Mikita Brottman - Couple Found Slain: After a Family Murder

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Through our many conversations, through his own written recollections, and by providing me with his psychiatric and police records, Brian Bechtold has helped me write this book. Ive also relied on other primary documents: court audio and transcripts, police logs, diagrams, photographs, incident reports, and in-person interviews. This is a work of nonfiction; however, some of the dialogue has been re-created based on information from various sources and some of the names and identifying details have been changed.

Most true crime stories focus on the buildup to the crime, the incident itself, and the quest for justice. Theyre propelled by the need to solve a mystery or find resolution. They end, inevitably, with the arrest and confinement of the perpetrator. The prosaic life, lit up for a moment by the thrill of the crime, returns to obscurity. The curtain comes down. But the end of one story is the beginning of another. Most murders are committed by young men under thirty. These men disappear from public view, but theyre still here. Their lives go on: in maximum-security prisons, in forensic hospitals, and even on death row. They change and grow. They develop new interests, form new friendships, work at different jobs. People no longer recognize their names. Eventually, they become middle-aged or elderly, long-timers going about their daily routines: washing floors, cleaning bathrooms, serving food. Sometimes they even return to live quietly among us. One famous example: Nathan Leopold (of the Leopold and Loeb case) was released from prison at age fifty-four, married a widowed florist, and moved to Puerto Rico, where he wrote a well-received book on the islands bird life.

True crime deals with the victims before and after, the communitys suffering, the hunt, the cops, the capture, the trial, the verdict. This book is about another part of the story, the part that begins when the verdict is announced, the sentence handed down. Couple Found Slain is a compelling headline. The scene it conjures up is lurid and frightening. It shuts out further thought. Its like a burst of gunfire, explosive and short-lived.

The rest of the story, dense and messy, lies beneath.

PORT ST. JOE, FLORIDA

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 21, 1992, 1:30 P.M.

Officer Timothy Hightower was finishing up some paperwork at the front desk of police headquarters. It had been a quiet week. The district, whose population was small and mostly rural, had seen its usual share of petty thefts and burglaries, but nothing more serious. Tourists were scarce in February. Scallop season was over. Other than the mosquitoes, the biggest problem was hurricanes, which could move in unpredictably from the Gulf of Mexico to make landfall on Cape San Blas. But it wasnt the season for storms.

The front door opened. Hightower looked up and saw a young man walking toward the desk. He was thin, pale, and jittery.

What can I help you with, sir? the officer asked, suddenly feeling uneasy.

The young man held his gaze. Something bad happened, he said.

HILLANDALE, MARYLAND

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 21, 3:15 P.M.

Jim Drewry, a homicide detective in the Montgomery County Police Department, was driving home from work when he picked up a dispatch call on the radio asking for officers to respond to a residence in Hillandale, a suburb of Washington, DC, just north of Silver Spring, to check on the welfare of the occupants.

Because Drewry wasnt far from the address given by the dispatcher, he decided to drop by and see if he could help out. He arrived at around 3:30 p.m.

The house on Green Forest Drive was a split-level brick home set back about two hundred feet from the road on a slight incline. There were signs of neglect: two empty trash cans sat out in front of the house, the mailbox was full, and a package sat unclaimed on the front porch. The responding officers told Drewry that the house was locked. Theyd rung the bell and hammered on the front door, but no one had replied. If the residents were out, Drewry reasoned, they couldnt have been gone long, because theyd left the television on; he could hear it playing somewhere inside the house. Yet, according to its postmark, the package on the front porch had arrived almost a week ago, and there was a note on the door from someone named Theresa expressing her concern about the residents and asking the police to get in touch.

Drewry went around the back of the house, crossed a small patio, and approached a sliding glass door. Pressing his face against the glass, he could make out what appeared to be a woman sitting in a chair in the living room. Her body was covered by a multicolored quilt; only her head was visible. It was obvious to Drewry that she was dead. He also saw the feet and lower legs of a man lying facedown on the kitchen floor. The detective pulled out his radio and called headquarters. They had a double homicide on their hands.

The sliding doors at the back were locked, and so were the windows. Not wanting to break the glass, Drewry decided to call the Fire and Rescue team and get them to force the doors open. He also placed a call to John Tauber, the Maryland deputy medical examiner. By the time Fire and Rescue had arrived, the crime scene technicians were on the scene, along with four more detectives from the Homicide/Sex division of the Montgomery County Police Department. They entered the house at around 4:40 p.m.

The odor was almost unbearable. The rear door led into an open-plan dining room, which was separated from the kitchen area by a stone-and-wood counter. The chandelier in the dining room was on; so were the overhead lights in the kitchen. A mans body lay on the kitchen floor. He appeared to have been killed while preparing a meal. On the kitchen table was a bowl containing the remains of what looked like breakfast cereal, and on a plate beside the stove were some bits of fish; fish bones lay on a sheet of aluminum foil. The body was fully clothed, the skin bloated and bluish green. From the state of decomposition, Drewry estimated that the man had been dead for at least ten days. There was a shotgun wound to the back of his right shoulder and some blood splatter on the front of the dishwasher, to the left of his head. On the floor near the body, the red linoleum was black with dried blood, which made Drewry suspect the man may have been moved or rolled over. Both pockets of his pants were empty.

Inside, the place was a mess. The trash hadnt been taken out for weeks, and the water had been cut off. Dirty dishes and utensils were stacked on the counter and the kitchen table, along with cans of food; a box of Rice Krispies; a spray can of insect repellent; a box of tea bags; bottles of cooking oil, Gatorade, condiments, and medicine; a bag of oranges; an open container of milk; empty takeaway cartons; and a half-eaten baguette.