The way Christine played off her relationship with Chris to her parents, you’d be left with the impression that the guy was keeping her against her will and she was under his spell, living in fear, being forced to do anything he said—or else! Those who were around the two of them during this period of their relationship, however, paint a different picture, quite opposite to the “poor me, I can’t break free from his influence” scenario Christine had sketched.

  For one, Christine was insecure and jealous beyond anything her friend had ever seen, one source later said.

  “Pretty much every fight and/or argument between Chris and Christine,” added that source, “was over her crushing jealousy.”

  If Christine ever thought Chris was looking at another girl while they were out, she’d fly off the deep end, saying, “What?” She would slap him on his arm or punch him. “Do you think she is prettier than me?”

  At times Christine’s adolescent, jealous comments exploded into what a source referred to as “crazy rage.”

  The source said, “Young girls are like that to a degree—insecure. But not anything like Christine.”

  Chris would go out of his way to avoid fights with her, but he knew they were an inevitable part of the relationship. So he learned to accept Christine for the way she was and put up with her hysterics.

  “The psycho,” Chris’s sister, Brandee, called Christine, and so did the rest of the family. “He was so beholden to her. She was always calling our house. They’d spend hours on the phones. She called incessantly. You’d think she’d have to call our house to keep the world going.” Christine was always going off the deep end, screaming at Chris for some stupid reason, going up one side and down the other for who knows what purpose. She would later make the claim that he had hit, continually abused, and controlled her. Yet his family saw things differently: they thought it was the other way around. So much so, the main reason why they had referred to Christine as a mentally unstable psycho was because she had shown them on numerous occasions that she was out of control.

  “She was constantly overriding our lives, constantly around, constantly in our face,” a family source said. “She was very hyper.”

  CHRISTINE HAD CALLED her boyfriend “relentlessly.” When they weren’t together on a specific night, she stalked him. If they fought and he refused to talk to her, she’d spend the night on the front lawn, sleeping, trying to get into the house, yelling, going nuts, rattling the screen door. “She even threatened to kill my mom, my dad, and even me!” Brandee later said. “She was an absolute cancer to us.”

  Several times Chris had told his family: “There are two things in this world I am afraid of. The cops and Christine.”

  The one thing Chris Snider hated was Christine’s near-obsessive compulsion with sex—anal sex, in particular. Chris considered sex itself to be “overrated” as a whole. He hated how Christine constantly demanded anal sex from him, as if she wanted him to punish her. Chris thought it was dirty. Yet, he felt he had to serve her needs.

  There was a modicum of generally bizarre behavior on Christine’s part. One day, as Chris and Christine argued, Christine backed him up against a wall in his house, yelling and screaming in one of her furious fits of jealous insecurity. She cursed him and demanded that he tell her the truth about what had happened. Chris usually took it, said a source who witnessed many of these instances. On this day, though, Christine stopped midway through her tirade. Chris stared at her, and she back at him. Then Christine, without warning, licked his face from his chin up, across his nose and forehead, and shot him a deviously evil gaze without speaking. She spat on the ground to his right and walked away, as if sending him some sort of cryptic message: Don’t ever F with me! I’m a crazy woman!

  NOT LONG AFTER that shoplifting charge, things at home got much worse for Christine. Christopher Snider had a warrant out for his arrest in Kentucky, where he had once stayed with family and had gotten into some serious trouble, stealing a car and taking off. Texas authorities booked him on the shoplifting charge and ran his name through the system.

  Christopher Snider, the man who had “taken away my womanhood,” Christine claimed, was now on his way back to Kentucky to do some serious time.

  This posed a problem for Christine, who wanted to follow her man. But her parents would hear nothing of it. She had been arrested for shoplifting. Christine’s mother was no dummy. Obviously, Christine and Chris were stealing to feed other habits. So when Christine balked at the idea that she was not to go running after her crazy boyfriend, Christine began once again hurling obscenities and threats at her stepfather and her mother. Then the police were called back one afternoon when Christine had apparently taken things to a level that perhaps her mother had not seen coming.

  When the cop got there, Christine “was very irate, out of control, and being held down on the ground by” Tom Dick, said one report. She was screaming and yelling and kicking her legs. It was Tom who had called the police.

  “She’s just been released from jail on shoplifting charges,” Tom said, looking at the cop, then back at Christine, who was still spastic. “She’s on two different medications for bipolar disorder.” After allowing Christine to sit on the couch, where she promised to be a good girl, Tom Dick told the cop what had happened earlier and why he felt he needed to call.

  Christine walked down the stairs some time before the police had arrived and proceeded to tell her parents that she was going to go see Christopher Snider.

  “You’re not leaving this house to go see him,” Tom Dick told his stepdaughter.

  She went for the door, spewing venom about being able to do what she wanted, when she wanted to do it.

  Tom Dick stopped her.

  Christine ran into the kitchen, grabbed hold of a knife, and put the blade on one of her wrists, as though she was threatening to cut herself.

  When Tom told her to stop, Christine “held the knife up in a [somewhat] threatening manner,” pointing it toward him, Tom later told police. He described the incident as “semi threatening.”

