At the click of a trigger, metal on metal, Scott Davis spun in terror and stared down the barrel of a .38 revolver aimed by a devil. Misfire.
Recoiling like a blind man before flames, Davis jerked his arm upward as the second pull of the trigger slammed a bullet into his elbow. Surrounded by the isolation of wooded hills, he bolted away from the gunman, away from the dream of a 688-acre farm, and away from a freshly dug grave. Devil on his heels, Davis heard the report of four more shots as he crashed through the undergrowth and disappeared into orange-hued foliage.
Seven hours later, he emerged in darkness as the sole survivor of Richard Beasley, a serial killer who dangled the ultimate killing bait—a fake farm. By Craigslist convenience, Beasley posted job openings for a managerial position at a remote operation and murdered suitors as they arrived on-site.
The end game was a ride into the southeastern Ohio countryside, a bullet to the brain, and a reposting of the irresistible online agriculture advertisement:
Simply watch over a 688 acre patch of hilly farmland and feed a few cows, you get 300 a week and a nice 2 bedroom trailer, someone older and single preferred but will consider all, relocation a must, you must have a clean record and be trustworthy—this is a permanent position, the farm is used mainly as a hunting preserve, is over run with game, has a stocked 3 acre pond, but some beef cattle will be kept, nearest neighbor is a mile away, the place is secluded and beautiful, it will be a real get away for the right person, job of a lifetime—if you are ready to relocate please contact asap, position will not stay open, include name-age-ph # in email please.
The unsuspecting applicants, over 100 hopefuls, lined up for the job. Bees to poisoned honey on a body farm.
Chaplain Rich
In 2011, silver-bearded, big-boned, and cowboy-booted Beasley, 52, charmed the citizenry of Akron, Ohio, masquerading as a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Tall and wide, hair pulled back in a balding braid, quick with a hearty laugh, and generous with a pocketful of candy or helping hand, he cast himself as a man of the people—street Moses.
“No question, Beasley was a pathological liar,” says Summit County prosecutor Jonathan Baumoel. “He could weave a specific tale on the fly; very skilled, talented, and intelligent. I’ve dealt with high-profile cases and murder cases, but I’ve never encountered a criminal like Beasley who orchestrated such a bizarre set of facts and circumstances.”
Beasley’s past was cratered by scrapes with the law. Born in 1959 and raised in Akron, he spent spells as machinist and trucker, staggered by stints behind bars. Convicted in Texas in 1985 for multiple counts of burglary, Beasley received 40 years, but was out in four. In 1998, convicted for a firearms violation, he was thrown back in a Texas pen—and paroled in 2004.
He bounced home to Ohio as “Chaplain Rich,” reformed and regretful, ready with a Bible verse, and raring to lead Akron’s less fortunate to the Lord. And what better way for the self-ordained Beasley to begin ministry? Buy a whorehouse.
Sunday Regulars
In 2005, a vehicular collision left Beasley with back injuries and a cash settlement. He took the accident payout and bought a boardinghouse under the guise of helping recovering addicts, but instead packed the home with female junkies, serving as their pimp—buying the women cell phones, driving them to Johns, and posting online ads.
Honey-tongued Beasley helped the homeless, fed the hungry at food pantries, advocated for the indigent at the Summit County courthouse, and opined on the Bible at The Chapel, a local megachurch—all while maintaining side hustles in drugs and prostitution.
Eye out for the vulnerable, Beasley’s beneficence extended to Akron’s youth. He took 10-year-old Brogan Rafferty (neglected by a distant father and drug-addicted mother) under his wing, accompanying the boy to church every week, rain or shine. By 2011, raw-boned Rafferty, a 16-year-old high school junior, had exploded in growth, hitting the scales at 230 pounds and reaching 6’5” with notches yet to climb. Beasley and Rafferty became an incongruous, but inseparable pair, often rumbling around Akron in Rafferty’s 1998 white Buick LeSabre—fat Gandalf in the passenger seat and the man-child acolyte behind the wheel.
