A Tangled Web

by Leslie Rule

  Murder defendants are rarely allowed bond, and JMD told reporters the judge’s decision indicated the State had a weak case. “How can you charge somebody with first-degree murder when you don’t have proof of death, you don’t have a body, you don’t have murder weapons, and you don’t have eye-witnesses?”

  The prosecution, too, realized that the judge was sending a message that he had little faith in their case, but they’d known from the get-go it was convoluted and difficult to explain. They didn’t blame the judge for failing to comprehend it in the brief time he’d had to consider the confusing facts. It had, after all, taken them a long time to get their minds around it. But they weren’t worried about Golyar making bail. She had no wealthy friends lining up to help.

  On Wednesday, January 18, 2017, Douglas County Judge Craig McDermott oversaw Shanna Golyar’s preliminary hearing, a process that lasted nearly four hours. A brilliant litigator, Masteller expertly presented the State’s case. Judge McDermott ruled that Golyar would go to trial on a first-degree murder charge. Her arraignment was eight days later, at 2:30 on a Thursday afternoon, and by then the media had caught on that something big was going down. TV news cameras were rolling in the hallway outside of District Court Judge Timothy P. Burns’s fifth-floor courtroom as the defendant appeared, clad in the infamous orange jumpsuit, chains around her waist, wrists, and ankles. She wore glasses, and her long dark hair had been woven into a single braid. Flanked by two female guards, the prisoner glanced at the cameras and quickly looked away. She did not look happy.

  Shanna waived her right to a jury trial, choosing instead to allow a judge to decide her fate. Judge Burns tentatively set the trial for May 10, 2017. The defendant was excused and remanded back to the custody of the Sheriff. It was 2:33 P.M. The entire process had taken three minutes.

  May 10 was less than four months away! Beadle had hoped for more time to prepare. “On murder cases, it’s not uncommon for us to go to trial maybe a year after we file, and maybe longer, but certainly not four months.” She understood JMD’s strategy. “He didn’t want us to find the body or have more evidence come forward. We were going to have to push hard. Thankfully, we were very lucky that Pott County gave us the guys at our beck and call, and they were awesome. They had lived with this case for years, and we were just coming in. We had so much to quickly learn and get up to speed on.”

  Kava was eager to help. “Corporal Avis and I were approved in March 2017 to be one hundred percent dedicated to trial prep, and he moved into my office. Later, the two of us began working out of the Douglas County Courthouse to prep, a few weeks prior to the trial.” The longer the team worked together, the more they respected each other, and, in fact, felt genuine affection for each other. More than one of them notes, “We became like family.” Everyone was concerned about one member. Deputy Anthony Kava had a serious health issue. He’d learned about it in August of 2013, when he began to see aurae around lights, and his doctor ordered an MRI. The visual anomaly turned out to be “some transient thing, like an infection” and quickly cleared up, but the scan revealed an unrelated problem—a tumor, “near my brainstem, sheathed around a nerve—a schwannoma.”

  The fleeting infection had been a lucky thing. Without the MRI, the tumor could have remained hidden until it did real damage. Schwannomas are usually benign and often operable, but the proximity of Kava’s tumor to his brainstem made surgery riskier. Doctors monitored the tumor with regular MRIs, and when it began to grow, “I received radiation treatment with the understanding that surgery would likely be the next step.” By the spring of 2016, he suffered headaches as the tumor expanded, but he was immersed in the Golyar case, still unraveling her tangled web as he prepared for trial. Kava was to be the State of Nebraska’s star witness and was adamant that justice for Cari Farver should take precedence over his health.

  When Brenda Beadle learned he was delaying treatment until after the trial, she urged, “You need to get on this.” But Kava was steadfast. “I wasn’t going to do anything that might jeopardize the case. Certainly, someone could read my report and give testimony about the findings, but I felt I knew the material best.” With surgery, “I could expect short-term neurological issues that might affect my memory and ability to concentrate. I did not want to risk losing what was in my head that I intended to turn into testimony,” he stresses, adding that if he testified while recovering from brain surgery, a defense attorney could “argue I was not in my right mind.”

