Tag Archive for: murder

Never start a story with the weather.

I’ve heard this many times over the years.

Even Elmore Leonard kicked off his “Don’t-do-it” list with a rule about the weather.

  1. Never open a book with the weather.
  2. Avoid prologues.
  3. Never use a verb other than “said” to carry dialogue.
  4. Never use an adverb to modify the verb “said.”
  5. Keep your exclamation points under control!
  6. Never use the words “suddenly” or “all hell broke loose.”
  7. Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly.
  8. Avoid detailed descriptions of characters.
  9. Same for places and things.
  10. Leave out the parts readers tend to skip.

Elmore Leonard said it’s taboo!

Now, with that said and with an absolute clear understanding of the rules—NO Weather!—let’s get on with the show … today’s true story. And it starts like this … with the weather.

It was a dark and stormy night in our county. Rain lashed against my windshield in sheets, driven horizontally by gusts of wind that played a violent to-and-fro game of tug of war with the red oaks and pines flanking the county road. It was a sideways kind of rain that TV weather reporters often battle during live hurricane coverage of the really big ones. Their on-camera backdrops are airborne lawn chairs and garbage cans, toppling trees, and waves crashing onto houses far from the shoreline.

Yes, it was that kind of storm.

I was hard at work that night, patrolling county roads and checking on businesses and homes, when my headlights reflected from something shiny a ways into in the woods. I stopped, backed up, and turned onto a narrow sloppy-wet dirt path that led me to a clearcut section along a power line, and eventually to the source of the reflection. It was a car parked approximately thirty yards off a dirt road next to a river. I used my spotlight to examine the vehicle and the surrounding area.

The driver’s door was open and to my surprise, the body of a woman was lying half-in and half-out, with the outside portion getting soaked by the deluge of water falling from the dark sky. I couldn’t tell if she was alive, but instinct and experience said, “Not.”

I turned the spotlight to scan the woods on both sides of the clearing. No sign of anything or anyone, but you never know what danger lies beyond the light’s reach. Again, it was dark and stormy making it one of those scenarios where every single hair on the back of your neck and arms immediately leaps to attention. Spooky, to say the least.

So, despite the downpour, thunder, lightning, and those hyper-vigilant hairs (the cop’s sixth sense was in full overdrive), I had to get out to investigate. So I did.

I again scanned the area carefully, using my Maglite, the old metal kind, making certain this wasn’t an ambush. And, after yet another look around, I cautiously plowed forward while the winds drilled raindrops into my face and against my lemon-yellow vinyl raincoat, the one I kept in the trunk of my patrol car just for times like this one. The fury of those oversized drops of water was like that of small stones striking at a pace equal to the rat-a-tat-tatty rounds fired from a Chicago typewriter.

The plastic rain protector I’d placed over my felt campaign hat worked well at keeping the hat dry, but the rain hitting it was the sensation of hundreds of tiny mallets hammering all at once, as if an all-xylophone symphony decided to perform a complex syncopated piece on the top of my head. At a time when I truly needed the ability to hear a single pin drop, well, it simply wasn’t happening. So xylophoned from above machine-gunned from all sides. It was unpleasant weather during an unpleasant situation.

It was a fight to walk headfirst into swirling, stinging winds that tugged and pulled and pushed against my raincoat, sending its tails fluttering and flapping, exposing my brown over tan deputy sheriff uniform. It—the uniform—was not waterproof. Not even close.

The ground surrounding the car was extremely muddy, and with each step, my once shiny brown shoes collected gobs of thick, soggy soil until it felt as if gooey, slimy bricks were attached to the bottoms of my feet with large suction cups.

These, during a dark and sorry night, were the deplorable conditions in which I met the crying dead woman.

Likely, Mr. Elmore Leonard had not had the opportunity to encounter such a situation. Otherwise, rule number one, “the weather rule,” might have met its demise before it ever met the page.

It was one-on-one—me and the victim.

I know it sounds like a bit of overwriting when describing the weather on this night; however, you must experience it as I did. You should know and see in your minds that raindrops the size of gumdrops pelted the victim’s face, gathering and pooling at the corners of her eyes, eventually spilling out across her cheeks like tiny rivers that followed the contours of her flesh until they poured from her in miniature waterfalls.

She was a dead woman crying in the rain.

Passenger door,

Open.

Bottom half in,

Top half out.

 

Lifeless hand,

Resting in mud,

Palm up.

Face aimed at the sky.

 

Rain falling,

Mouth open.

Dollar-store shoes,

Half-socks.

 

Youngest daughter—the seven-year-old,

Called them baby socks.

Her mother’s favorite,

Hers too.

 

Hair,

Mingled with muck,

And water,

Sticks and leaves.

 

Power lines,

Overhead.

Crackling,

Buzzing.

 

Flashlight,

Bright.

Showcasing

Dull, gray eyes.

 

Alone,

And dead.

A life,

Gone.

 

Three rounds.

One to the head,

Two to the torso.

Kill shots, all.

 

Five empty casings,

In the mud.

Pistol.

Not a revolver.

 

Wine bottle.

Beer cans.

Empty.

Scotch.

 

“No, we don’t drink. Neither did she. Except on special occasions. Yep, it must have been something or somebody really special for her to drink that stuff.”

“Was there a somebody special?”

Eyes cast downward.

Blushes all around.

“Well … she did stay after Wednesday night preaching a few times. But they were meetings strictly about church business. After all, he is the Reverend. A good man.”

More blushing.

A stammer, or two.

A good man.

 

The rain comes harder,

Pouring across her cheeks.

Meandering

Through her dark curls.

 

Droplets hammer hard

Against her open eyes.

Pouring into tiny rivers,

Filling the puddles below.

 

She doesn’t blink.

Can’t.

She’s a dead woman crying,

In the rain.

 

Tire tracks.

A second car.

Footprints.

Two sets.

 

One walking.

Casually?

A sly, stealthy approach?

The other, long strides.

 

Running, possibly.

Zigzagging toward the woods.

Bullet lodged in spruce pine.

One round left to find.

 

Cold water inside my collar, down my back.

Shivering.

Cloth snagged on jagged tree branch.

Plaid shirt.

 

Blood?

Still visible?

in the rain?

The missing fifth round?

 

Maglite never fails, even in torrential rain.

Cop’s best friend.

A shoe in the underbrush.

Attached to man.

 

Dead.

Bullet in the back.

The fifth round.