On the outside, they were a picture of piety, Sunday regulars. On the inside, hearts dark enough to bleed black.
“They were a purely evil pair,” Baumoel says. “They targeted innocent victims looking for a better life on the farm and shot them in the head. If this was made into a movie, it’d be such a wild script that I don’t think anyone would believe it was reality.”
Midnight Shift
In 2010, Beasley’s hypocrisy came to a boil when he was arrested in Akron on drug trafficking and aggravated menace charges. Slated for trial on Sept. 6, 2011, he went on the lam, trolling the streets for a new identity—a doppelganger.
In early August 2011, a mere month before trial, Beasley found his mark at the Haven of Rest, a homeless shelter in downtown Akron. Ralph Geiger, 56, once a construction-maintenance business owner, was running on fumes. Beasley noted the similar build and age bracket of candidate Geiger: single and on the margin—he’d hardly be missed.
Coating his words in care and concern, Beasley extended a Judas handshake and an irresistible offer to Geiger: How’d you like to tend cattle and cut the hay on 688 acres?
Raised on a farm in childhood, Geiger pounced on Beasley’s proposition and waved adios to Haven of Rest, telling staff he was bound for a livestock operation in southern Ohio. On Aug. 8, Beasley, Rafferty, and Geiger drove to southeast Ohio’s Noble County and checked in at the Best Western in Caldwell. The next day, the trio set out for the bogus farm, passing isolated houses and countryside draped in leaves yet to turn, finally leaving blacktop for the crunch of gravel on Don Warner Road.
Beyond the reach of a cell signal, Rafferty pulled off gravel and parked in weeds. The trio exited the vehicle as Beasley feigned uncertainty over the precise location of his farm’s entrance. Warning of coyote danger, Beasley loaded a .38 pistol and walked point, Geiger entirely unaware at his flank, into a heavily wooded holler to search for the purported farm gate.
No farm. No gate. Blaming an error in navigation, Beasley pivoted on the path, back toward the car. As Geiger turned in tandem, Beasley raised the pistol and fired a bullet into the back of Geiger’s skull.
On cue, retrieving a shovel from the vehicle, Rafferty began digging. Four feet of dirt later, Beasley removed Geiger’s clothes, and Rafferty dragged the naked corpse into the hole, dumping in a bag of lime for insurance.
Geiger’s murder went down without a hitch: popped, dropped, and disappeared. At trigger’s pull, Beasley had a new identity, driver’s license, checking account, and means to obtain pill scripts or medical treatment.
“The initial motive in the Geiger murder was stolen identification, but maybe the killing went too well,” Baumoel suggests. “Beasley was a true sociopath in action and manipulation. There was far more going on than just theft; he felt power and thrill.”
As for 16-year-old Rafferty— seven days after the murder he penned a commemorative poem, “Midnight Shift,”, later found by investigators on his desktop computer: ...I dug the hole...We put him in with difficulty, they call them stiffs for a reason. We showered him with lime like a Satanic baptism it was like we were excommunicating him from the world...We drove out of there discarding evidence as we went...felt terrible until I threw up in the gas station bathroom where I was supposed to throw away the bullets and shell. I emptied myself of my guilt, with my dinner, but not for long. When I got home,’ took a shower hotter than hell itsself. prayed like hell that night.
Disinclined to poetry, Beasley wrestled with a practical question: How many bodies could the holler hold?
Plenty of Fish
The fantasy farm outside Caldwell was Beasley’s ticket to rob and kill—or just kill. Robbery was a bonus.
“There was no farm,” Baumoel explains. “Yes, there was physical land in the hills that was split between a coal company and private ownership, but Beasley didn’t own the acreage, and he had zero experience in farming or farm management. He had visited the rural area in Noble County, but that was the extent of his knowledge.”
Beasley understood the mere hint of a genuine farm drew heavy interest, i.e., build a rickety façade and they will come.
