“Well, you do what you can, you know.”
“Yeah,” Billy said.
CHAPTER 20
At 10:34 P.M., Detective Sergeant Richard Sprankle walked into the kitchen of Jeanne’s house with Assistant Deputy ME Wayne DiGeronimo. A veteran detective who had worked all aspects of homicide throughout his career with the NPD, Sprankle was unnerved by the scene. Nashua was a community under his watch. This wasn’t the sort of crime the town saw all that much of. More recently, Sprankle was involved on an investigation level into the explosion of gang violence on the streets of downtown Nashua, a part of the job he took a particular interest in because so many children’s lives were at stake. Lately, the NPD was documenting an increase in the number of gang markings from the Latin Kings and Folk Nation, two of America’s more well-known street gangs—that just happened to be “bitter enemies.” Throughout downtown, in certain locations, “walls and other structures” were covered with both gangs’ indelible graffiti-laden scribes, which told investigators trouble was undoubtedly on the horizon.
Could Jeanne’s death be gang-related? It was possible.
Like Sprankle, Dr. DiGeronimo’s integrity for serving the needs of the community drove him. In the coming months, DiGeronimo would be one of several insiders to instigate a major investigation into corruption within his own office as two of his distinguished colleagues became the target of a major state police inquiry. A former chief forensic investigator with the ME’s office and an assistant deputy medical examiner were going to be the focus of what was reportedly widespread “forgery, fraudulent handling of recordable writings and tampering with public records.” In short, the pair allegedly conspired to “falsify cremation documents” and control the “certification of New Hampshire cremations” for a profit in the neighborhood of, some reports had it, twenty thousand dollars.
Sprankle’s wide base of gang violence knowledge must have implored him to consider a gang-style robbery gone bad as he and DiGeronimo moved about the scene at Jeanne’s, studying her body, blood spatter evidence all about the kitchen and the immediate area around the house. Most of the gangs in Nashua used baseball bats to strike their victims motionless before robbing them. For a seasoned detective and experienced medical examiner, it was easy to tell by just a quick glance at Jeanne’s body that she had been beaten brutally with an object similar to a bat.
As they entered the kitchen where Jeanne’s body lay, both Sprankle and DiGeronimo noticed the way the blood—from one end of the room to the other—was spattered. The pattern indicated some sort of struggle between Jeanne and her killer (or killers). There, though, among the blood spatter patterns across the floor and cabinets were several footprints, Jeanne’s among them. On the refrigerator was what looked to be a large bloody palm print.
Heading toward the living room, Sprankle saw the remains of the coffee table, which had been broken in half, and then looked over toward the back door: the glass, quite significantly, had been pushed out, apparently from the inside. Jeanne’s killer had obviously walked into the house without a problem; yet, for some reason, perhaps pushed his or her way out, or struggled with Jeanne, knocking the glass out during what looked to be a fight for life and death.
As officers had reported earlier, inside the kitchen sink was the handle of a knife. In the backyard were two more knives, which a cop roaming through the scene had found and pointed out to Linehan before he left.
Kneeling down, looking over Jeanne’s body, DiGeronimo’s preliminary thesis was that there were dozens of stab wounds to her neck and throat, even on her head.
It appeared, however, that nothing was missing from the house. Burglary being quickly ruled out, Sprankle and his fellow investigators roaming about the scene were left to wonder if Jeanne knew her attacker.
CHAPTER 21
Parker Smith was inside his house, directly next door to Jeanne’s—“Still trying to figure out what was going on,” he said—when a cop knocked on his door.
“Would you be willing to take a ride downtown and give us a statement?”
“No problem. Any information I can give you guys, I want to help out.”
(“I had no idea where Nicole and Billy were then,” remembered Parker. “I saw the cops take them out of Billy’s car and I had no idea where they went after. There were so many cops and plainclothes detectives walking around, it was hard to keep track of everything.”)
