Final Vows

  “He’s in prison now, Mom,” Carol explained matter-of-factly. “But he’s had a terrible childhood. Now that we’re exploring his past, he’s becoming a completely different person. He’s really a wonderful man.”

  Images of Raj flashed through Maria’s mind and she resisted the urge to cry out to her daughter, to stop her before she could ruin her life by making such a terrible mistake. But Maria knew her husband would say enough about Carol’s plans for both of them and the warning went unspoken. Later, when she shared the news with Mel, he shook his head angrily.

  “She is no longer the girl we raised, Maria,” he said. “She has a mind of her own. I love that girl, but if that’s how she wants to live, if that’s the thanks we get for putting her through college, I wash my hands of her.”

  Less than two years later Dan and Carol were married in the prison courtyard. Carol had searched carefully for an off-white cotton dress that hung gracefully to just above her ankles. Carol was still about ten pounds overweight but she thought the dress did a good job of hiding the fact. She held a bouquet of yellow and orange summer flowers and on the sunny morning of July 14, 1980, promised to love and honor Dan Montecalvo as long as they both should live.

  Carol would later comment that tears had welled up in Dan’s eyes when he repeated the promise. In her eyes, Dan looked more handsome than ever, dressed in the brand-new navy blue suit that Carol had purchased for him. Armed guards watched curiously from their posts as the brief ceremony took place, but other than two of Carol’s church friends there were no attendants to witness the couple’s vows. Regardless, Carol later commented that the wedding was beautiful. This time, she would say, she had no doubts she was marrying the right man. Dan had completely changed from the deviant, self-destructive person he had been in his younger days. Carol was certain that Dan was now ready to love her the way no man had loved her before.

  But while Carol and Dan seemed to be developing an inseparable bond despite his confinement, her relationship with her family was fading into childhood memories. Maria still talked with Carol as often as she dared without angering her husband, but whenever she suggested that Mel forgive her he would raise his hand angrily.

  “She’s made her bed, Maria,” he would bark. And the subject would be closed. In all her life, Maria wanted only for her husband to forgive Carol and again include her in family activities and conversations. When he refused, the resulting tension nearly broke Maria Tronconi’s heart. Her dream of a happy family reunion never materialized and in 1982 Maria died of a heart attack. When Carol attended her funeral, she and her father barely spoke to each other.

  With Dan still in prison, Carol was often lonely and her only contact with her family was an occasional letter to Roseanna, who had settled in West Amherst, a suburb of northeastern New York. Once in a while she would write to Jon, who was still living at home while working toward his master’s degree. Carol would sometimes wonder sadly if her father found solace in the fact that his three children had done as he’d wished and graduated from college. Was it enough now that his wife had died with a broken heart and he had all but disowned his younger daughter?

  But there was no mention of those feelings in the letters she wrote to Roseanna, especially after Dan was released from prison in January 1981, and the couple moved to California. Carol’s letters from California were so upbeat and filled with surface observations that Roseanna never had any idea whether her sister was truly happy in her marriage to Dan.

  Although Roseanna had always intended to visit Carol and Dan in Burbank, her busy schedule kept her from making the trip. Then, on April 1, 1988, Roseanna received a call from her father. In all her life Roseanna had only seen her father cry once—when her mother had died. Even then his tears had been controlled. But now he was sobbing, and Roseanna had to strain to understand him.

  “Dad? What is it? What happened?” She motioned for her husband to keep their two children quiet.

  “Carol,” he said. There was pain in his voice that scared Roseanna. “Oh, Lord. My precious baby. Carol.”

  “What is it, Dad? What happened?”

  “She’s dead.”

  Roseanna felt sick to her stomach. “Dad, are you sure?”

  “Yes.” He was still sobbing. “She was shot and killed. Some crazy man, some burglar, broke into the house and killed her. Oh, God, Roseanna. My baby is gone.”

  Tears began to fill Roseanna’s eyes. None of the family had been able to tell her good-bye. They had run out of time and now Carol had died without knowing how much they all loved her.

  “Dad, what’ll we do?”

  “We need to go there, to Burbank. There’s a memorial service at her church next week.” Mel began to cry even harder. “I can’t believe she’s gone. My baby is gone.”

