Highest Praise for M. William Phelps
NEVER SEE THEM AGAIN
“This riveting book examines one of the most horrific murders in recent American history.”
—New York Post
“Phelps clearly shows how the ugliest crimes can take place in the quietest of suburbs.”
—Library Journal
“Thoroughly reported . . . the book is primarily a police procedural, but it is also a tribute to the four murder victims.”
—Kirkus Reviews
TOO YOUNG TO KILL
“Phelps is the Harlan Coben of real-life thrillers.”
—Allison Brennan
LOVE HER TO DEATH
“Reading anything by Phelps is always an eye-opening experience. His writing reads like a fiction mystery novel. The characters are well researched and well written. We have murder, adultery, obsession, lies and so much more.”
—Suspense Magazine
“You don’t want to miss Love Her To Death by M. William Phelps, a book destined to be one of 2011’s top true crimes!”
—True Crime Book Reviews
“A chilling crime . . . award-winning author Phelps goes into lustrous and painstaking detail, bringing all the players vividly to life.”
—Crime Magazine
KILL FOR ME
“Phelps gets into the blood and guts of the story.”
—Gregg Olsen, New York Times bestselling author of Fear Collector
“Phelps infuses his investigative journalism with plenty of energized descriptions.”
—Publishers Weekly
DEATH TRAP
“A chilling tale of a sociopathic wife and mother willing to sacrifice all those around her to satisfy her boundless narcissism . . . a compelling journey from the inside of this woman’s mind to final justice in a court of law. Fair warning: for three days I did little else but read this book.”
—Harry N. MacLean, New York Times bestselling author of In Broad Daylight
I’LL BE WATCHING YOU
“Skillfully balances a victim’s story against that of an arrogant killer as it reveals a deviant mind intent on topping the world’s most dangerous criminals. Phelps has an unrelenting sense for detail that affirms his place, book by book, as one of our most engaging crime journalists.”
—Katherine Ramsland
IF LOOKS COULD KILL
“M. William Phelps, one of America’s finest true-crime writers, has written a compelling and gripping book about an intriguing murder mystery. Readers of this genre will thoroughly enjoy this book.”
—Vincent Bugliosi
“Starts quickly and doesn’t slow down.... Phelps consistently ratchets up the dramatic tension, hooking readers before they even know they’ve been hooked. His thorough research and interviews give the book a sense of growing complexity, richness of character, and urgency.”
—Stephen Singular
MURDER IN THE HEARTLAND
“Drawing on interviews with law officers and relatives, the author has done significant research and—demonstrating how modern forensics and the Internet played critical, even unexpected roles in the investigation—his facile writing pulls the reader along.”
—St. Louis Post-Dispatch
“Phelps expertly reminds us that when the darkest form of evil invades the quiet and safe outposts of rural America, the tragedy is greatly magnified. Get ready for some sleepless nights.”
—Carlton Stowers
“This is the most disturbing and moving look at murder in rural America since Capote’s In Cold Blood.”
—Gregg Olsen
SLEEP IN HEAVENLY PEACE
“An exceptional book by an exceptional true crime writer. Phelps exposes long-hidden secrets and reveals disquieting truths.”
—Kathryn Casey
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.
“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
LETHAL GUARDIAN
“An intense roller coaster of a crime story . . . 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.”
—Steve Jackson
PERFECT POISON
“True crime at its best—compelling, gripping, an edge-of-the-seat thriller. Phelps packs wallops of delight with his skillful ability to narrate a suspenseful story and his encyclopedic knowledge of police procedures.”
—Harvey Rachlin
“A compelling account of terror . . . the author dedicates himself to unmasking the psychopath with facts, insight and the other proven methods of journalistic legwork.”
—Lowell Cauffiel
Also by M. William Phelps
Perfect Poison
Lethal Guardian
Every Move You Make
Sleep in Heavenly Peace
Murder in the Heartland
Because You Loved Me
If Looks Could Kill
I’ll Be Watching You
Deadly Secrets
Cruel Death
Death Trap
Kill for Me
Failures of the Presidents (coauthor)
Nathan Hale: The Life and Death of America’s First Spy
The Devil’s Rooming House: The True Story of America’s
Deadliest Female Serial Killer
The Devil’s Right Hand: The Tragic Story of the
Colt Family Curse
Love Her to Death
Too Young to Kill
The Dead Soul: A Thriller (available as ebook only)
Never See Them Again
KISS OF THE SHE-DEVIL
M. WILLIAM PHELPS
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Highest Praise for M. William Phelps
Also by M. William Phelps
Title Page
Dedication
I - THE MURDER
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
II - THE BLACK CLOUD
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
III - A VIEW TO A KILL
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
IV - CARRYING CROSSES
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
Epilogue
Bad Girls
Copyright Page
This book is dedicated to Kensington Publishing Corp.—and all those who have supported me throughout the years, including Michaela Hamilton, Doug Mendini, and publisher Laurie Parkin, with a special thanks to the Zacharius family and Kensington’s late founder, Walter Zacharius.
