A Beautiful Child

by Matt Birkbeck

  “If you won’t help me, you won’t live because I don’t want to live. It’s like what happens at the post office. People get killed because they don’t care. That’s me. I don’t care.”

  Startled, Davis tried his best to remain calm. He didn’t want to do or say anything that could place any of the five hundred young students or faculty in danger.

  “Who is your son?” said Davis.

  “Michael Hughes. He’s in the first grade. I don’t know what room he’s in.”

  “Well, we’ll have to check the list,” said Davis, who reached down to open a drawer.

  “No!” said Floyd, jumping up from his seat, the gun remaining in his pocket, only the handle exposed. “Tell me the names of the first-grade teachers.”

  Davis explained that he had to get the folder from a drawer, which he did, slowly. He pulled out a folder and began naming the teachers, one by one. He was stopped when he said “Houter.”

  “That’s the one,” said Floyd. “Now we’re going to her room and you’re going to call Michael out, and then we’re going to go outside to your car. All I want is a ten-minute head start and then I’ll let you go. Understand?”

  Davis nodded, rose from this chair and the two men walked out into the hallway, with Davis leading the way. They stopped at room 814. Floyd remained to the side of the doorway and out of view as Davis took a deep breath, opened the door, and poked his head into the classroom.

  “I need to see Michael Hughes for a moment, please. And have him bring his bag.”

  The teacher motioned for Michael to get up from his chair, take his Aladdin backpack, and walk to the doorway, where Davis took his hand and led him out.

  Michael wore a blue T-shirt with red sleeves and red-and-blue shorts. His black, high-top sneakers bore the word hoop in white. He walked into the hall and smiled at Floyd, exposing two new front bottom teeth, both slightly crooked. Floyd motioned for Davis to walk down the hallway toward the school entrance.

  “I want you to tell the people in the office that you’ll be right back,” said Floyd.

  Davis stopped in front of the school offices, opened the door, and told a secretary that he’d be back soon. Floyd followed Davis outside, directing him to the school parking lot.

  “Where’s your car?” said Floyd.

  “Over there. It’s the white truck.”

  Davis drove a pickup truck, a new 1994 Ford F150 XLT with a white camper shell that covered the back. The front license tag read “Fish Oklahoma” while the rear license read QCN305.

  Michael had remained quiet, unsure of what was happening. Floyd told Davis to open the car door.

  “I appreciate you cooperating with me,” said Floyd.

  “I don’t have much choice,” said Davis, who opened his side first, then sat in the driver’s seat.

  Floyd walked around to the passenger side and opened the door for Michael, who climbed in and sat in the middle, with Floyd sitting next to the passenger window. In Floyd’s hands were handcuffs, duct tape, and the pistol, which was now in full view. It was small and chrome-plated. Davis drove out of the parking lot onto Indian Meridian Road and was directed toward a field about a mile and a half away, where they parked the truck behind several bales of hay.

  “Michael, we’re going to go find your dog. You stay here, ok?” said Floyd, who turned to Davis. “Leave the radio on.”

  The two men left Michael sitting in the truck and walked about twenty yards into woods where Davis saw a green sleeping bag, cooler, and quilt. They continued another twenty yards beyond the campsite, where Floyd told Davis to stop next to a tree.

  “I’m going to handcuff you to this tree and tape your mouth shut,” said Floyd, who kept his gun pointed toward Davis’s back.

  He ordered Davis to squat down, lean his back against the tree with his arms extended behind him. Floyd handcuffed one wrist, then the other, with the tree between Davis’s arms. He took out his roll of duct tape and covered Davis’s mouth.

  “I’ll call someone after two hours and tell them where you are, understand?”

  Davis nodded, but grimaced in pain. Floyd left a key for the handcuffs on the other side of the tree then walked away, but returned a few minutes later. He peeled the tape from Davis’s mouth.

  “How do I get into the camper?” said Floyd.

  “What?” said Davis.

  “The camper. I can’t get into the back of the truck. How do I open it?” said Floyd.

  Davis gave him instructions, then asked Floyd to loosen the handcuffs.

  “They’re hurting,” said Davis.

  Floyd retaped his mouth, then took off.

