Little Lost Angel (17 page)

He entered his home quietly and peeked into the rooms of his three children. They were sound asleep. Safe in bed.

Loraine Henry was awakened from a light sleep by the stirring of her husband in the kitchen. Steve had called her earlier to say that he’d be late, but he’d told her little about the case other than that a girl had been murdered. She walked into the kitchen and snuggled up beside him.

“Coming to bed?” she asked.

Loraine observed the tired tension in her husband’s face. She knew he wanted to talk. They sat at the kitchen table for hours as he related the events of the day. When he had nothing more to say, Steve Henry kissed his wife and stumbled off to bed. Loraine would follow him a short time later, after checking on the children. They were still sound asleep. Still safe in bed.

*  *  *

Early Sunday morning, Shanda Sharer’s body was driven fifty miles by ambulance from the morgue at King’s Daughters Hospital in Madison to the Louisville office of Dr. George R. Nichols II.

As Kentucky’s chief medical examiner, Nichols had earned his reputation as an expert on the identification of fire victims under the most difficult of conditions. In 1977 he’d directed the autopsies of the 163 people killed in the Beverly Hills Supper Club fire in Owensboro, Kentucky. Then in 1988 he’d performed autopsies on twenty-three members of a church group who were killed in a fiery bus
crash while returning home from an outing at King’s Island, Ohio.

Although there was no longer much doubt that the burned body was that of Shanda Sharer, Nichols took the necessary steps for a positive identification. Shanda’s fingers were so severely burned that the tips had to be cut off and sent to the Indiana State Police laboratory so they could be checked against her fingerprint records. Nichols also removed Shanda’s jaw for later identification by her dentist. She had made her last visit to the dentist a month earlier to be fitted with braces.

In systematic order, Nichols went through the lengthy process of determining the cause of death. The upper half of her body, including her head, was covered with third- and fourth-degree burns. Her left ear had been shriveled by the flames, and her tongue protruded through clenched teeth. There were wounds on her feet and binding marks, consistent with those made by a rope, on her forearms and ankles. A small puncture wound was found at the base of her neck. There were three lacerations on Shanda’s scalp that appeared to have been inflicted by a heavy blunt object. However, the skull was not fractured and there had been no internal hemorrhaging. Multiple lacerations of Shanda’s anus and anal cavity indicated that she’d been sodomized by a blunt cylindrical object, which had been inserted three and a half inches into the anus and damaged the inner walls. The extent of internal bleeding convinced Nichols that the sodomy had occurred while Shanda was alive.

Shanda’s larynx and trachea were coated with thick black soot, which indicated she’d been breathing—and thus still alive—when she was set on fire. The injuries to Shanda’s head and anus were serious, but she could have recovered from them under proper care. In his final analysis, Nichols fixed the cause of death as smoke inhalation and severe burns.

*  *  *

At a hearing in his Madison court on Sunday morning, Jefferson circuit judge Ted Todd decided that Melinda and Laurie would be tried as adults. Todd appointed public defenders for the girls, then arraigned them on charges of
murder. After pleas of not guilty were entered on their behalf, Todd ordered that Melinda be transferred to the jail in an adjacent county so that she could have no contact with Laurie.

By now newspaper and television reporters from Louisville, the largest city in the area, had learned of the gruesome crime and were scrambling for more information. Calls were made to Dr. George Nichols, who confirmed that Shanda had been alive when she was set on fire. Nichols also described the injuries to Shanda’s head but made no mention of the sodomy.

“I saw no need to bring that out at the time,” Nichols said later. “I wanted to talk to the parents before I released any information that could bring them more grief.”

Reporters learned that Shanda’s body would be taken to Kraft’s Funeral Home in New Albany, and television cameramen crossed the Ohio River from Louisville to gather in the funeral home parking lot, hoping to get footage of the body being removed from the hearse. Mortician Jamie Rainey tricked the reporters by arranging for a decoy hearse to arrive at the front entrance at the same time that the hearse with Shanda’s body came to the back door.

