The disappearance of James Eugene Harrison, a young entrepreneur who set out on a business trip in the winter of 1958 and never returned, signalled a tragic loss for his family. Their life suddenly flipped on its head. Mrs Harrison slowly came to terms with the difficult life of a widow with two young sons to raise. A Californian convict admitted to the murder, complete with a detailed confession and the whole sorry affair was tied up neatly for police. That was until James Eugene Harrison showed up on the driveway of a suburban house one night, three months later, confused and unsure of how he had moved halfway across the country and very much alive.

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James Eugene Harrison: The Murder That Never Was




The disappearance of James Eugene Harrison, a young entrepreneur who set out on a business trip in the winter of 1958 and never returned, signalled a tragic loss for his family. Their life suddenly flipped on its head. Mrs Harrison slowly came to terms with the difficult life of a widow with two young sons to raise. A Californian convict admitted to the murder, complete with a detailed confession and the whole sorry affair was tied up neatly for police. That was until James Eugene Harrison showed up on the driveway of a suburban house one night, three months later, confused and unsure of how he had moved halfway across the country and very much alive. This is Dark Histories, where the facts are worse than fiction.


The Life and Death of James Eugene Harrison


Born on 15th October, 1926 to Clyde and Adeline Harrison and growing up in the town of Christian, Illinois, James Eugene Harrison had an anonymous upbringing. His life was largely unspectacular, until he reached his late teens, when the outbreak of the second world war, and the US involvement saw him ship out with the marine corps, serving three years in the Pacific theatre. Upon his return, he moved to Florida and met the love of his life, Jeanne, Who he married in February of 1939. The couple settled down in their new home on South-West 34th Street, Miami and within a year Jeanne gave birth to their first son, Jamie. Just one year later, their second son Michael was born. Life was ticking along just fine for James Eugene. By the mid-fifties, he went into business with his brother, William. The pair built up a window manufacturing business, named the Harrison Window Co. and in 1957, they opened a brand new manufacturing plant in Indian RIver City, a small town in the county of Brevard, Florida that was consolidated into the city of Titusville in the 1960’s. On the 7th October 1958, James Eugene left the office of the plant, waving goodbye to his brother, as he jumped into his blue and white Edsel Station Wagon and drove off in the direction of Cocoa Beach, 20 miles to the South of Indian River City, where he had an appointment with a client. Before diving out of the lot, he slipped a bag of cash containing $500 into the glove compartment, closed it back up and drove out onto the US-1, the main artery road that ran parallel with the Indian River all the way to Cocoa Beach. The afternoon was entirely unspectacular, a little rain had fallen earlier in the day, but otherwise the weather had been only a little warmer than average, starting to drop into the low 20’s that were common for October, making it a comfortable drive. 


That evening, as the sun dropped below the horizon, Jeanne Harrison made a call to the Indian River City police station. James had still not returned from his business meeting earlier in the day and it was not like him to not to stay out overnight, especially without letting her know. Maybe she was just being a worrier, but better to be safe than sorry, she thought. As it turned out, her hunch was right. James had not returned that night and would not return for some time. As the police took the call that night, they opened a case that would go on to be one of the most bizarre in the history of Florida, if not the entire United States.


Following the lost persons report, the Indian River City Police busied themselves over the following days laying on a full, extensive search and communicating with Miami police, who focused on the area around the Harrison home. Seven days later, the day before James 32nd Birthday, with no clues uncovered as to where her husband may have disappeared to, Jeanne Harrison had little choice but to fear the worst. It was a fear that was soon to be realized when the Indian River City Police station got a call from the Jacksonville Police, Detective Captain Fowler. Four days earlier, a blue and white station wagon had been parked in West Union Street and appeared to have been abandoned. 


James Harrison’s Edsel Station Wagon was a striking car, large during a time when most models were trending smaller, its length accommodated three elongated windows ending in tail fins that protruded on either side from the slanted, wooden panelled trunk. The car was a testament to the early success of the window company he and his brother had got rolling. It may not have been a Lincoln, but its styling and retail price of just a shade over $3000 gave it a flamboyant and decidedly unpopular air. Holding suspicions the car had been stolen and dumped, Jacksonville officers decided to check it out and found it was one of only eight registered in the entire state and belonged to James Eugene Harrison. They called up Indian RIver City police to inquire after the owner, two and two were quickly put together and conclusions were made as to what may have happened to the driver.


