MURDERED: Nathaniel Jones

Hi, Crime Junkies. It's Ashley.
Six years ago, when we did our very first Crime Junkie tour, we told a story about a young girl who was murdered. Well, within that story, the killer had Googled Dana Ireland autopsy photos.
That small piece of the larger story set me on a years-long spiral, picking apart the murder of a young woman on Christmas

Eve. Three men were convicted of her murder, but it was clear that the real killer had never been identified.
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Requires Google Gemini account. Results may know I am always on the lookout for cases that need their season of justice.
And a case recently came across my desk that had me questioning everything. Although it was technically solved, whether or not justice was fully served is still a big question.
And thankfully, investigative journalist, your favorite and mine, Delia D'Ambra, is diving into all those details of this case for season seven of Counter Clock. The case centers around a shocking murder that rocked a close-knit community.
And while police launched an investigation immediately, after days, they still had no solid leads. But then things took a drastic turn when a concerned mother called the police to learn more about the case.
And this call alone completely changed the direction of the investigation. Soon after, five teenagers were arrested for the murder.
But what unfolded next has me truly questioning the very fabric of our justice system. There are layers upon layers to this case, and it is one that holds so many players, stories, and perspectives.
And I promise you, you will want to hear all of it so that you can decide what you believe. I'm going to give you the first episode of CounterClock Season 7 right here, right now,

and then you can head over to the CounterClock feed to catch the other three episodes that just dropped. And be sure to follow CounterClock wherever you get your podcasts so you don't miss a single episode of this season.
This is the story of Nathaniel Jones. For some people, there have been distinct moments in our lives where we felt death upon us.
It was visceral, overwhelming, terrifying. The sensation may have whizzed by us in a fleeting second, or maybe it dragged on for minutes, hovering like humidity on a late summer day.
No single experience is the same. Becoming a victim of a violent crime sometimes leaves physical scars, but almost always the experience leaves mental scars too.
Surviving a life or death situation can change the fabric of who you are. It can alter your entire perception of the world.
I've been a journalist for over a decade now, covering just about every type of violent crime you can think of. I've interviewed hundreds of people and written about countless murders.
But it wasn't until Thanksgiving Day in 2019 that violent crime reached out and wrapped its tendrils around me. November 28, 2019 was a sunny, clear morning in Southwest Florida, where I worked as a broadcast news reporter at the time.
And since it was a holiday, staffing was limited, so I volunteered to act as both reporter and my own camera operator. It's a position commonly referred to in the TV news industry as a multimedia journalist, or MMJ.
I had my story lined up in advance, a plucky little piece about how a beloved longtime ice cream shop was under threat of being demolished to make way for a bigger shopping plaza. Trouble ahead for the twisty treat.
That was the headline news story I pitched, and my managers had gone for it. Which was a win for me because I was looking forward to wrapping up early that day and going to spend time with my family.
You see, I was a 27-year-old newlywed of about four months, and it was me and my husband's first holiday together. Around mid-morning, I drove out to the shop, set up my camera gear, and was right in the middle of getting video clips of the building's unique ice cream cone-shaped exterior with its faded menus in the windows and sticky benches sitting out front.

When suddenly, I was ambushed.

Leave me alone! Leave me alone!

Leave me alone!

A man wearing latex gloves on his hands had come out of nowhere and grabbed me. He wrapped his arms tightly around my shoulders and squeezed, trapping my camera, which was still recording between my body and his.
When I fought back, he threw me to the ground and lunged at me again. I scrambled like a wild animal to put as much distance between us as possible,

somehow still holding on to the camera,

which, despite being damaged, was continuing to record.

Oh my gosh, sir, I'm calling the police!

The man paused, stared for a brief moment,

then quickly turned around and jogged toward a parked car about 50 yards behind the ice cream shop. It was broad daylight.
Oh, my God. Oh, my God.
I was in shock. I'd never experienced anything like this before in my life.

Looking back on it now, it was almost like a part of me had left my body

and was hovering above that dumpy shopping plaza parking lot,

just watching what was happening to me.

To this day, I still have trouble revisiting this memory.

All I remember thinking is, this is bad.