Inside the funeral home, Shanda’s parents picked out a casket and waited to see their daughter’s body. Twelve hours had passed since Howard Henry told him that his daughter had been murdered, and Steve Sharer’s normally pleasant face was worn and tired. His wife, Sharon, had tried to get him to lie down earlier that morning, but he found no comfort in sleep.

After hours of crying, Jacque had somehow gathered the strength to call Jamie Rainey, a longtime friend, and ask him to make the funeral arrangements. Before leaving for the funeral home, Jacque had gone to Shanda’s room and picked out clothes for her dead daughter to wear in her casket.

“I brought her favorite blue jeans and sweatshirt,” Jacque said later. “That’s the way she’d want to be dressed. She’d want to be comfortable.”

Jacque and Steve saw the hearse pull up, but they followed Rainey’s instructions to wait in his office until he had a
chance to view the body. When Rainey returned to the room, he was crying.

“No human being should have to see what I just saw,” he said hoarsely.

“Jamie, I want you to put these clothes on her,” Jacque said, holding out the jeans and sweatshirt.

“Jacque, I can put them in the casket, but I can’t put them on her body.”

“Why not?” Jacque asked.

“I just can’t,” Rainey said. “The body is in such bad shape I can’t put clothes on her. It will have to be closed casket.”

Steve put his arm around Jacque and consoled her. Rainey suggested that they cover Shanda’s body with a blanket of roses. Jacque and Steve nodded their approval. Shanda would like that.

*  *  *

As Steve turned the corner into his subdivision, he saw the big vans with satellite dishes on top and the familiar names of Louisville television stations emblazoned on the sides. By the time he’d pulled into the driveway and stepped out of his car, the reporters were on top of him. He brushed by them, ignoring their questions, pushing their microphones aside.

“Leave us alone,” he said. “Please, go away.”

Some of the reporters took their camera crews across the street and knocked on the doors of nearby houses, baiting neighbors with questions that might produce a film clip for the evening news. Other reporters, not yet willing to give up on getting a reaction from Shanda’s family, stood at the edge of Steve’s yard, waiting for the next opportunity. Inside the house, Steve’s grieving relatives told him that the television crews had been there for hours.

“They just keep coming to the door,” Sharon said. “I told them we had nothing to say but they just keep coming. They won’t leave.”

“I’ll punch the next one of them that knocks on that door,” Steve said. But he didn’t. When the knock came a short while later, he simply told the reporters that he had nothing to say and asked them to leave. With every new knock he repeated his request. Finally, after the 6:00
P.M
.
news, the television crews called it a day. They would try again tomorrow.

*  *  *

Despite their efforts on Sunday, television and newspaper reporters were still in the dark about the motive for the murder, and many other details remained unknown. Hoping for more information, the reporters descended Monday morning on the chambers of Jefferson County circuit judge Ted Todd in Madison.

Reporters huddled in the courthouse hallway, exchanging bits and pieces of information they’d gathered from their police sources. One reporter said he’d heard that the girls were members of a satanic cult. Some of the more seasoned reporters nodded cordially but immediately dismissed that theory. They’d heard similar stories about satanic cults before and none of them had ever panned out.

Veteran television reporter John McGrath told the other reporters that he’d learned that the murder involved a lesbian love triangle. This too seemed unbelievable, but then again, the bizarre nature of the crime begged for some explanation.

When Judge Todd finally released the police report that afternoon, it stated that Melinda Loveless was jealous of Shanda and wanted to kill her because she thought that Shanda was “trying to steal her girlfriend named Amanda.” The report didn’t mention Amanda Heavrin’s last name, but it provided the bare outline of the story Toni Lawrence had told police and included the name of the fourth girl, Hope Rippey.

The police refused to answer questions about the lesbian angle and most of the reporters, including McGrath, refrained from using the word
lesbian
in their reports, saying only that the murder was caused by jealousy over a girlfriend. One television reporter, however, went on the air that night and said the murder was the result of a lesbian love triangle.

Armed with this new information, the reporters began again in earnest. They spread across the streets of historic downtown Madison, asking residents for their thoughts on
the horrible murder that had occurred on the outskirts of town. Camera crews found the spot on Lemon Road where Shanda had been burned, and reporters waited outside the schools of the accused murderers and the victim, asking young boys and girls if they knew the victim or her alleged killers. Two television stations managed to get interviews with Melinda’s mother. Margie Donahue sat on her living-room couch and told the camera that there must be some mistake, that her daughter was innocent. Laurie Tackett’s little brother, Buddy, told another television station that his sister wasn’t capable of murder.

