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As the weeks passed, the number of detectives was cut again. Hal Rogers decided to head to Florida himself. He drove down a few days before Christmas. He was in the Calais, the same car Jo and the girls had been driving when they disappeared. The police had returned the car to him months before. But eventually he got over that and returned the car to his own driveway. Now here he was, making his own pilgrimage to Florida, sitting behind the same steering wheel as Jo, heading down the same stretch of highway that she and the girls had taken.

He arrived in Tampa on Dec. It was cold and raining. He walked to the edge of the bay and stared out over the water. He wanted to see what his wife and daughters had seen, to feel what they had felt. Maybe then everything would make more sense. The one-year anniversary of the murders was approaching, and the case was literally stuck on the shelf, summed up inside a few black notebooks filled with reports that almost no one had time to read anymore. There was a new sergeant overseeing the investigation.

He was a novice to homicide, had almost no experience with solving murders, but he did not think that mattered. In fact, he thought it might help. His name was Glen Moore. He had some ideas on how to tackle the investigation from a fresh angle, and some notions on how to get those ideas translated into reality. Moore had never met Jo or Mille or Christe. Still, he hated to think of them dying alone on the bottom of Tampa Bay and then being abandoned to die again inside a handful of notebooks on a shelf.

He did not intend to leave them there. Across the bay, a woman stood inside the kitn of her Tampa home, looking at the newspaper clipping hanging on her white Kenmore refrigerator. The clipping showed the composite drawing of the man from the Madeira Beach rape case.

To Jo Ann Steffey, the drawing resembled one of her neighbors. Steffey thought the man was maybe 40 or even older, aboutwith reddish-blond hair and a ruddy face. He was an aluminum contractor, married, with a little girl. He drove a dark blue Jeep rokee and lived two lots down the street from Steffey, in a house on Dalton Avenue, on the far west side of Tampa, only a few miles from the boat ramp where the three Rogers women had disappeared. His house was on a canal that led straight to the bay, and until a few months ago, he had owned a blue and white Bayliner that he liked to take out at night.

For some time, even before she read the story in the newspaper about the Madeira Beach rape, Steffey had felt that there was something off about this neighbor. He was so talkative, he tried so hard to seem friendly and helpful. When he looked at her, she got an uneasy feeling. Then the composite came out in the paper. Now she stared at the clipping on the refrigerator. She gazed at the face in the drawing.

It was him, she told herself. One night, when he could take it no longer, Hal Rogers grabbed a spade and a shovel and drove to the cemetery.

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For months, Hal had been tormented with the notion that the three bodies flown up from Florida the previous summer were not his wife and daughters. After all, the bodies had been identified in Pinellas County, through dental records sent from Ohio, and had been shipped in sealed containers that had never been opened, not even at the funeral home in Van Wert County. There had been no chance for Hal or anyone else who knew Jo and Mille and Christe to look at the bodies and say, yes, that is them.

What if the authorities in Florida were wrong? What if there had been a terrible mistake, and the bodies were those of three other women, and his own family was alive somewhere? The idea plagued him. He could not even bring himself to buy headstones for the three graves.

Months after the funeral, they were still distinguished only by copper markers embedded in the ground. Finally Hal decided he had no choice but to dig them up.

No matter how horrible it would be, he had to see for himself. He drove to Zion Lutheran cemetery in his pickup truck, the spade and shovel in the back. He got out and stepped over the fence surrounding the tiny property and its rows of graves, some of them dating back as far as the s.

The place was empty and silent. Hal found the markers for Jo and the girls and sat in the grass. He stayed there for what seemed like a long time, thinking and wondering and trying to find the strength to do what was in his heart. Then it hit him. If he carried through on this, people would think he had snapped.

He would probably be sent to an institution, taken away from his farm and his home and everything he had shared with Jo and the girls. Plus, the episode would be all over the news, a spectacular display of untrammeled grief, perfect for the front page. Jo Ann Steffey had just gone inside the kitn of her Tampa home, where the composite drawing still hung on her refrigerator.

