  The
assistant D.A. was sharp, combativebut with a humorous edge-and
terribly dangerous to guilty defendants.

Until now, the case file had been only a few pages thick and the
complaint still read, "Overdose."  It was growing thicker.  The charge
would now be "Criminal Attempt to Commit Murder.

And the prime suspect was Patricia Radcliffe Taylor Allanson.

The Georgia Crime Lab had placed Paw Allanson's urine sample in a
container with hydrochloric acid, water, and a piece of copper.  If
certain metals were present -including arsenic-a black deposit would
appear on the copper.  It had.  The urine was further analyzed by a wet
oxidation procedure to reduce the specimen to a small amount of clear
liquid, free of all extraneous materials except metals.  This material
was then subjected to reduction by zinc and acid, producing arsene gas
in a small tube.

A reddish color would indicate the presence of arsenic.  The amount of
arsenic present could then be determined by an electrospectrometer with
a laser probe.

The average person's urine would show no arsenic present.

Certain occupations caused a low percentage of the poison.  Paw
Allanson had, in years past, used arsenic on his farm.  Would that have
accounted for the poison in his urine?  No, the lab technicians said.

Even if he had used arsenic on the farm recently-which he had not-that
would not account for the fact that Paw had ten times the amount of
poison in his system that a working farmer would have!

Arsenic had been carried in his bloodstream and deposited at the base
of his fingernails and at the roots of his hair, an irrevocable process
that left a "calendar" of ingestion.  Paw Allanson's hair had 1.0
milligrams of arsenic per 100 millimeters; his nails had 5.5 milligrams
of arsenic per 100 millimeters.

The East Point detectives swung into action.  They called Dr. Jones
with the results of the crime lab tests.  He agreed that Nona Hanson
should be removed from her granddaughter-in-law's care at once and
hospitalized.  For a long time, Jean Boggs's accusations against Pat
had seemed suspect; it was clear to them she didn't like her nephew's
wife, the woman who had taken her place in her parents' lives.  The
East Point officers and Dr. Jones had initially found Pat Allanson a
rather nice woman who seemed genuinely concerned about her
grandparents-in-law.  just a week before, Nona had suffered from
pneumonia and severe bronchitis, and Pat had obediently followed Dr.
Jones's every direction.  Nona's 103-degree fever had dropped, and she
was doing much better.  Given the fact that Pat was on crutches or a
cane due to her own poor health, Jones had found her especially
dutiful.

Now Jones doubted his own judgment of human nature.  It was beginrfing
to look as if Pat Allanson was not the tender care giver she purported
to be, and that jean Boggs had been right all along.  Bob Tedford sent
word to Jean that he was on his way to see Fulton County District
Attorney Lewis Slaton himself to get a court order to remove Nona
Allanson from her home.  Every hour's delay might count, and someone
should be with the old lady.  "Bob says not to let your mother eat or
drink anything," the police dispatcher advised.

headed immediately for her parents' Jean and her son home.  She was met
at the door by a livid Pat Allanson.  She had had a phone call from Dr.
Jones.  "He said they need her there for some testing, and I think
that's a terrible thing," Pat ranted.

She could see no earthly reason for Nona to go to a hospital.

"Well," Jean stalled.  "If he thinks that's the thing to do, then we'd
better do it."

Pat wouldn't even consider letting Nona go to the hospital.

She had already called an attorney, who advised her that Dr. Jones had
no power to hospitalize Mrs. Allanson.  Pat was suspicious, but her
suspicions were pointed in the wrong direction -at Jean Boggs.  She had
no idea that a police investigation had rolled into high gear.  She
assumed that jean was trying to have Nona declared incompetent so she
could take over her guardianship-and control Paw and Nona's assets.

Pat fussed over Nona's hair, petting her and reassuring her.

"You don't have to go anyplace you don't want to, Ma.  They can't make
you and I won't let them."  jean was frightened.  She wondered what was
taking the ambulance and the police so long.  She was even
more,concerned when Colonel Clifford Radcliffe showed up.  He was such
an imposing man, and Jean was suitably intimidated.

None of them wanted her there-not Pat, nor the colonel, or even the
nurse.  The only chance jean had was to somehow get through to her
mother-make Nona understand that she was there to save her life.  But
how?  Her mother seemed to think that Pat walked on water.

When Pat left the room, Jean whispered to her mother, "Mother, listen
to me very carefully.  Don't tell anyone what I'm saying to you.  Don't
say anything to Pat-but Daddy has been poisoned.

It was, perhaps, an unwise move.  Her mother was very feeble, and they
had not been close for months now.  Nona Allanson just looked at Jean
blankly and mumbled, "What?"

"We just found out about it," Jean whispered.  "We have to get you to
the hospital to see if you're all right.  You have to have some
tests."

Nona clamped her jaw down and announced she wasn't going anywhere."  I
won't go."

Jean begged her mother to trust her, and to speak quietly.  The wait
was becoming a nightmare.  Despite Jean's objections, the nurse brought
Nona a 7Up.  Jean couldn't very well snatch it out of her mother's
hand.

The phone rang.  Jean grabbed it.  She lied to her mother and said it
was her husband-but it was really Bob Tedford.  "How are you
feeling?"

Tedford asked.

"Uncomfortable."

"Hang on.  I'm on my way."

Tedford had laid out the case for D.A. Lewis Slaton, and Slaton had
grasped the need for rapid action.  "You've got whatever permission you
need.

Don't worry about papers.  Get that lady in the hospital now!"

Tedford had called an ambulance and it was speeding toward Washington
Road.

It was 4:00 in the afternoon on Monday, June 28, 1976.  And then
4:30.

The minutes crept by agonizingly.  Then, suddenly, there was a loud
pounding on the front door.  Jean jumped.  She wondered who else Pat
might have called for backup.  She heard footsteps approaching and was
tremendously relieved to see Bob Tedford and another detective walk
into the living room.

Tedford made no attempt to soften his announcement to Pat Allanson.

"Arsenic has been found in Mr. Allanson's system and we need to take
Mrs.  Allanson to the hospital for tests."

Pat looked at him without changing expression, not so much as the
flickering of an eye.  She turned on her heel and headed for Nona's
bedroom.

Tedford was right behind her.

The little house on Washington Road erupted into chaos.  Nona Allanson
was already nearly hysterical, unable to grasp what was going on.  When
Tedford informed Pat that an ambulance was on the way for Mrs.
Allanson, she was incensed.  Her voice rose, whipping the old lady into
a froth of panic.  She bombarded her husband's grandmother with dire
warnings, every word making the paralyzed woman more terrified.

Nona's mouth worked ineffectively as she tried to form questions, and
Pat just kept on shouting at her.  "They're going to take you to the
hospital for some silly tests!  They'll be giving you shots all the
time.  You can't let them.  Your insurance won't pay for it," Pat
ranted.  "You'll be deep in debt, Ma.  I won't be able to come see
you.

They won't let you have any visitors."

Tedford feared the old lady was about to have another stroke.  She
looked utterly panicked and begged to stay in her home.  Pat kept after
her, predicting all manner of disasters if Nona let them take her in
the ambulance.

Finally Tedford had had enough.  He pulled Pat aside and spoke through
gritted teeth.  "I've heard all I want to hear from you.  If you keep
this up, I'm going to ask you to leave."

Jean Boggs was the blood relative; she had the law on her side, Tedford
told Pat, and she would decide whether her mother would go to the
hospital or not.  Pat was seething.  The hatred in the room rose around
them like an almost palpable raiasma.

Colonel Radcliffe got his attorney on the phone and handed the receiver
to Tedford.  The attorney threatened Tedford with a lawsuit, and the
detective replied that that would be just fine.  The real defendant
would be the Fulton County district attorney, Lewis Slaton-officially,
it was Slaton who had ordered that Mrs. Walter Allanson be removed
from her home for tests.

Nobody in his right mind sued Lewis Slaton.

"Colonel Radcliffe," Tedford continued easily, "since you're here,
would you mind showing me where it was that you saw Mr. Allanson
taking all those pills on that Saturday?"

The two men now stood in the hallway near the kitchen.  "I don't
remember any pills," Radcliffe said.

Tedford jerked his head around as if he'd been struck.

'I"at?"

"I don't remember any pills."

"Well, Colonel Radcliffe," Tedford began quietly.  "This is how the
whole case of the overdose got started.  It was all based upon your
statement to me, Pat Allanson's statement to me, and your wife was
there at the hospital too when you told me.  All three of u were a
reein at the tim you didn't see him take any pills?"

"That is correct."

"But you told me about the pills.  You described the way he was tossing
them down."

"You're confused, Sergeant.  You're lying."

"Fine, then," Tedford said grimly.  He knew what he had heard the first
time, and he found it interesting that Pat's stepfather had had such a
sudden loss of memory.

Mercifully, the ambulance finally arrived, and a stillprotesting Nona
Allanson was carried out on a stretcher.  Pat hopped on the jump seat
in the back beside her, and Jean sat next to the driver.  The old lady
was the object of a tug-of-war between them, and neither of them had
done much to calm her down.

Nona didn't believe what Jean had told her, that Paw had been
poisoned.

Sadly, she no longer trusted her own daughter.  Pat had convinced her
that she was going off for some terrible tests, that her insurance
wouldn't cover the cost, and that she would be barred from seeing
anyone she trusted and loved.

Bob Tedford was completely exasperated with Pat.  "I can't stop you
from going with her," he stated flatly, "but I don't want you talking
to her on the way to the hospital.  Do you understand that?"  Pat
looked back at him defiantly.  No one had ever shut her up when she had
something to say, and she wasn't about to obey commands now.  By this
time, Nona Allanson believed everything Pat told her.

Everything.

Over Pat's objections, Jean asked Lieutenant Thornhill to padlock her
parents' home the moment the Radcliffes vacated it.

Pat insisted that it was he.r duty to live there, that that would make
Nona feel more secure, but Jean just pursed her lips and shook her
head.  She didn't know what it was about Pat that had Mesmerized her
parents, but she was going to find out.  In the meantime, she would try
to protect whatever assets they had left.

"Padlock those doors, Gus," she pleaded.  "And don't let anybody in
unless I say so."

Pat talked continually to Nona on the short ride to the hospital, but
once there, the old woman was whisked off to the emergency room, where
no one could see her but hospital personnel.

If someone had adulterated Nona's food or beverages with arsenic, it
would show up in tests.  As doctors worked over Nona, Jean hurried to
her father's room to let him know that his cherished wife was now safe
in the hospital, only a few doors away from his own room.  His
attorney, Bill Hamner, was visiting him.

jean demanded that Pat's power of attorney over Nona and Paw's affairs
be terminated at once.  "She's still using it."

Hamner agreed to see that Pat's control over the elderly Allansons'
estate was stopped.  Just like Dr. Jones, Hamner and his partner, Fred
Reeves, had been impressed with Pat, finding her almost martyrlike in
her steadfast care of the old couple.  Whenever she had approached
their offices, it had always been on matters seemingly instigated by
Paw Allanson.  She appeared so ill herself, but she never complained,
spending her slight energy in caring for the Allansons.  Even now, a
moment or two after jean had warned Hamner about Pat, she limped into
Paw's room and motioned the lawyer over for a private consultation.

At first Bill Hamner found himself between a rock and a hard place.

jean watched with crossed arms and a baleful glare as he talked to
Pat.

She thought Pat was an evil, manipulative force in her parents'
lives.

Pat considered Jean a money-grabbing, ungrateful daughter.  In the end,
the choice was simple for the attorneys.  Hamner and Reeves represented
the elder Allansons, and they would do what seemed best for them.

On June 29, Paw Allanson gave Bob Tedford a written Consent to Search
waiver for his home and property.  Accompanied by W. L.

Jackson and Jean Boggs, Tedford searched the padlocked house.

They removed six liquor and wine bottles, some empty and some full and
still sealed.  jean identified some expensive whiskey as longago
Christmas gifts, and the blackberry wines Paw had made decades
before.

"Spirits" had always been kept out in the shed, but these were found in
the kitchen and the bedroom areas.  They also cleaned out the
refrigerator of liquids: tea, ice water, prune juice.  A syringe was
removed from the bathroom and labeled.

None of the items taken proved positive for arsenic.

On July 1, Colonel Radcliffe appeared at the East Point police
headquarters at Bob Tedford's request.  Tedford said calmly, "You are a
suspect in an attempted murder," and advised Radcliffe of his rights
under Miranda.

The ramrod-straight ex-colonel's face blanched, reflecting shock,
denial, and perhaps just a trace of apprehension.  Tedford didn't yet
know enough about Pat Allanson to be aware of the blanket of protection
that had been spread tenderly over her by her family from the moment
she was born.  He didn't realize that Colonel Radcliffe and his wife,
Margureitte, had spent much of their married life saving Pat from the
pickles, messes, and downright catastrophes she had managed to
provoke.

Tedford had seen Pat as a tearful, helpless, beautiful woman who made a
man want to protect her-then had watched her change in an instant into
a strident harridan.  She had been outrageous as she frightened the old
lady to keep her out of the hospital, but she had been completely
convincing when he and Turner talked to her and she sobbed out her
fears and losses.  Tedford wasn't sure which woman Pat really was.  The
more he knew about her, the more elusive she became.

Colonel Radcliffe offered no more information on Pat.  He stared
glacially at Tedford when the detective said he wanted to talk more
about the Saturday morning of June 12, the day Pat and the Radcliffes
had rushed to,save Nona from her "berserk" husband.

Radcliffe's memory of that day was not nearly as precise as it once had
been.

"Let me ask you, Colonel Radcliffe," Tedford said.  "Have you ever gone
with your daughter and Nona Allanson to see an attorney, or been
present when either of the senior Allansons signed papers?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Does Pat have powers of attorney from Paw and Nona Allanson?

"Yes, I believe she does.  You would have to ask Pat about that.  I
don't get involved."

"Have you seen Pat lately?"

The colonel looked vague.  "Not for a couple of days."

"Where is she?"

"You would, of course, have to ask her attorney.  Look, Sergeant, I
have to go back to work."  Colonel Radcliffe had taken a civil service
desk job at Fort Mac to help stem the burgeoning financial costs of
Pat's "problems."

"Am I under arrest or not?"

"No, you can go."

The next day, July 2, the results were in on the tests done on Nona
Allanson.  Her urine samples proved positive for arsenic, although the
concentration was only one-sixth the amount found in her husband's
system.  Her hair samples also showed the presence of the deadly
poison.  Her urine had 100 micrograms of arsenic per milligram, and her
hair tested 3.5 micrograms per milligrams of arsenic.

Nona had been bedridden, unable to prepare food for herself, certainly
unable to go outside her tiny home.  Everything she ingested had been
given to her by Pat, or by the nurse hired by Pat.  Her other regular
visitors were Margureitte and Clifford Radcliffe; Pat's daughter,
Debbie Taylor Cole; and the Radcliffes'neighbor, Fanny K. Cash.  Nona
had lost all contact with her own blood relatives.

She had not fared well with her new "family."

George "Homer" Boggs stopped by the East Point police station that same
afternoon.  He had with him a check drawn on the Allansons' account at
First National Bank in the amount of a thousand dollars, signed by Pat
Allanson under her power of attorney and deposited immediately in her
own account.  She had no legal right to do that; the papers giving her
power of attorney over the elder Allansons' considerable assets
specifically designated that she was to use their money only to take
care of them, or with special permission.

When Tedford asked him later, Paw Allanson said that he had not given
his consent for this check.  He had gone with Pat to the C&S Bank in
late May or early June and arranged a thousand-dollar loan to Pat to
help Tommy.  That check had its purpose written right on it: "For Tom's
Life."  The second check for a thousand dollars, however, was news to
Paw.

Tom had needed that thousand-dollar loan; he had one last appeal left
to him, and Dunham McAllister was trying to see that he got it.  It had
been almost exactly two years since Walter and Carolyn Allanson were
shot to death.

For East Point detectives on this new case, it would be the second
Fourth of July they had spent investigating the Allanson family while
the rest of Atlanta was celebrating Independence Day.

A few days later, Lieutenant Jackson and Sergeant Tedford were poring
over the confession for the twentieth time.  Suddenly, they noticed
that on the last page of the statement, something had been x-ed out.

Reading carefully through the x's, they could make out the phrase
"Dixie Cup Morgan Classic, Stone Mountain."

The first seven lines on the last page appeared to have been typed at a
different time than the rest of the text.

They were indented more than the others and typed at a different margin
setting.

James H. Kelly, chief document examiner for the Georgia Bureau of
Investigation's crime laboratory, verified that the last page of the
confession had not been typed continuously with the :other text on the
page.  "After the first paragraph was typed," he wrote, "the paper was
adjusted by either taking it out of the carriage and reinserting it, or
it was] moved while in the carriage."

That would make sense; if the notary public had glanced over the page
she stamped, she would have seen only sentences about .  . . If Mama
dies before I do," and nothing at all about guns and murder.

Now the detectives had to find someone who was connected with Morgan
horses.  And they already knew who that was Both Paw and Nona Allanson
had them in some way that they could not detect.  The East Point police
and the Fulton County D.A."s investigators hoped to trace the source of
that arsenic.

They began by checking through the myriad prescription drugs that Dr.
Jones had gathered up at the Allansons' home.  There were over fifty
vials, packets, boxes, and bottles.  Some of them went back to August
1950, and there were also the drugs that Dr. Jones had prescribed
recently.  Apparently, the old couple never threw a container of
medicine out as long as there were a few pills left.

Eventually, they were all identified.  There were pain pills,
tranquilizers, diuretics, antivertigo pills, sleeping pills, allergy
pills, decongestants, antacids, and antibiotics.  Analyzed at the
Georgia Bureau of Investigation's crime lab, none of them contained
arsenic.

A police sweep of the house had also produced a brown bag containing
white powder, a 'ar with a green cap containing brown granular
material, a jar with a red cap containing the same, and a glass bottle
with a white cap containing white powder.

arsenic, given to None of these substances proved to contain arsenIC
.

The bottle that Paw had allegedly been drinking from on the morning Pat
and her parents broke in to "rescue" Nona did contain arsenic.  In
fact, according to toxicologists Drs.  Solomons and McGurdy, it still
contained so much arsenic that, if the old man had been drinking from
it, a swig or two would have surely killed him where he stood.

Dr. Jones, of course, had never actually seen Paw with that old-timey
bottle; Pat had handed it to him.

While arsenic is a poison much beloved by fictional mystery writers, by
1974 it was not nearly as available as it once was.

Nor is it a particularly good choice as a murder weapon.  Its residue
stays in the body for all time.  It is also an extremely painful
poison.  The investigators could not find a case on record where
arsenic had been used for suicide; it is just too agonizing and
protracted a way to die.  If Paw Allanson had planned to kill himself
and his ailing wife, there were so many other methods that would have
worked more rapidly, and with far less pain.

Bob Tedford began the tedious task of interviewing veterinartans in the
East Point area who might have treated the Allansons' or Radcliffes'
animals.  He finally located the vet who treated the Radcliffes'
horses.  Asked if he ever used arsenic on horses, the vet replied,
"No.

Old-timers used to use it to treat horses for worms, but I don't know
anybody who does these days.  I use a chemical that serves the same
purpose.  It takes longer, but it's easier on the animals."

The vet did mention a drug used to stimulate appetite in horses:
Appitone.  As far as he knew, it had been off the market for two
years.

"It contains arsenic, but I doubt if it has enough to kill anyone.  I
bought the last dose of it from another doctor because one of my
clients requested it."

"Mrs.  Allanson?"  Tedford asked quickly.

The vet shook his head.  "Nope.  Someone else.  I had to search awhile
before I located any Appitone."

Another drug, known as Caco Copper, was used to encourage bone marrow
in horses to produce red blood cells.  "People say it has arsenic in
it," the vet said, "but it doesn't."

"When was the last time you treated Mrs.  Allanson's horses?"

'Let's see."  The doctor consulted his records.  "It was January 29,
1974.  I treated one of the girls' horses for a vitamin deficiency.

never gave Pat-Mrs. Allanson-any me dici@es.  And the only medications
I use with arsenic in them are injectablesI never hand them out to
anyone else."

"You know of any doctor still using arsenic routinely?"  Tedford
asked.

"Nope.  It's really an obsolete treatment."

Asked how well he knew Pat Allanson, the veterinarian looked away.  "I
never dated her.  She made it clear that she was available, though.

She was trouble.  All the vets knew that.  A couple of years
back-before I was married and my present wife and I were just
dating-Pat called her up and caused some real problems with what she
said."

Tedford got the same information from a number of local doctors who
treated show horses.  One vet, who clearly disliked both Tom and Pat,
snorted, "She's a real come-on.  She throws herself at every man she
sees."  Another veterinarian looked nervous as he said he had never
heard of the name Allanson.  Tedford learned later from a confidential
informant that the doctor knew Pat very well indeed.  He had dated her
but he d been married at the time, and he was still married.  His
reluctance to discuss her with the investigators was understandable.

Don Birch of the Georgia State Drug Inspector's Office told a Fulton
County D.A."s investigator that he had checked all the drugstores in
Zebulon, Grantville, Griffin, and Barnesville for any arsenic sales to
either Pat or Tom Allanson in the prior two years and found no record
of such a sale.  "Very few of the pharmacies sell arsenic in any form
at all," Birch said.  "It's not sold in powder form anymore.  The only
thing anybody uses arsenic for is to kill rats, treat dog mange, and
heartworms in horses.

Rat poison came in liquid form-in six-ounce bottles.  There were no
dusty medicine bottles out in Paw Allanson's barn or o treat h' shed.

If he had ever used old-fashioned preparations t is animals, medicines
containing arsenic, they were no longer on his premises.

The news media had heard rumors about "poisonings" in East Point.  On
July 8, Detective Sergeant Tedford was closemouthed, hinting only that
"as many as four persons might be arrested."  He refused to name those
persons.  There were too many missing elements of the case yet to be
revealed.

One very large segment was added when the investigators learned from
Paw Allanson's attorneys, Fred Reeves and Bill Hamner, that there had
been no fewer than three codicils to the elder Allansons' wills in a
relatively short time.

The original wills, drawn on September 11, 1974-two months after Walter
and Carolyn were murdered-named Tom and his aunt jean BoeLys as
coexecutors of Paw and Nona's estates.  On March 4 of 1975, after Pat
had made herself indispensable to the old couple, the first codicils
added Pat as a coexecutor, in case Tom could not serve.  The attorneys
said they had gone to the Allansons' home and no one else was present
as Paw and Nona signed the documents.

The second codicils came on August 1, 1975.  Jean Boggs was removed
completely as an executor, although she still received certain assets
under terms of her parents' wills.  Reeves and Hamner had been very
careful to see that both Allansons read and understood each section of
the codicils.  If Pat Allanson was in the house at the time, she was
not present at the signing.

On January 20, 1976, after Paw had his heart attack, Pat was given a
sweeping power of attorney.  And finally, on February 4, 1976, when
Nona and Paw were both hospitalized for extended care at South Fulton,
the third codicils changed the distribution of the elderly
Allansons'fortune completely.

Jean was eliminated altogether as an heir.  Paw and Nona Allanson's
current wills dictated that their assets would be distributed thusly:
(1) Fifty percent (50%) of the trust estate; or all real estate, farm
animals, jewelry, clothing, household goods, furniture and furnishings,
pictures, silverware, objects of art and automobiles ... shall be
distributed to my grandson, Tom Allanson, if he be in life.  If my
grandson, Tom Allanson, be not in life and is married to Patricia R.

Allanson at his death [a clause that Hamner and Reeves had insisted on]
then the property named in this subparagraph shall pass and be
distributed to Patricia R. Allanson.

(2) The remaining portion of my trust estate shall be divided equally
between my grandson, Tom Allanson, my grandson, David Byron Boggs, and
my granddaughter Nona Lisa Boggs.

(3) I have specifically excluded my daughter, Jean Elizabeth Boggs,
from any distribution of my estate.  I have done this as my daughter
has adequately provided for herself and I have further decided that
recent changes and events concerning the Allanson family situation
dictate that my estate could best be utilized and would be more
beneficial to the aforenamed individuals.

Tom Allanson was, indeed, "in life," but he was also in for life.  What
the third codicils to his grandparents' wills really meant was that,
should they die, his wife, Pat, would control 662/3 percent of a very
healthy inheritance.  She would have Tom's half of the entire trust,
plus Tom's third of the half that he shared equally with his two
cousins.  She would also be the executor.  Anything the old couple had
beyond the trust assets would also go to Pat.

As long as Tom was in prison.

Tom was cut off from his family; his information was controlled by his
wife.  Her letters and infrequent visits were his only window on the
world outside, and she didn't fill him in on all the boring details of
wills and codicils.  She kept assuring him ce would be that she was
fighting to get him out.  His last chan coming up in November.

Tom had no idea how dicey things were at home.

ALl through the melting-hot July of 1976, Pat and the Radcliffes waited
for the other shoe to drop.  The damnable East Point police were
snooping into every facet of Pat's life, asking questions, testing
everything they carted out of Paw and Nona's ;jll@@ house.  The police
were so rude; they clearly had no breeding at all.  They had been rude
to her mother and the colonel too, and it was unnerving to hear Bob
Tedford tell the newspapers that fourpeople might be arrested.

Tedford talked to one of Nona Allanson's nurses, Juanita Jackson, who
had cared for the elderly woman after Paw was hospitalized.  Juanita
had noticed that Nona seemed inordinately drowsy, and Pat had explained
that she was taking some pills and needed one every twenty-four
hours.

She showed Juanita a bottle of green and gray capsules.  But the old
woman slept so much that the practical nurse had suggested to Pat,
"Let's don't give her any more of this medication."  She didn't know
whether Pat had taken her advice or not.  Mrs. Allanson remained quite
groggy.

The sedative Vistaril came in a green and gray capsule in
twenty-five-milligram doses, usually given three or four times a day.

It had been prescribed for Paw-not Nona-and it was to be given
cautiously as it had a depressive effect, particularly when combined
with other medications.

"Who cooked?"  Tedford asked.

"Pat did some, and sometimes she brought in food.  I did some, and the
night nurse did some."

The only visitor Juanita recalled in the weeks between June 15 and June
28 was a pleasant, heavyset woman named Fanny K. Cash.  But there was
another visitor.  Mrs. Amelia Estes had been Nona and Paw's neighbor
for nineteen years.  She was appalled to find her old friend in a sorry
state when she called on Nona one day after Paw was hospitalized.

"I found her different from what I had ever seen before," she told
Tedford.  "You could tell something was wrong because she looked .  .

.

drugged.  She didn't really know anybody or know what she was doing or
saying.  . . . Pat asked her if she wanted to go out on the porch, and
we rolled her out there.  Pat went to the mailbox and I sat there with
her, but she could not hold her head up for any length of time .  . .

and if she came up, her eyes were rolling and wallowing around.  There
was something desperately wrong someway."

Mrs.  Estes had also been let in on Paw's supposed confession.

"I started to leave and Pat asked me if I had a few minutes.  . . .

She wanted to tell me about Mr. Allanson signing a confession to the
murder of Walter and Carolyn!  Of course it was a terrible shock to me
to think that such had been done.  . . . She said she had a terrible
time getting him to sign it because he thought if he lived through
this, they couldn't pin anything on him.  She said that he had
confessed to her while he was in the hospitaland she was crying-and
said she had to live with this without telling anybody for so long, and
nobody would ever know what she had gone through after getting the
confession and having to keep it to herself."

On July 20, Tedford left a call for Colonel Radcliffe, asking for
another interview.  Radcliffe returned the call and pointedly asked,
"Are you going to be advising me of my rights again?"

"Yes, I will be."

"Well, then I'm not coming in."  "You can ave your attorney present
during any interview I can't afford an attorney.  You'll have to
provide one.  No, I on't believe I will consent to an interview."

On July 26, Colonel Radcliffe changed his mind.  He and his wife came
in with their attorney and gave a formal statement to Tedford and
Investigator Richard Daniell.  As always, the Radcliffes were very
proper, very precise in their speaking patterns, iiijid they maintained
their position of annoyed dignity, as if it were patently ridiculous
for people of their social standing to actually speak with the
police.

Margureitte Radcliffe was the more talkative-as she always was.  Her
husband began most of his answers with "To the best of my knowledge .

and "Not to my knowledge."

Everything everything-they said dovetailed with their daughter's recall
of events at Paw and Nona Allanson's home.  Yes, the old woman had most
assuredly been terrified of "Big Allanson" and had begged them to come
and save her from Paw.  They had done what decent Christian people
would do.

Margureitte recalled that the bad weekend in June had really begun on
Wednesday afternoon, June 9. Nona had called the Radcliffe home on Tell
Road to say she had had nothing to eat, she had wet herself, and needed
help.  "I said I had no transportation at the moment, but whoever got
to the house first would come over," Margureitte said.  "My husband and
I went .  . . and gave her some water.  . . . I cleaned her up.  . .

.

Mr. Allanson said he was feeling not so good, his legs were a little
weak and had been bothering him, and he had not been able to do
anything for her."

Margureitte and Pat had stayed that night with the old couple.  Things
had, of course, been worse on Saturday morning when the colonel had to
break into the house.  Neither of them had actually seen Paw swallow
any pills.  Colonel Radcliffe thought it might have been Tang, and not
orange juice, that Paw had been drinking.

They had both seen the old whiskey bottle.

"I saw a pint bottle," Margureitte explained, "and I haven't the
remotest idea of what it was....... By the freezer, there's a mangle
thing-there was a bottle..... and the doctor had said, 'Get everything
out of his way."  Mrs. Allanson [Pat] said, 'Pour it out,'and before I
could say'beans,' my husband took it in the bathroom and politely
turned it up and poured it out.  I said, 'Maybe you shouldn't have
poured it out-because Dr.  Jones possibly will want to go a i .

Both the Radcliffes stressed that it was Dr. Jones who had planted the
idea of an "overdose" in their minds.  Margureitte a4ded some details,
however, to Paw's bizarrely assaultive behavior.  "She [Nona] .  . .

said at one point he [Paw] held her mouth and said, 'Drink this
coffee!'But it wasn't coffee."  Her voice lowered to a dramatic
whisper.  "Now I said to her, 'Ma, you mean he didn't have anything?"

And she said, 'I mean it wasn't coffee."  .  . . Then she said he had
pulled her hair and tried to smother her with a pillow.  She said at
one point, he had tried to wrap her up in the sheets!"

"Were you aware," Richard Daniell asked suddenly, "that Tom Allanson
and your daughter, Pat, at the time back in June -in the event of
either Mr. or Mrs. Allanson dying-that they would get almost
everything according to the wills?"

Margureitte sighed deeply.  "I know Nona's told me that she wanted to
change her will.  I don't know what the feelings are in that family,
and, frankly, I wish I'd never heard of any of them!

I'll be perfectly honest with you; they've really just torn us apart.

They don't even like each other-can't even tolerate each other."

The detectives were fascinated to hear the Radcliffes backing off on
vital specifics and filling in dramatic details elsewhere in their
statements.  Most of all, they were interested to see just the
slightest fraying at the edges of this couple's facade of elegant
detachment.  They were protesting too much.

The Radcliffes announced that they had a witness outside the family who
could back up their recall of old Walter Allanson's aggressive
behavior: Fanny K. Cash, their good neighbor on Tell Road.  Fanny had,
in fact, accompanied them to the East Point Police Department.  She too
was advised of her rights under Miranda and didn't bat an eye.

Although Fanny had not seen the elderly Allansons for a month, Pat and
the Radcliffes had prevailed upon her to spend that Saturday night at
the Allanson home, so that Pat wouldn't be alone.  She had agreed to
go, as long as they would see she got to church on Sunday morning.  She
was very active, she explained, in church activities and ladies'circle
meetings.

Fanny Kate had packed up her bag, and Pat had picked her up.  It must
have been somewhat crowded in the Washington Road house; there were
only two bedrooms, and Nona was in hers and Paw was in the guest
room.

Pat had said she had slept in bed with Nona.  Fanny K. would have had
to bunk on a couch.

Fanny said she had been told that Paw had been taking something that
put him "to sleep."

"Mrs. Radcliffe is a trained nurse, and she knows when she sees some
of these things."

Asked about liquor bottles, Fanny recalled seeing only one.

"It was just a plain old liquor bottle with no label on it-and what was
in it smelt enough.  It would have knocked a polecat down to have smelt
it, whatever it was.  And I said, 'Well, if anybody drank that, they
were bad off with something "Who told you he [Paw] had been drinking
out of this bottle?"

Tedford asked.

"Mrs. Allanson did-Grandma-did.  I asked her plainly.  She said she
thought he had quit drinking; he had promised her that.

And she seemed to be very much disturbed because he had taken it behind
her back.

"In other words, the Radcliffes or Pat Allanson didn't tell you.

"No.

'Where did you see this bottle?"

"It was there in the laundry room."

Fanny K. Cash said she had known the Radcliffes for almost ten years.

"There are no finer people nowhere than they are," she added.

July in Atlanta was so hot that even the kudzu vines drooped, and the
days passed sluggishly, the only sound on a hot afternoon the buzz of
flies and cicadas.  The big news in Georgia was the nomination of Jimmy
Carter on July 14 as the Democratic candidate for president, with
Walter Mondale as his running mate.  Carter would be the first major
party nominee from the Deep South since the ill-fated Zachary Taylor
ran in 1848.  Political news eclipsed crime news in the Atlanta
papers.

Still, for those involved in the Allanson investigation-or fearful of
involvement-there was only one story.

Everybody was jumpy.  Martha Foster, one of the Allansons' 16

Pat and Tom's Gone With the Wind wedding on May 9, 1974.  She was
"Searlett" and he was "Rhett."

Susan (left) and Debbie together again at the Alfords'new home in
Atlanta in 1981.  Pat's daughters were as different as night from
day.

Posing on a beach in Florida during a stay with Bill and Susan Alford
in 1980, Debbie looked' very much like her mother fifteen or so years
before.

practical nurses from the Quality Care referral service, had been
staying in the empty Washington Road house, in case either of the
Allansons could come home from the hospital.  In late July, she went to
the emergency room of the South Fulton Hospital, vomiting and
complaining of terrible pains in her abdomen.  She was transferred to
Grady Hospital, where Bob Tedford found her.

He asked her how long she had been staying at the Allansons' house.

"I've been out there since last Wednesday-the twenty-first."

"When did you get sick?"

"Sunday, yesterday."

"What did you eat there?"

"Just some frozen hot dogs that were in the freezer.  The only other
thing I had there was the coffee and the Pream-that powdered cream
substitute stuff."

Mrs. Foster's urine was checked for arsenic.  It was negative.  The
hot dogs were gone.  The coffee and Pream were analyzed.  Arsenic in
powder form can be white or brownish or yellow-or even red.  Test
samples proved to be only coffee and Pream.  However, another vial of
pills was found, a prescription with Nona Allanson's name on the
label.

There was one capsule inside that was different from the rest.

The capsule had a pill inside; analysis of the pill showed it was
mercury.  In some forms, mercury can be a deadly poison.  Liquid
mercury, however, is not as lethal.  The investigators learned that it
had once been an accepted treatment for constipotion, way back in the
twenties and thirties.  Since the old couple had kept pills for
twenty-five years, it was possible that they had kept some even
longer.

But the pill-within-a-capsule was not liquid; it was compressed
powder.

Deadly.  Why was there a single capsule with mercury in it in a modern
prescription container?

On July 26, Nona Allanson was released from the hospital and returned
to the house on Washington Road.  Her daughter Jean would henceforth be
in charge of her care.  Paw Allanson remained in South Fulton Hospital
in fair condition.

+ + Dunham McAllister was using old Walter Allanson's confession as the
focal point of his strategy to free Tom.  On July 30, McAllister filed
a motion requesting a hearing in Fulton County Superior Court to
determine whether a new trial was warranted for Walter Thomas Allanson,
since someone else had confessed to the crimes for which he had been
convicted.  The Fulton County D.A."s Office denounced the confession
as' worthless.  They had Paw's affidavit repudiating it.

Still, the new activity gave Tom the first hope he had had in a long
time.  There was an irony here; if Tom should be freed, would he be
reunited with his wife?  Or would they be like the old fable-the fox,
the goose, and the grain-where one was always onshore and the others in
the boat?  It was beginning to look as if Pat might go to prison
herself.

The time had come to fish or cut bait.  Andy Weathers of the D.A."s
office believed that they could get convictions.  At least it was worth
a try; to simply walk away from a case where two elderly people had
nearly died would be unconscionable.  How many names would be on the
indictments?  Four?  Three?  More than four?

On August 6, 1976, Bob Tedford appeared before the grand jury and
presented the evidence his team of detectives had gathered on the
arsenic poisonings of Nona and Walter Allanson.  Much of it was
circumstantial, and it would be a squeaker.  He had to show motive,
method, and opportunity on the part of someone with murder in his or
her heart.

Pat Allanson had had the motive to want her husband's grandparents
dead-two motives really: she was both heir and executor of their wills
and she needed money to live the life she longed for and to get "her
Tom" out of prison.  She had had the opportunity: she had the victims'
total trust.  And she could very easily have had the means.  The
arsenic in that old whiskey bottle had, perhaps, been "squirreled away"
out in the barn, way back in the days when Paw was an active farmer.

Or perhaps it had recently been purchased, supposedly to kill rats.

The prosecution team couldn't prove either theory; they had never found
the actual source of the arsenic.  As for what had taken place in the
house on Washington Road, four stories matched much too closely-Pat's,
Margureitte Radcliffe's, Colonel Radcliffe's, and Fanny K. Cash's.

Meanwhile, the stories of Amelia Estes, Jean Boggs, and her friend
Sherry Allen were diametrically opposed to the first story.

No one knew what might happen behind the closed doors of the grand
jury, but that very day in the first week of August, the Fulton County
grand jury returned an indictment.

Only one.

The Fulton County District Attorney's Office immediately issued an
arrest warrant charging Patricia Radcliffe Taylor Allanson with two
counts of criminal attempt to commit murder.  At 4:15 that afternoon,
Bob Tedford and Richard Daniell from the D.A."s office drove to the
Tell Road horse ranch to arrest Pat.

She was not at home, nor was she there when they returned at 5:00

P.m. Would she run?  Had she already left the Atlanta area?  She must
have known that she was the main target of their investiption, that
something was going to come down.  Still, the detectives reasoned that
Pat Allanson's whole world was contained in Georgia and North
Carolina.

She had her mother and stepfather, her doting aunts, her three
children, her grandchildren, and, of course, her husband, Tom.  No, she
wouldn't leave.

They didn't realize how right they were.  Pat had never been on her
own.  She had to be close to her parents.  Even though she was nearly
forty, she still needed them to be there, to straighten things out
whenever they got out of control.  But now her life had finally spun
completely off its track and her machenations would not be easy to
smooth over and deny.

At 7:00 P.m Tedford and Daniell drove slowly down Tell Road, turned
right onto the rutted drive, and passed Fanny K.

Cash's cabin.  They drove by the empty stables on the left, and then
headed down past the.show ring toward the two conjoined houses that Gil
Taylor had once tried to make into a grand plantation for Pat.

Margureitte and Clifford Radcliffe stood in the front yard.

They stared coldly at the two investigators but grudgingly accepted the
warrant Tedford held out.  "We are here to arrest your daughter on two
charges of criminal attempt to commit murder.  Is she here?"

Colonel Radcliffe led Daniell and Tedford into the house and pointed
toward Pat's bedroom.  She was home.  She listened sullenly as the
charges against her were read.

"May I call my attorney?"  Pat asked.

"Yes, ma'am."

Pat's bubble-cut hair was as carefully coiffed as always.

Her makeup was in place.  She wore a short pink-and-black plaid
sundress, a necklace, and hoop earrings.

While Tedford radioed for a female officer to accompany them on the
ride to jail, Pat phoned Dunham McAllister.  She spoke to him for about
fifteen minutes, and then Daniell and Tedford and Officer Bebe Mozeman
left the Radcliffes'house at 7:35 and proceeded to the Fulton County
jail, where Pat was fingerprinted, photographed, searched, and
booked.

She looked straight ahead defiantly as she faced the jail camera, ut
she ent her hea an appeared ready to cry when she was instructed to
"look at the wall to your left."  The woman who had wanted so much, who
had aspired to a life of perfect love, gracious living, wealth, and
social acceptance, was-at least for the moment-Prisoner No.  10747 in
the Fulton County jail.

She would not stay in jail long.  Already her mother and stepfather
were rallying around her, arranging for money to bail her out, to bring
her back to her room in their home.  She was their child, their
precious daughter, the focus of their lives.

It was unthinkable that she should be exposed to the sort of women who
ended up in jail.  She was a special person.

Pat didn't even spend the night in jail.  She was released on twenty
thousand dollars'bond that evening.  Somewhere, Boppo and Colonel
Radcliffe had found the two thousand dollars necessary to guarantee
that amount.

His wife's arrest came as a tremendous shock to Tom.  She was his sole
source of information about the outside world, and Pat had continued to
assure him that she was moving heaven and earth to free him.  He had
been relieved and proud that she had taken over the care of his
grandparents.  From all her reports, things were going as well as they
could hope for, considering how old Paw and Nona were.  Tom had been
told about Paw's supposed overdose, but not about the crime lab's
findings.  Pat had convinced him that it was not unusual for an old
man, depressed by his diminishing strength after a heart attack, to
turn to liquor and pills.

Tom loved his grandparents; at the same time, he was compelled to see
them as his sole source of financial rescue.  Given Pat's illnesses and
inability to work and the Radcliffes' near bankruptcy, there was no one
else with financial assets who might help him.  Tom had written Paw and
Nona scores of letters urging them to trust Pat and to put all their
affairs into her hands.  He had trusted Pat, and he had survived in
prison by dreaming about the time they would all live together on a
good farm.  He had needed his grandfather's backing-but he had every
intention of paying him back.

Pat had assured him she felt the same way.

Tom was doing well in prison.  Everybody liked him, and he was much in
demand as a clerk.  He was college educated, smart, and never
complained about the work load.  He needed the work.  He had lost damn
near everything in his life-except for Pat and his grandparents.

If Tom believed that the charges against Pat were true, it would mean
the end of all his dreams.  He would be left with no one.  He tried to
find some other reason for what was happening to her.  It was hard
going.

Tom had written to his uncle Seaborn and begged that Pat at least be
allowed to see his children whenever she could; she was Tom's only link
to them.  He didn't know that he had already lost his children, perhaps
forever.  Seaborn had realized he was too old to raise young children,
and Little Carolyn refused to conform to the state's requirements for a
custodial parent.  Pat didn't want the children, and she had already
used Tom's power of attorney to sign away all his links to Russ and
Sherry.  She had convinced him that they were being placed only
temporarily in a good Christian home-"for their sake."  But she had
really agreed to put them out for permanent adoption.

All he had left was Pat.  From the moment he first became intimate with
her, Tom had committed himself to her, to her beliefs, her advice, her
plans and dreams.  But by the late summer of 1976, even Tom saw that
her perfect facade had begun to erode.

Resolutely, he fought his doubts back.  If Pat was not his one true
love, he would have to admit that he had let his whole life slip away
for nothing.

Tom had quickly realized that nobody in Jackson-from the guards to the
administrative staff-liked Pat.  He loved her enough that he could
ignore the snide remarks and the smirks when he received her daily
letters.  He took the lacy, fancydecorated envelopes in his big hands
and hurried to read his mail in privacy.  But later he would remember
that her letters caused him all manner of problems.  "We were allowed
to get legal mail uncensored, so Pat would get some lawyer's letterhead
envelopes and then she'd put personal mail inside.  They caught onto
that quick enough, and they'd call me in and say, 'This is marked legal
mail, but we're going to open it in front of you."  Sure enough, there
would be personal mail inside, and I'd get chewed out.

Pat's visits were even more difficult for Tom.  She wore her skirts cut
up to here, and her blouses cut down to there, and no man in the area
could resist swiftly turning his eyes in her direction.  She was as
inappropriate as she was beautiful.  It was agoh for Tom to be shut off
from her; her provocative nizing enough clothes and her jungle Gardenia
perfume about drove him nuts.  And then she always had stories to tell
him about men who were bothering her.  He questioned
her-gently-suggesting that a woman as attractive as she was had to be
careful of even the appearance of availability.  That only made her
angry.  She dee that she cared one manded to know how he could even
imagin fig for any other man?  Was he trying to say she was a slut?

Tcim sighed.  Pat never saw anything in gradations of meaning; she saw
white or black-more often black-and was quick to take offense.

He didn't believe that she would deliberately hurt Paw and Nona.  He
couldn't believe that.  The police had been quick enough to jump on
him, and he remembered how he had been a free man one day and a convict
the next.  He knew what had really happened that July night two years
ago-or he thought he did.  The law could twist things and make them
seem more menacing than they really were.  Pat was only one frail,
little woman.  She had a temper and she sure wasn't the most reasonable
woman in the world, but he could not visualize her really hurting
anyone.  He did not want to think of her actually putting poison in his
own grandparents' food.  That was a scenario that shut itself off in
his mind the moment he tried to visualize it.  He was barely
maintaining his equilibrium as it was, and the rush of guilt that came
with thinking about Pat hurting Paw and Nona almost knocked the wind
out of him.

As Pat awaited her own trial, free on bail, she grew more frenetic and
querulous.  Her prison visits to Tom always meant trouble of one kind
or another.  Tom both longed to see her and dreaded what she might do
next.  She wasn't helping his case.

Even the warden at Jackson took an interest in Tom and his incorrigible
wife.  Tom remembered one day when the warden was leading a tour
through the prison.  "He came over to me and he told me, 'Tom, you're
doing a good job and everything, but your wife is creating one hell of
a lot of waves downtown.  She's not helping you.  Would you please calm
her down?"  That was easier said than done.

Pat's accusations were familiar.  Nobody really cared about her, she
loved him so, and she tried so hard.  She was doing her best for him,
even though she was sick and scared to death that they were trying to
send her to prison too.  If that happened, who would care about him
anymore?

It got worse and worse.  "She claimed some of the corrections officers
raped her," Tom remembered.  "One of them supposedly did, anyway.  She
said they followed her in a state car .  . . to the expressway, and
handcuffed her and raped her.  . . . She even came back and said one of
them cut her up with a knife."

Tom had seen the marks.  Pat indeed had bruises that appeared to be
from handcuffs, and numerous cuts on her back, legs, and breasts.

Superficial cuts.  Tom might have been a fool for love, but he wasn't a
plain fool.  He had to question Pat's outrageous stories.  He wondered
how so many terrible things could happen to one woman.  When he looked
at the wounds she showed him, he wondered even more.

"Every one of them you could tell was self-inflicted-from the direction
it went and how deep it was," he later said.  "You know, even at the
time I didn't believe her because I knew those officers and they were
good men.  They wouldn't do something like that, but I just passed it
off as one of 'Pat's things."

Not long ago, back when he was free-or even when he had a slight hope
of being free-Tom had found Pat's dramatic ways endearing, possibly a
little exciting.  She fainted the way old-time southern women did,
slipping to the ground in a heap.  He had liked bringing a single rose
to his pale, stricken love as she lay in bed, gently suffering from
some mysterious, womanly ailment.

But "Pat's things" weren't so endearing anymore.  Not to anyone.  She
had always used sexual attacks as an attention-getting device.  She had
screamed rape at the slightest provocation for the past two decades.

She had told Susan and Debbie that she had been molested when she was a
child.  And then there were all the rapes in Germany.  Her obsession
with sexual assaults was growing shopworn and, in the aftermath of her
arrest, she seemed to be getting worse.

One evening in the summer of 1976, when Debbie and Susan had taken Dawn
to the emergency room at South Fulton Hospital-she had been wedged
between Debbie's car door and the carport-Pat suddenly appeared in the
waiting room with her panty hose around her ankles, sobbing and
screaming that she had been raped.  This time, she accused the East
Point police detectives; she said they had pretended they were going to
question her, but instead they had handcuffed her and sexually abused
her.  "How can you do this?"

Debbie cried.  "Get out of here!

With Boppo on her heels, Pat had leaped into her watermelon red Cougar
and driven along the hospital sidewalk.  Susan and Debbie were
mortified, but nobody took Pat's cries of rape seriously anymore.

Not even Tom.

He still loved Pat, but his head was beginning to clear.  His true love
now meant only pain.  He did fine in between his wife's visits, but
every time she came to see him or he talked to her on the phone, he was
desolate."His counselor monitored the phone calls-with Tom's
knowledge-and wondered how Tom could do his time with any degree of
acceptance at all when his wife kept pulling at him with her siren
songs.  He recommended that Tom stop talking to his wife on the phone
and Tom was surprised that he felt mostly relief that there would be no
more hysterical conversations.

The letters did not stop; during the fall of 1976 Pat kept up her
voluminous correspondence with Tom, holding on to him with stamps
and.

scribbled lines, clinging for dear life.  She wanted him to have her
letters as quickly after she wrote them as possible.  Almost every
evening she drove east from the Tell Road ranch to some all-night
restaurant along the freeway toward Jackson-a Denny's or a Shoney's or
one of the waffle houses.  Pat spent hours sipping coffee or a Coke as
she wrote love letters on the Formica tabletops, oblivious to the
bustle around her.

Country and western ballads played in the background over the Muzak
systems.  She would look up when she heard one of their special
songs-especially Dolly Parton and Porter Wagoner in their duet "Is
Forever Longer Than Always?"

Sometimes, she drove all the way to Jackson to mail the letters.

That way, Tom would have them the very next, morning.

Those evenings may have helped Pat forget what was looming ahead-that
this time the trial was her own.  It took so many country love songs,
so many letters, so many long drives east to Jackson through the hot
Georgia nights for her to force it to the back of her mind.  It was
unthinkable-but there it was.  She was scheduled to go on trial the
first week of November 1976.

