Baby Be Mine (6 page)

“Sir, where does the investigation go from here?” another reporter shouted out.

Espey sighed. He opened and shut his mouth, struggling to find the right answer.

“Forward,” an unidentified voice rang out.

Espey grinned in appreciation. “Forward,” he said. The crowd chuckled in response. “It follows whatever leads we get.”

It seemed to Espey that every time investigators got a new lead, the press was just a step or two behind them. He hoped his cooperation and openness would ensure that they worked with law enforcement, not against them.

Half a continent away, in Franklin, North Carolina, rat terrier breeder Dyanne Siktar sat down at her computer. As usual, her first stop was Annie's Rat Terrier Rest Area. Her attention riveted on an unusual post. “Don't know if anyone knows this rat terrier breeder but Bobbie Jo Stinnett was murdered.”

Dyanne jumped from that website to CNN.com and read the full story. A connection clicked in her mind. She bounced back to the rat terrier boards. She found what she sought—a December 15 exchange between Darlene Fischer and Bobbie Jo Stinnett.

It began with a post from Darlene to Bobbie Jo:

I was recommended to you by Jason Dawson and have been unable to reach you by either phone or email. Please get in touch with me soon as we are considering the purchase of one of your puppies . . .

Bobbie Jo responded right away and the two spent twenty minutes in back-and-forth instant messaging. Bobbie Jo wrapped up their Internet conversation:

Darlene,

I've emailed you with the directions so we can meet. I do so hope that the email reaches you. Great chatting with you on messenger. And do look forward to chatting with you tomorrow a.m.

Thanks Jason, and talk to you soon Darlene!

Have a great evening

Bobbie

Dyanne picked up the phone and called information for the number of the FBI in Missouri. She was connected to Special Agent Kurt Lipanovich. She gave him the URL for the rat terrier board and, most important, the IP address of the message sent by Darlene Fischer to Bobbie Jo.

Lipanovich's phone rang again as soon as he hung up with Dyanne. It was Jeff Owens, who had just uncovered an IP address—the same one Lipanovich just received.

The agent contacted Senior Security Specialist Melissa Erwin at Qwest Communications, who confirmed that her company hosted that address. Performing a reverse domain name system search, she pinpointed a Topeka, Kansas, server. Now the investigators had a limited geographic area for their search. They hit the road and gathered their forces in Kansas.

Erwin continued her digging. She determined that the user accessed a server through a dial-up connection. The telephone number making that call late on the afternoon of December 15 originated from 32419 South Adams Road in Melvern, Kansas.

The investigators centered in Topeka raced thirty miles southwest to Melvern, a tiny town with a population of 400—just barely bigger than Skidmore. Six FBI agents and Kansas law enforcement officials gathered around the rural farmhouse
of Kevin and Lisa Montgomery. When they arrived, no one was at home. Combining Chris Law's description of the car he'd seen at the Stinnett home with information from the Kansas vehicle registration database, they would know the Montgomerys were on their way home the second they spotted a dirty red Toyota Corolla.

The FBI was willing to assume responsibility for the case now—in fact, they insisted on it. The investigation had moved out of the jurisdiction of both the Missouri Highway Patrol and the Nodaway County Sheriff's Office. This power play raised the age-old specter of conflict between federal and local authorities. To Sheriff Espey, this was his case. The victims were his responsibility. He was not dropping the reins and walking away.

Espey sent the most effective interrogator he knew to the scene—Detective Randy Strong of Maryville Public Safety. Espey's orders were clear: “You don't stop for anybody. You just go in the house and don't let anyone get in your way.”

With Detective Don Fritz riding shotgun, Strong raced at 125 miles per hour from Maryville to Melvern. He made the trip in a record one hour and twenty minutes. Throughout the drive, he kept his cell phone line open in constant communication with Espey. He maintained that connection as they waited with other law enforcement officials for the arrival of the residents of the farmhouse.

T
he morning of December 17, Kevin and Lisa bundled up the baby, hopped in the car and headed up South Adams Road. Red-tailed hawks soared overhead or perched with seeming disinterest on fence posts—their large white chests glistening in the sun of a new day.

