THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, September 15, 1996 TAG: 9609130706
SECTION: FRONT PAGE: A1 EDITION: FINAL
SERIES: CASE NO. 95-03143
Jennifer Evans Murder Case
[First of two parts]
SOURCE: Story by Mike Mather
LENGTH: 452 lines
They were three young people, their lives full of hope and promise. There was Jennifer Lea Evans, beautiful and personable, just beginning an education that would lead to a career in pediatric medicine. There were Billy Joe Brown and Dustin A. Turner, tall and handsome, Navy SEAL candidates preparing to join the military's most elite fighting force.
She had come to Virginia Beach from her Georgia home as a tourist. The men had come to the resort area from Ohio and Indiana as aspiring naval warriors. One night in June 1995, their lives intersected in a Virginia Beach nightspot where beautiful people meet.
For the three, nothing would be the same again. Evans disappeared that night. Over time, Turner and Evans became suspects in what police were convinced was a murder. But solving that murder would not be easy. In fact, it would become one of the biggest challenges the city's Detective Bureau had ever faced.
This is the story of what happened on that June night, and how police cracked the case. Reporter Mike Mather followed the case from the beginning, when Evans disappeared, to the end, when Turner 10 days ago became the second of the two SEAL trainees to be convicted of murder. After the trials were over, authorities opened their case files and told Mather the full story of how the crime was solved.
Monday, June 19, 1995, 11 a.m.
It was a bright, clear morning in late spring when the two handsome Navy frogmen signed their names to an apartment lease. Soon, they'd be out of the restrictive Little Creek barracks and into an environment more fitted to the lifestyle of bar-hopping and beer-drinking they had forged into nearly legendary proportions.
The best friends did not speak of their murderous secret.
Nine hours earlier, the frogmen had sped from the Oceanfront with a corpse in their car. Their panicked flight stopped in Newport News. One man grabbed the body by the arms, the other by the ankles. They carried the corpse into woods so dark they couldn't see where they were going.
They made a vow never to reveal the secret.
But nine days later, guilt would overtake one of the young men. The secret would slip out. And one of the most intense investigations ever conducted by the Virginia Beach Police Department would come to a chilling close.
But now, at the Birdneck Village Apartments rental office, the future roommates swore loyalty. Nothing would break their bond.
Tuesday, June 20, 9:30 a.m.
Homicide detective Al Byrum returned from two days off as the first hints of the secret stirred police headquarters.
A 21-year-old Georgia college student vacationing in the city had vanished from a 19th Street nightclub.
More than 400 people each year are reported missing in Virginia Beach, the state's largest city in population. Another 2,000 run away. Most are missing because they want to be, and almost all - more than 98 percent - return home.
But something was very different about this case. Something was very wrong.
Victim: Evans, Jennifer Lea
Sex: F
Race: W
Age: 21
Hair: Brown; Eyes: Green; Height: 5'3''; Weight: 135
Place of Offense: The Bayou nightclub in the 19th Street Radisson Hotel.
Evans had parted with two friends just after 1 a.m. Monday. She'd met a cute guy in the bar. The attraction was instant.
When her friends wanted to leave, she begged them to let her spend another hour with the tall, handsome young man who told her he was a Navy SEAL. As proof, he flashed a driver's license listing his address at SEAL Team 4, based at Little Creek.
Andria Burdette and Michelle McCammon left for coffee and returned for Evans at 2 a.m.
She was gone. So was the guy.
The Police Department's detectives hoped the green-eyed pre-med student had simply gotten tanked on tequila and impulsively married the sailor. They hoped she'd return with a gold-plated ring, a raging hangover and only a fuzzy recollection of her new last name.
But that wasn't like her.
Suspicions began bubbling.
Wednesday, June 21, 1 p.m.
Jennifer's parents, Al and Delores Evans, were waiting at the Sandbridge cottage where their daughter had been staying when detective Louis Chappell arrived, accompanied by Byrum. Chappell was with the missing-persons squad.
