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  HIGHEST PRAISE FOR M. WILLIAM PHELPS

  NEVER SEE THEM AGAIN

  “This riveting book examines one of the most horrific murders in recent American history.”

  —New York Post

  “Phelps clearly shows how the ugliest crimes can take place in the quietest of suburbs.”

  —Library Journal

  “Thoroughly reported . . . The book is primarily a police procedural, but it is also a tribute to the four murder victims.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  TOO YOUNG TO KILL

  “Phelps is the Harlan Coben of real-life thrillers.”

  —Allison Brennan

  LOVE HER TO DEATH

  “Reading anything by Phelps is always an eye opening experience. His writing reads like a fiction mystery novel. The characters are well researched and well written. We have murder, adultery, obsession, lies and so much more.”

  —Suspense Magazine

  “You don’t want to miss Love Her To Death by M. William Phelps, a book destined to be one of 2011’s top true crimes!”

  —True Crime Book Reviews

  “A chilling crime . . . award-winning author Phelps goes into lustrous and painstaking detail, bringing all the players vividly to life.”

  —Crime Magazine

  KILL FOR ME

  “Pelps gets into the blood and guts of the story.”

  —Gregg Olsen, New York Times best-selling author of Fear Collector

  “Phelps infuses his investigative journalism with plenty of energized descriptions.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  DEATH TRAP

  “A chilling tale of a sociopathic wife and mother willing to sacrifice all those around her to satisfy her boundless narcissism . . . a compelling journey from the inside of this woman’s mind to final justice in a court of law. Fair warning: for three days I did little else but read this book.”

  —Harry N. MacLean, New York Times best-selling author of In Broad Daylight

  I’LL BE WATCHING YOU

  “Skillfully balances a victim’s story against that of an arrogant killer as it reveals a deviant mind intent on topping the world’s most dangerous criminals. Phelps has an unrelenting sense for detail that affirms his place, book by book, as one of our most engaging crime journalists.”

  —Katherine Ramsland

  IF LOOKS COULD KILL

  “M. William Phelps, one of America’s finest true-crime writers, has written a compelling and gripping book about an intriguing murder mystery. Readers of this genre will thoroughly enjoy this book.”

  —Vincent Bugliosi

  “Starts quickly and doesn’t slow down.... Phelps consistently ratchets up the dramatic tension, hooking readers before they even know they’ve been hooked. His thorough research and interviews give the book a sense of growing complexity, richness of character, and urgency.”

  —Stephen Singular

  MURDER IN THE HEARTLAND

  “Drawing on interviews with law officers and relatives, the author has done significant research and—demonstrating how modern forensics and the Internet played critical, even unexpected roles in the investigation—his facile writing pulls the reader along.”

  —St. Louis Post-Dispatch

  “Phelps expertly reminds us that when the darkest form of evil invades the quiet and safe outposts of rural America, the tragedy is greatly magnified. Get ready for some sleepless nights.”

  —Carlton Stowers

  “This is the most disturbing and moving look at murder in rural America since Capote’s In Cold Blood.”

  —Gregg Olsen

  SLEEP IN HEAVENLY PEACE

  “An exceptional book by an exceptional true crime writer. Phelps exposes long-hidden secrets and reveals disquieting truths.”

  —Kathryn Casey

  EVERY MOVE YOU MAKE

  “An insightful and fast-paced examination of the inner workings of a good cop and his bad informant, culminating in an unforgettable truth-is-stranger-than-fiction climax.”

  —Michael M. Baden, M.D.

  “M. William Phelps is the rising star of the nonfiction crime genre, and his true tales of murderers and mayhem are scary-as-hell thrill rides into the dark heart of the inhuman condition.”

  —Douglas Clegg

  LETHAL GUARDIAN

  “An intense roller-coaster of a crime story . . . complex, with a plethora of twists and turns worthy of any great detective mystery, and yet so well-laid out, so crisply written with such detail to character and place that it reads more like a novel than your standard non-fiction crime book.”

  —Steve Jackson

  PERFECT POISON

  “True crime at its best—compelling, gripping, an edge-of-the-seat thriller. Phelps packs wallops of delight with his skillful ability to narrate a suspenseful story and his encyclopedic knowledge of police procedures.”

  —Harvey Rachlin

  “A compelling account of terror . . . the author dedicates himself to unmasking the psychopath with facts, insight and the other proven methods of journalistic leg work.”

