Killed by the house husband from hell
Tuesday 7th April 2009
My sister, Tara, was the busiest person I knew. She wasn't just a mum to Lindsey, then 6, and Ian, 4, she also had a full-time job as a manager for a construction company. She'd leave her home in Detroit every Monday morning, work thousands of miles away in Puerto Rico, then come back on Friday nights to see her husband, Stephen Grant, 37, and the kids. My husband, Erik, 33, our kids, Alex, 2, and Payton, 6 months, and I lived 200 miles away in Ohio, so my weekly catch-ups with Tara on the phone were like gold dust. Now, on the evening of 9 February 2007, as Tara, 34, picked up the phone on the first ring, I was over the moon.
'Hi sweetie,' she said. 'I'm about to board my plane. I'll call you back.' A couple of hours later, she did. 'Sorry about that, Sis,' she said. 'We can talk now. How are you?' 'I'm OK,' I said. 'I've been running around after the kids as usual.' I'd been talking for a while when I realised Tara had hardly managed to get a word in. 'Anyway, what about you?' I asked, stopping to draw breath. 'I'm good,' she said. 'I've been offered a new job. Only thing is,
it's 650 miles away in Alabama.' 'Oh,' I replied. 'What would Stephen do?' 'Stephen?' she replied, her voice strangely flat. 'To be honest, I don't care. I love you, speak soon.' As I hung up, my head was spinning. In 10 years together, Tara had never been so dismissive about Stephen. Was she finally planning her escape? I hoped so.
I'd never understood what she saw in him. Controlling and moody, he seemed to suck the life out of her. After dropping out of college, he'd got a job at his dad's tool shop, and while Tara worked hard to pay the mortgage and put food on the table, he repaid her by nagging her and calling her a bad mum. 'I'm Mr Mum,' he'd boast to friends. 'I do everything around our house.' 'Mr Bum more like,' I'd mutter He hardly lifted a finger, let alone a mop and bucket. The kids had au pairs and Tara always spent the weekends cleaning the house because Stephen let it get so filthy. He was hardly Gordon Ramsay in the kitchen either, unless you counted the foul language. The kids seemed terrified of him, and so did Tara. You can tell me if something's wrong,' I reminded her whenever we spoke. 'I am your sister.' 'Stephen and I argue a lot,' she told me once, before clamming up. Now, though, it seemed she'd finally had enough. Four days later, on 13 February, I came home to see two messages on my answering machine.
But it wasn't Tara's voice I heard, it was Stephen's. 'Hey Alicia,' he said. 'Call me when you have a minute.' His voice didn't sound like it was urgent, so after making myself a cuppa, I phoned him back. As he started talking, I got the shock of my life. 'Tara's been missing for four days,' he told me. 'We argued and she stormed off.' 'That's not like Tara,' I gasped. Where do you think she's gone?' 'Dunno,' he replied. It wasn't the easiest conversation in the world, so I told him to keep me posted and put the phone down.
As the hours ticked by, I called Tara's mobile over and over, but it just rang out. I paged, emailed… Nothing. So I called her boss. 'Tara didn't show up for a meeting,' he said. 'It's not like her.' Tara had two passions, her work and her kids. She gave the kids cards every Monday when she left, telling them how much she loved them. She phoned and texted them every day. But now, four whole days had passed and she hadn't so much as sent a single text. 'Call the police,' I told Stephen. 'No, I think Tara's having an affair,' he snapped. 'She's probably shacked up in some hotel.' 'She could be laying dead for all you know,' I spat. The following day, he finally called the police and that night, I turned on the telly to see his tearful face staring back at me. 'Please come home,' he pleaded. 'It's not the first time she's disappeared. I heard her talking on the phone. She told someone she'd meet them at the end of the drive.'
'What's he on about?' I spluttered. 'Tara's never disappeared before.' In the days that followed, I couldn't turn on the telly without seeing him sobbing. 'I'm just a Mr Mum,' he ept saying. 'I pray she's with some guy rather than any of the other options. I miss her with everything I have.' OK, so I'd never liked the bloke, but surely he wouldn't have done anything to hurt Tara? I clung to the hope she'd had enough of him and run off. But when Tara had been missing for three weeks, I was about to go to bed one night, when the phone rang. It was a police officer.
'We searched Tara and Stephen's house tonight. Do you think Stephen would hurt you?' he said. 'I don't think so,' I replied. 'Why?' 'We've found evidence pointing towards him,' he said. 'I need you in Detroit where we can keep you safe.' Erik and I got the kids out of bed and we drove through the night until, six hours later, we arrived at Detroit Police department. As soon as an officer led us into his office, my heart sank. 'Tara's dead,' he said. 'We found her torso in the garage.' I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach. 'This can't be real,' I gasped. 'I'm afraid it is,' the officer replied gently. 'He killed her, then dismembered her body.' I was too stunned to cry. Stephen was on the run, and slowly, it dawned on me. The police thought Stephen was on his way to kill us. 'What about the kids?' I managed to ask, dazed.
Thankfully, they were being looked after by Stephen's sister. The next day, Stephen was found in a park 280 miles away, suffering from frostbite and hypothermia. He gave a full confession from his hospital bed, admitting strangling Tara during a row. A shiver shot up my spine as I realised he'd done it just hours after I'd spoken to her. And as we found out all the horrific details, I felt the bile rise in my throat. After he strangled her, he'd taken her body to his tool shop and cut it into pieces, then scattered them on wasteland. Investigators had found a bag in the woods containing latex gloves and blood, which linked Stephen's shop to the murder. At one point, when the police had searched the wasteland while Tara was missing, he'd gone back to get her torso, wrapped it in bin bags, and hidden it in his dad's shop.
He'd obviously thought he was too clever for the police, because, during his confession, he'd gloated: 'I thought I'd got away with it.' 'Why didn't he just leave her?' I gulped. 'Why kill her?' Turns out he had a reason for wanting her out of the way. He'd been sleeping with the kids' au pair, Verena Dierkes, 19. We took the kids in straight away. 'Where's Mummy gone?' Lindsey asked. 'She's up in the sky,' I said gently. Nine months later, in December 2007, the trial started at Macomb County Court. Erik sat next to me holding my hand, as Stephen pleaded not guilty. 'But he's already confessed,' I whispered, confused. Thankfully, the judge saw through him. He was found guilty and sentenced to 50 to 80 years. But after the trial, Lindsey had something to tell me. 'I saw Daddy kill Mummy,' she said, eyes wide with fear. My stomach lurched. Poor little mite. She'd been through so much. I didn't press her any further. I figure it's better to let it come out in its own time.
Not a day goes by when I don't think of Tara, but I try not to think about the way her life ended, and to picture her bright smile. I owe it to her to keep her memory alive. And I owe it to her kids to wipe out their terrible memories of what Daddy did to Mummy.