Al and Delores Evans had left their Tucker, Ga., home and drove to the cottage in a panic after Jennifer's friends telephoned and told them their only child was missing.
Byrum avoided the parents. He didn't want them to know he was from homicide. He let Chappell do the talking.
Byrum collected Jennifer Evans' hair brush, some barrettes and an elastic hair band. He knew he may have to use hair roots for a DNA comparison, should they find her body. It had been two days since she vanished, and although no one told the Evanses, the detectives' gears were switching. Byrum felt she was dead.
From interviews with Evans' friends, the detectives had pieced together the student's last known hours.
The Bayou is one of the city's most popular clubs. Sunday night was typical.
A band called ``The Killroos'' was playing on an elevated stage, above a dance floor where a pack of partiers bounced to Liana Ramirez' throaty lyrics.
Evans eyed a blond man with broad shoulders and a charming smile.
``Looks like your type,'' her friend, Andria, said.
Evans smiled. She sauntered toward the stranger. It was midnight.
``Hi,'' she said.
``Hi,'' answered Dusty Turner, sipping from a can of Coors Light.
Turner was only 20, but like lots of underage drinkers, he'd conned his way into the club. With him was his friend, Billy Joe Brown. Brown was Turner's swim buddy. Both were training to be SEALS, the Navy's most elite warriors.
Turner was a natural swimmer. In high school, he was the swim team's most powerful backstroker, his broad shoulders rotating muscular arms that pulled him through the water as fast as anyone in his hometown of Bloomington, Ind.
Turner joined the Navy through an early-entrance program in his senior year at Bloomington High School South. He was 17.
Just before his 19th birthday, he was accepted into the SEALs' training program in Coronado, Calif. He was among the youngest recruits in his class of 116.
By the end of the grueling basic training, only 20 candidates remained. Turner was among them. So was Billy Joe Brown.
Brown was a high-school dropout and was three years older than Turner. His teen-age years were more tumultuous.
While Turner was winning high-school swim meets, a 17-year-old Brown was married to a 14-year-old girl in Huber Heights, Ohio.
Once, in front of several police officers, he beat her up. He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her on the sidewalk as the officers tried to stop him.
The young couple were arguing over infidelity. Brown accused his wife of sleeping with four other people, and she accused him of sleeping with her sister and several other girls.
After the argument became physical, police showed up. A powerful boy in a man's body, Brown shrugged them off like a running back casting aside tacklers. He kept dragging his wife by the hair as the officers piled on.
It took at least three police officers to handcuff him.
Inside the police car, Brown started banging his head against the protective shield until a knot swelled.
Because of his age, the police report was tucked into a sealed juvenile record. The Navy said it didn't know about the arrest when Brown was accepted for SEAL training.
Even though the two sailors had come from vastly different backgrounds, they became inseparable.
They trained together, ate together, partied together, and planned to live together in their new apartment.
Turner and Brown were best friends. Brown loved Turner like a brother. He depended on Turner, and Turner on him. Between them, any secret was safe.
The bond between swim buddies is, by design, the tightest among military warriors. In more than three decades of SEAL warfare, no one has left a swim buddy behind.
Dead or alive, every SEAL has returned from every mission. Every one. Not once has a SEAL been captured. Not once has a casualty gone unclaimed.
The statistic is the core of the outfit's pride.
From Coronado, the swim buddies went for training in Georgia, and finally to Virginia Beach in March, where they were assigned to SEAL Team Four at Little Creek.
The training was tough on Turner.
After a torturous ocean swim during the infamous ``Hell Week,'' - five days of physical and mental torment that tests the candidates' limits - one of his lungs hemorrhaged. He struggled to attention after the exercise as foamy blood seeped from his mouth.
Later, stress fractures crackled through his legs after a grueling fitness session. He and his team were jogging on the beach under the oppressive weight of a utility pole balanced on their shoulders.
But now he was healthy and nearly a full-fledged SEAL.
He and Brown were almost finished with the 25 weeks of torture and training, almost ready to join the elite commando outfit as permanent members.
More than 70 percent of the men who began the training with Brown and Turner were now gone.
