To The Last Breath [067-011-4.8]

By: Carlton Stowers

Synopsis:

The story opens with somber drama: The body of a 2-year-old girl is
removed from her grave and transported to a hospital for a second
autopsy.  In the small Gulf Coast town of Alvin, Texas, the bereaved
mother, the child's grandmother, and the female detective who has
risked so much to champion their cause, await the opinion of a visiting
pathologist.  Carlton Stowers, whose Careless Whispers won the 1987
Edgar Award for fact crime, brings all the right skills to this tale of
a sullen, possessive man who liked to play cruel mind games on his
loved ones and apparently killed his young daughter in a slow and
deliberate fashion.  Perhaps at the end, we don't really know why he
did it, but we will have come to know and admire the three women who
fought for justice.

THREE WOMEN FIGHT FOR THE TRUTH BEHIND A CHILD'S TRAGIC MURDER CARLTON
STOWERS ST.  MARTIN'S PRESS I NEW YORK For Brandon... who will one day
want to know.

TO THE LAST BREATH: THREE WOMEN FIGHT FOR THE TRUTH BEHIND A CHILD'S
TRACIC MURDER.  Copyright þ 1998 by Carlton Stowers.  Printed in the
United States of America.  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. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth
Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

Design by MAUREEN TROY ISBN 0-312-16981-7

First Edition: February 1998

The task of explaining the inexplicable is a challenge which
stubborn writers of nonfiction have taken on for decades, some with
greater success than others.  The drive to solve such puzzlesþto lend
some degree of sense and reason to an occurrence both senseless and
unreasonableþcan be an exercise of such futility as to cause one to
throw up his hands and consider a search for some new and easier line
of work.

I know: I've been there.  The book you're now holding is a blueribbon,
twenty-four-karat case in point.

I would, then, be remiss if I did not mention the names of a number of
people who not only provided insight and support but quietly guarded
the back door against my escape.  Their favors, hospitality, and gentle
urgings were endless.

To say that Sharon Couch, Detective Sue Dietrich, Brazoria County
Assistant District Attorney Jeri Yenne, Dr. Linda Norton, and Annette
Campise are simply women of rare strength and dedication is to
shortchange them individually and collectively.  The truth of the
matter is that this book would not exist were it not for their courage
and willing, generous help.

Additionally, there were those who patiently offered help on matters
both legal and medical: Brazoria County District Attorney Jerome
Aldrich, Assistant D.A. Tony Latino, lawyers Joanne Chadderdon, Skip
Cornelius, and Sam Adamo, Drs.  William Anderson, Hugh Burns, John
Long, Gary Bender, Dorothy Kelley, Eduardo Bellas, Charles Petty, Cecil
Wingo, and John Bright, Alvin Police Chief Mike Merkel and officers
Terry Earl, Howard Duckworth, and Todd Arendell.

Observations, recollections, and suggestions of so many provided pieces
to the story: Vince Campise, Sunny Bradley, Priscilla Campise, Gerald
Philpott, Donna Kinsel, Donna Hunt, P. G. Walls, Robert Kubena, Charles
Nawrocki, Bill Crider, Bill Gray, and Paul Gauskow.  Others who wished
to remain anonymous won't be named but their help is greatly
appreciated nonetheless.

The excellent work of fellow journalists helped provide a valuable M
map in the early goings of my research.  Steve McVicker of the Houston
Press, Mike Drago of the Associated Press, Houston Chronicle staffers
Joe Stinebaker, Eric Hanson, Jerry Urban, Steve Olafson, and Patti
Muck, Marty Graham of the Houston Post, and Kristie Watthuber of the
Alvin Advertiser all reported admirably on the case.  And a grateful
nod is due Ida M. Blanchette's Babe on the Bayou, a charming history of
the first one hundred years of Alvin, Texas.

That Janet Wilkens Manus is willing to go miles beyond the traditional
function of an agent has always been an immeasurable plus.  And sincere
thanks is due to editor Charlie Spicer for giving this project a
receptive home.  Thanks, too, for the encouraging words and courtroom
company provided by Dan Witt.

And, nothing of any real worth that I've ever accomplished is without
the imprint of Pat Stowers: wife, friend, helpful critic, and damn fine
photographer.

Finally, there was a little girl named Renee, who looked down on me
daily from a photograph positioned on my bookshelf, lending silent
encouragement more valuable than I'll ever be able to explain.

Blessed be childhood, which brings down something of heaven into the
midst of our rough earthliness...

þHENRI FREOERIC AMIEL, JOURNAL Who takes the child by the hand, takes
the mother by the heart.

þDANISH PROVERB ,T BREATH Plolesue October 1994.

The tiny caravan made its way northward along Interstate 90, headlights
cutting into the dusk of the damp, overcast Friday evening.  Through
the Texas Gulf Coast communities of Subline, Rock Island, and Eagle
Lake, the hearse and two accompanying police cars were never separated,
linked together by some invisible tether.  The passengers inside the
vehicles, officers of the Alvin Police Department and a funeral home
attendant, rode in silence, as if in a show of respect for the cargo
being transported, their faces reflections of the grimness of the
task.

It had been so since they had pulled away from the City Cemetery
located on the eastern edge of the tiny community of Hallettsville.

Their destination was the Alvin Community Hospital where two other
police officers awaited, having been assigned unusual guard duty.  They
were to stand sentry at the door of the room where, they had been
informed, a casket would be kept overnight.  "If you need to relieve
yourself," a cautious assistant district attorney had told them, "do it
before you go on duty.  Once the casket is delivered and locked in the
room, you don't move from your postþfor any reason."

Such was the caution, the attention to the most minute detail, attached
to the unprecedented event.

Earlier in the day the first exhumation of a body ever conducted in
Brazoria County had occurred.  A funeral home director had stood
anxiously by, feeling very little comfort from the court order that had
been presented him, as workers opened the grave, retrieved the casket,
and placed it into the back of the waiting hearse.  In his decade of
death-related services, it was the first such exercise he'd ever
witnessed.

As he stood there, a gentle breeze rustled through a stand of nearby
cedars and across the manicured, headstone-dotted landscape.  It was,
he thought, as though he were watching a video rewind, repeating the
somber motions of a graveside funeral service conducted eight months
earlier, only this time in reverse.

As hospital officials in Alvin made preparations for the arrival, a
nervous grandmother in her mid-forties was driving through the always
heavy Houston traffic toward Intercontinental Airport, her mind
racing.

She had selected a silk print dress for the occasion and had her auburn
hair pulled tightly back at the nape of her neck.  It was foolish, she
thought, to be so concerned over her appearance.  Still, she felt it
important to make a good impression.  And so she had spent more time
with her hair and makeup than she had in months, eagerly anticipating
her meeting with the Florida doctor who, up until now, had been only a
pleasant voice on the phone.

She had left home early enough to stop by an ATM machine for cash.  In
her last telephone conversation with the doctor she had urged him to
forego the airline's in-flight meal and let her take him to one of
Houston's acclaimed steak restaurants.  There they could talk, get
better acquainted, before she drove him the final forty-five miles to
Alvin where his hotel reservations had been arranged.

Turning off Interstate 45 toward the airport entrance as a gentle rain
began to fall, the woman felt a sudden chilling awareness sweep through
her body.  It had been with her throughout the day, hidden away in the
back of her mind, but now it burst forward, causing her knuckles to
turn white as she gripped the steering wheel of her pickup.  The man
she would soon meet, a highly regarded forensic pathologist, would
answer the question that had haunted her, had invaded her sleep and
occupied every waking moment, for such a long time.  Every ounce of
hope to which she had wearily clung rested in the medical abilities of
someone she didn't even know, and the realization frightened her.

Rolling down her window, she took a series of deep breaths, urging the
crisp night air to calm her as she made her way into the airport
parking lot.

And for a moment, her thoughts turned from the doctor's arrival to the
casket she knew should already have arrived at the hospital.

Feeling anxious and fragile, she found her confidence shaken by even
the slightest flaw in planning.  For the woman assigned to greet the
pathologist and see him safely to his destination, details that would
usually be considered trivial suddenly seemed to warn of impending
disaster.  Leaving the airport, despite her intimate knowledge of the
city and its freeways, she had somehow managed to lose her way,
reaching the outskirts of suburban Jersey City before realizing she was
driving in the wrong direction.  Then, after finally reaching the
restaurant and enjoying a leisurely, conversation-filled meal of prime
rib, the bill left by the waiter brought the embarrassing realization
that she did not have enough cash to pay the tab and would have to ask
her guest to assist.

Small things of no real consequence, but unsettling nonetheless to one
whose apprehension was now bordering on paranoia.

And the difficult part still lay ahead.  The next day, the woman knew,
the tension level was certain to reach heights she'd never before
experienced.  Long after bidding the visiting doctor goodnight at his
hotel and returning to her Houston home, she counted the slowly passing
hours with a sleepless mixture of fear and hope.

By the time the gray prelude to the new day filtered through her
kitchen window, a very real physical pain had attached itself to the
woman's anxiety.  Her entire body ached as if invaded by some angry
virus.

Though she was not a deeply religious person, she whispered a prayer
for strength.

The woman sitting at her kitchen table, awaiting the Saturday morning
sunrise, was not the only one nervously anticipating the events of the
day.

In Alvin, a veteran female homicide detective who, months earlier, had
gone to her superiors and asked to be assigned to a case she'd long
been watching from a distance, had wakened to an overwhelming feeling
of dread.

That she had witnessed the aftermath of death more times than she cared
to remember should, she knew, be adequate preparation for what lay
ahead.  The blood and carnage, while always troubling, had long since
become a routine part of her job.  So had attendance at autopsies.

Never before, however, had she watched over the forensic examination of
a body which had been exhumed, and she found her mind playing ugly,
horror-movie games.  Though she would share her concern with no one,
the detective was apprehensive about what she would see when the casket
was finally opened.

Only the knowledge that the grim process was the final chance to move
the case toward the resolution she had sought with such determination
would provide her the strength necessary to get through the ordeal.

For a half hour the gentle hum of an air purifier and ceiling exhaust
fan pulled the sick, sweet odor from the room where the body lay on a
portable gurney made of yellowed fiberglass.  Harsh fluorescent
lighting reflected against stark white walls so bright as to be
discomforting until the eyes could adjust.  On one side of the room
sterile cabinets housed instruments, gowns, and a variety of cleaning
fluids.  Attached to the opposite wall were two stainless-steel
sinks.

The blinds covering the small window at the opposite end of the room in
which the doctor would perform his work were closed, adding to the
claustrophobic atmosphere.

It was shortly after 10:00 A.M. when the doctor drained the final sip
of coffee from a styrofoam cup, aimed it at a nearby wastebasket, and
gave a slight nod to the woman who had picked him up at the airport the
previous evening.  She forced a nervous acknowledgment, then settled on
a nearby couch to begin the wait as he disappeared into the examining
room.

The wary detective, suddenly aware that her hands were shaking,
followed the doctor silently.

For the next four and one-half hours she watched as the pathologist
worked.  When it became difficult for her to look upon the body any
longer, she directed her attention to the man standing over the gurney,
and studied the meticulous manner in which he was conducting the
examination, taking photographs, probing, making incisions, preparing
slides, recording his every move and observation into a nearby tape
recorder.  He was younger-looking than his fifty-two years, despite the
salt-and-pepper hair.  The horn-rimmed glasses he wore gave his round,
pleasant face a studious appearance.

But what impressed her most was the gentleness with which he approached
his work.

It was 2,30 in the afternoon when he finally removed his surgical
gloves, raised his head, and wearily looked across the gurney.

"Detective," he said, "you now have a homicide investigation on your
hands."

This is how it began, with warm sun and cool Gulf Coast waters gently
splashing against the Galveston beach.  There was infectious laughter
everywhere as young voices, most of them belonging to college students,
celebrated the intoxicating freedom of the annual ritual known as
spring break.  They came for the beer parties and the pot, or simply to
kick back and enjoy the freedom from parental watch, classroom
lectures, and boring jobs back home.

They got drunk and high, a lot of them got sick, and a few were even
arrested.  Somefell in love....

There had been a time when the Galveston Island spring break
festivities were sole property of college studentsþyoung men and women,
single and carefree, who came to spend Daddy's money, flash their
fraternity pins, and put aside the mysteries of calculus or
introductory tort law for a few glorious, fun-filled days.

By the spring of 1987, however, the caravan of students from the
University of Texas and SMU and even Bible-thumping Baylor University
had been joined by an increasingly large number of partycrashers.

There were the high-school kids, wide-eyed and impressionable, who had
grown up with the legend of sun-and-sex fun the event promised and
simply had to get an early preview of its magic.  Though more
spectators than participants, they could be counted on to return home
with wild good-time stories generally woven of pure sideline fantasy.

Then there were those of college age but no college affiliation, young
people whose academic pursuits had come to a screeching halt Ph on high
school graduation night.  They worked the graveyard shift at It | local
refineries or in secretarial pools, part of a generation already
enslaved to the two-dollar woes and second-lien mortgages of adult
hood.  They had begun trekking to the Galveston beaches in greater
numbers, mingling with the Sigma Nus and Tri Delts, partying away
precious vacation time or manufactured sick days in an attempt to
recapture the delights of fun and freedom.

To those who studied the social makeup of the annual gathering, the
latter group was judged the saddest.  They called them the "wannabes,"
outsiders peering through a window at lost youth and missed
opportunity.

Tanned and athletic-looking, Michael Shane Goodeþhe preferred that his
friends call him Shaneþcould have easily passed for a collegian.  His
dark hair was razor cut and, though alone, he moved about the beach as
if there was purpose to his presence.

In truth he was neither collegian nor a man on any specific mission.

Shane Goode, a postal worker in the nearby Houston suburb of Clear
Creek, married but separated from his wife, had made the trip to
Galveston on his motorcycle, hoping to restore some excitement to a
life that had grown increasingly boring.  Since his 1979 graduation
from Pasadena High School, his life had followed a routinely flat-line
path, a couple of years in the army spent stateside, marriage to his
high-school sweetheart, fatherhood, and a going-nowhere job as
Westinghouse salesman before his dad had helped him get a job with the
post office.

Shane Goode was a walking definition of the spring break wannabe,
cruising the beach in hopes of getting in on the action.

Annette Tollett, meanwhile, had somewhat reluctantly joined a visiting
cousin who had insisted they drive down from Houston and see what the
spring break phenomenon was all about.  Shy and generally
uncomfortable in crowds, Annette was a pretty girl, tall and
brunette.

Divorced and working as a bookkeeper for a car rental agency, she felt
out of place among those traveling to the historic Gulf Coast island.

Even before striking up a conversation with her, Shane Goode would make
note of what he determined to be an endearing vulnerability in her
face.

And it pleased him greatly that she seemed genuinely flattered that he
had singled her out.  The Shane Goode charm, though maybe a little
rusty, still worked.

Before the day ended he had entertained her with stories of his
exploits in the military, soothed her concerns about his impending
divorce, and had asked for her phone number.  To her surprise, Annette
readily provided it.

Almost giddy during the return home that evening, she and her cousin
talked at length about the concept of love at first sight.

The following day Shane phoned and they talked late into the evening.

Soon he was stopping by every afternoon after work.  They went out to
dinner and movies.  He took her dancing.  And he began to send roses so
regularly that the ones previously delivered were still fresh when
another dozen arrived.  She would find notes (".  . . hope you have a
great day .  . . find time to think of me .  . .") in his familiar
handwriting waiting beneath the windshield of her car when she left for
work.

Annette was, for the first time in her life, the object of an
oldfashioned courtship and she delighted in it.  Her relationship with
this well-mannered, funny, caring new man in her life was light-years
removed from previous experiences.  The husband whom she had finally
divorced a year earlier had become so abusive that she had finally
taken her year-old daughter and moved out.  The display of violent
anger had made Annette skeptical of trusting another man anytime
soon.

Yet Shane was different.  There was a warmth and gentleness to him
which she had to admit was disarming.  He spoke lovingly of his own
daughter, vowing that he would make every human effort to see to it
that his divorce did not damage their relationship.  Annette liked the
fact that he showered her child with attention on every visit to the
house.  He loved kids, he said, and it showed.

Even if she had been determined to detect flaws, she was convinced she
could not have found them.  Unlike her ex-husband, Shane wasn't a
drinker, didn't spend long nights out in the company of buddies,
prowling the Houston strip joints.  Shane had a good job which he
obviously took very seriously and talked optimistically of a bright
future he had planned for himself.  In a word, he was more mature than
any man she'd ever met.

They had been seeing each other on a daily basis for almost three weeks
before he kissed her.  And even then it was accompanied with an
apology.

He didn't want to rush things, he said, didn't want to scare her away
by moving their relationship ahead at a speed that might make her
uncomfortable.

In truth, Annette was feeling no discomfort at all.  She was already in
love with Shane Goode.

By May, she and two-year-old Michelle had moved from their duplex into
Shane's mobile home in the nearby suburb of Pasadena.  He had seemed
almost giddy with excitement on the day they arrived.  It was good, he
said, to have a family again.

Soon they were talking of marriage.

It pleased Sharon Couch to see her daughter happy again.  The
long-absent sparkle had returned to Annette's eyes, the lethargy that
had set in during the aftermath of her failed first marriage was
replaced with new energy and optimism.  As do all caring parents,
Sharon, herself a divorcee, quietly shared in her child's newfound
happiness.  It was something that had been, for her and her family, in
short supply for far too long.

In truth, Sharon knew little about this man who had swept into her
daughter's life.  On those occasions when she had been around him he
had appeared painfully shy, the complete opposite of the gregarious,
fun-loving person whom Annette had described to her mother.  Attempts
to lure him into conversation were met with short replies.  "Shane,
have you decided where you're going on your vacation?"

"Don't know yet."

"How's work?"

"Okay."  He never made eye contact, even when they did have their
brief, one-sided talks.  Sharon eventually joked that her future
son-in-law seemed to have a remarkable fascination with her living-room
floor.

None of which caused her undue concern.  It was no business of hers to
pick at the personality traits of others.  That Shane seemed to make
Annette happy and treated her well, that her granddaughter liked him
and had quickly forged a strong bond with his daughter was more than
enough.  When Annette announced that Shane's divorce was-final and he
had asked her to marry him, Sharon was pleased.  Given time, she was
sure, Shane would warm to her and the rest of the family.

Her first real doubts formed as the planned October wedding date
neared.  Annette had, for months, been spending every spare minute in
preparation for the event, shopping for her gown, choosing bridesmaids,
writing and rewriting her list of those who would be invited.

It wasn't until after all the plans were set and the invitations had
gone out that Shane Goode got cold feet.  Two days before the wedding
he told Annette that he was not ready to get married.

"I love you and don't want to lose you," he said, "but it is too soon
for us to be married.  We've got to be sureþboth of usþbecause I want
us to be together forever.  Let's just give things a little time."

Annette was perplexed by the turn of events.  If Shane loved her so
much and wanted to "be together forever," why had the idea of
marriageþhis idea to begin withþsuddenly become so frightening?  The
signals he'd been sending out were, at best, confusing.  Since she and
Michelle had moved in with him he had constantly talked of how much he
enjoyed being in a family setting.  His single-minded devotion to
Annette had, in fact, seemed to border on the obsessive, On those rare
occasions when one of Annette's girlfriends would stop by for a visit
and still be there when Shane returned home from work, the routine
would always be the same.  He would disappear into the bedroom to sulk
until the visitor had left, then later would remind Annette how
precious he viewed their time together.  "I work all day, thinking
about nothing but getting home so I can spend time with you," he would
say.  "I just hate the idea of anyone taking that time away from us."

Annette had never before encountered this kind of jealousy, and at
first, she found it flattering.  Avoiding her friends in order to spend
more time with the man she hoped to soon marry seemed a logical and
worthwhile trade-off.  There would be plenty of time for friends after
she and Shane became more comfortable and confident in their
relationship.

But Annette's mother, a cut-to-the-chase, bottom-line kind of person,
found that the issue of the canceled wedding posed a big problem.  Her
fear was that Shane, for all his charm and the lavish attention he
showered on her daughter, might not be what he seemed.  But she also
knew that it would be futile to suggest this to her daughter.  Annette
was blindly in love and motherly advice would only cause damage to a
mother-daughter relationship already marked by a history of stubborn
disagreement.

Sharon's relationships with her children had, in fact, always perplexed
her.  From childhood, Annette, her oldest, had been the headstrong one,
quietly determined to chart her own course, quick to rebel against
rules and motherly advice.  Sharon's son Steven, meanwhile, had been
easygoing and demonstrative with his affection.

Annette and her mother, friends had often observed, were simply too
much alike to get along.

And so Sharon remained silent on the matter, resigned to keeping her
concerns private.  It is unlikely she would have been able to maintain
that silence had she known that Shane, after announcing he was not
ready to marry, refused to call any of the invited guests to inform
them of the change in plans.  That responsibility fell to an
embarrassed and confused Annette.

Two months later, as the family gathered at Sharon's home for
Thanksgiving dinner, Annette told her mother that the wedding was back
on.

"When?"

She was taken aback when Annette told her it would take place the
following day.

Instead of the long-planned ceremony with dozens of friends as guests,
Annette and Shane Goode were married on November 27, 1987, with only
Annette's daughter Michelle and Sharon in attendance.

Sharon thought it strange that no one from Shane's family was
present.

For the first few months of their marriage, Shane and Annette Goode
blended into that melting pot of young couples starting new lives
together, both working, keeping tight rein on their budget in hopes of
soon moving from the trailer park into a house.  Young Michelle looked
forward to those times when Shane's daughter Tiffany came to visit.  On
weekends, Sharon routinely volunteered to baby-sit so the newly married
couple might get out for a movie or an evening of dancing.

Actually, what she saw during the brief periods of time she was around
her daughter and new son-in-law pleased her.  They seemed happy and
eagerly looking ahead to the future.

Sharon had no idea that a dark and troubling side to the relationship
had already begun to develop.  She saw only signs of a happy
relationship and heard only positive comments from a daughter who had
always been reluctant to share even the most trivial of personal
details with her.

Annette, her mother knew, had, since childhood, suffered her personal
anguishes, large and small, in private.

Among the things Annette did not reveal to her mother was her growing
concern over the changes she had seen in Shane in recent days.  Without
provocation he would fall into a sullen mood that would last for days
before finally exploding in anger.  Annette would ask repeatedly what
was troubling him, only to learn after his mood developed into an angry
outburst, that the cause was some obscure event that had taken place
days, sometimes weeks, earlier.  She was quickly learning that her
husband kept things bottled up inside, allowing them to fester until
they had grown completely out of proportion before exploding to the
surface.  When Annette suggested they talk things out, Shane would
abruptly end the conversation.  After he had had his say, had vented
whatever anger he harbored, the discussion was over.

And though he was never physically abusive, he seemed to relish the
exercise of mental cruelty.  As their first Christmas together neared,
he arrived home from work one evening with a large, gaily wrapped
box.

Placing it under the tree with great fanfare, he assured Annette that
she was going to be really surprised when she opened it.  Excited, she
could only hope that the sports jacket, slacks, and tie she had
selected as his gift would match up to what he had purchased for her.

When, on Christmas morning, she expectantly ripped into the package,
she found that it contained nothing but a pair of old black pumps that
Shane had obviously taken from her closet.  Laughing heartily at his
"joke," he said her stunned expression was even better than the one
he'd seen on his first wife's face when she had opened a gift of what
he had promised her was a string of cultured pearls.  What she had
found instead was a cheap dimestore necklace.

Later, when Annette's birthday neared, Shane would make mention of it
almost daily.  "You've got a birthday coming up .  . . just afew more
days until the big day .  . . birthday's tomorrow .  . ."  She could
only interpret his constant reminders as hints of some special plan he
had for the occasion.  Then, on the day, this same man, who once
showered her with flowers and loving notes, would avoid even the
slightest mention of it.  There would be no gift, no trip out for a
romantic dinner.  Nothing.

One evening at a popular Pasadena country-western dance club, things
had started off wellþuntil one of Annette's friends from work and her
husband arrived.  Annette had been talking with the woman for only a
few minutes when Shane excused himself to go to the men's room.  When
he did not return after a reasonable period of time, Annette began
looking for him, finally going into the parking lot to find that his
pickup was gone.  Embarrassed, she had to ask her friend for a ride
home.

When she arrived the pickup was parked in front and the lights inside
were out.  Her purse, locked in the truck, contained her key and she
had to knock for some time before Shane finally answered the door.  He
explained that he had already gone to bed and hadn't heard her
knocking.

When Annette pressed for an explanation for his strange behavior, he
only shrugged and said it had been clear to him she was more interested
in talking with her friends than spending the evening with him, so he'd
left.

It was a devious, childish form of behavior with which Annette had no
previous experience, and not the slightest idea how to handle.

In time she reached the decision that had always been her way of
dealing with turmoil.  She blindly hoped the problems would magically
go away, that some fairy-tale solution waited in the days ahead.

Meanwhile, she would simply do the best she could to keep her husband
happy.

The Shane Goode seen by his mother-in-law was still quiet, almost
withdrawnþa man who never seemed altogether comfortable in the company
of others.  The only family member with whom he seemed to share any
common interests was Annette's rebellious teenage brother, Steven.  A
troubled youngster who had begun to experiment with drugs and test his
independence at every opportunity, he seemed to delight in his new
brother-in-law's attention.  To Shane's new wife, the warm and gentle
man she had fallen in love with had become a moody and demanding ruler
of his domain.  And to friends and coworkers he displayed yet another
personality, selfassured to the point of cockiness, attaching an
unwarranted importance to his job as a letter carrier and his
membership in the National Guard.  At work he had no supervisory
authority but was quick to criticize the performance of others and
offer unsolicited advice.  And while most of his Guard contemporaries
viewed themselves as "weekend warriors," content to address their
military obligation on a parttime basis, Goode thrived on the meetings
and the training, loved dressing in his fatigues, and assured all who
would listen that he was a deeply committed patriot, fully prepared and
eager to go to battle for his country if called.

Many of the stories he relished telling had a certain Walter Mitty ring
to them.  He was, he said, trained to survive in the most severe
locales, was an expert marksman, and was well schooled in the art of
hand-to-hand combat.  And he knew, he insisted, how to kill without
leaving the slightest trace.

To some people, Michael Shane Goode seemed quiet, reserved, thoughtful,
and confident, others found him a tense, angry young man, constantly
wrestling with his own low self-esteem.

Among those who had seen Shane's dark side was his first wife.  Chandra
Kaye Goodeþcalled Kaye by her friendsþhad been a student at Houston's
Milby High School when they had first met.  She, too, was immediately
drawn to the handsome senior from nearby Pasadena High who showered her
with attention.  After only a few dates, she was convinced he was the
man she wanted as her husband.  They married in February of 1981 and
during the next six years, Kaye Goode became one of the few to see all
his faces.  The quicksilver mood swings, which became increasingly
frequent, had at first puzzled her, then became frightening.  His
mean-spirited sense of humor became impossible to understand.

Then there were the bizarre, off-putting stories he often told.

As a youngster, he bragged, one of his most enjoyable forms of summer
recreation was to catch the stray cats which often wandered the
neighborhood.  He would then dig holes in the backyard and bury the
animals, leaving only their heads exposed above ground.  That part of
his meticulous game accomplished, he would then decapitate them with a
power lawnmower.

Kaye never knew whether to believe such stories or not but found the
zest which he applied to their telling chilling.

Finally, on an early June evening in 1987, an argument between her and
Shane escalated into physical violence.  As they stood in the parking
lot of a local convenience store having a shouting match, Shane
suddenly slammed his fist against the left side of his wife's head.  As
she tried to turn and run he grabbed at her, tearing away an earring.

Calm was restored only when the store manager raced into the parking
lot and threatened to summon the police.  Glaring at Shane, the
manager, a hard-muscled young man who easily outweighed Goode by a
hundred pounds, threatened to "kick his cowardly ass" before Kaye
stepped forward to assure him that everything was under control.

Reluctantly, the manager watched as the couple got into their car.

Before Shane could pull away, however, the man tapped against the
driver's window.  Goode rolled it down only a few inches as the manager
leaned forward and again glared at him.  "You take her straight to a
hospital, asshole," he said in a stern, commanding voice.

Shane Goode was still nodding as he backed from the parking lot.

At Pasadena's Bayshore Medical Center emergency room, doctors
determined that Kaye's left eardrum had been perforated and applied
medication to her still-bleeding right ear.

Kaye realized that it was time to get out.  After filing assault
charges, she and three-year-old Tiffany moved into an apartment.  And,
despite Shane's tearful apologies and pleas that she return and give
him another chance, Kaye hired a divorce lawyer.

Even before the final decree, Shane Goode had been sentenced to a
year's deferred adjudication probation for the assault.  Additionally,
the divorce court had ruled that Kaye would serve as managing
conservator of their daughter and that her ex-husband would pay $480
per month in child support.

For Goode, the latter demand was devastating.  Putting a pencil to his
dismal financial situation, he found that his net monthly income would
be reduced to only $1,425.  His expenses, including such bare
essentials as rent, utilities, car, insurance, and loan payments,
amounted to almost $1,700.

He would, he realized, soon be drowning in red ink.

To Annette, much of her husband's past remained secretþor if not
secret, it was shaded by the versions Shane chose to share with her.

His ex-wife had caused their marriage to fail, he was quick to point
out.

Kaye's constant attempts to block him from spending time with his
daughter were, he suggested, but a continuing example of the hell she
had put him through when they were husband and wife.

Annette innocently accepted Shane's word and viewed his ex-wife as the
vengeful, self-centered person he described.  Because of the drain of
child support payments and Kaye's seemingly endless need for additional
money to pay for Tiffany's doctor bills or some other unexpected
expense, their budget was tight.  But neither was it impossible,
Annette thought.

Shortly after they married, in fact, they had purchased a new Pontiac
Trans Am which would serve as Annette's car.  In budgeting for the new
expense, they agreed that the monthly payments to the finance company
would come from her paycheck.

In time, however, Shane realized that even their combined income would
not provide the financial comfort zone he wished for.  Arguments over
money became routine.  Shane criticized Annette's spending habits and
told her to look for something that paid better than her bookkeeping
job.  When she suggested that the best longterm solution to their
financial problems would be for her to take nursing courses in the
eveningsþsomething she'd long wanted to doþhe balked.  The concept of
spending money to make money eluded him.

Growing more and more impatient with his darkening financial situation,
Shane was looking for a quick fix.

Before leaving for work on the morning of May 20, 1988, he invited his
wife out for dinner and dancing that evening.  In light of his recent
concerns over money, Annette was somewhat surprised but readily
agreed.

She phoned her mother to ask if she would baby-sit Michelle and was
pleased by Sharon Couch's eager response.  It would be good to get out
of the house.  Shane had even picked the club they would go to, a
trendy place called J. Larkins located on the bayou out near NASA.

For the remainder of the day, Goode went about his routine in unusually
good spirits, leaving work in the afternoon to return home only long
enough to change into his jogging suit before driving over to a
Pasadena public-school track for a lengthy workout.

By eight o'clock he was showered, dressed, and urging Annette and his
stepdaughter to hurry up.  He was starving.

After a hurried dinner at Grandy's, they dropped Michelle off, and
arrived at J. Larkins shortly after nine.  Though there was ample
parking near the entrance, Shane steered the red Trans Am into one of
the spaces facing the bayou, almost a hundred yards from the club.

"Less chance of some drunk banging into a fender or scratching up one
of the doors," he explained as he locked the car, pocketed the keys in
his jacket, and escorted Annette toward the front door.

It was a pleasant evening.  The band was good and the dance floor
wasn't too crowded.  Annette couldn't remember the last time she'd seen
her husband so relaxed and carefree.  He sang along with the music and
kissed her on several occasions as he seemed swept up in the romantic
atmosphere of the club.  It was, Annette found herself thinking,
suddenly like old times.

It was one in the morning when they walked into the parking lot, arm in
arm, their laughter echoing into a thin fog which had begun rolling in
from the bayou.  Though she had had very little to drink, Annette was
feeling a warm sense of intoxication brought on by the fun-filled
evening.

Suddenly, however, the laughter died.  The spot where Shane had parked
the car was empty.

Goode's mood immediately turned foul.  Angrily pacing the dimly lit
parking lot, he cursed, waving his arms in frustration.  "Some
sonuvabitch stole it," he repeated over and over.  "Stole the goddamn
car."

Stunned by the turn of events, Annette stood silently, arms folded
across her chest, watching her husband's tirade.

Such was the scene Nassau Bay Police patrolman Elbert Love saw as he
began a routine drive through the nightclub parking lot.  As he turned
into the isolated area where Goode had parked, his headlights caught a
young man waving to get his attention.

"My car's been stolen," Shane shouted at the patrolman.

Officer Love quickly took a description of the car, wrote down the
license plate number, and called in a report to his dispatcher.  He
then launched into a rote speech which he made to all car-theft
victims.  If the thief was off on a joyride, there was a chance that it
might be found abandoned in a brief period of time.  "They get their
jollies for a while, then panic," he said.  That was the optimistic
scenario.  If it was professionalsþand the pros, he emphasized, had a
particular liking for the sporty Trans AmsþGoode's automobile could
already be in some chop shop or en route to Mexico.

Still cursing his misfortune, Shane assured the officer that he'd
locked the car and had left no keys in it.  Speaking up for the first
time, Annette confirmed her husband's statement.

The patrolman completed his investigation by taking down Goode's phone
number and address, then asked a final, routine question.  "Sir, do you
know the approximate value of the vehicle?"

"Fifteen thousand," Shane replied.

"We'll be in touch," Officer Love said.

Seated in the back of a cab that would deliver them home, Annette was
relieved to note that the anger her husband had displayed in the
parking lot had subsided.  "All we can do is wait and see," he told her
with a shrug, then smiled for the first time since they'd left the
club.

The Trans Am was never found.  Once police had assured him there was
little hope of its recovery, Goode filed a claim with his insurance
company.  The check he received from Allstate not only cleared the
burdensome $12,000 bank note but provided him with an extra $1,745
which he deposited in his checking account.

Rather than grief, Shane expressed great relief that the Trans Am and
the payments attached to it were history.

What he never bothered to tell Annette was that, according to her
younger brother, Steven, Shane had arranged for him to steal the car
from the nightclub parking lot that evening.  Steven, in turn, would
sell it to an aquaintance who dealt in hot cars, then split the profit
with his brother-in-law.

While he would later deny it, Shane Goode had solved his financial
problems for the time being.

Sharon Couch, eager to see her daughter's second marriage work and not
wanting to interfere, kept her distance.  She was ready to care for
Michelle whenever asked and she occasionally invited Shane and Annette
to her house for dinner, but she made a point of never attempting to
intrude on their private lives.

Aside from Shane's occasional offhand remarks about his wife's spending
habits, usually made in a halfdoking, half-sarcastic manner, Sharon had
no indication of the tension that had begun to pervade the
relationship.

When Annette announced that she was pregnant, her mother was pleased.

And the fact that Shane and Annette had decided to move from his
cramped trailer into a house they had rented in Pasadena seemed to be a
positive move forward.

On the weekend the move was scheduled, Sharon was quick to volunteer
her help.  Despite the fact that she was five months pregnant, Annette
lifted furniture and heavy boxes throughout the day without the
slightest show of concern from Shane.  Sharon, on the other hand, had
repeatedly urged her daughter to let her and her sonin-law load and
unload the heavy objects.  Only when Annette became testy, assuring her
that she felt fine, did Sharon drop the subject.  She knew that her
daughter was energized by the excitement of the move into the more
spacious and comfortable house and eager to get settled in.  To that
end, Sharon opted to silently hurry along her own lifting and
carrying.

Just a few weeks later, however, Annette phoned her mother, sobbing.

She had suffered a miscarriage, she said.

For Sharon, the compassion she felt for her daughter instantly mixed
with a growing anger directed at Shane.  His nonchalant attitude in
allowing Annette's physical exertion during the move had, Sharon was
convinced, contributed to the miscarriage.  Sharon found it impossible
to like her son-in-law.

Soon she began to see signs that the marriage was not going well.

During visits to her grandmother, Michelle began to innocently mention
that her mother and Shane were arguing more and more.  "They make me go
to my room when they're mad at each other," she said, "but I can still
hear them yelling."

By the fall of 1988 Shane had begrudgingly agreed to Annette's idea of
returning to school to pursue pre-med studies.  In keeping with his
pattern of picking special dates for playing out his mind games, he
waited until the day before Annette was to take her semester final
exams to announce that he was thinking about moving out.  His only
explanation, "This fucking marriage was a big mistake."

Distraught, Annette performed poorly on her tests and saw her grades
slide to a barely passing level.  The day after, Shane apologized for
having upset her.

His cruel game, however, was not over.  A week later on Thanksgiving
morning, they argued again before he stormed from the house, slamming
the door behind him.  He drove to his aunt's house where the Goode
family had gathered for the traditional noon meal of turkey and
dressing.

Annette telephoned, tearfully begging that he return home and pick her
up.  Shane refused.  "I just don't know about all this," he said.  "I
think the best thing is for me to leave."

Annette spent the lonely holiday agonizing over the latest turn of
events in her life, swallowed up by self-pity and the conviction that
whatever problems had caused her husband to consider leaving were of
her making.  When Shane did return late that evening, acting as if
nothing untoward had occurred, it was Annette who apologized.  The
stress of school had been greater than she'd expected, she insisted.

She would be a more attentive, better wife, she promised.  Things would
improve if he would only give her the chance to prove it to him.

When Shane held his ground she desperately took another tack.  If, in
fact, he was determined to move out of the house, what harm could be
done by his postponing it until after the holiday season?  "That way,"
she pleaded, "Michelle can at least have a good Christmas."

Leaning against a doorway, his hands shoved into the hip pockets of his
jeans, Shane pondered the suggestion, then shrugged.  "Sure," he
replied, "Why not?"

Annette felt a wave of relief at having bought herself and her marriage
more time, and set about to create the idyllic home environment that
would convince Shane to stay.  She kept the house spotless, cooked his
favorite meals, and began making plans to decorate for the season.

On a Friday morning, a week before Christmas, she had to visit the
dentist for an abcessed tooth that had become unbearably painful.

Shane agreed to accompany her since she had been told that oral surgery
would be necessary and the sedation required would make it unsafe for
her to drive afterward.

Groggy from the ordeal, Annette had little recollection of the drive
home from the dentist's office or of her husband helping her into
bed.

Gently tucking the covers over her and kissing her on the forehead,
Shane urged her to get some sleep while he went out to have her pain
medication prescription filled.

Throughout the afternoon Annette woke from her sedated state several
times and called out to her husband, each time only to realize he'd not
yet returned.  The trip to the drugstore had taken from shortly after
noon until almost six in the evening.

The following Monday, after Shane had left for the post office, she
realized why.

While looking for the mail that had arrived over the weekend, she found
an envelope which contained a lease agreement for a onebedroom
apartment he had rented.  It was dated the previous Friday.

She was seated on the couch, in tears and still clutching the lease
papers when Shane arrived home from work.  "Why?"  she wanted to
know.

"And why now?"

"Hey, we've already discussed this, remember," he shot back.  "I told
you I was going to leave.  Goddamnit, I thought you understood."

Annette hugged her knees to her chest and buried her face in the cradle
of her arms as she let out a pained groan that sounded as if it came
from some dark and hidden depth inside her.  Her shoulders seemed to
convulse as she sobbed uncontrollably.

Suddenly, she was surprised to feel Shane's hand gently massaging the
back of her neck.  His voice was soothing, almost Iyrical, as he urged
her to stop crying.  "It's Christmas," he said.  "Let's go get a
tree."

With those few words Annette's roller-coaster life took another upward
turn.  And before the evening was over she, Shane, and Michelle had
selected a tree after visiting several lots where sweet-smelling pines
and cedars stood waiting for a holiday home.  Showing no outward sign
of the nightmare that had enveloped them, the young family wandered
through mall department stores in search of new lights and ornaments.

Annette carefully selected each brightly colored ball, each porcelain
angel in the silent hope that their presence on the tree might signal
some new beginning.

Finally trimmed in the early morning hours, it was the most beautiful
Christmas tree Annette had ever seen.  Turning out the lights, she and
Shane sat silently in the darkness of their living room, staring at the
warm twinkle of lights and reflections from the ornaments.

But the day after Christmas, the holiday fantasy ended.  While his wife
and stepdaughter were away, Shane Goode packed his things and left.

When Annette and Michelle returned home, they found only the bare tree,
stripped of the newly purchased lights and ornaments.

Shane Goode reasoned that since he had paid for them, they belonged to
him.

Angry and confused, Annette quickly spiraled into a deep depression.

Sleep was impossible and she ate only when daughter Michelle or her
mother coaxed her with warnings that she was in danger of making
herself physically ill.

Friends who were aware of her torment could not understand her
determined refusal to see her husband for what he was.  Why was she
unable to summon the strength to walk away?

Annette had gathered all blame for the breakup of her marriage onto her
own shoulders, blind to any fault that should have been assigned to
Shane.  She ignored his cruelty, both subtle and blatant, because she
was still very much in love with him.

Historians are quick to argue that there was, in the beginning, no
logical reason for the city of Houston to exist, much less thrive.  The
natural resources of the region were limited and the brain-baking
summer heat and humidity assured no bountiful crops would ever grow.

Built on foul-smelling swampland, it grew up fifty miles inland from
the Gulf of Mexico, too landlocked ever to hope to benefit from the
rich shipping trade.  Even when a collection of farsighted city fathers
posed the idea of floating a bond issue to have a gigantic channel
dredged, in effect bringing the Gulf inland to Houston, it was viewed
by many as a financial folly even more absurd than the idea of digging
something called the Panama Canal.

The Houston project, however, had moved forward with all the bullheaded
optimism for which the city would become famous.  Houston was launched
into a new age, on a fast-track course to becoming one of the most
prosperous, most heavily populated cities in the United States.

Millionaires built mansions in the silk-stocking River Oaks and
Bellaire areas, while dock workers and refinery employees settled into
the subdivisions, apartments, and trailer parks of sprawling suburbs
like Channelview, Galena Park, and Pasadena.

Though it may have been a city without aesthetic appeal or much social
charm, it was a city graced by the presence of big bucks.  If you
wanted to become a millionaire, Houston was the place to be.  If you
already had millions and still wanted more, the opportunities were
endless.  At the peak of its boom, it was a city of dreams.

Never mind that the crime rate soared, political scandals were routine,
and the bayou stench and August heat waves kept most residents
constantly in a short-tempered frame of mind.  The wheels of Houston
spun on money.

Those who didn't have it spent great amounts of time in search of the
office promotion, the investment, the windfall inheritance, or, in many
cases, the illegal scheme that would somehow allow them to share in the
wealth.

It was in this atmosphere that Shane and Annette Goode had grown up.

And it was, friends quickly assumed, the cause of their separation.

Like so many young couples desperate to sip wine on a six-pack budget,
the romance and high expectations of married life had given way to the
ever-present disappointments and frustrations that routinely destroyed
Houston families like some dark sweeping plague.

For Annette, however, the explanation was not so simple.

In the weeks after Shane moved out she functioned by rote, caring for
her daughter, working, continuing to attend classes, always carrying
with her the hope that some magic might cause her husband to return to
her.  The love she felt for Shane, her dependence on him, masked all
pain resulting from his cruel behavior.  In her selective memory, the
good times were all that counted, and she willingly bore the blame for
his decision to leave.

A month passed before he finally telephoned.  With no preamble or
explanation or apology he told Annette he would like to come over.

"I've been thinking," he said.  "Maybe we ought to sit down and
talk."

Anxiously, Annette agreed.

Seated at the kitchen table, Shane and Annette had a conversation that
was at first tentative.  Both felt uncomfortable after Shane's lengthy
absence.  It was Shane who finally moved the discussion past
trivialities.  "I've missed you," he said.

It was a statement that unleashed a flood of emotion from his estranged
wife.  She had missed him, too, she said.  Things had been so difficult
without him, the bills which she was trying to keep up with on her
modest salary, the pressures of being a single mother trying to juggle
the responsibilities of work and school and still attend to Michelle's
needs.  The hardest part, she said, was understanding why he'd left.

What had she done that was so wrong?  Why had he refused to give her
the slightest hint as to what he believed caused the problems in their
relationship?

The questions poured out in an honest, desperate plea for understanding
that might help them reach a new starting point.

Shane's expression turned sullen as he listened, folding his arms
across his chest.  Finally he began to slowly shake his head and rose
to his feet.  "I was thinking about moving back in," he said, "before
you started talking like that."

"Like what?"  Annette replied.  "My God, Shane, I'm just trying to tell
you how things are.  I'm doing my best to understand all this.  What am
I doing wrong?  Please, you've got to tell me."

Now standing, ready to leave, he glared at her.  "It's your lousy
fucking attitude," he said.  "I'm not coming back."

Even before he began walking toward the front door, Annette was in
tears.  Shane Goode had played out another of his games and declared
himself the winner.

By February of 1989 Annette realized she could no longer keep up
payments on the house.  Placing her furniture in storage, she and
Michelle moved in with her mother.  The pain Sharon Couch saw in her
daughter's eyes was heartbreaking.

In the months that followed Sharon would rise from her bed, weary of
fighting sleeplessness long into the dark hours of night, and sit alone
on the patio of her backyard while her troubled daughter and grandchild
slept inside.  She tended her grief in private, trying to recall a time
when her life had not been such a windstorm of angst and grief.

On those nights when even the stars were smudged by the haze that hung
over Houston like a suffocating canopy, Sharon would question her own
shortcomings as mother and advisor.  But always, before returning to
the house for one last attempt at sleep, she would somehow summon the
courage and resolve to move forward.  It was, she had long ago decided,
the only way some degree of control and happiness might be restored.

Sharon Couch did not realize it, but she was a woman of remarkable
inner strength and resolve.

It had been years since her own marriage to a Greek nightclub
entertainer had ended in divorce, leaving her to raise two small
children on her own while their father continued touring from city to
city, continent to continent, more concerned with his music career than
family.  Rarely, over the years, had he ever contacted the children to
see how they were or to lend some manner of fatherly support.

Even as his daughter and son grew older and more curious about him, he
had kept his distance.  Remarried and settled in Florida, it was as if
that part of his previous life which had included a wife and children
had been completely erased.

When Michelle was born, Annette had seen the event as an opportunity to
try once more to establish some kind of relationship with a father she
hardly knew.  Yet when she phoned him at his home to tell him that he
was a grandfather, he demonstrated no interest at all in seeing the
baby.

It had not been until the children grew into their rebellious teenage
years that Sharon actually felt any real resentment for the absence of
an adult male figure in the family.  As her rules were ignored and her
attempts at discipline failed miserably, she discovered long unresolved
angers surfacing.  Had the children's father remained, he might have
helped avert troubles that had worsened as Sharon watched helplessly.

The ongoing friction between Sharon and Annette resulted in her
daughter spending more time at the house of her nearby grandparents
than she did at home.  Still, it was young Steven who had begun to
worry his mother most.

In the spring of 1986, as he was nearing his sixteenth birthday, he
instigated a prank that would result in consequences far more serious
than anyone could have imagined.

On a May afternoon, while Sharon was still at work, Steven and a friend
invited two teenage girls over to listen to music and share the
marijuana which Steven had begun using on a regular basis.

As the impromptu party went on, the girls excused themselves to the
bathroom.  When they did so, Steven took the car keys from the purse of
one of his guests, went out front, and placed them on the front
floorboard of the girl's car, which was parked at the curb.  Giggling
as he returned to the house, he then phoned Mark Adams* another of his
friends who lived nearby, and told him to come get the car.

"No fucking way, man," the youngster had at first argued.

Steven laughed at his friend's concern.  "Hey, it's cool," he said.

"We're just playing a little joke."

The girl to whom the car belonged found nothing funny about it.  When
she and her friend prepared to leave and saw that the car was gone she
became hysterical, then called a friend to come and pick them up.

Forcing a look of concern until they drove away, Steven burst into
laughter as soon as they were gone.  Sobered by the potential trouble
the prank might cause and wanting no part in it, his friend also
left.

Later that evening, with the buzz of his afternoon pot party gone,
Steven was sitting on the front porch when Mark pulled up in the girl's
car.  Amid laughter and loud music that boomed from the radio, they set
off for an evening of joyriding.

They had gone only a few blocks down the access road that led to a
freeway entrance when Mark stopped for a red light, paying no attention
to a black tow truck parked beneath the underpass.  Nor did they see
the figure jump from the truck and begin running in their direction.

Even before reaching the access road the young manþthe boyfriend of the
girl who owned the carþbegan yelling, "Hey, that's my girlfriend's
car.... You assholes got my girlfriend's car."

