I am so sorry to hear about your ex-husband’s death. I call cancer the most deadly serial killer in the world!
You have nothing to fear from recorded phone calls. What, possibly, could the prison be interested in with you talking to me? So what if they record the calls! If you want me to tell your story, the truth is nothing to be afraid of sharing with anyone who wants to listen....
Hope to hear from you soon....
Donna Trapani’s and Sybil Padgett’s appeals were denied. I am sure they will continue to appeal all the way up to the U.S. Supreme Court, as Donna contended in her letter to me. But let’s be fair here. As the appeals court ruled: The evidence was sufficient to support . . . [their] convictions.
It’s over, ladies. Accept defeat and move on.
I think I can speak for Gail here when I say, “Ask for forgiveness and repent.”
Emily Fulton wanted readers to know a few things about her father. The person she talked about in this book, Emily wanted to be clear, is not the same man she knows today.
“He did get help and is a better person now,” Emily said of her father. “I know that my dad is not perfect, but he is a lot better than he was so long ago when all of that stuff was happening. My dad . . . is not dark (from an energy standpoint) like he was and he is actually quite nice to be around.”
George Fulton remarried in 2004. George refused to talk to me. He said, through Emily, that he is writing his own book and would rather put all of this behind him. I have nothing against George Fulton or the decisions he made. In keeping with the metaphor of the book, George’s mistakes are his cross to carry. Things happen, I understand. Marriages—within the Christian community or not—go through ups and downs, fail and survive. The sad part of this, in my opinion, is that George never realized (until it was too late) that he had brought an unstable, crazy woman, with obsessive personality disorders, into the marriage in meeting and hooking up with Donna Trapani. He would have never done so, I believe, had he known the type of woman Donna was.
Then again, what’s that old cliché? You play with fire . . . I am indebted to Emily Fulton for sharing her side of this story with me. Emily is a courageous young woman who deserves credit for standing up for her mother. Emily asked me if she could share a few memories about her father and say some things about his life today and what she has learned from this tragedy.
“The first memory of my father,” Emily told me, “was watching him jump over a chain-link fence that enclosed our neighbors’ backyards. . . .”
It was the sound of his daughter crying that sent George into action.
“I was around four years old and had been riding on a bike with my older sister when I fell onto the pavement.”
George was outside and heard Emily’s plea for help. “I must have howled quite loudly for him to hear me. . . . My sister had deserted me, leaving me alone in my pain, as I am sure she was scared she would get into trouble. I was a sorry mess, with bloody knees, lying in the middle of the street, when my dad came along and scooped me up and carried me home. He sat me on the toilet, and then my mom proceeded to clean and bandage my knees. I still have scars today from that fall, but I vividly remember feeling that my dad was my hero and his presence meant that everything was going to be okay—I was safe.”
Thinking about it all these days, it’s hard for Emily to imagine how this same man could have caused his family so much pain.
What went wrong? Emily asks herself.
“We are all human and complex creatures and each of us has unique hidden pains that will consume us if we do not heal them in a healthy manner. I think that my dad was suffering from depression from the death of his father at an early age and he lacked the knowledge to be able to process these emotions. This is not to justify his actions, but simply call attention to the fact that our hidden pains can destroy our lives, as well as the lives of those around us, if we neglect to heal those wounds. . . .”
I asked Emily if her family had moved on from her mother’s murder.
“Yes,” she explained, asking the question: “Do we still love and have a relationship with our father?”
That is the same question any reader of this book will ask.
“It has been a process,” Emily said, “but yes.”
I asked, had the fabric of her family been torn apart by irreversible damage?
“Perhaps in some ways,” she added, “but we are each healing our pain in our own way and exploring the new opportunities life has in store for us. Through my mother’s life and even within my own struggles, I realized there are many things that can derail us from experiencing the fulfilling lives each of us deserves. Many times I often think if my mom had only reached out for help that perhaps things could have been different. It often lays heavy on my heart that my mom essentially gave up everything for us kids and sort of lost herself amid the chaos of my father’s actions and never fulfilled her own dreams.
“Life is a journey and the path that I chose to take to rebuild my life after this tragedy was to empower women to achieve their full potential. It is my deepest desire to share the lessons I have learned and to help women find their own path, so that no woman has to struggle alone like my mom did. This is my life’s purpose now, and I feel blessed that my mom, through her death, has left this gift with me to share. . . .”
I would like to thank Colette Thatcher, Office of the Prosecuting Attorney, Administration Division; Cheryl C. Robbins (what a help Cheryl was!), Oakland County Sheriff ’s Office, Investigative & Forensic Services Division; Prosecutor Paul Walton; Lieutenant James A’Hearn; Christopher Wundrach; Lynn Erickson; Thomas Tabin (you have no idea how much help you were); and reader Diane Dixon, who sent me the story idea long, long ago.
There are the usual suspects, of course. (You know who you are!) Thank you to all of you for everything you do to advance my career and see that these books get into the hands of my readers.
