Katie spent most of the day Mary had died with the Yoder family in the hallway outside Mary’s room. Adam texted her many times. He also stepped out of the room to update her.
Adam approached Katie that afternoon. “I don’t know how long this is all going to be, or what is happening, but you don’t have to wait here all day.”
Katie agreed, and left. “Text me . . . please?”
“I will.”
Not long after Katie left, from her car, she sent Adam a text. She was sitting in the parking lot, crying. She’d gone out to her car and broke down, she claimed.
“Your mother is not just important to you,” she concluded, telling Adam how upset she was not being allowed into Mary’s room.
Trying as best he could under the circumstances to be responsive and sensitive to her needs, Adam walked down into the parking lot.
“You can come up for a quick visit. They’ll allow you in her room.”
36
ON DECEMBER 2, 2015, Bill Yoder called Lorraine Kreimeyer, Mary’s final patient on the day she became ill. Bill wanted answers. He wasn’t getting much out of the ME’s office other than colchicine had killed his wife. In addition, Bill felt as though he was being viewed as a suspect, rather than the grieving husband.
Bill needed to know how the toxin had found its way into Mary’s system. He felt people were looking at him strangely. Making matters worse, Bill and Kathleen, Mary’s sister, were now seeing each other regularly.
“Sitting here with a glass of wine and your photo,” Bill texted Kathleen on October 7. “Telling you about my amazing day. Your smile melts my heart and I keep falling in love all over again . . .”
Bill’s sister-in-law Greta had a problem with the relationship. She saw it as Bill taking advantage of Kathleen—and perhaps something more disturbing, which she was now focused on looking into more closely.
A self-employed artist, Lorraine Kreimeyer had been a Yoder patient for twenty years. On the day Mary left work ill, July 22, Lorraine was at the local library up the street from the practice. A fierce migraine came on, Lorraine nearly unable to stand or think. Looking at her watch, Lorraine “realized if I left right away, I might be able to get in and see Mary.” A visit to the chiropractor “usually helped” Lorraine cope with her headaches. Wasn’t a cure-all, but it lessened the degree of pain.
Leaving the library, Lorraine headed toward Chiropractic Family Care, calling the office on her way.
“Can you get me in?” she asked Katie.
“I can.”
Lorraine was five minutes away. At about 4:00 p.m., she walked in. Dr. Mary—the name every long-term patient called Mary—had Lorraine go into the back treatment room with the three blue tables. Another patient was in the room at the time.
Lorraine struggled. A migraine can affect vision. Mary did a few manipulation techniques on Lorraine and told her to sit quietly and relax.
“Why don’t you go into the other room,” Mary suggested after a short time. It was private. Lorraine could be alone.
The migraine pain increased as Lorraine got comfortable in the private room.
Mary popped in. “How are you?”
Lorraine indicated she was not doing well. In fact, Lorraine felt she could not drive herself home.
“Dr. Mary, you think you could give me a ride?”
Mary had driven Lorraine home in the past under similar circumstances.
“No, not today,” Mary said, failing to elaborate. She sounded matter-of-fact, which surprised Lorraine. She also thought it odd Mary had said no. So she called home and asked her mother if she could find someone to come to the office and drive her home.
Mary went back into the other room, where she had one other patient, the last one of the day. It was just after 5:00 p.m. by then. Luciann Gold had been going to see Mary and Bill for two decades, at times three visits per week.
“Typically, Mary was very engaged with me and the other patients. You know, very conversational and smiling.”
As soon as Mary entered the room on July 20, however, Luciann saw a marked, obvious change in Mary’s demeanor.
“She either didn’t feel well, or something not good was going on.” The word Luciann used, which others later agreed with, was “disconnected.” An otherwise fully present, completely involved, sociable, interactive doctor (even earlier that same day) was now quiet, introverted, and just not herself.
A second unusual behavior Mary exhibited was darting in and out of the manipulation room. Mary never did this. She generally entered the treatment room, focused on and treated her patients, talked procedure and health, socialized, then hugged each patient before leaving the room.
