a heating vent on the floor. The vent was right next to where the mattress had lain. It was forced hot air, and the smell was definitely coming from the register. He could see more small drops of blood on the metal plate and in the ductwork, but there was something more pungent than that. It smelled like vomit.
Jackson looked through the first floor bedroom and found it in shambles. There were cardboard boxes containing letters, greeting cards and other mementoes. He could see what looked like two brown stains on the boxes. More blood? he asked himself.
Among the papers was a single-spaced typed document labeled “Power of Attorney.” Jackson scanned it quickly. It began:
I, Kenneth Michael Countie, DOB-JULY 18, 1981 SS# 029-XX-XXXX do hereby grant and give complete and total FULL POWER OF ATTORNEY to SHEILA LaBARRE, ESQUIRE of P.O. BOX XX, RAYMOND NH 03077 to talk to Social Services, any and all police departments, or to anyone regarding any and all business pertaining to me.
It gave Sheila the power to receive Countie’s mail, sign his checks, speak for him in court and deal with virtually any business or personal matter on his behalf. Then it went on to say:
Additionally, I only TRUST Sheila LaBarre and do completely feel safe and secure in her presence. She had helped me to relocate to New Hampshire. She had helped me by giving me employment and a nice place in which to reside. She had added my name to her address…
It finished with something Jackson considered odd, certainly not something one would normally put in a power of attorney:
Sheila LaBarre has a legally taped recording of me, having informed me throughout the tape that New Hampshire is a two party consent to tape statement and I did grant permission under free will to be tape recorded. This tape is my second sworn statement regarding additional information which Social Services in the State of MA should hear. Please listen to the tape when it is typed and faxed, please take it seriously…
Although the paper was written in the first person as if Kenneth Countie had composed it, it was obvious Sheila had put the whole thing together. Clearly, the “please take it seriously…” line indicated this was something important to her. At the bottom, both signed (Countie, in tiny letters like a grade-schooler; LaBarre, in sweeping arcs) and dated (“3/10/06,” about two weeks earlier) the document.
Jackson was ready to make his way up to the second floor when he noticed a chair at the foot of the stairwell. He saw red-brown flecks on the arm, but the seat cushion was missing.
Rumrill asked Mudgett to come into the kitchen. He took a gaze at the heel print. “First impressions?” he asked her.
“Not what I thought we’d find,” she confessed. “We still have to hit it with the LCV, but I’m surprised at the lack of concentration of blood. No pools yet. No puddles or big stains. So far, it’s all tiny amounts.”
“But there’s cast-off everywhere,” Mudgett said. “What did she do? Chase him through the fucking house with an ax, like in Misery?”
“Let’s go in here.” Rumrill pointed to a room off the kitchen. It was a laundry room. We’re not going to be that lucky, Mudgett thought as he put his hand on the washing machine.
He opened the top. To his surprise, there still was something inside. He peeked in, but leaned back after a smell got into his nostrils again. There was a musty, putrefied odor again. Holding his breath, Mudgett reached in and poked around. There were some wet clothes inside, but taking up most of the well was a comforter. The detective pulled it out and it smelled even worse. It reeked of puke and decomposition.
On the second floor of the house, Jackson and Rumrill sprayed Leuco Crystal Violet throughout the bathroom. Unlike the one downstairs, it was a full bath, with a ceramic tub and tiled wall. Cast-off was found on the tiles as well as on the ceiling. What went on in this room?
Jackson put the LCV on the sink and in the tub using a wash bottle. The pre-mixed concentration was mostly hydrogen peroxide and 5-sulfasalicylic acid. The sink and tub looked clean, until the chemical hit them. The LCV began to react with the hemoglobin in the invisible red blood cells still clinging to the fixtures. It came alive in a vivid purple. There were dilute stains over the entirety of both surfaces.
Back downstairs, just off the laundry room, was a half-bath. Mudgett looked around and found a half gallon jug of laundry bleach. He picked it up and shook it. Mostly empty. Smart cookie, he thought. First she burned the DNA on the body. Then she destroyed what was left inside the house with bleach.
He gave a heavy sigh. They were going to be here a while.
Estabrook and Conte were outside the farmhouse waiting patiently for Mudgett and the others to emerge with details. The sun was bright and the view was beautiful. Every now and then, a stray rabbit moved in the underbrush, startling one of them. The two cops decided to take stock of some other things found near the burn pit.
In the back of Sheila’s green pickup truck were a couple of yellow fuel containers. Estabrook noted the license plate number started with “AG,” the code that indicated agricultural equipment. The containers were all empty and they smelled of diesel fuel. He already knew the containers were new and knew where and when Sheila got them.
“What on this farm runs on diesel fuel?” Estabrook asked Conte.
“Not this pickup.” He made note of the other vehicles on the land. There was a black luxury car, a silver luxury car and another pickup truck. None of them used diesel.
The silver car had a vanity plate. It read, “CAYCE.”
There was one tractor, an old rusted jalopy of a thing. It ran on diesel, but its engine had given up the ghost a long time ago.
Conte’s cell phone rang. It was the deputy state medical examiner.
“Doctor Duval just got a second opinion on the bone photos we sent her,” Conte explained to Estabrook. “She consulted with a forensic anthropologist in Maine. They both agree the bones look human.”
“They’re going to want to see the actual bones though, right?”
“Yes,” Conte said. They started making arrangements to bring some of the tagged samples from the van up to the medical examiner in Concord. It occurred to them both that they could be collecting all that remained, and all that might ever be found, of Kenneth Countie.
The lieutenant pointed across the yard to the blue Wal-Mart bag blowing in the breeze. “Make sure,” Conte said, “you bring that, too.”
8
You Know Who I Am
When they woke up on the morning of Monday, March 27, Paquin and Charpentier put their heads together on how to help their new friend, Sheila LaBarre. But the buxom blonde who spent the night in Donald’s bedroom (Donald volunteered to sleep on the recliner in the living room) had already been formulating a plan on how to proceed. Sheila had been running her finger through the yellow pages seeking an attorney. She spotted one running a full-page ad and she made a note of the number and address.
“Angel,” Sheila addressed Paquin that morning, “whatever will I do with my beloved animals?”
“Your
