Murder In The Heartland. M. William Phelps
47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
II: A SORT OF HOMECOMING
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
III: MOTHERHOOD
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
CHAPTER 92
CHAPTER 93
CHAPTER 94
CHAPTER 95
CHAPTER 96
CHAPTER 97
CHAPTER 98
CHAPTER 99
IV: GOD IS CALLING
CHAPTER 100
CHAPTER 101
CHAPTER 102
CHAPTER 103
CHAPTER 104
CHAPTER 105
CHAPTER 106
CHAPTER 107
CHAPTER 108
CHAPTER 109
CHAPTER 110
CHAPTER 111
CHAPTER 112
CHAPTER 113
CHAPTER 114
CHAPTER 115
CHAPTER 116
CHAPTER 117
CHAPTER 118
CHAPTER 119
CHAPTER 120
CHAPTER 121
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
SOURCES
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SPECIAL UPDATE FOR THE PAPERBACK EDITION
A NOTE TO READERS
Murder in the Heartland was written during an ongoing murder investigation. An arrest has been made, a confession of the crime made public, but the investigation is still active as we go to press. The book does not attempt to solve any portion of the crime or taint the investigation and/or prosecution of the accused. Any allegations made by parties in the book against the accused are brought forth under their own opinions, thoughts, and judgments. The author does not, in any way, make conclusions about the case but aims to unravel this complicated true story and offer some sort of understanding (and insight) about the events herein.
PREFACE
My own introduction to murder came years ago when a family member was slain by a drug-crazed serial killer who preyed on helpless, vulnerable women in the Hartford, Connecticut, region. She was my oldest brother’s wife, five months pregnant when her assailant reportedly put a pillowcase over her head and strangled her with a telephone cord. He was a large man, a professional-football-player type. An average-sized woman herself, she had no chance.
Although I wasn’t writing about true crime then, I didn’t realize how significant her murder would be to my work later on in life. Her death showed me that painful events such as murder carry over into everyday life in subtle ways, and hover, like guilt, over many of the things we do. Through the years, I’ve often sat and thought about this as I interviewed victims of murder: relatives, loved ones, friends, spouses, community members close to a case.
Soon after I finished investigating the Bobbie Jo Stinnett murder case, however, I realized the exclusive information I had uncovered while researching the book you are about to read had tested everything I thought I knew about life, loss, community, and dealing with unexpected tragedy.
As I was finishing my last book in December 2004, the Bobbie Jo Stinnett murder became front-page news. For about a week during the Christmas holiday, I couldn’t turn on the television or open a newspaper without hearing something about the case. Everyone wanted to know what had driven a woman to cut another woman’s child from her womb, killing the mother of the child. It became one of the most high-profile crime stories of the year.
I followed the case, made a few calls, interviewed some of the people involved, and began gathering anything I could find related to the case, with the thought I might one day pursue it as a book. I often juggle about ten to twelve cases before I decide on a book subject. I write dozens of letters to the people involved, send them, and see what happens. Who calls or writes back. A litmus test, to see how many people will talk on record.
The first letter I wrote pertaining to the Stinnett case was addressed to Carl Boman, the alleged perpetrator’s ex-husband. I figured, if I could get Mr. Boman to come forward, I would have a powerful story to tell. He knew the accused perpetrator better than anyone; he could tell me things about her no one else could, and, more importantly, he could help me understand the psychology behind her possible motives, which fascinated me more than anything else.
I wrote Mr. Boman a letter, printed it out, placed it in an envelope, and put it in the out-box I have on my desk—but, for whatever reason, never sent it. Wait, something told me.
One afternoon a few months later, I was working at my desk when a little dialogue box on the bottom corner of my computer screen alerted me an e-mail had just arrived.
Then the name of the sender appeared in the box: Carl Boman.
“I want you to write this story,” he wrote. “I need to get the truth out. There’s way too much speculation and rumor out in public right now.”
I was pleasantly shocked, to say the least, that Carl Boman had reached out to me. Still a bit skeptical, however, during our first telephone conversation, I said, “Let’s talk about this. Tell me a little bit about what you know.”
“Well, I have known her,” Mr. Boman said first, referring to the alleged perpetrator, “for twenty years, and fathered four of her children. I’ve been right in the middle of everything for two decades. My life—my kids’ lives—have been torn