“She got to go,” Sonia told her mother over the phone.
Rosa understood. She knew Carmen better than any of them.
Before hanging up, they made a decision. Sonia went out later that day and, unbeknownst to Carmen, bought her a plane ticket and shipped her back to Puerto Rico with Rueben.
Carmen continued to drink while in Puerto Rico, so the family stepped in and took responsibility for the children. For the first time in what seemed to be her entire life, Carmen was childless. She had no one to take care of, but herself. “She was alone, she didn’t have kids, no husband,” Luz said, “and she was like, ‘why not enjoy life, take advantage of the situation.’” Not in a bad way, Luz pointed out. But in a way that allowed Carmen to find herself and deal with the issues she was facing.
While in Puerto Rico, Carmen met that man she had been waiting for. His name was Jesus Ramos, a native Puerto Rican. “A good, good man,” Sonia and Luz said.
As with all of the men Carmen dated, Jesus was older—yet no one expected how much older. “Sixty-five,” Sonia said, wincing. Carmen was twenty-three then. The guy was forty-two years her senior. He could have been her grandfather. “But he was great, a wonderful guy,” added Luz and Kathy Perez, Sonia’s daughter. “He loved her,” Kathy said. “She adored him. What did age matter?”
Carmen needed someone like Jesus, who wanted nothing more than to take care of her. Sensing she had found true love—that unconditional love she had been chasing—Carmen married Jesus, and wound up spending the next six years in Puerto Rico by his side. It wasn’t until 1998, when Carmen’s mother moved back to Hartford from Puerto Rico, that things changed. She found a cozy apartment on Putnam Street, a block away from Pope Park, inside the Capitol Avenue, Park and Broad Street square the family had lived in and around all their lives. “It was like a rope,” Luz lamented. “Where Mommy went, Carmen went with her.”
And so, not long after Rosa migrated back to Hartford from Puerto Rico, Carmen followed.
Jesus stayed in Puerto Rico. They were still married, but Carmen was getting bored with the marriage. The change back to the States, she believed, would do her some good. Maybe the time away would reignite that spark of love she had once felt for Jesus.
Carmen was still caught in that spiral of drinking, however; she couldn’t seem to get out of it. Sonia once brought her to a local psychiatric hospital, but she left after only two hours. Then she tried working. Luz was involved with a temp service. One day, the service called and needed two workers. Luz called Carmen.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m no good at working.”
“Come on,” Luz said. “Give it a try.”
So she went.
It was a factory job. Luz and Carmen worked on a production line, piecework. The parts on the machine came by, Luz remembered, at lightning speed. “You had to keep up.” Once you fell behind, the pieces piled up. Luz had no trouble keeping up with production. “The parts were hot to the touch, but I did my best. Carmen would take one part, and five would go by. She couldn’t keep up. She kept leaving the line to go outside and smoke.”
By eleven that morning, Carmen said to Luz, “I’m leaving. This working stuff isn’t for me.”
“Come on, just stay for the day. You’ll get paid for a whole day. You need a ride anyway.” Luz had driven Carmen to the plant.
Carmen left after suffering through the day. No matter, the foreman had gotten all the girls together after the day ended and announced who was going to be invited back the following day. “You, you, and you,” he said, pointing to Luz and a few of the other girls, “come back tomorrow. You,” he added, pointing to Carmen, “you don’t have a job anymore.”
“I didn’t [go] back,” Luz recalled, laughing at the memory of Carmen’s one day of work. “My hands were burned from the parts, it was hot in there. I didn’t like. But they had offered me the job and Carmen knew that. It was so funny to see her try to work.”
Money wasn’t an issue for Carmen. Whenever she needed cash, she’d call her husband, Jesus, back in Puerto Rico, and he’d send her $400, $500, whatever she needed to get by. “This is why she didn’t want to work,” said Luz. “The men would give her money. She didn’t need to work.”
53
I
Ned had compulsive tendencies. In his teens, he would do certain things that made his mother nervous about a possible condition she believed he had. There was one time, she later detailed, when Ned was at a local public pool and she watched him put on a T-shirt and take it off “six to eight times” in a row, but she didn’t think anything of it then. Sometime later, she watched Ned at the dinner table pick up his glass and put it back down in the same spot, over and over again, for several minutes. So she called his doctor.
