By M. William Phelps
The crime shocked quiet Mineral Wells, Texas: 49-year-old Bob Dow shot execution-style in his personal mattress, his invalid mom locked within the subsequent room—and a cache of selfmade porn starring the town's underage women. the 2 accused killers—teen enthusiasts Bobbi Jo Smith and Jennifer Jones—were at the run, motive on going out in a cross-country blaze of glory. M. William Phelps exposes a gripping story of sexploitation, lust, and betrayal, whereas wondering the court's fateful verdict in a tantalizing forensic puzzle. have been either women both to blame of homicide? Or was once one simply a pawn within the other's dainty, blood-stained hands?
Includes sixteen Pages Of Dramatic images.
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Extra resources for Bad Girls
The jewelry hadn’t been divided. The foreign currency hadn’t been washed. The pawnshops and the black markets hadn’t been flooded with hot goods yet. None of the thieves had left town. There would be time soon enough for all of that. For the moment, there were priorities—grim priorities. And everyone knew what came next. ” Plural. It was a crime that started clean and ended dirty. ” The word filtered down as it only can in Queens: “Trouble brewing. We’re going on the mattress. ” It was a crime that would touch thousands of people, transforming the lives of everybody who got tangled in its web, and ending the lives of at least ten of them.
Ferrara was an inveterate partygoer and a familiar figure at the discos, beaches, and watering holes of Long Island’s jet set. Her lifestyle and hundreds of contacts made her a natural for the double game she played. She socialized with mobsters, then turned them in. But she was more than a canary; she dabbled in a game with a very high mortality rate—double agentry—and she took money from both sides of the law. She told the feds everything she knew about the matter of Building 261, and was well paid for it.
Within forty-eight hours, those keys would change hands twenty-five times; they’d be passed in taverns and duplicated as they worked their way slowly, steadily, silently up through the wise-guy network. For the word was out; there was a big shot who wanted them. And at last, Flatlands Tony had the keys. He had a man waiting in an Off-Track Betting parlor. He gave him a set of the keys and he wrote down an address on a scrap of paper torn from an abandoned, day-old Racing Form. Then Flatlands Tony flashed his toothy smile and strode purposefully up to one of the betting windows.