Coming together, nicely.

 

Church meetings.

Reverend.

Two lovers.

A special wine for a special occasion …

 

A good man.

Sure he is.

Police car,

Parks at the curb.

 

Morning sunshine.

Tiny face,

Peering from window.

Waiting for Mama?

The scent of frying bacon in the air.

The door swings open.

Worried husband.

“No, she didn’t come home after church. Called friends and family. Nobody knows.”

 

Husband, devastated.

Children crying.

“Yes, I have news. 

And I’m so sorry for your loss.”

 

Tire tracks match.

Pistol found.

Preacher,

He hangs his head in shame.

 

Special occasion.

To profess love.

But …

Another man.

 

A second lover.

Anger.

Jealousy.

Revenge.

 

Handcuffs.

Click, click.

Murder’s the charge.

No bond.

 

Single, unique plant seed,

Stuck to the brake pedal.

The single bit of evidence,

That tied him to the scene.

 

Got him.

Prison.

Life.

No parole.

 

A “good man”, a preacher, left the little girl’s mama to cry in the rain.

 

 


A couple of days ago, raindrops squiggled and wormed their way down the panes of my office windows.

And, as it often happens on rainy days,

I think of the crying dead woman.

Of her kids,

Her loving husband and,

Of course,

Baby socks.

 

This is a case that shocks the conscious. It goes against the grain of a normal society, of human nature, and what should be a mother’s unconditional love for her child.

Until October 5, 2022, Leilani Simon, 22, her boyfriend Daniel (Danny)Youngkin, and Simon’s three children resided with Simon’s parents, Thomas and Billie Jo Howell, at a home in the 500 block of Burkhalter Road in Savannah, Georgia.

Danny Youngkin, Quinton Simon, and Leilani Simon

On October 5th, 20-month-old Quinton Simon was reported missing and from that moment forward Leilani Simon became known worldwide, and not in a good way. Not at all.

The Timeline

November 2021 – Leilani Simon was working at a Loves Truck Stop off I-95 just north of Fayetteville, North Carolina when she was arrested and charged with a felony for stealing two packs of cigarettes, a bag of popcorn, and a bottle of lemonade from her employer. The judge sentenced Leilani to one year of probation, 48 hours of community service, and approximately $400 in fines. As part of her probation conditions, she was ordered to not to commit any crimes for 12 months.

September 7, 2022 – Lellani Simon called police to report that she’d been assaulted by her mother, Billie Jo Howell.

Billie Jo Howell and grandson Quinton Simon

Below is a copy of the police report about the alleged assault. Hover your cursor over the document to highlight/activate navigation options. Then use the arrow buttons at the bottom of form to advance to the next page to read the officer’s narrative of the incident.

FS1

September 8, 2022 – Billie Jo Howell filed to evict her daughter and Youngkin from her home. In the filing, Howell stated the couple damaged her property and that  “no one is living in peace.” Howell had legal custody of Quinton and his older brother since Quinton was 5-months-old. Leilani recently moved back to her mother’s home and soon after gave birth to a baby girl. The three children each have a different father.

September 16, 2022 – Leilani Simon learned of the eviction notice. The Chatham County Sheriff’s Office mailed the notice to Simon on this date.

On or about September 26, 2022 – Leilani Simon received the eviction notice.

September 28, 2022 – The state of Georgia ordered Leilani to start paying child support to her mother. She was due to begin making payments of $150 per month starting November 1, 2022. However, the order stated the amount would be lowered to $100 if the number of children decreased. Use the arrow buttons at the bottom of form below to continue reading the order.

FS3

October 5, 2022 – At 5:29 a.m., Diana McCarta received a text message from Leilani Simon, the mother of the two children whom McCarta babysat each day. The text was brief, stating her services would not be needed that day. McCarta later told authorities the message was odd because she watched the kids even when their mother didn’t work.

Babysitter Diane McCarta

Leilani’s mother Billie Jo Howell was working out of town in Illinois when she learned Quinton was missing.

6:00 a.m. – Simon’s boyfriend Daniel Youngkin left for work.

At 9:00 a.m., McCarta received another text, this one from a grandparent, asking if she knew the whereabouts of 20-month-old Quinton, who’d last been seen at 6 a.m. by Youngkin.

Around 9:30 a.m., Leilani Simon called 911 to report Quinton as missing. He was last seen wearing a light blue Sesame Street shirt and black pants.

Police respond and begin the search for Quinton. Several agencies participated in the initial search—Chatham County PD, Savannah Police, Liberty County Sheriff’s Office, and the FBI—utilizing horse patrols, K9s, helicopters, drones, officers on foot, and more.

Shea Schrader of WTOC News was on scene to cover the events as they unfolded.

October 6, 2022 – Police obtain a search warrant for Billie Jo Howell’s residence.

October 8, 2022 – Search continues with no leads available.

October 10, 2022 – Police search the Howell home for a second time, and they drain the backyard swimming pool.

October 11, 2022 – Law enforcement recover evidence they believe will move the case forward. It’s the first sign that a criminal case is likely.

October 12, 2022 – Police inform the family they believe Quinton is dead and that Leilani is the only suspect  in the child’s disappearance and death.

Leilani Simon

October 17, 2022 – Leilani Simon appeared in court pertaining to a custody hearing relating to her other children.

October 18, 2022 – Evidence leads police to believe Quinton’s body was thrown in a dumpster, and then unknowingly transported to the landfill via garbage truck. Law enforcement begin the painstaking search of the landfill.

While landfill searches are only successful 5 percent of the time, law enforcement discovered what they firmly believe to be the remains of Quinton Simon, after meticulously combing through 1.2 million pounds of trash, one item at a time, over a period of 30 days

Later in the evening, as the FBI and local police were searching a Chatham County landfill for Quinton Simon’s remains,  Leilani Simon and her mother Billie Joe Howell, and a few friends were seen at STING RAYS, a Tybee Island beach bar. Tybee Island is 18 miles from Savannah proper.

WSAV news learned from the staff at STING RAYS that the group “took shoots, got flirty and even demanded one waiter’s phone number. The group allegedly ran up a tab worth $300.” This all occurred as the FBI and local police wrapped up their day of searching the Chatham County landfill for Quinton Simon’s remains, and while protestors stood in front of Howell’s home, demanding justice for Quinton.

October 18 – November 18, 2022 – Police continue pawing through mountains of garbage, searching for Quinton’s remains.