“I think he should see a psychiatrist,” Ned’s mother said.
“It’s not serious,” the family doctor said after asking several questions.
Within a few months, the behavior stopped, and Mrs. Snelgrove said she “never did anything about it” again.
Later, when investigators began to take a closer look into Ned’s life, it was easy to see the signs of what might be called obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) were prevalent in the way he kept detailed records of his mileage and gas receipts and newspaper articles (and two rather compelling Styrofoam mannequin heads that investigators believed he had doctored up to look like females).
II
Ned hated to be told what to do. He never wanted “advice,” a family member later recalled, and would get extremely upset with anyone who ever criticized him. He was kind of extreme on this score…, that same family member later wrote, but she believed it was just one more way for Ned to show and maintain his independence.
III
On June 27, 1997, the Bergen County Office of the Prosecutor sent a letter to Mary Di Sabato, the chairperson of the New Jersey State Parole Board. In short, the office was sending the letter to officially proclaim its objection to Ned’s proposed release or possible parole. Assistant County Prosecutor Fred L. Schwanwede, who had spearheaded the office’s case against Ned back in 1988, along with Thomas Kapsak, from Middlesex County, explained to the parole board, just in case there was any misunderstanding, what Ned had done to end up in prison. In graphic detail, Schwanwede narrated both Mary Ellen’s vicious attack and survival, and Karen Osmun’s painful death. Schwanwede’s pain, carried over for the past eleven years, was obvious in every word of every sentence. The anguish for the victim had not left this prosecutor. He was finding it hard to believe he had to actually fight to keep this maniac in prison.
Then Schwanwede went into Ned’s eleven-page “explanation” of his crimes, quoting Ned at length. There in Ned’s own words was Ned’s plan. Could this warped psyche be cured? Could this same person be ready to face society? The Bergen County Office of the Prosecutor didn’t think so.
As his letter concluded, Schwanwede, pleading with board members, wrote for them not to be taken in by Ned’s clean-cut, neat, articulate, intelligent…sincerity, just as he had [fooled] Mary Ellen Renard on the evening she fought for her life. Like every other prosecutor and law enforcement official Ned would cross paths with throughout his life, Schwanwede pegged him as the most dangerous defendant he had ever dealt with.
Why?
Well, it was pretty darn obvious at this point: he gives the appearance of being a “regular guy,” Schwanwede penned.
John Doe.
Bob Smith.
Ned Snelgrove.
The most potent, most sobering words of Schwanwede’s letter came at the end, when, in direct and straightforward language, the veteran prosecutor warned the board against the threat of allowing Ned to go free early: Whenever he is released…he will present a grave danger of taking another human life…. He finally asked members to delay this threat for as long as the board allows.
Continuing for another paragraph, the prosecutor said Ned could easily dupe anyone he wanted because he was that smart and that go
od at what he did. By his own admission, Ned had been harboring these impulses of hurting women since the second and third grade, Schwanwede warned. Now, being motivated by a thirst for freedom, Schwanwede astutely wrote, Ned was even more dangerous than he had ever been. Don’t be fooled, he ended his letter, someone’s life surely depends upon it.
IV
Despite the warnings and the letters and the pleadings from those who knew Ned Snelgrove best, eleven months after Barbara Delaney wrote with her concerns, and Fred Schwanwede sent his letter, it was clear in August 1999 that the parole board had no choice in the matter. As it turned out, it was up to the New Jersey Department of Corrections (NJDOC). And complicated doesn’t even begin to explain the situation. Public information officer and research specialist for the New Jersey State Parole Board Neal Buccino explained to me how Ned got out of prison so soon, saying, “The state parole board was not involved in any way with Mr. Snelgrove’s release. By law, he was eligible to be considered for parole, but Mr. Snelgrove requested to serve out the rest of his term in prison without waiting for the state parole board’s decision. With that request, the board ended its consideration of his case.”
