What people are saying about M. William Phelps:
“M. William Phelps is the rising star of the true crime genre, and his true tales of murderers and mayhem are scary-as-hell thrill rides into the dark heart of the inhuman condition.”
—Douglas Clegg, Bram Stoker Award-Winning author of Afterlife, The Abandoned, The Halloween Man, The Hour Before Dark, and Nightmare House
Praise for Perfect Poison:
“Captivating, exciting, a jolt-a-minute. With this tour de force M. William Phelps earns a deserved place among the best true-crime writers. Plain and simple, Perfect Poison is one of the best true crime books I’ve ever read!”
—Harvey Rachlin, author of The Making of a Detective and The Making of a Cop
“Perfect Poison is [the] horrific tale of a nurse Kristin Gilbert’s insatiable desire to kill the most helpless of victims—her own patients. A stunner from beginning to end, the story expertly rendered by Phelps with flawless research and an explosive narrative. Phelps is the best nonfiction crime writer to come along in years…the future of the genre.”
—Gregg Olsen, New York Times bestselling author of Abandoned Prayers
“M. William Phelps isn’t content with a retelling of what people think they already know…. He is reporting and writing at a level that has become rare in today’s true crime genre. The result is the kind of compelling account of terror that only comes when the author dedicates himself to unmasking the psychopath with facts, insight and the other proven methods of journalistic leg work.”
—Lowell Cauffiel, New York Times bestselling author of Forever and Five Days and Eye of the Beholder
“Phelps is a first-rate investigator.”
—Dr. Michael Baden, host of HBO’s Autopsy, author of several books
Praise for Lethal Guardian:
“An intense roller-coaster of a crime story. Phelps’s book Lethal Guardian is at once complex, with a plethora of twists and turns worthy of any great detective mystery, and yet so well-laid out, so crisply written with such detail to character and place that it reads more like a novel than your standard nonfiction crime book.”
—Steve Jackson, New York Times bestselling author of Monster
Also by M. William Phelps
Perfect Poison
Lethal Guardian
EVERY MOVE YOU MAKE
M. WILLIAM PHELPS
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
In memory of my brother,
Mark Anthony Phelps, Sr. (1957–2004),
and all the good times.
And to his children,
Mark Anthony Phelps, Jr., Tyler Phelps
and Meranda VanDeventer—
he loved you.
Contents
FOREWORD
PART 1: LADY IN RED
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
PART 2: TWENTY-FIVE TO LIFE
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
PART 3: EN PASSANT
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
CHAPTER 92
CHAPTER 93
CHAPTER 94
CHAPTER 95
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
FOREWORD
This incredible true story, which, in my opinion, includes the most shocking and surprising ending in the history of true crime, begins and ends at a section of the Hudson River near downtown Troy, New York. Because the Hudson, called “the River of Steep Hills” when adventurer and explorer Henry Hudson discovered it in 1609, plays such a figurative role in this story—as if it, too, is a character—I feel obligated to give you, the reader, a brief description of the river, the towns and cities along its banks where the book takes place, and the surge of crime that has infected the region throughout the years.
Considering the role the river plays in this story, in a twist of irony only nature could invoke, the Hudson—315 miles of stunning waterway that empties into the Atlantic Ocean at the southern tip of Manhattan—is fed by Lake Tear of the Clouds, a body of water about the size of a football field, shaped like a teardrop, in the Adirondack Mountains. As one travels north from Manhattan along the Hudson’s banks and into upstate New York, there are areas littered with debris: pieces of old Styrofoam cups that take decades, if not centuries, to decompose; beer bottles without labels floating aimlessly; used condoms; bits of newspapers and magazines; driftwood; and just about anything else the river decides to consume, or people discard inconsiderately. Along certain sections of the river, large, boulderlike rocks, sharp and jagged to the touch, are grouped together like swarms of gnats, the water crashing off them as high and low tides rise and fall against the ebb and flow of the moon. The sand along the shore is like clay: gritty, the color of coffee. The water, in some areas, is as clear as cellophane straight down to the bottom, the pebbles and rocks on the river floor staring up at you; while in others, it is as murky as melted milk chocolate. In recent years, polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs) have been the hot topic of debate when communities along the river get together and talk about dredging the bottom to clean it up. Some say it will only stir up tons of poisons collected throughout the years, while others argue it is essential to the ecology and survival of the river’s two hundred different species of fish.
