Who Killed Theresa?
Part 1 of 3: A grieving brother’s search for the truth

by Patricia Pearson

When 19-year-old Theresa Allore went missing from school and then turned up dead on a lonely country road, Quebec police led her family to believe she had died of a drug overdose. Now, 23 years later, her brother John Allore and I have spent five months investigating Theresa’s disappearance. What we found is presented here in three parts, the story of Theresa’s death, which was almost certainly a murder by a serial killer who may still be at large.

– – –

We tend to think of unsolved mysteries as a parlour game. But that isn’t the case for everyone. For some, like John Allore, treasury manager of the city of Durham, N.C., the mystery he cannot solve is the one that keeps his heart from mending.

Twenty-three years after his sister was found face-down in a creek in Quebec’s Eastern Townships, dumped there like garbage by strangers who have never been caught, he cannot unearth the secret of her death. Somebody, somewhere, knows what happened to Theresa Allore, a bright 19-year-old Cégep student who was attending Champlain Regional College in Lennoxville. And that somebody should not own a secret like that, what a girl’s last words were, whether she was frightened, or in pain. That is a secret that belongs to the people who love her, and they are the ones who don’t know.

When you have lived with an unanswerable and shattering question since the age of 14, as Allore has, there are several tactics you can take. You can stay close to the scene of the crime, as John’s brother, Andre, has, living in Montreal, following the French-language papers for any hint that might surface, requestioning the original investigators.

You can gently close the book because you know the answer will not bring your sweet child back, which is what his parents have done.

Or you can run. John Allore opted to put distance, even a national border, between himself and the past. He moved to New York, then to Houston, on to Los Angeles, and finally to Chapel Hill, N.C., marrying a U.S. woman who had never heard of Lennoxville, Que., and had never seen the look on his father’s face when he identified Theresa’s remains.

But life has a way of catching up with you, and it caught up with Allore in a manner so stark that it bordered on the comical. He had taken a job as treasury manager of the city of Durham; he and his wife, Elisabeth, had two daughters, and felt settled enough to buy their first house, a “fixer-upper” on a pretty wooded lane. One day, less than two months after they moved in, the State Bureau of Investigation, county sheriff and two forensic teams arrived on their doorstep with sniffer dogs. They were looking for the body of a local woman named Deborah Key, who they suspected had been killed in the house by the previous owner.

The Allores watched as the police dismantled their septic tank searching for body parts, while the hounds bounded around the property. One dog finally picked up a scent in the crawl space under the house. It was a trace of the woman, enough to excite the dog, who started pacing and scratching in the rich Carolina clay. Investigators wormed their way underneath the floors and began digging. They got about half a metre down before they realized she had been there, dragged there dead by her captor after vanishing from downtown Chapel Hill, but she must have since been moved. All that remained was her ghost.

“Well, that’s just bloody great,” John said mordantly to Elisabeth. The house was now as haunted as its owner.

Over the ensuing months, as the investigators doggedly kept up their search for Deborah Key, even bringing over a psychic with her preposterous, only-in-America television crew in tow, John began to feel called to action.

What the police were doing for Deborah Key, he realized, he had never done for his sister. His brother, Andre, had tried, and all but given up. Nobody else, ever, was going to investigate the crime that was her death. He had to try.

– – –

In March, 2001, John called me in Toronto. We had been in touch off and on since university, having been high school sweethearts and then wary friends. I had last seen him in Los Angeles in 1995; I was researching a serial homicide case for a book I was writing, and I enlisted his help. We drove around Van Nuys while I checked the apartments and bars where a woman named Carole Bundy and her boyfriend Doug Clark had abducted and murdered several women. Fate does love irony.

Now it was his turn to call upon me for assistance. “What do you remember about what happened to my sister?” he ventured.

I cast my mind back to the autumn of 1979, when I had arrived at boarding school in Rothesay, N.B., and met John for the first time. His family had moved to New Brunswick from Montreal in the summer of ’78, leaving Theresa and her brother Andre behind to finish the Quebec version of Grades 12 and 13 at the Cégep in Lennoxville.

I recall being told Theresa had gone missing from her campus, and been found six months later enmeshed in the thawing ice of a creek beside a corn field, stripped down to her bra and panties.