In other words, the parole board never had the opportunity to release Ned. The bottom line was that he had somehow found a way to bypass parole and, as one report claimed, a mandated psychological evaluation after the court’s computer system did not factor credits earned for good behavior into his release date.
The NJDOC carefully reviewed Ned’s records and determined that he was, in fact, eligible for early release—not parole—“based on time served and good behavior.” Thus, after serving eleven years of a potential twenty-year sentence, thirty-nine-year-old Edwin “Ned” Snelgrove walked out of Rahway on May 26, 1999.
Free to go and do whatever he wanted.
Free to start life over again.
Free to walk the same streets as the victims he had left in his wake.
Free to kill.
54
I
When she wasn’t having a good time, going out drinking and dancing, Carmen would take the kids—this time her nieces and nephews and own children—to Pope Park to roller-skate and swim. She helped her mother around the house, cleaning and cooking. She helped the kids with their homework. Even went to the movies from time to time. There was one day, especially, everyone later remembered with warm smiles and belly laughs, when Carmen gathered all the kids together, putting the little ones in an old abandoned shopping cart. They walked down to Crown Palace Theatre on New Park Avenue, which was a good two-mile hike from Putnam Street, just to go to the movies. “She loved to spend time with her nephews and nieces,” Luz recalled.
“We were at Pope Park one day, at the carnival,” Kathy Perez, Carmen’s niece, remembered. “We were having a great time. She was putting all the young kids on the rides and buying them popcorn and cotton candy…and then it started to pour.” There were about fifteen of them. Carmen flipped open her cell phone, called a friend who had a big truck, and “he came,” Kathy added, “and piled us all in the back and took us all home safely.”
Whenever one of the boys brought home a stringer of catfish after a day of fishing, Carmen loved to get the fillet knife out and clean the whiskered creatures herself. She craved what Luz, Kathy, and Sonia called “bacalaito,” a family recipe Carmen’s mother prepared. Catfish, flour, yams, water, salt, and pepper—all mixed together into a dough and then rolled out into round discs and deep-fried (like fried dough).
When it came time to go out dancing, Carmen favored the bachata, a form of music and dance that originated in the countryside and rural neighborhoods of the Dominican Republic. What struck a chord with Carmen, no doubt stimulating her fragile soul, were the subjects the music and lyrics often dealt with: romance, especially heartbreak and sadness. The original name of the bachata genre was amargue, which translated to “bitterness,” or “bitter music.”
Carmen could get on the dance floor, let her long, flowing dark hair down, and lose herself and possibly her problems in the beat of the music. She could relate to it, having lived a life of failed romances. She knew how it felt to love and lose, as the bachata so passionately translated her feelings. In a family video, there was Carmen on the dance floor, moving to the bachata, talking to the camera: “Watch me…this is the way you do it.”
She was perfect.
Happy.
Transfixed by the natural energy of song and dance.
When Carmen went out to the clubs in Hartford to dance the night away, she would pillage Luz’s closet for clothes. Luz was the fashionista of the Rodriguez family. She dressed trendy and wasn’t afraid to express herself through the garments she spent hours combing store racks for. Luz would be at home on the weekend watching television, her husband sleeping soundly in the next room. Carmen would sneak up to the window, slide the little plastic accordion arm of the air conditioner open like a curtain, and whisper, “Sister, sister?”
Luz would be watching television, rolling her eyes, knowing why Carmen was at the window. “Sister” was a nickname Carmen chose for Luz, in the same fashion as she called their mother, “Mother.” It was a term of endearment in Carmen’s eyes. (“She never called me by my name,” Luz recalled.)
There was that sweet, angelic voice of Carmen’s at the window, asking Luz if she could come in and borrow some clothes for a night out.
“What are you doing?” Luz said in a whisper. Carmen was standing at her door by then. “[My husband’s] sleeping.”
“Come on, Sister, give me a shirt. I’m going out dancing.” Carmen would throw her arms in the air and do a little wiggle.
“Be quiet. Come in.” Luz would never refuse. Carmen changed right there in the hallway, sometimes on the porch.
“You got a beer for the road, Sister?” she’d ask before leaving.