  Davis was uncomfortable: a middle-aged man forced into a squatting position, his hands behind his back wrapped around a tree, and handcuffed. Davis knew he couldn’t remain in the squatting position much longer, so he pressed his back against the tree and tried to shimmy his arms and body upward. It took him nearly a half hour to raise himself into a standing position, sweat pouring down his face and neck. The struggle knocked his glasses off his face and loosened the duct tape over his mouth, allowing him to call out for help. It would be two hours before someone would answer his call.

  The Oklahoma City field office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was usually busy on any given day, given its share of bank robberies, drug investigations, and occasional kidnappings. Mid-level in size when compared to the FBI’s fifty-six field offices throughout the country, the 120 special agents assigned to Oklahoma City were no less experienced.

  They occupied the top floors of a sixteen-story building several miles north of the downtown area. The Violent Crimes Major Offender squad worked out of a corner of the top floor, the twelve agents assigned to the squad among the most respected in this bureau. Each squad had its own supervisor and primary relief supervisor, after which came a senior agent who was given the task of coordinating specific investigations. When it came to kidnappings, that role fell on the shoulders of Special Agent Joe Fitzpatrick.

  Originally from Carbondale, Illinois, Fitzpatrick was recruited by the FBI in 1970, persuaded to leave his job as vice president of an Arkansas bank for the more noble pursuit of law enforcement. His first assignment upon leaving the academy at Quantico, Virginia, was in Minneapolis, which was followed by a transfer to the Milwaukee field office. In 1975, after gaining some seniority, he voluntarily transferred to Oklahoma City, where he would remain for the next twenty-three years.

  Fitzpatrick was of medium size with a strong, compact physique, the result of regular visits to the Y and a steady diet of tennis. He had dark hair with silver streaks throughout, and was soft-spoken almost to a whisper, exhibiting a simple quietness in tone and demeanor that belied a ferocious tenacity.

  During his nearly two decades in Oklahoma City, Fitzpatrick developed a sterling reputation as an experienced agent, who during his career took some of the toughest assignments the bureau had to offer. He worked undercover in the late 1970s, growing his hair down to his shoulders and a beard that covered his neck. During a shooting involving bank robbery suspects and Oklahoma state troopers, Fitzpatrick flew in on a Huey helicopter, his wild hair blowing around his head.

  Later he served with the bureau’s SWAT team and then took the assignment with the Violent Crimes Major Offender Squad. It was a prestigious assignment, the kind of work where agents seeking the excitement of kicking down doors and investigating high-profile crimes would find great satisfaction. Fitzpatrick served as the bank robbery coordinator and then as the agent in charge of kidnappings.

  He was an icon to the younger, less-experienced agents and was as easygoing as they came. Married, with three children, he enjoyed the peaceful solitude of fly-fishing along the red clay banks that rimmed every lake and fishing hole in Oklahoma and the competition from a good game of tennis.

  Tragedy struck Fitzpatrick in the mid-1980s when his youngest son collapsed during a high school tennis match and died, the result of a rare heart defect. The loss was devastating,
and Fitzpatrick would never be the same. His closest friends and colleagues noticed the quiet man becoming even more withdrawn. But he managed to maintain a personal record of closing every case assigned, a record that had remained intact when he picked up the phone on September 12, 1994, and spoke with the Choctaw deputy chief of police, Billy Carter.

  A brief discussion over jurisdiction ended when Fitzpatrick learned that the suspected kidnapper was a convicted felon considered armed and dangerous. He had a two-hour head start and was probably heading out of state. Fitzpatrick sent two agents to Choctaw to gather more information and, by late afternoon, was on the phone with Assistant U.S. Attorney Mark Yancey, seeking a federal warrant for the arrest of Franklin Delano Floyd.

  After learning the details, Yancey agreed that Floyd was probably heading out of state, but with no proof or evidence of flight, it would be difficult at best convincing a judge to issue a warrant for kidnapping. Instead, Yancey said he would appear before the judge in the morning seeking a warrant for felony use of a firearm during a kidnapping. In the meantime, he gave Fitzpatrick authorization to make a warrantless arrest in the event Floyd was captured overnight.

