Officers tore into every room of the four-bedroom trailer, rummaging through dresser drawers and closets, looking beneath beds, pulling furniture away from the walls. They searched with a fine-toothed comb. Due to the noise, a sleepy Brenda James abruptly woke. Rubbing her eyes and carrying a teddy bear as old as she, the bewildered teenager who stood six foot, made her way down the narrow hall and through a path of blue uniforms to stand beside her parents.
A young recruit came in holding up a pair of shoes. “These were in the closet of the master bedroom.”
“Those are mine,” Helen said, “but I thought they were disposed of.”
“Oh, really! You don’t look like you wear a size-5 shoe,” Malloy said, eyeing Helen’s large feet. “But Lorena wore a size-5, didn’t she?”
“These shoes fit the description a witness gave. They are evidence,” Thomas said gloating, before dropping the shoes into an evidence bag.
“There ain’t no evidence here, you bastards. Them kid’s wuz killed in the cornfield,” Vernon yelled.
Glancing at one another and realizing Vernon had just made an incriminating statement, Malloy asked, “What makes you think the kids were killed inside the cornfield?”
Glancing at his wife, Vernon explained, “The newspaper said west end area. The cornfield is the most logical place for killin’ someone. It’s seen more sin then a French whore.”
“The cornfield was a dump site. The kids were killed here, and all the evidence is on your property,” Thomas claimed.
Malloy turned to his men. “After you’re done with the trailer, search the barn, both vehicles, and the strip pit on the edge of the property.”
“Now that strip pit aint even mine,” declared Vernon.