True Crime Fiction

by Michael Lister

  “It was just a bad dream.”

  “Why do you think it was a dream?” I ask.

  He shrugs.

  “It’s important,” I say. “Please try to remember. Why did you think it was just dream?”

  “His . . . face. He . . . he didn’t have a face.”

  “What do you mean, sweetie?” Ashley says.

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. I . . . Sometimes in bad dreams people don’t have faces.”

  “Sometimes in real life too,” I say.

  228

  “What do you think he meant?” Anna asks. “A man with no face.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “He really could have just been dreaming. Could’ve been part of a nightmare.”

  “But if he wasn’t,” she says. “If he really saw someone.”

  “A mask maybe,” I say.

  On my way back to a meeting with Reggie, Arnie, and Keisha, I’ve made a quick detour by our home to kiss my wife.

  We’re standing in the shade of the oak trees near the end of our driveway—oak trees still wet from the afternoon shower, their bark dark with water, raindrops glistening on their leaves, dripping intermittently onto the damp soil below.

  Inside our home, while Taylor naps, Johanna is helping Sam and Daniel pack. When Anna and I finish making out and talking, we‘ll go in to see them and wake Taylor up.

  We’re all going to miss Sam and Daniel living with us—probably far more than any of us even realize.

  “If the hallway was dark and the killer had on a black ski mask . . .” she says.

  “Absolutely,” I say. “That could absolutely be it. Or one of those Halloween masks that are blank—featureless, colorless, expressionless.”

  “Does a mask mean someone broke in?” she says.

  “It could,” I say. “Can’t be sure he even saw it, but if he really did . . . I’d say that might mean it was more likely an intruder. Of course, there’s no evidence of a break in and until all the evidence is processed, we won’t know if there’s anything at all to indicate even the possibility someone else was in the house.”

  “Of course the presence of a mask doesn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t someone from inside the house,” she says.

  “True.”

  “Someone sick enough to tie up and murder a child like that . . .”

  “Mask could be part of his fantasy,” I say. “Or ritual. And if he didn’t plan on killing her, it could’ve been to conceal his identity.”

  “Someone from inside the house or an intruder,” she says, “who does something like this?”

  It’s rhetorical, which is good, because it’s not a question I can answer.

  Though it is generally accepted that there are three theories and five reasons for why parents kill their children, they don’t begin to touch on the inexplicable evil that is filicide.

  The three theories are mental illness, abnormally high levels of testosterone, and unwanted offspring.

  There are five major reasons for filicide.

  Altruism—the parent kills the child because of the belief that it is in their best interest.

  Acute psychosis—the parent murders the child based on a belief not consistent with reality, such as the child is evil or dangerous.

  An unwanted child—the parent kills the child because he or she is considered to be an undue burden or hindrance.

  Accident—the child’s death is unintentional or an unintended consequence of parental physical abuse.

  Spousal revenge—the parent kills the child as an act of aggression or spite against the other parent.

  As sound and sort of obvious as these theories and reasons are, they are powerless to explain what is beyond comprehension.

  “With or without the mask,” she says, “he’s a monster.”

  229

  “So the ropes used to tie up Mariah . . . ” Jessica says.

  “Before we get to that,” I say. “I don’t see an iPod listed among Mariah’s things or in the evidence inventory log.”

  Jessica shakes her head. “There wasn’t one.”

  “Ashley says she had one that she used like a phone—could text with it, which she was evidently doing all the time.”

  “It wasn’t in the house,” Jessica says. “Not anywhere.”

  “Then we’ve got to assume her killer took it,” Reggie says. “Must have something incriminating on it.”

  We all grow quiet as we think about it and make a note of it for our case files.

  “So . . . the ropes . . .” Jessica says.

  “Yes,” Reggie says.

  “They’re Shibari or Japanese bondage ropes. Black. Soft cotton. Imported from Japan. Ten meters long. Eight millimeters in diameter.”

