Lanterns on the Lake
Friday, June 19, 1981.
Superman II premiered in the US that day. Lotte Reiniger, the German film director who created the first feature-length animation in 1921, passed away at the age of 82. The third launch of an Ariane rocket was successful. It lifted off from French Guiana; the 155-foot-tall rocket carried into orbit the Meteostat 2 weather satellite and India’s first geostationary satellite, the APPLE.
That was all inconsequential news from distant lands for the people in Winston, Alabama.
A group nearly a dozen strong left from the outer metro area of Birmingham at 7:30pm for a night fishing trip. Their destination was Bailey’s Bridge. The bridge spanned a man-made lake that was only 20 years old at the time. Before that, only a river and Native Americans had been there. Only God knew the time span for those things. Houses owned by rich people looking for a relaxing weekend didn’t yet dot the shoreline. It was wild country that still favored what it had been more than what it would be. Arrowheads would still be dug up from under the surrounding bluffs for decades. The arrowheads and the lost civilizations were of no concern that night. Only the fish.
The first of the group got to the bridge around 9:30pm. There was already a car parked in the middle of the two-lane bridge. It was old, rusty, and had the doors open. Two unclean, ragged men loitered near it. Randy Twilley was pissing over the railing, and Nelson Key sat on the hood drinking from a whiskey bottle as the fishermen and their children strolled onto the bridge. The group paid little attention to the locals. The adults set out lawn chairs and began preparing their rods. The children peered over the edge of the bridge and pondered small thoughts. They brought lanterns. Some were lowered from the railing down to the water’s edge to attract fish.
A stray dog wandered by.
Randy Twilley shook himself, zipped up, and asked the group on the bridge, “Is this your dog?”
One of the fishermen turned and said no.
“Well if it don’t belong to nobody I’m gonna throw it off the bridge.”
Without hesitation and no real thought, Randy grabbed the dog and hurled it off the bridge. A child gasped and another cried.
“If that had been my dog and somebody throwed it in the lake, I would have throwed their ass in the lake too,” Randy slurred.
Another man from the fishing group said, “Well, that wasn’t our dog, and we don’t want no trouble.”
“If you don’t like it, I’ll throw your big ass in too.”
Two brothers, Billy and Michael Crowe, drove onto the bridge and parked behind the first car. A child was also in the car with the brothers.
The brothers got out, and Randy began teasing them. “Hell, I just throwed a dog in the lake and think ol Nelson might do you the same way.”
Billy Crowe said, “I’d like to see him try it.”
Nelson stood and said, “Well, I just might.”
The taunting ignited into violence like gas thrown on a fire. Nelson grabbed Billy Crowe by the neck of his shirt and tore down the middle. Crowe grabbed Nelson by the hair and slammed his head into the concrete railing repeatedly.
Nelson lay unconscious on the bridge. Rather than intervening, Randy turned and said, “Billy, look at these faggots wearing them shorts. Why would a feller wear short breeches like that? I bet they all like sucking peckers.”
“Y’all ain’t gonna catch no fish. Aids is the only thang a queer can catch.”
Randy and Billy approached James McGuire. He had a lantern on the railing, and Billy flipped the handle and said, “Want me to lower this one down to the water for ya?”
“No sir. I’d rather you not,” James replied.
Randy looked at Billy Crowe and said, “He’s a sonofabitch ain’t he?”
Randy and Crowe stood unreasonably close to James for a few more minutes before Randy said, “Come on. We’ll come back and get this sonofabitch later.”
Randy got Nelson up and into their car and the Crowe brothers got into their own. Before Randy got into the driver’s seat he yelled, “Don’t none of you sonofabitches leave. We’ll be back in about thirty minutes.”
The two cars rumbled to life and sped away in tandem.
About two hours later, at 11:30pm, a lone car returned. Randy Twilley and the two Crowe brothers climbed out of it. They were drunker now.
Michael, the other Crowe brother, had a guitar strapped on. “I’m gonna sing up some fish for y’all.”
Billy Crowe took a huge swallow from a whiskey bottle and set it on the roof of the car. “Y’all queers catching anything besides big ones in the ass?”
Michael continued to sing, “In 1814 we took a little trip…”
Randy and Billy walked up to James McGuire. Billy eyed a hunting knife in a scabbard attached to James’s belt.
“What are you doing with a big ol knife like that?” Billy asked.
“Every fisherman needs a knife,” James replied.
“If you want to play with weapons, I’ll go to my car and get my three-fifty-seven,” Billy spat.
Billy turned to walk to his car, but spun back around and snatched the knife from James’s hip.
McGuire said, “Just give me my knife back. We are just up here fishing with some kids and we’ll go on home.”
Michael stopped strumming. “Hey, let’s go on and leave these guys alone. They ain’t causing no trouble.”
Billy had his own ideas: “No, I’m gonna kill this mother-fucker.”
Randy grabbed James by the hair and pulled him backwards. Billy stuck James with the knife hard. The hilt hit James’s chest hard enough to leave a purple bruise. The blade pierced the heart. And that was that for James.
Randy dropped James, and he sank to the concrete. “They’ve cut me, Jim! They’ve cut me!”
Another fisherman, Jim Bates, ran to McGuire. “Get their tag!”
“You want some of this too?!” Billy snarled.
Randy bent the tag down and he and the Crowe brothers scrambled into the car.
A teenager in the fishing group bent the tag back and got the plate number just before the car sped away.
James McGuire died on that bridge.