Most of the trees alongside the road were dormant and bare. The monotony was broken by the occasional evergreen and the odd dusty gold orbs hanging from the branches and lying at the feet of the black walnut trees.

A frugal farm wife like Lisa Montgomery would see bounty in that wild crop. Lovers of the black walnut gathered up the fruit this time of year and spread them across their basement floors to dry. When the outer shells darkened and turned brittle, they'd carry them out to the driveway and run them over a few times to dislodge the inner shell from its covering. Anyone who attempted to remove the outer surface by hand would have fingers marked for weeks with a
deep brown stain that no amount of Lava soap scrubbing could wear away.

The uncovered shells would not yield to a nutcracker. It took a hammer to shatter that surrounding casing and retrieve the nutmeat. After all that work, the occasional dud walnut—its contents shriveled and inedible—was a major disappointment. Many would wonder why anyone would bother going to all that trouble. But those who did knew the rewards—the satisfaction of living off the earth coupled with the pleasure of eating a walnut with ten times the flavor of a store-bought English walnut. That joy in harvesting bounty from the land was a bedrock value of agricultural communities across the Midwest.

About 9:30, Kevin, Lisa and the baby they named Abigail made it to the Whistle Stop Cafe for breakfast. The Whistle Stop was in the middle of the block-long strip of buildings that was downtown Melvern.

As they stepped through the door, the mouthwatering aroma of sausage and bacon sizzling on the grill and biscuits baking in the oven made their stomachs growl in anticipation. Inside, the café was small, cozy and down home. Up the middle, two long groups of wood-grained Formica tables butted end to end from the front door to the kitchen. On either side, individual tables for four ran up the length of the side walls. All the tables were flanked by rigid chairs of black metal with maroon vinyl seats and backs.

The two side walls were decorated with old photographs, baskets and an assortment of antique kitchen tools with their red and green handles and splotchy rust spots. In celebration of Christmas, a tree covered with white lights stood in one corner and a clear glass bud vase filled with artificial red poinsettias adorned each table.

The menus featured good, old-fashioned diner fare with daily home-cooked specials—chili and meatloaf were sell-out favorites in the cold weather months. The pies were homemade and the coffee was just fifty cents a cup.

Country music played at a low level—too soft to cover
the occasional clank and scrape from the cooking area in the back. A tall counter with a cash register blocked a complete view of the kitchen, but it was still partially visible to most of the diners.

Kevin and Lisa rarely patronized the café, but Kevin's parents were well known among the regulars. The couple sat down at a small single table and Lisa set the baby carrier on the floor by her feet. They ordered fried eggs, bacon and hash browns.

As in most small establishments, the arrival of a baby—any baby—was an event that generated happy excitement. Everyone wanted to see her. All made cooing sounds in the infant's direction with the hope that they would be rewarded by a gassy imitation of a smile. One of the customers carried the baby from table to table showing the little treasure to the dozen or so people present while Kevin and Lisa ate. Kevin's eyes sparkled. His grin was so big and so constant that it was a challenge for him to chew his meal.

Whistle Stop owner Kathy Sage scowled with irritation. “Lisa, you don't bring a newborn out in public,” she scolded.

“Yeah, it's only a day old,” Lisa said.

“We didn't know you were pregnant.”

“Most people didn't,” Lisa said and turned her attention back to her breakfast.

Despite her sharp words to Lisa, Kathy couldn't help admiring the baby. She smiled down at the pretty, petite infant in her pink bonnet. The Amber Alert Kathy heard on the news that morning did not cross her mind.

Kevin's boss, Darrell Schultze, was there too. He hadn't turned on the television or radio yet that day and was unaware that authorities issued an alert. Nonetheless, the presence of the baby gave him cause for alarm. The baby herself was one of the cutest Darrell had ever seen, but the timing of her arrival made him uncomfortable. “Where in the world did you get this baby?” he asked the couple.

After Lisa explained the story of the baby's birth the day
before in Topeka, Darrell said, “You didn't look that close to delivery when I saw you a week ago.”