  With jurisdiction in hand, Fitzpatrick followed standard FBI procedure. A teletype was issued with all the pertinent information on the alleged perpetrator and victim, including their names, ages, and addresses. The notice was the first of several teletypes sent to FBI bureaus throughout the country. Communications were prioritized within three different categories. Notices labeled “routine” required other agencies to respond within twenty-four hours while “priority” classifications required a response within one hour. Bureaus were to drop everything when they received an “immediate” teletype.

  Michael Hughes’s kidnapping was classified “immediate” and after consulting with his superiors, Fitzpatrick was given a free hand to reign in the bureau’s vast resources.

  More agents rushed to Choctaw to interview Principal Davis, other school personnel, and Merle and Ernest Bean, as well as coordinate efforts with Chief John Whetsel and Deputy Chief Carter of the Choctaw Police Department. Gary Homan, who had spent eighteen months with Floyd as his parole officer, was called in to explain what he knew about his habits, his personality, his friends, and his recent demeanor. Dr. Schmid and DHS caseworkers were also interviewed.

  An APB, or All Points Bulletin, was issued to police agencies throughout the region on the white Ford pickup truck while agents were assigned to visit Floyd’s last known addresses in Oklahoma City and Tulsa. Finally, a standard indices check of Floyd’s prison and arrest records—updated following his capture in Georgia in 1990—revealed he used several different aliases while living in other cities, including Louisville, Atlanta, Phoenix, and Tampa. Fitzpatrick noted, with great interest, that Floyd was also a suspect in the 1990 death of his wife, a homicide still under investigation by the Oklahoma City police and Tulsa police.

  With agents scurrying around Oklahoma into the night, Fitzpatrick remained at his desk quarterbacking the bureau’s efforts. He read each and every file found on Floyd, and within twenty-four hours, Fitzpatrick had a working knowledge of the man he was chasing, having followed his history from his 1962 arrest and his time in prison, to his release in 1972. He disappeared, resurfacing in 1989 in Tulsa.

  Fitzpatrick read about the tragic death of Tonya, Floyd’s subsequent capture for parole violation, his sentencing, and his legal battle for Michael.

  Floyd wasn’t Michael’s biological father, that much was sure, and the boy apparently flourished during his four years with his foster family. Michael had been given a rare chance, an opportunity to live a normal, healthy life. But Floyd returned, and Fitzpatrick worried for the boy.

  Consultations with FBI behaviorists and profilers devised two scenarios: Either Michael was in immediate and extreme danger, or Floyd had a relationship with the boy and wouldn’t hurt him in the short term. All agreed with the latter but acknowledged that the longer Floyd remained on the loose and given the pressure that would be placed on him by the FBI, the less of a chance Michael Hughes had of returning home alive.

  At best, Fitzpatrick figured that Michael had a week, maybe ten days, before becoming a liability, which gave Fitzpatrick a self-imposed deadline of September 22 to find the boy alive.

  Fitzpatrick had already called home, informing his wife that she wouldn’t be seeing him anytime soon, and he spent what would become many sleepless nights reviewing new information that was streaming into his office from his own agents and field offices around the country.

  Some of the information came from the Oklahoma City and Tulsa police investigations into the murder of Tonya Hughes. Still other details came from names disclosed in interviews with Floyd following his arrest in 1990, along with records and phone numbers found in Floyd’s apartment at the halfway house.

  The revelations were disturbing.

  Floyd assumed several identities after his flight from Georgia in 1973. The first was Trenton B. Davis, a name he used while living in Oklahoma City from 1975 to 1978 where he worked as a maintenance man for the Oklahoma City school district.

  Floyd, a.k.a. Davis, left Oklahoma City in 1978, appearing in Louisville, Kentucky, in 1980, where he found work as a painter and went by the name of Warren Marshall. He remained there until 1982, disappeared again before emerging in Atlanta in 1982, Phoenix in 1987, and Tampa in 1988, in each location using the name Warren Marshall.

  He was in Tulsa in 1989 under the name Clarence Hughes and married to his young wife, Tonya Dawn Hughes. Fitzpatrick knew that wasn’t her real name, which added another bizarre element to the investigation. She was a stripper who was apparently planning to leave her abusive husband when she was killed. Floyd cashed in on her death, receiving an eighty-thousand-dollar life insurance payment. He went to jail to serve out his parole violation and the gun charge, yet fought to keep Michael, who wasn’t his biological son.

