Lloyd switched to a talking voice and continued on. “But she hates the whole world and wishes the whole world dead, especially her parents and her brother and her aunts, who have tried so hard for her. She wishes they would die immediately. Why is that? Nobody knows. It’s just that Wendy is so full of hate.”
While little Tristan listened, Lloyd broke again into song. “Wendi’s so full of hate that she hates everybody. She hates her mom especially, because her mom has done so much for her. Her mom has loved her since she was born. She had to . . . help her get her ass out of the crack a million times, and continues to do so, that Wendi says, ‘I want to repay you. I would like you to jump in front of a train. I wish a truck would run over you. I wish you’d just go out and die under a tree.’ That’s the thanks Wendi gave Mom. And she’s dedicated to her poor ma and her poor pa because she knows he’s right and that she’s also wrong. Because they’re not full of hate like she is, she thinks they’re wrong.
“And she hates her brother because he did not get his ass in a crack like her from making such a poor choice, a poor judgment. She hates. She hates. She hates. . . . She hates thatstuffed toy because it resembles life. She hates. She’s so full of hate. She hates—she even hates herself so much because she tries to dig herself in deeper. Why would anybody that has their ass in such a crack that it’s pinching their cheeks off would want to get in deeper?”
He stopped singing and talked directly to his grandson. “Watch it, Poppy! Watch it! Watch it. She’ll try to strangle you. She’s gonna try to kill you like she kills all them animals up at the clinic. You’ll be next. Don’t trust her. She’ll put you up on that table and kill ya. She’s done many of them that way. They go in and expect to come out alive and”—Lloyd made a choking noise—“she kills them dead. Better watch it. She hates them pets just like she does every—even every—She hates every animal in the world except her sugar daddy and her boyfriend. Hates them.
“Watch it! You’re fixing to get it. She’ll rip your heart right out. She’s already ripped Mom’s out and stomped it as much as she could and continues to do so. She thinks if she rips her heart out, it will just kill her dead, and she’s trying. And it probably will kill her. And when she’s dead, Wendi will be so happy. She’ll be at Mom’s grave, sitting on it, saying, ‘I’m so happy you’re dead.’ And then I’ll die and she’ll say, ‘Pa, God, I’m happy you’re dead.’ ”
Lloyd continued his tirade in front of innocent little Tristan, his voice building in its power of delivery to a crescendo reminiscent of a fire-and-brimstone revival preacher. “And then perhaps her brother would be in some kind of accident and be killed and she’d say, ‘Man, am I happy now.’ And then Cissy died for some unknown reason and she’ll say, ‘I don’t know what to do with you, but I’m so happy.’ Wendi would be the happiest person alive, because people would be dying and it makes her feel happy to see them die. Except her sugar daddy and her boyfriend will not die. They will be there with her forever. They will be like”—Lloyd made a series of kissy noises—“until after her family is dead.
“She’ll move to other families, wishing they were dead. ‘I wish every family on earth dead,’ she says. ‘Please die. Please die. All dogs die. All cats die. I,’ she says, ‘I hate every living thing except for my boyfriend and my sugar daddy. Why couldn’t every living thing on earth die except for my sugar daddy and my boyfriend? Why, oh, why?’
“Why would anyone hate so many living organisms? . . . How could there be that much hate? . . . It couldn’t be humanly possible, so it must be some kind of evil spell that was cast on Wendi to make her hate her entire family and wish her entire family would drop dead right this second. And if I should drop dead right this second, I would always hope that a big grin come on her face, because maybe that would be a sign that there was a glimmer of hope.” Without warning, Lloyd returned to his normal talking voice as if a spell had passed—as if the whole crazy rant had not happened at all. “Baby, I’ve got to go,” he said. “It’s going to take a bulldozer to clean that thing out. What’s all those toys up there?” Lloyd started humming, and again he launched into sing-song, “Watch it, she’ll kill you dead. Watch it. Watch it. She’s about to kill that one there . . .”
“Mommy,” Tristan asked, “did you kill somebody?”
