Aired June 28, 2014 – 08:00 PST
KATARINA WELLS, NWN1 REPORTER: And finally, tragedy shakes the small coastal town of Pier Pointe, where officers and residents have been left reeling from the shock of what appears to be a murder/suicide at a home once owned by the late Washington State congressman Terrance Snow.
The late-night emergency call was placed to authorities by the home’s current renter, bestselling true-crime writer and native New Yorker Lucas Graham. The hysterical Graham reported that his home had been broken into by a neighbor, a woman who Graham claimed was a devotee of the recently deceased cult leader Jeffrey Christopher Halcomb. The home, which had been occupied by Halcomb, his group of eight devotees, and Congressman Snow’s late daughter, Audra, from 1982 through March of 1983, has a history of attracting the attention of people with alternative views.
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CLARANCE ALBERTI, PIER POINTE RESIDENT: Yeah, everyone around these parts knew about that place. Most of us would stay well away. Lots of weirdos every now and again, all because of that house.
KATARINA WELLS, NWN1 REPORTER: When officers arrived on scene, Graham’s twelve-year-old daughter, Virginia, was found dead in the living room next to a neighbor, who police identified as Eloise James. Ms. James appeared to have ingested poison, the same manner of suicide of both Jeffrey Halcomb—his death occurring earlier that day at Lambert Correctional Facility—and his parishioners, who had died in the home thirty years earlier. Officers on the scene reported that a distraught Lucas Graham was covered in his own daughter’s blood, but are confident in his story of attempting to save her life.
OFFICER EDWARD MCGIBBON, PIER POINTE PD: When the resident mentioned Jeffrey Halcomb, we immediately contacted LCF to try to add the stories up. The front desk receptionist at the prison was familiar with Mr. Graham. We have evidence that Eloise James made frequent visits to Mr. Halcomb in the past few months. We’re in the process of obtaining a search warrant for her home to follow up on Mr. Graham’s claims that she really was a Halcomb devotee. We’re not ruling anything out yet, but we’re confident that Mr. Graham’s story is corroborated by the facts.
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KATARINA WELLS, NWN1 REPORTER: If the Jeffrey Halcomb connection isn’t a bizarre enough twist, early this morning Officer Joshua Morales of Lambert Correctional Facility was found dead at his residence. The officer seems to have stabbed himself in the throat with what appears to be a crucifix he had hanging in his home. This coincides with the artifact used in the death of Graham’s twelve-year-old daughter, suggesting that Morales was also more intimately involved with Jeffrey Halcomb than his job as a prison guard entailed. Officer Morales was the guard on duty when Halcomb took his own life. Lambert Correctional Facility has yet to comment on the case.
We will continue our coverage throughout the day as details unfold. Stay tuned for local weather after the break.
THE BOOK
LOU GAVE THE odd couple standing in front of his table a tentative smile and handed back their signed copy of Jeffrey Halcomb: I Am the Lamb. The Fifth Avenue Barnes & Noble was packed to the gills with readers, and his interview in USA Today hadn’t done much to thin out the crowd. The Halcomb case—from the suicide of Josh Morales to the deaths of Jeffrey, Echo, and Jeanie—had reignited public interest. Lou couldn’t have gotten better publicity if he had bargained his soul.
“You’re very brave,” said the woman. She pursed her plum-colored lips and pushed a few strands of black dyed hair behind her ear. “To switch from true crime to fiction, that’s a big deal. I mean, the whole based-on-a-true-story angle just gives the book such a boost. And writing this in first person . . .”
“Effective,” her male counterpart cut in. He was a good fifty pounds overweight, crushing a half-empty Starbucks Frappuccino cup against a faded Metallica T-shirt. “Creepy as hell, man. Stephen King stuff. Almost like you’re writing as Halcomb, huh? Totally effective.”
“Glad you enjoyed it,” Lou said.
“And the stuff about eternal life, do you really believe that?” The woman’s sudden intensity was endearing, but the dozens of piercings that littered her face made it hard to look her in the eye. Lou didn’t get it, just as he still didn’t quite get cell phones and the Internet and the popularity of reality TV. The psychiatrist had diagnosed him with a form of post-traumatic stress disorder. She said that, in order to deal with the loss of his daughter, he had blocked out his knowledge of the most everyday things. Most of those things were technological, and she couldn’t quite grasp why that was. But the mind is a tricky thing. Anything is possible with PTSD, she said. Just give it time. Things will get better.
But Lou didn’t need things to get better. Things were great. Caroline called him every now and again to scream-weep her way through her own grief. She blamed him entirely for the death of their daughter. Other than seething, she wanted nothing to do with him. Thank God. Mark—whom Lou had deduced was one of Lucas’s closest friends—tried to get in touch, but all it took was a simple I can’t handle this right now to start fading that particular friendship. It was incredible what you could blame on sorrow. Nobody could claim that Lou had changed without looking like an asshole. Of course he’d changed. Look at what he’d been through.
Besides, Lou didn’t want friends. He wanted a family.
“I lost my daughter,” Lou told the couple, his tone level, albeit a bit softer than before. “It’s easier to believe that she’s still around.” Grief was the ideal platform. Everyone wanted to reach out and relate. Everyone wanted to accommodate the sad, suffering poet. It broke down people’s walls. It made them vulnerable in ways they couldn’t imagine.
“And your friend, the cop . . .” the guy said.