Susan Taylor Alford had been on a plane with her toddler son, Sean,
flying back to Atlanta after a wonderful vacation in Key Biscayne at
the moment her mother was arrested.  The twenty-three-year-old Eastern
Airlines flight attendant landed and soon learned the terrible news
that the charge was attempted murder.  More than the rest of the
family, Susan had acknowledged that her mother had a real problem with
prescription drugs, a long-standing addiction.

Nobody else wanted to say it out loud.  Heaven knows, Susan had seen
her mother out of control on more than one occasion in recent years.

But chasing someone with her crutch, or even running away hysterically
in her nightgown, was far, far different from attempted murder.

"I thought that, if my mother had done what they said she did," Susan
remembered, "then she was terribly, terribly ill.  She couldn't be in
her right mind.  The drugs were telling her what to do.  That couldn't
be my mother.  I kept thinking about the times she told me I was her
friend, and how she was so proud of me-that I could do anything I set
out to do.  My mother could be the most wonderful person in the world
when she wanted to."

Susan went to Dunham McAllister and pleaded with him to help Pat.  She
was convinced that Pat should not be tried on the merits of the case
against her; she couldn't have known what she was doing.  Someone had
to step in and see that Pat was committed to a mental hospital where
she could get help.  "I thought my mother was sick," Susan later
said.

"I was so angry with Mr. McAllister when he wouldn't listen to me,
when he wouldn't use my mother's illness as a defense.  No one-no
one-could convince me that my mother would have hurt anyone if she was
in her right mind."

On October 28, 1976, Tom had his last chance for a new trial.

judge Wofford listened to McAllister's motion for a writ of error coram
nobis, asking for a hearing requesting a new trial.  Wofford read over
the alleged confession of Paw Allanson and Paw's signed affidavit
swearing that the confession was fake and that he had signed it only
"through the deceit of Patricia R. Allanson."

Wofford denied McAllister's motion.

Tom had now exhausted all of his appeals.  The U. S. Supreme Court had
refused to hear his case.  He was desolate.  He expected to serve "at
least fourteen years on each of my two convictions."

The Allansons were no longer relegated to the inside pages of Atlanta
area newspapers.  Their continuing saga made them frontpage, headline
news.  Each story about Tom included a summary of Pat's pending
trial.

And each article concerning Pat included Tom's legal history.

But then the December 15, 1976, issue of South Fulton Today, a daily
paper, featured an article on Pat that made no allusion at all to her
postponed trial (it had been put off to January 1977), and had no
reference to Tom, arsenic, murder, or anything embarrassing.  That may
have been because Pat had in Pat Radquietly dropped her married name.

She was once again a Radcliffe, and a staff photo showed a pretty woman
in profile, gazing at two dainty paper nosegays in her hand.  In the
ultimate rejection of reality, Pat Radcliffe was the subject of only a
pleasant little feature story: A Real Card Local Resident Sends
Old-Style Greetings South Fulton resident Pat Radcliffe has a solution
for persons who can't find the right card for that special person.

His.

Radcliffe designs and makes 18th-Century greeting cards that put most
storebought cards to shame.

A former horse trainer and instructor at Woodward Academy, His.

Radcliffe has always liked "old-fashioned things" and has an artistic
flair.  While recuperating from an illness that left her unable to
pursue her greatest love horses-His.  Radcliffe began making replicas
of the 18th-Century cards to give to friends and various charitable
organizations.

The article explained that Pat had formerly done portrait painting but
had just begun to design her special cards'.

"I didn't have any idea in two weeks' time that it would come to
anything."  His.  Radcliffe has found that persons of all ages like the
cards and are interested in having them done authentically.  In making
the cards, the Tell Road resident relies on books that show the various
types of cards, as well as the help of an older friend, Fanny Kate
Cash.... His.  Radcliffe uses tweezers to put lace around the edges of
cards and spends hours cutting out the tiny roses and other appliques
on the cards.... For a couple celebrating their 50th wedding
anniversary, His.  Radcliffe has fashioned a round card made out of
satin and lace from the woman's wedding gown.  In the center, hands
reach out for a yellow rose, which has a special meaning to the
couple.

Apparently, "His.  Radcliffe" was being deluged with requests for her
work, and the feature writer marveled that she also found time to
create handmade bookmarks and hand-painted handkerchiefs.

The local resident, a former Hallmark Card employee, puts a message or
one of the handkerchiefs in the back pocket of a card or fan.  She also
letters a verse on the front of the greeting card.

Pat explained that she did her own verses to suit.

Her grandchildren, Sean, 4, and Dawn, 5, also help her out by cutting
things out for her and "gluing the simpler things.".

"There are no two alike.  People come to ask for something special.

I consider them special cards for special people."

Pat had always loved the romance of bygone eras, and she was extremely
artistic, although she had never worked for Hallmark as she told the
reporter.

She had been making dainty cards to surprise Tom ever since he was
arrested.

He had tons of cards and letters with tiny roses, lace, hearts, and
intertwined hands.

Lisa Richardson, the reporter who interviewed Pat, had not asked Pat
about other interesting aspects of her life, and Pat had not seen fit
to mention that her card making might be interrupted soon when she went
on trial in Fulton County Superior Court for attempted murder.  She
was, in fact, terrified of going to trial.  She spent her time making
cards, sewing dresses that she would wear to court, and placing phone
calls to her beloved aunts in North Carolina.  She begged them all to
come to Atlanta too and Papa would be and be with her during her
trial.

Bopp Susan and Debbie.  But she wanted there, of course, and her.  The
prosecutor was needed-her whole family around going to be rude-she was
sure of it.

Susan, having had no luck at all convincing her mother's attorney to
pursue an insanity defense, did whatever she could to help Pat.  She
delivered the old-fashioned greeting cards to her mother's customers,
found new customers among her fellow employees at Eastern Airlines, and
listened as Pat talked far into the night about her fears for the
future.

The holiday season of 1976 was not a happy time on Tell Road, no matter
how hard anyone tried to make things seem festive, at least for the
sake of Sean and Dawn.  Boppo and Papa had always made so much of
Christmas, even dressing up like Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus- But the
specter of the trial ahead hovered over them, and the knowledge that
bankruptcy for the Radcliffes was not far behind haunted them too.

Still, nobody blamed Pat.  They saw her, as always, as the victim of
cruel circumstance.

Largely due to Pat, the Radcliffes' lives had been fraught with loss,
change, and upheaval.  After staving off creditors for so long, they
finally went bankrupt.  The house on Tell Road was due to go on the
block, a public humiliation that they narrowly avoided when a man who
had worked with t their orses came forward the day before the sheriff's
sale and bought the property.

Margureitte's perfect home on Dodson Drive was only a distant memory
now; they were no longer homeowners at all.  Margureitte and the
colonel rented a house at 6438 Peacock Boulevard in Morrow, Georgia, a
hamlet south on I-85.  There would be no room for horses, no orchards
or rose gardens.  Just a plain house.

Pat moved with them, of course.

PART SIX.

Dunham McAllister had originally been retained to represent Tom
Allanson in his last chance for an appeal.  But Tom had come to the end
of his road.  It was now Pat who needed all the lawyers she could
afford.  McAllister, a bearded, rumpled man in his thirties, and his
wife, Margo, practiced law together in Jonesboro, Georgia.  Because
Pat's case was inextricably tangled with Tom's and because her life
story was so filled with extraordinary events, McAllister had to
immerse himself in research to prepare for trial.  There were stacks of
court transcripts to read, medical records, dozens of people to
interview.

McAllister requested delays several times.  Pat didn't go to trial in
November, or in January.  Indeed, it would be spring again before the
proceedings to be known as The State of Georgia v. Patricia R. Allanson
began on May 2, 1977, in the Honorable Elmo Holt's courtroom.  That
day, there was an ironic juxtaposition of items in South Fulton Today:
the defendant's old world next to her present arena.  Pictures of the
Palmetto High School Horse Show featuring a pretty young rider on a
Morgan horse, abutted a column headed, ALLANSON TRIAL SET FOR TODAY.

Andy Weathers, assistant district attorney for Fulton County, had been
relieved by the long delays requested by the defense.

The case against Pat Allanson was no sure thing.  Not at all.  He had
had his own research to do.  Weathers, like his opposing counsel, was
in his thirties.  He had a thick shock of black hair and penetrating
dark eyes.  His voice was as deep and rumbling as thunder, and his mind
lightning quick.  He knew he had to be ready when he went into court.

Judge Holt's trials were juggernauts; once they got going, nobody dared
ask for delays.  The Fulton County judicial system was overladen as it
was.  Caseseven murder cases-usually went in on Monday and got spat out
to a jury by Friday, even if it meant that court was in session until
long after sundown.  Judge Elmo Holt could be a curmudgeon, especially
if he was trying to keep within his own tight time schedules.

"That trial," Andy Weathers recalled, "was a very unusual situation, a
very volatile situation.  All the different family members there.  The
Boggses.  The Radcliffes.  Everybody.  I always expected the best
defense was going to be, 'How could anyone do this?  How [can you
believe she would] do that to elderly people who trusted her?"

" Weathers felt that normal, caring people would find the charge so
outrageous that it should have been its own defense.

"But they didn't go for that-the defense just went for trying to prove
that Pat Allanson had not done it, period," Weathers said, still
somewhat bemused by that decision.  It was, in fact, the same approach
that Pat had insisted on in Tom's earlier trial.

Deny everything.

"We had to hammer in on small details and inconsistencies," Weathers
recalled of the prosecution's case against Pat.  "We had no history on
her behavior-at least she had no criminal history.

We had to look for very small things, trying to do a probing
examination.  But you couldn't look at it without looking at the first
case-where Tom killed his parents.  That put everything in context.  No
one really knew exactly what her [Pat's] part was in that-not from
watching her and watching Tom-but she had the type of personality that
it seemed that she would call the shots.

"But the deal about the arsenic was so outside what we usually dealt
with.  What we usually have here in the Atlanta area is passion
killings.  When you have a situation where someone actually plans to
commit a murder-really gets down on it-you have situations where you
don't have any witnesses.  We had no eyewitnesses in this case.  What I
was trying to do was like building a house-trying to lay a foundation
about what had been going on.

"Pat Allanson had a two-pronged motive.  There were two things she was
trying to accomplish, I thought.  She was trying to lay it off on the
elder Mr. Allanson, as being the original killer.  . . . If he had
died, they would have gotten the money and gotten Tom out of p I
r'son.

I think that was the thrust of what she was trying to do."

After studying the case that Bob Tedford, the East Point investigators,
and the D.A."s investigators had put together, Weathers concluded that
there had been almost perfect planning on the part of the defendant.

"The experts told me there was a lot of similarity between arsenic
poisoning and the normal aging process.  jean Boggs was the one who
began to see and notice the things that only a member of the family
would notice.  If you weren't sp 'fically looking for this, it probably
would never eci have been found.  Tedford got on things then, and we
worked on that case for a long, long time.  We got Joe Burton-who's now
the medical examiner in DeKalb County-and he knew a lot about arsenic,
and there's a toxicologist named McGurdy in the GBI lab.  Their
testimony was critical."

Even so, most prosecutors wouldn't have taken on the case.

It wasn't a sure thing.  It was the kind of case that could rapidly
lower the percentages on an assistant D.A."s conviction record.

"Obviously," Weathers later said, "I was convinced in my own mind that
Patricia Allanson did it or I would never have tried the case .  . .

but I was still trying to get it in the form of tangible proof.  It
took going back and looking at the old liquor bottle, the nuances-just
building on minutiae to try to put together a chain of facts.  If you
looked at each fact independently-if you looked at the wills being
changed-" With his new knowledge about the action of arsenic poisoning,
Weathers hoped to be able to pick up on the "little mistakes made by
the defendant.

If, indeed, she had made any.

The white marble Fulton County Courthouse took up the entire block and
was constantly being refurbished and expanded, so that its bulk
hunkered over sidewalks and seemed I about to burst into lanes of
traffic.  There were six huge columns on the Pryor Street side and wide
steps leading to three double doors.  Bronze pedestals supported a
profusion of round white lights, and sheriff's cars and vans nudged the
curb in front.  Tom's trial had been held there and now it was Pat's
turn.  But Tom had been locked up; at least she was free on bail.  The
day Pat's trial began, Monday, May 2, 1977, promised to be hot as
summer, and the air was humid and thick.  High above bustling Pryor
Street, Judge Elmo Holt presided over courtroom 808.

Pat Allanson looked wonderful.  She had put on weight once her hip
finally began to heal.  She had made all new dresses for her trial.

She chose a deep garnet-colored sheath for the first day of jury
selection, and she wore a large cameo on a gold chain, cameo earrings,
and a cameo ring.  Her hair was perfect, and her makeup was subdued but
elegant.  Her cane added just a hint of vulnerability, and she
occasionally touched her handkerchief to her forehead and lips as if
she felt ill.  Although her aunts could not all be with her, Boppo and
Papa were there, and so was Susan.

On this first day of his wife's trial, Tom Allanson was brought over
from Jackson and into Judge Holt's courtroom.  In exactly one week, Pat
and Tom would celebrate-if the word fit considering the
circumstances-their third wedding anniversary.  They had lived together
as man and wife for exactly seven weeks and six days.  Their
anniversaries since had been marked by disaster rather than happy
remembrance.

The jury had yet to be picked and Tom was present to answer possible
questions in pretrial motions.  It was rumored that he might testify.

He stared at Pat and she gazed back.  And then Dunham McAllister
signaled Pat to follow him.  She left the courtroom to meet with her
husband and they talked for two hours.

Being together was not the same.  It never would be again.

Despite the publicity surrounding Tom's trial only a little over t two
years earlier, a jury unfamiliar with that case was picked on Monday
afternoon-five men and seven women, nine whites and three blacks,
white-collar and blue-collar.

The witnesses listed were predictable.  For the state, there would be
investigators, forensic scientists, toxicologists, Jean Boggs, Paw
Allanson's attorneys, the bankers who had notarized Paw Allanson's
"confession," and Paw and Nona themselves.  For the defense, there
would be those people who had always defended Pat: Mrs. Clifford
Radcliffe, Colonel Clifford Radho cliffe, Debbie Taylor Cole, and Miss
Fanny Kate Cash (w had postponed surgery to be present).  There were
whispers that said Patricia Radcliffe Taylor Allanson would take the
stand in her own defense.  With the prospect of such a happening,
courtroom 808 was packed.  This might not be a "passion killing," but
then again, there were many in the courtroom who remembered Pat at her
husband's trial two years ago.  They had wondered then what kind of
woman she really was; perhaps now they would find out.

Pat looked even more beautiful the second morning of trial as opening
arguments began.  She wore an emerald green dress that precisely
matched her eyes.  She sketched and scribb ed on a yellow legal pad as
Andy Weathers presented the state's position g arguments; her face only
occasionally betrayed a in openin slight drift of annoyance.

Weathers had won his plea to introduce to the jury in ormation on Tom
Allanson's conviction-a most important legal coup.

Now the jury listened but gave no sign of what t ey thought as Weathers
described Pat's takeover of the elder Allansons' affairs following her
husband's conviction for the murder of their son and daughter-in-law.

"There will be introduced into s. These documents gave Patricia court
.

. . various document Allanson complete power of attorney to sign
anything as if they themselves were signing it-gave her complete access
to all the bank accounts, papers .  . . loud provoked "Arsenic."

Saying the name of the poison out a ripple in the gallery.  Andy
Weathers promised the jurors proof -scientific proof-that the old
people had had their body fluids and their hair and their fingernails
infiltrated with the deadly poison.

Dunham McAllister's opening statement promised that the evidence would
show something entirely different.  The confession was real enough, he
said, dictated by Mr. Walter Allanson to Pat.  "She doesn't take
shorthand, but she wrote it down in longhand, a lengthy statement which
we expect the state to introduce.  And this statement was, in fact,
notarized.

"He signed it," McAllister said emphatically.

Both the state and the defense were going to utilize the same evidence,
but each would maintain that it supported its own case.

Yes, McAllister agreed, there was arsenic, a bottle of it, but the
liquor in Paw and Nona's house had come from Jean and Homer Boggs.

"We expect that the state will have failed to carry its burden of proof
of proving beyond a reasonable doubt that Pat Allanson is guilty of
anything."

Weathers was continually surprised at the civility of the cast of
characters in this trial.  Colonel and Mrs. Radcliffe were gracious,
if reserved.  "They were there every day, and they'd come up and talk
with me," he recalled.  "I really believed that they were sincere in
their belief that she didn't do it-at least I believed the colonel.  I
believe there was a history of mentalstuff .  . . but the defense
didn't know how to use it.

Maybe they i;@ couldn't have used it-it doesn't usually work in a
killing for profit, especially when you have chronic arsenic dosage.

.

. .

Still, there was something about the dynamics of that trial," Weathers
mused, remembering that sometimes it seemed like a very proper social
reception, despite its real purpose.

Margureitte Radcliffe was, first and foremost, a lady.  And the colonel
was what he always had been-absolutely correct.  In public, they never
broke; they never even bent.  And above all, they were never rude.  To
many in the courtroom, it seemed inconceivable that their daughter
stood accused of a terrible crime.  Pat was a lady too, but as the
prosecution moved into witness testimony, the picture evolving of Pat's
complete control of the elderly Allansons' assets was devastating.

When Dr. Lanier Jones took the stand, Nona and Walter Allanson were
wheeled into the courtroom so he could identify them.  Nona was used to
a wheelchair, but it was an ignominious thing for the old man to have
to be wheeled anywhere.  His feet and lower legs didn't work
anymore-the nerves were permanently damaged by arsenic poisoning.  Nona
waved at her doctor with her one good hand, smiling but confused by the
courtroom scene.  When they had left the courtroom, Dr. Jones compared
the robust old man he had known with the comatose patient he had
examined on June 13, 1976.  He repeated more than once that he had been
a "suspicious doctor."

Dr. Everett Solomons described the corrosive action of arsenic on the
human body, and Weathers moved on to the contents of the whiskey bottle
Pat had given Dr.  Jones.

"Would you state for the jury the results of the test of that
bottle?"

"When we received the bottle, it contained approximately half a
millimeter of liquid-3.63 milligrams."  arsenic?"

"Arsenic.

Weathers then called the associate chief medical examiner of Fulton
County, Dr. Joseph Burton, and asked his opinion on what was wrong
with Walter and Nona Allanson at the time of their hospitalization in
June 1976.

"Arsenic intoxication.  Arsenic .  . . when introduced into the body-by
whatever means, acc-dental, suicidal, or by a homicidal person-it has
certain actions it takes.  . . . It's rapidly absorbed into the GI
tract.  It appears in the blood twenty-four hours after ingestion.

Within twenty-four, forty-eight, fifty-two hours, on e will begin to
get urinary arsenic excretion, and, if tinue for seven to ten days
there is a single dose, this may con until the arsenic is cleared from
the system.  After about twenty-four to seventy-two hours, this arsenic
also will appear in the hair and nails of the individual.

"Now, the hair grows at approximately a half a millimeter per month.

the nails grow approximately a tenth of a millimeter per month.

per month.  The white part of your nail is the active growing site that
the arsenic would be deposited in.  . . . If one finds arsenic in the
nail tip, that tells you that arsenic has been in the nail long enough
to grow from this site to this site here," he said, demongrating.

Dr. Burton explained that the same progression was true in human
hair.

Speaking of Paw Allanson, he said, "There have been two episodes of
arsenic introduced into the system.  . . . It's very rare to find a
level this high unless someone has introduced into his system a large
bolus of arsenic to give you that level.... The same is true for Nona
Allanson ... a very high level of arsenic found.  There is no way that
these amounts that we see in the nails and hair are within any normal
range."

It was Burton's opinion, given the Allansons'medical histories and
based on his tests, that someone had administered 'arsenic to the
elderly couple about six months before their hospitalizations in June
and July, and then again just before they were hospitalized.  "This is
consistent with chronic arsenic intoxication Burton said.

"Let me ask you this," Weathers continued.  "If someone were taking .

. . arsenic in their system-bearing in mind respective ages of the
people .  . . would this have any effect whatsoever on their mental
stability?"

"It could," Burton replied.  "Arsenic has been proven to cause changes
in one's mental attitude, capability, thinking, and reasoning; it can
cause neurological complaints and GI symptoms, headaches, muscular
aching, weakness, affect peripheral nerves and changes in sensation of
the legs and feet."

"With the type you found, would that be consistent with arsenic being
ingested through milk, orange juice, food preparation?"

"It can be ingested through any number of mechanisms or methods.  In
most forms, it is an odorless, colorless, tasteless process where one
does not know that they are ingesting arsenic."

Asked if he had ever seen a case of suicide by chronic arsenic
ingestion, Burton shook his head.  "No, sir."

"Never?"  probed Weathers.

"No, sir .  . . I have never seen one documented.  Several people have
committed suicide by the acute ingestion of arsenic, but each
individual's susceptibility to arsenic varies.  It would be hard to
predict on a chronic basis how much one would have to take .  . . to
induce sickness or death.  . . . Oftentimes, an individual becomes very
sick and it's a very unpleasant .  . . If one got very sick, he might
be hospitalized.  He might be treated and survive .  . .

unpredictable.

"Is not pain one of the manifestations of chronic ingestion of
arsenic?"

"Yes, sir."  If a would-be suicide chose to end his life in one gulp,
Burton stressed, the pain would be intense, even unbearable.  It would
be prolonged agony when administered slowly.

On cross-examination, Dunham McAllister did his best to shake Dr.
Burton, to show that arsenic is all around, everywhere, easy to ingest
accidentally easily misdiagnosed.  He maintained that many diseases
might have the same symptoms as arsenic poisoning.

Burton did not dispute that.

"So it's possible," McAllister said, "that arsenic poisoning can be
misdiagnosed for different ailments?"

"Yes, sir."

"More than a dozen?"

"Possibly, yes."

"What about a stroke?  Could it be misdiagnosed as a stroke?"

"Yes n to testify.  "Mr. Allanson," Weathers Paw was wheeled back i
began.  "I am going to ask you just a few questions, please, sir.

Can you understand me, sir .  . . ?"

"Yes."

"Did you give yourself arsenic?"

"Nope."

"Did you give any to your wife?"

"No.

"Do you know how it got into your system?"

"Nope."

"I have no further questions."

"Never seen any Paw trailed off On cross-examination, McAllister tried
to connect Paw's long history of farming with the supposition that
there must have been poison on his property.  But he didn't seem to
have the heart to bear down.  Cross-examination fell flat, showing only
the tremendously hard labor old Walter Allanson had performed for six
decades.  The witness could never remember using or seeing arsenic
preparations.

"No further questions."  jean Boggs took the stand next, and if she
felt a certain triumph to find herself in a courtroom where Pat
Allanson was being prosecuted, it was understandable.  She allowed her
eyes to flicker over the defense table from time to time.

Andy Weathers used jean's answers to catch the jury up on the violent
history of the Allanson family.  "You know, of course, Mr. and Mrs.
Walter Allanson?"

"Yes, sir, my mother and father."

"Now, I believe you also had a brother?"

"Yes, sir .  . . Walter O'Neal Allanson."  'And was he murdered in
Fulton County?"

"Yes, sir."

"Trial held in Superior Court of Fulton County?"

"Yes, sir."

'Who was convicted in your presence?"

Dunham McAllister objected.  "It's irrelevant to the trial in this
case."

"I intend to show motive," Weathers argued.  "I intend to stand by
that."

"[There's] been absolutely no testimony about motive at this point,"
McAllister countered.

"Fixing to be some," Weathers said agreeably.  "That is why I am
offering it."

The defense's objection was overruled.  jean was allowed to say that
Pat was the third wife of the man convicted of his parents' murders-Tom
Allanson.

Jean went on to describe her growing suspicion that something was wrong
in her parents' home.  Dr. Jones had alerted her that her father had
been drinking moonshine whiskey.  "My father doesn't drink," Jean
said.

She also recalled her conversation with Pat on the front porch of the
Washington Road house.  "She [said she] knew what funeral arrangements
that he wanted and that he wanted to be put away in a pink satin
interior casket, which didn't sound like my father.  She picked out the
clothes and my son was [to be] one of the pallbearers.  It didn't make
sense to me.  . . . When I started to leave .  . . she leaned across
the rails and said this to me, says, 'I hope he dies.

The prosecutor was also able to elicit testimony from jean that showed
the utter devotion Walter had shown toward Nona, the confusion and
upheaval that Pat Allanson had brought to their household, and the fact
that the old man neither drank nor took pills.

"Have you ever seen your father-has he beaten your mother?"

"Oh, my goodness.  No," Jean gasped.

McAllister suggested on cross-examination that Jean had neglected her
parents, visited them infrequently.  She explained that she too had
been ill in 1973 and unable to drive.  No, she had not visited often
after she recovered.  She admitted that it had not been pleasant
visiting her parents.  There had been "a coldness" after Tom's trial in
1974.  No, she had never been close to her brother, Walter-not even
from early childhood.  "We were just two different personalities."

When Weathers objected to the line of questioning, McAllister said he
was striving for materiality.  "It is a most complex family.  13M ting
to elicit from this witness some illumination of ry this family, some
explanat' n of this family."

10

They wrangled, and Judge Holt finally ruled that Jean's relationship
with a brother who had been dead for two years was irrelevant and
sustained Weathers's objection.  McAllister pounced.  Based on the
judge's ruling, he again insisted that no allusions at all to the
double murder or Tom Allanson should be made in this trial.

Judge Holt ruled against him again.

McAllister kept Jean Boggs on the stand for a long time, drawing forth
the information that she and her husband were now serving as her
parents' guardians, paying their bills, hiring their nurses.  He ended
his cross with "You asked the police-or I believe you said you
instructed the police-to carry out a full investigation, to go to the
crime lab with it?  Is that correct?"  jean sat up straighter.

"Certainly."

Andy Weathers had only three questions on redirect.  "Since Pat
Allanson left that house-answer this question'Yes' or'No' -has there
been any problem with your father as far as overdose of alcohol?"

"No, sir."

"Any problem as far as overdose of pills?"

"No, sir."

"Any problem of arsenic?"

"No, sir."

"No further questions."

Jean had done well, but this trial would, in the end, cause her pain.

She would be portrayed again and again as a neglectful daughter.

Perhaps if relationships had not been so strained in her family, all
this would never have happened.

They recessed for the day at 6:4S P.m. and began again on Wednesday
morning, May 4, at 9:30.  Pat wore a lilac-colored dress that day.  She
listened as Bill Hamner described the steady progression of documents
that ultimately disinherited virtually everyone but Tom and Pat.  The
old people had been very closemouthed about exactly what their assets
were, but Hamner knew they had been in excess of two hundred thousand
dollars at the time of the first wills.  No one knew what remained.

Jean Boggs's children's portion had dwindled to one-sixth, and that was
under Pat's control.

If the spectators had expected titillating revelations, they were
disappointed on the third day of trial.  The witnesses were dry, and
their testimony was rife with dull detail about technicalities.  Hamner
and his partner, Fred Reeves, went through the many, many changes and
codicils to the elderly Allansons' wills.  Joyce Tichenor, who had
notarized Paw's supposed confession, and her bank manager, Gus Yosue,
testified about the single time they had encountered the defendant and
her grandfather-in-law.

The evening of April 16 was not totally clear in their memories; there
was no reason for them to remember it.  Yosue recalled the young woman
helping the elderly man into the bank, and her insistence that he
didn't want people knowing his business.

Tichenor remembered that the top papers on the stack that she notarized
had appeared to be warranty deeds with plats, blocks, lots, and
measurements on them.  She remembered six or seven sheets of paper that
were "just turned up from the bottom a little way by her [Pat], and she
would say at each sheet, 'Sign here, Paw."

Tichenor had not used her seal, but had merely stamped the pages.  "The
date and the signature were my writing," she said.

"I did not write that 'Sworn and subscribed to before me' on there."

She had routinely jotted down the specifics of the ten minute
transaction in her log and forgotten about it-until subpoenaed as a
witness.  She had had no idea she had notarized a confession to double
murder.

Andy Weathers hated to do it, but it was necessary.  An ambulance was
sent to bring eighty-year-old Walter Allanson back to testify.  He
denied that he had any part in the murders of his son and
daughter-in-law.  He remembered the murder day of July 3, 1974, well.

He did not clearly remember signing the papers at the bank, or, rather,
he remembered that April night in mismatched segments.  He recalled
"signing papers for Pat," but he felt sure that he had never gone into
the bank itself never talked to no lady-just a man come out to the
car."

Jim Kelly of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation-s crime lab, chief
document examiner and handwriting expert for the state, was called to
the stand by the prosecution to explain the peculiarities in the
confession.  Only the last of the five pages had d, and that last page
had not been typed continuously.  been signed The confession was rife
with typographical and grammatical errors, although someone had gone
through it with a blue ballpoint pen, correcting some of them.  Kelly
pointed out that, while the date of the notary's signature on the last
page was April 16, the date typed at the beginning of the alleged
confession was April 19.

Odd.  And suspect.

McAllister asked only one question: "How many pages were in the
confession?"  The answer was "five."

Wisely, the defense attorney left it at that.

Weathers then recalled Dr. Everett Solomons of the crime lab and asked
him about the liquid found in the antique whiskey bottle.  "Say, right
here in front of this jury, I took normal swallows of this arsenic-are
you with me so far?"

"Yes, sir."

"What would happen?"

"I would expect you to have to be hospitalized in order to live.

"How many swallows of this would kill you-normally, how many?"

"I would expect two swallows."

Weathers was so intent that he did not see the incongruity of "normal"
swallows of arsenic.  Solomons was adamant that two swallows was a
lethal dose.  No human would live six months, or four months-orfour
minutes-if he did that.

Pat drooped like a wilted rose as the trial progressed beyond 5:00

P.m. that day.  During a jury recess, McAllister asked if they might
stop.

"Your Honor, at this point I would move that we recess for the day
based upon the fact that my client is suffering from certain physical
disabilities.  At the late hour yesterday, she suffered from
dizziness.

Double vision.  She has told me today she has a problem with blood
clotting.  I know she has problems with her heart.  She's been in the
hospital three times since the first of this year.  She is not in any
condition, in my professional opinion, to continue in this trial and to
continue to aid me.  It is my expectation that we will be ready to go
forward tomorrow morning.

Judge Holt peered balefully at Pat.  "What is the problem with your
client that at five o'clock in the afternoon she can't go on?"

McAllister was stumped.  He didn't know the specifics of Pat's sinking
spells.  "I do not know if there is anything inherent about five
o'clock or not.  But I do know she's unable to continue today in a
meaningful way to assist me."

Holt suppressed a snort.  "What do you mean she's not able to continue
in a meaninaful way?"

"Your Honor .  . . it's impossible for me .  . . to really converse
with her."

"You have been conversing with her."

McAllister referred to the physical strain on Pat, who, according to
Colonel Radcliffe, was suffering from a "severe blood clot."

Being on trial would put anyone under a physical strain, Counselor,"
Judge Holt said.  "We can get a doctor up here to look at her."

McAllister backed down.  His client had her own doctor.

Holt was not about to rein in his speedy trial.  He had trial
commitments the next week.  But not long after his decision, the state
rested its case.  It was near 6:00 P.m. on Wednesday, May 4.

Although he wasn't happy about it, Holt recessed for the day.

They would go longer tomorrow-unless the defendant was truly ill.

If she was, she would have to let him know.

The defendant looked surprised.  No one had ever doubted her frail
health before.

Dunham McAllister rose to begin the case for the defense.  "Your Honor,
I call Patricia Allanson to the stand."

The gallery murmured.  Whatever Pat's physical disabilities of the
night before, she had apparently made a miraculous recovery.  She wore
the emerald green sheath again.  She had gained weight and the cap
sleeves showed her plump short arms, the bodice tight across her full
breasts.  She seemed calm and selfpossessed, not at all nervous.

Her mother and stepfather looked at her with pride; Margureitte's chin
lifted and the colonel's bearing was ramrod straight and tall.  Only
Susan seemed nervous.

Pat answered her attorney's questions easily, giving her address in
Morrow and her former address on Tell Road.

"Have you ever lived at Walter and Nona Allanson's residence?"

"No, sir.  . . . Normally, I went when Mrs.  Allanson called me.1

"How often was that?"

"In the earlier ... period ... it was not in excess of three times a
week because of my own inability to get around.  After I got better,
she called me an average of about four or five times a week and asked
me to come."

Pat was prepared-even eager-to discuss her own precarious health, but
Andy Weathers objected.  He could see no bearing on this case.  Judge
Holt sustained.

McAllister moved ahead to the time of Walter Allanson's heart attack in
January of 1976.  Pat rolled her tongue in her mouth, wetting her lips
with its tip as she recalled her visit to his hospital room.

"He had a nurse to call the house and say that he had some very
important information he wanted to speak to me about.  . . . When I got
there, I went in and immediately he asked me to call for the nurse.  My
mother was with me .  . .

he told the nurse that he had gotten approval from the doctor to have a
private conversation with me, and he wanted the curtains closed and
everything.  . . .

That was when Paw-Mr. Allanson- I'm sorry," she said apologetically,
"I can't help but say 'Paw' because I have called him that so long."

McAllister nodded encouragingly, and Pat continued.

"He thought he was going to die, and he had something that had to be
told.

. . . He told me that Tommy-he calls my husband Tommy-he said that
Tommy did not do what he was put in jail for.  He said, 'I did it."  And
that's as far as he went because I stopped him.  I didn't
believe him in the first place, and in the second place, I had been
told by the doctor he didn't need anything to upset him or excite him,
and I thought that was a pretty upsetting and excitable subject-so I
didn't pursue it."

Even though Pat had been frantic to have her husband free, she had
thought first of his grandfather's health and allowed a confession to
murder-which would have saved Tom-to hang in the air, unsaid.  From
time to time during her testimony she had looked modestly down at her
lap.  Now, she lifted her green eyes to her attorney.

When Paw returned home, Pat said, he worried about the nurse giving
Nona medication.  Pat had gone over to help out and they had had
another conversation.  "He was very, very irate at Mr. and Mrs. Boggs
. . . he said [they] had been bothering Maw.  . . . He said, 'I want to
keep Jean and them away."  He said, 'If they don't stay away and leave
her alone, I'm going to blow her head off just like I did Walter's and
Carolyn's."  So that night, he went into everything.  He told me every
single thing he done."

Pat was very earnest, very definite as she described how torn she had
been between concern for Paw's health and her need to know the truth.

She had permitted him to give her details "only after he was released
from the doctor's care and I saw that he was all right then."

As she recalled, she had committed the old man's statement to paper
about three weeks before it was notarized.  "Mr. Allanson wanted me to
bring the typewriter over to the house and type it up.  And I am not a
typist in the first place.  The typewriter was too heavy for me to move
because I was still on crutches."  She said she had explained that to
the old man, and he had agreed she could just write down what he told
her.  "He still said, 'I'm not going to the police about it.  It will
upset Mama, make her have a heart attack."  He had been using this on
me a long time to keep me from going to the police after he told me.

And he said, 'I'll tell it to you now the way it really happened.

"And did he?"

Pat looked toward the ceiling, as if searching for guidance, and then
rolled her tongue again in the familiar gesture.  "Yes, sir," she said
with emphasis.  "He did.  . . . I don't know how to describe it unless
you could say that the more he told me, the more I wrote down what he
said, the more excited he became as he was telling it.  . . . I
questioned him numerous times throughout it .  . . you know, like, 'How
could you have done that, Paw?"  I wrote down verbatim every word that
he told me.  . . . He wanted me to type it up because he could not read
the handwriting.

"Was it typed?"

"Yes, sir, it was.  . . . My mother typed it, because I can't
type-except one finger."

"Now," McAllister continued, "between the time it was stipulated and
June 13 of last year, what was your contact with the Allanson home?"

"Between the time this was signed and the thirteenth?"

"Yes.

"Very few, because I was afraid to go back.  I would say probably four
or five times at the most.  Instead of going every day, I only went
those times when Ma called me and begged me to come.  I always went-but
I always took someone with me, from the very day that he told me
that.

From that date on, I never went back to that house alone."

Pat recalled the unsettling weekend of June 12-13, shuddering at the
memory.  Her facial expressions and gestures were very dramatic.  "Ma
had called us that morning.  She was hysterical.

She said Paw tried to kill her.  (That] he was drinking, that he had
gone crazy.  . . . She didn't know what to do and she was frightened.

Pat and her parents went to her rescue, of course, she said.

Once inside the house, someone had called Dr. Jones, and against my
wishes," Pat explained, the old man had remained out of the hospital.

She asked her good friend, Fanny K. Cash, to stay the night for
protection, as if a sixty-seven-year-old woman would be much protection
against the out-of-control admitted killer Pat had described.

On Sunday morning, Pat said, she had to call Dr.  Jones again.

"What were you doing when Dr.  Jones arrived?"

"When he arrived that Sunday morning?"

"Yes.

"Oh, I remember," Pat said suddenly.  "I was bathing Ma, and because I
knew I had left her only partially clothed in the bathroom and it was
cool, I had to hurry back to her.  So I just ran up real quick and
answered the door and Dr. Jones followed me back, and I showed him
which room Paw was in."

McAllister had a most important point he had to get across to the
jury.

He wanted to show, through Pat's testimony, that she had nothing to
gain, and much to lose, if Paw Allanson died.  If Paw had died, he
submitted, she might never have been able to use his confession to free
Tom.

Weathers would not let him ask that directly.  He maintained in
objection after objection that McAllister's questions on the matter
were all leading.  When the defense attorney tried through another
door, Weathers objected again.  At length, Judge Holt allowed
McAllister to get at the subject in a roundabout way.

"Did I give you certain legal advice concerning your husband's case?"

he asked Pat.

"Yes, sir.  You did."

"Would you tell the jury what that advice was?"

"Well, you told me that the worst thing that could possibly happen
would be for Mr. Allanson to die from his heart or anything else,
because it was very important that he be alive and that he be able to
testify to what he told me.........

"Do you know anything about how arsenic got into the body of Nona
Allanson or Walter Allanson?"

"No, sir."

Pat said she had heard nothing about anyone suffering from isoning
until June 28, when they had come with an arsenic po ambulance to take
Nona away.  "There was a lot of confusion going on.  And I don't know
whether I overheard it or whether it was said directly to me.  It seems
like Mr.  Tedford is the one who said it-it seems."

"Do you know anything about the presence of arsenic on or about the
premises of Walter Allanson s place?"

"No, sir.  He didn't let people ramble around his house."

"Who prepared the food?"

"Oh, Paw did all the cooking .  . . he wouldn't let anyone else.

"Was that true on every occasion?"

"Every one until he went to the hospital.  Then, of course, there were
different nurses who cooked and everything."

"Thank you."

Andy Weathers rose to cross-examine.  Questioning a defendant who was
attractive, intelligent, and frail-with her cane next to her chair-was
not going to be the easiest thing in the world.  He knew that even Bob
Tedford had initially felt sorry for Pat.

Weathers had studied her during this trial and watched emotions flicker
across her face.  Concern.  Boredom.  Pain.  Fear.

Confidence.  And sometimes a kind of supercilious annoyanceeven with
her own attorney.  Pat strove, it appeared, to come across as an almost
royal presence who, for God only knew what ily untenable and
distasteful reason, found herself in a temporar Weathers began without
preamble, "that Mr. McAllister gave you some legal advice as your
attorney.

I assume by this you mean he was already retained as your attorney at
this time, and gave you legal advice about this document not being any
good.  Is that correct?"

Pat blinked.  "Pardon, sir?  I couldn't hear."  situation.

"You just stated "You just stated to the jury, did you not, that Mr.
McAllister i gave you some legal advice concerning the validity .  .

.

of "Yes, sir.  . . . I don't quite understand the question-" Weathers
repeated his question, which emphasized that the confession was
worthless.  Pat explained that it had not existed when she first went
to McAllister in March.  At that point, Paw had only told her verbally
that he was the real killer of his son and daughter-in-law.

Answering Weathers's questions about her marriage, Pat agreed
cautiously that she and Tom were "very close .  . . very, very
close."

"You're stating to the jury that Tom Allanson never told you one word
about his innocence in this case."

"Yes, sir .  . . he told me he was innocent and I knew that if he said
he was innocent, he was innocent."

"In fact, you knew a lot more," Weathers said, moving closer.

"Isn't it a fact when Mr. and Mrs. Allanson were killed, the police
saw you directly outside the house when Tom Allanson ran outside the
house?"

"No, sir.  I was not."  Pat's face flushed, and she watched Weathers
warily.

"You were not in the car?"

"I was in a car not far from there.  Not a car, I'm sorry-in a jeep"Not
far from the murder scene?"

"Depends on what you call far."  Pat was slowly regaining her
composure.

"Okay.  You tell me how far."

"A block, block and a half.  That is where my doctor was.  I had just
come from the doctor."

"At the time Walter and Carolyn Allanson were killed, you were
approximately one block from that place?"

"More like two."  Pat backpedaled and decided that she probably had
been more than two blocks away from the double murderscene.

Did you see Tom Allanson run down the street right after the two people
were killed?"

"No, sir."

"Were you aware that he was seen running down the street?"

State's Exhibit No.  1 .  . . ders."

it was afterwards, yes."

"So that puts both of you all within two blocks of the murder"-It puts
me in the doctor's office two and a half blocks away, yes."

"I believe you said a minute ago you were in ajeep"Yes.

Weathers was tripping Pat up on details, the "minutiae" that he knew he
had to have, the string of small lies, exaggerations, the
minimizations.

"Now, I believe you stated that this document batim exactly what
confession] is ver -1 believe the word you used- Walter Allanson told
you about how he went about killing his son and his son's wife?  Is
that true?"

"Yes, sir."

"And I believe you just testified to this jury that your mother typed
this because you couldn't type?"

"That's right."

'My name is "Then why does it say in the first sentence, Walter
Allanson, and I'm telling this to my granddaughter, Tommy's wife, Pat A
Hanson, and she's doing it on the typewriter because I don't write so
good anymore'?"

Pat looked at the prosecutor as if he were totally dense.  She hat Paw
had said exactly that-that he had assumed explained t she would be the
one to type it.

Weathers switched to the third codicil to the elderly Allansons' "You
heard Mr.  Reeves and Mr.  wills, dated February 4, 1976.

Hamner testify that if Walter Allanson died first, and Nona Allanson
died, that everything they had would be left to you and Tom?"

"I heard him testify that is the way it was-but I was not aware of it
at the time."  "Well, didn't you also state you were present there when
this explanation was made?"

She shook her head with slight irritation.  "I was present part of the
time.  I was not present the entire time in the [hospita room because
the attorney got there before I did, and he was explaining the document
to Paw."

"Did you hear Mr. Hamner say you were present in the room when he
explained it?"  Weathers pushed.

"I will have to beg to differ with Mr.  Hamner," Pat said firmly.

While she claimed that her memory was better than the attorney's, Pat
was actually quite vague about the details of the Allansons' wills,
knowing only that the "percentages" were to be divided up between her
husband and the other grandchildren.  She insisted that most of what
she knew about the wills and codicils she had learned only during the
current trial.

"Didn't you hear him say there was a catchall provision that if the
estate was worth more than the trust, everything in that estate-Mr.
Hamner testified-would go to Tom Allanson?  [That] if he was married to
you at the time, and if something happened to him and he was not able
to inherit, everything in that estate would go to you?  Did you hear
that testimony?"

"I heard the testimony, yes, sir.  I have been sitting here."

Pat clearly wanted the jury to believe that she had had no interest in
or understanding of the final disbursement of Paw and Nona's
considerable assets.  Indeed, she professed to be basically ignorant of
such folderol as wills and codicils.

Weathers asked Pat if she recalled using her power of attorney over the
Allansons' assets.  "You don't recall withdrawing anything from these
people's account?"

"There was no necessity to use it," Pat replied.

"Do you recall withdrawing .  . . money [from] Fulton Federal Savings
and Loan Association [by writing a check] made payable to Walter and
Mrs. Nona Allanson dated June 23, 1976, in the amount of one thousand
dollars?"

Pat could not really recall putting that amount into her own account
the next day, signing Walter Allanson and Patricia Allanson on the
back-but she did admit the endorsement was her writing.

Finally she said, "All right.  Yes, I did."  But she had, she insisted,
done it for Nona.  Nona wanted cash.  Pat refused to admit that she had
used the thousand dollars to pay for Tom's legal costs.

Weathers changed tactics and returned again to the way Walter
Allanson's confession had been recorded.  "Is this an exact account of
what Walter Allanson told you transpired?"

"It was as exact as I could possibly get," Pat said."  I don't think I
missed too many words.  I just-I'm just a slow writer."  "You think,"
Weathers said in his deep, resonant voice, 'Don't y "it's rather
unusual that .  . . [when] Fred and all these lawyers you know
personally-that [with] something of this significance, you take this to
a bank in front of people you had never seen and have it notarized
after a long day of shopping?  Just stop by to have a murder confession
notarized?  Isn't this stretching things?"

Pat sighed.  "It was not a long day, because we started the day late in
the afternoon, and it was only to get groceries and take care of having
that signed."

"So, in having it signed, you go to people who don't know any of
you-all and just say, 'Sign, Paw.  Sign, Paw'?"

"I did not say that."

"Then Mrs.  Tichenor's memory is incorrect?"

"Yes, I am afraid her memory is."

So far in her testimony, Pat had found many prior witnesses' memories
to be faulty, including Bill Hamner's, Fred Reeves's, and Bob
Tedford's.  Now, finally, she questioned the testimony of notary Joyce
Tichenor.  Everyone was out of step save Pat.

he twenty-eighth of June, the day Nona Weathers moved to t Allanson was
rushed to South Fulton Hospital to be tested for arsenic poisoning.

Pat had no memory of Bob Tedford telling her that Pa Allanson had
arsenic in his body.  "Mr. Tedford did not mention arsenic at the
time."

She had just contradicted her own earlier testimony without realizing
it.

"Mr.  Tedford's recollection, you say, is incorrect again?"

"I don't recall what Mr.  Tedford's recollection was.  . . .

That was not right because I had already found that out earlier at the
hospital.

It was another contradiction of her own memory.  Weathers noted it, but
let it pass.

"Well.  . . . If you knew that that man had arsenic in his body," he
said, "if you loved that woman, thefirst thing you where where would
want for her .  . . would be to get her some somebody could save her
life.  It's possible she had arsenic."

Again, Pat denied that anyone had told her Nona might be in danger of
arsenic poisoning.

Dunham McAllister objected, insisting that Tedford had never mentioned
arsenic in his testimony, and asked for a directed verdict of
acquittal.  He suggested that the state had failed to prove its case.

Weathers responded, "The state thinks this has been a very carefully
planned scheme.  . . . [She had the] opportunity.  She stated to
Tedford she was the only one who took care of them.  She was the one
who had the arsenic.

She's the one who had the most to gain.  The statement-the so-called
statementhas been completely refuted by Mr. Allanson.  He said he
never wrote it.  He never did anything to his own child or his child's
wife.  We think we are far, far beyond a directed verdict in this case,
Your Honor."

Judge Holt ruled against McAllister and the trial ground on.  Weathers
asked the court reporter to read Bob Tedford's earlier statements.  The
court record verified Tedford's testimony that he had told Pat on June
28 that the old man had been poisoned with arsenic and that the old
woman might have been poisoned too.

Pat remained on the witness stand, listening as her testimony was
undermined.  She seemed unimpressed.

"Do you recollect him telling you that?"  Weathers pushed.

"No, sir."

Weathers pushed even harder.  "What possible purpose could be served
.

. .

by telling this nearly eighty-year-old woman that insurance wouldn't
cover her going to the hospital?"

"I never said that."  Nor could Pat see that there was any reason for
Nona Allanson's welfare to be a police matter.  She suspected it was a
guardianship fight.

"You are stating that he [Tedford] just showed up in the middle of the
day and said, 'We are taking her to the hospital'?

t, Not going to say anything else-just, 'Let's go'?"

"That just about sums it up.  Yes, sir."

Pat was not shaken by the obvious discrepancies between her testimony
and the testimonies of a number of prosecution witnesses.  She looked
petulant and occasionally glanced toward her parents for their support,
but she wasn't ruffled.  Weathers's skillful questioning had built the
"basement" of his "house," and he was working on the superstructure.  A
pattern of behavior was emerging.  Even when he caught Pat in an
outrageous, inappropriate response, she simply denied that black was
black.  She stepped away from this messy business of a trial.  Her
memory -the memory she bragged about-was suddenly full of gaping empty
spaces.

Weathers forced her back again.  Sighing, she related that the
confession had been given to her three times-in the garage on and in
his Washington Road, in the old man's hospital room, home.  She had
written it down in her own hand.

"You have that writing with you?"  Weathers asked suddenly.  "Gosh, no,
sir.  I don't."

,You don't have it?"

"No."

"Where is it?"  ere it is.  It's "Thrown away, I guess.  I don't really
recall wh probably thrown away because it was only my own writing."

"A confession to a murder in your writing as a man dictates it.

You threw it away?"

Pat didn't know where it was.  "He could not read my writing d up.  And
until then, I didn't see that it that well, so it was type made any
difference the way I wrote it out.  So long as it was typed properly.

It was used to type that document you have in your hand.  It was taken
from mine."

"The last page of this document has the signature 'Walter Allanson' on
it," Weathers said.  'Why did you take this out of the typewriter and
then reinsert it?"

"I told you, sir.  I didn ) t type it."  eitte typed Pat denied that
she was in the room when Margur the confession, at least not "the
entire time."  The last page had been typed on some old stationery left
over from when her mother was secretary for the Dixie Cup Morgan Horse
Show, but Pat had no idea why that final page had been dated and the
first page was typed.  Asked if notarized three days before the she
thought Paw had tried to commit suicide, Pat said it was quite
possible.

