I ignored the row of rocking chairs and entered the Lodge’s foyer. I approached a young black man—Curtis, per his name tag—at the information desk across the large reception area. He was kind and respectful toward my plight and request but lacked the authority to grant access to the security tapes. Instead, he passed me over to the manager, a Mr. Ogle, who wouldn’t arrive until 6:00 AM. “You’ll like him, and he’ll try to help. He’s the great, grandson of our founder.”
I thanked him and followed a sign pointing to the continental breakfast around the corner. Although my appetite had waned after my camera discovery, I still ate two biscuits with gravy, four slices of bacon, and a heaping portion of scrambled eggs. I think the coffee was the best I’ve ever had. I refilled my Styrofoam cup and walked outside to a stiff, uncomfortable rocking chair to wait until the manager arrived.
At 6:05, I joined Curtis at the front desk. He immediately introduced me to Austin Ogle, a man I guessed to be in his mid-forties. Tall and muscular with an untamed shock of black hair, he reminded me of Randall Radford, a high school classmate and member of the Flaming Five, a superstar team of basketball players who’d broken every record in the books.
“Curtis shared your situation. I’m sorry and want to help any way I can.” This type of empathy was rare in my experience. Rachel would label it as “miraculous.” In less than five minutes, Austin led me to a large conference room beside his office and installed a laptop computer before me. “This is a listing of camera number five’s Sunday recordings, in one-hour increments.” He said, pointing to a column on the left side of the screen. “Just click on the ones you want to watch.” Before leaving, my host shared his cell number and encouraged me to call if I needed help.
I immediately scrolled to the 7:00 to 7:59 PM hour and clicked PLAY. After fast-forwarding to 7:40, I waited. My hope was the Lodge’s camera—camera number five—would capture The Peddler Steakhouse’s parking lot and I could spot the man in a black overcoat who’d joined Lillian in returning to Stella and their back wall table. I knew from the Peddler’s inside camera—thanks to Chief Rickles—the two had entered that view at 7:55. I believed it likely he’d arrived by vehicle a few minutes earlier and, hopefully, parked in plain sight.
I spent the next ten minutes watching five or six couples exit The Peddler and only one couple enter. The shorter man in shorts and hiking boots wore a waist length ski jacket, and the taller woman anchored arm-in-arm at his side wore a snow-white dress my late wife called a jumper.
I lost my train of thought as I pondered why Rachel had appeared twice in my subconscious since I’d arrived at the Lodge. I was alternating between two plausible theories when I saw a tan colored SUV whose size reminded me of Ray’s Suburban pull into the perfect spot from camera five’s viewpoint. A man exited the driver’s side door and donned a black overcoat and matching hat. The passenger doors remained shut. The camera’s timer read, “7:46 PM.”
The man first started walking toward The Peddler’s entrance but suddenly returned to his vehicle. I couldn’t see his face given the hat and the downward angle of his head. Before opening the door, he stopped and scanned the parking lot, spending several seconds looking toward the Lodge’s front entrance. This was my landmark opportunity.
I clicked pause and removed my iPhone from the inside pocket of my jacket. I opened PHOTOS and scrolled to a shot of Alex Mandy Connor Ford had sent me during my twelve-hour nap. He’d somehow finagled it out of either Alex’s wife or Ted King. Connor wasn’t much of a chit-chatter.
I reactivated the recording. The man standing beside the tan SUV removed his hat and glasses (Rachel: “miraculous”) and intensified his stare. It was as though he had spotted the camera in the Lodge’s eve underneath the gabled dormer and wanted to share his identity. I compared his image to the photo on my iPhone. It had to be Alex Mandy.
He re-donned his hat, opened the driver’s door, and removed what had to be a pack of cigarettes since he lit one after re-closing the door. He smoked while ambling toward The Peddler’s front entrance. At 7:51, the man disappeared from the camera’s view. I imagined him taking his last draw and placing his stub in a disposal container all restaurants seemed to have. He would have entered through the giant double front doors, slid on his glasses if he hadn’t already, and walked to the restrooms. Maybe he’d seen Lillian exiting the Ladies restroom, and followed her back to Stella, seated and staring at the creek. I knew ‘Greg’ was Alex Mandy, and he was the key to finding Lillian.
It took five minutes to record on my iPhone what I’d just seen. I sent Austin a thank-you text and announced I’d found invaluable information. In my second text, I begged him to preserve camera five’s Sunday recordings, especially the 7:00 to 7:59 hour. I also disclosed I was leaving and would be in touch after I met with Chief Rickles.
***
It was 8:20 AM when I arrived the second time at the Gatlinburg Police Department. I had tried, unsuccessfully, to call Chief Rickles during my drive. I was sent to voicemail.
The receptionist told me he was in Knoxville on committee assignment planning the upcoming annual conference of the International Association of Chiefs of Police. Thankfully, he had left his apologies and instructions for me to contact Detective Tony Gass if I called or dropped by during his absence.
Gass was also unavailable. Something about a crime scene at a local grocery store. I briefly shared my dilemma with the sweet and kind receptionist and wrote a description of what I’d learned from the Bearskin Lodge, along with my cell number. She promised to relay my message. Like Curtis, she provided a sympathetic ear and a similar declaration: “Detective Gass will return your call and do everything possible to help you find Lillian and those responsible for her disappearance.” I was both disappointed and encouraged when I departed the police station.
Although Detective Gass and I talked multiple times over the next three days, they were ultimately a bust. This didn’t mean there weren’t positive steps taken. The detective used his friendship with The Peddler Steakhouse’s owner to start a newspaper and radio station blitz of Lillian’s disappearance. Austin, from the Lodge, soon joined the effort and offered a one-hundred-thousand-dollar reward for information that led to Lillian’s discovery. Unfortunately, none of the dozens of fantastical stories from locals looking for a quick hundred grand panned into anything helpful.
However, there was one discovery that provided Detective Gass and his team an evidential trail. It was a security camera at Laurel Point Resort, the very place Jane had mentioned at the campfire in describing ‘preacher man’s’ itinerary. The video showed a man who had to be Alex Mandy, entering and exiting the Laurel Point parking lot and exchanging his tan colored SUV for a white Ford Ranger. This had taken place on Sunday night a few minutes before midnight. To me, this was anything but positive. It was a heavy hammer blow to my growing fear and terror, made worse by me being an attorney. The fact pattern my legal mind—a veteran reader of hundreds if not thousands of criminal cases—painted was leading to a horrible conclusion. Regardless of how much I tried, I couldn’t ignore the signals. All pointed to the worst possible outcome.
Equally bad was the delayed news from the Day’s Inn hotel where I was staying and where I was convinced Lillian had been abducted. According to hotel management, their entire security system had shut down Sunday evening at 8:00 PM. They couldn’t explain why or how but believed it was the work of a hacker. I couldn’t help but think about Stella Newsome and Alex Mandy, aka ‘preacher man,’ wondering if they might be responsible for the security breach. How on earth could the pair have simply vanished? Thank goodness, Detective Gass was also working that angle. All this was truly unbelievable. I literally cried to Rachel for a miracle.
From Wednesday through Friday, it felt like I was riding a roller coaster, the fairground ride I’d always hated. Although I talked with Detective Gass multiple times per day, there was never a time I felt anything but fear and terror and desired the nightmare to end. The only relief I discovered, if that’s what you call it, was while sitting at Starbucks in the chair and at the table I imagined Lillian would have sat during our Sunday night 9:00 phone conversation. Assuming things hadn’t gone so tragically wrong.
The Pencil-Driven Life 