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Authors: M. William Phelps
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trying to digest what amounted to a large family tree involving many different children and grandchildren, “when you lived in Pima, were there any other children involved in the home, or that you gave birth to, or anything like that?”
It was the first time Thomas or Weddle had broached—even remotely—the subject of babies and what might have happened to the three dead children. After all, this was the main purpose of the interview: to find out what happened to the babies who hadn’t lived—as far as anyone could tell thus far—for more than a few hours. The medical examiner was still trying to figure out how the children had died, but it was clear from early tests the babies were newborns.
“No,” Odell said stoically.
Thomas didn’t pressure Odell immediately. Instead, she did what any experienced investigator might have done: she began to float the opportunity for Odell to come up with an explanation. It was clear from the energy in the room—the aura of the conversation and the demeanor between the detectives and Odell—that there was an awfully large white elephant hanging around, and sooner or later, it was going to have to be talked about. For Thomas and Weddle, however, they had traveled nearly twenty-five hundred miles. They had all day and night to talk to Odell. There was no need to push the subject now. Once Odell invoked her right to remain silent and asked for a lawyer, the conversation was over. Up to now, though, according to Thomas, Weddle, and Trooper McKee, she was calm and, as far as they could tell, somewhat cooperative, and at no point mentioned that she wanted a lawyer.
“When you moved to Arizona,” Thomas asked, “where did you come from?”
“Pennsylvania,” Odell shot back, adding, “No, excuse me, Utah.”
“How long did you live in Utah?”
“About a year.”
“Where have you lived most of your life?”
“New York.”
For the next few moments, Thomas and Odell traded dialogue about Odell’s children and where they were born. Most of her children were born in New York—all in hospitals. Odell said Sauerstein had fathered the youngest of the children, and James Odell, a man she had been married to at one time, fathered her three oldest daughters: twenty-two, twenty-three, and twenty-four years old.
“When you moved to Arizona, did you bring a lot of property with you for your home?” Thomas asked.
“I had a truckful.”
“Did it all go into your home?”
Weddle, sitting patiently, studying Odell’s body language, knew where Thomas was heading.
“No, no,” Odell said.
“Do you recall what you did with that property?”
“Had to put some of it into storage.”
Okay, now we’re getting somewhere, Weddle told himself.
“Where at?”
“I don’t remember his name,” Odell said, sipping from a cup of water. “He was the mayor of the town where we lived.”
“So, there was a storage shed there in Pima?”
“No, I think it was in Safford,” Odell said.
Indeed.
Thomas and Weddle did everything they could not to look at each other at that moment. All of their previous questions seemingly didn’t matter when compared to what was transpiring now. Getting Odell to admit she had rented a storage shed in Safford was important. She was offering significant, relevant information pertaining to the dead children.
“When was the last time you’ve been to the storage shed?” Thomas asked.
“Maybe…I think it was April ’93.”
“And you only took some of the things out?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know what happened to the rest of your things?”
“No.”
Thomas then changed the subject and asked if Odell was still legally married to James Odell. Odell said she hadn’t been married to James for over twenty years. She met Sauerstein in 1985 in New York and had been with him ever since.
“And since you’ve been with Mr. Sauerstein, you’ve had several children?”
“Yes.”
“Okay…no other children?”
“No.”
“Did you ever
It was the first time Thomas or Weddle had broached—even remotely—the subject of babies and what might have happened to the three dead children. After all, this was the main purpose of the interview: to find out what happened to the babies who hadn’t lived—as far as anyone could tell thus far—for more than a few hours. The medical examiner was still trying to figure out how the children had died, but it was clear from early tests the babies were newborns.
“No,” Odell said stoically.
Thomas didn’t pressure Odell immediately. Instead, she did what any experienced investigator might have done: she began to float the opportunity for Odell to come up with an explanation. It was clear from the energy in the room—the aura of the conversation and the demeanor between the detectives and Odell—that there was an awfully large white elephant hanging around, and sooner or later, it was going to have to be talked about. For Thomas and Weddle, however, they had traveled nearly twenty-five hundred miles. They had all day and night to talk to Odell. There was no need to push the subject now. Once Odell invoked her right to remain silent and asked for a lawyer, the conversation was over. Up to now, though, according to Thomas, Weddle, and Trooper McKee, she was calm and, as far as they could tell, somewhat cooperative, and at no point mentioned that she wanted a lawyer.
“When you moved to Arizona,” Thomas asked, “where did you come from?”
“Pennsylvania,” Odell shot back, adding, “No, excuse me, Utah.”
“How long did you live in Utah?”
“About a year.”
“Where have you lived most of your life?”
“New York.”
For the next few moments, Thomas and Odell traded dialogue about Odell’s children and where they were born. Most of her children were born in New York—all in hospitals. Odell said Sauerstein had fathered the youngest of the children, and James Odell, a man she had been married to at one time, fathered her three oldest daughters: twenty-two, twenty-three, and twenty-four years old.
“When you moved to Arizona, did you bring a lot of property with you for your home?” Thomas asked.
“I had a truckful.”
“Did it all go into your home?”
Weddle, sitting patiently, studying Odell’s body language, knew where Thomas was heading.
“No, no,” Odell said.
“Do you recall what you did with that property?”
“Had to put some of it into storage.”
Okay, now we’re getting somewhere, Weddle told himself.
“Where at?”
“I don’t remember his name,” Odell said, sipping from a cup of water. “He was the mayor of the town where we lived.”
“So, there was a storage shed there in Pima?”
“No, I think it was in Safford,” Odell said.
Indeed.
Thomas and Weddle did everything they could not to look at each other at that moment. All of their previous questions seemingly didn’t matter when compared to what was transpiring now. Getting Odell to admit she had rented a storage shed in Safford was important. She was offering significant, relevant information pertaining to the dead children.
“When was the last time you’ve been to the storage shed?” Thomas asked.
“Maybe…I think it was April ’93.”
“And you only took some of the things out?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know what happened to the rest of your things?”
“No.”
Thomas then changed the subject and asked if Odell was still legally married to James Odell. Odell said she hadn’t been married to James for over twenty years. She met Sauerstein in 1985 in New York and had been with him ever since.
“And since you’ve been with Mr. Sauerstein, you’ve had several children?”
“Yes.”
“Okay…no other children?”
“No.”
“Did you ever
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