Summary of this Story:
Back in 1994, contractor Jack Simmons pried up rotted floorboards in a gutted house at 2876 Dartmouth Road on Knoxville’s east side. A skull grinned from the crawlspace. Detective Harry took the call, but seven female skeletons surfaced, too fresh for old graves, dentures from post-1965 tech sealed it. Ages spanned twenty to seventy-five; two hyoids snapped, hinting strangulation. No IDs, no clothes, just nude dumps under locked plywood. Now, Detective Rich Owens and writer Rochelle Roberts chase ghosts. They sift missing persons from the ’80s, grill Jack on cigar reek and deepened dirt, trace owners through County Clerk Rachael. Smells faint even years later. Killer hid in plain sight. We matrix bones against 136 possibles, but names elude us, frustration mounting with every dead-end box.
Here is your Story: Shadows of Seven Buried Women
Back in June 1994, a contractor tore into an old abandoned house on the east side of Knoxville, gutting the place for a flip. He’d snagged it cheap on a tax lien, figured he’d rebuild the insides and sell high. Northwest corner, the floorboards were rotted through. He yanked up a couple to lay down plywood. Two boards out, a skull grinned up from the crawlspace.
The shock wore off fast. He hoofed it next door and called Knoxville PD. Harry picked up the case. He’d dug up bones in weird places plenty of times. Native American burial grounds peppered the Knoxville hills from way back. Civil War soldiers got shoveled in wherever they fell. Contractors still hit skeletons pouring foundations, Reb dead or ancient Indian graves, hundred-plus years old. Happens all the time.
Bones Too Fresh
Harry dialed the Anthropology Department over at UT Knoxville. Get somebody out to eyeball the skull, figure old or recent? The anthropologist took one look. Female, around sixty. No read on burial time. But those two spots drilled for partial dentures? That tech didn’t hit outside labs till after 1965. Too new. Harry figured murder. Coroner dragged out the rest.
Coroner’s crew crawled under, pried up the boards over the first skull. Another one surfaced. Kept going. They hauled six more sets to the lab. Harry gawked at seven female skeletons from a gutted scene, empty house sitting three years vacant. No suspects. Just sexes, ballpark timelines.
Coroner teamed with a Forensic Anthropology Center prof from UT. All female, ages twenty to seventy-five. Five had borne kids. Oldest maybe seven years down, newest four, could be more, cold clay slowed the decay. Two snapped hyoids pointed to strangulation. Prof wasn’t sure: bones get jostled pulling ’em free. No other breaks told the tale. Coroner pegged suffocation, drowning, poison, skeletons don’t show that. Ruled homicide, method unknown.
DNA kicked in. Coroner pulled two teeth from each skull. FBI lab ran ’em all. Nothing in their skimpy database. Scene stripped bare: no IDs, no jewelry, no clothes. Nude dumps. Harry bet on rape before or after. Serial job, plain as day. But Knoxville PD records? No serial killer chatter through the ’80s. Guy was sharp, wiped clean.
After Rochelle skimmed the file, she glanced up, scowled. “Just seven unidentified women skeletons, a couple neighbor interviews. We’re sharp on cold cases, but this?”
I shrugged. “Harry knew it’d swallow full shifts if it cracked. Scan his interviews, neighbors drew blanks. Tough sell that nobody spotted dick, but only a handful still kicking when the bones turned up.”
“No IDs, no cause of death, no solid dates. Harry logged what he had, jumped back to hot cases, crossed fingers for luck. We’ve got better gear now. Anthropology pegs oldest at ’85? Killer’s out there somewhere. Lock ’em up, twenty-plus inside.”
Digging for Ghosts
Rochelle scowled deeper. “Missing persons oughta flag. NamUs goes back to the ’70s, I’ll grab Knox women. PD files too.”
I need to backtrack. Name’s Richard Owens, Rich to everybody. Knoxville PD detective, cold cases my lane. Reason one: not enough of us to juggle fresh bodies and the stacks in storage. Some guys chase colds for the big arrests, but active murders pile up fast.
Reason two: Rochelle Roberts. Mystery writer, no badge. We busted one open together, clicked on cases, and off duty. Shacking up now. Divorced folks, marriage? No thanks. Works fine like this.
