Perfect Murder, Perfect Town (36 page)

Both advocates remembered Patsy’s hysteria as she sobbed and carried on. One of them had heard Patsy say, “If only it were me, I’d trade places with Jonnie B. Oh, please let her be safe, please let her be safe.” Other than that, they had nothing more to contribute.

About 40 percent of the cases I deal with involve death,
either by accident or by foul play. Grief, loss of a loved one, and guilt are always present in the survivors. No training can prepare anyone for the intensity that surrounds the loss of a loved one, especially the death of a child.

In the immediate aftermath, the victims don’t need therapy. They don’t need counseling. They need someone to recognize and meet their needs. Sometimes they need to be encouraged to tell their story. The sooner they can express themselves, the less likely they are to shut down. During good crisis intervention, you create a safe space for someone to vent.

When a victim becomes a suspect, it can be difficult for an advocate. A few can adjust, accept it as part of the nature of the work. Many can’t see it that way. They feel used. They hate the idea that they helped a criminal.

—Anonymous victim advocate

Jeff Shapiro started to hang out at Pasta Jay’s. He drank a few beers and watched John Ramsey’s son bus tables. He was at a loss about how to gain John Andrew’s confidence now that his cover had been blown.

One night Shapiro wrote John Andrew a letter and left it with a waitress at the restaurant. As he walked out to his car, Shapiro looked back and saw Ramsey’s son open it.

When a week passed and Shapiro hadn’t heard back, he called John Andrew’s mother, Lucinda, in Atlanta. Shapiro wanted to know whether an unsubstantiated rumor that Melinda had checked into a Georgia health clinic for depression was true. This time, he introduced himself as a freelance college journalist living in Boulder.

“Some people are saying these awful things about Melinda,” Shapiro said.

“She’s wonderful,” Lucinda replied. “Just fine. The rumor you’ve heard is ridiculous.”

Lucinda asked Shapiro if he knew her son. He said that he’d met John Andrew. Then he told Lucinda that his name was Jeff Scott.

“Are you the one who wrote him a letter?”

“Yes,” Shapiro replied.

“I don’t want to talk to you. Don’t ever call this house.” She hung up.

Shapiro was still determined to impress his editors, however. He took to driving around town in the hope of spotting someone involved in the investigation. One day he saw Alex Hunter walking alone toward the Justice Center. After taking a quick shot of Hunter with his disposable
camera, Shapiro pulled up next to the DA.

“Are you Alex?”

“Yes, I am,” Hunter said with a smile.

Shapiro told Hunter that he was an investigative reporter working on the Ramsey case but didn’t mention the
Globe
. He told the DA that he’d worked on the Simpson case with Stephen Singular, a Denver author.

“Oh really?” Hunter said, and asked Shapiro to park his car so they could talk.

They stood out in front of the Justice Center despite the March chill. They discussed, among other subjects, pedophilia, Barry Scheck, and Henry Lee. Shapiro told Hunter he’d heard that the “semen” found on JonBenét’s body was really some kind of liquid soap, like Phisoderm. Hunter smiled. Then Shapiro asked if the DA’s office was getting closer to an arrest.

“No, no, no, no,” Hunter replied.

Shapiro searched in his backpack and gave the DA a copy of “Code of Silence,” a paper he’d written about the Simpson case.

“I’d like to talk to you again,” Hunter told him as he walked into the Justice Center.

Shapiro rushed to a student computer lab and wrote his report, which he faxed to the
Globe
. Then he called Mullins, his editor.

“We need to know what Hunter meant by ‘looking into the area of pedophilia,’” Mullins said. “Go back and see what he says about that.”

En route to Hunter’s office, Shapiro was apprehensive. To his surprise, Hunter invited him in. Before the DA could say a word, Shapiro blurted out: “I wasn’t straight with you outside. The truth is, I work for the
Globe
.”

“Mullins called me after he received your phone call,” Hunter said grinning.

“He did?”

“He told me you’re young and you’re a bit overenthusiastic,” Hunter continued. “He wanted to make sure you weren’t getting too excited about your job. Something like that.” The DA smiled.