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She was convinced that the face in the drawing belonged to her neighbor two houses down on Dalton Avenue. She had been staring at the composite for weeks; cut out from the newspaper, it was starting to curl and yellow. Now she was debating whether to report her hunch to the police. Trying to decide, she had shown the composite to a friend.

Her friend did not think so. Then, that Saturday night, Steffey walked into her kitn and looked out the window toward the street. Suddenly she caught her breath. There, standing in the grass near the edge of her driveway, was the very neighbor she suspected. He was maybe 5 feet away. She could see him clearly, because there was a streetlight nearby, illuminating the scene.

She could not tell what he was doing, but he was looking in her direction. Steffey rushed to turn off the lights. She stepped back into the shadows and kept her eyes fixed on the man.

He was still standing in the grass, gazing toward her house. For what seemed like a long time, the two of them stood there motionless. Finally the man turned and called out a name. A little, fuzzy, white dog answered the call, and then he and the dog walked away. When the man was gone, Steffey sat down, terrified. That was it. She could not ignore her feelings about the neighbor any longer.

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The books were filled with reports and photos and notes on tips and leads that had been pursued and eliminated. Taken together, they contained the sum of all that had been learned so far in the Rogers investigation. Moore, transferred to homicide almost six months after the murders, was troubled by the lack of progress in the case.

He wanted ates. He wanted movement. He was an experienced and respected homicide investigator; several years before, the St. For months, Kappel had poured himself into the Rogers investigation, sometimes working hour days for weeks straight. And he had made some invaluable contributions, establishing the probable connection between the murders and the Madeira Beach rape. But by the spring ofthe tips generated by the composite drawing from the rape had long since stopped.

There were no new leads. The case was growing colder by the minute. As far as Moore could tell, Kappel was a good detective. But with all the problems that came with the investigation - no crime scene, almost no physical evidence, the apparently random selection of the victims - Kappel and the rest of the investigators had always been fighting against the odds.

In the year that the Rogers women died, there were 45 other homicides in St. Petersburg - a record for the city. The strain was showing; there were too many killings and too few detectives. A disturbing number of cases were not being solved. Something had to give.

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Kappel was still officially assigned to the Rogers case, but for some time now he had also been assigned to other cases that took up most of his time. Unless new information was developed, the Rogers case was going nowhere.

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A detective who had been with the St. Petersburg police for two decades, Moore had spent years working patrol, vice and narcotics, and burglaries. When he was transferred to homicide in Novemberhe had never investigated a homicide, nor had he ever supervised a homicide investigation.

He did not think like other homicide detectives, because he had never been one of them. But there were other, less obvious qualities that made him particularly well-suited to the difficulties of this case.

For one thing, he was quietly, politely, unbelievably stubborn. For another, he carried himself with the peace of a man who knows that, no matter what, his soul is saved and on its way to heaven. He was a big man, imposing, with a thick neck, wide shoulders, hands that looked huge enough to crush boulders into pebbles.

He looked just like what he was, a former high school football player and discus thrower who had grown up in Georgia, moved to Florida, joined the police academy, married his high school sweetheart, had three children and devoted himself to a lifetime in law enforcement. This was a nickname bestowed upon Moore eons ago, when he was a rookie and the department put on a wrestling exhibition for charity.

At the last minute, Glen was persuaded to climb into the ring, where he unceremoniously creamed a couple of opponents, including his sergeant at the time, who took the whole thing surprisingly well once he managed to peel himself off the floor. The cartoonish nickname was a smoke screen.

It made it easy to underestimate Moore. Because underneath the hulking exterior was an attentive and complicated person. Moore did not fit any of the usual stereotypes of a cynical, world-weary detective. He rarely swore. He hardly ever drank. After 20 years of marriage, he was still crazy about his wife and spoke about her with unrestrained reverence. He was an involved father who ered for his children at their school plays and football and baseball games. He loved to read and possessed a roving curiosity about everything from politics to sports to history to science.

What defined Glen Moore, more than anything else, was his belief in God. Raised in the Baptist faith, he had been saved at the age of All these years later, he prayed every day and served as a deacon at his church. Though he tried to avoid forcing his views on others, especially at the station, he found it hard to understand why everyone did not believe in God. It was there in the staggering diversity of creatures multiplying across the planet.