This man is going to kill me. A flurry of panic questions just raced through my mind.
Why was he wearing gloves? Was he coming back with a weapon? Why was this happening? I remember quickly checking my body for wounds. Had he stabbed me? Was I bleeding? Thankfully, the answer to both those questions was no, but I knew I wasn't going to stay put for long.
For all I knew, he could be coming back for round two. So I hoofed it to a nearby intersection where two major roads came together.
It was a high traffic area, and my survival instincts told me to get around as many people as possible for protection. With each step toward what I felt was the closest thing to safety, I felt confused, chaotic.

Adrenaline was coursing through me, yet at the same time, I had absolute mental clarity. I knew what I needed to do next.
I fished my cell phone out of my back pocket and dialed 911, then ducked behind a few bushes and spotted the man who'd attacked me getting into his car.

I've just been attacked. I am at the corner of US 41 and Pine Island Road.
I've been attacked by a man and I'm at the Twisty Treat restaurant. I am rolling on my camera.
I'm the man that approached me. I need help, please.
Old US 41 and Pine Island Road at the corner, Shoppingaza, North Fort Myers Plaza. My next call was to my husband and then my boss.
Within minutes, police arrived and were able to arrest the man. The top news story that night at Thanksgiving dinner wasn't about the twisty treats troubles.
It was about mine. The whole thing was caught on camera.
Ardelia D'Ambra was knocked to the ground. She was able to get away and call 911.
She drags the camera and herself trying to get away as the suspect wearing gloves storms off to his car. It just gives me chills listening to her screaming.
I mean, that's something I worry about all the time. I'm telling you that story because recently I was thinking a lot about what violent crime does to people.
How each person who experiences it, as well as those closest to them, reconcile with the aftermath. How does one even begin to tell a story about it? Where I've landed is that I, and the victim in this story, Nathaniel Frederick Jones, or Mr.
Jones as he'll most often be referred to, share a common experience. Violent crime came for both of us, and it did what only it can do.
It changed everything. What happened to me is certainly different than what happened to him.
The crimes were in different cities, decades apart. In my situation, I walked away with my life.
Tragically, he didn't. He was 61 years old when he was attacked inside the carport of his home in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, in November 2002.
Everyone who's ever studied his case agrees that what happened to him was terrible, violent, and uncalled for. He never saw it coming, and because of his age and health, he never stood a chance.
The stress of being ambushed, beaten, and bound took a fatal toll on his already bad heart, and he ultimately died of cardiac arrest. But the question at the center of this case for more than two decades hasn't been what happened to Mr.
Jones. It's who.
Who carried out the assault that took his life? For some folks, including Mr. Jones' loved ones, that question was unequivocally answered in the early 2000s.
For others, it wasn't and still hasn't been. And that's because there are some very troubling and concerning facts in this case

that I've spent the last year reinvestigating.

So let's turn back the clock 22 years to November 15, 2002.

This is CounterClock, Season 7, Episode 1, Jumped.

I'm your host, Delia D'Ambra. Winston-Salem, North Carolina now, compared to what it was like in 2002, isn't all that different.
It's grown in population over the past two decades, but its demographic makeup remains as siloed as ever. If you look at the most recent census data from 2023, you'll find that it's 51% white families, 33% black or African American, and 16% Hispanic or Latino.
Like most American cities, you have your nice parts of town and your not-so-nice parts of town. The south side of Winston-Salem is known as the rough part of town.
It's where you'll find more lower-income communities, older, smaller houses, crime, bumpier streets. You get the picture.
The northern and eastern Winston-Salem neighborhoods are much more affluent, and sitting smack dab in the middle is the crown jewel of the city, Wake Forest University. The private college is home to roughly 5,400 undergraduate students and sprawls across 340 acres of pristinely manicured land.
The demon deacon's domain was, and still is, considered to some degree to be a posh paradise compared to other parts of the city where many residents live paycheck to paycheck, working minimum wage jobs or operating mom and pop businesses. The industry that for the longest time had a stranglehold on the vast majority of the city's workforce was big tobacco.
R.J. Reynolds Tobacco Company, which was known for producing camel cigarettes, had huge manufacturing plants there in the 19th and 20th centuries.
In fact, Winston-Salem's nickname is the Camel City.

At one point, the cigarette giant employed five-sixths of the city's entire African-American

population. A man who decided to break that mold and become his own boss was Nathaniel Jones.