After discovering that James had been missing for the past week, the police pulled the car in and during a search of the interior of the car, the officers pulled up a large rug that had been thrown over the front seats uncovering a group of blood stains from what must have been a considerable wound that had bled into the fabric of the seats. It was so much blood, that speaking to the press, Detective Captain Fowler made the conclusion that “Someone must have been murdered in that car.”


Outside of the ominous blood stains, the car was not giving up any further secrets. Samples were taken from the bloodstains and sent for analysis, and the interior was extensively fingerprinted, turning up only a single set of prints, belonging to James. Although blood analysis was still fairly primitive in the 1950s, it was ascertained that it was type-O, a further blow to Jeanne,as it was a match for James. The picture was slowly forming of what had happened to James and Detective Captain Fowler, after speaking with Jeanne, told the press that the police were working on the assumption that James had been driving home when he had picked up a hitchhiker, who had attacked and killed him, dumping his body “out in brevard County”, a rural area between Miami and Jacksonville. James had been carrying several Gasoline Credit Cards in the car, but given that none of them had been used, police drew the conclusion that whoever the attacker was, he was either a local, or that Jacksonville had been their ultimate destination and they had chosen to dump the car once they had reached the city.


During their inquiries surrounding the car in the area of West Union Street, police did manage to uncover a single witness who claimed to have spotted a man park the car up and loiter around it for a spell, before finally leaving the area on foot. The description given, of a caucasian man around 40 years of age, 5’6” tall, slim, dark brown hair with a red slip over shirt didn’t match the known description of James, however it didn’t give police much else to go on either. With leads as slim on the ground as they were, James’ father, Clyde Harrison offered up a reward for $1000 for anyone who could come forth with information that might “help solve his disappearance.” Despite the healthy reward offered, $1000 was a good four months worth of wages for most people in 1958, nothing came of the offer and the investigation into James disappearance fell quiet for several weeks. On November 8th, police were called to a strip of a canal near the twenty mile bend, after two fishermen had spotted a body floating in the water nearby a large alligator. After seeing off the local wildlife, they heaved up the body and took it to the local morgue, where it was found to have been chained by the ankles, handcuffed and gagged. There was a single bullet wound in the victim’s forehead made by a .32 calibre gun. It looked suspiciously like a gang assassination and James had not been known to associate in such circles and sure enough after further investigation, a tattoo of a flag and shield on the upper right arm confirmed that it was not the body of the missing man, as James had no tattoos at all.


As the New Year came and went with still no sign of James, Jeanne took it upon herself to liquidate the Harrisons window business. It had been a fledgling company and whilst it had prospered with James input, in truth neither Jeanne nor William, James’ brother, had much business savvy, that had always been left to James. Jeanne sub-let the manufacturing plant and warehouse and sold off everything she could, including the furniture from their home, to make enough money to help her to look after her two children. The family moved back in with Jeanne’s mother, Agnes Weaver and rented out the family home in Miami, whilst Jeanne also took a part time job as a receptionist in the offices of a law firm, in efforts to take over the role as the main breadwinner for the family. It was a difficult period already as it was with her husband’s sudden and unresolved disappearance, but it was made all the worse for Jeanne, who had relied upon James for earning all the family’s money and making all the big decisions in their lives until his disappearance. As matters appeared to turn from bad to worse for the Harrison family, a tragic conclusion to the events was setting itself up on the horizon which, whilst bringing an element of closure to Jeanne, was not at all what she had been hoping and praying for for the past three months.


The Murder of Ogden Miles


On September 30th, a week before the disappearance of James Eugene Harrison, 36 year old Ogden Miles, a TV announcer for Sacramento’s KBET-TV, disappeared along with his bright red convertible. He had left home on the night of the 30th, telling his wife he was nipping out for a brief trip to a nearby health studio, but failed to return. The car had proved simple to find, dumped as it was by the side of a busy Sacramento street, but the discovery opened up new questions as the front seats were covered in heavy blood stains. The urgency of the investigation was further pressed when several of the announcers business cards along with his membership card to the health studio he had visited on the night of his disappearance, also covered in blood stains, were found discarded by the Roseville Freeway by a 12 year old local boy and handed in to the police. Speculating that the cards were tossed from the window of a car speeding past on the Freeway, an extensive search was made of the local area, but with no idea of which way the car would have been driving, it inevitably turned up no new evidence. 


