Kathryn Casey
Mysteries and True Crime

by Kathryn Casey

You probably wouldn't have noticed him in the crowd, the bearded, 36-year-old man at Wal-Mart two days before Christmas, scouring the tool aisle. He picked up one item after another, examining each, perhaps testing their weight, considering how they were made, the quality of a hatchet, a machete, and a variety of knives. What Jason Bouchard settled on, what he paid the cashier for and walked out the door with, was a crowbar.

Miles away at her Houston home, Terri Sanvincente, a well-known Adam Lambert fan and an assistant manager at a Walgreen's drug store, worried about Bouchard, a man she'd once loved who'd systematically tormented her life.

Two years earlier, she'd had the ex-army paratrooper formally evicted from their home. The separation, however, had dragged on, with Bouchard seeking custody of their three children, ages eight, six and three. Yet that, too, had recently been settled in Sanvincente's favor; six weeks earlier, after an 18-month battle, jurors granted primary custody to Sanvincente. Perhaps it wasn't surprising. At the hearing, Bouchard, who represented himself, surprisingly well, one expert says, admitted drug use and frequent masturbation. The jury ruled that he'd be allowed only supervised visits with his children.

Forty-year-old Sanvincente, it would later appear, took little comfort in the ruling. She continued to worry that she and her children (one dressed as Lambert on the right) remained in danger from a man who'd pushed her and hurled constant insults. “She was always afraid of what he was going to do next,” said Tabitha Charlton, Sanvincente's first family attorney, who walked away (more…)

Hey Everyone,

All of us who read true crime know one name: Ann Rule. Right now, she's fighting a difficult battle. Ann is hospitalized, fighting some strange virus that's attacked her neck. She's flat on her back, unable to move her head. It's a tough one.

So all you ARFs out there (Ann Rule Fans), now's the time to send your best wishes, prayers, good vibes, whatever you can, to Seattle, to Ann. Here's wishing her a speedy recovery. I'll keep you posted!

Best,
K

Update: Ann is turning her head now, and she appears to be improving. Thanks to everyone who wished her well.

2nd Update: Ann's in rehab, busy getting better! Let's continue to send good thoughts and hope that she's at home and well, writing again very, very soon!

Okay, so if any of you know how to reach Cesar Millan, a.k.a. The Dog Whisperer, call him, please. Quickly! Give him my name and ask him to get in touch. I have 11 pounds of fur living in my house and he's driving me crazy.

He looks innocent enough, all white and fluffy tinged with gray and a touch of black with big, big, almond-shaped dark brown eyes. Who could know that he'd turn out to be a tyrant, running the household? I didn't.

We've had Ozzie Nelson, our Havanese puppy, since October. He's funny and cute and he gives great puppy hugs and kisses, but he's dominating my life. I mean: Is this normal?

Okay, let me explain. First housebreaking has been a challenge. He either has to go every twenty minutes, or he's figured out that uttering his I've-gotta-use-the-facilities moan earns him a respite outside to romp in the grass. I guess this is an improvement, since before we were finding little packages left all around the house. That's no longer happening, but he's employing the woeful eye roll and guttural call combo so often, I had him outside 14 times yesterday. That's not a typo: 14 times!

And the bark. Who would have thought that a such a little guy would pack such a powerful set of lungs? I did a radio interview last evening and had to ask someone to entertain Nelson so he wouldn't bark his way through the hour. I needed a dog sitter, while I was home! It's like having a baby, one that bites. Nips really. Not a lot, and he is getting better, I think. Sigh. Maybe it's operator error, as in my errors?

The truth is that our little Nelson does have the prettiest brown eyes. He gives the softest kisses, and he truly is my best furry friend. So, I guess it's time to just gut it up and work my way through the first year, the puppy year, hoping that when he's a big dog, he'll understand that his mom is a writer who needs quiet for at least part of the day.

Thanks for listening. It's appreciated. You've saved me therapy bills. I've talked my way through this. The nipping, pooping in the house, whining to go outside, barking loud enough to shake the house off its foundation, will get better.

Still, if you know how to reach Cesar Millan, please send him to my house. Ozzie Nelson and I need him.

We all know this. It isn't news, but I'm going to spit it out: There are some pretty special people in the world. Now, you ask, how do I define "special?" Those who are able to spread enthusiasm, to get the rest of us up off our keesters (as my grandma used to say). Those who inspire us to live better lives and to help others.

