called Sheila a bad name.”
“Who? Susan?”
“No. Sheila.”
Now Lodge was confused. Surely this wasn’t a life-or-death situation, but her son was upset about something. “What do you mean?”
Kenny had not returned to his Wilmington apartment on Sunday as expected. And not on Monday either. His roommate was worried; he and his brother called Kenny’s cell phone. The young man was meeting their inquiries about when he might be home with some indecision. Sheila, sensing the problem, took the phone and started arguing with the men. When Kenny took the phone back, the brothers were calling Sheila a “bitch” and a “cunt” and every other name they could think of.
In between sobs, Lodge was having trouble piecing together most of this. She had no idea from where Kenny was calling. Lodge tried to press her son for more information when she heard Sheila in the background.
“Kenny, give me the phone,” she ordered. From the tone of her voice, it sounded as if she was unaware he’d made a call.
Who are you and what are you doing with my son, was what Lodge wanted to say when a lightning bolt of rage came out of the earpiece of the telephone.
“He is fucking twenty-four years old. Leave him the fuck alone!”
Lodge was stunned. Then indignant. Who was this woman Kenny had gotten himself entangled with?
Sheila went on. “We’re fucking happy!”
“I am Kenny’s mother…,” she began, but heard the cell phone click off. Bloody hell, she thought.
On Tuesday the twenty-first, Kenny was not answering his cell phone. Lodge called the car wash looking for her son. They told her Kenny hadn’t been in to work and they were worried about him. It wasn’t like him not to show up, not to call.
Kenny’s roommate told Kenneth Countie Sr. that this woman had taken him to a farm in New Hampshire. At least now we know where he is, Lodge thought. By Friday, when Kenny still hadn’t called his mother and his van and belongings were still at his apartment, Lodge decided she had waited long enough and decided to call police to report him missing.
Epping Police Sergeant Sean Gallagher took Lodge’s call. The mother explained, very calmly, that her son had been staying on a farm with Sheila LaBarre. She said her son had a mental deficiency and had recently tried to kill himself. Gallagher took the information, promised to touch base with the Wilmington Police Department and said he would go to the farm to check on her son’s well-being.
Gallagher was one of only two sergeants on the Epping Police Department. A Navy reservist for six years, he joined the force in 1995 looking for a career in which he could serve others. Chief Dodge was able to expand the size of his little police force by one more man by taking advantage of a grant from the U.S. Department of Justice. It covered 70 percent of Gallagher’s salary for the first three years of service. The grant dictated that Gallagher’s role would be as a community-oriented patrolman. And though he didn’t walk a beat in pulling on locked doors in urban neighborhoods, he found a way to make the philosophy of community-oriented policing fit with Epping. That meant meeting people, chatting them up, looking ahead to the potential trouble spots. Sheila LaBarre came across his path often, officially and unofficially.
Gallagher didn’t need to do a lot of research before heading out to Sheila’s home. She was a frequent filer, and her case file was filled with minor complaints and petty annoyances. She stormed into the station with letters of complaint—some directed at citizens, some directed at officers. She used her personal fax machine to transmit even more rants to the Epping Police Department after hours.
Some thought the feud (which was mostly one-sided) began after Sheila had been pulled over for speeding and charged with marijuana possession. It took an expensive lawyer and a pound of flesh, but the charge was expunged. Her lawyer urged her to watch out for the Epping cops from then on, advice she took too readily to heart. It was to be a jihad for the indignity they put her through.
Gallagher drove out to the farm later that day with Detective Richard Cote. The department had a standing policy when dealing with Sheila: always go with backup. The policy hadn’t been instituted, because they thought Sheila would become violent with a patrolman; it was put in place after one encounter when “Sheila the Peeler” became inappropriate with an officer. She started to come on to him. The sexual nature of the incident so disturbed Chief Dodge he ordered that none of his men was to approach her alone again.
Gallagher and Cote rolled up past the open wooden gate and exited the police cruiser. The sergeant stood tall and straight in his dark blue uniform and cap, knocking on the front door. A dog barked inside. Someone appeared in the window, eyes through a curtain that looked like a ghost.
“What do you want?” Sheila yelled out the window.
“Is Kenneth Countie here?”
She paused. “He’s here.”
“Sheila, could you come to the door please? So we can talk?”
She refused.
“I need to speak with Kenneth Countie,” Gallagher said patiently.
“Why?”
“He’s been reported as missing. I need to check on his welfare.”
“You can’t speak with him.”
“Why not?”
Sheila stared at the officer, knives in her eyes.
“Sheila, I must speak with him.”
“You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“He’s naked in the bathtub.”
“Well, get him out of the bathtub. I need to see him.”
Sheila moved away from the window and then reappeared.
“I’m going to check with the Wilmington Police to make sure you’re not lying.”
Cote watched as Gallagher stood at the door in the late February air. The farm was silent except for the police car’s running engine. The more he thought about it, the more he didn’t like the situation. Not coming to the door was just par for Sheila. Why wouldn’t she bring him out if he’s truly in there? Is she hiding something? They seemed to be waiting there an awfully long time.
The bolt on the door clicked open. Gallagher’s hand was resting nonchalantly on his holster, his eyes fixed to the widening entrance way. He saw Sheila there, lips pursed. Standing about five feet behind the door, a man wearing only a pair of blue jeans appeared.
“Kenneth Countie?” the cop asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.” Kenny stood meekly, arms folded in front of him. Cote noticed the kid was thin, but looking at his bare chest and back, could see there were no bruises, marks or other signs of injury on him.
“Your mother’s
