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The Hunting of Cain:
A True Story of Money, Greed, and Fratricide

By Dan E. Moldea

Chapter One

"Dean's dead"

    It was a hot and sunny Monday afternoon, August 11, 1980, in Bath Township, a small suburb of Akron, Ohio.  Georgia Tsarnas, a dark, attractive woman in her early thirties, parked in millionaire Dean Milo's driveway at the top of the hill, at the end of the large cul-de-sac, and left her three children in the station wagon.  Sweltering from the heat, she walked up to the garage and peered through a window; both Milo's red and white Cadillac Eldorado and his blue Mercedes were inside.  She paused momentarily, then started up the brick steps, bordered by paths of bright flowers, to the front door and rang the doorbell.  When there was no answer, she began to tremble a bit.  She nervously opened her purse and took out the house key Milo's wife had given her.  Her hands were shaking as she opened the storm door and pushed the key in the lock.  Before she could turn the key, the large wooden door snapped open.

     There, on the foyer floor, was a man lying spread-eagled and face down in a pool of dried blood.  A yellow, foam-filled cushion with white trim rested on his head and shoulders.  It appeared to have been taken from a living-room chair about ten feet from the body.  The center of the cushion showed the clear impression of a gun barrel and the burned outline of a single bullet hole.

     The man was wearing only a gold bracelet on his right wrist and a pair of urine-stained, blood-splotched jockey shorts--which were on backwards, the fly over the buttocks.

     Startled, Mrs. Tsarnas recoiled, then carefully approached he body and lifted the cushion, praying that he wasn't who she already knew he was.

     Milo's head, turned slightly to the right, was chalky white and purple color, like the rest of his body, except where he was splattered with his own blood.  His bruised eyes were closed tightly.

     And his mouth, which was partially open, was covered with cotton.

     Trying to compose herself so she wouldn't upset her children waiting in the car, she walked slowly through the living room and family rooms into the kitchen and called her husband, Dean Milo's attorney and best friend, George Tsarnas.  When he came on the line, her voice was barely audible.

     "Dean's dead," she mumbled.  "There's blood everywhere.  What should I do?"  After a long choking pause, he told her to call the Bath Township Police and then go outside until they arrived.

     She found the number for the police on a sticker attacked to the phone and did as she'd been directed.  Then she paused once again, wiped the tears from her eyes, and walked from the kitchen, this time directly into the foyer, stepping over Milo's body on her way out the front door.

     Outside--away from the blood and again in the midst of bright flowers--as her composure began to crumble, she told her inquisitive children to remain in the car . . . because Uncle Dean was very sick.

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