A real Man of God Malice in Wonderland a real man of god

1986
Contents

3 A Real Man of God

8 Malice in Wonderland

A

REAL

MAN

OF

GOD

FLEMINGSBURG

1986


Billy Adams, the former rocker, was rolling.

The big preacher wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, and his voice rose and fell like a screaming guitar as he told his congregation why he was qualified to warn them of the evils of Elvis Presley, Queen and the Rolling Stones.

"I want you to know that I'm not just another preacher on the bandwagon," said Adams, who recorded a number of rock and country records in the 1950s and 1960s. "I've been out there.

Since he arrived in Flemingsburg in November, outsider Billy Adams has created a stir.

The local newspaper has been flooded with irate letters about Adams, 46, a silver-haired evangelist who has gained nationwide notoriety moving from city to city burning popular records he says contain satanic messages.

"We try to lift the lid off rock music and show what is causing the kids to respond to drugs the way they are," said Adams, a native of Paintsville.

Admittedly, that undertaking has not always met with approval.

He has been the target of bomb threats and hecklers in other cities. Since he arrived in Flemingsburg - he said the Lord told him to make his headquarters in the town of 2,700 - people have driven their cars past his Harbor of Peace Evangelic Center downtown "with their radios on real loud," he said. They also have thrown Playboy magazines and firecrackers at the church, a converted dry-goods store.

He has attracted a loyal following, however.

More than 110 people -- some from as far away as Ohio -- attended his service on rock music Friday night in downtown Flemingsburg.

But some members of the religious community have confessed to a gnawing distrust of Adams, a robust man with a round face.

"I think one morning, we'll all wake up and Mr. Adams will be gone," said Pauline Carr, a retired United Methodist minister and a Flemingsburg resident.

"I just don't go for all that outside show - burning the kids' records and tapes," she said.

The Rev. Norman Wasson, minister of the Flemingsburg Christian Church, defended the rights of his own children to listen to music they like.

"I have two boys who listen to rock music and enjoy it, and I have nothing against it," Wasson said.

After Adams conducted a record burning on a Fleming County farm in April, Wasson responded to the ensuing uproar in a church bulletin.

"Let's try to remember the New Testament teaching: 'Judge not,' and let's know that various people have various needs," Wasson wrote.

One Flemingsburg resident compared Adams to Jim Jones, the infamous leader of the ill-fated cult community in Guyana.

"I think he's another Jim Jones myself," said Alan Moore of Flemingsburg. "I don't think you'll hear anything different except from people who go to his church."

But there are many of those. One is Rosalie Moran, 43, who attended the record burning.

Adams estimates that "thousands of dollars worth" of records supplied by members of the Harbor of Peace youth group were burned in large oil drums.

"Billy had a bunch of them," Ms. Moran said, smiling. She drove 70 miles from Aberdeen, Ohio, to listen to Adams on Friday night preach about rock music and play records backward to disclose hidden messages.

"He preaches the word of God, and he lives it," she said. "You don't find this everywhere you go."

Ron Hamm, 25, of Morehead also attended the service, which lasted nearly 3 1/2 hours.

"I liked it," Hamm said.

"What I would say he's doing is a form of evangelism," he said. "This is the same way the early church was. It makes people feel uncomfortable."

William Marshal, 51, of Maysville jumped up and down, nodded and waved his hands over his head during the service.

"I think he's a real man of God," Marshall said. "This rock music is damning our young people's souls."

The service was animated.

Adams spoke in a loud, dramatic voice, slicing the air with his arms and hands every time he wanted to make a point.

"Some of you will be disappointed," Adams told the gathering. "Some will be glad, some will be mad - and others will say, 'How could I have been so blind. Now I know what's wrong with my children.' "

There was applause.

"I'm going deeper than Jerry Falwell," Adams said. "He's trying to get the White House. I'm trying to get every house."

There were amens.

Adams played some of his old records, smiling and chuckling as he heard himself crooning through the huge, black stereo speakers mounted high on the wall.

Live music also washed over the proceedings. Adams and Steve Gulley of Flemingsburg took turns singing gospel songs accompanied by a piano, a guitar and pounding drums.