As Luciann thought about how differently Mary was acting, she could hear the bathroom door nearby open and close several times. In twenty years of going to see Mary, Luciann recalled, Mary had never done this.
Luciann walked out of the treatment room and stood at the reception desk. Katie checked her out. Scheduled her next appointment. The office was closing.
While Luciann dug in her pocketbook, Mary rushed out the door without saying a word or making eye contact with anyone.
Outside, sitting in the passenger seat of her car, waiting for someone to drive her home, Lorraine Kreimeyer was upset. That pulsating migraine was back in full. She could not understand why Mary had not agreed to drive her home. It had never been an issue. Had she done something to offend Mary?
Looking up, Lorraine saw Mary drive around the side of the building toward her. Lorraine had no ill feelings and wanted to let Mary know she would be okay. As Mary drove by, Lorraine looked Mary in the eyes and gave her a thumbs-up.
Mary didn’t respond.
Lorraine got a good look at Dr. Mary as she sped past.
“She looked at me and she didn’t smile, like normal. Her face looked really gaunt and long. And her skin looked green.”
37
AFTER KATIE DROPPED THE rape charges in November 2014, she tore into Adam about the incident. Katie was now using the alleged rape and her decision not to press charges as leverage to manipulate and control him. At 2:00 a.m. on November 28, she texted, referring to what she called a “blood choke.”
A blood choke is a stranglehold. You come up from behind someone, place one arm over their shoulder and around their neck (the inside of your elbow under their chin), grab that hand with your other hand, the back of the victim’s head below your chin, lock it in place. Then you apply as much pressure (like a nutcracker) as possible. It’s a common judo maneuver, used in ground fighting/grappling and Brazilian jujitsu. The move immediately stops blood flow between both carotid arteries and the jugular vein, blocking blood to the brain. When done properly, the maneuver causes the victim to black out in a matter of moments.
“I didn’t know ‘blood choke,’ but it makes sense,” Katie continued. “I know it takes a few minutes to lose consciousness without airflow. July, it didn’t take that long at all. I think it was an accidental blood choke. It’s crazy that works.”
Katie was now implying Adam had accidentally choked her out?
Adam responded, saying he wanted to “avoid” any “painful conversations. A lot of lying that hurts me deep . . . I’m doing my best to let it go and maintain a friendship with you now. Let me know if you want to do the same.”
“Lying from who?” Katie popped back.
“From you! Please don’t make this harder. Please don’t.”
Katie became incensed. She warned Adam. If he thought she was lying about what happened: “You know better.” Her dropping the charges, she continued, was indicative of her “trying to be okay with what happened. To not have PTSD over it. What would be the point of lying about YOU doing THIS to Me??”
A moment later, she mentioned how she could have told everyone about it: his parents, hers, their friends. But she chose not to. “I would never lie that that would happen to me, especially by you. If it were to try and keep a friendship going”—something Adam never men
tioned—“why would I say you did this to me?”
Next, Katie said how little she had to gain by lying, explaining how “painful” it was to her for Adam to suggest as much. “I never asked what you remembered. I told you.”
Strangely, she concluded with: “I’m trying to keep you human. I want to be okay. I don’t need this to haunt me, you to haunt me.”
Perhaps in an attempt to win him back, Katie then brought up the notion of Adam drawing a false conclusion regarding her sleeping with his friend.
“Your friend lied to you to hurt you and I’m sorry.”
She described what happened. It was late summer, she remembered. “It’d be less embarrassing to say I had sex with someone vs. I thought about it . . .” She added how she had planned to sleep with him. But as she undressed, she “started completely freaking out over it.” So she never went through with it. “This is not being strong or in control. I have already lost.”
“Stop,” Adam said. He wasn’t interested in hearing some concocted narrative. Though he never mentioned it, Adam had the proof in front of him via her iPhone backup. He could see the planning and corresponding between them.