One of those people is Kathy L. Patrick, founder of the Tiara wearing, book-reading Pulpwood Queens.

Yup, you got it right; I did put Tiara wearing and book reading in the same sentence. So does Kathy. She founded the club in her Jefferson, TX, beauty salon/bookstore ten years ago, and it's going strong. Last time I asked, she had something like 220 chapters and counting. Each month Kathy picks a book and an alternate for the Queens, and they read their pick then get together to discuss it.

It's true that Kathy picked my second novel, BLOOD LINES, as last November's main read, but, honestly, that's not why I'm writing this post. It's because of all Kathy does. In addition to the book clubs, she's active in a long list of other projects and still finds time to volunteer teaching literacy at a shelter. More amazing is how she influences others to become involved in good work. For instance, the Southwest Louisiana PQs raise money and supplies for a South American orphanage, and the Alaska bunch has an outreach program in a women's prison.

In fact, Kathy's so persuasive, she's inspired me to start working on a project. It's not at a point where I can talk about it yet, but when it comes together. I'll tell all of you about it.

So, you women (sorry, guys, but the club is for gals), if you have a group of friends, or if you'd like to make new friends, if you love good books and having fun, start your own Pulpwood Queen chapter. Kathy's link is on the right hand column of every page on my Web site, so it's easy to get in touch. Then get ready to be inspired!

One last note: Make sure you come to Girlfriend Weekend in Jefferson next year. Oh, my goodness, such a party. Authors from all over the country will be there, maybe dressed up like this past January as the Wizard of Oz or a munchkin. It's a blast!

My mom, LaVerne, died of Alzheimer's in June 2006. She'd been ill for nine years, and it was horrific.

My mother was hard-working, loving, articulate and funny. She enjoyed reading, dancing with my father, and she relished a good laugh. Mom was a secretary and one of the few women in our suburban neighborhood who worked outside the house. She never really liked cleaning or cooking, but for us she did both, never complaining. Nothing pleased her more than being with her family. Christmas was her favorite holiday, and for mom the only real roses were red.

Anyone who has lived through watching a loved one battle this devastating disease, one that slowly steals everything from its victims, understands what I'm talking about. Gradually, Alzheimer's robbed my mother of everything that made her my mom. In the end, Mom trembled constantly, her body never at rest. She recognized none of us. She had no peace and, unable to remember even her own name, no identity.

My mother, I'm convinced, was trapped inside her tortured mind and body. Part of her survived, caught inside, unable to find the words to come out. You see, there were those brief moments, when she resurfaced.

The last time this happened was the spring before her death. My father and I had spent the entire day at the nursing home with her. Over and over again, I said to her, "Mom, it's me, Kathy." And then I'd ask, "Who am I?" She'd look at me, troubled, unable to answer.

Late that evening, St. Patrick's Day, I said it one last time: "Mom, it's Kathy."

This time she looked at me, her eyes clear, and she said, "Kathy, it's you?"

For the first time in a very long time, we talked. Actually I talked. I asked her if she understood what was going on around her, and she said sometimes she did, but that it was hard to find the words to communicate.

We had a glorious half an hour together, before the light in her eyes again faded. It was enough time to tell her that we all missed her, and that I loved her. "I love you, too," she said, the words taking great effort. "Always."

Last week, I read a frightening yet beautiful book entitled STILL ALICE by Lisa Genova. It's fiction, but it reads like a true story, about a woman, a renowned professor and researcher, who is diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's. The novel takes readers from diagnosis through the first year or so of the character's life, and paints a picture of how the disease progressively dismantles its victims, destroying their lives and breaking the hearts of all those who love them.

For me, STILL ALICE rang true. It reflected what I experienced loving my mother and watching her slowly die. The heartbreak of so much loss and the joy of those small moments of triumph, like that final St. Patrick's Day evening. What Genova illustrates is what I saw first hand: hidden away deep inside, the person we love lives on.

Imagine being Dr. Jim Fallon, a Fulbright Scholar and professor emeritus in neuroscience at the University of California - Irvine. He set out to find out if psychopathic killers have certain biological traits that will show up on brain scans. When he finished his testing, he found the signs in a member of his own family.

The article about Fallon that caught my attention ran in the November 27th edition of the Wall Street Journal under the headline: What's on Jim Fallon's Mind? A Family Secret That Has Been Murder to Figure Out. On his bio, Fallon says: "I am interested in the neural circuitry and genetics of creativity, artistic talent, psychopathology, criminal behavior, and levels of consciousness."