The music was loud and fast.

"I don't see how he can condemn young people when he's doing the same thing," Ms. Carr said.

But Adams, who called the repetitive rhythm of rock music a "voodoo beat," said after the service that the drumbeat accompanying his gospel songs differed from that of rock 'n' roll.

"We're not as loud or repetitious," he said.

At one point during the service, one of the speakers quit working.

"You know, the enemy has his way sometimes, doesn't he?" Adams said, smiling wryly.

Adams told those attending that for a $10 donation, they could receive a copy of a tape he had made of several popular songs played backward.

About 13 people paid the $10 and received a tape.

"I'm gonna show you tonight," Adams said, "that rock music is nothing but a voodoo beat covered up with loud, screaming guitars."

Adams then played parts of songs by the Beatles, Led Zeppelin and Queen.

The music went forward, then backward.

The phrase "number nine" in the song "Revolution 9" on the Beatles' so-called White Album became "turn me on, dead man." And "another one bites the dust" in the song of the same name by Queen sounded like "start to smoke marijuana."

"That's eerie," said a man in the back row.

A woman in the fourth row just tapped her foot.

MALICE

IN

WONDERLAND

LANCASTER

1986

Randy Haight was sentenced to death yesterday, then stared at the judge through deep-set, red-rimmed eyes and said he thought he had been tricked.

In sentencing Haight to the electric chair for killing two Danville residents, Garrard Circuit Court Judge Robert Jackson became the first Kentucky judge to impose the death penalty after the commonwealth had recommended a prison term in a plea agreement.

Haight, 36, pleaded guilty in April to killing and robbing David Omer, 40, a businessman, and Patricia Vance, 33, a dental assistant.

In exchange for Haight's plea, Commonwealth's Attorney Harlan Veal had recommended that Haight receive two concurrent life prison sentences without the possibility of parole for 25 years.

But Jackson refused yesterday to honor the terms of the agreement, even after expressing concern that he would be setting a precedent.

"You may be the only person ever treated differently," Jackson said, peering down from the bench at Haight.

Haight, wearing a light blue shirt and shackles on his legs and arms, glared back at the judge.

"I think I was tricked into this here," Haight said, tapping his foot. "I think that's what was done."

Haight, who will live on Death Row in Eddyville while his case is appealed, becomes the 29th man awaiting execution in Kentucky, according to a spokeswoman for the Office of Public Advocacy.

There are no women on Death Row.

The death sentence, which will be automatically appealed to the state Supreme Court, was announced in a packed courtroom in the Garrard County Courthouse shortly before noon yesterday.

"This wasn't totally unexpected," said Kenneth Taylor, one of two public defenders who represented Haight. "But I'm very disappointed. Even though I firmly believe it will be reversed, I think this case will be considered a mistake."

Taylor said he thought Jackson eventually would regret the decision, even though "he may have made political hay."

Some relatives and friends of the victims' attended the emotionally charged proceeding. Relatives and friends of Haight's also were in the courtroom.

Tempers flared when John Vance, the husband of one of the victims, came face to face with Betty Smith, Haight's mother, in the hallway outside the courtroom after the sentencing. A brief exchange of heated words at close range was broken up by an attorney.

Jeanne Omer, the sister of David Omer, dabbed at red eyes.

"He wanted a deal," Miss Omer said, referring to Haight.

"He felt like he'd been given a deal, and like he should have had a deal. But David and Patricia wanted a deal and he didn't give it to them."

Haight escaped from the Johnson County Jail in Paintsville on Aug. 18, 1985. He fatally shot Omer and Ms. Vance four days later.

During a massive manhunt for Haight on Aug. 23, 1985, Lexington police officer Roy Mardis was killed by a bullet from a state trooper's rifle in a Mercer County cornfield.

Vance, who is a state trooper, said he did not want to comment on the sentencing of Haight.

But Miss Omer, who wore a tag that said "Citizens and Victims for Justice Reform," said she thought "Haight was well represented . . . David and Patricia were not.

"The judge was their only representative."

Miss Omer said her family had written letters to Judge Jackson about the case.

Jackson said he had received about seven letters but denied succumbing to public pressure.

