A Rage To Kill And Other True Cases

support system was in the Seattle-Olympia area. She didn’t know how she could manage all alone. And aside from her gnawing fear of Eric, she had made a little life in Des Moines. The Driftwood Apartments where they lived were attractive and the neighbors were friendly. Both she and the kids were only a few blocks from their respective schools. There was a beach half a mile away and parks where the children could play.
    Amy decided that she couldn’t hide forever; if Eric meant to kill her, she knew he would find her someday. She decided to stay and face the problem head-on. She went to school, came home, and watched from behind the window blinds as the night grew dark outside. She worried most about what would happen to her children if she should die—both immediately, and over the years ahead. Who would take care of them?
    Finally, although she hated doing it, Amy told her seven-year-old daughter, “If Daddy ever shoots me, I want you to go to the telephone and dial “0” and tell the operator to call the police.”

    Amy Shaw lived that way for a year; sometimes she was more afraid than others. But she was never not afraid. It was, sadly, the fear that plagues thousands of tormented women across America.
    On the morning of September 21, 1974, Amy expected Eric to pick up their children. And he was supposed to bring clothing for them to wear; she had just bought them new school clothes, and she simply couldn’t afford to lose any more. She was determined to make sure he had kept his part of the agreement before she let the kids outside.
    The little girl was up first that morning and woke Amy, who said, “Come on, kids. Let’s go and have breakfast.” She fixed them toast and Cheerios. It was a Saturday morning like any other Saturday morning, but Amy was a little more frightened than usual. There was no one to walk the children out to the car, and she knew she had to talk to Eric about the clothes.
    Amy cautioned the youngsters to stay in the house until she had picked up the clothes he was supposed to bring. “Don’t come out until I come for you,” she said, “because Daddy might take you away in your home clothes if you come out.”
    If Eric hadn’t brought the clothes, Amy had decided she wasn’t going to let the kids go. She couldn’t take any more of his mean little games. She fully intended to turn around, go back to the house, and call the police.
    She’d told her friends what she was going to do. She told them not to worry about her, but she asked her closest friend, “Call me at nine-thirty, would you, just to be sure everything’s all right?”

    There were more than two dozen apartments in the Driftwood complex. It was a little after eight-thirty on a sunny weekend morning and almost all the residents were home. Some of them saw the white Ford drive into the carport area. A tall red-haired man sat behind the wheel, and a pretty young woman sat beside him. They looked as if they were ready for a pleasant weekend. In fact, they looked so ordinary that they scarcely merited a second glance.
    Those neighbors who lived close to the carport heard a man shout “It’s all over!” Others would recall that they had heard a string of obscenities. Only a few heard the woman’s voice cry out, “My God! Leave me alone!”
    It was a little early in the morning for a family fight, but not unheard of. But then they realized that this was far more serious than a domestic squabble. The air crackled with a sound that resembled a string of fire-crackers exploding.
    A woman who ran to her open window and looked down saw the still form in the carport. It was a slender woman with long black hair, and she lay face down with her legs close together and one arm tucked under her, as if she hadn’t had time to even break her fall. She wore white shorts and a brown blouse, and a scarlet pool was already beginning to stain the concrete beneath her.
    Two of the apartment residents were registered nurses and they raced now, still wearing robes, with curlers in their hair, to help the woman. One bent to turn the woman over and she saw the awful damage to her face. Nevertheless, she began the “kiss of life”—mouth-to-mouth resuscitation—while the second straddled the woman’s unconscious body and began to pump her chest.
    Someone brought a blanket and tucked it around the injured woman. The nurses knew that she probably wasn’t going to make it, but no one wanted to acknowledge that yet. She was so