Sex. Murder. Mystery.

by Gregg Olsen

  Why hadn't Steve Letourneau, who knew her better than anyone, stepped in to help his wife before her meltdown led to disaster?

  Didn't friends, co-workers, her principal, see what I saw in that prison visiting room?

  And what of all this media coverage? Why had so many people felt the need to get on television to exploit her? Steve Letourneau turned up on a television tabloid show telling the world how he was getting along and how he hoped for a divorce from his infamous wife sooner, rather than later. His flight attendant girlfriend Kelly Whalen was pregnant with his child. The idea that Steve felt compelled to be heard bothered Mary Kay, and she told me so. It was her story, not his, that was of worldwide interest. His hawking of family photos and comments about her love for Vili was detrimental to the healing Steven, Mary Claire, Nicholas, and Jacqueline so desperately needed.

  “What benefit can there be for the children in his selling the story, the lies? For the sole purpose of making money?” she asked.

  When the subject of old friends came up, Mary Kay tried to dismiss those outside of her tight circle as people who didn't really know her. Michelle Jarvis went from close friend to outsider when the Californian cried her eyes out on TV's Leeza when the show featured the contents of the French book. Michelle thought Mary Kay was sick, and said so.

  For her part, Michelle told friends that she still loved Mary Kay and hoped that one day she'd be able to rise above the travesty that she'd made of her life by getting treatment.

  “Not a day passes that I don't think of her and pray for her… I don't want her rationalizations ringing in my ears, my heart wanting to believe them while my brain tells me precisely what they really are,” she said.

  Of course close friends and the Letourneau children have been devastated by what happened in the wake of what happened between Mary Kay and Vili. There were enough tears to fill Puget Sound. Students, teachers, neighbors, friends—all had been left heartbroken. In time, most know, the impact will fade and soften for some.

  But for some the legacy of the story will endure. Danelle Johnson's daughter became pregnant at fourteen.

  “She wasn't the only girl in Mrs. Letourneau's class that had ended up like that. When [my daughter] told me she was pregnant—by a man older than eighteen, though I'm not sure how much older—she said her pregnancy was just like Mrs. Letourneau's with Vili. It was love. The age difference. The whole Romeo and Juliet thing. Some lesson she learned in that sixth-grade class.”

  The best true crime books are built on a solid foundation of original research. I always measure the quality of a book in this genre by the information that the author has unearthed. Who wants a rehash of what is already in the public domain? I want to know more. Accomplishing that is not always easy. In fact in these days of tabloid and checkbook journalism, it has become increasingly difficult. Money is now in the mix. Just as a reporter will not pay for information (paying could induce sources into creating false information or even exaggerating legitimate information in order to make the buyer feel as though he is getting his money's worth), I do not offer money for interviews. In this case, more than any I have tackled, the request for cash for information was played out with numbing regularity. Directly or indirectly it was suggested to me that cash would lead to interviews. Those with hands held outward included everyone from a police officer to friends and associates of Mary Letourneau. One individual asked for $70,000. At no time during my phone conversations and visits did Mary Letourneau request remuneration.

  Given such a climate, it must be stated here that I could not have overcome all of the obstacles and all of the closed doors without the talents of crime writer and researcher Gary Boynton. Not only did Gary hang in there with the dogged determination of a private eye, he did so with a polite and professional attitude about which several sources—friendly and hostile—remarked. Thanks, Gary.

  As always, I appreciated the support of my literary agent, Susan Raihofer of Black, Inc., New York; editor Charles Spicer and his assistant Dorsey Mills of St. Martin's Press, New York; and my faithful advance readers, June Wolfe and Tina Marie Schwichtenberg. Special appreciation goes to Kathrine Beck, who encouraged me when it looked as if the story would be impossible to crack.

  Finally, I was not able to secure interviews with Steve Letourneau, Patricia Maley, Vili Fualaau, Soona Fualaau, Sharon Hume, or the Letourneau children for this book, though I made efforts to do so. I spoke to Robert Huff just as this book was being prepared for printing.