It was there in the brilliance of the stars exploding in the sky. Moore was deeply conservative. He thought the theory of evolution was ridiculous. He believed that the country was coming apart and the apocalypse was close at hand. He was perfectly capable of getting along with people who did not share his views. He had no trouble surviving in the modern, politically correct working world of the s.

In many ways, he was a progressive-minded boss. He was not particularly focused on hierarchy, did not feel the need to wave his rank or his seniority over those he worked with. He was a good listener, and encouraged those who worked for him to speak their minds.

Time and again, he insisted that his detectives pull themselves away from their cases and take time for their families.

Like anyone else, Moore had his flaws. He could be impatient, bullheaded and overbearing; some people in the department saw him as arrogant. He had a tendency, from time to time, to think he was always right. He also struggled sometimes with keeping his temper; during his younger years with the department, he occasionally exploded without warning. Once, in an almost legendary episode when he was still with vice and narcotics, he lost it with another officer who swiped one of his apples.

At the time, Moore was preparing for a body-building competition and was suffering under a Draconian diet that allowed him almost no sweets, no fats, virtually no food at all.


He was training at the gym one day, looking forward to eating an apple that awaited him as his reward - a Red Delicious apple, to be precise - when he realized that this officer, who worked out at the same gym, had taken the apple and eaten it. Suddenly Moore was lifting the poor guy off his feet and pushing him against the wall.

In retrospect, Moore acknowledges that he came slightly unhinged that day. Later he apologized to the officer, and they remained friends. His belief in God, he said, had helped him with that task. His faith transformed the way he approad everything. Guided by his belief in the Bible, he was motivated by a strict and unwavering sense of morality.

He did not agree with taking the easy way out, was not afraid to take an unpopular stand when he believed it was the correct thing to do. Some people might have been surprised to learn that a veteran police officer, having seen so much ambiguity and complexity, would view life in such simple, black and white terms.

But these were his beliefs, and Moore made no apologies. His faith was exactly the rudder he needed to navigate his way through the grueling, emotionally draining work in homicide. As he and his detectives sorted through the growing pile of cases before them, Moore was witness to some of the best and much of the worst of human behavior.

To him, their job was part of the ongoing war between good and evil. And when he looked over at the black notebooks from the Rogers case, he was determined to do everything possible to solve the murders and bring the killer to justice.

To Moore, it was obvious that he and the other investigators were searching for someone possessed by a darkness beyond understanding. Someone who thought of people as objects to be manipulated and tortured and thrown away.

Someone who had no remorse, no guilt, no conscience. If they did not demand that the killer be held responsible for the deaths of three human beings, then who else would do it? Who else was left?

Who else could speak for Jo and Mille and Christe? Late that spring, as the one-year anniversary of the murders approad, Moore went to one of his superiors, Maj. Cliff Fouts, and told him he wanted to do a review of the case. He wanted to gather a team of new investigators - people who would look with fresh eyes - and have them pore over the case books and talk to the original investigators and then see what shook loose.

They took the notebooks off the shelf and read through them and then sat down in a room with Jim Kappel and Ralph Pflieger, another experienced detective who had worked extensively on the case, and started emptying their brains of everything they had learned and everything they wondered and everything they considered.

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Moore and his team had a list of items they wanted to go over with Kappel and Pflieger. It was a long and tough and sobering list, with close to questions in all, and it took several days to go through. The process was not fun. Attempts were made to reassure Kappel and Pflieger, to remind them their efforts had been appreciated, to tell them they were not being criticized or attacked. These efforts were not entirely successful. Moore and others who took part in the review all agree that Kappel and Pflieger grew frustrated during the questioning, that they felt as though they were being subjected to a marathon grilling.

For their part, Kappel and Pflieger say today that they understood the reason for the review and tried not to take it personally. Still, they had given the investigation everything they had. Pflieger was so obsessed with the case, he often dreamed about Mille and Christe; in these dreams, he would see the girls still alive, walking the halls at school and milking cows on the farm.

