Читать книгу Sleep In Heavenly Peace - M. William Phelps - Страница 6

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, I found myself sitting in a cavernlike dark, cafeteria-style room with about fifty or so female inmates, one guard, and no lights. I couldn’t see my hands in front of my face.

For a minute, we sat there in silence and waited for the generator to kick on. That day would become a metaphor for my continued talks with Odell. Over the course of listening to Odell’s stories, I realized this book, in many ways, is about blacking out and trying to recall lost memories—memories that I am convinced are shrouded in a veil of evil.

Throughout the past year or so, I have corresponded with Odell through letters and phone calls. I have well over twenty hours of interviews on audiotape. I must say, much of Odell’s story cannot be backed up by secondary sources. In certain places, I have tried, without success, to track down people and get a second or third version. In many instances it just couldn’t be done. Either the people involved had died, records didn’t exist, or those individuals who could back up Odell’s claims would not speak to me, for whatever reason.

I decided to open the book with Odell telling her own story. At times, she is quoted in these passages. Other times, however, as the narrative flows without quotations and I tell Odell’s story for her (as she told it to me), it is still Odell speaking. I have simply taken what she has said and put it into an easy-to-read format. I have added nothing to those passages except background information and regional town and state research. It is all fact—but based on Odell’s version of the events.

In addition to Odell’s story, I have related the truth as we know it: the Sullivan County, New York, District Attorney’s Office version of what happened. To write those passages, I used a multitude of documents, trial transcripts, police reports, medical reports, and dozens of interviews with many of the individuals involved. I’ve inserted this additional layer of factual information into the narrative to offer you, the reader, the entire story as I have uncovered it.

Lastly, any name in the book where italics appear on first use represents a pseudonym. For whatever reason, that person wishes to remain anonymous. In some instances, I have decided to change the name to protect the identity of said person.