by Kim Reid
It wasn’t so much my mother’s long-ago warning about cops as lovers, though I was certain she was right. How could cops see the craziness and sadness that was a part of their job every day and not be a little off? What terrified me was the thought of going through nights of worry if he was half an hour late getting home. Afraid to answer a late night phone call if he was working the graveyard shift. Having my heart jump if a patrol car pulled in to my driveway and he wasn’t driving it. The prayer in the morning when we’d part that I’d see him again that night. The hardness he would learn to wear, necessary to survive the job but difficult to remove at the end of the day, even with those who love him. I wasn’t willing to do it, though I felt guilty, and still do, about preventing him from trying.
It wasn’t that I’d sought to bring another cop into my life intentionally. When I met my husband in college, he was a die-hard pacifist. When we moved in together, he asked me to return my .38 to my mother, her housewarming present when I left home and got my own apartment, along with my first set of crystal wine glasses, because “two things a woman needs to know how to do is protect herself and entertain well.”
When I returned the gun, Ma said, “I don’t see why you need to move in with any man when you’re only twenty-four, unless he’s planning on putting a ring on your finger.”
“Whatever. Here’s your gun.” I handed it to her holding it by the barrel, the way she’d shown me so many years before.
“So can he protect you better than a .38 will?”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m your child, I know how to take care of myself.”
Back then, before my husband had ideas about becoming a cop, he had refused to live anywhere near a gun. Years later, I refused to live anywhere near a cop. I figured we were even.
Chapter Eleven
A week before the Task Force was created, the eleventh child, nine-year-old Anthony Carter, had gone missing while playing a late-night game of hide-and-go-seek in his West End neighborhood. He was found dead the next day behind a warehouse less than a mile from home. The tired line that the mayor and the police department were sticking to—that the murders were not serial—had begun to work the city’s last collective nerve. Parents called the police inept, and cops fired back with questions like Why is a nine-year-old playing hide-and-go-seek on city streets at midnight? Where are the parents? It was becoming a cops-versus-parents battle, when both sides really wanted the same thing.
One group of parents in particular was most vocal, led by Camille Bell, mother of nine-year-old Yusef, who was found in November 1979. As early as her son’s disappearance, she’d raised the possibility that the murders were related. In April 1980, she and a few other mothers had joined forces with some local church leaders to create a group called the Committee to Stop Children’s Murders (called STOP for short) with support from some religious leaders. By mid-July, they had forced the mayor to action.
Despite the grassroots spread-the-word campaign launched by STOP, despite the announcement of the formation of the Task Force in mid-July, despite the murder of the eleventh child just a week before that announcement, there was still scant media coverage. I recall thirty-second spots, maybe they were a minute, on the evening news, but not much else. When I compare this to the media madness surrounding the murder of JonBenét Ramsey, the six-year-old beauty queen from Colorado, I find it hard to reconcile.
In the early summer of 1997, I turned in to the parking lot of the Boulder Police Department to pick up my husband for a lunch date. I couldn’t find an empty space because they were all taken by sports utility vehicles painted with logos of local and national news shows. The street was lined with television trucks sprouting satellite dishes and antennas. All of this to cover the investigation of a child who had been murdered six months earlier, a crime that, despite what the girl’s parents said, the police felt was not random and had announced long ago there was no reason for parents to fear for their children’s safety.
Even though the investigation hadn’t generated any more than scraps of information in months, the media still covered the story as though it had broken that morning. I ended up parking two blocks away and walking back to the police department. When any officer above the rank of patrolman came through the glass doors, the media people swarmed from trucks and cars like kids freed from school on a warm Friday afternoon.
“Did something happen today?” I asked my husband as we walked to the car.
“Nothing new has broken in a month, but they keep waiting for something. And when there’s nothing, they report on that, too.”
*
Ma had been going through case files on the dining room table, getting herself acquainted with the investigation. She had left the room for some reason, but didn’t bother to put away her work because Bridgette and I had been told the dining room was off-limits. I found the Kidnapped Child Bulletin on Ma’s stack of papers. It showed a picture of the still missing seven-year-old girl, probably a school picture that came in assorted sizes meant for displaying proudly in a grandmother’s living room and passing out to family for keeping in wallets. It had that look. She still looked more like a baby than a child, rounded cheeks still full with baby fat. The bulletin read, “SHE SUCKS HER THUMB AND HAS SLIGHTLY PROTRUDING TEETH.” I couldn’t tell this from the photo. All I saw was a little girl who looked so happy the day the picture was taken that the photographer probably didn’t have to tell her to smile. I stared at the picture wishing for some sign, praying that she would send me a vision of where she was, who had her. No sign came. She just kept smiling at me from the photo, looking more like a baby than a child.
