Fatal Romance: A True Story of Obsession and Murder Read online

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dear Reader

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks True Crime Library Titles by Lisa Pulitzer

  The ring of the telephone…

  Copyright

  Dear Reader:

  The book you are about to read is the latest bestseller from the St. Martin’s True Crime Library, the imprint the New York Times calls “the leader in true crime!” Each month, we offer you a fascinating account of the latest, most sensational crime that has captured the national attention. St. Martin’s is the publisher of perennial bestselling true crime author Jack Olsen, whose SALT OF THE EARTH is the true story of one woman’s triumph over life-shattering violence; Joseph Wambaugh called it “powerful and absorbing.” Fannie Weinstein and Melinda Wilson tell the story of a beautiful honors student who was lured into the hidden world of sex for hire in THE COED CALL GIRL MURDER. St. Martin’s is also proud to publish two-time Edgar Award-winning author Carlton Stowers, whose TO THE LAST BREATH recounts a two-year-old girl’s mysterious death, and the dogged investigation that led loved ones to the most unlikely murderer: her own father. In the book you now hold, FATAL ROMANCE, truth is indeed stranger than fiction as an acclaimed romance author is the victim of a shocking murder.

  St. Martin’s True Crime Library gives you the stories behind the headlines. Our authors take you right to the scene of the crime and into the minds of the most notorious murderers to show you what really makes them tick. St. Martin’s True Crime Library paperbacks are better than the most terrifying thriller, because it’s all true! The next time you want a crackling good read, make sure it’s got the St. Martin’s True Crime Library logo on the spine—you’ll be up all night!

  Charles E. Spicer, Jr.

  Executive Editor, St. Martin’s True Crime Library

  To four of the most important people I know: To the prolific Joan Swirsky, who first introduced me to publishing with our collaboration on Crossing the Line, for her tireless effort and brilliant insights. To Cynthia Blair, queen of prose, for the hours she devoted and the expertise she provided. To Amy Beth Wapner, editor and friend, for putting me back on the right track, and keeping me focused. And to Douglas Love, my faithful editor and loving husband, for his selflessness and support. Although their names do not appear on the cover, let it be known that these four special people were instrumental in the writing of this book.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First, I would like to extend my sympathies to the family and friends of Nancy Linda Richards Akers and Jeremy Ray Akers, whose lives have been irrevocably changed by this terrible tragedy.

  To Finny, Zeb, and Isabelle, the real victims, who lost their beloved parents, my sincerest hope that they may go on to heal, and continue to hold dear all of the special qualities that made their parents cherished by their friends and family.

  To all of the friends, family, and associates of Nancy and Jeremy Akers, who graciously agreed to speak with me about the couple, I extend my heartfelt thanks.

  Gratitude to Finny Akers, Emily Karoyli, Kinley Mac-Gregor, Marvin Moser, Adam Lenkin, Avery Drake, and the others who chose to remain anonymous.

  Having covered the crime beat for nearly ten years, I have learned that there are no persons more helpful to a journalist than the police officers who work the beat. Once again, that has turned out to be true.

  My gratitude to Sgt. Joseph Gentile and Officer Anthony O’Leary of the Public Information Office of the DC Metro Police Department who went out of their way to accommodate my request for information.

  To Sergeant Michael Farish of the Second District, who acted as lead detective and supervisor on the Akers case, I extend my deep appreciation for his time, honesty, and integrity.

  Gratitude to US Park Police Officer Vincent Guadioso, who made himself available to be interviewed, and who was forthcoming in his information and recollections. And to Sergeant Robert Mclean of the Office of Public Information.

  To Gunny Sergeant Phil Mehringer, Operations Chief, Division of Public Affairs, of the Headquarters of the US Marine Corps, and Lt. David Nevins, thank you for your help and expediency in providing me with the service record and information pertaining to Captain Jeremy Ray Akers.

  Appreciation and gratitude to Elizabeth Burt of the Sheffield Public Library, and Judith Reinfeld and Flo Sin-sheimer of the Scarsdale Public Library.

  To Alan Soschin, I extend my sincere thanks for your time and insights.

  To Dennis “Dawg” Thun and Tom Downes, who selflessly served our great country in the United States Marine Corps, and graciously shared their experiences with me, I am grateful and proud.

  A heartfelt thanks to Nancy’s fellow romance writers, Mary Kilchenstein, Kathleen Gilles Seidel, Katherine Karr and Ann Marie Winston, all of whom agreed to speak with me to help to educate Nancy’s three children about how very special their mom really was.

  I extend a special thank you to Jeremy’s longtime friends, Don Boswell, his law school roommate, Bill Ranger, a devoted friend, and Raymond Walker, his childhood pal.

  To Nancy A. Lemke, the mother of James Lemke, thank you for sharing your time and impressions with me.

  On the Web, I would like to extend my gratitude to Barbara Deane, Gwen Richardson and Jaymie Frederick, Deanna Shlee Hopkins, Bill Crumlett, Arthur Davis, Mike Lerp, Bill Ervin, and members of the Thundering Third.

