Free Behind the Yellow Tape: On the Road With Some of America's Hardest Working Crime Scene Investigators by Jarrett Hallcox, Amy Welch Page A

throughout the whole ordeal. It wasn’t that he cared that he’d killed her (according to him, she was an old drug whore who deserved it); it was that he didn’t want to be “falsely” accused of doing something that he claimed he didn’t. He was adamant that he didn’t rape Volpenhein and that their sex was consensual. But to a jury, it would appear that rape was at least a possibility, and therefore the case would become capital in nature. Plus other evidence was mounting up against him as well. The tire impressions taken from the field were of an odd pattern, with three of the four tires having the same style tread, but with a different tread on the fourth tire, more of a snow tread. Just like the tires on John Snow’s truck. Furthermore, as the detectives in the case continued to work, they discovered video evidence of John Snow buying two blue plastic tarps at an AutoZone store. They also obtained video surveillance footage from the dump site that showed Snow’s red truck, missing taillight and all, driving around the facility as it was getting dark, on the night that Volpenhein’s body was dumped. All pretty convincing evidence—absolutely none of which would have ever been created if it hadn’t been for Snow’s paranoia about those shell casings with his fingerprints on them (which, incidentally, have never been found). No tarps would have been purchased and no fingerprints would have been left—nothing. Yet everything he did to cover up his guilt simply dug his grave a little deeper. Sometimes the CSI Effect does have its advantages; using what he learned from television actually caused Snow’s downfall.
     
    With our examination of the tarp over, the boys folded it back up and sent it to the incinerator, clearing the way for new and probably bloodier evidence.
    The next morning, we were back in that “odd place for a prosecutor to practice law” building, wrapping up the Beckham case that we had begun discussing when we first convened. “Rodney Beckham was a prolific liar,” prosecutor Linda Tally Smith said disdainfully of the defendant. Indeed, he was no saint. He already had a long rap sheet, including two felonies, and was a known drug addict and dealer when on July 2, 2004, he was arrested for the attempted murder of twenty-seven-year-old Stacy Beals. The trial lasted seven days. Much evidence was examined and many witnesses were called in, including doctors who discussed in detail the brutality of Stacy’s injuries. Linda was kind enough to provide us the entire trial on tape so we could watch it and see for ourselves how it had unfolded. Tim Carnahan’s and Brian Cochran’s testimonies were brilliant, particularly Brian’s testimony regarding the bloodstains. He appeared quite scientific when examined by the defense, dispelling Hollywood myths about how blood travels on impact and how much blood they could expect to see. But overall there was little physical evidence, and they were missing the big kicker—no murder weapon had been found. The trial would all come down to whether the jury believed that the Commonwealth of Kentucky had met its burden of proving beyond a reasonable doubt that Rodney Beckham killed Stacy Beals. Ultimately, it would come down to Linda.
     
    Rodney and Stacy had been out partying well into the morning of June 27, 2004. Eventually, the two of them left together to score some crack cocaine to smoke at the Econo Lodge in Carrollton, Kentucky. At some point between two and five a.m., Stacy was beaten and left for dead. Stacy, barely clinging to life, wasn’t found until a hotel maid discovered her as she attempted to clean the room. She had been beaten so severely that pieces of skull were found scattered throughout the hotel room. Rodney Beckham was nowhere in sight.
    Word spread throughout the small Kentucky community that Stacy Beals had been hurt and that she’d last been seen with Beckham. One of Stacy’s friends, who was related to a police officer, called