Behind the wheel, Mark turned to see the boy approaching and saw that
he had a knife in his hand.  Frozen and locked in traffic, he could do
nothing but duck away from the window as the enraged pursuer lashed at
him with the knife.  "Get the fuck out of here," Steven yelled.

Mark quickly put the car in gear, swerved past stunned drivers *
Pseudonym waiting for the light to turn green, and roared down the
access road.  In the rearview mirror he could see that the black tow
truck was already in pursuit.

"Who the fuck is this guy?"  he said.  "He's crazy."

Steven, whose face had lost all color, said nothing.

The high-speed chase continued along the access road, then twisted and
turned through a residential neighborhood until Mark lost control
attempting to make a sharp turn.  The car careened into a drainage
ditch, its wheels burrowing into the mud.  Mark and Steven jumped out
and ran toward the safety of darkness, leaving the car behind.

Not until the early morning hours did the frightened and exhausted
youngsters leave a nearby park where they had been hiding and make
their way home.

The ordeal, however, was not over.

The following afternoon Mark looked up from his job as a sacker at a
local grocery store to see the same angry face he'd looked into at the
stoplight the night before.  Ignoring the customer to whom Mark was
attending, the visitor stood near the checkout counter, glaring.  "Why
did you steal my girlfriend's car?"

Working hard to remain calm, Mark shook his head and forced a smile.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied.  "Who are you?"

The teenager identified himself as Rodney Richards.

"Sorry, man, I don't know anything about anybody's car being stolen,"
Mark said, returning to the customer's groceries.

Richards didn't move.  "Like hell," he said.  "Lift up your shirt.

Last night I cut the sonuvabitch that was driving.  And he looked a
helluva lot like you."  With that he reached out and tore open Mark's
shirt, surprised to see no wound.

As the store manager escorted him out, Richards was shaking his head.

Certain he would find the injury that he had inflicted during the
confrontation, Richards was unaware that the switchblade he'd Swung at
Mark the night before had malfunctioned.  The blade had folded
harmlessly when it impacted against the back of the driver's seat.

Almost a week later, Steven became the focus of Richards's rage.

Sharon Couch had just returned home from work when the phone rang and
she overheard her son's part of the conversation.  "I didn't have
anything to do with it," he said.  "Why are you calling me?  She got
her car back, right?"  Then she heard the all-too-familiar anger
exploding in his voice, "Look, why don't you just come on over here and
we'll settle this.  No knives, no gunsþjust you and me, okay?"

Sharon did not hear Rodney Richards's threatening reply.  "I know you
were in the car," he said in a low, guttural voice.  "You and your
buddy did this and I'm going to get your ass for it.  You can count on
it."

With that, he hung up.

Standing by the phone for several seconds, Steven finally replaced the
receiver.

"What is it?"  his mother asked.  "Steven, what's going on?"

"He's crazy."

"Who?"

As if he'd not heard the question, Steven's only reply was to repeat
his observation.  "The guy's crazy."

Despite his mother's frantic pleas, he would say no more.  Agitated and
nervous, Steven paced the house and made several phone calls to
friends.

During each conversation he alluded to the mental state of the person
who had called him earlier.

Finally, just after dark, he told his mother he was going out.  "Stay
in the house, Mom," he yelled as he walked onto the front porch.

By then concerned that her son might be in some kind of real danger,
Sharon begged him to stay at home.

"Just get back in the house," he screamed.  It was, however, not anger
she heard in his voice.  It was the sound of stark fear.

From the porch she watched her son walk hurriedly down Ogden Street to
the corner where a car was parked.  Squinting into the darkness, Sharon
saw a figure emerge from the car and approach her son.  What she was
not able to see was that Rodney Richards had pulled a gun from his
boot, aimed it in Steven's direction, and fired.  Her hands flew to her
face and she screamed at the sound of the shot and watched as Richards
raced back to his car and sped away.  Steven, who had felt the bullet
breeze past his ear, ran toward home.

As soon as he was safely inside, Sharon dialed 911.  "Somebody just
shot at my son," she screamed into the phone, her hands shaking so
badly she had difficulty holding the receiver.

In a city where drive-by shootings and honky-tonk hitmen had become
commonplace, where lives were routinely taken over a new pair of
name-brand sports shoes and where the disappointed mother of a shunned
cheerleader candidate opted for murder-for-hire to settle the score,
the occurrence on Ogden Street would not even make the ten-o'clock
news.

"Ma'am," asked the dispatcher, "is your son injured?  Do you need an
ambulance?"

"No."

"Do you know the name of the person who shot at him?"

"No, I don't."

"Did you get a license number of the car?"

"No."

"Then," the dispatcher said in a dispassionate voice, "I'm afraid there
isn't much we can do."  Though Sharon offered her address, there was
never even a patrol car visit to the Couch home.

No amount of argument could persuade Steven to admit to his mother the
car theft that had prompted the threatening phone call and gunfire.

"Hey, it was all over nothing," he said.  "Don't worry about it."

"Who was the boy who shot at you?"

Steven shrugged.  "Just some guy named Rodney.  He's a nutcase.  But,
it's over."

He was wrong.  Eighteen-year-old Rodney Richards had fixated on Steven,
his single-minded goal, revenge for the theft of his girlfriend's
car.

During the next eighteen months he pursued it with a vengeance.

On an August evening in 1986, Steven rode with Annette and Michelle to
a nearby convenience store where his sister planned to make a
withdrawal from an ATM machine.  The transaction completed, Annette had
just returned to the car when a young man jumped from an old pickup and
ran toward her car.

Bending to look into the backseat where Steven was sitting, he said,
"You're Steve, aren't you?"

Even before Steven could reply, Richards pulled a knife from his hip
pocket and began yelling, "You sonuvabitch, you stole my girlfriend's
car.  . ."

Stunned by the sudden encounter, Annette instinctively pulled her child
close to her and hurriedly started the car.  "Go," Steven said.  "Get
us the hell out of here."  Even as he shouted his demand, Annette was
backing away, leaving the cursing Richards standing in the parking
lot.

Only when certain they were not being followed did Annette break the
silence, looking at her younger brother through the rearview mirror.

"What," she asked, "was that all about?"

"Nothing."

Annette said no more until she pulled into her mother's driveway and
shut off the engine.  Then, turning to face Steven, she demanded a
better answer.  "We're not getting out of the car until you tell me
what's going on," she said.

Finally, after considerable urging, her frightened brother confided to
her the chain of events that had begun with his drug-clouded decision
to have his friend take the car.

"This is stupid," Annette responded.  "Can't you talk to him and get it
settled?  Maybe you should go to the police."

Steven slumped in the backseat and shook his head.  "The guy's crazy,"
he said.

Keeping her promise not to mention the incident to their mother,
Annette did, however, tell her husband what had occurred and the story
Steven had related.  Shane Goode's reaction was disturbingly
nonchalant.

If anything, he seemed to find it amusing.

Richards, meanwhile, continued his harassment.  Steven would answer the
phone to hear a now familiar voice, low and menacing.  "I'm going to
kick your ass," the caller would say, then quickly hang up.

In mid-January of 1987, Sharon was awakened by the popping sound of a
gunshot, followed by breaking glass.  Racing into the living room, she
found that the window directly behind the couch had been shattered.

She went immediately into Steven's bedroom and found him awake, sitting
on the side of his bed, shivering.  Though neither spoke his name, both
were certain the drive-by shooter had been Rodney Richards.

Steven decided it was time to explain to his mother the cause of the
nightmare she'd been drawn into.

Sharon again phoned the police.  And again she was told that without
some kind of proof any investigation would be fruitless.  Her only
comfort came when the next three months passed without incident.  She
began to believe that the matter had run its insane course and simply
faded from memory, the grudge finally laid to rest.

Such was not to be the case.

One spring afternoon, as Steven sat on the front porch talking with
several friends, Richards suddenly appeared at the end of the sidewalk,
knife in hand.  Immediately upon seeing him Steven had retreated into
the house while the others tried to persuade Rodney to leave by
assuring him that the police were being called even as they talked.

Finally, without having ever said a word, he turned and slowly walked
away.

A month later, Sharon received a call at work from a man who identified
himself as a Houston police officer.  He said he was investigating the
matter of a car that had been stolen by her son.

Perplexed by his interest after the passage of so much time, she
recounted her previous calls to the authorities, explaining their lack
of interest.  "And," she finally said, "didn't the girl get her car
back the very same day?"

The caller's explanation became increasingly jumbled and confused until
finally Sharon began to suspect that she was not, in fact, talking to a
police officer.  "Sir," she said politely, "I wonder if I might have
your badge number."  With that the line went dead.

It was a week later that she answered a late-night knock at the door to
find Rodney Richards on her porch, eyes glazed, a crooked smile on his
face.  "I want to see Steve," he said.

Though she'd never before seen the tall, lanky young man standing in
the yellow glow of her porch light, Sharon knew immediately who he
was.

"I know he lives here," Rodney said.

Frightened, Sharon checked the latch on her screen to be certain it was
secured.  "He's not at home," she said, not mentioning that her son had
been in New Orleans for almost a week, visiting friends.  "He's out of
town."

Richards nodded but made no move to leave.  Finally, just before Sharon
closed the door, he spoke again.  "He stole my girlfriend's car, you
know.  He shouldn't have done that.  And I'm going to get him for it.

You tell him that."

Sharon slammed the door and quickly locked it.  For the remainder of
the long night she sat alone in her living room, her teeth chattering
from the cold wave of fear that swept over her.  The bizarre ritual
being played out defied logic or explanation, but she realized that it
was serious.  She knew that something terrible was going to happen if
she didn't get some help in resolving the problem before it escalated
further.  But where?  From whom?

The only thing she knew for certain was that Steven's words, first
spoken over a year earlier, had the loud and clear ring of truth, This
young man bringing terror into their lives had to be mentally
unstable.

Whether affected by the constant pressure of knowing that Richards
remained determined to settle their score or the drugs he had begun to
use more and more frequently, Steven's own behavior was a growing
concern for Sharon.  The smiling, good-natured youngster she'd watched
grow into his teen years had become increasingly sullen and
incommunicative.  He was rarely at home and he frequently ran around
with new friends to whom he'd never bothered to introduce her.

It puzzled her that the only member of the family with whom he seemed
to communicate was her son-in-law.  Never close before, Steven and
Shane began spending a good deal of time together.

The troubled mother had no way of knowing that from the relationship
between brother and brother-in-law would come Steven's involvement in
Shane Goode's plot to have his car stolen.

Nor did she have any idea that her son had begun carrying a gun.  "For
protection," he explained to friends.

On the evening of June 12, 1988, less than a month after Shane and
Annette's Trans Am had disappeared off the J. Larkin parking lot,
Steven and his date were stopped at a red light while on their way to
pick up another couple with whom they planned to attend a party.  In
celebration of what was to be a special occasion, the girl's
grandmother had rented a Lincoln Town Car for Steven to drive for the
evening.

As they waited at the light, Rodney Richards pulled alongside them in
his pickup, rolled down his window, and began shouting his familiar
accusations.

At first ignoring him, Steven finally looked in Richards's direction
and yelled back.  "Look," he said, "I'm sick and tired of this shit."

"Fuck you," Rodney replied.  "You stole my girlfriend'sþ" Steven didn't
allow him to finish.  "Look," he said, "I've had it with all this.

Follow me and we'll settle it."  With that the light turned green and
Steven sped off, Rodney's pickup pulling in behind him.

Turning into a convenience store parking lot, Steven quickly got out of
the car and saw that his pursuer was about to pull in nearby.  "Pop the
trunk," Steven told his date.

"Why?"  she asked.  "What's happening?"

"Just pop the trunk," he shouted.  "Do it.  Now."

Before he could reach the rear of the car, however, the pickup turned
in and headed toward him.  Steven lunged out of the way just before it
collided into the back of the Lincoln.

Suddenly the scene turned to bedlam.  In the car, Steven's date began
to scream hysterically.

Steven glared at Rodney.  "You crazy sonuvabitch."

Rodney yelled back.  "Fuck you .  . . fuck you .  . . fuck you," he
chanted.  "I got you now."

As the exchange took place, Steven eased his way back to the trunk of
the car and was reaching inside as he saw Rodney lean down in the cab
of the pickup.

Certain that Richards was reaching for a weapon, Steven pulled a
shotgun into view and fired into the passenger window of the pickup.

No sooner had the blast shattered glass and sent the padding of the
truck seat flying than Rodney was out the door and running, crossing
the street in the direction of a Dairy Queen.  Reaching the curb, he
stopped and turned.  Steven fired a second shot and Rodney clutched at
his abdomen before falling to the pavement.

A crowd was already gathering as Steven tried unsuccessfully to start
the damaged rental car.  "I just shot a guy," he said in a voice filled
with disbelief.  "Jesus, I just shot him."

It was not until early the next morning that Sharon Couch learned of
the tragic event.  Having called a friend to pick him and his
girlfriend up, Steven was in hiding.

Sharon knew there was something wrong the moment she heard his voice on
the phone.  She felt her legs go weak as her frightened son told her
what had occurred.

"Maybe he's not dead," she finally offered.

Steven was silent for what seemed like an eternity.  "Mom, he's dead,"
he finally said.  "I had a friend drive back over there later and he
said there was a sheet over the body."

Sharon Couch was unable to keep her fragile emotions in check.  She
braced herself against the wall, afraid that her legs would no longer
support her.

"Oh, God," she yelled, her pained cry echoing through the empty
house.

[0|t The marital problems of Annette and Shane suddenly | seemed less
important as Sharon Couch struggled to deal with the troubles of her
son.  Nothing in her life had prepared her for a crisis of such
magnitude and she felt a numbing helplessness unlike anything she'd
ever before experienced.  On the phone, Steven was no longer the
rebellious, argumentative teenager determined to assert his manhood.

Rather, he sounded like a little boy again, scared, confused, and
wanting his mother to make everything right.

Sharon knew it was an impossible task.  Though he would not tell her
where he was, Steven stayed in touch, gradually telling her the full
story of his almost two-year feud with Rodney Richards.  He convinced
his mother that he had actually been afraid for his life.  He told his
mother that he was certain that Rodney had a gun on the night he had
fired the fatal shotgun blast.

Sharon contacted a lawyer who advised Steven to immediately turn
himself in to the authorities because there was a good chance that a
self-defense plea might be embraced by the district attorney's
office.

But when she suggested it to her frightened son, he balked, saying he'd
have to think about it.

When a homicide investigator visited her house in search of Steven.

Sharon honestly said that she had no idea where her son might be.  And
her attempt to explain the sequence of events which had led to the
shooting seemed to be of little interest to the detective.

All Sharon could do was to continue to urge her son to come forward and
face his problem.  "Just tell me where you are," she pleaded, "and I'll
come get you and go to the police station with you.  I've talked to a
lawyer...."

For the first time in days she heard a new strength, a rebirth of
determination, in Steven's voice.  "I don't want a lawyer," he said.

"I'm not going to jail."

However, his tone began to change in a matter of days.  "I just want to
get it over with," he said to his mother.  "I'm so tired."  He would
turn himself in, he told her, but first he needed a little more time to
think it through.

Soon, he again changed his mind.

Steven had telephoned his father in Florida and together they had come
up with a plan, He would slip away to Greece and live in an apartment
his dad owned in the northern coastal city of Thessaloniki Members of
his father's family had agreed to look after him.

For the youngster's confused and frightened mother, the plan seemed to
have little merit at first.  She knew that Steven could not spend the
remainder of his life in hiding and on the run.  He would find no
happiness in a foreign country, living among virtual strangers.  And
the idea of his being so far away, essentially on his own at age
seventeen, concerned her greatly.

But he refused to listen to reason.

Resigned to the inevitable, Sharon gave the plan her blessing.  On one
hand, she began to think that Steven's being out of the country might
work to her advantage.  The lawyer she'd spoken with had told her that
her son's defense would carry a $25,000 price tag.  Before even taking
the case, he would require a $10,000 retainer.  For her to raise that
kind of money would take time.

Still, she wanted to see him before he left, to hold him in her arms,
to assure him that she loved him, and to make one last plea that he
reconsider.  A small family reunion had been planned and she urged him
to attend, if only for a few minutes.  No one there, she assured him,
had been told of his problem.  And there seemed little likelihood that
the police, even if they were trying to locate him, would be monitoring
every family gathering in a metropolitan area the size of Houston's.

A friend drove Steven to the isolated city park where the gathering was
to be held and as women laid out home-cooked food on the concrete
tables and men mingled nearby, renewing acquaintances and swapping
stories, Sharon Couch and her son met beneath the canopy of a sprawling
oak tree and embraced.

Nervously looking around, he listened as she promised to somehow find
the money to pay a lawyer.  As soon as she did so, she would contact
him and he could return and face the charges against him.

Looking pale and thinner than she'd ever seen him, Steven nodded his
head in agreement, then hugged her.  "I gotta go," he said.

It would be the last time Sharon Couch would see her son for almost a
year.

Meanwhile, the pressures of living in her mother's house were becoming
unbearable for Annette.  While she, too, was concerned over Steven's
troubles, there was little she could do to help resolve the problem or
even make it better.  And she was still fighting her own private
battles, searching for some way to get on with her life and put her
feelings for Shane behind her.

If she was to move forward with her life, she would have to move out.

Her studies, at least, were beginning to pay off.  She got a job as a
chemical analyst for a medical firm in the suburb of Clear Lake and by
early December had saved enough money to lease a small condominium near
her work.

It had been a difficult year, but finally Annette was beginning to feel
the gentle tingle of a newfound optimism.

The winter darkness had fallen by the time she packed the last of her
belongings into a box and prepared to load it into the car.  As she
walked toward the front door the phone rang.

"What are you doing?"  It was Shane, his voice casual and cheerful.  No
one would have guessed that he'd not spoken to his wife in several
months.

Annette composed herself with a deep breath before answering.  "I was
just going out," she said.

"Oh, sorry.  Be okay if I call you later?"

"I guess so."

A week would pass before she heard from him again.  Work and settling
into her new home had kept her busy, pushing thought of Shane's earlier
call to the back of her mind.  This time she could not come up with an
excuse for not talking with him.

"I hear you've moved," he said.  It was an observation that lent
validity to a feeling Annette had experienced for several weeks.

Although she had not actually seen Shane, she had the distinct
impression that he'd been watching her, keeping some distant vigil over
her comings and goings.  She knew her mother would not have told him of
her move.  And her phone number was not new, simply transferred from
the line she'd had installed in her bedroom when she moved in with
Sharon.  Annette was convinced he had followed her on one of her
numerous moving trips.  How else.could he have known that she was now
living in Clear Lake?

Still, the conversation was pleasant enough.  Shane asked about
Michelle and pointed out that he and Tiffany missed seeing her, talked
of how busy he'd been with work and National Guard duties, and seemed
eager to know how she was doing in school.  When Annette told him about
her new job he was quick to offer congratulations.

Even as they talked, Annette waited expectantly to learn the real
reason for the call.  After all this time, had he finally decided to
proceed with a divorce?  Was he just trying to find the right moment to
tell her?  For a second she considered asking him about it, then
decided not to.  Neither did she ask if he had been following her.

"I just wanted to say hello and see how you are doing," he said before
hanging up.  Annette sat in her new dining room for several minutes,
replaying the conversation in her mind.  There had been no angry
outbursts, no threats or blame-placing, not the slightest hint of cruel
intent.  It had been nice.  Shane had sounded much like the man she'd
met on the Galveston beach in a time that seemed so long ago.

Annette, however, was determined not to let down her fragile guard.

She still loved her husband and at times entertained fantasies of their
resolving their differences and reuniting as a family.  Such thoughts,
however, had come less often as time passed and she found herself able
to look back on their difficulties in a more dispassionate way.  For
all her secret hopes, she saw no way their lives would ever work
together.

Instead, Annette concentrated on building a life for herself and her
daughter.  She had made friends at school and on her job, inviting them
over for weekend dinners so she might show off her new home.  When she
went out socially, it was generally in the company of female friends
from school or a group from the office.

Money was still tight, her work and school schedule were at times
exhausting, and there was the constant concern for the fate of her
younger brother, now hiding away in Greece.  But, all in all, Annette's
life was gradually becoming less complicated.  Even her mother, with
whom she spent time every weekend, made note of the fact that she had
begun to smile more often.

Shane had not called again and, despite nagging suspicions that he
might still be watching her, Annette began to consider accepting the
repeated offers for dinner or a movie extended by several of the men
with whom she worked.

It was on Valentine's Day, 1989, that she was preparing dinner for a
co-worker named Jeff whom she had begun to see casually.  Though she had
told him of her separation from her husband and emphasized that she was
not interested in developing a serious relationship, Annette had
attended a couple of movies with him and they had occasionally joined
others from the office for a drink after work.  When he had invited her
out to celebrate the holiday, she had suggested instead that she cook a
meal at her home.

Jeff had arrived with flowers for Annette and helium-filled balloons
for Michelle.

He had been there only a short time when the doorbell rang.  Annette
answered it to find Shane standing on her porch.  Smiling, he did not
wait for an invitation before making his way into the house.

Annette introduced her estranged husband to Jeff, then, not really
knowing how to deal with the situation, hurried back into the kitchen
where her dinner preparations were under way.  While Jeff remained in
the living room, making small talk with Michelle, Shane followed
Annette, stationing himself on the counter next to her stove.

As she continued cooking, he chatted amiably, asking how she'd been
doing, praising the manner in which she'd decorated the house.

After a while, Annette excused herself and returned to the living room
to whisper an apology to her invited guest.  "I'm trying to get him to
leave," she said with a shrug that suggested her surprise over Shane's
appearance.

Jeff, too, was feeling uncomfortable.  "Look," he said, "maybe you guys
need to talk.  Why don't I just take off?"

The idea of being left alone with Shane frightened Annette.  "No," she
in a pleading voice.  "I've already asked him to leave."

Jeff suggested that he step out onto the patio and give her the
opportunity to talk to Shane in private.

Returning to the kitchen, Annette's demeanor became less hospitable.

"Shane," she said, "I've got to get dinner ready.  As you can see, I've
got a friend here.  What is it you want?"

Shane shrugged innocently.  "I miss you," he said.

Annette's response was a silent stare.  "Please leave," she finally
said.

His discomforting visit had lasted almost an hour.  When Annette
finally served dinner, Jeff ate in silence except for an occasional
polite compliment on her cooking.  After helping her clear the table,
he told her he felt it best he also leave.  "I don't think," he said,
"that it is a good idea for me to be coming over if you guys are trying
to work things out."

"It's not going to work out," Annette argued.

Jeff's smile did not hide his obvious disappointment at the way the
evening had gone.  "Oh, I think it might," he observed.

Annette was convinced more than ever that Shane had been keeping track
of her.  Had she known that he was parked just down the street when her
guest arrived, watching as she had opened the door to let Jeff in, her
suspicions would have been confirmed.  For months, in fact, Shane had
watched her from the shadows of nearby parking lots, followed at a
distance as she returned home from work or drove to school.  From a
vantage point just around the corner he had sat in his pickup, watching
as she moved her belongings from her mother's house.  He knew her new
address long before she had given it to him.

Why?  Had he become a jealous stalker, concerned that his wife was
seeing others?  Were his actions the formulative stages of some evil
payback plan?  A secret game?  Or just unexplained curiosity?  Shane
himself would have been hard-pressed to provide a satisfactory
answer.

In time, Annette's phone would ring just minutes after her return from
work or school.  It would be Shane, asking how her day had gone or
sharing with her some less-than-extraordinary thing that had happened
that day at his work.

The emotions created by such conversations confused Annette.  The pain
of his cruel jokes and angry rages had lessened but still remained.

She had begun to feel a quiet comfort in her life without him, but it
had disappeared almost immediately when he began contacting her.

Though she had tried to remind herself of the way he had treated her in
those weeks before their separation, the memories would quickly be
overshadowed by the empty loneliness she'd felt since the day he
left.

Despite everything, Annette was still in love with her husband and
willing to let bygones rest if it might restore the family life she so
desperately wanted.  She found herself searching for more subtle
reasons for the rocky start to their marriage.  Perhaps, she thought,
Shane's problems with the break-up of his first marriage had not been
fully resolved.  Maybe the solution was as simple as awaiting the
passage of time.

"All I know," Annette told her mother, "is that if I don't give him the
benefit of the doubt, I won't be able to say I tried everything to save
my marriage."

Soon, Shane was visiting Annette regularly, sometimes staying
overnight.  After he'd begun spending weekends at her house, often
bringing Tiffany along to play with Michelle, Annette gave him a key.

Shane Goode was back in her life, repeatedly assuring her that he had
made a big mistake when he'd decided to leave.  Their problems, he
admitted, were of his own making.  He was certain they could make a go
of it if she would only give him a second chance.

As 1990 approached, both were facing renewal of their respective leases
and they began talking about living together again.  In view of the
fact that Annette's condo was in close proximity to her job and night
classes, it was decided that Shane would move from his Pasadena
apartment and they would begin their new life together in Clear Lake.

And for a time, things seemed to be working out.  They fell back into
an easy routine of work, weekend trips to a movie or a fast-food dinner
out with the kids.  Both had outside interests they pursued without
pressure from the other, Shane, his Guard activities, Annette, her
schoolwork.

Rather than rehash old problems, they embraced the present.  Each
seemed eager to wipe the slate clean.

It was not until the prospects of Desert Storm began to dominate the
news that Shane's moodiness returned.  Annette, seeing it as an
understandable anxiety caused by rumors that his unit might soon be
called into battle, shared his concern.

As the military action escalated, so did Shane's mood swings.  When
Annette attempted to discuss the matter, he became withdrawn.  "I don't
want to talk about it," he said.

On the evening of November 27, Shane and Annette returned from a dinner
celebrating their anniversary and turned on the ten o'clock news.

Annette was on the couch and Shane stretched out on the floor,
listening to the latest report from the Mideast.

Her question was innocent enough, meant only to continue the pleasant
conversation of their evening out.  "Have you heard anything about
whether you'll have to go?"

Suddenly, Shane was on his feet, glaring down on her.  "Why do you keep
nagging me about it?"  he yelled.

"I wasn't naggingþ" "Like hell."

The sudden tension that swept across the room stunned Annette.

Speechless, she wondered what was so wrong with a wife's concern that
her husband might have to put himself in harm's way.

Shane began shaking his head, a look of disgust on his face.  "This
isn't going to work," he said.

"What are you talking about?"

"You heard me," he shot back.  "You and me.  It won't work."  With
that, he started toward the door.

Annette had not moved from her position on the couch.  "You're
leaving?"  she said in stunned disbelief.

"You're goddamn right."

She rose and moved quickly to the doorway, blocking his way.  This
time, however, the delay tactic was not intended to buy time until he
calmed down.  Nor was it to afford him the opportunity to apologize for
whatever had caused the blowup, or to beg him to stay.

"Leave your key," Annette said.  "And don't come back."

For a moment Shane seemed surprised but said nothing.  He removed the
house key from his key chain and dropped in into her outstretched
palm.

Closing her hand around it, she looked at him, summoning a new inner
strength she did not know existed.  "You're right," she said as she
stepped aside.  "This isn't going to work."

As the holiday season passed Annette heard nothing from Shane and was
pleasantly surprised to find that his most recent departure had not
sent her into a long bout with depression.  Perhaps, she decided, she
had finally begun to master the art of starting her life over.

Certainly, she'd had enough experience.

Shortly after Christmas, she was scheduled to take an exam in the
Emergency Medical Technician training course she'd enrolled in.

Running late, she was hurrying to get ready when she stepped into the
shower, slipped, and fell.  A blinding pain shot up her spine and it
was several minutes before she could climb from beneath the warm spray
and limp to the phone.

Breathing with great difficulty, she called her mother and asked if she
could come over and drive her to the emergency room.

At the hospital, X rays revealed that Annette had fractured a
vertebra.

The attending physician explained that she would have to endure some
pain for a time but the injury was not serious and would likely heal
quickly.  Before exposing her to the X rays, however, he had suggested
performing a routine procedure of a pregnancy test.

"When was your last period?"  the doctor asked.

Annette wasn't sure, explaining her history of menstrual
irregularity.

Already feeling the effects of the pain medicine she'd been given,
Annette made a halfhearted attempt to argue against the waste of
time.

She just wanted to go home, to lie down, and sleep away the pain.

The doctor smiled, gently ignoring her plea.  "It won't take but a few
minutes," he assured her.

The The news that she was pregnant sent Annette Goode off on another
emotional roller-coaster ride.  On one hand, there was a warm, new
excitement that accompanied the surprising announcement that she would
soon have another child, on the other, the prospect of caring for two
children as a single parent was unnerving.

There were days when she found herself eagerly focusing only on the
birth of her baby, the anticipation sweeping away all concerns about
the physical demands and financial strains it was certain to bring.

Already she loved the tiny life that was growing in her womb.  Still,
there would be somber times of stark fear when she allowed herself to
contemplate a future in which she would try to continue her education,
maintain a job, and also be the mother she hoped to be.

She would, she determined, just take it one day at a time.  Somehow,
things would work out.

She waited several weeks before telephoning Shane to tell him about her
pregnancy.  "I'm not calling to ask you for anything, and I don't want
us to try again to get back together," she said.  "I just thought you
ought to know.  Nothing more."

Although he was at first taken aback by the news that he would once
again be a father, Shane assured her that he would support her in every
way possible.  Maybe, he suggested, he should come over so they could
talk.  "I'm sorry about the way I acted," he said.  "I don't know what
gets into meþ" Annette quickly interrupted him.  "Shane," she said, "I
just called to tell you what the situation is.  I'm not asking you to
come back."

"But, don't you think .  . ."

"I don't want you to come back."

There was a brief silence before he responded.  "Okay, I understand.

But I do want to help you."

By February Annette's doctor had begun warning her that the remaining
months of her pregnancy might be difficult.  All appeared well at the
time, he said, but her medical history indicated the need to take extra
precautions.  He advised her to drastically cut back on her workload,
take a leave of absence if possible.  He urged her to consider
curtailing attendance at night classes until after the baby was born.

Rest, he said, was the best assurance that she would carry to term and
give birth to a healthy child.  Additionally there would be a routine
of precautionary tests he would like to make throughout her second and
third trimesters.

Annette realized that it was going to be an expensive pregnancy.

Though she had vowed not to involve him, she was going to need her
estranged husband's help.

She drove to his apartment late one February afternoon.  She had been
anxious about the meeting since a brief telephone conversation during
which Shane had invited her to come to his apartment to "discuss
things."  She had not seen him face to face for months.  And, for all
her protestations to friends and family that her marriage was over,
Annette was still secretly dealing with her feelings for the father of
the child she carried.  What was she to read into the fact that he'd
still not filed for divorce?  Did he, too, harbor hope that their
differences might somehow be resolved and that they could resume their
life together?  She knew only one thing for certain, She was finding it
very difficult to stop loving him, to chase away the ever-present
fantasy of having a family.

The Shane Goode she encountered upon her arrival at his apartment was
far from the gentle, concerned person she'd spoken with on the phone.

Instead, she was confronted with Shane, the manipulator, at first
smooth and soft-spoken, then mean and loud.

If she really loved him, he said, she would have an abortion.  Another
child could only become an additional stumbling block in their chance
to ever get their lives back together.  "Look," he said, "I'm just
trying to be very honest with you.  I don't want you to have this babyþ
and I don't think you do either."

"Well, you're wrong," Annette replied coldly.  "You are so damn
wrong."

She studied his face in silence for several seconds, the real purpose
of his invitation suddenly clear.  "Are you telling me that if I get
rid of the baby we'll get back together and everything will
wonderful?"

"I just thought thatþ" "þAnd if I don't, we won't?"

A pulsing anger quickly filled the room.  As Annette rose to leave,
Shane exploded in frustration.  He realized that he had failed to sway
his wife.  He clenched his teeth and the veins in his neck bulged.  "If
you have this baby," he yelled, "I don't want to have anything to do
with it.  I don't ever want to see it.  I don't want to see you.  As
far as I'm concerned, you might as well be pregnant with someone else's
kid.

That's how I feel, goddammit.  If you want it, you've got it."

Annette had seen similar outbursts before, yet she once again found
herself stunned by the suddenness with which this latest fit of cruel
rage occurred.  Saying nothing more, she quickly let herself out the
door and hurried to her car.

On the way home, as she replayed the confrontation in her mind, she
pounded her fist against the steering wheel and cursed.  Her anger,
however, was not directed at Shane Goode.  Rather, she was furious at
herself for the uncontrolled tears that streamed down her cheeks.

Feeling more alone than she could ever remember, and distraught in the
knowledge that Shane would offer no financial help, Annette sought
refuge in the one place she knew it would be offered without hesitation
or question.

She and Michelle bade farewell to the condo and moved back in with
Sharon Couch.  For Sharon, it was a welcome distraction from the
consuming worry about the fate of her fugitive son.

Almost from his arrival in Thessaloniki, Steven's letters home were|
that the judge hearing the case had offered the equivalent of a plea
filled with self-pity and disdain for the life he was living.  An uncle
bargin, If Steven admitted guilt to using the illegal drug confiscated
had found him work as an apprentice welder, a job in which he hadfrom
his apartmentþand agreed to leave the country immediatelyþ no
interest.

The language barrier troubled him, and he was lonely.

He was, he wrote, ready to return to the United States and give himself
up to the authorities.

Worried that the funds she had managed to raise would not be enough to
provide him adequate counsel, Sharon was anxious to see his situation
resolved.  The possibility that he might be convicted of murder and
sent to prison chilled her.

She wrote back to him that it would be best if he managed to tolerate
his life in limbo for a while longer, at least until she had enough
money to pay a worthy lawyer's retainer.

As each letter from her son became more desperate, Sharon decided the
best thing would be for her to visit him in person so they could
discuss his options.  Paranoid that the Houston police might be keeping
track of her movements in an effort to find her son, she did not book a
direct flight to Greece but rather flew from Houston to Istanbul,
Turkey, then on to Athens.  From there she took a train northward to
Thessaloniki.

Once there, she listened as he described his misery, begged for details
of family and friends back home, and contemplated the bleakness of his
future.  For Sharon the few days spent with her son were heartbreaking
and her inability to provide him immediate solution to his problem lent
a sense of frustration she'd never before experienced.

Still, before leaving she had managed to accomplish one thing.

Steven grudgingly agreed to remain in Greece a while longer, holding to
the promise that his mother would send for him just as soon as she
could make the necessary arrangements with an attorney.

She had, in fact, already been in contact with a highly regarded
Houston lawyer when she received a midnight call from a representative
of the State Department, informing her that Steven was being held in
the Korydallos prison in Athens.  He had been arrested and charged with
bringing hashish into the country from Amsterdam.

Her spirits at a new low, Sharon began making plans for a return trip
to Greece, this time to attend her son's trial.  Only after she
arrived on one of the bitterest days of the Grecian winter did she
learn he would receive a probated sentence.

Steven needed no persuasion to agree to the deal being offered him.  As
the papers were being drawn up, his mother was already making
arrangements for their return to the U.S. "Even if I do have to go to
jail when I get home," he told her, "it will be better than being
locked up here.  I'm sorry I ever came."

It was while they waited to change planes in Amsterdam that Steven
heard his name being called on the airport paging system.  The operator
told him that he had an emergency phone call.  He was surprised that
anyone would know his whereabouts and fearful that some change of heart
had taken place among the Greek authorities.  When he answered the
phone he heard the voice of his father, who was calling from his home
in Florida.  Steven's uncle had alerted him to the most recent turn of
events and had provided him with his son's flight schedule.

Out of his mother's earshot, Stephen listened, argued mildly, then said
"Okay, I'll try it," before hearing an abrupt disconnect on the other
end of the line.

All enthusiasm drained from his face as he walked to where Sharon
sat.

"It was Dad," he said.

"Your father called here?"

Steven nodded.  "I can't go back," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

"What are you talking about?  Steven, what's happened?"

"He says it's a bad idea, that I'll be sent to prison."

"We don't know that," Sharon pleaded.  "That's what lawyers are for.

The ones I've been talking with say there's a very good chance that .

. ."

Steven raised his palms and shrugged.  Arguing would not change his
mind.  "Dad's got a cousin in Germany who's going to let me stay with
his family.  There's a ticket waiting for me at the gate."

Tears began to stream down Sharon's face and her body trembled with
anger.  Unable to speak, her mind raced with questions.  How o_ could
his father suggest such an idea?  What gave him the right to propose
solutions that were really no solutions at all?

Alone on her flight back to Houston, Sharon continued to cry, more
fearful than ever of the uncertain future and what it held.

She was eager for something good to happen to her.  She felt it was
long overdue.

That happy event occurred on August 27, 1991, when Katherine Renee
Goode was born.  Sharon stood by her daughter in the delivery room as a
cesarean section was performed, holding her breath as the doctor
encountered difficulty in removing the tiny form from the mother's
womb.

When one small leg came into view, she bit into her lip.  When the
doctor began gently twisting the tiny torso it took all her restraint
to refrain from screaming out a warning that he might injure the baby's
back.

Finally, the traumatic procedure was completed and Sharon held her
beautiful, healthy granddaughter in her arms while the attending nurse
bathed her.  Relieved and suddenly happier than she'd felt in a long
time, the proud grandmother thought it almost seemed as if little
Renee, now resting peacefully in her arms, had not wanted to come into
the world.

There was something bordering on the magical that attended Renee's
birth.  The loving attention showered on her by mother and grandmother
quickly chased the dark montage of family worries into a far corner.

In the days immediately following the baby's homecoming from the
hospital, there was little time for Sharon to worry over the well-being
of her faraway son or for Annette to brood about her new child's absent
father.

A fragile infant, beautiful and innocent, had restored fractured faith
and hope and smiles simply by her presence.

Six weeks after returning home, Annette, her strength returned and her
resolve to embrace the future restored, filed for divorce from the man
who did not even know that his new daughter had been born.

The Harris County Family Law Center, a building with a glass front and
pillars on the eastern end of downtown Houston, serves as an ideally
situated review stand from which to observe the city's endless
promenade of misery.  Along its wide, echoing halls hurry dozens of
well-dressed attorneys, each carrying a briefcase, their voices
mingling while they outline the final battle plans for divorces and
custody fights to grim-faced clients.  In its small, starkly lit
courtrooms, marriages end and lives dramatically change in
assembly-line fashion.  The only displays of emotion are reserved for
the first-time visitors, husbands and wives angered or saddened by
their court-ordered presence and judges' rulings.

From the Franklin Street foyer one can see the imposing Harris County
Courthouse, where cases of rape and murder, armed robbery, and foiled
swindles are heard.  At the corner of the quadrangle arrangement is the
building housing the offices of the district attorney, next door is the
multi-storied county jail, linked to the halls where its residents will
go to trial by a busy network of tunnels and skywalks.

It is a conveniently designed layout which allows attorneys, law
enforcement officers, and devoted trial-watchers the judicial
equivalent of one-stop shopping.

Getting Shane Goode to appear at the law center so that divorce
proceedings initiated by Annette might move forward had been no easy
task.

For Joanne Chadderdon, Annette's attorney, the simple act of serving
papers turned into a quest.  Goode, it was learned, had moved from his
Pasadena apartment, careful to leave no forwarding address.  And while
she had learned that he had moved in with a new girlfriend, neither
Chadderdon nor her investigator could find friend or family member
willing to provide them with a name or address.

Repeated trips to the post office where Goode worked had been
fruitless.  As if equipped with some instinctive radar, he always
seemed to have left just minutes before the divorce papers arrived.

For a time, Chadderdon's process server even made slow drives along the
winding mail route he knew Goode to take, yet failed to encounter the
elusive carrier.

Finally, after three cat-and-mouse months, Chadderdon received the
judge's blessing to serve Shane Goode by proxy, leaving the papers ..

with his employer who, in turn, was ordered by the court to pass them
along.

Chadderdon, who early in her legal career had cast aside the wishful
fantasy of the "easy" divorce, could see this one would be anything
but.

It was in January of 1992 when lawyers and their clients finally took
their places at separate tables, facing a weary-looking judge who would
hear preliminary arguments in Cause 91-5130-7, the number assigned to
Annette's petition for divorce.

The primary purpose of the hearing, Chadderdon had explained, was to
seek temporary child support from Shane.  There should be no problems,
she assured her client, in light of the fact that Renee's father had
offered absolutely no financial assistance or shown the slightest
interest in his daughter in the five months that had passed since she
was born.

Annette sat silently, staring straight ahead, without looking in
Shane's direction, as her attorney painted a verbal portrait of a
gainfully employed spouse who had refused to address the most basic of
parental responsibilities.  It was an argument she had made countless
times in pursuit of many other deadbeat fathers she'd encountered
during her legal career, one that the judge had also heard, almost word
for word, thousands of times before.

But what came next forced Annette finally to turn in Shane's direction,
her eyes registering shock and anger.

"If it pleases the court, your honor," his attorney said, "my client
has a good and reasonable explanation for not contributing to the
support of the child in question...."

From that point on Annette heard the lawyer's words as if they were
being spoken from some deep, dark tunnel.  ". . . It is, your honor, my
client's sincere claim to this court that he is not the biological
father of this child .  . . that he denies paternity of Katherine Renee
Goode .  . ."

The judge's shoulders slumped slightly as he realized that disposition
of the case would not go as swiftly as he had hoped.  Having heard the
arguments of both attorneys, he sat silently at the bench.  In a tone
that made no attempt to hide his displeasure at the unexpected delay,
he ordered Shane to immediately begin making temporary child-support
payments in the amount of four hundred dollars per month.

Meanwhile, both parties involved in the proceedingþincluding the child
in questionþwere ordered to schedule blood tests which would determine
whether or not Shane Goode was the father.

The barely discernable smile that flickered across Shane's face quickly
disappeared when the judge ordered that he would be responsible for the
cost of the testing procedure.

By mid-March a report from the Roche Biomedical Laboratories confirmed
that Shane Goode was, in fact, Renee's father.  Finally, just days
before Christmas, the divorce became final.

But Shane Goode threw one final curveball.  "If I've got to pay child
support," he angrily told his attorney after learning the results of
the paternity testing, "I'm damn sure going to have visitation
rights."

Annette, relieved to see the court proceedings end, viewed her now
ex-husband's demands as nothing more than a way to save face.  Why,
after fourteen months of absolute disinterest in his child, after
fighting legally to disprove that Renee was even his, would he suddenly
want visitation rights?

"I've seen it time and time again," Joanne Chadderdon assured her
client.  "He's just doing it to get back at you the only way left to
him."

Chadderdon did not believe that Goode would miraculously turn into a
caring father.  She was more worried about how conscientious he would
be about the monthly support payments.  During the time he had been
ordered to pay temporary support, the checks had come at the last
minute and only for the first couple of months.  Then they had ceased
without explanation.  Only when Chadderdon filed a contempt-of-court
motion did Goode resume payments.  The judge had then ordered that an
automatic deduction from his pay be made twice a month and deposited in
Annette's account.  Keenly aware that Goode was both cunning and
manipulative, Chadderdon privately hoped that he would not find some
way to secrete his earnings away and stop paying Annette what was owed
her.

Initially, Annette spent little time contemplating such
possibilities.

Perhaps naively, she believed that her ex-husband had the simple choice
of paying child support or going to jail, making the decision an easy
one for him.  And the possibility that Shane might actually ever want
to be a part of his daughter's life seemed remote.  If at some future
date he did show interest, she would deal with it then.

For now, what mattered was the fact that Shane Goode was officially out
of her life.

Sharon Couch was seated in an overstuffed chair in the corner of her
living room as she watched her eighteen-month-old granddaughter's
uncertain attempt to accomplish a somersault.  Renee giggled with
delight, obviously satisfied with her budding athletic prowess, and
then ran to another part of the house to retrieve a toy for display.

Clearly she was doing her best to impress her audience.

Seated on the couch was Shane Goode.  Just one half hour before, he had
finally been introduced to his daughter.

Annette had been surprised when he called to ask to meet Renee.  Though
the divorce decree granted Renee's father two visits per month, he had
shown no interest in exercising his parental rights during the first
two months that followed the ruling.  In fact, he had allowed his first
opportunity to pass, choosing instead to travel to Dallas that weekend
to attend the annual January Cotton Bowl football game.  Annette had
been more convinced than ever that Shane would continue to show no
interest in seeing his child.

Then, suddenly, he was there, accompanied by his daughter Tiffany,
offering neither an explanation nor an apology for past behavior.

For Annette, the visit was unsettling, an emotional mixture of
rekindled anger and disappointment as she realized that her ties to her
ex-husband still remained.  As she sat on the couch with Shane, making
small talk as the children turned the living room into part circus,
part dance recital, Annette fought mightily to disguise her feelings.

Be pleasant .  . . smile .  . . do it for the children's sake, she kept
reminding herself.

For Sharon, a silent observer of the scene, old memories flooded back,
of her own divorce, the impossible task of explaining it to children
who rarely saw their father, the hollow wish that things might somehow
have been different.  At age forty-six, she was just beginning to
accept the fact that the wounds of divorce never completely heal, that
its victims survive and move on with their lives yet forever carry with
them the wounds.

She knew that Annette and Shane were still too young and too close to
the hurt of their breakup to look ahead.  In time, and with effort, the
painful memories might fade.  Perhaps the vengeful remarks and bitter
denials spoken by her former son-in-law had been only the angry cries
of a man who had been hurt by his wife's desire for a divorce.  Sharon
wanted to give him some benefit of the doubt.  She felt she had to for
the sake of her granddaughter.

The end of her own marriage had left an emptiness in her children's
lives that she did not wish her granddaughter ever to feel.  Annette
would have to find the strength to allow Shane room in their lives.

Perhaps, she thought, the tension-filled visit playing out before her
might be the first step.

If so, it was a tentative one.  In less than an hour Shane and Tiffany
were gone.  Renee, still full of energy, had joined Michelle in their
bedroom where they continued to play while Annette and her mother sat
in the silence that had fallen over the living room.

Finally, Annette began to slowly shake her head.  "He didn't even touch
her," she said.  "No hug, no kiss.  He didn't even try to pick her up
and hold her.  Nothing."  There was a tone of genuine disappointment in
her observation.

It had been as if Renee, in some innocent way, had realized the
importance of the event in which she was the star attraction and had
attempted everything in her youthful powerþthe acrobatics, the dancing,
the sharing of toysþto impress her father.

"It was as if she felt she had to perform for him."  Annette oh
served.

"I thought his being here would make me angry.  But instead, all it did
was make me feel really sad."

Sharon rose and moved across the room to her daughter, placing an arm
across her shoulders.  "I know," she said.  "I felt the same way.

Maybe next time it will be better."

At her suggestion of a future visit from Shane, Sharon saw her daughter
grow suddenly tense with dread.

What passes for spring along the Texas Gulf Coast is a brief period of
intermission between winter's penetrating chill and summer's cloying
humidity.  People instinctively change gears.  With the end of football
season, the usual failure of the Oilers to get within smelling distance
of the Super Bowl is quickly forgotten by barroom pundits as they shift
focus to the guarded hopes of baseball's Astros.  In the Bellaire and
River Oaks sections of town, women reluctantly put away their furs and
begin to concentrate on acquiring an even tan.  Country club golf
courses and jogging tracks fill with instant jocks bent on sweating
away the extra pounds of cold weather inactivity.  Even the less
well-to-do get into the spirit as they tend lawns and shrubbery that
have suddenly turned from harvest brown to emerald green.  Barbecue
grills are dusted off and flowers are planted.  It is a time for new
beginnings and fresh starts.

Once again, Annette began to think of leaving her mother's home and
moving ahead with her own life.  A girlfriend from work, also in search
of new living quarters, had suggested sharing the expense of an
apartment.  She and Annette got along well and she enjoyed the company
of Annette's children.  She even volunteered to baby-sit Michelle and
Renee on those evenings when their mother had night classes.

And while Annette hoped to be able once again to afford a condominium
in the Clear Lake area, the idea of sharing an apartment, at least for
a while, excited her.  It would be another step toward the independence
she wished for herself and the girls.

Though she knew she would miss having the children under her own roof,
Sharon was pleased by her daughter's eagerness to venture out on her
own again.  She had been pleasantly surprised at the maturity she'd
seen Annette display as Shane continued to occasionally stop by to see
Renee.  Remarkably, it had been he, not Annette, who had seemed uneasy
during the brief but cordial visits.

"I'll never like it," Annette had confessed to her, "but I can live
with it."

Annette began to feel hopeful about her future.  She had her children,
her job, and a new home.  She could even cope with Shane's occasional
intrusions into her life with a minimum of anxiety.  After all, he was
Renee's father.  And, as she knew better than most, a young girl's
relationship with her father was important.