I also want to thank Elena Siviero, who runs the M. William Phelps Fan Club on FaceBook. I know it takes time to do those things and I greatly appreciate Elena volunteering. Please sign up on the fan club page:
http://www.facebook.com/#!/group.php?gid=52752001614
Kensington Publishing Corp.—Laurie Parkin, the Zacharius family, in particular, and my editor, Michaela Hamilton, along with Doug Mendini, and every other employee who works on my books—has been there with me for over ten years and fifteen books now, supporting me, and always trying to figure out ways to reach more readers. I am both indebted and grateful for having such a great team of publishing people behind me.
Copyeditor Stephanie Finnegan always makes me look smarter than I am.
An immense thanks to Andrew “Fazz” Farrell, Anita Bezjak, Therese Hegarty, Geoff Fitzpatrick, Julie Haire, Elizabeth Daley, Jo Telfer, Milena Gozzo, Jeremy Adair, Alex Barry, Nathan Brand and everyone else at Beyond Productions who have believed in me all these years, as well as my DARK MINDS road crew: Colette “Coco” Sandstedt, Geoff Thomas, Peter Heap, Paddy, Jared Transfield, and, of course, John Kelly. Of course, thank you to everyone else that works on the show (I know I have forgotten someone and I apologize); along with my producers at Investigation Discovery (ID): Jeanie Vink and Sucheta Sachdev. A special shout out to Henry Schleiff, President and General Manager of ID, who has been behind my show since day one. You are all some of the most professional and passionate people I have ever worked with. I am so lucky to have you on my side. I am grateful for everyone working on the series—you are all wonderful people, some of the most gracious I have ever worked with, on top of being great friends. I look forward to the road ahead and where we’re going to take DARK MINDS!
I would be negligent not to mention all the booksellers throughout North America and beyond—those indy stores and the chains—who have supported me and talked up my books to customers (thank you from the bottom of my heart).
Lastly, my immediate family—Regina, April, Mathew Jr., and Jordon—who have stood behind me forever. I could not c
lose any book without speaking directly to my readers: Thank you! You are the most important part of this for me. I am grateful to each one of you for coming back, book after book. You are all constantly on my mind as I write these books.
And, of course, my readers. I love each and every one of you.
Read a preview sample of M. William Phelps’s
next riveting real-life thriller
Bad Girls
Coming soon from Kensington Publishing Corp.
Turn the page . . .
1
“SOMETHING BAD MAY have happened.”
It was the only fact she was certain of. Beyond that, the woman thought the victim might be “a friend of her niece’s.” His name “might have been” Bob. But that was all she knew. She feared the worst, however: that Bob Something was dead. She didn’t know the exact address where the police could find him, but she could explain how to drive there, and she would escort cops to the house if they wanted to meet her somewhere in the neighborhood.
On a quiet evening, May 5, 2004, forty-eight-year-old Richard “Rick” Cruz called the Mineral Wells Police Department (MWPD) and explained what his wife, Kathy, had just told him. Both Kathy and Rick were in somewhat of a panicked state. Not freaked out. But their feelings were more of a puzzled, what’s-going-on–type thing they didn’t quite understand.
“Have you heard anything about someone being shot on Eighteenth Street?” Rick asked the 911 dispatcher.
Rick had the street wrong. It was actually Twentieth Street. Still, dispatch wasn’t in the business of sharing information with worried callers phoning in to report gunshots fired at people.
“What other information do you have?” the 911 operator asked.
Rick explained the layout of the neighborhood best he could. He said he and Kathy weren’t all that familiar with Mineral Wells and this particular neighborhood where Bob supposedly lived. They had only heard about it.
The operator said they’d send an officer out to Eighteenth Street to check things out.
Rick and Kathy Cruz lived in Graford, Texas, directly next door to Kathy’s mother, Dorothy Louise Smith. Graford is about fifteen miles from Mineral Wells, where the shooting was said to have occurred. Kathy and Rick had arrived home at about 4:30 P.M. Rick was driving. As they exited the vehicle after Rick parked, Kathy’s mother, Dorothy, standing on her porch next door, waved them over.
“Come here,” Dorothy said. She seemed frazzled and agitated, as if in a hurry to get them over there so she could speak her mind about something.
“What is it?” Kathy asked.
Dorothy was “very upset,” Kathy Cruz later explained in a police report. Kathy and Rick noticed Dorothy was on the telephone. Apparently, Kathy found out after walking over and assessing the situation, Dorothy was talking to her other daughter.
Something terrible was happening.
“What is it?” Rick and Kathy asked.
A pause. Then a bombshell: Somebody shot Bob.
Dorothy got off the phone and clarified what she knew. As the story went thus far, somehow, Dorothy explained, Kathy’s niece (Dorothy’s grandchild)—who had been living with Dorothy intermittently throughout the past year—might be involved in the shooting. Nobody really knew how or why, or any of the circumstances surrounding the story. Just that it was urgent someone get over there to this Bob Something’s house immediately.
Rick walked into Dorothy’s house. Without explaining what he was doing, according to what he later told police, he headed into his niece’s room to have a look around.
“You stay here,” Rick said to Kathy, who was becoming more upset by the moment. Kathy’s niece had lived with the Cruzes for a while as well. Kathy had been close to her.
