by Irene Pence
More police raced in from surrounding districts, many whose shifts had ended hours earlier. Once they were this close to Battaglia, it was too important and too exciting to go home. The gruesome crime scene and the murdered children lying in the loft had ignited the officers’ determination to see John Battaglia arrested tonight.
Officers Murray and Rojas parked in the rear of the lot, waiting and watching Battaglia’s truck. The lot began filling with blue-and-whites discreetly parked in the rear, but anyone looking for police could have easily spotted them.
They continued waiting.
As the minutes ticked by, they began to wonder if Battaglia had parked his truck and caught a ride with someone else. Maybe this was a ruse, a clever ploy to distract the police and make them think that Battaglia was nearby.
Just before 2:00 A.M., police saw a dark figure emerge from one of the shops and walk toward the truck. They could see his white shirt and dark pants. But police had no description of Battaglia’s clothes, so they didn’t know what to look for.
The next event would leave them no doubt. The figure took out his remote control and hit the button to unlock the truck. A brief taillight flash accompanied a high-pitched beep. This was definitely their man.
“Armed and dangerous” played in the officers’ ears, and they drew their guns.
“John Battaglia you are under arrest,” shouted Officer Murray. Lights came on from the encircling squad cars; the parking lot lit up like a football field. By then, Battaglia had opened the door to his truck and appeared to be rummaging inside.
The officer yelled, “Show me your hands!” Several others approached the truck, including Bryant, who had been the first to find Battaglia’s vehicle. Each officer aimed his pistol with both hands, his feet spread wide in firing stance.
John proceeded as if he hadn’t heard them.
At this point, Battaglia was completely surrounded. With a nod from Murray, four officers circled behind John. His head and shoulders were still inside the truck and he appeared to be searching for something. The officers who had slipped behind him yelled again for him to show his hands. John spun around and doubled his fist, hitting the first officer on the chin.
Battaglia appeared to be deaf and blind. There were at least twenty-five blue suits surrounding him, in addition to plainclothes detectives. The police encountered this kind of behavior most commonly when the suspect was either drunk or stoned. One officer speculated that Battaglia wanted a “suicide by cop” because he didn’t have the guts to shoot himself.
Battaglia’s punch was their license to attack. With Battaglia still swinging, the four officers jumped him and returned his punches. Four sets of arms swung angrily at Battaglia and he fought them as if he hoped to get away. The sounds of grunting and shuffling were heard through the flying dust. Then all four went down with him onto the dirty pavement. Even as he lay on the ground, the police yelled, “Show me your hands,” but Battaglia stubbornly kept them pinned to his sides. The police had no idea if he were concealing a knife or gun. Bryant sat on top of Battaglia, who was still struggling. Quickly, the officer placed his right arm around Battaglia’s neck, squeezing with his bicep and forearm. With his other hand, he grasped the carotid arteries that supply blood to the brain. He squeezed tighter. Battaglia tried to reach up and pry off the officer’s arm so he could catch his breath. In that brief moment, another officer was able to grab Battaglia’s hands and slap cuffs around his wrists. Then two officers jerked him to his feet.
John Battaglia’s reddened face showed the effort he had put forth. His right eye began swelling, and blood oozed from minor cuts on his face. He bent his head soberly as officers led him toward a squad car.
Crime scene investigator James Vineyard searched the truck. He spotted a pistol lying on the front seat near the armrest and assumed Battaglia had been reaching for it. Checking the gun, he found it was loaded.
Once Battaglia was securely locked in the squad car, police spent a few minutes filling out forms, writing in times and jotting down details while every aspect of the arrest was still fresh in their minds.
While reports were being written, John Battaglia sat in the backseat of the car. He appeared unaware of the video camera mounted up by the rearview mirror. The drugs had possibly blurred his mind, as he gave no indication that he knew what was going on. He was photographed yawning, looking out the window, and appearing mildly disinterested in the activities taking place. He watched a couple dozen police mill around. Then he yawned again.
Missy Campbell turned her right shoulder to get a better look at her new yellow butterfly while she talked with her tattoo artist.
“You do such pretty work,” Missy told Madeline. “I’ve always wanted a butterfly. Then when John suggested . . .” She stopped talking and frowned.
“Hey, where’s John? I wonder what’s keeping him. It shouldn’t take him so damn long to get cigarettes.”
“He’s probably outside smoking,” Madeline suggested. “He’s paid for everything so you can leave.”
“Guess I’ll go outside and see what the hell he’s doing,” Missy said as she walked out the door.
The squad cars still had their lights on when Missy stumbled into the parking lot. She squinted, then shaded her eyes with her hand. Seeing all the police made her dizzy and disoriented. She found John’s truck, and saw two policemen systematically combing its interior. But John was nowhere in sight.
Two officers approached her. “Can I do something for you?” Officer Jay Clinton asked.
“What’s going on?” Missy asked in bewilderment.
“May I help you, ma’am?” Clinton repeated, unwilling to give her information without knowing her identity.
“I’m looking for my date. He just came out for cigarettes a while ago. Should have been back by now. That’s his truck there.”
