Chapter 1
The rolling hills of southeast Oklahoma stretch from
Norman across to Arkansas and show little evidence of the
vast deposits of crude oil that were once beneath them.
Some old rigs dot the countryside; the active ones churn
on, pumping out a few gallons with each slow turn and
prompting a passerby to ask if the effort is really worth
it. Many have simply given up, and sit motionless amid the
fields as corroding reminders of the glory days of gushers
and wildcatters and instant fortunes.
There are rigs scattered through the farmland around Ada,
an old oil town of sixteen thousand with a college and a
county courthouse. The rigs are idle, though–the oil is
gone. Money is now made in Ada by the hour in factories
and feed mills and on pecan farms.
Downtown Ada is a busy place. There are no empty or
boarded-up buildings on Main Street. The merchants
survive, though much of their business has moved to the
edge of town. The cafés are crowded at lunch.
The Pontotoc County Courthouse is old and cramped and full
of lawyers and their clients. Around it is the usual
hodgepodge of county buildings and law offices. The jail,
a squat, windowless bomb shelter, was for some forgotten
reason built on the courthouse lawn. The methamphetamine
scourge keeps it full.
Main Street ends at the campus of East Central University,
home to four thousand students, many of them commuters.
The school pumps life into the community with a fresh
supply of young people and a faculty that adds some
diversity to southeastern Oklahoma.
Few things escape the attention of the Ada Evening News, a
lively daily that covers the region and works hard to
compete with The Oklahoman, the state’s largest paper.
There’s usually world and national news on the front page,
then state and regional, then the important items–high
school sports, local politics, community calendars, and
obituaries.
The people of Ada and Pontotoc County are a pleasant blend
of small-town southerners and independent westerners. The
accent could be from east Texas or Arkansas, with flat i’s
and other long vowels. It’s Chickasaw country. Oklahoma
has more Native Americans than any other state, and after
a hundred years of mixing many of the white folks have
Indian blood. The stigma is fading fast; indeed, there is
now pride in the heritage.
The Bible Belt runs hard through Ada. The town has fifty
churches from a dozen strains of Christianity. They are
active places, and not just on Sundays. There is one
Catholic church, and one for the Episcopalians, but no
temple or synagogue. Most folks are Christians, or claim
to be, and belonging to a church is rather expected. A
person’s social status is often determined by religious
affiliation.
With sixteen thousand people, Ada is considered large for
rural Oklahoma, and it attracts factories and discount
stores. Workers and shoppers make the drive from several
counties. It is eighty miles south and east of Oklahoma
City, and three hours north of Dallas. Everybody knows
somebody working or living in Texas.
The biggest source of local pride is the quarter-
horse “bidness.” Some of the best horses are bred by Ada
ranchers. And when the Ada High Cougars win another state
title in football, the town struts for years.
It’s a friendly place, filled with people who speak to
strangers and always to each other and are anxious to help
anyone in need. Kids play on shaded front lawns. Doors are
left open during the day. Teenagers cruise through the
night causing little trouble.
Had it not been for two notorious murders in the early
1980s, Ada would have gone unnoticed by the world. And
that would have been just fine with the good folks of
Pontotoc County.
As if by some unwritten city ordinance, most of the
nightclubs and watering holes in Ada were on the periphery
of the town, banished to the edges to keep the riffraff
and their mischief away from the better folks. The
Coachlight was one such place, a cavernous metal building
with bad lighting, cheap beer, jukeboxes, a weekend band,
a dance floor, and outside a sprawling gravel parking lot
where dusty pickups greatly outnumbered sedans. Its
regulars were what you would expect–factory workers
looking for a drink before heading home, country boys
looking for fun, late-night twenty-somethings, and the
dance and party crowd there to listen to live music. Vince
Gill and Randy Travis passed through early in their
careers.
It was a popular and busy place, employing many part-time
bartenders and bouncers and cocktail waitresses. One was
Debbie Carter, a twenty-one-year-old local girl who’d
graduated from Ada High School a few years earlier and was
enjoying the single life. She held two other part-time
jobs and also worked occasionally as a babysitter. Debbie
had her own car and lived by herself in a three-room
apartment above a garage on Eighth Street, near East
Central University. She was a pretty girl, darkhaired,
slender, athletic, popular with the boys, and very
independent.