Looking back on the review, the two investigators acknowledge that the sessions were sometimes difficult and even exrating. Kappel remembers some verbal sparring. Pflieger says it felt as though the quality of his work was being questioned.

Either way, the two of them told the new team that they had tried everything they could think of, that there was nothing new to be explored. Moore and the other members of the team did not agree. They discovered, says Moore, that the Clearwater Beach brochure recovered from the Rogers car - the one marked with the handwritten directions showing the family how to reach the motel - had never been processed for prints. Other items found in the car and in the motel room, Moore reports, had never been processed, either.

Many of the hundreds of tips that had come pouring in at various points during the investigation had not been pursued. Moore had little interest in casting blame or pointing fingers for any oversights. He knew that Kappel and Pflieger and all the other investigators had done their best under extremely difficult circumstances. But somewhere along the line, Moore believed, too many people had bought into the argument that this case could not be solved.

As far as he was concerned, the most devastating error had not come in the handling of evidence or in how many calls were or were not made. It had been in the minds of the investigators and their superiors. The reason they had not gotten anywhere, he thought, was because they had decided there was nowhere to possibly go.

Moore, too stubborn to know better, saw things differently. And now, after typing a page memo detailing the findings of the review, he had the proof to show his commanding officers that there was a great deal of work to be done. He did not have to be particularly blunt about it, either. The bottom line was so obvious:. Moore asked for more time. They gave it to him. He asked for two new detectives, both from the team that did the review.

They approved it. He requested that these detectives be allowed to work exclusively on the Rogers case. They granted it. Steffey had been watching the man down the street closely ever since she first suspected him.

She tried to keep an eye on his house, tried to notice everything she could about him. But even though she wanted to tell the police about him, she still did not want her name brought into the case.

They were in an accounting class together at Tampa College - Steffey was working on a business degree - and Steffey knew he was a deputy because he often came to class in his uniform. If she told him, maybe he could keep it unofficial.

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They were in class a couple of days later. Steffey waited for a break, then followed the deputy out into the hall and into the break room and sat down beside him. She said she had to talk to him. She told him about her neighbor and the composite drawing and the similarities between him and the man the detectives were looking for.

She thought it was important that her information be passed along, but she preferred to be kept out of the investigation. Inside the office where they worked, there was a white bulletin board, and they covered it with photos of the Calais at the boat ramp and Room at the Days Inn and what remained of Jo and Mille and Christe after they were recovered from the water.

Among these photos, they also hung pictures from Ohio, from when the three women were alive. There was one of Jo folding clothes, a school portrait of Mille and a shot of Christe with her pouffed-up bangs.

After a while, the evidence photos were taken down from the bulletin board to be replaced by other photos and maps and reports. But the family pictures stayed up, spurring the team onward. Not that the new team needed to be pushed.

The two detectives that Moore had requested - Cindy Cummings and J. Geoghegan - were both highly motivated self-starters, full of energy and ideas.

Working with Moore, the two of them began to fill in the gaps left open during the first year of investigation.

Jim Kappel worked with them for a while, but soon he and Moore agreed it was best he move on. Kappel, ready for a change, transferred to another division and became a school resource officer.

Moore, Cummings and Geoghegan went back to the beginning and took it step by step. They re-interviewed guests who had been staying at the Days Inn when the Rogers women disappeared. They studied the snapshot of the sunset that the family had taken outside Room and tried to ascertain exactly what time it was shot, so they could pin down more accurately when Jo and the girls left the motel for the last time.

They looked through all the items gathered from the car and the motel room and from the bodies. They sent the Clearwater Beach brochure and other items to be processed for fingerprints. As it happened, there were several unidentified prints on the brochure, possibly left by the person who had written the directions to the Days Inn. They began investigating the tips that had never been cked out. Some of these tips seemed promising at first, but one by one they all faded into nothing.

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Either the deputy did not report it, or his report was disregarded, or the information was somehow lost. For whatever reason, the tip did not reach Moore and his team. The truth was, they were already overloaded with everything before them. It was keeping track of all the tips that had been pursued, and keeping track of all the information from those tips, and keeping track of all the facts from all the interviews and statements and reports in the case.

