way through college.
On Saturday night, April 28, around 8:30, a customer was approaching the entrance to McAnally’s when he was met by an attractive young woman who was leaving the store. She was accompanied by a young man. His arm was around her waist; they appeared to be just another pair of lovers. They walked to a pickup truck, where the woman got in first, on the passenger’s side. Then the young man got in and slammed the door, and a few seconds later the engine started. They left going east, away from town. The truck was an old Chevrolet with a spotty, gray-primered paint job.
Inside the store, the customer saw no one. The cash register drawer was open and had been emptied. A cigarette was still burning in the ashtray. Beside it was an open beer can, and behind the counter was a brown purse and an open textbook. The customer tried to find the clerk, but the store was empty. Then he decided that perhaps there had been a robbery, so he called the police.
In the brown purse an officer found a driver’s license belonging to Denice Haraway. The customer looked at the photo on the license and made a positive identification. That was the young lady he’d passed on the way into the store less than half an hour earlier. Yes, he was sure it was Denice Haraway because he stopped at McAnally’s often and knew her face.
Detective Dennis Smith was already in bed when the call came. “Treat it like a crime scene,” he said, then went back to sleep. His orders, though, were not followed. The manager of the store lived nearby and he soon arrived. He checked the safe; it had not been opened. He found $400 in cash under the counter, awaiting transfer to the safe, and he found $150 in another cash drawer. As they waited for a detective, the manager tidied up the place. He emptied the ashtray with a single cigarette butt in it and threw away the beer can. The police didn’t stop him. If there were fingerprints, they were gone.
Steve Haraway was studying and waiting for his wife to come home after McAnally’s closed at 11:00 p.m. A phone call from the police stunned him, and he was soon at the store, identifying his wife’s car, textbooks, and purse. He gave the police a description and tried to remember what she was wearing—blue jeans, tennis shoes, and a blouse he couldn’t recall.
Early Sunday morning, every policeman on Ada’s thirty-three man force was called in for duty. State troopers arrived from nearby districts. Dozens of local groups, including Steve’s fraternity brothers, volunteered to help in the search. OSBI agent Gary Rogers was assigned to lead the investigation from the state level, and once again Dennis Smith was to direct the Ada police. They divided the county into sections and assigned teams to search every street, highway, road, river, ditch, and field.
A clerk at JP’s, another convenience store a half a mile from McAnally’s, came forward and told the police about two strange young men who’d stopped by and spooked her not long before Denice disappeared. Both were in their early twenties with long hair and weirdbehavior. They shot a game of pool before leaving in an old pickup truck.
The customer at McAnally’s had seen only one man leaving with Denice, and she did not appear to be frightened by him. His general description sort of matched the general description of the two weird boys at JP’s, so the police had the first hint of a trail. They were looking for two white males, between twenty-two and twenty-four years of age, one between five feet eight and five feet ten with blond hair below his ears and a light complexion, the other with shoulder-length light brown hair and a slim build.
The intense manhunt on Sunday produced nothing, not a single clue. Dennis Smith and Gary Rogers called it off after dark and made plans to reassemble early the next morning.
On Monday, they obtained a college photograph of Denice and printed flyers with her pretty face and general description—five
On Saturday night, April 28, around 8:30, a customer was approaching the entrance to McAnally’s when he was met by an attractive young woman who was leaving the store. She was accompanied by a young man. His arm was around her waist; they appeared to be just another pair of lovers. They walked to a pickup truck, where the woman got in first, on the passenger’s side. Then the young man got in and slammed the door, and a few seconds later the engine started. They left going east, away from town. The truck was an old Chevrolet with a spotty, gray-primered paint job.
Inside the store, the customer saw no one. The cash register drawer was open and had been emptied. A cigarette was still burning in the ashtray. Beside it was an open beer can, and behind the counter was a brown purse and an open textbook. The customer tried to find the clerk, but the store was empty. Then he decided that perhaps there had been a robbery, so he called the police.
In the brown purse an officer found a driver’s license belonging to Denice Haraway. The customer looked at the photo on the license and made a positive identification. That was the young lady he’d passed on the way into the store less than half an hour earlier. Yes, he was sure it was Denice Haraway because he stopped at McAnally’s often and knew her face.
Detective Dennis Smith was already in bed when the call came. “Treat it like a crime scene,” he said, then went back to sleep. His orders, though, were not followed. The manager of the store lived nearby and he soon arrived. He checked the safe; it had not been opened. He found $400 in cash under the counter, awaiting transfer to the safe, and he found $150 in another cash drawer. As they waited for a detective, the manager tidied up the place. He emptied the ashtray with a single cigarette butt in it and threw away the beer can. The police didn’t stop him. If there were fingerprints, they were gone.
Steve Haraway was studying and waiting for his wife to come home after McAnally’s closed at 11:00 p.m. A phone call from the police stunned him, and he was soon at the store, identifying his wife’s car, textbooks, and purse. He gave the police a description and tried to remember what she was wearing—blue jeans, tennis shoes, and a blouse he couldn’t recall.
Early Sunday morning, every policeman on Ada’s thirty-three man force was called in for duty. State troopers arrived from nearby districts. Dozens of local groups, including Steve’s fraternity brothers, volunteered to help in the search. OSBI agent Gary Rogers was assigned to lead the investigation from the state level, and once again Dennis Smith was to direct the Ada police. They divided the county into sections and assigned teams to search every street, highway, road, river, ditch, and field.
A clerk at JP’s, another convenience store a half a mile from McAnally’s, came forward and told the police about two strange young men who’d stopped by and spooked her not long before Denice disappeared. Both were in their early twenties with long hair and weirdbehavior. They shot a game of pool before leaving in an old pickup truck.
The customer at McAnally’s had seen only one man leaving with Denice, and she did not appear to be frightened by him. His general description sort of matched the general description of the two weird boys at JP’s, so the police had the first hint of a trail. They were looking for two white males, between twenty-two and twenty-four years of age, one between five feet eight and five feet ten with blond hair below his ears and a light complexion, the other with shoulder-length light brown hair and a slim build.
The intense manhunt on Sunday produced nothing, not a single clue. Dennis Smith and Gary Rogers called it off after dark and made plans to reassemble early the next morning.
On Monday, they obtained a college photograph of Denice and printed flyers with her pretty face and general description—five
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