Читать книгу Wicked Intentions - Kevin Flynn - Страница 9

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On a Secluded Farm...

Until the day he left the state prosecutor’s office, Peter Odom would never really know exactly what happened on that farm. How some people could fall off the face of the earth. How some people could be directed like puppets. How some people could watch eagerly with wide-open eyes and could simultaneously look away. Odom understood the stresses that caused one to strike down another: jealousy, hatred, rage and greed. Even madness. They all bloomed from the same emotion: fear. Pushed far enough, fast enough, any human could give into temptation. They could kill in self-defense or kill in selfish abandon.

Odom had yet to learn why some people seemed predestined to murder, why they had been born to kill. These were people in whom murder had been incubating their whole lives. They didn’t kill as an impassioned powder keg, which exploded once and released its malicious tensions. They didn’t attack as a bee does, stinging once then dying. They attacked like a wasp, stinging repeatedly and easily without consequences.

Odom knew nobody would ever know all of what happened on that farm. Nobody except Sheila LaBarre.

The unmarked police car moved through the town of Epping, New Hampshire, without lights and siren, but with a sense of urgency, past brick buildings that house mom-and-pop restaurants and barbershops doing business out of garages. Assistant Attorney General Odom watched the March sun comfort the town in the last throes of a New England winter, spring peeking through cracks. He made a note of the date: Sunday March 26, 2006. The prosecutor did not know the way there, but knew the destination. Murder. That’s why Odom and the homicide division had been called in. This whole mess was falling into his lap.

“I have seen more fucking shit on this job,” the man in the passenger’s seat said. New Hampshire State Police Lieutenant Russ Conte was talking almost to himself. But his comments were intended to ease the driver. The town’s police chief had never seen anything like this and, for all Conte’s world-weary expression, doubted Conte had seen anything like this either.

Odom, riding in the back, watched the little houses fall away and the country roads stretch farther and farther to the next landmark. The car’s wheels squealed a little as it cut right at a fork. Odom noticed the hand-painted sign offering farm fresh eggs up ahead. He had never visited this section of Epping before. So few of the other rural New Hampshire towns still offer anything like a real working farm. Today, the only things that grow from much of those early settlers’ soil are suburbs and subdivisions.

Mixed among the tiny houses sprinkled on Red Oak Lane were the original farms and their elderly owners who made thousands systematically selling off parts of their land in order to make ends meet. The road climbed.

“I have seen shit you wouldn’t believe,” Conte continued. As head of the NHSP’s Major Crimes Unit, Conte could back up his claims of being witness to all kinds of depravity. The olive-skinned man was wearing a gray suit with a handgun hidden beneath its folds. Conte’s shoulders took up most of the space as he stretched out in the front seat.

“We’re going down here,” said Police Chief Gregory Dodge as the car left the paved road and cut into the woods. A street sign marked the way as “Red Oak Hill Lane,” a slight variation on the name of the road from which they had just pulled off. The crunch of rocks and gravel beneath the tires was pronounced, and the car heaved as it struck a stray root. The path was lined with maple and pine trees, which, even before the spring burst of foliage, suffocated light from the sky.

Immediately to their right was a home, set back a bit from the road. There was an antique green tractor sitting in the front yard, as if it were a monument to the land. To the left there was a slight clearing, and Odom caught a glimpse of old trucks and farm equipment. An abandoned school bus, painted a faded blue, its windshield smashed, was tangled in the weeds among the other wrecks.

“That’s Gordon Winslow’s place,” the chief said.

“Is there anyone else on this road?” Odom asked.

“No. Just Gordon,” Dodge answered. “And Sheila.”

They pulled away from the Winslow farm and then there seemed to be nothing. They continued bumping over rocks and stumps in the uneven road. Trees ran along both sides and Odom could tell the road was narrow. A stone wall kept pace, first on the left, then on the right, then on both sides of the road. Barbed wire kept the wall company. A quarter-mile down, a half, and still nothing.

Odom noticed a No Trespassing sign on a tree. Something was written in underneath it. You are being videotaped.

“Do you really think there are video cameras on the property?”

Chief Dodge shrugged. “Knowing Sheila, anything’s possible.”

Around one more wooded bend and the dirt road straightened to lead to a wooden gate. It was swung open and a police cruiser was guarding the property’s entrance. The chief slowed slightly as he pulled in.

The three got out of the car and took in the view. Red Oak Hill Lane fed directly into the courtyard of a beautiful country home. The white house with black shutters and tin roof was propped to the left, and the momentum of the road would lead one across flattened grass to a barn and several outbuildings to the right.

A grand view awaited those who stood at the home’s front door. The house overlooked a sprawling pasture of grass still thin and yellow from the winter. The trees that had been lining the access road were only a few feet deep. It had created the illusion they had just traveled through some deep forest. But from here, one could see the trees had enveloped the path, creating a tunnel of bark and overhanging branches. The land surrounding on both sides was unspoiled.

“That’s got to be fifty acres just over there,” Odom said, gesturing to the grand pasture. Off in the distance, a tiny car passed the road that formed the land’s farthest border.

“It’s 115 acres altogether,” Dodge said. “Some of it is woods, but a lot is just like this: rolling fields.”

