Judgment Ridge: The True Story Behind the Dartmouth Murders (49 page)

B
y mid-January 2001, it was a short psychological trip for Robert to lead Jim back to the impressive houses along the road they had dis-

covered on the day of the Ben & Jerry’s festival. Had he not turned the two teens away, too busy to waste time with their bogus survey, Franklin Sanders almost certainly would have died on January 20.

The next week, after a few days of school and more bonding through rock climbing, they carried out their fateful decision: Let’s go to Hanover—people there have a lot of money, and since Dartmouth is there maybe they’ll be friendlier to student surveyors. There was the added benefit in Robert’s mind of furthering his revenge after the Chelsea debate tournament by showing the people of Hanover that they weren’t as smart as they thought.

They drove across the river and saw the movie
Snatch,
a furiously violent black comedy in which killing is casual and frequent, and one character flashes a long knife and says calmly: “I’ll cut him. I’ve got a blade.” After, they prowled around a house—running up the driveway, ducking behind trees, then running back to the car—like boys playing commando games. They were close to fulfilling their goal, but they still didn’t feel quite ready to strike. “Basically,” Jim said, “we chickened out and, you know, we needed to get ready to do this, and by this time we had firmly decided what we wanted to do.”

They went home, steeled themselves, and settled on a plan. They’d use the environmental survey ruse. Once they got inside a house, Robert would ask for a glass of water. That would be the cue for both of them to jump whoever was in the house and tie them up. They’d unsheathe their SOG SEAL 2000s. They’d threaten their captives to

get their ATM codes. Then they’d kill them to eliminate witnesses. Everyone in the house would feel the blade—“if there were any kids we’d have to do the same thing,” Jim explained. Simple as that.

Then came January 27, 2001. They drove out of Chelsea, past Judgment Ridge, down the interstate and across the river into Hanover. Cruising in Joan Parker’s green Subaru, their knives sharp and ready, Robert and Jim made their way along the winding streets to Trescott Road. First they went to the house where Audrey and Bob McCollum lived. Jim parked the car under the carport. Robert stepped into the cold and snow, swirls of cloudy vapor filling the air with his every breath. This time he felt ready. No turning back, no getting turned away. No more missed opportunities.

Robert knocked on the door. He kept knocking, but no one answered—the McCollums had gone skiing that morning at Suicide Six. Robert got back into the car. They talked it over and agreed: We’re not through yet. Let’s try next door, the modern house in the woods. Maybe someone’s home there.

20
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“Slit Her Throat!”

T
he walkway from the driveway to the front of the blue-gray home was shoveled clear. The shrubs looked like snow cones, and to the left

of the front patio a bird feeder dangled from an overhang. The holidays were over, but a decorative wreath still hung to the right of the door, above a stack of firewood. Next to the wood was a flower box, finished for the season. While Robert rang the doorbell, Jim adjusted the blue-and-black Jansport backpack slung over his shoulders. Within seconds the boys could see through the full-length window to the right of the door that someone was coming.

The door swung open and standing in the entry was Half Zantop. He was almost equal in height to the boys—the house was a half-step higher than the patio, enough for Half to look them squarely in the eyes. Standing before them, Robert and Jim saw a trim, warm-looking man with a high forehead and a beard that had gone white with time.

He smiled easily. Half was dressed for the weekend in broken-in blue jeans, a lambswool sweater, and Birkenstock sandals. He’d been up for hours already. Half usually awoke before sunlight and liked to boil water and bring a hot cup of tea to his wife. They’d sit together on the bed, chatting, to start their day. The couple tended to be creatures of routine on weekends, sharing coffee and a biscuit at eleven, a homemade soup for lunch at one, then a short nap. By the time Half answered the door, Susanne Zantop had already called and invited Roxana Verona to come over that night for dinner.

