Entrance to Cove Landing
Living in a private community instantly cuts you apart from others, dividing lush topiaries from brown hedges, and fresh asphalt from cracked, weedy sidewalks. The strange horror outside is blocked by vigilant gates and heavy stones, setting a perpetual fog of merciful calmness adrift among latte-colored attached houses. Denice Fox, a recently retired school New York City teacher, sought such a lifestyle and moved to Cove Landing, an insulated community on Long Island’s moneyed North Shore. Five months later, she was killed her in her vestibule by a man who lived several yards away.
Evan Marshall played on Manhasset High School’s baseball and football teams. After graduating from Arizona State University with a degree in history, he moved into mom’s house in Glen Cove, Long Island, and began student teaching at schools in Floral Park and West Hempstead. Evan Marshall’s life was following a seemingly idyllic suburban journey, but twisted detours lay waiting on the primrose path ahead.
As adulthood unfolded, Evan spent time at several psychological clinics, including Supervised Lifestyles Residential in Brewster, New York, where others remembered him for his quick temper. Rob Kass, a patient at the clinic, befriended Evan and often played guitar with him. According to Kass: “He was a nice guy, but when you walked into a room with him, it was like walking on eggshells. You never knew what kind of mood he was in.” In a friendly gesture worthy of a psychology thesis, Kass lent Marshall two films, Edward Scissorhands and The Exorcist, which Evan never returned.
Back home in Glen Cove, Evan began drawing attention from fellow townspeople. Cops knew Evan as the “mad midnight drummer,” since his late night drum playing often caused noise complaints from neighbors. One afternoon at nearby Charlie’s Deli, Evan became enraged when the owner, Steve Lamere, refused to change a large bill. After he was escorted out, Evan threw a Snapple bottle at Lemere from across the street. Even Evan’s mom, Jacqueline Marshall, called police when she could not control her son’s violent temper.
August heralds long days of maddening heat, keeping most people locked away in air-conditioned colonials and condos, occasionally braving the melting streets for a microbrew or cola. Denice Fox spent such a day ensconced in the cool latitudes of her townhouse, possibly planning her next New England jaunt or contemplating granite styles for the kitchen countertop. Early that afternoon, Evan Marshall visited from two doors down, stabbed Denice to death, and dragged her corpse through the moist back yard into his apartment. Later that evening, police found Denice Fox’s headless body dismembered and stuffed into two garbage pails on Evan’s basement floor.
Glen Cove police waited as Evan Marshall drove down Willada Lane. Evan was covered with scratches; he had dried blood on his shoes, and Denice Fox’s head in the trunk of his light blue Toyota. Evan’s rage finally reached its ultimate release when psychotic passion eviscerated stalwart suburbia. Somewhere, a retired accountant eagerly studies a glossy brochure that promises continual comfort behind far-reaching fences, deftly separated from the madness lurking beyond.
Evan Marshall played on Manhasset High School’s baseball and football teams. After graduating from Arizona State University with a degree in history, he moved into mom’s house in Glen Cove, Long Island, and began student teaching at schools in Floral Park and West Hempstead. Evan Marshall’s life was following a seemingly idyllic suburban journey, but twisted detours lay waiting on the primrose path ahead.
As adulthood unfolded, Evan spent time at several psychological clinics, including Supervised Lifestyles Residential in Brewster, New York, where others remembered him for his quick temper. Rob Kass, a patient at the clinic, befriended Evan and often played guitar with him. According to Kass: “He was a nice guy, but when you walked into a room with him, it was like walking on eggshells. You never knew what kind of mood he was in.” In a friendly gesture worthy of a psychology thesis, Kass lent Marshall two films, Edward Scissorhands and The Exorcist, which Evan never returned.
Back home in Glen Cove, Evan began drawing attention from fellow townspeople. Cops knew Evan as the “mad midnight drummer,” since his late night drum playing often caused noise complaints from neighbors. One afternoon at nearby Charlie’s Deli, Evan became enraged when the owner, Steve Lamere, refused to change a large bill. After he was escorted out, Evan threw a Snapple bottle at Lemere from across the street. Even Evan’s mom, Jacqueline Marshall, called police when she could not control her son’s violent temper.
August heralds long days of maddening heat, keeping most people locked away in air-conditioned colonials and condos, occasionally braving the melting streets for a microbrew or cola. Denice Fox spent such a day ensconced in the cool latitudes of her townhouse, possibly planning her next New England jaunt or contemplating granite styles for the kitchen countertop. Early that afternoon, Evan Marshall visited from two doors down, stabbed Denice to death, and dragged her corpse through the moist back yard into his apartment. Later that evening, police found Denice Fox’s headless body dismembered and stuffed into two garbage pails on Evan’s basement floor.
Glen Cove police waited as Evan Marshall drove down Willada Lane. Evan was covered with scratches; he had dried blood on his shoes, and Denice Fox’s head in the trunk of his light blue Toyota. Evan’s rage finally reached its ultimate release when psychotic passion eviscerated stalwart suburbia. Somewhere, a retired accountant eagerly studies a glossy brochure that promises continual comfort behind far-reaching fences, deftly separated from the madness lurking beyond.
The Marshall home at 3 Willeda Lane
The Fox home 2 doors down
Charlie's Deli - the location of the famous Snapple incident
Through extensive forensic projectile trajectory analysis, Matt and I determined this to be the likely place Marshall was standing when he threw the Snapple bottle at Steve Lamere.
2 comments:
You should investigate how Supervised Lifestyles aka SLS Residential or SLS Health, tried to hide that he was a patient of the facility when he committed the murder and the owners even altered documents and lied under oath when the Office of Mental Health investigated the matter.
I dated this psycho in 2003. I got out because of his anger issues and weird fetishes. I was not surprised but truly saddened to hear what he did.
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