A 50-year true crime saga that underscores the shocking darkness—and unending lightness—of the human soul
jack·light·ing | ˈjak-ˌlīt-iŋ |
Noun
The hunting method of shining artificial light on game at night to stun or freeze it in place—exploiting the “deer-in-the-headlights” effect to make it an easy target.
By extension, the kill itself: an amoral killing of defenseless prey, illegal in most states, including Pennsylvania, where it was outlawed in the late 1800s.
In 1976, in Montrose, Pennsylvania, two men who were supposedly friends went skeet-shooting together out in the woods. Only one of them returned alive. Marty Dillon, son of Mayor Larry Dillon and popular pick for the upcoming Montrose defense attorney election, was shot—by accident, claimed Steve Scher. The fact that Scher, a doctor, was having an affair with Marty’s wife, a nurse, was an open secret.
“[Montrose was] a cozy hamlet in the state’s northeast corner where rumor and innuendo flowed from the hospital to a club whose members were better at keeping secrets than most.”
But Scher was a popular doctor, and the town soon tore itself in two: those who believed the Dillons suffered a tragic accident and those who believed Scher was willing to do anything to get what he wanted—which, in this case, was Pat Dillon. A devout Catholic, Pat was adamantly opposed to divorce and would not have left Marty by choice. So, the whispers went, Scher made the choice for her. As Larry Dillon liked to say, “Only two kinds of people show up at Gunsmoke. Those who are invited and those who are lost.”
On June 2, 1976, Scher was both.
He maintained his innocence, however, even after he married Pat, became stepfather to Marty’s two kids, and moved them out of state. The fact that it took 20 years for the Montrose DA to properly investigate Marty’s death and bring charges—despite constant nagging from Marty’s parents—seemed to corroborate this. But then, in the mid-1990s, the evidence against Scher snowballed. That the case played out in parallel with the O.J. Simpson case, and even included a select few of O.J.’s “Dream Team,” made its news coverage all that much more tantalizing.
“[The police] knew that whatever they gathered now would be eventually picked apart by lawyers on both sides, just as it was unfolding in the O.J. trial. For the troopers, how they built the case would matter as much as what they found.”
The narrative is a poignant one, with moments sure to stick with the reader well past the final page. Take this interaction between Marty and his then five-year-old son, Michael, only three days before Marty’s death. The two are at an Indy 500 race day watch party with a clutch of Marty’s good friends, when a disastrous crash comes on TV.
[Michael]: Dad, what happens when people die? Does everybody just forget about them?
[Marty]: The sad thing is, Michael, that’s exactly what does happen sometimes.
Or take this tongue-in-cheek response Ann gives to reporters during the trial, after she’s subject to hours of cross-examination regarding her ex-husband’s cruel treatment of her: “People don’t really know how to deal with this,” [Ann] told the paper. “Hallmark doesn’t make a card for this occasion.”
Conti’s coverage is thorough, but layered within is an awkward tension unrelated to the murder: Conti’s own publishing journey, which can steal the narrative spotlight, at times overly prioritizing her grievance with certain editors and presses, the industry overall, and the author who landed the contract for Secrets from the Grave. The book wholly fulfills the promise of educating and entertaining, but as Conti quotes from the rejections she received along the way, readers are also left with an uncomfortable sentiment: “Poor little crushed me.”
Spanning 1976 to 2026, this immersive, sharply detailed account walks readers through the entirety of the Dillon-Scher tragedy, outlining the joys and hardships of three generations. For lovers of true crime, police procedurals, and history, it checks all the boxes for a well-worthy addition to your TBR pile.
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