Where Monsters Hide: Sex, Murder, and Madness in the Midwest - Softcover

Phelps, M. William

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1496720814 ISBN 13: 9781496720818

Publisher: Kensington, 2019

Synopsis

A tragic missing person case spirals into an unrelenting murder mystery. Intrigue, deception, and serial homicide erupt in the latest real-life thriller by New York Times bestselling investigative journalist M. William Phelps.
 
In October 2014, after Chris Regan failed to arrive at his new job, his ex-girlfriend filed a missing-person report. Something was off. It was not like Chris, a devoted father, avid hiker, and all-around great guy, not to show up. When local Michigan police chief Laura Frizzo learned Chris was having an affair with Kelly Cochran, a married co-worker, suspicion fell on her husband, Jason. After a search warrant on their house revealed several suspicious items, the Cochrans abruptly moved to Indiana. As questions swirled around the case, the whereabouts of Chris Regan remained unknown.
 
Sixteen months later Jason Cochran died from a drug overdose. Friends and family rallied around the grieving and distraught Kelly. But when the coroner ruled Jason’s death a homicide, no one reacted more bizarrely than his widow. For months detectives tried to put Kelly’s past into focus, but the truth was buried under a patchwork of lies, contradictions, and brutally horrific revelations. As Kelly Cochran, a Purdue graduate and psychology major, played “catch me if you can,” a mesmerizing story emerged that rivals today’s bestselling fiction in its drama and fascination. In the hands of veteran investigative journalist M. William Phelps, her staggering saga of murder, revenge, and payback surpasses anything that could go wrong in a season of Fargo.
 
“Phelps is the Harlan Coben of real-life thrillers.” —Allison Brennan
 
“Anything by Phelps is an eye-opening experience.”  —Suspense Magazine
 
“Phelps is one of America’s finest true-crime authors.”—Vincent Bugliosi

“Master of true crime . . .”  —Real Crime magazine

About this title

About the Author

New York Times bestselling investigative journalist and serial crime expert M. William Phelps is the author of more than thirty nonfiction books and has made over 200 television appearances. He created, produced and starred in the series Dark Minds and is one of the stars of Deadly Women and Oxygen’s Snapped, Killer Couples and KillerPost. Radio America calls him “the nation’s leading authority on the mind of the female murderer.” Touched by tragedy himself through the unsolved murder of his sister-in-law, Phelps is able to enter the hearts and minds of his subjects like no one else. He lives in a Connecticut farming community and can be reached at his website, www.mwilliamphelps.com.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Where Monsters Hide

By M. William Phelps

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

Copyright © 2019 M. William Phelps
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4967-2081-8

