Michael Fleeman - The Stranger In My Bed

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The book you are about to read is the latest bestseller from the St. Martins True Crime Library, the imprint the New York Times calls the leader in true crime! Each month, we offer you a fascinating account of the latest, most sensational crime that has captured the national attention. St. Martins is the publisher of bestselling true crime author and crime journalist Kieran Crowley, who explores the dark, deadly links between a prominent Manhattan surgeon and the disappearance of his wife fifteen years earlier in THE SURGEONS WIFE. Suzy Spencers 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 familys 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 Americas most violent and depraved murderers. In the book you now hold, THE STRANGER IN MY BED, Michael Fleeman discusses what happens when a happily married woman discovers her husbands sordid past...

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Wheres My Mom?

John, this is Deanna. Wheres my mom?

I thought she was with you, John replied.

How could she be with me? Why would she be with me? asked Deanna.

Well, I came home to a note Tuesday night that said, Feed the fish, Ill be back in a couple days, and she had talked about coming to visit you or your brother in Florida, so I thought she had come to see you.

Shes not with me, said Deanna, incredulous. She asked him just how her mother was supposed to get to Florida or Texas with a broken hip. Scooting on her butt across terminals?

I dont know, John said. I guess maybe she had a friend come pick her up. He noted that the airport bus did stop right in front of their condo complex.

What do you mean, right in front? asked Deanna, becoming increasingly frantic.

Theres just a main thoroughfare that runs right in front of our apartment that the bus comes by from the airport, and you can just get on it there, he said.

Through her panic, Deanna was trying to sort this out. John didnt seem concerned. Far from it. He seemed more miffed than anything, like Fran had brought a big inconvenience upon him by taking off and leaving just a cryptic note.

And what about this note, Deanna asked John, where was it?

He said he had crumpled it up and put it in the trash.

Deanna would later recall: I knew that something was very wrong here.

ST. MARTINS TRUE CRIME LIBRARY TITLES
BY MICHAEL FLEEMAN

If I Die...

The Stranger In My Bed

Laci

Over the Edge

NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as unsold and destroyed to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this stripped book.

THE STRANGER IN MY BED

Copyright 2003 by Michael Fleeman.

Cover photograph of couple courtesy AP/Wide World Photos.
Photo of bed courtesy Photonica.

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. Martins Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

ISBN: 0-312-98417-0
EAN: 80312-98417-5

Printed in the United States of America

St. Martins Paperbacks edition / March 2003

St. Martins Paperbacks are published by St. Martins Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

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My thanks to People Los Angeles Bureau Chief Jack Kelley, my editors Charles Spicer and Joe Cleemann at St. Martins Press, my agent Jane Dystel, and all the dedicated professionals who were so generous with their time: Detective Brian Potts of the Wayne County Sheriffs Office; Detective Dave Mansue of the West Windsor Police Department; retired Detective Michael Dansbury of the West Windsor Police Department; retired Detective Frank Barre of the Milford Police Department; Agent Robert Hilland of the Federal Bureau of Investigation; Jocelyn Stefancin of the Wayne County Prosecutors Office; attorney Kirk Migdal of Akron, Ohio; Detective Gerald Burman of the Newton County Sheriffs Department; Newton County Coroner Larry Bartley; Dr. Frank P. Saul and Julie Mather Saul; and Sandra Anderson of Canine Solutions International. I would also like to thank Richard C. Armstrong of Armstrong Funeral Home, Seville, Ohio, and Eileen Mintier. A very special thanks goes to Betty Lippincott, and to the entire Hartman family. And my deepest thanks, gratitude and love to my biggest supporter, my wife Barbara.

I thought she was with you.
John David Smith, in a phone call to Deanna Wehling

As the afternoon shadows grew long in a lonely corner of Indiana, Sam Kennedy brought his truck to a stop, looked in the rearview mirror, and saw that the rest of the road crew from the Newton County Highway Department had fallen behind. If the afternoon had been any colder, Sam and his partner Russell Trail would have stayed in the truck, heater blasting, waiting for them to catch up. But spring had finally come to northwestern Indiana, with temperatures in the 50s and the skies clear. Sam got out of the truck and surveyed the landscape: miles of farmland dotted with silos and barns. Dead trees lined the side of the road. The warmer weather was thawing out the cornfields from the winter freeze.

It was Tuesday, April 22, 1980. Sam and the rest of the crew were repairing winter damage to a section of County Road 400 North, known locally as Hopkins Park Road. One of the few paved east-west roads in the area, Hopkins Park Road connected busy Route 41 on the western edge of Indiana with the little town of Hopkins Park in far-eastern Illinois, 40 miles south of Chicago. Sam and Russell squirted oil in the cracks and the second crew came along behind sprinkling little rocks in the oil, creating what is called a chip-along road surface. But Sam and Russell had gotten too far ahead. The oil would harden before the second crew got there with the rocks.

As Sam stood on the roadway, he let his eyes wander to the surrounding farmland. Thats when he saw it, lying in the weeds on the far upslope of a drainage ditch that ran parallel to the road. A wooden box. It was about five feet long and a couple feet widethe size and shape of the toolboxes in the beds of pickups. Sam pointed it out to his partner. They trudged into the three-foot-deep ditch and walked up the other side to get a closer look. From its darkened, weathered surface, the box appeared to have been outside for some time. It looked to have been constructed by hand with plywood and finishing nails.

They picked it up and carried it back up to the roadway, where they set it down next to the truck. With a crowbar from the truck, Sam pried open the lid and peered inside. A faintly musty smell hit him. Stuffed inside were a soiled blanket or quilt, green and old, and a tangle of clothes made of denim and plaid cloth. Sam poked at the quilt with the crowbar, pushing it aside to see what was underneath.