The following autumn, I ventured into the realm of a ruined family with the typical insouciance of a 15-year-old. I still feel ashamed about that, all these years later, how I noticed the silences in the house but didn’t really understand them. I remember pictures of Theresa, with her curly auburn hair and dark, amused eyes. Her personality — intelligent, independent, witty — shone through the images. I remember sleeping in her bedroom when I received “weekend leave” from school, and noticing her hiking boots lined up neatly by the closet door.

I remember John telling me her story: how the investigators advised the Allores that their daughter, a fearless girl who rock-climbed and sky-dived, had possibly overdosed on drugs, and been taken from her dorm to the creek by panicked friends. There was talk of her choking on vomit, or perhaps having an allergic reaction. Two months after her body was found, the Sûreté du Québec mailed her personal effects — her wallet, her watch and earrings — to the family. Apparently, as far as the Sûreté was concerned, she had been pulled under by the riptide of ’70s party culture.

“Sooner or later, someone will talk,” investigators assured them.

But for 23 years, no one had said a word.

From North Carolina, John asked me if I could write an article, to somehow encourage those kids — those well-heeled, middle-class Canadian kids who had dumped their friend’s corpse — to break a conspiracy of silence they had apparently observed since 1978, and come forward with an account of Theresa’s last night.

I thought about this, but from a different perspective than I would have had at the age of 15, when everything grown-ups said was true.

“I don’t buy the theory, John. It doesn’t make sense to me,” I ventured. “Why would they take off her clothes?” He didn’t know. In 1997, his brother, Andre, had contacted several of Theresa’s friends in search of the truth, and none had been able to help him.

Questions spun around in my mind, as they had in both Andre’s and John’s: “Why heave her body into a creek, when it wasn’t their fault that she died? I can see them trying to distance themselves from her death, but why hide her? Why not take her to the hospital and leave her on the lawn, or at least leave her on the lawn of the residence where she lived?”

“Her wallet was found several miles away from her body,” he offered, following my train of thought.

“So, they stripped her of clothes and ID?” They took a friend who had overdosed on drugs and coolly, systematically turned her into a Jane Doe.

Why?

John had been assembling a file of miscellaneous notes and official documents, including climate reports from Environment Canada for November, 1978. He sent me photocopies. When the package arrived, I sat down at my dining room table with a cup of coffee.

I looked at the report from the coroner in Montreal. The autopsy was maddeningly inconclusive: “violent death of undetermined nature,” the coroner had been obliged to conclude. With the body in a state of advanced decomposition, the pathologist could rule out bludgeoning, stabbing, shooting and organic disease. Not much else. It wasn’t possible to determine whether she had been raped. The results of a toxicology work-up on Theresa’s body were negative: no evidence of either prescription or illicit drugs had been found in her liver, lungs or other tissues.

Why was the hypothesis a drug overdose? What was the evidence? I sat back in my chair, musing. The investigators had not closed the case of Theresa Allore, so much as they had left the grieving family in New Brunswick with a hypothesis that effectively shamed them.

– – –

John Allore and I met up in Sherbrooke, Que., in March, 2002. Our plan was to review Theresa’s police file — stored away and gathering dust in the Sherbrooke police office.

I was expecting John to be a nervous wreck, but he was quite the opposite. He is a tall man, slender, highly energetic. He had been running around Sherbrooke all day without a coat in spite of the cold, wearing only a light-blue cotton sweater. There was even a jauntiness about him, as if he felt huge relief that he was finally confronting his demons. His hotel room was littered with papers, news clippings, notebooks, the lights of his lap-top winking beside the coffee machine.

He had a surprise for me. “I was just over at Champlain College talking to Gerald Cutting,” he said, referring to the director of the Cégep, who had been the newly appointed director of student services in the autumn of Theresa’s disappearance. “Cutting told me that the Sûreté thought way back in ’79 that Theresa was murdered.”

My jaw dropped. It seemed inconceivable that the Sûreté’s chief investigator, Roch Gaudreault, could have left the Allore family with the impression that their daughter’s death was a mishap, when he himself was chasing suspects and talking to Cutting –with whom the investigator had gone to high school — about his theories of foul play. Why was the family not informed?

Fourteen years after his sister died, Andre Allore had tracked the retired Gaudreault down for a brief and fruitless phone conversation. Gaudreault reiterated the drug overdose theory, but otherwise had nothing to say. “I got the impression,” Andre wrote in his notebook, “that Gaudreault couldn’t understand why this was still bothering me.”

