Perfect Murder, Perfect Town - Lawrence Schiller [2]
I figured her legwork was for the pageants. I could see the muscles becoming defined in her calves. I’d made a similar assumption when I saw her practicing the violin. I knew the competitions took a lot of preparation, but I never once saw her in makeup or costumes, never spotted her wearing anything but jumpers or jeans, or shorts and T-shirts.
I’d heard she was Little Miss Colorado, and I asked her if she was excited about winning the title.
“I really don’t care about it,” she said. It didn’t seem to be a very big deal to her, or if it was, she certainly didn’t let on. She seemed more interested in trips around the sun or the lifeblood of trees.
In early December of ’96, I was raking the blanket of leaves under a maple, getting the property ready for winter.
“Don’t pick the leaves up, please,” JonBenét begged me. “Leave them for me to play with.”
Well, I’m thinking, no way. My job is to pick them up, and that’s what I’m going to do.
“Last year my dad and I did that.”
And then she said quietly; “I really miss him. I wish he was around more.”
“Where does he go?”
“I don’t know. But sometimes he goes away for a long time.”
“You really miss him?” I asked.
“Yeah, I really miss him a lot.”
Then she started to cry, tears rolling down her cheeks.
I didn’t know what to say—didn’t know enough about the situation, didn’t want to intrude or play counselor. It wasn’t my place. I changed the subject and started to rake up the leaves.
A moment later, I saw JonBenét was scooping up the leaves from the top of the barrel and hurling them over her head into the wind. “Hey! Stop that!” I yelled.
“No, I want to play in ’em.” She was being kind of bratty. She had a bit of smart aleck in her.
I grabbed the barrel and started running toward the compost pile. She chased after me, not about to give up her fun. I set the barrel down, and she dumped all the leaves out. That made me angry—almost. But before long I made a game out of it—it was fun for both of us.
That evening I left a big pile of leaves out front by the gutter for her to play with.
That was probably the last time I spoke to JonBenét. Six weeks later I took the morning paper from my front steps and saw it. I don’t even remember now what the headlines said.
I wanted to go over to the Ramseys’. Later that day, I did drive by. It was crazy—media, police, yellow tape going all around the house. Just totally crazy. I didn’t even try to go in. I kept driving.
—Brian Scott
1
On Thursday morning, December 26, 1996, at about 7:30 A.M., Pete Hofstrom, head of the felony division of the Boulder County district attorney’s office, called Bill Wise, the first assistant district attorney, at home. The moment Wise heard Hofstrom’s voice, he knew something serious had happened. Nothing else would warrant a call at that hour. Hofstrom said they had a report of a child kidnapping. The mother had called 911 at 5:52 A.M. There was a ransom note, which threatened that the child would be killed if the police were brought in.
Hofstrom told Wise he had asked the police when the FBI would be arriving, only to be told they hadn’t even been called. Hofstrom had told the cops to notify the Bureau. Bill Wise could hear the frustration in his colleague’s voice when he added that the police had asked him to join them at the crime scene. Hofstrom had to point out to them that in a kidnapping, the protocol was to set up a command post away from the victim’s home, in case the perpetrators were monitoring the residence.
But the damage had already been done. The officer had told Hofstrom that marked police cars were parked in front of the home of John Ramsey, at 755 15th Street.
Earlier, Rick French, the first police officer to respond to the mother’s 911 call, had immediately searched the house for the child and for any sign of forced entry, but he found nothing. Then he read the ransom note:
Mr. Ramsey,
Listen carefully! We are a group of individuals that represent a small foreign faction. We respect your bussiness [sic] but not the country that it serves. At this time