McCord home. They wanted to see what it was Jessica had been so vocal about, and determined to keep from them. The fact of the matter was—at least from the side of the fence where law enforcement stood—that if Jessica did not have anything to hide, and Alan and Terra, as she herself had been so adamantly certain of, had never been inside her home, why wouldn’t she willingly allow law enforcement to have a look?
After being stopped the previous day, the HPD followed Albert Bailey again. During that second tail, they witnessed him drive behind Uncle Bob’s Self-Storage on Citation Drive for a second time, then take off back home. Albert was questioned later on that day and asked about the couch. After some prodding, Albert fessed up and told the Bureau where he had dumped it.
Asked why he did this, Albert said, “Jessica told me to.”
Williams and Vance found the couch near Citation Drive, next to a large Dumpster. The couch was “turned up on its back . . . sitting next to” that Dumpster, Williams said later, “against a fence . . . upside down so the back would have been toward the fence.”
The backing of the couch—what you would rest up against when you sat down—had been torn off. Actually, investigators observed, it was “cut out.” It was a fairly new couch. Moreover, it was one of those sofa beds. But the mattress, along with the cushions, was also missing.
The timing of all this was incredibly suspect to investigators.
Williams and Vance looked through the Dumpster, hoping to find the remains of the couch or the cushions.
Nothing.
The two investigators went into a nearby building and spoke to several people who were there that previous afternoon when Bailey had dumped it. But they all said the same thing: “We never saw the couch with any cushions.”
Williams ordered the couch to be picked up and brought in. Forensics needed to go over it. There were a few stains (dark spots) on one of the armrests. With a quick spray of luminol, it was determined those stains were, in fact, blood. The money was on whether it was Alan’s, Terra’s or a mixture of both their blood.
That afternoon, Williams heard the warrant had finally come through. HPD investigators had armed themselves and were headed over to the McCord house on Myrtlewood. The thought and speculation driving the search was that it wasn’t going to be a pretty scene. Jeff McCord was a cop. That meant he had weapons. The McCords seemed like hostile, uncomfortable and tactless people. What were they going to do if they felt threatened?
Near one o’clock, on the afternoon of February 17, 2002, Jessica and Jeff walked out the front door of their Myrtlewood Drive home. The look on their faces before they spotted the police made it seem as though it were any other day. Jessica carried her youngest child in her arms. Jeff held the door for her.
No sooner had they stepped onto the front steps did she and Jeff hear some sort of a commotion going on around them.
A ruckus.
Several police officers, Jessica explained later, came hurrying around the corner, guns drawn, pointed at her and Jeff. They were “yelling” and “screaming,” Jessica claimed. “Hands above your head . . . right now.”
The focus was on Jeff, who had his “duty belt” with him. Jeff packed a service revolver.
“Put the belt down,” one cop yelled. It was not hard to tell that the cop meant what he said.
Jeff was startled by this.
“Back up toward us, with your back facing us, and hand the officer your weapon, sir.”
The tension was high and tight. Jessica stood, not knowing what to do or how to react. She was troubled by such a show of might. The HPD wanted to make an impression, make it clear who was in charge. But Jessica wasn’t getting it.
What was happening? Were they there to arrest Jessica and Jeff? What was going on? Jessica had no idea.
Or did she?
The McCords’ dog barked erratically, crazily. Jumped around. Ran up to the fence in
After being stopped the previous day, the HPD followed Albert Bailey again. During that second tail, they witnessed him drive behind Uncle Bob’s Self-Storage on Citation Drive for a second time, then take off back home. Albert was questioned later on that day and asked about the couch. After some prodding, Albert fessed up and told the Bureau where he had dumped it.
Asked why he did this, Albert said, “Jessica told me to.”
Williams and Vance found the couch near Citation Drive, next to a large Dumpster. The couch was “turned up on its back . . . sitting next to” that Dumpster, Williams said later, “against a fence . . . upside down so the back would have been toward the fence.”
The backing of the couch—what you would rest up against when you sat down—had been torn off. Actually, investigators observed, it was “cut out.” It was a fairly new couch. Moreover, it was one of those sofa beds. But the mattress, along with the cushions, was also missing.
The timing of all this was incredibly suspect to investigators.
Williams and Vance looked through the Dumpster, hoping to find the remains of the couch or the cushions.
Nothing.
The two investigators went into a nearby building and spoke to several people who were there that previous afternoon when Bailey had dumped it. But they all said the same thing: “We never saw the couch with any cushions.”
Williams ordered the couch to be picked up and brought in. Forensics needed to go over it. There were a few stains (dark spots) on one of the armrests. With a quick spray of luminol, it was determined those stains were, in fact, blood. The money was on whether it was Alan’s, Terra’s or a mixture of both their blood.
That afternoon, Williams heard the warrant had finally come through. HPD investigators had armed themselves and were headed over to the McCord house on Myrtlewood. The thought and speculation driving the search was that it wasn’t going to be a pretty scene. Jeff McCord was a cop. That meant he had weapons. The McCords seemed like hostile, uncomfortable and tactless people. What were they going to do if they felt threatened?
Near one o’clock, on the afternoon of February 17, 2002, Jessica and Jeff walked out the front door of their Myrtlewood Drive home. The look on their faces before they spotted the police made it seem as though it were any other day. Jessica carried her youngest child in her arms. Jeff held the door for her.
No sooner had they stepped onto the front steps did she and Jeff hear some sort of a commotion going on around them.
A ruckus.
Several police officers, Jessica explained later, came hurrying around the corner, guns drawn, pointed at her and Jeff. They were “yelling” and “screaming,” Jessica claimed. “Hands above your head . . . right now.”
The focus was on Jeff, who had his “duty belt” with him. Jeff packed a service revolver.
“Put the belt down,” one cop yelled. It was not hard to tell that the cop meant what he said.
Jeff was startled by this.
“Back up toward us, with your back facing us, and hand the officer your weapon, sir.”
The tension was high and tight. Jessica stood, not knowing what to do or how to react. She was troubled by such a show of might. The HPD wanted to make an impression, make it clear who was in charge. But Jessica wasn’t getting it.
What was happening? Were they there to arrest Jessica and Jeff? What was going on? Jessica had no idea.
Or did she?
The McCords’ dog barked erratically, crazily. Jumped around. Ran up to the fence in
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