The first real lead came when police found a bloody chef uniform and an 8 inch, blood stained, chefs knife dumped in the bushes, by a disused and overgrown patch of land by the roadside in Downtown Sacramento. Police had been searching the area after a local policeman reported spotting a man matching Ogden Miles description loitering in the area at around 4:30am. He had questioned him and then following, let him go about his business. Fingerprints and blood analysis were taken from the knife and from Miles’ dumped car, showing that both blood stains were of the same type, type-A, which matched with Miles. Meanwhile, small threads of the investigation were tying together, linking the evidence with a Sacramento resident who lived nearby to the disused patch of land, an unemployed chef named Roy Victor Olson. An all points bulletin was promptly issued, whilst firemen joined in in a combing search of the brush area for further clues, though it turned up nothing new. The net tightened around Olson, with police placing watches at all his known friends’ locations as well as in his family home, though he failed to appear. He did make a phone call to his stepfather, apparently whilst intoxicated, but no one claimed to have seen the fugitive since the day before, when his family last saw him leave the house at 7:30 in the morning after his mother told him to go and find a job. Leads came in to the police at a relatively fast click, with reports of a man seen hitchhiking out of Sacramento taking them one way, whilst suspicions that a female friend had been harbouring him in her home in Central Sacramento took them another. 


Two days later, Arthur Poland, a resident of Antelope, 4 miles to the South of Roseville, Sacramento, stumbled across the body of Ogden Miles, dumped in a stubble field. Poland had noticed a bitter funk in the air the night before and had set out in the morning to discover the source, leading him to the decomposing corpse. The body had been badly eviscerated from eight, deep stab wounds, three to the front and five to the back. His pockets had been split open and his watch was missing. With Olson still remaining the main suspect, police began to believe that the murder was eerily silimair to a string of unsolved murders that had taken place over the previous two years and the investigation followed the train of thought that police were on the trail of a dangerously violent serial killer. Leads continued to come in to the station and each were meticulously checked, but none led to the capture of Olson, leading detectives to begrudgingly resign to the press that they believed he may have avoided the four state search that was underway and that the man was more than likely “long gone.”


With little news on Olson reaching the press, instead they turned to the suspects grim past. It turned out that Roy Victor Olson had a long history of trouble with the law, starting at an early age, when at the tender age of seven, he was taken into the police station in response to an incident that he claimed not to have seen. Suspected of lying, he spoke of how the officer punched him in frustration, a move he failed to understand as he admitted lying but justified it by saying, “what else would you expect a kid of 7 to do?” That run in was the entry to a life in and out of custody for Olson. Within two years, he was sent to a reform school after being arrested for running away from home, skipping school, breaking and entering and arson, after he set fire to the curtains in a neighbours apartment he had broken into. He was promptly kicked out of his family home and spent the majority of the 1950’s in and out of jail. In 52 he was arrested in Janesville for burglary and later, for Federal Auto Theft which led to a three year stint in prison. After early release, he was once more arrested in 54 whilst in Alaska for robbery, where he was sent down for a further two years for robbery. In 1955 he enjoyed a brief respite from prison and married Shirley Herbert, a Santa Monica barkeep. The pair married in Tia Juana, Mexico and had a child together, though he died just minutes after birth. It was an event that heavily affected Olson, who left his wife and wrote a poem on the entire affair, a past-time that the press was now thoroughly enjoying, by reprinting lines from all sorts of poems and pseudo-psychoanalysing the fugitives “complex” character,


“The Son I wanted most is gone,

He passed from us in the morning dawn,

And infant tiny from it’s mother’s womb,

They placed him gently in his tomb,

To lie in peace and beauty rest,

In God’s kingdom, my child is blest.”


Within a year Olson was married again, this time to a cocktail waitress, but two days later, he was arrested in Santa Monica on the charge of seven counts of robbery and given five years probation. For a couple of years, he appeared to have quietened down, until in 1958 he appeared on his parents doorstep in Sacramento in early June. Three months later, he was a wanted man for the murder of Ogden Miles.