Contents

Praise, 
Also by, 
Title Page, 
Copyright Page, 
Dedication, 
Epigraph, 
PROLOGUE, 
PART 1 - THE MISSING MAN, 
1 - MOVING ON, 
2 - NIGHT SHIFT, 
3 - DAD, 
4 - PARK-AND-RIDE, 
5 - MESSING AROUND, 
6 - WHISPERS, 
7 - ABSENCE OF MALICE, 
8 - QUESTIONS, 
9 - ANSWERS, 
10 - SOMETHING'S NOT RIGHT, 
11 - A COP'S COP, 
12 - ROCKY ROADS, 
13 - THE OTHER MAN, 
14 - TRUTH AND CONSEQUENCES, 
15 - EXCLUSION, 
16 - INCLUSION, 
17 - QUACK-QUACK, 
18 - FRUSTRATION, 
19 - THE UNEXPECTED, 
PART 2 - BUTTERFLIES, 
20 - PINK METAL, 
21 - CAT AND MICE, 
22 - NIGHT WORK, 
23 - VOICES CARRY, 
24 - DETAILS, 
25 - TROUBLED LIFE, TROUBLED WIFE, 
26 - CHAOS REIGNS, 
27 - THE DARK SIDE, 
28 - PIECES, 
29 - HOME LIFE, 
30 - NEW BLOOD, 
31 - LISTEN AND LEARN, 
32 - SIGNED, SEALED, DELIVERED, 
33 - EXECUTION, 
34 - BARE NAKED LADIES, 
35 - PREMONITION, 
36 - BLOOD AND AMMO, 
37 - NEIGHBORS, 
38 - JUST RUNNING SCARED, 
PART 3 - THE CHASE, 
39 - A LONG ROAD, 
40 - SUSPICION, 
41 - TWO TRACK, 
42 - FEELING THE PRESSURE, 
43 - (RE)SEARCH, 
44 - RUMOR HAS IT, 
45 - DIVER DOWN, 
46 - PUSHING FORWARD BACK, 
47 - HELP, 
48 - SAGE ADVICE, 
49 - SINK OR SWIM, 
50 - CLOSING IN, 
PART 4 - MURDER PACT, 
51 - THE SOUNDS OF SILENCE, 
52 - UNSURPRISING SHOCKER, 
53 - PINPOINT, 
54 - SEX, LIES, AND VIDEOTAPE, 
55 - PERSISTENCE, 
56 - THE LETTER, 
57 - STALKED, 
58 - PRESENCE OF EVIL, 
59 - CHILDHOOD, 
60 - DOWNSIZED, 
61 - DOWN A RABBIT HOLE, 
62 - LIFE AND DEATH, 
63 - HORROR SHOW, 
64 - ROLE REVERSAL, 
65 - BLOOD WILL TELL, 
66 - BURIED SECRETS, 
67 - READY AND WILLING, 
68 – "GAME ON", 
69 - THE MONSTER, 
70 - HELA, 
71 - SEARCHING, 
PART 5 - A JUST CAUSE, 
72 - SEXUAL DIGRESSION, 
73 - ATONEMENT, 
74 - CRUISE CONTROL, 
75 - SIDESTEPPING, 
76 - JUDGMENT DAY, 
77 – "OH, MY GOD", 
78 - FINALLY, 
EPILOGUE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS, 
Notes, 

CHAPTER 1

MOVING ON

CHRIS REGAN JR.'S CAR WAS LOADED WITH NEARLY EVERYTHING HE owned. For the past several weeks, Chris had slept on the floor of his Traverse City apartment in north Detroit, Michigan, nothing left inside but life's core essentials: iPhone and laptop, coffeepot, pillow, a few blankets for keeping warm. At twenty-six years old, Chris Jr. was ready for a change. He and his father, Chris Regan Sr., had discussed moving in together for the past year. They'd decided to leave Michigan, where both had lived for most of Chris Jr.'s life.

"Fresh start," Chris Jr. said. "Something different."

"Yeah," Senior responded. "Sounds good to me."

The previous winter, 2013, Chris Jr. had taken a trip to Florida. He'd gotten his hands on an ice-cream truck from a friend and drove it fifteen hundred miles south. He wanted a change of scene, if only for a few months, but also to see what opportunities were available outside Michigan. An avid photographer, along the way, Chris took scores of photographs. He'd passed through towns and cities he would have never known existed — or had a chance to ever see — had he not driven. When he returned to Michigan four months later, just as the spring of 2014 broke, Chris had nowhere to live. He'd given up his place in Traverse City. So his father allowed him to sleep in the basement of a house Senior was renting. On some nights they'd get together, sit and talk. Chris Jr. would pull out photos he'd taken during his trip.

"Let's just do it, son," Chris Sr. said one night. "The two us. Get the heck out of Michigan and live somewhere else."

Chris Sr. did not have to twist his son's arm. Chris Jr. loved the idea. The cold, dark, gloomy winters up north were something both could easily leave behind. Chris Jr.'s brother, the father's only other child, lived far enough away in Rochester, Michigan, outside Detroit, anyway. Senior had been divorced from his sons' mother for just a few years. The four of them hardly ever saw one another. They had no family up north. Why not move? What was holding them back?

"Where, though?" Senior asked.

"Texas?" Chris Jr. suggested.

"No. Not a chance."

"South Carolina?"

"Maybe, Chris," the father said.

"Asheville, North Carolina, has always been on my radar as a place I kind of want to live, Dad."

They both looked at each other. Rolling off the tongue, Asheville sounded delightful, as if it were meant to be. They'd visited before. Camping. Cycling. Hiking trails. So much to love about a town that seemed to celebrate the eccentricities of life! Where art trumped the fast-paced style of modern living, Junior soon moved out on his own, downstate from Upper Michigan, where Senior now lived. He rented his own apartment. And they continued discussing a move to Asheville. It almost seemed like a plan now.