Located 138 miles north of New York City and 144 miles west of Boston, Massachusetts, the city of Albany is not only the capital of New York, but the
crossroads of the Northeast. Described as the “humblest city in the state,” always taking a backseat to its more popular sibling, New York City, this industrial town of about 130,000 residents sits thirty feet above sea level, with the hum, serenity and mirrorlike reflection of the sky bouncing off the Hudson on its doorstep.
Shortly after World War II, Albany, the unassuming hub of New York’s government, enjoyed its most populated era with about 140,000 residents. That number has declined some over the years as people have moved outward into the suburbs of the “Capital District”—Rensselaer County, Saratoga County, Schenectady County—which is about eight hundred thousand people strong today.
Metropolitan areas around the Capital Region include four central cities—Albany, Schenectady, Troy and Saratoga Springs—and are surrounded by dozens of suburban and rural communities. Interestingly, Chester A. Arthur, the twenty-first president of the United States, is buried in Albany. Up the road from Arthur’s grave is the burial site of Erastus Corning, who sat in the Albany mayor’s chair for an unprecedented forty-one years. William Kennedy, the acclaimed novelist, whose most esteemed books include Ironweed, Billy Phelan’s Greatest Game and Legs—“the Albany trio”—writes of a fictional Albany, dark and unfashionable, during the hardscrabble Depression-era times of the late ’30s when the city was brimming with thieves, mobsters, union busters and murderers. In the popular film Ironweed, actor Jack Nicholson plays Francis Phelan, perhaps Kennedy’s most famous creation. Phelan is a drunkard, an ex–baseball player turned gravedigger who bounces around Albany with his drinking partner, Helen, trying to figure out where he fits into society.
Like a majority of its surrounding counties, Albany County has its lion’s share of crime to contend with, and has, historically, been marred by the highest crime rates in the north country. Between 1996 and 2000, for example, the county reported some fifty murders, which is rather low considering the population boom in the county during that same period. Rape is a crime that is hard to track because the numbers fluctuate so much from year to year—sixty-four rapes were reported in 1996, while, just a year later, the numbers doubled. By far, however, the most popular crimes in Albany County have always been burglary, robbery and aggravated assault. During that same five-year period—1996–2000—there were nearly 2,500 robberies and 4,000 reports of aggravated assault—staggering numbers by any count.
Under New York State penal code, robbery is the “forcible taking” of someone’s possessions and/or cash—a convenience store or bank holdup, for instance. Also under the robbery code is “taking from a person forcibly”—walking up to someone on the street, perhaps, and demanding their money or possessions.
Burglary falls under three different degrees. Third degree is “unlawfully entering a building and committing a crime therein.” Second degree is entering a “dwelling.” First degree involves breaking and entering someone’s residence and forcibly taking a “person or thing.”
This story is about one of the Northeast’s most prolific burglars—whom authorities later found was also a serial murderer—and the cop who pursued (and befriended) him for thirteen years. Nothing in this book has been made up; every bit of dialogue, every circumstance and thought, and every single fact in this book is real. I conducted over 150 hours’ worth of interviews, studied thousands of pages of public records and had access to nearly one hundred letters written by Gary Charles Evans. That research, plus the scores of other documents, court records and interviews I used, have convinced me that this true-crime story is the most incredible you will likely ever read. There are events in this book that may be hard to believe; but trust me, everything in this book actually happened.
—M. William Phelps
March 2005
PART 1
LADY IN RED
CHAPTER 1
What I must do is all that concerns me, not what the people think…. You will always find those who think they know what is your duty better than you know it. It is easy in the world to live after the world’s opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson, Self-Reliance (1841)
Friday, October 3, 1997, had been a hectic day for Caroline Parker*, an unassuming, moderately attractive thirty-seven-year-old wife and mother of three. The following afternoon, at four o’clock, Caroline’s sister was getting married. In what had been planned as a rather large family event through months of preparation, Caroline had a list of errands for her husband of almost four years, Tim Rysedorph, to run after he got off work.
