Perfect Murder, Perfect Town - Lawrence Schiller [138]
“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