CARLE HODGE'S NEEDLESS DEATH

Lisa Allen, the sheriff's public relations representative, seemed annoyed by the request.

"The Republic and the television stations have already asked," Allen said.
"Mr. Medina refused their requests. So I'm not going to ask him again. You see, we don't allow our prisoners to be harassed."
I drove out to Medina's house on Indian School. It is a single-story house with bars on all the windows, as if the residents live in constant fear of criminals.

It was early on a Sunday evening. The lights were out. No one answered. But I heard footsteps moving about inside and the sound of television.

I had been trying to reach Sylvia Cody, who lived with Carle, for days. So I made one last try.

The phone rang five times. Then the unmistakable sound of Carle's voice came on the line.

"Sylvia and I are not available at the moment," Carle said. "But we'll return your call if you leave a message."
I didn't know what to say.

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