Donald A. Davis - Hush Little Babies: The True Story Of A Mother Who Murdered Her Own Children

There was a mat of blood on the floor, and he saw first one, then two children lying on the floor bleeding. A pale Darlie Routier was screaming hysterically into a cordless telephone while pressing a bloody rag to her neck. Waddell asked her who had done this, and she mumbled incoherently, but pointed toward an open door that led out the rear of the house. Waddell saw Darin drop to his knees and begin trying CPR on one of the boys. The man looked up with pained eyes and told the policeman he could feel air coming through the wounds in the boys chest. Waddell ordered a stunned Darlie to get some towels and put them on the other boy, but the woman only continued to grip the telephone tightly and scream.

St. Martins Paperbacks titles
by Don Davis

The Milwaukee Murders

The Nanny Murder Trial

Bad Blood

Death of an Angel

Fallen Hero

Death Cruise

A Fathers Rage

Hush Little Babies

JonBent (with Steve Thomas)

DON DAVIS

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.

HUSH LITTLE BABIES

Copyright 1997 by Don Davis.

Cover photograph by Reuters/Handout/Archive Photos.

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: 0-312-96485-4
EAN: 80312-96485-6

Printed in the United States of America

St. Martins Paperbacks edition / November 1997

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

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For Robin

I could almost write another book about all of the people who helped me on this one. Some, however, prefer to stay in the shade of anonymity for personal reasons, and I respect that wish.

The family of Darlie and Darin Routier were most gracious and helpful in allowing me into their inner circle. Their guidance was critical. Special thanks to Darin, Mama Darlie, Sarilda Routier, Dana Stahl, Lou Ann Brown, Sandi Aitken, and Deon and Dana Routier.

In Rowlett, my friends Greg Lynch and Becky Sebastian at the Lakeshore Times provided invaluable help and good Mexican food, Estelle Anderson of Back Porch Books became a pal, as did Corrine Wells. Mike Glenn of the Garland News, Charlotte Johnson of the Rowlett Chamber of Commerce and Sgt. Dean Poos of the Rowlett Police also were helpful.

In Dallas, Judge Mark Tolle and his staff were more than courteous, and in Kerrville, I enjoyed the assistance of Joe Munoz of Channel 5, Randy Coffey of KRLD, and a few others who know who they are. Thanks to all. My secret weapon was Helen McClure. Much of this book is due to her work.

Robin Murphy Davis provided the original editing and a sense of normalcy while I wrote. Charlie Spicer and Stephen Murphy of St. Martins Press, and my agent, Jane Dystel, handled the New York end of things with speed and dispatch.

Oh, come, my hand, poor wretched hand,
and take the sword,

Take it, step forward to this bitter
starting point,

And do not be a coward, do not
think of them,

How sweet they are, and how you
are their mother. Just for

This one short day be forgetful of
your children,

Afterward weep, for even though
you will kill them,

They are very dearOh, I am an
unhappy woman!

Medea
Euripides 431 B.C.

Hush
Little
Babies

IT WAS ONLY early summer, but already the sun beat down with a fury on the flat anvil that is Texas. On the fifth day of June 1996 the temperature hit 93 degrees and again there was no rain to cool things down. The entire year had been dog-bone dry, and while sixteen inches of rain should have fallen by this time, less than eight had come, leaving the plains dusty and turning the concrete towers and miles of paved road of the big cities into heat-reflecting ovens. A whisper of wet was in the air as forecasters predicted that a front moving in from the west might soon bring afternoon thunderstorms. Thirty percent chance. By the time the sun finally set that day, late, at 8:39 P.M., Dallas had been well-cooked and could look forward only to more of the same. It was, after all, Texas in the summertime. A quarter-moon rose, barely piercing the welcome darkness, which brought a slight reduction in the baking temperature.

Twenty-five miles to the northeast of Dallas, just beyond the 1-635 ring road around the city, in a spacious home in the town of Rowlett, Darlie Routier found it was uncomfortable. The temperature for the night eventually would only dip to 70 degrees, leaving Texans reaching for their air conditioners and fans. Heat rises, which meant the upper floor of the two-story brick-fronted house on the sweeping corner at 5801 Eagle Drive would be hotter than the downstairs, even with the air-conditioning. She wore only a light T-shirt and panties. Her husband, Darin, had gone upstairs to put their eight-month-old infant son, Drake, into the crib, brought her down a pillow and light blanket, kissed her good night, and then went up into their master bedroom.

Darlie chose to remain on the cooler lower floor, in the family room, with their two older boys. Everyone had a name that began with the letter D. In addition to Darlie and Darin, and the baby Drake, there was Devon, aged six, and Damon, five. The boys, all with the dark hair of their father, were startlingly good-looking kids.

Darin, twenty-eight, was handsome, with a well-trimmed beard and slim body, and twenty-six-year-old Darlie Lynn Routier was a quintessential Texas blonde with a lot of curves to match a dazzling smile. Sweethearts from the moment they met while they were both teenagers, they had been married for eight years. Darins talents as an entrepreneur provided a more than comfortable lifestyle, and they had talked for a while that night before he went upstairs about the broken Jaguar and that money-sucking boat they planned to sell, one of Darins business ventures that didnt work out.

Devon and Damon were as boisterous as always that night, still excited by the visit of their aunt, Dana Stahl, one of Darlies teen-aged sisters, and had splashed almost all of the water out of the hot tub in the backyard after dinner. The brothers seemingly bottomless pit of energy had led the family area in the big house to be called the Roamin Room. Darlie let the boys sack out on the floor and she settled onto the couch against the west wall. All three of them fell asleep that Wednesday night to the mindless muttering of the television set.

She had not been asleep long when she felt a tiny push on her shoulder and heard Damon calling weakly to her, Mommy, Mommy. The words were strained, barely whispered, a tone most unusual from any five-year-old boy. Darlie opened her eyes to find a nightmare.