12.Deadly.Little.Secrets.2012 (32 page)

Long didn’t call Bennett or McNamara asking for any further information on the allegations in the arrest warrant either. “Anything that went on in that 180 days, I know nothing about,” says McNamara.

“Nobody contacted us to talk about the case,” says Bennett. “No one.”

Then, on March 25, 2008, 180 days after Matt’s arrest, at Gray’s request, Judge Martin signed an order dropping the charges based on the lack of an indictment. The order stated: “The criminal accusation . . . is dismissed.”

Why? Years later, Long would say that the decision not to proceed with the case was his. “After looking at everything we had, I thought that Matt Baker had done the crime, but I still thought there was reasonable doubt for a jury to find him not guilty. I didn’t feel it was ready for a grand jury at that time,” he says. “I wouldn’t have felt comfortable about taking it in front of a jury with what we had. I’m probably careful to a fault. I’ll let a case sit around for a while rather than rush things through.”

Days later, Mike McNamara sauntered into the courthouse wearing his cowboy hat. In his hands he held the necessary paperwork required to reopen the civil case, the wrongful death. “It appeared that the system had failed us, but we didn’t give up,” says Linda. “We weren’t going to let Matt Baker get away with murder.”

“There will be a day of reckoning,” Johnston assured the Dulins.

Chapter 47

T
wice a month, Linda and Jim drove to Kerrville to pick up the girls for visitation. Matt met them in public places, appearing to be hiding where he lived, but Bennett and McNamara knew the address. At that point, Matt and the girls were living in an old parsonage donated by Trinity Baptist Church. One day, Kensi left her ball in the car, and Jim drove to the parsonage to deliver it. Matt, Barbara, and the girls were outside when Jim drove up.

Barbara walked up to him, and said, “Being nosy, aren’t you?”

“No,” Jim said, handing her the ball. “Just returning this.”

“I believe my son is innocent, and I believe that you were swayed,” she charged.

“No, I wasn’t,” he countered. “I have my own opinions.”

Meanwhile in Dallas, Jill’s husband had slowly worked his way around to believing as his wife did, that their good friend and former preacher Matt Baker had murdered Jill’s best friend. “It was tough for Stephen,” says Jill. “For a long time, it hurt our marriage. It was so obvious to me, but he just didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t see it as quickly as I did.”

Meanwhile in Kerrville, Matt felt the support of the community around him. And in Williams Creek and Riesel, other small Texas towns around Waco where he’d pastored, many shook their heads, not knowing what to believe. “I just didn’t see how Matt could have done this,” says a Riesel resident. “I never saw that in him. I mean, after all, Matt Baker was a man of God.”

“We knew Kari was depressed after Kassidy died,” says a member of Matt’s church in Williams Creek, the one with Kassidy’s prayer garden out front. “The whole thing was just confusing. I mean, why wait seven years to commit suicide? But then, how could Matt murder his wife? That wasn’t the man we all knew.”

In Waco, after Matt’s arrest, one woman had decided it was time to do more than talk. Tall and blond with a penchant for wearing jeans, Shannon Gamble wasn’t a close friend of Kari’s, but they’d shared something important, Gamble’s son, Brody. “Kari was Brody’s third-grade teacher that year at Spring Valley,” says Gamble. “She was incredible with my son.”

Brody was one of those students Kari brooded over in the months before her death, worrying about how he’d perform on the TAKS test. When Kari spotted Gamble in the school cafeteria, she “lit up” and literally skipped over to Gamble with the test results in her hand: Brody hadn’t just passed but done well. “She had this giant smile,” says Gamble. “She loved my boy, and she loved and taught him so well he rocked that freakin’ TAKS test. She was beaming. I was beaming watching her beam over my son.”

It was Gamble who’d seen Kari at Walmart the afternoon before her death, and in the year that followed, Gamble felt conflicted about Kari’s death. “I couldn’t believe she committed suicide,” Gamble says. “And early on, I felt in my gut that it wasn’t true. The Kari Baker I knew would not have committed suicide.”

