As I later lay in bed going over the call I remember thinking that things just did not add up. The patient in my opinion had what I would call selective memory.

— Responding Firefighter, Madison County Emergency Services,

“Letter to Rigby Police Department,” February 2, 2004

On February 1, 2004, at 3:36 AM—a frigid seventeen degrees with wind gusts nearly twenty miles an hour—a barefoot woman in blood-soaked sweatpants parked her 1989 Pontiac Grand Am at the Fastop gas station three miles south of Rexburg, a town in the heart of the rural farmland swath of southeastern Idaho. The woman staggered through ice and snow and dialed 911 from the payphone on the north side of the concrete building.

“Hi…uh…my name’s…uh….I need some help…”

The emergency dispatcher asked for details.

“I have blood on me and I don’t know where it came from. But…I…I’m bleeding and I, I, I don’t know where I’ve been, where this came from.”

“Okay. What is your name?”

The woman grappled for words.

“What is it?”

“It’s…it’s…Shana Parkinson.”

“Okay. And you don’t know where you’re bleeding from?”

“I don’t. I have, I have blood. There’s blood in my car. There’s blood on me. I don’t know where it came from.”

“I’m going to put you on hold for just a minute and get my officer on the way. Do you

know what happened at all?”

“I don’t. I don’t. I don’t even know why I’m here.”

The dispatcher established Shana’s age, 38, and asked where she was coming from.

“I don’t know. I just saw the Fastop sign. I was coming down off…I don’t even have shoes or a coat. I need to really get in my car. I’m freezing. I’ll just…”

“Okay. Just hang tight with me on the phone, is that okay?”

“I’m freezing. I don’t have any shoes or coat. I’ll stay here, I just, I’m freezing.”

The dispatcher called for an ambulance.

“Well, it’s just, my hand, I just, my hand.”

The dispatcher allowed Shana to return to her car. She broadcasted for police and ambulance. Eight minutes passed while the dispatcher communicated with local authorities and then, surprisingly, was patched in with dispatch from neighboring Jefferson County.

An officer reported the scene: hardened blood smeared along the driver’s side of the car. Fresh blood on the steering wheel, the gear shifter, droplets of blood on the right of the driver seat, bits of blood-soaked tissue, blood smeared on a bottle of Lime Coke, a bloody handprint on a pack of Marlboro Lights, a blood-soaked cigarette and a red butt in the ashtray, a blood-caked Bic lighter. The officer collected three empty Bud Light cans, a roll of disinfectant wipes, an empty knife scabbard. There was a drawing on the back of a legal pad: two hearts floating above a home, a knife piercing one and blood dripping from it onto the other. In the ambulance, Shana asked if her children were okay. She claimed her ex-husband had broken in.

Madison Dispatch conferred with her Jefferson counterpart. Then Madison addressed her officer at the scene with Shana: “Just for information, this is unknown if she is the suspect or victim in this case.”

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In a small county, people know people.

— Seventh District Judge Gregory Anderson, “Murder Trial to Move,”

Post Register, September 14, 2004

Jefferson County has an estimated 24,802 residents over 1,095 square miles of land, equating to about 22 people per square mile. Settled in 1893 by Mormon farmers, Rigby, the county seat, is the largest city with an estimated 3,312 inhabitants. In the early 1900s, Rigby postured to be the commercial hub of southeastern Idaho. Its slogan: “All Roads Lead to Rigby.” Today, take US-20 or Highway 48 or the Lewisville Road and head for the smell. Rigby is bordered with potato processing factories whose open wastewater sump pools exude steamy rot. Most of the county belongs to, or did belong to, or at one time had family in, the Mormon Church. Here, people share meals and tools. From 1995 to 2004, the county had two murders, both those crimes involved drugs and gangs. I grew up riding the school bus with the criminal from one case. He drove the getaway car after he and two friends shot and killed a convenience store clerk. I had basketball class with the victim of the second, executed in the desert for an unpaid meth debt.