They were flooded with information. Which is why that fall, the police department sent Moore to England. The British police had a computer system called HOLMES - the acronym was far more enticing than the full name, Home Office Large Major Enquiry System - that had been used, two years before, in the bombing of the Pan Am over Lockerbie, Scotland.

HOLMES was designed to help investigators organize huge amounts of information. Though it had never been used in the United States, it was perfect for the Rogers case; even better, the company that owned it - McDonnell Douglas - was eager to share it with the St. Petersburg police, so other law enforcement agencies would be encouraged to buy it. The company was willing to donate the system and to help pay for the training required to use it. Moore spent a week in England, studying HOLMES and how it was being used at Scotland Yard.

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When he returned to St. Petersburg, he was convinced that the system was just what the team working the Rogers case needed. So he asked Larry Heim, another detective with expertise in computers, to join the investigation and serve as the HOLMES administrator, overseeing the use of the new system.

Heim was eager to help in any way he could; when he looked at the photos of the two Rogers girls on the bulletin board, he saw his own two children staring back at him. In the weeks that followed, Heim and the other detectives and the office assistants working with the investigation took classes on how to put the system to work. The computer training was long and dull and mind-numbing. But at last Moore and the investigators had a way to stay on top of the river of information.

HOLMES had arrived just in time. The river of information was about to overflow its banks. This is the unit, popularized in novels and movies such as The Silence of the Lambsthat specializes in developing psychological profiles of killers in unsolved cases.

Moore and the team would share everything they had learned about the case, and the FBI profilers would offer advice on what kind of person they were looking for.

Before they headed for Quantico, however, the detectives had another trip before them: They were going to Ohio. Among other tasks, they wanted to talk to Hal Rogers. Hal had been interviewed before, back at the beginning.

Now Moore and the other investigators wanted to question him again. They doubted that Hal had anything to do with the murders. But as long as they were going over everything in the case, it made sense to give Hal a second look. They also wanted to talk to as many people as possible who had known Jo and Mille and Christe.

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Would the awful experiences of the past several years - the allegations Mille had made against her uncle John, the bitter split in the family over who was telling the truth - have left Jo and the girls more suspicious of people and therefore more reluctant to get on a boat with a stranger?

Or would those experiences have made them more likely to trust a fresh, new face? The more they understood about the Rogers women, the easier it might be to figure exactly how they had died and who had killed them. Cummings and Geoghegan made the trip late that January, accompanied by Jim Ramey, the FBI agent who had sat in on the review.

They flew into Fort Wayne, Ind. As their plane made its descent, Geoghegan - a Florida boy, through and through - looked out the window and asked why there was so much sand on the fields below. The three of them had not told Hal they were coming. They wanted to show up unannounced, so he would have no chance to prepare and so they could see the unrehearsed reaction on his face when they arrived.

To maximize the possibility of surprise, they decided to fly up on Sunday, Jan. If Hal had anything to do with the murders, and was worried about detectives coming up from Florida, they figured that Super Bowl Sunday - when half the law enforcement officers in Tampa Bay would be working some sort of detail or watching the game - would be a day when he would almost certainly not expect any visitors carrying badges.

That Sunday afternoon, when Cummings and Geoghegan and Ramey stepped off the plane in Fort Wayne, they drove straight to the farm. When they got there, Hal was in the house, asleep on the couch. He came to the door, saw them and calmly said hello. They interviewed him there in the house. As they asked their questions, they saw, all around them, signs that this was a man paralyzed with grief and denial. Eighteen months had passed, but Hal had not been able to bring himself to put away their belongings.

The rest of the place was a wreck. Clothes were scattered everywhere, the bathroom was beyond redemption, the litter box for the cats did not appear to have been emptied for weeks. It was not a home anymore, but a place where someone wandered through what was left of his life. The investigators felt for Hal, but did not hold back. He sat in a recliner, they pulled up chairs and surrounded him. They took turns firing away with their questions.

They tried to catch him in contradictions, tried to stump him, did their best to throw him off. They even tried to get a rise out of him. Hal shook his head and said no, he did not. He was not defensive, did not appear nervous, just looked them straight in the eye and answered their questions. He talked about how much he missed Jo and the girls, especially Christe.

