Seven years ago, a pretty waitress named Nikki Donnatelli disappeared on her way home from a late-night shift at the Harpoon Bar in Seal Cove. The next morning, while searching for the missing girl, the cops instead found Erland Jefferts passed out behind his steering wheel on an isolated woods road.
A local lobsterman known for his dashing good looks and substance-abuse problems, Jefferts had been bounced out of the Harpoon for making lewd advances to Donnatelli. Fearing the worst, the Maine state police and game wardens began an extensive search of the surrounding forest. The hunt took the better part of two rain-soaked days, but eventually Warden Kathy Frost and her cadaver dog, Pluto, located the body of the lost girl. Nikki had been bound with rigging tape to a tree, tortured, and raped. Because of the presence of a petechial hemorrhage, the medical examiner determined that she had died from asphyxiation after Erland Jefferts taped shut her nose and mouth.
Or so the prosecution claimed. The defense argued otherwise, and there were certain inconsistencies in the evidence to back up Jefferts’s story. Problems with the autopsy, a plausible alibi placing the accused in police custody at the medically determined time of death, some shucking and jiving by one of the investigating detectives on the witness stand-there were holes in the prosecutor’s case, but not enough to persuade the jury of Jefferts’s innocence. When the judge sentenced the handsome and articulate lobsterman to life imprisonment in the Maine State Prison without the possibility of parole, a group of his supporters began organizing to prove his innocence and secure his release. They called themselves “the J-Team.”
For seven years, they’d worked with a pro bono legal team to hire private investigators, write letters to newspapers, and file friend-of-the-court briefs to secure a new trial. But it was all for nothing. Erland Jefferts was still rotting away in his cell. And no more beautiful girls had gone missing in Knox County in all the years since.
That was before Ashley Kim took a wrong turn on a fog-darkened road on Parker Point.
I still remember the morning I first read the story. It was the summer following my graduation from high school, a rainy July day. My stepfather, Neil, was at his law office and my mother was having lunch with one of her tennis friends when I shuffled into the kitchen. The Portland Press Herald was spread out on the breakfast table. The headline read
WAITRESS MISSING IN SEAL COVE
The story was sensational, but what caught my attention was the accompanying photograph. It showed an achingly beautiful brunette, a few years older than I was, smiling at the camera. I knew from the moment I saw her that Nikki Donnatelli was dead. My heart didn’t care. I was smitten by a ghost.
That summer, I was working as sternman on a lobsterboat out of Pine Point. The previous year, I had gone to work in a remote sporting camp in the North Woods, where my estranged father lived, to wash dishes and scrub floors. Mostly, I had gone to be with my dad. The experiment had proved a disaster. So the next year, I decided to try my luck at sea. The sternman acts as the lobsterman’s assistant, which means you do all the shitwork-emptying the rancid bait bags and throwing the decaying remains to the gulls, rebaiting the mesh sacks with “fresh” herring, coiling the algae-slick lines, stacking the brick-weighted traps. You don’t actually get to haul traps or pilot the boat, or at least I didn’t. And while my employer earned a small fortune, he paid me only a flat wage. Still, I preferred lobstering to selling sneakers at the mall.
Most lobstermen listen to country-and-western music while they work, but my boss preferred talk radio. All the news that summer was about the beautiful Nikki Donnatelli and her despicable killer, Erland Jefferts. As a result, I found myself following each development in the case as the story shifted daily.
Nikki Donnatelli was twenty years old. Her family resided most of the year in White Plains, New York, but they had a summer cottage in Seal Cove. I have a vague memory that her father was an investment banker at one of those too-big-to-fail firms. Whatever he did, the Donnatellis had plenty of money.
The Harpoon Bar was a dive bar of a certain type you find in coastal towns. The decor tended toward lobster buoys and fishnets slung along plank walls. As the only saloon for miles, it attracted a diverse clientele. I always figured that the suntanned summer people got a thrill from drinking gin and tonics next to windburned guys who reeked of fish, sweat, and desperation. Fights broke out at the bar on weekend nights, but no one ever got shot or stabbed, so there was only a mild aura of danger to go with your fried clams. The appeal of dining and drinking at the ’Poon was that it made you feel like a local, even if you spent only a month in town each summer.
Nikki Donnatelli had just finished her junior year at Brown, where she was majoring in art history and planning a course of postgraduate study in Italy. She was described by various sources as intelligent, playful, and feisty: a young woman who had traveled alone across Europe and could take care of herself. The Harpoon’s owner, Mark Folsom, said Nikki enjoyed the attention she received from the younger lobstermen, but he claimed she confidently resisted their crude advances. She had a boyfriend in Florence, to whom she remained faithful, Folsom later testified.