November 18, 2022– Police discover possible human remains in the Chatham County landfill. Testing confirmed the remains were indeed human. Authorities are await DNA test results to confirm the remains are those of Quinton Simon.

November 21, 2022 – Leilani Simon is arrested and charged with murder, concealing a death, false statements in matters of government, and false report of a crime.

November 23, 2022 – Leilani Simon’s first court hearing took place at 11 a.m. Simon did not appear at the hearing. Instead, she was represented by her court appointed attorney who, on Simon’s behalf, waived her right to a bond hearing. Bond was subsequently denied by a Chatham County judge.

November 28, 2022 (today) – The FBI in Atlanta confirmed through DNA analysis that the remains found in the landfill belong to Quinton Simon. As a result, the Chatham County Police Department (CCPD) have ceased all search and recovery operations at the landfill, and officials are currently removing Command Post facilities from the staging area at L. Scott Stell Park.


*On November 2, 2022, Quinton Simon’s grandfather, Henry Dale Moss Sr., 61, was found lying off the road on Highway 23 in Burke County. He’d been struck by a vehicle that fled the scene, a hit and run driver. Moss was pronounced dead at the scene.

Quinton’s paternal grandmother, Brandy, died a week earlier.


Quinton Simon

On February 23, 2022, Officer Alex Wanish of the Green Bay, WI police department, responded to a rather grisly call after a woman called to report the discovery of her son’s severed head in a plastic bucket.

During their investigation, law enforcement officials learned that Taylor D. Schabusiness, 24, was likely the last person seen with the 25-year-old victim. Police found found Schabusiness at a home in another part of the city. She had dried blood on her clothing and, inside her vehicle, on the rear passenger seat, they saw a crock pot box containing human legs and other body parts.

After obtaining a search warrant for the victim’s home police discovered additional body parts, including a torso inside a storage tote, and various knives. Further examination of the bucket, which was found in the basement of the home, revealed a male organ, body fluid, and a two knives.

Schabusiness told police that she and the victim had smoked meth the night of the killing, and they’d engaged in strangulation as part of mutual sexual activity.

In addition to first-degree intentional homicide, Schabusiness is charged with mutilating a corpse, and third-degree sexual assault. The sexual assault charge stemmed from acts she committed after the victim died.

Taylor Schabusiness looking out from inside a Brown County cell.

 

Victim’s home – The Crime Scene

 

 

 


Below is a copy of the criminal complaint filed by STATE OF WISCONSIN Plaintiff, vs.TAYLOR DENISE SCHABUSINESS – Assigned ADA: Caleb J Saunders, Complainant

*Click the arrows at the lower left of the document to advance to the next page, or to go to previous pages.


CAUTION – DETAILS BELOW ARE GRAPHIC!!


taylor-denise-schabusiness-criminal-complaint

For comparison, below is a copy off the criminal complaint from the Jeffrey Dahmer case. Again, DETAILS ARE GRAPHIC.


jeffrey-dahmer-criminal-complaint

Yes, this brutal crime occurred in the home city of the Writers’ Police Academy. Yes, Taylor Schabusiness is currently held at a jail where some Writers’ Police Academy instructors are employed. Yes, one of the lead investigators in the Jeffrey Dahmer case, Steven Spingola, is a special guest presenter at the 2022 Writers’ Police Academy.

And yes, you should sign up today to attend the 2022 Writers’ Police Academy.

By the way, I have some super BIG WPA news to announce very soon!


*Thanks to Bob Mueller for the idea for today’s article. The case is gruesome, yes, but some of the details and procedures could greatly assist with a crime writer’s journey to reaching the twisted ending of their next book.

In the film Dirty Harry, Clint Eastwood’s character Inspector Harry Callahan engaged in a shootout with armed bank robbers. When the shooting stopped, and there was lots of it, Harry approached a wounded robber who locked eyes with Harry while slowly reaching for a shotgun.

Harry aimed his sidearm at the crook and said one of the most famous movie lines of all time, “I know what you’re thinking: ‘Did he fire six shots or only five?’ Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I’ve kinda lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you’ve got to ask yourself one question: ‘Do I feel lucky?’ Well, do you, punk?”

What’s Luck Got to do With It?

Aside from Clint Eastwood’s fictional world of cops and robbers, in the real world of street violence, most victims of non fatal shootings are likely fortunate beneficiaries of lucky mistakes—a little to the left, or to the right, or a bit higher or lower, and it’s showtime for the grim reaper. Shooters in those instances are cold-blooded attempted murderers who merely failed to achieve their goals of becoming actual killers.

When shots are fired between gun-toting criminals there’s a narrow line between who lives and who dies. However, if bad shooters, the killer wannabes who couldn’t hit the broad side of a liquor store if they tried, fire enough rounds at their targets, it’s probable they will eventually get the job done and send someone to an early grave.


Attempted murders are failed homicides.


Chicago – At the end of 2021, the city totaled 3561 shootings, 300 more than were recorded in 2020, and 1,415 more than in 2019. The rising number of shootings in this city is staggering.

Focusing on Chicago’s 2021 stats, of the 3,561 people shot, 797 died. The remaining 2,764 were fortunate beneficiaries of lucky mistakes—at least 2,764 (+/-) shooters missed their marks. Many more, I’m certain, failed to to strike their intended targets at all, sending wild, errant rounds zinging and bouncing off walls, street lamps, storefronts, or grandma’s porch swing before coming to a stop who knows where.

In the same year, in Philadelphia,  2332 people were shot. 486 people died, while 1846 survived the poor shooting abilities of people who likely tried to kill each of the 1846 survivors.

This alarming story of violence in our country’s largest cities repeats from coast to coast and from top to bottom.

A Vicious Circle

The lucky break for many who survive a blast from a firearm often results in an unlucky occurrence for the shooters of poor aim fame. This is so because victims of the aim-challenged and/or their friends frequently retaliate by shooting the shooters. And those who miss the first time are apt to try and try again until they successfully “pop a cap” into the body of their nemesis. After all, street shootings are like potato chips to the hardcore offenders—one person shot is never enough. There must be more.

The Solution

Devoting more time to catching the poor shooters, the failed murderers, would no doubt result in less homicides, because removing poor-aimers and their guns from the streets would decrease the overall number of shots-fired. Less shots fired would obviously decrease the overall number of people killed by gunfire.