  —Lowell Cauffiel

  Also By M. William Phelps

  Perfect Poison

  Lethal Guardian

  Every Move You Make

  Sleep in Heavenly Peace

  Murder in the Heartland

  Because You Loved Me

  If Looks Could Kill

  I’ll Be Watching You

  Deadly Secrets

  Cruel Death

  Death Trap

  Kill For Me

  Failures of the Presidents (coauthor)

  Nathan Hale: The Life and Death of America’s First Spy

  The Devil’s Rooming House: The True Story of America’s

  Deadliest Female Serial Killer

  The Devil’s Right Hand: The Tragic Story

  of the Colt Family Curse

  Love Her to Death

  Too Young to Kill

  Never See Them Again

  The Dead Soul: A Thriller (available as e-book only)

  Murder, New England

  Jane Doe No More

  Kiss of the She-Devil

  BAD GIRLS

  M. WILLIAM PHELPS

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  HIGHEST PRAISE FOR M. WILLIAM PHELPS

  Also by

  Title Page

  Dedication

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE - LOVE IS BLIND

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  PART TWO - THE SECRET AGONY OF THEIR SOULS

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  PART THREE - SO MANY STORIES

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

&nb
sp; PART FOUR - MIND READERS

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  EPILOGUE

  AFTERWORD

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Teaser chapter

  Copyright Page

  This book is dedicated to any child who has been abused and not allowed the grace of growing up in a loving, caring, healthy environment.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  On the surface, this might seem like any other sensational true-crime tale. Girl meets girl. Girl falls head over heels. Drugs and sex and staying up partying for days at a time ensue. With that narrative playing as a background theme, fantasy and role-playing “fun,” along with a bit of amateur porn filmmaking tossed in, become the norm. When the rush of the drugs and living on the edge subsides, darkness settles; their lives go from petty shoplifting (zero) to—finally—murder (one hundred). Add to that a Thelma & Louise jaunt through the southwestern countryside, packing booze and drugs and guns and gusto. Along the way, there is some frolicking, and even a mock wedding. A confrontation with police happens. A few courtroom dramas. Betrayal. Then a she said/she said moment of derision—or, rather, division—occurs. And, for the hell of it, toss in a bit of what some described as black magic and witchcraft.

  Okay, so maybe it’s not your typical true-crime story.

  Beyond that scandalous, drama-inviting headline, however, this book is the story of two young women caught in a whirlwind of dysfunction and chronic drug use, drifting closer together, until one day they collide in an avalanche of lust, craziness, and murder. What starts out as an unexpected affair—one of the girls was dating males at the time; the other had a child with a man—turns into a case of who killed whom, why, and how an overly aggressive sexual appetite is sometimes confused with love. More important, it is a cautionary tale of teens growing up in a world brimming with very little adult supervision and chaos. Their lives were on a crash course, with no one there to direct or steer them away from imminent disaster. It doesn’t excuse the behavior or the terrible crimes committed along the way, but it does explain that all-important, ubiquitous question I get asked more than any other: “Why does someone commit murder?” Here, in this case, you’re going to hear from one of the girls involved—and her story will eventually produce answers you likely did not expect.

  I would ask that, as you read this book and become familiar with the wild and crazy lives these girls led, try to keep from judging Bobbi, especially, on what she has done and where her addictions have brought her. It’s going to be easy not to like Bobbi Jo Smith. Be mindful of that. Because we cannot convict someone of murder based on feelings. A guilty verdict has to be about the evidence against the accused.

  So there you have it: Two girls on separate paths meet and realize life is full of surprises. The decisions these girls make after hooking up change their lives forever. The decisions they make on their own, however, will change the way in which the truth is exposed and how “justice” prevails.

  For God made not death: neither hath he pleasure in the destruction of the living.

  For he created all things, that they might have their being: and the generations of the world were healthful; and there is no poison of destruction in them, nor the kingdom of death upon the earth:

  (For righteousness is immortal:)

  For God created man to be immortal, and made him to be an image of his own eternity.

  Nevertheless through envy of the devil came death into the world: and they that do hold of his side do find it.

  Wisdom of Solomon: 1:13-15; 2:23-24

  PROLOGUE

  THERE ARE MILES upon miles of unpaved, gravel-packed roads all over Texas. There’s also a litany of tarred surfaces in great need of repair and repaving, rickety barns ready to fall over from just the right gust of wind, and old homes far beyond the fixable improvements of a Home Depot makeover. In many ways, all of this adds to the bucolic beauty of rural Texas. And when you think about it, especially while watching a dust cloud kick up behind an old Chevy heading out into an open field on a sunny, dry day, it becomes a metaphor for life, not only in the Lone Star State, but everywhere else, too. Because life in the real world—for most people, I think—does not consist of a white picket fence, a family dog, a pair of healthy kids, two vehicles (or, rather, one SUV and a minivan) sitting on a plush blacktop driveway, a golf course lawn cut every Saturday on a John Deere, some manageable debt, colorful, blight-free perennials, perhaps a boat, barbecues on the weekends, Christmas bonuses, vacations, family photos developed at the local Walmart hanging along the banister. Sometimes life throws daggers. And if you end up on the receiving end of one, well, watch out.