Quitters.
But not Turner and not Brown.
In April, Turner returned to Bloomington and secretly married his high-school sweetheart, Heather Morrison. Neither told their parents.
Turner's mother cried when she learned of the clandestine wedding. She had always imagined her handsome son decked out in his uniform at the altar of a grand church. She cried on the shoulder of the bride's father. He cried, too.
Now in Virginia Beach, far from his wife, far from his home, and still far from maturity, Turner was struggling with fidelity. In the bar this Sunday night, his ring finger was bare.
Jennifer Evans knew this vacation would probably be her last, for a while at least. Medical school was looming, and then a career in pediatrics. Her college friends said it was more of a calling than a career.
At Emory University on the outskirts of Atlanta, Evans had shined. She was on the dean's list with near-perfect grades, and was one of the university's most promising students. When she wasn't studying, she volunteered in a children's hospital.
Turner and Evans made a striking couple. Both attractive, both athletic, both personable. They talked several minutes, straining to hear one another over the band.
With a flirtatious smile, Evans left Turner and returned to her friends. Brown was getting drunk. He was trying to woo a former girlfriend, but she wasn't interested. So he kept drinking.
At 1 a.m., Evans returned to Turner. They talked about her studies and his training. He walked her into the hotel lobby, where they sat on an overstuffed chair.
Evans' friends followed her. It was late and they wanted to leave. She didn't.
Andria Burdette and Michelle McCammon agreed to go for coffee and return for Evans at 2 a.m. They promised to park in the same spot so Evans wouldn't miss them.
They never saw her again.
Two days later, on Wednesday, McCammon and Burdette met with a police artist and described the man last seen with their friend.
The man's likeness - a pencil sketch depicting a square-jawed young man with blond hair trimmed close on the sides but left thick on top - would soon air on television newscasts and be printed in newspapers. It prompted a flurry of calls to a police tip line.
Across town at police headquarters Wednesday, detectives were scrutinizing the weekend guest list of the 19th Street Radisson Hotel, where The Bayou occupies much of the first floor. They were also contacting the bar's employees.
One of the employees told police about a bar regular who was behaving strangely. He bore a resemblance to the man in the police sketch, too.
Undercover detectives from the Police Department's secretive Special Investigative Division had the suspect's house under surveillance. At dusk, detectives confronted him.
The man said he had left for another bar Sunday before Evans disappeared. His alibi checked out.
At Fort A.P. Hill, the military complex an hour north of Richmond near the Potomac River, two FBI agents were interviewing SEALs. Since the man last seen with Evans said he was from SEAL Team Four, the agents went to where the team was training.
There, they found a young, handsome sailor who was at The Bayou that night. It was Turner.
Special Agent Thomas Carter spoke with Turner in a small classroom. The interview was short.
Turner told him he met a girl at the bar and got her phone number, but he couldn't remember her name. Turner retrieved a cocktail napkin from his belongings and gave it to Carter.
Scribbled on the napkin: ``Jennifer, 426-2118.'' Carter knew that was the missing woman.
Calm and collected, Turner recounted his Sunday activities for the agent. Turner left with Brown about 2 a.m. and returned to their barracks. Evans was still in the bar then.
Carter saw no sign that Turner was lying.
The agent called the Virginia Beach detectives. The two sailors looked clean, he said.
Byrum was disappointed.
The case was going nowhere.
The mystery was thickening.
At police headquarters, Byrum and his supervisor, Sgt. Tommy Baum, were standing on the building's brick porch, facing Princess Anne Road.
``If this turns bad, it's going to be your case,'' Baum said.
There was no body and, officially, no homicide, but a murder case was brewing. And Byrum was due for a murder.
``Tommy, I can't,'' Byrum answered. ``I'm taking leave on Friday.''
Friday, Byrum was scheduled to close on his new Chesapeake house. Over the weekend, he, his wife and their three boys would have to move.
Baum considered his stable of eight investigators and selected John ``J.T.'' Orr.
But by Wednesday night, there was still no sign of Jennifer Evans.