Fewer shots fired = fewer people wounded or killed = safer communities = more time for officers to devote to other matters, including proactive policing as opposed to reactionary policing = even safer communities = less illegal guns in the hands of potential shooters.


Catching the people who attempt to kill but fail is a tactic that attacks the source of the overall problem. It’s a plan that would/could prevent more deaths, instead of reactively wading through a pile of bodies at the morgue (after the fact), hoping to find clues that lead back to a murderer.

The ideal situation would be to have two teams of skilled investigators working simultaneously, one tracking down and arresting the failed shooters, and the other solving homicides. Eventually, the two would meet in the middle at a point where both stats—failed and successful murders—are greatly decreased.

 

Unfortunately, most departments struggle to fund the number of officers and equipment they currently have in place. Defunding the police has, of course, exacerbated the problem. It takes people-power to make an out-of-control situation, more manageable, such as the aforementioned shootings. When control is finally achieved, it must be maintained by proactively sending officers out into the streets to interact with citizens on a personal basis.

Without the proper number of available officers and investigators, though, the path to reducing homicides and attempted murders is a long and rocky road.

 

Last week I wrote about twenty-two-year-old Justine Johnson of Iosco County, Michigan, who told police investigators the fictional cartoon character SpongeBob ordered her to kill her daughter Sutton Mosser. Police did indeed find the remains of almost-two-year-old Sutton.

This week, on February 15, 2022, it was Satan himself—the grand adversary of man, the prince of darkness, the head of the fallen angels—who Tasha L. Haefs, according to a Kansas City police dispatcher, claimed was trying to attack her.

As they approached the front of Haefs’ home, responding officers heard a woman’s voice coming from inside. She was singing. They also witnessed a blood trail leading from the sidewalk to the front door. When they knocked the singing grew louder.

One officer managed to get a peek inside the home and what he observed was nothing short of scene in a horror film—a child’s severed head near the threshold. Fearing that other children may be in imminent danger, officers forced their way inside, where they found Tasha Haefs in the kitchen, with what appeared to be blood on her hands and feet. They also saw, in plain view, two knives, also with apparent blood on them. The woman, who had cuts and scratches on her hands and a puncture wound to her right thigh, was immediately taken into custody.

As is standard practice, officers conducted a sweep of the home, looking for other victims and/or potential suspects. During the sweep they witnessed the knives, a bloody screwdriver, and the body and severed head of Haefs’ six-year-old son. A decapitated dog was found in the basement, as was a knife covered with possible blood and tissue.

When they were certain the house was clear, officers backed out and secured the home while investigators completed the process of obtaining a search warrant.

Haefs admitted to police that she’d killed and decapitated her son in the bathtub.

I wish I could say with confidence that this will be the last unthinkable and horrendous crime committed by a parent against a child; however and unfortunately, we all know better. Sigh …


Click to read more about familicide and attempted familicide


I’ve included a copy of the completed Complaint Warrant Requested form pertaining to this case. Within the document you’ll read the officer’s actual description of details that support the probable cause needed to obtain warrants. I think you may find this information helpful at some point during your future writing. I’ve hidden or deleted contact information and a few other details.

 

COMPLAINT WARRANT REQUESTED

Count I. Murder 1st Degree (565.020-001Y20200902.0)

The Prosecuting Attorney of the County of Jackson, State of Missouri, upon information and belief, charges that the defendant, in violation of Section 565.020, RSMo, committed the class A felony of murder in the first degree punishable upon conviction under Section 565.020, RSMo, in that on or about February 15, 2022, in the County of Jackson, State of Missouri, the defendant after deliberation, knowingly caused the death of  ******* by unknown means, and that the defendant was eighteen years of age or older at the time of the offense.

Count II. Armed Criminal Action (571.015-001Y20205299.)

The Prosecuting Attorney of the County of Jackson, State of Missouri, upon information and belief, charges that the defendant, in violation of Section 571.015, RSMo, committed the felony of armed criminal action, punishable upon conviction under Section 571.015.1, RSMo, in that on or about February 15, 2022, in the County of Jackson, State of Missouri, the defendant committed the felony of murder in the first degree charged in Count I, all allegations of which are incorporated herein by reference, and the defendant committed the foregoing felony of murder in the first degree by, with and through, the knowing use, assistance and aid of a dangerous instrument.page1image1228588384 page1image1228588672

State vs. Tasha Haefs

The facts that form the basis for this information and belief are contained in the statement(s) of facts filed contemporaneously herewith, made a part hereof, and submitted as a basis upon which this court may find the existence of probable cause.

Wherefore, the Prosecuting Attorney prays that an arrest warrant be issued as provided by law.

JEAN PETERS BAKER

Prosecuting Attorney Jackson County, Missouri by,

/s/ John G. Gromowsky

John G. Gromowsky (#50700) Assistant Prosecuting Attorney 415 East 12th Street
Floor 7M

Kansas City, MO 64106

page2image1215789872

WITNESSES:

  1. DET Bonita Y. Cannon, 1125 Locust, Kansas City, MO 64106
  2. DET Zakary K. Glidewell, 1125 Locust, Kansas City, MO 64106
  3. DET Sean P. Martin, 1125 Locust, Kansas City, MO 64106
  4. DET James H. Price, 1125 Locust, Kansas City, MO 64106
  5. DET Ilinca E. Rusnac, 1125 Locust, Kansas City, MO 64106

6. *XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

7. *XXXX Derek M. Sanders, 1125 Locust, Kansas City, MO 64106

8. DET Nathan S. VanVickle, 1125 Locust, Kansas City, MO 64106

 

Date: 02/16/2022

CRN:

PROBABLE CAUSE STATEMENT FORM

page3image1231501280 page3image1231501568

I, Detective Zakary Glidewell, #5549, Kansas City Missouri Police Department (Name and identify law enforcement officer, or person having information as probable cause.)

knowing that false statements on this form are punishable by law, state that the facts contained herein are true.page3image1231533936

I have probable cause to believe that on 02/15/2022 at 7312 Indiana Avenue in Kansas City, (Jackson County) Missouri Haefs, Tasha L. (W/F XXXXXX) committed one or more criminal offense(s).

The facts supporting this belief are as follows:

On 02-15-2022 at 2345 hours, uniformed officers of the Kansas City Missouri Police department were dispatched to 7312 Indiana Ave, Kansas City, Jackson County, Missouri on a reported disturbance.

