Tag Archives: True Crime

A PRETTY EVIL TALK WITH AUTHOR SUE COLETTA

Every once in a while, two crime writers click. That’s what happened four or five years ago when I met Sue Coletta online. Since then, we’ve been the best of buddies even though Sue lives with her husband in New Hampshire and I live with my wife in British Columbia. Before you get any funny ideas there’s hanky-panky going on through the internet, be aware that our spouses fully endorse our partnership and they share our off-colored jokes. Bob and Rita also approve of the criminal deviancy we write about on a daily basis.

No. Hang on a sec… they approve of our writing, not the deviant criminals.

I say partnership because Sue and I constantly help each other out. We’ve collaborated on writing guides, we’ve co-helped others with their work, we’ve cross-blogged many times, and Sue was instrumental in getting me onboard the Kill Zone team as a regular contributor. We also encourage each other in new ventures, and I’m so happy to say that Sue was recently approached by a major U.S. publisher to research and write a true crime book about historic female serial killers in New England.

Sue’s new release is about to come out. Globe Pequot, a division of publishing giant Rowman & Littlefield, is putting Pretty Evil New England on the shelves real soon. I’ll let Sue tell you about it and, if you stick through to the end of this post and leave a comment, you’re automatically entered into a Globe Pequot contest to win a print version of Pretty Evil.

Here’s a conversation that only gets worse…

Hey, Sue. Welcome back to the DyingWords shack. You’re a sucker for punishment. Mind if I prod you with a few questions?

Haha. Guess I am! Hey, would you mind dimming that bright light a bit? I’m sweating like a horse in last place. While we’re on the subject, are the restraints necessary? I know you’re passionate about DyingWords, but the rope’s starting to dig into my wrists.

Restraint is an old tradition around DyingWords. Sort of a right-of-passage for guests. Tells us… What’ve you been up to with your new book baby, Pretty Evil New England: True Stories of Violent Vixens and Murderous Matriarchs?

Pretty Evil New England tells the stories of five female serial killers who used New England as their hunting ground. For those who aren’t familiar with the area, New England encompasses the states of Connecticut, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, New Hampshire, Maine, and Vermont. The reason I chose these specific female serial killers was because, during their reign of terror, they murdered at least one victim in all six states. Not separately but combined. Also, these “ladies” murdered a total of 100 victims, and that’s only the ones we know about.

Perhaps I should share the description to give your readers a feel for the book.

For four centuries, New England has been a cradle of crime and murder—from the Salem witch trials to the modern-day mafia. Nineteenth century New England was the hunting ground of five female serial killers: Jane Toppan, Lydia Sherman, Nellie Webb, Harriet E. Nason, and Sara Jane Robinson.

Female killers are often portrayed as caricatures: Black Widows, Angels of Death, or Femme Fatales. But the real stories of these women are much more complex.

In Pretty Evil New England, true crime author Sue Coletta tells the story of these five women, from broken childhoods to first brushes with the death, and she examines the overwhelming urges that propelled these women to take the lives of a combined total of more than one-hundred innocent victims.

The murders, investigations, trials, and ultimate verdicts will stun and surprise readers as they live vicariously through the killers and the would-be victims that lived to tell their stories.

Fascinating! I think this is your first toe in the true crime water. How’d this come about?

I’ve written plenty of true crime stories on my blog, but not an entire book. This project challenged my storytelling skills to not only portray accurate points in history but to show readers how and why these women stole the lives of so many innocent victims. I accomplished my goal by slipping into the killers’ skin and showing the world through their eyes, as well as other key figures in the cases, including the dogged investigators who caught them.

How’d this project come about? I got lucky. *kidding* But seriously, things like this don’t happen every day. Here’s the scoop…

The stars aligned, angels sang, and the gates of heaven opened wide. That’s how it felt, anyway. In May of 2019, a woman on Twitter asked if I could follow her back so she could message me in private, but I didn’t respond right away. After a flood of recruiting cam girls all vying for me to join them, I’d become overly suspicious of strangers who asked to PM me. But once I read her bio — specifically the words “acquisitions editor” — my interest piqued. When I followed her back, I apologized for the delay in responding. In my defense, I was also working on final edits for RACKED, Grafton County Series, Book 4, at the time. Within minutes, she asked if she could email me instead.

After sending my email address, I still didn’t give the quick exchange much thought. But then my curiosity got the better of me and I engaged in a little online stalking research and discovered she worked at Globe Pequot, a publisher in Connecticut.

Still, I couldn’t quiet the voices in my head. What could this offer be about? Why me? Is this for real?

Due to past experiences it’s fair to say I was more leery than excited at that point. When the email dropped into my inbox moments later, I read it about a dozen times to search for clues of how the offer might be a cruel prank or something even more nefarious, like some hacker’s idea of a good time, a hacker who went through the motions of creating a fake Twitter profile for the sole purpose of tricking some poor schmuck like me.