In 2002, he owned and operated Jones Chevron, an auto service station that sat at the corner of New Walkertown Road and Carver School Road, two major thoroughfares in the city. His shop was a pillar in the community, particularly for Black families.
Mr. Jones wasn't just an owner of a thriving business.
He was reportedly the first Black man to own and operate his own service station in the city, a feat no one before him had achieved. At 61 years old, he was a widower with two adult daughters who were married and had families of their own.
He was also a dedicated member of a local church. Mr.
Jones was well-liked and revered in the Black community. That's Chuck Byram, a retired Winston-Salem police detective who knew Mr.
Jones well. Chuck told me that he and the small number of Black police officers who worked for WSPD at the time would swing by Mr.
Jones' service station on a regular basis while they were on duty. They respected the fact that he was a mentor for people of color in the city.
Plus, his shop was just a cool place to hang out. He was a community grandfather, I guess you could say.
The store that he ran, it sat right at the intersection of two major roadways, and there was always activity in and around it. People knew who Nathaniel Jones was.
He was a very beloved member of the community. That last voice you heard is Michael Hewlett, a former Winston-Salem Journal reporter whose familiarity with Mr.
Jones wasn't as personal as Chuck's. But still, both men knew Mr.
Jones for a reason outside of his own reputation. At the time, Chris Paul was this standout basketball player at the,

one of the local high schools. He was the grandfather of an up-and-coming athlete

basketball player by the name of Chris Paul. Chris Paul, as in NBA superstar point guard,

Chris Paul, who is one of the most celebrated and known professional basketball players today. Robin Jones Paul, Chris's mother, is the eldest of Mr.
Jones's two daughters. Back in November 2002, Chris was just a 17-year-old kid from Winston-Salem who'd worked hard and achieved national attention on the basketball court.
He was a top prospect coming out of high school and had just committed to play college ball at Wake Forest University. This detail, among many others, is important to remember while listening to the story, because it was a factor that was on the minds of Winston-Salem police officers from the moment they were called to Mr.
Jones' home in the south side part of town on the evening of Friday, November 15, 2002. I need to ambulance quickly to 9 Oklahoma, Moravia Street.
Let's have this man over there. He's got a, uh, he's moved down.
Let's stay out. His hands are tied behind his back.
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At 7.49 p.m., the following 911 call came into got her message across, and by 7.53 p.m., police officers, firefighters, and paramedics were en route to the address she provided. It was dark by the time emergency responders pulled up to the scene, and right away they found Mr.
Jones lying on the concrete floor of his carport. He was face down between the driver's side door of his Lincoln town car and a small brick step that led to a side door of his home.
His head was turned to one side and there was black tape wrapped around his mouth and head like a gag. The same kind of tape had also been used to bind his hands behind his back.
He had a noticeable cut on the back of his head, a few bruises on his hands and knees, and according to police reports, there were smudges and drops of blood on the ground around him, up on the adjacent brick wall of his house, and on the Lincoln's front driver's side door handle. Naturally, EMTs wanted to check him for signs of life, but in order to get to him and do a proper assessment,

they had to move him out of the tight space where he was laying.

So they dragged his body out of the carport

and onto the section of his driveway closest to his house.

They cut the tape binding his hands,

turned him face up, and checked for a pulse.

But by that point, it was clear.

He was gone.

They noticed more traces of blood on his service station uniform and undershirt, and that's when they realized they needed to step back and let the first officer who'd arrived on scene take over. That officer looked over Mr.
Jones's body and called for backup. His next move was to deal with a group of people congregating at the end of Mr.
Jones' driveway. A man standing in that group was Calvin Scriven, a close friend of Mr.
Jones' who was 37 years old in 2002 and lived at 824 Moravia Street, an address across the road and directly diagonal from Mr. Jones' house.
Calvin provided a tape statement to the officers on scene and explained that earlier that evening, around 7.40 p.m., he left his house and walked down to 916 Moravia Street to visit with a woman who lived there named Tasha Coleman. The pair had been seeing one another, and he'd usually wait for her to get off work so they could hang out.
Tasha's house sat across the street and down a few lots from Mr. Jones's house

in the opposite direction of where Calvin lived. While Calvin was waiting on Tasha to come home,

a couple in a car approached him. I was standing at 916 Moravia Street and a painter came up to me

