Shattered: The True Story of a Mother's Love, a Husband's Betrayal, and a Cold-Blooded Texas Murder (15 page)

The following morning, Monday, January 11, Maureen Temple called Belinda around 6
A.M
., while she and David dressed for work, to say she’d cooked a pot of homemade soup. “Come over and get some after school,” she offered.

That morning, David and Belinda’s house on Round Valley was particularly hectic.

During the night, Evan brought his pillow with a big red truck on it and crawled into his parents’ bed, curling up under the brightly colored quilt. Exhausted, Belinda slept soundly, only to awake and find that the three-year-old had become ill during the night. He was running a low-grade fever and looked lethargic, so Belinda gave him Motrin. Not wanting to use up her sick days before the baby arrived, Belinda dressed her son for day care, while David left for work at Hastings.

Despite her worries about Evan, Belinda showed up at Tiger Land with a wide smile and Evan riding on her back. That morning Belinda had on a black maternity top and black-and-white-checked leggings, with black socks and low-heeled shoes with elastic bands across the top.

When Belinda walked in the door, Ida Sivley, one of the teachers, called out, “Girl, you better put that boy down or you’ll have that baby right now!”

“No, he’s my baby, too,” Belinda replied with a laugh.

After taking the toddler to the water fountain for a drink and to the restroom, Belinda talked with Evan’s teacher, filling her in on the rough night he’d had, and telling her that while Evan wasn’t currently running a fever, he might not make it through the day. “If his fever goes up or he gets ill, call me,” Belinda said. “David has agreed to come get him so I can finish the day.”

The teacher agreed, and Belinda left. It was less than a week after David and Belinda’s seventh anniversary, and a beautiful winter day in Houston, with afternoon temperatures predicted to be close to seventy.

Just after seven that morning, Belinda was at school in her room with Debbie and Cindy. Her ankles were swollen, and Belinda sat on a chair the other teachers brought out for her. Cindy massaged Belinda’s ankles and they listened as Belinda repeated her account of the turmoil of the night before, talking about how guilty she felt for sleeping through the night while Evan was ill. Debbie and Cindy told her that she had a right to be exhausted, since she was eight months pregnant, working and chasing a toddler. They talked about the baby and the doctor’s prediction that it could come early. “You know, I don’t have much of an appetite,” Belinda said. “I didn’t even feel like eating breakfast.”

“Maybe that’s a sign that the baby is coming,” Debbie suggested.

Belinda laughed and said, “Maybe.” Then she asked Debbie and Cindy to let her know if Tiger Land called. If Evan’s temperature went up again, she had to contact David to pick him up.

That morning, Belinda sent out her morning e-mail to the staff, a joke: “Can people really predict the future?” a little boy was asked.

“My mom can,” he replied. “She takes one look at my report card and tells me what will happen when my father gets home.”

She signed the e-mail: “Have a great Monday!!! Belinda.”

If Belinda could have predicted the future, she would have been terrified.

Later, Debbie and Cindy would describe that morning as like any other, until about 11:40, when the telephone in their area rang. Debbie talked to the woman in charge at Tiger Land. Evan’s temperature was above 100.6 degrees, the highest they allowed at the day care. Someone had to pick the toddler up.

As soon as she hung up, Debbie called the teacher’s lunchroom, where Belinda got on the line. A few minutes later, Belinda was in her classroom, on the phone, calling David at Hastings. He didn’t answer. She called once, twice, three more times from her cell. “I can never find David when I need him. I ought to get him a beeper,” she told Debbie. Belinda appeared irritated, as she gathered her things to leave. “I need to pick up Evan, but as soon as I can reach David and get him home, I’ll be back.”

From her room, Belinda detoured to talk to Margaret Christian, one of the administrators, to tell her of her plans. Belinda had a meeting scheduled with Christian and a parent at two that afternoon, and Belinda assured the other woman there was no need to cancel. David would care for Evan, and she’d be back in plenty of time. On the way out the school doors, Belinda saw Stacy Nissley. Complaining that she could never find David when she needed him, Belinda told Stacy about Evan’s temperature. Recounting that afternoon, Stacy would say that was the most upset she’d ever seen Belinda. Later, Belinda’s cell records showed that in addition to the attempts from her room, Belinda called David five times on her cell phone. “What’s wrong with him?” she said. “Where is he? I’m going to end up missing the day.”

At Tiger Land, Belinda walked in and saw Eileen Lang, another of the teachers, in the lobby. Eileen was pregnant, too, albeit not quite as far along as Belinda. While someone went to fetch Evan, the two women talked about their plans, comparing baby bumps. Putting her open hand on Eileen’s swollen midsection, Belinda grinned happily and remarked, “You’re getting so big!”

