I
nside Danny Hembree’s vehicle, forensics found several carpet fibers that did not match anything else in the vehicle.
“We knew they were from somewhere,” Hensley later said. “We just didn’t know where.”
This particular trace evidence was no good to them—unless they could come up with trace evidence to match it to, but it was a start.
As the first week of December brought some cold weather to the region, that noose the GCPD, while working with the YCSO, had put around Hembree’s neck was about as tight as it could get without Hembree being totally depleted of oxygen. It was time, they all knew, to ask a judge to sign off on an arrest warrant and get Hembree in the box answering questions once again, but this time while under arrest. With a little prodding, Hensley, Baker, and Yeager were certain, Hembree would crack.
Yet, as it would turn out, shocking everyone involved, Danny Hembree would do the heavy lifting himself. No arrest warrant would be needed.
D
etective Matt Hensley attended a narcotics meeting on December 2 with several local Charlotte narcotics officers involved in a local heroin ring investigation. This drug brought communities to their knees. Where there was heroin, there was organized crime (be it gangs or the old-school Mafioso). Death seemed to follow this drug’s path more than any other: overdose, unpaid drug debts, taking out street pusher competition, or some form of all three.
One particular group of junkies had been stealing over-the-counter medications as a side business to fund their habits. They had been taking the stolen medications to a local drug dealer and trading. One of the subjects interviewed as part of this operation, Hensley found out during the meeting, knew Heather and Randi.
After the meeting, Hensley tracked her down, which turned out to be easy enough. She had been popped on a shoplifting charge and was sitting in Gastonia County Jail.
“Nothing,” she said.
She didn’t want to get involved. She didn’t know anything. She only knew the girls from hanging around certain people. That was how the street life worked.
Everybody knew everybody. Nobody knew anything.
“I have no information about how they died or who killed them,” she said.
Hensley scratched his head. Conducting this interview had given him an idea, however. Look over Randi’s visitor list the last time she was in jail.
Names.
People always help move an investigation along. It might take talking to ten people, maybe twenty; but by crossing names off a list, you get to know the victim better.
Hensley had never met Heather or Randi. He had never seen them around town, or run into them when they got into trouble. But as the investigation into their murders continued, Hensley felt a bond on top of that voice of the victim calling out. Cops describe it candidly. They begin to think about the voice. Work under it. Feel it. The victim—or, in this case, victims—speak from the grave. There is no one else there to represent them. Cops have to take it on. And every time Hensley spoke to a friend or street buddy of one of the girls, he felt closer, not only to catching their killer, but to the real person behind the madness that their lives had become.
On December 3, Hensley conversed with Russ Yeager, who had recently gotten hold of several photographs found inside a camera Randi owned. Randi appeared to be inside a motel room in some of the photos, lying on a bed “with an unknown black male subject,” a report indicated. They couldn’t tell when the photos were taken.
What interested Yeager and Hensley most was the bedding. With Randi being found wrapped in a blanket and burned, the bedding in these photos was a potential lead. Were these photos the last pictures of Randi Saldana?
“We have to see if we can match the design of the print on the blanket or comforter Randi was found in,” Hensley said.
Hensley and Yeager found out the photos were taken inside a seedy “Motel Hell” on Highway 321, near Highway 74. It was one of those motels to take a date for a few hours. You could rent weekly, and would probably want to wear a full-body condom upon entering the rooms.
The manager was helpful. He handed over records of visitors and tenants during those weeks before both murders.
Hensley, along with two other investigators, sat down and went through the paperwork.
Nothing. Not one player in the drama they were investigating popped out from the documents. That didn’t mean Randi, Shorty, Danny, Nicole, Heather, or anyone else within the group hadn’t changed his or her name. These are the types of motels that don’t much care about having a credit card or proper identification. You have cash; you get a room.
“Can we take a look inside a room?” Hensley asked.
“Sure. Go ahead.”
They took the photos and visited several rooms, trying to match up the bedding, bed, and headboard, all of which were visible in the photos.
No match.
As they drove away from the motel, the investigation seemed to be leading nowhere. The only real leads they had led back to Hembree. They were still waiting on a signed arrest warrant.
What now?
They didn’t know it, but patience was all they’d need.
T
here is something extraordinarily insidious and unique present within the eyes of a man who’s taken a human life. Perhaps it’s the cold, deep murkiness running through the sclera (white), which is set against atlas road map–red bloodshot streaks. Or the temperamental depth of blackness in the iris. But it is always there. Unmistakable. A steely, emotionless gaze only a certain part of society maintains. Some say it’s the Devil’s way of projecting evil into the world, laser-like. Whatever it is, there’s no mistaking this presence if you’ve ever had the opportunity to witness it firsthand.