  Beadle asked Detective Schneider to learn what he could about Liz’s past, so he traveled to Battle Creek, Michigan, over six hundred miles east of Omaha, for a surprise visit to Liz’s adoptive family. The Parsnoll home was outside of town, reachable only by a decidedly creepy, narrow dirt road. The tips of the branches on the rows of trees on either side of the road laced together, creating a leafy tunnel that blocked the sun. The Parsnoll house was nice, but appeared to be in the middle of a remodeling project. He pulled into the driveway where two Cadillacs and an SUV were parked. When he got out of the car, he was confronted by a woman in her late fifties, accompanied by a pretty teenage girl.

  “What do you want?” the woman demanded.

  “I’m Detective Dave Schneider from the Omaha Homicide Unit.”

  “We wondered if you’d show up!” said the woman, her tone now friendly. “I’m Nannette Parsnoll.” She apologized for greeting him so rudely and explained that the teens she fostered had a bad habit of meeting men on the Internet. “We have these strange men show up here every once in a while, because of these kids!”

  They went inside, and before he could start asking questions, Nannette had one for him. After they talked, could he speak to the girls about the dangers of meeting strangers on the Internet? He was a little surprised by the request but agreed.

  Liz was so diabolical that everyone working the case had wondered about her background, and they expected the Parsnoll family to have answers. Were there early signs she was disturbed? Had she ever harmed animals, stolen things, or lied?

  “All of these kids are liars,” Nannette replied, unconcerned about the foster kids within earshot. Schneider glanced at them, wondering if they’d take offense. He read nothing on their faces, and Nannette didn’t miss a beat as she explained that all of the foster kids were trouble, all were liars. None of them could be trusted. She had nothing specific to offer about Liz. The whole lot of foster kids seemed lumped together in her mind. While she was very cordial, Detective Schneider got nothing useful from her, and neither did this writer. When I called, Nannette politely explained that she “really appreciated writers,” but was going to support her biological daughter, Patsy, in her decision to shed no light on possible warning signs in Liz’s childhood. Only three people know anything, she insisted. “Mickey, Patsy, and Nannette.”

  Confused, I said, “Nannette? I thought you were Nannette.”

  “Yes, I am,” she replied, and I realized she’d been referring to herself in the third person. In her lovely, almost musical voice, Nannette said that the three people with key information about Liz’s childhood had vowed to say not one word about it. Mickey had apparently been a foster child who’d grown up with Liz and was privy to the secret details along with Patsy and Nannette. “He’s a cancer survivor,” Nannette volunteered and warned me not to call him, because he’d likely be rude. It’s the Parsnolls’ right, of course, to keep their secrets to themselves, though their refusal to speak does make me wonder if they’re hiding something. But Nannette seemed sincere in her interaction with Detective Schneider. It’s possible that the Parsnolls never noticed alarming behavior in Liz and that they’re simply very private people.

  Before he left, Detective Schneider granted Nannette’s request to lecture her foster daughters on the dangers of meeting people on the Internet. The teens listened and nodded, but somehow, he didn’t get the feeling his warning made an impact. It was a little ironic, considering that he’d traveled there to get information on the very dangerous person whose me
eting of Dave Kroupa on the Internet had resulted in murder. Whether or not Nannette Parsnoll noted that irony, she did not say.

  The Parsnoll family seemed to be decent folks, though some members had a different perspective on the world than Schneider did. When he visited the home of Liz’s adopted sister, Marcy, he was greeted by her husband, who sidled up to him, dropped his voice in a conspiratorial tone and confided, “I’m armed too. I just want you to know, I’m progun, too.”

  While his job requires him to carry a gun, the detective is adamant that it’s not a political statement, emphasizing, “I’m probably the least pro-gun cop you could meet.”

  As the trial drew near, Schneider, Doty, and Avis continued to interview those close to Liz, while Kava’s time was consumed with deciphering Liz’s electronic trail. He stopped in to see Kroupa at Hyatt Tire on February 1 and asked about electronic devices they might have missed.

