Clay Bryant - Solving the West Georgia Murder of Gwendolyn Moore: A Cry From the Well

Published by The History Press

Charleston, SC

www.historypress.com

Copyright 2021 by Clay Bryant

All rights reserved

First published 2021

E-Book edition 2021

ISBN 978.1.43967.314.0

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021937190

Print Edition ISBN 978.146715.007.1

Notice: The information in this book is true and complete to the best of our knowledge. It is offered without guarantee on the part of the author or The History Press. The author and The History Press disclaim all liability in connection with the use of this book.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form whatsoever without prior written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

CONTENTS

PREFACE

A deeply rooted southern tradition, friendly yet intense competition, quiet camaraderie and restrained excitementall are integral elements of the gentlemans sport of night hunting. What began as a contest between neighbors became a cottage industry, with serious hunters paying literally tens of thousands of dollars for the best of hounds to ensure success.

The familiarity and bond between a hunter and his dog make this sport unlike any other. These competitions serve as a show of not only whose dog is the best but also which hunter knows and understands his hound the most. When a hound strikes the trail or catches the scent of the raccoon, points are awarded in order by the cast judgefrom one hundred for the first dog to strike down to twenty-five points for the last of four hounds to strike.

The catch is that if a hunter strikes his dog first, the hound has to run that track to a conclusion and tree a coon. At the tree, the dogs voice will change, and the hunter will know when his dog hits the tree. As with the strikes, a hound is awarded points for treeing. The hunter has to be confident that his dog has circled the tree and made sure that the coon has not climbed out on a limb and jumped down, leaving the dog at a false tree. If the coon cant be found, then all points awarded become negative in the same succession as they were awarded. If a dog isnt rock solid, he has little chance of placing well in the hunt.

A hunter has to know his dog. He must understand what the dog is telling him, have faith in the ability of his hound and be able to call what the dog tells him. My father could identify the voice of each dog and explain in detail what that voice was telling hima sacred ritual that has been repeated through the generations.

As the events of a hunt unfolded, I watched many times my father leaning on the dog box in the bed of our old Ford pickup. As he listened to the music of the chase, he would be twiddling his thumbs with that boyish grin flashing across his face. As he became sure of the voice of his hound, he would turn to the cast judge with pride and surety and proclaim, You can strike my dog. It was with that same love and understanding he would say to me growing up, Son, youre my dog if you never strike a track.

In my career as an investigator, Ive tried to deserve that trust. What follows is the story of Gwendolyn Moore, a defenseless woman denied mercy in her life and justice after her murder, as well as my determination to bring the truth to light.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to give special thanks to all those who have contributed to this book, for without their help and support, there would have been no book. There also would have been no justice for Gwendolyn.

For going above and beyond in the search for thirty-three-year-old records that no one thought could be found, I thank Diane Ennis, Dawn Pierce and Chris Hosey with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation.

I thank Kaye Minchew, Barry Jackson, Lance Jones and Diana Thompson of the Troup County Archives.

I thank Dr. Kris Sperry (pathologist) and Dr. Rick Snow (criminal anthropologist), of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, to whom Gwen told her story. I thank Agent Gary Fuller (Ret.), of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, for his time and assistance when he could have been fishing.

Patty Smith and Jeanie Henderson, with the Troup County District Attorneys Office, spent hours of transcription as volunteers.

Lysette Strickland (GBI Crime Lab) and the McKibben Funeral Home of Hogansville, Georgia, helped see that Gwendolyn made it home.

Pete Skandalakis, director of the Georgia Prosecuting Attorneys Council, gave me the opportunity to make a difference in the lives of victims and families like that of Gwendolyn Moore and others to come.

Jackie Kennedy and Elizabeth Sullivan helped me with editing and inspiration.

I thank my wife, Beth, and the kids to make up for the times when you were ignored while my mind was on this.

To professor John Williams, without your help and direction, my dream of publishing this book would not have come true.

I thank my daddy, Buddy Bryant, for teaching me that truth, accountability and justice mean something.

THANK YOU AND MAY GOD BLESS YOU ALL!

PROLOGUE

Some memories never fade. The intensity of the images and recollections brings to the surface a kick-in-the-gut physical response that can be felt in the core of your being. On the December afternoon Allen Moore spoke of the last time he saw his mother alive, I was acutely aware that the shiver running down my spine was not from the cold winter air. I listened intently as Allen, choking back tears, recounted the horrendous story of family violence that had haunted him for well over thirty years. The pain he still felt and the impact of the brutality he witnessed had on his life were apparent in every word he spoke. He was a far cry from the young boy I had grown up knowing in a small Georgia town, and our separate worlds were about to be joined in a way I never could have imagined. We were raised a mere stones throw from each other, but the reality of our lives was truly worlds apart.

For the first time in thirty-two years, Moore could verbalize the events of that fateful, hot August night in 1970. His anguish was apparent in the tremors and anger in his voice as he relived the darkest day of his young life, as he unburdened himself of the misplaced guilt he had carried all these years.

Allen and I were young men being raised on opposite sides of town in Hogansville, Georgia, a dot on the map in west-central Georgia. As the son of the local police chief, I was raised by generous and loving parents who nurtured and encouraged me. Allen Moore grew up in fear, witnessing the torturous life, and then death, of the only loving person in his life.

I knew Allen back then, but I never could have imagined at my tender and somewhat sheltered age of fifteen what he had seen and suffered through. And now, here we were, more than three decades later, and I was finally getting to know Allen Mooreit was about thirty-two years too late. As he described the details of that dreadful day in 1970, I pulled forth my own recollection of that horrific time.

Tuesday, August 4, 1970, found me, as most days did, trailing behind my daddy. A decent and justice-seeking man, well loved by his community, L.G. Buddy Bryant was known as an innovator in law enforcement at a time when most small-town police officers were known only for the zeal with which they approached their jobs. I loved and admired him and hoped to follow in his footsteps one day. So, when on that morning my daddy hung up the phone and said to me, Clay-boy, ride out to Junior Turners with me. The Sheriff s Office wants us to stand by until they arrive. Theyve got a body in the old well next to Juniors, and they want me to take some photographs for them, I was ready. On the drive out Mobley Bridge Road, Daddy called for a wrecker to respond to the scene to help with the recovery.