Wicked Intentions. Kevin Flynn
Who was this woman Kenny had gotten himself entangled with?
Sheila went on. “We’re fucking happy!”
“I am Kenny’s mother…,” she began, but heard the cell phone click off. Bloody hell, she thought.
On Tuesday the twenty-first, Kenny was not answering his cell phone. Lodge called the car wash looking for her son. They told her Kenny hadn’t been in to work and they were worried about him. It wasn’t like him not to show up, not to call.
Kenny’s roommate told Kenneth Countie Sr. that this woman had taken him to a farm in New Hampshire. At least now we know where he is, Lodge thought. By Friday, when Kenny still hadn’t called his mother and his van and belongings were still at his apartment, Lodge decided she had waited long enough and decided to call police to report him missing.
Epping Police Sergeant Sean Gallagher took Lodge’s call. The mother explained, very calmly, that her son had been staying on a farm with Sheila LaBarre. She said her son had a mental deficiency and had recently tried to kill himself. Gallagher took the information, promised to touch base with the Wilmington Police Department and said he would go to the farm to check on her son’s well-being.
Gallagher was one of only two sergeants on the Epping Police Department. A Navy reservist for six years, he joined the force in 1995 looking for a career in which he could serve others. Chief Dodge was able to expand the size of his little police force by one more man by taking advantage of a grant from the U.S. Department of Justice. It covered 70 percent of Gallagher’s salary for the first three years of service. The grant dictated that Gallagher’s role would be as a community-oriented patrolman. And though he didn’t walk a beat in pulling on locked doors in urban neighborhoods, he found a way to make the philosophy of community-oriented policing fit with Epping. That meant meeting people, chatting them up, looking ahead to the potential trouble spots. Sheila LaBarre came across his path often, officially and unofficially.
Gallagher didn’t need to do a lot of research before heading out to Sheila’s home. She was a frequent filer, and her case file was filled with minor complaints and petty annoyances. She stormed into the station with letters of complaint—some directed at citizens, some directed at officers. She used her personal fax machine to transmit even more rants to the Epping Police Department after hours.
Some thought the feud (which was mostly one-sided) began after Sheila had been pulled over for speeding and charged with marijuana possession. It took an expensive lawyer and a pound of flesh, but the charge was expunged. Her lawyer urged her to watch out for the Epping cops from then on, advice she took too readily to heart. It was to be a jihad for the indignity they put her through.
Gallagher drove out to the farm later that day with Detective Richard Cote. The department had a standing policy when dealing with Sheila: always go with backup. The policy hadn’t been instituted, because they thought Sheila would become violent with a patrolman; it was put in place after one encounter when “Sheila the Peeler” became inappropriate with an officer. She started to come on to him. The sexual nature of the incident so disturbed Chief Dodge he ordered that none of his men was to approach her alone again.
Gallagher and Cote rolled up past the open wooden gate and exited the police cruiser. The sergeant stood tall and straight in his dark blue uniform and cap, knocking on the front door. A dog barked inside. Someone appeared in the window, eyes through a curtain that looked like a ghost.
“What do you want?” Sheila yelled out the window.
“Is Kenneth Countie here?”
She paused. “He’s here.”
“Sheila, could you come to the door please? So we can talk?”
She refused.
“I need to speak with Kenneth Countie,” Gallagher said patiently.
“Why?”
“He’s been reported as missing. I need to check on his welfare.”
“You can’t speak with him.”
“Why not?”
Sheila stared at the officer, knives in her eyes.
“Sheila, I must speak with him.”
“You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“He’s naked in the bathtub.”
“Well, get him out of the bathtub. I need to see him.”
Sheila moved away from the window and then reappeared.
“I’m going to check with the Wilmington Police to make sure you’re not lying.”
Cote watched as Gallagher stood at the door in the late February air. The farm was silent except for the police car’s running engine. The more he thought about it, the more he didn’t like the situation. Not coming to the door was just par for Sheila. Why wouldn’t she bring him out if he’s truly in there? Is she hiding something? They seemed to be waiting there an awfully long time.
The bolt on the door clicked open. Gallagher’s hand was resting nonchalantly on his holster, his eyes fixed to the widening entrance way. He saw Sheila there, lips pursed. Standing about five feet behind the door, a man wearing only a pair of blue jeans appeared.
“Kenneth Countie?” the cop asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.” Kenny stood meekly, arms folded in front of him. Cote noticed the kid was thin, but looking at his bare chest and back, could see there were no bruises, marks or other signs of injury on him.
“Your mother’s worried about you. Give her a call right away, won’t you?”
“Okay,” he said.
“Get the fuck off my property, right now!” Sheila said to the police officers, pointing the way back down the darkened dirt road for them.
7
Inside the House
Sergeant Robert Estabrook of the New Hampshire State Police had been to the LaBarre Farm the day before, along with Lieutenant Conte, and had spent a great deal of time just looking at the charred mattress box spring. Conte had asked him to take over the case and become the lead investigator in the field. It was understood that this was going to be particularly challenging. Now, on Monday morning the twenty-seventh, he found himself again staring into the rotten embers of that fire pit.
Just as the morning sun shone a warm yellow glow on the scene, Estabrook noticed a television camera on a tripod at the main gate. One had been here the night before, as he and Conte and some others had been walking the property. They decided to use the protective cover of the horse barn as a workplace and had set up some lights inside when it had become night. He had seen the piercing light of the camera cut through the darkness, though at first he thought it had been coming from the spotlight on the cruiser standing post at the entrance. Estabrook had seen the pictures on the news and was relieved that all that were usable were shots of the main house and the crime van in the yard.
But now, from that same vantage point, the burn pile was clearly visible. The cover of night had bought them time. There were details to this crime scene (though publicly they would not classify it as such) that Estabrook felt needed to remain confidential. He approached the camera crew.
The officer was in plainclothes, a tan overcoat on. Estabrook looked more bookish than the other state police, with his glasses and blond hair neatly combed. His demeanor was always very serious, very official.
The TV reporter and cameraman exchanged causal “hellos” with Estabrook. They were calm, comfortable, indicating some previous acquaintance with him.
“I need you to leave. You’re too close to the scene.”
The