My people have inhabited Jefferson County for more than half a century. My grandfather graduated from Rigby High in 1946; my father and mother in 1976; I finished in 2000. The trunk of my family tree roots deeply into Jefferson ground and its branches seem defined by its geographical borders. With us, there isn’t distinction between generations: I have cousins that I call cousins that are technically seconds or thirds; I refer to my great-uncle as Grandpa. I’ve worked with myriad distant-but-close relatives on my father’s farm and called them all family.

Large families make nothing easy; if anything, it just means more funerals. As my uncle once said, “We’ve had enough hard, hard things in our life that we’ve learned to hide, tuck emotions away and never bring them up again.”

Ours is a history of hardship, starting with my great grandfather, a failed farmer turned railroad worker who lost four fingers to the boxcars. My grandfather had a shot at grain ground and did well but it wasn’t long before his kidneys failed. His youngest sister Sharon donated an organ that didn’t take. My grandfather died in 1972, 44 years old, when my father was 14. Sharon made it to 45 before cancer took her. She gave up the ghost while in her recliner. My father, then 29, on one side of her; Sharon’s son Gregg Whitmore, 21, on the other. After, my father and Gregg went outside. Darkness fell. From the house they saw the high school football field floodlights illuminating a game. My father could think of nothing to say to Gregg. Gregg, too, stood silently. My father was gripped with anger. A woman had died, and these fans across the lot cheered a first down, a lucky catch. Did they not understand that this match meant nothing? That someone’s mother had just gone on? That a boy was left afloat?

After his mother’s death, Gregg mechanicked for his stepfather at the diesel repair shop. Gregg hunted elk on our ranch and fished the Snake River near our irrigation pumps. He transferred to our farm shop and drove truck through grain and potato harvest. In 1990, he joined up, and the Army sent him to the Gulf War. Gregg was assigned to the 82^nd Airborne as a paratrooper. In the Army, Gregg mastered darts, made stalwart friends, and served his country. Before he departed for Kuwait, Gregg gifted my father his five-drawer tool chest along with all his wrenches and ratchets. He swore to never do shop work again.

Upon Gregg’s return, many others and I greeted him at the Idaho Falls airport. The Jefferson Star had encouraged the citizens to support the local serviceman with letters. A high school student randomly chose Gregg and wrote often to him. The boy, by his own admission, had low self-esteem and few friends. He and his mother were at the airport too. Gregg hefted me on his hip while I held his celebration balloons. Gregg was a fit, strong man with a contagious smile. Three days after Gregg’s return, he went to the high school and found his pen pal, thanking him for his correspondence and giving him his army beret.

Not long after his return, Gregg met Shana Parkinson. Shana was petite, freckled, and pretty, and, in those inexplicable attractive coincidences, shared Gregg’s exact birthday and year: May 11, 1965. They were both 26. Shana, though, had come into the family problem early and had born daughters when she was just 16 and 18 years old. She supported them through minimum wage jobs, as the fathers were deadbeats. But here was Gregg, an able and attractive man who shared some of her own loves: gardening, canning, genealogy. They married in 1992 in the backyard of Gregg’s stepfather. A son followed in 1993, and four years later, a daughter.

After the wedding, Gregg disappeared from our family’s orbit. His younger sister kept us updated on his status. Gregg became foreman for a cement company. A skin disease discolored Shana’s face and arms. This disfigurement affected her so profoundly that she quit her job at a Rexburg stationary factory to work from home. In 2001, my grandmother died and Gregg showed up at the funeral. Gregg cried and cried, for reasons more than just her death. He confided in my father that his marriage was falling apart. Not one to fail, Gregg stayed with Shana in their house on 2^nd South near the Jefferson County Rodeo Grounds to work things out. But in August 2003, he moved in with his stepfather and started divorce proceedings. Shana could stay at the house with the kids until after the holidays but then Gregg would return and Shana would have to find someplace new to live.

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Everything she tried to do in life seemed to work against her.

