Chapter 2: The Jennings Tragedy

For something like this to happen at the Savannah College of the Arts was a nightmare for the police.

Word raced through dispatch like wildfire. College shootings, break-ins—they’d seen before. But murder? And not just any murder—a high-profile one. It was every detective’s worst-case scenario.

Upon receiving the report, the Savannah Police Department immediately dispatched their top investigators to the scene.

Sirens screamed down Victory Drive as Detective Ray Williams and his partner Lisa Gutierrez sped toward campus, lights flashing. The radio was a constant stream of chatter from every beat cop in the district.

Not only that, the Major Crimes Unit of the Chatham County Sheriff’s Office, after being notified by local detectives, sent their best forensic and technical experts—personally led by Captain Dean Parker—to the college.

Captain Dean Parker was a legend: old-school, sharp-eyed, with a mind like a steel trap and a bottomless coffee habit. He’d solved more than his share of Savannah’s nastiest cases, but as he stepped out of the unmarked Crown Vic, he knew this one would haunt him.

Upon entering the apartment, Dean Parker found chaos—drawers and cabinets yanked open, everything ransacked.

Shoes, mail, jewelry boxes—everything upended. Framed photos lay cracked on the floor, a trail of muddy footprints leading from kitchen to living room. The sweet, stale scent of lilies mixed with the sharp tang of blood and cleaning fluid.

According to Jenna, the apartment was already like this when she got home.

Jenna sat on the couch, knees to her chest, shivering under an EMT’s blanket. She kept repeating, "It was already like that—I swear. I didn’t touch anything."

Additionally, the victim, Susan Harper, had already been taken away by ambulance before the police arrived.

The stretcher tracks were fresh in the hallway carpet, and a neighbor pointed out bloodstains by the elevator. Someone from Facilities was already taping off the area.

Not long after, the hospital called back with grim news: Susan Harper had been stabbed seven times and was dead.

The words hit the precinct like a punch. Detectives exchanged glances, jaws tight.

There was no doubt—this was homicide.

This wasn’t some accident or break-in gone wrong. It was personal, violent. Savannah hadn’t seen a murder like this in years.

Today, many may not know Susan Harper, but at the time she was famous.

Her headshots adorned the college’s brochure racks. Local radio ran interviews, and she’d taught a masterclass at Spoleto Festival just last year.

Susan Harper, 38, was a physical performance instructor at the Savannah College of the Arts, teaching students like Natalie Brooks and Derek Lane.

Her students adored her—she brought old-school discipline, sure, but also a contagious laugh and a habit of baking banana bread for end-of-term shows. Even the clumsiest kid felt like a star in her class.

Before joining the college, Susan Harper starred in the grand Charleston dance drama “Magnolia Dreams,” where her innovative back-bending banjo pose earned her the audience’s praise as the "most beautiful Belle."

Her performance was a sensation, written up in the Savannah Morning News, earning her a regional arts award. Old VHS tapes of the show still floated around campus, and locals remembered her as the girl who could bend backward and make it look like flying.

In Savannah, being called a "Belle" meant grace, poise, and a certain Southern fire. Susan Harper embodied all of that and more.

As a public figure, Susan Harper’s murder was shocking enough for Dean Parker—but what happened next was even more astounding.

While Dean Parker directed the on-site investigation, a sudden urgent voice crackled over the walkie-talkie:

The static hissed. “Parker, you need to get down to Apartment 401—ASAP. We’ve got another scene.”

The dread in the dispatcher’s voice was unmistakable. Parker felt cold sweat bead along his hairline.

At the command center’s call, Dean Parker quickly led his team down to Apartment 401.

He took the stairs two at a time, team following close, radios squawking updates. The air grew heavier with every step.

Opening the door, Dean Parker felt his scalp tingle. Compared to the seventh floor, this scene was even more gruesome.

The metallic scent was overwhelming, the horror of it enough to make even seasoned officers pause at the threshold. Parker braced himself.

Apartment 401 was a two-bedroom unit. In the living room, a middle-aged woman lay on the floor, her body riddled with stab wounds, a pool of blood spreading beneath her.

Her hand was frozen mid-reach toward a spilled cup of coffee. Her nightgown was streaked red, her face twisted in a final mask of fear and disbelief.

In the second bedroom, a boy of about ten lay on the bed, in much the same condition as the woman.

The boy’s backpack, decorated with cartoon rockets, was tossed on the floor. His sneakers were lined up neatly by the bed—a detail that would haunt every officer who saw it.

