Fatal Romance: A True Story of Obsession and Murder

by Lisa Pulitzer

  Nancy was sad and furious but also, ironically, hopeful. Her court date for a mediation hearing was scheduled for June 17, and she knew she’d only have to endure the next few weeks before the way would be paved for a speedy resolution to her custody fight. Surely, she reasoned, Jeremy’s recent behavior would tilt the judge’s decision in her favor.

  Meanwhile, her attorney was advising her that she needed to find a different address in order to present an appearance of stability and reliability. He worried that a judge would not look favorably on her request for custody as long as she was sharing a one-bedroom apartment with a boyfriend. But she was not earning enough money to pay for an apartment of her own, and she was not prepared to ask her friends for help. Not only did she fear that her friends would be worried about the possible threat Jeremy might pose; she was also conflicted about acting in a way that did not include Jim. Her attempts at finding her own place consisted of compiling a list with a friend of acquaintances who might have a guest wing or housekeepers’ quarters she could use.

  Nancy’s need for extra income prompted her to make plans to peddle her handbags and other crafts at the outdoor community market scheduled for Saturday, June 5. She had designed many of the evening bags in her collection herself, staying up nights to painstakingly affix the sparkly sequins and colorful beads to the elegant silk and satin purses.

  Weather forecasters had predicted a perfect day for the outdoor market, with temperatures reaching into the high eighties. Yet, in spite of the ideal weather conditions, all the friends she had invited to the event told her that they were unable to clear their schedules to attend.

  Just the night before, in response to an inquiry she had received, Nancy had emailed fellow author Kathy Seidel, who wanted to know more about the handcrafted purses, to suggest that Kathy stop by and view some of her latest creations. Kathy had learned of Nancy’s personal difficulties from Mary Kilchenstein, who was worried about their mutual friend and urged the writers who knew her to help her out by buying one of her bags.

  From: Nancy

  To: Kathy

  Date: Friday, June 04, 1999 4:54 PM

  Subject: Re:

  Kathy,

  I would love to show the bags to you … No, you’re not a visual idiot. Photos are so hard to judge even under the best of circumstances, and one never knows how things pop up in different browsers … I don’t know how much Mary told you of my situation, but I do not live at home anymore and have been unable to afford my own housing, so I am ‘guest’ in the apartment of a young man on MacArthur Boulevard … he has been extremely gracious and patient, especially when I started painting and occupying more space. Anyway, it would be best if I brought some things to you since I hate to impose any more than I already am.

  Let me know what kind of date and time would work best for you, and I will be there. Byeeee for now, Nancy.

  For a moment, Kathy contemplated stopping by Nancy’s booth that afternoon. The craft market was being held less than five minutes from her home, and she tried to rearrange her busy Saturday schedule to squeeze the show in. But, at the last minute she decided against it because she had a long list full of errands to run. Besides, she thought, there was no real urgency. She could have Nancy over to her house later that week, not only to look at the bags but also to catch up on things.

  Their meeting was never to be.

  Early on the morning of June 5, Nancy stood in the living room of her cramped apartment and carefully placed the last of her crafts into a satchel. As she reached for the apartment door, one friend recalled, she heard the telephone ring. Grabbing the receiver, she was surprised to hear Jeremy inviting her to come over to the house to take the kids to dinner at McDonald’s that evening. While she considered the phone call bizarre, she was eager to concentrate more on his willingness to let her visit the children without a hassle than on the apparent change in his personality. She chose to interpret the call as a sign that he was coming around and that their court date, in just twelve days, would be at least amicable.

  “I’ll be there around six to pick them up,” Nancy told him.

  Rejuvenated by Jeremy’s unexpected—and benevolently proffered—invitation, she grabbed her tote bag of crafts, locked the apartment door behind her, and headed for the outdoor market. But another of Nancy’s friends insists that Jeremy’s invitation to take the children to dinner did not come in the form of a phone call. Instead, she says the invitation was extended in-person when he and the kids made an unexpected stop by the booth Nancy was renting to sell her wares.