It took police another 25 days to catch up with Roy Victor Olson and when they did, he was on the other side of the country, perched on the shores of Lake Michigan in a bar in Milwaukee. He had been drinking the night away, listening to another patron wax lyrical about his military experience. Unbelieving of the man’s exploits, Olson drew out a handgun and challenged him to break it down to prove his cocky credentials. With The firearm being bandied about the place in the hands of a pair of drunks, the quieter residents of the bar took it upon themselves to call the police who promptly turned up and arrested Olson for carrying a firearm. Maybe Olson realised the game was soon to be up or maybe, like he later explained, he was just tired of running, but on the way to the station he confessed to having killed Ogden Miles back in Sacramento and worse yet, to the second murder of another man in Seattle, named John Weiler. Weiler had previously been found dead in his apartment after having been knifed in the back, but the police had not made any previous conections between this and the murder of Miles. During his confession, Olson remained calm and cold, describing what he had done to both Miles and Weiler with an unperturbed tone,


“I put a knife in his back, he got up and said “I don’t want to die,” I cut him six or eight times, then I wrapped him in the bedspread and put him under the bed. I took $7 from his wallet and his cufflinks. Before that I turned the radio on loud in the apartment to keep the landlord from hearing what was going on.”


From his confession, a story developed that seemed to show Ogden Miles having a secret double life. He had picked up Olson around midnight, “offered him a lift”, apparently to a nearby bar where the two men had a drink together and then visited the patch of disused land where miles body was found, for reason that the press did their best to tiptoe around, though its safe to say, ti probably wasn’t to observe the local flora and fauna. A similar story unravelled with Weiler, who had met Olson in the local YMCA. The pair drank together and then Weiler offered him a place to stay for a few nights, three nights later, he stabbed him in the back and killed him. The conclusion of Olson’s written confession showed his cold, uncaring attitude towards his crimes starkly,


“I know that murder is the largest crime one can commit. I know it is punishable by death, yet I do not realize the seriousness of the act in relation to my own life. I regret to say that I feel no remorse for either of my crimes. They have never haunted my mind. I’ve never seen a vision of my victims asleep or awake and after those deaths I have lived as normal as ever not thinking of them at all. In the eyes of society I am a criminal of the highest rank. I have commited the highest of all crimes against my fellow man and what one calls honest society. Now this honest society will have their chance to convict me and put me to death in an honest and lawful manner. I will not plead with society not to, in fact I urge that they do. I am not afraid to die.”


After his confession he told police, “I feel better than I have in a long time.”


Relieved to have alleviated the weight from his chest, Olson leaned back in his chair, “Well that’s it,” he told his interviewers, “I wonder how many others I’ve killed.”


As it turned out, he was still to confess to one further murder following his trial. That of James Eugene Harrison.




Three months later, whilst serving a life sentence in Vacaville Correstional centre for the murder of the two West coast knife killings, Roy Victor Olson, made one last confession. After feeling from Sacramento, Olson had hitchhiked across the country in his run from police. Just outside of Jacksonville, James Eugene Harrison was driving his station wagon home following his business meeting in Cocoa Beach when he spotted Olson hitching along Route 90, pulled over and offered him a lift into town. During the drive, James told Olson he was returning home after a business trip as a window salesman. As they were driving South from Jacksonville, they pulled over in some brush by the side of the road to stretch their legs, but when James got back in the car and reached over Olson to reach the glove compartment, Olson slammed his head, knocking him unconscious and then stabbed him in the chest, burying his body along with his papers, watch and the murder weapon in a shallow patch of earth that he dug using a military style collapsible shovel found in the back of the car. Olson drove back to Jacksonville, parked up and abandoned the station wagon, leaving it to be found by authorities a week later, tying it together with the disappearance of James and prompting the murder investigation. Kept quiet from the press was one further detail in the confession. That Olson had not acted alone. When he told police about the killing, he implicated James Elbert Leach Junior, a 21 year old Tennessee man whom he had met 4 days earlier. The pair had travelled together, seemingly getting along well, until the violent outburst against James. James Elbert Leach Junior was not known to the police and had no prior record of crime, but Olson told the police he would be hard to miss, as he was one of the most tattooed men in America. 