As news spread of the Dulins’ suspicions and their fight to have police investigate Matt, Gamble watched the headlines in the papers, then, when Matt was arrested, she took action. “It’s odd, I know, but I felt like I had Kari’s hand on my shoulder leading me,” she says. “It was time.”

What Gamble did was take to the Internet, founding a blog called “Don’t Even Get Me Started.”

“What’s worse than killing your wife?” Gamble’s first post read on September 30, 2007, a week after Matt’s arrest. “What’s worse than having your girls always think their mother left them by her own hand?”

What Gamble said was worse was that Matt was a pastor. “So way to go, Matt Baker. You gave people who long for and dig for reasons NOT to believe in God and faith fuel for their fires,” she wrote. “YOU’RE one of the reasons they detest ‘religion,’ and your one disgusting, evil selfish act sent waves of ‘see, I told you so’ through their worlds. You just slapped God in the face in the worst way.”

In the months that followed, Gamble’s blog became a rallying place for those who believed that Matt had murdered Kari. Friends and family checked regularly, leaving messages that included memories of Kari, quirky little anecdotes, and funny stories, and Gamble kept them up to date, posting articles as they appeared in newspapers and on TV news Web sites. She posted a link to the 911 call, and Matt’s booking photos. “I’ve always been kind of a news junkie,” she says. “It was a natural thing for me to read everything and post it on the blog.”

When Linda first saw it, she e-mailed Gamble: “I read your blog and just bawled like a baby. I am so touched at the love you have shown my daughter. God has blessed me today through you. She comes back to me so sweetly when you share your memories.”

In the end, many would rally around Gamble, and Waco, Jerusalem on the Brazos, would become consumed with the case, residents lining up on both sides.

After the arrest warrant lapsed and Martin dropped the charges, Gamble took her battle to the streets. Another friend of Linda’s printed bumper stickers, and Gamble made them available on her blog, ones that read:
JUSTICE FOR KARI
. Seemingly overnight, the plea was seen on cars throughout the county, including some of those that parked outside the courthouse where Judge Martin and Segrest, the district attorney, had offices, and on the streets of Hewitt, where Chief Barton drove his car each day. Over the months and years ahead, Gamble would have to reprint as the number of those calling for “justice for Kari” grew.

“Others commented on the blog in support of Matt,” says Gamble. “There were two sides, those who believed he’d committed murder and those who didn’t. God bless those who believed he was innocent, but they just weren’t looking at the evidence.”

Chapter 48

I
n Kerrville, after the charges against Matt were dropped, Gray suffered another tragedy, the death of a second son, this time in a car accident. Gray and his wife were left reeling. “Suffice it to say that we’ve had a lot to deal with,” he says. “I cleared my load. I needed time for my family.”

His attorney unavailable for the continuing civil trial, Matt hired Richard Ellison, who’d moved to Kerrville eight years earlier. An affable man with shaggy gray hair, Ellison found himself curious about his new client. “Baker seemed kind of aloof and cold,” says the lawyer. “He wasn’t touchy and feely, the way one would picture a Baptist minister.”

Despite the turmoil in his life, Matt hadn’t let his sexual appetites wane. That fall, he went into a salon and flirted with a woman who cut his hair, telling her that he was a widower with two daughters. They talked, and he asked her out. On their first date, they ended up at her house, where they began making out. But Baker became aggressive, and he shouted at her, cursing during intercourse. After she saw Matt on television talking about the case, the woman called Linda. “He was rough,” the hair stylist said. “I thought if I said no, he would have done it anyway.”

Bennett and McNamara interviewed the woman, adding her statement to their files.

It would turn out that the woman’s account would come in handy, as Johnston prepared for what he saw as his big opportunity: Matt Baker was scheduled for another deposition, and this time his lawyer was going to let him talk.

“I don’t know why in the world they let him do that,” says Johnston with a smile.

