Sleep In Heavenly Peace (Pinnacle True Crime)

PRAISE FOR M. WILLIAM PHELPS
 

Sleep in Heavenly Peace

“An exceptional book by an exceptional true-crime writer. Page by page, Phelps skillfully probes the disturbed mind of a mother guilty of the ultimate betrayal.”

—Kathryn Casey, author of
She Wanted It All

Every Move You Make

“An insightful and fast-paced examination of the inner workings of a good cop and his bad informant culminating in an unforgettable truth-is-stranger-than-fiction-climax.”

—Michael M. Baden, M.D., Host of HBO’s
Autopsy

“M. William Phelps is the rising star of the nonfiction crime genre, and his true tales of murderers and mayhem are scary-as-hell thrill rides into the dark heart of the inhuman condition.”

—Douglas Clegg, author of
Nightmare House

Lethal Guardian

“An intense roller coaster of a crime story. Phelps’s book
Lethal Guardian
is at once complex, with a plethora of twists and turns worthy of any great detective mystery, and yet so well laid-out, so crisply written with such detail to character and place that it reads more like a novel than your standard nonfiction crime book.”


New York Times
bestselling author Steve Jackson

Perfect Poison


Perfect Poison
is a horrific tale of nurse Kristen Gilbert’s insatiable desire to kill the most helpless of victims—her own patients. A stunner from beginning to end, Phelps renders the story expertly, with flawless research and an explosive narrative.”


New York Times
bestselling author Gregg Olsen

“M. William Phelps’s
Perfect Poison
is true crime at its best—compelling, gripping, an edge-of-the-seat thriller.”

—Harvey Rachlin, author of
The Making of a Cop

“A compelling account of terror that only comes when the author dedicates himself to unmasking the psychopath with facts, insight and the other proven methods of journalistic leg work.”

—Lowell Cauffiel, bestselling author of
House of Secrets

“A bloodcurdling page-turner and a meticulously researched study of the inner recesses of the mind of a psychopathic narcissist.”

—Sam Vaknin, author of
Malignant Self Love, Narcissism Revisited

Brought to you by KeVkRaY
Also by M. William Phelps
 

Perfect Poison

Lethal Guardian

Every Move You Make

SLEEP IN HEAVENLY PEACE
 
M. WILLIAM PHELPS
 

PINNACLE BOOKS

KensingtonPublishing Corp.

http:///www.kensingtonbooks.com

 

For Regina,
the most wonderful,
caring, and loving
mother God could ever bless
upon a child

A
UTHOR’S
N
OTE
 

ACCORDING TO THE U.S.
Department of Justice, between 1976 and 2002, nine thousand children under the age of five were killed by a parent.

Nine thousand
—an incredible number—and it translates into nearly one child per day killed not by a stranger or a pedophile or a random act, but by his or her
parent
.

Taking it one step further, females commit only 13 percent of all violent crimes in this country. Yet, of those nine thousand children killed by a parent, mothers were responsible 50 percent of the time.

Why do so many mothers murder their children? Why is it that a child in this country under the age of five is more likely to be murdered by his or her parent than anyone else? What is it that causes nearly one woman a day in the United States—who has spent nine months carrying a child, bonding with it, nurturing it, feeling it move and kick inside her womb—to kill that same child after it is born?

Susan Smith? Mary Beth Tinning? Andrea Yates? Marilyn Lemak? Dr. Ruth Kuncel, a clinical psychologist, said Lemak “acted like a nurse as she performed what she considered a ‘healing process,’” sedating and then smothering her three children: Nicholas, seven, Emily, six, and Thomas, three. These names have become synonymous with mothers who murder their children. My God, Andrea Yates allegedly chased one of her children around the house before drowning him in the bathtub.

Enter into this discussion a woman named Dianne Odell, a fifty-one-year-old Rome, Pennsylvania, mother of eight. Odell is articulate. Intelligent. She speaks like a highly educated woman and presents herself as a caring, loving mother. She’s raised eight healthy, living children. Looking at her, you might be inclined to think of a Sunday-school teacher, or a long-lost aunt who pinches your cheek before Christmas dinner and tells you how cute you are. Thus, when you stare into Odell’s eyes, you certainly don’t see the reflection of a baby killer and multiple murderer.