— Carma Harris, “A Tough Life That Was Turning Around,”

Post Register, February 8, 2004

In November 2003, Gregg met Karen Cummings on a blind date. Karen had her share of hardships: nine years younger than Gregg, she’d dropped out of high school, married poorly, had a child, and divorced. Karen didn’t have custody of her seven-year-old daughter because of her extensive health issues. She lived with her mother in Sugar City, a town twenty miles north of Rigby. The two fell hard for each other, and Gregg was ecstatic. He called my aunt and came for a surprise visit to explain his blossoming relationship and how he planned to buy a promise ring.

Little did we know what else was happening in Gregg’s life. Shana called his cell phone dozens of times a day to keep him from work. Gregg always answered, fearing it had something to do with his children. Since the final separation, Shana’s behavior had grown erratic. She’d taken Gregg’s most cherished items he’d left at the house—family photos with him and his mother and sister, his military records and pictures of his tour of duty, even his uniforms and patches—and incinerated them in the backyard firepit. On November 25, 2003, Shana came to Gregg’s worksite with custody papers. An argument ensued and Gregg shoved Shana. Madison County Police were called but no charges were filed. The following day, Gregg went to the Rigby house to see his kids. Shana was drunk when he arrived, and she smacked Gregg in the head with a beer bottle and crashed additional empties against the wall. Gregg talked to Karen’s mother about filing charges but nothing was done. On Thanksgiving, November 27, the back tire of Gregg’s Suburban was slashed. The police came and filed a report. Gregg fixed the Suburban and went to Walmart on November 28. He came out to find his driver’s side door kicked in.

Throughout December, no police reports were filed between the two. Shana kept calling; Gregg kept answering. Karen’s mom remembered going Christmas shopping with Karen to buy Gregg a new tackle box and filet knife, as Shana had disposed of his. Gregg brought Karen to my family’s Christmas dinner and she showed off her promise ring. They wanted a spring wedding. Gregg told us, “I finally found someone I can love. I’m finally free.”

In January 2004, Shana left the Rigby house and moved to Rexburg to live with her 22 year old daughter and her grandchildren. Gregg returned to the Rigby house, astounded but not surprised: Shana had taken the furniture, the dishwasher, screws from the bathroom towel holders, even the garbage disposal from the sink. But most disturbing were the kitchen cabinets and the empty bed frame. The wood had been sufficiently knifed in bizarre patterns, gouged and hacked and maimed.

On January 5, 2004, Shana filed a report with the Madison County Police that strange footprints encircled her daughter’s house, and that her ex-husband had recently been abusive and forced her from her home. An officer followed up and marked the situation as a low priority. On January 23, a witness who had previously worked with Shana saw her in a Rigby gas station. She described Shana as distracted and upset. Shana explained that she and Gregg had split, that Gregg had kicked her out on Christmas Eve and two days later moved in his new girl. The clerk—buoying her friend—said that all exes were assholes, and that the worst was that now a strange woman lived in Shana’s old home. Shana said she wished Gregg were dead. The clerk said she’d considered burning down her ex-husband’s house during their split.

The woman ended her statement to police with this: “I was saddened I didn’t tell her that things would eventually, no matter how bad they seemed, get better. She seemed to be at such a low point, like her world had fallen completely apart. I wish I could have helped her instead of adding to her anger.”

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Discussion of partial memories. These are scary for her.

— Clinical Progress Note from State Social Worker,

Narrative of Session, Shana Parkinson, July 16, 2003

One of the paramedics asked Shana her last memory before arriving at the gas station. She recalled watching TV with her children and grandchildren at the Rexburg house.

Much happened before that Sunday morning. On January 24, Karen was at Gregg’s house watching Gregg’s children when Shana unexpectedly stopped by. Karen didn’t dare open the door. She called Gregg, who came to resolve the problem. Gregg wanted Karen to meet Shana, as Shana wanted to meet the woman who would be watching her children. Karen refused. Shana called Karen’s mother at work, wanting to talk about Karen. Karen’s mom dodged the calls.