When I arrived in Sherbrooke, John had already been to the office of the Sûreté du Québec. Corporal Robert Theoret, a handsome, curly-haired man who didn’t miss a trick, was cordial and watchful as John pored over sections of Theresa’s crime file for seven hours. Theoret had removed from the file — as we later determined — the listing of evidence, photographs of the crime scene, certain witness statements, Gaudreault’s final report, and all notations about suspects, which remain confidential under Canada’s privacy laws.

When he had first written to them from Chapel Hill in early summer, 2001, the Sûreté had offered John broader access to the file, but by March, 2002, they were restricting what he could see. Perhaps they were feeling defensive, or maybe this was standard protocol. They certainly weren’t worried about compromising their investigation. John asked Theoret if he would investigate, given the revelation from Cutting that his sister was probably murdered. As he recalls, Theoret was smooth and affable but evinced little interest, pointing out that he was short-staffed. “I have lots of cases,” he said. “Why should I investigate this case?”

All right, John said. “I want to investigate it myself, then. What was Roch Gaudreault’s final conclusion?”

That information is privileged, Corporal Theoret replied.

OK. What about forensic evidence? Where were Theresa’s bra and underwear, which we could perhaps test for DNA?

“We threw them out,” Theoret said. (Other detectives we spoke to could offer no reasonable explanation for disposing of evidence in an unsolved crime.)

“Do you have Gaudreault’s number?” John persisted, in a subsequent phone call to Theoret. He wanted to question the retired investigator.

“He doesn’t want to talk to you,” Theoret replied, as if Allore were a pesky reporter from the National Enquirer.

“The Sûreté don’t like to be challenged,” a law-enforcement source later explained. And challenged they were. John retained a lawyer and filed a Freedom of Information Request. The response sluggishly wended its way back from provincial officials: He could see his brother Andre’s statement from November, 1978. That was all.

– – –

To say that John Allore felt stymied is an understatement. Who owns the secrets to a young woman’s death? The cops and the robbers, apparently.

Nosy family members: Butt out.

We had a quandary. The Sûreté was disinclined to investigate Theresa’s death, but wouldn’t divulge their findings from 23 years ago. Without access to key parts of her file, John didn’t know where to begin. He was just a guy — an accountant — who lived hundreds of miles away. I was a former crime journalist. We both had small children, jobs, lives…

We sat in the hotel bar that night with John’s brother, Andre, and decided to pool our resources: Andre’s prior investigation and the meticulous notes that he had kept, my crime journalism background, John’s talent for incisive analysis. “We can do this,” we told each other.

That weekend visit to Sherbrooke marked the beginning of a five-month investigation of murder.

– – –

The next morning, John and I climbed into a rental car and drove from Sherbrooke southeast to Lennoxville, a 15-minute run down Rue Belvidere and over to Highway 143, which we would later discover was a critical piece of the puzzle.

Lennoxville is a pretty town in the riding of Jean Charest, filled with gabled, clapboard houses and mom-and-pop shops. Champlain College sits at its outskirts beside the older and much statelier Bishop’s University, from which it rents some facilities. Amidst the hills of the Eastern Townships and the lush surrounding farmland, the Cégep — which was founded in 1967 — would have been a lovely place to attend one’s final years of high school.

Unless, like Theresa Allore, one happened to arrive in late August of 1978. Over the previous decade, Champlain College’s enrolment had risen to over 1,000 students. Officials faced a housing crisis. Plans were underway to build another dormitory, but in the meantime, as a stop-gap measure, two buildings had been hastily leased in the tiny farming village of Compton, 20 kilometres from the school.

The distance of the dorms had already sparked controversy among the students, as John and I learned by reading Champlain’s student newspaper from that period, The Touchstone. Students were complaining about the shuttle buses that had been provided as their only means of transportation to and from the dorms. If they missed the bus from Lennoxville, they were obliged to either pay for a 20-km taxi ride, or hitchhike. The student handbook provided a brief list of hitchhiking dos and don’ts.

