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Wondery Plus subscribers can listen to Against the Odds early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. A listener note. Against the Odds uses dramatizations that are based on true events. Some elements, including dialogue, may be invented, but everything is based on research. Barbara Mackle feels around in the darkness for the switch to turn off the fan. It's driving her crazy.
For days now, the fan has been circulating fresh air from above into her cramped compartment. It's her lifeline, but it makes it cold inside, too cold to sleep, and the noise gets on her nerves. She flips the switch. Her wooden chamber, buried in the cold Georgia clay, is suddenly quiet. She closes her eyes and listens to the rhythm of her breathing.
The flu she's been fighting since before she was buried is still wracking her body. So she breathes through her mouth, in and out, in and out. With the fan off, it gets warmer, but the air grows thick. She wonders how long it's been since she was placed in this box and buried. Two days? Three?
At first, she passed the time by counting off seconds. But now, she just lies here and imagines what's going on back home. Her parents and her brother must be worried sick. She's accepted that her kidnappers lied when they said they'd come back to check on her. She's heard nothing above her. They're not coming for her. Maybe no one is.
Her mind then goes to an even darker place. She thinks, "If I leave the fan off, I'll run out of air, and this will all be over." She wonders if her remains would ever be found. If they are, she hopes it won't be for years. Not until after her parents have died. She can't bear the thought of them finding her here, rotting and decomposed. Then a different thought flashes through her mind.
Her eyes fly open. What if rescuers are close by? What if the ransom has been paid, and she's just hours away from being dug up and freed? And here she is, giving up? No, she thinks, and switches the fan back on. Fresh air rushes in. It's cold, but it wakes her up. Her mind races with all the things that could still go wrong.
Already the light bulb has failed, leaving her in complete darkness. A rodent could crawl into the air intake tube. The battery powering the fan could die. She tries to drive these images from her mind. She's not really religious, but she believes in some kind of higher power. So she starts talking, as if God is right there in the box with her. God, even if no one knows where I am, you do.
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From Wondery, I'm Cassie DePeckel, and this is Against the Odds. In the days before Christmas 1968, FBI agents scrambled to find Barbara Mackle, a 20-year-old college student who was kidnapped and buried alive inside a wooden compartment somewhere outside Atlanta. Her father, a wealthy Florida real estate developer, went to deliver $500,000 in ransom. But
But the drop was bungled when two cops, unaware of what was unfolding, shot at the kidnapper as he tried to escape, leaving the money behind. This is episode four, "The Chase." George Deacon stumbles in the dark through Miami backyards, fletching his rifle. He's fleeing from the cops who just shot at him as he climbed an embankment toward the interstate. Their shots missed him, but he's still injured.
When he was running away, he hurtled a chain-link fence and scraped his crotch on the way over. He heard a ripping noise and then felt a terrible stinging pain as he fell to the other side. He limps along now, ducking behind hedges as he makes his way north, further into Miami. Dawn is breaking, and a gray light begins to illuminate his surroundings. It's December 19th, 1968.
He can hear police cars converging on the area. He spots a Catholic church and staggers up the stairs through an unlocked door. The church is empty. He makes his way to the second floor, where he finds a hidden nook and collapses into it. He thinks back on the police chase. If the cops knew he was the kidnapper, why would there have just been two of them? He decides that they must have stumbled on him accidentally.
Maybe they decided his parked Volvo with the Massachusetts plates was suspicious. He has to assume they've seized the car and everything in it. They'll find the name of his girlfriend and accomplice, Ruth. Maybe they've already arrested her. And they'll learn about George Deacon, his assumed name. It'll only be a matter of time before they figure out who he really is. But for the moment, he's safe.
And he's still carrying pocket aces. He knows where Barbara is, and he knows her father will pay anything to rescue her. Robert Mackle stares out the passenger window of his Lincoln Continental as Billy Vessels drives him home.