  —Gregg Olsen

  Spring 1999

  e-mail: greggolsen@msn.com

  UPDATE: 2004

  MARY KAY LETOURNEAU, now 42, will be released from prison this summer. She'll leave the Washington Corrections Center for Women in Purdy, Wash., as the most famous—and reviled—inmate in the institution's history. Never have the likes of a media star roamed the halls as has inmate No. 769014. There have been other “teacher rapists,” but none have achieved Letourneau's notoriety. None have been the subject of countless TV shows, a USA Network movie, books (mine and the French book—which never saw an English incarnation), magazine covers and a million hours of water-cooler chatter.

  Among the Letourneau news were stories about the former teacher's disregard of prison rules; a couple of stretches in solitary; rumors of a lesbian lover (which Letourneau denies), the betrayal by a former cellmate who was going to write her own book about Letourneau's life behind bars. And late last year, the local newspaper carried a picture of Letourneau and her daughter on the front page—a prison-sponsored back-to-school event for moms and their kids.

  What Letourneau faces with her freedom is both certain and unsure. There is no doubt that her infamy will continue. Globe magazine published an article in January 2004 indicating that she intends to pose nude for Playboy. The story is old (and probably ridiculous), but shows the interest in Letourneau remains strong. The flames are being fanned: that much you can count on.

  Letourneau's future with Vili Fualaau and her children is less clear. Soona and Vili filed a $20 million suit against the Highline School District and the Des Moines Police Department for failing to stop the relationship from taking its shocking and sad turn. The jury didn't agree with the plaintiffs, who left a King County Courtroom in May, 2002 without a penny. The jury saw the plaintiffs as money-hungry and already overcompensated for their roles in the drama through the tabloids. The fact that Soona and Vili saw little of the money from the movie, the French book, the other collateral materials of the story had little bearing. It was as if the jury thought the Fualaaus had their chance and they, well, blew it. There was no appeal.

  I met Soona at the trial. Perhaps with the exception of all of the children, I feel sorriest for her. She was roughed up on the stand and made out to be the worst mother on the planet, a low-rent Joan Crawford. Just walk in her shoes. I think she did the best she could and she did so with dignity and even a little grace. What probably would have been best would have been for the family to resolve the situation without police. The question that remains is, what was in the best interest of the children (Audrey, almost 7, and Alexis—the family's preferred name for Georgia—now 4)?

  There is another story, another tragedy that's a part of the saga of Mary and Steve Letourneau. Last year all attempts at reconciliation between Steve and his second wife, Kelly, failed. Broken-hearted and bankrupt by the divorce, Kelly moved with their tow-headed four-year-old daughter, Gabrielle, to the Seattle area, while Steve stayed in Alaska with the four older children—and his new love, another woman.

  Those closest to Kelly Whalen-Letourneau told the flight attendant that the failure of the marriage was inevitable, and she'd be better off without Steve and all the drama that had enveloped his life. Right now she can't see that, but in time, she just might. What reportedly hurts her most is the fact that she's been cut off from seeing Steven, now 19, Mary Claire, 16, Jackie, 12 and Nick, 10. For the tumultuous seven years that their mother had been ripped from their lives, Kelly tried
to play that difficult, and frequently thankless, role of stepmother. But hers was a more complicated situation than most. By far. She was married to a man who chose to put tabloid money ahead of privacy. She was in the unenviable position of helping to raise children whose mother was on the front page of the Globe and on TV at seemingly every turn.

  In the end, when the kids had nothing to say to their mother, it was Kelly who'd sit down every other week and send Mary an update note on each of her four children. It was Kelly who filled the “Mary Box” (Letourneau's old homework box from Shorewood) with schoolwork from the kids. She addressed the envelopes, mailed the packages, made sure the kids were there to take the calls.

  It was Kelly who asked local grocers to pull tabloids from view. Kelly was the one who called the school and read them the riot act when a teacher played the All American Girl TV movie for the class as a current-event lesson.