Via the comfort of a laptop keyboard, Beasley posted a job opening on Craigslist: Simply watch over a 688 acre patch of hilly farmland and feed a few cows...
Within days, his email box pinged with dozens of prospects under the illusion of genuine agriculture employment. However, able-bodied and physically fit need not apply. Likewise, genuine farmworkers need not apply. Instead, Beasley was looking for vulnerable, single, white, male, middle-aged, unemployed, and unattached candidates on the periphery. Easy prey.
Like a glutton seated before Sunday dinner, Beasley pored over the Craigslist responses, replied to promising prospects, and set up in-person interviews at local food courts or burger joints. Presenting contenders with a typed application, he portrayed himself as a non-farming landowner from Akron in need of a manager-caretaker, stressing the remote location of his operation and lack of cell service. He paid particular attention to the physique of applicants, rejecting those who might be a physical handful.
By early October, the vetting process was a turkey shoot, according to court filings in State v. Beasley: Daniel DeWalt applied by e-mail to be the caretaker of a cattle farm in Caldwell, Ohio, a job he had found advertised on Craigslist ... DeWalt agreed to meet a man named “Jack Gaylord” at the Chapel Hill Mall food court in Akron.
A few days later, “Jack” offered DeWalt the job. DeWalt packed his belongings into a U-Haul trailer in preparation for the move ... DeWalt told “Jack” that he was bringing his pistol. “Jack” initially said that was okay but then changed his mind, saying, “I’m the only one with a gun.” DeWalt also told “Jack” that he had been unable to find the alleged property on the county auditor’s website, indicating, “[T]his ain’t adding up.” ... On October 15, 2011, DeWalt received an e-mail from “JG” at rohandannaher@gmail.com withdrawing the job offer.”
George Brown, semiretired from the concrete business, wanted a job to supplement his income. On October 7, he answered a Craigslist ad for a job taking care of cattle in southern Ohio. The ad promised a trailer to live in, a credit card, and $300 to $400 a month.
Brown arranged to meet “Jack” at the Chapel Hill Mall food court. The interview was going well until Brown mentioned his lifelong involvement in martial arts, at which point “Jack” “kind of sat back in his chair.” Brown also informed “Jack” that for a while, he had worked as a security officer. “Jack” pulled back Brown’s application and abruptly ended the interview. Brown never heard from “Jack” about the job.
Dave LeBlond was looking for work. He responded to a listing on Craigslist for a job as a farmhand on a 300-acre farm. A man who identified himself as “Richard Bogner” interviewed LeBlond at the Chapel Hill Mall. During the interview, LeBlond told “Bogner” that he had a fiancée. He was never contacted again about the job.
The loss of DeWalt, Brown, and LeBlond was of no consequence to Beasley. Plenty of other fish in the sea.
Murder By Numbers
On Oct. 22, loading boxes filled with Christmas lights, scrapbooks, model trains, and NASCAR mementos into a U-Haul pulled by a blue Dodge pickup in Norfolk, Va., David Pauley was stoked and Ohio-bound. Weeks earlier, he’d stumbled onto Beasley’s online listing, and replied: I’m 51 years young, single male, I love the outdoors. I currently live in Virginia, have visited Ohio and I really love the state. Being out there by myself would not bother me, as I like to be alone. I own my own pick-up truck, so hauling would not be a problem. I can fix most anything, have my own carpentry tools. If chosen, I will work hard to take care of your place and treat it like my own.
Bingo. Unemployed, divorced, and with plenty of personal items in tow, Pauley got the job. Scheduled to meet his new farm boss, Jack Gaylord (Beasley), roughly 30 miles south of Caldwell at the Bob Evans restaurant in Marietta the next day, Pauley believed he’d just won life’s lottery.
On a bright Sunday morning, Oct. 23, anticipating a new hire and a trailer of booty, Beasley was busy with preparation. Details. Logistics. Murder by numbers.