  “I think there’s a tablet in storage,” said Kroupa. He’d rented a storage unit during his last move, and it was filled with boxes of stuff he hadn’t gotten around to sorting.

  “Could you see if you can find it when you get a chance?”

  Kroupa said he’d look for it, but Kava didn’t expect much. He had no idea how important that forgotten tablet would turn out to be. Dave soon located it, and handed it over to Kava, who discovered it contained an SD card with multiple images erased. He retrieved the deleted photos, his pulse quickening as he realized he recognized many from an earlier search of Liz’s phone. The SD card from the tablet had at one time been inserted in Liz’s cell phone!

  Liz had apparently deleted the photos from her phone and then recycled the SD card, plugging it into Dave’s tablet. Kava found himself staring at images Liz believed were gone forever. There were photos of her kids and lots of selfies, some in the nude. As he scrolled through the photos, he paused as he saw something strange. It appeared to be a close up of a tattoo, and as he studied it, he noticed veins around it. He couldn’t be certain, but it looked like the tattoo was on a foot.

  When detectives asked Nancy if she had a photo that showed Cari’s bare feet, she didn’t ask why. She supplied the picture, and it was soon confirmed that Cari’s tattoo matched the one in the photo. Had Liz taken a photo of Cari’s foot? If so, it was proof she’d been near the missing woman, near enough to snap a closeup photo. But there was something very disturbing about that photograph. The detectives sought the opinion of another expert, and the news she gave them was extremely helpful to their case. It was also horrifying.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  WHILE CARI’S LOVED ONES, the investigators, and the prosecution team all felt certain that the vibrant woman no longer walked the earth, there would be no justice for her unless it could be proven she was deceased. Murders without bodies are notoriously difficult to prosecute, but many “no-body” trials do result in convictions. When Charles Manson was convicted of the 1969 murder of Donald Jerome “Shorty” Shea at a Chatsworth, California, ranch, the victim’s body had yet to be found—a point the killer emphasized when he appealed his conviction in June 1977. A judge in the higher court denied Manson’s appeal, stressing, “The fact that a murderer may successfully dispose of the body of the victim does not entitle him to an acquittal. That is one form of success for which society has no reward.”

  Six months later, in December 1977, Shea’s remains were recovered when Manson’s incarcerated accomplice, Steve Grogan, drew a map for authorities. Unfortunately, many victims are never found. The judge who made the Manson ruling had an excellent point. Why should killers enjoy victory for successfully concealing their victims’ remains? But there is a flipside to the argument. About a hundred miles southwest of Omaha, in 1887, William Marion was executed for the murder of his best friend, John Cameron. The two had left Beatrice, Nebraska, together to look for work on the railroad, but when William came back alone wearing his friend’s boots, authorities concluded he had killed John. A crowd gathered to watch as William was marched up to the platform and a rope was looped around his neck. He swore he was innocent, but everyone assumed he was lying. About a year after his execution, John ambled back into town, looking for his pal.

  One hundred thirty years later, as Douglas County prosecutors prepared to go to trial, they were quite certain Cari Farver would not come strolling back into town as John Cameron had. The trick, however, was proving that. Anthony Kava’s latest discovery had just made their jobs a whole lot easier. He’d been right about the disturbing image he’d found on the memory card. Forensic pathologist Dr. Michelle Elieff studied the photograph and concluded it depicted a tattoo on a foot—a foot that was in a state of decay.

  The killer had snapped the photo, Brenda Beadle realized, as a gruesome souvenir of her sadistic crime. Cari’s remains might never be located, but the photo of her lifeless foot with the unique tattoo proved she was no longer alive.

  Cari had four tattoos, including a large sun between her shoulder blades and the yin yang symbol on her hip that investigators had learned about when Liz wrote the confession in Amy’s name. As it turned out, Liz had also photographed Cari’s hip tattoo. Anthony found that photo while extracting deleted images on the memory card from Dave’s tablet. The foot tattoo was special to Cari, and she had told her mother that the inking process had been very painful. (Some tattoo artists refuse to work on feet because the procedure is excruciating for clients and risk of infection is high.) But Cari had withstood the agony and proudly sported the Chinese symbol for mother.