  Of all sexual bondage, Japanese bondage is considered by many to be the most artistic and beautiful.

  “The package the ropes come in says that it’s multifunctional,” Jessica says, then looks down at her notes. “‘This rope can be used for tying luggage, bedroom fantasies, games, sewing, craft projects, costume playing and organizing. It’s also great as a soft bondage rope for adult restraint fun.’”

  “Funny how they put that as almost an afterthought,” Keisha says.

  “Yeah,” Jessica says, “these are made for one thing and one thing only—and it ain’t tying up luggage.”

  Arnie, Keisha, Jessica, and I are with Reggie in her office, discussing the case, sharing what we’ve found with the others.

  Arnie, whose face is flushed, appears particularly uncomfortable.

  Jessica passes around crime scene photos of Mariah once the blanket she had been wrapped in had been removed.

  Thankfully, and surprisingly, Mariah is in her bathing suit.

  “Five ropes were used on Mariah,” Jessica says. “Three full lengths and two half lengths. Her ankles were bound together and her wrists bound together behind her back, then the two were tied to each other. Then what is known as a harness was tied around her chest, upper arms, and neck.”

  The photographs show a young girl who appears to be sleeping, bound by elaborately wrapped and knotted ropes. Both the types of ropes and the way they’re tied are obviously sexual, and would look artistic and erotic on an adult female form, but on a child they look simultaneously absurd and abhorrent.

  “What kind of sick, sadistic fuck would do shit like this to a child?” Keisha says.

  “That is the question,” Reggie says.

  I notice Arnie passes the pictures without looking at them, and keeps his gaze averted from wherever the photos might be.

  “You okay?” Reggie asks.

  “I can’t look at this,” Arnie says.

  “We have to,” Reggie says.

  “I can’t. You can reassign me if you want to, but I just can’t. I saw some of it at the scene, but I can’t look at it any more. I have a granddaughter about her age and . . .”

  “It’s okay,” she says.

  “You’re having a normal reaction,” I say. “None of us want to look at them. It’s okay.”

  “You don’t have to look at them,” Reggie says. “It’s fine.”

  “I won’t look away,” Keisha says. “I want them seared into my brain so that the only thing that can replace it is the guy who did it shot in the face.”

  “This looks pretty elaborate,” I say. “Not just the position of the ropes, but the way the knots are tied. I’m assuming this would take some time and have to be done by someone who has done this before.”

  Jessica nods. “Looks more complicated than it is, but obviously someone would have to know what they’re doing. Probably done it before. Or read about it. Tons of videos online tell you just how to do it. There are three common knots from bondage that are used—the overhand, the reef or square not, and the Lark’s Head.”

  “They’re common to other things too,” Arnie says.

  Jessica nods.

  “Are we thinking this is some sick sexual crime and that the murder may or may not have been part of the o
riginal plan?” Keisha says.

  “It’s obviously sexual,” Reggie says. “And according to the ME she was molested.”

  “But not around the time of her death,” I say.

  “Based on what the ME said,” Keisha adds, “maybe he was intending to molest or rape her but something made him kill her before he could.”

  “She could’ve been unconscious and woke up and began to scream or fight him,” Reggie says.

  “The question is,” Keisha says, “does that argue more for an intruder or someone already in the house?”

  “Like John pointed out,” Reggie says, “this would take a while—which would seem to point toward someone in the house. But it has to be someone who knows how to do it.”

  “Hopefully when we get the DNA results back on the ropes, it’ll tell us who it was,” Jessica says, “but—”

  “When I was interviewing Ashley Howard today,” I say, “I noticed she has tattoos of ropes that look a lot like these on her wrists and ankles.”

  “I can do you one better than that,” Keisha says. “Look at this.”

  She taps her tablet and a video begins playing. As she holds it up, we all lean in so we can see it.

  A sexy, sultry music video fills the screen.