There were boxes full of reports and interviews, maps with little dots of ink drawn on them. I’d seen these things before, on other cases Ma had worked, which I’d sneak a look at when she wasn’t watching. Until then, it seemed like something from TV, especially the hard copy interviews between Ma and the suspects. When I’d read the words following Ma’s name and a colon mark, I didn’t believe she actually said them. They belonged to the other woman, the hard-assed cop who didn’t really care whether the bad guy was scared, high, or belligerent, he’d damn well better provide some answers. Just like TV.
Seeing the stories of the dead kids who’d become a part of my world, kids I hadn’t given much consideration to a year ago but who were now, and suddenly, too close, it no longer seemed like TV. Ma was going to touch these kids—through hearing about their last known actions, by talking to their still-grieving-like-it-was-yesterday parents. And through her, I’d be touched by them, even more than before. I wasn’t sure it was something I wanted, not that I could keep it from happening. I moved aside some of the papers Ma had scattered on the table, not looking for anything particular but hoping for something, and saw a photograph. It was of one of the eleven kids, I don’t remember which. He was dead—not looking anything like a child ever should. The sight caught me, held me there too long before I let the picture fall back onto the table.
When Ma came to the door of the bathroom to see about the retching noises I was making, I blamed it on bad cramps.
Chapter Twelve
When Ma was officially on the case, I expected the kidnappings to stop. There was no logic to this thinking, other than I was a fourteen-year-old child who had that much faith in my mother’s ability to make things right. But they didn’t stop. At the end of July, Earl Terrell went missing. Like the last three, he was young enough for me to call him young, only eleven. He must have loved to read because he had seven books checked out from the library when he went missing. The last time anyone saw him alive, he was being thrown out of the pool at South Bend Park for misbehaving. South Bend Park was just three miles from my house.
The day after Earl went missing from the pool, his aunt told the Task Force she got a call from a white man (she said she was sure about this) saying he had the boy in Alabama and would set him free for a couple hundred dollars. That little bit of money was enough to make your heart break. No am
ount of money can equal a soul, but to take a child away, to make his family ache for the hole his taking leaves, for two hundred dollars was just plain meanness. In my mind, this could only be someone who saw no value in the life of that child and wanted to make sure the world knew it, the way diners who’ve received bad service will leave a penny instead of no tip at all, to make sure the waiter gets the point.
No one knows how legitimate this ransom call was, but his body still hadn’t been found going into August. The immediate affect his abduction had on the investigation was getting the FBI involved. Since there was a possibility he’d been taken across the state line, it was now a federal crime, and the FBI, which had long been reluctant to join the case despite pleas made by the mayor, didn’t have any option but to get involved, though minimally. It wasn’t until later that local cops began to wonder if it wasn’t a mixed blessing.
*
Ma was working at the dining room table again. Even though it had always been reserved for Sunday dinner, we never ate there anymore. It was where she kept all her information on the case, where she worked long after Bridgette and I had gone to sleep, and where I’d find her when I woke up in the morning. Sometimes I stopped in to check on her, see if she needed some water or iced tea, but mostly I hoped to remind her that Bridgette and I were still in the house and among the living. On this evening when I checked in, Ma showed me a picture of one of the kids and asked if I’d ever seen him.
“Why would I have seen him before?” I asked before I paid the photo any real attention.
“I spent all day riding his bus route between downtown and home.”
“Which route number?”
When she told me, I understood why she had asked. His bus left from the same starting point, the same corner, as mine.
“No, I don’t remember ever seeing him. Even if I had, what information could I have that would help?”
“If you’d seen him before, you could tell me if you ever noticed him talking to someone regularly at the bus stop, or if you ever saw him get into it with someone. Maybe another rider was ticked off with him or something.”
I took the picture from Ma and stared hard at it, wishing I could remember something, trying to will myself to recall some bit of information but nothing came to me. I knew if I spent more time on it, my mind would likely conjure something up, that I’d eventually believe it to be true, and provide well-intended but false and misleading information like so many witnesses did. I gave it up and told Ma I’d never seen him.
Even though I couldn’t remember the boy’s face, I didn’t doubt that at some point, we’d stood on that corner together. The odds were good that we had; both kids in school with similar commuting hours, both standing at that bus stop on the weekends waiting for a bus home after a day of movies at the Rialto or hanging around the Omni Center, people-watching and meeting up with friends. It wasn’t at all unlikely. I wondered why I hadn’t noticed him. Certainly if he was my type, I’d have remembered him. If he was the loud and rowdy sort of kid who’d make a run for the back of the bus, I’d have noticed him, too.
That made me think he was quiet, probably kept to himself and didn’t make fun of the homeless people who hung around our stop like the kids who ran in packs did. He probably just minded his business like me, just trying to get home without much drama involved. I wondered if he had a favorite seat on the bus, too, where he could stay out of trouble but also not look like too much of a sissy. When I took a last look at his picture, I felt regret that we never met. He probably would have been a good person to talk to, passing time until one of our buses arrived.
