Read Never See Them Again Online
Authors: M. William Phelps
Never See Them Again (5 page)
CHAPTER 5
B
Y 11:14 P.M.
a canvass of the neighborhood had turned up a few witnesses. There was a couple, Craig and Michelle Lackner, who lived next door and reported seeing two people near the Rowell house earlier that afternoon. But what did that mean? Without names or recognizing who these people were, what could this tell police?
Y 11:14 P.M.
a canvass of the neighborhood had turned up a few witnesses. There was a couple, Craig and Michelle Lackner, who lived next door and reported seeing two people near the Rowell house earlier that afternoon. But what did that mean? Without names or recognizing who these people were, what could this tell police?
A detective was assigned to interview the couple, to see what they knew.
The Lackners had been living in the Millbridge development since January 2003, or about six months. They both recalled the day quite well. They had just gotten back from an extended, fourteen-day vacation in Mexico and were taking some time to relax before going back to work on that Monday. Craig was watching television in the living room, lying comfortably on the couch, when he was approached by his wife, Michelle, who had just gotten out of the shower. It was 3:15
P.M.
, Michelle later remembered. She knew the time because she had checked.
P.M.
, Michelle later remembered. She knew the time because she had checked.
“Come here, come here,” Michelle said. “I want to show you something.”
Craig begrudgingly got up from the couch. Michelle was trying to be sly and get Craig into the bedroom.
At that moment the Lackners' dog started “going nuts,” Michelle later explained.
Odd, the dog had never barked like that, Michelle noticed. “Go get him,” she told Craig.
Craig went outside and let the dog in.
He returned to the bedroom. Their kitten was over by the window. When Craig looked over at the cat, he noticed two people outside the bedroom window, which looked out over toward the Rowell house, directly next door.
“Hey, honey,” Craig said jokingly, “you're going to give these two kids a show!” Michelle was half dressed, just out of the shower, standing there in a towel. Craig stood in the doorway between his bedroom and the living room. Michelle was over by the window.
Michelle said something to Craig.
He responded, “Okay . . . but you just flashed two people walking down the street.” He laughed.
There were two people outside the Lackners' window, both dressed in black. This was strange, considering it was hotter than hell outside, with humidity making temps appallingly uncomfortable.
Craig walked toward the window to get a closer look. He was about “thirty feet,” he later estimated, away from where the two in black stood outside his window. He could see them fairly clearly, same as Michelle.
They stopped at Tiffany's truck and looked in the side window at the back of her vehicle. Craig continued watching them because they looked sketchy, like maybe they were going to burgle the vehicle. Michelle went and got dressed.
When Michelle returned, she stared at the girl. She “stood out to me, because she was a white female, sandy blond straight hair, fair skin, and clear complexion. She was cute. Maybe eighteen to twenty, five feet seven or so, one hundred fifteen to one hundred twenty pounds.”
Women notice other women. Those were numbers police could work with.
Upon a closer look, Michelle noticed the girl was wearing a black top, white shorts, black platform sandals, and a black bandana around the top of her head. She also had a black purse slung around her right shoulder. It appeared to be weighty on her boney build.
“She was carrying the purse as if it was heavy. And she had her hand in her mouth looking around.”
The boy with her, Michelle and Craig agreed, was a white male, fair complexion, sandy blond hair. He was actually shorter, they recalled, than the female. They guessed his age to be about eighteen to twenty, same as the girl. He was thin.
Michelle and Craig Lackner had never seen these people before. After they headed toward Tiffany Rowell's house from the truck, up the driveway, and disappeared out of view, the Lackners didn't think anything about them. That would come later, they explained to the detective, when they returned home near seven that night to find utter chaos outside Tiffany's house.
The Lackners ultimately went downtown and sat with a sketch artist, who made two drawings of the male and female. Those composites, along with the Lackners' interview reports, would be put into a growing file. Tom Ladd and Phil Yochum were gathering so much material as the first twenty-four hours after the murders passed, they would be unable to keep up with it all.
Just how important would these statements by the Lackners and subsequent drawings turn out to be in the years to come?
“[Those kids] were walking toward this house,” the prosecutor who would get the case would later say, “as if they didn't have a care in the world. Had [Michelle Lackner] not gotten out of the shower [when she did] . . . this case would have
never
been solved.”
never
been solved.”
