Judgment Ridge: The True Story Behind the Dartmouth Murders (55 page)

To be sure, American youths commit a disturbing number of violent crimes compared to their peers in other industrialized countries— there were 1,400 arrests of people under age eighteen for homicide in

1999, the year of Columbine. However, frequently overlooked was the fact that homicides and other violent crimes by teenagers fell sharply for nearly a decade before the Zantop murders; FBI statistics show a 74 percent drop in homicides by youths between 1993 and 2000. Citing those statistics, Jason Ziedenberg of the Justice Policy Institute in Washington sought to muffle the alarm: “In Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine, an average of six juveniles were arrested every year for murder in the 1970s, five in the 1980s, four in the 1990s, and two in 2000. In 2000, Vermont’s 37,000 youths aged fourteen to seventeen accounted for just one homicide and thirty-three violent crimes in the entire state. The inference that random crimes, occurring over half a decade, are somehow evidence of an apocalypse is about as valid as the claim that Timothy McVeigh and Charles Manson are indicative of their adult generations’ predisposition to murder.”

Meanwhile, in June 2002, the chief justice of the U.S. Supreme Court cited the Zantop murders in an opinion about unchecked freedoms for door-to-door canvassers. Justice William H. Rehnquist used Robert and Jim’s environmental survey ruse as an example of the grave dangers he envisioned from allowing everyone from Fuller Brush salesmen to Jehovah’s Witnesses to continue pounding the sidewalks without government oversight. The Zantop case, he wrote, “is but one tragic example of the crime threat posed by door-to-door canvassing. . . . If Hanover had a permit requirement, the teens may have been stopped before they achieved their objective.” Rehnquist was outvoted 8–1, and doorbell-ringers carried the day.

Beyond the disputes about legal issues and teen crime trends, there was near-unanimous agreement that violence by teenagers remained poorly understood and demanded serious attention. Police, school officials, parent groups, criminologists, psychiatrists, and psy-chologists raced to develop methods to change behavior patterns, reduce impulsivity and aggression, and teach young predators strategies to slake their thirsts in less destructive ways.

The search for answers also involved brain scientists. The week after Robert pleaded guilty to murder, neuropsychiatrist Bruce Price

was advocating the need for brain research to help solve the mysteries of teen violence. “Whether it’s Robert Tulloch or other killers, they don’t wear a ‘C’ on their forehead announcing they are criminals; instead, for the most part, they walk around looking like you or I,” he warned at a seminar at the Boston University School of Medicine.

Price, chief of neurology at Harvard-affiliated McLean Hospital in Belmont, Massachusetts, admits to a fascination with crime and violence stemming from personal experience. He grew up in Kansas; his family was acquainted with the Clutters, the family whose murders were recounted in
In Cold Blood.
“What trips the switch in someone like Robert Tulloch?” Price wondered. “Between being a seventeen-year-old kid acting out and a kid who goes out and kills? . . . His brain is not processing like most people’s. Where is the empathy? The remorse? Something is drastically wrong.”

Price dreams of studying Robert in life and then dissecting his brain after death to explore the “neuroanatomic, neurochemical, and genetic determinants” of Robert’s violent behavior. The study would include MRI scans of Robert’s brain and tests to measure empathy, such as showing Robert beautiful images alternated with horrible ones, perhaps even photos of the Zantop murder scene, and gauging his emotional responses, if any, a technique reminiscent of a scene in the movie
A Clockwork Orange.

In Price’s view, the potential payoff is huge—nothing short of preventing future murders. “If we can identify potential markers for violence when kids are still young, we may be able to guide them down a different path,” he said. Robert, then, represents a research prize in brain science. To Price, “it’s an absolutely wasted opportunity if we can’t study this boy.”

W
hen the Zantop case ended with guilty pleas, the prosecutors and investigators moved on to other cases and, in some cases, other jobs.

In January 2003, Attorney General Phil McLaughlin left his post

after more than five years as New Hampshire’s top prosecutor. A new Republican governor took office and McLaughlin, a Democrat, wasn’t his choice for the appointed position. McLaughlin returned to private practice, joining a law firm run by his wife.