But if he had been suicidal as she hinted, she could not explain why a
man who had as many guns as Walter Allanson had not killed himself with
one.

"Doesn't it seem strange a man would kill himself with the ingestion of
arsenic over a six-month period of time?"  Weathers asked.

seems strange with him a she said crisply, "Nothing nymore, her voice
edged with irony.

The witness stand was no longer a comfortable place for Pat.

She stared coldly at Weathers as she said she had no idea why Paw might
have chosen to kill his beloved wife of forty-nine years slowly with
arsenic.  She did not, after all, know that much about arsenic.

Weathers walked away from her, then turned back suddenly.  "I almost
forgot to ask you something, ma'am.  You are the one that told
Detective Tedford that what was wrong with Mr. Allanson was he had
been swallowing pills by the handful?"

"I might have repeated this to him after Dr. Jones repeated it to
me.)@ "Did you tell Detective Tedford?"

"I don't recall."

"Ma'am," Weathers asked with exasperation in his voice, "how in the
world could Dr.  Jones have said this?  He wasn't even there.

Didn't you recall his testimony was based on what you-all told him at
the hospital?  He stated he had trouble getting the man to take
pills.

Don't you recall that?"

"I recall that in testimony.  . . . Perhaps I didn't understand your
question."

"Did you tell Detective Tedford this man-Mr. Walter Allanson-was
taking handfuls of pills and drinking whiskey?"

"Words to that effect-I had told him at one time, yes."

"And do you recall telling Jean Boggs on the fourteenth day of June,
out there in front of that house, that you hoped this man died?"

"No, sir.  I did not say that."

Nor had she told Tedford-on the very day that hospital personnel felt
Paw was going to die-that her husband's grandfather had tried to run
her off the road, and that she lived in fear for her very life.  "Not
running off the road," she said querulously.

"I told him something else-but not running off the road.

"And-as to the death of Walter and Carolyn......... Weathers asked,
"isn't it a fact that shortly before Walter Allanson died, you made a
complaint that Walter Allanson exposed himself to you?"

"Yes, I remember that."

"We are speaking of the dead man.  Do you recall doing that?"

"Yes, I think I did."

"You think you did.  . . . You make the complaint and your husband
said, 'I'm going to kill that son of a bitch'?"  what could "No, sir.

. . . He didn't say anything except to say nothing could be done about
it legally."  last question to you-at "And it is a fact in summation-at
the time both of these people were killed, back in '74, you were in a
jeep within two blocks of that area?"

"I was either in a jeep or in a doctor's office."

"I have no further questions."

Weathers turned away.

Margureitte Radcliffe followed her daughter to the witners stand.

Everywhere Pat went, her mother was close behind her, supporting,
mopping up, fixing, rearranging.  If Pat had been queenly in her
bearing, Margureitte was an empress.  Serene and self-contained, she
gazed down at her daughter's attorney almost benevolently.

The five-page confession looked perfectly familiar to her, she told
McAllister.  She had typed it herself, approximately a year earlier.

She recalled that she had typed it just after she and her husband,
Colonel Radcliffe, had returned from the funera of his brother-in-law
in New York State.  They had been preparing to leave for a happier
celebration, the fiftieth anniversary of one of her brothers.  The
Radcliffes were clearly family people, involved and supportive.

There was not a scintilla of Pat's testimony that her mother did not
substantiate.  Margureitte remembered each facet with crystalline
clarity.  Certainly Nona Allanson had called them, panicked, needing
help on June 12, 1976.  Absolutely Nona had said Paw had tried to
smother her and then had tried to force her to drink
something-something not coffee.

Margureitte herself had witnessed it all.

On cross-examination, Weathers wondered why the dates on the confession
had been so disparate.  It was her fault, Margureitte admitted; she had
not bothered to check a calendar when she began to type page one.  The
anniversary they were headed for was on a Sunday, but the celebration
was on a Saturday.  If Mr. Weathers had a 1976 calendar, she could
probably figure it out.

Perhaps not.  A glance at a 1976 calendar showed that the sixteenth of
April-the day the confession was notarized-was a Friday.

"Do you think this was more than a few days off?..... Do you think it
was above or behind?"  Weathers asked.

"It was prior to-it was ahead of time."

"You mean like starting back eighteen, seventeen.....

"Yes," Margureitte answered, oblivious of the jury's puzzled looks.

"It was more than-in other words, I didn't date it.  It was like
a-postdated, I would say, would be the proper word.  That date is
postdated.  Is that not correct to be forward?"

She never gave a good reason why the confession had two different
dates.  The unspoken supposition was, of course, that Paw Allanson had
been told to sign some vital documents on April 16, and the confession
had been typed in three days later by a mother and daughter working
together.

argureitte had typed the confession in the study of the Tell Road
house.  In April of 1976.  She was definitely sure it had been April.

"And how did you go about reducing- Did you reduce this from notes?"

"I didn't reduce it.  I wrote it verbatim."

"You took it from something else and put it on here?"

"That is correct.  Yes."

"And who provided you with-" "My daughter, Mrs.  Allanson."

"M questionisthis,"Weatherscontinued."Everythingthere y that you put in
these papers was provided to you by Pat Allanson?"

"I didn't change it, if that is what you mean."

"I am not trying to imply that at all.... In other words, everything
you know about what's on here is through information provided by your
daughter?"

"No-I knew that Mr.  Allanson had confessed prior to that, yes."

"Who told you that?"

"Mrs.  Allanson."

"Mrs.  Allanson told you that also?"

"Yes.

"When did you have this conversation with Mrs.  Allanson?"

"I can't give you a date on that.  I have to be very truthful.  I have
to be perfectly honest."

Margureitte Radcliffe was fifty-six, only seventeen years older than
the daughter she was trying, as always, to protect.  She was still
beautiful, and she lifted her chin ever so slightly and surveyed the
courtroom with her "crystal gaze."  It was essential that she be
perceived as very truthful, perfectly honest, and always, always
correct.

"Were you aware that they were both full of arsenic?"  Weathers went
on, using phrases that clearly shocked Margureitte.  "Were you aware
that they had such a level of arsenic in their bodies [as] to alter
their human structure, that [it] would have resulted in death if
arsenic ingestion continued?"

"I heard the laboratory said that," Margureitte replied.  "I believe
last week I saw the lab report, but prior to that I had not."  Arsenic
was not something that Margureitte would have chosen to discuss in
detail; it was obviously burdensome for her, but Weathers kept alluding
to the poison.  He estab ished that Margureitte had had "training in
nursing."

"You would generally be familiar with the fact arsenic would cause
death if ingested in sufficient quantities?"

"The only thing I know about arsenic actually is that it is a poison.

I have no personal knowledge."

"I'm not implying for a moment that you do.  I'm just asking you as a
technical question-would you be aware that arsenic is a poison?"

I would think it was very dangerous.  Yes, very."  Margureitte blamed
the myriad typographical errors in the confession @ the occasional
lines that were capitalized, on her own inexperience.  "I'm really not
that good a typist."  point he wanted to make.  Paw s alleged Weathers
had another the murders of Walter confession had too many details about
and Carolyn Allanson to be simply guesswork.  It had to have been
written by someone who had been there, or who had been told what had
happened that terrible night.  Paw had emphatically denied any part in
the murders.

He had repudiated the confession.  Who, then, had written it?

king that question very subtly.  In So Weathers went about as many
places in the confession, there were references to Paw Allanson's
concern for his wife, to his fear that Mama "might have a stroke" if
she knew.  Why on earth would Paw have told anyone that he was a
killer?  It could have cost him what he held most dear.  Nona.

Margureitte Radcliffe agreed that Paw Allanson most definitely kept secret
to spare his wife's health.  wanted the document others asked, "if
the knowledge of the confession "So," Wea would not come from Walter
Allanson.  came to someone .  . . it .  . . It would have come from
some other party?"

"I'm not sure I follow you," Margureitte said slowly.  "I'd like for
you to make that statement again."

"Take the position the third party was there in that basement when it
took place, knew exactly the or right outside that area details, wasn't
concerned about Mrs. Allanson's health.  That third party or whoever
else was in that basement could have put something-or everything-down
on this piece of paper as to the way this happened.  Could they not?"

"I do not follow you at all."  Margureitte flushed as she spoke,
warily.

"I withdraw that," Weathers said.  what we are "I don't know what the
basement has to do with what we're talking about, sir!"
Margureitte's testimony was interrupted by a lunch break that
Thursday in May of 1977.  It was
just as well for the defense.  f another crime haunted Pat's The
scarcely acknowledged ghost o able murder of trial.  It was the crux of
this trial, really.  The doubt Hanson had Walter and Carolyn Allanson
was what old Paw A e event described in detail in supposedly confessed
to; it was this strange document full of typos and x-ed-out
sections.

Tom Allanson was in prison for that crime, but Pat Allanson had said on
the witness stand that she had been "one," "one and a half," "two,"
"more than two" blocks away at the moment the fatal shots were fired.

She had been a suspect in those murders.  She had never been charged,
but that old investigation remained alive and rife with dangerous
questions.  No one on the defense side of this case wished to see those
questions arise in courtroom 808.

Margureitte Radcliffe's afternoon testimony was taken up with her
typing of the confession, the choice of paper, the crossedout portions,
the manner in which she had inserted the paper into her typewriter-all
questions from Andy Weathers.  She couldn't recall why she had made
such choices.  She had no idea whether one would normally start typing
from the very top of a sheet of paper, block out the stationery heading
and go on, or whether one would start in the middle, and then type the
top of the page.

Did the jury see the significance of the different dates, the different
margins, the different paper on Paw's confession?  There was no way of
knowing.

Weathers asked Margureitte about July 26, 1976, the day she and her
husband had come to East Point police headquarters with her attorney to
give a formal statement about their recall of events in the Washington
Road house.

Their statements were taken just two weeks before Pat was arrested and
charged with criminal attempt to commit murder.  "Did you at any time
in this statement tell the police, the district attorney's office-or
anyone in law enforcementthat you had typed a confession of murder
signed by Walter Allanson?"

"No, I did not," Margureitte said.

"I have no further questions."

Colonel Clifford Radcliffe followed his wife onto the witness stand.

In response to a question from McAllister, he recalled finding the
whiskey bottle-a whiskey bottle, although he could not say if the
bottle in evidence was the same bottle.  The color of the cap looked
different to him now.  He attempted to say that his wife had told him
to "dump it out."

Weathers objected on the grounds the statement was hearsay.

The colonel hastened to explain that Dr. Jones had told Mrs. Radcliffe
to tell him to dump out the bottle's contents.

"Your Honor, that's hearsay on hearsay."

After a wrangle between attorneys, Judge Holt allowed the first hearsay
but not the second.  McAllister asked what the witness had done with
the bottle.

"I smelled the contents the colonel replied.  "I smelled the alcohol.

. .

. I dumped the contents down into the toilet and then I gave the bottle
to my daughter to put with the .  . . medication we were accumulating
in the house to give to Dr.  Jones."

He agreed with his wife and stepdaughter that Nona Allanson had called
them for rescue on June 12.

"Did she state anything to you in person when you arrived?"  McAllister
asked.

"Yes, sir.  . . . If I may-not only to me, but several times thereafter
to other people who came to the house."

"What did she state?"

"That her husband had tried to kill her."

"Thank you, sir."

During cross-examination, Weathers deliberately allowed the jury to
once again hear the story of the terrified old woman, the assaultive
husband who was drinking and gulping down pills, the trio of rescuers
who left Tell Road and rushed to Nona Allanson's aid.  Colonel
Radcliffe explained easily that he had never actually seen Paw taking
pills-he might have told detectives that, but he had corrected
himself.

"I did not actually see him, but there were open pill containers on the
counter."

"I am asking," Weathers suddenly took the offensive, "did you tell the
detectives when they came out there that he was gulping down handfuls
of pills?"

"That was my assumption at the time I first saw him."

Colonel Radcliffe had accused Bob Tedford of lying, of being confused
about who said what about the pills.  And now, once again, he had
reversed himself.

Weathers brought the colonel back to July 26-the day of his formal
statement.  "Had your wife communicated to you at this time that she
had typed a document .  . . signed by Walter Allanson admitting the
murder of his son and daughter-in-law?"

"At that time, I believe that she had indicated that she was typing a
document."

"Did you see the document?"

" I had seen it, but I had never read it."

"You were aware that your wife was typing this document purported to be
a confession of murder and you never read it?"

"That's correct, sir."

"You never mentioned that to the police at that time?"

"What, sir?"

"The fact that there was a purported murder confession?"

I don't recall that I did."

Weathers was astonished.  He walked a bit closer to the
distinguished-looking colonel.  "Well now, certainly, sir-I ask you to
search your memory.  Would you not recall telling the police whether or
not you had information to a double murder where a man and his wife had
been killed in the basement of a house?  You don't recollect whether or
not you told the police?"

"Was this supposed to be included in my statement of the twenty-sixth
of July?"  Radcliffe asked.

"I'm asking, on that statement you gave the police-did you give this
information?"

Colonel Radcliffe was as calm and as flat as a windless lagoon.  "I
believe I did mention that there had been a confession."

He had fallen into a prosecution trap and never realized it.

He had never mentioned the confession.

. . .

Fanny Kate Cash was the next witness for the defense.  A heavyset,
disheveled woman, she peered at the gallery through thick glasses.

Fanny Kate explained that she had lived all of her sixty-seven years at
4185 Tell Road.  She had not married.  She had once been a secretary
and a bookkeeper, but when her mother passed away, she had to take care
of her father.

Out there, before there were any other houses, Fanny Kate had lived
with her aged father, who lay like a man already dead on the chaise
longue on the veranda.  She had done sewing and babysitting.  And then
she was alone, except for her church circle.

She sold a piece of her acreage to Pat and Gil Taylor.  Seeing them tow
those two houses in and watching the horse ring and the red and white
stables being built must have been a happy thing for Fanny Kate.  With
the advent of Clifford and Margureitte Radcliffe, and all of Pat's
children moving in and out, the neighborhood certainly livened up.

Fanny Kate didn't even mind that Pat had never p aid off the land
contract.

Fanny Kate had become a part of Boppo's, Papa's, and Pat's lives, and
she had lumbered down the road to their house often for lemonade or
watermelon.  They were so gracious to her that she hated to ask about
the land payments.  Their home was so lovely and clean.  Fanny Kate's
life was more basic.  Cooking and he cabin where she lived was
accomplished by a huge heating in t coal stove, belching smoke, and
Fanny Kate's home and person smelled of soot.  She didn't care for
Pat's children, who were terrified of her-their noise and their
rambunctiousness set Fanny on edge-but she adored Pat.  She had always
tried to do her best for that poor, sickly woman.  Fanny Kate had
almost come to the point where she was going to give Pat her bedroom
set, which Pat had long coveted-all carved with cupids and hearts on
the headboard.  Fanny Kate testified that she had become a frequent
companion and confidante to the Radcliffes and eventually spent much
time at the Washington Road home of Paw and Nona A anson.  She
substantiated all the testimony given by Pat and the Radcliffes.

She had seen it herself.

Fanny Kate was off and running, relishing her place on the witness
stand, eager to support her neighbors.  She recalled that she had heard
Paw Allanson talk strangely about his son and 1976.

daughter-in-law's murder way back in March of "Grandma was saying she
had a dream, and he interfered with her about the dream.  It was about
the murder.  And he told her it wasn't right .  . . and so he drew the
basement .  . . on the of the basement, where back of a magazine and
give full details the hole was, where the furnace was, and then the
stairway which came down .  . . and he said the police never did state
the truth about Carolyn and the way she was lying on the steps .  . .

and at that time, I says, 'Well, where was the one that shot Walter
standing?"  He said, 'Right there."  And it was in front of the
hole."

Fanny Kate was full of recollections about what Paw had told her.

"Was that the end of the conversation?"  McAlliste r asked.

"He caught himself and realized that he had talked too much, and he
shut up then.  Shut up like a clam."

Weathers was on his feet.  "Your Honor!  This is the most pure
conjecture I have ever heard-" It did sound as if Fanny Kate was,
perhaps, embellishing her testimony.  But then again, perhaps she was
remembering accurately.  She was not, however, responsive to
questions.

She was away and gone on her own, settled into the witness chair as if
it had been designed for her.

Judge Holt again ordered the jury to disregard her statements.  But
Fanny Kate would be heard.  She was, she announced, a witness to Paw's
confession to Pat.  If not an eyewitness, she was most certainly an
"earwitness."  She said she had been with Pat the very day Paw dictated
his confession.  "Mrs. Allanson got restless and wanted to know what
they were doing out back, and I went to see.  And as I stood at the
jalousie door that goes to the garage, I overheard the conversation.

Pat begging him to slow down-that she couldn't take the notes so
fast.

And he become irritable with her and spoke up.  His voice raised and
says, 'I killed Walter and Carolyn.  I didn't intend to kill Carolyn.

But I did it in self-defense!"

" Fanny Kate said she didn't hang around to listen but had gone back to
Nona Allanson's room.

On cross-examination, Weathers asked Fanny Kate about her allegiance to
the Radcliffes and Pat Allanson.  She allowed she was close" to
Margureitte and Clifford Radcliffe, and "very close" to Pat.

"How long after you heard someone admit to .  . . a double murder case
was it that you called the local law officials?"

"I didn't understand the question."

"How long .  . . from the time you heard this did you contact any law
enforcement official?"

"I didn't contact any law enforcement at all."

"When is the first time since this date in 1976 that you have furnished
this information to any law enforcement?"

"I furnished it to Mr.  McAllister, the lawyer."

"That is not my question.  When was it, please, ma'am, that you have
given this information for a double murder case to anyone in law
enforcement?"

" I didn't give it to any law enforcement at all."

"When is the first time you gave it to anyone in the district
attorney's office?"

"Not at all."

"When is the first time you tried to contact any judge or any superior
court?"

Fanny Kate wasn't catching on yet.  "Not at all."

"Well then, this is the first time that any of these people have had
any opportunity to hear this today, is it not?"  turned it over to Mr.
McAllister."

"That is not my question.

"I haven't told anyone."

"That is my question.

No further questions."

It was clear to the most casual observer that Fanny Kate Cash would do
anything possible to help Pat out of a jam.  She was not nearly as
subtle as the other defense witnesses, and she tended to embroider, but
her loyalty was unquestionable.  Dunham McAllister could see the
roblems inherent in his witness.  He approached her warily for redirect
examination and was rewarded with an incredible story that he would
just as soon not have heard.

She said she and Pat had gone to the house on Washington Road with a
message from Tom "warning Grandma to be careful.  Her life was in
danger.  . . .

"And that night, between eleven-thirty and twelve o'clock, it was a
disguised [my] phone rang and I answered it.  And voice-" "Miss Cash,"
McAllister said quickly, "I don't want to go into that.  I think Mr.
Weathers probably would object to that."  mption of Mr. Weathers
objected to Mr.  McAllister's assu what he might object to.

"Go ahead," McAllister said, a trace of apprehension in his voice.

"I answered the phone and there was a disguised voice, saying, 'What
did you tell Mama?"  The word 'Mama' gave the voice away.  And I coolly
answered, and said, 'What did I tell-what did I tell Mama?"  and the
phone went up.  I recognized that voice, and it was Walter
Allanson's!"

Fanny Kate had a scenario of her own.  If the case on trial had not
been so serious, her testimony would have been hilarious.

But no one laughed.

iss Cash had Andy Weathers caught her again on recross.  If M been so
fearful for Nona Allanson's life, if she had gone there to deliver an
alleged message from Tom warning her that her life eelchair with was in
danger-this pathetic old woman in a wh the use of only one of her
limbs-then when had she called anyone in law enforcement to warn them
of the great danger this invalid lady was in?  Had she told anyone?

"No one, no," Fanny Kate responded.  "Not at all."

McAllister demanded to see all of Tom's letters to his grandparents and
asked for time to analyze them.  Judge Holt would not pause.  He had
warned the attorneys that he had only a week for this trial.  He
suggested that McAllister's wife, Margo-his COcounsel-could go over the
letters.

They moved ahead, the trial staying afloat but getting bulkier and
bulkier, listing to port with its heavy load of objections and legal
arguments.

Deborah Taylor Cole was the next witness for the defense.

She was Pat's second daughter, the one who had married at fifteen and
never left Georgia.  At twenty-one, she was a slender young woman with
brown hair, pretty-but without a vestige of the regal carriage of her
mother and grandmother.  Debbie spoke so softly that it was hard to
hear her beyond the first row of the gallery.  She answered with as few
words as possible.  In Debbie, Dunham McAllister had yet another
witness who had spent time in Walter and Nona Allanson's home, and who
could verify Pat's statements.

"I worked for them .  . . [for] three weeks."  Debbie wasn't sure just
when she had worked for Nona and Paw Allanson.  "It was summer.  It had
to have been June-somewhere around there."  She remembered that she had
been there the day before Paw was taken to the hospital.  Yes, she had
had several conversations with Nona.

"Did she say anything about Mr.  Walter Allanson?"

"About which incident?"  Debbie asked.  "I mean there is a lot of
things she told me about her husband."

"Did she say anything on that day about anything that he had done to
her?"  McAllister encouraged.

"Well, she's-I came in and she was crying .  . . and you have to get up
real close to listen to her because she has-she can't talk very well.

So I went real close and asked her what was wrong.

She said, 'Paw tried to smother me."And I said, 'Well, how did he do
that?"  She says, 'He just did."

Debbie's recall was remarkably similar to her mother's, her
grandparents', and Fanny Kate Cash's.

When Andy Weathers approached to cross-examine Debbie, she watched him
the way a possum watches a hunting dog.  He asked her about Nona's
condition.  Was she not very weak, capable of using only one hand?

And wasn't Walter very strong, able to carry his wife from room to
room?

Debbie insisted that the old woman was "very strong as far as her side
that she could move.  She was very strong on that side."

"She would be unable-if she was on the bed-to get up?"

"She was also able to answer the phone if it rang," Debbie added,
without answering the question.

"She would be unable to get out of bed?"

"No, she can't get out of bed."

"Don't you really think that if that man wanted to do something to hurt
that woman-a man of his strength, a woman 'd suffered weighing less
than a hundred pounds, a woman who something to harm her, he a massive
stroke-if he wanted to do so could have done it with the greatest of
ease?"  an't answer Debbie looked trapped, and she ducked.  "I really c
that question Weathers didn't push her.  His point was made.  In
response to further questions, Debbie Cole described the people present
in the Washington Road home on June 12, the day before Paw was
hospitalized.

"I think I was with my mother .  . . Mrs. Al anson and Mr. Allanson
.

. . my little girl."

"Any other people there?"

"No."

"Are you positive?"  giving the standard Rad "Not to my knowledge," she
replied cliffe answer.

Amazingly, Debbie had forgotten the bombastic presence of Fanny Kate
Cash, who had sworn right in that courtroom that she had been there
that day to protect Pat and "Grandma."

"No further questions."

There was redirect and recross, but it was apparent that Debbie was not
a very good witness.  She often answered, "Huh?"  or "I don't
remember."

Debbie Cole was the last witness.  The defense rested without calling
Tom Allanson to the stand.  Although the gallery had held stubbornly
onto their seats in the expectation of seeing Tom, he had long since
been returned to Jackson Prison.  Dunham McAllister wanted nothing or
no one who could tie his client, however tenuously, to the 1974 double
murders on Norman Berry Drive.  If Tom had appeared on the stand, Andy
Weathers would have had a field day on cross-examination.

To the defense team's chagrin, Weathers did the next best thing by
calling a former Fulton County assistant district attorney to the stand
on rebuttal.  Tom would not be in the courtroom to relive the night of
July 3-but William Weller, the D.A. who had prosecuted Tom, was.

Weller had recently left the D.A."s office for private practice and was
currently the chairman of the criminal law section for the Atlanta Bar
Association.

Although Paw Allanson's confession had already been fairly well
discredited, Weathers wanted the jury to see that he could not possibly
have shot his son and daughter-in-law, and that Pat had tried to
sacrifice the old man to free her husband.  Over McAllister's vigorous
objections, Weller sketched a rough depiction of the basement on Norman
Berry Drive, pointing out the kitchen steps and the "hole."  He
recalled examining the interior of that aperture and seeing the bullet
marks all over the inside.

Bill Weller said that the "window" into the hole was at least as high
as his own waist.  "It wasn't an easy chore for me-as a young man-to
lift myself up and get inside that hole," Weller said.  "The basement
was very difficult to walk around in-just so much debris.  About the
only area where you could walk, there were rugs and kinds of planks and
things all over the floor."

He had made his point.  There was no way that Paw, close to eighty,
could have physically done what the confession saidrun around that
basement jammed with junk and then lift himself on the weight of his
arms and jump nimbly in and out of the hole.  As an expert in criminal
law, Weller testified that he "did not buy" the document purported to
be Paw Allanson's confession.

"Could this [confession] possibly be used to get a new trial?"

McAllister asked him on recross.

"Yes, sir."

"Your answer was yes.  It's your opinion that this could be used to get
a new trial?"

"Almost anything can be used to get a new trial."

McAllister tried again; he didn't want to leave the jury with the
impression that Paw's confession would really have helped Tom get out
of prison.  He needed desperately to remove this motive from Pat's
case."If the person who made this were dead," he asked Weller, "would
this be admissible at that new tried ?

ar it," Weller said implacably, dash"If the judge wants to he ing
McAllister's thrust that a dead Paw Allanson would be usekss to Pat.

"He [the judge] has full discretion to do what he wants to do in a new
trial."  her.  "If a Weathers stepped forward to box the defense in
furt trial judge wished to accept this document as being true, Mr. not
there to object, 's it Weller, and Mr. Walter Allanson was not a fact
that all charges could have been dismissed that day, and he [Tom] could
walk out of the penitentiary the next day, if the trial court judge saw
fit to do it?"

"If he wanted to do it," Weller agreed.

I not give up.  "What you're saying then is McAllister wou that, under
the law in Georgia, a Superior Court judge has infinite power in the
trial of a case?"

"Yes, sir Weller agreed "But such a statement as this is inadmissible,
is it not?"  "As a general principle of law," Weller said, "it's
inadmissible.  But it depends on what you're using it for.  If you are
using it for dmissible.  If you are using it as direct impeachment, it
may be a evidence, it would probably be inadmissible, depending on the
circumstances."

Testimony in Pat Allanson's trial ended near 7:00

P.M. on Thursday, Maying with Andy Weathers Final arguments began
Friday morn n who painting a devastating picture of a conscienceless
woma murder deliberately.  He offered no eyehad planned a double when
somebody plans a witnesses.

"Ladies and gentlemen .  . .

murder and is cold enough to put arsenic in people's food and drink,
the state can never bring in someone who watched them do it.  They are
far too careful Weathers listed the outright hest the evasions, the
omissions that permeated Pat Allanson's explanations for everything.  A
prosecutor who usually argued only for "about five minuter" he talked
much longer.  So many segments of the defense case didn't match up.

Dunham McAllister argued that the state had not proved its case beyond
a reasonable doubt.  Why had Nona not testified?  Where were the tests
of Paw's gastric juices?  Why weren't they saved?

Was Walter Allanson weak or strong?  Since Tom's cousins still got
one-sixth of the elderly Allansons, estate, albeit with Pat as the
executor, didn't that prove she wasn't behind changing their wills
three times?

McAllister fought hard, striking at relatively minor points to deflect
attention from the glaring gaps in Pat's testimony.  He even went so
far as to suggest that, according to the experts, no one knew if
arsenic was a poison or a drug, and that it was possible that the
poisoning of the Allansons "was just a pure and simple accident."  He
enlarged on that bizarre theory: and then he [Paw] takes an overdose of
drugs and does strange things and tries to feed Mrs. Allanson
something.  Maybe tries to feed her liquor that's got arsenic in it.

That's just one possibility."

McAllister was an excellent criminal defense attorney, reminding the
jury again and again that they had to be sure.

"Twelve people have got to cut everyone off and say the on@v thing that
could be in this case is the guilt of that lady over there.

You have got to decide whether they have cut those things off or
not."

He submitted that the state had failed to prove Pat Allanson guilty to
a moral certainty.  If the jury agreed with him, Pat would walk free.

It was almost over.  Andy Weathers rose to speak for the final time.

It was patently ridiculous, he maintained, to consider old Walter
Allanson a killer-by shotgun or by poison.

Pat Allanson was the guilty party, a woman who had first tried to foist
off a phony confession to free her husband from prison and then
attempted murder so that she could inherit a fortune.  And a fortune it
was.  In the best light, the Boggs children would receive a small
portion of the trust portion of the Allansons'estate.  "She has the
power of attorney.  She has to make no accounting.  If she depletes the
trust estate, this paragraph number two here only comes into effect if
there is anything remaining in the trust estate.  . . .

"The motive she had is right here," Weathers concluded.  "She inherits
the whole thing.  . . . Pat Allanson is guilty of what she's charged
with doing.  She's guilty now.  She was one block away band was in that
basement doing that killing.  And when her husband you have this
is]....

You will note in here that confession [Paw Tom Allanson .  . . is
caught right close by.  It says he's there while his grandfather does
the killing.  Now ladies and gentlemen, if Tom Allanson was there and
could refute this, and his wife is on trial, why in the name of God
didn't they put him up?"

Why indeed?  It was likely that Tom had not been put on the witness
stand because he had refused to lie about his grandfather.

Yes, he wanted out of prison terribly.  He would hate to we his wife
convicted and sent to prison.  But he loved old Paw, and he would not
get up and lie and say his grandfather was a killer-not even to save
his own skin and Pat's.

Perhaps the woman on trial had underestimated her husband.

Weathers's final statement Dunham McAllister was outraged by dn't
testiment.  He asked that the question about why Tom had lied be
stricken from the record and that the jury be instructed to disregard
it.

Once again, the two attorneys turned to the law books.

Andy Weathers won.

"I am going to let the Supreme Court say it," judge Holt barked.  "I'm
not going to say.  I overrule your objection."

"For the record," McAllister asked, "might I also make a motion for a
mistrial?"

"Yes, sir-and I overrule your motion for a mistrial."

The jury went to lunch.  They would begin deliberating at 2:4S on
Friday afternoon, May 6, 1977.

Susan Alford was terrified that they were going to send her mot her to
prison; she was angry with Dunham McA lister for not pursuing a defense
of mental illness.  She believed that her mother was addicted to drugs
and should be in a hospital, not in prison.  But it was too late now.

The young Eastern Airlines flight attendant, her friend, Sonja Salo-who
was also an Eastern flight attendant, but who was saving to go to law
schooland her sister, Debbie, waited with Pat, Boppo, and Papa for the
jury's decision.  Mr. McAllister had warned them that it might take a
long time, and if it did, that would be good.  If a jury came back
quickly, it usually found the defendant guilty.  The longer the
better.

Susan had a presentiment of doom.

Pat, Sonja, and Susan went over to the Underground to have something to
at.  Pat ordered lunch and iced tea, but Susan and Sonja, unable to
choke down food, ordered drinks.  "We were scared shitless," Susan
recalled, "terrified of what was about to happen.

I felt in my bones that this was going to be the last time -maybe
ever-that we would be together like that.  I kept thinking that my
mother might be sleeping in jail that night.  I didn't see how she
could survive if they found her guilty.

As for Pat, she seemed oblivious of the fact that her fate was being
decided across the street and eight floors up.

They hurried back to the corridor outside courtroom 808.  Two hours
into deliberation, Judge Holt called the jury in and asked them if they
were making any reasonable progress toward a verdict.

They felt that they were.  He offered them a choice about supper.

If they went out to eat, they would have to go together on a bus; it
would take almost two ours.  Or they could order food in.

The jury voted to have Varsity hot dogs sent in.

Susan winced.  Her mother loved Varsity chili dogs.  at was so
childlike in her food preferences, and so picky too.  My Lord, Susan
thought, if her mother went to prison, there probably wouldn't be
anything she could stomach.  Sonja Salo agreed.  She thought Pat was
one of the nicest and the most fragile people she had ever met.  She
had seen only bright fragments of Pat's personality; when she visited
Pat in the hospital, she had found her very brave.  Sonja idolized
Pat.

Although Sonja herself had very little money, she had eaten peanut
butter sandwiches so that she could buy a dinner of steak, baked
potato, and salad to carry into the hospital for Pat.  She was as
worried as Susan was.  It seemed incredible that the woman who was so
near death a year and a half before was even well enough to go on
trial.

They waited.  Outside, it was Friday evening, the beginning of the
weekend.  Inside, time took forever.  Boppo smoked steadily and so did
Debbie, lighting each cigarette from the one before it.

But then, Boppo always smoked a lot; it was part of her.

Television crews waited with them, poised and ready.

It had been a little more than seven hours since the jury was charged,
but they had taken time out for lunch and supper.  They had deliberated
for only about four hours.  At five minutes to nine, judge Holt called
them into his courtroom to see if they could reach a decision that
evening.  If not, he would dismiss them until morning.

Robert Hassler had been elected foreman.  He said that they were just
about to ask a question.  They needed some explication of the terms
"circumstantial evidence" and "hypothesis" as listed in the fifth
instruction to the jury: "To warrant a conviction on circumstantial
evidence, the proved facts shall not only be consistent with the
hypothesis of guilt, but shall exclude every other reasonable
hypothesis save that of the guilt of the accused."

Judge Holt reread the instruction and explained it to them.

Susan felt icy sweat trickle down her back.  She knew.  Maybe it was
the expression on the jurors' faces.  Maybe it was the question.  They
were asking about how they could be sure someone was guilty.

Boppo lit another cigarette and Papa paced.

At 9:08, the jury buzzed for the bailiff.  At 9: 10, they returned to
the courtroom.  They had their verdicts.  Mr. Hassler passed the
handwritten ballot to the bailiff, who in turn handed it to Judge
Holt.

The jurist's face was empty of expression as he glanced over the piece
of paper.  Then he said, "These haven't been dated."  The spectators in
the gallery let their breath out slowly as the vital document went back
to the jury.  Robert Hassler dated it, "May 6, 1977.

It was passed through two hands again, and then to Andy Weathers.  Pat
Allanson stood, her back rigid, her eyes straight ahead as the
prosecutor prepared to read the verdicts.  Only a I pulse in her neck
gave her away, her heart beating so violently that the precious cameo
on the gold chain around her neck bounced delicately.

Weathers cleared his throat.  "As to Count I: We the jury find the
defendant guilty."

Pat showed no expression at all.  She didn't sway.  She didn't faint.

"As to Count II: We the jury find the defendant guilty."

Debbie broke into loud sobs and shouted, "No!"  Boppo, as she always
had, pushed back her own emotions and hugged her granddaughter in a
vain attempt to comfort her.  Susan cried more softly and Sonja Salo
turned to help her.  Colonel Radcliffe looked thunderstruck.  Courtroom
808 was full of sobbing and anguished cries, but the convicted woman
seemed to be in shock.

Pat, who had always crumpled to the ground at the slightest emotional
pressure, stood like a tree, unmoving.

Judge Holt issued a stern warning.  "Anyone who cannot control himself
or herself must leave the courtroom now."  No one i % left, but the
crying was muffled.  Judge Holt was ready to sentence Pat
immediately.

Dunham McAllister rose to ask for a needed time.  He was sure there
would be leniency in delay.  He .

the sentencing guidelines, but he had to have time to do some
research.

He was not presently prepared to go forward.

judge Holt was not amused.  "You must have anticipated this," he
said.

"I have no excuse.  I do ask your forbearance in granting a delay."

weeks of civil cases.  "I can't do it Monday.  I've got two sentencing
will be on May 16."

McAllister started to ask if his client could be free awaiting even
before he got sentence, but judge Holt was ahead of him, the request
completely out.  "No.  if I did it for one, I'd have to do it for all
of them."won't do it.  It creates red tape for everyone.  If my do it
for you and every other office inoffice, the district attorney's
office, a stand that?"  volved.  The defendant is in custody.  Do you
understand?  Deputies moved toward Pat, handcuffs ready.  She turned
back toward her sobbing family as she woodenly allowed herself to be
cuffed.  She looked so lovely in the dress she had made, s wide and
this one of avocado and cream, her green eye tark white skin.  Her
daughters cried frightened against her s ed, but they did not, of
openly.  The Radcliffes were stunned disappear.

It simply course, break down.  They only watched Pat d' could not be
that their daughter was going to jail, not to stay all nigh t.

jean and Homer Boggs congratulated Andy Weathers and the lawyers began
to gather up their papers.  As Weathers turned to leave, Boppo ran
after him.  "Sir!  Sir!"  she cried.  "You have made a terrible
mistake!"  Weathers acknowledged her with a half shake of his head, but
kept on walking.

The television cameras rolled, catching all the emotion, but Pat's
family didn't know that until they saw their images caught on the
eleven o'clock news I felt like someone had died, " Susan ing to lead
me out of the courtremembered, "and Sonja was try' room."  The bailiff
was turning the Already, at judge Holt's order, lights out.

On May 16, Andy Weathers urged judge Holt to give Pat 'able "She took
from them [the Allanson the stiffest sentence possi Allansons]
everything they had-as well as their mental capacities.

. . . Arsenic poisoning is one of the most painful ways for a human
being to die.  . . . This is a brutal scheme.  She showed not one ounce
of mercy to these two people she tried to kill one day at a time.  And
they would have died if the scheme had not been detected.  I don't
think the defendant is due any points.  It's a cold scheme.  It's a
calculated scheme.  It's carried out where they would die an inch at a
time.  They suffered great pain.  . . .

I'd ask the court to set a sentence that is consistent with this
brutality.

Dunham McAllister reminded the judge that "the evidence only clearly
established at least one poisoning episode for Mrs. Allanson and two
for Mr. Allanson.  There was no evidence other than that."  He asked
that Pat's medical problems be taken into consideration.  "I would ask
the court to consider a lenient sentence, to consider probation, that
Mrs. Allanson is a person who can benefit from a period of
probation."

Judge Holt apparently did not agree.  He sentenced Patricia Vann
Radcliffe Taylor Allanson to two ten-year prison terms, to be served
consecutively.  Under Georgia statute, it was the harshest sentence he
could impose.  Pat stared at her attorney as if she didn't
understand.

Surely this was a mistake.  Surely the judge was only saying what he
could give her; he couldn't mean that he was actually going to send her
to prison.

Grimly, Dunham McAllister gave notice of appeal.

"I can't hear it now," Holt said.  "You can file it.  I'll hear it as
soon as I can."

Only three years had passed since Pat had married into the Allanson
clan, and in that space of time the family had been well nigh
annihilated.  Walter and Carolyn were dead; Tom was locked in prison,
convicted of their murders; and his children had been adopted, lost to
him.  Paw and Nona would have arsenic in their bones until they died.

They would never be the same.  Jean had been forced outside the circle
of her own family.  The few Allansons who were alive and walking free
were full of doubts and recriminations.  Pat had seemed to be a frail,
dependent woman when she insinuated herself into their midst, but she
had fanned each faint spark of disagreement into glowing coals of
hostility and distrust that needed only a faint breeze to burst into
flames.

She had promised Tom love unlike any he had ever known before.

Believing he saw paradise in her transparent green eyes, Tom had taken
her as his wife.  And she had come close to destroying him and
everything he loved.  He might better have flung himself into a
volcano.

Tom's parents had detested Pat, but her own family loved her beyond
reason.  Margureitte's devotion was all-encompassing, Pat had
an-forgiving, blind.  And it wasn't just Margureitte found love and
acceptance wherever she turned from the moSiler and all her aunts
adored her.

moment she was born.  Mama Gil still loved her even though she had
banished him without giving him a reason.  Susan and Debbie and Ronnie
cherished their mother and overlooked her eccentricities and her
demands for more.

Always more.

Pat's family had crumbled at its center, the structure weakening with
each new disaster until it was as friable as a cheap Christmas
ornament.  Everywhere Pat walked she left tears and as a catalyst to
tragedy, dissension and death in her wake.

She was a flawed genius who recognized vulnerability in others.

Unerringly, she fixed on weakness and burrowed and twisted until
something or someone broke.  If she could not be happy, then she would
not have anyone find JOY.

Mama Siler had neglected the other grandchildren so that c 'de, Patty
could have the best of everything.  Kent was a suicide and for more than
a decade.  Boppo and Papa had never really had a life of their own;
they had lost the house on Dodson Drive, and now even the Tell Road
farm.  They were bankrupt.  Ronnie had been kept from Gil when he
needed a father most, and Pat gave him anything he wanted as long as he
was there for her.  Pat had meddled in Debbie's marriage until it was
hopelessly broken.

Seeing the danger, Bill Alford hoped to get Susan and Sean away before
it was too late for them too.

Until this moment, Pat had walked away unscathed from the havoc she
wrought, so self-involved that she never even saw the being forced to
deal with wreckage behind her.  But now she was what she had done.  She
was thirty-nine years old and she was going to prison.

That couldn't be.  it wasn't fair.  It was, as her mother had cried out
to Mr. Weather "a terrible mistake."  s, Pat would serve her sentence
at the Hardwick Correctional Institute n Milledgeville, Georgia, the
site of Georgia's first state capital.

Southeast of Atlanta and sandwiched between the Oconee National Forest
and Lake Sinclair, Hardwick was, indeed, a prison, even though it
looked from the exterior like a fine southern girls' school set in
green rolling countryside.  A huge tree grew in front, rhading picnic
tables and softening the effect of the fence topped with razor wire.

It was new construction, made of beige stucco whose hue was not unlike
the tan uniforms itr inmates wore.

The custodial complex was small-too small, really; many of the inmates
slept in dormr, in mobile homes on the back side of the prison.  There
was no free movement from place to place, and Pat's days were regulated
by rules and other people's time schedules.  The food was heavy and
starchy, the sheets were rough, and the other prisoners were not from
the kind of life she had known.

She hated it.

"Even though the walls are painted pretty and it looks nice outside,"
she told her family, "don't let them fool you.  It's still a prison.

They degrade you."

Margureitte and Clifford Radcliffe made the eighty-mile drive to
Hardwick faithfully each weekend.  They would not dream of missing a
visitors' day.  When the Radcliffes or Pat's children came to visit,
they were searched and anything they brought with them had to be
checked by a matron.  When Pat was ushered down to see them, the
matrons had her step into a small bathroom off the visiting area before
and after for a body search -as if she were a "common criminal," she
said.  She had been &scinated with the indignities Tom suffered in
prison, urging him to tell her details; now she was learning what it
was like to d.

be cage Pat quickly convinced prison authorities that her health
problems made it impossible for her to work in the kitchen.  She
couldn't lift anything heavy and the smells of institutional food
sickened her.  The prison kitchen served a lot of fish from nearby Lake
Sinclair-fish Pat believed were "poisoned" by pollution.  The rest of
the menu featured all prisons' ubiquitous oatmeal, grits, potatoes,
spaghetti, macaroni, rice, and heavy bread baked by inmates and
slathered with greasy margarine.

"It's nothing but garbage," she complained to her parents.

"I won't eat it.  A lot of the women get sick from eating that fish,
and the meat is rotten."  Indeed, Pat told them she fasted until the
weekends came.  Boppo always brought in a cooler full of food.  When
the matron occasionally demurred at some container or eating utensil,
she would argue, "Surely there's no harm in that.

Each visit, Boppo and Papa brought Pat a large steak from a Bonanza
franchise, hot dogs from the Dairy Queen, a pizza, and whatever else
she had ordered.  She ate every bit, even though so much food at once
usually left her bloated with indigestion.

Later, Pat would earn privileges so that she could keep peanut butter,
crackers, and instant coffee in her cell.

Susan and Bill Alford visited as often as they could, Debbie came less
frequently, and Ronnie only rarely.  Ronnie adored his mother, and her
incarceration was a terrible blow for him.  His alcohol consumption
increased, and he suffered intense grief and loss reactions when he
broke up with girlfriends.  Sometimes, he inured himself with knives or
razor blades, cutting into the skin i of his chest.  Ever since he was
a child, his role in his mother's life had been to protect her, to run
errands for her.  Her absence left a huge empty place.

Debbie was bereft too.  Even though she and Susan I had complained and
laughed at their mother's peccadilloes, Debbie had no anchor without
Pat.  Her marriage bounced continually from bad to mediocre, and she
left her husband as regularly as the weather changed.  When life away
from him didn't meet her expectations, she went back-but grudgingly.

The first Christmas Pat was in prison was very difficult.  Susan and
Bill decided to stay home in Atlanta and have their own Christmas
morning with five-year-old Sean, and Pat took their defection as a
blatant omission of love.

When Debbie and Dawn didn't show up for Christmas either, she was
crushed.

Her letters home were seldom overtly chiding, but rather masterpieces
of artful despair.  "Dear Susan, Bill, & Sean," she wrote, Wish I could
have been there to see Sean and all his toys.  I really was shocked to
nto the visiting room and see Boppo, when Id expected to see the 3 of
you and Debbie and Dawn.... I realize it's a long way though and you
were probably all tired andjust wanted to be home alone.  "Alone" is a
word I'm ve?Y familiar with.  It's very "alone" here and the only
things that make it bearable are the visits every weekend.... Don't
think I don't realize the hardship & sac?ifice on all of your time, but
there are no words to tell you what it means to me.  It's the
difference between making it & not making it.

Handling it or going all to pieces.... I live for those visits.  I need
all of you or I'm lost.

I already know I've lost Tom because I can't "do" things for him like I
could.  Who will be next?  All I have to offer is my love & my
desperate need for all of you.  Every visiting day I am dressed &
waiting hours before.

Silly?  No.  Necessary to survive in this place.... It's so lonely
here.  Forgive the teardrops.

Susan felt awful.  And guilty.  Even though they would have had to take
a toddler 210 miles to visit Pat in prison, they should have gone.  Her
mother had felt all alone on Christmas Day, d Ronnie to eat with her at
the prison with only Boppo, Papa, an Christmas dinner.

gone from Pat's life.  And not just in a physical Tom was rison north
of Atlanta, sense.  He had been moved to Buford P where his
intelligence and education could be utilized, the op had years before
if Pat hadn't blocked oortunity he might have had made him do hard with
the staff His wife's interference w to obey time at Jackson Prison, no
matter how much he tried the rules and keep his mouth shut.  "I had
several people tell me, 4That woman is gonna keep you in hereforever,"'
he remembered later.  "I began to believe it.  Every time I turned
around, it was 'Pat this' and 'Pat that' and conferences in the
warden's office about something else she'd done.  When I got
transferred up to Buford, I said I was gonna start over.  With the
prison system, you can't escape what's around you, but if you get
transferred, you sometimes get an opportunity to get a fresh start."

Now Pat was also in prison, and trying to deal with his wife, her
counselor, his counselor, and four-way phone calls between r had to
call my counselor two prisons was hellish.  "Her counselo and then I
got to sit there in front of the counselor and carry on itn argument on
the phone, and this guy is sitting there writing g notes of my
reactions and stuff.  . . . I just didn't down, making need that."

What had begun in a blaze of romantic fervor ended as many such liaisons
do, flatly and with little emotion.  "I told her 'I can't handle this
up here could do is go opposite directions."  She agreed to it, an hat
was fine, you know.  thing I know, I got the divorce papers.  T I just
cut all ties completely."

Tom was really alone.  His children were gone-he didn't know where-his
family shattered.  His grandparents were too sick to visit him, and in
his heart he accepted that Pat had done it to them.  Although he could
not forgive that, some last vestige of loyalty kept him from condemning
her out loud.  She was paying.  He was grateful to be free of her and
let her go her way.  Pat's family was gone from him too.  Susan and
Debbie had liked "We had to make a choice," Tom, but now they backed
away.

Susan recalled later, "between sticking by our mother or writing to
Tom.  She was our mother, so the choice was already made.

Tom said."  'The best thing that we d the next Debbie and I took Dawn
and Sean and went to see Tom oncein 1976, when he was in Jackson-and my
mother was so angry with us.  She told us she'd called the state police
to head us off.  I think that was an exaggeration, but I'm not so
sure.

We were afraid to go back."

Up in Buford, Tom decided to do the best he could; he had accepted the
bleak fact that he would be in prison for a very long time and that he
would be alone.

In January 1978, Pat suffered a painful insect bite that turned out-at
least given her proclivities-to be a stroke of luck.

She was bitten by a brown recluse spider, whose venom is often
deadly.

Tissue surrounding the bite is subject to necrosis, dies, and sloughs
off.  With Pat's history of intractable infections, she was sent to the
state hospital in Milledgeville, which had facilities for treating
prisoners.  It was a huge, venerable complex, so old it made Hardwick
look like something from the space age.  For months, she scarcely had
to acknowledge that she was serving time.  She was allowed to wear her
own negligees, and her relatives could come and go whenever they wanted
to visit; Boppo and her aunts brought all manner of delicacies.  It was
not like being in prison at all, and her family loved having her
there.

Pat stayed as long as she could.  When she recovered from the spider
bite, she developed other symptoms and it took the doctors a long time
to do all the tests they needed to be sure that she was in no danger of
a stroke or a fatal embolism.

Initially, the Radcliffes had planned to sue the state of Georgia for
the pain and suffering Pat had endured because of the brown recluse
bite, but they eventually dropped the idea.  Pat did so much better in
the hospital than she had done in prison.  She always had seemed to
enjoy her hospital stays.  Finally, though, she had to go back to
Hardwick.  It was almost worse to go back than it had been to go to
prison in the first place.

. . .

There is a saying among convicts: "No one does more than a year of hard
time.  After that, you adjust."  i Pat Taylor (she quickly dropped the
Allanson after she and Tom were divorced) adjusted.  Her parents and
her children were loyal and supportive, although Pat was shocked when
Susan and Bill Alford were moved to Houston in 1978 by Bill's law
school as he had company.