At the station house, Parker told detectives exactly what he saw earlier that day—Nicole and Billy running around the backyard playing tag.
“OK,” said one of the detectives.
Parker could tell they were interested in something else, however.
“Their clothes?” asked another detective. “Do you recall what they were wearing?”
Parker thought about it.
“Especially Billy,” the detective continued. “Would you have any idea what he had on?”
“White sneakers, jeans and a white T-shirt,” Parker said without hesitation.
(“I knew then,” he recalled, “what was going on—or at least I knew that Drew didn’t have anything to do with it.”)
Without being asked, Parker offered the entire layout of the neighborhood as he remembered it throughout the day: where cars were parked, make, model and color included; when Nicole and Billy were home, when they left; who was home in the neighborhood during the day and who wasn’t.
“We’re curious,” said one detective, “why you recall this all in such great detail?”
“Well,” said Parker, “I think my wife is screwing around on me, so I’ve been paying attention to everything.”
“Yeah, but…how can you remember all this?”
“That’s why,” said Parker. He felt like they were badgering him. It made him uncomfortable. “Our separation came out of the blue to me, so I figure there’s somebody else involved, you know.”
After Parker finished giving his statement, he was allowed to leave. He sat in the parking lot on the curb. His wife was on her way to the station house to give a statement. He figured he’d have a minute to smoke a cigarette and clear his mind before she arrived.
What a damn night.
While sitting in the parking lot, Parker saw a dark-colored sedan pull up in front of the NPD’s entrance. Then a plainclothes detective wearing jeans and a white T-shirt stepped out. The only reason Parker knew the guy was a detective was because he had his badge clipped to the side of his sleeve.
There was also a female, “a large lady with long blond hair, dressed in civilian clothes,” remembered Parker. She was consoling Nicole, who was walking beside her.
Parker stood as they approached. Nicole noticed Parker as soon as the light from an overhead streetlamp hit his face. She looked at Parker, but didn’t recognize him at first.
“Parker? Is that you?”
“How you doin’, Nicole?”
“OK.” She seemed confused, panicky, disoriented. “What’s goin’ on?”
The woman with Nicole steered her away from Parker. The detective walked toward him.
“She doesn’t know yet?” Parker asked the detective quietly, so Nicole couldn’t hear.
“No.”
Nicole spun around and moved closer to Parker.
“What’s goin’ on, Parker?” she asked again. “What’s happening?”
“Nicole, just go with these people…. They’ll explain everything to you. Just go with them.”
Parker shook his head. He had daughters. He thought for a moment how the news was going to hit Nicole.
“Parker? What’s happening?” Nicole said again.
“Just go, Nicole,” Parker responded. “It’ll be OK.”
Parker was horrified at the thought of Nicole walking into the police station, sitting down and being told her mother was dead. It was going to destroy her. If anybody knew how estranged Nicole was from Jeanne at the time of Jeanne’s death, it was Parker. Living next door to Jeanne, Nicole and Drew, Parker was one of a few neighbors Jeanne went to when s
he needed help with the kids. Drew might need his bicycle fixed, or maybe Jeanne wanted him home for dinner and couldn’t find him. There were times, recalled Parker, when Jeanne knocked on the door in desperation—not because of Drew, but Nicole.
“Nicole’s gone again, Parker. Can you go look for her?”
“Where’d she go?” asked Parker.
“I don’t know,” said Jeanne. “She said something about running away. You know these kids. She has no clothes with her. She just took off down Amherst.”
“Absolutely, Jeannie. Do I have permission to forcibly put her in the car?” Parker was worried about getting into trouble.
“Whatever you have to do. Just get her in the car and get her home.”
Nicole had an argument with Jeanne that night and told her, “I’m leaving and never coming back.” Jeanne was more concerned over the Little Red Riding Hood factor than anything else. She knew Nicole couldn’t take care of herself on her own and wasn’t planning on actually running away. It was more of a way to rebel.