If you’re thinking, wow, Sue’s skeptical and suspicious, you’re not wrong. Writers are the targets of numerous scams. If we don’t protect ourselves, who will?

Anyway… The signature line read “Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc.,” and the proverbial lightbulb went off. Globe Pequot is the trade division of Rowman & Littlefield, one of the largest publishers of nonfiction and America’s leading book distributor. Both Globe Pequot and Rowman & Littlefield have been in business since 1949 and are highly regarded in the publishing industry.

In the email said she ran across my blog post Female Serial Killers — Unmasked during her initial research for a book idea. She also checked out my books, other articles on my blog, and social media presence before contacting me. Within a month we’d hashed out contract terms and I had a new project. And the rest, as they say, is history.

Now, you’ve been a crime writer for quite a while now. You’re no newbie when it comes to penning murder stories… especially serial killer tales. How’ve you found the change or transition from crime fiction to true crime?

True crime is a lot more work. For example, if the cast of “characters” didn’t say something in real life, I can’t put words in their mouths to benefit my story. Every piece of dialogue, action, clothes, décor, setting, etc., must mirror real life. For a fiction writer, it’s easy to let my mind reimagine the scene. But with true crime, I can’t. A funny thing happened while writing, though. I developed a fondness for accuracy. To write a compelling storyline while maintaining a factual narrative wasn’t easy, but I welcomed the challenge. Still do.

I had a chance to read an ARC (Advance Reading Copy) of Pretty Evil New England. Thank you very much, by the way, and it’s extremely well written. I’m blown away by the detail. You have precise legal documentation, forensic procedures, and entire evidentiary transcripts from events happening in the 1800s. How in the world did you pull this off?

My background as a thriller writer helped a lot. 😊 When the opportunity was first presented to me, I knew I didn’t want to write a dry history book. What fun is that? So, I structured Pretty Evil New England like a thriller. Weaving in historical documentation without slowing the pace took time, patience, and a lot of swearing. By the way, when you said prod with questions… this was not what I had in mind.

Builds character. Now, about women serial killers. Are they a rarity… or is it rare they get identified and caught?

They’re not as rare as you might think. Females make up 20% of all murderers. But, and this is huge, most female killers don’t stop at one victim. To put it into perspective, even though females only make up 20% of all killers, they represent a larger percentage of serial murders than of any other type of homicide in the U.S.

You deal with five main female serial killers in Pretty Evil New England. Did you come across more but couldn’t include them in your book?

While researching I found enough female serial killers to write about them for years.

Yikes! You did an amazing amount of research in putting Pretty Evil New England together. Give us some of the highlights.

Thanks! Maybe you can ease up on the pressure while I share some of my research trips

No, but go ahead anyway.

In the state archives I found old diaries spanning 50 years. These diaries were written by a close friend and neighbor of the New Hampshire victims and killer. The handwriting took me forever to decipher, but once I did the additions of diary entries added a cool touch to the overall storyline.

One of my coolest discoveries was an entire floor in the old house where several victims lived and died, a floor untouched by time, perfectly preserved in 1881. I laid my fingers on the same ivory keys of the piano that the victims and killer did. I sat on their sofa, admired their belongings, and perused their stunning mahogany and glass bookcases filled with priceless first editions. Surrounded by history, Bob and I were overcome by emotion. We could only stare — wide-eyed — taking it all in. It was one of the most surreal experiences of my life. I was literally walking through the pages of my book.

Another research trip took me to a Potter’s field in Taunton, Massachusetts. It’s heartbreaking to view the graves of people who died, their bodies unclaimed by family, with nothing more than a number to mark their existence.

Then I drove to Cape Cod (6 hours round trip) and to Harvard University (4 hours round trip), which was also an amazing experience. One of the top physicians of late 1800s to early 1900s kept a scrapbook there, which is why I went. That trip also created a cool parallel between my life and my book. My mom went to Harvard, so it was the first time I got to experience a brief moment from her past. She died when I was a teenager. Like many folks who experience loss, I long for any brief glimpses of her life.

Touching. In all seriousness, Sue, that’s touching. You used some striking quotes about female serial killers that other authors over time produced. How about sharing some?

Thanks. I thought they were a cool feature. Here are the first three…

According to FBI behaviorists, the best way to survive a male serial killer’s attack is to let him get to know you on a personal level. By humanizing yourself, you’ll ruin his fantasy of you as a victim. This won’t work with a female serial killer. They already know you. — Federal Bureau of Investigation

It’s about the pleasure of the kill—the sense of power she gets—the buzz. Taking property is just a warm snack in the feast control—a little further satisfaction, a tingling in the killer’s tummy. — Peter Vronsky, author of Female Serial Killers

Although most female serial killers murder for money or other profit, some do it for the attention and sympathy they receive following the death of someone they cared for. — Psychology Today

Poison – The weapon of women. Is this an M.O. (modus operandi) unique to women killers… serial or otherwise? I don’t recall a case of a man using toxins in a murder.