  “I never expected I'd be their mother,” she told a friend not long after her break-up with Steve. “But I did expect that I could help them in some way. They needed stability after what they'd gone through. No one can know what it was like for them to live with their mother being Mary Kay Letourneau. Don't get me wrong. They love her. They want to be with her. But those kids went through hell because of that love. Mary's lucky to have them. I was lucky to share them with her, even for a short time.”

  I haven't heard from Mary since she misdialed my phone number two years ago. I hear from time to time how she's doing in prison.

  Most of the principals have scattered to the winds. Secret Squirrel has moved out of state. John Schmitz died. Several Shorewood teachers have been reassigned to new schools. Bob Huff has fallen off the radar completely. Mary's groupies have retreated somewhat; the www.marykayletourneau.com site hasn't been updated in eons. Tony Hollick no longer calls from England to see what he can do to free the woman of his dreams. Others carry on as they always have. KIRO reporter Karen O'Leary continues to be the best in the business—digging deeper and bringing more real news into Seattle homes than just about anyone. Lawyer David Gehrke finds his way into the news every now and then, though not with the frequency of those heady days of Oprah and Dateline.

  My daughter, a college student now, ran into a boy from Letourneau's infamous sixth-grade class on campus at Washington State University. The young man was put off by the Mary/Vili saga, but still adored his teacher.

  “Ms. Letourneau was the best teacher I ever had,” he said.

  Even though she's relished every bit of the spotlight, that's what Letourneau would want her supporters and detractors to know more than anything.

  Gregg Olsen

  Olalla, WA

  February 2004

  For more on the Letourneau case visit the author's Web site:

  www.greggolsen.com

  * * *

  TAKEN IN THE NIGHT

  THE SENSATIONAL KIDNAPPING CASE

  J. EDGAR HOOVER’S G-MEN COULDN’T SOLVE

  A Short eBook True Crime Story

  by

  Gregg Olsen

  Copyright © 2013 GREGG OLSEN

  Cover Art: BEAUTeBOOK

  “The murder of the little Mattson boy has shocked the nation. Every means at our command must be enlisted to capture and punish the perpetrator of this ghastly crime.”

  —President Franklin Roosevelt

  “So today there remains still at large the heartless killer of the ten-year-old boy… he remains the wanted murderer in the greatest unsolved kidnapping mystery of this generation…”

  —Coronet magazine, December 1955.

  MYSTERY UNSOLVED

  Leaky canvas tents erected along Tacoma, Washington’s mudflats formed a city of squalor that folks who’d lost everything but their sense of irony called “Hollywood.” On Saturdays thousands of men came down from lumber camps on the foothills of the Cascade Range, to shower, drink and find a woman. Two city blocks running along overstuffed and smudge pot-smoked, Market Street were a warren of ratty hotel rooms and bars. From the ‘20s into the ‘30s Tacoma had more hookers than a city twice its size —few places, apparently, saw such a need. Tacoma was Seattle’s less glamorous neighbor —a distinction no one who lived there held with any pride. Yet no matter how often FDR’s strident voice cajoled listeners over the tinny waves of a console radio that America’s reserve of hope had yet to be fully tapped, the Great Depression wouldn’t just go away. Keep your sunnyside up. Every cloud has a silver lining. Pulling one’s self up by his bootstraps was akin to sucking it up, and facing troubles head on. Americans in towns from Atlanta to San Francisco lined up for food, looked for work, and prayed for a future full of promise. Some lied to themselves that things would get better. Yet in Tacoma, there was a larger measure of hope and, indeed, there were still dreams. The smelly lumber mill town had higher aspirations. Tacoma had a plan. A great suspension bridge to link the mainland with a remote peninsula had been the vision of city boosters since the 1920s. The Depression stalled the proposal, but as the mid-30s emerged, the push was back on.

  Tacoma’s elite, many of whom lived in beautiful homes with views of the Cascades to the east and the Olympics to the west, were among those who just couldn’t take being the Northwest’s second city any longer. The bridge, they knew, was one thing that could set them apart from Seattle, a way to make them “gateway” to someplace of mystery and importance —Washington State’s verdant, mountain-studded Olympic Peninsula. Amidst the hope, however, something sinister was at work —something that would take the breath away of everyone when they learned the news.