Although Bill never went to hoped, Susan had worked until he graduated
with a B.A. from Mercer University.  She resigned from Eastern when
Bill became very successful as a sales executive in office supplies.

Pat could not believe that Susan could be so cruel as to desert her.

The Alfords would be transferred to Tampa in 1979, and then back to
Atlanta in 1981.  But Boppo and Papa were steadfast.  They planned all
their weekends around Pat.  They posed for pictures with their
daughter, a service offered by prisons in Georgia on visiting days: for
a small price, employees took Polaroid snapshots of inmates with their
families.

Despite her complaints about the inhumanity of the Georgia prison
system, Pat fared amazingly well.  She was still very beautiful, and
her hair and makeup were always exquisite.  She had to wear the tan
uniform, but she did clever things with scarves and brooches and made
it look as if it were a hundred-dollar dress.

She carried the cane that she would use all through her years in
prison.  In the slightly blurry photographs, Pat's parents d as proudly
as if she had just gradustood beside her and smile ated with a Ph.D.
ren had posed too when Susan and Debbie and the grandchild they
visited, a family united.  "In a way, I was relieved.  I bes all right,
lieved that, without drug , my mother would be Susan remembered.  "I
was happy to see her healthy and responding so well.  She had had a
problem, but now things were going to be all right.  I loved my mother,
and some of the happiest moments of my life had been spent with her.  I
just can't describe how good she could make you feel when things were
going all right.  I told my whole family back in 1977 when she was
convicted that, if I ever saw any signs of something like that I'd stop
it, and I reminded Mom of that happening again, I was  in prison.  I
knew she was all right when she said, 'Well, I certainly hope somebody
would!"  and Boppo agreed."

For Margureitte Radcliffe, there may have been an irony in having her
daughter in prison.  For the first time in a long, long time she could
plan her life.  She could play cards and go out to s had a passion for
bingo.  She lunch with friends.  She had alway was a natural, able to
play a whole tableful of cards all by herself, and she thoroughly
enjoyed gambling benignly at Fort Mac.

The weekends were Pat's, of course, but the time between belonged to
Margureitte.  Her granddaughters marveled that they had never seen
Boppo so happy.  She was still at her daughter's beck and call, and
there were myriad things that upset Pat, but her phone calls home could
only come in the evening at Hardwick's pleasure.  There had always been
emergencies with Pat.  But now, at least Margureitte knew where she was
and that she was safe.

She talked often about her "poor, innocent daughter" locked up in
prison through a "terrible injustice."

No one dared phone Margureitte on the nights Pat was due to call.  She
still had to report all her activities to Pat, who wanted to know every
detail of her mother's days.  But with Pat in prison, Margureitte's
obsessive concern for her daughter could be compartmentalized; for a
time, it didn't override everything else in her life.

Margureitte had always had certain self-indulgences, small things that
perhaps allowed her to devote herself so slavishly to her family.  She
adored peanuts-she was never without a jar of them-and she drank coffee
and smoked from morning until night.  "I want to be buried with my
cigarettes, eanuts, and MY p my coffee," she often said laughingly.

Margureitte's preferred dishes disgusted her daughter: fried liver,
scrambled pork brains and eggs, escargot, chicken gizzards, and smoked
oysters.  While Pat was in prison, she could cook whatever she wanted,
she could sip her coffee, smoke, and watch her favorite soap opera,
Days of Our Lives.

The Radcliffes moved from their rented house to a townhouse.

It didn't take a lot of upkeep, and they were able to relax.  Far away
in Texas, Susan was pregnant again.  Debbie was giving her marriage
another go.  A year later, Ronnie married too, and he and his wife
expected a baby.  Without Pat, all the Radcliffes achieved a degree of
normalcy in their lives, something that had been very rare.

It would also be very brief.

For the most part, the guards and matrons at Hardwick liked Pat.  She
was a perfect lady, and she gave them little trouble.

She was gracious and concerned about their lives, remembering to ask
about their children and grandchildren, and her sewing and fancywork
were flawless.  They admired the little smocked dresses and knit things
she made for Susan's new baby, Courtney, and they lined up to have Pat
make dainty things for their special babies, bringing her all the
thread, lace, and cloth she needed.

Later, when she had earned the privilege, they drove Pat all the way to
Atlanta to a crafts store to pick out the materials herself.

In prison, Pat found a way to shine.  Her manners were cordial, but she
held herself clearly above the mass of women who languished behind
bars.  Many of the other prisoners were illiterate blacks, and she
often alluded to the fact that she was the daughter of a colonel from
Atlanta; she had never really associated with blacks.
Now that she bunked with a trailerful of black women, she tried to keep
her own space inviolate-without letting them see her distaste.

Pat had insisted that she was not prejudiced.

She Heretofore, had regaled her daughters with a story of the time she
had defied the Ku Klux Klan, marched into a midnight gathering, and
even as they circled a shouted at them that they were wrong, burning
cross in a North Carolina field.  Locked up, she use derisive racial
slang.

oached by Pat confided to her family that she had been appr lesbian
prisoners; she had been frightened, but she had managed to stay free of
any involvement.  A woman utterly obsessed with men for years, she no
longer spoke of love or even the possibility of love.  Actually, she
seemed more fulfilled by her knitting, sewing, and craft projects than
she ever had been by her passionate sexual affairs.

Margureitte and Clifford tried to keep worrisome news from Pat.  Ronnie
and his wife divorced, and he was given custody of his tiny daughter,
Ashlynne.  The tradition of the Siler women continued.  Mama Siler had
raised Pat for her first five years, Boppo had always been there for
Pat's children, and now she was a darling stepped in to raise her
grandson's child.  Ashlynne baby and the Radcliffes doted on her.

Papa had always preferred dainty little girls in rutty dresses, and he
carried Ashlynne around, proudly showing her off - When she cried, he
and Boppo tucked her into bed between them.

Pat did not approve of Boppo and Papa having Ashlynne.

Like Dawn, Sean, and Courtney, this baby was her grandchild, but she
didn't appear to have any feelings toward her.  It may have been
because she was in prison and didn't have a chance to really know the
baby; it may have been because Ashlynne had taken her place at home.

And she ruined Boppo's visits too; Boppo brought the baby along all the
time and fussed over her instead of over Pat.

Margureitte idolized that baby.  Just as Mama Siler had doted on Patty,
Margureitte loved Ashlynne with a fierceness that was almost
visceral.

When Pat called home and heard Ashlynne in the background, her voice
took on a hard edge and she asked, "What is she doing there?"  Even
though her mother played down how much Ashlynne meant to her, Pat was
suspicious.

There were other things Boppo and Papa didn't tell Pat.  On July 13,
1978, Debbie was arrested by two Atlanta Police Department vice squad
members, J. T. Cochran and W. F. Derrick, and charged with two counts
of soliciting for sodomy, masturbation for hire, and escort without a
permit.  Debbie explained that she had merely taken a job as a
receptionist for the escort service, and that she had no idea what the
real business taking place was.

The officers' follow-up report was more specific, and far more
graphic.

Acts of sexual intercourse and oral sex were offered and agreed to by
Debbie, representing "Atlanta's Finest Model Agency," to be charged at
a hundred dollars apiece, with an additional eighty quoted to Officer
Cochran for "intentional erotic stimulation of the genital organs .

.

. by manual contact."

On her booking papers, Debbie listed her relatives as her husband and
her brother.  She did not mention her mother or her grandparents.

Boppo found out.  She found out everything; she always had.

But she didn't tell Pat.  Margureitte was a woman who strove to do the
"correct" thing, but her equanimity was sorely tried.  Her daughter and
her ex-son-in-law were in prison, and now her granddaughter had been
arrested for prostitution.  She was nearing sixty, and it didn't seem
fair when she had spent her whole life trying to make her family
happy.

It was not the way she herself had been raised.  "I am a lady," Boppo
said often.  "My mother and father brought me up not to lower myself-I
am civilized.  I am a better and bigger person.  I am a lady."

Debbie requested a jury trial, and the matter was not adjudi + 379

11, 1979.  Debbie pleaded nolo contendere.  Her cated until June red in
c grandmother appea ourt, standing proud and tall with oppo addressed
the judge, explaining, "Sir, this Debbie.  B s given twelve months'
woman has a child to care for."  Debbie wa concurrently.  She
exprobation on all three counts-to run plained she had pressing medical
bills and other debts, and the three hundred-dollar fine was
suspended.

the trial were, finally, too much for Mar Debbie's arrest and stainless
steel martyr, gureitte- She, who had always been the finally buckled
and was admitted to a local hospital.  After juggling, countless family
problems for so long, she found solace and peace in the quiet, white
rooms.  But not for long.  Debbie stormed in and
pointed an accusing finger at her grandmother.  "How could you do this
to me?" she cried.
Even more upsetting to a woman in the
grip of physical nate leave I exhaustion, Pat was given a compassionate
leave  and
emotiona and brought from Hardwick to visit Boppo.  Boppo turned her
face to the wall and wished, if only for the moment, that they would
all just go away Of course, they didn t. Boppo's children,
grandchildren, and husband were her very life.  In the main, she
thrived on their disasters in need of fixing more than she ever needed
peace and t time in the hospital and then she quiet.  She spent her
shor y to do battle for her walked out the doors, head high, read
family once more.

+ + + Pat had written an eleven-page letter to Susan in 1979 that
displayed a curious mixture of concerns and rationalizations.  She
didn't appear to grieve at all over her divorce the previous he might
never have known Tom at all.  Her life was so spring; s s teaching
busy, and she was doing so much for others.  She wa classes to her
fellow inmates.  She worked all day, she wrote, sewing and filling
orders for the matrons.  She had achieved the status of trusty.
"With 28 women to teach (and babysit), I don't have much time.  . . . Most of
the women are old, physically handicapped and illitorate sick too.

I'm mostly concentrating on Therapy things for them & I do the wood
carving & burning needle work & crochetto make the money.  Plus all the
fancying."

Susan felt optimistic.  This was the mother she had always longed
for.

Susan's friend Sonja Salo now had her law degree and was seeking a
hearing for Pat for a reduction of sentence.  When her mother was
paroled, Susan believed, they would all start over.

"Susan," Pat wrote in the same letter, "before I go any farther, Deb
told me what she did.  I knew something was terribly wrong & Boppo did
too.  . . . I know you've about been crazy over it, for I sure have &
so has Boppo.  And most of all Debbie has.  She needs proffesional
[sic] help."

Pat blamed all her own previous problems on diet pills, Valium, and
sleeping pills.  "You don't even realize it when it's happening.  I
know I didn't.  I have about 2 years of my life that I'm really unsure
of & really to this day don't know how much I really remember & how
much has been told to me so many times that I think I remember."

Pat explained why Tom had deserted her.  "It's for the best, Shug, so
don't feel sorry for me.  Tom made it very clear that, quote, (1) being
married to me will keep him from making parole, (2) being married to me
will keep him from making Trusty, (3) even writting to me is harmful to
him & (4) that no one in the family cares about him .  . . so it's
better to sever it now & I only wish to God it had never been."

Pat listed the dozens of things she was sewing and crocheting for
Susan's family, and asked her daughter to "Pray hard that all this
nightmare will soon be over & we'll all be together again."

Pat had truly acclimated.  With realizing it, she had slipped into a
common convict affectation-drawing little circles with smiling faces
instead of periods, and a circle-face with the word "Smile!"  For men
and women behind prison bars in every prison in America, the smiling
circle is second nature, and a dead giveaway.

Pat commented to her daughter that she had written the long letter
under "duress"-fights were breaking out all around her, and the
mobile-home dorm was full of the angry screams of too many women locked
up together too long.

"HELP!"  she wrote.  "I need to get out of this madhouse!"

After a careful study of the case, Sonja Salo was attempting to file an
Extraordinary Motion for New Trial based on her belief that newly
discovered evidence would prove that Pat had been e of her offense
against Paw and Nona legally insane at the tim al in May 1977.  Pat had
confided to and at the time of her tri Sonja that she could remember
nothing of the prior two years, that she had only recently come back to
being herself.  Sonja she visited believed her and was gratified to see
that the woman adjusted.

at Hardwick seemed so wonderfully together and we So normal.

If Pat had been insane, she was no longer out of touch with I ew
woman.

She told her new attorney reality.  She was a who e n that she knew all
too well how much damage heartless people could do.  "We don't talk
about it much," she said softly.  "But I have a sister in North
Carolina who has no conscience at all.  She doesn't care who she
hurts."

Sonja never mentioned Pat's sister to Boppo.  Lord knows, the woman had
borne enough pain.  The young attorney didn't know that Pat had no
sister at all-only the poor dedd baby, Roberta, who had never taken a
breath in this world.  Pat brought up her sister" so often that Sonja
wondered when she would meet the evil sibling.

Sonja finally argued her case on December 5, 1980, before Superior
Court Judge Ralph H. Hicks.  She had only one witness: Margureitte
Radcliffe.  The rest of her motion was based on a psychiatrist's
affidavit and several doctors' reports stemming from Pat's first
embolism in 1973.

Andy Weathers objected to Margureitte's testimony, failing to see how
her recall of an illness in 1973 would show that Pat Taylor had lost
her mind and attempted to commit murder in 1977.

Judge Hicks overruled Weathers when Sonja Salo explained that Pat's
drug use had begun with that first illness, and that it was her
position that the drugs had led to Pat's "insanity."

Margureitte recalled the pulmonary embolism and the abscess that would
not heal.  She testified that Pat's physical condition was always
fragile, but that it had worsened after her husband was arrested.

"Her personality became entirely different.  Slit.

no longer was the person that I knew."

"And how did her personality appear to you?"  Sonia asked.

"I'm not a doctor," Margureitte said, pursing her lips.  I'm not
qualified in that way.  . . . I thought that she was losing her mind.

I wanted her to see a psychiatrist."

What Margureitte Radcliffe had to admit next was not easy.

It was an enormous lie, a terrible secret she had kept for years.

But her words would finally explain what had puzzled Pat's doctors for
so long: the cause of her near-fatal hip abscess.

"On the area where she had the abscess and she'd been treated -in and
out of the hospital-and I was 'trying to change the dressings-"
Margureitte began.  She took a deep breath and continued, forcing her
voice to stay firm.  "She would take instruments and self-mutilate
herself where it had been trying to heal up.  She would damage it
herself."

"Did you see her actually do this?"  Sonja asked.

"Yes, I saw her."

"What did she use?"

"Once she used an instrument that was a leather tooling device.  It's
with a metal thing about this long [demonstrating].

ù .  . he was scratching herself with that.  Other times, she used ù
small forceps-about so large-that she had."

"Did you on any occasion have Pat committed to a psychiatric hospital?"
This had to be agony for Margureitte.  She had sat in this very
courthouse two and a half years earlier and painted the picture of "Mrs.
Allanson," her daughter, the near-saint who had devoted herself to the
tender care of Paw and Nona-a woman who was above reproach.  She had
never wanted anyone to discover that her perfect daughter had engaged
in self-mutilation.

Margureitte would have said anything to get Pat out of prison, but her
words at long last had the ring of truth.

She continued to describe the daughter she had tried to hide from the
world, the headstrong, histrionics-prone woman who took whatever she
wanted.  "On one evening, she had cut her wrists and I knew certainly
that I couldn't get her to go on her own free will.  . . . I talked
with her doctor .  . . and I saw Judge Gunby, and I signed the papers
and they picked her up and took her to Metropolitan."

"Did Pat ever try to inflict pain upon herself in any other way?"

Sonja asked.

"Yes .  . . this same abscessed area, eventually the doctors decided to
do plastic surgery.  I thought she had put acid on itbecause it turned
black.  She would not let herself heal up.  . . .

I did not see her scratch herself.  She would have places all over her,
on her wrists, and on her bod And then there were the drugs.

Margureitte had tried so hard, she said, to wean her daughter off
Demerol, but it didn't work.  "She wanted Demerol.  . . . I was asked
to give her the drugs and then to gradually reduce them.  . . .

Eventually, I was adding so much distilled water to the Demerol, and
then once, when I no longer had any phenocain-which you could tell has
a little burn when this is injected-she knew .  . . she was not getting
it.

She became very'agitated.  . . . Dr. Gandhi gave me enough so that I
could add a little bit of phenocain.  . . . I was never really able to
get her off it.  Somebody would give it to her."

Margureitte described a night when Pat had come home from Crawford Long
Hospital after treatment for the abscess.  "Colonel Radcliffe was out
of state and it was sleeting outside and rainy."  She said she thought
Pat was safely tucked in bed.  "I went back and she was gone.".

Margureitte said she had tracked her daughter "like an animal" out
there behind the house on Tell Road.  "She wouldn't let me come near
her .  . . she said .  . . she would take the same instrument that she
had used on her right hip and she would plunge it into her heart."

Margureitte sat straight and unflinching as she unveiled one histrionic
scene after another, her crystal gaze fixed, daring anyone to think
less of her and her daughter.

Sonja Salo maintained that Margureitte's testimony was newly discovered
evidence that Dunham McAllister had not known about during Pat's
trial.

"I think under the law that if she was, in fact, legally insane at the
time, she could not be held criminally responsible for a crime."

Judge Hicks seemed a little puzzled.  "Doesn't that take some
adjudication, to declare one legally insane?  She has not ever, I
assume .  . . been declared legally insane, has she?"

Sonja said that that could be decided prior to any new trial Pat would
have, but she certainly felt the question of Pat's insanity made a new
trial necessary.

"Of course," the judge pointed out, "all of the information you had
Mrs. Radcliffe testify to so far today was known by Mrs. Radcliffe
way back in 1975 and '76 and she was in touch with the attorney, Mr.
McAllister, and testified as a witness in the trial.

. . . None of that information is anything new, is it?"

Sonja explained that this was all new, not only to Dunham McAllister,
but to everyone else.  Margureitte Radcliffe had not known what to do
with her knowledge that her daughter was insane," so she told no one.

"Mrs. Radcliffe is under no legal obligation, if she has problems with
her child, to be telling an attorney or anyone else that problem."

Judge Hicks was baffled and a little annoyed.  "Well, who is the moving
party in this case today?  Is it the same Patricia Allanson?  Is it her
guardian?  Is it a legal fiction-or who is the court reviewing.

Sonja Salo believed so much in her cause that she may not have seen how
specious her arguments were.  She had had no psychiatric tests done on
Pat, who was the "movant," because "I do not believe Patricia Allanson
today is legally insane.  This is a very strange situation."

It was indeed.

Andy Weathers cross-examined Margureitte Radcliffe.  He quickly
elicited the information that she had known that Dunham McAllister was
her daughter's attorney for ten months before her trial, but she said
she had been so unsure of her legal rights that she had never mentioned
to him that she felt Pat was insane.

Nor had either she or her husband felt they should bring that out in
trial.

To date, Margureitte and Clifford Radcliffe had presented many faces to
the world.  But, never, ever had they appeared timid and unsure.

Weathers's voice was thinly edged with sarcasm as he questioned the
witness and drew forth only repetitions of how awed she had been by the
Georgia judicial system.  Margureitte said she had had no idea in the
whole wide world that she should have mentioned her daughter's
craziness to anyone, or even that she had the legal right to do that.

Sonja Salo introduced an affidavit from Dr. Ray Loring Johnson, a
psychiatrist who had treated Pat at the Metropolitan Psyer in April of
1975, but who had lost track of her chiatric Cent between June and
December.  He had not seen her again until the next October.  He'd seen
Pat twice in December 1976, and seven times in early 1977, as she
awaited trial.  He had diagnosed her initially as having "severe
personality disorientation" when she slashed her wrists after being
struck by Colonel Radcliffe.  She had- been obsessed with getting Tom
out of Jail and felt she and her husband were being mistreated.  At
that time, Johnson saw agitation, disorganization, and "much paranoid
ideation.

Essentially, Dr. Johnson could not diagnose what Pat's mental state
might have been at the time of the arsenic poisonings.  He hadn't seen
her at all during that phase of her life.  "It is impossible for me to
make definite statements about her sanity at the time of the offense,
since this was three or four months after I saw her in December 197S,
and six to seven months before I saw her again in October 1976.  I can
say that she was disorganized, suspicious, mistrustful, and, on several
occasions, had seemed out of touch with reality during my earlier work
with her.  . . . I believe that it was quite probable that she was out
of touch with reality at the time of the offense."  Dr. Johnson did,
however, say that he felt Pat had been "unable to collaborate
effectively with her attorney in the preparation of her defense.  At no
time did she question her own sanity, or entertain the idea of making
it an issue at her trial."

Next came an affidavit from Dunham McAllister to,the effect that he had
not been aware that Patricia Allanson was "harboring any legal mental
defect."  Andy Weathers bought none of it.  He argued that it was
ridiculous to think that McAllister could have spent almost a year with
Pat preparing for trial and failed to notice that she was insane.  It
was even more ridiculous that she could testify at length at her own
trial and that no one from Judge Holt, to Weathers himself, to the 'ury
had found her even marginally mentally incompetent.  "No I w, the other
sort of a shotgun defense that is being raised here is that she didn't
know what she was doing at the time she did the act," Weathers
argued.

"The defense in this case was that she did not do it, and she very
clearly took part in that defense and testified to that effect.

Pat Taylor's current appeal was based on one of the most familiar
defense postures ever used: I didn't do it-but if I did do it, I was
crazy at the time.  And now I'm not crazy anymore.

It seldom worked.

Weathers would allow only that Pat "might not have been operating
mentally at peak capacity."  That didn't make her crazy.

The family hoped and prayed that Pat would be home with them by
Christmas.  It was not to be.  On December 9, 1980, Judge Ralph Hicks
rendered his decision.  "It is hereby ADJUDGED, ORDERED and DECREED
that said Motion be and the same is DENIED."  Hicks did not find that
the evidence was "newly discovered."  He was not convinced that Pat
Allanson had suddenly come to her senses and discovered that she had
been insane from 197S to 1977.

Sonja Salo was a very nice young woman.  She had done the best she
could for Pat and the Radcliffes, and they had lost.

Years later, she acknowledged how gullible she had been to believe
Pat's stories; she had even believed in the sociopathic sister hidden
away in North Carolina.  "I can say now," she concluded wryly, "that
Pat Taylor is the most manipulative human being I ever met in my
life."

. . .

Pat's story seemed to be over.  She was a middle-aged woman, confined
to prison for many, many years, her beauty blurred by too much fasting
and gorging and by the passing of those years.  She found her pleasure
in the pages of a craft store catalog and in bombarding her
grandchildren-except for Ashlynne-with handmade presents.  She sent
Sean dainty, hand-painted handkerchiefs to carry to school.  He thanked
her dutifully, and put promised him she would buy him a pony them in a
drawer.  She as soon as she was free.  (She never did.) Pat had never
gone into any phase of her life halfway.  She became completely
obsessed with Victorian needlework.  Her letters could still prickle at
the consciences of those who loved her.  She moved in their minds a
ways, a pi re who lived a desperate existence while they went about
enjoying their lives.  "Please remember," Pat I wrote to apologize for
slow progress on a petit point picture in April of 1982, "my day starts
at 4 AM & I work from 7AM-8 or 9 Pm.

Then when I do get in at night, I do have to shower, hand wash & iron
my clothes for next day.  (I only have 2 uniforms.) Then usually I have
a little dress to smock or hem, etc. But I usually spend every
available moment (that I have any light) on it."  Pat was horrified to
hear that Susan and Bill were moving away from Georgia again.  She
worried about how it would affect her grandchildren.  "I realize that I
have no right to voice an or offer advice; for who am I?  I'm a
prisoner but I'm opinion also your mother.  . . . Yes, I've made a lot
of mistakes.  Let me say one thing-if I lived to be a 100, I am
paying.  I'm paying for anything I ever did, or thought of doing or
would ever do.  It's Hell enough to not know if I did or did not
attempt to harm those two people.  But that's something I have to live
with & get straight with God.  I know I'll never take another pill
(narcotic) for you can be turned into a monster & not even know it &
then everyone & everything that comes into contact with you is harmed
in some form or another.  That's a form of Hell in itself, to know
that you've done this (& to people whom you love & who love you) & yet
you have no real memory of it.  . . . If anyone ever has any doubt that
I'm not suffering sufficiently, I assure them I am & will continue to
do so until the day I die.  And the worst suffering is not the
incarceration, but the knowledge that I'm responsible for destroying
the stability of my family."

Pat finally acknowledged to her elder daughter that she herself took
complete responsibility for everything that had happened; she only
wondered if she would ever have a life again.

She had been locked up for five years.  If ever a woman voiced regret
and appeared sincerely rehabilitated, it was Pat Taylor.

Her letters made her children cry.

Tom Allanson had been locked up for six and a half years when Pat's
appeal for a new trial was denied.  The staffs at both jackson and
Buford prisons and the parole board had labeled him a model prisoner.

He had served many terms as president of Buford's chapter of the junior
Chamber of Commerce-the Rock Quarry Jaycees-been the executive state
director of the Jayr several years was chairman of the Inst' cees, and
foitutional picnic the Rock Quarry Beautification Project.  He
organized aI Jaycees put on for the mentally retarded.  He was voted
the most valuable player on the All Tournament football team.  He wrote
a column and articles and took photographs for the prison paper.  He
was vice-president of the Full Gospel Association, sang in the church
choir twice each Sunday, and, most important, on July 31, 1981, he
accepted Jesus Christ as his personal savior.

Tom was no longer completely alone in the world.

Liz Price, his old neighbor in Zeb Ion, the woman he had had a crush on
I u when he was sixteen years old, the woman who had carried feed and
water to his animals after he was arrested, had written to him for most
of the years he was in prison.  His abandoned horseshoeing trailer was,
in fact, still parked on her farm.  It was locked and Pat had lost the
key long ago.  He had no idea if his tools were still inside, but Liz
told him she was keeping the trailer safe for him.

She and Tom exchanged newsy, friendly letters at first; he was still
legally married to Pat.  "I wrote to Liz first," he remembered.  "I was
so depressed.  I had no idea what was happening at home, and it seemed
like everybody had turned their back on me-and she answered, and she
would come to see me once in a while down at Jackson."

Liz left Georgia, moved to Florida, and vowed to forget Tom.

Unknown to him, she had always loved Tom-at least somewhere in the back
of her mind-and she needed to leave behind her all the sad reminders of
what had happened.  She didn't want him to know how she felt about him,
not as long as he was a married man.

For a long time Tom had no idea where Liz was.  He missed her letters;
she was different from any woman he had ever known.  She didn't seem to
want anything from him-Liz was simply his friend.

After his divorce from Pat in the spring of 1979, they got back in
touch again; Liz had moved back to Forsyth County and taken a clerical
job in the sheriff's office.  Gradually, their letters became more
personal.  Tom told her he had little hope that he would be out of
prison soon, if ever.  He expected to serve at least fourteen years.

That meant a probable parole date sometime in 1989.

It didn't matter to Liz.  She visited Tom regularly, never missing a
unday evening.  After a year or so, they knew they wanted to be
married, but the only way they could do that while Tom was in prison
was by common law.  (Later-too late for t mprison marriages were
permitted at Buford.) They presented papers to prison authorities for a
common-law marriage.  It took persistence, but they finally got
permission to get married.

There were no conjugal visits in Buford Prison.

That didn't matter either.  They had a common-law prison wedding in
late 1980, and promised each other they would have another wedding when
Tom was free.

Although Tom's applications for parole were turned down all through the
early 1980s, he gained a sense of freedom inside prison.  He vowed that
he would not let the years behind bars destroy him.  "Prison .  . .

doesn't mean it has to be torture or like the movies," he wrote to a
friend.  "Actually, it all depends on the individual's attitude and
what they are made of.  There are many that are miserable here and do
everything they can to make everybody else miserable.  Personally, I
try to I've right and follow the rules and make the best of this
time."

Buford's warden paid for Tom to take correspondence courses from
Clemson, and he received a state of Georgia certificate and license as
a water and waste water treatment plant operator and laboratory
analyst.  Later, he was certified for South Carolina too.  He paid for
his own correspondence course from Cal StateSacramento to upgrade his
skills even more.  He soon ran Buford's water and sewage treatment
plant and Tom was the only trusty working outside the plant who had a
driver's license.  He was outside regularly, running errands as far as
seventy-five miles away.  He was always back on time, to the minute.

Later, he grinned as he remembered one amusing incident.

"One time, we had a busload of prisoners over at the warden's place to
help him move-and he got an emergency call that his wife had been in an
accident.  He took off, running, and yells, 'Tom, take the guys
back."

So I come driving up to the prison with a whole busload of prisoners,
delivering them all safe and sound."

Since he never had anyone to send him money to buy even the smallest
necessities, like shaving cream and toothpaste, in the prison
commissary, Tom worked with leather to make belts, purses, and
billfolds to sell, and he was good at it-so good that he could even
help Liz out from time to time.  After a while, he the control building
for the even had his own "house" of sortstreatment plant.  It was
air-conditioned and had hot water, a shower, a carpet on the floor, a
couple of big old comfortable chairs, and a radio.  He added a hot
plate and adopted two stray kittens for company.

It wasn't a real house, and Tom couldn't stay there at night, but he was
on his own from morning until dark, except for breaks for meals
at the prison.  He wasn't required to work that long, but he much
preferred being outside working to being inside.

Sometimes, in the early evenings, he cooked up a pot of greens and sat
listening to the radio with his two cats asleep on his lap.  He had
long since learned to appreciate and savor small pleasures.  He could
have walked away from prison easily.  He never did; he never really
thought about it.  He visited with Liz on Sunday evenings and hoped for
the day he might be, paroled.

P A R T As he later described it, Tom Allanson "Was the farm" at
Buford.  He did all the plowing, planting, weeding, and harvesting by
himself on the three-quarter-acre plot they gave him.  He bought his
own seeds.  When his crops ripened, he gave away produce to the warden,
officers, teachers, and secretaries and, of course, to Liz.  He grew
watermelons, corn, beans, peas, tomatoes, potatoes, and sweet potatoes
in the summer and turnips, mustard greens, collards, and cabbage in the
winter.  There was an arbor of muscadine grapes.  He was most serene
when he was out alone "bush-hogging" a watermelon field, working under
the Georgia sun until the sweat glistened and rolled off his bare
back.

Tom had marked a decade at Buford in August of 1987.  He was a
middle-aged man.  He cautiously hoped to make parole.  He had three
jobs waiting for him on the outside; his expertise in waste water
treatment was much sought after.  But once again he was disappointed.

After his ten years at Buford, on November 6, 1987, he was suddenly
transferred back to Jackson Prison.  They needed him to run the sewage
treatment plant; it was due to open December I and would be five times
bigger than the one at Buford.  Jackson had no one left to operate a
Class treatment plant.  One of their few trained men had tried to
escape and been transferred out, and another was due to be released.

Jackson's waste treatment complex was way out on the end of the
property and had no fence at all; Tom could hear the rush of the Towali
a River and the roar of cars on the highway.  There were no nards out
there.  He was quite solitary.  He was glad that he was still a trusty,
but Jackson meant that Liz was a hundred miles away, and visiting was
much more difficult for her.

In a way, it was ironic.  Tom had worked so hard to improve himself and
to get training that would help him find a good job when he was
released.  Instead, he had made himself invaluable to the Georgia
prison system, and it would be a hardship for them to let him go.

Pat Allanson served a total of seven years.  When Tom was transferred
down to Jackson in 1987, she had been out of prison for three years.

They had had absolutely no contact for a long time.  She had told Tom
again and again that she could not live without him, that her old life
had ended when she met him and that she would have no life at all
without her man.  A hundred leaded with her to hang times-a thousand
times-Tom had p on, that they would have a life somewhere down the
road.

And she had replied only, "If you loved me, you would give up your life
for me, and love me on the other side."  Had he surrendered to her
demands, he would have been long dead, a suicide at the age of
thirty-three.

Despite her dire predictions about her failing health, Pat had not only
lived without Tom, she seemed to be thriving.  When she left Hardwick
in 1984, she went to New Horizons, a halfway house for paroled females
in Atlanta, where counseling and training would prepare her to merge
gradually back into the world she had left in 1977.  Fans were mourning
Elvis Presley the summer Pat went to prison, and the world she returned
to had made Boy George a star.  Miniskirts and big hair were no longer
in style, astronauts were floating free in space, Ronald Reagan was
president, and, for the first time, a woman-Geraldine Ferraro-was
nominated for vice-president.

The romantic, Victorian world that Pat had always aspired to was
further away than ever.  But she was free-or almost-and her family
delighted in her return to Atlanta.  She could go on weekend passes
from the halfway house, and soon she would really be home, back with
Boppo and Papa.  Susan, Debbie, Ronnie, Boppothe whole family-believed
that Pat was on the brink of a wonderful new life.  Her involvement
with drugs was years behind her, and she was young enough to enjoy her
life.  She was still beautiful, albeit possessed of a more mature
beauty.  Even so, she looked far younger than her true age.

Pat habitually called her mother and daughters before 7:00

A.M. from New Horizons.  If they were a little grouchy at being
awakened, they immediately felt guilty; it meant so much to Pat to be
in daily touch with them.  It was such a luxury for her to be able to
call them whenever she wanted.  Susan, especially, devoted herself to
helping her mother readjust to the world.  She saw Pat as almost
childlike; she had been cut off from everyone and everything for so
long that she grabbed at life with both hands.

"I'd come get Mom at the halfway house and take her to the
Varsity-that's Atlanta's favorite place for hot dogs; they're real
greasy but they're so good-and she'd get chili dogs," Susan recalled.

"When she came to our house for supper, she liked to have me fix her
chicken cordon bleu, but even so she always wanted to stop and get a
Varsity hot dog on the way home!"

Although Susan and Bill Alford were living in Atlanta in 1984, Bill was
about to be transferred once again, the standard peripatetic pattern of
the young executive in America.  The Alfords were moving to Marion,
Indiana, in June, and Susan visited with her mother as much as possible
before they left.

As always, Pat was furious with Bill for agreeing to a transfer.  "How
can Bill do this to me?"  she implored.  But Pat had made an error in
judgment when she put Bill Alford in the category of men she could
manipulate.  She liked his strength and assumed she could harness it
just as she had leaned on Gil, Tom, and Papa.  Indeed, in times of
trouble she had often cried, "I want my Bill!"
But Pat took Bill Alford's good nature for weakness and never saw that
he could be pushed only as far as he was willing.  Thereafter, he was an
immovable object.

"Just when I finally get home," Pat complained to Susan.  the children
away from "How can Bill deliberately take you and me?"

Of course, he had no choice-save resigning.  In vain, Susan tried to
explain that.  She didn't tell her mother Bill preferred to have at
least a thousand miles between himself and Pat.  In the out to lunch
time they had left together, she took her mother and shopping as much
as possible.  Despite her huge appetite, Pat had lost a great deal of
weight since her release from Hardwick.  Susan took her to the Lenox
Square shopping mall in the Buckhead neighborhood and bought her all
new clothes.  Pat was thrilled.

"The last time I saw her before we moved," Susan remembered, "I took
her to the bus stop so she could go to work, and we both started to
cry.  She looked so lost.  I hated to leave her."

With the often inexplicable reasoning of the parole system, Pat, who
now called herself Pat Taylor, was assigned to work as a companion to
the elderly-a "sitter."  It had been stipulated in her parole papers
that She would work at the Fountainview Convalescent Home in Atlanta.

Apparently, no one had researched the crimes that had sent her to
prison in the first place.  She now cared for wealthy elderly people
who lived in their own apartments in the retirement center.  She helped
them bathe and eat and supervised their medications.  On occasion, she
even gave atients.  Her clients all spoke highly of insulin shots to
diabetic p her; she became like part of their own families.  She seemed
to have no emotional life of her own, although she later confessed pal
priest who had supervised to Susan her feelings for an Episco New
Horizons.  "He was probably the only man I could ever have really
loved," Pat said wistfully.  "But of course, he wasn't free to love
me."  the halfway In November 1984, when Pat was released from house
and officially paroled, she was forty-seven years old.  She had "maxed
out."  Under Georgia sentencing guidelines, she had been incarcerated
as long as she legally could be.  The conditions of her parole dictated
that she report to a parole officer in jonesboro, Georgia, and live
with Boppo and Papa on Arrowhead Boulevard in Jonesboro.  But Pat told
her mother she wouldn't live in the Radcliffes' townhouse.  "There are
too many niggers around here," she said flatly.  "I won't live
here."

So the moved 'y to a little red brick house in the tiny hamlet of
McDonough, Georgia.  There was an upstairs room with a small bathroom
off of it, and that would be Pat's.  She was coming home at last.

Pat continued with her nursing job at Fountainview, and she I arranged
for her daughter Debbie to work the shifts preceding or following her
own.  Debbie had separated from and reconciled with her husband
innumerable times.  She was not yet thirty and Dawn was almost
fourteen.  Vaguely unhappy with her life, Debbie often came to visit
Susan and Bill in the lovely homes they owned far away from Atlanta,
and Susan listened sympathetically to her younger sister's litany of
troubles.  Debbie had missed her mother acutely while Pat was in
Hardwick, so she was happy they would now be working together.  Neither
Pat nor Debbie had any formal training as licensed practical nurses or
nursing assistants.  They were learning on the job.

Almost from the beginning there were certain problems with Pat's return
to her family.  Maybe they were inevitable.  For so long, the family
had believed that Pat's homecoming would be their happy ending after so
many years of bad times, but things didn't work out that way.  She
still threw tantrums to get what she wanted.  "I thought Pat would be
happy when she got out!"  Boppo cried out to Susan.  "She can never be
happy.  I've done everything I can do for her.  If there was something
else I could do, I would do it.  I just want to live my life now in
peace!"

First of all, there was Ashlynne, Ronnie's daughter.  In prison, Pat
had been annoyed to learn that her youngest granddaughter was living
with Boppo and Papa.  When she came home to live, she had to share her
mother with the child, and she resented it.  There was no question of
sending the little girl to her own mother; two-year-old Ashlynne had
been in terrible condition when Boppo started caring for her-unwashed,
with diapers unchanged for days, and with head lice.  Ronnie lived
nearby, but he had been married three or four times-no one was sure
just how many-and his life was too unstable to care for his daughter
properly.  Ashlynne needed Boppo, and as Boppo said so often, "How can
someone not love a child?"

Ashlynne wet the bed.  Every time she did, Pat removed another of her
toys and put it away in a closet.  Eventually, Ashlynne had no toys
left.  Pat bought Ashlynne clothes at garage sales-and there was
nothing wrong with that, except that she chose the most faded, most
threadbare dresses and little shirts on sale.  To her grandmother,
Ashlynne looked like a refugee.  Dressed by Whe in the rag ban Pat wasn't
looking, Boppo threw the used clothes g. Pat continually insisted that
Ashlynne should go home and live with Ronnie, that she had no business
at all taking up Boppo's time.  All the babies in the family seemed to
threaten Pat, as if she feared she would no longer be loved if there
were too many of them.

After she came home to McDonough?  Pat also became obressed about her
background, nagging at Boppo for proof of who she really was.  Boppo
threw up her hands and cried, "My are you digging up the past, Pat?

I've told you all I know."  Boppo would call Susan or Debbie and
agonize over the situation.  "Your mother is calling all of her aunts
and asking questions about her real father.  Now she doubts I'm her
real mother, and that Kent was her real brother.  All my life I've
loved your mother.  I just don't know what else I can do.  Will she
ever be happy?"

Susan tried to comfort her grandmother, but there was no softening
Boppo's despair at the turmoil in her home.  "Your Boppo's very tired,
Susan," she said softly.  "My body is worn )m just so tired.  I look in
the mirror, and I can't out, and I believe that old lady with the white
hair and lines on her face is me.  One thing I know for sure-your
grandfather and I have been through so much, but we love each other and
always have Boppo and Papa were old now, but with Pat back, their lives
were far from peaceful.  It shouldn't have been that way.  Not from the
way Boppo remembered her life.  "I'm happiest when nd," she said.  "I
took the ones that there are children arou needed me most, and I helped
them.  I loved them all the same, he one who needs me most.  No matter
of course.  I just do for t Is there for them."  what happenst they
know their Boppo s the one who needed her And, as it happened, Pat was
alway most.

Pat and Debbie grew even closer.  With Susan and Bill's "silly moves
all over the country," Pat could count on Debbie staying close to
her.

Gary Cole, Debbie's long-suffering husband, came home one night to find
that his wife, daughter, and furniture were gone.  Pat had helped
Debbie move into an apartment, encouraging her to take everything she
needed.

At Thanksgiving, 1984, Boppo, Papa, and Pat drove north to Marion,
Indiana, to have the holiday meal with Bill and Susan.

Susan was delighted to see that everything seemed to be fine with her
mother.  But several weeks later, Pat drove up alone.

Somewhere in Kentucky she had one of her "sudden attacks," and after
several anxious hours Susan learned she had been hospitalized.  A day
later, Pat came driving up to the Alfords' as if nothing had
happened.

Susan felt a familiar chill, but she fought it back.  She wanted to
believe in her mother-probably more than anyone else in Pat's family
did-but she had to work hard not to see small, disturbing
aberrations.

Pat seemed obsessed with retrieving all the things Boppo had given
Susan over the years.  She said that she would replace everything with
new merchandise that didn't have so much sentimental value.  Still,
they had a good visit, and Susan enjoyed having her mother there.  She
had been seeing shadows, she decided, where there were none.

In March of 198S, Pat returned for a long visit.  Susan's friends found
her charming.  "They loved Mom," Susan said.  "But when they were gone,
she told me she hated them-they took up too much of my time.  She
wanted me to stay in the house with her all the time."

Pat again insisted on checking through Susan's cupboards, drawers, and
storage areas, even through Bill's office, looking for Boppo's gifts.

"I'm just straightening up," she explained when Susan asked her what
she was doing.  "You don't want this candelabra-or this silver
service.

Now that I'm out, you can give this all back to Boppo."

Susan let her have what she wanted, and Pat did replace a few of the
things she carried away, but they came from discount stores, the heavy
sterling pieces supplanted by flimsy silverplated things, nothing like
the items she took away.  Later, when Susan and Pat in Florence,
Alabama, 1986.  Susan had her mother back at last, and they were closer
now than they had ever been.

Assuming the duties of a nurse, Pat took care of one of the "righteous
sisters," Aunt Liz (left), who barely recovered from her near-fatal
illness.

On the right is Aunt Thelma.

The valuable pearl necklace and bracelet and an antique cookbook that
Pat had given away as gifts would return to haunt her.

Mug shots of Pat Taylor after her second arrest in April 1991.  "I
can't understand why anyone in this whole wide world would think Pat
got whatever she wanted," her mother said in dismay.  "She never got
anithing she wanted.  Her whole life has been tragic.  Why can't people
understand that?"

4

i -A Susan and Bill packed to move again, this time to Florence,
Alabama, Susan realized how many things were missing from her house.

Visiting in McDonough, she saw most of her stuff in her mother's
room.

She was perplexed, but not really angry.  It was all in the family.

Pat and Debbie branched out to private-duty nursing in the homes and
condominiums of elderly patients.  Susan was immensely grateful that
her mother was working and liked her new career.

She was in such demand; Pat and Debbie had only a ortunately, Pat's
jobs had week or so off in between patients.  Unf a built-in
obsolescence.  The age and degree of infirmity of her employers made it
inevitable that they didn't live long.  Both Pat and Debbie took care
of Mrs. Mansfield, an elderly woman who lived in a luxurious apartment
in a retirement condo in one of Atlanta's finest neighborhoods.  Debbie
was with Mrs. Mansfield when she died and cried inconsolably.  Pat
took it philosophlcally.

"Debbie really loved Mrs. Mansfield," Susan recalled.  "Debbie had a
real tender side."

Bill Alford's career involved troubleshooting companies
with poor performance records, mostly in the office supply area.  It
meant moving frequently, but he was good, and he rose steadily in his
field.  He was happy to be away from c Siler-Taylor-Radcliffe und Drang
of th i Atlanta and the Sturm sited, Susan was always shushing him
family crises.  When they vi and whispering, "Be nice to them, Bill!"

It did little good, but his sarcasm was so subtle that
it often went over her family's heads.

loved to Florence, AlaPat was a frequent visitor when they m The Alfords
had a wonderful bama, in the summer of 198S.

le, using a house, and Susan decorated it in a homey country sty number
of antiques.  Pat enjoyed being there, playing with Sean and Courtney,
and having Susan wait on her.  The Florence house had a pool and Pat
liked to sit beside it on a chaise lounge.  She wouldn't wear a bathing
suit-despite her initial weight loss at the halfway house, she had
since regained it all and considerably more-but she sometimes jumped
'In wearing her shorts and blouse.

It was in Florence the next spring that Susan discovered she was
pregnant for the third time.  She was thirty-three, and they hadn't
planned on more children, but she and Bill were happy.  Her mother was
not.  "You're too old to have another baby," Pat said firmly."  I think
the only thing is for you to get rid of it."

"It will weaken you, I'll tell you that.  You'll never be healthy
again.  What about Sean and Courtney?  If you die, they'll have no
mother.  You'll cheat them."

One of the main drawbacks of having yet another grandchild, Pat
insisted, was that she was already sewing and embroidering full-time
for the family she had; she could never, ever keep up with a fifth
grandchild.  Susan thought her overblown view of the importance of her
sewing projects was almost pathetic.  Admittedly, for this family,
conception at thirty-three meant an over-the-hill pregnancy, but Pat's
arguments verged on hysteria.

She had been a grandmother at that age, although she had always refused
to be called "Grandma," and only recently had begun answering to
"Grandma Pat."

Despite her mother's dire warnings, Susan carried and gave birth to her
second son, Adam, on January 5, 1987.  Through complications that had
nothing to do with her "advanced age," Adam was delivered by cesarean
section.  At Susan's request, Pat had been barred from the labor room,
but she talked her way into the recovery room by explaining to the
doctor that she was a registered nurse.

Susan didn't want her there.  "I can't say why-maybe it was because she
wanted me to abort my baby-but it was like the time I was little in the
Philippines and my hand was crushed.  I didn't want to see my mother
then, and I didn't want to see her after Adam was born.  I just turned
my face to the wall.  The obstetrician and pediatrician were personal
friends of Bill's and mine.  They told Mom that I was the new mother
and they made a policy of letting the mothers have what they wanted."

Perhaps Pat had been truly worried about Susan's health.  She made such
a fuss over Adam that no one would ever have guessed how hard she had
fought to have Susan abort him.  She cooed over the new baby boy as if
she had never had a grandchild before.

Pat was between jobs right after Adam was born and she spent a lot of
time in Florence, driving the five hours between Georgia and Alabama by
herself.  She seemed completely devoted to her newest grandchild.  He
was a big strapping baby boy, and Susan dressed him in the lacy
Victorian gowns and little bonnets her mother made for him only long
enough to take pictures-just to keep peace.  Pat loved to see him
dressed up, but Sean was indignant, and as soon as the photo sessions
were over he would put a baseball cap and a sports sweatshirt on his
baby brother.

In June of 1987, Susan took her children and drove to McDonough for a
visit with Boppo, Papa, and her mother.  She had meant to stay only a
week, but she got sick.  "It was the strangest I illness I'd ever had,"
she recalled later."  wanted to head home because something in July,
but I had to stay an extra few days d wanting us to come with me.  Bill
kept calling me an was wrong home, and I told him, "I can't drive.  My
feet won't work right."  usan remembered, wincing.  "And I "They ached
terribly," S actually had trouble pushing down on the accelerator and
One morning I decided I could make it.  I had to try to brake.
get home.  Sean had his learner's permit, and I thought I could drive
on the expressway by setting cruise control once I got up to speed.  My
mother wouldn't hear of it - She told me, 'You can't eak."When she saw
was make it, Susie.

You're sick.  You're w p her hands and said, 'All right!  If you going
to go, she threw u ways said that.  She'd said want to kill yourself,
go ahead."  She al going ahead with my pregnancy with that when I told
her I was Adam."

Susan and the kids headed for Alabama, and they did all right sway.

The speed limit was sixty-five until she got on the expres miles per
our, and Susan had great difficulty getting past thirty-five.  Her foot
wouldn't press hard enough on the accelerator.  She tried to force her
foot down on the pedal.  "I finally S had to reach down and just take
my hand and mash my foot on the accelerator.  I thought we'd never get
home."

Susan's hands ached too.  For some time after she got home she had to
hold her hands together and squeeze them, rub her legs, and massage her
feet to get some relief.  It was the worst, ver had.  Her skin turned
gray and her bone-aching flu she had e r like two dead things.

eyes stared back at her from the mirro Time after time she told Bill,
"I just can't stand the pain in my feet.  I can hardly walk."

Susan's doctor tried one antibiotic after another, but she got worse.

Finally, he said she was probably overmedicated.  "I'm just taking you
off antibiotics entirely.  You've just got a really bad case of the
flu."

"But I had no energy," Susan recalled.  "I could hardly even get to the
doctor's office.  Bill was so worried.  He said, 'I've got to get you
well, 'cause you've got a six-month-old and two kids at home."

Finally, I gradually began to get better."

It took Susan about six weeks to get back on her feet.

Adam worried the Alfords too.  At two weeks, he had had unexplained
bleeding from the lower intestinal tract.  They were frightened that it
might be something really serious.  The doctors tested him for
everything under the sun and finally put him on a special formula.

That seemed to work, but he couldn't digest solid food until he was
almost a year old.  Since Debbie had also had bouts with bloody
colitis, the doctors suggested that Susan and Bill check their
families' medical histories to see if there were any other relatives
who had suffered from rectal bleeding.

"In 1987," Susan recalled, "I had two projects.  The first was to o
back through all our ancestors to see if any of them had ever had
anything like Adam did; the second was to write a book.

I wanted to write a really upbeat, inspirational book about my mother
and the family.  She had been through so much, and then all those years
in prison, and she had a good job, helping people, and she'd even
helped people in prison with the classes she taught.