Men use poison, too, but it’s not nearly as lethal as poison in a woman’s hand. One exception could be The Teacup Poisoner. In 1961, at age 14, an Englishman named Graham Young began testing different poisons on his family, eventually murdering his stepmother. He also poisoned his father, sister, and best friend. After confessing the following year, the court sentenced him to 9 years in a hospital for the criminally insane. At which time doctors released him as “cured,” even though he poisoned a fellow inmate and promised to murder one person for every year of incarceration. This led to two murders, two attempted murders, and 70 other poisonings over the next year. He received four life sentences for his crimes.

Two other quick examples: In 2008, David Steeves, a Long Island man, murdered his estranged wife with cyanide. In 2013, William Cain, a Kentucky man, plead guilty to adding “just a little rat poison” to his wife’s coffee.

Women prefer poison for various reasons.

  • Easy to obtain.
  • No muss, no fuss. A light sprinkle is all it takes.
  • No blood to clean up afterward.
  • They don’t need to hide the body.
  • The patients languish while they care for them.

Death by poison is not an easy way to go. Victim suffering pleases the female serial killers. Unlike men, women don’t keep trophies. Murder is their ultimate reward. If you think men are vicious, then you’ve never pushed a woman to the point of wanting to kill you. LOL

I had a woman try to kill me.

I sense a story here.

She hatchet-threw a mill bastard metal file at my head. The handle-less point jammed into the wall two inches from my left ear. Then I whacked her with my police-issued flashlight. Hey – I’m amazed by the toxicology sophistication used back then to identify poison. Give us the Cliffs Notes version of how arsenic works on the human body and how the forensic scientists back then identified arsenic poisoning.

Wasn’t that fascinating? I don’t mean nearly getting a metal-working tool imbedded in your brain. The toxicology… it blew my mind, too. Many of the toxicology tests are still used today.

Death by arsenic is a not a fun experience. In most cases, symptoms appear within the hour. The first sign is an acrid sensation in the throat, followed by nausea which grows more and more unbearable by the moment. Vomiting sets in and continues long after the stomach empties. The victim dry heaves until they’re throwing up fluid streaked with blood. The mouth parches, the tongue thickly coated as the throat constricts with an inextinguishable thirst. Anything he or she drinks only makes the vomiting worse. Uncontrollable diarrhea, often bloody, complete with racking abdominal pains. Some victims experience burning from mouth to anus. The eyes grow hollow. Swelling of lips, eyes, and under the chin can occur, and the skin is cold and clammy. Breathing labors, extremities ice cold, the heartbeat weak, and binding cramps in the muscles of the legs. Depending on the amount of arsenic administered, these symptoms last from a few hours to several days or weeks.

I should add, not all of the serial killers in this book used arsenic. Some were more creative.

How chemists detected poison back then? No matter how many times you hit me with the cattle prod, I refuse to give away all my secrets. Read the book. 😉

I didn’t hit you with the cattle prod. I zapped you. There’s a difference. Okay, I don’t want to give any details away about what happened to the pretty evil killers in your book, but I have a curiosity. When it came to trial, convictions, and sentencing… do you think these killers were treated lighter because they were women?

Hmm, without ruining the ending, I can say a couple of the juries might’ve gone easy on them, but in those cases, factors beyond gender were also at play. The others, no. Two in particular suffered fates worse than death.

I’m going to put you on a hot-spot. Do you think women are smarter than men when it comes to serial killing?

Absolutely. Ouch! Easy with electricity jolts. Okay, okay, I’ll explain…

On average a male serial killer’s reign lasts about four years. Female serial killers? Eight to ten years. And some last thirty years without detection. Imagine how many weren’t caught? Statistically speaking, women are simply better at serial killing than men. 😊

By definition, what is a serial killer? Just a sec… you shouldn’t be smoking. Gotta turn this down.

Whoah… smoking… no… that’s better. Today’s FBI definition is “the unlawful killing of two or more victims by the same offender(s), in separate events.” It used to be three or more with “a cooling off period,” but they’ve updated the definition since then.

By population percentage, are serial killers on the rise? Are they increasing in proportional numbers? Or, have they always been part of societies?

They’ve always been part of society, and that includes female serial killers. I don’t know if I’d say the numbers are increasing, necessarily. It may appear that way because law enforcement has better tools to identify serial clusters now. Though the numbers do boggle the mind. In May 2019, I wrote a post entitled How Many Serial Murderers Stalk Your Streets, which offers eye-opening statistics for each state within the U.S. as well as an overall count for numerous other countries, including Canada.