After failing to bait him with the idea she’d chickened out of sleeping with his friend, Katie opted for a guilt trip, reminding Adam of what he had allegedly done to her.
Adam said he would not be discussing any of it via text anymore. “If you need to speak to me, you can call me.”
Katie made up an excuse that her phone died and she lost the connection. Three minutes later, however, she texted: “It’s pretty specific, what I’m telling you. I think assault would be bad enough. Not to include sexual and choking and death threat. It could be worse, but it could be better.” She added how humiliating and revealing it had all been. “I’m a private person and you think I want that kind of attention?” She then threatened Adam, saying she had texts from him admitting he’d committed another crime.
Adam ended the conversation, disturbed and confused by all he had seen and heard.
PART III
AFFECTIVE BLINDNESS
38
MARK VANNAMEE BEGAN HIS law enforcement career with the Oneida County Sheriff’s Office in June 2001. VanNamee (pronounced Van-Name-ee) had worked his way up to investigator in the OCSO’s Criminal Investigation Division (CID) by 2010. The guy struck the classic detective look: short-cropped dark hair, military buzz cut; average height; an earnest, confident, charming, likable demeanor; some beef on his bones. He had a tenacious, maybe even obsessive, attitude toward the cases he was assigned. He wore dark suits, white shirts, simple-patterned ties, a gold badge clipped to his belt, his 9mm Glock strapped on his right hip. VanNamee had investigated all types of felonious crimes throughout his career, including complex murder cases.
On the brisk afternoon of October 15, 2015, VanNamee settled into his shift, two o’clock to 10:00 p.m. While sitting at his desk checking e-mail, close to 4:30 p.m., a call from a woman came in. The caller asked to speak with someone in the CID. She identified herself as Sharon Mills.
“I was wondering if the sheriff’s office is investigating the death of my sister Mary Yoder?” Sharon asked.
Sharon Mills had met Bill Yoder when she was thirteen. Mary had brought Bill home and introduced him to the family. To Sharon, Bill was gregarious and pleasant, but he also could appear quiet and a bit intense. Living in Naples, Florida, now, Sharon had not been able to make the trip to Utica quick enough to be by Mary’s side when she passed. Their sister Janine had called Sharon throughout that stressful period with regular updates, and Sharon was able to fly in for the Celebration of Life on July 25.
It was the first time VanNamee had heard the name Yoder. He asked Sharon for a bit of detail.
As she spoke, VanNamee jotted down the information Sharon shared: Mary’s date of death, the name of the hospital, the circumstances.
“The medical examiner had determined Mary died from colchicine toxicity,” Sharon said, explaining later how she had supposedly “sat on” the information “for probably . . . a week and a half, two weeks, trying to figure out what to do.” When she hadn’t heard much else from Liana or Bill after the colchicine revelation, Sharon decided to call the OCSO to see if they knew anything.
As VanNamee thought about it, he concluded that colchicine poisoning was a very rare cause of death. Most detectives had not heard of colchicine, let alone as a potential murder weapon. An unfamiliar poison, colchicine is unlike arsenic and cyanide, which are, by investigative standards, easy to come by. Colchicine, in contrast, is difficult to purchase—which, VanNamee knew, would leave a paper/digital trail.
“I’ll contact the medical examiner’s office and find out if another police agency is actively investigating the death,” VanNamee told Sharon. “I have to see if there is an open investigation.”
“I had heard from my niece [Liana] that she passed away from ascending colitis, but later found out that wasn’t true,” Sharon said. “She died of a lethal dose of colchicine.”
VanNamee ended the brief call by assuring Sharon he would look into it and let her know when he had any information to share.
VanNamee called the ME’s office. They confirmed an ongoing death investigation with regard to Mary Yoder’s untimely death was happening. However, no law enforcement agency had been assigned the case. From that initial call, VanNamee sensed that the ME’s office had been exploring all possibilities since conducting Mary’s autopsy. They were not going at it from the point of view of nefarious criminal activity. It was an odd death, certainly, but there were so many variables at play. Finding out how the toxin had entered Mary’s system was akin to locating the source of a hazardous liquid found inside a sewer drain.