With some reservations, she had even agreed to let Shane take Renee to
his parents' home in nearby Alvin for an evening visit.  "She needs to
know her grandparents," he had urged.  He occasionally volunteered to
keep Michelle and Renee on Wednesday evenings while Annette attended
her nursing class.

The apprehension Annette had once felt before each encounter with her
ex-husband began to ease.  Old pressures seemed to have disappeared as
she found herself thinking of Shane only on those occasions when he
called to arrange the increasingly frequent visits he was making to his
daughter.

Annette's own circle of new friends had expanded to include a young man
named Vince Campise, a sailboat repairman who had been introduced to
her by the boyfriend of her roommate.  Occasionally the foursome would
get together for pizza or a cookout and a video movie and, while she
was not yet ready for a serious relationship, Annette enjoyed the
relaxing, fun-filled companionship such gatherings provided.

Meanwhile, Shane Goode was sharing an apartment with a new girlfriend
who worked with him at the post office.  On the surface, he and Annette
seemed to have finally made peace and were going their separate ways,
linked only by a common interest in a child who would soon be two years
old.  The situation, however, soon changed.

One Wednesday evening after class, Annette drove to her ex-husband's
apartment to pick up the girls.  They greeted her eagerly as she
collected toys and Renee's diaper bag at the front door.

Shane followed her to the curb, standing silently with his hands
stuffed in his pockets as she secured Renee into the car seat.  "You
doing okay?"  he asked her.

"Just fine," Annette replied.

She was behind the wheel before he spoke again.  "I put something in
the diaper bag for you," he said.

Annette gave it little thought on the trip home, listening instead to
the happy chatter of her children.  Hours later, after putting them to
bed, she remembered what Shane had said.  Hoping it might be an early
child-support payment, she found instead a letter written to her in
Shane's familiar hand.

"Everytime I see you," it began, "I want to put my arms around you and
hold you."  Annette read on in disbelief.  "Things were so awful during
the divorce .  . . but that's all behind us now.  I now feel so much
better about myself, and about us .  . ."  Shane rambled through
recollections of past good times they had spent together, took full
blame for the bad ones, and ended the letter with a renewed profession
of his love for her.

Stunned by its content, Annette stared silently at the letter.

Finally, she picked up the phone and dialed Shane's number.

"I read your letter," she said.

"And?"

"Shane, there's been a lot of water under the bridge.  Too much.  I'm
not ready for this kind of thing.  I just can't handle it."

She was surprised by the gentle tone of his reply.  He offered no
argument nor did he display the anger she had anticipated.  "I
understand," he said.  "I really do.  I just wanted to let you know how
I feel."

What he did not mention was the fact that the girlfriend with whom he'd
been living had told him to move out.

By the end of the summer, Annette had again leased a condo in Clear
Lake, determined the move would be the last in her vagabond journey
from trailer house to rental home, from apartments to her mother's
house.  It was time to settle down.

Meanwhile, Shane's note had destroyed any feeling of ease she'd begun
to feel during his sporadic visits to see Renee.  Despite his
announcement that he'd moved into his own apartment in nearby Pasadena,
she quickly refused his repeated offers to continue caring for the
children while she attended her Wednesday night class.  Because of the
distance to her new home, she explained to Shane, her mother had not
been able to see the girls nearly as often and had offered to look
after them for her.

In fact, Annette had suggested a return to the structured visitation
schedule originally set out in the divorce decree.  She pointed out
that both their schedules were hecticþhers with work and school, his
with his responsibilities at the post office and Guard dutiesþmaking
his habit of spur-of-the-moment arrangements difficult on everyone.

What she did not mention was her fear that the visits to Shane's
apartment were becoming traumatic for her daughter.  Upon her return
from each visit, Renee, who was generally cheerful and exuberant, would
sit quietly for several hours, showing no interest in playing with her
sister or her toys, before finally returning to her normal behavior.

Though bound by the ruling of the court, Annette was determined to
limit her daughter's exposure to Shane as much as possible, at least
until Renee's reaction seemed more positive.

Sharon Couch eagerly looked forward to the renewed visits from her
grandchildren.  Their cheerful voices and innocent demands for
attention provided a brief respite from her own endless parade of
worries .

Months earlier her father had died, raising concerns about the care of
her mother.  Then there was her son, who was rarely out of mind.

Steven's stay in Germany had been short.  When he had phoned Sharon to
say he wanted to return to Houston she advised him that an attorney had
been retained and was only waiting for his arrival.  "He says that it
is very important that you turn yourself in," Sharon explained.  "He
doesn't want you arrested."

"Okay," her son agreed.  "I'm coming home."

She felt uneasy as they discussed plans for his return, uncomfortable
in her role of co-conspirator.  It had been Steven's suggestion that he
take a roundabout route that would lessen the possibility of his being
taken into custody by Customs officials.  Instead of flying directly
into Houston International, he would book a flight from Munich to
Montreal where he had friends who would drive him across the Canadian
border to Detroit.  From there he would take a domestic flight home.

Soon after Steven arrived home, he and his mother met with his lawyer
who accompanied him to the police department for his longdelayed
surrender into custody.

The optimism once displayed by the attorney was soon dashed when
prosecutors refused to discuss a plea bargain or sentence reduction.

They were determined to go through with a jury trial.  Thus Steven was
tried and convicted of murder, and sentenced to ten years in state
prison.

Annette shared her mother's concern for Steven and was saddened by the
thought of his being sent to prison.  However, there was little she
could do but offer moral support and occasional visits.  Seeing him in
confinement always left her depressed and she soon found herself
looking for excuses not to make the drive to the Harris County jail
where he awaited transfer to the Texas Department of Corrections.

Her own continuing problems were enough of an emotional drain.  The
uneasy truce between Shane and her had ended when, after Renee's first
overnight visit with her father, Annette had taken a stand against his
impromptu visitation.

Feeling the economic strain of child-support payments to his first wife
and now Annette, Shane had moved from his apartment and taken up
residence with his father and stepmother in Alvin.  Once settled in, he
had taken advantage of his scheduled visitation weekend by picking
Renee up on a Friday afternoon when he got off work.  He promised to
have her back home by midday Saturday.

Annette had been reluctant to let Renee go, even telephoning her
attorney to ask if there might be some way to avoid such an extended
visit.  Joanne Chadderdon explained that to deny Shane's request could
cause Goode to file a complaint with the courts in which he could
legally argue that she was not adhering to the judge's ruling.  "It's
called contempt of court," the attorney said, "and he'd have a good
case."  She urged her client to allow the visit unless she was worried
that her child might be in physical danger while away.

"Are you concerned about that?"

"No," Annette had told her.  Besides, Shane's parents and Tiffany would
be there as well.

However, after Renee returned home, Annette's attitude changed
dramatically.

Knowing that Renee had difficulty sleeping in any bed other than her
own, Annette had asked her ex-husband if he'd had any problems getting
her to sleep.  Yes, he had said as he stood at her front door, sliding
toys and a diaper bag into her hallway.  In fact, he had finally
spanked her to get her to stay in bed.

Annette flew into a rage.  "You spanked her?  Shane, dammit, she's a
two year old in a strange house, staying overnight for the first time,
probably scared to death."

"There was no reason for her to be scared."

"And there was no reasonþno reason whatsoeverþto spank a child in that
situation," Annette shouted back before slamming the door.

When her father stopped by two weeks later, Renee had clung to her
mother, crying and shaking her head.  She did not want to go.  The
strength of her reaction surprised even Annette.  Her daughter had
always enjoyed car rides, eager to go "bye-bye" with almost anyone who
visited.

Her reluctance to go with Shane was out of character.

"She doesn't want to go," Annette had said.  "And I'm not going to make
her."

Shane made no attempt to disguise his anger.  "She's going to have to
get over it," he shot back.  "I'm her father and she's got to get used
< L.

Reluctantly, Annette agreed to a brief visit of a few hours to be spent
getting ice cream and playing in the park.  Placing her daughter in the
car seat, she kissed her and told her she would see her in a couple of
hours.  The look of sadness on Renee's face troubled her mother
greatly.

Upon their return, Renee was again pensive and uncommunicative for
several hours.  Annette knew that somehow she would have to find a way
to protect her daughter from what was clearly becoming a traumatic
experience.

Annette was certain that Shane would take her to court if she refused
him access to Renee, yet she could not ignore the growing discomfort
that attended the visits.

When her ex-husband called again, she tried once more to explain
Renee's reaction to her visits with him, hoping that he might be
understanding and give Renee time to adjust to the situation.  "It's
not right to force her," Annette offered.

"Nobody's forcing her to do anything," Shane replied angrily.  "She's
my daughter, too."

Annette knew that arguing was futile yet she continued.  "Look, I just
don't feel comfortable with her having to go when she doesn't want
to.

It scares her."

"So, let Michelle come with her.  She'll feel more comfortable with her
sister along, right?"  He would also pick up Tiffany, whose company
Michelle enjoyed, so they could all play together.

She knew that it was a logical solution to the problem.  Annette
reluctantly agreed to give it a try.

She would probably not have agreed had she been aware of the concerns
Shane's first wife was having about his relationship with their child
at the same time.

An attorney for Kaye Goode had not only filed a motion to increase the
amount of child support Shane was paying, but she also asked for a
drastic modification of the visitation agreement.  Kaye had become
concerned over her eight-year-old daughter's withdrawn behavior after
weekend visits with Shane.

She learned that on occasion he had allowed Tiffany to dress in
clothing more suitable for an adult and to wear makeup.  He then took
her on visits to a local nightclub, where they were seen dancing.

Like Annette, Kaye Goode was trapped by court-order paperwork and
forced to allow Tiffany to visit her father.  Even when the visitation
rights were modified to eliminate extended visits, Kaye's mind had not
been put at ease.

Shane, meanwhile, assured all who would listen that the worries of
Tiffany's mother were unfounded.  So what if he had taken Tiffany out
for an occasional evening of father-daughter fun?  There was nothing
perverted about it.  What was perverted, he furiously complained, was
the fact that his monthly support payment for Tiffany had increased to
$480.

He had been placed in a position of paying out over half his income to
ex-wives.

Annette got her first inkling of the troubles that had arisen between
Shane and his first wife from a remark Michelle made after she and
Renee had returned from one of their visits.

"Shane had a tape recorder," Michelle said.  "He was trying to get
Renee to talk into it."

"About what?"  Annette wanted to know.

"He was trying to get her to say that she wanted to come live with
him," Michelle reported.  Seeing the sudden anger that crossed her
mother's face, she quickly added, "All Renee would say was no."' When
Annette telephoned to confront Shane on the matter, he immediately
assured her that Michelle had been mistaken.  Yes, he admitted, they
had been playing with a tape recorder.  He'd tried to get all the girls
to talk into it.  But it had been Tiffany, not Renee, who he'd tried to
persuade to say on tape that she wanted to come live with him.  He was
convinced that Kaye was trying everything in her power to turn his
daughter against him.

"She's not taking care of Tiffany like she should, so I've decided I'm
going to take her to court," he said.  "I'm afraid she's not the good
mother that you are."

It was not until New Year's Eve of 1993 that Shane was able to convince
his former wives to allow his daughters to visit overnight.  Kaye was
relieved that Shane had returned home to live with his parents, thereby
assuring more adult supervision while her child was away.  She had
finally agreed to allow Tiffany to spend the holiday evening at the
Goode home in nearby Alvin, but only after Shane had promised that she
could pick her up early the following day.

It had been Tiffany who phoned Annette to ask if Michelle and Renee
could join her at the Goode home.  After the typical childlike
pleading, Shane got on the phone.  "I know it is short notice," he
said, "but we'd love to have them over."

"It's New Year's Eve and you don't have any plans?"  Annette chided.

"No plans," Shane replied.  "Can they come?"

At first, Annette was hesitant.  In recent days she had been concerned
over a fall Renee had taken in the living room of the apartment and had
continued to watch her closely despite the doctor's assurance that her
daughter was fine.  She had been riding her plastic tricycle through
the living room one evening and, in an effort to impress her big
sister, had attempted a "wheelie."  The result was a fall against a
coffee table where she had hit her head.  A quick trip to the Clear
Lake Humana Hospital emergency room revealed no concussion, only a
small laceration which had not even required stitches.  Still, Annette
had been worried about Renee, watching her closely for several days
before she was convinced her baby was okay.

The doctor had assured her that this kind of childhood accident was
part of life.  It was the same lecture she'd heard several months
earlier during a similar emergency-room visit after Michelle had
accidently shut the car door on Renee's finger.  On each occasion, she
had been assured that her daughter was a perfectly healthy child.

Still, Annette had begun to feel comfortable allowing Renee to run and
play normally only a few days before Tiffany called.  Earlier in the
week, Annette and Vince had been invited to drop by the house of some
friends who lived in Alvin for a late dinner and quiet celebration of
the new year.  At first, they had declined, then reconsidered when they
realized the drive to the Goode house would put them within a couple of
miles of their friends' home.  "Okay," Annette finally agreed, "I'll
drop them off around eight."

"Great," Shane replied.  "Tell the girls that I'm looking forward to
seeing them."

"Eight o'clock," she repeated, and was about to hang up when she heard
him speak her name.  "Annette .  . ."

"Yes?"

"I just wanted to wish you happy new year," he said.  She tried hard to
ignore the intimacy in his voice.

Her ex-husband had known for some time about her relationship with
Vince.  She'd introduced the two on one of Shane's first visits to her
condo.  Yet, even when he'd become aware that Vince was spending much
of his time at Annette's place, Shane had surprised her by refraining
from any private inquisition.  Aside from a casual hello or a few
minutes of small talk when he picked up Renee, he continued to act as
if no other man existed in Annette's life.

Which was the way she liked it.  She had confided to Vince about the
failures of her past relationships long before they had moved beyond
simply being friends.  He knew of the difficulties she'd had with
Shane, of the private fear she experienced as a result of his
unpredictable behavior, his stalking, and his vengeful rages.  And
while he had immediately disliked Goode, he promised Annette that he
would not do or say anything that might provoke additional problems.

But only so long as Shane Goode treated her and her children nranfNriv
If not, he made it clear that all bets were off.

Jannette appreciated his understanding.  Shane, she assured
him, was quite capable of building the slightest incident into some
reason for launching into a bitter custody fight over Renee.  He would
do it, she was convinced, not because he loved his daughter but as a
way of getting back at her, of inflicting a new barrage of hurt.  There
was in Shane Goode a mean-spiritedness which was far beyond her ability
to explain.

It was for that reason that Annette guarded a tightly held secret.

She and Vince had secretly married but had told no oneþnot their
friends, not her mother, not even Michelleþfor fear of Shane's
reaction.

In time, she reasoned, his anger, which always hid just below the
surface, had to subside.  Eventually, he would come to the realization
that there was no love left to be rekindled, accept it, and move
ahead.

Only then, she had tried desperately to explain to Vince, would she
feel safe in making their marriage public.

Some of Annette's closest friends, meanwhile, continued to view the
bond that remained between her and Shane as strange.  A few privately
held the belief that Annette had not completely accepted the fact that
they were divorced and still hoped a day of reconciliation might
come.

Few considered the possibility that it might be Shane, not Annette, who
refused to let go.

f Vince knew onlwy that her fears were real.  Rather than question her,
he offered unqualified support, and agreed to the request for secrecy
that could only be viewed as bizarre.

They had arrived home shortly before 2,00 A.M. on the first day of 1994
and were preparing for bed when the ringing of the phone sent a cold,
instinctive fear racing through Annette's body.

She answered quickly and heard Michelle's voice.  "Mommy," her daughter
said, "something's wrong with Renee."

"What's the matter?"

"She's real cranky.  . . and she's got a fever."

"Where's Shane?"

"He had to go someplace," Michelle said.

Annette's fear now mingled with rage.  "Let me talk with grandmother or
granddaddy."

Shane's parents, she was told, were in their bedroom in the back of the
house.  "Shane told us we weren't supposed to wake them up," Michelle
explained.

"I'm coming right now," Annette said.  "Tell Renee I'll be there as
quickly as I can."

Upon her arrival at the Goode house, Annette did not even bother to
tell her former in-laws, still soundly sleeping in the back of the
house, that she was taking Renee and Michelle.  All she wanted was to
get her children and leave as quickly as possible.

To her relief the cause of Renee's discomfort and fever had been
nothing more than a slight ear infection.  Cradled in her mother's arms
as Vince drove them back toward home, she whimpered briefly, then fell
asleep.

Once she was assured that Renee was okay, Annette began to question
Michelle about the night's events.

Shane had received a call shortly after they had arrived and had
left.

He'd explained that a friend had some kind of car trouble and he was
going to lend a hand.  The girls had been given strict instructions to
remain in the house and under no circumstances were they to disturb
their grandparents.

As they drove through the fog that greeted the early morning hours of
the new year, Annette stared silently at the road ahead for some
time.

Soon Michelle, too, had fallen asleep.

They were almost to Clear Lake when she turned to Vince with a look of
resolve on her face he'd never before seen.  "That's it," she said.

It was time to pay a visit to her attorney, time to start fighting
back.

Sewen Sitting in Joanne Chadderdon's office, Annette recounted the
event in a measured, controlled voice that took the attorney by
surprise.  Seated before her, flanked by a wall of diplomas and law
books, was a young woman on a mission.  There were no hysterics, no
frantic pleas for impossible immediate relief the attorney was so often
asked to provide.

Annette, she found herself thinking, had matured considerably since
they had first met.

Chadderdon listened as Annette recounted Shane's phone call New Year's
Day with his frail excuse for having left the children the night
before.

And she agreed that his action justified the anger her client felt.

"Unfortunately," the attorney explained, "he did nothing illegal.

There were adults in the houseþhis parentsþso, technically, there is no
real basis for a claim that he abandoned the children."

Undaunted, Annette continued to list her grievances, Shane's spanking
Renee to make her go to sleep, his erratic schedule of visits, the
incident with the tape recorder, and, most disconcerting, Renee's
withdrawn behavior following each trip to spend time with her father.

"There is something wrong with their relationship," Annette insisted.

Chadderdon had a good idea what her client was intimating yet remained
silent, waiting for Annette to say it, "I don't know if he's molesting
her or what, but something just isn't right."

"Even if true, there is nothing we can do without proof," Chadderdon
explained.

Nor, as things stood, was there any legal way by which Annette could
prohibit Shane from seeing Renee.  "All he would have to do would be to
take you to court," she said, "and from what you've told me about this
guy, he'd enjoy doing it."

"What if he is abusing her?"

"That's a different matter altogether," Chadderdon acknowledged.  She
advised Annette to check her daughter thoroughly before her next trip
to see her father.  Then, she told Annette to take Renee directly to a
doctor for an examination when she returned.  "If nothing else, it
might give you some peace of mind."

The demeanor of the young woman seated across from her turned to one of
weary disappointment.  Her lawyer, rich in experience with such
problems, had offered only the slightest cause to hope that hers might
be solved.

She was preparing to leave when, almost as an afterthought, Annette
mentioned that her ex-husband had fallen behind on the courtordered
payments on her student loan.

Chadderdon smiled and began writing herself a note on the yellow legal
pad in front of her.  "That," she said, "I can do something about."

As the January days passed, Annette agonized over her next phone call
from Shane.  Dread became her constant companion, a burning, heavy pain
that lay in the pit of her stomach, refusing to go away.  Her mind
raced to find excuses not to allow her child to leave home, to find
some way to ensure Renee's safety and happiness.  But she came up with
nothing that offered more than a temporary stay of the inevitable.

Shane, she knew, had the law on his side, a powerful, unbending
adversary that she had come to resent mightily.  Annette had begun to
understand the motivation that drove mothers to disappear quietly with
their childrenþto hide them away, out of reach of those who might cause
them harm.  When such thoughts crossed her mind they would always be
followed by a surge of stubborn anger.

Why, dammit, should she allow Shane and his childish, manipulative
behavior to drive her away from friends and family?  From home and the
new life she and Vince were working to build for themselves and the
children?

She would simply have to find the strength to meet her enemiesþ the
frustration and paranoiaþon her own turf and defeat them.

On Saturday, January 22, Annette answered her phone to hear once again
the cheerful, excited voice of Shane's daughter, Tiffany.  "Daddy says
we can have a slumber party tonight," she said.  "Can Michelle and
Renee come?  Please.  . ."

Annette asked to speak with Shane.  "I'd better not get a phone call in
the middle of the night," she said.

Shane dismissed the coolness in his ex-wife's voice.  The girls would
have fun, he said.  In addition to Tiffany, Michelle, and Renee, there
would be his ten-year-old niece Christine who was living with his
parents.

"And you're going to be there?"

"Hey, I promise," Shane said.  "I'll pick them up around six-thirty,
okay?"

Before he arrived, Annette fed the girls and bathed Renee, carefully
examining her for any scratches or bruises she might have recently
suffered in the course of normal child's play.  She methodically
followed the suggestion of her attorney, checking to see that Renee's
ear infection had gone away, that there was no sign of redness of the
throat, no irritation of the genitals, no temperature.

An overwhelming sadness gripped Annette as she conducted her
examination and made preparations for the girls' overnight stay.

Michelle, she knew, looked forward to spending time with Tiffany, but
Renee demonstrated not the slightest hint of enthusiasm for the
proposed visit.  Annette hated the idea of sending her away to a place
she didn't want to be, to be cared for by a person she was convinced
her child feared.

As she laid out the purple sweat pants and flower print pullover shirt
Renee would wear, Annette called Michelle aside.  "I want you to have
fun," she said, "but you have to watch after your little sister for me,
too.  Okay?"

Michelle nodded.

"And, if Shane leaves," her mother added, "you call me right away.  "
"I will," Michelle promised.

Minutes later they were in the front yard, arranging overnight bags and
Renee's car seat in Shane's pickup.  Annette hugged her daughters, then
helped them into the cab.  Buckling Renee in, she kissed her, then
Michelle.  "Mommy loves you," she said.

Even before his black pickup disappeared from view Annette was aware of
the warm tears that had begun to fall down her cheeks.  She'd been
standing at the curb for some time when Vince emerged from the
apartment to place his arm around her.  "It's just for the night," he
said.

"Everything's going to be okay."

Nothing he tried afforded relief from the worry Annette was feeling.

Throughout the night she paced from room to room, seeking something to
occupy her mind.  Several times she considered phoning the Goode house
to make sure everything was okay but decided against it.  Any attempt
by Vince at conversation would end with Annette crying, her hands
shaking so badly she could not grip the cup of hot tea he had prepared
for her.

The first gray flickers of dawn had begun to show when exhaustion
finally claimed her last bit of energy.  "Just lie down and take a
little nap," her husband urged.

While Vince had become intimately familiar with the anxieties his wife
experienced each time the children were with Shane, he'd never before
seen Annette this upset.  It was, he would later tell a friend, as if
she'd had a sixth sense that something out of the ordinary might
happen.

Annette had finally stretched out on the bed and was just drifting off
into a state of half-sleep when she heard the phone ring and Vince
answer.  By the time she was fully awake and sitting up, he was
standing at the bedroom door, his face ghostly pale.

"Something's wrong with Renee," he said.  His voice trembled as he
choked out the words.

Annette was quickly on her feet, racing past him toward the hallway
phone where she heard Michelle's frightened voice, "She's not
breathing, Mommy.  Something's wrong with her."

Annette clutched a hand to her brow and grimaced as if someone had just
delivered a blow to her midsection.  "Oh, God, no," she moaned.  Then,
attempting to compose herself she focused on Michelle.  "Honey, who's
there?  Where's Shane?  Put a grownup on the phone.  Please do it ...

now ... hurry...."

She heard the receiver clank loudly against somethingþlikely the
counter in the Goode kitchenþas Michelle left in search of an adult who
could speak with her mother.

Annette tried to visualize what might be happening in the Goode home.

If she had, she would have seen her ex-husband in the living room,
bending over Renee, while his stunned father, awakened from sleep,
stood nearby as if in shock.  Shane's mother, still feeling the effects
of medication she had taken, had been told by her husband to remain in
their bedroom.

Endless, agonizing seconds passed before Annette again heard Michelle's
tiny voice.  "Nobody will come to the phone," she said, as she began to
cry.  "Mommy, some paramedic people are here.... They're saying she's
gone."

For Annette, there would be no memory of the frantic forty-fiveminute
drive from Clear Lake to Alvin, of the impatient running of red lights,
or the numbing frustration that the miles would not pass quickly
enough.

She had been in a kind of shock ever since getting Michelle's call.

While quickly pulling on jeans and a T-shirt, she screamed, cursed, and
then sobbed with rage.  "He did something to her," she repeatedly
yelled at Vince.  "I know he did.  I know he did."

There would be sudden moments of unexplained calm during her
outbursts.

It was when she had finished dressing and had grown briefly quiet that
Vince had urged that they get on the way.  They were walking out the
front door when the rage suddenly exploded again.  Annette had jerked
her arm away from her husband and she turned to walk hurriedly back in
the direction of the bedroom.

"Where are you going?"  Vince asked.

"To get my gun," she replied.

Her grandfather had given her his .357 magnum when she'd first moved to
Clear Lake, concerned that she might one day find herself in need of
protection.  And while she had always been fearful of it and had never
even learned to fire it, she was suddenly determined to find it and
take it with her.  "I'm going to kill the sonuvabitch," she said.

Several minutes passed before Vince could persuade her not to take the
gun.

They turned onto the 1800 block of Meadowview Street where the
generally quiet, peaceful atmosphere of the neighborhood had become a
flurry of activity.  Parked in front of the Goode's home were police
cars and an ambulance.  Several people milled about the front yard,
watched over by a uniformed officer who had stationed himself on the
front porch.

As she ran toward the house the officer stepped in front of her to
block her path.  "I'm sorry, ma'am.  No one's allowed toþ" "My baby is
in there," she cried out.

The officer, moved by the pleading in the young woman's voice, pointed
toward the open front door.  "Through there," he said.

Her steps abruptly slowed as she entered the den.  Suddenly it was as
though all of her muscles had shut down, her legs heavy weights that
would move only with the greatest of effort.

Shane was seated on the floor with his back to her, his body gently
rocking.  Cradled in his arms was the lifeless body of Renee, wrapped
in a white sheet.

Annette's painful cry echoed through the house as she walked to a love
seat near where Shane sat.  "Give her to me," Annette said.  "Give me
my baby."

As though he'd not heard her, Shane continued to rock, his cold,
tearless stare focused on a nearby wall.  When his ex-wife repeated her
plea, reaching out toward him, his only response was to slump his
shoulders slightly and quicken the pace of his back-and-forth
movement.

"She's gone," he finally said.

Until that moment Annette had been unaware of the sizable audience
assembled in the room.  There were police and members of the emergency
medical care unit that had been summoned, the children, her
father-in-law, and Vince.  No one spoke.

It was Annette who broke the silence.  Looking up at an officer of the
Alvin Police, her eyes filled with anger, she began shaking her head.

"She was perfectly fine just a few hours ago," she began.  "What are
you going to do about this?"

When the officer offered no reply, she got to her feet and moved in his
direction.  "Something is very wrong here.  Something is going on
here."

Then her crazed grief exploded.  She began to scream, moving about the
room as though in frantic search of some escape from the nightmare,
finally stopping to point an angry finger toward Shane.  "He did
something to my baby.  She was fine .  . . don't you understand?  Can't
you see?  He did something to her...."

The officer moved toward her, reaching out for her arm.  "Ma'am," he
said, "I realize you are upset.  But if you don't calm down I'm going
to have to ask you to leave."

Annette glared at him, shaking her head in disbelief.  None of this
could be happening.  It wasn't real, just some horrible dream, her
imagination playing vile, ugly tricks.  She began to cry again and
suddenly her angry voice became only a painful whisper.  "That's my
baby.  My sweet, beautiful baby," she said.

Shane was still sitting on the floor, still rocking his dead child,
when Patrolman Terry Earl, the first officer to arrive at the scene,
asked Annette if she would step outside with him so he could ask her
some questions.

Seated on the porch, she tried determinedly to compose herself so that
she might convince the officer of her suspicions.  "It has," she began,
"been going on for a long time."

As she spoke, Detective Howard Duckworth arrived and joined his fellow
officer, listening to the grieving mother's tirade of accusations
against her ex-husband.  Called by his nickname, Bodie, by all in Alvin
who knew him, he was considered the premier narcotics investigatOr in
the community's small department.  But on this Sunday morning it had
been his lot to be the detective-on-callþtherefore he was responsible
for the investigation of the child's death.

Only when convinced that Annette had regained some measure of composure
did the officers end their questioning.  Earl excused himself to enter
the house and told Shane to accompany him to another room where they
might discuss the events of the previous evening.

Annette followed to help Michelle gather her things.  As she waited in
a doorway that led to the den, she turned to glimpse Renee's now prone
body laying atop a sheet as EMS officers silently prepared to deliver
her to the morgue.  For a moment she felt as if she might faint.

Renee still wore the pants and shirt she'd dressed her in the previous
afternoon and Annette felt a new wave of sadness crash over her.  She
had been so careful to pack her daughter's favorite nightgown, and
Shane had not even bothered to see that she changed into ...

She fought the urge to rush to her baby, to pick her up and hold her.

In her mind, the den was a crime scene.  It was important, she reminded
herself, that she do nothing to disrupt any evidence that could prove
Renee's death had been no accident.

It was only after all interviews had been conducted and the child's
body delivered to the coronor that Detective Duckworth returned to the
Alvin Police Department to begin organizing his report.

From the information he'd gathered, it appeared that the events that
had preceded Katherine Renee Goode's tragic death could have been
innocently played out in half the homes in the community, Shortly after
the girls had arrived, Carolyn Goode had phoned in an order for pizza,
then excused herself to her bedroom.  Still feeling the effects of
dental surgery she'd undergone earlier in the day, she planned to go to
bed early, leaving her stepson to care for the young guests.

Throughout the evening Shane served as chaperon while the children
played hide-and-seek, watched television, and snacked on marshmallows
and lemonade.  It had been shortly after eleven when he had begun to
urge the girls to prepare for bed.  Michelle had unrolled the pink
sleeping bag she had brought, draping it across the love seat.  Tiffany
had chosen the couch and Christine placed her pillow and blanket across
a nearby stuffed chair that was her favorite.  Shane spread a pallet on
the floor in the center of the room for Renee and helped her remove her
shoes.  Tiffany volunteered to change Renee's diaper.

No sooner had everyone taken her place, however, when Renee had moved
from her spot to join her sister on the love seat, giggling as she
snuggled beside Michelle.

She had curled her lips into a disappointed pout when Shane insisted
that she return to her pallet, demanding that she be allowed to have a
sleeping bag like her older sister.  Shane brought his old armygreen
sleeping bag from a closet and spread it on the floor for her.

Still restless and not ready for the play to end, she was up and down,
whispering to the older girls, hoping to convince someone to turn the
television back on.

In an attempt to calm her, Shane had lain on the floor beside her.

When she had continued to move restlessly, he lifted her onto his chest
where she lay for several minutes before finally going to sleep.

With all finally quiet, Shane had retreated to his own bedroom.  He'd
checked in on the girls shortly before 1:00 A.M. and found that
Christine had decided the chair was too uncomfortable and had moved to
her own bedroom.  After looking in on her, he'd gone to bed and was
soon sleeping soundly.

During the night Carolyn Goode, groggy from the pain medication she'd
taken, had wakened to make a trip to the bathroom for a drink of water
but had not thought to check on the children in the den.  Neither had
her husband, who returned home from his late shift at the post office
at 2,30 A.M. Upon his arrival he had entered the kitchen, placed his
lunch box on the counter, had a glass of iced tea, showered, and gone
to bed.

Michelle remembered being awakened by "some kind of noise" during the
night.  From the digital glow of the television VCR she I STOWE R s
could see that it was 3,30 A.M. Tiffany, she recalled, was asleep on
the couch and Renee was on the floor, lying on her side.  She had
quickly fallen back to sleep.

It was not until 8,30 that Michelle woke again, roused by the sound of
morning cartoons from the nearby television.  Tiffany was sitting on
the den floor near the set.  She had already tried to wake Renee
without success and was pleased to see that Michelle was up.  She
suggested they get a bowl of cereal from the kitchen.

Michelle's attempt at waking her little sister had also been futile.

Gently shaking her shoulder and calling her name got no response.

Normally a light sleeper who was awake at the slightest noise or touch,
Renee, now lying on her stomach, did not respond.  Michelle, still not
fully awake herself, bent over her and saw that a dark liquid was
oozing down her cheek.

Frightened, she called out to Tiffany.  "Something's coming out of
Renee's mouth," she said.  "She won't wake up."

"Go get Shane," Tiffany urged.

Shane had hurried from his bedroom and was kneeling over the baby,
calling her name, trying to shake her awake while instructing Tiffany
to bring him a damp towel from the bathroom.

As he bathed Renee's face he told Tiffany to dial 911.  "Give them the
address and tell them she's not breathing," he said.  "Tell them to
hurry."

Unnerved by her adult responsibilities, Tiffany bravely followed her
father's instructions and found herself in the role of go-between,
relaying instructions and questions from the emergency dispatcher.

"She says to clear her airway," she shouted from the kitchen.

Shane was nodding.  "I've already done that."

"Daddy, she wants to know if you know how to do CPR."

"No," he said.

"She said they're on the way."

Tiffany could already hear the distant wail of a siren by the time she
entered her grandparents' room to tell them what was taking place in
the den.  "Something's wrong with Renee," she said.  "Something real
bad."

Donald Goode, jolted awake by the urgency in Tiffany's voice, urged his
wife to remain in the bedroom, then hurried toward the front of the
house.  He reached the hallway just in time to answer the urgent
knocking of the emergency medical service personnel.

In a matter of minutes all urgency had drained from the efforts of the
medical attendants.  Renee's body was cold, without any sign of life.

Rigor mortis had, in fact, already begun to set in.

She had been dead for some time, perhaps several hours.

Detective Duckworth hunched over his desk, reviewing the tragic
sequence of events in an effort to determine the pertinent information
his chief would want to read when he reported to work the following
morning.  Observations, he knew, were sometimes as important as the
factual recollections of those interviewed.

He would note that during his interview, Shane Goode had mentioned that
Renee had bumped her head against the headboard while playfully jumping
on his bed earlier in the evening.  Had the blow been so severe that it
could have ultimately caused death?  Goode had insisted that he'd
checked and found no indication of a laceration or bruise resulting
from the accident.  Renee, in fact, had been happily playing again,
moments after she'd bumped her head.  Could it be possible, Duckworth
wondered, that such a seemingly insignificant accident had led to the
child's death?

That, he knew, would be for the coroner to determine.

And what of the bitter accusations of Annette Goode?  The detective had
heard much the same from other ex-spouses over the years as he'd been
called to investigate countless domestic disturbances.  In the heat of
anger and pain, husbands and wives lashed out at each other with
venom.

He felt sympathy for Annette's pain but had dismissed much of what she
had said.

Still, there had been something unusual about her ex-husband.  It would
be nothing the detective could put into a report, only a sense that the
man he'd interviewed had been far more calm than he could have been in
a similar situation.  Patrolman Earl had remarked on the fact he'd not
seen the father shed a single tear, even as he sat rocking the dead
child in his arms.

Duckworth had, in fact, felt an unsettling coldness throughout the
house as he'd carried out his investigation.  Donald Goode had stood to
one side, arms folded, saying nothing as the EMS personnel had gone
about their work.  He had insisted that his wife, still sequestered in
her bedroom, had no information to offer and had refused to allow
police to talk with her.

Doubtful that she could shed light on what had transpired, Duckworth
had decided to wait and speak with her after things had settled down.

All that aside, there had been nothing that had set off the kind of
alarm bells trained investigators often hear, urging that they look for
deeper, hidden truths.

Still, the visit to 1830 Meadowview Street had been one of the most
trying of Duckworth's career.

During his ten years of police work, countless death scenes had
accumulated in his memory bankþhighway accidents, homicides,
suicides.

Each was memorable for some unique aspect, yet shared a similarity that
never failed to haunt him for days after an investigation.  Death
rarely made sense to him.  That it would be visited on an innocent
child was one of the mysteries he knew no amount of experience or faith
would ever allow him to untangle.

The image of Renee Goode's motionless body, lying on the den floor,
would be forever burned into his mind's eye.

Dreaming, theorizes Dr. Charles Fisher, director of the sleep
laboratory at New York's Mount Sinai Hospital, permits one to be
quietly and safely insane every night.  It was not a concept Sharon
Couch had ever considered, despite the fact that her sleep had been
routinely interrupted in recent months.  The most common night
soundsþthe distant barking of a dog, wind-driven tree limbs scratching
against the roofþwere certain to wake Sharon.  And there were the
agonizing dreamsþnightmares, reallyþof her son and the myriad
difficulties he was facing.  At times they were disjointed and
impossible to remember the following day, others were so real they
would jolt her awake, triggering thoughts that would rob her of rest
for hours as she lay staring at the ceiling.

Rarely, if ever, were her dreams pleasant.

Never before, however, had she experienced a moment like the one that
interrupted her sleep at somewhere around 4,00 A.M. that Sunday.  It
was more of a physical sensation than a dream, without storyline or
faces.

Suddenly, her breathing became labored as she felt something pressing
down on her.  She sensed something soft around her throat, applying
pressure that made it increasingly difficult to fill her lungs.

She woke up gasping, frantically gulping the sweet night air of her
darkened room.  It was several minutes before she was able to breathe
normally.  Knowing that a return to sleep would be impossible, she
pulled on her robe and went into the kitchen to put on coffee .

She and Gary Meaux, whom she'd been seeing for some time, had planned
to meet for brunch later in the day, and by getting an early start she
could accomplish some overdue housecleaning chores before meeting him
at his apartment.

Gary, raised in nearby Port Arthur, gave balance to Sharon's life.  She
had met the quiet, introspective accountant in 1979 while working as a
data process supervisor at Medical Center del Oro, a Houston rehab
hospital.  As she got to know him, Sharon soon learned that he had a
wonderful sense of humor.  That, she recognized, was something she
badly needed.

During the course of their leisurely meal she mentioned her nighttime
experienceþ"It was the weirdest feeling," she saidþthen dismissed it,
turning the conversation to the shopping plans they had made.  Renee,
now growing at a rate that amazed her mother and grandmother alike,
needed new shoes and Sharon had volunteered to buy them.

Yet after finding a pair she liked at a nearby department store, Sharon
had second thoughts about purchasing them without having her
granddaughter try them on first.  She would, she decided, return the
next day with Renee.

That decision made, they idled away much of the morning and early
afternoon before returning to Gary's apartment.  He was at his
computer, eager to test a new piece of software he'd purchased, when
the phone rang.

There was a puzzled look on his face as he turned to Sharon, holding
out the receiver for her.  "It's Annette," he said.

A moment later he saw the color drain from her face and heard her
anguished cry.  Sharon was shaking her head in disbelief.  Gary rose
from his chair to stand next to her, fearful that she might faint.

"Where are you?"  she asked into the phone.  Then, "We'll be right
there."

Handing the phone back to Gary she stood for what seemed like several
seconds with her shoulders slumped and tears filling her eyes.

"Oh, God," she said as her head shook from side to side.  "God, no."

Gary gently placed his arms around her shoulder.  "Sharon, what is
it?

What's wrong?"

She buried her face into his chest and began to sob uncontrollably.

Her reply was barely coherent, muffled as if it had come from deep in
her throat, but Gary understood her.  A sudden chill ran through his
body and he held her even tighter.

"Renee is dead," she had said.

Gary's residence was only a short distance from the condo where Annette
lived, yet the trip seemed endless.  Sharon, still pale and shaken,
stared blankly out the window, deaf to the questions Gary had been
repeatedly asking since they got in the car.  "Are you sure?"  he
asked.

"What happened?"

They were met at the door by a blank-faced young woman clearly in
shock.  Exhausted, without makeup, Annette looked as if she had
suddenly aged far beyond her years.

"Where have you been?"  she asked her mother.  "I've been trying to
reach you for hours."  There was a childlike tone, a plea, to her
question.

Then she began to cry.

Over the next few hours, Annette's fragile emotions again hopscotched
from silent devastation to screaming outrage.  Slowly, carefully, her
mother probed for answers to her multitude of questions.  How?  When?

Why?

Alternately staring at the carpeted floor and closing her eyes, as if
to hide from the horror that had visited her life, Annette told of the
early morning phone call from Michelle, of rushing to the Goode home
and finding her child dead, wrapped in a sheet and cradled in Shane's
arms.

Then, lifting her eyes into a fixed stare, the rage swept over her as
she spoke of Shane.  "He did something to her," she said.  "I know he
did something to my baby."  Then her anger spilled over to the police
officers who she felt had treated her not as a mother but as an
intruder.

Sharon sat silently through her daughter's angry recollections, feeling
a helplessness unlike any she had ever experienced.  Only after Annette
quieted and leaned her head against the back of the sofa, adrenaline
drained and exhaustion setting in, did her mother speak.

"Would you like for me to handle the funeral arrangements?"  she
volunteered.

Annette nodded ever so slightly and again began to cry.  This time her
tears came softly, no longer accompanied by hysterics.

The tranquilizers she'd taken were beginning to take effect.

Sharon Couch felt a strange calm as Gary drove her home that evening.

For the past several hours there had been a caravan of friends and
relatives in and out of Annette's apartment.  Sharon found herself
wanting out of there, wanting to be away from everything and everybody
that served as a reminder of the horrible truth she knew she must
somehow accept.  Even with the knowledge that Vince would be there to
watch over Annette, Sharon felt a sense of guilt at her overwhelming
urge to get away, to run from the nightmarish tragedy.  Maybe, just
maybe, by distancing herself from her grieving daughter and the story
she had related, the sharp, stabbing edges of reality might somehow be
dulled.  She strongly felt the mother's responsibility to be with her
daughter yet she needed time to herself, to somehow get a grasp on what
had transpired.

The excuse she had given for leaving had been both valid and logical.

She volunteered to take Michelle home with her where she might get some
rest, away from the tension and tears that served as constant reminders
of what she'd awakened to earlier in the day.

And Sharon had to begin planning for Renee's funeral.

As Gary drove, Sharon's thoughts were absorbed with the bitter
allegations Annette had made.  Without a doubt, Annette was absolutely
convinced that Shane Goode was somehow responsible for the death of his
own daughter.  She had not even responded to her mother's gentle
reminder that state law demanded that an autopsy be performed or her
suggestion that they wait until hearing the medical examiner's findings
before placing blame.  There had to be some explanation more
reasonable, more satisfactory, more comforting, than what Annette was
suggesting.  No man, however uncaring, could purposely take the life of
a beautiful, innocent child.

Annette's response was like bile erupting from deep in her soul.  "He
did this," she repeated.  "I know him."

To Sharon Couch, the idea was inconceivable.

Late into the night she and her sister Carol, whom she had phoned from
Annette's, sat talking.  Always the conversation came back to the same
agonizing question, How could a child so vibrant, so healthy, now be
dead?  Just days earlier Renee had been in her home, laughing, playing,
a picture of good health.

Sharon thought back to Renee's December tricycle accident in the living
room of the apartment.  Was it possible, she wondered, that a blood
clot might have gone undetected and ultimately led to the child's
death?

Carol, employed as an administrative assistant for a Houston surgeon,
speculated that a seizure of some sort might have been the cause.  Both
were simply guessing, vainly searching for an answer.

Few chores in life are more stressful than making preparations for the
funeral of a loved one.  Immediate decisions are demanded at a time
when the most simple mental tasks are incredibly difficult.  Sharon
moved about in a body drained of all energy, holding on to a faint hope
that her efforts might somehow inch everyone closer to calm and
peace.

Yet in her heart, deep down where the most honest of truths remain
guarded and private, she knew things would never again be the same.

Annette had agreed to have the funeral in nearby Hallettsville with
burial in the family plot of the community's City Cemetery.  Sharon
asked if she wanted her to purchase a dress for Renee but Annette had
opted to have her child buried in a navy blue sweater and corduroy
pants that Sharon had bought her as a Christmas gift.  "I want her to
look like herself, like Renee," Annette said.  She would, in fact,
bring along her daughter's favored baseball cap to place in the casket,
along with the bunny blanket and white stuffed bear Renee was seldom
without.

Gary had asked if he might put a rosary in the casket.

On Monday morning he drove Sharon and Carol to Hallettsville where they
selected a casket, arranged for a minister, and discussed plans for the
brief, simple service Annette had requested.  The funeral was scheduled
for Tuesday afternoon.

Most traumatic of the preparations had been the decision regarding
Shane.  Annette's anger toward her ex-husband had not abated at all and
she continued to adamantly insist that she did not want him attending
the funeral.  Still, Sharon struggled with what she viewed as a moral
obligation to make him aware of the plans.  Finally, she discussed it
with her sister.  "It seems to me," Carol said, "that he has a right to
be there.  Despite whatever differences he and Annette have had, Renee
was his daughter, too."  That said, she admitted concern over Annette's
reaction should she see Shane.

"Still, I think you have to call him," she advised.

The brief conversation had been very unsettling to Sharon.  She
detected nothing in Shane's voice that suggested he shared the same
pain she was feeling.  No, he said, he had no idea what had caused
Renee's death.  She had seemed fine when she had finally gone to
sleep.

There was a whining quality to his voice which Sharon found
off-putting.

Quickly changing the subject, she told him of the funeral plans.

"Annette's pretty upset," she continued, explaining that her daughter
had said that she didn't want him at the service.  "Shane, please
understand that I believe you have every right to be there.  But I just
hope and pray that we can avoid any kind of scene."

He understood her concern and for the first time a slight hint of
emotion crept into his voice as he spoke of his daughter.  "I want to
see her," he said.  "Do you think it would be all right if I came down
early and left before the service?"

Relieved, Sharon gave him directions to the funeral home.

Carol stood across the room, waiting for her sister to hang up the
receiver.  "How did he sound?"  she asked.

For a moment Sharon searched for an answer.  "Cold," she finally
replied.  "Very cold."

What first struck Sharon Couch as she entered the small funeral parlor
chapel in the early Monday evening hours was the absolute silence.  Her
footsteps made no sound against the thick carpet, her breathing seemed
to echo from the paneled walls as she approached the casket.  She had
insisted that the funeral director contact her as soon as preparations
were completed so that she might spend what she knew would be her last
moments alone with her granddaughter.

Soon family members would be arriving and the unsettling tradition of
viewing the body would be under way.  Then Sharon would have to summon
strength she was not sure she possessed and turn her attention to
comforting Annette.

Now, however, she needed time alone to say goodbye to the child, so
tiny and innocent, who lay in the silk-lined casket.

For almost an hour she kept her quiet vigil, summoning warm memories
that filled her thoughts like treasured snapshots.  There had been two
birthdays, three Christmases, a few trips and visits to park
playgrounds, and a lot of smiles and hugs and kisses.  Sharon wanted to
remember them all, to mark them so indelibly that no passage of time
could ever erase them.  And for the moment she found comfort in the
escape from the ugly questions and bitter accusations that had so
poisoned her mind since learning of Renee's death.

The solitude ended with Annette's arrival.  All composure the
distraught mother had summoned during the day was immediately lost the
minute she saw the casket.  Crying uncontrollably, she wanted to lift
her daughter into her arms, wanted to hold her.  With no small amount
of effort Sharon finally managed to calm her and the two women stood
silently, arm in arm, sharing a grief unlike any either had ever
known.

There was another matterþcertain to add to Annette's angstþ about which
her mother had yet to inform her.  Annette wanted Renee baptized and
Sharon had spoken about it to the Lutheran minister who had agreed to
conduct the funeral service.  And while she had pleaded for him to
understand the comfort it would afford her daughter, he had made it
clear that the orders of the church forbade baptizing the deceased.

"Then would it be possible," Sharon had asked, "to have some kind of
ceremony before the funeral?  Isn't there something?  It's very
important to my daughter."  r Reluctantly the minister had agreed to
make a call to church all thorities to see what, if anything, he might
be allowed to do.  Finally, he agreed to a brief blessing of the child
and prayer prior to the funeral.  Only the immediate family should
attend, he said.

Perplexed throughout her adult life by the myriad rules and regulations
of formal religion, Sharon Couch thought of herself as a Christian but
for years had not been a regular churchgoer.  The attitude of the
minister, his unbending stance on the matter, gave her no cause to
consider changing.

The news that Renee could not be baptized was an additional source of
grief to her distraught mother.  Annette had seen to it that Michelle
was baptized when only a year old, and had joined the Mormon church two
years earlier.  In the aftermath of the separation and divorce from
Shane, however, her faith had been shaken and visits to church had
become increasingly infrequent.  Now, she chastised herself, Why had
she not put her own personal problems aside long enough to see to the
eternal salvation of her baby?

