Caught in the Act

Officer Robert Murphy transported the suspect to the Chelmsford Police Department, where he was booked and afforded his rights by Sergeant J. Ronald Gamache. The arresting officer originally charged the suspect with nine separate offenses, including home invasion while armed and masked, kidnapping, armed assault in a dwelling with intent to commit a felony (three counts), threat to commit a crime, assault and battery with a dangerous weapon, larceny of property over $250, resisting arrest, attempted murder and possession of a dangerous weapon.

Detective George Tyros was still at the crime scene when the suspect revealed his identity to police during his booking. His name was Adam Leroy Lane, and he was a truck driver from North Carolina. He told them that his tractor-trailer was parked at the rest stop on I-495 North. When word filtered through to detectives at Pine Hill Road, Officer Bruce Darwin was dispatched to the location to secure the rig until the towing company arrived. He then escorted the truck to the Chelmsford Police Department, where the items inside were inventoried so that any valuables and evidence could be documented. The trailer itself was found to be completely empty, but an affidavit had to be filed for a search warrant in order to allow the police to go through Lane’s personal effects in the cab. Among the items found inside were another knife, a handheld scouting scope and a portable DVD player with a movie inside, chillingly called Hunting Humans. There were other DVDs found in the cab as well, all dealing in one regard or another with the theme of hunting people. Among these other, more mainstream titles were Alien vs. Predator and Rambo.

Shea and I were taken to Emerson Hospital in Concord, where we were attended to right away. The nurses and doctors took great care in treating us both. I needed eleven stitches to close two separate gashes on the palm of my right hand, and eight more were required on my left. None of my fingers had been cut, but I did have a superficial scrape across my abdomen that I discovered later but didn’t recall receiving. It was about three inches in length, very similar to the graze the intruder’s knife had made across Shea’s shoulder, which, luckily, did not require medical attention.

Shea sat next to me the whole time, rubbing my shoulder and trying to comfort me, both of us still quite frazzled by what had happened. When the doctor was through with me, he and the attending nurse strongly advised us, almost to the point of insisting, that we speak with a psychiatric professional. They felt it could only help us to talk to someone impartial and professional before we were released. I’ve always respected doctors, so I agreed. However, at that time of the morning, no one with those credentials was at the hospital, so they had to call someone in.

While we waited for the psychiatric nurse to arrive, Shea managed to get hold of her brother, Ryan, on his cell phone. He was understandably very shaken by the news when his sister told him what had happened, and he asked her if he should come to the hospital. I got on the phone and reassured him that we were all okay and there was nothing he could do. I told him not to bother coming to the hospital because we didn’t anticipate being there much longer, and that we would touch base with him a bit later.

What struck the twelve-year veteran right away was the smell: the odor that Adam Leroy Lane emitted was so offensive and powerful that the detective had to leave the door to the room open while he conducted his interview. It was the first time he had ever had to do that, and he had been enclosed in such small rooms many times with suspects who’d given off a wide variety of foul aromas. This one, however, was exceptional. It wasn’t the funk of someone who had spent a hot, sticky summer night walking through the woods covered from head to toe in black clothes. Perspiration, especially nervous perspiration, was something that the detective had been exposed to often enough. Nor was this the body odor of the unbathed. The detective had also been around enough homeless to have been able to recognize that. The only smell that came anywhere close to this stench was that of decomposing tissue.

The other thing that struck the detective was Lane’s heavy southern accent. It was so thick, the officer often had trouble understanding what the suspect was saying and, frustratingly, repeatedly had to ask him to clarify what he had said. It was apparently a two-way problem, though—Lane paused at one point to comment on the detective’s own regional accent, saying, “You guys sure talk funny’round here.”

Although the suspect was passive and restrained at the moment, Lane complained several times about the irritation and swelling of his split lower lip, which he had sustained during his scuffle with the officers. Detective Tyros listened in amazement as the man fussed over the minor injury, touching it to see if it was bleeding and whining about needing stitches. It was apparent that the suspect’s concern at that point was entirely for himself and his own well-being. It was almost as if Lane wanted sympathy, trying to pass himself off as a victim. He lamented over his medical woes and the diabetes medication in his truck that he needed. His gripes and grievances, however, fell largely on deaf ears. The Chelmsford Fire Department and paramedics had responded to the lockup area earlier and evaluated Lane’s physical condition, determining that he did not require any medical treatment. The prescription drugs in his truck were later removed at his request and placed with his other personal property at the police station.

