Sleep In Heavenly Peace. M. William Phelps
tion>
PRAISE FOR M. WILLIAM PHELPS
Sleep in Heavenly Peace
“An exceptional book by an exceptional true-crime writer. Page by page, Phelps skillfully probes the disturbed mind of a mother guilty of the ultimate betrayal.”
—Kathryn Casey, author of She Wanted It All
Every Move You Make
“An insightful and fast-paced examination of the inner workings of a good cop and his bad informant culminating in an unforgettable truth-is-stranger-than-fiction-climax.”
—Michael M. Baden, M.D., Host of HBO’s Autopsy
“M. William Phelps is the rising star of the nonfiction crime genre, and his true tales of murderers and mayhem are scary-as-hell thrill rides into the dark heart of the inhuman condition.”
—Douglas Clegg, author of Nightmare House
Lethal Guardian
“An intense roller coaster of a crime story. Phelps’s book Lethal Guardian is at once complex, with a plethora of twists and turns worthy of any great detective mystery, and yet so well laid-out, so crisply written with such detail to character and place that it reads more like a novel than your standard nonfiction crime book.”
—New York Times bestselling author Steve Jackson
Perfect Poison
“Perfect Poison is a horrific tale of nurse Kristen Gilbert’s insatiable desire to kill the most helpless of victims—her own patients. A stunner from beginning to end, Phelps renders the story expertly, with flawless research and an explosive narrative.”
—New York Times bestselling author Gregg Olsen
“M. William Phelps’s Perfect Poison is true crime at its best—compelling, gripping, an edge-of-the-seat thriller.”
—Harvey Rachlin, author of The Making of a Cop
“A compelling account of terror that only comes when the author dedicates himself to unmasking the psychopath with facts, insight and the other proven methods of journalistic leg work.”
—Lowell Cauffiel, bestselling author of House of Secrets
“A bloodcurdling page-turner and a meticulously researched study of the inner recesses of the mind of a psychopathic narcissist.”
—Sam Vaknin, author of Malignant Self Love, Narcissism Revisited
Also by M. William Phelps
Perfect Poison
Lethal Guardian
Every Move You Make
SLEEP IN HEAVENLY PEACE
M. WILLIAM PHELPS
PINNACLE BOOKS
KensingtonPublishing Corp.
http:///www.kensingtonbooks.com
For Regina,
the most wonderful,
caring, and loving
mother God could ever bless
upon a child
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACCORDING TO THE U.S. Department of Justice, between 1976 and 2002, nine thousand children under the age of five were killed by a parent.
Nine thousand—an incredible number—and it translates into nearly one child per day killed not by a stranger or a pedophile or a random act, but by his or her parent.
Taking it one step further, females commit only 13 percent of all violent crimes in this country. Yet, of those nine thousand children killed by a parent, mothers were responsible 50 percent of the time.
Why do so many mothers murder their children? Why is it that a child in this country under the age of five is more likely to be murdered by his or her parent than anyone else? What is it that causes nearly one woman a day in the United States—who has spent nine months carrying a child, bonding with it, nurturing it, feeling it move and kick inside her womb—to kill that same child after it is born?
Susan Smith? Mary Beth Tinning? Andrea Yates? Marilyn Lemak? Dr. Ruth Kuncel, a clinical psychologist, said Lemak “acted like a nurse as she performed what she considered a ‘healing process,’” sedating and then smothering her three children: Nicholas, seven, Emily, six, and Thomas, three. These names have become synonymous with mothers who murder their children. My God, Andrea Yates allegedly chased one of her children around the house before drowning him in the bathtub.
Enter into this discussion a woman named Dianne Odell, a fifty-one-year-old Rome, Pennsylvania, mother of eight. Odell is articulate. Intelligent. She speaks like a highly educated woman and presents herself as a caring, loving mother. She’s raised eight healthy, living children. Looking at her, you might be inclined to think of a Sunday-school teacher, or a long-lost aunt who pinches your cheek before Christmas dinner and tells you how cute you are. Thus, when you stare into Odell’s eyes, you certainly don’t see the reflection of a baby killer and multiple murderer.
It is rare that an author has the opportunity to speak with a convicted murderer and interview her for the purpose of writing a book based on those conversations. The only way I would have been able to write this book, I decided early on, as I began to look into the story, was if Dianne Odell agreed to talk to me.
After a letter and a meeting she did.
The reason I wanted to speak to Odell centered around the victims in this story: newborn babies. Victims are often overlooked during trials and in the media coverage of any murder case. I want my readers to get to know the people who have been viciously taken away from their loved ones. The books I write are not, simply, true-crime books; they are nonfiction accounts of people, murder being only one aspect of a much larger dynamic.
When I met Odell at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for Women in Bedford Hills, New York, during the summer of 2004, one of the first things I said as we sat down was “I am not here to judge you. I am here to tell your story.”
Among other things, Odell was accused of carrying around the decomposed and mummified remains of three dead children (in boxes) from state to state for nearly twenty-five years. I was entirely curious as to why a woman—the mother of these children—would do this.
From day one, Odell has maintained her innocence—that someone else murdered her children. I may not have agreed with her or even believed her, but I promised I’d tell her story. “I will stay objective. I will listen to you and try to report what you tell me.”
Odell, I think, felt someone was going to give her a chance to speak, which is, she told me, all she has ever wanted. She asked me for money (it happens with every book; inevitably, someone—sometimes two or three people—asks for money in exchange for interviews), not for her, but her “family.” In 1977, the New York state legislature passed a law “prohibiting criminals from using their notoriety for profit.” Aptly titled the “Son of Sam” law, it provides that a convicted murderer cannot be paid for his or her story. Many try to get around this by asking journalists to “donate” money to their families. It is, I guess, a noble request—in some strange, criminal way—also something I have never done and will never do. In my view, money poisons information.
As Odell and I spoke, we talked about children, of course, about her youth, parental abuse, spousal abuse, and other dysfunctions plaguing many American families. Oddly enough, as we sat at a table in the prison visiting room and spoke, a very loud and violent thunderstorm rolled in. It got so dark outside—I was there in the afternoon—it felt as if it were the middle of the night. As the lightning and thunder crashed and banged and the rain pelted the tin roof above, the lights flickered on and off.
Within a few minutes,