  A lump had risen in Roseanna’s throat, making it impossible for her to respond.

  “Roseanna? Do you think Carol knew how much I loved her?”

  “Yes, Dad. Of course she did.”

  “But I never got to tell her I was sorry.” He sounded so distraught Roseanna worried he might pass out. “I was sorry, you know. I didn’t mean to let things go like they did! Oh, my God. My baby, my Carol.”

  From his hospital bed, Dan had arranged for Carol’s body to be flown back to New York, and in the following week Mel Tronconi buried his youngest daughter next to her mother. When that was done, he and his two remaining adult children flew to Burbank to attend a brief ceremony in memory of Carol. It was the first time Carol’s family had met Dan Montecalvo.

  “She loved you all very much, sir,” Dan told Carmelo as the two men shook hands.

  Mel nodded and tried to choke back the sobs lodged in his throat. “I think you can understand the circumstances, why there has been so little contact. But that’s in the past. Let’s keep in touch.”

  Carmelo had decided that if he had run out of time with Carol, he would make it up to her memory by maintaining a friendship with the man she had loved. For Roseanna, the service taught her something of her sister’s life as it had been before her death. She was deeply loved by the friends she had made at church and at work. Roseanna returned home grieving that she had not visited Carol in the years before her murder. What Roseanna found strange was the fact that none of Carol’s close friends seemed to know Dan very well. She wondered if Carol had been as happy in her marriage as she had clearly been in her friendships.

  In fact, even months after their sister’s death, Roseanna and Jon had just one way of knowing whether Carol had indeed been happily married. The answer was reflected in her weight.

  As a young girl, Carol’s problem with her weight was only evident when she was troubled. She might gain ten or fifteen pounds or—when she was very upset as she had been prior to divorcing Raj—even twenty pounds.

  At the time of Carol’s murder, Roseanna and Jon had not seen their sister for several years, and they anxiously awaited photographs sent to them by the Burbank Police Department. Looking at those pictures months after Carol’s murder, they were convinced beyond a doubt that Carol had been more than unhappy. She had been miserable. The pictures indicated that Carol had gained more than seventy pounds since marrying Dan.

  Chapter 6

  On April 1, 1988, sometime after one o’clock in the morning, Cathy Hines was woken out of a deep sleep by the sound of her ringing telephone. Instinctively, she checked to see that her husband was asleep by her side. Cathy Hines was a homicide evidence technician for Glendale, a city adjacent to Burbank but with more people and more crime. In fourteen years of analyzing evidence, Hines had come to understand late-night telephone calls. In her line of work they meant just one thing. She picked up the phone on the second ring.

  “Hello,” she said quickly, her voice sounding uneasy as she struggled to wake up.

  “Cathy? This is Pastor Wil.” The man’s voice was calm and reassuring, but Cathy detected an undercurrent of seriousness. Her pulse quickened as she glanced a
t her watch and noticed it was April first. April Fool’s day. For a brief instant she hoped this was someone’s idea of a bad joke.

  “What is it, Wil?”

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news. I’m at the hospital. Dan and Carol Montecalvo have been shot; burglars broke into their house.” He paused, his breath sounding shaky as he inhaled, another indication that something awful had happened. “They don’t know if Carol’s going to make it.”

  “My Goodness, Wil.” Cathy’s voice was merely a whisper and she felt the blood draining from her face.

  “Dan’s asking for someone from Women’s Aglow. You’re the only one I could think of. Can you get here right away?”

  Cathy ran her hand through her shoulder-length, dark brown hair and began shaking her husband awake. “Yeah. Tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  By then her husband had caught the urgency in Cathy’s voice and sat up in bed. Before he had time to ask her what had happened, she began sobbing, collapsing into his arms.

  Cathy Hines and Carol Montecalvo met in July 1984, when Cathy first joined Women’s Aglow in Burbank. The group was diverse—made up of nondenominational Christian businesswomen and homemakers who met on the first Saturday of the month to sing worship songs, pray for each other, build friendships, and hear one or more guest speakers. The organization also raised money for charitable causes and gave its members a place to share their personal victories and needs. Cathy had been thrilled to join Women’s Aglow, hungry for the friendship of other churchgoing women.