“No problem, Jeannie, I’m on it,” said Parker as he left.
It took Parker about five minutes. Nicole was just down the road, trolling along the sidewalk.
Parker pulled up.
“Your mom told me I could put you in the car if you didn’t get in, Nicole,” he shouted out the window, “so just get in and don’t make me do that.”
Nicole never verbalized her feelings. When Jeanne explained to Parker that Nicole had “flipped out” and “yelled and screamed” inside the house before taking off, he had a hard time picturing it. “That was so out of character for that little girl I knew. I had never seen her like that. Drew, sure. But Nicole? No way.”
During the short ride back to the house, Parker said, “Nicole, when you get older, you can make your own decisions. Right now, you have to do what your mom says. She’s the boss. You’re a minor. Until you’re an adult, it’s her rules.”
“I know, Parker,” Nicole said, staring out the window. “I know. I know. I know.” She threw her hands up.
“Nicole, you got a couple of years, just wait. And then you can do whatever it is you want to do. But for now, your mom pays the bills. You do what she says.”
“OK,” said Nicole. “I understand.”
CHAPTER 22
Knives. Jeanne Dominico was against having them in her house. Even everyday kitchen knives to carve meat and butter toast. As detectives continued questioning Chris McGowan into the evening of August 6, pestering him about Nicole, Drew and Jeanne’s ex-husband, Anthony, he made a point to say that Jeanne hated knives of all kinds.
“It seems strange,” said Chris, “but that was Jeanne. No knives in the house.”
When he first started dating Jeanne, Chris thought it was odd that a woman who had cooked as well as Jeanne and put dinner on the table every night for two teenagers had not owned at least a simple set of knives. Every household in America had a cheap set of cutlery.
What’s the big deal?
It was May 2000, a pleasant spring night. By then, Chris and Jeanne had been spending much of their free time together. On this night, they were hanging out in Jeanne’s backyard. Chris cooked steaks on the grill. When he finished cooking, he walked into the kitchen to carve the meat. But after rummaging through the drawers, looking for a knife, Chris yelled, “Where’s all your knives, Jeannie?”
Jeanne was on her way into the house. She looked at him, then down at the floor. Embarrassed? Well, not really. Jeanne thought maybe now was a good time to come out with it.
“I hate knives…,” admitted Jeanne.
“Why? What do you mean?” Chris was puzzled. He had never heard such a thing.
“She was terrified of [knives],” recalled Chris. “We talked about it all the time. It wasn’t only knives.” Chris said he “got on Jeannie” at times about the shades and windows in the house always drawn and locked.
“Get some sun in here,” he remembered telling her once while pulling the shade cord, raising the blinds.
Jeanne started crying.
“It’s OK, Jeanne. Don’t worry.” Chris hugged her. “Don’t worry.”
The subject of knives was of great interest to detectives. When Chris brought it up that Jeanne was frightened of keeping knives in the house, detectives asked him to be more specific. By then, some of the facts were clear: the NPD had a middle-aged female dead on her kitchen floor, dozens of knife wounds to her face, neck, throat, head and torso. There was an indication from investigators at the scene that the blade of a “steak knife” had broken off during the attack, which was found on the kitchen floor—the handle located inside the kitchen sink. The subject of knives was indeed at the forefront of the investigation.
More than any of that, however, here was her fiancé, covered with blood, sitting, nervously sipping from a cup of water, describing how the woman he loved hated keeping knives in the house. It was apparent, detectives had to assume, that Jeanne had an eerie sixth sense that she was going to be attacked by someone with a knife. From an investigative standpoint, it all seemed to fit together so well.
“Like the fact of Jeannie hating knives and then being killed by knives,” said Chris, “there were strange coincidences all throughout. I had to later stop and think about it. Like the flowers I sent her for our anniversary. I ordered them on Monday of that week and specified a Friday delivery, the closest workday to our anniversary. But they were delivered on Wednesday—the afternoon of the night she was murdered—for some reason.”
