Gabrielle was born via Cesarean section the day after Christmas. "It was the best day of my life," Dahm says. "She had the loudest scream and the strongest lungs right when the doctor took her out. She was a bundle of joy." Because she was premature and still had fluid in her lungs, baby Gabrielle stayed in the hospital for nine days. The hospital also kept Delbecq for four days so she could recover from the procedure.
"Unfortunately they gave Leslie so many drugs in the hospital — Vicodin, Percocet, and other things because of the surgery — that in a sense, it woke up some demons," Dahm claims. "As soon as they let her out of the hospital, after being sober for just over a year, she picked up the bottle again. I could smell the booze on her breath."
Courtesy of FBI
From left to right: Leslie Delbecq; her mother, Jeanine De Riddere; and her father, Philippe Delbecq. All three are wanted by the FBI on charges of international parental kidnapping.
Chris Sweeney
Christopher Dahm has kept the room of his daughter, Gabrielle, just as it was when she was kidnapped by her mother almost two years ago.
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Dahm alleges that one night, a clearly bombed Delbecq came home around 9, put down the bassinet containing Gabrielle in the living room, and promptly passed out facedown on the bed, fully clothed. When he searched through her purse, he found a polychromatic array of pills and a baggie of cocaine, he claims. On another occasion, he says, she got into a fender-bender while drunk driving with her baby in the car. When he tried confronting Delbecq about these reignited habits, she got angry and stormed off to stay with her mother at her condo up the road. Meanwhile, Dahm says his father-in-law, the one person he hoped to reason with man-to-man, flat out denied that Delbecq had a postpartum drinking problem.
From Dahm's point of view, the mother-in-law masterminded this chaos. She didn't care that Delbecq was constantly inebriated because it cleared the way for near-around-the-clock access to the infant. One Sunday, he and De Riddere had a dispute over who would spend the day with the baby. Dahm reasoned that he had worked six days that week and deserved a peaceful break with his child. In response, the mother-in-law slapped him across the face and declared in her thick Belgian accent, "Americans are just classless savages." A few days later, Dahm says, De Riddere slapped Delbecq and delivered an ultimatum: Divorce Dahm or be disowned by the family and cut off from its roughly $3 million in savings.
Barely a month after giving birth, Delbecq filed for divorce. It would take nearly a year of judicial jousting to officially dissolve a marriage that had lasted four months. In the process, Dahm's criminal past would unravel for all to see.
On the phone from the other side of the world, Delbecq says her mother always had her back. "My mother was the only person who could stand up to [Dahm]," she explains. "She was defending me. He's accusing my mother because she was in the way; she was in the way of his plans of manipulating me."
The Delbecqs are a small, tight nuclear family forged together by tumult and travel. Leslie's parents met in Zaire, a former colony of Belgium that's now known as the Democratic Republic of Congo. When their first child, a son, was conceived, they traveled to England so he would be born with U.K. citizenship. A few years later, when Leslie was about to be born, they traveled to Ann Arbor and birthed a U.S. citizen.
Soon after Leslie was born, the family returned to Zaire and stayed until the early 1990s. Although the country was beautiful and the family led a comfortable life, Delbecq says she contracted malaria and typhoid fever during her childhood. More dangerous than those diseases, though, was her status as a white emblem of Belgian colonialism in a country rife with upheaval. "It was a very dangerous place," she says. "I was at school, and the local army, which had not been paid, had the free will to go attack foreign schools, especially Belgian schools. We had the principal knocking on our door to tell the teacher to lock the door, hide the kids, and get underneath desks... We were the target."
When Delbecq was 11, the French Foreign Legion swooped into central Africa and rescued her family just as Zaire drifted into catastrophic violence. They escaped to Bahrain, a minuscule country near the Persian Gulf. There, her dad had lined up a good job as a commercial pilot. "Our lives got a little better," she says. Eventually her father accepted a job as a pilot with Etihad Airways in the UAE, where he continues to pull in a hefty salary.
The family remained close even when Delbecq traveled thousands of miles to join the Army and go to college in the States. When she moved to Fort Lauderdale for a job teaching English at a language academy, her folks purchased a condo at the nearby Bay Colony Club and planned on eventually retiring to sunny South Florida so they could bask in the golden years with their daughter. But these plans were jettisoned when the family galvanized its bond in a brazen display of lawbreaking.
Delbecq says she had always thought of Dahm as an upstanding citizen. She knew he had a business selling warranties for cars, and she saw him go to an office every day. However, "the second I got married, Chris changed into a different person entirely," Delbecq says. "I was eight months pregnant, and someone came to my house, and they were looking for him. They started throwing rocks. He locked me in. He put a gun, like a 9-millimeter, a loaded 9-millimeter, in my drawer. It was insane, and I started getting paranoid."