Chapter 49

T
he day had been much anticipated. More than two years had been dedicated to delving into the case. And on the morning of October 20, 2008, in room 108 of Kerrville’s Dispute Resolution Center, Matt Baker would finally answer Bill Johnston’s questions. By then, Johnston had an opinion about Matt: “He was a pretty good liar, but there was a lot out there, lots was known about the case. I figured this was an opportunity to hand him some water, mix it up, and let it harden.” Johnston hoped that once Matt had concocted his own cement, it would sink him.

On the other hand, Ellison, while he preferred that Matt not testify, was worried about the civil trial. “If he hadn’t, and the civil case had gone to trial, the judge could have instructed the jury that they could assume that since he’d refused to testify that what he would have said would not have been in his best interest,” says Ellison. “And I figured he’d already talked too often, to so many people. He’d already gone on the record.”

The stone-sided building with narrow windows was just half a mile from the house where Matt’s parents had once fostered children. As he entered the room, Baker looked older than he had just two and a half years earlier, before Kari’s death. He wore a dark green, carefully pressed shirt, and a gray-and-green-striped tie. His goatee was carefully trimmed, yet his chin had broken out, and he fidgeted with change in his pocket. They took their stations in the conference room, Matt’s attorney, Ellison, at his side. There was no doubt that the former pastor looked nervous. A vein in Baker’s forehead bulged.

“Have you ever testified under oath before?” Johnston asked.

“No,” Matt responded. On the wall behind him hung an oil painting, a pastoral scene, with flowers and tall grass surrounding a brown rail fence. In the camera’s eye, cutting off all but a few posts and crossbars, the painting resembled a row of crosses.

In a patient tone, Johnston explained the importance of why they were gathered. “A deposition in a civil case has the same import as a criminal-case trial in front of a jury,” he said. “In other words, my questions and your answers can be used in a proceeding after today, just as if you’ve testified in court.”

The questions Johnston asked were, therefore, a way to get Matt to testify, to have him describe his version of the events, and his answers could someday, if the criminal case was ever taken into a courtroom, be shown to the jury. It wasn’t a criminal trial, but the deposition and civil case were as close as the Dulins and Johnston could come without a way to light a fire under the McLennan County district attorney.

When Johnston finished, Matt nodded that he understood, then in response to questions, he described his family history, including that he’d been born in and grown up in Kerrville. His family consisted of his parents, his sister, Stacie, and all forty-nine foster children. When Johnston asked what that experience had taught him, Matt said, “I learned a lot: how to be a parent; how to take care of kids. And how to accept everybody.”

With so much at stake, the mood in the room was edgy. Matt sometimes flashed a short, tight smile, but no one forgot why he was there. There were concerns far beyond the parameters of the civil suit he had hanging over his head. With no statute of limitations on murder, every word he said could someday be used against him.

At Baylor, Matt said he’d briefly considered premed, instead went into sports medicine, then made the change to church recreation.

“That’s a degree plan?” Johnston asked.

“Yes, a four-year program,” Matt answered.

There were so many jobs, some like the one at First Baptist in Kerrville, before Matt finished his undergrad work. “Was there any disciplinary action that caused you to leave First Baptist?” Johnston asked.

As he would often, Matt answered in an oblique way: “I was not told I could not work there . . . I was talked to but . . . I was never given a negative performance review.”

When Johnston asked about the First Baptist allegations of sexual harassment, Matt balked, and his attorney stepped in, informing everyone in the room that when it came to this particular matter, Matt was pleading the Fifth Amendment. “You’re invoking the Fifth on the issue of employment with First Baptist Church?” Johnston said.

“Yes,” Ellison repeated.

“Are you intending to take the Fifth on anything else today?” the bushy-haired former prosecutor inquired.

“We’ll take it on a question-by-question basis,” Ellison explained.

It wasn’t long before they did just that, when Johnston inquired about Matt’s tenure at the Waco Family Y. Those events had happened twelve years earlier, and Johnston didn’t mince words: “Mr. Baker, can you think of a way to bring a cause of action . . . to involve your Fifth Amendment rights?” But Ellison jumped in to object, and Matt never answered.

From the Family Y, Matt had gone on to pastor at Williams Creek in Axtell. “Why did you leave?” Johnston asked.