  Christine held the knife above her head “for a few seconds”; then she put it down by her side, still holding on to it.

  As Christine stood there with the knife, Tom grabbed hold of her. He was worried, he said later, that she was going to harm herself more than hurt anyone else. So they called police.

  This incident had upset Lori. As she spoke to the officer in her living room, telling him her version—which turned out to be the same as Tom’s—an important point came up.

  “It was fifteen years ago today,” Lori explained, “that Christine’s biological father died. Her medication has been changed recently and hasn’t had time to work properly.”

  Still, Christine could be put in jail for the outburst and the “semi” knife attack. But Lori didn’t want that. Neither did Tom.

  “We just want her to get some help.”

  So four EMTs called to the scene transported Christine to the Mainland Center Hospital for psychiatric treatment.

  The attack, Christine later argued, was brought on by what had become two major problems she acquired during those days following the murders of her friends: Christopher Snider and drugs. Chris and Christine had started using harder drugs than simply weed; cocaine became an obsession of Christine’s, as would heroin in the coming months.

  In fact, as November gave way to December, the police were showing up regularly at Christine’s house.

  “October through December was very turbulent in the house of Christine,” a law enforcement source said. “She was mad that her family wanted her to stay away from Snider.”

  Christine’s mother believed Chris Snider was no good for her daughter. The guy had no direction, spoke of the darkest things imaginable—devils and death and blood and guts—and wanted to do nothing but drugs. Christine had fallen for him, and was seemingly using drugs to numb a pain she didn’t want to talk about with anyone. It was as if her boyfriend had become another addiction.

  But now he was gone.

  As part of a deal she struck with the court, Christine was sent to drug rehab in San Antonio—where her real problems would begin.

  CHAPTER 22

  THE NEW YEAR dawned with a certain amount of trepidation for the families of the four. They felt no closer six months later than they had on day one. It was altogether frustrating and intense. Every day they woke up and hoped that the phone was going to ring with HPD on the other end talking about how they had made an arrest. It was one of the motivators keeping many family members from staying in bed all day, with the shades drawn, wallowing in the darkness of having lost a loved one so young—someone with so much life ahead.

  Brian Harris knew Tom Ladd was leaving in March, retiring. Harris had that hanging over his head; it would mean one less man on the Clear Lake case. Tom Ladd was focused on the JU angle of the case and was (80 percent) convinced that JU had had something to do with the murders. If not directly, then indirectly. As luck would have it, Ladd and Harris heard JU had been busted recently on a serious drug charge and had pleaded his case to nine years behind bars. JU was serving his sentence in a local prison. Now was probably as good a time as any to head over, get in JU’s face, and find out exactly what he knew.

  “We figure now maybe he’ll talk,” Harris said later. “We’re in a good position with him. Any number of things could happen.”

  Harris had a unique philosophy regarding interrogation, much of which was rooted in the moral and religious beliefs he took into “the box” (interview suite) with him whenever he went to interview a suspect. Some didn’t like the way Harris handled himself in the box. Others called him “egocentric” and “arrogant.” Whatever the case, the guy knew how to get the job done—and one cannot argue with results.

  Harris relied on trigger words a suspect used during an interrogation: “sincerely,” “honestly,” “truthfully.” Those adverbs with the ly ending were “like a big red flag going up,” Harris explained. When he heard those words during an interview, “I’m like, ‘Here it comes.’ ” Those types of words were what Harris referred to as “qualifying statements,” generally preceding an admission of something. It was the suspect making himself feel better before laying the blame on someone else.

  There was also what Harris referred to as “nonverbal cues.” One of any nervous gestures, such as “hair twirling, face rubbing, and, above all, defensive body posture, when a suspect closes himself off or backs away from his interrogator.” These physical tics told Harris that the suspect was blowing smoke.

  “One nervous indicator,” Harris was quick to clear up, “does not imply guilt. It’s the totality of the package. You might lean back and be like . . . ‘Get out of my face, man. That’s not what happened.’ ” When a suspect did that, Harris pointed out, he or she was creating distance between himself and the interrogator.

  That’s what Harris looked for: separation. The idea that the suspect was looking to put physical space between him and the cop told the officer that the suspect had something to hide.

  If he could, Harris made sure that the box was set up in a way that gave him a psychological edge with his suspect. There should be nothing on the walls to distract the suspect. Make sure the suspect’s chair had straight legs, immovable, while the chair the interrogator used had rollers, so he could move throughout the room at his own pace, by his own accord, and come across to the suspect as, well, free.

  “I may start off being three to four feet away,” Harris said, “but when I feel they’re about to confess . . . I may move to within inches.”

  Going into the interview with JU, Harris had to consider what he had. The room was bare, for the most part, and JU was situated in his own chair. Harris was going to try to get what he could, once and for all. It was time to charge JU, or scratch him off the list. To continue running around in circles with the likes of JU wasn’t helping the case. Homicide needed either to dig deeper into JU’s life, and see where they could fit him into the murders, or write him off completely. Either way, Harris decided, they needed to move forward.