The new governor did, however, dip into McLaughlin’s office to choose his chief legal counsel: Kelly Ayotte. She left her job as New Hampshire’s chief homicide prosecutor undefeated. The third mem-ber of the AG’s Zantop team, Michael Delaney, remained in the trenches, taking over from Ayotte as chief of the homicide unit.

In October 2002, Chuck West was promoted from trooper first class to sergeant. With the promotion came a reassignment to the Major Crime Unit, the elite investigative team that handles all New Hampshire homicides. He liked the work, but he wasn’t thrilled about the commute to the unit’s Concord office from his home in the North Country. While waiting for the inevitable call about the next killing, West spent his days pursuing cold cases of unsolved murders. Also promoted was West’s knife-hunting partner, Frank Moran of the Hanover Police Department, who rose from detective lieutenant to captain, which made him the second-ranking member of the force, after Chief Nick Giaccone.

“Every time I get stressed out on my job now, I reflect back on the Zantop thing,” Moran said two years after the murders. “I have not felt the level of importance or obligation anywhere near that. That case is a source of strength when I start to get frazzled about paperwork or the lack of leads in a case. It’s a reality check.”

Moran, West, and three other members of the Zantop investigative team—New Hampshire State Police Sergeants Bob Bruno and Mark Mudgett, and Trooper First Class Russ Hubbard—were honored for their work with the Congressional Law Enforcement Award for Dedication and Professionalism.

Special honors also went to the Massachusetts state trooper who spotted Jim Parker’s abandoned Audi in the parking lot of the Sturbridge Isles truck stop. Two weeks after Robert pleaded guilty, Trooper Walter Combs received the Meritorious Achievement Award from the International Association of Chiefs of Police Highway Safety

Committee. Meanwhile, Sergeant Bill Ward of Indiana, whose CB radio imitation of a trucker led to the capture of Robert and Jim, received the “Radio Hero Award” from a group called REACT International, a CB radio safety organization. Ward still eats regularly at the Flying J truck stop.

I
n Chelsea, the day-to-day obsession about the case evolved into something more subtle—the occasional, unpredictable pain of two

missing limbs. “It’s no longer right there on the edge, where we think about it all the time,” David Savidge said. Time does that. Even so, no one expected to forget that two of their boys were brutal killers. “The shock, that will always be there. It’s still something so hard for us to believe.”

School principal Pat Davenport left Chelsea at the end of the 2002 academic year and became principal of the Woodstock Elementary School. The new Chelsea principal and a revamped school board confronted a budget deficit that was bigger than most Chelseans had realized.

But there was some good new in the fall of 2002. The town won a

$90,000 federal grant to develop after-school programs. School officials also raised the number of graduation requirements. Both moves addressed the growing recognition that Chelsea teenagers had too much free time. Block scheduling remained in place.

Dr. Andy Pomerantz, overwhelmed by his on-the-fly attempts to help his traumatized community, ended up putting his experience to a new professional use: He became a consultant to the Vermont Agency of Human Services’ trauma policy group. Whenever Pomerantz was able—weather permitting—he found solace and serenity by biking or cross-country skiing in the woods and hills around Chelsea.

Diane Tulloch continued to work as a visiting nurse. A new sign appeared on the front porch of the Tulloch home on Main Street. It read:
MICHAEL TULLOCH
.
MASTER CRAFTSMAN
. Yet Mike Tulloch remained as reclusive as ever. Chelseans saw him driving about in his

red pickup, and from inside the cab he’d give what one Chelsean called the “finger wave,” but that was about it. No stopping or idle chatter for him.

John Parker remained Mike Tulloch’s opposite. He didn’t skip a beat in his involvement in town affairs—on the recreation committee, playing basketball, and regularly attending the school’s athletic events. The same wasn’t true for Joan, who became as withdrawn as the Tullochs. On Christmas Eve 2002, a group of friends gathered for a low-key party. John Parker came, but Joan did not. No one asked why; no one needed to.

Christiana Usenza continued working at the health food co-op, while Zack Courts and Casey Purcell headed south to colleges in Boston. Coltere Savidge, after spending his first year after high school working, in the fall of 2002 went off to the College of the Atlantic in Maine. Kip Battey headed west to attend Ohio Wesleyan, but then took off in the spring of 2002 to do some travel. His itinerary included a trip to Australia, of all places. By the fall of 2002 he was back in school.