“No, baby,” Wendi said. “. . . No, Pa’s brainwashing you, that’s all.”
“. . . I’m not trying to brainwash you. I’m talking to your mom,” Lloyd argued.
“Why don’t you go play? You don’t need to be around all that,” Wendi urged Tristan.
“That’s right, he don’t. I don’t know why his mama inflicted that.”
“I don’t know why Pa’s acting ugly on you. That’s terrible. Sorry,” Wendi said. “Don’t listen to anything he says, baby.”
“Yeah, don’t listen to anything your mom says, because she does tell you awful ugly things . . . she just comes out here to be mean.” Lloyd ranted on again—this time, the keyword was “ugly.” Poor little Tristan took it all in with no comprehension of the complexities beneath the words. And he walked away bearing the scars of their battle.
FORTY-THREE
Sergeant Randy Pelfrey traveled from Dyess Air Force Base to Lee, Maine, toting the door of Michael Severance’s race car. It bore the signatures of sixteen of Mike’s Abilene friends. He presented this remembrance of Mike’s life to Les Severance at his home.
In West Texas, additional artifacts from Mike’s death surfaced in the remote pond at the desolate ranch. On July 11 at 4:50 in the afternoon, Terrell Sheen called Ranger Shawn Palmer. The dry spell had caused the water to recede at the stock tank, exposing cinder blocks. Sheen granted permission for law enforcement to access his property.
Palmer, Detective McGuire and a crime-scene technician drove out to the 7777 Ranch. The blocks were on the northwest edge of the pond, partially submerged in mud. They collected two blocks, tied together with monofilament line. They pulled a third one and a plastic zip tie out of the muck.
Palmer reviewed the controlled substance logs seized during a search of Advanced Animal Care. He’d done his homework and knew the proper dosage of Beuthanasia-D Special that a veterinarian needed to administer to put a pet to sleep: one milliliter for every ten pounds of body weight.
When he added up the excessive amounts recorded as being administered by Wendi Davidson between October 5, 2004, and February 21, 2005, he got 10.85 milliliters—enough to euthanize a 108-pound dog. Then he turned to Patience, an animal owned by Daina Schwartz.
According to Wendi’s veterinary tech, Jamie Crouch, this dog had died while being moved for x-rays on February 16, 2005. But Wendi had called Daina and informed her that Patience needed to be euthanized. The bill for services included a charge for this service. The controlled substancelog documented that six milliliters of Beuthanasia-D was administered to Patience.
Since the dog had died without receiving that procedure, Palmer added that amount to the excess dosages noted on the paperwork, and there was enough to euthanize a 168-pound human being. Michael Severance weighed 155 pounds.
Perhaps that excess use was not significant. Many veterinarians deliberately used a small amount of Beuthanasia-D above what was necessary, particularly when the pet’s owner was present for the procedure—others under-dosed unless they weren’t alone. Authorities do not know what Wendi normally did. They also knew that during Wendi’s initial six months of practice, she traveled with her father to Zapata to visit Marshall and, on more than one occasion, went into Mexico to purchase veterinary pharmaceuticals for her practice. Investigators did not know what she’d bought on her trips out of the country. Beuthanasia-D is a controlled substance across the border, too, but it might be easy to find someone willing to ignore the law for the right price.
Judy Davidson’s stepfather, Emmett Eggemeyer, widowed in April, tried to pick up the pieces of his life that summer in the midst of all the family turmoil. He answered the questions posed to him by law enforc
ement, provided an unflattering view of the Davidson family in the child custody deposition and battled Judy over his deceased wife’s estate.
On July 14, he called Ranger Palmer. Someone had placed roofing nails in the driveway, causing damage to the tires of his truck. He’d reported the incident to the Tom Green County Sheriff’s Office, but thought Palmer should know about it in case there was a connection to the investigation of Michael Severance’s death.