Upon arrival officers observed apparent blood on the front steps of the residence as well as apparent blood and hair on the front door of the aforementioned residence. Officers were able to determine the residence was occupied by a female however, she refused to answer the door. During the course of the contact officers learned that multiple children were known to reside in the residence and had not been seen for a few days. Officers while attempting to make contact with the female occupant observed what appeared to be the severed head of a deceased person near the threshold of the residence.

Officers fearing for the safety of any children remaining inside the residence forced entry under exigent circumstances and took the female occupant (Suspect) into custody without incident. A protective sweep of the residence was conducted. During the course of the protective sweep officers located the decapitated body of a young child near the front door of the residence. The female suspect had apparent blood on her person and two knives with apparent blood on them were observed in plain view throughout the residence. No other children were located in the residence. Officers then exited and secured the residence. Detectives from the Kansas City Homicide Unit were notified from the scene.

Detectives applied for and obtained a search warrant for 7312 Indiana Ave Kansas City, Jackson County, Missouri 64132 in regard. During the execution of the search warrant detectives located the decapitated body of a young child near the interior threshold of the residence. A knife, knife handle, and a screwdriver with apparent blood and tissue were located on the dining room table. An additional knife with apparent blood and tissue was located in the basement of the residence. The Kansas City Missouri Crime Scene Unit was notified and responded to the scene.

Form 50 P.D. (Rev. 9-2008)

Page 1 of 2

PROBABLE CAUSE STATEMENT FORM

The female suspect who was ultimately identified as Tasha Haefs (W/F XXXXXXX) was transported to police headquarters. Haefs was contacted by detectives on the 7th floor of police headquarters. Haefs was offered food and water and allowed access to restroom facilities. Haefs was advised of her Miranda Rights which she waived and agreed to speak with detectives about the incident.

Haefs provided a detailed formal statement to detectives. Haefs identified the victim as B/M XXXXX her biological child. During the course of the interview Haefs admitted to killing the victim in the bathtub and decapitating the victim.

The Jackson County Medical Examiner has ruled the “Manner of Death” to be Homicide. Haefs was placed on a 24 hour investigative hold and transported to a KCPD Detention facility.

Printed Name Detective Zakary Glidewell #5549 Signature /s/Detective Zakary Glidewell #5549

 

If only the title of this blog piece were as ridiculous as it sounds. Unfortunately, it is not.

Twenty-two-year-old Justine Johnson of Iosco County, Michigan told police investigators she had received and carried out orders from the fictional cartoon character SpongeBob, who commanded her to kill her daughter Sutton Mosser.

SpongeBob, according to Johnson, said she would die if she didn’t obey his demand. Sutton Mosser, the child, would have turned three just two days after her mother brutally stabbed her to death.

During an interview, Johnson told investigators that she didn’t remember exactly what happened to her daughter Sutton. But she did recall experiencing hallucinations due to a lack of sleep combined with heroin withdrawal. She told police that she’d not been sleeping well for approximately two weeks, and a few days prior to the murder she’d left her mother’s house walking and passed out in a graveyard.

Child Protective Services investigator Ryan Eberline interviewed Justine Johnson in jail after her arrest. He later testified that it was Johnson’s belief, through the TV, that she’d received specific instructions from SpongeBob to take her daughter’s life or “they” would kill her. SpongeBob, she said, was saying those things directly to her. At the time, Johnson said “she was hallucinating, was afraid for her life, and that she’d lost her mind.”

The child’s body was discovered when Johnson’s brother arrived home from work and saw a small foot protruding from a garbage bag outside the home. He reported his finding to police who found the remains of Sutton Mosser. Her body, dressed only in a pink and white disposable diaper, was wrapped in bedding and then placed inside the garbage bag.

Johnson was later located by police and arrested.

Justine Johnson is currently being held in jail without bond. A preliminary hearing is scheduled for 9:30 a.m. on Feb. 28, 2022.


Since most of you are accomplished writers of crime fiction in some form or another, and many of you have backgrounds in journalism, I’d like to offer the follow paragraph for your review.  Not to take away from the extreme horror of this case, but as a learning tool. It’s from a news source reporting the SpongeBob murder.

Please, read it carefully. I did not make this up. I copied and pasted directly from the article. Yes, this was in a national well-known news publication and was written by someone who actually received money for writing it, a journalist whose credentials read – “a multimedia journalist with more than 10 years of experience in broadcast, digital and print production.”

From the article written by the veteran journalist …

“Officers found Johnson hours after the discovery of her daughter’s body walking along railroad tracks. She told officers she did not want to talk about her child’s death, the affidavit states.”

That’s a line for a novel written by Stephen King or Dean Koontz, not one for real news.

I’m still shaking my head.


Writers’ Police Academy Registration to Reopen Very Soon!

After a week off to repair a severe break in our registration system, we’re pleased to say those fixes are nearly complete and the sign-up process will be back online in a couple of days—hopefully, Thursday or Friday. So stay tuned. We’ve also planned a nice bonus as our way of saying thanks for your patience and understanding during this situation, a first in the 14 years the WPA has been in operation.

Bonus details TBA soon!

Please tell all your friends and ask them to tell their friends!

www.writerspoliceacademy.com

Over forty years ago I’d made the entry in my notebook. I found my handwriting to be a bit difficult to read on some of the yellowing pages—the result of quickly-written memos then, and failing eyesight today. But I was able to make out the basics, and there was enough there to take me back to the time when I wore the brown over khaki uniform of a deputy sheriff.

Flipping through the pages of my log, one particular entry caught my eye. It was a Friday night during an unusually cool  for October. According to my notes, the skies were clear and brightly lit by a near full moon. The gas tank in my take-home car was full (as always, I’d filled it at the end of my shift the preceding morning) and the speedometer had just tripped 80,000 miles. The lights and siren were both in working order.

I’d signed on at 2342 hours that night, and in my mind I can still hear the dispatcher’s voice as she acknowledged my radio message. She spoke in a drawl that prompted a craving for mint juleps and an urge to plant a magnolia tree in my front yard.

It’s no secret that I was not born a southerner. In fact, before “the conversion,” I was such a Yankee that one of my relatives owned a house that was once used by Harriett Tubman as a stop on her vast Underground Railroad network. We lived nearby, where people didn’t say things like,  “Y’all” or “finer’n frog hair, or “fixin’ to” (going to).

“I’m fixin’ to head over to the Piggly Wiggly to pick up some chittlins’ for Sunday lunch. Y’all want anything?”

