Cruel Doubt (2 page)

Doubts are more cruel than the worst of truths.

—Molière

Le Misanthrope

 

Introduction

In the middle of February 1990, I received a phone call from a lawyer in Raleigh, North Carolina, named Wade Smith. I'd met him in 1979, when he'd served as local counsel for Jeffrey MacDonald, a former Green Beret doctor convicted of murdering his wife and two children, about whom I had written in a book called
Fatal Vision
. MacDonald had not liked the book, but Wade and I had become friends in the years that followed.

He was chairman of Tharrington, Smith and Hargrove, a thirty-lawyer firm, which, in the years since I'd first met him, had grown into one of the most respected and prosperous in the South. Wade himself, at fifty-two, had advanced from being one of the most prominent criminal lawyers in North Carolina to being one of the state's most esteemed citizens. He'd served as chairman of the Democratic Party's state committee, his name still surfaced occasionally when possible candidates for governor were discussed, and he was about to become national president of the University of North Carolina's alumni association.

He said he had a client who'd just been through some difficult experiences, in the midst of which he'd given her a copy of
Fatal Vision
. Having read it, she had learned that Wade knew me, and she had asked him to contact me.

Although she'd shunned all publicity and valued her privacy highly, she remained so troubled by so much of what had happened to her that she wondered if I might want to write a book that could explore some of what she'd endured for eighteen months, and that might perhaps examine those aspects of her ordeal that, to her, still posed unanswered questions.

Another murder was the last thing I wanted, but Wade Smith is a persuasive man. After half an hour on the phone with him, I agreed that I'd fly to Raleigh and at least talk to the woman, whose name was Bonnie Von Stein.

I met her on Wednesday, February 21. She was forty-six years old, she wore a plain blue dress and thick glasses. Her brown hair, graying at the edges, was limp and straight. She looked frail and weary, and her face was devoid of expression. The very act of talking seemed painful for her. The air in the room where we spoke reeked of misery. She was everything I wanted no part of, yet I was there. And as she started to speak, I knew that one of two things would happen: either I'd start to care, which would be bad; or else I wouldn't, which might be worse.

It became clear quickly that she was not a person who simply craved the fifteen minutes of notoriety that attach themselves to anyone willing to titillate the public with his or her grief and complaints of injustice. To the contrary, she seemed almost disturbingly private.

She wasn't in it for the money, either. I told her I could not give her any money; that I wasn't interested in acquiring her “rights.” Almost as if offended by the notion, she said she wouldn't even consider taking money.

I also explained that it was not my practice to write a person's “authorized” version of events. That there had never been a circumstance under which I'd given a subject the right to approve, or even to see before publication, what I had written. That did not surprise her, either. She said she'd never thought a serious writer would work otherwise.

If not for Wade, of course, I would not even have been in Raleigh. As it was, I could leave at any time. I could just stand up and tell her it had been nice to meet her and wish her well and walk out the door and spend an evening warmed by Wade's
joie de vivre
and then, in the morning, fly home. I didn't need Bonnie Von Stein or her pain.

But what I began to sense that first day, and felt even more strongly the next, was that what she wanted from me was something both more complex and harder to provide than money or celebrity.

I thought, and still think, that Bonnie was hoping that if she threw her whole life open to me, if she held back no secrets whatsoever—if she authorized and even urged lawyers and psychiatrists and children and other family members and anyone else she'd ever known to talk to me with absolute candor—I might somehow be able to illuminate for her the darkness that had come to fill her days.

She believed—or wanted very much to believe—that I might find explanations for the inexplicable; answers to unanswerable questions; solutions to insoluble problems. She wanted me, I think, to make comprehensible to her all that she had endured and all she would forever have to abide.

None of us, however, really wants to part with every secret. Perhaps certain darknesses are best left undisturbed. There is a danger, in sending forth someone to search for truth, that we might suddenly find ourselves confronted by aspects of it that we've had deep and compelling reason to deny.

Early on, Wade told me this about Bonnie: “There's no way you can hurt her. This is a woman with nothing left to lose.”

