Read Online A Deadly Wandering: A Tale of Tragedy and Redemption in the Age of Attention by Matt Richtel - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Matt Richtel
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streaked with mascara. Danny walked over to her. Terryl and Michael stood in the doorway. Now Terryl was crying, too.
“Please, please put the gun down.”
Terryl remembers her dad standing over her mom and pointing the gun down at her. Pushing it toward her mouth.
“Please,” Terryl says she and Michael begged. Kathie sobbed.
Danny took a step back. He lowered the gun.
CHAPTER 6
THE TOLL
A FTER A HARROWING DAY , it was Rindlisbacher’s habit to talk about it, not bury it deeper. Things were so-so with his wife, Judy. He’d not been able to give the marriage quite the attention he’d have liked, having spent so much time in the military, traveling, and otherwise in and out of the home. Two of their kids were grown and out of the house. But, that night, he sat down with his seventeen-year-old daughter, Allison.
“Please slow down. Please wear your seat belt. Please don’t be stupid when you’re driving a car.”
That night, his mind was racing with the events of the day. After he’d taken Reggie to the hospital, he’d escorted Kaiserman and the farrier’s wife back to the scene. Then he’d driven the Crown Vic ten minutes to the Cache County Sheriff’s Office, a new building that housed the local law enforcement, and was next to the jail. In the third-floor offices, Rindlisbacher typed in the witness statements. He loaded the photos from his personal camera to revisit the scene. In the photos, Jim’s head lies back, his eyes closed, a crisscrossing of red blood across his head more suggestive of a bar fight than a fatal wreck. He’s got short-cropped brown hair and a goatee. He looks to Rindlisbacher to be at peace.
Not so much Keith. He’d taken the brunt of the impact from Kaiserman’s load. In the photo, Rindlisbacher could see Keith slumped forward, a hint of male pattern balding on top of his head. And there, in the back of the Saturn, a mass of pink and gooey stuff that had been sprayed on impact. Keith’s brain.
As Rindlisbacher retired for the night, he was juggling things he couldn’t get out of his head: Kaiserman’s statement that Reggie had crossed the yellow divider several times prior to the crash; Reggie’s texting during the ride to the hospital; Reggie’s inability to offer any other explanation for crossing the yellow line.
“If he’d said he was tired, I might have left it at that,” Rindlisbacher says, looking back. “He could’ve lied to me and I’d have had nothing to refute it.”
“I WANT TO SEE him.”
“Ms. O’Dell, why don’t we take care of this paperwork first?” the mortician said. It was the day after the wreck. Leila had slept little, despite taking a sleeping pill around eleven p.m. During the day, she’d been inconsolable, barely able to speak to the family members who came by, sobbing with her daughter, Megan.
Megan left in the evening. She had previously signed up for doing roadside security for the Top of Utah Marathon, which was being held the next morning. But she had to be at her post that night, spending much of it guarding runners’ possessions.
Still, when Leila got to Allen-Hall Mortuary the next morning, she was hoping to see Megan. But the young lady had slept in. Even absent the marathon, it was Megan’s habit to stay up late, often playing video games, and then sleep late.
Leila was determined to see Keith’s body. But the staff was clearly trying to stall, and even distract her. She complied with their request and gave them particulars, like Keith’s Social Security number and a bunch of dates and names she rattled off. She selected a casket, something in a medium-colored oak that she thought Keith, a fan of natural wood, would like. She picked sunflowers, which she thought was like Keith, not roses or carnations.
They asked when she’d like to have the funeral. It was Saturday. They decided: Wednesday. And they decided to do it the same day as Jim’s funeral—one following the next—because they had so many friends and
“Please, please put the gun down.”
Terryl remembers her dad standing over her mom and pointing the gun down at her. Pushing it toward her mouth.
“Please,” Terryl says she and Michael begged. Kathie sobbed.
Danny took a step back. He lowered the gun.
CHAPTER 6
THE TOLL
A FTER A HARROWING DAY , it was Rindlisbacher’s habit to talk about it, not bury it deeper. Things were so-so with his wife, Judy. He’d not been able to give the marriage quite the attention he’d have liked, having spent so much time in the military, traveling, and otherwise in and out of the home. Two of their kids were grown and out of the house. But, that night, he sat down with his seventeen-year-old daughter, Allison.
“Please slow down. Please wear your seat belt. Please don’t be stupid when you’re driving a car.”
That night, his mind was racing with the events of the day. After he’d taken Reggie to the hospital, he’d escorted Kaiserman and the farrier’s wife back to the scene. Then he’d driven the Crown Vic ten minutes to the Cache County Sheriff’s Office, a new building that housed the local law enforcement, and was next to the jail. In the third-floor offices, Rindlisbacher typed in the witness statements. He loaded the photos from his personal camera to revisit the scene. In the photos, Jim’s head lies back, his eyes closed, a crisscrossing of red blood across his head more suggestive of a bar fight than a fatal wreck. He’s got short-cropped brown hair and a goatee. He looks to Rindlisbacher to be at peace.
Not so much Keith. He’d taken the brunt of the impact from Kaiserman’s load. In the photo, Rindlisbacher could see Keith slumped forward, a hint of male pattern balding on top of his head. And there, in the back of the Saturn, a mass of pink and gooey stuff that had been sprayed on impact. Keith’s brain.
As Rindlisbacher retired for the night, he was juggling things he couldn’t get out of his head: Kaiserman’s statement that Reggie had crossed the yellow divider several times prior to the crash; Reggie’s texting during the ride to the hospital; Reggie’s inability to offer any other explanation for crossing the yellow line.
“If he’d said he was tired, I might have left it at that,” Rindlisbacher says, looking back. “He could’ve lied to me and I’d have had nothing to refute it.”
“I WANT TO SEE him.”
“Ms. O’Dell, why don’t we take care of this paperwork first?” the mortician said. It was the day after the wreck. Leila had slept little, despite taking a sleeping pill around eleven p.m. During the day, she’d been inconsolable, barely able to speak to the family members who came by, sobbing with her daughter, Megan.
Megan left in the evening. She had previously signed up for doing roadside security for the Top of Utah Marathon, which was being held the next morning. But she had to be at her post that night, spending much of it guarding runners’ possessions.
Still, when Leila got to Allen-Hall Mortuary the next morning, she was hoping to see Megan. But the young lady had slept in. Even absent the marathon, it was Megan’s habit to stay up late, often playing video games, and then sleep late.
Leila was determined to see Keith’s body. But the staff was clearly trying to stall, and even distract her. She complied with their request and gave them particulars, like Keith’s Social Security number and a bunch of dates and names she rattled off. She selected a casket, something in a medium-colored oak that she thought Keith, a fan of natural wood, would like. She picked sunflowers, which she thought was like Keith, not roses or carnations.
They asked when she’d like to have the funeral. It was Saturday. They decided: Wednesday. And they decided to do it the same day as Jim’s funeral—one following the next—because they had so many friends and
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