  Two figures on an enormous silk-sheet-covered bed in a candlelit room.

  In it, as he sings and raps graphically about all the ways he wants to have sex with her, Trace is tying a partially clothed Ashley up with ropes like the ones used on Mariah.

  “Oh my God,” Arnie says.

  “Are we watching a confession?” Reggie says.

  “Y’all’ve never seen this?” Keisha says. “It’s pretty popular.”

  “That’s a wrap, folks,” Arnie says. “Case closed.”

  “Told you I could do you one better,” Keisha says. “Aren’t ya’ll glad you got a sister on the case? How long would it have taken you white folk to find that?”

  “I can do you both one better,” Jessica says.

  “The ropes actually used on Mariah belong to Trace and Ashley,” she says.

  She pauses for a long moment to let that sink in.

  “We found ropes in what can only be described as their sex kit,” she says. “A little overnight bag with toys and lube and masks and cuffs and stuff—and in her suitcase.”

  “That does look very suspicious,” Arnie says, “but that doesn’t mean the ropes used on Mariah belonged to them.”

  “I’m sure the DNA tests will confirm it,” she says, “but we don’t need them to. Remember how I said five ropes were used? Three full lengths and two half lengths. Well the half lengths were just a full length cut in half. Thing is . . . they weren’t two halves of the same full length piece. They were each one half of two different full length pieces. And . . . the two other matching halves . . . they were found in Ashley’s suitcase.”

  230

  “I miss Sam and Daniel being here,” Anna says.

  “I do too.”

  It’s late. The girls have long since said prayers and been tucked in, and Anna and I are in bed in our dark room, whispering our final few words of the day.

  I don’t mention it to Anna, but in addition to missing Sam and Daniel’s presence in our home, I will miss having another armed adult to help respond to Chris when he makes his move.

  “I know they have a ways to go,” she says, “but I’m amazed at how well they’re doing. So happy they’re together again and have hope for a future.”

  “A short while ago it didn’t seem possible,” I say.

  “Her returning him unharmed makes me think Randa’s not all bad,” she says.

  “She’s not. Part of what makes her so interesting is what a contradiction she is.”

  “So you don’t think she’s a sociopath?”

  I shake my head, though in the dimness, I’m not sure she can see it. “No, I don’t. I’ve certainly wondered from time to time, but . . . I don’t believe she is.”

  Anna yawns, bringing the back of her hand up to cover her mouth. “Better kiss me goodnight before I—” she begins, then yawns again.

  “Sounds like I better time it just right,” I say.

  “It’s safe now,” she says. “Go for it.”

  She lifts her head and turns toward me. I meet her and we kiss. And though I’m sure it’s not possible, it seems as though she’s asleep by the time she lays her head back down.

  Sleep didn’t come as quickly for me, but when it did arrive, dreams arrived with it.

  It’s the early morning hours of December 26, 1996.

  A frantic 911 call from 755 15th Street in Boulder, Colorado, but instead of Patsy Ramsey, it’s Ashley Howard placing the call.

  755 Fifteenth Street.

  What is going on there ma’am?

  We have a kidnapping...Hurry, please.

  Explain to me what is going on, okay?

  We have a . . . There’s a note left and our daughter is gone.

  A note was left and your daughter is gone?

  Yes.

  How old is your daughter?

  She is six years old. She is blond. Six years old.

  How long ago was this?

  I don’t know. Just found a note and my daughter is missing.

  Does it say who took her?

  What?

  Does it say who took her?

  No I don’t know. It’s there . . . there is a ransom note here.

  It’s a ransom note.

  It says S.B.T.C. Victory. Please.

  Okay. What’s your name? Are you...

  Ashley Howard. I’m the mother. Oh my God. Please.

  Okay. I’m sending an officer over, okay?

  Please.

  Do you know how long she’s been gone?

  No, I don’t. Please. We just got up and she’s not here. Oh my God Please.

  Okay.

