Chapter 45
The mother, Lynn Marino, wouldn’t rest until the killer was caught.
She and other family members were desperate to reconstruct exactly what had happened to Pam.
How did the serial killer spot her? They wondered if he might have browsed inside her antique store, perhaps at that time spotting her keys and taking them.
Likely he’d been stalking her and watching her house.
“In the air is a surreal hysteria that I feel,” I wrote in my journal after that evening with Pam’s family.
“It seems so hopeless when all that these suffering souls can do is speculate and ask what if? And what do you think? I worry about them ever going forward and fusing their two selves back together. Because they are divided. One person normal and trying to be who they were—and the other in hell.”
In March, ABC sent a film crew to Baton Rouge, and producer Jeff Martz and I conspired with the Cataldies about ways we could help.
I decided it might be smart to lure the killer with a public event.
My Jack the Ripper book Portrait of a Killer had been published that past November.
Why not do a book signing in the Baton Rouge area?
There was a long line at my book signing, and Jeff Martz wore a concealed camera, filming everybody who showed up.
Later the recording was looked at by the police.
Unfortunately, from the get-go they weren’t happy with my involvement.
Louis Cataldie and I were summoned to sit down with a U.S.
attorney who grilled me about what I was doing.
It was made clear that local law enforcement didn’t appreciate me sticking my nose into their investigation. They were at odds with Louis too. I was worn out by it all, and deeply disturbed.
“This evil man must be caught. I need my relief from him too so I can go on with my life,” I wrote in my journal.
In May 2003, DNA connected thirty-five-year-old Derrick Todd Lee to the crimes, and he was taken into custody.
An itinerate construction worker, he was described as a smooth talker.
He had a history of stalking and is believed to have been preying on women since 1998.
He might have been caught sooner had an FBI profiler not decided that the Baton Rouge Serial Killer was white.
Louis Cataldie’s office was used to draw a blood sample from Derrick Todd Lee.
A female staff member appeared to take care of this, and the accused serial killer’s pupils dilated.
He “broke out in a cold sweat,” Louis told me.
He said that if Lee had been alone with the woman, he likely would have attacked her next.
“There is no stereotype for a serial killer,” Louis explained. “If you trigger him, you’re not going to know it. If you become part of his delusion, he will come after you. There’s no point in begging for your life, and there’s no escaping.”
Not long after this, I had dinner in New York with my publisher, Phyllis Grann. She asked me, “What’s the next trend?” I’d started the forensic thriller trend (without intending to), and what might I do now? I didn’t know. But I was curious about the psychopathic mind. What happens to create it?
Was Walter Sickert born a violent psychopath?
Or were his childhood and traumatizing surgeries to blame?
Maybe both? What about Timothy Spencer, Derrick Todd Lee, and so many others?
I wanted to explore this and thought about where to do the research, possibly at Harvard University.
I figured if any place had experts on the subject, it would be there.
On July 14, 2004, I visited the medical school, only to learn that where I really needed to go was the Harvard-affiliated McLean Hospital, one of the oldest and most prestigious psychiatric hospitals in the country.
At the last minute, the hospital’s president, Bruce Cohen, agreed to meet with me.
We talked for several hours, and he told me if I came back in a week, he could have a proper tour set up.
I wouldn’t know until much later that after I’d gotten out of my limousine, Irene took a picture of me. In the background was a black Saab driving by. It was another one of those synchronistic moments, another six degrees of separation. The car belonged to neuroscientist Dr. Staci Gruber.
We wouldn’t meet until I returned on July 21, and when she walked into the room, I felt as if the air shifted.
Or the electromagnetic field changed. It wasn’t because she’s a very attractive redhead with a beautiful speaking voice and soothing demeanor.
I didn’t know that she would be the most gifted person I’ve ever met, and one of the finest.
Staci has much to be arrogant about, but is modest, thoughtful, and unselfish.
