Fatal Romance: A True Story of Obsession and Murder Page 4

  In his own case, the lanky, 192-pound officer had been called to the scene of a drug deal gone awry. When he arrived at the location, he found a narcotics dealer holding a gun to the head of a security guard.

  “Drop the weapon!” he had yelled in an effort to diffuse the situation, drawing his gun from his holster.

  There was no response. Instead, the crazed gunman had pressed the barrel even closer to the innocent guard’s head.

  “Drop it!” Farish tried again, instinctively gripping his gun even more tightly.

  In a sudden motion, the dealer had turned the weapon toward Farish and the other officers on the scene. The security guard jumped away as Farish fired once, killing the desperate gunman.

  Later, it was discovered that the gun the dealer had been brandishing was a realistic-looking toy—so real, in fact, that a Grand Jury could not differentiate it from the real thing. That moment had stayed with him, and his worst fear was that one of his own officers would be put in a similar situation and have to spend the rest of his career reliving the memory, as he had.

  Farish glanced at his watch. He realized that over an hour had passed since Jeremy Akers had killed his wife. A hundred different possibilities of what could be happening at that very moment raced through his mind—each one worse than the last. While Jeremy had most likely shot his wife in a moment of passion, the ensuing hour had no doubt given him time for the significance of what he had done to sink in—and a chance for him to realize that no matter what action he took, he was destined to spend the rest of his life in prison.

  To Farish’s way of thinking, a man killing his wife in front of the kids was about as low as anyone could get. From what he had learned about Akers, with his Marine background as a trained killer and his macho attitudes, he feared that his mindset was, “You’ll never catch me; I’m a survivor.” He could envision the next step being a high-speed chase, with Akers popping off a few rounds to make good his escape.

  He also knew there was another player who was likely to get drawn into this grotesque drama. In the past hour, his investigation had revealed that Nancy Richards-Akers had a lover—a man who could very well be the next name on Jeremy Akers’ hit list.

  Sgt. Farish was relieved to learn that the youngsters were safe inside the neighbor’s home, and that the young man’s wife was caring for them.

  Farish knew immediately what the next step was—to interview the children. But first, he needed to send out an All Points Bulletin to alert police departments in the region to the gunman on the loose. Reaching into his pocket, the sergeant retrieved his radio and called up the communications supervisor.

  “We need an All Units Simulcast,” he declared, instructing the dispatcher to send out notification to every officer in the District of Columbia, as well as headquarters of every police station along much of the eastern seaboard to be on the lookout for Jeremy Akers.

  It was exactly 22:42:01 on June 5, 1999, when the radio broadcast went over the airwaves: “All units, be on the lookout for white male, five foot, seven inches, bangs, muscular build, possibly driving a dark colored Ford Expedition … He is considered armed and dangerous.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Jeremy Akers clutched the steering wheel of his coal-black Mercury Mountaineer, the thick muscles of his forearms bulging from the intensity of his grip. Thoughts of his wife and her live-in boyfriend raced through his mind as he headed for 4840 MacArthur Boulevard. Methodically, he drove the dimly lit streets of the quiet, tree-lined neighborhood in search of a secluded spot to park his vehicle and begin his hunt for his second target, Jim Lemke.

  Nancy could have saved her own life, Jeremy rationalized as he drove along, replaying the final conversation with his estranged wife over and over in his mind.

  Her arrogant, flat-out refusal to leave her young lover and come back to him had proved too infuriating for him to bear. Didn’t she realize that he could no longer live with the shame and embarrassment he felt each time that he thought of her with that low-life, 18-wheeler jerk?

  Things between them had been so different, he recalled, remembering when Nancy had made him feel like the center of the universe.

  Jeremy first met the shapely brunette more than twenty years before when they had both been working on Capitol Hill. A mutual friend had introduced the couple, believing they were perfectly matched. In reality, they couldn’t have been more different.

  * * *

  Born in Mississippi on April 1, 1942, Jeremy Ray was the first son of William and Gladys Akers. Nicknamed “Jerry Ray” by his family, the adorable, fair-haired boy with the piercing blue eyes and deep voice moved with his family to Sheffield, Alabama, where his father worked for the powerful Southern Railway System. The small industrial town, which sits seventy miles west of Huntsville in the northwest corner of the state, is where he would spend all of his youth.

  Named for its sister city of Sheffield, England, Jeremy’s hometown was incorporated in 1885 amid speculation of a land boom in the region known as The Shoals. A trading post, Sheffield was actually developed in 1816 by a group of land speculators, including generals Andrew Jackson and John Coffee. However, the undertaking was soon abandoned in favor of Florence on the opposite bank of the river.

  While most towns in the South were developed as agricultural centers that were helped by gradual and steady growth of the economy, Sheffield was founded by a handful of entrepreneurs who invested their fortunes to build a city with industries from which they hoped to earn a profit. Their plan was to create an iron and steel center using locally available iron ore and to capitalize on the economy of river transportation to ship the product to market. The demand for iron had created a need for production sites near the areas where iron ore was plentiful, and by the turn of the century, five blast furnaces were in operation along the banks of the Tennessee River.