  You’re dead.

  Or certainly maimed for life.

  No more soccer-mom minivan trips across town with your neighbors’ kids, arguments over white or wheat PB&J school lunches, walks in the park with the ladies from church while taking in all of the town gossip, PTA meetings, Little League games, ice cream running down the filthy arms of whining kids. No. If you happen to be on the receiving end of one of those daggers, you’ll find yourself staring down the tunnel at that white light—if you’re lucky—and buckets of tears, along with a lifetime of melancholy chiseling away the days. Unemployment checks (while they last). Food stamps. And, after waiting in the church line, bricks of sour orange-colored block cheese.

  This will be your life.

  Bobbi Jo Smith was not one of those “lucky” kids, her parents jumping for joy on the sidelines while she scored the winning goal. She never played Barbies with the popular neighborhood girls. Nor had she become part of what is the new, twenty-first-century “working class” searching for the next meal and a government handout. Somewhere in between, Bobbi was just a girl, essentially, when she realized her mother didn’t give two shakes about her. And Dad? Well, who the hell was he, anyway? Where was he? By the time Bobbi was old enough to look around and not only put into context, but truly understand, where she was being raised, she found herself in the sleepy, shanty little Texas town of Graford, of which many in the state had never even heard. For those kids like Bobbi, in certain sections of this rather pleasant town boasting a mere 578 residents (2000 census), they looked around and met the despondent gazes—distant and stoic—on the faces of everyone surrounding them. They eventually realized they were staring into a mirror. The young gawked at their futures; while the old shook their heads at their past. There weren’t too many moms and dads around to take their babies for walks, or to share their days watching Sesame Street and The Electric Company. If you were fortunate enough (and so very few were), you saw your parents long enough during the day to get yelled at and maybe stung by the slap of a whipping belt. Not for what you did. That was too easy. But for the shitty life your parents had to deal with every day. Aggression, the experts call it. Repressed anger misdirected at the human beings you could hurt the most and, largely, get away with. Not everyone in Graford lived this way, of course. That is not what I mean here. But for Bobbi, this was her life.

  And it was one of the many reasons why Bobbi relied on her grandmother. The old woman—and Bobbi’s son, the child Bobbi had before she was old enough to work legally, or have the guts to come out and live the lifestyle she wanted—meant everything to Bobbi.

  My mother was never in my life, Bobbi told me as our conversations began in early 2012. My grandmother raised me.

&
nbsp; Bobbi had learned from her upbringing, adding, I’m a great mother.

  Yet she wrote this to me from a jail cell.

  Go figure. The value this young woman put on things. The bar she now lived under set fairly high. At first, it didn’t make sense. But then, later on, it did, once I understood the framework of Bobbi’s life and how she ended up behind bars, facing five decades of never feeling the warmth of the sun’s glow on her back as a free woman.

  I’m nothing like I was raised. And I’m thankful to God for that.

  Again, a strange comment coming from a woman who had been in prison for eight years already at the time she wrote it.

  And she was only in her twenties.

  Still, prison was four walls and a lock. Bobbi could never get used to this life. On the day one of her best friends left prison, out on parole, Bobbi turned to her as she walked away.

  “I don’t want to die in here,” Bobbi said. “Please don’t let me die in here.”

  It had been years since Bobbi saw her son. But in January 2012, the boy was brought into Gatesville Prison for a visit with a woman he really didn’t know. To the child, perhaps, Bobbi was some sort of a folk hero, locked away behind bars for a crime, according to Bobbi, she had not committed. A vicious murder, in fact, that Bobbi claimed a casual bed partner of hers at the time committed—a cute girl Bobbi had known for nearly a month or so before the man Bobbi considered a father figure was shot repeatedly in the head at point-blank range.

  “It’s like we’ve never been apart,” Bobbi said after the visit with her boy, now eleven years old. “I love him so much. He’s my motivation.”

  The boy became Bobbi’s light. A constant beacon of hope and clarity she sees on a horizon beyond the concrete prison walls surrounding (maybe engulfing) her. It’s that love she has for her child that drives Bobbi today, helping her to, she noted, push through this place . . . [that] at times . . . is almost too much to consume.