Police mounted both a search for James Elbert Leach and, once more, for the body of James Eugene Harrison, only this time, with the aid of Olson’s description as to where he had buried it. As they asked around the area, police spoke with Mrs Edward Walters, the owner of a gas station in Titusville and friend of the Harrison family who confirmed that she had seen the military shovel in the back of the Station Wagon that morning, cementing Olson’s confession. Search as they might, however, and the body of James was as elusive as ever. A Navy officer was drafted into the search, complete with an electric mine detector, to no avail. Picking up James Leach Junior was, as Olson had suggested, considerably easier. The FBI arrested him at his parents house three days later in Jellico Tennessee where he was living with his parents. His tattoos were as damning as Olson had described, on his right leg he had the name “Kentucky Kid” scratched into his skin, “six months I lived and lost” on his right arm, a large panther on his chest, below the word “crime” in large block letters. On his left shoulder the classic, “born to raise hell” sat above “born to lose” on his lower left arm next to the word “death”. His left leg bore a skull in top hat. Despite his appearance, which would have been fairly testy for the 1950s, when tattoos were still commonly associated with gangs, criminals and the general underclass, Leach Junior insisted he was innocent and saying that for the whole time he had spent hitchhiking with olson, never a cross word was said between the pair, nor to anyone on the road.


“I have no idea why he implicated me in something neither of us did.”


He pleaded to the police. With no body found, he could not be charged with the murder just yet, but the confession from Olson, they decided, had been far too detailed to have been a fiction, He knew too many details concerning the interior of James Eugene Harrisons car, along with his whereabouts on the day of his disappearance. Instead, whilst waiting for the unearthing of James’ body, police jailed Leach in an effort to bide their time. Little did they know that a man was about to show up halfway across the country and turn the whole investigation upside down.


The Second Life of James Eugene Harrison


Just after 11pm on the evening of January 23rd, just a handful of hours after the FBI had picked up James Leach Junior in connection with Olson and the murder of James Eugene Harrison, a clean shaven, well dressed man stumbled down an empty suburban street in Phoenix, Arizona. He eyed a couple pulling up to the driveway of one of the houses in their car. Approaching the car and knocking on the window, he asked them if they could drive him to the local police station. Explaining the situation he found himself in as best he could, he told them he had just woken up in a parking lot that evening, the last thing he could remember was a carjacker jumping into his car as he stopped at a crossing, waving a gun round in the back seat and telling him to drive to Jacksonville, “take me there and you won’t get hurt,” he was told. After arriving in the city, James pulled into a parking lot and then everything went black. He could remember nothing more. Fearing that the man on the driveway was crazy, the couple assured the man that they would call the police for him rather than let him inside their car and soon enough, Sergeant Earl Moore of the Phoenix Police drove out to see what the problem was. Greeting the policeman with a confused expression, James Eugene Harrison, long thought dead and the victim of murder, eyed the license plate of the patrol car and asked him, ‘Arizona? How did I get here?”


Once the police took Harrison to the station, his identity was better established. He once more ran through his story, confirming with police that the clothes he was wearing were not his own, that he had no idea how he came to be in Phoenix with just 67 cents in his pocket and with absolutely no idea where he had been for the previous 110 days. The first job for police was to try and establish the truth of the strange man’s identity, after questioning Harrison on the details of his home address, the members of his family’s names and his previous occupation, they contacted police in Indian River City and were told to check for a scar on his back, the result of an earlier operation on his spine in the veterans hospital a year earlier. Sure enough when they checked, the scar was where they were told it would be, which was proof enough. Perplexed, the police began to try and piece together a story that might make sense and explain where James had been and how he had came to be at the station that night. One of the bigger mental hurdles was the state of Harrison himself. Clean shaven and well dressed, he did not appear to be a man that had been living penniless for over three months, but he had no wallet, no money and was missing both his watch and Masons ring. The clothing, he said, could not possibly have been his own, he was wearing a plain t-shirt, something he had never worn before and did not own.


Once police established Harrisons identity, they allowed him to call his wife in Miami, to give her the more than surprising news that he was not quite as dead as everyone had presumed. Ecstatic after hearing her husband’s voice back from the grave, she exclaimed, “It’s definitely him!” Money was wired out to Phoenix for a flight home to Florida and the harrisons were reunited after three long months. But the story was not over for the police. With their investigation in tatters, it now fell to them to work out exactly what had gone on with Harrison and who, exactly, Olson had killed. Still quite sure that Olson had killed someone, due to the depth of his confession, the police continued to hold both Olson in Florida and his partner in crime, James Leach Junior, though the latter was still holding fast to his story that he was innocent, the return of Harrison alive just bolstered his story as far as he was concerned. Confusing matters even more, Olson now recanted his confession, saying that he had simply fabricated the whole thing in an effort to get a free trip to Florida. When the press questioned police on where the investigation was at with all the new revelations, they were resigned to answering simply, “At the present, we don’t know what we’re going to do.”


