At the Hands of a Stranger by Lee Butcher Page A

herself, and the right arm was severed and found several feet from the body. There was no sign of her husband; alarming fear mounted for his safety.
    The Bryants’ son Bob couldn’t understand why a robbery had turned into a murder. At their age, he said, his parents posed no physical threat. Had they been confronted by someone who merely wanted money, Bob Bryant said, his parents would simply have handed over their wallets and money. Neither of them would have resisted, he said, unless one, or both of them, had been assaulted.
    Mahoney called off the search for missing hikers and sent the volunteers home. This was clearly a homicide—maybe a double homicide—or possibly one homicide and one kidnapping, with assault and bodily harm. The search for John Bryant and his wife’s killer would be continued by professionals. The Transylvania County Sheriff’s Office (TCSO), North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation (NCSBI), and the Polk County Sheriff’s Office (PCSO) searched for several more weeks without finding Bryant, alive or dead. There was little hope that he would be found alive. Bob Bryant was asked how he felt when he saw the picture of the man in the yellow parka. “I’m not consumed with hatred or anything like that. I want to find my dad, and I want law enforcement to find these people and give them a fair trial.”
    A newspaper delivery driver in Ducktown told the police that she saw a balding, bearded man in a yellow coat with black patches driving a white Astro van at about the same time that the card was used. In the area, during that same time, several people reported seeing a balding, bearded, scruffy-looking man, about sixty years old, weighing 160 pounds.
    On October 26, 2007, Cherokee County deputy Will Ballard drove to a private hunting preserve to answer a complaint about an unauthorized camper. The hunting preserve is in northwestern Georgia, about seventy miles from Ducktown, Tennessee, where someone had used the Bryants’ ATM card to withdraw three hundred dollars. Ballard’s dashboard video/audio recorder was operating when he found the trespasser: a bald, weathered man about sixty years old, weighing about 160 pounds. He met Ballard in front of the deputy’s car so that much of their twenty-minute conversation was recorded by the video/audio dashboard device. The man was talkative and animated, sometimes almost jumping in circles as he talked. He had blue eyes and no front teeth.
    â€œHowdy, Deputy,” he said. “How are you today?”
    â€œCan I get your ID real quick?” Ballard asked.
    â€œYes, you sure can.”
    Ballard entered the information into his computer to search for outstanding warrants or BOLOs (be on the lookout for) and continued talking to the trespasser.
    â€œYou got any weapons on you? Anything in the van?”
    â€œOh, just the usual stuff.” The deputy made a move toward the van, but the man hopped ahead of him. “Oh,” he said, as if just remembering, “there’s a backpack with an expandable police baton in it. I don’t want you to get nervous. I’ll get it for you.”
    He hurried to the van and retrieved the backpack and hopped back to the deputy. They were out of the dashboard video’s range, but the audio was recorded.
    â€œI was a paratrooper,” the man said. “What I’m doing now is I’m on perpetual professional field maneuvers. You never know who or what you’re gonna meet up here.”
    Ballard found no outstanding warrants on the man and told him he should leave.
    â€œIt’s the first day of hunting season,” Ballard said. “You should leave before you get shot.”
    â€œI’m leaving. I’m getting out of here!” the trespasser howled, flapping his arms. “God Almighty!”
    â€œHave a nice day,” Ballard said as he drove away.
    â€œI love you!”
    â€œTake care and be safe, Mr. Hilton,”