It is rare that an author has the opportunity to speak with a convicted murderer and interview her for the purpose of writing a book based on those conversations. The only way I would have been able to write this book, I decided early on, as I began to look into the story, was if Dianne Odell agreed to talk to me.

After a letter and a meeting she did.

The reason I wanted to speak to Odell centered around the victims in this story: newborn babies. Victims are often overlooked during trials and in the media coverage of any murder case. I want my readers to get to know the people who have been viciously taken away from their loved ones. The books I write are not, simply, true-crime books; they are nonfiction accounts of people, murder being only one aspect of a much larger dynamic.

When I met Odell at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for Women in Bedford Hills, New York, during the summer of 2004, one of the first things I said as we sat down was “I am not here to judge you. I am here to tell your story.”

Among other things, Odell was accused of carrying around the decomposed and mummified remains of three dead children (in boxes) from state to state for nearly twenty-five years. I was entirely curious as to why a woman—the mother of these children—would do this.

From day one, Odell has maintained her innocence—that someone else murdered her children. I may not have agreed with her or even believed her, but I promised I’d tell her story. “I will stay objective. I will listen to you and try to report what you tell me.”

Odell, I think, felt someone was going to give her a chance to speak, which is, she told me, all she has ever wanted. She asked me for money (it happens with every book; inevitably, someone—sometimes two or three people—asks for money in exchange for interviews), not for her, but her “family.” In 1977, the New York state legislature passed a law “prohibiting criminals from using their notoriety for profit.” Aptly titled the “Son of Sam” law, it provides that a convicted murderer cannot be paid for his or her story. Many try to get around this by asking journalists to “donate” money to their families. It is, I guess, a noble request—in some strange, criminal way—also something I have
never
done and will
never
do. In my view, money poisons information.

As Odell and I spoke, we talked about children, of course, about her youth, parental abuse, spousal abuse, and other dysfunctions plaguing many American families. Oddly enough, as we sat at a table in the prison visiting room and spoke, a very loud and violent thunderstorm rolled in. It got so dark outside—I was there in the afternoon—it felt as if it were the middle of the night. As the lightning and thunder crashed and banged and the rain pelted the tin roof above, the lights flickered on and off.

Within a few minutes, I found myself sitting in a cavernlike dark, cafeteria-style room with about fifty or so female inmates, one guard, and no lights. I couldn’t see my hands in front of my face.

For a minute, we sat there in silence and waited for the generator to kick on. That day would become a metaphor for my continued talks with Odell. Over the course of listening to Odell’s stories, I realized this book, in many ways, is about blacking out and trying to recall lost memories—memories that I am convinced are shrouded in a veil of evil.

 

 

Throughout the past year or so, I have corresponded with Odell through letters and phone calls. I have well over twenty hours of interviews on audiotape. I must say, much of Odell’s story cannot be backed up by secondary sources. In certain places, I have tried, without success, to track down people and get a second or third version. In many instances it just couldn’t be done. Either the people involved had died, records didn’t exist, or those individuals who could back up Odell’s claims would not speak to me, for whatever reason.

I decided to open the book with Odell telling her own story. At times, she is quoted in these passages. Other times, however, as the narrative flows without quotations and I tell Odell’s story for her (as she told it to me), it is
still
Odell speaking. I have simply taken what she has said and put it into an easy-to-read format. I have added nothing to those passages except background information and regional town and state research. It is all fact—but based on Odell’s version of the events.

In addition to Odell’s story, I have related the truth as we know it: the Sullivan County, New York, District Attorney’s Office version of what happened. To write those passages, I used a multitude of documents, trial transcripts, police reports, medical reports, and dozens of interviews with many of the individuals involved. I’ve inserted this additional layer of factual information into the narrative to offer you, the reader, the
entire
story as I have uncovered it.

Lastly, any name in the book where
italics
appear on first use represents a pseudonym. For whatever reason, that person wishes to remain anonymous. In some instances, I have decided to change the name to protect the identity of said person.

As when a woman with child in the ninth month bringeth forth her son, with two or three hours of her birth great pains compass her womb, which pains, when the child cometh forth, they slack not a moment.

—II Esdras 16:38 (Apocrypha), the Holy Bible, King James Version

 

 

My mother was the most beautiful woman I ever saw. All I am I owe to my mother. I attribute all my success in life to the moral, intellectual and physical education I received from her.

—George Washington

 

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