I
THE MURDER
1
IT WAS JUST about nine o’clock. Time for the library to close. Barbara “Barb” Butkis, a veteran librarian supervisor for fifteen years, planned on staying late. Barb needed to work on a few things related to the library’s computer system. This type of work had to be done after hours. Barb had told Martha Gail Fulton, one of her library aides, that there was no reason for her to stick around. Martha, who went by her middle name, Gail, was always asking how she could do more. Barb explained that she and another employee could take care of the extra work. Gail’s home life wasn’t so stable lately, anyway; in fact, it was no secret to most employees at the library that home was probably the best place for the forty-eight-year-old married mother of three grown children. Gail had recently taken her husband back after he had an extended and tumultuous affair. But that was Gail: the forgiving, devout Catholic, always willing to pardon for the sake of souls.
All the employees generally met near the staff door heading out into the parking lot at the end of a shift. Barb and another coworker, librarian Cathy Lichtman, stayed behind.
“Computer backup,” Barb said to the others as they gathered, ready to leave.
The Orion Township Library, on Joslyn Road, was a central point in the quaint Michigan town of Lake Orion, “where living is a vacation,” the town’s website claims. Lake Orion is about forty-five minutes due north of the more well-known and popular home of the Tigers and Pistons, the Motor City, Detroit. By small-town standards, the landmass of Lake Orion is infinitesimal: 1.2 square miles, 440 acres of which are eaten up by water. On that cool October night, when Barbara Butkis and Gail Fulton’s lives outside of books collided, there were fewer than two thousand residents registered in Lake Orion. So, without overstating it, one could say this was a town, literally, where not only did everybody know everyone else’s business, but nothing much beyond bake sales, PTA meetings, and bingo games happened. Lake Orion was as charming and dainty as any fabricated plastic town in the middle of a child’s train set: perfect and pleasant and quiet. Maybe even boring, too—just the way townies liked it.
Gail’s work imitated her life—she was flexible. Gail worked every Monday night (tonight) from five to nine, but she would come in on additional, alternate days and nights at different hours. Those Monday nights were Gail’s, though, and had been since she’d taken the job eighteen months earlier. The job Gail did—and did it very well—was what one would have expected from a librarian’s assistant. Throughout everybody’s time inside libraries, patrons have all come in contact with these everyday, average women and men. They push carts of books from one aisle to the next, quietly, in solitude, depositing each into its respective, numerically placed slot. Once in a while, they will answer a patron’s question. If a person loved books, this was a dream job.
Gail walked out with the others. “Good night,” she said. “See you soon.” In the inflection of Gail’s voice, there was an unremarkable (yet unmistakable) Texas drawl. Gail and her husband and kids had been in Michigan only a few years, transplants from Corpus Christi.
Gail’s maroon van was parked in the lot just out the door, about twenty-five yards straight ahead. Gail walked to her van and immediately noticed something different about it. The way it sat. She couldn’t put her finger on what, exactly, but something didn’t seem right.
Gail shook off what was an odd feeling before placing her pocketbook on the passenger seat and getting in on the driver’s side.
Inside, she turned the key, backed out of her parking space, and drove away.
She got about ten yards from her parking space before realizing one of the tires on her van was flat. So she turned, driving around a small island of mulch and shrubs, before pulling back into the same space she’d just left.
Then she got out and had a look.
Gail stood staring at her flat tire, then turned back toward the library. All of her coworkers, save for Barb and Cathy (still inside finishing up that computer work), were gone by now, on their way home to another peaceful night in paradise.
So Gail walked toward the employee entrance.
Not yet out of the immediate area where she had parked, Gail noticed a car, with its lights bright and shining in her face, pull up. There was a man and woman in the front seat. A second man dressed in a black leather jacket, black gloves, black ski mask, and a do-rag sat in the back.