When Lane complained that he was hungry and needed to eat, however, this was something that the police could not simply ignore. The last thing they wanted was to have the suspect go into some sort of convulsion and lapse into a diabetic coma right there in the police station. Detective Tyros also hoped that agreeing to feed him at that time might elicit a full confession, or at least keep him talking, enough to incriminate himself. Tyros thought that a confession might come easier on a full stomach, so he sent an officer to Burger King to get Lane a couple of burgers and some fries.

Shea and I sat down with the female psychologist for about a half hour, discussing the attack and what we were feeling. It was a great way to instantly address the issue and unburden a lot of our fears, but I honestly didn’t see the point at that time. We hadn’t had a chance to digest any of it yet or discuss it among ourselves, yet there we were, talking about it with a stranger. I’m sure the hospital staff only had our best interests in mind, but all I wanted to do was see my husband and son and get our family all together in the same place.

Kevin came to pick us up when he was done with his interview with Detective Tyros. It was after 8:00 a.m. by this time, and Kevin told us that the police had requested that we all go down to the station as soon as we could to give formal statements, so we proceeded directly to the Chelmsford Police Department. Detective Tyros wanted to speak with us, but he was still talking with the suspect when we arrived, so we were instructed to write down everything that we could recall about the attack. We were separated so we could not discuss any of the details with each other, but because my hands were heavily bandaged I needed help writing. When Shea was through, I verbally dictated my statement to her and she wrote it all down on paper for me, word-for-word.

Detective George Tyros watched as the suspect ate in front of him. It was all he could do to hold back his disgust as Adam Leroy Lane stacked his French fries into a small tower then picked them off the top, one at a time, eating them in silent absorption, the way a child is apt to do. That was his focus, his only concern, and he certainly didn’t seem interested in talking even though the detective continued to ask him questions. All the police knew about this individual was that he drove a commercial truck for a living, but not much else beyond that. The detective wanted to get Lane to tell him what he’d been doing with the weapons, the masks, and the rest of his hunting attire, but after Detective Tyros read the suspect his rights and asked if he wanted to talk about what he had done that night, Lane said, “What’s it matter anyway?”

Detective-Sergeant Todd Ahern came in to collect Lane and take him back downstairs to the holding cell, but he didn’t seem to want to go. Lane suddenly lost it. The quiet and tranquil suspect Detective Tyros had been talking to suddenly became very loud and belligerent. Maybe the predicament he was in was finally sinking in and he realized that there was no way out. Or maybe he was yelling and screaming like a child because someone took his fries away before he was through with them. Either way, by the time they got downstairs, Lane apologized and went back to being calm and composed once more.

Detective Tyros came in to see us at that time, along with Detective Jeff Blodgett. They had me temporarily remove my bandages so that they could photograph my injuries. After spending a couple of hours at the police station talking with the police, it was now about eleven in the morning, and I realized that none of us had eaten yet. We were all very hungry, but we weren’t ready to go home so we stopped to get something to eat. Shea called her brother, Ryan, and her boyfriend, Adam, and they both met us at the restaurant.

The first thing I did was order a glass of wine to try to help calm my nerves. I was a little on edge, and I felt myself starting to freak out a little on the inside—maybe on the outside, too. The last thing I wanted to do was run into anyone I knew. It was risky going into a popular restaurant so close to home, but it was quiet, before noon on a Monday. Of course, I couldn’t count on anything this day, and one of the waiters who was acquainted with Shea and Ryan came over to say hello. When he asked about the bandages on my hands, the kids pulled him aside and told him what had happened.