On December 3, 2009, there was that same hollow stare looking back at investigators as they studied several photographs taken from surveillance cameras set up inside two IHOP restaurants in Charlotte, North Carolina. Within all of the suspicion surrounding him and his potential role in the deaths of Randi and Heather, Danny Hembree decided to commit several armed robberies.
The behavior seemed so, well, stupid, especially in the scope of where Hembree’s life was then. Here was Danny fingered on those surveillance cameras and caught, essentially, red-handed. The images of a yet-to-be-identified Hembree were e-mailed around to scores of local law enforcement agencies to see if anyone recognized the man.
It was YCSO detective Eddie Strait who saw the images roll across his computer screen and immediately knew who it was: a familiar face to the YCSO.
They had Hembree right where they wanted him.
Backing up the notion that the image was no doubt Hembree, witness reports matched Hembree’s vehicle leaving the scene of both robberies.
An officer from the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department (CMPD) created a photo lineup, in which Danny Hembree’s recent mug shot was included. They tracked down one of the witnesses from IHOP. At 7:15
P.M.
, on December 4, two Charlotte-Mecklenburg police officers met with the witness and placed the lineup in front of him.
“That’s him,” the man said. “He’s the one.”
He was positive. The witness pointed to suspect number two in the lineup.
“He’s the one that robbed me. He had a silver pistol, like a silver revolver. I recognize his facial characteristics.”
They asked him if there was anything else.
“The eyes,” the witness said.
Indeed, there was no mistaking the eyes of the Devil.
The eyes belonged to Danny Hembree.
T
he Gastonia Police Department picked Hembree up at his momma’s house and transported him to the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department. Hembree was sleeping when he arrived at the CMPD garage and was greeted by fifteen-year-veteran armed-robbery CMPD detective Ryan Whetzel. It was 12:20
A.M.
After being woken and escorted out of the vehicle, Hembree said, “Where are we? Is this the jail or the detectives’ building?”
“The jail’s about a block away,” Whetzel explained. Hembree was handcuffed behind his back. He wore blue jeans. A checkered flannel shirt was flanked over his shoulders like a cape. “But we’re going in here because I need to talk to you about a few things.”
“I want you to know that I am invoking my constitutional rights and you need to walk me over to the jail.”
“I need to take you in here first before I can transport you over to the jail,” Whetzel said.
Hembree didn’t balk.
Whetzel and Hembree, along with a uniformed officer, exited the prisoner elevator on the second floor. Whetzel wanted to get Hembree into an interview suite, sit him down, and give him a few moments by himself to think about things. Whetzel had seen this scenario likely hundreds of times before: Some doper is busted for a robbery. After a few moments inside the box, he’s ready to give it up. Hembree could make this easy on himself and admit to the robberies. They had him nailed. With Hembree’s history of burglaries and robberies, he was facing serious time. Playing stupid and saying he didn’t do it would only make matters worse.
As they walked down the hallway toward the box, Hembree spoke without being asked. “I think I might just done changed my mind, depends on what you want to talk about. You know, and how nice y’all are.”
Clearly, Hembree had a plan. He was setting the hook.
“I’m real nice, Danny,” Whetzel said.
They were in the box. Hembree was a bit out of it, more sleepy than spent. He wasn’t as alert as he had been with Baker and Yeager the previous week. With his arms cuffed behind his back, that plaid shirt draped over him, he sat in one of four chairs around a small table. The room was about the size of a large closet.
“Well, if you’re nicer than the others,” Hembree blurted out before breaking into a rant, slurred as it was, about “those other boys.... You give them a shirt and badge and they get that God thing going. . . .”
What this comment was in reference to had never been established or discussed. Maybe it was the way Hembree had been picked up and handled that night. In any situation he found himself, Hembree was all about maintaining power and control. He had proven this during the Baker/Yeager interview. And here he was again taking control of the situation with Whetzel, merely seconds after sitting down. All of it recorded on video cameras set up around the room.
Whetzel tried shackling Hembree’s legs around the chair, but it wouldn’t work.
Hembree let out a big yawn.
Whetzel uncuffed his suspect, who let out a sigh as the cuffs came off. Hembree then dropped his head and hugged himself, as if he was cold.
“I’ll be back in a minute, all right?” Whetzel said.
Hembree didn’t respond.
Whetzel said it again, louder.
Hembree looked up. “Yeah, man. . . .” Then he dropped his head.
Whatever Hembree was going to talk about, Whetzel wanted it recorded under the support of a formal interview. If Hembree was going to admit the robberies, they needed it on record.
Hembree, of course, had other things on his mind. But for right now, as he waited for Whetzel, he put his head down on the desk in front of him and slept.
D
anny Hembree was sound asleep when Ryan Whetzel returned to the box at 12:32
A.M.
It was now December 5.
“All right, Danny . . . ,” Whetzel said. He had a pad and several sheets of paper.
Hembree didn’t move. He had his head resting on his folded arms on top of the desk, like a kid sleeping during detention.