  Gratitude to Tom Fickling, James Baird, and Glen Randall of the Sigma Chi fraternity and Debbie Purifoy and Lynn Frunzi McColl of the University of Alabama. And to Jim Grant, director of communications at the Kent School, for his help, and the lovely lunch I was treated to while visiting.

  My gratitude to J.P. Cobleigh, Barbara Young and Monica Monterroso.

  And a special thanks to Charlie Spicer, Dorsey Mills, John Rounds and Richard Onley of St. Martin’s Paperbacks for their enthusiasm, support and patience, and to my agent, the great Madeleine Morel.

  “Remember that in a romance, because you are talking about people, and the conflict between people, between characters, that as you resolve the conflict, you are also going to be talking about changes in the characters, how the people will be different at the end of the story than they are at the beginning of the story.”

  —Nancy Richards Akers speaking to a group of writers at a workshop in Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, in 1997

  CHAPTER ONE

  Dressed nattily in a sport coat and tie, Adam Lenkin walked at an easy pace along the glass-enclosed breezeway of The Kennedy Center’s Hall of Nations, his thick fingers embracing the delicate hand of his girlfriend, Athena.

  Flags of every country stood at attention as the couple strode the music hall’s plush red carpet, and stepped out onto the River Terrace to take in the
breathtaking views of the Potomac River.

  The intoxicating scent of the mild night air was a magical blend, Adam thought, of Athena’s heady perfume and the fresh spray of water from the river that lapped gently below them. The summer season was still several weeks away, and earlier the thermometer had climbed to a balmy 85 degrees. But by nightfall it had dropped nearly twenty points, and the thin layer of haze that had lingered over the Capital City for much of the day had proliferated to a dense umbrella of low-lying clouds, obscuring much of the balcony’s panoramic vista.

  It was nice to have Athena in town for the weekend, Adam thought as he pulled her close, gazing over her shoulder at the shimmering white lights of the Memorial Bridge in the distance. Her job as a stewardess for American Airlines kept her traveling between her home in Dallas, Texas, and all points across the United States, but her busy flight schedule often conflicted with his own business trips. As a sports agent for several of the Professional Golf Association’s most talented players, Adam was constantly traveling to tournaments in Florida, Texas, and California where he brokered profitable endorsement deals for the golfers he represented.

  Descending the stairs to the Plaza Lobby of the sprawling arts and entertainment center, Adam turned his attention to the crowd of people milling about. A gentle wind blew off the river as he and Athena exited the spectacular concert hall and headed for the busy parking area. As they walked the cement pathway, chatting about the musical performance they had just enjoyed, they were treated to one final number by the Sonny Sumpter Quartet, who were wrapping up their free outdoor concert.

  Gallantly, Adam opened the door of his polished Toyota 4-Runner for Athena and helped her into the passenger seat. A faint breeze tousled strands of his thinning hair as he rounded the sport utility and hopped in next to her. Glancing in his rearview mirror, he took one last look at the sprawling white cement structure until it faded into the black of night. Merging onto the Rock Creek Parkway, the couple headed for Adam’s home, a route that had become so familiar to him during the past five years that his car almost drove itself.

  After a short ride, Adam exited the narrow two-lane roadway that winds sinuously along the Potomac, listening attentively as Athena chatted with enthusiasm about the evening’s musical performance. In no time, it seemed, he turned onto Foxhall Road, one of DC’s most prestigious addresses, and less than one city block from his house on Reservoir Road.

  The street lamps of the Northwest quarter had been freshly painted, and the cherry trees that lined the fashionable street were in full bloom. Even though the area was only minutes from the bustle of the Capital City, its stately single-family residences with their grassy front lawns and blacktop driveways were more akin to an upscale suburban neighborhood than an urban metropolis.

  Glancing at the dashboard, he noticed that the digital clock read 10:59 p.m. It was Adam’s usual style to suggest they stop in Georgetown for a quick drink and a late night snack at one of the neighborhood’s trendy cafes. The bustling downtown district was a popular hangout for college coeds from Georgetown University and its sister school Mount Vernon College, and it was one of the main reasons that Adam had purchased his home in the adjacent Palisades section.

  Residents of his upscale neighborhood considered it a luxury to live minutes away from the city’s coolest shopping district, and at the same time, be surrounded by beautiful homes with multi-car garages and ample backyards. But, it was getting late and he and Athena decided to call it a night.

  Passing the intersection of Kenmore Street, Adam stepped gingerly on his brake, in order to make a slow turn onto Reservoir Road. But the sight of flashing red lights, and the shadowy figure of a uniformed policeman directing him to stop, startled him. Scanning the scene, he saw wide swaths of blazing yellow “CRIME SCENE” tapes roped across the busy two-lane avenue. Since moving to the neighborhood nearly five years before, Adam had never once seen a policeman in the area and he found the presence of the officer and the barrier itself both frightening and ominous. Reaching for the electric control, he opened the driver’s side window. “What’s going on, officer?” Adam directed his question to a brawny policeman who was standing near a patrol car parked diagonally across the road, its roof aswirl with red alert lights.

