Baby Be Mine

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BREAKING POINT
guides readers through the tortuous twists and turns in the case of Andrea Yates, the Houston mother who drowned her five young children in the family's bathtub. In Edgar Award-nominated
DARK DREAMS,
legendary FBI profiler Roy Hazelwood and bestselling crime author Stephen G. Michaud shine light on the inner workings of America's most violent and depraved murderers. In the book you now hold,
BABY BE MINE,
Edgar Award nominee Diane Fanning tells the tragic tale of the murder of a pregnant Missouri woman . . . allegedly by a woman who wanted her baby.

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St. Martin's True Crime Library Titles
by Diane Fanning

Gone Forever

Through the Window

Into the Water

Written in Blood

The Shocking True Story of a Woman Accused
of Murdering a Pregnant Woman to Steal Her Child

D
IANE
F
ANNING

BABY BE MINE

Copyright © 2006 by Diane Fanning.

Cover photo of Lisa Montgomery courtesy AP/Wide World Photos. Photo of Bobbie Jo Stinnett by Zuma/courtesy of Nodaway-Holt High School.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10016.

ISBN: 0-312-93873-X
EAN: 9780312-93873-4

Printed in the United States of America

St. Martin's Paperbacks edition / September 2006

St. Martin's Paperbacks are published by St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

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This book is dedicated to the memory of Bobbie Jo Stinnett
And to the beautiful daughter she left behind.

I
t is hard to know where to begin when you have so many people to thank. So, I'll just start at the point where my research began—the St. Joseph Police Department—thanks to Chief Mike Hirter, Commander Larry Smith, Sergeant Mike Wilson and Sergeant Curtis Howard, and to retired St. Joseph's Police Chief Lloyd Pasley.

Thanks to Nodaway County Sheriff Ben Espey for his time and for the determined commitment he brought to Bobbie Jo Stinnett's case, and to Detective Randy Strong of the Maryville Public Safety Department, Sergeant Dave Merrill of the Missouri Highway Patrol and Osage County Sheriff Laurie Dunn.

No true crime writer can ever express enough appreciation to the folks who work in district and circuit court clerks' offices in counties coast to coast. Their help is of immeasurable value. This time around, I owe a debt of gratitude to Curtis
Quick of Calloway County, Vicki Mills of Franklin County, Rita Stevens of Atchison County and the staff in the court clerks' offices in Osage County, Boone County and Nodaway County.

I also need to thank the folks in the office of U.S. Representative Sam Graves for their assistance and acknowledge the Court TV Crime Files for background on Ken McElroy. Thanks, too, to Lydia Tederick, Assistant Curator at the White House and Don Ledford in the public affairs division of the Office of the United States Attorney for the Western District of Missouri.

In Kansas, I want to express my appreciation to Isabel Phelon, Kathy Dewey and Judy Shaughnessy. To Darrell Schultze—thanks for sharing the warmth of your wood stove and your personality on a cold November evening. In Missouri, a big thank you to Becky Harper, Cheryl Huston, Carla Wetzel, Mary Rose Wiederholtz, psychic Joyce Morgan, Chuck Ellis and Will and Donna Mae Schneider. In both states, thanks to all the folks who shared their thoughts and memories but requested anonymity.

In the world of rat terrier aficionados, I must point out the great people I met there: Jason Dawson, Dyanne Siktar and Pat Kennedy.

I extend very special, heartfelt thanks to Northwest Missouri native Teri McCarthy of McCarthy Print in Austin and to all the gang at PPSD for helping me to make important connections. And to Lysa M. Nistico, John Pinter, and Jennifer Steves—thanks for your help.

To Cathy Nahirny, John Rabun and Stephanie Rodriquez at the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, thank you for your input and assistance. To the three of you and to all of the dedicated people of your organization, thank you for all the hard work you do for children and families. Because of your efforts, the world is a better place.

As always, there are a few people I need to thank with
every book I write: my peerless agent Jane Dystel, St. Martin's Press executive editor, Charlie Spicer, and my ever-patient editor Joe Cleemann. And finally, the priceless support of my first reader, best friend and life partner, Wayne.