“Death of a child,” Matt said, his voice unemotional, except for a condescending undercurrent. “We had another child, and my wife didn’t want our baby sleeping in the room where our second child passed away.”

The main inquiry was to pin Matt down on matters that related to Kari’s death, but there were also many questions surrounding Kassidy’s death. Matt had given different accounts over the years, some of which had raised eyebrows. While Johnston had him under oath, he asked Matt to recount the night Kassidy died.

“How long was Kassidy home from the hospital when she died?” Johnston asked.

“A month,” Matt responded. He then laid out his version of the events of that night. In the past, he’d often said that he’d been the last one with Kassidy, when he checked her at midnight, but this time he said Kari had been there with him. When he returned nine minutes later, Kassidy wasn’t breathing. “I yelled to my wife to call nine-one-one,” he said, still showing no emotion. “I proceeded to do CPR until the paramedics came. I never felt a heartbeat or blood pressure.”

As the afternoon unfolded, Johnston would see firsthand what so many had said about Matt, his need to stress how much he did for others, to emphasize how good he was at taking charge and handling tasks. Now he said something that seemed more than odd, that once the EMTs arrived, instead of taking over working on Kassidy, they asked Matt to continue because “I was doing such a great job.”

Although he’d left Northlake Baptist under a cloud after a cut in pay, Matt contended that he’d enjoyed his time at the church and that he’d been the one to decide to move on. Why? Kari had told her mother she didn’t want to move. She’d made close friends in Dallas, and she’d built a life there. She had a good job. But according to Matt, he left only because “my wife felt the need to be close to her home and her family.”

“Were there any employment issues at Northlake?” Johnston prodded.

“No,” Baker replied, with a slight shake of the head.

Matt quickly went from the Texas Youth Commission to the Waco Center for Youth. Then, that fall, he hired on as the part-time minister at Crossroads, the small church that lay between Hewitt and Lorena. How far back was the Bakers’ marriage troubled? Johnston asked about the relationship in January 2006, three months before Kari’s death.

“As a family you have issues. You have great times. You have sad times,” Matt said. “We had ups and downs . . . but we were trying to become healthier.”

“What was the illness in the marriage . . . the one you were trying to make healthier?”

“Part of the illness in the family was the loss of a child,” Matt said. “That’s a big, key issue, that kind of stays with you all the time.”

What were they doing to heal the wound? Matt said they were trying to spend more time together, and one more thing: “Have a healthier sex life.”

“Was that true January, February, and March as well?” Johnston asked.

“Yes,” Matt said. It appeared that the questioning was making him uncomfortable.

“What is AdultFriendFinder?” Johnston asked, then said nothing.

The former pastor stumbled, as if not sure how to respond, then said, “Ah . . . I know I’ve had some friends who have used it, but I’m not sure.”

“Have you ever from your computer at the Waco Center for Youth logged onto AdultFriendFinder?” Johnston asked. Calling itself the world’s largest singles and swinger community, AdultFriendFinder boasts that it’s “the best place online to find hotties looking for steamy hook-ups.”

“Not to my knowledge,” Matt said, shaking his head as if in earnest. “No.”

“In January, February, and March, did you spend any time on any site that might contain obscenity or sexually related material?”

Baker straightened his posture in his chair. “Not to my knowledge and not for any reason like that. We had to deal with issues kids had, not for any self-gratification.”

“How would it have benefited the kids at WCY for someone to go onto an adult Web site?” Johnston queried.

“There would be students who would come, and one of our issues in the chaplain’s department was to verify reading material and music,” Matt said, appearing increasingly nervous. “And we would have to look up lyrics online, and it would sometimes take you to sites you didn’t want to go to, and you would get back off.”

“But if something popped up, you’re not going to stay on that site for any period of time though?”

“Correct,” Matt said. What perhaps he didn’t understand was that Noel Kersh had found a long string of such sites, and many much worse, that Matt’s WCY computer had visited.

“That would have been inadvertent, right?”

“Correct,” Baker said.