He has been sobbing for the past 15 minutes, ever since he and Vessels got terrible news. Not only did the kidnapper not get the ransom money, but he was also shot at by two cops. And if the kidnapper is wounded or dead, it could mean his daughter Barbara might never be found. As Vessels turns into the driveway, Mackle can tell that his employee is feeling something else. Rage.
As soon as he puts the car in park, Vessels flings open the driver's side door and confronts FBI Inspector Rex Schroeder, who's waiting for them. We put our trust in you. You said local cops would not be involved, but they shot the kidnapper. How do we find Barbara now?
Schroeder holds up his palms. Easy, Billy. It was just bad luck that those cops were there. We had nothing to do with that. But listen, it's not all bad news. Schroeder explains that, yes, the cops shot at the kidnapper, but they don't believe they hit him. He did get away, though. Police recovered the ransom money near a parked Volvo that clearly belongs to the kidnappers. Schroeder says,
and the car's contents are a treasure chest of information. They found a ski mask, adhesive tape, chloroform, a Polaroid camera, and a motel key of the Roadway Inn in Atlanta. Everything is being examined by the FBI forensics team, along with the stolen boat they also recovered.
And here's the best part. We now know the names of the kidnappers. We're looking for George Deacon and Ruth Eisman Shear. Mackle feels a jolt of hope. He steps toward Schroeder. We have to let them know it was an accident.
and that we have the money. We just need a new drop location. Schroeder nods. This is where we can use the media to our benefit. They already know about the ransom blunder. Let's dictate a message to Deacon and get it in this afternoon's newspapers and on every newscast. Mackle nods, and they head into the house to work on a statement together. A direct plea to George Deacon from Robert, apologizing for the mishap with the local police.
They end with the words, "Please contact me again through any channel. I will do anything you ask so my daughter will be freed." Mackle wonders how he'll deliver the latest news to his wife, Jane. She's finally asleep upstairs. He decides to let her rest.
Just then, an agent hands him a stack of mail that's been delivered to the Mackle home. One envelope in particular catches his attention. One with no return address. He opens it carefully. Inside is a black and white Polaroid photo. It's Barbara, looking dazed and oddly smiling. It's eerie. There's a piece of paper under her chin that says, kidnapped.
Robert studies the picture. He looks at Schroeder and nods his head. It's Barbara. He puts the photo down. It's too disturbing to look at. There's something else in the envelope. A 14-carat gold ring with two diamond chips around an opal. He recognizes it immediately. It's the ring with Barbara's birthstone that he'd given to her for her 16th birthday. He feels the tears coming again.
George Deacon wanders around the tiny campus of the Florida Bible College. It's just after 3 p.m. on Thursday, December 19th. The bleeding from his groin seems to have stopped, but the pain has not. He must be quite a sight, he thinks. He's grubby and unshaven. His trousers are torn. He's wearing an overcoat he found in the church, where he rested for several hours before taking a taxi here.
This is the place he and Ruth agreed to meet if they got split up, but he can't find her anywhere. He worries about what may have happened to her, but he's got to get ready for the new drop tonight. On the way here, he heard Robert Mackle's plea on the taxi's radio. He believes what Mackle said, that it was an accident, that the cops who chased him had no idea who he was. He lies down on the grass in the late afternoon December sun.
This time, he thinks, the drop must be simpler. No boat, no container placed on a railing. This time, he'll be on his own. So he needs to find a place where he won't need a lookout. This time, there's no room for error. He can't rest in the sun for long. He has so much to do. He has to get his wound stitched up and rent a new vehicle.
The clock is ticking on how much longer he can use his George Deacon ID before the name is released to the media. He also needs to find a new spot for the ransom drop and then contact the Mackle home again. As he goes through it all in his mind, he suddenly sits up with a jolt. He realizes he's forgotten where he's put the Mackle's phone number. Charles Gullion fiddles with the radio dial on the dashboard of his truck until he finds the local news.