It might have been one of the few times I've known him to be wrong.

 

Part One

A Death in the Family

July 1988–January 1989

1

The fire was burning in a swamp just a few feet off the edge of the road. This was in Pitt County, North Carolina, one mile west of the Beaufort County line. It was four-thirty
A
.
M
., pitch-black, Monday, July 25, 1988.

Noel Lee had been loading hogs. That is a task that in North Carolina, in summer, is best done after midnight and before dawn. Otherwise, the hogs are too hot by the time they reach the slaughterhouse. You don't want them overheated when you kill them. It spoils the meat. The hogs had moved good, loaded out fast. The truck had come in about three-thirty, and in not much more than an hour it was on its way again.

Lee was just starting home, the hog stink still heavy in the air, when he saw the flames burning in the darkness. It was odd, a fire in the swamp in the middle of the night. He was curious enough to take a closer look. But not so curious, when he got there, that he got out of his truck. He didn't know, he said later, what might be waiting for him behind the flames.

The fire was only a foot or two in diameter, the flames three or four feet high. What struck him most—other than the fact of the fire itself—was how strongly the flames burned in the damp, as if fueled by a flammable liquid.

There was no traffic, no one in sight. State Road 1565, known locally as Grimesland Bridge Road, off state highway 264, about ninety-five miles east of Raleigh, thirty miles inland from the coast, was not a major thoroughfare at any hour. At four-thirty
A
.
M
. on July 25, 1988, it was just a black line through farmland and darkness. The only light anywhere was the light from the mysterious fire. Noel Lee sat for a few moments in his truck, staring at it, wondering where it had come from, and why. Then he went home to bed, having no idea how many lives would be forever altered by his having noticed the flames.

* * *

Seven miles away, in Washington, North Carolina, Bonnie Von Stein, forty-four years old, lying on the floor of her bedroom, had finally reached the police dispatcher.

“This is an emergency,” she said very softly.

“Can I help you?” asked the dispatcher, a young woman.

“Yes, this is an emergency.”

“Well, what do you need, ma'am?” The dispatcher thought it was the crazy lady who often called in the middle of the night.

“I need the police and an ambulance.”

“Well, where do you need 'em?”

“One ten Lawson Road.”

“One ten, what road?”

“Lawson.”

“One ten Lawson Road?”

“L-A-W-S-O-N.” Very softly, Bonnie Von Stein spelled it out.

“I can't hear you, ma'am, could you speak up?”

“I'm sorry. The intruder may still be in the house.”

“Okay, why do you need an ambulance?”

“My husband may be dying and I think I may be, too.”

“Your husband did what?”

“My husband may be dying and I may be dying also.” The dispatcher knew now. It wasn't the crazy lady. It was somebody else.

“Okay, what is your name, please?”

“Bonnie Von Stein.” She was still speaking so softly she could barely be heard.

“Bonnie what?”

“Von Stein.”

“Okay, Bonnie Von Stein. Bonnie, hold on just a minute and I'm getting an officer on the way. Okay? Don't hang up on me, all right?”

“Yes.”

The dispatcher put out the call, then came back on the line. “Bonnie, are you still there?”

“Yes, I'm here.”

“Okay. Is someone in your house?”

“I don't know if they are still here or not.”

“Okay, did someone—why—where are you bleeding?”

“In the chest. I've been beaten and stabbed, I think.”

“Okay. Is your husband—is he beaten and stabbed also?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I have an officer on the way and I want you to stay right there with me, okay? Don't hang up until the police get there.”

“I don't know where my daughter is.” She had a daughter, Angela, eighteen years old. She also had a son, Chris, who was nineteen and away at college.

The dispatcher spoke to the officers who were on their way to the scene. “She advised she and her husband have been beaten and stabbed. She advised her daughter is also in the house and she doesn't know where she's at.”

“What's the address?” an officer asked.

“One ten Lawson. One ten Lawson,” the dispatcher said.

“Please hurry,” Bonnie Von Stein said.

