Drawing from legal testimony and comprehensive interviews, a respected journalist presents the facts behind the headline-making trial of lawyer Thomas J. Capano for the murder of Anne-Marie Fahey, a tale of politics, wealth, arrogance, and sex that rocked Delaware. Tour. The twisted tale of a young woman who said "no" to an obsessive, overbearing boyfriend, The Summer Wind recounts the sad, prematurely shortened life and death of Anne Marie Fahey and the clinically detached attempts by the man who shot her--politically well-connected Delaware lawyer Tom Capano--to wriggle his way out of responsibility for the deed. Anastasia's account begins during the summer of 1996, when Capano enlisted the help of his brother to help dump Fahey's body, stuffed into a large Igloo fisherman's ice chest, off the mid-Atlantic coast. When the chest wouldn't sink, Capano's brother fired into it with his shotgun; although blood spurted from the hole, the chest still refused to sink, so Capano finally tied an anchor to it. Fahey's body was never found, but the ice chest was recovered--which proved to be Capano's undoing. Much of the book is concerned with the fascinating psychological games Capano had used on Fahey during a relationship that spanned several years. Alternately cajoling and threatening her, he emerges as a truly vile character through Anastasia's steady case building. When Fahey turns up missing and is ultimately presumed dead, authorities immediately suspect the Machiavellian Capano, a behind-the-scenes power player of lasting notoriety on the Delaware scene. His attempts to cover up the crime and later to shift the blame to another mistress are shockingly repellent: Capano, it appears, was born without a conscience. An effectively written tale, The Summer Wind is a textbook example of good you-are-there journalism. --Tjames Madison George Anastasia is a reporter with the Philadelphia Inquirer. Chapter One The cooler wouldn't sink. It was floating out there in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, bobbing on the water. Mocking him. Tom Capano looked at it for a long time; then he turned to his brother Gerry. Gerry looked away. He had made it clear that he wanted no part of this. But Tom needed him. Maybe for the only time in his life, he needed his younger brother's help. They were out there together, and they had to finish what they had started. Tom cursed. The cooler was an Igloo marine model, a fisherman's ice chest. It was about four feet long, two feet high, and two and a half feet wide, made of heavy-duty white plastic. Tom had wrapped a large metal chain around it and secured it with a padlock, but that and its contents still weren't enough to make it sink. The cooler stood out against the blue-green sea, floating calmly about thirty feet away from them. They were standing on the deck of the Summer Wind --which was the name of Gerry's sports fishing boat, and also the title of a melancholy Frank Sinatra song of fleeting romance and the heartache of lost love. But that was an irony that would have been lost on Tom Capano as he stood staring at the damn ice chest, willing it to go down. "I can't fucking believe you did this," Gerry Capano shouted. "Why did you get me involved in this? I can't fucking believe it." They were about sixty miles out, southeast of the southernmost tip of New Jersey. It was late on a hazy Friday morning at the end of June in 1996, the kind of day sailors and fishermen described as "snotty." There was a slight wind blowing out of the southeast. The waves were two to four feet. The sun was trying to break through the heavy mist. During the ride down to the shore that morning, Tom had assured his brother that everything would be all right. "I'll never let anything happen to you," he had said. But now, as he stood at the back of the small boat, he had nothing more to say to his brother. Gerry cut back on the dual engines that powered the twenty-five-foot Hydra Sport. He reached for the shotgun he kept in the boat's small wheelhouse: a twelve-gauge Mossberg, silver with a black stock. Gerry kept the gun on board to kill sharks. He used deer slugs. They were more effective than buckshot. Gerry aimed at the cooler and fired once. There was a dull thud as the slug pierced the plastic. The brothers looked at one another. Now blood was seeping out of the bullet hole. But the cooler was still bobbing on the ocean's surface. It wouldn't sink. Gerry cursed in frustration and anger. He powered the engines and swung the boat around toward the cooler, gently pulling alongside. Tom reached over and grabbed for the chain, pulling the ice chest hard against the Summer Wind. Gerry cut back on the engines and allowed the boat to idle. He reached down, grabbed the boat's two anchors, and brought them to his brother. "You're on your own," he said. Tom was fighting to get the chain and padlock off the cooler. Gerry walked away, toward the bow of the boat. For three or four minutes he stood t