Susan Omer, the ex-wife of David Omer, said she thought Jackson showed courage.

"I think we ought to thank the judge for standing up for what the people and the families of the victims really wanted," she said.

A number of Lancaster residents, their interest piqued by news coverage of the Haight case, also attended.

Louise Bolton of Lancaster moved to a front-row seat in the courtroom to get a better view of Haight.

"I've never seen him up close before," she said. "I just want to see what he looks like."

Ms. Bolton said she wanted to "see justice done."

Betty Smith, who paced in front of the courthouse before the sentencing of her son, said she was convinced of his innocence.

"No, he didn't do it," she said, drawing on a cigarette and clutching a newspaper. "I raised him. I know more about him than anybody."

Jackson voiced a different opinion of Haight. During the sentencing, he said he was unimpressed by the "history, character and condition" of Haight, who has been convicted of 31 felonies in three states.

Haight showed no emotion when he heard he was to die in the electric chair.

But Ernie Lewis, one of his attorneys, did.

Lewis launched into loud criticism of the death sentence, calling it "arbitrary and capricious."

"You gave no credence to the man who has been elected to represent the commonwealth of Kentucky," Lewis said, referring to Veal and his recommendation of a prison sentence for Haight.

Veal would not comment.

"This reminds us," Lewis said, "of Alice in Wonderland: Let's lop off his head and then have the trial."

But Jackson said that aggravating circumstances, including first-degree armed robbery, made the murders worthy of capital punishment.

"The nature and circumstances of the crime are, to say the least, bad," he said.

At a hearing Thursday, Haight said he had not believed Jackson would sentence him to die because the judge had been a lay preacher and devoutly religious, other inmates told him. Jackson had never before issued a death sentence.

"I don't want to impose my religious beliefs on the law," Jackson said in an interview late yesterday. "A person of that attitude would be doing less than their job, anyway. It would be an obvious conflict."

Jackson, who is a former Lexington police officer, said he was not bothered by being the first judge to ignore a plea agreement recommendation in a murder case.

"That's the law," he said. "I'm just funny enough to know you have a duty and obligation to apply the law."

1987

Contents
15 The Last Purple Heart

19 Mississippi Mystery

27 The Forgotten Family

THE

LAST

PURPLE

HEART

LEXINGTON

1987


You could see the sorrow on Elizabeth Short's face in her reflection on the black granite war memorial.

Her son's name was chiseled into the stone.

James Everitte Short was one of 50 Fayette County men honored in Central Park yesterday during the dedication of a monument to those killed during the Vietnam War.

Short was 19 and had only a month left to serve in Vietnam when he was killed on guard duty in 1968. He had been injured earlier in the war, but returned to combat.

"I have two Purple Hearts," his mother said yesterday as she stood in front of the memorial. Flakes from a gentle snow collected in her hair.

"I wish," she continued, her voice breaking, "I hadn't gotten the last one."

The dedication ceremony, which lasted about 35 minutes, drew hundreds of people to the corner of Main and Limestone streets.

The crowd included veterans, family members and friends of those killed in the war as well as interested onlookers. The veterans marched to the park before the ceremony.

Gen. William C. Westmoreland, who commanded American troops in Vietnam and advised the South Vietnamese military for more than four years, spoke briefly.

Westmoreland, who received a standing ovation from the families of those killed in the war, said he was "deeply honored to join with so many to honor men who gave their lives for so worthy a cause."

"Few have had the anguish that has been mine but the families" of those who died in Vietnam, he said.

He said the veterans of the war had, until recently, been "abused . . . and neglected by their nation."

"Thank God the worn and tired attitudes of a decade ago are now history," Westmoreland said.

The retired general called American involvement in the war in Vietnam "one of man's most noble crusades."

Also participating in the ceremony were Lexington Mayor Scotty Baesler, U.S. Sen. Wendell Ford, U.S. Rep. Larry Hopkins and members of the Vietnam War Memorial Committee, which raised nearly $20,000 in donations for the monument.

James Overstreet, a Vietnam veteran, said he thought people were beginning to see the war in a different light.

Another Vietnam veteran, Larry McDaniel, agreed.