“Okay,” the dispatcher said. “They're getting there just as fast as they can, and I am going to stay with you, okay? Okay, you hear—I hear the sirens going out right now. You just hold on.”

“I'll try.”

“Can you stay on the phone while I call the rescue?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay, you stay on there and don't hang up.” The dispatcher then spoke to the officers. “I'm not taking any chances, I'm calling rescue.”

“We're en route,” an officer said. “Be just a minute.”

The dispatcher spoke to fire and rescue. “Captain Lewis, we have a possible stabbing and beating, one ten Lawson Road. Bonnie Von . . . Stal-dine is the complainant. We have three officers on the way at this time. I can't give you any more than that right now because the lady can hardly talk.”

“One ten Lawson Road?

“One ten Lawson Road. There may be more than one person injured.”

“Okay, we're rolling.”

“Okay, thank you Captain Lewis.” Then the dispatcher spoke to Bonnie Von Stein. “Okay, Bonnie, the rescue's on the way, too, okay?”

“Yes.” The voice was still very faint.

“But I am not going to hang up until you hear 'em there with you.”

“I don't hear my husband breathing as fast.”

“Where is your husband, Bonnie?”

“In bed.”

“Can you wake him?”

“I can't reach him. I'm on the floor.”

“Okay, can you call him?”

“No.”

“Okay. And you don't know about your daughter?”

“No.”

“Is there anybody else that lives there with you?”

“They're not at home.”

There was a pause. “Okay, Bonnie?” the dispatcher said.

“Huh?”

“You still with me?”

“Yes.”

“Now, look, you hang in there. Don't—don't pass out on me, okay?”

“I'll try.”

“Okay, 'cause you stay calm and cool like you're doing, you're going to help everybody. Where are you in the house?”

“I'm in the bedroom on the right.”

“You're in the what? Bedroom on the right?”

“The bedrooms are upstairs.” She was speaking even more softly now, as if the last of her breath were almost gone. “My daughter . . . is in bedroom on left.”

“Your daughter is what, dear?”

“In the bedroom on the left.”

The dispatcher spoke to the officers. “She advises she is in the bedroom on the right, her daughter's on the left.”

“God, I hope this is a bad dream,” Bonnie Von Stein said.

Two police cars reached the house. “Okay, do you hear them?” the dispatcher said.

“Think so.”

“Okay, how can they get in?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't know how they can get in?”

“No.”

“Can you give—will you—”

“I don't know how they got in.”

An officer spoke. “You advise which door was unlocked?”

“She says she doesn't know how they got in,” the dispatcher said. “Stand by. I'm trying to get you more.”

“That's the policemen,” Bonnie Von Stein said. “I hear them.”

“Yes,” the dispatcher said. “There are four policemen there.”

“Okay,” an officer said. “I got the back door open. The back door's been forced open, I believe.”

“The back door is open,” the dispatcher said to Bonnie Von Stein. “The back door has been forced open and they are coming in.”

“Oh, my God,” Bonnie Von Stein said. Then she began to cry.

“You just—you just lay right there—look, don't get excited. Okay, Bonnie? You calm down . . . calm down, okay?”

“I have cats. Please, I don't want my cats hurt.”

“Okay, Bonnie, you just calm down and think good thoughts . . . and I'm not going to hang up with you until Officer Sparrow comes in and talks with me. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“When Officer—when officer comes in—Officer Sparrow is my husband, okay? So you ask for him . . .”

“Okay.”

“. . . and tell him I'm on the phone and let me talk to him.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, can you call him?”

“The light's turned off.”

“Okay, his name is David.”

Bonnie Von Stein heard policemen in the hallway outside her room. “Uh, please come in,” she said. “Please come in.” They didn't seem to hear her. There was a pause. “Please come in!” she called, raising her voice for the first time. The door opened. “Yes . . . please,” she said. “Turn the light on.”

An officer named Tetterton did. And when he did, he cried out,
“Oh, my God in this world!”