C
hris Law looked out the window of his home onto Elm Street, a quiet neighborhood in the small rundown town of Skidmore in the northwest corner of Missouri. Most of the houses on that dead end street cried out for a fresh coat of paint or the immediate attention of a carpenter or roofer. They huddled together tired and neglected—sagging beneath the weight of a cold December day. The bare branches of the trees and the winter weariness of the lawns added to the bleakness of the block.

Chris peered catty-corner across the street to the little white bungalow with flaking paint that Zeb and Bobbie Jo Stinnett called home. They were a cute couple—friendly but quiet. Bobbie Jo, though, had a sparkle in her eye that revealed an ornery sense of humor beneath her gentle, still demeanor.

The young couple in their early twenties were newlyweds—their marriage less than two years old. They were already expecting their first child—the due date was
January 19. The coming of the baby created a growing excitement for their tomorrows. They saved every penny they could to build a nest egg and make it possible to own their own home. They envisioned a life for their baby that exceeded the expectations they had for their own.

Now just nine days before Christmas, Bobbie Jo had reached that awkward, waddling stage. She rolled up the sidewalk more than she walked. She had to hold on to a secure object when she bent down to pick something up off the floor.

Chris had planned to walk over and pay a visit to Bobbie Jo that afternoon. He wanted to ask her about her recent prenatal test results. In a town this small, everyone focused on each expectant mother. With the population shrinking, any birth was big news.

He hesitated when he spotted a dirty, pinkish-red two-door import parked the wrong way in front of her house. He thought he ought not to bother Bobbie Jo, since she had company. He popped his head up to the window a couple of times to see if the coast was clear so he could slip over without interrupting her social visit.

It seemed to him as if the car was there for hours. But he could have been wrong. Waiting for a change of events over which he had no control did make time crawl slower than the sand in a clogged hourglass.

Sometime well before 3:30, he decided he would catch up with Bobbie Jo later. He jumped in his car to drive the fourteen miles up State Road V to Maryville to run a few errands. His town had no grocery store, pharmacy, fast food restaurants or even a Wal-Mart.

As he hit the end of Elm Street, he had second thoughts—maybe he should stop in and check on Bobbie Jo anyway. What if something was wrong? He pulled out on the main road and circled around a block as he toyed with the idea. Ultimately, he decided not to yield to his sudden flash of paranoia. He'd be a good neighbor and not disrupt her visit with her guests. He headed on up the road.

Once Chris left home, no one was watching 410 Elm Street.
Bobbie Jo was alone with her mystery visitor. The rat terriers she bred out of her huge love of animals and passion for the breed—and for a small profit—were put up in their room. No neighbor looked as the front door jerked all the way open. Not a soul saw the dirty-blond woman with the frenzied eyes and furtive moves walk across the front porch. No one took note of the blanketed bundle cradled in her arms. No one watched as she scurried to her car, pulling the bundle closer to her chest as if sheltering it from the wind and the cold. No one heard the unmistakable cry of a newborn infant No eyes followed the dirty red car with Kansas plates as it made a rough U-turn at the dead end of Elm Street and drove off to parts unknown.

A short while later, Becky Harper turned onto Elm Street. She passed the big yellow house with its toy-laden porch and splotchy lawn. She drove beyond a sad, sagging home with a weedy front yard. She turned around at the dead end and pulled in front of her daughter Bobbie Jo's home. It was 3:30 in the afternoon.

The front door to the tiny bungalow was ajar. A tingle of concern sent ripples across her scalp. Folks in Northwest Missouri simply did not leave their doors open to the cold of December. Even nice sunny days bore too much chill in the air.

Becky pushed the door all the way open, hollering, “Bobbie Jo! Bobbie Jo!”

There was no response. A tight band of apprehension tugged in her chest. Bobbie Jo was eight months pregnant. Had she gone into early labor? Was she sick—too sick to respond? Becky hesitated with each step she took into the house.

Stepping inside the home, she saw nothing to cause alarm. Everything was neat and orderly in the living room. She moved to the dining room and the kitchen. Everything was in its place. Even this late in her pregnancy, Bobbie Jo maintained the tidy appearance of her modest home. Becky called out to her daughter again and was greeted by frustrated barks
from Bobbie Jo's dogs. Becky moved past the kitchen and toward the animals confined in the small bedroom Bobbie Jo transformed into a room for her dogs. Barks and whimpers emerged from the metal kennel cages lining the room. Against one wall, an old dresser served as a grooming station for her rat terriers.