"You can come out now and say, 'I'm proud to be a Vietnam veteran,' " he said. "For a long time, you didn't."

Overstreet said he attended the dedication to see whether the names of any of his friends were listed on the monument.

Anita and Leroy Butcher of Lexington lost their son, Bruce Edward Butcher, in the war. "He was killed on a Thursday," Mrs. Butcher said.

Bruce was 20 when he died on April 15, 1971. He had been married less than a year. His wife has since moved to Florida, remarried and had two children.

Mrs. Butcher said she had "very mixed emotions" about the dedication.

"I think this is a tribute that's long overdue," Butcher said.

"After all this time, it doesn't get any easier."

Four helicopters from the Kentucky National Guard in Frankfort rattled overhead in salute shortly before the ceremony.

Construction workers high on the concrete framework of the Park Plaza Apartments next to the park stopped to watch the dedication, as did a number of passers-by, one of whom was James Kolasa.

Kolasa, 22, said had had been interested in the war memorial project.

"I've been keeping up with this for a while," Kolasa said, leaning against his bicycle. "I think it's a really good thing. I'm kind of pleased with the city for doing it."

Kolasa said he thought the public attitude toward the war and those who fought in it had changed.

"I don't know that they support the war so much, but it seems the people who fought in it are being backed more these days."

A large group of Vietnamese refugees stood in the park holding yellow signs with red lettering that said "Veterans Your Cause Was Noble" and "We Are Grateful To The Vietnam Veterans."

Hoa Le, 40, of Frankfort, was among them. He said the Vietnamese were members of the Vietnamese Association of the Bluegrass, which had donated money for the memorial.

"This is a good occasion for us to show gratefulness to our American friends who sacrificed life for freedom -- not only of Vietnam, but of every country under communism," he said.

Thanson Le, also a Vietnamese refugee, agreed and praised the monument.

"It's a great event for the veteran and for us," he said.

Vietnam veteran Ron Hyden said he "thought it was about time somebody did something."

But Milton Bailey, also a Vietnam veteran, saw the memorial as something different.

"It is a reminder to the nation," he said, "of what it costs each time we try to engage in a war effort.

"We need to be more cautious where we send our troops."

MISSISSIPPI

MYSTERY

OXFORD, Miss.

1987

When life was good and the future was as bright as a Mississippi afternoon, Douglas Goff Hodgkin would sit on the porch of Jean Elizabeth Gillies' apartment and play his guitar.

They had met in the usual way, their lives merging in a college classroom. Later, they would part in such a manner as to make this entire town shudder. But once, for just a while, there was only the here and now for this boyfriend and girlfriend, and they basked in the warmth of love and the Deep South as if they had forever.

Both Hodgkin and Gillies knew how good life could be. She had come from a well-to-do family in Magnolia, Miss., he from a well-to-do family in Winchester, Ky. Hodgkin’s father is president of Clark County Bank, which is owned by First Security Corp. of Kentucky in Lexington.

It was only coincidentally that Hodgkin and Miss Gillies both chose to attend college in tiny Oxford, home of Ole Miss, towering pines and William Faulkner.

But once at Ole Miss, they quickly became close. The two students, music lovers who met in music class, soon became romantically involved.

The story of their relationship, however, turned as tragic as a Faulkner novel in the early morning hours of Friday, May 2, 1986.

The only song that plays for them now is that which peels forth from the clock of the big, white courthouse on the town square -- the same courthouse where so many of Faulkner’s novels are set.

This is where, beginning Monday, the 22-year-old Hodgkin will go on trial for his life -- accused of murdering Gillies, a petite, 24-year-old graduate student, in her apartment at 602 South Lamar last spring.

Like his father and brother before him, Doug Hodgkin attended preparatory school and college hundreds of miles from Winchester.

Hodgkin's only year in school in Clark County was first grade at Hannah McClure Elementary. He then was enrolled at Sayre, a prestigious private school in downtown Lexington.

Libby Sherman, a teacher at Sayre, remembered having Hodgkin in a history class. He was an average student and not much of an athlete, she said. But he was a "fun student to be around."

"I think he was interested in history, but his main concern wasn't making straight A's," she said.