It's late afternoon on Thursday, and he's headed home from work. He turns up the volume, eager to hear any updates about the Barbara Mackle kidnapping. Gullion has a special interest in this story. He's a house painter and has done work in the past on several Mackle developments. Now he hears that there's been a shootout and the kidnapper got away, but without the money. So that poor young Mackle girl is still in captivity somewhere.
He shakes his head, trying to imagine what that whole family must be going through. The announcer goes on to say that police have recovered a blue Volvo station wagon, not far from where the shootout occurred. A blue Volvo station wagon. The mention hits him like a sledgehammer. He'd been visiting thrift stores yesterday. At one of the stops, he struck up a conversation with a man in the parking lot, standing beside a blue Volvo station wagon with a trailer hitched to it.
There was a mess of stuff in the trailer. Boxes of books, suitcases, a toolkit. The man said he wanted to sell everything, trailer and all. Gullion offered him 35 bucks for the lot. The man clearly wanted more, but reluctantly agreed. He seemed to be in a hurry. Gullion examined the stuff more carefully at home last night.
In one of the suitcases, there was a two-way radio, a collection of laboratory test tubes, and a stack of old letters. The letters were addressed to a man in prison in California from a woman in Alaska. The name on the envelopes was Gary Stephen Crist. There were also letters addressed to a man named George Deacon, and one of the letters talked about how the police had been by asking for him. Gullion shared the letters with his wife.
She said it sounded like the stuff had belonged to a crook. And now, he's hearing on the radio that Barbara Mackle's kidnapper might have been driving a blue Volvo station wagon. Gullion turns off the radio and pulls into his driveway, trying to decide what to do. He's reluctant to contact the FBI. They'll want to talk to his friend who runs the thrift store, and he doesn't want to cause him any trouble.
But then he thinks again about the Mackle girl being held hostage somewhere and how he might be the only person in the world who knows that our kidnapper's name is Gary Stephen Crist. Father John Mulcahy sits chuckling at the television in the rectory of the Church of the Little Flower in Coral Gables, Florida. The Dean Martin Show is on, one of his favorites. It's 10.30 on Thursday evening.
He jumps at the sound of the phone ringing. His parishioners don't usually call this late, unless it's bad news. He turns down the TV, takes a deep breath, and picks up the receiver. Hello, Father Mulcahy speaking. Father, promise me you will not tell anyone what I'm going to tell you, except the person I designate.
The priest is confused, but is curious to hear more. The priest is skeptical, but still, he's alarmed. The Mackles are parishioners of his church, and everyone has been following news of the kidnapping very closely. After a long pause, the priest speaks.
What do you want me to do? I want you to go to the Mackle home right now and give the following directions to Robert Mackle. The priest doesn't want to take any chances, so he grabs a notepad and begins writing down everything the man says. The directions are complicated and lead out of town. Mulcahy tries to read them back.
"So past the Little City Trailer Park and the turnoff is on the left?" "Yes, exactly 2.2 miles past." After the man hangs up, the priest stuffs the directions into his pocket, grabs his car keys, and heads out into the cool Miami night. Sure, it could be a hoax, but his instincts tell him it's real. He needs to get to the Mackle home. Fast.
Barbara Mackel has been missing now for almost 70 hours. He can only pray she's still alive. When you're hiring, time is of the essence. That's why more than 3.5 million businesses worldwide use Indeed to find exceptional talent fast. Indeed's powerful matching engine works quickly. So quickly that, according to Indeed data worldwide, every minute, 23 hires are made on Indeed.
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Head over to Symbiotica.com and use code ODDS for 20% off and free shipping on your subscription order. Billy Vessels backs the Lincoln Continental out of the Mackles garage into the dark street, then drives away. It's 11:25 p.m. on Thursday, December 19th. The suitcase containing $500,000 rests on the passenger seat. On the top of the case is a piece of paper with directions for the new ransom drop.
This time, the kidnapper did not specify who should deliver the money, so Vessels agreed to do it. His boss was absolutely spent and in no condition to handle another drop. Vessels hears rustling from the back seat. There's an FBI agent lying on the floor beneath a blanket. He's packing a .38 caliber revolver.