The situation was bizarre, Shapiro thought. Here was the DA talking to his editor after he had publicly expressed outrage at the
Globe
for publishing the autopsy and crime-scene photos. Before long, though, they were joking about the Simpson case. It struck Shapiro that Hunter was asking most of the questions. He wasn’t the interviewer; he was the interviewee.

Hunter suggested that they keep in touch, and Shapiro gave the DA his pager number.

A couple of days later, Shapiro’s pager buzzed. Though he didn’t recognize the number, he returned the call.

“Hey, buddy,” someone said.

“Alex.” It was Hunter.

“I’m thinking of meeting Stephen Singular,” Hunter said. “I want to know what you think of him.”

Singular had some good ideas, Shapiro told him. Then he requested a meeting. In the intervening days, Mullins had told him that the
Globe
was looking at a wild rumor. They’d heard that the Ramseys were hinting that Fleet White was somehow connected to the murder of their daughter—a rumor that was never substantiated. Surely Alex Hunter would know something about it.

“Did Mullins ask you to come back?” was how Hunter greeted me.

I laughed. “Yeah.”

First I asked him if the rumors were true that the Whites were distancing themselves from the Ramseys.

“No,” he said. “It’s the Ramseys who are distancing themselves from the Whites.”

“Who else knows about this?” I asked.

“I would think the Enquirer is already on that story.” I realized that Hunter was talking to several of the tabloids.

As we kicked around different theories of the case, Hunter became my commander-in-chief. I started to think of stories in terms of what Hunter said rather than in terms of what my editors wanted. If Hunter had a theory, I figured it was worth pursuing.

Around the same time, in late March, I called Pam Griffin, JonBenét’s pageant seamstress. She was very talkative. Of course I didn’t tell her right off that I worked for the Globe. I knew she’d find out the truth eventually.

She was a close friend of Patsy’s, and I figured she might know what was in the ransom note. I asked her if the words foreign faction were used. She said she believed they might have been. Alli Krupski, a reporter for the Daily Camera, had told me she’d heard from a cop that the word Iran was also in the note. So I called the director of the International Institute for the Study of Terrorism at George Washington University for information on Iranian terrorist groups thought to be active in the U.S. He gave me the name of one death squad—Missionaries of Iran. They strangle people and sometimes behead them. That connected to rumors I’d heard that the ransom note threatened JonBenét would be beheaded. So I concocted this crazy but fascinating conspiracy theory, called Guardians of the Revolution.

I decided to write up my theory and give it to a few people. I hoped the Ramseys would hear about it and that I might get closer to them. The story was never intended for publication.

I decided to take my article to Fleet White. I went to his house and found him working in his garden. He had an impressive view of the foothills.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m just a kid who’s interested in the case. I wrote something that I want to leave with you.”

“I’m not doing interviews. Don’t come any further.”

I left it on a wooden post.

Then I faxed a copy to Pam Griffin. She faxed it to Denise Wolf, Ramsey’s secretary, who gave it to John. Pam later told me that Ramsey called and said, “Interesting, but unlikely.” Pam then faxed it to Nedra, Patsy’s mother, who believed it entirely. What I didn’t realize then was that John Ramsey would have known the word Iran didn’t appear in the ransom note.

I also gave a copy of the article to Alex and told him that I’d seen Fleet White.

“Don’t you find it strange that this guy is so fuckin’ angry?” Hunter asked. Then he started explaining how John and Fleet got into this big argument in Atlanta—“Lots of words spoken, and they really haven’t talked much since,” Hunter said. None of that information was public at the time.

“As a prosecutor, it would be irresponsible for me not to look in other places, wouldn’t it?” Hunter seemed to be thinking aloud. “I want to know who this guy Fleet White is. I want to know about his life in Newport Beach, California, before he moved here. I’m just interested—that’s all I’m saying.”

I felt like some young Washington aide getting orders from his senator. The biggest case in the country, and Hunter is asking me for help. It boosted my ego.

The next Sunday I attended church, and as I sat down, to my left, in the row right in front of me, were Patsy and John. Burke was sitting with the Stines, near me. I had to look away fast, not wanting to draw attention to myself. Patsy looked like she was in tears and scared. John was just calm. Burke was happy as a clam, hopping around with a friend.

As the Ramseys prayed, I couldn’t take my eyes off them.

