Chapter 1

The Last Husband

The shrill ring of the emergency dispatch phone pierced the humid North Carolina night at the Stanly County Sheriff's Department. Dispatcher Carol Henderson reached for the receiver with the practiced efficiency of someone who had fielded hundreds of crisis calls over her twelve-year career. Nothing in her experience, however, could have prepared her for the voice that would forever change her understanding of evil.

"911, what's your emergency?"

The woman's voice on the other end was remarkably steady, almost conversational. "This is Betty Neumar at 1247 Bethel Church Road in Norwood. Someone has broken into my home and shot my husband. He's dead."

Henderson's training kicked in immediately. "Ma'am, are you safe? Is the intruder still in the house?"

"No, they're gone. I heard them leave through the back door. Harold is in the bedroom. There's so much blood." Betty's voice carried an odd detachment, as if she were reporting a minor household accident rather than a brutal murder.

"I'm dispatching units to your location immediately. Stay on the line with me. Are you injured?"

"I'm fine. They didn't hurt me. I was in the bathroom when it happened." Betty's breathing was controlled, her speech patterns unnaturally calm for someone who had just discovered her husband's body.

Deputy Sheriff Mike Burris was the first to respond, his patrol car cutting through the darkness along the winding country roads of Stanly County. The Neumar property sat isolated among towering pine trees, a modest ranch-style home that Harold Guthrie had purchased for his new bride just two years earlier. As Burris pulled into the gravel driveway, his headlights illuminated the scene that would haunt him for decades.

Betty Neumar stood on the front porch, silhouetted against the yellow porch light. She wore a pale blue nightgown that seemed almost luminescent in the darkness, her silver hair perfectly arranged despite the late hour. Most striking to Burris was her complete composure. In his eight years of law enforcement, he had never encountered a grieving widow who appeared so utterly collected.

"Mrs. Neumar?" Burris called out as he approached the porch, his hand instinctively resting on his service weapon.

"Yes, Deputy. Thank you for coming so quickly. Harold is in the back bedroom." Her voice carried the refined cadence of a woman accustomed to addressing church congregations, each word carefully enunciated.

Burris followed Betty through the modest living room, noting the undisturbed furniture and the absence of any signs of struggle. The house felt eerily peaceful, as if nothing catastrophic had occurred within its walls. Religious artifacts adorned every surface - framed Bible verses, ceramic angels, and inspirational plaques that seemed to mock the violence that had just taken place.

The bedroom door stood open, revealing a scene that would be seared into Burris's memory forever. Harold Guthrie lay sprawled across the bed, his 58-year-old frame twisted at an unnatural angle. The white sheets were soaked crimson, and the metallic smell of blood hung heavy in the air. Two gunshot wounds were visible - one to the chest, another to the head. The positioning suggested Harold had been shot while lying down, possibly while asleep.

"Dear God," Burris whispered, reaching for his radio to call for backup and the coroner.

Betty remained in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest in a protective gesture. "I told him we should get better locks," she said matter-of-factly. "This neighborhood isn't as safe as it used to be."

Within minutes, the quiet rural property was transformed into a crime scene. Sheriff's deputies secured the perimeter while Detective Ray Fowler, the department's senior investigator, began his preliminary examination. The 1986 forensic capabilities of the Stanly County Sheriff's Department were limited compared to modern standards, but Fowler's thirty years of experience had taught him to read crime scenes like others read books.

"Time of death appears to be between midnight and 2 AM," Fowler noted, speaking into his pocket recorder. "Two gunshot wounds, close range. No defensive wounds on the victim. No signs of struggle in the bedroom or elsewhere in the house."

Detective Fowler's initial walkthrough revealed several puzzling elements. The back door, which Betty claimed the intruder had used to escape, showed no signs of forced entry. The lock was intact, and there were no tool marks on the door frame. More mysteriously, nothing appeared to have been stolen. Harold's wallet sat undisturbed on the nightstand, containing $147 in cash. Betty's purse remained on the kitchen counter, her jewelry box untouched.