“Because delving into material like that wouldn’t be healthy for any marriage.”

Matt shifted in his chair. “I guess it would depend upon the marriage and what you were trying to get out of it.”

“Would it have been healthy for your marriage?” Johnston asked.

Kari was well-known to be a modest woman, one who felt uncomfortable with blatant sexuality, yet Matt answered, “My statement would be that my wife and I did look at pornography together at different times, the two of us together at home.”

Yet how did that explain the history of pornographic Web sites on Matt’s WCY computer? Had Kari come into the chaplain’s office, where he worked, to view porn with him? She’d only been seen at the facility a half dozen times, and then to do things like attend chapel services. “But you didn’t do it at work by yourself?” Johnston asked.

Shaking his head, Matt insisted, “I did not.”

Although everyone else said Kari was enthusiastic about her interview that final afternoon, believing she’d done well and excited about the possibility of teaching middle school in the fall, Matt disagreed, saying Kari seemed unsure of how the interview had gone. And why did she want the job? Kari had told so many how she bonded with middle-school kids, but Matt said it was because, “Linda was pushing it.”

That whole month had been a difficult one, Matt said, as his dead wife struggled with the anniversary of their second child’s death. “My wife was very withdrawn,” he said. “So that’s always a tough time of year every year.”

“So what did you do to help her deal with that?” Johnston asked.

“Basically what I did all the time was take care of her, meet her needs,” he said. As Matt described himself, he was the one who held the family together, including caring for the house and the girls. Kari, it seemed, worked, graded papers, but did little else.

In the weeks leading up to her death, Matt said Kari struggled with depression. Why was she so anxious? It had been a full seven years since Kassidy’s death. There did seem to be some evidence that the terrible loss of her child still bothered her, including the e-mail where Kari commented she felt as if she was finally realizing that Kassidy would never return. But was that truly what was going on? Was it a coincidence that Kari’s anxiety built as her marriage faltered, especially in light of the evidence that for the last week of her life, Kari struggled with the belief that her husband planned to kill her?

“Did you sense something a little more serious about a week before she passed away?” Johnston asked.

Matt recounted how they’d gone to the doctor. Although Kari had told her mother that she was furious with him for going in the examination room with her, he said his wife took his hand and led him in. Once there, he insisted he let Kari do all the talking. The story he then told was the same yet different than the one he’d told Sergeant Cooper. When the doctor diagnosed some depression, Kari spiraled into another anxiety attack that led her to attempt to jump from a moving car on the freeway. In the past, Matt had said they’d circled the block, slowly, until Kari regained her composure. To Johnston’s questions, Baker now contended that they’d driven slowly home.

There was so much that Matt changed, it seemed, each time he recounted the events leading up to Kari’s death. For instance, Kari had told Bristol about finding the pills, saying Matt said that they were from the kids at WCY. Matt had told Linda the same story. Yet when Johnston asked, Matt insisted he never believed the pills were from his work but rather that they were Kari’s pills. He said they’d argued, and he’d told his wife that he’d never seen the pills before, challenging her statement that they’d come out of his briefcase. “She huffed and puffed and stormed off. That was it for a while, when she came back huffing and puffing some more and said I found them in the briefcase.”

This time, he said that Kari was the one who asked if the pills could have come from WCY. And rather than Kari’s being the one who said she wanted to have them tested, Matt now contended, as he had with Cooper, that he’d told her to have them tested to put her mind at ease.

In hindsight, Matt said he wondered if Kari would still be alive if she’d taken the antidepressants the doctor prescribed. And why didn’t she? Matt blamed Linda, saying she told Kari not to.

Much of what Matt said simply didn’t make sense. He’d suggested often that Kari could have been at Walmart that day to buy the Unisom, planning to use it to take her own life, and that was why she wouldn’t tell him what she was picking up. But was that logical when he told Johnston that Kari used Unisom-type medicines nightly, and that he’d often picked it up for her in the past? Now that he’d seen the autopsy, now that he knew the toxicology found traces of sleeping pills, Matt said he’d seen Kari take Ambien.