Hours before Pauley’s arrival, Beasley and Rafferty bought shiny shovels off the shelf at K-Mart, and drove to the farm, where Rafferty set to digging a hole roughly 50’ from Geiger’s grave. Task completed, Beasley pulled a $20 from his wallet and slid the bill’s edge beneath an adjacent rock. It was the cost of insurance: On the return trip with Pauley, if the $20 remained in place, the holler was secure.
The meet-and-greet at Bob Evans between Pauley, Jack Gaylord and his “nephew” (Rafferty) went down like clockwork. Afterwards, the trio piled into Rafferty’s Buick, coasted down the highway, and eased onto Don Warner Road for a first look at the nonexistent farm, trailer, pastures, outbuildings, cattle, and pond.
Marching into the woods, just beyond the sightline of another waiting hole, Beasley shot one round into the rear of Pauley’s head (.32 or .38—absolute determination of caliber was never concluded by a forensic firearm expert). Beasley stripped Pauley almost nude, save a black leather bracelet with silver clasp, and Rafferty buried the corpse.
Later the same day, Beasley bragged of good fortune, telling friends about a windfall he’d made on a “storage locker” bid—garage sale items and flea market fodder. Brazenly, Beasley returned the U-Haul trailer to an Akron dealer and sold the Dodge for $1,000.
Murder was getting easier. Time to check for more replies to the evergreen Craigslist ad.
The Next Deer
“Drop me off where we got that deer last week,” Beasley muttered, slouched in the white LeSabre’s passenger seat. Scott Davis, riding in the back, was the next deer in the crosshairs.
On Oct. 9, Davis, a 46-year-old landscaper raised in Ohio, but living in South Carolina, bit the Craigslist bait, hoping to return home and take care of his ailing mother.
Davis received a reply on Oct. 17, from Jack Gaylord (Beasley), requesting Davis send a driver’s license image for a background check and inquiring about possession of a truck, electronics, and tools. Answering in the affirmative, Davis also mentioned ownership of a Harley-Davidson Dyna Low Rider. Beasley salivated over the motorcycle, telling Davis the surrounding topography was ideal for bike rides, and promising adequate storage space in a barn on the farm. Anticipating a trove of incoming loot, Beasley gave Davis the job—lock, stock, and smoking barrel.
Davis hooked a trailer to a Dodge Ram 3500, packed up gear, stereo equipment, tools, and Harley, and hit the 500-mile road to Ohio. Beasley bucked like a green horse, excited by the pending acquisition of another storage locker find—this one packed to the gills with high-dollar items.
Par for the course of past murders, Beasley and Rafferty arranged to meet Davis on Nov. 6, at a Shoney’s restaurant in Marietta. The three men ate a festive breakfast, left Davis’ truck and trailer parked in nearby Caldwell, and climbed into Rafferty’s sedan for a 15-minute scenic drive to the farm and a 2.5’-deep hole roughly 50’ from Pauley and 80’ from Geiger. The graves were getting shallower.
On Don Warner Road, Beasley floated the “deer” comment and Rafferty pulled over, ostensibly so Beasley could walk into the woods and retrieve several pieces of small equipment needed for a repair on the property. Eager to oblige, Davis exited the vehicle and followed Beasley beneath the canopy—denser and deeper. Approximately, 20’ from Davis’ waiting grave, Beasley feigned confusion, and pivoted toward the vehicle: “Forget this, let’s turn around and take the roadway.”
Davis reversed course, now walking lead. Beasley pulled a .32 pistol and squeezed. However, the gun didn’t fire. No report. No bullet to the head. Only a metallic click and a telltale utterance from Beasley: “F***.”
“There was no expression on his face,” Davis described in subsequent television interviews. “His eyes were just as black as coal. There was nothing there, period.”
“I was supposed to be the next deer.”