"What about Colorado?" Senior suggested over the phone one day, still tossing out locales.

"No."

"Yeah, too cold and snowy still."

"Asheville, Dad. I'm telling you," Junior reiterated. "Remember, we camped there. Rode our bikes on the trails."

"Right. It's gorgeous, Chris." The father paused. "Okay, it's decided. Asheville it is, then."

"Yes."

Asheville offered the most opportunity for both. Especially where it pertained to hobbies and life outside work. Both were avid cyclists, mountain biking, mostly downhill. Chris Jr. had dedicated most of his life to cycling, having started riding at the age of three with the help of his dad. Senior was an expert cyclist and had won trophies while racing in the air force. He'd actually traveled and lived all over the world, where he enjoyed a second passion, scuba diving. The son had worked in cycle shops all his adult life. So finding a job for Chris Jr. in North Carolina was not going to be a problem once they got settled.

* * *

AS THE MIDDLE OF October 2014 settled in, Senior had a job lined up in Asheville. He'd signed a contract with a company he was excited to get started with. In fact, he had a scheduled October 15, 2014, drug-screening test for the new job. Still packing, with boxes everywhere, Senior was working toward being ready to leave on schedule. His apartment in Iron River, Michigan, where he'd relocated, was in a bit of disarray.

"Exciting," Senior told his son one night on the phone during that second week of October. "Look, first one there wins, okay?"

"What?" Junior said.

"Whoever arrives last buys the other a steak dinner." The son laughed. He lived a few hundred miles closer and was planning on leaving a day earlier than his father.

"You're on, Dad."

Just west of the Blue Ridge Mountains, known for its art scene and historic architecture, the picturesque, mountainous terrain of Asheville offered nothing but gorgeous Americana scenery, as well as endless photography subjects.

"It's going to be great, Dad."

"It is. I cannot wait. So excited."

As much as he was looking forward to moving and starting a new job, Senior was ecstatic to be reconnecting with his oldest boy. Living together. Getting to know each other as adults. Even though both his boys were older, Senior's divorce, like any, had been difficult. Since the split in 2010, Junior and Senior had bonded, but Senior was looking forward to forging that into a close friendship, while watching his son grow.

Chris and his father spoke or texted every day during this time. Junior later recalled, during the fall of 2014, as they discussed the move, they never failed to communicate at least several times daily. They spoke constantly over a twenty-four-hour period.

"I'm at work, can't talk right now," Senior would say if he was busy. "I'll text you later."

And he always would.

* * *

AS CHRIS JR. STOOD and stared out the window of his apartment, looking at his car fully loaded with his possessions, a trickle of excitement stirred. He was eager to get on the road. He looked at his watch. It was late in the day, October 15, 2014. The sun was just dropping below the horizon. The only bit of awkwardness Chris Jr. felt on that day — and it was minor at the time — was that he'd not heard from his father all day long. He'd texted and called. But had not gotten a response.

The next morning, October 16, Junior opened his eyes, grabbed his iPhone, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. After acclimating himself to getting up, Junior stared at the iPhone screen.

Not one text or call from his father throughout the night or that morning.

Standing, walking to the bathroom, Junior stopped in the hallway. He felt a pinch in his gut.

Something's wrong. I just know it.

CHAPTER 2

NIGHT SHIFT

ENOUGH, CHIEF LAURA FRIZZO DECIDED. THAT IS ENOUGH FOR TODAY. It was twenty minutes to five o'clock. Frizzo's sergeant, Cindy Barrette, would be in soon to begin her shift: five p.m. to three a.m. Frizzo should have been out the door two hours ago, on her way home. Except, well, when it came to work, Frizzo had "a problem leaving," she said.

The job.

Always pulling her away from life — something one signs up for as the chief of police in a small town.

October 27, 2014, was a brisk autumn evening in Michigan's Upper Peninsula. As Iron River Police Department (IRPD) chief Laura Frizzo walked out of the station house's front doors and began locking up, out of the corner of her eye she saw a car pull up. She put the key into the lock, turned it to the right, latching the glass doors with a metallic snap. Standing there, Frizzo made a point not to look at the vehicle or make eye contact with its driver. Her workday was supposed to be over.