This time, Bessels thinks, we're covering all our bases. He will drive and the FBI cars will follow discreetly at a distance so as to not spook the kidnapper if he or his accomplices are watching. Instead of a causeway, the new drop site is in the opposite direction, about nine miles away inland toward the Everglades.
As Vessels drives, the noise and lights of the city give way to pine trees and marsh and a scattering of neon-lit bars. Patches of fog drift across the quiet highway. He leans forward against the steering wheel, worried he's missed the sign for the Little City Trailer Park. The kidnapper said the turnoff is 2.2 miles past the sign, but the fog is so thick. Finally, he decides to turn around.
He keeps his eyes peeled for the sign and finally sees it. He did overshoot it. He turns around again and checks the odometer. He's close now. At precisely the 2.2 mile mark, a dirt road juts off the highway into the darkness. He turns onto it and the car crawls over jagged clay. Thick brush lines both sides of the road.
He drives forward about 30 yards, then hits the brakes and skids to a stop. There, just ahead of him, he sees the grille of another car parked facing him, its headlights off. Vessels kills the engine. He leaves his headlights on. In the darkness, he can't make out what kind of car it is in front of him. There's no movement, no sign of anyone. For a moment, he sits and waits.
Finally, after no one emerges from the car, Vessels opens the door and gets out. He hoists the 75-pound suitcase and can feel it bang against his leg as he walks to a point halfway between the two parked vehicles. He sets it onto the dirt, then stands back up and stares toward the dark car. Come and get it, he thinks. He waits a few seconds, then he exhales and walks back to the Lincoln.
There's no room to turn around, so he drives in reverse all the way back to the highway, the suitcase growing fainter in his receding headlights. The ransom has been delivered. Gary Stephen Crist, aka George Deacon, jerks the steering wheel as his rental car drifts across the center lane. He's falling asleep at the wheel. It's after midnight, the early morning hours of Friday, December 20th.
He rubs his eyes and tallies up the hours he's been awake. At least 100 out of the past 115. He knows he's losing his edge. He needs to get some sleep. After the suitcase full of money was dropped off, he waited for a few minutes in a hiding spot in the thick bushes, then grabbed the suitcase and threw it into the rental car.
He didn't even bother looking inside it. He felt confident that neither the Mackles nor the FBI would pull a fast one on him, not when he's the one who can tell them where Barbara is buried. He promised in the ransom note that he'd reveal Barbara's location within 12 hours of getting the money. The way he sees it, that's how much breathing room he has before he gives them what they want and the noose around him tightens.
His face has been all over the news since the FBI figured out his identity. Soon there will be roadblocks all over Miami, and every airport in the southeast will have cops on the lookout for him. Then it hits him. If he can't escape by land or air, that leaves one option.
As he drives back toward the coast, he starts plotting his new getaway plan. With his newfound money, he can buy a boat and pilot it all the way to the Gulf of Mexico. He'll cross the Gulf to Galveston, Texas, then make his way to Austin, which is where he and Ruth agreed to meet if everything else went wrong. And just about everything else has gone wrong. Finally, he sees a sign for a motel and pulls in.
He parks, goes in, and rents a room. As soon as the doors swing shut behind him, he hoists the suitcase onto the bed and presses the latches. The lid pops open, and for the first time, he sees it. Stack after stack of $20 bills. He stands back and takes it in. $500,000. He did it.
All the money he'll need to start a new life with Ruth is right here in front of him. He loads the money into a duffel bag. Now he just needs to find someplace that will let him buy a boat in cash. Gary Crist swings the phone booth door shut behind him. It's like a sauna inside. It's noon on Friday, and the sun over West Palm Beach has been heating up the phone booth all morning.
No worries, he thinks. This will just take a minute. He asks the operator for the number of the Atlanta office of the FBI, then dials. A woman's voice answers. Federal Bureau of Investigation, may I help you? I am the kidnapper of Barbara Mackle, and I'm calling with information about her location. He pulls a piece of paper from his pocket. He's been carrying it for days, ever since he buried Barbara Mackle in the box.
