Perfect Murder, Perfect Town - Lawrence Schiller [41]
First the two of them talked about music, then Kit played the audiotape Patsy had brought. She suggested a few movements to JonBenét—a little rhythm, then a few steps.
This child can dance, Kit thought. She’s good.
“Now let’s try this.” A few more steps.
“Now try this,” JonBenét said with a laugh, mimicking Kit.
The hour went by fast.
“How’s she doing?” Patsy asked when the two of them emerged from the studio.
“She’s going to be wonderful,” Kit said.
“Can she sing?”
“Well, not really,” Kit admitted. “We’re going to have to work on that.”
“Can you see her tomorrow?”
Kit scheduled three lessons a week. Patsy was determined that JonBenét would be ready for the summer pageants.
During the third lesson, Patsy knocked on the studio door. “It will be better if I’m here,” she insisted. “I’ve done this before.”
Kit could see that she was miserable in the reception room and was eager to show her exactly how the routine should be staged.
Kit watched, and she thought that Patsy wasn’t great but she was OK. She knew every note, every step, and every gesture. From that moment on, Kit couldn’t get Patsy out of the studio.
As Kit taught JonBenét, Patsy would tap her feet, take notes about the movements, and then write down the words “I want to be a da-da-da cowboy” so that JonBenét could practice at home.
One day during the second week of lessons, Patsy got up and danced with JonBenét, showing Kit what she wanted. Side by side, mother and daughter. Suddenly Kit could see that Patsy wanted to be up there herself, wanted JonBenét to perform the way she longed to do. Kit now knew that she’d have to teach the song Patsy’s way.
Finally Kit said, “Patsy, you’re a pest. Teaching is my job. Sit down and be quiet.”
Then one day Nedra, JonBenét’s grandmother, showed up. She frequently came to Boulder to visit her family. Kit thought she was adorable—a small woman with a big personality. Nedra sat in a director’s chair and couldn’t stop talking about when Patsy was a little girl in the pageants and then when she was Miss West Virginia and competed in the Miss America pageant.
For her part, JonBenét was eager to learn and a quick study. Never once did she say, “I don’t want to. I’d rather go play.”
“You’re going to be a star,” Kit told her. “But if you want to be a star someday, you have to be a star right now.”
Kit soon discovered that JonBenét had a wonderful personality. She understood how to gesture and use her shoulders as she danced. Kit was struck by how smart and talented she was. But she also understood that JonBenét was performing because her mother wanted her to, not because she wanted to. JonBenét wasn’t one of those kids who had seen someone dance and decided, That’s what I want to do.
JonBenét died that winter. I never saw her in a pageant. Never saw her in the cowboy costume. Never saw her do the routine I taught her until I saw that pageant video on TV.
I saw Patsy at the memorial service in Boulder. She was pathetic. She was nothing. She was all gone. And that was the first time I ever saw John Ramsey. He was talking about what had happened. Kind of matter-off-actly. Calmly. Patsy was crying in the chapel aisle—some friend was holding her up. I wasn’t going to intrude on her—she was too distraught. But then she came over to me. Of course I went to her and hugged her.
“She was a fabulous child,” I told her. “She was a star.”
I’ve looked at that pageant video several times. They made JonBenét look like a clown. Someone else taught her those pseudo-adult movements, the provocative walk, the poses, all of it.
The pageants were Patsy’s gig. JonBenét was her alter ego. Patsy had the money, she had the costumes, and she had the kid. She could relive her own pageant thing. You got the picture right there. Patsy didn’t have a sense of proportion about how this should fit into her child’s life. What I saw on the pageant video…you don’t do that to a six-year-old.
—Kit Andre
On Thursday afternoon, January 2, Denver police chief David Michaud attended