  Wide streets, brick sidewalks, and sprawling industrial plants characterized Jerry Ray’s hometown, one of four towns collectively referred to as the “Quad-Cities.” Florence, the largest of the four, sits on the south side of the river and has the biggest commercial district. While Sheffield had just one movie house, Florence had two, making the more populated city a desirable destination for the area’s teen population.

  When Jeremy—or Jerry as he was referred to by the local folk—was born, the provincial Southern community had a population of fewer than eight thousand people and a crime rate that was virtually non-existent—save for “the occasional husband killing his wife,” local folks like to joke.

  Jerry enjoyed two short years as an only child before sharing the spotlight with his new brother, William Thomas Akers, Jr., or “T” as his family called him. Three years later, a sister, Carolyn, was born. Jeremy’s parents mused about the little girl’s bony, bird-like frame, and lovingly nicknamed her “Chicken.” It was a name that would stick with her, even after she won the title of “homecoming queen” of her senior class, and became a wife and mother herself.

  As a youngster, Jerry was keenly aware that something important was happening in the world. His first indication was the day his father, a proud and private man, was sent overseas to defend his country in World War II as a member of the United States Marines Corps. Everywhere Jerry went, he heard talk of the teenage sons of neighbors joining the fight, and he watched as members of his close-knit community traded items such as shirts and shoes for sugar and other rationed goods.

  Military service had always been an important piece of the Akers family heritage. Everybody in town knew that Jerry’s great-great uncle on his mother’s side was Albert Sidney Johnston, who led his troops in a notorious battle of the War Between the States. Growing up, Jerry’s parents proudly educated their son and his siblings about the host of relatives who had served as generals and colonels in the conflicts of the South.

  Because of the proximity of the Wilson Dam and the nearby industrial plants that were turning out critical war materials, the Akers children were members of a community that the gover
nment had declared a “sensitive” region. Fearing attacks from the Germans to the east and the Japanese to the west, blackout drills and the construction of air raid shelters in The Shoals started even before Jerry’s siblings were born.

  With many of the nearby factories now operating on an around-the-clock basis, Jerry and his family watched their tiny community swell from eight thousand to more than ten thousand in just a few months. Brimming with a workforce of well-paid employees, the Quad-Cities continued to prosper even after World War II ended. The main shopping district along Montgomery Avenue bustled with patrons of its many restaurants and shops. Family-run establishments like the Sheffield Pharmacy and the Colbert Theater were popular spots for Jerry and his young friends.

  The post-war economy was good not only for Sheffield, but for Jerry’s dad as well, who worked as a railway laborer, while his mother remained at home to run her busy household.

  Gladys Akers kept a tidy home. The attractive, well-spoken woman took pride in the boxy, five-room house that the family occupied on Nineteenth Avenue. The home was typical of the residences that dotted the oak-lined streets of their middle-class neighborhood. But unlike the neighbors’ houses, which were faced with inexpensive asbestos siding, the Akers residence boasted a lovely brick façade that set it apart from others in the community.

  While modest in size, Jerry’s house was neatly landscaped with flowers and shrubs, and was only a stone’s throw from the more exclusive section of the city. He and his friends often rode their bicycles on the broad streets that wound their way along the limestone bluffs of the Tennessee River, stopping to marvel at the impressive mansions that sat perched behind towering Pines along the banks.

  Like most of the southern towns, Sheffield was segregated. The black families populated an area not far from Jerry’s house that locals referred to as “Baptist Bottom.” The small downtown district maintained its own churches and its own school, and the children of the black community were discouraged from socializing with those of the larger white community.

  Growing up in a town that was right on the banks of the Tennessee River afforded Jerry and the other children of Sheffield the opportunity to enjoy a plethora of outdoor activities. For the oldest Akers boy, they included swimming, boating, and fishing in the summer months, as well as hiking the trails of the nearby parklands, and hunting in the woody areas near his home. From an early age, Jerry was proficient with guns and, as he grew older, he began collecting them as a hobby.

  When he was in second grade, Jerry met the boy who would become his best pal. Raymond Walker and his family had moved to Sheffield from Birmingham shortly after Ray’s dad left the Marine Corps. His new friend was taller and leaner than Jerry when he enrolled at Blake Elementary School, in a school system that had only eight hundred students from kindergarten to twelfth grade.

  Both from modest means, and both with fathers who had served in the Marine Corps, Jerry and Ray hit it off right from the start and became inseparable. As youngsters, they rode bicycles together after school. As teens they double-dated. And, as young men, they attended Florence State Teachers College and then enrolled at the University of Alabama, pledging the same fraternity.

  Their friendship began with their membership in the Cub Scouts, which they belonged to for three years. Dressed in their official blue uniforms, they enjoyed after-school activities and weekend sleep-outs where hiking and swimming were part of the fun. While the boys were proud members of the popular club, their participation in the organization was focused more on the social enjoyment it provided, and less on the badges and patches the other boys took pride in earning for their community service.

