Perfect Murder, Perfect Town - Lawrence Schiller [50]
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