“Officer . . . Officer . . . Officer Sparrow,” Bonnie Von Stein said.

Sparrow was there. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Oh, it's not a dream.”

Tetterton was on the radio to the dispatcher. “Dispatch rescue!” he was saying. “Call the rescue!”

“I hear,” the dispatcher said. “I got 'em on the way.”

“Is my—my daughter in the other bedroom?” Bonnie Von Stein said. She was sounding increasingly distraught. “I think I heard my daughter talk.”

“Okay,” the dispatcher said to the officers. “Please advise me if that subject's daughter is all right so I can calm her down.”

A moment later, an officer named Edwards called out, “She's okay.”

“Okay,” the dispatcher said. “Bonnie, your daughter is fine.”

“My husband must be bad . . . oh, God! . . . I see him!”

“Okay, don't look at him, Bonnie. Bonnie, don't look at him.”

“He was trying to help me.”

“Okay, do you remember seeing anybody?”

“Oh, it was dark, I don't know.”

“Okay.”

“I know he had a big club or a baseball bat . . . and a knife. I didn't hear anything. I'm sorry.”

“We're gonna need an investigator,” Edwards said.

“Bonnie?” the dispatcher said.

“Yes.”

“Okay, now you hang in there with me.”

“Don't let my daughter come in here.”

“Okay,” Tetterton said. He called to another officer, “Tell her not to come in here.”

“Bonnie?” the dispatcher said.

“Yes.”

“The rescue's coming, okay?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, don't look at your husband.”

Tetterton then took the phone from Bonnie Von Stein. “Hey,” he said.

“Tetterton?”

“Yo.”

“God,” the dispatcher said.

“In bad shape, gal,” Tetterton said. “We got to have a uh . . . uh . . . a rescue right quick.”

“They're on the way,” the dispatcher said.

Tetterton hung up the phone.

* * *

Hearing Bonnie call out repeatedly, “How is my daughter? . . . How is my daughter?” Patrolman Edwards had taken two or three steps down the hall and opened the first door he came to. He shined his high-powered police flashlight on the bed. He could see a figure lying there. Using a wall switch, he turned on the room light. He saw Angela, unharmed. Next to the bed, an electric fan was running.

Angela rolled over and asked calmly, “What is it?”

She recognized Edwards. She and her friends called him Danny the Dickhead because he used to chase them from the mall parking lot whenever they gathered there on weekend nights.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I'm fine. What's going on?” She seemed neither alarmed nor even surprised to see a police officer in her bedroom at four-thirty
A
.
M
.

“You need to get up and put your clothes on,” he told her.

Angela had been sleeping in a T-shirt and underpants. She got out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans. She was about five two and maybe weighed a few pounds more than she would have liked, but was not an unattractive girl. She had reddish brown hair, a snub nose, and freckles.

Edwards noticed a dark brown stain on the jeans she'd put on.

“Is that blood?”

She looked at the stain. “No, that's just oil and saddle soap,” she said. “I spent most of yesterday at the stables.” Then she asked again, “What's going on?”

He did not answer immediately. Edwards didn't know whether any intruders were still in the house. He thought someone might have tried to flee through the attic upon hearing the arrival of the police.

“How do you get to the attic?” he asked.

Angela told him the only access was through a crawl space inside her closet. He opened the closet and immediately saw that it was packed full of clothes, leaving the crawl space inaccessible.

As he was checking the closet, Angela stepped out of her room, into the hallway, and seeing activity and hearing noise, walked to the doorway of the master bedroom.

The blood-drenched body of her stepfather lay sprawled across the double bed. He was wearing only a pair of briefs. It was quite obvious to Angela that he was dead. Her mother was lying on the floor, emergency medical technicians gathered around her.

She heard her mother ask, “Where's Angela?”

“I'm here, Mom,” she said. “I'm fine.”

Then someone shouted, “Get her out of here!”

Angela stood at the bedroom doorway, still staring inside.

Officer Sparrow told her to go downstairs and to wait in the living room and to be sure she did not touch anything.