I'll Be Watching You (19 page)

I

Ned had compulsive tendencies. In his teens, he would do certain things that made his mother nervous about a possible condition she believed he had. There was one time, she later detailed, when Ned was at a local public pool and she watched him put on a T-shirt and take it off “six to eight times” in a row, but she didn’t think anything of it then. Sometime later, she watched Ned at the dinner table pick up his glass and put it back down in the same spot, over and over again, for several minutes. So she called his doctor.

“I think he should see a psychiatrist,” Ned’s mother said.

“It’s not serious,” the family doctor said after asking several questions.

Within a few months, the behavior stopped, and Mrs. Snelgrove said she “never did anything about it” again.

Later, when investigators began to take a closer look into Ned’s life, it was easy to see the signs of what might be called obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) were prevalent in the way he kept detailed records of his mileage and gas receipts and newspaper articles (and two rather compelling Styrofoam mannequin heads that investigators believed he had doctored up to look like females).

II

Ned hated to be told what to do. He never wanted “advice,” a family member later recalled, and would get extremely upset with anyone who ever criticized him.
He was kind of extreme on this score…,
that same family member later wrote, but she believed it was just one more way for Ned to show and
maintain his independence.

III

On June 27, 1997, the Bergen County Office of the Prosecutor sent a letter to Mary Di Sabato, the chairperson of the New Jersey State Parole Board. In short, the office was sending the letter to officially proclaim its objection to Ned’s proposed release or possible parole. Assistant County Prosecutor Fred L. Schwanwede, who had spearheaded the office’s case against Ned back in 1988, along with Thomas Kapsak, from Middlesex County, explained to the parole board, just in case there was any misunderstanding, what Ned had done to end up in prison. In graphic detail, Schwanwede narrated both Mary Ellen’s vicious attack and survival, and Karen Osmun’s painful death. Schwanwede’s pain, carried over for the past eleven years, was obvious in every word of every sentence. The anguish for the victim had not left this prosecutor. He was finding it hard to believe he had to actually fight to keep this maniac in prison.

Then Schwanwede went into Ned’s eleven-page “explanation” of his crimes, quoting Ned at length. There in Ned’s own words was Ned’s plan. Could this warped psyche be cured? Could this same person be ready to face society? The Bergen County Office of the Prosecutor didn’t think so.

As his letter concluded, Schwanwede, pleading with board members, wrote for them not to be taken in by Ned’s
clean-cut, neat, articulate, intelligent…sincerity, just as he had [fooled] Mary Ellen Renard on the evening she fought for her life.
Like every other prosecutor and law enforcement official Ned would cross paths with throughout his life, Schwanwede pegged him as the
most dangerous defendant
he had e
ver dealt with.

Why?

Well, it was pretty darn obvious at this point: he
gives the appearance of being a “regular guy,”
Schwanwede penned.

John Doe.

Bob Smith.

Ned Snelgrove.

The most potent, most sobering words of Schwanwede’s letter came at the end, when, in direct and straightforward language, the veteran prosecutor warned the board against the threat of allowing Ned to go free early:
Whenever he is released…he will present a grave danger of taking another human life….
He finally asked members
to delay this threat for as long as the board allows.

Continuing for another paragraph, the prosecutor said Ned could easily dupe anyone he wanted because he was
that
smart and
that
good at what he did. By his own admission, Ned had been harboring these impulses of hurting women since the second and third grade, Schwanwede warned. Now, being
motivated by a thirst for freedom,
Schwanwede astutely wrote, Ned was even more dangerous than he had ever been.
Don’t be fooled,
he ended his letter,
someone’s life surely depends upon it.

IV

Despite the warnings and the letters and the pleadings from those who knew Ned Snelgrove best, eleven months after Barbara Delaney wrote with her concerns, and Fred Schwanwede sent his letter, it was clear in August 1999 that the parole board had no choice in the matter. As it turned out, it was up to the New Jersey Department of Corrections (NJDOC). And complicated doesn’t even begin to explain the situation. Public information officer and research specialist for the New Jersey State Parole Board Neal Buccino explained to me how Ned got out of prison so soon, saying, “The state parole board was not involved in any way with Mr. Snelgrove’s release. By law, he was eligible to be considered for parole, but Mr. Snelgrove requested to serve out the rest of his term in prison without waiting for the state parole board’s decision. With that request, the board ended its consideration of his case.”

