Wicked Intentions. Kevin Flynn
Hampshire.
“I knew that we wanted to have a kickoff event for my campaign, and I decided to try Dean,” Odom later wrote in a political blog. “The county attorney’s slot appears just above dog catcher on the ballot and we knew we would need someone with stature to draw a paying crowd.”
Odom reported they served 100 pounds of fresh fruit, passed out seven cases of water and juice and watched Dean eat half a watermelon before giving his speech. The day was documented by the never-blinking-eye of a public affairs cable television network. But Republicans had long coattails that year and Odom was defeated.
“You want to know about DNA from those bones?” Lieutenant Conte responded to Odom’s initial question. “That’s going to be tough. DNA breaks down in heat. It melts. We’re going to be sifting through ash looking for something undamaged.”
Several months prior, the state police helped on another case in Rockingham County where a crematorium was accused of all types of horrible procedures. Investigators looking into improprieties by a disgraced medical examiner paid a visit to the crematory. There they were shocked to see remains mislabeled and mixed together, two bodies being cremated in the same oven and a cadaver rotting in a broken cooler.
The public outcry was enormous, especially from the families of those cremated at the facility. No one could be positive that the ashes they had truly belonged to their loved one. They begged for officials to run tests to verify identities. The county attorney went on television announcing that the cremation process destroys the DNA and positive identification would be impossible. Everyone in New Hampshire was now well aware what fire did to DNA.
Odom turned to the chief. “What about the bone Sergeant Gallagher saw? Where was it?”
“We haven’t found it. She’s probably burned it since.”
“The DNA isn’t going to be your problem, Pete. We can probably find enough to prove he’s dead. The trick is going to be finding enough to prove he was murdered.”
The chief sat up straight. “What do you mean? We’ve got cutting tools! The burn pit! The mattress! The blood on the rabbit! Let alone what’s inside the house!”
Odom rubbed his chin silently. “It doesn’t prove he was killed,” he said finally. “Forget about what a defense attorney could do with a jury in court. If the medical examiner can’t determine the manner of death is homicide, then our case isn’t very strong, is it?”
Chief Dodge fell back into the chair. There was no air for his lungs. She couldn’t actually get away with it, could she? he thought. All those years of angry phone calls, nuisance complaints. Threats. This crazy woman in my town finally went off and did it, did it in the most gruesome way, and there’s a chance they can’t prove it?
“Tell me again about our victim, Chief.”
Dodge pulled the notes from the missing person’s report and handed them to Odom. “The guy’s name is Kenneth Countie. He’s twenty-four years old. Came from Wilmington, Massachusetts.”
Odom flipped through the paperwork. “And…he and Sheila…how long have they been together?”
“Not long, according the mother. They met about a month ago.”
“And this is the last time we can confirm he was alive? Last Friday, March 17?”
“The last time we can confirm it. Yes. I’ll see about getting the videotapes from the store.”
“For now, this is a secret. Nothing comes out of this department! Nobody makes a statement except me! Our public position is this kid is missing. That’s what we tell the press. That’s what we tell the family.” With that last statement, Odom’s voice turned from angry to sad.
“We gotta see what’s inside the house,” Conte said.
“Get your forensics crew in there, Russ. This whole case will rise and fall based on the work they do.” Odom shuddered at the thought. “And the work they need to do will take days.”
“I’ll have some people call the airport,” Conte said. “We’ll have the sheriff’s office looking for her to make sure she doesn’t get on a plane.”
“What if she shows up here?” Dodge asked.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s Sunday night. Sheila pops in here all the time. If she comes home and we’re still on her property, she’ll come down here to give us a piece of her mind.” Dodge looked back and forth between them. “Do I arrest her?”
It was decided that, no, Sunday night was not the time. For a female suspect, there were special considerations for searching her person, checking her body for wounds or evidence. Conte wanted to do it back at the state police barracks during a normal nine-to-five shift when a female crime technician could do the job. “Be nonchalant about it. If she does show up, tell her to come back tomorrow.”
Being nonchalant about any encounter with Sheila was a tall order.
“You know,” Conte said again. “I have seen…”
“…more fucking shit on this job. And guys either write a book or they never talk about it again.”
I heard these words from Lieutenant Russ Conte clear as day. Because the Epping Safety Complex, while a model of modern municipal construction, has extremely thin walls.
I was sitting in the lobby of the police department waiting for a sound bite. If this truly were a search for a missing person, where were the searchers? Why won’t the police talk to us? A search and rescue means “cooperation” from authorities (they’ll give us a name and a photo, make a public plea for assistance). A homicide, that was a major pain in the ass. In New Hampshire, no one except the prosecutor could publicly comment on a homicide, so cops and other sources clammed up. True, this would be my third murder in three Sundays, and all of those stories came together fairly well. But an at-large suspect, a lengthy interrogation or an unidentified victim are all things that could delay a press briefing.
And I had to have something to report at 6:00.
I was alone in the lobby of the Epping PD, alone except for the newspaper reporter who had wandered in on the same tip. Editors on the desk overheard a blurb on the Manchester police scanner dispatching a squad car to check on a subject “in connection with a possible homicide investigation out of Epping.” Odom, who had been fielding phone calls, denied they were conducting a homicide investigation. It was a missing person’s case.
The two of us sat quietly, waiting for someone to talk. My videographer was in the tiny parking lot helping the satellite truck operator find someplace to set up. It was 5:15. They had to point the dish to the south in order to hit the satellite moving in geosynchronous orbit along the equator, and a tuft of tree was blocking the line of sight.
“Do you think she burned the body before she dismembered it or after?”
The voice came through the wall and echoed in the lobby. The other journalist and I looked at each other in shock. There was no way in hell we should have been hearing this, but the wall is thin and Conte’s voice was strong.
“Did you get that?” I asked the newspaper reporter. I don’t know how he could have missed it. He had his back up against the wall while I stared so hard at the wall I thought I was going to burn a hole in it.
“I heard ‘dismembered.’ Didn’t you?”
“Ya.” Neither of us could believe what we were getting.
“Who is checking on that?” Conte asked someone. “Hold on to that rabbit.” Then there was some mention of blood on the animal.
I looked at the notebook resting on my lap. The page was still white, crisp and blank. I should have been writing all this down. But you learn there are some things