A YOUNG WOMAN
, scared but willing and courageous enough to talk, walked into HPD late that same night and informed the desk sergeant that she might have information relevant to the Millbridge Drive murders. Turned out the twenty-four-year-old, Nicola Baldwin (pseudonym), was a friend of Tiffany Rowell's.
, scared but willing and courageous enough to talk, walked into HPD late that same night and informed the desk sergeant that she might have information relevant to the Millbridge Drive murders. Turned out the twenty-four-year-old, Nicola Baldwin (pseudonym), was a friend of Tiffany Rowell's.
Nicola sat down in an interview room and started talking. She was the first of what was going to be an ambush of people to talk to, Tom Ladd and his team knew.
Nicola explained that she worked as a waitress for an Italian restaurant downtown. It was around two forty-five on the morning of the murders when Nicola showed up at Tiffany's Millbridge Drive house. Marcus Precella was there, too. So was Adelbert Sánchez and Nicola's brother. They were hanging out, partying. Marcus received a call from Tiffany at some point.
“I gave my keys to a stripper who works here,” Tiffany said. Apparently, she had been drinking and didn't want to drive.
Nicola could not recall the stripper's name, but “Tiffany wanted us to come to the club and get her.” She had no other way home.
Marcus and Nicola got into Nicola's vehicle and headed out to Club Exotica. Adelbert and Nicola's brother stayed behind.
Tiffany stood by the front door into the club with a blond dancer. A bouncer from the club kept an eye on them. Nicola and Marcus got out and hugged Tiffany.
“What's up?” Nicola offered.
“She needs a ride, too,” Tiffany explained, nodding at her dancer friend. “She lives near Jersey Village.”
A bedroom community, Jersey Village is north of Houston, heading toward Weiser Airpark on Highway 290, or about an hour's drive one way from Clear Lake City.
“No problem,” Marcus said. He took out a set of keys he had brought from Tiffany's house so he and Tiffany could take her truck. They could drop off Tiffany's friend first and then head back to Clear Lake. The others could return to the house in Nicola's car.
Nicola drove straight to Tiffany's. When she arrived, Adelbert and her brother were still up partying. Now, though, there were two strippers at the house, who had shown up while Nicola and the others were out picking up Tiffany. They were all sitting around, laughing, smoking some weed, getting their drunk on.
According to Nicola, it was another typical night at Tiffany's house.
Nothing seemed to be out of whack, Nicola explained. Things seemed to be going all right throughout the early-morning hours.
“Is there anything else you can tell us?” the interviewing officer asked Nicola. She seemed scared, frightened to think that a good friend had been murdered in such a choreographed, concerted way, and she had been at the same house hours before. As far as the public knew then, someone had walked into the house and mowed them all down. No warning. No explanation. It wasn't hard to tell that perhaps someone the kids knew had been invited into the house and decided, for some reason, to open fire on everyone.
Later on that night (after the murders), Nicola told police, she was at a friend's house when her manager called and asked if she knew how to get ahold of Tiffany Rowell's father. This was a strange request. Nicola could not ever recall her boss phoning for this reason.
“Why?” Nicola asked him.
“I think Tiffany was shot and killed inside her house.”
“I don't know . . . ,” Nicola said.
“Try to get ahold of Tiffany, okay?” her manager said before hanging up.
Nicola said she would.
And that was about all Nicola knew. Yet through that interview, Nicola had given cops her brother's contact information. He might know a bit more, she said. He had been at the house partying with Adelbert while Nicola was out. Nicola said her brother had stayed behind, too, after she left to go home as the sun came up.
Detectives caught up with Nicola's brother.
“I left about nine-fifteen
A.M.
,” he said, adding that he had been at Tiffany's house since two forty-five in the morning, and arrived with Nicola, as she had claimed. One of the strippers whom he and Adelbert had partied with gave him a ride to his grandparents' house later that morning because Nicola had left. “We had a good time, and there were no problems. Marcus and Tiffany went to bed [at some point] and we [the stripper and I] just sat there in the living room smoking and drinking. . . . During my time there, I did not hear or see anything out of the ordinary.”
A.M.