Luz always gave in. It was Carmen’s sincerity. She wanted to have some fun. She didn’t want to hurt anybody or cause problems, she just wanted to go out dancing.
“Titi,” Luz said, whispering, “I have to go to work tomorrow morning, early…. Go ahead, take the beer and go. Go.” “Titi” was a nickname given to Carmen by her grandmother. Later, her nieces and nephews called her “Titi, la Loca.”
Crazy Auntie.
“There were two ‘Titi’s in the family,” recalled Luz. “So Carmen, later on, became Titi, la Loca. It was not in a negative way, nothing ever was with Carmen.”
II
During an Easter egg hunt in 1999, Carmen wound up in a spot of trouble. Her daughter Jacqueline’s family lived on the opposite side of a two-family house where Carmen had been staying with her mother on Putnam Street. The two families got along, but they weren’t necessarily close. “It was a ‘hi and bye’ type of relationship,” Kathy Perez recalled.
On that wonderful early spring afternoon, one of the young girls from Jacqueline’s family, who was maybe ten years old, started to give Carmen some trouble, calling her out. There was a dispute over a parking space in the driveway. The little girl got nasty with Carmen as she tried to get someone to move their car.
“I’m not going to hit a little kid,” Carmen said, laughing at the gesture.
The girl began provoking her, taunting her to engage.
Carmen laughed. “OK, you want some.” She called for her niece Kathy to come out, who was closer in age to the girl. (“I was her baby,” Kathy said. “Me and my aunt were always together. She watched out for me. She’d take care of me.”)
The girl, nonetheless, wasn’t satisfied, according to Kathy. She kept taunting Carmen. So as Kathy was on her way outside to confront the problem, the girl took a swing at Carmen. (“So Carmen grabbed her. She had her by the hair.”)
“Kathy, Kathy,” Carmen screamed. “Hurry up, come out here.” Carmen didn’t want to be involved. She was an adult. She didn’t want to hurt the little girl.
Against her better judgment, perhaps, Kathy ended up striking the girl. Not hard, just a little poke t
o the arm. Meanwhile, Carmen fell into the thorny bushes along the side of the driveway as the commotion escalated, and she got scratched all over her upper body. When she got up and brushed herself off, she was livid.
Soon both families were gathered around, throwing insults at one another. Someone called the cops. When they spoke to the young girl, she claimed it was Carmen who hit her.
Sonia bailed Carmen out of jail and the case turned into nothing.
As the next year progressed, Carmen thought long and hard about divorcing her husband. Too much time had elapsed since they had last seen each other. She had been dating other men. She loved Jesus, but she didn’t want to string him along, either. She hated taking his money, but he insisted on sending it. Her mother was pushing her to move out on her own with Jacqueline, who was fifteen, and Roberto, now twelve. Tanaris, thirteen, and Rueben, nine, were a handful, but Carmen was able to send them to Puerto Rico for spells of time so they could visit family and learn their culture.
Carmen didn’t want to move out, however, until she knew she could provide for her kids. She had applied for state assistance and it was said to be in the works. Once it was OK’d, she promised her mother, the state was going to help her find a place.
III
As the spring of 2001 approached, Carmen seemed to be heading back into a routine of heavy drinking. “She just couldn’t stop for long periods of time,” said Luz. “We tried to do everything we could to help her, but she didn’t want it. What could we do?”
During those periods when Carmen wasn’t drinking so much, Luz liked to have her watch her kids. “She was family. We always rely on family.”
One afternoon, while Luz and her husband were at work, Carmen was babysitting. On this day, she decided to drink. It wasn’t common for Carmen to get drunk while watching the kids. She must have obviously started after Luz left for work. In any event, Carmen and Luz’s aunt lived next door. She called Luz at work late into the day and said, “Titi is hitting on your kids.” She had heard some commotion next door and went over. She saw Carmen yelling at the kids, acting strangely. (“She was out of control, out of her mind, pushing the kids around,” Luz said later. “Carmen was not an abuser. She was drunk and impatient, and the kids got to her. It was all too much.” Luz wasn’t making excuses for her sister; she was trying to explain how things happened. When Carmen drank for a long period of time, she became a different person, family members said. She wasn’t herself.)
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