Her mother, Peggy Stillwell, worried that she was spending
too much time at the Coachlight and other clubs. She had
not raised her daughter to live such a life; in fact,
Debbie had been raised in the church. After high school,
though, she began partying and keeping later hours. Peggy
objected and they fought occasionally over the new
lifestyle. Debbie became determined to have her
independence. She found an apartment, left home, but
remained very close to her mother.
On the night of December 7, 1982, Debbie was working at
the Coachlight, serving drinks and watching the clock. It
was a slow night, and she asked her boss if she could go
off-duty and hang out with some friends. He did not
object, and she was soon sitting at a table having a drink
with Gina Vietta, a close friend from high school, and
some others. Another friend from high school, Glen Gore,
stopped by and asked Debbie to dance. She did, but halfway
through the song she suddenly stopped and angrily walked
away from Gore. Later, in the ladies’ restroom, she said
she would feel safer if one of her girlfriends would spend
the night at her place, but she did not say what worried
her.
The Coachlight began closing early, around 12:30 a.m., and
Gina Vietta invited several of their group to have another
drink at her apartment. Most said yes; Debbie, though, was
tired and hungry and just wanted to go home. They drifted
out of the club, in no particular hurry.
Several people saw Debbie in the parking lot chatting with
Glen Gore as the Coachlight was shutting down. Tommy
Glover knew Debbie well because he worked with her at a
local glass company. He also knew Gore. As he was getting
in his pickup truck to leave, he saw Debbie open the
driver’s door of her car. Gore appeared from nowhere, they
talked for a few seconds, then she pushed him away.
Mike and Terri Carpenter both worked at the Coachlight, he
as a bouncer, she as a waitress. As they were walking to
their car, they passed Debbie’s. She was in the driver’s
seat, talking to Glen Gore, who was standing beside her
door. The Carpenters waved good-bye and kept walking. A
month earlier Debbie had told Mike that she was afraid of
Gore because of his temper.
Toni Ramsey worked at the club as a shoe-shine girl. The
oil business was still booming in Oklahoma in 1982. There
were plenty of nice boots being worn around Ada. Someone
had to shine them, and Toni picked up some much-needed
cash. She knew Gore well. As Toni left that night, she saw
Debbie sitting behind the wheel of her car. Gore was on
the passenger’s side, crouching by the open door, outside
the car. They were talking in what seemed to be a
civilized manner. Nothing appeared to be wrong.
Gore, who didn’t own a car, had bummed a ride to the
Coachlight with an acquaintance named Ron West, arriving
there around 11:30. West ordered beers and settled in to
relax while Gore made the rounds. He seemed to know
everyone. When last call was announced, West grabbed Gore
and asked him if he still needed a ride. Yes, Gore said,
so West went to the parking lot and waited for him. A few
minutes passed, then Gore appeared in a rush and got in.
They decided they were hungry, so West drove to a downtown
café called the Waffler, where they ordered a quick
breakfast. West paid for the meal, just as he’d paid for
the drinks at the Coachlight. He had started the night at
Harold’s, another club where he’d gone looking for some
business associates. Instead, he bumped into Gore, who
worked there as an occasional bartender and disc jockey.
The two hardly knew each oher, but when Gore asked for a
ride to the Coachlight, West couldn’t say no.
West was a happily married father with two young daughters
and didn’t routinely keep late hours in bars. He wanted to
go home but was stuck with Gore, who was becoming more
expensive by the hour. When they left the café, West asked
his passenger where he wanted to go. To his mother’s
house, Gore said, on Oak Street, just a few blocks to the
north. West knew the town well and headed that way, but
before they made it to Oak Street, Gore suddenly changed
his mind. After riding around with West for several hours,
Gore wanted to walk. The temperature was frigid and
falling, with a raw wind. A cold front was moving in.
They stopped near the Oak Avenue Baptist Church, not far
from where Gore said his mother lived. He jumped out, said
thanks for everything, and began walking west.
The Oak Avenue Baptist Church was about a mile from Debbie
Carter’s apartment.
Gore’s mother actually lived on the other side of town,
nowhere near the church.
Around 2:30 a.m., Gina Vietta was in her apartment with
some friends when she received two unusual phone calls,
both from Debbie Carter. In the first call, Debbie asked
Gina to drive over and pick her up because someone, a
visitor, was in her apartment and he was making her fe...