to pursue the big guy for the big crime.
May 18, 1998
Kendall Francois took his place at the side of his public defender in the Town of Poughkeepsie Court. Francois had claimed indigence since he wasn’t gainfully employed and didn’t have money to get his own lawyer. The fact that his parents owned a house worth six figures was irrelevant since it was in their names.
Siegrist was powerless to do anything but watch as the state supplied counsel to a suspected serial killer on an assault charge that the district attorney told him had been plea bargained down to a misdemeanor. Could anything be more ironic?
In the Poughkeepsie town court, unless the defendant requests it and is willing to pay for it out of his own pocket, there is no stenographer. The court’s proceedings are “not for public view,” according to the clerk for one of the court’s judges. While every defendant is entitled to a public trial according to the Constitution, what isn’t guaranteed is that someone will take the entire proceedings down verbatim. For that reason, there was no transcript of the disposition of the charge against Kendall Francois. All that exists is a computer record of the result.
On May 18, 1998, Kendall Francois pleaded guilty to a charge of assault in the third degree, a misdemeanor, and was sentenced to fifteen days in the county jail. With time off for good behavior and credit for the time he was in actual custody, Francois served just seven days. He was back in action on May 25.
As he walked out of county jail, Kendall Francois realized what a good day it was. It was sunny and nice. The free air felt good. There were no more charges pending against him. He had served his time. The relentless police scrutiny of his activities that he had had to endure in the preceding months had been curbed. The odor in the attic was abating.
It was time to kill again.
Getting to Dover Plains was not easy. Situated in the eastern section of Dutchess County, the only way to get there from Poughkeepsie was to take Route 55 east out of town. There was no other road that would go that far east.
Ten miles outside of Poughkeepsie, the surroundings changed from suburban to rural. Farms dotted the landscape. Apple orchards crowded together, ripe for the fall harvest. Just before Tymore Park, Route 55 came to a crossroads. The fork on the left was East Noxon, a county road made out of old tar and cement dust.
Taking a left onto it, East Noxon ambled for a few miles until it became Burugzal Road. Changing its name as it wound east through isolated towns with populations that barely reached a thousand, the road, actually listed as County Road 20 on the map, finally met up with State Route 6, less than ten miles from the Connecticut border. The area was so rural that a few miles north, the Appalachian Trail cut through the countryside.
Going north on 22, the town of Dover came up in the distance. Before getting there, you passed the Valley Psychiatric Center. Then just a few more miles north, the road finally came into the town of Dover Plains. It was the kind of place people leave from, not go to.
There was really no hope in Dover Plains. When Sandra French grew up there in the 1950’s, there was no industry, just a few stores, a library, a city hall and that was about it. By the 1960’s, when she was in high school, things were still the same. That was the trouble with Dover Plains—things were always the same there. Time stood still. Things never changed. That included the kids.
Sandra Jean French’s 1965 senior high school yearbook photo shows a mature young woman who looks ready to take on the world. The black-and-white picture shows a dark-haired girl with striking dark eyes, a nice nose and full lips, wearing a chic, black-knit turtleneck.
“Sandi,” as her friends knew her, had been a popular girl in Dover Plains High School. In her yearbook, she gave her likes as “1957 Chevys, horses, parties” and dislikes as “snotty
May 18, 1998
Kendall Francois took his place at the side of his public defender in the Town of Poughkeepsie Court. Francois had claimed indigence since he wasn’t gainfully employed and didn’t have money to get his own lawyer. The fact that his parents owned a house worth six figures was irrelevant since it was in their names.
Siegrist was powerless to do anything but watch as the state supplied counsel to a suspected serial killer on an assault charge that the district attorney told him had been plea bargained down to a misdemeanor. Could anything be more ironic?
In the Poughkeepsie town court, unless the defendant requests it and is willing to pay for it out of his own pocket, there is no stenographer. The court’s proceedings are “not for public view,” according to the clerk for one of the court’s judges. While every defendant is entitled to a public trial according to the Constitution, what isn’t guaranteed is that someone will take the entire proceedings down verbatim. For that reason, there was no transcript of the disposition of the charge against Kendall Francois. All that exists is a computer record of the result.
On May 18, 1998, Kendall Francois pleaded guilty to a charge of assault in the third degree, a misdemeanor, and was sentenced to fifteen days in the county jail. With time off for good behavior and credit for the time he was in actual custody, Francois served just seven days. He was back in action on May 25.
As he walked out of county jail, Kendall Francois realized what a good day it was. It was sunny and nice. The free air felt good. There were no more charges pending against him. He had served his time. The relentless police scrutiny of his activities that he had had to endure in the preceding months had been curbed. The odor in the attic was abating.
It was time to kill again.
Getting to Dover Plains was not easy. Situated in the eastern section of Dutchess County, the only way to get there from Poughkeepsie was to take Route 55 east out of town. There was no other road that would go that far east.
Ten miles outside of Poughkeepsie, the surroundings changed from suburban to rural. Farms dotted the landscape. Apple orchards crowded together, ripe for the fall harvest. Just before Tymore Park, Route 55 came to a crossroads. The fork on the left was East Noxon, a county road made out of old tar and cement dust.
Taking a left onto it, East Noxon ambled for a few miles until it became Burugzal Road. Changing its name as it wound east through isolated towns with populations that barely reached a thousand, the road, actually listed as County Road 20 on the map, finally met up with State Route 6, less than ten miles from the Connecticut border. The area was so rural that a few miles north, the Appalachian Trail cut through the countryside.
Going north on 22, the town of Dover came up in the distance. Before getting there, you passed the Valley Psychiatric Center. Then just a few more miles north, the road finally came into the town of Dover Plains. It was the kind of place people leave from, not go to.
There was really no hope in Dover Plains. When Sandra French grew up there in the 1950’s, there was no industry, just a few stores, a library, a city hall and that was about it. By the 1960’s, when she was in high school, things were still the same. That was the trouble with Dover Plains—things were always the same there. Time stood still. Things never changed. That included the kids.
Sandra Jean French’s 1965 senior high school yearbook photo shows a mature young woman who looks ready to take on the world. The black-and-white picture shows a dark-haired girl with striking dark eyes, a nice nose and full lips, wearing a chic, black-knit turtleneck.
“Sandi,” as her friends knew her, had been a popular girl in Dover Plains High School. In her yearbook, she gave her likes as “1957 Chevys, horses, parties” and dislikes as “snotty
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