Sitting in the pews of the dimly lit chapel, Annette said nothing for
several minutes.  Finally she got to her feet, inhaled a deep breath,
and turned toward the door.  Halfway up the aisle she stopped and
turned back for a final look at the casket.  "Do you think she's going
to heaven?"  she asked.

Sharon reached out to squeeze her daughter's hand.  "Honey, she's
already there.  No question about it."

And with that, they walked together into the brisk Texas night, each
drawing on the other's fragile strength and dreading the day that lay
ahead.

Shane Goode arrived at the funeral home a few minutes after noon,
dressed in a charcoal suit and accompanied by his father and brother.

Sharon explained to her daughter and the other family membersþ who had
gathered at the rural farmhouse that had once been used as a weekend
retreatþthat she needed to leave early to oversee last-minute
preparations.  She was already in the chapel when her ex-sonin-law
walked in.

He was pale and approached Renee's casket haltingly.  Sharon was sure
he had been crying.  She watched as he stood at the casket for several
minutes, staring silently.  His hands appeared to be shaking and Sharon
was certain that his teeth were chattering.  It was Shane's father who
finally put a hand on his shoulder and directed him to a nearby pew.

Sitting there, Shane placed his hands beneath his chin and began to
slowly rock back and forth.  Tears streamed down his cheeks.

The young man sitting in the tiny chapel, just a few feet from his
daughter, was not the cold, almost nonchalant Shane Goode with whom
Sharon had spoken on the phone.  His every mannerism was that of a
genuinely grief-stricken father.  Maybe, she found herself thinking, he
really did care about Renee.

Sharon's apprehension over a possible conflict between Shane and her
daughter grew as he lingered, occasionally getting to his feet to walk
back to the casket.  Soon his brother's girlfriend arrived, then
Shane's first wife, Kaye, who had brought Tiffany.

They have a right, Sharon kept telling herself.  Renee was theirs,
too.

Butþplease, Godþlet them leave before Annette arrives.

A sense of relief flooded over her as Shane finally walked from the
chapel into the parking lot.  Sharon, who had said nothing to him or
his family in the chapel, followed Shane to his car where he stood, his
head resting against the side door.  She placed her hand on his
shoulder and expressed her appreciation for the understanding he had
demonstrated.

"I want to talk with Annette," he said.

"Shane," she replied, "this is not a good time.  She's very upset andþ"
"She thinks I had something to do with this."  He again began to cry.

Sharon shook her head, surprised at the sympathy she was feeling for
her former son-in-law.  "I'm sure this is something that no one could
have prevented.  It's no one's fault.  Maybe when we get the autopsy
report back it will clear things up for everyone."

"I just don't understand how .  . ."

"Last December Renee slipped and hit her head," Sharon said in an
attempt to provide some measure of comfort.  "I don't know, maybe that
could have had something to do with it."

Goode lifted his head and for the first time looked at Sharon.

"When?"

"I'm not sure.  Sometime before Christmas.  The X rays showed nothing
serious."

Shane was no longer crying.  Instead, he stared into the distance as if
suddenly lost in thought.  Across the parking lot he saw Annette's
brother, free on an appellate bond, step from a car and look in his
direction.

"I'd better be going," he said, the coldness which so disturbed Sharon
returning to his voice.  She stood alone in front of the funeral home
long after the car disappeared, puzzled by his reaction, sure that she
had told him something he hadn't previously known.

The sympathy she had felt for him moments earlier was quickly replaced
by an emotion with which she was not at all comfortable.  It was
neither the time nor place to be feeling such anger.

The service, preceded by the finally agreed-upon blessing ceremony
attended only by Annette, Michelle, and Sharon, was brief.  Seated in
the small flower-decorated chapel were members of the immediate family
and a few friends.  Among those who silently slipped in and out, their
presence recorded only by a signature in the guest book, was Shane
Goode's mother.  Long estranged from her son and ex-husband, she had
learned of Renee's death while scanning the obituaries in the Victoria
paper.

The minister spoke of God's special interest in children, assuring the
mourners that a glorious heavenly reunion was taking place even as they
grieved.  A recording of Dolly Parton's plaintive "I Will Always Love
You" was played, there was a prayer, and then those in attendance began
a somber parade past the casket.

In the adjoining cemetery, a sudden wind gust whipped at the blue
canvas tent stretched over the gravesite as the casket was lowered into
the ground.

Annette's hair, so perfectly coiffed when she arrived for the services,
blew across her face, matting against her damp cheeks.

"Good-bye, baby," she said.  "Mommy loves you."

in the late 1800s a man named Alvin Morgan, a Louisana entrepreneur
with equal parts vision and wanderlust, crossed over into the Texas
prairieland south of Houston, planning to establish a town on the banks
of Mustang Bayou.  Officials of the Santa Fe railroad required a water
stop for their steam engines, and Morgan had quickly seen beyond the
need for his wooden watering tower and hastily built stock-loading pens
and recognized the possibilities of expanding commerce.  To accommodate
the local ranchers weary of lengthy trips to Houston and Galveston for
supplies, he opened a general store fashioned from a discarded railroad
boxcar, and began selling clothing, groceries, whiskey, and tobacco.

As the community grew, so did Alvin Morgan's fortuneþand stature.  When
the town reached such a size that the locals felt need of a proper name
for the place they called home, its founder got the honor.

Alvin thus began as did so many pioneer communities in Texas.  And
through a century of quiet growth, a couple of destructive hurricanes
and one fabled fireþeach causing its stubborn residents to rebuild and
start overþthere has been little in its history to set it apart.

Now that the population has reached sixteen thousand, many locals view
the fact that Alvin is the home of superstar baseball-pitcher Nolan
Ryan as the town's greatest achievement.

Interstate 45 has made the city handy and attractive to NASA employees
seeking a place other than Houston to raise their children.  Alvin,
like hundreds of other Texas communities located near thriving
metropolitan areas, has greatly benefited from big-city industry while
maintaining the charm and appeal of a small town.  There are the church
socials and rummage sales, meetings of the Rebekah Lodge and Kiwanis,
pilgrimages to the high-school stadium on football Friday nights when
the beloved Alvin Yellowjackets do battle, even a community college for
those not inclined to leave town in pursuit of higher education.

And, in the tradition of communities of its size, Alvin has few
secrets.

Word of the tragedy on Meadowview Street spread quickly, common
knowledge throughout town long before the weekly edition of the Alvin
Journal could be published.

The reaction was predictable.  In coffee shops and cafeteria lines, PTA
meetings and neighborhood gatherings, people spoke softly of the
horrible thing that had occurred.  Parents found themselves hugging
their children a bit tighter, making more nighttime visits to bedrooms
than usual, listening for the welcome sound of gentle breathing For
friends and neighbors of the Goode family, the loss of Renee raised a
disquieting question, Just how much pain and suffering could one family
be expected to bear?

Carolyn and Donald Goode each had children by a previous marriage, She
had three boys and a girl, he had four sons.

It was in 1977, while they were living in Pasadena, that Carolyn's
ten-year-old daughter, Barbara, had been seriously injured when-an
automobile in which she was riding hit a bull that had strayed onto a
farm-to-market road.  The collision had thrown her through the
windshield with such force that the first officer on the scene had to
remove shards of glass from her mouth to allow her to breathe.  She
lived for six weeks following the collision before dying on the eve of
stepbrother Shane's sixteenth birthday.

. Then, in 1991, while the Goodes were living in Bryan, a second
tragedy occurred.  Carolyn's thirty-two-year-old son, Ernest, committed
suicide.

Apparently distraught over a separation from his wife, he hanged
himself from a tree in the Goode backyard, his lifeless body discovered
by his father.

And now the Goodes' granddaughter was dead.

Late on the morning of January 31, Sharon Couch answered the phone to
hear her daughter crying hysterically again.  The outburst was
unsettling in light of the fact that Annette had seemingly gained
remarkable control of her fragile emotions in the days following the
funeral.  There was a lingering sadness about her and she seemed
withdrawn at times, lost in thoughts she shared with no one, but she
had also displayed an enviable strength in the aftermath of her child's
death.  After the graveside ceremony there had been no more tears, as
if she simply had none left to cry.

What Sharon heard on the phone, however, was the return of
heartbreaking vulnerability.  Her daughter's strength had vanished in
much the same way Houston's morning sun almost instantly burns off the
city's predawn mist.

"I .  . . I just got off the phone with Detective Duckworth," Annette
said.  It was necessary for her to pause and breathe deeply, summoning
some degree of composure, before she could continue.  "He told me .

.

.

he told me that he'd just gotten the preliminary results from the
medical examiner's office .  . . and .  . . and .  . . they're saying
that Renee died of pneumonia."  Her voice became angry.  "Pneumonia,"
she said as if spitting something distasteful from her mouth.  "She
wasn't even sick when she went over there that night.  Not so much as a
runny nose.

I took her temperature before she left.  How in God's name do you
develop pneumonia in a matter of hours?  Mother, it's impossible...."

"I agree," Sharon replied.  Her face felt flushed, hot, as she spoke.

"What's the detective's number?"

Minutes later Bodie Duckworth was, for the second time that morning,
trying to calm a woman caller who was becoming increasingly agitated as
the conversation continued.

"I'd like to know who in the M.E."s office gave you your information,"
Sharon demanded.

"Ma'am, I'm not allowed to give out that sort of information until the
findings are official.  All I can tell you is that the information is
very reliable.  I thought your daughter would like to know what was
goingþ" Sharon's voice drowned out the remainder of his sentence.

"Look, I'm no doctor, but you and I both are smart enough to know that
a child who has pneumonia doesn't run around the house playing, eating
pizza, acting hyper, like my granddaughter did that night."

"I'm told there was congestion in the lungs," the detective offered.

"And that automatically means pneumonia?"  Sharon challenged, unaware
that she was now literally screaming into the phone.

It was only after she had regained some degree of composure that she
mentioned Annette's accusations that Renee might have been abused.

Were there, she asked, any such indications?

Detective Duckworth did not immediately reply.  Annette Goode had made
no mention of such suspicions to him.  "Why," he finally asked, "wasn't
I told about this?"

"I'm telling you now," Sharon replied.

Even as he hung up the phone, the detective was planning to call Shane
Goode and ask that he stop by the police station.

In what would become a pattern during the days to come, Sharon phoned
her daughter to relay the skimpy bits of information she'd received
from the the police and the M.E."s office.  Annette was no longer able
to mask the anger she was feeling for those who refused to heed her
urgings that the truth of Renee's death remained undiscovered.  She was
in no frame of mind to discuss such matters as autopsy findings.  Thus
it fell to her mother to seek the answers.

It was something Sharon had, in recent months, become quite adept at.

During the preparation for Steven's trial, she had worked closely with
a private investigator who gathered information for her son's defense,
Lanky, slow-talking P. G. Walls had been an officer with the Houston
Police Department for twenty years before becoming a private
detective.

He had been so impressed with Sharon's willingness and ability to do
record searches and locate phone numbers and addresses that saved him
precious time and lent clear direction to his pursuit that he'd offered
her a job as an investigator following Steven's conviction.  Sharon had
accepted and, with Walls acting as her sponsor, soon had become a
licensed private investigator.

What had impressed Walls even more than Sharon's eagerness and
thoroughness was the remarkable strength she'd displayed during her
son's ordeal.  Not once had she ever mentioned the possibility of
finding some legal loophole by which Steven might avoid punishment.

All she asked was for the judicial system treat him fairly.

Sharon was as levelheaded and fair-minded as any person Walls had ever
encountered in his law enforcement career, and for that, he genuinely
admired her.

While the assignments Walls gave her had generally been limited to such
mundane tasks as courthouse visits in pursuit of paper trails left by
clients, she had learned a great deal simply by watching how Walls
conducted investigations.  Never, however, had she imagined she would
use her newfound expertise to look again into a family matter.

Gathering times, dates, and names of potential witnesses in Steven's
case had been trying.  The decision to do whatever she could to
determine the truth about her granddaughter's death would, she
realized, be even more demanding.

She began visiting the library to read medical papers written by
doctors who specialized in the field of infant deaths, compiling a list
of experts whom she methodically began contacting.  Each time she found
a receptive ear she would carefully describe the circumstances of
Renee's death and pass along the limited autopsy information she had
been able to gather from her repeated calls to pathologists assigned to
the case.  Several of those she contacted had been sympathetic, even
expressing puzzlement.  She learned a great deal about SIDS, the Sudden
Infant Death Syndrome that seemed to be the medical catch-all diagnosis
when no clear explanation could be found.  No one, it seemed, was able
to offer more than what she already knew, It was rare, indeed, for an
apparently healthy child of two to die while sleeping.

Sharon also began listening more carefully to her daughter.  If, in
fact, Annette's angry accusations were groundless, it was important
that she somehow find out.  In the meantime, however, she would adhere
to her mentor's golden rule, She would remain open-minded, setting
aside her own emotional involvement as much as possible.

"When you think of somethingþanythingþthat could be important," Sharon
told her daughter, "write it down and give it to me."  She also
suggested that it was time Annette spoke with her ex-husband about what
had happened the night Renee died.

It was the second week of a colder than usual February before Annette
could summon the strength to do so, using her concern over his payment
of her student loan as her excuse for the call.

"How are you doing?"  Shane had asked, after assuring her that he'd
mailed a check only days earlier.  Annette fought the urge to scream
her reply.  How am I doing?  My baby's dead, you asshole.  How do you
think I'm doing?  Instead, she remained composed, easing the
conversation to Renee's death.  On the table in front of her, a tape
recorder slowly spun, waiting to capture .  . . what?  A sudden outcry
of guilt?  Some plaintive plea for forgiveness?

No, he said, he'd not heard any recent news from the medical
examiners.

"I can't believe it's taking them so long."

"Shane, did Renee act different or anything that night?"

"She was fine, running around, playing, didn't even fuss much about
going to bed.  I just can't figure it out.  One of those guys who
called said they thought it might have been some kind of severe
bronchial infection or something like that.  I don't know if they're
guessing or what.  I just don't know."

"You didn't hear her coughing or anything during the night?"

"I was in my bedroom, but the kids were in there with her.  Somebody
would have heard."

"I just can't make myself understand it," Annette said before moving to
another subject.  "Did you have any insurance on her?  You know, Mother
took care of all the funeral arrangements and I think the bill's going
to be pretty high.  Like maybe five thousand dollars."

"Yeah, I've been thinking about that," he acknowledged.  "I need to get
hold of your mom.  I have this policy at work.  I think it's two
thousand or something like that."

His voice softened.  "You know, I can't imagine going through all that,
getting things ready like she did.  I had a hard enough time just
walking into the funeral home, ordering flowers, stuff like that."  He
would, he said, phone her mother to thank her and discuss payment for
the funeral expenses.

There was a brief silence before he continued.  "I can imagine how you
must feel," he continued.  "I think about her all the time, and I
wasn't around her half as much as you were."

Annette fought back her tears.  "I can tell you, there's nothing
worse."

"I know," he replied.

"Do you still have her car seat?"

"Yeah, it's in my room."

"And Michelle wants to know if you have her sleeping bag...."

"I'll get that stuff together and bring it over pretty soon."

She was relieved when Shane directed the conversation back to the night
of Renee's death.  "The last time they called," he said, "they were
still planning to run some more tests.  Some results from ones they've
already done haven't come back yet."

"Are they checking to see if maybe she ate something by accident?"

"That's what worried me at first," he responded.  "There's a lot of
medicine and stuff in the kitchen.  I wondered if maybe she got into
something she wasn't supposed to.  But its all up way out of her
reach.

I just don't see any way .  . ."

Annette's patience was wearing thin.  The casual manner in which he
spokeþas if discussing the death of a stranger instead of their own
flesh and bloodþcaused her stomach to knot.  "She usually didn't wake
up once she went to sleep," she noted.  "Did you have any trouble
getting her to go to bed?"

"No, not really.  I laid down with them all until she went to sleep."

"Was she the last to go to sleep or .  . . .

I _ _ _ .  . .

end.  She listened as Shane urged her to let him know when the loan
payment arrived.  "And," he added, "say hello to Michelle for me."

"Good-bye, Shane," she said before forcing herself to gently replace
the receiver.  Only then did she let out an explosive scream.  She had
hoped for some hint of genuine remorse, a sign, however small, that he
was feeling pain or guilt.  And she had heard none of that in his
voice.

I It was only after replaying the tape of their conversation several
times that something finally caught her attention.  While listening for
what he had said, she had overlooked what he hadn't.

"Shane gave me a pretty detailed rundown of everything that went on
that evening," Annette would later tell her mother, "and said there had
been nothing that could have led to what happened.  He was certain.

"But, remember the police saying that he told them Renee had hit her
head while jumping on his bed?  He didn't mention anything about it to
me."

The reason, she was sure, was because it had never happened.

Rhernn no hro nncnnf>l hwz hpr rhiluironwc frnhloe eho had, for months,
felt as if her own life was slipping away.  Steven's trial and
conviction for murder had so emotionally drained her that she had even
given brief and frightening thought to suicide.  She had seen the fear
and despair in her son's eyes when the judge had sentenced him to
serve ten years in prison, and her heart had ached with a pain she'd
never thought possible.

Until Renee had died.

Now that renewed pain was compounded by the uncertainties surrounding
her granddaughter's death.  The medical examiner's preliminary
conclusions, she felt, were absurd, little more than a bureaucratic
attempt to sweep yet another case into the records and move ahead to
the next.  At the same time, however, she simply could not bring
herself to embrace Annette's unbending conviction that Shane was
somehow responsible for the child's death.  Such evil was "I just don't
understand it," she said, her composure almost at its light-years
beyond her comprehension.  Annette, she feared, was tee "I think she
was the first," he said.  "The others watched the rest of some movie on
TV."  I "And no one heard her coughing?  Or saw her tangled up in her
covers or anything?"

"Nothing.  Everything was fine.  But the doctors just keep saying it
had to be some kind of respiratory infection."  tering on the verge of
a nervous breakdown, her mental frailty giving life to an
out-of-control paranoia.

In recent weeks Annette had begun to dredge up new horror stories from
her marriage to Shane.

She told of the time they had gone into a pet store and seen two
kittens to which she'd been immediately attracted.  Shane, she said,
had bought them for her as an early birthday present and she'd named
them Crystal and Sugar.  As they grew, Sugar had begun to display an
unexplainable dislike for him, hissing if he attempted to pick her up,
scratching him on several occasions.  Though Sugar was Annette's
favorite, Shane quickly developed an undisguised hatred for the cat.

"I came home from work one day," Annette told her mother, "and Sugar
was gone.  I looked for her everywhere, driving through the
neighborhood, calling her name.  Finally, Shane came in and I asked if
he'd seen her.

He just looked at me with a smirk on his face and shrugged.  All he
would say was, You're not going to find her."

"I knew that minute that he'd killed my cat.  Sugar was in a Dumpster
somewhere.  Just because he didn't like her."

She was also firmly convinced that Shane continued to stalk her,
occasionally parking his pickup in a lot near the condo, watching her
comings and goings.  She admitted that she'd never actually seen him,
but was certain it was his pickup.  When Sharon tried to suggest that
she might be mistaken, Annette stood firm.  It was pretty difficult not
to recognize, she argued.  She'd seen the black vehicle hundreds of
times.

She recognized the National Guard license plate, the paratrooper
insignia on the back window.  It was Shane's pickup, all right, even if
she hadn't seen him seated behind the wheel.  For whatever reason, the
man who she was convinced had killed her baby continued to watch her.

It was all becoming too much for Sharon.  In hopes of a brief respite
from all the questions and allegations, she planned a trip to the
family farm in Hallettsville.  She had not visited Renee's grave since
the funeral and wanted to do so.  A friend, Kathy McCall, who she'd
worked with at a Houston bank years earlier, accepted her invitation to
join her for a weekend in the country.

Though the clean, almost sweet Gulf Coast air was invigorating and the
rural quiet a welcome escape from the city's round-the-clock I
outcries, Sharon was still unable to distance herself from her
worries.

They had followed her on the two-and-a-half-hour drive, then weighed on
her with their full strength as she stood alone in the City Cemetery,
shading her eyes against a midday sun to look down on the grave of her
granddaughter.

Later in the day, as she witnessed the overwhelming sadness her friend
was attempting to kide, Kathy smiled and placed a hand on Sharon's
shoulder.  "It might help to talk about it," she suggested.

Sharon needed no more invitation than that.  For hours they sat on the
porch, watching as squirrels played along the tree limbs and soft
coastal breezes caused wildflowers to nod in silent approval.  Sharon
confided her concerns regarding Annette's insistence that some
premeditated harm had come to her child, of the seemingly lackadaisical
attitude of the police, and the snail's pace with which the medical
examiner's office seemed to be moving.

"You know," she said, "it's crazy how you fixate on some little thing,
unable to get it out of your mind until it's grown into something that
you're convinced might be really important."

"Like what?"  Kathy wanted to know.

 "They said when the girls tried to wake Renee she was lying on her
stomach, her head resting on a pillow.  It just doesn't sound right.

She never slept that way.  From the time she was a tiny baby it was
impossible to get her to sleep on her stomach.  She always slept on her
back."

Then, as if mentally switching gears, she began to smile.  "I brought
her down here with me just before Christmas.  That night she was all
over the bed, turning, kicking, rolling over on me.  Several times I'd
wake and have to move her back over onto her side of the bed.  So, I
finally got up and did what I'd always done before.  I made us a pallet
on the floor, piling pillows all around it so she couldn't roll off of
it in her sleep.  There was this big, comfortable bed and there we
were, sleeping on the floor in our little pillow fort."

Sharon was nodding as she spoke, the faint smile still visible.  "We
had some wonderful times."

It was almost dark before she had purged her sadness and completed what
amounted to the first requiem for Renee she had spoken.

Afterward, the two women sat for some time, neither saying anything as
they watched dusk approach.  The evening brought with it a welcome
coolness and the rhythmic chorus of the countryside's invisible night
creatures.

"There's somebody I think you should talk to," Kathy finally said.

During the years of their friendship she had never mentioned that her
brother was a highly decorated deputy with the sheriff's department in
Orlando, Florida.  Trained at the FBI Academy in Quantico, he had
earned a reputation as an expert on serial killers and was called on to
consult with law-enforcement agencies throughout the nation.  "Maybe,"
she offered, "he might have some suggestions."

Sharon could not help but wonder how someone thousands of miles away
might offer any insight.  How could he be expected to answer a total
stranger's questions when they had already twisted into senseless
riddles?

"Just talk to him," Kathy urged.

Sharon finally nodded.  Why not?  She was willing to give anything a
try.

Riggs Gay was surprised and pleased to hear his sister Kathy's voice
when he answered the phone.  After a few minutes of family catch-up
conversation, Kathy briefly outlined the purpose of her call and put
Sharon on the phone.

Gay repeatedly assured her she was not imposing on his evening at home
as she detailed the case.  Quite the contrary, he insisted.  What she
was telling him was quite interesting.

Only after she had provided him with what she knew of the investigation
and the early findings of the medical examiner did he begin to question
her.

"What I'm asking," he prefaced, "are things you need to find out if you
haven't already, things that might be an indication of foul playþif, in
fact, there was any."

Sharon liked him.  His voice, businesslike but gentle, was that of
someone whose attention seemed genuine.  "I understand," she answered.

Under the circumstances she'd described, he said, if her grand daughter
had been a victim of a homicide, chances were statistically good that
she had died of some form of poisoning or from asphyxiaþ suffocation.

"That's where you start," he explained, then began to tick off
questions for which he did not expect her to have answers, Did the
coroner find any indication of petechiaeþsmall pinpoints of
hemorrhaging that generally accompanied suffocationþin Renee's eyes?

Was the sleeping bag the child had been lying on taken as evidence and
were samples of any fluid on it tested?

Were the mattress and bedcovers in Shane's room taken and tested?

Had toxicology tests been done?  What about vaginal and anal swabs?

Were photographs of the child as she was found by investigating police
available?

Riggs Gay was talking not as a doctor might, but rather as a trained
homicide investigator.  Though far from jaded, it had always been his
nature to eliminate the worst-case scenarios first, to initially view
any death through eyes looking for evidence of criminal behavior.  With
modern forensic technology, it was generally quite easy to dispose of
such suspicions, thus setting minds at ease and saving doctors and
investigators a great deal of wasted time.

"I'm going to ask these questions," Sharon promised.

"When you've got the answers," Gay replied, "I'd like to hear back from
you."

A few days later, Shane Goode drove from work to the Alvin Police
Department for a meeting with Detective Duckworth, expecting finally to
be briefed on the findings of the medical examiner.

Instead, he found himself answering the same questions he'd been asked
immediately after Renee's death.  Duckworth explained that they were
necessary only so he might be sure he hadn't missed anything that would
need to be included in his final report.  Nothing more than a paperwork
thing, he said.

In truth, he simply wanted another look at Shane Goodeþto take measure
of his demeanor, his body languageþand hoped to somehow determine for
himself if he was speaking with a man who might possibly be hiding a
secret.

They talked for half an hour, Goode rotely responding to questions that
retraced the final hours of his daughter's life.  Seldom did his eyes
stray from the floor in front of him.

Finally, Duckworth reached across his desk for a porcelain cup.  "Want
some coffee?"  he asked.

"No, thanks."

Assuring his visitor that they were about through, the detective
excused himself and walked into the hallway.  He stood there for
several seconds, his empty cup dangling from one finger, and looked
back at the slumped figure seated at his desk.  Shane was still staring
at the floor.

Something, the detective thought to himself, isn't right about this
guy.

A cross the front of the redbrick building located in the 1800 block of
Houston's Old Spanish Trail is a boldly lettered sign that renders the
site unique among the nation's coroner's offices.  It is known as the
Joseph A. Jachimczyk Forensic Center of Harris County, one of the few
governmental monuments to bear the name of the person still overseeing
the work being done inside.  It is a building filled with the dark
history of the city, much of it recorded during Jachimczyk's lengthy
tenure.  Just to the south is Ben Taub Hospital, whose mazelike,
unair-conditioned basement once served as the county morgue where the
bodies of the famous and infamous were delivered.

From his 1957 arrival onward, the Harvard-educated Jachimczyk
supervised autopsies of many of the city's luminaries.  After reclusive
billionaire Howard Hughes died during a plane trip back to the United
States, it was Jachimczyk who provided proof to the skeptics that the
body he'd examined was, in fact, that of the legendary Hughes.  When
socialite Joan vHill, a world-class horsewoman and wife of successful
plastic surgeon Dr. John Hill, died mysteriously, it was Jachimczyk's
autopsy, following an exhumation of the body, that had finally pointed
investigators to Mrs. Hill's husband.  Jachimczyk had also guided the
forensic investigation of the gruesome serial murders committed by Dean
Corll and Elmer Wayne Henley.  And with each headline grabbing
pronouncement, each television appearance or interview with a
true-crime writer, his image grew.

So did stories of the independent manner in which he ran his office.

County commissionersþwhose responsibility it was to oversee procedures
and expenditures of the medical examiner's officeþwere rarely
consulted.

Seldom, however, did they complain.  As one of the most visible and
highly paid employees on the county payroll (earning $150,000
annually), the man they were chartered to oversee had evolved into a
larger-than-life character despite his diminutive physical stature.

Dressed in his trademark seersucker suits and always wearing a colorful
bow tie, he could be charming or chilling, depending on the
requirements of the situation.  Oft-described as "intellectually
intimidating," he commanded the respect of those who worked for him,
the undivided attention of jurors in front of whom he testified, and
inspired palm-sweating fear in his enemies.  He routinely brushed aside
any criticism or second-guessing about his office and its procedures
with a hurry arrogance that generated genuine awe in those brazen
enough to speak out.

His office, he would quickly remind anyone who questioned his budget or
the effectiveness of his six-member staff of pathologists, performed
between 2,500 and 3,000 autopsies annually.

"Dr. Joe," as he was known within the corridors of the Spanish Trail
building, ran his office with a military-like command, assisted by his
chief investigator, Cecil Wingo.  Though not a doctor, Wingo was a man
who could be counted on to arrive at crime scenes dressed in his white
lab coat and whose hair-trigger temper was well known to fellow workers
and local law enforcement.  Cecil Wingo was, in the minds of most,
clearly the second-in-command at the Harris County M.E."s office.

Such was the case in 1994 when the autopsy of Katherine Renee Goode was
one of the 863 which Harris County pathologists performed on bodies
delivered from 14 surrounding counties that year.

Brazoria County, with no medical examiner of its own, had contracted
the Harris County M.E."s office for years to conduct all postmortem
examinations of its residents at a cost of $900 per exam.

The responsibility for performing Private Autopsy #94-058þthat of Renee
Goodeþwas assigned to Dr. Eduardo Bellas, a Cuban national who, twenty
years earlier, had come to the United States to join Jachimczyk's
staff.  In recent years, as Jachimczyk neared his seventieth birthday
and had begun to hint at retirement, Dr. Bellas quietly hoped he would
one day ascend to the position of chief medical examiner.

On the afternoon of January 23, however, his attention was focused on
the tiny form that lay before him in one of the facility's four autopsy
rooms.  Speaking into the microphone located above the stainless-steel
examining table, he began describing the body, ". . . that of a
well-nourished, well-developed Caucasian female child appearing older
than the stated age of two years .  . . measuring thirty-five and
one-half inches in length .  . . weighing twenty-six pounds .  . .

scalp covered with blond hair measuring eight inches in length .  . .

hazel eyes ... teeth in good condition...."

Nowhere did he see evidence of injury.

Proceeding, he carefully made a Y-shaped incision into the child's
chest and began a methodical examination of the vital organs, viewing,
then weighing the heart, the brain, kidneys, liver, and pancreas.  The
lungs, he noted, were congested.

Only when he examined the trachea and bronchial tubes, did he find
anything that he judged at all out of the ordinary.  There, he found an
abundance of bloody froth.  And there was rupturing evident in the
cerebellar tonsils.  Combined with the presence of the bloody froth and
the congestion in the lungs, it suggested the possibility that some
manner of asphyxiation had caused the child's death.

Nothing, however, triggered suspicion of foul play.  Thus, in his
report, Dr. Bellas wrote, "It is my opinion that the cause and manner
of death of the decedent, Katherine Renee Goode, are undetermined."

It was a finding that dumbfounded Sharon Couch, at first draining her
of even the energy necessary for immediate anger.  The anxious waiting,
the pleading, the determined attempt to remain patient, had resulted in
nothing.  She would never understand why the results were not available
until after her granddaughter had been buried.  The trained medical
minds of an office that operated on an annual budget of well over three
million dollars had employed their knowledge, technology, and
state-of-the-art testing procedures and found .  . . nothing.

Dr. Bellas's report had answered not one of the questions that had
begun to haunt even her restless sleep.  And now, there were even more
questions, What resolution was there to be found in his statement?  How
could the word "undetermined" be allowed to dismiss the death of a
human being with even the slightest measure of satisfaction?

Slowly, her anger returned, quickly spreading to include the
bureaucracy of the judicial system.  On the repeated occasions when she
had phoned the M.E."s office in hopes of learning the cause of her
granddaughter's death, her calls had been routinely routed not to Dr.
Bellas but to Cecil Wingo.  He had always assured her that the findings
would soon be forthcoming and politely urged her patience.  It was
important, he explained, that all test results be completed in an
orderly fashion before an official determination was made.  Dr. Bellas,
Wingo would tell her in a reassuring manner, was a very thorough
pathologist.  Though frustrated by the delays, Sharon had been able to
find some degree of comfort in the measured-out bits of information
Wingo would share with her and the promise that her questions would
soon be answered.

It is doubtful that she would have been comforted if she had been aware
of the manner in which the medical examiner's office had handled a
series of autopsies performed on the children of Claudette Kibble, a
young Houston mother.

In August of 1986 an ambulance was dispatched to Kibble's northeast
Houston home, where her seventeen-month-old son was found
unconscious.

The mother explained that he had suffered a seizure while she had been
bathing him.  Pronounced dead upon arrival at the hospital, the
infant's body was delivered to the M.E."s office where an examination
revealed that he had, indeed, died of an epileptic seizure.

The autopsy was performed by Dr.  Bellas.

Over the next four years, two other Kibble children arrived at the
morgue following seizures that only their mother had witnessed.  One
autopsy report again listed the cause of death as "epilepsy," the other
"undetermined," effectively announcing that no further investigation
would be necessary.

Angry Child Protective Services officials passed along information that
each of the three dead children had a different father, thus
drastically reducing the possibility of some genetic nightmare.  Still,
the medical examiners' office remained steadfast in its findings.  When
the Harris County District Attorney's office, highly suspicious of the
deaths, launched an investigation, it met with the same stubborn
response.  An assistant district attorney forwarded the medical
examiner's paperwork on one of the Kibble children to the San Antonio
Medical Examiner's Office and was told that the office there would have
ruled the death a homicide.

It was only after a tearful Claudette Kibble confessed to her mother
that she had murdered the childrenþshe had suffocated one and drowned
the othersþand charges were filed that the Harris County Medical
Examiner's Office finally amended its rulings, concluding that each
death was a homicide.

Sharon made no attempt to disguise her desperation when she placed a
long-distance call to Orlando, fulfilling her promise to Riggs Gay that
she would pass along the medical examiner's findings.  She described to
him a telephone conversation she had finally had with Dr.  Bellas.

Assuring Riggs that she had carefully asked each of the questions he
had raised, she admitted they had not seemed to create any real
interest.

"He said the autopsy had been completely negative," she recounted.

"There was no evidence of any physical damage, no petechiae in her
eyes."

"If suffocation occurs slowly enough," Gay responded, "there would be
none."  He was wary of offering her false hope that some more
definitive answer remained possible.  However, the background on the
child's death, which she'd earlier provided him, had been more than
simply intriguingþit was troubling.

He asked if she could get a copy of the autopsy report and prints of
any photographs taken of the body by investigators on the morning they
had arrived at the Goode house.

The thought of viewing pictures of Renee as she lay dead on the den
floor sent a sudden chill through her.  "I think I can," she said.

"I'd like for you to send them to me," he said.  "There's someone here
in Orlando who I'd like to have a look at them."  Then adding a word of
caution, "I may be just wasting your time, you know."

Sharon cut him off.  No one expressing interest in her quest for the
truth was wasting her time.  "I'll send them to you as soon as I can
get them," she said as she began writing the address he was giving
her.

Her concern over her granddaughter's death had now evolved into a
full-blown obsession.

In the days to come, Sharon's thoughts rarely strayed from her task.

She contacted the Alvin police regularly, determined to prod the
investigation along.  With her sister helping her research medical
journals, she located and read a paper written by a Canadian
pathologist on the unexplained deaths of children and contacted her.

After listening to the story which Sharon had become so adept at
telling, the doctor volunteered to look at the tissue slides taken
during the autopsy if they were sent to her.  Sharon phoned Detective
Duckworth to share the news, providing him the doctor's number and
urging that he contact her.

Several weeks passed before Sharon, her thin patience exhausted, again
placed a long-distance call to Canada, learning that the slides had
never been sent.

It was only then that she began to accept the fact that the police were
no longer actively investigating the case.  The medical examiner's
ruling had, in effect, been the closure they needed.

Detective Duckworth, weary of confrontations and convinced no avenue of
investigation remained, turned his attention back to narcotics and quit
returning her calls.  Those in the M.E."s office who spoke with her
insisted there was nothing more that could be done.

During one of her final conversations with Cecil Wingo, he tried once
more to explain to her that "negative autopsies" were not that
uncommon.  Death, he said, sometimes comes in the most unbelievable
ways.

With that he had put forth a couple of theories that might have sounded
comical had they not so infuriated her.

There was a possibility, he offered, that dust mites from the sleeping
bag she'd slept in might have somehow invaded Renee's respiratory
system and caused her death.  Or, he continued, there had been a rare
case reported in the Philippines where a child, in the throes of a
horrifying dream, had been literally frightened to death in her
sleep.

Absurdity aside, the message he was delivering was clear, It was time
to let go, to accept the unacceptable.

It was a message Sharon chose to ignore.  If neither law enforcement
nor forensic experts would help, she would take her cause to the
public.  She would have to go all the way to Dallas before finding a
sympathetic ear.

There, officers of a nonprofit organization known as the Texas
Association of Missing and Exploited Children, listened to her story
and agreed to lend modest financial support to her latest idea.

Soon she and Annette were posting flyers in the windows of businesses
throughout Alvin, Houston, and other surrounding suburbs.  Daily they
would walk among shopping centers, talking with store managers,
pleading their case.  In time, the photograph of a smiling Renee
greeted patrons entering fast-food restaurants, grocery stores,
Laundromats, and video arcades.  The message on the flyer was simple,
Anyone with any information concerning the death of Renee Goode was
urged to call Sharon's number.

Soon, the same plea appeared on two billboards located in Alvin.  One
was placed on the highway leading from Houston, the other at the corner
of Gordonþthe city's main thoroughfareþand Meadowview, just a few
blocks from the Goode house.

Though she would admit it to no one, Sharon knew there was little
chance that some stranger might actually have information about Renee's
death.  On the other hand, the flyers and billboards would serve as
constant reminders to Shane Goode and his family that the matter was
not closed.

It was in late March that Donald Goode arrived at the pOlice station,
angrily looking for Detective Duckworth.  His family, he said, was
being harassed.  There were hang-up phone calls at all hours.  Rarely
did a morning pass that he didn't find copies of the flyer bearing
Renee's picture scattered in his yard.  And there was that damned
billboard which he and his wife had to drive past daily.

Goode was convinced the cruel mind games being played on his family
were instigated by the police and insisted on filing a formal
complaint.

His wife, he said, suffered from chronic high blood pressure and the
stress was making the problem worse.

"Sir," Duckworth replied, "I assure you the police have nothing to do
with any phone calls or flyers.  Or the billboard."

"The number for the police department's on it," Goode argued.

"That's right," the detective said, "but we had nothing to do with
putting it up."

"Then it's got to be Annette," he said.  "And probably her crazy
mother."

Duckworth did not confide the fact he shared Goode's suspicions.

Instead, he sought to calm him, reviewing the investigation that had
been ongoing since they first met.  He told him of the coroner's
difficulties in determining the cause of death, of the frustration such
a troubling case breeds.

"You're aware, I'm sure," he finally said, "that there are those who
continue to believe your son is somehow responsible for the little
girl's death."

"Yeah, I know."  The anger had disappeared from Goode's oncebooming
voice.  He made no mention of Shane's recent behavior, which had begun
to trouble him and his wife.  On the rare occasions when Carolyn had
mentioned Renee's death to her stepson, his face would quickly turn red
with anger, then he would storm from the room.

Donald Goode stared across the desk at the detective for several silent
seconds.  "I have some concerns about that myself," he finally said.

He was not alone.

Sunny Bradley, a thirty-year-old divorcee who worked as a window clerk
at the post office with Shane, had been so troubled by Renee's death
that she had attended her funeral, knowing all the while that she would
not be welcomed either by Shane or Annette.

For eight months she and Shane had lived togetherþbefore one of his
customary holiday-season "jokes" had brought an abrupt end to their
relationship.  In the months prior to their breakup, they had even
begun to talk of marriage and he had broadly hinted that she could
expect an engagement ring as a Christmas present.  Too excited to keep
it secret, Sunny had shared the news with a few close friends at
work.

In time, however, she would have to admit to those who asked that there
had been no ring under the tree and that any discussion of marriage had
come to an abrupt end.

Embarrassed and weary of Shane's behavior, she had finally asked him to
move his things from her apartment.  In retrospect, she would wonder
why she had not done so sooner.  Though she considered herself a strong
woman, she had allowed herself to be manipulated.  She routinely
overlooked his lies, and turned her head to Goode's often strange
behavior.  Only after dismissing him from her life had she taken a hard
look at the man she had considered marrying and seen his dark side, the
Shane Goode who often retreated into a fantasy world, yet always became
angry when she suggested that he did so, who constantly worried about
money, even when his phone bill once reflected three hundred dollars in
charges to sex-talk numbers in a single month.  Finally, there had been
his reaction to the death of Renee.  When she had brought the subject
up, he dismissed it quickly, as if talking about someone to whom he had
no blood ties at all.

Shortly after Renee's funeral, Joanne Chadderdon had contacted Annette
to tell her that "a woman named Sunny Bradley" had called to say she
wanted to talk with her.  "She said it was important," the lawyer
said.

"Do you know her?"

"No," Annette replied, "but I know who she is."

What she didn't say was that she had not the slightest interest in
talking with any of Shane's old girlfriends.

Sunny's urge to contact Annette grew even stronger in the weeks
following the funeral.  Resigned to the fact that Annette was not going
to return her call, she wrote a letter and included with it a small
gift that she felt the bereaved mother might like.

Unaware that Annette had moved into her own apartment, Sunny mailed it
to Sharon Couch's home.

For several days after the package arrived, Sharon debated over whether
to pass it along to her daughter.  Concerned about Annette's still
ragged emotional state and aware that Sunny had been involved in a
relationship with Shane, she worried that whatever the parcel contained
might be upsetting.

Finally, she opened it herself.

What she read was a moving, compassionate note written from one mother
to another.  Sunny described her feelings for her own son and daughter
and the impossibility of even imagining the loss of one of them.  She
wrote that she had met Renee on one occasion when Shane had brought her
and Tiffany by the apartment for a brief visit.

"I am enclosing a pair of earrings that Renee played with when she was
here," she wrote.  They had been lying on her dining room table and as
soon as Renee had seen them she began trying to put them on.  Sunny had
helped her, held her to a mirror so that she might see herself, then
watched as she danced around the room, smiling, shaking her head as she
modeled the oversized silver drops.  "Renee had wanted to take them
home with her," Sunny's letter continued, "but I didn't let her.  Now I
wish I had.  I just thought you might like to have them."

She concluded with a repeated request that Annette call her and a final
observation that jumped from the page at Sharon.

Sunny, like Annette, feared that Shane might have had something to do
with the death of his daughter.

For some time Sharon sat holding the earrings, letting her mind form a
picture of a vibrant, happy Renee wearing them, doing her child's
dance.

In time, however, her thoughts returned to the letter.  It was
heartfelt, a gesture of genuine kindness that Annette should be aware
of.  But what of the suggestion that Sunny viewed Shane in much the
same light as did Annette?  Was it possible they were simply two women
who shared a mutual anger over similar failed relationships?  Were
their respective feelings for Shane so shaded by hatred that their
suspicions were only imagined?

Despite her efforts to support Annette, Sharon had repeatedly reminded
herself that the only way a search for the truth could be properly
conducted was by avoiding hasty conclusions.  For that reason, she had
continued to give Shane Goode the benefit of doubt.  On those occasions
when she felt her resolve slipping, she would ask herself the question
that her mentor, P. G. Walls, had explained was the most important in
any investigation, Where is the motive?

It was a question for which she had no satisfactory answer.

The three women were seated in the living room of Sharon's home, each
at first visibly uncomfortable.  After reading the letter, Annette had
phoned Sunny and during a brief but pleasant conversation suggested
they meet.  Shane had been living with Sunny during the time he and
Annette were at odds over the paternity testing and Annette hoped she
might have some answers to questions she had regarding his attitude
toward Renee.

Hesitantly at first, Sunny recounted conversations between her and
Shane, repeatedly assuring Annette that nothing she was saying was
meant as a cruelty directed at her.  "There are just some things that I
think you should know," she explained.

Annette liked her instantly.  She liked the straightforward manner in
which Sunny responded to her questions.  There was a no-punchespulled
honesty about the woman seated across the room from her that quickly
established an atmosphere of trust.

During the time she and Shane had lived together, Sunny said, he had
told her about Renee's birth.  At the time, however, he did not even
know the child's name or whether it was a boy or a girl.  "He only
referred to her as Annette's child,"' she said.

Annette only shook her head, saying nothing in response.

"He was very upset about it," Sunny continued.  "He told me that he'd
tried to get you to have an abortion."  The baby, she surmised, would
have already been several months old at the time, yet Shane made it
clear that he wanted nothing to do with it.

"When the court ordered him to take the paternity test," she said, "he
was really angry.  He said he didn't feel he should have to pay child
support.

"I remember asking him several times if he had picked up the results of
the test and he always had some excuse.  One afternoon, after I'd been
on him about it for some time, he finally said he would go by his
lawyer's office and pick them up.  But when I got home he said it had
been raining too hard and he'd decided not to make the drive.  When I
asked why he didn't just pick up the phone and find out, he just
stormed out."

The results from the tests and the court-ordered support payments, she
recalled, had made him furious.  "He said that if he was He had not,
she volunteered, been an easy person to live with.

For the first time Annette smiled, as a question she herself had been
asked so often ran through her mind, Why had this woman stayed so long
with him?

It was the same question Sharon Couch, a silent observer of the
conversation, privately wondered about both of the women seated in her
living room.

For days after their meeting, her conversation with Annette troubled
Sunny.  She found herself replaying Annette's questions and her
responses in hopes there was something left unsaid that might lend some
degree of comfort.

She had tried to be as honest as possible.  When Annette had asked how
she perceived the relationship between Shane and Renee on the one time
she saw them together, Sunny had returned to the anecdote about the
earrings.  "While she was dancing around, showing them off," she said,
"she went over and gave Tiffany a kiss.  Then she came over to me and
kissed me.  But when Shane asked for one, she ignored him."

Had she been aware of any insurance Shane might have taken out on
Renee?

It seemed, she'd said, that he'd checked on the possibility of taking
out health insurance, but she wasn't certain.

Several days after her meeting with Annette, Sunny recalled a message
that had been left for Shane on the apartment answering machine months
earlier.  The caller had identified herself as an agent for State Farm
Insurance and said she was "getting back to him on the policy he'd
asked about and needed the spelling of his daughter's going to have to
pay child support, he was going to ask for weekend name."  visitation
rightsþjust to make you mad."

The thing that seemed to concern Shane most, she said, was that he
might be forced to sell his pickup to come up with the money.

Finally, though, he'd gone to his father, who agreed to loan him five
thousand dollars.

During the time they had lived together, Sunny remembered, he was
always complaining of financial hardships.  She'd done what she could,
even putting him in touch with her insurance carrier who saved him five
hundred dollars on car insurance.

When she had relayed the message to him, Shane had quickly dismissed it
with an explanation that he was thinking about taking out medical
insurance on Renee, a child he'd repeatedly insisted he wanted nothing
to do with.

Now, as she thought back on the conversation, Sunny recalled Annette
saying that she had personally called the insurance company and had
Renee added to Shane's company policy shortly after she was born.

"Shane and I were still married at the time," Annette had explained,
"so I did it without even bothering to tell him."

Finally, Sunny dialed the number of State Farm.

"Hi," she said to the agent taking her call.  "This is Sunny Bradley.

I'm going to be married soon to Shane Goodeþhe's one of your policy
holdersþand I'd like some information about additional coverage."  As
she spoke, she struggled to maintain a casual tone.  "We'll be
combining our families," she explained, "so what I'd like to do is take
out the same coverage on my children that he has on his.  Could you
please tell me what that is?"

The agent said it would take only a minute to call the information up
on the computer.

"Yes," she said just minutes later, "here it is.  Your fiance has life
insurance policies on Tiffany Goode and Renee Goode."

"For how much?"

"Fifty thousand dollars on each," the agent replied.

Sunny's next call was to Annette.

Later that evening, Annette telephoned her mother to relay the
information.  There was no hint of surprise in her voice.  "Mother,"
she defiantly asked, "who takes out a fifty-thousand-dollar life
insurance policy on an eighteen-month-old child he's never even
seen?"

Sharon Couch was momentarily speechless.  The elusive motive, she knew,
had been discovered.

For Detective Bodie Duckworth, the caseþhe wondered, at times, if it
could really even be called thatþhad no handle onto which he could get
a grasp, no real direction signals for him to follow.  Since that
January morning when he'd walked into the Goode house, there had been
nothing to indicate that Renee Goode's death should be viewed as a
possible homicide.  And hadn't the medical examiner's findings
ultimately confirmed his decision not to consider the Goode home as a
crime scene?

He had to admit that the steadily increasing hostility displayed by
Sharon Couch and her daughter disturbed him, but he'd heard such
accusations and anger before.  He had seen similar obsessions, with
unrealistic expectations voiced by a victim's loved ones, demanding
some magical solution that might end their pain.  Duckworth felt
sympathy for their loss but saw nothing in their claims offering any
kind of substantial clue.

Sure, Shane Goode troubled him, but strange behavior was no probable
cause for arrest.  Who, for God's sake, plots and carries out a murder
when there are no less than six potential witnesses in the house?  It
made no sense.  Still, his talk with Shane had been unsettling to the
point that he'd phoned Jeri Yenne, a Brazoria County assistant district
attorney, for any advice she might have to offer.  Her interest had
seemed casual at best.  Was there any indication of a motive?  she had
asked.  Maybe a large insurance policy on the child?