On it are written directions for how to find her. He starts to read from it. The woman is flustered. She asks him to repeat the directions. He reads them again and then emphasizes the final part. "Barbara is exactly 130 yards perpendicular to the dirt road. Go find her." Crist hangs up and smiles. He kept his word. He called within 12 hours as he'd promised.
He gets back in his car. Now that he no longer has his asset, Barbara, he really has to hurry. He needs to get back to the marina to pick up the boat he bought a couple of hours ago. Really, it couldn't have been easier. He walked into the boat shop, picked out a 16-foot motorboat, and said he'd buy it on the spot. They needed a few hours to get it ready, so he used the time to buy some marine charts and make the call to the FBI.
He leaves the rental car in a parking lot and lugs a duffel bag stuffed with $500,000 and his rifle across the street to the marina. He locates his new boat idling at the dock. He jumps aboard, dropping the duffel at his feet. He reaches inside, pulls out two stacks of $20 bills, and hands them to the boat salesman standing on the dock. As promised, $2,000 in cash. Feel free to count it.
The salesman's eyes widen as he takes the money. Then, Chris pushes the throttle forward and heads north. It's a lovely Florida day, but he needs to move, and fast. Jack Keith floors the gas pedal of his government-issued sedan.
He's acting agent in charge of the FBI's Atlanta office, and he's speeding north from downtown Atlanta towards Norcross, a small town 20 miles northeast of the city. If the directions that were just phoned into the office are correct, that's where Barbara Mackel is buried. But the directions aren't as precise as he'd like. The FBI receptionist told him that at the intersection with Beaufort Highway, they're to proceed 3.3 miles.
But which way? Straight? Left? Right? The receptionist wasn't sure. So they brought multiple cars to cover each direction simultaneously. He also brought along three agents in his car. They'll need as many feet on the ground as they can get. It's 3 p.m. on Friday, December 20th. Barbara Mackle was taken more than 82 hours ago.
If the kidnappers were telling the truth, and she's actually buried underground, she can't have much air left. Keith can't get that thought out of his mind as he approaches the Beaufort Highway intersection. The kidnapper said to look for a white house after 3.3 miles, then turn onto a side road. Is that a white house? Keith accelerates and draws nearer. It is!
He slams on the brakes and turns onto a dirt road. His car bumps over railroad tracks. Directions say to proceed for a mile. Then Barbara's burial site should be 130 yards off the road. Keith hits the brakes. This has to be it, he thinks. The other agents pile out of the car and race into the woods, studying the ground for freshly turned dirt, calling Barbara's name.
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Was it her imagination? Maybe. She's been here so long, in the blackness of this box, that maybe she's going crazy. But what if she did hear something? What if someone's out there?
She starts pounding. She doesn't scream. She doesn't yell. She just bunches her hands into fists and pounds on the lid of her wooden tomb with every ounce of energy she has left. Droplets of condensation splatter onto her face. 30 seconds go by. A minute. She stops and lies there, spent, exhausted. She listens for something, anything, but no.
It must have been her imagination, wishful thinking. Then she hears a voice. It's a man. It sounds like her brother, Bobby. She yells out, Bobby? No, this is the FBI. We're going to get you out of there. Barbara feels a profound sense of joy overtake her.
After all this time alone, someone's there. Another human being. A person who's trying to reach her. It's overwhelming. She hears more noises filtering down through the earth above her box, through the air tube. Sounds of scraping and digging. She can't help but smile. She finds herself running a hand through her hair, trying to get the dirt out of it. The wait is agonizing.
She hears screws turning. She pulls the wet blanket up over her face as dirt falls onto her body. And then, through the blanket, she sees it. Light. She draws the blanket away from her face and squints. It's so bright. Men are reaching down, bending over, lifting her up.