and asked me where Mr. Jones stayed at because he was probably guy named Claude Walker.
Claude and his fiancée Gloria had made arrangements with Mr. Jones earlier in the day to drop by and give him an estimate to paint four rooms in his house.
The only issue was Claude and Gloria had never been to that part of Winston-Salem before. They lived in Charlotte over an hour away.
So when they got to Moravia Street, they needed some help with directions. And then the painter would have crossed the street.
And then like a couple of seconds later, the painter came back telling me that it would come out of laying beside the house in between the street. And then, like, a couple of seconds later, the painter came back, telling me that it would come out of land beside the house, in between the car.
So I ran over there with the painter. And sure enough, it was Mr.
Jones over there, laying in between the car, with his hands tied behind his back. And he was face down on the cement.
Checked his pokes. And I checked his neck, I checked his post on his wrist to see if he was alive.
I felt like I felt a little post, but I don't know. I'm not a doctor.
And I turned his head sideways because he was face down. I didn't know if he was still alive.
If he was still alive, I didn't want him to just die, you know, suffocating with his head face down. The lady who house I was at, she came across the street and we told her to call 911.
And she called 911. Then I called her over there and I told her to help me check the post and see if he had a post.
I wanted to pick him up, but I didn't pick him up because they kept on yelling at me, don't move him, don't move him. So I didn't move him.
We got back in the middle of the street when I heard a fire truck coming around the corner, and I flagged the fire truck down. You said the body, or Mr.
Jones, was laying face down? Yes. And you described his face as being straight down, not to the side? Not to the side, it was straight down.
Okay. Where exactly was he laying?

He was laying between the car and the house.

Okay.

Right beside his still.

He's standing.

Where did you feel for a pulse?

On his, uh, around his, up on his neck, throat, and on his wrist.

And you said you may have felt a pulse?

I felt like I felt a pulse.

Was that on his neck or on his wrist?

On his wrist.

That's Calvin's memory from being in the moment in 2002. I interviewed him earlier this year, though, on his front porch, nearly 22 years after the crime.
He still lives on Moravia Street, by the way. He remembers finding Mr.
Jones like it was yesterday. When I was sitting on the porch, a guy came up, a painter came up looking for Mr.
Jones' house. He drove over there and he came right back and said something don't seem right over there.
Then me and him went back over there. That's when we found Mr.
Jones laying in the driveway. My mouth was duct-taping.
His hands were duct-taping. It's a difficult memory for Calvin to revisit because Mr.
Jones wasn't just a neighbor. He was a friend, a figure everyone looked up to on the block.
I grew up with his daughters. He used to help me with the community and reunion.
He helped me with the reunion every year. He helped contribute.
I went to the service station all the time, you know, got my car inspected. I took a lot of family members' calls there and got inspected.
So he was, you know, he was well known. Despite my best efforts, I wasn't able to get Tasha Coleman to do an interview with me.
But based on her statements to police back in 2002, her story aligned for the most part with Calvin's. She told investigators that as she pulled into her driveway at quarter to 8 p.m., she noticed Calvin and some other people crowded in Mr.
Jones's carport, so she ran over. Shortly after that is when she dialed 911.
The only additional information she provided in her statement was that she'd also tried to find a pulse on Mr. Jones while on the phone with 911, and she admitted to touching the screen door that led into his house while she was over there.
Here's. Jones' house? Yes.
Okay. Is it correct that the door was not open? No, the door was not open.
It was closed. It was closed.
Did she have to unlock the door to get the door open? No, she opened the screen door. Oh, she opened the screen, but not the main door.
She didn't even touch the door because she started hollering, because she said he didn't even get in. She grew up right next door to him.
She's been knowing him ever since she was born. Since the best you remember, the main door to the house was closed.
She opened the door, and she seen the keys in the door, and she just started hollering, screaming, because he didn't even make it in the house. This detail about Mr.
Jones' keys still being in the doorknob is something the first officer on scene also picked up on.

In his report, he wrote he'd noticed that, as well as a motion sensor light fixed to the ceiling of the carport right above Mr. Jones's Lincoln that wasn't turning on.

A streetlight right out front of the home was also dark, so essentially the entire area was just really dim.

