I left Grace’s apartment at six in the morning, drove to Walmart, and purchased some inexpensive fishing gear and some camping gear. It was all for show. All for the cameras. It was an alibi, albeit a flimsy one, because if everything went right, not a single living soul on this fishing-camping trip would see or talk to me. The drive through the rain to Cowen was miserable. The roads were winding, narrow, and full of potholes. I took the long way, getting off the interstate at Kingsport, Tennessee, and heading up back roads through Tennessee, Virginia, Kentucky, and West Virginia, because I didn’t want to go through any tollbooths, and the shorter routes involved tollbooths. Tollbooths had cameras.
At mile marker 41 on Interstate 81, not far from Greeneville, Tennessee, I pulled into a rest stop. I went into the bathroom and closed myself into a stall, carrying a shaving kit that contained the beard, a small mirror, some adhesive, and the glasses I’d bought. I brushed the adhesive on my face, rubbed it around, let it dry, and then carefully placed the beard around my mouth and up to my sideburns. The color matched my hair almost perfectly, and it actually looked extremely realistic. I put the glasses on and walked out of the stall. I looked in the mirror. All I needed was a cap—which I had in the front seat of the car—and nobody would recognize me.
The drive took almost seven hours, which meant I arrived in the hell-on-earth town known as Cowen, West Virginia, between one thirty and two in the afternoon. The place was full of run-down houses and trailers. There was an auto-parts store, a funeral home, a couple of small convenience stores, several churches, and a smattering of bars and fraternal organizations like the Moose Club and a VFW. It reeked of depression and poverty, and the low, gray skies and drizzling rain only intensified the impression. I drove around, familiarized myself with Sammy’s tavern, and drove by the address Pappy had given me. The green Ford truck he said belonged to Donnie Frazier’s girlfriend was parked in the driveway of the run-down gray trailer. There were trash bags strewn about the yard, along with an old washer and dryer and a rusted-out car sitting on concrete blocks. The trailer sat on a gentle grade. There were trailers within fifty feet on both sides, probably members of Frazier’s girlfriend’s family. I saw no fewer than four Doberman Pinschers running free among the three trailers. If I was going to kill Frazier and Beane—and I had every intention of doing so—it would have to be in the parking lot of the bar.
After hanging around Cowen for an hour or so, I drove another twenty minutes to Webster Springs and checked into a small hotel there, wearing the ball cap, the beard, and the glasses. Again, I used the fake ID and paid cash for one night. If I wasn’t able to kill Frazier and Beane on Friday night, I’d check in to a different hotel later and kill them on Saturday. The hotel clerk, an elderly woman who I knew would more than likely be shown my photograph—sans the disguise—by the police within a week or so, barely paid attention.
I went to my room, unpacked my things, and began obsessively cleaning the Beretta. Every time I’d used it at the range, I’d cleaned it before I left. I’d become extremely proficient with the Beretta. At ten to fifteen yards, which is where I guessed my targets would be when I cut loose on them, I could pretty much put a bullet wherever I wanted. I’d practiced moving, and I’d practiced in the rain and wind. I’d practiced in low light but not at night. I’d initially used only the traditional factory sights, but I’d later added Crimson Trace laser sights to the pistol because I’d read they would improve accuracy in darkness and awkward shooting positions. And I wanted to be sure I killed both of those sonsofbitches, no matter what the conditions were.
Once I was finished cleaning the pistol, I drove a couple of miles down the road and found a fast food restaurant, where I ordered at the drive-through and took the food back to my room. I flipped on the television and ate the greasy burger and fries, and then, out of the blue, I fell sound asleep. I awoke four hours later without even having dreamed. It was the first time in weeks I’d slept for that long without having a nightmare, and I could only believe that it was because I’d found the peace of mind Grace had mentioned the night before. I’d actually traveled several hundred miles to commit two murders, and knowing I was really going to do it made me feel better.
I stayed in my room all night and until 11:00 a.m., which was checkout time, the next morning. I was extremely careful about what I touched, and I carefully wiped down everything to clear it of fingerprints, just in case. I thought about DNA—hair, sweat, fingernails, flakes of skin—but I decided I’d just have to live with the risk. Even if, by some miracle, the cops managed to track me to that room and got some DNA that matched mine, it still didn’t prove I’d killed anyone. It proved only that I was within twenty miles of the crime scene the night before the murders and earlier that day.
I’d slept very little and spent most of the time visualizing how I would handle myself when Frazier and Beane came out of the bar. Would I say anything to them? No need, I decided, because within seconds, they would be dead. I thought about justice quite a bit and whether what I was doing was right or wrong, but ultimately I convinced myself that justice was nothing more than a state-sponsored approach to revenge that used laws drafted by politicians to justify their actions. I was simply acting alone, doing what needed to be done without state sponsorship. They would call me a vigilante. I would think of myself as an avenging angel.
I checked to make sure the beard still looked natural. It was loose in a few spots, so I decided to take it off, shave, and reattach it. When I was finished, it looked perfect. I left the hotel and drove through Cowen two more times that day. It was so small I didn’t want to seem conspicuous. I figured out where I was going to park the Monte Carlo—on the street in front of a NAPA auto-parts store a quarter mile from Sammy’s bar—and then I decided to go into Sammy’s and grab some takeout, just so I could get a look inside the place.
I parked the car a couple of blocks away and walked to the bar. I checked both the outside and inside for security cameras and was relieved to discover there were none. The place was tiny. There were six stools at the bar. Two of the bar stools were occupied by men. There were three booths against the front wall to the right when you entered through the side of the building—all empty—and there was a pool table, a jukebox, an old-style pinball machine, and a dance floor that would accommodate two couples, as long as nobody was obese.