Duckworth told her he'd found nothing.

Perhaps, she had finally suggested, the matter could be set to rest by
persuading Goode to submit to a polygraph test.

When Duckworth asked, Shane had immediately agreed, then failed to
appear, phoning later to say he'd had car trouble.  Twice more
Duckworth had scheduled the test but Goode didn't show.  He had, he
finally told the detective, grown tired of answering the same questions
over and over.  "There's no way I would ever do anything to hurt my
child," he insisted, dismissing the idea of being polygraphed.

And with that the detective had, for all practical purposes, put the
matter to rest.  Even if Shane Goode were to take the polygraph test
and come across as an off-the-charts liar, what good would the
knowledge be?

There was no evidence, no history that marked him as capable of such an
unthinkable deed.  What existed was a medical examiner's report that
said there was no way to definitively say how the victim had died.  To
prove that someone is guilty of a crime, it is necessary first to
establish that a crime has been committed.  The M.E."s ruling had
effectively blocked that first important step.

Translation, case closed, before ever opened.

Still, Duckworth had spoken with several doctors Sharon had asked him
to contact and had looked into the possibility of having a second set
of tissue-sample slides from the autopsy made and sent to them.  That
idea had been dismissed when he'd learned that the cost would be $637
for each set of slides and that there was no money in the department's
budget for such expenditures.  And, in truth, what could someone
thousands of miles away see that the doctor who actually conducted the
autopsy hadn't?

The entire matter was little more than a growing list of questions
without answers, innuendo and accusation without a hint of fact to
serve as foundation.  Duckworth felt as if he was trying to hold
quicksilver in his hand.

Now, there was this new suggestion that Goode might have murdered his
daughter to collect on an insurance policy, which had spawned another
round of angry accusations and grasping questions.

Detective Duckworth was therefore relieved when word reached him that
his chief was loaning him to a newly formed narcotics task force in
Galveston County.  He eagerly accepted the new assignment, confident
that he'd taken the investigation of Renee Goode's unexplained death as
far as he possibly could.

Needless to say, it was not an attitude Sharon Couch shared.

Unaware that Duckworth was no longer pursuing the case, she contacted
him to inquire about the testing procedures that were being done on the
sleeping bag in which Renee had lain on the night of her death.  It
had, she understood, been sent to the Department of Public Safety
forensic lab where it would be tested for any sign of body fluids.

Duckworth had seemed evasive as he told her that he had not yet
received any results.  Sharon had sensed a dismissive tone in his voice
and quickly ended the conversation.

Then, as had become her pattern after contact with anyone at the Alvin
Police Department, she spent the remainder of her day fuming.

Desperate, she finally telephoned P. G. Walls.  If anyone could give
her direction, it would be the man who had helped her become a private
investigator.

"They're not going to do a damned thing," she told the private
investigator.  "I've begged, I've gotten angry, I've tried giving them
information, and nothing works," she said.  "They just don't care."

As he listened, Walls already had a good idea of what was taking
place.

"It sounds like they're getting ready to cold file it," he said.

Sharon's brief silence communicated her puzzlement.  "What do you mean,
cold file?"  she asked.

"It means they put the case file into the back end of some filing
cabinet and everybody forgets it's even there," Walls explained.

Throughout the nation, he knew, there were literally thousands of such
cases, ranging from serial murders to petty theft, which were routinely
marked "inactive" and stored away while detectives went in pursuit of
new, more solvable crimes.  The only way a "cold file" case was ever
reactivated was if the perpetrator walked into the station and was
successful in finding someone with time enough to listen to his
confession.

Sharon was far from ready to let that happen.  "Can we get some one
else involved?  What about the Texas Rangers?  Would it help to contact
the attorney general's office?"

"Let me call down to Alvin first," Walls urged, "and see what's going
on."

If, in fact, Sharon had an ally in her frustrating quest, it was in the
form of a man whom she had never metþthe forensic pathologist in
Florida with whom Riggs Gay had put her in touch.  During her telephone
conversations with Dr. William Anderson in Orlando, the pathologist
had confided his doubts that Renee had died of natural causes.  His
opinion, he cautioned, was little more than professional guesswork,
however, and he would need to see autopsy photographs and view the
tissue slides under his own microscope.  He warned that medical
examiners routinely discarded tissue slides after a certain length of
timeþgenerally six months following an autopsyþso time was of the
essence.

"I'll get them for you," Sharon declared, giving no consideration to
the fact she did not even know the process by which such things were
handled.

"It could be expensive," Dr. Anderson warned, "and still might not
reveal anything new."

"I'll get them for you," Sharon repeated.

She spent the next several days on the phone, first to the Harris
County Medical Examiner's officeþwhere she was told that a court order
would be necessary before they could legally release the requested
materialþand then to the Brazoria County D.A."s office.  Sharon found
herself talking with Assistant District Attorney Jeri Yenne, explaining
her need and pleading for quick service of the necessary court order.

"I'll have to speak with the doctor who is requesting the photographs
and slides first," Yenne explained.  "I'd like to know more about what
is actually going on here.  Have him call me before five o'clock."

Sharon detected a cold, businesslike tone in Yenne's voice that had
become all too familiar to her in days past.  Once again it had taken
great restraint on her part to refrain from unleashing a blistering
tirade against the insensitive, bureaucratic maze of the legal
system.

"I'll contact him right now," she said Moments later, she found herself
in the position of refereeing a battle of egos.  Catching Dr. Anderson
in his office just before he was to leave for the weekend, Sharon
explained her difficulties in obtaining the court order.  "Well," the
doctor replied, "just have the district attorney call me Monday."

Nervous and frustrated, Sharon explained that Yenne had specifically
requested that he telephone her.  "Before five o'clock," she hesitantly
added.

The sarcasm in Dr. Anderson's laugh was easily detectable.  "Well,
bless her little heart," he said.  "I guess she's the only person who
is busy, huh?"

Sharon's patience was paper-thin.  "Please, Dr.  Anderson...."

"I'll phone her immediately," he said.  "Give me the number."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Sharon had but one more obstacle to
overcome.  The cost of recutting the tissue samples to provide a new
set of slides, she had been told, would be $637, far more than she had
in her checking account.

She would have to borrow the cash to pay for the money order she
planned to hand-deliver to the M.E."s office.

A couple of days later, P. G. Walls phoned Sharon to tell her he'd had
a conversation with Sergeant Todd Arendell, the supervisor in charge of
the Alvin P.D."s investigative unit.  "I've got good news and bad
news."

"Give me the bad news first," Sharon moaned.  "Let's get it over
with."

"The sleeping bag," he said, "the one that the DPS is supposed to be
testingþthe police never even took it out of the Goode's house.

They've never even had it, much less sent it off for any tests."

The sudden anger Sharon felt was paralyzing.  Why would they let her
think someone, somewhere, was doing something when in truth no one was
even trying?  She cursed under her breath.

Her voice was without the slightest hint of energy or anticipation as
she asked for Walls's good news.

"The case," he said, "has been reassigned to a female detective named
Sue Dietrich.  She'd like to meet with you and Annette as soon as
possible."

Sharon could muster no enthusiasm.  Given a choice, she would like
nothing better than never to see another member of the Alvin Police
Department for the rest of her life.

Sue Dietrich's ascent to the rank of Detective Corporal in the Alvin
Police Department had been a long and not always pleasant climb.

A resident of the community since she was six years old, she graduated
from the local high school and community college, married, raised a
family, and had never seriously entertained thoughts of moving from the
comfortable place she called home.

It was in the early eighties, newly divorced and working as a civilian
dispatcher for the department, that she began to consider police work
as a career.  When three patrol officer positions came open, she
studied for and took the required test, only to be told later that her
score ranked fourth on the list of applicants for the three available
jobs.

Disappointed, she returned to her dispatching duties with plans to
reapply the next time a position came open.

A couple of weeks later, however, a resigning officer shared a secret
that sent her in quick search of an attorney.  The officer, leaving for
a job in another city, confided to her that he had been instructed by
the chief to alter the test scores to make certain that the Alvin
Police Department remained all-male.  Her score, he said, had actually
been the best of all the applicants tested.

The police chief was fired following an investigation into the sexual
discrimination suit Dietrich filed against the City of Alvin.  When the
city attorney contacted her with what he hoped was an amicable
resolution to the matterþhe offered her a job on the police force,
beginning immediatelyþDietrich quickly turned it down.  She had no
interest in getting the job that way, she explained, but was satisfied
that the man who ordered her test scores altered had been dismissed.

With that she dropped her lawsuit and took a dispatching job with the
nearby League City Police Department.  She also enrolled at the police
academy at Houston Community College, more determined than ever to
become a full-time officer.

Two years would pass before she reapplied to the Alvin Police
Department.  In July of 1983, she was hired as a patrol officer,
effectively bringing to an end the "good-ol'-boy" era of Alvin law
enforcement.

It took little time for the mother of two to prove herself and gain the
respect of her fellow officers.  If there was concern that a woman
could not efficiently deal with the city's weary routine of domestic
disturbances, break-ins, burglaries and the occasional Saturday-night
drunk and disorderly, it quickly disappeared.  In short order, Officer
Dietrich advanced from patrol to a special county-wide investigative
unit and was soon responsible for the headline-making arrest of a
high-profile Angleton businessman.  Soon thereafter came word from an
informant that a group of Brazoria County underworld figures had taken
out a contract on her life.  Sue greeted the news with the observation
that she must be doing something right if the local criminal element
was that concerned over her investigative abilities.

For three years she worked as a narcotics investigator, and, once
promoted to the rank of detective, took on the added responsibility of
training newly hired officers.  By 1994, Detective Dietrich was not
only one of the most experienced officers on the force but one of its
most respected.

She had followed the Goode case from a careful distance, mindful of the
departmental rule that prohibited any officer from interfering in the
case of another.  It did not, however, prevent her from hearing things,
that the Harris County Medical Examiner's office had, in effect,
blunted any investigative progress with its "undetermined death"
ruling, that the child's father was, at least unofficially, suspected
of some manner of foul play, and that the family of Renee Goode was
decidedly upset over what it perceived to be a lack of genuine interest
on the part of the detective who had been assigned the case.

Sue Dietrich said nothing of her interest or the quiet empathy she was
feeling for Sharon and Annette, two women she'd seen only from a
distance when they'd come to the station to speak with Duckworth.  She
reminded none of her coworkers that she, too, had once lost a child.

Sue understood all too well the grief and frustration such a tragedy
could cause.

His name was Tommy and he had been just seventeen months old when a
rare virus that attacks the organs of only the very young and very old
claimed his life.  It had come suddenly, settling in his lungs and
making breathing difficult.  Sue Dietrich had immediately taken him to
the pediatrician, describing her child's irritablity, his refusal to
eat, and the fact that she could not even touch him without him crying
in pain.  The doctor's first reaction was that the child was suffering
from a severe attack of asthma but suggested blood tests before making
a diagnosis.  Just two hours later, after reviewing the tests, she
telephoned Sue and urged her to get her son to a hospital as quickly as
possible.  The doctor admitted she wasn't certain what might be wrong,
but did feel it was serious.

At Children's Hospital in Houston.  Tommy was treated as an asthma
patient, placed beneath an oxygen tent in an effort to relieve the
labored breathing which seemed to be worsening by the minute.

Sue Dietrich had been in the hospital room when, just a day later, her
child slipped into a coma.  A renowned specialist from Chicago was
flown in to consult but soon admitted that there was nothing he could
do to prevent the inevitable.  Another week passed before an attending
doctor finally approached Sue and her husband to explain that all signs
of brain activity had disappeared and to ask if they wished to have
their son taken off the respirator.  It was a decision she could not
summon the courage to make.

Later that day, the distraught couple made a brief trip back to Alvin
so Sue might shower and pack clean clothing before returning to keep
vigil over her child.  They were met at the door by her mother.  She
was in tears as she told her daughter of the phone call she'd just
received from the hospital.  "Tommy's heart stopped beating," she
said.

It was on a gloomy July Saturday afternoon, twenty years later, that
Sue Dietrich sat alone in her home, thinking back on those traumatic
days.  At least, she found herself thinking, the cause of her child's
death had ultimately been explained to her.  Still, it had never really
occurred to her what comfort such knowledge could provide, until she
had contemplated the anguish of those who loved Renee Goode and who
were now endlessly haunted by unanswered questions.

Finally, she reached for the phone and dialed the number of her
sergeant.  The family, she decided, deserved an answer.

Todd Arendell was surprised to hear from his detective on her day
off.

He was not surprised by her request.  Yes, he told her, the Goode case
had been placed in the inactive file after Detective Duckworth was
assigned to the narcotics task force.

"Would you mind if I picked it up and worked on it?"  she asked.

"Not at all," Arendell replied.

The following Monday morning she retrieved Duckworth's case file from
the records division, made a copy for herself, and for the next several
evenings sat at her kitchen table, reading and rereading officers'
reports, witness statements, and, finally, the autopsy findings.  It
was the latter that most troubled her, not so much because of what it
said but rather its lack of uniqueness.  She compared it to numerous
routine autopsy reports filed on adults and saw much the same jargon,
the same basic fill-in-the-blank style.  For an innocent child, a baby,
she thought, there should be something different, perhaps something
that demonstrated more concern, more compassion.  Instead, the death of
Renee Goode appeared to have been evaluated with nothing more than the
clinical dispatch required by law.  And it angered her.

For some time she stared at the cover sheet of the medical examiner's
report, setting to memory the brief, dismissive statement, "It is my
opinion that the cause and manner of death of the decedent, Katherine
Renee Goode, are undetermined."  Below it was the signature of Dr.
Eduardo Bellas, forensic pathologist.

She had no idea what more might have been done, yet there had to have
been something that would advance the findings out of the troubling
gray area of "undetermined," someone willing to look closer and
question harder until a definitive answer was finally reached.

She contacted P. G. Walls, the private investigator she had been told
was working for the victim's family, and again heard of the bitter
feelings the mother and grandmother had for the Alvin Police.  "I
know," she told Walls, "that they are going to think it is nothing more
than a continuation of the runaround, but I'd like to talk with
them."

"The first thing I want you to understand," the detective said, "is
that I wasn't assigned to this case.  l asked for it.  And I wouldn't
have done so if I didn't think there was something more that could be
done with it."  Sue Dietrich was again at her dining room table as she
spoke, this time with Sharon and Annette seated across from her.

Having them come to her home instead of the police station, she felt,
might offer a more comfortable climate in which to get acquainted.  It
would, she knew, also remove her visitors from the familiar sights and
sounds that were sure to rekindle their negative feelings about the
handling of the investigation.

She would, Sue explained, like to go back to square one.  Though she
had read the reports, she wanted to hear everything again.  In front of
her was a yellow legal pad on which she'd written several pages of
questions she planned to ask.

For the next two hours she listened as Annette described the events
leading up to Renee's final visit with her father, of the phone call
alerting her that something horrible had happened, and the scene at the
Goode house when she arrived.  Annette detailed her stormy relationship
with Shane and played the tape she'd made of the telephone conversation
she'd had with her ex-husband in which he denied having any insurance
on Renee other than the small policy he had taken out at his work.  And
she told of the information Sunny Bradley had shared with her.

Annette was certain that Shane Goode had murdered her daughter. Sue studied
her visitor as she spoke, watching as her emotions hopscotched from
calm control to anger and tears.  What she saw was a fragile young
woman harboring enormous guilt for having allowed her daughter to make
the fatal overnight visitþa woman still wrestling with her feelings
about the man to whom she'd been married.  At times, it seemed to the
detective, it was an effort for Annette to muster the anger she
displayed.  Sue had seen it before, abused wives who hated their
husbands for the physical and mental damage they routinely delivered,
yet who, for reasons they could not begin to explain, still held
deep-seated positive feelings about them.

Sharon Couch, on the other hand, was the controlled one.  She wanted
answers as desperately as did her daughter, yet was willing to let all
pieces of the puzzle be assembled before allowing her suspicions to
evolve into hard truth.  Sue was impressed by the meticulous manner in
which she had prepared her own case file, bound in a notebook and
brought to the meeting.  Using the techniques Walls had taught her,
Sharon had assembled a variety of documents, from Renee's medical
records to a detailed time-flow chart that recounted the final months
of her daughter's marriage to Shane Goode.  She had written records of
every phone conversation she had made to the police, the medical
examiner's office, and doctors whom she had contacted throughout the
country.  She had a file of neatly photocopied articles from medical
journals, each dealing with symptoms similar to those which led to her
grandchild's death.

Sharon Couch had clearly been doing her homework.

She told the detective about her conversations with the Orlando
pathologist, Dr. Anderson, and of the fact that he was reviewing the
autopsy photos and tissue slides which had finally been sent to him.

Dietrich wrote down his number with a promise that she, too, would be
calling him.

For the moment, however, it was most important that she get a feel for
the characters in the tragic drama that was being outlined to her.

Each question she asked, Sue quickly realized, bred a half dozen
more.

"After you contacted Shane to tell him that you were pregnant and he
suggested you have an abortion," she asked, "what was your reaction?"

Annette was silent for a moment before lifting her head and staring
squarely across at the detective.  "I told him I wouldn't do it for him
again."

"Again?"

Annette nodded.  "I'd gotten pregnant not long after we were married
and he'd convinced me that the time wasn't right for us to have a
baby.

We argued about it some, but finally I agreed to have the abortion."

The question Sue had for Sharon was answered before she even asked
it.

The look on Sharon's face made it clear that she had not known.

For so long Sharon had blamed Shane's allowing her daughter to
over-exert herself during that long ago move for the "miscarrage"
Annette had described to her.  Now she had a new reason for her
anger.

And a sudden new sense of sadness that her daughter had not given her
the opportunity to offer comfort for the pain she had no doubt carried
in the aftermath of the abortion.

There was, Sue Dietrich realized, clearly a history of tension and lack
of communication between the two women seated at her kitchen table.

And she pondered the irony that it had taken an unspeakable tragedy
that would forever scar both their lives to finally unite them.

In Orlando, Dr. William Anderson had eagerly looked forward to the
arrival of the tissue slides.  Though his knowledge of the details was
still sketchy, the case had intrigued him from the first telephone
conversation with Sharon Couch.  As the deputy chief medical examiner
for Orange County, he had conducted over 3,000 autopsies.  And while he
had long since given up any attempt to explain his fascination for his
work to those who viewed it as ghoulish and distasteful, Dr. Anderson
took great pride in his profession.  Life, he had decided back in his
medical school days at the University of Miami and Duke, offered no
greater challenge than the search for hidden truth.

It was this fascination that had led him to join a team of forensic
experts on an expedition to Colorado in 1989 for the exhumation of the
long-buried bodies of members of a mining party led by a man named
Alfred Packer.  Over a hundred years earlier, Packer and his followers
had gone in search of gold in the mountains of San Juan.  In time,
after battling a brutal winter, only Packer returned to civilization.

Five others who had been with him, he explained, had gone mad and one
by one killed each other.  Over the years, rumors grew that Packer had,
in fact, murdered his followers and then cannibalized their bodies.

The story, however, had remained nothing more than an oft-repeated
folktale until Dr. Anderson and his associates examined the remains
and added scientific fact to the rumors about Packer's horrendous
deeds.

It was not, however, such forensic adventures upon which Dr. There is,
within the mazelike workings of the American judical system, a
political pecking order that exists in jurisdictions both rural and
urban.  Rank within an agency, be it police, sheriff's department, or
the district attorney's office, is jealously guarded, often to the
point of childishness.  The same applies to territorial rights.

Rarelyþoften only when forcedþdoes one agency reach out the hand of
cooperation to another.

There is a protective, wary boundary of distrust that is seldom
admitted but is a hard fact of law-enforcement life nonetheless  And
there are sacred toes upon which no treading is condoned.

Among the most sacred is the medical examiner's office.  It is there
that doctors make all-important rulings which give direction to
investigations and develop expert testimony that can sway the decision of
found himself moving toward a field of pathology that had few
spejurors.  Medical examiners often operate above and beyond political
Anderson's growing reputation was based.  For almost a decade he had
cialists.  That he had conducted hundreds of autopsies on infants and
restraint without hint of governmental sanction.  There is a powerful,
young children had earned him a media-born nickname for which hegodlike
authority dealt many medical examiner's offices and those had little
use.  The Florida press had begun referring to him as "The forced to
rely on their cooperation are generally quick to bow to it.

Dead Baby Doctor."  l Assistant District Attorney Jeri Yenne was
shaking her head as she looked across the desk at her friend Sue
Dietrich.  "Do you realize what you're asking?  Sue, this is Brazoria
County.  It's not going to When Sue Dietrich telephoned him to
introduce herself as the newly assigned investigator on the Goode case,
he had been careful not to lend false hope.  "All I can say at this
point," he explained, "is that what I've seen has indicated to me that
there was nothing physically wrong with the child before her death."

It was Dietrich who first mentioned the possibility of a second
autopsy.

"That," the doctor replied, "is the only way you're going to find the
cause of death."  He then issued a caution, "If the body is to be
exhumed and another autopsy performed, it must be done as quickly as
possible."

The body of Renee Goode, he knew, had been buried for eight months, and
the natural process of tissue deterioration would soon make a thorough
pathological study impossible.

"I'll get back to you as soon as I can get a court order for the
exhumation," the detective replied.

Dr. Anderson wondered if she had any idea how difficult that might
be.

nappen.

"It has to," the detective argued.  "There are a lot of things that
point to the fact that this guy killed his own childþand he's going to
get away with it if we don't find out how the little girl died."

Yenne leaned back in her chair, surrounded by the clutter of her small
corner office, and locked the fingers of her hands together.  "Then
your gut feeling is that he did it?"

"Absolutely."

Sighing deeply, the prosecutor was silent for several seconds before
she finally began to nod her head.  "Okay, let me think about it and
see what I can do."

Jeri Yenne understood well the passion that quickly develops during the
investigation of a child's death.  Assigned to child-welfare cases
during the early days of her tenure with the D.A."s office, she had
often wrestled with the sense of sadness and outrage that grew from
knowledge that an adult would intentionally harm an innocent and
helpless child.

She also knew the hesitancy that district attorneys felt about
challenging the ruling of a medical examiner, regardless of how
questionable it might appear.

She had been a prosecutor for just over a year when the case of a
seventeen-month-old girl had crossed her desk.  The child had been
rushed to a Lake Jackson hospital, suffering seizures, and had died in
the emergency room.  Later, when serious questions arose about the
drug-related activities of the child's parents, Yenne had gone to
District Attorney Jim Mapel to suggest that the body be exhumed and
another autopsy performed.  Despite what she considered to be
compelling evidence that justified such drastic measures, he had
refused her flatly.  He did not, he told her, want to deal with the
"heat" that was sure to be generated by an exhumation.

It was not until weeks after the funeral that the results of belated
toxicology tests prompted the parents to confess to giving their child
an overdose of cocaine on the night she had died.  While her superiors
cheered the ultimate conviction of the killers, Yenne found herself
brooding over the fact that, had the parents not admitted their guilt,
the lab findings alone might not have been enough to make certain they
were punished for their crime.

She had never again asked for an exhumation or second autopsy.

Now, however, a phrase that Sue Dietrich had used in her argument
hummed through her mind.  Dr. Anderson had made it clear that there
was "a small window of opportunity" in the matter.

Perhaps, Yenne decided, there might be more than one such window.

For the first time in her nine-year tenure in the district attorney's
office, the political guard was down.  Her boss had already announced
that once his current term was completed he would not be running for
reelection.

Maybe, she thought, the "heat" would no longer be so strong a
consideration.

As she reviewed the case that Sue Dietrich had presented her, Yenne
pondered myriad problems which she was sure the detective had not
weighed.  While the reports she read certainly gave rise to a certain
degree of suspicion, there was not the slightest hint of the kind of
evidence that breeds confidence in a prosecutor.  Dietrich had promised
that she would soon have documentation of the life insurance policy
purchased by Shane Goode.  And while it might serve well as a logical
motive for murder, it would do little to advance the case legally.

There had to be some proof that the father had committed murderþand,
aside from the accusations of a grieving family and an angered
ex-girlfriend, there was nothing in the file Dietrich had shown her
that connected Goode to a crime.  Nothing, in fact, to show that a
crime had even occurred.

Yet there was that "gut feeling," an emotion she had relied on
throughout her legal career, first during her three and one-half years
as a defense attorney, then in her role as a prosecutor.  She had heard
the criticisms of her fellow attorneys who had warned against her
tendency to "overreact," and knew that there were those who had viewed
the intensity she brought to her prosecution of child cases as a show
of what they referred to as her "mama instinct."

For several days she pondered the long-shot possibilities of the case,
forcing herself to measure the overwhelming negatives that literally
jumped from Dietrich's file.  Yenne was trying vainly to hold to her
new-sworn credo that she would not allow her emotions to drive her
professional actions.

Still, she contacted Dr. Anderson and listened as he recounted his
concerns, finding his arguments persuasive.  Careful to emphasize the
"if," she questioned him about the cost to the county of a possible
second autopsy, asking about the chances of finding something that
would justify her seeking a murder indictment.  His answers did not
lift her spirits.  The exhumation, he estimated, would cost in the
neighborhood of $3,000.  His fee for performing the autopsy would be
$250 per hour plus travel expenses.  And, no, he could not give her any
assurance that he would find anything that the Harris County Medical
Examiner's office had not discovered.

If Dr. Anderson ever had "gut feelings" in advance of his scientific
evaluations, he did not share them with the district attorney.  The
decision, he said, was hers to make.

Yenne was still pondering the pluses (of which she found very few) and
the minuses (which now included finances) when she answered her phone
to hear Sue Dietrich's voice.

Despite the fact that they had developed a kinship over the yearsþboth
had begun their professional careers as police dispatchers and had
shared war stories of their work in a predominately male
professionþYenne detected little warmth in Dietrich's voice.  The call,
clearly, was professional.

"What's it going to take, Jeri?"  the detective asked.

Yenne studied the ceiling of her office for several seconds, the phone
cradled against her shoulder.  Finally, she answered, "It's going to
take my calling in every damn chit I've collected since I came to work
here.

I'll talk to Jim today."

Brazoria County District Attorney Jim Mapel was, in truth, far less a
politician than many who hold public office.  Over the years he had
carefully assembled a staff of prosecutors whose abilities and
instincts he trusted, then allowed them to proceed without undue
second-guessing.

He had but one credo which he attached to his elected position, Do the
right thing.  A Vietnam veteran, his lone vices were his smoking, which
had prompted him to place a plaque on the edge of his desk that read
"Thanks for not breathing while I'm smoking," and an occasional
gambling trip to Las Vegas.

It was Mapel's gambling instinct that Yenne hoped to play on as she sat
in his office, outlining the case.

"You really think he did it?"  Mapel said.

"Yes, I do," she said, "but the only way we're going to be able to
prove itþit's going to cost a lot of moneyþif we could justþ" Mapel
smiled as he listened to Yenne's run-on sentences.  He'd seen her like
this beforeþher mind working faster than her speech, energy and
emotions flowing full out.  More than once he had cautioned her to slow
down and take an occasional deep breath during her arguments to a judge
or jury.  At the same time, he admired the passion she brought to each
case she undertook.

"Even if you come up with something from a second autopsy it isn't
going to be easy," he warned.  "This isn't going to make you very
popular withþ" "I know.  I know.  But, Jim, there is something really
wrong here, something that has to .  . ."

Raising his palms in a gesture of mock surrender, he said, "I think we
can come up with the money.  And, what the hell?  I'm not running
again.

Do it."

Yenne telephoned Sue Dietrich with the good news.

In time, the prosecutor knew, they would have to discuss a matter she
was certain would not be greeted with nearly the same degree of
enthusiasm.

"Can you come down early next week?"  Jeri asked.  "We need to talk."

"Sure."  Sue Dietrich had not felt such a sense of euphoria in some
time.  Her life, which had been without real focus in recent months,
suddenly had new direction and purpose.

Within the close-knit Brazoria County legal community, Tom Selleck's
name had long since ceased to cause double takes from those to whom he
was introduced.  The novelty of having the same name as a well-known
television and motion-picture actor had eventually run its course,
replaced by the enviable reputation he'd earned as the chief felony
prosecutor in the D.A."s office.

Handsome, outgoing, and respected for his crisp and often dramatic
arguments to juries, Selleck had, during his tenure, never lost a
murder case.

Over the years he had developed a close kinship with most police
officers in the county, often riding with them on patrol and
encouraging them to contact him in the event they needed procedural
advice or legal counsel.  That he had suffered a minor gunshot wound
years earlier while accompanying a police officer on an impromptu drug
raid had greatly displeased his boss, who angrily insisted he had no
business being involved in that phase of the judicial process.  At the
same time, the event had further solidified his standing among police
officers, who viewed him not only as a trusted ally, but a stand-up guy
not afraid to venture into the trenches.

He and Sue Dietrich had met five years earlier and a mutual admiration
had gradually developed into a more personal relationship.  Long
divorced from her first husband, Sue had been surprised at her quick
willingness to accept Selleck's marriage proposal.

Friends and coworkers had viewed them as the ideal couple, giving the
union good odds against the traditional work-related pitfalls of "cop
marriages."  Both had a thorough understanding of their spouse's work
and each had an intense dedication to the respective lawenforcement
roles they were assigned.  Routinely they sought each other's counsel
on cases, Sue on some investigation she was conducting, Tom on the best
way to approach a particular prosecution.

The seemingly idyllic union had lasted just over a year before Sue
received a phone call from the irate husband of a woman who worked with
Selleck at the Brazoria County Courthouse.  His wife of fourteen years,
he said, had admitted to an ongoing affair with "that sonuvabitch
lawyer" to whom she was married.  In short order, Sue learned that the
accusation was not only true but had, for some time, been common
knowledge around the courthouse.

Angered and humiliated, she quickly filed for divorce and changed her
name back to Dietrich.

Only once had she even considered the possibility of a
reconciliationþduring a fleeting but fragile moment when her emotional
strengths were suddenly and completely drained.  Several months after
their separation, she had discovered a lump in her breast.  Numbed by
fear, she had telephoned Selleck one evening to ask that he return
home, if only long enough to help her through whatever she might be
facing.  He had refused.  Immediately, Sue Dietrich regretted her
action and cursed the moment of weakness that had led her to make the
call.

On that evening she had vowed that Tom Selleck would forever be nothing
more than a bitter memory.

By the time she became involved in the Goode case, she had pushed the
lump and its ominous warnings into the back of her mind.  Whatever
courage women summon to seek the truth about such things evaded her.

For one of the few times in her life, she opted to deal with a
troubling situation simply by doing nothing.  And so she told no one
else about the lumpþnot even her mother, who at the time was slowly
dying of cancer.

Jeri Yenne had never spoken with Sue about her marital problems but,
like everyone else in the D.A."s office, she had heard the gossip about
Selleck's affair long before the divorce proceedings were initiated.

It had concerned her when she realized that Sue, once smiling and
energetic, had begun to avoid visiting the D.A."s office except on
occasions when her job demanded it, and then only for the brief time
such appearances required.  It was grossly unfair, Yenne knew, that her
friend had been forced into such an uncomfortable position.  She
worried that the matter which she needed to discuss with Sue was hardly
going to make things more comfortable for anyone.

She was at her desk, staring into a computer screen, when Sue knocked
against her open door.  Motioning for the detective to take a seat,
Yenne continued to focus on the monitor, avoiding for another few
seconds the speech she was prepared to make.

It was then that Tom Selleck leaned his head in from the hallway.

"Hello Sue," he said.

Ignoring the fact that she had not returned his greeting, he
continued.

"It sounds to me as if you have done some very good work on this Goode
case," he said.  "Congratulations."

Finally, Sue turned her head to face him squarely and speak to him for
the first time in months.  In truth, she had very little to say.  "Fuck
you," she replied.

Selleck forced a grin, nodded, and continued down the hall, unaware of
the faint smile that had erased Jeri Yenne's previously sober
expression.  "Well," she deadpanned, "that gets things off to a good
start."

Sue Dietrich frowned.  "What do you mean?"

"How would you feel about .  . ."

The prosecutor had not even completed her sentence before Sue rolled
her eyes in realization of what was coming.

". . . Tom coming on board and being involved in the case?"

The D.A Yenne explained, had made it clear to her in a series of
discussions that if they were to seek an indictment in a case as
difficult as this one, he wanted his most experienced prosecutor
involved, particularly if it reached the trial stage.

"Look, I'm no dummy," Yenne pointed out, "but the truth of the matter
is I've tried one stinking murder case in the seven years I've worked
here.  That hardly qualifies me as an expert.  So, frank,y, I would
welcome the help.  But for it to workþ" Sue interrupted her.  "Look,"
she said, "I know this is awkward.

Personally, I've got no use for the bastard.  But, the fact is, he's
the best prosecutor I've ever known.  And if that's what it takes to
get this job done, it's fine with me.  I can deal with it."

"I'm not sure I could," Yenne replied.

Sue smiled.  You could if it was the only way you could be sure that
Shane Goode is punished for what he did to that little girl."

It was at that moment that Yenne began to realize just how important
the case had become to her friend.  And that Sue Dietrich's dedication
to the case was fast becoming contagious.

Soon, others would also feel the detective's single-minded determination


As is the case with all governmental agencies, the appropriation of
funding for any project is routinely slowed by the bureaucratic red
tape in which it is certain to be wrapped.  While the D.A. had approved
funding for the second autopsy, it had hardly been an open invitation
to visit petty cash and get whatever amount needed.  What Jim Mapel had
actually okayed was only the partial funding his office would be
authorized to provide.

The first order of business for Yenne, in fact, had been to contact
Sharon Couch and explain that if the procedure was to move forward, the
cost of the exhumation of Renee's body would have to be funded by the
family.

And, while the District Attorney's Office was prepared to pay the bulk
of the expense related to the autopsy, it took an additional two
thousand dollars provided by the county's Child Protective Services to
get the dollar amount near the bottom line budget Yenne had worked
out.

Still, she was one thousand dollars short and phoned Sue to request
that she ask if the City of Alvin would contribute.  Dietrich went
immediately to her boss.

Alvin Police Chief Mike Merkel was less than encouraging.  Only a week
earlier a memo from the city manager had crossed his desk, announcing
an immediate spending freeze.  "The way I read it," he told his
detective, "we can't even ask to buy a box of paper clips right now,
much less help fund a private autopsy.  I'm sorry."  He did not have to
verbalize the argument that was sure to accompany any such request,
even in the best of financial times, Why bring in a pathologist from
Florida to do work that Harris County's M.E."s office is being paid
handsomely to do?

"Do you have any objection to my speaking with the city manager?"

Chief Merkel wished her well.

At her desk, Sue Dietrich carefully assembled the presentation she
planned to make.  The city manager's secretary had told her that he
would be free briefly at four in the afternoon and she sat, watching
the clock, anxious to make the brief walk across the street to Alvin's
City Hall.

In a folder she had placed a copy of the flyer that Sharon had
distributed in hopes of getting additional information about Renee's
death, a page from a legal pad on which she had written the brief
summary of the case, and a color photograph of Renee, dressed in
pajamas and a baseball cap worn backward, smiling angelically into the
camera.

City Manager Marvin Norwood, Dietrich knew, had a granddaughter
approximately the same age Renee had been when the photograph was
taken.

West Point-educated, Norwood brought to his role of overseer of
community finances a no-nonsense, all-business manner.  He made no
apologies for his military demeanor and his closely cropped crew cut,
and if critics wished to label him a tight-fisted bean-counter, so be
it.  It was the job he was hired to do.

He judged small talk, particularly during business hours, an
unpardonable waste of time.  "What can I do for you, Detective?"  he
asked as Sue Dietrich sat across from his desk.

"I'm here to ask you for money," she replied.  "I've beenþ" Norwood was
shaking his head before she could complete the sentence.

"No salary raises will be considered," Norwood said, "until the
spending freeze has been lifted."

"I'm not here to ask for a raise," the detective quickly responded.

"I'm conducting a homicide investigation and if it is to be done
properly, I need a thousand dollars from the city."  She passed the
folder she had prepared across the desk.

The city manager read her synopsis of the case and stared for some time
at the photograph of the smiling child.  Leaning back in his chair, he
looked silently at his visitor.  "Tell me a little more about the
case," he said.

Nervously, Sue tried to recap the sequence of events that had led her
to his office.  She completed her narrative by saying, "We believe that
the father murdered her for insurance money."

Leaning forward, the city manager placed his elbows on his desk.  "How
good a case do you have?"

"Sir, I believe with all my heart that this little girl was
murdered."

"And you're absolutely convinced that the father is the guilty
party?"

"Mr.  Norwood," she replied, "I would bet my badge on it."

"And what if I tell you that the city doesn't have the money you
need?"

Sue's quick response surprised her.  It was not something carefully
thought out, not a part of the presentation she had so carefully
planned.  Rather, it came spontaneously.  "Then I go to the Credit
Union and take out a personal loan," she said.

"I'll have you an answer before the end of the business day," Norwood
said, glancing down at his watch.  It was 4,20.

Sue made the walk back to the police station slowly, replaying the
meeting in her mind, wondering if she had left something unsaid that
might have been more persuasive, might have better signaled the urgency of her request.  She had been in the city manager's office only
twenty minutes, but it had seemed like an eternity.

Entering the station, she saw Chief Merkel walking down the hall toward
her.  The broad smile on his face tipped his proud announcement before
he could make it.

"The city manager just called," he said.  "He said you've got your
thousand dollars."

To many of his coworkers, Shane Goode was a
changed man in the aftermath of his daughter's death.  Quiet and
reservedþ almost secretiveþbefore, he had become far more social and
outgoing in the months following the tragedy.  Not only had he begun to
occasionally accompany them for an after-work beer or two, but he had
enthusiastically joined in the practice of buying a round for the
table.

There had been some whispered surprise when he returned to work only
days after the funeral, but it was soon forgotten.  It was reasoned
that for some, work is judged the best antidote for grief.  Shane, they
assumed, was one of those who could best deal with sorrow by staying
busy.

Not only did he bring a new attitude to his job but seemed more wrapped
up than ever in his National Guard activities.  Recently, he had sought
time off to attend a series of training schools at military bases like
Fort Bliss, in Texas, Georgia's Fort Benning, and Eglin Air Force Base
in Florida, where he added parachuting and new survival skills to his
expanding resume.

Rumors of the accusations his ex-wife had made their way through the
postal staff and were generally dismissed.  Shane Goode might have his
shortcomings, might even be a bit strange, but there was no way he
could be a cold-blooded killer.

There was, however, one troubling question that continued to circulate
when the tragedy was discussed.  Shane had talked constantly about his
daughter Tiffany, always quick to show her picture or introduce her to
fellow workers when he brought her to the post office.  But except for
Sunny Bradleyþwho made it a point to avoid all conversation about
Shaneþother employees could not remember his ever mentioning that he
had another child.

With the financing finally arranged and a date set for Dr. Anderson's
visit to perform the autopsy, only one obstacle remained.  It was
imperative, Yenne and Dietrich agreed, that Shane not be alerted to
their plan.  No doubt comfortable that the investigation was ended, he
had returned to a normal routine and had begun seeing a married woman
who worked at the post office.  Sharon Couch could vouch for that,
having taken it upon herself to discreetly track his movements, often
with the help of Sunny.  Should Shane learn of the planned exhumation
and second autopsy, however, he might well leave for one of his Guard
training adventures and simply disappear.

"We want him believing all's right with the world," Yenne had said.

For Sue Dietrich, the course the investigation was taking was unlike
any she had ever experienced.  Never before had she made such a
conscious effort to completely avoid a suspect.  As eager as she was to
confront Shane Goode, to get her first up-close look at him and hear
his answers to her questions, she willed all the patience she could
summon to stay away.

When, in fact, she had called a State Farm representative to alert the
insurance company of her investigation and urge that payment of Goode's
policy be postponed, she had spent an undue amount of time emphasizing
the importance of secrecy.  "I'm sure," Sue had suggested, "that there
are any number of explanations you could give for a delay."

The agent laughed and agreed.  The fact of the matter was, she noted,
Shane had not yet contacted them regarding payment on the began to
apologize, explaining that the unnerving change of plans had come about
swiftly.  She gave the distraught grandmother directions to the funeral
home.

Sharon Couch relayed the detective's explanation to her daughter as
they rushed toward the hospital parking lot.  Any anger she had felt
was quick,y replaced by her apprehension of the events that lay
ahead.

As she drove toward the funeral home, she found her jumbled thoughts
beginning to focus on Sue Dietrich.

Dietrich had sounded as if already at wit's end during their brief
phone conversation, and Sharon wondered if the detective would be able
to get through the unpleasant hours that lay ahead.  As they had become
better acquainted, Sue had confided the loss of her own child and
Sharon wondered if she would be able to muster the strength to stand
watch over an examination that was certain to unlock old mem ones .

It was something that also concerned Sergeant Arendell.  Since
assigning her the case and watching the intensity with which she had
pursued it, he had begun to feel concern when he learned that the
exhumation order had been granted.  He, too, knew the tragic history of
Sue's son.

It had been with that in mind that he had, as subtly as possible,
volunteered to travel to the Hallettsville cemetery and oversee the
exhumation and return of the casket to Alvin.  He had told his
detective that he would stand in at the autopsy if she preferred.  Sue
had had no argument about his being there, she had said, but felt it
was her responsibility to attend as well.  It was, she said, part of
the job.

Still, she harbored secret doubts, dreading what she would see when the
casket was opened, and was glad that Arendell would be standing beside
her.

The early stages of the examination were, in fact, more difficult than
she had anticipated.  Sue had stepped toward the gurney when the casket
was opened and her eyes had fallen on the still-bright rib ribbons in
Renee's hair.  Silently she looked down on the tiny lifeless form
surrounded by stuffed animals and favorite toys.  Tears welled in her
eyes as she backed away and began moving toward the door.  She wasn't
going to be able to handle it.

She had been sitting alone in an adjacent room for several minutes when
Sergeant Arendell approached and pulled a chair up beside her.

Placing a hand on her shoulder, he delivered a message from Dr.
Anderson.  "He hasn't done anything yet," Arendell said.  "He's waiting
for you.  He asked me to tell you that this is Renee's only way of
telling you what happened to her."

Sue stood, breathed deeply, and followed her sergeant back into the
prep room.  Except for occasional trips outside to briefly reassure
Sharon and Annette that the examination was progressing, she gamely
stood sentry over the now unclothed body, listening as the doctor
carefully explained each procedure, dictating his observations into a
recorder.

"The body is that of a normally developed white female child appearing
the stated age of two years .  . . measuring thirty-five inches in
length and consistent with a weight of twenty-six pounds," the doctor
said in a soft, measured voice.  "The body shows evidence of interment,
with a black mold present on the skin of the face, chest, abdomen, and
extremities .  . ."

Sue Dietrich watched as he gently bathed the mold away and begin his
meticulous search for the cause of death.

It was early in the afternoon before he moved toward the final phase of
the examination.  Cutting through the body's tiny muscles, he removed
the diaphragm so that he might view the back of the chest wall.

The procedure, not done in the original autopsy, revealed telling dark
signs of hemorrhage in muscle tissue near the ninth and tenth ribs.

It was then that he walked to the wall phone and placed a longdistance
call to a colleague in Dallas.  He had known Dr. Linda Norton since
college days and considered her one of the most skilled pathologists he
had ever met.  Even before leaving Florida he had contacted her to
discuss the planned autopsy and to ask that she stand by for any
consultation that might be necessary.  It was agreed that l they would
discuss his finding by phone as the autopsy was being done.

Later he would send her tissue slides to examine.

For quite some time he methodically retraced his examination,
concluding with a detailed description of what he'd found on the
interior chest wall.

Such hemorrhaging, both doctors agreed, could only have been caused by
extreme compressive force to the child's abdomen over an extended
period of time.  In all probability, it had taken Renee Goode five to
seven minutes to die.

Dr. Anderson knew already what he would write in his postmortem
Diagnostic Report upon his return to Florida, The cause of Renee
Goode's death was compressive asphyxia resulting from sustained blunt
force applied to the abdomen and lower thoracic area.

In layman's terms, someone had literally squeezed the life's breath
from her.

In the hallway of the funeral home, Sharon and Annette rose to meet the
detective as she hurried toward them.  This time there was an urgency
in her step, a look of calm on her face that had not been visible
earlier.

Sue did not wait for them to ask.  "Dr. Anderson," she announced,
"says that Renee's death was a homicide."

Annette began to cry as her mother embraced her.  Then Sharon reached
out her hands to Sue.  "You've done so much," she said.

"There's still a great deal that has to be done," the detective
replied.

"I understand," Sharon replied.  "But it has taken so much just to get
to this point."  That said, she motioned Sue to a spot out of Annette's
earshot.  "Can I ask one more favor?"

Sue nodded.

"Would you dress her before they put her back into the casket?"

Though she knew it would be one of the most difficult assignments of
her law-enforcement career, Detective Dietrich promised she would.

Jeri Yenne had considered making the short drive to Alvin to attend the
autopsy but had decided against it.  The final weeks of a pregnancy had
begun taking a toll, and her ankles were swelling badly as her body
retained fluid.  Her planned cesarean section, which was just ten days
away, could not come soon enough.

Nor, for that matter, could word of Dr.  Anderson's findings.

Throughout the day she had repeatedly whispered a prayer, Lord, I don't
want to falsly accuse someone of a horrible crime.  I've got to know
something for sure.  I have to have some evidence....

She was on her screened-in back porch, mixing a sauce for the steaks
her husband was preparing to grill, when the cellular phone she had
been keeping at arm's reach rang.  She answered to hear Dietrich's
voice.

In a dry, breathless tone, the detective described the doctor's
findings.  "There was hemorrhaging, Jeri.  He found it .  . . the
answer."

Yenne closed her eyes and her head began to nod slowly.

"You hear me?"  Sue continued.  "He says Renee's death was a
homicide."

"I hear you," the prosecutor finally replied.  Then she made the
suggestion that Dietrich had been waiting for weeks to hear.  "I
guess," she said, "it's time that you got acquainted with Shane
Goode."

Sue's first inclination was to drive immediately to Goode's apartment
and begin the questioning she had so long been rehearsing.  The rush of
adrenaline she was feeling, however, served as a warning signal.  From
this stage on, she knew, the investigation would have to be conducted
with the utmost care as it was readied for delivery to a grand jury.

As Dr. Anderson returned to Florida to prepare his written report, Sue
Dietrich spent Sunday at home, again reviewing the case, this time
paying particular attention to the initial statement Goode had given in
the aftermath of his daughter's death.

"The less threatened he feels at this point, the better," Yenne warned
when she called late in the day.  "Give him the ditzy blond routine.

Tell him they've dumped the case on you and that you're there just to
wrap up the loose ends.  If my guess is right, he's going to be very
pleased to know that the whole thing has diminished to the point that
it is being handled by a female."

For the first time in days, Sue Dietrich laughed, then affected a
breathless, sing-song voice.  "Well," she said, "I just hope that I
don't mess everything up and make Mister Goode mad at me."

Yenne was also laughing as she hung up the phone.  But in the days to
come, she knew, there would be little room for frivolity.  Even with
the findings from the second autopsy, the case was circumstantial at
best.

No physical evidence connecting the suspect to the crime existed.  The
idea, in fact, that a murder could have taken place at a time when
there were no fewer than six potential witnesses present would no doubt
strain the imagination of the most inventive mystery writers.

And, if medical examiners' tradition continued, she held little hope
that the Harris County pathologists would soon be willing to admit
their mistake and suddenly embrace the findings of Dr.  Anderson.

"A lot of ego-bruising is going to take place before this is over," she
said to her husband that evening as they prepared for bed.

Bill Yenne gently embraced his wife.  It concerned him that she had
become involved in such a difficult case during the most trying time of
her pregnancy.  At the same time, he was keenly aware of the passion
she felt for the dual role she had chosen for herself.  He had every
confidence in her as a mother, and as a prosecutor.  Reaching to turn
out the light, he smiled at her.

"You'll do what you have to do," he said.

Sue Dietrich had decided not to alert Shane to her visit.  She knew of
his failure to keep appointments with Bodie Duckworth and the polygraph
examiner and feared that if she phoned ahead he might conviently find
someplace else to be.

It was 7,30 in the evening when Shane, dressed only in a pair of gym
shorts, opened his door to find the detective smiling at him.

Introducing herself, Sue quickly explained that she had been recently
assigned to the case.  When Goode made no move to invite her inside,
she continued.  "Look, I'd like to get this wrapped up and put away,"
she said.  "My captain's on my ass, so is my sergeant.  So, if I could
just take a few minutes of your time .  . ."