Minutes after police had gotten on scene, it started raining, but the good news was that Mr. Jones's car and most of the physical evidence inside the carport remained covered.
Police officers laid a tarp over his body in the driveway to preserve whatever clues that held, while they waited for the medical examiner to show up. Shortly after that, homicide detectives pulled up and dispatched several officers to go look inside Mr.
Jones's home, you know, to make sure no one was in there hiding, which there wasn't. While doing that, though, they observed that the handle of the outside screen door was broken off, and a piece of it was on the ground, which seemed kind of odd to them, but nothing else was out of place.
Like inside, for example, there were no signs that a struggle had occurred. No broken furniture, no ransacked shelves.
In fact, jewelry, money, and electronics were all just sitting out in the open. Back outside, the scene in the carport was far more chaotic.
Three pieces of mail addressed to Mr. Jones were scattered underneath the left rear passenger wheel of his Lincoln, and a broken watch was sitting slightly beneath the front left part of the car, not far from a tube of chapstick on the ground near where he'd been found.
Naturally, with Calvin and Tasha's statements already captured, the growing number of police officers coming to the call turned their attention to the two people who'd first discovered Mr. Jones, Claude Walker and his fiancée, Gloria.
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Quince.com slash crimejunkie. Listening to the taped interview police did with Claude at the crime scene back in 2002,

he seemed genuinely shaken up by what he just experienced.

When I first got here, I went to the wrong house.

And they said that Mr. John, move over there by the white van.
I said, okay, so I walked over here, and my wife, she came over with the car. And then that's when I rang the doorbell on the other side.
I went to the side door. I knocked on, I rang the door there.
And after that, nobody else. So I came around.
And I knocked on the door. And I noticed somebody was laying down on the ground.
I didn't know what it was. But I knew for sure it was a body.
Right. And that's when I called over there to this guy, Nick, across the street, the first house I went to, to, come here, man.
They got the body laying down the ground. I said, y'all better call 911.
To clarify what Claude just explained, when you're looking at Mr. Jones' home straight on from the street, there was a small porch and front door on the far left-hand side of the house, which was usually kept locked and not used for coming and going.
On the far right-hand side of the home was where the driveway and carport were located. I've included a picture of this in the blog post for this episode, so you can get a better sense of what I'm talking about.
The door to the house in the carport was what Mr. Jones usually

used to get in and out of his home. Because Claude Walker had never been to the address before,

he tried the left side door first, which, for all intents and purposes, looked like an actual front

door, but he'd gotten no answer there. So that's why he decided to walk over to the carport,

which is where he discovered Mr. Jones.
Earlier in the day, around 3.30 p.m., Claude had spoken with Mr. Jones over the phone and arranged to come by at 6.30 p.m.

Gloria, his fiancée And he wanted four rooms painting. And that's how I got in contact with him.
I didn't know where he lived or what. During that conversation, Mr.
Jones was working at his service station and promised Claude that he'd close up his shop in time to meet the couple at his house so they could discuss the specifics of the painting job. When you talked to him earlier, you said he was at his job.
Yeah, he was at his job. Okay, do you know the name of the house.
And how much? And $600. He was going to pay me $300 down for painting the house as a stoic.
Right. And then when I finished the house, he liked it.
He was satisfied with the job. He paid me the other $300.
You said you've never actually personally met him, correct? With the one that... That you were going to do the painting? No, I never met him.
Never met him. But he talked so nice on the phone and everything, you know.
He was a gentleman. That's right.
He spoke real well. And he told you he was going to pay you cashed? Oh, yes, sir.
Yes, sir. Shortly after 6 p.m., about a half hour before the scheduled meeting, Claude and Gloria arrived in Winston-Salem.
Mr. Jones had told them to just call him when they got into town, and he'd direct them to his house.
So they used a pay phone at a gas station to dial his home and cell numbers, but Mr. Jones never picked up.
They kept at this for more than an hour. We called about 30 times, 30 times.
And then my wife, she called his daughter. The daughter he's referring to is Mr.
Jones's youngest daughter, Rhonda Richardson-Hairston.

She lived in Charlotte, and her husband at the time had referred Claude to Mr. Jones for the painting job because Claude had done work at their home in the past.

Rhonda gave my wife, my future wife, direction to get here.

And we got here, it was 10 minutes to 8.