  Please send somebody.

  I am, honey.

  Please.

  Take a deep breath.

  Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.

  Ashley? Ashley? Ashley? Ashley? Ashley?

  Suddenly I’m on the stairs leading to the basement, passing the broken window, the scuff mark on the wall, the blue suitcase below.

  And then the door.

  And beyond the door on the floor, the lifeless body of a child beauty queen.

  Door flung open.

  White blanket on the floor, blond hair visible at the top.

  Rushing over, hoping it’s not too late, knowing that it is.

  Removing duct tape from her mouth, her skin cold to the touch.

  I wake up thinking about how different Mariah’s restraints were from JonBenét’s.

  Small white cords versus thick black ropes.

  And the way they were used.

  In addition to having her hands and feet tied with the narrow white cord, JonBenét was garroted with it, her small body showing signs of violence—especially her head and neck. A deep ligature furrow and petechial hemorrhages around her neck. Abrasions and petechial hemorrhages on the face.

  Mariah was bound with soft Japanese bondage ropes in a way that can only be described as sexual, but there were no signs of violence.

  Both children are dead, but one’s death seems to have been far more violent and brutal.

  “Do you want to just move their beds into our room for a while?” Anna whispers.

  She has once again found me asleep on the floor of the girls’ room, center of the floor, equal distance between Taylor’s baby bed and Johanna’s big girl bed.

  I smile up at her. “It’s not just the case,” I say. “It’s Chris and not knowing what he might do.”

  She nods. “I know.”

  Like the last time, she disappears for a moment and returns with pillows, a blanket, and my phone.

  Lying down beside me, she says, “We’ll sleep in here tonight and tomorrow we’ll move their beds into our room.”

  “If it would make you feel better,” I say.

  She laughs out lou
d at that, but fortunately not loud enough to wake the girls.

  231

  I wake the next morning stiff from sleeping on the floor, wanting to compare other aspects of Mariah and JonBenét’s cases.

  At the kitchen table, over a bowl of Frosted Flakes, I read and reread the three notes and think about and compare them with each other, glancing occasionally to the spot in the living room where Sam’s hospital bed used to be.

  Dear Dad,

  Ashley and Brett or to mean to me. I love them but cannot take it. I sorry for leaving you like this. Y’all all will be happy with out me. Please do not look for me. I will be fine. I will miss.

  Love you, Mariah.

  Are we dealing with a runaway, a kidnaping, a murder, or some combination? Did Mariah really run away or try to? Was she killed while attempting to? Or could the note have been from an earlier or for a later time? If she was running away, why? Was it just for the reasons listed in her note or was there more to it? Was someone helping her or going with her or was it just her? And where was she running to?

  I’ll make this simple so even an ignorant thug like you can understand. I have your daughter. If you want her back it will cost you $250,000.00. That’s a very small amount because I want to do this fast and easy. I know you have a lot more, but that’s all I want. I’m not greedy, have no desire to be nigger rich like you. I don’t want no gold teeth or spinning rims or any shit like that. Your song says you will never leave her again. Well, maybe not, but she’s left you. You say you will never hurt her again, never let her down. We will see if you really mean that. I don’t want to hurt your little girl. Don’t make me. Just gather the money and I’ll call you with where we’ll meet to make the trade. Don’t test me boy. Don’t call the police. Don’t tell anyone. You do and it’s lights out for the little mixed girl. Just get the little chump change together and wait for my call. Be smarter than you seem and don’t fuck this up. Your little girl’s life depends on it.

  Unlike the Ramsey ransom letter, the note left on Mariah’s bed isn’t addressed to anyone—though it’s obviously directed toward Trace. The relatively brief note isn’t just threatening, it’s demeaning and insulting too. Its lack of salutation to Trace seems another obvious dis, another form of contempt. Like the Ramsey note, the demand is for a relatively small amount of money, but unlike the Ramsey note, the Evers note explains why.