  Arriving back at the one-bedroom flat later that afternoon, Nancy quickly readied herself for her dinner outing with Zeb and Isabelle. Reaching into her dresser drawer, she pulled out the size extra-large navy-and-white–striped sleeveless T-shirt that she would wear with a pair of black, elastic-waistband slacks. In less than two years, the forty-eight-year-old mother had gone from wearing sexy, figure-revealing outfits to baggy, oversized clothes. At 194 pounds, the five-foot, four-inch author was pained, she confided to a friend, to be mistaken on more than one occasion for a woman who was pregnant and about to give birth. Yet, in spite of her large size, she continued to buy delicate, Victoria’s Secret bra-and-panty ensembles.

  She glanced down at her toenails, each one painted a different color, as she slipped her feet into the comfortable Josef Seidel shoes she so loved. Hurrying into the living room, Nancy grabbed her hunter-green Coach pocketbook from the sofa.

  Turning to Jim, who was sprawled out on the couch, she asked, “Can I bring you back anything from McDonald’s?”

  “A strawberry shake,” he answered.

  “Okay.” Nancy smiled, blowing her lover a kiss as she closed the apartment door behind her for the last time.

  * * *

  When she arrived to pick up the children, Jeremy greeted her with cool politeness. Some friends say she remained outside in the Jeep and waited for the kids to emerge, as she had been instructed by her attorney, while others insist she went inside to greet her children in person.

  “I’m here!” she called up to Zeb and Isabelle from the bottom of the staircase, heartened by their cheery “Be right there, Mom” response.

  As she waited, Nancy’s dark eyes scanned the familiar surroundings. Papers littered the couches, tables, chairs, and floor. Some were piled so high that she could barely see the blue-and-white porcelain dishes and framed family photographs that accented the room. It was not as if she had been the most meticulous housekeeper—far from it, she acknowledged to herself with a twinge of guilt—but this was an environment that was patently out of control. There were stacks of old newspapers dating back more than eight months, and suitcases by the front door that had still not been unpacked from Jeremy’s business travels several months earlier.

  She remembered her own manuscripts strewn here and there as she tried to juggle the demands of three active kids with the non-negotiable deadlines of her editors. She felt more than a pang of envy thinking about the maids who cleaned her mother’s home but not her own, thanks to the shortage of money she and Jeremy always seemed to struggle with. Now, the sty-like mess that encircled her eclipsed any shortcomings she believed she had in the domestic area.

  Passing from the living room that she had so thoughtfully decorated with collectibles and antiques to the home’s tiny kitchen, she could feel her stomach tightening. She viewed the empty egg cartons, stacks of old newspapers, and assorted junk randomly strewn on the countertops, the dishes piled in the sink, and the garbage pail in the corner that was brimming with crusty food containers and assorted household trash. An overwhelming sense of guilt and fury washed over her because her decision to leave the house had relegated her children to living in such a dirty, disorderly environment.

  Nancy heaved a deep sigh of resignation and turned to leave the cramped galley-style kitchen. The thought of making the place livable was replaced by her anger at Jeremy and the compulsive pack-rat habits of the man that she was once proud of to cal
l her husband. She had never understood his overwhelming compulsion to collect and hold on to every insignificant thing, including meaningless items from their neighbors’ trash bins.

  Her irritation at his inability to throw anything away was rivaled only by her frustration with the maddening excuse he gave her about how they might someday need this or that article. What, she had wondered a thousand times over the years, would they ever do with the mountains of old newspapers and the dozens of brochures, applications, and IRS forms that Jeremy felt compelled to save?

  Scanning the untidiness, she resolved once again to write down her observations in the electronic journal she kept on her computer in the hope they would help her in the impending custody battle. Her entries had helped her to clarify her thoughts and feelings in the four months that she had been recording all of the complexities of her life; they would now help, she was certain, with her court case.

