More detail on this person: Two bullets shattered Navy couple's facade of perfection Becky Klosterman drew friends with an easy smile, a sympathetic ear or a warm plate of cookies. Husband Robert commanded respect with a Naval Academy pedigree, daring combat experience and exceptional performance reviews. They were attractive, fit and well-spoken. A model couple, many thought, to land on Admirals Row in Norfolk or a top spot at the Pentagon. The Klostermans appeared publicly as a polished and engaging couple. Privately, however, Becky suffered and, ultimately, feared for her life. For more than a decade, retired Capt. Robert Klosterman blamed his failure to reach the upper echelons of the Navy on his wife. His bitterness swelled to violence and drove his wife toward divorce. On the last day of Becky's life, neighbors saw Robert at the nearby 7-11 that morning. On a kitchen calendar, Becky scribbled that she, too, spotted her husband in the yard. It was 6:30 a.m. She left the house and returned home a few hours later, never seeing her husband's car parked around the corner. Robert met his wife in the house, according to a police account given to the family. She did not run. Or fight. She did not want any other victims, her family said. The two went to the garage. Robert told his wife to lie on the floor. Becky grabbed a cardboard box and placed it on the concrete. She wanted no stains. Becky was born Rebecca Coffield, the first daughter of a Navy sailor. Her father, Jack Coffield, became a chief petty officer and later a Virginia Beach police detective. Her mother, Angela, came from a close-knit Greek family. She worked hard to keep her family together during her husband's deployments and later the stresses of his police work. Becky took her role as the oldest child seriously, said her sister, Kitty Kirk. When their parents divorced, Becky sat her two brothers and sister down and told them not to worry. After she graduated from Kellam High School in Virginia Beach, she married her boyfriend. The couple moved to North Carolina, where her husband was stationed as a soldier. They had a son. When the young romance failed, Becky returned to her family's home in Virginia Beach, family members said. Robert Charles Klosterman was born in Ohio. He graduated from the Naval Academy in 1969. After accepting his commission, he trained as an attack helicopter pilot and flew more than 400 combat missions with the Seawolves over Vietnam. By the time he crossed paths with Becky, his rising Navy career had brought him to Norfolk. They met at an Oceanfront club, her sister said. Eventually, Becky introduced Robert to her family. He impressed Becky's father with his focus and ambition. The couple married in Mississippi in December 1974. Robert and Becky moved outside Jacksonville, Fla., where they lived in a modest home. Becky took up the roles of a traditional wife: She stayed at home, raised their son, cooked and kept house. Her husband ran the household and their finances. He became a jet fighter pilot and joined the Hellrazors A-7 squadron at Cecil Field Naval Air Station. Becky threw herself into the duties of an officer's wife, said Betty Wengert, the wife of another Navy officer who befriended the couple in Florida. She joined the wives clubs, hosted parties and never refused a friend's call for help, Wengert said. Her out going personality made people smile, and she complemented her husband at Navy social events. She also spent a lot of time understanding the subtle politics behind even the most commonplace Navy ceremonies. At a ship commissioning, Becky spotted the power brokers, Kirk said. "To watch her work a room," her sister said, "you would think she was a politician." Robert, known by his call name, "K-9" or "Dog," was most suited for the cockpit and flight deck. He rose quickly, checking off the boxes needed to one day command a nuclear aircraft carrier. Two bosses wrote when he was just a lieutenant commander that he was destined for a "high flag rank." He outshined his hyper-competitive peers in the Navy's aviation community. "No officer of his rank has ever impressed me more," wrote one officer, underlining his words for emphasis. They were awestruck with Becky. "He and his charming wife support squadron functions and are welcome additions in any social gathering," one officer wrote. Robert's growing success included three Meritorious Service Medals, a Legion of Merit and the honor of piloting a Corsair attack jet in the 1986 air strike over Libya against leader Muammar al-Gaddafi. In 1993, he took command of the aircraft carrier John C. Stennis. He was assigned to oversee the shipyard work, build a 3,000-sailor crew and launch the $3.5 billion warship around the world. At home, however, the Navy life and her husband's driven personality wore on Becky. Becky became a "first lady" for the Stennis community and its various family support groups. Her role grew with her husband's rank. Family members say she steered her husband at social events, pointing out names and faces of those he should recognize or meet. She watched the competition, too, tracking the careers of others ascending the ranks. Becky also had social conscience, family members said. When the 1991 Tailhook scandal emerged, she took sides. She befriended the wife of an officer who said she witnessed the drunken and misogynistic crowd of aviators at the Las Vegas convention. The friendship hurt her already strained marriage. Each time Robert returned from deployments, he grilled friends and sailors about his wife's actions while he was away. After one spat about starting a family, he slapped his wife, he said in a court deposition. She moved out of the house for several weeks and stayed with her mother. He also grew distant from Becky and her family. During visits to his in-laws, Robert rarely held conversations for more than a few minutes. If he joined them in a friendly game of Hearts, it turned into a grudge match without rules, Kirk said. "He'd have to win," she said. "Either he was going to win or you weren't going to be happy." The Navy finds the relationship between commanding officer and spouse vital to morale and the success of a unit. Becky concealed her private doubts and the abuse from all but her closest friends and family. Becky never mentioned whether the Navy or Robert's superiors intervened or counseled him on his marriage, Kirk said. The Navy has since established a college-level course in