When we finally made it back home, though, we found waiting for us our dear friends Bob and Heather Green, who lived a couple of miles away. While Shea and I had been en route to the hospital, Kevin had called a buddy of his who worked at the Lowell Courthouse. He told Mike that a really bad character would be arriving up there shortly and to make sure he was greeted appropriately. He briefly explained to him what had happened to our family and promised to touch base with him later to let him know how Shea and I were doing. Mike then promptly started the telephone chain, beginning with Bob and Heather. They had been circling our house, anticipating our return. They were both such a big help that day. Heather helped me straighten the mess left behind after the vicious home invasion and the bloody injuries sustained in the fight. The guest bedroom, of course, was a disaster, but the adjacent bathroom was not much better. I was shocked by how much blood there was. It was everywhere. Remarkably, Kevin didn’t have so much as a scratch. The intruder suffered only a split lip, which hardly trickled any blood, so most of it was mine. I had used a couple of towels to wrap around the cuts on my hands, which at the time didn’t seem that bad. However, upon closer inspection afterward, the place looked like a murder scene. There was also a terrible smell lingering in the bedroom. I knew it couldn’t have been the blood because the bathroom didn’t have that odor. If it had been the intruder, I wasn’t consciously aware of it during the encounter. But I also wasn’t as close to him as Kevin, and I asked him about it when we were both in the room together.

It took most of the afternoon, but once the house was back to normal, our friends left us alone so we could try to get some rest. We all curled up on the couch in the family room and closed our eyes. Even Bosco had come in to join us. I had never felt so exhausted, physically and emotionally, in all my life. But I couldn’t sleep. None of us could, except Bosco.

The very first night at home after the attack I was paralyzed with fear. I couldn’t even close my eyes. I kept watching the hall to make sure that no one was coming around the corner. It was irrational and I knew it, but it was awful. The trauma of the first few days was unbearable. Shea wouldn’t sleep upstairs, choosing the couch in the family room instead. Adam, her boyfriend, never left her side. He was with her every minute and slept on the couch next to her. He was incredibly supportive and helpful.

Although sleep may have eluded us in the days immediately following the attack, the media did not. It was a frenzy that we desperately tried to avoid, but there was no escape. Television stations were coming from all around, many from outside of Massachusetts. News correspondents would announce they were with such and such a station, and mention the name of a town I’d never heard of before. They all wanted a statement. A quote. A photograph of Shea. Anything. I wasn’t ready to speak with anyone outside my family, but even if I wanted to, the police had advised us against it so as not to compromise the investigation. We were told that the less said, the better. Shea’s boyfriend, Adam, made this situation a whole lot easier for us. Not only was he there for my daughter, who needed him, but whenever these people showed up on our doorstep, it was Adam who would greet them and very politely ask that our privacy be respected. He was truly a godsend. I don’t know what we would have done without him.

As we were trying to keep a low profile, our friends, family and the community were circling their wagons around us in support, and their presence was more than welcome. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined the kind of outpouring of concern everyone showed us. The calls, cards, flowers and other gifts were just overwhelming.

I’ve always heard that the goodness in people shines through during the darkest hours, but I never knew this to be true personally until that moment. During what was unequivocally the most traumatic and horrifying time in our lives, the sun kept shining on our family in the form of love and compassion from those closest to us. We were strengthened and renewed with this outpouring, and our gratitude toward them was felt twofold. Although it is easy to get caught up thinking about the “random acts of violence” that a few individuals perpetrate against others, I believe it is more important to focus on the “random acts of kindness” by so many people in the aftermath of such tragedies.

One of the kindest gestures I recall was when a man who lived up the street stopped by the house and gave us a large bag containing various packages of meat. I didn’t know it at the time, but he owned a butcher shop in a neighboring town, and he wanted to do something to show his compassion for what we had been through, as well as his appreciation for our having aided in the capture of a dangerous predator. I had waved to this man on the street a couple of times, but I had never spoken to him before that day. His unexpected thoughtfulness touched my heart. This man’s gift was something that he thought would comfort us in some small way, and like the offerings made by so many others at this time, it is something that I will never forget. Numerous friends reached out to us with such thoughtful and supportive gestures, but I could have just cried when our friend Joe Russo unloaded a basket containing a fabulous Italian meal, which our family thoroughly enjoyed for several days. Every single card and letter that we received I have saved in a special box to cherish always.