  Mother. It was a role she loved, and, of course, she loved her own mother. How perfectly fitting that this symbol of the thing most sacred to her would be the single most powerful piece of evidence to emerge. Cari’s family and friends were so lost without her. Her mother and son, especially, needed justice before they could move forward with their lives. Cari had gotten the tattoo to honor them, but as she endured the hours of pain at the tattoo parlor, she had no idea that the new symbol she wore would one day bring them peace.

  Liz, too, had tattoos, and the inked message on her left bicep was ironic, considering her evil deeds: “True Beauty lies within the heart.” She had fooled many people into believing her heart was pure. Well aware now that the killer’s heart was anything but pure, some wondered if a conviction would result in the death penalty. Each state has its own death penalty laws, and Nebraska is one of thirty states that currently allow it.

  Nebraska executes by lethal injection, but in the early part of the twentieth century, the Cornhusker State had preferred to dispatch its killers via hanging. After 1920, convicted murderers sizzled in the electric chair. One of Nebraska’s most infamous killers, Charles Starkweather, who took the lives of eleven people, was electrocuted in Lincoln, Nebraska, in 1959. His fourteen-year-old girlfriend, Carol Ann Fugate, was considered his accomplice and also convicted of first-degree murder, though she was spared execution. Carol served seventeen years in the Nebraska Correctional Center for Women in York, Nebraska, and was paroled in 1976.

  The death penalty was abolished in Nebraska by legislators in 2015 but reinstated a year later by voters, just in time for Liz Golyar. But fair or not, juries have a tough time stomaching the idea of executing females. While four people have been executed in Nebraska since 1976, none were female. The numbers are conservative, compared to Texas with 474 executions since 1976, including six females. According to Jim Masteller, Liz Golyar was never a candidate for execution. “In our state, in order to obtain the death penalty, you have to have at least one aggravating factor,” he explains, stressing that it’s usually not even considered without several aggravating factors. Nebraska’s Statute 29-2523 lists nine aggravating circumstances that allow prosecutors to seek death, including previous murder convictions, offenders who knowingly create a great risk of death to multiple people, the murder of law enforcement officers, and murder for hire. Liz didn’t fit the criteria, and the most her detractors could hope for her was life behind bars.

  The prosecution ha
d a huge responsibility. They knew Liz was dangerous, that she’d killed Cari Farver, and that she’d most likely kill again if allowed to go free. Beadle and Masteller had each successfully prosecuted multiple murderers and excelled at their jobs. This case, however, presented more challenges than most. For one thing, there was so much evidence it was almost impossible to keep it straight. Liz had sent 20,000 texts and emails while impersonating Cari. For the first time, the prosecutors asked a judge to allow a detective to sit with them at trial. Nebraska law allows it, but it’s extremely rare for Douglas County prosecutors to make the request.

  When the trial began on the morning of Wednesday, May 10, 2017, Detective Ryan Avis was seated at the prosecution table with Jim Masteller and Brenda Beadle. Avis knew the details of the very complicated case by heart. “He had his laptop in front of him, with the entire case file on it,” Masteller says, adding that whenever they needed a particular photo or other info, Avis located it instantly.

  Shanna Elizabeth Golyar not only faced a first-degree murder charge, another count had been added—second-degree arson for the fire at her rental home. Cari’s loved ones packed Judge Burns’s courtroom on the fifth floor of the Douglas County Courthouse. Cari’s friends Amber Jones and Holly Drummond were among those attending. Holly had met Cari when they worked together years earlier in Council Bluffs at Claire’s, a chain retail store, specializing in costume jewelry and accessories. The loss of her friend cut deeply. “Cari was a great friend,” she says, stressing, “always nonjudgmental.” Holly felt sick as she stared at the back of the defendant’s head. “She never once turned around to look at us.”