Any idea many serial killers are active in the United States alone today?

Last time I checked the database (2019) we had 1,948 active serial killers in the United States. The good news is, after age 30, your chances of being murdered by a serial killer drastically reduces.

I’m well past 30. Okay. Let’s get off this gruesome topic and talk about me for a while. J… K… Let’s talk about Sue Coletta. What’s your background? How’d you get your writer chops? Where’re you at today? And what does tomorrow bring once Pretty Evil New England tops the charts?

My background is in law (paralegal). I also owned & operated two hair salons. During that time, I wrote about a dozen children’s books. Not for publication, just for friends’ kids to enjoy. It wasn’t till 2012 that we moved north, and I tried my hand at crime writing. How did I get my start? I chose the traditional publishing path, so querying, rejection, and finally scoring my first contract. I continue to write thrillers in my two series, Grafton County Series and Mayhem Series. I’m also working on Book 1 of a new true crime series, which is out on submission. This time around, rather than feature multiple female serial killers, I’ve focused on one ruthless woman whose crimes shocked even me.

Nasty. One curiosity. In Pretty Evil New England, you end with an interesting notation that death certificate procedure changed following the cases in the book. Can you elaborate on this?

Back in the day, attending physicians didn’t need to be present to issue a death certificate. In some cases, the doctor hadn’t examined his patient in weeks or months. Polite New England society didn’t browbeat the patient’s kin to dig for the truth. Instead, they relied on the family’s firsthand accounts to fill in the blanks.

The murderous acts of the five female serial killers depicted in Pretty Evil New England shook the foundation of medical and legal communities far and wide. These “ladies’” crimes led to death certification reform and a ban on arsenic in embalming fluid.

Last call. Where and when can DyingWords followers get a copy of Pretty Evil New England — True Stories of Violent Vixens and Murderous Matriarchs?

The “official” release is November 1, 2020, but readers can preorder at the following links and the books will be delivered by that date.

Amazon (all countries, Kindle & paperback)
Barnes & Noble (NOOK & paperback)
Books-A-Million (ebook & paperback)
IndieBound (paperback)
BookShop (paperback)
Globe Pequot
Rowman & Littlefield

Now, untie me! I’ll stick around for DyingWords readers as long as you keep that prod-thing to yourself.

——

Sue Coletta is no longer tied up and prodded for answers. She’s now available on the comment board. And… Sue has a free print copy of Pretty Evil waiting for one lucky person who writes “Gimme The Book” in the comment box. Thanks, Sue. You’re a sport!

Write “Gimme The Book” in the comments and win a FREE copy of Pretty Evil New England!

Sue Coletta (right) and Garry Rodgers (left) are crime writers from opposite sides of the North American continent. Sue is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, the Kill Zone, and International Thriller Writers, She’s also an award-winning crime writer. Sue Coletta writes two serial killer thriller series, Grafton County Series (Tirgearr Publishing) and Mayhem Series (Tirgearr Publishing), with a Mayhem Series crossover novella in Susan Stoker’s World (Aces Press) and another in Elle James’ World (Twisted Page Press). Sue also writes true crime for Globe Pequot, trade division of Rowman & Littlefield Group, Inc. PRETTY EVIL NEW ENGLAND hits bookstores Nov. 1, 2020. Here’s Sue’s Youtube trailer for Pretty Evil.

BESIDE THE ROAD — NEW BASED-ON-TRUE-CRIME SERIES BOOK #4

Dead Men Do Tell Tales

New Book Release – June 2020 – by Garry Rodgers, DyingWords Digital & Print Media Canada

Warning! Beside The Road is based on a true crime story. It’s not embellished or abbreviated. Explicit descriptions of the crime scenes, factual dialogue, real forensic procedures, and actual police investigation, interview and interrogation techniques are portrayed. Some names, times and locations have been changed for privacy concerns and commercial purposes. 

Prologue

He lay beside the road. He lay beside the road as dawn’s first streaks smeared the eastern sky and the horizon’s weak rays cast frail shadows through early mist. Songbirds introduced the day—while an owl’s screech signed off the night—as he lay on his back in death’s putrid stench… discarded and dumped down a backwoods bank beside the road.

Light spread through the rural woods where a poorly-paved path cut a meandering trail high above him, shielding his corpse from passing view. The sun unhurriedly appeared. It evaporated the overnight dew that formed in early summer, and the temperature began to rise from a tolerable chill. Predictably, the sun climbed the cloudless sky towards another afternoon’s peak of uncomfortable heat.