  * * *

  Around and around the schoolchildren went. The coil of jute rope grew smaller and smaller on its spindle as they wrapped the scratchy fiber around Charles Mattson’s scrawny torso. The ten-year-old’s arms were at his side pinned only slightly, not uncomfortably, as they wrapped him like a cocoon. As the boy with the chestnut brown eyes and a tousle of brown hair braced himself against the gnarled trunk of a Gravenstein apple tree, he joined the others in their laughter. The children were doing a dance not unlike the rite of spring, the Maypole. But it was Christmas Day, a drizzly and chilly Northwest afternoon. No pretty ribbons twined a pole in a summer’s breeze above the shipping lanes of Puget Sound. Not that day. The children were playacting “Kidnapper,” a game not unfamiliar in the 1930s. Charles was a good sport. He even flashed a shy grin for the camera while a friend looked on. In a bit of unsettling and prophetic tragedy, the moment caught forever on film would be the last image captured of the boy.

  The back lawn of the English Tudor mansion at 4605 N. Verde in Tacoma, Washington, rolled to a cliff and stopped, dropped sixty feet, and continued on to the icy waters of Commencement Bay, a deep-water port burned at its rocky edges with saw and paper mills. It was nevertheless such a gorgeous setting, that determining a focal point would have been nearly impossible for visitors.

  The shimmering waters of Puget Sound? The forested hills of Vashon Island across a mile-wide passage that sliced the waters north to Seattle and South to Olympia? The snowcapped, meringue of a mountain that went by the name Mt. Tacoma? Who could choose?

  And yet, when visitors would come to the site of where the mansion once stood some seven decades later, it was true the beauty of the views would take their breath away, but ultimately even the surroundings, splendor and all, would take back seat to what had happened there so long ago. Many only wanted to see where the unthinkable happened, where the mystery started.

  Two days after Christmas 1936 when Charles Mattson was held like a spider’s prey in a web of tightly-wound jute, the kid with the prefect grin would vanish from the Mattson estate, leaving only unanswered questions, broken hearts, and the same pretty mirage of a place that his parents once held so dear.

  “You have to wonder about something,” said the man who owned the mansion since 1978. He squinted into the sun and motioned toward his grand home. “Had they not lived here, maybe they wouldn’t have been targets for the criminal opportunists that
came after Charles? Can you imagine working so hard to build a place like this only to have it be the scene of your greatest tragedy? Your worst nightmare?”

  * * *

  A dog barking in the night doesn’t usually amount to much in the country where canines run free at all hours and sleep outside, curled up under a porch or in the rusted out back of an abandoned pickup truck. Even so, one winter night long ago, the howling from the darkness of several hungry mutts was the only connection any could make to the most likely moment a little boy’s last was being written.

  After an afternoon watching movies with friends at downtown Everett’s Roxy Theatre where “Broadway Babies of 1937” was playing to decent crowds, Gordon Morrow, just 19, returned to the modest home he shared with his father, Charles, and brother, Andrew. The Morrow place was six miles south of Everett, which was the sister town to Seattle, a short highway ride further south. It was Sunday, January 10, 1937. Later, when retracing the events, Gordon Morrow told special agents of the FBI that he’d heard his dog, a Boston terrier named Nick, bark and run from the front window to the door. Gordon was too tired to let the dog outside. He also heard a neighbor’s dog bark around the same time, 9:30 p.m. But Gordon Morrow heard nothing else. No voices. Nor did he hear any crackling brush or the rumbling motor of an idling car or truck. After ten minutes, the dogs quieted down, curled up and, like Gordon, finally went to sleep. A teenager with no job or plans for more schooling, Gordon slept after another day of nothing much on his mind.

  The Morrow house was in an isolated area, an out of the way province of chicken and raspberry farmers, sawmill workers and, though decades later few would believe it, the summer country places of the well-to-do of Seattle.