The trail was growing colder.
Thursday morning, June 22
Kristen Bishop stared blankly at the newspaper.
There, in front of her, was a police artist's sketch of a man detectives were trying to identify. It looked like Dusty. In fact, she was certain it was him. And next to the sketch was a photograph of a girl Bishop saw in The Bayou Sunday night, talking to Dusty.
Police were looking for the man because the girl had disappeared.
Bishop was a waitress at the bar, where Turner was a regular. She wasn't working Sunday, but she had gone to the bar with friends.
Bishop called the police and gave them Turner's name.
Soon, Orr had details about Turner:
Turner, Dustin Allen
White male
Date of birth, 2/7/75.
Employment: U.S. Navy, SEAL Team Four, Naval Amphibious Base Little Creek.
With Turner that night was his swim buddy:
Billy Joe Brown.
White male
Date of birth, 6/3/72
Employment: U.S. Navy, SEAL Team Four, Naval Amphibious Base Little Creek \ Turner had already been interviewed by the FBI. The agent who spoke with Turner believed the young sailor's story, that he left the bar without Evans and returned to the SEAL barracks with his swim buddy.
Orr wanted to talk to the SEAL candidates again. He felt something was wrong. He didn't know what.
But he was involved in something else Friday morning, so detectives Gene Eller and Mark Bordner flew in the city's Bell Jet Ranger police helicopter to Fort A.P. Hill.
Like Byrum and Orr, they were looking for any scrap of information to fill in the puzzle.
They knew Evans was with Turner until 1:45 a.m. Then, Turner left with his friend. Fifteen minutes later, Evans' friends returned to pick her up. She was gone.
And in those 15 minutes, something happened. After five days, the detectives didn't know what. Maybe Turner could help.
Plus, it's tough for any detective to entrust an investigator from another agency with a sensitive interview. Although Byrum and Orr didn't doubt that the FBI agent had done a thorough job, they wanted their own detectives to give it a try.
The interview was again short.
Nothing new emerged.
Turner and Brown offered to take lie-detector tests, but the detectives said it wouldn't be necessary. They believed the young sailors. There was nothing to contradict their stories.
Not yet.
One of Orr's bosses, Lt. Jack Pritchard, was quoted in this day's newspaper dismissing Turner as a suspect. The headline: ``Lead fizzles on missing pre-med student.''
But Orr never dismissed him. Somehow, Turner and Brown had to be involved. Nothing else made sense. And things are supposed to make sense.
Byrum was on his way home. He was edgy. He was scared something would break on the case and he'd be left out. But his closing appointment wouldn't wait.
Before he left, he searched for Orr. The two are good friends. No one in the homicide unit has a partner exactly, but Orr and Byrum are the next closest thing.
They work well together, especially during interviews. Orr is a straight-ahead detective, methodical and serious. With suspects, he's conversational, but his stern tone leaves no doubt who's in charge.
Byrum is more affable. His voice has a Carolina lilt that puts people at ease. Sometimes, perhaps, too much at ease. Suspects often forget that the amiable country boy asking them questions is the one who'll soon put them in jail.
Byrum found Orr.
``Don't leave me out of this one,'' he pleaded.
Orr smiled. He wouldn't.
Through the weekend, Byrum called the bureau each day. More and more pieces were coming together. The dozens of interviews were being compared.
Sunday morning, he called Orr at home.
``J.T., I'm ready to go,'' he said. ``I want back in.''
Orr was ready to go, too.
Things were moving faster.
Sunday, June 25, 1 p.m.
Detective Bureau
Turner's story was slipping. Brown's, too.
Byrum, Orr, Baum and detective Shawn Hoffman sat behind their institutional metal desks. Dull fluorescent light filled the room.
Withered plants sat on windowsills in front of Venetian blinds seldom opened.
At the far end of the bureau, near where detectives in the Domestic Violence Unit sit, a small waste basket collected drips from the soaked acoustic ceiling tiles.
The detectives talked about the several statements Turner and Brown had willingly given. They compared the sailors' versions of what happened Sunday night with statements from other bar patrons.