She looks at their faces. Some are weeping. They lift her out and she tries to stand, but she can't. One of them picks her up and carries her through a wooded area, towards a sedan, parked on a nearby dirt road. How long were you down there? Since just after they took me. The agent helps her into the backseat of the sedan. She watches him wipe a tear from his cheek.
He looks angry and happy at the same time. She wants him to not be upset. She's okay. You all are the most handsome men I've ever seen. The agent laughs. Clearly something's wrong with you. Barbara smiles. She hasn't been able to stop smiling. As the other agents pile into the sedan, she asks if they caught the kidnappers yet. The agent at the wheel shakes his head, then starts the engines.
No, but we will. She looks forward out the windshield. The car is driving straight into the setting sun. It's big and red and blinding. And Barbara Mackle couldn't be happier. FBI Inspector Rex Schroeder studies a large-scale map of Florida on the wall of the Bureau's Miami office. It's Saturday morning, December 21st. Barbara Mackle returned home safe yesterday.
She was dehydrated and had lost 10 pounds, but otherwise was in good shape. Schroeder felt himself relax for the first time in days when he heard the news. But until the kidnappers are apprehended, his job isn't over.
They now know that George Deacon's real name is Gary Stephen Crist, thanks to the caller who bought the man's trailer. The FBI pulled up his rap sheet, and sure enough, Crist's fingerprints were identical to those found in the Volvo.
At age 23, he had already been arrested seven times for car theft and once for burglary. He's also wanted for escaping prison in California two years ago. And now, Chris and his accomplice, Ruth Eisman-Shear, are two of the most wanted people in America. Schroeder has a good lead.
Yesterday afternoon, the office got a call from a marina owner in West Palm Beach who sold a 16-foot Orlando Clipper to a guy who paid entirely in $20 bills. Yes, that was their man. So Chris is trying to escape by boat. But where? Coast Guard helicopters have been searching the waters along Florida's Atlantic coast, looking for a 16-foot motorboat with one person aboard.
But so far, nothing. He steps closer to the wall, gazing at the map. Another agent runs his finger along the map slowly. Schroeder can tell he has an idea. "What do you got? Sir, what if Crist didn't go north or south? What if he went inland?" The agent points to a narrow line that cuts horizontally across the Florida peninsula. The agent explains that it's a man-made canal that leads to the Gulf of Mexico.
It's divided by locks, each manned by a lock keeper. Schroeder doesn't hesitate. Call every lock keeper. Find out if they've seen our man. Within minutes, the calls have been made. Yes, a man fitting Chris' description was spotted the previous evening at the first of the locks. But by now, more than 12 hours later, he's probably all the way to the Gulf of Mexico. If they don't hurry, he'll be on the open sea.
Schroeder races to a waiting helicopter. Gary Crist clears the last lock of the canal, then opens the throttle on his boat and speeds toward the open sea, the Gulf of Mexico. He made it. He turns to the right so he can keep the shoreline in view. As much as he'd like to start the long journey across the Gulf toward Texas, he has a problem. Fuel.
He'll need to stop somewhere and buy several more gas cans to cover the 700 miles of ocean that lie between him and Galveston. He heads north, keeping the boat between the mainland and the many barrier islands that line the coast. Then suddenly he hears a droning sound. He looks up and sees a black dot moving against the blue of the sky. As it draws nearer, he can see it's a Coast Guard seaplane. It circles him.
Another damn setback, he thinks. He's got only four hours of fuel left, so if he heads out into open water now, he'll get stranded. He has no choice. He continues north, racing along the coast at full speed. But now he spots a helicopter trailing him too. He has only one option. He's got to get to land and find someplace to hide from his pursuers.
He turns the boat and heads straight for the closest land. Within a minute, his boat is beached on a sandbar. He grabs a small bag with a couple of chocolate bars, some maps, and $18,000 in it. Enough for an overland getaway. He jumps out of the boat and splashes his way to the shore, then runs for the tree line and plunges into a vast mangrove swamp. He's dead.