,” he said, adding that he had been at Tiffany's house since two forty-five in the morning, and arrived with Nicola, as she had claimed. One of the strippers whom he and Adelbert had partied with gave him a ride to his grandparents' house later that morning because Nicola had left. “We had a good time, and there were no problems. Marcus and Tiffany went to bed [at some point] and we [the stripper and I] just sat there in the living room smoking and drinking. . . . During my time there, I did not hear or see anything out of the ordinary.”
The officer pressed for more information. Was there anything he thought might have contributed to the murders? Strange phone calls? Maybe someone lurking about the yard? An unexpected visitor?
There had to be something.
Nicola's brother said he did not know Marcus, Tiffany, or Adelbert that well. In fact, it was the first time he had ever been over to the house.
CHAPTER 6
I
F SOMEONE WOULD
have taken time-lapse video of the scene outside the front of Tiffany Rowell's house, a subtle, yet awfully sad picture would have emerged on the morning following the murders. As the midnight hour approached, then one, two, and three in the morning, that time-lapse photography would have shown the crowd growing increasingly sparse. People were disappearing, walking away like at the end of a rally, as the morning came to passâthat is, all but three individuals: George, Ann and Lelah Koloroutis. The three of them had stayed all night, waiting, praying, hoping against their better (gut) judgment and that sinking feeling that at some point a detective would come out and tell them it
wasn't
Rachael inside, after all. There had been a terrible mistake. She wasn't there. It was another girl. Some other family would have to suffer the loss.
F SOMEONE WOULD
have taken time-lapse video of the scene outside the front of Tiffany Rowell's house, a subtle, yet awfully sad picture would have emerged on the morning following the murders. As the midnight hour approached, then one, two, and three in the morning, that time-lapse photography would have shown the crowd growing increasingly sparse. People were disappearing, walking away like at the end of a rally, as the morning came to passâthat is, all but three individuals: George, Ann and Lelah Koloroutis. The three of them had stayed all night, waiting, praying, hoping against their better (gut) judgment and that sinking feeling that at some point a detective would come out and tell them it
wasn't
Rachael inside, after all. There had been a terrible mistake. She wasn't there. It was another girl. Some other family would have to suffer the loss.
At certain points throughout the night, a cop would come out and speak to George, dancing around the reality that Rachael was one of the victims.
“Does your daughter have long reddish hair?”
George would drop his head in his hands. “Yes, sir, she does.”
“Okay. We're just not sure yet it's her, sorry.”
They stood outside, “being eaten alive by the mosquitoes,” George recalled. “We knew. But we just kept praying and praying and praying.”
A kindhearted couple, as George described them, who lived nearby, invited George, Ann and Lelah into their home at some point so they could get out of the humid, oppressive weather and sit down for a moment with a glass of water. The three of them were dehydrated, running on adrenaline. They had no idea what time it was or how long they had been waiting.
It was near three o'clock in the morning when two investigators came out of the house, carrying something in a bag. George, Ann, and Lelah looked on as they approached; both men had serious looks on their faces.
George knew.
“We have something here,” one of them said. “Yes, it is your daughter.”
Rachael's wallet.
Ann fell backward to the ground and screamed so loud, George remembered, it hurt his ears. George caved in and began whimpering. Lelah kept slowly repeating, “No . . . no . . . no,” almost in a whisper.
Confirmation. The worst result ever. Rachael's driver's license.
Ann and Lelah walked off after a time and got into the car; both women were shells of themselves, overcome with emotion, curled up, crying, now locked inside all that pain.
George stood and stared at the house.
I don't know what to do
.
.
One of the investigators asked George if he was okay. George looked out of it, staggered and dazed. “A blubbering fool,” he called himself later.
A statue.
“What do I do now?” George whispered to the investigator. He was crying.
“Mr. Koloroutis, you have to go home and take care of your family.” The cop looked over toward the car where Ann and Lelah sat, waiting.
There was nothing more George and his family could do at the crime scene.
George and Ann both had cars there. George got into his, as Ann was able to pull herself together enough to drive her vehicle.
“I got to the end of the street,” George recalled. He was leading the way home. “And I didn't know what to doâwhich way to turn. Here's the big leader . . . the big man of the house, and I have no idea what I'm doing, where I'm going.”
Ann pulled in front of her husband and took off toward the house.
George followed.
The sun was coming up as they arrived home. Not knowing what to do, having no playbook to follow, George got out of his car and walked into the house.
“Here it is,” George remembered, “my little girl is dead.