For starters, Tim needed a haircut. Then he was supposed to get the family car washed, stop to buy a new suit and drop by Sam’s Club to pick up a few last-minute items for the reception.
Tim had left work at noon; by 3:30 P.M. Caroline was seething with anxiety because she hadn’t heard from him yet.
When it came down to it, Caroline really didn’t have any reason to fuss. Whenever she needed help, she turned to Tim, who had turned thirty-nine back on June 2, and whatever it was she needed, Tim was usually right on top of it. Anyone who knew him, in fact, later recalled how he would go out of his way for Caroline whenever she snapped her fingers.
Tim met Caroline on June 21, 1983. A mutual friend, Michael Falco, who lived in the same Troy, New York, neighborhood where they had all grown up, introduced them. Caroline was in the process of going through a divorce. Tim, who had been living in a New Jersey hotel shortly before he’d moved back to Troy, shared an apartment in town with his boyhood friend Falco and another old friend of theirs, Gary Charles Evans, a well-known burglar.
Caroline grew up in the Lansingburg section of town, and had flirted with the prospect of singing in a band. Tim, whom family members and friends later described as a “gifted” drummer, was in a fairly successful bar band called the Realm. Because of “their mutual love for music,” Caroline later told police, they hit it off immediately when she showed up one night to audition for a vacant singer’s position in Tim’s band. Although she never got the gig, they started dating about a week later.
Tim stood about five feet eight inches, 160 pounds. He had a noticeable receding hairline, the crown of his forehead big and round, with strands of dirt brown hair, like frayed rope, protruding down his shoulders. Friends said he was a casual, easygoing guy who liked to please people. Tim’s band played regularly at bars and nightclubs in and around Albany, New York. Usually, on Friday and Saturday nights, he was off with the band making extra money while Caroline stayed home with their nine-year-old boy, Sean. Known as a “comical joker” by his coworkers, during the day Tim held down a job driving a recycling truck for BFI Waste Systems.
Life had been fair to Caroline and Tim. They seemed to be making a go of it. Yet, some would later question the strength of their marriage, saying Tim could “never do enough” for Caroline, who, for the most part, hadn’t worked a steady job throughout 1997.
Before Tim took off for work on Friday morning, October 3, he read a note Caroline had left him the previous night on the kitchen counter. Mainly, it was a list of the errands he had to run before the big day on Saturday. Because of the shift Tim worked at BFI, Caroline later told police, they often communicated through notes.
During the first ten years they were together, Tim and Caroline lived in Mechanicville, New York, just outside Albany. After getting into some rather enormous financial problems in 1995, they rented a small, two-bedroom apartment in Saratoga Springs and had lived there ever since. About fifteen miles north of Albany, Saratoga Springs is, historically, known for what locals call its “healing waters.” Part of the Hudson River Valley, the town boasts one of the oldest thoroughbred racetracks in America, Saratoga Raceway. Victorian houses and ancient apartment complexes line the streets, while Starbucks and Borders cater to the middle class.
Tim had worked at BFI since the fall of 1995. His shift was not what most Americans would jump at
when looking for work. He was expected at the office at 5:00 A.M. on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and would get out at about 12:00 or 1:00 P.M. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, he worked from 6:00 A.M. to 2:00 P.M. If he ran behind because of traffic or inclement weather, he would have to stay for maybe an hour longer. Either way, he was generally home by no later than 4:00 P.M. on any given day.
Tim enjoyed the job and hours. Getting out early freed him up for rehearsal with the band Monkey Business he had been in for several years. On the days when he didn’t have rehearsal, he would make time for family. When work was done, a coworker later said, Tim often headed home. He didn’t run out like some of the other guys and “grab a beer or two and watch the game.” He did his time at work and, while pursuing his dream of making it in the music business, rushed home to be with his family. On top of that, Sean was an avid soccer player and Tim rarely missed one of his games.
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