The rest of us had suffered too; we were still emotionally exhausted
from those bad years.  I wanted to write a happy-ending kind of book
about a family that had triumphed over one member's mental illness and
drug addiction.  My family wasn't perfectnobody's is-and Lord knows we
certainly had our eccentricities, but I thought we had come through it
all just fine.

"I repressed my fears; I still ignored the warnings.  I just wanted so
much for us all to be all right."

Pat Taylor hit a bad patch .  in 1987.  After Mrs. Mansfield died, she
couldn't find another "sitting" job.  If she wanted to, Debbie .  . .

could always work as a receptionist In a doctor's office; she was young
and attractive with a terrific figure. It wasn't nearly so easy for
Pat.  She had only a tenth-grade education and she was fifty.  She had
put on so much weight that she looked her age and more.  Almost
overnight, she had gone from a slender, almost ethereal woman of a
certain age to a stolid, solid middleaged woman.  She still loved
exquisite period dresses with lace and hand stitching, and she had a
beautiful wedding gown, circa 1880, on a mannequin in her bedroom in
Papa and Boppo's house, a white ghost figure standing in a dark
corner.

The antique dress was about a size 8, and Pat wore a 22.  She reveled
in her costumes, but she could no longer squeeze into them.  If she
dreamed of romance and perfect love, she no longer spoke of it.

Way back in the days when Pat and her children, Susan, Debbie, and
Ronnie were living with Boppo and Papa, Pat had often accused her
parents of resenting the money they spent on her and her children.  "If
we're too much for you to support," she would cry, "I'll just go work
in a Waffle House!"  It was only an idle threat.  Then.  For Pat, a job
at the Waffle House was the most desperate strait in which an
upperclass woman could find herself.  Twenty years later in 1987, she
was forced to take a job as an assistant manager at a Pizza Hut up I-7S
in Stockbridge.  She told her children that she would earn close to
twenty thousand dollars a year, if you included benefits.

How she hated it.  If anything, it was far worse than a Waffle House.

The steel bowls of pizza dough were heavy and hurt her back.  The smell
of tomato sauce and oregano clung to her auburn hair and seeped into
her very skin.  She couldn't get along with the younger managers and
the other workers.

Life didn't seem fair to Pat.  Susan had a fine house and a good
husband, Debbie was tanned and wild and sexy as Pat had once been, and
Boppo had a man who loved her beyond reason.  But Pat?

Pat had nothing.  She had no love, no future, no money, and she had
lost the only home she ever wanted.  She had become fascinated with
antique dolls and wanted to collect them.  And then she wanted to own
real antique carousel horses.  She wanted to be a true southern lady.

There were so many things she wanted.  Somehow, there had to be a way
to get them.

"Pat didn't want to go to work for the Crists, you know," Margureitte
Radcliffe recalled.  "I believe it was their son who called her-because
she had such wonderful references from her looking after other elderly
people-and he just pleaded with her, begged her, to take care of his
parents.  A very fine old family.  Very, very wealthy."

Pat resigned from the Pizza Hut, glad to be rid of the smell of tomato
sauce and oregano (despite what her mother later said), and went to
work for Elizabeth and James Crist.

The Crists had lived for decades in a mansion on a huge, rambling
spread of manicured grounds on Nancy Creek Road near Atlanta's
Peachtree Country Club.

Once, a long time ago, Pat Taylor had designed the kind of estate she
wanted, but all her efforts to make it come to life had fallen short.

Her dream plantation was very like the Crists' estate.  Their home was
built of pale green wood siding, three stories high, with wings,
dormers, bay windows, a "Florida room.

" The main house had maids' quarters and an attached garage with room
for four cars, and the grounds featured a pond, a pool, a barbecue
area, and every other possible nicety for gracious living.  The mansion
was set at least five hundred feet back from Nancy Creek I Road.  A
circular driveway led through the pine trees, oak trees, holly bushes,
and huge rhododendrons that sheltered the vast green stretch of lawn.

The view from the rear of the house was into private woods.  The Crists
were, indeed, "very, very wealthy."

In the spring of 1987 the Crists found they needed assistance.  James
Crist suffered from Parkinson's disease.  Betty Crist called a friend
of hers who worked at the Peachtree Plaza and asked if she had any
suggestions.  "Yes," the woman answered.  "There's a woman named
Patricia Taylor who's supposed to be awfully good."  Armed with Pat
Taylor's phone number at the Radcliffes', Betty Crist called her and
arranged an interview.  The buxom applicant seemed competent and
intelligent.  She had a certain air of quiet good breeding about her,
and seemed unimpressed by the plush surroundings of the Crists' home.

Pat Taylor was hired.  She would receive, as a beginning salary, ten
dollars an hour and meals.  She began working for the Crists on May 1,
1987.  Debbie soon joined her, working the night shift.

The Crists had two sons and a daughter and they agreed that Pat Taylor
seemed to be the perfect solution to their father's health care.  He
would be able to stay in the house on Nancy Creek Road and wouldn't
have to go into a nursing home.

Elizabeth Crist was seventy-six, a cheerful, healthy, and intelligent
woman.  She needed no care at all herself-but she had a bad knee and
had suffered herniated spinal disks in the past so she couldn't lift
her husband.

They had been married a very long time and loved each other
devotedly.

Having Pat on duty would allow Betty to be with her husband for company
in the days he had left.

Susan and Bill Alford were still living in Florence, Alabama, in 1987,
and they breathed a sigh of relief when there was a period of respite
from the family problems that usually bubbled up out of Georgia.  Pat
seemed to adore Adam and grudgingly agreed that childbirth hadn't
killed Susan after all, although Susan had had that one bad "sinking
spell" six months after his birth when she visited at Boppo's.  No one
had ever diagnosed what had caused her illness.

Susan and Bill were also pleased to learn that apparently both Pat and
Debbie had jobs they liked, working as nurse's aides for a wealthy
couple near the Peachtree Country Club.  That was good news.  Susan was
hardly worried when she got a phone call from Boppo- "do you know how
much "Susan," her grandmother asked, money your mother makes where
she's working?"

"No, she's never mentioned it."

"Well, Debbie says she makes a lot of money-that your mother is making
as much as,Bill does."

"Oh," Susan said.  "I don't think so.  You know how Mom exaggerates.

Debbie does too.  I'm just grateful they both have a job they like and
they can work together."

Pat did seem to be making a little more money than she had in the past
.

At that summer's Siler Family Reunion at White Lake, North Carolina,
she proudly announced that she was taking care of her mother and father
in "their old age.  I have a big glass jar and I keep it filled with
money.  Mother can reach in there anytime she wants and get erself a
handful of money."

Susan knew that was ridiculous.  Despite the fortune they had lost in
legal fees for Pat, Boppo and Papa were still supporting her mother.

The money she made she spent mostly on herself.  There was a money jar,
but Boppo dipped into it only to please Pat.  Susan tried not to borrow
trouble.  Her mother had a tendency to be grandiose and there was no
way that Pat could be supporting Boppo and Papa; maybe it made her
mother feel ts and cousins that she was.  Pat was important to tell all
the aun over fifty, and she had always been dependent on her parents.

If and fiftycent pieces in a jar for Boppo, she put some quarters what
real harm was there in that?

Pat also became suddenly generous with the rest of the family, giving
them little bits and pieces of jewelry and old books-the kind of things
she liked.

She gave her grandchildren funny oldfashioned toys that they soon
discarded for plastic fads from Toys "R" Us.  But her own collection of
treasures of another era was growing larger.  Besides her Victorian
cards and her dolls, she added another collection: antique hatpins.

She said the late Mrs. Mansfield had given her-and Debbie-so many
things they admired.

Through the fall and winter of 1987, Pat worked longer and longer hours
at the Crists.  She explained that Elizabeth Crist's health had begun
to fail too so there was a lot more work to do.  It no longer sounded
like the ideal job; Pat and Debbie both complained that the elderly
Crists were penny-pinchers, pointing out how "common" it was the way
they lined their garbage cans with newspapers instead of plastic trash
can liners.  They said they had no place to sleep except a lumpy little
couch.  Still, Pat and Debbie stayed on the job.

It was the longest-running job Pat had ever had.

It ended in mid-June of 1988.  Pat explained to her family that it was
unfortunate, but there had been a problem with the Crists' medical
insurance.

"The company just refused to pay for aides anymore," she said.  "So the
Crists couldn't keep us on."

Colonel Radcliffe turned seventy-five in July.  The whole family showed
up at a restaurant to honor Papa.  Pat had saved up to get him a
wonderful surprise, an eighteen-karat gold lapis stone ring.  He was
very pleased.  He held his hand up for Susan's camcorder and described
the ring, right down to the intricate carving beside the blue stone.

Papa didn't look seventy-five.  He barely looked sixty-fit and
handsome-as he posed for yet another group of happy family pictures
with Bill, Susan, Debbie, Pat, Sean, Courtney, Adam, Ronnie and
Ashlynne, and Boppo.  They toasted each other with iced tea in Mason
jars.  It was a happy night.

With no further practical nursing prospects in sight, Pat started her
own business in her parents' home in McDonough.  She called her
enterprise Patty's Play Pals and had business cards made up.  She sewed
doll clothes and worked on antique dolls, restoring them to their
original condition.  She was wonderfully clever with her dolls.  Boppo
and Papa gave her the room off their recreation room and it soon became
a "nursery" of sorts.

Dozens of dolls, their fixed eyes bright and staring, filled that
room.

Being there was like stepping back in time-to the 1930s and then
further and further back until this century seemed not to exist at
all.

Pat seemed happiest in her doll room, or in the windowless closet
ad'oining I it that she turned into a stuffy little sewing room.

She sewed far into the night, her work area lit by a bare light bulb
swinging from an extension cord.

On weekends, Pat carefully packed up her Play Pals and drove to hobby
shows, swap meets, and flea markets.  "That made me sad," Susan
remembered.  "To See my mother at her age going around to flea markets with
her dolls.  I t seemed so humbling for her-almost worse than it was
when she was working at the pizza parlor.  She'd go to those tailgate
sales or swap meets and she was selling her doll things out of the
trunk of her car."

Although there were no more men in Pat's life, she made a very close
woman friend, a teacher named Miss Loretta.* Miss Loretta also
collected antique dolls and they had much in common.  They were both
plump, middle-aged women with one y lives and unfulfilled dreams.  Miss
Loretta had never been married.  ssive of Miss Loretta as she had Pat
rapidly became as posse once been of Hap Brown and Tom Allanson, and as
she still was of her mother.

She had never been able to hold lightly onto important people in her
life.  It was no different with Miss Loretta.  Pat clutched and
clung.

She could not bear for "her" people to have lives away from her; she
had to know about every detail of their activities.

Although some of Pat's exquisitely restored dolls sold for
hundreds-even thousands-of dollars, Patty's Play Pals wasn't another
job.  a consistent source of income, and Pat had to take She went to
work for the Golden Memories shop in Stockbridge, a pawnshop and
consignment store that sold old jewelry, small items, and just plain
junk that people .  brought in, keeping a percentage.  At least it was
more in keeping with Pat's interests right across the street, than
making pizza.  The pizza parlor was and she shuddered to think she had
ever worked there.  She made forty-five dollars a day at Golden
Memories.  At the end of each day, she would open the cash register by
punching the No Sale wn so heavy that it was key, and pay herself in
cash.  She had gro hard for her to be on her feet all day.  Pat bought
herself a folding chair at the Wal-Mart Drugstore and sat on that
between customers.  Golden Memories, he prob If Tom Allanson had walked
into ably wouldn't have recognized his former wife.  The frail and
beautiful southern belle had long since been buried under folds of
flesh.  Even the sweet voice that had once reduced him to tears was
vastly changed.  Pat either gave imperious commands or she sighed with
dull fatigue, her voice harsh and flat.

But, after fourteen years, Tom was still in prison.  And he was
married-at least common-law-to another woman.  Surprisingly, he held no
grudge against Pat.  He was not a man to hold grudges.

What might have been more devastating-if she had known about it was
that Tom never thought about Pat at all.

Once, in a moment of searing revelation, Margureitte Radcliffe had
confessed to Susan her own worst fear.  "I have nightmares about being
accused of a crime-falsely-and being sent to prison.  That's what I'm
most afraid of - " s though her Susan wasn't surprised.  Sometimes it
seemed a mother and grandmother shared one brain.  Although Boppo could
hold a stubborn grudge against even one of her own sisters, she had
always forgiven her daughter anything, and she had always absorbed
Pat's pain.  Of course Boppo feared the worst thing that had ever
happened to Pat.  Wherever Pat's emotions plunged, her mother's
followed.  She had practically gone to prison herself when Pat did.

Susan didn't confide her worst fear to Boppo-she didn't dare.  Boppo
would have been outraged.  "It wasn't a rational fear," Susan
admitted.

"At least I didn't think it was then.  I was afraid that Bill would
die, and my mother would move in and take over my house and my life.  I
could picture her locking the e-and not ever letting doors and not
letting anyone in to see m me out.  It was a suffocating feeling."

Bill Alford was transferred once again-this time back to the Atlanta
area.  The Alfords bought a lovely home in the Brookstone Country Club
area.  Sean was in high school; he had grown up to be a tall, extremely
handsome young man who often played golf with his father at the
Brookstone private golf course.  Courtney played golf too, the only
girl in her age category, and she took ballet lessons.  Adam was an
adorable little blue-eyed toddler.

Pat was still working at the Golden Memories consignment store, and she
kept her doll business going, sewing far into the night as she had done
at Hardwick.  She visited Susan's new house often and complained how
she hated having to work all the time.

"I just want time to spend with my grandchildren," she sighed.  "I
can't stand working anymore.  It's just too hard."  Locked up in
prison, Pat had missed most of the growing-up years of her older
grandchildren.  But she seemed to dote on all of them, with one
exception.  She still had no affinity for Ronnie's daughter, Ashlynne,
and argued peevishly that the child had no business living with Boppo
and Papa.  Boppo ignored her complaints.

Ashlynne was going to stay living with them, and that was that.

Ashlynne was the only thing Boppo defied her daughter about.  "I think
Boppo loved Ashlynne the way she once loved Mom," Susan later mused.

"And my mother knew it.

When Adam had his tonsils out in November 1988, his grandma Pat was
right there with him, holding him and promising him ice cream.  She sat
beside his bed in the hospital whenever Susan had to step away for a
moment or two.  Susan's eyes misted when she thought how happy she was
that her mother was able to be with them again.

She hadn't made much progress on her book about her mother.

With all the moving and resettling, she found it difficult to get
going.  She had sent for as many family birth and death certificates as
she could track down.  She knew now how hard Boppo's teenage years had
been, and about her three early and difficult pregnancies.  She
verified what she had always really known-that her uncle Kent had been
a suicide.  She found no medical records of other relatives with a
history of rectal bleeding, but that didn't seem so important.  Adam
had outgrown that frightening symptom.

Bill Alford was working as a vice president in upper manageinent in a
company that seemed as solid as the marble in Stone Mountain.  But then
came a buy-out.  just before Christmas, 1988, he suddenly lost his
job.

Susan and Bill had already invited the whole family for Christmas
dinner, and they never let on what they were going through.

Photographs taken of that day's celebration gave no hint that anything
was wrong: four generations of a truly beautiful family, bowing their
heads before Christmas dinner.

"It was rough," Susan remembered.  "But we made it.  Nobody knew what
had happened.  Bill got another Job.  .  I worked two part-time jobs."

substitute teacher.  She During the day, Susan was on call as a
lementary to high school-particutaught at every level from e gs she
worked in store larly special education classes.  Evenin , security for
department stores, Macy's and then Sears.  She grew adept at changing
her appearance by wearing wigs and dark glasses.

She wasn't very big, but she was fast and had a good eye for telltale
movements on the part of ((shoppers."  Working with male security
officers, she chased scores of shoplifters and edits were in caught
them in the parking lots.  Susan's college cr ; she didn't have a
degree, but she criminology and psychology
still hoped to get one.  Her mother thought policemen were low-class: "They're so stupid,
they couldn't find work anywhere else," Pat often said.  But Susan
seriously considered a career in law enforcement.

Bill's new job looked promising and they breathed a sigh of relief.

Like so many couples in their thirties, they were living well, perhaps
too well.  The Brookstone house was as nice as, or nicer than, their
home in Florence, and the mortgage payments were hefty.  Their children
were used to having extrasg and Bill and Susan were happy that they
could still provide them.  Sean got his own truck on his seventeenth
birthday-not a brand-new truck, but one that any seventeen-year-old boy
would be thrilled with.  Bill and Susan decorated it with banners and
balloons.

Even though Susan was now working hard herself, it still hurt her to
see her mother sitting on the wobbly folding chair at Golden
Memories.

Debbie was working as an office manager and nurse for Dr. Francisco
Villanueva.* Susan wondered sometimes why Pat and Debbie didn't go back
to their nurse's aide Jobs.  Pat could certainly have made more money
doing that, but neither of them seemed interested in returning to that
career.

Pat became obsessed with worry about her future ' re.  What would
become of her?  She asked Bill to promise her that she would never be
alone.

If he and Susan assured her that they would build a little house for
her in back of their house, and take care of her when she got too old
to work, she would feel so much better.  Susan saw that her mother
wasn't as strong as she pretended to be.  She realized that she could
not survive if Boppo weren't around, and Boppo and Papa were growing
older.  Pat needed protection and care, and the Alfords promised her
that she didn't have to worry; they would take care of her.

Pat told them she was worried about Sean and Courtney too.  She urged
them to rewrite their wills and name her as the children's guardian and
as executor of their wills if anything tragic should happen to both of
them.  She apologized for the 3,ears of chaos.  "I understand why you
couldn't put me in your wills before-I wasn't myself, I was sick-but
that's different now.  I suppose you have Boppo and Papa in there to
take care of the children?"

Susan half nodded.  Actually, she and Bill had listed his brother and
sister-in-law-her family was always in such upheaval-but she didn't
want to hurt her mother's feelings.

"Well," Pat hurried on, "just change that and put my name first.

They're getting older, and it would be such a mess if I wasn't listed
first.  Put me down, then Boppo, then Papa."

Pat brought up the subject of the Alfords'wills often, but Bill always
managed to steer her away from the topic.

Sometimes, Pat talked about her own death-as if it were imminent.  She
bought herself a plot up in North Carolina where Grandma and Grandpa
Siler-and Kent-were buried.  She asked Susan if she might have the
full-cut turquoise maternity dress that Susan had worn when she was
pregnant with Adam.  Of course Susan gave it to her mother.  It had fit
her loosely when she was nine months pregnant; it just fit Pat, who had
now gained over a hundred pounds.

"There," Pat said.  "Now I have my marrying and my burying dress.

Whatever happens to me, I'm ready."

Susan bit her lip.  It was sad to see her mother settling for so little
in life.  There would be no "marrying" for Pat-not anymore; she never
went anywhere, except with Miss Loretta or to visit family.

. . .

In February 1989, Pat's aunt Liz Porter in North Carolina wasn't
feeling well, and Pat insisted on going up to take care of her.  Aunt
Liz had always been her willowy, beautiful aunt, the sweet aunt who
couldn't balance a checkbook to save her life.  She had raised her son,
Bobby, alone after her husband disappeared into the woods - Until the
mid- 1980s, Liz was .  a strikingly attractive woman.  But she was well
into her seventies now and quite frail.

Pat moved in to care for Aunt Liz-just in time, she soon said, because
her patient grew frailer rapidly.  Liz had been ambulatory, but she
became so weak that she could no longer walk.  Pat rented a wheelchair
and tenderly pushed her aunt around.

in She explained to Liz's doctor that she was well experienced dealing
with the losses that accompanied advancing age.

Pat took complete care of Aunt Liz for six weeks, virtual y shutting
her off from the rest of the world.  She explained to her cousin Bobby
and his wife, Charlotte, that his mother was far too ill to have
visitors.  She discouraged them from coming by so often, assuring Liz's
family that she would recover much sooner if she could only have
complete rest and quiet.  Pat was her aunt's only care giver and
companion.  She also advised Liz on her legal affairs and urged her to
have a proper will drawn up.

For a while, it seemed that Elizabeth Porter would not survive.  Her
physician was appalled at how rapidly his patient was degenerating.

When Pat returned to Boppo and Papa's, it seemed likely that she would
not see her aunt alive again.

Pat complained to her mother that no one even thanked her for the
tender care she had given her aunt.  Boppo was insulted by their lack
of appreciation.

"Your mother," she told Susan and Debbie, "has always been especially
kind to elderly people, children, and animals.  Everything your mother
does is always taken the wrong way by her cousins, and I don't know
why.  If it was anyone else saying or doing it, it would be perfectly
all rightbut not with your mother.  Your poor mother had to leave all
upset, and drive all the way back.

I'm shocked at how her cousins treated her, and all she wanted to do
was help.  Your mother works harder than anyone I know, always busy
with something in her hand, up all hours of the night sewing-" Susan
couldn't see how her mother's sewing all night could have helped-or
harmed-Aunt Liz, but apparently there had been bad feelings in North
Carolina, and Pat was no longer wanted as a nurse for her aunt.

Happily, and much to everyone's surprise, Elizabeth Porter gradually
improved.  By full spring she was walking again and seemed far more
alert.  Although her illness had visibly aged her, she was able to be
with her sisters at the Siler Family Reunion in the summer of 1989.

Bobby and Charlotte Porter, Liz's son and daughter-in-law, had felt a
decided coolness in the family, however, since they had sent Pat
away.

Prudently, they chose not to go to the White Lake reunion.  They had
criticized Pat, and Boppo would not permit that.  With the exception of
Bobby's mother, Liz, the surviving Righteous Sisters sided with
Boppo.

. . .

Susan was still working her two jobs that summer.  Adam was only two
and a half and she hated to leave him with strangers.

Bill was working many evenings, Sean loved his little brother, but he
had an evening job too; and Courtney was too young for so much
responsibility.  Boppo and Papa agreed readily to look after Adam three
days a week and have him stay over two nights.

Pat was clearly annoyed by the arrangement.  She hadn't wanted Ashlynne
living with Boppo and Papa, and she didn't want Adam there either.  At
long last, Pat's reasoning finally became apparent to her oldest
daughter.  "I didn't want to believe it," Susan said later.  "I wanted
everything to be all right with my mother, but I finally had to
acknowled e that anyone -anyone-who took attention away from her was
her enemy.  My mother had to be Boppo's little girl.  It didn't matter
if Mom was fifty-three years old.  Ashlynne-and then Adam-were standing
in her spotlight.

She enjoyed Adam at my house; she didn't want him at her house."

One night when Susan, Sean, and Adam were at home together, Adam
started hitting Sean-and then himself-in the face and whispering,
"Shussh!  Be quiet!"

"Mom?"  Sean asked.  "Where's he getting that?"

"Adam," Susan asked, "what are you doing?"

He looked at her, hit himself in the mouth again, and mumbled, "Grandma
Pat."

Sean was furious.  Although he was a teenager, beginning to pull away
from the family, he adored his little brother.  The thought that anyone
had hit Adam-even Grandma Pat-made him terribly angry.

Emotionally, Susan was pulled in two directions.  She loved the mother
who had always told her she could accomplish anything, the mother who
had written her such wonderful letters and whose handiworks of love
were evident in every room of Susan's beautiful home.  She loved the
mother who had been taken away from all of them for seven and a half
years, and now was home again.  At the same time, Susan had finally
acknowledged that her mother was selfish, jealous, immature, and
consumed with the need to own more and more things.  Pat was sixteen
years older than Susan in years; in truth, Susan was the grown-up.

Because she loved her mother, Susan had trouble accepting her
suspicion that Pat had punished Adam physically.  She put that out of
her mind, believing that her little boy had only been cuffed lightly.

Perhaps he had tried to play with her dolls; Susan knew her mother
couldn't stand to have Adam or Ashlynne touching her dolls.
just as Susan was of two minds about her mother, she had a similar
dichotomy of feelings about her only sister.  Susan loved Debbie but she
disapproved of some of the things she did.  The two sisters were as
different as night and day; they always had been.

But they were buddies, so close to the same age, giggling over the
weird-but predictable-antics of their family.

Debbie claimed to detest sex, and yet Susan had seen her lift her
blouse and flash truck drivers as the women drove past big rigs on the
freeway.  Debbie had a sensational figure and she sometimes worked as a
cocktail waitress in the most minuscule costumes the law would allow.

She was either bubbly or depressed, depending on how her love life was
going at the moment.  Her marriage had been only a convenience for
years.  Dawn, a teenager now, was as beautiful as the rest of the Siler
women.

For years, Susan and Bill had listened to Debbie's lamentations about
her marriage and her off-and-on relationship with Mike Alexander, a
married man who sporadically promised to get a divorce and marry her.

The Alfords' home had always been a haven for Debbie when her world
crashed.  She had an insouciant air about her that made her endearing
even when she was outrageous.

Whatever she did, she was still Susan's sister, and Lord knows they had
stuck together through some treacherous times.

They had long since learned to laugh about their mother's
histrionics.

Pat often took offense at something Debbie or Susan said to her during
a phone call.  They would hear the receiver drop, and then dead
silence.  Pat was brilliant at timing the "interrupted phone call,"
because invariably her daughters would hear the sounds of a car door
and then a house door slamming-Boppo and Papa arriving home-and next
their gasps as they discovered Pat crumpled on the floor in a faint,
the phone receiver still clutched in her hand.  Boppo would pick up the
phone and demand, "Now what have you done to your mother?"  ebbie and
Susan had learned to suppress their giggles; they knew their mother was
perfectly fine.  But Boppo apparently still believed each fainting
spell, each sudden illness.  If Miss Loretta, Pat's special friend, was
late in calling, Pat was sure she had had a wreck on the freeway and
was lying stone cold dead in a ditch.  Loretta always called, and
things always turned out all right.  Hysteria was merely Pat's way, and
Boppo played right into it.

Debbie sometimes called Susan to report on one of Boppo's phone
calls.

Both of them could imitate their grandmother perfectly, but they were
smart enough not to do it in front of her: "Debbie [Debbie imitating
Boppo], your mother has taken ill on the way to [or from] Susan's
house.  She's at the hospital," or "Debbie, your mother has been in a
terrible, terrible rainstorm coming from Alabama.  We are staying in
constant contact with the state patrol for any word of her."  Debbie
would tell Susan, "I'm so goddamned sick and tired of hearing about the
state patrol.

You and I know Mom's doing this on purpose-just to get attention."

And, of course, Pat was.  She would invariably show up eight or nine
hours late and make a dramatic entrance.  But after Ashlynne started
staying with Boppo and Papa, nobody seemed to be as worried about
Pat.

When she showed up, dripping wet and exhausted from her encounter with
yet another "awful, utterly terrifying thunderstorm," and found Papa
calmly rocking Ashlynne to sleep and crooning to her, Pat would flush
beet red and demand, "What's she doing here?"  ould say soothingly.

"Ronnie has to be out tonight," Boppo w "Well, he can goddamned well
come and get her!  She's his child.  Not yours!"

Pat clearly detested her own granddaughter.  And Susan suspected that
Adam was no more welcome.

On October 25, 1989, Tom Allanson was finally released from prison.

They hated to see him go down at Jackson; he knew more about the
internal workings of the prison's physical plant than anyone on
staff.

More than that, he was a nice guy who got along with everyone.  He had
been behind bars for more than fifteen years, long since forgotten by
the Radcliffes and family, except for Susan who had continued to write
to him occasionally.  Nona and Paw were dead and Tom and his aunt jean
estranged.  His son, Russ, had come to see him in Jackson when he
turned eighteen and they had tentatively begun to get to know ea(h
other again.  But Tom had no idea where Sherry was.

Tom had a good job waiting for him; his expertise in waste water
management made him eminently employable.  His new boss had held the
job open for him for a year, and he handed Tom the keys to the company
truck the day he walked out through the prison gates.  He also had a
bride waiting for him.  Tom and Liz were already common-law married, of
course, but they wanted a regular wedding.  They got married the day
Tom was freed.  He had never been good at dates; he didn't realize that
October 25 was the same date he had married Little Carolyn more than
two decades before.  It wouldn't have mattered.  That might as well
have been a hundred years ago.

Tom didn't think about Pat either.  She was a thousand years behind
him.  She had become only someone he had known once.  He didn't hate
her.  She was no longer important enough to him to hate.

Susan's growing fears about having Adam stay with Boppo, Papa, and her
mother soon became moot.  She was the next family member to fall ill
and she had to stop working.  In Decemtracted what seemed to be a
stubborn her of 1989, Susan con kind of flu.  She had headaches, joint
pain, and couldn't keep anything on her stomach.  She stayed home with
Adam, but she couldn't keep up with him, and she couldn't even start
her Christmas baking as she had hoped to do.  After the first few
weeks, the pain in her joints settled in her hands and feet, a
bearing-down agony as if her extremities were caught in intractable
vises.

It was a familiar pain-not unlike what she had felt in the summer of
1987 when she had had such a terrible time driving home from Boppo's
house to Florence, A hands, kneading it was worse.  "I just had to keep
rubbinlgabmayma.  But this time, ' leaching out of them.  They hurt
them, trying to work that terrib so bad I'd wake up at night with the
pain."  stone from McDonough and announced Pat drove up to Brook that
she would take care of Susan.  "Mom wouldn't let me do bered.

"She took care of Adam, she anything," Susan remem and she tried to be
sure cooked for Bill and Courtney and Sean, up or tea and come and I
didn't get dehydrated.  She'd fix me so sit by me until she saw that I
was swallowing it.  I didn't now what I would do without her."  hey
made fun of Pat's Bill and Sean were hardly gratefu.  . T cooking;
worse than that, they made jokes (behind her back, of course) about
being afraid she would poison them.  it was an illkept secret that
Grandma Pat had been in prison for arsenic poisoning, and Bill and Sean
shared a certain perverse sense of humor.

"Mom was no star in the kitchen," Susan admitted.  "She tried, but-and
I hate to say it because it sounds mean-my mother is not known for her
cooking.  Sean and Bill wouldn't eat what she made.  Her 'famous tuna'
still had the oil in it and then she added mayonnaise besides.  She
never skimmed the grease off of spaghetti [sauce] or chill.  She liked
it that way, so she assumed everyone did."

Susan begged Sean and Bill to be more considerate of Pat.

But they just laughed and scraped their plates down the disposal when
Pat's back was turned.  Their eyes would meet, and, as if by
prearranged signal, the two of them would sneak out to eat in a
restaurant.

Susan appreciated having her mother there; she was so weak that she
could no longer take care of Adam or the house.  Her weight dropped by
twenty pounds or more.  At first, she only had dark circles under her
eyes, and then her eyes themselves appeared sunken in her skull.  She
had been ill before-those terrible six weeks in Alabama-but not as bad
as this.

Pat banned Bill and the children from Susan's room, warning them that
she was far too ill for company, but Sean was crafty at sneaking in to
see his mother.  "Mom," he asked her more than once, "do you think
maybe she's giving you something to make you sick?"

"Sean!"

"Well, she did it to people before.  She won't let us see you.  She's
down there banging pots and pans around like she's mad at somebody.

When is she going home?"

"I need her, Sean," Susan explained patiently.

"I wish she'd go home.  And I'm not going to eat what she cooks.

Neither is Dad."

Susan was too weak and sick to argue with him.  There were many nights
when Bill was out on the road and she needed another adult in the house
to help her care for the kids.  She was too weak and sick to realize
that she was actually living her own worst fear.  Her mother kept her
completely isolated most of the time.

Her mother had taken over her house.

No one came to visit Susan and she wondered why.  She didn't know that
Pat refused to answer the door, had drawn the drapes so that the house
looked deserted.  She passed on no phone messages to Susan.  "I found
out later," Susan recalled.  "My sisterin-law said she had come over
many times to see me, but no one came to the door."  it was Pat's
way.

She isolated people in her care.  She had kept jean away from Paw and
Nona, and Bobby Porter from Aunt Liz.

And now she had virtually locked Susan up in her own home, shutting her
off from everything outside her bedroom.

. . .

Christmas came and Susan was too sick to cook dinner.

Everyone went to Boppo and Papa's.  It was another holiday where
everyt@g seemed idyllic.  Pat had spent countless hours painting and
refurbishing an incredible dollhouse for Courtney.  Sean quickly dubbed
it "South Fork."  It had four tall columns on the veranda-wrapped with
red ribbons for a candy-cane Christmas lookadditions on each side of
the main house, lace curtains in all the windows, and black shutters.

It was the sort of thing Pat loved to work on.  Dolls and doilhouses,
little worlds of her own creation There was no dollhouse for Ashlynne,
which was unfortunate since the girls were almost the same age.

Courtney thanked her grandmother politely, but she was a little girl
far more interested in sports than in dolihouses and miniature
furniture.

As they sat down to eat, Adam's "Grandma Pat" moved his highchair four
feet back from the table so that he was sitting against the wall, his
view of the family blocked by an antique china cabinet.  Susan could
see he was about to cry, his face bereft at being banished.  She nudged
Bill and he moved Adam back.   The food was wonderful and
Susan tried to eat, but she felt  queasy after a few bites.  At home later, Bill
took a picture of her sitting in an easy chair in her nightgown.  She
looked like death itself, her eyes sunken, her skin the color of thin
parchment.

Susan hadn't been able to take care of Adam for a month, and in the
months ahead she felt no better.  Her hands hurt so badly that she
could scarcely use them.  Bill insisted that there had to be something
more wrong with her than the flu.  On January 19, 1990, he took her to
the emergency room at Kennestone Hospital in Marietta for testing.  Her
doctor had no idea why she was so sick, but he listed a tentative
diagnosis: ".079-9: Viral Syndrome."  urinalysis A complete blood
count, a sputum culture, and a yielded no information.  Susan was
dehydrated from vomiting; she was given intravenous fluids to stabilize
her condition and then released.  Bill wanted more testing.  He wanted
hair and nail clipping analysis; he wanted testing for arsenic.  Susan
absolutely refused.  "I couldn't even think of that.  I would not
believe that my mother would do that to me.  Not deliberately.

That was too awful to contemplate."

Pat continued to care for Susan.  She wasn't living with the Alfords in
their home in the Brookstone Country Club but she might as well have
been; she was there almost all the time.  Susan was grateful; she
didn't know what she would have done without her mother.  She began to
wonder if she had hepatitis or mononucleosis-or even cancer.  She had
been sick for three months and she just wasn't getting any better.

Adam was such a chunk of a toddler that she wasn't sure she could lift
him.  Her mother wouldn't even let her try.  Pat was very, very firm
about that.

She would not let Susan go near the baby.

Adam missed his mother.  And Susan missed him so much she could hardly
stand it.  One night as her mother moved quietly around her bed, Adam
woke up and Susan could hear him down the hall, crying.  He played for
a while in his crib, and then he started to cry again.

"Mom," Susan begged.  "I've got to go reassure him."

Pat glared at her daughter, exasperated.  "Do you want to kill him
too?

Is that what you want?"

Susan got out of bed and braced herself by holding on to furniture as
she moved toward the hall.

'Go back to bed!"  Pat ordered.  "I'll take care of him."

"Mom," Susan said, "he just wants to see me.  I've got to go in there
and see him."

"You want to put double work on me, taking care of two of you?  How
much more am I supposed to take?"

Susan gave up.  She crawled back into bed, but she could still hear her
little boy down the hall.  She waited until her mother was in the other
end of the house, then she crept down the hall to Adam's room and
picked him up.  "He was so happy to see me.  He put his little arms
around me, and he just patted my face and looked at me.  I think he
thought I'd gone away forever."

Susan didn't hear a sound beyond Adam's joyful noises; she was so happy
to be holding him again, and he was chuckling with glee to see his own
mother.  "I didn't hear a movement," she said, "but I half turned and
she was there-just staring at me.  I don't know why, but it frightened
me.  I jumped a foot and I said, 'Mom!  You scared me half to death!"

"What are you doing up?"  Pat asked co d y.

"Mom, he just misses me.  I've got to hold him."

"Go ahead, if you want to kill yourself and kill him.

I've already got you I to look after.  Nobody eve r thinks of me."  I
Susan lowered Adam into his crib and walked slowly back to bed.  The
house was warm, but she felt chilled.  Why hadn't her mother said
something instead of standing in the doorway so quietly, staring at
her?  Her expression had been so awful, so full of hate.  Evil.  For
the first time, Susan was actually afraid of her own mother.

By morning, the feeling had passed, leaving only a smoky hangover of
dread in her mind.  She had been sick so long it was sometimes hard to
think straight.

. . .

By March, Susan was still sick.  Her feet hurt so much that she hadn't
worn shoes, much less high heels, for four months.  And then, ever so
gradually, she began to have good days interspersed with the bad.  She
was far from well, but she was better.

Continuing the tradition of teenage-and pregnant-brides in the Siler
family, Debbie's eighteen-year-old daughter, Dawn, was getting
married.

Debbie asked Susan to take the pictures at the wedding and Susan
promised she would, all the time wondering how on earth she was going
to get dressed up, wear heels, and stay on her feet throughout the
ceremony and reception.

Dawn's wedding was March 10, 1990.  She was a beautiful blond bride,
and although she was a little queasy with early pregnancy, she was not
as nauseated as her aunt Susan was.  Somehow, Susan managed to take a
complete set of wedding pictures and stay on her feet.  Barely.  "I
didn't think I'd make it," she said.  "But I did.  I plastered on
makeup to give me some color, but I could see it didn't work in the few
photographs I was in."

Susan wore a white silk dress that was way too big for her, but she
cinched the belt over four notches.  The circles under her eyes made
her look ten years older than she was.  Boppo wore a lovely pale pink
crepe dress.  Pat wore her "marrying and burying dress"-the turquoise
dress that had once been Susan's maternity dress.  Debbie wore a very
expensive white satin brocade and lace dress.  She wore it very
carefully; she returned it to the store the next day.

It was, Susan acknowledged, a typical family wedding, at least for her
family.  On the surface, everything seemed lovely.  Underneath, there
were secrets, lies, evasions, and fears eating away at the very
foundation of the family.

Although not one of them would ever have admitted it, Susan and Bill
Alford and their children had lived a life-style that all of the
SilerRadcliffe clan envied.  None of them knew how very close the
Alfords had come to losing it all at Christmas, 1988.  It was a matter
of pride with Susan and Bill that they had handled their own problems,
pulled out of their economic quicksand, and gone on.

They almost made it.  But by the spring of 1990, there was not much
about the Alfords' lives that their relatives would have wanted to
emulate.  Bill's new company was in the midst of a buy-out too, and
Bill and Susan doubted that they could survive another job loss-even
after Susan's health improved enough for her to go back to work.  They
argued continually, and one or the other would storm out of the
house.

They were scared, worried sick about finances, worried about Sean's
mediocre grades, and worried about the future.  The emotional tension
was crushing.

"We grounded Sean too much and made him study," Susan remembered
regretfully.  "But we thought we were doing the right thing.  He was
sick of the tension and the fighting in our house-and I didn't blame
him.  It was such a bad time."

Sean was in love, and far more caught up in his girlfriend's family
than his own.  He graduated from high school in June, and Bill-who
found it difficult to let go of grand gesturesrented Sean a Cadillac to
drive to the prom.  Sean posed in his prom tuxedo for his mother's
camera.

It was to be one of the last happy pictures.  When he turned eighteen,
Sean moved into his girlfriend's family's home and completely turned
his back on his own family.  He wanted nothing more to do with them,
with their arguments, their worries, their lives.

"We wouldn't let him take his truck, and I felt guilty about that-that
was wrong-and I lost my temper and screamed at Sean," Susan said, her
voice full of pain.  Sean was her firstborn, her beautiful little boy
grown to manhood, and he he stepped out of his family's life as if he
had never was gone; been part of it at all.  hapter 7

Next-and very rapidly next-the Alfords filed a C bankruptcy petition.

They had no other choice.  The wonderful nouse in the Brookstone
Country Club complex was gone, and Bill was back on the road as a
salesman.  "We had no place to live," Susan said.  "We had no place to
go-except to Boppo and Papa's.

I was depressed.  Sean and everything we'd worked for was gone, and I'd
had to see Adam and Courtney give up their ittle girl, Boppo was always
rooms, their home.  When I was a l' the one who came to our rescue-but
we were grown-ups and it hurt so much to have to move in with them.  We
were so ashamed."  Boppo and Papa's little house in McDonough
was already crowded.  Pat had her wing, of course-her doll room, her sewing
room, her bedroom and bath upstairs.

She refused to let anyone walk through her entrance, so Papa quickly
built some rudimentary steps of unpainted two-by-fours outside the
kitchen sliding doors.  s ill livin r six days Ashlynne was t g with
Boppo and Papa five o out of seven, and she still slept in their
bedroom.  She had a room of her own, but Pat insisted it wasn't
Ashlynne's room; she called it "the guest room."

There weren't any other bedrooms.  The only place the Alfords could
stay was in the formal parlor.  There was no privacy, just a room with
oriental carpets and all the collected treasures from the Radcliffes'
tours of duty.  They would live there at Boppo's house, the eight of
themBoppo, Papa, Pat, Ashlynne, Bill, Susan, Courtney, and Adam -until
Thanksgiving Day.  And it would be the prelude to the unfolding of a
nightmare.

Susan had always believed in her grandmother no matter what, but this
time if Boppo helped herg she would be at cross purposes with what Pat
wanted.  From the moment they moved in, Pat made it clear that she
didn't want Susan and Bill and the children in her mother's house.

Perhaps it should not have been the shock that it was.  But Susan had
clung to the belief that a mother-any mother-would help and protect her
chid.  She was wrong.

Pat viewed Susan only as an enemy, a competitor for Boppo's love.

"My mother was outraged when we moved into'Boppo's house," Susan
said."

"She didn't want us there.  I had no idea how angry she would be.  She
was my mother, and we needed help.  But we were intruding on her
territory.  Just like Kent had.  Just like Ashlynne was.  She didn't
want us there.  She especially didn't want me there."

Adam missed his big brother, and he missed his own room.  He didn't
understand why they had to leave his house and all live in one room.

He was a very sad little boy.  He sat for hours in a chair by the front
window, his head on his folded arms, watching for something-or for
someone.

Susan was even sadder.  Her losses had piled one on top of another over
the past year and a half, and she had been mysteriously and dangerously
ill for four months.  Her body was well -She no longer suffered from
crippling pain in her hands and feet-but she could not seem to stop
crying.

At first, she tried to help with the cooking and the chores, but she
could not please her mother.  Pat watched her constantly and criticized
everything, from the way she washed a cup to the way she fried an
egg.

"I just gave up," Susan recalled.  "I finally just stayed in the living
room, sat on the couch, and cried.

Bill looked after the kids, he washed dishes, he did errands.  He would
sit around the kitchen table and talk with everyone, and he could still
make himself laugh.  He was wonderful.  I knew that he was feeling
terrible too, but I couldn't help him.  I was paralyzed."  Susan had
seen what her mother did to people who invaded her territory.  She
attacked where she knew they were most vulnerable.  She capitalized on
weakness, homing in on whatever would hurt the most.  Even though Susan
had been only a young teenager when Kent committed suicide, she
remembered how savagely her mother had attacked him.

And now she herself had become the target.

Susan's only defense against her mother's abuse, her sharp tongue, and
her constant criticism was to hide in the living room, appalled at how
increasingly depressed she felt.  When she looked into her mother's
eyes, she saw the same eyes she had seen the night she tiptoed down the
hall o to pick up Adam when she was sick, eyes full of hate.

Susan was so tremendously sad and so tired that she could scarcely
move.  She no longer cared to live.  But she had children to raise, and
she was frightened that she might do something irreversible just to
escape the pain she felt.  "I checked myself into Clayton Hospital,"
she said.  "In the old days, they would call what I had a nervous
breakdown-but they called it depression.  I sure didn't disagree with
them.  I was there for five days and I will never, ever forget that day
I came home.  My mother walked in, glared at me with loathing! and
said, 'What is she doing back here?"

" It got worse.
Shortly before Thanksgiving, Susan noticed that Adam had a
big bald spot on the back of his head.  She pulled him over to
her and examined it more closely.  It looked as if someone had
deliberately taken scissors to his mop of curly hair and cut out a
chunk of it.  She showed Boppo, who peered at Adam's hair and said,
with a straight face, "I don't see anything, Susan.  It looks perfectly
fine to me.  Cliff, look here-do you see anything wrong with Adam's
hair?"  Papa didn't see the big bald spot either.  If Susan hadn't been
so depressed, she might have laughed.

On Thanksgiving, as everyone was trying to make the best of a difficult
holiday, Pat brought up the subject of hair.  They had just finished
their meal when she stomped off and returned carrying two of her
dolls.

She insisted that Susan had deliberately butchered their hair in the
back.  There were, indeed, sections of the dolls' wigs missing - The
backs of their heads looked just like Adam's.  k there delib "Susan did
it," Pat said icily.  "Susan's been bac erately mutilating my dolls."

to shake her head.  And Susan stared at her mother and began then, with
a horrible clarity, she realized what was happening.

The dolls were not Pat's best dolls; they were the cheapest ones.  ir
to She knew that her mother had deliberately cut off their ha'
incriminate her.  She knew too that her mother had cut Adam's hair just
as deliberately, the sharp points of her scissors against his tender
neck.

"I didn't know why Mom hated me so much," Susan said.  "But I knew she
wanted us out of the house, and I saw what lengths she would go to.

Adam wasn't hurt.  But the thought of her doing that to his hair to get
at me gave me chills.", It was the last day the Alfords would spend in
that house.

Boppo and Papa turned as one to Bill and Susan, and Susan recognized
the look.  She had seen it before when they had ordered Kent out of
their home-because he was upsetting his sister.  Now, she was the
expendable one.

Bill and Susan grabbed Courtney and Adam and left Boppo and Papa's
house.  They couldn't move far-the only house they could get into
immediately was around the corner and on the main street of
McDonough.

They had saved just enough for the rent.  The house was old, but it had
a big backyard and a nice landlord.

And it would be their own, with doors to shut and lock.

"I wasn't well yet," Susan acknowledged, "but I know I was starting to
get well, from that time on.  I just didn't know what I was going to
have to face.  Our family had had arguments before, but things always
worked out.  This time was different."

Susan was still too close for Pat's comfort.  "It began when my mother
would pull into our driveway and just sit there," Susan said.  "She
didn't get out of the car, and she didn't come to the door.  She would
park there for a while staring at our windows, and then she would back
her car out and drive away."

By the Christmas season, a month later, Debbie was divorced and
remarried-to Mike Alexander, who had finally divorced his wife.  Ronnie
was married to Kathy and collecting state industrial insurance from an
injury suffered on a construction job.  He had suffered a number of
such injuries on the job, which, fortunately, had always been covered
by state industrial insurance.  Susan and Bill were fighting simply to
stay afloat.

In December, Susan got a bizarre phone call from her sister.

It took her a minute to figure out what Debbie was talking about.

Debbie and Pat hadn't worked for the Crist family since June of 1988,
but two and a half years later, Debbie was calling Susan to blame her
for their dismissal.  "You ruined it for us," Debbie said angrily.  "We
know that you called Mrs. Crist and told her lies about us.  You made
us lose our jobs.  And I'll never forgive you."

Susan was baffled.  As far as she knew, her mother and sister had been
let go because the Crists' medical insurance ran out.

That was what her mother had said.  Why on earth would she have called
the Crists?  She didn't know them.  And she and Bill at the
time.  weren't even living in the Atlanta area.  The more Susan thought about
Debbie's phone call, the more she felt an ominous sense that a
Pandora's box had been opened and she didn't want to know what was
inside.  When she told Bill, he stared back at her, puzzled.  Susan
wanted to forget it, but she knew that if Bill were pushed, he wouldn't
look away.

He would find out what the hell was going on.  One thing they Iled the
Cristsboth knew.  Neither of them had ever ca Iled Dawn Slinkard, On
December 26, all unaware, Bill ca Debbie's daughter, to ask that an
antique crib that the Alfords had lent her be returned.  Debbie
answered the phone, and she s was still furiou with her sister.  She
told Bill never to call again.

"You and Susan have ruined my life.  Susan made the Crists fire my
I'fe."  us.  Susan has always ruined ists' listing and punched Bill
looked in the directory for the Cr in the number.

Elizabeth Crist answered the phone.  Bill didn't know that the date was
special to her; if her husband had lived, it would have been his
ninetieth birthday.

"Mrs. Crist," Bill began, "have you ever received a phone ca from my
wife, Susan Alford?"

"I've never heard the name.17

"Well, let me explain.  My wife's mother and sister worked for you a
few years ago.  What I really wanted to ask was whether my wife ever
called you iabout her mother, Pat Taylor Allanson.

You may know her as Pat Taylor?"

There was a long silence at the end of the line, and then Betty Crist
began to tell Bill Alford "things I didn't want to hear."

When Bill told Susan what Mrs. Crist had said, she was sick at
heart.  Despite the way her mother had treated her, she still hoped the
"trouble" was all over.
sometimes," she recalled, "
But "there had been things said over the past few years my grandmother
would jokes
that Sean made, or some question ask-and in spite of myself, I would
wonder if my mother was still dangerous.  I'd wanted so much for her to
be normal that I overlooked a lot of things.  But I had told myself-and
my mother and my grandmother-that if I ever felt my mother was hurting
someone else, maybe even trying to kill someone else, I would have to
go to the authorities.  I swore that before she killed somebody, I
would stop it-even if I was disowned from the P A R T family, with
nobody wanting anything to do with me.  I guess I always knew that it
would blow the family completely apart."

Susan placed a call to the Fulton County District Attorney's Office.

I G H T Don Stoop got all the oddball cases in Fulton County.  He was
the only investigator in the D.A."s office eager to dig into cases that
seemed, at the outset, to be fairly routine, but m' lit take ig
interesting detours.  He was remarkably adept at exposing what lay
under the surface.