Dead!
Not hit by a car or struck by lightning. But another human being
murdered
her.”
Dead!
Not hit by a car or struck by lightning. But another human being
murdered
her.”
Ann went for the couch, where she lay down and wailed. Lelah walked straight for the bathroom, vomited, then sank against the wall, crumbling to the floor, crying until it seemed there were no more tears left.
George had a hard time processing what happened. He walked up the stairs, went into Rachael's room, and looked around. Then he walked into Lelah's room. Did the same. After that, he found himself in his and Ann's room. Finally he realized he was wandering the hallways of the house, head in his hands, unable to come to terms with the night's events. George was the provider; he was the man of the house who was supposed to make everything better. But thisâhow in the hell was he going to manage?
How do I fix this? If I could only fix this. . . . Something's broken. . . . If I could find out what it is, I could put it back together.
SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD
Nichole Sánchez saw her brother, Adelbert, on Wednesday afternoon, July 16, 2003. Being cousins, Adelbert Sánchez and Marcus Precella hung out together. Marcus had been living with Tiffany Rowell. They were in love and planning a life together. On this day Marcus had called Adelbert, who was at his older sister's house with Nichole, often called “Nona.” Marcus said something about a party at Tiffany's that night. Did Adelbert want to go?
Nichole Sánchez saw her brother, Adelbert, on Wednesday afternoon, July 16, 2003. Being cousins, Adelbert Sánchez and Marcus Precella hung out together. Marcus had been living with Tiffany Rowell. They were in love and planning a life together. On this day Marcus had called Adelbert, who was at his older sister's house with Nichole, often called “Nona.” Marcus said something about a party at Tiffany's that night. Did Adelbert want to go?
“Yeah,” Adelbert said. “Come and pick me up.”
When Marcus arrived, Adelbert looked at his little sister and said, “Nona, I'm leaving now. See you later.”
“Well,” Nichole said, “you need to be careful.” Nichole had no idea why she said it. It was just a
feeling
she had on that day; and Nichole was someone who went with her feelings. She and Adelbert were not prone to wish each other safety or hug and make good-byes into sentimental displays of affection. But something told Nichole on this day to reach out and say something to the brother she idolized and adored.
feeling
she had on that day; and Nichole was someone who went with her feelings. She and Adelbert were not prone to wish each other safety or hug and make good-byes into sentimental displays of affection. But something told Nichole on this day to reach out and say something to the brother she idolized and adored.
D, who was also sometimes called “AD,” gave one of his signature smiles to his little sis, saying, “I'm always careful, Nona.”
Marcus piped in, “Hey, don't worry. I'll take care of him.”
Adelbert sensed that Nichole was acting a bit strange. He walked over, gave her a big hug, and then kissed her on the cheek. “Don't worry, Nona. I'll be fine.”
“We really weren't ever touchy-feely with each other,” Nichole recalled. “If I got a hug from him, it was usually followed by a slap in the head.” You know, a big-brother thing.
Looking at his sister, Adelbert said, “Hey, I love you. . . .
Don't
worry. I'll be careful. We'll talk soon.”
Don't
worry. I'll be careful. We'll talk soon.”
One memory of her brother that Nichole took comfort in was the family's annual camping trips when they were young. “We were always given whatever we wanted,” Nichole said. “My parents spoiled us. Clothes. Electronics. The finer things in life kids want.”
As they were packing for a camping trip, Nichole looked at D and said, “What are you doing?”
He had a garbage bag filled with sneakers: brand-new, unscuffed, a pair to match any outfit. D had this big suitcase with a change of clothes for what Nichole joked later seemed like “two weeks.”
She told him, “We're going only for the weekendâtwo nights! What are you
doing
?” But that was D: he would change outfits two or three times a day. He had to have clean clothes, spotless, all the time.
doing
?” But that was D: he would change outfits two or three times a day. He had to have clean clothes, spotless, all the time.
“You'd think,” Nichole said, laughing sadly at the memory, “he thought that he might be giving a fashion show in the woods, instead of camping.”
That year they went camping, D jumped in the river. “Come on in, Nona. . . . It's shallow. Look, I can touch the bottom. See! Come on, it's warm.”
Nichole was hesitant. She did not know the first thing about swimming. But what the heck? She trusted her brother.
She took the leap and went straight to the bottom.