The problem with exes didn’t just reside with Shana. On Friday, January 30, Karen’s ex’s new wife called to say that her husband had left in a drunken rage with Karen’s daughter. Karen and her mother drove to Utah to resolve the matter. On Saturday morning, Karen gained custody of her seven-year-old for the weekend while her ex sorted out his personal issues. Saturday afternoon, the three traveled back to Idaho. Karen decided to stay at Gregg’s with her daughter. Karen’s mother tried to persuade her not to numerous times, even calling Gregg while Karen and her daughter were inside a store. She invited Gregg to stay the night at her place, but Gregg said he planned to work late refinishing the cabinets and that everything would be fine. Later that night at home, Karen’s mom saw that she’d missed another call from Shana. This time, she called her back. They had a long talk about Gregg and Karen.

In Rexburg, Shana’s daughter reported that she and Shana and the kids stayed up until about 1:30 AM watching the movie Freaky Friday. Other than a watch alarm going off around 2:00 AM, which woke her, Shana’s daughter remembers nothing out of the ordinary. As she later reported: “[Shana] was not sad, but not happy. She was just okay.”

At 2:58 AM, a seven-year-old girl in Rigby called Jefferson County 911. An intruder named Ken had injured her mother and her mother’s boyfriend. By the time police arrived, both Gregg and Karen were dead. 38 minutes later, Shana called from Fastop. After she was treated for cuts on her hands, Shana was placed into custody while Rigby City Police, Jefferson County Sheriffs, and Idaho State Police examined the crime scene on 2^nd South. A house with walls and linoleum painted in blood. Bare, bloody footprints in the garage and down the back alley. A blood-covered boot dropped in the snow.

A week later, an amateur photographer found suspicious items at Twin Bridges, a popular riverside camping spot eight miles east of Rigby on the same road as Fastop. As the snow melted, police collected torn rubber gloves matching the cuts on Shana’s hands, the second boot, and a Fiskar’s fillet knife with a seven-and-a-half inch blade that paired with the scabbard found under the seat of Shana’s car. Shana was charged with two counts of first-degree murder and a count of burglary. During the trial, timetables were calculated; 911 calls, reevaluated; Karen’s daughter’s police interview, played. Perhaps it’s conjecture, but the hypothesis follows.

Around 2:30 AM, Shana parked at the end of the alley in Rigby. She made her way behind Gregg’s house, squeezed between the Suburban and the garage door, and let herself in. There was no forced entry, as this was the one lock Gregg had failed to replace. Shana removed her boots near Karen’s garaged car, entered the kitchen, and crossed the linoleum in her socks. She passed the empty spare bedroom and bathroom in the hallway. Gregg’s bedroom was the last on the left. Shana entered, circled to Gregg’s side of the bed, and stabbed him three times in the ribcage. He was on his side, naked, and curled toward Karen. Gregg awoke and got out of bed, steadying himself at the post. Shana went to Karen and stabbed her in the chest, puncturing her heart. Karen stood and took a hammer and stumbled across the hallway toward the bedroom where her daughter slept. Shana followed with the knife. Karen fell into her daughter’s room. Gregg gathered his strength and went after Shana. They battled down the hallway—the walls mopped with blood transfers and splatters, the carpet soaked, slipped footprints of failed traction on the linoleum—and eventually Gregg, facedown, bled out on the kitchen floor. Karen’s daughter stayed in the bedroom. Shana came back. The seven-year-old yelled “Please! Don’t!” and Shana disappeared down the hallway, over the body of Gregg, and out the garage. Her bloody footprints paced up and down the cement stairs, perhaps in debate over what to do with the girl. Shana had stabbed Gregg 33 times and Karen 12, in doing so severing the webbing between her left index and middle finger. She picked up her boots and moved down the alley to her car in her socks, leaving a blood trail and dropping one of her shoes. The girl ran into the kitchen, grabbed the phone, and called 911 from the bedroom closet. Police were on scene within minutes, even though the girl did not know the address of the house or the name of the town. By then, Shana was headed east toward the Archer Highway, crossing through the country in which most of Gregg’s family, myself included, lived. At Twin Bridges, Shana disposed of the evidence—the knife, one boot, a distinctly colored towel, her bloody socks, and the gloves—into the icy Snake River.

