Ginsburg Philip E. - Poisoned blood: a true story of murder, passion, and an astonishing hoax

A True Story of Murder, Passion, and an Astonishing Hoax

Philip E. Ginsburg

For my late father, Aaron Ginsburg, who made me want to understand, and for my mother, Libby Fisher Ginsburg, who has been my foundation, with love and gratitude

This is the true story of a real person, Audrey Marie Hilley. The personalities, events, actions, and conversations portrayed here have been reconstructed from extensive research, using court documents, letters, personal papers, press accounts, and the memories of participants, gathered in dozens of interviews. The reader should be aware that when gaps in the sources or the logic of the narrative required it, the author has contributed his own interpretation and extrapolation of the facts. In an effort to safeguard the privacy of certain individuals, the author has changed their names and in some cases altered otherwise identifying characteristics. Events involving such characters happened as described; only minor details have been changed.

The world thinks of a writer as a solitary figure, laboring unaided to produce words on a page. Sometimes a writer thinks of a writer that way, too. But the truth is otherwise. From beginning to end, a writer needs the cooperation, or at least the tolerant regard, of many others in order to produce a book such as this.

In my case, toleration began with a number of people in Marlow and Keene, New Hampshire, who were willing to give me their time and their thoughts about the woman they had known as Robbi Homan and later as Teri Martin. Among them I am especially grateful to Peter Homan and his wife, Shelley, who were generous with their hospitality and their memories, and to Barry Hunter, who showed me how intelligent persistence could become a craft.

I found southerners just as hospitable as New Hampshire folks, and among them I particularly appreciated the help of Gary Carroll, who showed me the thoughtful person behind the taciturn professional lawman, and the Reverend Michael Hilley, whose trust is the more valued for being hard won. Carol Hilley, whose courage became more impressive the more I learned about what she had experienced, gave me as much assistance as she could.

In Florida I was taken briefly into the family life of Greer Parker and her husband, Rick, who gave me something it was not easy for them to share.

Among the scores of people who talked with me or provided materials, a number were especially kind and informative. Among these I want to thank in particular Freeda Adcock, Robbie Grace Daigle, Tim Doherty, Larry Dollar of the Broward County State Attorneys Office, Jan Earnest of the Anniston Public Library, Carol Hammann, Sergeant Bob Hardy of the Keene Police Department, Tom Harmon, Joe Hubbard of the Seventh Circuit District Attorneys Office, Jack McKenzie, Wilford Lane, Sergeant Mike LeClair of the Vermont State Police, Charles Lecroy, Robert March, Jerry Montgomery (for his help with photographs), Eddie Motes of the Anniston Star, Ron Oja, Sandra Peace, Lieutenant Lyn Presbie of the New Hampshire State Police, Jerry Scadova, Karen Shughart, Agent David Steele of the FBI, Cynthia Stewart, Parian Tidwell of the Calhoun County Circuit Court, and Roger Williams. There were a number of others who did as much and asked in return only anonymity, which I hereby maintain with appreciation. They and I know who they are. There were a few others, remarkably few, who felt for a variety of reasons that they could not talk to me; I dont blame them, and in their place I might have done the same. Their refusal emphasizes by contrast the generosity of those who helped. A writer is utterly dependent upon that species of kindness.

I began work on Poisoned Blood during a sabbatical leave from the New Hampshire Council for the Humanities, which might have preferred to be associated with more scholarly work but which nevertheless helped me get started.

The advice of Dr. Edward Rowan and Dr. Denny Carlson was helpful in my understanding of certain medical and psychological questions. I had another form of professional help from Nancy Ray, who provided excellent transcriptions even before she had a word processor, and Anne Dubois, whose skill as a photographer was matched only by her patience in pursuing an acceptable image.

I was fortunate in the literary professionals who took an interest in me and my book. My agent, Elizabeth Knappman, of New England Publishing Associates, has been a gentle teacher and enthusiastic supporter since long before this book was a book. Susanne Kirk has been a discerning editor and deserves full credit for any superiority of the book over the first draft. The multitude of little pencil marks placed on the manuscript by Carrie Chase were manifestly the traces of a superior literary taste. Milly Marmur was generous with her interest in both the manuscript and its author.

It had never occurred to me until I started seeking advice how many of my friends had the kind of feeling for writing I could trust as a measure of my work. Jennifer Lee, Phyllis Bennett, Barry Lane, and Mary Strayer McGowan read early versions of parts of this book. I hope they will see evidence of their suggestions here, and that they will think it improved. Alan Lelchuk and Tom Williams offered counsel from the writers perspective at critical moments.

In retrospect, Poisoned Blood was destined to become a book from the moment I talked to my cousin and friend Rachel Ginsburg about it. She has given me virtually everything that I have thanked others for in these paragraphs, and more. She may measure my appreciation by summing the sentiments I have expressed to them.

And finally I express my love and appreciation to two people who have not read a word of any outline, draft, or manuscript of this book, who will probably be too busy with homework, violins, soccer, and life to read the book itself, but who have shared every moment of its existence and played an active role in shaping the authors world. They are my sons, Adam and Matthew.

When it was all over, when it was possible at last to begin gathering the fragments of the storya story of deceit and betrayal, of lust and murder and the destruction of lifes most sacred bondsit seemed unlikely that the small, plain town of Marlow could ever have held this woman. There was so little to the town, a mere wide spot in the road with a tiny post office, a general store with two gas pumps out front, a few hundred houses strewn across the low hills in the southwestern corner of New Hampshire near the Vermont border.

Afterward, when they recalled the ways her life had touched theirs, the people who had known her still seemed bemused. They talked of her as if she were someone they remembered from a tale read in childhood or a movie seen on television. In their minds the story was surrounded by a mist of unreality, so incongruous did it appear amid the persistent ordinariness of their town. Many, like a person awaking in the middle of a dream, lived with the sense that the story was unfinished, and some found themselves wondering at times if it had ever happened at all.