Wicked Intentions. Kevin Flynn
continued the reporter, “would not comment on whether she, or anyone else, is cooperating with the search.”
The next shot was of New Hampshire State Police Lieutenant Russ Conte. “Certainly any information we can get on this individual—anyone who can give us any whereabouts, last sightings, any background information—we would welcome.”
Last sightings of who? Paquin thought. Kenny or Sheila? Or Adam?
“Authorities say this farm is not a crime scene.” The reporter was now standing in front of the yellow tape at the farm. “Investigators are hoping to collect any evidence that might lead them to Countie.”
They watched the scenes of police cars on Sheila’s property and of men cataloging items. Paquin still couldn’t believe it.
“Police say the last verified sighting of Countie was at an Epping business on March 17. Although police still believe he was around town in the following days, the formal search for him did not begin until the end of last week. The Attorney General’s homicide division is helping coordinate the investigation. But this remains labeled as a ‘missing person’s case.’ And right now, the hope is some clue found here will solve the mystery of where Kenneth Countie disappeared to.”
The story ended with the reporter giving the phone number to the Epping Police Department. It was a number that Sheila already knew by heart.
“Sheila, what is this all about?” Paquin finally asked. “Who’s Adam?”
The woman hunched over, weeping into her hands. “I don’t know where he is!” she sobbed. “And now everyone’s going to think I killed him!”
The room was silent. “Go to your rooms,” Paquin said to her children. Charpentier waited until it was just the three of them in the room before pressing her for more details. Sheila’s eyes were wide open and dancing between the two women as they alternated questions of her.
“Who is the man from the news report? Countie?”
“That’s Adam.”
“Thought they said his name was Kenneth. Not Adam.”
“Yes. That’s his name. It was Kenneth Countie, but he changed it. He wanted to be called ‘Adam LaBarre.’”
“Why did he change his name?”
“He wanted a new start.”
“Why?”
“His mother. He told me his mother got him drunk and molested him. And she tried to interfere with our relationship. He had to give me power of attorney over him so I could put an end to it.”
“So the missing man is your boyfriend.”
“No! I got rid of him. While he was staying on my farm, I discovered he was a pedophile. And a homosexual.”
“He was a pedophile?” Paquin blurted.
“Yes. I have proof.”
“What kind of proof?”
“His confession. On audiotape. He confessed to everything. And there’s a videotape too. I don’t have it, but I know exactly where it is. I tried to get it to the police but they had no interest in it! They’re out to get me. I have to get it to the press.”
The picture of civility and Southern charm just moments before, Sheila was now a live wire. Her hands were in constant motion. Her eyes were imploring Paquin and Charpentier to listen to just a bit more. Don’t give up on me yet…just a bit more and you may understand.
“Who’s out to get you? Adam?”
“No. The police,” Sheila said. “They hate me. Always have. The fucking chief has been out to get me for years. Wouldn’t let me get a permit for a handgun. Imagine: me alone on the big farm with no way to protect myself. There are people trespassing all the time. There’s an Irishman, an immigrant, who’s been through my woods looking for me. Hunters coming through with guns. That asshole chief didn’t fucking want me to protect myself. That’s because he fucking wanted me vulnerable, that son of a bitch.”
“Why would he want that?” Paquin asked.
Sheila looked at her matter-of-factly. “Because he wants to fuck me. I can tell.”
“Sheila,” Charpentier asked, “where’s Adam?”
“I don’t know.” She paused. It seemed like that was all she would say about Adam’s whereabouts. “One night this week he told me he was leaving. I told him, ‘Fine.’ I woke up in the morning and he was gone.”
“So he just vanished?”
“I guess so.” Sheila stopped and scanned the two women with bionic eyes. “He had been depressed. Before I even met him he had tried to commit suicide.”
“Do you think he killed himself?”
“He could have.” Another scan. “He said he might kill himself by throwing himself on a fire.”
Paquin and Charpentier looked at each other, this time scanning themselves. “Could he have done that?”
“I have a burn pit on my farm. It’s where I burn dead animals. I burned rabbits there.” All eyes unconsciously glanced at Satin and his caged playmates in the corner of the room. “It had been burning when Adam disappeared. I knew the police were coming to look for him…and I wanted to help them…so I dug around the fire pit.”
“So…?”
“So I found a tooth.”
Paquin gasped. Is this a joke? Is this some kind of prank on us?
“What did you do with it?”
“I gave it to the police. I don’t know if it’s a human tooth or not. Or if it’s Adam’s. I just wanted them to have it.”
Despite the incredible details, the story seemed to run out of steam. Or at least Sheila ran out of steam telling it. There was another uneasy quiet hanging over the room. The silence was ended by Sheila’s sudden sobs.
“Everyone is going to think I did it. They’re going to think I’m guilty and I’m going to hell. But I’m not.” The crying got harder. “I didn’t do anything. I’m innocent. I’m innocent.”
Paquin and Charpentier watched in silence while Sheila LaBarre kept crying. Sympathetic, Paquin put a hand on the woman’s shoulder to calm her weeping. She rubbed Sheila’s back and cooed in her ear.
“We believe you,” she said sincerely. “We believe you.”
5
Talk Around Town
When daylight broke Monday morning on Red Oak Hill, I returned with a camera crew to the little Epping neighborhood. The assignment was easy: get some sound bites from neighbors about Sheila LaBarre. It ended up being much harder than we thought.
In every television story about a homicide, a reporter is always able to locate someone who will stand in the frame of their screen door and say something about the people involved.
I can’t believe it.
They never were any trouble.
It always seemed so quiet over there.
Canvassing the neighborhood around Red Oak Hill Lane, things were very different. It was unlike any story we’d been on before. Neighbors opened their doors warmly to us, recognizing a familiar face from television. Then when they heard the story had to do with the woman down the street, they blanched and quietly closed the door. Some said “no comment,” as if that were a magical talisman that would send us away. They were all afraid to talk, too afraid to even explain why they wouldn’t talk.