After Harrison arrived in Florida, police in Jacksonville questioned him extensively for over five hours in an attempt to ascertain both his whereabouts for the past few months and what may have gone on on the day of his disappearance. Throughout the questioning, James maintained that he remembered nothing, though police were suspicious as to why he may have bleached his hair, as there was a light streak in the front, which he assured them was natural and had always been there, but they were quite sure it did not look natural to them. Harrison was then submitted for a full medical check where fresh scars or signs of a recent wound were searched for from head to toe, but none were found. Moving away from James whereabouts, nothing he could tell them explained the state of his car in Jacksonville either, 


“There was too much blood in that car for somebody not to have been killed or hurt bad.”


But as far as James was aware and with Olson recanting his confession, the entire thing had turned into a complete mystery.


“We’ve formed no conclusions. We don’t know what to think. I’m sure of one thing, Olson knows too much about this to have picked it up from reading the papers.”


When the press asked if they were convinced that Harrison’s story was true, Lieutenant Sands from Jacksonville police carefully answered that he had watched Harrison and questioned many people about him, all of whom had assured police that his character was “excellent,” however, in direct response, he replied, “No, not by any means.” Working with the FBI they turned their attention to Phoenix, plastering Harrisons face in the papers and requesting information if anyone had seen or spoken to him in the three months he had been missing, but no information was forthcoming. Only one witness came forward to the police and then it only confused matters more. On the third of February Mrs Judith Schenid, a Phoenix woman reported to the police that she had seen James Eugene Harrison before. On the day of his reappearance, she had rode a bus from Los Angeles to Phoenix and had sat next to the man for the whole journey. She had recognised his picture in the paper and recognised him straight away, she told them, due to the bleached streak in the front of his hair. She told police that he had been perfectly lucid throughout the trip, talking with her along the journey and gave her the impression that he had been living in Los Angeles. When the bus arrived at the Phoenix coach station, just hours before Harrison introduced himself as the missing man to police officers, she parted ways with the man, noticing that he had no luggage on him, only a magazine in his hand, though he “appeared to know where he was going” she concluded. As for Harrison himself, he immediately denied the story, saying that he had no recollection of the bus ride and when police suggested he take a lie detector test, he flatly refused, saying that he was an innocent man and had been “pushed around” too much already. Following the police questioning, Harrison decided the time had come to go into seclusion in order to avoid press speculation and interest and slowly but surely, the investigation, now completely in turmoil, slid into obscurity. With no body ever found, the suspect recanting his confession and no further clues as to where James Eugene Harrison had been, the bizarre case slipped frustratingly into the back pages of history. 




In 1960, four young boys were out playing in a derelict field alongside the Jacksonville expressway when they stumbled upon the remains of a human skeleton. They reported the find to the police, who excavated the site and found very little that had survived the shallow grave. A hunting knife was found buried with the body, along with the remains of a pair of boots, but no other clues as to who the body may have been. Found in the rough area that had been described by Olson in the earlier investigation into the murder of Hames Harrison, but whilst the theory was gently floated that it may have been Olsons lost victim, nothing was ever confirmed. Olson himself wound up serving a life term in jail for the murder of Ogden Miles and John Weiler. He lived behind bars until the mid 90’s when he was finally released, living out his last days until his death in 2001, aged 66 years old.


After reuniting with his family and disappearing from the public eye, James Eugene Harrison was never heard from again, though marriage records of his son suggest the family remained in Florida for at least a further twenty or so years. The mystery of the murder that never was was never resolved and only one theory, confused as it was, was ever put forward by the police, who theorised that perhaps harrisons carjacking story had been true and Olson had been picked up by the carjacker who adopted the identity of Harrison. Olson had then murdered his driver, believing it to be Harrison, rather than Harrisons earlier attacker. If this theory were true however, then why was the body never found where Olson had told police it would be? And where in the world dhad James Eugene Harrison been for the 110 days he claimed to have lost?


Summed up in one paper, the mysterious and thoroughly confusing case of the murder of James Eugene Harrison was perhaps best described,


“The charge was murder, the suspect is in jail, the dead man is alive and law enforcement officers are up in the air about the whole thing.”

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