Friends of Michael’s family donated more than 500 household items to a yard sale to benefit the custody fight for Shane on July 15 and 16. Sporting goods, clothes, furniture, exercise equipment and more filled a two-bay garage at Mount Jefferson Junior High School in Lee, Maine.
Terrell Sheen called Palmer again on July 17. There were more revelations at the pond as the water continued to recede. Palmer returned to the 7777 Ranch with a crime-scene tech. The fence that ran north and south across the stock tank, which was completely submerged in March, was now fully visible. On the east side of the fence, they found a brake drum resting in the mud, and at the spot where they’d recovered Mike’s body, they seized a cinder block tied with a yellow rope.
In Maine, the Severance family made the most of their interlude with Shane. The little boy spent a lot of time with Nicole Leighton, who had a son just a few months older. The family choked on their grief as the day that would have been Mike’s twenty-fifth birthday approached. On that day, July 20, 2005, the state of Texas issued an amendment to Michael’s death certificate, adding the cause of his death:
acute combined Pentobarbital, Phenytoin and Phenobarbital drug intoxication.
In addition, in the box for a description of how the injury had occurred, they wrote:
Deceased was administered lethal amounts of drugs by someone unknown to this certifier, against the health and safety of the Decedent causing death.
The mournful day was made even more difficult by the crass insensitivity of Wendi Davidson. First she sent flowers with a request that Les put them on Michael’s grave in Carroll Plantation. Then, a package arrived with gifts for Shane. Enclosed was a birthday card. On it, Wendi had written:
Mike,
Happy Birthday,
Love,
Wendi.
She also included a note to Les and Brinda:
“Please know how much I am thinking of y’all during these times of trite [sic]. I know how much Mike loved y’all and that is how much I love y’all as well. I believe family is so very important and after all of this turmoil is over, we will still be family and I will be happy to say so.
Here are some new toys + clothes for baby Shane. Tell him how much I love him. Tristan says he misses him very much. Maybe next time, Tristan can come visit, too.
Love Always,
Wendi.
Nick Sambides, Jr., a reporter for the Bangor Daily News, was at the Severance home when Les opened the mail. On reading the note, Les shouted, “I just don’t know what to make of this. Goddamn it! She dumped him in a pond and stabbed him forty-one times, and now she wishes him a happy birthday!” He continued in a calmer voice. “It’s vicious and revolting. Maybe we should respond by saying, ‘Wendi, please take these flowers out to the pond where you buried him.’ ”
At 8 that evening, family and friends gathered on the front lawn of the Lee Academy for a candlelight vigil.
Wendi sent another note that arrived in Maine less than two weeks after Mike’s birth date:
I am so full of grief these days. I love and miss Mike so much—it hurts so very bad. I want to talk to you, but the attorneys all told me not to. They said you are angry and it would only hurt me. But I know if you are angry, it is because of all the nonsense that people have told you—the police, your attorney and the news people. All of those people have their personal agendas—money and fame to gain. All I want is my family to love and support me, the way I love + support them. I cannot have my husband here on earth, but he is in my heart and mind now and forever. He will always be a part of my children’s lives. If you want to tear this family apart, that is your prerogative, but I want to keep it together. I think the attorneys, news media and police want to pit everyone against each other because it just helps to add fuel to their fire.
Les, once this mess is all cleared up, I want to have a good relationship with you and the rest of the family—I want this for me, for y’all, for the kids, and most of all, because Mike would want this. I know Mike would not want the boys split apart like they are right now. He would not want it anymore than I do. It is very important to keep them together. They are so very close to each other. Tristan asks for his brother daily and when Shane gets a little older, he will do the same. I am asking you—begging you to please call and talk to me. I am so angry at all the attorneys. If they can keep making their money, they are happy.
But none of this is right—none of it. My parents just want what is best for the children (for them to be together.) I want this and for all my family to get along. As soon as I possibly can, I would like to come up to Maine for a couple of weeks with both of the kids. I would like to meet your family up there and visit the cemetery. I hope you got the flowers I sent for Mike and took them to him.