As a child born north of “the line”, the switch to the South was a major change. Everything was different, including schools and how they conducted business. Classes in our new southern location began each day with a child reading from the Bible, followed by a man’s deep but southern-twangy voice spewing from the wall-mounted speaker as he led us in prayer. We didn’t do that in my former northern school.

The thing about the South that stuck with me the most, though, was to see peanuts, tobacco, and cotton in their natural habitats—not nuts in jars or bags, tobacco rolled into cigarettes, or “cotton” as a word printed on the labels of my school clothes.

Okay, back to my notes. It hadn’t rained in nearly three weeks and the local farmers and their field hands had been hard at work for several days, picking cotton. They’d loaded large farm trailers to the point of overflowing, like giant pillows on wheels. But no matter how hard they tried, there was simply no way possible to gather every single piece of cotton, leaving lots of it scattered about in the fields. And, of course, it didn’t take long at all for the wind to blow the scraps of freshly picked raw cotton everywhere, sending it into trees, ditches, bushes, and roadways. The landscape looked as if it had been dusted by a light snowfall. You couldn’t spit in any direction without hitting a wad of the future shirts, pants, sheets, and stuffing for aspirin bottles.

Virginia cotton

At night, while on patrol, we often used our spotlights to scan fields and paths looking for illegal night hunters, or stolen cars and farm equipment that were sometimes abandoned in out of the way locations. Another target for our spotlights in those days were farmer’s fertilizer storage tanks that contained anhydrous ammonia. Farmers used the fertilizer to spray crops. Makers of methamphetamine stole it from farmers and farm supply companies to produce meth.

Meth makers siphoned the deadly liquid gas from the tanks and later used it and other hazardous ingredients, such as paint thinner, engine starter fluid, the innards of certain types of batteries, and ephedrine separated from its binding agent found in over-the-counter cold medicine, to manufacture the dangerous and illegal drug. This process required no heat since the chemical reaction was so volatile, and it is the reason clandestine meth labs notoriously and suddenly explode.


The method of making meth using anhydrous ammonia is sometimes called the “Nazi cook,” named after the meth distributed to German soldiers by Nazi leaders during World War II. For more, click here.


So yeah, that was a thing back then and it was a big reason we kept on eye on farms. And, of course, there were the people who stole livestock, such as pigs. Ah, the glamorous life of a deputy sheriff in the rural South.

In addition to highlighting stolen cars and fertilizer tanks, and the occasional “parking” teenage couples or pair of adulterers, the shining of a bright spotlight across the fields at night, the car-mounted devices also illuminated scores of wildlife—deer, foxes, raccoons, ‘possums, coyotes, and even an occasional black bear. And, on the night referenced in my spiral notebook, the light also showcased a woman’s body lying between two unpicked rows of cotton.

She was young, mid to late 30’s. Fully clothed with the exception of her bare feet. There were no shoes at the scene. Approximately 5’ 5″ tall. 150 lbs – 160 lbs, or so. Round face. Skin the color of Vermont maple syrup. Her eyes were open and without focus, and aimed toward the sky into infinity. Pupils fixed, and dilated. A bullet wound to her forehead, just above her left eye, and another near her right eyebrow, told me to save my CPR skills for another day.

Small clumps of loose cotton dotted the area around the body. Some were the brilliant white of summertime clouds. Others, the ones that clung to her wounds, were rusty red and mostly saturated with the victim’s drying blood.

Three sets of footprints entered the field—large boots, small tennis shoes, and a set ending with bare toes. Only two sets headed out. The toes remained.

The victim had two small children at home. A neighbor was called to sit with them while their father went out searching for his wife who’d called earlier to say the church meeting was running a bit longer than she’d expected. No, no need to pick her up. Wanda was at the meeting and would bring her home.

Twenty minutes later, after the husband left his children in the care of the sitter, Wanda called and asked the neighbor if she could please speak to the man’s wife. No, there was no church meeting that night.

The man knew, deep in his heart, that there was no meeting at the church and he where exactly where to look for his cheating wife.

The victim’s lover, a cotton farmer, escaped the gunfire.

There was no DNA. No fingerprints. No cell phone calls to trace, and no bullet casings.

Just a pair of womens shoes found five hours later, in the farmer’s truck. And a revolver containing four bullets in his jealous wife’s car.

If I’d kept a tally over the years I could’ve added another hash mark to the “life taken” column, and five to the “lives ruined” section.

My last notations on the page that night were four short lines that read …

“Murder warrant issued”

“17 gallons of gas, no oil”

“10-42 (off duty) – 0815”

“Sunny and warmer – a good day to pick cotton”

Elmore Leonard’s rules of writing are, of course, excellent guidelines.

  1. Never open a book with weather.
  2. Avoid prologues.
  3. Never use a verb other than “said” to carry dialogue.
  4. Never use an adverb to modify the verb “said”…he admonished gravely.
  5. Keep your exclamation points under control. You are allowed no more than two or three per 100,000 words of prose.
  6. Never use the words “suddenly” or “all hell broke loose.”
  7. Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly.
  8. Avoid detailed descriptions of characters.
  9. Don’t go into great detail describing places and things.
  10. Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip.

The renowned author also offered another fantastic bit of advice when he wrote, “If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.”

So, totally ignoring Mr. Elmore’s sound advice, I’ll open today’s article with the weather followed by descriptions of people and places that are definitely “purposely overwritten, and suddenly so,” I said.

The need to break a few more of Leonard’s rules were also far too irresistible to pass up.

The horribly overwritten description of the incident, one that’s quite true, went something like this, but with far fewer words that readers tend to skip.

The Night Was Dark, But Not Stormy

It was a quiet summer night, a night when the temperature hovered at the 80-degree mark long after the sun disappeared behind the stands of trees, rolling hills, and urban sprawl that formed the barrier between land and orange- and purplish pink-streaked sky. It was after lightning bugs began their winking and blinking neon-like displays across fields and backyards. Mosquito trucks rolled slowly along, fogging neighborhoods with clouds of stinky insecticide. Humidity-filled air coated the skin and filled the lungs like butter pecan syrup oozes across the surfaces of hot IHOP buttermilk pancakes. Flashes of heat lightning illuminated the distant sky, backlighting clouds and the bats that flew in looping circles around the streetlamps that had begun to switch on throughout the city.

In short, it was a typical southern summer end to a sweltering day.