The idea Rick had in mind was to see if he could find something in the house that might clarify just what the hell was going on. A note. An e-mail.
Anything.
There was probably a simple answer. Usually there was. People overreact. Perhaps Dorothy, in all of her excitement, had totally misinterpreted the situation and blew it out of proportion. Drama—every family, in some form or fashion, had certain members that thrived on it.
Upon immediately entering the young girl’s room, Rick found an empty gun holster. Exactly what he did not expect.
Where is the weapon?
Then he found an unloaded pistol in a second holster.
This alarmed Rick. The report of a shooting. A gun missing from a holster. Another weapon on the bed in a holster. Rick wasn’t Magnum, P.I., but then again, he didn’t need to be a private investigator to figure out that something was up. And it didn’t look good.
Rick ran out of the room, then out of the house. While outside in the front yard, Rick called the MWPD back on his cell phone.
“Have you found anything?” Rick asked the operator. He sounded more serious.
“No. The officers out at Eighteenth Street haven’t located anything suspicious.” The dispatcher wondered what was going on. Was this guy—Rick—playing games with the MWPD?
Rick hung up. Then he grabbed Kathy’s attention. “Listen, we have to head out to Mineral Wells ourselves and find out what’s going on.”
Kathy thought about it.
Good idea.
They took off.
On the way to Mineral Wells, having no clue, really, where in that town they were headed, Rick phoned Kathy’s sister, her niece’s mother, Cindy Meyer (pseudonym), and asked for directions to a house in Mineral Wells that Kathy’s niece had been hanging out at and even living in lately. There was even some indication that the niece was working with the guy, Bob, who lived there. Cindy had been to the house.
After getting more detailed directions, Rick decided that he’d better stop first at the MWPD and relay to them what he had uncovered.
“I have the gun,” Rick explained, referring to the pistol he had taken out of the room in Dorothy’s house. “Do you want it?”
The cop was a bit taken aback. “We need to find that house first, Mr. Cruz. And we need to see if anything happened—then we can take it from there.”
Kathy’s niece was young—nineteen years old. According to Kathy and Rick, she liked to “get on drugs and exaggerate things.” Others had said she liked to brag about being a tough, gangsta-type chick. Although she had been in a relationship with a man, engaged to be married, and had a baby, she was an open and admitted lesbian with scores of sexual partners and girlfriends—plus, drugs had become her life. Who knew what she was into now? Could be just about anything.
They left together, the cop following Rick and Kathy.
Rick pulled onto Eighteenth Street first and didn’t seem to know where he was going. He was driving slowly past each house, checking to see if he recognized any of them. In back of him, the cop became more impatient as each block passed. The officer threw up his hands, beckoning Rick to tell him what in the hell was going on here. Was this some sort of a joke?
After a time of Rick’s stop-and-go game, the cop got on the telephone with Kathy’s sister; she talked him directly over to Twentieth Street.
Finally they arrived at the right house.
Bob.
Patrol corporal Randy Hunter, the participating officer, got out of his cruiser and told Rick, “You stay here by your truck and wait.” Hunter said he needed to approach the door by himself.
Procedure.
Hunter knocked on the front door as Rick and Kathy looked on.
No answer.
“I’m going around back,” Hunter said. “Stay where you are.” He held up his hand as to indicate stop. The plan was, Hunter later said, “to check and see if anybody may have been in the backyard, look around. . . .” See what he could find out.
Nobody seemed to be home, but Officer Hunter noticed something peculiar as he focused on the back door of the home.
One of the windowpanes had been smashed.
“Something may have happened inside,” Hunter recalled later, speaking about that moment he s
pied the broken back window, “that we needed to investigate a little further [and] check the welfare of the people inside.”
Several additional officers arrived. Officer Hunter approached the house slowly, his weapon drawn, reached for the knob and opened the door.
“Mineral Wells Police Department!” the veteran cop yelled as he walked in. “We’re here with Richard and Kathy Cruz. We’re coming in.”
Not a peep.
Hunter announced himself “four or five times” before heading into the kitchen.
As he made his way through the kitchen stealthily, as if expecting to be ambushed at any moment, Hunter heard music. A radio or television was on.
Coming out of the hallway from the kitchen, Randy Hunter spied a “subject,” as he described the person, “somebody lying on [a] bed. . . .”
He pointed his weapon toward the subject and shouted pointedly: “Mineral Wells Police Department!”
No response.
“The size of the body . . . it appeared to be a male,” Hunter recalled.
But Randy Hunter couldn’t be 100 percent certain, because the bottom half of the subject was covered with a blanket. And from his neck up, the subject’s face was covered with a pillow or bag of some sort.
Randy Hunter carefully approached the subject, bent down, and placed two fingers on the man’s carotid artery to check for a pulse.
No sign of life.
Then, as Hunter grabbed his radio to call in additional backup, he saw blood.
“We’re going to need an ambulance over here . . . ,” Hunter said into his handheld. “Send Captain [Mike] McAllester and Sergeant [Brian] Boetz, too.”
Kiss of the She-Devil Page 32