portions of the brain into mush.
The surgeon sensed immediately that the prognosis was extremely poor, that she was very close to death and probably would not survive for long. But he would do what he could. As he went to work, his immediate concern was to remove the bits of skin, bone, and hair the bullet had driven into the sensitive brain as it pierced her skull.
At 10:50, an hour and twenty minutes after surgery began, an operating room nurse sewed up the surprisingly small incision on the back of Rozanne’s shaved head and wheeled her into the intensive care unit. She was classified as living because a machine was doing her breathing for her. But she was brain dead, which meant that her brain had ceased performing its vital functions. The condition was irreversible. Even if she lived, she likely would be nothing more than a vegetable.
7
While some officers began working door-to-door through the neighborhood, others began a methodical search of the house looking for clues. It was this group that ran into the first roadblocks; the inspection produced precious little. There were no fingerprints, no shoeprints, no cigarette butts, no empty glasses, no drops of semen or saliva—none of the usual things that might provide a lead to the identity of the murderer. The only blood found in the house was Rozanne’s, and there was remarkably little of that considering the brutality of the crime. The only clues of significance in the house were the shell casing that Duggan had first spotted on Rozanne’s pillow and the short lengths of rope that remained twisted around the bedposts.
The shell casing from the house, the other shell casing retrieved by Officer May, the two slugs, and the rope would be all the officers would have to work with for a long, long time. Overlooked as a possible clue—indeed considered part of the house’s natural decor—was a small, inexpensive potted plant sitting on the floor against the wall by the front door. The significance of that pot would not become apparent for more than five years, and then its import would have to be spelled out to Detective McGowan.
As the investigators began straggling back, they also had little to add. No one had reported seeing an adult entering or leaving Rozanne’s all day, although two neighborhood girls claimed they had seen Rozanne’s son, Little Peter, playing peacefully in the front yard that afternoon. The remarkable thing about that bit of intelligence was the fact that the boy had been alone. According to the neighbors, Rozanne never allowed her son outside except under her direct supervision.
One of those who had reported seeing young Peter was the teenager from across the street, Page Billings, the same neighbor who had permitted Gailiunas to use her telephone earlier in the evening. The other was Dana Keller, a junior high school student who lived several doors away. Dana reported seeing young Peter outside at 3:45 and Page saw him at 5:20. Those reports puzzled McGowan.
Once Gailiunas’s lawyer arrived, the doctor told Corley that he had been at home that evening waiting for Rozanne to bring their son to his house for dinner, but the boy called at six-fifteen and said Rozanne was “sick.” Realizing that the situation was urgent, Gailiunas said, he asked his mother, to whom he had been talking when Little Peter’s call clicked in, to telephone the paramedics and direct them to Rozanne’s house. He denied being at the house earlier in the day.
“Ever since she moved out,” Gailiunas added gloomily, “I was afraid something like this was going to happen.”
“Who do you think did it?” Corley had asked.
Gailiunas did not pause. “I think it was either Larry Aylor or his wife, Joy,” he said.
When Larry’s lawyer arrived, he came barging into the small interrogation room in which Larry was sitting and slammed the door behind him.
Slapping his card down on the table, he leaned close to Larry and said, “All right, boy, I’m going
The surgeon sensed immediately that the prognosis was extremely poor, that she was very close to death and probably would not survive for long. But he would do what he could. As he went to work, his immediate concern was to remove the bits of skin, bone, and hair the bullet had driven into the sensitive brain as it pierced her skull.
At 10:50, an hour and twenty minutes after surgery began, an operating room nurse sewed up the surprisingly small incision on the back of Rozanne’s shaved head and wheeled her into the intensive care unit. She was classified as living because a machine was doing her breathing for her. But she was brain dead, which meant that her brain had ceased performing its vital functions. The condition was irreversible. Even if she lived, she likely would be nothing more than a vegetable.
7
While some officers began working door-to-door through the neighborhood, others began a methodical search of the house looking for clues. It was this group that ran into the first roadblocks; the inspection produced precious little. There were no fingerprints, no shoeprints, no cigarette butts, no empty glasses, no drops of semen or saliva—none of the usual things that might provide a lead to the identity of the murderer. The only blood found in the house was Rozanne’s, and there was remarkably little of that considering the brutality of the crime. The only clues of significance in the house were the shell casing that Duggan had first spotted on Rozanne’s pillow and the short lengths of rope that remained twisted around the bedposts.
The shell casing from the house, the other shell casing retrieved by Officer May, the two slugs, and the rope would be all the officers would have to work with for a long, long time. Overlooked as a possible clue—indeed considered part of the house’s natural decor—was a small, inexpensive potted plant sitting on the floor against the wall by the front door. The significance of that pot would not become apparent for more than five years, and then its import would have to be spelled out to Detective McGowan.
As the investigators began straggling back, they also had little to add. No one had reported seeing an adult entering or leaving Rozanne’s all day, although two neighborhood girls claimed they had seen Rozanne’s son, Little Peter, playing peacefully in the front yard that afternoon. The remarkable thing about that bit of intelligence was the fact that the boy had been alone. According to the neighbors, Rozanne never allowed her son outside except under her direct supervision.
One of those who had reported seeing young Peter was the teenager from across the street, Page Billings, the same neighbor who had permitted Gailiunas to use her telephone earlier in the evening. The other was Dana Keller, a junior high school student who lived several doors away. Dana reported seeing young Peter outside at 3:45 and Page saw him at 5:20. Those reports puzzled McGowan.
Once Gailiunas’s lawyer arrived, the doctor told Corley that he had been at home that evening waiting for Rozanne to bring their son to his house for dinner, but the boy called at six-fifteen and said Rozanne was “sick.” Realizing that the situation was urgent, Gailiunas said, he asked his mother, to whom he had been talking when Little Peter’s call clicked in, to telephone the paramedics and direct them to Rozanne’s house. He denied being at the house earlier in the day.
“Ever since she moved out,” Gailiunas added gloomily, “I was afraid something like this was going to happen.”
“Who do you think did it?” Corley had asked.
Gailiunas did not pause. “I think it was either Larry Aylor or his wife, Joy,” he said.
When Larry’s lawyer arrived, he came barging into the small interrogation room in which Larry was sitting and slammed the door behind him.
Slapping his card down on the table, he leaned close to Larry and said, “All right, boy, I’m going
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