Hilton had given Emerson aspirin every time she asked for it and believed that he was being “very solicitous” of her health. He gave her water whenever she asked for it. That morning Hilton was exhausted, or “flagged out,” as he thought of it, from the running around he had done trying to get cash from one of Emerson’s ATM cards. He hardly remembered how he got to where he had made camp. It came to him that he had driven through the town of Dahlonega, and he wasn’t sure why.
Now, starting the second day of holding Emerson captive, Hilton was no better off than when he had started this venture to get some fast money. He was still broke, needed gas, and he had at least three broken fingers. He looked at Emerson over a campfire.
“You had me running all over last night, hon,” he said. “You didn’t just try to convince me, you did convince me.” He laughed. “Hell, I’m not even going to ask you why.”
Hilton continued with a rambling monologue on how stupid people were, and how he knew so much more than almost anyone. People, even his criminal lawyers, were always commenting on his superior intelligence, his depth of knowledge in numerous areas, and his exceptional education. He loved it when people said, You certainly are well-read. How many degrees do you have?
They were both hungry, but Hilton had nothing for them to eat except two small cans of stew. He had water and dried food for both dogs. As Hilton pondered his next move, he decided that they would go to Canton later on in the day because he knew someone in that area who might be willing to give him some money. From Canton, he could drive on up to Cartersville after he telephoned Brenda Ayers (pseudonym), the woman who might give him money.
At least that was what he hoped. Like everyone else Hilton had known, Ayers wanted nothing more to do with him and had refused to talk to him on the telephone for more than three months. However, Ayers had known him for twenty years; in Hilton’s mind Brenda was a longtime girlfriend. And then there was John Tabor, in Atlanta, for whom Hilton had done telemarketing, off and on, for more than ten years. They were far from being on the best of terms, and in his mind, Hilton figured that Tabor owed him $250,000 from past sales commissions. Hilton had physically threatened Tabor more than once.
It was just after sunrise when Hilton decided to try Emerson’s ATM cards a few more times and buy a cup of coffee and some bananas from his dwindling assets, which had shrunk to less than eight dollars. Hilton felt a familiar malaise coming over him—one that sometimes made him tremble and shake, or turned him into a limp blob of boneless protoplasm without the strength to move.
When he did not have those feelings, the emotion that dominated him was unbridled rage. Besides being a mean sociopath, which he thought made him superior, Hilton blamed these feelings of malaise on multiple sclerosis (MS)—a diagnosis he had made for himself—and for which he had convinced a doctor to write him a prescription for Ritalin.
According to the National Drug Intelligence Center (NDIC), which is a part of the U.S. Department of Justice (DOJ), Ritalin is a name for the generic drug methylphenidate, a central nervous system stimulant that is more powerful than caffeine and less potent than amphetamine. The doctor who wrote the prescription for Ritalin noted on Hilton’s chart that the patient was more likely to be “schizophrenic” than to have multiple sclerosis, but that the patient had shown him a faded paper from a different doctor who offered the diagnosis of MS.
Ritalin is usually prescribed for children and teenagers to treat attention deficit disorder (ADD) or attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), and is supposed to be monitored carefully for side effects. These can include insomnia, euphoria, increased focus and attentiveness, psychotic episodes, cardiovascular complications, and severe psychological addiction, according to the NDIC.
Hilton took other drugs at random, depending on their availability—uppers, downers, LSD, marijuana—but he rarely drank alcohol or smoked, except for a beer and a cigarette now and then. Hilton was glad that he had “trained” Emerson to help set up and break camp. She helped pack up without being told and he was pleased at how compliant she had become. Although he may not have realized it, Hilton always thought in the plural sense. They always became compliant, he thought—not she always became compliant.
Hilton felt desperate. His range of activity was limited and he was being hemmed in because the vehicle was running low on gasoline. One of Emerson’s ATM cards and PINs had to work. He was also anxious to look at a newspaper to see if his photograph was in it or if he had in any way been associated with a missing hiker. Once the van was packed, Emerson was tied and chained inside and Hilton drove to Regions Bank on Marietta Highway, south of Canton. He pulled up near a building on what he thought was Moose Lodge Road.
“One of these better work,” he told Emerson, gazing at her with his cold blue eyes. Then he laughed. “You’re making a believer out of me.”
Emerson gave him a PIN number and Hilton walked at what he believed was an inconspicuous pace toward the ATM. He inserted the debit card and punched in the PIN that Emerson had given to him. All the while he held a towel to obscure his face. No money came out of the ATM, so he went back to the van.
“It didn’t work, bitch,” he said. “Give me the right PIN.”
Emerson gave him another PIN, but Hilton knew she was lying. What’s more, he could tell that Emerson knew that he knew she was lying. But he ran back and forth four different times on fruitless trips to get the ATMs to stop rejecting the card and start spitting out money. He gave up on getting money but walked inside a Huddle House restaurant across the street and asked if he could use the telephone. The waitress thought he looked creepy and dirty, as if he had been sleeping in his clothing.
The waitress walked to the other end of the restaurant, where another waitress stood, while Hilton talked for a while on the telephone, seemingly getting more and more agitated. He had picked up a copy of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, where he had seen a one-column story about a missing hiker and a short story with a photo of Emerson. There was no mention of him. He breathed a sigh of relief: he still wasn’t famous yet, but it was only a matter of time.
Hilton finished his telephone conversation and ordered a cup of coffee to go and smiled as he paid the waitress.
“Things are looking up,” he said cheerfully.
With that, he hurried to the van and drove back to the remote area of Dawson Forest where he had made camp the night before. He had at least another day to hold his victim because he wanted to ask her for different PIN numbers and try to find different banks to try each of her three different cards. Failing that, he had to rely on his acquaintances to give him money. In the daylight Hilton saw again what a good job he had done of picking a remote camping area. It was a great hiding place, several miles north on Shoal Creek Road, not far from Deer Creek Road, which had no designated camping areas. It was hidden away in the forest and far from any hiking trails. Hilton drove off into the woods, where the van couldn’t be seen from any clearings, and set up camp.
The temperature was still just eleven degrees, and Hilton lit a gas cooking stove inside the van to help keep them warm. He ran the van’s engine sparingly so he could also run the van’s heater, but he was worried about burning too much gasoline. Hilton had expected a blitzkrieg: kidnap, get money, kill hostage, and flee. He had not counted on Emerson running him ragged any more by giving him incorrect PIN numbers. He was tired, cold, and hungry. It was about time to finish playing this string of cards.
Exercise might help him with his jitters, he thought, and ordered Emerson to put on a warmer jacket. After he was dressed in his warmest coat and hat, they headed into the woods for a hike. On a cold day like