By nine, the sun angle was right for direct beams to touch his torso through the picket-fence gaps in roadside trees vertically rising from the steeply-sloped bank. A stand of coastal Douglas fir, native to British Columbia’s central Vancouver Island, guarded his body while a canopy of Western red cedars sheltered his cadaver from the direct sear of mid-day heat. The forest floor was a pad of thorns and ferns and moss and sticks and leaves and sticky needles that slowly deteriorated along with him as part of the universal plan.

Hour by hour, as the world turned and time passed, intermittent sunlight radiated him into a zipper-like pattern. Low luminosity left a softening effect on his exposed skin while solar gain from higher scales scorched him with a dryness that turned his trunk zebra-striped in a way few deceased people present. He had a piano-key pattern and a rarity produced by alternating spectrums of electromagnetism.

Day by day, as the Earth evolved and entropy progressed, he became a unique specter—part putrefaction where light hit him low and part mummification where diffusing blows of afternoon rays parched his flesh.

He was clothed. Partly clothed, that is, with his feet in shoes and his privates in shorts. His singlet, or wife-beater muscle shirt, bunched about his upper chest. His head was bare and so were his arms. His hair was stringy strands of brownish sludge that trapped the decomposing flesh and fats flowing from his scalp. And, his left hand reached as if grasping for help while his right helplessly crooked behind his back.

His face was mostly exposed to the bone and his eyes were gone. His cranium sucked in the sunlight and left him with a bare-skull appearance where his teeth—a distinctly different dentition—gave a half-snarl and a half-sneer similar to a pirate’s ghastly flag.

He had a name. He once had a family, and he once kept some friends. He once had a childhood and he laughed and he played and he schooled and he fooled around like anyone passing through their youth and into their adulthood would. But, his life was extinguished and his consciousness had parted ways with his physical entity—his remains left on the slope beside the road to break down.

Now, he was a medical mess with nature’s creatures consuming his corpse. Insects cycled through their growth stages and carried on the continuous loop of evolution. Forest vermin feasted on their share of his disarticulating decay while circling birds apprehensively watched for their chance at a piece of the putrefied pie.

He had a past. He had a past not to be proud of that caused him to be in his present condition—a dead and discarded human body that lay in silent stink beside the road.

Chapter One — Tuesday, July 9th – 1:10 pm

Leaky Lewis sent me a text. body beside the road. prob foul play. can u attend?
I texted Leaky back. What road, ffs? There’s a thousand roads in this town.
Leaky replied. o sorry. nanaimo lakes rd. approx 6 mi west near gogos sawmill.
I typed. Helpful. Are you there now?
He responded. no. im in council meeting. thats why text and not call.
I returned. So who has the scene?
Leaky pecked. uniforms got it. forensics en route. i called coroner. she’ll meet u.

——

Leaky Lewis was my boss at our Serious Crimes Section. He was junior to me in service, but that was okay. I preferred investigating murders more than stretching budgets and scrambling resources like Leaky had to do. And, this case of the body beside the road stretched and scrambled our budget and resources to the max. We used almost every investigation tool and technique available before we finally solved the most baffling and bizarre homicide file of my long detective career.

Leaky’s name was Jim. Jim Lewis. He’s a great guy, but had a serious incontinence problem with post-urinary drip. That’s why the nickname. Leaky couldn’t venture far from the trough without Depends, but he made sure we had everything needed to do our job.

By “our” I mean the seven-person squad tasked with investigating violent persons offenses that happened around the Nanaimo area. We’re located on central Vancouver Island in British Columbia right across from the craziness and congestion of the City of Vancouver. Nanaimo has Canada’s mildest year-round weather. I’d been here on the southwest coast for years and had hit my best-before date. During that time, I’d seen a lot of serious crimes because Nanaimo had an extraordinarily high homicide rate.

Leaky looked after our entire plainclothes unit. Besides the Serious Crimes bunch, he supervised the Commercial Crime unit, Sex Offenses, Forensics, Drug Squad, and one poor prick plagued with frauds and bad plastic. Leaky also oversaw the secret squirrels in our intelligence branch and two notoriously bad-behaved boys on the Street Crew.

——

I pulled up to the crime scene on Nanaimo Lakes Road in my unmarked Explorer. Like Leaky texted, it was just over six miles west of the city limits near a small sawmill run by industrious Slavic immigrants called the Gogo family. There were two police cruisers parked on the right-hand shoulder, the north side, with their red and blues flashing. Two other vehicles sat along the shoulder. One was our forensic unit’s mobile shop. The other belonged to Global TV’s roaming cameraman.

A uniformed cop with a paddle-board stop sign directed traffic around the entourage. She pointed to the left lane and gave me a “get-going” motion. I didn’t recognize her. Likely a new recruit. I hit my grille lights and she startled. Then, she smiled and pointed to the steep bank beside the road.