“I know,” said Eileen proudly.

With that, Belinda ran her hands over her own wide belly and said, “Erin will be here any day now, and your baby is right around the corner.”

When Evan’s teacher came to the front carrying the toddler, asleep and wrapped in his blanket, she explained that the usually energetic child appeared tired all morning and, while he nearly always ate two or three portions of lunch, barely touched his food. He’d refused to play, and had spent most of the morning with his head down. He’d even refused to sing the ABCs, one of his favorite events. At lunch, the teacher touched his forehead and suspected his fever had gone up, a fact confirmed with a thermometer.

Visibly worried about Evan, Belinda gathered his backpack and took the toddler wrapped in his blanket from the other woman. He was asleep in her arms as she carried him from the day care, saying she wanted to take him home for a nap.

Later, it would appear that at some point during one of her nearly back-to-back phone calls, Belinda had connected with David. He left Hastings around noon, and they met at the house, where, on the counter in the kitchen, Belinda recorded when Evan had last taken medication on a Post-it note: one and a half teaspoons of Motrin at 12:15.

Just after one, Debbie saw Belinda walk back into her classroom at Katy High. Both the women were busy, and they didn’t talk, but Debbie didn’t sense that there was anything wrong. One and a quarter hours later, at 2:30, their last student left for the day, and Debbie walked out of the room with Belinda, who was on her way to the parent conference meeting. Debbie had made the bumper pad, sheets and pillows for Erin’s crib, and she’d brought in the final pieces, some pillows, that afternoon. Before leaving her room, Belinda straightened up her desk and put everything in order, including leaving instructions in case she wasn’t in the next day. “Maybe I’ll need a substitute tomorrow if I have this baby tonight,” Belinda said with a laugh.

“Maybe,” Debbie said. “It’ll be soon.”

On the way to the meeting, Belinda crossed paths again with Stacy in the hall. When she asked how Evan was, Belinda looked frustrated. “David’s home. I’ll tell you about it later,” she said, then closing the conversation as she ran down the hall with an exasperated, “Men!”

Margaret Christian would later say the meeting went well that afternoon, the student’s mother agreeable to the school’s plan to change his class schedule. Before finishing, the women briefly shared pregnancy and childbirth stories. From Christian’s office, at approximately 3:20, Belinda left in a rush, eager to get home.

In her classroom, Belinda grabbed her purse and car keys and the new baby pillows. On the way out the door, a woman security guard saw Belinda, so heavily pregnant, struggling to carry everything, and offered to help. By then, Belinda appeared exhausted. “She was dragging,” says the guard.

“Why don’t you stay home until the baby comes?” the woman asked, leading Belinda to explain once again that she only had so many sick days and needed to save them to have time with Erin after her birth.

From Katy High School, Ken Temple would later say his daughter-in-law drove to his home on Katy Hockley Road to pick up the homemade soup Maureen called about that morning. When Ken saw Belinda pull up, he brought out the container. In Ken’s recounting, he and Belinda talked briefly about Evan being ill and her suspicions that little Erin would be coming soon, and Belinda hurriedly left.

That evening promised to be busy for Belinda, so her rush wouldn’t be surprising. In addition to being eager to check on Evan, that Monday was Belinda’s Bunco night. She’d told friends she still hoped to go. The monthly game was one of her favorite pastimes, and that evening the hostess was serving enchiladas, one of Belinda’s favorite dinners.

At 3:32, Belinda made another cell phone call, this one to the Round Valley house. David and Belinda talked for a mere thirty seconds, and David would later say that Belinda called to tell him that she was in the car, on her way home. Later, David estimated that Belinda arrived home about thirteen minutes later, at 3:45.

After traumatic events, it’s not unusual for family, friends and neighbors to reconstruct what they saw or knew. Later, those close to Belinda and David would commit to memory what they were doing that afternoon, tracing back their steps. At 3:15, for instance, one neighbor, Barbara Watt, arrived home briefly after work, then left to pick up her children at school. Watt returned home with her children about 3:50. Her dogs were barking in her backyard, but she didn’t hear or see anything unusual. She saw no strangers or unknown cars on the street.

About that same time, Mike Schrader, a CAT scan technician who lived across the street from Belinda and David, pulled up in his car. He, too, wouldn’t recall anything unusual taking place. The Temple house, a couple of doors down from his, appeared quiet.

