...And Never Let HerGo

on the blood spots found in Tom’s house. The investigators had known for months that they matched Anne Marie’s DNA, but that information wasn’t in the affidavit and they were under no obligation to reveal it.
    “I think Tom realized for the first time,” Connolly said, “that he was playing out of his league. He had expected all along that he would be dealing with the Wilmington Police Department. It wasn’t that we had loads and loads of money. This was basically an investigation run by three people—Donovan, Eric, and myself—who, on occasion, would bring in others like Ron Poplos.
    “I believe that the shorter the loop, the better,” he continued. “We didn’t talk to anyone, except for Greg Sleet. No one really knew what was happening on the case.”
    Now, for the first time, Debby MacIntyre’s name appeared in conjunction with Tom’s. It was only a two-sentence notation, almost hidden in the column after column of details: “On June 28, 1996, at 12:30 a.m., *69 was also dialed from Capano’s phone. This retrieved a call from 47-year-old Debby MacIntyre, a Tatnall School director and Capano friend who lives on Delaware Avenue.”
    Tom had assured Debby that there was nothing to worry about, that things were almost back to normal. But in fact, the investigation was just beginning to move into high gear. And the
News-Journal
’s January 3 coverage of the Fahey-Capano case rekindled public interest.
    Like most law enforcement professionals, all three of the men who were investigating the case had private telephone listings. But at 3 A.M. the next morning, Colm Connolly’s phone rang. When he answered it, there was no voice on the other end of the line.
    At 3 A.M. the morning after that, Eric Alpert’s phone rang. When
he
answered, there was only silence.
    At 3 A.M. on Saturday morning, Bob Donovan’s phone rang. When he answered, it was the same.
    While they could not be certain, they had little doubt who was making the calls. If it was a silent threat telling them to back off, it didn’t work. They had all known going in that their investigationwould be unpopular with any number of people. And there was no way to be anonymous in Wilmington. The Connollys had bought their home from a good friend of Tom Capano. One of their sons was scheduled to be in a preschool class taught by a woman who supported Tom loyally; they were asked to withdraw their child. Indeed, Kay Capano was the Connollys’ pediatrician’s nurse-practitioner. Although they knew she was excellent at her job, it would be awkward. They arranged to see the pediatrician alone.
    It seemed that all the lives involved in this complicated case were woven together in some bizarre cross-stitched tapestry. Initially there were as many people who backed Tom loyally as there were those who grieved for Anne Marie and her family. In Wilmington, seventy thousand people were like two thousand—all of whom knew one another in some capacity. And everyone had an opinion.
    For Kathleen, Robert, Kevin, Mark, and Brian Fahey, the release of the affidavit brought no good news. They understood now the whys of the July search of Tom’s house, but it confirmed their fears that Anne Marie was dead. When Charlie Oberly denounced the FBI as running an investigation “fueled by innuendo and rumor” and said that the Capano family’s right to privacy had been “totally destroyed,” the Faheys were angry. Their sister had lost her privacy—and so much more—months ago.
    Tom’s attorneys released four notes that further obliterated Anne Marie’s confidentiality. Written on the governor’s stationery in May and June of 1996, they were short notes to “Tommy.” To someone who didn’t understand how hard she had struggled to leave Tom without setting off an emotional explosion, they sounded friendly.
    “Tommy,” said one of the notes,
    Hola Amigo! I wanted to drop you a wee note to let you know how much I appreciate all you have done and continue to do for me. You’re a very genuine person.
    We’ve been through a lot the past couple of years, and have managed (through hard work, determination and perhaps a bit of stubborn Irishness and Italian tempers!) to prevail. You’ll always own a special piece of my heart.
    Love you—
    Annie (Me)
    The note was a prime example of Anne Marie’s gentle way of saying good-bye. Tom could have a piece of her heart, but he could no longer own all of her. Connolly, Alpert, and Donovan understoodtoo well