Get in your car. Go home.

As Frizzo walked, she could hear the car engine shut down, the driver's door creak open.

Don't turn around, the chief told herself. Don't look up. Don't make eye contact. Walk to your car.

As Frizzo reached down to open her car door, unable to help herself, she glanced up. The woman who had parked in front of the building now stood at the locked precinct doors, pulling on the handle, cupping her hands around her eyes, peering inside, frustrated nobody was around.

Frizzo could see the woman was anxious.

Then the woman turned. Stared directly at the chief.

Laura Frizzo saw "help me" written all over her face.

"Yes, ma'am, of course — what is it?" Frizzo said, rushing toward the woman.

The blond, middle-aged woman seemed more upset and worried than frazzled. "Yes, I ... I ...," she tried to say.

Something's not right here, Frizzo knew.

"Why don't we go inside and talk," Frizzo suggested.

And there it was: the rub of being a cop — it's not what you do; it's who you are.

Thirty-four-year law enforcement veteran, IRPD sergeant Cindy Barrette was due in at any minute for her ten-hour shift, Frizzo knew. As she and the woman walked in, What was another couple of minutes waiting with someone in need? the chief considered. Soon as Cindy arrived, Frizzo could hand her whatever problem the woman had and continue on her way home.

"My friend," the woman explained to Frizzo, "it's my friend Chris. I think ... well, he's missing. I've made several attempts to contact him ... and ... well, um, I found his car ..."

At the time fifty-three-year-old Chris Regan Sr.'s disappearance was reported, Laura Frizzo, with eighteen years behind an IRPD badge, was the first woman in Upper Michigan to be named police chief. She had held the highest job in the IRPD since January 1, 2014. Ten months. A single mother, the forty-five-year-old self-proclaimed "gym rat," lifting weights five days a week if she had her way, was in better physical shape than most twenty-year-old females. During working hours, Frizzo wore her brown hair tied back in a ponytail, curly ribbons dangled over to one side, naturally flowing down her shoulders. Frizzo carried a wholesome look about her, with the chiseled facial features of a model. Still, she was street-tough and strong-willed. Make no mistake, Laura Frizzo could handle any situation she might find herself in as a cop in a small town replete with the same problems plaguing the rest of the country.

Frizzo's career in law enforcement began with the Grand Rapids Police Department (GRPD) after she was graduated from the Kalamazoo Police Academy. Although her reign as IRPD chief would end in controversy — Frizzo having no idea in this moment the impetus for that personal and politically driven public shitstorm had just begun — most of the town's three thousand residents respected the chief and believed Frizzo was the most qualified person for the job. She was liked by many and praised for her tenacity, integrity, and overall experience as a peace officer.

"Take a seat," Frizzo said as she and the woman walked into the precinct. "Let's talk about this."

Iron River, Michigan, sits about 140 miles north of Green Bay, just over the Wisconsin state line. The town butts up against the edge of the Ottawa National Forest, far west of the most northern tip of Lake Michigan, due south of the middle point of Lake Superior. This is Fargo-like country, complete with a touch of the "you-betcha" accent. The snow in winter can accumulate hip-high without warning, the air cold and dry as a freezer burn. There are over three thousand miles of snowmobile track throughout the state. Several Native American reservations are scattered about the immediate area around Iron River. It's quiet. Secluded. Wide open. Generally flat. Friendly. Homey. And totally Midwestern. Yet, despite Iron River being such a small town, the heroin (opioid) epidemic, like mostly everywhere else, has sucked up any serenity the landscape and law-abiding citizens might offer. Meth has become a problem for the IRPD, too. With this, of course, come the burglaries, larcenies, B&Es, home invasions, and associated violence.

"All sorts of problems, not enough police officers," Frizzo said.

Still, all that police business being part of a normal IRPD day, people up here don't go missing without reason, and even the most unassuming local cops can become the biggest pains in your ass if you're trying to deceive, take advantage of, or break the law. Though they might don wool caps with Elmer Fudd earflaps during the coldest months, ten pounds' worth of winter boots, and heavy, parka-type down coats with furry collars, these cops are quiet and resolute. When someone walks into a PD talking about a missing friend or family member, cops don't roll their eyes and shoo them away, thinking the person is overreacting. They listen. Respond. Make a promise to find out what happened.