In other words, the parole board never had the opportunity to release Ned. The bottom line was that he had somehow found a way to bypass parole and, as one report claimed,
a mandated psychological evaluation after the court’s computer system did not factor credits earned for good behavior into his release date.

The NJDOC carefully reviewed Ned’s records and determined that he was, in fact, eligible for early release—
not
parole—“based on time served and good behavior.” Thus, after serving eleven years of a potential twenty-year sentence, thirty-nine-year-old Edwin “Ned” Snelgrove walked out of Rahway on May 26, 1999.

Free to go and do whatever he wanted.

Free to start life over again.

Free to walk the same streets as the victims he had left in his wake.

Free to kill.

I

When she wasn’t having a good time, going out drinking and dancing, Carmen would take the kids—this time her nieces and nephews and own children—to Pope Park to roller-skate and swim. She helped her mother around the house, cleaning and cooking. She helped the kids with their homework. Even went to the movies from time to time. There was one day, especially, everyone later remembered with warm smiles and belly laughs, when Carmen gathered all the kids together, putting the little ones in an old abandoned shopping cart. They walked down to Crown Palace Theatre on New Park Avenue, which was a good two-mile hike from Putnam Street, just to go to the movies. “She loved to spend time with her nephews and nieces,” Luz recalled.

“We were at Pope Park one day, at the carnival,” Kathy Perez, Carmen’s niece, remembered. “We were having a great time. She was putting all the young kids on the rides and buying them popcorn and cotton candy…and then it started to pour.” There were about fifteen of them. Carmen flipped open her cell phone, called a friend who had a big truck, and “he came,” Kathy added, “and piled us all in the back and took us all home safely.”

Whenever one of the boys brought home a stringer of catfish after a day of fishing, Carmen loved to get the fillet knife out and clean the whiskered creatures herself. She craved what Luz, Kathy, and Sonia called
“bacalaito,”
a family recipe Carmen’s mother prepared. Catfish, flour, yams, water, salt, and pepper—all mixed together into a dough and then rolled out into round discs and deep-fried (like fried dough).

When it came time to go out dancing, Carmen favored the
bachata,
a form of music and dance that originated in the countryside and rural neighborhoods of the Dominican Republic. What struck a chord with Carmen, no doubt stimulating her fragile soul, were the subjects the music and lyrics often dealt with: romance, especially heartbreak and sadness. The original name of the
bachata
genre was
amargue,
which translated to “bitterness,” or “bitter music.”

Carmen could get on the dance floor, let her long, flowing dark hair down, and lose herself and possibly her problems in the beat of the music. She could relate to it, having lived a life of failed romances. She knew how it felt to love and lose, as the
bachata
so passionately translated her feelings. In a family video, there was Carmen on the dance floor, moving to the
bachata,
talking to the camera: “Watch me…this is the way you do it.”

She was perfect.

Happy.

Transfixed by the natural energy of song and dance.

When Carmen went out to the clubs in Hartford to dance the night away, she would pillage Luz’s closet for clothes. Luz was the fashionista of the Rodriguez family. She dressed trendy and wasn’t afraid to express herself through the garments she spent hours combing store racks for. Luz would be at home on the weekend watching television, her husband sleeping soundly in the next room. Carmen would sneak up to the window, slide the little plastic accordion arm of the air conditioner open like a curtain, and whisper, “Sister, sister?”

Luz would be watching television, rolling her eyes, knowing why Carmen was at the window. “Sister” was a nickname Carmen chose for Luz, in the same fashion as she called their mother, “Mother.” It was a term of endearment in Carmen’s eyes. (“She never called me by my name,” Luz recalled.)

There was that sweet, angelic voice of Carmen’s at the window, asking Luz if she could come in and borrow some clothes for a night out.

“What are you doing?” Luz said in a whisper. Carmen was standing at her door by then. “[My husband’s] sleeping.”

“Come on, Sister, give me a shirt. I’m going out dancing.” Carmen would throw her arms in the air and do a little wiggle.

“Be quiet. Come in.” Luz would never refuse. Carmen changed right there in the hallway, sometimes on the porch.

“You got a beer for the road, Sister?” she’d ask before leaving.

Luz always gave in. It was Carmen’s sincerity. She wanted to have some fun. She didn’t want to hurt anybody or cause problems, she just wanted to go out dancing.

