Doctors saved his life. Three weeks later, he was moved from the hospital to a high-security cell. During questioning, he was erratic. Sometimes he denied everything, calling it a conspiracy. Other times he spoke of his “divine mission.” Psychiatrists diagnosed a personality disorder with delusional features. But he was found fit for trial.
He knew what he was doing. The journal was found in his safe, exactly where Jim said it would be. A thick, leather-bound book filled with cramped handwriting. Fourteen names, fourteen dates, fourteen descriptions—cold, clinical, without a shred of remorse. Mary Morris was the eleventh entry. Alex asked Jenkins to show him that page.
She didn’t want to, said it would only cause more pain. But he insisted. The entry was short. Date—September 14, 2005. Name, age. Shop girl.
Wants to be an actress. Foolish, trusting. Came with me willingly. Took forty minutes. Hidden as usual. That was it.
His sister’s life reduced to a few lines. “Took forty minutes.” Alex handed the book back and walked out. He went to the restroom, locked the door, and finally let himself cry. No remains were ever found. George had disposed of everything in the crematorium.
There was nothing left to bury. The families of the victims never got to say a proper goodbye. All they had were the items from those bags. Purses, jewelry, IDs. Fragments of stolen lives. George Garrett’s trial began in March 2024. The courtroom was packed. Families, reporters, the curious. Alex sat in the front row, his eyes fixed on the defendant.
The old man looked frail. He’d lost weight, his hair was thin, but his eyes were the same: cold, empty, predatory. He looked at the gallery as if they were insects. The charges were extensive. Fourteen counts of murder, kidnapping, weapons charges. George pleaded not guilty to everything.
His court-appointed lawyer tried for an insanity defense. It didn’t work. The psych evaluations were clear. The families spoke one by one. Mothers, fathers, siblings. They talked about who their daughters were, what they dreamed of, how much they were missed.
Some cried, some screamed. One woman tried to lung at George and had to be restrained. Alex spoke too. He talked about Mary, about her dreams, about how their mother had lost her mind from grief. About the earrings he found in a bag in a church attic. He looked George in the eye the whole time.
“You took everything from me. My sister, my mother, my life. For eighteen years, I didn’t know. For eighteen years, I hoped. And you lived in your big house, took your awards, sat on your boards.”
“Philanthropist. Pillar of the community. Killer.” George just stared at him, expressionless. “I want you to spend every day you have left in a cell,” Alex finished. “Alone, knowing that the whole world knows exactly what you are. That’s justice.” The verdict came in May. Life without parole. George Garrett was sent to a maximum-security prison. He’ll never see the sun as a free man again.
Jim Garrett was tried separately. The charges: “Obstruction of justice, official misconduct, and tampering with evidence.” He pleaded guilty and cooperated fully. The court took that into account.
He was sentenced to eight years. Ellen filed for divorce the day he was arrested. She took Macy and moved out of state—Alex didn’t know where, and he didn’t ask. She had her own life to rebuild. She’d helped him, and he was grateful, but their paths were done.
St. Nicholas Church was closed during the investigation. It was eventually assigned a new pastor. The attic was cleared out, the hidden niche sealed. They said the new priest held a special service for the souls of the victims. Alex didn’t go.
He couldn’t trust an institution that allowed such things to happen under its roof. Father Bill’s legacy was erased. His name was removed from plaques and memorials. His portrait was taken down. The diocese issued a statement condemning his actions. The seal of confession was one thing…