While an undergraduate at Tufts University majoring in psychology, she was a full-time student at the New England Conservatory, starting out in classical voice before switching to jazz.
I can’t imagine going to two schools at once.
It was all I could do to get through Davidson.
She did her graduate work at Harvard and Tufts and would become one of the world’s foremost experts in cannabis and how it can be used to heal.
Her nickname on CNN is Pot Doc, although she doesn’t partake of her own medicine.
In her spare time, she composes music and sings with Michael Orland, the former music director of the behemoth competition show American Idol.
Staci has a ridiculous sense of humor. She can send me into fits of laughter when she starts imitating people and accents.
Her favorite trick is to call pretending to be the telephone company or some other vendor, fooling me completely.
I often hang up on ATT, Verizon, the bank, assuming it’s Staci having fun with me as usual.
She has the mind of a lawyer and tremendous financial savvy in addition to her endless talents.
When we sued our business management company and went to trial in 2013, she single-handedly won the case after her five days on the witness stand.
At the end of a seven-week trial that was miserable, the jury sided with us, awarding almost $52 million.
But what one hears in the news about huge verdicts isn’t the reality.
After years of appeals, the amount gets carved away depending on the judge and other factors.
Our case was no exception. Suffice it to say that only the lawyers win.
Staci’s and my legal fees alone were more than $12 million, the other side’s almost twice that, we were told.
I’m terrible with money and should have listened to advice Oprah Winfrey gave me at the Matrix Awards for women in communication. This was in 2000, and we sat next to each other on the dais. At one point, she leaned close and confided out of the blue, “Patricia, always sign your own checks.”
“No way.” I couldn’t imagine it.
“Absolutely.” She nodded. “Don’t forget I told you this. I give the same advice to everyone.”
“You don’t really sign every check yourself?” I was stunned.
“If I don’t account for every penny, then I don’t deserve the money,” she replied.
After the lawsuit, Staci and I never again allowed any bookkeeper or accounting firm to sign our checks. She does it, and if it wasn’t for her, I doubt I’d have much. She watches our expenditures with hawkish scrutiny, and I learned early on not to surprise her with grand gestures.
She shook her head when I bought her diamond baguette earrings from Tiffany.
She can find such luxuries elsewhere for a third of the price.
Or she might not want them at all, and that’s the case most of the time.
She’d rather take what is saved and give it to someone in need or to animal rescue.
No matter what it is, she’s never wasteful.
Not a day goes by when she isn’t helping someone.
Sending money, gift cards, food, or something else needed, including her advice and time.
Despite the two cookbooks I published, I can’t compete with her magic in the kitchen either.
She’s one of my life’s miracles, like being left on Ruth Graham’s doorstep and running into the Davidson dean of admissions.
Staci and I were meant to be together. I wish I’d known her sooner.
Of course, I wasn’t cognizant of all this when I walked into her neuroimaging lab that July day in 2004. Our first encounter was one of those inexplicable moments when you feel you’ve met someone you’ve known before in another life or dimension. I hadn’t felt that way about anybody since Charlie.
By the time Staci and I met during my marathon tour of her hospital, I was overwhelmed by information, not sure what I might do with any of it.
I could scarcely focus as she explained functional MRI imaging, and the danger of lumping bipolar disorder and schizophrenia together.
It annoyed her and still does when people misuse the term split personality.
She rolled out vernacular like limbic system, anterior cingulate cortex, neurochemical dysfunction.
By this point, I was in gridlock. I’d met with countless scientists, and my blood sugar had plummeted.
I wasn’t with her longer than thirty minutes, and as I continued the tour, I knew I had to talk to her again. I wasn’t leaving until I did.
I told the hospital’s publicist that I had some follow-up questions for Dr. Gruber.
My ploy was the oldest in the book. It was the same one from my school days when I’d have a crush on a teacher and hang around after class for clarification about an assignment.
My M.O. hadn’t changed a bit, and usually worked like a charm.