I parked, got out, and walked toward the marked car at the front of the pack. Already I could smell it. It was that unforgettable stench—somewhere between reeking ammonia in ripe rotten eggs and the putrid aroma of deeply-decayed roadkill. It was the smell one never mistakes.

A senior officer guarded the scene. He’d been with the patrol division for a long time. The patrolman introduced me to the stop-sign gal. I was right, she was a brand-new hire.

“What’s happening?” I was matter-of-fact.

“Body down the bank.” The old harness bull thumbed to the thick stand of Douglas fir trees rooted to the slope and standing tall. Western red cedars loomed overhead. “Been there a while from the look and smell.”

“What do you think?” I stood at the edge. It was loose gravel beside the road’s crumbling pavement. I did not want to slip and take a tumble.

“At first I thought it was a deer.” He scrunched his nose. I could see the young officer kept her distance. “That’s what the guy who reported it thought, too. He was riding his bike up the grade and caught a whiff. So, he stopped and looked over and saw his dead deer wore running shoes.”

“Witness guy still around?” I looked about. The only civilian seemed to be the TV man rolling film.

“No.” The patrolman shook his head. “I got my cadet to take his statement. Gotta start somewhere, right? Then we sent him on his way.”

“Great, thanks.” I paused to look around and take in the scene.

It was bright sunshine and getting uncomfortably warm. The early afternoon sun was south-southwest and high enough to shine over the bank and flood its light on the slope. The site was at the leading edge of a tight left-hand bend, and the road was sharply inclined toward the west. It led to a double-S curve with a cautionary slow advisory sign—not the sort of place to safely pull off.

The traffic was light. A loaded logging truck approached and followed the young officer’s direction. It chugged up the grade and disappeared through the curve. A smaller silver SUV arrived. Instead of bypassing as the officer indicated, the SUV came to a stop behind my Explorer. I saw the new cop frown as the driver put it in park and shut off the engine.

I knew who it was. The door opened and a silver-haired lady with a silver clipboard matching her mane got out. Honey Phelps, our coroner, walked toward me.

“Hi, Honey. Imagine meeting you here.” I smiled. Honey. I love the name. It perfectly suited her. She’d been with the Coroners Service for years, and I’d worked with her at countless death scenes. She was always the consummate professional but with a black humor tinge.

“Is that you?’ Honey whiffed the air like a bear. “Or is that my client?”

“Probably a bit of both.” I chuckled. “I haven’t had a look yet. Waited for you to get here.”

“Looks like Forensics beat me.” She nodded toward the big rig that looked somewhere between a SWAT team’s truck and an indie rock band’s Winnebago.

“Yeah. I think they’re inside suiting up.” I motioned toward the Forensic Identification Section vehicle. “Let’s go have a chat with them.”

Honey looked at my Explorer and then at me. “You alone? No Harry today?”

I grinned. “Nope. I’m batching it. She’s tied up in a court case.” I referred to my usual partner, Sheryl Henderson who we called ‘Harry’ after the Bigfoot in the movie Harry and the Hendersons. Sheryl was a large lady with large hair and an even larger personality.

Honey and I walked up to the Forensics vehicle just as Sergeant Cheryl Hunter stepped down. Her understudy, Matt Halfyard, stayed inside. We called him Eighteen Inches.

Cheryl was dressed in her bunny suit. It’s the white Tyvek coveralls that CSI people constantly wear. I’m sure she slept in that thing.

“What do you think?” I asked Cheryl much the same thing I’d asked the senior patrolman. It was usually a pretty good opener.

“Not sure yet.” Cheryl had her digital Canon ready. Matt was loading a video camera. The first thing Forensics always do is film the scene before they enter it. That step was non-negotiable, and the guarding officers made sure no one went near the body before Forensics began their painstaking thorough task of recording the overall scene. Examining the body beside the road would follow.

“I’m not sure what to think.” Cheryl was always careful with opinions and cautious with conclusions. She was like all forensic examiners. They work with facts. Not fables. It was the nature of the beast.

“I haven’t been down to the body yet.” Cheryl looked to her left and over the bank. “It’s about twenty-five feet downslope and looks like it’s hung up against tree trunks. I have no idea if he… it looks like a he from the size and style of running shoes… that’s all I can really make out from here… if he was hit by a vehicle and sent flying over the bank or if he was driven out here and dumped.”

I looked around. The TV camera guy looked back through his viewfinder. “Doesn’t look like a suicide type of scene.”

Cheryl and Honey agreed. We’d all seen a lot of suicide scenes and this one didn’t fit. My gut feeling said dumpsite.

“Let’s just take this step-by-step till we see what we’ve got.” Cheryl was the voice of reason. “One thing’s for sure. This isn’t a recent scene. From what I can see above the shoes is bare-bones with putrefied flesh partly attached.”