Shane finally nodded, smiled pleasantly, and invited her into the
apartment.  Motioning for her to sit in one of the two matching blue
recliners which were separated by a small coffee table, he excused
himself to the bedroom to put on a shirt and shoes.  While he did so,
Sue surveyed the sparsely furnished but neatly kept quarters.  In
addition to the two chairs, the table, and a lamp, the only furniture
in the carpeted living room was a television set located in one
corner.

The walls were bare except for a recently applied coat of new paint.

The only visible photograph was one of a young girl whom the detective
assumed was Goode's daughter, Tiffany, in a frame positioned atop the
TV set.

"I've been away at Jump Master school," he explained as he reappeared,
pointing to the National Guard T-shirt he had put on, "and I've just
moved in.  Most of my stuff's still in storage."

Making a concerted effort to lend a casual air to her visit, the
detective drew him into a brief conversation about the training he'd
received.  The animated response to her curiosity about the dangers of
jumping from a plane disappeared when she changed the subject to the
investigation she'd been assigned.

As if on cue, Shane struck the same pose she'd briefly seen when he'd
come to the police station to speak with Detective Duckworth.  Moving
to the edge of the recliner, he placed his elbows on his knees and
locked his eyes on the floor in front of him.

Sue found herself silently staring at the young man seated across from
her.  Shane Goode, she thought, looked like the guy every mother hoped
her daughter might marry, clean-cut, well mannered, and obviously in
good physical shape.  He seemed shy, was soft-spoken, and looked
several years younger than the thirty-four she knew him to be.  The
detective had always found it difficult to define the word "handsome,"
but had to admit that by most measures, Goode qualified.

For a half hour he answered her questions as if by rote, offering brief
responses that were almost verbatim to those in the statement he'd
given months earlier.  It occured to Dietrich that there were other
attributes that she should add to her mental list, Shane Goode had a
remarkable memory and, if he harbored genuine emotion, he masked it
better than anyone she'd ever encountered.

"I know," she said, "that you've done this before, but if you don't
mind, I'd like to get a written statement while I'm here."  Not
allowing him time to argue that he'd already done so, she shrugged as
if to apologize for the inconvenience.  "It's routine when a case is
transferred from one investigator to another."

As she spoke she handed him a blank statement form, explaining that he
was not under arrest and that whatever he wrote would have to be
voluntary.

"My handwriting is pretty hard to read," he said, still avoiding eye
contact.  "Why don't I just tell it to you and you write it out for
me?"

Dietrich braced the blank form on a legal pad and placed it against her
knees.  "Okay," she said, "but after we're done you'll need to read
this very carefully to be sure the wording is accurate, then sign
it."

His statement, brief and clearly rehearsed, did not take long.

THE NIGHT I PICKED RENEE AND MICHELLE UP AND TOOK THEM TO MY PARENTS'
HOUSE IN ALVIN, RENEE WAS FEELING OK SHE DID NOT SEEM TO BE SICK AND
SHE AND TIFFANY, MICHELLE, AND CHRISTY PLAYED UNTIL IT WAS TIME TO GO
TO SLEEP.  MY FATHER WAS AT WORK AND HE USUALLY GETS HOME ABOUT 2,30

A.M. AND MY STEPMOTHER HAD GONE TO BED BY THE TIME I PUT THE KIDS TO
BED.

AROUND MIDNIGHT I STARTED GETTING RENEE READY FOR BED.  EVERYONE ELSE
WAS ASLEEP.

SHE WANTEDA SLEEPING BAG LIKE TIFFANYAND MICHELLE SO I GOT ONE OF MINE
AND PUT IT ON THE FLOOR.  RENEE WAS A LITTLE FUSSY SO I LAID ON THE
FLOOR WITH HER.  SHE CRAWLED ON MY CHEST FOR A LITTLE WHILE THEN SHE
CRAWLED OFF ONTO THE FLOOR.  A LITTLE WHILE LATER SHE WENT TO SLEEP.  I
THINK MICHELLE WAS STILL NOT ASLEEP.  I GOT UP AND WENT TO MY BEDROOM
AND WENT TO SLEEP.  THAT NEXT MORNING TIFFANY CAME TO MY ROOM AND TOLD
ME RENEE HAD SOMETHING COMING OUT OF HER MOUTH.  I GOT UP AND WENT TO
THE LIVING ROOM AND FOUND RENEE.  I KNEW ONCE I PICKED RENEE UP THAT
SHE WAS DEAD.

SHE WAS LYING ON HER STOMACH.  I DO NOT KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO RENEE.  I
WAS THE LAST PERSON TO SEE HER ALIVE AND SHE SEEMED OK TO ME.  I DID
NOT HEAR ANYTHING DURING THE NIGHT.

RENEE IS A VERY HEALTHY CHILD.

DETECTIVE DIETRICH HAS HAND-WRITTEN THIS STATEMENTAND IT IS TRUE AND
CORRECT.

RENEE WAS SICK AROUND NEW YEARS BUT SHE DID NOT SEEM SICK TO ME ON
JANUARY 23, 1994.

It was, the detective thought, as if he were discussing the death of
someone he'd never known.  There had been no tears, no pauses for
composure, not the slightest hint that grief for the loss of his own
child remained.  Sue felt a sudden chill as she read to him what she
had written.

"That's what I remember," he acknowledged.

"I would like for you to read it over yourselfþvery carefullyþ before
you sign it," she said, holding the statement out to him.  "Just to be
sure .  . ."

Assuring Goode that she had everything she needed, Sue Dietrich was
walking toward the door when he asked a question, "Do you have any idea
whether the medical examiner's office is planning to do any more
tests?"

"Not that I know of."

Shane nodded.  "Then when do you think I'll be hearing from State
Farm?"

The question surprised the detective.  At no point in the interview had
she brought up the subject of insurance.  Standing in the doorway, she
measured her answer carefully before replying.  "Mr. Goode," she
said.

"I feel certain you'll be hearing from someone soon."

In the apartment-complex parking lot, Sue sat in her car for some time,
replaying the encounter, wondering if she had accomplished everything
she had hoped.  In truth, her expectations had been guarded, The
primary purpose of her unannounced visit had been to finally get an
up-close look at her suspect.  The new statement shed no additional
light on the investigation except for the fact that Shane had again
admitted that he was the last person to see Renee alive.

It was the two questions he had asked that most excited her.  The man
who had insisted to Annette that he had no insurance on Renee except
for the small policy he'd taken out at work, was now very interested in
when State Farm would be paying him fifty-thousand dollars.

Sitting in the darkness, she mentally inventoried her caseþthe
statements Goode had made immediately following his daughter's death,
the answers he'd given her, the reports, Dr. Anderson's findingsþand a
theory of how the murder was committed began to form.

Short of Shane confessing, it would be impossible to prove, but the
detective suspected that, At some point after all the children had
settled in for the night, after he'd gotten a sleeping bag for Renee
and lain with her, after all the other children were sleeping, he'd
taken the baby into his bedroom and killed her there.  He had then
returned her to the darkened living room, placed her on the sleeping
bag, and taken a shower, probably to wash away the droplets of bloody
froth that had been left on his chest after he had pressed her against
him until she had gone limp and stopped breathing.

And then he had gone to bed to wait for someone else to make the
gruesome discovery.

As she gunned the motor and drove from the parking lot, Sue Dietrich
felt the chill return.  How could anyone do something so terrible, so
inhumane?  So absolutely evil?

Driving toward home, she found herself wondering if Shane Goode had
slept on the night he committed the murder.

The following afternoon Annette once again stood beside her mother as a
Gulf Coast breeze whispered a faint hint of fall across the
Hallettsville City Cemetery.  Joining them were Annette's husband and
daughter.

They listened in silence as a minister read a passage of scripture,
then offered a prayer as Renee's casket was returned to its grave.

I Jeri Yenne's energy and attention to detail greatly impressed Sue
Dietrich.  From the moment the assistant district attorney agreed to
take the case she had immersed herself in it, reviewing case law for
any guidance it might provide, making voluminous notes to remind her of
things that would need to be done months down the line, insisting on
constant updates of even the most trivial events relevant to the
investigation.

Her meticulous planning for the second autopsy was a case in point.

Not only had she been careful to ascertain that all legal paperwork was
in order, she had dispatched a cameraman to videotape the exhumation,
then collected signed affidavits from everyone involvedþcemetery
officials to the police guards she appointed to stand sentry at the
hospitalþto show that the casket had not been opened until Dr. Anderson
had done so.  Yenne had spared no effort to assure the chain of custody
of Renee's body and avert any allegation of tampering.

Now, with the pathologist's ruling that the child's death was, in all
likelihood, the result of a homicide, Yenne had moved into a higher
gear.  Subpoenas were drawn up for everything from Shane Goode's
financial and military records to Renee's medical history.  Yenne
wanted to know everything she possibly could about everyone involved
before presenting the case to a grand jury.

Even that had become an exercise in preplanning, which again forced her
to take the political climate of her office into consideration.  Once
again the "window of opportunity" was critical.  That she had been able
to get the second autopsy was, she knew, the direct result of her
boss's decision not to run for reelection.  Now, with campaigning at
full bore and a new district attorney scheduled to take office in a
matter of months, it was essential that Shane Goode be indicted before
the outgoing Jim Mapel's successor took office and had the opportunity
to review the case, deem it too much of a long shot, and rule against
prosecuting.

The latter, she was convinced, was a real possibility if the attitude
of her fellow workers was any indication.  Several prosecutors with
whom she had tried to discuss the case had simply shaken their heads
and warned her that it appeared she had an uphill battle on her
hands.

Over coffee one morning, she idly mentioned to Ron Helson, an assistant
D.A. whose office was adjacent to hers, that she was having some
problems with the case.  Helson's response had been far from
encouraging.

"Some problems?"  he said.  "Jeri, your case is anorexic."

On the evening before she was to report to the hospital for her
scheduled cesarean section, Yenne sat at her kitchen table until almost
midnight, compiling a list of potential witnesses which she planned to
interview personally in the days to come.

The case, she had promised Sharon and Annette, would go to the grand
jury before 1994 ended.

Dietrich, meanwhile, had been delegated the unenviable task of alerting
the Harris County Medical Examiner's Office to Dr. Anderson's
findings.  I Phoning Dr. Bellas, she quickly explained that she had
been assigned the Goode case and had, during the course of her
investigation, become convinced that the child's death had been caused
by her father.  She related the recent discovery of the insurance
policy, of Shane Goode's financial difficulties, and his previous
boasts to people that he had been trained to kill without leaving any
sign.

"That's all very interesting, Detective," the pathologist replied, "but
I don't see that it concerns me or this office."

"What I was hoping," Sue said, willing herself to maintain a pleasant
voice, "is that you might consider looking at your autopsy report .

again.

There was no hesitation in Dr. Bellas's response, his voice instantly
signaling his displeasure at her suggestion.  "My decision," he said,
"is final."

"I see."

"Is there anything else, Detective?"

Dietrich composed herself, containing the anger that she felt
building.

"Yes, sir," she replied.  "We've had a second autopsy performedþ"
"What?"  Dr.  Bellas's voice jumped several octaves.

"þand I was hoping you might look at the report prepared by the
pathologist whoþ" "No," the doctor said.  "Absolutely not."  He assured
her again that he was quite comfortable with his own findings,
explained that he was very busy, and abruptly ended the conversation.

Within the hour, the M.E."s office's chief investigator Cecil Wingo was
on the phone to Yenne, angrily demanding an explanation of what he
called the "secret autopsy."

The conversation quickly eroded into a shouting matchþYenne futilely
attempting to explain Dr. Anderson's findings and Wingo responding
with outrage over the second-guessing of his officeþbefore it, too,
abruptly ended.

The prosecutor leaned back in her chair, fully aware that the
confrontation she had predicted had now become a full-blown reality.

In a bassinet near Yenne's desk, her four-week-old daughter Samantha
slept peacefully, a tiny smile lighting her face.  Jeri looked down on
her for some time, feeling of sense of calm beginning to slowly
return.

"Well, young lady," she said as she bent to kiss her baby, "the missles
are in the air."

It was essential, Sue Dietrich knew, that some manner of peace be
struck with the medical examiner's office.  While Dr. Anderson's
findings had given forward motion to her case, providing necessary
cause for arrest and now making an indictment likely, Dr. Bellas's
refusal to reconsider could be a major obstacle when the matter went to
trial.

Unless Bellas agreed to reevaluate his own autopsy and acknowledge that
he had failed to perform the crucial procedure that had led to Dr.
Anderson's discovery, the jury would be subjected to little more than a
verbal sparring match between dissenting pathologists.

In all likelihood, Yenne had warned her, the result would be a wash.

Sue determined that she had to persuade Dr. Bellas to review the
results of the second autopsy.  She contacted Cecil Wingo's office and
set up an appointment in hopes that he might help pave the way.

Tom Selleck and the chief investigator were longtime friends,
occasionally riding together with police officers or following along
with Wingo's son, an investigator with the Brazoria County District
Attorney's Office, as he worked cases.  During her marriage to Selleck,
Sue had become casually acquainted with Wingo and judged him an aloof
but reasonable man.

Arriving at the M.E."s office well ahead of the scheduled time of her
appointment, she was informed by a receptionist that Wingo had been
called out of the office because of family illness.  Dietrich then
asked if Dr. Bellas might be available and, after a considerable wait,
was told that he wasn't.  Promising to call and reschedule the
appointment, the detective returned to Alvin, upset that her afternoon
had been wasted.

She had just reached her desk the following morning when a furious Jeri
Yenne phoned.  "Why in the hell didn't you show up?"  she demanded.

"What are you talking about?"

"I just got off the phone with Cecil Wingo and he said you didn't keep
the appointment."

Dietrich responded to Yenne's anger with her own sharp tone.  "I was
there.  I got there early, in fact."  She explained what she had been
told by the receptionist.

The detective could hear the frustration in Yenne's voice as she
responded.  "Make another appointment right away," she urged.  "He said
he'd allow you to come back one more time."

"He'll allow me?"

"Those were his words.  Sue, dammit, do what you have to to make this
work, okay?  We've already got all the enemies we need."

"He's going to allow me to come see him?"

"Just do it," Yenne demanded.

Dietrich called and scheduled another visit to Wingo's office the
following afternoon.

With Dr. Anderson's test results and photographs of the second
examination in hand, she sat in the reception area, waiting to be
called into the investigator's office.  Finally, however, he emerged,
immaculately dressed in suit and tie, not a strand of his thick white
hair out of place.  He closed the door behind him.  "Whatever you have
to say to me, Detective, you can say in the elevator.  I have another
appointment to keep."

Momentarily stunned by the sharpness in his voice, Sue battled to
collect her thoughts.  "What I was hoping," she said, "was to have some
time to sit down and discuss this matter with you.  I'd like for you to
look at some of the material I've brought."

Even as she spoke they were entering the elevator and as the doors slid
closed, Wingo fixed a stare at her.  "You should know," he said, "that
I do not appreciate being stood up when I've made an appointment." 
ist .  . ."

He demonstrated no sign of interest in the folder she carried.

"I was here " Sue tried to argue.  "Check with your reception It was as
if Wingo had not heard her, he focused his attention on the small wall
lights that measured their descent.  Stepping from the elevator into
the lobby, he turned to her.  "You should understand," he said, "that I
am the busiest man in Harris County."

Dietrich stood in the open elevator, her body suddenly shaking with
anger.  The M.E. investigator had almost reached the front door before
she was able to regain some degree of composure.  "Mr. Wingo," she
shouted, waiting for him to look back at her.

When he finally turned, she pointed a finger in his direction.  "I want
you to know that I'm the busiest woman in Brazoria County," she said.

As she drove southward toward Alvin, the scene still playing in her
mind, a new uneasiness swept over her.  Despite the subtle warnings
she'd repeatedly heard from Jeri, Sue had not been willing to accept
the fact that the Harris County Medical Examiner's office would react
with such hostility to having its judgment called into question .

And she found herself wondering if the Brazoria County D.A."s office
and her own department would maintain the strength and committment that
would be demanded of the fight that lay ahead.

Later that evening, as she spoke with Yenne, the troubling doubts were
erased.  With or without the Harris County M.E."s office, Jeri said,
the case would move forward.  "Beyond that," she added, "I can't
guarantee you but one other thing."

"What's that?"  Sue wanted to know.

"You'll not speak with anyone in the M.E."s office again unless I'm
there with you.  Understand?"

Yenne said that she would call and set up another meeting.

"Would you do me one favor?"  Sue responded.  "Ask the asshole if it
could be held somewhere other than in an elevator."

It was the sound of Yenne's booming laughter that finally lifted the
detective's sagging spirits.

Few, in truth, knew how badly Sue Dietrich's spirits needed lifting.

The investigation, even with its frustrations, provided her a badly
needed respite from the ever-present awareness that her mother would
soon die of the cancer that had spread throughout her body.

Though instinctively aware that their daughter carefully omitted any
mention of the dangers related to her job, Marie and Dutch Coker
enjoyed hearing Sue talk about her cases.  Dutch made no secret of the
pride he felt for her accomplishments, always quick to brag to cronies
when she received a promotion or citation.  Marie was less outspoken
but no less pleased that her child had grown into a woman of great
strength and purpose.

Now, however, that strength was being tested as Sue searched with
little success for ways to comfort her ailing mother during her final
days.  By early November, doctors had told the detective that the end
could come at any time.

At night, Sue would lie in bed beside her frail mother and they would
talkþof past times remembered, of what Heaven might be like, and of the
case she was involved in.  Marie had been particularly interested in
her daughter's investigation into Renee Goode's death.

"How could someone be so evil?"  she asked one evening, as they lay
together in the darkness of the bedroom.  "I just can't understand
things like that."

"Neither can I, Mama," Sue admitted.

"It must be so very hard for you."  Marie gently moved her hand to her
daughter's face, still the comforter despite her own pain.

They had also begun to speak openly about death.  One evening Sue had
asked what music her mother would like played at her funeral.  "It
probably isn't something that your daddy will approve of," Marie said,
"but I've always been a fan of Elvis Presley.  He had such a wonderful
voice.  Have them play Love Me Tender."  That was always my
favorite."

In the darkness, Sue smiled.  "Consider it done."

"And I want you to promise me something else," her mother said.  "Don't
give up on the case you're working on.  It's important to a lot of
people."

Sue lay quietly for several minutes, silent tears warming her cheeks.

"Mama," she finally said, "when you get to Heaven, will you tell Renee
that we're going to make things right?"

"I'll take care of Renee," she heard her mother whisper.

It was the last conversation Sue Dietrich had with her mother.  The
following day, Marie Coker lapsed into a coma.

Almost three weeks would pass before the detective found herself once
again driving toward the Jachimczyk Forensic Center, this time with
Jeri Yenne seated next to her.

At the D.A."s request, Dr. Anderson had forwarded copies of the tissue
slides from his autopsy to the Harris County officials and Yenne had
resisted the urge to schedule another meeting until she felt they had
had ample time to study the new findings.

Her patience accomplished nothing.

Seated in a large conference room, outlining the same evidence and
suspicions that Sue had attempted to offer, Yenne realized in the first
few minutes of the meeting that her arguments were falling on deaf
ears.

Wingo and Dr.  Bellas made little effort to hide their impatience.

Sue remained silent until Wingo responded to one of Yenne's
observations by again comparing Renee's death to that of a Filipino
child who had died suddenly after exposure to dust mites.  Dietrich
laughed aloud and was still shaking her head in disgust when Yenne
delivered a swift, under-the-table kick to her shin.

Wingo glared at the detective, then turned to Yenne.  "We have looked
at the tissue samples and do not agree with Dr. Anderson's diagnosis,"
he said.  "That's our final word."

Dr.  Bellas silently nodded his agreement.

Dietrich saw no reason to abide by Yenne's instructions that she keep
her emotions in check and her mouth shut.  "Gentlemen," she spat, "this
sounds like nothing but damage control to me."

With that, the two men rose in unison and began to walk from the
room.

As he reached the door, Wingo turned to the D.A. "Jeri," he said, "do
you really need to bring in another doctor?"

"Yes, I do."

Wingo shook his head.  "I really hate to see you embarrassed."

If their intent had been to discourage prosecution of the case, the
effort had been of no avail.  In time, Yenne knew, she would revisit
the issue of the autopsy.  For now, however, she would turn her efforts
toward getting a grand jury indictment against Michael Shane Goode.

As they wound through the Houston traffic, Yenne asked Sue to pull into
a shopping center parking lot.  Hurrying into a Kmart, she purchased a
large package of M&M's.  The coated chocolates, she admitted, were her
greatest weakness in times of stress.

"The ol' post-pregnancy diet will just have to wait a while," she said
as she ripped the top from the bag.

An occasional M&M hinge aside, Yenne seemed to be handling the building
pressures well, focusing on such matters as piecing together a profile
of the man she hoped to face in a courtroom one day soon.  At times she
felt she was reviewing the life of two people.

Shane's National Guard records, for instance, showed him to be a model
soldier.  On the other hand, his financial life was a disaster.

Sharon's son, Steven, had written from prison to admit his role in the
car-insurance scam and was willing to testify about the plot he claimed
Shane had devised.

At the same time, word was getting back to the D.A. that Goode's fellow
workers had quickly rallied around him, eager to list a variety of
reasons why he could not possibly have had any involvement in the death
of his daughter.  There were even rumors of a defense fund being
collected.

Then there was the growing office talk about the case.  Fellow
prosecutors, perplexed by Yenne's intensity, expressed doubts that it
should even be presented to a grand jury.  It was the still undecided
grand jury date which was causing Jeri to feel the greatest amount of
stressþand, ironically, the pressure was coming not from her detractors
but from the few allies she had.

A year had passed since Renee's death, and Annette and Sharon were
growing impatient.  So, for that matter, was Detective Dietrich.  Once
Dr. Anderson had found evidence of homicide, Annette and Sharon
assumed the indictment and arrest of Goode would quickly follow.  They
had been understanding of the delay caused by the recovery period Yenne
needed following the birth of her child, and they knew that it took
time for Dr. Anderson's written report to be completed.  They were in
agreement with the need to gather documentation from the insurance
company which had issued the policy on Renee.

Still, Yenne had continued to delay, hoping that a less acrimonious
relationship with the medical examiner's office might be established
before she moved ahead.  "That's not going to happen," Dietrich had
repeatedly argued, "so let's get on with our business."

An attempt to assure Annette and Sharon that progress was being made
turned into a disaster.

While Tom Selleck had not yet become actively involved in the case,
Yenne urged that he meet with the victim's mother and grandmother.

Seeing that the county's best prosecutor was assigned to try the case
would, Yenne hoped, offer them some comfort, and perhaps reduce the
constant stream of phone calls she was receiving from Sharon.

From the moment Sharon walked into the conference room with her now
bulging file on the case, things had gone badly.  Every mention of
investigative work she had conducted drew Selleck's wrath.  She should
not, he said, be contacting the National Guard in an effort to track
Shane Goode's whereabouts when he was off at training camp.  It was not
her job to talk with people like Sunny Bradley in an effort to gather
background information on the suspect.  Who had authorized her to visit
the courthouse and seek out old records of Goode's divorce from his
first wife?  Or to make calls to the M.E."s office?

"From now on," he said, "I don't want you contacting anyone regarding
this case.  It isn't your job, understand?"

Yenne, taken aback by the adversarial stance Selleck had taken, felt
she should say something, should make him aware of the fact it had been
Sharon who had provided virtually every worthwhile piece of information
related to the case, but chose to wait until another time.  For the
victim's family to see that there was friction between the prosecutors
handling their case would only worsen matters.

Stunned, Sharon held her anger in check as Selleck's tirade ended.  "I
understand," she said.

On that note the meeting had ended.  It was time, Yenne decided, to
check the calendar of the Brazoria County grand jury.

At five o'clock on the morning of December 7, a patrolman from the
Alvin Police Department arrived at the Meadowview home of Donald and
Carolyn Goode with subpoenas.  The summons stated that they were to
report to the Brazoria County courthouse in Angleton by 9,00 A.M.
There, the presentation Yenne had finally decided on would be a
concise, streamlined review of the case.

Rather than have Dr. Anderson make another trip to Texas, she would
offer a review of his findings of blunt force trauma and his opinion
that Renee Goode's death was the result of a homicide.  That done, she
would put Shane's father and stepmother on the stand and ask them a
series of questions that would provide jurors a picture of the events
in their home before and after Renee's death.  Finally, it would be
Detective Dietrich's responsibility to explain the financial motive
that had led to the murder.

The entire process took less than four hours.  As Sue was leaving the
grandjury room, she was surprised when the foreman asked that she not
immediately return to Alvin.  "Detective," he asked, "would you mind
waiting outside in the hall for just a few minutes?"

Normally, the grand jury hears a lengthy list of cases throughout the
morning and into the afternoon before discussing their dispositions and
announcing the panel's findings to the prosecutors.  Thus neither
Dietrich nor Yenne had expected a decision on the Goode case until late
in the day.

Yenne, however, was smiling broadly as she joined the detective in the
hallway.  "They said they want to vote right away," she explained,
relaying the message given her by the foreman.  Then she offered her
own observation, "They want you to leave the courthouse with the
indictment in your hand."  The prosecutor clinched her fist in a quick
gesture of triumph.  "Sue," she said, "this has never happened
before."

Clearly, those seated on the grand jury were eager for the arrest of
Michael Shane Goode to take place.  In a matter of minutes they
unanimously agreed that the evidence presented was sufficient to
warrant an indictment.

Before noon, Detective Dietrich was en route back to the Alvin Police
Department as Jeri Yenne returned to her office where an anxious Sharon
Couch awaited the news.

As she pulled into the parking lot behind the police station, Sue saw
Bodie Duckworth walking toward his pickup.  After rolling down her
window and calling his name, she got out of her car and hurried in his
direction.  The two detectives had seen little of each other since his
assignment to the narcotics task force and had not discussed the Goode
case since Sue had taken it over.  Still, she felt he should be among
the first to know about the indictment.

"Let's go pick him up," she said.  "We don't need a uniform.  Just
us.

We'll flip to see who gets to put the handcuffs on him."

Duckworth's only response was to shake his head and say, "No thanks.

It's your case."

"Dammit, Bodie, it's our case," she tried to argue, but he had already
turned and was walking away.

Sue shrugged and went inside to pass the news of the grand jury's quick
decision along to Chief Merkel and Sergeant Arendell.  "Pick him up,"
the chief said.  He suggested that she have Detective Carol Atkins, who
had worked as her partner on previous cases, and Bobby Taylor, a
uniformed officer, go with her.

The youthful Taylor was particularly pleased with the assignment.  As
they walked toward the squad car, he made no attempt to disguise his
excitement.  "You going to let me handcuff him?"  he asked Die trich.

Sue smiled.  "Yes.  I'll read him his rights and you cuff him."

The adrenaline rush that accompanies an arrest swept over the detective
when she saw Shane's pickup in the parking lot.  But it disappeared
just as quickly when there was no response to a series of knocks at his
apartment door.  Suddenly she was struck by a cold jolt of concern that
he might have fled.  His parents had no doubt alerted him to their
morning visit to the grand jury.

A phone call to the post office revealed that he had taken the day off
to keep a doctor's appointment.  He had, Sue was told, injured his back
while lifting weights.

Locating a Houston police officer who worked security in the complex,
the detective showed him the felony arrest warrant she was carrying and
asked if he would use a passkey to open the door to Goode's
apartment.

Inside, there was no sign of Shane or any indication that he had left
in a hurry.  It was only when Patrolman Taylor called her into the
bedroom that Dietrich saw anything that looked out of place.  As she
walked through the door, Taylor was pointing down at a ninemillimeter
handgun that lay in the middle of the neatly made bed.  Dietrich
silently picked it up, unloaded it, and returned it to its place.

"Let's wait for him outside," she said as she lay the bullets on a
nearby dresser.

The security officer joined them on the curb of the parking lot,
curious about what Goode was being charged with.  "Hey, I know the
guy," he said.  "We used to be in the same Guard battalion."

Now it was Dietrich's turn to become curious.  "The word we hear," she
offered, "is that he's had a lot of specialized training,
guerrilla-action stuff, hand-to-hand combat .  . . knows how to kill an
enemy without leaving a mark."

The security officer was laughing before she could complete Goode's
resume.  "You're talking about this Shane Goode?"  he said, pointing
back in the direction of the apartment door.  "No way.  Hell, he's
always been just a plain ol' radio man.  Lugs the radio equipment
around in a backpack on maneuvers."

Another two hours slowly passed before Sue recognized Donald Goode's
car as it entered the gateway and wound toward the parking lot.  In the
passenger seat was Shane.

As Goode stepped from the car, dressed in jeans and a National Guard
T-shirt, Officer Taylor quickly approached and ordered him to turn
around and place his hands atop the hood.  "You're under arrest for
capital murder," he said.  As he arranged Goode's arms behind his back
and began snapping the handcuffs in place, Dietrich recited the Miranda
warning.

Shane's father, who had accompanied him to the doctor, looked on in
stunned silence.  In time he turned to Detective Dietrich and, with
fury in his voice, finally spoke, "You sorry motherfucker," he
yelled.

"Sir," she replied, "we'll be taking your son to Pearland where he'll
be arraigned by a Justice of the Peace, then he'll be transported to
the Alvin Police Department.  If you have any questions, you can call
me there later this evening."

As they drove toward Pearland, a bedroom community on the northern edge
of Brazoria County, Shane said nothing.  It had, in fact, been his
silence during the arrest in the apartment parking lot which Dietrich
had found most interesting.  When informed of the charges, he had shown
no sign of surprise.  Nor had there been the usual response of outrage
and denial.  If anything, the detective thought, Shane Goode had seemed
to be strangely relieved.

By the time the arraignment was completed and the prisoner transported
to Alvin, the media was out in full force.  Camera crews from Houston
television stations were set up in the parking lot adjacent to the
police station.  A group of newspaper reporters, armed with tape
recorders and notebooks, talked among themselves.  Several
photographers pondered the best vantage points from which they might
get a photo of the man being brought in.

Though not really surprised that the media had been alerted to Goode's
arrest, Sue Dietrich rolled her eyes as they turned into the parking
lot.

Her investigation, once conducted so quietly, almost in secret, was
about to become what the reporters at the Houston Chronicle and anchors
on the six-o'clock news liked to refer to as "high profile."

It was after the reporters had finally left to meet their deadlines
that Detective Dietrich had Goode removed from his holding cell and
escorted to an interview room.  For several minutes she silently
studied the figure seated across from her, his hands folded atop the
table.  She waited for him to make eye contact, then gave up and again
read him his rights.

"Shane," she said, "do you want to talk about why you've been
arrested?"

Goode slowly lifted his head and stared for a moment at the detective,
his eyes giving no hint of the concern or fear common to most prisoners
she'd interviewed during her career.

"No," he replied.  "I think I need my lawyer."

Six n Like many prosecutors of his status, Brazoria County assistant
D.A. Tom Selleck viewed time management as one of the most vital
aspects of his job.  Juggling as many as a half dozen cases at one
time, he saw his role as that of a delegator and advisor during their
early stages.

Investigators were assigned to gather evidence and subordinate A.D.A.s
tended the task of filing routine motions and making pretrial court
appearances.

Only when the trial date neared would he submerge himself in the case,
locked away from the outside world in the weeks before he would be
required to stand before a jury to deliver a sharp, well-defined
opening argument.  During those days of intense preparation Selleck
would take no calls, sleep sparingly, and literally memorize even the
most minute points of the case he was assigned to prosecute.

It was a style which earned him little favor from the office's
investigators, who found themselves on-call around the clock as Selleck
always discovered last-minute questions which demanded immediate
answers.  His method was much like that of a college student cramming
for a critical examþand he wanted everyone taking the course to help
him prepare.

There was little room to argue his methods.  Selleck went to trial
prepared and polished.  And he rarely lost.

Aside from occasional hallway briefings from Yenne on the progress of
the investigation and the one less-than-pleasant meeting with the
victim's family, Selleck had paid the case little mind until the
indictment and arrest.

Now, two months into the new year, a trial was imminent and his
interest had grown.  Sitting in the office of newly elected District
Attorney Jerome Aldrich with Yenne at his side, it was time to make a
critical decision, Would they seek the death penalty for Shane
Goodeþwhich a capital murder charge entitled them to doþor request that
a jury sentence him to life in prison if convicted?

If the prosecutors asked that Goode be executed by lethal injection for
his crime, they would be obligated to not only convince a jury of his
guilt but to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that he represented a
continuing threat to society if allowed to live.  With little proof of
serious criminal behavior in Goode's background, no previous felonies
committed or prison time served, it would be difficult.

On the other hand, even the most unsophisticated juror would know that
a life sentence was, under Texas law, a misnomer, and that at some
point in the futureþtwelve years on the averageþGoode, if convicted,
would likely be paroled.  Historically, jurors were quick to criticize
the legal system for allowing such a thing, yet were far more likely to
vote for a conviction if spared the concern of blood on their own
hands.

It was what most prosecuting attorneys would call a no-brainer.  In the
matter of the State of Texas vs.  Michael Shane Goode, the maximum
penalty they would seek was a life sentence.

In keeping with a long-standing tradition of the office, Aldrich
instructed the prosecutors to make the family of the victim aware of
the decision.  Such a choice, he knew, was rarely popular with those
who had suffered the loss of a loved one.  Almost without exception,
they were satisfied with nothing less than the Biblical eye-for-an-eye
brand of justice.  Even the most detailed explanation of the quirks and
demands of the law would not convince them otherwise.

Still, Aldrich reasoned, the sooner they knew, the more quickly they
could come to grips with what would transpire in the days to come.

Jeri Yenne dreaded the call she was assigned to make.  Since the
arrest, a steady stream of letters had been arriving at her office from
members of organizations like Justice for All and Survivors of Homicide
Victims, all urging the death penalty for Shane Goode.  She was
reasonably sure that the campaign had been set in motion by Sharon
Couch.

Seated at the end of a long, polished table in the D.A."s conference
room, Selleck looked across at the two women who had arrived for the
Friday morning meeting.  He surpressed a frown at the everpresent bound
file which Sharon Couch, seated next to Annette, had again brought with
her.

He explained that they were hoping to go to trial sometime in April and
that he would be the lead prosecutor with Jeri serving as his
cocounsel.

"We've discussed the case at length," he said, "and have come to the
conclusion that asking for the death penalty is not in the best
interestþ" Sharon leaned forward.  "But it's a capital murder case,"
she argued.

"One that has a lot of problems," Selleck replied.  "We've got no
witness, no physical evidence directly linking the accused to the
crime, and conflicting autopsy reports.  To seek the death penalty
would be suicide in this case."

Sharon made no effort to hide her outrage.  "If there had been blood
spattered all over the walls .  . . if you had some horrible crime
scene photos you could flash around .  . . you would damn sure be
asking for the death penalty, right?"  Before Selleck could respond,
she added, ".

. . but because it looks as if Renee just went peacefully to sleep, you
won't do it.  And that's not right.  It's your job to do something
about what was done to her."

Bristling, Selleck responded.  "My job," he said, "is to get a
conviction."

Sharon turned frantically to Yenne in hope of support.  Jeri knew the
horrid details of the case, she knew the dark evil that had caused
Renee's death, as a mother, she could understand the suffering which
Annette had endured.

Annette sat silently, observing the confrontation.

At first, Yenne had been somewhat surprised by what she perceived as a
lack of interest in the case from Annette.  Only as Jeri had gotten to
know her and Sharon better did she understand.  Still grieving and
filled with anger, Annette was having great difficulty coping with
Renee's death.  Sharon Couch was the strength her daughter leaned on.

"We've all talked about this," Jeri finally said, "and have agreed it
is the best thing to do.  Sharon, I know that Shane Goode is guilty as
hell and I want us to win this case.  And the best chance we have of
doing so is by not seeking the death penalty.  I'm in full agreement
with Tom."

Staring down at her silent daughter's trembling hands, Sharon inhaled
deeply in an attempt to regain her composure.  Placing a reassuring arm
over Annette's shoulder, she looked across the table at Jeri.  "You
realize," she said, "this isn't going to be a popular decision."

"I know, Sharon, but it is the only way we're going to win this
case."

Tom Selleck was already walking toward the door as she spoke.

It did not take long for the full force of Sharon's disapointment to
become public.  With the help of P. G. Walls, she had called a press
conference just hours after leaving the D.A."s office and had lashed
out at the decision.

On Saturday morning, as Yenne sat on her back porch, holding her
daughter and preparing to read the Houston Chronicle, her eyes were
immediately drawn to a headline near the bottom of the front page.  It
read, "Kin angry death penalty not sought in tot's death."

"I feel we've let Renee down by not even trying to get the death
penalty," Sharon had said.  "I believe any person convicted of killing
his child deserves the death penalty."

The reporter under whose byline the article appeared had also contacted
Houston attorney Skip Cornelius, who had been retained to represent
Shane Goode.  "The case," he was quoted as saying, "is about as weak a
murder allegation as I've seen in twenty-three years of practicing
law."

For several minutes Jeri sat staring at the article, her attention
moving from the text to the side-by-side photographs of Shane and his
murdered daughter.  For the first time she felt a rush of anger
directed at Sharon.  And a very real sense of betrayal.  Don't you know
I'm the only person in the whole damn D.A."s ofJice who cares about
your murdered granddaughter?  she thought.  Don't you know that it is
going to be hard enough without you screwing things up and pissing
everybody off?"

Picking up the portable phone that lay on a chair near her, Yenne
dialed Selleck.  "Have you read the paper yet?"  she asked.

The stream of profanity he quickly unleashed was indication that indeed
he had.

What troubled Yenne most on that disrupted Saturday morning, however,
was not her own anger or even Selleck's vocal disapproval of Sharon
Couch.  Rather, it was the attitude she sensed Tom was developing
toward the case itself.  As much as she had hoped it might happen, none
of her own passion had rubbed off on the man now assigned to serve as
the lead prosecutor.

Already, in fact, he had drawn a hard line where the Harris County
M.E."s office was concerned.  When Yenne had informed him that Dr.
Bellas was unbending in his refusal to reconsider Renee's cause of
death, she had mentioned the possibility that the case would be viewed
by some as an attack on the M.E."s office.  "We're not taking them
on," Tom had said.  "I'm not putting Dr. Bellas or the M.E."s office
on trial.  There's no way in hell that I'm going to jeopardize all the
other murder cases we've got over this one.

"Shit, Jeri," he observed before ending their conversation, "we're
going to have a hard time even proving there was a homicide, much less
explaining who the hell did it."

He had, she thought, seemed more agitated than she could ever remember
him being.

Sharon did not help matters when, a few weeks later, she telephoned to
tell Selleck that she had just spoken with Dr. Bellas.  "There is no
way he is going to agree with Dr.  Anderson's findings," she said.

"Why the hell were you calling him?"

Immediately defensive, Sharon replied, "Because I want to know where we
are on this thing.  I want to know what you think about getting another
pathologist to look at both Bellas's and Anderson's findings and see
what he thinks.  If he agrees with Dr. Anderson, you could use his
testimony."

Selleck was livid.  "And if he agrees with Dr. Bellas we just tell him
to go quietly away and keep his mouth shut?  Do you know what the
penalty is for manipulating evidence?

"I thought you promised me you were going to stay out of this.  Didn't
we have an agreement?"

The silence on the other end of the line only seemed to irritate him
more.  "The fact of the matter is," he said, "you don't know
everything."

"You're right," Sharon acidly replied.  "And that's what scares the
hell out of me.  And it should concern you even more."

The conversation quickly degenerated into a shouting matchþ Selleck
reminding Sharon that she had no law degree, Sharon responding by
asking if all women angered him to this degree.  "Maybe," Selleck said,
"I should just withdraw from this case and let some other prosecutor
try to keep you under control."

Perhaps, Sharon thought, that wasn't such a bad idea.

For Yenne, the role of referee was becoming unbearable.  She could
understand Sharon's fierce determination to see the case move forward,
yet at the same time she shared some of Selleck's frustration at the
hands-on involvement she constantly demanded.

Keeping the two from each other's throats was vital, Jeri felt, but she
could see no way to accomplish such a feat.  Talking with Sue Dietrich
about the problem was little help.

Calling the detective to relate the latest verbal slugfest between
Sharon and Tom, Yenne said, "Sharon's running amok again."

Sue had only laughed, leaving no doubt as to whose side she was on.

"Sharon Amok," she said.  "I like that."

The new nickname privately shared between the prosecutor and the
detective would remain.

So would Sharon's determination.  Little time passed before she was on
the phone to Yenne, relating Selleck's threat to remove himself from
the case.  "I don't think he believes he can win this case," she said,
"so I'm going to call Jerome Aldrich and ask him to assign a special
prosecutor."  She was talking rapidly, her voice high-pitched.

"Sharon, wait a minute."

"Jeri, it has nothing to do with you," she continued.  "I want you
involved.  I appreciate everything you've done so far.  But if Tom
Selleck doesn't have the balls to stick with it, I damn sure don't need
him."

"We do need him, Sharon.  Believe me.  Despite whatever differences you
might have with Tom, it is important that you understand that he is
very good at what he does.  He's a great trial lawyer, I assure you.

Don't do anything until you hear back from me, okay?"

The following Monday morning, Yenne phoned Sharon to tell her that
Selleck had assured her he would not be excusing himself from the
case.

What she did not mention were the steadily growing office rumors that
the new district attorney and Selleck were at odds.  Tension had arisen
over Tom having made decisions related to the deposition of cases
without first consulting Aldrich.

Sharon Couch, it appeared, was not the only one unhappy with the way
things had been going lately.

Stw QlF Within Houston legal circles, Skip Cornelius is considered
among the elite of criminal defense attorneys.  Though he lacked the
high-profile visibility of Racehorse Haynes or the DeGeurin brothers,
Mike and Dick, his reputation as a gifted lawyer with a persuasive
courtroom style was well earned.  Like most, he had first made his mark
as a hard-driving prosecutor in the Harris County District Attorney's
office before the prospect of six-figure fees lured him into private
practice.

In the days immediately following his son's indictment and arrest,
Donald Goode had heard Cornelius's name often as he searched for a
lawyer.  Cornelius was expensive, he was told, but an excellent
attorney, thus, Goode borrowed from his retirement fund and took out a
second lien on his home in order to make the financial arrangements
necessary to retain him.

In his twenty years of legal experience, Cornelius had never seen a
case with less hard evidence taken to a grand jury.  And, in the months
preceding his client's scheduled April trial date, he would also come
to admit that he'd encountered few prosecutors with more tenacity than
the woman in the Brazoria County D.A."s office who was preparing the
case.

Jeri Yenne, he quickly found out, was not only a stickler for detail
but held religiously to the rules of discovery.  Routinely, Federal Express packages arrived at Cornelius's Houston office bearing copies of
Shane Goode's bank records, canceled checks, and military records.

There was documentation of every doctor's visit Renee Goode had made in
her short life, paperwork detailing the court-ordered child support his
client had been required to pay, and a witness list that constantly
underwent revision and addition.

Finally, Skip had telephoned Yenne to good-naturedly suggest to her
that he had only limited cabinet space in his office and her almost
daily mailings were taking up much of it.

The conversation did little to slow the flow of paperwork.  Clearly,
the prosecutor attached significance to minute discoveries which
Cornelius seriously doubted would advance her case at all.  The fact,
for instance, that Shane had failed to mention Renee on any of the
family histories he'd filled out for his National Guard records
interested Yenne far more than it did the defense attorney.  Such
oversight, Cornelius was convinced, hardly offered proof that Shane
Goode was a murderer.

For Yenne, however, preparing a case for trialþparticularly if it
lacked the conveniences of a smoking gun or eye witness or signed
confessionþwas like piecing together a box puzzle.  One never knew
until it was finally assembled what small portion might make the
picture whole.

In addition to subpoenas for paperwork, she ivelieved strongly in
developing a firsthand relationship with those who might eventually
take the stand as witnesses.  "I've never felt comfortable," she
explained to Sue Dietrich, "meeting someone I'm going to ask important
questions just minutes before they take the stand."

Thus, as the time neared for Goode's trial, she took to the road,
sometimes working late into the evening.  At home, Bill Yenne would
often answer a late-evening phone call with a response that became
something of a running joke.  "Where are you now?"  he would ask,
instead of answering with the standard "hello."

Such calls had come from Houston, where his wife waited patiently for
Donald Goode to report for his night-shift duties at the post office,
or from the living rooms of those named on her witness list.  Aware of
the dedication his wife attached to her job and comforted by the
knowledge that John Blankenship, an investigator with the D.A."s
office, accompanied her, Bill Yenne summoned patience and only warned
that she be careful.  And with that, he would return to his
responsibility of watching over the children until she arrived home.

There would be times when it was almost midnight before she would
silently tiptoe into her children's rooms to kiss them goodnight and
whisper an apology for not having been there to tuck them into bed.

"Just bear with me," she pleaded with her husband.  "It will be over
soon."

Even a broken toe, suffered when she tripped over her infant daughter's
car seat in a darkened hallway, failed to slow her.  While still on
crutches, she and Tom Selleck traveled to Orlando to meet with Dr.
Anderson and review his findings and the testimony he would offer.

Bill Yenne had never seen his wife so consumed by a single case.

Weekends, generally reserved for backyard barbecues and leisure time
with her family, had become long workdays.

Sitting on the patio, silently watching as his wife sipped from a cup
of coffee cradled in her palms and enjoyed the warmth of an early
morning sun, Bill Yenne made no mention of his concern for the weary
look on Jeri's face.

Later in the day, Jeri Yenne and Skip Cornelius would be flying to
Dallas where Cornelius was scheduled to meet with one of his expert
witnesses, Dr. Charles Petty, former head of the Southwest Forensic
Laboratory.  Cornelius wanted Dr. Petty to review the forensic
evidence in the case and had requested that the tissue slides from both
autopsies be sent to his office.

Making no effort to disclose her knowledge of the hostility that Petty
felt toward Linda Norton, Jeri had innocently explained her reluctance
to turn over the slides as a fear they might somehow be lost.  She
suggested to Cornelius that his witness would be more than welcome to
visit Dr. Norton's office, which was just a few miles away, and
conduct his review there.  Cornelius had been surprised when the
elderly Petty flatly refused what had sounded like a convenient and
logical accommodation.

Yenne, expressing mock surprise at Petty's stance, had then offered a
solution, She would accompany Cornelius on the trip, they could go by
Dr. Norton's office to pick up the material, then take it to Dr.
Petty.

Her presence, she said, would satisfy her concerns over custody of what
she felt was the most important hard evidence she had to offer a
jury.

She made no mention of the fact that it would give her a rare
opportunity to get a read on a key defense witness .

She had been pleasantly surprised when Cornelius quickly agreed to her
suggestion.  Still, she was not looking forward to spending so much
time in the presence of the lawyer she would soon face in the
courtroom.

"I'm getting really tired of him treating me like I'm some nice little
lady who doesn't know her ass from third base," she told her husband as
she rose to prepare for the trip.  "I hate the way he talks to me like
I'm some misguided little girl.  Damn, I hate it."

Bill smiled at his wife's indignationþand the colorful language that
rarely emerged except when she was in the midst of preparing a
particularly difficult case.

Before his retirement, Dr. Charles Petty had spent over two decades as
the chief medical examiner of Dallas County, commanding a reputation as
one of the premier pathologists in the nation.  Born in Montana and
educated at Harvard Medical School, he had overseen thirteen thousand
autopsies during his lengthy career.

As important as his medical credentials were to any defense lawyer, it
was Petty's courtly manner that had made him such a soughtafter
witness.

No juror would ever see the ego that examining-room colleagues kn.ew
all too well.  Rather, juries saw a gentle, gray-haired man who smiled
often and spoke in a pleasant voice that conveyed reassurance and
wisdom.  Dr. Petty was, if nothing else, a real charmer when he wished
to be.

Though she knew him only by reputation, Jeri Yenne had been concerned
about his appearance since receiving a phone call from Dr. Norton,
alerting her that there were rumors afoot that he might testify for the
defense.  "If he does," Dr. Norton had warned, "don't try to go after
him on cross-examination.  The man knows more about pathology than the
rest of us put together.  He's brilliantþand terrific on the witness
stand.  He can eat you alive, smiling the whole time he's doing it."

Yenne saw little of Petty's charm as they met in his office.  She and
Cornelius had picked up the slides from Dr. Norton and made the
twenty-minute drive to Petty's office.  There, they had waited while
Petty first read the autopsy reports, then viewed the slides under his
microscope.

Finally, he lifted his head, removed his horn-rimmed glasses, and
spoke.  "This is nothing more than a bunch of folderol if you ask
me."

Looking at Cornelius, he said, "I have reviewed the three items you
asked me to, and I am in complete agreement with Dr. Bellas.  I see
nothing here that can tell me how the little girl died."