  Visions of a terrorist takeover filled the thirty-something attorney’s mind as he watched the sinewy, dark-haired officer nearing the Toyota. He had often wondered about the ramifications of purchasing a home so close to the German Embassy and had even played out several Tom Clancy scenarios in his imagination.

  The fact that he lived in what law enforcement experts considered to be one of the safest sections of Washington, DC did not negate the anxiety he had each time he sighted one of the embassy’s private security cars patrolling the hilly compound across the street from his own home. The ominous presence of armed guards, coupled with life in such close proximity to the White House made his concerns eminently logical to him. Now, face to face with a police blockade, Adam could not help but wonder if his wildest imaginings were not, in fact, coming true.

  “This road is closed,” the young patrol officer bellowed his response.

  “I live here on this street,” Adam yelled out the open car window. “What’s happened?”

  “You say you live here on this block?” the officer said. “Then why don’t you go around and come up Reservoir the other way?”

  It was not Adam’s style to acquiesce to any demand but he deferred to the officer and obediently backed his vehicle onto Foxhall Road, notions of bomb threats and hostage negotiations coursing through his imagination.

  His mind raced. He thought first of his young housemate, Carrie, a quiet suburban woman who worried constantly about the disturbing crime rate in the Capital City. Is she home yet? If not, what will she think when she returns this evening to find a full-fledged police barricade in front of her house?

  Taking a right onto MacArthur Boulevard, Adam hastened along the sleepy residential street of low-slung apartment buildings, and obsessed about the weird and unexplained situation now unfolding on his block.

  “What do you think happened?” He turned to his girlfriend and swallowed hard.

  “I can’t imagine what could have happened,” Athena answered, staring straight ahead as they passed an old Navy fortress and unobstructed views of the Reservoir on their right. Slowing for the traffic light, they noted the employees of the all-night gas station across the way standing on the sidewalk, straining to view the commotion going on just up the road.

  Rounding the sharp corner, Adam and Athena were met with flashing crimson-and-white emergency lights. Adam’s gaze was immediately drawn to the small circle of newspaper reporters assembled on the sidewalk and the thick strips of crime scene tape secured to the hydrant just in front of his house. Realizing that he could not gain access to his own driveway, he quickly turned right onto a local side street, throwing the Toyota into PARK and tugging hard on the emergency brake to ensure that the vehicle didn’t roll down the street’s steep incline and into the wire gating that encircled the reservoir below.

  Grabbing Athena’s hand, the stocky young lawyer hurried back to Reservoir Road. To his alarm, he found a group of curious onlookers standing on the pavement just in front of his neighbor’s house.

  “What’s going on? What happened?” he addressed anyone who might answer him.

  “There’s been a shooting,” a young woman reporter responded.

  A shooting on his block? Adam was stunned. How could this be?

  “A shooting?” he repeated loudly. “Who was shot?”

  “The woman who lives in that house.” She pointed her finger at the red-brick residence with the tall white pillars that was three doors down from Adam’s house.

  That was Jeremy Akers’ place, Adam thought.

  “Who did the shooting?” Adam persisted. “Was anybody killed?”

  “The guy shot his wife,” the reporter responded, gazing challengingly at Adam to see his reaction.
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  “Wife?” Adam echoed her message in a quizzical, uncomprehending tone.

  He had been living almost next door to this guy for nearly five years, had watched him jog up and down the street dozens of times, had peered out the window at him on countless afternoons to see him riding bikes with his two young kids. He had never seen him with a woman, and had had no idea that he was even married. Adam had just assumed that he was another of the burgeoning numbers of single dads he knew who were raising their kids alone because they were either widowed or divorced.

  When he had spoken briefly to Jeremy several months before during a casual sidewalk encounter—the first conversation they had ever had in five years of living three doors away from each other—Adam remembered that their discussion sort of turned him off. He didn’t care much for the “manner” of the genteel-toned but rigidly opinionated Southern gentleman.

  “He shot his wife. In front of the kids,” the voice of a baritone newspaper reporter pronounced dispassionately, interrupting Adam’s recollection.

  “In front of the kids?” Adam squeezed Athena’s hand as he echoed the gruesome news.

  “Did they take him into custody?” Adam asked, not believing what he was hearing.

  “Where are the kids now?” Athena interrupted.

  “They’re with a neighbor,” the reporter responded, his voice nearly drowned out by the crackle of the two-way radio on the dashboard of the nearby police cruiser.

  “They don’t know where the guy is,” a second reporter delivered the shocking news. “He shot her, and then he jumped into his truck and took off.”

  The thought of Jeremy driving around the city with a loaded firearm sent a shiver through Adam’s body.

  “Which neighbor has the children?” Athena queried, watching as the female reporter raised her arm and pointed to the house directly to the right of the crime scene. The rambling red-brick home that the reporter referred to resembled Jeremy’s house, save for the pricey hand-painted tiles that decorated its front steps.