The evening shift had been reasonably quiet with no real crimes to speak of, when suddenly a sweat-drenched, frightened, nervous, and wild-eyed young man, a teenager, appeared at the lobby window. He was panting as if he’d just finished the last leg of a marathon; his body was rail thin with long and slender arms and legs that protruded from his torso, resembling the wet and steaming spaghetti noodles that limply hang from the holes in the bottom of a colander after all the hot water is drained.

He rambled on and on about a body in the woods. He stammered and stuttered about seeing a man shot to death. Between bouts of uncontrollable sobbing and using a bare forearm to repeatedly swipe at his runny nose, he told of helping three of his friends drag the dead man into the woods. Then they left him there to be eaten by wildlife, or to rot, whichever came first.

An officer took the teen’s information, filled out a report, and then I was called to investigate.

I first bought the young fellow a cold soft drink and then asked him to take a seat in my office where a window air-conditioning unit hummed in the background as it sent artificially chilled air into the room. I handed him a wad of paper towels so he could mop the perspiration from his face. He reeked of sour body odor. Bits of leaves, tree bark, and lint clung to his short hair like teensy Christmas tree ornaments.

I began the interview.

He told me he was sixteen and was a member of a small gang. Actually, his “gang” consisted mostly of a few of his cousins and close friends whose gang activities centered around committing minor B&Es and selling drugs for a local dealer.

Recently, though, the dealer coerced the boys into doing a bit of “collecting” for him. This duty involved strong-arming people into paying their debts. Sometimes, he confessed, the collections involved extreme violence, such as beatings with bats and metal pipes.

This night, the collection of money owed took an ugly turn. Four of the boys drove out into the county to the home of a young man who owed the dealer what he considered a considerable sum of money. He’d been given crack cocaine to sell but failed to turn over the proceeds to the boss. Actually, he, a former crack addict, had relapsed and smoked the entire amount all by himself. So the dealer sent “his young and dumb enforcers to collect, “or else.”

Since the man had no cash the four collectors were faced with a dilemma—fork over the cash themselves, or kill the moocher. Those were their instructions—return with $300 or kill him. So they grabbed the man and forced him into their car. Then they drove him to a remote area of the county where they made him get out of the car in the middle of road. Once outside they forced him to his knees.

The teen sitting across from me wept as he told of the man begging them not to hurt him. Then one of the teens produced a pistol and placed it against the back of the man’s head. The man began to cry, begging for his life to be spared.

The gun-wielding man pulled the trigger twice.

As a group, the four teens dragged the body across the asphalt pavement, down into a rocky and weed-filled ditch, and then into the woods. They pulled and tugged the body across leaves and sticks and fallen branches and over small spindly young trees and bushes. They stopped to rest a couple of times. Then, after they’d caught their breath they continued onward until they’d dragged the dead man nearly 200 yards or so into the forest. Then they drove back to the city where they split up.

I called for a team of officers to help conduct a search. The teen rode with me, guiding us to the spot where they’d hidden the body.

We found the dead man after searching until the sun came up the next morning. He was on his back. His eyes and mouth were open, wide. It was as if he’d seen the bowels of hell and at that point died with pure fear freezing his facial muscles in an expression of absolute horror.

Flies buzzed around the wounds on his head. A couple flew into his mouth and then crawled back out. Black ants, and I’ll never forget this as long as I live, walked on the dead mans eyeballs. They stepped first one way and then other, randomly zig-zagging about. It was an odd sight to say the least. They looked like miniature ice skaters on two tiny frozen and morbid ponds. A wasp stood at the opening of the left ear canal. Its rear end undulating up and down as if the insect was practicing its twerking moves.

So when people ask me about the things I remember most about working death scenes, well, I recall the weather, the suddenness of it all, the vivid descriptions of the people and places, the dialects of the people I questioned and how many times their statements ended in a manner that when written deserved to end in exclamation points. I think of the backstories of the killers and victims—the prologues to murder.

And, I think about the bugs and their lack of respect for the dead!!

The murder trial for Cristhian Bahena Rivera, the man accused of murdering Iowa college student Mollie Tibbetts in July 2018, opened today. Prosecutors say blood found on the trunk of Rivera’s car, and DNA recovered from trunk lining both matched that of Tibbetts’ body. Autopsy reports indicate she had been stabbed from seven to 12 times in the chest, ribs, neck and skull. Tibbetts died from sharp force injuries.

During the weeks after Mollie disappeared, numerous unsubstantiated tips poured into a law enforcement call center set up to handle and screen reports. A few “less than precise” media sources reported totally untrue details of the case, with one claiming they had inside information that the person responsible for Mollie’s disappearance attended a vigil for her, and had closely followed the case. But, as with most criminal cases, police conducted their investigation out of the eyes of public, all while gathering evidence. Those uncorroborated media reports were quickly dispelled by police.
 
In August of 2018, Greg Norman, a reporter for Fox News, contacted me for my opinion regarding the investigation into Mollie Tibbetts’ disappearance. Norman wanted to know why the police provided few, if any, case details to the public. And, what sort of items were likely sought as evidence?

Here’s my response.

Fox News, August 16, 2018 – Lee Lofland, author of the book ‘Police Procedure and Investigation’ and founder of the Writers’ Police Academy, told Fox News that what investigators are doing now is sort of like playing poker.
 
“The idea is to not show your hand until the last card is dealt and all bids are in,” he said. “Otherwise, the criminal, who is well aware of the details of the act, could call their bluff and literally get away with murder. That, and have dozens of people confessing to the crime merely to see their names on national news.”
 
Lofland also said “the unsuspecting criminal, no matter how careful” will take material away from a crime scene, whether it’s “carpet fibers buried in the tread of a shoe, DNA transferred to the suspect from an item only found in the apartment belonging to the victim, a unique plant seed stuck to the gas pedal of the suspect’s car, and so on.”
 
He believes it’s “quite possible that police have in hand one of those—a tiny bit of evidence that would or could place a kidnapper or an accomplice in one of the five or six areas police have identified as locations of interest in the case of Mollie Tibbetts’ disappearance.
 
“Keep in mind, though, there may be other areas they’re keeping to themselves in hopes the suspect will relax, thinking police are not closing in, when in reality the net is slowly and methodically tightening as clues are revealed,” he added.

Hurry!

Sign up today to attend THE ultimate experience for writers, fans, and readers of crime fact and fiction! MurderCon is a “killer” event!