With that, he turned to Yenne with a slight smile.  "Ma'am, do you have
any questions?"

Taken aback momentarily by the unexpected opportunity, the assistant
district attorney waited several seconds before responding.  "Just
one," she finally said.  "Have you had an opportunity to look at the
exhumation photos taken by Dr.  Anderson?"

"No," he replied, "they weren't among the items I was asked to
review."

"Thank you, Dr. Petty," Yenne said, concluding with a businesslike
handshake.  Another question was racing through her mind as they
prepared to leave but she dared not ask it.  There would be time for
that later, when a jury could hear his answer.

Why, she wondered, would a man with a reputation for great thoroughness
and caution render an opinion after looking at only three of the
fourteen pieces of forensic evidence that she planned to present during
trial?

Her speculation was that Cornelius, confident that her case was without
merit, had not felt it important to bother his witness with unnecessary
clutter.

"You realize what he has to say is going to be quite damaging to your
case," Cornelius said as their plane climbed above Dallas's Love Field
and set its course for the forty-five minute flight back to Houston.

Yenne did not bother to look up from the in-flight magazine she'd been
idly flipping through.  "He said exactly what I'd expected him to say,"
she replied.

Cornelius could not help but admire her stubborn determination.

If nothing else, she had convinced him of something he'd have given
odds against when he was first hired by Donald Goode.  There remained
absolutely no doubt that they would go to trial, regardless of the
insurmountable weaknesses he perceived in her case.

"Look," he said, "we're both mature adults.  We both know the altho
rnllr SifrPrPnro ic 1SVP hPPn Sn,nO fhicf Irsnoor fh in vrll "So, I
want you to keep one thing in mind.  If you're going to be a trial
lawyer, you have to be ready to accept the fact that someone wins and
someone loses.  No bargains.  All deals go out the window.  It's all or
nothing once you take a case into the courtroom.  If you can't accept
that, you have no business being a trial lawyer."

He was, she felt, already consoling her.  "I agree with you
completely," she replied.  There was a brief pause before she lifted
her eyes from the magazine.  "The reason this one is going to trial is
because I have no doubts that your client is guilty."

Cornelius rolled his eyes.  The woman seated next to him was
perplexing.

"Jeri," he argued, "you're going to have a big problem even proving
that there was a homicide.  And if you get over that hurdle, how are
you going to prove it was my client who did it?"  With that, he paused
briefly, then added, "And I'm not saying my client did anything."

"I guess," Yenne responded, "that will be my problem to deal with.  All
I know for certain at this point is that your client is a stone-cold
baby killer and that what I'm doing is right."

For the remainder of the trip they sat in silence, both aware that
their relationship was doomed to fall far shy of any kind of
friendship.

It was not until they began their descent that Cornelius spoke again.

"You know," he said, "years ago, when I was still a prosecutor, I had
this rape case that I got very emotionally involved in.  The victim was
a woman with a long history of mental instability.  She'd had delusions
of being raped on a number of occasions when, in fact, nothing of the
sort had happened.  But this time, it had happened.  She had been
raped.

I knew it.  And I knew that the man we were trying was guilty as
hell.

Everyone in my office told me that as soon as the woman's mental
background came out my case was lost.  And, you know, I figured they
were right.  But I put my case on anyway, hoping for a little divine
intervention, all the while assuming that the jury would walk the
guy.

"But you know what?  The jury happened to believe my woman's story and
came back with a guilty verdict."

Cornelius did not even look in Yenne's direction as he spoke.  Now it
was her watching him, keenly aware that his sudden reflection had not
been the least boastful.  Though not sure of his reason, she sensed
that he had told it more for his own benefit than hers.

Cornelius's mood quickly lightened and the smile returned to his
face.

"So," he concluded, "if you're rightþand I'm certainly not saying that
you areþmaybe God will do something like that for you."

It was an observation Jeri Yenne pondered for days afterward.  Looking
back on it, she found herself wishing that she'd confided to Cornelius
something she'd told no one.

She had, since the day she took the case, been regularly seeking
counsel of a higher power.

Among the most difficult jobs Yenne assigned herself was that of
interviewing the other children who had been in the Goode home on the
night of Renee's death.  Her years of investigating child-abuse cases
had provided her ample experience for such a task, but it had never
gotten any easier.  The idea that an innocent child had to be dragged
into the legal process grated on the prosecutor.

Still, despite the fact that Detective Dietrich had already provided
her with the children's statements, Jeri felt obligated to speak with
them herself.

Sitting in Kaye Goode's home, talking with Tiffany, Yenne was quickly
convinced that the young girl loved her father deeply.  And that she
had also loved Renee.

Tears brimmed in Tiffany's eyes when she mentioned that she was the
only one of the older children who had really wanted to play with Renee
that night.  "I miss her a lot," she said.

It was she, not her father, who had taken Renee into the bedroom that
evening and changed her diaper.  Tiffany had no idea why he would lie
about such a small thing.

Yenne sat across the room, listening to the pretty little girl, careful
to hide her concerns about her.  In the prosecutor's files were
statements of certain friends and associates of Shane's that suggested
that something was unusual about their father-daughter relationship.

Tiffany herself had innocently admitted that Shane often took her
dancing.

Despite her determination to seek out every blemish she could find on
Shane Goode's character, Jeri found herself hoping that at least some
of her suspicions were unfounded.

The visit with Michelle had been no less trying.  Sitting between her
mother and grandmother, having been assured that Yenne was a friend,
she had once again detailed the events surrounding her sister's
death.

She, too, had begun to cry, but waited until Jeri left before confiding
to her mother the reason she had become so upset.

"I feel so bad," the child explained.  "Like it was my fault."

Annette had consoled her, assuming that Michelle's feelings of guilt
sprang from the fact that she had been told to watch after Renee, that
she had, in essence, been charged with her safety.

Michelle continued to cry, shaking her head.  "Mommy," she finally
asked, "have you ever wished somebody was dead?"

Annette hugged her distraught child to her chest.

"One time," Michelle sobbed, "I got real mad at Renee and I thought
that.  I wished that she was dead."

"Don't cry," Annette whispered as she stroked the little girl's hair.

"Renee knows that you loved her."

"I really did," Michelle cried.  "I loved her a lot."

Christine GoodeþShane's niece, who had been living with his parents at
the time of Renee's deathþhad been placed in a girls' home in the Texas
panhandle shortly after the tragedy.  She had, according to reports
Yenne heard from family friends, become increasingly defiant and
unruly, at odds with the still-ailing Carolyn Goode and performing
poorly in school.  At the suggestion of a child psychologist, Christine
had been sent off to the Cal Farley Girls' Ranch.

Located near the cotton-farming hamlet of Whiteface, the school was the
offspring of an all-boys home that was founded by a benevolent
professional wrestler who had modeled the facility after Father
Flannigan's famous Boys' Town.  The Ranch, as it was called by
residents, offered a fully-accredited school, a regimented lifestyle,
and a program of strict discipline designed to steer troubled children
back toward acceptable behavior.

Christine had been at the Ranch for three months when Yenne and
Detective Dietrich, accompanied by juvenile officer Valerie Wright,
visited her.

On the short flight to Lubbockþfrom where they would rent a car and
make the hour's drive across the dusty, windswept landscape of the
panhandleþYenne pulled a large manila envelope from her briefcase.  In
it was the complete set of autopsy photographs which she had requested
from the Harris County M.E."s office.

As she idly thumbed through the pictures, Jeri suddenly felt the sharp
edge of Sue Dietrich's elbow against her rib cage.  Turning to the
detective, she saw her cutting her eyes toward the back of their
seats.

Jeri turned to see the ashen face of a young fellow traveler, peering
over her shoulder at the gruesome pictures spread before her.

Embarrassed, Yenne hurriedly returned them to the envelope as Sue
attempted to mask a bemused smile.

The visit with Christine would offer little in the way of new
insight.

The girl's recollection of what transpired at her grandparents' house
was no different from what she'd given the police, She'd gone to her
own bedroom.  She recalled Shane peeking his head in her door to say
goodnight.  Later, she'd heard him taking a shower.

Only when Yenne asked her if she had received any letters from Shane or
her grandparents since coming to the Ranch did she show any
enthusiasm.

Yes, she had, the youngster said, and hurried off to her room to
retrieve them.

It saddened the women when she returned with a photo album in which she
had carefully mounted the letters.  In the months since her arrival,
there had been two from her grandmother and one from Shane.  Each was
brief and chatty, obviously written in response to her own letters.

That evening as she wearily returned home, Jeri made no attempt at
silence as she entered the room of her sleeping four year old.  Rather,
she woke him and pulled him into her lap.

"Logan," she said, "Mommy's home.  I missed you."

Sleepy-eyed, the youngster returned his mother's embrace.  Born just
two weeks before Renee, he had struggled to understand why his mother
had been spending so much time away.

"Why did you have to go someplace?"  he asked.

Yenne pulled him tightly against her.  "Because, honey," she said, "I
had to go help a little girl."

As the date of Goode's trial neared, the ever-present anxiefyYenne had
felt about the case had begun to subside.  Confident in her checklist
style of preparation, she had routinely kept Tom Selleck abreast of
what she was doing.  Soon, she promised, she would be ready to offer
him the material he would need as lead prosecutor on the case.

The intoxicating sense of urgency she had begun to feel would, however,
quickly vanish when a new problem developed.

Annette and her husband were expecting their first child in the spring
and the pregnancy had, in recent months, become increasingly
difficult.

The doctor, Vince Campise explained to Yenne, had begun to express
serious reservations about his wife's ability to deal with the physical
and emotional stress of the upcoming trial.

He had, in fact, strongly advised against her serving as a witness.

Sue Dietrich only briefly considered her phone bill when she recieved a
message to call Yenneþit had climbed to almost three hundred dollars
monthly since she and Yenne had first begun their late night
discussions of the investigationþthen returned Jeri's call.

"We've got a problem," Yenne said, agitation clear in her voice.

"So what's new?"  the detective replied in an attempt to lighten the
mood.

"We're going to have to ask for a postponement."

Sue's mood immediately changed to match that of her friend.  "Why?"

The prosecutor outlined the concerns of Annette's doctor.

"There's no way in hell we can risk starting the trial and finding out
right in the middle of things that she's in the delivery room and can't
testify.  Or wonder what kind of mental frame of mind she'd be in even
if she could testify.  We've got to wait until she's had her baby," she
said.  "I spoke with Sharon and she says Annette's already one raw,
exposed nerve end.  There's nothing else we can do."

She didn't have to explain that without Annette's testimony there could
be no case.  Neither did she have to mention the new legal step
Cornelius was certain to take.  By asking for a postponement of the
trial, the state would open the door for Goode and his attorney to
immediately seek a bond-reduction hearing.

In all likelihood, the judge would drastically reduce the amount
originally asked for.

"We're p,oing to have to let the sonuvabitch out of jail," Sue said, as
if reading Yenne's thoughts.

"It could happen," Yenne replied.

And it did.

On April 12, Shane Goode was released on $80,000 bond posted by his
father, walking into the fresh air of Angleton after four months in the
Brazoria County jail.  His trial date was reset for August.

For Sue Dietrich, the new monthþnot even half overþhad already been a
disaster.  Goode's release, while disturbing, had not been the worst
news.

Her father, she learned, had also been diagnosed with cancer and the
doctors estimated that he had less than a year to live.  Mixed with the
sorrowful prospect of losing her other parent was the renewal of silent
concern she had about her own health.  The lump in her breast had, she
feared, grown larger, yet she still refused to do anything about it.

For the time being, Sue decided, uncertainty was better than having to
deal with yet another trauma in her life.

After confiding her father's condition to Yenne during one of their
late-evening phone conversations, the detective explained that she
could best deal with the news by staying busy.

"In that case," Yenne had said, "see if you can keep up with what our
boy's doing now that he's back out in the free world.  And see if
there's anyone out there who knows something about him that we
don't."

The likelihood that Detective Dietrich might happen onto some
case-making revelation was, Yenne knew, remote.  Sometimes, however,
work offered remarkable cure for a variety of professional and personal
ills.

Sue went about her new assignment with a vengeance, keeping track of
Goode from a discreet distance.  While most of Goode's coworkers were
hesitant to speak with her, one had mentioned the name of another woman
with whom Shane had become romantically involved shortly before his
arrest.  Several times the detective had attempted to contact the woman
during working hours with no success.  Each time Sue had left a number,
requesting that the woman return the call at her earliest
convenience.

Finally, resigned that she was not going to cooperate, Sue called her
home.  The woman's husband answered.

The detective introduced herself and quickly explained the purpose of
her call.  "I'm investigating the death of Renee Goode," she said, "and
I'm sure you're aware that her father has been indicted and charged
with the murder."

"I don't know anything about it," the man answered in a disinterested
manner.

"Well, sir," Sue continued, "I have information that your wife and
Shane Goode are, in fact, good friends, and I'd hoped to talk with her
about him."

"My wife doesn't know any Shane Goode," the husband replied, his tone
suddenly hostile.

"Apparently she does," Sue argued.  "In fact, I'm told that she
corresponded with him while he was being held in jail and that she
visited him there on several occasions.  I have information that she
regularly deposited money into his commissary account.  I have good
reason to believe that your wife and Mr. Goode were quite good
friends.

So if you would please ask her-to call me whenþ" "I told you,
goddammit, that my wife doesn't know anybody by that name."  And with
that, he slammed down the receiver.

It was early the following morning when a call to the office was routed
to Dietrich's home as she dressed for work.  The woman she'd
unsuccessfully been attempting to reach for days was on the phone, in a
rage as she cursed the detective.  "Because of your call," she
screamed, "my husband has left me.  You've destroyed my marriage and
I'm going to sue your ass off."

Sue Dietrich, a woman with neither patience nor pity left for cheating
spouses, calmly suggested that her caller "take a number and get in
line."

111 f Aside from the fact the administrator of the post office had
ruled that he could not return to work until the criminal charges were
resolved, Shane Goode appeared to resume his life with little evidence
that his incarceration had affected him in the least.

With no job and ample free time, he began a rigorous training routine
at one of the Pasadena gyms, made occasional appearances at the local
country-western dance clubs, and enthusiastically returned to his
National Guard activities.

When flooding of the nearby San Jacinto River drove people from their
homes, he was among the Guardsmen called into duty to build sandbag
levies and help evacuate families from low-lying areas.  When Texas
governor George Bush gave a speech at Ellington Air Force Base to
announce the signing of a new Crime Victim's Law, Shane Goode was,
ironically, among the uniformed officers standing at parade rest just
feet away.

The following day a concerned investigator with the Travis County D.A's
office who was also a member of the National Guard telephoned Yenne
from Austin.  He had, he explained, received an anonymous report that a
Guard member charged with capital murder and out on bond had been
allowed within a few feet of the state's highest-ranking official.

Yenne had laughed as she told him that he was obviously speaking of
Shane Goode.  "You can tell the governor," she said, "he has nothing to
worry about.  He's far too old to interest this guy."

As if on a mission, Goode sought out former coworkers to assure them
that there was no truth to the charges against him and that he would
soon be back on the job.  And, while many were quick to voice their
support, some even asking if they might contribute to some sort of
defense fund, there were those who had doubts.

One morning, while driving through a residential area, Shane recognized
the mail carrier, a co-worker with whom he was only slightly
acquainted.

Pulling over, he started up a conversation which, as usual, quickly
turned to his proclamation of innocence.  The mail carrier, a deacon in
his church, listened only briefly before cutting his visitor short.

"Look," he said, "I've got mail to deliver.  Whatever took place
between you and that little girl is none of my business.  That's
between you and God."

And with that, he had walked away.

Such were the stories Sue Dietrich gathered as she marked the slow
passage of time until August.  As evidence, she knew, the stories she
was hearing amounted to nil.  Still, their gathering kept her busy.

And, perhaps, sane.

Yenne, too, was in constant search of additional preparations she could
attend to, checking for anything she might have overlooked, or a
potential witness who had not been contacted.  In truth, the delay had
not only provided ample time to ready the case but left her with time
on her hands.

One afternoon while seated at her desk, reading through files that she
had all but set to memory, she picked up the phone and called volunteer
investigator John Barnes.  "There's something we need to do," she
informed the investigator.

Within the hour they were in her car, driving south toward
Hallettsville.  The one thing Jeri Yenne had not done was visit Renee
Goode.

Standing at the foot of the grave, she silently stared down at the
marble headstone, realizing for the first time just how closely she had
allowed herself to bond with a child she'd never known.  Before moving
away she snapped a picture of the gravesite, then turned to her
investigator.  "I think," she smiled, "we're now ready to go to trial
.

Six weeks before jury selection was scheduled to begin, her
pronouncement would be shrouded in doubt.

As is so often the case, the news wound its way through the office
grapevine long before there was an official announcement.  Tom Selleck,
Jeri heard from a fellow prosecutor, had resigned.

Whether it had been his idea or an alternative offered by D.A. Aldrich
was the topic of much debateþas was the reason for the dispute.  There
had been, some suggested, heated discussions behind the closed doors of
Aldrich's office about Selleck's decision not to prosecute a D.W.I.

offender.

In a matter of minutes Yenne was in Aldrich's office.  "You can't do
this," she pleaded.  "You can't let him resign now.  Dammit, Jerome, I
need him.  We're scheduled to go to trial in six weeks."r Aldrich only
shrugged.  "I'm not sure," he finally said, "that I un understand what
you're so upset about.  From what I hear, you've been doing all the
work and Tom hasn't done jack shit."

"But you know he was going to be the lead prosecutor."

"Not anymore," the D.A. replied.  "It's your case."

Yenne slumped in a chair, inhaling a deep breath as she pondered the
sudden turn of events.  + "You'll do fine," her boss assured her.

"I'm going to need some help," she finally managed to say.  Suddenly
moved from second chair to first, she found the thought of trying the
case paralyzing.

"We'll find you someone."

Those initially suggested to serve as Yenne's aide were attorneys
involved in various cases of their own.  They would do what they could
to help, but other responsibilities would make it difficult for them to
be present in the courtroom for the duration of the trial.  "I don't
want the jury to see one of the prosecutors ducking in and out," Jeri
had argued.  "If they are to realize the importance of this case, they
have to see the lawyers sitting at the prosecutor's table all day,
every day.

Find me someone who can devote all of his energies to what we're trying
to do."

She had not met Tony Latino, a barrel-chested, soft-spoken attorney who
had joined the new D.A."s staff just weeks earlier.  His primary
assignment was to be the hot check department, Aldrich explained, but
he brought with him some experience in capital murder cases.

Latino had not yet even settled into his new office when Yenne entered
and laid a stack of files on his desk.  "Read these," she said, "and
let me know what you think."

"When do you go to trial?"  he asked as she was turning to leave.

"Two weeks."

The following morning he appeared in Yenne's office.  Again there was
no time wasted with get-acquainted chatter.  Instead, he immediately
launched into a discussion of the case, posing questions, making
observations.  He'd done his homework.

"Can we win it?"  Yenne asked.

"I believe so," he quickly answered.

Jeri liked the man who was assigned to assist her but was concerned
that the crash course he would need to get up to speed on the case
would not be sufficient preparation.  She had literally lived the case
for months, immersing herself in it as she'd never done before.  How,
in just a couple of weeks, could he be expected to understand the
importance she had long assigned the case?

"Maybe," he suggested, "having someone who can view things from a new
perspective will be beneficial."

"Welcome aboard," Jeri said, smiling as she extended her hand to her
new trial partner.

As the date for the trial neared, Yenne had begun sleeping fitfully,
often waking to pace the house and look in on her children.  One night
her husband woke to find her sitting up in bed, her face buried in her
hands.

f "You okay?"  he said.

"I was dreaming," she said.  "I was at the medical examiner's office,
trying to get them to explain about lividity and hemorrhaging and
things like that.  They took me into the examining room to show me
Renee's body."

Bill Yenne moved across the bed to comfort his wife.

"Her little body was lying there on the table," she continued, "and I
was looking down at it.  And, all of a sudden, she opened her eyes and
looked at me."  Tears had begun to make their way down her cheeks.

"God, Bill," she said, "it was like she was telling me I had to do y
something to help her."

"You will," he said, reaching to wipe away his wife's tears.  "Soon."

Sue Dietrich had made it a practice to drive, occasionally, past the
home of Donald and Carolyn Goode, and had become increasingly concerned
when she saw no indication of their presence.  No car was ever in the
driveway and the window shades of the modest brick home were always
drawn.  Only when the detective contacted a friend who lived in the
neighborhood was she assured that the Goodes were still residing at the
Meadowview address.  However, the neighbor confided, there was some
talk that they were planning a vacation that would put them out of town
during their son's trial.

It was important, Sue realized, that they be served with subpoenas as
quickly as possible.  The neighbor agreed to phone her the next time he
was certain the Goodes were at home.

The following Saturday morning Sue was washing her hair when her beeper
sounded.  Dialing the number that had been left, she heard the
neighbor's voice.  "This is your spy," he joked.  "Mr. Goode is mowing
his front yard as we speak."

Not even bothering to dry her hair or consider makeup, she quickly made
the short drive to the Meadowview address.  Donald Goode cut the engine
of his mower as the woman in jeans, a sweatshirt, and dark glasses
approached, but said nothing when she held out the subpoena.  "Sir,"
she said, "I also have one for your wife."

"She's not here."

"In that case, I'll be back."  Sue was speaking over the sound of the
lawn mower which the elder Goode had already restarted.

Two days later Dietrich was making one of her routine drives through
the neighborhood when she saw Carolyn Goode unloading groceries from
the trunk of her car.  As the Alvin police car pulled into the driveway
behind her, Mrs. Goode dropped one of the bags she'd just lifted from
the trunk and began walking hurriedly in the direction of the garage.

Quickly out of her car, Sue shouted, "Mrs. Goode, I know who you are
and I have a subpoena.  If you won't take it, I can just leave it here
in the trunk of your car.  Either way, you are officially served."

Carolyn Goode turned and walked slowly back to the officer, extending
her hand to take the document that required her to join her husband as
a witness at her stepson's trial.

Saying nothing, she hurried into the house.  As the detective backed
away, the bags of groceries remained in the trunk of the Goode car.

N The Trial A nd this is how it ended, on a gray morning with a steamy
August rain dancing in the streets of Angleton as people hurried toward
the welcome cover of the Brazoria County Courthouse.  Some stopped
briefly to shake water from their umbrellas and speak to the clerks and
bailiffs who stood in the dry shelter of the overhang near thefront
doors, smokingfinal cigarettes before beginning theirworkday.  Others
made their way through the double doors quickly and in silence, clearly
not pleased to have been summoned to the marbled building that sprawled
over a two-block area.

Inside, the aroma offreshly brewed coffee scented the air near the
small cafeteria located just off the lobby and the wooden benches were
fast filling with the players who kept the county's hall of justice
humming, grim-faced men hoping a judge had wakened in a good mood and
would not look too unkindly on their varied transgressions, women eager
for divorce decrees to finally be heard or custody issues settled,
well-dressed attorneys peering into briefcases as they outlined
last-minute tactics to anxious clients, uniformed police on hand to
offer testimony who made no attempt to hide their impatience, and an
assortment offamily members, young and old, on hand to lend whatever
moral support they could provide.

On this Tuesday morning, there were clear signs that something out of
the ordinary was in the offing.  The presence of television trucks in
the nearby parking lot and the small cluster of sleepy-eyed reporters
seated at the table nearest the entrance to the cafeteria, passing time
reading the morning paper or sipping coffee from styrofoam cups, was
certain indication that this would be no routine day.  So, too, was the
fact that on the third floor, bailiffs were instructed that anyone
wishing to enter District Judge J. Ray Gayle's court had first to be
searched.

In a corner of the downstairs lobby, the young man who had caused this
wave of late-summer excitement stood with his parents and an attractive
woman whom he had recently begun dating.  Dressed in a charcoal blazer,
dark slacks, and a tie, his shoes spit-polished, Shane Goode looked
more like an up-and-coming lawyer than a murder defendant.

Though Shane would probably not have been flattered by the comparison,
several reporters had remarked that he and John Wayne Bobbittþthe
infamous spouse who gained national notoriety after his angered wife
severed his penisþlooked remarkably alike.

If Shane was concerned about the opening of the long-delayed event, he
hid his apprehension well.  Donald and Carolyn Goode seemed more uneasy
than their son.  As Shane talked casually with his girlfriend, his
parents sat side by side, saying nothing, their eyes focused on some
distant point across the room.

Upstairs in the D.A."s office, Jeri Yenne paced and looked at her
watch.  Five minutes had elapsed since she'd last checked the time.

Neatly stacked on the edge of her desk were the files and reference
books she would take into court with her.  Her ammunition, she said.

The smile she summoned to acknowledge Sue Dietrich's arrival was
brief.

She knew there was no need to hide her nervousness from the one other
person in the world who best understood the importance attached to what
was about to happen.

"You're going to be great," the detective offered.

Yenne moved to the door and closed it before she spoke.  Then, taking
Dietrich's hand, she said, "I want you to do something for me."

"What's that?"

"Something I don't do often enough," Jeri replied.  "I want you to pray
with me."

In the cramped office, sealed from the noisy bustle of the new business
day that was beginning down the hall in the D.A."s office, Yenne sought
divine guidance and justice.

With that, she reached into her pocket and handed Sue a strand of
opaque beads.  "You know," she explained, "that I'm not a particularly
spiritual person.  But a friend of mine brought these to me after a
trip to the Holy Land.  I want you to have them."

Sue clutched the beads.  "Can't hurt," she said in an attempt to
lighten the mood.  Never in her law-enforcement career had she seen a
prosecutor so determined, so focused on the task that awaited.

Four women and eight men had been seated on the jury during the
previous day's voir dire.  There, they had gotten their first glimpse
of the contrasting styles of the two attorneys who would try the case,
Cornelius had been smooth and polished, exuding the confidence that is
a defense lawyer's most valued weapon.  Yenne, on the other hand, had
appeared nervous, constantly gesturing to accent her points.  Several
times throughout the day she had caught herself talking too rapidly,
her sentences running together, and had offered a smiling apology to
the jury panel.  Still, she, too, had a weapon that was likely to serve
her well during the course of the trial, The jurors quickly recognized
that the prosecutor felt a great passion for her task.

That passion would carry over to her opening statement.

Standing in front of the jury box, Yenne methodically outlined the
case, the tortured relationship between Shane and Annette, the bitter
divorce, the financial problems, and, finally, Renee's death and the
motive.  "This man," she said, turning to face the defendant, "had not
wanted his child, had told Annette to have an abortion.  Even after
Renee was born he referred to her only as Annette's baby."  And for
almost a year and a half he showed no interest, didn't even see his
daughter.  But after he took out a fifty-thousand-dollar life insurance
policy .  . ."

At the defense table, Shane sat rigidly, hands folded in front of him,
listening as if the prosecutor was speaking about someone else.

Yenne previewed the testimony they would hear, closing with the promise
that "Dr. William Anderson, one of the nation's leading experts on
child death, will be here to tell you the horrible story of how Renee
died."

She was unaware that, during the final fifteen minutes of her summary,
she had begun to pace back and forth in front of the jurors.  Their
eyes had followed her as if they were viewing a tennis match.

Cornelius's opening statement was more brief and, predictably,
portrayed his client as the victim of an angry vendetta by a scorned
ex-wife.  It was Annette who had tried desperately to put the marriage
back together, it was Annette who, so paranoid over the possibility
that Shane might get back together with his first wife, had made
enraged threats to kill Kaye Goode.  He claimed that if anyone had
murder in her heart, it was Annette, not his client.

He promised that there would be testimony that directly contradicted
Dr.  Anderson's findings that Renee had died of compressive asphyxia.

The sad truth was that Renee had been another tragic victim of Sudden
Infant Death Syndrome.  It was also possible that the blow to the head
she'd recieved after that December tricycle accident had played a
part.

"We'll never really know," he stated.  What he did promise was forensic
testimony that would convince them that what Dr. Anderson viewed as
hemorrhaging was nothing more than the residue of the lividity, the
gravity-induced pooling of blood in the child's back.  It was something
commonly found in all postmortem reviews.

And the fifty-thousand-dollar insurance policy?  It was the kind that
thousands of caring parents take out on their children.  An
investment.

For Renee's college education.

It was a claim that neither Annette, nor her mother, nor Detective
Dietrich would actually hear made.  As sworn witnesses, they would not
be allowed inside the courtroom until called to the stand.  As the
trial got underway, they kept vigil in a conference room adjacent to
the D.A."s office, passing time by taking turns playing hangman and
tic-tac-toe with Michelle on a portable chalkboard that had been stored
in the room.

The waiting wore most on Sue.  Despite the judge's admonition to
witnesses not to discuss the case, Annette tried repeatedly to ask her
questions about what evidence was being presented, urging that she
speak with Yenne during the breaks and solicit progress reports.

Despite Sue's attempts to explain why, it was difficult for Annette,
who had recently given birth to a son, to understand that their
discussions over the long months that had finally led them to this tiny
room were suddenly no longer allowed.

Sharon, meanwhile, paced nervously, constantly peeking from the door to
see who might be standing in the hall waiting to be called to
testify.

It was the first time Sue had experienced firsthand the agony families
endure while awaiting a trial's outcome, barred by a law that refused
them the right to witness events that would have a direct bearing on
their lives.  The detective found herself silently contemplating the
unfairness of it and wishing that Yenne had not requested that she be
on standby in the event some last-minute question arose.

"At least we're not the only ones in the dark," Sharon said, after
making another check of the hallway.  She had caught a glimpse of
Shane's parents, standing near a window, holding hands and staring out
at the rain.

Yenne wasted little time getting to the heart of her case.  Following
the testimony of Alvin PD patrolman Terry Earlþwho recalled the scene
he encountered in the Goode house the morning Renee's death was
discoveredþand that of Hallettsville funeral director Daniel Kubenaþwho
discussed the exhumation that had taken place the previous Octoberþthe
prosecutor called her star witness to the stand.

From the moment she had begun preparing her trial strategy, Jeri had
planned to call Dr. Anderson to the stand as early as possible.  The
vast majority of the American public is eager to believe what a doctor
saysþparticularly if he is one with a gift for connecting with the
layperson.  She was convinced that the Florida doctor would come across
as highly qualified and authoritative without seeming patronizing.  He
would not be one of those expert witnesses who flaunts his education
and vocabulary.  Dr. Anderson won't talk down to the jury, she was
certain.

She was confident that his testimony would accomplish the first big
step the state needed to take, Dr. Anderson would convince the zembers
of the jury that a murder had, in fact, taken place.  After that, it
would be up to Jeri to reveal Shane Goode's serpentine trail of lies to
show that he was the one who had committed the crime.

Peering over reading glasses, which he used occasionally to consult his
notes or view the photographs Yenne displayed, the doctor painstakingly
detailed the autopsy he had performed, explaining how the hemorrhaging
would not have been detected had he not first surgically removed the
child's diaphragm to get an unobstructed view of the interior of the
victim's back.  Responding carefully to each of the prosecutor's
questions, he assured the jurors that he was certain that he had not
mistaken lividity for the localized hemorrhaging he had found.  And the
simple fact that he had found evidence of trauma ruled out the
possibility Renee had been a SIDS victim.  No, he said, there was
absolutely nothing to suggest that it was a relatively mild blow to the
head after falling against a coffee table that had caused the child's
death.

"This child," he said, "died as the result of intentional force.  I
would consider her death a homicide."

With that, Yenne reached into a box located beneath the prosecution
table and approached the witness stand with a stuffed doll that was
approximately the same size Renee had been when she died.  As she
handed it to the doctor, the jurors leaned forward.

"Doctor," she said, "would you demonstrate for us how compressive force
might have been applied in this instance?"

Standing in front of the jury box, he slowly drew the doll to his chest
with his arms around its back.  Then he began to squeeze.

For the first time since they had been seated, the jurors, turned their
collective gaze upon the defense table and the man on trial.

Cornelius's response on cross-examination was to again revisit the
lividity issue and to question how such internal damage could have been
done without leaving the slightest bruise or abrasion on the outside of
the body.  He then began an accusing series of questions about the fee
the doctor would receive from the state for performing the autopsy and
offering expert testimony.  His message was far from subtle, The man on
the witness stand should be viewed as nothing more than a hired gun who
had come to town to fight the state's battle.

His questioning completed, Cornelius took the chair next to Shane and
leaned toward the defendant.  "I think," he whispered, "we scored some
points."

For Yenne, the trial's opening day had focused on the technical and
clinical.  On Wednesday, she would raise the emotional temperature of
her case.

Dressed in a tailored, cream-colored suit, Annette Campise moved toward
the witness stand with purpose, passing near the defendant without so
much as a glance.  In fact, she rarely looked in Shane's direction as
she detailed their turbulent life together.

Her responses to Yenne's questions, at times so soft-spoken that jurors
were forced to lean forward in their seats to hear her, painted a
portrait of a mean-spirited husband who was abusive and a father who
demonstrated no interest in their child for most of her short life.  It
was not until the prosecutor introduced into evidence a video that had
been taken at the Waxahachie home of Annette's in-laws during Renee's
last Christmas that Annette's emotions crumbled.

On a television monitor tiny Renee danced, pointed gleefully toward a
brightly decorated Christmas tree, and mugged for the camera.  Annette
buried her face in her hands as she began to sob.

Yenne remained silent until her witness slowly regained her
composure.

"Now," the prosecutor continued, "let's talk about the events leading
to the night of January twenty-two...."

Before the day ended, the jury heard about the terrifying call Annette
had received and her recollections of the scene that greeted her when
she arrived at the Meadowview address that morning.  Only when she
described her ex-husband's behavior in the Goode den did she look in
his direction.

What she saw was a blank stare on his face.  It seemed to Annette as
though he had willed himself to ignore everything she was saying.

Late the following day, Cornelius had his opportunity to cross
examine.

Before passing her witness on to him, Yenne asked Annette to recount
the arguments and legal actions that had resulted from Goode's
unwillingness to pay child support.

The jury also heard the replay of the Valentine's Day telephone
conversation during which Goode had denied having any insurance on
Renee other than the small policy he'd taken out at work.

In less than two days of testimony, Yenne had offered medical proof
that Renee Goode had been murdered and provided the jury with a
disturbing picture of the man on trial for that crime.  With the
evidence of the phone conversation, she began to reveal the tangle of
lies that Shane Goode had told in an effort to prove himself
blameless.

Cornelius, who believed in a firm but mannerly style of cross
examination, spoke pleasantly to Annette.  He was genuinely sorry for
her loss, he said, but had a few questions that he had to ask.

Gradually, he focused on the allegations that his client had failed to
make child support payments.

"At the time of Renee's death," he said, "isn't it true that Mr. Goode
had made child-support payments totaling fifty-one hundred dollars?"

Annette stared angrily at the attorney.  Clearly she viewed him as the
enemy.  "Yes," she said.

"And did he follow court orders to pay lawyers' fees related to the
custody hearing?"

"Yes ."

"And your school loan?"

"Yes ."  Methodically, Cornelius attempted to alter the picture of
Shane Goode as a financially desperate man who had turned his back on
his child.  While the payments had been sporadic and, in some cases,
long overdue, his client had been making an honest effort to meet them,
even borrowing money from his parents to pay what was owed.  The fact
that he had fought for visitation rights was a plus that the jury
should not ignore.

Shane Goode might not be a viable candidate for Father of the Year, but
Cornelius had succeeded in softening his image.

. Yenne quickly responded with a series of witnesses who documented
the fact that Shane had insured his daughter's life for $50,000.

She then called Renee's pediatrician to the stand to testify that Renee
had suffered only the normal childhood ailments before her death.  In
his opinion, Renee had been an exceptionally healthy child.

Donna Kinsel, a senior labor-relations official with the postal
service, brought with her records that showed the value of Goode's
company life insurance policy was $46,000, not $160,000 as he had
indicated to State Farm officials.  Another of Shane's lies exposed.

Watching the jurors carefully, Tony Latino struggled to determine the
jury's reaction to each witness.  If the series of important financial
and medical records being introduced into evidenceþvital building
blocks in the foundation Yenne was carefully buildingþimpressed them,
it was difficult for him to tell.

It would be easier to gauge their reaction when thirteen-year-old
Christine Goode, recently arrived from the girls' home, took the stand
to recall the night of Renee's death.  Speaking in a soft voice and
glancing repeatedly at her uncle as she answered Yenne's questions,
Christine recounted the earlier New Year's Eve gathering in the Goode
home, explaining how Renee had become sick after Shane left.

"Uncle Shane," she said, "was dressed up real nice," she remembered.

"He went out dancing."

In doing so, she revealed another of Shane's lies which, Yenne hoped,
was not lost on the jury.  Even the children knew that Shane had not
abandoned them that evening to answer a distress call from a friend.

Christine spoke about the January night of Renee's death, of an evening
of playing hide-and-seek, watching television, eating cookies and
pizza, and of her uncle eventually telling them it was time to go to
bed.

It had been sometime around 1:00 A.M she testified, when Shane had
looked into her bedroom and said goodnight.  She could not remember
another time when he'd ever done so.  Then she had heard water running
in the hallway bathroom.  Sitting up in bed, she had seen Shane's
reflection in the glass of a hallway picture frame as he took clothing
from his dresser.

Little time was left in the day when Goode's former wife, Kaye, took
the stand to detail the child-support arrangement the courts had
demanded following their divorce.  Initially, she said, Shane had been
ordered to pay $161 every two weeks.  Later, the amount was increased
to $200 bimonthly and he was ordered to pay her attorney fees and the
cost of the tutoring that Tiffany required.

She had only learned of the $50,000 life insurance policy that Shane
had also taken out on her daughter when Detective Sue Dietrich had
informed her.  To Sue's surprise, Kaye had not appeared to be overly
concerned for her child's safety.

Shane smiled at his ex-wife as she stepped from the witness box at the
end of the day's testimony.

In the parking lot of the nearby Homeplace Inn, Skip Cornelius,
relieved that the weather had cleared, had changed into running clothes
and was doing a series of stretching exercises in preparation for a
five-mile training run.  When a reporter stopped by to ask his take on
the prosecution's case, he shook his head and smiled.  "This one's not
going very far," he said.

At home with her husband, Jeri Yenne reviewed the day's proceedings as
she began clearing the dinner table.  She felt good about the way
things were going.  Her witnesses had come across as sincere and
believable and the evidence she had introduced was difficult for the
defense to refute.

"Then why aren't you smiling?"  her husband asked.  Bill Yenne knew
there was something more on his wife's mind than the testimony of
witnesses or the reaction of jurors.

She finally admitted that it was the cocksure attitude of Skip
Cornelius that troubled her.  His laid-back style of cross-examination,
his body language at the defense table, the confident smile he seemed
always to have for her when she looked his way, bothered her far more
than she wanted to admit.  "I'm just so damn tired of him talking to me
like I'm a little girl," she said.

Bill Yenne could not hide his amusement at his wife's ire.  If a
personality conflict with the defense attorney was the most troublesome
aspect of the battle she was fighting, there was little cause for
concern.  "Let him underestimate you," he suggested.  "That will be his
tmdoing before all this is over."

By nine the following morning, all signs of Yenne's frustration were
gone as she escorted Tiffany Goode toward the witness stand to begin a
new day of testimony.  Her hair in a ponytail, Goode's twelve year-old
daughter did her best to project a mature, serious look as she waited
for the prosecutor to adjust the microphone in front of her.

Her recollection of the "slumber party" was much the same as that of
Christine and it helped refresh jurors' memories of the previous day's
testimony.  However, it was clear that she held far stronger feelings
for the defendant toward whom she looked often as he smiled back at
her.  She said that her father had taken good care of everyone that
night.  "He was careful to cut the pizza into little bites for Renee so
she wouldn't choke on them," she volunteered.

She also remembered seeing Shane cry bitterly the next morning when he
realized that Renee was dead.

As she questioned the youngster, Yenne could not help but wonder if her
responses had been rehearsed, if, perhaps, Goode had helped his
daughter to remember things somewhat differently.

The prosecutor hoped that Tiffany's answers to subtle, seemingly
unimportant questions would remain with the jury.

In describing the events that preceeded everyone going to bed, Tiffany
had said that she, not her father, had taken Renee into the bedroom to
change her diaper.

"Did your daddy ever change Renee's diapers?"  Yenne asked.

"No, he never did that."

When Tiffany described the frantic conversation with the 911 operator
who asked if Shane knew how to perform CPR, she included the fact that
Shane had said that he didn't.  Yenne hoped the jury would find it
strange that someone with a military background, a man who zealously
sought new avenues of survival training, would not know the simple
fundamentals of CPR.

The prosecutor kept reminding herself that the lies would be Shane
Goode's downfall.

"That morning in the den," Cornelius said during his brief cross
examination, "what did Annette say when she came in?"

"She went to my dad and said, What did you do to my baby?"' "And what
was your dad doing at the time?"

"He was crying and upset that Renee had died," Tiffany replied.

Cornelius then dismissed the young witness, satisfied that the reaction
she described was hardly that of a cold-blooded murderer.

The building of a legal case frequently strains the patience of jurors
who neither know nor care about the fundamentals of the law.  Why
certain people who are far removed from the central events of a crime
are asked to take the stand, only to introduce a document or set the
stage for a future witness, is often lost on the layperson.  Even more
frustrating is the endless repetition the lawyers solicit from witnesses.

The testimony of Shane Goode's stepmother shed little new light onto
the events that had transpired in her home that January evening.  Still
in pain following her visit to the dentist, she had retired to her
bedroom and was not seen again that night.

However, it was essential that Yenne put her on the stand.  In order to
convince the jury that Shane Goode had murdered Renee, it was necessary
for the prosecutor to methodically eliminate all other possible
suspects.  She also wanted the jury to hear about a telephone
conversation Carolyn Goode had had with Sunny Bradley.

"I talked with Sunny in the spring of 1994," Carolyn Goode said.

"And did she ask how Shane was dealing with Renee's death?"

The witness was aware that Sunny had provided the D.A."s office with a
tape she had made of the conversation.  "I told Sunny that when we
tried to talk with him about what happened to Renee he got mad.  He
would get red in the face and wouldn't talk about it."

Yenne thought that Sunny Bradley was one of the most courageous
witnesses she planned to put on the stand.  During the early days of
the investigation when Shane's fellow postal workers so quickly rallied
to his defense, Sunny had become something of a social outcast as soon
as it became clear that she felt he was guilty.

Following Goode's arrest, several of her fellow workers had signed a
petition which they presented to their supervisor.  Goode, the man they
once so vocally supported, now frightened them.  They expressed fear
that he might return to the post office and seek retribution against
Sunny for her cooperation with the authorities.  The petition suggested
that, in the interest of everyone's safety, Sunny should be
terminated.

To his credit, the supervisor had chosen to ignore the request.

Meanwhile, Sunny ignored the scorn of her coworkers and had willingly
accepted the subpoena when it was delivered to her window at the post
office.  She was prepared to detail Goode's attitude toward "Annette's
child."

Tony Latino's only concern was that Cornelius might attempt to persuade
members of the jury that their witness had been motivated by something
more than truth and justice when she agreed to testify.  "He'll do his
damnedest to make her into a rejected lover seeking revenge," Latino
had warned Yenne.

"And when he does," Yenne observed, "she'll chew him up and spit him
out."

Latino, offering no further argument, smiled broadly.  He liked the
growing confidence he was seeing in his fellow prosecutor.

, I "When Mr. Goode told you that Annette had given birth to a child,"
Yenne asked, "what was his attitude?"

"He wasn't happy about it at all."

"Had he even seen the child?"

"No," Sunny replied, "and he said he had no desire to do so."

The prosecutor led her through a series of questions about Goode's
admission that he had urged his ex-wife to have an abortion and his
growing frustration over being forced to make child-support payments.

"And what was his reaction when the court finally ruled that he must
make those payments?"

"He said if he was going to have to pay child support, he was going to
demand visitation rights."

"Even though he'd never even seen his daughter?"

"He said he would do it just to make Annette mad."

She had had serious concerns about the cause of Renee's death from the
moment she had found a note Shane had taped to her apartment door,
advising her that his daughter was dead.  "I first thought it was
Tiffany," she said, "but when I called him, he told me it was the
baby.

He told me he had no idea what had happened."

"Was there anything else about the conversation that stands out in your
mind?"

"There was no emotion in his voice."

Finally, Yenne directed Sunny to the matter of the life insurance
policy whose existence she had discovered.  "I just knew he had to be
benefiting from it in some-way," the witness stated.

Throughout her testimony, Sunny had responded to Yenne's questions in a
firm, businesslike manner, never raising her voice, providing little
hint of her personal feelings toward the man on trial.  By the time her
testimony ended and Judge Gayle called for the noon recess, she had
provided the jury with a dark and troubling portrait of Shane Goode.

In her office, Yenne sipped a soft drink and nibbled M&Ms during the
lunch break, contemplating the questions that Cornelius would have for
Sunny.  Her only real worry was that he might succeed in provoking
Sunny to reveal the anger she felt toward Shane.  She knew that a few
explosive responses could deal a serious blow to her witness's
credibility.  Sunny, a woman with strong opinions and a hairtrigger
temper, wasn't likely to retreat from whatever verbal confrontation
Cornelius might attempt to initiate.

As she sat passing the time, counting the minutes before court would
reconvene, Jeri found herself pondering the striking differences in the
women who had been attracted to Goode.  Annette had been emotionally
frail, the perfect target for someone who wanted to dominate a
relationship.  Sunny, on the other hand, seemed so selfassured, even
headstrongþhardly the kind of woman Shane could control.  Yet both had
been drawn to him as if hypnotizedþeager to please, hoping to spend
their lives with him.

Therein, Yenne knew, lay the greatest problem the jury would have.

Regardless of whatever testimony they heard, they were looking across
the room at a defendant who was too handsome, too middleclass, to be a
murderer.  Shane Goode wasn't the Hillside Strangler or Charles
Manson.

He was the guy next door.

Sunny Bradley sat nervously in the witness box as the jury filed in for
the afternoon session.  When all were settled, Judge Gayle nodded
toward the defense table.  "Your witness, counselor."

Cornelius adjusted his jacket as he slowly got to his feet.  "I have no
questions for this witness," he said.

Any attempt to repair the damage Sunny had done, he must have reasoned,
might very possibly make matters worse.  He had read her statement to
the police, a document filled with unconfirmed suspicions about his
client, recollections of his appetite for kinky sex, and her firm
belief that Shane had killed Renee with money as his motive.  Yenne, he
knew, had held back during direct examination, waiting for a second
barrage when given the opportunity to re-examine the witness .

While there might be little evidence to back up Sunny's allegations,
she was too effective a witness to risk trying to discredit her in
front of the jury.  Cornelius judged the gamble too risky.

Yenne's reaction was a mixture of surprise and sudden concern.  Turning
to Latino, she whispered, "Is our next witness here?"

The previous evening Yenne had spoken once more with Dr.  Bellas.

Despite a review of Dr. Anderson's slides, photographs, and written
report from the second autopsy, his position on Renee's cause of death
had not budged.

Still, she knew that whatever damage he might do her case was best done
as a witness called by the prosecution.  We've nothing to hide, ladies
and gentlemen of the jury.  We're bringing you all the evidence,
everyone's viewpoint.  Then you decide.

During their conversation she had been straightforward.  "Is there
anything you can honestly say that might benefit the prosecution?"  she
had asked.  "Can you say that had you performed the same surgical
procedure done in the second autopsy that you might have found signs of
the blunt trauma?"

She knew the answers even before asking her questions.

"I'm sorry," the pathologist had said.  "I can't."

Well-trained in giving testimony, the doctor looked toward the jury box
as he replied to each of Yenne's questions.  Speaking in a thick
Spanish accent, he went through the mandatory review of his
professional credentials and the function of the Harris County Medical
Examiner's Office.  Then, at Yenne's request, he began to describe the
autopsy he had performed on the afternoon of January 23.

Every detail was given in careful response to a question posed by the
prosecutor, every observation made only after it was requested.

"Dr. Bellas," Yenne finally asked, "were you able to determine what
killed Renee Goode?"

"I was not able to determine the cause of death of the child," he
answered.

As she passed the witness, Yenne was already replaying the doctor's
testimony in her mind.  She had been careful not to ask questions that
would allow him the opportunity to launch into a tirade against Dr.
Anderson's procedures.  And she had avoided any accusations that might
have triggered an angry reply.  She had accomplished nothing, really,
except to have him admit that he did not know what the cause of death
might have been.  Still, in light of the fact Dr. Bellas was, for all
practical purposes, a key defense witness, it had seemed too easy.  She
had expected something more.