“Titi,” Luz said, whispering, “I have to go to work tomorrow morning, early…. Go ahead, take the beer and go. Go.” “Titi” was a nickname given to Carmen by her grandmother. Later, her nieces and nephews called her “Titi, la Loca.”

Crazy Auntie.

“There were two ‘Titi’s in the family,” recalled Luz. “So Carmen, later on, became
Titi, la Loca.
It was not in a negative way, nothing ever was with Carmen.”

II

During an Easter egg hunt in 1999, Carmen wound up in a spot of trouble. Her daughter Jacqueline’s family lived on the opposite side of a two-family house where Carmen had been staying with her mother on Putnam Street. The two families got along, but they weren’t necessarily close. “It was a ‘hi and bye’ type of relationship,” Kathy Perez recalled.

On that wonderful early spring afternoon, one of the young girls from Jacqueline’s family, who was maybe ten years old, started to give Carmen some trouble, calling her out. There was a dispute over a parking space in the driveway. The little girl got nasty with Carmen as she tried to get someone to move their car.

“I’m not going to hit a little kid,” Carmen said, laughing at the gesture.

The girl began provoking her, taunting her to engage.

Carmen laughed. “OK, you want some.” She called for her niece Kathy to come out, who was closer in age to the girl. (“I was her baby,” Kathy said. “Me and my aunt were always together. She watched out for me. She’d take care of me.”)

The girl, nonetheless, wasn’t satisfied, according to Kathy. She kept taunting Carmen. So as Kathy was on her way outside to confront the problem, the girl took a swing at Carmen. (“So Carmen grabbed her. She had her by the hair.”)

“Kathy, Kathy,” Carmen screamed. “Hurry up, come out here.” Carmen didn’t want to be involved. She was an adult. She didn’t want to hurt the little girl.

Against her better judgment, perhaps, Kathy ended up striking the girl. Not hard, just a little poke to the arm. Meanwhile, Carmen fell into the thorny bushes along the side of the driveway as the commotion escalated, and she got scratched all over her upper body. When she got up and brushed herself off, she was livid.

Soon both families were gathered around, throwing insults at one another. Someone called the cops. When they spoke to the young girl, she claimed it was Carmen who hit her.

Sonia bailed Carmen out of jail and the case turned into nothing.

As the next year progressed, Carmen thought long and hard about divorcing her husband. Too much time had elapsed since they had last seen each other. She had been dating other men. She loved Jesus, but she didn’t want to string him along, either. She hated taking his money, but he insisted on sending it. Her mother was pushing her to move out on her own with Jacqueline, who was fifteen, and Roberto, now twelve. Tanaris, thirteen, and Rueben, nine, were a handful, but Carmen was able to send them to Puerto Rico for spells of time so they could visit family and learn their culture.

Carmen didn’t want to move out, however, until she knew she could provide for her kids. She had applied for state assistance and it was said to be in the works. Once it was OK’d, she promised her mother, the state was going to help her find a place.

III

As the spring of 2001 approached, Carmen seemed to be heading back into a routine of heavy drinking. “She just couldn’t stop for long periods of time,” said Luz. “We tried to do everything we could to help her, but she didn’t want it. What could we do?”

During those periods when Carmen wasn’t drinking so much, Luz liked to have her watch her kids. “She was family. We always rely on family.”

One afternoon, while Luz and her husband were at work, Carmen was babysitting. On this day, she decided to drink. It wasn’t common for Carmen to get drunk while watching the kids. She must have obviously started after Luz left for work. In any event, Carmen and Luz’s aunt lived next door. She called Luz at work late into the day and said, “Titi is hitting on your kids.” She had heard some commotion next door and went over. She saw Carmen yelling at the kids, acting strangely. (“She was out of control, out of her mind, pushing the kids around,” Luz said later. “Carmen was not an abuser. She was drunk and impatient, and the kids got to her. It was all too much.” Luz wasn’t making excuses for her sister; she was trying to explain how things happened. When Carmen drank for a long period of time, she became a different person, family members said. She wasn’t herself.)

“What is she doing?” Luz asked her aunt as they talked on the phone.

“She’s hitting on the kids. I’m going to call the cops.”

By the time Luz got home, her aunt had already phoned the police. As the police were on their way, Luz and Carmen began arguing.