Stoop was a walking paradox.  Nobody ever ew exactly what he was
thinking at any given moment.  He was a wiseass with a sentimental
streak.  Most of the time, he appeared to be the ultimate macho cop-and
yet, he knew exactly when to stop pushing and the precise moment to
listen attentively.  An irrepressible tease, he knew when to quit.

Stoop was anathema to crooked cops on the take; he had cleaned out a
half-dozen corrupt police departments around Atlanta.  His office was
upstairs over a restaurant, kitty-corner from the Fulton County
Courthouse; nobody could find it without a map and an invitation.  It
was just large enough to hold a desk and a bookcase, but he was never
there, so it didn't matter.  A connoisseur of beer, he also kept a
candy dish on his desk for his sweet tooth, but he jogged calorie for
calorie and never had a spare inch around his middle.  He sported a
mustache that would be the envy of any member of a barbershop quartet
and his ties were hardly inconspicuous.

Don Stoop was born in 1952.  He was an army brat and he never really
grew up in one place.  The closest thing he had to a hometown was the
area around Red Bank, New Jersey.  As a towheaded youngster, Donnie
Stoop spent vacations there with his favorite uncle, "Fritz"
Fitzpatrick, a detective for the Freehold Police Department.  Fritz was
patient and encouraging, a good cop who could recognize the seeds
sprouting in the kid.  If there is such a thing as a born detective-and
there is-Don Stoop was destined to become an investigator.  He
questioned everything; he wanted to know all the whys and hows, all the
details of the cases his uncle Fritz worked on.  Why did people do bad
things, and how did his uncle know they were guilty?  He could not
imagine that there could be a better job than to be a policeman.

When his uncle Fritz died, he left his badge to Don.

Stoop had a half-dozen years in the service behind him, a B.A. in
police science, and two two-year degrees in criminal justice and
philosophy.  From the first moment he put on a police uniform in Cedar
Grove, Florida, he loved it; it was what he had always wanted to do.  A
few years later, in 1980, he moved up to Georgia and "started policing
for the city of Atlanta."  He was still as blond as a Scandinavian,
looked about eighteen, and worked a car in the most thickly populated
black ghetto areas of the city.  The people who lived on Atlanta's
meanest streets liked him.  He was a no-bullshit kind of guy.  He
stayed with the Atlanta Police Department for five and a half years.

While he was working in Atlanta, Stoop met his future wife, Theresa
Hempfling, when they worked undercover stakeouts together.  A lovely,
darkhaired woman, Theresa was a federal agent for the Alcohol, Tobacco,
and Firearms branch of federal law enforcement.  She was in charge of
the Zone 6

Pro'ect in Atlanta, seeking out "armed career criminals."  She was as
good at her job as Stoop was at his, and could trade quips with him toe
to toe.  Stoop was making 92 percent of the arrests in the Zone 6
campaign, and Theresa was seeing the cases through to conviction.

But what Stoop really wanted-what he had always wantedwas to be a
detective like his uncle Fritz.  The Fulton County D.A."s investigative
unit gave him plenty of opportunity to do just that.  He had occasion
more than once to 'rethink" dispositions of cases marked closed by
local police departments.

One was the bloody death of a fifty-year-old man whose case had been
closed as a suicide by the investigating agency.  But there were
aspects of the case that disturbed the dead man's family and they asked
for an investigation by the D.A."s office Reading over the autopsy
report, Stoop saw that the victim had succumbed to several bullets in
the chest, fired by an old .445
Webley cavalry pistol.  The city detective investigating the case had
surmised that the dead man
had shot himself many times in the chest, walked around the living
room, and then gone out into the hallway, where he shot himself a final
time.  That, the report read, would account for the proliferation of
blood all over the floor.

Stoop recalled asking if a man with his chest full of bullets were
capable of walking od in the the
That it would, Stoop agreed,
around.
detective, "Would it surprise you that all that blood in the living room isn't
his blood?"

The city detective didn't believe the D.A."s investigator.

"Look at his shoes, then," Stoop suzlested The victim's shoes didn't
have a speck of blood on them.  "I think he died right here in the
hallway , Stoop said.  "And I think somebody else shot him."

Stoop's investigation unearthed the fact that the dead man's girlfriend
had been stopped by a patrol unit for erratic driving late on the night
of the shooting.  She had bandages on both wrists.  "She told them
she'd cut herself accidentally," Stoop recalled later with a grim
smile.  "And they let her go.

She had tried to commit suicide by slitting her wrists after she shot
him.

That was her blood that was all over his living room; the lab
identified two different types of blood left in his hallway and living
room.  Evidently, the girlfriend changed her mind about wanting to
die-and went to Grady Hospital and got sewed up.  We thought we had a
case.  But they acquitted her.  The jury felt if it was murder, then
the first investigators should have known it.  It didn't make sense,
but you can't second-guess a jury S reasoning.

Stoop was a busy man.  Not only was he working for the Fulton County
D.A."s Office, but he was available to other agencies that didn't have
investigators.  On top of that, he still worked with two federal task
forces: the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, and the FBI's
Drug Task Force.  But he was never too busy to take on another oddball
case.

When Susan Alford called the Fulton County District Attorney's Office,
she had asked to talk to anyone who might know about a current case
charging Patricia Taylor Allanson with crimes involving the James Crist
family.  She was still hoping that maybe Mrs.  Crist had exaggerated.

Her call was taken by Chief Investigator Ron Harris, who remembered Pat
only too well from her 1976 conviction.  He had worked on the case.

The bizarre situation of a husband and a wife going to trial separately
for murder and attempted murder within the space of a few years was
hard to forget.  No one in the D.A."s office had ever settled the
question of Pat Taylor Allanson's actual involvement in the murder of
her in-laws.

"You aren't Pat Taylor's sister, are you?"  Harris asked Susan.

"No," she said, wondering if her mother was still talking about her
"wicked, sociopathic sister"-the imaginary sister who lived in North
Carolina.

Susan did not tell Harris who she was in that first call, but he was
intrigued.  Why would someone be asking about Pat Taylor?

The woman would be-what?-in her fifties by now, and she probably was
out of prison.  Harris checked the computers and found there was an
open case, with a complaint filed by a Mrs.  James F. Crist.

But there wasn't much to go on.  The only thing that the case file
consisted of was a manila folder with one yellow sheet from a legal
tablet in it.

Harris called Don Stoop into his office.  Stoop had never heard of Pat
Taylor, but the single sheet of paper led him to the Atlanta Police
Department's Larceny Unit, which had filed away the Crists' complaint
in 1988, marked "all leads exhausted."  The city dicks had never gotten
enough evidence together to charge anyone.

That made it Stoop's kind of case.

. . .

It was February 5, 1991, when Don Stoop was officially assigned the
Cr'st case.  He was t I o look into the "possible homicide of an
elderly gentleman under the home care of two females who were,
allegedly, Registered Nurses."  James Crist had been dead for a little
over two years.  His death had been considered natural; he had suffered
from Parkinson's disease and he was eighty-eight years old when he
died.  The question now was: Had someone hurried him along?
Stoop asked for Michelle Berry as his co-investigator.  She had no experience
as a homicide investigator; the Crist case might give her some.

Michelle resembled a college girl more than a working detective.  She
was in her twenties, but she could easily Dass for seventeens an
attribute that made her extremely valuable When she graduated on her
first law enforcement assignments .  in criminal justice, she from
North Georgia College with a B.A was hired by the Georgia Bureau of
Investigation as an undercover narcotics investigator and was sent out
to buy drugs from some of the seamiest characters in Georgia's
narcotics underworld.  She could look like a schoolgirl or a hippie or
a confirmed addict.

"At the time," she remembered, "it didn't even strike me us.  I was a
detective on a detail, and that's what I as dangero wanted to be."

Michelle's career as a narc went along swimmingly until she fell in
love.  "My job didn't sit too well with Jonathan," she said.

doing what "He told me, 'Either quit and marry me, or keep you're doing
and leave me alone."

" She loved him too much to leave him- alone, so, reluctantly, she
resigned her job with the GBI and they were married in December 1989.

Six months later, Michelle knew she couldn't give up law enforcement
completely; that was what she had studied for.  Much like Stoop,
helping to keep the law was her life's ambition.  Her husband
understood, but he didn't want her back on the streets.

They compromised.  "I got a desk job."

Michelle's desk-and office-were neater than Stoop's, and her objets
dart were not nearly as eccentric as his, some of which were
unmentionable.  They made an interesting team.  Don and
Michelle read Pat's and Debbie's rap sheets, and then did a little background
checking on the Crist family.  They learned that James F. "Jimmy" Crist
had earned the huge house on Nancy Creek Road.  If one single man could
be said to epitomize the emergence of electric power in the South in
the twentieth century, it was James Crist.

Jimmy Crist had started out climbing poles, his spurred boots digging
into swaying shafts of tarred wood in winter storms and in the burning
southern sun.  In 1927, he worked as an apprentice lineman for the
Alabama Power Company.  He later became a sales representative, and
then moved on to the South Carolina Power Company and stayed nineteen
years.  In 1946-47, Crist helped form the Southern Company, which was
incorporated to operate four southern electric companies-Alabama Power
Company, Georgia Power Company, Gulf Power Company, and the Mississippi
Power Company.

Crist was listed in U%o's R%o in America and wrote a book, They
Electrified the South, about the emergence of electrical power in the
first half of the century.

James Crist and his pretty wife, Elizabeth Courtney Boykin Crist, had
belonged to the most exclusive inner circles of Atlanta and Charleston
society.  When Crist retired as the executive vice president and
director of the Southern Company on January 1, 1966, he was lauded as a
true pioneer of his industry and given credit for much of the
prosperity of the New South.  The thirty thousand employees of the
Southern electric system saluted Jimmy Crist.

The Crists had had two grown sons and a daughter, a good marriage, and
all the time in the world.  He looked forward to playing more golf at
the Peachtree Country Club.  Crist remained an advisory director of the
Southern Company until 1977, but as he entered his ninth decade, he
began to show symptoms of Parkinson's disease, a progressive
neurological malady that is sometimes connected to arteriosclerosis in
an elderly patient.  Symptoms began with tremors in the limbs, a
masklike expression, a shuffling gait, and a kind of "pill-rolling"
movement in the hands.  It was a tragic illness for a man who had been
so active all his life, and in time, Elizabeth Crist needed help in
caring for him.

Jimmy Crist had died in 1988.  Elizabeth Crist survived him and was in
excellent health for a woman her age.

Don Stoop and Michelle Berry met with Mrs. Elizabeth Crist, her
daughter, Betsy Chandler, and her sons, Bill and Jim, jr.  in the
exquisitely appointed mansion where Mrs. Crist still lived.  Betty
Crist was attractive and intelligent and seemed younger than a woman in
her late seventies.  The D.A."s investigators knew they would have
to revive painful memories of Jim Crist, they would need his widow to
recall the occasion of her meeting with Pat Taylor, but it was the only
reasonable spot to begin their probe.

Betty Crist told them that Pat Taylor had come to her very highly
recommended.

She had introduced herself as a registered nurse, just retired
from the Army Nurse Corps, and she said she could bring in her daughter
Deborah, who was also an RN, to work the second shift.  Like her
mother, Betsy Chandler had found Pat "very likable" during her
employment interview.  Pat had explained to Betsy and her brother Jim
that she was so recently t she had not yet received her Georgia retired
from the army that that the requirements for nursing number, but she
assured them her army rank were far stricter than the state of Georgia
required.  She gave them her credentials as "U.S. Armed Services
Medical Services: ID No.  NA-15-753," and added that she had once
supervised all the nurses at Atlanta's Piedmont Hospital.

Jim Crist recalled that Pat had appeared to be about sixty, a stolid,
no-nonsense type of woman with bobbed brown hair and glasses who
probably weighed about 145 to 150 pounds.  She said she lived in
McDonough and gave her phone number.  She offered references from
former employers and Jim had checked those, eliciting only glowing
reports.  Pat Taylor had struck him as a very "take-charge" kind of
woman, perfect for the role of charge nurse, supervising all of his
parents' aides.  He supposed an army nurse would have to be that way.

Pat's duties were to "take care of Jimmy," Betty Crist said, take blood
pressure, temperature, etc and fix the meals.  Jimmy was not bedridden
when Pat was first hired."  Nor was Betty Crist.

She had been perfectly healthy-but not for long.  "I became bedridden
after Pat had been here about one month.  Then she had to give me my
medicine and bring trays up to my room to eat."  Pat was indeed a
"take-charge" kind of woman.  "She would never let me and Jimmy spend
time together," Betty Crist said.  "She kept me upstairs, and Jimmy had
a hospital bed set up in the den."

Betsy explained to the investigators that the family's whole purpose in
hiring nurses was so that they could keep her father at home with her
mother where he felt safe and as serene as a man so ill could be.  "We
knew he'd die if we put him in a nursing homewe just didn't want to do
that."

"How was Pat paid?"  Don Stoop asked.

" I paid her by check every Saturday," Betty Crist said.

"When she first started, the fee was only ten dollars an hour.

Then by the end of it all, I was paying her much more.  I was sedated
.

. . and I just wrote the check.  I paid for her and Debbie."

Betty Crist said that both Debbie and Pat had worn nurses' uniforms,
and they certainly appeared to know what they were doing.  Pat drove a
red pickup truck to work, and Debbie whipped in and out of the Crists'
long circular driveway in a white Camaro.  Pat had driven Mrs. Crist
to all of her doctor's appointments in the Crists'vehicle.

Betty Crist still wasn't sure how their prescriptions were obtained;
she had never heard Pat calling them in, but she knew the drugstore
made frequent deliver' room supplies.  les of medicines and sick Betty
Crist's eyes clouded as she recalled that her life had changed
drastically almost from the first wee k she hired I Pat Taylor.  While
before she had dealt with her husband's illness with tragic acceptance,
spending long quiet hours sitting beside him, she had suddenly found
herself almost totally blocked off from him.  There were always "good"
reasons why they should stay apart, and as Betty Crist grew weaker, she
had less strength to argue with her charge nurse.

Pat worked days, and her daughter Debbie soon had the evening shift, so
one or the other of them was in the Crists' home from seven in the
morning until eleven at night.  Mrs. Crist had noticed that she grew
terribly sleepy after she had eaten.  "Pat would always tell me to just
stay in bed and sleep.  . . . For some reason, I grew very afraid of
Pat and what she might do.  Jimmy and I were always separate and we
could never have visitors.  Pat complained about being hired to care
for one person and having to care for two."

Alone with her two elderly charges, Pat had ruled the Crist household
and made her displeasure at small things apparent.  She had conveyed
her anger with a look, a sharp intake of breath, o When she was truly
annoyed r a shuddering sigh.  upboard doors which had been often-she
slammed the kitchen c and banged pots and pans together.  become Jim
Crist said that he and his brother and sister had concerned about Pat
Taylor's care of their parents because it seemed extremely
"regulated."

Visitors were discouraged.

When ways told their the Crists'grandchildren telephoned, they were al
grandparents were "too tired to talk."  At first, when Betsy or Bill or
Jim, jr called to visit, and Pat explained their parents were napping
and she hated to disturb them, they found her conscientious and caring
and said they would come back another time.  Later, they tried to pop
in at unexpected times and were IW Y ndisposeddistressed to find that
their parents were a a s i Pat had not gotten along at all with the
rest of the nursing staff, hired to fill in on her weekends off and on
the graveyard shift.  One way or another9 they had all failed to meet
her standards.  At her insistenceg most of them were fired.  The Crist
children had assumed that the negative remarks the fired nurses made
about Pat were sour grapes.  Pat always seemed so efficient, so
knowledgeable, and so concerned about their parents'welfare.

They had expected that their father's health would grow progressively
worse, and that he might be confused from time to time, but there were
incidents that were unsettling.  One day, Jim Crist received a phone
call from his father.  That was highly unusual; his father couldn't ha
. ve reached a phone without help.  He could no longer walk unaided.

"I've been thinking about giving away our Civil War relics," his father
began.  "They're just taking up space."  i "Give them away?"  Jim Crist
asked, amazed.  "Give them away to who?"

His father said that the nurses would like to have them.  Jim explained
that the priceless artifacts were already listed in his father's will,
earmarked for his grandchildren.  He thought privately that someone
must have deliberately urged the old man to call, the same someone who
had helped him to the phone.  His father had mentioned giving the
artifacts to Debbie a few times after that bizarre call.  Betty Crist
nodded.  Her husband had called her once when she was in the hospital
for tests and horrified her by saying he thought Debbie should have the
Civil War pieces.

In January or February of 1988, Jim Crist, Sr."s Rolex watch was taken
to be cleaned.  When the shop called to say it was ready, Debbie had
gone in to pick it up, but she had come back without it, explaining
that it wasn't there.  "When I called," Jim Crist said, "the jewelers
aid that Deborah Cole had picked it up -and signed for it.  I have the
receipt."

Bill Crist told the D.A."s investigators that he had begun to notice a
dramatic change in his mother's behavior early in 1988.

Where she had always been vibrant, she had become sluggish and
befuddled.  Her words slurred as she talked to him, and she forgot
things she had always remembered.  He was baffled by the changes.

Betsy Chandler saw it too, and wondered sadly whether her mother's age
was catching up with her.  That, and her mother's depression over her
husband's condition, could account for her diminished state.

Jimmy Crist wasn't doing well either.  The elderly man had developed an
irritating rash that covered his whole body.  He had never had anything
like that until Pat and Debbie came to work.

He was totally bedridden by this time, and he complained of terrible,
intractable pain in his feet.  His physician told them that
wasn't an expected side effect of Parkinson's disease, although the
rash was.

Georgia nursing registration nUM
Pat had never produced any vouchers for the
insurance her, and she continued to mark her you company with her army
number, signing them, "Pat Taylor, RN."

After she brought Debbie aboard as the night nurse, she simply doubled
the hours and explained that she would pay Debbie from her own check.

Berry obtained copies Later, when Don Stoop and Michelle of Pat's pay
vouchers, they noted a markedly steady progression ut down 40 hours at
in her income.  For her first weeks she p $10.00 for a total of $400.

By December 1987, she was charging ek at $12.50 an hour, and for 6
hours of for 79 hours for one we eek's total of $1,100!

"holiday pay" at $18.75 an hour-for a w But she was just gathering
steam.  Since the insurance company 'd Pat immediately, the Crists
assumed that her credentials were adequate.  In january Pat's
voucher listed 108 hours at rging $15.00 an hour for $12.50: $1,350.

By May, she was cha 132 hours: $1,980 for a week.  Pat's final voucher
showed that her week's salary due was $2,040!  Although Debbie's name
was rtedly getting some portion of this never listed, she was repo
insurance money.  Between the two of them, they were receiving close to
$10,000 a month.

Pat and Debbie had not been released from the Crists employ because
their insurance had run out.  Not at all.  The medical policies
provided to James Crist by the Southern Company were ultimately
comprehensive, although underwriters had questioned the soa d Debbie
had been rakring nursing costs.  Pat an ing in a small fortune.  Even
so, Don Stoop and Michelle Berry learned that it wasn't the exorbitant
pay that resulted in their dismissal.  It was what was happening to
their patients.

Jim Crist explained that he had visited his mother unexpectting a salad
edly as she was having lunch one day.  She was ea when he noticed there
were tiny white tablets sprinkled on the lettuce.  "Mother!"  he said
sharply.  "Don't eat that."  He took the plate away from her and did
the first thing that came into his head; he threw the food away.

Shortly after-in February 1988-Jim took his mother to the hospital for
gastrointestinal bleeding.  She stabilized within a few days.  While
she was in the hospital, she was given no medication except for a mild
pain reliever for her headaches.  She was soon her old self again,
alert and competent.  She left the h,ospital in very good condition,
and they were all relieved.

But then, two weeks later, Betty Crist was back the way she had
been-sleepy all the time, confused, depressed.

When Jim Crist discussed his concerns about his mother's health with
her nurse, Pat surprised him by agreeing that something should be
done-and soon.  She said that his mother was becoming very hard to take
care of.  "She doesn't seem to know what she's doing at times."  Pat
also confided that she feared Betty Crist was drinking heavily, taking
far too many drugs, and was becoming careless about leaving large sums
of cash around the house.  Incredible.  This was not the mother Jim
Crist had known all his life.

The Crists told Don Stoop and Michelle Berry that Pat's war with every
other nursing aide save Debbie had continued.  When she wanted to fire
the family maid, who had been with the Crists for many years, Jim Crist
had put his foot down, and he decided to keep a closer eye on Pat.

Pat had agreed readily to take Betty Crist to her doctor for a
checkup.

Just as the family became suspicious, she became perfectly cooperative
and seemed truly concerned.  She assured Jim Crist that she would make
an appointment with Dr. Watson immediately.  When Jim spoke to his
mother, Betty Crist agreed with her son that she wasn't feeling like
herself.  She was sleeping far too much, and she often felt muddled in
the head.  By this time the family was so suspicious that they wanted
to give Pat no prior warning of what they intended to do.

Jim Crist called Dr. David Watson, the Crists' family doctor, and said
he was terribly concerned about his mother.  Watson said he had begun
to grow worried too.

"How much should my parents' monthly drugstore bills bejust for their
prescriptions?"  Crist asked.

"Oh, I'd say roughly two hundred to two hundred fifty dollars a month,"
the doctor estimated.

Jim Crist called the drugstores he knew his parents patronized and
asked if he might have a printout of the prescriptions on file for
Betty and Jim Crist, Sr.  The printout showed that prescriptions for
the elder Crists were averaging between seven hundred and eight hundred
a month.

Something wasn't right.

Jim Crist dropped by his parents' home the first week of June
1988-apparently casually-and said he was going to take his mother for a
ride.  Instead, he took her to the hospital for a complete blood
workup.  When the results came in days later, they revealed that her
system was loaded with triazolam, the generic name for the sleeping
pill Halcion, in doses far surpassing recommended treatment.

Without telling Pat about the blood tests he had arranged, Crist asked
her if she had ever taken his mother to see the doctor.  Pat said that
indeed she had-earlier that very dayand that Betty Crist had passed
with flying colors.

"Was a blood test done?"  Crist asked.

"Of course.  Everything was fine."  Pat indicated that the results had
come back while they were still in the doctor's office.

Jim Crist knew it took longer than a day for blood test results, and he
felt a chill.  He was armed with the devastating results from the real
blood test.

Later, alone with his mother, Crist casually asked how Dr. Watson
was.

Dr.  Watson was her internist.

"I don't know," she answered.  "I haven't seen him in quite a while.  "
"Did you go to the doctor today?"

"We stopped by Dr.  Hardin's."

Dr. Hardin was a dermatologist who was treating his father for his
stubborn rash.

"Did they take some blood from you, Mother-for a test?"

"No, of course not."  His mother looked at him as if he had taken leave
of his senses.

That was enough.  Crist fired both Pat and Debbie.

But that wasn't the end of the matter.  Betty Crist told the
investigators that weeks later she began to discover that many items of
jewelry were missing.  Over the years, her husband had bought her some
beautiful pieces, and she had had some heirlooms too, handed down
through their families.

Her jewelry losses were summed up succinctly in Complaint No.

81SG2682 in the city of Atlanta's Bureau of Police Services, filed July
15, 1988: One fifteen-inch strand of pearls with a pearl clasp-valued
at $1,100.

One matching bracelet of pearls-valued at $430.

One pearl ring with a small diamond on either side-$32S.

One fourteen-carat gold mesh bracelet-$I,SOO.

One large oval lapis stone man's gold ring-$420.

One "tulip" ring with a double shank and double diamond flowers
-$990.

One "eternity" ring with a full circle of small rubies, channel set in
fourteen-carat gold-$290.

Betty Crist said she kept her jewelry in a case, hidden high up on a
back closet shelf.  After she was confined to her bed under Pat
Taylor's care in January of 1988, she had brought it all down and kept
it in her dressing table "under a lot of petticoats, because I wanted
it there.  I mean, I couldn't wear it, but I wanted it there."

Asked about a possible burglary of her home, Betty Crist was positive
that had not happened.  With her husband so ill and then with her own
sickness, she had had round-the-clock nursing help.  Not one of them
had ever reported a break-in.  Hesitantly, Betty Crist admitted that
she had had her suspicions about two of her nurses.  Her son had fired
Pat and Debbie, but she said she hadn't filed formal charges because
she was worried that a court case would be terribly hard on her
husband.  His Parkinson's disease had progressed fast enough as it was;
she hadn't wanted to subject him to the stress of questioning by the
police and a possible trial.

Her insurance claims agent had written a detailed report of the
circumstances of the loss/theft, and closed by saying that the Atlanta
police had assigned the case a "D" classification.  This meant, in
police lingo, that leads had run out.  None of the jewelry had turned
up in area pawnshops, and there was no way to link Pat Taylor and
Debbie Cole to the thefts conclusively.

The Crists had decided not to press further.  They were compensated for
their losses and the matter was dropped.  The Atlanta Police Department
was awash in larceny and burglary complaints, and the thefts were
buried under piles of new cases.  But Betty Crist continued to discover
possessions that were missing.  Many of them were things that Pat
Taylor had particularly admired: antique laces and hand-stitched
linens; James Cr'st's priceless Civil War artifacts; his Rolex watch, I
111 of course; her antique cookbooks; and a tiny cut-glass chandelier
designed to fit a dollhouse.

But they were only things.  The real loss was time.  She had missed so
much time with her Jimmy while she was feeling dizzy and confused.

They had scarcely seen each other for months and then she lost him at
Christmas time, 1988.  It had always been such a special time, with
jimmy's birthday the day after Christmas.  James Crist died of acute
renal failure in Piedmont Hospital two days after his eighty-eighth
birthday.  His memorial service was held on December 30 at the
Cathedral of Saint Philip, and his body was cremated.

On a Tuesday morning in March 1991, soon after
their conversation with the Crists, Don Stoop and Michelle Berry drove
south of Atlanta to the little village of McDonough to talk with Susan
and Bill Alford.  Although Susan had not left her name the first time
she called the D.A."s office, Bill had convinced her that they had to
come forward and they had called back.  The investigators hoped to
learn more about Pat Taylor and her daughter, Debbie.  They didn't know
what to expect.  Ex-spouses often called the authorities about each
other; daughters rarely reported their mothers.

Susan Alford was a pretty woman, Stoop noted, with thick dark hair and
intense brown eyes.  She was shy, but she seemed resolute, although it
was obviously painful for her to review her mother's and sister's
histories.  Bill Alford was more voluble, a natural salesman, a man who
laughed easily.

"As we got into the case, and as the facts emerged," Michelle Berry
recalled, "I had to remind Don that, no matter how outrageous Pat
Taylor's behavior had been, this was Susan's mother, and there had to
be feelings there that still hurt."

"Susan Alford laid it out-this incredible story," Stoop said.

"At first, I couldn't believe it.  But Susan obviously needed to tell
what she knew.  And she knew a lot.  At that time, however, even Susan
wasn't aware of all we had found out.  There had been so much secrecy
in that family."

The Alfords said that they had never doubted Pat and Debbie's
explanation for being let go by the Crists-not until Debbie's
vituperative phone call just before Christmas, 199O.."She was accusing
Susan of making them lose their jobs, and it didn't make sense," Bill
said.  "That's why I called the Crists.  And Mrs. Crist told me that
Debbie and Pat were fired because she had been drugged-and because they
stole her blind!"  Bill said that Mrs. Crist had been "very vivid"
about what should be done to Pat and Debbie.

"What did she say?"  Stoop asked.

"She said that they should be put in jail."

The Alfords were frank with Don and Michelle about the terrible summer
of 1990, the reasons behind their moving in with "Boppo and Papa," and
the Thanksgiving Day blowup.  The investigators exchanged looks as Bill
described the episode of the dolls' hair.  Pat Taylor was not going to
be your everyday suspect.

Asked to go back to the time Pat and Debbie were working for the
Crists, Susan described her grandmother's concern about their sudden
affluence.  Debbie had bought a new yellow truck for cash, and her
mother had bought Persian rugs, jewelry, and things for her dolls.  "My
grandmother worried; she didn't think my mom and Debbie could make that
much money as sitters.

"Your mother and sister are registered nurses?"  Michelle asked.

Susan shook her head.  "My mother and sister haven't even graduated
from high school.  My mother was trained to be kind of a nursing
assistant-more like a sitter-when she was in the halfway house.  . .

.

They came to visit us in Florence in 1985, and Debbie was flashing
money around.  I said, 'How much money do you and Mom make?  Boppo has
been asking me about it.  Is everything up-front?"

And Debbie said, 'Well, I don't know.  I'm kind of worried about it
myself."

"A doctor had asked her about her credentials," Susan went on.  "Mom
told Debbie to say she went to the University of Munich.  I asked
Debbie, 'Don't you think that's a little strange?"  and she said, 'I
don't know."

" It would have been strange.  When Debbie lived in Munich she was four
years old.  Susan handed Stoop and Berry a handwritten resume Debbie
had given her.  Her "accomplishments" certainly looked impressive.

Teacher-Elem.  Sc.-Riding Instructor-Equitation Nurse, Surgical Assist
Private Duty-(Geriatrics) Manager of Medical Office with Following
Duties: - Personal & office corresp.

- depositories ù records - bookkeeping ù collection Debbie described
herself as dependable, efficient, amiable, adabtable [sic], competant
[sic].

Traveled abroad extensively as a child with parents and exposed to many
cultures and ethnic groups.

Education: Universite of Munich, Germany (Bad Toltz), Degree in Nursing
Continuing Education-Refresher courses in French and Spanish Susan said
that Debbie was currently working in a doctor's office and seemed to be
doing well.  She and Pat had given diabetes shots in their
"sitters'jobs," and Debbie still gave vitamin shots to their
grandfather, Colonel Radcliffe.

Susan felt that her sister would not have planned any complicated
subterfuge, but that Debbie always went along with their mother.  She
explained that her sister had had a sad, hard life, that Debbie had
always yearned for something beyond the teenage marriage she felt
trapped in.

"Was your mother ever in the armed forces?"  Stoop asked.

Susan shook her head.  "Only as a dependent.  My grandfather is a
lieutenant colonel-retired-and my father was a sergeant."

"Do you know," Stoop asked suddenly, "if they targeted these people?

How did they come across these people who were dying or elderly?"

- payroll - billing - hired, trained, supervised a staff of S "They had
a good reputation-like Mrs. Mansfield's son, Lawrence, heard about
them from Sue and Hudden Jones.... Everyone just loved them."

Susan said that Debbie had been concerned early on that their mother
was simply taking what she wanted from her patients' rooms or homes.

"Debbie would deliberately set something in a certain position, and
lots of times it would disappear."  Later, Susan feared Debbie got into
the spirit of things with her mother.  "My grandmother said I was a
fool to think Debbie wasn't involved.

She said, 'Honey, you can bet that Debbie knows exactly what she's
doing."

" "What about jewelry?"  Stoop asked.  "Mrs. Crist said there was a
large quantity of jewelry missing."

"I know that Debbie and Mom felt justified taking some things.

Sometimes, they would say that they were given to them."

"What type of things are we talking about?"

"Small items.  jewelry.  Sterling.  Knickknacks.  My mother liked
antiquelooking things.  . . . Hatpins.  She gave me a pearl
necklace-more of a choker, and I believe it has two strands.  Then
there is a bracelet.  It has a big gold clasp on the pearls, and
they're gorgeous."

Stoop's ears perked up at that, but he didn't change his expression.

The pearl set sounded like the one Betty Crist had reported missing.

Susan said she had the set in her room and she could show them.  In
fact, her mother had given the family a number of beautiful pieces of
jewelry.  A gaudy 'made ring for Boppo.  A solid eighteen-karat gold
man's ring with a lapis stone to Papa for his seventy-fifth birthday.

Her mother kept a cedar chest full of miniature sterling pieces and
antique pillboxes for herself.

Stoop knew a lapis stone ring had disappeared from the Crists'.  "You
know anything about a Rolex watch?"  he asked.

"No.  My sister would have gotten that if there was one."

"Why do you say that Debbie would have gotten that?"  Stoop was
fascinated.

He knew that a Rolex was missing from the Crists', but Susan didn't.

He also knew that Debbie was the one who had signed for it at the
jewelers.  "My mother would have had no interest in a Rolex.  . . .

Debbie would have gotten a Rolex in a minute.  . . . Debbie had a
shoplifting problem in the past.  She justified what she did by the
stores' high prices.

She's a store detective's nightmare."

Susan had not seen a Rolex watch, however.

"The lapis ring?"  Michelle Berry asked carefully.  "Does your
grandfather still wear that?"

Susan nodded.  "And I think I have some video from his birthday party
where he's wearing it.  @y?"

It was apparent that Susan was vacillating between a certain sense of
relief that her suspicions could be validated and a wrenching awareness
of what her mother had done.  Her eyes often filled with tears, and she
cleared her throat frequently.

"Let's get back to the idea that Debbie and Pat-your mother were
registered nurses," Stoop said.  "Did they ever tell you that they
prescribed medicine or called in medications and picked them up?"

Susan shook her head.  "What they did tell me was that Mrs. Crist had
her medicine delivered to her home .  . . Debbie took one of Mrs.
Crist's pills one time, and it zonked Debbie out .  . . she slept for
the whole night when she was supposed to be up.  When she woke up, both
of them were hollering for her."

"Who is both of them?"

"Mr.  Crist and Mrs.  Crist."

Susan said that although she had worried enough about the small items
her mother and sister had brought home from their nursing jobs, and by
the money they flashed, it had never occurred to her that they had been
dispensing medicine on their own.  Don Stoop and Michelle Berry could
see the revival of an old nightmare reflected in her dark eyes.

Don and Michelle had thoroughly familiarized themselves with Pat's
earlier encounters with the Georgia justice system.  They recognized
the eerie similarity between what had happened to the Crists and to Paw
and Nona Allanson.  When Pat told Jim Crist about his mother's
"drinking," she had repeated almost verbatim what she had said about
Paw Allanson a dozen years earlier.

Susan and Bill Alford had led Don and Michelle back through the
eighties and into the seventies, reprising the horrible double murder
of Walter and Carolyn Allanson, the near-fatal poisonings of Paw and
Nona Allanson, and the glory that was once Zebulon.

The investigators were eager to take a closer look at those cases.

Pat had been convicted in the latter case-but she had walked away free
as a butterfly in the double murder.

But first they had to deal with the current case.  It didn't matter how
many people said that Pat and Debbie were no more registered nurses
than they were brain surgeons; Stoop and Berry had to prove it.  They
had to trace and identify the medications used to render Betty Crist
almost immobile and find out how they were obtained.  And, perhaps the
most difficult task of all, they had to try to find the myriad
treasures that had disappeared from the Crist mansion on Nancy Creek
Road.

It was now almost two years after the fact in the most recent case
involving Pat.  The D.A."s detectives didn't even want to think about
what it would be like to go back two decades on the homicides.

. . .

Don Stoop began by checking with the Naval Investigative Service, the
Department of the Army's Criminal Investigation Command, the Georgia
Board of Nursing, the Georgia Board of Licensed Practical Nurses, the
Florida Board of Nursing, and the North Carolina Board of Nursing.  He
was not particularly surprised to find that neither Pat Taylor nor
Debbie Cole Alexander was licensed in any of those venues as a
registered nurse, licensed practical nurse, or even licensed nurse's
aide.  One doctor in Florida that Debbie had given as a reference,
claiming she had assisted him as an RN in the operating room,
apparently didn't exist at all; at least, no one by that name had ever
been licensed to practice medicine in Florida.

Pat Taylor had been trained at Horizon House to empty bedpans give
sponge baths, and keep her elderly charges company.  Debbie Cole had
worked in a number of physicians' offices and had often called in
prescriptions to drugstores on her employers' instructions.

Don Stoop obtained permission to speak to the Crists' attending
physicians.  Dr. Fred Hardin, their dermatologist, said that he had
indeed prescribed a lotion for Jim Crist's rash.  He had not, however,
seen Elizabeth Crist as a patient since March 1988.

"Would you have drawn blood from either of them in the treatment you
provided?"  Stoop asked.  "Did you ever prescribe medication that would
be considered a controlled substance?"

"No, not at any time.  Dr. Watson is their internist.  He would have
done all blood tests-and prescribed that kind of medication, if it was
needed."

Dr. David Watson knew the Crists well.  Like everyone connected to the
case, the internist had found Pat Taylor competent Ad enough on first
assessment.  She seemed conversant with the proper medical phraseology
and, in an insurance assessment conference, she had spoken out
confidently about her worries for her patient.  She explained that she
kept a monitor with her at all times so she could hear Mr. Crist if he
needed her.  She seemed very protective of her patient and
refused to allow anyone else to prepare his meals.  She felt that the
weekend nurses ctagitated" him, and that she was far more capable of
assessing his needs.  She watched him constantly because she feared he
was suffering "small strokes" and might fall and hurt himself.

Dr.  Watson's early favorable impression of Pat Taylor had in 1988.

She wavered, however, when he saw Elizabeth Crist had been his patient
since April 1985.  She was a vibrant woman who had always seemed years
younger than her age.  It was Mr. Crist who was ill; his wife was,
naturally, stressed by her husband's condition, but she usually managed
to keep cheerful.

Checking his notes, Watson told Don Stoop that Betty Crist's sons had
brought her to his office on June 6, 1988.  "There is a real question,"
he said, looking up from his notes, "of whether she and her husband
were being oversedated by the nurse that was working with them most of
the time."  Watson told Don I patient.  Betty Stoop he had scarcely
recognized his longtime a slur and lost Crist was dizzy, pale,
nauseated, she spoke with her train of thought often.

He had ordered a blood screen immediately.  The medication that he had
prescribed for hypertension would not have done this to her.  The test
results were essentially normal-all except for the excessive percentage
of Halcion in her bloodstream.

"Had you prescribed Halcion for Mrs.  Crist?"  Stoop asked.

Watson nodded.  "A single prescription-in April.  As I recall, I made a
house call to Mr. Crist, and either Mrs. Crist-or the nurse,
Pat-requested it because Mrs. Crist was having trouble sleeping."  nd
Betty Crist had been Halcion was a very potent sedative.  A loaded with
it.  Her physician said he would never have prescribed so much.  At
most he would have had her start with a dosage of a half pill a
day-from a thirty-day supply n checking When Dr. Watson worked with
the Crists' sons i on the number of prescriptions called in to the two
drugstores the family patronized, he said he had found that someone had
ordered 120 Halcion tablets in a thirty-six-day period from just one of
the drugstores.  He would never have authorized that many sleeping
pills in so short a time.  Never.

Don Stoop found that the procedure used by physicians to call in
prescriptions was fairly standard.  Each doctor had a DEA number that
identified his office.  His nurses used that number when they called a
pharmacy.  Written prescriptions bore the same number.  It became clear
to Stoop that anyone who had once been in possession of a written
prescription and who was familiar with office protocol and terminology
could call in a prescription and would probably get away with it-unless
an alert pharmacist picked up on a pattern of excessive use.

Stoop was convinced that either Pat or Debbie had done just that.  On
May 11, 1988, someone using Dr. Watson's DEA number had called in a
Halcion prescription (thirty pills) to the Reed Drug Store-with five
refills-for Betty Crist.  On April 29, Wender and Roberts Drugs had a
phoned-in thirty-pill prescription, another thirty on May 17, and still
another on June 3.

Someone had had enough Halcion delivered to the Crist home to sprinkle
it in salads, throw it around like confetti, and have more than enough
left to sedate Betty Crist to the point where she would ask no
questions and cause no trouble.

Stoop also knew that Betty Crist, long back to being herself again, had
reached for something in her closet and her hand had il@:, touched a
bottle of pills, hidden far back.  Curious, she had stretched to get it
and looked at the label; it was Placidyl, a sleeping pill that had been
prescribed for her three or four years before.  The pills were
two-thirds gone.  She had always felt that Pat had given her more than
the Halcion; she had been sleepy from the first few weeks Pat came to
work in her home.  She had probably been slipped the Placidyl too.

Lord only knew what else.

When the D.A."s investigators talked to the Crists'other nursing
employees-or, rather, former employees-they verified their suspicion
that Pat had been more than the charge nurse of the Crist mansion.  She
had been the ruling monarch; none of the other women had lasted long
after Pat was hired, and all of them said that she had been well nigh
impossible to get along with.  She had made it clear that she was the
only nurse allowed to interract with the Crists-except for scut
work-and that she would see to all meals and medications.  She had
explained that Betty Crist was "senile and crazy," and not in any state
to give orders.  Pat would do that.

It appeared quite probable that Mrs. Crist had been heavily drugged
five days a week.  From Monday morning to Friday evening she stayed in
bed all the time, and no one but Pat or Debbie saw her when she was, at
least technically, awake.  The night nurse saw only a heavily sleeping
patient.

One nurse's aide, Lynn Battle, told Don Stoop that she had been puzzled
when she walked into the kitchen one morning and found Pat dissolving a
blue tablet (Halcion is blue) in Mrs. Crist's juice.  Startled, Pat
had recovered quickly.  "You couldn't do this.  You don't have an order
for it," she said with her usual touch of superiority.  t swallow Lynn
wondered why Pat hadn't just let Mrs. Cris the tiny pill, and she
wondered more why she was giving her Halcion, a sleeping pill, in the
morning.  "Then too-well, it was strange .  Lynn began.

"What?"  Stoop prodded.

she was always "Pat told me Mrs. Crist got in her way, that hiding
medication around the house.  I mean, I never saw any medicine anywhere
but in the kitchen where it was kept.  Pat said she had to search Mrs.
Crist's room for drugs, and she was always hinting that Mrs. Crist was
crazy."

Lynn Battle hadn't lasted long after Jim Crist, jr asked her if she
would like to work full-time.  "Pat didn't want that.

She set me up," Lynn said succinctly.  Pat had claimed she had lost an
envelope with the money from her paycheck in it.  "She called me at t
for it.  I did, but it wasn't he Crists' and asked me to look e. She
called on the downstairs dresser where she said it would b early the
next morning, Saturday, and came out to look for it.  She checked
everyplace-even the refrigerator."

A day or so later, Lynn's agency called her, brought up the missing
money, and told her she was not wanted back at the Crists' home.  And
yet, after Debbie and Pat were fired, she was rehired and worked with
them for the six months until Mr.  Crist died.

"It was funny," Lynn said.  "All that time after I lost my job, Debbie
and Pat were calling me and telling me that they were trying to talk
Mrs. Crist into hiring me back.  But I knew Pat had set me up.  She
didn't want any of us there more than two or three days a week."

There appeared to be a good reason for that.

The weekend nurses noticed that when they arrived on Friday, Mrs. Crist
was usually shaky and confused, but she grew steadily more alert while
they were there.  By Monday morning, when Pat came to work, she seemed
completely unlike the woman she had left.

But within a few hours after Pat came on duty, Mrs. Crist was napping
all during the day.

Ruth Garrett had worked the evening shift from time to time.

She told Don Stoop that Pat had fired her when she called in sick one
evening.  "She told me that Mrs.  Crist said I 'bothered her."

" Ruth Garrett hadn't particularly liked the head nurse at the Crists,
finding Pat bossy and unfriendly.  "Pat was in charge of all medication
and food.  . . . One time, I saw that poor Mrs. Crist looked like
death warmed over.  Her eyes were sunken, her skin color was awful, and
she couldn't even hold her own head up.

I told Pat how bad Mrs. Crist looked, and she just said, 'I'll take
care of it,' and she called the doctor's office for some new
medicine.

Pat ordered all the medicine."

As Don Stoop and Michelle Berry continued their questioning of the
Crists, their physicians, and their other employees, it became
tragically, unbelievably, clear what had happened.  Betty Crist had
been systematically drugged with medications obtained from forged
prescriptions, and she had been robbed-of her dignity, of her health,
and of her treasured belongings.

But most of all, she had been robbed of the few months of precious time
that remained for her to be with her husband.  As she slept away the
days in her stuffy room through the spring of 1988, her Jimmy was far
away from her, and his illness was progressing with those days, taking
him still farther from her.

She would regain her dignity, her health, some of her treasures but she
would never in this world find again those lost days with her dying
husband.

Nor would Don Stoop and Michelle Berry ever be able to prove what they
suspected was true.  James Crist had complained of agonizing pain in
his feet, the most classic symptom of arsenic poisoning.  But there was
no body to exhume and test for arsenic.

James Crist had been cremated just before the New Year, 1989, two years
before.

In checking with criminalists, Stoop learned that arsenic is one of the
very, very few poisons that can still be detected in the cremains of a
human being.  Because it Is so insidious, leaching I ims, into the
hair, nails, and eventually the bones of its vict' arsenic remains long
after the person is reduced to ashes.  The Crist family had been
through so much pain.  When Don Stoop approached them about the
possibility of having James Crist's ashes tested for arsenic, they
could not do it.  It seemed a sacrilege.

No one would ever know if the old man had been sedated, tranquilized,
Poisoned.

Despite setbacks and disappointments, the case against Pat Taylor and
Debbie Alexander moved forward.  Don Stoop and Michelle Berry worked
relentlessly, gathering a bit of evidence here, another interview
there.  Their spirits rose when Elizabeth Crist and her daughter,
Betsy, positively identified the pearl necklace and bracelet set that
Pat had given to Susan.  They both recognized at once the gold flower
clasp with the single pearl in the center.  It was the same with a
leather-bound antique cookbook, another thoughtful gift from Pat to her
daughter.  It had not been hers to give; it was part of Mrs. Crist's
Williamsburg cookbook collection.

There were still myriad items missing.  Sooner or later, Stoop knew he
would have to get a search warrant for the little red brick house in
McDonoughBoppo and Papa's house.

+ + + Susan Alford had some bizarre documentation of the way her
mother's mind worked, something she had never sought out, something she
was hesitant to turn over to Don Stoop.  But the knowledge that it
existed burned in her mind.

Years before, in 1977, as Boppo was sorting through hastily packed
possessions from the Tell Road house, she had come across a grocery
sack with an old tape recorder in it.  She gave it to Sean, who, at
five, wasn't enthused about the gift.  The Alfords had carted the bag
and the tape recorder around with them in their many moves from Houston
to Florida and back to Atlanta.  No one ever bothered to check what was
rattling around in the bag.

One day, they were unpacking after yet another move, and Susan lifted
the old-fashioned recorder and saw that the bottom of the bag was full
of old tapes.  "Let's put some country music on," she said to Bill,
"and get into the spirit of unpacking."

When the first sounds filtered into the room, they stared at each
other, almost embarrassed.  They recognized the voices on the tapes,
and realized they were inadvertently eavesdropping on an intimate
conversation of long ago.

I love you more than anything in this whole wide world, Sugar."

"Don't say that, Tom."

It Huh?"

"You love me more than anyone.  You don't love me more than anything.

You love life more than you love me-" The tapes Pat had routinely made
of her phone calls in the mid-seventies crackled with age and the dust
of more than a decade, but the human
emotions were still caught there.  Pat and Tom's conversations were as
filled with manipulation
and frustration as the day the words were first said, the male voice
deep and shed tears.  and laced with pain, the woman's light and full of
uns Bill and Susan felt like voyeurs.  They switched the recorder
off.

They hadn't really listened to the tapes-only long enough to see what
they were: Pat's phone calls from Tom in the Fulton County jail.  Susan
hadn't wanted to hear more; the voices brought back so much hurt.

"A long time later," Susan eventually said, "I got them out and
listened to all of them.  And they were frightening.  I hadn't known
that my mother tried to get Tom to commit suicide.  There were so many
things I had never known."

At the time, Susan said, she had managed to deal with the content of
the fifteen tapes by reminding herself that her mother had been under
the influence of drugs, that this wasn't her real mother talking and
conniving and playing with Tom Allanson's emotions.  This was a
stranger addicted to mind-altering drugs.

Now she could no longer retreat to that theory.  I Until she learned of
the episode at the Crists', Susan had always believed her mother's
claims that she had no memory of the period when Tom's parents were
murdered and when Paw and Nona were poisoned.

Susan didn't believe that any longer.  She believed that her mother
remembered everything, and that she had no regrets at all.

Susan turned the tapes over to Don Stoop and Michelle Berry.

Most of them were Realistic Supertapes and there were some old J.

C. Penney labels too.  "Tom" and the dates-mostly in 1975-were written
in Pat's hand on the labels.  That they had survived the Alfords'
numerous moves, the heat of sixteen summers, and the cold of as many
winters defied explanation.  A few were twisted, but they still
played.

Hesitant to risk breaking the precious tapes, Stoop took them to an
expert to have them copied and enhanced for clarity before he allowed
himself to listen.

It was all there, all caught on the thin brownish plastic strips,
winding round and round.  For years, Susan and Bill had packed and
unpacked, moved again and again, and they had always carried with them,
unawares, the sounds that finally explained exactly how the mind of a
woman without conscience worked.

Tom's voice was deep and concerned, and Pat's was alternately girlish
and seductive.  Stoop had not yet spoken to Pat Taylor, but the woman
on the tapes sounded nothing at all like the charge nurse he had come
to know through others' descriptions.  Almost every call had a single
theme: Tom trying to cheer and placate his distraught wife.  Tom
forcing down his own concerns to keep Pat serene.  Tom agonizing over
he mysterious infection he was told would soon take Pat's life.  Tom
refusing to give up as Pat predicted only doom and despair.  And,
finally, on one wrenching tape, Tom breaking down at last into sobs
that still held so much raw pain this long after.

Pat's manipulation was skilled, honed, and absolute.

There were other conversations that only pointed up further how she had
used Tom.  Stoop's eyes widened as lfe heard how entirely changed her
voice was when she jousted with attorneys one moment imperious, the
next ever-so-slightly flirtatious.  He heard Pat veto the possibility
that Tom might become a teacher in prison and avoid hard time at
Jackson.  Voices of the dead were there too: Paw Allanson, who sounded
like an aged Tom, calling to inquire about Pat's health; and then Nona,
her speech impaired but sounding worried about Pat.