We drove south down Highway 143 and then headed eastward to Compton down 147, a two-lane black-top that even now is an unlit, rural byway winding its way through hill and dale into the middle of nowhere. It must have felt daunting for teenagers living away from home for the first time. In February, 1978, the winter before Theresa arrived, The Touchstone reported that a Champlain student had been the victim of an attempted rape. Several other assaults were reported that semester. Students were uneasy. Female students said they were afraid to walk alone, and scared to hitchhike. “Will someone have to get raped,” one girl wrote, “before the police stop shrugging off the problem?”

The new residence being built closer to campus fell behind schedule, however, and Champlain staff announced in the spring of 1978 that they would have to “run Compton again.” Editors at The Touchstone were aghast. “I was enraged,” one wrote, “by the smug way in which the fates of two hundred more new students were so easily dispatched.”

Over half of the students quartered in Compton were under the age of 18. They had two staff members on site, a 25-year-old named Jeanne Eddisford, and a former elementary school principal named Stuart Peacock. Both slept in King’s Hall, a rambling Victorian mansion that had once served as a girl’s boarding school. Neither inhabited Gillard House, the squat, co-ed brick dormitory next door. No one conducted room checks. The students were encouraged to make their own meals and to be as independent as possible.

It was an optimistic experiment in free living, but what it meant, in essence, was that 240 high school students were living in an isolated, poorly lit area without adequate transportation or effective supervision. “There is definitely something wrong at Compton,” The Touchstone editorialized. “Stuart Peacock is very seldom seen at Gillard House, of which he is the newly appointed director.”

The result was wholly predictable. “For most boys and girls, it’s their first time away from home,” one Compton resident told The Touchstone. “There are no restrictions, no curfews, and especially no parents. They go wild.”

Co-ed parties featuring beer, pot and LSD were common enough that the night watchman for the Compton dorms grew fed up. After confronting Peacock about “the drug problem,” to no avail, he quit in disgust, according to a statement he later gave to the Sûreté du Québec. Two school officials, Doug MacAuley, director of student services, and Joe Gallagher, assistant director of student services and counselling, abruptly resigned from Champlain around this time. MacAuley said only that his position had become “structurally unsound,” making it impossible for him to “accomplish his goals.” Gallagher told The Touchstone he hoped the problems he saw on the campus would be solved, and that those in the position to act upon them knew what they were.

Were they related to the Compton residence, which seemed in danger of spinning out of control?

John and I stood in the foyer of King’s Hall, the Victorian mansion in which Peacock and Eddisford slept, and where my mother once resided as a boarding-school student in the 1940s. It was now an inn, with guests scurrying back and forth past the oak reception desk as we looked around, out of place and out of time, contemplating the carpeted staircase where Theresa Allore was last seen.

– – –

Friday, Nov. 3, 1978, was gloriously mild for late autumn in the Eastern Townships. Theresa left her room on the second floor of Gillard House early that morning and walked across the lawn in a long, beige sweater-coat, wearing a diminutive pair of Chinese slippers, no socks and a flowing green scarf that her mother had given her for her 19th birthday.

She joined her girlfriends, Jo-Anne Laurie and Caroline Greenwood, in the pretty dining room at King’s Hall, where sun streamed through the French doors. She made herself toast, perhaps, or scrambled eggs. They chatted about their weekend plans, and then the three girls boarded their shuttle bus and parted ways on the main campus to attend their Friday classes.

Theresa was an excellent student, curious, creative and sharp, pulling down straight-As in art as well as physics. She was not much inclined to “go wild,” according to her friends, because she had already lived away from home for a year, working in a ski factory while she shared an apartment with girlfriends in Pointe Claire, Que. She was happy to be re-engaging her quick mind. She paid little attention to campus parties, for she was in love with a young man who had gone out West to work. She spoke to him on the dormitory telephone using handfuls of quarters. I imagine her with her feet up against the wall, twisting her fingers in the telephone cord, the way I used to, murmuring and smiling.

Theresa also spoke frequently to her parents, whom she had last seen less than a month before on Thanksgiving weekend, when they celebrated her 19th birthday in their new house in Saint John. A fog rolled in from the Bay of Fundy on the day she and Andre were to fly back to Montreal. Marilyn Allore remembers their flight being cancelled. She and her husband drove them to the train station instead, for both children were anxious to get back to school for exams.

“I remember there was a billboard in the train station advertising Mexico,” Marilyn told me, “and I said to Theresa, ‘Whatever you do, do not run off to Mexico. Because you can get arrested for drugs there and that kind of thing.’ I remember that.” She paused, reflecting. “And I remember that Theresa kept getting off the train. She must have come off that train five times, to hug us goodbye.”