It was close to quarter, about quarter to 10 minutes to 8. After speaking with Claude, police interviewed a guy named Brian Lindsay.
He lived at 901 Moravia Street, which is the residence directly next to Mr. Jones's on the left if you're looking at his home from the street.
Brian claimed to have been hanging out around Tasha Coleman's house with Calvin Scriven when Claude and Gloria first came by asking for directions.

I was over at 9.15,

and I walked over across the street to 9.16

to talk to my friend, girl Tasha.

But she was not home,

so I sit in the house and talk to her boyfriend,

and we walked out on the porch.

And when we walked out on the porch about two minutes later, a car came down the street and pulled in the driveway at 9.15 and asked us where did Nathaniel Jones stay. And we told him he stayed across the street at 9.05.
They said that they had to go talk to him because they had to do some work for him. About 10 seconds later, they ran back over across the street and say they seen a man laying on the side of the car.
That's when me and Kevin Scribbins, we ran across the street, and they're going to Nathan Jones laying on the side of the car on the ceiling. Could you see his body at all? I could see it, but it was dark.
You know, he had on, like, dark clothes. Did somebody check to make sure, see if he was all right? Oh, yes.
Tasha, she was checking his heart, and Kevin, he was checking the puff. And at the time, Kevin was saying he felt a little puff, and Tasha said she couldn't get no heart, you know, she didn't feel no heart.
According to Brian, he'd been loitering around his house and several neighbors' places all evening, and he hadn't seen anything out of the ordinary. And you didn't notice anything unusual before? A lot of people pulled up or didn't hear anything unusual in the neighborhood? No.
Brian's statement to police was brief and to the point, less than three minutes in total. But it's not like anything he said contradicted Calvin, Gloria, Tasha, or Claude's version of events.
The authorities' big takeaway from talking with the witnesses at the crime scene was that they were beginning to triangulate a narrower timeline of Mr. Jones' movements leading up to his death.
And it all came down to who was with him and when the last time anyone had spoken to him. According to police reports, Rhonda, his youngest daughter, had talked with her dad on his cell phone at around 5.45 p.m.
At that time, Mr. Jones was alive and well, and on his way home from the service station.
He told Rhonda he was going to drop off one of his nephews, Terrence Jones, who worked for him, and then go home to meet the painter. When detectives spoke with Terrence at his place across town,

he told police that he and Mr. Jones had closed up the Chevron station at 5.30 p.m.

After that, they'd gotten into the Lincoln together,

ran errands at a tobacco shop and local grocery store,

and by 6.17 p.m., they were in the parking lot of Terrence's apartment complex.

Terrence said he specifically remembered the time because he'd looked at the clock when he walked into his front door. Now, I've done the math, and it's an eight-minute drive from where Terrence lived to where Mr.
Jones lived at 905 Moravia Street, which meant Mr. Jones should have gotten home sometime around 6.25 p.m.
or 6.30 p.m. at the latest.
That is, if he didn't make any other stops, which everyone agrees he likely didn't because there's no record of that in the case file or witness statements. Based on what Claude and Gloria told investigators, all of their phone calls to Mr.
Jones went unanswered after they got into town at 6.15 p.m. The phone records in the case file for his house phone indicate he was not picking up at all after that same time.
And there were also a bunch of missed calls on his cell phone during that timeframe. So all of that would indicate that Mr.
Jones was most likely attacked sometime after 6.15 p.m., or else he should have been answering his phones. So just to recap,

the last time Mr. Jones was seen alive

was at or around 6.17 p.m.

He wasn't discovered in his carport until 7.40ish.

After speaking with the witnesses there on scene

who'd found Mr. Jones,

police forged ahead and kept gathering

as much information as possible.