At 4:38, the telephone rang at 22502 Round Valley, but neither David nor Belinda answered. Brenda was calling; she needed to talk to Belinda. Their paternal grandfather had fallen and hit his head on a concrete birdbath, and he was being airlifted in critical condition from Nacogdoches to a trauma center in Tyler, Texas. Tom and Carol were in their car rushing to Tyler with Tom’s mother.

All that day, Brenda had felt antsy, uncomfortable, like something bad would happen. With the news of her grandfather’s fall, Brenda assumed she knew why. She worried about the old man and wanted to reach her sister. Disappointed when Belinda didn’t pick up the telephone, Brenda left a message, asking Belinda to call.

About forty-five minutes later, the telephones inside 22502 Round Valley rang again. This time the caller was Ken Temple, inquiring about his sick grandson. David’s father’s call, too, went unanswered. Like Brenda, Ken left a message: “…I was calling to check on Little Man.”

Later, that silence seemed like the proverbial calm before the storm, for as the afternoon ended, as the day flirted with the first signs of darkness, something happened that changed lives forever.

Just before 5:25, Angela Vielma walked along Hidden Canyon, the street that ran along the side of David and Belinda’s home. A pretty eighteen-year-old with long dark hair, Vielma had argued with her boyfriend over how to cook sloppy joe sandwiches. She’d left after
Oprah
, hoping to ease her anger by walking to a friend’s house. As Vielma approached the Temples’ garage, a blue truck pulled up. David was behind the wheel, and Vielma saw no child seat but thought she saw a young child in the front passenger seat. Vielma stopped and waited as David drove past her. He pulled into the garage, and, as the overhead door descended, she heard the truck door open. As she walked past the driveway, she saw a man’s legs. Thinking little of the event, she continued on to her friend’s house, just doors away on Round Valley.

About that time, Peggy and Mike Ruggiero, the neighbors David had casually befriended, were at home after returning from an afternoon walk. It seemed like any other day, until, suddenly, someone was at their front door, pounding.

“Mike, Mike, open up!” a man shouted. “Open up!”

Ruggiero, a wiry man with a monk’s fringe of dark hair, a mustache, and glasses covering round eyes, peered through his front door’s peephole.

“Mike, Mike, it’s David, let me in,” Temple shouted.

Recognizing his neighbor, Ruggiero opened the door. Immediately, David thrust Evan at Ruggiero. “Someone has broken into my house!” he said. “Take Evan!”

Instantly, David turned and ran, as fast as if sprinting across a football field, heading for the gate into his backyard. Ruggiero called for his wife, and Peggy ran to the door, not understanding the drama unfolding. He quickly handed Evan off to her, told her someone had broken into the Temples’ house, and ordered, “Call 911.” Within seconds, Mike Ruggiero was running behind David, shouting, “Wait up. Wait.”

No matter how loud Ruggiero shouted, David didn’t stop. He never looked back. David reached the gate just steps before his neighbor, swung it open and pulled it closed behind him, then barreled full-speed toward the house. Ruggiero reached the gate just in time to see David run through the back door, closing it behind him. Ruggiero worried. What if the burglar was still inside? What was David walking into? One look at the back door and Ruggiero’s concern mushroomed. The glass in the lower right-hand panel was shattered, cracks spiraling out from a hole above the knob. It appeared as if someone had broken in.

Intent on helping his friend, Ruggiero opened the gate to follow David, when from somewhere in the backyard, Shaka charged, teeth bared, growling. Ruggiero slammed the gate to prevent the agitated chow from attacking him. Unable to do anything else, Ruggiero strained to hold the gate shut, worrying that it could give way, as Shaka pummeled himself against the pine slats.

What’s going on inside the house? Mike wondered. What happened?

T
he 911 call came in at 5:36 that afternoon, January 11, 1999.

“Somebody’s broken into my house and my wife has been shot,” David said, his voice breaking. “…Oh, my God…Oh, Jesus.”

Outside the Temple house, Mike Ruggiero struggled to hold Shaka at bay, to keep the dog from bursting through the gate. Inside the house, David waited while the operator patched the call through, assuming the caller needed medical personnel and an ambulance. In her office, in Katy, Shannon Tuttoilmondo-Buell, an EMT who also worked as a dispatcher, came on the line asking, “Fire and ambulance. What is your emergency?”

“I’ve just walked in on my wife. I believe she’s been shot. It’s got blood everywhere,” David responded, sounding calmer. When asked if Belinda was breathing, he gasped out, “No. I don’t believe so…. Her brain is on the floor. I think she’s already dead.”