  Thinking about all this left a bitter taste in her mouth, but as she cast her eyes toward the entranceway, she smiled at the sight of the old wire mannequin that stood ever at the ready to greet visitors. The antique dressmaker’s form had always been her favorite element of the decor.

  All at once, Nancy’s meandering ruminations were interrupted by the sound of clattering footsteps as Zeb and Isabelle bounded down the stairs and jumped, one at a time, from the third step onto the center hall’s hardwood floor, greeting her with uncharacteristic exuberance.

  Nancy knew that her children’s emotions had been buffeted back and forth and high and low by an angry but devoted father and a loving but absent mother. While Isabelle seemed to have weathered the trauma in her life with an admirable degree of equanimity, Zeb hadn’t had it so easy. He was angry with his mother and rarely let her forget her transgressions, leveling charges of abandonment and bad mothering at her during most of her visits. He echoed his father’s charges of bad character and loose morals whenever he had the opportunity.

  Yet on this occasion, both children seemed loving and receptive to Nancy’s visit. She wondered why for a brief second. That quickly evaporated as she soaked up their enthusiastic greetings.

  “Hi, Mommy!” Isabelle chirped, her long blonde hair flying behind her.

  “Hiya, Mom,” Zeb intoned in a more serious voice, but with an irresistibly attractive grin on his face.

  Nancy, suddenly overcome by emotion, choked back tears as she ran to hug her children.

  “So, what’ll it be?” she asked them, recovering her composure to affect a mock-serious tone. “Some tuna fish sandwiches?”

  “No!” they cried in unison. “McDonald’s!”

  Leading the way down the brick walkway, Zeb grabbed the handle of his mother’s shiny red Jeep Wrangler, a car that was registered to Jim Lemke’s mother in Chicago. Trailing behind him and Isabelle, Nancy felt the weight of the world melt away as she breathed the warm late-afternoon air. She caught sight of the German Embassy across the road, its mustard-yellow façade and angular, modern design partially hidden by towering evergreen trees. For years, she had enjoyed looking at the sprawling compound, noting with satisfaction that it lent a great deal of prestige to her own home. She climbed into her car, turned on the ignition, checked that her kids had put on their seat belts, and drove off, noting that the clock on the dash registered 6:15 p.m.

  Friends have speculated that it it must have been a pleasant evening for Nancy and her children or the children would have insisted on going home early. Instead, the evening lasted four hours.

  Other friends disagree. They believed that there was so much tension between Nancy and her children that their last evening together could well have been filled with conflict and even tears. The children were very angry with their mother, unable to believe that she had abandoned them—and that she was blind to how much her actions hurt their father.

  At the end of the evening, Nancy drove Zeb and Isabelle back home, arriving a little before 10 p.m. She kissed them both goodbye, remaining in the driver’s seat as she watched them walk the few steps to the porch.

  When they had gone about halfway, she saw Jeremy open the front door. With purposeful steps, he strode toward her car.

  When they had gone about halfway, she saw Jeremy open the front door. He was dressed in jeans and a pullover, even though the temperature was in the seventies and the humidity was high. With purposeful steps, he strode toward her car.

  “Nancy,” he began brusquely, “we need to talk.”

  Jerking open the Jeep’s door, he leaned forward, his face close to hers. “It’s time for you to come to your senses,” he insisted. “I want you to come back home.”

  “No,” she returned, making it clear there was nothing he could do to change her mind.

  The emotional intensity of the conversation quickly escalated. Jeremy’s deep, throaty voice was thick with anger as he continued to demand that she return home. Nancy resisted, saying no over and over again. She shook her head hard, keeping her eyes fixed straight ahead and refusing to look at him.

  Their voices got louder, echoing in the darkness of the night. The children, who had paused on the front walk, were paralyzed by the scene developing before them. They could now hear pieces of the argument, and grew increasingly alarmed when it began to focus on them.

  Their eyes remained fixed on their parents, two silhouettes barely visible under the darkened sky, as they saw their father reach behind him deliberately. While Isabelle’s view was partially blocked by the large tree sprouting in the middle of the front lawn, young Zeb had an unfettered view from the front portico.