As always, about midway through the service, Hoverstock directed the congregation to private prayer. I’d always prayed for JonBenét.

Patsy looked as if she was groomed for prayer. Her posture was solid as a rock. Yet she trembled, and tears were coming from her eyes. Under her breath, I could see her mouthing the words, “Please, please.” It seemed to me she was asking for forgiveness. I had never seen anyone pray for his own soul the way Patsy was praying for hers. She seemed obsessed, fixated on her prayer.

John covered his eyes with both hands and would occasionally lift his hands as if he wanted to block the sun from his eyes. Then he’d go back to covering them with both hands.

When I returned from taking communion, I passed the Ramseys and looked into Patsy’s eyes. She was still saying, “Please, please.” That was when I felt in my heart that she had murdered JonBenét. At that moment, I decided she was the killer.

Hoverstock then asked the congregation to take the Peace: “Everyone rejoice and greet one another.” He walked down the aisles, hugging and kissing everyone. Row by row, he was greeting people, shaking hands and talking to them. When he got to Patsy he walked right by her, not saying a word.

My jaw dropped. I realized that Hoverstock had to believe Patsy was involved. As a priest, he might be able to forgive her, but as a man, I assumed, he could not bear to look at her.

A month later, I asked him about that moment. He insisted he hadn’t seen her. Bullshit! He saw her.

After the service, in the reception hall, John stood apart from Patsy, off in a corner by himself. Her gal pals surrounded her and smiled or cried from time to time. Some of her friends gave her flowers. John just stood alone with his hands in his pockets. I wanted to say to him, “You didn’t do this, did you? I understand.”

A few moments later, Patsy walked over to a window that looked down into the basement where the playroom is, where
JonBenét used to play. She broke down in tears, hysterically.

I knew she must have done it.

By then John had a dead look in his eyes. He had gone downstairs to the playroom and he was walking around, like he was collecting memories. A moment later, a little girl joined him and tried to hold his hand. He just looked at her and smiled. I got the feeling that he wanted to cry.

Just then a lady came up to me. “Who are you? Who are you?” she repeated pointedly.

“Jeffrey. I’m new in the church,” I answered. I could tell she sensed something was up.

“I’m looking for a last name,” she insisted.

“Shapiro.”

“Shapiro?”

“You know, like the lawyer,” I replied.

“The lawyer?”

“Like Robert Shapiro. He represented O. J. Simpson,” I answered.

“Jeffrey, are you a member of this church?”

“I’m actually Jewish, but I’ve told Father Hoverstock that I want to learn about Christianity.” I had to walk away from her. She continued to stare at me until I left the church.

I wrote a story about that Sunday—“The Ramseys’ Private Hell”—but it was never published.

—Jeff Shapiro

JonBenét’s medical records were important to the investigation since there might be evidence of child molestation or physical abuse in the files of her pediatrician, Dr. Francesco Beuf. During the first days of January, the Ramseys and their attorneys met with the doctor. Having reviewed his records, he guaranteed them that there was no indication of sexual abuse.

Three weeks after JonBenét was murdered, William Gray, a Ramsey family attorney, released a letter to the press
saying that “pediatric consultations showed no history of child abuse.” On February 14, the same day that a partial autopsy report was released, Dr. Beuf was interviewed by Paula Woodward on KUSA, Channel 9. He said, “There was never any hint whatsoever of sexual abuse” and “I didn’t see any hint of emotional abuse or physical abuse.”

Without the Ramseys’ consent, the physician could not release JonBenét’s medical history, which was protected by Colorado law. On February 10, Detective Harmer obtained a signed release from Patsy and John allowing her to speak to Dr. Beuf’s nursing staff. The next day Harmer talked to Barbara Frey and later interviewed Judy Klingensmith, a nurse who had last seen JonBenét in mid-November 1996.

On March 25 Detective Harmer was allowed to interview Dr. Beuf and summarized the dead child’s medical history:

JonBenét was born on August 6, 1990, in Atlanta. Beuf became her doctor when the Ramseys moved to Boulder in late 1991. On December 6, 1991, he treated JonBenét for a fever, cough, and wheezing. Over the next ten months, she had the usual colds and coughs of a toddler. By the time JonBenét was two and a half years old, she had developed a history of coughs accompanied by low-grade fever.