The next statement hit Tuttoilmondo-Buell especially hard. The dispatcher was expecting a child and couldn’t help but feel the impact when David said, “[My wife’s] eight months pregnant.”

Despite the blow of those words, Tuttoilmondo-Buell had been trained to remain composed. “Okay, sweetie,” the dispatcher said. “Just stay on the phone with me, okay?”

David said nothing, but could be heard crying.

“Is there any way that you could see if she’s breathing for me?” she asked, after a short pause.

“I can check, I think,” he responded.

With that assurance, Tuttoilmondo-Buell asked if David would kneel beside Belinda and see if she was breathing. David didn’t reply, but moments later could be heard at a distance, saying, “Honey. honey.”

“Are you there, sir? Sir?” the dispatcher asked.

After a pause, David said, “She’s dead.” His voice was low, committed.

“Okay,” Tuttoilmondo-Buell replied.

The dispatcher then asked questions, attempting to determine how long Belinda might have been dead. In response, David said, in a calm, quiet voice, that he’d left the house several hours earlier and just returned to find Belinda in the closet. He didn’t know what she’d been “hit with or shot,” but, he repeated again, “…her brain. Part of it’s out.”

Minutes earlier David had sounded in control, but again, in the background, he could be heard crying as the dispatcher assured him help was on the way. “Oh, God,” he said, sounding as if he could barely contain his agony. “Ooooh, Jesus Christ.”

“You say half of her brain is on the floor?” Tuttoilmondo-Buell asked.

“She’s got part of it or part of something,” he said. “I can’t even tell. She’s down in the corner.”

“She’s eight months pregnant?” the dispatcher asked again.

“Yes,” David said.

Again, Tuttoilmondo-Buell asked questions, this time if David had seen anyone in or around the house when he had arrived home. Again, David’s voice calmed, and he said he’d been with Evan, and that he’d taken the child across the street when he saw the back door window shattered.

“Just hold on the phone,” Tuttoilmondo-Buell said. “Let’s see if we can do anything for her, okay?”

“Oh, God,” David said yet again. While he waited, the dispatcher could be heard in the background. Later, she’d say she was asking questions about what could be done for the baby, if the unborn child Belinda carried, nearly full-term, could be saved. Tuttoilmondo-Buell again turned her attention to David, “Are you there?”

“Yes, oh shit,” he said. “…I can’t breathe.”

The dispatcher asked a second time if David would check Belinda, to make sure she wasn’t breathing and confirm if she had a pulse. But David replied that he’d already done that and concluded, “She’s gone.”

“Okay, okay, what about the baby, sweetie?” she asked. Even though Belinda was dead, there remained the possibility that her baby could be still be viable. All hope of saving Erin hinged on how long the baby was deprived of oxygen. With that in mind, the dispatcher tried again to pin down the time frame, to determine how long ago Belinda might have been shot. This time in response to her questions, David said he’d been gone at least two hours. “Somebody’s entered my house,” he said. “The back window is broken, and my back door is still wide open.”

Again, Tuttoilmondo-Buell asked if Belinda was eight months pregnant. David suddenly changed his mind. His wife, he said, wasn’t eight but seven and a half months pregnant. Tuttoilmondo-Buell replied, “Seven and a half is okay. Okay. Is there any way that maybe you could…?”

“What do I need to do?” David asked. “Tell me, and I can do it.”

The dispatcher asked if David knew CPR, and he said he did. “I want you to do CPR for that baby,” Tuttoilmondo-Buell said, undoubtedly thinking about her own unborn child and how she would want to give it every chance to live. David agreed and moments passed, but then he said, “I can’t. Her head is just gone…. Oh, Jesus Christ…Oooooh.”

The dispatcher spelled out the situation for David, explaining that if he did CPR on Belinda, he might keep oxygen circulating and save little Erin. Then Tuttoilmondo-Buell asked again, “Is there any way that you can do this?”

David moaned and cried, and said he couldn’t. “There’s…she’s…there’s…just no way. She’s got her brain is just bloody. It’s covered on the floor.”

Reluctantly, Tuttoilmondo-Buell replied, “Okay.”

Moments later, David, sounding calmer, said he’d seen two squad cars pull up to the house. The police had arrived. Tuttoilmondo-Buell assured him that an ambulance was also on its way. But she wasn’t willing to give up. She kept thinking about the baby Belinda carried, nearly full-term. Every second the baby went deprived of oxygen threatened its survival. In a last effort, Tuttoilmondo-Buell asked David to try to give Belinda CPR.

“Okay,” he said, but then the dispatcher heard nothing more.