Stoop knew how Pat's "fatal" infection had occurred; he had read
Boppo's testimony in her appeal, her description of how Pat herself had
continually opened and irritated the wound in her hip.

She had used the emotions of all these people who feared for her life;
she had bent them and twisted them and squeezed bloody anxiety from
them.

She had orchestrated it all.

d Pat's voice threatening Tom's ex-wife and won Stoop hear dered why
she hadn't bothered to erase the damning evidence.

Stoop knew that Little Carolyn Allanson had been scheduled to be one of
the strongest witnesses against Tom.  It would have been shortly before
the trial when Pat dialed the drugstore where Carolyn worked and asked
in a light, sexy voice to spea to someone in the hair dye department,
Carolyn's section.  Stoop heard Carolyn answer and Pat's voice drop as
she hissed, "Be careful."

Then she slammed the phone down.

This woman had hurt other human beings physically, and Stoop listened
to the way she worked insidiously to erode their last vestiges of
serenity.  He wondered which was worse.

The most devastating tape of all included several twenty-fiveminute
conversations between Tom and Pat when he was about to be transferred
from the Fulton County jail to Jackson Prison.  He had borrowed and
bought time from the other prisoners so that he could talk longer to
his wife.  And what did he get in return?  A woman who whined, wept,
accused, and predicted nothing but doom.

She timed her responses meticulously.  It was so obvious to a detached
listener.  When Tom was beaten down and he managed to too low, she
whispered, "I love you, Sugar, come back.

She was like a cat.  She let the mouse go just far enough, and then she
pounced and impaled her prey on the unsheathed claws of her words.  On
the rare, rare occasions that Tom spoke firmly or harshly to Pat,
reacting to too much jabbing, she burst into sobs and said that he
didn't love her, she was worthless, and she had just wanted him to be
proud of her.  And he was abjectly apologetic.

Despite her tears, one thing was patently clear.  She was enjoying
herself.  The Pat on the tapes reveled in every minute of her
conversations with her husband, listening to him twist in the wind,
hearing his voice drained of power.  These weren't phone conversations;
they were contests.  And she always won.  She was Delilah and Tom was
Samson.  Each day she rendered this man of such strength helpless with
her words.

Tom came close to the real truth once, although he was speaking
metaphorically.  So close that Pat gasped.

"Tom, when they take you away, I won't know if you're alive or dead."

"Pat," he pleaded, "[in your letters] you're just so eaten up with
hate.  You're just so bitter.........

"Tom!"  she sobbed.  "Can't I do anything right anymore?  You won't
love me-" "Pat, you've got to keep digging at it like a sore; you'll
just make it worse-" "Mat?"  Pat's voice was shocked from its petulant
whimper.

Stoop, knowing what he now knew, realized that Tom had inadvertently
made Pat believe he had somehow found out about her self-mutilation.

"Sugar," Tom soothed, unaware.  "I mean it isn't gonna get any better
by your hating everyone."

Stoop could hear Pat release her pent-up breath in relief.

She hadn't been caught at all.  Stoop also realized that there must
have been secrets that Pat wanted Tom to keep.  But what were they?

If Tom mentioned anyone but her, Pat grew petulant and gave orders.  "I
love you, Tom.  I love you, Sugar.  I don't want anyone else in our
lives."

Clearly she did not, Stoop realized.  If Tom had no one but Pat, then
he would do exactly what she instructed.  If he believed she alone
loved him and was working desperately to set him free, even though she
was "near death" herself, then he would do anything she asked.  But
what did she want him to do-or not do?

Stoop realized, too, that if there were secrets that were dangerous to
Pat, an isolated Tom would be less likely to give them away.  And if he
had agreed to her suicide pact and carried out his part, then a dead
Tom would have given away no secrets ever.

At some point, Don Stoop knew he would have to talk with Tom.

He wondered what the man was like now.  He had been locked up for more
than fifteen years, and free for only a little over a year.

Had prison crushed him?  Of one thing Stoop was fairly sure.  Tom
Allanson wasn't going to relish talking about Pat and the decade of the
seventies.

And who would blame him?

When Don Stoop questioned Debbie Cole Alexander's exhusband, Gary, he
didn't care to discuss Pat either-beyond describing his former
mother-in-law as a "vicious, scheming, evil bitch."  He recalled all
too well when he had been informed that Pat had hired a hit man to kill
him.  He had believed it at the time, and he still half believed it.

Gary Cole wanted nothing to do with Pat and Debbie.  He was still
afraid of Pat, and he made no excuses for it.

. . .

By March of 1991, Pat and Debbie were aware that they were being
investigated.  They were uneasy, apprehensive about someone unseen
retracing their lives, and had angrily accused Susan of "betraying"
them.

And Boppo, of course, rose up to defend her daughter.  She ran into
Bill Alford at the riding stable where Ashlynne and Courtney took
lessons.  Although she had come to think of Susan as the pariah of the
Siler clan, and an ultimately evil person, Boppo still looked upon Bill
as someone she could count on.  While Susan gave away her every emotion
in her face, in Boppo's eyes, Bill was the opposite.  His slight,
sardonic smile betrayed nothing.

Boppo suggested to her grandson-in-law that he hook up a tape recorder
to the Alfords' phone-his own phone-so that she could keep track of
what Susan was doing.  She reminded Bill that Susan was undoubtedly
crazy; she would have to be to turn on her mother the way she had.

Poor Pat.  Everyone knew, Boppo said, that Pat had suffered so all her
life, and now she had to deal with an ungrateful and treacherous
child!

Bill solemnly promised Boppo that he would hurry home and hook up a
tape recorder under the house to monitor Susan's phone conversations.

He had no intention of doing any such thing, but he did not want the
Radcliffes to become aware of how comprehensive the Fulton County
district attorney's investigation was, or that both Bill and Susan were
cooperating with Don Stoop and Michelle Berry.  If there was any
evidence left, any of the items missing from the Crists' house, Stoop
wanted it left right where it was.

By the end of March 1991, Stoop had proved to his own satisfaction
several of the possible charges against Pat and Debbie in the Crist
case, but he ached to connect Pat once and for all to the shooting
deaths of Walter and Carolyn Allanson.  There was no statute of
limitations on murder.

Rounding up witnesses from seventeen years before was not easy.

Michelle talked to Jean Boggs, whose memory of Pat was as lucid as if
she had seen her only the day before.  Jean was very helpful in giving
background information, but she had avoided contact with the
Radcliffes-and even her nephew Tom-for years.

She had no current knowledge of their activities.  No one had ever
convinced her that Pat was not in some way part of a conspiracy that
had ended in the murder of her brother and sister-in-law.

Stoop found the receptionist who had worked for Pat Allansons doctor in
East Point in July of 1974.  In fact, she still worked there, and she
promised to check the appointment book for July 3.

She remembered seeing Pat that day.  It was, after all, a day to
remember.  Pat had been in the office, just as she told the East Point
police the night of the shooting.  ] However, the appointment book
proved that she had not had an appointment to see anyone, and records
showed that she hadn't had her collarbone X-rayed as she had claimed.

To the best of the nurse's recollection, Pat had merely come into the
office, greeted the staff at the desk, and left.  She had been seen,
Stoop thought.  She had made damn sure she had been seen by
witnesses.

Stoop read and reread the old Allanson case, completely absorbed.  He
had little doubt that Tom Allanson had been in that basement on the
evening of the shooting, but he wondered who had cut the phone line and
pulled the circuit breaker.  He wondered how the gun had happened to be
in the "hole" in the basement, and he was particularly intrigued by the
ubiquitous Pat.

She had been as close to the site of the double murders as next door,
she had circled the block in her jeep, and she had bought fried chicken
to go and waited with it and her Fourth of July costume, sewing in a
darkening parking lot just a block down Norman Berry Drive.  But she
had claimed that she never saw Tom that day after he let her off at the
doctor's office.

What, Stoop asked himself, would Pat have had to gain if her in-laws
were dead?  And, taking it a step further, what would she have gained
if her bridegroom perished in a gunfire storm too?

Zebulon The Allansons had disinherited their son, but Pat had never
believed that.  She had always been convinced that Tom, as their only
child, was their true heir.  After all, her parents had forgiven her
everything.  She could not have even imagined parents who didn't
sacrifice for their young.  She had to have believed that Boppo and
Papa's martyrdom was the way things were in all families.  And, if she
labored under the premise that Tom would inherit everything Walter and
Carolyn Allanson had, she would naturally have believed that she, as
Tom's wife, was Tom's heir and would inherit whatever came to him.

There had been the huge mortgage on Zebulon, with balloon payments
looming on the near horizon.  A wealthy widow could handle all of
that.

There was another sorry thing to consider, especially after Stoop had
heard Tom pledge his love and devotion on fifteen tapes to a whiny,
manipulative woman whom most men would have long since grown weary
of.

Pat was rumored to have been bored with him within weeks of their Gone
With the Wind wedding.  Susan remembered her mother's growing
disinterest well.  Pat had dodged being alone with Tom.  Instead of
joining him in bed, she had sat on the swing with her aunt.  It was
only after he was arrested that she had become the complete tragic
heroine, pining and mourning for her lover.  Stoop suspected Pat would
have been just as happy-probably happier, and certainly less
apprehensive-if she could have mourned Tom in widow's weeds.  of
course.  Stoop had He grimaced.  Victo?ian widow's weeds, grown to know
the lady's preferences and obsessions all too well.

Maybe she even supposed that if she had Zebulon paid off, and if she
were a widow, then Hap Brown would leave his wife and come back to her
with his hat in his hands.

There was only one other person alive who would know what had actually
happened in and around the Allanson home on Norman Berry Drive on July
3, 1974.

And that was Tom Allanson.

With the assistance of Tom's parole officer, Don Stoop and Michelle
Berry met with Tom Allanson in the Canton office of the Georgia Board
of Prisons and Paroles.  Legally, Tom no longer had anything to fear.

No matter what had happened on his parents' murders, he had paid with
fifteen and a the night of half years of his life.  He could not npw be
put in double 'jeopardy.  He could never be tried again for those
shootings.  He didn't, have to talk with the D.A."s investigators, and
they wouldn't have blamed him much if he had refused, or if he was
annoyed at the intrusion into his new life.  But he had agreed to be
interviewed.

They had seen pictures of a young Tom, and this giant of a man seemed
not so different older, but not as old as they knew he was.  He was
almost fifty now, but he had scarcely any gray in his hair and his arms
were muscular and tanned.

If he was not pleased to be called in to talk about the woman who had
carved a big chunk out of his life, he was, at least, obliging.  He
reached out his massive hand to shake with Don Stoop.

Stoop probably knew the story of Tom and Pat as well as anyone did
now.

He had immersed himself in their lives-from the first interviews with
Susan and Bill Alford, the voluminou court transcripts of trials and
appeals, newspaper clippings, the endless Pat-and-Tom tapes, from
talking with Andy Weathers, and from Michelle Berry's interviews with
Jean Boggs.  So many of the players in the old script had told their
stories, and at first, the whole scenario had seemed too incredible to
be real.  Now, Stoop felt as if he had known the story all his life.

He threw out a few questions to hear it again, this time from Tom's
angle.  Stoop wondered if even now, even after all Pat had done to him,
Tom could somehow still be attached to the woman he had loved so
desperately, the woman he had sworn to stand by until death -but not,
Stoop reminded himself, enough to commit suicide for.

His first questions were about how they had met.  The answers were
familiar and came in single sentences.  Tom obviously didn't remember
dates.

He admitted he had been obsessed with marrying Pat all those years
ago.

"I don't know if she wanted to marry me or not," he said.  "I was the
most insistent one.  She kept telling me, 'No, you don't want to marry
me."And I wish I hadn't.  . . . My head wasn't screwed on right at the
time."

Stoop didn't comment.  Pat had known her quarry well.  She knew exactly
how much demurring it would take to reel Tom in.

"This is going to be a hard question," Stoop said, easing into the meat
of what he wanted to know, "but I need you to think and answer as
precisely and factually as you can.  We need to know, what was Pat's
involvement with you in the 1974 murder case?  I'm talking about what
started it, what led up to it, what transpired during the trial, and
after the trial while you were in jail.

"That is a hard one to answer," Tom began.  "My parents did not like
Pat from the very beginning....... She wasn't the reason for the
divorce.  She was the outcome....... She hated my parents and they
hated her."

"Okay.  At any time did she feed the fire?"

Tom allowed that Pat had gotten his parents worked up and then started
on him.  He said the shooting at Lake Lanier just about made his father
go "crazy."

"Do you think Pat did it?"

Tom shook his head.  "She was with me ... shoeing horses rifles and
down in Lithonia.... They [the police] took my checked, and there was
no way my rifles could have done that.

... He [Tom 5 s father] got all bent out of shape and went out and
bought a gun ... and he told all those people that it was gonna be over
by the weekend.  I was supposed to be in a parade in Atlanta.

The only thing I could figure out was he was planning on shooting me in
the parade."

"What did Pat say about all of this?"  frowned with the effort to "It
was a long time ago - Tom of stirred it up and made it worse.

emember.  "She just kind 'putative type person that .  . . Pat was a
very headstrong, mani would do anything to get what she wanted-and you
not know she was doing it.  She could take a married man and turn him
completely around .  . .

and talk him out of thirty years of marim not even know it.  . . .

Unless you'd been there, riage and h' imagine what it was like.  Pat
would have some idea you couldn't in her mind and she was going to get
her way.  If she came at you one way and you didn't do what she said,
she'd find another 'I you gave in to her.  way.

She'd just keep at you until Tom recalled that it was brought up in his
trial that phone calls had been made to his father the afternoon of the
murders.  "But I didn't see or hear her make them," he said.

Stoop asked Tom if he believed now that his father had exposed himself
to Pat.  person to do something "Naw.  My father was not the type of
like that."

"Why do you think she said that?"

"To get me stirred up."

"Did it work?"
"Well, it got me upset, but then .  . . I was scared to death.  I wanted
to know what was going to happen to me."


Tom's eyes clouded as he remembered his trial.  "It was a farce .  .

she was sitting there punching me in the ribs, and punching Ed in the
ribs, and the judge was having to tell her to be quiet and if she
didn't stop trying to run his courtroom, she was gonna have to
leave."

"Okay.  Let's go up to the murder Itself," Stoop said.  "You and Pat
drove up on that particular day together.  Correct?"

" I took her to the doctor."

Stoop could sense Tom's retreat; he would have to backpedal on his
questions and wait a while on the murders.  "Did she, in fact, go to
the doctor?"  he asked.

"I guess she did."

Stoop urged Tom to re-create the rest of that day to the best of his
recollection, to take his time.

"Okay.  I went over there.  My mother and father were very systematic
type people.  . . . You knew when they were going to get off from work,
when they came home.  . . . So I went over there late that afternoon to
talk to Mother, and I thought she would be home round about then.  So I
didn't drive over there cause I dropped Pat off and she had the car.

.

. . I walked maybe half a block or a block-something like that-I was
going to try to get her to talk to him, to get him to calm down a
little bit, and I couldn 't talk to her at the office.  . . . I
definitely couldn't talk to her on the phone, since he wouldn't let her
talk.  . . . He was very hard at the house.  He ran the place.  . . .

And so the only way of trying to get anything done was to talk to my
mother without him being there."

Tom said he sometimes suspected Pat didn't really want his relationship
with his parents resolved.  "She was doing everything she could to get
them turned against me."

"Did Pat know you were going to talk to your parents?"  Stoop asked.

"Yes."

'She did know that?"  Michelle Berry echoed.

" I believe that I was set up on this."  Tom leaned forward.

"I really believe that .  . . under normal circumstances, I could have
been there and talked to my mother.  But my mother was a little late.

The back door was locked, but the basement door was open, so I just
went in the basement door and said, 'Well, I'll just wait down here."

I wasn't going to sit on the doorstep in case my daddy came home.  .

.

. My ex-wife and my children came over at the same time, and that kind
of messed things up a little bit .  . . so I just got more or less
trapped.  They said the basement door was broke into.  I did not break
in the basement door; it was open."

Tom was indeed trapped.  His ex-wife, whom he described as a "not very
rational woman," was upstairs, his father was due home soon, and he was
down in the cellar of a house he had been banned from.

And then, to make matters worse, his father came home early, something
he never did.

"What about the lights and the fuse box?"  Don Stoop asked.

"I don't know anything about that."

"What about the telephone wires?"

"They said [during the trial] that was cut.  . . . I didn't cut no
wires either."

"Okay.  You stated this was a complete setup.  You thought you were set
up?"

"That's what I was getting to.  My ather don't usually come home early,
and during the trial it said he got a phone call.  . .

. I believe to this day that she called him from the doctor's office
and told him I was over there.  I have no proof of that.

That's my opinion.  lp "When you're in the basement, you can hear
people upstairs talk.  Correct?"

"No."

"So your father didn't come in yelling, 'Is Tom here?"  or anything
like that?"

"No.  He came down in the basement, looked around, and went back
upstairs.  I was hidden behind some stuff back there, trying to figure
a way to get out.  Then he called the police.........

"How did he call the police if the telephone wires were cut?"

"Well, we got neighbors.  . . . [When the police came] he went out and
talked to .  . . I think it was Sergeant Callahanright there-and I
heard the conversation then because he wasn't more than ten yards
away.

That was the time I was planning on leaving, right then-with the police
there.  I thought, Well, this would be a good time, until he [Tom's
father] pulled the rifle and the pistol out of his car."

Tom said he had hunkered down in the basement and heard his father
refuse to let the police search his house.  He would have been relieved
to have the police find him.  Instead he heard I his father tell the
officer, "I got this rifle here.  I know who it is, and I'm going to
take care of it myself."

Tom sighed.  "I don't think Pat cared whether I got killed or not, to
be honest with you.  'Cause she had the car and it was almost paid
for.

. . . When [my daddy] pulled this gun, I felt like if I run out that
door, he was going to shoot me right there.

I was in a state of complete panic at the time."

Stoop planned to wait until Tom was more at ease to discuss the actual
shootings.  He shifted the focus of the interview.

"I'm getting at Pat's direct involvement, okay?  .  . . Were y you
aware that Pat had been driving around the neighborhood waiting for
you.

' 'No.

"She never told you anything?"

"No."

"You know anything about her going to a liquor store where you stated
that you wanted to make a phone call?"

"During the time that I was locked up .  . . [in the] East Point jail,
I was scared slapped to death.  I had no idea what I was going to do.

. . . I always depended on my parents, and I had never been in trouble
before anyway.  . . . So she comes to the jail and tells me, 'I'm
taking care of this.  I got everything taken care of.  Don't worry
about it.  You don't tell them."  What she had done is fabricated a
string of people up and down Cleveland Avenue that was supposed to have
seen me.  . . . She convinced Ed Garland to go on the fact that I was
never there because there was no eyewitness.  I wished I had gone on
selfdefense and I wouldn't have spent fifteen years in prison for it.

. . . She came up with these people at the liquor store, said they saw
me there, and I didn't go that way.  Once you start telling a lie to a
lawyer that's trying to help you, it seems like it snowballs into a
mess.  . . . Then he'll quit-which he did quit later."

Stoop asked Tom whether he had expected to go back and M" M, meet Pat
at her doctor's office or whether she was supposed to pick him up.

"I was going to stay long enough to talk to my mother.  Then I was
going to come back to the doctor's office.  Th is was not even
scheduled to take more than fifteen or twenty minutes .  . .

and it ended up a lot longer than that .  . . but as far as her coming
to pick me up?  Absolutely not."

After Tom was locked up, he had no information except what Pat told
him.  "Pat told all my friends that I was not allowed .  .

. to receive mail from anybody but immediate family.  And that's a
lie.

'Cause she didn't want anybody telling me anything except her.

"So she controlled what information you got about everything?"

"She controlled everything.  The money.  I was fool enough to give her
power of attorney.  She controlled the money.  She controlled the
lawyers.  She controlled the farm.  She controlled everything that was
stolen and done away with.  I had no idea about anything."

Tom allowed that he had had his doubts when the house and barns in
Zebulon burned down.  He had no idea there was insurance on them.  He
didn't know until Stoop told him that Pat had cashed a check meant for
the mortgage holder.

"While you were in 'all," Stoop asked, "was anything mentioned about
a'suicide pact' between you and Pat?"

Tom nodded.  "You know, she even tried to bring some stuff into
Jackson, and she wanted me to commit suicide with her right there.  And
I said, 'No way."

"What did she bring into the prison?"

"I don't know.  She didn't show me, But it was supposed to be some sort
of pills or something, but I told her, 'I ain't ready to die yet.  .

.

. ' She told me that she was going to do it the next week, and when she
came to visit that next day, I said no.  . . .

If I had done it, I don't believe that she would have took an
aspirin.

See, she had too much to win and I had too muc to lose.

A nd if I was gone, s e a the arm again an two acres.

's eyes.  It was obThe scales had fallen from Tom Allanson vious that
he had been seeing his ex-wife clearly for a long time, but he still
saw Boppo as a paragon.

"Mrs.  Radcliffe-to me-was always a real sweet lady and everything .

.

. Pat could do anything and she wouldn't find any fault with it, but I
always thought Mrs. Radcliffe was a super person as far as a human
being goes.  . . . I didn't have any idea what was going on with the
family because I was only told one thing, and Pat could walk ten miles
to tell a lie, but she couldn't take two steps to tell the truth.  .

.

. Maybe I shouldn't say that, but she is a habitual liar."  Stoop began
his next question carefully.  "Do you think she's crazy, or do you
think she is calculating every move that she does?  .  . . Do you feel
that she thinks everything out .  . . that she calculated your
reaction-that she knew how to manipulate you?  .  . . Correct me if I'm
wrong.  I think her main goal was to keep you in prison, to keep you
shut up as long as you were there.

"Like I said," Tom sighed, "she didn't care whether I was living or
dying in there.  . . . I don't think she cared'two hoots and a holler
about me getting out or anything else."

Asked about any insurance he might have had on his life, Tom recalled
that he had some-New York Life, he thought-but he had no idea what had
happened to it.

When he married Pat, Tom said, he could never have foreseen that his
problems with his parents would end in violence.  "I thought it was
just going to be separation from the family.  Our family goes through
these separations.  . . . You know, they [my parents] were upset about
the divorce, but I didn't ever think it was going to go this far."

As for his father's supposed threats.  Tom said they all came down to
him through Pat or Boppo.  That was how he learned it t,was all going
to be over by the weekend."

"In your belief.  . . . do you think Pat helped kill your parents?"

There was a long silence.  Tom looked down at his hands, debating.  "I
wouldn't say that she helped kill them, because the only way they died
was in a case of about thirty seconds of selfdefense.

Stoop explained that he was speaking in the broader sense.

"I think," Tom said slowly, "that if she had never been in the picture,
they would still be alive.  Put it that way.  I mean, if I never got
involved with her, dated her, or anything like that .  . . I think my
father and I probably could have worked out our differences.  . . . I
just wish I'd never met her.  I'd be a lot better Off.

Tom still wasn't ready to talk about the shooting.  The investigators
could sense that.  After all these years, it remained a source of
intense pain, and why wouldn't it be?  He did, however, reveal a bit of
information that was highly intriguing.

Pat had always insisted that she had never seen Tom on July 3, 1974

-not after he said goodbye to her at her doctor's office.

In his panicked state after the shootings, Tom told Stoop and Berry, he
had run toward the freeway, toward the King Building.

"Pat had parked in the parking lot of the King Building," Tom said,
unaware of the surprised looks on his interviewers' faces.  "I told her
what had happened, and I said, 'I've got to go home."  And she said,
'My parents are coming."  She called them or something, and I don't
know what she had called them for."

"Okay," Stoop said, struggling to keep the excitement out of his
voice.

"This is important.  Let me back up.  You are telling us now that once
you ran, you did, in fact, find her parked at the King Building?"

"Yeah."

"How did you happen to find her at the King Building?"

"I went right by it."  tiyou just went by it.  And you looked up and
you sawer.

What was she doing when you went up to her?"

"Sitting in the jeep."

"What did she say to you.

"I was telling her what had happened.  I said, 'I got to go.

I don't know what to do.  I'm scared and I'm going home."  And she just
said, 'Well, I called my parents."  I don't know why she called her
parents.  She said they were on the way, and I said, 'I ain't
waiting.

I'm gone."  .  . . I don't know what reason she had to call them.  Far
as I knew, she already knew about it [the murders] when I got there.

From the way it sounded.  And so I left and hitchhiked home and I did
not go down Cleveland Avenue.

I went home and my grandfather called me and told me that these four
police had come over and had a warrant for my arrest.  I said, 'Well,
call them and tell them where I'm at."  And I didn't give them any
problems and Sheriff Riggins called me-Mr. Riggins and I was good
friends-and he said, 'I don't want any problems,' and I said, 'I will
not cause you no problems.  Come over here."  I just more or less gave
myself UP."

There was an electricity in the room.  Perhaps Tom had never before
allowed himself to recognize all the careful planning that must have
gone into the apparently spontaneous shoot-out.  He had done a lot of
thinking in prison.  Fifteen and a half years of thinking.  And that,
combined with Stoop's and Berry's questions, had sifted stark truths
out of all of Pat's lies and diversionary techniques.

Slowly, Stoop began to list the "coincidences" involved in Tom's
burgeoning troubles.  First, there had been the formaldehyde in Tom's
baby's milk.  Pat hated Little Carolyn and anything that connected her
to Tom.  "We know that Pat works with horses, like you," the detective
pointed out to Tom.  "We know she had access to formaldehyde because
you had it to treat your horses.

"Then," Stoop continued, "she tells you your father I drove all the way
down there [to Zebulon] and exposed himself.  . . . Whether you liked
your father or disliked him, you know he would never do anything like
that anyway.

Eventually it was proven he was still working in his office.  You were
going to go resolve this with your mother because you knew your father
was working, so you felt that was the best time.  But Pat didn't want
you to resolve anything.

Correct?"

"I assume so."

"You both parked at the doctor's office.  You go one way.  She goes the
other.  You show up at your parents' house .  . . the basement is
unlocked.

Correct?"

Tom nodded.

"Little Carolyn with the kids comes home.  Your mother comes home.

You're stuck in the basement, and suddenly your father shows up.

Testimony shows that some woman called your father.  . . . All of a
sudden, the shooting occurs.  You run by the King Building.  Pat is
sitting there, and you tell her what happened, and she says, 'Don t
worry about it.  I already called my parents, and they're on their way
up here."  She stays and you leave.  What do you think all this means
to you, now that you're looking at it?"

In spite of all the thinking Tom had done on the tragedy that had
changed his life forever, it was apparent that for the first time it
had all come together with a terrible atonal clang in his mind.  "It
sounds," he said, "like something she had sat down and planned out, you
know-but I don't know how you could do that as far as the other people
involved."

Clearly, Tom saw the tragedy from the viewpoint of a man who had never
deliberately set out to hurt anyone.  He was not a devious man.  He was
not a man who understood willful cruelty to other human beings.

Don Stoop pointed out all the antagonizing, all the real or imagined
slights aggravated to major proportions-just as Pat had exacerbated the
terrible wound in her own buttock.  She had been brilliant at driving
the wedge between Tom and his father, and then at setting the little
fires of worry and rage that would certainly grow to a conflagration no
one could stop.

Quietly, Don Stoop wondered aloud if maybe Pat hadn't believed that she
had seen her husband alive for the last time when she kissed him
goodbye at the doctor's office.  "She could have possibly watched you
walk away, given you ten or fifteen minutes, called, and all of a
sudden, your father showed up-knowing good and well how you and your
father were getting along.  And then.  . . .

boom.

"BOOMI" The three of them sat there in silence, the two detectives and
the very tall man who had given Pat Taylor Allanson two decades of his
life.  The clock on the wall ticked so loudly that it too might have
been going, "Boom BOOM!"

+ + + Finally, Tom was ready to talk about what had happened in the
basement.

He began by saying that he had told Pat exactly what had happened, and
he had explained the layout of the basement.  Against Pat's wishes, he
had told Ed Garland too, but by then it was far too late for his
attorney to change his defense tactics.  No one would have believed
that the man on trial wasn't a liar-a man who had lied once might lie
again.  Tom and Ed Garland were trapped in the legal maze Pat had
forced them into.

Tom's deep, pleasant Georgia voice began the story, and Stoop and Berry
listened.  Tom hadn't been much of a talker until 'i now, but his mind
had temporarily stepped out of this interview room into the dampness of
an old basement in a time long gone by, and his words continued in a
stream of consciousness, remembering.

"He came down with the pistol to look around in the basement, and he
went over to this area .  . . where he stored all his camping stuff,
and he just kind of stepped off and walked in there.  And there is one
light in there-which didn't work-and I guess I might have been standing
there breathing hard or something, and he comes over and hollers
upstairs, 'I got him cornered in the hole!"

"And he sticks the pistol in that little area, which is not much bigger
than a walk-in closet, and starts shooting all the way around the wall,
and not far from me.

And he starts over here, and the next one is over here, and the next
one is over here, and he ran out of bullets before he got completely
around.  Pieces of concrete and pieces of bullets were flying and
everything.  I'm thinking all this stuff hit, plus I'm looking at this
gun, and he honers to my mother to bring down the rifle.  Right before
the steps, there is a big light bulb-two-hundred-watt light bulbthat
hangs down.

If you look when you come down the steps, you can see it across the
room.  And I had no idea where he was at or anything, and I just
stumbled across this shotgun in there [in the hole] in the
meantime-that he had reported stolen and it was just sitting up against
the wall.  It was a single-shot shotgun-" "Was it loaded?"

"Yeah, he always kept it loaded in the house."

"Even with the grandchildren aroun "Well, he always had this shotgun in
his closet-even with me around when I was a little kid."

"Why did it all of a sudden end up in the basement?"

"Well, he reported it stolen along with his other pistol."  Tom had no
idea why it had ended up in the hole in the basement.

"Okay," Tom went on, putting his memories into a flood of words.  "So
he had emptied his pistol right in there, and by this time it's like
being in a barrel and somebody shooting in a barrel, you know, and I
stumbled across the shotgun, and I said, 'Man, it's time for me to get
out of here, 'cause he done called for that rifle."  My mother never
shot a rifle in her life.  So she comes down the steps panicking and
everything-'cause she hears the shooting down there-and she runs down
there and she throws the rifle up just as I'm coming out the door, and
I got the shotgun down here, not shooting or anyth' g. Just as I come
out the door [the hole entrance], this bIg flash roes and I jump back
and (my] shotgun goes off.  I had no idea that I even hit them.  I
surely wasn't shooting at her.  . . . Evidently, she [shot] something
and it hit my daddy, because there was blood from right there at the
door and around the basement.  I didn't shoot him.  . . . And [my]
shotgun didn't hit him, because he was not standing in front of the
door.  [And at that range, the shotgun Tom found in the hole would have
literally blown Walter Allanson apart.] So evidently she hit him.  And
so everything is ringing up here [Tom tapped his head].  I just reached
down on the floor and picked up another shell, and loaded back, and
poked it out the door.  I don't know how long this was.  It may have
been a minute; it might not have been that long.

And just as I started out the door, he was standing up, throwing the
rifle up over there, and I just shot in that direction.  Then, at the
same time, when I looked out the door, I saw my mother laying on the
step, .  . . and I see the movement of him over there.

Again the room was silent.

Finally, Don Stoop asked Tom if he had ever heard his father mention
his name.

"All I heard was, 'I got him cornered in the hole."  t in my mother
knew I was down there."

"Do you think your father knew .  . . ?"

"Yep.  'Cause that is what he told the police-that he knew hat broke
into his house and he was going to take care of it."

Stoop asked Tom several times, in several ways, why he thought his
father's shotgun and the shells had been down in that basement
cubbyhole.  And he had no idea, no explanation.  His grandfather had
called him two weeks before the shoot-out and asked him if he knew who
had stolen his father's shotgun and pistol, and he had been just as
bewildered then.  He had I a whole rack of his own guns; Tom had no
interest in his father s guns.

Don Stoop switched back to Pat s adamant refusal to let Tom tell his
attorney about the way the shootings had really happened.  "Did you
ever ask her why she was upset about the truth?"

"Well," Tom said, "because it was contradicting to the story she
told.

I mean, she started building the lies from that night, and once you
build, you can't remember every lie.  You forget it.  Of course, I
don't think she ever forgot anything.  But, you know, if she is telling
one thing to the lawyers and everything, and I'm coming up telling them
something else, then the lawyer's gonna say, 'Wait a minute."  A
lawyer's got any sense, he would sit there and figure out who was
behind all this stuff.  And I guess you could say that's why she didn't
want it brought out."

But Tom had never betrayed Pat.  He had taken the whole punishment.

Until this interview, he had never told anyone that I don't he had
talked to his wife moments after the shoot-out, and she certainly had
told no one.  Pat had not offered to drive him home -Or anywhere.  She
had let him run, alone, through the rainy Georgia night, to make his
way home sixty miles away, any way he could.  And she had waited for
her mother and father, for Boppo and Papa, to come pick up the pieces
just as they always had.

Don Stoop and Michelle Berry were quite sure that for Pat the sight of
Tom running toward her in the rain must have seemed like a ghost
materializing through the twilight.  They both believed that she had
set him up to be shot dead.  She had never expected to see him again
that night.

Or any other.

There were still unanswered questions, even after the interview with
Tom Allanson.  There always would be.  Stoop had his own theories on
how Walter Allanson's shotgun and shells got in the hole in his
basement.  He knew Tom hadn't carried them with him on that July day as
he went to try to work things out with his mother.  The East Point fire
fighter who knew Tom well had seen him walking down the street toward
his parents' home.  He had seen no shotgun.

It was possible that Walter Allanson himself had put the old shotgun in
his basement.  He was a man running scared, just as his son was-each of
them convinced that the other was plotting bloody murder.  Walter could
have stashed the gun in the hole so that it would be handy if he were
attacked while he was in the basement.

It could have been his "downstairs gun" and the new high-powered rifle
his "upstairs gun."  The borrowed pistol would have been a gun to carry
with him at all times.

Why then would Walter have reported the pistol, shotgun, and a suitcase
as missing in a burglary?  That was a hard one.  He was so bitterly
angry at Tom.  Would he have reported him as a burglar out of
revenge?

Stoop even pondered the possibility that Walter Allanson had cut his
own telephone line and thrown the circuit breaker.  If he then called
the police about Tom, as he had, it would have given him some concrete
example of Tom's culpability, perhaps assuring that he would be thrown
in Jail and would no longer be the threat his father believed him to
be.

It was just as possible that someone outside the home had stolen the
guns and the suitcase.  The same person or persons might have cut the
phone line and thrown the circuit breaker.

Pat?  Hardly.  In all the mysterious fires-conflagrations that in some
way benefited Pat-she had been able to prove that she was nowhere near
the house and barns when they burst into flames.  She was far away when
the ambush at Lake Lanier occurred.  It had not been Pat herself who
placed harassing phone calls to Hap Brown's wife, but rather a
friend.

The purported plan to have her son-inlaw killed was by contract.

Pat did not get her own hands bloody, or dirty or sootstained, Stoop
figured.  But she certainly had had a number of people who had
practically turned themselves inside out to "help" her.  The woman
could be charismatic, seductive, threatening, or pathetic-whatever it
took to get her way.  But no one would be able to prove at this late
date that her fine hand had ordered ambushes, burglaries, line cutting,
or anything else.

The times that Pat had carried out her own plans, she had been
caught.

The arsenic poisonings of Paw and Nona had netted her a long prison
term.  And if Stoop had his way, her machinations at the Crist estate
were about to net her another; that crime he could prove.  But he
wasn't as solidly grounded trying to prove her involvement in the
Allansons' murders-although he didn't believe for one moment that their
deaths had surprised her.

Her only surprise had been that Tom hadn't died too.

They were getting close to going to the grand jury for an indictment.

They knew where their quarry was.  Pat was still selling old brooches
and necklaces at Golden Memories, and Debbie was working in Dr.
Villanueva's office.

Judge Sandra Harrison of the Magistrate Court of Henry County, where
the village of McDonough was located, gave Don Stoop and Michelle Berry
a search warrant for the little red brick house on Bryan Street.

Accompanied by McDonough's police chief, M.

Gilmer, and his assistant chief, E. Moore, Don Stoop and Michelle Berry
knocked on the front door of the Radcliffes' residence.

They hoped to find missing jewelry, perhaps more antique Williamsburg
cookbooks, the miniature crystal chandelier, the hand-stitched linen,
the antique Civil War books and artifactssomething they could tie to
the Crists' long list of missing belongings.  But they were also
realistic enough to know that those items probably had long since been
sold on consignment through Golden Memories or out of the back of Pat's
car at a swap meet.

Approaching Margureitte and Clifford Radcliffe in their own home and
asking to search their premises was akin to confronting Queen Elizabeth
and Prince Philip at Buckingham Palace.  Colonel Radcliffe accepted the
search warrant with glacial civility.

Margureitte and her sister, Thelma, stared at the interlopers.  It was
apparent that Don Stoop would take most of the heat, an it bothered him
not at all.  Michelle Berry, who was just as much a sworn officer of
the D.A."s office as Stoop was, was viewed as a sweet young lady who had
the misfortune to accompany him on his rude errand.

They started searching slowly through the immaculate house.

There were so many antiques, artifacts, mementos, photographs, and
pieces of jewelry, it seemed well nigh impossible to sort out what they
were looking for.  And time had been on Pat's side.  Stoop glanced
sideways at Colonel Radcliffe's hand and saw that he no longer wore the
lapis stone ring that he had worn in the videos and photographs of his
seventy-fifth birthday party.

They moved through the kitchen, the dinette, the recreation room into
the "doll room" and stopped, astonished.  Susan had tried to prepare
them for this room, but they could see now that it would be hard for
anyone to describe.  "My mother is, in many ways, like a child," Susan
had explained.  "Her dolls are her children because they don't mess
up.

They can have their tea parties, but they don't make a mess."

The doll room was every little girl's dream-and every collector's.

There were dozens of dolls, scores of dolls.  They sat in wicker,
wooden, velvet, and silk chairs.  They sat in rocking chairs, high
chairs, chair swings.  They lay in cradles, beds, buggies, and
hammocks.  Some of them had plates and spoons, some had blocks, some
had their own dolls or teddy bears.  Not one of them had been
manufactured before 1930, certainly, and some looked to be over 150
years old.  They were dressed in the finest white cotton and linen,
lace and dimity, satin and silk.  Their little hats were of straw,
ribbon, and crocheted wool.  There were rocking horses, carved horses,
wooden horses, stuffed horses.

Everything was in doll scale from the tiny piano to the stools, steamer
trunks, and hall trees.  The pictures on the walls were of idyllic
little children and, of course, dolls.  There were tea sets, music
boxes, tops, hoops, and fans.

Don Stoop and the McDonough officers stepped lightly, truly bulls in a
china shop, and Michelle Berry turned around and around, bemused by the
huge collection.  She could not imagine how much money and how many
years it had taken Pat to gather this perfect doll family around her.

When they began I to open the drawers and cupboards, they jumped back
in surprise.  There were body parts there: dolls' arms and legs and
heads, dolls' wigs, every conceivable part needed to refurbish and
repair.  There were big swatches of fabric and tiny, tiny precious bits
of cloth.

Buttons.  Eyes.

There was a sensation of eyes throughout the room, glass eyes and
painted eyes following the intruders who had interrupted their naps and
their play.  It was daylight on a warm spring morning, and it shouldn't
have been spooky.  And yet it was.  The investigators could not help
but consider, if only briefly, what human misery must have been
inflicted while gaining the means for this collection.

Pat's sewing room was in the closet off the main room.  It too was
packed with doll parts and squares of cloth.  "Everything you might
ever need to make a doll," Michelle Berry remembered.

"Even eyelashes."

The search warrant listed items that were so small that the searchers
had the legal right to look into drawers and cupboards wherever the
stolen treasures might be hidden.

"If we were looking for a nineteen-inch television set," Berry
explained, "we couldn't look into a dresser drawer.  But there was so
much we were searching for.  It was an older house, with all these
cubbyholes and closets-and all of them were packed with things.  And
Pat's parents weren't being cooperative.  They weren't telling us where
the cubbyholes were, so we had to find them ourselves."

Pat's room was up a narrow stairway over the doll room.  It too seemed
to have come from another era, with a spool bed with a lace spread,
ruffled chintz curtains and lampshades, and the wicker dressmaker's
form with the bride's dress on it.  Michelle searched through a big old
brown leather suitcase.  It was packed with Pat's mementos-horse show
pictures and ribbons and certificates.  "There were report cards for
Debbie and for Ronnie, old birthday cards and Mother's Day cards from
them -but I didn't find anything of Susan's.  In that brown suitcase,
at least, it was as if Susan didn't exist, as if Pat had only two
children."  Berry and Stoop made a good team; he was abrasive and
businesslike, and she was soft-spoken and ladylike.  "People usually
warm up to me before they do Don," Berry said.  "I don't know if it's
because I'm a woman, or because I talk softer.  Mrs. Radcliffe was
very distant at first, but she finally began to talk to me.  She told
me how they took care of the dolls.  She said that every week, she and
the colonel and Pat spent hours changing the diapers on every doll.  I
didn't ask her why.  I guess it ' just seemed so peculiar that I didn't
want to know."

While Michelle Berry was going through an armoire in the dining room,
an old plaster picture fell out and broke.  Colonel Radcliffe was
incensed.  "He said he was going to sue me, and Mrs. Radcliffe stuck
up for me.  She told him, 'Colonel, she couldn't help it, and you don't
need to report it, and it wasn't anything anyway."  But if Don had
broken it, hell would have broken loose because they did not see eye to
eye at all.  She complained to him that in all her years of living, she
had never seen anybody come in and take over someone's personal
property and ransack it.  And we weren't, of course."

It must have been a terribly demeaning experience for Margureitte
Radcliffe, too close to the reenactment of her worst nightmare, accused
by the police of a crime.  Don Stoop had become the focal point of all
the years of accumulated rage she felt toward people who had threatened
her Pat and her own dignity.  She was a lady, and Stoop was, she would
say later, "a terrible, terrible, rude man."

In the end, the investigators found nothing they sought.

They took away with them a blue photograph album, a brown leather
photograph album, hand-stitched linen cloths, a pair of lace gloves,
some letters, an antique dictionary, and a pearl necklace in a Ziploc
bag.

Mrs.  Crist could identify none of them.  They were returned.

Whatever items Pat and Debbie might have taken from the Crist home had
disappeared.  Everything was gone, save the pearls and the cookbook
that Pat had given to Susan.

As it turned out, it didn't really matter.  Based on the commonality of
circumstances, and the physical evidence the D.A."s office did have, on
April 17, 1991, nineteen grand jurors of Fulton County charged and
accused Pat Taylor Allanson and Debbie Cole Alexander with seven
counts: aggravated assault with intent to murder; aggravated assault;
violation of the Georgia Controlled Substances Act, Count 1; violation
of the Georgia Controlled Substances Act, Count 11; theft by taking,
Count I; theft by taking, Count 11; and violation of O.C.G.A Section
43-26-12.

The seventh charge involved the accuseds'impersonating registered
nurses.

The arrest warrants were next.  Out in McDonough, the household of
Colonel and Mrs. Clifford Radcliffe was once again braced for another
legal shoe to drop.  Their little girl was now fifty-three years old
and they had pampered and protected her for all those years.  Their
home had always been her home, her trouble and pain their trouble and
pain.  They had sacrificed everything to make her life perfect.  Pat
could do no wrong in their eyes, and yet the world continued to hound
her.  When would she be happy?

When in God's name would it ever end?

u Lewis R. Slaton, district attorney of the Atlanta judicial Circult,
issued bench warrants on April 17, 1991, for Pat Taylor Allanson and
Debbie Cole Alexander.  Don Stoop and Michelle Berry would make the
arrests.  Susan had told them that it would be better to arrest her
mother and her sister separately.  Debbie would be the weak partner in
the duo.  "If you talk to her without my mother around," Susan said,
"she may be honest with you.  If my mother is there, Debbie will say
whatever Mom wants her to.

It was five minutes to eleven on the morning of April 17, when the
D.A."s investigators drove up to Dr. Villanueva's office in Riverdale,
Georgia.  They found Debbie at work, standing at a file, dressed in
shorts and a halter.  Michelle Berry noted that Debbie was very thin;
she had huge dark circles under her eyes and a large purpling bruise on
one thigh.  She didn't resist arrest.

Rather, she seemed chastened and frightened.  Stoop read the charges
against her and advised her of her rights under Miranda.

Debbie immediately blurted, "The nursing idea was my mothens!"

"Are you a registered nurse?"  Berry asked.

"No.  I never have been."

One of the charges noted the missing Rolex watch, and Debbie said that
she had, in fact, picked up the watch.  She refused to say where the
late Mr. Crist's watch was presently.  She denied administering any
drugs to Mrs.  Crist.

"Mrs. Crist was an alcoholic," she said.  "She took all that medicine
herself.

Besides, my mother was in charge of that.  I only gave Mr. Crist his
medicine."

Deborah Taylor Cole Alexander was booked into the Fulton County jail.

They found her mother at the Henry County Courthouse in McDonough, a
historic red brick building that had stood there on the town square
since 183

1. Ironically, Pat had gone to testify in Magistrate Court as a
complaining witness in a case against a shoplifter at Golden
Memories.

As Stoop and Berry approached, she turned to look at them without
interest, with no sign of recognition of why they were there.  The
colonel and Margureitte Radcliffe were with their daughter in the
courthouse.  They recognized the two detectives instantly and watched
them warily.

Again, Don Stoop read the charges and the Miranda warning.  Pat stared
at him blankly, then quietly asked him to reread the charges, feigning
shock.  She told him she knew why she was being arrested; it was all
because of Susan and Bill Alford.  "Susan is mentally ill, you know.

She needs psychiatric care.

Both of them have been making threatening phone calls to me.  Bill and
Susan are sick people.  Bill called Mrs. Crist, and he has threatened
my life-I can't tell you how many times."

Debbie had paid no attention to the part in the Miranda warning about
remaining silent.  Nor did Pat.  She, however, was much more indignant
and considerably more talkative than her daughter had been.  "Mrs.
Crist was an alcoholic, you know," she told Stoop.  "They wanted me to
sign the insurance claim documents as though I was a registered
nurse.

I could not do that-I would not do that; that would be wrong, wouldn't
it?"

With Boppo hovering nearby, Pat sat down and stared out the window,
silent for a moment or two.  She had already slipped and didn't realize
it.  Neither Berry nor Stoop had mentioned anything at all about
insurance forms being signed by "Pat Taylor, RN."  Pat herself had
brought it up.  "But, gosh," Pat said, almost childlike as she turned
to Boppo, "that was three or four years ago, wasn't it, Mom?"

The past had always been negligible to Pat; she erased yesterday
continually, save for slights or imagined assaults on herself.  Stoop
and Berry had not been surprised to see that Pat was accompanied by her
parents.

Margureitte and Clifford Radcliffe stood beside their daughter, the
expressions on their faces almost identical, a subtle blend of
indignation and concern.

How many years had they done this, Stoop wondered, how many decades of
being there for Pat?

"I am not well, Mr. Stoop," Margureitte said, "and Mrs. Taylor is
under a physician's care.  She is being treated for hypertension and
heart complications and she is on medication."

The two investigators had heard this script before, again and again as
they pored over the records of Pat's earlier troubles with the law.

She had been "terminally ill" since 1972.

"My mother is dying of cancer," Pat added, "and I am not well."

Stoop thought she looked remarkably well.  The pictures he had seen of
Patricia Taylor Allanson had shown a willowy, beautiful young woman who
might well have been in fragile health.  The woman he had just arrested
must weigh over 250 pounds, her features suffused in fat.  Her once
exquisitely chiseled jawline hung like a turkey's wattle, and the neck
that "Scarlett" had circled with a ribbon and a cameo was fissured and
corrugated with heavy flesh.

"How is Mrs. Crist?  How is her health?"  Pat asked, with seemingly as
much genuine concern as Michelle Berry had ever heard.

"She's fine."

"The Crists are very wealthy and influential," Pat said plaintively.

"They can do anything.  They have lots of money.  I don't have that
kind of money.  What are we going to do, Mom?"

"We'll manage somehow," Margureitte said, squeezing her daughter's
hand.

Pat's hands were cuffed behind her and she was led to the government
vehicle for transportation to the Fulton County jail.

Michelle Berry got into the backseat with Pat, and Don Stoop drove.

Pat complained that she was very uncomfortable.  She asked Michelle to
remove her handcuffs.

"I can't do that.  They're for your protection and ours."

"But my back hurts," Pat whimpered.  "And I'm , in pain.  I don't have
my heart medicine with me."

Nevertheless, Pat answered their first questions easily enough: her
age, the number of her children.  Stoop asked her what her legal name
was.

"Patricia Radcliffe Taylor."

"Not Allanson?"

41 No."

He asked her how she had acquired the military ID card she carried for
the PX and commissary, and she explained that she had been married for
twenty-two years to a man who was in the service.  She had added three
and a half years to her burdensome marriage to Gil Taylor.

"Were you ever a nurse in the military?"

I I 'I did some practical nursing assistance during those twenty-two
years."

"You're not a registered nurse?"

"No."

"Ever?"

"No.  Never."

But when Don Stoop asked Pat about the circumstances of her 1976 arrest
and conviction for the poisonings of Paw and Nona Allanson, she stared
out the window at a Waffle House and said, "I think you know all the
answers to your questions.

From that point on, the three rode toward Atlanta in silence.