She builds plots like her novels: facts spit out stories, whittle down to the fit. I pick facts from bullshit, stack a theory. We toss ’em back and forth. Refine with legwork, chats. Prove it or trash it. Thousand-to-one odds so far.
First stop: County Clerk’s office. Rachael, dig everything on 2876 Dartmouth Road, that house. Killer probably lived there, stashed ’em from inside. Owners? Renters? Who, what years?
Rachael grinned wide. “Lunch again?” Last deep dive got her one, cracked my case wide.
“Pick the spot, the hour.”
“Tomorrow kickoff. Summer kid’s off at college. Me and Cheryl. Best we got.”
Thanks. Headed down to the PD file vault.
Old-school grind: records room, shelves crammed from ’80 forward. No digits yet, cheap hands beat typing it all. Solved, unsolved, jackpot, missings too. Twenty boxes burned the day. Slim haul. Most missings show up alive or dead. Snagged 136 Knox women, 1980-1990. Hoped Rochelle beat NamUs. Packed the last box, notebook crammed, names, photos, crap without bone matches. But bonuses: two busted arms, seven denture folks, half with kids. Sorting material.
Home that night, Rochelle fumed. “NamUs: fifty. Most too young for coroner ages. Papers? Nada. No cop blurbs back then? Down to twenty-two possibles. You?”
I nodded, scowled. “136, ’80-’90. Matching bones to missings? Hell. Injuries should’ve popped. Dentures too. Half moms, whatever unless weird shit.”
“Matrix the remains details. Fast cull.”
“Records hunt via Rachael traces property owners back. Killer bunked there, crawlspace his dump.”
She shook her head. “Neighbors blind? The smell?”
“Time of year, how close. Bones still stink faint, cadaver dogs sniff ’em under soil.”
She nodded. “Books match that. Tomorrow, Anthropology Center prof. Spreadsheet the bone specs.”
I grinned. “Salad lunch. Starving, wiped. Pizza?”
Next morning’s drive, I chewed angles. Names open doors to friends, family, jobs. No names, just bones. First cold case, genealogy DNA blew it open, costs a fortune, drags for seven. Captain’d shit. Old file, no fire, but names grease interviews, smoke out lies. Gaps nail killers.
Back at desk: Rachael zilch yet, digging soon. Witness: contractor Jack Simmons. Harry’s notes sat there, but fresh questions twist answers. Killers “find” bodies, one suspect, two birds. Jack led Harry’s list. Time to reinterview.
JS Remodeling: corner office in a yellow dozer-bay shop off Chapman Highway. Lobby desk, back door out. Desk lady no spring chicken, fifties, eyes narrow. “Help you?”
Jack Simmons, please. Why here? She stiffened. “Injury lawsuit? Hole roped off, taped, by the book. Drunk idiot missed it. PD, OSHA signed off.”
Badge flashed, easy smile. “Detective Rich Owens, cold cases. ’94 reno on Dartmouth.”
She eased. “Sorry, shysters prowl sites. Thought attorney. Yeah: tax-lien steal for a grand, fifteen grand in, flip at thirty. Quick close, papers gone. Talking to Jack?”
“Stuff Harry skipped, probably.”
“Doris Simmons. Right this way.” She waved us back.
Jack remembered crystal. Smell? “Nope, three packs Camels a day. Skunk smell never hit me.” To Doris: “You catch anything?”
She paused, knit her brows. “Cigar reek all over. How do you even air that out?”
Harry’s same questions, same answers. Anything extra? “Crawlspace ran deep, four feet from joists to dirt, not the usual two-foot belly flop. Back half shallower, somebody dug it bigger. Access? Hinged plywood cover, hasp and padlock. Why lock the pipes?”
We leaned in closer over Jack’s scarred oak desk, the sharp tang of sawdust and motor oil hanging thick from the shop bays outside. Rochelle tapped her pen against her notepad, eyes sharp on the hinged plywood detail, padlock meant control, secrecy. Jack shifted in his creaky chair, the metal frame groaning under him. I pressed on the dig-out: who else worked that house before the tax lien? Neighbors with keys? He swore nobody, but his fingers drummed the desk blotter, betraying the pause. Doris fetched coffee in chipped mugs, steam curling up with Folgers bite. By the time we wrapped, the crawlspace lock felt like the first real thread, rusted hasp probably still sat under that plywood, waiting for a warrant.