Ma turned back to the papers on the table, signaling that she was done with me. She shouldn’t have asked about the boy on the bus because all it did was make me hope she had something, even a germ of a theory, when it was obvious she didn’t. Instead of leaving her to her work, I took a chair and asked questions because up until that point, I’d asked so few.
“Don’t you have any leads yet?”
“You sound like my boss.” She laughed a little when she said it, so I knew she didn’t mind me interrupting her work.
“We thought we had something yesterday, a person of interest the city had contracted to paint project apartments. Some of the kids lived in some of the apartments he’d painted.”
“That sounds like a good lead.”
“The tip came from a man who’d been inside the painter’s house and thought his décor was a little strange. So Sid and I drove fifty miles into the country to visit this man. He’s got the White Lightning, a Klan newspaper, lining the walls of his living room like wallpaper, with headlines about how white people need to seek vindication for all the whites that had ever been killed by blacks.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Not as crazy as the black dolls he had sitting on top of doilies on every furniture surface of the house. Some dolls weren’t black, but white dolls he’d painted black. In some cases, he’d ripped the heads off the dolls, so only the heads sat on the doilies.”
“So you don’t think he did it?” Surely this was a clue.
“Being crazy doesn’t make you a suspect. If it did, the jails couldn’t hold all the people. We’re still keeping an eye on him, but his alibis check out. I think he’s just a crazy Klansman.”
“Aren’t they all?”
*
One more boy was found dead before the school year started, making him the thirteenth child abducted or killed. Clifford Jones was thirteen and not even from Atlanta, but in town visiting relatives when he was taken. The last time his family saw him, he was walking home from the grocery store with them when he broke away to search for aluminum cans. Like so many of the kids who would end up being abducted, he was just trying to earn a few dollars when he was abducted. He told his family he’d see them at home, but he never made it. Clifford’s body was found the following day, left next to a garbage can behind a strip mall.
The only solace I could imagine for the families of the kids who were found quickly was that they didn’t have to wonder where their child was for very long. They didn’t have to see their hope dry up into despair. This wasn’t any silver lining—there rarely is one when people die unless they were in terrible pain or very old and just plain tired of living—but I imagined that if I had a loved one missing, I’d rather know they were no longer in misery. There were still four kids of the thirteen unaccounted for, and I couldn’t imagine the hurt their families were feeling.
People were relieved to see the start of school, hoping fewer kids on the street meant fewer opportunities for the killer to strike. When school had ended in June, I was certain the killer would have been found before it started again. To a teenager, three months seems a long time, more than enough to figure out who the killer was, especially with Ma working the case, I thought. But I was starting my second year of high school, riding buses in the dark again, and I was afraid.
*
In some ways, I took comfort in the rich school. The economics of it made it safer to be in that part of town. I knew even then that crime didn’t come from the color of your skin, it came from need, and in the neighborhoods where I lived and traveled, there was a lot of need. In Ashford-Dunwoody, I didn’t see people running through the streets like they had stolen something because usually they had, as I did in downtown. I didn’t hear people arguing over money on street corners, because in Ashford-Dunwoody, the two-car garages held two cars and housewives paid someone else to clean their houses. Most everyone had enough.
Most likely the killer would stay away from there, because the kids he’d gotten so far had one thing in common: need. They needed to hustle a dollar to help their mothers with the rent. Maybe they needed a few bills to buy a Member’s Only jacket because it was the style and even though they were poor, they wanted to be part of what other kids were doing, and what’s wrong with that? They needed to find an honest way to make a little cash because the alternative might mean jail time. Their need made them easy
prey for a killer who knew the need existed and knew where to find it—and that was nowhere near perennially green and professionally manicured Ashford-Dunwoody.
In other ways, the school brought me nothing but bad feeling. One thing that didn’t change in the new school year was the fact that there were no black teachers, administrators, or office staff out of more than sixty people. The only time I saw a black face older than mine at school was behind the counter of the cafeteria deli or on a riding lawnmower. At my old school, the teachers were black and white, mostly white with all the Catholic nuns that taught there. But they weren’t like the white teachers at the rich school. The nuns taught us pride in who we were, told us what we could achieve. They were as much for us succeeding as the black teachers.
Going to the new school made me question all that I knew up to that point: that I was valued, that I was equal. It was my first experience being a minority. Up to that point, I knew that I was but it hadn’t really mattered. Now it mattered. Even if it wasn’t intentional (but I suspected then that it was), the message sent to me by the new school was that black folks were only good enough to cook the rich kids’ food, not good enough to educate them in the classrooms, accept their parents’ hefty tuition payments in the office, or coach them on the fields and courts. I was glad I’d spent three years with the teachers from my old school first, the years when kids start deciding how they’ll think as adults, because if the rich school was all I’d known, I would have believed the world was full of white people who didn’t really give any thought to me at all, even the ones who were paid to.