All day Tuesday, the reporters staked out Kraft’s Funeral Home, where friends and relatives and dozens of Shanda’s classmates came to pay their respects. Jamie Rainey had banned the reporters from coming inside, but several tried to sneak in anyway, only to be turned away. Frustrated but not beaten, the television crews set up shop on the adjoining property and reporters corralled youngsters as they left the funeral home, succeeding in capturing their tears on camera.

Earlier that day, counselors at the three schools Shanda had attended in the last year met with students who were having a hard time dealing with the tragedy.

“This is so horrendous that some of the students still can’t believe it happened,” said Brother Bill Reigel, who had been working with students at St. Paul School. “They are in a state of denial. Some have even dreamed that she is still alive. It’s going to take a long time for this to pass.

On Wednesday, Shanda’s parents relented to repeated requests and allowed one of the television stations to film the interior of the church on condition that the film be shared with the other channels. The funeral mass was held at Our Lady of Perpetual Help Catholic Church in New Albany. Reporters who interviewed children entering the church began to gather bits and pieces about Shanda’s past.

“I think they transferred her because Melinda was picking on her,” said Kim Mancle, a classmate of Shanda’s from Hazelwood. “I knew she had problems in the past at Hazelwood,” added Mary Jeanne Osborne, who used to
date Shanda’s stepbrother, Larry Dale. “But she had changed after she transferred. She changed her makeup, her hairstyle, and she talked more like someone her age. Just last week, she told me about her boyfriend and how cute he was. She was a sweet girl.”

Every pew in the church was filled. People were lined up along the sides and in the back of the church. Many of them were classmates of Shanda. They watched in silence as the casket was carried down the aisle, followed by Jacque, Steve, Sharon, Paije, and other relatives. During his eulogy, the Reverend John Fink stepped off the pulpit and walked over to the first-graders from Our Lady of Perpetual Help who sat together near the front of church, across the aisle from Shanda’s family.

“What does spring bring us?” the Reverend Fink asked the first-graders. “Sunshine,” said one of the youngsters. “Flowers,” said another. “Butterflies,” said a third.

“Butterflies,” the preacher repeated loudly. “Each of you have caught a butterfly, haven’t you?”

The children nodded in unison.

“Butterflies are beautiful creatures. They are a joy to catch and hold,” the Reverend Fink said. “But eventually you have to let that butterfly go, don’t you?”

The reverend walked over to Shanda’s parents and reached out a hand to each.

“Somewhere along the line, you have to let go of that butterfly. You have to let go of that life,” he said. “You must let go of Shanda.”

“I can’t,” moaned Jacque Ott.

“You have to,” the reverend said before walking back to the pulpit. “You must let Shanda go.”

He ended the service by reading a poem, a copy of which Steve carried in his wallet.

“God made the world with its towering trees, majestic mountains, and restless seas—and then He paused and He said, ‘It needs one more thing, something to touch and dance and sing,’ so God made little girls. When he completed that task He had begun, He was pleased, for the world seen through a little girl’s eyes greatly resembles Paradise.”

Looking directly at Shanda’s parents, the Reverend Fink said, “Your beloved Shanda now lives in Paradise.”

*  *  *

Shanda’s family waited in a room under the church until the television crews had left. Only then did the funeral procession begin its long journey across the Ohio River to the tiny town of Big Springs, Kentucky, more than fifty miles away. Shanda was buried in the graveyard of Big Springs Methodist Church, the same church in which Shanda’s parents had been married fourteen years earlier. Shanda’s body was laid to rest beside the grave of her grandmother. A light snow began to fall as the family said their prayers over the gravesite.

Finally it was time to leave. Relatives wrapped their arms around a shaking Jacque Ott and led her to the car. The snowfall had thickened, and it was coming down in a soft white flurry. By the time the cars approached the Ohio River, the hilly countryside was covered by a blanket of snow.