Beyond Obsession Read Online Free PDF

what about Karin Aparo? Except for a little more than a year when she was twelve, she had lived in Glastonbury since the age of five. She was small, only a little over five feet. At the time, beset by the hormonal changes that afflict so many teenagers as they turn from children into adolescents and then into adults, their bodies developing in spurts at no predictable rate, she was a little plump and a little buxom and very concerned about her weight, unaware and unconvinced that before long the baby fat would vanish. She had short dark hair, deep brown eyes, often concealed, or magnified, behind large glasses, and though there was a sharpness about her features, she was, most people agreed, an attractive teenager. And she was bright, brighter than most, people who knew her said; her mind was, at least intellectually, on a par with Dennis’s, her IQ 131. If she was a little standoffish, that was perhaps understandable, too, for she was talented, her mother having predicted for years that one day she would make her mark as a concert violinist, and driving her toward that goal. After hearing her play, especially after hearing tapes Joyce said that Karin made, many people agreed. Besides, Karin was hardly more than a child, just entering her junior year at Glastonbury High School. But there was something about her, a sexual aura, that affected men of all ages who came into her orbit. One of the cops who interviewed her that first day and later says, “You spent a couple of hours with that girl and you wanted to jump her bones.” Still, she was little more than a child, and she may have been unaware of the effect she had on men.
    Perhaps, then, it was all as innocent as they said. It would be incomprehensible to suspect these two not just of murder but of premeditated murder.
    At one-thirty in the morning, Joyce Aparo then dead for some twenty-four hours, the questioning of nineteen-year-old Dennis Coleman and sixteen-year-old Karin Aparo, the daughter of the murdered woman, ended. A cop drove them back to the Coleman house. They went to bed together in Dennis’s room. Karin later said it was the first time they had slept together in that bed in that house through the night. Over the past year they had made love eighty times. That night they only shared the same bed.

2
    Murder didn’t happen in Glastonbury. Somewhere else, maybe, in some inner city, some congested urban pressure cooker. But not in Glastonbury. There were crimes, certainly, just as there were everywhere. Indeed, at this very moment in the summer of 1987 the cat burglar Beverly Warga was concerned about was on the loose, preying on unguarded homes in the night. And there was “Benji the Pillow Case Bandit” on his own burglary spree. Both, especially the cat burglar, were the major concerns of the town’s police force; extra cars were on patrol every night, cruising the quiet dark streets, stopping and questioning any pedestrian out too late, checking any strange car parked in a residential area. There was, too, as in every city and town across the nation, a drug problem, especially among the young, and there had been a couple of drug busts in recent months, but in Glastonbury most adults were sure drugs were less prevalent than in many another suburb. They were wrong, and the police and the school authorities were aware of it and were dealing directly with the issue with a variety of programs.
    But crimes of violence? Murder? Not in Glastonbury, or if in Glastonbury, the crime must have been committed by some outsider who had invaded this safe suburban enclave. Never by a native and certainly not by the protected children of the town.
    For Glastonbury was the quintessential, the idealized New England suburb, the dream town of both residents and real estate brokers showing their white clients, those willing and able to pay from $150,000 to $1 million and more for a house, a place to live and bring up their children untouched by the