"Please explain what is going on," Frizzo prompted the woman.

Just then, Cindy Barrette walked in. "Evening. What's going on?"

Good, Frizzo thought. She could turn the case over and get home at a decent hour for a change. If it turned into something bigger than a worried-over-nothing friend, Cindy would call, and Frizzo could jump back in.

The chief explained to her sergeant the facts she gathered, telling Barrette if she was needed in any capacity, Barrette should just call, adding, "I'm heading home." Then, to the woman, "My sergeant here will take a statement from you, ma'am. We're going to do whatever we can to help."

Frizzo took a breath, grabbed her things for a second time, and headed out the door.

As she explained the events that led her to the IRPD, fifty-three-year-old schoolteacher Terri O'Donnell said she had known Chris Regan, the so-called "missing man," since the early '80s, when they met in a bar while Chris was in the service. They lost touch, but reconnected through Facebook and started dating after Chris's divorce. By April 2014, Terri and Chris had decided to stop seeing each other romantically, but remained close friends. So much so, they still saw, or at least spoke to, each other two to three times per week.

"I am very family-oriented, he was not. He also had a few problems I couldn't get around. The relationship didn't work out. But we would still text, talk on the phone. Sometimes I would see him at the store," Terri told Barrette.

That store was Jubilee Foods in downtown Iron River. Terri O'Donnell's parents owned the store and Chris rented a small one-bedroom apartment nearby. They'd often run into each other in the store or parking lot. Say hello. Catch up.

As Terri spoke to Barrette, she was certain of the last time she saw Chris Regan. Almost two weeks before, on October 14, 2014. Since that day, Terri said, she'd texted Chris, driven by his apartment, banged on his door. She'd called and called and called. But came up short every time. This was so unlike Chris. Terri could think of no reason for him to avoid her.

"He was very good at returning calls and texts," Terri said.

Barrette encouraged Terri to take a breath. Slow down. The sergeant took her coat off, hung it on the back of her chair, sat down, and took out a standard UD-3E form.

"We're going to file a missing person's report."

"Okay," Terri agreed, nodding her head.

"What makes you think he's not answering his phone?"

"It goes directly to voice mail."

Terri was firm on the date: October 14.

"How so?" Barrette asked.

"Well, on that morning, I spoke to a friend of mine who works with Chris ... and he had said that was about the last time Chris had shown up at work."

Chris never missed work. He went in at five a.m. on most days and stayed until three, four, or five p.m. Nearly two weeks now and no one at the job had seen or heard from him.

"Also," Terri mentioned, "his storage unit in Caspian is still full of his belongings."

Something was off. The entire situation had a bad feeling about it, Barrette felt, without sharing her feelings with Terri.

"When was that — the day you spoke to your friend?"

"October twenty-third."

"Parents? Kids?"

"His folks are deceased. He has two sons."

Chris worked at Lake Shore, also known as Oldenburg Group Incorporated, a large employer in town. Oldenburg, a private company, manufactured defense and mining equipment.

As Terri explained Chris's situation, she told Barrette he was planning a move to Asheville, North Carolina, but wasn't scheduled to leave, as far as she knew, until November 1. Terri believed Chris was going to pick up one of his two sons along the way (having no idea they were going separately). Still, Chris had his dream job lined up. He was looking forward to the change. Starting a new life away from Iron River.

"He was excited to begin a new chapter and move to North Carolina," someone close to the case later commented. Chris Regan was an air force veteran. North Carolina was a state he had been stationed in previously. "He loved the outdoors, wine, particularly biking, and his kayak. He took his camera with him wherever he went to record his adventures."

Most unsettling, Terri explained, was that Chris's car was not parked where he usually left it in the apartment complex lot. "I just found out Chris had a drug test scheduled on October fifteenth in relation to his job, which he did not show up for," she added.

Barrette's concern grew.

"When I spoke to Chris's coworker, my friend, he told me he thought he'd seen Chris's car at the park-and-ride in Bates," Terri said.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Where Monsters Hide by M. William Phelps. Copyright © 2019 M. William Phelps. Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Edition details

• Publisher: Kensington
• Publication date: 2019
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1496720814
• ISBN 13: 9781496720818
• Binding: Paperback
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 384