The Killing Kind (4 page)

S
ommer Heffner, Heather’s best friend, walked out her screen door and sat on the porch of her home. It was the morning of November 1, a Sunday. Sommer picked up the newspaper and opened it. She took a sip of her coffee.

To her shock and sorrow, there it was: confirmation. Not Heather’s name, but a story about a young girl found in a ditch. Sommer read what the girl was wearing, along with the clothes cops had recovered not far from her body.

Sommer, who had seen Heather get dressed in those same clothes on the night she disappeared, lost control of her emotions. She started bawling.

Her boyfriend came out.

“What’s going on?”

“That’s Heather,” Sommer said, jabbing her finger into the text of the article. She handed him the story of the girl in the ditch. “That. Is. Heather.”

I
t’s not every day, week, month, or even year that a body is discovered in your jurisdiction. Law enforcement personnel come under a tremendous amount of pressure to solve a case as the media and downtown brass begin to ask questions about the investigation and what stage it’s at—no matter how early or far into it you are.

“The YCSO was working around the clock on this case,” one law enforcement official told me. “By the end of the first week, with no real leads, they were tired and beat down.”

They didn’t have a clue as to what happened to Heather Catterton.

No one knew it then, but as the second week of the investigation came to a close—and there were still no viable suspects on the radar—the unbelievable happened. It was a scenario that would ratchet up the investigation ten notches and turn it into a multijuris-diction, multiagency search for a potential serial killer. All while a ticking clock worked against law enforcement in what seemed to be a bogeyman on the loose, preying on women in Gaston County.

O
n the night Heather Catterton’s identity was released publicly for the first time, her photograph was displayed on the nightly news. Randi Saldana, a twenty-nine-year-old (soon to be thirty) local Gastonia woman, sat in the living room of her sister, Shellie Nations, watching television. The two of them, close as sisters could be, talked as if it was just another normal night together, enjoying each other’s company. But as the news came on, Randi was quickly distracted by that image of Heather.

“I know her,” Randi said. It was the face. She had seen Heather somewhere.

“Where?” Shellie asked.

Shellie, called “Shell” by her sister, did not recognize the photo. Heather was, essentially, just a child, and her pudgy, bubbly face indicated as much. Randi and Shellie were much older. Randi hung around different circles. But they had lived in Gastonia, nonetheless, which was where Heather had spent most of her life.

“I got it,” Randi said, snapping her fingers. “Jail.” Randi had done some time just recently for several misdemeanors, drug possession, and fighting.

“You mean it? You talked to her, too?”

“Yeah.” Randi had also seen Heather around town, from time to time, she explained to Shellie. “And you know,” Randi added, “she would not have gone down like that without a fight. She was a
tough
chick.”

Shellie listened as the newscaster explained what law enforcement chose to release publicly. By now, it was being reported that Heather’s death was considered a “homicide investigation.” She had been dumped on the side of the road in South Carolina; some of her clothing was found just to the north, in North Carolina. They also cleared up a notion that Heather had been officially reported missing, saying there was never a missing persons report filed.

Shellie knew Randi was running around town with some shady characters lately. With the news of Heather’s body dumped on the side of the road Shellie grew worried.

“Listen to me, Randi,” Shellie said, stopping and looking Randi in the eyes, “whatever you’re doing, you need to stop. You have to understand
that
”—Shellie motioned to the television—“is what we’re scared could happen to
you.
”

Randi turned pale. She felt the seriousness of Shellie’s concern. Randi was aware of walking that fine line between dabbling in things she could control and others that could turn ugly at any given moment. It seemed to hit her right then that she was living a high-risk lifestyle, same as Heather, and her behavior could ultimately have consequences.

The sisters didn’t say much after that. What else was left? Shellie was the big sister; she was the one who looked out for Randi.

The worrywart.

Randi got up, hugged Shellie, and then turned to leave. She didn’t have to say it, but she did, anyway: “I love you, Shell.”

“Randi, I’m serious. I love you, too.”