They agreed to stay in touch.
Next, VanNamee knocked on his lieutenant’s door. “Got a sec?”
“Sure,” Lieutenant Robert Nelson said. “Come in, Mark.”
They talked. Agreed on several preliminary, tactical curiosities they both wanted to satisfy before letting go of the case.
Lieutenant Nelson then had a conversation with Sharon. She presented several theories regarding how Mary could have ingested the colchicine, along with those whom she suspected could have been involved.
Listening, the lieutenant grew concerned.
“They were only interested in hearing about Bill,” Sharon later said about that call with Nelson.
“Bill Yoder, Mary’s husband?” the lieutenant asked.
“Yes. And if he did it, you’re never going to catch him.”
Nelson was curious about the comment. He asked why.
“Because I believe him to be brilliant,” Sharon added.
After the call, Nelson found VanNamee. “You know what, Mark, open an investigation as the lead. See where it goes. Keep me updated.”
If nothing else, OCSO investigators would sleep better knowing what, exactly, happened to Mary Yoder. If the public was at risk, because, say, Mary’s death was brought on by something in the water supply, or Mary had been poisoned by food or another silent killer, they’d done their jobs. If it was nothing more than accidental, again, this was one reason cops like VanNamee and Nelson went to work every day. And if Bill Yoder had murdered his wife, they would eventually place metal bracelets on the guy and charge him with felony murder.
VanNamee sent “preservation letters” to Verizon regarding Mary and Bill Yoder’s telephone numbers. He needed to make sure those records were not deleted. Then he did a database search for any potential insurance claims filed under the Yoder name. Generally, when someone is poisoned to death, a motive presented itself. Follow the money and the lovers. As an investigator, you begin at the most obvious first. Money, love, revenge—the three main motivations for murder. Which one—if any—could be applied to Mary Yoder’s death?
As far as VanNamee could tell from his insurance claim search, no one had made an inquiry at this point to collect life insurance on Mary Yoder.
* * *
O
N OR ABOUT THE same day Sharon Mills called the OCSO, Bill Yoder texted Kathleen. She had just returned from a short trip.
“Good morning. I love you. XXO.”
“I love you, too.”
Kathleen was suffering from the aches and pains of aging. Bill wished her well. Said she’d be okay and perhaps just needed to relax.
Kathleen described a particular condition she believed she had. She encouraged Bill to “look it up.”
“Sure sounds like what you’ve described,” he said. “And all the articles I read recommended sexual activity as part of long-term treatment and prevention . . .”
“Yeah,” Kathleen replied. “I read that, too.” She included a winking icon.
39
MARK VANNAMEE WAS RAISED in Holland Patent, a small village of about five hundred people, a twenty-minute ride north of Utica. “I grew up as a country boy. My parents owned a dairy farm.”
As Mark entered the fourth grade, his parents sold the farm. His mother went back to teaching, her first love. Mark’s father landed a job working for Oneida County, becoming the first director of the 911 call system. With one older brother (just over a year), Mark listened as his dad talked about how effective the 911 calling system became for Oneida County. They did not have one in place until then.
“As we grew older, my brother moved to Hartford, New York. He actually passed away from cancer [in 2007].”
Out of high school, Mark enrolled at Mohawk Valley Community College in Utica, criminal justice his focus.
“Two years out of Mohawk, I go to SUNY with my major being what I love, business and accounting,” Mark explained. He was twenty. A year later, “on a whim,” not thinking about it too much, “I took the sheriff’s exam.”
“The academy starts in two weeks,” the OCSO said, calling Mark weeks later. He was twenty-one, between his junior and senior years of college. It was August.
Mark went home that night and spoke to his father.
We Thought We Knew You Page 14