Over the years, Fallon has analyzed the brains of more than 70 murderers. His interest in looking into the minds of dangerous criminals comes from an honest curiosity. The 62-year-old scientist started out by trying to assess his relatives' risk of developing Alzheimer's, which killed his father. (more…)

Some news stories touch the heart, staying with us long after they've disappeared from the headlines. The ones that never leave me are those involving children. There's a reason I haven't write about murdered kids. I've considered it off and on, but some crime scene photos I don't want imprinted on my brain, invading my sleep and keeping me awake at four a.m.

Every once in a while, I reconsider my situation, wondering if it's time to make an exception. For instance, when her body was found in July 2007, I thought about writing a book on Houston's Baby Grace case. Something about the original sketch of the two-year-old pulled at me. Those wide set eyes, the baby teeth visible through her smiling lips, the long blond hair that fell in waves. Even after a couple of decades writing about crime, I have a tough time understanding how some murders are possible, why someone would kill a small child.

When Baby Grace was found in Galveston Bay and the drawing of her face proliferated across the nation, I wanted to turn away from the images flashed on television and front-page in the newspapers. It all seemed (more…)

We spend so much time talking about forensic science these days because it's hard to overemphasize how much it has changed police work. Rarely do I go to a trial where someone doesn't bring up DNA, trace evidence and the like. It's talked about in hushed tones, like the Holy Grail of justice. And it should be. Good forensic science can free the innocent and bring the guilty to punishment.

But we often forget how much of police work remains logic and legwork, covering the bases, putting in the time, thinking the cases through and coming up with ideas. Case in point: Yesterday's sad discovery of the body of seven-year-old Somer Thompson, the Orange Park, FL, girl who disappeared while walking home from school two days earlier. That's Somer pictured above. As many of you may already know, her remains were found in a Georgia landfill, legs sticking out of a mound of garbage. An autopsy is underway, but authorities have already labeled the manner of death as homicide.

Why were the police in that landfill? Did forensic evidence suggest Somer was somehow connected to the landfill? No. In this case, as in so many others, (more…)

Hi All,

Awhile back I got a flood of e-mails from people after I wrote a newsletter about my schnauzer, Max, my best buddy, and how we had to put him down. Tough times. Those of you with pets, whether you've had to do this or not, I'm sure, understand how difficult it is to lose a pet. They're such a part of the family.

Today, I'd like to introduce our new puppy, Ozzie Nelson. Ozzie, because I love the Wizard and dream of Oz and my husband and I both love the name. Nelson for a friend of ours. Ozzie Nelson for the guy who was married to Harriet and fathered Ricky! Really fun.

Ozzie is a Havanese: a small white, gray, black and tan dog, with big dark eyes. I've posted a photo of him in the right hand column, since I couldn't figure out how to put one in the blog itself.

Anyway, he's the funniest dog. He makes strange noises, even coos like a dove at times. And he loves people. He's so furry and warm, it's like holding a Teddy bear. Absolutely darling.

So, our world is complete. Thanks again to everyone who e-mailed me expressing their sympathy for our loss. We still miss Max, but we're delighted Ozzie moved in!

Hi All,

It's been awhile! That's what's on my mind this morning. Time just rifles by, doesn't it? Here it is 09/09/2009, or nine-nine-nine, and I remember 01/01/01 like it was yesterday. I was at a rented bay house in Galveston with friends, where we'd spent New Year's Eve. My husband, myself, and three other couples.

The sunset that evening was gorgeous, swatches of bright golds and reds, stunning. We'd taken our photo in front of it, then gone inside to watch New Year celebrations across the world on TV, while we played cards. Lots of champagne, lots of laughing, lots of fun and good friends.

Is it possible that was nine years ago? Come on, how could that be?

The older I get, the quicker the years fly. I scan this blog and the first post is nearly a year old, from last October, when the Web site was redesigned and the option was first available. Strange.

What I'm taking from all this is that I need to get to work! I'm considerably more than halfway through my life, no way of knowing how far into it really, since life is so uncertain, and there's still so much to accomplish. I have so many books I want to write. I need to get busy, or I'll never get there. Where is there? I'm not sure, but I do believe I have much left to accomplish.

Most important: I've got family and friends to spend time with. How can we ever tell them enough that we love them? Impossible!

So, it's back to work. Just a reminder: Time's passing! Enjoy it, relish it, give it your all!