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The couple had one son, Jackson, who was a pretty decent baseball player back in the day, enlisted in the army after high school and then spent some time in the military. His last stint was during the Gulf War in ’90.
When Jackson’s tour ended, he came home and started his ragtag salvage business. That’s when his many run-ins with law enforcement began—mostly related to his heavy drinking with a few petty crimes thrown in for good measure. It seemed there was also something in Jackson’s record that was more serious, but Butler couldn’t quite remember what it was.
Butler knocked on the door again. Still no answer. They didn’t have time for this. Every minute that passed meant time lost from finding those kids and who murdered the Doyles. He knew he had to talk to June and Jackson Henley, but he’d be more useful doing something else in the meantime. He’d send a deputy back later.
Butler climbed back into his vehicle and drove slowly down the drive to where the lane widened and he could turn the car around. He passed rows of broken-down vehicles and farm equipment piled on top of each other like carcasses. It was downright eerie, Butler thought as he swung the vehicle around and drove around a mountain of black rubber tires baking in the sun.
The house came back into view and Butler saw a white pickup parked in front of the house. Butler pressed on the brakes and squinted through the bright sunshine to see a tall, grizzled man with close-cropped dusty-black hair helping an elderly woman up the porch steps.
June and Jackson Henley.
When Jackson opened the front door, he looked over and spotted the sheriff’s car idling in the drive. His eyes widened in alarm.
“Hey, there, Jackson,” Butler said casually. “I was hoping you and your mother could help me with something.”
Jackson didn’t respond and looked at the sheriff with suspicion.
“I’m sure you heard about all the goings-on at the Doyle farm last night. We’re trying to re-create a timeline of what Josie Doyle’s and Becky Allen’s movements were all day yesterday and we know the girls stopped here. It would be mighty helpful if you could tell me about that visit? What time they showed up and what you all talked about.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Jackson said licking his lips nervously. “They were looking for a dog. They didn’t find him and went on their way.”
“That’s what Josie said too,” Butler said. He wanted to make sure that Jackson knew the other girl was safe and talking. “I thought you could walk around the property with me, show me where the girls were searching for the dog.”
“I don’t have to let you on my property,” Jackson said inching closer to the truck. “I don’t have to talk to you.”
“Well, Jackson,” Butler said conversationally. “I don’t believe this is actually your property. I believe it belongs to your mother.”
“You leave my mom alone. She’s sick,” Jackson said glancing toward the house. “You don’t need to bother her with all this.”
“But I’m afraid I do,” Butler said, his voice filled with regret. “We’ve got two dead and two missing teens. I have to talk to everyone who saw any of the Doyles or Becky Allen yesterday.” Butler tried to give Jackson a friendly smile. “How about it? Let’s take a walk around and talk.”
Butler saw the indecision on Jackson’s face that he’d seen on hundreds of people over the years—should he get back in the truck and take off or stop and wait to see what the sheriff wanted?
Jackson didn’t quite do either. He left the truck where it was and took off on foot. Butler watched as the man sprinted behind the house, his boots kicking up thick gray dust in his wake. That was when, in a split second, Jackson Henley went from witness to person of interest.
A buzz of excitement coursed through the sheriff. People ran when they were guilty or scared. Butler maneuvered his vehicle around Henley’s truck and parked. He got on his car radio and summoned dispatch. Through the crackling static, Butler told them to have backup on standby and to pull any records they had on Jackson Henley.
Butler knew that he didn’t have the legal power to do a search just yet, so he’d have to get permission another way.
Butler exited his car on heightened alert. There were too many unknowns—why Henley had bolted, where he was hiding, what firearms and weapons he had access to.
Hand resting on his sidearm, Butler made his way up the decaying front steps and knocked. June Henley answered the door, her pink hat askew on her head. Butler was struck at how frail the woman looked—as if she could collapse at any moment.
June looked wearily up at Butler. “I imagine you’re here to talk about those two girls,” she said. “Come on in.”
Three hundred miles away, State Trooper Phillip Loeb was still on the hunt for the silver truck. He had taken the exit to McCool Junction, a tiny village about five miles off I-80. Other troopers had also joined the search and were keeping an eye out in case the truck returned to the interstate. But Loeb had a feeling that the driver pulled into McCool to hide. He crept slowly down the quiet streets in search of the truck. Every other car was a pickup, making his search more difficult. He passed the school, a bank, and a drive-in restaurant.
Loeb took Road 4 out of McCool Junction, came to the speedway and pulled into the parking lot. And there it was. The silver truck and its two inhabitants, just sitting there. Loeb called in his position, pulled out his sidearm, and cautiously exited his car, taking cover behind the cruiser.
There were no plates on the truck, sending up another red flag. This was it. He could feel it. “Hands on the steering wheel,” Loeb shouted. “Hands on the dashboard!” He half expected for the driver to take off, but the truck stayed put.
Within minutes, two more state troopers arrived, as did three deputies from the York County Sheriff’s Department. Using their vehicles as a blockade, they boxed the truck in. There was no escape. The law enforcement officers exited their cars, guns drawn.
“Driver,” Loeb shouted. “Open your door.” The driver’s side door swung open. “Show me your hands, show me your hands!” A pair of trembling hands appeared. “Driver, step slowly from the vehicle,” Loeb ordered. One tennis shoe and then another touched the concrete, and a tall figure unfolded himself from the truck.
It was a young man, his eyes wild with terror.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I’m sorry.”
