Perfect Murder, Perfect Town (12 page)

When Mason returned to his hotel room that night, he
found a fax from Eller telling him to cancel the interview. Eller gave no explanation. Mason phoned his boss and said he’d already done the interview. He had received the fax after the fact, he said. Eller said he didn’t believe him. Meanwhile, unknown to Mason, CNN, citing an unnamed source, had reported that the Ramseys had agreed to an interview with the Boulder police.

When the Boulder detectives returned home and reported to headquarters the next evening, Eller called Mason upstairs to Chief Tom Koby’s office. As soon as Mason saw Sgt. Robert Thomas, Jr., of internal affairs, he knew he was in trouble. When Greg Perry, the police union president, walked in a few minutes later, his fears deepened.

Eller told Mason to sit down. “I’m fine standing up,” Mason replied. Eller again ordered Mason to sit down. This time he did.

Eller accused Mason of leaking to CNN the fact that the Ramseys had agreed to an interview with the Boulder police. This was information Eller said he had personally given to Mason on the phone when Mason was at the Roswell, Georgia, police department the night before. It was, said Eller, information that nobody else knew. Mason denied the charge. He said he had not released any unauthorized information.

“You’re lying,” Eller said. “I know for a fact you did.”

“I’m not lying,” Mason shot back. “You’re absolutely wrong.”

At this point, Koby had to calm him down. And then the chief suspended Mason. A few weeks later, he would be reassigned to patrol.

“Don’t sell your house,” Mason said to Eller as he left. On the spot, he had decided he would sue both Eller and the department for false accusations and wrongful suspension.

As Mason drove home, he brooded on the Ramsey case. He wanted to interview JonBenét’s brother, Burke. His own children often didn’t remember awakening during the night and being put back to bed. Mason wanted to ask Burke about his dreams that night. Sometimes kids wake up to something and go back to sleep believing they’ve had a dream. That was the kind of question he wanted answered.

The next day, Monday, January 6, Bryan Morgan, one of John Ramsey’s attorneys, told Eller that someone from “his [Morgan’s] side of the table” had disclosed the information to CNN. Despite this information, and though Eller had information that could have caused him to believe he had wrongly accused Mason—and though news of Mason’s suspension had not yet been released to the media—he did not change course. That afternoon Mason retained Marc Colin, an attorney who specialized in representing police officers. Two days later, Colin discovered that the Roswell police, unknown to Eller or Mason, routinely taped all incoming and outgoing phone calls. That information was relayed to Boulder internal affairs investigator Robert Thomas, who learned from the tapes that Eller had in fact told Mason nothing about the information that CNN aired.

Despite this evidence of Mason’s innocence and Eller’s duplicity, it would take a year before Larry Mason was completely exonerated. He had been relieved of his duties so early in the investigation that he hadn’t yet transcribed his taped interviews or completed his report for the period after JonBenét’s murder when he was on the case—December 26, 1996, to January 5, 1997. Not until December 1997 would Chief Koby publicly apologize for Mason’s suspension. It would be another six months before Mason was asked to submit his report.

In contrast to what occurred with Mason, John Eller had bonded with most of the rank-and-file officers. Even
though he had risen to become part of management, he had never forgotten his days as a street cop. Unlike many of the commanders, Eller still wore his gun. Every New Year’s Eve he would hold a party and invite the entire department. None of the brass showed up, but his home was always wall to wall with officers. They’d eat, drink beer, and sing while Eller played the guitar. He took an interest in his officers outside of work and knew the names of their wives and kids. In the coming weeks and months he would use his own credit card for purchases that detectives needed on short notice. He opened an account at the Red Robin restaurant so they could eat around the clock. Eller would tell the detectives, “Forget about what you’re seeing on TV or reading in the papers. Do your job.” He would shield them not only from the press but from his growing problems with the DA’s office.

On Saturday, January 4, Eller had met with the DA’s staff to discuss a number of subjects, including the escalating media coverage. The press was stepping up its accusations of sloppy police work done during the first days of the case, allegations that Alex Hunter’s staff felt were justified. Even though some of the reports were inaccurate, Eller told the DA’s people that rather than correct them, Chief Koby wanted his department to provide as little information as possible to the press. Everyone on the law enforcement side—from the coroner to the DA’s office to the police department—knew that the integrity of the case had to be protected. What they disagreed on was how to go about protecting it from the media.

By now, the press had reported that JonBenét’s skull had been fractured, that she’d been garroted, that the ransom amount was an odd figure, and that the paper used for the note had come from inside the house. During the meeting, Eller said that these leaks would jeopardize the case.

He said flat-out that he suspected Hunter’s office of the leaks. He didn’t trust them. Bill Wise, who had dealt with the media for twenty-five years, told Eller that he and Chief Koby were overreacting. The DA’s office, he admitted, had always been more open with the press than the Boulder PD. Hunter, who had just returned from his Hawaiian vacation that day and had not yet been completely briefed, suggested that his office could take some of the pressure off the police by using its open relationship with the media. Chief Koby called Hunter later in the day and agreed.

The most sensitive potential problem facing the police was the fax that Detective Arndt had sent to the Ramseys’ attorney. It was sure to leak and to embarrass not only the police but Hunter’s office as well. Bill Wise, who could hardly disguise his contempt for the Boulder PD, told Eller that Arndt’s fax was an even dumber mistake than trying to withhold JonBenét’s body. And by the way, Wise added, he understood that the press might already have wind of it.

“If you keep talking like that, we’ll kick you guys out of the case,” Eller replied furiously. Wise thought Eller was behaving like a kid threatening to take his bat and ball and go home.