Forensic investigators confirmed both were dead.

Their voices were tight, clipped, as they catalogued wounds and measured distances. The room was silent except for the click of camera shutters and the soft scratch of pencils on notepads.

The woman had been stabbed thirteen times, the boy nine times—every wound to a vital area.

There was no sign of hesitation, no mercy. It was methodical, brutal. The number of wounds told a story.

Neighbors identified the man of the house as Dr. Mark Jennings, associate professor in the Acting Department. The victims were his wife, Linda Jennings, and their son, Mason.

The Jennings family was well-liked—always at block parties and PTA meetings, their apartment full of cookies and laughter. Mason played Little League; Linda taught Sunday school at the Methodist church.

Professor Mark Jennings specialized in speech and vocal instruction and was known for his appearance in the once-popular Sweet Tea refrigerator commercial.

For months, you couldn’t watch local TV without seeing his beaming face holding a glass of iced tea, making folks smile with his catchphrase: “Nothing sweeter than home.”

According to Parker’s understanding, it was Mark Jennings who discovered the bodies and called the police.

The dispatcher’s log showed the call came in shaky and choked—barely coherent at first. Parker felt his gut twist, picturing what the man must have walked in on.

He had been filming in Tybee Island, but with no shoots scheduled, he decided to come home and visit his wife and child.

He’d texted Linda that morning—no reply, but he figured she was busy. The drive back from Tybee wound through moss-draped oaks and sleepy neighborhoods.

Before returning, Mark called home, but no one answered. He assumed Linda had taken Mason out, so he came straight back.

He checked his pager twice, tried the landline again. Still nothing. The silence made the ride home feel off-kilter.

Upon arriving downstairs, Mark saw a crowd. Asking around, he learned something terrible had happened in Susan Harper’s apartment upstairs.

The building crawled with cops and neighbors whispering. Mark’s heart thudded painfully as he pieced together snatches of conversation—Susan, murdered, blood everywhere. His mind reeled.

Mark was shaken. Susan Harper was beautiful and talented, a close friend to his wife, and now—gone in a flash…

He thought about the dinners, the laughter, the way Linda and Susan would get silly after too much red wine. It seemed impossible—like a crime show he’d once acted in.

He meant to go up to the seventh floor to offer condolences, but as he reached the fourth, he thought: since I’m home unexpectedly, I should greet my wife first.

He paused at the stairwell, torn between loyalty to his grieving friend and the sudden longing to see his family safe. He took a deep breath and turned toward his apartment.

But at his door, Mark found the security gate open, but the inner wooden door tightly locked. He knocked for a long time, but no one answered.

He banged his knuckles raw, shouting their names. The hallway was eerily still. Mark’s mind blanked with fear.

This was odd.

Linda was meticulous—never left the security gate open, not even for a minute.

If they’d gone out, both doors would be locked. Why was only one locked?

He knelt to check for the spare key under the doormat—gone. His mind raced.

Stranger still, their red Ford sedan was parked downstairs, which meant his wife should be home.

The car gleamed in its usual spot. Mark’s breath came fast and shallow. He felt the world tilting under his feet.

Mark hurried to a neighbor’s apartment and borrowed their phone to page his wife, but after waiting, there was still no reply.

Mrs. Peterson across the hall watched him anxiously as he punched in the number. The long silence on the line stretched on and on.

He grew more anxious, especially after hearing about the murder upstairs.

Mark paced the hallway, raking his hands through his hair, replaying every conversation with Linda that week. Had he missed something? Was there a sign?

His wife and Susan Harper were close—often eating and shopping together. Could it be…

He pictured the two women arm-in-arm, giggling at some private joke, and terror seized him anew.

Mark dared not let his thoughts go further.

He bit his cheek, forcing himself not to give in to panic. He couldn’t let himself imagine the worst, not yet.

With no key to the inner door, he finally decided to climb over from the neighbor’s balcony.

Mr. Thompson, the neighbor, reluctantly agreed, hands shaking as he slid open the balcony door. Mark hoisted himself over, heart pounding, sweat slick on his palms.

As soon as Mark entered through the balcony, he saw the bloody scene: his wife and son had been murdered. The tough man known from television nearly fainted, but somehow managed to open the door and call the police.

His knees buckled, the world spinning. He let out a raw, broken sound—a cry so deep the neighbors would remember it for years. Then, somehow, he found the strength to stagger to the phone. His sobs echoed down the hallway, and more than one neighbor would later say they’d never forget the sound.