  “JU was always up front with me about his dope dealing,” Harris recalled. “He wanted to be this major big-time dope player.”

  JU was not a tough guy in any respect; he was a businessman. Harris had seen plenty of guys like him. They lived and died by the street, dealing their drugs, ruining lives, creating chaos in the community, without realizing it. The sad thing was that Marcus or Adelbert were not like JU at all. They were young kids in a man’s world. They had no idea what they were getting themselves into.

  Harris explained to JU that someone JU knew had admitted to being a mule, a drug runner. Harris gave JU the name. Told him a little bit about the guy and how he wasn’t necessarily the person JU had thought he was.

  JU was shocked by this revelation; he had believed that the guy whom Harris had mentioned was a major player in the drug world.

  “He was just transporting the stuff, Jason—and skimming off the top.”

  “No [way],” JU said, surprised. He couldn’t believe it.

  “We’ve been down this road before, Jason,” Harris said after they exchanged a bit more small talk. “Tell me about Marcus and the ten grand he owed you.”

  “I liked Marcus. He was a good friend. It was only ten K. That is not a lot of money. It works the same way in this world as it does out in the business world. You have to build credit and work off of that credit.”

  “Let’s go through all of it again.”

  Jason Uolla conveyed a certain melancholy about him that Harris had not seen or heard before this day. He seemed down. They talked about how JU had been flippant with Tom Ladd and Phil Yochum in the past. He had not been all that forthcoming.

  Why? Harris needed to know. What was he hiding?

  “I had my head bashed in,” JU said, defending himself.

  “Yup, I know.”

  “Man,” JU said at one point, “maybe I let him into the game too soon. . . .”

  “What are we talking about now?” Harris said, confused by the comment.

  “Marcus. Maybe he wasn’t ready.”

  Harris knew they were getting somewhere. “Tell me about that, Jason.”

  JU rubbed his face. Took a deep breath. “I brought Marcus into this game . . . perhaps too soon,” he said, “and, honestly, maybe I’m responsible for his death—but I tell you this”—and here he looked at Harris seriously and paused before concluding—“anyone who admits to having any part of that Clear Lake thing is a dead man.”

  “No kidding. . . .”

  “Hell yeah! In this state?” He was talking about the death penalty. “They’d be crazy to talk to you.”

  JU had taken a polygraph and had failed.

  “Why do you think you failed the polygraph?” Harris asked.

  He thought about it. “Because, Detective, perhaps I am responsible.”

  Was this a wink-wink moment, or was JU being sincere in his feelings, marking himself accountable for Marcus’s death? Perhaps Marcus’s behavior and the drug dealing had gotten them all killed? Was Harris sitting and talking with a drug dealer with a conscience?

  In any case, though, JU was finished talking.

  Harris left the interview as baffled as he had been before he walked in. JU’s body language, he noticed, told him that he was being straight, totally honest.

  Why would he say that—“perhaps I am responsible”?

  Still, HPD didn’t have enough to charge JU, so they were, in the grand sense of this mysterious case, back to square one as far as JU was concerned. Harris was now going to have to explain to George Koloroutis, who was all but certain that JU was their man, that he still wasn’t sure about the guy and could not arrest JU under simple suspicion of murder.

  CHAPTER 23

  MAY 2004 BROUGHT some of that marvelous Texas spring weather the state is known for. As he sat at his desk one morning, George Koloroutis realized—how could the guy ever forget?—that he had not heard much of anything from HPD in quite some time. George knew Tom Ladd had retired. The last thing he wanted was for HPD to forget about the case. It was important to keep pressure on the department. That old adage of the squeaky wheel actually worked in some instances, and this was surely one of them.

  George called Brian Harris to find out if anything new was in the works, or if any progress had been made since Ladd’s retirement and the ambiguous nature of JU’s involvement.

  “What’s the deal, man, who is in charge of this now?” George wanted to know.

  “I guess I am, George.”

  Screw it, Harris figured. He should probably take the bull by the horns here and run with his gut. He somewhat knew the ins and outs of the case history. Why not delve completely in and see if anything came up. With Ladd gone, the case needed to have a leader, or Harris knew by experience that it was going to collect dust in cold-case storage.

  “I had been assigned to the case,” Harris commented later, “so it was my chance to take the ball.”

  Harris was now running the investigation; he could do things his way. Not that Ladd had done things the wrong way, but Harris had his own “never stop” attitude, which would bode well with George (and this particular case). George was becoming increasingly frustrated that the year anniversary was coming up, and they were no closer to solving the case than they were during those all-important forty-eight hours after the murders.

  Phil Yochum, still part of the Homicide Division, was interested in other fields of police work. Harris went over to Yochum, who, under normal circumstances, would have been the ideal choice for the lead in the Clear Lake case. He asked Yochum if he could take the files over to his cubicle and dig in. Brian Harris didn’t want to step on anybody’s toes.

  “You mind if I do that?” Harris asked. It was out of respect; after all, the case was still Phil Yochum’s.