Wise then suggested a way to cope with the “Arndt problem.” He proposed telling selected members of the media that a list of “housekeeping” questions had been submitted to the Ramseys via their attorneys, as an interim measure until formal interviews could be conducted—such questions as “When is milk delivered to your house?” “How many times has Federal Express delivered a package?” “When was the handyman last at your home?” These were, of course, all fabrications, including the date when the police had submitted the questions. The press was sure to gobble it up, but Wise was troubled. He had never before deliberately misinformed the press.

That same afternoon, Pat Korten, the Ramseys’ press representative, met with John and Patsy at the Fernies’ home. Korten’s job was to take the pressure off the lawyers so that they could concentrate on lawyering; he would deal with the media.

The Ramseys told Korten they wanted to release several nonpageant photos of JonBenét so the public could see her as she really had been—a sweet, normal kid, not much different from any other little girl her age. Korten told them that given a choice, all the media—newspapers, magazines, and TV—would use a pageant photograph. It was simply too late to manage JonBenét’s image. Korten pointed out that all the TV networks and tabloid shows had representatives in town. He told the couple that their daughter’s murder was sure to become the next media circus after the OJ business.

Korten then asked whether John and Patsy planned to attend church the next day. By now he knew that they were enthusiastic and regular attendees of St. John’s. He also knew that their presence or absence would make news. His first suggestion was that Patsy and John stay home, but Patsy wanted to go to church to thank her friends for supporting her. Korten said he would see to it that their appearance didn’t get out of control.

Later that afternoon, Korten called the major media outlets and asked what their intentions were for covering the services. Almost all of them said that if the Ramseys attended church, they would be there. Many journalists felt the call was an invitation.

Korten then visited Rev. Hoverstock and offered to help keep the press under control. He said he would do what he’d done hundreds if not thousands of times in his career: he would tell the press, “You’re here to get a picture. I’m here to see that everything is done in a way that doesn’t cause embarrassment or turn this into a zoo. Let’s work
together.”

Korten arranged with Hoverstock to have the entire congregation leave the church by the front door, which opened onto the street, not the side door, which was usually used. That way the press would get their pictures and the integrity of the service would be preserved.

On Sunday, January 5, I attended church, and again I was late. I parked in the back and walked around the building. There, standing out by the side, was Jim Barbee, a parishioner. He gave me a hug—something he’d never done before. As we hugged, I looked over his shoulder and saw a sea of cameras. Behind them was another sea of satellite trucks.

I was taken aback. I’d never have imagined it. I was speechless.

Jim stayed outside, and I went upstairs to the balcony. That Sunday, the bishop was there. Later I found out that Burt Womack, the bishop’s right-hand priest, had been scheduled to visit and bless the new members, but he had a medical emergency. That’s why the bishop was at St. John’s that week.

The bishop said he was there to support Rol. He talked about the dignity of suffering, that God was with the family, and that God was also with the person who had committed this murder.

Rol’s voice was husky that day, as if he had a cold. He said the only things holding him together were his cup of tea and his cross. Then he told the congregation that there had been a lot of unkind talk on the radio. He wanted us to know that the Ramseys had nothing to do with the death of their daughter. He asked the congregation to form a corridor along the path outside the front door of the church to show support for the Ramseys as they exited.

When the service was over, Barbara Fernie came out with Patsy on her arm. John and the rest of the Fernies were behind them. I left the balcony.

As I walked out the front door, I saw everyone lining up. A stranger was helping them form a line. I later learned that he was the Ramseys’ press representative. I was startled. I stood aside, and without really thinking, I became part of the corridor and the gawkers.

The Ramseys stopped at the front door and talked to the bishop before they walked down this corridor formed by the congregation. They looked devastated. Patsy was limp, possibly because she was sedated. But what really broke my heart was seeing Burke. He came out first, with a little friend. These two little boys with all these crushing people around. That wasn’t fair.

At coffee, I saw the Ramseys as people for the first time. They were surrounded by friends and well-wishers. I didn’t speak to either Rol or the Ramseys. Somehow I felt there was something shameful about all of this. All of it—the case, the press, the church’s place in it. Even if you had nothing to do with it directly, it wasn’t good. Then John Fernie pulled his car around in the alley and they all left.

A few minutes later, everyone was talking about the media, calling them sharks. I remember that there was a universal disgust.

When I left by the back door, suddenly somebody with a camera jumped out at me from behind a bush. I look nothing whatsoever like Patsy.

As I drove home, I started to understand the terrible conflict of interest I felt. I thought church members would feel ill at ease talking to me. If you’re devoted to the free access of information in this society—which you are if you work for a newspaper—and you also have confidential information from fellow church members,
there’s a direct conflict of interest.

That night I saw the TV coverage of the scenes at church. I was appalled. It looked so staged. I felt sorry for Rol. He seemed to be a fly caught in a web. I didn’t know what to think of John and Patsy. Everyone looked horrible. What happened at St. John’s that Sunday was clearly orchestrated. It was not spontaneous. The church had been used.

But the media became the thing the members focused on. And that’s when my conflict became the most excruciating. I felt violated. By the press. By my own church. I felt like my church was just looking for somebody to hate. They really wanted to hate whoever had committed this crime, but they didn’t know who that was, so the media was the next best target.

Later I asked a reporter friend of mine, “How did this happen?” He told me he’d gotten a call from Pat Korten, the Ramseys’ press representative, telling him to arrive at St. John’s at a certain time. He said everyone had been called.

The hypocrisy was clear: Korten had us form a cordon in order to shield the Ramsey family from the media circus that he himself had instigated. I felt the church had fallen into the hands of a master manipulator.