Erland Jefferts was twenty-three that summer and a local kid. His mother’s family-the Bateses-had lived in Seal Cove since the town’s founding, and there were a number of landmarks in the neighborhood bearing their name. Little was known about Jefferts’s deadbeat dad. He had been a merchant mariner who had departed for seas unknown when young Erland was in diapers. The boy had largely been raised by his mother’s sizable clan. And when he later went on trial for murder, it was the Bates family who packed the courtroom.
From a young age, Erland had been called sensitive and intelligent. He’d started college at the Maine College of Art but dropped out after a year to follow the rock group Phish on its transcontinental wanderings. Eventually, he drifted back on the tide to Seal Cove. Before Nikki Donnatelli was murdered, he was working as sternman on a local vessel, the Glory B, owned by one Arthur Banks, and renting a room over the general store.
Jefferts had a reputation as a ladies’ man. Even the worst photos of him showed an impossibly handsome young guy with a sculpted jaw, piercing eyes, and wavy blond hair. Prior to the murder, his claim to fame was that a photographer from GQ had used him in a photo shoot. The magazine dudded up a few rugged lobstermen in expensive sweaters and designer peacoats for a fashion feature. Erland’s reputation as a small-town Casanova would later become a central point in the case against him, as well as an argument in his own defense.
The night of Nikki’s disappearance was a balmy Friday evening in mid-July. An approaching high-pressure front from the southwest had pushed a mass of subtropical air into Maine, making Seal Cove feel as hot and steamy as the Caribbean. As a result, the deck outside the Harpoon Bar was packed with merrymakers. The owner, Mark Folsom, later testified that everyone in town seemed to drop by that night for a cold drink.
In Erland Jefferts’s case, it was more than one drink. His liquor of choice was Jagermeister, and his capacity was legend. Even so, there was a line where his charm began to curdle, and he crossed the sloppy meridian around nine o’clock, according to witnesses. He’d been flirting with Nikki Donnatelli for weeks, and the pattern continued right up until the moment he grabbed her ass. Nikki complained to her employer, a former Marine who served as his own bouncer. Folsom applied a headlock to Jefferts and dragged him through the door. Outside, the bartender flung him bodily to the pavement. A small crowd watched Erland burn rubber as he fled the parking lot.
Why didn’t Folsom phone the police? That question took prominence at the trial. The barman’s confession was that he was worried about losing his liquor license, since Maine law prohibits serving drinks to anyone who is visibly intoxicated, and it was no secret that Jefferts had consumed the better part of a bottle since sundown.
After Jefferts left, the fiesta started up again. There were no more fights. Last call was at twelve-thirty, and then at one o’clock, Folsom locked the doors, and he and his staff went home.
With one exception.
Nikki Donnatelli lived less than a quarter of a mile from the Harpoon Bar. A notoriously poor driver who had just wrecked her car, she typically walked home or caught a ride from Folsom or one of the waitresses. But with the night being warm and the moon shining in the harbor, she made a fateful decision to take the shore path that stopped by Compass Rock. She was never seen alive again.
Several hours later, her mother, Angela, awoke from a nightmare. Because the walls of the summer house were cardboard-thin, she always heard Nikki washing her face and brushing her teeth, she told authorities. Angela roused her husband, Nick, and they agreed to telephone the police. The dispatcher informed them that Nikki couldn’t properly be termed missing. People her age frequently spent entire nights out without informing their parents, despite the Donnatellis’ assurances that their daughter would never do such a thing. The dispatcher eventually agreed to write down a physical description of Nikki, promising to alert sheriff’s deputies and state troopers on patrol in the area. “If anyone sees her,” the dispatcher said, “we’ll let you know.”
Shortly before dawn, a first-year sheriff’s deputy with the odd name of Dane Guffey was patrolling a stretch of isolated road about five miles from the Harpoon Bar when he decided to check out a forested ATV trail popular with teenagers looking for privacy. He had received word about Nikki Donnatelli, and he had a hunch that she might have sneaked into the woods with some Romeo. At the very least, he hoped he might surprise some amorous teens. Interrupting a couple having sex is one of the beat cop’s prurient pleasures.
The dirt road was heavily rutted but passable to four-wheel-drive vehicles, and Guffey had been assigned one of the county’s new SUVs. About half a mile into the forest, he was surprised to find a rusted blue Ford Ranger parked with its tailgate down and driver-side door ajar. He recognized the truck as belonging to Jefferts.
Guffey hit his spotlight, bathing the scene in brilliant whiteness, and announced his presence as a police officer over the radio loudspeaker. There was no movement, no response. He took his flashlight and, resting his right hand on the grip of his pistol, carefully approached the vehicle.
In his report, he wrote that the first thing he noticed was a pile of greenish vomit near the passenger door. His testimony evolved over time. At the trial, he testified that his eyes went first to a roll of marine rigging tape resting oddly on the tailgate, as if someone had just set it there.