“Been here a while, then.” Honey observed.

“Yeah.” Cheryl looked up at the sun. “But it doesn’t take long in this weather.”

“We’ll figure it out.” Honey smiled. “Let’s have a better look at who’s down there beside the road.”

*   *   *

Beside The Road — Book 4 in the Based-On-True-Crime Series by Garry Rodgers is just released  — June 2020 — and now downloadable from these leading EBook retailers:

 

 

 

 

FROM THE SHADOWS — NEW CRIME BOOK RELEASE FROM GARRY RODGERS

What if six members—three generations—of your family were slain in a monstrous mass murder?

From The Shadows is based on the horrific true crime story of grandparents, Ed and Patricia Bartley, parents Gunner and Trisha Jephsen, and their two prepubescent girls who disappeared on a Vancouver Island camping trip. Ella was just eleven. Lily was only nine.

This terrible tragedy shocked North America and riveted the Canadian public as Serious Crimes investigators scoured British Columbia’s west coast for any sign of the Jephsen and Bartley families. Where they were, what happened, and who did it captivated all.

Police used massive resources and every available investigation aid to locate the bodies and track down suspects. That involved major media cooperation, highly-creative techniques, and the questionable help of an unsavory for-hire agent.

Then, a break came. In a “never saw it coming” conclusion, detectives learned why the Jephsens and Bartleys were savagely slaughtered then carefully concealed after being stealthily stalked and wantonly watched by eyes that looked on from the shadows.

What advance readers say about From The Shadows:

~ From The Shadows is Garry Rodgers’ best book yet. Garry keeps getting better all the time.
~ I thought From The Shadows was an awesome, super read and very hard to put down.
~ Really nice job of putting the reader on a skewer and roasting them slowly.
~ Horrifying crime story with a wicked twist! Cannot make this stuff up.
~ Excellent, excellent book! I love reading all Garry Rodgers’ work.
~ Absolutely loved it! Would make a great TV series.
~ Wow, what a read! What a ride! Wow!

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From The Shadows is the newest based-on-true-crime story in the In The Attic and Under The Ground series.  It involves real people, real dialogue and real police procedures happening in a fast-moving and high-profile, real-life murder investigation. Here’s a sample of From The Shadows …

Chapter 1 — Tuesday, August 23rd – 8:10 am

“What the fuck happened to them?” Harry wondered out loud. She gripped her Starbucks and frowned at her newspaper.

“Happened to who?” I didn’t look up—busy with a cold case email. I was in the cubicle beside Harry, my homicide investigation partner at the Serious Crimes Section.

“This missing family of six.” Harry pointed at the paper. “This shit’s lighting the news. Global TV did a lead story last night. Now it’s headlining this morning’s Vancouver Sun.”

Six missing people? One family? That got my attention. I rolled my seat next to Harry.

Three Generations Vanish On Vancouver Island Camping Trip

Above the fold were their photos. Grandparents Ed and Patricia Bartley. Parents Gunner and Trisha Jephsen. And their two prepubescent girls.

Ella was just eleven.

Lily was only nine.

“I got a bad feeling.” Harry sucked her teeth. Harry always sucked her teeth when feeling bad, and I’d worked with Harry long enough to ignore her teeth sucking but to know Harry’s bad feelings were usually right.

“This is not good.” She gulped her Grande. Harry lowered her specs, squinted at their images, and shook her head. “Not good at all.”

——

I hadn’t followed any news for the last ten days. My wife and I’d been out on our boat in Desolation Sound, seventy nautical miles from our home in Nanaimo where the unspeakable Jephsen-Bartley family mass-murders went down.

Nanaimo is a small, seaside city of a hundred thousand on the east side of Vancouver Island in southern British Columbia, Canada. The community is straight across from the craziness of Vancouver—one of the world’s most expensive, exotic, and erotic cities. Nanaimo is world-class, too—a mecca for international students and tourists. It’s a cruise ship port, a hub of higher learning, and the gateway to unlimited outdoor adventures for campers from across the country, plus around the world.

Nanaimo also has an unusually high murder rate.

——

“What’s this about?” I scanned the article.

“You haven’t been following?” Harry gave me a look like I’d not heard about climate change or what Trump just pulled off. “Fuck, you have been off the grid.”

Harry and I were part of a detective squad based in Nanaimo. We worked in teams of two, responsible for investigating major crimes around central Vancouver Island. The population isn’t big, but the area is huge. It includes vast tracks of unspoiled wilderness making “The Island” a camping paradise.

“Fill me in.” I knew Harry would fill me in—whether I liked it or not—so I gave her the opener. Harry could be annoying at times, but she said the same about me. Still, I loved her as my partner and as a friend despite being a gossipy train wreck in her personal life. We’d been partners three years, and I hoped to keep Harry till I retired. That wasn’t far off.