Beasley squeezed five more times, hitting Davis once in the elbow as he ran into the woods, crashed through a creek, and scrambled into cover. Lumbering back to the Buick, Beasley described the escape and ordered Rafferty to run over Davis if he spotted him near the road.
Back in the timber, Davis ran to the point of collapse. Adrenaline crashing. Blood loss mounting. Body temperature plummeting. Arm dangling. Fading. And he knew Beasley was in proximity.
“I could hear footsteps ... crunching ... I figured someone was going to come over the hill and shoot me,” Davis recalled. “I prayed to the Lord. Whatever it was, it walked away and I heard it walk out the same way it came in. The Lord answered my prayers on that one, I’ll tell you.”
As the footsteps grew fainter, Davis felt the primal pull to make a last run. Leave or die.
Emerging after seven hours in darkness at 7 p.m., having circuitously covered seven miles, he stumbled out of the woods, pale and shaking. “Finally, I ran into a farmhouse. I’m looking around the driveway and there’s three bows for hunting. Maybe a small town; maybe everyone in cahoots? I knocked on the door.”
Davis’ fortune turned: The homeowner picked up the phone and dialed 911: “We just had a gentleman come up to our front door—he claims that he’s been shot.”
Sheriff Stephen Hannum of Noble County arrived to find “a white middle-aged man” with a gunshot wound to the arm and a bizarre story about a farm and an advertisement on Craigslist.
For good reason, Hannum harbored serious doubts about the veracity of Davis’ claims and suspected a drug deal gone sideways: There was no 688-acre farm off Don Warner Road. There was no Jack Gaylord and a giant-sized nephew terrorizing the community in a sedan.
In that moment, there was no proof beyond Davis’ insistence. However, he clung to his story, repeating the outrageous narrative. And once back in town, pulled off the dash of his truck, Davis gave deputies hard evidence: All the emails with preacher Jack.
As for Beasley, he was already back in Akron, hunched over a computer, pecking the keyboard with furrowed brow. Farm business was booming.
Bon Appetit
The cruelest cut came last.
On Nov. 9, a mere 72 hours after he tried to kill Davis, Beasley walked into a Waffle House to interview a prospective farm manager candidate. Divorced and unemployed, Timothy Kern, 47, of Massillon, Ohio, was on the bottom rung of life’s ladder, living in his car or sometimes at a buddy’s house. His material possessions amounted to a rickety 1995 Buick, a laptop, and a television—barely enough swag to tickle Beasley’s interest. But considering a Harley-Davidson had just slipped through his fingers, Beasley was anxious to set the hook. Kern got the job.
Four days later, in the pre-dawn darkness of Nov. 13, Beasley and Rafferty pulled into a parking lot outside Canton, Ohio, where Kern waited with his meager belongings—several garbage bags stuffed with clothes and cassette tapes—jammed into the groaning 95 Buick, a vehicle incapable of accelerating beyond 30-40 miles per hour.
Beasley was appalled: slim pickings had turned to bare bones. Kern had given the laptop and flat screen as parting gifts to relatives and was down to his last $5 bill. Simply, there was nothing to steal. But Kern’s presence wasn’t a complete loss for Beasley. He could still kill for the kicks.
Leaving Kern’s Buick in the parking lot, the threesome departed in Rafferty’s car for an hour-plus trip to the farm, when Beasley threw Kern a curveball: Hey man, we were hunting squirrels out by the old Rolling Acres Mall the other day. And you know what? I lost my watch. It’s got a lot of sentimental value. Do you mind if we go over to the woods and look for it real quick before we head down to the farm?
A change of direction to look for a watch, with daylight yet to crack? And a squirrel hunt inside in the burbs, behind a mall?
In truth, Beasley and Rafferty had gone behind Rolling Acres Mall the day before, where Rafferty had dug a hole barely 2’ deep. Beasley chose the narrow strip of woods at the mall’s rear as the kill zone to avoid presumed law enforcement presence around his fantasy farm. Essentially, he needed a temporary change of murder location until the heat died down.