There was a problem.
``They're lying about things they have no need to lie about,'' Byrum said.
First, the sailors insisted they weren't drinking. But several people in The Bayou that night said otherwise. Brown, in fact, was obviously drunk.
Second, there was Kristen Bishop.
Bishop, a waitress at the club and Brown's former girlfriend, saw Turner leaving the club with Evans at 1:35 a.m. Monday. They walked hand-in-hand toward Turner's car, a silver Geo Storm.
But Turner swore he and Brown had left together. And they had left Evans inside.
``They have no need to lie about things like this unless there is more involvement on their part,'' Byrum said. The other detectives agreed.
Turner slipped out of Fort A.P. Hill for the weekend, and no one knew where he was. But Brown had returned to Virginia Beach. Undercover detectives were tailing him.
In Virginia Beach, Brown visited Bishop at her second part-time job, in a tanning parlor. He didn't know she was helping the police. He didn't know the detectives had coached her about what to say, hoping Brown would give something away.
Detective Renee Ball was also in the tanning parlor, posing as a customer.
But Brown said nothing. He was cool.
Orr and Byrum knew they were in danger of blowing this case. Turner and Brown had become the prime suspects, but they had already been interviewed twice. A third interview could be too much. They could shut down.
Worse, the sailors could start thinking about lawyers.
Then the detectives would never find Evans. They'd never solve this case.
And it would haunt them forever.
In the Detective Bureau, questions flowed.
How should we approach Brown?
Where do we approach him?
Do we do it here, or do we let him go back to Fort A.P. Hill?
What about Turner?
Disagreements among the detectives festered into fights. Orr wanted to let Brown go back to Fort A.P. Hill and confront him there, with Turner. Others wanted to snatch Brown off the street now.
Orr was going out on a limb by insisting they wait. A high-ranking supervisor strongly dissented. But Orr won.
Even so, the detective knew if his strategy didn't work, the second-guessing would be ferocious.
Brown relaxed Sunday, oblivious to the detectives shadowing him, and oblivious to the strategy session at police headquarters. Turner and Brown had agreed earlier to take lie detector tests, and this time, the detectives would oblige.
The surveillance ceased. The detectives would pluck the SEAL trainees from their home turf: Fort A.P. Hill.
Monday, June 26, 7 p.m.
At the Fraternal Order of Police Lodge on Birdneck Road, Byrum's absence was conspicuous.
He's usually in the kitchen Monday nights, slathering potent hot sauce over batches of his famous chicken wings.
Instead, Byrum was with Orr. The detectives were traveling east on Interstate 64 in a blue sedan, following a car driven by Sgt. Tommy Baum. With the sergeant was his wife, Lt. Sandi Baum. Both are polygraph experts.
In the trunk of the Baums' unmarked police sedan were two polygraph machines, each the size of a suitcase.
Turner and Brown had agreed to another meeting. This would be the last one.
This would be the last chance to find out what had really happened to Jennifer Evans.
Byrum was nervous. Orr, too. Both knew that nothing short of a confession would break the case.
They steered the sedan into a Richmond Holiday Inn.
In 12 hours, the detectives would face their suspects in an all-or-nothing psychological assault.
And, suddenly, the secret would escape. MEMO: Coming Monday: The interviews with the SEAL candidates will span
eight tense hours. They will drive the detectives to exhaustion and
drive the suspects to the edge. Then, after an emotional plea, one man
will crack. ILLUSTRATION: Drawings by Betty Wells
Graphics
Photos
THE POLICE
Al Byrum
John Orr
Lt. Sandi Baum
Sgt. Tommy Baum
MEETING PLACE
The Bayou
THE KILLERS
Dusty Turner
Billy Joe Brown
PARENTS AND FRIENDS
Al and Delores Evans
Andria Burdette
Linda Summitt
BODY FOUND
Newport News Park
[For complete graphic, please see microfilm]
KEYWORDS: MURDER RAPE ASSAULT SEX
CRIME ARREST TRIAL VERDICT by CNB