“Will you take me to my friend’s house, Shell?” Randi asked. She had been living with a guy since breaking up with the father of her youngest child.

“Yes, Randi.”

As they walked out the door together, they made plans to meet up for Randi’s birthday in a few days.

Shellie pulled up to the house. Randi stared out the car window, almost as if questioning whether to get out of the car.

Before opening the door, she turned to Shellie. “I love you, Shell.”

“I love you, too, Randi.”

Randi was somber. As though Shellie’s words back at the house had impacted her way of thinking.

Randi got out. Walked into the house.

Shellie drove away.

T
hey had met back on October 29 to celebrate Shellie’s birthday. But now it was November 2, just a few days after Heather’s body had been found, and that conversation Randi and Shellie had about Randi’s lifestyle rang in their ears. Randi had always stopped by to see Shellie on her birthday and bring her a little something.

“Let’s go out and eat! My treat,” Randi had said on that October 29 night when she stopped by to wish her big sister a happy birthday. Their birthdays were so close, it was always a celebration.

“No, Randi, you don’t have that kind of money. Let’s just hang out and talk.”

“Nothing big,” Randi said. “Just some tacos. I really want one.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Shellie said, “I’ll bring you some tacos on
your
birthday.”

Shellie promised she’d drive to where Randi had been living with a guy named Tim, her current boyfriend. Shellie told Randi that in just two days, November 2, she’d arrive with a box full of Randi’s favorite tacos, ready and prepared to celebrate Randi turning thirty. A milestone.

“I like that idea,” Randi had said.

Randi had a glamorous,
Vogue
-like, supermodel smile that nearly everyone she came into contact with noticed immediately. It juxtaposed seamlessly against her deep, penetrating light blue eyes and porcelain skin. She was one of those women who always took the time to wear the perfect amount of eyeliner and makeup, accentuating her faultless facial features. Randi was not merely beautiful; she was gorgeous, turning heads wherever she went.

As kids, Randi and Shellie, one year and a few days apart, were like twins. Whatever one did, the other was right behind. It had been that way all their lives. They looked out for each other. They knew that men would come and go, even their girlfriends, but they would always be there for each other. No one could take that bond of being sisters away.

“Randi and I both grew up in Gastonia, North Carolina,” Shellie told me. “We had good lives. We were raised for the majority of our lives by our grandmother. We lived a very religious life.”

They attended the local Pentecostal Church of God every Wednesday and Sunday with their grandparents. There were never any drugs or alcohol around the home, Shellie recalled. It was as straight a life as one could lead: prayer, family dinners, more prayer, cookouts, TV, lemonade, Bible talk, and laughs.

“There was never anything that we could complain about, growing up,” Shellie added. “We had good schooling. Good home.”

It was the kind of life one imagines in the small-town south. Gastonia, the largest small town in Gaston County, has been branded the “All-American City” three times and received the U.S. Conference of Mayors Livability Award. Its slogan spells out the feeling you get, many claim, from walking around town: “Great Place. Great People. Great Promise.” The city’s website says that because of Gastonia’s “strategic location,” just minutes west of Charlotte and midway between Atlanta and North Carolina’s Research Triangle, Gastonia has become a bastion for attracting “both industry” and “new residents.”

For Randi and Shellie, Gastonia had always been, and always would be, home.

On November 2, at some point late into the afternoon of Randi’s birthday, Shellie’s phone rang. Looking down at the caller ID, she smiled.

“Hey, Randi . . .”

“Shellie, I need you to come and pick me up.”

“I told you I would bring you some tacos—I’m on my way.”

Shellie pulled up and parked her car in front of where Randi was living. She was excited to see her sister on her birthday.

Because of that strict but formidable lifestyle they had lived as kids growing up with God-fearing grandparents, Shellie and Randi never got into much trouble throughout their youth and into junior high.

“We were very obedient. My grandmother would not have tolerated anything else,” Shellie said.

As Randi grew older, however, she fell into a group of kids at school that dabbled in those temptations just about every kid, at some point, faces. Shellie never went the way of drugs or alcohol; Randi, on the other hand, couldn’t resist.