Instantly, he's surrounded by thick vegetation, and the mangrove trees form a canopy that completely blocks out the sky. This will be the perfect place to evade the plane and the helicopter. He stops and looks at a map. He determines he's on a rugged, uninhabited island called Hog Island.
It's big and close enough to the mainland that he should be able to make his way across the estuary on the east side, a mile and a half away, before the authorities can surround him. But as he sets out for the east side of the island, the swamp is overpowering. The mud sucks at his feet like wet cement. Mosquitoes feast on his flesh.
The thick roots of the mangrove trees sticking up out of the swamp bang against his shins with every step. The dense vegetation is almost impossible to get through. He can barely see five yards in front of him, but he has to keep going. Behind him, he can hear the chopper hovering low and distant voices of law enforcement making their way on the shore. As night falls, he can't go any further.
He's close to the east side of the island, but he's parched and beyond exhausted. He hasn't heard any sounds of police for hours, only the wild creatures that live here. So he wedges himself between the roots of some mangroves and falls asleep.
Put your hands on your head, or we'll shoot!
It's two cops. One points a shotgun at his chest, and the other pulls out his revolver, points it to the sky, and fires three shots. Crist can hear boat engines in the distance converging on them. He's so weak he can barely stand. He's dehydrated, badly bitten, and feels like he's about to collapse. Retired,
Can I have a drink of water? The officer cuffing him points to the muddy swamp water surrounding them. Drink that, you son of a bitch. And with that, the officers march Gary Crist out of the swamp and towards a waiting police boat. Barbara Mackle spent 83 hours in total locked in her underground box.
The only public comments she made about the ordeal were to Miami Herald reporter Jean Miller, with whom she co-authored a book, 83 Hours Till Dawn. Ruth Eisman Shear was the first woman to ever appear on the FBI's 10 Most Wanted list. She eluded police for 79 days and ultimately was tracked down in Norman, Oklahoma.
She was sentenced to seven years, served three, and then was deported to her native Honduras. Gary Crist pleaded not guilty and stood trial in 1969 in DeKalb County, Georgia. Among the witnesses testifying for the prosecution were Robert and Jane Mackle, Billy Vessels, Barbara's economics professor, Marshall Cass, and the gas station attendant who unknowingly suggested the spot where Crist buried Mackle.
Christ was convicted and could have been eligible for the death penalty, but Barbara, who also testified, asked that the death penalty be taken off the table. Gary Christ was sentenced to life in prison and was caught at least once attempting to escape. Over much public outcry, he was paroled in 1979 and moved back to Alaska, the state of his birth.
He later attended medical school in the Caribbean, where he earned a medical license and then established a practice in Christney, Indiana. But state regulators suspended his medical license, and he moved to the outskirts of Atlanta. In 2006, Christ was arrested for attempting to smuggle cocaine and undocumented immigrants from Central America to the coast of Alabama. He was sentenced to five years and five months in federal prison.
He was released in 2010 and now lives in Northeast Georgia. Barbara Mackle married her college friend-slash-boyfriend, Stuart Woodward. They were together for 43 years until his death in 2013. Barbara Mackle is still alive. On the final page of her book, published in 1971, she wrote of her ordeal, "'I want to put it behind me, once and for all. I want it to be over.'"
forever and ever. On our next episode, I speak with journalist Steve Fennessy, who wrote our Buried Alive series. His 2006 article for Atlanta Magazine, The Talented Dr. Crist, took a deep look at the man who kidnapped Barbara Jane Mackle. This is the fourth and final episode of our four-part series, Buried Alive.
A quick note about our scenes. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but everything is based on historical research. If you'd like to learn more about this event, we recommend the book 83 Hours Till Dawn by Jean Miller with Barbara Jane Mackle. I'm your host, Cassie DePeckel. Steve Fennessy wrote this episode. Our editor is Alyssa Adams. Sound design and Dolby Atmos mix by Joe Richardson. Audio engineer is Sergio Enriquez.
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