Thinking differently now about the events of the past year, Chris couldn’t help but recall how the knives that had likely killed Jeanne ended up in the house. Chris and Jeanne were shopping one day when Chris came upon a nice “cheap” cutlery set. “Look at this, Jeannie.” Chris picked it up. “Not bad, huh?”
Although still a bit apprehensive, Jeanne said, “So I suppose you want to buy those, Chris?”
“Yeah, why not?”
She wasn’t thrilled, but she agreed.
As Chris sat and spoke with detectives, he explained that Jeanne was equally scared of keeping knives in the house because she worried about Drew.
“Not because…for, I mean, in a vicious way…but she didn’t like Drew having access to knives or stuff like that.”
It was a matter of not storing gasoline next to a fireplace. Drew had a temper. Chris believed Jeanne didn’t want to keep knives in his reach for fear he would get the urge to grab one in the heat of an argument.
Not all of Jeanne’s friends saw Drew the same way.
“Jeanne never verbalized to me that she was scared of Drew in any way,” a friend of Jeanne’s later said. “Never. He did have a temper. And yes, he was an angry little boy. But you have to understand that single people cannot raise children on their own and work full-time. Something has to give. Jeanne’s main concern, always, was to keep a roof over their heads and raise them best she could.”
“For the longest time,” Chris continued as detectives sat and listened, “we kept the knives in Jeanne’s bedroom. If we needed them, she’d take one out, but only when we needed to use it. But it became a hassle after a while. So, I finally convinced her to leave them in the kitchen.”
Primarily, Chris remembered, detectives were listening to what he had to say, more than reacting to the information by asking additional questions—which made him feel comfortable, as if they were hunting for information, rather than pointing a finger at him, Drew or even Anthony.
“Where are the kids?” Chris asked again. He still had it in the back of his mind that he was going to have to explain to them what had happened.
“It’s OK, Mr. McGowan, we’re working on getting them here.”
Both Nicole and Drew were, of course, already inside the station house. For some reason, though, detectives didn’t want to share that information with Chris.
Chris answered a few more inconsequential questions and was made to once again sit by himself and wait.
A short
while later, a detective entered the room.
“What about Nicole? Have you located Nicole and Billy?” pressed Chris.
“We haven’t been able to get in touch with Nicole or her boyfriend,” said the detective, looking down at his notes, “at this point. But we’re working on it.”
As it got closer to midnight, Chris felt confined. He wanted to leave. It was all too much. He had sat and answered questions, given detectives all the information he could, but now wanted to drive across town and wake up Amanda Kane, Jeanne’s best friend. She deserved to hear the bad news from him—not by waking up and hearing media accounts.
Chris’s mother, sister and brother arrived to pick him up. They brought a fresh set of clothes for Chris to change into. He wouldn’t have access to his car, of course. It was part of a crime scene investigation. No matter, he wasn’t much in the mood to drive, anyway.
“I have to go see Amanda,” Chris told his brother. “I cannot let her see this on the news.”
“Sure, anything you need.”
Detective Denis Linehan placed Billy in an interview suite on the second floor of the NPD and sat with him for a time. Linehan, an imposing man with a square jaw-line, neatly cropped, short black hair and a gentleman’s demeanor, stepped away from Billy for a moment and into the room where Chris was waiting. Linehan wanted to know how they could find out where Jeanne’s parents lived.
“You remember the street?” asked Linehan.
“No idea. But if I can get to my computer at home, I can tell you.”
Linehan was curious. “How is that, Mr. McGowan?”
“I had sent flowers to them last St. Patrick’s Day. I have that address from the receipt, but it’s in my computer.”
“What if we put you online? Think you can find it?”
Within a few minutes of scouring the Internet, Chris had the address and telephone number.
Detective Linehan said, “Before you go, we have someone we want you to meet.”
Because You Loved Me Page 9