Right away Robert took over. I’m Robert Tulloch, and this is Jim Parker, he told Half. There was no reason not to use their true names; he was confident that if everything went according to plan it wouldn’t matter. Half listened intently as Robert launched into his act, telling Half that he and his pal Jim were hoping to take a few minutes to do an interview for a school environmental project. Robert was doing what he thought he did best—talk on the fly, like in debate, certain that his gift with words would persuade the world to see things his way. Robert told Half they were from the Mountain School, a couple of hardworking students trying to complete an assignment on this lovely Saturday morning. He’d made up the part of the Mountain School, but that was an easy bluff since he’d heard so much about it from Kip Battey and Coltere Savidge. Robert spiced up his pitch by mentioning that they wanted to gather opinions on such issues as nuclear power and oil exploration.

Jim, standing by silently, was wearing his carpenter jeans, an L.L. Bean sweater, and his Tecnica boots. Robert was dressed in khaki pants, his hand-me-down Vasque boots, and the black sweater he’d bought at the Army-Navy store in Burlington. It was the same sweater John O’Brien had noticed Robert wearing a lot around Chelsea, a sweater the debate coach thought gave Robert a worldly, European look.

Half was friendly enough—seeming on the one hand keenly interested in the boys and the project Robert was describing but also torn, as if he’d been in the middle of something when they’d knocked.

“Hold on a second. My wife is making lunch. I don’t think I can do this.”

The boys waited outside on the bluestone patio. The beauty of their decision to target Hanover wasn’t just the concentration of wealth, which improved the odds of a big payday, but also that a college town overflowed with students. The unexpected appearance of two teenagers, Robert had told Jim, wouldn’t seem odd. No cause for concern or alarm. Not like in Rochester, Vermont, the week before, where that guy in the big new house had slammed the door in their faces.

So far, the way this was going validated Robert’s thesis. This guy didn’t display an inkling of suspicion, only curiosity. Robert and Jim just had to relax and be themselves.

The door opened again and Half Zantop welcomed the boys into his home.

“You know, I like what the Mountain School does,” he said.

Jim followed Robert inside. The boys surely caught their reflection in the large pine mirror that hung in the foyer, both knowing full well they weren’t as they appeared. Jim, thinking ahead, realized at this point that they didn’t have the tape recorder. It was back in the car, a prop they’d thought would add legitimacy to the fake survey. In their gusto to get to the front door, they’d forgotten it. But if Jim was feeling anxious, Robert showed nothing but cool; he walked confidently behind Half Zantop, like someone coming into his own.

Their host led them from the tiled foyer into the living room with a polished wood floor covered by richly colored Oriental rugs. Robert and Jim could see the house was filled with natural light pouring in through the living room’s window-lined south wall. They could see the comfortable furniture, invitingly laid out to encourage guests to sit and stay, and a wooden coffee table covered with books, newspapers, and magazines. Robust potted trees and hanging plants added color and life, and a black, cast-iron wood stove off to the right marked the transition from the living room to a dining room that looked out into the attached greenhouse. The place gave off a cozy, lived-in feeling, a warmth due more to the homeowners than the thermostat set at sixty-eight degrees.

Robert was taking a sculpture class at school, but he and Jim

weren’t as worldly as they told themselves they were: They lacked the knowledge to appreciate the art that was all around them. Within a few feet of them were a kneeling nude sculpture in bronze by Rodin and a seventeenth-century oil painting by the Dutch master Abraham van Beyern. Together, the sculpture and the still life were worth several times more than the $10,000 the boys budgeted for their mythical exo-dus to Australia.

As Half led them toward a small study, Robert and Jim couldn’t help but notice cooking aromas wafting from the kitchen located to the right of the dining room, where Susanne was preparing lunch. A pot of broth and vegetables simmered on the left front burner of the Whirlpool stove. Susanne was dressed in a black-and-brown sweater and tan corduroy slacks as she chopped herbs, onions, and greens into neat piles on a cutting board. She’d reach for spices from a wall rack mounted near assorted bottles of vitamins and prescription medicine. Two blocks of cheese and three slices of bread occupied another cutting board. An open bottle of Merlot sat in front of the coffee grinder, and a half-full glass was within reach near her chopped greens. Dirty pots and lids filled one of the twin stainless-steel sinks, waiting to be loaded into the KitchenAid dishwasher. A boom box at the corner of the kitchen counter was set to National Public Radio. Robert and Jim couldn’t see Susanne, and she didn’t look over to see who was with her husband.