Conte had been focusing only on what he found in the courtyard, not the expanse to his back. “That’s a lot of land,” he said, his voice trailing off.

Odom asked, “How does she afford all this, Chief?”

Dodge stared not at the vista, but back at something in the yard in front of the house. Some black object. His eyes squinted deep and his nose took in a pungent smell.

“Chief…?”

“She owns it outright,” Dodge finally responded. “Inherited it from Doctor Wilfred LaBarre. Chiropractor. He died back in 2000.”

“They were married?”

“No. She changed her name when she moved here. Changed it to Sheila LaBarre, but no, they never were married. When he died, she got the farm and some rental properties out on the seacoast. Best I can tell, that’s how she makes her money.”

“What’s the land worth?”

“You chop it up and build houses, it’s worth ten million to a developer. On the tax rolls, it’s two million.” Dodge added, “Not that she’s paid all her taxes.”

Odom looked closely at the house. Its white paint was just starting to peel, its landscaping just starting to become unkempt. He walked up to the window, cupped his eyes and tried to peer in.

Not this week, he thought. Any other week except this one. This is not the week for me to be getting a case like this.

“Search warrants are for the exterior of the property only,” Conte reminded the prosecutor.

Odom couldn’t see anything, but he knew he had to get inside the house. “Sergeant Mitchell’s on his way back. The new warrant’s for the entire property, including the interior.”

“I think this is what you guys came for.”

Dodge and Conte huddled together, but Odom took one last look inside the farmhouse. Had he seen something moving? He turned and saw the policemen standing over a burn pit. Until now, he hadn’t noticed the smell in the air. It was acrid, like burning fuel.

The pit was a couple of feet wide. A rusty brown barrel was nearby. Smoke was still wafting from both of them. Odom walked closer and could finally make out what the black shape on the ground was: the charred remains of a bed mattress. The box springs had maintained their shape.

Odom peeked into the barrel. Inside were a large pair of pruning sheers and a pair of hedge shears. Both had burnt handles. He wanted to pick them up to examine them, but he didn’t want to compromise any potential evidence. Also found nearby was a blue DVD case, a rental from the local video store. Its corners were blackened and covered with soot. The movie was the ultra-violent horror flick Saw.

Next to the burn pit was a blue plastic bag from Wal-Mart. It appeared to be full of soot and crackled in the wind.

“Take a look at this,” Conte said. Odom did a deep knee bend and joined Conte on the ground next to the burn pit. Odom squinted as he followed Conte’s finger pointing under the mattress. Mixed among the gray-white ash were tiny shards of white bone. And could it be…?

Odom turned to the lieutenant. “Is that a tooth?”

Conte just stood up, brushed off his knees and walked over to Dodge. The chief waited to hear more of their takes. The three stood there, arms folded, just looking at one another.

“So,” Conte began, “do you think she dismembered him inside? Or did she drag him out here on the mattress, do it here and then burn the body?”

The order of things meant so much to his prosecution, but the answer meant little to Odom. It was savage beyond all measure. All that mattered was someone’s son was dead. How long could they keep the details here under…

Snap!

Odom spun toward the barn. Something stepped on a branch? He watched, but nothing moved.

“Get some photos to Doctor Jennie Duval at the state medical examiner’s office. E-mail them,” Conte ordered one of the technicians. “We need to know as soon as possible if this is human or livestock.”

“I’ll tell you what’s worse,” Odom said. “Look at that.” He pointed to a wooden chair out on the grass. It wasn’t an outdoor chair though. It looked like it came from the kitchen and was facing the burn pit.

Dodge agreed. “She pulled up a chair so she could watch.”

Odom started taking notes. Sunday, March 26, 2006. LaBarre farm, Epping… “Did you ever think she was capable of being this violent?” he asked the chief.

“Violent? No. Wild? Yes. She’s more like a wild animal. She called me at the station at all hours of the night. She sent me letters, pages and pages of rants that she faxed over. Finally I had to tell her to stop calling the department.”

“What were these rants about?” Conte asked.

“That we were out to get her. That I hated her. That we weren’t doing enough to protect her home and property.”

Odom took notes on all of it. “Where is she now?”

“Don’t know. Just told her to get out while we executed the search warrant.”

“And tell me again how she looked.”

“She was,” Dodge stated, “covered head to toe in ashes and soot.”

“Great,” Odom muttered. “Just beautiful.”

“The crime van is ready,” Conte said. “But this is going to take a while to process. Maybe even a couple of days. This place is huge. And we haven’t even looked inside the house yet.”

“I’ll get the warrant for inside the…”

Odom turned again. Something caught his eye. What the hell was that?

This time Conte saw it too. “There it is,” he said. The hulking cop in the suit stepped into the underbrush around the home. He reached into the weeds and pulled something out.

“What is that?” Odom shouted.

Conte carried it in his arms, digging his thick fingers into fur. “It’s a rabbit.”

“Rabbits? Shit,” Dodge spat. “Sheila’s got a million of them. She lets them run around free in the house.”

There were some rabbit pens next to the home, but they were empty. “Do any of them get outside?” Conte asked.

“I guess so. Why?”

He held the rabbit out so Dodge and Odom could see the hocks of its feet and the fur on its belly marked chocolate brown. “Because this bunny is covered in someone’s blood.”