Inside the vehicle, Guffey found Erland Jefferts passed out across the passenger seat. He was curled into something resembling a fetal position and would not awaken when the deputy called his name. Guffey said he had to shake Jefferts’s leg hard repeatedly before the intoxicated man awoke with a groan.
The deputy asked Jefferts if he had been drinking and received a firm no. Guffey then pointed to the pile of vomit outside and indicated the strong odor of alcohol filling the cab. At this point, Jefferts relented. Yes, he said, he had been drinking-but just a shot and two beers.
Why was he parked here in the woods? the deputy asked.
Jefferts’s confused explanation was that he had been returning to his apartment from a house party, where he had eaten some clam dip that disagreed with him. He felt that he needed to throw up, and so he drove down the ATV trail, looking for privacy. After he had puked, it occurred to him that having an empty stomach might boost his blood-alcohol level, and since he was fearful about being arrested for operating under the influence, he decided to take a nap until he was safe to drive again. That, he said, was when the deputy had found him.
Jefferts seemed excessively agitated, Guffey later testified. His eyes were wide and jumpy, and his upper lip was slick with perspiration. He kept glancing at his truck as if it might reveal some falsehood in his story and incriminate him.
The deputy decided to radio the dispatcher to find out if Nikki Donnatelli had returned home. It was then that he discovered that Angela had telephoned Nikki’s employer, Mark Folsom, and that the bar owner had reported the earlier run-in with Erland Jefferts as cause for concern.
Guffey asked the dispatcher to send backup.
The first officer to respond was a veteran Knox County detective, Joe Winchenback, whose testimony would be the linchpin of the case against Jefferts. It was Winchenback who took the young lobsterman aside and asked him if he knew Nikki Donnatelli.
No was the answer.
“She’s a waitress at the Harpoon Bar,” the detective informed him gently. Wasn’t it true that he’d been drinking there earlier that very evening?
No.
There were many witnesses who said that he had, in fact, been present at the bar, explained Winchenback.
Maybe he was there, Jefferts admitted.
Wasn’t it true that he had touched Nikki in an inappropriate way?
Absolutely not.
Would he at least admit that Mark Folsom had thrown him out of the bar because of something Nikki claimed he did.
Folsom was an asshole and a liar, responded Jefferts.
The detective changed his approach and asked the lobsterman if he had seen Nikki after he left the Harpoon Bar.
He couldn’t remember.
Did he know what time Nikki usually left the bar?
One a.m. That was when the bar closed.
Did he happen to know where she lived?
Yes, because she had told him once.
With Jefferts having changed his story several times, Winchenback made a decision to inform Jefferts of his Miranda rights. The process was just a technicality, he said, but he didn’t want to get into trouble with the sheriff for not going by the book. Jefferts asked what crime he was being accused of, and the detective said suspicion of operating a motor vehicle under the influence of intoxicating liquor.
Was a breath test really necessary?
Maybe not, said the detective. If Jefferts could be helpful in finding Nikki Donnatelli, it would improve his situation. Nikki hadn’t come home, and her parents were very worried. They just wanted her back safe and sound, so if Jefferts had any information about where she might be found, the police would be in a better position to help him on the drunk-driving matter.
Jefferts lowered his voice to a whisper. “What if I know where she is?”
These were the words the detective was waiting for. “Do you?” he asked.
Maybe he had seen her at the party, Jefferts admitted.
What would happen if they were to search his pickup truck? Winchenback asked. Would they find evidence of Nikki’s having been in it?
He had given her a ride home one night, so yes.
The detective pointed out that earlier in the interview, Jefferts had claimed never to have met Nikki Donnatelli.
The young man became angry. He said he was confused because he was tired and he wasn’t feeling well. He was having trouble remembering things. He felt the police were harassing him for no good reason and that he probably shouldn’t say anything more without a lawyer.
Winchenback responded that a girl was missing, and time was of the essence. “If you know something and don’t tell us,” he said, “it will haunt you forever. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would you?”
“No,” said the lobsterman.
Winchenback saw another opening and walked through it. “Do you remember what you did with Nikki?” he asked.
“What if I said yes?” replied Erland Jefferts.
Winchenback would later swear-and the prosecutor, Assistant Attorney General Danica Marshall, would argue in court-that Jefferts’s words were tantamount to a confession of guilt.
Seven years ago, I never would have imagined my future connection to any of these people. Like the rest of Maine, I’d found myself caught up in the mystery of a photogenic girl gone missing and a model-handsome lobsterman under suspicion. But my fascination was rooted more in hatred than in prurience. I fantasized driving to Rockland and shooting Jefferts with a deer rifle as he was being taken in chains from the courthouse. If I were Nikki’s boyfriend, I wondered, would I have had the guts to seek revenge?
But of course I wasn’t her boyfriend. I was just a testosterone-crazed kid. And frustrated lust, of the kind Jefferts must have felt for Nikki Donnatelli, was an intimate sensation for me, even more than my teenaged self dared to admit.