After Robert’s sentencing, members of The Crew had little, if any, contact with him. But Coltere and Zack stayed in touch with Jim, exchanging letters and visiting him in prison. During one visit, Jim asked Coltere what he thought about him being in prison and about what he’d done. Coltere told his longtime friend: If I didn’t know you, I’d feel you should spend the rest of your life in prison. But because I do know you I’m glad you’ll have the opportunity to get out someday.

They agreed to stay in touch.

J
im quickly acclimated to the New Hampshire State Prison in Concord, home to some 1,350 inmates. In a cold drizzle one late-fall

day, Jim could be seen outdoors in a horseshoe pit, working methodically through a series of yoga poses. Alone, dressed in sneakers, green pants, a light hooded sweatshirt, and a blue woolen cap, he slowly extended his arms and legs to move into the Warrior Two position.

“His Jane Fonda workout,” said one inmate, watching from across the yard.

Prison officials considered Jim well-behaved and even-keeled. Upon his arrival, he was listed as C-3, a medium-security classification that placed him in the general population. With that came freedom to move about the facility, mingle with other inmates, and attend regular classes and activities.

Jim was assigned to a unit called Medium Custody South. Other than the high walls and concertina wire that surrounded it, the concrete prison block resembled a three-story motel with rows of doors that opened onto balconies. The balconies overlooked a grassy courtyard, picnic tables, a basketball court, two handball courts, and a small flower garden tended by inmates.

Each outside door opened into a twenty-by-twenty-foot day room, or common room, off of which there were ten cells—home to up to twenty inmates. Jim lived on the second level, in a group of cells known as 2C, where the day room was decorated with posters made from completed puzzles of kittens and dolphins.

Taped to Jim’s cell door—cell number 3222—was a color picture of the U.S. flag above the words “God Bless America.” His guitar hung just inside the cell door. Jim slept on the top bunk, and on a shelf within arm’s reach were books on art and music, including
Jazz and Popular Guitar
and
Gray’s Anatomy,
which he used for drawing human figures. Other books in his cell were
Power Yoga
and college-level texts, including
Understanding Nutrition
and
The Western Humanities
. Also on Jim’s reading list was
Man’s Eternal Quest,
a book about meditation, healing, and life after death.

A calendar Jim taped to the cinder-block wall noted his regular activities—guitar lessons on Monday; drama on Tuesday; piano on Thursday; t’ai chi every Friday. Attached to the calendar was his “list of things to remember.” It included: “Letters . . . Mom; art paper; Zack; 10:30 see Lt. Hogan . . . Put Di on visit list asap.”

Jim wasn’t unfriendly behind bars, but neither was he eager to form close bonds. He drew, completed homework for his classes, watched some TV, occasionally played cards, and did his yoga. Other inmates called him quiet, even shy. “He’s doing his own time,” said Joel Ranstrom, an inmate on Jim’s pod. The phrase was admiring

prison slang for someone who didn’t cause problems for himself or others.

W
hile Jim seemed intent on calmly marking the nine thousand or so days of his sentence, Robert went looking for trouble almost from

the start.

After a brief period of processing at the Concord prison, he was transferred to New Hampshire’s other prison, a smaller facility in Berlin. The idea was to keep Robert and Jim apart—prison officials said they would never spend time together no matter how many years they remained behind bars.

At Berlin, Robert quickly developed a reputation that one corrections official described as “uncooperative”—a euphemism for a potentially dangerous inmate. Robert was often in trouble with corrections officers and alienated fellow inmates by displaying “an attitude that he’s better than everyone,” the official said. Less than two months after he arrived in Berlin, Robert was attacked by another inmate.

“It’s letting him know he’s just a punk, a coward,” his assailant, Thomas E. Dougherty, told a reporter. Dougherty started the fight in the recreation yard by pushing Robert and ordering him to leave the workout area. Robert walked across the basketball court and glared back at him, Dougherty said, so he ran up to Robert and punched him in the face. The two fell to the ground and began swinging at one another.

“I’m from the old school,” said Dougherty, a convicted drug dealer. “Rapists, child molesters, people who kill women, rats, would not be allowed to live and walk freely about the general population [before].” Both he and Robert were treated for cuts and bruises, although Robert came out worse—two black eyes.