Leigh Bradford, a friend of Hodgkin's at Ole Miss, explained: "He really didn't study that much because he was so smart."

Hodgkin left Sayre in 1979 and finished his education at Darlington, a preparatory school in Rome, Ga.

While he was in Rome, Hodgkin's parents, Jane and William, divorced after 20 years of marriage. It was 1982, and Hodgkin was 16.

A year later, Hodgkin graduated from Darlington. He would stay in the South to attend college.

At first, the brothers of Sigma Alpha Epsilon at Ole Miss liked Doug Hodgkin. He was initiated into the fraternity as a freshman.

Les Brewer, a waiter at Syd & Harry's restaurant in downtown Oxford who once lived in an apartment above Hodgkin's, said that when a friend pledged the fraternity a year later, he was rushed by Hodgkin. Hodgkin wore a coat and tie and was "like, real big in the fraternity," Brewer said.

But Hodgkin, who once lived at the SAE house, became inactive in the fraternity during his sophomore year.

"I think a lot of it was it's hard living with that many people," a friend, Blythe Christopher, said. "And he's quiet, and a lot of the fraternity guys are kind of boisterous."

Another friend, Nancy Buratto, said she remembered Hodgkin as "kind of standoffish -- different from a lot of guys around here, Greeks in general."

Miss Buratto said she thought Hodgkin became uninterested in the fraternity after developing other interests: "playing his guitar, and, I guess, Jeannie."

Jeannie Gillies had graduated with honors from Belhaven College in Mississippi in 1984 with a bachelor's degree in education. After working as a waitress at several restaurants in Jackson, Miss., she had moved to Oxford to begin graduate work in speech pathology in January 1986.

Miss Gillies was "just a very personable, happy, relaxed person -- very bright, reliable and dependable," said Leah Lorendo, Miss Gillies' graduate school adviser.

Hodgkin, on the other hand, was quiet. Frequently the only company he kept was a guitar, Brewer said.

But he was also friendly and polite, said Kim Culver, who cut his hair regularly at Confections, a barber and styling shop in Oxford.

Neighbors and friends remember him wearing tie-dyed shirts and playing the guitar -- he especially liked Grateful Dead songs, they said. He also liked to work on his motorcycle.

Walt Hawver, a journalism professor at Ole Miss who taught Hodgkin in a photojournalism class, recalled an average student.

"All I can remember is he was an unassuming type of person," Hawver said. "He usually came into class holding his (motorcycle) helmet."

Ole Miss student Leigh Bradford, who dated Hodgkin once, described him as "a lot of fun." He was popular with girls, she said.

Their date consisted of a movie and a drive. "I can remember," Miss Bradford said, "telling my roommate how nice he was. I thought he was one of the nicest and most gentle guys I'd ever met."

Miss Bradford said Hodgkin had invited her to see him play in a band with Miss Gillies in a talent competition at Ole Miss three weeks before classes ended.

"He told me he was in the band, and he had mentioned that girl, Jeannie, was in it," she said.
Asemester of classes was over at Ole Miss, finals had yet to begin, and Hodgkin and Miss Gillies were living it up.

Ike LaRue noticed nothing unusual about the couple as Hodgkin and Miss Gillies stood chatting in Syd & Harry's, a popular restaurant and bar across from the Lafayette County Courthouse on the square in downtown Oxford.

LaRue, who was manager of the kitchen at Syd & Harry's then, remembered only that the two were not dancing when he saw them standing near the bar about 12:30 a.m. on Friday, May 2, 1986. As usual, live music was pounding through the rustic, wood-and-brick restaurant.

Hodgkin and Miss Gillies left moments later, turning left as they walked out the door and heading straight down Van Buren Street to an apartment at the back of a pale gray frame house two blocks away.

Ole Miss art students and faculty members were having a keg party at the house.

"It was an end-of-the-year party, just a real low-key party" with music and volleyball, said Miss Buratto, who was among the students there.

"Finals were starting the next day, so it was nothing wild."

Miss Buratto saw Hodgkin and Miss Gillies there just after 12:30 a.m.