Kevin said the baby was small—Darrell could see that—then added that Lisa never shown much during any of her pregnancies.

Darrell asked Kevin about the birth experience and Kevin told him that he hadn't been there. “I didn't know about the baby till I got home and Lisa called me from Topeka.”

“You should have been there, Kevin. You can get off from work for that. Why didn't you call him, Lisa?”

“I tried,” Lisa said, “but I couldn't get hold of him.”

Something was not right with that answer. Acme Sign was Darrell's company. He knew that it was always possible to get a message to any of his employees during the day—even for much more minor things than the birth of a baby. But he just complimented them on the baby and said nothing more.

After eating, the couple went up the street two blocks and around the corner to the parsonage of the First Church of God, where Kevin, Lisa and Kevin's parents regularly worshiped. They wanted Reverend Mike Wheatley and his wife to see the baby.

When the Wheatleys opened the door, Kevin's grin was so big it obliterated his cheeks. Lisa looked very tired—just like someone who'd given birth the day before. She was more quiet than usual, but the Wheatleys didn't read much into that. They just blamed her tight lips on exhaustion.

They were a bit taken aback, though, by the trio on their doorstep because for months they had not believed that Lisa was really pregnant. They suspected that she only claimed to be to get attention. But there before their eyes was proof of the reality of her pregnancy. Nonetheless, they thought it odd that the Montgomerys were bringing the baby around to visit so soon.

Despite the surprising nature of the visit, the minister and his wife took turns holding the baby for about an hour. Lisa told them that she and Kevin selected “Abigail” because
they wanted a biblical name for their child. Abigail was an obscure but real reference to one of King David's wives in the Old Testament. The Wheatleys noticed a little scratch on the baby's cheek as if she had gouged herself with her tiny fingernail. They observed a small bruise on the back of her hand. Neither of those little injuries seemed out of place, but they could not understand why the infant's head was not misshapen from passing through the birth canal just the day before.

Kevin and Lisa then drove down to Lyndon, Kansas—the seat of Osage County. They stopped by the Lyndon County Courthouse, a large, blocky, tan structure built in 1921 in the center of town. They entered the high-ceilinged halls of the first floor with its shoulder-height pinkish marble panels on the walls. When it was new the courthouse must have been the ultimate in elegant formality. Now it was dated and tired. It was a clean and presentable building, but no amount of scrubbing could wash away the vague musty smell, and decades of use robbed even the purest surfaces of their sparkle.

Kevin, Lisa and baby ascended the long flight of marble steps to the second floor. Their first stop was the county appraiser's office, where Lisa's weekend coworker at Casey's General Store worked on weekdays. Lisa's friend was not there—all the staff of that office was out for a celebratory Christmas meal together. The only person behind the counter was an employee of the County Clerk's office minding the desk in their absence.

Kevin, Lisa and baby Abigail went down one door to the county clerk's office. The couple beamed as that staff oohed and aahed over the infant. Lisa shared her tale of the baby's birth—the surprise when her water burst and the experience of driving with labor pains to the birthing center.

Their next stop was the home of Lisa's ex-husband, Carl Boman, and his new wife, Vanessa. The couple rented a house in Lyndon from Lisa's mother, Judy.

With defiance on her face, Lisa showed the baby to her
former spouse—the father of her four children. Carl did not know what to say.

Vanessa pulled Kevin aside and asked, “Is this really your baby?”

“Yes,” Kevin said, his forehead creasing in befuddlement at her question.

“Are you sure Lisa didn't buy it somewhere or steal it from someone?”

Kevin looked at Vanessa as if she'd lost her mind. He told Lisa it was time to leave. Lisa and Kevin then headed up State Route 31 back to their home in Melvern.

Although Lisa's mother, Judy, lived on a farm in the outskirts of Lyndon, they did not take the baby for a visit. Unaware of the addition to her daughter's household the day before and unaware of the Amber Alert that filled the airwaves, Judy was surprised by the phone call from one of her friends who worked at the courthouse. The woman congratulated her on being a grandmother again.

Knowing her daughter's history, Judy said, “Yeah, right. She either stole it or bought it.”