“Was that unusual for her?”

“Very.” She chuckled. “I remember going home and feeling really happy, and yet thinking something wasn’t right. It’s hard to explain. I was standing at the kitchen sink looking out the window, and I just had the feeling, that feeling of happiness, and the sense that something was about to change.”

Of course she remembers these details: My heart breaks listening to her on the telephone, her light voice calm, but poised, careful, because she has steeled herself for the stirring of these waters. She remembers the fog, the billboard, the goodbyes, everything, because it was the last time she ever saw her child.

– – –

Theresa planned to spend the weekend of Nov. 3 working on a book report about Zen Buddhism for her psychology class. She declined an invitation to go to her friend Caroline Greenwood’s family farm. At supper time, an acquaintance ran into her in the dining hall on the Champlain campus. Theresa bummed a cigarette, and the girls agreed to meet up later in Gillard House to listen to new albums. (What was playing that year? Genesis, the Alan Parsons Project. What Theresa listened to, her little brother, John, picked up on and later introduced to me.)

Theresa missed the 6:15 shuttle bus. Another one was not scheduled to take students out to Compton until 11 p.m. Did she position herself on the gravelled edge of Highway 143, illuminated by a street lamp, and stick out her thumb? She was fearless about hitchhiking, as I would have been at that age. Grow up loved and think the best of the world.

Who picked her up? No one has ever come forward to say that a petite redhead in a beige sweater-coat climbed into their car. She did come back to the village of Compton. A friend named Sharon Buzzee saw her on the stairs in King’s Hall — where students watched television, fixed snacks and ostensibly studied — at around 9 p.m. on the night of Nov. 3, shortly before she was planning to head over to Gillard House and listen to records.

Perhaps she was on her way up to the second floor to visit her brother Andre, who wasn’t in. Did she descend that central staircase once again, walk through the vestibule and out onto the lawn? Did she return to her room in Gillard House? Or turn the other way, and walk down the circular driveway and set off along Highway 147 toward Compton Village?

These questions bob up and down in the mind like horses on a carousel, they do not still just because the police lost interest. This summer, Marilyn Allore walked from King’s Hall along the gravelled side of the highway until she picked up the sidewalk in Compton, passing the faded clapboard houses with people staring suspiciously out of windows, the handful of stores, walking along in silence, a quiet, graceful woman whom I shall always picture with her luxuriant black hair swept into a chignon. Wordlessly retracing a possible route that her daughter took in her little Chinese slippers, sporting that long flowing scarf like Isadora Duncan, before vanishing thereafter into darkness.

– – –

Champlain College, it appears, did not notice that one of its students was missing for close to a week. Theresa’s friends began to worry much sooner — as they returned from their respective weekend adventures, and knocked on her door to gossip with her, only to find her absent. None of them were confident enough to raise an alarm. “Theresa didn’t need anyone to worry about her,” Greenwood later stated. “She always told us not to be her parents,” Laurie said. They didn’t wish to seem nosy or neurotic. But when she still hadn’t appeared on Tuesday, they kept checking around, telephoning friends of hers in Montreal, poking through her room for clues. Laurie and her boyfriend, Ian Catteril, opened Theresa’s locker and tried to glean from its unassuming contents where she had gone.

On Friday, Nov. 10, her brother overcame his own fear of “checking up on Theresa,” and called home. His parents were more confident in their judgement. They immediately notified the Lennoxville Police, and jumped into their car to drive westward from Saint John.

The cold month that followed was one scene among many in a parent’s worst nightmare. Few people offered to help the Allores. This was not like the recent searches for Chandra Levy in Washington, D.C., or Elizabeth Smart in Salt Lake City, Utah. It was more nearly the experience of the thousands of families in North America whose missing children are neither famous enough nor young enough to compel wide sympathetic attention. No one organized a search of the farmland and woods surrounding Compton, where Theresa would lie one kilometre from Gillard House through the winter. Robert Allore went knocking on doors, a desperate, frantic father, asking everyone everywhere, in shops and houses and farms and rectories throughout the Eastern Townships, if they had seen his daughter. People merely shook their heads and shrugged.