“What are you doing, Titi? You don’t push the kids around!” Luz said. As much as Luz and Carmen got along and loved each other, they also fought more than any of the other siblings. “Calm down, Titi, calm down,” Luz said as Carmen screamed at her. Carmen was outside on the porch. They were going back and forth. Luz was trying to keep Carmen cool. Then, at some point, Carmen hit Luz. Pushed her down to the ground and started punching her.

The police arrived. Carmen and Luz were on the ground fighting. But Luz refused to hit back. (“I would never hit my own blood. That’s just me. Never. Never. Never. I don’t care what she did to me.”)

The police took Carmen away and arrested her for domestic violence and child abuse. She ended up spending ninety days at York Correctional Institution, a women’s prison in Niantic, Connecticut. When she got out of York during the spring of 2001, she was a changed person. She started to watch her drinking. She was doing great, according to Luz, Sonia, and Kathy. She still liked to go out on the town as a means to blow off steam, but she didn’t come home drunk, plus those days of binging were over. Dancing provided an atmosphere for Carmen to let loose and relax. For the most part, she liked to hang out at Portillas’s Palace Café, on Park Street, which in Hartford is made up of largely a Spanish community. So Carmen felt at home. “Little San Juan,” some called Park Street. The International, on Capitol Avenue, near Kenney’s Restaurant and Bar, was another club Carmen frequented.

IV

One night, while Carmen was dancing at the Portillas’s Palace Café, she met Miguel Fraguada, a rather nice-looking, somewhat older man. Miguel fell for Carmen immediately. She liked the way he treated her and her children. He was always putting their needs before his own. A real man, the family called him. Miguel worked hard. He wanted to see Carmen do well. He was good for her.

Carmen had always been rail thin, maybe 110 pounds at any given time. While in prison, however, for just a few months, she had packed on some extra weight and it showed. Miguel didn’t mind. He loved Carmen the way she was. “When I saw her the first time [after she got out],” Luz said, “she looked huge, because she had always been so skinny.”

The weight didn’t seem to bother Carmen. She’d waltz around, laughingly saying,
“Ahora conseguí la carne”
(“I got meat now”). She loved the idea of having some “meat on her bones,” as she put it. She thought it made her look sexy. By no means was Carmen fat. She was heavier, sure. But it felt good.

In photographs of Carmen with Miguel during this period, she looks content, happy to be with him. Somewhat of a ham whenever a camera was pointed at her, Carmen smiled and stared into the lens, as if she had a connection with whoever was on the opposite end.

V

In July 2001, Carmen finally found an apartment she liked. It was on Grand Street, right off Capitol Avenue, not too far from the safety net of her mother’s place on Putnam. Before she and Miguel moved in with the kids, they spent days and nights painting and fixing the place up to make it more homey. In both their minds, they were starting a family together. They wanted everything perfect.

It was funny to Luz, Sonia, and Kathy that they’d come home and see Carmen transporting her personal belongings in a shopping cart from Putnam to Grand. She had no car—not many did in the city. But nothing was going to stop her. That first time Carmen went grocery shopping, Luz and her mother took her. Carmen was like a kid in a candy store. This was the first apartment she’d had on her own. She had never, in all of her years (she was thirty-two then), had a place she could call her own. She either lived with a guy or stayed with family. Ever since she put the deposit on the place and started fixing it up, she had even stepped away from the booze. She still drank, but not to excess.

As they were trolling the aisles of the supermarket a day or two after Carmen officially moved into her apartment, Luz recalled, Carmen was excited about the prices of food. “She’d grab boxes of pasta and say, ‘Three for a dollar, I’m getting these.’ My mom and I would laugh. We used Goya products for everything. But it didn’t matter to Carmen.” She’d pick up a bottle of tomato sauce, a different brand that was on sale, and throw it in the cart.

“But we don’t use that,” her mother would say in Spanish.

“But it’s cheap. I’m getting it,” Carmen countered.

It was the first time she had ever really been grocery shopping for herself. “It was like two hours in that store,” Luz remembered, laughing at the memory.

VI

Carmen had finally cut the cord. She was out on her own with Miguel. She had found her place in the world with a guy who loved her for who she was. As the summer went on, she called her sisters every day, stopped by to see them, or invited them over for dinner. They were a family. A close-knit group living within a few miles of one another. Miguel fit into the mix perfectly. Carmen was proud to call him her boyfriend. She’d even filed papers to divorce Jesus and pledged to marry Miguel as soon as she could.