Free Judgment Ridge: The True Story Behind the Dartmouth Murders by Mitchell Zuckoff, Dick Lehr Page B
Authors: Mitchell Zuckoff, Dick Lehr
project.
“Hold on a second,” Half said. “My wife is making lunch. I don’t think I can do this.”
He left them standing outside while he went to talk with Susanne.
How could he turn them away? He and Susanne were teachers and these boys were students. He and Susanne were environmentalists, and these boys wanted to talk about the environment.
“You know, I like what the Mountain School does,” Half said, ushering them inside.
6
“Susanne? Susanne?”
L ater that day, an hour past twilight, as a sliver of a crescent moon teetered in the sky, Roxana Verona turned the ignition on her blue-gray
Saab. Alone in the car, she drove the familiar five-mile route from her home—the one she had bought nearly a decade earlier from Half and Susanne—to the Zantops’ house on Trescott Road. Verona pulled down the gravel driveway, then did a three-point turn at the bottom so the car’s nose would be pointed toward the street, to make it easier for her to navigate when she left in the dark.
Verona grabbed her purse and a bag with the salad she had prepared, got out of her car, and walked to the house. Her zippered black boots left small, perfectly formed impressions in an inch of freshly fallen snow. When she arrived at the front door, Verona rang the bell— she knew the Zantops always locked their home, whether they were inside or out, and even when they threw parties, Susanne or Half
would unbolt and rebolt the door with each arrival. Sometimes their friends kidded the Zantops about that habit—around Hanover and Etna, many homeowners hadn’t seen their house keys in years.
As she rang the bell, Verona placed her hand on the doorknob and was surprised to feel it turn. Susanne must have left it unlocked for me, Verona thought. Susanne usually showered before dinner, and she must have worried about leaving me stuck outside in the cold. How thoughtful of her, Verona thought. So like Susanne.
“I’m in,” Verona called out. It was 6:35 P . M .
T he dinner invitation had come that morning in a phone call from Susanne. They had missed each other the night before—Susanne had
left a voice-mail urging Verona to meet them at The Hop to see Best in Show, but Verona hadn’t heard the message in time. When they connected by phone, they chatted a few minutes about work and the movie—Susanne thought Verona would enjoy it—then Susanne suggested a quiet dinner for three.
“Why don’t you come here?” Verona asked. No, Susanne said, I’ve already been to the food co-op and bought all we need. You come to our place. Verona agreed, promising to make a salad and arrive at their usual dinner hour, 6:30 P . M . Oh, Susanne added, I’ll be alone when you get here. Half is going to a birthday party for Dick Stoiber. Susanne told Verona she was too busy to attend—her dining-room table was piled high with unfinished work. Susanne said Half would join them to eat—he didn’t plan to stay at the party long.
Upon entering the house, Verona took off her coat and draped it with her purse on the ladder-back chair at the end of the entrance hall, then turned left to enter the main area of the first floor. Verona headed for the dining-room table, where she found room among Susanne’s papers to drop her bag with the salad. She looked into the kitchen but saw no one.
“Susanne? Susanne?” she called out. No answer. The only sound was her own voice, calling her friend’s name. Verona sensed something unusual about the silence. The shower wasn’t running. No footsteps
could be heard from the bathroom or master bedroom. The house seemed empty but for her.
Verona turned toward the study, where the light was on and the wooden door was wide open. Her mind expected the room to be as it always was, in perfect order, an efficiency expert’s dream, with every paper in place and the hundreds of books on the floor-to-ceiling shelves lined up like soldiers at attention.
Instead, she saw bloody carnage. Verona’s eyes
“Hold on a second,” Half said. “My wife is making lunch. I don’t think I can do this.”
He left them standing outside while he went to talk with Susanne.
How could he turn them away? He and Susanne were teachers and these boys were students. He and Susanne were environmentalists, and these boys wanted to talk about the environment.
“You know, I like what the Mountain School does,” Half said, ushering them inside.
6
“Susanne? Susanne?”
L ater that day, an hour past twilight, as a sliver of a crescent moon teetered in the sky, Roxana Verona turned the ignition on her blue-gray
Saab. Alone in the car, she drove the familiar five-mile route from her home—the one she had bought nearly a decade earlier from Half and Susanne—to the Zantops’ house on Trescott Road. Verona pulled down the gravel driveway, then did a three-point turn at the bottom so the car’s nose would be pointed toward the street, to make it easier for her to navigate when she left in the dark.
Verona grabbed her purse and a bag with the salad she had prepared, got out of her car, and walked to the house. Her zippered black boots left small, perfectly formed impressions in an inch of freshly fallen snow. When she arrived at the front door, Verona rang the bell— she knew the Zantops always locked their home, whether they were inside or out, and even when they threw parties, Susanne or Half
would unbolt and rebolt the door with each arrival. Sometimes their friends kidded the Zantops about that habit—around Hanover and Etna, many homeowners hadn’t seen their house keys in years.
As she rang the bell, Verona placed her hand on the doorknob and was surprised to feel it turn. Susanne must have left it unlocked for me, Verona thought. Susanne usually showered before dinner, and she must have worried about leaving me stuck outside in the cold. How thoughtful of her, Verona thought. So like Susanne.
“I’m in,” Verona called out. It was 6:35 P . M .
T he dinner invitation had come that morning in a phone call from Susanne. They had missed each other the night before—Susanne had
left a voice-mail urging Verona to meet them at The Hop to see Best in Show, but Verona hadn’t heard the message in time. When they connected by phone, they chatted a few minutes about work and the movie—Susanne thought Verona would enjoy it—then Susanne suggested a quiet dinner for three.
“Why don’t you come here?” Verona asked. No, Susanne said, I’ve already been to the food co-op and bought all we need. You come to our place. Verona agreed, promising to make a salad and arrive at their usual dinner hour, 6:30 P . M . Oh, Susanne added, I’ll be alone when you get here. Half is going to a birthday party for Dick Stoiber. Susanne told Verona she was too busy to attend—her dining-room table was piled high with unfinished work. Susanne said Half would join them to eat—he didn’t plan to stay at the party long.
Upon entering the house, Verona took off her coat and draped it with her purse on the ladder-back chair at the end of the entrance hall, then turned left to enter the main area of the first floor. Verona headed for the dining-room table, where she found room among Susanne’s papers to drop her bag with the salad. She looked into the kitchen but saw no one.
“Susanne? Susanne?” she called out. No answer. The only sound was her own voice, calling her friend’s name. Verona sensed something unusual about the silence. The shower wasn’t running. No footsteps
could be heard from the bathroom or master bedroom. The house seemed empty but for her.
Verona turned toward the study, where the light was on and the wooden door was wide open. Her mind expected the room to be as it always was, in perfect order, an efficiency expert’s dream, with every paper in place and the hundreds of books on the floor-to-ceiling shelves lined up like soldiers at attention.
Instead, she saw bloody carnage. Verona’s eyes