  Jerry’s mom liked that her son belonged to such an upright, worthwhile club, and she volunteered to serve as a Cub Scout mother to the local troop. Her participation as a volunteer with the Cub Scouts was just one of the roles that she played as an active member of the Sheffield community. Gladys Akers belonged to a host of local organizations, the most important of which was her affiliation with the First United Methodist Church on North Montgomery Avenue. On Sundays, Gladys dressed her sons in the crisp white shirts that she painstakingly ironed, and sat proudly by her family’s side as the minister gave his sermon. Often, Jerry and his family would find seating near the Walkers, since Gladys and Mrs. Walker were also good friends.

  Jerry’s father rarely accompanied the family to church. To Jerry’s friends, William Akers was a man of few words. The former Marine was a loner. Residents of the small community described him as a typical parent of the forties and fifties, a nose-to-the-grindstone type who adhered rigidly to the traditional role of husband as breadwinner and father as rule-maker and enforcer. He was a no-nonsense parent who believed that discipline and example were more important than mushy declarations or expressions of affection. With his son, he was sometimes critical and often remote, choosing to leave the child-rearing responsibilities—except for punishment—in the hands of his wife.

  As a seventh grader, Jerry enrolled at Sheffield Junior High School. He was twelve years old and entering puberty, and aware that many of his friends at the red-brick school-house were experiencing growth spurts that seemed to elude him. His best pal Ray shot up to nearly six feet tall by the time they had completed the eighth grade, and most of the other boys in his class had also grown markedly taller during their middle school years.

  Jerry was deeply concerned when his own stature remained relatively unchanged, but stoically kept his anxiety to himself. Such stoicism may have been one of the first signals that Jerry repressed his deep, painful emotions, especially his feelings of inadequacy. Perhaps if he had been more expressive about his concerns, he would have been given support, empathy or at least an opportunity to discuss his feelings. He began the ninth grade standing just five feet, one inch tall, and remained that height until early in the twelfth grade, when he finally grew seven inches. But even then he was unable to stand shoulder to shoulder with his classmates. His height meant that he could not participate in the traditional high school sports of football and basketball, a fact that rankled the athletic young man. While it was clear that he was highly intelligent, and had an I.Q. that friends say exceeded 160, his inability to join the school’s popular athletic teams was bitterly disappointing to the clean-cut teenager. But, determined to show his school spirit, he supported the players he longed to join by yelling cheers from the sidelines. His classmates voted him one of three boys on the nine-person Sheffield Cheerleaders team, an appointment that was considered prestigious by members of the school population.

  At weekend games, he was outfitted in the official cheer leading garb for boys: crisp white slacks, a pressed collared shirt, a bow tie around his neck, and a white Varsity-style button-down sweater with the school’s “patch” sewn on its lower left pocket. The slender teen wore his hair cropped short and slicked neatly upwards, and performed a repertoire of gymnastic feats. His role included lifting and throwing the six skirt-clad, saddle-shoed girls of the squad, and performing acrobatic feats on the grassy field during half time.

  Jerry’s participation on the squad won him visibility at the popular sporting events, and the affections of some of the prettiest girls in his class. On weekends, he and Ray kept a busy schedule, double-dating their sweethearts at drive-in movies and the bowling alley that had recently opened in Sheffield. Alcohol was not popular among members of the Sheffield teen community, and Jerry and Ray never touched a drink until they left home for college.

  For the most part, Jerry preferred to date girls from neighboring Florence High School, and rarely, if ever, took out any of the women from his own alma mater. His friends recall that he never really had a steady girlfriend, but rarely was without a date on a Saturday night.

  Jerry was a member of more clubs than most of his classmates joined, maintaining a social life that was the envy of many of the boys in his class. He served all four years as a member of the Student Council, and amassed a list of accomplishments that included ever
ything from manager of the school’s basketball team to Class President. He held the title of “Class Favorite” student for four years in a row, and also counted membership in the Honor Society and Key Club among his many achievements.

  During his junior and senior years, he became interested in tennis and even won the Boy’s State championship. Athletic and disciplined, he played to win, but often had a difficult time exhibiting good sportsmanship on the court when he lost a match.

  Jerry spent his summers as a lifeguard at the beach, working at the same job every year from the time he was fifteen. His duties included swim- and dive-instruction, as well as supervising the facility. It was a position that the trim, athletic young man enjoyed, and one that he would return to every summer until he enlisted in the United States Marine Corps in 1965.

  Yet, in spite of his popularity and his ability to get dates, some of Jerry’s friends believe that he may have suffered taunts—real or imagined—because of his size. The psychological scars that accompany teen years spent as one of the smallest boys in the class were deeply rooted in his psyche. Being—or becoming—a “big guy” may have influenced his tragic fate.

  After all, it must have been hard when his younger brother T, who was two years his junior, became a member of the football team that Jerry was cheering from the sidelines of the Walton Wright Stadium. T’s rugged good looks and participation on the team earned him notice, but high school pals of Jerry recall that the younger Akers boy seemed to lack the intellectual genius that came so naturally to his older brother.

  As youngsters, friends say that Jerry and T shared a room. But their relationship grew strained over time, with Jerry jealous of his brother’s greater stature, and T struggling to keep pace with Jerry’s continual accomplishments. While Jerry was more charismatic than his younger sibling, he was also more intense, and confrontational.