“Danny!” Whetzel said louder, knocking on the table.
Nothing.
“Danny!”
Pause.
“Danny!”
Pause again.
“Danny!”
Whetzel screamed.
Finally, after Whetzel yelled for a fourth time while grabbing Hembree by the arm, Danny snapped out of it. He rubbed the sleep off his face with one hand. Then he acclimated himself to his surroundings, as if realizing all over again where he was.
“Can you wake up for me, buddy?”
“Yeah, maybe,” Hembree said.
“You want to talk . . . and get all your eggs in one basket? Let’s get it over with . . . ,” Whetzel said. It was clear Whetzel wanted to do this the easy way. He didn’t want to play games with Hembree by sitting there for six hours in a standoff.
Whetzel had Hembree sign a Miranda warning form, indicating that Hembree had been read and clearly understood his rights. Then the cop said he wasn’t going to waste time. He wanted to know if Hembree was willing to put his cards on the table now.
“You know what we want to talk about?” Whetzel said.
“Yup,” Hembree answered. “Them robberies . . .”
“Okay . . . which one would you like to talk about first?”
Hembree leaned back in his chair and took in a deep breath. “Y’all get them from York County up here, and y’all get me something to eat, and let’s talk about those murders.... I’ll tell y’all about them two girls.”
D
etective Ryan Whetzel sat stunned. After taking in what Hembree had just announced, Whetzel said the only thing he could think of at the time: “Okay. . . .”
Hembree stared at Whetzel. The felon’s shirt was pulled up over his head like a hijab. His arms were folded in front of himself. He leaned back in the chair.
Control.
“Hang tight,” Whetzel told him.
Hembree stared at the cop.
Because he had not gotten any response from Hembree, Whetzel said: “You gonna wake back up now?”
“Sure,” Hembree responded immediately. “Look, I’m just tired,
not
under the influence.”
Whetzel thought Hembree had passed back out. After establishing that Hembree was wide-awake and alert (and staring blankly at him), Whetzel said it would take time to get that meal.
Full of surprises on this night, Hembree blurted out: “Actually, York County . . . theys wasn’t killed there—theys was just
dumped
there. Theys was killed in Gastonia.”
Whetzel again seemed shocked. “O . . . kay,” he said slowly.
Whetzel left Hembree in the box for a few hours while he got hold of two York County detectives. All three went in and sat down with Hembree, who seemed more with it now that he’d had a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.
“You requested York County,” one of the investigators said, “well, we’re here.”
“Them girls wasn’t killed in no York County,” Hembree said. At times, when he spoke, Hembree hammered the tip of a finger angrily into the tabletop.
“No?”
“Nope! I’s just
dumped
them there.”
The way he used the word “dumped”—there was no doubt that these girls were mere garbage to Danny Hembree.
“Where did it happen at?”
“I killed them at Momma’s. . . . I killed Heather downstairs in the laundry room, and I killed Randi in my den. You’ll find their blood all over the couch.”
“At your momma’s?”
“Yup.”
“Does your mom know?”
“Nope.”
“Anybody else know?”
“Nope.”
Hembree talked about killing two women as though he was describing a trip to the supermarket. Casual. Detached. No emotion. It was as if he was excited to get the opportunity to talk about it finally. To relive it. Their lives, clearly, had no value to him. There was no remorse. No tears or even a faint, phlegmy scratch to his voice. It was all business for Hembree. Here was a killer talking about his work.
Hembree talked about killing Randi in particular and how the YCSO could go downstairs in his mother’s house and find “where she bled and I tried to clean it up. . . .”
“Was that blood from her nose?” one of them asked.
Hembree coughed into his fist and folded his arms. “Yeah, uh . . . I punched her in the nose after she was dead. I didn’t figure she’d bleed or nothing.”
He remembered the exact time he killed Heather. “It was four-thirty on the eighteenth. And I dumped her body . . . that Sunday. . . .”
After a bit of discussion over where he killed Heather, one of the investigators asked, “What brought that on?”
“I killed Heather ’cause, um, I don’t know—I just did. I just wanted to. And I killed Randi for the same reason. I just wanted to.”
He said he used a bag on Heather. “And it took a long time.”
Next he told the group how he, Sommer, and Heather, on that night, “had sex six or seven times.” Moments after that, he said: “She (Heather) was a whore and she wouldn’t quit. And she was having to sell her body to the niggers every now and then . . . and I just, uh, I
released
her from that. I wasn’t mad at her or nothing. She’s just better off.”
Then came what every investigator working the case had suspected as the weeks passed and Hembree was still walking the streets. Who was his next victim?
Hembree took a breath. He scratched his nose with the back of his hand. In a voice full of grandiosity and arrogance, he said, “I was gonna get her momma this week!”
Stella Funderburk didn’t know it, but she was lucky to be alive.