Everyone likes to think their hometowns are the quintessential storybook villages from days long ago, back when we left our front doors unlocked and the car keys in the ignitions of the cars parked in our driveways. The times when kids walked to school, unafraid of perverts perusing the neighborhood. The days when the TV repairman came to your house to fix your set while you were away at work. He let himself in and locked up when he left.

Those were the days before school shootings and prior to the epidemic of human trafficking we see today. They were also the days way back when police recruits thought their towns and counties and states belonged to the Sweet-As-Apple-Pie Club, an organization consisting of towns and cities whose residents are clueless about the goings-on in their beloved “AnyTowns, USA.”

Drug dealers? In our town? No way! Murderers, rapists, robbers, and terrorists? Abso-freakin’-lutely no way! Not in our town.

Sure, we read the paper, but the bad guys who broke into old man Johnson’s house and killed him and stole all his prized collectible Elvis plates, well, they must’ve traveled here from another town.

However, it doesn’t take the police recruits—rookies—very long at all to learn that their sweet little towns are often hotbeds of rampant crime. Why, there are actual drug dealers who live down the street from dear innocent Aunt Ida. The hoodlums sell their wares—crack cocaine, meth, and weed—smack dab in the middle of the street. They shoot guns and they stab people and they rob and rape and steal.

There’s even a couple of gangs who rule most of the west side of town, and another on the east. The emergency room is busy with overdoses, wounded druggies, and cab drivers who were robbed at knifepoint. Gunshot victims and victims of sexual assaults. Shooting victims. Battered children and spouses. All of this from the onset of darkness until the sun returns to push away the night.

A rookie’s first few shifts are eye-openers. Who knew Mr. Perkins, the bank president, drank moonshine and beat on Erline, his loving wife of 30 years. And Mrs. Listickenpick, a chronic shoplifter? Why? She and her husband have more money than all the gold in Fort Knox. Then there are the drug addicts. Went to school with half of them. Embezzlers, nurses addicted to pills, doctors who prescribe drugs for their friends. Fights and arson and drunk drivers. Cop haters and school shooters. Pedophiles and stalkers. Killers who have no respect for human life. Baby beaters. Animal abusers.

Yes, these folks live in our towns. Our sleepy little villages where, in our naïve minds, crime doesn’t exist. But it does. They, the bad guys, simply walk the streets at times other than when you’re out. They’re the second shift. They punch the clock, signing on to work as we go to bed.

They come out in the darkness and, like roaches, scatter when an officer’s flashlight beam strikes their flesh. They crawl through windows to feast upon the property of others. They hunt and stalk prey, hoping to catch unsuspecting victims off-guard. They attack without warning. They beat and they steal and they bruise and they kill.

You may think your town is a card-carrying member of the Sweet-As-Apple-Pie Club, but the officers in your towns know differently. And even they, at times, are surprised by things they see out there in the darkness. Things that are sometimes the makings of a good nightmare.

It is the patrol officer who stands between us and them. That’s the line, our only line of defense against those things we don’t and/or choose not to see.

 


ATTENTION!!!

Special Event

Presents

Criminal Investigations: Writing Believable Make-Believe

A live and interactive virtual seminar

January 23, 2021

10:30 a.m. – 5:00 p.m. (EST)

featuring:

 

Joshua Moulin, Senior Vice President and Deputy of Operations and Security Services (OSS)

Josh Moulin serves as Senior Vice President and Deputy of Operations and Security Services (OSS) at CIS. In this role, Moulin provides executive leadership for OSS while focusing on the mission of improving the cybersecurity posture of state, local, tribal, and territorial government organizations. Moulin is responsible for planning, developing, and executing OSS products and services, some of which include the Multi-State Information Sharing and Analysis Center (MS-ISAC), the Elections Infrastructure Information Sharing and Analysis Center (EI-ISAC), US Cyber Challenge, security operations, incident response, and the cyber research program.

Moulin has been working in the cybersecurity field since 2004. Prior to CIS, he was an Executive Partner at Gartner where he advised senior executives in the U.S. federal civilian government and Department of Defense to shape organizational strategy, improve executive leadership, change culture, drive innovation, maintain information security and assurance, and implement technology using best practices and Gartner’s research. Before Gartner, Moulin spent five years at the Nevada National Security Site, part of the Department of Energy / National Nuclear Security Administration’s nuclear weapons enterprise. Moulin served in a variety of roles including as the Chief Information Security Officer and Chief Information Officer, responsible for all aspects of classified and unclassified IT and cybersecurity for this global national security organization.

Joshua Moulin will present “Cyber Crimes and Investigations.”


Karmen Harris, BSN, RN, SANE-A – Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner, Richmond & Moore County Medical Examiner

Karmen is a native to the coast of North Carolina and is a Registered Nurse board-certified as a Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner for adult and adolescent populations as well as an appointed NC Medical Examiner for two counties. As a forensic nurse consultant, Karmen provides expertise in matters of sexual assault, domestic violence, child and elder abuse, and human trafficking. Karmen’s educational background includes graduating from East Carolina University in 2009 where she studied Anthropology and Forensic Science, an Associate Degree in Nursing from Carteret Community College in 2014, and a Bachelor of Science in Nursing from East Carolina University in 2020.

Karmen Harris will present “Sexual Assault: When a Victim Seeks Care in a Hospital Setting.”


RJ Beam, Author and Forensics/Crime Scene Investigations Expert

RJ Beam has worked as both a police officer and firefighter. During his career he served as patrol supervisor, field training officer, evidence technician, firefighter II, fire department engineer, and fire/arson investigator. He is currently the Department Chair of the Forensic Science Program at a college in the U.S.

RJ Beam will present “Using 3D Laser Scanners and Drones to Document Crime Scenes.”

 

 


Lisa Regan, USA Today & Wall Street Journal Bestselling Author

Lisa Regan is the USA Today & Wall Street Journal bestselling author of the Detective Josie Quinn series as well as several other crime fiction titles. She has a Bachelor’s degree in English and a Master of Education degree from Bloomsburg University. She is a member of Sisters in Crime, International Thriller Writers, Crime Writers Association, and Mystery Writers of America. She lives in Philadelphia with her husband, daughter and Boston Terrier named Mr. Phillip.

Lisa Regan wraps up this fabulous live, interactive seminar with her her presentation “Creating Dynamic Crime Fiction: How to Use the Elements of Fiction to Craft a Gripping Crime Novel.”