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1 Nestled in the middle of New England is the affluent community of Wellesley, Massachusetts, a prosperous town of twenty-six thousand residents where the quality of life embodies the best of what the six-state region has to offer. Located just thirteen miles west of Boston, it is home for many of the state’s captains of industry and its professional elite. Dirk and Mabel “May” Greineder embodied all the desirable qualities of a typical Wellesley family. Highly respected medical professionals—he a renowned allergist and asthma researcher and she a nurse—they had raised three accomplished children, Kirsten, Britt, and Colin, who like their father had all graduated from Yale University, with Kirsten and Colin embarking on medical careers of their own. Now empty-nesters, Dirk and May were basking in the recent news that Kirsten had become engaged. Even though the clocks had been turned back an hour for Daylight Savings Time, and despite having been up late the previous night, the couple rose before sunrise the Sunday morning of October 31, 1999, as was their usual practice. Eating breakfast in their modest split-level home at 56 Cleveland Road, Dirk and May were looking forward to getting out of the house on what was emerging as a glorious fall day. Weekend mornings at the Greineder home were reserved for walks with their German shepherds, Wolf and Zephyr, at nearby Morses Pond, although in recent 2 tom farmer and marty foley months their male dog’s aggressive behavior had prevented them from bringing him to the expansive public recreation area. Only the smaller female, Zephyr, was now allowed to romp through the pond’s wooded trails and swim at its beach. With bright sun and unusually warm weather stretching into the seventies , the only thing marring the perfect Indian summer day were wind gusts of thirty-two miles an hour from the southwest. Still, for the last day of October, no one was complaining. Loading Zephyr into their silver Chrysler Town and Country minivan just before 8:30 a.m., Dr. Greineder backed out of his driveway and headed up Cleveland Road for the twominute ride to Morses Pond. In the summer, residents are allowed to drive down a winding access road and park in a sandy parking lot where a spacious beach beckons a thousand feet away. Surrounded by woods and a large open sandpit, the pond was used year-round by joggers and walkers, many like the Greineders finding the serene surroundings perfect for exercising their dogs. After Labor Day, the town locked the steel barrier at the top of the access road, so after making a U-turn at the end of Turner Road just in front of the padlocked gate, Dr. Greineder backed the van into his regular off-season parking spot. After letting out Zephyr, Dirk and May slipped around the gate and strolled a short distance down the access road before veering right onto a trail in the woods the locals called the “pine tree forest.” Across town at the Wellesley Police Department, dispatcher Shannon Parillo was almost an hour into her daylong shift, thankful she would be leaving at 4 p.m. before the annual Halloween nuisance calls started after sunset. The phones had been quiet that morning with many residents taking advantage of the extra hour to sleep or ease into their Sunday morning routines. When a police line rang at 8:56 a.m., Parillo was not prepared for the hysterical, blubbering caller on the other end. After offering a friendly, “Wellesley Police. This call is recorded,” Parillo was greeted with rapid-fire, nasally pitched pleas for help from a male caller. “Help. I’m at the pond. I need some, someone attacked my wife, trying to get . . .” the breathless caller sputtered as Parillo struggled to understand him. a murder in wellesley 3 “Sir, where are you?” “I’m at, at the pond, at Morses Pond. Walking . . .” “At Morses Pond?” Parillo asked, still confused by the man. “Walking the dog, someone attacked. I left her ’cause she hurt her back.” “Okay, you just need to relax because I can’t understand what you’re saying,” Parillo said soothingly. “Please, please, please send a car.” “Okay, you’re at Morses Pond?” “Pond, yeah,” the caller panted. “Whereabouts at the Pond? Whereabouts at the pond,” Parillo shot back, trying to stop the caller’s rambling. “I’m, I’m outside my, my car’s outside the gate.” “Okay. Hold on...


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MARC Record
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