Les please call me—I can’t talk about a bunch of specifics, but I can tell you the news media has fabricated a whole story so they can sell papers.
Also, I would be glad to see you and my parents drop the whole custody issue—the boys need to be together—here and when they visit in Maine. I will gladly work out visitation for y’all to see them if everyone will be civil and act like a family should.
Love Always,
Wendi.
She included her phone numbers beneath her signature. Then she added:
If you feel more comfortable writing right now, that is fine, too.
Beneath that note she jotted down both her address at the clinic and the address at her parents’ home.
To the Severance family, it seemed as if they and Wendi were living in separate worlds where the reality of Michael’s death had starkly differing meanings.
FORTY-FOUR
On Wednesday, August 3, Savvy, Incorporated of Portland, Maine, launched a new website, keepshaneinmaine.com, to raise money to help the Severance family with their custody battle for Shane. The firm agreed to take only 10 percent of the proceeds to cover expenses, a rate much lower than what was normally charged.
Wendi filed a request that Les Severance be ordered to pay for the attorney she’d hired to represent her in the custody battle for Shane. The audacity of this maneuver baffled both Les and his attorney Thomas Goff.
The next day, Les, with his grandson, left Bangor International Airport on a 6:20 A.M. flight back to Texas. He flew back with a heavy heart, but high hopes about the outcome of his day in court in San Angelo to make his case in the best interests of his grandson.
Judge Jay Weatherby passed down his ruling on Friday, August 19. The attorneys for the Davidson family heaped criticism on Les’s head for using his grandson as a fundraising tool. Les explained that he needed community support to get funds to travel to Texas. It wasn’t a good enough excuse for the judge. He rejected the Severance petition to gain sole custody of Shane from December 1 through Wendi’s trial, scheduled to begin on March 20, 2006.
He granted custody to Judy and Lloyd Davidson, allowing Wendi weekly two-hour supervised visitation with her son. The judge gave Les permission to visit Shane from 9 A.M. to 6 P.M. on Saturdays and Sundays up to three times per month—not very practical for a grandfather of limited means who lived so far away. He also left open the possibility that Shane could visit Maine for four days around Christmas.
Les was crushed. He transferred custody of his grandson to Judy and Lloyd on Sunday, August 21, at 8 P.M. He still had a difficult time believing that any judge in any court would not see the injustice of this decision.
Les walked into a small San Angelo lunch counter with just four stools. He’d been a pretty thin guy before January 15, 2005—now he
was twenty pounds lighter, and appeared emaciated. Sorrow stretched his long face a bit closer to the ground than it had just a few months before.
The lone man seated on one of the stools, turned toward him when he entered and asked, “Are you Mr. Severance?”
Still skittish from his recent encounter with the Davidson family, Les paused a moment before saying, “Yes, I am.”
“Sorry to hear the news about your grandson, Mr. Severance. I’m a retired Border Patrol agent. I’ve spent most of my career in San Angelo. You’re not from around here. You never had a chance.”
FORTY-FIVE
Ranger Shawn Palmer had a theory about Michael’s murder and the disposal and mutilation of his body. Now he was going to put it to the test.
He gathered up San Angelo Police Officer Kara Jeffcoat and a training dummy from the fire department. Kara weighed 148 pounds and was 5'4" tall—a couple of pounds under Wendi’s weight, and a couple of inches over her height.
Jeffcoat loaded the 167-pound dummy—heavier than Mike—into the back of a four-wheel-drive Dodge pick-up. At the pond, she pulled it out of the truck bed and dragged it over to the dock. She had no problem shoving it from there into the water. Then, they tried it from the boat. Jeffcoat could dump the dummy into the water from on board without capsizing.
There had been weights attached to Michael, making him heavier than the stand-in Jeffcoat used. But it wasn’t essential that Wendi lift all that weight. Although difficult, she could have secured the body to the boat and used the natural buoyancy of the water to make the job easier, and explain why cinder blocks and a brake drum were found buried in the mud—she’d dropped them as she tried to attach them.
A Poisoned Passion Page 19