Rafferty pulled around the back of Rolling Acres, and the men filed into the scrub, superficially searching for the precious watch. Slipping behind Kern, either Beasley or Rafferty raised an Iver Johnson .22 semi-auto pistol (according to State v. Beasley, “a minimum of three guns were used” in the four attacks) and pumped Kern with five rounds—four to the back of the head, one to the face.
After murdering Kern, Beasley and Rafferty drove away to eat breakfast. McDonald’s.
Grow the Farm
Spurred by Scott Davis, the one that got away, law enforcement followed Beasley’s digital forensic trail and arrested him on Nov. 16 at a home in Akron where he rented a room. The same day, Rafferty was pulled from class at Stowe Munro Falls High School and questioned by investigators in the principal’s office. He was arrested at home that evening; detectives found the Iver Johnson .22 in his bedroom.
From the get-go of arrest to trial to sentencing, Beasley donned his “Chaplain Rich” identity and denied all charges. He wrote the Beacon Journal, proclaiming innocence: To call me a con man when I sacrificed for others is wrong. To turn their back on me is not following Christ’s example. I gave three full years of my life to that ministry and what I got out of it was the satisfaction of doing the right thing. I gave away almost all I had and got almost nothing in return. That is not the actions of a con man.
In separate trials (2012 and 2013), both men were found guilty: They murdered three men who merely sought honest work on a farm: Ralph Geiger, David Pauley, and Timothy Kern.
Rafferty got life with no chance for parole. Beasley was sentenced to death.
Remorseless, shameless, unrepentant, and defiant at sentencing, Beasley glared at the court, bathing in his own lies to the end: “I state here today officially for the record: I have killed nobody and that’s a fact.”
The farm killings may not have been Beasley’s first rodeo, Summit County prosecutor Baumoel says. “There were some suspicions of other murder victims that had not been discovered, especially with the police believing he was heavily involved in a prostitution ring. Law enforcement never found evidence to support their suspicions, though it remains to this day.”
Baumoel has one lingering blank regarding the farm murders. “The only big question I still have is, ‘Who pulled the trigger to kill Timothy Kern: Richard Beasley or Brogan Rafferty?’ The gun was found in Rafferty’s bedroom and he later described that particular murder in extreme detail. It was also the only killing with more than one shot fired. The jury at Rafferty’s trial felt he had pulled the trigger.”
At a tally of four victims in just over three months, Baumoel believes the Beasley-Rafferty farm murders were only just beginning. “They would have kept on until they got caught, and they wouldn’t have stopped for a long while. Beasley would have varied the scheme, but he was never going to let go of the farm aspect.”
“Think about it,” Baumoel adds. “He was still putting up the online advertisement when he was finally caught.”
Indeed. Beasley was eagerly planting more seeds on Craigslist. He was ready to grow the farm.
For more from Chris Bennett (@ChrisBennettMS or cbennett@farmjournal.com or 662-592-1106), see:
Corn and Cocaine: Roger Reaves and the Most Incredible Farm Story Never Told
Cottonmouth Farmer: The Insane Tale of a Buck-Wild Scheme to Corner the Snake Venom Market
Bagging the Tomato King: The Insane Hunt for Agriculture’s Wildest Con Man
Ghost in the House: A Forgotten American Farming Tragedy
Priceless Pistol Found After Decades Lost in Farmhouse Attic
Bizarre Mystery of Mummified Coon Dog Solved After 40 Years
American Gothic: Farm Couple Nailed In Massive $9M Crop Insurance Fraud
Evil Grain: The Wild Tale of History’s Biggest Crop Insurance Scam
Fleecing the Farm: How a Fake Crop Fueled a Bizarre $25 Million Ag Scam
The Arrowhead Whisperer: Stunning Indian Artifact Collection Found on Farmland
Skeleton In the Walls: Mysterious Arkansas Farmhouse Hides Civil War History