  Even in this setting, where the women were known for their kindness, there was something special about Carol, and through Carol, Cathy could finally understand the scripture that described the eyes as windows to the soul. Carol’s brown eyes were loving and full of life. At that first meeting, Cathy found Carol treating her more like a sister than an acquaintance. Of course at that time, Cathy was unaware of Carol’s particular need to find close relationships among her friends owing to her estrangement from her family.

  Over the years Cathy marveled at how Carol persisted when others gave up; she loved when most people turned their backs, and most importantly she never stopped hoping. Especially when it came to her husband, Dan. Almost unanimously, the congregation at Overcomers’ Faith Center Church thought of Dan as a kind and loving husband. He did not often attend Sunday services with Carol, but, as Carol was quick to explain, this was because Dan had to work on Sundays. When he did attend, he proudly held Carol’s hand and stayed attentively by her side. Those who knew Carol had the impression that Dan was very much in love with his wife.

  But once in a while Cathy would visit Carol at home and get glimpses of something else. There were also times when she would prod Carol with questions about Dan. More than anyone else at church, Cathy was aware that Dan drank too much and that he often missed Sunday service because he had a hangover, not because he had to work.

  Cathy saw other signs that the Montecalvos’ marriage was not completely blissful. The most obvious was the number of times Carol attended social functions by herself. She had even been unable to talk Dan into coming to Cathy’s wedding in 1986. Cathy was also aware that nearly everyone else in the congregation knew nothing of Dan’s drinking or of Carol’s concern for him, because Carol could not bear to paint such a dismal picture for the people who truly loved and cared for her. Cathy marveled at Carol’s consideration for Dan as well as for her friends. Not in all her life had Cathy ever known someone like Carol Montecalvo.

  * * *

  Now Carol was fighting for her life. That April morning, as Cathy dressed while praying for her friend’s survival, she remembered a discussion they’d had three weeks earlier at church. Carol had taught kindergarten Sunday School that day and although she had been just as kind and sympathetic as usual, Cathy had sensed something was wrong. Dan hadn’t been to church in several weeks, and Cathy figured his absence was beginning to wear on Carol. When the service was over, she approached Carol and asked her where Dan had been. Carol lowered her head as her eyes filled with tears.

  “I’m sorry,” Cathy said, pulling Carol into a hug as her heart went out to the woman who had been such an inspiration to her. “He’s having a hard time?”

  Carol nodded, wiping her wet cheeks with the back of her manicured hand. “Please pray for Dan. He’s been drinking a lot.” She swallowed a sob and lowered her head again. “I’m really worried about him.”

  In the days after that conversation, Cathy thought Carol seemed to grow happier, excited about the vacation she and Dan were planning to Hawaii. There was never again mention of Dan’s drinking or of any other problems the couple might have been having. Still, the image of Carol crying that afternoon stayed with her for weeks after their discussion.

  Thirty minutes after the telephone call with Pastor Strong, Cathy and Dan Hines walked briskly into the emergency room at St. Joseph’s hospital red eyed and still in shock. The pastor and his wife, Sandra, were waiting for them. Cathy turned toward the minister, who embraced her. “She’s gone, isn’t she?” Cathy cried, pulling away again and looking intently into his eyes.

  Strong nodded. “There was nothing they could do for her, Cathy. She’s with the Lord now.”

  Cathy nodded, shutting her eyes tight, sobbing convulsively. For the first time in her life, she was angry with God. Angry that he would allow Carol to be killed, angry that despite her goodness Carol could fall victim to a burglar’s bullets. Cathy’s husband moved next to her, putting his arms around her shoulders and drawing her close.

  Pastor Strong said nothing, aware that Cathy needed this time to grieve. He had questioned the wisdom in calling Cathy so late at night with the news. But they were all Christians—family as far as he was concerned. His Bible-believing congregation of 250 people was a mixture of young and middle-aged couples, many of whom had children. Most of them were blue-collar, working-class people, but a few were highly paid, educated professionals. For the most part, although they talked about the virtues of higher education, they primarily wanted their children to grow up relying on God as they did. Above all, the people at Overcomers’ Faith Center believed in overcoming the trials of this world while they waited for the blessings of the next. But never had Pastor Strong been dealt a trial such as this one.