  It was clear, given Floyd’s 1962 arrest, that he was a pedophile, and Fitzpatrick believed he didn’t have to question Floyd’s interest in his “son,” which added another level of urgency to the search.

  Fitzpatrick was noticeably disturbed; he talked less, and seemed to always be in deep thought. During the first few days of the search, it was clear to other agents in the field office that Fitzpatrick was emotionally involved, a common trait for Fitzpatrick, who always fell easily. But his superiors knew his emotions served as the main motivation for his success. Fitzpatrick cared, yet never crossed the line and lost his objectivity.

  Searching for a six-year-old boy who had only recently been given a new lease on life would test Fitzpatrick in ways he had never been tested before.

  The other agents in the VCMO squad dropped whatever they were doing and worked the case during the initial days of the investigation, while agents from other squads were pulled in to lend a helping hand. Fitzpatrick dispatched agents to the Oklahoma City school district offices to review Floyd’s personnel records as Trenton Davis and track down and interview anyone who may have known him.

  Field offices throughout the country, with special attention paid to Louisville, Atlanta, Tampa, and Phoenix, were sent new communiqués seeking any information to help with the investigation.

  Fitzpatrick had tremendous resources at his disposal, and he used them all. Agents sent to search Floyd’s room at the Oklahoma Halfway House found personal belongings kept in a locked garage behind the building. Of particular interest were photos. Some of the pictures were of Michael, others of his mother, Tonya. Fitzpatrick reviewed each one, and took particular interest in Tonya. She was posing seductively, wearing a tiger-striped outfit. She was attractive, but Fitzpatrick couldn’t help but notice that she looked young, perhaps even an adolescent in one particular photo. If Fitzpatrick had to guess, she could have been as young as fourteen. Floyd had claimed after his arrest in 1990 that he had met her in Chicago. Fitzpatrick didn’t buy it. No one knew her real name, and the truth concerning her real identity began to
gnaw at him. It was yet another question that couldn’t be answered in a case that was bulging with too many unknowns.

  As the hours turned to days, then a full week, Floyd and Michael had all but disappeared. All of Fitzpatrick’s training and experience told him that time was running out for the boy, and he desperately needed some sort of break or clue.

  He found one on the seventh day of the search when an agent rushed into the field office and hurried to Fitzpatrick’s desk with a photo in his hand. The agent had just interviewed Jim Ennis, a former Oklahoma school district employee who worked with Floyd in the 1970s. During the interview, Ennis produced a color, wallet-sized photo of a man posing for a picture with a girl in his lap. The man was wearing a dark suit and blue tie. Ennis said he knew the man as Trenton Davis, and the pretty little girl with blond hair in the pretty blue dress was his daughter, Suzanne.

  Ennis said Davis had given him the photo years ago, when they worked together. Floyd was proud of the picture, a “family” photo of a single dad and his young daughter. The photo, and Davis, had long been forgotten after Floyd dropped out of sight in 1978. It was just a few weeks ago when “Davis” suddenly reappeared. He looked older, grayer, and seemed disturbed, far more so than when they had been friends. He said he came back to reclaim the old photo. Ennis said he didn’t have it, that he had lost it long ago.

  After Davis had left, Ennis rummaged through his picture box. Lo and behold, there it was. When the FBI showed up at Ennis’s door, and he learned that Trenton Davis was really Franklin Delano Floyd, he knew exactly where to find that photo.

  Ennis had placed it in the agent’s hand and watched his jaw drop. The agent knew right away what he had and raced back to the field office. He was now standing in front of Joe Fitzpatrick, taking deep breaths, with excitement in his eyes and a slight smile of satisfaction apparent at the corners of his mouth. Fitzpatrick studied the photo, his eyes focused on the girl sitting on Floyd’s lap. She couldn’t have been more than five years old, maybe six. She was unsmiling, and looked to be unhappy. Floyd was much younger, with black hair, a crooked mouth and deep, dark eyes. Fitzpatrick placed the photo down on his desk and compared it to other photos of Floyd, his wife, Tonya, and Michael. Fitzpatrick’s eyes darted back and forth, and he shuffled Tonya’s photos next to the portrait photo. His heart beat fast and his palms sweated as he realized that the girl in both photos were one in the same.