“John Battaglia?” one officer said.
Missy looked shocked that they knew his name.
“He’s over in that squad car,” Clinton told her, pointing. “We just arrested him for murder.”
Missy frowned in disbelief. “That’s impossible!” she said. “I’ve been with him all night.”
“Were you together around seven this evening?”
Missy paused for a moment, then said, “No, I didn’t see him till after ten. Who are you sayin’ he killed?” she asked timidly.
When the officer told her that he was charged with murdering his daughters, Missy’s mouth opened in disbelief. Then the reality of the situation sank in, and she screamed and began crying hysterically. She covered her face with her hands, and her entire body shook. She didn’t want to believe what the police were saying. It just couldn’t be true. Then John’s words came back to her, I want to get two big roses tattooed on my left arm. One for each of my little girls.... So I’ll always have them with me. . . . Tomorrow won’t be good.... I’ll be in jail tomorrow.
THIRTY-SIX
A young officer strolled over to a very distraught Missy Campbell. She sat crying on the concrete parking lot, her yellow sundress wrinkled and dirty.
“Ms. Campbell, we need your help,” the officer told her as he offered a hand to pull her up from the broken concrete. “You’re not a suspect, but we’d like to ask you a few questions. We need some idea of what you and John Battaglia were doing tonight.”
Missy had trouble speaking through her sobs. “I need to talk with my brother first.”
“Tell you what,” the officer said. “We’ll drive you to headquarters where you can make a statement and also call your brother.”
Missy agreed, and when the police took John Battaglia to headquarters, she was in the squad car directly behind his. She sank deeper into the fabric of the car seat and wept during the entire trip downtown.
Officer Casey Clark transported Battaglia to police headquarters, while Ray Rojas sat next to the suspect in the backseat. After the squad car pulled out of the parking lot, John leaned forward and pointed to the police computer. “What
kind of software do you have on that?” he asked. The officers glanced quizzically at each other as they answered his questions, but no one spoke about the murders.
As they pulled up to headquarters, Battaglia said, “Isn’t this the same place Ruby came when he shot Lee Harvey Oswald?” The officers told him it was. Shaking their heads over his demeanor, they led him inside and down the hall for fingerprinting. Detectives from CAPERS would soon be there to see if he would talk.
At headquarters, the police helped Missy out of the car and ushered her into an office where she gave a statement somberly outlining the evening partying with John. Then she sat whimpering in the waiting room until her brother arrived.
Missy Campbell shared her Oak Lawn apartment with her brother Gary, who also happened to be her best friend. She knew that she could call him at any hour and he would be there for her. She had phoned him right before she gave her statement to the police. On the phone, Gary first asked her if she was stoned. When she finally convinced him of the murders, he was as shocked as she was.
Arriving at police headquarters, Gary walked down the hall past darkened offices, and entered the waiting room where Missy sat on a tan plastic and chrome chair. She had pulled her feet onto the seat of the chair and was hugging her ankles and crying with her face buried in her knees.
“Hey, sis,” Gary said.
She looked up, somewhat relieved, but her face was wet and her eyes were swollen. He took hold of her shoulders and pulled her up. Then he hugged and tried to soothe her, but her grief was beyond comforting. Her brother guided her to his car and opened the door for her. She sat in a stupor, still suffering from the nightmare.
“Wanna talk?” he asked.
She raised her head and stared out the windshield.
“It would make you feel better,” Gary suggested.
“I just can’t fucking believe it,” she began. “It freaks me out!”
“Did John say anything about what happened? You know, about the girls?” Gary asked.
“Not one goddamn thing. He was the same old, good-guy John. Happy, talkative, laughing all the time. He sounded so normal, so much like himself. He acted like he was having such a good time. Gary, I can’t believe this shit, he was even telling jokes!”
“He didn’t mention his kids?”
“Not anything about shooting them. And you know how much he loved them. None of this crap makes sense. He was never a big drinker. Never raised his voice. Never fought anyone. What he’s being accused of just doesn’t fit worth a damn.”
“He hated his wife,” Gary said. “She was really rotten to him. Tried like hell to keep his kids from him. John said she used the kids like pawns to get back at him.”
“Yeah, but I can’t imagine him hurting his girls,” Missy said. “John always seemed so even tempered. So fucking cool all the time. Whenever a fight broke out, he’d leave. Never wanted anything to do with that crap.”
“Remember how he’d bring his kids along when we’d go to the lake?” Gary reminded her. “It was like he couldn’t get enough of them.” He smiled at the thought. “I can still see him driving that black Mustang convertible and the kids’ hair blowing around and everybody laughing.”
“He’s the last person in this fucking world I’d suspect of killing anyone,” Missy said. “It’s like he’s two different people.”
“Yeah,” Gary said. “John must have snapped. Just goddamn snapped.”
Mary Jean had not slept all night. Visions of her daughters’ faces burned into her mind. She could still see Liberty hiding underneath her bed, not wanting to go to her father’s. She could still feel the touch of Liberty’s little hand as she pulled her out.