“I was just kidding with you,” D said. “It's deep. It's deep.”
Their father had to jump in and drag Nichole out.
That was D: the jokester. The consummate chameleon who could adapt to, and have fun in, any situation.
Not long after waking the following morning after seeing Adelbert off with that strange embrace, Nichole recognized that she was mad at her brother. He had promised to call her, but never did. Nichole figured he was having fun with Marcus and some other friends. D had a penchant for the girls. The ladies adored him and he had no trouble keeping a string of them. Perhaps he had hooked up with someone new and took off.
“He had girls chasing him, left and right,” Nichole recalled. “We never really saw him with one girlfriend.” There was one particular girl that Adelbert was interested in, Nichole added, “and she came around often, but they were really never a couple.”
Adelbert was more focused on his music, according to Nichole and other friends. D had dreams of being a rapper, and some said he had the chops to fulfill that dream. For the most part his mind was set on the Houston music scene. He was getting his demo together, before heading off to Los Angeles or New York. New Orleans-based Untouchable Records, Nichole said, was showing some interest in D's music.
D and Marcus grew up together in the same Houston neighborhood: the Northeast end of the city, which is mostly Hispanic.
“Where Adelbert grew up and lived,” said a law enforcement source, “the neighborhood is the type that you would see Christmas Lights on the parked cars left on the front lawn. Whereas, where the kids were killed in Clear Lake, the lights would be hung on the house.”
Clear Lake was a forty-five-minute drive on a good day, usually fifty to sixty. Marcus and his family moved out to that area at some point when the kids were young, but Adelbert and Marcus stayed tight. As cousins nearly the same age, they gravitated toward each other. Marcus was always coming back to the neighborhood to hook up with Adelbert and buzz around town, even after Marcus met Tiffany Rowell and moved in with her.
Nichole believed Adelbert was going to be back at the house on Thursday or Friday, or at least she'd see him at some point throughout the weekend. By Monday, things would be back to normal. Adelbert might even be sleeping late waiting for his mother to cook him breakfastâ“He had to have fresh tortillas with
every
meal,” Nichole rememberedâand then he'd get dressed and head out to work on his music. There was even some talk lately from D about going to college.
every
meal,” Nichole rememberedâand then he'd get dressed and head out to work on his music. There was even some talk lately from D about going to college.
On the evening news that Friday, July 18, Nichole and her parents saw that there had been a quadruple murder in the Millbridge Drive neighborhood. They had no idea what Tiffany's house looked like, so the news wasn't alarming in that respect. There was no way they could have planned for the horror that was about to be delivered to them because they didn't know where Adelbert had run off to. However, Nichole and Adelbert's grandmother, watching the report, both said, “I pray for whoever's family that is.” They knew that the families were going to be dealing with more pain than anyone should be forced to endure. It was such an immense tragedyâthe loss of young people always isâbut on a scale of this nature, simply unheard of.
Looking closer at the report, Nichole's grandmother said, “That looks like Marcus's car.” She pointed to a portion of the report that showed Tiffany Rowell's taped-off driveway; a reporter stood in the street, her back to the house.
The following morning, July 19, Nichole was at home by herself. Her parents had left early on a fishing trip so they could drive down to a family member's house and stay the rest of the weekend. Nichole was supposed to go, too, but she stayed home. It was that nagging feeling about Adelbert, still weighing on her; she had not heard from him and had no idea where her big brotherâ“my protector”âhad gone off to. Adelbert hadn't come home the night before, nor had he called. He was having a few issues with his father and mother, but it wasn't something, Nichole said, that would keep him away from home. Nichole didn't know it, but D was sleeping at the Rowell house these days. To her it wasn't such a shock or big deal when D didn't come homeâhe was twenty-one. Nichole felt a pang of
something's wrong
as she woke up. There was a reason, she knew, why she had stayed home. Maybe it was just a sense of something heavy holding her back, even though she didn't quite know what. Close siblings experience this phenomenon: they have a Karmic sense about them, a way of knowing without actually understanding the feelings, almost like twins.
something's wrong
as she woke up. There was a reason, she knew, why she had stayed home. Maybe it was just a sense of something heavy holding her back, even though she didn't quite know what. Close siblings experience this phenomenon: they have a Karmic sense about them, a way of knowing without actually understanding the feelings, almost like twins.
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