  Suddenly a new sound, something even more terrifying, cut through the stillness of the night. The two shots of the .380-caliber pistol sounded like the popping of firecrackers.

  Isabelle immediately turned and ran inside the house.

  It was only a matter of seconds before her father ran up the walkway and into the house after her. “Call somebody,” he instructed her cooly.

  The little girl stood frozen as she watched her father grab a bulky object that was wrapped in the family’s blue-and-white–checkered tablecloth and race back down the slate walkway toward his SUV.

  “We love you, Daddy!” Isabelle and Zeb shouted after him from the portico as they watched their father dash off, tears streaming down their faces.

  Running back inside the house, Isabelle picked up the telephone receiver and dialed her eighty-year-old grandparents in Sheffield, Alabama.

  “Granny Akers, it’s Isabelle.” The little girl’s voice remained steady. “Daddy just shot Mommy in the head and drove away.”

  Granny Akers, amazingly keeping her composure, told her ten-year-old granddaughter to hang up immediately and call 911.

  Handing the telephone to her brother, the slender child with the wavy blonde hair calmly explained that Granny had instructed her to hang up and call for help.

  Zeb, taking control, dialed 911, and spoke with uncanny coherence to the operator.

  “911, where’s your emergency?” the operator inquired. “What’s wrong?”

  “My mother was shot,” the young boy said into the receiver.

  “Shot?” the operator inquired.

  “Yes, sir,” Zeb answered, echoing the language he had heard from his military father.

  “With a gun?” The operator was puzzled.

  “Yes.” Zeb’s voice cracked as he tried to fight back tears.

  “Okay. Where was she shot at? Take it easy. We’ll bring you some help.”

  “Okay…”

  “All right, I’m sending you some help, okay? Whoever shot her, are they still there?”

  “No.”

  As the eleven-year-old related the unbelievable scenario that had just taken place, his mother lay lifeless in the red Jeep Wrangler, her body splayed out in bloody horror on the front seat of the car.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  At about 10:40 P.M., roughly forty minutes after Jeremy Akers shot his wife, Sergeant Michael Farish ordered one of his uniformed officers to
stand guard outside the house to secure the crime scene, and allow the department to obtain a search warrant for the premises. The protective sweep of the stately residence had turned up clean, with the officers finding no trace of Jeremy, any hostages, or any additional victims.

  Acting under Farish’s orders, the officers began a methodical search of the neighborhood, looking and listening for any indication that the perpetrator was still in the area. Officers fanned out along the street, using the narrow beams of their flashlights to check behind bushes and houses. Others rang doorbells, hoping to find a neighbor who had witnessed the crime. Some of the officers recalled having been summoned to the Akers home on previous occasions because of fights between Jeremy and his wife over the kids.

  One woman told police that she had seen Jeremy sitting on the stoop in front of his house earlier that evening, drinking from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Another reported that he had seen Jeremy talking to Nancy as she sat in her Jeep. A third person remembered seeing Jeremy driving away in his Mercury Mountaineer. And several neighbors told police that they knew that the Akerses were going through a divorce and, on occasion, had overheard arguments between the two.

  The arrival of additional unmarked vehicles on the scene created a flurry of excitement among members of the local press corps, who crowded behind the crime scene tape. Furiously, they began scribbling on their notepads as three members of top-level police brass climbed out of the cars.

  Sergeant Farish also focused his attention on the newcomers. He instantly recognized “the nighthawk,” Ross Swope, who was in uniform and, as acting chief of the department, was responsible for overseeing the crime scene when the Chief of Police was off-duty. District Commander Shannon Cockett was there too, in uniform. But Farish did not know the third man in plainclothes who was also demanding answers from him.

  “And you are…?” the sergeant asked.

  Farish’s question caught the commander by surprise. “Gene Marlin, field operations commander,” he said. Relatively new to the department, Marlin was the commander in charge of “the nighthawks” and was Swope’s boss.