Pat joined Debbie in the Fulton County jail.  It was the second time
each had been booked into that facility.  Once the two women were
together, neither had anything further to say to the investigators.

Margureitte Radcliffe knew who had caused all the trouble for Pat.  It
was Susan, of course-Susan, whose sense of loyalty to family seemed to
be completely absent.  There was no telling what harm she might cause
next.

Margureitte called her sister Liz's son, Bobby, in Warsaw, North
Carolina.  She wanted to be sure that no one up there had complained to
the authorities about Pat's care of her aunt Lizzie.

Bobby Porter said he didn't feel he could complain to the D.A. in
Duplin County, Nort Carolina, because he hadn't actually been in the
house while his cousin was taking care of his mother.  However, he
would not go so far as to write a letter to the Fulton County D.A.
extolling his cousin Pat as a nurse second only to Florence Nightingale
and praising her wonderful care of his mother.  Nor would Aunt Lizzie
herself go so far.  Boppo would never be close to Liz again; her sister
had refused to come to Pat's rescue.

Shocked and hurt, Boppo also called Bill Alford.  "Why in the whole
wide world would you talk to the district attorney's office I you tell
about Pat?"  she demanded to know.  "Whatever did them?"

"I answered the questions "I talked to them," Bill replied.

they asked."

"You had no right, Bill-not after all that the district attorney's
office has done to the family.  They had absolutely no right to know
about Pat's life or about Debbie's life.  You know as well as I do that
Pat and Debbie never went over to the Crists to kill them.  The only
thing they did wrong was pretend to be registered nurses."

"Did you condone that, Boppo?"  Bill asked bluntly.  "Didn't you know
that was wrong?  That was a very sick old man, and he needed a real
nurse."

There was a very long silence, and finally Boppo said, "I can't talk to
anyone else in the family tonight."

The phone went dead.

. . .

On May 13, Bill and Susan received what was inten e as an official
communique "from the desk of Clifford B. Radcliffe."  It was from
Margureitte and there was no salutation.

I have been diagnosed as having 'Squamus' [sic] non small cell cancer
of the left lung.  It is inoperable, radiation therapy is complete.

The cancer still remains in part.  The long term prognosis is poor.

Therefore in the event of my death, it is my wish that our
granddaughter, Linda Susan Taylor Alford and her husband George Chester
(Bill) Alford, be refrained from attending any Funeral, Memorial or
other services for me.

They are also excluded from inheriting anything from my estate.

The two of them have caused great tragedy and hurt to so many people,
including their son Margureitte S. Radcliffe The letter was signed by a
notary public and with it came copies of three letters from her
attending physicians verifying that she did indeed have lung cancer.

Pat's and Debbie's arrests made news in Fulton County.  The Atlanta
_7ournal's headline read, TWO WOMEN CHARGED IN all SENIC POISONING
ATTEMPT, a startling, if slightly inaccurate, had been Pat Is poison of
choice in the heading.  Although arsenic past, the text of the article
pointed out that the only drug definitely tied to her in the current
case was Halcion.  In the Atlanta paper, the arrests were more
newsworthy for the prestige of the victims than of the accused; the
Crist name was revered in Atlanta.  But Pat was the focal point in the
Henry County paper: FULTON COUNTY CHARGES MCDONOUGH WOMAN WITH AT
TEMPTED MURDER.  She was the hometown angle.

All news coverage quoted D.A. Lewis Slaton as saying that the two women
were suspected of attempting to overdose Elizabeth Crist with Halcion
but were also under a continuing invest' ation into the possibility
that James Crist had died from a ig drug overdose.

Long before the story hit the media, the word came down in the Fulton
County District Attorney's Office that Pat Taylor Allanson and her
thirty-five-year-old daughter, Debbie, had been arrested.  Andy
Weathers hoped that he would catch the case.  It would be his second
meeting with Pat on the courtroom battlefield, and it would allow him
to pursue his own intense curiosity about Pat's involvement with the
murder of alter and Carolyn Allanson.

He had followed Don Stoop's relentless pursuit of Pat with avid
interest and had been pleased with his thoroughness.  Weathers had
unfinished business with Pat.

But it was not to be.  At least, Weathers was not to be the Fulton
County assistant D.A. who would prosecute in the continuing saga of Pat
Allanson; Fulton County assigned cases by computer, and the next name
up was Bill Akins.

Akins was an extremely handsome young lawyer in his late thirties; he
was a graduate of The Citadel and, like Don Stoop, had been in Junior
high when the earlier cases involving Pat Allanson took place.  He was
impressed by Stoop's investigation.

That single yellow sheet of paper from a legal pad had grown to a thick
file full of old police reports, new police reports, witness
statements, newspaper clippings, bizarre anecdotes, photographs, and
tape recordings.  Akins had never seen anything like it.

"Once I began to get a feel for this case," Akins said, "I realized
that, although it wasn't quite on the scale of the William Kennedy
Smith case.  . . . it was certainly a big case, possibly a
case-of-a-lifetime situation.  It's got everything; it's got the money,
the old cases, the murder.  'Sex, drugs, and rock and roll."  From a
prosecutor's point of view, it's got a 'splendid' history, a 'career'
kind of case.

It was tempting for Akins to take it and run with it.  If they went to
trial, he and everybody connected with the investigation would be
front-page news in Atlanta, the South, the eastern seaboard, and
possibly the whole country.  If still more indictments came down-the
first accusing Debbie and Pat of actually murdering Mr. Crist, and
others connecting Pat to the murders of Walter and Carolyn
Allanson-there wouldn't be a crime reporter in the country who wasn't
beating a path to Atlanta.  If they plea-bargained, no one outside
Atlanta would know about Pat's crimes.

"But, on the other hand," Akins recalled, "one; I am not a newshound
D.A. and don't feel that my ego should dictate what I do with the
case.

And two; the most important thing was to see that justice was served,
and headlines didn't matter."

Whichever way he decided to handle it, it wasn't going to be an easy
case.  Given the Crist family's understandable refusal to exhume their
husband and father's cremains for laboratory analysis, it would be
rough proving murder in that case.  Given the almost total
disappearance of their missing belongings, it was going to be
difficult-but not impossible-to prove the theft charges.  As for the
Allansons' murders, and the very real possibility that Pat had been
part of the very first spate of violence, should an indictment ever be
brought, that too would be a real squeaker.

Furthermore, Pat had retained an excellent attorney, Steve Roberts of
the firm of Garland and Samuel.  Roberts was asking for a speedy trial,
something any defense attorney has a right to do.

He could, legally, force Slaton's office to go into court within sixty
days.  A defense attorney could always drag his feet and ask for
delays-and most of them did-but a prosecutor had to be ready to go into
court within that sixty-day period.

If Akins asked for an indictment charging Pat with involvement in a
cover-up after the shootings of Walter and Carolyn Allanson, one of the
state's witnesses would have to be Edward T.

M. Garland, the same Ed Garland who had come to detest Pat's
machinations when he tried to defend Tom, the same Ed Garland who had
been the oh'ect of Pat's derision and scorn all through Tom's trial and
afterward.  And, of course, the same Edward T. M.

Garland who was a partner in the firm of her current defense
attorney.

That could create a very sticky situation.  Ed Garland testifying
against Pat would not be a happy thing for the defense, but it was a
gleeful prospect for Don Stoop and Michelle Berry.

They had listened to those tapes, the hours and hours of Pat slowly
barbecuing Tom on her emotional spit, when all the time she had known
she could have gotten him out years earlier if she had only listened to
Ed Garland.

It would be a difficult case to prosecute with only two months'
preparation time.  Conversely, the threat of being connected to the
death of her ex-husband's parents was the last thing Pat wanted.  For
the state, it meant tremendous leverage in eliciting a guilty plea.

For that, Akins was grateful to Stoop and Berry.  "I have to give an
enormous amount of credit to Don and Michelle for doing the
investigation which gave me the stickthe real big stick-to hold over
Pat's head-and also the carrot."

Pat didn't even want to be associated with the Allanson name.

One of Steve Roberts's first motions was to ask that thle charges
against her be in her present name: Patricia Taylor, not Patricia
Allanson.  She most certainly dreaded being charged in that longago
murder.  Akins figured she might very well choose to pleabargain rather
than risk the connection.  She might reach for the carrot of relative
anonymity and prison time to avoid an even greater danger.

Akins's posture was to be lenient with Debbie and to lean heavily on
Pat.  Debbie hadn't had any arrests since the morals charge years
earlier; she seemed to be a follower and not an instigator.  No, Pat
was the big fish, whose history showed her to be the dominant partner
in all her relationships.  But would she plead guilty to the seven
charges extant, even if it meant a hefty sentence, rather than risk the
publicity circus that would erupt if Akins moved to add charges of
murder and accessory to murder after the fact to Pat's grocery list of
felonies?

Don Stoop and Michelle Berry wanted to go for broke.  That was the way
they had always approached this case, working night and day to trace
all the raveled and far-flung ends of it.  They had relived the
terrible events of the spring of 1974 that had led to the murders of
Walter and Carolyn Allanson, revisited all the places where the smell
of blood seemed still to cling, and believed that Pat Allanson had been
right there in the thick of it all -not the shooter, but the prodder,
the manipulator, the liar.

The instigator.

They wanted to see all the dark corners of Pat's life illuminated.

They were detectives.  Akins was a prosecutor.  The relationship in any
county or state office is-and always has beenboth symbiotic and one of
natural enmity.  Investigators tread on shaky ground and take chances;
prosecutors like to know where they are and they lean toward
predictable odds.

Both want to win.  But it might be safe to say that detectives are more
philosophical about losing.

In the end, Bill Akins chose to accept a plea bargain.  Pat Taylor
would go to prison.  But she would never have to worry about facing
murder charges-at least not in any case up to June 1988.  There would
be no trial, speedy or otherwise.  There would be no blazing
headlines.

Don Stoop was livid.  He didn't give a hoot for headlines either, but
he was a hard-liner on justice.  He would remain furious for a very,
very long time.

"Bill Akins never should have plea-bargained.  And I'll never change my
mind about that."

Both Don Stoop and Michelle Berry were bitterly disappointed,
ultimately frustrated.  They had given it everything they had.

Georgia passions being what they were, there would be other cases.

They devoutly hoped not to run into Pat again, although it was
certainly possible that they would, given world enough and time.

On June 12, 1991, less than two months after she was arrested, Patricia
Taylor Allanson aka Patricia Radcliffe Taylor appeared with her
attorney in the Hon.  William H. Alexander's courtroom in Atlanta.

A plea had been negotiated in Indictment No.  Z-32688.

Pat took the stand and looked stolidly at Bill Akins as he approached
her.  His questioning was routine.  He needed to establish that she was
competent and understood what she was about to do, that she felt she
had been fairly represented.

"Were you satisfied," Akins asked, "with the services that he rendered
on your behalf?"

"More than satisfied."

"Counsel," Akins turned to Steve Roberts.  "Do you waive formal
reading?"

"Yes, we do."

"His.  Taylor, do you understand," Akins began, "that you are charged
in seven counts in the bill of indictment?  Count I charges you with
aggravated assault with intent to murder, which carries with it a
penalty of one to twenty years in the penitentiary.  Count 11 charges
you with aggravated assault, which also carries with it a penalty of
one to twenty years.  . . . You can't be convicted of both.  . . .

Count I'll charges you with violation of the Georgia Controlled
Substances Act dealing with being in possession of Halcion .  . . one
to five years.  . . . That is a Schedule IV drug."  Count IV was the
same.  "You can't be convicted of both.  Count V charges you with theft
by taking, specifically a stainless-steel Rolex watch .  . . ten years
in the penitentiary.  Count VI charges you with theft by taking of some
specifically named items of jewelry .  . . one to ten years."

Akins explained that the matter two charges were could be convicted of
both.

"Count VII charges you with unlawfully posing as a registered nurse
without a license.  That is a misdemeanor, which carries with it a
maximum penalty of twelve months in jail and a one-thousand-dollar
fine.

Do you understand all of those charges and the penalties for them?"

"Yes, I do."

Pat Taylor was prepared, she said, to plead guilty to aggravated
assault, to violation of the Georgia Controlled Substances Act, to
theft by taking of the specific items, and to posing as a registered
nurse: Counts 11, IV, VI and VII.  She understood full well that she
could be sentenced to a total of thirty-six years in prison, and that
she had the right to a trial by jury.  She was waiving that right.

Pat was eager to make a statement about why she was pleading guilty.

Her attorney explained she could do that when the judge Bill Akins
reviewed Pat's long, long history with the legal system in Fulton
County, giving a summary of what he would have presented in a trial if
there had been one: the violent deaths, the poisonings, the forged
wills.  Moving into the recent past, he told Judge Alexander that Pat
had been paroled, trained to work only in nursing homes.  "She also
cared for an elderly lady by the name of Mansfield.  She essentially
worked with His.  Mansfield through a nursing home and the children
didn't have much contact with her.  His.  Mansfield subsequently died
and was cremated.  And that's really all we know about that."

The Crist assignment was next.  Akins described the lies and questioned
her later.

misrepresentations, and Pat's constant dismissal of all other
employees.  "It was essentially she and her codefendant, Debbie Cole
Alexander, who were the primary caretakers of the elder Mr. 
Crist....

Mrs. Crist's ... doctor prescribed a sedative known as Halcion.... The
doctor prescribed thirty pills ... to take no more than one
pill-preferably just half a pill-at bedtime.

Within the span of some thirty-six days, Your Honor, the defendant
acquired an additional one hundred and twenty tablets of Halcion from
two different drugstores."

The case that Don Stoop and Michelle Berry had built step by step was
stunning to listen to.  Judge Alexander sat quietly, absorbed, as Bill
Akins told of the huge drugstore bills, the Crist childrens'growing
suspicions and fears.

"Dr. Watson .  . . drew a blood sample [from Elizabeth Crist] which
subsequently showed almost double the normal dosage of Halcion, and
this was at a time when the elder Mrs. Crist was not as drugged as she
was at other points.

. . . I would expect the evidence at trial to show further .  . . that
the overdoses of Halcion that Mr. Crist was getting exacerbated his
condition with Parkinson's and accelerated his decline .  . . and also
harmed the health of Mrs.  Crist."

After noting the valuables missing from the Crists' estate, Akins gave
the state's recommendation for sentencing.  "As to Count II-aggravated
assaulttwelve years to serve eight, the balance on probation.  . . .

Count IV, five years to serve concurrent.  As to Count VI, ten years to
serve ei lit, concurrent, and, as to Count VII, twelve months to serve
concurrent.  . . .

"As a condition of probation, Your Honor, I recommend that the
defendant receive counseling and that she at no time be employed either
for compensation or voluntarily in anything which might be remotely a
health-related field."

That certainly seemed a given.

Steve Roberts asked for two additional conditions.  "He [Bill Akins]
has agreed as a condition of this plea .  . . that the codefendant,
Debbie Alexander, who is Mrs. Taylor's daughter .  . . be put into the
pretrial intervention program and, upon successful completion of that,
that case would be dead-docketed against her and that she will not be
further prosecuted."  She had also promised to make restitution for Mr.
Crist's Rolex watch.

And next, the big carrot.  The humongous carrot.

"As a condition of this plea, he [Bill Akins] will in no way attempt to
indict Mrs. Taylor for, in connection with, the death of Mr. Walter
Allanson, which occurred, I believe, in 1974."

Akins nodded and rose to explain .  this condition further to Judge
Alexander.  "Your Honor, that is correct.  It came to light during the
course of our investigation of this case that this defendant was
substantially Involved as a party to the murder .  . . of her
ex-husband's-Tommy Allanson'sparents.  It is my position that, if she
enters a plea as outlined, the state will not proceed further with the
indictment or prosecution of that case - " Steve Roberts spoke again.

He said that his client was pleading guilty against his advice.  He had
advised Pat to plead not guilty and go to trial.

"My client is entering this plea today.  She will tell the court freely
and voluntarily she wishes to enter what is in effect an Alford
plea."

(An Alford plea has nothing at all to do with Bill and Susan Alford;
the etiology of the name is from some landmark case a long time back.

It was an ironic match-nothing more.) Margureitte and Clifford
Radcliffe, who were, of course, in attendance, flinched a little at the
sound of the name.  But t ey sat as proudly and benevolently as ever,
gazing upon their daughter.

"She wishes the court to understand the reasons why she is entering her
plea," Roberts continued, "that the nature of the charges made against
her and her daughter lead her to the belief that, if the evidence as
outlined by Mr. Akins is presented to a jury, that there is a
substantial likelihood that she would be convicted, and, if convicted,
would receive a harsher sentence than the state is recommending
today.

. . . The state has indicated it would introduce her prior crimes-which
they would contend is a similar crime.  Mr. Akins has notified me that
he would put up evidence to that effect.

"So all of those things, as well as her intention to put an end to this
matter once and for all-both with regard to this crime, the crime
involving Mr. Allanson in 1974, and her prior offense involving the
alleged poisoning-all of those things, Your Honor, are entering into my
client's decision to enter her plea today Pat lumbered to her feet
to face judge Alexander.  She wore jail-issue blue pants and top, and
sandals.  Fourteen years and thirty-five days had gone by since the
last time she was sentenced to prison, but she still had her cheering
section.  Debbie was there, along with her new husband, Mike
Alexander.

Miss Loretta was too brokenhearted to come to Pat's sentencing, but she
still had Boppo and Papa, just as she always had.

Judge Alexander looked down upon Pat and intoned, "Mrs. Taylor-as to
Count II, I will sentence you to twelve years, to serve eight, balance
probated.  . . . Count IV, I sentence you to serve five years,
concurrent with Count 11.  As to Count VI, I sentence you to ten years
to serve eight, and to run concurrently with the others.  . . . On
Count VII, I will sentence you to serve twelve months.  All of those
sentences to run concurrently."  Adhering to Bill Akins's request,
Judge Alexander reminded Pat that she was never again to work in any
health-related field.

In essence, Pat was going to prison for eight years.

The deputy guarding her allowed her to step to the side of the
courtroom, where she was enveloped in hugs.  Margureitte shook her head
and muttered under her breath to no one in particular that this was all
some terrible, terrible mistake.  Pat herself didn't cry.  Even facing
her return to Hardwick, she may have heaved a sigh of relief; it could
have been so much worse.

Later, Margureitte Radcliffe said Pat had only pleaded guilty to save
Debbie.  "She is the kind of mother who couldn't bear to see her child
suffer.  She sacrificed herself for Deborah."

Margureitte did not mention Steve Roberts' insistence on the condition
guaranteeing that Pat would never again have to deal with vexatious
questions about the murders of Walter and Carolyn Allanson.  Whatever
had happened that rainy twilight eve of July 4th, whatever Pat had done
to provoke the bloody confrontation in the basement of 1458 Norman
Berry Drive, the subject was closed-at least legally closed.

From the moment she learned of her mother's first arrest, Susan Alford
had dreaded two things, knowing that if she avoided one, she would
bring the other crashing down upon her.

Although she doubted that anyone would believe her, she loved her
mother and longed for a happy ending.  When Pat got out of prison in
1984, it was as if a great weight had fallen from Susan's heart.  A
whole wonderful future lay ahead of them then.

Susan was the daughter who gave her mother so much support while she
was in Horizon House, eager to help Pat reenter the world outside
prison.

Pat wrote to Susan on November 30, 1984, after her first out of-state
visit while she was on parole.  It was a long letter any daughter would
treasure.

... As each day of our lives together passed, I loved you more and more
each one.  I have so many beautiful images and memories that will
always be with me of you.  Oh, how many times I drew on those images
and memories all the last 8 years.... TriPs to the beach in North
Carolina where you all looked for sand dollars.  Germany, and how all
the people thought you were a little Bavarian girl with your rosy
cheeks and long braids.  And as all this time passed, my love didn't
stand still either but rather Ilust kept loving you more.  Every day of
our lives (together or not together) whether the experiences have been
painful or pleasureful [sic], joyful or sad, regardless, each and every
one has made me love you more.  Neither time, nor distance, not even
the physical seperation [sic] of the last 8-10 yrs.  can diminish that
love.  For every thing we've endured has only made the bond a stronger
one.  The baby I loved became the little girl I loved who became the
beautiful and loving woman you are now.  I am so proud that you are my
daughter and I look forward to the many wonderful years andfuture
experiences we'll share....

The letter had thrilled Susan and made her weep.  And yet, even back
then the first niggling doubts had already begun, no matter that she
cloaked herself in denial and rationalizations, no matter how many
times she looked away from what she would not see.

Susan's worst dread was that her mother would again want something so
badly that anyone who got in the way would be hurt.

It had never occurred to her that she might be one of those hurt.

Even when Susan herself had two mysterious illnesses that no one could
diagnose, she would not listen to Bill's and Sean's warnings that her
mother was probably poisoning her.  She would not, could not, believe
that.  Maybe she had only suffered from the flu or something equally
innocuous.  Without specific testing, no one could say.  "But I was
lucky at that.  I lived," she said later.

"I could have died, like Kent did or the Allansons."

Susan had vowed since 1976 that she would not let her mother destroy
anyone else.  And she hadn't, but it cost her.

Her second worst fear was that she would no longer have a family if she
told anyone outside that family about her mother's crimes.  Lord knows,
no one had ever acknowledged Pat's dangerousness i .  nsi .  de the
family; if Susan did the unspeakable, she knew she would be forever
beyond the pale.  All she could count on would be Bill and Courtney and
little Adam.  She had seen Bobby and Charlotte Porter virtually
excommunicated for far less.

They had only refused to write a letter.  Although they had agreed not
to prosecute Pat for her alleged mistreatment of Aunt Lizzie, they
would not write a letter praising her and they had become pariahs.

choice at all for Susan.  She In the end, there had been no ooner or
later, her mothcould not live knowing that sometime, stiver's eye would
fall on something she wanted very, very much.

And that disaster would follow.  decades of Boppo had been Susan's
ideal for more than three her life, her support, her rescuer, the one
person she had always believed she could count on.  But when Susan's
presence in Boppo's house had irritated Pat, she was out on the street
in no time.

Susan had no illusions that she would still be part of the family
ted.

But she could not have after her mother and sister were arres realized
that she would never be allowed simply to walk away, to begin a new
life.  Banishment was merely the first increment of her family's
revenge.

From the moment they left Boppo and Papa's on Thanksgiving Day, 1990,
the Alfords had been on their own.  Susan no longer had a sister, a
brother, grandparents, great-aunts, uncles, cousins (save the
discredited Bobby and Charlotte), or nieces.  Her son, Sean, remained
estranged-but she learned that he was encouraged to come to Boppo and
Papa's house once a week.  It was almost primitive.  Susan and Bill had
betrayed the pack, and the others would never forgive them.  Whatever
Pat had done, she had always been taken back, not only forgiven but
supported and carried above all of them on arms of love.  Susan had
spoken up only to prevent her mother from doing harm and she was
exiled.  Main Street in The Alfords were becalmed for a year on
McDonough.  Sometimes, they felt as if they lived in a fishbowl.

McDonough was so small that they could go nowhere without running into
Boppo and Papa.  When that happened, they were strangers; Boppo took on
her crystal gaze and sailed by themSusan saw her grandmother often, and
she did not look ill, but the doctors' reports said otherwise, and
Susan believed them.  She worried about Boppo it would take her months
to hook into the anger deep inside.

she saw her Naturally diffident, Susan didn't feel rage until
children hurting.  Courtney received a letter from Boppo and Papa
telling her that they would no longer pay for her riding lessons.  Adam
couldn't understand why Boppo and Papa had gone out of his life.

Susan heard rumors about her own treachery wherever she went in
McDonough.  The gossips were busy, and apparently Pat's and Debbie's
offenses paled in comparison with Susan's.  An "anonymous source"
reported the Alfords to the local child protective authorities as
abusive parents.  The allegations were investigated and dropped when
Courtney laughed out loud at the charge that she had been "dragged
 by her hair."  Don Stoop and Michelle Berry stood by
the Alfords; the case was over, but the detectives had come to like and
respect the couple who had done what they felt they had to do.  When
things got to be too much for Susan, Stoop could usually make her
laugh.

He didn't tell her, but he was going to be relieved too when the
Alfords got out of McDonough.  They were objects of such hatred.

On July 8, 1991, Susan and Bill received a letter from Boppo, typed on
her old manual machine-the same one she used for everything from
suspicious confessions to the official disinheritance of miscreants.

Susan and Bill had assumed that their banishment from Boppo's funeral
services had been their last official notice.  But there was yet
another salvo.

Susan TaylorAlford George C. Alford Since this tragedy occurred, I have
been trying to find the worrds [sic] to say to you ... there are no
words that can express the depth of my hurt and thae [sic] deep loss
Ifeel.

... At this point it is impossible that we could ever have any
relatz'onship.  There are no winners here.  But there are many
losers.

As my Mother said many times, "What has been done is done, and can not
be changed, it is written in our page of life and will stand as it
i's.

Only God can forgive you for all of this.  With mankind it is a little
harder.

Your Grandfather and I have re-written our wills.  So has your
Mother.

You are both excluded.  It is not fitting that you should benefit
materially after all the tragedy you have caused.

You Susan, will not be getting [the] ring that Uncle Kent gave to me.

I know that he would not think [you] deserved same....

How very sadforyourchildren.  Adam sawyou, Susan, cryfor over a
year.... Mat happened?  Courtney is old enough to know that I love
her.

I love them both very much and miss t em Susan ... I was in the
delivery room the day you were born, and have said that was one of the
most exciting days of my life.

I could not know then all the grief I would have at the end of my
life.

How could you do this?

... With such deep hurl and more sadness than I have ever known, I say
Good-bye to both of you....

I will always love you Susan.  BUT I will always detest your actions


Your Grandmother Boppo The Siler Family Reunion celebrated its
twenty-fifth anniversary at White Lake in 1991, and Margureitte wrote
the memorial booklet, typing it on the typewriter.  She included,
without comment, the Alfords in the listing of descendants, but she did
not mention Pat's latest incarceration in a voluminous roundup of
catastrophes that had struck various branches of the clan.

Sean attended, but Susan, Bill, Courtney, and Adam were, naturally, not
invited to join the rest of the family at White Lake.

When Pat was trans rred up to Hardwick, Boppo and Papa resumed their
weekly visiting, just as they had before.  Not long afterwards, Pat was
moved to a hospital facility; she had reportedly had a stroke.  "She
can't speak," Boppo said sadly in October 1991, "and she drags one
leg.

It's the prison's fault; they didn't give her her medicine for days.

We're going to sue them."

She blamed Susan for everything.  The decline of the family had begun,
of course, with her treachery.

Debbie and Mike Alexander agreed with the Radcliffes.  "Susan needs
professional help," Debbie said succinctly.  "She cut the hair off
Mom's dolls, and one night, when I was all alone in my apartment, Susan
came over and cut off all the power and lights to my unit.  I looked
out the window and saw a dark truck, and I knew it was Susan."

Not likely.  Susan was working as much overtime as she could as a store
security officer to make enough money to leave McDonough and the
constant surveillance of her outraged family.  "Besides," she said with
a laugh, "if I wanted to shut off Debbie's lights, I wouldn't have the
first idea how to find the thing -the fuse box or whatever-to do it."

Pat's latest conviction appeared to have started a slow winding down of
The Family; its gracious facade cracked, and bit by bit chunks fell
off, giving a glimpse of what lay beneath.  Aunt Lizzie and Margureitte
were barely speaking.  Aunt Thelma had a stroke and had to be put into
a hospital over in Augusta.  For a time, Margureitte and Cliff visited
her regularly, but she didn't get any better.  Thelma's surviving
sisters got her power of attorney and sold her house and car.  Thelma
was placed in a nursing home in Elizabethtown, North Carolina.

Ashlynne still lived with Boppo and Papa; Debbie and her new husband,
Mike Alexander, in financial straits, moved in with them in 1992; and
Ronnie, disabled by a back injury on a construction job, kept his
trailer in their side yard.  Boppo and Papa bragged proudly that Sean
Alford came every week to play golf with Papa.  They did not, of
course, encourage him to reconcile with his parents, but urged him to
visit his "Grandma Pat" in prison, which he often did.

Letters sent by outsiders to Pat Taylor in prison were not
acknowledged.

Margureitte reported that Pat was far too .  ill to be interviewed, and
her speech was so compromised that it was hard to understand her.  It
was ironic; her condition sounded remarkably like that of Nona Allanson
sixteen years earlier, when Pat had poisoned her with arsenic.  Pat was
apparently still able to continue her hobbies, however.  In the summer
of 1992, her picture appeared in a Milledgeville paper as she proudly
showed off a quilt she had made for the prison craft show.

Boppo could scarcely believe Pat was back in prison.  "I didn't want
her to accept the plea-neither did Mr. Roberts-but they were going to
charge Debbie with the 1976 arsenic case, or maybe charge Pat with
false imprisonment of her aunt Elizabeth Porter in Warsaw, North
Carolina.  I can tell you that Bobby, her son, told me that Pat took
very, very good care of his mother.

"Pat is hurt so deeply that she can't even be angry," Margureitte
said.

"She had to sell over eight thousand dollars' worth of her dolls and
doll clothing in one day-all heirloom sewing-to pay for an attorney."

Margureitte was still stunned by Susan's treachery.  "Susan said her
mother was a very good mother.  She sang in the choir.  She was a
Brownie mother.  The colonel and I bought groceries for Susan and Bill
when they were having a hard time, and the colonel invited them to live
with us.  They left on Thanksgiving.  Susan cut her mother's dolls'hair
in back, and she called Colonel Radcliffe a bastard!"

Her voice trailed off to a whisper with the shock of it all.

"My own prognosis is not good," Margureitte confided, inhaling smoke.

"I have lung cancer, you know.  The doctor told me 'two years' last
year, and Colonel Radcliffe asked him about that in my last checkup,
and he just said, 'I haven t changed my original estimate."  .  . .

It's terrible to think that I may not have my daughter here to take
care of me when I reach my last days."

Margureitte was a woman of a remarkable will and a strong
constitution.

Although she arrived at the 1992 Siler family reunion at White Lake in
a wheelchair, her sisters commented that they had never seen her look
better.

When the wheelchair wouldn't maneuver in the sand, she abandoned it and
didn't use it again during the week-long celebration.

. . .

Tom Allanson had made the most of his first years of freedom, earning
steady promotions and salary increases in his water treatment
job-enough so that Liz no longer had to work.  They owned a little
house out in the country north of Atlanta where they could sit on their
back porch and watch the dogwoods bloom and hear the wind in the pine
trees.  They had a calico cat, a tank of fish, grew roses and
vegetables, went to church every Sunday, where Tom was president of the
Full Gospel Association, and they seldom thought about the past.

The last time Tom saw Pat was sometime in 1977, before he went to
Buford.

Shown a mug shot taken at her most recent arrest in 1991, his jaw
dropped.  The Pat he remembered had been slender and delicate; this
woman was hugely fat.  "I can't believe it.  That's Pat?"  He shook his
head, his thoughts unspoken as he handed the picture back.

Tom saw his son, Russ, regularly, but he still longed to find his
daughter, Sherry.  "All I know is that she's married and lives out in
Seattle," he said.  "I'd sure like to hear from her, but I don't know
where to start."

Tom had only one faded picture of his children when they were small.

He had kept it in his wallet for many years.  "The rest are gone," he
said.  "Pat destroyed every single picture of my children.  Russ and
Sherry's godparents were professional photographers and we had
wonderful pictures of them every few months when they were growing
up.

But Pat was jealous and she got rid of them without my knowledge."

Tom Allanson had lost his children and more than a decade and a half of
freedom for a woman who said she loved him.  By rights, he should have
double that to enjoy his life with the woman who had truly loved him
all through the years.

For Susan, there would be no happy endings.  Inexplicably, just as the
Alfords had regained their financial footing and might have moved out
of McDonough-and away from Boppo's ubiquitous crystal gaze-Bill
announced to Susan that he was leaving her.  He could no longer stand
her family.  She was dumbfounded; she had no family any longer.  She
had no one at all but Bill and her kids.

Bill moved out, without really explaining why.

Susan had to stay in McDonough, ostracized and alone, for six months.

Shy and dependent, married since she was eighteen, Susan now proved to
be tougher than she ever realized she could be.  She packed up what she
could take and had a yard sale with the rest.

Courtney sold "South Fork," the dollhouse Pat had given her, for a
hundred dollars and gave the money to her mother.

During the yard sale, the family circled the block-not once but five,
ten, fifty times: Debbie and her husband and Ronnie, pointing,
laughing, and jeering.  The colonel and Ashlynne walked by flying a
kite.  Boppo drove by, again and again, her nose high in the air.

Except for Courtney and Adam, Susan was all alone.

Susan began moving on Mother's Day, 1992, hoping that on that day, at
least, Boppo and Papa would be at Hardwick visiting her mother and
wouldn't follow her to see where she would be living.  It worked,
although she later learned that the relatives who disowned her had
tried to get her forwarding address from the post office, her
childrens' school, and her former landlord.  My?

Why couldn't they just let her go?

When Susan, Courtney, and Adam pulled out of McDonough for the last
time two days later, their truck laden down with the last of their
possessions, Susan caught a glimpse of a car that looked like Debbie's
in her rearview mirror.  She drove a little faster, and switched lanes,
trying to lose them.  As she headed northeast, and crossed from Henry
County into Clayton County, one of the tires exploded.  By that point,
she had lost sight of the car that looked like Debbie's.  She kept the
heavily loaded truck in her lane only with difficulty and drove on the
rim onto a feeder road, limping to a service station.

"I was afraid I didn't even have enough money left to pay to have the
tire changed," Susan remembered.  "And then this man came up and helped
me.  I call him 'My Black Angel."  He just appeared out of nowhere at
the Erron and said he'd help.  He put the spare tire on and then he
looked at the tread on the bad one and told me it was too thick to
blow.  He said, 'Take it back where you bought it, and have them look
it over."

" Susan recalled guiltily that the man was shabbily dressed.

"He was the kind of guy I would have looked at twice if I was working a
store, and that made me feel awful later.  He told me, 'Everything will
be okay now."  I guess he could see I was beside myself.  I offered him
the few dollars I had, and he closed my hand over it.  I said, 'Please
take it,' and he just smiled and said, 'There are still some good
people left in this world.  You just take care of those kids."

" Susan made her way onto the freeway again.  As she took the exit ramp
a few miles further, there was no one behind her.  When she brought the
bad tire back to the dealer the next day to ask why a practically new
tire should blow the way it had, the mechanic looked at it and
scratched his head.  "Lady, if I didn't know better, I'd say somebody
shot this out."

afterword.

Looking back over Patricia Vann Radcliffe Taylor Allanson's life, it is
only natural to wonder why she behaved as she did, why she seemed
compelled to cause so much pain for the people who loved her.  Was she
given to periods of insanity, or was she simply a supremely selfish
woman who would resort to anything, even attempted murder, to get what
she wanted?  There may never be definitive answers to these
questions.

Unlike many felons, Pat Taylor apparently never did undergo
psychological testing.  Aside from the diagnosis of Dr. Ray Loring
Johnsonthe psychiatrist who examined her after she slashed her wrists
and ran wildly through the woods in the spring of 1975-no psychiatric
or psychological reports exist in her court records.  Dr. Johnson's
assessment was that Pat suffered from "Agitated Depression with
possible thought disorder."  She was placed on antipsychotic medication
at that time, medication that she discontinued soon after she was
released from the clinic.  She did not regress.

It was unlikely that Pat was ever insane.  Often hysterical, yes.

From the time she was a tiny girl, she whipped herself into emotional
tizzies to have her own way.  No one ever put limits on her behavior.

When Patty cried, the adults in her life gave in.

She grew up believing that that was the way the world operated.

She viewed herself as special, and why wouldn't she?  All of her life,
Patty, Patricia, and then Pat was encouraged to believe she was
extraordinary.  Beginning with "Mama" Siler, who "next to God, loved
Patty the most," who gave her granddaughter the last Coca Cola, who
could not bring herself to spank her precious baby, and who allowed her
to subsist on pancakes, Pat never heard the word "No."  When she was
five, her mother married Clifford Radcliffe and continued to give Patty
everything she asked for-possibly to ease her own guilt at having
allowed Mama Siler to raise her child for her first years.

Margureitte's indulgence never faltered, not over the next fifty
years.

Throughout those years, Pat lied, stole, contrived, manipulated,
seduced, and betrayed.  She married twice and even attempted murder to
get what she wanted.  She wanted love and happiness, she wanted money
and the things that money can buy, and she usually found someone to
give them to her.  If not, she set out to get them for herself.  No one
else mattered; people were merely the means to an end.  Yet nothing she
attained was enough to fill up the emptiness in her life.  She was like
a vessel with holes in the bottom; love and things and people and money
and happiness seeped away.  As Boppo once said, "I can't understand why
anyone in this whole wide world would think Pat got whatever she
wanted-she never got anything she wanted.  Her whole life has been
tragic.  Why can't people understand that?"

In the beginning Pat got her way because the family loved her so;
later, they dreaded her sharp tongue, her wrath, and her temper
tantrums.  In the end, perhaps they could not bring themselves to
examine her crimes in a bright light, fearing that they too were in
some way responsible.  The Radcliffes and Silers always seemed to treat
ugly truths like an elephant in their midst.  They might comment on the
gleam of its eye or the fine ivory in its tusk, but they never
acknowledged all of it, only the parts they could deal with
comfortably.

Every family maintains a balancing act; some members need more
attention, more affirmation.  Others are independent or just plain
loners.  Usually, individual needs change frequently and different
family members become the current "burden" to be kept aloft until the
balance shifts once again.  In a functional family, problems eventually
work out and everyone takes a turn at being the bearing wall or the
burden.  Pat was never the "bearing wall."  She was never allowed to
take responsibility for her own life.  At the first sign of trouble,
someone-usually Boppo and Papa-rushed forward to save her.

Pat was always the burden, but as bizarre as her behavior sometimes
was, she was far from crazy.  When she seemed so, it was a contrived
aberrance, which she could slip into when it suited her purposes.  Her
taped voice in her conversations with Tom, clear over seventeen years
of time, alternately imperious and kittenish, and full of throaty
laughter, demonstrated the roles she played to manipulate everyone in
her life.

If she was not crazy, however, Pat quite likely suffered from a melange
of personality disorders.  She did not view the world or her
relationship to it the way most people do.  She knew the difference
between right and wrong, but it didn't matter.  She had been raised to
believe that rules were for other people and what mattered was that she
got what she wanted.

A personality disorder, once established in the mind, clings like an
intractable fungus.  It becomes part of the thought processes, and
trying to remove it would be akin to cutting down a tree to eliminate a
fungus.  It is better to be "crazy" because crazy can be cured.

Personality disorders die with the host, entangled for life in the
brain's functioning.

No one knows for certain where personality disorders come from.  Most
psychiatrists agree, however, that they are not present at birth but,
rather, take root in the first few years of life.  Normally, a child of
three or four will begin to understand that his or her actions can
cause pain to a parent, to another child or a pet-that other creatures
hurt too.  This understanding and awareness leads to the development of
the conscience, the still small voice inside that warns humans that
certain actions are cruel, insensitive, and against the mores of their
society.

It is the conscience that provokes guilt, a much maligned emotion that
is actually vital to the survival of humanity.

Abused and humiliated children are too busy merely trying to survive to
"grow" a conscience or take the first baby steps to empathy.  Perhaps
children who are never chastised or punished sidestep the
conscience-growing process too.  Reverend Tasso Siler and his gentle
wife Mary were kindness personified and so according to herself-was
Margureitte.  Still, one wonders if too much "kindness" cannot warp a
child as surely as, abuse.

Whatever stunted her emotional development, it is clear from viewing
her behavior that Pat was an antisocial personality.  Put simply, she
had no conscience.  That was why she could goad Tom into a disastrous
confrontation with his parents.  That was why she could feed arsenic to
Paw and Nona and could dose Elizabeth Crist with enough Halcion to
leave her virtually unconscious day after day.  That was why she could
drive her own parents into bankruptcy with her ceaseless demands for
money.  And why she could concoct accusations against her own daughter,
a woman in the grip of clinical depression, and drive her out of the
house.

She could also write the kind of letters that made Susan cry and filled
Tom's heart with love.  When there is no real feeling and no empathy
for the feelings of other people, it is quite easy to play games with
their emotions and their lives.  Pat had not the faintest inkling of
what they were suffering.  She had no desire or ability to connect with
other peoples' emotions.  Her suffering-even that which she inflicted
on herself-was all that mattered, and she used her pain as another
weapon to make the people who loved her suffer even more.

A number of personality disorders often go hand in hand, and Pat was
probably also a narcissistic personality.  Like Narcissus of the Greek
myth, who idolized his own image in a pond, she was quite literally in
love with herself.  She believed that she deserved whatever she
desired.  She was shocked when she didn't always get it.  Because she
could not have everything, no matter how hard those around her scurried
to please her, she was often depressed.  She thought she knew what she
needed to make her happy-but it never had made her happy for even two
weeks.  By the time Pat met Tom, she had lost the capacity for
happiness, if she'd ever had it at all.

She may have also suffered from another less well known disorder that
psychiatric scholars have isolated, one with a long technical name and
an impossible-to-pronounce common name: "Chronic Factitious Disorder
with Physical Symptoms""Munchausen Syndrome."  Unlike most people who
dread the antiseptic smell of a hospital corridor, those who suffer
from Munchausen's crave medical settings.  They truly enjoy the
excitement of hospitals, the attention and the drama of being attended
by nurses and doctors.  They are so attracted to this milieu that they
actually cause themselves pain to get there.

Munchausen's goes far beyond hypochondria, whose sufferers imagine
symptoms of practically every disease they hear about.

Munchausen's often involves actual self-mutilation.  Susan had seen her
mother beat herself with pots and pans until she was badly bruised.

The deep fissured scar on Pat's right buttock was the result of her own
deliberate and repeated probing at an initially small wound with
bacteria-covered instruments.  The pain involved must have been almost
unbearable-yet she craved attention and excitement so much that she
exacerbated that wound over and over and over.  At one point, she came
perilously close to death from blood poisoning.  And she had done it to
herself.

Pat's history of illnesses and in'uries was lengthy and unique.  She
cried "Rape!"  so often that she eventually became laughable.  She
collapsed and had to be rushed to hospitals time and again.  Only Pat
would have almost welcomed the bite of the brown recluse spider.  It
meant she could spend weeks in a hospital, a pleasant alternative to
prison.  And, like many who love being hospitalized, she was addicted
to drugs-Demerol for one; even Margureitte testified to that.  The true
state of Pat's physical and emotional health may never be completely
known or understood.  She herself might have been powerless to control
it.

But it was among the strongest weapons in her arsenal to exert control
over others.

Pat never seemed comfortable in her own skin.  Indeed, she attempted to
literally destroy her own body.  And despite the control she wielded
over others, it was quite possible she felt no power at all-except with
her dolls.  Her dolls always did what she wanted them to do.  She was
the center of their universe, just as she would be the center of the
world she had hoped to create for herself-Zebulon.  There she could be
Scariett and Tom her rich and blindly devoted Rhett- Perhaps because
her world did not give her everything she ever wanted, Pat could not
stand being herself.

Scarlett had been full of strength, a woman who could stand alone and
fight for what she wanted.  In the end, Pat was only a pale
imitation.

Pat's effect on what was once a solid-if slightly eccentricfamily was
devastating.  Even when she was in prison, she called the tunes and
kept her mother bound to her.  Back in Hardwick for the second time in
1991, Pat was not doing well-according to Boppo, who reported that she
had had another stroke and was in a wheelchair, unable to walk or
talk.

Also in a wheelchair, Boppo was far more worried about her child than
she was about her own imminent death.  And all around them lay the
evidence of the destruction of a family, caused not by the neglect of a
child-but by the utter, complete, almost mindless, indulgence of a
child.

The only member to survive with dignity was the one they had all
reviled-the one who had the courage to do what she knew was right even
if it went against the family: Susan.  They all quoted Mary Siler, but
no one but Susan had listened to her words: "What we have done will
soon be a sealed book.  If it's been good or bad, we can't change it.

It will stand as it is.  It is sad, for some of us will have marked up
pages in our book from many unkind words to someone, or maybe we did
not try hard to make others' lives happy .

Mary Valli Siler *ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Although the author's name is the
only one that appears on the jacket of a book, I suspect few readers
realize that we are supported by a benevolent army of editors, agents,
publicists, readers, friends, relatives and observers kind enough to
share their opinions and recollections.  A book of this scope, covering
so many years, so many miles, and such a plethora of legal details,
would have been impossible without the gracious help I received from so
many.

I wish to thank the staff of District Attorney Lewis Slaton of Fulton
County, Georgia, particularly Investigators Don Stoop and Michelle
Berry, and Assistant District Attorneys Andy Weathers and Bill Akins,
the East Point, Georgia, Police Department, and law enforcement
personnel from Pike County and Forsyth County, Georgia.

Although there were as many points of view in this true-life saga as
colors in the rainbow and few participants agreed, nevertheless I
appreciated the time various family members and friends shared with me:
Colonel Clifford Radcliffe and Margureitte Radcliffe, Deborah and
Michael Alexander, Bill and Susan Alford, Courtney and Adam Alford, Tom
and Liz Allanson and J. C.

and Rena Jones.  Their perceptions added a great deal to the voluminous
public records and transcripts furnished by government officials in
Georgia, Florida, North Carolina, and Washington, D.C. From all the
stories, each interwoven with the next, strand upon strand, emerged one
story, the final golden thread that became this book.

Life can sometimes be cold and lonely for a writer at work, and I thank
my backup people: My first reader, Gerry Brittingham, and my friend and
field assistant on this book, Donna Anders, for their help on the first
fledgling research and the roughest draft.

And, scattered from Massachusetts to Wyoming, from Michigan to Oregon,
in no particular order: Sophie Stackhouse, Laura, Rebecca, and Matthew
Harris, Leslie Rule, David Coughlan, Andrew Rule, Michael Rule, Marlene
Price, Bruce Sherles, Shirley and Bill Hickman, Lois Duncan, Fred and
Bernie McLean, Jeoff Robinson, Jay and Betty Jo Newell, Bill and
Maureen Woodcock, Martin and Lisa Woodcock and Don White (who enlarged
my office right over my head as I worked), Jennifer Gladwell, Edna
Buchanan of Miami Beach, Mike Bashey, Elida Vance, Nancy Hrynshyn, Jann
and Sid MacFarland and the houseboat gang, Ed Eaton, Betty May and Phil
Settecase, Verne Shangle, Sue and Bob Morrison, Ruthene Larson, Joan
and Jerry Kelly, Cherl Luxa, Ginger and Bill Clinton, Hope Yenko, Brian
Halquist, Dee Reed, Rose Mandelsberg-Weiss, Elaine and Wayne Dorman,
Dr. Peter J. Modde, Anne Jaeger, Marsha MacWillie, Jenny Everson, Dee
Grim, Mildred Yoacham, Johnny Bonds of the Harris County, Texas,
Prosecuting Attorney's Office, Dr. Martha Krenn, Lola Cunningham,
Joyce and Bill Johnson of Mukilteo, Don Wall, Luke and Nancy Fiorante,
M. L. Lyke and Susan Paynter, Joyce and Pierce Brooks, Sergeant Myra
Harmon and Sergeant Marsha Camp, Charlotte and Austin Seth, Geri and
Bill Swank of San Diego, Danny House and Karen Ritola.

To the enigmatic and arcane Northwest B. & M. Society, of which I am
proud to be a founding member: Jeannie Okimoto, Judine and Terry
Brooks, Ann Combs, John Saul, Margaret Chittenden, Michael Sack, Donna
Anders, Don and Carol McQuinn; and to the Pacific Northwest Writers'
Conference where every writer learns and grows.

To my Ohio relatives-descendants, as I am, of the late Albert Sherman
and Florence Stackhouse: Bertha and Bob Mowery (now of San Benito,
Texas), Lucetta Mae Bartley, Sherman Stackhouse, David Stackhouse and
Glenna jean Longwell, Neva Steed Jones, and my fellow author, James
Steed.

To my Michigan relatives-descendants, as I am, of the late Chris and
Anna Hansen: Emma McKenney, Chris and Linda McKenney, Freda and Bernie
Grunwald, Donna and Stuart Basom, Bruce and Diane Basom, Jan and Eby
Schubert, Karen and Jim Hudson, Jim and Mary Sampson, Maxine Hansen,
Christa Hansen, Terry Hansen, and Sara Jane and Larry Plushnik.

Almost two years ago, my editor, Frederic W. Hills, agreed with me that
this was a story worth exploring and he has cheered me on all the
way.

He and Burton Beals have helped me ' shape, trim, and improve every
chapter and have done so with the utmost tact, kindness, and
intelligence, never intruding on my own particular style.  Even when I
balked, I knew in my heart they were right.  To Daphne Bien, Fred
Hill's assistant, who left us just as we crossed the finish line, and
flew off to London.  How many of us will miss her!  Ed Sedarbaum and
Leslie Ellen handled the copyediting and found every comma, date and
clause I inadvertently put in the wrong place-or at the wrong time-(or
both) and I do appreciate it.  To Emily Remes, my legal angel, and to
the sales representatives who set out for the far corners of America,
carrying books, and came back, hopefully, empty-handed.

To my publicity team, Victoria Meyer and Joann Di Gennaro, and to the
"friends for a day"-my escorts on tour who always lead me patiently and
graciously around cities I have never seen before.

Again and again, to my much loved agents, Joan and Joe Foley.

Last of all, but truly most of all, I thank my readers.  You can never
know how much your letters mean to an author who has been chained to a
word processor for weeks on end.  Or how welcome your smiling faces and
supportive comments are when I am signing books in some mall,
somewhere.  You have given me that rarest of joys the chance to earn my
living doing something I really love.

Ann Rule.

	 the end.