Even as these thoughts ran through Yenne's mind, Cornelius had begun
posing his questions to the doctor.  Wasn't it true, he asked, that
there had been a great deal of pressure from members of the deceased's
family and the authorities for him to revise his opinion?

"I spoke with the child's grandmother several times," Dr. Bellas
answered.  "And I met with Mrs. Yenne and a detective who was involved
in the investigation."

"And what did they want?"

"They all wanted the same thing, to know if I could determine the cause
of death.  All I was able to tell them was that I didn't know.

That's what I consistently told everyone, I don't know."

"And has anything caused your opinion to change?"

The doctor adjusted his glasses and looked again toward the jury box.

"I prefer to continue to say, I don't know."

"Then you found nothing that would indicate to you that the child's
death was a result of mechanical asphyxiation?"

"I can't say it was death by mechanical asphyxiation nor can I say that
it was not.  I just don't know."

During the afternoon break which immediately followed Dr. Bellas's
testimony, there was, for the first time since the trial had begun, a
look of concern on Cornelius's face.  Moving near Yenne, he shook his
head.  "I have nine pages of interview notes I've taken from Dr.
Bellas," he said, "and they literally gut your case.  But he didn't say
any of it on the stand."

Yenne did not reply.  Was it possible, she wondered, that the doctor
had finally begun to doubt his own conclusions, despite all the
stubborn refusals and angry tirades that had marked their relationship
over the past months?  Could it have been that his repeated "I don't
know" was his way of excusing himself while subtly signaling the jury
to ponder another doctor's evaluation?

She would never know.  In any case, Dr. Bellas's ego had not flared
during his testimony.  There had been no real indignation directed
toward Dr.  Anderson and his findings.  Only "I don't know."

For weeks Yenne had agonized over Dr. Bellas's testimony, never
completely comfortable with any line of questioning she considered,
afraid that he might deal a mortal blow to her case.  Suddenly it was
over, and her case remained intact.  As he took leave of the witness
stand, a weight lifted from her shoulders.  Feeling a new surge of
energy, she was anxious to move ahead.

For the remainder of the day, Yenne worked to establish the fact that
no one else in the Goode house could have caused Renee's death.  A
female juror dabbed her eyes as ten-year-old Michelle recalled the
discovery of Renee's death.

"When I woke up," she said, "Tiffany was watching cartoons on TV.  She
said she was going to get some cereal and I tried to wake Renee.

Something was coming from her mouth.  I shook her, but she wouldn't
wake up.  Tiffany went to tell Shane and I called my mother."

It was late in the day when Donald Goode was called to the stand.  He
answered Yenne's questions in a sharp, controlled tone, his only show
of emotion coming when he was asked about his May 1994 visit to the
Alvin Police Department.  His anger was evident as he described going
there to complain about the billboard that had been erected near his
house ar.d the flyers seeking information on Renee's death that were
being tossed into his yard at night.

In short order, Yenne called Detective Bodie Duckworth to the stand to
question him about the visit from the elder Goode.

Donald Goode had been convinced, the detective said, that the police
department was somehow involved in an effort to harass the family.

"Did you have any other conversation with Mr.  Goode?"  Yenne asked.

"I told him that I had concerns that his son might be involved in the
child's death."

"And what was his reply?"

"He said that he had the same concerns."

That evening Skip Cornelius extended his training run by several miles
in an attempt to exercise away the sudden wave of frustration that had
swept over him.  He had been confident that the responses of Tiffany
and Dr. Bellas on cross-examination would lend strength his client's
position, yet he had been disappointed.  Now, he would have to return
Donald Goode to the stand to refute the conversation that Detective
Duckworth had recalled.  "The sonuvabitch is lying," Goode had assured
him.

The prosecution had certainly won the day.  On Friday, he hoped to slow
the state's momentum.

For much of the morning Jeri Yenne carefully guided Detective Dietrich
through a detailed account of her investigation, finally focusing on
Sue's first encounter with Shane Goode.  The statement she had taken
from the defendant was read.

"How would you describe Mr. Goode's demeanor that evening?"  Yenne
asked.

Dietrich, who had been directing her answers to the jury, turned in her
chair to look at Goode.  "It was not that of a father whose daughter
had died."  She added that he had seemed far more interested in
learning when he would be contacted by State Farm.

"Pass the witness," Yenne said, turning toward the prosecution table.

Sue's eyes followed Skip Cornelius as he walked silently toward a large
poster board which leaned against the wall near the jury box.

Unfolding a blowup of the statement Shane had given the detective the
previous October, he attached it to the board and turned it so that it
was in full view of the jurors.

"Detective Dietrich," he said, "do you recognize this as a reproduction
of the statement you took from Shane Goode?"

"Yes ."

"And is that his handwriting?"

"No, sir.  It's mine."

In the gallery, a female spectator who had been following the trial
intently leaned toward her husband and whispered, "Where's he going
with this?"  The man cupped his hand to her ear.  "This," he predicted,
"is where they put the cop on trial."

Indeed, Cornelius wasted little time in his effort to cast suspicion on
Detective Dietrich.  For the jury to believe that Shane Goode had
committed the murder for which he was charged, Cornelius knew, it was
imperative that they believe everyone else in the house was sleeping
when the crime occurred.

He called Dietrich's attention to a line on the first page of the
Voluntary Statement and asked that she read it aloud.

Sue did so in a firm voice.  "Around midnight I started getting Renee
ready for bed.  Everyone else was asleep...."

"Everyone else was asleep," Cornelius repeated, letting a finger trace
the sentence.  "And just below that is Shane Goode's signature,
right?"

TO THE LAST OREATH /// 2f?

"Yes."

"And your initials.  S.D."

"That's correct."

Cornelius pointed out that for someone to successfully commit the
terrible crime of which his client stood accused, it would be essential
that there be no witnesses.  "You would want to be sure everyone was
asleep," he stated.

Then he asked the witness when the final sentence on the page had been
written.

"It was written as Mr.  Goode was giving his statement to me."

"Not later?  Sometime after you had had time to read it and realized
that you needed him to say that everyone was sleeping?"

Sue maintained her composure.  "It was written as Mr. Goode gave his
statement."

Cornelius directed the jury's attention to Shane's tight, scratchy
signature at the bottom of the page.  The sentence in question, he
pointed out, was written at an upward angle.  "As if to avoid running
on to a signature that was already in place," he observed.

He then turned his attention to the final page of the statement,
pointing to a line that was not spaced as uniformly as the others.

"This is also written in your hand?"  Cornelius asked.

"That's correct."

"And would you read it, please."

Sue turned to the board.  ". . . I did not hear anything during the
night.  Renee is a very healthy child."

"Renee is a very healthy child," the attorney repeated.  "Why do you
suppose he would say that?"

"I'm sure that I had questioned him about his general observations
about her health."

"But it would certainly help your case if he acknowledged that she had
appeared in good health before .  . ."

"I wrote what he told me," Sue said firmly.

Arms folded, Cornelius silently studied her handwriting, a gesture that
invited the jurors to follow suit.  The brief sentence did seem to have
been squeezed in.

But had it been added at a later date, sometime after Shane Goode had
signed it?  Had the detective later decided to enhance it?  If so, why
had she not fashioned an addendum that would have been even more
incriminating?

Sue Dietrich waited until she was excused from the witness stand before
venting her anger in the privacy of Jeri Yenne's office.  "That's it?" 
she spat.  "That's his fucking case?"

Yenne made no attempt to calm her.

"I'll tell you one thing," Sue continued.  "The minute I get back to
Alvin I'm telling the chief that he's going to buy me a tape
recorder.

I'll never take another statement again that isn't taped."

Sue had realized that, after nine years on the force, there were still
lessons to be learned.

As the detective fumed, Yenne looked over a list of questions she
planned to ask her final witness.  Dr. Linda Norton, she had been
informed, was en route to the courthouse.

In the earliest stages of his discussions about the death of Renee
Goode, Dr. Anderson had consulted with the Dallas pathologist whom
he'd known since medical-school days.  The case, he had informed her,
was not only fascinating but one on which he felt he might need a
second opinion.  Dr. Norton, who had worked several exhumation
autopsies with him over the years, had been quick to warn her friend
that the likelihood of finding any evidence that would contradict the
ruling of the Harris County Medical Examiner's office was remote.

Still, she had agreed to review his findings.

There had, in fact, been considerable discussion about asking her to be
present during the second autopsy, but they had finally agreed that she
could stand by her phone in Dallas to discuss any questions that might
arise during Dr. Anderson's examination.  Later, she would review the
slides, photographs, and his written report and offer her independent
opinion.

Dr. Anderson knew that she would not hesitate to disagree with his
findings if she felt he might be wrong.

In fact, if there was a pathologist in the nation who had earned a more
distinguished reputation than the Florida doctor, it was the
fifty-year-old mother of two.

Ironically, her first taste of national fame was not the result of her
years of work in child-related deathsþwork which colleagues at the
Dallas County M.E."s office had been more than willing to assign her,
rather, it was the exhumation and second autopsy of accused
presidential assassin Lee Harvey Oswald which she performed in 1981.  A
British journalist, Michael Eddowes, had published a book in which he
had alleged that a lookalike Soviet agent had defected to the United
States and assumed Oswald's identity prior to the murder of President
Kennedy.

The writer had filed suit to force an exhumation which would determine
the true identity of the body which had been buried in the accused
assassin's grave.  Following a lengthy legal battle, Oswald's widow had
become weary of the constant speculation and finally gave her consent
to the examination.  Because the lawyers representing the writer had
known Dr. Norton from her work on an earlier unrelated case, they
urged that she be assigned to oversee the exhumation and perform the
controversial autopsy.

In doing so, Dr. Norton suddenly became a public figureþone who dealt
a crushing blow to conspiracy theorists worldwide when she announced
that the body buried in Oswald's grave was that of Lee Harvey Oswald.

Norton was also involved in the high-profile case of an upstate New
York mother named Waneta Hoyt.  Over a six-and-one-half-year period,
from 1965 to 1971, five of Mrs. Hoyt's childrenþranging in age from 48
days to 28 monthsþhad died, each of them a victim of what local doctors
had classified as Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.  Dr. Norton had first
read about the case in a medical journal article authored by the
children's pediatrician and soon became convinced that the deaths could
be more easily explained.  She insisted to the local authorities that a
serial killer lived in the Hoyt home and that the killer was most
likely the children's mother.

For several years she lobbied for an investigation, finally gaining the
attention of a newly elected D.A. Eventually, a case was made against
Waneta Hoyt and the woman confessed to the suffocation murders of her
children.

Dr. Norton's role in exposing the horrendous crimes had elevated her
to the stature of an internationally recognized expert in the death of
children.

As she walked into Judge Gayle's courtroom to serve as the final
witness in the state's case against Shane Goode, her erect carriage
made her look taller than her five feet, six inches.  Dressed in a
business suit, her hair styled in a short, casual cut, the doctor
smiled briefly as she settled behind the microphone.

For the next half hour she added firm emphasis to the testimony given
by her colleague on the opening day of the trial.  Poised and with a
firm air of authority, she seemed a kindly professor lecturing to a
group of attentive students, a woman certain of herself and her
professional convictions.

Again the jurors were forced to view the disturbing series of photos
that depicted the area of hemorrhaging in Renee's back.  Dr. Norton
had reviewed the initial autopsy performed by Harris County and
reiterated that she felt it was incomplete.  Had the surgical procedure
Dr. Anderson performed been done originally, she said, the cause of
death would never have been in question.

"And, after your review of all the evidence, Doctor, what is your
diagnosis of the cause of death?"  Yenne asked.

"In medical terminology, the cause of death was compressive
asphyxiation.  Extreme pressure was applied to the child's abdomen and
the flow of air to the lungs was cut off."  She did not wait for the
prosecutor's next question.  "Brain death would have occurred in five
minutes or so, but it likely took ten to fifteen minutes to accomplish
full heart arrest."

There was no mystery.  This, she said, was no SIDS death.  Pausing to
let her eyes roam the jury box, she added, "This was a homicide."

As Yenne took her place back at the prosecution table, Tony Latino slid
a yellow legal pad toward her.  On it he had written his critique of
the doctor's testimony, She's the lvest expert witness I've ever heard,
he had written in large block letters.

The prosecutor nodded her agreement as Cornelius stood to begin his
questioning.  "Your theory is based on your experience with other
cases," he suggested.

"No," she replied.  "My testimony is based on the evidence I have
reviewed."

"During the course of your review did you find any physical evidence
that showed that the mouth or nasal passage might have been blocked .

. . ?"

To his right, jurors were beginning to stir.  One crossed his legs,
another leaned back against her seat.  Mesmerized by Dr. Norton's
testimony during Yenne's direct questioning, they had clearly heard
enough.  Now, they were ready for their lunch break.

In the hallway, Sharon Couch stood waiting as Dr. Norton walked from
the courtroom to catch a midafternoon plane back to Dallas.  Extending
her hand to the woman whom she'd never met, Sharon said, "Doctor, I
want to thank you for everything you've done."

Dr. Norton recognized the voice she'd heard months earlier on the
phone.  "You're Sharon Couch."  She smiled.  "And I want to thank
you.

You're a very courageous lady.  I'm sorry for what happened to your
grandchild, but you should know that in all likelihood your efforts
saved another little girl's life."

As she had reviewed the case prior to her testimony, Dr. Norton had
taken particular interest in the fact that Shane Goode had also taken
out a life insurance policy on his older daughter.  The doctor was
convinced that Tiffany Goode would have been the next to die.

Yenne had planned to end her case on the high point of Dr. Norton's
testimony, but during the lunch hour she found herself agonizing over
the the testimony jurors were certain to hear from Shane's father when
the defense began putting on its case.

Sergeant Arendell had arrived from Alvin and was ready to take the
stand when the afternoon session got underway.  He had been present
when Donald Goode came to the police station to complain about the
harassment he felt was being directed at him and his family.

Did he remember, Yenne asked, what Mr. Goode's reaction had been after
Detective Duckworth expressed concern that Shane might somehow be
involved in his granddaughter's death?

"Mr. Goode dropped his head and conceded that he had the same
concern," the sergeant answered.

With that, Jeri Yenne turned to the judge.  "The state rests, your
honor."

In the judge's chambers earlier in the day, Yenne had predicted that
she would complete her case by early afternoon.  Since the defense's
forensic expert would not be available until Monday morning, it had
been agreed that Cornelius would not call his first witness until
Monday morning.

The plan was slightly altered after Donald Goode insisted that he be
put on immediately.

Thus the first witness for the defense took the stand shortly after
three on Friday afternoon.

Donald Goode glared in the direction of the prosecutors as he stated
that he had not done or said anything to police to indicate that he
believed his son was involved in Renee Goode's death.

Outside, a torrential rain had once again begun to fall, promising a
wet weekend.

At the doorway of the courthouse, Skip Cornelius and his wife Laura
looked out at the dark rolling clouds in disgust.  If they were to
maintain the training schedule they had set to prepare themselves for
an October marathon they planned to run in Laura's home state of
Pennsylvania, they needed to run at least ten miles on Saturday.

As reporters prepared their weekend wrap-ups and speculated about
whether Shane Goode would soon take the stand in his own defense, they
talked among themselves about an unusual aspect of the trial that would
not be in their stories.

Traditionally, lawyers and their clients take advantage of courtroom
breaks and lunch hours to review testimony and talk strategy.  The
reporters knew that it was not uncommon for a defense attorney to adopt
the calming role of baby-sitter during a trial.

For all practical purposes, it seemed, the relationship of Skip
Cornelius and Shane Goode did not extend beyond the defense table.  No
one had seen the Houston attorney arrive early for any pretrial
discussions with his client.  During breaks, Goode sought the company
of his girlfriend or his parents and brother, who had made frequent
visits to the courthouse.  On several occasions, he had sought out
buddies from the National Guard who stopped in to listen to testimony
and offer words of support.  Cornelius, meanwhile, chatted with his
wife and children who regularly drove down from Houston to attend.

When the day's proceedings ended, Goode went one way, Cornelius
another.  If the lawyer and the accused had bonded, it was not evident
to the seasoned trial-watchers.

There was one thing the two men seemed to have in common, Each
continued to exhibit a remarkable air of confidence.

On Monday morning, Dr. Charles Petty arrived at the courthouse early,
and chatted amiably with bailiffs while waiting for Skip Cornelius to
appear.  The man who had, before his retirement, spent twenty-one years
as chief medical examiner in Dallas would be the defense's second
witness of the day.

Dr. Norton would not have been surprised.  Long before the D.A."s
office was officially notified that Petty would serve as a defense
witness, she had predicted he would testify.

Dr. Petty had been a close friend and mentor during the years she
worked for him at the Dallas Institute of Forensic Science.  A rift had
developed in the aftermath of the Oswald autopsy, however, and soon Dr.
Norton left for a better paying, less stressful job in Alabama.

Longtime friends of both found Dr. Petty's sudden hostility to his
colleague difficult to understand.  Some suggested privately that it
was nothing more complex than a case of bruised egoþthat Petty harbored
great resentment over the fact that Dr. Norton had been handpicked to
do the Oswald autopsy and, as a result, had garnered worldwide
publicity.

Others wondered if the disagreement was over office policy,
particularly Dr. Petty's firm rule that no cooperation should be
extended to defense attorneys.  Dr. Norton admitted that the entire
matter perplexed her, yet neither would discuss the cause of the
strained relationship, even with their closest mutual friends.

Clearly, it was not a rift that time was likely to heal.  Soon everyone
in the legal community knew that if a lawyer needed expert testimony to
refute Dr. Norton's, Charles Petty was the man to call.  In recent
years, then, their paths had crossed frequently.

Yenne recalled Dr. Norton's earlier warning as she drove toward the
courthouse.  She had spent a restless night attempting to determine the
best way to conduct her cross-examination.  She thought back to her
trip to Dallas with Cornelius and asked herself the purpose of the
visit to Dr. Petty's office.  She had wanted to know specifically on
what evidence he based the opinion he would give.  She recalled that he
had viewed only three of the fourteen autopsy-related exhibits she had
introduced into evidence.

As she walked from the parking lot in the direction of the courthouse,
she decided that her cross-examination would be short and as
nonconfrontational as possible.

Dr. Petty, a charming and grandfatherly figure, was no stranger to
this kind of proceeding.  Smiling toward the jury box, he recalled a
remarkable list of accomplishments.  World War II gunnery officer,
Harvard Medical School, a career during which he'd conducted over
thirteen thousand autopsies.

He told Cornelius that he had reviewed the autopsies that had been
performed by Dr.  Bellas and Dr.  Anderson.

And what had his reaction been to the autopsy done by the Harris County
M.E."s office?

"Dr. Bellas's autopsy," he said, "was well and appropriately
conducted."  Then, turning to the jury, he began to detail the
difficulties that accompany the examination of small children.  "You
have a real problem right off the bat," he explained, "for the simple
reason that people that age aren't supposed to die."

He had reviewed the slides prepared by Dr. Bellas.  "My examination,"
he noted, "gave me no clue as to the cause of death."

Soon Cornelius asked his witness about the second autopsy, establishing
that Dr.  Petty had also reviewed slides prepared by Dr.  Anderson.

"Did a review of those slides give you any clue as to the cause of
death?"

"No, they did not," the doctor said.

And what of Dr. Anderson's suggestion that there was evidence of
hemorrhaging in the child's lower back?

"What I noted in the photographs which I reviewed," he responded,
"looked like a very small puddle of blood.  I could not tell, even
under a microscope, that there was any evidence of hemorrhaging."

"Not at all?"

Dr.  Petty nodded.  "Not at all."

"In your best medical opinion, Doctor, can you tell us how Renee Goode
died?"

"I'm saying that I just don't know."

For emphasis, Cornelius repeated his question.  "Can you determine the
cause of death?"

"I'm sorry," the doctor said apologetically.  "I cannot.  I did note in
Dr. Bellas's report that there was some indication of a slight
hardening of the lining of the heart.  That might or might not indicate
some problems with the heart."

Cornelius then suggested the possibility that the child might have died
as a result of a seizure during which she became entangled in her
bedclothes and smothered.

Dr.  Petty testified that he did not agree with the scenario.

Yenne responded with a methodical list of the forensic evidence the
state had introducedþtissue slides, autopsy photographs, written
reportsþasking each time if the doctor had studied them before making
his determination.

The doctor repeatedly smiled and answered, "No."

Judge Gayle had no sooner retreated to his chambers during the morning
break when Detective Dietrich appeared at his doorway.  He smiled as he
waved her inside.

She wasted no time pleading her case.  "You know, Judge," she said,
"I've worked on this case a long time.  And I know that the defense has
invoked the rule.  But I'd like very much to be in the courtroom when
Shane Goode testifies."

Linking his fingers, the judge leaned forward at his desk as if lending
consideration to the request.  "I don't see why not," he said.  With
her testimony concluded, the possibility of Dietrich being influenced
by anything heard from the witness stand no longer existed.

She was already seated when Yenne returned to the courtroom.  Moving
quickly to her, the attorney leaned over Sue's shoulder and
whispered.

"I'll bet you my next month's salary," she said, "that Skip doesn't ask
him if he did it."

With that remark, Yenne walked toward the front of the courtroom before
Sue could reply.

Only a few feet away, Shane Goode talked casually with a friend from
his Guard unit who enthusiastically described a meeting that had been
held the previous evening.  Shane said he was glad the trial was coming
to an end.  He didn't want to miss any more meetings.

On the stand, Goode demonstrated no sign of apprehension, responding to
his attorney's questions in an almost conversational tone.  His
marriage to Annette, he said, had "been pretty much rocky from the
beginning."  He could not remember a time when their relationship had
really been in sync.

Annette's abortion during the early stages of their marriage had been
something to which they had mutually agreed.  "We had a lot of bills at
the time," he explained.  "We discussed it at length and came to the
decision that it wasn't the right time to have a baby."

They had, he said, both tried to salvage their relationship even when
things had become unbearable.  In early 1989, he recalled, he had
agreed to accompany Annette to marriage counseling meetings.  Annette,
however, had seemed constantly obsessed by a fear that he might one day
return to his first wife.

"And was there some way she made you aware of that concern?"  Cornelius
asked.

Shane nodded.  "She told me that if I ever went back with my first wife
she would kill me.  She would kill us all."

In the gallery, Sue Dietrich wondered why Goode had never mentioned
such threats when she had interviewed him.

The jury looked toward the witness stand as he began to detail the
futile attempt at reconcilation and how he had become aware that
Annette was going to have a baby.

"I knew it was possible that it was my child," he admitted.  "We were
in my apartment when she told me about her falling in the shower and
going to the emergency room and learning that she was pregnant.  She
said she wanted us to get back together and that there was no way she
was going to consider having another abortion.

"She told me if I didn't want to have the baby I could just punch her
in the stomach right there and get it over with.  Then she stormed
out."

There was no emotion in his voice as he related the anecdote.

Cornelius then questioned Goode about Sunny Bradley and the cause of
their eventual breakup.

"I was living with her when I got the divorce papers from Annette,"
Shane recalled.  "Once it was obvious that the divorce was going to go
through, Sunny began asking me what I thought about where our
relationship was headed."

"And what was your response?"

"I told her that I could see us getting married at some point in the
future," Shane answered.  "Then, the very next day at the post office,
a friend came up, gave me a hug, and said she'd heard that Sunny and I
were getting married."

The problems in their relationship escalated when, instead of giving
her an engagement ring for Christmas, he had given her a sweater and
earrings.  "She told me that she felt there must still be something
going on between Annette and me.  That's when I first told her that
Annette was pregnant."

A month later, he said, Sunny asked him to move out.

Although unspoken, the message to the jury was far from subtle.

I Spurned and jealous, Sunny Bradley had sought her revenge against
Shane Goode from the witness stand.

Finally, Cornelius turned his questioning to Renee.

In contrast to what his ex-wife had told the jury, Shane insisted that
he had been looking forward to seeing Renee once a visitation schedule
was agreed on.

Then why had he failed to keep his first scheduled visitation?

Goode smiled.  "I went to Dallas to the Cotton Bowl game," he said.  "I
watched the Texas Aggies get whupped."

From her vantage point in the back of the courtroom, Sue Dietrich
studied the behavior of the man on the witness stand, angered by his
flippant answers to the questions, by his lies and half-truths.  She
could only hope the jury was as irritated by his arrogance as she
was.

The same old Shane, she thought to herself.  No emotion.  Very matter
of fact.  Always in control.  Jesus, hasn't anyone bothered to tell him
that it would benefit him if he did show some feeling of remorse for
his actions?  Maybe even squeeze out a tear or two?

As the thoughts ran through her mind, Shane began to explain his
purchase of the life insurance policy.

A friend in the National Guard who was a former insurance salesman had
told Shane that the policy would be a relatively economical way to
insure his daughters' educational future.  "I still maintain Tiffany's
policy," he said, looking into the audience where his daughter sat in
the front row, next to her mother.

His expression did not change as he recalled the morning that Renee's
death was discovered.  "When I picked her up," he recalled, "her body
was already cold, her legs were stiff, and there was some discoloration
on one side of her face."  Even had he known how to perform CPR, it
would have been to no avail.

He was sitting on the couch with Renee in his lap when Emergency
Medical Service personnel arrived.

At the prosecutors' table, Tony Latino leaned toward Yenne.  "He's not
going to ask him," he said in a whispered announcement of what he was
already judging to be the defining moment of the trial.  Jeri nodded
silently.  It was at that moment she became certain that Skip Cornelius
knew his client was guilty.  But, she thought, he was not going to
allow the little asshole to commit perjury.

As if on cue, the defense attorney quickly asked Shane to describe the
discussions he had had with police that morning, his interview with
Detective Duckworth at the police station, and, finally, his encounter
with Detective Sue Dietrich.

Cornelius reminded him that the detective had said there was no momento
of Renee in Goode's apartment on the night of Sue Dietrich's visit.

Introducing a small Plexiglas frame with a snapshot of the child in it,
the attorney asked his witness to identify it.

"That's a picture of Renee," Goode said.  "It was sitting on the coffee
table in my apartment the night Detective Dietrich came to take my
statement."

Again there was a lengthy discussion of the statement he had given.

Moving to the blowups which remained mounted on the board, Cornelius
asked that Shane read it carefully.

"That line that says Everyone was asleep' wasn't on the statement when
I signed it," he testified.

Jeri Yenne was not going to allow Shane the opportunity to shed tears
during her questioning.  It was time to bring the trial to a close.

She zeroed in on the motive she had set forth in her opening
statement.

Through a series of brief questions, she established that at the time
of his daughter's death, Shane Goode had been drowning financially.

She established his income, then matched it against outstanding debts
he'd incurredþhis truck payment, household bills, the loan he'd
received from his father, attorneys' fees, and the child support
payments he had been ordered to pay for Tiffany and Renee.  The
evidence made it difficult for him to deny.

There was only one question about which Yenne was certain he would
lie.

The Polaroid print she hid in the palm of her hand would provide her a
dramatic close to her cross-examination.  On her trip to
Hallettsville's City Cemetery, which now seemed so long ago, she had
snapped a picture of Renee's headstone.

She would ask Shane if he had ever visited his daughter's grave.  If he
answered that he had, she would ask him to describe the headstone, then
put into evidence a photo that proved him a liar.

Yenne clutched the picture of the granite marker with the tiny angels
engraved on each side of the words "Beloved Daughter" as she posed the
question.

Goode's answer surprised her.

"No," he said, "I have never visited Renee's grave."

It was on that admission that she passed the witness.

, S For all practical purposes, the legal battle had ended.  Cornelius
quickly introduced a succession of minor witnesses who offered the
jurors little in the way of vital information.  The woman whom Shane
had gone out to see on that New Year's Eve when Renee had become ill
gave her explanation for Goode's departure that night.  The boyfriend
she'd been out with that evening had begun to flirt with another woman
and she had phoned Shane to ask him to come get her and give her a ride
home.

Seeing how upset she was when he arrived, he had talked with her for
some time before he returned home.  Shane's brother, Dennis, recalled a
conversation with an angry Annette during which she had threatened to
kill both Shane and Kaye if Goode ever left her.  Finally, a Guard
platoon member took the stand to swear that there was nothing in their
training routine that would have taught Shane Goode or anyone else how
to kill without leaving a trace.

It was late in the afternoon when the defense rested and the judge
informed members of the jury that they would hear closing arguments the
following morning.

Wearing a light blue dress that Sue Dietrich had helped her select for
the occasion, Jeri Yenne would be the first to address the jury.  By
law, the prosecution is allowed to present its closing argument in two
segments.  Yenne would speak first, yield the floor to the defense,
then return for her final say.

The first segment of her argument was spent reviewing the evidence that
had been presented and demonstrating that all the elements included in
Goode's indictment had been proven.

@ The first display of passion came from Cornelius.  "First," he said,
"I want to tell you that I'm sorry that this child died.  But I also
have to say to you that this trial has been like a long scene from
Alice in Wonderland."  As he refreshed the jury's memory of the medical
findings of the Harris County M.E."s office and pointed, once again, to
the lack of physical evidence linking his client to the crime, his
voice rose.  "You haven't heard any real evidence," he insisted.  "What
you've heard is a lot of theories and opinions.  I'm not quibbling over
the amount of evidence.  The simple fact of the matter is, there is
none that indicates that the defendant ever harmed this child."

As he spoke he lifted his arms, extending his hands in a palmsup
gesture.  A plea for reason.  "I've never seen a jury that would vote
to convict anyone on the amount of evidence that has been presented in
this case," he observed.

The baritone thunder of his voice had barely died when Yenne stood.

Her voice was now soft, almost pleading, as she moved to the railing of
the jury box.  She reminded the jurors that there was evidence, the
convincing testimony of Drs.  Anderson and Norton.  The insurance
policy.

Financial problems.  The lies.  And words from the defendant's own
mouth that he was the last person to see the victim alive.

"There is evidence," she reiterated.

"We went into the ground for our facts," she continued.  "We exhumed a
two-and-one-half-year-old child's body.  And what we found was a tragic
story as old as mankind itself.

"You remember the story of Cain and Abel.  You remember how the Lord
went to Cain, a man who had slain his brother, and asked, Where is your
brother?"  And you remember Cain's reply?  I am not my brother's
keeper."

But he also says that his brother's body calls to him from the
ground.

"Renee did the same.

"So, riddle me this, There's been a homicide and you were the last
person with the victim.  Who does that make you?  I submit, ladies and
gentlemen of the jury, that makes you the killer."

The wait for a jury to arrive at a verdict is, for everyone concerned,
an agonizing exercise.  Time's normal march is reduced to baby steps.

Those who have participated in the trial processþbe they the accused,
families of the victim, lawyers, media, or simply courtroom visitors
who enjoy real-life drama over afternoon soapsþstruggle with the
wait.

They pace, read newspapers and paperback novels, drink coffee, smoke
cigarettes, and gather into huddles to speculate on the outcome.

Traditionally, reporters argue the pluses and minuses of the case and
wager on how long it will take for a decision to be reached.

For Cornelius and Yenne, veterans of the game, there was a strong
desire to get as far away from Judge Gayle's courtroom as possible, to
seek fresh air and reason, to try to forget what was at stake.  At the
same time, both felt the need to stay close, as if their being nearby
might somehow speed the process.

Jeri Yenne chose to keep vigil in her office.  It was there that Sue
Dietrich reported to her that the judge had called sheriff's deputies
into his chambers to discuss a plan to escort the defendant to freedom
should he be found not guilty.  Due to the emotional nature of the
case, he felt it would serve the court's best interest if Shane Goode
did not have to parade past members of his deceased daughter's family
or be swarmed by reporters.

Yenne understood that such a precaution was necessary but could not
ignore the burning in her stomach caused by the idea of Goode going
free.

"It's not going to happen," Sue insisted.

"It can't," Yenne responded.  "It just can't."

Dietrich roamed the halls, stopping to speak briefly with Sharon and
Annette, then moving on to strike up idle conversation with courthouse
employees.  She visited the cafeteria for coffee, then stepped outside
for a cigarette.  Keep moving, she told herself, and maybe time will do
the same.

Finally, she wandered back into the courtroom.  It was empty except for
the bailiff who stood sentry outside the door of the deliberation
room.

Joe Lipscomb had worked in Judge Gayle's court for years, he had known
Sue Dietrich for most of her professional career and considered her a
friend.

That friendship, however, had developed not so much because of the
judicial linking of their jobs but rather because of their shared
interest in the local high school football team.  During the time that
Sue's son Adam played for Alvin High, it was Lipscomb who served as
public address announcer at the stadium each Friday night.

Moving to sit next to the detective, he said nothing as she scanned the
headlines of a discarded newspaper.

Sue finally broke the silence.  "What do you think?"

Nodding in the direction of the jury room, he said, "This is the
quietest jury I can ever remember."  He noted that frequently
deliberations become heated and voices are raised in angry arguments
which easily filter beyond the protection of the closed door.  "There
hasn't been a peep from this group."

Translation, There was apparently little disagreement over what the
verdict would be, but the silence provided no clue as to which way the
jurors might be leaning.

Sue folded her newspaper and turned to face the bailiff.  "Joe," she
said, "this case means a great deal to me."

"I'm aware of that."

"So I need for you to do me a favor," she continued.  "You'll know the
verdict before you bring the jury back in, right?"  Lipscomb nodded.

"Then, do this for me.  If they've found him guilty, give me some
sign.

You don't have to look at me, just smile."

Making no promise, the bailiff rose to return to his post.

The jury had been out three hours when a buzzer sounded and a red light
went on above the door of the deliberation room, signaling that a
verdict had been reached.

Soon the once-muted third-floor hall erupted into a flurry of activity
as lawyers hurried back to their posts and spectators formed impatient
lines, eager to pass through security and into the courtroom.  A hum of
anticipation echoed through the gathering.

As if summoned for some bizarre curtain call, many of those who had
testified or heard their names mentioned from the witness stand entered
and silently took their places.  Shane stood near the defense table,
quietly talking with Tiffany, who was seated in the front row next to
her mother.  Goode's parents smiled encouragingly in his direction, as
did his brother.  Sharon and Annette were seated directly behind the
prosecutor's table, surrounded by friends and family.  Reporters
scrambled for locations that would provide them viewpoints from which
to see the key players' reaction to the jurors' decision.

By the time the judge took the bench, a standing-room crowd had filled
his courtroom.  The judge motioned for the bailiff to bring in the
jury.

For Sue Dietrich, who clutched Jeri's beads tightly in her hand, the
long seconds after Joe Lipscomb disappeared into the jury room seemed
endless.  Finally, he reappeared, leading the jurors on their last trip
toward the jury box.  > There was a faint smile on his face.

As members of the jury settled into their places, Sharon turned and
reached across the back of her bench, taking Sue's hand.  Her face was
suddenly ghostlike.  She had waited so long for this moment, had tried
to imagine how it might be, and finally she knew.  She felt a kind of
gripping fear she'd never before experienced.  "What do you think?"

she whispered to the detective.

Sue squeezed her hand and smiled.  "I think," she replied, "that the
jury's going to do the right thing."

Standing at the prosecution table, Jeri Yenne had no warning signal
arranged and therefore no idea of what the verdict would be until she
actually heard the word "guilty."  When the word was spoken, her legs
buckled slightly and Tony Latino gently placed his hand against her
back to steady her.

Across the room, Shane Goode maintained the controlled demeanor he'd
displayed throughout the trial, refusing to reveal how he felt.

For several seconds after those around her had begun sharing smiles and
hugs and joyful tears, Sharon Couch sat as if frozen, staring toward
the front of the courtroom.  Eventually, she let her eyes trail across
the railing to rest briefly upon the judge's bench, the jury box, the
witness standþas if to capture.forever the memory of what had just
transpired.  Then she turned to her daughter and they tearfully
embraced.  Even as she cried, there was a look of peace on Annette's
face that her mother had not seen in months.

"You've still got a job to do," Sharon said.

Annette had spent much of the previous evening preparing the victim's
impact statement which she would be allowed to give in the event Shane
was found guilty.  Though she dreaded the idea of returning to the
witness stand, she recognized the opportunity to finally publicly
express feelings she had restrained for so long.  It was her chance to
speak out about her murdered daughter.

This time as she walked to the front of the courtroom, she made no
attempt to look away from Shane.  On this occasion, it was he who
avoided eye contact.

"The defendant," she said, leaning toward the microphone positioned in
front of her, "should now have to look into the eyes of the surviving
victims, just as he looked into Renee's eyes as he was ending her life
so cruelly.

"Renee's birthday is August twenty-seven.  In just two weeks she would
have been four years old, but the last birthday party she had was only
her second one.  Renee lost the opportunity for many firstsþ the first
day of school, her first dance, high school graduation, marriage,
children, grandchildren.

"Renee lost the chance to be a big sister to her baby brother.  And he
has lost a wonderful sister.  He will only know her through pictures
and videos.

"Life has many joys to give but there is nothing that can replace the
loss of Renee.  Part of medied with her and nothing will ever change
that or the pain that accompanies me every day."

She paused briefly and began to cry before continuing.  "Her life was
taken from her so early.  She could have been anything, a teacher,
doctor, lawyer, even an astronaut.  But she will never be able to
achieve any goals that she might have set for herselfþwhich not only
makes this a great loss for our family but society as well.

"Renee was a bright, cheerful, lovable child, full of energy and so
very affectionate.  But we will never feel her touch or hear her voice
again.  She is always in my thoughts but all I have left of her are
memories.

"This case has touched the hearts of many people who I deeply thank.

"My life will never be the same without her.  The pain is constant and
nothing can reduce or relieve it.  I have a great emptiness in my heart
because part of me is gone, buried with Renee.  I have a new son but he
does not take the place of Renee.  With him, I realize just how much is
missing from my life with Renee gone."

For the first time since she had begun, anger then crept into her
voice.  Clearly, she was now speaking directly to the man convicted of
her daughter's murder.  "I hope that Renee can finally rest in peace,
knowing that her killer is being punished as much as the law will
allow.

I hope that during his years in prison the defendant will meet people
that treat him with the same love and compassion that he showed for
Renee on January twenty-third, 1994."

She continued with a melancholy remembrance of her baby and an apology
she'd been making privately for a long time.  "I still look back for
her some days, then suddenly realize she's not here and will never
be.

I'll never forget the look in her eyes as she left on January
twenty-second.

It was as if she knew she would never be coming back.

"I see her eyes all the time.  I will never forget them.  I just ask
her forgiveness for letting her go with the defendant that last night
of her life.  I wish I could take her place and remove all the pain she
had to endure.

"I want Renee never to be forgotten."

Tiffany Goode had sat quietly while the verdict was read and as Annette
had spoken.  In recent days, she had occasionally acknowledged a quick
smile from Shane as he had turned toward her.  Always smiling back, she
clearly had no real understanding of the gravity of the events
transpiring before her.

It was only when Judge Gayle ordered Shane Goode taken into custody and
she watched as a sheriff's deputy placed handcuffs on her father that
she began to cry and tried to reach across the railing toward him.

Kaye Goode wrapped her arms around the distraught youngster and hurried
her from the courtroom.

A few feet away, Yenne and Latino accepted the congratulations from
colleagues who had abandoned their posts in the D.A."s office to attend
the reading of the verdict.

In time they would learn that the jury's first vote had been eleven to
one in favor of guilt.  On a second ballot the decision had been
unanimous .

Leaning against the defense table, looking out on the celebration, Skip
Cornelius loosened his tie and shook his head.  "For the record," he
said to a reporter who approached, "no comment.  Off the record, We got
good-ol'-boyed today."  Clearly, he was eager to get away from Brazoria
County and a brand of justice he found discomforting.

In the hallway, Donald Goode stood before a television camera, his face
red with anger.  "My son was framed," he insisted.

Sue Dietrich hurried past the cameras and tape recorders without
comment, suddenly anxious to get out of the building.  She would wait
until later in the evening to call Jeri and congratulate her.  And
Sharon and Annette would want to be with their family.  She could talk
to them tomorrow.  Or the next day.  For a change, there was now plenty
of time.

The urgency which had for so long fueled her every waking hour was
gone.

As she walked from the courthouse, stopping for a moment to light a
cigarette, she felt a sudden urge to cry, to release all the pentup
emotion that had boiled inside her since that day she had called
Sergeant Arendell and asked permission to investigate the case.

Instead, she buried her hands in her jacket pockets and continued
toward the parking lot.  She'd taken only a few steps before she
stopped again, pulling the strand of beads Jeri had given her from a
pocket.  Once more gripping them tightly, a smile began to spread
across her face.

She would need to give them back.  But there was plenty of time for
that, too.

In the days following the verdict, a steady stream of floral
arrangements arrived for Sue Dietrich at the Alvin Police Department.

Some bore notes of congratulation from friends, Most, however, were
from people she had never heard of, showing appreciation for the work
she had done.  In Angleton, Jeri Yenne's office had also begun to take
on the look of a botanical garden.

There were cards, letters, balloons, and boxes of candy.  An A'lvin
woman, perplexed as to how to show her appreciation, finally phoned to
tell the chief that a three-hundred-dollar account had been established
at a local doughnut shop in Detective Dietrich's honor for all members
of the Alvin PD.

One afternoon Sue was called to the reception area where a woman who
looked vaguely familiar waited.  "I just wanted to come by and shake
your hand," she said, "and tell you what a wonderful job we all felt
you did," she said.

"I appreciate that very much," the detective responded, then, almost as
an afterthought, asked, "who's we'?"

"I was one of the jurors," the visitor said.

Sue's mind flashed back to the day she had testified and she remembered
seeing a faint smile she believed she'd glimpsed during a moment of eye
contact with one of the women seated in the jury box.  Nodding, the
smiling detective shook her visitor's hand.  "Yes," she said, "I
remember you."

Sharon and Annette were not forgotten.  Florists regularly visited
their homes for days and their phones rang constantly.  Only when they
drove to Hallettsville to visit Renee's grave and spend the weekend in
the country did they finally have an opportunity to relax and reflect
on what had happened.

In time, though, the euphoria passes and life's regular routine
returns.  One evening, several weeks later, Sue Dietrich sat talking
with her sister Kaye, describing the frustration she was feeling over
an assault case on which she'd worked the previous night.

"These two old men," she said, "have been best friends since they were
little boys.  They loved each other.  But they both got drunk, started
arguing, and one stabbed the other four times, very nearly killing
him.

"It really upset meþbecause, dammit, things like that just don't make
any sense.  Sometimes, in fact, I don't think anything I do makes
sense.

It never seems to end or get any better.  I'm just so tired of it
all."

Her sister smiled.  "Yes," she said, "but it's what you do."

There is no real ending to a story such as this.  For all the talk of
closure and justice being finally done, the pain lingers.  Memories of
such a nightmare do not simply go dormant, wounds never completely
heal.

It is as if the passions attached to the death of Renee Goode are
seared into the hearts and souls of all those whose lives became
entwined with hers.

Those involved have moved ahead but still find themselves occasionally
looking back on a tragedy impossible to forget.  Such will likely be
the case forever.

Long after the trial, Assistant District Attorney Jeri Yenne still had
a snapshot of Renee prominently displayed in her office alongside
pictures of her own children.  More than once her husband gently
suggested that the case, the trial, and her response to Shane Goode's
appeal were history.  Perhaps, he said, it was time to put the
photograph away.  Yenne always agreed with him, yet it remained in her
office until she resigned in late 1996 to enter private practice.

Sharon Couch has become a dedicated advocate for procedural change in
the way medical examiners conduct autopsies on children.  She lobbies,
writes letters, and is an active member of the victim's rights group,
Justice for A'll.  Calls now routinely come to her from parents and
relatives who once stood in her shoes, worried and suspicious that a
tiny loved one's death might not have been accidental.

She pays regular visits to her son in prison, looking forward to the
day he will gain his release and have an opportunity to restart his
life.  It pleases her that she has seen maturity in his attitude and
that he views his scheduled parole hearing in 1998 as a chance to begin
his life anew.

If there is good that blossoms from tragedy, it can be found in the new
bond that developed between Sharon and Annette in the trying days that
followed Renee's death.

Still, there are moments when Annette will grow suddenly quiet and sad,
a signal for husband vince to allow her time to herself.  Such moments
now pass more quickly, generally erased by Michelle's enthusiastic
stories about her school activities or the ceaseless demands of
two-year-old Brandon.

However, unsettling reminders of the cruelty of the world are still
present.  Last August, on Renee's birthday, Annette answered her phone
to hear the voice of an adult female who asked, "May I speak with
Renee?"

The caller then laughed and hung up.

Detective Sue Dietrich admits that she suffered from a lingering
depression that remained with her for months after Goode's conviction
and even briefly considered leaving police work despite the fact that
the Brazoria County 100 Club honored her as the Law Enforcement Officer
of the Year.  The case took an emotional toll she had not expected.

Adding to her melancholy was the death of her father just months after
the trial.  In time, however, the old vigor returned and today she
serves as police chief of Tiki Island, Texas, teaches a night
criminaldustice class at the local junior college, and looks forward to
those too-infrequent weekends when her youngest son returns from
college for a brief visit.

After nine months of waiting, she finally saw a doctor about the lump
in her breast and learned that it was a fibrocystic mass that proved to
be benign.

One evening, not long ago, she accompanied friends to a country western
club and was momentarily stunned when she turned to face a young man
who had asked if she might like to dance.  For a moment all the old
fear and anger and frustration returned as she looked into the face of
the man she had helped send to prison.  But after a second look, she
realized that the cocky half-grin belonged not to Shane Goode but to
his brother Dennis.  Sue declined his offer and soon said good-bye to
her friends, explaining that she'd decided to cut her evening short.

The Goode family remains bitter.  Only days after the verdict, Donald
Goode contacted the company that had written the life insurance policy
on Renee, pointing out that he was listed as the secondary beneficiary
and was therefore entitled to the $50,000 payoff.  He also contacted
the Texas Rangers to angrily criticize the Alvin Police and Brazoria
County D.A."s office.  He asked them to reinvestigate the case against
his son who he remains convinced is innocent.

Neither the insurance company nor the Rangers provided Goode with any
satisfaction.

Meanwhile, Shane remains in prison, awaiting results of the routine
appeal filed by Skip Cornelius.  It was just a short time after he
arrived to begin serving his sentence that he received an envelope in
the mail which had no return address.  Postmarked from Houston, it had
no message.  Inside were a half dozen photographs of Renee.

The Harris County Medical Examiner's office has recently come under
fire from the local media.  Houston Press reporter Steve McVicker has
published a series of articles detailing botched postmortems, illegal
tissue-harvesting, double-dipping by staff pathologists, and lack of
supervision by county officials.

Dr. Jachimczyk and Cecil wingo have both retired and the search is now
underway for a new chief medical examiner.  Among a list of potential
candidates that began to circulate was Dr.  William Anderson.

Meanwhile, wingo currently serves as the acting police chief in nearby
Dickinson and has hinted that he would welcome the job on a permanent
basis.

In Dallas, Dr. Linda Norton continues her forensic work, constantly
urging colleagues to bear in mind the importance of thorough autopsies
of children.  At times, she says, when the work gets to her, she
escapes Dallas for coastal getaways where she can scuba dive and wind
surf.

Being near the water, she says, allows her to forget, if only for a
long weekend, the Shane Goodes of the world.

A final note, The greatest frustration of the nonfiction writer is not
being able to neatly tie all loose ends.  While the novelist can bend
characters and events in such a manner that resolves every question,
leaving the reader totally satisfied, those of us who chronicle actual
events, attempting as best we can to hold fast to truth and fact, are
not dealt such luxury.

What happened in the darkened room of the Goode home on that January
1994 night is the question that will forever haunt many of those you've
read about in this book.  As it will me.  The speculations you've read
are those of trained experts, not mine.

There will, I'm sure, be critics quick to point out that in telling the
story I fell short of an obligation to better explain what drove Goode
to commit such an unspeakable crime.  Certainly those of us who have
known the angst of financial hardship find it impossible to believe
money worries alone were Shane's motive for murder.  There had to be
other demons at work, but I cannot describe them, any more than can
those who dealt with him far more intimately.  I am resigned to the
fact that there are things for which there are no adequate
explanations.

I do, however, know this, Real life is a maze of mysteries and
unanswered questions.  And in some darkened corridor there is an evil,
real and menacing, that threatens us all.

It is sad and frightening, and the greatest truth this story has to
offer.

About the Auther.

CARLTON STOWERS is the author of more than two dozen nonfiction books,
including the Edgar Award-winning Careless Whispers, the Pulitzer
Prize-nominated Innocence Lost, and Open Secrets and Sins of the Son.

He has also written two books for childrenþA Hero Named George and
Hard Lessonsþwhich are used by elementary schools as part of their
drug-and-gang-prevention programs.  Stowers and his wife, Pat, live in
Cedar Hill, Texas.

the end.