Shana claimed innocence throughout the trial, though she never took the stand. The defense and prosecution called psychiatrists to testify. Both agreed she had several mental disorders: depression, borderline personality disorder, generalized anxiety, and post-traumatic stress disorder. The defense argued, too, that she suffered from dissociative amnesia.

Many oddities crept into the collective memory of the murder details. The defense argued that Karen’s daughter reported the murderer as a man Gregg called Ken, but as my cousin argued, “‘Ken’ is just ‘Karen’ said with a punctured lung.” In Gregg’s autopsy, it was discovered he had only one kidney. One of the officers who rescued Karen’s daughter had her drawing pictures at the station: the girl herself in bed with, “Twenty or thirty angels floating above her to protect her.” Another officer, a friend of Gregg’s, went into a deep depression: that morning he’d been on a routine patrol on the road that led to Twin Bridges. He figured he probably passed the Grand Am, and blamed himself for not somehow inherently knowing about Gregg’s death. The girl wore white socks and there wasn’t a drop of blood on them after traversing the murder scene. One account had Karen crawling into her daughter’s bedroom with the hammer— “breathing in blood”— to protect her. They held hands until Karen finally expired.

On February 5, police released the house. My uncle and Gregg’s father went to collect Gregg’s personal belongings. They found a tape recorder in the nightstand on which Gregg had recorded Shana’s phone calls.

“Gregg was doomed to die,” my uncle said. “He knew her better than anybody else. I think he was literally scared to death when he was out of her grips.”

On February 7, my cousin, my father’s uncle, and I went to clean more from the house. We walked across the places where the CSI units had pulled up carpet and cut out pieces of linoleum to send to the lab for examination. We passed the carved-up cabinet doors and carried out the lacerated bed frame.

In the end, Gregg proved his killer in his autopsy; he held strands of Shana’s hair in his rigor-mortised hand. On October 8, 2005, Shana was convicted on all counts and sentenced to twenty-seven years. “Drunk drivers get more!” one of my relatives exclaimed. But Judge Anderson said that coming up with the sentence was difficult because he believed that the killings were premeditated, but he also believed that Shana suffered from serious mental disorders and a lifetime of physical and mental abuse.

When Karen’s father made his statement in court, he turned to Shana and said he would be impressed if she “could be honorable and admit her culpability.”

Shana replied that she was still trying to figure out the events in her head but she couldn’t admit to something she was unaware of. Instead, she said, “I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want. If my life would take away your pain, you can have it.”

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I’m sorry I’ve been gone so long. Really excited to be back in the family. I think my life’s finally turning around. P.S. I even bought a new suit.

— Gregg Whitmore, “Christmas Card to Foster Family,”

December 2003

That Sunday, none of us attended church. We gathered that afternoon more to support each other than watch the Panthers play the Patriots in Super Bowl XXXVIII. It was a morose and gloomy day. At halftime, Justin Timberlake and Janet Jackson committed the infamous wardrobe malfunction. Maybe it was the only thing that diverted our attention. Hollow conversations dominated discussion. Was the stunt accidental or planned? CNN published that TiVo reported the event as “the most replayed moment not only of the Super Bowl but of all TV moments that the young company had ever measured.”

About Gregg, my uncle said, “This was one of those things that was so sad to me that I put it aside in my mind. I just tucked it away and I haven’t brought it back up for a long time.”

My father questioned my motives for revisiting “this evil that fell upon our family.”

I cannot answer why I’ve exhausted valuable hours scouring news reports, speaking with lawyers, examining autopsy photos, revisiting police reports, and piecing together timelines. The crime was solved as soon as Madison County had Shana in custody at Fastop. When the police arrived Sunday morning at Gregg’s father’s house to report the murder, his first response was, “What has Shana done now?”

After the halftime debacle, FCC chairman Michael Powell launched an investigation. He praised TiVo’s capabilities, calling it “God’s machine.” To me, the implication of Powell’s statement is unclear. Perhaps he means there is nothing more omniscient than the power to pause and replay. However, examining an isolated occurrence forward and back doesn’t guarantee comprehension. Most often, the unknowable stays clouded in mystery. The power of slow motion fails to answer the vexing question of design.