Newport, R.I., to teach the wives and husbands of commanding officers to manage crises, build networks at home and repair strained relationships in families throughout a unit. After four years commanding the Stennis, Robert drew an assignment at Joint Forces Command in Norfolk. His performance records show that he performed well as Stennis skipper. He was a combat veteran who could be gruff and candid. He inspired loyalty from his sailors. He was also known to drink hard, he testified. In the Navy, promotions to the top ranks are handled by a committee sworn to secrecy. Admirals select others to be appointed to their exclusive club. You're either selected or not. Robert never made the cut, despite his storied resume. He blamed his wife. He did not attend the 1991 Las Vegas convention, according to court records. But Adm. Frank Kelso, then chief of naval operations, did and was accused of being where inappropriate behavior occurred, according to Robert's testimony in his divorce case years later. Kelso was later cleared of any improprieties. Against Robert's advice, Becky befriended the woman who testified against the admiral, he said in a deposition.She offered to host the woman at their home, which Robert said he refused. "It could jeopardize my career," he told Becky. His wife then attended the 1993 hearing in Norfolk with the woman. Robert later said in his sworn statement that it made him look bad, and he later heard about it from a vice admiral. When a selection board considered him for admiral, he was told by a friend the board discussed his wife. "In my mind, I think that somebody on that board knew about my wife sitting with this woman testifying against Adm. Kelso," Robert said in his sworn deposition. "All it would take was one word, and that would have torpedoed my chances to get promoted to rear admiral." In October 1997, Capt. Robert Klosterman retired from the Navy after 28 years. Robert quickly cashed in his expertise, joining Newport News Shipbuilding as an executive. He was well-paid and well-respected, and the 401 (k) match was great. He played golf with Navy buddies and drove for the higher ranks. Becky settled into a routine of tennis matches at Tidewater Racket Club, made new friends and doted on her granddaughter, nieces and nephews. The couple left behind the stress of active duty Navy life, but also its disciplines. Robert indulged. He frequently took business and pleasure trips without his wife. A few days before Thanksgiving 2008, Becky burst into her husband's second-floor study. She spat accusations about money, hidden credit card accounts and other women. Finances and infidelity had plagued the couple throughout their marriage, Becky's family members said. The Klostermans later presented two accounts of the fight that day to a Norfolk judge. According to Becky, Robert pulled a gun from a case and pointed it at her. Then he turned the gun on himself. He never fired, but pushed her from his office. Robert claimed that Becky screamed at him about his behavior, so he retreated to his office. She followed him there, where he asked her to leave. In a moment of desperation, he told the court, he pulled an unloaded gun from a case, pointed it at himself and asked Becky if she preferred to see him dead. "You don't have the guts," he said his wife told him. Becky obtained a temporary restraining order against her husband shortly after the incident. Robert moved out. Divorce papers followed along with allegations months before the trial. Becky learned about a secret life carried on by her husband, court records show. Robert told the court he frequented the Camelot Show Bar, a gentlemen's club in Washington. Court records show he spent at least $8,600 at the club during the last two years of his marriage. By his own testimony, he became friends with a 25-year-old hostess there who Becky in court papers alleged was his mistress. Robert, though, said he treated the woman like a daughter, encouraging her to get a real estate license and financially supporting her. He bought her a $29,000 Ford SUV and gave her $9,000 in cash, clothing, jewelry and other gifts. The revelations devastated Becky, friends and family said. Robert's attorney charged in court records that Becky spread rumors about her husband's infidelity and behavior. The couple went to counseling but didn't reconcile. They both needed therapy, Wengert said. "You wring your hands and try to understand it," she said, " but you can't." During the ordeal, Becky stopped eating and lost 30 pounds, her sister said. She installed security cameras around the house. She sometimes told her family she thought her husband would hurt her. But she boasted of her resolve, saying, "I'm not afraid of him." Becky told Wengert that her husband was following her around town. On two occasions, she said her car had been blocked in by her husband's vehicle. "Get out! Get out! Get out!" Wengert pleaded with her friend. Becky refused. If she moved in with a friend or her family, he might hurt them, she said. He already ignored court orders to stay away from the house without permission, she said. "No matter where I go, he'll find me," Becky told her friend. Becky never called police because she feared it would make Robert angrier and jeopardize his career, Kirk said. The two sides agreed to end their marriage in early May. On May 2, the first shot shattered the tranquil Sunday morning on Peace Haven Drive. Robert killed Becky with a single bullet to the chest. She was 57. He dialed 911. He told the dispatcher he shot his wife. He placed a three-page letter near him. Robert, 63, laid down next to Becky, put his handgun to his chest and fired. His letter spewed anger and humiliation - the bickering, the divorce and public testimony, "the lies and distortions." "I want no service or memorial. I want nothing in the paper or any publications." His only request was for a few close friends to sail out to the Chesapeake Bay, crack open some beers and scatter his ashes in the sea. Becky's family and friends came from around the country to her memorial service. Navy wives from squadrons and ships from decades ago sent letters and posted memorials on websites. Becky had looked forward to her life after divorce, Kirk said. "You cannot justify this."
This information was last updated 02/03/2019
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Date posted on this site: 03/10/2024
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