In 2014, Heather Mack and her then-boyfriend Tommy Schaefer were arrested in Bali after the body of Mack's mother, Sheila von Wiese-Mack, was found in a suitcase. Mack is currently serving a 26-year federal prison sentence after pleading guilty to conspiring to murder her mother. Years before the grisly event, Sgt. Rasul T. Freelain (Ret.) arrested Mack for the first time after her mother visited the Illinois police station where he worked and reported that her daughter abused her. The following excerpt, from Freelain’s upcoming book about the case, shows the moment Wiese-Mack ultimately agreed to cooperate with her daughter’s arrest—a pivotal moment, Freelain writes, in the family’s broader story.

The fading winter sun descended into twilight as I drove toward Sheila von Wiese-Mack’s home near the west side of Chicago. Despite a blast of subzero temperatures and a recent blizzard that had buried the city in nearly two feet of snow days earlier, the weather had unexpectedly warmed and—like Sheila—was cooperating. It had taken quite a bit to convince the widow of famed composer James L. Mack to finally stand up to her abusive 15-year-old daughter, Heather Mack. But a broken arm had finally opened the victim’s eyes to a disturbing reality: the girl’s dangerous pattern of threatening, punching and beating her mother was now completely out of control.

As I drove, I rolled down the front windows of the blue unmarked Crown Victoria and breathed in the evening's fresh air. What a difference a day can make, I thought.

Finally, Sheila and I stopped our vehicles in front of a 6,000-foot mansion on Linden Avenue that featured impressive mustard-color brick construction, a green clay tile roof and limestone accents.

As we entered the front door of the home, I observed the room to my right appeared to be a chaotic space that doubled as the family’s dining room. All the chairs had been knocked onto their sides; pieces of broken dishes were scattered across a table. Crumpled papers and what appeared to be a wadded-up bed sheet were clumped in a pile against a wall. As I surveyed the damage, my instincts told me there was more in the next room. I turned to my left, stepped through an open archway into a large living room and stopped dead in my tracks.

This was ground zero. A large wooden shelf was resting on its face in the middle of the floor, with books and various decorative items scattered helter-skelter and pinned beneath it—splinters and specks of broken glass and larger, razor-sharp chunks reflected across the carpet. Broken picture frames lay in an uneven trail on the floor, stretching for several feet, as if a small tornado had snatched each portrait and indiscriminately decided its fate.

In the middle of all the destruction was a small-framed girl in a red sweater, her curly dark brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was looking away from the door and fumbling with an object that appeared to be a cell phone.

“Police,” I announced.

Heather’s thin arms and shoulders flinched in unison as she twisted around quickly in her seat and looked at me, wide-eyed.

“It’s Detective Freelain,” I started to say before she interrupted in a melodramatic tone and claimed I had no right to be inside her house.

“Actually, I can be here because your mother invited me here. She unlocked the door for me,” I replied calmly.

She stood up and scowled at Sheila while the victim remained silent in the hallway behind me.

“I need you to sit back down,” I instructed.

Heather shot me a defiant look, prompting me to rephrase my directive.

“Take a seat,” I said bluntly.

She complied begrudgingly, barely sitting down on the edge of the chair.

I was relieved to hear my female backup officer announce over my shoulder mic that she was pulling up outside; she would be available if Heather tried to rabbit or—even worse—physically confront Sheila. I got straight to the point.

“Listen. Your mother has told me that some pretty bad things have been happening. And we have evidence that you’ve been hurting her. So, here’s the deal: You’re coming with me to the police station. Period. And you’ll have a chance to give me your side of the story if you choose.”

Heather immediately sprang to her feet and began screaming at her mother for contacting the police. I decided the conversation was over as she approached the doorway where Sheila and I stood.

“Stop! Stop right there. That’s it. You are under arrest for domestic battery,” I said while stepping forward and continuing to give stern directives. “I need you to turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

She froze as I reached forward and grabbed her left wrist. As I carefully placed it behind her back, Heather kept her opposite arm at her side. The teen accused her mother of overreacting while spontaneously admitting she had caused the extensive property damage inside the family’s home that day.

“Put your hands behind your back,” I ordered.

This time, Heather complied.

As I handcuffed the teenager, I noticed how thin her wrists were, compared to the size of most suspects I had arrested. Once she was secured, I took hold of her left wrist and elbow.

I began escorting Heather from the living room as she continued to insist that she hadn’t done anything wrong, her voice level increasing dramatically into a scream.

Sheila wiped tears from her eyes as she finally broke her silence.

“Stop this!” the widow began, her voice passionate and filled with maternal strength. “Heather, just stop this, please. That is not true. It is simply not true. You know what you did to me today.”

Looking directly at Heather, Sheila gestured around the room.

“Look at this. Look at it!” she insisted.

As I walked Heather toward the front door, Sheila gestured to me. “Detective, please wait.”

I stopped and stood holding Heather's elbow and wrist as mother and daughter faced each other in the hallway, just feet apart. Sheila spoke calmly while staring at her child.

“This is our home. Our home. You are doing this. Not me. You. This must stop. You must stop. You cannot continue to do this. I am so sorry that Daddy is gone. But you cannot continue to treat me this way.”

Heather looked directly at Sheila for a moment, then, to my surprise, lowered her head and quietly began to cry.

Sheila looked at me and nodded, and I resumed walking Heather outside as the female officer stepped onto the porch. I handed the girl over and summarized the evening’s developments.

“This is Heather. She’s in custody. Domestic battery. And she’s 15, so I’ll need your help as the juvenile officer.”

“No problem,” the assisting officer replied.

“And she needs to be searched,” I cautioned.

The veteran nodded her understanding while telling Heather, “Come with me, young lady.” She then walked the girl to the curb, performed a brief custodial pat-down and placed her in the backseat of the squad car.

As the marked unit drove off, Sheila watched from the foyer, wiping away her tears.

“This is all very surreal,” she said in a soft monotone. “I never wanted it to come to this.”

“I know,” I offered in a supportive tone. “You’re trying to save her. You are trying to save her before it’s too late.”

I wasn’t exactly sure why, but it felt like I was consoling a family member through a personal crisis.

Sheila nodded and pressed her lips together in a half smile, still fighting tears.

I contacted dispatch and requested that an evidence technician respond and photograph the scene before informing Sheila that I was heading back to the station.

“Ma’am, I need to get started on the paperwork and check on Heather. I’ll wait for you to arrive before I formally question her."

“Thank you,” Sheila replied.

I informed dispatch that I was clearing the scene and drove back to the station.

There was a long evening ahead for us all.

Excerpted from When Lambs Become Wolves: The Chilling Case of Sheila von Wiese-Mack, by Rasul T. Freelain, out June 17, 2026

All views expressed in this article are the author's own.

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