Around 9.30 p.m., two hours into the investigation, a lead detective was assigned the case. That guy's name was Mark Griffin.
He walked through the crime scene and sort of took inventory of what first responding officers had learned so far. Around that same time, Mr.
Jones's family had started to gather nearby. This group included his daughters, grandchildren, son-in-laws, church friends, neighbors, you name it.
Chris Polite, who lived directly behind Mr. Jones and was friends with his relatives, remembers the somber scene well.
The family was in the church park a lot. And the minister, they passed there, my pastor was there trying to comfort, you know, comfort the family.
At the time we was up there, his phone was ringing. I guess people had heard stuff, and he still had his phone in his pocket.
You can hear his phone ringing, and you can hear, you know, nobody, you know, I guess people, knowing that he didn't answer his phone, but that phone continued to ring. Charles Paul, Mr.
Jones' son-in-law, who was married to Robin, explained to detectives how fast word had spread from Rhonda to Robin and eventually to him that something bad had happened on Moravia Street. The painter had called Rhonda and said that there wasn't nobody at home.
So she wanted me to come over to the house to see if everything was okay. I was on my way and I had both of them on two-way talking to them on my way getting over.
And then by the time I got her, the paramedics and stuff had him on the ground and was tending to him and they wouldn't let me see him. It's during this interview with Charles that detectives mined information about Mr.
Jones. For example, they wanted to know if he had any enemies.
Could he have been specifically targeted? And that's when they learned something important. You don't know why anybody would do him harm? Unless it was for money or robbery.
You said sometimes he carried some money on him? Yeah. How much money does he usually carry on him? I think at least five.
Five dollars? Five hundred. Five hundred dollars? And...
Sure enough, when the Winston-Salem Police Department

crime scene technician processed Mr. Jones Lincoln shortly after detectives interviewed Charles, the tech found a brown leather briefcase in the trunk that contained gold and silver coins, two bank bags, and a total of $1,416 in cash.
When the medical examiner arrived at 11 p.m. and looked over Mr.
Jones' body, He discovered an additional $872 in cash. When the medical examiner arrived at 11 p.m.
and looked over Mr. Jones's body, he discovered an additional $872 in cash tucked into the 61-year-old's front pants pocket and right breast shirt pocket.
The only thing missing was his wallet. For police, the absence of that item pointed to a possible motive of robbery gone wrong, and they assumed that whoever had attacked Mr.
Jones either didn't know about the cash in his front pockets and car trunk, or they just hadn't thought to look before leaving the scene. Back at WSPD headquarters, Chuck Byram learned about the crime and took a phone call from one of his colleagues named Jerome Paul.
Jerome was off duty and didn't work in the criminal investigations unit, but he was related to Charles Paul. He asked me, Chuck, you know, the family is really torn up about this, and I know that you're working evening shifts, so if there's anything that you can do to accelerate or try to get a beat on who did this to Mr.
Jones, you know, the family would greatly appreciate it. The robbery scenario was the police department's most promising theory.
It steered the investigation from that point forward, and for good reason. There were additional clues inside the carport and on the Lincoln town car itself that confirmed robbery was likely the suspect or suspect's motive.
Police reports explain that there were two faint partial shoe prints found on the hood of the car, and because the vehicle had been pulled in headfirst and not backed in, the shoe impressions hadn't been rained on and were still visible to the naked eye. They were on an area of the hood that sat directly beneath the carport's overhead motion sensor light.
When the crime scene tech took a closer look at the light bulbs of that light, he determined they had been unscrewed, just enough to stay in the sockets, but not actually turn on when triggered by the motion sensor. This prompted the lead detective to write in his report that it appeared someone had used the hood to boost themselves up to reach the light and disable it, most likely so that they could commit the crime without being seen.
But my question was, how did the suspect or suspects do that without Mr. Jones seeing them? It's pretty risky jumping up on the hood of a car, not to mention physically involved.
Well, the answer to that question was in the details of the crime scene, specifically right inside Mr. Jones's kitchen.
The police department's evidence tech had collected some grocery items from Mr. Jones's home that were found sitting on his kitchen table.
Those items matched what Terrence Jones, his nephew, told detectives he bought for his uncle on their trip home from work Friday evening. So the fact that the groceries had made it inside the house caused detectives to assume that Mr.
Jones had most likely been ambushed shortly after getting out of his car and setting his groceries in his kitchen, then stepping back outside to either retrieve more stuff from his car or while getting his mail from his mailbox,

which was mounted to the front right side of the carport.

The bigger questions were, how many assailants were there?

One, two, three?

Were they there all along, just hiding, waiting for the right moment to strike?

Investigators didn't know.

But they were about to speak with a witness

who happened to be driving by the crime scene at the precise time Mr. Jones was jumped.
And what she saw is perhaps the most critical piece of information in this entire story. In that area, it was dark.
She goes by and she knows that's not Mr. Jones in the car.
It's all coming up in the next episode of CounterClock, episode two, Jarring. Listen right now.
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