Faith’s sad face and her somber expression wouldn’t leave Mary Jean’s memory. Why? Why? Why? She had had so many chances. She could have just said no when Kelly called to ask if the girls would still be meeting with John. She berated herself for not listening to her children. They didn’t want to be with their father that night, so why hadn’t she just told them they could stay home? In the back of her mind were the court visitations ordered by their divorce decree, but there was also that warrant for probation violation that would soon be served. She knew that this might have been his last visit with the girls for a very long time.
Also, Mary Jean realized that John had never hurt the girls. He had never even spanked them or raised his voice to them. What ominous sign could she have seen that would have hinted he could kill them? In her grief, she pounded her pillow with her fist while she cried continuously. She was consumed with guilt. She had delivered her children into the hands of their killer.
Mary Jean had asked Detective Justice to call her when they caught John, but it wasn’t until after 2:00 A.M. that the detective tapped on her door to tell Mary Jean that John Battaglia had been arrested. Mary Jean fell into the detective’s arms and hugged her and cried. She went through all of the evening’s emotions all over again. But the news gave Mary Jean some comfort; at least she felt safe. John was finally locked up where he should have been years ago, if only the system had worked.
Katherine left and Mary Jean went back to bed. Although she was exhausted from the evening’s nightmare, she could not sleep. She looked at her watch as the first gray traces of light filtered through her hotel window. Five A.M. She needed to get home. She wanted to walk into her comfortable house, see her daughters’ room, touch their clothes, and see their photographs. “Oh God,” she moaned loudly, “what am I going to do without them? They were my hopes, my dreams!”
THIRTY-SEVEN
As soon as Mary Jean told Detective Justice that she wanted to leave the hotel, the detective and Melissa Lowder drove her home. When they came to Lorraine, her beautiful home still looked the same to her, except that there were no little girls running across the broad lawn or up the long driveway. That brought more tears.
She got out of the car and walked into her foyer. Her baby-sitter, Anna, came running to her, crying hysterically. The women hugged one another and cried.
The police had stayed with Anna until John Battaglia had been arrested, and then left her to curl up with her five-year-old daughter and sob the rest of the night.
Mary Jean entered the kitchen and noticed the flashing red light on her answering machine. Before she had left to take the children to meet John, she had listened to and erased all of her messages. She assumed these new calls were from friends who had heard about the killings. Today, Thursday morning, The Dallas Morning News opened with the front-page headline: FATHER SOUGHT IN SLAYING OF DAUGHTERS. The newspaper included an interview with Dorrace Pearle at the lofts. She told reporters about John’s phone call, and the tragedy that followed. The paper had gone to press before John was apprehended, but morning radio and television news shows broke the news of his capture and the details of the murders. Suddenly, John Battaglia became Dallas’s most hated man.
Mary Jean hit the “play” button and listened to the first message. She froze when she heard Faith’s voice. “Hi Mom. Give us a call, okay? Give us a call.”
That sad reminder brought another avalanche of tears. Mary Jean walked into her den and collapsed on her sofa. She couldn’t listen to any more messages.
After several moments, she stood up and wearily went to the stairs and pulled herself up by the banister. She wanted to go to her daughters’ room. Maybe she would feel a little closer to them in those familiar surroundings. She stood in the hallway outside their room and took a deep breath to brace herself. She neared the door, and, for a moment, she could only lean against the doorjamb as she took in the scene. She blotted her eyes with Kleenex and realized that she had cried almost continuously since she had first heard her daughter’s voice on the phone, screaming for mercy.
She glanced at a heap of white, fuzzy teddy bears—so many that they were piled into a pyramid on the floor. It was difficult to look at the blue-and-white checkered gingham quilted spread and dust ruffle. She thought of the many times she had entered this room
to wake her girls, and she remembered watching them sleep, tucked under their pristine, checkered sheets.
Her eyes wandered to their collection of dolls, but she was immediately distracted. A light flickered on their answering machine. She wondered why there would be a message. Then she thought that a little friend may have called to tell her she was sorry about the girls.
Absently, she made her way over to the machine and pushed “play.” Horror swept over her when she heard John Battaglia’s voice.
In a smooth tone laced with mockery he said, “Hi, girls. I just want to tell you how very very brave you were, and I hope you are resting in a better place now. I wish that you had nothing to do with your mother. She’s evil and vicious and stupid!”
Mary Jean’s friends came running from the kitchen when they heard her screams.
As parents dropped off their children at Bradfield Elementary School, the flag was at half-mast for Faith and Liberty. Parents and students gathered in hushed clusters, trying to make sense of the tragedy that The Dallas Morning News had reported as its front-page story.
All the frills that Highland Park schools possessed had no magic to soothe the grief everyone was experiencing. Earlier, the staff had called the parents of Faith and Liberty’s classmates to let them know that professional counselors would be available.
Paul Johnson was fighting the Thursday morning traffic on Highway 30 from his home in Mesquite—a thriving southeast Dallas suburb—to his office on Market Street near downtown. When the criminal defense attorney’s cell phone rang, his plans changed. He’d be going to the Crowley Court Building instead. Judge Janice Warder of Criminal District Court No. 1 wanted to talk to him.