Still, Randi was one of those girls in junior high and high school who became a magnet, attracting others who wanted to be around her. She had that glow about her that drew people toward her. You wanted to know Randi. You wanted to be seen with her. You wanted to be her friend. She made you feel alive and loved and important. She made people laugh and allowed them to be comfortable with who they were.

“Her dream,” Shellie recalled, “was to do hair and makeup, to go off to cosmetology school and learn the trade.”

That vocation fit Randi so well.

Randi and Shellie’s grandmother had a large spread of land with a lake, and Shellie recalled how her fondest memories of her sister included going down to the lake, just sitting, staring out at the water, and talking like young girls do.

“We’d always go there swimming with our cousins and cook out right by the lake. We had a lot of family time. It was never many outsiders. It was always family.”

Randi had an inherent goodness in her. Whenever she met people for the first time, she would not judge, as though anyone and everyone were not only equal, but loved by her in a special way.

There was one woman Shellie met years later who shared a story about Randi. The woman was crying. The story had conveyed the type of person Randi was.

“What’s wrong?” Shellie asked.

“Aren’t you Randi’s sister?”

“Yes, I am.”

“If it hadn’t been for Randi, I don’t know where I’d be today.”

The woman explained that when she arrived in Gastonia for the first time, she didn’t know anyone. She met Randi.

“Randi gave me ten dollars and a place to stay,” the woman said.

The woman now had a job, a new home, and was doing better than she could ever recall. All because Randi reached out and showed her love.

“If it had not been for Randi,” the woman concluded, “I do not know where I’d be today.”

“She accepted people for who they were,” Shellie said. “If they were down and had nothing, Randi wanted to help.”

Shellie and Randi spent November 2, Randi’s birthday, together. It was one of those days Shellie remembered later with a gleam: two sisters enjoying each other’s company.

They ate tacos. Talked. Drove around. Laughed.

They didn’t get a chance to see their mother much; but on this day, Shellie drove over to her and Randi’s mother’s house and they all sat and chatted.

At one point, Randi started crying.

“What’s wrong?” Shellie asked.

“I need you to do me a favor, Shell. Will you?”

“Of course, Randi. Yes. What is it?”

Shellie knew Randi was in a tight spot and didn’t like to talk about her life and where it had been lately, not where Randi saw herself headed. Since he had been two years old, Shellie had custody of Randi’s middle child. Randi had signed over that custody. It was the right thing to do for Randi. She realized she couldn’t handle the child at the time and knew that by leaving the child with Shellie, Randi could see him whenever she wanted. For Shellie, family looked out for one another.

When she entered high school, Randi was passionate about hip-hop dancing, along with hanging out with the popular crowd, since she was one of them. As far as boys and dating, Randi was not one of those girls dreaming of one day marrying Prince Charming and riding off into the sunset. Sure, she wanted that white-picket fence, same as most people, but there was something inside Randi that told her not to allow herself to be tied down—at least not at a young age. She was determined that before settling down, the love between her and her partner needed to be genuine. It should not be just the “next thing to do” in life, nor just because she’d had children at such a young age.

For years, Randi considered how people dated. They’d graduate college together. Then they would move into the working world, believing the next “thing” to check off the list was marriage and kids and SUVs and Little League and PTA meetings. It was almost as if their lives had been scripted. And then the bubble burst at some point and they found themselves staring at each other one day across the dinner table, realizing they were following a path set before them by others and not listening to their hearts.

Randi didn’t want that. She yearned for love at its core. If she didn’t feel it, she wasn’t sticking around and wasn’t going to kid herself into believing that just because a man fathered her child, he was “the one.”

“What is it, Randi?” Shellie pressed.

Randi was still crying.

Shellie and her mother looked on, wondering what was going on. It was Randi’s birthday. She was supposed to be celebrating. She should be happy.

But there was a certain darkness hovering over Randi. Shellie could feel it.

“Randi, talk to me. . . .”