...And Never Let HerGo

impenetrable puzzle of Anne Marie’s disappearance, but he came on board with little fanfare. Assistant U.S. Attorney Colm Connolly was only thirty-two when he was tapped by his boss, U.S. Attorney Greg Sleet, to investigate what would become the biggest case of his career. He had already prosecuted more than a hundred defendants for a whole spectrum of offenses ranging from embezzlement and arson to extortion and tax evasion. One of the myriad convictions he had won involved a fraud conspiracy and money-laundering case with fourteen hundred victims; another involved a case of armed bank robbery, conspiracy, and weapons violations. Connolly had commendations from FBI director Louis Freeh and the Nuclear Regulatory Commission, and he was the first Delaware recipient of the Director’s Award for Superior Performance, an award given to fewer than 3 percent of all assistant U.S. attorneys. Still, when he was assigned to investigate the mysterious disappearance of Anne Marie Fahey, he had yet to work a kidnapping or homicide case. Indeed, when he came into the case, no one knew what—if any—charges might be brought against a suspect.
    Compactly built, Colm had black hair and intense brown eyes, and his roots reached back to Ireland just as deeply as the Faheys’. Like Tom Capano, Colm had been president of his class at Archmere (twice). He was much younger than Tom, but he and Tom’s brotherGerry had attended the Catholic prep school at the same time and played on the junior varsity soccer team together. Connolly was remembered at Archmere for both his popularity and his brilliance. He had a B.A. degree from Notre Dame and an M.A. from the London School of Economics; his law degree was from Duke—with honors.
    Where Tom had never ventured far from Wilmington, Connolly—a native of Hockessin, Delaware, just northwest of Wilmington—had lived in the Philippines, China, and England. He had wanted to be an attorney since he was seven or eight. Appointed to be an assistant U.S. attorney when he was in his mid-twenties, the youngest of Sleet’s twelve prosecutors, Colm brought a remarkable combination of intellect and intuitive skill to the job. Although he would deny it, he had the heart of a crusader and unshakable ethics. He detested prejudice, cruelty, and con games that ripped off the innocent.
    It was clear he had the tenacity and talent for deductive reasoning to work a kidnapping or a homicide case. Connolly had never been hesitant about joining detectives at the most unsavory and gritty crime scenes. He was a hands-on prosecutor, part of every probe from the very beginning.
    Connolly and his wife, Anne, met in law school. She was a corporate attorney for the firm of Skadden, Arps, the largest law firm in the world, working at the Philadelphia branch. She had always been someone he could talk to and bounce things off, and he could count on her for sound advice and opinions.
    Colm and Anne had met Bob Donovan for the first time on a bitterly cold evening in 1992 when Colm went to pick up Anne—and their across-the-hall neighbor in the apartment house where they were living—at the train station. It was not an auspicious meeting.
    That night, when Anne got off the train and hurried through the chill air to Colm’s car, she had her hair tucked into her coat collar and wore a hat that almost obscured her face. She and the neighbor ducked into Colm’s car, and he pulled out heading for home. But it wasn’t long before he saw the Wilmington Police car that was “about six inches” behind his car, making every turn he did—and then the blue lights began to whirl.
    Colm was furious, and he bailed out of the driver’s door and headed back to demand to know why he had been stopped. Bob Donovan and his patrol partner, Liam Sullivan, rushed by him and went up to his car to check out the occupants.
    “At that point,” Colm said, “I looked up and saw three members of the DEA [Drug Enforcement Administration] task forcestanding behind their cars and some trees. I’d had a meeting with them the week before, but I couldn’t remember their names.”
    Connolly had been in the Wilmington office of the U.S. Attorney’s office for only a month, and he was notoriously bad with names. Now, he hoped they remembered
his
name. Luckily, they recognized him.
    What had happened was that a DEA agent had misidentified the occupants of Connolly’s car as drug runners getting off the train from New York, carrying contraband