"They had just come from the bars, and they both just seemed pretty normal to me," Miss Buratto said. "Later on, I was told they left pretty early because they were tired."

But Hodgkin and Miss Gillies did not go home immediately. Robert Whiteaker, the owner of Pizza Den, a 21-year-old institution on University Avenue, said Hodgkin entered the restaurant with a woman about 12:55 a.m. to pick up a carry-out order of sandwiches.

Whiteaker knew Hodgkin, he said, but was not familiar with Miss Gillies.

Hodgkin had been a regular at the Pizza Den for three years, Whiteaker said. Whiteaker liked him.

"Every time I've seen him, he seemed like good people," he said. "I never did see him have any trouble with anybody or acting up or anything. He always seemed like he was kind of quiet."

The last night Whiteaker saw Hodgkin and Miss Gillies, he noticed nothing unusual about either of them.

"She was just sitting up there" waiting for Hodgkin, Whiteaker said, pointing to a booth at the front of the restaurant.

"She seemed all right. He ordered and was standing up here at the counter talking about moving to Boston when school was out," Whiteaker said.

Friends said Hodgkin had been accepted to the Berklee College of Music in Boston for the summer and was looking forward to moving northeast.

Whiteaker said he thought Hodgkin had been drinking, "but he didn't seem different than anybody else who comes in here that time of the night."

Hodgkin and Miss Gillies left the Pizza Den just after 1 a.m., Whiteaker said. According to autopsy reports, Miss Gillies was killed at her apartment sometime in the next few hours.

"There's people who say they think he did it," Whiteaker said, gazing out the window at the far end of the restaurant.

"I don't think he did."


The Gillies murder is drama, Deep South style.

The tragedy was a topic of conversation popular with a number of people in Oxford, said Kim Culver.

"Oh, everyone in this town," she said. "Let me tell you, that was the talk."

But the initial horror gave way to fascination, which gave way to rumor, which in turn has succumbed to an uneasy hush. Many people in Oxford no longer like to talk about Doug Hodgkin or Jeannie Gillies.

Members of the Sigma Alpha Epsilon fraternity at Ole Miss refuse to talk about Hodgkin, saying they cannot remember him or simply do not want his name associated with theirs.

A court-imposed gag order affecting police, attorneys and other officials has left the case shrouded in mystery.

The clamp on publicity has enabled the trial to remain in Lafayette County, and it will be held in the white courthouse, outside of which William Faulkner used to sit on shaded benches.

Faulkner wrote of tragedies and trials like this, said Willie Morris, a well-known Mississippi author and writer-in-residence at Ole Miss who considered writing a book about the case.

"You have this Faulkner ambiance here," Morris said. "And that trial is going to be held in the same courthouse where so many of Faulkner's fictional trials were held."


Across the street from Syd & Harry's, and less than a half-mile from the place he went to get his hair cut, Doug Hodgkin will go on trial for his life on Monday.

He is charged with capital murder in Miss Gillies' death and could receive the death penalty if convicted.

Someone sexually assaulted Jean Gillies in her apartment in the early morning of Friday, May 2, 1986. She was beaten brutally about the head and body, then strangled with bare hands, according to autopsy reports.

Authorities think she died in the early morning hours -- not long after she had gone home.

But it was after 10 a.m. that Friday when police were notified of her death by emergency personnel. Someone had called an ambulance moments earlier, and when police arrived at the yellow frame apartment house a half-mile from the courthouse, they found Hodgkin, who was not wearing shoes or a shirt.

When he was taken into custody, Hodgkin was due for a haircut, Ms. Culver said.

And later that day, he also was supposed to have performed in a skit with Les Brewer in an acting class at Ole Miss.

Come Monday morning, Ms. Culver will be thinking of Hodgkin.

"My thoughts'll be with him," she said. "I'm sorry. It's hard for me to believe.

"Some people have said, 'Kimmy, would you cut his hair now?' And I said 'suuuure.' "

Miss Bradford visited Hodgkin in the Lafayette County Jail. He has since been released on bond and has waited in Winchester for his trial.

"We were both a little, I guess, nervous," she said. "It was kind of awkward. I didn't know what to talk to him about. We talked about classes.

"He seemed fine."