  Members of his church were neither extremists nor fundamentalists, but they believed in the teachings of Christ, especially when it came to helping one another. Strong knew they would certainly need each other now; so much had happened so quickly. During his years as a minister, Wil Strong had personally helped many of his church members deal with death. In his late forties, Strong had the build of a college quarterback and the friendly eyes of a family pediatrician. He was a man who both physically and spiritually brought comfort to those who were grieving. But tonight—after Carol’s violent murder—he felt incapable of comforting anyone.

  The pastor looked at Cathy, fresh tears streaming down her face as she and his wife, Sandra, held hands and prayed silently. All that Wil Strong had ever learned in Bible college and in fifteen years of working with various Christian congregations taught him everything that happened was God’s plan. Even this. He silently recited Romans 8:28. “All things work to the good for those that love God.” Carol certainly loved God. Yet, for all his knowledge and experience, something in the corner of Wil Strong’s heart struggled with the human questions surrounding her death. Why would God allow it? What good could possibly come from such a tragedy?

  The pastor closed his eyes and tried to draw an extra breath of strength. Finally, when Cathy’s sobs subsided, he quietly suggested the one thing he knew would bring comfort.

  “Let’s pray.” Strong looked at the others and bowed his head. “Father, we come to you now in need of your great comfort and compassion. Our sister, Carol, has gone into your loving arms and we are left behind. Please restore to us your peace and grant us understanding as we grieve over her loss. Lord, we also lift up to you our broth
er Dan. The months ahead will be very hard on him as he learns to live his life without Carol. Please help him recover from his injuries and help us all see your plan in what has happened. We love you, Father. In Jesus’ name we pray, Amen.”

  While Carol’s friends prayed for him in the waiting room, Dan was being wheeled into surgery. X rays had shown that the single, .25 caliber bullet that had entered the right side of Dan’s back just above his hipbone was now lodged in the left front of Dan’s body near his small intestines. Emergency surgery was necessary to remove the bullet and stitch up the holes in Dan’s insides. The operation would also give doctors a chance to clean out the wound, thereby preventing peritonitis—a serious illness that often occurs when material from the intestines or appendix spills into the body.

  Although doctors wanted to perform surgery as quickly as possible, Dan’s situation was not a matter of life or death. Doctors would later say that left untreated, Dan probably would have fallen victim to peritonitis, and possibly even died from the illness. But, unlike Carol’s, Dan’s gunshot wound was never life threatening.

  As Dan lay strapped to the operating table in the early hours that April morning, a technician prepared to perform a gunshot residue test on his hands moments before surgery began. The technician took a Q-tip, dipped it into a solution, and wiped it across his palms and fingers. Then she took a small, disclike piece of paper, peeled off its protective seal, and pressed it on the same parts of his hand.

  “Hey, what’s all that for?” Dan asked.

  “Policy,” came her tight-lipped response. “You’re involved in a shooting, we test for residue.”

  After that, Dan refrained from asking questions about the test. But those in the room with him remember that as the woman finished collecting the samples and then sealed the items in an evidence jar, Dan’s face seemed to grow several shades paler.

  Because of his surgery Dan was not able to talk to Cathy Hines until that afternoon. The hours that had passed since Cathy had learned about Carol’s murder had done little to ease the paralyzing pain and grief that at times threatened to overcome her. She had spoken to Pastor Strong. Dan was still asking to speak to someone from Women’s Aglow, someone who had known Carol. After that, Cathy had contacted two other women from the Aglow group and at 5:30 that afternoon they gathered in the hospital lobby. They made their way to the third floor and as they approached Dan’s room, Cathy saw that he was sitting in a comfortable chair, staring calmly at a television set suspended from a spot near the room’s ceiling. For an instant, Cathy thought Dan might be in shock. He looked like he was enjoying a leisurely afternoon, not suffering from a gunshot wound received only hours earlier during a burglary in which his wife had been killed.