Gail didn’t like the look of this. It didn’t appear that they were there to help.
The man dressed in black got out.
No one said anything.
Gail grew concerned; she kept eyeing the library’s employee entrance, no doubt hoping someone would walk out.
2
WITH CATHY LICHTMAN’S HELP, Barbara Butkis finished the computer backup. Both women got their things together and proceeded to leave. It was October 4, 1999, at 9:10 P.M., when they walked out the door, Barbara later recalled.
Outside, it was dark and crisp. Cooler than normal temperatures had forced the brittle, colorful leaves of fall to settle like feathers on the ground. A slick sheen of drizzle moistened the pavement. All the doors to the library were locked. Nobody could walk in off the street. A person would have to know what Barb later described as a special “key code” in order to open the door.
Gail knew this code.
Barb and Cathy stood near the employee exit. Barb punched the alarm code number to set it, watched Cathy walk out in front of her, and soon followed behind.
When she was outside the building, Barb made sure the exit door was secure. She pulled on it, hearing that click of the lock, feeling resistance.
They could go home.
“Have a good night, Cathy,” Barb said.
“You too. See you tomorrow.”
Barb and Cathy walked toward the parking lot. As Barb later explained, “We usually kind of look back and forth, because it is evening, to see if there is anything in the parking lot before we start approaching our cars. . . .”
Two women, alone in the night, were being vigilant and careful, mindful of their surroundings. This was the kind of world they lived in—even there, in what many would have deemed the safest place on earth.
After making that routine gaze into the night, looking for anything out of the ordinary, Barb peered straight ahead—and then stopped.
Something caught her eye.
It was on the ground. Maybe about fifty feet ahead.
Fabric?
It looked like a piece of clothing. However, neither Cathy nor Barb could tell what it was because, as Barb later explained, who expects to see clothing on the ground as you leave work?
Barb and Cathy walked toward the fabric.
A pile of clothes?
Strange, someone’s clothes spread out on the ground like that. Here. At night. In the parking lot of a library.
Kids? Maybe a pre-Halloween prank?
No. Couldn’t be.
Barb noticed what she called “breath or steam coming from the object”—and that’s when things began to make sense.
Walking up next to the fabric, Barb and Cathy noticed something else.
“It was a person,” Barb remembered.
“Gail!” Barb yell
ed, recognizing her coworker lying on the tar.
Cathy was just as shocked to see Gail, barely moving, on the ground, on her back, motionless, moaning in a whisper. (“She was very still,” Barb said later. “I could not tell at that moment what had happened to her, if she had fainted or—I couldn’t tell because she was lying on the ground.”)
Barb knelt down beside Gail. “Honey? Gail? Talk to me!”
No response.
Cathy stood beside Barb; then she, too, knelt down.
Barb grabbed Gail’s wrist to check for a pulse.
“I’m going to call 911,” Cathy said, standing up, turning, and running for the library.
“Gail?” Barb said, with her fingers applied gingerly to the back side of Gail’s wrist. (Later, Barb remarked: “Her eyes were just staring. . . .”)
Gail Fulton was slipping away.
Cathy had the phone in her hand; the door to the library was open. She yelled to Barb, who could not find a pulse, “Is Gail diabetic, Barb?” Obviously, Cathy was speaking to a 911 operator, who was directing her on which questions to ask.
Barb knew this was no diabetic coma or fainting spell; she could see what she thought was blood coming from the top of Gail’s forehead. As Cathy continued to yell questions, Barb noticed a large pool of “liquid” surrounding the back of Gail’s head, tacky to the touch, seemingly growing in size as Barb focused on it. The fluid was dark, thick, and spreading in a halo pattern around Gail’s head.
Oh, my, Barb thought.
“Is she breathing?” Cathy yelled.
Barb looked. That growing pool of fluid had to be blood—lots of it, in fact, pouring out from the back of Gail’s head.
“She’s been hurt bad!” Barb yelled. “Someone hurt her very bad.”
Cathy hung up with 911 and grabbed a blanket. Barb met her at the door, took the blanket, ran back to Gail, and placed it over her body.
“Gail, honey . . . can you hear me?” Barb said as she consoled her friend, trying to keep her warm and awake.
Cathy then walked up with a towel, which she applied with firm pressure to the back of Gail’s head. The tears came when Barb realized Gail had been shot in the head, maybe a few other areas of her body, too. There could be no other explanation.