Retirement was a way off for Harry, though. And her name’s Sheryl, not Harry. Sheryl Henderson. Sheryl’s a large lady with larger hair and an even larger personality. We called her Harry after the Bigfoot in Harry And The Hendersons.

——

Harry squeezed her stainless mug, dented by gravity encounters. “This family is from the mainland interior. There’s Ed Bartley and his wife Patricia.” She pointed at their photos. “They’re seniors in their seventies. Pensioners who live in Summerland. Trisha Jephsen is their daughter. She’s married to Gunner Jephsen, and they have two pre-teen girls.”

Harry touched one girl’s picture. “Ella.” She touched the other. “Lily.” Then she touched their parents. “The Jephsens are also from the Okanagan. Penticton, I think.”

“Travelling as a group?”

“Yeah.” Harry nodded. She stayed on their images. “In two vehicles. Bartley’s have a truck and camper. Jephsen’s have a car and were tenting. The whole works disappeared. Looks like twenty-one days now. Not a word. Dick-all. Nuthin.”

I let it sink in. Six people? Four adults? Two kids? Two vehicles? Three weeks?

Harry went on. “Only thing known is they were on Vancouver Island. That’s for sure. Where exactly? No one knows. I saw the internal bulletin Friday… it’s been in the news all weekend.”

I got ashore late yesterday afternoon—still hadn’t got my land-legs, let alone dug into the news. “When did this start?”

Harry drained her drink. “Gunner Jephsen was supposed to be back at work last Monday, the fifteenth. When he didn’t show up by Wednesday, his boss filed a missing person report. Missing persons, I should say. I guess he’s been at the same sawmill job for over twenty years. Totally reliable.”

“Someone knows where they are.” I quizzed Harry. “Six people and two vehicles don’t just up and disappear for three weeks. Whose case is this? Not ours, I hope.”

By “ours” I meant the Nanaimo police, not specifically our Serious Crimes Section. Detectives don’t have time to get involved in missing person investigations—unless there’s a realistic reason to suspect foul play—and the last thing a detective wants is six murder victims from one family.

“No.” Harry shook her head. She still stared at the photos. “There’s no file opened here. At least not that I know of… then maybe an assistance thing. The missing persons report was filed in Penticton so it’s their baby. But the last sighting… the last contact with them… according to what I’ve seen and heard in the news… is they got off the goddamn ferry here in Nanaimo, then phoned a relative saying they made it to the Island and were looking for a campsite. That was Tuesday, the second. Right after the long weekend. They were going camping on the Island and checking a spot. No one’s heard fuck all from them since.”

“Looking for a campsite on the Island?” I smiled at Harry, raising my brow.

——

Vancouver Island is huge. It’s enormous as islands go—forty-third largest island in the world. It’s bigger than the whole chain of Hawaii. Larger than Timor. Four Rhode Islands in one. It’s superior to Sicily. Longer than Ireland. Wider than Taiwan. And higher than Iceland.

But Vancouver Island’s population is sparse. Less than a million. It’s tiny in human density and small for its size. People are confined to a narrow strip along the southeastern shore. The vast majority of the Island is rugged wilderness—mountains, glaciers, lakes, and rivers—but it’s connected north to south and east to west by a network of highways, secondary roads, and a spider-web of logging trails.

Vancouver Island is an outdoors mecca. It has the mildest weather in Canada. The Goldilocks zone. Not too hot. Not too cold. Just about right. It’s a place where families can ski and surf, golf and fish, hike, climb, and camp from one station.

That camping spot could be a pay-for-stay site with wood and water to a help-yourself slot off a forest service road. It might host hundreds or be secluded away and suit only a truck with its camper and a car with its tent like the Jephsen and Bartley families had.

The Island has thousands of campsites from full-service resorts with fabulous food to isolated pull-offs beside fast-flowing rivers. And the Island has local, municipal, provincial, and federal parks. Some are pure wilderness. Some are too touristy.

Folks like the Jephsens and Bartley’s could have been at many places up or down the Island, across at Tofino, or secluded at smaller ferry-served hops like the Gulf Islands, the Mid Islands, or the Northern Islands near Port McNeil. They might’ve been somewhere within a few hour drive of their departure point in Nanaimo—Pacific Rim National Park, Strathcona Provincial Park, Cape Scott, or Port Renfrew. They could have camped beside Cameron Lake. Retreated to Rathtrevor. Parked outside Port Hardy. Or settled in Saratoga.

Yes, the Jephsens and Bartleys could have been anywhere on Vancouver Island. Lost somewhere within twelve thousand square miles.

But they were here—right in our own backyard—savagely slaughtered then carefully concealed after stealthily stalked and wantonly watched by eyes that looked on from the shadows.

_ _ _

 

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