The police were reluctant to expend much effort on a probable runaway, who they imagined had hitchhiked directly from Lennoxville to points unknown. Still, Detective Leo Hamell of the Lennoxville police took a picture of Theresa to show border guards in Vermont. He checked with her old roommates in Montreal. He gathered statements from students in Compton but didn’t search the premises.

Marilyn Allore recalls that he was compassionate, but she thought he might be somehow out of his depth. Corporal Roch Gaudreault of the Sûreté, who would later become the lead investigator, told Robert Allore that there was little they could do, that Theresa’s body would probably turn up when the snow melted. The comment, Allore said later, was like “a nail between the eyes.”

Meanwhile, at Champlain College, Stuart Peacock, Director of Residence, did not make himself known to the Allores. Comptroller Jean Luc Gregoire continued to bill the Allores for Theresa’s tuition and board, with interest and penalties accruing.

Campus Director Bill Matson sauggested to the family that Theresa may have had problems.

“Dr. Matson,” Robert Allore wrote in notes he made at the time [???], “gave me the theory that Theresa may have had lesbian tendencies. He said Theresa, if found, would need psychiatric treatment, by court order if necessary. He asked us if Theresa was an adopted child.” (A question that Leo Hamell reiterated.) “He said he had indications that Theresa may have gone somewhere where disturbed people go (and) advised us to go back to New Brunswick, get back to normal and wait for something to happen.”

Instead, the Allores hired a private detective.

Robert Beullac of the Bureau D’Investigation Metropol arrived on the scene in late November, and immediately searched for physical evidence at Gillard and King’s Hall. He noted that Theresa’s purse was still in her room, as were her hiking boots, which she invariably took with her when she left the village overnight. He uncovered the fact that Sharon Buzzee had seen Theresa at King’s Hall, thus unravelling Matson’s theory that she had hitchhiked off into the wild-blue yonder to pursue her lesbian tendencies with disturbed people.

Both Dr. Matson and Detective Hamell implied that Buzzee’s statement wasn’t credible, as Buzzee told John Allore this year. Hamell had already speculated in the local press that Theresa may have headed off to Vermont, and in December, one month after she disappeared, he began to speculate that she had been involved in drugs. Sherbrooke was rife with drug dealers at that time. It just took a gargantuan leap in logic to conclude that a studious girl who had arrived in the area six weeks earlier had been whacked by a drug associate.

So why were the police thinking in this way? Was it a function of the times, to implicate a young woman in her own disappearance? Or were other factors at play?

Interestingly, we discovered that earlier in the year of Theresa’s disappearance, a young man was found dead of exposure on a golf course, having laid there, apparently for several months, after wandering off drunk from the Bishop’s University pub. Private Investigator Beullac had determined that on November 3rd, 1978, two Gillard House students were taken to hospital after imbibing an intoxicating blend of LSD and booze.

One was found face-down on the lawn after midnight, and ferried to Sherbrooke by the disgruntled night watchman.

Added to the reported sexual assaults of the previous year, the shuttle controversy and a housing crisis, and rumoured affairs between teachers and students, one would be naïve to think that Champlain had no concerns about its reputation. Gerald Cutting wrote a letter to John Allore this summer, stating that the college had done all it could to assist with the search for his sister.

Perhaps it had, but Suzanne DeRome, who was on the College board, recalls that the disappearance and death of Theresa Allore was not discussed board meetings. And Sharon Buzzee remained unaware that Theresa was dead until someone mentioned it to her in the 1990s. Another woman I spoke with whose husband taught at Champlain in those years was shocked to learn – in 2002 – that a student had died.

No one from Champlain sent the Allores a note of condolence, as John Allore pointed out in a letter to Cutting. There were no candle-light vigils and no posters. It was almost as though Theresa had vanished without a trace.

Sitting in my office late one night, leafing through Robert Allore’s notebook from that time, I came upon a page where he’d jotted down what Sharon Buzzee saw at King’s Hall. It was dated December 4th, 1978. The notation was terse: “Bottom of main stair case. One foot on bottom step. Going up.”

Beneath this he added, with heart-sinking poignancy, “7:15 p.m. — Broke down.”

My God, of course. I have a daughter now. I understand the hunger for that foot on the stair, the hunger to reach for it, to pull it to safety, and to know about where it stepped next.

Readers with any information about the case may e-mail John Allore at johnallore@aol.com


© Patricia Pearson, 2002