"Mrs. Neumar," Fowler addressed Betty, who sat composed in the living room chair, "can you walk me through exactly what happened tonight?"

Betty's recounting was precise and detailed, delivered with the same calm demeanor she had maintained since the first responders arrived. "I went to bed around eleven o'clock. Harold was already asleep - he had been working double shifts at the textile mill and was exhausted. Around 1:30, I got up to use the bathroom. That's when I heard the shots. Two loud bangs."

"Where exactly were you when you heard the shots?"

"In the bathroom. I had closed the door, so I didn't see anything. After the shots, I heard footsteps running through the house and the back door slamming shut."

Fowler made careful notes, struck by the clinical precision of Betty's account. "How long did you wait before checking on Harold?"

"I was frightened, so I stayed in the bathroom for several minutes. When I finally came out, I found Harold in the bedroom. I could tell immediately that he was dead, so I called 911."

The detective's years of experience had taught him to read human behavior, and something about Betty's responses troubled him. Her emotional detachment was extreme even for someone in shock. Most people who discovered a loved one's body were inconsolable, but Betty seemed more concerned with providing accurate details than expressing grief.

"Did you and Harold have any enemies? Anyone who might want to hurt him?"

"Harold was the kindest man you could imagine. Everyone at New Life Baptist Church loved him. He worked hard, paid his bills, and never had a harsh word for anyone." Betty's voice carried a note of pride, as if she were delivering a eulogy rather than helping with a murder investigation.

As the night wore on, more personnel arrived at the scene. The coroner's assistant began the preliminary examination of Harold's body while crime scene technicians photographed every angle of the bedroom. The limited forensic technology of 1986 meant that evidence collection was largely manual - fingerprint powder, basic photography, and careful documentation of physical evidence.

Dr. James Mitchell, the county coroner, arrived at 3:15 AM. His initial examination confirmed Detective Fowler's assessment. "Two gunshot wounds," he noted. "One to the chest, one to the head. Both appear to be from close range, possibly contact wounds. I'll know more after the autopsy."

The positioning of Harold's body told a story that troubled the investigators. He lay on his back, arms at his sides, suggesting he had been shot while sleeping. There were no defensive wounds on his hands or arms, no signs that he had struggled with his attacker. The killer had apparently approached the bed and fired twice at point-blank range.

"This doesn't look like a robbery gone wrong," Fowler confided to Deputy Burris. "Professional burglars don't usually kill sleeping victims. And why leave the wallet and jewelry?"

The back door remained a central mystery. Betty insisted the intruder had fled through it, but the lack of forced entry suggested the person had either possessed a key or had been let in voluntarily. The door opened onto a small porch and a backyard that extended into dense woods, providing multiple escape routes for someone familiar with the property.

As dawn approached, the investigation team began expanding their search. The yard was combed for footprints, though the recent rain had left the ground soft and any tracks unclear. The woods behind the house were searched with flashlights, but the thick undergrowth and vast acreage made a thorough search impossible with the available manpower.

Betty's behavior throughout the night continued to puzzle the investigators. She answered every question with precision, offered coffee to the officers, and even swept broken glass from a picture frame that had been disturbed during the evidence collection. Her composure was so complete that it seemed almost rehearsed.

"I've seen people react to trauma in different ways," Detective Fowler later told his supervisor, "but I've never seen anyone this calm after finding their spouse murdered. It's like she's hosting a church social instead of dealing with a crime scene."

The religious community's response began almost immediately. Word of Harold's death spread through the congregation of New Life Baptist Church like wildfire. By dawn, church members had begun arriving at the Neumar property, bringing casseroles, flowers, and expressions of support for the grieving widow. Pastor David Reynolds arrived at 6 AM, his presence providing Betty with her first visible display of emotion.

"Pastor Reynolds, thank you for coming," Betty said, embracing him with tears finally appearing in her eyes. "I don't know how I'm going to manage without Harold. He was such a good man."

The pastor's arrival seemed to trigger a transformation in Betty's demeanor. The clinical detachment she had maintained throughout...