His little girl, he called her. It was hard enough that they were gone, he said. Though he did not shirk questions that toud on his feelings, Hal made no attempt to solicit their sympathy. As usual, he underplayed his pain. Several hours later, when the investigators left the farm, they had learned nothing that would cast suspicion on Hal. After their years in law enforcement, the detectives thought they knew enough to tell when someone was lying or putting on a show. The three investigators stayed in Ohio for 10 days.

They interviewed more than 70 people. They talked to Hal two more times. They even drove to the prison in Lima, Ohio, where John Rogers was incarcerated, and interviewed him. By the time they had packed their bags and were ready to leave, they were convinced that neither Hal nor John was involved in the murders, that the killer, or killers, was not from Van Wert Couty.

Before they left, the investigators made a trip to the little cemetery where Jo and Mille and Christe were buried. They wanted to view the graves themselves, so they could know as much as possible about the Rogers family and so they would remember.

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So when they were back at their desks and frustrated and beyond exhaustion and not sure what to do next, they would think of this place and keep going. They arrived at the cemetery to find it blanketed in a freshly fallen layer of snow. It covered the ground and lay in thin ridges along the tops of the headstones. There were still no stones marking the Rogers graves, but the detectives knew where to look.

Hal had told them about the copper markers in the ground. The investigators walked down the rows, their breaths forming tiny clouds, the snow crunching under their shoes, until they read the place where the three women were buried. But they could not see anything. The graves were hidden in the snow.

They got onto their knees and dug through the snow with their bare hands until they uncovered the markers and the bears. Then they stood up and held still for a moment, saying nothing. They looked at the graves and looked at the fields around them and looked at the church across the street where Mille and Christe had prayed and sung and gone to Sunday school and learned about sin and forgiveness and the glories of eternal life. Ever since the case began, Van Wert County residents had been whispering about him, saying he was strange, noting how he had yet to cry or break down in public, wondering if he might have had something to do with the murders of his wife and daughters.

Now, after the visit by the investigators from Florida, the gossip took on new life. They had even more to talk about a few weeks later, when reporter from the Tampa Tribune came to Van Wert and started making some inquiries of his own. Hal talked to the man for only a few moments before he understood what was happening.

Then he told him to get out. I should have shot the son of a bitch when he was here. The story was long, brimming with detail and driven by an unmistakable point of view. It said that the police investigation had shifted back to Ohio and the Rogers family.

Over and over, it quoted people who described Hal as cold, bizarre, distant. Gary Luderman, the pastor who had delivered the eulogy at the funeral, was quoted as saying from his new post at a church in Niagara Falls. Everything about him is so controlled, so withdrawn.

That spring ofafter Sgt. According to the FBI profile, the murderer was probably a serial killer.

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The profile predicted that the killer would turn out to be a white man, possibly between age 0 and 40, of above average intelligence. He was probably neat and meticulous, with strong social skills, affluent enough to own a boat, well hidden behind a persona of respectability.

Given the relative difficulties of controlling three victims, the profile said the killer may have been helped by someone else. But if so, the killer would have psychologically dominated this other person. The profile laid out a chilling description of how the murders had most likely taken place.

It said the killer enjoyed the suffering of others and fantasized about such an attack for a long time before carrying it out. He planned the murders carefully, then chose the Rogers women as his specific targets after meeting them in Tampa.

He charmed them, arranged to meet them at the boat ramp, took them out in his boat, then turned on them with a weapon of some sort. Once they were tied, he probably raped them, weighted them down and pushed them into the water alive, one by one.

The Rogers attack was probably not his first, the profile said, because such predators usually require experience before they are confident enough to approach more than one victim at a time.

And because nearly two years had gone by without his being caught, he probably felt confident enough to kill again. Only this time, the profile said, he was likely to have learned from his mistakes in the Rogers case and be more successful at concealing the bodies. Given his confidence, he would probably keep killing until arrested. The killer owned a boat and knew the area well, both on land and water. He almost certainly lived somewhere around Tampa Bay. Hardcore Hentai.

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