The head count was now at two. The boys, of course, hadn’t known how many people they’d find home, but had assumed they would find a couple. Once Robert gave the signal of asking their host for a drink— what Jim called “the water thing”—Jim’s job was to round up whoever else was in the house and bring them into the room where Robert would be busy overtaking their interviewee. Inside the backpack was most everything they thought they would need—a roll of duct tape and zip ties in the first pouch, two notebooks and, most important, the two SOG SEAL 2000 knives in the main pouch.

Half led the boys past a Yamaha piano with CDs, records, books, and a calendar piled on the wooden bench, and ushered them into the nine-by-sixteen-foot study. The room was made smaller by the floor-to-ceiling bookcases on two walls and an L-shaped desk along the other two. Once he’d decided he could spare the time, Half was giving his visitors his full attention. He moved around the neatly organized room, arranging chairs on the Oriental-style area rug. He turned around an ergonomic stool that normally faced the computer, then took a wooden folding chair and a chair made of metal with a cane seat and back, and turned all three inward, creating an intimate circle. Half settled into the ergonomic chair, which he used to ease his back pains, while Robert took a seat with his back to the desk and Jim sat in the chair next to the study door. They were so close their knees were practically touching, giving it the safe-and-snug feel of a seminar.

Robert could easily see from the scholarly surroundings that he was dealing with a bona fide intellectual, someone who’d succeeded in the world of ideas and higher learning. And not just that. Competing for space with the hundreds of shelved books were memorabilia and photographs illustrating a rich and adventurous life. Color photos of Veronika and Mariana were featured prominently, with several looking over Robert’s shoulder at their father.

“Okay, what do you guys want to know?” Half said.

Jim set the backpack on the floor next to his feet. He fumbled with the main pouch and pulled out one of the notebooks. He saw that the tape recorder wasn’t the only thing they’d forgotten. Jim couldn’t find anything to write with. He asked Half if could borrow a pen, and Half obliged, handing him one from the desk.

Jim scribbled in the notebook as Robert began, but it wasn’t as if they’d ever rehearsed the survey or drawn up any questions. Robert just did what he’d always done, whether it was in class at school, running for office, or at a debate; he talked off the cuff, believing he was clever enough to fool even someone as smart as Half. From keeping up with current events, Robert could vaguely talk the talk of such environmental concerns as global warming, the depletion of oil reserves, and the costs and benefits of nuclear power. The ecology class taught by Richard Steckler helped, too. The class had been studying the White River Partnership, a citizens group working to improve the river’s watershed. But missing from Robert’s rap was any real logic to

the line of questioning. No matter how articulate he seemed, Robert was jumping all over the map, and it didn’t take Half long to see that Robert was bumbling. Jim could see it, as well, thinking, “We weren’t prepared at all.”

Patiently, though, Half Zantop accommodated the boys. Wherever he could, he tried to help Robert out, either by guiding the inquiry or coming up with a follow-up or related question that had gone unasked. Half noted to Robert, for example, that different countries dealt with environmental issues differently. When he mentioned that he was originally from Germany, Robert picked up on Half’s point and asked Half to compare Germany and the United States’ approach to oil as an en-ergy source.

To Robert and Jim’s surprise, it came out that Half Zantop was an earth sciences professor at Dartmouth. Jim didn’t make much of the coincidence, but Robert got it right away. He understood that this was why he and Jim had gained a foothold in the house. They’d concocted a ruse to do a survey about the environment and were interviewing a professor in the field. How lucky was that? What a contrast to the guy working on his pool who turned out to be a retired utilities executive with no use for environmental surveys. Or, before that, the illfated summer night in Vershire when they tried using their broken-down-car story on a gun-toting flatlander. Professor Half Zantop, it turned out, was doing what came naturally to him, which made Robert and Jim the beneficiaries of a devilish brand of serendipity. Robert would laugh afterward about the coincidence, calling it a “funny thing.”